Re: The Great Belligerency [Round 3: Eternity Plateau]
02-08-2012, 04:24 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by SleepingOrange.
On a structure that could have been called a hammock or a plinth depending on how the viewer was looking at it, a beautiful woman rested, a beatific expression of serene calm gracing her otherworldly features. The reeds that had been woven to form her bed swayed gently in the calm breeze, and the twilit sky above reflected its ruddy-gold light off of every glint in her hair, on her skin, off her weapon. As the stars above faded into view and began their vigil, a similar watch was kept over the unmoving figure of fertility.
---
The Children of the Tree were rightly called that, as everyone knew; their power and stature had meant that they could do as they pleased, and none had been able to discipline or teach them. They had grown and stayed as children, filled with the pettiness and selfishness and shortsightedness of youth. Fearful and hateful, those who didn't share in their divine gifts smiled and tried to be forgotten or ignored, tried to let the children have their own way and have their fun. The time would eventually come when the Crow would see them gone, but before that day the Plateau was filled with worry and strife as the children had their parties and their fun.
---
The moon was rising in the sky above uncountable nearly-identical villages. Many of their inhabitants made to sleep, while many were just beginning to rouse themselves; some payed their devotions to the glowing sphere, believing various legends featuring it or trusting it to be watching over them; some simply watched it for a time, fingers trailing through the dust as they meditated on its glowing beauty. It was just another cycle in an endless world of endless repetition, and beneath its timeless celestial gaze the timeless rituals of a timeless people played out. But in one tiny hamlet, bowls of water and plates of dried fruits were placed at the feet of a mysterious interloper, a palpable aura of new hope hovering over the silent watchers huddled near what they had never dared to believe they might see again.
---
But for all that children are filled with spite and their own wants, they can also embody selfless and pure love, innocence, and the simple truths of happiness. And so it was with the Children. Callous and unthinking, most would treat the world like a toy that could be replaced if broken, but a rare few held in their hearts a true devotion to their duties or a gentle love for those they shared the Plateau with. They were well-loved in turn, and many treated as kind parents rather than the terrible god-kings most were viewed as.
---
Nearly unblinking eyes never tore their gazes from the nest of reeds even as the wheel of the heavens spun overhead. For hours, nothing happened and their hope was drawn taut across the scene; perhaps it wasn't what they had thought, or worse it was but she would never awaken. Not even the call of a night bird punctuated the darkness and stillness, and the village was filled with the quiet susurrus of breathing in silence. With no warning, as the moon was reaching its zenith, that tight thread of hope was plucked by an invisible hand letting loose a resounding note of change: the still woman's face shifted to an expression of consternation, and she waved a hand vaguely and half sat up. A dozen gasps sounded in tandem, and a dozen quietly disappointed exhalations followed as the woman fell back to her bed and back to her stillness. Though she hadn't truly risen, the watchers' resolve was stiffened: they knew she would wake now. They only had to wait.
---
On the day that the Crow had taken his creation to the children, the world had shuddered with their passing and their flight. And while hearts were lifted by the absence of the cruelly capricious, they shuddered with the world at the loss of those who had been kind and those who had been good. It was for the best, people told themselves. The world would heal, and those who had embodied love and fairness had been far outnumbered by those who would laugh as they collapsed mountains or flooded rivers. But for all that they knew things were better now, they never forgot the names of those who had touched their hearts.
Varela, Who Shapes the Clouds
---
Stars ceased their watching before the villagers; streaks of pink and orange spread from the horizon, warmly sending the twinklers to their beds.
---
Liamten, Who Paints the Beasts
---
As the moon ceded the sky to the sun and the last dredges of blackness faded to blues and whites, another stirring rose from the reeds.
---
Kirith, Who Sees the Moon
---
She shook as she roused herself, her eyes still closed as she sat up and reached to touch her face.
"Amala, Who Tends the Garden," exhaled an ancient man clutching a large fruit.
"Amala, Amala," came answering whispers.
"Mother Amala."
On a structure that could have been called a hammock or a plinth depending on how the viewer was looking at it, a beautiful woman rested, a beatific expression of serene calm gracing her otherworldly features. The reeds that had been woven to form her bed swayed gently in the calm breeze, and the twilit sky above reflected its ruddy-gold light off of every glint in her hair, on her skin, off her weapon. As the stars above faded into view and began their vigil, a similar watch was kept over the unmoving figure of fertility.
---
The Children of the Tree were rightly called that, as everyone knew; their power and stature had meant that they could do as they pleased, and none had been able to discipline or teach them. They had grown and stayed as children, filled with the pettiness and selfishness and shortsightedness of youth. Fearful and hateful, those who didn't share in their divine gifts smiled and tried to be forgotten or ignored, tried to let the children have their own way and have their fun. The time would eventually come when the Crow would see them gone, but before that day the Plateau was filled with worry and strife as the children had their parties and their fun.
---
The moon was rising in the sky above uncountable nearly-identical villages. Many of their inhabitants made to sleep, while many were just beginning to rouse themselves; some payed their devotions to the glowing sphere, believing various legends featuring it or trusting it to be watching over them; some simply watched it for a time, fingers trailing through the dust as they meditated on its glowing beauty. It was just another cycle in an endless world of endless repetition, and beneath its timeless celestial gaze the timeless rituals of a timeless people played out. But in one tiny hamlet, bowls of water and plates of dried fruits were placed at the feet of a mysterious interloper, a palpable aura of new hope hovering over the silent watchers huddled near what they had never dared to believe they might see again.
---
But for all that children are filled with spite and their own wants, they can also embody selfless and pure love, innocence, and the simple truths of happiness. And so it was with the Children. Callous and unthinking, most would treat the world like a toy that could be replaced if broken, but a rare few held in their hearts a true devotion to their duties or a gentle love for those they shared the Plateau with. They were well-loved in turn, and many treated as kind parents rather than the terrible god-kings most were viewed as.
---
Nearly unblinking eyes never tore their gazes from the nest of reeds even as the wheel of the heavens spun overhead. For hours, nothing happened and their hope was drawn taut across the scene; perhaps it wasn't what they had thought, or worse it was but she would never awaken. Not even the call of a night bird punctuated the darkness and stillness, and the village was filled with the quiet susurrus of breathing in silence. With no warning, as the moon was reaching its zenith, that tight thread of hope was plucked by an invisible hand letting loose a resounding note of change: the still woman's face shifted to an expression of consternation, and she waved a hand vaguely and half sat up. A dozen gasps sounded in tandem, and a dozen quietly disappointed exhalations followed as the woman fell back to her bed and back to her stillness. Though she hadn't truly risen, the watchers' resolve was stiffened: they knew she would wake now. They only had to wait.
---
On the day that the Crow had taken his creation to the children, the world had shuddered with their passing and their flight. And while hearts were lifted by the absence of the cruelly capricious, they shuddered with the world at the loss of those who had been kind and those who had been good. It was for the best, people told themselves. The world would heal, and those who had embodied love and fairness had been far outnumbered by those who would laugh as they collapsed mountains or flooded rivers. But for all that they knew things were better now, they never forgot the names of those who had touched their hearts.
Varela, Who Shapes the Clouds
---
Stars ceased their watching before the villagers; streaks of pink and orange spread from the horizon, warmly sending the twinklers to their beds.
---
Liamten, Who Paints the Beasts
---
As the moon ceded the sky to the sun and the last dredges of blackness faded to blues and whites, another stirring rose from the reeds.
---
Kirith, Who Sees the Moon
---
She shook as she roused herself, her eyes still closed as she sat up and reached to touch her face.
"Amala, Who Tends the Garden," exhaled an ancient man clutching a large fruit.
"Amala, Amala," came answering whispers.
"Mother Amala."