Wonder’s Weave
Zilun I
In the dimly lit chamber, adorned with eerie aquatic motifs and mystical symbols, Zilun, the towering manta-like humanoid, gazed intently into a pulsating magical orb. The room echoed with the haunting murmurs of the deep, and the air seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly energy. Through the arcane lens, his gaze fixated on Perry Van Winkle, the paladin who now rested in an uneasy slumber.
As the vibrant glow of the orb bathed the room in an ethereal hue, Zilun's thoughts wandered back to the tumultuous events that led to Perry's captivity. He reminisced about the relentless assault on the conclave's lair, where he and a cadre of Hahranta's soldiers, driven by zealous rage, mercilessly cut through the ranks of the conclave's members. The clash culminated in a confrontation with Somenex, the enigmatic mage, and Zilun himself.
Yet, Perry stood alone, a solitary figure amidst the chaos, his every move a dance of divine grace. Zilun pondered this paradox — a man of blind faith, unaware of the true source of his prowess. The paladin's sword, a beacon of light and radiance, swung with an uncanny blend of ferocity and precision. It was more than divine intervention; it was a manifestation of technique, fervour, and an indomitable will.
As the memories lingered, the arcane patterns on the chamber's walls seemed to writhe with an inner life. The magical energies resonated with the complex emotions swirling within Zilun. Perry's arrival in the pit, an unexpected twist orchestrated by Somenex, raised questions that now ripened in the Manta's contemplative mind.
The ponderous atmosphere was abruptly interrupted by a soft knock on the intricately decorated door. It swung open with an almost ghostly creak, revealing a shadowy figure standing in the doorway. A servant, bedecked in aquatic finery, bowed respectfully. "Master Zilun, you are summoned. The council awaits your presence."
Zilun rose from his contemplative stance, his elongated limbs shifting gracefully. His eyes, like bottomless abysses, briefly met the servant's before he strode purposefully towards the doorway. The orb, still casting its otherworldly glow, hovered momentarily in the air before following its master.
Exiting his chamber within the House of Fun, Zilun found himself engulfed in the bizarre revelry of the sprawling carnival. Monstrous clientele, ranging from ghouls and zombies to demi-dragons and trolls, mingled amidst fun games, clownish acts, and enchanted animals. Strikingly, the patrons were unarmed, some having physically divested themselves of natural weapons. Casting a disdainful glance at a sign above the main theatre bearing the letters IMSG, Zilun muttered to himself, "Cretin Scum."
Approaching the council chamber, Zilun encountered vigilant sentinels adorned in intricate clown-esque armour who marched along the passages of the entrance of the chamber. As he neared, the towering doors were swung open by the men, revealing the gathering of the council. Seated at a table crafted from a colourful and vibrant wood, a lone and immense figure’s deep gaze met Zilun.
Now at the centre of his attention, Zilun felt the weight of his, no there, gaze. The council, an enigmatic assembly of beings from the abyssal depths, resided within the mind of Somenex eagerly awaiting the insights of the Manta. The fate of the surface dwellers, unwittingly entangled in the carnival's cryptic machinations, precariously dangled in the pair of sorcerer’s hands, this filled Zilun with an extraordinary feeling of joy and warmth.
Somenex reclined on his throne, a ghastly fusion of bone and flesh. His duality, with blue skin on one side and colourful bones on the other, created an unsettling spectacle. Devilish horns adorned his forehead, and a long, snaking tongue protruded from his mouth. The exposed bones glowed vibrantly, each rib a different colour. His right eye socket was empty, save for a flickering pink flame. Multicoloured trousers and a long polka-dot coat completed his bizarre ensemble, accentuated by a matching bow tie around his neck.
In the quiet chamber, the council, an assembly of grotesque and surreal figures, gathered. Somenex, with a nod to Zilun, began to speak, “Zilun. You have been observing our actors I assume?”. The Manta nodded, “Good. What have you learned? What are we ought to do with these surface dwellers?”. Ever shrewd, Zilun smoothly spoke, “Grendell Greybeard, one of the wisest wielders of the Weave Osiri has ever known. He has an understanding beyond many of our own conclave; while they remained in the cell he identified each hex and trap enchanted into the walls and even the guards' weaponry. Such observational skills could prove more than helpful to us.”. Somenex waited for a moment and Zilun studied him, the Jester King’s flaming eyes flickering with each second that passed ‘so they are listening…’. Zilun silently realised. Somenex’s tongue slithered towards his student as he pressed him, “What of his morality? Not all men have the stomach for our means, nor our ambition. What tells you a wanderer like him could ever withstand the mental torment of our task?”. Quickly and with conviction Zilun responded, “I do not believe he has any real moral affiliation. He believes in nothing beyond nature. He doubts the Gods, he doubts the very fabric of magic as it is understood above despite the social isolation it brings him. Suppose we were to say that the church of Hahranta was to realise the existence of all forms of the Weave, would they not simply hide the truth? Is the very fact people believe magic is of the Solar King that it leads them to do good with it? By carrying out his research and spreading his own view of the weave, he already is on the side of selfishness and immorality, he needs only to be shown the reality of his own mind.” Zilun stares at his orb which now sits in the palm of his hand, gazing into the cryptic maze of Grendell’s ego, a wide sinister smile growing on his face ‘An apprentice of my own design…”.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Somenex licked his lips as Zilun finished and almost whispered, “You know there is one amongst them who would truly prove an asset… the myconid.”. Zilun was surprised by this, there was some kind of unorthodox aura pouring from the boy, certainly but it carried no great powers. Inquisitive as ever he asked, “How so? The boy shows no real promise in my eyes, an obscene creature certainly, a bastard of evolution, but I must confess I see no value in him.”. Suddenly and without a change in his stern facial expression, the jester of death unleashed a ruthless cackle which reverberated through and shook Zilun’s theatre of thought. “Child. You still have much to understand, to learn, to take…” he paused, grabbing a large bottle of liquor which sat beside him at all times and took a long swig, the majority of the fluid sliding down his windpipe while the remainder dripped down between his bones and onto the floor. Gesturing to the flickering flame within his torn eye socket he continued, “Only with the eyes can you note the true weave. The boy has an original power, it is innate not something to be learned or mastered over many years but a power of birth; the nature of which could alter the foundations of our plans, could allow them to… blossom”.
"Oh, Zilun… You have grown in wisdom since I found you below. But these individuals shall serve a far greater purpose than the obvious. Instead of explaining, I believe it would be best for your education if you observe and learn, perhaps from within their ranks.".
Zilun, seeming ever obedient, nodded in understanding. The fate of the uplanders was set on a course known only to Somenex, the puppet master of this arcane carnival. “Now onto other matters.” Zilun said, pulling up a chair on the grand table, “I lack the eyes and so I am in no position to know but I feel I am ought to ask how does the halfling make such use of the weave it is as if he is not even conscious of it, does his God truly exist or is it just some manifestation of some unconscious brilliance?”.
Somenex rose from his throne, a commanding figure of arcane might. With a wave of his hand, a dimensional mirror emerged revealing the captive adventurers. Perry, Grendell, and others stood bewildered, marching through a deep and dark tunnel, slowly and cautiously. He stared down at them, with longing, “To understand that I ought to explain to you the forms of the weave. I have allowed you to experiment and learn of your own volition but the time has come for you to hear the truth of it.”. Zilun immediately exited and listened closely.
“Magic, as you know it, is an intricate blend of two primal forces—the Divine and the Natural. In the cosmic loom, there exists the Golden Weave, a manifestation of the divine energy bestowed upon mortals by the gods. It courses through the veins of men, dwarves, elves, and all beings gifted with the spark of intellect. This Golden Weave is a testament to the gods' favour, a metaphysical force shaped by belief, a fire fuelled by the fervour of faith.
Yet, there is another strand, the Eternal Weave, a force more tangible, more scientific in nature. It emanates from the very essence of the world, flowing through every naturally occurring organism like a river of arcane energy. It adheres to the laws of causation, with traceable effects and measurable power.
Consider the Eternal Weave the heartbeat of the natural world, its pulse echoing through the roots of ancient trees, the currents of vast oceans, and the breath of living creatures. It is the foundation upon which reality is built, a force that can be harnessed and understood through rigorous study.
Now, in the curious case of our humble servant, Perry Van Winkle. His magical prowess, unwavering in its consistency, stems not from the logical understanding of the Eternal Weave but from the metaphysical dance of the Golden Weave. Perry, you see, is a testament to the power of unwavering belief.
His faith in Hahranta, a deity whose existence lacks empirical evidence, fuels the fire of the Golden Weave within him. It is a paradox of sorts—an illusion that becomes reality through the sheer strength of his conviction. Perry's mind is a canvas painted with the hues of divine certainty, his idiocy and arrogant belief is what allows him to wield the Golden Weave with such remarkable consistency.” Finally finishing his exposition, Somenex seemingly exhausted from the tirade leans back, “So now you know. You were close in your estimations yesterday and I wish we had the time for you to find the truth on your own but… the show is only a few moments away.”.
Zillun realised the obvious. “So that is why Grendell is such a great asset. Not because of his knowledge, no you know just as much as he does. He is here to break Perry’s belief.” Smiling, Somenex nodded. Zilun continued “Well, you have missed out a few aspects of these forces for me to investigate at least, the Red Weave it must be akin to the Gold in its metaphysical nature but rather than drawing on belief it must be fear, rage or some darker emotion. That much is clear just by the name. But what of Wonde-” Somenex cuts him off, “You will learn of Wonder soon, you must exercise patience. Go now. Join your allies, gain their trust and sow the seeds of discontent. Lead them forward and allow the great play to commence.” With a nod Zilun drew his staff and brought forth a grand shimmering portal, stepping forth into the fray. Stepping forth towards his glory, his great victory, not anyone else's.