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The Empty Throne: An Original Fantasy Quest

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Shapeless Phobos said:
[X] In Freedom

I kind of like how mixing this with our Strife gives off almost an anarchist vibe.
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Nah, it's totally going to be something that's going to spiral into something terrible. Balthazim are terrible beings is the main vibe i have been getting and don't think the MC is any different.

Still, giving the humans a chance to revolt is as good a cause as any even if they are probably going to get delivered into just a different sort of slavery. Or maybe I am just being pessimistic.
 
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DkArthas said:
Nah, it's totally going to be something that's going to spiral into something terrible. Balthazim are terrible beings is the main vibe i have been getting and don't think the MC is any different.

Still, giving the humans a chance to revolt is as good a cause as any even if they are probably going to get delivered into just a different sort of slavery. Or maybe I am just being pessimistic.
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To be honest, I don't see the point of going against our nature, we are a thing of violence and selfishness. We are literally here to run away from She in yellow and win wership.
From the perspective of a selfish god, humans are a resource.

Even though we present ourselves as a benevolent god, deep down we don't rescue the slaves from the chains of the Galbazim to be benevolent, but because we want to be their lord and master.

However, they don't need to know that!
 
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[X] In Dreams: No, the dreams of men are not necessarily your purview. But these slaves dream so strongly of cats, of nimbleness and liberty and warm cold pride that you cannot help but be drawn in. The Dreaming Host, you are almost certain, rides elsewhere. The dreams of these slaves bleed together, and they are mottled and black and streaked with despair. Where you walk, you take the shape of a cat, and their sleeping minds light up like stars. In the flesh, they are chained -- but in their sleep, they follow cats to places far away, beyond the horizon, where even the beating of mighty wings might not follow.

[X] In Sunlit Halls: Slaves in the darkness. Rats in the walls. Must you trifle yourself with these things? The Ghalbazim are mighty, yes, but they are mortals still. Some of their hearts lie uneasy. Some among them see the tiny felines which dance among their legs with something like amusement, or affection. Others yet stir themselves and dream of wind under their wings, of great worlds yet untamed beyond the horizon. Though they will not admit it, they chafe under the cloying perfection to which they have been born. You arise to the sunlit halls of the Red City, and seek purchase among the Dwellers in the Middle Air. Of course, (as you already know) every one of the Old Masters is sworn, bone and blood and claw, to another, until all the endings of the world. But you are a thief already, are you not?
 
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4: Manifest
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    • At her hip sat the sword. It was a bitter orange, so dark it was almost red. True to it's name, it sliced the world as it went. Ai! It was a weapon to lay low the great lords of heaven, yet she carried it like a toy.
    - The Book of Djimat
    ​
    In the end, it is almost too easy. The dreams of slaves are alive with far-away things, with sun-drenched plateaus and white meadows, with silver forests and silent mountains, with anything and everything but this.

    You shift sideways through the dream of a starving child. He has only ever heard stories of the sea, but underneath his eyelids he is seeing it for the first time. It is blue and still and starless, and the tides lap about his feet. The salt stings his tongue. He is far away.

    That morning, he speaks with wonder to his father of a dream already fading. The man has seen the sea before, so it does not so easily capture him — but that night when he lays his head down to sleep, he dreams of the boy's mother, long dead. They are all together again, under a bright sun, somewhere very far away.

    It spreads quickly then — it is only ever an emphasis, really, on something already present. Like a spider building a web, you clamber above and about them, drawing in concepts and ideas like fishing lines. Distance is a mighty thing, and in dreams all horizons are forever far. It is small, at first, in seeping into the waking world: an errant thought here, a stray glance there. But one morning, there is a chance event: a slave walking on the upper steps of the city, bearing a message between the abattoirs of the winged lords she serves, glances out of the window.

    The city is high in the air. It moves, at times, but there and then it stands above the crest of a thundering waterfall, which spirals down many miles into a thin blue line. It is only a moment, but her eyes flicker along the length of that line, following it as it tracks it's winding way over fields and through forests, following it until it disappears over the utmost and furthest horizon.

    She feels in that moment things she has no name for. Her mind, so long deadened, tracked by a lifetime of dull and creeping thoughts, blazes for an instant like a new-lit candle. She thinks of space, and distance, and place. She wonders where the river ends. She dares, for perhaps the first time in her life, to hope.

    And then you are there, dancing in the candle's heart. You wrap yourself in the things she feels, nail them to yourself, and like living lightning pour forth through her mind into the world of flesh.

    Dreams will suffice no more. You have your first foothold in the waking world:

    [] An Avatar: Idea becomes flesh and muscle and bone. In a moment, you are sliced down from the dimensions of thought and fire, bounded in a cage of bone, and where there was empty air there is now a cat, glossy and black, sunning itself on the windowsill. In a way, you are every cat already — but this cat is more you than most. Where it walks, so shall you, and what it sees you will know. The constructs of the Balthazim are not without imperfection. There are flaws. It's passing, like your own, may be barred by cold iron, by which it might also be slain. It cannot stray far from the place of it's making, and it blazes like a torch in the sight of the other Powers — for it is in the end something of you made real, and the Airs are not of Creation.

    [] A Prophet: You brush, gently, softly, against the edges of the slave girl's thoughts, and the contact of it shakes every layer of her being. Her heart fills with a wonder and a fear she cannot place. The candle bends in a dark wind. Whatever she was before dies in an instant, and what lives on will have a ruthless edge. Her eyes will be bright and sharp forever, and her voice will always be clear and cold, like something steel. She will speak of horizons, and far places, and the red shores which men see in dreams. She will move silently, she will carry a razor between her breasts, she will savor the taste of blood, she will be followed always by cats, she will be less than human — and something more.

    [] A Vessel: You grip the girl's mind and scoop out everything which is not you, and then fill all that remains. Her bones blaze like candles as your light scours them clean. The thing which was her is now something of you, and it flexes it's fingers experimentally. It sees as cats do, now. Though the shape is mortal, the strength in it's muscles is no longer human. You know that even the winged ones might know fear if one of the Balthazim faced them clothed in flesh. So bound, you may not walk in dreams, but you might walk unmolested (or feared, or adored) among men. You need not fear the holy metal, cold iron, for it cannot harm living flesh, and you might walk unseen by your kin, mortal as you are. Of course, you are aware, to be mortal is to die — but you will simply need to leave, should it come to that.

    [] An Idol: The girl's heart is filled with passion. In the days to come, she will steal or procure a small quantity of wood, along with a suitable cutting implement, and then she will begin to work. She will not eat or drink until it is done. To some eyes it will seem just a wooden carving of a cat, done in the dark by untrained hands, passed from person to person and rubbed between desperate fingers. But it will be something more: An icon. An ornament. A locus. A totem. A thing of power, which as you as you are it.
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • [X] A Prophet: You brush, gently, softly, against the edges of the slave girl's thoughts, and the contact of it shakes every layer of her being. Her heart fills with a wonder and a fear she cannot place. The candle bends in a dark wind. Whatever she was before dies in an instant, and what lives on will have a ruthless edge. Her eyes will be bright and sharp forever, and her voice will always be clear and cold, like something steel. She will speak of horizons, and far places, and the red shores which men see in dreams. She will move silently, she will carry a razor between her breasts, she will savor the taste of blood, she will be followed always by cats, she will be less than human — and something more.

    And thus spoke the holy kitter. "Follow not the bird things, only the blessed meow meows are worthy of scrithces and offerings".
     
    [X] An Idol: The girl's heart is filled with passion. In the days to come, she will steal or procure a small quantity of wood, along with a suitable cutting implement, and then she will begin to work. She will not eat or drink until it is done. To some eyes it will seem just a wooden carving of a cat, done in the dark by untrained hands, passed from person to person and rubbed between desperate fingers. But it will be something more: An icon. An ornament. A locus. A totem. A thing of power, which as you as you are it.
     
    [X] A Prophet: You brush, gently, softly, against the edges of the slave girl's thoughts, and the contact of it shakes every layer of her being. Her heart fills with a wonder and a fear she cannot place. The candle bends in a dark wind. Whatever she was before dies in an instant, and what lives on will have a ruthless edge. Her eyes will be bright and sharp forever, and her voice will always be clear and cold, like something steel. She will speak of horizons, and far places, and the red shores which men see in dreams. She will move silently, she will carry a razor between her breasts, she will savor the taste of blood, she will be followed always by cats, she will be less than human — and something more.

    This one was difficult. I hesitated between an idol and a prophet.
    So this sentence convinced me.
    "She will move silently, she will carry a razor between her breasts, she will savor the taste of blood, she will always be followed by cats, she will be less than human — and something more."

    There's something exhilarating about twisting something to do our will.
     
    [X] An Idol: The girl's heart is filled with passion. In the days to come, she will steal or procure a small quantity of wood, along with a suitable cutting implement, and then she will begin to work. She will not eat or drink until it is done. To some eyes it will seem just a wooden carving of a cat, done in the dark by untrained hands, passed from person to person and rubbed between desperate fingers. But it will be something more: An icon. An ornament. A locus. A totem. A thing of power, which as you as you are it.
     
    [X] A Prophet: You brush, gently, softly, against the edges of the slave girl's thoughts, and the contact of it shakes every layer of her being. Her heart fills with a wonder and a fear she cannot place. The candle bends in a dark wind. Whatever she was before dies in an instant, and what lives on will have a ruthless edge. Her eyes will be bright and sharp forever, and her voice will always be clear and cold, like something steel. She will speak of horizons, and far places, and the red shores which men see in dreams. She will move silently, she will carry a razor between her breasts, she will savor the taste of blood, she will be followed always by cats, she will be less than human — and something more.

    wewlad
     
    [X] An Idol: The girl's heart is filled with passion. In the days to come, she will steal or procure a small quantity of wood, along with a suitable cutting implement, and then she will begin to work. She will not eat or drink until it is done. To some eyes it will seem just a wooden carving of a cat, done in the dark by untrained hands, passed from person to person and rubbed between desperate fingers. But it will be something more: An icon. An ornament. A locus. A totem. A thing of power, which as you as you are it.
     
    [X] A Prophet

    It is too early for us to manifest directly and yet humanity must be able to reach out to us to believe, while we need to be able to direct them. A servant endower with our light is what we should send.
     
    [X] A Prophet: You brush, gently, softly, against the edges of the slave girl's thoughts, and the contact of it shakes every layer of her being. Her heart fills with a wonder and a fear she cannot place. The candle bends in a dark wind. Whatever she was before dies in an instant, and what lives on will have a ruthless edge. Her eyes will be bright and sharp forever, and her voice will always be clear and cold, like something steel. She will speak of horizons, and far places, and the red shores which men see in dreams. She will move silently, she will carry a razor between her breasts, she will savor the taste of blood, she will be followed always by cats, she will be less than human — and something more.
     
    [X] An Avatar
    [X] An Idol

    No one suspects the Cute evil cat.
     
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    [X] A Prophet: You brush, gently, softly, against the edges of the slave girl's thoughts, and the contact of it shakes every layer of her being. Her heart fills with a wonder and a fear she cannot place. The candle bends in a dark wind. Whatever she was before dies in an instant, and what lives on will have a ruthless edge. Her eyes will be bright and sharp forever, and her voice will always be clear and cold, like something steel. She will speak of horizons, and far places, and the red shores which men see in dreams. She will move silently, she will carry a razor between her breasts, she will savor the taste of blood, she will be followed always by cats, she will be less than human — and something more.
     
    [X] A Prophet: You brush, gently, softly, against the edges of the slave girl's thoughts, and the contact of it shakes every layer of her being. Her heart fills with a wonder and a fear she cannot place. The candle bends in a dark wind. Whatever she was before dies in an instant, and what lives on will have a ruthless edge. Her eyes will be bright and sharp forever, and her voice will always be clear and cold, like something steel. She will speak of horizons, and far places, and the red shores which men see in dreams. She will move silently, she will carry a razor between her breasts, she will savor the taste of blood, she will be followed always by cats, she will be less than human — and something more.
     
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