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.

In the deep-desert, Aramor kicked a rock. Promptly clutching his broken toe, he yelped, and wailed: “WHY DOES EVERY FORM OF IMMORTALITY REQUIRE BEING UNDEAD!!! MOST LAMENTABLE!!!" His lament echoed into the hills and sands, but bore no response (the dementia was not so severe just yet). Hopping along and cursing, the old elf continued his trek through the golden hills, till he found an oasis, which he gladly drank from. “Ah, THANK YOU, water,” he sighed. “When I am God-Emperor-Savior-King-Messiah, I will gift unto you a THOUSAND POOLS, just like your own, so that the ENTIRE DESERT is just one big pool.” Stopping to think about this proclamation, he hurriedly took it back. “THOUGH - I would be upset if ALL THE DESERT were gone… perhaps I shall simply MOVE YOU, out of the desert, to an ocean. Make you part of the BIGGER WHOLE.” The oasis did not deign to respond, but Aramor knew it was listening, and was content with his own wisdom. Nodding approvingly, he scampered up a pine tree, pulling down some leaves and tying them around his broken toe - and continued on his journey. He considered, then. That undead that he had seen - Emissar of the King Under The Earth - why was Mordring working with undead? Ahh, what a silly dragon, though he promptly reminded himself that most dragons were silly. Certainly, people in that marble town, Celia’nor, had recognised Pampo, even if they pretended otherwise. They were such bad liars! Especially Valindra. “Though,” he reckoned, stopping a little to scratch his withered chin, “if I was allied with undead, I CERTAINLY wouldn’t tell anyone, so maybe it’s not SURPRISING that they didn’t tell me… So UNFORTUNATE! I am a compassionate and understanding face,” he nodded to himself, even though he knew this wasn’t true. Aramor was neither compassionate nor understanding - he was well-meaning and intelligent, which wasn’t quite the same thing, but the difference was too small for Aramor to care. But the desert heard, and recognised his lie. A few steps forwards, and his claim was put to the test; a bandit-orc approached him on some big boar, snorting and grunting and calling out things like “GIVE MI UR MINAZ” and “WAAAAAAGH”. Aramor responded to this by running in the other direction, the boar getting closer and closer until it fortunately tripped on a rock and sent the orc flying, breaking both their necks. “PERFECT! I am chosen,” Aramor joyously shouted, quickly being swallowed by quicksand - “AAAAAAAAAH” - and after much general panicking and thrashing about, he fell under the earth, into a vast tunnel system. The tunnels were dark, and stinky. Aramor, pinching his nose, began to navigate them, refraining from using X-Ray vision, lest the blue spirits punish him. It was a treacherous road; every few minutes, some malign creature would try to attack him, only to be struck down with his extremely proficient capabilities with the sword. “HAH!” Every swing of the blade was calming to the elder, a delusion that he was back to his former strength. “Even LANRE CERUSIL would have fallen before me,” he wagered to the general nothingness of the underground - and then, unexpectedly, fell into a hole, falling and falling, deep into the earth. “LAMENTABLE,” the elder shrieked - and then, the winds, whisking past him, began to whisper into his ears… “Ten-Billion-Dead-Bells…” “Eh?” “Ten-Billion-Dead-Elves…” “Ah!” “A million-zillion deconstructed undead… total draconic victory… The continent will be submerged in fire… fourteen-gorillion-axolotls are required… Pontiff-Samurai-Alliance…” This was all very disconcerting for Aramor, but the voice was speaking very slowly, and his death was no doubt hurtling upwards towards him at great pace, so he motioned for the voices to get a move on and continue their ominous vagueposting. “You must… eat sand… put in your… guys…” “Wah?” “You must… put sand… in your eyes…” The floor hurtled towards him - Aramor's eyes squeezed shut, and then, total darkness. He soon woke, rising in the desert. Night had fallen - Aramor was reminded that he was supposed to pluck out his eyes and replace them with sand. This would not have naturally been his first course of action, but Aramor knew better than to question the deep-caves, the places where the bones of the GOD helped prop up the surface - so, grumbling, he promptly plucked out his own eyes, and stuffed the sand of the desert in. This had two effects. One, it was very painful - and two, it rendered him blind. Things that might have been obvious to the elder, had he thought it through, but he hadn’t, so they only occurred to him after the deed. There was much wailing and groaning for the pain and inconvenience, but after all was said and done, there was only one truth: Aramor was now blind. “MOST LAMENTABLE,” he lamented, and continued in his journey, now a blind man.

DEAR AEVOS, My name is ARAMOR, and I am a VERY OLD MAN. With age come things like CREAKING BONES and an ONLY-SOMETIMES-WORKING MIND. These are NOT GOOD THINGS. They FRUSTRATE me immensely, and I am therefore looking for a way to be YOUNG FOREVER. I am willing to pay a price SO LONG AS IT IS NOT MINA, because I have no mina, because I am bankrupt. Please contact me via LETTER, or find me in person. I usually reside in CELIA'NOR, because it has a VERY GOOD TEASHOP. Truly EXCELLENT sencha. Best wishes and a very merry christmas, ARAMOR

"Pontiffs die! BUT!" Aramor hops onto a table, kicking aside a glass and watching it shatter against a wall. A shout of glee. "But the SPIRIT! The Spirit is eternal throughout them!"

Your sleep is interrupted by the chime of a distant prayer-bell. Feeling is restored, first. Manacles grasp your neck, wrists, and ankles. And then - sight. A circle of figures lean close about you. Beyond them, an endless hall; a spruce path with stone walls, so long that you cannot see the end. Grating voices, murmured and mumbled, speak huskily - with reverence, and raspiness. And hunger. “Descendant…” “Descendanttt...” “Such a prize…” "Such a priiizsse..." More memories come to you, like ice packed around your throat. A stormy sea - a hard landing. Tall mountains, and snow; shrieking in the distance. A ruined city. Explosions, sorcery that cracked the world apart and eclipsed the light of the moon. It is all fuzzy. You shake your head. You do not recall enough. Elven sorcerers and cultists encircle you, their skin sucked tight about their bones, their eyes dull with age and misery. You cannot tell which speaks - or if, indeed, any of them even are. “You hath returned…” “What was sworn…” “To He who was promised…” “Everything.” You do not know what they speak of. You can only squint at them, befuddled but silent. Waiting for elaboration. “Vessel for…” “The pride…” “The strength…” “We shall glory…” “In your misery.” You taunt and laugh, boomingly, with a voice far deeper than your own. “Damnation awaits you! Eternal torment! How long can you cling, wicked fools?” “Your bravery…” “Nothing but kindling…” “For the coil…” “The end of your race.” “All honour will be cast…” “As ash…” “To the winds.” “Where the GOD shall gather it!” You scream with lunatic defiance, roar with a strength not your own. Your voice echoes down the endless halls. "Your eyes..." "Shall be put out..." "Your fingers..." "Cut from you..." "And I shall give you over..." "To my children..." "To their hunger..." “And when all is done…” “You will tell me…” “Where your accursed river…” “Has concealed…” “The Mountain-Spirit’s bla-” A soft, distant chime, and you wake.

This night, you do not dream as usual. You watch yourself finish your cup of sake at the teashop. You chase your back around corners, between your intersecting ranks of soldiers. An earring finds you. A Wizard. A Philosopher. A Priest, who looks at you with veritable disgust. You listen, and listen to your listening. Most people are oblivious, but some see you with different eyes; a white-haired elf screams and screams, and a blind dwarven beggar grasps your knee, blubbering: "Please! You must wake! You must live! You must go blind - you must stop seeing all! For the sake of the soil and in the name of the GOD!" You see the coastline of Aevos. You can see a murdered Pontiff, the sorrow of the son of a Lich, a thousand soldiers marching into battle... Sometimes you just watch yourself look out the window. You hear the words, laughed by an elf shrouded in green robes, with skin so pale and gaunt that he looks half-dead: "Entili matoi jesil irhaila mi..." You see a coil, made of silver, reaching up into the heavens, with branches twisting and a circle forming around every living being. You watch those branches wither and fade with time, and you look to yours: Golden. Undying. You murder a wizard by a voidal tear. You see your blood splatter across the floor, and gasp for breath at your slit throat. You slump to the floor, and watch yourself slump to the floor. You do not prepare so much as wait whilst the world grows ripe for ending. You dream yourself dreaming, and you see, in your mind, a red eye, angered and haughty for your disturbing it. Your mind reels - you feel soiled, dirtied. Your body heaves for a disgusted feeling. A robin finds you, and the vision ends.

A scraggly elf squints at the rising sun, and thinks of the horned mage. ". . .******* wizards. I hope he does his job."

To the Voidal-Lich Az'Rekash, What you speak of - the pure nature of strength - is something that I have previously considered. I am old, likely older than you, and I have seen that those who become strong beyond the norm of Descendant-kind or Darkspawn always, eventually, die. I cannot, in my long life, think of a single Descendant that has managed to escape mortality via strength - everyone who grows strong and begins to threaten the lives of others to an overt degree is snuffed out. I may be wrong - I have forgotten much. Forgetfulness is an unfortunate fact of age. And I suppose that in order to achieve this lofty aim, one must break precedents and do what others have not yet, but strength invites challenge, and challenge invites death, and death is what I look to avoid. I would like to speak to you further. I do not think I will take your approach; what you say about hobbies does interest me, but I suppose that that is a discussion that should be held in person. I will work out some way of speaking to you without being at risk of death, and send you a letter. - Aramor

"Mali are effectively immortal. No Elf has ever died of age, only insanity when they live beyond a thousand years. If you have further questions please do send me a missive." I APOLOGISE FOR THE LATE REPLY; I have been somewhat preoccupied. I fear that I did not properly explain what it is I desired in my previous missive, and I thought to clarify further to see if you know more. I am already aware that elves live for a very extended period of time. I do not seek infinite age, as I know that my age can be near-infinite, as I am elven - I seek a method to never die. We cannot die of old age, but we can die from illness, sickness, madness, murder, the stroke of a sword - you know of what I speak. And I am aware that I am not alone in searching these things, and I am aware that many Darkspawn offer solutions to this problem, but I am also aware that they are usually fake, or fraudulent, or deceptive; I seek a way to become truly immortal, that is, immune to danger or threat-to-life, impermeable to fatal circumstance. If this is possible, please inform me how - and if it is not, please inform me of that too. I will not shy away from harsh paths in the search of a solution to this question. - Aramor

I AM IN SEARCH of the secret to immortality. I do not seek to become a dark creature of any kind - I am a normal elf, flesh and blood, and I wish to maintain that state of affairs, albeit without the risk of death. I have one-hundred minas on my person, which I will of course give to whoever can provide to me the secret - but I am aware that such is a small amount, and I therefore will also be willing to give anything and everything that I possess, even a degree of servitude in exchange for the answer (except for my eternal soul). Please reply with a bird if you know a method of attaining immortality within the above terms. Equally, if it's impossible, please tell me that too, though I won't be giving you payment if so. - Aramor

This night, you do not dream as usual. You watch yourself rise and leave a room for a final time. You chase your back around corners, between your intersecting crowds. A coin finds you. A Nephilim. An Aengul of Justice. A Canonist Priest, who looks to you with devotional worship. You listen, and listen to your listening. Most people are oblivious, but some see you with different eyes; a black-haired elf screams and screams, and a blind dwarven beggar grasps your knee, blubbering. You gaze out the window upon the burning city below. You can see a murdered Queen, the sorrow of a green-eyed War-Priest, a thousand soldiers march into coastal battle. Sometimes you just watch yourself look out the window. You hear the words: "Entili matoi jesil irhaila mi..." You hear a spider skitter across the floorboards. You almost step on it a million-million times - again and again and again and again and again... You murder a wizard by a voidal tear. You see your blood splatter across the floor, and gasp for breath at your slit throat. You slump to the floor, and watch yourself slump to the floor. You wake, and dress yourself at the rack. You see him leave the room for the final time. You do not prepare so much as wait whilst the world grows ripe for ending. A demon accosts you, and you find yourself fascinated by the red skin that grasps your face and burns your skull catches your eye. He turns, as you slump to the floor - you see yourself look to your next victim. You see the end of man, and you see the end of nations. You see thousands and thousands of corpses in great piles - you see armour melting in the burning fires, and you see the breaking of the last Lorraine. You hear the earth roar and shake.. A robin finds you, and the vision ends.