The cards were as such: the Famine, the Princess, the Firearm, the Eye and the Wheel.

Ahemait looked at Msonus, smiled. "You may play your War first," he said.



Game 1 / Pool 2
Hirsu - Chips 9 / Cards 5 / Wars 0 / Deaths 0
Ahemait - Chips 9 / Cards 5 / Wars 0 / Deaths 0

Hirsu pondered the cards. He didn't look at the Ahemait as he asked a few questions. "Do you play the cards individually, each of us taking turns, or do you combine them to play as sets? Are there defined meanings to the cards, or do I get to choose the role they play in the war? Are we each building our own, separate wars, or are we both building the same war, using our opponent's play to build upon our war?"

"Combine them to play as sets, or individually; whatever you believe would make the greater War," said the Ahemait. "Though once played a War cannot be tampered with. You may suggest meanings, but ultimately it is the Watcher who decides. And, in this game, we are building separate Wars."

Hirsu ponders the situation, holding the cards still as he considers what they could mean. As a story takes hold in his mind, he closes his eyes and visualizes it. He considers the sheer amount of death, the scale of it all, and how even its after effects would cause death and suffering for a period of time, likely years, decades, perhaps centuries if the war doesn't come to a satisfactory conclusion for one or the other side.

He shook himself as he realised he was actually contemplating a satisfactory ending of a war. He looks across the table, at the Ahemait, and wonders at just what such a being truly was.

He re-shuffled his cards, and played them on the table.

"The Princess, beautiful and pure, daughter of a doting king. Stories of her beauty, of her good character, spread wide among her adoring populace, and travel far and wide.

The Eye of the King's spymaster is ensnared by the princess. He grows obsessive, focusing on her above all else, and must have her.

But the master of spies is no noble, in neither station nor character. He is rejected, and in his rage, rapes and kills the girl with the Firearm.

The Wheel grants him luck, and he is able to conceal the deed. The king believes him as he blames one nation after another, one old enemy after another. The King's army lashes out, seeking revenge over the loss of their beloved princess.

With the army constantly making demands, both in supplies and population, the Famine strikes the country, as insufficient focus on growth and spiralling need to feed more and more soldiers for more and more distant battles drain what surplus they had. The war takes on a life of its own, as the soldiers now fight not only for revenge, but to feed themselves and their families."

"I... am impressed," said the Ahemait. "Quite impressed. Tell me, Lord of Life, how would you like to leave this Realm now? For a man born of the living you can see so far into the rivers.." He sat for a small moment. "Tell me," he said, obviously uncomfortable, "I can return you, unharmed, with all your chips, to your place of birth. To the Realm of the Supernatural. Would you like that? We might stop these simple games.."

He seemed nervous, somehow.

Hirsu stared at the being before him. "The end of life is just as much a part of life as it's beginning. I will gladly go, however I would ask if you could not send me to the destination I travelled through here to reach? It is nearby to where I was 'born', barely ten kilometers apart. I seek to pass through the royal door, to visit the royal family that has sealed themselves away with a terrible sickness."

Hirsu kept his face passive while he made his request. It would not do to insult this creature of the Rivers, but he would know whether the royal family would come to this place soon, or if they might be spared this place for a time, or whether they were already here, their empty corpses ruling the people without ever saying a word.

"The Royal Door of Elan," said the Ahemait. "I know of it. It was no coincidence, Creature of Three, that you were to be brought here, to my sacred river. I can send you there. Prince Surhal is a cheat and an enemy of the currents of my own place. Be careful of that man. He thinks himself an alchemist. He thinks himself an immortal. If you were to end his life, I would be obliged."

There were no dark corridors or flashing of lights or strange cooing noises.

Suddenly, the damn rivers had gone, and Hirsu found himself within the lush waiting chambers of the Royal Family of Elan. The room was empty, save for two chairs and various bulging bookcases. There were no windoes, only an arcane glyph etched into the southernmost wall. To the north, a simply wooden door with an ornate, silver lock. Hirsu held his bone chips in one hand, and they itched against his skin.

(Continue posting in your Realm)

The Darkness opened and the host walked forth.  More than a thousand gods forming a living army as they passed into the realm of rivers.  At their head walked ten figures, the black council restored once more.  But even so they were incomplete and the tree had need of them at the last.  As they broke into the factions to follow the aspects across the plain the places of the two missing aspects stood out clearly.

Before them Eridu arose, the cataclysm that had engulfed it finally completed, and the host passed within.  The gates slammed shut to await the return of the two missing aspects and the sole survivor of the second generation of gods and stillness fell outside.

And it was done. The Aspects, finally, passed from the world of the living to that of the dead without judgment.

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?

The Rivers were cold and fast-flowing. Max found himself wading against them, water at his thighs, walking against the strong currents. Darkness all around him. There were no stars, no familiar souls traveling the same journey. The pilgrim walked alone.

No sight of land..

"Maxwell of Xi," said a sudden voice. It was a tall, thin, pale man with wide eyes and jagged teeth. His bald head was tattooed with black-purple ink and he was fully naked, wading beside Max. Max knew immediately that this was his shepherd, his guide, his only remaining friend. "You are dead."

"That statement is beginning to become familar."

I supposed this was a different sort of death.

"I suppose this is a different sort of death."

Yet..

"There is a way to rejoin the living, is there not? Wyrn mentioned something about coming back after the fourth time.."
This message was last edited by the player at 23:25, Thu 09 Sept 2010.

"Of course," said the Ahemait, his eyes glinting with opportunity. "Of course. You may return once more to serve the World-Tree, and to guarantee yourself a place in the Hall of the Glorious, if you are proven worthy."

Suddenly, there was a boat, and Max was on it. The Ahemait rowed slowly, and the glided across the River. The Ahemait's smile turned sinister.

"Of course, if you are not worthy, I will feast upon your bones.."

The Ahemait nodded.

"Before that, yes," said the Ahemait. His voice was once more kind. "There will be payment. A toll for safe passage to the Lake of Truth. What can you offer, Max? Or would you care to find the place on your own, forsaking payment and assistance.. ?"

Max knew that the latter option was a bad idea.

He thought. He then took a small, silvery bit of metal and extended it to the Ahemait.

"A piece of my shattered sword. It is the most personally valuable thing I carry, for I know not what is valuable here."
This message was last edited by the player at 16:21, Mon 13 Sept 2010.

"It is more than valuable enough," said the Ahemait. Max knew that the creature was genuinely touched. "We require meaning, not mere trinkets.. thank you, Max of Xi. I will grant you safe passage to the Lake of Truth. I warn you, however. While I will speak on your behalf, I cannot promise anything except judgment."

The rivers flowed swiftly and quietly, and Max felt a little warmer in this house of the dead.

I nodded my assent, and if it was courtly to do so, boarded my guide's craft. "All a man's riches will not give pause to death, but their story may carry on the winds, and the living's breath." I said quietly. Would I be remebered, if I was judged unworthy of a second chance? I had failed in my mission. Whom had I saved? What I had done worthy of mention? Mine was a story, but not of deeds. It was one of mortality and error.

"Would you like to hear a story?" I said to the guide.
This message was last edited by the player at 19:41, Mon 20 Sept 2010.

The Ahemait nodded. "Of course," said the Eater of Bones. "If you need to tell me a tale, I cannot refuse; nor would I wish to, as meaning and symbol are the cornerstones of fiction and it is fiction, not fact, which rules this land. Give me meaning, Max. Tell me a tale."

The boat drifted quickly down the river, and the Ahemait rowed to give it direction. It was pitch black all around them, and Max could see nothing except the nearness of the water beneath him and the shimmering of the Ahemait.

"We will shortly be at the Drowned Grave of Lost Heroes," said the Ahemait. "Tell the story quickly, Max. Silence is best in the place we shall enter next."

I became solemn. This- the passing on of a story- was a important part of who I was, once being a God of Fantasy.

"It is an old story. I know nothing as to it's truth or falsehood. I am only the storyteller."

The Origin of the Merits and the Xian Lineage

    Long Ago, When Yggdrasil was young and not yet mature, there were two Realms: The Realm of Gold, and the Realm of Brass.

What now is the Realm Silver, Realm Sorcerous, and Realm Certitude, was then the Realm of Gold:

What now is the Realm Supernatural, the Realm Savage, and the Realm Mundane, and the Realm of Rivers, was then the Realm of Brass.

The Twelve Aspect Gods; The Eight Dragons; The Four Primoridals; The Two Realms; and the One Tree. All was ordered and balanced, and growth was quick.

  The tree needed just a little bit of chaos to grow, just enough to spark change. As is customary, she safeguarded this vital purpose in the form of a sentient race. They were named the Merits.

  The Merits were a cursed breed from birth; due to their innate connection to chaos, inexplicable and terrible events occurred daily. Only those who were very lucky survived to carry on the Merits and their important job. As millennia passed, Merits became very lucky by nature, avoiding their terrible curse by becoming blessed.

  Yet, every once in a while, a Cursed Merit is born, one whom is not lucky. This is a sad tiding for the troop, and these merits are sent far away from the troop to avoid calamity. They usually die swiftly and horrifically.

  This is a story, however, of a Cursed Merit who survived, fighting against fate. This is his story.

   His name was Rivan, and he was born the runt of the litter, smaller and weaker. He suffered from sickness, and he suffered from rejection, and his natural innonence was perverted. He became a bitter merit, and when he was found to be cursed, he was exiled from his troop- a Merit’s life concern- never to return.

   He should have died. That was his fate; that is what the stars said, that was the prophecy. But the nature of the Curse was not order. It was chance. It was Chaos. And the only reason Cursed Merits existed was because Merits channeled Chaos. Rivan, in particular, had a stronger affinity to chaos than any merit that had come before.

   And so he broke his own destiny, and became very, very powerful, and roamed the young world seeking vengeance for his Curse. After many trials, he climbed to the very top of the Tree and confronted the Master Divine, the first and most powerful of all Primordials.
   At this time, the very first Old One was taking notice of Yggdrasil. Judging it easy prey, he attacked the ordered world and spread the Madness. Soon he had legion upon legion of mad warriors, powered by the eldritch forces from beyond the Tree.

   Master Divine, looked upon the little Merit, and said: If you destroy the Mad, and if you send back this Old One, then I will lift your curse. And he gave Rivan three gifts:

   First, the Sword of the Master Divine;
   Second, the secret of the Obliteration Technique;
   And last of all, True Immortality.

   And with these gifts, Rivan set out to lift his curse. He fought the Mad wherever he went with the Sword, destroying them and gaining more and more power, as his Curse grew and grew. In the final battle against the Old One and a million of his minions, when all seemed hopeless, he used the second Gift: The Obliteration Technique.

    He turned his very soul into a weapon, and in a wave of pure creation, obliterated all his foes. Nothing survived, save the Sword.

    But that is not the end of the story, for the third Gift now came into play: For though his spirit might have been shattered beyond recognition, it was not gone. It reincarnated, as a God; a Cursed God that ruled over the Realm of Xi.

    Ever since that time, the Xian lineage of gods has continued, and they are unique; for with them comes calamity, for with them comes change, and for with them is the balance restored.

 "I am Max, Son of Maccus, Son of Mek. I am the continuance of the Xian Lineage, and I bear it's curse. According to the legend, should I climb the Tree and reclaim the sword- then I will become the avatar of Rivan, Heavenly Ancestor of the Xian Lineage."

  I shrugged my shoulders.

 "We will soon see if the legend is true."

"Curious," said the Eater of Bones. "I am .. wary of the factual validity of your tail, friend, but as it stands - as a story - its weight cannot be denied."

The boat slowed, shifted to the left slightly, and Max saw that the river was at a crossroads. To the left, an entrance covered with bone and gold, entwined with parchment - covered in ancient ink - that was immune to the degrading affects of the river. To the right was nothing particularly special - the path, the river, continued as always. In the water, corpses and broken equipment floated, slowing the boat further.

"The Drowned Grave of Lost Heroes," said the Ahemait, guiding the boat towards the left. "Where Heroes that have failed at their task - and are cursed to obscurity, sung in no saga, spoken of in no tale, forgotten, drowned in greater things - are found, unable to move on. This will be your first test, friend. Steel yourself - and do not speak a word!"

As they came closer to the entrance to the Drowned Grave, Max heard a soft singing from within, sad and horrible, calling to him..

Max felt a stab of fear. What if he failed.. ? What if this was a trap.. ?

I was dead. I was already consigned to my fate. Fear was simply reflex of time when there was something to fear. He had already failed catastrophically; his story was over.

This was an eerie sort of epilogue, he supposed.

To distract himself, and perhaps to steel himself, he called another story to mind, but did not speak it.

An old Grandfather said to his grandson, who came to him with anger at a friend who had done him an injustice, "Let me tell you a story.

I too, at times, have felt a great hate for those that have taken so much, with no sorrow for what they do.

But hate wears you down, and does not hurt your enemy. It is like taking poison and wishing your enemy would die. I have struggled with these feelings many times." He continued, "It is as if there are two wolves inside me. One is good and does no harm. He lives in harmony with all around him, and does not take offense when no offense was intended. He will only fight when it is right to do so, and in the right way.

But the other wolf, ah! He is full of anger. The littlest thing will set him into a fit of temper. He fights everyone, all the time, for no reason. He cannot think because his anger and hate are so great. It is helpless anger,for his anger will change nothing.

Sometimes, it is hard to live with these two wolves inside me, for both of them try to dominate my spirit."

The boy looked intently into his Grandfather's eyes and asked, "Which one wins, Grandfather?"

The Grandfather smiled and quietly said, "The one I feed."

The songs of the dead only grew in intensity as the boat rocked softly into the Drowned Grave of Lost Heroes. It tilted to the left, to the right, as it hit and continued to move through the dead that lay drowned beneath the gate of the Grave.

The Ahemait gave Max the traditional sign of Ra-Hoor-Khuit - that of Silence - and continued to paddle.

As they passed through the gate, the air around the boat grew deathly cold, and Max saw that there were icicles instead of stalactites above. Snow fell softly from the sky, and the stalactites were gone, replaced by a great tapestry of stars. The snow continued to fall, and Max saw that they were in a great field, surrounded by the frozen corpses of long-dead heroes, still trapped in their armour of steel, iron and bronze. Swords stood in the snow, and beneath the clear waters Max could see entire swathes of coin and jewels.

Hundreds of thousands of Conclave stones.. millions of precious stones, small and large, glittering menacingly.. coins wrought of silver, iron, copper, tin, stranger and more wondrous metals..

Max knew that the Ahemait could not help him in this place. He could only heed the Bone Eater's advice, and continue without him. For even the Holiest of Guardian Angels cannot guide their charge through the Abyss..

He was alone on the boat.

The waters below, now, were filled with orbs containing strange wisdom, bottled fires of every colour, swords with esoteric names and arcane functions, seven-league boots and rings of wishing, staves created to serve the dead, the crowns and tiaras traditionally given to bizarre gods, silver foils designed for dueling the fates themselves, cloaks of inviability and, more intriguingly, hyper-visibility..

It would be so easy just to reach down and scoop up whatever treasures existed there. The songs of the dead had stopped. Max found himself desperately desiring the magical items caught beneath him, desiring the embrace of the river..

My sword is shattered, my sword is spirit. My strength is shattered, my strength is spirit.  My body is shattered, my body is spirit.

His sword was shattered. What use was riches to a dead man? Once, he would have leapt gleefully into those waters, heedless. For the greater good he would have taken them.

He had taken his own life. Perhaps he did not think he would die, but the intent was there. He may have had the strength to act, the courage to act, but he did not have wisdom to guide his actions. He had been blind.

He thought himself a fool. Perhaps that was the first step; acknowledging that he did not know best.

He called to his shattered sword, that caller of the winds and the waves, to propel the boat along.

You have served me well. I am sorry that you had so unworthy a wielder as me. I do not wish you to join these others, in this grave. Return to Xi, when this is done. Wait in the armory, for the next hero. Do you understand?

The Shattered Sword was a part of his soul. He knew it would hear.
This message was last edited by the player at 05:01, Tue 30 Nov 2010.

The boat continued at its slow, steady pace. It floated past untold riches, chests filled with gold and marvelous jewels, dueling blades crafted of virginal silver, pistols brought from the moon, rings that could twist and bend time..

It continued to snow, and Max looked a little fearfully to the blazing fires on the snowbanks flanking the river. Skeletal barbarians sat solemnly in the cold..

Below, the waters started to go opaque, then frosted slightly. The boat moved even slower.

"You," said the dead-eyed, black-haired corpse standing on the side of the bank. "What did you do? What did you do to deserve this?"

What did I do to deserve this?

A trick question. He didn't deserve this. He'd earned it. But something nagged at him..

What if he hadn't actually died? What if this was just the next test of the fusion, to see if he could cheat death?

His inner fires flared to life.

How?

He was a Grand Magus. He thought through a hundred rituals, the sixteen schools, searching for anything that could. Necromancy? Nay, he wasn't a corpse. And death magic wouldn't do the trick, no sirree.

Perhaps Time?

The it clicked. Perhaps it was heroic intuition. An aura of age, of history, present, and past, swirled around him, the ticking of clocks and the thump of heartbeats..

He shattered his soul- To resurrect Max, Returned God of Legends and Seasons- an equally dead, alternate version of himself, back alive and into this timestream. It was the most similar he could find.
This message was last edited by the player at 13:56, Thu 02 Dec 2010.

This single act of destruction was as cold as the rivers below him. The skeletal warrior looked on grimly as he saw the destruction of the soul, and then wandered heavily back to his fireplace. Yggdrasil mourned at the loss of its favourite child.

The Ahemait tssked and tutted and shook its head. There were more souls to ferry, but he had thought that the Drowned Grave of Lost Heroes would prove insufficient to doom his charge. Off to the Lake of Apathetic War..

There would be many who remember Max, Hero of Xi, and some will sing his tale. His destruction may have cost the World-Tree its one chance at salvation. The Logos of Order has lost some of its power..

Max was gone.

No one remained.