Caphori Lore

[Kamimaia]

All Dreamers must eventually wake.

Whether they slumber comatose, only to wake when death's cruel scythe strikes them- or they merely snooze, to greet the new day upon rising- all Dreamers must awaken.
It is a fact, not to be disputed by man nor myth- or at least, it was.
This is a dream of myths.
This is a dream of Caphori II.

Caphori II was a village. Some dispute whether it was a village, a town, a city, or any other variant of population center, but for the purposes of the story we will call it a village for now. A village of cobblestone streets, of well-kept houses of wood and warm weather- in short, a peaceful and somewhat profitless village. They had a Lord.
His name was Carroway. Some question whether he was just or unjust- whether he was truly a Lord, when all he ruled was made of wood- whether his Templar-Knights protected or crushed the people underfoot- but he was a Lord, and that is all that truly matters. Lords have sons- and such is the important part of this tale.

It is a tale of Sons. A tale of Wives. A tale of death.

We begin with a Lord's Son, a Nurse, and a Knight.

Heather the Kind, she was called. A woman of worth, most said- beautiful, willing to give aid to even the worst of men. She had a modest establishment- and charged only a minor fee to stitch, mend and clean the worst of wounds. A beloved woman- and to one, a loved woman. Her husband was one Juralix von Caphori, a Templar-Knight under the service of Carroway von Caphori and the greatest among his guards. They were happy, and so everyone was happy- save one. Absolute power corrupts absolutely- and one Markov- a greater son of Carroway, desired the happiness that Juralix held dear.
Many times, he approached the object of his desire, only to be spurned- the one thing in the hamlet of Caphori that he could not have. Again and again, he sought her affection- candies fit for royalty, the finest flowers from the sprawling longhouse's gardens, all serving him naught for many a year. He could do nothing to win her heart. But remember this- royalty is not made by winning a game of passion.

Royalty takes things for themselves.

---

"Whar ya goin', Boyo? Oi though' we were jus' gorra 'ave anothah point'er two! Ya've only 'ad, wat, three? Ya loightweight! Har har!"

The raucous voice was of one called Garval the Drunkard. To him, there was always cause to celebrate, even if the cause was just a particularly pretty or destructive show of gunpowder.
Markov declined, having already drunk his fill.

"Garval, leave me be. I care little for company right now, and your light-hearted insults still cut deep this night."

"Oooo~h. Oi see. Th' lass still ain't goin' yer way, aye?"

"...No."

"Wot's th' bloo'y deal annyays? Bloo'y'ell, ya coul' jus'... jus'... bed tha' wispy green lass, wots're name... Tania? Bloo'y noice lass tha'. An' she's allabou' th' natchah, ain't she, bein' a dryad an' all!" His nudge of the elbow and wink at the humor did little to brighten Markov's mood.

"I'm going out, Garval. If father comes looking for me, I'll be in the graveyard."

And off he went. The graveyard was not a far distance from the town, and not nearly full, as young as Caphori yet was. The village had only existed a mere handful of years, the like-minded coming from all over the world, to found the place. As such, there were only three wooden crosses- erected to those that had failed in the trek, and perished from lack of water in the twin deserts. It was normally quiet. Normally secluded. An ideal place for some peace of mind, except tonight. Markov was forced to stop dead in his tracks- for a woman in white kneeled by the markers, offering flowers to the dead.

"Is it not enough, woman, that you spurn my affection? The affection of a lord's son? You must take from me, also, my solace?"

Markov was furious. He was angry. He was drunk, and there is no reasoning with such a man who swayed on his feet and still had control of his tongue.

"W-wait, your highness, I only wanted to- to offer care for the deceased-"

"Care for the Dead and not for the Living. How CRUEL of you. Why don't you get out of Caphori! Leave me to my heartbreak! The dead ill have need of a healer, Heather!"

"Y-You're Drunk! I-I'll just... just go!"

"Drunk?!"

He had grabbed her, by then- by the collar of a white dress, holding her close- and who could say goes on in a man so enraged, whose head is so filled with desires he can never have? Who can say what he would do, when confronted with what he wants so closely, and forcibly told he cannot have it?

Poor Heather.
Royalty takes things for themselves.

---

She returned home, later that night- disheveled and skittish, as if every shadow were a claw reaching to take her away. Her husband questioned- she did not answer until the fifth time on the fifth day after, knowing what it would mean to tell him.

"It... was Markov."

"The lord's son? If I was not sworn to protect the royal families, I'd..."

"Do nothing, Markov. This... it was an accident. It had to be."

"We will see if it was an accident."

---

Juralix von Caphori, his name. His family, distantly related to the noble lineage- it had been a matter of mere thought to place himself in service of the lord he shared names with, as Templar-Knight captain. He had served the Lord and King for years- first during the formative years in Caphori I, the kingdom that fell to the legions of the dead- and now in Caphori II, a town that was only now beginning to construct fortifications. Caphori the Second had never seen such a decorated knight- a man willing to go to hell and back for the sake of the people, the lord, or the king. In fifteen years of service, never had a single notion of treason or other form of transgression crossed his mind.

Until now, as he espied Markov within the shade of the garden.

"Why?"

"Why what, Templar-knight? You'd do best to hold your tongue, rather than address me in such a tone."

The eyes of Juralix took him in- the shattered vision of an egotistical man that was one who had given over to the Beast within- taken of what was not rightfully his, and relished in the violent acts it committed even as he hid away the results. His eyes saw the lad- and also, the lack of men who would stop him from doing what he did not, yet, intend.

"You pillaged her honor."

"She told you? There was nothing to pillage, Juralix. Her honor was nothing from the moment she spurned royalty."

Poor Markov.
Knights defend whatever they hold dear.

Whether Markov meant his words, or it was merely the Beast- is not known. The only thing known, however, is that words became more heated- spitting violently until only fists, then blades could speak. Only weapons held the words Juralix could speak, after- and after, with the blood of a nobleman upon his blade, Juralix was done- the body left to decompose amongst the daisies.

In one fell moment, the Beast within Markov had become the Beast within Juralix- and he fled Caphori II with fear and loathing in his heart. He wanted Heather with him- he wanted her subtle and tender touch, to whisk away the Beast's slime from his battle-hardened skin- but she would not go. Markov, while corrupt now, had not always been- there would be others who mourned his death, including Lord Carroway. She had to stay behind, to whisper words of encouragement and do whatever she could when his Highness's rage struck.

Poor Juralix.
Healers must remain, to help the injured.

---

The body was found that same day, even as Markov's slayer trekked across deserts and wastelands- forests and mountains. There was a funeral- and even his ill-gotten conquest attended, for the loss of a life was something she could hardly bear. She could not love Juralix any longer- though even as the Lord Carroway intoned his anger and sadness to the high heavens and demanded a killer be brought forth, she never spoke.
One after another, men and women, even children were interrogated- some tried for treason, though the killer was never found. Juralix had an alibi- a quickly-spun tale of deceit spoke of him returning to Caphori I in order to join the still-going war, and he was presumed deceased as well. So great was his previous service to king and country that this was never brought into question- never inspected. Five years saw the heartbroken Lord overcome steadily with madness as he tried harder and harder to find justice- all in vain. Five years saw the town stagnate- its walls nor castle ever erected, as poverty and disease struck the people one after another in plagues widespread and deadly, even as King Leonardo himself escaped Caphori I to aid in Caphori II's plight. There was little hope- until Carroway spoke the words that changed the face of the world forever.

"My son lies dead- this town who would hide his killer and thereby grant justice to the crime remains silent. A pox on them all- No. Nine poxes. Ten. A hundred- as many as it takes for them all to suffer and perish. A thousand deaths each- I would have this world be dust. Dust! Do you hear me, Fates? I would relinquish all I have, for justice to be brought for the death of Markov!"

Poor Caphori.
The Fates listen.

---

Carroway called for torment as the Beast claimed his sanity- and torment came.
From Moravel, the cruel Fate of the Past, came the walking dead- corpses shambling, seeking only to add more to their number.
From Ysabel, the cold Fate of the Present, came the eyes that watched- each iris suspicious of their every move, judging them before deeming them unworthy under the gaze of Cthulhu.
From Aloemaxia, the cunning Fate of the Future, came the Black- the dying stars of the sky seeking the earth, changing it, corrupting all they touched until nary a stretch of land was not strewn with chasms and malformed, misshapen creatures that seemed to strip away their victim's very souls before finally killing them without mercy.

The peoples of Caphori I would never construct their walls- only hide within the shacks and huts they had constructed during their brief, happy time in this new land. The night became their bane. The earth itself became anathema to their touch.
And the tales spread- even to the ears of an errant Knight who had lost his own honor to the Beast, before it left him for the King.

To think that such a blood-drenched tale could carry so far, to harm so many. It spoke to the still-righteous core of Juralix, telling him somehow that it was all his fault- that it needed to be rectified. Ten years of hell was long enough for him to endure- what was a mere ten years for him away from home had been ten eternities for the sacrificial lambs of Caphori. He had to return home.
And so he did. Carroway welcomed him back, still unknowing of Juralix's deed- and told him of the curse's origin. Lord Carroway had prayed to the Fates, and now reveled in the destruction that, in his sundered mind, was justified.

And so Juralix did the same, within the chilly Temple of the Fates atop Caphori II's mountain.

"To the Three, I bind myself.
To the Future, I bind myself.
To the Present, I bind myself.
To the Past, I bind myself.
You make me, and so you unmake me, but until then I am yours.

To Aloemaxia, Fate of the Future,
I pledge my Honor.
I sacrifice my Vanity.
I pray for hope.
May you guide me.

To Ysabel, Fate of the Present,
I pledge my Endurance.
I sacrifice my Pride.
I pray for Kindness.
May you judge me.

To Moravel, Fate of the Past,
I pledge my Growth.
I sacrifice my Grudge.
I pray for Knowledge.
May you teach me.

May my Thread shine bright in the weave of Destiny."

And the Fates answered him in three voices. The voice of Aloemaxia, who could not Remember. The voice of Moravel, who could not Imagine. The voice of Ysabel, who could not do Nothing.

"We hear you."

"Though you have no Honor to pledge, no Vanity to sacrifice, no Hope to pray for, we hear you, and Guide you."

"Though you have nowhere to Grow to, no Grudges remaining, no new Knowledges to seek, we hear you, and Teach you."

"Though you have no Endurance remaining, no Pride in your soul, no Kindness to seek, we hear you, and Judge you."

"How do you Study?" "How do you Plead?" "How do you Follow?"

Juralix never raised from his kneel, upon the snow-strewn floor. "I follow in sadness. I study in dread. I plead in guilt."

"And what would you have us change in the Weave, Templar-Knight Juralix von Caphori?"

"The people I was sworn to protect have been harmed by my judgement. I slew one that began a cascade of events which could not be stopped. I have wronged this world, Fates. As you granted the boon of Lord Carroway to harm us- would you grant mine, to save us?"

"Your thread is dulled."

"In the Past, you have slain those you sought to protect, once."

"In the Present, you are damned."

"In the Future, you die alone, unatoned, unloved."

"For us to change destiny a second time, you must change yours. Seek redemption for your deed by proclaiming it to the one harmed most. Heal the mind of a man once great."

"Upon this deed, Caphori shall slumber- safe and secure, beneath the earth where none shall touch or disturb the villagers for a thousand years- long enough for wars to begin and end, for heroes and empires to claim the soil and give them Hope upon awakening."
"You will not be among them- but your sins will be absolved."

Poor Carroway.
Lords decide Justice.

---

Legend says, further, that Lord Carroway slew Juralix where the man stood after the deed was spoken of, in front of his King- and as if cutting free a tumor, Carroway's mind was healed and Heather's heart loved Juralix once more for such a noble act of redemption.
The villagers then slept, as if under a spell- somewhere beneath the town, though neither looters nor archaeologists have been able to discover it. So many stories, and they all describe Caphori II (Or Caphori, as it is called now) as a cursed place. To 'Sleep a Caphori' is to never awaken. A threat, really. To 'Dwell in Caphori' is to be unlucky, cursed through some horrible fault not of your own. It is little more than ruins, now- only the graveyard still remains, one thousand years later to the day.
But I think I have found the Vault- Certainly, the undead, eyes and corruption hold true to the tale. We shall see if the tales are fully true- and one way or another I, whom others call only the Guide as a cruel joke, shall have the discovery of a lifetime.

                                                                                                                                                                          -Emiras the Learned

---So who are you, Dreamer? Be you of the villagers, still steadily waking one after another in these long years? Be you of those who visit the land, empires seeking to expand?  Or are you merely a lone wanderer, coming to these cursed lands in search of glory or violence?  Time will tell.   Time always tells.

[INA7HAN]

Brilliant.

[Paladin_Shark]

Brilliant lore! Truly a work of art!
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Also, please do not repeatedly ask for the password in the thread or shoutbox.
It's the fastest way to get banned. -Also, edited post to where you won't get banhammered.