Riala: what's in a name?
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Riala: what's in a name?
There is a saying that originates in one of the more cynical of my people's eras. To become a historian, one must learn the intricacies of how nothing has changed. Its not a sentiment we modern people often stand by, in particular, and I think we can look to the events of the last twenty or so standard years to support our position. But then, there is always something that jumps out and makes me rethink things, if only for a moment, and if only in pertinence to a certain, limited subject.
We never really stopped believing in the gods and legendary heroes of antiquity, so much as we simply switched out one definition of "belief" for another. There is believing in a factual reality, and there is believing in a symbol or an idea. One descriptive belief, and one prescriptive belief. Or, as its most often phrased, the belief in the world that is, and the belief in the world that can be and should be. Its curious, how our dominant language shares that particular nuance with the humans' dominant language, isn't it? Just one more of a million signs that we were meant for each other, I suppose. I doubt you'll meet an amarki who believes in Kamena or Mag-Ukka or Sait-Am-Ha as material entities who can be materially interacted with, but I also doubt you'll meet many amarki law officers who don't wear the mask of the first, knights or squires who don't invoke the second before battle, or schoolchildren who haven't played at being the third during recess.
But what happens, in an age when technology allows men to perform feats like those of the ancient gods, when a belief is made tangible again in a body of tritanium and duranium and warp plasma?
We never really stopped believing in the gods and legendary heroes of antiquity, so much as we simply switched out one definition of "belief" for another. There is believing in a factual reality, and there is believing in a symbol or an idea. One descriptive belief, and one prescriptive belief. Or, as its most often phrased, the belief in the world that is, and the belief in the world that can be and should be. Its curious, how our dominant language shares that particular nuance with the humans' dominant language, isn't it? Just one more of a million signs that we were meant for each other, I suppose. I doubt you'll meet an amarki who believes in Kamena or Mag-Ukka or Sait-Am-Ha as material entities who can be materially interacted with, but I also doubt you'll meet many amarki law officers who don't wear the mask of the first, knights or squires who don't invoke the second before battle, or schoolchildren who haven't played at being the third during recess.
But what happens, in an age when technology allows men to perform feats like those of the ancient gods, when a belief is made tangible again in a body of tritanium and duranium and warp plasma?
The demon Riala, depicted as a great riding-eagle by some cultures, a knight in shapeless black armor by others, and a living star whose cold light forbodes the final judgement of the wicked by others still. He - or she, as some would have it - was never worshiped, which is why most mythologists find the term "demon" more appropriate than "deity." The artistic depictions mentioned above have never been found in temples or monuments or tombs. Only in books and scrolls, and occasionally on weapons or armor fashioned for the most desperate of wars. As most of the legends go, Riala appears only at night, when the gods of heroism and redemption have averted their gaze from the world. Those who commit secret acts at night, who spurn redemption and honor, who would prey upon the weak like animals in a nocturnal jungle, must then, themselves, live in fear of the ultimate predator. One who looks, unimpeded through the darkness, at the actions of the dishonorable, and judges them accordingly.
There is the legend of a prince, who - after being defeated by his brother in an honorable duel for succession - sought to retake the throne by assassination. When he sat down to brew the poison, a golden beam of sunlight poured through his window and implored him to stop; he shuttered the window and continued. When he mixed the poison into the wine, a voice from the crackling hearth whispered out and begged him to turn back; he extinguished the flames. Then, alone and in complete darkness, he heard another sound within the room, a presence materialized from the shadows he had cloaked himself in. The coming of Riala was the last thing the prince ever heard, as that night his servants found him facedown in his own poisoned wine, charred handprints or clawmarks at his throat.
Another story, now. The general of a sellsword army who pledged his forces to the service of a cruel and bloodthirsty empire in its war against a peaceful kingdom to the east. When the war began, the general was told that the eastern kingdom would attack, but it did not, for the easterners truly wanted no war. But, the sellsword general had been promised too much gold to accept their failure to initiate hostilities, and so he made the first strike himself, sweeping behind their defenses and burning and plundering their peasant farms to force a retaliation. When they reluctantly did so, the sellsword pulled his forces back, compelling the defending army to chase them deeper and create the war he had been paid to win. When finally he faced the eastern kingdom's own general in battle, she offered him forgiveness for all he had done if only he would refuse any more of the cruel empire's gold and allow his soldiers to return to their homes. He refused. And then, from the black night sky, the spear of Riala flew down and struck the general through his visor, killing him in sight of all his hosts and bringing the war to an end as the empire's forces fell to panic.
A third. The high priest of the land turned in his heart away from the gods, and took the tribute and sacrifices brought to the temples to enrich himself and his own family and sycophants. The lords of the land grew wise to his corruption, and sent their knights to bring him to task, but each errant he tricked away, or brought over to his side with the lure of gold or flesh, or simply never was seen or heard from again. Realizing, finally, the threat that the fallen priest posed, the lords assembled their armies, but so rich had the priest become that he could raise a larger army still. Realizing that they had been outmaneuvered, the lords were forced to surrender, and each sent his or her sword or circlet as a show of submission. The greedy priest took the tribute when it arrived, and carried it into the temple storeroom that he had made into his treasury. When he was in that room, deep below the temple complex, there was an earthquake, and the entire building fell into the ground and buried him with his treasures in the darkness. The only one of his corrupt cohorts who survived, a young priestess who stood at the outer gate, saw her former master dragged out of the rubble and into the sky by a winged black form of shadow and blades and heatless fire. For all the next day, it rained, and every raindrop was faintly red with blood, and beneath every thunderclap was the echo of the priest's dying screams, and the whispered judgement of Riala.
One final tale. An elf queen whose spirit so hungered for the adoration and worship it had received in life that it crawled back from a thousand years beyond the grave, and brought with it an army of the vengeful dead. Her army terrorized the lands of men and elves alike, seeking to return the world to its state of ancient subjugation beneath her skeletal foot and rusted iron boot. The living offered compromise, but the ghoul-queen betrayed every offer. The kinder elves of the present time offered reconciliation with their risen ancestors, but the queen's ambassadors only used these opportunities to sow descent and confusion for her army's advantage. Finally, the living stopped trying to treat with the dead. No more compromises were offered, no more alliances considered. Defeat after defeat struck the ghoul-queen who had turned the entire sunlit world against her, so that she was forced to retreat into a hidden cavern where she thought that none could see. There, in the blackness, she plotted a final revenge. But there, in the blackness, Riala had been waiting for her. None know what the ghoul-queen's final act of spite would have been, for not a bone or scrap of mummified flesh remained of her or her surviving minions by the following daybreak.
Two of these stories allegedly happened between three and five thousand standard years ago. The other two are a matter of historical record, and happened within the last thirty-six standard months. Without any previous knowledge, would you have been able to tell the difference?
It really is rather amazing how some myths are determined to make themselves true. The strangest part is that, so far as I can tell, the Riala battleship's name was only one of the many generically intimidating-sounding alternatives proposed by one engineer or another during its design process, and won out after a lengthy disagreement. Luck, or providence? We sophonts seem to have a way of turning one into the other.
The Federation builds temples and monuments of its own sort. Turn on any news channel, and you will be regaled with the exploits of heroes, and of entities far mightier than men who fly among the stars and bend them to their will. The Federation has its pantheon, and the names of its members are oft-glorified and oft-repeated. Enterprise, Sarek, and Courageous. Endurance, Liberty, and Opportunity. T'Mir and Sappho and Miracht. But there are also the gods unsung and unadvertised. The Federation's ideals are the pursuit of friendship and discovery, so one would never expect it to sing the praises of demons where anyone else can hear. But, as a quick look at recent history will show, that doesn't make the demons any less important.
Enterprise who holds the shining torch, welcoming strangers from across the void. Sarek of the keen mind and piercing eye, who learns the truth behind every puzzle and mystery. Courageous, who overcomes all hardships and provides inspiration to those who follow in her wake. None of them are hard to find.
But reject their gifts and spit in their faces, repay their friendship with violence or betrayal, use up the last of the Federation's abundant patience and goodwill, and these lights will be withdrawn. You will be left in a darkness of your own making. In that darkness, Riala will find you. And, well. We already know how that story ends.
There is the legend of a prince, who - after being defeated by his brother in an honorable duel for succession - sought to retake the throne by assassination. When he sat down to brew the poison, a golden beam of sunlight poured through his window and implored him to stop; he shuttered the window and continued. When he mixed the poison into the wine, a voice from the crackling hearth whispered out and begged him to turn back; he extinguished the flames. Then, alone and in complete darkness, he heard another sound within the room, a presence materialized from the shadows he had cloaked himself in. The coming of Riala was the last thing the prince ever heard, as that night his servants found him facedown in his own poisoned wine, charred handprints or clawmarks at his throat.
Another story, now. The general of a sellsword army who pledged his forces to the service of a cruel and bloodthirsty empire in its war against a peaceful kingdom to the east. When the war began, the general was told that the eastern kingdom would attack, but it did not, for the easterners truly wanted no war. But, the sellsword general had been promised too much gold to accept their failure to initiate hostilities, and so he made the first strike himself, sweeping behind their defenses and burning and plundering their peasant farms to force a retaliation. When they reluctantly did so, the sellsword pulled his forces back, compelling the defending army to chase them deeper and create the war he had been paid to win. When finally he faced the eastern kingdom's own general in battle, she offered him forgiveness for all he had done if only he would refuse any more of the cruel empire's gold and allow his soldiers to return to their homes. He refused. And then, from the black night sky, the spear of Riala flew down and struck the general through his visor, killing him in sight of all his hosts and bringing the war to an end as the empire's forces fell to panic.
A third. The high priest of the land turned in his heart away from the gods, and took the tribute and sacrifices brought to the temples to enrich himself and his own family and sycophants. The lords of the land grew wise to his corruption, and sent their knights to bring him to task, but each errant he tricked away, or brought over to his side with the lure of gold or flesh, or simply never was seen or heard from again. Realizing, finally, the threat that the fallen priest posed, the lords assembled their armies, but so rich had the priest become that he could raise a larger army still. Realizing that they had been outmaneuvered, the lords were forced to surrender, and each sent his or her sword or circlet as a show of submission. The greedy priest took the tribute when it arrived, and carried it into the temple storeroom that he had made into his treasury. When he was in that room, deep below the temple complex, there was an earthquake, and the entire building fell into the ground and buried him with his treasures in the darkness. The only one of his corrupt cohorts who survived, a young priestess who stood at the outer gate, saw her former master dragged out of the rubble and into the sky by a winged black form of shadow and blades and heatless fire. For all the next day, it rained, and every raindrop was faintly red with blood, and beneath every thunderclap was the echo of the priest's dying screams, and the whispered judgement of Riala.
One final tale. An elf queen whose spirit so hungered for the adoration and worship it had received in life that it crawled back from a thousand years beyond the grave, and brought with it an army of the vengeful dead. Her army terrorized the lands of men and elves alike, seeking to return the world to its state of ancient subjugation beneath her skeletal foot and rusted iron boot. The living offered compromise, but the ghoul-queen betrayed every offer. The kinder elves of the present time offered reconciliation with their risen ancestors, but the queen's ambassadors only used these opportunities to sow descent and confusion for her army's advantage. Finally, the living stopped trying to treat with the dead. No more compromises were offered, no more alliances considered. Defeat after defeat struck the ghoul-queen who had turned the entire sunlit world against her, so that she was forced to retreat into a hidden cavern where she thought that none could see. There, in the blackness, she plotted a final revenge. But there, in the blackness, Riala had been waiting for her. None know what the ghoul-queen's final act of spite would have been, for not a bone or scrap of mummified flesh remained of her or her surviving minions by the following daybreak.
Two of these stories allegedly happened between three and five thousand standard years ago. The other two are a matter of historical record, and happened within the last thirty-six standard months. Without any previous knowledge, would you have been able to tell the difference?
It really is rather amazing how some myths are determined to make themselves true. The strangest part is that, so far as I can tell, the Riala battleship's name was only one of the many generically intimidating-sounding alternatives proposed by one engineer or another during its design process, and won out after a lengthy disagreement. Luck, or providence? We sophonts seem to have a way of turning one into the other.
The Federation builds temples and monuments of its own sort. Turn on any news channel, and you will be regaled with the exploits of heroes, and of entities far mightier than men who fly among the stars and bend them to their will. The Federation has its pantheon, and the names of its members are oft-glorified and oft-repeated. Enterprise, Sarek, and Courageous. Endurance, Liberty, and Opportunity. T'Mir and Sappho and Miracht. But there are also the gods unsung and unadvertised. The Federation's ideals are the pursuit of friendship and discovery, so one would never expect it to sing the praises of demons where anyone else can hear. But, as a quick look at recent history will show, that doesn't make the demons any less important.
Enterprise who holds the shining torch, welcoming strangers from across the void. Sarek of the keen mind and piercing eye, who learns the truth behind every puzzle and mystery. Courageous, who overcomes all hardships and provides inspiration to those who follow in her wake. None of them are hard to find.
But reject their gifts and spit in their faces, repay their friendship with violence or betrayal, use up the last of the Federation's abundant patience and goodwill, and these lights will be withdrawn. You will be left in a darkness of your own making. In that darkness, Riala will find you. And, well. We already know how that story ends.
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