Reconstruction of A Shattered History

“History shattered. It was the only thing that could give. Very strange event. There were cracks left all over the place. The… oh, I can’t remember the words… the fastenings that tell bits of the past which bits of the present they belong to, they were flapping all over the place. Some got lost for ever…”

Terry Pratchett, Thief of Time.

This was, perhaps, the area of research which simultaneously offered the greatest challenges and most intriguing opportunities.

The deeper we dug, the further back we looked, the more we realised that a lot of what is considered “established historical fact” is so much guesswork, gossip, and what we might call ‘fake news’ in this age.

We all know the saying that “history is written by the victors” and we know this is true. The apocalypse of the Mayans, the holocaust of the Native Americans, the genocide of Columbus; history tried to hide those stories from us but failed in the end. Sooner or later, it seems, the Truth will turn up, mopping its brow and muttering something about the traffic.

Eventually.

A Hole on History

There is a great deal of History we know nothing about, that we make educated guesses, make educated stab in the dark (first establishing with what to attempt said stabbing and the correct intensity of darkness to attempt to at least wound), hold fingers of investigation to the wind, and so forth.

Up until quite recently, your average person want to school and was taught what we could call the consensus version which, obviously, they accepted without question. Then most people get on with their adult lives after school and leave history well alone. Those who maintain an interest or take history as a profession tend to not attract too wide an audience.

Those ‘In the business’ know which way the trench is dug (or better said, the budget granted) so keep their mouths shut about ‘the secret’, wouldn’t you?

The simple fact is that a lot of the historical record was commited to perishable materials because that’s all they had available at the time. Of the vast cache of documents recovered from Qumran in 1947, it is said that at least one third were used as fuel before someone told the shepherd those foreigners paid a fortune for that stuff.

So much could have been lost that way, or been sequestered away in private collections, locked away in the fabled Vatican Archives or similar hidden vault of Forbidden Knowledge.

We know that many Mayan books and scrolls were burned as “heresy”, Aztec monuments defaced. Early Islamic expansion contributed to the destruction of ‘haram’ or unholy items such as stuff the priests didn’t like or that disagrees with what kept them in nice clothes and palaces.

The library of Constantinople contained a lot of what was saved or recovered from the fire that destroyed the Library of Alexandria centuries before. In 1204 AD., the Library was burned to the ground by crusaders and, we hear, nothing survived.

How much history was lost due to ignorance, war, ideology, brazen stupidity and, perhaps, a bit of intent?

Stitching it Up

The possible irony of that heading is indeed intentional, thank you for noticing…

When it comes to studying the history I needed to in order to properly research both The Chronicles of Enoch and Hegemony, a lot of information was missing. The main source of material, The Bible (various versions), translations of the Torah and midrash, the Qur’an and other works, ancient codices, the Book of Enoch itself, and numerous works of ‘uncertain canonicity’ (apophryca etc).

I noticed a lot of missing information, contradictions, plot holes, and explanations lacking.

Now, I know Sir Terry’s works are as fictional as ours are (we think) but we wonder sometimes…we’ve often heard of something called ‘parallel creativity’; inspiration coming from…ah…somewhere else and fiction accidentally reporting reality. Sir Terry mentioned something called ‘unwritten books’ and has a magical library containing books that haven’t yet been written, implying that information can, perhaps, persist and ‘leak’ as it were.

We wonder whether some of this information and history was intentionally repressed and hidden as The Chronicles of Enoch assert. Has history been filled with individuals or groups that do not want the truth reported; not just Lucifer (and through him, The Vatican and other Church organisations) but others too? In The Chronicles, we have the Unknown Men, the Illuminati, and others we’ll stay quiet about for now.

Hidden History?

Each one of these organisations has an agenda and aims as well as being very keen to hide their existence from the world at large. 

In The Chronicles, we have the example of The Hidden War of 79AD. The world’s greatest Heroes gathered in Meggido valley to face down a horde of monstrous Nephilim led by Lucifer and his Horsemen. Sable, Conan, and Gilgamesh led the charge and, though countless heroes of legend were killed in the battle, Lucifer’s forces were decisively broken; two Horsemen were defeated and the others fled.

The world, however, did not end and the forces of Heaven were conspicuously absent. Everyone, except for the dead, simply pretended that the battle never happened. Asmodeus erased even the vaguest of references regarding the battle from history. They existed, of course, there had been mortals present in the fifty-thousand strong Army of Heroes, there were witnesses, there were armaments and weapons as well as bodies left behind. A great many of those bodies did not look even close to human; there were giants, orcs and goblins, beast-men, and dragons among them and their bones decorated the Meggido valley.

The scale of the operation he mounted in the 1960’s, the disinformation, the sequestration of both information and remains, the neutralisation of those that couldn’t be ‘financially convinced’, and the practical rewriting of some history books is almost impossible to imagine but he did it.

Fragmented accounts remain in folklore, mythical accounts of Heroes, strange legends, they are even encoded in the “Approved Modern Version” of the Book of Revelation. It is odd to think that the great Battle of Armageddon there mentioned refers to an actual historical event rather than a future one or (as many today claim) a more allegorical struggle.

The account in Revelation is said to have been Asmodeus’ greatest gamble and success simultaneously.

Conclusion

History is written by the victor and the most powerful; money and threats have made inconvenient pieces of the historic record disappear almost as well as accidental occuraces such as fire and misapplied zealotry can.

We know there are parts missing, we see repetions, fixes, and inventions applied over some of the holes and rarely do people question them. One has to be looking in order to spot the important ommissions and fabrications. One has to pay attention to the stories and folk tales for explanations at times, the evidence that should be there at others.

Sometimes the evidence or information is glaring in its absence.

We are not talking about those shows seen on a certain channel sharing a name with the field we keep mentioning. We are not talking conspiracy this time, we’re making logical and educated forays into what is so obviously there.

Or, of course, obviously not there but has left a hole like a missing jigsaw piece will…you can imply its shape in its absence.

Maybe not all of our fictional history is as fictional as we think it is…

Subverting the Genre

The Wordsmith’s Anvil


It is tempting, as a writer, to conform to one of the popular genres; fold together the de-rigeour plotlines, bend and hammer in reader’s favourite character types, heat and finally temper it into a shining example of sure-to-sell. It is so easy to do.


If you do it right then you may have a functional knife, decent sword or even another hammer to shape more words on your anvil. You may well be successful. That is good, do you not think? Maybe. Molten Words Cast Out of the mould it pops. Smooth off the cast lines and flash, polish it into… …into what?


Exactly what the mould tells it to be. You see, you take your mould, fill it with the molten result of your works and leave it to cool. After a time, you crack it open and out comes….an exact copy of what the mould was made from. Vampires who have various existencial crises. Angels who, in spite of having god-like powers, still chase after a much ignored young girl who secretly has reality shattering powers.


The all-powerful evil overbeing who commands legions of fanatical followers and can murder anyone they like with a mere thought with the hidden weakness that everyone had forgotten about, killed by a precocious pubescent… Funnily enough nobody asks what happens once the hero and love interest share a kiss and the final page is turned.
The vast army or empire does not simply shuffle it’s feet and decide that unfettered evilness was a poor career choice. Will the minor villains and henchpeople turn good and they live in the cliche everyone loves? What do you think?


A Mighty Sword Forgéd


Yes, the accent is intentional for we are about to enter into a fantasy-based extended metaphour…(spelling intentional for pedantic accent)
The hero of the tale will often be seeking a weapon of some sort with which to end the Evil One forever.
No simple sword, hammer, arrow or pointy-murder-thing will suffice: a simple and enthusiastic poke into a convenient soft bit will not end the threat which means to end everything that is Good forever! It is never that easy.


A Quest must be undertook, many dangers faced and disparate characters who do not get on will find common ground and form an incredible team. Some of them might die, a traitor will be uncovered, maybe a deathbed (or death rock) redemption or two might take place. All good and fine.


The weapon being sought will be of incalculable power meaning that the Bad Fellow will be utterly destroyed by it. It might be somewhat harmful or devisive to our Bold Adventurers too but that adds to the depth and drama does it not?


A Sword is not Simply a Pointy Metal Stick


Now, not to bore you with the technicalities involved in turning non-sword-shaped metal into edged death, it is a long and arduous process.


One must select the metal, have a picture of the end result in one’s mind. One must bend, fold, hammer, smooth, beat, heat, temper and quench just right or one’s weapon will break the first time you try to beat someone with it.


For this example, too, one must also enbue the item with magic, secret knowledge or really, really fancy ornamentation in order to make sure said Evil One becomes the requisite number of Evil Pieces (none of which will be placed in a microwave oven to burn the hero’s house down and kill his parents).


One can make a sword mould and pour all the right ingredients into it. One can wait for it to cool and free it from its prison. One can tidy it up, polish it, give it a decent edge. One can even make it shine like a mirror.
One can do all of that but the first time your weapon meets a master (or mistress) forged equivalent, it will snap in two with a rather disappointing crack sound. The crack of disappointment, they call it.
Whomever it may be that they are.


Start with the Basics


As the metalsmith starts with – you got it – metal, what does the wordsmith start with? That’s right! With their brain! We got you, drew you right in and played one of those awful context jokes on you! Actually, some might call it inspiration, that ephemerous output of the Muses, others call it research. It is the same thing though, a wordsmith’s base material.


Words are, afterall, simply a process of re-arranging 26 letters into different configurations. This brings us to the First Contentious Moment; writers and storytellers. Anyone can be a writer but few have what it takes to be a story teller.


Five Minute Argument Break…

You clicked on it, didn’t you? I know, it’s an awful joke but it keeps me amused.


Author’s Self-Promotion Moment.


So, of course the author is going to mention his own work here. Why not? This is my Blog, thank you very much! In this case, I am using it as an illustration so please forgive my cupidity.


To those who have read either the current draft or the prequel: Collected Preludes one thing may well stand out. Not just the odd British spelling and strange sense of humour. What might draw the most inquisitive of minds is this; the subversion of assumptions, the twisting of expectations and the fact that the mountains of source material are questioned at each and every point.
All the stories are true, or at least that used to be. One popular genre these days involves the Bible of Christianity, just like The Chronicles of Enoch does.


This, in its way is a subversive genre started by that rather popular series of novels which started everyone wondering about what that ancient Italian Polymath was really up to with his religious paintings.


A whole sub-genre has since emerged, feeding on the doubts and controversy Mr. Brown stirred up. The good ones among therm ask the most important of questions; how did it truly begin and how did it change so drastically?


What would happen if we could prove that the carpenter from Nazareth actually meant something quite different to what was later attributed to him?


The Dramatic License

Oh, it looks like mine expired. That could be embarrassing (also I am not that young, please don’t tell)!

I have mentioned this before because, you might be surprised to learn, it is very important .


Dramatic license; not the terrible mockup I created for a few seconds of amusement but the less physical kind.
Storytellers predate writers because, should we believe the archeologists, speech predated writing. Before people discovered that making symbols mean words was the latest thing (all the other up-and-coming civlisations are doing it!) there was only one place to store all the important stuff and make sure it did not vanish forever.


The Oral Tradition.


Travelling storytellers would move from placed to place and, often for a space by the fire, free food and alcohol, would entertain their hosts with stirring tales about the exploits of some heroic figure or other.


Perhaps they would include religious or moral instruction into the mixture. They would leave but the story would remain behind, now resident in the heads of those who had just heard it.

The Travelling Story Now


Seeing as the storyteller earned their living from the quality of the stories they told, it was not unknown for a good one to…well…add bits to the original they had heard previously. Some local flavour, a bit of cultural relevence, seemingly casual observations made on their way into the village/homestead/farm/tavern as well as their own opinions and biases.

When they left and a copy of the story remained with the latest recipients thereof, the story may well not be the same as the last version told. In fact, the same story could be getting told, in a variety of slightly different incarnations, in a number of different places at the same time.


One day, newcomers would come the village or, gathered around and, lacking decent television and WiFi, the villagers would retell the story. Perhaps they would go to a local gathering and tell it there.


Storytellers being as they are, the urge to stamp their own individuality onto the tale was rarely easy to resist. Lessons and themes important to their culture and society would find their way in.


Names might well change in the process, locations, even the ending. The more the story travelled, from mouth to mouth, ear to ear, the more it changed, the harder it became to recognise the original from the new and shiny version. It is possible that facts were exchanged for the kind of drama which promised food, wine and a warm bed for the night.
Maybe the overwhelming need to ensure that an important lesson was learned or vital information passed on was factored in.


That favourite childhood game of “Ethinic Stereotype Whispers” is suddenly quite a significant learning experience. Gilgamesh became Noah and the list goes on and on.


History is as stable and as reliable as the human beings who study and repeat it.


The Point is Reached


It is easy to conform to a popular genre.


Anyone can, with effort and focus, produce a half-decent tale of what people on certain platforms like to read but will your story, neck-deep in the morass, ever be more than one of hundreds?


The point of this article was to illustrate how seemingly mundane and everyday events may well become something quite different.


A young boy on the way to market sell his family’s only cow returns with a handful of beans and concocts a fantastical lie.


Two children bearing bread through the dark forest get lost for days and agree on a spine-chilling tale to explain their absence and, to their thinking, avoid a good thrashing.


The human race prefers the gentle lie to the hard truth. That is, as writers, our job; to bear them along the path of a fantastical tale towards the final truth, the point.


Along the way, we entertain them, we show they joy, dispair, shock and perhaps horror.

We teach them without their even being aware of it and then, when they arrive at the final page and – in a mixture, we hope, of pleasure and sadness – read the final words they mutter


“Now it makes sense! Now I understand!”


And they smile as they stare off into the space you took them to.
They have accepted the truth without even realising it!

History #Villain #ChroniclesofEnoch #Discovery #PassionForTheArt #AlanJFisher #Religion #Creative #Philosophy #thoughts #Dramatic #ArtoftheStoryteller #Storytelling #WritingTips #WritingTropes #WritingMentor #Writinghelper #WritingCoach #BookWritingPixies #NewWriters #assumptions

Sable & Gilgamesh – Combat Scene

An excert from a storyline which will take place at some point in Book Three of The Chronicles of Enoch but one which shows just how interesting Sable can be in combat, even in today’s modern world of guns.
I chose this piece to share because it also contains so tasty little hints that fans might well appreciate…


Gilgamesh was looking down at the approaching nephilim; there were at least twenty of them now. They were schlepping their way across the rooftops towards he and Sable’s current position, trying to keep low and not present a decent outline. Clearly, they were more modern creatures as they were exercising the due caution of one who knows well how guns and bullets work. They were using cover well and advancing in groups, practise he approved of. Several, he could see, were armed with handguns though none carried a larger weapon. He’d known that they’d been spotted a good ten minutes ago but had focussed on trying to get his shot off. Or shots. He didn’t like the need to kill but with those two down there, wounding was not an option. He had to find a way to get them close enough together so that he could take out Krampus and then hit Lucifer three seconds later without giving that monster time to react or escape.

There was no way that he would let Lucifer be President of the country he had so grown to love, one which had been very accepting of him until Krampus had started stirring the old hatreds up.

He sucked his teeth and looked over at Sable, who appeared to be doing something with the sleeves of his long coat. It was almost like he was looking for something. Sable was clearly unarmed and, his peerless combat skills aside, even he would be unable to take on their soon-to-be-guests barehanded. Well that just about buggers it all up doesn’t it? He thought, considering whether to ghost just one of them and have done with it. Better to take Lucifer with us if this is it…
It struck him as rather odd that Sable appeared so unconcerned by their predicament. He was focussed on his coat-sleeves again, something which was both intriguing and annoying to big Sumerian. He was about to ask his friend what in the name of any gods he may or not may not believe in he thought he was doing when Sable made an ‘ah’ noise. He then proceeded to do something which caused a feeling of more than mild surprise – mixed with a fair measure of terror – in Gilgamesh’s heart.

Sable reached into the sleeves of his long coat and smiled. He took hold of something with each hand and pulled. To Gilgamesh’s genuine awe and terror, Sable pulled his long silver swords out of his coat. Each sword was close to four feet long and curved like scimitars; there was no way Sable’s arms were that long and the coat certainly was not large enough. Gilgamesh had been admiring it earlier; it was a nice brushed suede type thing in a variety of shades of grey which fit Sable rather well. It would not fit the much larger Gilgamesh, but he had been meaning to ask Atlantan where he had gotten it from. He had not expected, however, for Sable to just whip his famous swords out from inside of it, magic coats were not something he wanted in his sparse wardrobe. He stared his friend, face a multitude of questions.

“A left over from whatever you lot did to me in Atlanta. Might be a small surprise gift from our new friend too.” Sable explained in great depth. “I know where they are, I just have to tell them to be here.” he settled his grip before spinning the swords in air-ripping circles and considered the approaching group. “Twenty?”

Gilgamesh nodded with a grim smile.

“Cover me from the shooters.” Sable set his swords down and shrugged his coat off, letting it fall to the ground. Underneath he wore sleeveless black t-shirt with a very faded rock band logo on it. He also had some weird tattoo on his right shoulder which Gilgamesh could not recall him having before, a swirl of angelic script covering shoulder and part of his arm. Unfortunately, the Sumerian was very new to those letters and had no idea where to begin. Sable was already moving towards the lip of their rooftop, assessing the distance to the roof down below. Their visitors were starting to gather bare metres away down below, looking for a way up to them. Sable crouched on the edge, swords back in his hands, reversed upward, and nodded. Gilgamesh nodded in reply and swung his rifle around.

He had a ten-shot custom magazine locked and loaded but there would be a 2-3 second reload time. Still, better than nothing. With a scream which would have made even the dead get up and run, Sable leaped, right into the centre of the crowd. Sable against twenty nephilim armed with knives, machetes and guns? Gilgamesh almost felt sorry for them…

He shrugged and set his eye to his gunsight adjusted the focus all the way out, as far as it would go. Some of the figures were a little fuzzy, the sight wasn’t designed for such close-up work, but he could aim. He had never seen Sable in combat up close before, but he would never forget it. He saw Sable land in a crouch in the middle of the crowd and explode into motion. Gilgamesh had his own abilities; at the moment when he took his shot, he was able to slow time somehow, stretch out those vital seconds to be sure he placed his bullet right where it needed to go. He couldn’t sustain this slowing effect for long, but he intended to push that ability now. In slow motion he watched his friend dance…

Slowed down, Sable was more than incredible, his silver blades flashes and blurs of metal. He seemed to have the entire fight planned out in advance, so fluid and connected were his moves. Instantly his left sword swept out and opened the throat of the man directly in front of him in a carmine spray. Sable did not stop though, pushing the sword along its path to carve open the face of another, his right-hand sword dipped and curved up into the stomach of a third man; dropping his guts onto the floor. Immediately Sable had some space as the third man got snagged in his own entrails and they uncoiled around his feet causing him to fall back into the group behind him, dropping several to the ground. Sable breathed. Swords always in motion, body never still, eyes and senses always active he became a whirlwind of death; blocking, cutting, deflecting and retaliating. Killing.

Whipping his swords left and right, up and down he wove a cage of silver death around him. Where his swords struck, men fell, and blood sprayed out. Even slowed down as Gilgamesh’s perceptions were, Sable was almost too fast to follow.

One of the nephilim with a pistol took aim at Sable’s head and fired as a sword was extracted from a bleeding neck. Gilgamesh felt his stomach tighten to a knot; he could take down the shooter but not stop the bullet. There was no way he could warn his friend or prevent the danger in time. Somehow Sable knew. Faster than Gilgamesh could imagine, Sable arched back at the waist and got his head out of the way of the bullet fractions of a second before it was due to hit, catching the speeding projective with the silver edge of one sword and helping it safely out of the way with an explosion of sparks. He straightened and knifed a blade into the juncture of neck and shoulder of each of the men before him. He twisted the blades out and blocked a desperate machete swipe at his unprotected torso with his left, killing the wielder with his right. Gilgamesh breathed and time returned to normal. There were nine nephilim, aside from he and Sable left; four shooters hiding behind air conditioning units and five standing before Sable. The four shooters appeared to be quite undecided on what to do, two were looking for reloads. They had emptied their magazines without Gilgamesh even being aware of it or actually hitting anyone. Such a waste of ammo offended him for some reason.

His friend had killed ten men in less than a minute! The five men with knives and machetes in front of him were well aware of this fact and were sharing wary glances, looking over shoulder for as long as they dared to see what the shooters were doing. Sable had stood still for nowhere near long enough for anyone to get a decent shot at him after the first. He was not even scratched, and Gilgamesh was sure none of the blood upon him was his own. He could not believe this sight, no- one dared to move and Sable just stood there, waiting.

Sable appeared relaxed and his chest moved regularly and slowly. He rolled his shoulders and grinned at the men in front of him, looking like a demon of war covered in blood and gore; smiling like a maniac as blood dripped from his loosely held swords. Lucifer was on the stage below so none of remaining men dared to be the one to return without Sable’s head, failure could be much worse than death.

I’d be more afraid of my best friend than his Dad! Gilgamesh decided. No-one should be able to fight like that…Clearly, he did not know enough about Lucifer though, he must be terrifying indeed to give a man a reason to fight Sable.

In the end, it seemed that numbers gave the balls unto the man. They shared a glance and attacked at once, thinking this would be to their advantage. Sable kept his swords in close and tight, each hand appearing to communicate with the other. He casually batted a machete aside to pierce the chest of its wielder and used the falling man’s weight to pivot around and almost shear the face off of another. Keeping his momentum up, he took one knife fighter’s arm off at the elbow causing the man to scream and spray blood into the face of the man next to him. Sable finished the disarmed man off with a quick stab to the throat and took down his colleague in the same manner as that one tried to clean blood from his eyes. His right-hand sword was in the chest of the last man before Gilgamesh could even figure out how it had gotten there. The Sumerian’s finger was poised numbly over the trigger unable to neither aim nor fire.

“I know you’re all out of ammo.” Sable told the four crouched men with pistols. “I was counting as the bullets whined past my ears like hot mosquitoes. You can reload and make me come over there and get you or you can drop them, and we talk. You decide.” He let that hang in the silence for a long time. No-one spoke nor made a single move. Gilgamesh found that he was holding his breath again.
The only sound was the soft drum of blood from Sable’s swords striking the metal roof.
“The first man who fires a shot at me dies.” Sable added. There was silence for the longest moment before the first pistol clattered to the ground, the metallic skittering noise followed quickly by three similar sounds.

“Good.” Sable clapped his swords together, blood dripping from their blades onto the hot asphalt. “Because I was getting tired and thought I will probably never get these clothes clean anyway, more blood would just make washing them murder!”
Gilgamesh’s mouth hung wide open as the four nephilim came out of hiding, their hands held empty and high. They were actually laughing nervously at the joke, as terrible as it had been. Gallows humour; men who are scared enough will laugh at anything…anything but face inescapable reality.

“Wise, wise choice boys.” Sable reached down and cleaned his swords on a dead man’s hoodie before sheathing them at his belt; a belt that Gilgamesh could have sworn he had not been wearing earlier and held his empty hands out to the four nervous nephilim. His arms were bent slightly at the elbows, palms upward and fingers slightly bent; inviting. “You know who I am. You know what I am, but you only heard half of the story.” He said. “Here’s the other half.” He gestured around at the organic carnage. “Scram. Now. All of you. Go!” He gestured to the empty rooftops behind them. “Do not force me to kill you because I would rather not.”
To Gilgamesh’s amazement, all four backed off slowly, their hands still held up in front of them, in complete silence. Sable watched them leave and cracked his neck with a sound like breaking light bulbs. “I think you can focus back on Krampus and my father now, Gil.” Sable called up as he set to searching the dead men and collecting their weapons. “They won’t be coming back.”

He found, most curiously, a small hand towel in the pocket of one man and set to cleaning his arms and face with it.
Gilgamesh found no words to respond with, so he simply swung his rifle around on its tripod to face back at the stage with a nod of his head. If he had not seen it, he would never believe it. In fact, he had seen it and he still wasn’t sure that he believed it!

Gilgamesh – The Great Sumerian

The Chronicles of Enoch deals with events surrounding the Biblical Flood quite extensively. Enoch himself is, Noah’s grandfather so it is hard to avoid the topic or deny its existence without departing rather seriously from the source material, as it were.
The entire story of Atlantis and the Nephilim is based, somewhat, on real scientific evidence that shows there could well have been a serious flood around 8.5 thousand years ago. This event drowned Conan’s home of Doggerland, as well as some other recently discovered sites. It stands to reason that it was a significant event. Significant enough to bring the Fall of Atlantis?
As we investigated and researched further, we found that the Judeochristian Bible is not the only scripture that documents a massive flood. We found and enjoyed reading the Epic of Gilgamesh, which was clearly indicating an event of similar magnitude to Noah’s story. That was interesting in quite a number of ways.

Then, we discovered there are, actually, quite a lot of what are called “Flood Myths” from one side of the world to the other; from Mesoamerica to China; India to Hawaii.
We wondered about this. We have scientific evidence of a drastic increase to sea levels around 6500 B.C, we have archeological evidence of a drowned series of villages between Britain and mainland Europe, we have other curious ruins in the ocean around the world. A flood surely did happen and it affected a lot of people…
The Chronicles of Enoch is all about finding what truth there is behind the old myths and stories so this sounded like perfect ground for us to tread.

The Epic of Gilgamesh
In summary, Gilgamesh is a great king who is described as “greater than other kings” as well as “Two-thirds god and one third man” across the surviving cunieform tablets we have recovered and decoded. He travels and has many adventures with his friend Enkidu. When the former unexpectedly dies, Gilgamesh becomes obsessed with his own mortality and seeks out the the sage Utnapishtim to learn the secret of immortality. It is said that this sage has lived unchanged for a very long time and is rumoured to have dwelt with the gods.

Now, here versions vary. Either Gilgamesh learns and succeeds at applying the secret and becomes as a god himself or he fails by following the typical hero formula. You know the one; the hero is told to not do one thing and, rather stupidly, does that exact same thing at the very first opportunity he gets. We decided to go with the idea that Gilgamesh is Nephilim, just as Conan is.

After this, we get other conflicting tales; either Gilgamesh built the city of Uruk and, knowing that a great Flood was coming, built the walls strong and tall to protect his people behind or he discovered the Uruk Utnapishtim had built for the same reason and became king thereof.

We thought; we have Enoch, a man who was taken to dwell with his God and, in a fashion, gained eternal life. He lived in an isolated cave for a long time and was visited by many people from all around the world. He survived the Flood and was the grandfather of the man chosen to be forewarned by The Creator. The same man through whom the human race was both saved and redeemed for a time.

Now, we know that all stories are true, for a given value of truth at least, or they start that way. So, why could Enoch not be Utnapishtim and it be him who advised Gilgamesh on the need to reinforce his city walls. He also told Gilgamesh about his heritage and that he really had no reason to worry about dying any time soon, unless he did something stupid that is.

We’d like to think that Enoch, not overly impressed by Gilgamesh’s great arrogance at the time, decided to teach the big Sumerian a lesson just because he could.

Either way, we could not leave Gilgamesh out of our story seeing as his epic is the first concordance we found.

So Gilgamesh, having survived the Flood, decides to leave Uruk and seek out Sable before people start to get uncomfortable about the fact that he refuses to age. He names an heir and vanishes into History.

Gilgamesh in The Chronicles

So, after numerous and unrecorded adventures along the way, Gilgamesh finds Sable around the vicinity of Moab along with Enoch. They travel together to what will one day be Britain and meet Conan there. Together, they form a band of adventuring misfits and have even more adventures that nobody took the time to write down. Sooner or later, they drifted apart and settled into their own lives and interests, as so often happens in long-term friendships.

Everyone except Enoch, it seems, eventually ended up in America.

Today Gilgamesh goes by the name of Kamesh Gil (he learned of the the Siddi while travelling the river Ganges on a small pilgrimage and, irrespective of his obvious African heritage, always wanted to be Indian) and has worked his way up in the ranks of the Atlanta Police Department. He started on the streets but fast showed an aptitude for accurate long distance shooting. His trainers recommended he attend East Point in Georgia to receive SWAT and Sniper training.

He excelled at both and made quite a name for himself among the law enforcement community. Maybe it was Enkidu’s unexpected death or his love of Indian spirituality but Gilgamesh has a deep and powerful reverence for life. He is loth to be the reason for its ending, quite a strange contradiction for a sniper, you might think.
Gilgamesh explains it simply and directly, as is his habit;

“If I wanted to kill a lot of people, I’d have joined the army as sniper, not the cops. In the War in Russia, I killed a lot of people but that isn’t me any more.”
He joined the police to save lives, not to end them.

Officer Kamesh Gil holds the SWAT sniper record for the longest distance wounding of a dangerous terrorist. Said terrorist suffered no permanent effects from the shot and resides at the American People’s pleasure to this very day in a facility very few people know about.

However, his reverence for life does not extend to cover his fellow Nephilim whom he believes to be an abomination and a crime against nature. This would, of course, also apply to him and his friends but, like Sable, Gilgamesh is good at turning his self-loathing outwards.

God-Killer
Quite on his own, it would seem, Gilgamesh discovered the secrets of the Anathema stones. He learned how to carve, shape, and channel them. He learned of what they could do and how to make them do it better. He discovered that, to the Fallen and the Nephilim, the Anathema were both a boon and a bane; it depended on the circumstance.
After some near-disasterous experimentation, he invented God-killer bullets.

One shot from his customised Mosin-Nagant rifle (said to have been a gift from the great Vasily Zaitsev himself) and any Fallen or Nephilim with his sights is dead and will permanently stay that way. A Fallen’s spirit can not leave their current host as it dies, something in the Anathema, together with the mixture of elements Gilgamesh uses, locks them inside the body and they die with it. These bullets will disable a Nephilim’s powers, at least temporarily. Isochronal regeneration is, at least, retarded by being shot with a God-killer.

Most Nephilim fear Sable but all of them live in terror of one day falling under Gilgamesh’s crosshairs. You can at least talk or negotiate with Sable but Gilgamesh? You don’t even see Gilgamesh coming.

Gilgamesh manufactures his own bullets in a workshop under his house just outside of Atlanta. He has spent a lot of his time and his pay on building a rather high-tech laser engraving and cutting system that is itself powered by Anathema stones. Sable gave him quite a lot of the crystals after Gilgamesh saved his life in Russia during WW2. If Gilgamesh has another source of the unbelievably rare element, then he is not telling anyone about it.
Everyone thought that Lucifer controlled the world’s supply of the stuff but it would appear that everyone might be wrong.
Gilgamesh has always been an enigma, even to his friends. Oh, he is loyal and will do anything you need but he has that closed-in and tacturn nature that even those closest to him struggle to breach.
His secrets, it would seem, are very much his to keep and, though he has never threatened them with such, those who know him well are well aware that pushing him on some matters is not the wisest of decisions, even for them.
Even Sable knows when to respect his big friend’s privacy for, althought Gilgamesh is mostly gentle like most big people (he is 6’8″ tall and heavily built) are but there is a rage in him Sable recognises only too well.

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