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World Creation Superdraft 5: May 2021


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The Sun glares down at the struggling seedling, threatening to scorch it in the infancy of its growth.

The seedling persists.

 

The rain and wind grind upon the mountain, to tear it down to rubble and sand.

The mountain persists.

 

The forces of nature and the Gods heap trials and disasters upon the living things of the world.

Life persists.

 

Secondary Domain: Perseverance  

 

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The Champion of Lhash'ka was once a humble seeker of truth. He strove to overcome all obstacles: His short stature, his crude speech, his ungainly body, his hideous and decidedly unorcklike visage. He called upon Lhash'ka to show him Opposition, that he might overcome and achieve. He struggled and failed, struggled again and failed again, struggled yet again and overcame. His confidence waxed strong. As he grew and progressed, he hardly realized that Lhash'ka was forging him in to an Immortal. At length, Lhash'ka came to him to offer him one final challenge, the greatest of all: To guide humble seekers of truth on the path that he himself had forged.

 

He had hoped one day to become a hero. Now, he stands at the foot of the path that leads to heroism. Heroes com in all forms: Not just the great warrior, but the farmer who seeks to overcome the elements to better feed his village. Not just the brave one who recues another from a burning home, but the teacher who rescues her pupils from ignorance and a life of deprivation. All who seek to be more than they are, come to his abode. He shows them The Way of Struggle and Victory.

 

His name is long since lost, even to his own memory. Everyone just calls him 'Phil'.

 

Mythical Guardian of The Way of Struggle and Victory: Phil

 

984896-phil.jpg

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Lhash'ka looked down upon the world and saw its wonders in full splendor: water and islands, fire and ice, human and orck and char-lotti and dird and dryad. She saw the Sun and the Stars and the wonders of the land and the sea and the sky. It was, truly, marvellous to behold.

 

But all was not as it should be. There remained imbalances that grieved her, largely imposed by her fellow gods and goddesses. These, then, were the last to be addressed. And so Lhash'ka opened her mouth and declared the final imposition of her will upon the new world.

 

Interference: Moderation, specifically as applied to other Interferences. A few examples:

  • The orcks are allergic to the tribbles' fur...but the allergies are irritating rather than life-threatening. This strengthens the orcks' desire to hunt tribbles rather than diminishing it. 
  • All living creatures begin to burn when they die...but not quickly. The soft, warming glow of the deathflames is illuminating rather than destructive. And it doesn't ruin the mean by incinerating it.
  • Karma applies to the Gods as well as mortals...but the Gods are sometimes clever enough to escape the most dire consequences if they so choose. 
  • Everyone knows at least one really good joke...but they aren't always able to find an appreciative audience. 
  • Fear-induced miracles sometime have less-than-miraculous outcomes.
  • And so on.

 

Thus Lhash'ka, Goddess of Opposition, takes her stand against those of the Gods or mortals who would defy her will.

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2 hours ago, Pariah said:

Finally, although this is not a draft pick, I would like to humbly suggest as a player that we officially rename this entire endeavor World Creation Superdraft V: The Gods Must Be Crazy

 

(Sends a sidelong glance at Folly)

 

This draft has been sheer madness.

 

Therefore, Theer wins by definition. 🎰

 

 

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On 5/21/2021 at 12:55 PM, Pariah said:
  • Karma applies to the Gods as well as mortals...but the Gods are sometimes clever enough to escape the most dire consequences if they so choose. 

<Folly looks around> What consequences? <launches Anvilrang(TM) to give the world a moon>

 

<Anvilrang(TM) crashes through Ancestral Halls, causing plague of ghosts in mortal world>

 

22 hours ago, Pariah said:

Finally, although this is not a draft pick, I would like to humbly suggest as a player that we officially rename this entire endeavor World Creation Superdraft V: The Gods Must Be Crazy

 

(Sends a sidelong glance at Folly)

I'm not crazy! I'm a Super Genius!

 

<Anvilrang(TM) falls on Folly's head> OW! Okay, there was one tiny flaw in that plan. Next time will work for sure.

 

Dean Shomshak

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On 5/21/2021 at 12:04 PM, Pariah said:

Flora: Quintotriticale, a hearty, fast-growing grain to form the basis of life for the food web above it. It can grow in any climate. It can endure storms and other privations. Its seeds can endure the fires and grow again the next season. And its growth is self-regulating: The more quickly it is harvested  or destroyed, the faster it will grow back.

 

<cough> You do realize the result of giving the tribbles such a quickly-growing food supply?

 

captain-kirk-buried-in-tribbles.jpg.7ece2026131e6bdb38ffd938237e68d7.jpg

 

 And I notice you didn't specify that quinto-triticale is toxic to tribbles...

 

Folly is pleased that Lhash'ka loves his creation so much!

 

Dean Shomshak

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On 5/21/2021 at 9:04 AM, Pariah said:

 

Flora: Quintotriticale, a hearty, fast-growing grain to form the basis of life for the food web above it. It can grow in any climate. It can endure storms and other privations. Its seeds can endure the fires and grow again the next season. And its growth is self-regulating: The more quickly it is harvested  or destroyed, the faster it will grow back.

 

So, uncountable hordes of tribbles...

 

10 hours ago, death tribble said:

Interference: The Winds can carry you anywhere 

 

...that get blown all over the world...

 

...where they catch fire.

 

Vaiyarran has no objections to this turn of events.

 

 

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I see the Poll went up while I was writing a little story set in our new world. What the heck, I'll post it anyway. I tried to fit in as much of the world as I could without going all checklisty, so I apologize in advance if your favorite bits didn't make it in.

 

You may find aspects of the story familiar.

 

A TALE OF FOLLY:

THE TOWER OF BELAB

 

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King Belab believed he was the mightiest monarch in all the World, and he may well have been right. His father, grandfather and great-grandfather had all been great conquerors. Belab ruled a full five times seventeen archipelagoes, rich in all the good things of life, and also much gold. With such a population to tax, he was personally mighty as well: strong enough to break stone with his hands, dextrous enough to knock butterflies from the air with a flicked pebble, tireless, cunning, and so comely that people begged to serve him.

 

(And wisdom? Well… His grandfather had bought up his wisdom, and ended up abdicating to live as a hermit on a wave-swept skerry. So Belab left wisdom for his advisors.)

 

It was not enough. Belab easily defeated every personal foe, but what could he do to make himself the greatest of his line? To become, indeed, the greatest in the World?

 

So Belab sent seventeen times seventeen heroes to scour the World for the greatest treasure of all: a wish. (He knew about the Fire Dragon, of course — his great-grandfather had summoned it to burn several troublesome islands — but the Fire Dragon’s methods for granting wishes usually involved burning everything that was not the desired result. Useful for some things, not for others. Anyway, it had been done before.)

 

At last, a hero returned to present King Belab with a grungy, chipped clay jug with a clay stopper. “I have better,” the king remarked, and motioned for the executioner.

 

“No, wait!” the hero said. “It summons the Genie! I used it myself. The Genie appeared, and I wished for the jug and the Genie to pass safely into your possession, for you to use. Open the bottle, and call out the Genie! If it fails, I shall gladly lay my head on the executioner’s block.”

 

So Belab took the jug, pulled out the plug, and commanded, “Come out!” And the Genie did, appearing in a puff of smoke. This time, it appeared as a bright purple Quantim with three heads, carrying a bright pink tribble.

 

The Genie bowed low and said, in three-part harmony, “Master, what is they will?” It raised one hand, fingers ready to snap.

 

And Belab said, “I wish to rule the entire world, and all who live in it!”

 

The Genie paused. Then it paused again. And again.

 

“That… is not possible,” it said carefully. “Only the Gods can affect the entire World, and even then there are restrictions mortals wot not of.”

 

(“Wot not of?” one counselor whispered to another. “Who talks like that?”)

 

“I heard that,” the Genie said. “And near-divine spiritual beings talk like that, to show they’re serious. Want to make something of it?” The counselor raised his hands and backed away. The other counselors followed, and perhaps they showed wisdom in not wanting to get involved.

 

Anyway,” the Genie continued. “I can’t grant a wish to change the entire world. “I can grant a wish to change arbitrarily large portions of it. So if you want to rule everything and everyone within a thousand leagues, or become the master of Sitnalta, that I can do. Or, how about this: You become absolute master of all the world that you can see. Ready?” And it raised its hand again.

 

“No!” Belab interrupted. “I know this one. You make me master of what I can see right now. I already rule my palace, so I’ll have wasted my wish.” He thought a moment. “You grant a deferred wish. When I’m ready — when I see a part of the World I want to rule — then I make the wish, and you grant it.”

 

“Heh,” the Genie said. “Clever. And within the rules. Done.” It snapped its fingers, and a wand of wood appeared in Belab’s hand. Okay, a twig. “When you’re ready, break the wand. All that you see then becomes yours, and all people living there become your willing slaves.” It turned back into smoke and streamed back into the clay jug. The plug leaped from Belab’s hand to stopper the jug again, and the jug vanished.

 

Belab was well pleased with himself. He’d heard the stories about wishes and genies and sausages on noses. But he had gotten the better of the Genie! “King Belab,” he murmured to himself. “Super Genius!”

 

Immediately he gathered soldiers and servants for a journey to the highest island in his kingdom. Eagerly, he scanned the horizon. To his anger and disappointment, he could not see any place he did not already rule.

 

Now what? Take ship to some other archipelago, or the great land mass of Okanadu? The Genie’s wand would make any place an easy conquest, but Belab wanted more than that. The answer came to him in a flash of insight. Move higher. The higher he was above the World, the more he would see, and so the more he would rule. As the Genie said, it wouldn’t be the entire World, but it could be an arbitrarily large portion. And he smiled.

 

King Belab soon found that raising himself higher was easier said than done. Ride a firehawk into the sky? Alas, he was not himself fireproof. But Belab had a great kingdom to draw upon, so he chose a simple method: He would build a tower. So he commanded; and so it was done.

 

From all the islands of his kingdom came carpenters and masons. An entire city grew at the foot of the tallest mountain. Seventeen times seventeen shiploads and caravans of building materials arrived every day for the builders of the tower. And it rose, higher and higher. When it threatened to topple, buttresses were built from the sides, then buttresses to the buttresses, and immense loops of chain to pull the structure inward against its own more-than-mountainous weight. The very mountain it stood upon was hollowed for building stone, until it became a vaulted shell.

 

Each Fleenday, King Belab ascended his tower and looked toward the horizon. Indeed, he saw new lands, places he knew of only from sailor’s maps. Then places even the sailors did not know. But always there was a smudge on the horizon that might be more.

 

People rebelled, of course. King Belab’s soldiers slew them, leaving fire and blood, until the people learned to obey once more.

 

Saboteurs tried to stop the construction: Fairies, Quantim, Fire Hawks, the Dreaded. The soldiers stopped them, as well.

 

Prophets rose to warn that King Belab attempted too much, that he would trespass on the prerogatives of the Gods. That led to more rebellions. Heroes came from afar to try killing the king. But prophets die, just like other mortals, and King Belab took quarters in the immense cobweb of wood and brick, stone and chain that his tower had become, where no one could find him if he did not want to be found.

 

Then the storms came. Gale after gale. Folk murmured that the prophets were right. The fire Dragon came — and fell to a barrage of great stones hurled from machines or by King Belab himself. He boasted, “The Gods themselves cannot stop me!”

 

At last the chief architects of the Tower (by now it more than merited a capital letter, and needed no other identification) came to King Belab and told him they could build no higher. “There is no more room for buttresses! There are no chains strong enough! The very stone cracks under its own weight. Climb now, and be content.”

 

“You know of no other way to build it higher?” he asked the eldest of the architects.

 

“None,” said the elder. King Belab beheaded him.

 

“And you?” he asked the next-oldest architect.

 

The second architect pleaded, “Great king of all kings, I cannot give you what I don’t know!” So Belab beheaded him as well.

 

“Do any of you know anything?” he demanded. “Or is your usefulness at an end?”

 

The remaining architects looked at the headless bodies burning on the pavement of Belab’s chamber. Then one raised a trembling hand.

 

“I have heard,” he said, “The Charr-Loti can raise structures of webs and spars. Very light, but very strong. I have not seen them myself, but it might be true.”

 

And so seventeen more champions went forth with soldiers, and they returned with a Charr-Loti who knew the art of spinning webs that support themselves. They also brought many of the Charr-Loti architect’s kin. King Belab explained, in detail, why the architect should fear to defy him, and the Charr-Loti agreed to build the Tower higher.

 

Another year of labor passed. At last the Charr-Loti said the Tower was ready. “When it is raised, you could touch Timra’keth’s topmost blanket,” she said. “Though I fear what would happen should you do so.”

 

But King Belab was beyond fear. He strapped himself into a basket at the center of an immense web of silk and bamboo that the Charr-Loti had spun on the top of his Tower. Countless laborers pulled on the guy-ropes. The great web pulled in on itself, and the basked rose.

 

Clouds gathered for a great storm — but the Tower already rose higher than the clouds. It shook from the wind and lightning, but the chains and stones held. King Belab laughed as he saw the tempest far below him. He shouted down, “Higher!” And rose, one league, two leagues, seventeen leagues. And as the clouds cleared, he saw new lands on the horizon. “Higher!” Ten thousand leagues he saw. He could have an empire that made his present kingdom seem like a dot. But there could be more. “Higher!”

 

… and then a butterfly, tossed above the clouds by the great winds, fluttered wearily to the strands of the Tower.

 

And, exhausted, died.

 

One Quantim noticed the butterfly and the little puff of flame on the strand of silk. He vanished, and so he lived to tell the tale. If anyone else saw… it was too late.

 

Crackle! Snap! The silken cable burned, and broke. One end, still aflame, touched another cable as it flailed. That cable burned, too. Two cables, four cables, seventeen cables, seventeen times seventeen!

 

Up above, King Belab felt the tower of webbing shake. Did he have time to pull out the Genie’s wand? We do not know. For in seconds he was falling falling, falling, as the silken tower unwove itself. He crashed into the top of the Tower like a stone from a catapult — and the entire Tower shook. Stones cracked. Chains snapped. Buttresses collapsed. And the Tower fell. Avalanches of masonry slid down the mountain, though not far, until the hollowed peak collapsed in on itself.

 

The column of dust rose to cover the sky like Timra’keth’s blanket. The dead among the mountain of rubble caught fire, and set the wooden props ablaze. Fire engulfed the mountain of rubble. The Fire Dragon appeared, but there was no one living to demand anything from it, so it flew away.

 

No one can guess how many thousands died in the Tower’s fall. More died in the fighting as Belab’s kingdom fell apart. So it goes. But there is some balance in the World, and some limited repayment. His island was left with a great deal of metal, brick and stone ready to be reclaimed for other purposes.

 

Many came from far and wide to dig through the fallen Tower in hopes that, somehow, the Genie’s wand had not burned and they could use it themselves. Nobody found it. No one even knows what crushed and charred fragments of bone might have been King Belab’s.

 

The Tower is all gone now, travelers say. Some claim the ice took the island, though others say Belab’s island remains temperate and the mountain where he built is now a shallow lake. That, and the tale, are his monuments. And a word: People say, “Belabor” when they mean someone is working too hard and too long on a project or an argument, to the point of abuse.

 

It’s something.

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Dean Shomshak

 

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