It gives me great pleasure to announce in my capacity as Music Disciple to the Dark Lord Barak the opening of The Jukebox Joint (Musicians' Lounge).
This is a new subforum at Legends of Mernac, the premiere fantasy site on the Web. In this forum there will be opportunities for musicians of all sorts to share resources and experience, as well as to participate in some upcoming musical developments planned for Mernac.
I hope you'll take the opportunity to visit the Joint very soon! C'mon, it'll be fun!
Canu Baraksson
Music Disciple to Barak, Father of Darkness
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Monday, June 11, 2007
The Tale of Canu Baraksson - Conclusion
The room was dimly lit, smoking torches hanging in sconces set in the walls. I remember the smell of acrid sulfurous fumes, thick and heavy, nearly setting me to coughing. Through the thinning soles of my badly-worn sandals I could feel the heat radiating from the stone floor, stones that should have been cold, but somehow were not. And how well I still recall my first sight of His face, Him whom I have come to love and revere above all others.
When first I caught sight of Him, He was seated at ease upon an immense black throne, intricately carved from a single block of obsidian. I noted that something appeared to be wrong with His aura. Though it still shone brightly about him, the edges had begun to darken and turn in upon themselves, almost like a piece of spoiled fruit. He rose and gazed solemnly at me. I was frightened and dropped trembling to my knees, but He came to me and raised me up, called me His son, and by many diverse proofs convinced me that it was so.
"You shall serve me well as a good son serves his father," He intoned, and I found myself nodding in agreement. "I shall make of you a Disciple of Music, and such shall be your power that all who hear you play shall find, however briefly, peace in their souls."
So began my service to the Lord Barak, He who came to be known as Father of Darkness. He never treated me other than well, and I thrived upon the tasks He set me to accomplish. One thing, however I longed to do yet could not; there seemed to be no relief from His melancholy humors. Ever He mourned for Siberlee, and it nearly maddened me that I could provide Him no relief from that sorrow. I even attempted to bring peace to Him through the use of the power
He had bestowed upon me, sometimes playing for Him long into the night. But I could bring no peace to His soul, for He had yielded it up that His beloved Siberlee might have her heart's desire.
============================================
It was not difficult to notice that an atmosphere of tense disagreement existed between the Fathers and the Mothers, and through the season of 665 this grew stronger with each passing day. However, in my youthful ignorance I paid it little mind; in any case the training I was receiving in my father's house occupied nearly all of my time, and many a night I stumbled off late to find my bed, my eyes scarce able to focus and my trembling legs betraying me. Consequently I was taken almost completely by surprise when matters came to a head and open warfare erupted between them. It was a time of great confusion, and I remember little of the details. My attention was immediately caught and held though as it became evident that the Mothers and their followers were engaged in hurling the Fathers forcibly from the heavens. I rushed into the melee, hoping against hope that I could aid my father.
Too late, too late I came to the scene, cursing myself for having paid so little attention to the events leading up to this. Barak, surrounded and overpowered by the throng, was being inexorably pushed out even as I arrived. I saw Him slip; I think I may have screamed. Perhaps if I could reach Him my hand, I thought, I might pull Him back up again. Just as I reached the brink, He plunged into the abyss, His face a tortured mask, and from His mouth came a long drawn howl of denial. I had only time to notice that it was Siberlee in the lead of those who had pushed Him; then I stumbled over my own feet and, following my father, pitched headlong into the depths. Despite my perilous situation I could not help but wonder: had She actually pushed him? It seemed so unlikely, yet clearly my father thought it so.
How long we fell I never could say with certainty...a day?...a week?...a minute? All time seemed to be one time, the same. Yet I knew well when I had stopped falling, and my landing upon the Underworld floor was no gentle one. The rock was adamant, unforgiving, and the impact was brutal. I felt as though every bone in my body had been pulverized instantly, that my body itself was turned to jelly.
Blackness took me and I lay for a time unseeing, unhearing, almost uncaring. At length though I sensed somehow that Barak was standing over me. I forced my eyes to open; no mean task for they were already encrusted with blood. My blood. My sight was dimming swiftly, but I heard my father's words.
"Come back to me, my son. I shall not allow you to go into the great darkness yet. There is much work to be done, and I will not lose so good a son and servant. Come back!" I know not what He did, but as He spoke I began to feel stronger, more whole, and a strange tingling raced through me as my body rapidly mended itself of its damage. "Now, my son, come back," came His voice again. "Arise!"
I found that I could rise, and did so. I had known my father to be exceptionally powerful, but did He control even Death? It was then that I realized that although I was standing, seeing, hearing, I was no longer breathing, nor could I feel the familiar beating of my heart. Not living then...nor dead. Undead, I pondered, fitting the word to my mouth. An Undead.
As time passed and I grew accustomed to my new form of being, I discovered that the gift Barak had given me also had changed. I could still bring peace to the souls of those who heard me play. I could just as easily bring about such sickness of the soul that any listener would fall into a decline and perish.
It was, my father told me, as fate would have it. There is never any real choice, merely the illusion of choice. And if choice should be reality? Already I had made mine.
Here ends the Tale of Canu Baraksson, who serves the Father of Darkness faithfully to this day.
When first I caught sight of Him, He was seated at ease upon an immense black throne, intricately carved from a single block of obsidian. I noted that something appeared to be wrong with His aura. Though it still shone brightly about him, the edges had begun to darken and turn in upon themselves, almost like a piece of spoiled fruit. He rose and gazed solemnly at me. I was frightened and dropped trembling to my knees, but He came to me and raised me up, called me His son, and by many diverse proofs convinced me that it was so.
"You shall serve me well as a good son serves his father," He intoned, and I found myself nodding in agreement. "I shall make of you a Disciple of Music, and such shall be your power that all who hear you play shall find, however briefly, peace in their souls."
So began my service to the Lord Barak, He who came to be known as Father of Darkness. He never treated me other than well, and I thrived upon the tasks He set me to accomplish. One thing, however I longed to do yet could not; there seemed to be no relief from His melancholy humors. Ever He mourned for Siberlee, and it nearly maddened me that I could provide Him no relief from that sorrow. I even attempted to bring peace to Him through the use of the power
He had bestowed upon me, sometimes playing for Him long into the night. But I could bring no peace to His soul, for He had yielded it up that His beloved Siberlee might have her heart's desire.
============================================
It was not difficult to notice that an atmosphere of tense disagreement existed between the Fathers and the Mothers, and through the season of 665 this grew stronger with each passing day. However, in my youthful ignorance I paid it little mind; in any case the training I was receiving in my father's house occupied nearly all of my time, and many a night I stumbled off late to find my bed, my eyes scarce able to focus and my trembling legs betraying me. Consequently I was taken almost completely by surprise when matters came to a head and open warfare erupted between them. It was a time of great confusion, and I remember little of the details. My attention was immediately caught and held though as it became evident that the Mothers and their followers were engaged in hurling the Fathers forcibly from the heavens. I rushed into the melee, hoping against hope that I could aid my father.
Too late, too late I came to the scene, cursing myself for having paid so little attention to the events leading up to this. Barak, surrounded and overpowered by the throng, was being inexorably pushed out even as I arrived. I saw Him slip; I think I may have screamed. Perhaps if I could reach Him my hand, I thought, I might pull Him back up again. Just as I reached the brink, He plunged into the abyss, His face a tortured mask, and from His mouth came a long drawn howl of denial. I had only time to notice that it was Siberlee in the lead of those who had pushed Him; then I stumbled over my own feet and, following my father, pitched headlong into the depths. Despite my perilous situation I could not help but wonder: had She actually pushed him? It seemed so unlikely, yet clearly my father thought it so.
How long we fell I never could say with certainty...a day?...a week?...a minute? All time seemed to be one time, the same. Yet I knew well when I had stopped falling, and my landing upon the Underworld floor was no gentle one. The rock was adamant, unforgiving, and the impact was brutal. I felt as though every bone in my body had been pulverized instantly, that my body itself was turned to jelly.
Blackness took me and I lay for a time unseeing, unhearing, almost uncaring. At length though I sensed somehow that Barak was standing over me. I forced my eyes to open; no mean task for they were already encrusted with blood. My blood. My sight was dimming swiftly, but I heard my father's words.
"Come back to me, my son. I shall not allow you to go into the great darkness yet. There is much work to be done, and I will not lose so good a son and servant. Come back!" I know not what He did, but as He spoke I began to feel stronger, more whole, and a strange tingling raced through me as my body rapidly mended itself of its damage. "Now, my son, come back," came His voice again. "Arise!"
I found that I could rise, and did so. I had known my father to be exceptionally powerful, but did He control even Death? It was then that I realized that although I was standing, seeing, hearing, I was no longer breathing, nor could I feel the familiar beating of my heart. Not living then...nor dead. Undead, I pondered, fitting the word to my mouth. An Undead.
As time passed and I grew accustomed to my new form of being, I discovered that the gift Barak had given me also had changed. I could still bring peace to the souls of those who heard me play. I could just as easily bring about such sickness of the soul that any listener would fall into a decline and perish.
It was, my father told me, as fate would have it. There is never any real choice, merely the illusion of choice. And if choice should be reality? Already I had made mine.
Here ends the Tale of Canu Baraksson, who serves the Father of Darkness faithfully to this day.
The Tale of Canu Baraksson
I have seen great wonders in my time, marvelous occurences to thrill the heart and soul or to drive one mad. I have seen the joy reflected from the face of the Mother, Siberlee, as she gazed for the first time upon her newborn child. I have glimpsed the heavens of the gods, and seen the Fathers driven from its grandeur. If truth be told, I perished as a reult of that eviction. I live on now, if life it may be rightly called, thanks to the offices of the Lord Barak, Father of Darkness. Though there is pain in this, my existence, I cannot be other than grateful to him. When all is said and done, he is my father. They call me Canu Baraksson.
My natal day fell upon the 30th of Moroven in the year 649. My mother, Carolyneesa, was of humankind, a widow woman or so she claimed. She never once that I can recall spoke of my missing father other that to say that he was the most powerful man she had ever known, that he was gone now, and that it made her sad to think about him. At times I mused that thinking about anything made her sad; she was one of those seemingly not made for thought. She did, however, teach me my notes and how to play competently upon the lute. How was she to know, or I for that matter, that it would be both my fortune and my doom?
One day passed much like another in my youth. My mother and I would rise early each morning, eat a hasty breakfast, then leave the house; she to work in the fields and me to stand upon street corners, playing and singing for a few coppers. Sometimes the take was quite respectable (once a fat merchant, pleased with my tunes, magnanimously tossed a silver into my hat); other times the money came to but a miserly pittance. Still I was proud to be able to contribute to the household funds, and not act the layabout like some others of the young men my age in the village. At day's end we would return home to share the evening meal before retiring to our straw pallets to sleep.
It was in my 16th season that the world as I knew it changed forever. My mother was just removing our empty bowls from the table when there came a thunderous knocking at the door. We looked at one another, half fearfully as we were hardly expecting guests at this hour. Finally I arose and tiptoed across the room to the window. I drew back the curtain and peered out, trying to ascertain the identity of the person at the door, but the night was too dark and I could see nothing. Suddenly, with a splintering sound, the door burst inward, and a strange towering figure strode into the house. It was caparisoned all in black, cloaked, its face invisible beneath a hood.
My mother stared at the stranger and began to sob softly. The man, if man it was, ignored her, turning to me.
"In the name of Barak, boy," the stranger spoke, its voice a harsh metallic whisper. "Pack what belongings you have and come with me immediately. Your father wants you."
My mother gave a short shriek and crumpled in a heap upon the floor. I tried to argue that my father was dead, that my mother needed my help, but my pleas feel on deaf ears. Almost before I knew what was happening I was being escorted, not especially gently or respectfully, down the cobbled street, a small bundle in my hand containing all my worldly possessions. I never saw my mother again.
The night was black as any cavern and the path we traveled twisted and turned until I had lost all sense of where we might be. My guide or guard, whichever was its role, refused all attempts at conversation and would answer no questions. "Your father, when you see him, will make all plain," was all that it would say, and with that I was forced to be content.
At length we entered a certain street, a cul de sac. The dark figure,
still clutching tightly my left arm, approached a wall, barren of any opening so far as I could see. Raising its other arm, it slowly and purposefully sketched a set of arcane symbols that seemed to hang in the night air, emitting a faint greenish radiance. Then it spoke strange words, not in the Common tongue, which I could not understand. As if in answer, there came a deep rumbling sound, seeming to emanate from the very wall before us, and a dim outline appeared on the wall's surface. This proved in a few moments' time to be a doorway, and the figure stepped back a pace and motioned that I should enter. Fearfully, I did so.
Still to come: The meeting between Father and son. Baraksson is set upon the path of a Disciple. His attempts to soothe his Father's pain over the loss of Siberlee. Involvement in the great war between the Mothers and Fathers. The accident through which Baraksson falls from the heavens when the Fathers are ejected, and how Barak refuses to let him die, making him Undead. Sorting of loose ends.
My natal day fell upon the 30th of Moroven in the year 649. My mother, Carolyneesa, was of humankind, a widow woman or so she claimed. She never once that I can recall spoke of my missing father other that to say that he was the most powerful man she had ever known, that he was gone now, and that it made her sad to think about him. At times I mused that thinking about anything made her sad; she was one of those seemingly not made for thought. She did, however, teach me my notes and how to play competently upon the lute. How was she to know, or I for that matter, that it would be both my fortune and my doom?
One day passed much like another in my youth. My mother and I would rise early each morning, eat a hasty breakfast, then leave the house; she to work in the fields and me to stand upon street corners, playing and singing for a few coppers. Sometimes the take was quite respectable (once a fat merchant, pleased with my tunes, magnanimously tossed a silver into my hat); other times the money came to but a miserly pittance. Still I was proud to be able to contribute to the household funds, and not act the layabout like some others of the young men my age in the village. At day's end we would return home to share the evening meal before retiring to our straw pallets to sleep.
It was in my 16th season that the world as I knew it changed forever. My mother was just removing our empty bowls from the table when there came a thunderous knocking at the door. We looked at one another, half fearfully as we were hardly expecting guests at this hour. Finally I arose and tiptoed across the room to the window. I drew back the curtain and peered out, trying to ascertain the identity of the person at the door, but the night was too dark and I could see nothing. Suddenly, with a splintering sound, the door burst inward, and a strange towering figure strode into the house. It was caparisoned all in black, cloaked, its face invisible beneath a hood.
My mother stared at the stranger and began to sob softly. The man, if man it was, ignored her, turning to me.
"In the name of Barak, boy," the stranger spoke, its voice a harsh metallic whisper. "Pack what belongings you have and come with me immediately. Your father wants you."
My mother gave a short shriek and crumpled in a heap upon the floor. I tried to argue that my father was dead, that my mother needed my help, but my pleas feel on deaf ears. Almost before I knew what was happening I was being escorted, not especially gently or respectfully, down the cobbled street, a small bundle in my hand containing all my worldly possessions. I never saw my mother again.
The night was black as any cavern and the path we traveled twisted and turned until I had lost all sense of where we might be. My guide or guard, whichever was its role, refused all attempts at conversation and would answer no questions. "Your father, when you see him, will make all plain," was all that it would say, and with that I was forced to be content.
At length we entered a certain street, a cul de sac. The dark figure,
still clutching tightly my left arm, approached a wall, barren of any opening so far as I could see. Raising its other arm, it slowly and purposefully sketched a set of arcane symbols that seemed to hang in the night air, emitting a faint greenish radiance. Then it spoke strange words, not in the Common tongue, which I could not understand. As if in answer, there came a deep rumbling sound, seeming to emanate from the very wall before us, and a dim outline appeared on the wall's surface. This proved in a few moments' time to be a doorway, and the figure stepped back a pace and motioned that I should enter. Fearfully, I did so.
Still to come: The meeting between Father and son. Baraksson is set upon the path of a Disciple. His attempts to soothe his Father's pain over the loss of Siberlee. Involvement in the great war between the Mothers and Fathers. The accident through which Baraksson falls from the heavens when the Fathers are ejected, and how Barak refuses to let him die, making him Undead. Sorting of loose ends.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Good Friday
Upon this day did I hear the truly wondrous news that I am to be Music Disciple to the Dark Lord Barak in the Land of Mernac. I am in equal measures gratified and humbled.
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