Dovazhul: Farewell to an Enslaved Lunar Breton

• Posted by Chris April 30, 2016 - 1,619 views

  Time and Space have been utterly shattered. When the dreaded Nine Hundred and Eleven Cows of the Tal0sian 0-VR Sol class ship rained iron flames upon Nirn, the land began to die. Cracks in the Dreamsleeve rumbled through the unbidden consciousness of the Aurbis, as the AkaTush reared forth from the birthing soul known as Sithis. The AkaTush farted out destruction and the cosmic inverse of causality, coating the Nirnian continent in a foul, sickly pale odor.

  The skies turned to fire, and blood rained from the clouds like chocolate lactations from a farmer's cow. Jacen Marek, a Lunar Born Breton, known to many to be a lusty hearted vampire-wolf of the blood-drenched moon, had been tending to his rooftop blossom garden in his home of North Point Keep, the singing lunar blossoms radiating their haunting tune throughout the sunswept sky. Then the sun became like a curled ball, and went out, like an old wax candle.

  The stars began to bleed crimson-scarlet, as they fell to earth. The echo-screams of the dead filled the air. An eye opened in the space between  the rifts of worlds, as the Tal0sian ship rammed deep into the womb that is the Aurbis of Anu-Iel. On its prow came the corpse-vessel known to many as Anu-Iel Delta Class V-Giny. With a single thrust, the Tal0sian Sol fire-launched Anu-Iel into the world, blasting the ground into cinders. Jacen was blown down from his tower, landing the blood-corpse seas that surrounded the burning soil of which he found himself, cast adrift.

  Time fractured, like golden cracks in that which is known by the beings of other worlds as the Space-Time. The Corpse Dreamer, Anuiel, who had been dreaming since the Lork-han had birthed the world with his mate Magnus, since Magnus and his children had escaped this starcrossed reality into another, she that had kept this fragile world of casuality and effect in balance, had been crushed by forces from beyond the slip-spaced Dreamsleeve.

  Jacen´s golden colored irises awoke, millenia later. Time no longer had any meaning, for time and causality had been anti-created when the Tal0sian had smashed into the mind-gate reality that held all of the Aurbis together, the Corpse-God Anuiel straddling its mast like a bloated fish. Around him, in the Crystal-Like Void the Breton, enslaved by the absence of self, had strided across for many un-generations, for here was no life, no death, no cause, and effect. There was only the absence of such things and un-things. Akaviri cherry blossom petals, which he had been caring for in his sanctum sanctorum castle/keep, floated around him. They would have been said to be suspended in time, but they were not, since time had been erased in this new Anti-Creation that had occured, this Convergence of the material, and the Immaterium. The screenings of dark Anti-Gods that hungered for violence and souls raged in his mind-soul, but he fought them off by thinking of happier days, when he had truly lived.

  In fact, the glowing cherry blossom petals that pooled around Jacen, in the evershifting Everflow patterned nothingness that he stood on, and trodded through, were nothing by mental-echoes created by his opened mindhole. He concentrated, feeling his lusty wolf-based blood scream at him from his nethers. He snarled, like some forlorn beast, and gripped the hilt of his Akaviri Bloodblade. Its crimson blade was said to have been permanently tinted that way by quenching its murder-thirst with the lifeblood of billions across the cosmos. With the speed of some god of lost sound, he cut through the soul-blossoms, smiling as, CUT, CUT, CUT, they were blown away upon the hot-cold winds of anti-time. Whistling a tune of a lusty Argonian maid, and a well endowed Argonian bard, he trudged forward, boots echoing across the expanse of nothingness he called his new home. His blade had whispered its Soul Name, the one granted to it by its original forger, long ago into his mind´s ears. Its Soul Name was Yamamoto, for that was what it had been called in fire-forging. It had the power to destroy a soul, and to give one to a vessel that contained none. It was said to be the key in a long lost Akaviri legend, from the times when the Men of the land had walked free, and not been ingested by the bosom of those Snake-Skinned Tscaei Ynka´Pal, they who had birthed forth what would become the fabled Blades of yore. Five point ten quindecillions of centuries had since that magnanamous day, yet, as time held no sway and meaning in this Sithis Void of Anti-Life and Anti-Time, then however many echoes of ages past did not matter to the hot, wolf-blooded man that strode through this new world caused by the Convergence of Reality and Causality with Anti-Reality and Effectiveness.

   

  Jacen looked down at himself, he was still dressed in his regular attire. The moon-blooded, vampiric Breton still had translucent chains, which tethered him to this opposite of reality, for he had been at its epicenter. He had called this event The Day That Time-Space Sharted, for a foul stench of the Corpse-Echo of Anuiel had wafted over the nostrils of every being and its soul. Time had fractured into multiple pieces, echoes of what was, what is, what will, and what could have been. Jacen was enchained in this slip-space that neither existed in the time-space continuum, or without, for time no longer existed. Tamriel has he had known no longer existed. He was still dressed in the dark brown leather cuirass, his right arm covered in fire-forged platemail. His pants, padded and black, were made of the warm fur of a Frost Troll, sewn with the sinews of a great Nether Dreugh from Morrowind, had runes drawn in the love juices of Alduin´s Five Hundred and Sixty-Eighth lovechild, ALI-DUNE, and was dyed black in the blood of a combusting Netch during mating season. His ash and blood coated boots, a dark grey in color, were made of corundum infused steel, and polished with fresh Dwemer Oil. Well, since there were no true Dwemer automatons within this absence of reality, he, being one of the sole survivors, had the ability to conjure up echoes of memories of long lost things, such as Dwemer automatons. It had been one of the things keeping him sane for the eons he had lived in this Sithis´ asshole born Void.

   

  His footsteps echoed across the expanse that was his home. Around him swirled impossible colors, and visualized sounds. Jacen had ingrained all their Soul Names into his mind, soul, and heart long ago. He trudged on, his breath visible, though he felt no chill. His sweat poured down his smooth skin, yet he felt no heat. Blossoms surrounded him, like a swarm of beautiful insects, whispering his name. Invisible, temporal winds caressed him like a lover, whispering into his fragile soul-life all the what if´s he could have become had he walked a different Weirding Way, a different path on the multi-faceted crossroads that was his life back in High Rock, before the Temporal Shart.

   

  Jacen knew he had to fix this. He, the last survivor of this Rapture of Time-Space, he who had walked for centuries, Time, Fate, Death, and Life is closest companions, he had to aid them return to a fragment of what could be called Normalcy. Jacen looked up at what could be considered the ¨sky¨ of this swirling, incandescent Void. There, dotted about, were the Corpse-Planets of Divines, formed when they had been bamboozled by Lorkhan into giving their power into the Tal0sian ship, which fired Nirn out from its Subspace cannons.

   

  Seven of them were, more or less, neatly split down the center. The non-existent Corpse-Planet of Talos, now known to be the Tal0sian AI controlled starship, was the only one not present. The only thing that was amiss, aside from that, was the Lorkhanic corpse. It had become one again, but had no revived. One the surface of Secunasser, as the soul-echoes of those once living, who had been cast adrift in this endless sea of nothingness, which some would say was Sithis, or Pandomay, the embodiment of change itself, a horrifying face had been carved into the rock like surface. Some of these shriven echoes of once-lives claimed it was the face of Lorkhan, who watched over the lives and anti-lives of those who it watched on Nirn, its temporal and cosmic axis ever turning, as did the Wheel. The Wheel of Fate had turned, Aetherias or Oblivion? The answer, after Anuiel had been smashed through the barrier between Mundus and the Aurbis, was Mu, or Nothingness in the ancient god-tongue of the Children of the Stars, the Magna´Ge, Starborn children of Magnus the Tonal Architect of Creation´s Planning.

   

  The Planning that had commenced when the Wheel had begun turning on the axis of Anuiel´s Dream, thus creating the first Dreamsleeve, was now shattered. Now was, according to those he had come across in this Sithis-Voidhole of a realm, the start of a new age for the cosmos, the beginning of a new Kalpa, where the Egg shall shatter, and a new world shall be forged in the destruction of the old.

   

  He had to find The Source, the cosmic capitol of this half-way-there Dreamsleeve. He could sense the ins and outs of every inch of this realm, both ancient and new at once. Mental-echoes of buildings, roads, people, and objects that once were surrounded him. He had been crowned The Could-Have Been King, for he had led an army of what were Never-Weres, beings that had once existed at one point, but now no longer did so. When the Anu-ielic Corpse-Planet had tumbled from the Tal0sian ship, it had erased many from The Old Dream. Now, a new Dreamer would have to be chosen, for a new Kalpa to begin, for the Egg to hatch, as Paarthurnaxx had foretold, so long ago, yet so recently.

   

  His boots echoed across what could be considered the ground of this strange, yet familiar realm. Ripples spread out from his footfalls, shimmering before they dispersed seconds later. His coat swished around him, blown about by invisible, temporal winds. He held the fabric in his hands, pulling it closer. True, his undead nature protected him from a fair amount of what would amount to ¨cold¨ in this new dimension, but even he felt a chill every now and again. He trod upon the translucent grass, the false poaceae crunching beneath his leather boots. A replica of Daggerfall Castle, before it had been wrecked by the 69th Head of the Fighting Cow that had, long ago, prophesied the rise of the Tal0s hologram, in the first Turning of the Wheel, when the world had begun, and the Aedra had been sundered into Corpse-Planets, their miniature, fleeting dreams adding to the entire Dream of the Anuiel. Jacen ran a hand across the solid echo of a hardy tree, the leaves swaying ever so slightly. Around him, like he was an eternal, glowing flame, and they soft, Luna Moths, the cherry blossoms he once cultivated, among other crops, swirled and danced around him like the ritualistic or traditional dances he had seen during his vacations in beautiful Akavir. He had sipped fine, spiced wine there, and dined with the Blood-Lords of Old, or

  Buraddo-nushi, in their tongue. These Blood-Lords came to have themselves christened with that honored title when they have slain a thousand enemies, when their steel and gold inlaid armor, where Wyrdmarks, the Sigils of their pantheon, were engraved, offering blessings of protection, of a sword to swing good and true, for a shield to block all battle-blades and arrows from piecring, would be splattered with the black blood of their foes, like a wall of a home splashed with warm paint. Their Akaviri blades, dripping sanguine ichor onto the body covered ground, like a flesh and armor crafted tarp, would be grasped in their clenched fists. He had walked the Angled Ways from the descendents of the Yokudans, keeping to their traditions and gods, rather than those of the Redguards, on an island not far from, as their oral lore stated, old Yokuda stood, proud and mighty, before the Stormchasers, powerful warrior-monks who wielded the storms like a blacksmith his hammer, shattered the island-nation, though they also killed the dreaded, sword-dancing foes of the Yokuda-kin, the Left Handed Elves. He had learned many sword-dancing techniques from these hoary men and women, and learned the art of Stormchasing, but was taught to only use it, like his Thu´Um by the Greybeards, to only use it when he deemed it necessary, in times of True Need.

   

  As he contemplated the teachings he had learned, he came to notice a swirling void above, more incandescent that the sun-hole Magnus had torn open when he and his children, the Magna’Ge, had fled during the advent of creation. From the vortex, a tall, shimmering pillar of light, a calming blue, like the Abeccan Sea, reached out to touch the eye of the swirling vortex above, like when Kyne breathed upon the Throat of the World, and birthed, from mud, and snow, and stone, the Children of the Sky, the ancient Nords, called Atmorans, for they emigrated to that time locked, frozen-over mass of bloody land to the far north of Tamriel proper. “Are you...The Source of this Temporal Shart?” Jacen asked, looking at the far, though yet near, beam of pulsating light. He quickened his pace a bit, cherry blossom petals flowing behind him with each step, like a sweet smelling tail to an athletically built, twin-legged comet. His breath misted about with each time he exhaled. His golden eyes glanced about him, passing over the memory-echo of a market he had visited in Sentinel. As he strode through the translucent sands beneath his well-used leather boots, a small smile graced his face, as he passed a brothel he had frequented whenever he came here. It was known as the Dancing Scarab, and was well respected among the ancient town. Lords and ladies would come here to sate their lust for a good, heart drink filled with rich dessert spices, or to sate their lust of a more carnal nature.

   

  He passed through what had been Sentinel, his arms swinging at his side. As soon as he stepped off the shifting sand, his footprint would be washed away in temporal winds, like the ocean’s cool waters to a beach. He inhaled the scent of the sun blasted sands that no longer existed. Jacen loved wandering, enjoying the natural beauties that Nirn had to offer. Even in this fabrication of the dimension he, and many others, had once found existence in, he still enjoyed that simple pastime, for he was filled with much wanderlust. His boots brushed past false dirt, fake sand, and memory-echoes of places long gone. They were like each solitary particle in the Alikr desert, tiny, almost invisible, and, above all else, eventually fleeting. They would fade into dust, and end up as nothingess, like much of existence eventually would, even if the next Kalpa began. From dust and stars Man, Mer, and Beast had all come from, and whence, when their count of days had finally ceased, their bodies would be preserved for a time, then begin to rot, while their soul, their essence, would return to the Dreamsleeve, and either be recycled into a new life, or be cast to the afterlife of their faith. To some, this gave the faithful hope, and to others, it made them see life as meaningless. To Jacen, an immortal of a few centuries, about seven by his count, give or take a year or two, he saw both the ups and downs of life, especially an eternal one.

   

  The pillar spun in a small circle, coming closer and closer to the Werepyre Dragonborn. He could feel the invisible, shimmering winds brush his cheek, and cause his longcoat to billow about. He was unfazed, more or less, by this chilling wind, but even so, he sojourned on, his feet crushing the beautiful cherry blossom petals that had followed him, all the way from his life back on Nirn, which had happened centuries, or perhaps seconds, ago, for time knew no forward or backward in this realm of which he now inhabited, one of only forty-three other lost souls, who had survived the Temporal Shartening. He had met them only in passing, but even still, they had decided ot try and procreate, which was fine with the Lunarborn, lusty-hearted bloodwolf.

   

  As Jacen trotted ever close to the swirling, shimmering, sky and floor blowing vortex that separated what could be considered the ¨sky¨ and the ¨ground¨, of this ever twisting void. Cherry Blossom petals floated around the ancient werepyre, like they were soft, beautiful moths, and he was a mobile, humanoid flame. Across his cheeks, rain, where there should have been none, splashed onto his face, and traveled downward. They dissipated into the ether as soon as they left his chiseled chin. The air smelt of crisp, fresh, bee cream, also known to the uninitiated, as honey. Alongside that stench, he smelt something even better in the air, cinnamon. Whether he had finally gone, well, even more insane, or that swirling pillar of fluctuating energy energy was radiating the aroma, it did not matter. What DID matter, was the fact that Jacen had to reach that beam of light, in order to undo the damage the corpsefall of the Anuic Dreamer had done to the spacial and temporal fabric of Nirn´s reality, the sharting of fate and causality that the Tal0sian class star frigate had accomplished, and the wreckage of several Dwemer class star vessels from the 9nth era, alongside the crashed Sunbirds of Alinor, that had fallen from the sky like cow dung from a cow´s anus. Cows, or as some far flung individuals he had met in this void between twin Kalpas, brahmin, yet they, like the Fighting Cow that had aided in the devastation of Nirn, possessed more than one head, but two.

   

  He increased his pace now, boots crunching against invisible stones on the road to his fate. His breath misted out, like the first fog on a chilly Frostfall dawn. He was so close, yet at the same time, so far from his goal. The beam seemed to call to him, invisible music, like something out of the lost pages that recorded the Dawn Magics of olden days, back when Aedra and Daedra warred, and walked with the ancient mortal kin, or like the writing that transcribed the fate of an individual, written in the deepest depths of their psyche, and in the very center of their soul-self, one thing that could not be removed, even if the soul is Soul Trapped into a Black Soul Gem. This knowledge was burned into the ancestral memory all those shared as a part of the Dream, though before the Temporal Shart, only those who had realized  they were part of a dead god´s slumber dream, but could keep themselves in existence, a process known as CHIM, only achieved by Vivec, or Vehk, and Tiber Septim, one part of the three sliced pie that was known as the Talos Oversoul, before it had been revealed the three, a Dragonborn, a whiny battlemage, and a heartless Dust Avatar of Shezzarorkhan, had fused together to form a giant ass starship that proceed to crap out death alongside a giant, hydra like space cow. Life was strange on Nirn like that, but Jacen had gotten used to the oddities of life, living in a Dream. But, with that Dream shattered, he had full access to his soul-knowledge. It had filled the immortal with much Determination.

   

  The winds generated by the twisting vortex blew his cloak around like a hurricane now. He slowed a bit, but trudged on, relentless. He had been that way in life, all those centuries ago, and thus was he in his eternal undeath. Jacen had long ago shrugged off most of the weaknesses of his kin, even moreso due to the fact he had a Dragon Soul within a mortal shell. Blows that would fell lesser men simply scraped or bounced off his reinforced skin, arrows barely annoyed him, which he loved telling every guard who kept telling him how their careers as adventurers ended when they got an arrow to the knee. Or they could have gotten married, or perhaps both. Either way, he still thought neither a literal or metaphorical arrow to the knee, he still had survived both, relatively unscathed. Well, except for the time his 70th wife had turned into a seductive Dark Seducer, and then had tried to literally eat him while they were in bed. That had been an awkward second anniversary. They were still together though, and happy, and were the proud parents of, including their own two, twenty kids, the other twenty coming from Jacen´s previous loves and one night stands throughout the years. He brushed those thoughts from his mind, focusing on his current task at hand.

   

  His footsteps, embedded in the shifting floor of the ground beneath her, marked his progress in eternity. Marek could feel the soul energy radiating from the portal, as it came within his hand's grasping reach. He reached out a tentative, armored gauntlet covered hand, into the pillar of eternity. The warm, glowing energy slipped past his hand, caressing it, as his 70th wife, Calaria, did every night.It felt like warm air sliding against his hand. He withdrew it, and saw wisps of blue flames, or what looked like them, appear on his hand, and then dissipate. He knew what he had to do. He spread his arms out, took the first step-and fell. Pain lanced through him as he plummeted, deeper and deeper into the core of the vortex. His soul-self and body cried out for him to stop. He embraced the pulsating heart of reality, the Heart of Lorkhan, and knew no more.

   

  Existence was such a fickle mistress. It demanded so much of each individual, but gave back little in return. In committing the ultimate sacrifice, and copulating with the Egg of Lorkhan, all he received was unconsciousness, and pain. Even though he was unconscious, he still held his grip on this Heart, this Egg of a Kalpa, this core of all space and time that throbbed in his firm grasp. It seemed like the Egg was keeping him there, enjoying its warmth. Like a mother hen to her egg, or eggs, so did Jacen keep the Heart of Lorkhan warm with his natural body heat. He breathed in, and breathed out, as darkness enveloped him, and the beating Heart of Lorkhan. Jacen rubbed the Heart that he held onto, like it was one of his youngest children of twenty-two. He felt the howling tides of fate rip away at his outfit, leaving him as bare as the day his mother had given birth to him, a little over four hundred years ago. Though, if one were to add in the cosmic centuries he, and a fair amount of other survivors, had lived in this new found homeland, then it could probably amount to several millennia. Perhaps only a few weeks had past since the Temporal Shart had ripped asunder the Pillars that had held Eternity in place. Or, maybe five hundred point seventeen million years had passed, time, as like a lot of other things, held no sway in this absence of reality and causality. The vacous mass beneath his throbbed and pulsed as he held onto it, as he nuzzled the warm fleshyness of the Heart of the trickster god that had, upon death, transformed into the twin Moons known as Secunda, and Masser. Secunda was rumored to be where the Dwemer had ended up when they vanished, so long ago.

  Jacen heard voices, many voices. The voices came from above, below, to his left, to his right, behind, and in front of him. Was he a Dreamer now, like Anuiel before him? He wished to find the sources of the voices. He slowly opened his eyes....

  ...And Awoke to a new Dream.