“A Sage will kill a Marauder.
A Marauder will kill a Sage.
A Marauder will kill a Marauder.
A Warden will kill a Marauder.
A Marauder will kill a Warden.
A Sage will kill a Warden.
A Warden will NOT kill a Sage.
All will kill Architects gladly.”
-Old Peasant’s saying.
The air was thin atop the Sage Mountain. It had always been thin, because Sage Mountain was a really fucking high place. The highest place in all of Craicorn's newly formed mass. Some might say that their high place on the island was a well-deserved mark of their place in the world, but they would mentally slap you for saying that. Altitude-based notions of superiority are a mark of primal instincts, and an obstacle on the path to cosmic understanding on a universal level.
The mountain was topped by The Library, a magnificent marvel of masonry carved and built over the mountain peak. Those who belonged to the Sage Order lived at The Library, or rather, they lived in a fortified monastic village around The Library, with the help of loyal peasant farmers under their protection. The Library was no small trove, but rather the crown jewel of knowledge and wisdom in the world. Every surface within was brimming with magic artifacts and flying wizard books and shit, because of course there were. They’re Fantasy Sages, for fuck’s sake.
The Sacrist, TriJon the Mercybringer, was the keeper and organizer of tomes and artifacts. He was the only one allowed to give people permission to touch them, and the one charged with investigating and cataloguing each new one submitted to the Library. His travelling scholars and laymen alike had brought much knowledge to The Library. The greatest secrets of Medicine, History, Science and Magic alike had been laid out before him over the course of his administration. Right now, an acolyte had brought him a spaghetti grinder.
“Where’d you find this thing, Sister?” Trijon asked, gently prodding its surface with an ice cube. It must have been a silver spaghetti grinder.
“It was in the bottom of a boiler in the abandoned brewery!” She said, proudly, “The peasants were using the residue to make some sort of vegetable paste, and this was on the bottom.”
“...How do you know it’s magic?”
“Crank the handle, Father Trijon!”
Father Trijon did crank the handle, and it generated a foul-smelling condiment, seemingly out of nothing.
“Eugh, what is that!?”
“It’s Marmite, Father.”
“What the fuck is Marmite!?”
“It’s considered food in the Eastern Isles.”
“Oh?... Well, I suppose this could come in handy in a siege, then, assuming we don’t resort to cannibalism first. Excellent find, Acolyte! You’ll be a Sage yet!”
“Thank you, Father Trijon, I do my best!”
There was the sound of splintering wood in the Library again. It had persisted throughout the interview, but now there was yelling. The Mercybringer reluctantly decided to intervene.
“Alright, who’s breaking things!?”
“I’m just pannin’ a dummy, Father! No need tae worry!” Said Brother Silas. He appeared to be exploring the finer points of smacking living scarecrows with a rusty shovel. Trijon snatched up the glowing manual that was animating them, and the stuffed shirts fell limp to the ground.
“Brother, I told you already, you aren’t allowed to animate things in the library!”
“But I need the Conjeror’s ‘Andbook to animate things, an’ I cannae take it out of the library!”
“Exactly! Now clean up your mess and fuck off. Three days on Necronomicon Translation Duty for you!”
“Ya cannae punish me for this! Father Berkaz gave me permission!”
“Wait, Berkaz is a Sacrist?”
“You made ‘im a bloody Sacrist!”
“How did you convince him to let you smash scarecrows in the library!?”
“I told ‘em that, if we invented martial arts fer peasant weapons, we could spread the word and convert more towns by teachin’ ‘em independence, self defense, control o’ mind an’ body, that kinda thing.”
“Wow, that’s actually a pretty good idea, what inspired you?”
“Ah was off on mission t’convert one of the Architect’s towns, but they tried burnin’ me fer witchcraft, so I kinda had te fight ‘em off with one o’ their shovels.”
“Alright, that’s it, you’re gonna have to take a mandatory vow of silence and cleanse yourself at the Waterfall Temple.”
“But-”
“You shut your beak, man! Do you know what kind of trouble you’ve started!? Brothers going into foreign lands and killing the townsfolk is going to bring bloody, interorder conflict to all of us! Be glad I didn’t make you take a vow of Chastity, like Ford!”
“Ford Isnae Sage, though?”
“True, but Ford also shouldn’t ever reproduce.”
“Holy shit you’re a wise sage. No wonder they put you in charge of The Library!”
“It’s true. Now go, face the trials of the Waterfall Temple and don’t come back until you’re finished! AND STOP FUCKING TALKING!”
So Silas rode, shovel in hand, to the Waterfall Temple…
~
Mizarys Dragarian was clearly born to be a Feudal Ruler, or at least a prostitute, not a sworn Missionary Sage of the Realm. This much was obvious as the Bugger of Dragons uneasily juggled the tasks of walking down a cliff face and balancing her brood on her head with maintaining the rare level of subconscious hip-swivel that comes with demanding your offering in orgasms. But alas, Mizarys’ followers had been redistributed throughout the 4 orders, and so she really had to get around. Hence, she was made the official minister of Inter-Order relations.
Forseeing that “relations” would not last long with Mizarys at the helm, Mercybringer sent a young “Apprentice” to go with her and “Learn the ways of diplomacy”. Of course, Mizarys hated the very notion of children accompanying her anywhere. She immediately went to the most dangerous place she knew.
“Mizarys,” said the little silver-haired girl walking alongside her, “Why are those people down there throwing someone into the firepit?”
“It’s a Marauder Wedding or something. Any Marauder gathering that doesn’t involve someone getting thrown into the firepit is considered a dull affair.”
“Oh? Interesting…”
“Yes, yes, very interesting. Let’s just get to the throne and give the Khar our offerings for the day.”
“Okay!”
They had finally arrived on more flat ground, behind some tents where something indescribable was surely going on, from the sound of it.
“Mizarys, what are those people doing?” said the apprentice, trying to make sense of the firelit silhouettes.
“When two marauders love each other very much, sometimes they fuck each other to death. Other times, they kill each other to death. For some, there’s no difference. They’re a hard and uncivilized bunch of-” Mizarys piped down to watch some barbarians draw knives and try to dick-stab each other, “OH COME ON, SWEEP HIS LEGS!”
Weaving their way past some drunken slashers, they finally found their way to the throne overlooking the firepit. Upon a gilded stool made from troll skulls and Disco records, was the robed terror himself, Bloodlord Man-Ender.
“Who the fuck are you?” His scratchy baritone rolled down the steps of his throne, echoing off the sides of the cliff.
“Ambassadors from the order of Sages.” Mizarys said, “We’v-”
“Skip the bullshit, you know that’s not part of the process here.”
“I’ve brought a little... Annoyance with me, who you may have for your entertainment…”
“An annoyance?” Her apprentice squeaked with interest, “Ooh, where?”
Man-Ender grumbled, “I already have loads of annoyances. Why would I want this one?”
“You could, I don’t know, kill her! Get rid of her! I mean, look at this little shit, she’s tiny! You could play bocci-baby with her!”
“I play bocci-baby with Fordici’s minions. Something’s gotta set her apart.”
Mizarys turned to her apprentice, glaring hard, looking for any particular talents, “Apprentice, do a trick! Make it snappy!”
“Oh… Okay… I, uh…” Her apprentice was faltering. Something had to be done about this, and fast.
Mizarys quickly changed the subject, “Would you shut up that troubadour in the corner!? His poetry is like a verbal AIDS.”
“Oh, yeah!” Her apprentice smiled, producing a few scrolls, “I agree, but he’s getting better. I’ve written several commentaries at length about how he could improve his writings.”
Man-Ender smiled from beneath his hood. They could see the pointed pearly yellows glistening from the pillar of flames behind them, “That’s one helluva trick! I think I’ll keep your annoyance! Minions, have those comments seared into the bard’s groin!”
The apprentice smiled smugly as two sweaty marauders grabbed the bard and dragged him off behind a rock with an alphabet of glowing branding irons.
“What’s your name, little annoyance?” Man-Ender roared jovially over the increasingly high and squeaky screams of the bard.
“They call me Vera, Vera of the Orchards!”
Mizarys frowned. Her apprentice was taken care of, but it wasn’t half as bloody as she’d hoped.
~
Somewhere at the corner of some unacknowledged roads, a standing stone sat at the bottom of the mountain. Many words were carved on it, by creatures the Sages had called “Beyond the Meta”. They went as follows:
“This is The Library, or rather, the concept of The Library. This is where the Sages may record any historical events regarding the Orders. Here is where we establish ourselves as the best faction. All those who enter The Library without a damned good short story to justify it must be shamed, and the Library defended from these lazy trolls, who threaten the sanctity and legitimacy of our tales.”
Many Sages have argued the exact meaning of these words for a long time, but it was unanimously agreed that the Sages should build a Library on top of the mountain.
