The Heart is a Void: Ashes to Ashes - Chapter 97: Colossus

Chapter 97: Colossus

“From what I’ve checked, adventurers seem to be a bit picky with what kind of poetry they read. Our automatons write in all kinds of styles, but it seems that some people will only acknowledge poems that are sufficiently ‘modern.'” Sharak drew out a piece of brown paper as he spoke, which had an array of words printed across it in deep black ink. “Well, just in case, here is a poem that the automaton labelled as somewhat ‘modern,’ though I can’t say what precisely that means or if it is so.”

“I can’t say I’m that fussed about the issue, but I’ll have a look at the poem,” Crucis said.

He took the piece of paper in his right hand, and used his left to hold it flat so that the rest of the group could see.

The Fire Breathes

I.

Wandering through the autumn’s ruddy fields

Unheard, trespassing falling arches of leaves,

We may come upon some ancient and enormous bird,

Huge as a mammoth, fallen from its lofty perch,

And on its withered and greening wings drifting in place,

Like rubble of no import, while above it and around

People obsess over trivialities.

II.

Men talk of love, and wealth, and the exaction of

Justice. But I am sick of the sound of their voices.

Their praises seem to me no more than the noise

Of interested bystanders regarding a prize of beer

Obtained for a pig at the Smithfield Fair.

III.

I do not think that they would miss me if I were gone.

The fools go on just as before, talking of love and justice.

I am of no importance.

I have not the gift of melody.

I cannot soothe the heart, or satisfy.

I do not even speak the same language as they —

For they say, ‘I do not understand you.’

How should I understand what they say?

I have no country. I have no language.

“A good poem,” Crucis said. “I doubt it would be counted as ‘contemporary,’ but that’s no rebuke. Our group was just recently discussing the ghazal, and the progression of this almost reminds me of it. What do you make of it?”

He was gradually adapting to the formal tone used by Sharak and Fahiz, and felt slightly more comfortable speaking here.

“The ghazal? Like the poetry of ‘Mir’?” Fahiz enquired.

“The same.”

“Very good. Yes, I can see that, the ‘ghazal’ oft shifts in focus and register between couplets, it has a brilliant flexibility to it. Although the slightly bathetic imagery here is less like the imagery of the ghazal. The poem portrays a sort of waste-land, where even the bird is a slightly grotesque symbol of lost grandeur, rather than a symbol of hope.

“As for my view, I find it quite impressive, especially since the automaton wasn’t writing in a style which it favours. Indeed, it is difficult for it to get a clear idea of what a ‘modern’ or ‘contemporary’ style is — though contemporary poetry is supposedly de rigeur, nobody seems to discuss it or care about it. Even in the third stanza, where a common quirk of automatons leads to a series of similar sentences, it manages to make a good show of it. However, the imagery of ruin and collapse could be developed on more robustly, though I hold this no great demerit. It is a poem of ruins — its fractures, are they not a part of its charm?”

“True, there is a balance to be struck. Why does the automaton produce such strings of sentences? And I’m sure you have more to say about this poem.”

Fahiz laughed. “Yea, ’tis true. As for the automaton, it generally continues passages by creating new sentences based on what came before. This lets it adjust to context, subject and tone. However, sometimes it breaks down and starts to simply regurgitate the same form of sentence as the last one, since it takes ‘sentences of this kind’ to be the context. It glides the wrong thermal. This will often correct itself over a few more tries, but here that seemed uncalled for.

“Now, the poem. The opening is quite synchronised, in terms of imagery – autumn, the ghostly ‘unheard’ wander, the fallen bird which is ignored. The idea of ‘falling arches’ of leaves also conveys the architectural conceit of a ruined building, which prefigures the large ruin-like bird colossus and the image of ‘rubble.’ However, once this supporting structure is removed, then the author is left with the aftermath of collapse, where there is no solid platform to stand on. Hence, the poem shifts from concrete imagery to a ‘voice in the wilderness.’

“Human triviality springs up, as if set loose by the decline of the grandiose and formal past, as if now at wing, at liberty. But this turns out to be merely another manifestation of the collapse and rot, the descent into nothing. The dissolution of the bird is mirrored in this triviality, which purports through praise and prize to take grand flight like a bird. All of this takes place in the shadow of the fallen colossus. A realm of rot and death, merely.

“It is a rather bleak and hopeless landscape, since the closest thing it has to hopeful imagery is the slightly grotesque fallen bird. However, since even the colossus is in ruins, the poet has no structures to build, and in the final stanza he almost identifies with the fallen bird. This bird-poet figure reminds me of our chessplayer, Ala-ud-din, with his beak and mighty frame.”

Crucis had been following along with this description closely. “The shadow of a colossus… Precisely. Incidentally, do you know of any bird with similar proportions to the one described?”

“There is a creature much alike this, far West of Sanra. It is in the Avanesque graveyard, and is named [The Horror]. I am told that it is a massive, rotting bird, that fights majestically despite its disrepair. Some say that it is actually a dead roc, animated by a hidden Hitodama, a ghostly ball of unmoving fire. This is because its attacks cause burns, though it does not seem to use fire. There are some other birds like it, including the [Elgia], a large, white-blue bird which is said to summon illusions. A bit like penguins, Elgia’s short, dense feathers can look a bit like fur or a flat material when viewed from a distance.”

“Thank you. About where is the Avanesque graveyard? It sounds like it may be worth a visit, someday.”

“Ah, that. It is a short way North of the small ‘autumn town,’ Istis. While it is a humble town, it is known passingly well as the birthplace of a man named Maschev, who is now known as a famous traveller and political writer. His long account of his travels across the area are still highly regarded, although in his time he was imprisoned and tortured as a political prisoner when his words offended the King Emendis.

“In fact, I’m glad that you mention it.” Fahiz flicked through a few papers which he had taken out from the drawer, and held out another poem. “Maschev had written a famous poem about Istis as he returned there after a long imprisonment. However, most of this poem is now lost, save for the first few lines, which are still preserved in a strange language called ‘Italian.’ Training our automaton on Maschev’s writings, and using a translation of those opening lines as an ‘input,’ we came up with this reconstruction.”

ISTIS, THE ARETA’S SAPPHIRE

O Istis!

After the great King of Kruxol sentenced me to torture,

And kept me imprisoned thus for four years,

How can I deserve your gentleness as a relief?

Your streets spiral in a floral dress, and your

Speech is the murmuring, light bustle of the streets,

a song untaught.

The air

Is delicate with the scent of ripened grain ,

And, overhead, the great clouds, like a prim bride’s veil,

Are hardly seen through.

Eastwards, half in shadow, half in sunlight, stand

Aldevar Castle’s towers, rapt in dreams of ancient Kingdoms,

Like marble maidens. Through the purple mist

Of evening, day by day,

The dusky Areta sweeps,

Green as that Garden of God, called Eden,

And its frail waters, so subtly fine,

That it almost trembles when my treasonous feet pass it.

I have not seen in my travels

A more beautiful town

Than the one which I return to.

As they were reading it, Fahiz spoke again. “The preserved lines from Maschev’s poems are primarily the first three. I don’t recall it perfectly, but it went something like, “O Istis! / Io sono Maschev, il torturato, / un criminale che non merita tanta grazia!” We placed a translated version of this as a prompt to the automaton, and this is what it produced.”

“It’s near Aldevar Castle? I’ve seen paintings of that for sale at a shop for miscellany in Kruxol,” DicingDevil said.

“Indeed. That grand old castle doesn’t get as many visits of late, but it is just a short distance East of Istis. Most visitors remember Istis by the peculiar sound of the river Areta, which flows heavily but makes a soft, trickling sound as it passes.”

“Perhaps it will come up in the future.”

“It sounds like a place where a world event might trigger,” Crucis mused. “A small town with a history, hidden away beside the large river…”

“Yes, that’s a great point,” DicingDevil said. “In fact, there’s a town named [Istaya] to the East of Kruxol. Is there any connection?”

“Well, yes,” Sharak replied. “‘Is-ta-ha’ was founded as a ‘new Istis’ — it was set up a century ago by residents of Istis, who were drafted into Kruxol’s army and forced to train near Kruxol. They formed that new settlement, next to a river named Arakka. But over time it became a town for merchants and traders. It contains a museum dedicated to Maschev’s political writings and work as a magistrate in Kruxol prior to his imprisonment by a new dynasty.”

“I see. We’ll have to give that a look, if we head East. But the town has a few monsters nearby, so we’d have to avoid them.”

“Those? You can avoid them. Get a good, local map of the area, it will highlight which paths are considered safe. Then have someone quick scout those paths, to find one which is indeed safe,” Fahiz said.

“Good advice, thank you.”

Crucis saw that Sharak was walking towards the right side of the building, towards a sub-room.

“What room are you going to?” Crucis asked.

“Ah, I am going to pick out some books, to train the automatons. Since we have rare visitors from afar, it seemed appropriate to ask you about the books first. But I could do with some help in carrying them, would you mind coming along?”

“Sure, thank you.”

Crucis followed Sharak into the room, which was filled with shelves of hardcover books and lighted warmly by the nearby fireplace.

Looking around at the impressive collection of books, Crucis saw titles such as ‘Scorpion & Felix,’ and ‘The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman.’ The latter had several volumes in majestic dark green, while the former was a little, red book. From what he could see, most of these books’ covers just contained the title and author information, giving them the appearance of old classics.

One shelf contained books without covers, and Sharak was looking through it. Scanning the shelf, Crucis saw that it also contained a few other odds and ends, like small picture-frames and a few skill books and scrolls.

“What books are those?” Crucis asked. “I notice that they have no titles.”

“We keep this shelf for miscellany,” Sharak replied, dusting off the tall, wooden shelf. “We find many books in libraries and elsewhere which lack any identification. We gradually try to sift through them and figure out whether to keep them, and if they can be used profitably by the automatons.”

“Ah, that makes sense. And some of the miscellany isn’t just books?”

“Yes, we occasionally pick up other things, sometimes by mistake. For instance, these [Skill Books], a few of them had made their ways into collections or old book markets because someone had confused them for a novel at a glance. We keep them around, since they are valuable, but we don’t really know what to do with most of them.”

“Would you mind if I used a couple? That is, if you have any Assassin skill books that we could use.”

“Both Fahiz and I are Mages. He is a [Pyromancer], I am a [Necromancer]. It is part of why we were forced to live in such isolation, to avoid the periodic persecution of Mages and especially necromancers. Well, Fahiz is no necromancer, but he is a charming rapscallion and no doubt found some way to displease the townsfolk. We have used any scrolls which we felt needful, so you may browse the rest freely.”

“Thank you. I shall do it quickly, so that I can return to admiring this vast collection of books.”

“Splendid.”

Crucis walked over to the miscellaneous item shelf, and started scrolling through the [Skill Book] section, where over a dozen skill books were placed in a densely-packed procession. While some of them were for classes that he did not belong to, such as a warrior skill named [Bloody Howl] and an archer skill named [Force of Wind], he found two skills which he could acquire.

One was named [Drift], an Assassin skill, which allowed the player to move sideways near-instantly, with a movement so rapid that they would appear as a blur. This seemed quite powerful, although, unlike [Agile Step], it could not typically be used to advance on an opponent.

The other skill was for the [Spy] sub-class, and was named [Arbitrate]. According to its description, it allowed for, ‘A sudden burst of movement, only possible when your weapon is in a passive position and no attacks are used. Lasts 5 seconds.’ This sounded like something that could be useful, since he already had high Agility and may now be more able to escape undesirable wild fights. As such, he figured that he should try it out.

After learning both of these skills, Crucis scanned the selection of scrolls for Mages. Most of these were for specific sub-classes, and he supposed that Sharak and Fahiz had used most of the scrolls applicable to them. While Cael didn’t have a sub-class yet, when he did it might be worth visiting here again.

Looking through it again, he grabbed a few more scrolls to gift to his companions from DeathGang. While he was initially unsure about this, it had several advantages. He wouldn’t have to worry about anti-ganking Guilds or other nearby enemies taking these scrolls, while giving DeathGang gifts meant that they were more likely to respect him as a benefactor than consder him someone whom they had to carry through dungeons. Since the gifts were valuable skills, it would also make these high-ranking DeathGang players more likely to remember him favourably.

Instead of gifting them immediately, which would all but divulge the existence of this shelf and soon cause the rest of the group to crowd around it, he decided to wait until he was near Kruxol and then do it. If Darys was present to see, then that would be even better.

“How come you’re taking Cryomancy scrolls?” Sharak asked perceptively.

“Ah, for the rest of the team,” Crucis replied.

“Very well. I see that a Cryomancer from your team has recently strolled in, and is playing against Ala-ud-din. That would explain it. Well, take two or three more, if you wish.”

Crucis guessed that Sharak was referring to Grisier, who had gone with Modrea, Vladimir and Konstantin to turn in the quest at the settlement.

“Thank you.”

He took about four gifts, including a Cryomancy scroll for Grisier, with the spell [Metallice], and an Ariosto sub-class skill book for DicingDevil, [Grapple Lunge].

“Alright, I think I have the books now,” Sharak said, standing by two small piles of books. He hefted up one pile, which seemed quite heavy, and let Crucis pick up the other one.

The books which Crucis carried had no names indicated on the outside, except for one, ‘The Book of Jade’ by David Park Barnitz.

As he turned out of this room, he saw that Grisier was looking excitedly over the chessboard, after a game against the chess automaton. Grisier had bravely decided to play as Black, and the automaton had already checkmated him with a continual assault of the vulnerable f-pawn next to the King.

“Hello, you just missed my pitiful defeat at the hands of a robot,” Grisier said in greetings.

“Alas, the next Deep Blue-Kasparov,” Crucis joked.

“Wait, what about me?” DicingDevil said. “I don’t get that title?”

“You can be the next Turk v. Napoléon,” Grisier offered.

“Bonaparte? Fine, fine, I’ll take that!”