Young Writers Society

The Church teaches that it was the hauteur of mankind that brought sin into the world. And it was so, as the ignorant sought to reach the Face of God, that it was in their effort to become deities – to reign over the Earth of which the Architect gave them command of. And so they tried to usurp the status of Godhood, and the wicked were purged from the land, making way for the hearts of the true and bold. Thus our Faith began, contrasting with the pagan ways of the misguided, and of the fey, and of the ora’keth, and of the atheism of the dwarves. But do absolutes exist? Who decides the wicked from the just? Nothing is true. Fact is no less real from fantasy. Are we not those who measure the reality? Are we not the ones who discern between the argument over who be wicked and who be just? Nothing is true, as is not the world. The Church too teaches us to do as is written in the Belian, the Word of the Architect. Yet it forgets one simple thing: God’s Word was written by man. For is man not vile? Is man not the lying beast of which he himself has so vigorously asserted. Men lie. Men cheat. Men steal. Men kill. How could such a race elevate itself to godhood, when it has already tried and failed? All the same, our Church teaches us that we have done just that, yet it combats humility, and has us reach for the stars. The world is not as it used to be. How the Child would be ashamed. The hubris of Man runs wild with the horses in the fields, and swims through the depths like the fish in the sea. Nothing is true. After all, was it not the Prophet who said, “Man is the measure of the Universe?”

-A Culled Heretic

______________________________________________________________________________

Darkness comes,

The light goes dark,

Shadows loom,

World falls apart,

And days grim

Time claims the earth,

All seems lost

When the end doth start,

“Shattered Crowns”, Stanza I

The Carpenter’s Exordium

______________________________________________________________________________

“…and what of Caenterin?” the chancellor asked, pensively stroking his chin as he addressed the convocation - in a tone that sounded as if it were an uncanny combinination of concern and detachment.

“It shall be torn asunder,” the archetect replied, “as the world that surrounds the wretched place.”

The carpenter watched.

“The land deserves it!” a young man dressed in fine garb ardently declared. “The men of the land have sinned enough.”

“Aye,” an older man agreed. “And I have witnessed it firsthand. The deprevation of society. The men are unwise in their actions. They are who clobber their own countries to death.”

The carpenter watched.

The warlock who co-led led the Symposium, dressed in his red and brown robes, spoke. “We all have no reason to discuss the fate of isolated areas of the earth. It will all be culled, and then be reborn anew. We all know what arises in the East, and what prepares to come from the North. Heaven seeks to strike once more if the hearts of men fail to change. It is the duty of the wise to change the hearts of men, even if it means the enactment of drastic measures. The world’s fall may be averted if the wise intervene.”

One of the many archetects, a man with the face of a naïve child, said: “I’ve grown up in a world where the prospect of war grows with each coming day. Peace on earth and goodwill to men is the dream of us all. And so it all darkens as the days and nights wear on.”

The boy spoke the truth. The mind of youth is a wonderful thing. It is known by all, but admitted by few. Grimness rose higher into the night as time passed, its ascension generally accepted to have been nearly a century earlier, with the outbreak of the Great Continental War. Once it had ended, the economies of the great nations and kingdoms in the Occident collapsed into nearly irreparable oblivion, the only thing able to mend the strife being a second war, almost as atrocious as the first.

Conflict then continued in the form of silent standoffs between the two “Great Aggressors”: Occidea and the Dale. Even after the “War of the Whispers,” and the various proxy conflicts came to a close, tensions still ran ever high. Not even twenty years had passed, and the land was once again at war.

It was not the world this time, but only the Alliance, which stood against the Noorkings. The members of the Symposium knew that the Alliance would win once the magi intervened, even though the people of Caenterin lived in blissful ignorance. Many believed that the Order would refuse to pick a side, but in the end, each person must choose where he or she stands.

Apathy is death.

The carpenter spoke.

“My friends,” he said amiably, gesturing with his hands, a common Ithilian trait, “I agree with what has been said, but can the hearts and minds of the kings of Caenterin and the rulers of the Wider World not be changed? Surely death would strike fear into them enough to change their evil ways.”

“No, Brother Geppetto,” the Grand Archetect, head of the fraternity, replied calmly. “We’ve tried that, and such has not worked. It is time for the Grand Plan. But remember, we are saving the world, not destroying it. To do what is right, we are to bring it to its knees.”

“Yes, mio amico, but what of the good? I have seen it. The fey especially, and the good boys of virtue, and the crickets that chirp into the ears and make men wise.”

A highborne archon of the feyish race stepped forward. “My people are dying, and they have become arrogant and blind, still holding onto the pretentious ideals of gods and superficial divinity. Let their idols protect them as the world burns.”

Antonio Geppetto was a realist at heart, but he was not without love or compassion. But this was but one example of the diversity of the men and women that attended the Symposium. They came from all over the world to attend this one single meeting, which would undoubtedly shape the land in the coming years. Many were rich and many were poor. Religion was indiscriminate. Some men were monks serving the religions of the east, while others were priests in all echelons of the Church. Many too were godless. But, while to each his own, all men were created equal in the eyes of whatever it was that existed. For it was relative. The religions and faiths for which the faithful served were but a mask for their true nature. For some, serving false faiths were for the greater good, which was reshaping the world into a land of peace and justice. But did it matter in the end?

Antonio looked around the dark, stone sanctum, gazing into the eyes of each and every one of his compatriots. “What our sages have predicted, each and every terror shall not come to pass for many years, probably well after I have been lowered into the ground. Do we not have time to try and change the land into something of beauty? Caenterin in particular?”

Some of the other members of the convocation nodded in agreement. They were right to. Good men did not have to die for some sort of greater purpose. After all, Antonio was a good, common man. Those that stood before the Circle were people of all walks. Many too were impoverished, and many too were fathers. That is what the old man lived for now, his son. That is why he wanted a better world. That is why he joined the Archetects, guild and trade related reasons aside. It was as much a secret society as it was a fraternity of gifted merchants, warriors, and commonfolk, and Antonio had been a member for years, having risen into a place of esteem prestige within the Brotherhood’s ranks.

And then, she spoke.

“As much as I’d like to agree with the words of the cynics in the room, I align myself with the words of Brother Geppetto.” Antonio was both pleased and astonished. Madame K was one of the most respected attendees at the Symposium. The entire council respected her, Antonio knew, but no one outwardly proclaimed such a truth. It was obvious. The many dozen men and women in the room always listened to every word she said. She was over a decade Antonio’s junior, probably in her early forties, but vibrant and beautiful in her own way, her brownish blonde hair having lost very little of its colour to the onset of grays and whites. Several wrinkles lined her face, but none detracted from the mixture of vibrancy and wisdom.

Few knew her story, but as far as Antonio knew, she was a member of the Magi Order, only one of about four or five Symposium attendees who claimed to be so. But she never affiliated herself with her alleged brethren, keeping to herself much of the time. It perplexed many of the members that she was one of the most influential among them. Many had theories as to how she achieved such significance, a popular one being that she slept with the wizards, priests, and archetects who organized the Symposiums. However, Antonio had a far less misogynistic view. Madame K had sound rhetoric. She was smart. She was wise. Manipulation came in other forms, and sometimes even sheer intelligence was enough. No matter how Madame K achieved such respect, it was clear that she would be an important player in the events to unfold.

“The world has practically fallen, Madame,” the Grand Archetect responded. “The time of execution draws near. We can’t avoid the inevitable.”

Madame K rolled her eyes. “Your lack of faith in the world is disturbing.”

The two glared at one another.

The chancellor made an attempt to intervene. “Madame, Archetect. I understand that your opinions differ substantially, but we are all friends here.” The manner in which he said it was nothing but superficial. Not all of the Symposium were friends. Many were, in truth, rivals, out in the real world. All they had in common was membership of the conclave. That mutuality aside, many rivalries extended into the inner sanctum. But Madame K and the Grand Archetect did not know each other outside of the convocation, as far as Geppetto was aware. That could have been because the former’s identity was technically unknown. If she were magi, it would make sense. They were all a dime a dozen.

The Symposium was called such for a reason. Each person was responsible for bringing something unique to the gathering – ideas.

The old warlock smiled. “I will profess my agreement with my friend the Madame here,” he said. “And with the carpenter.”

This made Geppetto relieved. While it was well known that the warlock, whoever he was, was a close ally of Madame K, it was always a good sign to have him on your side. While the chancellor, a venerable spellcaster himself, could not take a public stance on an issue, his second could.

“Very well then,” the chancellor proclaimed with a nod, clearly having made a decision. “We shall do what we have always done. We will put it to a vote. To make it simple, we shall take no more suggestions. We will either execute the plan, or try and use our influence to heal the land, and prepare for what is to come. If there is no success within a fortyear of winters, we will meet here once more.” He looked around the chamber.

Most people placed their hands on their hearts in agreement. “It will be done.”

“Good. We will begin. All in favour of purging the land raise both hands into the air.”

Many did. Men from all walks of life. Even friends of Geppetto’s. Naturally, those radical individuals in support of the purge endorsed it, such as the old man, the highborne, and the youth who spoke earlier. The warlock took a couple of minutes and counted each hand raised. “One hundred, and fifty five, my lord.”

The chancellor nodded expressionless. “All in favour of postponing the Symposium, raise both hands.”

Geppetto instantly lifted both his right and left into the air, along with Madame K. Much to his pleasure, many others followed suit, and once it seemed that all had raised their hands, the warlock scanned the room and began the count.

Geppetto realized that a handful of men did not raise their hands either time, most likely apathetic to the outcomes of both decisions. The warlock reached the end of the sequence, an uncomfortable look on his face. This is it, isn’t it? Geppetto thought. The world’s end.

The warlock gulped.

“How many?” the chancellor asked.

“One hundred and fifty-five, counting myself.”

The chancellor stroked his pointy, white goatee. “A tie then. It seems that we look on to those who have not voted to decide the fate of the world.” It was half a joke, Geppetto knowing that the so-called “grand plan” of the Symposium would not lead to some worldwide cataclysm. But altogether, the statement seemed to give those that did not vote some anxiety.

There was a great pause for a long while, until, finally, someone raised a hand. The individual was no older than eighteen. Fear was in his eyes, clearly shaken by the fact that he would be the decider.

The chancellor turned and slowly faced in the direction of the young man, who was on the complete other side of the immense circle. “Speak.”

What followed was an unintelligible mumble, of which few could probably hear. It was nervousness.

He was shaking.

“I’m sorry, brother, but could you please speak up?

“I vote in favour of Madame K.” He sighed. Most likely of relief, thought Geppetto.

The chancellor nodded. “So be it.”

Men Grumbled.

More cheered in silence, including Geppetto.

But Madame K was the exception, out of all of those who were in favour of prolonging the Grand Plan. She looked no different than she did earlier – enigmatically stoic and beautiful, as always. But Geppetto knew that she was pleased. She would get her way, and rightly so. Caenterin would be spared, or, at least, for another two decades.

“Come, we have much to prepare for,” the chancellor said in a serious tone. “We each have our parts to play. We shall again convene twenty years from now, to the day.”

Every man and woman nodded in understanding, regardless of his or her opinion on the subject. The meeting was now over. Nothing else would be said. All of the Symposium’s attendees once more became reduced to the mediocrity of which they were not but six hours prior.

Geppetto – carpenter, archetect, puppeteer, father – left the sanctum without saying another word.