Behold My Own Setting - Blog Posts
Upon a lonely road was a messenger from The Court, sent to parlay with a number of Decay-aligned knightly orders. Their actions would be of great consequence in the days to follow. Hundreds or even thousands of lives were banking on their ability to reach the camp within the night. However, their horse had…
{This is rather dull, is it not? Whether or not they make it, there will be a great deal of slaughter. This doesn’t matter a bit. Without consequences and results, how are things meant to be fun?}
[I agree with your sentiment, but for different reasons. They merely serve others. They should try to do something for themselves. I of all people know that fate is far from certain, so why would they not choose to forge their own?]
{I believe this is our first time talking. It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m The Princess.}
[...]
{And your name is?}
[I am called The Sacrifice. It fits well enough.]
{...}
[We are opposing forces, are we not? I have taken humanity and made it all I am. I have no body or mind and yet I remain human.]
{And I have rejected humanity. However, we are rather similar. We both chose to reject the Laws of this place, and decided to make ones of our own.}
[We do indeed share that, Miss Princess.]
{So, why are we both here, and what are we to discuss?}
[I am not quite sure. When I stood in front of the Mainspring and burnt away, I chose to exist. I did not, though, choose where and when I exist.]
{Excuse me if it is rude to ask, but are you dead?}
[I exist. I chose to. Therefore I do.]
{I expected such a cryptic answer.}
[Oh, but it is the truth. So, why are you here?]
{I thought these events would be entertaining, and it turns out they have been, though not for the reasons I expected.}
[I hate to interrupt, but I can feel myself drifting away. Far too many things call to me, and I cannot hope to answer them all. I must depart.]
{Well, it’s been lovely to meet you. I’ll head off too. I no longer care for that messenger or their horse or their meeting. As far as I am concerned, that story ends here.}
They had lived their life rather interestingly. Other people took the Laws of this world for granted. Those people saw no interest in making a change, they simply existed, making no impact on the world around them. They hated that.
They looked at the beliefs of the people, and they saw so many holes and flaws and problems.
They did not endeavour to fix these things. They took advantage of them, and made a good living. They turned lead into gold, water into wine, death into life.
It was the last, they reflect, that caused this to occur.
Their body shifts and twist beneath them. They broke the Laws, and now they face the consequences. They remember how this is meant to go. They will die, or they will be found innocent and emptied out, left to wander the world as a hollow shell of themselves.
A single word rings out in their mind.
‘No.’
Things are wrong. Things are broken and denied and unfulfilled. They continue to twist and shift. It hurts now, the fire of agony racing through their mind. This is unnatural, and it should not be.
Yet, in defiance of the Laws, it is.
They are torn apart and put back together. Claws and chitin and shell and bone and meat are grown and crushed, their flesh buckling and shaping in the same way as clay is worked by a potter.
They lose their mind halfway through this. All that is left is bestial aggression and animal instincts and emotion. They are so full of sadness and anger and regret and they do not know why.
They know only one thing - they have been found guilty.
Voices permeate the trees around them. They think as best they can.
These people are not guilty and yet they are.
This is unfair. They grow angrier and angrier.
They decide.
Claws extended, flesh warping, eyes wide, and mouth agape, they lurch towards the voices.
She loved The Factory. It certainly helped that she knew little else. Every day, she rose and set about her work. She assembled weapons and machines and more. She did her part, taking care of the children being raised in their little outpost. She ate and drank and worked and did very nearly nothing else.
But in this case, ‘nothing else’ is far from inconsequential.
She told the children about the stories that had been passed down from her parents. She dreamt about those stories. These stories had endured from a time where, quite unthinkably to her, The Factory had not yet expanded to assimilate their home. They talked about dragons and fools and vagabonds and knights and - her favorite - princesses. They held messages of defiance, of truth, of nobility.
She took these stories, and held them close to get through the day.
As time went on, she grew tired. These stories seemed to become more and more distant. She made things for people to use to kill each other in faraway lands. There was no meaning to her existence, no message, nothing coming to save her.
She became dull.
{And there is nothing I detest more than dullness.}
But she was rewarded. It seems as though fate {Nobility.} had taken a shine to her.
An accident happened.
Something went horribly wrong. Maybe some munitions assembly went wrong. Maybe a load-bearing beam had been built cheaply or incorrectly. The method doesn’t matter, only the results.
For the first time in her life, she steps outside.
The stories come rushing back to her. She breathes fresh air and stares at a clear sky.
She sees trees, and plants, and animals. She is entranced, and she steps into the forest.
In the stories, how often does an errant heroine wander through the woods?
Well, not too often. Usually they are relegated to the role of witless maidens to be saved.
This story is different, for it has truth to it.
She wanders, and time loses all meaning.
Roots and leaves and branches all blur into one. She could have been in there for seconds or centuries.
She steps out of the forest.
In front of her is a castle, looking as though it had been carefully copied from the ones in her dreams. Spires and towers and moats and crenellations and yet more features fill her vision.
She steps into the castle. {And I am waiting for her.}
She greets the person within in the manner she remembers from the old tales.
{I look within her, and I see her as she ought to be. She is full of lovely tales, and I am in need of some entertainment. It seems our goals align, though she is unaware of what she actually wants. I suppose I must give it to her.}
The Princess on her throne smiles at her, and opens her mouth.
She offers her a place in her domain, where she will never have to worry about dullness and boredom. Where she would never need to abandon her stories.
She accepts, of course.
{So I took her and made her suited to her purpose. It has led to such fun results.}
And she lived happily ever after.
The End.
He left his village a long time ago.
He did it for simple reasons. He wished to serve his Lords. He wished to keep his village safe from all manner of threats that lurk in this world. He wished for a full stomach and a fuller purse.
They accepted him into their service, and decided to have him as a Man-At-Arms.
He thanked them for their understanding and care, when they have no such things.
They took his legs, and replaced them with segmented metal things, which would allow him to run and jump further and faster. They took his eyes, which insisted on blinking and flinching, and made it so that he would miss no shots through fault of his own. They took his arms, and gave him new ones, covered in blades and places to mount weapons and ammunition.
They sent him out among countless others.
…
It is much, much later.
He marches alongside his comrades. He marches alongside towering Implements, which fill him with a sense of dread and unease, despite the fact that they are on the same side. He marches towards his enemy.
Corrosion awaits.
The ground is stained a dirty orange. Leaves drop from the trees and hit the ground in a cacophony of falling rust. He sees things that were once people, now twisted into metal shapes. It smells of rot.
Alongside his comrades, he readies his weapons.
They burn it all down.
…
It is a bit later.
The area has been cleaned and secured. They continue marching.
The place into which they march is Corrosion no longer. This is the domain of Decay.
Half-dead and never-living things surround them and charge forwards.
Gunfire rakes through the air. Gouts of flame burst forth from some of the Implements. Others open fire with immense cannon. Some sweep through the enemy with oversized blades and crushing instruments. He joins his comrades. He fires upon the enemy.
The march continues.
Comrade and foe alike fall.
Implements stagger and are dragged down by the sheer weight of the enemy.
His ammunition runs dry. His comrades suffer the same fate.
The march continues.
Now they fight with blades alone. The march has slowed. Death is omnipresent, watching over both sides and exacting a heavy toll.
His comrades drop, one by one.
The march continues.
He marches alone.
The march continues.
He marches right out of the other end of the Decay.
…
‘... and for your services to The Court, you are to be rewarded with a place among our number, safe from the Corrosion and Decay that spoiled so many of your fine compatriots.’
He is knighted.
They take his lungs. They take his spine. They take his brain. They take his mind.
He thinks of his village, and how long it has been.
He does not understand.
But, he supposes, he does not have to. He is one of The Court now, and the actions of mere humans are far below him. He does not care any more.
His new brain and heart tick away steadily, and he rises.