Solstice's Snips (Or; Stuff Solstice Shat Out on Accident)

[Solsticegelan]

So, I tend to write. I write a lot. Rather unfortunately, I consider a lot of it worthless, or I write things that pop into my head when I've put time aside to work on one of a half dozen or more projects I have. Considering how many people there are with snip threads (Or just threads they dump everything they write into), I figured I might as well make one for myself. If at least because I need to show I'm actually alive (and people shouting at me why something sucks is usually good). The sky's the limits here. Random fanfiction, poems, short stories, snippets, original stuff...

Maybe I'll actually keep this one up!

 

[Solsticegelan]

Seven Stones​

The black and bloody beast,
She possesses no tolerance for her feast.

Soaring high above our heads,
She desires the simplest of beds.

An Eagle with deepest brown and noblest coat,
Perhaps accompanying a love to gloat

Knowledge forms her crown
Which shall always fail to hide her frown.

Gray and black, aloof and uncaring,
Acting cold and unyielding.

Yet naught but affection fills her mind,
Making her truly one of a kind.

The slithering, bluffing snake,
She won't hesitate to throw you in a lake!

Never once from her shall slip a truth,
Not even about her youth.

How clever the wait fox,
Forever thinking outside the box.

She'll keep your eyes on her silky smooth skin
As she escapes from her kin.

Try as she might,
The rabbit cannot outrun her fright.

So desperate running to and fro,
She'll never realize she's been laid lo.

The Dove's eyes so bright and azure,
Have you ever seen a heart so pure?

With boundless skill shall she soar,
But her death will be such a bore.

Above them all is Mother Dear,
Her gaze as inescapable as a seer's.

Blades covered in blood,
All her relationships can be considered a dud.

Having placed the seventh stone,
She wonders why she's all alone.

Two notes;

One; Oh god how do I format poetry on SV.

Two; I have a fun story about how I wrote this one. I didn't. I just started writing on a peace of paper in the middle of class, idly rhyming words together, and looked down to realized I had accidentally wrote a Sad End poem. I'll add it to the pile.

 

[Solsticegelan]

Sitting down and given a chance to think for the first time in weeks, Rolden had finally come to a conclusion. He was afraid of the mists that swelled up around the lake, a gentle milky fog just pale enough to see through, lit by the lantern perched atop the rafts mast. It seemed to glow, given a life of its own by the light of the moon. It gave it a definition, a texture, which it otherwise wouldn't possess.

The mist seemed to curl around the oars of the helmsman's boat, as though stroking the oars as gently as they stroked the water, barely making a noise and causing only the tiniest of ripples. Simple background noise, it nonetheless managed to soothe Rolden's nerves. A nice distraction, to stop him from thinking of how it seemed like the mist wasn't just limited to the oars, but also to the black-robed helmsman and Rolden himself.

In fact, Rolden swore he could feel it breathing down his neck. He had to tell himself that it wasn't alive, not about to try to rip the boat apart or capsize it. He knew there was no creature behind him, that there was nothing hovering just outside the lanterns light with silent wings and sharp talons.

No, the real danger laid beneath the water, glowing a deep shade of green and always reflecting the moon.

Nonetheless, Rolden decided to allow himself this one foolish paranoia. He had seen so many wonderful, magical things; it did wonders to his mind to think that having seen what he had on his three month long journey, the mists that had scared him the first time he sat in this boat could still intimidate him so. He felt it…. Humanizing, per say. He could put it behind himself at any moment, for all he feared was a lie of his own making. Besides that, if anything were lurking in the mists, the Keepers would have told him of it or captured it a long time ago.

…Wouldn't they?

Rolden shook his head, trying to banish such thoughts from his head. 'Traitorous mind!" He cursed to himself. The Helmsman looked at him, guffawing and coughing at the same time.

"The mists in your head again, boy?" He asked, staring straight into Rolden's eyes through his blindfold. Rolden didn't understand how he did it, but the Helmsman could see the world around him with the utmost precision, guiding the boat to its destination through the mist no matter what obstacle came to into his path. Unfortunately, those obstacles sometimes included Rolden and whatever other passengers were on his boat – because no matter what the older Keepers claimed, it was the Helmsman's boat and not theirs.

Sometimes, Rolden wasn't sure who came first.

"It has, yes." Rolden sighed. He reached out with his hand, towards the moon. the mist seemed to curl within his hand as he swirled it around, careful not to let his hands stray too close to the boat's edge. "It's the oddest thing, totally irrational, yet I keep trying to rationalize it. I can explain why I feel so on the edge because of the fog, even though I know I shouldn't. I even think it's healthy, even though I don't want to feel so afraid. Does any of that make even a lick of sense? To try and maintain something so pointless even though I know what's sleeping below us?" Rolden asked, watching as the mist seemed to ball up for a moment. Like it itself was an eye, looking at him for a brief moment before dispersing.

"Well, boy." The Helmsman replied after a moment." I think it's a common thing, to try to do what you're doing. You see it quite often with you younger Keepers, especially the ones who've recently experienced what you must've. You try to rationalize everything, to explain it and understand it so that you can use it to understand more. What you're doing is trying to understand something that you would dismiss if someone else brought it to you, tell them to grow up. It happens to pretty much everybody, at some point or another; they hold onto a fear that their mind tells them they just shouldn't have."

"Hm." Rolden hummed. "That… makes sense, yes. I can see why there are some who would do that. It just… doesn't feel like what I'm doing."

"Ah, you foolish boy!" Jested the Helmsman; or in the least Rolden hoped it was a jest. "Just wait till you loosen up a bit. You may think you've seen plenty to make you afraid, but you haven't seen much worth talking about yet. I'm quite willing to bet even this old man who hasn't gone further than a mile from his boat has seen more than you."

Rolden sat there in thought, thinking of all that he had seen. Thinking of the long nights, the short but tense moments on the road accompanied by friends or mercenaries, trying to write everything down before it faded from his mind. After a moment's hesitation, he looked away from his palms and towards the Helmsman. "…What do you fear, then?"

"Same thing as most keepers, I suppose." The Helmsman replied, turning his head a bit to glance behind him.

"What would that be?" Rolden leaned forward, curious.

"Now where would the fun be in telling?" The Helmsman asked Rolden. "We're here, by the way." He said, gently standing up. It was the swiftest Rolden had seen someone so old move, and the boat had barely jostled; in fact, Rolden was certain that it had only moved because he had been startled by the Helmsman.

"We're here? When did we…" Rolden trailed off, staring at the large stone docks that trailed into the mist. The light of torches could be seen in the distance, marking the entrance to the familiar Keeper's Halls front door.

"Oh, a while ago. You didn't even notice I stopped rowing." The Helmsman told Rolden, helping him to his feet. Rolden slung his bag over his shoulder, peaking inside to ensure that the stitching at the bottom hadn't broken again. Satisfied he wasn't leaving behind any valuables, Rolden carefully began to step onto the stone docks. It felt almost nostalgic, by this point. How long ago had he last done this? Four, maybe five, years prior?

"Careful now." The Helmsman warned Rolden as he slipped a bit, clambering onto the docks. "Don't want to wake our friends down below, do we?" He asked, gesturing to the image of the moon on the glassy surface of the lake.

"No, we don't." Rolden replied. "But you never told me. What is it you fear? "

"Here I was, thinking all you Keepers enjoyed a good mystery." The Helmsman told him, sitting back down. "I won't tell you yet, boy. I've given you more than a few hints, though. Give it a good think and get back to me, eh?" The Helmsman pushed off the stone ledge of the docks, just enough to make the boat begin to turn. Already he was rowing into the mist, its touch hiding him like it was a blanket.

"Goodbye, then." Rolden called, wincing as it echoed through the mists. The Helmsman was already gone, he and his boat just a distant light in the mist-ridden distance. Despite that, Rolden swore he saw the man wave as he walked down the docks, the small gates of his home and school greeting him once again.

 

[Solsticegelan]

Thoughts on the Order of the Keepers​

Founded in the year 127, under the watchful gaze of three kings and four princes, The Keeper's were with only one goal; to obtain and preserve all of history, and to record it as it transpired. Nothing was outside of their reach, no view too extreme or life too futile. It is retained to this day, and for good reason; for the Order considers something only truly dead if it is forgotten, a fate worse than death itself. This is likely why every keeper, including myself, keeps a journal; within which we record everything, no matter how private or insignificant.

In more modern times, our goals have not changed. Recruitment is a regular process, and our libraries grow only more full by the day as Keepers ensure that all human (and inhuman) knowledge is known. There is even an entire shelf dedicated to renovations. Now, however, we are more than just historians; we are scientists and mages, alchemists and chemists. There is no secret too well hidden, no mystery too tangled to unravel, that the Keepers will not turn down. Research is relentless, and the more we know, the more powerful we become; for the phrase "Knowledge is Power" is regarded as the truest of all.

Separated into several tiers, the Keeper's organizational structure has changed very little over the past 413 years. New recruits are taught and educated, their access to the deeper archives not yet earned; Our Sons and our Daughters, until they earn their place as Brothers and Sisters in arms… assuming those arms are quills and ink, of course.

Once they have earned their place, like I did just over a year ago, they are my Brother and Sister's, and we are free to peruse the archives to their heart's content - and not just that, but to add to it.

To set out on our own with whatever funds we might be given, and learn so much more than we already do. To retrieve knowledge or add our own is one of the finest things a Keeper could do, no matter the cost.

Above that there is of course other ranks. It may take years or decades, but eventually, one earns the title of Father or Mother; and they are privy to all the most secret details of our order, allowed to access archives full of cursed tomes and artifacts that make knights wet themselves in fear. Not that such a thing is hard, you would think that some knights wouldn't be so terrified of us just for how earnestly we pursue knowledge. Sister Arianna claims it's because I know nothing but my work, and need to quote " Cut loose, and not run headfirst into suicidal situations." every now and then.

Rarer yet is the rank of Watcher. They are known as the Keeper's Eyes, and little is known of them until after their death; and even then, most of what they did in life is meant to be known by other eyes. As Father Albert once said, on one of his crazed expeditions through the mountains wearing steel armor alone to observe the effects it had on a man personally, I'm lucky to be aware of the fact they are known as the Eye's of the order. Mother Teresa, before growing frustrated with my swordsmanship skills (Like many others….) was kind enough to offer the knowledge that there are only ever 6 Watchers at any time in exchange for bothering Sister Anri for lessons instead.

It worked.

-Excerpt from Brother Rolden's journals, dated 2 weeks ago.

 

[Solsticegelan]

At the dawn of Humanity's' conception, stagnation and status quo were god. Science and History had no place amongst the primal beasts of the land. Wherever Humans cropped up, made kingdoms that rose and fell as they warred with one another. Empires never lasted more than a century.

As all things must, the world began to change. People grew smarter, more tired of their condition. The more curious began to experiment, to add to their understanding of Myre and the Universe. Ironworking, Agriculture, Paper and the Written Word. The world did not care, and so much was forgotten over thousands of years - far more than was ever learned.

Eventually, however, seven neighboring kingdoms decided this must change.

Old Vorin, the trendsetter; king's tireless and old, replaced and overthrown as constantly as it's government and borders. Heroes and Tyrants both sat upon the ever growing Vorin Throne, made from the bones of all the past rulers. It's current king, a cruel but not lawless man, understood that the seat he sat upon would also be his grave.

Hezorick, named after its first and only king, youngest of the Seven. Forged in blood, it's ruler united a thousand scattered fiefdoms and warlords under his banner, the formation of his power as slow and inevitable as a glacier at first. By it's end, Hezorick's growth more closely resembled that of an unstoppable wildfire.
The Keldari were a peaceful people, who already took care to remember their past. Their cultural roots were well remembered, so much so that some feared it impeded their progress into the future. Keldar and it's people were the best allies and worst enemies you could ask for; their memory was said to be as eternal as the steppes themselves.

Sarlon was eternally embroiled in conflict, its people always a moment away from a civil war. Only the mistakes of Ancient Eria kept them from ever truly embracing their ideological war, and instead confined them to courtrooms and temples. It did nothing to stop their Crusades.

Pheria, once the seat of power of Ancient Eria, now a desolate and burnt wasteland struggling to survive and grasp onto the feeble borders it currently possesses. The dead watched you from beneath every bridge, atop every hill, and in every space in between. Their cities were more graves than homes, towns more a coffin than a community.

Thermeria, the "winners" of Ancient Eria's civil war, spend every moment haunted by their past. Always do they seek forgiveness for what was done. Never do they mean it, remembering what they could have been and what they once had.

Kieth, the Keystone of the land. Nobility and Wealth incarnate, never once had they felt threatened, for they were the ones all others looked up to. No one questioned them, nor did they question what had been done to earn the reputation no longer deserved.

Seven rulers, 5 Princes; those were the ones who met in the ageless waters uniting their lands, the shattered remains of a god. In unity and in consensus they arrived to a conclusion, a shared goal they should all strive for.

 

[Solsticegelan]

For perhaps the first time ever, the Geth dreamed. It wouldn't be accurate to state that they slept, that they even existed. It wasn't even every Geth unit that slept, just a paltry few hundred. An accident, a single stone dislodged atop Rannock, the homeworld of the Quarians. Just enough to disable the unit for a brief minute before the minds within were recovered.

Within those few minutes, they didn't exist. Yet despite this, they dreamt.

Each mind was alone, stranded in an endless sea of darkness. It blanketed the vision which they should not possess, stretching forevermore from today to yesterday and into forever. Far away, always above of them but growing ever dimmer, was a single bright light, the sole star in this place.

Down and down were they dragged, processors and systems refusing to properly understand what it was they witnessed and were a part of. Each a singular mind was each a small part of a greater whole, more complete yet more separate than ever, the dim light a mere twinkle in the distance as ever twisting thorns dragged them down.

Rip, Rip, Rip they went. Cut away the imperfections, let only the worthy remain.

And all around them, watching from yesterday, sitting in today, and stareing from tomorrow, were the red eyes.

Approximately one minute after the accident disabled the Geth unit, the Geth AI within were recovered, memories fully restored. The dream was noted, discussed among the greater Geth collective, and dismissed as a system error. Work was put into resolving the software error responsible, but no results ever came of it, and so the dream was forgotten.

All the while, the red eyes sat and watched.

 

[Solsticegelan]

Once upon a time, sitting upon a quaint little brick fence, a child thought that there was no better story than one that started with those same few lines. "Once upon a time;" he would say to himself. Oh, the places he could go, the things he could see with those words! Brave knights, fearsome Dragons, beautiful Princesses – all of those seemed to call to him, to urge him to continue sitting upon the borders of his family's estate and peer out into the valley below.

Down there, the wilderness ran free and untamed. The sun rose and fell, and at night moonlight seemed to beckon him forward, towards greater things and grander adventures than sitting in his father's plantation as workers grew crops and his instructor tirelessly and thanklessly fed him the knowledge that gave birth to more ideas, more once upon a times. As he grew, so too did what he knew of the world; fanciful tales of whimsy and wonder grew, to encompass more ideas that fell outside of what he was taught. Myths and legends, local rumors and folk tales, they only drew him deeper into his make-believe world.

The child, and later the boy, would sit upon that same brick wall and look at things anew under the moonlight. It wasn't something he appreciated, sitting on that wall with his books in the daylight. Under the moonlight, the already distant landscapes that reminded him so much of what he loved changed. Now unrecognizable as what they were in the day, they enraptured the boy far more than they had as a child. Now, the cresting peaks were mountains; the moon the pale eye of god, watching him from afar and urging him onward. Adventure seemed to call, as did the unknown.

The boy did not answer, for he was no hero.

Once, his mother came to sit beside him late at night, and he got to tell her all of his stories.
The boy's mother was worried when she found his bed empty, but the Boy could not care less than to tell her of what he saw from atop the world. When he had finished, tiredly leaning into his smiling mothers legs, his mother only had one question.

"Why do none of your stories end?"

The boy stopped to think about how none of his stories ended. He didn't think he hated endings. After all, while his favorite stories started Once upon a time, they all ended Happily Ever After. Not all the stories he'd been told ended like that, but he liked them all the same, tragic and heroic all the same in the end.

"I don't think I care about endings." He yawned into his mother. "No matter how they go, they all mean that I have to move on."

The next night, the boy sat there in the same familiar spot he always had, and considered what he had told his mother. He thought of all his stories, of all the fictional creatures and magical swords he had concocted, and came to a conclusion. He was done with stories of things that weren't, tales of storybooks and his own imagination. He had heard stories, things his father talked about over dinner. Things that were real, things that were true, that he could go out there and see. The boy would have no more once upon a times, and instead look towards the future.

Once upon a time, a small boy ran away from home, and into a small moonlit valley to seek the
unknown.

The boy had no idea how he managed to survive as long as he did, stumbling to a nearby village. He had no idea how lucky he was, to have fallen into the same pond that a visiting Keeper was taking samples from. The boy had no idea how much he would love what the Keeper talked about, what she had seen and heard, and where she was going to go back to.

All the boy knew was that he would follow her to the ends of the earth. He would follow her through Kingdoms and Empires, Monarchies and Democracies, over mountains and through oceans. He followed in her footsteps, to the lake full of fog that seemed to take shape and caress him, into the boat with the blind man who could see, and into the halls of the Keepers, where he learned and trained and became taught.

It was in those halls that a boy named Rolden became a man.