Nine Scythes

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Hydrolisk
Keeper of the Keys
Posts: 408
Joined: Mon Feb 25, 2008 2:25 am
Location: Canada

Nine Scythes

Post by Hydrolisk » Sat Aug 08, 2009 4:56 pm

I've already posted this elsewhere. Something I came up with after reading a lot of Norse mythology.

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In a different age so distant in the future yet so long ago, a little old farm stood in a field of wheat. A farmer owned the vast field of wheat, and had nine scythes too. But besides his simple clothing, his home and its furnishings, and his nine scythes, he had a great wealth that he knew not how to spend. This wealth he had was accumulated through the sale of his wheat.
He had the fortune of having a perfect harvest every year from his great fields of wheat because of his scythes. The scythes were said to be enchanted by the folk of the nearest (yet still quite far) village, for the scythes would work on the golden fields of wheat by themselves, doing everything from planting seeds to tilling soil to watering the plants. They did that all themselves, day and night without pause until there was nothing left to do except wait once winter had come.
A travelling warlock, who kept his occupation and identity secret by pretending to be a magical merchant, passed through the village nearest to the farm of the nine enchanted scythes one day around the time of harvest. All of the folk in the village talked about how the scythes were enchanted, wondering and guessing as to how the farmer who owned them had enchanted the scythes to do such work relentlessly and with skill. This topic so greatly interested the warlock pretender that he inquired several of the perusers of his own magical wares about the topic of the scythes. Quickly, the warlock learned about the farmer who owned a great treasure of wealth and nine enchanted scythes, and where his farm was.
The warlock pretender closed his shop early that day to go to meet the farmer.

When the travelling warlock came at last to the farm of the farmer who owned a great treasure of wealth and nine enchanted scythes, he saw with his own eyes nine scythes hovering in the air in the fields of wheat surrounding the farm. They did appear to be enchanted as the villagers had said, for they did all sorts of work that no normal scythe could do.
The warlock decided that he would like to own such scythes so that he could settle down on farmland and be allowed to continue his mysterious work in peace. He pretended to be a merchant of magical wares and he knocked on the door of the farm, calling out, "Hello? Is anybody there?" Some time passed but still there was no answer. The warlock pretender knocked again on the door of the farm, shouting out, "Hello? Is anybody at home?" More time passed than before and yet still there was no answer. The warlock let his anger become manifest and he grew wroth, and threatened, "If nobody shall answer me soon, I shall burn the fields of wheat, disenchant the scythes, and blast the farm into annihilation!" At this, the door was opened by a little, old man apprehensively.
"Who is it that offers such a reprieve from the sounds of the work of my nine scythes?" asked the little, old man.
"It is I," said the warlock pretender. "What beleaguers you so, little, old man?" he asked, feeling pity for the old man, though still wary lest the old man should be actually a demon in disguise.
"Those accursed nine scythes are what plagues me day and night! They never stop working, and the sounds of their work drive me mad! And whenever I think I have become comfortable with the sounds of their work, I begin to hear them cry as if they were thralls being lashed at by a cruel master," answered the old man.
The warlock thought for a moment, and said, "If you would give me some wine and a portion of the treasure I have heard that you own, then I shall try to relieve you of the nine scythes."
"I will give you some wine and even a portion of the treasure that I own, for it is true that I have a wealth because of the scythes, but I shall only give to you a portion of my treasure after you have relieved me of the scythes. If you do not succeed, merchant, then you must depart without any of my treasure," said the old man.
The warlock pretender agreed to the old man's conditions and then had a drink of wine before settling himself in the fields of wheat near his cart. He looked over his many artifacts and pored over his numerous tomes and books of magic, searching for items of disenchantment.
Eventually, by the time of evening, he had gathered a diminutive figurine of a woman made of gold and clothed in shining jewels; a square, golden frame with runes of power etched into its outer edge; and a scroll whose verses that were written upon it were verses of power. The warlock brought these things to where the scythes hovered idly, close together. He laid the golden frame flat on the ground and threw the figurine into the centre of the frame onto the ground, and it broke into five pieces as easily as if it were made of glass. All of the fragments of the figurine fell onto the ground as if it were guided by a hand of wind, for they arranged themselves into five points set perfectly apart from one another, creating the five points of a pentagon inside the golden frame. The warlock read aloud the runes of power and white light traced a pentagram between the five golden fragments, as well as the runes of power on the outer edge of the frame. The overwhelming magic emanating forth from the pentagram enveloped the warlock and the nine scythes, and the field was lit as bright as if it were in the middle of the day of the summer solstice, but the field was lit brighter than even that.
The light slowly dissipated at first, but then the speed at which the darkness was restored to the world accelerated. When the warlock at last could see the world again without the light blinding his vision, he saw that the nine scythes were still hovering as before, though now the warlock could hear the sobbing of several young boys coming from the scythes. It was then that the warlock realized that the scythes were not enchanted, but were being held by spirits. Immediately, the warlock gathered the golden figurine which had restored itself to its unbroken form, the golden frame, and the scroll of runes of power, and he ran back to his cart to put them away. He then returned to where the nine scythes floated, but with a huge tome bound by iron rings in his hands.
The warlock opened fastidiously the tome, for its leaves were fragile despite the hard cover and iron binds, and he flipped through some of the pages to find the incantations of spirits. He found the incantations, and he recited them so that he could commune with the spirits on their own plane of existence. When he had finished reciting them, the world became shades of grey and felt ephemeral, as if the gentlest breeze of wing would shatter the brittle spirit plane. Now, he could see that the nine scythes were wielded each by a young boy, each crying lightly, but the manner by which they stood, bent and broken, gave the impression that their tears were of anger and pain.
The warlock asked, "Who are you nine boys, and why do you wield the scythes, and why do you weep thus?"
The oldest of the nine answered, "We are the sons of the farmer who lives nearby, and we wield these scythes to do work for him in order to make him happy, and we cry because our work was never paid for in food, water, or even in kindness. We cry in anger, for he shall never pay us with anything. We have already worked twelve years for him, and never does he appreciate our efforts. When at last we had gathered in front of him one summer day and asked him for some form of payment, even if it were only kindness, he cursed all of us and killed us the following night."
The warlock asked, "What would appease your souls then?"
The youngest of the nine answered, "If we should murder our father, but let him see that it were us, his unpaid sons, that murdered him, then our souls would be appeased. Alas, we spirits cannot be seen by his mortal eyes."
The warlock thought for a moment, and he asked, "If your souls should be appeased by my aid, for I have the power to make you appear in his mortal eyes, then would you be willing to serve me until I release you?"
The boy who was younger than four of his brothers and older than four of his brothers replied, "If we have your aid in appeasing our souls, than we will serve you until you release us, as long as you pay us in kindness and small favours."
"Then so shall it be," declared the warlock. "However, first, I must know where your bodies have been buried."
The boy who was younger than four of his brothers and older than four of his brothers said, "Where each of us stand now, our bodies are, underneath a shallow layer of dirt."
The warlock nodded and recited the incantation to return him to the mortal plane. He spoke runes of power into the air, and commanded the dirt above the scythes to be removed. The soil lifted away and hovered above each skeleton that was revealed. The warlock flipped through his tome and then recited an incantation of binding and light, returning each of the spirits to its rightful remains and causing them to appear as if they were alive once more, although the boys appeared pale and translucent. They looked at each other and rejoiced, for now they would be seen when they would commit patricide and avenge themselves.
They stopped weeping and began to bay like wolves. The ghostly boys ran to the farm where their father lived. Upon seeing his own sons return from the dead, the father screamed in fear and hid himself, hoping to avoid their inevitable wrath. The youngest of the boys found his father underneath a loose floorboard and beheaded him with his scythe.
Then, the warlock left the farm with nine new servants. They enlarged the cart with pieces of wood torn from the farm, and they set off into the world.

In the aftermath, the warlock gained nine faithful servants that he treated like his own sons. They served him with loyalty and because they were spirits, they were able to get some things done much easier than if they were bound to mortal bodies. But sometimes, the warlock would bind the spirits to their old skeletons, and they would complete errands that required a physical presence.
The farm and the fields of wheat surrounding it were (by the nine boys' request) razed to the ground. The nearest village wondered as to what had happened to the farm, for some of the villagers had seen the blaze's glow on the horizon. They feared that the merchant of magical wares was a warlock, and they began to pray day and night for mercy.
The warlock and the nine boys journeyed north though, far away from the village. They came to the primary hideout of the warlock and helped him to move to the south-east, where they could grow rice. The warlock and his nine boys settled down and raised a farm, living off of rice, cabbage, the eggs of chickens, and sometimes chicken (the boys, because they were spirits, never actually ate, but instead, the warlock prepared small meals for them and burnt sticks of incense that were stuck in the rice). Three years after the death of the nine boys' father, the warlock officially became the nine boys' foster father (he simply asked and the boys accepted -- the nearest village was rather far away, just like the old farm and village from where the nine boys came from).
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