Esteban Drake (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crowneddragon) wrote2022-07-20 06:50 pm
crowneddragon) wrote2022-07-20 06:50 pm
References - Stories
A collection of the stories Esteban will readily tell whenever prompted.
"Listen to the wind. Listen to the stars.
They have stories to tell."
"Listen to the wind. Listen to the stars.
They have stories to tell."
Umrakiel, the first song (unfinished)
Eriat was its caller, an' Eriat was the one who'd begged for it; a tiny, scrawny goddess of nothin'-yet, and little-else, who'd sung in the darkness and sung as the world turned, callin' out to the deepest abyss, an' the darkest depth for a light. She'd sang a song of fear, and of things in the dark that she couldn't see, and of shadows that moved. She'd sang of the nothing that was to be something, and of the something that was nothing yet, and, one very, very long night, her call was answered.
Umrakiel had come to the world, and from the world. A nothing that was to be something. A something that was nothing yet. It stayed 'loft in the sky, with nothin' else to fight its dominion; for there were no trees, no sun, no life yet. Only shadows that Umrakiel's faint glow kept at bay. Only darkness, and a sliver of moonlight. But the gods learned of this distant light, and they grew quite jealous of little Eriat, the youngest of them all.
The fire god tossed a pebble at the moon to chase it away, and it burst into flames- and pushed the moon out from its orbit. The sun had taken its place, and the moon was falling, falling. Held by the song of a little goddess, who had wanted nothing more than a faint light to cling to. And she sang to it to stay, and she sang to it to heal, but it was a shell, and damaged shells do not heal-- they crack.
The Imprisoned God
It's a big tower, an' it's a tall tower, with bright white stones an' columns veined with silver. Its halls 're covered with the richest carpets, an' archways 're carved with thousands 'f carvings, from roarin' lions, to tiny fawns hidin' in the grass. Jewels 're inset in the walls, over the doorways, an' each level's more precious, more beaut'ful th'n the previous.
'Cause you see, there's a god that lives there.
Atop the tower, 't the highest height; he watches the world b'low him, safe at the top of it, 'way from the monsters that wanna swallow him. He watches an' he wills things to exist, chooses 'f there's gonna be rain, or 'f there's gonna be sunshine, calls up gold an' diamonds when he's bored.
Below him, his world spreads out-- with forests burstin' outta rocks, an' a tree with crystal leaves. Fruits 's bright as jew'ls, an' creatures dart 'round the flowers that grow wherever he wants. The world he create's so lovely, people say the rain drifts gently when he calls for it, outta fear that it might damage the land.
Many trav'lers ask to meet this god, 'top his tower, overlookin' so much beauty. But y'should hope that he never agrees. Hope that he stays hidd'n. 'Cause you see, he has t' take that beauty fr'm somewhere, right?
Some say that he steals it from those 'round him. That the priests 're covered from head t' toes, tryin' to keep their ugliness hidd'n. Some say that he steals it from those who've seen him. Some even say, that sometimes that's not enough, an' he'll reach out an' take their life too; 'cause you can't reason with a god; especially not one who's locked 'top a tower, who's bored an' makes diamonds an' gold t' pass time, an who's only pleasure's 'bout making the world around him bend t' his will.
But that's a legend from across the sea. Past a sea 'f grass an' a sea of water, over a sea 'f mountains an' further th'n a sea of sand.
How time began to matter
How [unknown god] stole the languages