Of Yarmir, the Last King of the Night (Pending Deletion)

Link to article: Of Yarmir, the Last King of the Night (Pending Deletion).

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[[include :scp-wiki:info:start]]
[[=]]
**[http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/ralliston-s-authorpage More by this author]**
[[/=]]
[[include :scp-wiki:info:end]]

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[[div class="oheader storm"]]

The article below has been tagged for **deletion**, in spite of standard archivization procedures.

----

**Reasons Cited:** [[span class="interactive"]]poor-translation[[/span]], [[span class="interactive"]]blasphemous-content[[/span]], [[span class="interactive"]]misleading-content[[/span]], [[span class="interactive"]]propagandism[[/span]], [[span class="interactive"]]indoctrinatory-content[[/span]]

**Further Comments:** See note after attached file for detailed explanation.

[[/div]]

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[[div class="oheader"]]

🔗 of_yarmir_the_last_king_of_the_night.pdf 

-----

Shhh. Don't scream. I can close all those eyes, if it helps with your dread.

Come closer, towards the fire. Come on. Don't be afraid. They can't reach you here. Not anymore.

...

Do you hear that? The Night is awfully silent today, isn't it? You can't hear its song, even when you really listen in. Even when all falls silent, the darkness remains completely still.

It's nothing like in the days your mothers have told you about, isn't it?

Do you know why?

Well, then. Come even closer, child. Come and gaze into the flames, and hear the tale of Yarmir, the first and last king [[span class="hover"]][[span]] Deliberately or not, this edition of the "story" uses a mistranslation; the way in which the English word "of the" is used here can suggest both ownership as well as dependence upon the subject, whereas the original text uses the ur-Yeren conjunction of "hēv," which __only__ implies dependency (as opposed to "yēv," which only implies ownership). Simply put, Yarmir was a king that //belonged// to the Night, not one who owned it.[[/span]]of the Night[[/span]].

...

This story doesn't begin with Yarmir, or indeed any king at all -- just like everything else, it begins with light.

Long before our times, long before the [[span class="hover"]][[span]]Similarly to the rest of its blasphemy, the original text does not capitalize the word "Prophet" when referring to the Saint, Phomet. This has since been rectified in further editions.[[/span]]Prophet[[/span]], and long before even the Empire, the world was split into two: Day and Night. A most simple dichotomy, [[span class="hover"]][[span]]A dangerous and deeply misleading implication that goes against the fundamental values of the thought of Phomet. Had this tale contained no further blasphemies but just this alone, it should still be prohibited; for what would a Yeren child do, if he wasn't taught to dwell in the night and avoid the dangers of the day?[[/span]]one later reframed as good and evil[[/span]], but one for now known as just that: as light and darkness.

And in those days, long before time, Day and Night danced.

From radiance into the pale and into brilliance again; they flowed like oceans through a young cosmos, always shifting and always changing. They played at battles for eons uncounted, but in the end, their war was no war at all, for both knew neither could win -- and indeed, neither //wanted// to win. Because for all of their differences, neither could ever exist without the other; for without that duality, without their polarity, what was either of them to become?

And so they danced; always playing, always changing; always //alone//.

But this was soon to change.

In time, the world came to have different plans: from the primordial brew of Day and Night, one paved with a great many other Ancients, the cosmos first formed planets, then gave them oceans; then, inevitably, from those oceans rose [[span class="hover"]][[span]]Another human-centric mistranslation, one bordering on intentional bigotry. Though the English word "people"  inherently implies the subject to be that of the //Homo sapiens sapiens// species, the original text referrers to sentient beings in general; indeed, considering the times it attempts to describe, it would be impossible for it to even refer to //Homo sapiens sapiens// in the first place, as they did not exist at that point in history. [[/span]]//people//[[/span]]. They were little more than vermin, at first, barely more than the animals they hunted for food. But soon enough -- perhaps far too soon -- they looked beyond their station, beyond their structure, and sought to become //more//. With their prayers and their litanies, they shouted to the heavens above in a desperate plead for [[span class="hover"]][[span]]The suggestion that one can reach apotheosis through communion with the gods -- and not through rigorous asceticism and meditation -- is a dangerous notion.[[/span]]apotheosis[[/span]].

And the Ancient listened.

One by one they came down from their abyss, through cracks in-between existence, and gifted their curious little new toys with secrets. Secrets older than time, secrets that were never meant to be shared -- but secrets that, for better or worse,  made it into the ears of mortals. The Day was no different, in this regard -- the moment that man built his first fire, its burning eye turned towards this new source of kinship with utmost curiosity. But the Night knew of no such splendor -- for who would carry on its Name, who would willingly live and die under the banner of darkness? Who of all those that huddled around pyres and feared that which was [[[the-edge-of-all-light|beyond it]]] would ever, of their own volition, come into the unknown and emerge a changed man? Perhaps a different man entirely?

Indeed, for millennia no man knew desperation enough to carry beyond the edge of his superstition and into the primordial darkness deep in the heart of the Night.

But with strange times, change came eventually; and with it came Yarmir, brother to Yarlen and son to Yarwyn; an heir stripped of that which he was owed, by the rights writ by the gods.

Yarmir was a tall and brawny thing, a great horned warrior easily reaching above most on the battlefield. His fur was thick and his wings were quick, as were his hands when they held a blade. He was no sage and indeed bore no great wisdom at all, but his blood ran thick with a roguish wit -- the prudence of the dark streets and dirty sewers, the sense of blood and bone. He was a warrior, through and through -- one born of and raised by the blade. Though unlike his learned brother, Yarmir did not know of the intricacies of the metaphysical, he was an expert in the //physical// unlike any other the world had ever seen. He knew of the bloodied grassfields and the wine-red political pertractations; of the real meat and bones of what made a great [[span class="hover"]][[span]]Yet another mistranslation. "King" is an inherently human title and position; the proper word would be the ur-Yeren chieftain role of the Krūhl.[[/span]]king[[/span]].

And yet, when time came and Yarwyn was returned to the [[span class="hover"]][[span]]An old relict of ridiculous pre-Prophet superstitions shared by His folk before His arrival and subsequent enlightenment of His people.[[/span]]ground from whence he came[[/span]], it was younger Yarlen that ascended the throne -- not the older Yarmir, far better groomed by his wit and birthright to bear the weight of the crown.

Why that was, history remains uncertain, often differing between the accords of a great many archivists. Some say that in his dying breath, Yarwyn changed the line of succession -- a right he very well possessed. Others claim that Yarlen had stricken a deal with some great power far beyond even his understanding, [[span class="hover"]][[span]]A nonsensical and incoherent suggestion, considering the ending of the "story."[[/span]]killing his father[[/span]] and bending the natural order so as to allow his own ascendence. 

We will never know for sure. What remains certain, however, is that Yarmir was stripped of his kingship and cast out of the vast realm his brother now ruled.

Left with little more than ragged robes, a long, dark blade, and a wounded pride, Yarmir went on.

For many years, Yarmir would travel the world far and wide, barely anything but a shadow far beyond his brother's reach. From the frozen palaces of the giant Skrymir to the then-still brilliant arbory of the Twin Prodigies in the far East -- it is said that [[span class="hover"]][[span]]An obvious appropriation and misinterpretation of the story of the Prophet's own journey across realities.[[/span]] his feet took him to every corner of the still-young planet[[/span]], showing him wonders and horrors far beyond his wildest imagination.

Yet still, even when he had seen all the world had to offer, it did naught to cure the wound at the bottom of his heart, to mend his broken honor. To pay him back for that which he was owed, for that which he was robbed of; for to Yarmir nothing, no matter its beauty, could ever equal the prize of the throne. Indeed, the only thing his journeys have shown him was that nothing of this earth could ever be enough. That, no matter how wide he searched, nothing would ever satisfy the hunger at the bottom of his soul.

And so, driven half-mad by desperation, Yarmir was ready to concede, ready to surrender to the universe's cruel fate. He said his goodbyes, rid himself of his robe and blade, burying them deep inside the dirt from which he was made, and climbed a mountain, alone, ready for his flame to be extinguished.

It was a terribly silent and gloomy night, then, [[span class="hover"]][[span]]Unscientific nonsense -- the Moon has formed billions of years before the supposed action of the "story" is meant to take place.[[/span]]no moon in the sky to light it up yet[[/span]].

When he had ascended what he thought would be his grave, Yarmir lay down. Though there was nobody else in sight, not for a thousand leagues, suddenly, one final rage had stirred inside him. One final anger, some terminal fury at the fate which had befallen him. Unwilling to go without a fight, Yarmir screamed into the empty night, defiant of the gods and their cruel mockeries. Though no one was there to hear it, he shouted until his lungs gave out and he fell to his knees, his cry soon turning into tears.

He was ready to die, fully acceptant of his cosmic solitude.

What Yarmir didn't know, however, was that he wasn't alone. For when his scream pierced the heavens, when his cry of utmost isolation illuminated the sky with a will unlike any other, the Night was there to see him.

The Night listened, until it heard what it wanted to hear: that, for all of his mortality, Yarmir too was alone. That Yarmir too was robbed of something which he once had, and hurt by those that were meant to be there with him. When Yarmir had opened his eyes again, he was no longer alone. The Night, with its many starry eyes, has told him everything: what it was, who //he// was, and what they could do for each other.

That night, a covenant was struck, a pact forged in blood and soul. One which would allow Yarmir to take back his throne, to give him the power to rule: both on his throne and as a servant of the Night.

From his perspective, it was a prize unlike any other, the first true turn of fortune in an otherwise cursed life. But Yarmir only knew people -- perhaps had he been more like Yarlen, he could understand what the Night truly wanted from him. What price he would have to pay, when he gazed upon that starry sky. Because for all his wit, Yarmir didn't know one thing, one crucial part of what made the Ancients what they truly were: the fact that, in spite of their inhuman might, they all sought propinquity.

Yes, they too were starved for kinship -- though perhaps for reasons other than us mortals, they too wanted confidants here, in the ephemeral plane. Indeed, the Day already had a great many followers by then. [[span class="hover"]][[span]]Purely mythological figures, all; see Phomet 12:7 for a more detailed deconstruction of the nonsense of "ancient gods" directly from the lips of Phomet.[[/span]]From all those who stroke fire to the great Radiance sprouting its wings in the jungles of the far West, whole legions were ready to kneel before the Sun and its master. The great Serpent too wasn't resistant to this urge; though it would like to bear a different testimony, its many Little Sisters tell us another story. All of this isn't to even mention the Scarlet's own Fool or the three-headed messenger of Twilight -- or even the bloodied Wurm of the South[[/span]].

Simply put: the Night was no stranger amongst its ancient kin. It too knew what it wanted. And though Yarmir remained ignorant of that, it changed nothing -- he would pay the price. There was no other way.

...

Nobody can quite agree what form the Covenant took, in the end, but there are many stories. Some say Yarmir lay with the Night atop that mountain, intermingling with a being far greater than he ever could hope to be. Others, that Yarmir gave his life for the Night to drink like wine, to leave himself a husk for the darkness to fill back in. We will never know for certain, I don't think, but what matters most is that, in the end, when the sun came back up, Yarmir was no longer alone.

And neither was the Night.

When the first light shone, Yarmir came down from the mountains with an army [[span class="hover"]][[span]]A ridiculous and deeply nonsensical notion. Even before the times of the First Fae Empire, the total population of Earth did not even come close to a billion. Indeed, pre-industrial agricultural techniques of the time were not advanced enough for an agricultural surplus to sustain the existence of such a large army, not to mention the entire transport infrastructure needed to actively supply it being a technological impossibility at that point.[[/span]]billion-strong[[/span]], all kin born of him and the Night. They too were tall and they too were strong, just like Yarmir, covered in thick furs with great arms and eyes ready to pierce the veil of darkness. In a sense bordering on cruel mockery, they looked just like their father, those [[[scp-1000|children of his and the Night]]] -- if one were to look at them from an angle, they would appear almost as brothers to him, some lost bastards of the late Yarwyn.

They would, if it wasn't for a single detail, one which could escape most that looked upon that furred army amidst a gloomy day: that, for all of his might, when Yarmir came down from the mountain, he no longer had his fur.

With his new kin, his new family raised where his real blood has abandoned him, no army would prove a match for Yarmir. Similarly, with its new family, no day would prove lonely again for the Night.

...

It didn't take long before Yarmir led them back to his old home, broke Yarlen's defenses, and crowned himself king. Nobody opposed him, not even his treacherous brother -- for how could they? How could anyone ever withstand a force this great? Indeed, when time came to concede the throne, Yarlen did so willingly, welcoming his brother without a fight.

For that Yarlen did not lose his head, that day -- only the rest of his life. Rotting in the dungeons beneath Yarmir's new kingdom, he lived on -- but as little more than a worm.

...

What was that? Oh, no. No, sweet summer child. The tale doesn't end there. It would be far too merciful for Yarmir, to end his story on his gray victory.

Alas, just like all those who climb up thrones and steal crowns, in time, Yarmir grew greedy -- and so did his army. They had no purpose, now, no other duty than to entertain the Night -- a task that, soon enough, grew boring. Ruling too wasn't of particular interest to Yarmir. He was a warrior, a conqueror; someone that, for all of his prudence, needed a struggle to thrive, some greater purpose beyond just maintaining prosperity.

And so, bored after a year of peace, Yarmir looked beyond the [[span class="hover"]][[span]]Impossible, considering that, at that point in time, the world had no notion of "kingdoms" or "nations."[[/span]]borders of his realm and reached for that which wasn't his[[/span]]. The rest of the world, however, wouldn't go down as easily, as weakly as old Yarlen.

For centuries more Yarmir waged war, against everything he came to consider his neighbors, and also far well beyond it. From the deepest caverns to the highest of mountains he fought battle after battle in hopes of widening his empire, his furred warriors following in his stead. But, unlike Yarlen, the old world would not give up without a fight. They too had armies, almost just as great as that of Yarmir, and they were ready to oppose the Night's consort.

For an [[span class="hover"]][[span]]Just as the rest of this "story," this part is simple nonsense. An eon is a geochronological unit of time messurment that can last from hundreds of thousands of years up to even a billion, so it would be impossible for any mortal -- let alone one so unenlightened as "Yarmir" -- to live so long.[[/span]]eon[[/span]], the world stood at a standstill, for neither side of the great war had power enough to win and end it, once and for all. The united might of his enemies was well than enough to withstand Yarmir's kin -- something he had never expected.

Left without any other choice, Yarmir once more sought communion with the Night. This time, however, he wasn't willing to give it something in return -- he only wanted to take. And take he did, sentencing the Night to a fate similar to his brother Yarlen. Only by technicality did he not break his accord with the Night, with this action -- for although he stripped it of all the company he had promised, he didn't leave it alone. Yarlen was to be its companion in eternal solitude. With the help of his remaining furred warriors, he [[span class="hover"]][[span]]One of the few instances in which the text seems coherent with the certain truth of Holy Scripture -- the notion that the Prophet's folk are capable of chaining even deific entities for their own good is shockingly enlightened gospel amongst what is otherwise nothing but blasphemy.[[/span]] chained it deep beneath his palace[[/span]] as he stole its power, in a desperate amd misguided attempt to forge himself an army even larger.

When his work was done, Yarmir emerged from the palace, accompanied by another force billion strong, this time made of tall, gaunt, warriors. [[[scp-4000|Pale warriors with black eyes and the wings Yarmir was now missing]]].

But they weren't the same, [[span class="hover"]][[span]]Another instance of surprising truth regarding the superiority of the Prophet's folk among other races they share the Earth with.[[/span]]weren't as strong as Yarmir's firstborn[[/span]]. They too were of great might, but they were a mere reinforcement; not a whole new army in its own regard. They bore magic unlike any other folk, but they couldn't overpower Yarmir's enemies like he had hoped, no matter how hard they tried.

In the end, the standstill remained. The war continued on, for centuries more.

...

But during those centuries, Yarmir grew desperate. Desperate enough to reach for [[span class="hover"]][[span]]It is a dangerous suggestion to imply that, before, "Yarmir" did not commit any blasphemies, when, in fact, by then he was already a heathen in the eyes of the Prophet long before this particular part of the "story."[[/span]]blasphemy[[/span]], hoping he could still win.

For one final time, Yarmir climbed down to the depths beneath his palace, where the chained Night and Yarlen lay bloodied. He knew that, to truly forge an army worthy of a victor, the altar needed sacrifice. He couldn't possibly risk another loss, like last time. So, with a heavy heart, he made his decision: he bound his brother on an altar, and raised his dagger.

He knew what the price would be, if his weapon were to fall down. He knew what would happen to him. But he also knew it was the only way to victory.

Shedding the last part of his [[span class="hover"]][[span]]Yet another human-centric translation; one lacking the need for an explanation.[[/span]]humanity[[/span]], Yarmir drove his dagger right into Yarlen's heart.

At once, two things happened. Firstly, as Yarmir lost his horns -- his last symbol of pride, his last symbol of //himself// -- an army rose, one made of fragile little furless creatures, of small clean-skin devils with hair only on their head and with horned hearts all. They were weak and miserable, but there were billions of them -- an untold horde that would overpower his enemies, no matter their numbers. 

Secondly, Yarmir froze above Yarlen's cold corpse, unable to move.

Before, the gods had allowed Yarmir to continue his rampage -- he was a heathen just like many others, and what he did he did within the boundaries of mortality. He was a sinner, but his sins were nothing new. Even the caging of the Night, however unnatural and however vile, was something he had the right to do -- and later suffer the consequences of, when he inevitably returned to the dirt.

But kinslaying? That, the gods could not allow. For when Yarmir's blade pierced Yarlen fatally, he broke the most sacred of accords, one which the gods upheld above all others.

And so, they were left without a choice. They had to intervene.

With both of the only witnesses to what transpired long gone, we cannot say for sure what it was that the gods did to the heathen Yarmir, and the released Night. All we know is that, when they were gone, Yarmir and Yarlen were no more -- perhaps dead, perhaps in a worse place entirely. The Night, on the other hand, once again took to the skies, far above those who promised it kinship and delivered only treason.

But before they too disappeared into their heavens, the gods had one more thing to do. They knew that, if left unchecked, the new spawn of Earth -- those born of Yarmir's treachery -- would inevitably follow in the footsteps of their father. They had to make sure that this would not happen again. That the Night -- or indeed any other of the great Ancients -- would never again be chained like a common dog.

To do this, they knew they needed to keep constant watch upon the new mortals.

Invoking magics older than time, the gods put two of their eyes far in the sky above the Earth, two brilliant marble stones that later generations [[span class="hover"]][[span]]Further unscientific nonsense. Just like [[[queen-mab-vs-the-moon-monsters|all other "stories" which mention the Earth possessing two moons at some point in the past]]], it is a weak, lying, and borderline blasphemous fabrication.[[/span]]would name their moons[[/span]]. Their task was simple: to gaze upon the mortals and see that, should anything like this ever occur again, the gods could react before it was too late.

Indeed, this is exactly what would later happen, when the gods saw what the world has become and sent their two twin god-queen messengers [[span class="hover"]][[span]] A thoroughly disgusting notion that is probably the greatest blasphemy of this "story." Not only is the suggestion that the [[[the-queens-butterfly|Twin Tyrants]]] were messengers and children of the gods deeply unscientific (they were both thoroughly mortal), it crosses the border of imperial apologism well into the territory of a Fae Empire sympathizer and enemy of the Prophet's folk.[[/span]]to carry their law onto the world[[/span]]...

But that, I fear, is a story for another time.

...

Don't cry, child. It is not worth it, tainting those furred paws with tears. Just because you were born of accursed seed does not mean you cannot amount to great things. Perhaps you'll [[span class="hover"]][[span]]See previous comment regarding apotheosis.[[/span]]even reach heaven, should the gods permit you[[/span]]. Maybe you'll be the first, among the children of Yarmir.

Don't cry.

...

But do know this: it is only to you, to your people, that the Night remains silent. Only to you does it keep its quiet. Because it hasn't forgotten. It hasn't forgiven.

I do not think I can blame it. 

Be grateful that this is the only grudge it holds against its children -- against those who dared strike against their own mother.

After all, you could have always suffered the fate of Yarmir.

[[/div]]

@@ @@


[[div class="oheader storm"]]

Ever since I have personally marked this "story" for deletion, I have been approached by various parties, all seemingly dumbfounded by the strength with which I push for the removal of such blasphemy from our archives when, in the past, we have allowed various heathenous material inside them for educational purposes. Were our times not what they are, I would agree with them that my actions cross into overzealous -- but, alas, faced with the realities of today, I must say what follows.

Times have changed. We no longer live in a world ripe for a pious public, one which awaits enlightenment and listens to His words when a messenger of the Prophet brings them to an otherwise superstitious public. The world we have inherited is one of blasphemy, one in which doubt in His words -- and indeed any spiritualism at all -- is spreading like wildfire amongst an increasingly godless society. Even our Holy City, our sacred [[[scp-7600|Druv'tuul Al-lhad]]] -- and its enlightened rulers, Their Graces Met'heus and Eldröl Gérunda -- has not been spared by the heretics. It too is now under siege from godless revolutionaries whose aim is only the destruction of our heritage and culture.

Therefore, I am left with no other choice: if we are to restore the sanctity of our Faith and our people, if we are to maintain our heritage and truth, we must take action. Removing blasphemy from our own archives is only the beginning, if we truly aim to remove it from the public at large as well.

[[>]]
//Forever in the light,//
//-- Elder Brother Neztregh Dwovogh//
[[/>]]

[[/div]]


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[[=]]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box]]
=====
> **Filename:** SotP.png
> **Author:** [[*user Jasiu06]]
> **License:** CC BY-SA 3.0
> **Source Link:** [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/of-yarmir-the-last-king-of-the-night SCP Foundation Wiki]
=====
[[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box-end]]
[[/=]]

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