Velwythe Volume One: Resurrection of the Mind

A Velwythe Book

Published by Two Roads Press LLC

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of Fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and events are products of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance or similarities to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, establishments, events, locales or places is entirely coincidental

Copyright © 2011 by Bonn Turkington

All rights reserved

No part of this book or any online material found on Velwythe.com may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Cover design by: Bonn Turkington

Cover illustration by: Aaron Anderson

Velwythe.com city maps by: Susan Perry

~~~

THANK YOU

This world is dedicated to those who helped create it.

Wayne Allred

Drew Allred

Aaron Anderson

Pheobe Blackham

Udell Blackham

Jace Hodgson

Susan Perry

Robert Warpack

Rob Wellman

But most importantly

My father for giving this book life through his death--

and my mother, the only person who consistently believed this would happen

And Linda,

I love you

-Forever-

~~~

~Table of Contents~

Velwythe: Resurrection of the Mind Vol. One:

~Prologue

~Velwythe: Resurrection of the Mind

~Epilogue

The Velwythe Traveler's Handbook

~A Brief History of Velwythe

~The Province of Alpine

~The City of Alpine

~The Province of Arodil

~The City of Arodil

~The Province of Bedrin

~The City of Bedrin

~The Province of Floran

~The City of Floran

~The Province of FreePort

~The City of FreePort

~The Province of FrostRight

~The City of FrostRight

~The Province of Kahn

~The City of Bree

~The Province of Sed

~The City of Sed

~The Province of Tru Dahn

~The City of Tru Dahn

~Not Just A Book, a Whole New World

~~~

~Prologue~

Oh, splendid, you have arrived, please, come.

Good afternoon sir, sorry to bother you.

Bother me? Oh, a handsome man such as you could never be a bother. Your presence bathes this room with the warm glow of true beauty. Now please what is the purpose for such an urgent meeting?

It’s the men, that...leader. He sent me on behalf of everyone else. Sent me to talk to you.

Sent you? Oh dear, is the news grim enough for him to send you? You know I never mix with the commoners unless the news is terrible. He should know that. Oh dear it must be terrible for him to...

Well sir, I...they, I mean they...he, he is the one that wanted me to come, I’m just a messenger. But it isn't...I just have a message.

Then if you have a message for me, I would love to hear it. Now please, come closer, you’re too far away, for me to see. That’s it, into the light where I can see you. Splendid. Oh, you are a handsome one, more so than I imagined. It’s a shame you should be worried so, it does terrible things for your face.

Sir, he…we all actually, want to know why you’re going to send us, why we have to do this. We all know they aren’t going to bother us ever again. It's been hundreds of years since the city moved, why now? What makes you think they will come back?

Oh how dreadful that you must bring that up here. But is this all? Is this what you came to discuss? My, you got me all worked up for nothing. But I suppose you wish to address this now.

Well...we...he wants to know why we have to do this, why are you making us do this? We don't need to do this.

Making you? Oh dear no, I’m not making you. You have all volunteered for such a noble cause.

Right, but, we just want to know why we have to do this, not something...else that might work.

Oh dear no. I couldn’t possibly ruin the surprise! It will be wonderful, splendid...the greatest achievement man has ever undertaken!

What do you mean...sir?

I mean, I am not going to ruin such a wonderful surprise by giving it away, oh dear no, not now.

He sent me here to see why we’re going. I don’t want to go back to that...I don’t want to go back without knowing, I’d never hear the end of it. It is all he has been talking about, it's making all of us crazy!

The end of it?

What?...no, I just...

The end of it. How appropriate. But since you insist, I will tell you. Now, are you certain your mind is ready to comprehend something so spectacular, so wonderful, something that will change the lives of all artists and commoners across Atla all at once?

I...guess.

Oh it is wonderful, this will be the greatest masterpiece ever created. You say they won’t bother us any longer? That is possibly true, probable in fact. Well, what you and the other wonderful men shall do...how shall I say it? You shall be the stick that pokes at the hive until the bees are enraged. Though given enough time I am oh so certain I could manage the job without your help. But how would you expect me to wait for what could be months, years, decades even, to see my dream realized? That would be pure torture for me and the world!

What? We’re...what?

I am sending you, all of you my wonderful assistants, to stir up the nest, to wake the sleeping beast, to irritate them, yes, to irritate them.

You mean we're just going to make them mad? Why?

Don’t think of it as just death. No no, you are all so wonderful and will be playing spectacular roles in my greatest piece of art ever!

We’re just going to die...Art? Art! What do you mean?

A painting can’t exist or be created without everything necessary for the artist to create it. What good would a painting be without wonderful tools to paint with, or something spectacular to paint on, hmm? You are not just going to die, oh no, that sounds just awful, dreadful, sounds so much like a terrible waste. Think of yourselves together as my muse, whispering inspiration to my soul by an act of aggression. You are children of Desanna, my divine inspiration for the most wonderful piece ever!

What is this piece you’re talking about?

Why, the greatest single artistic creation that can ever be conceived, that possibly can be created or experienced!

What...is going on, what are you talking about?

Oh dear, please don't work yourself up so. That shade of red on your face is simply dreadful. There is simply no need to get upset. Oh dear, I would have thought you would be simply thrilled to be part of this.

What is going on? Please tell me!

My, oh-my, a persistent one you are. Well, if you wish. A painting is wonderful, beautiful, imaginative, but it is never true art. A musical score is magnificent, exciting, emotional, but it is never complete art. A book is breathtaking, engaging, insightful, but it is never complete. No, these are wonderful yes, but they are not true art. My creation, oh how long I’ve been planning this, will be everything! It will be more than any of those and other pathetic attempts at art ever could be.

So you are going to send us...to die?

You simply can't separate yourself from that word now can you?

If you send us to die, don’t you realize the city will be destroyed? That bee hive you’re sending us to poke will...the swarm will destroy the city!

My, my! Did someone tell you about my artistic dream already? Such a wonderful thing, though I do wish it would have remained a secret. Why did you pester me so if you already knew?

You mean you really are planning on...destroying the city?

You say destroy, that bothers me so much. Destroy is a word that simply sounds awful. I don’t think of it as destruction but a wonderful creation! Oh, just thinking about it makes my brow dampen!

You’re really going to let the city be destroyed? What about all these people, these lives, I...can’t...you...

You must open your mind to what this will do, it will be so wonderful!

How can killing...everyone...be wonderful?

There will be so, so much wonder to it! Oh how wonderful it will be. The city, destroyed, will be the greatest artistic masterpiece ever! The destruction of a city will hold everything that art is! Art has always tried to capture some reality, but it always fails. No book, painting, musical score or poem is real art, nothing captures even a tiny bit of truth. My piece, oh how it will! The rubble of the walls and buildings, the angles and colors they will create, no painting or statue could ever be that fantastic. And the terrible crying, sobbing and wailing, emotions as pure as anything can ever be, no music could ever recreate that. There will be no painting, no pathetic words and not just sound, this destroyed city will be everything! Just imagine, the morning sunlight in its beautiful splendor, the way it shall hit the ruins, the dust and smoke, in it will be the pure art!

You’re, you’re insane! You are going mad!

Don’t you realize how silly you sound? Oh my, the artist is insane, quite original. My piece of art will have absolutely everything! Beautiful colors, abstract shapes, raw, pure emotion, all the physical sensations and sounds there are! There will be every color, every mix of light and dark, every sound, every sensation--hot, cold, soft, rough, all of them--every emotion, everything! And now, with the absolute wonder of Magi-Tech, I can spread my art throughout the world! Everyone can marvel in the pure experience of my piece! I will not try to re-create truth, I will be mastering reality!

You can’t do this, this is insane! It’s wrong, it’s terrible!

Oh my, really, and why do you say that? Isn’t it just art?

It will destroy the city, and the lives of everyone in it!

You say destroy, but I view it as a creation. And the lives of the wonderful inhabitants of our city are not going to be killed, but incorporated!

This is wrong!

Why?

It isn’t right!

My, can’t you get away from the awful word ‘destroy’? You say this only because it is something your culture has so painfully pounded into your mind. Let me ask you, might you call it wrong to whip young boys until they bleed, leaving their backs scarred for life?

Of course!

But, don’t many cultures use that as a part of their passage into the wonders of manhood? You may call it horrible and oh so awful, but to them it is not. Marking a child’s back with scars like the crocodile gives them its strength! Do you not see, you only claim this is wrong because of some pathetic rules and ‘morals’ that inhibit you, and don’t you see that you think it oh so awful only because of such arbitrary and pointless cultural...grossness?

But...

My dear and beautiful friend, it is not death, destruction or pain. This my friend, is even beyond art! This is something that will bring those who experience it closer to the idea of God, closer to a communion with everything in existence, closer to the magi! You only find my wonderful piece horrid because of your pathetic, pointless cultural grossness, your inability to think beyond what you were taught to understand! There is nothing that is wrong with using a city as a canvas! There is no ‘death’ only creation! Now who put these dreadful ideas and values into your simple but beautiful mind?

It’s just, it isn't right! Everyone knows that!

My how closed your mind is. These so terribly arbitrary ‘values’ are only stupid ideas that have been passed down only because people have been told to pass them down, and in turn must pass them down on their own, they are self perpetuating. There is nothing that governs what is right or wrong about this, about life. There is nothing that any brilliant and wonderful mind can ever go back to, and find a ‘truth’. This is all a pathetic excuse for people to justify things that others find terribly gross. And what is gross, is always different! Don’t you see--this is not a piece of destruction, but creation. You may call it destroying a city, but I call it creating a masterpiece of existence. And oh my, I feel you may be thinking that this art has no truth either. But as I said, art as everyone sees it is not actually art. This will be beyond that, it will be true art. Art is something that takes everything of existence, and tweaks it oh so slightly, in a way that would never just happen on its own!

This is wrong, and you won’t be able to do this, I’ll tell everyone that you’re just trying to kill us!

Wrong? Oh my, you are a dense but wonderful man aren’t you? No power exists that can say it is right or wrong. Even gods are nothing more than a brilliant creation of culture to make the ‘evil doer’ feel oh so terrible! But I, I know it is art! My masterpiece, I shall call it ‘Existence’, is not going to be stopped, it would be a terrible loss to the world! This will do more good for the world than anyone or anything ever has. This dream is a masterpiece! There are no gods, only the values of man which he uses to shape other men as he wants them. But if there ever was, oh my, then I, and my creation will be as close as anything could ever be to becoming a god!

You won’t get away with this!

Oh my, yes, the matter of you knowing this. You see, you can’t lift the curtain off a work in progress.

What do you...mean?

I mean, my beautiful friend, you wanted to see my masterpiece before it was ready. I can’t have you pulling the curtain off now! I’m afraid that I will not be able to risk such an untimely unveiling to the rest of the world!

What do you mean!?

I mean, you have seen too much. You will remain here until my masterpiece is finished!

What?

Oh my, you won’t be harmed no, no. But you will have to remain here, below, until everything is finished! But have no worry, my creation has already begun and can’t be stopped now. The unveiling is near, oh so near.

~~~

~~~

~One~

Vaan gently placed another hand full of polished seashells atop a small grassy mound, one of the many overlooking the sea. This site was marked as something distinct only by a pile of seashells, bright polished shells of all types. The old and dull shells were buried by the new giving the gravesite a constant look of renewal, rebirth.

Vaan threw back the hood of his cloak to allow the evening sea breeze through his long, dark hair. Sitting atop the tiny green hill he watched the shadows claw their way inland as the sun fell in the west over the sea. Dozens of black shadows grew from the burial mounds, each no more than a few meters high and the same wide, masking the deep spring-green of the long grass.

After he placed the most recent shell--a small sand dollar--Vaan watched the sun until it was only a memory and the stars took their command. Even at this late hour and above the crashing waves a steady dissonance filled the air. Chattering, shouting, laughing, the hustle of thousands of people in the city preparing for the solstice festival was overpowering. Vaan rose slowly from the grave with a sigh then walked away, aiming himself towards the docks where hundreds of boats stretching beyond sight were unloading everything that could possibly be in the world.

It was nearing the end of the fifth month, Vos. This always meant two things to Vaan, it meant he was about to celebrate the passing of another year of his life, and perhaps more importantly, enjoy the excitement of the FreePort solstice festival. It was the 28th day of month, two days until his birthday and two days until the festival began. He thought it quite a fine coincidence that the city would celebrate his birthday with a festival and often, as a child, spent the entire week in a period of absolute bliss (and presents). But after his mother fled not many years ago, all the gifts and fun vanished with her. His father died from illnesses, one or two years after his mother disappeared, and finally ended a period of his life he knew would never return. After his reality collapsed Vaan stopped celebrating his birthday and in doing so the festival had become something…melancholy, a painful reminder of the fun he once had. The only remaining ritual from his past (one he would never give up) was the one that had always been a favorite even compared with the carnivals and gifts--buying the most exotic cheese he (or specifically his parents) could find. So Vaan, on his way back home, passed the first of the docks with thoughts of cheese on his mind pleasantly masking the pain that seeped from the grave and followed behind. And at the thought of cheese, his intense hunger--of almost five hours without food--demanded an immediate return home.

The walk along the beach was brief. Wet sand stuck to Vaan’s bare feet, little dry pieces fell off with each step until they were clean. His house was the first in from the dock (on the south boulevard), literally the toss of a stone from his door (he got in trouble more than once for literally enacting the saying and breaking something or hitting someone) and perhaps a kilometer from the old cemetery. Opening his door the sea breeze seemed to follow him, the smooth, salted air desperately attempted to keep his company and help mask the familiarity of his home. Inside, he walked to the corners of his room where tall orb-lights were sitting. Touching each bulb they burst into a harsh white light, hissing from the newborn intensity. After a moment, the intense burning subsided, every light calmed to a subtle yellow glow.

Illuminated, glowing spectrally, the pale light filling the house revealed the gnarled wood of the floor and doorframes. Sagging, decrepit cloth clung to the windows and faded pieces of furniture hid their original color under a vast desert of dust. Dunes shifted and migrated every time he passed. He gave the room nothing more than a passing glance on his way to the kitchen. There was no need to light anything here; the orb-lights were still burning, more dimly now, since coming on some time in the late afternoon.

Vaan’s cupboards and chillbox were mostly empty--just a few wine bottles, old cheeses and some breadcrumbs. He made his way for the freshest loaf of bread and a nearby jar of honey--its sticky surface clung to the cupboard and his hand. Then he went to the chillbox where the cheese (the first time he had ever given in and accepted a gift before his birthday, even one from himself) was still wrapped in wax and a white cloth. With food in hand he sat in the only chair around the worn oak table his father built. It was a sturdy and immovable piece of furniture, perfect for reading, writing and eating (often done all at once).

A book sat closed on the table with a piece of cloth hanging exactly where Vaan ended his latest adventure. Next to the book was a ceramic bowl filled with dried fruits to compliment the meal. After a moment of getting settled (lathering the bread with honey and topping it with fruit or breaking up the bleu cheese crumbles and covering another slice) he began to read.

The book was a recent best selling work by one of Vaan’s favorite contemporary authors, a man by the name of Somal (who had finished the book at the age of 91). This particular work focused on a vagrant who had grown up on the streets and quite accidently come to realize his abilities as a Magi. After his awakening the Vagrant tried to gain entrance to a Magi university in Tru Dahn. There, he struggled to find acceptance amongst his peers while learning the skills he needed to advance and graduate.

But Vaan had yet to reach the end, or even half way (and with nearly 1500 pages remaining he couldn't guess what might happen next). Though the book was excellent on so many levels, Vaan enjoyed it for more reasons than what was between the covers. A specific Magi university was mentioned in the book (North Tru Dahn Magi University to be precise). And nearly every Magi Professor, faculty member and student was outraged by what they said to be a wholly false and inaccurate depiction of our school, written completely without thought or concern for the facility and all who take advantage of its services. That official statement, made at the end of last year, caused more controversy in the media than anything else in months. And to Vaan, anything that incites controversy or stirs emotion beyond the pages (not that he favored the negative side of controversy, he simply loved the journey towards some truth both sides took) meant the entertainment and learning didn’t stop after the last page was turned, but continued in another reality. It was with this mentality that Vaan thought some books to be not merely pieces of static literature, but living works and sources of enlightenment--something truly interactive that he could be a part of. It might just be a book, but it was causing changes in more than one world.

As immersed as he was initially, Vaan soon found himself skipping lines and then entire paragraphs as his fatigue deepened. Why was he reading then? He was getting nothing from the book, he was too tired to comprehend his own name. And the book was only keeping him awake, keeping him from dreaming his own story. As he drifted closer and closer to sleep the words on the pages began to change. They began to revert to their true, meaningless form. There was nothing on the page--there were marks on the page, but they didn't actually mean anything. And as the construct of society and reality drifted away, the words on the page began to dance. So why was he reading?

At what point Vaan stopped reading and began dreaming was impossible to tell, reading and dreams, reality and dreams--they are often too alike to know. Suddenly, he awoke (he could always tell when he woke up, it was going to sleep that was vague), and peeled his face off the page. His mind was reeling, in limbo between sleep and consciousness with just enough coherence remaining to allow him a safe ascent upstairs and to bed.

Sleep engulfed Vaan the instant he lay down. Usually sleep was slow in coming, but not tonight. He had spent the day on an island just west of FreePort, which was a well known and used day-vacation spot for locals (it was there that he purchased the cheese). He always traveled there for free, offering to work on the boats during the hour journey, and the work was always tiring. Presently, dreams filled his mind as thought was unbound, unrestrained. At first he slept peacefully, but for the past few years as the festival neared, a restful sleep was fleeting, impossible. His dreams were dominated by the horror of his childhood, the Spectre of Memories always loomed near during this time. And seeking to banish his soul, his essence, the Spectre of Darkness sought to pull him into an inescapable oblivion with images of his father, reeling in pain, screaming, in raging fits of anger in the sitting room. Tonight they, the Spectres, sent Vaan’s mind and body into motion, he began trembling.

Vaan’s brow was covered in a film of sweat; he tossed violently but did not wake. The dreams were quick to come and go, more flashes of the past and painful emotions than a progressing sequence--but they weren’t just dreams, they were living memories, no different from the first time he experienced them. They always came in the same order and were so real, so tangible. From what he could determine (contemplating the mornings after) they were chronological; when the nightmares began his mother was there and he was barely more than an infant. At first Vaan would recall her comforting embrace, but then the flashes would be of her hiding, fighting with his father and ignoring him, attempting to calm his father--but how could she pay him any attention during his father's fits? His mother would soon vanish from the dreams and his father's convulsions came back--the time his father was screaming in the sitting room after a sleepless night, the times when his father would wander around at night, mindless, holding his back near the dreams end, near morning.

Vaan woke up as his mother vanished into the blackness of obscurity, uncertainty. At least, it seemed as though he was awake. He was conscious of thoughts and feelings, but nothing came to his eyes, no images, colors or the bright morning sun, everything was just black. Blackness engulfed him, possibly he was blind, but there was more to it than just blindness, he could feel the blackness.

Vaan moved his arms and legs; the familiar feel of his soft bed was there, hidden beyond the blackness. Frantically he reached for his nightstand where he had recently placed a stack of nautical charts for the sea just west of FreePort. When he felt them there, a deathly fear welled up inside him, was he blind, had his sight really gone? Surging with panic, he yelled out. But his voice, like his vision, was gone. Again he shouted, shouted over and over--nothing. Suddenly he stood, or so he thought, (he could feel the ground firmly below him). But no sooner had he stood than a chill came over him. It wasn’t simply a nervous chill, but a murky cold, wrapping around him, capturing him. Then something touched him--the touch of a dream or the touch of reality--impossible to tell what exactly. What was the difference, how could he tell, he was dreaming…but feel the cold and the darkness too?

First on the arm, then the head, something was holding him. Icy fingers, thin and long with bony knobs seemed to caress his body. But he saw nothing through the blindness as the fingers felt his body, searched his crevices and rubbed his head. Desperately he waved his hands, wildly searching for the source of the chill, the fingers, for reality. He could move, the air passed between his fingers, but he couldn't find the hand, the source of the chill. It was numbing, wrapping him and destroying all his senses at once. He knew he was awake, but now, the clarity in his mind was vanishing as though his very thoughts were being absorbed. Even the chill, cold as it was, seemed to be soothing, almost warm now. He needed to sleep again, his body was getting weak, tired and his mind was…was…slow. All he could think, all he could do was to accept it, to join whatever it was.

One last chance to break the hold the darkness had upon him was all Vaan could manage, one brief moment of clarity. Waving his numb arm was all he could do as a last attempt to find the chill. But in his frantic search, all he found was the sharp point of his bedpost as it entered his hand. In an instant the pain came on, intense, and if he wouldn’t have already been blind--blinding.

Vaan pulled his arm back; his flesh gave a sickening resistance to the tug as the tissue in his hand was slowly pulled free of the bedpost. Then there was a sudden warmth, breaking the chill from around his hand–-blood rushing from the wound. He couldn’t help but scream. This time, he heard his voice. After hearing his voice, he screamed again, frightened by its sound. No sooner had the scream passed his lips then his vision returned--light had returned!

When his vision returned, quickly, everything seemed fine. Vaan was still in his room and it was completely black except for the suggestion of moonlight struggling through the cracks in the shutters near his bed. With trembling fingers on his good hand he switched on the lights. The orb-light flared out of control, burning his eyes, then quickly calmed to an insufficient glow. Just as he sat up, reaching for the lamp at the foot of his bed, the throbbing pain in his hand halted him. In a panic, he placed it near the lamp to see the wound but closed his eyes to hide the horrible sight. A determined stream of blood greeted his eyes when he pried them open again. It poured from a hole just below his middle finger--not wide, just deep--that managed to sneak between the bones. The weapon was a ray of sunlight from the carved suns on both head posts (moons at the foot). A shining beam of light had pierced his flesh as he panicked in his darkness. Checking one of the suns carved at the head of his bed he saw a trail of drying blood dripping down the varnish.

Thanks dad, Vaan muttered. His father was a carpenter before injury and illness prevented him from working (though even after, Vaan knew he was still a carpenter). Before that time, he had done wonders to their house, including Vaan’s bed. It was a gift for him when he was born, even though he wasn’t able to use it until he was several years old.

Everything in the room was as it should have been, not a single thing out of place (and perhaps more reassuring, nothing new besides the blood). For some time he sat on the edge of his bed, trembling, hoping his sleepy mind would grasp what had happened. Bad dreams were terribly familiar for him. He had woken up after dreaming about his father screaming in pain, only to find himself screaming too, for years. Once he awoke on the ground wrapped in his cloth sheets with his head partially underneath his bed, the fabric around his neck soaked with sweat and tears. But nothing like this. This was new. This was…frightening.

Perhaps it was only a nightmare? He furrowed his brow then quickly shook his head. No, I was awake… Then what...? Vaan looked at his hand and felt the pain even in his stomach now too. With a giant sigh coming deep within his thin frame he sat down on his bed and shook his head in confusion, holding his wounded hand to one side. Drops of warm, black blood puddle at this elbow and dropped to the sheets--themselves wet with sweat from the nightmares. Sleep had completely fled from the room, Vaan knew there was no chance of finding it and the wound needed immediate care. So he stood, dizzy for a moment, and made his way downstairs for the few medical supplies his grandmother gave his mom and dad when they were married--23 years ago.

It was silent throughout the house; the only sounds were those of Vaan’s pounding heart and gently thudding feet. Looking back from the doorway he waited for something to happen, something to tell him what had happened. Finding what he expected--nothing--he then looked across the short hall to the other