MALUKOR

presuming it would have to be long-term, would you say there is a solution? if so, what is it?

would you say the low fantasy dream is dead?

"THE DECEIVER," a man in the desert wailed, thinking of the eyes in the smoke, and bashed his head against the sand.

"IA," Aramor lamented, far away below the sands, swinging his head low from side-to-side and gazing up at some foul vampyr, as a thing of meat and flesh and wooden bone, hung and left to bleed out deep beneath the earth, where things surpassing all description lived, and prowled, and watched. "You are not real, fair angel," and the accusation cut deep, Aramor protesting his reality, touching his fingers with his other fingers, callous and worn nails drifting over his own skin, and he could feel himself, and so he retorted: "But I am. As are you," and the vampyr would have none of it, shaking his head and whimpering that this could not be happening to him, and then Aramor understood it for what it was: not profundity, but instead the wild flailings of a devil. "Hush, now," he bid, and he acknowledged that the way of the transgressor was hard, and taught him many things, of the bones of the earth, and of N---------p, and of the dead father, who had euchered the son of malin out of their patrimonial right: "To live forever and unsullied," he explained, but the vampyr seemed to think that he would die soon. He was right about that, but, Aramor explained, "I will not, because I have retained the gift that you no longer have."; the vampyr asked how, and Aramor said that he had already told him, and then, he withdrew away, leaving monstrous beings to pick at their flesh like carrion birds. "IA," he lamented, hearing their wails, but as he reached the surface and felt the desert-sun on his face, and heard the news of a new Crusade, he felt joyful, for this was the way it should be; "For," he bid the desert-reeds, "the void-agenda must be stopped at all costs." And, surely, blood had to be spilled to halt that agenda. The blood of Arthur Burke, the blood of Yera. The blood of Valindra, the blood of the dead-Lanre, and perhaps his son, too, though that was not agiven. All these would die, but he would do none of it: the children of Horen would. And that made it a blessed thing. "For the children of Horen can do no wrong," he taught to the fading faux-sun, and then to the rising moon. In the distance, he spied a sandstorm.

DEAR PONTIFF + RED SHEEP EXPERTS + ALL PIOUS MEN + ALL PIOUS WOMEN + OVINOLOGISTS + NUMENDIL CITIZENRY + ALL PIOUS PEOPLE SPEAKING A GENERAL SENSE, TODAY, I write to you all to ASK OF YOUR OPINION on an EXTREMELY AUSPICIOUS EVENT that I, Aramor, have recently observed!!! Verily, I was WALKING around Numendil, AS ONE DOES, when I began to walk towards the Chapel. I did this because I am CANONIST, and I am a FAN of Chapels, because they look VERY nice. NUMENDIL, especially, has VERY WHITE STONE, which looks AESTHETICALLY PLEASING - I cannot IMAGINE THE EFFORT required to constantly SCRUB IT ALL DOWN, and keep it as CLEAN AS IT IS!!! Most pleasing. I RESPECT the respect for architecture. ANYWAYS, I was walking towards the Chapel, when I saw THIS!!!! [!] A drawing so lifelike that it beggars belief. The FACE OF A SHEEP, sticking out through a door - a SHEEP BEARING RED FUR. Now, sheep, AS FAR AS I KNOW, do not bear red fur - red fur is not a NATURAL COLOUR of theirs. Confused by this, I WENT INSIDE, and I saw THIS!! [!] Yet another drawing of a most remarkable quality. There was not ONE sheep - there was TWO!! Both bore red fur, and BOTH WERE LOOKING TO ESCAPE. Now, I am not an EXPERT on sheep, nor their RELIGIOUS SIGNIFICANCE. I am AWARE that the Pontiff places GREAT STOCK in them, so I thought it WISE to report this. It seems AUSPICIOUS, to me, that two RED SHEEP - not a NATURAL COLOUR!! - should seek to ESCAPE THE CHAPEL OF NUMENDIL, and that one of them should DESIRE this SO MUCH that their face PHASES THROUGH THE DOOR!!!! Which is, in itself, USUALLY IMPOSSIBLE. Therefore, I ask - WHAT IS GOING ON!! Could a religious expert PLEASE EXPLAIN. Merry Krugsmas, ARAMOR

"Ten-billion-trillion dead Descendants," an ancient elf lamented somewhere. "Fourteen-quadrillion-zillion years till inter-galactic Orenian Empire."

“I say to you that it is not the believers of Xion that will inherit the heavens, nor the undead who will take the last steps in this world. Azdromoth will not mete out the final destiny, nor will the Void consume reality. All these things will be undone in a great war, which is the first and the last calling of man: the annihilation of the supernatural. This war will be led by a man from the desert, who will know the past, present and future as if it were inscribed upon the floor on which he walks. He will lead the children of Horen to total victory, and establish a new Oren - not just upon a single continent, but spanning across worlds and realms. This is the fate of man: an eternal Empire, stretching out across the stars.” ———«»————————————«»————————————«»——— He dreamt, for a time, of phrases unknowable, of metaphysics and abstractions incalculable by mortal means. Great cogs and wheels span across the stars, and the darkness inbetween those pinpricks of light held horrors and wonders that boggled the mind. Comets raced across the heavens, and his neck twitched. The elder cried out in his sleep, seeing a vast whirlpool of souls, immortals feasting upon the suffering of countless, leading the Descendants to total extinction in the service of their hunger. He saw the evil of stagnation. The righteousness of the GOD. Eventually, Aramor woke, though his vision was still dark. Blindness was not treating the elder well. He could feel the warmth of the desert, rub the sand between his withered fingers - but he could hardly see. He was parched, on the verge of starvation. Very lamentable. Whatsmore, whilst he usually maintained a more whimsical nature, his dreams had grown disturbingly profound as of late, as if some distant thing was calling him towards a great duty. He had no particular desire to fulfil this duty, whatever it was - what could old and broken bones do? Blind bones, too. No matter. He was soon to die. He saw this as clearly as a blind man could. Feeling his way to a palm tree, he collapsed under it, lay his head against the bark, and felt content for the gentle warmth provided by the faux-sun in the sky. He felt peaceful, at the very least. The Canonists were right. He fell asleep, not expecting to wake. ———«»————————————«»————————————«»——— Are you about to die, Aramor? Your duty is to watch, not to die. And yet I see that you no longer have the eyes for such a task, nor the whimsy that so defined you. What do you think death is? To experience life in the round. The next step. One that I will not permit you to take. Do not weep, son of Vespius. I will not let you die. I will not give you eyes, either: you will have to find those yourself. Think of it as a quest, as in the earlier days. The days of heroes. Do not speak of this. It is not your duty to act, only to watch. Seek out the Pontiff - speak to him of your quest. Gain vision, so that you may fulfil your task. Do not let this dark night of the soul tax you as it has so far. Go, my loyal fool. ———«»————————————«»————————————«»——— When Aramor woke, he felt himself again. He could continue after all. "EXCELLENT," he declared to the rising sun, though he could not see it and it was a bit too far away to hear him unfortunately, and began to walk to the east.