The Journal of Theradur of the Moon and Shooting Stars

[Aethereal]

The King is dead. The King is dead.

Long live the...

It matters not. The world did not end when the King died. Did he even die? Who said he died? He who all myths and legends spoke of as the great saviour, who cast down the lawlessness of ages beyond comprehension with a sense of order, of structure, and, eventually, the Rings.

But what were those Rings? And were they even crucial to keeping at bay the black tide? The machinations of men, and perhaps above all, that singular "man?" Though by all accounts, he was more than mortal man - nonetheless, his work, that contraption of profane design, or as they might have called it 'dark design,' has played a great role in bringing about this new age.

An age is an age though. It is not timeless. Though few will understand, for few have the capacity to, and fewer still the wherewithal to see beyond their base needs and wants. They say that timekeeping was forbidden in the last age, but it was never truly so. For most it simply lost meaning, and not all beings count time in the same way. So many of my brothers and sisters decided to exit this timeline entirely after all, and others sought to become ageless in their own way. Ageless, yes - ageless. Without age.

But I have chosen another path. Sometimes I am left to wonder, what path it is exactly. Seeing the black tides' thirst pour forth, grasping and clawing, then that great flicker of light from the centre sprung forth - fulfilling its destiny - but granting no salvation. No salvation. Only ASH. How long have I wondered amidst ash and ruin and an absence that is beyond life or death. An unspeakable absence, an emptiness, and yet ash and ruin. The Wastes.

Have I regretted not joining my brothers and sisters, or even those who chose to /change?/ I do not know. I think an anomaly of my own existence has been to never know regret. Even now, I regret nothing. As the locals would have it, I live and drink. How quaint, yet as much as it is so, it is amusing and uplifting - I quite like it. Live and Drink.

The truth is, it is not about regret, it is not about life, it is not about the King or this world. It is about the journey. So here I am, from ash and dust to ash and sand. Here I am, in the only place I can be, for now, at Ephia's Well. And I have come here, ever under the guidance of Her light. The Light of the Moon.

[Aethereal]

They refer to Her, in this place, as the Celestial Disc. Such a bold assumption it is. Nevertheless, I shall adopt this nomenclature when conversing with the locals, if for no greater reason than to display cultural awareness and so to ease conversation. It is also not a suggestion I take issue with, for Her power and place is understood by the inhabitants of the sands.

There are other suggestions being made, however. The ashfolk seem to encourage all to take up their faith, presenting it as if their religion, their creed, is that of all others too. It is a subtle form of indoctrination, for it is welcoming, 'she is our mother, and the Mother of the story.' So spoke the Inquisitor Zalhanna Al-Fayyid, of B'aara, at her sermon before the latest wave of refugees - I amongst them - who've come to Ephia's Well. Her words were gentle, naming herself 'mother' of the temple and referring to us all as 'beloved children of the Mother,' yet she called to us not only to issue wisdom and blessing, but so too a warning. She spoke then of Pra'raj, naming him the Adversary, beseeching us to defy him, for he is corruption, a seductive promise, a false radiance, one that sees life as imperfection - a blight upon what once was a perfect, shapeless, empty desert.

Curious words, and how well the priestess seemed to know the 'Enemy.' Too well, I think, and that can mean only one thing. Propaganda. She is either not telling us the whole truth, or she and her church have lost control and influence over that of Pra'raj and so begun a holy war. Her title is not lost on me either. There is a holy war in this realm, and I can sense clearly the themes of darkness against light, an eternal struggle, and one that has been played out time and time again since the birth of all that is - all that ever was or will be - in the churning mass of unknowable origin. The origin of all things. In such a way, I do not find it impossible to name this cycle, this concept of origin, the Wheel. And now you see the insidious nature of the ashfolken myth, their ideology, it has a way of being universal.

And these ashfolk, they are a curious, and highly privileged race. Here in what was once amongst the deepest Rings, marked just about the half-way point between King and the 100th Ring of the newly awoken of the last age. They are a species who have excelled at inclusion, have benefited entirely by making others do their bidding, speaking to an ancient oath that demands their personal passivism. An oath borne of a history unspoken, yet words need not be said to understand a dark past, a stain that now manifests so deeply on a shared racial history that all must abide this stricture. Surely some crime has been commit in these sands in a distant past leading to such privilege that larger, more physically adept beings would bend to their whim. Influence and power was forged by a warlike, savage origin... hard to imagine when we look upon them now, but I see their ancient faces reflected upon Her visage. A genetic memory that cannot escape my Sight.

It is an amusing thing to consider... in the land of giants, we find only the opposite. The Wheel turned for the elder beings, did the little ones help them along? Just a little kick from atop a mountain, it might just hit the back of a giant's head - just the bit of imbalance necessary to topple a massive crown. But, it is only amusement and shall suit times of leisure. In the present, I see so much more. Baz'eel takes nominal ownership of Ephia's Well, but the Cinquefoil Rose - those who defied the Count and in a time of greatest need appropriated his contraption to, in their own way, secure our exit from that which came - were promised it as their own prize. Yet a greater question was why or how the waters of the Well plunged forth at the culmination of the battle to secure it. Some unseen mechanism, some ritual completion, some uncertain thing triggered the flush of water, that by all accounts had dried up. It had dried up under that Bandit-Queen... whatever her name was. Though I have last seen graffiti suggesting that she still IS.

One thing I do know, however, is that Ephia was a creature or construct of Formorian origin. That the power she wielded was the same power of the King. That her cup or chalice (does it even matter what we call it?) may have wrought devastation as much as it poured forth life-giving water. But perhaps devastation is change, for so it was for us, of the past age, and the age before, and the age before that. Each a turn of the Wheel. So be it.

[Aethereal]

Pra'raj, it seems is a thing associated with the sun. So I learn, through encounter - not of the pleasant kind. At least one key tenant of this faith is that, 'all shall be delivered unto he who is resolute.' There is a certain fanaticism to this faith, I detect. An ease with which it might become extremist - and perhaps so it has found its place in this realm outside of all orthodoxy, shunned.

Further examination of the faith and customs of Baz'eel reveals that the Sultan shares power with the clergy. That he himself may be advised by and possibly even require at times the input of the Wheel faiths in matters of governance. Though by all accounts the church and state are still separate, there is a certain interwoven characteristic to their relationship.

Yet, there is another power. One that is not so pertinent to Baz'eel and the protection afforded to it by its geomancers but one responsible for a matter of life and death for all outside of such fortified aegis. This power stems through a combination of science, art, and astronomy. It is the power that manifests the Shade, and at its head is an exile of Baz'eel, a philosopher known as Q'tolip. Whilst I cannot say very much about the man behind the name, I can see that there is an admiration of it borne upon of the visage of every one of his students. It comes across to me as cult-like devotion, and that itself is a trapping of those who might dedicate themselves to knowledge and wisdom - to worship the pursuit and any icons generated by it.

Worship is a strange word to me. The ages have shown me that through all fluctuations there is one constant, and it is not a deity, and it is not a King, it is something that is forgotten, yet something we are always a part off. So very much else is an illusion, but that is by design - and at the end of the day, it takes one to know one.

Still, I look upon Her for guidance and strength. Her distance bespeaks her glory, and the heights to which we must aspire - but that is a long journey. For now, one must gaze, appreciate, and behold. The pale blue light that drew me here, that sustained me in the desert, is the very same that shall reveal all, in time. I am done with the wandering, I will settle here for a time, but I know that Ephia's Well is doomed. And under such certainty shall all my steps be taken.

[Aethereal]

What of the people of Ephia's Well? Barely a decade has passed since they inherited the Well from the Orentid -- whatever kind of desert-bandit, dark power brooking collective they were -- to establishing a settlement with its own culture and mores. Forged from a union between survivors of calamity, heroes and remnants from the siege, as well as the bureaucrats, overseers, and janissaries representing the interests of Baz'eel. And what exactly is it, how does one describe this state of affairs? It seems to be a meritocratic local democracy owing its greater allegiance to the theocratic monarchical state unto which it is both nominally and effectively bound. But this relationship allows for a de facto autocracy within Euphia's Well itself, as administered by the Legates and the system in place to elect and facilitate their rule, so long as it does not contravene the interests of the Sultanate or its advisors of the Wheel clergy.

So it is effectively an ashfolk owned settlement designed to produce revenue, water, and various other resources for the prosperity of their motherland -- which is inherently a place the folk of the Well are at least presently excluded from. It seems to me that the Baz'eeli are simply benefiting from the fact they were on the other side of the mountain prior to the Ringfall and so have inherited all the world that exists between them and the Wastes. But it is not something they have done through being idle, no, they have pursued it with great intent and as per the Purple guild's -- one of the political leagues of the Well -- manifesto they intend to tame and secure all the other settlements surrounding their little city of gold, once called the city-in-the-City. It is impressive, and that much can be said without even further deconstructing the specifics!

I for one do not forget that there is a greater world beyond the deserts, that there is a sea beyond the deserts, that there must be land beyond it still, that there was once and remains a centre, and it was not Baz'eel. It could be glimpsed from Silverspike before it was destroyed, and though its light has now gone out, there is more to the world than this 'Great Ash Desert' and the Wastes. But those secrets are held beyond the great runic barricade surrounding the ashfolks' little kingdom. Those secrets, I am certain, are now the domain of that order of the brown-robed brotherhood, who now may be bereft of an easy excuse for their existence, no longer able to claim, 'we are but the humble janitors and cleaners who tend to the Rings.' Because there are no longer any Rings, but that does not mean the entire infrastructure, the hidden tunnels, the keys, the portals, the doors, and yes, even a 'runic gate' and all their knowledge and understanding has simply disappeared. They have only been forced underground. Perhaps, even, literally.

It is not of any present consequence, however. The reality before us remains to the perspective of most, quite dire, and why should it not be? They are worried the world is going to end. As if it has not happened a thousand times before. And then their little minds stop worrying as they settle into a new life, and they start surviving, and living -- then they forget, as they 'live and drink,' until it happens all over again. Back to them then. What of them?

[Aethereal]

What of them, indeed.

Before getting to politics, I shall recount more personal experiences. A testament to those whom I've seen enter this settlement alongside me. The first thing to note is the sheer lust they have for more, more gold, more clout, more recognition, more meaning to their otherwise meaningless existence. They set an ungodly pace at 'bettering' themselves by toiling in the deserts, peddling their wares, and after they've settled on that sum of five thousand dinari, purchasing for themselves a Voice, and suddenly behaving like they know everything there is to know about this settlement as little lords and ladies who are the salvation of all others, or simply, to push for exclusivity in their newfound station be it by petitioning an increase to fees they've already paid or other misdeeds. As if for their swift pace this is their just dessert, simply because they dedicated all their waking hours to it. And yet at every venture I see that those who have reached heights so swiftly have done so through some means of exploitation or another -- be it of natural resources, their fellows, or in one particularly privileged case: the very institutions of this place.

This case was that of one Shane Gallows. A man somehow given the unique and sole privilege of being made a Scribe of the Sublime Garden, one who came to this settlement no sooner than a mere hour or so than I, a man who was in fact, newly Awoken. A tabula rasa, yet one filled with the intention to write. Many a license scrivened, many a coin made, and all at a rate that none could argue, for none were the wiser. It was a monopoly -- contested only by the Scribe Maddicus who held firm to his Archaelogical licenses at a set fee, one significantly lower than asked by this colleague of his -- and the rates were extortion, but dinari was easy to make it seems, for those who need not rest. For the price was always paid, and it was in fact just the day before it all came to a trial that I had learned the of the exploitation taking place. As I saw the price list, having purchased an archaeological license from Maddicus, the great discrepancy -- double the figure I paid! Yet I had made the decision that I too would try my hand at merchanting, because it seemed to be the way of the desert. So I collected my trading license and was named, state-certified merchant Theradur. But for two hundred golden coins.

Then it went to court. What a venture it was. The truth revealed, the exploitation laid bare. But it seems, above else, was the folly of not having paid a single profit into the coffers of the Pyramid itself. Perhaps indeed, this was the singular folly by the lay of these lands. Because the trial itself revealed that a life could be purchased, for the correct price. A tithe paid to the legate for her faith's church, or a bribe to any other would grant a life, but no greater leniency. Exile was the verdict, exile and disgrace. A clean slate stained with blackest ink. A man who thought himself so clever, proved as flawed as any other. But there were words spoken when all else was said and done in the Chamber of Jurisprudence that day, words I recall distinctly, "And I wonder, Hayes, how many in this very hall wear a second face more sinister - and will someday betray a character less redeemable." I do not wonder the same, Arterian Lunesco. Because I know it is only a matter of time before they all do.

So I took my time, perhaps too much time, analysing and investigating items and objects imbued with Aspects beneath the gaze of the stars and the great moon above. And in my inquiries I think I came far too late to the table of mercantilism, as the secrets of the heavens are no longer obscured to most, the value once held in these objects diminished. Yet I hold onto these articles and I open my shoppe. Perhaps for no greater reason than to further witness the truths instilled in that which is brought to market for trade. I have never before taken the role of merchant in my life and I shall say it is less engaging than simply watching others trade. Looking at them come to my stall, peruse in silence, and depart the same, I think it a waste of my time. It is not simply that I lack objects of interest, it is the sheer banality of it. Like watching cows in a paddock chew upon cud. But it is something else entirely to watch one who might be gifted and passionate about trade, and so I have learned trading is not for me. Perhaps I shall continue my 'Investigations into Aspectral Power and other Curiosities' a little longer, for whatever lessons might be learned from it. Though I know for certain that I am at the point of diminished returns.

[Aethereal]

Well, I have done it. I have joined the Scribes of the Sublime Garden. If you ask me why I would tell you that it is like all that I do, a means to an end. If you asked me for how long I intend to stay in the role, I would dare not answer the question because you would most likely not understand. And who even are you to make such inquiries of me? Now that is perhaps the greatest question of them all. The answer to which must remain a mystery.

The first day in this new role has seen to a license served, gratuity voluntarily given, and a most pleased new license holder. This was followed by gaining access to records suggesting I undercharged for the license. Yet these very records, of a meeting between scribes coming together to set a uniform pricing for all licenses is a curious one. On the one hand it means that the price you receive will be the exact same no matter who serves it. But on the other, it removes individuality in the service of such things. It makes all become as cogs in the machine, rather than one who might offer a lower rate, or merely seek optional donation for the service. It seems as if the new lines of thought from survivors of the last apocalypse is contending with established norms of the locality. The thing is, in my experience, the original norms of a locality are similarly to entropy, an ever-encroaching influence unlikely to be shirked by the ephemeral machinations of man.

Now, some days into the role, I am starting to learn what I came here to learn. More about how things work. An insight into the workings of assembly, the power of bribes, and the vested interests of the various institutions, political guilds, and even individuals. The end result is: nothing beats a well-placed bribe. This is the story of how licensing was outsourced from the Sublime Garden to other organisations -- simply because one Voiced individual was bribed and presented a case before Assembly, which the Legates who were probably also receiving a cut passed into legislation. Or whatever it is that passes for legislation here.

In the aforementioned scenario, doling out Divination licenses is no longer the jurisdiction of the Sublime Garden. It is now the directive of the Astronomers of Q'tolip. To me this is an amusing thing -- providing licenses whilst some small income for the licenser is busywork, a waste of time similar to merchanting. However, on a larger scale, and depending on the mechanics of operation, it may mean that funding previously due for the coffers of the Sublime Garden now enters the stream of the Astronomers Guild. The real impact here seems to be a minor, yet significant power restructure where an exile of Baz'eel and his 'rogue' operation garner the income otherwise due to the Sultan and state. I imagine this would be in opposition to Purple guild ideology and in favour of -- well, the Blue guild (they wear blue, they are a distinct institution, and they have their own interests and influence on the Well, political and otherwise).

Some of my colleagues are concerned by this, they see it as an attempt to dismantle the Sublime Garden. But in truth, it is not that, it is just perhaps they fear the loss of a source of revenue. I see this to be a case for most, a vested desire in income and coin. It's also why they came together and in unison agreed to a price hike for licenses across the board. The Gallows rate I paid for my trading license is now the established rate. The other licenses have not been raised so steep as that of Gallows but now match the base rate of Maddicus's pricing for the Archaeology license. To me, all of this is a curiosity -- my interests here are specifically to learn how things work. Observe and understand. Then eventually my true work can begin.

I do wonder though what sort of power one who is not motivated by the same things that most are motivated by may possess in this realm. I sense it to be a unique opportunity. I am sure, however, that the Sublime Garden has a purpose far beyond licensing, it is not something those motivated by coin alone could understand. It is about enabling others to express themselves, to grease the wheels of governance so that they remain in motion, to enact the edicts of the realm and its peoples. To see to their needs and in turn be sustained. This would be a harmonious vision. But in the end, it cannot be the one to which I pledge forevermore. There is so much more to do, and now that I have gleefully held the final sale of my 'Investigations into Aspectral Power and other Curiosities', removing the great and literal burden of my stock, I feel free. Free to move, and perhaps slip out into the desert again, as much as I hate to leave this comfort...

[hide=The Closing Down Sale of Theradur's Investigations into Aspectral Power and other Curiosities. THE MERCHANTING LIFE IS NOT FOR ME, THANK YOU TO ALL MY CUSTOMERS PAST AND... PRESENT.][/hide]

I also come to realise that the Vocabulary project shares more than a single trait with Codwick's Almanac, yet it also demonstrates something Codwick's does not: dynamism and presence. I did not intentionally replicate the alphabetic arrangement, it simply happens to be the best approach to creating an actual directory of words, phrases, and names and to present a glossary, as in time each letter will require its own page. I do not believe these two works are in competition, but the figure of Codwick is one that agitates some curiosity in me now. I have cause to believe that he may not be one single person across time and space. That he may instead be multiple individuals seeking cohesion in their work. Either that or he is a present or ex-Doorkeeper. Regardless, perhaps through my work I shall meet 'them' one day.

[Aethereal]

The poetry is not lost on me. We serve within a Sublime Garden, and we don the black and gold stripe of the honey bee. We are the pollinators of this garden,  and our works bear the fruits of all that it will ever yield, our works inspire the flowers to be so beauteous to draw our attention that we might do what we always do - produce the last drops of honey left in this dying realm.

The nectar shall be supped for long as is necessary - witness shall be had over this world, but I shall not give in to an illusion as much as I shall cultivate it for my own joy. The contingencies shall need attending, further insights must be sought, and always they shall be, alongside the drawing of sustenance from this doomed little Well.

But I shall make note of this: too often the short-sighted miscreant comes to the Garden. Too often she does not understand her place. Too often she seeks to destroy all poetry for the banal and utterly mundane busywork that so gives her purpose in this world. It is outright pathetic. Two now have come and gone of this ilk. So many will yet not understand - no, no. It is Sublime for a reason.

Sublime like the sweetest of honey produced from naught. Like the foundations of this world, isn't it?