Post by Vash, the Angel's Moon on Nov 1, 2011 16:16:58 GMT -5
Hey there.
This story is my NaNo - but it's also Vash's story, and I'm incredibly happy to be able to tell it. The name won't show up yet, but if I post more of this, "Astran" is Vash, I changed his name for the NaNo version.
Note: This prologue takes place I'd say.... oh, ten years before the destruction of Lunatopia.
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-Prologue-
A story whispers across the room from the other side of the tavern, where a man sits, telling a group of children a legend of his homeland. Curious, the patrons all seem to gather around him. One of them is a traveler, wearing a white coat; it’s worn, and has seen better days – the myriad repairs create a shimmering pattern across its surface, where the thread used to repair it was shinier than the simple material of the coat itself. He leans against a wall, not intruding, merely listening.
“There is a city,” the man said, “in the far land of Ketulunanox, called Lunatopia. That is my city, where I come from, and it is a city of many legends. The people there worship the moon, Ketuluna, and many of our legends are about the goddesses who created it.”
One of the youngsters raised his hand. “Mister,” they said, “how far away is Ketulunanox from Unda?”
He smiled. “Rather far, I’m afraid. Northwest, across the ocean; it’s a week’s journey by a fast ship.”
“You came real far, then, mister!”
The man laughed. “I suppose I did,” he said, and the watching traveler smiled. “Anyway… as I said before, most of the legends of my land are about the goddesses… but there are a few legends that are about people, important people, and that is the story I will tell you all today.” His audience nodded, quieting for the story.
“They say that thousands of years ago, the ancestors of Lunatopis lived on Ketuluna,” he began, “and while none know if that is true, it is a fact that Lunatopians live much longer lives than most Allorans. Although I may not look it, I’m actually fifty years old – quite long in the tooth,” he teased.
One of his captivated audience whispered in awe, “My gramma’s only forty!”
“Quite so,” said the old storyteller, before continuing. “The bards paint great pictures of Ketuluna – once, it was as beautiful and green as Allorum, they say, favored land of the moon goddesses, with palaces built of white diamond and seas that shone like blue sapphires. I’m sure that those descriptions are exaggerated,” and he chuckled, “but it makes a beautiful tale, no?” He waggled his eyebrows – the man was a seasoned veteran on this battlefront of storytelling. “The other gods were jealous of Ketuluna’s success, however, and conspired in secret to destroy it.”
The traveler’s soft smile faded, flickered a bit. He shifted position where he stood. He knew this story all too well.
“What happened?” asked another of the children.
“The moon goddesses learned of the plot,” the storyteller assured her. “They were furious, but they knew it was too late to defy their brothers’ will. Instead, they descended to their land, as they often did in those days, and warned the Ketulunans about what was to happen. The stories say that the Ketulunans had incredible machines powered by magic no Alloran has ever even dreamed of – even ships that sailed the stars. Thousands and thousands of Ketulunans raced to those ships, and the ships fell from the sky to Allorum, saving the Ketulunans from death.”
“Many weren’t so lucky,” said the traveler, his voice harsh and sad-sounding, his blonde bangs hiding his eyes from view. The storyteller gave him a curious look, but nodded.
“Many, indeed. And even those who did survive faced much hardship. The people of Allorum did not trust their cousins from the moon… it took a great leader, the first Queen of Ketulunanox, Kedar, to lead the fallen Ketulunans from tragedy into glory. Her heroic deeds, both on and off the battlefields, paved the way for Lunatopia’s settlement and prosperity. Why, one time…”
The traveler’s smile slowly returned as he watched the children watch the storyteller with wide eyes and open mouths as he told them tales of myth and history. He was turning to leave, when a name caught his ear.
“Now, I’m sure you all have heard of the Lunar Knights before,” he said, speaking of his previous tale, “but I know that none of you know the name of the woman who led them – Shiira Karrelen.”
The traveler stopped dead in his tracks, his head spinning towards where the storyteller sat – and the storyteller’s eyes weren’t on his audience, but directly on the traveler. The look they shared lasted only an instant, before the storyteller returned to his tale, a tale of the creation of that most secret order.
When he looked back up towards where the traveler had stood, he was gone.
A while later, the old storyteller gathered his things and left the tavern, but as he walked past the door, a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
The traveler stood there.
“I take it you enjoyed the tales?” asked the storyteller.
“Not nearly so much as you enjoyed telling them… brother,” replied the traveler, pulling the storyteller’s collar open to reveal a mark at the base of the man’s throat; a blue crescent moon, points facing upward – a wave spilled out of the cup it made.
The storyteller laughed. “You’ve found me out,” he said. “How did you know?”
“Just as you think I knew. Only a Lunar Knight would know… her name.” The word was reverent, choked, anguished.
“You speak as if you actually knew her.”
“So did you,” the traveler replied, a sad steel in his eyes. “You’re more than a simple Knight, to know those tales.”
The storyteller laughed. “You’re more than a simple Knight to know that my tales were more than tales,” he shot back. The traveler acknowledged his words, gesturing as a fencer would acknowledge a touch.
The storyteller sighed, setting himself down on a bench outside the tavern.”My ancestor saw the fall of Ketuluna with his own two eyes; he was one of the first Lunar Knights.”
The traveler nodded, his eyes becoming distant. “So,” he muttered to himself, “she’s returned her gaze to that family then…”
The storyteller looked at him strangely, but continued. “I’ve told my story,” he said. “How is it that you know more than the average Knight?”
The traveler turned to him, and for a split second, there was something serious and silent lurking behind those eyes. Then he smiled, and whatever it was suddenly was gone, as if it had never been. “So, how did you stumble across Shiira’s name, anyway?”
The storyteller chuckled. “Never can give a straight answer, can you? I found some of my ancestor’s old records is how; he evidently kept meticulous journals, not just of the things he studied, but also of stories and legends he collected. Turns out I’m not the only bard in the family.”
The traveler laughed, and the storyteller laughed, and then they sat in companionable silence for a long moment, while the storyteller thought.
“You know,” he said finally, “there is a story that I heard once that I never heard the ending of.”
“Oh?” the traveler queried.
“Yes,” he replied, nodding. “There was once a time when all the Lunar Knights of the realm were gathered together, and I did my duty to the Moons and attended the conference. Thirteen places were prepared, but only twelve Knights appeared. The Head of the Order said that there are always thirteen places laid, but only twice in time immemorial has Guasto’s Knight ever come to the table. Yet tradition insists that above all else, care must be made to never forget Death’s Knight, even if others’ places are left unprepared.” He seemed oblivious to the look the traveler was giving him. “I searched for the answer in all of my ancestor’s notes, yet he seemed strangely silent on the Lunar Knights themselves… the only thing I could find was an incredibly mysterious passage.”
The traveler’s gaze was riveted on the old bard. “What did he write?” he asked quietly.
“It said, ‘I found him in the rubble, clutching her body to his chest. The Ghost Moon’s heart was broke this day – I doubt he will ever choose another Knight.’ It was the last thing my ancestor wrote.”
The traveler stood, his fist clenched – slowly, slowly, it relaxed. “What do you think it means?” he asked – as if he already knew the meaning of the passage, as if he already knew what had happened, so long ago. He sounded… tired. Very, very tired; weary and worn, like an old man who was tired of living. No man who looked as young as he did should have the right to sound that tired, but when he looked back at the storyteller, his eyes were ageless, and there was a look of utter defeat about them.
The storyteller shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve traveled here to Unda to ask the Moon, but all She will say is that it is her brother’s story to tell. Obviously, no war started, so Guasto’s Moon must have chosen another, contrary to what my ancestor claimed… yet the stories make me wonder.” He paused.
“…do you know Whose Knight those same stories claim Shiira was?”
The traveler’s weary eyes bored into his companion’s; then he looked away, his whole body slumping with defeat.
“She served the same master as I do,” he said. “The Ghost Moon of Guasto.” He turned back to the bench, knelt to retrieve a large bundle, a cross-shaped object wrapped in cloth, and stood. His smile was sad as he turned back to the old bard.
“Thank you, brother,” he said, putting his hand on the storyteller’s shoulder once more. “Thank you for the stories… it’s not often that I get to lose myself in the past.”
He stepped forward, then, leaving the old man behind, coat flapping in the wind. He waved, before he disappeared into the mist of late autumn, never to be seen again. The wind carried a voice back to the storyteller.
“Thank you, Sister,” it said. “Thank you for sending him to me…”
And with that, he vanished from the face of the planet once more, simply a traveler with no name, moving from place to place, never stopping to rest for more than a few days – no more than a Ghost, looking for the answers to its ageless, endless questions…
This story is my NaNo - but it's also Vash's story, and I'm incredibly happy to be able to tell it. The name won't show up yet, but if I post more of this, "Astran" is Vash, I changed his name for the NaNo version.
Note: This prologue takes place I'd say.... oh, ten years before the destruction of Lunatopia.
--------
-Prologue-
A story whispers across the room from the other side of the tavern, where a man sits, telling a group of children a legend of his homeland. Curious, the patrons all seem to gather around him. One of them is a traveler, wearing a white coat; it’s worn, and has seen better days – the myriad repairs create a shimmering pattern across its surface, where the thread used to repair it was shinier than the simple material of the coat itself. He leans against a wall, not intruding, merely listening.
“There is a city,” the man said, “in the far land of Ketulunanox, called Lunatopia. That is my city, where I come from, and it is a city of many legends. The people there worship the moon, Ketuluna, and many of our legends are about the goddesses who created it.”
One of the youngsters raised his hand. “Mister,” they said, “how far away is Ketulunanox from Unda?”
He smiled. “Rather far, I’m afraid. Northwest, across the ocean; it’s a week’s journey by a fast ship.”
“You came real far, then, mister!”
The man laughed. “I suppose I did,” he said, and the watching traveler smiled. “Anyway… as I said before, most of the legends of my land are about the goddesses… but there are a few legends that are about people, important people, and that is the story I will tell you all today.” His audience nodded, quieting for the story.
“They say that thousands of years ago, the ancestors of Lunatopis lived on Ketuluna,” he began, “and while none know if that is true, it is a fact that Lunatopians live much longer lives than most Allorans. Although I may not look it, I’m actually fifty years old – quite long in the tooth,” he teased.
One of his captivated audience whispered in awe, “My gramma’s only forty!”
“Quite so,” said the old storyteller, before continuing. “The bards paint great pictures of Ketuluna – once, it was as beautiful and green as Allorum, they say, favored land of the moon goddesses, with palaces built of white diamond and seas that shone like blue sapphires. I’m sure that those descriptions are exaggerated,” and he chuckled, “but it makes a beautiful tale, no?” He waggled his eyebrows – the man was a seasoned veteran on this battlefront of storytelling. “The other gods were jealous of Ketuluna’s success, however, and conspired in secret to destroy it.”
The traveler’s soft smile faded, flickered a bit. He shifted position where he stood. He knew this story all too well.
“What happened?” asked another of the children.
“The moon goddesses learned of the plot,” the storyteller assured her. “They were furious, but they knew it was too late to defy their brothers’ will. Instead, they descended to their land, as they often did in those days, and warned the Ketulunans about what was to happen. The stories say that the Ketulunans had incredible machines powered by magic no Alloran has ever even dreamed of – even ships that sailed the stars. Thousands and thousands of Ketulunans raced to those ships, and the ships fell from the sky to Allorum, saving the Ketulunans from death.”
“Many weren’t so lucky,” said the traveler, his voice harsh and sad-sounding, his blonde bangs hiding his eyes from view. The storyteller gave him a curious look, but nodded.
“Many, indeed. And even those who did survive faced much hardship. The people of Allorum did not trust their cousins from the moon… it took a great leader, the first Queen of Ketulunanox, Kedar, to lead the fallen Ketulunans from tragedy into glory. Her heroic deeds, both on and off the battlefields, paved the way for Lunatopia’s settlement and prosperity. Why, one time…”
The traveler’s smile slowly returned as he watched the children watch the storyteller with wide eyes and open mouths as he told them tales of myth and history. He was turning to leave, when a name caught his ear.
“Now, I’m sure you all have heard of the Lunar Knights before,” he said, speaking of his previous tale, “but I know that none of you know the name of the woman who led them – Shiira Karrelen.”
The traveler stopped dead in his tracks, his head spinning towards where the storyteller sat – and the storyteller’s eyes weren’t on his audience, but directly on the traveler. The look they shared lasted only an instant, before the storyteller returned to his tale, a tale of the creation of that most secret order.
When he looked back up towards where the traveler had stood, he was gone.
A while later, the old storyteller gathered his things and left the tavern, but as he walked past the door, a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
The traveler stood there.
“I take it you enjoyed the tales?” asked the storyteller.
“Not nearly so much as you enjoyed telling them… brother,” replied the traveler, pulling the storyteller’s collar open to reveal a mark at the base of the man’s throat; a blue crescent moon, points facing upward – a wave spilled out of the cup it made.
The storyteller laughed. “You’ve found me out,” he said. “How did you know?”
“Just as you think I knew. Only a Lunar Knight would know… her name.” The word was reverent, choked, anguished.
“You speak as if you actually knew her.”
“So did you,” the traveler replied, a sad steel in his eyes. “You’re more than a simple Knight, to know those tales.”
The storyteller laughed. “You’re more than a simple Knight to know that my tales were more than tales,” he shot back. The traveler acknowledged his words, gesturing as a fencer would acknowledge a touch.
The storyteller sighed, setting himself down on a bench outside the tavern.”My ancestor saw the fall of Ketuluna with his own two eyes; he was one of the first Lunar Knights.”
The traveler nodded, his eyes becoming distant. “So,” he muttered to himself, “she’s returned her gaze to that family then…”
The storyteller looked at him strangely, but continued. “I’ve told my story,” he said. “How is it that you know more than the average Knight?”
The traveler turned to him, and for a split second, there was something serious and silent lurking behind those eyes. Then he smiled, and whatever it was suddenly was gone, as if it had never been. “So, how did you stumble across Shiira’s name, anyway?”
The storyteller chuckled. “Never can give a straight answer, can you? I found some of my ancestor’s old records is how; he evidently kept meticulous journals, not just of the things he studied, but also of stories and legends he collected. Turns out I’m not the only bard in the family.”
The traveler laughed, and the storyteller laughed, and then they sat in companionable silence for a long moment, while the storyteller thought.
“You know,” he said finally, “there is a story that I heard once that I never heard the ending of.”
“Oh?” the traveler queried.
“Yes,” he replied, nodding. “There was once a time when all the Lunar Knights of the realm were gathered together, and I did my duty to the Moons and attended the conference. Thirteen places were prepared, but only twelve Knights appeared. The Head of the Order said that there are always thirteen places laid, but only twice in time immemorial has Guasto’s Knight ever come to the table. Yet tradition insists that above all else, care must be made to never forget Death’s Knight, even if others’ places are left unprepared.” He seemed oblivious to the look the traveler was giving him. “I searched for the answer in all of my ancestor’s notes, yet he seemed strangely silent on the Lunar Knights themselves… the only thing I could find was an incredibly mysterious passage.”
The traveler’s gaze was riveted on the old bard. “What did he write?” he asked quietly.
“It said, ‘I found him in the rubble, clutching her body to his chest. The Ghost Moon’s heart was broke this day – I doubt he will ever choose another Knight.’ It was the last thing my ancestor wrote.”
The traveler stood, his fist clenched – slowly, slowly, it relaxed. “What do you think it means?” he asked – as if he already knew the meaning of the passage, as if he already knew what had happened, so long ago. He sounded… tired. Very, very tired; weary and worn, like an old man who was tired of living. No man who looked as young as he did should have the right to sound that tired, but when he looked back at the storyteller, his eyes were ageless, and there was a look of utter defeat about them.
The storyteller shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve traveled here to Unda to ask the Moon, but all She will say is that it is her brother’s story to tell. Obviously, no war started, so Guasto’s Moon must have chosen another, contrary to what my ancestor claimed… yet the stories make me wonder.” He paused.
“…do you know Whose Knight those same stories claim Shiira was?”
The traveler’s weary eyes bored into his companion’s; then he looked away, his whole body slumping with defeat.
“She served the same master as I do,” he said. “The Ghost Moon of Guasto.” He turned back to the bench, knelt to retrieve a large bundle, a cross-shaped object wrapped in cloth, and stood. His smile was sad as he turned back to the old bard.
“Thank you, brother,” he said, putting his hand on the storyteller’s shoulder once more. “Thank you for the stories… it’s not often that I get to lose myself in the past.”
He stepped forward, then, leaving the old man behind, coat flapping in the wind. He waved, before he disappeared into the mist of late autumn, never to be seen again. The wind carried a voice back to the storyteller.
“Thank you, Sister,” it said. “Thank you for sending him to me…”
And with that, he vanished from the face of the planet once more, simply a traveler with no name, moving from place to place, never stopping to rest for more than a few days – no more than a Ghost, looking for the answers to its ageless, endless questions…
