The Key to Puck's Heart (chapter 3.1 * 01/12)
psionexile:
nb: This story is about the Sims (the Maxis pre-made sims and townies), but I'm using only words and no pictures. I spoke to kathy and she said that was okay. What I hope is that you'll read and comment and/or critique as if it were any other story. I think the chapters may seem excessively long without pictures, but I hope you won't be overwhelmed by that, and I will try to make chapters and chapter breaks as reasonable as I can.
So there you have it! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it.
Much thanks, psionexile.
psionexile:
** 434 years ago **
The palazzo was burning.
The city of Avon, the capital and seat of the principate, filled a wide, sloping valley. Great villas mingled with modest plebeian insula, connected by tangled roads lined by great cypress and immodest cherry trees. At one end of the valley a waterfall cascaded down from a high rocky bluff, following a canal and surrounding the royal palace in a deep, clear moat. But that night, the Most Serene City was collapsing from within.
Upon the roof of the palazzo there was an observatory, a sort of broad, round platform. A massive armillary sphere perched there. The seven brass rings, wider than the length of a man's outstretched arms, were engraved with cryptic icons and brain-numbing mathematics; each ring rested at a wild angle, no doubt describing some stellar latitude. Crank shafts, gears and chains comprised the intestines of the machine. The old man rested his hand upon one of the rings as he watched the enraged city.
For hours the mob had grown, at first a handful of fist-waving Reformist zealots, then by sundown an enraged, energized populace ran amok and let loose their frenzy on anything in their path. They ripped paving stones from courtyards and catapaulted them through ancient stained glass windows, and cheered; they tossed ropes with rusty iron hooks to grab the deep-carved cornices of the colossal bronze statue of Lear the Greatking, yanking it to the ground, and danced to the groaning metal--groaning as if the spirit of the King himself was dying all over again; they hurled torches into broken windows and doors and watched the palazzo choke on fire and flames, chanting death to the heathens! A single tear slid anonymously into the old man's beard.
A young man, cradling books and scrolls in his arms, flew up the spiral stairs to the observatory platform. Sweat stung his eyes. He glanced out over the city and lost his breath.
"Master Featherlight, please, we must go now! There's still time to get to the secret tunnels. Why have you come up here? Soon the way down will be blocked."
"No, Jihoon, I'm old...positively ancient, now...I cannot escape my destiny."
Featherlight was, indeed, ancient. His hair was white, pale and iridescent, and it fell past his shoulders to his waist. An equally long beard he kept tucked in the folds of his robes, which were red velvet silk brocade. The tips of his pointed ears just barely poked out from his hair, like seedlings searching for the spring's first sun. He turned to Jihoon and laid his hand upon the young man's shoulder. The wrinkles that dominated the Master's face faded a little when he smiled.
"You, you and my other students, will carry on my legacy. And someday, perhaps, there will be better days, and we will meet again. I have seen too much, made too many sacrifices...made too many deals that should be undone...for everything to be forgotten. We all must pay the price for our sins."
"We will always follow your will, Master. But we're scattering, and without you I fear all will be lost. Reformists have broken into the lower floors and are burning the students out into the streets. We've gathered many of your inventions, but we've lost much to the looters. The Heart...."
Master Featherlight jumped. "Yes? The Heart...is everything...."
"I wanted to let you know, that Brillante Summerdream has taken the Heart away safely. And we've divided the rest of your manuscripts and machines between us, those that we've managed to rescue." He seemed to straighten his back as he sought courage. "I promise you, all will be well."
Featherlight sighed. He put both of his hands on Jihoon's shoulders and focused his piercing stare upon the young man's eyes. "Everything else is insignificant, Jihoon, compared to the Heart...my greatest creation." There was a splintered crash, followed by a dreadfully passionate chorus, as the mob uprooted a cedar from the garden that had stood for thousands of years. "Quickly, my boy, go now!"
Jihoon turned to go. Then suddenly he spasmed, and fire consumed his body. He dropped his books and papers and they caught in the air currents like doves. The odor of singed flesh assaulted Master Featherlight's nose, the scream of his pupil his ears. Jihoon tumbled down the stairs, a burnt husk. His murderer stepped over the body and strode to the observatory platform.
He wore a black felt robe that buttoned all the way up to a tight collar, then over his shoulders and down the length of his arms, also tightly bound. The torchlight cast shadows over his face and made him seem supernatural. His pale face was dominated by a long fish-hook of a nose, and his grayish hair was bound unforgivingly in cylindrical curls. And he wore a curious apparatus.
It was a shirt like a maze of woven copper string, covering his torso and snaking along his arms to his wrists; the copper web moved fluidly, like liquid mail, over his body as he moved. Upon his hands he wore gloves of the same weave, but these were silver slimmer and strictly woven. Gold bands etched with cursive script bound the gloves to the copper sleeves. A heavy white silk ribbon wound around his neck, supporting a medallion, a blood red resin disk with wires spitting from its middle like tentacles merging into the copper coat.
The murderer bowed with wide arms. "Somehow I knew, Master, you'd be drawn here. Such a first-class view. My work is, shall we say, entrancing, is it not?"
Master Featherlight looked forlornly at the shadowy man. "He was just a boy, Tylopoda, just a young boy. Did his destruction give you that much pleasure?"
Tylopoda flexed his fists, admiring them intently. "This suit, this weapon, was one of your many great inventions. You killed the boy as much as I. Funny how old men see their sins as weaknesses, and young men breed their sins into greatness. If you're waiting here for some sort of salvation, I think you'll find yourself one lonely, decrepit buffoon. Though I doubt you'll have the time to plead with silent gods, with the fires licking their way up the walls."
"Oh, Tylopoda...you've changed so much, then? Once you were my greatest disciple, do you remember?"
Tylopoda's eyes blazed dark and demonic in the inferno of the palazzo.. "Yes, I remember, Master Featherlight, I remember. I remember how you betrayed me!"
"No, I was trying to save you! You know now just as much as then. The secrets you sought were too much for you--you weren't ready!" He looked over Tylopoda's shoulder at the mob. "You obviously still aren't."
Tylopoda stepped right up next to Featherlight; the old man cringed as his former student breathed a vicious stench upon him. He whispered, "No, old man, I'm ready...and if you value your life, you'll see that it's true. You know what it is I want."
"Never, Tylopoda, never. It is beyond your reach now."
Tylopoda looked around at the burning palazzo. "Fool! You think me as simple as that? I know more than you think, Master--I know where to look for little children who run from their betters. I took some secrets away of my own when you cast me from your workshops. History will judge! They will write books, and they will call me Tylopoda the Philosopher, Tylopoda the Great, Tylopoda the Saint!"
Master Featherlight shook his head sadly. "Tylopoda the Apostate, I think. Tylopoda the Impatient. Tylopoda the Fool."
Tylopoda slapped the back of his hand across Featherlight's face; the silver glove stripped skin. He brought his fingers to his lips and looked at the blood.
"The Heart is mine! It is my inheritance! My right!" he howled. He stabbed his finger into his palm to accentuate his words." "It. Belongs. To. ME! And I will move heaven and earth, Master, to grasp the Heart in my majesty."
Master Featherlight had to shout over the rage, the rage of the mounting inferno, the frenetic Reformist gangs and the bleeding rage of his old pupil. "Heaven may be closed to me, Tylopoda, but the earth still obeys me." And with both hands he grabbed a handle of the armillary sphere. Tylopoda raised his hand to cast fire from the silver glove, but the Master slammed the handle into its slot first. The observatory platform shuddered, and both men fell. Then the armillary sphere woke up.
The great brass rings creaked and began to spin. Brass shavings scraped away into the wind as the rings slid against each other; and as they began to accelerate, they scraped sparks. Faster and faster the rings twirled, with each gyroscopic revolution. The sphere began to shudder and pull at the many bolts and gears that struggled to keep up. Both men stood, wobbling on the platform. The rings whirred loudly and they covered their ears from the tenor.
The distressed rings spun so fast that they practically vanished, revealing the center of the armillary sphere. Perched there was a crystal whirlpool of energy, a sound vortex squealing. The rings began to wobble critically, and the entire sphere threatened to fly off of the platform.
And then it activated.
Each ring shunted to a critical stop, larger to smallest, each one within the other. Thump...thump...thump thump--thumpthumpthump! The whirlpool elongated and shot like a spear--directly towards the waterfall. For a moment nothing happened, and a preturnatural silence fell like a blanket over Avon.
Then the bluff exploded, erupting great chunks of granite into the sky. Rock dust scattered upwards and shaded the last remaining sunrays of dusk. As if the jugular of the river had been sliced, the water, with nothing to restrain it, spewed out in a tidal wave of roaring watery hordes and cirrus foam. Avon began to drown.
Tylopoda, shocked, stood statue still. Master Featherlight bent over and picked up a tiny gear that the armillary sphere shook loose; he turned it over in his hand as if it were a cherry blossom, and wanted to smile.
"You were right about one thing, my old student," the Master murmured. "History will judge."
babyblueheart:
OOh! Sounds good! I like it!
Elven_Song:
Cool beginning. Pictures would make it look awesome. Too bad there aren't any. Great story by itself though! ^^
obsessedfae:
yeah..pics would make it great...:(
but its a good beginning. :)
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