Re: The Great Belligerency [Round 3: Eternity Plateau]
07-13-2011, 08:55 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by MalkyTop.
There wasn’t much to say. Two stories were finished. The city fell along with its tyrant, which is all she really asked for, right? It didn’t really go the way she wanted it to, but at least her job was done there.
Now she was somewhere different, a place that felt older than her, a place that had a…a motherly embrace, perhaps. It was a place of Oral Tradition.
This place was young, not like the city in the sky. It was young and still in the process of exploration. It had a new, vibrant culture, which meant it had different lessons and different stories.
The book was already scrawling down the story of the land but Soft tuned it out. The only way she wanted to experience this was from a real storyteller. A professional that she didn’t think she would see again.
She walked. There were no manmade landmarks to walk towards, so she walked towards the trees. She walked along a river. She came across an oasis.
An old man sat against a tree, close by the river. Nuts, fallen from the branches, lay scattered all around him. His stomach was like a drum, his skin like wrinkled paper, his hair like thistles. He seemed to be asleep, but his hands lashed out at the flies that landed on him.
Soft watched him until he opened his eyes and watched back. It was only then that she swept the cloak off her back and gathered nuts into it. A cup suddenly in hand, she scooped out clear water from the running river. She set these in front of the man and sat down in front of him.
“Please. Tell me your stories.”
The old man ate a few nuts, sipped from the cup, and lay back against the tree, his eyes closed once more. Then he started.
The world was a nut fallen from the Tree. There are many just like it. The sun was a nut that was set on fire by its inhabitants. It was the job of the Vulture, himself the indirect cause of the fire, to carry it around in the sky and keep the fire from spreading to the Tree and any other worlds. The Moon is now the closest living world. The stars are all the other worlds, all healthy and living and happy. Sometimes they die out. There will come a time when this world, too, will die out.
The Vulture was a well-meaning fellow, always searching, always curious. He never fully understood that his work was not something to follow. He pierced the Shell to see if more trees would grow when there were plenty of trees and nuts already. He destroyed trees, preventing more nuts from falling, building ugly things that couldn’t replace the destroyed tree. These things were always destroyed, condemned by higher powers. But once, the Vulture saw something in the aftermath of destruction. It was bright and hot. But before he learned anything more, the Tree shook off its excess dew and the falling water snuffed it out.
The Vulture could not find anybody to help him understand what had happened, and in fact, became increasingly aggravated by everybody’s warnings not to dig any deeper that he decided to fly off to a nearby world.
It’s uncertain what happened there, but whatever the Vulture did, it went horribly wrong. The nearby world was wrapped up in the something-bright-and-hot, everything and everybody on there completely destroyed and consumed. And it could easily spread to the other worlds and, even worse, the Tree. So the Vulture, with barely any time to act, took up the destroyed world with him into the sky. And he must stay in the sky forever, for even the dew from the Tree cannot snuff the world out. He must carry it always, knowing that everybody can see his mistake.
There were other stories about the folly of man, the respect of nature, the emphasis on preserving things as they are.
Fights were foolish because there was nothing to fight about. Agriculture was not done because why plant things when there are so many nuts to eat?
There were obviously many different stories, many different ways of life than one lived by the old man, but a similar sentiment roamed across the land. An idyllic, passive lifestyle. No wonder there was no progress.
Soft looked across the land as the old man continued telling the story and found it all very quaint and lazy. And then she found it all very relaxing and fragile.
There were more stories to listen to, more stories she wanted to hear, but they also had to be protected. Even she, with her axe and her nicely braided hair and her book, was a threat. Who knew what the others would do if she just sat around, enjoying Oral Tradition as it died again. She had to preserve it.
The old man abruptly stopped. With dramatic flair, he picked up a nut and patted it into her hand. As Soft’s fingers curled around the shell, he pointed towards nothing. Soft stood up, wrapped her cloak around herself again, and walked.
There wasn’t much to say. Two stories were finished. The city fell along with its tyrant, which is all she really asked for, right? It didn’t really go the way she wanted it to, but at least her job was done there.
Now she was somewhere different, a place that felt older than her, a place that had a…a motherly embrace, perhaps. It was a place of Oral Tradition.
This place was young, not like the city in the sky. It was young and still in the process of exploration. It had a new, vibrant culture, which meant it had different lessons and different stories.
The book was already scrawling down the story of the land but Soft tuned it out. The only way she wanted to experience this was from a real storyteller. A professional that she didn’t think she would see again.
She walked. There were no manmade landmarks to walk towards, so she walked towards the trees. She walked along a river. She came across an oasis.
An old man sat against a tree, close by the river. Nuts, fallen from the branches, lay scattered all around him. His stomach was like a drum, his skin like wrinkled paper, his hair like thistles. He seemed to be asleep, but his hands lashed out at the flies that landed on him.
Soft watched him until he opened his eyes and watched back. It was only then that she swept the cloak off her back and gathered nuts into it. A cup suddenly in hand, she scooped out clear water from the running river. She set these in front of the man and sat down in front of him.
“Please. Tell me your stories.”
The old man ate a few nuts, sipped from the cup, and lay back against the tree, his eyes closed once more. Then he started.
The world was a nut fallen from the Tree. There are many just like it. The sun was a nut that was set on fire by its inhabitants. It was the job of the Vulture, himself the indirect cause of the fire, to carry it around in the sky and keep the fire from spreading to the Tree and any other worlds. The Moon is now the closest living world. The stars are all the other worlds, all healthy and living and happy. Sometimes they die out. There will come a time when this world, too, will die out.
The Vulture was a well-meaning fellow, always searching, always curious. He never fully understood that his work was not something to follow. He pierced the Shell to see if more trees would grow when there were plenty of trees and nuts already. He destroyed trees, preventing more nuts from falling, building ugly things that couldn’t replace the destroyed tree. These things were always destroyed, condemned by higher powers. But once, the Vulture saw something in the aftermath of destruction. It was bright and hot. But before he learned anything more, the Tree shook off its excess dew and the falling water snuffed it out.
The Vulture could not find anybody to help him understand what had happened, and in fact, became increasingly aggravated by everybody’s warnings not to dig any deeper that he decided to fly off to a nearby world.
It’s uncertain what happened there, but whatever the Vulture did, it went horribly wrong. The nearby world was wrapped up in the something-bright-and-hot, everything and everybody on there completely destroyed and consumed. And it could easily spread to the other worlds and, even worse, the Tree. So the Vulture, with barely any time to act, took up the destroyed world with him into the sky. And he must stay in the sky forever, for even the dew from the Tree cannot snuff the world out. He must carry it always, knowing that everybody can see his mistake.
There were other stories about the folly of man, the respect of nature, the emphasis on preserving things as they are.
Fights were foolish because there was nothing to fight about. Agriculture was not done because why plant things when there are so many nuts to eat?
There were obviously many different stories, many different ways of life than one lived by the old man, but a similar sentiment roamed across the land. An idyllic, passive lifestyle. No wonder there was no progress.
Soft looked across the land as the old man continued telling the story and found it all very quaint and lazy. And then she found it all very relaxing and fragile.
There were more stories to listen to, more stories she wanted to hear, but they also had to be protected. Even she, with her axe and her nicely braided hair and her book, was a threat. Who knew what the others would do if she just sat around, enjoying Oral Tradition as it died again. She had to preserve it.
The old man abruptly stopped. With dramatic flair, he picked up a nut and patted it into her hand. As Soft’s fingers curled around the shell, he pointed towards nothing. Soft stood up, wrapped her cloak around herself again, and walked.