Bakker XXX: A Dark and Seminal Work

[Castel]

Yeah, that's pretty much it when it comes to the Mandate. As for other sorcerers, most didn't believe the Consult existed before Kellhus despite the endless Mandate harping, and it's not like the Consult is recruiting anyone.

Do people even know the Consult's plan? Moe had to torture it out of a skin-spy

[Diziet]

They've only known about the Consult from the Mandate, and even if the Mandate knew that they're trying to save their souls they're unlikely to include anything that might bring sympathy to the Consult in their pitch to the great factions.

But let's assume that they've known and that they did want to join the Consult, how would they go about doing that? Travel to Golgotterath? Their best chance to stumble onto a Synthese already knowing what it is and hope to convince it to take them in.

[Happy Ent]

Second draft, act 1.

As soon as they blinked out of the twisted plane of translocation, Moenghus knew that something was amiss. Serwa risked her third translocation that day, and was already weakened, and clearly the intricacies of the metagnostic cant had become too much for her. Moenghus felt dizzy, but he had born the smallest toll of their little company. Serwa was still intact, but had left most of her clothes in the strange dimension, and stood shivering in the rain, wearing only her Swayali underwear.

Sorweel, scion of Sakarpus, was simply gone.

He was not so much killed as he was inverted. The translocation had turned him inside-out, and he had exploded like an overripe fruit while still in Serwa's embrace. His remains covered her left half, wet tissue slolwy gliding down the

firm curves of her body.

Innards became entangled in the lace of her suspender belt.

Moenghus blinked. Seems he got into her knickers after all. He tried to rid himself of the image. "Well, I guess we'll just have to turn back."

"No". Serwa had made a blade of her hand and began to scrape Sorweel off her glistening skin. "I am spent. We need to go for help."

"But where will we go in the middle of nowhere?"

"See those two towers? I think that's some kind of castle."

Two golden structures rose through the sheets of rain, huge and golden, like horns pinching the sky. Rain came pouring down.

In the velvet darkness of the blackest void,

burning bright there's a guiding star.

There's a light burning in Golgotterath's hearth

There's a fire waiting to devour your soul

no matter what or who you are.

Ancient Inchoroi nursery rhyme

Serwa had regained enough of her strength to maintain the Second Umbrella of Fleet over their heads while they had climbed the rocky path to the castle's entrance. As they approached, the small door opened with a preternatural squeak.

A tiny head angled through the narrow opening, no larger than a fist.

"Hello". The voice thin and reedy.

Moenghus composed himself, took a manly step forward, and stuck out his right hand according to the dicates of jnan. "Hi. I'm Anasurimbor Moenghus, and this is my half-sister, Anasurimbor Serwa, grandmistress of the Swayali compact. I wonder if you could help us. You see, our metagnosis broke down a few miles up the road, and we need to contact the Holy War."

Tiny teeth clicking. Beady eyes blinking. A slow puppet nod. "You're wet."

For the first time, Moenghus realised that the tiny human head was grafted to the body of a bird.

"I think you better both ... Shadows fluttered around the bird form, as if some greater eye blinked about the world. An intimation of rage and power. "... come inside."

The door opened and the Synthese hopped back. Slowly, Serwa and Moenghus entered the chamber behind, followed the fluttering bird through the passages. Gleaming metal, tissue, arcane artefacts of the tekne. Serwa had witnessed the strange torsion of sorcery often enough, but here it was gut-wrenching. Every panorama an obscenity.

Moenghus was unfazed. "This is probably some kind of hunting lodge for rich weirdos."

"No," she muttered under her breath. She had visited these halls often enough as Seswatha. "This is Min-Uroikas."

The bird stopped. The noise was now overwhelming. Sranc in lingerie fluttered through the shadows, visible but for an instant. Bashrag in make-up, wearing butter-fly shaped sunglasses and coloured wigs.

"You've arrived on a rather special night. It's one of the grandmaster's affairs."

"Oh, lucky him." Moenghus, deadpan, like in an Ainoni comedy.

Without warning, a shadow fell over them. A huge form descended from the upper galleries of the hall, landing gracelessly beside them. Squatting like a dog, the translucent wings folded over its gleaming body.

"You're lucky, he's lucky, I'm lucky. We're all hedonists here! Ha ha ha..."

The hall had filled with a grotesque menagerie of creations. Oddly beautiful Nonman faces on the dog-like forms of Sranc, painted like whores from Carythusal. Small Wracu wearing corsets. Bashrag balancing on high heels, three stiletto boots to each foot, three feet to each leg. The hairy tufts sprouting from their blemished skin dies in garish colours. Ornamented Chorae hung from the ceiling, blinking red through some trick of the tekne.

Then the Synthese and the giant winged creature began to screach in the wicked tongue of the Inchoroi, and the assembled monstrosities rocked to and fro, like marionettes jerking to the same strings.

Serwa could make out only parts of the incantation through the clamour, but she knew the words well enough. An ancient lament of the Inchoroi.

I remember doing the time-warp drinking those moments when the blackness would hit me and the void would be calling.

The revellers worked themselves into a frenzy. Jumping left, stepping right, and pummeling their groins. Finally the clamour stopped. Serwa realised that the eyes of every creature seemed to hang on her, measuring her, following her every movement as she tried to walk slowly backwards. Phalli like bows, ill concealed by lace and silk.

Moenghus had begun to tap the music's rythm with his foot. "Just a moment, Serwa - we don't want to interfere with their celebration."

"This isn't the Imperial Precincts, Moenghus."

"They're probably foreigners with ways different than our own. They may do some more... folk dancing.

"Look, I'm cold, I'm wet, and I'm just plain scared!"

"I'm here - there's nothing to worry about."

While the holy siblings walked backwards towards the entrance, another sound shook the hall. Dazzling geometries of colour. Metallic clash like opening a rusty door. They turned around and gasped. Serwa actually cried out. The man standing before them was not so much old as he was decrepit. Sagging skin, a tangled beard, scars of the tekne. His Mark was deep, almost purple.

So was his lipstick.

He wore a green silk gown crisscrossed by a form-hugging sash of blue. Like an old boy whore playing the coquette.

"How do you do. See you've met my," an imperceptible pause, "faithful," another pause, "Inchoroi."

In a way curiously obscene for one so old, he sashayed past them. Serwa convulsed with pleasure. The old man seated himself in the throne, spreading his withered legs. The confusion of his shriveled genitalia stood in stark contrast to the gleaming phalli of the two Inchoroi who now flanked the throne. Heavy, black, and pendolous.

"Don't get strung out by the way I look. As the Nilmameshi say, don't judge a book by its cover."

A lascivious grin spread across the scabrous ruin of his face, as he enunciated every glottoral consonant, penetrate a barrier of murky phlegm. "I'm just a gnostic grandmaster from gorgeous Golgotterath."

- * -

"Anasurimbor Moenghus. This is my half-sister Serwe."

"Serwa."

"Well, how nice. I am Shauritas, of the Mangaecca. It's not often we receive visitors here, let alone offer them... hospitality." His eyes lingered on Serwa's breasts for a moment before flickering between her thighs. "And what charming undergarments you have. Ever are men deceived, mistaking the boundaries of flesh for the lace that covers it. And for that... we are to burn?"

He stood, and with a flourish the included the entire assembled crowd of obsceneties in the compass of his attention.

"But no more!" he cried.

The synthese hopped forward. "Everything is in readiness, grandmaster."

Shauriastas walked towards a coffin-like structure in the middle of the room, built in the same unearthly material as the rest of the chamber. In the perimeter, ancient amputees rocked, bound like larvae to cradle-like sconces of stone. Moenghus saw golden reliefs through the scuffs in the offal, warring figures, leering and inhuman.

At last the grandmaster spoke.

“Tonight, my unconventional conventionalists... you are about to witness a new breakthrough in the Tekne... and salavation is to be ours!”

Suddenly, an inward glance, a strangely intimate gesture, as if to make everybody in the room part of his private thoughts.

“For years I toiled. And then—it was strange the way it happened... suddenly you get a break... whole pieces seem to fit into place, not a sign of being.. what a fool! The answer was there all the time, it took a small accident to make it happen... *an accident*...”

A furtive glance towards two of the female Sranc, who croaked in response, a mixture of extasy and fear.

“..and that's how I discovered the secret, that elusive ingredient,

that spark that is the breath of life...

“Yes, I have that knowledge... I hold the secret... to life... itself!”

Shariastas began to manipulate the coffin, nudging small icons almost lascivuously, straddling it now, flipping levers, fondling dials. “You see, you are fortunate for tonight is the night that my beautiful creature is destined to be born! Hoopla! ...throw open the switches on the sonic oscillator... and step the reactor power input three more points!”

Moënghus gagged and fought to keep looking at the cascade of smoke and fluids that erupted from between the grandmaster’s legs. From the sarcophagus, a creature slowly rose, standing impossibly erect. A glistening form, of man-shape maybe, yet greater. Sweat ran from its muscled torso.

The room fell silent, except for the weeping of men who had fallen to their knees.

Serwa moved closer to Moënghus, whispering, “Moënghus” in a voice thick with dread.

He replied, “It’s all right, Serwë.”

“Serwa.”

Just then, the creature opened its mouth, its voice ringing impossibly from the throats of the assembled Sranc in the room.

“TELL ME... I HAVE THIS FEELING OF UNNAMEABLE DREAD. WOE IS ME, MY LIFE IS A MYSTERY: WHAT AM I? WHAT DO YOU SEE?”

At the Grandmaster’s command, the Inchoroi, Ishroi, and ranking members of the Consult began to enshrine the confused creature in another, larger sarcophagus. Serwa’s increased agitation was enough to confirm to Moënghus that this structure was studded with Chorae.

While the sorcerers laboured, the Sranc continued chanting the lamentation of the nascent creature.

“WHAT DO YOU SEE?”

Then Shauriastas’s melodius voice pierced the cacaphony.

I want to eat salty, low-protein,

drink wine and eggnogs.

Cast spells, grope children,

read lingerie blogs.

But we’re damnéd

’cause of what the gods will allow.

So to not go to Hell,

I have built Mog-Pharau.

Most of the room had joined in the chorus.

One of the Inchoroi stepped forward and joined the grandmaster for the next verse.

You’d think a race of lovers should

behave like Captain Kirk.

Have some fun with the natives,

give the females some phalli to jerk.

But we’re damnéd

’cause of what the gods will allow.

So to not go to Hell,

I have built Mog-Pharau.

Chanting, singing, and grunting, the procession filed out of the room.

To dinner.

And judgement.

[Larry of the Lawn]

Whoa.

[Kalbear]

They should have sent a poet. A really deranged poet on a lot of drugs, but a poet nonetheless.

[Anatúrinbor]

Can't believe big Moë didn't turn up in there. Or was that him in the Bashrag costume?

[Castel]

Whoa.

Indeed.

[Happy Ent]

Can't believe big Moë didn't turn up in there. Or was that him in the Bashrag costume?

There is still a central, wheel-chair-bound role to fill for the next act. Could be played by Moe, or by Xerius, or be tabby cat.

[lokisnow]

Damnation has always comes across as silly if people know they are damned for working sorcery.

Most importantly, why didn't the entirety of the Mandate go over to the Consult then? Did Seswatha know he was damned?

to flip a frame, imagine you're a young bakker and you watch return of the jedi see the emperor shoot lightning out his fingers and think, "I would totally join the darkside to be able to do that, screw this good guy garbage." I think it's sort of like that, lots of folks would trade tangible power for intangible punishment.

Strangely enough, genocide is basically better on every level. It's a better move for the altruist and the selfish bastard. It's a hilarious situation Bakker has set up here, if not a novel one,

It's not novel. It's the premise of enders game. That novel makes it more extreme because it suggests we should feel sorry for the selfish mass murderer and be okay with genocide because the perpetrator knows inside he is really a good person with good intentions so nothing he could do could possibly be wrong, ergo it's okay to commit genocide if you still think you're a good person doing the right thing.

[Larry of the Lawn]

There is still a central, wheel-chair-bound role to fill for the next act. Could be played by Moe, or by Xerius, or be tabby cat.

What do you have against Xinemus? Th3 RoLL3 shod be his to lose.

[lokisnow]

A Dark and Semenal Wank

[Happy Ent]

Bakker XXX: A Dark and Seminal Work

I approve of it, since it is not entirely juvenile.

[Happy Ent]

Also, from another current thread: “Bakker XXX: Fantasy Nutella”.

[The Marquis de Leech]

Also, from another current thread: “Bakker XXX: Fantasy Nutella”.

Surely marmite would be more appropriate? People either love it or hate it, and it's an infamous black substance.

[Anatúrinbor]

"You're lucky, he's lucky, I'm lucky. We're all hedonists here! Ha ha ha..."

That's the one I'd go with.

[Sci-2]

So do people want a Dark & Seminal work [to be the title]?

Let a Sci know!

=-=-=

I'm thinking some more about how Gnostic this work is. The Hundred are the Archons, humanity has God inside them, and there's a light beyond the abyss Mimara sees. Of course one of the interesting ideas in Gnostic thought is that your true-self would be freed from the prison of both flesh and psyche, and what would be left is something those still Asleep might find alien.

Perhaps this is the reason we don't get a Kellhus POV, b/c he's a combination of Jesus & the King in Yellow from our perspective?

[The Marquis de Leech]

Had a delightful crackpot theory occur to me (at far too many a.m.)...

The Heron Spear contains a small nuclear reactor, and can fire concentrated gamma rays at a distance. Shining death indeed, and capable of penetrating the Carapace without being blocked by either whirlwind or chorae. I'm guessing Mog-Pharau's container isn't lined with lead...

[unJon]

Had a delightful crackpot theory occur to me (at far too many a.m.)...

The Heron Spear contains a small nuclear reactor, and can fire concentrated gamma rays at a distance. Shining death indeed, and capable of penetrating the Carapace without being blocked by either whirlwind or chorae. I'm guessing Mog-Pharau's container isn't lined with lead...

Gamma rays are invisible but maybe it also fired a visible laser.

[Larry of the Lawn]

Gamma rays are invisible but maybe it also fired a visible laser.

Of course it did. All Heron Spears were equipped with a tracer beam. Seriously, do we need to do a group reread of the Big Book of Tekne again?

[Wise Fool]

Had a delightful crackpot theory occur to me (at far too many a.m.)...

The Heron Spear contains a small nuclear reactor, and can fire concentrated gamma rays at a distance. Shining death indeed, and capable of penetrating the Carapace without being blocked by either whirlwind or chorae. I'm guessing Mog-Pharau's container isn't lined with lead...

But maybe Mog-Pharau's sarcophagus is lead-lined. So the force of the nuclear powered particle beam would at least knock it about a bit. It'd roll across the ground a few times and stop and then Harrison Ford would pop out.