Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Tale of Truth ❯ One-Shot
[ A - All Readers ]
By: MetalheroD 
The Endless of Story is going to, well, tell you a story.
Miscellaneous: Original Stories Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural | Type: Vignette | Uploaded On: 03.19.2011 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.4K | Visits: 450 | Status: Completed
The Endless of Story is going to, well, tell you a story.
Miscellaneous: Original Stories Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Supernatural | Type: Vignette | Uploaded On: 03.19.2011 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.4K | Visits: 450 | Status: Completed
A Tale of Truth
A lone man stands on a shadowy stage. Yet even through the shadows, he shines. His face is hidden behind the mask of his role, a black leather mask with the beak of a bird, rimmed with gold. He is garbed in clothes and bearing accessories befitting his role as the teller of tales, the keeper of stories, the Maestro of mysteries. His garb is that a man out of time, white tunic with sleeves bearing frills, under a vest, with a pair of tights, and curved toed boots. The colors of the outfit change of their own accord. In one hand he holds a cane, capped by a skull whose eyes glow a rainbow of colors, in the other, a book, pages never ending, holding all the tales that will ever be told. He's perched atop a tomb stone, facing his audience. Raising his eyes, he speaks, in a voice that speaks of much experience at the telling of tales.
"Good evening, my friends. You do not know me, and yet every one of you knows my work. I have gone by many names and titles in my life. Some of you know me as Morpheus, some as Dream of the Endless. But tonight, you may call me Story and I will be your Maestro for the evening. The tale I will tell is one I have not told in a long time, and yet, it is not one soon to be forgotten. Lend me your ears, my friends and the tale will commence."
He stands from his perch, tall and lean, an otherworldly glow around him. As soon as his touch leaves the stone, it is gone, returned to the pure story-stuff from which it was spawned. Then as if the curtain had risen, the stage is suddenly filled with people dressed in various manners of dress, from that of a god, to that of the lowly downtrodden peasant. The masked man walks past some, pointing to them as he narrates. They pay him no mind, his existence totally ignored, as they go about their various businesses.
"The Last son of a doomed world, sent down the river in a basket? The man clothed in the night, trained to perfection to avenge some wrong of the past? The innocent granted great power for their purity? The savior from beyond who comes to bring light and hope to troubled times? These are all tales told before. Sometimes well, sometimes poorly, sometimes for good, and sometimes for ill. At their heart, though, is a message, something the weaver of that tale helps will do some good. Through them all runs a stream of the truth, whether the story in question is of an actual event, or an outright fabrication. And in this stream of truth, there lies the spark of magic."
And like the stone before them, the people on the stage vanish, disappearing back into the realm of story from which they were drawn. The man once more stands alone, in the dark, but he is not scared. He stands tall and proud, setting aside his book, replacing it with a top hat. As he speaks, he goes through a stage illusionist's bag of tricks, pulling rabbits, decks of cards and the like from the hat
"Not the illusions one would see upon a stage, which have co-opted the word magic. The magic I speak of is of a kind long lost to the world." Story casts aside the hat, acting out the words he speaks, the events of which he tells. "What once was one world, is now two, split asunder by a race whose spark drives them on towards greater feats, both for good and for ill. Once the power of magic was as real to a man as the power of an atom bomb. Gods and spirits walked among men, heroes and dragons fought great wars. But one day, that changed. Magic was losing its potency as the power of Science grew. The leaders of the remaining creatures of magic met and talked, argued and debated, about what could be done to save their dying races. The answer came from a mage of great power, known to the world today as Merlin. He proposed what would become known to the Races of Magic as the Great Split. Taking a bit of the dwindling power from what few creatures of magic remained, he fashioned the World of Magic, Separate, and yet connected to the World of Man, the World of Science, and with that, the spark of magic was removed from the world. "
As he speaks of Merlin, Story looks sad, looking down at the audience, as if some terrible, uncorrectable error has occurred. As he speaks of The Great Split, the stage is divided in two by a wall of hazy, white light. On one side, He stands along with six other figures, another man standing beside him, at the front of the crowd. This man is tall, and strong, in every way the perfect image of a hero, though his features are obscured by shadow. He moves with a grace unusual for a man of his build, and when he moves, a purple spotlight is fixed upon him. On the other side of the wall stands a woman, dressed in red, alone. A red cocktail dress covers her form and red high heels grace her slender feet. She moves just as gracefully as her purple counterpart, and her features are obscured by the same hazy light that divides them. Story moves from beside the six figures to stand atop the wall, where he continues narrating, colored light showing each figure as he speaks of them
"While the World of Science created new and better ways to kill people, the World of Magic was sorting out how to govern the races that lived inside it. The mage who had suggested The Great Split was made the highest authority in the land, and his descendants were held in high regard. Then the Seven Houses were made, one for each color of the visible human spectrum. The Dragons were declared the Indigo house, the Defenders of the Realm from any who would invade. The various magic beasts were given the Violet House, that of the Builders; the ones who made sure everyone had a roof over their heads and enough to eat. The Yellow House was that of the gods, former divine beings of great power who acted as the Judges of the Realm of Magic, punishing those who committed crimes. Elves, Gnomes, Pixies, Red Caps, Will o' the wisps, the Fair Folk, they became the Green House, the Keepers of Tales; They kept the stories of old alive, and sang and performed for those of the other houses. The ghosts, shadows, shade became the Blue House, the Seers of the realm. They held oaths and vows, and directed the Yellow House to any who would go back on their word. The creatures made by man, such as the Golem and Frakenstein's Monster were the Orange House, the Protectors. They made sure that all were safe in the realm of magic, from those threats that didn't fall under the Indigo or Blue houses. And last, but absolutely not least, was the Red House. This was the house of the Nightmares, the dark terrors that keep you up at night, the monsters that sprang forth from Pandora's Box. While they were mostly kept to themselves, it was their task to moniter the World of Science, for they were the only ones who could enter it."
Story leaps off the wall, landing on his feet. "It is in this place of magic and wonder that our story starts. Enjoy the show that is to come, my friends, and remember that the magic of Story flows through you too." And with those parting words, the brightly garbed man is gone, as is the stage and everything on it.
A lone man stands on a shadowy stage. Yet even through the shadows, he shines. His face is hidden behind the mask of his role, a black leather mask with the beak of a bird, rimmed with gold. He is garbed in clothes and bearing accessories befitting his role as the teller of tales, the keeper of stories, the Maestro of mysteries. His garb is that a man out of time, white tunic with sleeves bearing frills, under a vest, with a pair of tights, and curved toed boots. The colors of the outfit change of their own accord. In one hand he holds a cane, capped by a skull whose eyes glow a rainbow of colors, in the other, a book, pages never ending, holding all the tales that will ever be told. He's perched atop a tomb stone, facing his audience. Raising his eyes, he speaks, in a voice that speaks of much experience at the telling of tales.
"Good evening, my friends. You do not know me, and yet every one of you knows my work. I have gone by many names and titles in my life. Some of you know me as Morpheus, some as Dream of the Endless. But tonight, you may call me Story and I will be your Maestro for the evening. The tale I will tell is one I have not told in a long time, and yet, it is not one soon to be forgotten. Lend me your ears, my friends and the tale will commence."
He stands from his perch, tall and lean, an otherworldly glow around him. As soon as his touch leaves the stone, it is gone, returned to the pure story-stuff from which it was spawned. Then as if the curtain had risen, the stage is suddenly filled with people dressed in various manners of dress, from that of a god, to that of the lowly downtrodden peasant. The masked man walks past some, pointing to them as he narrates. They pay him no mind, his existence totally ignored, as they go about their various businesses.
"The Last son of a doomed world, sent down the river in a basket? The man clothed in the night, trained to perfection to avenge some wrong of the past? The innocent granted great power for their purity? The savior from beyond who comes to bring light and hope to troubled times? These are all tales told before. Sometimes well, sometimes poorly, sometimes for good, and sometimes for ill. At their heart, though, is a message, something the weaver of that tale helps will do some good. Through them all runs a stream of the truth, whether the story in question is of an actual event, or an outright fabrication. And in this stream of truth, there lies the spark of magic."
And like the stone before them, the people on the stage vanish, disappearing back into the realm of story from which they were drawn. The man once more stands alone, in the dark, but he is not scared. He stands tall and proud, setting aside his book, replacing it with a top hat. As he speaks, he goes through a stage illusionist's bag of tricks, pulling rabbits, decks of cards and the like from the hat
"Not the illusions one would see upon a stage, which have co-opted the word magic. The magic I speak of is of a kind long lost to the world." Story casts aside the hat, acting out the words he speaks, the events of which he tells. "What once was one world, is now two, split asunder by a race whose spark drives them on towards greater feats, both for good and for ill. Once the power of magic was as real to a man as the power of an atom bomb. Gods and spirits walked among men, heroes and dragons fought great wars. But one day, that changed. Magic was losing its potency as the power of Science grew. The leaders of the remaining creatures of magic met and talked, argued and debated, about what could be done to save their dying races. The answer came from a mage of great power, known to the world today as Merlin. He proposed what would become known to the Races of Magic as the Great Split. Taking a bit of the dwindling power from what few creatures of magic remained, he fashioned the World of Magic, Separate, and yet connected to the World of Man, the World of Science, and with that, the spark of magic was removed from the world. "
As he speaks of Merlin, Story looks sad, looking down at the audience, as if some terrible, uncorrectable error has occurred. As he speaks of The Great Split, the stage is divided in two by a wall of hazy, white light. On one side, He stands along with six other figures, another man standing beside him, at the front of the crowd. This man is tall, and strong, in every way the perfect image of a hero, though his features are obscured by shadow. He moves with a grace unusual for a man of his build, and when he moves, a purple spotlight is fixed upon him. On the other side of the wall stands a woman, dressed in red, alone. A red cocktail dress covers her form and red high heels grace her slender feet. She moves just as gracefully as her purple counterpart, and her features are obscured by the same hazy light that divides them. Story moves from beside the six figures to stand atop the wall, where he continues narrating, colored light showing each figure as he speaks of them
"While the World of Science created new and better ways to kill people, the World of Magic was sorting out how to govern the races that lived inside it. The mage who had suggested The Great Split was made the highest authority in the land, and his descendants were held in high regard. Then the Seven Houses were made, one for each color of the visible human spectrum. The Dragons were declared the Indigo house, the Defenders of the Realm from any who would invade. The various magic beasts were given the Violet House, that of the Builders; the ones who made sure everyone had a roof over their heads and enough to eat. The Yellow House was that of the gods, former divine beings of great power who acted as the Judges of the Realm of Magic, punishing those who committed crimes. Elves, Gnomes, Pixies, Red Caps, Will o' the wisps, the Fair Folk, they became the Green House, the Keepers of Tales; They kept the stories of old alive, and sang and performed for those of the other houses. The ghosts, shadows, shade became the Blue House, the Seers of the realm. They held oaths and vows, and directed the Yellow House to any who would go back on their word. The creatures made by man, such as the Golem and Frakenstein's Monster were the Orange House, the Protectors. They made sure that all were safe in the realm of magic, from those threats that didn't fall under the Indigo or Blue houses. And last, but absolutely not least, was the Red House. This was the house of the Nightmares, the dark terrors that keep you up at night, the monsters that sprang forth from Pandora's Box. While they were mostly kept to themselves, it was their task to moniter the World of Science, for they were the only ones who could enter it."
Story leaps off the wall, landing on his feet. "It is in this place of magic and wonder that our story starts. Enjoy the show that is to come, my friends, and remember that the magic of Story flows through you too." And with those parting words, the brightly garbed man is gone, as is the stage and everything on it.