#Astral Edifice

[altarfates]

This yellow ribbon the back of the Master's jacket is proving more use than anything if only to restrain him from himself. Caelus is an interesting character but more impulsive than any he has ever crossed paths with before. Including his own self. "You are going to get yourself killed. Wait until we know the location of the other servants before you barrel out there. Unless you enjoy being a skewer."

There is a slightly vicious tug to the ribbon that follows, drawing the other back from the edge of the rooftop into the shadows where the natural cover of their vantage point protects them. He's going to regret this one.

The impulse to court danger was a reckless thing, the trailblazer’s eyes, corralling the stars beneath soft lashes, seemed intent on pursuing only that which proved the most perilous. It was almost imperative that there was someone to restrain him, hands turning to manacles as they intercepted what would become a steep plummet and eventual collapse. Caelus doesn’t fear death, it has averted its gaze each time they so much as pass each other thus far, he wasn’t impervious, no, but a misplaced courage has been nurtured in place of what should have been a lick of self preservation. Archer’s resolute grip seizes him by the pendulous, yellow ribbon affixed to the back of his jacket and for a moment he’s suspended there, theatrically held back from the allure that precipice dangled before him. As he’s jerked back he lurches a little, footsteps faltering as the shadow soaked concrete swallows him once more, his eyes widened and mouth slightly agape. The dreamscape was illuminated by streaks of lurid neon, temptation woven through the towering edifices and urging those foolish enough to traverse it to their feet. Caelus wasn’t an exception, his irresponsible strides lead him back here again and again. He levels the servant with a stare, attempting to discern what lay beneath that vehement exasperation; maybe nothing.

❝ Been there, done that.❞ Even though he dismisses what is unsolicited concern he has become docile, rocking back on his heels as they gaze over the resplendent city, feeling the irrepressible anticipation prickle beneath his skin. The astral express had fought many battles, faced formidable enemies, he still knows very little about servants apart from their class and their ties to the past but something about it instills a sense of urgency in him, excitement. ❝ Don’t recommend it, zero out of five stars.❞ With a sweeping glance he surveys the street below, the crowd had thinned and waned but there were still some silhouettes cutting through the shafts of amorphous light, it all seemed in preparation for something inevitable.  ❝ So, what do you think ? Are they close ? ❞ He was so very ready for this.

[jedimaesteryoda]

I like the contrast of Falconia and Elfhelm, two paradises in Berserk. 

Falconia is a large urban metropolis of inhuman scale ruled under the Godhand Griffith and Queen Charlotte while Elfhelhm is small rural village under the Fairy Storm Queen and Archmage Gedfring.

Falconia is made up of giant stone edifices while the buildings of Elfhelm are woven from tree branches and other natural materials incorporated into trees. The massive spirit tree that separates the Astral and Material planes rests in the center of Elfhelm while the World Tree formed from a slain Ganeshka, merging the Astral and Physical planes, forms the center of Falconia. 

The differences between the two locations are war and peace. War is the state of Falconia with Griffith waging war against the magical creatures of the Astral World while the human community on Elfhelm lives in peace alongside the many astral creatures. The inhabitants of Elfhelm live in isolation and peace and while they have a field of scarecrows armed with scythes, enchanted pumpkin monsters and giant wicker man, it is purely defensive in nature with the village being a school for young sorcerers to learn magic. It is also where Casca is taken to be healed. By contrast, in Falconia Griffith’s foreign policy is one of invasion and conquest, and it is where Apostles learn to improve their fighting skills by battling monsters in the Pandemonium. The last detail shows the dark heart that exists at the center of Griffith’s vision. 

The mission of the sorcerers of Elfhelm is “to safeguard the land and maintain equilibrium between our realm and the Astral World” while Griffith’s mission is to undo all that. 

Elfhelm is clearly inspired by Avalon of Arthurian legend, an island of witches ruled by a fae sorcereress and healing while Falconia is inspired by Pandemonium, the capital of Hell in Paradise Lost with it’s inhuman scale, temple-like structure, pilasters and Doric pillars led by a king of demons. The essence of Elfhelm is cooperation and coexistence making it a paradise while the essence of Falconia is domination making it a dystopia under the guise of paradise. 

[downbad4fyodor]

Pairing: Sigma x Fem!reader word count: 363 summary: You and Sigma wanted your first Christmas together as a couple to be something special. warnings: none Tag list: @getousrep

The elevator doors whispered open, unveiling the zenith of the towering edifice. A cavalcade of emotions surged within as you stepped forth into this new chapter, entwined with Sigma, an arcane allure seeping into the very air. The emptiness of the nascent abode, a tableau awaiting its narrative, pulsed with both promise and trepidation.

Crossing the threshold, the starkness of four unadorned walls and scattered boxes beckoned transformation. Sigma, a steadfast presence, enveloped you, a silent covenant murmured, "This space shall metamorphose into the sanctum of our shared journey."

In the midst of unpacking, a vision unfurled—a maiden Christmas in tandem. The notion of adorning the tree sparked a shared alchemy. Seated side by side, you and Sigma choreographed a spectacle, opting for a theme redolent of classic opulence: white and gold ornaments cascading like astral echoes, punctuated by the glittering promise of stars.

Yet, Sigma, ever the visionary, proposed an infusion of modernity, a dance of silver and gold, a chromatic crescendo. Amid deliberations, a synthesis emerged, a harmonious union of tradition and contemporary flair.

The day of festooning arrived, a collaborative ballet where you and Sigma pirouetted with ornaments, laughter an ephemeral cadence. In the denouement, the tableau that materialized garnered Sigma's accolades for your deft touch—a room transformed into an alchemical tapestry of shared effort.

A clandestine revelation awaited—an ancient box of Christmas memories Sigma unearthed. Photographs, like spectral whispers from times past, proposed as additions to the adorned tree. In contemplation, you reveled in the final tableau, Sigma intertwining fingers, professing his elation at sharing this Yuletide tapestry.

Sigma crowned the arboreal masterpiece, the zenith adorned with a celestial star. As you both stood in reflection, Sigma, his voice a sonorous lament, mused on the profundity of your inaugural Christmas. A kiss, a benediction tenderly bestowed, sealed this moment, exchanging wishes of a Merry Christmas and declarations of love.

Retiring to the couch, the resonance of the season enveloped you both. In this shared haven, decorated with the vestiges of nostalgia and the allure of the contemporary, you embraced the unfolding joy of your first Christmas together, a chapter etched in the tapestry of celestial unions.

[pandorias-box]

I have encountered more ruins. But this one seems to be the largest one I have encountered yet. There are shattered and broken stone columns, edifices of buildings that once stood here long ago.

The only things that are intact are two statues: one of the watcher of time’s flow and another of the astral protector.

But there is another statue… one that is all but crumbled. And I may know what Pokémon it represents. So then why is it the only one that is destroyed? Did the ancient peoples who once built these ruins do it on purpose or was it caused by natural erosion? I am uncertain.

[thebitterbeanjuice]

You hear our words, but you forget Push your fingers through the surface to the wet We wait in the stains, we build you 'til nothing remains In the name of the sound of the name

At the edge of understanding, the border of the known The breaking point of reason, where logic is dethroned Where sense is defenceless and festers on the bone You'll find entropy's offensive is rendered in the stone

As you roam through the Oldest House Home to all that you weren't told about Trapped within a labyrinth, it goes without saying That we're praying that they don't get out

Prison for the isn't, sitting hinged within a schism Of half-reflected architecture, dark unending prisms Part objective, part conjecture, partnered with tradition Where the paperwork is worshipped and the rituals are written

When the Black Rock cracks and the Firebreak ends The Director is left as the line of defence When the Trenches have fallen to forces unknown Perhaps you should answer the phone

If you can't place the pin Where patterns end and you begin Follow the Director Else you're gonna slide into the void But if the world you knew Has cracked and fallen through Go to the Projector Load another slide into the void

There's the strangest correlation observation will present In the systems we can witness and the signals they have sent These forces yet unknowable, that ripple through cement Inscrutable intrusions. Altered World Events

Where reality cracks and impacts on the next Dimensions fragment and the Astral projects On benign, undefined, archetypal objects Until Ordinary's torn up, and normal defects

In effect, what you're left with are OoPs Objects of Power, a flying TV A light that can hijack your mind as you see A safe that's encased in a shield of debris

These frequencies are frequently the key to what's perceived to be And vis-à-vis are feeding off the reaches of the mind But recently, the sequence has repeated and repeated And it leaves me with the theory that they're trying to get inside

You hear our words, but you forget Push your fingers through the surface to the wet We wait in the stains, we build you 'til nothing remains In the name of the sound of the name (How do you say "insane"?)

Repeat the word. Repeat the word. Repeat the word Egg cracks and the truth will emerge A copy of a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy You are home. You remind us. Happy. Hurt

If you can't place the pin Where patterns end and you begin Follow the Director Else you're gonna slide into the void But should your world collapse And fall right off the maps Go to the Projector Load another slide into the void

The Director is the Bureau's one connection to the Board Obey the mighty Bakelite and file your reports Telephony in effigy must never be ignored So if you hear a ringing, you had better pull the cord

And explore the décor of the Oceanview Where the doors only open for a chosen few Check your logic at the desk, you won't need it to progress A dream is just a test to be broken through

Like the smoke entombed in the rooms of the ashtray Furniture fractals, the carpet cascades Lost in a labyrinth of lounge chairs and lampshades Wallpaper warps into infinite pathways

There's no limit to the dangers of phenomenon we keep Or the chaos that would reign should the Panopticon be breached This never-ending edifice is perched upon the precipice Since we let in the Resonance, the future's under siege

If you can't place the pin Where patterns end and you begin Follow the Director Else you're gonna slide into the void But if you see the seams Where motels meld with dreams Go to the Projector Load another slide into the void

I've analyzed the data, I've catalogued the signs Run every simulation, every sample I can find I'd give an explanation, but we haven't got the time We're drowning in the waveforms and our minds are in the tide

Of elegant malevolence, sequestered in the Resonance Nesting in the head of every denizen Tell me, is it heaven-sent? Is the Devil even relevant? When questioning the presence of dimensional intelligence?

Thresholds unfold as a door that knocks In the ticking, in the ticking, in the ticking of the clocks We are holding the key, we just don't see the locks Paradise and parasite, in parallel, in paradox We stand on a mantle where matter divides To abstractive fractures that tangle and writhe Through cracks in reality, trapped in a slide Such intangible sanctuary Hedron provides

Breaking the first, the second, the third The fourth wall, fifth wall, no floor, you fall Earworm humming in a dream Baby, baby, baby, yeah. Just plastic

You want to listen You want to dream You want to smile You want to hurt You don't want to be

You want to listen You want to dream You want to smile You want to hurt You don't want to be

If you can't place the pin Where patterns end and you begin Follow the Director Else you're gonna slide into the void But should your towers fall Free your mind and heed the call Go to the Projector Load another slide into the void

what in the demonic chanting is this.

[beyond-mortal-limits]

Petra is Astral Earth - she is hard, unyielding, solid, firmly anchored. She weathers blows without bending or breaking, an unstoppable edifice, a living mountain.

What element does your WoL most align/identify with?

[xasha777]

In the year 2350, humanity had long outgrown its cradle. The stars had become highways, and planets were pit stops in a vast cosmic journey. Among the explorers, scientists, and adventurers, there were the cartographers—the silent heroes who mapped the uncharted territories of the galaxy.

Lyra Starwind was one of the most renowned planetary cartographers in the Galactic Federation. With her striking red hair and piercing blue eyes, she was a figure of intrigue and mystery. Her dedication to the craft had taken her to the furthest reaches of the known universe and beyond.

Lyra stood on the observation deck of her starship, the Astral Nomad, staring out into the infinite expanse of space. Her latest mission was to chart a newly discovered star system in the Andromeda galaxy, rumored to contain planets rich in resources and potential for colonization. The journey had been long, but Lyra was used to the solitude of space.

The first planet she surveyed was Andros V, a world with a crimson sky and oceans of liquid crystal. Lyra's fingers danced over the holographic controls, capturing every detail of the planet's surface. She noted the peculiar grid-like patterns etched into the landscape, reminiscent of ancient Earth's geoglyphs but on a planetary scale.

"Fascinating," she murmured to herself. The patterns were too precise to be natural. Could they be the remnants of an ancient civilization, or perhaps a natural phenomenon yet to be understood?

As Lyra delved deeper into the cartographic analysis, she detected faint energy signatures emanating from the planet's northern hemisphere. Curiosity piqued, she decided to investigate further. The Astral Nomad descended through the planet's atmosphere, gliding smoothly towards the source of the signals.

Lyra suited up and stepped onto the planet's surface. The air was thin but breathable, and the ground shimmered under her feet. Following her scanner's readings, she trekked towards a massive structure embedded in the side of a mountain—a monolithic edifice of unknown origin.

Inside, the air was cool and still, undisturbed for eons. The walls were adorned with intricate carvings, similar to the patterns seen from orbit. Lyra activated her wrist-mounted scanner, which projected a 3D map of the interior. As she moved deeper into the structure, she came upon a vast chamber filled with holographic star maps.

"Unbelievable," Lyra whispered. The maps detailed not just Andros V but the entire Andromeda galaxy, with annotations and coordinates unknown to the Galactic Federation. This was a treasure trove of knowledge, a legacy left behind by an ancient race of starfarers.

In the center of the chamber, a pedestal held a crystalline device, pulsing with a soft blue light. Lyra reached out and touched it, feeling a surge of energy coursing through her. Instantly, her mind was flooded with visions—memories of the planet's builders, their rise and fall, and their desperate attempt to preserve their knowledge for future generations.

Lyra knew she had discovered something monumental. The information contained within these ancient maps could revolutionize human understanding of the galaxy and expedite the exploration and colonization of new worlds. But with this knowledge came responsibility.

As she made her way back to the Astral Nomad, Lyra couldn't help but feel a profound connection to the ancient cartographers who had come before her. They, too, had sought to understand the cosmos and chart a course through the unknown.

With the crystalline device safely stored aboard her ship, Lyra set a course for the Galactic Federation headquarters. She couldn't wait to share her findings, knowing that the journey to map the stars had only just begun.

As the Astral Nomad soared through the cosmos, Lyra glanced at the star maps once more. She felt a sense of purpose and destiny. The galaxy was vast, and there was so much more to discover. With a determined smile, she whispered, "For the stars and beyond."

[dailyadventureprompts]

Hello Mr. Dapper! I've set my players to find a city of gold, where the citizens transmuted everything (including themselves) into gold, and a labyrinth to exclude people entering. The city is now lost, and as my players are soon to find it, I struggle to find something more concrete to put in there. Any ideas are appreciated (thank you)!

Going to be quick with this since it sounds like time is short:

The ruling class of the city were a caste of occult alchemists who sought to "purify" themselves and achieve some level of ascension, believing that gold was more pure than base metals (assigning spiritual value to the fact that it does not tarnish) They succeeded in transforming themselves and their inner circle to living gold while also gilding quite a lot of the city and being waited on by their still flesh and blood servants.

After weathering one too many attacks from jealous neighbours, the masters of the city raised the labyrinth, inadvertently cutting off their home from the farmlands that surrounded it and creating a famine that killed off all of the mortal inhabitants. With no one to do the labour for them but no need for food, the masters got increasingly worse, delving into more and more obscure projects as they contemplated higher levels of ascension.

After hundreds of years of golden immortality, a faction of these masters fell under the influence of Cezil'Tek, outergod of empty perfection, wiping away the last of traces of their former lives ( faces, names etc) and began working to convince the other ascended to leave behind these markers of base mortality. This schism eventually devolves into a full on war, with both sides unleashing alchemicaly created pawns against one another and leaving few survivors on either side.

Riding high on hubris and pyrrhic victory, the faceless faction begin working to open a portal to the astral sea, where they could create a new world that had never been blemished by the lowness of the material plane. Things didn't quite go as planned, the astralspace the faceless ascended opened a portal into happened to be home to clockwork horrors, metal eating constructs that saw a gold plated city as a perfect spawning ground.

The swarm stripmines the city, leaving behind nothing but broken edifices and abrasive gold-dust sandstorms. These storms reach out into the labyrinth and even into the countryside beyond, inadvertently keeping alive the rumours of the city's prosperity.

By the time your party finds it the golden city is in a rough shape; passing through a labyrinth and countryside filled with alchemic warbeasts and the ghosts of famine, they discover not the wondrous monument they sought but a ruin pitted with hollows and cracks like a rotten tooth. A few of the ascended survived the swarm, and now live in hiding knowing that what few of the scavengers remain can scent their golden flesh. While most are maddened from pride and loneliness, one might be willing to offer the party as much gold as they can imagine should they help it escape.

[honourablejester]

A few more Spelljammer concepts

Just a couple more things to find out and about in Wildspace/The Astral Sea:

Ilthanor, the tentacle tower of Astraea, the Eldritch Lich. Astraea is a scholar first and foremost, and a collector of the strange, and considered eldritch lichdom the more ethical alternative to traditional lichdom. After all, while you may have an eldritch parasite in you whispering madness in your ear, and more tentacles than you did previously, at least you don’t have to eat souls. Only moderately insane, Astraea inhabits the black, glistening tower of dark rock carved with tentacles that is Ilthanor, serenely adrift in the Astral Sea, and is quite welcoming to guests (who do not steal from or attack her), especially if they might be persuaded to quest for the latest eldritch curio that has piqued her interest. (I mean, there’s an argument about the relative morals of various lichdoms? Also I like the relatively benign but utterly insane wandering sage trope)

The Lighthouses of the Luminous Order. The Astral Sea is riddled with dangers, not all of which are readily apparent before it’s too late. The Luminous Order is dedicated to creating beacons, lighthouses, to warn Astral traffic in the vicinity of dangerous systems, creatures, objects, and other, less clear-cut dangers. If you see a great beam of light sweeping the silver ahead of you, then you’ll soon be upon one of their lighthouses, installations that vary from rickety lightbuoys manned by autognomes to magnificent marble edifices that house larger gatherings of the Order. The Order is ever eager for recruits, for news of far-flung dangers, for volunteers to help them expand the reach of their lighthouse network, and for ships willing to supply their various lonely outposts. (These are the lightships from Sunless Sea, basically, but with almost a paladin order in charge?)

The Viridian Empress, the lone Star Moth of the infamous pirate Emeraud. Rumoured to be the lost princess of a destroyed world, Emeraud’s Viridian Empress has been modified, by Emeraud or by stranger forces again, to be crewed by her and her alone. Rather than ship-mounted weapons, Emeraud can cast spell attacks from the Empress’ vast crystalline wings while she pilots the ship from the spelljamming helm. The astral elven pirate flies under no flag but her own, and interferes with events around her according only to her own inscrutable whims. Anecdotes suggest, however, that Emeraud has a soft spot for worlds under threat, and an implacable sense of vengeance against those who have wronged her. (Yes, this is basically Queen Emeraldas, but spelljammer-ified. No, I do not apologise)

The Hollow Moon of Luure. A seemingly barren rock on the outer edge of an innocuous wildspace system, the Hollow Moon hides a horrific secret. While its pale sunward face looks down benignly on an innocent world, its dark side is a hive of activity around the black spires of a hidden port, where nautiloids dock around a great cavern opening to the interior of the moon. A vast mindflayer colony prospers here, centred around a great hollow cavern, where what was once an ancient lunar dragon has been converted, horrifically, into an elder brain dragon. This is not the extent of the elder brain’s design, however. While the colony is delighted to use the moon as a staging point for raids out into the Astral Sea, while the world slumbers obliviously beneath them, their true goal lies in another section of the moon’s hollowed interior: the egg chamber, where eight lunar dragon eggs still lie unhatched. The elder brain dragon has built many brine pools in anticipation of their hatching, carefully cultivating new elder brains from the willing deaths and devotion of its colony, so that when the time is right, it and its eight children shall march out upon the world below and the Sea beyond at the head of a truly apocalyptic illithid outpouring. (Lunar dragons plus elder brain dragons equals horrific eldritch invasion forces from the moon. Obviously. Fizban’s is seriously the gift that keeps on giving. Best book ever)

Space fantasy (/horror) is the bomb. Heh.

[xivacademia]

Duty Finder : The Weeping City of Mhach

Deep in the Yafaem Saltmoor lie the ruins of the fabled city of Mhach—a civilization of the Fifth Astral Era whose prosperity was built upon unparalleled magicks of destruction. It is to this ancient edifice, and its vaults of occult secrets, that you and the Redbills plan your next foray. You expect to encounter voidsent—the same terrible beings that grounded Radlia and her crew—but on your path to retrieve a relic of incalculable power, can you prevail over the unfettered miseries of the Weeping City itself?

[dustedmagazine]

“Everybody Hollerin’ GOAT” — Derek Taylor’s 2022

I’ve been reverentially pilfering Bill Steber’s photos as visual ledes for as long as I’ve been writing these Year End paeans (the first was in 2003, making this one the nineteenth). There’s something about Steber’s keen eye for negative space, composition and context that makes me think of Blue Note’s Francis Wolff, if transplanted to the Mississippi hill country. No blues to speak of in the stack of recordings this time around, at least as sourced from that legendary, loamy region, but still lots that’s helped keep my head screwed on and faculties relatively fog-free over the past twelve-months.

Wadada Leo Smith

Smith’s ascendance to octogenarian eminence was simply too merry and momentous an occasion to be contained to a single year. As the concluding two entries in a hexalogy of releases on the Finnish TUM label highlighting facets of his multifarious output, Emerald Duets and String Quartets, Nos. 1-12 dropped in May and were also arguably the most ambitious. The Dusted bullpen collectively dug in on both sets in a rousing Listening Post roundtable that forgivably favored the more accessible exploratory encounters with drummers Jack DeJohnette, Andrew Cyrille, Han Bennink and Pheeroan AkLaff.

Joe McPhee

The Powerhouse from Poughkeepsie turned 83 years young in November and as with past years his productive spirit appears immune to enervation or ennui. Ensemble efforts like Survival Unit III’s The Art of Flight (Astral Spirits/Instigation) and Pride of Lion’s No Question No Answers (RogueArt) continue to be the common currency of his artistic realm, but McPhee also found aegis for the release of exhilarating duets with cellist (and freshly-minted MacArthur “genius”) Tomeka Reid (Let Our Rejoicing Rise) and British sax eidolon Evan Parker (Sweet Nothings (For Milford Graves), both pressed on the prolific Corbett vs. Dempsey imprint (see below).

Peter Brötzmann

Speaking again of unstoppable octogenarians, Herr Brötzmann came out of COVID isolation with renewed vigor and a concert calendar still compellingly competitive with musicians a fraction his age. New entries in his edifice-sized discography weren’t nearly as plentiful, but a pair of archival releases still packed a gobsmacking punch. Historic Music Past Tense Future (Black Editions Archive) drops the German reedist and bassist William Parker into the precision polyrhythmic maelstrom of Milford Graves circa spring 2002 across a double slab of vinyl. In a State of Undress (FMP/Be!) is free jazz of a more formal sort with the one-off aggregate of trumpeter Manfred Schoof, bassist Jay Oliver and drummer Willi Kellers tempering the leader’s orotund edges.

Tyshawn Sorey + Greg Osby — The Off-Off Broadway Guide to Synergism (Pi)

Keeping up with Tyshawn Sorey’s indefatigable activities is a lot like keeping pace with Joe McPhee, a full-time pursuit worth every penny and effort. This three-disc set has the instant enticement of capturing his working trio in the hothouse context of an extended gig at the Jazz Gallery in NYC. Add to that a program of alchemized standards sourced from the Great American Songbook and jazz brethren along with altoist Greg Osby in a rare sideman station and the results become an irresistible trigger pull. In a word: epic.

Cecil Taylor

Taylor’s been gone four-plus-years, but his in-life prolificacy continues to bestow posthumous gifts. Revelatory and digital-only, The Complete, Legendary, Live Return Concert at the Town Hall, NYC, November 4, 1973 (Oblivion) expands greatly on its previously truncated incarnation, Spring of Two Blue-J’s originally on Taylor’s own Unit Core imprint back in 1974. Respiration (Fundacja Słuchaj!) and Live in Ruvo Di Puglia 2000 (Enja) reveal previously unreleased prototypes of his solo repertoire separated by the span of thirty-two years. Sharing a surname with the pianist probably suggests the presence of bias, but I will still ardently go on record in stating that all three are essential.

Albert Ayler — Revelations: The Complete ORTF 1970 Fondation Maeght Recordings (Elemental)

Previous editions of this material are now obsolete thanks to this magnificent, meticulously assembled set. So invasive were earlier edits and excisions, particularly as concerns the catalytic contributions of Ayler’s life and musical partner Mary Parks (aka Mary Maria), that it’s like hearing the concerts anew. Parks’ memory and jazz history are restored by producer Zev Feldman and his retinue of collaborators. The results are glorious, both in terms of restored fidelity and the extended majesty of Ayler’s last band firing on collective, conflagratory cylinders.

Chris Dingman — Journeys Vols. 1 & 2 (Inner Arts)

Chris Dingman nearly topped my Year End list two-years ago with an ambitious five-disc opus Peace, a dedicatory body of work for solo vibraphone initially conceived as an aural paregoric for his ailing father. The elder Dingman passed away prior to its release and in navigating the grief in the years since, the son’s doubled down on the unaccompanied format as means of realizing Albert Ayler proffered adage that “music is the healing force of the universe.” Journey’s 1 & 2 reflect their predecessor, but also refract it through a sequence of malleted excursions emphasizing melody and repetition in rippling, elliptical patterns that soothe and enthrall.

Corbett vs Dempsey

John Corbett is indicative of my favorite species of record collector: an altruist whose obsessiveness in the endeavor is exceeded by his ardor for sharing the spoils of this searches through reissues that completely do the artifacts justice. Chief among the offerings this year, German free jazz pianist Georg Gräwe’s first two forays as a leader, New Movements (1976) and Pink Pong (1978), and the pivotal Globe Unity (1967), which restores Alexander von Schlippenbach’s first multinational large ensemble enterprise to circulation. Also of note, another stack of entries inspired by the Sequesterfest series of concerts initiated during the pandemic. Drummer Hamid Drake’s Dedications features solo percussion-planted encomia to his influences and is probably my pick of the eight titles released so far.

The Pyramids — Aomawa: The 1970s Recordings (Strut)

A box set that brings a personal blind spot into bracing focus and rectifies it. The Pyramids initial three albums plus a concert air shot given the deluxe treatment by the Strut label. Ancient to the Future with audible Sun Ra Arkestra and Art Ensemble influences, reedist Idris Ackamoor’s ensemble is never slavish or supine in its interpretations of precedence. Percussion jams are plentiful, as are spiritual jazz overtones, and it all combines in an earthy gestalt that also has a healthy respect and acumen for groove. I’m of an age where regrets feel increasingly impractical, but it’s still good to catch up.

Grounation — The Mystic Revelation of Rastafari (Soul Jazz)

An arguable Jamaican analog to Aomawa in its assemblage of certain analogous ingredients, Groundnation was also something else entirely. Sprawling across three LPs (a milestone in the country’s recording industry), The Mystic Revelation of Rastafari resonates as history lesson, call to arms, sacred text, and adulatory celebration among other appellations. Count Ossie, Cedric IM Brooks and their confreres mined both zeitgeist and musical alloy that had lasting effects not just on reggae, but self-determinate roots-oriented music of all sorts. Soul Jazz’s painstaking attention to accurate reproduction and contextualization is admirable and immersive.

Robbie Basho — Bouquet (Lost Lagoon)

Self-produced, released and circulated in 1984, Basho’s penultimate album tests and perhaps proves the prevailing theory that detractors of his singing far outnumber those of guitar playing. Still, he succeeds where other great polarizers of the pipes like Irene Aebi, Yoko Ono and Ethel Merman fail in his unflappable earnestness and credulity. The self-doubt and cumulative frustrations that haunted Basho in life subsume in the sincerity of his music, strangely sui generis in its intensely personalized strains of borrowed religion, spirituality and mysticism. Mileage varies, but there’s no denying Basho’s commitment to his muses.

Sun Ra

Labels like Modern Harmonic and Cosmic Myth Ra continue to keep Ra relevant even though the Saturnian left the planet decades ago. This year’s passel of reissues includes timely returns of Ra to the Rescue and Universe in Blue, each augmented with extra and/or extended tracks. The latter album includes several showstopping John Gilmore spotlights and ample Ra organ-omics while the former gets its most complete edition yet with a survey of snapshots across 1970s sessions. A genuinely new release, Prophet zeroes in on Ra’s 1986 in-studio experiments with the then-newfangled eponymous console and he responds like a kid in a keyboard candy store with select Arkestral band members, including an ailing June Tyson, in exuberant, if fleeting, support.

Steeplechase

The Danish label is an old reliable in these pages, plugging along with current releases from its international stable of artists alongside occasional, but always welcome, reissues. Stephen Riley’s My Romance isn’t the tenorist’s first recording with B-3 organ, but it does mark his first as a leader. Electing Brian Charette to cover the keys with just Billy Drummond on cans in support is a stripped-down stroke of genius. Vintage concert performances with bop pianist Duke Jordan in the company of Danish tenorist Bent Jaedig (Montmartre ’73) and archival recordings by tenorist Brew Moore (Special Brew) and dearly departed Philly guitarist Monette Sudler (In My Own Way) stand out, too.

Bear Family

Bear Family basically has access to a bank vault-sized archive when it comes to vintage country fare. It’s a mighty good thing because Bill Carter holds at best token traction with the 21st century arbiters of the genre. Sixty-seven tracks across two discs chart the ups, downs, and all arounds of Carter’s career (The Complete Recordings from 1953 to 1961) jumping from Western Swing to hillbilly to honkytonk to rockabilly. Perhaps best of all, Carter was 92, lucid, and around to see the release back in March. Western Swing legend Bob Wills’ younger brother Billy Jack was the recipient of similar treatment with Cadillac In Model ‘A’, a comparatively stingy 31-track survey and latest in the label’s long running Gonna Shake This Shack Tonight series.

Ezz-thetics

Born out of both providence and necessity, the Ezz-thetics label exists in the continued absence of the venerated Hat Hut lineage of imprints. The earlier catalogs are tied up in legal proprietary knots, leaving owner Werner X. Uehlinger to throw caution to the curb and pursue a longstanding dream of applying his decades-honed judgment as a producer to free/jazz classics. The venture immediately ran afoul of critics who took umbrage with his audacity in side-stepping stateside copyright considerations and reimagining sacred texts. Wherever one opines on those controversies, there’s no denying the new lease audio engineer Michael Brandli has accorded the source materials. Cecil Taylor’s (With) Exit to Student Studies Revisited, Paul Bley’s Play Annette Peacock Revisited, and Sun Ra’s Nothing Is… Completed & Revisited are exemplary stand outs.

Fresh Sound

Lisbon-based Fresh Sound is another reissue label that continuously courts its share of contention. The logical, if admittedly self-serving counter is that American rights holders to nearly all of the music that they traffic in couldn’t be bothered to apply even a fraction of the care or quality they bring to bear. Exacting attention to the most esoteric and obscure jazz artists has long been the archetype. This year’s batch includes definitive collections of trumpeter Dave Burns (1962 Sessions), baritone saxophonist Virgil Gonsalves (Jazz in the Bay Area 1954-1959), altoist Joe “Mouse” Bonati (Portrait of a Jazz Hero) and Belgian vibraphonist Fats Sadi (Sadi’s Vibes: A Retrospective 1953-61).

Morteza Mahjubi — Selected Improvisations from Golha, Parts 1 & 2 (Death is Not the End)

Tempered instruments aren’t an intuitive match for micro-tonal composition, but that hasn’t hindered musicians of manifold ethnicities from adapting them to the intricacies of indigenous music. Iranian pianist Morteza Mahjubi did so prolifically during his lifetime, recording his innovations for Golha (Flowers of Persian Song and Poetry) radio programs between 1956 and his passing in 1965. Spread over two album-length discs (with hopefully future volumes to follow), Mahjubi applies his custom tuning system to the ivories and approximates the sonorities of endemic instruments like the tar (lute) and santur (hammered dulcimer).

Branko Mataja — Over Fields and Mountains (Numero)

Mataja’s biography reads like a Spielbergian screenplay. Abducted from his native Belgrade and conscripted to a German work camp during WWII, the lifelong guitar enthusiast worked a variety of trades after being liberated, before emigrating to England, then Canada, and finally a string of stateside cities. Mataja eventually settled in Los Angeles where he worked as a barber and started a side business a freelance guitar technician. Memories of his home country haunted him, and he recorded a pair of albums in his garage studio/workshop from which this LP is sourced. Milky, murky reverb and sustain are calling cards, alongside an improvisatory approach to traditional Croatian melodies that’s equal parts melancholic and mysterious.

V/A — Padang Moonrise: The Birth of the Modern Indonesian Recording Industry 1955-1969 (Soundway)

A double-LP + 7” survey stacked with sublime discoveries from coordinates geographic and temporal that beg for an even deeper dive. Reverb-dipped guitars and swirling, droning organs are persistent common denominators alongside varied hand percussion and a revolving cast of melancholic crooners across genders and dialects. It’s cross-cultural music that’s exotica-adjacent and still ripely redolent of American soul. Ghost World’s Enid would’ve had a field day immersing herself in this stuff. I know I have.

Jalaleddin

Old, but still new to me, and perhaps my most listened to platters among the many vinyl discoveries procured on record shop safaris this year. Discogs lists seven albums to Jalaleddin’s name, and I feel fortunate to have found six on the cheap in a single shop. Based in San Francisco in the 1970s and a master of the kanun (Turkish trapezoidal zither,) Jalal Takesh started his musical career cutting belly dance records. Benefiting from a Santana-like broadmindedness, his bandleading would soon conscript musicians of other traditions including Indian ragas, Greek rebetika, and Spanish flamenco. Hand-sketched and colored by an academic friend of Takesh’s, the album cover illustrations are aces, as well.

25 More in No Fixed Order…

Andrew Cyrille/William Parker/Enrico Rava — 2 Blues for Cecil (TUM)

Michael Bisio Quartet — MBefore (Tao Forms)

Ingrid Laubrock/Brandon Lopez/Tom Rainey — No Es La Playa (Intakt)

Patricia Brennan — More Touch (Pyroclastic)

Mark Turner — Return from the Stars (ECM)

Jeb Bishop/Pandelis Karayorgis/Damon Smith — Duals (Driff/Balance Point Acoustics)

Ches Smith — Interpret it Well (Pyroclastic)

Sam Rivers — Caldera (NoBusiness)

Toots Thielemans & Rob Franken — The Studio Sessions 1973-1983 (Dutch Jazz Archive)

The Pyramids — Penetration! (Sundazed)

Horace Tapscott Quintet — S/T (Mr. Bongo)

V/A — Girls with Guitars Gonna Shake (Ace)

John Ondolo — The Hypnotic Guitar of John Ondolo (Mississippi)

Biluka y Los Canibales — Leaf-Playing in Quito 1960 to 1965 (Honest Jon’s)

Myra Melford’s Fire & Water Quintet — For the Love of Fire & Water (RogueArt)

Ndikho Xaba & The Natives — S/T (Trilyte/Mississippi)

Brandon Seabrook — In the Swarm (Astral Spirits)

Sirone — Artistry (Moved by Sound)

William Parker — Universal Tonality (Centering)

Charles Mingus — The Lost Album from Ronnie Scott’s (Resonance)

Markos Vamvakaris — Death is Bitter (Mississippi)

Jeff Parker — Mondays at the Enfield Tennis Academy (Eremite/Aguirre)

Mal Waldron — Searching in Grenoble: The 1978 Solo Piano Concert (Tompkins Square)

Allan Botschinsky Quintet — Live at The Tivoli Gardens 1996 (Stunt)

Jimmy Castor Bunch — The Definitive Collection (Robinsongs)

Derek Taylor

[mythriteshah]

A Sultan Beyond Mythrite

The days following the Angels' Gaunlet have been nothing short of arduous. From the intensifying negotiations between Radz-at-Han's noble houses, the threat of the Telophoroi looming throughout the land, and rumors about traveling to the moon beginning to stir, there has been scant time for the Regalia to breathe. But Thiji would sooner be caught clashing than to venture into new encounters unprepared.

As the realm readied itself for another foundation-shaking conflict, the Mythrite Sultan had charged his ever-reliable Angels with important tasks to better prepare.

For Himmeya, she was to embark on a time-honored tradition among monks of the Near East: with a cache of Thavnairian katars, she would take herself and any aspiring soldiers - whom would soon be her disciples - to the many mountains strewn about the Perfumed Rise to do battle against the native Coeurls and Torama. Their goal was to learn the ways of the Monk through Himmeya's unique martial upbringing, forming her own branch of the Fist of Rhalgr, whose faithful harnessed their Chakra to utilize the elements, bringing Astral and Umbral might to bear upon their foes.

Meanwhile, Lilina, with her expert knowledge of the languages of the Allied Races (turning away from the coined derogatory of "beastmen"), parlayed with the local Matanga tribes gathered in Yedlihmad to curry favor, promising aid and relief for their people whose lives are no doubt affected by the recent attacks. Luluma and Sosona maintained the peace by monitoring the strange tower looming over the region, ensuring no fauna turned by its queer magics would endanger the fragile sanctity of Saltwind's Welcome.

Deeper in the Shroud of the Samgha, Sesena, Lelena, and Susuna were preparing offerings of coin and fruit to edifices of a trio of deities that have long been venerated by the Near Eastern people: The Magus Sisters. Their blessings, they surmised, would help them see through the coming adversity, while ensuring the continued prosperity of the land and the Regalia.

Deeper within the Shroud was Veeveena and her sister Veeveera, whom have been sparring before the temple of Kadjaya's Footsteps. With a strong affinity to wind-aspected aether, the twins were adamant in strengthening themselves in the ways of the Dancer to combat the evils of the realm, taking the fight to the ominous tower with the ultimate goal being its deactivation or - more preferably - its destruction.

Outside of Thavnair, towards Ilsabard territory, Kaori Hanabira took it upon herself to continue her efforts towards aiding the resistance effort in Bozja, battling alongside the Hrothgar and other races to beat back the IVth Imperial Legion and uncover their questionable acts.  She would also be introduced to a Garlean shieldmaiden during her excursions, and after several chance encounters with the woman, Kaori has made it her goal to ascertain the shieldmaiden's true motives behind aiding a resistance cell in undermining the IVth's efforts.  Her success would serve as a great stepping stone towards Thiji's father's efforts in resurrecting his own ambitions of the Ilsabard Branch Headquarters that were originally countervailed.

Lastly, as the Head Secretaries gathered the other Angels to aid the Grand Company of Eorzea in reversing the tempering of primals, Mimizo and Fafastima, together with the other noble houses of Radz-at-Han, have finally begun to make some headway in their efforts to help bring adventurers over to the Near East.  There was little time for rest throughout the entire fortnight Thiji spent back home, issuing orders and deliberating with his family - on top of the increasing demand for commissioned works now that his own empire had finally begun to gain renown throughout the realm.

One eve, while he had retired from a long day of work, the Mythrite Sultan slumbered within his bed chambers.  Deep into his subconscious did he dream: he found himself within the veil between worlds - the vast and limitless aetherial sea.  Though he may have been in the dream world, it felt all too real to him.  His senses were all intact, and he was fully aware of his surroundings - almost as though he was called here by some unknown force.

What happened next would only confirm this as he felt a chill which began at his toes, and coiled up his body like a serpent, until he felt this cold within every inch of his being.  But this was a welcoming cold - it was his cold.  But how could that be? A few short moments would pass until the aetherial sea began to change in coloration; the surrounding area became filled with hues of ice blue and silver-white as a gelid mist enveloped the environs, seeming to go on for malms.  Thiji did not seem very alarmed by this phenomenon, seeming to find comfort in the cold - his own element, besides.  Gazing up, he would notice multitudes of snowflakes falling gently around him. A gust would soon blow through, a silver storm raging within the mist, gathering some yalms behind him.  This would intensify for a half-minute before a spectacle of sparkling silver and white appeared in an explosion of diamond dust, errant snowflakes suspended in midair, twinkling all the while.

The presentation was nonetheless refreshing to behold, but what emerged - or, in this case, whom - would prove to be more eye-catching.  A Hyur youth - no older than ten or eleven winters - and about a fulm taller than Thiji - appeared amidst the snow.  He sported a blue-and-white suikan with some wintry motifs on the sleeves, and two large snowflakes decorated the top, resembling buttons.  His hair was identical to Thiji's, only that his tresses of icy blue gave way to silver white as it reached the ends; his irises were limpid orbs of deep turquoise, with thin black pupils.  The youth's skin was as pale as can be, and he was without footwear.  The final item of note Thiji mentally addressed was the Far Eastern bladed weapon he held within his right hand - it was a simple naginata with a long, black shaft that gave way to ice blue and white as it approached the snow white blade, upon which a single blue jewel adorned.

"This was no mere Hyuran boy," the Mythrite Sultan said in his mind.  But he threw caution to the wind and approached him regardless.  It felt... right, for some reason.  After stopping a few yalms away, the pale Hyur would speak.

"Greetings, Thiji sor Higuri," he said, his words echoing amidst the icy fog.  His voice and tone were similar to the Mythrite Sultan's - so much so that Thiji felt a jolt race through his mind, as though he had been hit with some sense of vertigo. The Hyuran boy felt a similar sense of displacement, but it was not as puissant - he seemed to have expected it, even.  His expression was cold and stagnant, his blue lips barely even moving an ilm to form a smile or a frown. 

"Do you know who I am?"

The Mythrite Sultan recovered from his stupor, matching his stoic countenance and responding with a nod.

"I do now," Thiji replied. “You... you are me.”

“Correct,” the “Hyuran” Thiji acknowledged, “and it is gladdening to finally make contact with you after so many winters.  The laws of your land have not made it easy.”

“Indeed...” the Mythrite Sultan said back coolly.  “I have met instances of myself within this space - this veil between realms - so I am used to these encounters.  However, you seem the most... whole.”

“Astute as ever, I see,” the young boy chimed.  “I am Thiji Higuri of another realm - or shard, if you prefer - known as Elementa, and ever since you’ve been born in Hydaelyn, I have been sparing no small amount of effort to reach you.  This universe is a lot more complex than the ones I have explored, and to ensure I found you without endangering you or others around you, more knowledge of your realm was required.”

The pale Thiji then lifted his free hand and created slabs of crystalline ice around them.  Peering into these mirror-like surfaces would cause events in the Mythrite Sultan’s life to play out with impeccable accuracy - whether it was from his own point of view, or that of his Angels.

“So there was a reason the events happened the way they did,” the Mythrite Sultan stated.  He looked upon the key moments of his life:  his losses of Mamai Mai and Nanago Nago; the formation of his Angels; the battles against the primals; his burgeoning aptitude in aesthetic and the creation of his PiB Catalogue, and the numerous operations he's conducted.  He then noticed a particular slab which showed tall, grey figures with hoods, and the calamity which spelled the doom of their Star.  "As you are aware by now," the other Thiji began, "the machinations of the Ascians have revealed that your soul - and the souls of others possessed of the Mothercrystal's blessing - are fragments of your former, true selves.  The Echo is what allows everyone to transcend their mortal limits, and step upon the boundaries of the realm of gods.  This may seem familiar to you.  Seeing as how the Echo is a scintilla of their powers over creation, its effects and potential are different within every individual.  Yours is a reflection of mine, which you have just recently unfurled: dominion over ice-aspected aether.  The Eistanz - an invention of your own design - is a testament to this, though you have not relied on the Echo to create this beautiful style."

"And yet my hands were meant to create, not destroy - which is why I hung up the mantle of adventurer," rebutted the Mythrite Sultan.  "Though I am certain my love for battle is also due to my connection to you."

"Yes," the other replied.  "In my realm, we revel in the glory of combat.  It is as the old saying goes: 'it is in battle where our true selves are revealed.'  Halone, your Goddess of War and Mover of Glaciers, is a testament to this credo, and is why you will surely be guaranteed a place within Her heaven.  But that time is far from happening, for there is a lot to be done.  You've faced countless challenges - by yourself, and with your allies and Angels - and now comes the biggest challenge of all..."

The Mythrite Sultan turned to meet the gaze of his other, seeing familiar scenes of the strange towers erected throughout the Three Great Continents, the vast waves of nightmarish creatures surging forth, and the lunar primals emerging from the entrapped Allied Races.

"The Final Days," the Lalafell Thiji uttered.

"It doesn’t take an augur to see that this entire realm is going to be fighting for its survival - the faithful of Garlemald included," the "Hyuran" Thiji explained.  "As a result, everyone is going to be tapping further into their potential to gain access to new avenues of strength and power.  Your hard-working and dedicated Angels are of no exception - and neither are you.  Which is why our meeting could not have come at a more auspicious time.  The division of the Star may have resulted in the Ancients' fragmentation of their souls save for a chosen few - the Unsundered, as they are called - but as you have finally discovered your Echo powers, the connection we will soon complete will augment and amplify your already formidable mastery over aetherial manipulation and the elemental aspect of Ice.  You will undoubtedly have the skills and expertise necessary to face the coming trials."

This revelation intrigued the Mythrite Sultan.  At the same time, he felt a sort of trepidation as his other self approached, his hand outstretched.  He pieced together everything when his mother - the Valide Sultan, Mimizo Higuri - had taken a more active role in his well-being.  She clearly had her hand in this as well, along with his sister-in-law, Umimi; his twin brother, Horu; even one of his Angels - Shiro Reina - had kept an eye on him from the shadows.  It was all leading up to this moment - for his soul to be reunited with his true self in a manner not unlike that of the Ascians - and with far less calamitous repercussions.

The Lalafell raised a hand, stopping his Hyuran self for a moment.

"May I ask by what title you go in... Elementa, was it?" he asked.  The pale Thiji's eyes widened in response for a moment, but nodded thereafter, knowing their mutual penchant for titles.

"I am the Eternal of Ice; the Diamond Emperor," he simply replied.  "I am something of a deity in Elementa, but do not concern yourself too much - you won't be some omnipotent being that I hear is frowned upon in certain circles - you'll just feel more... whole.  One with Winter.  Why do you ask?"

"I've been the lordling of the Sagolii, to the Mythril Prince, to the Mythrite Prince, to the Mythrite Sultan, and to the Mythrite Shah," the Lalafell answered.  "I think it is time for a new title to commemorate my 'final form'.  And with the knowledge and memories you will provide me, I may already have an idea for a new fashion breakthrough, which will no doubt excite my circles and fans of the Power in Beauty Catalogue.  Mother did say it was time for this realm to be ready for Thiji sor Higuri.  If this is similar to the prophecy you may have endured in your realm, then I am all the more prepared to finally become whole."

Were the pale Thiji capable of smiling, he would do so, but the Mythrite Sultan could feel his happiness from his curt nod.   Another image would appear to his (the pale Thiji’s) right, showing an impeccable beauty of a Lalafellin woman, wearing a violet dress, with tresses and eyes to match - a Queen amonst her race, one might say.

“One last thing,” the pale Thiji spoke,  “I know you’ve had quite the terrible luck with the fairer sex throughout your life, but I strongly believe you should hold fast to this one - this Natsuki Mori.  You and her share a great many similarities, and she is no stranger to intrigue and aesthetic.  Perhaps even someday, the two of you could rule the realm through Power, Beauty, and Winter.  Your goddesses of fate and love - your Nymeia and Menphina, respectively - may have had her in store for you until the right time.  Plus, take it from the original you: I’ve had my fair share of suitors who’ve been fawning over me for years.  My incumbent girlfriend is a Kyuubi - a nine-tailed Kitsune Goddess, and she is quite affectionate.”

“Perhaps I will, then, if these events have culminated to this juncture,” the Mythrite Sultan said.  “Let us join as one - at long last.  And... thank you.”

The pale Thiji gave another curt nod, and stretched out his hand once more, placing it over the Lalafell’s heart.  His form would slowly begin to envelop in a bluish light as the Mythrite Sultan felt his very soul freeze.  But this was, again, a welcoming cold - a warmth, even.  Before long, the entire area would be filled with light, and his “dream” sequence would end.

Now back to his reality, Thiji opened his eyes, and as he did, they gave off a glimmer of bluish hues, though his heterochromia remained.  All was quiet in his chambers as he rose from his slumber, scanning the area before gazing upon his hands.  He could feel the change within him - his body’s aetherial signature tipped towards ice - a tingling sensation of frost dancing upon his fingertips.  He gave himself a smirk as he jumped from his bed to seize something from his reserve stock: the glacial crystals he had received from one of his Honorary Angels.

By his lonesome, he toiled the entire morning in his chamber of aesthetic, utilizing everything he had learned from his journeys and adventures, along with the knowledge gained from his other self.  With cloth, metal, and reagent, he would use every onze of his power, getting accustomed to his newfound abilities and expertise.  Onlookers would notice motes of frost jutting out from the cracks of the entrance - they knew that their master was up to something big.

Once Noon had arrived - when the light of Azeyma was at its peak - the chamber doors would fly open from a wintry blast, startling the workers of the Regalia who had grown concerned of their lord’s work.  What they beheld after the icy fog had dissipated enough was nothing short of breathtaking: the cloth that he had created would feel soft like tulle, and breathable like Thavnairian Cotton.  All along its weft and weave one would notice tiny snowflakes dancing within and without, and it shone with an iridescence like none other in the light.

The mythril had a much stronger coloration to it - more of a turquoise finish - and particles not unlike diamond dust could be seen along the metal’s surface.  Should one lay their hand upon it, it would feel cool to the touch, and somewhat tingly as well.

Lastly, his solvent - sealed in a bottle about the length of a wine glass - had a pale bluish color to it which matched Thiji’s hair.  It looked like a viscous fluid from the outside, but when applied to items with an aetheric signature, this substance would - in a manner similar to dissolvents -  banish minute amounts of aether aspected to any element that isn’t Ice, and attune it and, if applicable, anyone who wears it, to enhance manipulation over that element.

As the servants of the Regalia exchanged hushed words, the Mythrite Sultan emerged from the fog; his clothing was far different from his usual robes, but more iridescent, clean... and serenely icy.  The Blissful Shroud he had carried on his person had become a royal blue with white gradient, and his outer robe had been cast aside in place of a slick, shimmering and silvery sherwani; his babouches were a deep turquoise - similar to his new Mythril that he has decided to coin Himvat:  the Thavnairian word for “icy” or “wintry”.  As for his ever-important turban, it, too, had a change in appearance and coloration, with a baby blue finish and a small snowflake-like crystal adorning the front; a larger crystal of similar shape framed the back.

Nyra, too, had received an upgrade of her own - her crown of pure mythril now replaced with this new variant, glinting in the light.

“Is it time, My Sultan?” one of the Roegadyn servants asked.  “Your next breakthrough is come...?”

“It has, my beloved and devoted,” he replied.  “Ready the looms,  the stations, the forges, and the alembics.  This next line will be our greatest yet.  And though I may still be known as the Mythrite Sultan to those in my circle, I have decided that a new title should commemorate this milestone.  From this day forward, I, Thiji sor Higuri, shall be known as... The Diamond Sultan.”

The servants of the Regalia cheered and fanned out to inform their colleagues of this auspicious occasion.  Though the return of the Telophoroi was imminent, there was always a time to get the word out of a new clothing line - and if this one is as grandiose as Thiji has led on, then the realm at large would soon know that war was not the only thing looming over its doorstep.

Here’s hoping no one is afraid of the cold...

Thiji Higuri, the Diamond Sultan

(Many thanks and credit to @minstrels-ink and https://twitter.com/sapphrixrain for the creation of these photos!)

[pandorias-box]

Lustrous

The lord of space stares into the eyes of the child of the stars. She who was born of one of innumerable worlds.

With every heartbeat, the astral sea expands. With every heartbeat, time slips away.

She must quell a god if she is to save this world. She was there when the Blinding One’s fury was unleashed, light scattering across a city once shrouded in eternal darkness. But she watched from afar. The one who saved her kin was a human.

Now she would have to return the favor for Hisui. For humanity.

How was she, a mortal, to face off against the strength of a deity? The embodiment of the cosmos itself? On both sides, blows were traded. Allies that walked with her among countless lands fell and rose again. One of its attacks was reality itself shattering before her.

This was no fight against a Noble. This was a fight against a force of the very universe; one ever-changing, one unrelenting.

Focus. Stay strong. This is not yet over. Heed its challenge. Her thoughts whispered.

Capture Palkia.

The creature was breathing heavily as they had been at odds against each other for a long time. Every chance she got to capture it, the draconic envoy of space eluded her by escaping. Her inventory running low, she was running out of options.

And so she threw one of her last remaining Ultra Balls at Palkia as it loomed over her, becoming enveloped in a pale blue light. The capsule fell to the stone edifice of the temple’s altar.

It shook once.

Twice.

A small signal flare followed afterwards emanating from the top of the device. She had done it.

She had captured a legend.

[rukafais]

Everything I have to say about this guy is too extensive to subject someone to off the cuff but tl;dr Kimmuriel Oblodra is a drow psionicist from Menzoberranzan! He is from the same house as Araj Oblodra in BG3 except he's obsessed with like, knowledge and psionics and not making people's blood explode. He's an antisocial violent little bastard who did not cope very well with his entire family dying because he was essentially a special little psionics protege hand-moulded by his noble adoptive mother. He has an arc, it's emotionally a Lot, essentially Jarlaxle "massively colourful peacock" Mcmercenary showed him kindness at a low point and he latched onto that like, forever.

BUT MORE RELEVANT TO MY POST, he also develops a bond with an illithid hivemind that lives on the Astral Plane and it's genuinely really interesting, both as just a worldbuilding thing + how it seems to run contrary how illithids usually treat non-illithids:

But here, in this place, nothing was measured in that manner. In this place, Kimmuriel Oblodra didn’t exist, other than to be a single colligation in the one being that was the whole of illithid society. Here in the hive mind, his fingers caressing the great pulsing brain, the edifice of connection and oneness, thoughts and memories became interchangeable and mingled. Study in the hive mind was merely a matter of searching what had become your own expansive knowledge and memories rather than hearing or reading the words of a separate being. Kimmuriel often lamented that he should have been born an illithid. The hive mind knew this truth within the drow’s heart, of course, which explained why he was so welcomed here. One could not easily hide insincerity in this place. One could not easily hide anything from the illithids. A large part of the individual that was Kimmuriel wanted to just stay here. Let Luskan and Bregan D’aerthe be the concerns of another. He could remain at the hive mind and caress knowledge itself, bask in pure thought, revel in memories as visceral as if he had walked those pathways in the lonely and singular drow form he had been forced to wear. Arguments came back at him from so many other corners of the hive mind, though. He was unique here, or nearly so. Only this synapse of the hive mind, this being named Kimmuriel, that existed in that drow reality in that world of Faerun, could bring in such expansive experiences and knowledge of that place. He would be limiting the hive mind and thus limiting himself if he lost the balance between recipient and source.

I love that BG3 folks are exploring the idea of "does it feel weird when the party is no longer linked together via tadpole psionics" because [tap dances] Have You Met One Of My Favourite Forgotten Realms Characters Ever Made, The Shitty Little Psionic Who Got Adopted By An Entire Illithid Hivemind,

[snailfloss]

The principal reliquary of the Raven Queen exists in planes overlapping and manifold. It drifts in the Astral Sea, folded in the heart of the Eternal Stockade. Elsewhere, there are doors of iron and silver and solid bone: in the city of Neverwinter, in temples sunk beneath the earth, and in well-cared for crypts in iconic cemeteries.

Many treasures lie within. The Raven Queen’s followers sequester magical artifacts hosting vile power that could destroy the cycle twice over. They hoard art, trophies, and other such prizes from vanquished necromancers.

Above all, the Raven Queen collects stories and their associated mementos. She knows, better than anyone, the ultimatums of the cycle she enforces.

Souls have their place and time. The dead must pass on, so that the young can inherit. But memories remain. Memories deserve to be cherished.

Usually, when the onyx statue of a monstrous raven in the center of the reliquary speaks, its gilt beak opening ponderously and its ruby eyes flashing with inner light, it is to order her followers to collect these memories in her stead.

This place is a marble crypt and its reliquary door is wrought iron. This day is two hundred years before our time. The gravekeeper on duty is a gnome, and mostly a groundskeeper, and he has no idea what’s going on.

It is natural and right that he should hit her with a broom. This does not mean she is happy about it.

CEASE.

“I’m…sorry?” the gnome squeaks. Quite bravely, she decides. He’ll have to do.

WHAT IS YOUR NAME, MY CHILD.

The gnome pales even further, if that’s possible. He backs up several steps with the broom held aloft. “I won’t be giving my name to talking statues.”

YOU SHOULD. OR ELSE I WILL HAVE TO CALL YOU…CHARLES

“I–what?”

CHARLES. I CHARGE YOU WITH CONVEYING THE FOLLOWING TESTAMENT TO YOUR FELLOWS. YOU WILL SEE MY WILL DONE.

“Who d’you think you are?!”

The statue’s stony head grates thunderously as the Raven Queen shifts to peer through his frightened eyes and into his very soul. Claws of ice skim across his being.

He shivers. “Um. Sorry. Stupid question. What is it you were saying you needed?”

I NEED TO CREATE AN ENDOWMENT FUND.

His expression betrays nothing but total confusion. She plows on.

IT IS FOR AN INSTITUTION. OR WILL BE. A COLLEGE OF MUSIC, FOUNDED IN MY NAME.

YOU SEE, THROUGH COMPOUND INTEREST, THE SEED CAPITAL WILL YIELD INVESTMENT INCOME. OVER DECADES, REINVESTMENT OF THESE EARNINGS WILL PROVIDE FOR THE OPERATING EXPENSES OF THE COLLEGE.

AND FOR SCHOLARSHIPS AS WELL. GIVING FINANCIAL AID TO STUDENTS GREATLY RELIEVES THE MONETARY BURDEN OF ACADEMIC PURSUIT AND CAN ACT AS AN EQUALIZER, BOOSTING MERIT-BASED ENROLLMENT AND PROMOTING CLASS MOBILITY.

I HAVE BEEN DOING MY RESEARCH.

The walls of the crypt echo her words, even to the night skies above. Dust cascades from forgotten crannies in the edifice. The crimson light of her eyes slowly fills the room, transfiguring the blotchy-porridge of the gnome’s face into a baleful hue.

He opens his mouth. He closes his mouth. He coughs phlegmatically. “I–I’ll just be getting someone else, how does that sound?”

I THINK THAT WOULD BE FOR THE BEST.

[hiraethfm]

      minatozaki   sana,   cisfemale,   she  /  her    ——    have   you   met   devon   hinazuki    ?    they   are   a   twenty  -  two   year   old   junior   currently   studying   astrophysics.   they   live   on   keating   house,   and   word   around   campus   is   that   this   gemini   is   sedulous    &    erudite,   as   well   as   amenable    &    quixotic.   i   wonder   if   they’ll   make   it   out   alive.   the   immutable   strength   of   familial   love,   the   double   faces   of   loyalty   and   servitude   and   the   glint   in   a   magpie’s   eye. 

             𝒉𝒊   𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒔    !    i’m   romi,   nineteen,   she  /  her,   a   resident   of   the   gmt   plus   eight    (   press   f   )    timezone   and   with   me   i   have   miss   devon   hinazuki    !    you   will   find   below   what   i   hope   is   a   substantial   but   concise   synopsis   of   her   character   and   general   ethos.   i   am   so   unbelievably   stoked   to   be   here   and   this   close   to   getting   to   know   all   of   you   and   your   phenomenal   characters   so   please   leave   me   a   little    ♡    so    i    know    i    can    reach    out    to    you    for    plots    !   trigger   warnings    :    death,   fire

𝑨𝑳𝑬𝑨.

      the   girl   is   a   curse.   that   much   can   be   siphoned   from   the  nascent,   toddling   years   that   the   sole   hinazuki   heir   and   her   ailing   mother   sluice   through    --    her   father   watches   idly   by   as   his   wife   parts   with   the  incandescence   she   had   so   justly   been   lauded    for   before   the   child,   dizzied   by   his   own   enterprise   of   science   and   magic   only   he  could   see.   a   scant   year   ensuing   the   burial,   devon   takes   her   father’s   lifeblood   as   swiftly   and   surgically   as   she   had   cut   through   her   mother’s   radiance    --    by   her   ninth   birthday,   he  is   indicted   for   embezzlement   and   fraud,   both   of   the   inconceivable,   federal   degree.   he  had   been   an   instrument   in   the   government’s   research.   research   of   the  astral   kind,   and   for   which   he   would   pay   with   eternal   servitude.   in   the   letter   he   has   delivered   to   his   only   progeny,   he   brands   her   a   witch,   an   abomination,   a   parasite.

𝐈𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐀.

      she   is   salvaged   in   the   way   that   most   lost   things   often   are    :    an   older,   enamoured   couple,   beguiled   by   the   glint   in   her   eye     (    like   a   magpie’s,   the   woman   had   said,   cradling   fondly   to   her   chest   the   want   of   a   child   she   could   not   have   on   her   own.   magpies   are   abrasive   avians.   pests.   devon   thinks   about   this   in   the   months   after   the   family,   when   she   cannot   fall   asleep   to   the   metronome   of   her   own   breathing.    )     she’s   given   a   little   brother   to   dote   on,   too,   not   soon   after.   and   because   lichen  and   lightning   and   other   wretched   omens   have   an   affair   with   hiding   where   you   won’t   think   to   look,   her   curse   follows   and   it   festers,   compounds   on   the   birthdays   she   spends   with   them   and    --    may   sixteenth,   2020.   a   house   fire   warps   the   brownstone   into   one   of   hell’s   gnarled   edifices   and   the   only   discernible   thing   they   manage   to   procure   from   the   soot   is   her   foster   brother’s   toy   engine.   devon   had   been   sent   to   a   friend’s   house,   just   earlier   that   day.

𝑬𝑺𝑻.

      summatively,   the   girl   has   been   heaving   a   ‘curse’   between   the   planes   of   her   shoulder   blades   her   entire   life,   been   letting   it   sit   and   corrode   her   own   self  -  perception.   her   biological   mother   had,   though   previously   healthy,   passed   after   her   birth,   and   soon   after,   her   father’s   illicit   scheme   to   embezzle   from   governmental   research   had   been   uncomprehendingly   unveiled.   it   had   seemed   to   abate   after   her   integration   into   a   foster   home,   but   a   fire   that   transpires   takes   the   lives   of   all   except   her.   she’s   now  negotiating   with   her   own   agency   and   her   decision   to   pursue   astrophysics,   her   father’s   niche.

𝑪𝑶𝑵𝑵𝑬𝑪𝑻𝑰𝑶𝑵𝑺.

      i’ll   be   working   diligently   to   get   a   wanted   connections   page   set   up   soon,   but   for   now,   i’d   love   for   her   a   few   of   every   sort   of   viable   relation    :    friends,   distant   family,   acquaintances,   antagonistic   connections   such   as   nemeses   and   frenemies,   even   flings,   exes,   tentative   romances,   all   sorts    !    perhaps   even   someone     (    or   two    )     who’s   come   into   possession   of   the   details   from   her   past,   and   we   can   discuss   how   that   carries   through   and   what   your   muse   decides   to   do   with   it    !