Prologue to a thing I haven't named yet

The old temple had stood on the cliff ledge longer than anyone remembered. It was carved straight from the rock itself, a veritable forest of gothic towers depicting demons and creatures that could have only originated from the maddest nightmares.

If the temple had a name, it was lost beyond all apocryphal sources of knowledge, and not even the monks that dwelt within it knew what to call it. It was simply known as the Temple, situated on the cliffs of Thunder where the Uncrossable Waters met the land. Storms from beyond the horizon came here to die, arriving in lightning-filled, rolling clouds of grey, sending down sheets of rain in an unending torrent.

Rivulets of water ran down the grotesque façades of the temple, finding their way into secret drains, feeding some unknown, complex inner pipe system. Inside the monks were dry and the statues wept.

The walls were so thick that the storms were muted, distant things. Only the windows were new as, every few generations, the temple would fall victim to raiders or looters. The monks would be driven out or slaughtered, their treasures plundered and the windows shattered. Those few of the order that survived would spend the rest of their lives rebuilding what was lost, using the old tomes and carvings kept below in hidden vaults. The looters never reached the vaults, not that they would find anything of value if they did.

The Order of the Call is what people named the monks. They were scribes, historians and religious figures. Their numbers were made up the lost and the damned, people whose faith had been shattered, or whose fortunes had been lost, or whose paths were unseen.

There were no accidental travelers to the temple as the road there was treacherous and difficult to find. Those that came here came here with a purpose, and it was always one of two things: joining the Order, or heeding the Call.

The Call is what the Order was all about. It was written in all their texts, carved on all their walls, passed down in all their stories: a call was sent out and a potential would appear, to be tested. If the potential survived, he would be sent back out into the world and restore balance from whatever great evil currently plagued the world.

The monks knew less about the Call than they would have readily admitted, and sometimes an entire generation went by without a single Call. In times of dire need, there would be several Calls and there was only ever one potential that survived, and balance would inevitably be restored, until the next crisis. So it was written on their walls for millenia.

Presently, a cacophony of bells rang from the depths of the temple. Brother Alard looked up from his tomes and listened, and something like excitement stirred within his chest. It was time.

Shortly after, the heavy baronial doors to the study swung open and an out-of-breath monk appeared. "The Call!"

"Yes," smiled Brother Alard, hiding his excitement far better than the new and still-youthful Brother Darien. He closed the large tome. "Have the chambers prepared for the potential. Tell Brothers Errol and Mankien to meet me at the front gates."

Brother Darien nodded twice and disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.

The first Call is always the most exicting, thought Alard, who had lived long enough to see one potential succeed. He was a little surprised that another Call should be made in his lifetime, but then, there was no way to predict the events of the world from which they were cut off.

As he made his way through the halls, the temple came alive around him. Chambers had to be made up for the potential where he would stay during the trials. The trials themselves had to be prepared, tests to challenge his mental, physical and spiritual alacrity and endurance. The trials themselves had been built into the temple itself, chambers with strange inner workings and machinery that was all but unknown to the monks. All they knew was to open the doors; the potential had to walk through.

Tall, somber Brother Errol stood waiting with the plump Brother Mankien. The doors had been opened to the drawbridge outside where a particularly angry storm still raged.

The path here is a trial in itself, thought Brother Alard as he nodded to the other two. Wordlessly, they stepped out into the storm to meet the potential.

Immediately upon stepping out onto the drawbridge, Alard was nearly taken by the wind, gliding momentarily on the slick wood and losing his balance. It was only the presence of the other two who were fast enough to catch him did he maintain his poise and dignity. After a moment of recovery, he walked forward, his robes whipping him in the face and becoming drenched.

The potential stood at the end of the bridge, a dark figure impossible to make out without light. From what Alard could see, the stranger stood tall and erect, unaffected by the wind or storm. An uneasy took him as he remembered potentials of the past: half-dead already, trembling from the cold and rain, on their knees begging for food or mute from exhaustion.

When they reached the figure, Brother Errol lifted his heavy lantern to better illuminate the man. He stood taller than all of them and was dressed in the most immaculate, black armour any of them had ever seen, partially covered by a contrastingly-plain black cloak. His head was uncovered, and his face was unremarkable; chin-length black hair, windblown and soaked, an unshaven jaw with a hard-set mouth, and a piercing stare. He did not take heed of them as they approached, keeping his gaze set on the temple instead.

There was no point in speaking at this point as the winds were too powerful. The Brothers were supposed to take the potential by the hand, or else motion for them to enter if they could stand, but none of them had time to move as the stranger simply stepped past them, ignoring them. The Brothers, somewhat flustered by this, watched him go for a few seconds before hurrying after him.

As soon as he stepped inside, the distant bells stopped. The Brothers had gathered to greet the potential with breads and wine, as was customary, and at present they knelt and welcomed him. He paid them no heed, instead keeping his eyes on the temple.

"Such an elegant design," he said at last, more to himself than anyone else. The Brothers exchanged uncertain glances.

Brother Alard and the two others finally re-appeared at the door. It was here he was supposed to make a speech to explain the trials and things to come, but something was out of place. Somehow the words would not come.

The stranger's gaze finally acknowledged those around him. He stared intently at each of them in turn, searching. Eventually, his gaze came upon Brother Alard and stopped. Alard said nothing and stared back, aware that this was no regular potential.

"I am looking for my brother," said the man.

"We are all Brothers, here," said Brother Errol with his usual rasp, and more than a little annoyance in his tone.

The man smiled faintly at this. "Yes, of course. Let me specify, then. I am looking for my brother."

Brother Alard finally found his voice. "You have been Called by the temple. You here to face the trials that will test your spirit. Perhaps if you survive, you will find your brother."

The man's eyes lingered on Alard for a time before he spoke again. "The temple did not call me."

"It did," replied Alard, his confidence returning to him. This was familiar ground: not all potentials realized they were potentials when they were summoned. "Unseen forces have brought you here, guided your actions to bring you to our doorstep. All will be made clear in time."

The man's smile faded and then he spoke with an air of boredom. "No. I was guided by my own actions. This place is... apparently not what you think it is." He began walking among them, peering very hard at their faces and inspecting them, as if appraising them.

"In times of great peril, heroes are called by this place to be test--"

"The temple does not summon people," he said, presently searching the eyes of Brother Darien. "The temple is a warning system. It attracts people, once it goes off. Whoever happens to be nearby, really. But you're right about the trials, those are meant to be trials." He moved on to another Brother. "When something appears that unbalances things, the careful equilibrium that was establish some time ago, strangers are tested and made to go re-establish the balance."

Brother Alard said nothing as the stranger moved from Brother to Brother, inspecting, prodding, peering. This was all making him quite uncomfortable.

"It was likely a simple mistranslation on your part," he said, occasionally glimpsing back at Alard. "I suppose you came close enough to the truth, or at least however much of it you could possibly understand, with your limited view."

He finally stopped his inspection and looked around.

In the stormy silence, Brother Alard asked: "Who are you?"

The man breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly. Then he met Alard's gaze. "My name is Vol, and I do believe my brother is not here."

He started back out towards the main doors. Brother Darien was caught in confusion. "What about the trials?"

The man named Vol stopped at the threshhold. "Right," he said, as if only now remembering. "I suppose I wouldn't want this place finding anyone with the potential to stop me, unlikely as that would be. Still," he added as a small black cane suddenly materialized in his hand, "I could always send my brother a message."

He pointed the cane at the centre of the hall and a blast of lightning and fire shot forth, shattering the ceiling and sending massive blocks of masonry crashing down. The monks cried out in terror and ran as Vol blasted the hall again and again.

The Quest For Ice

I mentioned in my previous post that Castle Marrach was set in a snowy environment (that game's tagline is, after all, "The Forever Winter"). So it follows that I would want to build the castle in a snowy biome, something which I failed to do the first two times I tried to build it.

When Worlds Collide

There's a project I've been meaning to complete for a while now involving two games: Minecraft and Castle Marrach. Doubtless you're familiar with one of these two and completely mystified as to the other, and if you're a player of CM it probably still applies!

Aphelion

There was so much snow that it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead of you.

He staggered as he trudged through the deep snow, half-running half-stumbling. His coat had been lost and all the exposed flesh had become red from the cold. He knew he had to keep going, not slow down, or he would die. The intensity with which the snow came down would erase his footprints, but the trail of blood he left was a stark, bright red.

This is my problem with the game

They came from different backgrounds but found common ground when they met at the College. Nianth came from an Alderii home, where it was expected she would grow up to join the ranks of other proud noble families, while Tarvin came from a wealthy Breton home. Their friendship was born from the many philosophical disagreements they had with the established rules of the College and how magic itself should be administered.