feanor x

The path winds ahead of him, leading him to a house filled with scrolls. He sidles through the door, noting with amusement several others, mostly pale of complexion, looking bewildered and somewhat embarrassed by their nakedness. He marvels at strange hair colors and pale eyes, shaven faces, even a woman curiously tonsored under her arms and on her legs: repulsive.
Some moron has left a large scroll atop a table, unfurled and hanging down on the floor. He gingerly lifts the strange papyrus and rolls it back into place.
One of the pale-skins gawks at him. "Are you Zeus?'
Tarquinus flicks his eyes up from the table. Zeus... the name sounds familiar. The hill-country savages across the sea... a god of thunder. In the language of his ancient slaves...
"Zeus?" Tarquinus demands. The pale-skin steps back, alarmed by his tone. "Jupiter? That idiot? Do you have any idea..." But the northman clearly does not. Tarquinus shakes his head. "Stupid name," he murmurs, half to himself. "No. I am not that one. I am pleased to declare no divinity."
"Sorry, dude. You look like a statue I've seen, with like a curly beard."
Tarquinus runs his hands through his beard. Yes. This is a problem. "Do not call me 'dude,'" he says, pushing past the northman. His eyes range over the woman's body, and she shies away. "I mean you no harm," he assures her with a tight smile, and makes his way out of the strange house. "The beard must go," he announces to no one.
He walks further along the plain, an eyebrow cocked toward the sun. Some distance away lie wrecked chariots, strange, broken weapons. He walks, for how long he cannot tell, and comes to where a summoned god stands alongside the road. Strange armor, stranger runes - and the mark of women's magic. "Do I know you?" Tarquinus asks. The god hisses but makes no other reply. "You'd better stand guard, then," Tarquinus advises. "If the northmen behind me pay you homage, you should know they belong to some insane barber's cult. Might want to speak to them about that." A man in a brown robe, evidently an acolyte, approaches, but Tarquinus simply shoves him aside. "Go light a fire," Tarquinus tells the man, jerking his head at the god by the road. "He'll be wanting the smoke of a sacrifice, soon."
Further along, the road dead-ends into another. An all-too-familiar pentacle hangs over the gateway at the road's end, and agonized wails and moans ring faintly in his ears as though from a great distance. He reaches up, but a voice booms, "This way is closed to you, mortal. Only gods may pass."
Tarquinus pauses, his hand in the air, and slowly starts to laugh.
"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? For me to be a god, for me to be as confined as you are? This is not your world, Samael," he says to the gate. "Do they believe you? Do they know the Sign keeps you in, and not them out?"
He glares silently at the gate. After a pause, he says, "Get your lackey - the crawling clown - master-of-a-thousand-guises-and-interesting-in-none-of-them - to tell your lies, then. It is, as we both know, the only thing he does with any competence. And as for you, well, I admit I thought you'd finished me when you tricked Arthur into striking me down with the Axis of Woe." He spreads his arms, still clutching the green stone in his left hand. "Well - here I am." His face breaks into a nasty smile. "I do hope you've forced yourself on some hapless mortal woman, as is your habit, so I can relieve the cosmos of the embarrassment of another of your progeny. You long to be what you are not, Abnormal One... and you never will be."
He decides to take the right-hand path away from the gate, chuckling as he goes.

Tarquinus stands at the crossroads, frowning. He has no dial, but the shadows of the nearby copse of trees have not moved.
'The flow of time is stopped, or the earth of this place does not turn,' he mutters, squinting at the sun and flicking a bead of sweat from the tip of his nose. He sees a glittering object in the road ahead of him. After standing - for how long he knows not, whether moments or hours - he resolves to approach it.
He glances at his hands in wonder as he walks, notes the thick muscle of his forearms. 'Flesh restored, and youth, with it. Or so it seems. If this is a trick,' he raises his voice, scowling upward at the cloudless sky, 'you will pay for it, Shaper. You know me.'
The glittering object is a large, cut and polished stone with many facets, green and translucent, possibly a thing of great value. 'Surely not an emerald.' As he gazes into it, he remembers... a magic box of wood... confinement... darkness... a painted fool... a girl, much like his own daughter, so many centuries dead, and like her a ghost. A murder. He tosses the stone up a short distance and catches it, and then begins to stride down the road.
Someone with a cane is hobbling toward him, disturbing a whisper of dust: an old woman, bent, tattooed, a shawl covering her head. She smiles at him, looking surprised at his scarlet kilt, his sandals, his bare chest, his massive beard, his crown of velvet, his earrings of gold. 'Another visitor,' she says in a quavering voice. Extending a hand she adds, 'Let me say your sooth.'
Tarquinus shifts the stone to his left hand and holds out his right. The crone squints, smiling, at his palm... and suddenly her face falls even as she drops his hand.
'What - what are you?' she gasps, starting to back away. Tarquinus moves swiftly and cracks her head with the stone. She collapses, trembling a moment, and is still. He squats beside her, dipping his right index finger into the old woman's blood, and traces a mystic symbol upon the shocked features of her face, frozen forever in death.
'Never ask that question,' he growls. Raising his face skyward once more, he adds, 'And here, whatever gods rule this place, is your sacrifice. Tempt me not. I have fought against Crystalman, old Achamoth Himself, I have witnessed the unsheathing of the Axis of Woe, and I have contended even against the Archons. All things must end, do you hear me?'
He rises, whipping off his kilt and crown, wiping his hands clean, and casts the garments into the dry grass by the side of the road. He continues down the path, naked but for his earrings and sandals, carrying the green stone in his left hand and eyeing the unmoving sun suspiciously as he goes.

I'm not sure if this is the right place to post my story but geographically it's the closest place
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Mine is the tale of an island.... Sharpwind island.... a small island south west of Golemus Golemicarum

It is basically a huge rock shaped like a sphere and filled with caverns, a hard place that the wind hits all day and numerous whirlwinds constantly appear across it's coast.

There are legends that the God of wind cursed this island, to be tormented forever by the winds... It is said that the caverns are winding endlessly like a huge maze, in the center of which lies, among other things, a nest of Reanaers* (commonly known as Windemons)... and all these to protect something, something long lost and forgotten...

I don't really recall how I ended up there...A bunch of fishermen found me there living from the insects and the rats deep within the caverns.... They were astonished anyone could manage to live there and they named me after the island

It took me 3 years to come to my senses thanks to the fishermen and a wise man that took me under his protection. He came to visit me every week cause I refused to leave the island and teached me things about the great principles and the coming of the Angiens... the Gods, the Demons, the Salvation as he put it

He insisted that there was a prophecy... and my coming was fortold ... What role I would play ? He could not see "Time unfolds in numerous ways my son, he said, and you are but an infant, a tiny thread in the masterpiece this world is, a drop of water in the sea.... but sometimes it takes just that to flip the patterns or end the balance...

Last month I left my island and sadly still... have no recollection of who I really am nor have I found my place and role in the world, but this is another tale, a tale that is just unfolding....

For now just call me Sharpwind
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The pilgrimage to the Angien Shrine and the legend of Xalazia

After my journey from Sharpwind island to Golemus Golemicarum and to No Man's Land I heared the rumors everywhere I passed through "The egg hatched, the Angiens are here"

From every face and every word I heard I finally knew it was true and I knew I had to see for my self.
So I reached the land of Marind Bell and found the Angien Shrine on a remote island, and after seeing that noble and fragile creature I finally knew...

The Angien unlocked my memory somehow and I remembered everything...
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I come from a land far beyond Golemus Golemicarum and Sharpwind island a land called Xalazia where my people worship Reanaers* (Windemons) and Angiens and pray to the God of Wind.
Xalazia was completely annihilated from an army of undead creatures and the handful of us Xalazians that remain are living underground and starving.
I was the last knight of Xalazia and as such I was given a quest from our King, a quest to find the Reanaers and the Angiens so that we could destroy the foul beasts that are ravaging our lands before it is too late...

But ... I FAILED .... The ship wrecked on the numerous whirlwinds of Sharpwind island and my crew drowned... I lost my memory when I hit my head on a rock during the shipwreck.... and spend more than 5 years on that cursed island without being able to remember who I am... I lost my mind and my reason and became like a beast, a mad man walking around the caverns, mumbling nonsense, eating rats, insects and fish to stay alive and having terrible nightmares every single night...

There is probably no one alive in Xalazia anymore... but still ... I have to try... I have to get stronger and try to complete my quest... For Xalazia, I have nothing else left...

My real name is not important anymore... Now I have a purpose... and I won't forget it ever again

I'm Sharpwind the last Knight of Xalazia
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*Reanaers (commonly known as Windemons)
are wise and mighty creatures, and they are both feared and respected for their wit and ferocity in battle. They are the children of the God of wind, his messengers and the protectors of all secrets. They usually speak in riddles, observe everything but have no interest in the mortal world

Very few people had the honor of ever seeing a Reanaer so stories differ about their appearance.
In some stories they are described like small whirlwinds moving with incredible speed and tossing electric sparks as they spin,
in other stories they are half whirlwind half demon, black eyed, emitting a mysterious silver light from their bodies and tossing lightning bolts burning opponents to the ground...

There are even some legends that elder Reanaer have the ability to open a vortex to travel through space

Whatever the case may be Reanaers existence is confirmed by numerous myths and legends but not by actual facts, so some scholars are skeptical about them