08-25-2016, 09:51 PM
The Sage’s mind roiled as the Pokémon’s psychic powers pried into his brain. The room faded, whirling away into indistinct colors and sounds. When the Sage’s senses were finally his own again, he stood next to the yellow Pokémon in an immense library. Shelves loomed down at them in the dim lighting, and the aisles stretched on for what seemed entirely too long to be practical.
“Interesting. Is this the natural state of a man’s brain?” the Sage asked as he glanced around him. He barely registered the oddness and novelty of his own mobility, so rapt was he with the surroundings. “It seems odd, that every man is but a library beneath the skin. Are you certain this is normal?” he turned to regard the ancient Pokémon with a perplexed look. The yellow fox-thing had a disturbed look.
IT IS NOT.
The words echoed throughout the entire library, their clamor shaking the shelves and causing the Sage to bend over as the sound engulfed him. The echoes reverberated throughout the aisles, before dwindling away. The Sage got to his feet shakily, looking at the psychic-type. It returned his gaze, then floated away without a word, passing through a shelf, which rippled and bent as he phased through it.
The Sage hesitated, then made to follow. However, he found the shelf to be entirely corporeal to his touch, and he could not discern the method the Pokémon had used. He was alone. Stranded within my own brain. Does that make me even more of a vegetable? He wondered to no one in particular. The concept was so utterly foreign that he could barely wrap his head around it, let alone the fact that it was currently happening.
With no better course of action, The Sage approached a nearby shelf and chose a book at random. It was a relatively thin tome, with a light brown vellum cover unadorned by any writing that would serve to identify the contents. He opened the book and began to read.
His father was pacing back and forth behind his desk, the bright sun piercing the window behind him, shrouding his features and obscuring them from view. Reynold sat in an over-sided chair in front of the desk, blinking though the light to try and read his father’s expression. He knew it would be the same as always: set and emotionless, save for the eyes. Viscount Falstaff had nearly perfected the art of utterly squelching his emotions, letting those he debated know nothing of his emotions or thoughts. But he had never been able to keep his eyes empty, Reynold had seen them enough to know the tells. For him, those eyes showed his contempt as clearly as if he had reared away in disgust.
“It’s not to say that I am disappointed.” His father was saying as he continued to pace.
“No, disappointment would imply that I had hoped for a different result. There was little chance that Master Korek would want to take you as an apprentice, not after your other recent failures.” The square-shouldered man turned placing both hands on his own chair, his face a shadow rimmed with light.
“People are beginning to talk; this is the third rejected apprenticeship we’ve received in the month alone.” He exhaled a sigh, "And those in and of themselves were a hasty cover up for your rejection from the academy.” Reynold sat with head bowed, interrupting would not be a wise idea in this case, it would be best to simply let his father continue. The Viscount had gone back to pacing.
“Simply put we are running out of viable options for you, boy. You’re too old and soft to begin training in the army, and since it seems neither the battle-mages nor the Lords want anything to do with you, we are left in dire straits.” His father whirled suddenly, slamming both hands on the desk and towering over his son.
“I won’t have your failures sully the name of this house, nor will I allow you to ruin everything your brothers are working towards.” Reynold caught a glimpse of his father’s eyes as the man straightened back up and turned to face the window. They shone with passion, but to what end he could not fathom.
“Don’t you understand?” he asked after a pause, back still to Reynold as he looked out the sun-bathed window. “You are slower than them, less skilled than them. The world does not suffer fools to live. You must be smarter than them.” There was a pause as Viscount Falstaff let the words sink in.
“You have no skill in magic, you have admitted such yourself. And you have little skill in combat; what other but a novice could be so easily bested by pirates and pocket-sized creatures? You have only one advantage, your own intellect. Squander it, and you may as well join one of the Six Towers. You are dismissed.”
Reynold stood up and made to leave his father’s study, then paused mid-step, what had his father just said? He turned back, the man was still standing there, gazing out the window, though the sunlight had vanished behind a quickly approaching storm cloud.
“There is one other advantage you have that I forgot to mention.” His Father called out. There was something wrong with the way his words echoed, they seemed too fluid. The Viscount whirled around again, an eerie grin plastered onto his face, “You are technically immortal, now.” Thunder sounded outside and the form of his father melted away into ink, his eyes and smile remaining until the end. Reynold fell backwards into the growing pool of ink, and the world went black.
The Sage sat down hard, his back against wood and firm leather. The book had fallen a short distance away, still open to whatever page he had been on. As he looked the words seemed to be leaking off of the parchment, trailing away into the dimness like midnight blood. The books were memories then? Or versions of them? The Sage got to his feet unsteadily, still trying to understand what he had to assume was his own mind.
Were there multiple memories contained within each tome? How large was this place, really? And what had happened at the end of the memory, it seemed to have been changed by something, but what could that mean? Was the Godling Omni slowly altering his memories, filling his mind with recollections of his world only? He needed answers. One at least he could determine fairly easily. The Sage glanced at the ends of the aisle, they seemed farther away than they had upon his arrival. But I suppose it is a mind’s job to change, else it is dead inside. Without hesitation, the Sage turned and began to climb one of the bookcases.
He reached the top without much difficulty, the years he had spent with the wood elves made this kind of climbing trivial. However, he was absolutely staggered to see just how large the archive was. The rows stretched away into the gloom without any sense of finality. This seemed too large, he doubted he could remember this many of his own memories, yet here they were clearly present. Provided this is in fact your mind, he thought, then watched a light streak down one of the far-away aisles. It was gone in an instant, the glow moving almost too fast for him to track. The Sage turned to try and follow it, and found himself face to face with the Yellow Pokémon.
I AM FINISHED. YOU HAVE NO CONNECTIONS TO TEAM ROCKET.
Again the words blasted through his mind-library, and the Sage listed over to one side as he attempted to regain his center. He was leaning perilously close to the edge of the shelf, and he threw out his hands in an attempt to steady himself. The Psychic-type seemed entirely unconcerned.
OUR BUSINESS HERE IS CONCLUDED.
As the second barrage of thought-sound shattered the archives, the Sage pitched over the edge of the bookcase. His arms spinning through the air in a vain attempt to find some purchase. He stared up at the impassive face of the Fox-Pokémon as it stared down at his falling form, then the world turned whirly again and shapes grew fuzzy and indistinct once more.
“Interesting. Is this the natural state of a man’s brain?” the Sage asked as he glanced around him. He barely registered the oddness and novelty of his own mobility, so rapt was he with the surroundings. “It seems odd, that every man is but a library beneath the skin. Are you certain this is normal?” he turned to regard the ancient Pokémon with a perplexed look. The yellow fox-thing had a disturbed look.
IT IS NOT.
The words echoed throughout the entire library, their clamor shaking the shelves and causing the Sage to bend over as the sound engulfed him. The echoes reverberated throughout the aisles, before dwindling away. The Sage got to his feet shakily, looking at the psychic-type. It returned his gaze, then floated away without a word, passing through a shelf, which rippled and bent as he phased through it.
The Sage hesitated, then made to follow. However, he found the shelf to be entirely corporeal to his touch, and he could not discern the method the Pokémon had used. He was alone. Stranded within my own brain. Does that make me even more of a vegetable? He wondered to no one in particular. The concept was so utterly foreign that he could barely wrap his head around it, let alone the fact that it was currently happening.
With no better course of action, The Sage approached a nearby shelf and chose a book at random. It was a relatively thin tome, with a light brown vellum cover unadorned by any writing that would serve to identify the contents. He opened the book and began to read.
His father was pacing back and forth behind his desk, the bright sun piercing the window behind him, shrouding his features and obscuring them from view. Reynold sat in an over-sided chair in front of the desk, blinking though the light to try and read his father’s expression. He knew it would be the same as always: set and emotionless, save for the eyes. Viscount Falstaff had nearly perfected the art of utterly squelching his emotions, letting those he debated know nothing of his emotions or thoughts. But he had never been able to keep his eyes empty, Reynold had seen them enough to know the tells. For him, those eyes showed his contempt as clearly as if he had reared away in disgust.
“It’s not to say that I am disappointed.” His father was saying as he continued to pace.
“No, disappointment would imply that I had hoped for a different result. There was little chance that Master Korek would want to take you as an apprentice, not after your other recent failures.” The square-shouldered man turned placing both hands on his own chair, his face a shadow rimmed with light.
“People are beginning to talk; this is the third rejected apprenticeship we’ve received in the month alone.” He exhaled a sigh, "And those in and of themselves were a hasty cover up for your rejection from the academy.” Reynold sat with head bowed, interrupting would not be a wise idea in this case, it would be best to simply let his father continue. The Viscount had gone back to pacing.
“Simply put we are running out of viable options for you, boy. You’re too old and soft to begin training in the army, and since it seems neither the battle-mages nor the Lords want anything to do with you, we are left in dire straits.” His father whirled suddenly, slamming both hands on the desk and towering over his son.
“I won’t have your failures sully the name of this house, nor will I allow you to ruin everything your brothers are working towards.” Reynold caught a glimpse of his father’s eyes as the man straightened back up and turned to face the window. They shone with passion, but to what end he could not fathom.
“Don’t you understand?” he asked after a pause, back still to Reynold as he looked out the sun-bathed window. “You are slower than them, less skilled than them. The world does not suffer fools to live. You must be smarter than them.” There was a pause as Viscount Falstaff let the words sink in.
“You have no skill in magic, you have admitted such yourself. And you have little skill in combat; what other but a novice could be so easily bested by pirates and pocket-sized creatures? You have only one advantage, your own intellect. Squander it, and you may as well join one of the Six Towers. You are dismissed.”
Reynold stood up and made to leave his father’s study, then paused mid-step, what had his father just said? He turned back, the man was still standing there, gazing out the window, though the sunlight had vanished behind a quickly approaching storm cloud.
“There is one other advantage you have that I forgot to mention.” His Father called out. There was something wrong with the way his words echoed, they seemed too fluid. The Viscount whirled around again, an eerie grin plastered onto his face, “You are technically immortal, now.” Thunder sounded outside and the form of his father melted away into ink, his eyes and smile remaining until the end. Reynold fell backwards into the growing pool of ink, and the world went black.
The Sage sat down hard, his back against wood and firm leather. The book had fallen a short distance away, still open to whatever page he had been on. As he looked the words seemed to be leaking off of the parchment, trailing away into the dimness like midnight blood. The books were memories then? Or versions of them? The Sage got to his feet unsteadily, still trying to understand what he had to assume was his own mind.
Were there multiple memories contained within each tome? How large was this place, really? And what had happened at the end of the memory, it seemed to have been changed by something, but what could that mean? Was the Godling Omni slowly altering his memories, filling his mind with recollections of his world only? He needed answers. One at least he could determine fairly easily. The Sage glanced at the ends of the aisle, they seemed farther away than they had upon his arrival. But I suppose it is a mind’s job to change, else it is dead inside. Without hesitation, the Sage turned and began to climb one of the bookcases.
He reached the top without much difficulty, the years he had spent with the wood elves made this kind of climbing trivial. However, he was absolutely staggered to see just how large the archive was. The rows stretched away into the gloom without any sense of finality. This seemed too large, he doubted he could remember this many of his own memories, yet here they were clearly present. Provided this is in fact your mind, he thought, then watched a light streak down one of the far-away aisles. It was gone in an instant, the glow moving almost too fast for him to track. The Sage turned to try and follow it, and found himself face to face with the Yellow Pokémon.
I AM FINISHED. YOU HAVE NO CONNECTIONS TO TEAM ROCKET.
Again the words blasted through his mind-library, and the Sage listed over to one side as he attempted to regain his center. He was leaning perilously close to the edge of the shelf, and he threw out his hands in an attempt to steady himself. The Psychic-type seemed entirely unconcerned.
OUR BUSINESS HERE IS CONCLUDED.
As the second barrage of thought-sound shattered the archives, the Sage pitched over the edge of the bookcase. His arms spinning through the air in a vain attempt to find some purchase. He stared up at the impassive face of the Fox-Pokémon as it stared down at his falling form, then the world turned whirly again and shapes grew fuzzy and indistinct once more.
Quote:1,393 words according to MS word.
14,038 words total.
If history is to become legend, it first must be recorded.