Re: Vendetta [Grand Battle!] [S! GAME TWO ~ SIGN UPS!!!]
01-06-2012, 06:37 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Wojjan.
Name: Elisir
Color: Gold
Imagine sorcery. Any spell. It starts out as a spark, an intention set ablaze or athunder. It arcs from there in a myriad directions, capable hands steering its every point and turn. It grows like a neverending tempest, storm after storm, it tears up the floor and the walls until it's left to face the earth itself, and even uproots the earth and grass, and like a monster in our world, or us as an alien in another, wrecks what it fears. Then multiply that by a million, then a million more. This is magic.
Magic is often proclaimed as a source from a world perpendicular to our own. In the strictest sense this is false. It is a world as much as you would call any place, like a cupboard or cave, a world of its own. Nothing lives in this realm anymore. Bereft of that force which spun it.
It took a sect to realise this. Nuclear magi, they called themselves. Like hermits they locked themselves away, using magic only when strictly necessary regardless of their profession in the field. They focused their studies on finding a way to revert the magic world to its former glory, a kingdom of beings so powerful the air would melt around them, yet graceful enough to respect those who caused their revival.
They built Elisir. A hulking mound of metal, lodged in a netherworldy cavern, laced with puce oils and dry blood as to preserve it a sanctuary. Tubes and wires all over, a capsule in its center which could fit exactly one person. A robot suit, it appears. It would have had hands, but got not farther than steaming pillars for limbs, specified in direction nor purpose.
Elisir lives its winter in intent. It was supposed to revive the very origin of magic, a demoness of whom the lent its name. Silk grace of an ominous wind howling along the razed fields, beauty of a single butterfly obliviously dancing over a burning earth, power of an untamed solar wind, lashing across the surface.
Elisir never appeared, with dubious explanation. The nuclear sect could have been right: no man could muster up the surge of magical force required to awaken the machine and send the queen through. The sect could have been wrong: no such realm ever existed, or at least no such queen existed to be transported.
Name: Elisir
Color: Gold
Imagine sorcery. Any spell. It starts out as a spark, an intention set ablaze or athunder. It arcs from there in a myriad directions, capable hands steering its every point and turn. It grows like a neverending tempest, storm after storm, it tears up the floor and the walls until it's left to face the earth itself, and even uproots the earth and grass, and like a monster in our world, or us as an alien in another, wrecks what it fears. Then multiply that by a million, then a million more. This is magic.
Magic is often proclaimed as a source from a world perpendicular to our own. In the strictest sense this is false. It is a world as much as you would call any place, like a cupboard or cave, a world of its own. Nothing lives in this realm anymore. Bereft of that force which spun it.
It took a sect to realise this. Nuclear magi, they called themselves. Like hermits they locked themselves away, using magic only when strictly necessary regardless of their profession in the field. They focused their studies on finding a way to revert the magic world to its former glory, a kingdom of beings so powerful the air would melt around them, yet graceful enough to respect those who caused their revival.
They built Elisir. A hulking mound of metal, lodged in a netherworldy cavern, laced with puce oils and dry blood as to preserve it a sanctuary. Tubes and wires all over, a capsule in its center which could fit exactly one person. A robot suit, it appears. It would have had hands, but got not farther than steaming pillars for limbs, specified in direction nor purpose.
Elisir lives its winter in intent. It was supposed to revive the very origin of magic, a demoness of whom the lent its name. Silk grace of an ominous wind howling along the razed fields, beauty of a single butterfly obliviously dancing over a burning earth, power of an untamed solar wind, lashing across the surface.
Elisir never appeared, with dubious explanation. The nuclear sect could have been right: no man could muster up the surge of magical force required to awaken the machine and send the queen through. The sect could have been wrong: no such realm ever existed, or at least no such queen existed to be transported.
quidquid Latine dictum sit altum videtur.