The Epitome of Classical Literature (In Sanctuary)
The book seems to be pages held together by strings tied through the left side, not properly binded
The actual book is preceded by several blank pages
First Revision
Foreword
My first example of a simple piece of literature adhering to the classical style. Pardon the use of the epitome, I offer to retract the title the moment someone publishes a book of a similar style (including the division of the book into two halves, as is proper) and at least comes close to the mark, differences in method and education accounted for.
This story is told as only a performer can tell it, as a man playing to an audience. If you can follow it, find a band, let them play, and read it aloud. If you still can't make sense of it, improvise, edit, change details. It's what I always do.
Karl Karlston Brass
Book I, Part I
The Noble Knight who Travelled the Ruinous Road to Hell
There once was a man, a great man. A noble knight! No, no, I assure you, you haven't heard this one before. You may have heard a story like it, though. As I was saying, there was once a man. A great man. A noble knight! As strong as could be, you might ask? Yes, as strong as could be. Pure of heart and virtue? The purest and the most virtuous lad of his village, of course. His name? Never mind that. You know this knight, the protagonist of every tale. Fill in what descriptions you will, I'll waste not your time. Oh, mind your modesty madame, but I will confess he was a handsome man, which lead him into a good deal of trouble.
This knight of ours, our hero, we'll call him, lead a simple life. Too simple, as a matter of fact. He had now had his fill of danger, excitement, battle. Not bored by them, by any means, but he needed something. He needed a wife, he thought it would change his life, but as you married men will attest, it never works out the way you think it will.
Wiser than his age would indicate, what ever that was, he pined for a great woman. He was also a pragmatic man for his age, for the daughter's father was also a landed lord with out a son. The daughter of a Baron, on the border of a nameless kingdom. He did pine for her beneath the battlements of her father's castle
"My fair lady, I have looked upon you in the court of my lord! I will swear my love to you, if you only grant me a symbol of your affection," he did call to her, on a romantic windy night, Selune's tear's twinkling in the midnight sky, yadda yadda, you've heard it all before. And so she did answer
"Oh, and I have seen you as well, and I wish I had a knight willing to take upon my father's duties. He won't let his lands fall into ruin, though. He says the only man who can take my hand in marriage is the man who retrieves the lost sword of this land, stolen by that fell fiend Mephistopheles,"
Her words lingered in the air, awaiting the reluctant denial of our brave hero. However, he lead a simplelife. He nodded to her, and said
"Very well,"
and then he set off.
Book I, Part II
The knight was a moderately successful one, and had been granted a few lands to tend to. No longer, he sold them. His trophies, treasures, prizes, homes, extra horses, those bottles of wine put down for a special occasion (except that bottle Kornelius Jess 1292, for that was obviously a special bottle) and raised a mighty war chest. And so he did gather an army upon himself, consisting of the following. Knights, shield bearers, spear bearers, squires, men of cloth, skalds, treasure hunters, archers, wagon leaders, cartographers, even a scant few arcanists for hire.
He knew once he married his lady, he would have no need of things. All would be cared for. In this, he was a very rational man. He knew he would either be wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, or die in the attempt, and he made peace with that fact. Love is a very subtle sort of madness, especially courtly love, especially courtly love at first sight. Thus, blinded by Sune, he gathered his party in a quiet glade, on a dim starless night. He did not recognize the poor omen this was, but as we previously established, despite being haunted by familiar cliches, he did not allow them to discourage him.
The arcanists did gather, and one was of great, awe inspiring power. They did gather, as I said, but this was no gathering of men. Their power came together, and they did speak in tongues unknowable and change things unchangeable. Be that as it may, it created a change for all to see, the men looked upon from a hundered different angles, but all saw the same sight. A gaping hole in what should be, a terrible maw that showed things that could not be true in our world. Its only a city, they knew. A city in hell, as good of a place as any to begin their campaign. It was not the sky of crimson, truest reds of flames, this they knew of. It was not the spikes, the weapons, the unforgiving war like nature of the city, this they even made in their own world. It was an utter lack of the grace of gods good and fair there, and that once they passed beyond into a realm where only the soul will travel to, there would be no luck, no mercy, no gentle hand of fate. The men could not truly know what hell was like, but what they did learn peering through that ghastly gate did change them forever. They knew they would only be men there, beset upon all sides, but their honor was an even more subtle form of madness than our hero's love, and so they did march on with him.
They expected horror, they expected a fight, but they did not expected a divide among their own number. The citadel of Mephistopheles was their lofty goal, but it was the realm of another Lord of the Nine they did find. In the city of Dis they knew death lay in wait, all their maps, preparations, and plans, nigh useless. With demons on one side, devils on every other, men fell as their bedraggled souls saw fit. Many knights knew honor, and found themselves in deadly combat with demons. Many men knew repression, passion, a thirst for a better life. Other men simply knew death, and embraced what they did not know about themselves. They found themselves at the throat of devils. Our lonely hero found himself at the center of it all, but in the din of the besieged city of Dis, his voice refused to carry, and his men scattered three ways.
Book I, Part III
With a core of survivors grouped around him, he did wander this accursed city of cold steel. Wrought from unforged steel that is the demon's bane, it gave the city a surreal appearance. Always the clatter of their boots upon the unnatural cobblestones, blending into distant screams and laughs, even if they were hours apart. They did battle, carefully. Some devils attempted to corralle them, others let them pass, seeing them as an asset in the battles to come. Some demons let them pass, seeing their potential to wreak chaos in the city. However, time and time again, they were forced to fight for little reason other than existing. For days it seemed they existed as such, starving, weak, thirsty, scavenging what supplies they could, their dignity as tattered as their tabbards. To the gates they did press, away from that looming iron tower where the Lord Dispatter, pray, speak not his name more than once!
Along an overlooked alley, they did spy one of the city's major roads. But the path was blocked like many. Lamentably enough, they chose this one because it appeared to be defended by mere human conscripts, not fiends with open hands and ready inhuman malice. Ready to sooner spill the blood of man than fiend, they charged with rightous hopeful cries upon their lips. Only to have them echoed back by those they chose to fight
Some of his men had found meaning. They found order. Promised supply, weapons, information, and for the slaying of demons? And now these men were clad in cold iron, making them look much the fiends themselves. Our hero, bless his mortal heart, did balk at the sight. He stood, armed and armored as he was, staring beyond the men who raised swords against him. He did not hate, he did not blame. He merely matched gazed with the Lord of his new epihany, a Narzugon, a rare fiend, mounted ontop of a also fabled steed, the Nightmare. This Narzugon was a fiend through and through, and did possess a cat and nine tails for enforcing his will. A terribly weapon, but in a fiend's hand, it inspires emotions we did not know we had. Suddenly, the world seems a little more meek, murder a little less callous. Perhaps we should not blame the weapon, for it is only a nine pronged whip, but when a masked fiend from hell does wield it, one who's gaze is told to kill, one finds new reasons to serve evil.
And who would we be, to tell these mortal men to lay down their lives? Self sacrifice is all well and good, but I don't expect it from others.
What remained of our hero's once glorious party did clash with those who had been suborned by the fiend, and fended blows from him, killing those he had enlisted. The Narzugon gazed on, keeping our noble protagonist so entranced. I will not hold you in suspense too long, my friends, this is a story I do tell. You may suspect the hero's fate, so I will lay it out for you. His party did defeat the other, even if it was at some cost of their self love. For to take a human life will change a man, and to take the life of a man who you've broken bread with, is to change a man irrevocably.
This Narzugon did survey the men, the survivors, stooped and crouched among their men they once knew. Some even half heartedly stepped forth, but no more than steps. There is something knowing in the Narzugon's gaze, knowing your true nature, your fragile mortality. And knowing its nature, it feels as if it has power of it. It once again locked eyes with the hero, and spoke to him, even if no words were actually uttered, such was the power of this fiend.
Book I, Part IV
The hero wanted to cry out to this beast, one last yell of defiance. Each cry was a whisper. Each shout a whimper. Every call for death silence. Thusly, the Narzugon spoke to his mind
"You have done me a service, though you know not how. These men were weaker than yours, and I thought myself the chief among manipulators. Even better yet, you have brought the arcanist who brought you to this place, by no accident. A binder of demons he is, and he seeks the secrets of the City of Dis. There is no better place to bind a demon than our Iron Tower, as he will soon learn. Now come, and claim your rightful reward,".
He prayed for his death to be swift, for once not because of his bravery, but despite it. The fiend did lead him on, his once proud arcanist bound in a cat and nine tails, using a thousand and one curses man has invented, and some they had not. The fiend had heard them all, however, and marched ever onwards. That Iron Tower did loom high in that burning sky, but every fiend made room for them to pass, demon and devil alike. They looked on, with the curiosity of men, and knew what the man did not.
Even the tower's gates yielded before their group, to flight upon flight of stairs. Gentle listeners, know I can not tell you of the misery. Of the anguish. Of the stairs taller than the longest journey of your life. Why would fiends build stairs when they can travel where their mind wishes at will? For us, kind listeners. Know what awaits you. Our hero, here unjustly, took them with dignity, for he was ready for his fate.
He did look down upon this city, from landing to landing, and knew why there were Lords of Hell. Hardened as he was by what had happened, callous thanks to his impending fate, he could almost see the bueaty of this stretching, organized, orderly of orderly cities. However, he was still a man yet, and turned his gaze away.
They did find a final landing, you knew they must, yes? I've overestimated my potential if I think I can tell you of a Lord of Hell. Sleep, my audience. Sleep in your darkest thoughts, and dream of those dreams you would never have realized, but tempt you regardless. Seeing yourself in your dreamscape, ontop of the macabre pile of your dead enemies and obstacles, is the merest fraction of his image. Humbling enough, he spoke well enough in a voice like yours or mine, making his image all the more horrible.
The words? Oh, the words! The granduer, the scope! The brevity, the malice, the concision. We know them not. The hero was lost for words, so the Lord of the Iron may have well have said this
"Worry not if you are unworthy for my presence, for none are. Worry not if you are to die, for you were doomed the moment you were born. Worry not if this is your fate, for you will be judged in time. Claim today only your just reward for this summoner of the damned, and know some degree of your repose before your soul is truly mine,".
Book I, Part V
Our hero did awake, in that fateful clearing. Alone, naked, with the sword of his lady's father. Indebted to the Lord of the Third Mephistopheles was, and this sword's work was not done. Into a likely mortal's hand it was thrust, and so he set forth heedless to the lands of his lady to be. When he reached them, he found the land changed, but not in a clear way. He did march forth careless of those who looked on, for wielding that cold iron blade, he was more dreaded than mocked.
The men gave him passage when he reached the castle upon the border of the nameless kingdom, for the look in the man's eye spoke more than the blade ever could. He was followed, but not stopped, into the court of the father of his lady. He stood before the Baron and his daughter, only a sword between the three of them. The Baron and lady had changed as the land had, they had aged by the years.
Looking upon them, he knew he had aged too. Gone was the strength, of the strength he once had. The pureness of heart, the virtue of youth, had been left behind in another realm. Everything that made him the expected hero to be had fled him, but his heart still yearned, thus he hopefully gazed upon the lady.
He knew, however. With all his being, he knew, and feared. Married and wed she was, and this he thought on while the Baron did lay curses upon him. Demanding explanation, identity, meaning, honor, all these things, while the lady wept. Our hero did not resist the Baron, for his last cause, the love of his lady, was lost to him. Then, upon that very floor, he did expire and breathe his last breath.
Book I, Epilogue
That nameless castle on the nameless border of the nameless kingdom is no mark on any map anymore. The servants, the courtiers, the men all fled this place, one by one. In time, even the animals shunned it, the rule of the new baron cut short by his disappearance. It is good this place is lost, for surely the dead knight would lie restless if given reason to curse all those who live.
And thusly I conclude my classical tale, reminding aspiring heros that those who travel the road to hell find it. One way, or another.
There seems to be a copious amount of blank pages after the end, with a note scrawled at the bottom of the last page
Note I really do believe every good classic is divided into two only vaguely related stories, but I'm running out of ink, so this will do for now. KB