Tal's Sketchbook/Journal [OLD - No RP! No PK!]

For posting cool fight and RP logs, and about your dead characters!
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Joined: Fri Jan 05, 2018 2:53 am

Tal's Sketchbook/Journal [OLD - No RP! No PK!]

Post by vrmn » Fri Jan 05, 2018 4:42 am

I never finished this in any substantive form, and I suspect the contents would reveal more than should be revealed, but I thought I'd share a few of the less-spoilery bits. For the curious, the remainder is more of the same, including a lot of non-canon extrapolation on things like void ripples and the thirteen realms of the Void, a glossary of terms, and to my great shame, descriptions of the locations of the void symbols in freakin haiku.

"When I'm not making pacts with otherworldly beings, I enjoy exsanguination, haiku, and long walks on the beach."


The Analects of Knowledge

Centered upon the first page of the interior is a fiery inscription, visible
immediately upon opening the leather-bound cover. Scribed in a magnificent
cursive script that recalls the illuminated tomes of Old Earendam, it reads:

To what shall I liken the breath of the world?

Beneath it, scribed with an uncanny precision is the graven image of a fell
rune, the evident detail having a reverential quality. The symbol is an
inverted star of seven points, set against a gently bowed parabola, its alien
geometry forming an unblinking eye. A deep crimson hue, as though scribed in
blood, the blasphemous sigil is streaked darker where the scrivener's quill
paused upon the page, its every sinuous line recalling what has been forgotten.



I write this in the common era, an era of anguish, a time of loss. A thousand
lifetimes have come and passed since the Sundering of this realm; a thousand
lifetimes have stood witness to the tragedy of loss confounding mortal men in
this age, a flickering shadow of what once-was, a trembling memento of what
was forgotten.

Memory's eye is unblinking, and what has been forgotten can be brought to mind
again. In this era, the time of this writing, the guilds of Void are but a
threadbare replica of the grandeur they once mastered. The Thirteen Towers are
broken, and buried by implacable Time; the great libraries are vague memories,
consumed by the passing of the ages.

The burden of recollection is one that must be borne by those who would seek
a knowledge more meaningful than the abstractions proffered as fact in this
age. To achieve a lasting insight, the veils of false understanding must be
discarded or, failing that, burned away. Then, and then only, when the
received ideas and fleeting fancies of an age are eradicated, when the mind is
made free of the shackles that limit it, can the true and actual pursuit of
comprehension begin.

This Compendium is my life's work, the sum of my delvings, my research, and
my travelings. It is a collection of knowledge earned in the course of my
mortal existence, but it, too, is incomplete. Indeed, perfect knowledge is
not the stuff of mortal lives, but of fantasies -- this is but the point of
departure, a source, and an origin. What follows from this is unwritten.

(signed in a precise, elegant cursive)

Tal Mar Ki'yadi
Archmage of the Silver Veil

Thethelsday, The Day of the Dragon's Feast


Not content with mere haiku, Tal was also an artist, apparently. This one was my favorite of the several entries.

Sketched in ink and charcoal, an unsettling image forms upon the page, seemingly
plucked from a hallucination or a fever dream. Light brushstrokes lend an
uncanny detail to what appears to be a cityscape, having little resemblance to
anything of this world.

A jagged phalanx stretches angrily toward a glowing sky, its sprawling form
left unshaded, accentuating the dark, cruel forms of the slender spires that
bristle upwards, sharp lines of charcoal suggesting numbers too vast to count.
A multitude of holes scar their otherwise smooth surfaces, drawn in
painstaking detail with delicate brushstrokes, empty eyes peering at the
infernal landscape that surrounds them. Long bridges, sketched in charcoal,
stretch at sharp angles from one spire to another, lending the scene a
labyrinthine vastness.

At the pike-like spires, a crag of smoldering slag and viscous, burning magma
growls angrily, plumes of smoke sketched in light lines of charcoal. Girding
it and the sprawling city atop it, an oval pit stretches to the corners of the
page, dark, hard lines of charcoal affording it an impenetrable blackness.

In a flowing, cursive script, writ in ink, an inscription reads "Logor".


Just one, semi-spoilery haiku? Pretty please?

Logor's ancient mark
adorns the victor's trophy:
triumph's denial.