121 And if a mother should bear two children in the same labor, then let it be known that the two are one flesh and one mind divided into two within the mother’s flesh;
122 and they will be granted surpassing powers over the invisible world, as in its division into two bodies their power will be honed, as though they were light and a lens.
123 And the birth of two from one womb will bring calamity on the People of the Book, for the gods themselves will envy their power, and desire to retrieve it to its source, and have the two for their possessions.
124 And so it is that of the two, one should be put to the sword in the year of their coming of age; so that the gods may be pleased with the offering and the People of the Book spared their judgment.
125 And when two are so born, the first to emerge from the mother will be called “the first known to the world,”
126 and the second will be called “the one who follows,” and be given the rights due to the eldest child. And let it be known that the second follows behind because he is the most beloved of the gods, and they have clung to him throughout his journey into the world, and not allowed him to come before the other.
127 Thus, to best please the gods, it is the second of the two who must be put to the sword;
128 and it is the first who will receive his share of the power of both in one, and become a prophet of great wisdom, who will surely lead the People of the Book to good fortune.
Category Archives: Bang*Bang no. 39
The Eye of Nechemyyeh
A Divinis
Florence, June 1633.
The night had already fallen when Professor Leandro Lazzaro left the university to go home. He had been staying late to work on a new theory every evening this week and today was not different. He was hoping to finish a new book about the relation between the moon’s phases and one’s spell-power before the end of the month – he would have finished it long ago if it weren’t for his current problems with the Church.
Leandro was a man in his mid-forties, but looked a bit older, due to his hair’s having turned completely gray in the last few months. He was of average build and, if asked, he would say there was nothing noticeable about his appearance. If you asked the ladies, though, they would tell you about his kind hazel eyes, his charming smile, or his enchanting voice. Among themselves they would also whisper about his wealth, since an unmarried professor, with no children or living relatives, was an interesting party to say the least.
touch my mouth and hold my tongue
He strides forward, propelled entirely by determination. It feels like his staff weighs triple its usual weight. The chaos of corpses and soldiers hinders his movements, the stink of the newly dead thick in the air, carrion birds already gathering. There is a thrum pulsing through the scattered groups of people, relief that it’s finally over even creeping into the wails of the dying and the groans of the injured.
There, a leather-clad figure, yellow-white hair a beacon among his dark-haired companions, armour brown-bathed-red-turning-brown. Shem hikes up his robes and starts running, staff forgotten on the ground.
Hack and Slash
Brynn’s eyes idly tracked the wisps of fire in the chimney as they danced. He liked this: the warm light of a fire to keep any chills at bay, a room with walls that kept the wind and rain outside where it belonged, even a bed so that he could finally enjoy a solid night’s rest. That being said, he didn’t mind the nights spent on damp ground or hard floors, with a blanket to serve as his mattress and a coat the only thing to keep him warm, but he sure had a newfound appreciation for the comfort that a real mattress provided. Something soft to rest on while he enjoyed the loose feeling that had spread throughout his limbs after his bath—another luxury worth noting. There wasn’t much more he could think to add that would raise his feeling of overall contentment more than it currently….
Well, one thing maybe.
And I shall know you like the back of my hand
George whipped around on the path, sending up a little cloud of dust around his feet. “How long are you going to keep following me?”
The man walking just three paces behind him raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’d hardly call it following. It isn’t as if you don’t know I’m here.”
George frowned. “It’s been two months. Aren’t you, I don’t know, bored?”
“Bored?” His eyebrows hitched higher. A tremulous grin twitched up one side of his mouth higher than the other. “Why would I be bored? Just last week we were nearly killed by harpies. It was fantastic.”
Diplomacy
Cyril Beck was not familiar with Elves. He knew of them, of course; everyone who’d ever been to a music hall or to the pictures, or who’d read a novel, knew of Elves. They were either flippant and vain or tired and dull, steeped in meaningless tradition and singers of endless ballads. As the catchphrase from the wireless went: “Does this remind you of yet another song, Tafty?”
When it came to real Elves, however, Cyril had only met two. The first, he was assured by his mother, had been called Mr Brin, and had lived in the village Cyril had grown up in for as long as his mother could remember. “Oh,” she would say, “he was so good to everyone. And to see the way he used to bounce you on his knee!” Cyril had been too young to remember him, and all he had left were vague memories of golden hair, the smell of tobacco, and the feel of tuppence in his hand to go buy sweets from the local shop. That had been long ago. Mr Brin had enlisted in the army in 1916 when Cyril was only four years old; he had been killed in France a few months later and only a few weeks before Cyril’s father had gone the same way.
The King of Bayan
King Tarik of Bayan is seated when Ruari is brought before him with the other slaves. He is dwarfed by the long red canopy over his throne.
Ruari straightens his shoulders. He is wearing nothing but a loincloth, but he refuses to feel ashamed. He is young and strong, with broad shoulders and muscles from hours of outdoor training.
Tarik’s eyes drift over the group. “Yes, fine,” he says to the slavemaster, “use them as you see fit.” His gaze sharpens and he sits up. “Is that one woodkin?” He beckons, and Ruari is shoved forward.
“Halfbreed,” says the slavemaster.
Triune
The scrabbled grass and damp earth had not yet seen battle today, but it had felt the tear of war-boots upon it many times since spring’s dawning, felt the scars of swords’ dropping to it, bore the bruises of mens falling on their knees upon it. Sir William kept a hand on the hilt of his own blade as he looked out over it. He knew in his heart that the earth would taste blood once more before the sun settled, but as yet he drew in breath, tasted the air that was warming as the height of the year came upon the world, he savored these few moments of peace. He had not yet had to draw his sword against another warrior in any of the constant skirmishes as of yet, but he knew that his time would come. He would be ready. He could fight with honor and serve his king with pride. He would lay his life on the line, he–
“You look hot.”
Rough Day at Sea
For the worst day of Mordwen’s life, the weather was clear and bright and beautiful.
The sky was free of clouds, the sun was blazing warmly, and the misty sea breeze was blowing in cool and gentle. From his spot, Mordwen had the perfect view of the ocean and was dazzled by the way the sunlight capped each wave in glittering gold and made the gulls gliding over them seem intensely bright.
Shutting his eyes against the brilliance, Mordwen tipped his head back, thumping it lightly against the post behind him. The constant shrieks from the gulls sounded like cruel laughter, mercifully drowned out each time the waves crashed against his little cliff, though his feet and the wedding dress’s hemline became soaked.
Flight
Oliver’s halfway through his third pint of lukewarm and watery ale when he half-hears, half-feels, “You’ve been following me,” warm and a little damp against the side of his neck. He can’t quite check his half-smile; Edward obviously takes this as an invitation and slides a knee between Oliver and his right-hand neighbor (a half-troll with uncomfortably broad shoulders and beautiful table manners), then sits sideways on the bench.
“I know I am, of course,” Edward says, “an almost irresistibly attractive man,” still very close and more than a little yeasty-smelling, “but after four towns in a row without you so much as saying hello—”
“Six,” Oliver corrects, then takes a sip of his ale. “I’ve been following you since Lowencaster.”
The City of a Thousand Days
In dreaming of home, he wondered if home dreamt of him. He imagined it might be so, for the coins and the Caliphs called it Madinat al-Salaam, the City of Peace, and the people called it by its old name, Baghdad — but the poets called it the City of Dreaming.
Things Left Unseiðr
Shouts still rang out through the war camp, echoing through the shallow valley and making it difficult to tell which side of the besieged city they came from. The tents surrounding the breached stone walls sported almost as many scars and stitches as did the warriors running to and fro, each focusing single-mindedly on his assigned task with little regard for the corpses littering the blood-stained grass underfoot.
The fourth wave had fallen back after the walls had been breached, both yielding with only a bit of reluctance to Commander Ragnar’s orders. The man’s voice rumbled through the valley like thunder from Thor’s mighty hammer, audible above the din even when one’s own voice was not. Had it been anyone else leading the siege this season, the ferocious Ulfhednar berserkers in their wolfskin coats would have forced their way into the city, its houses, and any peasant men or women holed up within. But it was not yet time. Ragnar was said to know everything except defeat, and his warriors held none but the gods in higher esteem. The fifth and final assault would not begin until he gave the command.
Up the Garden Path
Ianaver Swordhand is a human fighter. Standing a majestic six and a half feet tall, he has high strength and charisma balanced by relatively low speed and dexterity. He wears a dwarf-forged breastplate, a gift from Nortiln Giantcrippler, the party’s other fighter (and himself a dwarf); he wields a sword that has a plus-three in dragonslaying, which is reputed to be very handy should he ever be approached by a dragon.
Literally the only reason Noah can remember most of this is because it’s all written on the piece of paper in front of him, on the table between his can of PBR and Jai’s bag of white cheddar popcorn.
