Death's Door's V.2

I had this odd idea for a branch of mythology and then rather promptly forgot about it some how. No idea how. So, I thought I'd re-jigger it to see what I can do to make it a little more....malicious, perhaps. That's something interesting, I thought.

Tell me what you think?


A lone and powerful sorcerer sits upon a mountain top, with little but his studies into magic and his telescope to occupy his twilight years. He spends his time exploring magic as a whole, attempting to understand where it comes from and the limits of it's abilities. He attempts to explore the ravines of the mana and plot the rapids within the seemingly endless supply of journals he keeps. His lair is nothing but a library. A place from where he can observe the world through the glass, watching the activity below with all the interest of an ant farm.

The story here gets choppy as retelling of the same tale tends to do. Some say that he lived long enough so observe an entire generation of ponies in the village below pass on, baffled by how their presence was swept away by all but their families and closest friends. Others tell of attacks on the village from a large range of hostile creatures, even snails if your not looking to take things seriously. Where the tales begin to over lap again was when the Sorcerer refused to believe that they could leave such a temporary and fragile mark on this world. Those that remember that pony would surely vanish as well, with time.

It seemed cruel that there wasn't something else that recorded such an existence as a life.

So, The Sorcerer searches through his notes and experiments with the intention of finding anyway way that life might be recorded by nature and magic. He found nothing.

He was disheartened and now beginning to feel his own strength ebb away. If there was no mechanism for recording such a thing as a life, then he would create it.

The Sorcerer puts his remaining years into the research and completion of a titanic library. The mountain top currently has been removed, placed instead in the only place where the telescope could see everything: outside of everything, including time. The complicated, ocular device feeds its data into books that are constantly writing themselves as they sit on the shelves, scratching away to engrave another lifetime within the pages. Strange, clockwork librarians roam the still active halls to fetch and carry books to where they are intended to be. The Library of Life hasn't ended it's ceaseless recording for generations. If you live in Equestria, you have every action, thought, dream, desire and spoken word recorded in third-person narrative.

Now, what could you possibly do with such information?

Apparently, you appoint yourself judge of the entirety of life.

Having this information just sitting around, you would also ready it wouldn't you? Surely, you would! All that documented prose that links exactly to the real life thoughts, hopes, dreams and knowledge and actions of every single pony down on the land. You'd start reading these biographies, unedited and complete in every detail.

The Sorcerer flicks through these books, becoming more and more engrossed with these lives. He is uplifted with these lives: children born, charitable works, spreading happiness.

Then there's those that, in his opinion, wastes their lives. A rich pony loafing around, a criminal sneaking out of bedrooms clutching jewels, an old miser shouting at a mother for getting in his way. That infuriated the Sorcerer. Cut off from the world, he couldn't intervene. He had no power. He had no way of helping these ponies.

Lastly, there were those that had been dealt a bad hand by life. The poor, the homeless. The bullied, the sick and the lame. People that have struggled on despite their handicap. Their plight touches him deeply but he also was cut off from any means of aid. He couldn't help them either, except to make sure they were never lost to time.

This drove him nuts to think that he knew of all this injustice and misery in the world, but couldn't do anything about it. He couldn't alter these fates or interfere with these events. All he could do was document and watch these lives fizzle out.

And he did. For all of twelve days of coming to the conclusion that this little venture into preservation had started to take it's toll on him, mentally.

He stared work on a new machine and a new direction for his machines. He would judge the whole of life using these self-writing volumes, judging those that he deemed worthy of a new machine.

The machine had two huge cylinders of hundreds of tiny writing heads on small mechanical arms all hung out the bottom like a metal squid. These two devices hang from the machine over two pedestals like sleeves. The bulk of the machine has a large grill, like a gaping mouth that holds a hellish glow that spills out onto the floor. Large gears mesh and whir behind the brushed bronze panels.It stands towards the ceiling, with a seat for the Judge to address the accused.

The machine replaces the life of one individual with that of another by rewriting the books of each of the accused. The Sorcerer looked to replacing the lives of those he deemed unworthy of their lives with those whom he felt had been given an unfair life.

He managed two of these swaps before he passed away in his sleep. The library carried on, recording and adding to it's volumes.

And now, it's going to be used on you if your not careful...

 

Fantastic but would you join it?

 

Its an interest check, there isn't one yet.

 

Sweeet. Any others?

 

Then he'll have a good idea whats going on.

 

The above typo is fixed. I've also changed the name to something more appropriate and had a problem with the poll...

OOC is here: Here