Of Ash and Ruin and other Artes

Compilations of Fonic techs

Grave, Icicle Rain, Explosion, Thunder blade,


A theory on fonons.

There is, in the soul, a place. A timeless span locked in the seasons of thought, crafted from the worn and wearying hand of experience.

From this, so said the pagans, mana is born. From mana we can reach and touch the very echoes of existence. That elusive stuff, known as fonons. As all is made of sound, all is connected, thus all can be conceived only imagination is that final barrier.

So goes the theory.

Fastidiously scrubbed and scraped of all non Lorian sentiment. Couched in a gentleman's language, it's vulgarities expelled, it's contradictions corrected, this idea is left to linger. And of it, there is that damning allusion that has something of free will, a ghost of odd ethos, and thus it is peddled to the select few. The elite. Read by fanatics, tweaked till it was twisted beyond convolution, the thoughts were shattered, splintered remnants devoid of original intent. Thus was the ruin considered, and amongst the ruins what had once been coherent enlightened thought had deranged into the scribbling of the mad.

Thus, it was marked, and promptly forgotten. The fragments were sent to gently mold in a forgotten corner of some back wash cloister's library.

Yet, though forsaken and marked blackest blasphemy by all… it still remains. That span less place, weathered by thought, shaped by experience, where the stuff of self, and legends, and soul, congeals.

And bides.