"Don’t know if he’s fash or not, but he’s one of the most immature and unpleasant people I’ve had the displeasure of forcing myself to read in a long time. He writes articles entitled gently caress All Of You and thinks the 90’s were the most artistically sophisticated time in history. He also uses his own mental illness as proof he knows when other people are lying about having their own.”
Monday, 22 April 2019
The Mountains of Reality - for Eldritch Foundry
This is just the intro, but I thought I did it pretty ok;
Look at the mountains from the plain, or, if you dare,
from the Waste.
A slice in the suffocating sky makes a break in the
eternal grey; a sapphire blade on the horizon, glowing like a candleflame-lit
gem. A knife against the throat of time.
Even before the mountains themselves are visible, their
effect on the atmosphere can be sensed. The air clears. The terrible weight of
paling gloom fades away. The sun, the real sun, glares down. True day, True
night. And the Waste rages at a boundary of storm.
Then, beneath the sky; hanging from it like an obsidian
necklace upon the breast of day - shards of black. Fierce sharks teeth from an
enormous jaw closing on the axis of the world.
You trudge forward, hour upon hour. The sun sets. In the
fresh black sky, pale lamps gleam.
You walk on.
The necklace of obsidian blades has grown. It sweeps
across the sky from side to side. The tooth-points lost in haze of an azure
vault, and the mountains have birthed a high family; serrated triangular
children, black glazed with shining white like tarnished diamonds. Tongues of
white fire spill from their jagged lips. Glaciers. Cloud-crowned palaces of
stone and ice, scarred with cracked valleys like gospel books torn open by a
Wind picks up. You feel cold, not the amorphous,
directionless life-sapping refrigeration of the Waste, but actual weather, cold
life. Fingers of air press against you, gently teasing, pushing you back.
The mountains grow again, spreading across the sky. The
black blades almost lost behind cloud. Passing gaps, like the masks of dancing
players, reveal their shapes and near-impossible size.
The glacier-tongued children are kings themselves. Each
sits imperious, attended by a court of cyclopean queens, the least of which
might overawe nations. And though crowned in ice, the queens are robed in
green. Forests tumble from their shoulders like light silk, transforming into
seas of life, for these size-sovereigns are themselves attended, thronged by an
hundred crags who clamour for attention like hungry gulls.
Still you walk.
And night falls again.
The falling sun sends beams of rose riding the air like Valkyries,
skidding up, up over the mountains, over the robes of green, stained
gloom-black by their red light, up to their burning crowns of ice set into
vermillion fire by the suns last light. Up. Light licking the glacier tongue of
the ice-glazed imperial hills, riding higher. Up. Up. Up. to the diamond-bright peaks of those attending kings. Up. Up.
The ground has been dark for hours. The sky-bowl fills
with stars once more, but high above the sun is not done setting on the
Mountains of Reality.
Blood-red beams crawl the black blade edges of the
highest peaks. They glow, almost resentfully, like a freezing, bitter priest
before a slumbering fire. The faintest infra-red emits, the merest hint of
sunfire on the bitten edge.
Your neck cranes. Far, far above the light of black roses
burning with a black fire fades into the boundless night. And then it is dark.
You walk, and the wind follows.
You smell trees and hear the teased strand of a moan, a susurrus;
wind in leaves. And a keening - high, high above, a black sword of stone
slicing a banner of eternal air. Unlike the soft nothing of the Waste, the
mountains have a sound. They glower, but they breathe.
Light, and a bird cries.
You stumble. Up through the cracked pumice, salt, dust
and sand of the Waste, rises stone. Huge boulders, shards, solid planes of
water-rippled limestone and sandstone banded in ochre and blue like veins
standing up on a clenched hand.
The sun arcs in a blue and storm-tossed sky. Slowly and
by faint degrees the dawn-pale light infiltrates the air. As a tear building in
the eye first blurs the world and then leaves focus in its passing, the
mountains stand before you like a wall of time.
The black blades of the high peaks are invisible now,
lost in the vault above the clouds - the ice-rimed rulers explode with sunlight
like shattered crystal prisming the golden light of dawn. The green-robed
Queens pulse with distant life, trees in their billions strung with
silver-bright rivers. Waterfalls roar a bass note in the imponderable visual
distance. Attending crags bow, crack and scatter down their sides and beneath
these smaller crags, hiding near their feet like mice, mere mountains, some not
even a thousand feet high, with paths and rockfalls, forests and moorlands,
streams and climb-ways spreading like spilled needles, a hundred-thousand
gateways to an unbounded land.
And crawling at the skirts of these, the foothills of the
Mountains of Reality, are you.