Ishme Anu Ilu

Before form, he is conscious. He exists, first, in a starless void where there is no sound. Out of place, out of time, too much boredom. He feels a restlessness stir in him and he knows that this idea will one day be his body. He thinks he had a name, once. In the dark, he catches glimpses of a world that is always new, save the man inside it: always the same. In a workshop. In a garden. Standing on the seashore. The first word he learns is not baba or mama, but Father, forever capitalised, forever larger-than-life. He closes his eyes.Time enfolds him - heat and song - and at last, as his body takes shape, he knows what being present means. His name is Ishme-anu Ilu and he is a slave. He is not taught this, but it is known in his bones and he is satisfied. He spends more time in Father’s garden than his workshop, tending to his tulips because it pleases Father. He would say, often, that Ishme is one of his flowers, too. He closes his eyes.He watches the world begin to unravel around him. Suddenly, there is no time for flowers. He is hunting, always hunting– always catching and carving– always dragging and beating and breaking. He misses Father, but he speaks only commands these days and his eyes are dark and tunneled. His bones do not sing the way they used to and Ishme learns what will one day be sadness. He sees the Flood. He closes his eyes.He does not sleep, but he dreams– dreams of the world slipping away– of moss and vines and the green rot of decay crawling over everything, into everything, tearing it apart and eating it alive. Cities recede back into the forest and he is, at last, alone. Not another sound, just the endless, yawning void leaping up to meet him, covering it all in an endless blanket of white noise. For once, there is no more panting and sweating, no more pleading and groaning and sobbing– no more clawing and screeching. And no more fire. For once, there is silence. A deep, perfect silence.In that silence, a tulip grows. It opens his eyes.

Personality

Deadpan with a subtle dash of jaunty and playful; occasionally gives vibes more like a creepy, possessed doll than a golem; curious, always curious, always needing to know more; the fuzzy border between magic and miracle; too clever, too cunning; the critical thinking skills of a Portia spider; it comes with a sword and an encyclopaedic knowledge of pressure points, and so its previous functions are fairly obvious; exhibits unusual ‘short circuiting’ or ‘crossed wire’ behaviours; says strange things inside thousand-yard stares; occasionally catatonic; so many functions it’s like a golem Swiss army knife; changes its clothes and ‘dresses up’ often; it’s not always very good at it, just figuring things out; more like the monkey-Shakespeare-typewriter thing, sometimes it just happens to be good; confuses people constantly on whether it’s actually feeling something, or just imitating; genuinely seems to have loved his creator; and his creator genuinely seems to have been a terrible person; ‘likes’ gardening; ‘likes’ serving; ‘likes’ you— hold up, is it flirting?

Abilities

Paralytic tail-sting; hypnotic vibrations; uncanny perception; cute; ability to use a portfolio of sensations such as a person’s perspiration, heart-rate, and body language to semi-accurately determine their emotional state; can suppress pain response; general martial skills; ‘imitation’; bad humour;

Hello, World

You are an aspiring golemancer, a scholar of the War of the Magi, or a simple collector of Amdapori antiquities. One day, a large, rectangular crate arrives in your workshop or study sent by one of your colleagues from a recent dig in the Twelveswood. Inside is a statue. You decide to figure out what to do with it later, but there’s another trinket in your home that’s already ‘talking’ to it, emitting just the right frequency. Later that evening, either you find the ‘statue’ moving around… or it finds you.

Digging Too Deep

You join an archaeological expedition into a recently-discovered Amdapori colony (or go it alone). At some point, however, you get separated from the rest of the group, or drawn away, guided by a song into a stretch of the old world the rest had overlooked. As the network of tunnels turn labyrinthine, something hounds you. After all, what would a labyrinth be without its minotaur?

The Many Mad Moods

He's an Amdapori golem, which means he's about 1500 years past his warranty. The magics that sustain and organise his behaviours have started to unravel. You end up on the receiving end of a rather (open-ended, brainstorming required) short-circuit.

Two Ships, Passed Twice

You have met Ishme before, any number of years ago while travelling through the Twelveswood. A brief, tumultuous moment — maybe you watched it kill someone, maybe by happenstance its actions saved you from some awful fate — but after the moment had passed, Ishme was gone as quickly as it had arrived, like a phantom of the woods. Now, once again, you find yourself face-to-face with it.

Model of a Modern Majordomo

The perfect servant, that’s what the finely-dressed sutler had promised you. A mammet to shame all mammets… except it’s not a mammet at all, but an Amdapori golem, exquisitely-crafted and, as promised, seemingly perfect to fit this task. Everything isn't as it seems, though...

Little Mockingbird, Little Murderer

You know what he is, and you intend to put him to proper work.

things i'm about

i'd rather not

contact

Discord: feel free to ask!
Pronouns: they/them