Hey, I’m Sirius, and I’m a writer who hopes to one day write for CPG as someone who expands the lore of Mythron. Since only one entry is allowed for the lore contest, but I was itching to show more fanworks, I figured I might as well start posting them and maybe if I’m good enough I’ll get noticed by the right people? Who knows :B
I’ll be following the lore contest’s specifications: name of the card, flavor text, and a 200-300 word short story. Without further ado, here’s the first.
Some things should be forgotten. Others cannot be allowed to.
Ever since The First Blooming, there is magic in Mythron that dare not even be spoken in whispers—tomes bound in leather whose veins still beat, ink the color of stale blood on stained vellum giving readers sane too much knowledge, and those insane, too many opportunities. But impossible locks and impenetrable puzzles can only hope to prevent future slaughters; it does nothing to erase the memories of the past.
What is a life of a lone mage—perhaps forced to recite the morbid rites before unassailable cities, perhaps honored to be chosen by the tithe—to a ruler’s temptation of a war won with only one soldier lost? What is the cost of machines of war, of feeding armies, of smithing weaponry, when all it takes to bring a nation to its knees is a single ritual sacrifice?
A Vetruvian city is no more. Some petty squabble between minor nobility spoilt by riches led to a thousand thousand deaths, all in a matter of moments. Blood-tinged violet spires strike out from the ground, cracking mosaic pavements, piercing through buildings, spreading across the metropolis like a thorny cancer. Perhaps a few moments of screams of surprise, then terror, and then a sickening lurch as the ground begins to crumble. Those purple spikes ever so quickly consumed all in their path, risen from deep underground, leaving nothing of the city but a deep crater, crystal spreading throughout the depths like veins of a spider’s web, pulsing softly, the stench of death in the air.
A trio of carrion crows circle in the skies above the crater for just a moment before descending to gorge on a sickening feast that would fester for weeks. The laypeoples of Mythron have since forgotten the scriptures the spell required. The Arcanysts, try as they might, cannot.