Ivon: The Clumsy Knight

(Been doing a lot of research on genetics for the next segment of my reortus story and haven't written much for it yet. In the mean-time, here is a portion of the first chapter for one of my books I haven't published...yet. Hope you all enjoy ; ).

Ivon: The Clumsy Knight

Chapter One

It was a long, rather wet day, in the tree covered North lands of Bolshaya province. A springtime rainstorm had come through earlier that morning leaving the verdant realm fresh and rejuvenated and the many rivers flowing rich and full throughout the countryside. It was nearing twilight when a sole rider appeared rounding the hill that separated the village from the watchful gaze of Castle Bolshaya. The red stone walls of the castle stood a glow with the lowering sun in the west, which stood out like a beacon for miles. Peasants who passed the rider would take second glances and stifle laughs for the rider was plastered from helm to boot with mud; but that was only the half of it. The cherry that topped it off was that the disheveled youth, eighteen years of age was in fact the infamous young knight, Sir Ivon. It had just so happened that not a short while ago an incident in town involving a stubborn cow and an unfortunate stretch of mud left Ivon in the mess that he was in. His white mare, Selya was clean, luckily being tethered a safe distance from her master at the time.

Things just never seemed to go according to plan for the discouraged knight. It was as if the very fates would purposefully spin his yarn with as many knots and loose ends possible. Looking up at the castle standing high in the distance, Ivon only wanted to get to his quarters and hopefully forget the events of that day. Looking ahead, Ivon saw yet another cluster of people heading towards him.

“Hey there, Ivon!” came a voice the knight knew all too well. He rolled his eyes and turned to see another knight canter up to him from out of the crowd on his brown and white spotted palomino. “Say, I heard you had a bit of a scuffle with a bovine today.”

Ivon sighed. “Yes Kalavich, obviously word travels fast if I haven’t even been able to reach the castle before it had.”

Kalavich roared with laughter until tears began to form in his eyes. He had short black hair and handsome features. He was very popular among most of the inhabitants of the castle and especially among the young ladies which in turn made the dashing knight Ivons’ bitter rival; or at least in his mind. “Good ol’ Ivon! You know, you don’t have to always be helping every person you come across. You’re a knight. It’s our duty to take care of the big things that go on around here like wars and dealing with marauders.”

“I’m sure it is Kalavich, but tell me, when was the last time we’ve had a war or had to defend against a raid from robbers? Not since my fathers’ time, that’s when. It’s our duty as knights to help the common people during times of peace, maintain order and uphold the virtues of—”

“Yeah yeah, ok Ivon. I really don’t have time for another one of your long winded speeches at the moment, but if any of that means being dragged through the streets by a cow, you can count me out. Besides, everyone knows that your trying to play the hero just ends up making everything worse.”

“I’m not out to ‘play the hero’, Kalavich! I do the best I can which is more than can be said about anyone else around here. All you or any of the other knights ever do is train and waste time looking at yourselves in the mirror. I’m at least trying to do my job.” responded Ivon, his face flushed with anger.

“Yeah, well keep it up then, Ivon. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll take Vendrov’s place and become the Boyar yourself.” Kalavich laughed again and slapped Ivon on the back but quickly withdrew it forgetting momentarily the mud that Ivon was caked with. With a look of disgust, Kalavich wiped his muddy hand across his pant leg. “Take a bath, Ivon. I’m not sure how much of that was mud or a gift from your four-legged friend.” Kalavich then spurred on his horse and rode off back towards the castle.

I’ll show him, thought Ivon with a grimace.  

Finally Ivon arrived at the portcullis of Castle Bolshaya, its huge red stone walls towering high above like a carved out mountain. The hunched over knight began to pass the draw bridge hoping that the end of his humiliation was in sight.

“Oy, Ivon! How was yer ride on ol’ Bertha eh?” shouted a guard. The rest of the guards broke out in laughter along with many passing peasants as well. And that’s when the same guard started up in song followed soon after by a couple of the others.

‘Ooooh… there once was a knight named Ivon the blight,

Keep him in the distance and you’ll be alright.

He’ll bump and dump and stumble and trip,

And send you a tumbling lickidy-split.

He’ll water your weeds and pluck your flowers,

He reeks ta high heaven and turns milk sour.

No man nor beast are safe in sight,

Of Ivon the blight, Bolshaya’s own clumsy knight!’

Ignoring them, yet striving not to smile at the joke at his own expense as well, Ivon continued onward until he came to the square of the castle. Ivon’s eyes fell upon a group of young courtiers and his heart lightened at the sight of the beautiful Helinda, her golden hair and radiant smile a shining beacon in his moment of despair. She was listening to what appeared to be some nonsensical joke with the others.

            “…and so,” continued the red-haired courtier. “after trying to pull the poor beast by a rope, Ivon slipped and slid right between the cow’s legs spooking her so much that she sped off down the path dragging him along in the filthy street!”

            All the courtiers began laughing and giggling on the verge of hysteria when one of the girls looked up from the pack and saw to her horror and yet amusement a bedraggled knight caked with earthen color, more like some strange creature than human, clumsily dismounting then making his way towards them. She gasped, bringing the rest of the group to her attention. “Umm, Helinda I think someone is coming over to say hello.”

            Helinda, with her golden locks whipping around stared wide-eyed at the approaching mess in human form. A split-second later she hid her head among the others. “Oh No! I told Kalavich to let me know when Ivon was returning. When I get my hands on him I’ll—”

            “Good evening, Lady Helinda.” said Ivon coming to a halt a few feet from her. He took off his helm sending bits of dried mud flinging around then bowed courteously. His yellow hair was free from dirt and grime, with an obvious trail of mud imprinting his face from the openings of the helm; much like a tan line would do.

            “Well, we’ll see you around Helinda.” said the taller brunette courtier with a slight mocking smile. Helinda watched angrily as her friends abandoned her to laugh it up elsewhere while stranding her with the castle idiot.

 Quickly composing herself, Helinda twirled towards Ivon with a fake smile while her mind was running through possible excuses to leave. “Oh, why hello Ivon, how are you doing today?”

            “Oh, can’t complain,” replied Ivon even though he had quite a bit to complain about. There was an awkward pause and just when Helinda decided on a rather complex excuse about bad weather or something, Ivon broke the silence. “You know, Lady Helinda, there’s going to be a full moon out tonight and judging on the weather there isn’t going to be a cloud in sight. How would you like to take a stroll around the castle grounds this evening?”

            Oh, not again, thought Helinda. Ever since he was knighted six months ago, Ivon had been adamantly trying to get her somewhere private with an almost assured probably of him proposing to her. She had been avoiding the persistent knight like the plague the whole time until she had become very good at it. But now she was caught. The excuse she had made up before evaporated in her mind and so she fell back on her emergency excuse that she prayed would hold up at least one more time.

            “Jee, I’d love to Ivon, but unfortunately my dear father has fallen sick again over mid-day meal and it’s been up to me to watch over him and stay by his side and make sure he doesn’t die in his sleep.” At that, Helinda’s eyes began to water and she raised a hand to stifle a sob. If she wasn’t rich and lived in a castle, Helinda thought, she could be a fantastic theatre performer.

            “Oh no, no. I completely understand. I for one know that others must come before our own pleasantries.” Ivon folded his arms and looked up at the sky as was his habit before he started off on another one of his antecdotes. “Why, just today I had to dispatch a foul creature in town. Got my hands a little dirty in the process and nearly died from being trampled on, but truly the greatest reward is the thankless one, the one where we put forth ourselves willingly in an act of self-sacrifice for others and uphold the virtues of…”  Ivon continued in this manner for the next five minutes or so before at last concluding. “…and always remember, there is no sacrifice that I nor any person with as noble of a heart as I would make for the greater good.” But by the time that Ivon made an end to his lengthy speech Helinda was gone.

            It felt good to be clean again and in new clothes, Ivon thought after a nice warm bath in the safety of his castle quarters. Just as he was finishing tightening his belt, Ivon heard a knock at the door. “Enter.” said Ivon with as much knightly authority as he could muster. The door opened to reveal a pile of clothes stacked high in a weaved basket held by a pair of slim yet strong hands. “A little help would be greatly appreciated,” came a muffled voice behind the pile. Ivon quickly made his way over to the door and took half the clothes into his arms and carried it over to the table top.

            “Thanks Vasila, I don’t know what I’d do without you.” After setting the basket down next to Ivon’s pile, the young servant girl, Vasila, turned to Ivon wiping wisps of long black hair from her face. “Oh, you’d probably go around smelling like a cow’s backside all day since you never take the time to learn to wash your own clothes.”

            “Nah, that’s women’s work.” replied Ivon.

            At that, Vasila drew her hands to her hips and gave Ivon that same accusing raised eyebrow that over the years that they had been friends, Ivon had grown quite familiar with. “Women’s work huh? And I suppose that your work is to play in the mud all day with the cattle while we women clean up after you; is that it?”

“I’ll have you know,” replied Ivon defensively. “that I could have died a horrible and gruesome death today at the hands of a fiendish…”

            “Wait just a second,” interrupted Vasila, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “First off, the only danger you would have been in was getting yourself sick from all the mud you might have and probably swallowed while being dragged through the streets. And second, it was a cow. Cows don’t have hands.”

            It seemed Ivon was on the verge of a comeback but then faltered realizing the error in his choice of words.

Vasila smiled then turned to the floor and saw to her annoyance a trail of fresh clean clothes starting at the door and ending at Ivon’s pile sitting on the table. “Also, I guess we’re supposed to clean up after your other messes as well.”

            Vasila then lowered herself down and began picking up the scattered stockings and linen. “Oh, I’m sorry Vasila. Here I’ll do that.” said Ivon walking over to her.

            “No, I’ll do it. You don’t have time. Boyar Vendrov told me he wants to see you immediately.” Vasila then picked up a white tabard with an intricate black bear design and tossed it to Ivon who fumbled it and nearly dropped it again.

            “What? Vendrov wants to see me; but why?”

            “Take a guess.” replied Vasila.

            Sudden realization struck Ivon like a load of bricks. “You don’t think it has something to do with what happened in town do you?”

            With an exasperated look, Vasila plopped the remaining clothes on the table then turned to Ivon. “Oh jee, I don’t know. You’re only the talk of the castle, you and your cow friend at any rate. Now get a move on! You know that the Boyar doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

            Flustered, Ivon flung his tabard over his head then started off towards the door in a hurry then made a sharp right down the corridor. “Hey, numbskull!” came Vasila’s voice echoing through the hall. “The Boyar’s chamber is the other way.”

            Ivon skidded to a stop and with a flushed face and began briskly walking back avoiding Vasila’s haughty eyes. “I knew that.” said Ivon continuing past her.

            “Right, of course you did.” said Vasila rolling her eyes as she closed the chamber door and commenced to following Ivon to make sure he didn’t get lost again. 

Point of Order

I'm curious, do you guys think it's a better idea to re-post revised editions of our stuff, or to edit the original post to save room? The latter keeps things neat and succinct, but the former allows for examination of the evolution of a work. Thoughts?

The Tale of Robuin Thunderhorn

His thunderous roar echoed through the tall stone trees of the underground city, shaking random pebbles from the slightly eroding roof. His face rippled as he heaved himself through the concourse of little reptillian creatures clinging to his huge, shaggy body. He swung his arm and a pair of them flew into the wall, with a sharp splintering sound as they hit. The small one up front reached for the dagger at his belt and yelled at his men, waving his arms and shouting. Robuin heaved again and the chains covering his back stretched with the silvery clink of steel being bent. His bull-like head bore a pair of heavy horns, ivory white, and slightly upturned at the ends. He bowed his head to spear the little men but slipped on the cobbled stone. His totem was crushed under his weight as he fell and his heart broke as he felt its splinters dig into his skin. Suddenly he felt cold. Cold, alone and without his grandfathers. He felt his ancestor’s spirits flow around him and out into the world. He felt the presence of his ancestors leave him, and he bellowed in anger, frustration, and hate. The sound was terrible to hear, the loss of hope, the helpless anguish from a once proud and mighty beast. The little creatures screeched and gave way hopping and leaping down the steps into the ruins of the city. The huge Tauren heaved once and collapsed to the earth, exhausted and demoralized.

He awoke to the sounds of tiny footsteps, skittering over the stone and scrabble. The huge axe came quickly to his massive hand and he was on his feet in an instant. But instead of the small reptilian creatures he had anticipated, a whole new challenge awaited him. They were still smaller than him, but were larger than his previous assailants. They were about the same height, but were much heavier built and they each had heavy metal armor, wielded metal weapons and sported large furry beards of varying colors and hues. A thick, red beard up front spoke to him in a strange language, and Robuin shook his head, trying to make sense of the creatures tongue. He could make no sense of the gibberish it rattled, but mayhap it could understand him. “I mean no harm, but if you assault me I will leave none of you alive.”

They conversed amongst themselves and started to jiggle strangely, making small grumbly noises that sounded like small avalanches inside their throats. He furrowed his brow trying to make sense of their speech and their current movements. As he did so the noises the creatures made rose in volume and lowered in pitch. They motioned for him to follow them and seeing no problem, he did so, and they traveled through the ruined, broken city without incident.

They traveled for some time; Robuin didn’t know how long, it was hard to keep track of time underground. The little bearded creatures would occasionally pull strips of meat from their packs and give him some to eat. They slept on small woven mats and made small fires to cook their food. It made it taste strange and it was hot on his tongue but he enjoyed the new flavor it had when it was cooked.

They traveled for many days through the dark and gloomy caverns, occasionally seeing some underworld creature or other, but never having to do much more then glare to make them squeak in fright and run away.

At long last they came into a series of well-made, handily carved tunnels, smaller and smoother than the natural caverns, made over centuries from the dripping erosion of water, seeping down from the surface world.

Even farther in, the little party encountered a dead end of sorts, and Robuin began to turn around in frustration, but one of the little men grabbed his arm, and pointed at the wall ahead. Robuin shook his head; he had no idea what was going on. Suddenly the wall swung open inwards, revealing a sweeping vista of the bustling city below. Horns, bells and various clattering sounded through the air, bewildering him, and drowning any other sounds. His head swiveled like a shot, hither and thither, trying to take in all that was going on around him. Others of the city pointed and stared at him, and he began to become more self conscious. He held his hand at the haft of his axe, wary of trouble from any source. The little men led him clear across the city; the walk took many hours. Finally they arrived at a huge stone building, arched at the top, smoke billowing from several embedded chimneys. A long flight of stairs stretched up into the building, and great furnaces could be heard roaring within. A slight tangy odor hung in the air, reminiscent of smoke, brimstone, and red-hot metal. On top of the entranceway was carved a massive hammer superimposed over an anvil. An unarmored man with a long grey beard shuffled down the steps towards them. He and the others spoke for a moment, sometimes gesturing to Robuin, sometimes at one another. Watching them, Robuin deduced that they were deciding his fate. A little black beard was arguing violently and was glaring viciously at Robuin, while the large brown beard, and the old grey beard were softer in tone and less aggressive in argument. Finally, the grey beard came up to Robuin and spoke.
“Do you mean us harm, Minotaur?”
Stunned, Robuin knew not what to say.
“Can you understand me?” inquired the little man.
Robuin nodded, still shaken. For weeks he hadn’t spoken with any of the band and this old man’s questions had him off guard.
“I mean no harm. I am grateful for the kindness shown to me.” The words came slowly, and he stuttered a bit.
“Excellent, and you are welcome. Follow me.” The creature gestured and Robuin began to walk, taking short steps to avoid outdistancing the creature.
“We here in Deeping Dales, are all dwarves, Muradin’s people. You are welcome to stay if you wish it, but if not, we will give you food and supplies to continue on your way. We can even point you to the surface.”
He stopped and looked up over his shoulder.
“I do not mean to be rude, but my people aren’t used to your people wandering our streets. I don’t want any trouble here, and I’m afraid, that although you aren’t looking for it, it will find you.”
Robuin nodded, but his attention was on another subject. He had noticed a strange creature, similar to the dwarves, but she looked to be younger and yet she was almost taller then these people. She wore a dirty yellow-brown smock, and small leather sandals. Her hair was raven black, and her face, which was pretty even in misery, wore a depressed and dejected look. She held a small bowl out for the other dwarves passing by her to drop coins into.
“Who is she?” he asked quietly, nodding toward her.
“She is a human from the surface. We found her in a small cave a mile west of here, and she was indentured here in the temple. Why do you ask?”
“She is sad.” The Tauren replied.
“That is true, would you like to help her?”
“Yes! That would be most agreeable.”
“Then when you leave, take her with you. She is a surface dweller, and not one of our own. We could take care of her, but she has been silent ever since she arrived. Mayhap you can get her to talk. Here, take this. It will give you the ability to converse in the hearer’s native tongue. I’m sure it will come in very useful on the surface world.”
The Dwarf handed him a small carved stone, about three inches in diameter. It looked as if water was swirling and slopping inside but when Robuin tried to touch the liquid, he was thwarted, the stone seeming to be a few inches away from where he thought it had been. He tried again but to no avail. Giving up he put the stone in his pouch and walked towards the girl. She looked up as he approached and fear welled in her eyes.
“No no, it’s all right. I mean no harm.”
She relaxed only slightly and her eyes were as large as saucers.
“Dear one, I am to be your guardian on the journey’s we will take back to the surface. Do you understand?”
The girl nodded, in similar fashion to his previous experiences.
“Good. If it is agreeable to you, we shall make our exodus in the morn.”
Again, she nodded.
“Come, ride with me.” He extended his hand and the girl took it, tentatively at first, but with more confidence as she extended her arm. He grasped her small and fragile hand in his and hoisted her to his shoulder, nearly tossing her into the air she was so light. She lighted on his shoulder and they walked with the grey beard to the rooms they would use that night. They ate a small meal of barley bread and curded milk, both new to the Tauren warrior. Later, Robuin tucked the small child into bed.
“Would you like me to tell you a story of my people?” he asked on a whim.
The little girl nodded quietly, smiling shyly.
“In the ancient days, in olden years there was a great Tauren warrior named Grogal Bloodhoof. He was a mighty warrior and a wise chief to his tribe and village. His people were great in the land they inhabited, and they were honorable in all their battles. In a campaign against the foul orc tribes of the northern pines, his tribe was ambushed, and he was left alone with a young warrior named Trokar. As they battled, Grogal was badly wounded in the hip and lay on the ground bleeding. The orcs closed in and began to overrun the younger, less experienced warrior. But to protect his tribe he spilled his life blood, killing all of the orcs around him before he crashed to the earth, glorious in victory. In my people, the most honorable action is to give your life for another. This Trokar Shatterspike did those long years ago. This he did to save my grandfather, who still rules our tribe in great wisdom.”
The little girl looked up at him reverently, and then reached out and grasped him tightly. Her tiny hands didn’t reach halfway around his arm, yet he felt great warmth, and patted her gently before laying her down to sleep.

The next morning, the dwarves bid them farewell, shaking his hand, a strange new custom they said he’d need on the surface. He blew air from his nostrils and taking the little girl on his shoulder, he trudged up and out of the city, in the way that the Dwarves had given him. Soon a bright light spurred him forward and he emerged into the glorious sunshine he missed so much.

Then the heat hit him.

He stood in the middle of a burning waste of sand, stretching as far as he could see into the distance. He felt it settle around him like a lead weight, pressing his flesh in towards his bones and crushing the air from his lungs. The girl smiled at him and pointed, stretching her finger across the barren waste.
“That way?”
She nodded.

And so he trudged, deep into the sandy waste, striding through the hot sun, fierce winds and stinging sands of the blasting deserts. It took him two days to realize that if he continued to drink, he would soon kill them both. He took one last swig and every time he was offered water he pushed the girl’s hand away and made her take a sip. She frowned at him in concern but never spoke a word.

Many days in to the burning heat, Robuin began to lose coherence. He saw water on the ground and when he knelt to drink he swallowed only sand, which in turn increased his thirst. The girl began to cry, but he put his finger to her lips.
“Don’t cry. It wastes water.” His parched lips could barely form the words and his hollow throat crackled as he spoke. The tears immediately stopped and their march continued.

Several more days passed and Robuin began to stumble and stagger. The girl was thrown from his shoulder where she crashed into the sand. Robuin heard a hiss and the girl screamed. He snatched her from the ground and felt a sharp stinging pain in his wrist. A small viper lay hissing and shivering on the ground, and looking at his wrist, Robuin saw two small beads of blood, crimson against his pale, sun bleached flesh. He snatched the viper which bit him again, and tore its head off with his teeth. He offered it to the girl who, sobbed, and shook her head. He swallowed the creature whole and continued trudging.

The next day a small peak appeared on the horizon, and Robuin, tired and sick, made tracks toward it. The venom in his blood began to burn his brain, and he wanted to lie down and quietly sleep here. The sun began to feel warm, rather than hot, and it occurred to him a nap might be nice. He began to lay down, but the little girl jumped from his shoulder and shook her fist at him. He stared uncomprehending.
“I’m Braza Illidian, and I want to go home!”
Robuin stared for a moment, gathering his will and leaped to his feet, snatching the girl and plowing forward, rushing headlong across the desert. The girl screamed with delight, but Robuin heard nothing. The peak became a tower, which blossomed into a palace, which sprouted into a city, shining pale red across the burning waste. It rose up in front of him, towering in his path. It was surrounded by tall, adobe walls and huge towers, topped in minarets, with large brass globes topping the pinnacles. He ran onward, streaking forward, until his foot caught, and he fell to the earth, right in front of the huge gates. His eyes rolled wildly and his breathing was hoarse. The little girl picked herself up and ran to the huge creature, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his fevered hide.
“I love you Robuin. Thank you for taking me home. I’ll never let you die. Go with honor.”
And the little girl wept over the big Tauren, and tears streaked from his hair, but Robuin Thunderhorn’s body lay totally still, and the great warrior smiled.

The Nature of Gods: first pages

        Arguing voices boomed through the walls of the Tower of the Octagon Table.  Triea, daughter of The Great Time-Jumping Bootlegger of Lewistre, kept her head bowed, hoping to slip past the Doors of Then unnoticed.  She had only been in the room of the Octagon Table once, and she had no intentions of returning anytime soon.  The debate room of the eight great gods of the universe could never agree on anything, and spent most of their time throwing large objects at each other while trying to determine which god was the greatest.  Escaping with her life last time had been a matter of luck mixed with her father’s skill at brewing ale.  His fantastic brew won him a floor in the tower, a permanent home to raise his daughter in without the danger of the road.  If she’d been older when her father decided on this place to settle, Triea would have argued against it.  There is no more dangerous place to raise a child than under the noses of half mad gods.  

Two octagonal guards were arguing quietly with one another.  She was almost around the corner.  Five more steps.

“Oi, girl!  You come here.”

Triea froze.

“Come on, lass.  I know you can hear me,” said a slick and soothing voice.

Recognizing the voice, Triea turned.  “My Lord Beign.”  She curtsied, keeping her head bowed.

“Come here.  I need you to do something.”

Beign was not one to argue with.  Normally, her father’s name was enough to keep her safe from being ordered around, but she knew that Beign was an exception.  A beating would come if she disobeyed.  She scurried over to the door.  “Yes, milord?”

“Go in and see if the gods need anything.”

Triea took a step backward, and Beign grabbed her, bringing her within an inch of his face.  She gulped.  “And the chances of death today?”

“High, and I’m not losing another one of my men today to roaring, bumbling gods who never get anything done.”  He could see the desire to flee in her eyes.  “You do this, or I’ll make sure you regret being alive.  I don’t care who your father is.”

She saw the fury in his eyes, and nodded.  “I’ll go.”

Beign cracked open the door for Triea just in time for a plate to come flying through it and shatter against the far wall, followed by several more.  She got on her hands and knees, crawled through the door, and looked back just in time to see Beign smile wickedly and close the door.  Triea moved just in time for a smashed vase to take her place.  There’s nothing for it, she thought.  I’m heading for the table.  Clambering through the wreckage of a room the size of a mansion was hardly the way she wanted to spend her morning.  She slipped under the table.  Now I can sit and wait, and hopefully they’ll stop arguing.  Why do they argue, anyway?  Nothing can be decided by people who all think they’re the best.

“Stop!” Suez yelled, and the room went silent.  “There’s something on my foot.”

Triea looked down, and moaned.  Well, at least they’ve stopped arguing.

Suez, the burliest god of the lot, bent down, picked her up, and set her on the table.  She had never got a close look at the god before.  There was a reason women worshipped him; he was beautiful.  Flowing auburn hair and yellow eyes, a soft face, and a toned body.  Suez kept the women enthralled.

“What were you doing down there?”

“Uh, seeing if the gods needed anything?”

A stick of a woman that could only have been Areha stepped forward to look at Triea.  The goddess, the on and off mistress of Suez, was a beautiful waif.  Her thin lips pursed before she spoke.  “We need a solution to this problem.”

“Oh.”  Think Triea.  Think.  Once the gods asked her for something, if she couldn’t fulfill the order, she was a dead woman.  This order would take all the knowledge she possessed.  She may have kept her head down in the tower for the most part, but she spent plenty of time in the extensive library.  She stumbled upon it when she was eight, and lost herself in it for days before her father found her.  Since then, Triea had read enough books to educate herself in the complexities of the universe.  Now she wondered why she’d never seen a god around that library, but then, she’d assumed that they were born with the knowledge she had to read about.  Obviously not.  She was beginning to think that the gods were an awful waste of space, and a waste of time to worship.

“Why doesn’t Chaos, the Father of All, solve it for you?”

Anger flared in the god Ollopias’ black eyes.  “We do not ask the old weak one to solve this problem.  He cannot supply a sufficient answer.”

“You’ve tried that already, then?”

“That information does not concern you, Jumper.”

“Uh, I’m not actually a. . .”

“Give us a solution young one, or face obliteration.”  Areha steamed.

Areha’s impatience is going to be the death of me.  I need something, something simple.   “Had you ever considered asking the people?”  Triea asked, hoping that the suggestion would be acceptable.

Suez looked stunned.  “The people?  What people?”

“Your worshippers.  You know, the people who praise you night and day and send you gifts?  Just have a poll, and ask them.”

Semitrius the Fair cocked an eyebrow.  “Such is an option we have not considered.  A poll will not work, though.  Gods could sway polls.”

“She is right,” declared Suez, “But who can come up with a better answer?”

Triea turned her head to look at the remaining four gods: Sermeha, Anethia, Lometria, and Brantus.  They all spoke at once.  “Let Triea decide.”

All eyes turned to her.  Great, I’m never going to get out of this one.  I knew there was a reason I didn’t like these gods.  She mulled things over for what seemed like days, when she caught hold of the book on employment, writing, and censorship she had just finished reading.  When Beign grabbed her, she was on her way to return it to the library.  The book was still in her satchel.  She looked down.  The thing was still hooked to her side, looking beaten from being hauled through the mess of the room, but not ripped.  She opened the satchel, took out the book, and flipped to the chapter about economic system setups.  After reading a bit to refresh her memory, Triea shut the book.  Now to explain complex economics and politics to toddlers.

“You can set up a work system to figure it out.  Each god can set up a tower of employment for people to write books about their particular god.  Then, a censorship tower can be set up by an uninterested third party to make sure that no god tampers with the books written.  After all the books detailing the lives of the gods have been written and censored, the gods can read them and decide which god is the greatest in the eyes of the people.  All you’ll need is to choose the location, build it all, and to let a non-god entity keep an eye on things while they’re running.”  And then, if this works, I’ll work out all the details later.

Reortus: page one (revised)

Here's a slightly revised version of my Reortus page that I posted on the facebook page.

Captain Henry R. Staat, Video log: Day 62

According to the numbers on my monitor screen, the date is June 21^st 2489. Day and night, however, do not exist in this void of eternal dark punctuated by the pin-pricks of starlight as we sail away from our own beloved star. Two days left until we reach the end of this miserable journey. The only thing that tells me that time really is passing are the clocks on the screens as well as the beating of my own heart, which assures me more so than those digital numbers that I am not trapped in some timeless suspension.  The solitude has been arduous at the highest degree. Two months without a single human voice to draw comfort while the rest of my crew is asleep in wonderful cryonic hibernation where they will awaken once we reach the Space Station Reortus blissfully ignorant of the months that have past. As Captain, it is my morbid duty to stay awake if the instance were to arise that manual control of the ship is necessary.

                The past week has brought the red and blue orb of Mars closer and higher into focus. It truly is a spectacular sight. Right now I am staring into the war god’s hearth with the flame of life being rejuvenated yet again as the terraforming project nearly reaches its eightieth year. Oxygen levels have risen greatly since the introduction of ammonia into the atmosphere near the beginning of the project and the plant life had an unprecedented affect as well. Wide varieties of trees, flowers, grass and shrubs were brought to the red world not sixty years ago now but already green swaths, like a painter’s brush strokes, mar the crimson landscape. Because of the low gravity and extreme amounts of Carbon Dioxide, the introduced vegetation grew nearly twice the size on Mars as they do on earth, creating surreal forests with towering canopies and fruit unimaginable back on earth. It was my cousin, James O’Reilly who took the first unaided breathe on Mars two years ago. Though he could not go more than a minute without an oxygen tank, the act showed just how close we were to being finished.  

                Will I ever be able to walk on the surface of this modern day genesis story? I can only hope. My mission as well as that of my crew, has nothing to do with the terraforming Mars is going through. What an oxymoronic contradiction that is our game to play. Our assignment, our purpose in coming to the Reortus which orbits the red planet living again, is a mission of death.

Now, as I look up into the vastness of stars outside my window, I can’t help but wonder how many eyes are now turned to our small star among the millions of unknown planets. A man can lose himself staring into the fathomless depth and immensity of space. With all our technology, all our theories and reasoning, we haven’t yet found that far distant boundary where the universe comes to an end. Does it end? During my college days, I remember once reading a theory by a once noted physicist, Abdul-Samad ibn Mohammad, that there was neither end nor a beginning to the universe. He was later called a fraud, trying to tie religion in with science and was disgraced in the scientific community. I am not what one would call a spiritual man, but there is indeed something out here that grips you further than just body or mind. Who knows? Maybe I will find my destiny out here, millions of miles from home, upon the sibling planet of our mother earth.

Dr. Alison Cho, video message- June 24^rd 2489

Hi, everybody! Mom, dad, Karin, Daphne, I’m here! Sorry I wasn’t able to send you a message yesterday. It was all very hectic and we were bombarded with procedures and briefings that took up, literally, the whole day. When we were going through our health checkup, one of the transfer engineers vomited and went into a seizure. It was mega scary. The doctor on duty said there’s always one or two each transfer who has a bad reaction to the months in cryo. I really felt awful for Capt. Staat though. He seems so different compared to when we met only a few days…okay, it felt like a few days ago, but before we left to the home station he was very outgoing and kind. You could totally see the eagerness in his eyes and the excitement that he emitted made each of us forget the butterflies that were bouncing around in our stomachs.  After arriving to the Reortus, however, he seemed so distant and drawn out. I swear he has more grey in his hair now than he did when on Earth. I can’t imagine being all alone for two whole months. I really hope he gets better soon.

The Rules

Basic Info: When you become a member, I would like each person to try and post at least a one or two pages worth of a story or book they have written once every two weeks. Simply post a new chapter, or completed work(you can use the tags to track segments of a larger story) and utilize comments for the reviews. Also, I would like if you try giving at least 3 reviews (only a paragraph each minimum) to other members' posts. Reviews are important for the writing community established in the Eruian Society, both positive and critical. I would encourage giving both praise when you see something you like and advise on something you see they can improve on. Notice I never said to give negative responses. As amateur writers, we're not going to be jotting down works worthy of Leo Tolstoy or Edgar Alan Poe... or at least not yet. ;-) So a good rule of thumb is to double check your responses and put yourself in their shoes, imagining yourself receiving the critique.
One last thing to keep in mind is I want to start out with about ten members and see how it goes from there. The way I've tried to set this up has the possibility for many more members, but I want to start out with just a few to test it out. Try to keep an eye on the amount of members and leave it at ten for the moment.

- Tyson and Clayton