The Word Cloud

OK, so I have a cold. Nothing major; not stopping me from doing anything (work or play) but still felt the need to consume a couple of Lemsips over the course of the last couple of days.

My girlfriend (pharmacy trained and more astute than I), pointed out that these often contain the same amount of stimulant as a strong cup of coffee.

So imagine my surprise when I lay, wide awake, at 1:30am, with my mind barrelling along at full tilt. The following is a result of a couple of silly ideas that meshed together in my overcrowded brain (it's small, there's quite a bit of congestion!), fused with over the counter medication, and served up on a handy envelope with a red pencil crayon. 

Be warned, this is a fairly long post, with a story of dubious quality - if you turn back now, I won't hold it against you!

An oppressive corridor, all polished obsidian, blackened iron and sharp edges. Darkness covers all. The air is still like that of a tomb. A spreading glow appears at the far end of the corridor, illuminating the lower three or four metres of the walls and arches, but leaving the vaulted ceiling, many more metres overhead, in darkness. The deathly hush is broken by the flapping of scurrying sandalled feet, and a huff huff of laboured breathing. Intricate runes etched in the black, polished stone floor begin to glow at the figure approach, banishing the darkness to the heights.

The scuttling shape, with tattered brown threadbare habit flapping around knobbly ankles, skids around the final corner, and patters up the sharp edged steps, his foot falls echoing, and the gentle gasping of his laboured breathing whispering back and forth around the gothic arena of the dreadful room. At the top, he stops, trying to get his breath back, before leaning on the huge ornate polished doors.

The thick stone doors swing inward ponderously, soft, cold white light escaping from the room beyond. The doors slowly accelerate, assisted by concealed counterweights, before hitting their stoppers with a resounding double boom. The figure nods in satisfaction. He scurried into the room. Runes edge the floor of the huge space, white light glistening on the shining black stone walls and floor. Overhead, a chandelier filled with glowing white crystal llluminates a huge stone throne, bedecked in gargoyles and skulls of various otherworldly creatures; all spikes and razor edges. On the seat, in a jarring juxtaposition, lies a frilly cushion in a vibrant blue, and on the arm a red mug with “Worlds Greatest Overlord” on the side in bubbly white writing.

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“My Lord! My Lord Antagonist!”, yelled the little monk, sliding to a standstill, and looking around frantically.

“Over here, Doofus. What do you want?”

Doofus spun around. To the right of the door, near the wall sat a tall black robed figure with his back to the hunchbacked creature, leant over a workbench in furious concentration. Doofus hurried over, and stood by the side of his masters chair. He bowed hurriedly, placing his palm on his face as he did so, in the traditional salute.

“My Lord Antagonist Falafel, there is word from the Great Monitoring Hall. An Incidental spy has sent word through means of a Contrivance. A Protagonist has risen in the west, a gnomish boy-merchant. He has stated a quest to force you to relax tobacco export tariffs. His Plotline is reported to be strong!”

Doofus waved his arms around in his urgency, tattered sleaves almost whipping the Antagonist’s face. Falafel warded them off with his paint brush.

“Thankyou Doofus, I shall see to it directly.”

He returned his attention to his bench. On it a number of small stone figures sat, in various states of completion. One rested in the Lord’s hand, tiny armour a glorious ultramarine. Falafel was delicately painting in the eyes. Doofus stood for a moment, in dim witted agony of decision. He took a step to the door, and returned to the desk. He opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again. This time he got nearly half way to the door, before scurrying back, and remained standing at his masters side for a full two minutes, twitching, before Falafel snapped.

“Oh, very well, Doofus, I will deal with it now!”, the Antagonist sighed, “Lead on.”

The scraggy figure took off at full speed, sleaves trailing behind him as he ran, leaving his master to stride purposely after, heavy boots echoing through the horrid bowels of the great citadel.

A few minutes later, Lord Antagonist Falafel strode into the Great Monitoring Hall, black cloak flowing behind him. Doofus had beaten him to the Hall by several minutes, and was jumping up and down in energetic, nervous indecision by the great Console, which dominated the centre of the huge room. Console Consul Occullan stepped down from the dais and its great chair, and looked up at his master. He palmed his face as he bowed.

“Occullan, what news?”

“My Lord Antagonist, an Incidental has reported from the western provinces that a gnomish boy-merchant has risen as a Protagonist. We are monitoring him as we speak; the Tinkers have tuned in the Great Contrivance, and we have picked up his party heading over Raven Dale.”

“Show me, Consul.”

“Yes, My Lord, please follow me.”

The old man, in his dark grey habit, lead Falafel to a set of Gothic spiral stairs behind the Console. At the top was a huge viewing gantry, with a single large chair situated near the edge. The chair was polished black, but significantly more delicate, with a strange eye straining filigree of dragons, leaves, skulls and axes all seemingly blending into one another. The chair had a strange headrest, which looked like a metal rib cage, and several pipes ran from it so a machine set in front of the seat. The Lord Antagonist took a seat, wrapping his cloak around him as he did so. Beyond the railing was a drop to the floor several metres below. Directly below him, he could see the Deputy Consul sat as his great Console, working the switches and levers that controlled the Contrivances. Making up the opposite wall were thousands of crystal panels, all of different sizes. Each one had on it a different, moving image. At the centre was a larger panel, ten times larger than the next largest. This was the Monitor for the Great Contrivance.

“Behold, My Lord Antagonist”, said Occulan with a grand gesture.

On the screen was a curly haired gnome. It tramped through the lush grass on Raven Dale, on the western edge of the Imagi Nation. With him were several other gnomes, all with various weapons and intent expressions.

“Hmm, this is serious, he has a party, and they have a purposeful look already. When was this first detected?”

“Not thirty minutes ago, My Lord.”

“This has been happening for much longer than that, Consul. The Incidental in charge of monitoring that region will have to be punished.”

“Of course, My Lord, I shall deal with it myself.”

“See that you do. Doofus, please stand still.” The young monk was twitching and wringing his hands. He stopped, and looked terrified.

“Right, let us rectify this problem. I shall tune the Great Contrivance to the Deus Ex Machine.”

The Antagonist busied himself with the machine in front of him. It began to glow, a golden light escaping from the seams, and a whine climbed into a perceptible volume range. Falafel nodded, and leaned back. The metal head rest clamped around his head, and began to glow, the same shade of gold as the light from the machine before him.

“Now, the trapped diety is tuned... adjust for angular momentum.... wind speed... aaaand... wait for it..”

Occulan looked up at the largest screen to see a shadow pass over the party. One of them looked up just in time to yell, “What the f-”, before a gigantic scaly object crashed into the section of hillside they had been walking on. The Monitor zoomed out, and showed the dragon skid to a halt after a hundred or so metres, an uprooted trees caught on one of its huge wings. Of the party there remained only a dull rusty smear in the bottom of the metre deep skid.

The head rest snapped back, and the machine stopped whining and glowing. The Lord grinned.

“A good one, My Lord Antagonist”, said Occulan weakly.

“Corr.... “, uttered Doofus, under his breath.

“I’ll be in my chamber if anything else comes up. Keep up the good work, Consul.”

Without a backward glance, Lord Antagonist Falafel clanged down the metal steps, and strode out of the room. The great doors closed behind him. Occulan sagged.

“Better call the Incidental in charge of Raven Dale. Doofus? Please fetch me a tea? Peppermint, if you please. And don’t put milk in it this time.”

The little man scuttled away as Occulan trudged back to his Console.

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Lord Antagonist Falafel strolled back to his Throne Chamber by the scenic route, such as it was in this windowless castle.  All he asked for was time to enjoy his hobbies; having to prevent the perpetual rise of Protagonists, those suddenly aware citizens who were drawn to him by the Great Plot of the World Author, cut too deeply into what little time he had. And they were growing more common as the years went by. The Great Plot was hard to resist; Antagonist and Protagonist meet, Antagonist is destroyed, Protagonist returns to being a normal citizen until a new Antagonist arises, repeat. The Plot must go on, to keep the world in balance. Balance was all well and good, but if you were dead, what use was it? He’d rather be alive in an imbalanced world of chaos than in dead in a balanced and sane utopia.

Even this horrid citadel was part of the accursed plot. He would have much preferred somewhere warm, with a huge papasan chair for a throne, and a nice cosy work room for his models, but, when he had become aware, he had, as if in a dream, ordered the construction of an immense, dark, dread citadel, and the order of monks duty bound to serve the Antagonist had supplied. It had felt right somehow, however impractical he knew it to be. So now he ruled the Imagi Nation, as the subject Imagi people called it, a tiny circle of useful land, hemmed by sea and mountains, criss-crossed by rivers, in a world dominated by barren desert.

And from this desert came the ethereal, perpetually distracted and indifferent Inspirits. Drifting aimlessly, tinkering with the world and the minds of citizens seemingly at random. Sowing seeds of ideas, and pushing men and women to unusual acts. Not in that way. Not always at least.  But it was incredibly annoying, because every once in a while, one of these ideas involved him, sharp objects, ropes and fire, and ways of bringing all of these things together.

He had set about finding and creating the tools to keep his world (his personal world) safe and intact, and after long years he had succeeded. The Incidentals, demons capable of being but a background character, invisible unless specifically pointed out. The dreaded Bitpart; parasitic spirits capable of squatting in a citizens mind, and watching through there eyes and listening through their ears. And then there were the Contrivances; half machine, half magic devices with the power to transmit and receive sound, light and thought. Each was tuned to a single agent so that they could report to the Dark Citadel. The Great Contrivance the great triumph of this art, however, one he was extremely proud of - a Contrivance powerful enough to be tuned into anything in the world, with care; it was useful for tracking the rising Protagonists, and spying on the various areas of his burdensome empire.

His final and most powerful tool was the Deus Ex Machine. And it did indeed contain a god, a powerful deity who’s raw essence could be used to change the very fabric of the world. The trick was using it to change the smallest thing required to achieve your ends. Giving an overflying forest dragon (a flying herbivore with a penchant for cabbage, and a scourge to the great agricultural province of Bleughsprout) a sudden heart attack at just the right moment had been elegance itself, even if the results had all the subtlety of an elephant on a pogo-stick.

A grimy acolyte was walking down the corridor toward him. He looked up to address the figure, and stopped as the monk was suddenly outlined in silver, an ethereal figure flickering into existence around him, before dissolving into wisps of mist. The monk reached into his robes. Before he knew it, Falafel was on his back, pain spreading like lava from his chest, with cold like liquid nitrogen flowing after it into the hard stone floor. He glanced at the pitted and curiously shaped sword, and the spreading reddish darkness oozing across the shiny floor. The monk had fallen to he knees near his Lords feet, eyes wide in shock, and tears rolling down his grimy cheeks, leaving lines of pink skin. There was the echoing flap flap of running sandals somewhere above his head which got progressively louder. He heard Occulan yell about a Protagonist appearing close by, and this the Lord Antagonist must come quickly, before the running foot steps slowed, and finally stopped a short distance above him. The pain had faded now, and he felt cold. He heard Doofus start to sob. Occulan appeared, a fabric wall with nostrils, and leaned down by his master. “Oh dear, oh dear”, was all he said, in a hushed whisper. His hands gently touched the sword, and the skin near were it had pierced his master. “Doofus, quiet. Please give me your robe. Place it under the masters head”, said a distant voice. The runes needed cleaning, the lights were a bit dim in this corridor. He wasn’t cold anymore, just calm. There was a ghostly white shape, vaguely humanoid, but fading at the extremities. It laughed and reached through his head. He felt a rush as everything that made him him flowed, in a flash of memories and ideas, out into that whiteness, and saw the misty, tangled tendrils of the Plot stretching away in every direction.

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Occulan felt his Lord’s neck again, and then his wrist. When he was sure he felt nothing, he hung his head. Behind him, shivering in his white and red polka dot underwear, Doofus began to sob again. Gravely, with a sudden sense of clarity and import, Occulan gently eased the obsidian crown from his former master's head. Then he pulled back his hood, and gently placed the cold metal on his own balding crown. Doofus looked up, sobs slowing. A number of other monks had begun to arrive, drawn by the cries of the young man. Occulan straightened for the first time in many years, a new awareness of the world creeping through his mind like ice water, and purpose flowing into his veins like caffeine. The monks began to bow, a wave of facepalms and lowered heads spread outwards from the new Lord Antagonist, until the corridor was full of deference as far as the monk could see. He turned to Doofus, who, through his tears, offered a gentle dimwitted smile, and bowed likewise. An Antagonist dies, and Antagonist rises. The Plot continues, and it will always find a way eventually.