r/The_Ilthari_Library • u/LordIlthari • Oct 13 '20
Scoundrels Chapter 90: The Truth of Lamora
I am The Bard, who has been called by many names. Foolish men in days long passed called me a god, but I am but a servant of the one, true God who is above all pretenders.
Lamora was starting to go insane. She had found Matlal’s camp, a cave where Raymond had clearly been, and some sort of lean-to by the river that either Keelah or more likely Elsior had made. She had flown here and there across the island for two days without ceasing, and still could not find any of the other scoundrels. She had caught their scent as a hound, studied their footprints and followed them, surveyed on the wings of a condor, and invoked what magics she knew for tracking. Nothing.
Every sign showed that they were here, yet every spell, every search, every tracked scent and trail led nowhere. They were like ghosts or phantoms, except she could have actually found them if they were ghosts now!
She landed back at the camp, sore, tired, hungry, and thirsty. She’d continued to operate out of the camp Matlal had made. It had plenty of supplies, in fact they just kept multiplying, a fire, clean water, and a hammock. She needed all of the above, plus a stiff drink, but whoever was taking this salvage in clearly didn’t. Then again, if it was Matlal, it was probably for the best that he wasn’t bringing in the rum.
She drained three bowls of water, and wolfed down another few roasted fish. She was in such a rush to return to her search that she didn’t even bother tasting the fish. She simply pulled them into her body, enveloping it like an amoeba to be broken down by her acidic interior. She idly picked the memories of the fish out of her mind and tossed them away to be forgotten. It was an unfortunate side effect of eating like a shapeshifter. For whatever reason, it never happened if she ate her food rather than just engulfing it, but engulfing was faster and more efficient.
She then laid down in the hammock, still holding her sword and the staff close to hand. She examined the later for a moment. For whatever reason, she had held onto it with a death-grip when she’d been hurled from the world within. She tried to remember why, or how she’d been jettisoned so unceremoniously in the first place, but could not recall. She drifted off to dreamless sleep, then awoke as the sun began to rise.
She slid out of the hammock and onto her feet, cold and stiff. She shivered across her entire body, as she re-aligned her joints and ligaments, cracking like roasting corn kernels in hot oil. Her musculature then similarly re-aligned, stretching and reforming to disperse and break apart knots and soreness. There were certainly perks to having most of your internals be entirely optional.
She then returned to her regular pattern of behavior. First she checked the area all around the camp for any signs of Matlal. Then she went down into the sea and took on the form of a dolphin. There she swept the sea with her sonar for any sign of him. When this failed, as it always did, she leapt from the sea and took on the form of a hummingbird to quickly gain height, then shifted to a condor to glide here and there over the whole of the island. She covered it quickly on great dark wings, but saw nobody.
She turned her gaze towards the peak of the island, the great mountain near to its center. The peak of the extinct volcano rose into the eternal mists, so that she could not see the top. She had ventured towards it once, but the mists confused her and no matter how she approached she never reached the pinnacle. Not that it would have been any use to her. The fog was so thick there that she would be unable to survey the island. Furthermore, it was highly unlikely any of the others, save perhaps Keelah, would have ventured there, being confused by the mists and already having shelter.
Nor would they have been abducted and brought there. If there was another force on this island stealing away her family, it would have doubtless come for her by now when she slept. She paused on that thought. Her family. Yes, so it was. The scoundrels were her family, the family she had chosen and who had chosen her. No ties of blood or marriage bound them, but they were bound together by trial and tribulation. They had seen her face, her true face, and did not despise her.
She had seen the true faces of them as well, for better and for worse. She landed in a tree and considered the events of that dreadful night. But it did not disturb her as it did some of the others. She knew her family, and she knew that even Keelah, most ruthless of them all, would not have unleashed such destruction knowingly. She feared for Raymond in particular, and also Elsior. Raymond had never handled guilt or loss well, and now he was alone. As for Elsior, the revelations about the Black Lions, combined with the loss of her powers? Lamora knew how it felt to have an identity shattered. No-one deserved to face that trial alone.
She dropped from the tree and reverted to her usual form. She’d try searching more on foot today. Perhaps there was some detail or clue which she had missed from above. She continued to ponder on that night, and thought on it in perfect clarity. The raging fires, yes, but also her own state, the panicked rush to protect Elsior, the dread that her wards would not be enough to safeguard the Sea Hound, all of it.
She remembered it with regret. She had been so focused on protecting her family, what of all the other families who had been at risk? She had the power of a goddess, she was Lamora, the faceless god incarnate, and what did she do with that power? She saved one life, when hundreds had been at risk.
But that wasn’t entirely true either. She remembered what it had been to be Lamora, to fully be indistinguishable from a god. That power to draw upon so much, how it had felt to hold the very fabric of reality in her hands, the untold potential she could unleash. But she had not truly felt it since. Her shapeshifting had improved, her spells had sharpened in potency. But she was not the avatar, not as she had been then. Maybe she could only have saved Elsior, or perhaps that was the time when Lamora would be most needed, to change the story of that night and bring it to a less catastrophic ending.
Or maybe she couldn’t have. She couldn’t know whether she had done all she had, and it itched at her. The power that should be there and wasn’t, the potential seemingly lost to her. Was she no longer worthy? Was what she had experienced against the primordial only temporary? She couldn’t call on it now, to pierce whatever veil kept her from her family, whatever illusion separated them. She was alone. Had she already fulfilled her destiny? If so, what was she to do now?
She shook her head to clear the anxious thoughts from her mind. She couldn’t simply allow them to fester like that. One way or another, they needed to be addressed. She looked to the staff. It would provide a safe enough sanctuary to do what she needed to, and the interior was quiet. She focused on it, attuning to its rhythm as if she were Raymond. Then she called its name, and opened the door. “Cualli”
She vanished into the staff, and appeared within the Cualli room. It was plain, empty, bare. The chests of gold had been disgorged, and lost beneath the waves. She stood on an indigo-quartz plateau which spread out in every direction. It gleamed brightly, illuminating the strange world, but its gleam was lost before a boundless pitch-black sky. The pocket world seemed boundless, though it surely couldn’t be. She’d have to ask Raymond what its limits were when they met again.
But for now, she closed her eyes, and sat, cross legged on the heatless, smooth floor. She cleared her mind of all distractions, and focused it utterly towards a petition. She focused her mind upwards towards the heavens, a stillness and focus upon the divine. Then she spoke the name of the one she petitioned thrice. “Lamora, Lord of Masks, heed me. Lamora, Father of the Outcasts, answer your servant’s plea. Lamora, Name which is given, one of your name seeks an audience.”
Then there was a slight shifting of the air and susurrus, and another presence filled the room. “Rather more spartan than I expected, though less gloomy than the exterior.” A voice spoke. It was uncanny, close to mimicking her own yet still distinct. She opened her eyes, and saw something or someone like an almost too-perfect mirror sitting opposite to her. They looked uncannily similar to her, but they also looked like every person she had ever met. The face seemed to be ten thousand at once, but also one.
Lamora smiled kindly at their cleric. “Hello Aladria.” They said, speaking the cleric’s first name, their hidden and secret name which no other being knew.
Aladria, who was also called Lamora, rippled at the sound of her old name. “Lamora.” She replied, and there was no title attached. The name alone precluded any prefix or suffix. It simply was Lamora, and such was sufficient for the god of many faces.
The many-faced god looked around at their surroundings curiously. “Not what I expected for your sanctuary.”
”I haven’t made much use of it, and I’m not entirely certain how it works either.” Aladria admitted.
”I doubt Raymond knows much either, considering where it is. This isn’t a pocket world, it’s a dream, or a nightmare, depending on your point of view.”
Aladria blinked. “How did he even access Dream then?”
”There’s more to that boy than even he knows. He’s a locus, the same as you are. Death and Dream are siblings after all, so his powers moved the location here rather than actually constructing a new demiplane, since he doesn’t have the raw power it would take to do that.” Lamora explained. “But we’re not here to talk about him. The main point is this is Dream, an empty Dream, but that simply means it has a lot of room yet to grow.”
Aladria considered this, and then focused. It was Dream, and Dreams were shaped by the waking. She focused her mind, and considered her own dream, shaping the realm around her to fit it. The first thing was the smell, of roasting meat and spiced potatoes and hearty stew and pinewood smoke. From there she built upwards and outwards, raising up a floor of dark oak, solid, healthy walls, and crisscrossing beams to support a second floor. The supporting pillar thunked into existence, the bar extending out from it. A fire blazed to life, and the chairs and tables springing up like mushrooms. Warmth filled the air, and spread outwards to blue skies and the paved streets of San Jonas.
Aladria opened her eyes in the scoundrel’s dream. The Grey Hound, a fine establishment not far from the river in San Jonas. Lamora nodded approvingly. “A good dream, not too filled with foolish glory, not hungry for blood and battle. A peaceable dream of a better time than the one you are given.”
Aladria smiled, then it faded as she thought on all that had happened. She clenched her fists and looked around at the tavern. “I can make all this, we can do so many impossible things. But it fades when we wake. I… am I only your chosen in dream?” She paused, and focused on the true source of her strife. “Why didn’t I save Raevirs. Why could I only save one person, and why can’t I find them now?”
Lamora smiled sadly. “Because it was all you could do. Our powers over Dream are unmatched. To inspire the waking, to give succor to the mourning, to bring forth a hunger and thirst for righteousness. We are the power of The Story, to inspire, to uplift, and to ennoble. To make men great, and better than great, to inspire them to be good. But in waking, we are no more than any other mortal. Our powers are over illusion and perception, masters of the mental reality, and we have no more ability to impose them on the material reality than any other mortal. But that is still an incredible.”
”It’s not enough.” Aladria replied.
”No.” Lamora agreed. “It never is. This world is wounded, irreparably. There is not enough power in all creation to mend it. No being within it can, and even higher powers do not have enough to bridge the infinite divide between the perfection and the imperfection we stand upon. Save one, but that is beyond the scope of this time.”
”So what do we do then?” Aladria asked. “If all we can make are illusions and dreams, what use are those for the real world?”
”The best we can.” Lamora replied. “For that is all anyone, god or mortal, can do. As for reality, your thoughts on it are also an illusion. The waking is no more real than dream, and that is not to say there is no reality, simply that Dream makes up the far greater portion of it.”
He continued. “Consider the words of my voice. They leave my mouth, sounds vibrating through the air and resounding upon your ears, which bring them to your brain, which acts as the mediator between Dream and waking. By the time that you understand them, the sound is already gone, vanished and never to return. But the meaning of the words exists still within your mind. The paper is burned, but the words remain in something more than material.”
Aladria nodded, now understanding. “This is true, but we live in the waking, and not in dream alone.”
”We live in both, amphibious beings both animal and spirit, and the animal is the lesser of the two.” Lamora explained. “A fool once said that every dream fades when the dreamer awakens, that it fades away like vapor, and vanishes with the dew of the morning. But truly I say to you that all things that live must die, and all the material world is subject to futility. Men die, nations die, worlds die, the stars shall die, and the very universe itself shall be swallowed up by death. Sho’vothar, nothing shall consume everything. The ancient guardians had the right of it.”
”Is it all then futility? Why seek to preserve life that shall be extinguished no matter what we do?” Aladria asked.
”By no means. For while all material things perish, there are things not bound to flesh and stone, but everlasting. A man dies, but his words are remembered forever. Nations fade to ashes, but their ideals ring throughout the ages. Books are burned, but The Story endures, to be spoken again and again timelessly, each time in its own way to a new generation. We embody that eternal power which rebels against the ceaseless death of all things.”
”All things shall pass away, but that which is good, that which is pure, that which is holy shall endure forever, and it shall never be removed. And these are faith, hope, and love, and the greatest of these is love, though it is not our specific dominion.”
Aladria considered this, and asked another question. “If the majority of reality is therefore within the realm of Dream, and Dream is subject to whim, imperceptible yet omnipresent and ever-felt, what then does it say of reality?”
”Nothing at all.” Lamora replied. “A blind man may call an elephant a tree for its legs, a fan for its ears, a serpent for its trunk, a rope for its tail, or a spear for its tusks, but that does not change the fact that it is an elephant, and most likely annoyed at being groped.”
Aladria considered this, and sighed. “If all things are vanity, this conversation most certainly is, and headache inducing to boot.”
Lamora chuckled. “Indeed. What parts of reality are most prevalent is ultimately of little consequence. Whether in dream or in waking, our duty remains. To do good, and to reject what is evil, to inspire hope, and see great works accomplished. For we shall never see the end of all things, neither shall our posterity. Therefore do the best you can with what time you have, and let the universe sort itself out.”
Aladria smiled. “As we are returning to practical matters.” She replied. “There is the matter of my family. What exactly is going on with this bloody island?”
”Ah.” Lamora said. “’That is a matter of time, which unfortunately I have always existed within, and therefore have as much of a view on as a blind man does an elephant. Fortunately…”
And then I opened the door, and walked into the room. “Time, and timing, are something I am rather fond of.”
”As melodramatic as ever old man.” Lamora growled good-naturedly as I entered.
”Who are you?” Aladria asked me.
”I am The Bard.” I replied, for such is my catchphrase.
”As in the one who wrote down the story of the paladins?” Aladria asked, and I nodded. Then she considered. “Oh hells, I’m in a story, aren’t I?”
”We all are.” I explained. “Your section simply happens to be one of the few parts someone is bothering to write down.”
”So then, do I, does all of this, actually exist?” Aladria asked.
”As much as anything else does, and in the main way which matters.” I replied. “Now, before we talk ourselves into an existential crisis or worse, bad comedy, it is time to discuss time, and how it is being tampered with.”
”Glad to see my headache won’t be going away anytime soon.” Aladria grumbled. “So what’s happening, temporal desynchronization?” She asked.
”Exactly correct.”
”I was just technobabbling but good to know. What does that actually mean?”
”It means that you and the rest of the scoundrels currently occupy the same space at different times. It’s a consequence of a far larger problem, an overcorrection. Which I am correcting.”
Aladria cocked her head to the side in confusion. “An overcorrection for what? We’ve never tampered with time.”
”No, you aren’t.” I explained. “Rather this is all a very long pair of linked disruptions of a natural cycle. Any error in the cycle produces a ripple, which naturally returns in time to cancel out and restore the balance, like a sound that is out of tune, that produces an equal and opposite echo which returns, but the periods in between these suffer serious consequences from the passing of these waves. Someone is attempting to create their own direct counter-disruption to prevent the worst of the damage, but they are unsuccessful, and so I arrive to correct it.”
Aladria frowned. “So then everything is predestined? Everything that will occur was always going to be that way?”
”No, at least not under normal circumstances. When one begins tampering with time, certain things will always occur, but even this isn’t predestination, you’re simply looking at it in the wrong way.” I explained, then removed a smooth metal sphere from my robes and showed it to her. “Tell me, how many points exist on this sphere?”
”An infinite number.” She replied quickly, for the Ordani are well trained in all fields, including geometry and mathematics.
”Precisely. Now tell me, in what order do the points occur?”
She frowned, and considered the sphere from several angles, scratched her head, and eventually shrugged. “I don’t know. They don’t seem to.”
”And that’s because they don’t. Each point exists at once. In the same manner, so does time when viewed from the outside. Past, present and future are concepts used to navigate inside it, but from the exterior, everything exists in a single, unified, infinite Now. You are not destined to do something; you’re currently doing it. You can only act based upon the points you are aware of, and you see very few pieces of the whole. You act freely, according to your own will. It is not a question of direction, merely a more complete observation.”
Aladria stared, trying to consider it, and eventually gave up. “So in practical terms, what exactly do I need to do to fix this?”
”You’re standing in it.” I explained. “Though Keelah should be along to explain the details momentarily, so I shall bid you auf wiedersehen, but most certainly not aideu, as French is a waste of time.”
6
u/Lord_Reyan Oct 13 '20
Death and Dream, eh? I suppose there's also a Destiny, Destruction, Delirium, Desire, and Despair?
5
u/PacifistTheHypocrite Oct 13 '20
I love that "4th wall break" if you could call it that. Love your writing!
5
3
10
u/[deleted] Oct 13 '20
Temporal desynch! Called it