User blog:DJay32/The Duel of Shaman Kullermes and Migrant O-Thorde

The mountain of Angst overlooked a budding metropolis at the time in which spokespeople, mechanics, and musicians alike sought to reach a pinnacle of civilization. The metropolis had many names, but written on a sign above the city was a name given by a shaman: Angstolog. The city's main import was people, its main export memories. Citizens of Angstolog often looked upon the mountain and wondered of its inhabitants.

Inhabitants of the mountain often looked upon the Angstolog and wondered of its citizens. The mountain beheld miracles, Muses, scientists, and shamen-- the original citizens of Angstolog. For years, city-dwellers would watch the mountain and see smoke rise out of vents, as if Angst were a volcano days away from eruption. This smoke, however foreboding it seemed, arose not from fire but from the waters in the Earth.

In a cave halfway up the mountain of Angst, a shaman breathed the fumes of Ichor, entering stupors and speaking in tongues, scribing his visions on leaves of web and watching the wind blow his leaves down to the urban sprawl below. As time went by, his leaves became lessons in an ancient art long forgotten by the masses but still practised by sages in some parts of the world: The art of Semeotyces, Muse of psychology. And even these leaves, too, flew to the city.

The shaman's leaves stupefyed and bewildered many, some taking them as prophecy, others taking them as criticisms riddled with sarcasm. In time, the leaves were designated a national landmark and plastered throughout the city as if advertisements, posters of propaganda, or the bindings of a book. Many saw them, many beheld them in their oddity, and many felt the presence of Semeotyces in their words. Some felt threatened at the nature of an assortment of burnt leaves, but that's another memory for another day.

Then one day, a migrant chronicler arrived at Angstolog, who had traveled the world as a nomad and written beautiful sonnets for the people he'd met, claimed to be the inventor of the encyclopaedia. This migrant arrived with a pen and an assortment of leaves in his sack, many more memories locked away in his head, viewing the mountain from afar with wonder, knowing its reputation, wishing to scale it. As he passed through the metropolis, marking it down in his encyclopaedia, he spied the shaman's leaves plastering walls and from which the city even got its name. The nomad asked about the shaman to those in the growing tavern.


 * "Old young shaman Kullermes has always been here, always stepping into the city and always watching from a distance, always shedding flakes of dead forests for us to peruse and always using per our memories and names."

Migrant accepted this and decided to set up shop in Angstolog, wondering what his contribution to this land would be. He took out a thermos from his sack and opened it, letting a mist of Ichor steam out, taking the Ichor in and invoking a Muse to turn his head to the mountain imposing its stance and formidability on a young country below. From this, he struck inspiration with his mighty hammer and chiseled tales from stone to leaf.

Now the wind blew two sets of leaves, and with time the shaman in the mountain caught a scent of this, grabbing a foreign leaf and examining its texture.


 * "Where in the span of Time did this come from? Its characters span eras, its ambitions emanate hallucinogens rivaling the Ichor, its penmanship suggests eternity itself as author. I must see who brought these here!"

So Kullermes put on his Thinking and his Guarding and his Trail and set off towards where these leaves were soaring from. Those he passed stared, baffled, though many more looked upon the shaman with but one glance, not knowing his identity past his Guard.

At last, the shaman threw open the shop's doors and beheld the migrant, hard at work penning a new leaf.


 * "You there, who are you to have spawned these rhapsodies and to have challenged my role here?"

Without looking up, the migrant spake a response to shake the wall once:


 * "I am not here to challenge your role here, if you are the shaman I assume you to be. My name is humble: I am O-Thorde, the last. Are you, then, the shaman I assume you to be?"

Kullermes boiled with fires as real as those dwelling under the mountain and retaliated:


 * "You speak of humility, yet you quake the foundations, yet you summon such attractive runes! Do not feign your purpose! I know you are to be my rival. What next, will you ascend the mountain of Angst and battle me there? Will you defeat the shaman of the caves?!"

O-Thorde rose his eyes and lowered his hood, looking with confusion at the sight before him. Kullermes, the shaman whose glory and honour he'd heard to have moved many, raged at this fellow chronicler now like a petulant child. Stepping slowly towards him, the migrant quietly posed a question:


 * "Where did your reputation come from?"

The shaman shrieked and slunked away, bellowing for the two to meet atop the mountain.

In preparation for whatever were to come, O-Thorde sought clarification from the tradespeople and mechanics around him for any explanation as to the disparity between shaman's reputation and actuality. But no answer would come. The citizens of Angstolog had nothing but praise for the being of the caves, for they themselves had not much experience seeing him in person. All they had to go on were his prophetic leaves constantly spilling out from the mountain, and faint whispers on the wind.

The whispers gave more of a clue. The winds around these parts carry voices far, so while the origins of such phrases are difficult to pinpoint, the content can often serve a purpose. Listening to them that night, O-Thorde heard tales of early days for the city, of magnifient builders and ambitious wordsmiths running into problems with a troublesome shaman, of quarrels ending ambiguously, of the shaman retreating to the caves for unknown reasons (spite? superiority? shame?). Another voice could be heard in the wind, this one fainter than the others, barely even a noise at all:


 * "The shaman retreats to Ichor for the shaman was born and borne in Ichor."

Many thoughts entered the migrant's head, but he turned them all out in hopes of sleeping before the event at the summit.

Hiking up the mountain of Angst took time. O-Thorde did not write any more leaves in his journey, though he spent many hours observing his Muse and letting her speak to nothing. He passed the cave of the shaman, peeking inside to see a horrible mess and writing on the wall dismissing all the works of Kullermes, self-smitings into a self-Tuonela, inferno darkest of the mind. The nomad did not look long before resuming his way up the cliffs and hills.

The peak of Angst exists eternally shrouded in a mist of Ichor. Spending too much time exposed to its keep could dissolve a body and leave its soul engulfed in the atmosphere. Here was the peak of cognitive thought, the last refuge of the conscious before an astral plane of subreality took over. When O-Thorde crossed the threshold into its boundless haze, he knew this could not last long. Then he saw, atop an even taller hill, the faint silhouette of the shaman.

He heard a crow's voice call:


 * "Wield your vocal cords, O-Thorde. We don't need leaves here."

The migrant removed his sack and let it drop to the ground, covering his head with his hood and hoping he didn't breathe in too much Ichor. He spoke:


 * "And what will the world look back on our endeavours and remember us having done?"

The crow replied, as Kullermes rose a hand to the skies:


 * "We will battle in rhapsody, we will let the magic of Semeotyces whisk us away, and we will see who understands the mountain."

O-Thorde, not accepting this answer, questioned further:


 * "What is this about? I do not threaten you!"

But Kullermes was in no state for cross-examination and began the fight, speaking a voice so loud the winds carried it down to Angstolog and let it be heard by all: Fire raining down from sky Children chanting father "Why?" Thunder crashing bashing heads His history wants me dead Ocean drowning to be free Ulysses young lost at sea Beast of shadow wants the d Look in mirror what I see: "MY NAME IS pagliacci" Rapture's coming laugh at me Slowly, the shaman's shadow started to fade away. Quickly, the ground behind the migrant's feet fell into a chasm. Only one way out of this one, so O-Thorde heaved a deep sigh and began to sing: Space and time cannot collide Lovecraft's along for the ride Nothing makes sense when I'm one Stalked by my own father's son Conspiracy sends my wrath Watch me kill Shub-Niggurath I'd end all worlds just for you You myself are we him too? Kill all Fear and watch my step Surprise I'm Nyarlathotep The clash of voices, of rhapsodists ambitious, shook the summit with force unseen. The shaman's hill crumbled. One last call echoed:


 * "LOOK UPON MY WORKS, YE MIGHTY, AND"

O-Thorde watched as Kullermes collapsed with the ground into a rift in the rock. He ran to the rift's edge, calling down to help the shaman, but no reply would come.

The sky faded to black as thousands of leaves descended from the heavens, flooding the metropolis below. All the citizens wondered who would come out of this alive, their ears ringing with melodies of apocalypse and revolutions, of cruelty and chaos, of epics galore.

Many days later, a figure limped down the mountain of Angst towards the city. Lowering his hood, O-Thorde arrived in Angstolog, spoke to no-one, and watched the cave above, waiting for the day another leaf would fly down, carried graciously by the wind.