#fansus

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The Craftsman’s Tale

Once upon a time, in a land of dark forests and bright fields, there lived a Craftsman. He worked in stone and clay and wood, creating objects valued for their beauty and their use. In time he sought to refine his skills, and travelled down the great river by which he lived. Whenever he passed by a town or a village, he would find his counterparts and learned what he could. But he learned little from them, for he had already mastered their arts. Soon word of his quest spread faster than he could travel, and he was turned away before he could say his name.

"We know who you are!" they would say. "We can't help you, so begone!"

When the Craftsman asked where he should go, he was told that if he went south-west he would find the great mountains. If he braved their winds and their chills, he would find a land of plenty, where the greatest artisans worked and where caravans plied goods from the edge of the world. From there he should go to a city by the sea, nestled on the edge of a mountain that spewed smoke and ash. In that city, the Craftsman would find the master he sought.

So the Craftsman set off. He braved the chill of the mountains, crossed rivers and valleys, until at last he found the city beside the sea, hidden in the shadow of the mountain. In that city he found the Hundred-Handed God, and begged him to take the Craftsman on as an apprentice. The Hundred-Handed scoffed at the ragged mortal who prostrated themselves before him, and bade him to leave until he could present a worthy tribute.

So the Craftsman left, and with what little money he had he bought materials. The Craftsman had never worked in metal before. Now he begged the use of a forge, promising free labour and eternal gratitude. Eventually a smith relented, giving him one week to work - no more and no less. The Craftsman put all his skill and knowledge into it. He did not sleep, and ate little. Finally, at the end of the seven days, he had created a suit or armour that could walk and fight on its own. The Craftsman went once more to the Hundred-Handed God, and presented the armour to him as a sacrifice.

Once again the Hundred-Handed laughed. He mocked the Craftsman's form, now thin from hunger. He mocked his efforts. Then the Craftsman grew angry, and threw the Hundred-Handed's insults back in his face. Who was he to spurn the gift that had been offered? Who was he to act like the petty smiths of tiny villages? The Hundred-Handed God was silent then. As the Craftsman turned to leave, disgusted by the thing that called itself a god, the Hundred-Handed spoke. He begged the Craftsman's forgiveness, offered him a place amongst his servants. The Craftsman smiled and accepted the offer, but he did not forget the insult, and nor he did not forgive it.

[triquizzies]

On Nowhere

Description: A philosophical treatise on the emptiness before Creation. How did I find this? Start Text: "The Formless Void we may compare to a great sea, where all possibilities are true. The Creation is thus the first and greatest deception: making the Lie of Existence a Truth..." End Text: "And the sea is without form, and void; and darkness lies upon the face of the deep. And the Serpent-Divided moves upon the face of the waters. And the Serpent-Divided says, Let all be as this: and all shall be as void."

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Ascent or Descent?

Seven grey figures ascend to the pinnacle, ignoring the rush of wind and the cries of ravens around them. They bear an eighth in their hands, bound by chain and spell and spirit. He wears a crown. Once, he wore a sword.

Their leader is nameless. In ages future he will be called Ink-Thane, Odin, and Serpent; but a week ago he offered up his name to an ancient power of the woods. He has offered up so much to her: his hair, his skin, his memories...

There in the depths of the tower was an altar: dedicated to the golden Lie, to bright Polaris, to the Sister and to the Spider. Wielding white Carnwennan their leader sets his king down on the altar. He kneels and begins to pray to his gods, the blasphemous true gods of the dream-kingdoms.

The first cut is to the tongue and the vocal chords. Silence must precede a contract, and wounds honor both the Spider and the Serpent.

Arthur cries out but can make no sound. His voice is gone. The candles surrounding him burn white, almost clear, like glass or ice or nothing at all.

The second removes the eyes. No mortal can be permitted to look upon the radiance of the Lie.

Six whisper among themselves as they watch. They are shocked, though they knew what was to come.

The third cut is counted as the most difficult, for it must remove every inch of skin from the victim's body. Thus we honor the Great Serpent, the king of the Mansus.

Arthur's skin is torn away and Merlin wraps it around himself. A new skin, a new-

The fourth cut takes Arthur away entirely.

-name. Merlin stares down at the empty altar, his empty hands.

Merlin is blind, he is deaf, he refuses to be denied his prize. But all he can see is a grand splendour. Coiled around the tower is a mighty serpent, its scales reflecting coruscating, blinding-bright rainbows, reflecting the light of the Glory.

Merlin covers his eyes, stained white from prophecy. It serves no purpose. The serpent speaks, and Merlin is gone.

[triquizzies]

An Excerpt From ‘Luck In The Shadows: A History of the First Sheshan Rifles‘ by Leo von Thannhausen

Chapter 1: The Experimental Corps The Experimental Corps, as they were known in those days, were hastily raised in response to the threat that the Great Engine posed to the Court. Before that, the Prime Minister and his Aide had been accompanied by an honour guard of the so-called 'Troubleshooters', something which the Golden Emperor had long mocked the Minister for, as he regarded it unworthy of the Minister's station to be guarded by mere irregulars. As it turned out, without the patronage of the Emperor, the Corps may very well have failed their first test.

Under-equipped and only half-trained, they were pressed into service when the Histories were invaded by the newly born Gods-from-Steel. The Grey Jackets, as they were soon christened, faced a trial by fire unlike any that had been seen before.

...

The Experimental Corps were initially equipped with weaponry gifted to them by the Deep Guard, which while extremely effective proved to be impractical for use by much of the Corps. While the spears and shields that made up the bulk of their weaponry at least gave them strength in unity, the greatbows so often used by the Guard were entirely unusable by the Corps, and were instead converted into primitive artillery. Most preferred the excellent swords made by the craftsmen of the War Heart, often paired with a main gauche or a pistol.

By the fourth year of the conflict, the initial prototypes of the Niat-Ashworth Rifle were sent in for field trials. Designed in a collaborative effort between the Tower and the Heart, the rifles proved to be durable, reliable, and highly effective. One month after field trials ended, the rifles were adopted as the 1st Pattern Rifle, .280 calibre.

[triquizzies]

Nine Tarot Cards

THE EIGHT OF WANDS Alone on the stage, the woman raises the tyrant's head. Before her are the baying crowds, the cheering masses gathered in celebration of death, in celebration of the new. She too is caught up in it all, ivory teeth bared in a ferocious grin. Her hair has been set aflame by the rising sun. Her hands are red with burns, or with blood. Behind her are eight pikes slick with gore, topped with the heads of traitors.

THE KING OF WANDS The throne is empty. Before it sits an aged man, bent forward in thought. He clutches a rod of grey wood, tipped with silver. His chair is of black stone without ornament or decoration. The room is white marble, illuminated by countless candles. On the throne rests a crown of bright gold and blazing rubies. There has not been a king for many years.

THE FOOL: A storm approaches a rocky coastline. The cliffs are bright chalk, and the encroaching sea and threatening sky are as dark as iron. Between them, at the edge, flies the albatross, its wings spread. As lightning strikes, it is hard to say whether it is blown away from the bolts, or soars above them on the fierce winds. THE EMPEROR: He sits on a throne of roughly hewn stone, stained with blood and gore. In front of it is a massive table, covered with food and drink until it, at last, has collapsed. He does not care. The palace around him was once grand, but now it is a ruined husk of a building. He does not notice. His hands and mouth are reddened, and his finery is splattered and stained. The courtiers around the throne eat and drink and pay their obsequious tributes to their lord. He grabs one, and stuffs them into his mouth.

THE LOVERS: The serpent who was a man stands among the gears of a great clock. Under one arm he holds a book, bound in grey leather, its cover embossed with the symbol of a crown. Blood pools at his feet. Before him dance puppets of kings, emperors - rulers of men. He is bound with string as much as they are, but he grips their ends tight - until his fingers are white, and red with his own blood. THE TOWER: The great Clock Tower, the Fortress of Hours, stands in ruins. Its ivory stones are blackened and charred by flames. Around its base swarms a vast mass of people: an immense crowd tearing the tower apart, taking its stones for their houses, and covering what's left in graffiti. Before it, atop the wrecked spire, stands a red-headed woman in a black trench coat. In one hand she wields an executioner's sword, its blade still bloody; and in the other she raises a crowned head to the heavens. THE MOON: Beneath gembright stars and the stark light of the full moon, a huntress crouches over the bodies of her two sisters. Their bodies, once beautiful, are shattered and broken. In her hands she clutches a bow, intricately decorated, and the . Her tunic is of silk, the fringe dyed imperial purple. On her brow is a circlet of gold. She weeps. The grass around her is thickly webbed by spider-silk, and the spiders themselves can be seen here and there, their carapaces gleaming in a myriad of colours. THE SUN: As the sun rises, the very sky is set alight. Though all above burns, the land is rich and fertile, nourished by the ashes; and a city of white marble and burnished steel fills most of the background. Before it, a naked figure constructs their own pyre. They clutch a burning brand in their right hand, and the flames lick at the fingers. THE WORLD: A scarab beetle's corpse lies on bare earth, its shell punctured and its legs broken. The scarab's children scurry away from its body in swarms, pouring from its mortal wounds. Around it coils a millipede, devouring its own tail.

[triquizzies]

A Short Excerpt From ‘The Woven Thread’

"In order to discuss the effect of the Tower upon History and the Mansus, we must first make a small diversion into metaphysics. It is generally accepted by most scholars that the world we see around us is the result of a constant conflict between Glory and Nowhere, Order and Chaos. This pattern can be seen represented in the Hours themselves: the Heir and the Tail, the Anaconda and the Tail, the Dolomedes and the Tail, and, most oddly, in the interactions between the Great Serpent and the Dolomedes. The Tower is thus an element of order and law, meant to impose some degree of consistency on something what would otherwise be the chaotic and imprecise product of the conflict of Hours.

It is obviously not a perfect solution, as any student of the Histories knows." -

 - Leo von Thannhausen, The Woven Thread

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25/10/1917

She sits in her cell and watches me. She was arrested a week ago: two counts of murder, accusations of corruption, tax fraud and treason. She is here, in this room of blinding light, because she has broken laws we do not allow the public to see. She sits there, still as a rock. I can hardly see her breathing. She eats little.

Her name, written on the little placard on the door, is Leona T. Her eyes are the grey of dust and faded ink. Her hair is the brightest colour on her, and it is black.

A week ago I reported directly to her.

Her voice is a whisper.

"You. Come over here."

It is still laden with years of absolute authority. It requires a conscious effort to disobey.

"I can't do that ma'am."

I am required by regulations to be polite. There has not yet been time to strip her of her rank. I turn the page of my newspaper and try not to look at her. When I finally succumb to temptation, the Colonel has returned to her meditations. Outside, the protestors are gunned down as they charge our lines. - "Sergeant Mrachkovsky!"

The General is here. He is a traitor too. I stand and salute. He adjusts my posture, criticises my form. Nothing his troops do is ever good enough for the General. He is old, and hard like iron or oak. I stare straight ahead. He is close enough to touch but still he barks his words, roaring and raging as spittle flies.

Our prisoner clears her throat and the General goes silent. For a moment I think I see fear in his eye. I turn to guard them both, the General and the Colonel, the two traitors.

"Comrade-General. Your excellency."

She finds this amusing for some reason. He looks down at her. His hands shake. He is furious. She rises to her feet and stretches. It reminds me of a cat, reveling in its crimes.

"Colonel! You stand accused of-" " "Yes, yes I know what I've done. I wrote those laws. Get on with it."

He clears his throat. The General never dealt well with interruptions. Now he cannot even have the subject of his ire beaten into submission.

"Death by firing squad. You may command your own execution."

He storms out of the room, leaving me to organise it.  I poke my head out of the room and wave the General's guards inside. They must have heard him and enter without complaint. They have their rifles, I have my pistol. Together we open the cell and bind her hands. There is a commotion outside. It is probably the General being displeased at my show of initiative.

The Colonel stands against the wall. She smiles at me. She finds this all awfully funny.

"Can I have a last cigarette?" "No."

I am angry at her. She has disrespected us, she has killed a man I admired, she-

"Soldiers!"

I have fired my gun only twice outside of training. Both times I felt sick after. Now I am happy to do it.

"Aim for the heart, spare the face! Fire!"

She vanishes in the blinding muzzle-flare of our guns.

[triquizzies]

The Spider

Once, there was a maiden... ... who offered tribute to the ants and the birds. When they brought her small tributes of their own, she placed them where all could see Her sisters asked "Why do you display those trinkets?" "Beauty is what you make of it." she said.