Three thousand worlds collapsed into One.
As you return to consciousness, the first thing you...
As you return to consciousness, the first thing you...
Three Thousand Worlds in One [Epic Fantasy]
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I. Fall
Namer
ᵘʷᵘ
- Location
- Maryland
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Three thousand worlds collapsed into One.
As you return to consciousness, the first thing you realize is that you're falling. You're falling through the sky, seemingly a thousand kilometres above the ground. So high up, that nothing is visible below you but a hazy splash of colours. You twist around, looking to the left and right, but find nothing but an empty sky in all directions you can look around in.
The sky is void of clouds. It seems to glow, yet there are neither any suns nor any moons. Instead, it seems to glow of its own volition. It looks like a patchwork quilt, roughly sewn with whatever scraps of cloth was at hand. Twisting left, you see a patch of blue sky, a patch of greenish-yellow sky tinged with smoke to its left, then another patch of an utterly alien sky of purple and teal just below. The borders between each patch are sharp, jagged lines.
The wind tears at your face, pummeling your lips and eyes until you hold them shut tight Every thought is obliterated from you, leaving nothing but an empty mind that keeps raving, repeating over and over the same few words. Those words become the centerpiece of your entire existence, the only thing anchoring you to a physical body that still senses the abuses being laid upon it. If you let go of those words, you would vanish. Flicker and fade into some nameless oblivion.
So your mind screams and screams and screams itself hoarse, repeating questions it cannot answer, words it cannot understand.
The wind blows so hard. It's like the weight of a castle fallen upon you, squeezing every piece of your existence out like water wring from a sponge. Yet despite the force it exerts on you you only feel you're falling faster and faster. The ground below you shimmers into visibility, still infinitesimally small, like dots of colour on huge sheet of paper. Like the sky, there are far too many colours for it to be natural: amethyst and viridian and obsidian and ivory all tangled up. A pile of dead beasts locked in each others' embrace, each holding another's neck in their jaw. Like those beasts, the land below is locked in mortal conflict, each patch grinding down and assimilating neighbouring patches and in turn being torn apart.
Even as a force seems to flay everything you ever were from you, one by one, you hold onto those words. First to go is your skin. Pain like nothing you'd ever felt before in your life. Second to go are the memories of that life, until you barely recall how long that life had been. Third is your flesh, stripped away as cleanly as a master butcher working upon a plump foal. Even as your body disintegrates pain and fear becomes a distant thing. Your soul is removed, disassembled piece by piece, sectioning off your essence one by one until you cease to feel anything whatsoever. Your body and soul vanish at nearly the same time, leaving nothing but a singular point that might, once upon a time, been a human being.
Nothing remains but the hollow shell of your existence, engraved upon the universe. And even that flickers and disappears, overwritten by the imprints of two thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine other universes in which you did not exist.
Even in nonexistence you hold onto the last question ever posed:
The ground drew closer, and at the last moment before impact you remember the answer to one question.
Your existence floods back into you, in that instant. Mind and soul and spirit first, meat and blood and bone afterwards. Yet there is no time to put things together properly. It is a haphazard arrangement, a jigsaw puzzle of a million pieces left unfinished by an inattentive child. Some pieces are there. Other pieces are elsewhere.
Yet this fragmented, partial existence gives you just enough focus to break out of your ennui and muster an answer to the questions. Just in time to strike a solid surface, and feel the impact of three thousand worlds smashing into you.
You are a hero.
Something, nearly central to your essence, reminds you that you saved a world with naught but your will and your choices. That you've gone through too much, come too far, to cease to be here and now.
Consciousness is a small, fleeting creature at the corner of your sensation. Several times you reach out for it, but like a rat or weasel it slips out of your grasp and sight. You lunge for it and it vanishes beyond a hole too small for you. For a time you sit there, reaching for consciousness over and over again but failing at every opportunity.
Soon you realize you simply can't catch it. It's too small and nimble for your slow, lumbering movements. It was like… like your encounter with...
Your memories fail you. Certainly, you had an encounter. With what, when, and how it went down, were all details that escaped your fragmented memory. You feel that in time you could piece them together.
Something tells you you don't have time. If you don't catch your consciousness soon, you might never be able to do so. You look in consternation at the walls, groping at it until you find the hole. It's far too small to fit you, as you are. But there's a way you could fit, you realize. If you were smaller than you are, you could perhaps squeeze in and take back your consciousness.
But how to become smaller? You cast your gaze and phantoms limbs down, feeling around for yourself. What you are now is nothing more than the sum total of your personality, the accumulated memories and experiences of decades, and a glimmer of hope and will. Any of these, you could cast off, to become smaller.
Three choices hang over you.
You're no stranger to choices.
You could discard your personality, the things that made life mean something, and led to many long night of companionship, goodwill and love. You might become a soulless machine, devoid of affection, humour or camaraderie, but you'd retain all your memories and experiences, and retain the willpower to select a goal and reach for it no matter the cost or hopelessness.
You could discard your memories. You know you were a hero, and that simple statement would be all that would be left. You might not be able to remember your life and journeys so far right now, but those would come back to you eventually. Unless you discarded them entirely, and started anew. Casting off everything that's defined you as an individual like so much as refuse.
You could discard the ability to hope. Discord the very things that drove you and kept you walking that long and arduous path of a hero, at the end of which you saved a world. But there isn't a world to save anymore, is there? Just an amalgamation of thousands of worlds carelessly mashed together. Memories and the self were enough to continue living, weren't they?
And you make your choice.
You instantly know you're lesser for it. It feels like the sudden death of a close loved one who had been just moments ago hale and hearty. It feels like the loss of a whole limb. Healthy one moment, then going to sleep and waking up with one arm cleanly amputated at the shoulder. There's no pain, only a deep, profound sense of loss.
But you're lesser. And you fit through the hole now. You dive in, scrabbling reaching desperately on the other side, and your hands grab something soft and warm. You bring it towards you, and a warm light suffuses out all around you. Shades and shapes return, along with the sensations of a physical body again
Eyes open with agonizing slowness.
It's bright. Soft, yellow sunlight, bright and warm as a winter noonday. You bask in the warmth for a few moments, simply lying there and trying to process all that had happened. The fall. The hole. The worlds. You twitch your limbs and find them responding properly. Your mind is still too hazy for much thinking, so after a few long breaths of fresh air that carried the scent of new grass and dew, you turn over on your back and sit up, cracking your eyes open.
As your nose had told you, you're in a glade. It is large, as big as any field, yet still surrounded by towering trees in all directions. And you're not alone. There are others, lying around like you, twitching and moving slowly, trying to sit up. Some are walking around in a daze, others are standing and gazing around with purpose. But everyone seems to have undergone the same thing you had, and none had come out of it unscathed. You stagger to your feet and look around, taking in the details of the people around you. They are varied, each as different from the next as possible.
A woman with dark skin in a flame swathed dress that shimmered in shades of red and amber as she shifted on the ground.. A man with narrow eyes, alert and already standing, bearing a curved sword at his side. A woman dressed in naught but dirty rags facing a young girl, no more than ten years, who wore frock brightly patterned in red and white checkers. A giant of a man with short brown hair weeping on the grass as he slowly stripped himself of the crude metal armour he wore and scattered the pieces around him. There are others, dressed in every style of clothing under the sun, in every colour possible. Festivals are not so colourful, nor are graveyards so agonized and listless. They were all in such myriad states it seems futile to try puzzle out anything about them. It is painfully clear that no one here has any more idea of what had happened or why they were here than you do.
You tear your gaze away from your peers and observe your surroundings. This forest feels both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Maybe you'd passed through a forest glade just like this before. There are no real discerning features, though the trees seem taller than they should've been.
A gathering is forming at the center of the clearing. Those who could stand up and walk were coming together. Voices speak words now, rather than low moans. The man with the sword meets your eyes for a moment, then wordlessly turns and heads towards the center.
Sense of balance returned to your body, you start walking to the gathering as well. But scarcely have you taken a few steps when hands clutch at your leg, halting you. You are too weary and disoriented for alarm. You simply look down and meet the shockingly wide open eyes of the flame dressed woman. Her voice is on the edge of sheer panic.
"What-what did you give up?" She all but screams at you, but her voice has been robbed of all energy and it comes out as a low hoarse whimper. Her face teeters on the brink of madness. Something stops you from shrugging her off and brings the answer out of your mouth.
[ ] "Myself."
[ ] "Memories."
[ ] "Hope."
As you return to consciousness, the first thing you realize is that you're falling. You're falling through the sky, seemingly a thousand kilometres above the ground. So high up, that nothing is visible below you but a hazy splash of colours. You twist around, looking to the left and right, but find nothing but an empty sky in all directions you can look around in.
The sky is void of clouds. It seems to glow, yet there are neither any suns nor any moons. Instead, it seems to glow of its own volition. It looks like a patchwork quilt, roughly sewn with whatever scraps of cloth was at hand. Twisting left, you see a patch of blue sky, a patch of greenish-yellow sky tinged with smoke to its left, then another patch of an utterly alien sky of purple and teal just below. The borders between each patch are sharp, jagged lines.
Who are you who are you who are you who are you why are you why are you why are you
falling
The wind tears at your face, pummeling your lips and eyes until you hold them shut tight Every thought is obliterated from you, leaving nothing but an empty mind that keeps raving, repeating over and over the same few words. Those words become the centerpiece of your entire existence, the only thing anchoring you to a physical body that still senses the abuses being laid upon it. If you let go of those words, you would vanish. Flicker and fade into some nameless oblivion.
So your mind screams and screams and screams itself hoarse, repeating questions it cannot answer, words it cannot understand.
Who are you who are you who are you why are you why are you why are you why are you
falling
Who are you who are you who are you who are you why are you why are you why are you
falling
The wind blows so hard. It's like the weight of a castle fallen upon you, squeezing every piece of your existence out like water wring from a sponge. Yet despite the force it exerts on you you only feel you're falling faster and faster. The ground below you shimmers into visibility, still infinitesimally small, like dots of colour on huge sheet of paper. Like the sky, there are far too many colours for it to be natural: amethyst and viridian and obsidian and ivory all tangled up. A pile of dead beasts locked in each others' embrace, each holding another's neck in their jaw. Like those beasts, the land below is locked in mortal conflict, each patch grinding down and assimilating neighbouring patches and in turn being torn apart.
Who are you who are you who are you why are you why are you why are you who why are
falling
Even as a force seems to flay everything you ever were from you, one by one, you hold onto those words. First to go is your skin. Pain like nothing you'd ever felt before in your life. Second to go are the memories of that life, until you barely recall how long that life had been. Third is your flesh, stripped away as cleanly as a master butcher working upon a plump foal. Even as your body disintegrates pain and fear becomes a distant thing. Your soul is removed, disassembled piece by piece, sectioning off your essence one by one until you cease to feel anything whatsoever. Your body and soul vanish at nearly the same time, leaving nothing but a singular point that might, once upon a time, been a human being.
Nothing remains but the hollow shell of your existence, engraved upon the universe. And even that flickers and disappears, overwritten by the imprints of two thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine other universes in which you did not exist.
Even in nonexistence you hold onto the last question ever posed:
Who are you who are you who are you why are you why are you why are you who are you
falling
Why are you who are you who are you who are you why are you why are you why are you
falling
The ground drew closer, and at the last moment before impact you remember the answer to one question.
Your existence floods back into you, in that instant. Mind and soul and spirit first, meat and blood and bone afterwards. Yet there is no time to put things together properly. It is a haphazard arrangement, a jigsaw puzzle of a million pieces left unfinished by an inattentive child. Some pieces are there. Other pieces are elsewhere.
Yet this fragmented, partial existence gives you just enough focus to break out of your ennui and muster an answer to the questions. Just in time to strike a solid surface, and feel the impact of three thousand worlds smashing into you.
You are a hero.
Something, nearly central to your essence, reminds you that you saved a world with naught but your will and your choices. That you've gone through too much, come too far, to cease to be here and now.
Consciousness is a small, fleeting creature at the corner of your sensation. Several times you reach out for it, but like a rat or weasel it slips out of your grasp and sight. You lunge for it and it vanishes beyond a hole too small for you. For a time you sit there, reaching for consciousness over and over again but failing at every opportunity.
Soon you realize you simply can't catch it. It's too small and nimble for your slow, lumbering movements. It was like… like your encounter with...
Your memories fail you. Certainly, you had an encounter. With what, when, and how it went down, were all details that escaped your fragmented memory. You feel that in time you could piece them together.
Something tells you you don't have time. If you don't catch your consciousness soon, you might never be able to do so. You look in consternation at the walls, groping at it until you find the hole. It's far too small to fit you, as you are. But there's a way you could fit, you realize. If you were smaller than you are, you could perhaps squeeze in and take back your consciousness.
But how to become smaller? You cast your gaze and phantoms limbs down, feeling around for yourself. What you are now is nothing more than the sum total of your personality, the accumulated memories and experiences of decades, and a glimmer of hope and will. Any of these, you could cast off, to become smaller.
Three choices hang over you.
You're no stranger to choices.
You could discard your personality, the things that made life mean something, and led to many long night of companionship, goodwill and love. You might become a soulless machine, devoid of affection, humour or camaraderie, but you'd retain all your memories and experiences, and retain the willpower to select a goal and reach for it no matter the cost or hopelessness.
You could discard your memories. You know you were a hero, and that simple statement would be all that would be left. You might not be able to remember your life and journeys so far right now, but those would come back to you eventually. Unless you discarded them entirely, and started anew. Casting off everything that's defined you as an individual like so much as refuse.
You could discard the ability to hope. Discord the very things that drove you and kept you walking that long and arduous path of a hero, at the end of which you saved a world. But there isn't a world to save anymore, is there? Just an amalgamation of thousands of worlds carelessly mashed together. Memories and the self were enough to continue living, weren't they?
And you make your choice.
You instantly know you're lesser for it. It feels like the sudden death of a close loved one who had been just moments ago hale and hearty. It feels like the loss of a whole limb. Healthy one moment, then going to sleep and waking up with one arm cleanly amputated at the shoulder. There's no pain, only a deep, profound sense of loss.
But you're lesser. And you fit through the hole now. You dive in, scrabbling reaching desperately on the other side, and your hands grab something soft and warm. You bring it towards you, and a warm light suffuses out all around you. Shades and shapes return, along with the sensations of a physical body again
Eyes open with agonizing slowness.
It's bright. Soft, yellow sunlight, bright and warm as a winter noonday. You bask in the warmth for a few moments, simply lying there and trying to process all that had happened. The fall. The hole. The worlds. You twitch your limbs and find them responding properly. Your mind is still too hazy for much thinking, so after a few long breaths of fresh air that carried the scent of new grass and dew, you turn over on your back and sit up, cracking your eyes open.
As your nose had told you, you're in a glade. It is large, as big as any field, yet still surrounded by towering trees in all directions. And you're not alone. There are others, lying around like you, twitching and moving slowly, trying to sit up. Some are walking around in a daze, others are standing and gazing around with purpose. But everyone seems to have undergone the same thing you had, and none had come out of it unscathed. You stagger to your feet and look around, taking in the details of the people around you. They are varied, each as different from the next as possible.
A woman with dark skin in a flame swathed dress that shimmered in shades of red and amber as she shifted on the ground.. A man with narrow eyes, alert and already standing, bearing a curved sword at his side. A woman dressed in naught but dirty rags facing a young girl, no more than ten years, who wore frock brightly patterned in red and white checkers. A giant of a man with short brown hair weeping on the grass as he slowly stripped himself of the crude metal armour he wore and scattered the pieces around him. There are others, dressed in every style of clothing under the sun, in every colour possible. Festivals are not so colourful, nor are graveyards so agonized and listless. They were all in such myriad states it seems futile to try puzzle out anything about them. It is painfully clear that no one here has any more idea of what had happened or why they were here than you do.
You tear your gaze away from your peers and observe your surroundings. This forest feels both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Maybe you'd passed through a forest glade just like this before. There are no real discerning features, though the trees seem taller than they should've been.
A gathering is forming at the center of the clearing. Those who could stand up and walk were coming together. Voices speak words now, rather than low moans. The man with the sword meets your eyes for a moment, then wordlessly turns and heads towards the center.
Sense of balance returned to your body, you start walking to the gathering as well. But scarcely have you taken a few steps when hands clutch at your leg, halting you. You are too weary and disoriented for alarm. You simply look down and meet the shockingly wide open eyes of the flame dressed woman. Her voice is on the edge of sheer panic.
"What-what did you give up?" She all but screams at you, but her voice has been robbed of all energy and it comes out as a low hoarse whimper. Her face teeters on the brink of madness. Something stops you from shrugging her off and brings the answer out of your mouth.
[ ] "Myself."
[ ] "Memories."
[ ] "Hope."
DON'T SCARY
Hope is the road to disappointment....
[X] "Hope."
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] "Myself."
- Location
- nz
[X] "Hope."
[X] "Hope."
- Location
- Peterborough
[x] "Hope."
Namer
ᵘʷᵘ
- Location
- Maryland
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Next update's mostly done but I'd love a tiebreaker for this before I finish and post it.
Monk Penguin
Way of the Open Flipper
- Location
- USA
[X] "Myself"
Namer
ᵘʷᵘ
- Location
- Maryland
- Pronouns
- He/Him
No sample, but I'll tell you the former is basically becoming impersonal, dull, robotic and emotionless, with a long slow process of regaining some emotions. The other would basically be having a really nihilistic outlook making it hard to be very proactive without a bit of edging. One has a major effect on the writing and characterization (or rather, nonexistent characterization) and would probably lead to a bit of a dull character early on, the other's effect is a bit more mechanical in a meta sense.
I'm honestly surprised no one picked Memories. I was expecting that to win before I posted, actually.
I'll just close the vote tomorrow morning and if it's still a tie I'll roll a d2.
Last edited:
- Location
- Somewhere
As someone already mentioned the amnesia plotline is relatively common. It's more of a 1/1000 stories plotline, but the amnesia character is well worn. Not very common in quests, but in general fiction works, reality tv, or rom-coms. It becomes a kinda, "if you've read one amnesia plotline, you have read them all."
I'd really prefer if I could have seen a writing sample on how the two different perspectives would be written. Because if you were anticipating memory going away, then that is likely what you are most comfortable writing.
These are two very distinct situations in perspective that require dedication to write for, and having an outline is great, but without a few examples on how the writing style would go it becomes a little hard to anticipate how well you can carry the vision.
This is hard... I've seen a edgelord style character in harry potter fiction, a lot of times. But the mechanical character would be... dull. Sigh, in the end it comes down to what I believe you can do with the writing. Can you write an emotionless character that can still capture the readers? Or are you more comfortable at writing a protagonist who is nihilistic to a point where they stopped recognizing the restrictions of reality?
I'm putting my faith in the belief that you can deliver a protagonist to watch if they lose their self. I've been turned down by reading too many 'edgy' protagonists (japanese light novels).
[X] Myself
II. Awakening
Namer
ᵘʷᵘ
- Location
- Maryland
- Pronouns
- He/Him
You glance down at her. Her dark skin glistens with sweat from some unseen exertion. It's shiny in the sun, setting ethereal sparks dancing across her face like minuscule, crazed fireflies. Her eyes are wide open in madness, and they glow with like embers that draws you in like a moth to flame. Within it you see old, dreadful things: a man with gleaming crimson horns like antlers of blood standing beneath a torrid ocean of smoke and within a sea of flames: a city that stretched on for miles and miles into the distance all burning in fire unquenchable. Even as you lock gazes with her, you feel her reaching into your own memories. The scattered few memories that are in a semblance of wholeness: a kingdom by the sea and the bright, golden sun dispelling every dark shadow everywhere, 'till woke a malice like crows, Shadow Dragon named. The flames of her dress writhed with her own emotions, dancing with frustration and irritation at her growing apprehension. For a moment you're afraid that they would leap up and reach out to wrap you in tongues of pain and flame and charbroil you. But they stay near her, like a protective shell, and the fear vanishes, leaving behind only a dull question of if you'd really felt that fear at all. If you'd really felt a single speck of any emotion whatsoever in this entire encounter..
An emotionless you feel in yourself. It's always obvious, unlike what not having memories or not having hope might've felt like. It's a constant existential non-feeling that blankets you, wrapping you around. It's like a dull numbness, like a limb thrust into snow and left there, but at the same time the numbness threatens to overwhelm all that you are, creeping up to you like a black swarm of little locusts that gnawed at the edges of the your frayed soul leaving behind bitemarks and constant pricks of pain. They're not intent on devouring you, simply nibbling you to taste and sample while licking their lips and wondering what it might be like to finally consume you one day.
So that's what you tell her.
"Myself."
She says naught and does naught. Her only reaction is a sudden calmness, an acceptance of sorts. Her flames die instantly, quenched to cinders, until the dress no longer flickers with fire. It's old and tattered, you realize, coloured a faded black that nearly conceals patches of burnt cloth. When her hands go slack and she rolls over on her back without a word, you don't feel concern for her. But her eyes are only closed and she's still breathing, so you extricate your legs from her fingers and head towards the gathering.
Those gathered have nothing in common. There are men and women and children and strange fae-like creatures with inhuman features like twisted ears and oddly shaped eyes and even no noses or mouths. They're of all colours too, though it is the latter whose colouring ranges from as red as if freshly bathed in blood to such darkness it almost sets off the instinctive reactions from your old memories of the Shadow Dragon. Some wear armour, solidly made plate with gleaming engravings and embossments, painted heraldry of griffons and lions and dragons all proud. Others wear clothes, some made of finest silk with fumes of sorcery practically rolling off the cloth, and some in simpler outfits or even rags. And there are yet more magical apparel, twisted shadows and flames and a dress of glass worn by a woman who was so pale she might as well have been made of crystal herself.
For a long time there is no one to speak up. Only observation, as every man and woman there searched every other man and woman, marking their similarities. An unspoken acknowledgement passed between everyone here. "You, you're a hero too, just like me, aren't you? You saved your world, didn't you?"
A few disagreed. "I didn't save jackshit." Yet they were here.
Time passed and the sun began to turn. One by one, every single person lying in the field woke up. A few heroes began to walk around. You didn't really bother: altruism must have been just another emotion. If they really were who they claimed to be, they would be perfectly capable of getting up on their own and making their way over here. Trying to help the helpers was pointless.
At length one woman stood up from the great circle that was forming at the center. She was tall, mature and dark haired — less remarkable than many, but her normalcy and relative physical similarity to the vast majority of the assembled was an advantage to her, if she was trying to bring us all together.
She was.
"You all have seen the same thing, haven't you?" She stood up and called. Her voice was beautiful, carrying both the gentle warmth of motherhood and the strength and fury of a river that could cleave mountains and continents on its path. "The last clear memory all of you should have. Of falling."
You don't nod, though see others around you giving their acquiescence. Many are stoic like you, though you see them paying attention nonetheless.
"You saw it all, right? Your world, my world, and countless other worlds. All of them together in the same sky for one frozen moment. I saw them even before it happened, as they blinked into existence one after another over the skies of my home, Anaxe. Three thousand worlds, each of which one of you call home, no doubt. And then they came together, and crashed into each other and hurled us here."
"I saw it!" Someone in the assembly spoke up, "Three thousand stars in the night. But when they appeared, every haraden in sight began to scream. They're birds that can be trained to sense future danger to their trainers, you see. And then everything went white and black, and I was falling."
You didn't remember anything clearly before falling, but neither did most around you. They looked at each other, some of them murmuring in low voices, trying to confirm if everyone had the same stories.
"Yes. All of us have the same story" The raven haired woman spoke again, "Peace! We're all together in this. There's no denying what happened, and that our worlds as we knew it no longer exist. Not even in memories do mine exist, for I gave those up on the way here. Many of you gave up your memories too, didn't you?"
"We had to give up something." You say, quietly. "That was the price demanded for life in this world- no, you can't call this a world." Gazing up at the sky, you see the sun dimming. Purple is spreading across the blue sky like an inkblot on paper, and the edges where the colours met were jagged lines that spewed black and green smoke. At the same time, a long streak of yellow arcs across from another angle, like a comet, leaving a trail of ochre paint behind it over the blue canvas. "Nothing in is this place is like a real world. It's some kind of facsimile."
"A facsimile." The woman says, "Yes. It is. I believe this was deliberately done. And if it was done, it can be undone. We are all saviours, whether of people, empires or world. And there are three thousand worlds for us to save here!"
"Hear, hear!"
"We are all equals here, and we must work together. You all stepped up once before, so I implore you: do so once more. Save not just your world, but all worlds!"
At first you don't move from the spot. What's the goddamn point? There're thousands of other heroes here, some of them probably with accomplishments that dwarf yours. But something deep inside you remembers who you are and where you came from. From the dirt to the saviour of a world. Even if you can't feel anything remotely like pride or a sense of accomplishment or anger at whoever did all this, you can feel a desire to make it right. That's the will of a hero, which still burns inside you.
"I- I no longer have memories. Not even of my name. But I have impressions of who I used to be. Vague shadows at the back of my mind that are fading even now. But I would still introduce myself to all of you great heroes. I was the Matriarch."
Another man stepped up. He wore hulking plate armour. Each segment was unadorned, wrought from what seemed like sheets of gray iron baked together into pieces an inch thick. It felt like the ground shook with each step he took. He was more giant than man, and his face was in full dark by the enclosed helm he wore. The slits were so narrow you doubted you could've seen out of them.
"The Matriarch speaks true." His voice is devoid of any kind of intonation or inflection, completely steady and level like the words of some golems you had heard. In any other time or place, you would've wondered whether he was human at all himself or not. Here, you know exactly he gave up. "I retain my memories. I am Haazen von Berlichingen, Mythria's Hammer. I championed Mythria for thirty years, slew the demon we called Nine Hundred Nights and led the charge against the Ravager Kings of the North. All you spoke of is true. I will stand by my duty, and lead this new charge to save our worlds."
Such a speech and proclamation, and yet utterly devoid of any passion or intention. It was simply a stated goal, like a scribe's archival that would be thrown into a dusty library and left there to grow mold until the whole library was set ablaze. You know this is what your own voice sounds like now, but there's no disappointment or trepidation accompanying that fact. Only acceptance.
Another man stepped up, garbed in armour too. His armour was simpler, just mail of good metal that seemed to ripple as he walked. It was patterned like fish scales, but it was no ordinary scale armour, for the metal of each scale changed colour from blue to silver and purple as they caught the light. His skin and hair were both fair, with his features showing a lankiness of youth that had not entirely matured yet, but was well on its way. A few years past coming of age, perhaps. And like Haazen, his face is set in stone with not one flicker of emotion escaping.
"Mikane, Left Arm of Dawn. I crossed the Skrall Desert to retrieve the Blood of Dragons to cure my sister. My sword can pierce all defense regardless of their thickness, and I put it forwards now."
Another stepped up. He wasn't human, but he hadn't strayed too far from it either. His pale green skin had an ethereal glow like an object enchanted beyond the limits of its material. When he spoke, his voice came out almost like music. It was music, a upbeat tune playing on top of a low melancholy. "So many of you are looking at me strangely. Have you never met a Sylvan? No matter. I don't remember, but I do feel. I will help." His voice was like a forgotten song you could've fit to your memories if only you had the emotions left to feel to connect them by.
One by one, heroes began to call out their names, step forward, and pledge their arms to the cause. The Matriarch stepped back, making her own simple pledge too. Yet amidst all those stepping up, you notice they are all either lacking memories, or moving and speaking with all the fervour and passion of a slab of rock just like you.
Almost a full third of the gathering was quiet and silent. You know what they gave up.
Suddenly, it's time for you to step up and declare yourself. You step forward, and the golden sun blazes even brighter for a split second as your name rings out throughout the glade.
[ ] Lavinia, Last Paladin of Avathar. She-who-rode-to-the-Sun, She-who-slew-the-Shadow.
[ ] Valour, the Last of Old Nekalamere, Hand of White, Dragonbreaker and Sunbringer
So, that was a real narrow vote. While the character's emotionless, he's still retained his memories and willpower, so there's enough to keep him distinct, I think. He'll regain his emotions, of course, over the course of the quest, and there's the opportunity to shape his personality and encounters with his fellows.
Memory would've led to the opportunity to shape his backstory a bit and affect the plot, while Hope would've led to a bit of existential angst, followed by weighted voting with pro-active decisions having like 1/2 or 1/3 the weight, which frankly might've been annoying but I don't think many of you would memevote, but since it didn't win, not a big deal.
The last choice is simply the gender. If you guys want, you can suggest a different name/titles and if I like them I might use those instead. I'll probably lock the vote in a couple days or if a majority appears because ties are :ee when you're getting a quest off the ground
An emotionless you feel in yourself. It's always obvious, unlike what not having memories or not having hope might've felt like. It's a constant existential non-feeling that blankets you, wrapping you around. It's like a dull numbness, like a limb thrust into snow and left there, but at the same time the numbness threatens to overwhelm all that you are, creeping up to you like a black swarm of little locusts that gnawed at the edges of the your frayed soul leaving behind bitemarks and constant pricks of pain. They're not intent on devouring you, simply nibbling you to taste and sample while licking their lips and wondering what it might be like to finally consume you one day.
So that's what you tell her.
"Myself."
She says naught and does naught. Her only reaction is a sudden calmness, an acceptance of sorts. Her flames die instantly, quenched to cinders, until the dress no longer flickers with fire. It's old and tattered, you realize, coloured a faded black that nearly conceals patches of burnt cloth. When her hands go slack and she rolls over on her back without a word, you don't feel concern for her. But her eyes are only closed and she's still breathing, so you extricate your legs from her fingers and head towards the gathering.
Those gathered have nothing in common. There are men and women and children and strange fae-like creatures with inhuman features like twisted ears and oddly shaped eyes and even no noses or mouths. They're of all colours too, though it is the latter whose colouring ranges from as red as if freshly bathed in blood to such darkness it almost sets off the instinctive reactions from your old memories of the Shadow Dragon. Some wear armour, solidly made plate with gleaming engravings and embossments, painted heraldry of griffons and lions and dragons all proud. Others wear clothes, some made of finest silk with fumes of sorcery practically rolling off the cloth, and some in simpler outfits or even rags. And there are yet more magical apparel, twisted shadows and flames and a dress of glass worn by a woman who was so pale she might as well have been made of crystal herself.
For a long time there is no one to speak up. Only observation, as every man and woman there searched every other man and woman, marking their similarities. An unspoken acknowledgement passed between everyone here. "You, you're a hero too, just like me, aren't you? You saved your world, didn't you?"
A few disagreed. "I didn't save jackshit." Yet they were here.
Time passed and the sun began to turn. One by one, every single person lying in the field woke up. A few heroes began to walk around. You didn't really bother: altruism must have been just another emotion. If they really were who they claimed to be, they would be perfectly capable of getting up on their own and making their way over here. Trying to help the helpers was pointless.
At length one woman stood up from the great circle that was forming at the center. She was tall, mature and dark haired — less remarkable than many, but her normalcy and relative physical similarity to the vast majority of the assembled was an advantage to her, if she was trying to bring us all together.
She was.
"You all have seen the same thing, haven't you?" She stood up and called. Her voice was beautiful, carrying both the gentle warmth of motherhood and the strength and fury of a river that could cleave mountains and continents on its path. "The last clear memory all of you should have. Of falling."
Who are you who are you who are you why are you why are you why are you who why are
falling
You don't nod, though see others around you giving their acquiescence. Many are stoic like you, though you see them paying attention nonetheless.
"You saw it all, right? Your world, my world, and countless other worlds. All of them together in the same sky for one frozen moment. I saw them even before it happened, as they blinked into existence one after another over the skies of my home, Anaxe. Three thousand worlds, each of which one of you call home, no doubt. And then they came together, and crashed into each other and hurled us here."
"I saw it!" Someone in the assembly spoke up, "Three thousand stars in the night. But when they appeared, every haraden in sight began to scream. They're birds that can be trained to sense future danger to their trainers, you see. And then everything went white and black, and I was falling."
You didn't remember anything clearly before falling, but neither did most around you. They looked at each other, some of them murmuring in low voices, trying to confirm if everyone had the same stories.
"Yes. All of us have the same story" The raven haired woman spoke again, "Peace! We're all together in this. There's no denying what happened, and that our worlds as we knew it no longer exist. Not even in memories do mine exist, for I gave those up on the way here. Many of you gave up your memories too, didn't you?"
"We had to give up something." You say, quietly. "That was the price demanded for life in this world- no, you can't call this a world." Gazing up at the sky, you see the sun dimming. Purple is spreading across the blue sky like an inkblot on paper, and the edges where the colours met were jagged lines that spewed black and green smoke. At the same time, a long streak of yellow arcs across from another angle, like a comet, leaving a trail of ochre paint behind it over the blue canvas. "Nothing in is this place is like a real world. It's some kind of facsimile."
"A facsimile." The woman says, "Yes. It is. I believe this was deliberately done. And if it was done, it can be undone. We are all saviours, whether of people, empires or world. And there are three thousand worlds for us to save here!"
"Hear, hear!"
"We are all equals here, and we must work together. You all stepped up once before, so I implore you: do so once more. Save not just your world, but all worlds!"
At first you don't move from the spot. What's the goddamn point? There're thousands of other heroes here, some of them probably with accomplishments that dwarf yours. But something deep inside you remembers who you are and where you came from. From the dirt to the saviour of a world. Even if you can't feel anything remotely like pride or a sense of accomplishment or anger at whoever did all this, you can feel a desire to make it right. That's the will of a hero, which still burns inside you.
"I- I no longer have memories. Not even of my name. But I have impressions of who I used to be. Vague shadows at the back of my mind that are fading even now. But I would still introduce myself to all of you great heroes. I was the Matriarch."
Another man stepped up. He wore hulking plate armour. Each segment was unadorned, wrought from what seemed like sheets of gray iron baked together into pieces an inch thick. It felt like the ground shook with each step he took. He was more giant than man, and his face was in full dark by the enclosed helm he wore. The slits were so narrow you doubted you could've seen out of them.
"The Matriarch speaks true." His voice is devoid of any kind of intonation or inflection, completely steady and level like the words of some golems you had heard. In any other time or place, you would've wondered whether he was human at all himself or not. Here, you know exactly he gave up. "I retain my memories. I am Haazen von Berlichingen, Mythria's Hammer. I championed Mythria for thirty years, slew the demon we called Nine Hundred Nights and led the charge against the Ravager Kings of the North. All you spoke of is true. I will stand by my duty, and lead this new charge to save our worlds."
Such a speech and proclamation, and yet utterly devoid of any passion or intention. It was simply a stated goal, like a scribe's archival that would be thrown into a dusty library and left there to grow mold until the whole library was set ablaze. You know this is what your own voice sounds like now, but there's no disappointment or trepidation accompanying that fact. Only acceptance.
Another man stepped up, garbed in armour too. His armour was simpler, just mail of good metal that seemed to ripple as he walked. It was patterned like fish scales, but it was no ordinary scale armour, for the metal of each scale changed colour from blue to silver and purple as they caught the light. His skin and hair were both fair, with his features showing a lankiness of youth that had not entirely matured yet, but was well on its way. A few years past coming of age, perhaps. And like Haazen, his face is set in stone with not one flicker of emotion escaping.
"Mikane, Left Arm of Dawn. I crossed the Skrall Desert to retrieve the Blood of Dragons to cure my sister. My sword can pierce all defense regardless of their thickness, and I put it forwards now."
Another stepped up. He wasn't human, but he hadn't strayed too far from it either. His pale green skin had an ethereal glow like an object enchanted beyond the limits of its material. When he spoke, his voice came out almost like music. It was music, a upbeat tune playing on top of a low melancholy. "So many of you are looking at me strangely. Have you never met a Sylvan? No matter. I don't remember, but I do feel. I will help." His voice was like a forgotten song you could've fit to your memories if only you had the emotions left to feel to connect them by.
One by one, heroes began to call out their names, step forward, and pledge their arms to the cause. The Matriarch stepped back, making her own simple pledge too. Yet amidst all those stepping up, you notice they are all either lacking memories, or moving and speaking with all the fervour and passion of a slab of rock just like you.
Almost a full third of the gathering was quiet and silent. You know what they gave up.
Suddenly, it's time for you to step up and declare yourself. You step forward, and the golden sun blazes even brighter for a split second as your name rings out throughout the glade.
[ ] Lavinia, Last Paladin of Avathar. She-who-rode-to-the-Sun, She-who-slew-the-Shadow.
[ ] Valour, the Last of Old Nekalamere, Hand of White, Dragonbreaker and Sunbringer
So, that was a real narrow vote. While the character's emotionless, he's still retained his memories and willpower, so there's enough to keep him distinct, I think. He'll regain his emotions, of course, over the course of the quest, and there's the opportunity to shape his personality and encounters with his fellows.
Memory would've led to the opportunity to shape his backstory a bit and affect the plot, while Hope would've led to a bit of existential angst, followed by weighted voting with pro-active decisions having like 1/2 or 1/3 the weight, which frankly might've been annoying but I don't think many of you would memevote, but since it didn't win, not a big deal.
The last choice is simply the gender. If you guys want, you can suggest a different name/titles and if I like them I might use those instead. I'll probably lock the vote in a couple days or if a majority appears because ties are :ee when you're getting a quest off the ground
- Location
- Somewhere
[X] Valour, the Last of Old Nekalamere, Hand of White, Dragonbreaker and Sunbringer
[] Ivaldi, Son of the Librarians, Wielder of Grootfang (the lost instrument), High Mage of the Mystery of the Water, slayer of the Hedonist's Amethyst Kitten, and a gardener.
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Namer
ᵘʷᵘ
- Location
- Maryland
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Should clarify, I won't take full write-ins here (hence no write in vote option), since by having memories the character has a partial backstory already. So suggested names or titles might make it in but please vote for one of the given options, ty.