Jan. 19th, 2006

form_mage: (back in days past)
okay so

here we have illdaishen :D

and here is our explanation of!

So first there were these sandangels--nomadic, nocturnal, winged, and rather fragile. They have an annual mating season and they hunt using mostly bows and arrows, because they'll get killed in any sort of combat (hollow bones). So they mostly eat vegetation BUT

[pause. aivlen-dude. holycrap. :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD]

mostly eat vegetation but they hunt, too. Anyway.

So they find the pitiful little coast-crawling humans that are scared and angry and violent and they're like hay try this drug thing (they use this drug to keep them "sane" during mating periods :D 'cause otherwise they're like totally not functional. but since it's incredibly addictive there's, like, religious rules about only taking it a bit. they like teh sex anyway).

Humans try drug. Humans find out they can manipulate the land while under the influence of said drug. Humans have a much happier existance. :D

They're like hay give us summore drug! and the sandangels are like fine will you get food for us? :D

And a happy alliance is formed. Humans kill meat for the sandangels, the sandangels get the humans high, humans can then manipulate the land and they do, like, that agriculture thing, with much more success. This is the same time that sandangels start viewing killing of ANYTHING as a taboo, rather than just a dangerous idea.

Humans also start up with this "creation myth" which attributes the existance of sandangels to a Metaan, who later becomes a god-like (or at least saint-like) figure in mythology. Sandangels don't like this but they figure hey, stupid humans--it's also debatable how much attention they actually pay to the creation myths of humans, 'cause they're proud motherfuckers and they really would rather not sully themselves with the affairs of lesser mortals. :D

So this drug comes from the desert, right.

So the humans (who btw somewhere along the line went up into the mountains and developed those rope-and-pulley communication things) decide to start settling the desert.

Sandangels are like wut. All right. Okay. And they sorta move there because the humans are like "hay we'll pay you!" and they're like "ancestral land wut" and also they (initially) like the idea of permanent housing. :D

And it really seems all right. The sandangels are hired to maintain the communication lines, and supply the drug, and the humans pay them lavishly and keep them in one place. :D Keep in mind also sandangels are now totally against the killing thing.


Unfortunately, somewhere along the line, someone let the humans know how to make the drug. Or the humans figured it out. Maybe in that mountain trip. So they no longer need the sandangels quite so much--but the sandangels are pretty, they aren't dangerous, and they're obedient. So, fine. They still provide the raw materials for this drug anyway so...

Well, then, Emphia shows up.

Emphia (known later as a saint) discovers that one can perform land-magic without the drug. This is about 150 years prior to storytime. He basically founds the Phaist sect--a radical group of Metaan who swear off the drug, and who also (sorta by necessity) live calmer lives--they're celibate and they...well, let's say they wouldn't be the life of any party.

Phaists can also do some seriously weird shit, which isn't entirely documented, but will definitely, DEFINITELY come into play, 'cause I'm a whore for shapeshifters.

By this point, sandangels are almost entirely in the desert. They are dependent on the human transportation--and therefore their maintenance of it--for food, water, etc. Also they're treated very nicely on their own land, so there's really not a huge incentive for them to leave.

Except they're being traded as slaves by the Metaan. :D Who are discovering new ways of creating that means that they might actually BE able to make a sandangel pretty damn soon.


Anaite wants her people to kill again. That's the first thing the humans took from them.

Lisuce wants to keep things the way they are--they aren't treated badly. They're protected. They're even "worshipped," she says. Why rock the net?

Caillis wants to raise the dragon. He wants the humans gone, and he doesn't much care how he has to do it.

Koloka wants to cripple the sandangels--that's his job. So that even if Anaite and Caillis managed to get their ways, it wouldn't matter. He doesn't believe in the dragon. That silly bitch. :D

Illvais wants to write a pretty song. :D

Aivlen wants to get the hell out. :D

Veylital wants to be younger and in control again. :D

And Brya's just trying to do his job.

...dear Lord, this is going to be so, so, SO much fun. <333333
form_mage: (Default)
She'd have to kill him.

Not that it would be much trouble--she figured that an arrow shaft would be sharp enough and she could "procure" one without a lot of effort, then just catch him off-guard, stab and be done with it--still, that was the part that irked her. It wouldn't be much trouble, but she was the only one in all of Bentiel...no, that was being optimistic. She was the only voclen alive who'd actually murder another.


Anaite clenched her hands in the silk of her skirt, and continued to watch Caillis pull himself hand-over-hand along a taut, gleaming line of rope. The sun kept hitting the beads webbing his sleeves; she had to squint through it, and after a few moments longer she gave up, pushed herself off of the tower wall, and glided towards him.

"Can we go back yet?"

Just as she asked, the wind shifted. Anaite flapped her wings without even thinking about it, and Caillis, unbalanced, cried out and tumbled sideways. His fingers and feet, gravity-aided, leaped away from the rope, and then he unfolded his wings and his cursing voice rose to meet her.

"I don't see why you want to do that, anyway," said Anaite, beckoning him to follow her higher.

Caillis shook his head, gestured towards the nearest netted tower--the Caya Indical. "I'm just being prepared."

"For what?"

He didn't answer until he'd landed--hands and feet curled around the grooves cut into the tower walls, wings folded against his shoulders. "Half of the city can walk the ropes without falling."

"Which means half the city can't," she said, landing beside him. "Are you up to win a contest?"

"I'm being prepared."

She shook her head, and started to climb. If only she'd decided to kill him before this morning, she'd have been prepared. Probably she'd missed at least three opportunities already. That wasn't very becoming of a Caya: they were supposed to be intelligent.

Then again, she thought, Caillis had just spent at least an hour trying to figure out how not to use his wings; if he could get away with that, she could fail to kill him for at least one morning.

Actually--Anaite paused, and craned her neck to see the smaller towers and the space between them. Caillis had taken up with another rope, this one stretched between a postal station and a tower whose inhabitants she couldn't recall off the top of her head. He wasn't having any more luck, though he was being quieter. But other than him, and her, Bentiel slept, a sprawling trap for the drifting clouds.

Better not to kill him now, then, after all. There needed to be witnesses.

As the air became thinner, Anaite started glancing up. The climb wasn't hard--she'd been doing it daily for the last six months--but it was long past sunrise, and she'd arranged all of her soft things, her pillows and shawls and a skin of cool water, to cushion her just the way she liked them. It'd be so much better than the thin, hot morning, which scratched at her like fingernails. Leave Caillis to that, and good riddance. She would enjoy her sleep, especially now that she'd figured out a plan of action.

The sandstone seemed to stretch forever upwards. Anaite, instead of thinking any more on that, started whistling. The notes dropped over her shoulders like handfuls of dust. She imagined them falling on Caillis, and smiled to herself.

At long last, she reached up, and gave herself a final drag over the sill of their tall, thin windowledge. Anaite clambered hands and knees over the pale carpet; perhaps she'd been more tired than she thought.


form_mage: (Default)

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