Post by Wyntre Cold on Nov 20, 2017 1:22:55 GMT
The allegory concerned with roses and their thorns tells us of something that is good but also dangerous. This analogy has multiple flaws, like how on many planets a rose is something that menacing things do. Its main flaw comes from the fact that roses are not universally beautiful: rather, in multiple cultures, the rose might be seen to represent consumerism, and the thorns as those things nail polish is applied on. Perhaps a better analogy would be concerned with cactus: it has a spiky outside, but its insides would make a neat wine.
The Sacking of Arcose was a cactus with very little vinous insides. But, alas, Wyntre had found a drop.
The Vetur Archaeological Association, named after Wyntre’s late father, had opened up a dig site in a spot of interest in the Arcosian ice-fields. If that was the extent of it she wouldn’t have been interested, but a little something caught her eye: some markings were excavated pretty early on. Large cubes of stone were found with figures of legend melodramatically sprawled across their spaces. This, too, would not have been enough to warrant her attention, but they found something else, too.
Wyntre held its in her gloved hands…
It looked like what a human might have called a matryoshka or babushka doll. It was an idol of sorts of an idealised version of a male Arcosian’s suppressed form. It opened, revealing a similar yet brute-formed Arcosian. That opened, revealing its monster-form. Even that opened, revealing the true form. But, in that, no longer than a centimetre, was what could only be presumed to be the Royal Form. This was confirmation: they definitely knew about the Royal Form. Maybe the wisdom of the ancients would help her master it.
She put the idol down. ”Thank you, Taliece. It’s illuminating.” Figuratively. ”You said you found some texts I might be interested in. I’ll go take a look at those.”
Certainly, Lady Wyntre. Right this way.”
Taliece was the head of excavations at the site. He was a middle-aged Arcosian with a light turquoise tint, a diminutive stature and noble blood. He seemed to have a habit of readjusting his monocle which was actually a custom scouter he spent a month’s worth of pay on. The last guy to get fired got fired because they made fun of his monocle. Wyntre speculated that the reason the head of excavations was touring her around, as opposed to one of the people whose job it was to do just that, was because he really quite wanted her to fund the excavation. The joke’s on him: she was going to do that anyway.
Taliece lead Wyntre through a series of damp corridors and hallways, more than half of which was natural (read: ice). Eventually, after walking past dozens of diligently working archaeologists, they were where they wanted to go. In their room was a large slab with what appeared to be diagrams on it.
”Now, this doesn’t usually happen so you might want to record me saying it, but I have no idea how to read that.” The ‘diagrams’ were not diagrams at all but a script.
Early on in Arcosian history, many of the segregated kingdoms formed their own languages, alphabets and such. They usually made them unnecessarily complicated, usually for the purposes of boasting how much better their language was than their rivals’. Thankfully, in this case, the script was based on some pretty basic mathematical principles.
”What you are looking at is perhaps the first ever known instance of binary been used as a language. The language here— the staff are still debating what to name it— had thirty-one ‘letters’. Each ‘line’ has five rows, each representing a factor of two. See, this one here,” he went on, referring to the closest line to him, ”has a dot, no dot, no dot, a dot, no dot. In binary, that’d be 10010. That’s…” His age-addled mind tried some quick arithmetic. "9. So, the ninth letter of the alphabet. We know of their alphabet from other sources, but it had no established order. We got a supercomputer to look for coherent sentences and we only found one…”
Ahem.
”This part here is essentially an introduction. That part there, not important. But, this part here…”
””King Pagetonas has worn the skin above all skins. It is his skin now. The others want the skin above all skins, but only Pagetonas has it and only Pagetonas will keep it’.”
That alarmed Taliece. ”Y-you speak the language?” There was another second of thought and Taliece was alarmed even further. ”Y-you… You calculated and translated it in your head?” The very thought was incredulous.
It was incredulous for anything short of a supercomputer, certainly. ”Relax, Lord Taliece. I read its official description. Regardless, I do believe this refers to the Royal Form. Specifically, to its mastering. Is there anything else of the sort?”
Hmph. Right. Of course. ”Yes, actually. Recently uncovered and deeply confusing. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Winding through another path and past a narrow passage was another artefact: a twenty-foot tall state of an authoritatively sitting Arcosian figure clearly in his Royal Form. Pagetonas, presumably. Below it was an inscription, one Wyntre knew read ‘he of power, always’, an awkward phrase even in its inherently awkward language. ”Solemn looking fellow, isn’t he?” For, despite being in what was clearly the Royal Form, he was holding himself remarkably well. Or, at least the sculptor made it seem that way. It was always an important aspect of Arcosian culture, that: if you weren’t in full control of your faculties, you were weak. Perhaps that was also why gaining full control over the transformation was so important to her. ”It’s a quarter-way across the globe, but we do have other records of King Pagetonas’ existence. There was a song written by a rivalling kingdom soon after his death written by a bard lamenting how he never got the opportunity to meet him in battle. He is called such things as ‘King Pagetonas of the Snowy Bed’ and ‘Pagetonas the Self-Buried’. So, perhaps—”
”Got it.” All she needed was confirmation that it was possible and she got that plus more. ”It has been a pleasure, Lord Taliece.” He preferred ‘Doctor Taliece’, but who was he to correct the ex-Empress? He was a lord, sure, but a doctor first. ”I’ve seen all I need to see. It’s good work you’re doing, I’ll be glad to be a fiscal helping hand. Farewell.”
And before Taliece could question this, Wyntre flew directly up, intangibly, through the ice.
Arcose, the Valiance, Wyntre’s Gravity Chamber.
150x gravity. Surrounding her was a simulated Arcose, without a city in sight. She had made sure that she would be without interruption; she had made sure that she would be the only life-form on the simulated planet.
She believed she was close. Entering the form was easy enough: it didn’t make any noise and there was a minimal aura formed at most, allowing for her transformation (and near-doubling in size) to pass nigh-seamlessly.
She sat down on the constantly shifting snow as piercingly striking hail flew around from all sides. Close your eyes. She closed her eyes. Calm your breathing. She didn’t need to breathe, nor did she, but she calmed the breathing she wasn’t doing anyway. Relax. Yes, relax, relax. She lied down on the snow and looked up to the stars above. Her only company, a few pricks of light in the eternal darkness above.
And there she was,
Her eyes closed
And her mind forced open.
She drifted into unconsciousness.
She didn’t know how long she had slept for. However long it was, the gravity had been pulling on her for that amount and longer.
She opened her eyes to an alarming sight: no longer could she see her friends, the stars above. No longer could she see the endless night sky. No longer could she see anything at all but a firm nothingness. Snow.
She had been buried under snow by the ravages of the wind.
She remembered what happened when she returned from death. She remembered how she was beneath six feet of snow. She remembered looking to the side and seeing her own corpse, untouched since the sacking. She didn’t want to admit it, but that stayed with her… her own corpse staring straight into her, reminding her of her failure.
She felt her heartbeat accelerate at the very thought…
She brought it back down.
Calm, calm. Breathe. Keep your eyes closed. Calm.
But a part of her refused to calm. A part of her wanted to destroy the snow and get out of there immediately. She tried to soften these thoughts, to some avail.
She knew what she was here for. She knew what she had to do… the problem was doing it. She needed to make the Royal Form second nature, as comfortable to live in as her true skin. For her friends, she’d do it. For Arcose, she’d do it. For the galaxy, she’d do it…
How long would it take?
However long it needs to.
It took two consecutive days. She did not eat, nor drink, nor open her eyes. During that entire time, the body temperature was as cold as the snow around her. And during that entire time, she maintained the Royal Form.
As soon as she was out, the first thing she got was some wine. She poured herself a glass of wine and recounted her thoughts to a log, enjoying the first colours she had seen in days.
But that wasn’t all…
8,271,444PL.
Much like with what happened with the mastery over her true form, her body no longer had to work to maintain the power now that it came so naturally. This was the true power of the Royal Form…
And, for now, it’d have to do.
150x GC solo!
The Sacking of Arcose was a cactus with very little vinous insides. But, alas, Wyntre had found a drop.
The Vetur Archaeological Association, named after Wyntre’s late father, had opened up a dig site in a spot of interest in the Arcosian ice-fields. If that was the extent of it she wouldn’t have been interested, but a little something caught her eye: some markings were excavated pretty early on. Large cubes of stone were found with figures of legend melodramatically sprawled across their spaces. This, too, would not have been enough to warrant her attention, but they found something else, too.
Wyntre held its in her gloved hands…
It looked like what a human might have called a matryoshka or babushka doll. It was an idol of sorts of an idealised version of a male Arcosian’s suppressed form. It opened, revealing a similar yet brute-formed Arcosian. That opened, revealing its monster-form. Even that opened, revealing the true form. But, in that, no longer than a centimetre, was what could only be presumed to be the Royal Form. This was confirmation: they definitely knew about the Royal Form. Maybe the wisdom of the ancients would help her master it.
She put the idol down. ”Thank you, Taliece. It’s illuminating.” Figuratively. ”You said you found some texts I might be interested in. I’ll go take a look at those.”
Certainly, Lady Wyntre. Right this way.”
Taliece was the head of excavations at the site. He was a middle-aged Arcosian with a light turquoise tint, a diminutive stature and noble blood. He seemed to have a habit of readjusting his monocle which was actually a custom scouter he spent a month’s worth of pay on. The last guy to get fired got fired because they made fun of his monocle. Wyntre speculated that the reason the head of excavations was touring her around, as opposed to one of the people whose job it was to do just that, was because he really quite wanted her to fund the excavation. The joke’s on him: she was going to do that anyway.
Taliece lead Wyntre through a series of damp corridors and hallways, more than half of which was natural (read: ice). Eventually, after walking past dozens of diligently working archaeologists, they were where they wanted to go. In their room was a large slab with what appeared to be diagrams on it.
”Now, this doesn’t usually happen so you might want to record me saying it, but I have no idea how to read that.” The ‘diagrams’ were not diagrams at all but a script.
Early on in Arcosian history, many of the segregated kingdoms formed their own languages, alphabets and such. They usually made them unnecessarily complicated, usually for the purposes of boasting how much better their language was than their rivals’. Thankfully, in this case, the script was based on some pretty basic mathematical principles.
”What you are looking at is perhaps the first ever known instance of binary been used as a language. The language here— the staff are still debating what to name it— had thirty-one ‘letters’. Each ‘line’ has five rows, each representing a factor of two. See, this one here,” he went on, referring to the closest line to him, ”has a dot, no dot, no dot, a dot, no dot. In binary, that’d be 10010. That’s…” His age-addled mind tried some quick arithmetic. "9. So, the ninth letter of the alphabet. We know of their alphabet from other sources, but it had no established order. We got a supercomputer to look for coherent sentences and we only found one…”
Ahem.
”This part here is essentially an introduction. That part there, not important. But, this part here…”
””King Pagetonas has worn the skin above all skins. It is his skin now. The others want the skin above all skins, but only Pagetonas has it and only Pagetonas will keep it’.”
That alarmed Taliece. ”Y-you speak the language?” There was another second of thought and Taliece was alarmed even further. ”Y-you… You calculated and translated it in your head?” The very thought was incredulous.
It was incredulous for anything short of a supercomputer, certainly. ”Relax, Lord Taliece. I read its official description. Regardless, I do believe this refers to the Royal Form. Specifically, to its mastering. Is there anything else of the sort?”
Hmph. Right. Of course. ”Yes, actually. Recently uncovered and deeply confusing. Come on, I’ll show you.”
Winding through another path and past a narrow passage was another artefact: a twenty-foot tall state of an authoritatively sitting Arcosian figure clearly in his Royal Form. Pagetonas, presumably. Below it was an inscription, one Wyntre knew read ‘he of power, always’, an awkward phrase even in its inherently awkward language. ”Solemn looking fellow, isn’t he?” For, despite being in what was clearly the Royal Form, he was holding himself remarkably well. Or, at least the sculptor made it seem that way. It was always an important aspect of Arcosian culture, that: if you weren’t in full control of your faculties, you were weak. Perhaps that was also why gaining full control over the transformation was so important to her. ”It’s a quarter-way across the globe, but we do have other records of King Pagetonas’ existence. There was a song written by a rivalling kingdom soon after his death written by a bard lamenting how he never got the opportunity to meet him in battle. He is called such things as ‘King Pagetonas of the Snowy Bed’ and ‘Pagetonas the Self-Buried’. So, perhaps—”
”Got it.” All she needed was confirmation that it was possible and she got that plus more. ”It has been a pleasure, Lord Taliece.” He preferred ‘Doctor Taliece’, but who was he to correct the ex-Empress? He was a lord, sure, but a doctor first. ”I’ve seen all I need to see. It’s good work you’re doing, I’ll be glad to be a fiscal helping hand. Farewell.”
And before Taliece could question this, Wyntre flew directly up, intangibly, through the ice.
Arcose, the Valiance, Wyntre’s Gravity Chamber.
150x gravity. Surrounding her was a simulated Arcose, without a city in sight. She had made sure that she would be without interruption; she had made sure that she would be the only life-form on the simulated planet.
She believed she was close. Entering the form was easy enough: it didn’t make any noise and there was a minimal aura formed at most, allowing for her transformation (and near-doubling in size) to pass nigh-seamlessly.
She sat down on the constantly shifting snow as piercingly striking hail flew around from all sides. Close your eyes. She closed her eyes. Calm your breathing. She didn’t need to breathe, nor did she, but she calmed the breathing she wasn’t doing anyway. Relax. Yes, relax, relax. She lied down on the snow and looked up to the stars above. Her only company, a few pricks of light in the eternal darkness above.
And there she was,
Her eyes closed
And her mind forced open.
She drifted into unconsciousness.
She didn’t know how long she had slept for. However long it was, the gravity had been pulling on her for that amount and longer.
She opened her eyes to an alarming sight: no longer could she see her friends, the stars above. No longer could she see the endless night sky. No longer could she see anything at all but a firm nothingness. Snow.
She had been buried under snow by the ravages of the wind.
She remembered what happened when she returned from death. She remembered how she was beneath six feet of snow. She remembered looking to the side and seeing her own corpse, untouched since the sacking. She didn’t want to admit it, but that stayed with her… her own corpse staring straight into her, reminding her of her failure.
She felt her heartbeat accelerate at the very thought…
She brought it back down.
Calm, calm. Breathe. Keep your eyes closed. Calm.
But a part of her refused to calm. A part of her wanted to destroy the snow and get out of there immediately. She tried to soften these thoughts, to some avail.
She knew what she was here for. She knew what she had to do… the problem was doing it. She needed to make the Royal Form second nature, as comfortable to live in as her true skin. For her friends, she’d do it. For Arcose, she’d do it. For the galaxy, she’d do it…
How long would it take?
However long it needs to.
It took two consecutive days. She did not eat, nor drink, nor open her eyes. During that entire time, the body temperature was as cold as the snow around her. And during that entire time, she maintained the Royal Form.
As soon as she was out, the first thing she got was some wine. She poured herself a glass of wine and recounted her thoughts to a log, enjoying the first colours she had seen in days.
But that wasn’t all…
8,271,444PL.
Much like with what happened with the mastery over her true form, her body no longer had to work to maintain the power now that it came so naturally. This was the true power of the Royal Form…
And, for now, it’d have to do.
150x GC solo!