Elysian Kalon
Clumsy Little Potato
It all started with that notebook. That stupid, beautiful notebook. Bound in the softest, most supple black leather, with perfectly lined creamy pages, it's called my name from across the busy marketplace of Arcanum. That was my first mistake. I was an author, I should've known better than to trust a notebook that felt like it was whispering sweet nothings straight into my head. I'd like to say I walked away, head held high, proud for having fought off the magic of the notebook. Alas, I cannot. My second mistake came in trusting it after I fought the crowd to reach it. It seemed to emit an ethereal glow. I loved it. I snatched it off the shelf and thumbed the pages in a fan, enjoying the crisp smell of a new notebook. Except, it wasn't the crisp smell of a brand new notebook. It was the musty scent of an old tome, despite the fact that it didn't look like it had seen a single day in the sun. There was no tag or ticket tucked within to mark the price so I made my way to the market-boy to ask the price. I was sure it was going to be out of the range of my piddly little savings, but as soon as the boy clapped eyes on it, his bored expression changed into that of fear. He quickly assured me that he had never seen the notebook a day in his life and told me to take it.
As I went to flip the boy a silver, I saw a strange figure out of the corner of my eye. Dismissing it I flipped the boy his silver and walked away, focused on the prospect of what I was going to do with the beautiful notebook in my hand and deciphering why the boy had looked so afraid. As I turned in the direction of the edge of the market, prepared to fight my way back, I noticed a strange little anomaly. The crowd seemed to be making a thin little path pointing straight to me and leading off to some unknown destination. Warily, I followed it.
The crowd shifted and eddied around me, seemingly unaware of the path they were creating, and falling in behind me as I passed. All the while I notice two strange figures out of the corners of my eyes, always dancing beyond my sight. They stuck out like sore thumbs, but I couldn't peg exactly why as every time I turned to look at them, they weren't there. I'd turn back to the path and catch them again, but they always slipped away before I got a proper look. I saw them again, and as I turned to follow them, a woman jostled me, nearly knocking my precious notebook from my hands. I turned to demand an apology, but instead of her, I found myself face-to-face with an unexpected sight. In place of the beautiful woman who had bumped me, there stood a pale, pale man in an expensive cut black suit. I had seen the man, another day, in another market. He had made what appeared to be a rather threatening gesture towards me, so I walked away. His deep black suit seemed to leech the light and life out the air around him and it contrasted quite sharply against his pale, corpse-like skin. No one in the crowd around me seems to notice his existence, in fact, I could have sworn I watched a man walk through him then fall the ground coughing and groaning as if in massive pain.
I approached him cautiously and asked him why he had made a threatening gesture towards me at our last encounter.
'I didn't,' he responded. 'It twas merely the start of surprise as I knew I had an appointment with you in Arcanum.'
I stared at him, sure my disbelief was showing on my face. 'Sir, I am but an unknown author,' which was not strictly true, but I was writing under a pseudonym, so no one could possibly recognise me. 'I'm not sure who you think I am, but I assure you, I am of no consequence to you.'
'You need to--'
'He doesn't need to do anything, and you know it. You know the rules.' The pretty blonde woman that bumped me earlier materialised next to me. Her short red dress and vibrant life contrasted sharply against him. 'You know the rules of the game, Lanmò.'
'Jimmaġina, you have no right to intercede.'
'The hell I don't,' she spat. 'You know the rules just as well as I do Lanmò. Back off.' The woman turned to me, flashing a dazzling smile. 'Hello,'she said brightly. 'My name is Gemma! That depressing fellow over there,'she casually flips off Lanmò or whatever his name was, 'his name is Lanmò. You can just ignore him.'
'I think Imma elect to ignore both of you nutballs and walk away.'I started to back away then turned and ran, heedless of the shouts of the crowd from around me. I reached the edge of the crowd and called for a cabbie. One pulled up almost immediately and I jumped in, paying no attention to the driver. I should have looked. 'Take me to the Wallsworth Hotel,' I demanded, adding a 'please' as an afterthought. Once I had settled myself in for the somewhat long ride, I flipped open the notebook and poised my pen over the page to begin chronicling the events that had just happened to me in a rapid-fire few minutes. The events that had just happened had served to break a writer's block that I had been muddling through for good long while. But as I lowered the pen to begin writing, word started flowing across the page as if they were being written by some elegant invisible hand.
I suddenly realise that I have crushed the pen in my hand and it is indeed drizzling ink down my arm. However, the ink is acting in a way completely unlike ink. It was running tiny, clean little rivulets down my arm like you would expect. But it was also moving up my arm, and it appeared to be encasing my arm instead of running off of it. The world started spinning and warping as if it were taffy that someone was pulling, folding, and spinning in rapid succession. The last thing I remember before a dark comforting warmth swept over me was Gemma leaning over me whispering, whispering imagine.
The world behind my eyelids brightened uncomfortably and with it came an incessant beeping noise. Jarred awake, I bolted upright with my chest heaving, pulled out of the comfortable darkness of sleep. The memories of yesterdays misadventures slammed into me like a freight train, along with a single word seared into my consciousness whispered over and over. Imagine. I shook my head, attempting to dislodge it and slammed my hand toward the alarm, irked by its beeping. But instead of hitting the button and maybe knocking it off the bed stand, my hand punched through the alarm and half of the bed stand as if it were a sandcastle.
The hell? I had never worked out a day in my life, and though I knew myself to be a fairly strong and fit man, I wasn't that strong. Imagine the voice whispered again. Go away, I thought irritably. The notebook! I scrambled around looking for the thing, finally finding it half-buried under a fist-sized chunk of beautifully coloured crystal. It looked as if someone had chipped off a piece of the perfect sunrise ever and immortalized it in stone. I tugged the notebook out from under it, careful not to tip the stone off the table they were sitting on. I flip it open and find the strange message from last night gone. Written in the same script as the message is a quote.
No note is the same. That is the rule of harmony.
Ok! Hello, Elysia here! I have some extra information about the characters already there. Gemma(Jimmaġina) is my character.
Jimmaġina means Imagine in Maltese, she is the epitome of imagination. (Roleplay) Her looks are based on the Woman in Red from Matrix (link). She goes by Gemma. Maltese is her native language, though she was not born there. She is visible to mortals, though just barely. She shimmers and appears to be some wingless form of divinity to any mortal who sees her. Once they look away from her, they immediately dismiss her as a figment of their imagination. She also appears to most as whatever they desire most in another human. Gemma is mine (Elysian Kalon) as stated above.
Lanmò means Death in Haitian Creole. He is basically a walking, rather intelligent, rather grumpy corpse. (link, the one on the right without the black, wings are black and not usually visible, sword not usually visible, black hair, older, and in the suit.) He has no nickname, he is always wearing an expensive black suit that never seems to get stained and sucks the life out of the air around him. He is invisible to mortals, though if one happens to walk through the area he is standing in they are stricken with a grave illness that is fatal if they are not in good health. If you decide to adopt this character, please send me information on how you plan to develop him.
Our Main Person I haven't decided on the name, gender, or looks yet. Stay tuned. The only thing I know is he is some kind of powerful mage/wizard/elf thing that he didn't know about. Also plays along the lines of being ‘the one.’ If you decide to adopt this character, please send me information on how you plan to develop them.
The Notebook It is a magical relic that causes lots of problems for whoever's hands it falls into. There is a powerful mage trapped in it. The backstory is yet to be determined.
Eventually, the Imagination thingy I wrote (link) will be added, it goes along with Gemma. The story is supposed to be shaped around it.
Time Period: Somewhere in between/a combination of Modern-age and Middle Ages.
Main Setting: A large(ish) City called Arcanum
In the beginning, the story is partially based on this old story I found:
There was a merchant in Bagdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, Master, just now when I was in the marketplace I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture, now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me. The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning? That was not a threatening gesture, I said, it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Bagdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.
And there is a theme/saying that will eventually crop up then continue to show up throughout:
There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on __________ yet. It will be cold and bitter, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind nonetheless, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared."
As I went to flip the boy a silver, I saw a strange figure out of the corner of my eye. Dismissing it I flipped the boy his silver and walked away, focused on the prospect of what I was going to do with the beautiful notebook in my hand and deciphering why the boy had looked so afraid. As I turned in the direction of the edge of the market, prepared to fight my way back, I noticed a strange little anomaly. The crowd seemed to be making a thin little path pointing straight to me and leading off to some unknown destination. Warily, I followed it.
The crowd shifted and eddied around me, seemingly unaware of the path they were creating, and falling in behind me as I passed. All the while I notice two strange figures out of the corners of my eyes, always dancing beyond my sight. They stuck out like sore thumbs, but I couldn't peg exactly why as every time I turned to look at them, they weren't there. I'd turn back to the path and catch them again, but they always slipped away before I got a proper look. I saw them again, and as I turned to follow them, a woman jostled me, nearly knocking my precious notebook from my hands. I turned to demand an apology, but instead of her, I found myself face-to-face with an unexpected sight. In place of the beautiful woman who had bumped me, there stood a pale, pale man in an expensive cut black suit. I had seen the man, another day, in another market. He had made what appeared to be a rather threatening gesture towards me, so I walked away. His deep black suit seemed to leech the light and life out the air around him and it contrasted quite sharply against his pale, corpse-like skin. No one in the crowd around me seems to notice his existence, in fact, I could have sworn I watched a man walk through him then fall the ground coughing and groaning as if in massive pain.
I approached him cautiously and asked him why he had made a threatening gesture towards me at our last encounter.
'I didn't,' he responded. 'It twas merely the start of surprise as I knew I had an appointment with you in Arcanum.'
I stared at him, sure my disbelief was showing on my face. 'Sir, I am but an unknown author,' which was not strictly true, but I was writing under a pseudonym, so no one could possibly recognise me. 'I'm not sure who you think I am, but I assure you, I am of no consequence to you.'
'You need to--'
'He doesn't need to do anything, and you know it. You know the rules.' The pretty blonde woman that bumped me earlier materialised next to me. Her short red dress and vibrant life contrasted sharply against him. 'You know the rules of the game, Lanmò.'
'Jimmaġina, you have no right to intercede.'
'The hell I don't,' she spat. 'You know the rules just as well as I do Lanmò. Back off.' The woman turned to me, flashing a dazzling smile. 'Hello,'she said brightly. 'My name is Gemma! That depressing fellow over there,'she casually flips off Lanmò or whatever his name was, 'his name is Lanmò. You can just ignore him.'
'I think Imma elect to ignore both of you nutballs and walk away.'I started to back away then turned and ran, heedless of the shouts of the crowd from around me. I reached the edge of the crowd and called for a cabbie. One pulled up almost immediately and I jumped in, paying no attention to the driver. I should have looked. 'Take me to the Wallsworth Hotel,' I demanded, adding a 'please' as an afterthought. Once I had settled myself in for the somewhat long ride, I flipped open the notebook and poised my pen over the page to begin chronicling the events that had just happened to me in a rapid-fire few minutes. The events that had just happened had served to break a writer's block that I had been muddling through for good long while. But as I lowered the pen to begin writing, word started flowing across the page as if they were being written by some elegant invisible hand.
I know how inviting the blank paper looks. I know that the pen ink is drizzling down your arm like a wet snake, begging to be given form.
But this book has a power you could not even begin to imagine, child. One that countless others of your Kind have been helpless to contain. I can watch another of you die. But I too am helpless for all I can do is watch and beg you not to make the same mistake I did.
Be careful with this choice, child. You may destroy yourself and countless others that you know, love, or may not know in the span of a single blink. I beg you. Do not set that pen to the paper!
I suddenly realise that I have crushed the pen in my hand and it is indeed drizzling ink down my arm. However, the ink is acting in a way completely unlike ink. It was running tiny, clean little rivulets down my arm like you would expect. But it was also moving up my arm, and it appeared to be encasing my arm instead of running off of it. The world started spinning and warping as if it were taffy that someone was pulling, folding, and spinning in rapid succession. The last thing I remember before a dark comforting warmth swept over me was Gemma leaning over me whispering, whispering imagine.
The world behind my eyelids brightened uncomfortably and with it came an incessant beeping noise. Jarred awake, I bolted upright with my chest heaving, pulled out of the comfortable darkness of sleep. The memories of yesterdays misadventures slammed into me like a freight train, along with a single word seared into my consciousness whispered over and over. Imagine. I shook my head, attempting to dislodge it and slammed my hand toward the alarm, irked by its beeping. But instead of hitting the button and maybe knocking it off the bed stand, my hand punched through the alarm and half of the bed stand as if it were a sandcastle.
The hell? I had never worked out a day in my life, and though I knew myself to be a fairly strong and fit man, I wasn't that strong. Imagine the voice whispered again. Go away, I thought irritably. The notebook! I scrambled around looking for the thing, finally finding it half-buried under a fist-sized chunk of beautifully coloured crystal. It looked as if someone had chipped off a piece of the perfect sunrise ever and immortalized it in stone. I tugged the notebook out from under it, careful not to tip the stone off the table they were sitting on. I flip it open and find the strange message from last night gone. Written in the same script as the message is a quote.
No note is the same. That is the rule of harmony.
Jimmaġina means Imagine in Maltese, she is the epitome of imagination. (Roleplay) Her looks are based on the Woman in Red from Matrix (link). She goes by Gemma. Maltese is her native language, though she was not born there. She is visible to mortals, though just barely. She shimmers and appears to be some wingless form of divinity to any mortal who sees her. Once they look away from her, they immediately dismiss her as a figment of their imagination. She also appears to most as whatever they desire most in another human. Gemma is mine (Elysian Kalon) as stated above.
Lanmò means Death in Haitian Creole. He is basically a walking, rather intelligent, rather grumpy corpse. (link, the one on the right without the black, wings are black and not usually visible, sword not usually visible, black hair, older, and in the suit.) He has no nickname, he is always wearing an expensive black suit that never seems to get stained and sucks the life out of the air around him. He is invisible to mortals, though if one happens to walk through the area he is standing in they are stricken with a grave illness that is fatal if they are not in good health. If you decide to adopt this character, please send me information on how you plan to develop him.
Our Main Person I haven't decided on the name, gender, or looks yet. Stay tuned. The only thing I know is he is some kind of powerful mage/wizard/elf thing that he didn't know about. Also plays along the lines of being ‘the one.’ If you decide to adopt this character, please send me information on how you plan to develop them.
The Notebook It is a magical relic that causes lots of problems for whoever's hands it falls into. There is a powerful mage trapped in it. The backstory is yet to be determined.
Eventually, the Imagination thingy I wrote (link) will be added, it goes along with Gemma. The story is supposed to be shaped around it.
Time Period: Somewhere in between/a combination of Modern-age and Middle Ages.
Main Setting: A large(ish) City called Arcanum
In the beginning, the story is partially based on this old story I found:
There was a merchant in Bagdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said, Master, just now when I was in the marketplace I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture, now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me. The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the marketplace and he saw me standing in the crowd and he came to me and said, why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning? That was not a threatening gesture, I said, it was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Bagdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.
And there is a theme/saying that will eventually crop up then continue to show up throughout:
There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on __________ yet. It will be cold and bitter, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind nonetheless, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared."
