Post by blacknoise on May 17, 2016 16:10:44 GMT
"How do you describe a land so cruel, so perverted, so despicably vile, that even those whose existences are fueled by the suffering of others blush when they see it? "
"You describe it with fire."
The Porcelain Towers, a fitting name for the land I come from. From afar, the white spires look like gleaming porcelain, beautiful, and very easily broken. Light from the active volcanoes that cover the land illuminate the towers of the castle at all times. Despite their true strength, being made of marble and hardened volcanic stone, they appear terribly fragile. As if slightest nudge in the right direction could send the whole kingdom tumbling to the ground in shattered pieces, but no such push came.
That is, until recently.
I stand here, my body deformed, looking on the towers as they burn to the ground. A flame so powerful burns through them that the very stones melt. The king, the queen, all of the royal lines, the dukes, the lords, the marquis, all whom bore power and authority, I gathered them there to burn. The council of flame, the young men and woman seeking knowledge of fire and all the leading pyromancers, I gathered them there to burn. The servants, the maids, the concubines and the innocent children of cruel lords, I gathered them there to burn.
As I feel the weight of my sins crawling on my back, I feel as though it would be better if I began at the beginning. But no matter where I start, from beginning to end, the tale of this land is described in fire.
Thousands of years before, a group of criminals and vile men fled a land of mages. They were hunted relentlessly, finding respite in no country or city. Finally, in a land of roaring volcanoes, they gave in and prepared to accept their fate at the end of a blade. To their surprise, their pursuers never entered this land. Turning back, they ran away before the disease could take them. A poisonous metal ran in deep veins underground, devouring magic and killing those who practiced the arts themselves.
The few criminals who formerly practiced any sort of magical art fell to the sickness relatively quickly, prompting the others to question whether or not they could stay. Their options limited, they began searching for a solution to the disease so that they would not be forced to flee into the jaws of certain death. As they sought solutions, the criminals uncovered an expansive tunnel system beneath the crust of the world. A pale race, certainly not human and terribly gripped with age, nurtured a primal flame beneath the surface. Seeing the power of the ancients in the hands of these pale ones incited great envy in the sick criminals.
Therefore, they took what they wanted, and the pale ones were no more.
This flame, this primal power, it was completely unlike anything that had ever been observed before. Beautiful, powerful,beyond mesmerizing, this power intoxicated all who used it. But just like any other fire, it should not have been played with.
-------------------
“Iliya…”
Wide, bright blue eyes stared deep into the small fire that manifested in the hands of the young boy. It dances and licked at the air, burning away without wood nor grass. Hovering inches above his hands, the boy breathed upon it, causing it to momentarily burn brighter.
“Iliya!”
Keeping it in one hand, he reached back and withdrew a pinch of powder from a pouch in his back pocket. Eating it, he made a face that attested to the disgusting taste of the fine dust. Shaking his head, he breathed once more on the flame. It danced in his hands, slowly growing bigger and closer towards the boy’s face. He seemed oblivious to the heat as it came closer and closer.
“ILIYA!”
Snapping out of his trance, the boy turned back to face a much larger man. Dressed in the heavy steel armor of a palace knight, the man poked his head in the small dormitory room and grunted.
“Pay attention in the presence of your betters, slum rat, the meeting of the lower pyromancers is to commence soon. Your presence is required, so get moving.”
As the knight stepped away from exit of the room, the boy, Iliya, stood up from his bed and stepped out the door after him. He knew better than to speak to the knight, even an acknowledgement could mean injury as his accent was considered offensive to many in the palace and worth warranting immediate physical reprimand. His grasp of the language of the Porcelain Towers was poor at best, therefore he found it best often not to speak.
Pulling up the hood of his many layered, light brown robes, Iliya walked the white halls of the palace, making his way to the throne room where the meeting would be held to determine the next graduate from the lower pyromancers. It was his once chance to improve his standing with the high pyromancers, his once chance to finally climb the bloody ladder of society. Ever since he was taken from the slums and brought here, this one day had been his dream.
Standing in the great hall, well over a hundred similarly brown robed men and women stood before a small group of men in ornate, jeweled robes. The leader, an exquisitely dressed man with a dark red jewel in center of his forehead stepped forward. His voice easily carried over the din of the crowd as he addressed the lower pyromancers. His very air commanded authority and respect, which he was certainly paid.
“To determine who is worthy of ascending to the rank of High Pyromancer, we have decided to have a Tournament of Flames. All one hundred, thirty seven of your will fight each other in bracket style matches until there remains one winner and one hundred, thirty six dead men. The contest will be held-”
Intense coughing from the crowd interrupted the High Pyromancer. At first, it was a mild annoyance, but now it had grown to a crescendo of violent heaves and vomiting. Soon, people in the crowd began dropping over, dead. The ordeal lasted less than a minute, people desperately clinging to each other, trying to escape, vomiting blood as their insides turned to mush. Standing alone, the only one left, was Iliya. The boy looked up at the High Pyromancer and spoke solemnly.
“I guess I vin.”
Shock enraptured the High Pyromancers for but a moment, then laughter consumed each one of the group. The leader, doubled over and crying from laughing so hard, took a minute before responding to the mass murderer, Iliya.
“I guess you do!”
Among a sea of blood and bile, Iliya stood alone, victorious. Every single laugh of the men before him made his blood boil, but with each dead body he stepped over, his resolve strengthened.
------------
This land was built upon a strict hierarchy, one his family learned the hard way to adhere to when they fled their home country and ended up here. At the top stood the royals, those of the ruling family, knights, and other powerful landowners. Close second were the high pyromancers, powerful wielders of the great flame. Every single high pyromancer was worth a thousand men on the battlefield. The royals and the pyromancers lived in a great marble palace, it was so bright and beautiful that from afar it appeared to be made of gentle porcelain.
Third stood the middle class, a multifaceted bulk of men and women who worked as the primary driving force of the nation. Although they had more opportunities than most, they were still restricted. If born a baker, then a baker you'd be til you die. It wasn't a particularly rewarding place to be, but it wasn't the worst of the worst. They lived on the surface, saw the sun everyday, and often wanted for nothing.
Last, at the bottom of the heap, remained the Gutter. Unclassified people, criminals, and immigrants were all forced to live underground in crude, trash filled tunnels made almost toxic by waste and residual heat from the volcanoes that occupied almost every inch of the country. Being born here was worse than a death sentence, horrible living conditions, no future, no police, the only thing available was booze and prostitutes. Unfortunately, people from far and wide still came to find refuge in the refuse, hoping to avoid death from their own country. However, perhaps death would have been better.
My family was one such group of immigrants, the last of a fortune telling caravan that told the wrong fortune to the wrong people. We once held the gift to see the future, or so my grandmother tells me, but back then we simply guessed and hoped we were right. Astute observation often helped, but it failed once and that failure was all that was necessary to send us to a place worse than death. All that was left, I thought, was to accept my fate and die. But fate had another plan.
I had the gift.
Stare into the fire enough and eventually you'll start hallucinating images, your mind desperately searching for meaning and purpose in the deadly flame. But I saw no such hallucinations, I saw the future. This gift helped me escape the slums and join the lower pyromancers. This gift helped me excel in all that I attempted, for I had observed myself attempting a million times before. For a time, all I could think about was how I could use my power to further my status.
That is, until I met her. A girl, a lower pyromancer from the slums, just like me. She was quiet, gentle, and kind. I was completely taken with her. Her beautiful black hair, her dark eyes, her seemingly perfectness, I lost sight of my own goals and devoted myself to her. She was worth every second I gave her, I would trade it for nothing and I would trade everything to have that time back. But that is not the way of the world, the world is cruel, and in my love struck blindness I could not see the impending danger right before me.
She was not good at pyromancy, and those who are not good at pyromancy disappear. When I came back to my tiny room and she was not there, I resolved to search for her, looking and feeding my denial. However, when I looked into the flame, I was shown the truth. People disappeared from the slums all the time, people disappeared among the lower pyromancers all the time, no one knew why. It was then I found out, it was then that I knew. No power comes without sacrifice, and the higher pyromancers understood this perfectly. But was it not easier to sacrifice others rather than yourself?
Every fire needed fuel to burn, the primal flame was no exception.
It was then I realized my true goal, the only goal I could possibly pursue. I would destroy this horrible system, I would cast down those who would stand upon a throne of human sacrifices, and I would destroy all pyromancers, no matter the cost.
-------------
"Do you realize why I have summoned you, Grand Pyromancer Iliya?"
The foreigner kneeling before the king shook his head and acknowledged his ruler.
"Nyet, your Majesty, but I am at your command."
"My daughter, Eleanor, must become a strong woman. She is young and far too gentle, easily taken with commoners. The primal flame would eat her alive right now, I need someone to teach her what it takes to be a ruler, someone to teach her how to make hard decisions. Among you Pyromancers, the method of ascending in ranks is often paved with ruthlessness and bloodshed, as you well know. Your ascension through your own ranks has been the bloodiest ever recorded, which is why I need you to teach her the ways of this world. Do you understand the meaning behind my words?"
"Understood."
Walking away from the throne room, darkness seemed to shadow Iliya's face as his mind drifted. Knights averted their eyes from him as they passed, and maids muttered horrific stories in hushed corners. Iliya was more than just ruthless, he was a monster. In his path to become Grand Pyromancer, he demanded a trial by fire with the former Grand Pyromancer. The battle was short and unforgiving, but what stuck in people's mind was not that Iliya won, rather it was what he requested as his victory prize. The former Grand Pyromancer's family, sacrificed to the primal flame in Iliya's name. Iliya took the position of Grand Pyromancer unchallenged when the former stepped down almost immediately following the incident.
Now, he was to teach the little princess the 'way of this world.' Indeed, not a better teacher in the world could be found other than Iliya. Pushing open the door to the library, he glanced around, looking for the young princess. After a fruitless 15 minutes of searching, Iliya gave up on his eyes. Locking the exits and clearing the area, Iliya formed a flame in his hands and gazed upon it.
"Princess Eleanor, it would be very unfortunate if I burned romance shelves. Books hard to replace, very sad."
As Iliya approaches the books with his open flame, a voice called out him right before he planned on setting fire to the shelves.
"Wait! Wait wait wait! I'm sorry, I'm coming out!"
Emerging from beneath a bookshelf nearby, a small woman pulled her dirty self up from a very well concealed hiding place. She appeared terrified, though whether it was because of who Iliya was or because of his threats he could not discern. Holding out his hand, he introduced himself.
"I am Iliya, your father vishes me to teach you pyromancy, and vays of this world."
She was not afraid of him, her fear disappeared with his flame when he moved it away from the shelves. Almost immediately she demanded.
"And if I refuse?"
Her bravery surprised him, it was not the arrogant bravery of a royal who thought themselves untouchable. Rather, it was the bravery of a young woman prepared to fight over her life and future. She could not have been more than fifteen, the same age as Iliya's own sister the last time he saw her. Cracking a small smile, he responded with.
"Vell, not much I can do. But I vill continue to visit you until you change mind, sestrichka."
"Sees trick what? What did you call me?"
"Sestrichya, it mean little sister in family tongue. You remind me of her, I miss her. Apologies, your highness."
Eleanor was quiet for a minute, before responding quietly.
"I'll give you a chance, but while you are teaching me pyromancy, you are not to hurt anyone. You also have to teach me your family's language. Do you understand?"
She was placing restrictions on him. He was free to force her to do anything he wanted in his process of showing her the way of the world, and here she was trying to tell him what to and not to do. And here Iliya was, agreeing to her demands with the full intent to obey. Pain panged his heart, and he was reminded of the family he left behind, and those he had lost.
"Of course, it vill be my pleasure."
--------------
“Princess! There ya are!”
A portly maid whom Iliya vaguely recognized burst into the large, empty library. She strutted over towards Iliya and the princess Eleanor, who sat at the feet of the Pyromancer, both watching a flame simmer and dance in Iliya’s hands. Extinguishing the flame with a quick clap of his hands, Iliya stood up and greeted the woman with open arms.
“Annabelle! Zdravstvuitye dear! How may I serve?”
Huffing, the woman responded.
“Ya cin start by releasin' Eleanor to me.”
“Releasing?”
Iliya scoffed.
“She is not prisoner, at least not mine. Regardless, what could be so urge as to interrupt lesson with me?”
“'Er presence is demanded by his majesty.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened. Iliya knew when he unlocked Eleanor’s chambers and brought her to the library without permission that something was wrong. The princess always held free reign over the castle, she was a dear sweetheart whom Iliya found to be endearing. Unfortunately, no one else seemed to view her in such favorable light. Knowing this would likely be the last time they'd ever meet, Iliya turned to Eleanor and spoke.
“Vell, I suppose there is no choice. Remember what I taught you, and you vill be fine. Dasvidanya sestrichka, I will see you again.”
Eleanor was banished that night, a light punishment compared to what anyone else might receive. But as Eleanor left the palace, she took with her the one thing holding Iliya back, herself. Once more, Iliya’s resolve strengthened.
----------------
Hundreds gathered in the throne room, Royals, Pyromancers, every single lord and landowner in the whole kingdom. Today, they celebrated the birth of a new prince, finally the king and queen possessed a successor. After the banishment of their only child nearly two decades ago, the rulers had been left with no clear line of succession, this would fix everything Eleanor screwed up. As they reveled in drink and fine food, no one took notice of one single absentee from the festivities.
Far beneath the palace, deep in the darkness of the most secret chambers, Iliya resided. Stepping over the charred bodies of the two knights who previously guarded the great iron door to the Primal flame, Iliya shoved open the massive doors with ease. Looking forward, he gazed eyes on the small, unassuming flame he had seen so many times before. It was a little thing, barely more than an ember, but it twisted and writhed like a living monstrosity. When Iliya looked deep into it, he could see the very gates of hell.
He knew what needed to be done.
---------------
Quick, painful breathes escaped the man as he clutched tight to his chest. The flame writhing and screaming within him, burning his heart and searing his very soul. But Iliya would not release it, especially not now. Looking up, he was faced with the final culmination of his life’s work. The porcelain towers, the great marble castle, engulfed in flame. Every man, woman, and child, regardless of stature, burned alive and alike within the castle, unable to escape.
When Iliya left, having stolen the flame, he sealed the doors shut. Without hesitation, he then proceeded to burn the entire castle, sacrificing all who reveled inside to feed the primal flame. With every soul that died, Iliya could feed the power of the primal flame grow, and subsequently his own power. But along with every growth of power, he felt his sins weigh heavier and heavier as they crawled upon his back. Innocent and guilty burned side by side, the flame made no distinction between the two.
The country would soon be embroiled in civil war as the middle class and the slums fought to change the system, this was the best outcome, this was the only outcome. Iliya did the right thing, he did the only thing he could. Over and over he tried to convince himself he was doing what was necessary. However, he could still feel his sins crawling on his back, like a thousand spiders biting and skittering.
He would flee, there was no other option.