Memoirs of Hysteria-A Terrible Decision is Made.

Taking this story back to where in the timeline it was before, the last two Hysteria posts were out of order and later in the story.  For the posts in proper timeline order, please refer to the order in the menu. This occurs after Memoirs of Hysteria, Wherein a Cat Speaks Very Fast.  Thanks for reading! Please feel free to share if you enjoy.

-Perplexing

---

Out of breath, red faced, dripping sweat, smelling like a man desperately in need of a bathing, Lord Antoine Lua, Lordling of Hysteria, prideful protectorate of the Lily Dynasty, collapsed and sunk into the multi cushioned seat beside the giant-sized gilded throne. Why beside it? Less anyone forgets that none are above the greatness of the Flower Emperor. Except if one were a god or goddess.

A tall, lanky court herald enters through the extravagantly carved throne room doors. Pi has a perpetual smirk on his face, sharing a private joke with himself, though he’s unaware of this.

“Lord Antoine, I announce the arrival of Lady Kaliana, who comes in response to your request for an advisor.” Pi bows, and scurries to a corner of the room to be forgotten for the next eight or so hours.

Cue the arrival of such a being to challenge the rule of the Flower Emperor, though all present knew not. Trailed closely by her foul-tempered compatriot and stoic manservant, Lady Kaliana appears to hover a mere inch above the tiled floors. This alarmed the two knights that flanked the empty throne, Knight Captain Roas and Knight Mentor Kanti, though they showed no sign of their inner turmoil. Having risen through the ranks during Gilgamesh’s reign, the two had seen enough oddities that compartmentalizing the unreal had become second nature.

Ji, upon its perpetual black cloud, suddenly speeds ahead of Kali and Tin Fiddle, stopping directly in front of Antoine. It leans its head forward, black-skinned snout sniffling loudly as it deeply inhales Antoine’s salty fumes. Before the pair of knights can respond to any perceived threat, Ji has spun around on the spot, nods towards Lady Kaliana, and zooms out of the room, slamming the doors behind its exit.

Tin Fiddle, his perpetual scowl upon his face, his storm-cloud eyes focused on nothing, yet taking in everything, sees no threat to his mistress (although he notices an oddly patterned feline chewing on paper among the ceiling beams). He bows deeply to Lady Kaliana, completely ignoring the lordling and his knights, then takes his place to her right, arms crossed, hands hovering over hidden pommels.

Lady Kaliana flashes a ridiculously white smile towards the sitting nobleman and bobs a slight curtsy. She then offers a perfectly manicured hand, palm down, to Antoine, who stares down at the proffered hand, confused.

“Um.”

Tin Fiddle’s head is now on swivel, regarding everything, and speaks from the side of his mouth, as he stares up at the cat sitting in the rafters. “A nobleman kisses a lady’s hand, given the opportunity.”

Antoine gulps nervously and manages to blabber out, “But I’ve never even heard of her! And who are you to even make demands of one of my stature?”

The manservant goes still, then growls. “Her Lady Kalinia, Blessed of the Maker, graced with His Wisdom, of the Autumn’s Embrace, has traveled a distance greater than you can fathom, to answer your call for advice worthy of your ’empire’.” Tin Fiddle’s suddenly flat and almost lifeless eyes now bore into the Lordling’s. “Show some respect.”

The lordling, sweating even more profusely than before he sat down, stands and approaches the lady. As he reaches an arms length away, Lady Kaliana pulls back, and sniffs in disdain.

“Sir, you wreak something terrible. I would suggest next time you run your ten laps that you bathe before entertaining a guest.”

Antoine mutters something indistinguishable.

“Pardon?”

“Twenty.”

Lady Kaliana arches a thin eyebrow. “Twenty what?”

“I sprinted twenty laps around this bloody city, I’ll have you know!” Antoine exclaims, then points an accusing finger at his Knight Captain. “This vile soldier ordered me to, and then demanded I greet you right away!”

Slowly shaking her head, Knight Captain Roas frowns. “No, sir, I told you to bathe afterwards. You said that you were ready to meet your guests.”

Antoine stamps his foot down in frustration. “Damnit, Captain, I will do as I please! I rule this protectorate!”

Lady Kaliana smiles endearingly. “As we can all see, your Lordling, you rule with such grace. Like my dear manservant has said, I am here only to offer my services in guiding your protectorate to its fullest potential.”

Antoine returns to his seat, rests his chin in his hand, and stares suspiciously at the beautiful woman before him. “I see. And what do you require in return, dear Lady?”

The would-be advisor reaches into the purse tied to her belt, and pulls out a piece of parchment. (At the sound of crinkling paper, Annie the cat’s ears perk up.) “Please, sir, approve this document for me, and with your signature, I will be at your beck and call.” She winks, an obscenely flirtatious gesture.

Antoine blushes deeply. “A-a-and your pet monkey and manservant as well?”

Lady Kaliana’s mouth turns down in distaste. “Ji is not a monkey. Ji is a…diplomat of its’ people. Please refrain from referring to my associate as such.”

“My deepest apologies.”

“As for them being available to you, unfortunately that is not negotiable. But please, be assured that everything that they do is in my best interest.” She hands the parchment over to the lordling, who begins perusing over it. (Soft purring can be heard from above.)

Lordling Antoine produces a pen from the inner breast pocket of his robe, then hurriedly signs it. He returns the pen to its home, hands the document to Knight Mentor Kanti, then grins idiotically and claps his hands together. “I now pronounce you my advisor!”

Lady Kaliana’s tone turns cold. “Excellent, then I will begin with tasking your workers in building a residence for me across from the city cemetery. I will let you know when I am ready to begin the tasks of my post.” Neglecting to curtsey, she turns on her heel, and glides silently to exit the room. She stops at the doors, impatient, and yells at the herald, Pi. “Open the doors, cretin!”

Pi shakes himself from his daydreams, and scrambles to open the doors. Lady Kaliana then exits. Tin Fiddle, nearly glaring, shakes his head at the man in the chair, glances up at the cat, then follows suit.

Knight Mentor Kanti is staring in disbelief at the document in her hands, then shows it to Knight Captain Roas beside her, who chokes.

“You signed this?”

Antoine nods. “I did! My signature is right there at the bottom!”

“Do you even understand what she asks for?”

“Yes.”

Knight Captain Roas’ face reddens in anger. “Then are you insane?”

“The royal therapist may have mentioned something along those lines…but no, I am sound of mind. I appreciate your concern though!”

“But…but…”

Antoine taps a finger to his temple. “Although some of the wording was a little difficult to comprehend at points…”

Knight Captain Roas shoves the paper back into Knight Mentor Kanti’s hands, and rushes from the room, murderous thoughts in her mind. Knight Mentor Kanti looks down, unbelieving at the accursed thing.

“You know what this means, right, sir?”

“Not a clue.”

“Oh…”

“She seemed trustworthy.”

“You just met her!”

“So? I consider myself an exemplary judge of character.”

Knight Mentor Kanti represses a scream. “You didn’t even ask her qualifications.”

“Not necessary!” Lordling Antoine raises a finger in a victorious gesture. “She has an exquisite simian associate who rides upon a cloud and a terrifying manservant! Only important people have these!”

The soldier mutters under her breath. “I can’t see why this empire is sprinting towards dis-”

“Pardon? Speak up!”

“Nothing, Lord.”

An Abandoned Son-Hell Hath No Fury.

Sorry about going silent. Essays, work, exams, repeat. This be something else I’ve been working on…funny how something so short can sometimes take a while to get kind of right. I’ll probably put up a couple small pieces of it up in the next posts. Feel free to let me know if its something people are interested in reading more of.

-Perplexing

---

Snow lightly fell at an angle upon the frozen ground. The stink of evacuated bowels and the taste of spilled blood dominated the senses. Thousands of corpses littered a giant circle around two figures facing each other. The first was a tall black skinned man, his overly muscled physique naked except for blood and a loincloth. His shaven head glistened with a light sheen of sweat, chest rising and falling slowly, breath curling as he exhaled. Bright amber cat like eyes glared down at the short woman across from him. The crown of her silver haired head reached no higher than his stomach. He leveled the gore drenched tip of his spear at the diminutive woman’s pale throat.

“Move, witch.”

“Witch…” she whispered, then glanced at the prone body behind her. Her violet lips thinned. The corner of her left eye twitched. She folded her petite hands in front of her mid drift. The falling snowflakes slowed then stopped as she turned to face the towering warrior.

When she spoke, her melodic voice was sharply edged.

“You use that word as if it is demeaning…” The icy wind disappeared abruptly. Any of the minimal warmth left in the air disappeared. Her tone rose higher.

“As if it has been stripped of all it’s power…” The would-be predator standing across from her began to find it difficult to breathe as the air thinned.

“As if one and all had not knelt before me in awe and fear…” The onyx skinned warrior fell to his knees, dropping his weapon, and grasping his throat, choking, suffocating.

“Do you know who you attempt to challenge?” The woman’s cold, blue eyes had begun to glow with an azure flame.

“Does your Patron forget who I am?” she shrieked.

On the edge of consciousness, the warrior had fallen upon his face, his oxygen deprived brain shutting down.

The angered woman took a step forward, raising her thin arms, fists alight with indigo fire.

The man’s body jolted up, a discarded marionette suddenly pulled upright by its strings. His almond shaped eyes burst open, pupils swiveling in all directions, terrified. A bestial roar erupted from his slack mouth. The woman recognized the essence of the Patron that had entered the man’s body and was unimpressed. An enormous sable furred hunting cat had blurred then solidified, taking the warrior’s place.

She waited for it to address her. Instead the feline wasted no time in fleeing swiftly southeast, loping its way across the empty tundra landscape.

The blaze had died in her slanted eyes and quenched from her hand.

She flashed her pearl white teeth in a feral, hungry grin.

“I am the Witch.”

Memoirs of Hysteria-The Hawk with the Desert Rose

Check out the first entry of the Memoirs here!

One short one to follow up the other because I’ve fallen behind. ALSO. Favorite quote from the Malazan series.

-Perplexing.

---

To say he was out of place would not necessarily be wrong, for some of the people fleeing and screaming past him gave the briefest of consideration as to why a drunk homeless man was reclining against the burning tavern’s outer wall, his arms wrapped tightly around a clay jar of sour wine. He drummed his fingers along the container, playing a marching tune that had not been heard in the Protectorate of Hysteria for the last half century. The drunk tipped the jar back and finished the liquid contents, then wiped the alcohol from his lips with a dirty sleeve.

“You told me I would be done with this shit,” he muttered to no one in particular. “Told me I wouldn’t have to deal with any of the,” he spits the next word, “ injustices anymore.” The homeless man smashed the pot upon the cobblestones in anger.

“Gilgamesh!” he shouted at the flames surrounding him. “You asshole, you promised me that if I just sat here and drank to oblivion, I would know peace until the end of my days!” He stood up, wobbling for a moment before finding his balance unaided.

“This is the absolute last fucking time I clean up a mess for this God’s damned empire.”

The suddenly sober man glared down at the tattooed hawk inked onto the inside of his right wrist. In its claws it clutched a desert rose.

“I’m tired of this Hero shit!”, the man screamed.

He exhaled deeply, began to inhale and coughed as the poisonous smoke entered his lungs. Scowling, he spat the toxic taste out of his mouth, then raised his right hand to his mouth. He sank a sharpened canine tooth deep into the flesh between his thumb and forefinger, then squeezed the wound to let the blood flow freely. The odd man dipped his left index finger into the crimson liquid, then drew a line through the middle of the inked hawk upon his wrist. The blood suddenly boiled against his skin, but he was numb to it after all this time.

At first, only hinted at in the palm of his hand, a tiny sparkle briefly glanced, erupted into a blindingly bright light. He focused the light into a lance that legends had come to name the Ninth Weapon.

The man shrugged his ragged cloak from his shoulders and stood, lean, lithe and naked to the world. The radiance from the lance began to creep, spreading slowly over the hand clutching it. Surrendering to the light, he let the brilliance envelop his entire being.

Shining angelic wings unfurled. The Hero glanced at the five serpentine beasts dominating Hysteria’s flaming horizon.

“Fucking dragons.”

It would appear, my dear listeners, that one last Hero of the Lily Dynasty had neglected to shirk his duties.

Memoirs of Hysteria-Power Begets Power

Check out the first entry of the Memoirs here.

Hysteria burned. Flames flickered along the rooftops and city walls. High above the blaze, its serpentine body wrapped around the keep’s highest tower, an ivory white scaled dragon stayed motionless. To Bors nocturnal vision at this distance, it appeared the beast wasn’t even breathing.

“It would appear someone has irked Yolavolys,” he commented.

Tin Fiddle snorted. “That’s an understatement.”

His troll companion shrugged. “I wonder what ignited her ire.”

“Pi.”

Bors nodded to himself. “No surprise there. Is it known what he did this time?”

“He took her dinner away before she had finished.” Tin Fiddle smiled at the screams in the distance. “And here I thought Ji loved its meals the most. This is very entertaining.”

Bors continued to stare at the blazing living tableau set before him and the manservant. “Your Lady is going to be displeased that her city is aflame.”

“Probably.”

“Shouldn’t you be assisting her in deescalating the situation?”

Tin Fiddle yawned, taking a seat upon the hilltop, leaning his back against the oak tree’s wide trunk. “You would assume so, wouldn’t you?” He pointed at four sets of coalescing lights taking place around Yolavolys. “I don’t feel like dealing with them.”

“And who are they?”

“The Four Points of the Celestial Body.”

Bors placed his deformed face in his gnarled hands. “You neglected to mention that Yolavolys was the Celestial Body.”

Tin Fiddle giggled like a mischievous boy. “I never did, did I?”

Crunch.

“You really have to stop hitting me.” The manservant pulled himself from the impression that his body had made in the tree’s trunk.

“You have to stop not informing me of the shitstorms you keep dragging me into,” Bors rebutted.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Tin Fiddle contested.

Bors squinted at the lights as they began to take form. “So the four following her around all the time…”

“To be honest, I didn’t think I had to spell it out for you. You knew that Iris was a dragon. I figured you’d do the arithmetic.” Tin Fiddle looked to the four dragons that had finally materialized around Yolavolys.

The massive beasts had taken their place of protection in accordance with each one’s aspect. One hovered above the keep tower, its’ ice blue scales causing the air to begin steaming and fogging from the immense difference of temperature between it and the inferno below it.

“Shukshik the Northern Star.”

Tin Fiddle pointed at the second dragon who was almost indistinguishable from the flames it had begun to draw from its surroundings.

“Selena the Southern Star.”

The third dragon’s bronze, earthy scaled body coiled upon itself in the air to the east of Yolavolys.

“Anya the Eastern Star.”

Tin Fiddle smiled dumbly as he looked upon the fourth and final Point of the Celestial Body, emerald scales shining hauntingly.

“Iris the Western Star.”

“F-f-ive dragons?” Bors managed to stutter out.

“Five.”

Bors face adopted a thoughtful appearance. “I assume that this Alignment is nothing compared to last century’s…?”

“Kali says there’s never been a more potent Alignment ever seen.” Tin Fiddle picked up the pack that had flown from his back. He reached in and offered up a handful of candied walnuts to the troll. “Here, take a handful. This firework show isn’t even in full swing.”

“Oh.” Bors tossed his maul to the ground, took a seat beside his friend and had one of the offered snacks. The pair sat in silence for a few short minutes, nibbling upon their food. “I suddenly do not care,” Bors said around a crunchy mouthful, “about the fate of this city.”

“Me neither.”

“Why has your Mistress not compelled you yet? I thought her thirst for power would extend to wanting those five as trophies. Certainly-”

A blood chilling scream came from Tin Fiddle as he clutched at his abdomen.

Bors sighed. “There it is.” He looked up sharply at the sudden black cloud coming from the direction of the city’s graveyard. Focusing his eyes further, he saw that it was no cloud at all. “The Sister moves, I see.”

A pained breath escaped Tin Fiddle.

“I’m-”

Boom. A sudden thunderbolt struck down from the sky, slamming into the baker’s district of the city. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Six more lightning strikes. Six more times they landed in the same destination. Bors bit his bottom lip nervously. “The Fallen rises.” He looked down at his friend. “What were you saying, Toernslaav?”

Another shot of pain ran through Tin Fiddle’s body. “I said, I’m going to-”

The sentence was cut off by the avalanche of dead brown and orange leaves falling from the tree above them. The warm summer night had turned to a crisp cold. The foliage along the hilltop had lost all moisture, dying in the span of an inhalation. A death tinged wind blew from the south, scattering the leaves from the troll and the man.

Tin Fiddle went still beside Bors, his laboured breaths and erratic spasms ceasing. Bors turned his head and was aghast at what he saw.

Where his lifelong friend had been, an apparition of shadow lay, staring straight up at the sky. The shadow of the man who was known now as Tin Fiddle, rose to a sitting position, then to his feet. The tattoo chains upon his right forearm had lengthened, and taken upon a solid form, leaving three feet of shadowy linked steel covering Tin Fiddle’s star metal hand. He reached his left arm forward in front of him into what he would later tell Bors was the Abyss. What he drew out from the realm of absolute nothingness, could only really be described as a weapon, dagger shaped, forged from, well, the idea of nothing.

“Toernslaav…”

Tin Fiddle slowly turned his face to Bors. His eyes were completely absent of life, turned to dead, black coals.

“I’m going to kill her.”

Bors did not ask who her was.

“Have you ever wanted to murder a goddess, brother?” The thing that was Tin Fiddle, once, long ago, known as Toernslaav, did not wait for a response and took off sprinting down the hill towards Hysteria.

Never waste an opportunity.

The ogre-sized troll stood and reached down to pick up his trusted maul, taking the haft in one gnarled hand.

“No, brother, I never have.” He began taking long, loping strides to catch up to his friend, hoping to pull him back from the darkness that had overtaken him before catastrophe occurred.

If anyone listened close enough, through the screams of citizens burning, and fleeing their beloved homes, one may have caught the notes coming from a lute, the heart wrenching prelude of tragedy.

Let us pull back to gain a view of the painting as a whole, my captive audience. See, there, the impossibly tiny shadow driven to live on through Death by revenge, racing towards a city of legend ablaze, pursued by an ancient of the Earth bound to this shadow by ties stronger then blood. Upon the horizon, see the white serpent encircled by her eternal guardians, the Four Points of the Compass embodied. A hurricane of ravens snuffs flames and lives indiscriminately. Lightning strikes its step throughout the dying city. Autumn’s wind rushes towards the Celestial Body.

Isn’t the convergence of power a beautiful thing?

Memoirs of Hysteria-Drunk Philosophy

Steven Erikson’s philosophizing is most of the time thought provoking, although its weird how he has some average grunt soldier expounding upon some crazy shit. What follows here is not supposed to make sense. It’s exactly what happens when an extremely drunk person tries to be deep. Sometimes there’s a tiny bit of truth, but the rest, well, oh boy.

-Perplexing.

---

“Why,” asked the sufficiently inebriated village idiot, “do they always come in threes? I don’t understand it. Did the gods and goddesses all sit down at some elaborately carved and overtly gold encrusted and jeweled dinner table and come up with some universal rule?”

His drinking partner, a lad with considerably more active brain cells, stared at the ceiling, prepared for the philosophical ramblings that only a true drunkard came up with.

“I’ll tell you how it went, yes, I will. You see, there were all the pantheon having one of their monthly Godling meetings, right. And then one of them young gods just had to go and ask the question of how many people it took to cause the world changing events. And the Creator, well he became all excited and went overboard with making these rules. I tell ya, this is exactly how the conversation went:

“(The Creator nodded his head, allknowinglingly. That’s a word, damnit, don’t look at me like that) ‘Alright, since you’ve asked, my young friend, today we will determine the amount of people needed to cause sufficient change in the world.‘

(The young godling smiled optimistically). ‘For the better?’

‘No, for the worse.’

‘That’s not what I really meant when I suggested the topic…’

‘Bah, peaceful is boring! I need strife, turmoil and sweet, sweet suffering. Happiness is overrated.’

‘Um, I see your point, I guess. Can we approve the number needed to make the world a peaceful place though? Just in case your idea, slim may its chances be, causes some irreversible damage and everything ceases to exist.’

‘You’re not going to let this be, are you?’

‘No.’

(A booming sigh). ‘Fine. One person can bring the world back to its proper balance.’

‘Excellent-‘

‘But, only after they have been brought down to their lowest, suffered terribly, and have sacrificed everything they cared deeply for.’

‘That’s a bit extreme-‘

‘No more out of you! Your suggestion has been accepted.’

‘Who made you the boss?’

‘I did. I created everything.’

(A godling from the peanut gallery chips in). ‘He’s not wrong.’

(The young godling looks around the room for any support). ‘Death, do you not care about the severity of which He suggests?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. Does anyone here care?’

(The silence dominates the room).

(The Creator smirks). ‘Are you done with this whole caring about the well being of life and the world?’

‘It would appear so.’

‘Excellent! So back to this rule of three’s.’

‘Oh that’s the number we’re going with?’

‘Yes, stop interrupting. There shall be One who leads, One who is subservient, but only because they are given the freedom to fulfill all their whims and desires, while the last One is not given the choice to follow. This last One shall be able to choose to betray the One who leads if offered the opportunity.’

‘Wait, does that last part not defeat the purpose of having them together to end existence?’

‘It makes things interesting. Who knows what will occur?’

‘Can this third be the one who saves the world?’

(A thoughtful expression crosses the Creator’s face). ‘Why…Yes, possibly. I am taking a shine to this train of thought.’

‘But then you’re contradicting that your goal is for bad things to happen.’

(The Creator carries on, oblivious to the young god). ‘Or, this third, in betraying the One who leads, could be the combustion necessary to cause even more terrible acts then what would happen if the first were allowed to succeed.’

‘I didn’t suggest-‘

‘This wildcard makes everything much more interesting. Will the world be saved from disaster because of betrayal? Will trust be forsaken for individual gain? Will life as they know it take a sudden nosedive into the embodiment of evil?’

‘I thought people prayed to you to make things better. To save lives? For a world with no suffering?’

‘It’s not my fault for their misconceptions. They wrote their holy book. I didn’t.’

‘You’ve never corrected them.’

‘And they don’t blame me when everything goes to shit. Why would I?’

‘You are a horrible Creator.’

‘I create. There is no universal law that what I create is for positive or negative outcomes.’

‘I assumed…’

(Hiccup, Right here is where the Creator gets all superior God and begins yelling and pounding the tabletop). ‘That’s the problem with all of you junior godlings! You’re a millennia old, yet think you know as much as the one who brought all of everything into being, including you. Assume nothing. I am the One Power. I do as I want.’

‘Clearly, you do. What if this trio were to come for you?’

‘Intriguing scenario. Let them come.’

‘What? Would this rule not guarantee you ceasing to exist? Is that not the biggest threat to your world? One without a Creator?’

‘I’m bored of making all the decisions-‘

‘You literally will not let anyone who sits in the pantheon make a decision.’

‘I said, I’m bored of making all the decisions. I would welcome this challenge.’ (Here the Creator wears a nasty grin). ‘Besides, by this rule of three that we all have agreed upon, all I would need to do to end the threat would be to offer the One who has not been given a choice to follow personal gain. I mean what mortal would turn down a place at this table.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Have you met a believer among them who would say no to their God?’”

“…and that’s where the rule of three came from. And let me tell you, that is exactly how the Autumn Goddess went from a street rat to running her own season.” The village idiot took a long pull of his ale to parch his dry throat.

His drinking partner blinked once, twice. “You’re insane.”

“Am I? Whatever happened to the sorceress who caught the thieving girl in her abode under the ground? Story goes the sorceress chained the girl, made her into a living magical experiment. They also say she had a red monkey as a pet too. I heard the sorceress had a personal vendetta against the Creator after he swindled his way into being intimate with her. She went after the Creator with all the magic at her disposal, and a lot of scholars suggest she was a goddess in all but name. They theorize that she should of won. But…” The village idiot shrugged, a smug allknowing look upon his face.

“You’re suggesting that the Autumn Goddess, as a mortal, betrayed this sorceress, for a spot at this hypothetical table of the pantheon?”

“Aye.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Aye.”