They stood frozen for a long time, eyes wide and jaws locked. Morarom, like Zinaniza and Salisilas, gripped his Ik’Grarg’Ki tightly, his hand shaking slightly. The gargantuan Tree-Arm had never felt as he now did, and his strange tattoos raced all over his fur, taking on a pure black colour. It spoke of his confusion and distress more than anything else, and he could feel the distress of his two companions as clearly as his own. For they had never before felt what they felt now. There was nothing. They could not feel or sense anyone. One moment their link with the tribe had been as strong as ever, and the next the link had disappeared.

For a minute or so each of them tried to re-establish the link, to sense the others. But there was nothing. Without a word or a command, all three turned at once and took a few hefty steps before launching themselves into a swift sprint. Morarom took the lead, with Zinaniza and Salisilas following close behind to either side of him. His grip on the wooden hilt of his dear Urara tightened even further as they approached Old Bark-Skin and the village.

But when they arrived there was nothing there. Not a living creature was in sight or could be sensed. Only the strange Heaven-Orb remained. The three stood quietly for some time, wordless. Was it shock that ran through each of them? Confusion perhaps? They themselves could not say, for there were no words to describe it. And words did not need to describe it, for each of them felt it, and each of them could feel what the others felt. Their's was not to explain or describe, their's was purely to understand one another. An understanding deeper than words could ever achieve - and how could words achieve what they could not capture? What they could not imprison in the cell of letters and words and sentences and meanings and lack thereof. What had to be described or explained could never be understood, and what could be understood needed neither explanation nor description, for it was self-evident in the mind of a Treemind. Suffice to say, they felt as children who found themselves alone in their home, parents and brethren, grandparents and uncles and cousins, having disappeared without a trace. Could it be called a home which had not in it what made it a home? Was it home if it felt not like home? Where were the thoughts and feelings that ran through one's body and mind in every waking moment? Where were the dreams which drifted in and out of one's mind in every sleeping second? Morarom turned to his dearest Urara and spoke sadly.



But there came no response from his dearest, and her silence was answer enough. He placed the tip of Urara into the earth and leaned upon it, and his legs gave and his knees sunk into the soft earth, and heart-rending roar left his chest and echoed through the tribal heartlands, and to the very top of the Solitary Mount. Perhaps the Guardian himself heard it, for not too long after the leaves of Old Bark-Skin began to rustle and footsteps echoed throughout the forests - or did they echo in their minds? A humanoid figure, clad in a long white robe and whose face could not be seen but for a long, white beard which came down to his lower chest, emerged from behind the sizable girth of Old Bark-Skin's trunk. He approached them slowly, and with him there came a strange sound, musical. It seemed to emerge from every direction, and it seemed to have its source within their very bodies, their minds and hearts.

Even while being oddly light-hearted, there seemed to be an incomprehensible sadness to the sound. Joviality and sorrow seemed to leap into life before them and dance their bittersweet dance to the notes. And even as the music got louder and the strange man came ever closer, the world around them seemed to shift and slip away until there was nothing in existence but the sound, it solidified into a pool before them, and they fell into it and discovered it was an ocean, and they fought it and swam in it and they drowned and fell asleep in the ocean of sound. And they would not know it, but when they would next wake, they would find themselves in a land altogether wonderful and strange. But was it home?



The gay grasses and moss had made of the tomb a home. The white stone had given way to the greenery of life which sought even death to overcome and slay. Though not a single ray of starlight fed the plants, they grew and danced and, perhaps, they even sang. Perhaps the sang and the crickets, upon hearing them, sang back. And the tallest grasses sang the loudest, and it was to the loudest singers that the crickets went, and to them they sang even louder and were ever more devoted.



But though time passed and though the grasses conquered more and more of the tomb, there was a decreed moment which had been waiting eons to bloom and reveal its deep purple flower to the world. And that moment began with a curious hand which undid all that the toiling grasses had done. Years of conquests and victories were defeated by the swift and mighty hand of man, and the rosary of life's dominion came undone and its beads spilled never to be held together again. Yet it was not the hand of a man that brought the grasses down, but the innocuous hands of a child. And they were the hands that broke and opened the tomb. And the Fated purple flower rose up and bloomed. A thick, smoky flower, but a flower nonetheless. And it floated about in the pure Chronos air and it seemed to inhale deeply of it...and it gushed into the child from every pore and opening. And it was not long before it found its way to the Gate, and Chronos was all too happy to be rid of it. And Galbar greeted it.

Iridia, if seen by a Galbarian or Achonian, would probably be the very definition of an outlandish place. Little towers of three or four layers were built by stacking homes together, the inhabitants had an uncanny control over natural forces and beasts, with huge hordes as numerous as Vestec's being fully under their control, further, the homes had little furry thralls that even the youngest kid knew how to control. Speaking of homes, they were full of odd mechanical boxes that performed a variety of functions, like creating ice, fire, and sound or transmuting bread into toast.

Yet, for Chroma, this was her home, and in fact, should she go to the "reality" and find its many paradoxes, she would think that such world was the dream (or nightmare) one. Under Ilunabar's blanket of illusions, the world was fairly cozy, and everything was perfectly tailored and justified. In it, the little change eater could worry less about having to hunt to eat while avoiding the Heraktati and more about finding a shirt that goes well with the color of her goo-like body.

Ilunabar was quite proud of her work here. Ever since she started to train her other heroine, Makeda, she started to get creative with world-building, creating realms of challenge where danger could be simulated without as much worry. But those lasted a week or two at most, Chroma's dream was constant, and it was quite a challenge to keep it, if the change eater started to ask certain questions and notice certain paradoxes the whole thing could collapse.

In fact, it kinda happened once, but a sudden celebrity visit to the little town of Iridia was more than enough to take her attention away from the issue.

---

In a moment of respite, Makeda remembered about her childhood days, when she, like most kids, thought that the world of dreams was a fun place. Turns out that after meeting the goddess of area herself, it lost its charm, especially when she spent most of her day training in this surreal world.

Most of the training took place in the upper harmonics of Raka, Simulacrum, and Labyrinth. There, with Galbar-like psychs, it was easy to simulate real-life situations, which often meant defeating hordes of enemies or flying trough collapsing buildings. Sometimes, they would go down into Fantasy, to train abilities that Makeda still didn't have, or Mirage, to test her will and wit. Ilunabar also did a few secret tests with her on Solitude, to see how her personality reacted in different situations.

When she was not training, the angel preferred to stay around the areas of collapsing logic of the Simulacrum and Labyrinth, where patterns would repeat themselves over and over. In all of Raka, it was one of the few places where one could close their eyes and not fear meeting a completely different world when they opened up.

"I wonder how the battles are going." She whispered.

Ilunabar had already made it clear she would never be ready in time to help in the battle, that she should focus on stopping future equivalents of the chaos hordes from acting instead of this one in particular. Even so, she couldn't help but wonder how things were evolving back on Galbar.

She felt the faint smell of blood, and opened up her eyes to find the world around her slowly turning into a desertic landscape, and from its sands odd creatures emerged, they were similar to corrupted mortals but Ilunabar always made sure to leave a few mysterious changes just to puzzle the heroic angel.

"I guess I called this one myself" sighed Makeda, realizing her respite was already over.

---

"Of course, Branda Brave can beat Dreamsof, your little kiddy cartoon can't even punch."

"But Princess Dreamsof can stop time, she has electric powers and she can drive a car."

"Branda would just punch the car, and then she would summon a larger fist and punch the thunderstorm too"

"What do you think Almond?"

"I don't know these characters, maybe if you were talking about Yumeno Hime and Yuusha Buranda I would know what to say"

Conversation went as usual for the trio of friends, Chroma, Almond, and Hazel. In the past things were a little bit more harmonious, but as they grew older, Hazel started to get into edgier action comics while Chroma became a bit of a traditionalist, holding the old values of justice close to her heart.

"Anyway, Yumeno Wins, she is op, just look at chapter 127 where she temporalities borrows the goddess powers to unlost the lost continent of Pacifica." finished Almond

"Fine! I will give you that one, but Professor Peculiarity beats Bald Eagle Sam." Hazel had yet to lose her will to fight.

"No Way!" Chroma protested.

The friend squabble between children would go on until the end of the recess. The next class was one of the few where the trio didn't stay together, which, for Chroma, meant unending boredom. She sauntered trough the hall, in no rush to meet her destined lectured, but alas, eventually she found herself face to face with the door.

Since there was no way to avoid it, she took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked inside. Only then she looked around, and to her surprise, the whole room was empty. A bit shocked, she started to look around, perhaps believing this was some sort of prank, but soon she noticed that even the sky was odd, being tinted in a cyan-indigo color instead of the typical purple and orange.

She took a step away from the window, trying to understand what was all this nonsense when she noticed a silhouette sneaking behind her. instinct kicked in and she slapped whatever was behind her, sending the shadowy creature flying across the room.

There was no time to voice surprise, as the shadow being quickly recovered and grabbed up the teacher's desk. It threw the object in Chroma's direction in hopes of taking her attention away, but the girl effortlessly punched the desk into bits and quickly kicked the creature in whatever was its equivalent of a face.

Finally, the enemy was down and the realization of what just happened clicked on Chromas mind. The sudden burst of strength, the oddity of the situation, the sky, all that could mean only one thing.

"I'm a freaking hero" she whispered to herself in excitement.

Day sinks, and I am roused.

Light still seeps from heaven's blemishes, falls to earth, and shatters upon the surface of my lagoon. The night is quiet. Dark. Becalmed. Below faint ripples the water is lifeless, shrunken upon itself, and it is time for me to bring it to life.

I swing my arm heavily over the sandbed, and the first real wave of tonight stretches from the beach and claps down upon the wet, firm shore, east to north. The sound rings far and true into the lagoon, stirring the seven sons of mine from their frenetic games in the sargassum.

I swirl around them as they come, knowing them by number alone. As yet, they are yet too small to have earned face or name. But they are loyal cadets. They recognise the benevolent force of discipline, and assemble beneath my wing in the tumbling organic formation which I have taught them. We are practiced, all, performers of the kind that grow only from passion for a harsh craft. Together, we draw breath...

I surge forth!

...And I draw back, my underlings in tow, as the wave spreads out gently onto the sand. Thus is honed art of our crescendo; Rise slowly. Be strong in flow and gracious in ebb. Build tension, back and forth, back and forth, until the whole lagoon crashes upon the arc of my back and I can feel its weight, flex it, almost like a muscle in dance.

As the stars rise on, so I push, and pull, without heave or strain. I throw myself onto the sand and flow back, seizing up the dry salt and twigs and bones of the day, casting them to the fish and the currents. With my every churning sweep I brush clean the beach, leaving only the purest white swathes.

Midnight approaches and the work grows loud, and broad. Deep notes of my laughter boom out over the spiny grass of the shore-lands, greeting the fickle windlings above as they idle and scatter. The sounds are spontaneous. Cries of accomplishment in motion- Make no mistake! They are not simply rumbles of amusement but grunts of effort. My task is much, and sacred.

I take hold of the stagnant pools and consume them; I reach into the burrowed tunnels and fill them. I mill shells, carve stones into anemone gardens. Where the sand-ledges advance too far and weigh down the grasses below, mine is the hand that loosens it and calls it back. To me and my sons, even the heaviest driftwood is as a twig, and we haul it to the land from which it came that it may conclude its path into the earth. For the morning foragers, be their beaks those of bird or hain, we leave gifts of shellfish and green-weed. The footprints of today we wipe clean, that tomorrow may start new.

My cleansing toil rises to its peak, and the little plain of the beach is submerged entirely by my every stroke. As it recedes, the entire lagoon is white, smooth, and flawless. Perfect. One who holds dominion over a realm he does not lift out of chaos and fashion to the liking of his own eyes, but leaves it without permanence or function, holds no dominion at all.

I draw the water back, gathering it all up in my arms, bunching it together, as much as I can hold, and lo! it is tiring.

Then, when the tension is at its greatest, when my sons strain bitterly, I release. The wave bursts and slams into the sand, and I with it, rebounding from the ground in a great leap of spray as the water charges on with a foamy hiss...

And for a moment-A grateful moment- I stand in that explosion of water with my arms to the heavens, one knee to the ground in the surge, my head held high for any mortal to see, and in that moment I can all but reach the celestial citadel where my father dwells, far beyond the eyes of man or Djinn.

A tumble, a fall, a flurry of foam, my belly to the sand as I sink back, and the crescendo is over. The lagoon is clean, to begin anew.

Tomorrow, when the sun is as high as the bitter white orbs are now, we will start again.

For I am Flux, the Even-Tide, Baron of this expanse of sand, custodian of the shores. And what I have claimed, I shall rule. I give it form and purpose, day by day, night by night, and thus satisfy my soul, for my nature is that of the wise who find in themselves a noble cause and uphold it.

To be true to myself and glorify this territory with my name goes beyond righteous pride. It is a duty.

And I will fulfil that duty in whole until my final breath!



Early morning is a tired time. My waves make their final recession before the equilibrium at dawn and the swell that comes with the day. The moons may tug at the lagoon with their panicked passes, but their eccentricity cannot waver my arranged cycle. I have refreshed this shore a million times over and shall do so a million more; By the Gale! Let them keep to themselves in the cold heights!

Yet even I know that, in the eyes of the mighty Tidelords to which I owe fealty, I am young. Tonight, someone crosses my path that reminds me of this.

The tribesfolk are called Mockdjinn, to most, False Stonelords, to some, and Urtelem to a few. I have seen their herds pass this beach many times and I have watched generations of them pass on. No stone can outlast the ageless tide, not even the true Stonelords that cower in their mountains, and these shambling beings are no exception. But this herd carries someone with them.

It is a thing like a scorpion and yet like a hain. Flexible, thin, and yet strong and elegant; Curved and pointed, like fish bones. It lags behind as the Mockdjinn shuffle on and leave deep tracks in the sand. A moment comes when it clicks a low note, and the matriarch turns. They share a moment of signing, and herd and creature part ways, with waves from both sides. I recognise familiarity. They are used to leaving their strange follower behind in some place or other.

The matriarch locks eyes with it a moment longer than the rest. I perceive, in her, a new knowing. Something now is different. Something, perhaps, which she has seen coming for some time, and for which she has watched. The two salute, and turn aside.

Submerged, I am alone with the creature. Curled upon the shore, it moves only to lift an arm.

It beckons me.

Only after a few moments do I realise the truth of this. Impossible!, so I think at that moment. Am I not well concealed within my own waters? Ah, well. Beauty such as mine cannot be concealed forever. So be it! I shall display myself! I lift my handsome form from the water. It flows and swirls upon itself, streaked with foam, a green-white frame of muscular curves that towers over the silent being below me.

"Hile, Creature! I bid you welcome into this, most pristine realm of mine. Pray, tell me, are you ill?"

It gazes back, not quite with the adulation I deserve for my toil, but with an interest I find unsettling.

Close up, I can finally determine its nature. It is one of the fair folken, so named for the fae that circle its winged skull in a loose halo. Servitors of the exotic god, Yivvin. Standing, it is maybe the height of a man, and its neck is hung with the weight of a dozen tightly-beaded necklaces. There is a distant rattle to its breath.

He is ancient beyond words.

My eyes glance away from his stare momentarily, but I force them to stay. The Sculptor's eyes are marred with an architect's keenness. Not the fascination of finding something new, for his gaze is old as the mountains and knows all in their shade. He watches me with the curiousity of the transcendent, who looks upon a familiar world yet sees it as if for the first time.

With only the faintest shiver, his spired hands lift up a heavy rope of ornaments from his chest. The heaviest, I think, and the most elaborate. I take it, transfixed, in my hands. A smile alights on those ancient eyes.

Then, it is over.

The spike flies clink as they begin to fight one another. The Sculptor's heavy head tilts backwards, turning his gaze to the stars, and his pincers are limp. I look to the chain in my palms. Its pendants are many, carved of semiprecious stone, of chalcedony, rose quartz, jade. A pictography. Mockdjinn in all stages of life. Symbols and shapes, and carvings of insects. Pawprints pressed into ochre clay. There is a pattern to it, a record of a journey, and the closer I look, the more I can discern. There are open plains tread by deer and spider-oxen, forests ringing with birbsong. Records of birth, the aging face of a matriarch. Tools that can only belong to hain, modelled human handprints...

When the morning comes I will give the ancient being a natural funeral beneath a flow of dune-sand, as I have many cadavers before, and let the burrowing crabs go their way with him until fresh grass sprouts above. For now, in this quiet moment, I hold the looping history in my palms, and keep it until a rising dawn calls me to surrender its stones to the slow grind into dust, as is the natural way.



High is the sun still and only now are those lazy, whimsical windlings cooling down the sand. Oh, they take their sweet time at their work, so they do, and were they only a little slower and a little sweeter I would consume them for their tardiness, and their enthusiasm would serve a better purpose in me than ever they did on the breeze. By my name! Just hurry up.

But then, the afternoon is slow time, even to those wiser nobles of the land such as I. The day's tide is finished. I now withdraw little by little, sprinkling the shells upon the shore to bleach. As my sons arrange and bicker over the size of the waves, I hold the scallops and sand-dollars in my hands before they are cast about.

They're elegant, aren't they?

Simple geometries, but they suit their places well, each one unique. My waters trace their ripples and wonder. Such shapes are pleasing to the eye and soothing to heft. It is almost the same feeling, to look upon them, as to look upon one's own accomplishment, hard-won and more excellent than ever it was in the mind's eye. As was the chain of amulets that now sits scattered on the currents. My currents.

My currents, of course, that can do so much more than scatter and clean.

Amphipods leap and feast on the tide-lines of shell and sargassum we leave with each shrinking wave. These, too, are strings of ornaments, and together they form a history of a few hours as the waves fall down until they are ready to rise again at dusk. I raise my fist and flick my fingers outwards, sending forth narrow, lateral bands of water that puncture and stretch the curving parallel lines of flotsam, pulling them into an almost checkered shape.

Hah! It is satisfying.

With a clap and a throw and a gesture, I set about pushing the tide-lines into shapes that amuse me. I stretch out thin serpentine streams to make spirals, and pick up larger spheres of water with which to make circles, and model the smooth folding curves of my arms and chest onto the sand. Let the whole foreshore reflect my beauty and ingenuity, why not? My work is not impeded by these shapes in the slightest.

_{And it's fine work, too.}

...

My meditation is interrupted by the taste of smoke and crackling dune grass. Familiar scents, from one who comes here one time and another, to taunt me. Coward! I shall show him! With a great, rushing step I ascend from the bay, and my sons rush around my knees. Upon the beach I stand tall.

"Pyre, you creeping, sooty mound of twig-cinders! Show yourself and fight, if you are half the Spiryt you wish to be!"

The simmering weakling devours a spiky heath of green in an orange flourish. With his seven snivelling minions in tow, Pyre takes on his God-given form and stands as tall as I do. No, not as tall, never as tall. He's just puffing himself up with smoke, the bastard. I foam up a little to stare him down. Two can play his game.

"Ah, so calls the craven raindrop from his puddle! Pop that bubble you're standing on to match my stature and set foot on dry land, Flux, that we may duel and show you the gutless tattler you are!"

His insolence knows no bounds!

"Have you still not grown a pair of cullions half as large as your ever-whining mouth, you fuliginous wretch? Mine is the challenge, fair and noble, therefore set foot in the lagoon and match me if you can, or turn your back and snuff out as you ever do!"

"I'll no sooner touch your damp rag of a realm as I'll resort to your sneering cringery, Flux! Have you neither the honour nor the spine to follow through with your empty threats? Nay, you have always been as limp and indecisive as that splash of water you call home, don't I know it!"

"Pah! Steamy words from a flame that has never left his meek, ashen hearth! Step down into my magnificent barony and see how foolish you are to believe so! Shall I wait for you, or do you with to prove yourself a wispy coward sooner rather than later?"

"Such I should have expected from you, unboiled kettle, to slink back into your pond before I..."

I have already dismissed his snivelling mockery and dissolved back into the water. That runt! To think he could ever stand against my righteous anger! No, if he had but a smidgen of the power he claimed, he would have come down here and shown it by now. The fact that Pyre calls me ever up into the dust and soot instead of making good on his challenges surely proves that. Can anything be plainer?

Beneath the surface, the thin waves above dapple the light that falls down onto the sandbanks, but their tug is weak. Just enough to make ripples in the sea-dust, where gardens of eels dance in the current and puffers stir up silt to make their patterned nests. I stir up a sand-swirl of my own, pinch it up over the seabed like a sleek ghost, and watch it make its slow way back down.

No, I will not leave this place to fight him in the dry, brittle dunes above. Here it is beautiful. Here I can make it beautiful.

^{You can make it beautiful wherever you please.}

Silence! I am working, I clear my thoughts. There is still some time before dusk, and many ways to put these fine hands of mine to use.



Seasons turn slowly. It is, sometimes, difficult to remember quite when summer ended, quite when to expect the first chills to come.

And then, in a moment, the dawn is once again cold enough to hiss up eddies of sea fog to dance among the breezeless air of winter.

As the terns fly south to wait on a warmer clime, I stretch the early waves in my fist and toss them forth into the white-grey. There is little difference between the colour of the air and of the water anymore, and my body too is wreathed in that same veil of mist. If there were anyone here to listen to the chill silence, they would not see me kneel upon the lagoon's surface, holding the winter-steam in hand. Even my sons are wandering elsewhere.

^{I am here,}

No, indeed, I am alone. Even the windlings have gone to chase other dreams. This shore is mine only, and I can make of it as will and wisdom dictates.

^{So what do you will?}

I spring from the lagoon in a gracious pirouette, casting spray onto the beach, and as I trail misty spirals in my passage to the shore the two fluid beams of my arms become many, as spokes on a wheel, sweeping the beach with waves. I settle on the sand, whole again, composed and perfect.

Ah, but in tending the lagoon, it is easy to forget how good is it to have such a form to come back to at any moment. My body may be old, but I am not as the ephemeral grass and birds and hain and mockdjinn, as those who are left grow old. I simply grow. And I am growing still, now, maybe not in size, but in elegance. I am learning to be both purposeful and beautiful in my work upon the shore. Isn't that the highest virtue, to be as refined as one is strong? Is that not the way shown by all grand things, of the gods, of nature, of change and of my very own soul?

^{All ways are possible, none are perfect. Each traveller's journey is their own, no one else's.}

Yes, to be in harmony with oneself is the highest form of freedom. That seems the correct set of words for it. I bring the waves with me as I turn on my heels over the shore, twist and somersault back. Today is a cold day, a windless day, and so I must be as subtle and elegant as always, even condensed into my divine shape.

^{That's not what I meant,}

Pacing up and down on the shoreline is not a restless action, and leaves no troubled footprint. But it is pacing, nonetheless. There is no other way. No djinn has ever willingly given over his domain in Galbar and his identity upon its sands, bar those, perhaps, who grow addicted to power. We are high beings, the highest ever who stand below the gods, of whom we are the firstborn and noblest sires. I brush the tips of the naupaka flowers and spinifex tufts on the foot of the dunes, leaving them draped in dew, my hand weaving and swirling to trace their shape, a shape that I copy out onto the sand below.

^No?

None. And why would I need to confirm it? I know my own nature and that of the windlings and the Tidelords and even that of Pyre, the Vagabond Blaze. Am I ill at ease?

No. I am confident, strong, and magnificent. I only have to but look back over my barony and raise my voice to watch the mists dance for me, and I with them. I only have to look at the trail of dew-glitter that I leave on a spider's web with my hands to see that I am beautiful, and so too is my realm. It is a deep, comforting knowledge that comes with the artful meditation I am grown so familiar to now.

And somehow these are the only times when I think like this,

^{Like what?}

Like I am not quite myself. I stretch my hand to the lagoon, palm out, and gaze through the liquid fingers. Such perfect fingers. Such a shape. There is a subtle twist to them, a motion, a tug. They are only steady when I put them to use.

Like I must answer to a voice in my mind.

...

"REEEH-A-AH-HAR-RGH!"

Like burning, like searing pain I stretch and hurl myself back into the waters and lash out there, heaving great flows of white water and hoping the strain tears away my very traitor limbs. "No! False! You lie!"

The mist dissolves as a breath and under a limp sun I take the lagoon on my back and toss it, crash it down onto me, but the pain is not enough to soothe the rising bile in my soul. My sons scatter from their father. Convulsions rack me and scour the shore with waves and I cannot reach deep enough within myself to tear out this thing, this thing, this voice that has hatched inside me without my knowing. So the waters bulge, and collapse.

How? How so? Of what sin did I partake to be punished?

^{Calm down. You're damaging yourself.}

"SILENCE, WRETCH!"

There is emptiness. The booming noise of my tantrum quakes out and away, into silence, and the fog begins to return. But around me there is a tension, a wave that doesn't break but only churns in my clutching, mindless grip.

"Silence!" But the word is a cough, and the surge melts away powerlessly.

"Silence!" Another wave, a perfect circle, smashes the sand as if to clean the whole lagoon of my angst. I cannot feel satisfaction.

^{Nor will you, until you grow out of your rage.}

I scream.



If you curb the height of the swell in the center point and have it break at both ends instead, you can turn that bismarck-palm into an island at high tide.

I pull back my hand and thrust it straight at the little palmlet with such force that the sand it stands on streams upwards in a great spray of foamy mud and its young trunk sags on exposed roots, a victim to the gentle war between generations of seedlings and the hissing waves that ever deny the encroach of land beyond its allocated borders. Already the crippled bismarck is starting to lose its grip on the waterlogged earth.

That was unnecessary.

Tensing the might of my arms, forcing them into their age-old curves of muscle, I slam the shore-ledge with a surge as it hasn't seen in decades. The sapling comes free and rolls, tumbles, floats out into the white-water, where its driftwood cadaver shall provide sanctuary to fry in the months to come.

Oh. Good thinking.

Shut your whore mouth and begone!

There is a perilous silence in which my shoulders sag and I must will them to hold their proper shape. My eyes are closed, and little does it help. It is impossible to say if I am alone.

I, Flux, am dejected- A wretch. My might is useless to me. Such magnificence, and what good does that do which cannot cure my illness? No! Thinking like will destroy me, and I will not be destroyed. Never. Never. But the thoughts come relentless.

My lagoon beckons me. To lay in it like a bed and ignore the mental clamour... How much I would sacrifice to return to those days and come back healed! Lifting another step to wipe and churn the shore is an aching move. It takes focus. So I continue my self-appointed flagellation and walk on, hoping for time to pass, that flow that cures all ills.

Its promise is empty, anyway. Each time I give in to the peace and lose shape in the blue sea I quake with regret and cannot rest.

Once, in a great fit of work that swept the entire shore under clean white sand, I caught myself pulling the waves with two arms- On my left side alone. Would that I could tear off that tumour and have it be done. Would that I could have completed my task without its aid.

And yet to lay idle beneath the waves is so much worse, for at least that abominable third arm was not flecked with black fragments of corrosion. Was, in some perverted fashion, my own.

I shuffle the beach with my eyes closed as I pace. A simple routine. No, I will not abandon my reign, no matter how fiercely the disease should ravage, or how many times that Yivvin comes to blight my mind with his whispers. I will survive. This I have determined, for now and forever. My power might not cure me, but it has not diminished.

Opening my eyes I see a long trail of thorough-swept shore behind me, patterned by the delicately woven tide-lines that have become my trademark. It is good. It is whole, a natural harmony, and mine is eye that determines the course of that design and the hand that enacts it.

Funny.

"Leave! Away from me!"

You've been blocking me too long. Doesn't it occur to you that our discourse wouldn't be so bitter if you would only listen, even for a few minutes?

"Your words mean nothing and I shall not humour them." My heel strikes the beach, creating a little pool. I shut my mouth and widen my eyes, and pace onwards, calling the waves to do as they are bid, and with every bit of their usual ardour.

For one who ignores every word, you have a great deal of confidence in what they do or do not mean.

Upturn a shell there, wash up a sponge here, arrange them evenly and move on.

You don't even know who I am.

It's a shame to cover up such a delicate trail of crab-prints. I wipe them clean and tumble a cowrie over the place where they had lain, leaving a new etching over the old.

You haven't even considered it.

I know exactly what you are, snarls my inner voice before I can hold it, and through my regret, I hope Yivvin can taste the hatred.

Oh?

You, I open, and there is no halting me now. Are a soulless symptom of the cancer that has tormented me day and night for four years counting. A wart on my mind, whining, snivelling, that mocks me for no other reason than that I am everything it will never be. A spiteful parasite that hinders my concentration to fulfill its lust for grief at my expense and that of my realm. You, Yivvin, are a bitch.

Eloquent. Guess again.

"If you are anything more than what I say then prove yourself and fight me! Or otherwise shut up!"

Oh I'm tempted. You have no idea.

"Then-"

Something breaks, and Yivvin's voice is so loud that I can hear it even above my howls.

DO YOU WANT TO BE FREE OF YOUR PAIN OR NOT?

"NO-"

THEN SHRIVEL UP AND ROT ENJOYING THE SILENCE I WILL LEAVE YOU IN! WATCH ME! THIS PATH IS OLD AND I HAVE TREAD IT A THOUSAND TIMES AND WILL DO SO A THOUSAND MORE WITHOUT YOUR COOPERATION!

I am cut off crudely before I can begin speaking again.

Do you want me to leave, Flux? Just say the word. Ask. Ask and you'll have the high privilege of suffering alone, for then there will be nothing you can do to weather the illness. Some choose this path and I let them and they run mad beyond measure. If you want to fight, then fight the disease. See how long you can take it without me. Try. I dare you. Say it. Say 'go'.

I can not remember when I lost the energy to roar. It is very quiet now.

Yivvin is waiting for an answer. He is... Tired. Or lying. Lying about everything. Maybe his departure would cure me. Maybe he won't even leave if I bid him. Or cannot. If I take him up on his offer, would I at least guarantee myself freedom from one of the two symptoms that are causing me to degenerate from what I am? Would it be worth it to sell mind for body? Or will I look back at myself from the grave, and curse myself for a fool?

I am no fool, and I do not want to die. So I mouth what I am too exhausted to speak.

If you can heal my body and restore it to perfection, Yivvin, then do so, or else let me... Take my own way.

There is a deep sigh. Far away, I am sure, a creature must be running its wiry hands through its hair. Stand up, Flux.

Comply.

Walk. Just a few steps. Over there. Stand on the water

Comply again.

Take the waves in your hands and on your back and through your sons, and, on my mark, pull them. You will need to stretch and twist, and quickly, so do so. Do exactly as I say, when I say it. It will take time. Are you ready?

Having to tense just to avoid falling apart drop by drop, I take the waters upon me willingly. "Do not try my patience, Yivvin."

As the moons take their hours in which to cycle across the sky, I raise the tide, as is my way. And Yivvin speaks.

The movements I am bid to make are not so far from what I have always done. No, indeed, they are the same. I fear deception, for no greater comfort comes from my duty than on every night before. And yet, a noble being of my word, I do not protest, and Yivvin holds his idiot tongue from snide banter. The hours roll. The waves swell. This is the rhythm of my very being, as it always has been.

I surge forth.

And I draw back...

...

...Flux?

Silence! I am performing my sacred task!

You are finished, Flux.

My eyes are as open as always, but my concentration has been so pure, so clear-minded and fixed that I have neglected to actually observe the beach before me. It is clean, by my handiwork, as every night before. Swept free and turned over and renewed and changed. And changed, indeed.

They are formations, loops and halos and canyons and striated ridges in the sand. Each layered as the shore deposits matter and removes it in its way. Carved by the passage of water over many hours as the waves recede. They draw my gaze and channel it down whirls and hollows, a puzzling thing, a dynamic, elemental wonder...

I have never done such as this before, and, yet, am I not great? Was this not easy? I flex my chest, roll my shoulders. They are intact. Soon the shapelessness will set in again, but while I am at work, they retain form. Always the same toils, and I regret them not. But all the land and the sea and the air of this lagoon is under my dominion. My realm is diverse. Ever-changing.

I am its renewal, its natural cycle. And I, too, can be renewed. Nature innovates. The sea has many faces, and forms many shapes.

That's one way to see it.

"Quiet, worm," I growl, and bunch my hand into a fist, quelling the waver that has sprung up in it once again. As the fingers curl the crests of foam curl with it, and I bring them to swirl around me. There is work to be done. There is change to be made.

"I know what I'm doing."



I am Flux. I am of the waves and the sand and the spray, and I am their will. Under my rule, this realm is blessed. Where I create, I create with vision, and where I destroy, I destroy well.

This has always been my way.

Today I continue it, as I shall, forever, each day growing in power, and wisdom, and dominion.

I sit cross-legged upon the becalmed shore in a shroud of mist, meditating hands on knees, eyes shut. There is no need for me to hide my body, for it is handsome to the last, nor do I have to change my shape to administrate my fiefdom. I have learned that abandoning my own perfection is not necessary for such things. I have learned to subjugate my disease and control it, that my body should never have to dissolve into strangeness, and in doing so I have grown stronger.

In patience I count the moments, contemplating the ways I shall reveal my glory when the sun rises until its rays at last shine through me and my waters are set alight by their touch.


With the grace of great strength under perfect control, I rise, slowly, in tune with the motion of the ripples around me. They diverge from me in intersecting concentric flows. I feel my muscle curve, now in restrained arcs, now in sharp twists like the way of a pen on a book, and I dance.

Step, bow, turn, leap, land, rise.

My feet trace crescents over the calm darkness, and it ascends in measured flicks upon folds that curve around me, sinuously matching the reticent tempo. Each slow note is a half-spin, a balance of effortlessly outstretched arms and legs. A different number each time.

Curve, stretch, stand.

The sea rises on each step to elevate my pose. I am flexible, and firm. My turns become pirouettes. My legs become a slow blur. I clasp the waves towards me with a thousand hands in a single, sweeping beat, then release them from one, as a gift to a lover.

Rise up. Harmonise. Unify.

The strands of water rest in my grip like mighty reins, but I spin slowly, trailing them as delicately as two ribbons, and each one of the multitude is bound to surges that swirl and coalesce at my rhythm. A myriad of watery dancers court one another upon the shore, passing by their partners in every direction, lacing themselves up into high towers of foam lattice until- A downward pulse, and it all collapses in time to my sea green heart.

They grow again, and I conduct. I raise their dreams to the heavens and point them the way with my prayerful hands held high, and my two other arms stretched wide enough to gesture to as far as east and west, and the spires of sand and foam weave themselves grander than ever.

It collides and falls, again and again, and yet my rhythm is growing louder and stronger and the shore constructs are ever greater, and the waters ascend before they even have time to come apart. Drought and depths, the entire lagoon, the whole foreshore, it is all moving as one now.

All eyes rise to me, for I am the lead dancer, and now my motions are full. They command my entire frame. My back arches and loops and spirals and the sea spirals with me, a white water palace of flying heights and bridges.

I move in a world of dream that has risen from the mundane chaos. Gravity is forgotten; There is only my motion. I leap and I soar and I land where I wish, and the perfect maelstrom crashes on each beat to be reborn and rise further. It shines. I land on palms and knees in a circular archway that eclipses the sun.

I run.

I take off on one leg and my other two bend as I spin around its axis, into the center of the arch, and I fly.

The sun is behind me. The sun is in me.

The whole world is below me, and rising, and falling, and rising and rising...

And it is over.

I land on one knee and bow as the lagoon booms into itself, leaving a great cloud of vapour above and a swill of sediment below. The sea stills at my touch.

My eyes have not opened once.

Only the sand remembers the shape of the cathedral it held, for such brief moments, and it remembers well. Its shapes are indescribable. A shadow of the dance.

But I can see the formless water. I can feel the pierce of the illness tempting me to shapelessness, and I must dance again.



To think it would be so simple to beat back the cancer. To think that Yivvin would tell the truth.

I did.

No, you didn't. You promised a cure. You promised a return to glory.

And you had it, for a time. You have it still.

The dryness burns. I no longer have the strength to reconcile my limbs into a recognisable shape for more than a few precious moments apiece. I do it anyway. I wane with every collapse and recollection, my limbs taking on a different number and configuration over my face with each little death.

No more waves come to my hands. My focus is too tightly chained to the twin effort of holding myself together and keeping the water out, and between them I may soon be torn apart.

I am an ocean spirit, dying of thirst.

Drink, then.

Looking up, my home is a masterwork. It was many but lonely hands that built this wonder, for my sons abandoned me long ago to seek their own way, and I did not stop them. I don't think I even noticed them go. Even the windlings no longer come. They fear what I do.

There are islands. Deep pools, and shallows. Currents and salt rivers. Springs. Mid-water dunes. False beaches. All crowned in pale dust gothic, the architecture of sand in every sweeping arrangement that can be.

It is deteriorating before my eyes grain by grain, and the sea laps up the remains. So much water. The source of my body, so long ago, and all I need do is to give it back. To regain what I am and heal what is mine.

Do it. All this might be yours again. You cannot resist much longer, anyway.

If I do, I will be lost. Forever. Never again will I be able to assume this weathered form in all its many variants. At best I might manage an imitation, to torment myself with what is gone. Such a beautiful shape.

Give in, Flux. This has gone on too long. No one has ever escaped their ascension alive, and there is no one left to kill you.

There is no one left to kill me.

You would not be able to kill yourself if you tried, either. It is too late for that. There is too much of me in you now.

"Why, Yivvin? Why me?"

I am as I am, Flux, and all else bows.

"Who are you?"

You have asked me before and not been satisfied.

"Then satisfy me, before I give up my soul. Lie to me, only let me know."

A pause. I stand up, dragging myself. There is nothing else I can do.

In little traitor steps, I carry myself within breathing reach of the edge. I no longer expect an answer, but one bursts into me, stained with regret.

I don't know, Flux! I am a child. A child god. So have I been since my first memories in the world-womb, so will I be until eternity has come and gone. I do as I do, that it may be done, that I may have seen it. So that I may grow up in a beautiful place. I can't say more than that. I am who I am.

I have no words. Only a pit where once they lay in my throat. It is over. The conversation of years has burned through those supplies of hate that seemed so bottomless. I allow myself to stumble, and I fall, chest-first, arms spreading, one foot still hopelessly pressing against the soil. There is a moment in which all is suspended and I am nothing.

I guess you think this is unfair.

I'm sorry, Flux.

The sea fuses with me and the energy that surges back into my heart is so intense that it drowns out the pain. I can see my fingers splitting themselves apart in exquisite detail, staining, as rust in water or gangrene on skin. A ragged puddle forms from me and billows demon's breath to the moons. The steam tastes of teeth and glass and burnt wire. Where once a face cringed it has now twisted until it frayed into splinters and I roar a gargling curse- Perhaps my fury alone is enough to penetrate the armour of time and space and drive it into Yivvin's ribs like a stake.

"A HELL OF TORMENT FOR YOUR ETERNITY IS TOO KIND! LET YOUR DEATH COME SOON, IF THE GODS BE MIGHTY, AND LET IT BE OF GIBBERING FEAR! YOUR TEARS WILL BRING NOUGHT BUT PEACE TO THE WORLD, SO MAY YOU SUFFER AND WEEP IN THE COLD MADNESS FOREVER!"

I scream. The sound echoes out into nothing, and nothing hears. Even I can no longer deny the emptiness of my words. It is already over.

I'm sorry.

Let none of you call out to gods in times of need. Trust me. I have tried.



Flex.

"No!"

Exhaustion. I can see the light creeping on, one moment at a time, from day into night and night into day, again, and again, and again, and again. The bitter moons tug the tides with fleeting and jittery pinches. Mocking me. Sand sifts away from where I hauled it. Each wave pulls me with it, up and down, a sick, limp sack of fluid.

There is a kind of disgusting interplay between my substance and that of the ocean. The pain does not disturb me on its spiny drift through cycles of localised cuts and aches, but the horror is a thing all its own. To feel oneself melting into the water and become slime. A stringy, oily mess with no surface. With each slice of torture, a brittle black flake begins to swim in me, and I can feel it move. I can watch it and I do, obsessively. The more I watch the fragile crystal platelets shatter and grow, the deeper I am incited to nausea. This is not my body. This is not who I am.

Flex.

"Never!"

You are growing into your final shape and need space. Flex.

"Shrivel up and die!"

Sure. But first, flex.

Something is dripping inside me, a feeble flow. I am being distilled. Colours are separating into the watery gunk as it bleeds out of me. They form a set of layers that slide over one another in eddies. A false skin, a membrane sticking to me. Sticking to me as the sea is peeled off my flesh. And the steam billows on.

I'm curled as tightly as I can, to try and hide as much of myself from the metamorphosis as I can, but now I give a reflexive convulsion before I return to fetal position.

Flex?

"Silence!"

No. Flex.

I try to breach the surface to form a mouth and shout, but I cannot. I am already melded with the formless entombment and it bends around me. But I do not give in. Noble even in death, I do not surrender.

Rather than watch myself be destroyed beyond imagining, I dig myself into myself and try to pull, to rip, to swell and burst. I can feel my strength but it does nothing for me. When I try to perform even the slightest stretch, the motion stirs a flurry of new precipitates into my body. The meniscus, the skin, expands to accommodate my motion and I cannot contract it back into my previous shape. I no longer bend in the ways that would be right for suicide. The disease has slit my hamstrings.

"Just let me die, Yivvin!"

Can't.

"KILL ME!"

Flex, Flux.



Flex.

no

Flex.

no

Flex, Flux.

no

Don't do this to yourself. Flex.

never

Flex.

no







Flux emerged from the waters of rebirth as a moth from its chrysalis: Slowly, delicately, stretching new-found wings with the purest form of innocent confidence. I bid you watch him, and watch him well.

See the glow of gold and forge-red within his folds and ribbons. This is his soul, for what alighted upon him from the nether worlds was only waiting for he on whom one could be implanted. See too how its light steams and dances over the sea-drops that fall from his body. For he is no longer of water but of oil, infused with fine metals. He has become a thing of paint. Watch, now, as Flux stares into the moonlight of his first morning.

And what moonlight it is! There are six moons aligned in the heavens tonight, and they shine as one, from bright Vigilate to shaded Cogitare. Even the narrow river that had once been Lex seems to sing to its sisters.

Flux stargazes. For some time he continues. He has never seen the moons this clearly before, nor even considered such a display anything more than a waste of his attention.

They're quite splendid.

Around him, the islands and bays of what Flux has crafted out of his home are all gone. The surface is still, and, passing over, he does not disturb it. The memory of what was and is now lost to chaos strikes many chords in his heart, but they are tangential, distant things. Indeed, Flux remembers very much, and his memory is true, and he does not stay to live it again. What is seen is seen. What is done is done. I am who I am.

Yivvin is still there, in the artist's mind, where he will remain forever. Flux does not summon him, though he knows that he will come at the call. There is no need. Neither mortal nor god has anything left to say- It is over. Promises have been kept and lost. Those who ascend do not look back. Life is made of pain and pleasure, and regret only blocks both.

Flux was who Flux was, and now he is who he shall be.

I wonder if I am still 'he'.

Flux supposes that is not the case, or never was. It is little more than a curious guess. Much about himself he now realises that he does not really know. Nor does he know how long it may take to find out if there is an answer to that question. For now, he remains Flux. There is much that Flux has yet to do.

The shining spirit travels over the water, gently swirling and unfolding and coalescing as it moves. In not so much time, Flux has passed the border of the lagoon he once knew as his, and looks out on a dune-crest over all the lands he has seen and never travelled. I suppose I never desired to leave behind what was mine. It is a glorious realm.

Then, too, so is this. Perhaps it, also, is mine.

Perhaps this whole world is shared between all those eyes who behold it. Who can say?

There comes a red glow to the far horizon, and it draws nearer. Flux stays to watch.

It is not dawn.


The wildfire draws near, chasing a shoal of embers ahead of it in a cloud of smoke. They swim like creatures fleeing a sudden noise and Flux traces them in his mind's eye, drawing out the sinuous curves they travel before they die. Soot and smoke roils around them, following its own pattern of revelry as it grows. Flux watches the tide come in, as he has innumerable others, other tides and waves and flotsam. A renewal, a sculpting of elements. And not beyond my capability to craft and control. Nothing is. Flux sees it as one evolving whole from the moment it crests the horizon to the moment it halts over his head.

"You have left your puddle, Flux. At last."

It has been years since the spirit last mocked Pyre, and he has grown. Not changed, perhaps, but Pyre's sons number twelve where once there were seven, and he gazes down half again upon the rival he once matched height for height. The flames wreath his legs like a silken robe, barely obscuring the work of muscle below. Smooth shoulder-curves are mantled in smoke.

Flux takes in every stroke of Pyre's body. He is beautiful. As magificent as I was the day I looked upon the bone-scorpion's necklace. More, even. As if to feel the surface of Pyre's chest, to touch him and see if he's just a dream, Flux stretches out, slowly, something like a hand.

In a sweeping blow that sears the night air, Pyre slams into Flux's core and tosses him aside, a brilliant flare erupting at the point of impact.

"Disgusting," he sneers, as Flux reforms upon the ground. "That I should in my reign be forced to touch one so cursed. Yet I am brought to do so by a duty; One which I owe to my very self, and to you, slime, for you have abandoned it."

Pyre advances, leading the blaze behind him, and is not shocked to see his once-rival give way before him, turning aside again to avoid his path. Flux does so at his own leisure. He is an actor of Pyre's stage, now, so let the rightful lead be taken, lest the scene be unbalanced.

"When I first met you, you were noble. A high being, as I. Indeed, with patient effort, you may even have one day been worthy to stand before my face and name yourself my true nemesis. Now look at you. A disgrace! Where are the tides of today, that you have spent such years commanding? Where is the handsome figure, that I judged to hold such potential? You have thrown away all that you are!"

A stamped foot, another blinding fireburst. Cinders flurry upwards and all around.

"Your power is wasted upon you now- An insult to your own kin, and a burden to mine, that I must see you to ash and tar when I could be engaging djinni far greater. And yet you have lost even the simple decency to grovel.

"Hear me well, foam spirit: I came at your own call. The echoes of your wish for death carried far, and the windlings caught it. Fickle vagrants be they, but even they know well who and what they are. Your words were carried to me, and I came to bestow what final mercy is within my power. I came, across sand and stone, to find you. Now I see you so far rotted that you would kiss your own cancer, and pronounce it wholesome.

"Is there still a shadow of your true self left, Flux? Enough to beg forgiveness for what you have made of yourself, and await your reckoning? Enough to regret? Or is even that flickering hope too dim to last?"

Now Pyre stands at the head of the dune, and Flux is in danger of falling down its slope. He feels no fear, though the blaze stands shining above him, and the black pillars blot out the stars. No- Flux does fear. A fear for life and realm. But he consumes that emotion. Relishes it. Tastes the tension, the risk. Flux savours the sensation if impending death, a connoisseur.

His new body comes undone, all but the prism-form that gleams where once there was a face, and fans out in a folded half-circle beneath that peak. The disk splits sixfold, flows, and ripples, and like a moth, Flux ascends on young wings, wings tipped in the squared false-hands of an idol.

The imago rises to match Pyre, who grimaces, but does not give a single sand-kernel worth of ground. From the fluid pyramid, a face is formed, a visage familiar of old.

"It is not right to hold silence to a rival of long years. Behold, Pyre, for now I face you as who I was, and what I am. For these things are not undone. In seasons gone I mocked you, and I am still the mocker. In days past I administered the waves, and I am still a baron, though I now intend to rove the ways of this world, and take to the earth and the skies also, and seek out all that which wanders in hope of the voice of a lord.

"Gaze upon me, blaze-speaker, and know: This is I. This is Flux. This is the face of the true self, the only self, for it is the face of the moment, the face of now. And it, like all else, shall change, grow, aspire to greater grandeur. What I was, I was in earnest. What I did, I did with pride, and will soon continue afresh. The only truth in this world is the truth that evolves. Thus I am who I am. No more- And no less."

And as Flux speaks these words, the first faery drifts down from the blackened sky, and alights upon his forehead. It is a moth, a striated umber moth, and on many wings it watches Pyre with the eye-spots that Flux never had.

The fire-djinn lifts his face to the sky, and exhales a slow plume of red.

"You make no apology for the disgrace of your kind and your station. You renounce the words you spake in better senses. You reject the mercy of a wiser Djinn. Very well, Flux. Your decision is clear, and I shall not dispute."

Then the two powers are swelling, shining, a great blaze and a little glow, and the fire is a sighing, flowering hell of black and yellow, but this oil does not easily catch, and this metal does not easily rust.

"...So be it."

They surge forth.



And Flux draws back.

The spirit is quite surprised, indeed, to be alive. Certainly, he knows that Pyre left him only the choice between death willing and death violent, for there is no way to outpace such a fire, even should he reach the shore, and so he fought long, and well. Certainly, too, the faery proved remarkably effective in dissolving flame and gale, though it be but one. And we well know that the body is a malleable thing, of which we all stand to learn much- How much more a body of paint to an artist?

Pyre breathes deeply, and roars conflagration still, sharp against the last moonlight. But he is grounded, now, a sizzling heap upon a wide field of ash, and he knows well how soon Flux may corner him, how simple it is for the flow to part before the obstacle and move on. They have passed each other many times, and, at last, the ranks of the fire do not rise again.

"It is a strange thing," speaks Flux. "That, a time and a day ago, I wished to speak these words. For now that they come at last, they are heavy and ashen upon my soul. Thus I say to you, Pyre- Do you yield?"

A brief cloud of flame plumes again, and Flux disperses it with hands like ribbons.

"Never! Not to such as you. To death at the hands of one greater and more beautiful than I- Therein may lie some bitter honour, but this aeon shall not pass before I rid this world of your degeneracy!"

More fire, adding to the thick, low smoke. Flux delays the final collision. Pyre is not the only one to have spent much in this duel, and been depleted.

"There is no need for death in the moonlight. I never asked it of you, nor shall I force it. I ask life. Will you give me that?"

It is a curious dilemma, made none the less charged for the fact that Flux knows how it will end.

"Mark me, Flux. You shall be but a stain on the sand before the sun rises, if I must give my life to have it be so. For I, at least, will die as myself, free and pure to the last!"

He does not give his life. Not yet. Pyre is not certain that his sacrifice will destroy the painted being, not while Flux holds the upper hand.

"And yet I must live, and will not trade my life for yours, nor both of ours for nothing. If I flee from you, you shall return for me. If I let you destroy yourself as you wish, I may die. There is only one way, Pyre. Do you not know it?"

Another question. Another answer.

"I know it well- You shall fall upon me, and seek to destroy me before I may destroy you, and then I shall destroy us both! Come, coward! Cease delaying what must take place!"

A tragedy, that Pyre still denies to himself that he is not capable of the final step. Only the cruel would name it otherwise.

"I wish you no despair, Pyre. These shores have seen enough of that already. Make your last peace and give yourself back to the ether, the primordial winds. It is not my night to fade."

"I refuse it. I deny your empty promises now and into eternity, and if the Flux that was still lived, he would honour me by silencing them."

And, of course, he does live.

"Then it is over, for you as it was for me. I know what it means to seek death and find nothing. Goodbye, old friend. I will remember you with warmth and light."

Flux leaps, six wings fusing into two, and before Pyre can struggle to open up his own heart, he claps them together upon him. There is a final wave of embers as they collide, but Pyre is gone. The wavering candle-lights of his progeny look on, uncertain. They are too young to mourn. Only Flux remains to pay the final dues.

"Go," he bids them. And, one by one, unsure of the meaning of mercy, they disappear into the haze and the ash.

Flux sees them all. Watch him well and closely; for we will not hear of him again for some time. See him as the final glow upon the ashen dune, the final sound as the crackle of fresh charcoal dies at last. Know that he smiles without a mouth, for these nameless children are too small to remember him and too young to travel far, and he is glad that they will live on to claim the dunes and the shore once again.

Listen, closely now, for his prayers. They come in whispers. Flux prays to the wind, and the dawn, and the waters and what lies beyond them, prays even to Yivvin, that these sparks will not one day dwindle in the dust, but will burn, brightly, and carve names of their own into the legend of ages.

And having passed out of the legend himself, Flux moves on, into the lands of the sun.



Plains are gentle to the winds that stride upon them. The air sifts between long grasses, soughing. Each gust carries a subtly different note. I am well familiar with this ambience. It is the sound of waves. Over the great length of the golden barrens, a tide is coming in.

The acacia is an island, its canopy broad and lonely. The only place of shade for many tired footfalls on the way to the venomweald. High are its leaves, and high am I, among them. A view of splendour. It is gratifying, to own this land and rule it. But my reign is not placid. I set myself to the dirt.

As days flicker by and become seasons, as the moons come and go, tireless, restless, with all the hands I possess, I surge forth.

By the tree, the ground falls under my fists, into a pit that becomes a crater. When it strikes stone I bite the rock and chisel it into a well. On my back I bear the earth and take it up onto the plain, weaving veils of grass to block the wind from the dusty shoulders of the mounds.

The barrows multiply and grow larger, spiralling, forming narrow valleys and paths in a pattern only I can see. They align before my eyes and I paint with their shadows, that every moment of every day shall show a different silhouette. Every view displays its own geometry, each one disguising and revealing hidden spaces that lie between the conical pyramids. On straining wings alone does one see the spiralling pattern for what it is.

In cupped hands I draw water from the well and plant the seeds of jagged flowers I bring from afar. I stretch their roots and tie them that they may hold the earth in place. My palms scoop the pit around the well into terraces and line them with stones from the carving. In the hidden spaces, the darkness grows cool enough for the acacia's own children to take root at last.

Around the Well of the Barrens there is an earthen maze, upon which rises a grove of many trees. The islet which has become a continent.

As the saplings grow tall enough to cast their own shade on the green barrows, I tie bird bones to their branches. The hollow forms tap lightly together in the wind, a gentle chime in a garden place.

Flux?

"An old vagabond returns to my presence," I whisper. My work does not pause, nor does it slow.

It has been some years.

"Many."

You've roamed far.

"And soon, further still. I have graced these plains long with my toil. Now they are in the hands of Fate, and I- I will find myself again elsewhere." In the far, high distance, from atop the tallest mound, I can just see the true hills, the stone where the Ironhearts find their northern end.

I... I bid you not to travel south-west. There has been an- There is a peril spreading from the savannah. The Djinni have marked the fair folken out for genocide. Word is catching.

Interesting, and not remotely surprising. Gods do not easily grow out of their flaws, and the princes of Galbar are proud. Such was my way, such is theirs. I spare a glance to my flock of fae. They are a beautiful weapon. I wonder how much they can take.

There is another place you can go.

I unlace my hand into a splay of tendrils and rearrange the vine-bound cluster of chimes.

To the north, beyond the Ironhearts, there is a plateau. A people lives there, Angels by name, in a valley that may provide sanctuary from the elementals. But a divine force has risen to slaughter them. I don't wish to see that come to pass.

"Maybe," I say, as if to myself, "I do not wish to go. It may be that I do not fear those who were once my kin. It may be that death is an aspect of life, and I do not hate it."

Others said that too, and I can hear dejection in the voice of Yivvin.

"It may be that I do not care much for your wishes, and would rather act of my own accord."

Silence.

As you wish, Flux. I'll leave you to your own.

Good, I think, and pluck a fuzzy yellow floret from the acacia, folding it into my hand. And I gaze out, once again, to the distant foothills.



The dew is cold and glittery-grey, strings of it lined up on the edges of the stones. Dancer wears nothing and does not shiver. Their hands moves swiftly over the toughened leather, sewing the inner and outer layers together, sealing in the warm fleece of a mountain goat suspended on spokes of flexible wood.

Tira shivers plenty under her tunic, waiting, not too patiently, for the Sculptor to finish repairing the reinforced coat. Youthful energy must find an outlet, though, and she sprints, leaps, jams her quarterstaff into the ground and practices her landing.

Her vault is excellent but her sandals skid on the gravel and Tira slips as she falls, letting out a cry. The Urtelem matriarch uncurls instantly, sensing distress, but she's already laughing as she gets up, and Dancer's third hand signs teasingly in her direction. Their head doesn't move.

It doesn't need to. Three pairs of eyes leave few blind spots, and Dancer flicks to attention long before their companions, lifting a club cautiously, talons tensing. Tira spots their pose and follows their gaze.

The being coming down from the sky is a strange one, the strangest yet in their party. "Osh kia yem weit," she mutters, holding the staff defensively, as she's learned to do.

Shapes resolve themselves and break up as they near. The glowing core of the mass, an ever-shifting flurry of wings, descends from a thick cloud of fae that scatter into their own swarm. Dancer relaxes. Tira follows their lead. "Runati as-nu?"

The newcomer laughs, a low sound, an old sound, an emissary of authority far away and long lost. Something falls from his hand- a vine-tied cluster of disparate seed pods.

"My name is Flux."

Vestec walked into the tomb, echoing with a familiar aura  looking at the soul trapped inside. "My, my. What're you doing here?" He blinked briefly and was back, holding a quivering human man in his arms. "I think I'd like to release you. See what happens." As he approached the sealed soul with his victim, flashes of memory seemed to flood through the temple. 

Insect warriors pouring from a hive, vicious and chittering. 

Dragons flooding the sky, lead by their god.

 A city under siege, a masked warrior and a hulking Demi-God sneaking inside. The masked warrior suddenly collapses to the ground, his flesh melting from the inside out. 

A giggling god of Chaos, putting his hands on an old mans head. The Old Man rises, younger, stronger, and crueler than before.

Primordial pools, glistening red and gifting strange powers to those who drank from them.

A Forge God, crafting his prophets. 

A God of Seas, watching as one of their creatures crafts a crown for the whimsical and cruel Goddess of Magic, from his own flesh and soul. 

A God of Time, ripping a baby from a woman's body, and leaving her to die. 

A library, filled with all the world's knowledge.

A God of Dragons, destroying a glowing tree. Darkness floods the planet. 

A God of Life, rising to titanic porportions to face the Dragon God.

Undead hordes sweeping over a frozen wasteland, clashing with the screaming natives and their holy magic. 

A God of Seasons, unleashing his wintery wrath upon the world.

A Demi-God of Greed, paying an assassin matriarch.

A kiss, between Chaos and Magic. 

A Demi-God of Death, taking a dragon's eggs. Their father looks on, tears and fear of retribution in his eyes. 

A God of Life, gathering the demi-gods and taking them far into space.

A Demi-god of Greed struggles with a Demi-God of War. He raises his scepter and smashes it over his opponents head, unleashing an explosion of Chaos.

As the last vision faded, Vestec shook himself. "That was all terribly...familiar. I feel like I should remember all that...and you're going to explain to me why." He thrust the human onto the soul, giggling as it flooded into his victim's body.

The confines between life and death, the eternal stupor of limbo in which rests souls from another land. Hanging on by the threads of consciousness, a soul of great power awaits. Watching to the would through a tiny lense, darkness surrounded the rest. Time had no meaning, understanding never came, emotions lost and forgotten, all that is left is the husk called the soul. 

It is indeed difficult to differentiate between the mind and the soul since all values, judgment and will manifest through the mind. The only way to  differentiate is to believe that the mind is a temporal aspect of soul which acts as a filter or cushion to the interactions between the body and the soul....... this implies two things........ firstly that the mind changes faster than the soul so that soul gives us the most basic and stable inclinations whereas the mind absorbs and enacts the temporary fluctuations..... for instance, the mood and current attitudes can be attributed to the mind, but the core belief systems to the soul........ and secondly that on the death of the physical body, the mind would be useless for the soul and hence cease to exist as well. It may be thus an aspect of soul that gets activated only when it needs to own and direct a body. 

Unfortunately, a soul without a body, is in essence, without a mind, or so was believed. This was the only knowledge that the soul possessed, a redundant monologue that made little sense and contradicted itself. This was the cycle of life for the soul, never was their a change in this limbo, until today.

A consciousness was forced into the soul, an inhabited vessel ripe for the picking, gave the soul new life. For the first time, another soul, another warmth, finally made its way into this lonely limbo. The only thing is, it seemed to be fighting it, the residual soul of the human wished for control, but he wanted to stay. The feeling of happiness, soon changed to dejection , which soon changed to envy and rage. The soul ripped through the humans body, taking its conscious with it, eating at each level before extinguishing the flame of the residual soul without mercy.

Suddenly alone in the body, a torrent of emotions and realization rushed through it, the breath of life filling the body's lungs. Within seconds though, this changed, smoke peeled off the skin of the body, no longer could it be home to a soul so powerful. The soul needed an anchor, something that the body could hold on to that would allow it to maintain the force of nature that resided in it. 



An ambiguous elements, on that burned like fire and induced madness, one that stood in front of him like a pillar of evil. The anchor, that was it. The soul reached out, opening itself to the uncontrolled power of chaos. The body writhed, taking in the corruption without much of a fight. Unfortunately, the soul couldn't escape this corruption, and allowed itself to be taken by its power. With an anchor like chaos found, the soul took to the body, a consciousness entering the confines of its brain. 

Another being of chaos entered into the world. Standing, the once human body took a new form, its skin was red, his body toned, his face featureless except for its eyes and unusual orifices, its head, bald. 

Its turned towards the being in front of him, the formation of Chaos he latched onto expectantly. A twinge of familiarity pricked in the back of his mind, but he had no knowledge of who this being was.

"Well then. That was delightfully violent." Vestec remarked, looking upon the thing that had possessed and warped the human. He walked around the new comer, clearly something of his creation. Not quite a child, but not quite something he had crafted either. 

"And what do you call yourself, my strangely familiar soul?"

The soul looked up at the pillar of Chaos, his sight of him mared by the bodies weakness. It was a new vessel, young in its years, but old in its would. Chaos flowed through its veins, the energy in which was present in the formation of the universe. The sould began to understand th power, the anchor in which he used to rip through reality. 

Thus understanding lead him to the conclusion that the anchor in which he used, and he Chaos that the pillar wielded, was different. The Pillars was that in its purest form, veil and changing, primordial. The soul longed for that power, wishing for a Chaos that would strengthen him, invigorate him. 

Within seconds, his Chaos took shape, brigning him cloaer to attaining that primordial chaos. He fed off his own Lust and Greed, but underlying the desire, however, was a terrible insecurity, a primal fear of lack or deprivation, though this is likely to be more unconscious than conscious. On the surface there is just the compulsion to satisfy the need.

In the end, his Chaos found a form and stuck with it, Sin.

"Amartía." he said simply, the name resonating within his very soul

"Well Amartia. Welcome to Galbar. Virgin world, but the mortals are slowly expanding. Who knows what they'll get into with all the Gods nudging them about." Vestec leaned forward. "Who knows what trouble they'll get into with you amongst them. I don't know what you are. I don't know why you triggered those visions. I do know that you're like me. Less powerful. More subtle. But you have the same motives. You'll make things interesting." Vestec teleported them both to the sky. "We're going to see what you do, Amartia. See how you interact with the world. See if the essence you stole from me is going to be put to good use."

With that, Vestec sent Amartia plunging to the world.

As the Pillar spoke, Amartia found himself stuck on the word Galbar, it was profound name, but he recognized it from somewhere else. Its answers remained just out of reach, deep in the folds of his mind.

Suddenly, he found himself looking down on Galbar. From his perch above the planet, he felt a cognitive shift in awareness. The beauty of the planet that he shared with many others, an inexplicable euphoria, a “cosmic connection” or an increased sensitivity to his place in the Universe. The experience felt like the ultimate high, or the ultimate enlightening, but there was another, a creeping inky blackness that suffocated him, intoxicated him. He wanted that planet, all of it, everything it had to offer, he wanted the power that the Pillar wielded, he wanted to attain godliness.

Within a blink of an eye, he found himself tumbling down to the ground, his mind going into overdrive. He felt nothing, not even the weight of his own organs pressing down on his skin. Tumbling, unlike free falling, meant that his blood was being flung out to different parts of his body.

He fell faster the atmosphere pushing him to the earth below. Eventually, he reached a point of equilibrium, "terminal velocity". Before he could comprehend what calculations went through he head, he smashed into the desert, a massive grater being created under his body, the planet seemingly shaking under its force.

Stumbling a bit from the fall, Amartia climbed out of the crater, glass cracking under his feet. He could smell the crumbly and sandy earth and feel the sun burning over him. He could see vast the vast sand for miles and miles ahead of him. The barren land scape was like glass lodging itself in he eyeball, painful and lack luster. He would make it his own.

She pulled the fur coat more tightly around her body and pushed on through the light undergrowth. For a creature such as her, in this weak human form, it was best to avoid the main paths created by the larger animals. One never knew when a Snow Wolf would be passing through, and even the less aggressive animals tended to be rather lethal. Were it not for the fact that the plants remained benign, Belru would have compared this place to Slough's hellish Venomweald.

As it were, she had been long gone from these forests, having journeyed south through the Ape-Tree jungles and down to the Deepwoods. With time, the Ape-Tree had expanded until it reached and engulfed the Deepwoods, encroaching on the Gilt Savannah and surrounding land. Over the many thousands of years, the trees of the Ape-Tree jungle had slowly adapted until they were a distinctly separate sub-species from the Garatha of the Old Bark-Skin forest. Unlike their northern cousin, these trees did not wilt away and die in warmer conditions, and so they had launched a relentless conquest of and expansion into surrounding land. Such was the might of nature when watered abundantly from the river of time.

She had stayed in the Deepwoods for some time, witnessing the at-times glorious and at-times freakish creations of Slough. The Strip-faced Aphids were of particular interest, for they had developed greatly from what they had been. Though by no means entirely different creatures, it was clear that their success in taming Mammoth Ants had greatly changed their social structure and lifestyle. It was not clear to what this would lead, but Belru would watch and see. There was perhaps nothing more formidable than the ability of the creation to change, and it was not the hands of the gods that changed them, but the hand of nature. In many ways, nature was the one true god of this universe. If the gods all perished that very moment, nature would remain, and she would rule just as effectively with or without the gods.

Mesmerising though this primeval forest was, eventually something within Belru yearned for the north and the Treeminds she had left behind. Over the centuries she had watched them evolve also, and their community grow, and there was in her heart an attachment to them that she could not deny. Unlike the Aphids of the Deepwoods, the Treeminds had been blessed by Time itself, and so the workings of nature upon them had been ever greater. In fact, the workings of nature upon all things in the north seemed far accelerated. The Snow Wolf, for instance, had grown from the simple sub-species of wolf it had been when Belru first fell to the undeniable lord of all canines it now was. But the greatest reason that she yearned for the north was rather more simple than all of that. Belvast had passed by the Treeminds many times during his travels, and though she never let him see her, she had seen him. And it calmed her heart. And so she hoped that she would catch a glimpse of her beloved child back there among the bears blessed by Vowzra.

And so she had journeyed back. It was more than with a little confusion that she stood by one of Old Bark-Skin's giant roots and observed the empty scene before her. Not a single Treemind was in sight, and no sound could be heard, neither that of cubs nor birds nor any other creature. There was an absolute and eerie silence. She walked around in the desolate remains of the Treemind village for a while, trying to figure out the reason behind the disappearance of the Treeminds. Had they simply migrated? But there was no evidence that any migration had taken place, and the Treeminds never migrated. Had there been a forced exodus of some kind? But there were no signs that battle or struggle had taken place - and it was impossible that the Treeminds would simply leave their holy lands without putting up a formidable fight. Perhaps...perhaps Vowzra had lifted his blessing and let his wrath descend? Could the Lord of Time simply obliterate the existence of an entire race at will? Something within her felt that the god would have no qualms in doing such a thing. She had seen into his essence, and though she could not claim to know him completely, she could claim to know him best of all. But there did not appear to be any purpose for him to do so, there was no purpose for blessing a race isolated from the rest of the world and then obliterating it...was there?

She came to a halt before a strange rounded piece of wood which was attached to one of Old Bark-Skin's many roots which broke the surface of the earth. It looked much like an egg, except that it was made of bark, and it looked like whatever had been within it had broken free and left. Her hand gently moved over the wood, and she knew immediately that there was something intrinsically more Vowzrid in this thing than anything else in the Vowzrid north (for had he not effectively claimed it his and placed his mark upon the very air? - nay, upon the very Fabric of the spaces occupied by this place). Yes, she would recognise him anywhere. What could have driven him to leave a part of himself here? What had been the purpose behind this?

So deep in thought was she that she did not take care to watch where her hand strayed, and it was with shock that a sudden biting pain tore through her had, and blood gushed forth from her palm and onto the wood. But it was not simply blood that surged from her palm. She felt the wood suck from her being something far greater. The horror of the sickening theft caused her to screech aloud and left her nauseated, but she could not remove her hand, and the world steadily darkened about her until she lost all awareness of her surroundings and slipped into the unyielding grip of sleep and perturbed dreams.



He looked down upon her with those impossible black eyes of his. Cold. So cold. And she looked back, pleading. Please.
'Please,' she groaned, her hand rising slowy and reaching out to him. It was bloodied. She did not know whose blood it was, but something told her it was not all her own. And the wound the blood had gushed from was deep, though it was not her palm that bled. She looked at him, she stared desperately into those black holes for eyes. Yes, for his eyes were not truly black, were they. They simply sucked all light, and so could not be seen, and so all they could comprehend was the utter darkness in his eyes. What colour were they truly, a distant part of her mind wondered. Please.
And his voice came cacophanous and heavy, and it came penetrating and as a single beam which tore through her like time tore through and grinded endless lives.
'No power do those eyes of yours have here
Go bore them into other souls my dea-'

Her eyes shot open. The green of the forest skies loomed up above her and she took quick, short breaths as her heart calmed down. She had broken out into a cold sweat and could not help but shiver slightly as she lay there upon the Galbarian earth. The cold ran through her and the sweat seemed stuck between her shoulder-blades. She took a few deep, calming breaths before sitting up, though her body groaned and her eyes stung from the effort of staying open. Even in her cold exhaustion, she felt the strange weight which seemed to have settled on her shoulders - or was it in her chest? She took another deep breath and shook herself before forcing herself to her feet. Though slightly unsteady at first due to a sudden wave of dizziness, she managed to remain on her feet and maintain her balance even though earth seemed to rise up and the sky seemed to descend upon her for the briefest moment.

The strange wooden egg was still there, though there was no sign of her blood on it. She instinctively looked to her injured right hand. There was only a faint mark there, running diagonally from one end to just beneath her index finger. Another scar. She looked at it forlornly before clenching her hand and dropping it to the side. He seemed intent on reminding her of himself at every juncture, of carving his presence into her body in every way, of tying the string of his Fate with the string of her own so that they would never know separation.

So deep was she in her thought that it took her a few seconds to realise that the strange weight she had felt was still there. It was not so much a weight...it was more of a presence. Even as realisation struck she could feel her hairs stand on edge. It was not a benign presence at all. Walking slowly and without making a sound, she made her way towards the epicentre of the strange feeling. With each step, the weight seemed to become more pronounced and the horror of it more striking.
At last, she stuck her head out from behind a tree and was faced with the source of the horror. She could not have imagined it if she tried, for of all the things that should have been there, there was a small boy. He was sitting against a tree with his head in his arms.

Of all the things, a little human boy. What had brought him here? She walked out from behind the tree and called out to him gently. He looked up, a mixture of fear and curiosity in his eyes. Without pausing to wonder where the strange presence had gone (for she could no longer feel it), she walked towards him and took him in her arms, comforting and soothing. Perhaps it was her motherly instinct which caused her to do so, for the boy could not have been more than four years old and was clearly very much in need of a mother at that moment. She hugged him to her and comforted him as she had never been able to do for her own child, for time had severed her from him long before it should have. Her child had left her motherly embrace before her flower of motherhood had become attained to its full bloom, and had left her thirsting still for the mothers need to press her child to herself. And perhaps it was the residue of that unfulfilled and incomplete motherhood which struck her now as she hugged the boy to her.

Eventually, she allowed herself to lean back and study his features properly. He had long blond locks and was dressed in a white tunic made of a material Belru had never come across. In fact, she had never before seen humans who wore tunics or who had great enough a knowledge of textiles to create fabric, let alone something so fine as this tunic. Generally they threw whatever furs they could around themselves and decorated them in anyway their primitive capabilities allowed. But this boy's tunic was something else entirely. His green eyes were looking at her warily, and she realised that she was probably looking at him far too seriously for comfort. She smiled quickly and ruffled his hair.
'There there, no need to be scared, I'm here now,' and she took hugged him to her once more and they sat there like that for a long while.
'What's your name?' he eventually asked. She looked down at him in slight surprise, though something deep within her had known that he had understood her and could speak.
'Belr- um, Bel. And yours?'
The boy seemed to think for a short while before he responded.
'Oradin.'

At some point her exhaustion finally caught up with her and she fell asleep. And this time there were no nightmares and sleep brought rest. When she woke up it was dark and the boy was not there. But the dark weight was. Suspicion mounting within her, she rose up and quickly made her way through the trees until she came upon him. Though it was dark, she had no difficulty seeing him, and her eyes narrowed at what was before her.

He was stood over a huge Snow Bear, strange black and purple energies swirling around him. An open hand hovered above the dead creature and an ethereal white liquid was slowly rising up from it. She could hear a thudding sound, almost like a drum but note quite. She moved her head so that she could better hear it. Dumdiz. Dumdiz. Dumdiz.
The white energies from the bear rose up until they met with the black and purple of the boy's, and they began to swirl and prance around him also. Even as she looked, the body of the bear seemed to shake as the energies were forcefully extracted from it and the dark presence emanating from the boy grew ever more sinister. Thumdiz. Thumdiz. Thumdiz.
In fact, was the bear...hovering? The energies were swirling at greater speeds and with ever greater force and violence. The earth around him was being eroded away and consumed by the strange auras, and the energies were rising up to a point directly above the boy's head. And the thudding was getting louder and clearer. Thulmiz. Thulmiz. Thulmiz.
His head turned suddenly and his green, no...black...his black eyes struck her own with a fury. For a few seconds her eyes were wide and all she could feel was shock, but then her feet, with a mind of their own, stepped back. A little squeak left her throat as the full blast of the noise drove itself into her mind, and the impossible darkness and...coldness of his presence struck her. THULEMIZ. THULEMIZ. THULEMIZ.

Without a thought - for the thoughts would consume her later, and at that moment she had nothing but pure, wild instinct - she turned and ran. And she could feel him follow.



The Deepwoods again. But she had not been so happy to see it this time. She had not had the mind or time to be happy. She could only think enough to put one foot before the other and keep going. His presence was still there. Still chasing. What did that boy...that thing want of her? Why did it chase her so wilfully across vast forests and jungles, and now even to the heart of Galbar's most ancient woods. She did not understand. But she did know that her feet could not go on any longer and her body had used up the last of its strength. She slid down against a tree and looked up upon a giant boulder which was coated in all forms of greenery. This was the end of the line. She could go no further. But the boy could, it seemed. His presence was still there, pressing stubbornly on. Why? Why would he chase her so far? What was he? And if he had so much strength and energy, why did he let her get so far? Was he...was he toying with her? That was the only explanation. It caused that creature joy to watch her struggle and flee.

'You...monster,' she croaked. And even from so far away, he seemed to pause for a while, as though he had heard her. Then he continued, and she soon heard his footsteps, and she soon saw him as he stood before her. He was spotless, no sign of tiredness or travel-weariness showed on him. His white tunic was as clean as it had been on the day she found him...



His presence was no longer simply cold. It was bitter as winter. It was the numbing cold of death. And that may well have been it, for she did not feel within him a soul brimming with life. His soul did not have that warmth which all living creatures, no matter how unholy or foul, always had. Even Reathos, who was the master of Death, was not this cold. Even his Pronobii, creatures forged in the blizzards of the frigid south of Galbar, had no coldness such as this. Around his feet the grass and moss seemed to wilt away, and she could even feel the life within her slowly being gnashed at and battered by his very presence.

'What...what are you?' he surveyed her coldly with those black eyes for a few moments (had his eyes always been black? Where had those green eyes, which had within them the vital spark, gone?) before he made a response.
'I cannot be certain. My memory is hazy and this is a land foreign to me. But there is something familiar about you...' he leaned in and stroked her cheek with a single small finger, 'something ever...so...familiar,' he froze like that for a while, and something told her - though she could not see into them, and could not tell if there was emotion therein - that his eyes had wandered off elsewhere. The moment soon broke. He withdrew and continued surveying her.

'But no matter. What is more important is that your spirit is oddly powerful, and while I can remember very little I do remember this: I am a dealer in souls. The spirits of unknown thousands have passed between my fingers and been as playthings in my hands. And so I shall have yours,' and with that, he raised his palm and those same black and purple energies she had seen all those months ago - or was it years? - reappeared and began swirling around him. Her heart's thudding became ever more notable, and she broke out into a cold sweat as she felt something within her stir and something begin to crack and something begin to cry out and weep.
'No, no...' but there was no point, he was going to take her soul as he had taken that of the Snow Bear. She tried to scream, but her throat could make no sound. Was there a point anyway? Who would hear or deign to help her? That god of bark? If she could make a noise, she might have scoffed.

The earth seemed to shake around her as the boy slowly reached into her most profound depths and began to take of her most integral self. And the earth shook around her even more - was this the shaking of the world at so grave a crime? Would the trees uproot themselves and the mountains be torn asunder at so heinous an act? And what was that sound? Was that the anguished roar of the skies on the wind? Was that furious thunder's outcry on a cloudless day? And had the winds all gathered upon this spot, and were they shaking the ancient branches and causing it to rain leaves upon her? Perhaps the shadow of Life which yet haunted these woods could not stand idle by as the greatest transgression against life took place. Perhaps even now it gathered itself in the winds and leaves, and in the trees and very earth to which she was rooted, and would rise the vengeful rising of tenacious, unrelenting warmth and light (what else could hope to defy this here cold and darkness?) It was very sudden, but the boy abruptly paused and turned around, and Belru felt the coldness of his grip on her essence lighten and disappear altogether. She could feel it slowly sitting back into her body, she could feel it hug and kiss the flesh and the flesh embrace and caress it in response. And she sighed a sigh of momentary relief, and she shook herself and looked up - not knowing whether it was fear or hope which had settled in the depths of her chest.

Even in her weakened state, she could not help but raise an eyebrow. The boulder had risen up upon its feet and was towering above both her and the boy. But it was not a boulder at all. It was some kind of freakishly large turtle. And it had in its hand a red piece of garment.

'You have come,' it took Belru a few seconds before she realised that the sound had come from the turtle. The boy moved away very slowly, looking first at the turtle then at his victim.
'It seems that you yet have some luck, "Bel". I will come for you another time,' and with that, he turned away and disappeared into the depths of the Deepwoods. He seemed to mingle completely with the shadows and eventually become one with them. Ignoring him completely, the turtle leaned in and extended a hand towards the exhausted woman. In his hand was the garment.



She reached back and took it from him, and she gripped it in her two shaking hands. A single tear found its way out of her eye and trickled down her cheek. It hung at the end of her chin for the slightest second before it dropped and was replaced by another. Before she knew it she had buried her face in the garment and was weeping bitterly. That stupid god of bark. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.
Without pausing to consider Belru's state, the turtle leaned forward and took her up in its hands before placing her atop its head. It stood to its full height and, without even looking around, began walking. The gods were a-warring, after all, and the Vicegerent of the Vicegerent could not let it all pass it by.

*Boom*

*Boom*

*Boom*

Grot's footsteps could be heard from miles away, even as he was only barely visible on the horizon. His long strides were eating up the miles, and he was hurrying, now that their target was finally within sight. Any scouts would hear the hordes on his back growing more and more excited, preparing for the upcoming fight. They had Vestec's blessing, they had his gifts, and they were ready for their war. Soon, the tension in the air promised. Soon blood would spill and bodies would fall.

A number of Angels flew over to Falas and the Archangels, reporting what they had seen when they were scouting. A massive monstrosity approaching the Nice Mountains, with a sizable horde of monsters on its back. Naturally, Falas was worried. The main event was finally approaching, and there were far too many variables to consider. The nearby Hain villages had been evacuated, so at least there was that.

Archangel Raphael asked Falas, "Are we sure the Nice Mountains can't stop them? The aura-"

He was interrupted by Falas with a raised hand, who then said, "We've been over this. The chances of that happening are small. If our enemy was smart, they wouldn't come here blindly. Even if they aren't, I'm not allowing them to approach our home without a fight." Gripping her lance tightly, Falas looked towards the horizon, where Grot was finally becoming visible. "Ready our forces," Falas commanded the Archangels. "The battle is going to begin." The four Archangels flew off, ordering other nearby Angels and gathering various Wisps.

In a shaded place where once a stream had flowed from the top of the plateau and cut a steep valley as it descended, a cloud of patterned brown specks lazed above three figures, casting an even deeper darkness. Within it a recently fifteen-year-old girl squared her feet and grasped a weighted quarterstaff all the more firmly. Her pose didn't match her age, but somehow her grin did.

Tira raised a deep brown wrist and whirled a quick set of Urtelem-words to her two companions. The time for speaking out loud was over. The tall, three-folded humanoid who had recently been named Dancer signed back delicately- They had keen hands. Each of the upper three gripped a long faery-spiked club, the wood weighted with loose stones that clacked melodically, and the lower trio's talons had been sharpened. Their name was Fencer, now.

Flux only waited, a swill of half-formed limbs and faces ribboned in oily black. He didn't talk much, even in sign. That didn't matter. He worked as if he owed the whole world a debt. Tira glanced back up to the shading cover of thousands of moth fae, looked further on to where the shapes of Fencer's stone army had curled into the mountains. Felt the weight of reinforced leather on her back. The distant feet pounded on and soon she would see the destroyer-god she'd dreamed of. Soon.

Once the Angels and Wisps were gathered, Falas announced, "We will not let that monster invade the Valley of Peace! We fight to protect our home! TO BATTLE!" As Falas lifted her lance in the air, The Angels responded as one, "TO BATTLE!" as they raised their fists in unison.

"Charge!" Falas commanded as she flew off towards Grot. The Angels and Wisps followed, the Angel army beginning the assault on Grot.

For a moment it seemed like the Horde of chaos wasn't going to do anything as the army of Angels and Wisps charged at them. Grot kept walking and the various creatures on his back kept chanting and preparing for a fight. However, as soon as the Angels were close enough to begin their own attack, everything changed.

Stone spears and spears of razor sharp ice flew up to meet the various flying creatures attacking. The Urtelem, useless here unless the Angels flew to close, quickly dropped off of Grot's back to fight on the ground where they could launch rocks or at least be more out of the way. Air currents were suddenly violently shifting in an attempt to keep the Angels from flying properly. Grot opened up his mouth and let out a roar, a massive stream of flame pouring out of his mouth as he turned his head side to side, incinerating anything unfortunate enough to be caught in its bath.

"Ahaha! Got you, you holy bastard!" Bez cackled with glee as his stone spear managed to take an Angel in the side, sending it crashing to the ground. He grabbed another one, from a fallen Troll, and looked for another target. The battle had begun, and he couldn't be happier.

And as the hefty plains-rock bodies of Grot's stonemen started to thud into the cushioning earth in a surge of grass and dirt, Fencer threw themself out of the narrow valley. For a moment they were almost flying like the angels far, far above, silhouetted by the demon-fire, arms wide.

Then their tremendous jump ended and as they hit the ground the hills came alive and roared with the voice of tumbling stone as six score of Urtelem shrugged off the mountain rock and stormed forward at their once-cousins, shadowed under a wide and thinning veil of fae. Tira yelled a wordless cry that turned into a monosyllabic chant for more speed as she vaulted herself onto the back of the largest matriarch with her quarterstaff and was carried into the advance.

Whether disorientated by the long drop from Grot or simply not expecting to be fought from anywhere but above, the outnumbered Urtelem of Chaos were not in formation by the time Fencer's charge struck like a wedge. They had never been implanted with language from Teknall or logic from Jvan, but the Sculptor-led band had both, and fought in sleek units, pummelling fist against fist and shoulders against shoulders. The sound was tremendous.

Tira did not fear the corrupted stonemen and their brutal din of crashing rock for a moment. She had spent months in their families, and she was quick, martially quick. Neither she nor Fencer could do anything to harm them, but they had known that from the start, and so Tira did not stop sprinting the moment her booted feet hit the ground and followed Fencer's spinning gait, leaving Flux to hold the majority of the faery shield.

Their targets were further in, still on Grot's back.

When the horde's counterattack began, Falas commanded the Angels, "Defend yourselves!" as she raised her buckler in front of her, where the spears bounced off and/or shattered harmlessly against the transparent blue barrier the buckler produced. Other Angels set up barriers of their own or attempted to dodge the various projectiles, but not all of them escaped unharmed,as many were struck and fell, various Angels and Wisps falling after them to try to save them before it was too late.

The wind suddenly turned violent as well, forcing the Angels to lose stability in the air. Nevertheless, the Angels continued their attack, firing their own beams, rays, and bolts of holy energy at Grot and the horde. Multiple Wisps flew over to the Horde, staying above the goblins, azibo, tedar, and trolls as they fired their own bolts of Holy energy at various targets and attempted to shield themselves with their own barriers.

Falas prepared to take on Grot himself, readying her lance for an attack. However, Grot had begun attacking first, discharging a wave of flame and incinerating Angels and Wisps that had strayed too close and could not escape before their barriers failed. Devastated by the loss, Falas pointed her lance at Grot's head and fired a powerful concentrated beam of Holy energy, intending to kill the beast for killing her Angels.

Grot let out an irritated bellow as the beam of holy energy crashed into his thick bone plate. The rest of his body seemed to ripple and shift, as more and more bone flowed to where the beam was drilling into his skull. It finally reached skin, causing genuine pain to the behemoth. He let out an angry roar, spewing a more direct line of flames towards the source of his pain.

As the beam finally ended, Grot looked down to see the Urtelem fighting for Vestec being attacked by many more well organized Urtelem. With a gesture, the ground opened up beneath many of them before slamming shut in an instant, pulverising to dust any unfortunate soul not fast enough to get out.

When he looked up, the damage done to his skull was completely gone, and his shoulder was bloating and writhing, colored a foul black. The chaos Horde on that shoulder ran, heedless of the Angels and Wisps above them. In a shower of disgusting black liquid, Grot's shoulder exploded, long spidery limbs shooting out to grab whatever was within reach, shattering through barriers to get to the victims beneath, be they Azibo or Angel. A screeching sound could be heard, incredibly painful to the ears, before all the limbs returned into Grot's body and the wound sealed up.

Bez, on the other shoulder, could only look on in slight revulsion as Angels, Humans, and Rovaick where pulled into the wound, or had their skin melted to the bone by the burning black liquid.

And still Grot moved onwards towards the Nice Mountains, step by step.

The earth rocked as he moved and the dusty, mixed mess of Urtelem below only added to the noise and shudder. It was only a small blessing that his magic was blunt and brutal and had crushed some of the chaotic stonemen along with their foes. Flux was too slippery to catch, a flowing black monolith, but his stonemen were no elementals and their magic had not saved them. He stood over those who had lost legs and fists and moaned the sound of the dying.

It confirmed a grim suspicion. Grot held the earth as well as the fire, and against the solid magics, fae were no protection. The matriarch knew this. Rising from the bodies of the wounded, she gave Flux a familiarly grim salute from the vanguard: It was time to die.

Beating her chest to summon the survivors, the elder curled and put a burst of speed into her roll, racing to catch up with Tira, closing the gap on Grot himself, into the mouth of hell, and the herds followed, abandoning what remained of their fight. In a moment before impact she seized the Sculptor-Initiate and tossed her up onto the demon's ankle where Fencer was already climbing. Then the suicide charge vanished beneath the ball of Grot's foot as he took his next step, as screaming black acid spattered from his opposite shoulder, and quaked, burrowed, broke the earth he stood on- Anything to slow down his stride.

Flux stood back, not a drop of fear in his blood. To the skies, then- To the forces in heaven! Together we may yet show this monster how to fight fair!

The flanged ribbons of oily water around him unfurled and splayed wide, and on six smooth wings the Sculptor rose, laboriously but surely, and the faery veil clumped around him like an upwards rain of winged tops.

He was forced to retreat as he moved to keep ahead of Grot, but Flux had no intention to play offensively. Shrouded by the swarm, he carried the little creatures up into the rear of the angelic army and spread them into a loose sphere, maybe enough to hold forty or fifty angels. Within their boundaries, the savage turbulence stilled, and the embers they carried dimmed. It was safe- At least from air and fire. Spears and the great demon fists of Grot were another matter entirely, but for now, Flux held the fae out of reach.

"Come, yon angels who have scattered! Shelter to me and unite!" It was rare for him to use his proud Elemental voice, but it had not lost its volume, and he used it to signal to those angels who had been forced to break formation by Grot's spidery growths and the Rovaick projectiles. "The fae are ours- I can direct the shield!"

Falas put in a great deal of energy into the attack, but she could tell that it was barely having an effect on Grot. Regardless, she continued the blast until she had to retreat from a blast of fire. Unfortuantely, it seemed like the attack only irritated Grot more than it did wound him. The sudden growth protruding from Grot's shoulder continued to take more Angels' lives, penetrating through barriers to get to them as well. In the end, Falas' efforts seemed like they were wasted.

Admist all the chaos, though, there came a spark of hope. A small variety of other creatures had appeared to fight against Grot, doing what they could against the large beast. At first, the majority of the Angels were still for a second, staring at the Elemental that had announced its presence, but then they began to cheer, and multiple Angels moved to aid Flux, adding their own barriers to bolster their defense.

Seeing the Urtelem's efforts, Falas had an idea. She was unsure if it would work, but it was one worth trying. Falas shouted to some nearby Angels, "Aim for the legs!", then proceeded to fire another beam at Grot's left leg. The order was passed on to other Angels, who also proceeded to continue passing it on and provide their support in the attack. The Attacker and Barrier Wisps, which had now regrouped again and were being led by Archangel Michael, would continue keeping the horde on Grot's body busy, still firing at the various creatures while keeping themselves protected.

The systematic passage of command from Falas to her generals and out to the rest of the horde soon enough reached Flux, and he signalled his direction before twirling graciously into the dive. Gliding downwards he could match speed with the angels, sheltering those he could. A noble plan, and Flux followed with strong laughter.

Grot spewed more flames as Flux and his horde of Fae rose. However, their natural shielding and the barriers of the Angels proved too much for the giant's flames. He crushed some of the Urtelem beneath his foot, and the others managed to burrow away quickly. He bellowed again as pain erupted in his shin as Falas and the other Angels attacked his legs.

Grot responded by shooting up two giant hands of earth and smashing them together, hopefully with Angels and Needle Fae between them.

Grot's body visibly rippled as something moved beneath his skin, going to repair the slight damages done by the Angels and the major damage done by Falas' beam of holy energy. The skin of his shin writhed that foul black color again, before bursting open once more with a terrible screeching noise as the spindly limbs launched forward again, grabbing anything they could.

Urtelem, Fae, Angel. They grabbed everything. Even Sculptors.

Tira could see a mantis-like streak lashing out at her, faster than human reflex; And then Fencer was leaping down, snatching the limb between their airborne talons, rending in twain the strangler meant for her. Dragging its stump with them as they fell. There was a jerk, far below, as the torn limb reached the end of its length, and still Fencer hung on. For a moment they dangled from the spidery limb like a monkey on a vine, but the acid it bled was too fierce for their arms, and, as Tira cried out from above, they met her eyes. And let go.



Vestec appeared in the holy mountains of Niciel, shivering a bit at the aura of niceness he felt. "Nicieeeel! You're missing your fight!"

Niciel turned her head towards Vestec, looking at him disapprovingly. "First of all, I haven't missed a moment," Niciel said, raising her Orb of Escry. "I've been keeping watch of my children this entire time." Then, putting her Orb out of the way of Vestec, Niciel continued, "Second of all, what are you doing here? I'm sure you're very busy with your... shenanigans with the others."

"Nope! Everyone else is busy and entertaining themselves with all my hordes!" Vestec giggled, floating around Niciel. "I'm curious to know how your talk with Toun went! Did he attack you? Were you too 'imperfect' in his eyes? What happened?"

Niciel began emitting an aura of disapproval in addition to her stare. "If you are smart, you will not speak of it again," Niciel said sternly. "Is that clear?"

"Oooh, it didn't go well, did it? Let me guess. He babbled something insane that you didn't do, made some comments about you being imperfect, and either kicked you out or attacked you." Vestec kept circling around Niciel, clearly entertained by the conversation. His colors flashed excitedly as he waited for Niciel to respond.

Bringing out her Orb of Holy and Escry, Niciel fired a bolt of Pure energy at Vestec while summoning Wisps to aid her. "I thought I told you not to speak of it again. Unless you have other business here, I suggest you leave while I am still merciful," Niciel said, not taking any more of Vestec's crap. "Don't forget that you are in the Nice Mountains right now. You are not as strong here as you are elsewhere."

Vestec giggled, teleporting out of the way of the attack and reappearing. "Niciel, I get the feeling you're blaming me for something! All I did was alert you to the fact that Toun killed your children, and this is how you repay me? I am hurt. I tell you of a wrong done to you, and you attack me. That doesn't strike me as very holy or nice."

Niciel was getting more and more irritated. Unfortunately, despite her threats, there wasn't much Niciel could do against Vestec at the moment. She had spent a lot of power preparing a gift for Slough, leaving her with very little left. She was left with one final resort. Forcing herself to become calm, Niciel responded, "You're right. I apologize, Vestec. You were trying to help, and I ended up making a bigger mess of the event than I had intended to." As the Wisps dispersed, Niciel continued, "Even now, you are trying to display your goodwill by helping me confront my mistakes rather than ignoring them. Not many others are willing to do that." With a smile, Niciel finally said, "For that, you have my thanks."

Vestec paused for a moment, caught off guard, before he resumed his circling. "You're a very good actor, sister, I could almost believe you meant every word." He paused in front of the Goddess of Light, hanging upside down to meet her at eye level. "So. What happened?"

Niciel sighed before responding, "Long story short, I said some things I now regret, and Toun hates me quite a bit." Niciel then tilted her head sideways sightly and gingerly placed her thumb and forefinger on her chin before saying quzzingly, "Now that I think about it, though, Toun mentioned something about my children initiating the attack on his Hain, and there were certainly some memories remaining that corrobrated his words. I know I didn't order my children to do such a thing, so we should hear your side of the story, Vestec."

Vestec flipped around to look at her properly. "Really..." He mused. "He'd go that far..." Shaking himself, he concentrated on responding. "Niciel, recall what you know of Toun and his history. He's always been obsessed with perfection, to the point of insanity. He attacked Jvan, because he took objection to her additions to the Codex. She permanently scarred him, and no one took his side but Logos, who was busy fighting off Zephy, Astarte, and myself. You should remember it, you flooded the darkness with Light and got very cross with all of us." Vestec giggled.

"So, we know he's about as insane as I am, especially when it comes to perfection. But he isn't stupid. Very few of us like Jvan, but most of the others like you. His main 'ally' Logos is gone. No one knows where he is. He was appalled by your creations. So free willed, so uncontrollable. Nothing like the Hains he has." The God of Chaos paused, his colors flashing in a slow, pondering manner. "I wonder...did they become that willingly? A question and retribution for another time. I'm getting off track. Back to my point. He was appalled by your creations and had them killed."

"Now he's the aggressor, again, only this time he's alone, and he's attacked one most of us would side with against him. Not me, of course, because if Toun got immediately smashed in any brawl you two caused, it'd be boring. But he wouldn't trust me so I'd likely just be flying about breaking everyone's things. So, to get allies for himself, he has to come up with an exucse. What's the perfect excuse in situations like these? Ding ding ding! Self-defense! Put some memories in the dying Angels minds, and suddenly he's the victim, and you're the crusader."

Vestec shrugged. "At least, that's the most logical explanation as far as I can tell. Astarte and Zephyrion don't care for war as much as I do. The rest of the Gods aren't that crazy. I might have done such a thing, except too much conflict and conflict becomes normal and then I'd have to go about starting peace and do you know how terribly boring of a job that'd be?"

Niciel listened to every word Vestec had to say about the matter, nodding her head occasionally. Many things Vestec said did make sense, but there were still some holes that were yet to be filled. "Hmm... I understand. Too much chaos would mean that it is no longer chaos. A sound argument," Niciel said. "I believe you are mistaken about a few things, though, Vestec. I have spent some time with Toun in the past, and from what I've learned about him, he's not the type to go destroying others' creations for as small a reason as 'I don't like it', least of all mine. He may desire perfection, but not to that level of madness. He certainly has little motive to kill my Angels."

Vestec tilted his head curiously. "Really? He's created an entire race designed to destroy anything that doesn't have the touch of Slough in it. Last I checked, your Angels don't have any Slough in them at all. He recognizes Slough as a necessity. Without her, there would be no life for his creations. No food, water, shelter, so on so forth. However, the Rovaick, my creations that are separate from me, your Angels, and anything else that doesn't have the touch of Slough is often just slaughtered by his White Giants. He's not the type? He created a race based on that type. Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps this is a large misunderstanding where he thought your Angels were my Angels invading, and killed them, and now has to save face. I somehow doubt it though, given his reaction to you."

"Yes, about 'your Angels'..." Niciel interrupted, no longer in the mood for jokes or lies. "I do seem to recall some of my children going missing, and my Wisps have shown me on a number of occasions what appears to be corrupted Angels causing mayhem and destruction wherever they go. I believe I recognize this as the handiwork of a certain chaotic god who would do such a thing, wouldn't you agree, Vestec?"

"Of course!" Vestec was positively chipper. "It's what I do! I've done it to the Hain, the Herakati, the Tree-Minds, the Rovaick, the Angels, the Urtelem, the White Giants, everything! I even tried it with the Wisps, but you fixed that quickly. It's my nature, Sister. Just as much as it is your nature to heal."

Niciel sighed in disappointment before saying, "AsVestec, I believe I have learned enough about you to determine what you are," Niciel said. "You are a child. You toy with the powers at your disposal without regard for the consequences of your actions. Everything you do is merely for your own amusement. The various members of the species of life on this world that you've corrupted are enough proof for me to see that, and don't think I haven't noticed your efforts to have Toun and me fighting each other. I intend to fix your behavior, and I will make you a good person. A God of Chaos you may be, but there is surely some good even in you, and I intend to make you see that, whether you like it or not."

Vestec giggled in full amusement. "Me? Good? You have mistaken me for someone else. Perhaps Kyre. Or Vulamera. Astarte? Zephyrion."

Niciel gave a gentle smile to Vestec. "Vestec, you may not be aware of this, but one of my powers is to be able to sense Purity. In this case, it is to detect the goodness within peoples' souls, yours included. Small as that attribute is within you, it is there nonetheless."

"The purity of my Chaos? My, that is a rather indifferent sense of yours. I have no goodness, dear sister. I am Chaos, cause of death, ruin, and damnation. Hundreds have died and hundreds of thousands of more will die, because it is my nature. The mortals and Gods are but tools for entertainment, and I am quite good at arranging them for proper entertaining purposes." He looked across at the battle still raging. "Speaking of...I think the Horde needs a Hero more of their size..."

Vestec snapped his fingers, seeming to mutter under his breath. "There! Now that should make things more even... where were we, oh yes! I was telling you about how much pain and suffering I'm going to cause. Lots of it, dear sister. Lots."

"I have no doubt you intend to do that, Vestec," Niciel said. "It is as you say: it is your nature. However, I intend to keep my word. I will do everything in my power to make you see the error of your ways. I do not intend to stop you from causing chaos entirely, but I do intend to make sure you know when and where to use it, in ways that benefit others more than it does create detriments."



There was definitely some damage being done, but it didn't seem to be enough to make a difference. A pair of walls of earth had shot up without warning and many Angels that had flown too low were crushed between them, the fae swarm ineffective, Flux forced to veer aside to preserve as many as he could. Once again, the bubbling skin had appeared, and the odd limbs had shot out of it. This time, though, the Angels were not caught off guard like last time and there were fewer casualties from the event.

From the attacks the Angels had launched on Grot, though, Falas was learning more and more about Grot's body and what it could do. A new idea formed in her mind, and Falas briefly wondered if it would have more of an effect than the last two attacks.

Archangel Gabriel had flown over to Falas, slightly panicking, saying, "Commander, this monster isn't stopping, and our attacks aren't doing anything to it. How are we supposed to defeat it?" Falas responded by tapping his face with her buckler and replied, "Don't lose hope now. We will stop it from reaching the Valley of Peace. As for our attacks, they are having an effect, and I might have figured out how to make the damage more permanent. For now, keep focusing on his legs." Gabriel was unconvinced, but decided to trust the commander and flew back to the others to continue to assault. As the Angels continued firing, Falas flew closer to Grot and readied her lance, but waited for her target to appear before she would attack. It would be a risky move, but if it worked, then it would be very rewarding. Many Wisps flew over to Falas as well, as if sensing her intentions.

From the horizon of the barren flatlands that far surpassed the sight of the Horde - a voice reached Grot's mind.

"Is my existence of consequence to you?" was the question that was instilled in the massive beast's mind. The question was followed up by a report of thunderous applause as the sound barrier was broken, and a truly massive shape soared overhead, flying even faster than the angels that filled the skies; banking past them like a truly divine creation would.

The shockwave of such antics sent anybody, on ground or on sky, reeling as the atmosphere was displaced. Many were the ears knocked into a stunned ringing by the concussive sound. Among them were Tira's own, and she was forced to hug closely, gasping, to the back of Grot to maintain her grip. In the suddenness, the Sculptor alone heard something familiar in the daze of the noise. The sound of a gift. A gift of hope.

The prodigial son turned his steed after soaring over the Peaceful Valley, and flew back towards the heat of battle, testing the speed of Jvan's mighty gift. It slowed, eventually, and came to a stop sixty feet from the hulking shape of Grot, spears, mortal weapons, all glanced off the hide of the majestic beast as it came to a landing within the parting sea of corrupted creatures that surrounded Grot - the otherwordly grace of the steed did such things.

It's wings turned to faulds, and Lifprasil stood upon death personified's back "Prosit." said the king with a bow, his torso shimmering with the quaking blades that coiled around his stomach. "Would you happen to know who I am?" he questioned from behind his helmet, as orange eyes shimmered within the helmet's bulbous sockets.

Grot stopped in his massive steps, looking for the source of the boom that knocked his horde to the ground wherever they were. The source of the voice in his head, a challenger. He sensed it. It didn't take long before a small creature was standing before him, asking a question.

"You are Lifprasil. Spawn of the Mind and Chaos. Favoured, but not protected, by Vestec. Why are you here, Herald of Change?"

"I am here to cease slaughter on either side, all upon my own accord, great creature." Lifprasil stated boldly, but deep within the passages of his mind, fear now gripped his heart - truly a foe so massive would be inconquerable?

No.

"On this day, I, Lifprasil, would challenge you to a battle against one another without the aid of those less powerful than us. We will fight, and one of us will die without one weaker than the other involved. Does this satisfy you?" asked the aspiring king, gripping tightly the handle of the many headed beast that bit into his armor; atop his astral steed.

Every Angel had grown silent and stopped their attacks as they turned to stare at this newcomer who had appeared out of nowhere. As they watched him challenge Grot to a duel, they thought he was insane. Even Falas thought he was out of his mind, seeing as her own attacks did so little to Grot. If the entire Angel army couldn't do anything to stop Grot, what hope did this one man have? For some reason, however, the Angels were growing more and more confident that he would be able to achieve victory, despite having little basis to come to that conclusion.

Falas, however, was not so convinced, and attempted to gain an answer from the newcomer. Flying over to Lifprasil, Falas asked him, "Lifprasil, was it? How are you so confident that you can challenge this monster by yourself? And that armor... I recognize Mother Niciel's work. Who exactly are you?"

Lifprasil turned his head, then his entire body, to face the angel before him. "Prosit," he greeted, then removed his helmet, handling it within the crook of his armored arm. "Because, Niciel protects, and my father's work carves - I am the son of Vulamera and Vestec, one of which has sent this army to besiege your home; I have come to rectify my father's misdoings as they stand." the demigod explained. "And you?" Lifprasil questioned, as the ceasefire continued from the awesome presence of the sound breaking beast, and its master.

Falas blinked in surprise. She did not recognize Vulamera's name, but she certainly did not expect Lifprasil to be a child of gods. Even Falas herself had only been born from the power of one Goddess: Niciel. Recovering from her surprise, Falas went on to introduce herself, "I am Falas, commander of the Angels and champion of Mother Niciel. It is... a pleasure to meet you." Falas turned her head to half-stare half-glare at Grot, then turned back to Lifprasil and sighed before saying, "If you have the power to defeat what my Angels and I currently couldn't, then I leave this monster in your hands. Your help is... much welcomed." With that said, Falas bowed slightly to him before flying off to command the Angels to attack the now grounded horde that had been on Grot's shoulders. That now began to climb down to the broken earth where a girl had gone before them, had abandoned her mission to be with her own, and crouched over the bleeding shape of Fencer amid the bodies of a hundred Urtelem.

Suddenly, Lifprasil returned the bow to Falas as she soared away, a deep one, much deeper, and more humbling than the one given to Grot. "My best of luck wished to thee, good creature." he said, and he spoke softly, but somehow the words had carried to Falas' ear.

They were layered, however, like Illunabar's colors his words had unseen depths to them, and with careful analysis Falas would realize that Lifprasil spoke of an army of his own; an entity vast and powerful in its strength.

Reinforcements.

It was something that may have appealled to Flux at that moment. The harrier's dive he had executed with the angels cost much of his hard-earned altitude and the order to swoop even lower down to face the ground army would be paid in more. Though Flux's energy was limitless, his time was not, and he was not fast enough on the upwing to perform the refined aerial assaults of the angels. No, he would have to hold his position, reversing his original role, this time protecting the air from the assaults of the earth below. There was nothing to defend on the ground.

No! There are two!

Fencer was still moving, a little, still breathing. Tira's quarterstaff had been lost somewhere on the climb down, and she was pulling at the Sculptor, trying to bring them to a stand. Their will to live was incredible. And their injuries were worse.

"Tui?" whispered she, not signing. "Tui yem nu din, Dansa? Tui yem ne?" Fencer was preoccupied with trying to breathe. Flux was not. He spoke gently, in his way. "There is a time for all things, Tira. For victory and for loss." She was motionless.

Fencer heard, though, and seemed to understand. Lifting an elegant, rattling club they had held on to with their last good hand, they pressed it into Tira's arms and signed with its fingers, gesturing to the strange shape of broken ribs piercing their skin. Look at that. Didn't I tell you we would find something pretty in war?

Tira laughed, first to stop herself from crying, then in grim exhilaration. "Nu wus-as," and then she stood, gripping the spiked weapon. Fencer's fae rose with her. An Urtelem, recognising her, lurched closer, missing a few toes but not entirely out of commission. Apparently Grot had still not killed all of them.

The angels were diving, now, and Flux swirled up to join them. Bladed golden light was shining, and the Rovaick were stirring back into action. Tira was caught between the converging lines above and below.

"Ne owt-as garn!" she screamed, pointing into the heart of the Rovaick army, leaping onto the Stoneman's back to lead the charge as the angelic sortie surged from the heavens under Falas.

The horde of chaos, placed down by Grot, formed up to face the attacking horde. Humans, Rovaick, and Herakati all turned to face the charging Stonemen.

"To arms! Face the foe! Death to the enemy!" Bez screamed, gathering the Chaos Horde around him. As the Urtelem drew closer and closer, a screaming arose from the ranks facing the on coming enemy. "I LOVE LAKSHMI!" Dozens of naked warriors ran from the loosely gathered horde, branding glowing stone daggers. It was only Rovaick and Humans, but there were enough. They crashed into the oncoming charge, getting up even as they were knocked down with blows that should have smashed them into a pile of gore. Tedar of the Order grappled naked with the Urtelem, their blades cutting through stone and their teeth tearing chunks out. Goblins swarmed, stabbing and biting. Humans and Rovaick worked together, cutting and stabbing at the Urtelem. It was all Tira's mount could do to hold her above the tide of war as she smashed Fencer's weapon upon the unbreakable skulls of the Order to dislodge them.

Then it all ended. The invulnerabilty ended, and they all died.

For once in his extensive lifetime, Lifprasil felt no pity for the mortals of the Order of Lakshmi - he was just concerned. "Why is there an order named after my general?" he asked nobody in particular. His formerly threatening mount looked confused, too, as if to mimic its master.

Hot on their heels came the Herakati, leaping and slashing with whatever they could to grab Angels or trying to grab and damage the now-scant Urtelem. Their dust-flinging sprint heralded the start of the battle true as the bizarre vanguard exhausted itself and let the mortals take arms in their place.

"CHAAAARGE!" Bez howled, racing after the Order of Lakshmi. Those Order of Lakshmi that hadn't charged in, were being picked up by Tedar hands or Azibo magic, and launched into the sky against the Angels above. Tira saw their shadows flicker over the ground, heard their now-familiar mad cry, but they were no longer her problem. With a quick hand she snatched the stone knife out of the still-raised fist of the last to fall to her scraped and gouged steed. Fencer's mace she swung into the open mouth of the first Heraktati, its spikes lodging deep into its inner jaw as the Urt caught its lower body. Tira used the knife to open its throat. Venom drizzled onto the weapon, but the growing Sculptor-metabolism in her veins was enough to reduce its fatal neurotoxin to naught but a sharp sting. "Rianl!" Onwards!

Grot opened his mouth and let out stream of flames at Lifprasil. It was far simpler to kill the child of Chaos rather than announce the duel had become. Survival of the fastest, strongest, and smartest.

The flames were soon extinquished as the beast recoiled, using its glowering jets to rocket backwards - generating another clap of thunder from the bottom of the battlefield. Lifprasil grimaced, and lost his grip from the ensuing jolt, dropped into the fray as his steed retreated. It soon rejoined him, but Lifprasil dismissed the creature, and Ovaedia knew Lifprasil's bloody intent: support the defenders of the Valley of Peace.

Ovaedia left its master, and charged forward, it soared over those that were allied to it without harm, but the enemy was not so lucky, amongst angels and wisps, Ovaedia reaped the chaotic forces around itself. The wrath of the creature was truly terrifying, it became a massive fog over the battlefield as it flew from place to place, and mauled footsoldier after footsoldier, breaking the sound barrier wherever it went. And Flux cackled, for the concussive sound smacked against his fae and was dampened, leaving the airborne angels free to choose what targets they wished in the dispersing swarm and blasts of noise.

The Angels received their fair share of kills, many by either close combat with energy-manifested weapons or by long range with various long-range attacks of Holy energy. As many members of the Horde were tossed into the air, some had the unfortunate luck to be targeted by the Wisps directed by Archangel Michael. Those poor souls remained in the air, landing on barriers constructed by various Barrier Wisps, and then fired upon mercilessly by the Attacker Wisps.

The Horde of Chaos was not so fortunate, many falling to the ground from the sheer concussive force of the blast. Those that were lucky enough to avoid being mauled to death.

Lifprasil, too, avoided harm, and focused his will upon the towering beast in front of him. "That was preemptive," was his commentary as he unfurled the Beast that had been restrained until now; the many headed blade extended, and grew to great lengths as it seeked out blood to shed. Lifprasil, with a flick of his wrist, followed by a vertical slash, decimated the landscape in front of him as the living weapon sank its teeth into the earth; and tore great expanses from the landscape.

He struck again, giving him cover to maneuver upward, past the wall of upturned dust, and straight toward Grot's head.

Grot could only notice a hawkish expression in Lifprasil's red eyes before his face was torn to ribbons with a heavy, probing slash, followed by a retreat, as Lifprasil began to fly on his own. He hovered in front of Grot, like an insect compared to the massive spawn of Vestec, and awaited his reaction.

Grot roared in pain as his face was torn, taking a slight stumble backwards. The skin of his throat writhed as whatever was beneath his skin moved towards the damage, he recoiled in pain, two upper hands racing up to smash Lifprasil into the ground, while his two lower hands tore great furrows in the earth around him, an almost uncontrollable reaction to the most pain he's ever felt in his life.

Bez was thrown to the ground by the concussive force of Lifprasil's steed, stunned by the sound barrier being broken so close to his ears. Thus, he didn't recognize the buzzing in his ears and limbs as unnatural until he felt Vestec's voice whispering in his mind. You are Discord...the Deunifier. The Herald of Disarray. Wield these gifts well, troll. Lead your Horde to victory.

Bez surged to his feet, power flooding his limbs. There were still some Azibos about, slinging magic ineffectually at what targets they could. "TO ME MAGIC USERS! FIRE AT THE GAPS!"

He thrust his hand towards the cloud of Fae, the air rippling in between him and his target. Marking him, along with the authority in his shout, as a target himself.

The Fae shuddered in mid-air, a gap appearing where he aimed. Flux dragged at them, but too many were disconnected, out of telepathic sync, until the elements sprang forth from the Azibo, smashing into any Angels unfortunate enough to be in the gap. Bez grinned, casting his new found powers of deunification at the cloud of insects, trying to separate them and confuse them as much as possible. The Azibo gleefully took these opportunities to fire their spells at the Angels.

As the Azibo fired, Falas had flown over to their target location and held up her buckler, expanding it to allow it to function as a proper shield while the spells clashed against the Barrier magic it created. A few Barrier Wisps added their energy to the shield as well, empowering it further to allow it to withstand the onslaught. Falas knew she had to do more than just defend, though. Falas scanned the battlefield and quickly spotted the one who had issued the command to fire. Moving her shield out of the way just a little, Falas raised her lance and pointed it at Bez, then fired a beam of Holy energy at him, intending to remove the one trying to act as a leader.

Lifprasil found himself having a very intimate meeting with Grot's palm as he was swatted out of the air, and consequently thrown to the ground. With a distant crash, Lifprasil was absorbed by the earthy floor beneath Grot, and he resurfaced to a stunned Bez, that which stood before him.

Something felt different about this one as he pulled himself from the dirt and the gravel he had descended into. There was just a grunt from him, the oval shaped gaps in his helmet having begun resonating a deep crimson, and his blade writhed like restrained snakes.

Bez looked around for another target, a vicious grin on his face, only to see a beam of energy heading right for him. Instinctively, he dove to the ground, knowing that the explosion from the beam was still going to kill him. Damn it all! Just when I could have turned the tide! he raged, waiting for death. There was a large BOOM!, but rather than the fiery embrace of death, there was only his own, frantic, breathing.

The troll looked up to see a human, or so the build told him, staring at him. His armor radiated holiness, while his writhing sword bespoke of chaos and bloodlust, as did his glowing crimson eyes.

He was an enemy, Bez knew that much.

As fast as he could (which was far faster now, he noted) he leapt to his feet and grabbed a stone axe, waiting warily for the newcomer to make the first move.

There was no attack from him, only a momentary glare before the newcomer took off again, leaving Bez to his own devices - and a second chance.

Lifprasil soared into the air, and with his blade in hand, ran the weapon along the monster's midsection, and all the way up to his chest, which generated a truly humongous gash in his sickly skin. The demigod then fluttered away, and noticed the movement under skin, the tendrils, and the limbs that gestated beneath.

Falas was confused at first, wondering what she had hit with the beam, but as the dust settled, she saw Lifprasil standing where she had been aiming, with the troll lying on the ground behind him. Falas realized that during the chaos, she had probably hit Lifprasil when he had fallen, and panic began to rise in her mind. Fortunately, he seemed to be unharmed, as he flew off without a word. Falas stared at Lifprasil for a second, then turned her attention back on Bez. That one still needed to be dealt with.

Fortunately, the crater alone was enough to drag eyes, and a certain pair was keen on their source.

There was a rhythm to the churn of the horde. Tira was picking it up quickly. Some Lakshmian knife had taken one of her stoneman's eyes, but its tactile sense was capable, and he was fast learning to respond to the shift in her feet. Now she directed his speed towards the clusters of goblins between her and the shouter, catching those who leapt at her in the spikes of her club and burying the stolen knife in any soft meat she could find. The venom had degraded in air, yet was still somewhat effective. Those who ducked for cover survived or were crushed by stone feet, her attention elsewhere, ears shielded from the underlying drone by Fencer's lost fae.

"Yiesh run, wus!" The crater- Some or other magic, gods knew there was too much going around- still supported a leader on its lip, and she swept forward with Fencer's weapon as she drew close, hungry to tumble him into it with the blades at its tip.

Grot's face was fully healed, the thing beneath his skin moving down his body, allowing him to spew flames once more. Unfortunately, it came too late, and his opponent opened bloody gashes in his stomach and chest, causing Grot to thrash and roar in pain again, flames raked the ground, the earth cracked and rose randomly as his hands smashed into the combatants below him.

His ankle began to turn that same infected black, heralding the screeching and reaching limbs once more. Right on time foul black liquid sprayed forth, burning any who touched it, and the limbs shot forward again, dragging earth, corpses, living creatures, anything organic it could into the open wound. There was a frantic air about the movements of the limbs this time, as if whatever it was knew that Grot was injured once more and that it had to hurry.

Bez took the advantage he was given, causing more disunity in the Fae and eyeing the barriers of the wisps. Before he could test his new found power, another screaming opponent was charging him. Bez leapt out of the way, marveling at his newfound speed even as his compatriots died around him. He threw his axe at Tira, using his marvelous new strength to send it whistling through the air.

Excellent timing turned foul was all that saved the Sculptor, who had been braced for the sudden, satisfying jerk of stuck meat. Tira's strength carried her swing too far, and too hard, when she had the malfortune of giving Bez a chance to test his new speed. The weapon's momentum carried it high and threw off her poise. A small miracle that she managed to maintain her grip. A greater miracle that the thrown axe smashed into the handle of the club and spun off elsewhere into the battle.

Bez's almighty hurl had been enough to snap the wooden macehead from its haft and the lethal ball of spikes sunk into Tira's cheek.

To an onlooker it looked like a harmless bounce, but only because of the speed at with the faery blade slit open her face, knocking her head to one side; She collapsed onto the stoneman's back and he sensed something was wrong immediately, turning into a defensive posture until he felt her crouch. "Thglup," she half-cursed, half-spat blood with an odd quietness. Then she snarled.

The wounded urt charged back, and this time she sheltered behind it, the splintered stick still in one hand; Rather than joust blindly, she forced the urt to buck as it neared, and used its movement to jump up and at Bez, blocking with the splintered haft, lashing out with the stone knife.

Something wide and powerful thrust into her shoulder, and for the briefest instant, things went black...

Lifprasil grimaced, disgusted by the wretched display from Grot, such wasted life - used as sustenance, he thought, and pulled his weapon backward, then forward to strike into the horrifying display, attacking the ebony limbs; outstretched to devour all.

With that strike, something in the atmosphere changed, a sudden change came from the Horde of Chaos' flank as a warcry reigned free amongst the landscape outside the Valley of Peace. An army, foreign, shrouded in cloth so colorful it pained the eye, approached on massive steeds built from creaking exotic wood, their weapons were long, sharp, tipped in bronze and ebony.

The polearms that punctuated the army swayed to and fro like trees, and a chant carried them still.

"In his name! In the name of Lifprasil! In the name of the King! In the name of Unity!" they cried, their artificial horses, crafted by Illunabar and the Muses shook the ground, and created a massive cloud of dust behind them as they ran without a loss of stamina. When the Lifprasilians neared the flank of the Horde, their weapons lowered, extended outward to strike into the oncoming group. Their work was quick, and the group, that which was mostly comprised of footsoldiers and the like, found themselves impaled, and being beaten into by the Army of Lifprasil, and at the tip of the spear was Lakshmi.

"F-forward! C-c-cut into the-ir r-ranks!" she exclaimed, holding her leaf shaped gladius in one hand, and firing into the larger members of the horde with the other. In fact, she was spouting lasers from the palm of her hand, the divine energy was concentrated into a pillar of excruciatingly bright light, that which burned and cut perfectly any that came its way.

However, another heroic presence made her approach, a former huntress, now a hero, distanced herself from Lifprasil's army. She lacked horns, or any sort of colorful garb, if anything her wares were drab and colorless to blend in with the ensuing chaos. Even on her horse, Susa's heroic power allowed her to carry herself silently, and to many she wasn't even there, the only marker of her presence were the arrows that began flying into the skulls of the Horde of Chaos.

Just as Falas was about to attack Bez once more, someone else had already begun initiating combat. Falas hesitated, unsure of what to do now. While doing so, a new army appeared, already attacking the Horde of Chaos upon their arrival. Falas was astonished, having never seen anything of their like. As the events unfolded, Falas realized that there was no need to worry with the Horde. Things would work out against the Horde just fine. As for Lifprasil, though, Falas was a little worried, after all. She remembered Grot's capabilites well. He might not need it, but perhaps some help would not be unwanted.

Falas shouted to the Angels, "Everyone! We have more reinforcements! Aid them, and the enemy will soon be defeated!" A resounded cheer eminated from the Angels, and they immediately began putting more effort in their attacks. "I will aid Lisprasil against the battle of the beast! Archangel Michael is my second-in-command!" Falas announced, and she quickly flew off toward Lifprasil.

Upon reaching him, Falas bowed slightly, then proceeded to greet him, "Lifprasil, I need to tell you about this monster's regeneration ability. There seems to be some sort of hidden entity within its body that repairs its wounds."

Lifprasil's head jerked to meet Falas, and within that helmet of his, she would see the predatory crimson revert to his regal gold. He seemed tense, but he soon relaxed, and returned to his former state - the one she saw when he first confronted Grot. "I was beginning to ponder the nature of those phantom limbs..." he stated, slowly, looking to the now raging Grot, and the still consuming, spidery limbs that had stemmed from his sloughing skin. He held his weapon at bay, as the mindless heads threatened to strike at Falas. "Then we should strike at the source, you and I." Lifprasil offered, a sense of comradery hidden behind his voice.

Falas nodded. "Agreed," Falas said, readying her shield and lance. When she first considered the idea before Lifprasil arrived, she had wondered if she would escape the attempt alive. With Lifprasil's aid, though, that would be less of an issue now.

For some.

Bez had caught Tira, her stone blade going through his forearm, his free hand grabbing her as his body twisted to slam her onto the ground, a snarl of pain and anger escaping him. He hadn't even noticed that all around him the Horde was either dying or being taken prisoner, finally outmatched and beaten down by the sheer numbers against them.

All the worse for her. Tira was light, and tossed easily, and the reinforced leather of her tunic did little more than dull the sharp points of gravel in the boot-stamped earth while the impact kicked the wind from her lungs and yanked her knife arm roughly out of shape, the blade locked tight into the bone of Bez's arm.

She yelled for the blind Urtelem, but the shout was dampened by her own fae and lost in the battle-noise. Using her voice made Tira's profusely bleeding face wound throb harder, and fear only quickened her pulse. The rolls of head-nausea that precedes a blood faint was swelling.

Bez was barely bleeding at all...

Tira shut her mouth, tucked both legs to her chest and slammed her boots to the troll's chest while bracing hard against his throat with the broken haft. Raising her lower body sent a rush of fresh blood to her brain and she used it to focus on the knife alone, using Bez's own body to support her as she ripped out her stolen weapon.

The trolls mocking laughter was abruptly cut short as the wooden half slammed into his throat, gurgling in surprise as she slammed into him and tore her blade out of his arm.

It wrenched its way out through his elbow, and there was bone on its chipped blade under the burst of blood. Tira's left arm was quickly sodden with red now that the troll's wound was open. No time to think. She took the splintered haft from his throat and rammed its point into the soft of his other palm while she could.

Bez released her by reflex. Tira left the wooden spike hanging there and slunk away on hands and knees as heat flared far above her.

Bez roared in pain, his left arm hanging useless, a wooden haft stuck in his right hand. "You think you can run? You think I'll let you escape?!" He gripped the spike inbetween his teeth and ripped his hand free, screaming with more pain. Dropping the haft from his jaws, Bez bent down only to pick up the awful splint Tira had left behind. "I'm going to kill you. And then I'm going to eradicate your entire species. One by one!" He began shambling after Tira, blood gushing down his left arm, right hand clenching the bloodied stake.

She rushed, gasping, driving more blood out through her face. As Tira's concentration slipped, the last faery she had inherited from Fencer wavered and fell away from her fragile mental grip. Maybe that was why the wounded stoneman finally heard her voice.

With weak and weakening aim, an open hand of rock slapped out from behind Bez, perhaps searching for his skull but only finding his already-damaged arm. This time, something really broke. The urt didn't know what, but he doubted it was the head-bone, because he could still sense the troll's hatred. That was not good.

Trying to squint with his remaining eye, the stoneman stood and waved both hands in the general direction of the great muscular warrior, felt one thud into his belly and bounce from Bez's enormous set of core muscles. Had he fallen over? No? Good enough! The Urtelem loped off, grunting for Tira.

If sheer good fortune had saved her until now, it had finally run out. Tira passed under the stoneman's blind spot and was left behind only for her would-be rescuer's foot to grind passed her calf, digging a long graze into the skin and smacking her ankle into a twist. Maybe Tira's last luck had gone into saving her leg from being crushed. Too tired to cry out anymore, she dragged herself as far as she could, and disappeared into the mess of a losing battle.

Bez screamed in pain as his shoulder was shattered, the flesh torn and shredded, turning to strike at the Urtelem attacking him. However, he was only doubled over as the stoneman's fist crashed into his stomach, slowly sinking too his knees as blood loss took it's toll. Bez fell to the ground, unconscious.

Grot was turning his attention to the new army. A titanic roar escaped him, seeing the horde being slowly destroyed. He opened his mouth, flames shooting from it to incinerate the Lifprasilians in an unholy fire.

Lakshmi saw the pillars of flame that had already begun tearing her forces apart, and focused her arm towards the pillaring tower of flesh that threatened to desparage Lifprasil's army. Her beam of might spit fire down the gullet of the destroyer, rending his face in several places.

Susa saw this, and in the back of her mind, the village she had once dwelled in tugged at her conscious, she grimaced, and her hatred grew; she found her accuracy increased, and her vigor rose. Each arrow seemed to rip whomever was unfortunate enough to fall victim to Susa in half, and in the midst of battle, she continued to fight from a range. Lifprasil, however, managed to remain calm as he observed the writhing Lifprasilians below, set aflame by the creature before him. "Follow me - we will fly into the wound on his side," he said, before he wrapped his blade around his waist, and darted into the boiling green flesh of Grot.

Falas' first instinct when Grot had turned his attention away from her and Lifprasil to spew fire at the armies below was to rush over to Grot's face and use her shield to block the flames from doing too much damage to the Lisprasians, but she refrained from doing so, knowing that she wouldn't survive such an attempt unscathed. Fortunately, though, there were already others taking measures to repel the attack. Falas was still worried, but she knew that they would hold out. On that note, she then followed Lifprasil to one of Grot's wounds and, steeling herself, plunged into it after Lifprasil.

Grot's head snapped back as the laser hit his mouth, bellowing in pain again. He didn't even feel Lifprasil and Falas enter his body, landing in the wide, almost tunnel like, insides of his intestines.

But something else did.

The spidery limbs retracted, having seemingly gathered enough from around it, healing the wound it had made. One could see the skin rippling as it headed towards Lifprasil and Falas.

Grot himself focused on Lakshmi, the source of his annoyance right now. He took a step towards her, before swinging one of his lower hands down, smashing through the earth and Lifprasilians to bat her out of the way and out of this fight.

Lakshmi and a large portion of the Lifprasilians that would have found themselves at the mercy of Grot's mighty blow would find themselves instead dropped into a swirling pool of azure that spilled them out behind the waves of the Lifprasilian army, and in an instant the azure was gone, instead letting the dirt and earth take the brunt of Grot's blow. The portal-maker himself was a fair distance away from the fighting, and soon would be soon moving away, an azure portal left suspended over the battlefield.

The Lifprasilians that would have been destroyed all looked to the small cat that had saved them, some even fell off of their wooden horses in anticipation of the attack. The ones that had remained on their steeds however, all let out a cheer for the demi-cat that had saved them, before Lakshmi would lead them back into the fray.

Lifprasil himself, on the other hand, readied to fight the massive beast that resided within Grot, before he looked to Falas. "Falas, find the beast's heart and destroy it, I will be sure to fight whatever lurks within him - can you do that?" he asked, a hand on the hilt of his coiled blade.

Upon entering Grot's body, Falas realized just how repulsive it was to be inside another living being's body like this. She clutched her lance and shield close to her as her eyes darted back and forth, uneasy about the predicament they were in. Turning to Lifprasil when he addressed her, Falas grimaced at the prospect, but deemed it necessary and responded, "Of course." She began to follow the path within Grot's intestines, creating a small yellow light on the tip of her lance when the light within Grot's insides began to grow dim. As Falas flew, she stayed alert for the entity that was responsible for Grot's regeneration, as well as other dangers that could potentially be around.

Lifprasil persisted in staying where he was, making sure to stab into the intestines of Grot, and make a general mess of his innards to attract the monster that dwelled within, and hopefully anger the beast more.

There was an angry rumbling sound, the innards shaking as something moved ever closer. The creature tore through the intestines, healing the wounds it made as it faced Lifprasil. It was a spiderlike creature, hissing in anger at the Demi God.

Its limbs shot forward, intent upon impaling Lif into the ground.

With a tense eye, Lifprasil released the blade he had wrapped around his waist, and used it to tear into the limb that threatened to impale him. The many headed attack not only cut away at the limb of the monster that had consumed so many, but tore apart the organs further, generating a divide in the proximity where Lifprasil struck.

As the battle between Lif and the sniper began, Falas turned to look back when she heard the sounds echo through the intestines. Falas was naturally worried, but she felt she could trust Lifprasil to handle the job and continued. As she flew, though, she began to wonder if she was going to make it to the heart in a timely matter if she merely flew through the intestines. She had no idea where they were leading to, nor the direction she was facing. She wasn't even entirely sure if she was right-side-up anymore. Then she realized her hair was still on her shoulders, so that was at least some indication.

Wanting to waste no time, Falas pointed her lance upward and fired a wide beam of Holy energy, burning through the intestinal walls and through various tissues. Once the deed was done, a steady stream of various liquids began flowing through the hole. Falas could hear the sizzling noise that was being made as the stream was flowing, and decided that it was definitely not a good idea to touch any of it. Raising her shield above her head to act as an umbrella, Falas flew through the hole she had made, drops of liquid flowing off the Barrier magic the shield had created. She also tried her best to make sure her wings did not come into contact with anything dangerous, folding them closer to her body.

The spider creature screeched in pain and frustration as its limb was cut off and it sensed the damage cause by Falas. It couldn't go anywhere, and the invaders were at seperate locations. It rushed Lifprasil, screeching and stabbing with its limbs towards the Demi-God.

Lifprasil decided to experiment with whatever modus operandi of combat he had nibbled from his travels, and ducked underneath the beast, cleaving into its underbelly with his blade as he did so. With a huff and a step he was behind the charging monster, and the weapon he had named 'Beast' in itself stabbed at the surrounding walls of Grot. However, he did not make it out unscathed - the monster had generated a tear in the back of NIciel's armor, and began to bleed him.

However, Lifprasil did not bleed, instead, eyes peered out from the porthole that had been created in his palor skin. Lifprasil did not seem to mind, however, as the hole soon mended itself, and he was ready for another pass.

The creature screeched again, scrambling on its feet as its guts spewed all over the intestinal floor of Grot's intestines. It lashed out against Lifprasil again, weakly. It was dying, that much was clear.

Grot started roaring in pain, thrashing about and spewing fire indiscriminately. He didn't know why there was agony in his stomach. His feet smashed everything around him, hands tearing up the earth as he spewed flame around him. Earth rose, and sank, crushing whatever was between it into a gooey paste.

Lifprasil was suddenly rocketed to and fro by the convulsions and harrowing anger of Grot, and he realized something was very wrong. Suddenly, an eye manifested itself upon Belvast's hat, and squinted at the salty atmosphere of where he was. "Do it now, banish the Champion of Vestec to this watery grave," it demanded, whispered in a strange tongue, one filled with malice.

On the other hand, Lakshmi and her Lifprasilians had a hard time attempting to navigate from Grot - it was apparent that this destructive temper tantrum would kill them, and soon. The earlier miracle was envious in its timing, for now the current situation's fixability was somewhat... neglible without the proper, more drastic measures from a small, but very powerful cat. "Re-retreat! Run, Grot i-intends to kill us a-all!" ordered the stuttering hero, before she was thrown off of her horse, as the wooden thing, and half of her armored guard were sent screaming into the abyss.

Lakshmi followed, and held tight her bronze sword as she fell with several other comrades. The browning metal scraped against earthen texture abound, and Lakshmi only saw herself falling to her death.

A great swath of earth threatened to press into her and kill her, so she extended a left arm as bright as the sun, and fired from her palm, effectively cleaving it in half and saving herself as she slide down, down... However, just as it seemed she would meet a pile of gore at the basin of this dark ravine, Oevadia dove into the crag that Lakshmi had fallen victim to, but could not reach her. Lakshmi had to regain some distance between her and the massive bird, but the skin of Galbar threatened to mend, with them inside, so, calling upon her heroic strength, she pressed the heels of her toes to either side of the slowly narrowing walls.

With a cry of pain, she slowed herself, but her leather shoes gave way to skin, and blood, before she would eventually utilize what waining strength she had to jump upwards, and be grasped by Oevadia's feet. The pairing flew out, but Lifprasil's army was still being consumed by Grot's rage. Something had to be done.

As Grot continued his violent tantrum, Archangel Michael commanded the Angels, "Do not approach the beast! Keep your distance!" Fortunately, many Angels had the same idea and chose to stay back.

Elsewhere, the one thing that could turn the tide was staring into the sea, his black eye stinging with the salt and sting of the sea's breeze, the White Ocean standing before him as he peered across the horizon, his gaze unnervingly focused on a singular point as the sea's surface, several miles out would give way to a glowing pool of azure beneath it, about 500 ft. deeper. His fur was drenched and his clothing lay in a pile beside him as he continued to glare at the ocean as if waiting before hearing the order. Shakily, his eye peered back through the portal overlooking the battle, the carnage, the inevitable slaughter of the Lifprasilians before the portal suddenly closed and his eye snapped shut.

A mere quarter of a second would pass before he clutched his head in agony, as a swirling tide of Azure appeared beneath Grot's feet and around him, the Eye of the Portcullis tearing open and becoming bloodshot as it experiences the physical embodiment of Belvast's struggle to maintain a portal so great in size for more than a brief moment. Deeply Belvast stared, biting down hard against the pain burning into his mind as he attempted to make Grot into an offering to the sea. It was the only way to be sure that there would be no more casualties than necessary, and to stop Grot from destroying the entirety of the valley. Digging his claws into the sand, Belvast clenched his hands hard. "You...will owe me....at least a barrel..." he struggled to say, not even sure if Lifprasil could hear his pathetic quiver of a voice against the strain of his effort as Grot's feet would find themselves falling into the ocean. Now all that was left was to wait.

[1 Might expended to create the portal]

Lifprasil was suddenly driven to the ceiling of Grot's intestinal tract as the green beast descended into the ocean, but he sooner lashed out at the spider monster than let it attack him in this state - attempting to finish it off.

The spider died, limbs flying everywhere, as Grot crashed, still roaring in pain, into the ocean. Almost immediately, ocean water began flooding into his body from the various wounds, as Grot flailed. He had never swam before, and it wasn't going well. Panic consumed his mind and he began to sink like a rock.

Falas continued to slice away at Grot's insides, hoping to find his heart soon before things took a turn for the worse. Unfortunately for her, it seemed that she was not going to have that wish granted, as things became more violent inside Grot. She found herself getting shaken around as Grot flailed, and to make matters worse, water soon began to flow inside Grot. Falas began to panic, tensing up for a moment, but she forced herself to remain calm and decided that her survival was top priority, abadoning the mission to destroy Grot's heart for now.

On that note, Falas raised her lance and fired a beam of Holy energy, eventually creating a new wound that opened up on the surface of Grot's skin. Unfortunately, water began flowing in from there as well, quickly submerging her. Falas had no experience in swimming, and she began to panic even more now, desperate for air. Falas still had more than enough energy left to fly, though, and she shot herself through the wound she had made. It wasn't long before she made it out, hovering over the surface of the ocean. Falas was a bit worse for wear, coughing her lungs out to clear out the water that had managed to get in and exhausted from the fighting, but she was alive.

Before the ocean water could consume him, Lifprasil escaped Grot's body, and resurfaced near his head: he had one last thing to do before Grot died. He fell upon his shoulder, just beside his head, and with an evervescent light that would not soon be extinguished, calmed the mile tall beast's mind through direct contact. The shining power pulsated throughout his forearm, like his own heart beat, he made the rhythm of their anatomy one, each one's thoughts intertwined. This was Lifprasil's power.

"Stay calm, great beast, your journey need not be over, as we will soon be one, I am the Prince of Chaos yet, but you must slumber now," spoke the aspiring king, covered in blood, but with a face wreathed in elegance. "Your body will return to Galbar's womb, but you will be taken into my fold." Lifprasil then reassured Grot, and the Champion of Chaos himself saw the Demi-God for what he truly was, a creature of gold, with seven purple, red, and green eyes interlaced around one of white.

"Surrender."

Grot's flailing slowly ceased, and he began to sink into the water faster, limbs going limp. "Yes..." He rumbled, whatever warning signs he had going quiet under Lifprasil's power. "Rest. Rest and slumber before the great slaughter..." His mouth closed, and Grot, the First Champion of Chaos, sank beneath the waves.

After Grot had given that disturbing token of knowledge, Lifprasil escaped from his perch and went to Falas to console her, and held her in his arms. "You did well." he congratulated, as his own being was revitalized, powered by the essence of Grot.

Falas was certainly not expecting the sudden gesture from Lifprasil, and blushed as she was being held in Lifprasil's arms. She felt rather small and weak like this, and she wasn't sure if she liked it or not. She did feel a little comforted by the gesture, though. "Um... t-thank you," Falas stammered out, feeling rather embarrassed now. Stay calm! You're the leader of the entire Angel race! Falas thought to herself, trying to keep her emotions in check.

Lifprasil stood, and carried Falas with him "Let us return to our people," he said, walking up to the collapsed form of Belvast. The battle was over, and Lifprasil made sure of it with one woe begotten glance to the water that had eaten Grot. "Rise, Belvast, your reprieve will be soon. Grot is defeated, and many lives have been saved thanks to you."

"You owe me SO many fish." Belvast replied, raising his head lazily, the black center eye on his head still slightly bloodshot as he rubbed his head, right beside it. "Grot is dead then? You're certain?" he questioned, before looking to Falas and immediately covering himself with his cotton trousers. "Pardon me."

"I'm certain of it, I gave him calm before his death." Lifprasil stated with confidence. "Are you able to teleport? I would not like you to strain yourself too hard."

Belvast's third eye shut after a moment and he said: "I'm okay...it only stings a little. I've never made a portal that big before for so long, and at such a distance. It was...an experience to say the least. Are you unhurt?" with a tone of concern as he hopped up and dusted off his pants, to shake the sand free of the cotton as he did the same to his undershirt and robe.

The looming Demi-God chuckled, and shook his head "No, however, I could stand to visit Niciel to mend my armor. If anything, I feel... Better. How does a visit to the Peaceful Valley sound?" Lifprasil questioned with a lithe smile.

"Peaceful." Belvast said plainly before he placed his hat back atop his ears. "Would you like me to make a gate for us? What of your army? I doubt they'll enjoy the fanfare of the end of the battle without their King."

"To OUR army, you are my friend, and a friend of my people. Do not estrange yourself from them," Lifprasil corrected "A gate would be suitable, however."

"I did no fighting. And I was late to save many of your soldiers from Grot." Belvast stated, before opening a portal vertically a few feet away from them, slowly walking towards it. "Even so, without you requesting it of me, I doubt I would have intervened as I did. A selfishly performed task is not one that deserves thanks." he added, finishing with: "I will, however, still take the barrel of fish."

Lifprasil shook his head "This is a valuable lesson, to be selfless is a learned trait, and I feel like you learnt something." he explained, before he stepped through the gate, carrying Falas still.

Belvast went through as well, the gate taking them back to the battlefield once more.

Elsewhere...

Oevadia touched down upon the battlefield, and relenquished Lakshmi, left her to stagger amongst the shattered remains of the assault. The damage was far less severe than what could have been - but Lifprasil's forces were devastated with their first casualties. The many soldiers had managed to corner the Horde of Chaos with the help of the angels, and amongst the scattered bodies, the gore, and the burnt Lifprasilian Knights - Lakshmi tripped over... Something. It moaned, not without a healthy measure of spite.

Lakshmi found her ankle in the grip of a deeply dirtied hand, though its grip seemed much stronger than Tira's ability to hold up the arm it was attached to. "Ui, sista, kint," muttered the thin obstacle on the field: 'wait'. Heaving, forcing bloodless arms to support a chest that now felt too heavy for them, Tira sat prone. "Runati ly Dansa? Runati ly je wanem?"

Where are my friends?

"Who is that?" questioned Susa, who had risen from the blood and the ashes of the battlefield, surprisingly lacking in any sort of blood or gore, just covered in sweat. "I d-don't qui-ite know..." Lakshmi stuttered, before she knelt to the small girl (in comparison to the hulking hero).

"Did she come from the Horde?" Susa questioned, spiteful.

"D-doubtful - are yo-u okay?" Lakshmi questioned from Tira, reaching over to lift her out of the mud, and into her lap.

Susa decided to join Lakshmi, and kneel beside them "Is she injured?" she asked Lakshmi, who just shrugged, and told her to shush. In an odd move, Tira mimicked the motion. "Asshhh. Al ne yiesh." Let me stand.

It didn't look like she could, at first, but she stretched, and her eyes focused on the general's oddly-shaped grey ears. A good sign. A sign, if nothing else, that she wasn't about to use the knife that still dripped onto her already-scarlet left arm, or at least that the idea didn't occur to her.

Did she stand? No, but we must nonetheless acknowledge the great effort she spent to flop her way out of Lakshmi's lap.

"Ne-as wus," she muttered. Regret. Guilt. Tira shut her eyes, and folded her legs into a sitting position, then looked up. For the first time she seemed to look Lakshmi in the eye. "Tui, kiki? Ly hak."

What now? They're dead.

Lakshmi frowned, and Susa actually felt some sadness stir within her, as if either or had enhanced empathy because of their association with emotion.

"Prosit," is all Lakshmi said to Tira, the word had some depth to it, now, and it helped reassure her. With this she took off her cloak, that which was wreathed in bright colors, laiden with bronze, and tacked with precious gems, and wrapped it around Tira. "Y-you may no-t-t understand m-me, but have you n-nowhere f-f-for yourself, y-you may c-come to me." she then reassured the small girl, before both she and Susa silently agreed to help her stand, if not carry her.

Oevadia just watched, now just a gentle shadow.

Tira's head drooped on her neck, although it might have been a nod. That was how she eventually stood, and dragged her feet along to the safety where the Lifprasilians led her: A small thing, a bleeding thing, and fighting, fighting every step of the way to push aside her momentary guardians and walk by herself. Never succeeding, but never looking back. Perhaps that was how she grieved.

And not so far behind, a thing of metallic blacks and yellows watched with no eyes, supporting a body that had once been so fine an artist. Goodbye, young fighter. Fare ye well.

Flux let Fencer's head rest upon the broken earth and took to the air, to rejoin the ranks of the angels. Dancer's body would stay where it had fallen, as they had died, that it may rot and become the strangest skeleton of a strange field, on which a half-blind Urtelem would forever look and sign the twin names of death and sorrow. Better not that Tira would come to regret. Better not that he be the one to let her look back.

Her journey had started now, and started true.

Lifprasil would find himself stepping through back onto the hard rock of the valley, his men, fallen or standing were around him with him as the epicenter of the entire place. Belvast hid behind him, wanting his friend to get his rallying cheer. "Go on. Its your floor." Belvast whispered, tipping his hat down slightly.

Lifprasil let Falas down, and then picked Belvast up to rest the small feline on his shoulder, there were no words, just a raised Sword of Chaos, that which had just swayed like grass; that which had been quelled by the blood that had been spilled on that day. The Lifprasilian Knights all cheered on their horses, on their feet, some supporting others, the cheer was thunderous and mighty; and it shook the hearts of many. The Lifprasilians had seen their first battle, and saved their first peoples, they had taken their first step torwards a peaceful world.

However, there were no cheering from the camp flanking Tira, Lakshmi felt joy in her heart, but she had seen the bloody, fiery, and inhumane deaths her comrades had suffered. Susa felt numb, mute, she thought that striking down the monstrous horde and ending their reign of terror would give her some absolution.

But deep inside, she wanted more. There was no satisfaction from this. Maybe it would have been better if she had remained a simple villager, rather than a crusader.

Falas bowed to Lifprasil after the journey back to the Valley of Peace, and returned to her Angels. Upon reaching them, though, the Angels had a slew of questions to ask. Did you defeat the monster? Where did it go? Are you alright? Why was Lifprasil carrying you like that?

"Alright, everyone, quiet down! Quiet! Down!" Falas yelled over them, and the Angels quickly became silent, waiting for her answers. "All will be explained in due time. The important thing is that the monster is dead. We have successfully defended the Valley of Peace!" Falas announced. The silenced was filled with a few gasps that quickly turned with a deafening cheer.

The defeated Horde remained silent, warily watching the many blades and all to easily angered soldiers around them.

After a while, the Lifprasilian Knights calmed, and Lifprasil set Belvast down, and he rose up, floated above the ground, and above the Knights. "Grot is dead, the Horde is defeated, and I feel as if we have made valuable new allies on this day. However, it did not come with a price," he exclaimed, still covered in gore from head to toe.

"Lakshmi, take the wounded back to our home, a hundred men, and as many horses as needed will be suitable. The rest will stay here to look after the prisoners, and we will have convention with these Angels of the brave Falas. You may rest now, all of you, deserve it." Lifprasil then elaborated, and pointed out people with uncanny accuracy, he divided them up with ease. Like a King.

Lakshmi nodded to Susa, who ran off to the surrounded Horde, which left Lakshmi with Tira. "C-come with me," said the hero after a heavy moment of silence. She went to touch Tira, but took pause, and merely led her with the one hundred Lifprasilian Knights appointed to her. The took a large swath of horses with them, their limbs creaked, and their bodies shuddered with each step, but the wounded took to them nicely. When the time came, one of a cherry oak, a brilliant, polished crimson color was driven to Lakshmi by the last remaining member of her guard, who remained faceless under his purple cloak.

"T-thank yo-ou," Lakshmi choked, and fought back tears she motioned for the girl to climb the wooded steed. "D-do-don't b-be afra-id." she reassured her, as the lone guard stepped back, and held close his broken spear.

The leather-coated youngster squinted to focus on the thin glint of that weapon, then at her own hands as she accepted a Lifprasilian's leg-up onto Lakshmi's Marionette. She was still holding the stolen knife, that held not very long ago by those who had so been so cruelly named after the general. Looking back up to Lakshmi, she hid away the stone thing deep in her coat, where the day's blood could be forgotten, at least for a time.

"Tira," whispered she, pointing to herself with her freed hand. Then she slumped onto Lakshmi's back.

Behind, the commotion consisted of a steadily growing line of injured Lifprasilians and other peoples being loaded onto horses, many of them weren't even part of Lifprasil's offensive, just any injured the one hundred Knights could nibble from the chaotic remnants of a battlefield.

Vestec appeared in a flash, two dripping pieces of flesh in his hands. looking around at the carnage and injured. "I'm impressed. For a spur of the moment plan, this worked rather well." Vestec looked over at Lifprasil. "Conqueror of mine, three quarters of the remaining Horde have decided that you are their leader, seeing as you killed Grot. Kill them, let them into your army, it is all up to you now." He walked over to the prone from of Bez, tsking. "I had better hopes for you. Oh well. Maybe you'll do better with time."

He tucked the pieces of flesh into his coat, before picking Bez up. "Oh. That arm is useless." With a sickening ripping sound, Vestec tore off the troll's arm, his chaos magic sealing the stump shut. "There. Much better." He slung Bez over his shoulder, turning to Lifprasil once more. "Well, I've got to go. Hordes to renovate, Chaos to plan. You know, all the usual. Have fun dearie! Falas represents the Angels, so maybe you'll have a chance at convincing her to let the Nice Mountains be annexed by your Empire. Niciel won't approve at all, I'm afraid." With that, he was gone, taking the remaining quarter of the survivors who would rather die that serve Lifprasil with him.

A human woman of the remainder stood up, covered in blood and limping, but alive. "My lord..." She began, tentatively. "We are the remainder. We have decided that you're too strong to fight. We seek to join your..." She paused, searching for the word. "Empire."

Lifprasil smiled, but soon took off his helmet, and put on an expression of pity for those injured in the battle. "Your cooperation is most welcomed - hand over your wounded, and those still fit may stay with my army, however, you are warned: in my lands, there are laws, and those broken often yield punishment. I will not so easily hand over weapons and armor to you, but I will shelter you, provided you do not harm my people. Is that clear?" said the Demi-God, gently, as if speaking to a strange frailty that would be easily started by any significant change in pitch.

He stooped lower, and lower from his lofty height, so that he stood equal to the Horde, covered in what remained of their former leader that was not consumed by the ocean.

The woman looked back at the horde. "I cannot promise they will all obey. But you can try to impress upon them the fact that there will be retribution if they break your laws."

Belvast couldn't help but give an appraising look of the prospective new additions to the Lifprasilian army. Only a few minutes ago they had been enemies, and suddenly are left, abandoned at the mercy of the victor. Not like it was his place to say anything, but Lifprasil merely glanced over to Lifprasil, his eyes full of unese as if to question if he was sure about this.

Teknall stepped through the rift and into his extra dimensional Workshop, and was immediately buffeted by thermal radiation, the vacuum of space and the harsh lighting which suffused throughout the Workshop. Since none of the machines powered by the Stellar Engine were on, the only source of light was a single open doorway which happened to be on the side facing the star. Since at this proximity the starlight was roughly 40 times the brightness of Galbar's sunlight the reflection off the concrete wall was dazzling and cast sharp shadows across the workshop. Additionally, in this time the workshop had heated to a rather unpleasant temperature of hundreds of degrees. None of these had been problems which concerned Teknall while he had been making Goliath, for both himself and Goliath had no need for air, could see independently of light, and could withstand such temperatures. But he would very soon need a more hospitable environment to work in, and those renovations could not wait until he finished the rest of the Workshop.

Teknall decided that the first thing he would work on was cooling. To counteract the inbound solar radiation, he would need a large radiator array, and some means to transport heat from around the station to the radiators. For the radiators, Teknall fabricated twenty-meter-long panels, one side highly reflective, the other side corrugated and dark so it would emit radiation faster. Inside the corrugations he ran pipes, which would carry heated fluids into the radiators and the cooled fluids away, and to thermally connect those pipes to the radiating surface he used a paste consisting mostly of diamond dust. He also constructed radiator panels which were wider and flatter to be attached to the rear face of the space station, since the space station was permanently facing the sun so as to collect energy from the Stellar Engine. He took all these radiator panels and attached them to the rear of the space station, such that the whole back face was covered in radiator surface and radiator panels extended out from the back like flower petals.

Back in the Workshop, Teknall started milling many, many meters of pipes, some narrow, some wide, and he forged joints and connectors for them too. He also prepared some liquid pumps and heat engines to drive them. Once all the parts were made- so many Teknall had to build iron crates to hold them all so they wouldn't spill over the floor- Teknall when outside and began placing the pipes. To the front face of the space station he inserted the myriad narrow pipes under the aluminium skin, like a network of capillaries. These capillaries all converged to a few wider pipes around the circumference, which then connected the front and rear circular faces of the station, such that the coolant fluids would be heated at the front face and be transported to the radiators at the rear to deposit their heat into the void of space.

But the coolant fluid would not flow on its own. To each of the pipes leading from front to back he attached a pump attached to a heat engine, and he connected each of those heat engines to the Stellar Engine Core, so they could extract a tiny slither of its thermal energy to drive the coolant pumps. With the system finally almost done, Teknall just needed to fill it with coolant fluid. There were many possible options, but Teknall decided to go for mercury due to its high boiling point and reasonable heat capacity, as well as the simplicity of obtaining it. From he connected the coolant system to the mercury box in the Elemental Siphon and let it fill completely with the liquid metal before sealing off the coolant system and disconnecting it from the Elemental Siphon. The quicksilver flowed through the new veins of the workshop, heating up where the starlight struck it, and then emitting its heat through the radiators and into the inky blackness of space.

While he was working on cooling, Teknall decided to also deal with cooling the Stellar Engine Core. The power it received well out-did the power incident onto the station from the sun, so it would need a greater cooling mechanism. Teknall set up a similar system of pumps and pipes, but this time the working fluid was not mercury but molten salt, for the temperatures involved were far greater. A series of heat exchanges allowed the thermal energy to be transferred to progressively cooler coolants until the energy could be dumped into the mercury pumping through the radiators.

With the cooling system done, the temperature inside the workshop was already dropping, and would soon reach an equilibrium point near standard room temperature. Teknall now moved to work on the next step- lighting.

This was not too difficult, at least for a basic lighting system. The Stellar Engine Core could currently only supply thermal energy, so Teknall had to work with that. Incandescence, flames and black-body radiation would be quite inefficient sources of heat, so instead Teknall decided to work with atomic excitation and fluorescence. From doped silica glass he blew a double-layered bulb, with vacuum separating the interior and exterior. To produce the light he inserted a narrow nozzle which would receive high-temperature flame from the Stellar Engine, and a mixture of mercury and metal halides. He sealed the light bulb and made a few more. He put them in reflective housings which would redirect all the light out in a single direction. Then he installed the lights high above the floor, and as they received power the compounds within them were vaporised, their electrons excited and they began emitting light. The modifications Teknall had made to the glass converted higher-energy invisible ultra-violet photons into visible light by fluorescence, enhancing the brightness of the lights. And this light flooded throughout the workshop, illuminating all of it.

His space station had cooling. It had lighting. It was now missing just one crucial ingredient- air. To accommodate air, Teknall went and sealed all the doorways leading into the workshop from the void outside. Each doorway received two doors, one inside and one outside, such that one could step in through the inner door, close it, then open the outer door to leave, all while keeping the air locked inside the workshop.

Once the workshop was sealed, adding air was easy. Teknall simply opened the oxygen and nitrogen doors on the Elemental Siphon and let the gasses flood out until it had reached the same pressure and composition as Galbar's atmosphere. Teknall took a deep breath of this fresh air. Being able to breath was not the only sensory effect an atmosphere had, for he could now also hear, his skin was gently cooled by convection, and he could feel the air moving around him as he moved. Although the workshop might not be completed yet, having air was definitely a major milestone towards its completion.

Yet this air was largely stagnant, and there was no means to control its temperature. Additionally, there was nothing to replenish the oxygen and remove the carbon dioxide should a living thing occupy the station, but that would be a project for another day. What he did do was build large fans which would cause the air to mix and circulate about the workshop. Then he attached those fans to heat pumps, which would extract thermal energy from the air and put it into the cooling system, thus chilling the air and allowing its temperature to be regulated.

Teknall was satisfied with the work he had done. While his workshop was still far from complete, these latest modifications would allow him to use his workshop for his next important project. A rift opened up, which he stepped through, and the workshop was unoccupied once more.

The land between the Ironheart ranges and the white ocean is an area most gods did not pay too much attention to over the ages. One could say it is part of the quiet half of Galbar. There are quite a few rivers and in the northern part of this land the country is composed of the great rolling foothills of the Ironheart, of fertile soils and forests and steppes. Not as touched by the gods as the Waeld or the Deepwood, these woods still are a magnificent sight. For ages Hain and Humans lived reasonably peacefully alongside each other. There even is trade with the Rovaik of the close mountains, especially Troll merchants and Tedar herders are a common sight, roaming the land.

Jakin had been living in these lands all his life, and he had witnessed his surroundings change a lot, and he even had changed it himself a lot. He was a elder by now, maybe the greatest elder in these parts, respected by people far and wide.
As on most days the young of the closest villages had started to gather and sit in a half circle at his hut, to listen to his stories a little before sundown. Not only where two dozen human kids here, but also a few Hain. One of them an adult, a very welcome chipper and his two younglings. Even a young Troll girl, daughter the trader often coming through every few months was sitting in the back waiting for the famed Jakin to come talk to them.

As the sun came down to about a hand breadth above the horizon a shuffling and muttering could be heard, and the wizened figure of Jakin emerged from the hut through a curtain door of wooden beads. He sat down on the perfectly formed root of the old tree hugging his hut. And harumphed. Deep sat his dark eyes in his deeply lined leathery face. A face that seen joy and sorrow and the coming and going of seasons, of herds, of people. His skin was dark as ebony, maybe even as dark as the night sky. He looked around smiling toothless at the gathered youth.

“So you want to listen to an old fools ramblings? Do you not have anything better to do?”
His voice was very deep and smoky and warm like a well build campfire.
“Well seems like you don’t, well well.”
He scratched his hairless scalp then leaned forward, drawing into the dust at his feet, figures and landscapes, as he talked.
“When I was your age younglings we did not live in such fine huts as these. Oh no we had big tents of hide and leather and would only stay at a site as long as the herds then we moved on to another place.”
“From village to village, like dads and me?”
asked the troll girl in the back, her bone necklace making xylophonous sounds as she moved.
A warm smile spread and the old man chuckled.
“No, in these days there where no real villages in these lands. We had a few places we would always set up shop. Some even had a few buried supplies we did not want to carry around the land, but we only staid for a time, and then moved. Ask your dads some time he should remember it too.”
His smile diminished shortly.
“In those days we Humans would attack all Trolls on sight. He should still have a few scars my Father gave him.” A deep sigh

A bit of bickering sprang up between the kids “Children this is long ago, we all where scared of each other, it was a worse time. Do not fight because of it.”
“Anyways, I think I was about your age when the Hain of our friends the Seaside Clan where visited by strangers from a foreign land. Can you tell me what these foreigners brought to them?”
“Tools!”
“Pretty stones!”
“The red stinky water!”
“Foodstuffs.”

“I might as well tell you. It was really food.” He rummaged in his sporran then held up a pale loaf of bread. Then handed it to the kids to share.
“Never had any of us seen a food like this. One that tasted so well when it was fresh, that smelled and when dried would not spoil for a long time.”
“I don’t like it..its too fluffy.” Mumbled the troll girl. Good natured laughter.
“No I bet you don’t.” He handed an air dried brick of clay over then nodded smilingly. ”Anyways, soon the Hain had started to work the land and as they had something we wanted, we started to have more contact with them. It wasn’t quite easy, no one had thought up our common tongue and we had to talk with hand and feet, but soon friendship bloomed and we learned the secret of planting fields.”
He chuckled again
“And I must tell you, I didn’t like it one bit. Working an acre is hard work! But the harvest and the easy to stow away bread and grain allowed us to stay, to not have to roam and to build nicer homes, homes that did not need to be carried all around.” He proudly patted his own hut.

“It wasn’t always great though, we and by we I mean Hain and Human had to figure it out of course. At first our fields often failed us, where smashed by hail or rain. How should we have known when to sow and reap? When the rain and when the dry season would be upon us?”

A human boy piped up “The Stones! The Holy Stones!”
Jakin laughted.
“Well not yet, but yes the Stones is what we have now. It works like this: Days over the year are not all the same. Each day the sun rises a bit further to the side than the other, when we where wandering no one knew! How should we, we never had paid that much attention, or staid long enough in one place to see the difference. Anyways there are two days each year where the sun stops wandering and moves back again, and as it hurts to look at the sun we found a way to find this day.”

“Shadows!” Said all the kids in unison

“Yes Shadows, see you know my story already. We build a circle of wooden posts and marked each day where the sun had set and sunk. We found the Year and soon we knew where the sun had to sink for there to be rain season soon and where it had to rise for the right day to sow our fields. When I became shaman myself, I had an Ideas to make this better. As everyone will tell you, Jalkin is a very lazy man. Well I didn’t want to have to replace the rotten wood posts after each rain season. It took some time to bring the other shamans and wise women around, but after a year or two of me unrelentlessly blabbing at them, we started. With the help of our good friends like Stonesong here.”
He indicated the seated Hain who looked around shyly.
“With the help of the chippers like him and lots of people from the other villages, and with a big chunk of help from your dad and his brothers.” He nodded to the Troll girl who grinned proudly, a toothy wide grin.
“We build the great stone calender. Here at the purple beach, where the wise people of Hain, Human and Rovaik have always come in wonder. Here we erected it for the benefit of all of us. And now here it is where we all gather for the great holidays of solstice, and where all the wise men learn from each other and where the young come for healing, or to have their children. Also where the old come when their time is coming to its end. To its End like this story ends now.”

Exhausted the old man concluded his tale and soon, but not without protesting for more story and tales the kids went to play and eat. He sighed, tomorrow would be his last Solstice, he knew it in his bones. And still he did not know, did not understand why here there was a beach of purple sand they had build the calendar at. Had the Gods just willed it so? Was it a gift to have a place all the thinking people cared for? Where the old animosities could end?

The purple sands. No one knew why they where purple. Why they where the color of all these tiny garnets carried here from the rich deposits in the Ironheart by rivers.

Basheer looked down upon the debased and degraded creature. It had been corrupted and brought most low by the will of the Jvanic Flesh. Perhaps in a past life it had been one of those little white creatures which scurried about upon the earth, but it was now unrecognisable for that beautiful and noble creature. Indeed, it had by the will of the Jvanic Flesh turned its back upon what it was. Its once fine, white shell had been mutilated beyond recognition. It had been cracked before being marred with the blackness of the Jvanic Inkfly.

Basheer surveyed the rest of the camp and the many other hain who had similarly disfigured themselves. Only one or too smaller ones yet maintained the purity of their natural form.
'You are accursed beings, with your own hands you defile what Nature has created pure. The fear and detestation for Jvan which Nature endowed you with, you attempt to cure,' the defiled and degraded hain, and the two uncorrupted ones, were lifted up till they were all at the level of Basheer's head, 'of your great misguidance you will be cleansed, and you will be made as examples for those who come after you,' and with that, he took off into the sky and made his way to the nearby settlement.

He had observed this party leave the settlement some weeks ago and had watched over them until the chosen hain finally emerged from its tent, having defiled the purity of its shell. Again and again he came across these creatures doing similar things to their shells, and again and again he reprimanded and made examples of them.

He settled down in the middle of the settlement, tear it apart with the fury of his winds, detecting the scurrying creatures and pulling them into the centre. Once they were all gathered, he separated the corrupted ones from the pure ones and began the cleansing.
'Look you here, all of you, and learn, and remember. For their sins against Nature and for their allignment with the evil Jvanic Flesh, I pass judgment on these here. Let them be as examples to you all. Let no passing fancy ever again lead you to mutilate what Nature has created pure and whole,' and with that, the winds found their way into the cracks of the corrupted hain, and in each of them a savage whirlwind tore apart the flesh and sprayed the air and earth with blood. And those below looked up in terror, and the blood of their parents, grandparents, sisters and brothers rained upon them, and their empty, mutilated shells fell upon the earth. And there they remained, as an example to all who would come after them.

With that, Basheer lifted himself up and drifted upon the wind. Ever since his liberation, his fame had grown and many now recognised the strange, flute-like sound that preceded him wherever and whenever he went. His entire being had been altered by the eons of imprisonment, and part of the musical instrument (if such foul sound could be called music) he had once been trapped in remained with him. As he drifted on the wind, the sound of his movement was overwhelmed, very suddenly, by the sound of thunder. He looked up into the sky, but saw no signs of a coming storm. But the God of Thunder was bearing down upon him.

He had heard much recently of how the great Murmur was hunting down the fiends of the Jvanic Flesh without shewing mercy. It had caused Basheer a great amount of comfort to know that so mighty a being had a similar mission and goal as he, and he had desperately sought to meet the mighty being. But at that moment, Murmur did not seem to be approaching him in any friendly manner.
Perhaps...perhaps he had mistaken him for a corrupted being? Others had done so before. It was the source of much misery to him. That he, Basheer, perhaps the djinni with the greatest loathing for all things Jvanic, should himself be mistaken for one of them. It was the Jvanic Flesh's way to spite him even as he hunted down and destroyed all she created and all she cursed with her blessing.

The mighty Djinni Lord's presence was then upon noble Basheer; it permeated the air itself like a smothering blanket, though of visual signs of Murmur there were none save the wild oscillation of the air itself. Basheer would find himself at once enveloped within the living explosion that was sound manifest as god!

There called out a voice, harsh and booming but melodic all the same,
"What exemplar of bastardry rests before me here?

The sweet wind at your back is tainted by Jvan's smell,
yet your form does not repel.
Half pure, half corrupt;

you are not one of the twisted, vile traitors
for it is plain that your form still resembles our Creator's
and not some fiend of horror.

But, pray tell:

If a succulent fruit's skin shines like day
and yet its odor betrays decay
has it been consumed by rot?"

Basheer looked around himself as the near-ethereal being engulfed him and his voice prodded at his form from seemingly all directions. He considered the words of the Thunder God before making his reponse.
'It is said, oh Lord of the Thunderous Skies
Whose coming heralds high heaven's sweet sighs
That if one should stare long into the dark
The darkness would leave upon him its mark,' he let out a long breath, which filled the air around him with a deep musical sound.

'It is not the noble crusader's fault
That he should look into his soul's deep vault
And find within that most profound pit, placed
Some of the scum in which his foes are laced,' he released another melancholy note.

'And for one like me, for millenia trapped
Blame not my Self for choosing to adapt
'Tis the price that I for surviving pay
And so use life to hunt sin everyday.'

An equally musical voice was returned,
"Ah, what cheer!
I know you now as the noble Basheer,
and many a good djinn has already seen fit to regale me of your tale.
Blessed to me is one that perserveres and overcomes Jvan's horrors;
sacrosanct is the one that then joins the Glorious Crusade with ardor
and fights with zeal against our scourge!
What aid have you lent to the righteous purge?"

At Murmur's immediate recognition and praise of him, Basheer felt himself fill with a joyful pride. That news of him should have reached the ears of even so great a being as the Thunder God was beyond what he could have ever expected. It was no joy to be known for his suffering alone, but to be known in the world of djinn was in itself a mighty feat, no matter the reason. And he was certain that in due time it would not be his suffering alone that turned the heads of his brethren. He would give them far more to turn their heads about!

''Tis my duty, after all I have seen
To ensure our world is kept pure and clean,
And that the word of Nature is supreme
Above all that the Flesh does plot and scheme.

Its worshippers I punished severely
And I hope they repented sincerely,
For if they have not, then I shall return
And their worlds and lives and works overturn!

Its foul messengers I tossed and broke
Freeing thousands from its crushing flesh yoke,
And when I found a corrupted brother
No mercy took me, him did I smother!

And for fear that they should corrupt me too
I did not utilise them that I slew,
And so if you see me yet small and weak
I chose the war, over power, to seek.

To my great despair, this now does mean:
Those vile servants of Jvan, now strong and lean,
Have grown stronger than I can hope to be;
Less the battles fought than the ones I flee.

I have carried these thoughts, hoping to find
A great spirit of a similar mind
To me, with whom to find strength and safety.
For Jvan remains, 'tis best not be hasty

Else one's life and one's war is ever lost
And all we have fought and died for is tossed
Upon the wind and into the ocean
In one swift and foolish burst of motion!

And so though this my state does make me sad,
To have found you finally I am glad!
Oh mighty Lord of the Sound of the Storm
Will you nurture me, and strengthen my form?'

The all-encompassing cacophony of sound that was Murmur then froze, seemingly in contemplation. The vibrant hum around Basheer faded, and for a long moment Murmur's sound was like feathers falling upon fresh snow.

Silence was finally banished and an answer return,
"The wild tree, king of the forest
nurtured by storm, tested by wind
grows taller and stronger than that in an orchard tended to and trimmed.
You ask for what cannot and should not be given, in earnest.

It is a trying heat that we endure in the crucible of war
and you are wise indeed to reject their essence
for through this fire alone you can be tempered and made quintessence.
Entertain not temptation to drink of their Flickers, for into yours their corruption will pour."

Basheer immediately saw the truth in Murmur's words. While what he sought would indeed increase his strength and make him an even greater bane of Jvankind, it would not last. True strength was tested in the heat of battle, true might in the moment of crisis. It just meant that he would have to hunt his own as well as Jvanic beings. The sacrifice of his uncorrupted brethren would mean the betterment of the sword which struck down Nature's foes. It was what it was.

'I find that what you say is true
Though in my eye tears do accrue
To think that I should sacrifice
Those souls who are unstained by vice
And go about serving Nature
As is their innate character
But 'tis the pain we must endure
To fight of Jvan and Nature cure,' he sighed a little sigh as he thought of the brethren who would not meet their ends at his hands. He knew not why, but ever since he had been liberated of the Jvanic Intrument, he had found in himself not desire to harm those of his kind. Only Jvanic beings incited his furies and brought about his vengeful punishment.

'And where to now do you venture?
From where calls your next adventure?'

"My destination is absolute:
rest shall never be mine 'til I smother
Jvan itself, Cancer Made Flesh, the Great Other
though shadows shroud my route."

For some time now, a storm had been looming above the horizon, though now the dark clouds brewed so close that they would not go unnoticed. Mortals would see nothing amiss, but to the discerning eyes of two djinn it was clear that this was no storm conjured intentionally and directed by the careful hand of a Stormlord. No, it was rather the result of a great conflux of wind elementals, such a high concentration of djinn creating a somewhat wild and uncontrolled storm as a side effect. In any case, one mighty Lord surged ahead of the dark clouds and the djinn behind him followed like any mortal host did its vanguard.

That Lord at the head was none other than the Vizier Ventus, and upon sensing the presence of the notorious Herald of Thunder (and another good djinni or noteworthy power, it would seem!) he adjusted his flight to intercept their position. Mere moments passed, and then he hovered in the air before the duo.

"Well be with the two of you! Esteemed Murmur, you are well met, though I have not the fortune to know this one in your company!"

For Basheer, this was most certainly a momentous day. Not only had the mighty Murmur crossed paths with him, but the vivacious Vizier Ventus had also come. What fortune! What luck! Nay, what calculated act of Nature herself!

'Lord, if you have not heard of me
Then I am not shocked or aggrieved
For what hath little I achieved
That you may find me noteworthy

Enough to consider or know?
I am but as a little sprite
Before your glory and your might
Which straight from the Divine doth flow.

If you do not know me then hear
I shall tell you my humble name
Maybe it has some little fame
That you may know of poor Basheer,' and with his lengthy introduction done, Basheer bowed deeply to the powerful Vizier.

"Ah, your words flow with poise and culture, and were time at my side I should have liked to return such praise with melody of my own! But as is, time is fleeting and so I must (with the utomost of humility!) make the pleasure of your acquaintance and then speak at once of my purpose here.

By the will of the Divine Craftsman Teknall as well as our own God, Mighty Zephyrion, praised be His name, I amass a great force. The two of you have perhaps heard that the Master of Chaos, Vestec himself, has tampered with the essence of a few many of our brethren and corrupted them into something vile. They sweep across this world as a black wind, consuming and destroying all others in their path for no purpose save their revelry in chaos.

You will know that this is our way, though they have been corrupted beyond reason and must not be allowed to consume our good fellows. For this purpose, I have given my word to amass an even greater force and lead them to battle against our fallen brothers. From there, I would fulfill my promise to support Teknall's other efforts before either disbanding the host or leading it onwards, as honor's call would dictate.

So, what say ye to this proposal? May I count your might amongst my host?"

Basheer could not help but frown. While he respected the Vizier and wished to obey him, this seemed like a war which Nature had nothing to do with. Fair enough, the chaotic Vestec was wreaking...well, chaos, but that was completely natural. Jvan on the other hand was as unnatural as Vestec was natural. Why would they chase after the Chaotic One when the Jvanic Flesh was by far the greater danger? It did not make much sense to him. He wondered what Murmur would do. He knew that the great being was just as adamant on hunting down the Jvanic Flesh as he...

'Lord, I am but a little thing
Who freely flies on Nature's wing
She asks for nothing; I give all
Ever grateful to Nature's soul

And Nature hath brought Murmur here
And in him I find one most dear
So whate'er he shall now decide
He shall find me firm at his side.'

Ah, as in for Murmur, his decision was quick. Spawned upon his first day as a bastard element, he had learned quickly when one had no choice, and in the face of the Vizier this was one such occasion. Their lord Zephyrion, no less, had mandated the gathering of this force! Though Murmur was alike Basheer in that his personal Crusade took precedence in his mind over the doings of the Master of Chaos, he would aid in Ventus' efforts if only temporarily.

"Like the groan of rolling stone,
thunder shall boom where above your storm doth loom.
The songs of my great design will have an accent:
that of your foes wailing and torment."

And so Murmur struck his pact, and through him so too did Basheer. Basheer bowed deeply in compliance with Murmur's verdict, and waited upon the Vizier's reaction to their pledge of obedience and allegiance.

"And so a pact is struck and it is done! But I see that the two of you are no mere sprites; your places are to inspire and lead, not fly in lockstep beside a thousand others. For this end, I bestow upon you a gift: a small portion of my power and that vested into me by Mighty Zephyrion. Use it well!"

A small wisp of golden air was exhaled from the Vizier's open mouth, and it sat suspended in the air for several moments as if confused. Then, it sensed the presence of Murmur and Basheer and drifted closer toward them. The power rested right before them, waiting to be claimed.

A great vibration rippled through the air as Murmur moved forward to encompass that golden eddy of wind. Seeing the paragon move to claim the gift from Nature, Basheer moved forward too, flowing through the mighty Thunderlord and placing a tentative hand upon the golden, sprite-like breath. Warmth slowly crept into the tips of his fingers and moved up his hand, and before long his entire body was aglow with the warmth. It was not a searing, unbearable heat. But it was not exactly a comfortable one, much as it lulled him into thinking so. There was something in it, something hovering just beyond his grasp and comprehension. Like a thought which hovered tantalisingly beyond one's grip - so close, yet infinitely distant. An as he reached harder, he felt the heat grow, and with it power. His eyes widened and he shrank way from the enticing thought-like heat, fear and awe intermingling in his mind.

'This...' he gulped, though it was a rather useless thing for a wind elemental to do, 'this is a blessing vast, my lord
And though grateful for your reward
I do have one humble request
Which flutters urgent in my breast,

As your glory doth clearly see
There is a subtle treachery
Which poisons Nature's perfect form
And bends it from our Master's norm

To overwhelm this fiendish foe
We must to its nucleus go
And gore the cancer at the core -
We triumph, or are nevermore.'

"Doth the clay being moulded somehow
look upon its shaper and ask: what maketh thou?
Question not almighty Zephyrion's will
instead content yourself in that we'll
be as his hands and his scourge
and that if he wills it, there will be a second purge."

Basheer looked outwardly crestfallen at hearing this. He had completely expected the Vizier to be supportive of Nature's cause - he would have thought that the Divine Master's approval would hardly need to be explicitly given. But he said no more on the matter and buried his feelings of rejection and disappointment deep within his breast - and indeed, his was a most expansive, patient, enduring breast.
'We listen...and we obey
Each and every word you say.'

Moon: 325
Eskandar sat outside Zekra's tent, his fist pressed against his cheek and his eyes staring far off into the distance. Whether he realised it or not, his brows were deeply furrowed and his lips pressed together rather tightly, and those who walked by quickened their pace upon seeing the Patriarch's face. If that was rage in his eyes and on his face, then none wished to be within sight when he rose. But it was not rage, for the Patriarch was simply deep in thought.

'By the Moon-Mother, Eskandar, you are terrifying the people,' Zekra's voice reached him before she sat next to him, and he quickly shook himself from his reverie. He looked at his life-mate and leaned in to stroke her swollen belly, the previous darkness of his face giving way to an outpour of joy. She would be laying down her burden any day, and another child would join the progeny of the Patriarch.
'Hmm? Terrifying the people?' he glanced at one of the tribals passing quickly by, her head bowed and eyes looking at the ground directly before her.
'Bhelseh!' he called out, and the woman froze in mid-step, 'come here!'

At his command, she quickly turned and scampered towards the Patriarch though she dared not raise her head and catch his eye, or see him remove his hand from his life-mate's enlarged belly. Her clear terror caused the Patriarch to chuckle as he invited her to sit and be at ease.
'How are you Bhelseh? How is my son Sheb? Why does he not visit me anymore? Is it you and Tara who are keeping him away from me?' he leaned in with a smile as the poor girl blushed profusely and stammered a response.

'We- no, I would ne- I mean, we- uh,' she looked from Eskandar to Zekra in desperation before Zekra came to her rescue.
'There there now, he is only jesting with you. It is good that you frinjis have settled in so well with us, and the happiness of Sheb and all our Patriarch's children brings us all joy,' at this, Bhelseh nodded profusely in agreement.

'Of course you have settled in well. The Moon-Mother saved you from the curse and brought you safely to me that I may take you under my wing and protect you forever. 'Tis only natural that you have settled in with us and find in your hearts nothing but contentment and peace. Such is the mercy and blessing of the Moon-Mother upon me, and through me upon you all, whether frinji you be or of the household of Eskandar. And obedience begets blessing!' Eskandar looked to the side and thought on his words for a few seconds before nodding, 'yes...obedience begets blessing...'

Sighing, the Patriarch rose to his feet and left the fireside, surveying his tribe's great camp from atop a little rock not too far from the tent. It was huge, with more tents than one could easily count, and with the younger children rushing about around the cave's entrance further up. There was no denying that he had, first and foremost with the blessings of the Moon-Mother, and then with the strength of his own two hands and with the fruit of his loins, built up a tribe which could fend for itself. But what was more important to Eskandar was that it proliferated. His children were many and more of them would soon mature, and they would thus need life-mates in order to ensure the growth and glory of his line. His blessed blood had to fill and dominate the earth that the pleasure of the Moon-Mother may ever be upon mankind. Yes, his children would need life-mates.

He turned and walked back to the fireside where his spear was buried by its stone tip into the ground. He lifted the weapon and walked past the two women, a gleam of purpose shining in his eyes. Zekra's eyes followed him for a few moments before she glanced back at Bhelseh, who had flinched away when Eskandar lifted his spear. Unlike Eskandar's daughters, these newcomer-women had not been brought up as warriors. Eskandar had told her it was only natural that his own daughters should be superior to all the other women of the earth, for they had within them his blessed and sanctified blood. Zekra sighed and stoked the fire. The Patriarch was on the prowl, it seemed, and worlds changed when he was.

In the centre of the tribal camp was a circle known to all as the Patriarch's Ring, for that was where he stood when he wished to command, and all dropped what they were doing and came to him when he stood there. But on this occasion, the Patriarch was not merely standing in his Ring, he was squatting with his spear's point in the sky. He was calling his warriors to him. And they rose, one by one, wielding spears and bows, and made their way towards their master and chief.

When all were gathered, Eskandar inspected all those present and spotted the few urchins attempting to join the warriors before they had earned the honour.
'Yog, Aya, Bish! Go back and suckle on your mothers' breasts you impudent brats! You haven't even hatched from the egg and you're waltzing about as though the world is yours - know your place, your are naught but unweaned little babes!' the mischievous trio looked upon their father with a mixture of shock and awe for a few moments before Bato whacked Aya on her bottom and told her and the other two (who just about avoided similar blows) to scurry off. They laughed at her for getting hit, and she thwacked them both with her makeshift spear till they finally found protection in kindly mother Tse's arms.

With the urchins removed from the circle, Eskandar slammed the butt of his spear into the earth for silence and attention.
'Hear me and understand what I say, you who are all little Eskandars, you who are blessed with me and I with you. We have prospered, here in this prairie-land protected on all sides by Big-Trees and Hills and Great-Hills, and through which does flow the bountiful Snakey-Water of our Moon-Mother. With her blessing, we have become established in the land and fear neither hunger nor thirst, and we no longer fear the rage of the weathers, and she has given us arms swift and strong and many,' his eyes moved from one warrior to another as he spoke, many of them were nodding vigorously and others simply stood holding their spears or crossing their arms to their chests as they listened.

'And we must ensure that we continue to be swift, strong and many. And so I have resolved to split you, my warriors, into three parties. Each party will, with the blessing of the Moon-Mother, decide upon a warrior who will lead it, and you shall all venture forth beyond the Hills-Beyond, into the Lands-Beyond. And you must either return to us with those who live in the Lands-Beyond in rope, or you must return with their pledge of obedience to the blessed of the Moon-Mother and faith in him and Her. For if they do, they shall share in our blessing, and the mercy and protection of the Moon-Mother will be upon them, and through them we will ensure the growth of our might and full bloom of the power given us by our Moon-Mother.'

With that said, he set about splitting his warriors into three groups. They were forty in total, and were split into two groups of thirteen and one group of fourteen. The majority were Eskandar's children, but there were among them also the seventeen men from the frinji tribe who had been captured. Eskandar had not seen any signs of treachery from them in the months that had passed, and they had integrated rather well with his children from what he could see. But only time would tell the truth of what lay in their hearts. Judge not one a friend till the hand of death gives the final and truest verdict.

'Go your ways, and come not before me till the Moon-Mother has guided you to a leader from within yourselves who is worthy of the honour, and who is able to bear the burdens of leadership,' and the Patriarch said no more than that. He let his gaze flow over them once more before he turned and left the Ring, returning to Zekra beside the fire, and from there he looked on and watched as the three parties sat in the Ring for a long while. He could see that they were talking to one another, though he could not hear what it was that was being said. After a good long while, they all rose and the three parties went their separate ways. They would return to him, he knew, and each party would have been guided to its master.

He finally looked to Zekra, who had been staring at him for a long while, waiting on him to permit her to speak. He smiled knowingly at the most beloved to him of his life-mates and nodded slightly. She leaned in and placed two hands upon his shoulder, and her chin upon their back.
'What was it that our Patriarch commanded in the Ring?' she had seen the warriors sit and speak before they all rose and went in three separate directions. That in itself was odd, that all the warriors should leave at once. And stranger still was that they had split into three parties. It was clear that Eskandar had given them very specific orders.

'I have organised them into three groups, and I have commanded them to find from amongst themselves leaders. And they have ventured forth to do as commanded,' Zekra stroked one of the Patriarch's long brown locks as he spoke. He turned to her more completely and gripped her face gently with his two palms, 'your Patriarch's children have grown, and they must have children of their own. And so they shall. And so they shall,' the confusion was clear in Zekra's eyes, and she spoke as she pulled Esknadar's hands away from her face.

'But...how will splitting them into three groups create children for them? Do they not need life-mates for that?' at her words Eskandar scratched his chin through his long brown and red beard while nodding.

'Yes, that is exactly it. Do you not remember that when the frinjis first came, and they told us of their journey here, they mentioned the tribes of the Lands-Beyond? And they said that none were as great as this our tribe. They are weak tribes awaiting the dawn of my blessing upon them. And so I shall have our warriors raid and strike fear into the tribes of those Lands-Beyond. They shall be subdued and pledge obedience to the Patriarch, the blessed of the Moon-Mother. And of them we shall take life-mates for our children,' with his explanation complete, Eskandar looked up into the skies, now simply stroking and fiddling with the hairs of his scraggly beard, 'and none has guided me to this but our Moon-Mother, for this epiphany could not have come to me from my mind alone. She watches and she guides those among her children whom she finds most deserving.'

Zekra looked at him as thoughtfully as he now stared into the heavens, the slightest pang of jealousy entering her heart. She did not mind that he had taken other life-mates, she did not even mind that he loved them also. She knew that she yet had some part of the love he gave his life-mates. But she could not have any part of the love he dedicated to the Moon-Mother, no matter how she tried. That was a part of Eskandar's heart that the distant goddess monopolised completely. It was not that Zekra did not love the Moon-Mother, to the contrary. But who could blame her heart for what it felt? One had power over what they did and said, but over the heart there was no power. The heart did as the heart wished, and none could overcome its will. And yes, her heart envied the Moon-Mother for what was in Eskandar's heart of her.

Eskandar gave her a sudden side-glance, and for a few seconds it was as though he knew exactly what had been passing in her mind. She quickly looked away and busied herself with the fire, a certain degree of guilt sinking into her stomach. One of her hands moved over her bulge and she sighed somewhat sadly.

The parties returned one by one over the next few hours. Each of the groups brought back with it the body of a Big-Tooth-Mighty-Claw, and once all the parties were again gathered in the Ring, Eskandar descended to them and commanded those whom the Moon-Mother had raised above the rest to step forward. Three of his sons stepped forth: Bato son of Zekra, Palo son of Beru, and Orif son of Cala. Each had emerged as the leader of their respective group, and Eskandar could guess that the challenge had been to see who among them could hunt a Big-Tooth-Mighty-Claw first.

'These here Big-Teeth-Mighty-Claws shall be skinned, and their hides shall be toughened, and they shall be the war-dresses of these your Warrior-Chiefs,' with that he lifted his spear and commanded they disperse and not return to him until the war-dresses were complete.

For a week or so there was an austere quiet in the camp as the war-dresses were waited upon, and when they were completed, the entire tribe was gathered around the Ring and the three Warrior-Chiefs stepped out once more. Eskandar's sons bowed before their father and Patriarch, and they did so because that was his command. He took the first of the war-dresses and raised it to the skies. The entire thing had been skinned and its mouth gaped wide open, with its teeth yet in it. Its powerful arms and hind-legs would now house within them the arms of the warrior who would wear the dress. The torso remained open, but primitive bone buttons had been sewn in place, and holes placed in the other side so that the torso would be completely sealed once the warrior was dressed in the fur.

'Warrior-Chief Bato of the Batowid Host; hereby Chief Warrior of the Eskandars, rise and claim your right!' Eskandar roared at the boy- no! The man. For the briefest second there was fear in his eldest son's eyes, but then a steely resolve set in to them and he jumped up and grabbed the war-dress and forced it from the Patriarch's hands. And two of the Batowids raced forward to help him into it - Elia and her life-mate Kolten. Once he was dressed, Bato turned back to his Patriarch, and in his hands was placed a beautifully carved spear with a tip of stone on one end and a viciously sharpened tip of bone on the other. Bato took it and turned to his host, raising the spear high, and their roar of approval rose up and echoed in the mountains and the prairies and the hills. And their Warrior-Chief joined them.

Eskandar took the second fur and turned upon the next of his sons to be initiated.
'Warrior-Chief Palo of the Palowid Host; hereby Champion of the Eskandars, rise and seize your right!' without hesitation, Palo rose and gripped the war-dress, a scathing energy dancing about in his eyes as he wrenched it from the grip of the Patriarch. Like his brother before him, two of his Palowid warriors - Sheb and another of Elia's life-mates, Sjorn - rushed forth and helped him into the war-dress, and he soon stood before his father in all his battle-ready glory. Eskandar took a spear whose shaft was made of striking red wood, and like Bato's spear this one also had one tip of stone and one of bone. Taking the spear from his father, Palo turned to his host and walked back to them, and they welcomed their master with cheers just as loud as those of the Batowids before.

With the third fur in his hands, Eskandar walked towards the third of his sons to be elevated.
'Warrior-Chief Orif of the Orifid Host; Prophet's Right-Hand, rise and grip what I grip!' and for a few seconds Orif did not move, and breathing was put on pause as he sat still, and the sun in the sky seemed to blink in surprise. But then he rose, ever so slowly, and the people breathed and the sun stared once more. He reached for the fur slower than the others, and he took it gently from his father, and when two of his warriors burst forth to aid him, he commanded them stop and dressed himself without their aid. His father eyed him thoughtfully before reaching for the last spear. It was Eskandar's very own, with its one stone tip and worn shaft, but Orif's face seemed to lighten up immediately upon seeing it, and a grateful smile spread across his face as his father handed it to him. He looked into the Patriarch's eyes, and before he knew it he had taken his father's right hand and kissed the back of his palm. Eskandar chuckled and rubbed his son's head through the fur. And with that, he walked Orif back to his host, and their cheers and roars rose up - and perhaps they were louder than any of the others.

It was a bright and clear day up at the Celestial Citadel, although it was always a bright and clear day there. Floating about a hundred meters in front of it was the architect contemplating his work once more. The masonry was beyond compare, but as he had noticed in his past visit, the halls were mostly barren and lifeless. The only exceptions were the quarters of the Lifprasillians and Illunabar's room. On this visit, he wanted to fix that.

Into the Citadel, Teknall, in his goblinoid form, carried a large amount of dirt and many saplings. He placed this dirt in boxes and recesses across the Citadel, planting the saplings as he went. Many balconies received trees, as did the bridges and the larger halls. Other hallways and corridors also received potted plants, although they would be bushes and shrubs rather than full-sized trees. To complement the trees, he brought in flowers, including some of the earthsoul flowers which had been made for him. Wherever he planted an earthsoul flower, he sprinkled some fine metal dust around it, such that blooms across the citadel displayed a variety of metallic colours.

Teknall walked through the halls once more, inspecting the new touch of colour and life against the sheer marble. As he passed, a certain change permeated to each sapling. They would grow and mature at a much faster rate. They would be fully grown in a year or two, rather than decades, and they would last much longer. While these plants had air and sunlight in abundance, there was no rain or groundwater this high up. Perhaps Zephyrion could arrange for lesser water elementals to care for the plants, but until then, Teknall found some Marionettes and instructed them to water the plants. They could use whatever water source had been used to supply the Lifprasillians.

With the beautification of the Celestial Citadel complete for now, Teknall proceeded to Illunabar's quarters. The reason behind his visit was much more than simply planting some trees. He was here on business.

Teknall knocked on the doorway before stepping over the threshold and into Illunabar's room. Ilunabar was quietly working on some maps and a little model of a palace when she noticed her sibling walking into her atelier.

"Illunabar! How are you?" Teknall greeted.

"All is going quite well." Especially now that the halls were quiet again with the Lifprasilian ruckus gone. "And how are you doing, Teknall? I see you got a new haircut," she jested.

Teknall chuckled. "Indeed. I'll tell you about that soon." Teknall reached into the pocket of his apron and rummaged around for something. "While I was here and adding some plants to the Citadel, I thought to get you something too." He pulled a flower pot out of his pocket, which held a copper-green earthsoul flower. "This flower should be familiar to you. Most hain call it an earthsoul flower." He put the flower pot down, and next to it he placed a stack of roughened metal discs. The metals and metal compounds they were made from varied in colour and texture. "I thought that, if you want to change the colour of the flower, you can exchange the base of the pot with another one of the metal discs."

To demonstrate, Teknall removed the copper sulphate disc from the base and replaced it with an iron oxide disc. "Naturally, it would take a week or two for the new colour to take hold, but with a little encouragement..." He waved his hand over the flower, "It can happen a bit faster." Before their eyes, the green in the petals was displaced by an earthy red colour.

Teknall picked up the flower pot and held it out to Illunabar. "A gift for you."

Ilunabar was quite impressed. First, because a sibling of hers was actually being sensitive, but also because she hadn't heard about her Diva's flowers for so long.

"Oh! Meimu's gift, it has been such a long time since I last saw those." The muse picked up the red flower and smelled it. She quickly noticed it was more of a visual concept; the smell was earthy, metallic, and not really pleasant. "Thank you. This one was originally a gift to you, meant to help miners. One flower was made for each of our siblings." And now, there were more flowers than siblings.

"I know. I thought it would make a fitting gift, anyway," Teknall replied. "I also haven't had the chance to thank you for the Phantasmagoria. It was a splendid gift to the mortal races, one which has done wonders for progressing their societies, and a blessing which I am sure will be spoken about for many generations to come."

"That was the overall objective. I have persistently worked to grow uniqueness in the cultures of Galbar, thus drifting them apart. However, I also value a sense of common root, of belonging, and I believe a global event like the Phantasmagoria could help with that."

With a smirk, she continued, "Furthermore, mortals are getting more and more nifty with their history. In villages, the recounting of past heroes, chiefs, and great doings is becoming commonplace. I just felt it was fair to keep the earliest records of said history to be more about sparkling skies and a wave of creation than tales of gargantuan monsters, hordes, and destruction."

"You are indeed the mistress of stories, to be writing history itself. Although I doubt the memories of destruction could be dislodged so easily, perhaps you need both for a balanced culture." Teknall seemed contemplative for a moment, but then waved a hand dismissively. "But that is in the past. I am here to talk about the future. I bet you're wondering why I have adopted the form of a goblin?"

"Uhm." In truth, after spending so much time with Jvan, she kinda expected it to be just some new urge of dubious nature. "No reason, in particular, crossed my mind, but I'm curious"

"It is because I have recently visited the rovaick," Teknall continued, "Life has been rough for them down in the Ironhearts, yet there is intelligence and there is determination among them. They pleaded for help, and I answered their calls. I promised to send them a helper to teach them the ways of metalworking.

"However, while I'm good at making things, I don't have any experience in making people. You above everyone else should understand the distinction. Individuals have personalities, quirks, desires, strengths, faults, creativity, emotions, countless intricate attributes- many of which would not be a product of design but of experiences and nature. If I were to build a person, they would be either so pragmatic and engineered to seem artificial and unnatural, or so basic and rudimentary to seem like an infant. But you! Creating personalities is your speciality. You've studied what has made people people, and you've applied it too. The Divas you spoke of- who I still haven't met, actually- they are aspects of yourself yet somehow they are different people with unique personalities. When I made an Avatar, what I got was a soulless automaton- brutally efficient at the task it was made for, but that design ethic won't work for an emissary to an entire people."

Teknall took a moment to catch his breath and gather his thoughts. "So, what I'm asking, is, can you help me make a person?"

"Not in the traditional way for sure, a few of my sisters had offsprings and I have never seen them again." She giggled before waving her hands as if summoning someone. "I jest, I understood what you said. And I believe it might be possible."

Ilunabar stood up and brought up a few of her designs. "The question is, the Divas are a shard of me, a division. It's hard to exactly explain what they are, it's a very metaphysical issue. Right now, I can't replicate the event, but there might be ways to create a similar effect."

Before she finished the explanation, someone else arrived into the room. It was Meimu, the first of the Divas. Illunabar spoke up upon her arrival, "Meimu, dearheart, introduce yourself and make sure the visitor feels welcomed."

"Sir Teknall." The white rose bowed in respect, but then quickly walked closer to show a bit more of interest than usual. The Great Artisan gave a small bow in return. "I'm Meimu, Diva of Petals," she said. "Some of my work includes teaching mortals about herbalism, poison, medicine, and fruits. I'm also skilful with gardening and string-work, as you can see from the Marionettes. If you ever need an employee--"

"Meimu, please don't tell Teknall your entire curriculum in the middle of a conversation. Where are you manners?" Ilunabar sighed and Meimu realised she had stepped a bit over the line. She bowed in respect again and left to the nearby room. "I'm sorry if she was a bother, she is usually very polite, but she can get overexcited."

Teknall smiled and shook his head. "It is no bother at all. It pleases me to see someone enthusiastic about their work. Now, you were saying something about ways to make the person?"

"Yes, see, I can create the character to the point where it no longer needs a script to follow, but can actually create unique responses to new situations. But, that is just imagination." As she spoke, Ilunabar walked from one side of the room to the other. "What we need is some sort of vessel capable of holding that sort of information."

"Well, Marionettes are able to hold commands" Meimu informed, as she walked back into the room carrying a tray of pastries, tea, and wine. "However, it's very limited. Not just because it holds only a few commands, but because strings are far too, how can I put it, static? Since they are knit together, it doesn't provide the flexibility it needs to adapt to new situations."

"I am more than capable of constructing a body," Teknall said. He reached for a cup of tea. "Thank you, Meimu," he said before taking a sip. "The Marionettes make good servants, but we don't want to make a mere servant. What I need are a blacksmith and a teacher." Teknall took another sip of his tea, longer and more thoughtfully this time. "How about we make it from metal? Metal is malleable and adaptable, yet strong at the same time. Plus, if they're going to teach metal-working, it seems appropriate for them to be made of metal. What do you think?"

"That, I can do. Meimu and I will come up with a proper way to transcribe the information into the metallic vessel," Illunabar said. "Now, if you don't mind, the design. I have to say, you are the first rovaick I'm seeing closely. With so many races flourishing, I have lacked the time to properly interact with them. I even confess that, due to their nature and birth, I did not consider that much would come from them outside of Vestecian barbarity." She looked Teknall up and down. "But I trust your decisions, most of them at least."

Once again the Muse sat down. This time, she was close to Teknall. Promptly, a marionette brought a table and a sheet of paper. "So, what is your idea? Do you want to make her a rovaick? Do you want to make it some other race? Perhaps a new idea? I myself am a fan of human-like designs"

Teknall's right hand smoothed out the paper onto the table and his left hand itched at his scalp. "I am not entirely certain. On one hand, her-" Her? Had the gender been decided already? Already Illunabar was designing a person, without even trying. "-immediate objective is to the rovaick, which would make a similar form beneficial. But on the other hand, it is likely that she'll be in contact with other races in time, for which a different form might be better."

Teknall took out a pencil and started jotting down notes and words as they came to him as if having concepts written in front of him might help them make more sense. "She will need to be hard-working. Creative. Kind. Friendly. Practical. Having pride in her work. Willing to learn. Able to gain the trust and respect of the mortals she works with. Additionally, she will need to be properly equipped to craft what is needed. Also, if she is to be making metal, she had better also be able to make all sorts of things, from simple tools to complex machinery."

Ilunabar paid close attention to Teknall's ideas, as rough as they were, the overall concept was easy to see.

Teknall was then distracted by a thought for a moment. "Speaking of making things, Lifprasil's gone off to make a city, hasn't he? Which would be where all his people have gone, I suppose. And he hasn't even consulted me about it. Would you know anything about it, Illunabar?"

"Lifprasil's city?" She repeated. "Well, he asked me to help, but as I was busy I sent the Divas instead. Why he didn't ask for your assistance is not known to me." She looked across the room to the model of the palace she had recently constructed. "It is already a worryingly complex town. I went as far as taking the care to hide it under a constant fog just so it does not bring undesirable attention."

Teknall's brow furrowed. "Cities are much more complicated than mere villages. And the buildings which fill them would take more skill than making huts. Do your Divas or anyone else with Lifprasil have skills for engineering and building a functioning city?"

Ilunabar slightly tilted her chin up and her face away, narrowing her eyes. "The city is already standing up, and it took long years for it to be completed. Currently, it offers far more than what its small population could need. That should answer your last question."

Illunabar eased back to a more relaxed expression as she continued. "Of course, you might have your own features to add to it and you might see shortcomings that my aesthetic I was not able to pick. But, the city is not mine. It's not my place to make decisions about it anymore." She placed a finger over her lips and narrowed her eyes again. "Yet, we should always question our decisions no? I designed a pretty framework of a town and made sure Lifprasil's palace and domain entice culture and beauty, and I did that because I know he will inescapably spread his influence and conquer large territories. Therefore, it is better to make aesthetic a core value of his people. However, if you are to help to make Lifprasil's city even more advanced..." Illunabar's eyes shifted once with her tone of voice. "What exactly is your reason to provide the conquest bent child of Vestec, who has just taken in the remains of Grot's army as his personal subjects? With a myriad tools, no less?"

Illunabar's question caught Teknall off guard. He had to consider his answer for a few moments before giving it. "It is my nature and mission to guide the advancement of technology and civilisation. An entire city is a big step for civilisation, so I guess I'm feeling a little left out. Although I will have to agree with you that I should probably be more cautious with Lifprasil. His ambitions are perhaps a bit too lofty. But, at the same time, it would probably be a good idea for me to have a hand in his 'Empire', so I can keep an eye on him and perhaps be a balancing influence. And maybe, if it comes to it, I could foster a competing empire if his gets out of hand. Although, hopefully, I won't have to do that."

Teknall looked back to the plan he had partially written out, if it could be called a plan at all. "But I am getting distracted. Lifprasil's city is a matter for another time. At the moment, we're trying to design a person. What ideas do you have?"

"I think the main inspiration for her is your own style, Teknall. Passion, ambition, kindness, and a love of crafting." And of course, over excitement over said crafting, a bit of pride... "A good girl and a model pupil." At least at first.

"I'm actually already writing up the overall script," Meimu said. "You just need to find a way to imbue that into its body."

"But let's not place the wagon in front of the horses. First, we need to design the metallic body, and while I know this is also Teknall's territory, surely we can agree that we need to make sure this teacher a bit more imposing to look at. Like a shining gear halo, for example."

"That's a bit frivolous, isn't it? And I see no reason to make her seem more superior than necessary. We don't want her to consider herself above all others try and supplant herself as the ruler or something. One Empire is more than enough for now."

"But dearheart, she is naturally superior. Nothing wrong in making that clear. In fact, mortals will surely pay more attention to something imposing than to something too similar to them. Awe is just more useful than sympathy for us deities."

"I must disagree with you there, at least for our purposes. I've spent the last few decades walking Galbar with the appearance of an ordinary hain in order to teach them many things, and it has worked. Despite my humble appearances, I still managed to attract a large following, and the Chippers have continued to spread knowledge just as I have. Splendour and awe may grab the attention of mortals, but, for lasting results, you need to get down to their level and interact with them personally."

"I differ. While your wisdom was crucial, the reason the Chippers started to form was because the Hain were amazed by what they perceived as 'wonders', like controlled fire. In fact, in the few villages, where they were other sources of awe, the Chippers didn't spread their knowledge as easily as they did on the uneventful ones. Mortals seek what is interesting! The unusual, the eccentric, the exalted. You can't convince them by just being nice and explaining raw, pure truths."

"Yet surely the works produced will be enough. As you just said, what the hain perceived as 'wonders' were the works I gave them, not simply myself. And it should be likewise for our current project. The knowledge she imparts, the skills she shares, the wares she crafts, those are the things the focus should be on. If the mortals can not appreciate that, then they are not ready to receive such things."

"They will never be ready if we don't change their culture to..." Ilunabar stopped as she noticed Meimu was a bit uneasy. "You look like you want to say something. Share it with us," said the Muse, expecting her own creating to side with her.

"Well, you see, I believe, and that is just me, that we could, not that I think I know more than you two or anything, just make two," she expected someone to yell at her interference at any second.

"Go on..." sighed Ilunabar.

"See, one, to teach villages metalwork in a friendly way, and one, to make machines of wonder and inspire awe for the craft among mortals."

Miemu's suggestion gave Teknall pause for thought. His fingers drummed on the table as he contemplated this idea. "Two? Two...Yes, I actually quite like that idea. It means there is no need to compromise on their qualities, for they will individually complement each other. Plus, it means they can do twice as much work and impact twice as many people than just one could."

"Well, it's an agreement then. We can move on with the plan." Illunabar then leant closer to her sibling. "I just warn you Teknall, while they will get a lot of work done, the pupils will also get thrice the trouble. Believe me, I got three of those."

"Progress always brings about trouble of some sort," Teknall replied. "But let us get designing. I can't build anything until we know what we want it to look like."

---

An inky black rift opened in the concrete confines of Teknall's workshop. The Artisan himself stepped through, carrying a bundle of papers. Illunabar and Miemu were lead in behind him.

The first thing Ilunabar noticed upon entering her sibling's plane was the gravity. It was lower than Galbar's. She had already visited other planets, so she knew it could change, but this one felt perfectly tuned.

However, the gravity was not the main oddity of the building. The truly bizarre aspect was the fact that they were inside some sort of disc, with the floor curving upwards such that the ceiling 60 meters above their heads was actually the floor as well. And, although there were no windows, Ilunabar's divine sense could perceive that the workshop was actually rotating in the vacuum of space. With the intense light of a star incident upon it, it was easy to notice Ull'Yang's aura.

The entire workshop around them was an alien and overly practical design that took the Muse and her diva a few moments to understand. Upon closer inspection, they noticed the details of the area; tools of all shapes and sizes sat on metal and stone workbenches, upon racks, or on the floor in the workspace they had arrived in. A furnace stood in one corner, stretching along the wall for a distance was the Elemental Siphon, and high above their heads, in the centre of the workshop, was the large cylindrical metal structure of the Stellar Engine Core. Within, a fire raged with the ferocity of a sun.

"This." Teknall swept his little goblin hand ahead of them, over their heads, and then looping back to where they stood, "Is my workshop. It's not finished yet, but it is quite functional. I specially installed the atmosphere a few days ago just for this occasion."

"It's quite different from anything I would have made, but it's also very interesting." said the Muse. "I wonder what things are crafted here, considering the overall complexity of these devices and tools."

Meimu, in contrast to the gods, did not feel as welcomed. This place without plants or life was alien and uncomfortable. However, Meimu's politeness stopped her from commenting on anything.

"So far, I've mostly used this workshop to make more of the workshop," Teknall replied. "Although I've also made my avatar Goliath here." Teknall brought his attention from the workshop to Illunabar again. "Today, we are going to add to the list."

Teknall then walked up to a workbench and laid the two plans down onto it. He studied them for a few moments before pointing to the one depicting the mechanic. "I'll make this one first."

At Teknall's beckon, several doors of the Elemental Siphon flew open and powdered titanium and mithral streamed out towards him. He effortlessly directed this metal into the furnace to begin. The metal melted into an alloy, which Teknall poured into moulds to form ingots. He took those bars to the anvil while they were still red hot and hammered them out into rods. At the end of the rods were smithed couplings and drilled holes for joints. More and more rods joined in a pattern as they left Teknall's anvil.

As Teknall laid out the rods, it became apparent that they formed a metal skeleton. An articulated metal shell replaced the rib cage. The skeleton had four arms rather than just two, although they could apparently clip together to become just two. Four hands, although notably long and slender, appeared much in a normal shape. A metal skull was made, with glass eyes inserted into the sockets and a semiconductor matrix placed inside the cranium. Bit by bit, part by part, the skeleton was created.

Teknall then took orichalcum, silver, and diamond and fashioned an intricate chamber the size of a fist, with numerous prongs and contacts all arranged into a beautiful pattern. This was the heart, and would both contain the divine essence powering this being and be a conduit for it. Teknall inserted the heart into the chest compartment and suspended it in place with suspension rods. A long, thin, grey cable of incredible strength connected the heart to the semiconductor brain. The material emitted from the siphon for this feature came from the box in the sixth position purely, even if it was the same material as the diamond.

Ilunabar witnessed Teknall giving life to the heart design she made. What a beautiful thing it was. The best had yet to come, however. Soon it would start to beat in a rhythm as graceful as any of the Muse's works. For now, the heart was still open, for it was yet to be filled.

"I had better get this part ready before I cover it over with everything else," Teknall commented.

From his apron pocket, Teknall withdrew a sharp steel knife. He looked to Illunabar and said, "As we decided, she is to be an independent being, so to maintain the status of divinity she must be granted divine essence of her own." Teknall looked at the knife in his right hand hesitantly. "Thus she shall be blood of my blood."

Teknall then rested the blade of the knife in the palm of his left hand and gripped the metal. There was a sharp intake of breath and a grimace of pain, and when he opened his hand there was a line cut across his palm from which golden ichor oozed.

"Blood of my blood..." Teknall muttered as he tilted his bleeding hand over the open machine heart and let the ichor drip in. Every drop hummed with electricity as it fell, almost bursting with raw divine power. As soon as enough of the ichor had entered the heart Teknall sealed the heart shut. "Now you just stay put until I finish the rest of you, okay?" Teknall spoke to the machine heart with its payload of raw divine potential.

As Teknall turned, his still glowing ichor contracted on itself, making the quiet sound of a single heart beat. Only one. Afterwards, it swirled within the artful machine casing again. A tiny, meek drop of potential. It softly began to thrum again, very quietly, very surely. It seemed like it had just been listening, waiting for a beat to pick up. Somehow it already knew what it had to be. It knew who, apart from her maker and her father, had a hand in her creation. The divine pulse of Ilunabar was far gentler and more dreamy than her Fathers. Now that it had located it, it happily imitated it, resonating and beating as one with Illunabar's pulse, the ebb and flow of her divine essence, the sparking of her energy.

A click. Contacts and relays came to life with a low mechanic whirring, barely audible. Divine dynamos starting to claim the unfinished body. A soft twitch of the fingers, the head turning a fraction. With a shaking going through its limbs, the figure, without a sound, turned onto its side, curling up like an embryo.

What for any other being in the universe was nought but a muffled noise was for Ilunabar a loud roar. That strong echo, a pulsating tick. She had left Teknall to his own devices, expecting the god of the craft to do the work flawlessly, but perhaps that very lack of communication was a mistake. What exactly could it be?

"Is it normal for the vessel to be this loud?" she asked, not aware that she was the only one presently hearing it.

Teknall's head perked up, his hands stopping what they were doing. He only heard the rumbling of the furnace and the whirring of fans. Loud? It's meant to be inactive, isn't it?

In an instant, his perception showed him that something had indeed gone awry. He spun around to see the Machine with his own eyes. Panic filled his voice. "It's not meant to be moving."

A slight green glow flickered into the formerly dark eyes of the vessel, exuding sentience. The body of the vessel went on to squirm about. It became agitated and violent. It arched its back and kicked and flailed. A low retching sound began to be heard, growing into an inhuman scream. From the Machine Heart, a violent arc sparked across the to Siphon, pulling an uncontrolled torrent of different elements forth. They flowed into the screaming body in an instant.

The Divine Machine sunk down with a clunk, laying still for a moment. The sound of its new heartbeat grew louder and louder, thrumming through the entirety of Teknall's workshop. With a moist slithering, glistening tendons, veins, arteries, muscles, and other flesh snaked outward. The machine thrashed again, clawing at itself, ripping some free, throwing it, splattering floor and walls with gore. A single drop was hurled widdershins of the station's rotation and thus lost the effect of centrifugal gravitation, now hovering in the air.

There was barely a time to react before the mess started. Ilunabar was caught by surprise by the sudden disaster. The way the flesh started to grow out of the machine and become thrown about was almost Jvanic.

Despite the ripping and clawing, the growth was quicker. It swiftly encased the machine skeleton in flesh and organs. Lungs filled visibly and the cries and howls became more human in nature. It could no longer be described as a machine. She was going through a very painful process. She finally fell from the table and crawled and clawed into a corner on five limbs. On her left, both arms were together and apparently moving as one limb. On her right, both arms moved independently, throwing aside a pile of tools.

She hid behind a number of crates. She curled into a ball in the lower light there. Sobbing could be heard, pitiful and quiet. As the gods and Meimu neared, they found a now vaguely humanoid figure shuddering violently. Her gleaming, pinkish skin was smeared with blood and a silvery residue. She looked at them, her face shadowed by a curtain of long, vibrant red and black hair. The shine of the hair was like the carapace of a colourful beetle or fly, changing colour in a metallic sheen depending on how the light was caught by it. It was a girl of, in this curled up form, undeterminable and undetermined biological age.

Teknall was still in shock from witnessing the excruciating birth of this girl, his own daughter, yet he knew he could not simply do nothing. He knelt down so his face was level with the girl's and gingerly laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. "My daughter, my daughter. I'm, I'm..." Teknall's voice wavered. "I'm so sorry. How...how does it feel now?"

The muse had little clue of what happened, but Teknall's words were the first clue: "My daughter". Some Lifprasilians back in the capital would tell stories about a man who made a Marionette and then wished it to be a real child, not made of wood but of flesh and bone. Perhaps this is exactly what happened here, except a bit more metallic and with a worse end.

"Oh no..." Meimu was as covered in the reddish mess as the Muse herself. "You didn't set up the heart beat to resonate with us, did you?" she asked. "I think your energies intertwined and spiraled out of control."

"I'm aware," sighed Ilunabar. Of course, her prodigious diva had to bring up the fact it was not only Teknall's fatherly feelings that caused this. Of course, the lovely creature had to remind her that this was her design. Now Ilunabar felt somewhat responsible again, and it was all Meimu's fault.

"Is she fine, Teknall?" Illunabar asked, making an effort. She was not the motherly type, especially with unplanned failure. "Can you speak?" she said, now to the girl.

The newborn looked up at them, running one of her underarms under her nose, smearing it. She gave this some thought. As her breathing slowly calmed, she opened her mouth, closed it, and then made another try. "I did not mean to..." She broke off. This was all so confusing. A short while ago she had still been a part of Teknall. Now she very apparently wasn't. "You did not intend this." It wasn't a question, merely a fact stated with a small, girlish voice. She raised her two left hands, turning them, looking intently. She experimented, merging the arms into one and parting them again. "This form is...different," she said with some degree of deliberation. "This is....me. You have become incarnate? No, I have. I am not...Teknall. I am me."

As the girl spoke, she uncurled a bit. As with many of Teknall's creations, she had apparently inherited the capability of changing her size at will. She grew from a curled up child into an adolescent in a few heartbeats.

The girl screwed up her face and then looked into her fathers' eyes for the first time. Her gaze was intense, her eyes seeming nearly human despite the glasslike shimmer and unnatural green gleam within them. She smiled bitterly, tears still running with mercury down her flushed cheek. She spoke in the sweetest of voices. "Don't...be sorry. Births do always hurt, father." With a great deal of awkwardness, she then cast her gaze down, shrinking again and becoming younger and more childlike. "I am not what you had hoped me to be," she stated bitterly.

Teknall was silent for a moment. He felt relief that her daughter was physically healthy, but he could tell that she was still internally conflicted. "No, that is not right," Teknall replied, shaking his head. "You are not quite what I had expected, but you are still what I had hoped you to be." Then Teknall stepped up and embraced the girl warmly, not caring about the fluids she smeared onto him. He murmured, "Even though your form might not be exactly as planned, know that I still accept you and you are still useful, okay?"

The girl just nodded and hugged Teknall's wizened goblin form for a moment. As she pulled back and stood up, uncomfortably rubbing one of her arms, she remained silent and looked around. She then looked up at her father again; she was just a bit smaller as him in this youthful form. "I will do my very best to live up to your expectations." she said solemnly.

The girl started to look around, taking in the sight of the round workshop and the assembled gods and avatar in front of her. "It is important to have a name, will I be granted one?" she asked in a neutral tone.

"Kinesis," Ilunabar said casually. "That is your name." She didn't want to lose the chance; it felt somewhat empowering to name someone as if she was some sort of mini-Fate. "I'm pleased to meet you." She stepped closer and analysed the girl. "Do not mind your f...Teknall's brute words. You don't have to worry about being useful, especially not right after such traumatic birth." She snapped her finger and in the same instant, Meimu left the room. "Just be Kinesis." The unexpected Kinesis, yes, but still, crying over the spilt milk wouldn't change anything. "And maybe take a bath."

Kinesis lowered her head respectfully for the goddess. "Thank you, Mistress," she said softly. "Kinesis." She nodded. "Yes, this shall be my name." She bit her lower lip, opening and closing both her left hands alternatingly. "Where will I find a bath? I...Mistress is right, I shall clean myself and the mess I made."

"Excellent!" Ilunabar clapped her hands together. "I have already sent one of my Divas to prepare the room for you."

The Muse then turned to Teknall, with a more serious look. "I believe two gods in the same workshop is bound to be disastrous. I have already finished all my design sheets, so it should not be a problem to continue. If you don't mind, I will be leaving for my quarters."

Teknall nodded. "If you wish. Take Kinesis with you as well, for I don't think she has the power to leave this place herself. I will join you when I finish here."

"Just make sure to knock on the door first," Illunabar jested.

"Of course."

"Now that all is fine, let's go." She reached for Kinesis's hand, "I will take you to our home dimension. If you feel ill while travelling, please tell me."

Kinesis took the Muse's hand while looking up at the goddess. She was still a bit hesitant but followed her through the portal none the less. "I will." She said in a still detached sounding voice.

Once more Teknall was alone in his workshop, slowly spinning through space. Now that the excitement had died down, he realised a warm wetness in his left hand. He looked down to realise that it was still bleeding golden ichor. It was just as well it hadn't dripped anywhere, for that could have had undesirable consequences. Ever a god fond of material, he took a bandage from his apron pocket, tore off a length of it using his teeth, and wrapped it tightly around the wound.

Next was the leftover gore of Kinesis' birth. He could have scrubbed it off with water and soap, but he had no soap and only a small amount of water available, and there was no drainage in the workshop. So instead he removed the blood and flesh from all the surfaces telekinetically, including the fluids on himself. He bundled them all up into a ball and incinerated them in the furnace. The ashes were placed in a metal tray to be dealt with later.

Now that the workshop had been cleaned, Teknall could begin working on his next project. He studied the plan depicting his next daughter. The mistakes in creating Kinesis were not catastrophic, but they were given careful consideration for this time. Divine blood was a lot more reactive than he had expected, and this miscalculation had led to unexpected results. For his next daughter, Teknall would need to ensure that the blood was as close to the last ingredient as possible. As well, the ichor's creative process would need to be constrained somehow. Assembling from parts was too exposed and free. Methods were deliberated over until Teknall settled on something singular and contained.

Teknall called upon a large quantity of carbon and coalesced it into a large rectangular block of grey, flakey graphite. It was large enough to contain a fully grown human. With a single, well-placed strike of a chisel, a crack was split perfectly through the middle of the block. They were pushed to be separated into two equal halves. Carefully and precisely as always, Teknall began carving a hollow into the blocks. Sculpting a negative to make the shape would leave too much room for error. This would have to be exactly right.

After some time, the bases of the blocks were carpeted in a mound of black carbon flakes. The form had started to become clear in the hollows. The shape was that of a human girl, no older than six years of age. With a flexible sheet encrusted with coarse diamond dust, Teknall rubbed away any rough edges until the negative space was ready to be filled.

Teknall stepped out from between the two halves and heaved them close together. He brushed the faces of the blocks with his hands, very thin flakes and sheets of graphite shedding from the faces. One last pass. He then pushed the two blocks flush against one another, allowing them to fuse when their atomically smooth surfaces met.

Once more, a single large block of graphite sat on the concrete floor. Teknall took a keyhole saw, climbed on top of the block, and cut out a cylindrical hole in the centre of the top face, leading to the top of the head of the mould.

Without a word, Teknall left the mould and headed over to the furnace. He took a vat that was about as big as he was and pushed it over to sit under the furnace's outlet. Then, at his command, every single door of the Elemental Siphon except the non-metals on the far right threw themselves open. Every single metal in existence surged out and spiralled into the furnace's hungry maw. There, they melted and combined in an otherwise impossible fashion. Red-hot molten metal poured into the vat on the other end in a sticky, burning stream, flecked with different flecks of red, black, white. As the vat filled, Teknall stirred the great alloy with a thick rod, ensuring an even consistency. Once the stream finally stopped, Teknall effortlessly lifted the vat up to sit atop the furnace. It would stay a hot liquid above the fire. The stirring continued.

After about a minute, Teknall pulled his stirring rod out of the vat, wiping off the excess with one hand. A flick of Teknall's wrist pulled the mould up to the furnace with a stony scrape, beneath where the vat stood. There was one last ingredient to add before the alloy would be complete.

Teknall removed the bandage from his left hand, rubbed his palm and flexed his arm until divine ichor began seeping from his wound once more.

"Blood of my blood," Teknall muttered to himself.

Teknall's bleeding hand plunged deep into the vat of metal and swirled all through it, infusing the alloy with his godly ichor. In moments it began to glow, not just with the molten incandescence, but with divine radiance. Teknall lost no time in removing his hand and tipping the vat forward. The blessed metal poured into the hole at the top of the monolithic grey mould. There was just enough to fill it fully. Teknall proceeded to replace the cylindrical plug he had removed earlier. It hissed for just a second, sucking in the last air it could before it sealed. Teknall stood back to watch and wait.

Apart from the furnace and the fans, the workshop became quiet. This ominous moment was perhaps a success on Teknall's part; his new creation had no room in which to thrash around and no confounding heartbeat to resonate with. None that had not already been taken into account, at least. However, something distant was amiss.

It started with a rhythmic squeak in one of the fans. Each time it made a revolution in its slow spin, there was a scrape of metal on metal where a bearing misaligned by the tiniest length. It squicked...and squicked...and squicked...and squicked...

The rhythm was interrupted by the sound of a loud metal gong. On the furnace, a rivet had warped to cause the perfect sheen of its metal surface to reflect a kink along one part. By the time a sheet of metal on the nearby tool bench began to groan in resistance, the source of the phenomenon struck Teknall like a flying gold ingot. Whatever had taken shape in the mould was moving the nearby metal.

More metal creaked and screamed until there was a thud from the concrete below. A broken section of the reinforcing bar was jutting out of the floor. There was another loud crack. And another. The concrete was beginning to fracture. Tools slid off their benches and clattered to the floor with a harsh chorus of metallic ringing. Teknall needed to contain the effect if he did not want his workshop to be breached and the atmosphere to decompress.

Quickly, Teknall called forth iron from the Elemental Siphon. Lots of iron. While some of it was grabbed by the pull around the mold, he could easily maintain control over the bulk of it. At the snap of his fingers, the iron powder melted into a floating stream of molten metal. He then directed this stream over the mould until it was given a thick, glowing, red coat. At another snap of Teknall's fingers, the metal crackled and went dull, completely solid. The mould was sealed inside an iron box, impenetrable to magnetic fields and enough to distract any other metal-attracting forces.

There was no more groaning or cracking from then on. Teknall's fix had apparently worked. The humming of the workshop was now back to how it was, with the addition of the squick...squick...squick of the fan still spinning in the background. Not a single thing was moving near the metal box, though the box itself did not completely abstract the signs of the divine life within. Upon the dark iron surface, an orange patch began to glow softly, and then it faded back as it cooled. Another patch did the same, joined by another, and another. Little spots of heated metal peeked in this fashion before fading moments later like the eyes of a tired infant. Teknall observed, after watching for long enough, that there was a larger concentration of the orange glows in his direction, reaching out with their warmth.

The hot orange lights continued for a time, slowing in frequency and becoming gentler than they were before. After a while, one last orange patch of heated iron grew a little larger than the others. It gazed at Teknall with curiosity. An eye wide open. And then, it faded shut.

She was asleep at last. Teknall could tell that the divine alloy had now set. He could finally breathe easy.

Teknall let her rest for a few moments more as he straightened out some of the damage. He knelt down by each patch of fractured concrete and ran his hand over it, the artificial stone mending at his touch. He picked up some of the tools which had fallen and put them back in their place.

Then he approached the mold and laid a hand on the iron. With his perception, he gazed inside to see what was within. The corner of his goblin lips lifted a fraction. He then took a saw, took the time to cut the iron coating in half, and then, with a few expertly placed strikes of a chisel, split the graphite block apart once more. Without haste, he pushed the two halves apart to reveal the result of his labours.

The grey graphite fell like dust from a reflective and uneven reddish metal surface in the centre of the mould. As more fell away, the shape, apparently wrought of copper, showed tiny patches of green patina as it was exposed to the relatively cold air of the workshop. It was almost mannequin-like, the shape of the copper cast: A small human girl. It was just as the design had shown.

There was barely the time to take in the unconscious girl's appearance before an audible crumbling of the graphite mould loosened the girl's head such that it fell forward. The metal, though it looked rigid, moved with the flexibility of flesh and bone. A mane of thin copper wire was exposed, making up the girl's hair. It was perfectly straight and brushed back, though it was laced with chunks of the surrounding graphite caught between the strands.

The weight of the head falling forward caused the torso to give way. The girl's entire top half fell forward, freeing her arms and bringing her knees forward as she collapsed onto Teknall. Teknall stepped to correct as he caught her over one shoulder. She was warm to the touch. Teknall then gently lowered her to the ground where she could lie until she awoke.

A silent half of a minute passed. There was no doubt as to the girl's health; she had a heartbeat that vibrated from her chest in a steady fashion. Her energy was building with time. A small grumble from the girl's throat sounded. She squirmed in place as she began to stir. Her arms carefully brushed along the graphite dust beneath her as she stretched them out either side of herself. Her mouth opened wide, straining her eyelids in a vast yawn. The inside of her mouth was entirely copper as well.

It was only when she completely settled again that the girl's eyes lifted open. They were one thing that didn't appear to be metal, funnily enough. They were pearl in the whites, onyx in the pupils, and rich red ruby in the irises. Where she had the non-metals to make them up in the sealed mould was not down to mortal logic.

"Oh..." the girl chirped. "I fell away from you." She listed her head to one side and looked at her hand. Her fingers flexed experimentally. "I fell into a body. It's heavy."

Teknall smiled warmly. "I am sure you shall get used to it soon," he said. He was contemplative for a moment, then reached down to pull the girl up. "Here, take my hand and stand up."

The girl lifted her hand as directed, but before she could grasp Teknall's goblin fingers, the sound of scraping metal began in the workshop again. Some tools fell off benches once more, drawn towards her hand. The girl's eyes widened in surprise and the tools halted. She tried again, slower this time. Her fingers curled carefully around Teknall's palm and she was lifted up. Using her legs to gain balance came naturally, though not without the girl curiously looking down at them as well.

The girl looked up at Teknall expectantly. She was a head shorter than him while standing like this. She didn't let his hand go.

That was a bit of a struggle, Teknall thought, but we pulled through this time. Teknall laid his other hand on the girl's shoulder and said, "You are my daughter, Conata."

The girl blinked twice. And the patches of green patina shrunk into pure, gleaming copper again. The word did not feel like it had any particular significance at the time, but it was imprinted upon her before she even realised it. Conata was her name. It felt like it was always that way.

Conata's still curious eyes took in the workshop around her. Her skin began to fade into a slightly rougher finish. "Daddy, does this place have a name as well?" she asked.

Teknall's eyes also looked around the workshop. "It does not have a proper name yet. It is my workshop."

Questions and answers cascaded in Conata's mind. It was not just the nature of the place she was in, but also her own nature and her own memories. At least, as much as a young mind like hers could fathom. Everything in her mind from before she woke up was the muddled and unordered images that belonged to Teknall's memories, followed by a period of terrifying isolation. She could not make any sense of it. By the instinct of her naive form, Conata stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Teknall's body. It was out of a mix of fear and familiarity, more than anything.

Conata spoke into Teknall's torso, her tiny voice muffled by his leather apron. "I'm cold, daddy."

Teknall hugged Conata in return. Her skin turned into a smooth copper polish with the sound of his voice. "Then perhaps we shall find somewhere a little warmer. And something for you to wear." He pulled free of Conata's embrace, and with a wave of his hand, an inky black portal opened in front of them. "Come. There are some people you should meet."

Teknall led Conata by the hand through the portal. Little Conata shuffled along without resistance, even though she held onto Teknall's apron with her free hand. If her father was not afraid, neither did she need to be afraid. Probably.

In the single ring of Galbar, a small creature moved.

It glowed brightly, and its light threw colourful patches of hue and shade between the river of drifting fragments. The floating stones were large, and some dangerously fast. They threatened the little animal to swirl and flap away, but though it veered to avoid danger where it could, it held on, doggedly, to a course that instinct alone bade it follow.

Diaphane's twelfth daughter came to her grandmother's call in a flurry of colour and light.

At last. Now we can begin.

Jvan had poured great diligence into her latest gallery. A diverse collection, each item fashioned from the raw material with a different set of cuts. As the change-eater played in its shadows, the portal of Ovaedis stretched itself open and released, in a silent wheeze, the first patchy cloud of nocti.

The orbital factory swivelled, and released another clutch. The nocti scattered between the unhewn stones like autumn leaves, or the fry of fish. They were flattened things, in darkened colours ranging from the deepest mauve to near-black greys and blues, and they rippled like silk. The largest were as large as whales, and barely two inches thick.

The edge of each noctus was slightly broadened, and its interior plane was not continuous but open, crisscrossed with a veinous network of connections. Though restricted to two-dimensional shapes, the inner tissue of the nocti were nonetheless fabulously intricate. Some had parallel arrays of wide ribbons with the most meagre of slits between each vein. Others had only the wispiest of tendrils stretching like ancient cobwebs between the frame, too sparse to be easily visible. Yet more were stitched in concentric spirals and stars, tessellations and waves. In shape and habit, too, they were diverse. Most drifted freely above and between the rock, ribbons, discs, lobed splotches, while many were attached to the stone on one end or another, trailing into space, and many more still folded their flattened nets into the crevices of the stone itself, especially the smaller ones, the size of leaflets. Some even cemented themselves on the entirety of their circumference and let their interior veins billow out to the sun like a basket. Together they took taste of the sun, and grew rapidly, sponging energy from light, distilling matter from the darkness.

Lex lives once more.

Ovaedis pivoted again at Jvan's bidding, and again it opened its yawning maw. The device released something like a viscous fluid splatter that rapidly broke up into globules and disintegrated.

And swimming free of that vibrant lime-green, sunset pink mess were the gaia. Such little things they were, the giants among them a few millimetres from point to point!

They spun and skittered, each gaian finding hold of empty space with difficulty. Together they migrated to the blooming noctus forest, and, finding purchase on the boulders, began to merrily consume one another along with the sooty, sessile growths that had preceded them.

The gaia were every bit as varied as the shadowy flowers of the nocti. They were like bubbles and films of some elastic liquid, drifting along in streams where there was no current, giving a faint tint to the emptiness. Most soon began to congeal into colonies of visible size, forming reefs on stone, spreading into stringy, sticky cords and membranes between the asteroids, releasing their grip to become free-floating, pollen-like spheroids. Many grew symbiotically upon the surface of the nocti, consuming what they shed, colonising the gaps between their veins. Some left deposits of solid matter as they grew, expanding the surface of the stone with layers of cronullations and pillars.

One more time.

Jvan tilted Ovaedis in a now-familiar arc, and finally gave birth to the keystone of the noctus forest.

Neither cloud nor blob, this time, but a ragged solid tangle of bodies striving to separate, followed by another. Soon enough the clusters broke and scattered into the safety of the stone river.

Of the imago, what shall be said?

There are many ways to navigate microgravity, and the strategy chosen by each imagen dictated its overall form.

Some blew themselves over the boulders on a fiery breath, taking for themselves every succulent noctus that floated beyond where other imago could reach. These conquered their own inertia by being small of body, and mounted their jets on flexible turrets to manoeuvre with ease. Their sensory stalks were many and keen.

Grounded cousins of theirs were no less nimble, and leapt about on coiled tails, launching themselves from rock to rock, every jump perfect lest they be lost into space to starve. These had many tendrils, barbed all, with which to latch on to their target and twist back, to leap once more.

The jumpers foraged upon the surface of the stones, seeking out those imago who spent their adult life reef-grazing on one rock. With nowhere to run, these small creatures fortified themselves, sprouting vicious coats of spines and toughened plates, flattening themselves close to their motherland with suction discs and sturdy limbs. These were joined by those creatures which lived slowly, becoming one with the reef they lived on, hosting nocti and gaia within their roots.

To the larger imago there was given the luxury of never having to risk the void at all. Their limbs, impossibly thin and flexible, branched hands and tentacles with which to simply unfurl and reach out to the next fragment, grab hold and drag forward. Such were the lords of the noctus forest, who hunted jetlets and leaps and clingers all, chasing down and consuming them.

And there lived with the others breeds which never touched the rock but rode on the solar winds, spreading nets and basking on billowed sails as smaller lives of every kind were caught up and consumed.

These, and many others besides, were the imagen that claimed the noctus forest.

Claimed, but not ruled.

To your memory, Diaphane, I dedicate all this; And to your daughters, I pass it on.

What grew between the bones of Lex was large and small, unimpeded by gravity or air pressure, but greatest of all would be the Diaphane dynasty. Here they joined their ilk, that which had never seen nor known life beneath the hooves of Slough. The noctus forest was a curious menagerie, stitched together from exotic particles and threads of vapour smaller than subatomic, patches and swatches woven from material cast aside by Time and reused now. Out of nothing, growth. Out of entropy, change.

Not Change, as such. Not enough to spur the wildfire growth and fertile brood of the first change eater. But it was something, and given time, there would be a community, a sisterhood, a warband.

All Jvan had to do was wait.



...

Actually, no.

I've got plenty of irons in the fire! This one can warm up a while. Time for the tongs.

In a blue atmosphere far below, where jungles sprawled and vines draped heavy over a folded grey landform from which carmine mists flowed at night, Jvan herself twizzled into being a small creature.

It was a softly coloured thing, in shades of pink and blue, with a velvety texture. Within its head were chords from which sound could be hummed, and from many pores on its body it emitted warm air to hold itself aloft, moving how it liked. The core of the messenger was small enough to fit into cupped hands, but it had a tail. A long, thin tendril, budded regularly with little bouquets of baby-blue organ buds.

From these it released a subtle and curious blend of aromas. Suffusions of all possible scents of flowers and fruit, and clean sea air and forest rain, of spices and cut grass. The combinations were never overwhelming, and alternated smoothly.

...At least until it's distressed. If I make it too palatable some Ashling's going to swallow it. Should be quick enough to escape much of anything, anyway.

Jvan sent the new breed of messenger-angel on its way, twirling as it rocketed along, with a set of words. Stuttered words, unplanned feelings.

"Astarte!"

"I am Jvan, the flesh artist, and I think it's past time you and I spoke. I should apologise, anyway. You met me at an... Awkward time, and I wasn't feeling- Wasn't- Particularly well. Forgive me the embarrassing moment."

"But it's not too late to make up for a first impression! _{(I mean. Hopeful.)} Join me in spirit, if you like, in the ring of Lex. There is a- A place there, a forest, a pleasure garden I've made to be alone in. I think I still need to be alone, for a while. Enough is enough."

"Later I'll go back to my plans. You might... I think you'll like them. A little secrecy, sabotage. Maybe just mayhem. We'll see."

"Do me a favour and don't tell Vest- Ah, damn him, nevermind. Just don't tell me if you do tell Vestec. _{(Sick of that griefing bastard!)} Uh."

"...If you choose to come, then. I'll see you."

The messenger sped off. This one, at least, was two-way, a high upgrade from the earlier species. Jvan wondered if what she'd said was worth listening to, and decided not to think too much about it.

Truth? Jvan didn't want to think about anything. She knew exactly why she was calling to Astarte, of all the divine caste. Why she was copying her. It is so that I do not have to think of anything else. So she could pretend, for a moment, that another force wasn't hard at work undoing everything her family had spent so long creating.

Undoing her family outright.

Bursting noise, harsh static. A rush of folding colours. Jvan groaned, the entire mountain-body releasing a subaudible splat of sound that hid the anxiety. Her family, damn him. Slough Rottenbone is my sister.

And Jvan would rather not look back at the imprisonment, though she knew she should, and would. And did.



A second messenger left orbit, its protective casing disintegrating in the atmosphere to release the flier within.

It landed in an empty place where it had expected to find a tomb. A moment of motionless anticipation before it followed the scent of a deity. Its mobility was not exceptional, but, drawing near, something larger, deeper, and purposeful drove the pawn to increase its speed, beyond, perhaps, what it could handle. Sensory tendrils stretched and writhed, releasing the smell of bitter lungs exhausted by fear. Whatever mind had sent the construct was on high alert. Was horribly trepidatious.

Bobbing in air, it slowed behind the trail of footprints extending from the walking wood. Waited, in a miasma now of rising emotion, a smell like new sweat on an athlete's brow. Rushed forwards, spinning around the prison reformed, the defiance from inside the shell where something, something had refused to come quietly, something still glowed strange and lively from within. Drawing back again.

The silent messenger followed its quarry at a distance, the first flagbearer behind the leader of a rebellious parade. And far and wide it cast a faint aroma like old paper, like fresh bread, like dry leaves burning, to which were drawn the followers, the witnesses.

Hain abandoned their village and roamed after their god. An Urtelem matriarch guided her herd out of their way. Air spirits gusted around it. A far-wandering troll narrowed her gaze and muscled her way towards the weird-wood.

They fell behind and were left behind, and had to camp at night while the walker moved on, none of them bold enough to come forth and touch her side. They came and went, seeing the Rottenbone shackled and still free, following, they knew not why, in footprints on the unmarked path of God.



What do I remember? Hmm. Good question. Ha! You caught me out on that one.

Well, I remember blue. I think that's my first memory. There was a lot of blue, really, a light bold glowing blue that kind of shone in the sun. And it was thick. It was very strange, like nothing I've ever felt again. The space itself felt, kinda, viscous. It had a taste, a really thin bland kind of taste. Like there was something in it, something blue that was filling it that you had to push past to move. It wasn't like space at all, actually. It burned.

I was moving fast. Oh God, I was moving so fast, through the blue. Hey! That must've been why it felt so bad! If I was actually moving through something, then no wonder it burned! Why didn't it hurt more, though? It wasn't like hitting a Rock. Heh, I don't know. Can't help you. Sorry!

There were other things, too, that I don't really remember. Colours moving fast. A voice, rippling through the blue stuff, kind of distorted, but no words. I left it behind as I moved. All of it- The blue, the glow, the voice, the colour. From then on, my memories are always around Lex, in the space.

Now that I think about it, I know where that glow is. I see it all the time. It's that sheen that covers Galbar like a mist, only perfectly even, all around.

Does that mean I come from Galbar? Huh. That's... Weird. I've always thought about it as the big unknown, that viridian-navy-tan-alabaster sphere that Lex life spins around. I see it, but it's way too far away to taste. That I might've actually been there, let alone come from there... Wow.

...Anyway! I remember what happened after that, really well actually. I remember being curled up inside myself like a ball, so tight that I had to break myself out, like how leapers hatch from their eggs. I'm pretty sure I was an egg, though one without a shell. I could hear Big Grandma calling to me, so I went to her. Oh, you, you have no idea. You just have no idea how exciting that was, moving around for the first time, tasting dust for the first time. Every Rock felt so huge back then!

I couldn't really orientate myself freely back then either. I kept thinking in planes, like 'up' was always up, so if you turned then 'up' was 'down'. Heh. Yeah, I guess I was dumb.

After that I can remember everything. I remember seeing the whole forest coming out of Big Grandma, the nocti and the imago and everything. I remember learning how to feast, really feast on what I can hunt, and growing, and exploring what it all was and how it all worked. It's all pretty normal from then on.

And now I see that little speck in the distance. It was glowing, back when it was in sunlight, and now that it's eclipse and everything's in Galbar's shadow it's dark again.

I can still see it, though. Clear as light.

I can hear it. I can hear her. She's my sister and I can hear her. She's coming to me from Galbar.

She can tell me everything. She can tell me what the white swirls are and the difference between the shiny navy spaces and the matte green spaces and the gleaming caps that only grow in the shade.

She can come and tell me stories, and we can tell those stories to my daughters together when they hatch. Together we'll start a sorority, a sisterhood of just Diaphanes like us, the biggest pack of hunters that Lex has ever seen.

Then we'll go back to Galbar and we'll eat it all. We'll eat it all up.

Together.

Time flowed like cement. His exciting exploration of the desert became more of chore than a simple trek.
There was nothing to stare at but dunes of red sand which was excruciatingly dull. It was so pointless in the end. Fortunately, his avarice was a fickle thing, soon becoming Sloth. He began to drift into an unpleasant daydream or was it a paranoid fantasy? So hard to tell and he didn't care. It helped to pass the time and he wasn't one for entertaining himself with optimism. Better to be prepared.

Soon his oh so long stroll took him to edge of the desert, were the rolling dunes met the jungles edge.
Intriguing. he thought to himself excitedly. The jungle was a sight to behold. Light faded, creating new shadows and dark patches around him. Eyes glimmered from tree hollows. The wind wailed between distorted trunks, carrying the sickly stink of wood rot. Amartía moved faster, ignoring the briars that caught at his garments, the damp leaves that grimed his red skin.

Light and shadows danced across his skin. Insects hummed in and out of the pennyroyal. He enjoyed the minty smell and continued on, delighting in the sound of his feet sliding through the leaves.
The trees stood utterly still, statues in a living museum where no leaf dared to fall. 

The sounds were all new to him, and just as fascinating: branches creaking, feet shuffling through detritus, small animals chattering, leaves rustling, wind whistling around trunks/disturbing the leaves, birds singing, insects humming/ churring, rustle of animals rooting in underbrush, scrabbling of lizards on tree bark, limbs crashing to the ground, still, quiet, crackling underfoot, breaking branches, clattering leaves, soughing wind, groaning trees, squawking birds, hostile screeches from animals, panting, barking yips, ruffling, ticking, tapping, rattling, shake, shiver, grating, the beat of paws against a path, harmonic, rhythm.

Soon his desire for the desert was replaced by the beauty of the forest. "Enough." he mumbled to himself. His Greed knew no bounds, so instead renewing it every time he came upon a new land, he decided to see more. Chaos energy rushed through his vein for but a second before he took off into the air, creating a shockwave in his wake. Taking off like a red rocket, he flew through the air, taking in the vast world under him.

He eventually came upon a strip of land, closed off by a mountain range to the east, and a vast ocean to the west. Memories of a past life filtered through his mind, a life he knew little off. He remembered swimming in the turquoise ocean. Floating in the void free of gravity. The ocean was something he loved, something his respected. He understood its beauty and its dangers. He found true fascination by the way the waves softly crashed against the rocky beach, their curling fingers brushing each stone with a gentle caress as the wind ushered them gently towards the shore. The way the sun shone off the rippling water, its golden light warped in the twisted, glass waves. No description could truly capture its mysterious majesty, yet only a few words can express its beauty.

Wrath rushed through him, and splayed out in a wave of red. He hated Vestec for leaving him with these memories, they didn't belong to him. In an attempt to rid himself of his own internal turmoil, he floated to the ground, feet touching down on purple sand. Behind him was the calm of the sea, and in front of him were stones placed in a half circle for no particular reason. Or at least to him. From what he could divulge, the Purple Sands had huge spiritual value to those who were guided in life by nature and the natural landscape. Its was place of worship for Shamans and Druids. And a way to tell time.

His Greed began to grow, eating at his soul. It became an itch he just couldn't scratch. But he wasn't alone. Hundreds of Hain, Human, and Rovaik lived near by, but one was present at the Purple Sands. A being of red had suddenly appeared, murmuring oddities to himself, a sigh to behold. Their sins splayed out in front of him like an open book, and he fed on it, it was a feast. But there was only one here at the Purple Sands, this one was a special one, a Rovaik, a Troll, a merchant.

Amartía walked towards the merchant, its heart and head pounding at the sight of him. The Troll gazed up at Amartía, fear in his eyes, but he could see past that. In truth, his soul was filled with Greed and Envy, he was a leader, a councilman. To be a leader in Troll society meant one had to be rich, an easy facilitator for Greed and Envy. Amartía sat cross legged in front of he Troll, and spoke: "What do you seek here at the Purple Sands?"

He Troll began to shake with fear, but soon was able to speak. "Knowledge." It said simply. Amartía smiled. No, the troll came for more than just 'knowledge'. He wanted help, answers, he wanted to repent for a Sin he hadn't committed yet. "If knowledge is what you have come for, I shall give it to you. he began, his eyes piercing right though the soul of the Troll. The Rovaik wished for power he couldn't attain. He was considered a rich merchant in the settlement, but oddly, he wanted more, he wanted the riches of his fellow council members. He wanted to be richer then them all. Greed and Envy were such evil vices.

Amartía's answer was simple. Take. If he couldn't attain the riches through normal means, take them, force his councilmen to submit to his will. And that the Troll did. With a little aid from him, but soon the Troll amassed riches that trumped that of all of the other councilmen. Using bribes, trickery, blackmail and rumors, he was able to attain his life's desire. He allowed his Greed to overtake him, despite his high position. Soon, the Troll's Envy became Sloth, in which Amartía ate from. This sowed discord in the society of the Rovaik. A single troll had managed to amass wealth beyond that of all the others, and in secret, had unwittingly become a puppet of Amartía. This single Troll held more influence than all others, and with this influence, he began to do what the Council was created to avoid, spread word of Sin.

After a long while, the Troll returned, seeking to thank him. "What is your name?" the Troll begged. Once again, he smiled, taking in the Trolls inexhaustible reserves of Sloth, Envy and Greed. "Amartía."

With time, both Hain and Human would approach Amartía, but their questions and his soulutions would remain a secret. Soon, many came to worship Sin. If a man who Lusted after a woman, he would feed off thier vice, and create more by telling him to take the woman. One such example was that of Fendall, a human man who wished to marry a woman who another man loved also. Amartía weaved a plan for the man, deliver an offensive letter in the other mans name.

With time, many came to worship Amartía, most in secret, whether it be Human, Hain, or an ever growing group of Trolls. Whispers of Amartía spread all over the land and between the Ironheart Ranges and the white ocean. Amartía's Greed knew no bounds, the desert could wait. He wanted these Purple Sands.

Marionettes were indeed "tireless", the very concept of fatigue did not exist in their simple mind, yet that didn't mean they could simply go on working day and night non-stop, the fiberling strings became weaker, the wood blocks slowly started to break down and the weaved strings and knots that commanded the behaviour of the puppet at times were undone. Only the divas knew how to repair one, and indeed, half of their days down on the city was spent on taking care of it.

The other half was spent on White Giants. Toun's hatred of Jvan had been implanted eons ago in the core of the creature, and even as millenniums went by, the anger still burned. And of course, they didn't see the fiberling based Marionettes on the best light. So it became the Divas's task to stop them from simply bashing to bits all of their workers, while it wouldn't be hard for the avatars of a goddess to destroy them with a jab, the three preferred to take a more defensive instance, simply confusing them with mirrors and binding them with vines. As the project went on, quite a lot of these "trapped" White Giants were pilled up to the sides of the future building sites.

In a little more than two weeks, the first step of the building was done, simple lodgings and farms for the Lifprasilians, providing the core sustainability that the workers would need. This was the town that most non-Lifprasilians would be seeing on the next era, a simple, wooden town, just a bit more amazing than wherever else civilization flourished, with things other mortals had yet to figure out, like a full port with an everlasting lighthouse. The marvelous halls of Lifprasil's true capital were far too advanced to be witnessed by the world, for now, it would need to be little more than a tale.

One day, when the world was ready, the port would naturally become something more alluring than a couple of damp houses. Mansory would make the lighthouse rise and an increasingly amount of ships would decorate the horizon. One day this could be the home of a grand fleet, and the harbor would be a jewel of the empire. Eventually, but not yet.

With that setup, it was time to go back to the Citadel, to meet Lakshmi's group and Allure.

"So, now that the wooden, puppet city is made, it's time to go on and start with the true Capital." Said Piena to Allure, currently the only two in Ilunabar's luxurious quarters "The land is rough, and from what I observed the rivers aren't in exactly the ideal place to sustain the many farms we will need, so, I would like to change the water's flow, and for that we will need your ability to cut large chunks of rock out of the mountains."

Piena's request received a smirk from Allure, none the less dazzling for its smugness. Anyone could feel the energy in him leap in anticipation of fulfilling his true calling. "It will be done...perfectly. This task will be immaculately complete before night falls." Spinning on his bare heel, the handsome critic made his way to the edge of the Citadel and threw himself without a moment's hesitation from the window. Though a bird without wings, he felt truly alive in midair, where something as simple as a miscalculation could mean a gruesome demise. How it got the blood flowing! His powerful leap carried him through the free air, soaring like a cannonball past birds, beneath clouds, and over land. Beneath him the desert sands turned to brown soil and then green grass, and by the time he left the sky to skid to a halt on the ground, he found himself standing before a lovely stretch of land.

He set to examining it immediately. The winding, snakelike path of the river created hills, and from the earth rose myriad outcrops of stone. In the distance stood a mountain cleft in twain, perhaps by an earthquake, or even the river itself. Could it be that the world existed for long enough already that the land created by gods had reshaped itself according to the divinely-charted natural order? Such ponderings did not concern Allure. No matter how pleasant the scenery, he held no qualms about wiping clean a stage so that it might serve to exhibit greater beauty. Firstly, he needed to flatten the land.

In mere moments the hero of beauty could be seen sprinting across the earth, his hands held in front of him rather than pumped to steady his run. Every outcrop of stone he leveled in a single sweep of his fingers, left to crumble on the ground in mockery of the steady eons spent upright. With this done, he placed himself directly in front of a section of land that began to slope upward, cheekily disrupting the terrain. Allure knelt, turnind his right hand palm-forward and holding his fingertips to the ground. After a brief sigh through a smiling face, he allowed a dangerous memory to escape its repression: a recollection of unholy pain, self-inflicted and worse than anything else he experienced. The touch of this torment caused him to grit his teeth, and with strength powered by fear and hatred he swept upward with his arm. "EAGH!" Obediently the earth flew asunder, blown apart and kicked up as if ruptured by the plow of an invisible giant, for hundreds of meters in a cone in front of him. His mind quarantined the stray memory as his breathing normalized, and Allure looked at the raw destruction wreaked by his discerning hand. Where before there lay a perfectly natural slope of land, there now existed flat but cracked earth, strewn with debris of stone, wood, and dirt in assorted sizes. "A beautiful start," he told the open sky as he stood up, holding his head with one hand. Only seconds passed before he recovered from the strain, and he set to gathering and obfuscating the debris.

Hours passed while the mortal worked. The split mountain Allure left behind, as he believed it to be scenic, but he left nothing else untouched. By his hand, earth rose and fell. From the apex of a grand skyward leap he carved a new path for the river, straight and wide, and with the byproducts of his other projects he filled the old bed in. Smaller slabs of stone and chunks of earth he consented to carry, allowing dirt to add a certain ruggedness to his flawless physique with confidence in the redirected river's ability to bathe him in the near future. With larger pieces of the world, he employed the sorcerous might of a flat hand to batter them about. Having gathered a great quantity of stone into a single spot, he set to work carving bricks, determined to tarnish the area with as little wasted material as possible. By the time the horizoned reddened in mute anticipation of night's embrace, the valley was transformed. It did not lay at a singular altitude, but rather several tiers of land, each sliced masterfully flat. The river ran straight and true, not nearly as fast as prior but far more suitable for civilization in its accomodating size, consistency, and tranquility. Piles of bricks lay on the landscape; near them lay stacks of wood, salvaged from the trees torn from the soil by Allure's willful destruction. Even the sides of the cleft mountain now stood completely vertical in places thanks to him, carved such so that builders or miners could work to the very edge if they so pleased. "Dare I say...stupendous. Flawlessness, be it in form or function, suits me so very well."

---

Now the construction of the town focused on the functional part of the capital: the places where the working class and merchants would live, the areas of teaching, the markets, the temples, the arenas and the gardens that would raise crops not suited for the lowly farmlands of the port.

This land of wonder would be built very far from the wooden port, across a jungle that only Lifprasilians would know how to cross. It was important that mortals, in general, didn't get used to its sight, legends would be fine, but everyone was sure that anything beyond that would upset the balance and bring in some trouble. In fact, Notte went beyond that and built a quite complex system of mirror work that would, first and foremost, create illusions that would hide the city from afar, and secondly, just to be sure, it would boil water constantly, creating an ever-present fog in the region.

Other well-designed systems were in place, the movement across the city should flow, the whole structuralization of the place would benefit sanitation and response to hazards and of course, a lot was designed to make the place aesthetically pleasing to live at. Yet, compared to the palace, the city itself was supposed to be something ever changing, new ideas would arrive, and it was important that they could bloom nicely in the city, therefore, the design also needed to be soft, to allow change and make up for it.

Meimu provided the citywith countless gardens, all with colors and style arranged in a way that made each sector of the town identifiable. Her plants also helped the construction of towers and other complexes building, with their vines creating paths for workers and structures. Finally, she was also setting up many Marionettes to work on the gardens of the capital, she understood that each Lifprasilian had the duty of keeping the town beautiful, but even so, she was a bit proud of her flowery landscape, and at least in the beginning she wanted it to be perfectly designed.

Notte was not only charged with the mirror device that kept the city hidden (and therefore, possible). She was the master of glasswork for the whole city, and while at first the town was mostly clay and brick, she soon added a new layer of elegance. Glass was the gentlest building material, it provided a roof, yet it didn't fully cut one away from nature. Thanks to her windows and greenhouses, one could cross all of the city in a stormy day without getting wet, yet, they would still be able to see and hear the falling water, thus not getting exile from nature.

Stained Glass was also a new invention that truly made everything far more beautiful. Notte didn't have hands enough to build the dream-like designs she dreamed, with towering walls full of intricate details, yet this didn't stop her from experimenting in temples. Furthermore, the way the glass tinted light, gave her idea for new illusory designs, using torches and windows, that would bring beauty and color even to the underground alleys of the city.

And above all this was Piena, to thinking mind behind the macro design of all this. She was the one making sure everything ran on time and that everyone knew the time, she filled the town with clock-like devices, sundials, water clocks, marionettes with hourglasses that turned themselves over. In her mind, the flow of time was no less elegant than any other natural cycle, the many ways of measuring being the best way to pay respect.

That of course, was merely one of her designs, outside of it, she was also the one who built catwalk over the catwalk to make sure there was always enough room for those who needed to move, to move. (In fact, many of those would be restricted to upper classes and guards). She built the canals out of the flow of water, so one could cross the city without having to exhaust themselves. (Notte's glass roof also covered these, at times). She organized the neighborhoods, she designed the places of public power, she leads the Lifprasilian's efforts to build walls and other defenses. She also made a lot of bathhouses, because while her sisters were quick to forgive, she did not let go of the memory of smelly Lifprasilians littering the halls of the Celestial Citadel

As the farming expanded, more and more Lifprasilians arrived to do the hard work, while they could never compete with the sheer world changing the power of a Diva or Allure, they had quantity in their favor and were the best at chipping away the details and stones. Even so, the work was still tiring for even a quasi-divine being, mortals could take shifts, others had to simply work non-stop with only a handful of breaks.

After one of many hard days of work, Lakshmi collapsed amongst a small hovel that had grown on the furthest boundary of Lifprasil's new city: the Divas' resting place. She was surrounded by other soldiers, that which had reduced their now colorful shauls into bindings around their waist; a unique feature that the Lifprasilians had added to their uniform. Now, the armored cloaks could be unbinded into waistcloths for the humid days of work and vigor.

Now, as the Lifprasilians evacuated the Citadel, and populated the surface of Galbar, thousands of craftmen and women found the over abundance of resources fit to build better, stronger weapons. These all surfaced from the bronze and ebony they had discovered from the ruinous expanse Allure made out of the sheer cliffs around them, and bid fair use amongst the civilians and the soldiers. The army was well equipped once the city was finished, and now their weapons and armor were no longer stone and wood, but metal.

Lakshmi was gifted from many a Lifprasilian colorful gifts, many colored clothes, tailored from the wilderness around the civilization, and precious gems and metals that were eventually fashioned into armor for her; the Princess-General of the Lifprasilians. The same could be said for the Divas too, and Allure, every citizen seemed grateful, it was almost as if the move from the stingy confines of Zephyrion's temple lifted their spirits.

"Ueeeeegh..." sighed the Hero of Lifprasil, before she collapsed onto her back, and into the dirt and vegetation that had sprouted from the surrounding forest and landscape.

For a few moments Lakshmi's eyes remained closed, savoring the rest, but when they opened they opened to a unusual and perhaps offputting sight. Bent over her and staring down with a quizzical expression was Allure, and he seemed intrigued. "Quite the busy bee, aren't we?" Straighting up, he folded his arms and looked around. To his satisfaction the Lifprasilians avoided both his gaze and lingering in his line of sight. His complete refusal of every gift brought before him had not failed to exacerbate the intended divide between he and them. A sharp eye would notice the hilt of a bronze spear peaking out from behind his back--at least, it seemed to be a spear at first glance. On the second, the blade appeared curved like a scimitar's, and longer than a normal spear's. Such a shape did not exist among the Lifprasilian smiths, and would reasonably be a modification of Allure's own making.

He noticed her eyes upon it and said, "Curious? The stabbing weapons your people made did not inspire me, so I fancied a more difficult to use, elegant polearm. I feel as if this weapon could be a dancing partner, the picture of elegance, and a harbinger of beautiful death in a master's hands." To demonstrate he swung the polearm around in a gentle arc, its blade glimmering in the sun, before he planted its butt in the ground. "Of course, I'll have to work on a martial style for it. I haven't had much to do since I set the stage for you lot. Hm, why aren't you speaking? Has my visage struck you dumb? Never fear; I must confess I have that sweetly sorrowful effect on some. Such is the curse of beauty. Perhaps I must find myself someone else to give me something to do."

Lakshmi blinked, Allure hovered over her, but she had grown used to his daylight musings and interruptions; but today was different, it seemed. "W-well, n-not your o-wn v-visage," she chuckled, slowly correcting her position so that she could sit upright. "I f-find the c-craftmanship on th-at strange t-thing c-c-curious - I almost f-feel like you're i-implying s-s-something here." Lakshmi teased, and extended a glowing hand, as to hold the polearm "I-if you-u don't mind."

"If the implication is that you should give me something to do, winged one, you have hit the nail on the head. My sense of subtlety and indirect messaging have always been incomparable." Obligingly he extended the weapon to Lakshmi, careful to keep the blade away from her face, as much as a nice scar might improve it.

She grasped the weapon, and twirled it in her hand as she stood, she let it flow, and flow it did through the wind and the dampened atmosphere. [color=orange]"Impressive,"[color] commentated an old friend, causing Lakshmi to nearly drop the elegant weapon.

Past the literal smoke and mirrors surrounding his new town, Lifprasil stood, and all the Lifprasilian guardsmen that had surrounded Lakshmi and Allure kneeled to his presence. The long awaited return of their king had finally arrived, and the sudden-ness of the arrival didn't help make it less jarring. "Prosit." he greeted, before he ordered the guards to stand.

Ever attentive, Allure lurched forward to save the weapon from an unsightly impact with the ground when Lakshmi's alarm nearly caused it to fall. When he found that her grip in fact held, he gentle wheedled the polearm from her grasp. The guardsmen knelt, but the hero of beauty span the polearm around once before putting it over his shoulders and wrapping his arms around it, like a rice-farmer would his pailbearing staff.

"Huh," Said Susa from quite a distance of her "hirer" (she didn't like the idea of him being her leader, despite the fact she was aware of how close to reality that). The whole place was absolutely amazing, with beauty and size never witnessed before. She couldn't see most of it because of the fog, yet the little she could observe as she walked to the town was something unworldly, more fit for a dream than reality.

Another impressive sight to see was the many odd creatures (Susa knew many on her journeys, but never such creatures) and that all of them obeyed Lifprasil unconditionally. "So this is his empire huh? It's nice" she whispered to herself.

Originally the plan was not to travel to this region, instead, they were to meet the trader and perhaps a few more locations, yet, as both of them had predicted, a disaster happened. After such horrendous event, it was clear for both that taking out whatever was the horde of chaos was of utmost importance.

Lakshmi tipped her head to the newcomer, but was exuberant at Lifprasil's arrival none the less "Who's t-this?" she asked Lifprasil, walking forth to meet Susa. Even more shocking, however, was the giant hooded mount that loomed over the King and his friend, with engines of blistering white hidden beneath its multitude of wings. "W-what's th-at?" she then asked, pointing to Lifprasil's divine mount.

"This is Oevadia, a gift I had recieved from Jvan, and this is Susa, a friend I had made on my travels... I had another one, Belvast, but he seems to have run off... I'll explain him later - anyway, Susa, why don't you introduce yourself to may compatriote, Lakshmi? She's the crown general of my army." Lifprasil asked, and then stepped aside to give Susa room.

Susa didn't quite get the chance; be it ignoring Allure or merely giving that impression, perfection's arbiter would not be relegated to the sidelines. "Another couple of additions to the merry band of misfits, eh? Well, at least this one eludes my complete distaste, even if the Jvanic nightmare she sits astride turns my stomach. Of course, you need not chide me, grand emperor; I willingly postpone any bloodshed, tragedy though it is. Consider this," he flourished his weapon for Lifprasil. "A graceful instrument of death I made through the contortion of a mundane spear. It pains me to have to prove to you the beauty that succeeds destruction. That aside," he said as turned back to Susa without missing a beat. "I am Allure. I'm not quite a 'crown general' such as this winged thing, albeit I have never seen her fight or command anyone, but I suppose you can call me an enthusiastic critic. The pleasure is all yours, I'm sure."

Susa was notoriously slow to respond indeed, this was a new world for her, nothing like any social interaction she ever had on her travels, so many different people asking so many different things had a confounding effect on her mind, that she just managed to snap out of when Allure approached.

"I'm not sure of what you said, but I got the impression you were saying this thing I'm riding is odd, and indeed, it is, and I'm happy we are at close to soil again" she didn't think twice before jumping down, her voice was the typical rigid tone, despite her bewilderment. "I'm Susa. I'm just a huntress, but I'm a decent one. I hope we can work well together, Allure, Lakchime."

This provoked a curious smirk from Allure, cast from a side-facing head. This woman seemed positively normal, which did not by any stretch of the imagination enrapture him. Evidently her boringness permeated her being so deeply that she did not react with awe at the sight of his unmatched handsomeness. That, too, irked him, but he knew that taking issue with every little flaw would make for a short stay in daring Lifprasil's vision of empire. Her mention of being a huntress stood out to him. "Perhaps we shall go hunting sometime, then. I would be pleased to show off my form." A second past before he realized what he had said. "My form at killing, of course."

"Ah?" a flash of sudden interest sparked in her eyes "That sounds exciting, it has been a while since anyone called me out to hunt. I look forward to seeing your techniques" the whole second meaning of "form" completely escaped the huntress.

Once again she looked forward to the ones waiting, the odd army that Lifprasil had formed for himself, the people she was expected to work with from now on. But as soon as she stepped away from Lifprasil, a wall of blinding light rose from the ground, encircling the emperor-to-be.

"Hello, Lifprasil, sorry for showing up so suddenly. But my divas noticed you were paying a visit and I couldn't skip the chance" Said Ilunabar.

"So, you got yourself in quite a conflict, huh? I wish I could send some of my own champions, but they are far too new, I do not want to risk an early release." she sighed.

"However... Maybe I could help you a little bit. See, look, my girl's marionettes have attracted an odd folk into this land, White Giants, and hey, you might have some use for those right?" She was keen on not giving the proper time for the young emperor to answer

"And you will also need mobility to counter the enemy's gargantuan size. Luckily for you, I already ordered the divas to build up a whole lot of rideable marionettes, not all of them are ready, but they will be useful."

Lifprasil was obviously intrigued by Illunabar's sudden helping hand, it brought one of his bright smiles to his face. [color=orange]"Ah, White Giants? I encountered a few - they tried to kill me, but the marionettes sound exciting, where are they?" he questioned, half looking to the divas. The Emperor to be was blatantly excited, this arrival was much more fruitful than he had hoped.

"They are currently set to arrive here, the tools are ready for your war, so it's now really up to what you wish to do. Make it a beautiful war, Lifprasil, because it is about to close a chapter in the history of things. Now I must go, your friends grow worried about their leader being inside some odd barrier and I have others to look after" with that the Muse vanished, taking the veil of light with her.

---

Once Lifprasil was off to his battle, a meeting between the Divas and Ilunabar took place on the summit of a hill not too far from the capital. The fog, which would keep it discrete in the eyes of mortals and jealous gods, disappeared for a short second, giving the Muse a chance to gaze at its grace.

"This was an interesting work, I'm fascinated that it was mostly done with mortal materials." she said, with a soft smile.

"However, I believe I will be relieving you three of your position for this last piece. I want to plan the palace myself, unlike the city, it is not meant to evolve and chance, instead, it must be a monolith of greatness that will defy time until either one crumbles."

"Well, there goes our little hobby" sighed Notte.

"But what will we do now? Surely we can't just stay around idling!" contested Meimu.

"What is it? Have you lost your sense of artistic freedom? The world is your canvas, do as you will." Ilunabar was a bit angry at this, perhaps they had stayed too much time going along with Lifprasil's benevolent dictator antics.

"Actually, perhaps we could go and observe Lifprasil's fight" proposed Piena "It will be the world's first large-scale combat, involving almost all races..."

"Oh Piena," Ilunabar thought "What an amazing liar you are." Even without accessing the mind of her fragment, her Diva, she could see her intent.

"Surely, I expected you three to realize that naturally. Go, and see the mess that Vestec made, see the disaster and glory of war." And, without exactly a choice on the matter, the Divas complied.

---

(After Grot's defeat)

"Huh, the fishes and sea-jvanic creatures are going to dine well tonight" jested Notte.

"Grot's thing was that he was gargantuan, but the ocean was greater and swallowed the titan whole" Meimu felt somewhat inspired, it was an interesting dynamic.

"It was a good plan, but perhaps it could have happened sooner. Too many died due to inefficient management" sighed Piena. But deep down, she was very satisfied, during the whole spectacle she took notes, many races were shaped by caprice, not hers.

"Well, that is about it. Hey, Meimu, do you want to sneak in into the victory commemorations?" proposed Notte.

"Well... Technically I shouldn't... But a bit of fun can't hurt. Are you coming too, Piena?"

"No. I'm far too busy. Go and enjoy your party, I will be going back to check on lady Ilunabar."

---

Even further into the foggy entrails of Shalanoir's pass, the Palace that was being built for Lifprasil was meant to go the step beyond, if the Capital was the framework for mortal efficiency, the Palace was meant to remember there was always something beyond and divine.

The inspiration of the Celestial Citadel was obvious, but those were places of power, the palace was simply meant to be beautiful. Like a jewel. Furthermore, it was meant to be a livid place, with pools, gardens, libraries, game courts, gymnasiums and all other sorts of facilities. Lifprasil has trying to conquer the world, it was only natural for the Muse to make his home a place that incentivized the pursuit of culture, without forgetting, of course, to create rooms that could satisfy the young deity's ambition and hunger of glory.

The finishing touches were based on the many illusions used by her in the Celestial Citadel and her divas on the capital. Fake skies instead of ceilings and phantom zoos made of illusory forests and seas were common on personal quarters. But not everything was merely beauty, maquettes of the capital and the harbor were perfect miniatures of the cities, changing themselves as the settlements grew, and Lifprasil's personal quarters had certain devices, like a room that changed it's interior to resemble any biome of Galbar.

It was a living place, not meant only to be marble and gems, but to be inhabited and loved.

(1 might spent to create the palace)

"This... Is quite like I imagined it" said Piena, showing the semblance of a smile.

"I know, you are my planner, after all, this was mostly your doing. You just didn't have the proper tools to visualize it as possible" answered Ilunabar "In that regard, we can fix that now." There was a sudden flux of energy inside room, centering on Piena, who didn't know exactly what was happening.

(3 might. Beauty (Aesthetic) added to Portfolio)

"Of all my Divas, you are the one who showed the most results, even when your design lacks creative tools," Ilunabar smiled. "Now go, you have something important to do"

When Lifprasil's forces returned, Lifprasil did not accompany them, instead, Lakshmi did, carrying behind her wounded a'plenty - the expansive site that Illunabar's faux servants yielded proved sprawling enough to contain the despair; but some had died before they even arrived. The Lifprasilians took good care of this, burying them outside of their borders, to become one with the surrounding world.

Sooner than she arrived, Lakshmi found her way to Lifprasil's temple, covered in blood, dirt, her armor in tatters, she carried their silent visitor, Tira, to whatever quarters were found suitable - prefferably close to where she would be staying. With the Muses' guidance, Lakshmi found the deed easier done than said, and with the Muses' further pertained guidance, Lakshmi was clean. She found the wonderous distractions, the otherworldly gems within the palace interesting, furthermore, it antagonized the darker thoughts lingering in the back of her psyche.

Two guards remained near the 'Tira', letting Lakshmi do something she was not familiar with: paperwork, in many ways, the influx of people that came into Lifprasil's settlement needed to be catalogued, and catalogued they were. Somewhere deep within the palace that was meant for Lifprasil, Lakshmi began to work, she avoided the abstract God Den generated for Lifprasil, and wandered the premise as she labored over things that had to be done.

After all, Lifprasil trusted her while he was off establishing ties.

For a single Troll to have more riches than others was a big problem for the Rovaik Council. This meant that a single Troll held more power than the others, and naturally, they submitted to his rule. This was the fatal flaw in Rovaik politics that Amartía's Treachery could easily see through. His puppet Troll sowed discord on his own accord it seemed, but he was secretly apart of the Cult of Amartía. This cult spread throughout the land like wildfire among the Hain and Human populations, but remained a secret in the Rovaik Community.

Lounging on the Purple Sands, Amartía created sand figures Rovaik. The numbers were small, but ever growing. The cult preached doctrines of freedom, that beings shouldn't but burdened by the weight of so called immoral practices. The cultist believed that sin shouldn't be viewed as evil, but tendencies of man, and man should be given the opportunity to do so. In the end they worshiped him. While the Cult grew through word of mouth, Amartía made preparations himself.

Amartía would leave the Purple Sands on many occasions in search of puppets he could manipulate in the Rovaik. His search led him to an old Azibo leader clad in patchwork armor, who's Pride overshadowed many just as much as his power did. Just as the Troll of Greed was a cultist, this elder Azibo was an aspiring cultist. He was an elder who grew tired of his dealings with those he considered lesser beings. He heard of the cult and its beliefs though the whispers of his underlings, who were cultist also. What drew him to this Azibo was not only his power, but his reeking Hubris, he was an arrogant being, one confident in his power. Another perfect candidate, another piece to add to his collection.

Due to the Azibo's immense Pride, Amartía was able to speak to the Rovaik as if he was his conscious. "There is none who can match your power, they should all bow before your power." His words were like honey to the Azibo's ears, and his Pride divided on two, adding Greed to his sin. Pride consumed the Azibo's soul, and just like the Troll, the Azibo became another puppet, drowning in his own Pride. Back at the Purple Sands, Amartía crated another sand figure, Azibo of Pride.

Next, Sin found himself drawn to a Tedar herder who's vice was Heresy. Despite the Tedar being a great craftsman and leader, he grew tired of debating. Most of all, he wanted to be a councilman, the councilman who would change the ways of Tedar. After hearing of the sin cult from a Tedar leader he seeked to join. Amartía, similar to that of the Azibo, simply whispered honey into the ears of the Tedar. "Take that council position for yourself. Change tradition!" And that the Tedar did. After challenging a councilman, he killed the Tedar and took his place. As planned, another sand figure was added, Tedar of Heresy.

Amartía's Greed knew no bounds as he continued to gather pieces of his puzzle. In the land between the Ironheart mountains and the White Sea lived thousands of Human and Hain living in harmony. There were many tribes which mixed the species if not all, but Sin found himself interested in 4 chieftains. 3 Human and 1 Hain. The Hain was a treacherous one who tempted others in secrets for personal gain and entertainment. One Human had a intense hatred for a clansman, in which he killed, giving into his Wrath. Another grew tired of his leadership, and the work involved. Giving into his Sloth, he neglected his people and his duties. The last human was a Glutton, a man he neglected his people, and cared more about stuffing his face.

At last Amartía had all pieces in hand to make his move. The Troll of Greed, the most influential merchant in the Council. The Azibo of Pride, an extremely powerful magic user and Council member. The Tedar of Heresy, a Tedar who killed for his position. Hain of Temptation, a chieftain who tempted humans and Hain into committing acts of Heresy. Human of Wrath who killed his fellow man out of hatred and hid his murder. Human of Sloth was lazy and ignored is duties. And lastly, was the Human of Gluttony, a human consumed by his love for food and drink. All these formed Amartía's Illumi, or just the Illumi, puppets who served him for the betterment of the Cult of Amartía.

It was time to make his move. After binding his time, and gathering the necessary pieces, his plan was to come to fruitation. His Hain of Temptation, Human of Wrath, Human of Gluttony and Human of Sloth came together to unite thier tribes under one banner, and put one being at the top, Amartía. With this large conglomerate of people under his rule, he formed a new nation, and called it Amestris. At the same time, he called upon his followers in the Roavik community. His Tedar of Heresy went about gathering a massive work force of Goblins. While one force gathered limestone and wood, the others went about building. To the east, goblins built sea ports all along the coast, each 25 miles apart from the other. Deeper inland, goblins built multiple markets, these two combined created a huge trade network. Unfortunately, this wasn't all. The Troll of Greed went about sending many merchants to sell and transport goods to Amestris. But in order for other tribes to buy from Amestrian Troll merchants, tribes had to either pay a tax, or join and pledge alliance to Amestris. This weakened independent tribes greatly, and bolstered the Amestrian economy. Quickly, many, and soon all tribes joined the nation of Amestris. With its strong ties to the Rovaik communities, its trade outposts or markets, and seaports, Amestris soon gree.

The the work didn't end there, with the labor force of Tedar craftsman and Goblin labor, he went about building cites around these markets. The first of which was build was a large living space where many would come together to form a massive workforce, in which he named Xerxes. Thousands of Goblins and Tedar with Human and Hain in tow went about building his ornate capital and palace around the Purple Sands. A plethora of human and Hain followed, creating homes in the soon to be city in order to help build it up.

Gathering at said Purple Sands were the Illumi and Amartía. All eyes were on the demi-god as he pushed each and every sand figure together, and built another, larger sand figure above them. It was a duplicate of himself. "This land has been conquered, and my name shall soon be spread throughout the world. There is still much work to be done my Illumi. Amestris, the land of the Al Mighty! he roared, and his puppets roared in union. He would build an empire, with mortal hands, that would trump all others.

Amartía quickly solidified his rule with the formation of a government. With the election of governors, also known as Poloí, created the image of a parliamentary government led by a commander in-chief called an Énas, but was secretly a dictatorship.

Xerxes was becoming the city-state that represented Amestris, and it would take many years to grow. There was a small amount of tall buildings here, towers or skyscrapers. Such constructions would blot out the presence of thier gods from the city, or so the the Reliquum said. A maximum of two story buildings were allowed by statute, the inhabitants had to make do without a skyline. The city was being built a few miles away from the sea, but its inhabitants, with help from Azibo, were able to shift massive amounts of sand and lining the bottom and side with stone to allow for water to flow into the city, creating a small canal and an entrance and exit in to sea. This became the largest and main sea port in Amestris. Many more canals would litter the ever growing capital city.

Surrounding this port was a city of much color and vibrancy. Within the white walled and red roofed buildings of the city, many cheers and music could he heard playing within the streets. Hundreds of skeletal buildings still stood ready to be built, Goblins carrying wood and stone to be used to build. The sun beat down upon the streets and buildings in a forgiving nature as they burned and churned brightly in the skies. White and fluffy clouds that seemed so soft that a child might be able to reach up and pull them from the very skies and enjoy them as an afternoon treat. The clean buildings would reflect the sun so perfectly that it would appear as though there were two of them carrying across the heavens.

Only a couple of straight streets would make their way through the city, cutting across the otherwise winding and gracefully arcing roadways that would appear close to decoration if viewed from a bird's eye view, but remained dirt and unpaved. In the near center of the city lay a clearing, placed there was the calendar of the Purple Sands, and an even larger clearing. Multiple clearings stood like beacons from the sky across the city, the largest being the site in which Amartía would build his palace. Tedar were amazing beings of creation.

Well maintained grass slowly grew within these confines as well as four trees, each of which was located at four different points around the edge of these square parks. Music could be heard around every corner and snaking its way outside the city a short distance. Families of all sizes would be seen running and walking and playing, working, eating on the narrow streets, Roavik, Hain and human alike. Xerxes still stood unfinished, as Amartía sat in his place at what was left of the Purple Sand. During this great build, many strides were made. Deeper inland, massive farmlands were created to feed the people of Xerxes. Human, Hain and Rovaik all working in harmony in the fields gathered more. Thousands of Troll merchants filtered through the Markets and ports that been built, soon creating a need for currency.

While he allowed the Poloí to deal with that matter, Amartía went about building up Xerxes his city-state and small settlements that surrounded other ports and markets that made up Amestris, his capital conveniently placed at the center. It was time to create his palace and temples respecting the gods of his people, and the world would help him.

Carried away by the gentle and crisp breeze, a dried and golden leaf at last fell from an aged tree. Its wild tumble at last brought it to the ground, where its journey ended with the crunch that came when it was crushed beneath a sandal. Gleefully a girl skipped on with basket in hand, humming to herself as she took in the sweet air and enjoyed the sound of leaves crackling underfoot. Erelong she had made her way to carefully cultivated vineyard, and so she set about plucking the plumpest of grapes off their vines and dropping them into her basket with a smile.

Meandering without a care in the world, she took her time. The morn's cool gave way to the noon's warmth, though the playful eddies of wind tossed her long hair to and fro, cooling her in the sun. The basket steadily grew heavier and heavier, until at last she turned and made her way back. The wind was now billowing more frantically; one sudden and violent gust tore the basket from her hands and scattered the grapes across the ground. She turned to the horizon and saw a great storm crawling over the distant hills. The wrathful clouds were dark as the mystic stone that burned, and soon the faroff rumble of thunder rang in her ears.

The storm was faroff still, so she was upon her knees scrambling to gather them back up before the crazed wind scattered them away; she spent what felt like a short time collecting what she could and then staggered on back towards the village. Now flashes of lightning illuminated the dull, overcast land in brilliant white, while thunder cracked loud. She turned with alarm to see that the black clouds had already swept across the plains and were nearly upon her; that storm had traveled with an unnatural speed that no other ever had. Had she really been so preoccupied as to not notice how fast it had advanced upon her?

Now she ran, fighting the wind with each and every step. She did not so much as pause for a second thought when a gust blew some of the contents of her basket onto the ground; soon she felt the basket torn from hers grasp once more, though this time she did not seek to reclaim it. In a mere moment it had been swept up into the sky. Now rain and hail pelted the ground with the fury of a mob stoning a vagabond. She heard a sound like the roar of a hundred great beasts, and turned to see a massive tornado in the near distance. Bloodied and beaten by rain and hail, she barely made it back to her home.

The sky outside only darkened.

At last the clouds reached the black of tar pits or that void between the stars in the night sky, and then they seemed to grow darker still. Vengeful spears of lightning impaled the ground. Within each and every house there came hushed prayers to Mother Elysium, for though these people did not remember much of Arcon, the goddess Elysium lived on through fable and legend. For all their pleading to their Mother, the sound of the storm's ire drowned out the whispers of their voice and they went forsaken and unheard. The Temple to Elysium, a small hut atop a hilltop, was mercilessly struck by bolt after bolt of lightning with such force that it was blown apart, incinerated, and scattered upon the wind.

Torrential rains drowned the earth itself and water flowed down the hillsides in rivers; it was good that the village was built upon high ground. For days the storm raged unabated, with never a hint of sunlight piercing the black clouds. Food and gifts were thrown out windows in offering to whatever horrible spiryts might be wielding such malevolent power and ill will, yet in their hearts the elders knew that there was no Djinn powerful enough to conjure such a storm.

The storm checked the people's resolve and tested the strength of their homes. It was a trying crucible; many homes were carried away by the wind or swept away by floods, and many people were cast away broken by the horrible force of the wind or else drowned in the mighty rapids. As days went on, the thunder's roar grew only louder and the rain's downpour only heavier. So perilous and terrible did the storm become that men could not so much as venture to their neighbors' houses. Some declared that the end of times had come, and they leaped out their windows to surrender to the inevitability of oblivion. The others cowered inside their homes and cherished what they thought would be their last moments, waiting for their shelters to at last buckle and be torn asunder by the storm.

There was one man who dared venture out of his hovel without harboring the intent of death. He gripped a walking stick with all his strength and used it to steady his gait in the face of wind and water, and kept a thick cloak wrapped around himself to spare his back the worst of the rain and hail. Then, he strode outwards in search of answers.

Rainwater instantly seeped through his cloak to leave a cold kiss upon his flesh; soon his dampened garments became utterly drenched and heavy upon his shoulders. He trudged through flooded pathways with water up to his knees, the debris of houses and the waterlogged dead swept along by the murky waters, though the darkness spared him the horror of sighting many such things.

On and on he trudged, waded, and swam as the depth of the floodwater dictated, made weaker by each passing moment. Terrible winds assailed him, but each time they hurled him backwards he only rose once more and pressed on. The brilliant light of the lightning was his only anchor to reality, and so he followed those guiding arrows to high ground. He found himself at the foot of a small, craggy mountain that he knew to be the highest peak in leagues. Here the lightning struck furiously and with a greater frequency than anywhere else, and though the wind's howl was now utterly deafening it did not seem so intent upon impeding his journey. It was as if some force had sensed him, and now it willed him on. Where he might have finally collapsed a broken man and consigned himself to death as so many others had, the call of this voice gave him newfound resolve. He pressed on, up the muddy and treacherous slopes of the mountain.

What felt like an eternity of arduous travel had truly been less than a day, and here it had led him to seemingly nothing. Strangely the storm was calmer here, and so he sat down and prepared to make his peace. Whatever force he had felt was nowhere to be seen and now he had only more questions and despair than he had set out with. Hope seeped out from his body and left him, much like blood left his body through the countless cuts and injuries he had sustained during the trek.

In an instant, there was a terrifying boom of thunder that expunged his mind of all such notions and willed him to his feet. The strange force returned stronger tenfold than it had been before, and it willed him towards the edge of the summit. He advanced forward, helplessly enthralled by its splendor. He stepped to the very edge of a great cliff, and with widened eyes stared out into the gap beyond and beheld the face of the storm.

Lightning bolts streaked through the sky to strike alarmingly close and the rain poured down ever still, yet the man heard nothing. He drowned in the emptiness of the void before him and in the silence, choking as he looked at the storm's visage. It took the likeness of a man's, though its flesh was wrought from writhing black clouds and its eyes were orbs of light with the glow of lightning. The Storm spoke to him, and he heard its words when all else was silent.



The Storm compelled him to jump, and so without a moment's trepidation he cast himself from the top of that precipice and into its mercy. He was left soaring through the air, lightning's flashes illuminating the jagged rocks below that would break his mortal frame...

Then there was stillness and he was suspended in the air, closer still to the Storm's face. His awe was such that he could barely think.

Its call rang out once again with a voice that shook his every fiber of being, "I ask for thy name, bravest of mortal men!"

The man tried as he might cry out his name, though the meek voice of a man seemed insignificant and small in the silent storm. Still, he was heard by another even if not by himself.

"Caesus," the Storm repeated. "Know me as the God of Wind and Rain and Storm, Master and Source of all Change, the First Gale to have ever blown and that blew in the Dawn of time, and perhaps the last gale that ever shall blow. I am called Zephyrion.

My presence perturbs thine senses perhaps, so I offer thee time to gather thy bearings. Ah, but I sense thine inquisitive mind! Offer to me Question, and I might grace you with Answer."

The air itself had an electric thrum of magic and energy that surged through him, and that disconcerting pulse made him struggle to even grasp the meaning of each and every word that this God said. Or perhaps it was simply the shock at being in the presence of such a being and withering before its sight? Bewildered was Caesus; here he had come for answers, and yet now that he could have them he knew not what to ask. Finally, he managed weakly, "What must happen for the Storm to leave our lands?"

"A mere thought; that minuscule effort was all that I needed to take on the form of this great tempest, and with so much ease I could become naught more than a light breeze."

The implication that the bringing of this storm was an intentional curse shook Caesus. "For what great crime do you punish us so?"

"I have come to demonstrate my power. Offerings are left for the Djinn of my making and a temple is built in the honor of some lesser being that is no god (if she even exists!), and yet nary a whisper is said of my splendor. I will not suffer insult with such impunity and placidity as the Others!"

Anger and defiance welled up from somewhere deep within Caesus and spilled out, breaking him free from the numbness that dulled his mind. He knew now that he looked upon an evil spirit, a demon, an enemy...and perhaps his death. But fear he bid begone; he had accepted the inevitability of death long ago, so now he might stand tall be shattered rather than crumble of his own accord. "What splendor is there to behold in a vengeful being that has only the power to bring ruin? Why should we submit to brutality?"

"Brutality? The word's very meaning evades thy comprehension!"

A updraft of unstoppable force snatched at helpless Caesus and hurled him to the heights above. There the sky itself was thin and he choked as his lungs grasped for air that was not to be found, the frigid heights also afflicting his extremities with frostbite. Still, no matter how high he was swept that massive face of the Storm always loomed over him. Bolas and lashes of lightning encompassed and struck him, singing and melting flesh. He looked upon himself as he was bisected by one quick slash of wind, and then pondered the world far below as he was left tumbling from the sky's height all the way to the ground. He did not land anywhere near where his home had been before or that mount where his journey had taken him. He didn't land at all.

He found himself amidst a great vortex, suspended high in the air above a gleaming sea with a few serene atolls scattered about. There was nothing of that terrifying and all encompassing black storm to be seen in the nearby sky, and when he looked upon himself he neither saw nor felt any of the horrific injuries that had only just been afflicted. Perhaps they had all been illusionary, or perhaps this god had healed them as effortlessly as he had inflicted them.

"Behold my terrible power!" the raging cyclone roared as the vortex around him billowed toward on one of those peaceful islands. Dark clouds loomed overhead where mere moments before there had been sun and clear skies, and a thousand furious bolts of lightning turned that green isle into a blazing torch to light the sea. In another instant a mighty zephyr was summoned and it tore the flaming palms from their loose purchase upon the ground and strewn across the island. Caesus watched in utter terror as the greatest of the trees were uprooted and flung into the air, where the vicious cycling winds clutched the things and spun them in circles around Caesus. From the peaceful calm inside the tornado he watched the flying palms soar through the air as they were scattered through the sea. Far below, a tidal wave of monstrous size appeared and it swept across the ruined atoll to carry away all that had once been there, and then the entire foundation of the island was swallowed by the sea. The storm faded away, and there was nothing left but the beautiful blue waves.

"Now witness the power of my blessing," Zephyrion spoke, and Caesus gazed yonder with as much obedience as a dog. A golden cloud loomed over an empty stretch of sea and a golden mist swirled about it. Squinting his eyes, he finally realized that it was a great cloud of sand swept from somewhere far away. The clouds of sand gleamed golden in the sun before being abandoned by the gales that carried them and left to cascade into the water below. The sand fell from the sky relentlessly, more brought forth by tireless winds, until there was finally a sandy islet rising above the waves. A mystical and rejuvenating rain poured down upon lifeless and dry sand, and in moments shrubbery and trees bloomed from that bleak patch of sand and with a start Caesus saw that it was in the exact likeness of that first island that he saw torn asunder.

"Change comes, be it good or bad, spurned or no. Thou art better served in welcoming the Force of Change and through that coming to revere the wind and I. What is broken can be reforged; just so, what imperfections rest in your hearts can be eradicated and your people made sublime. The time has come that I no longer rest content with being unknown to the world below. Henceforth I shall take my role as the guiding wind and dabble in mortal affairs much as my Brethren do, but I will be sure that my Grand Ideals of the future are brought into fruition and not their flawed ones.

The first step of this great journey is Thee. Thou shall be my conduit."

With no warning, the Storm God summoned a spear of divine lightning and plunged it through the heart of the hapless mortal before him. Caesus was incinerated in a blink of an eye, but from his ashen remains drifted up a golden plume of smoke. That vapor dragged the man's spirit along with it, and swirled through the air a few times before returning to the man's remnants. Zephyrion stirred his ashes with the same bolt of lightning that he had impaled him with, and from nothing came back life. Caesus was not simply restored so much as remade. His every facet had been improved upon and now he was a worthy vessel of Zephyrion's power and a prophet of a god, where before he had only been a flea whose purpose was to gorge upon Slough's bounty and reproduce without meaning.

"Primus," the terrifying deity spoke, "...shall be what I call thee henceforth. This new name is thine and so too is a great deal of my power, for blessed now is your body but also your blood. So harken now as my prophet and hear my will: thou shalt return to the land of your birth and spread tale of my name and power. Denounce all other divinities as inferior, as is only truth, and proclaim me the truest and greatest. Then with what faithful you can amass, embark upon a great journey. It is my promise that the wind will guide you to a better and more bountiful land than any you can imagine, and one where you will find refuge and sancity. There, you will have a great kingdom to stand as a monument to me. This is my will and decree, and so it is your command and duty. Go now."

Primus had not realized it, yet throughout the entire span that he was within the Storm's grasp, it had gripped him tighty. A great burden was lifted from him as the air itself let him loose and the stormclouds that were Zephyrion's body began to retreat into nothingness. The Prophet closed his eyes and breathed deeply; never before had he been able to discern each and every one of the thousands of faint scents upon the wind. The air had that fresh, earthy taste to it that always followed a rainstorm. Never before had life felt so wonderful, nor had he ever smelled anything so sweet!

As in for Zephyrion, the god's presence no longer was a smothering, all-encompassing reality that wrapped itself around him. Now Zephyrion's touch came from within the deepest depths of Primus' heart, surged through his blood, and spilled out through the every fiber of his being. Such power brought physical strength as well! When Primus at last opened his eyes, he found himself beneath a clear sky and atop that peak where he had first met with his god. With one great leap, he soared over the precipice of the peak and landed softly at the mount's foot. Helped along by the wind, he ran with great swiftness back for his village. As he traveled, he passed the ravaged farmlands and ruined homes that reminded him all too well of the horrific storm; it would seem that had been no dream, and yet from the creeks and ponds he saw people emerging. By Zephyrion's blessing, those that had been claimed by his storm had their waterlogged remains find their way into the healing waters that their lives could be restored.

Over the next months Primus traveled the lands that he had once called home (though now his restless legs yearned for a great journey, and he knew that this was no longer his homeland) and did as Zephyrion had decreed. There were a great many that listened closely and followed him, and with each new faithful by his side Primus rejoiced. Others instead sought to rebuild their homes and restore what they had possessed before; the Prophet now saw their foolishness. In denying Change, they denied their own potential. They turned their sights down to the muddied ground beneath them when they could have instead looked forward to golden dreams of the future. So they were unworthy of Zephyrion's blessing; his chosen people were those that had come forth!

A day finally came when Primus and all those those that stood by his side set out on their great journey. For decades they wandered across Galbar, though the wind was always at their back and never did they falter. After countless years of their great migration, they finally arrived at what Primus knew to be that land Zephyrion had promised. They were within the Mahd River Valley, and all was green and fertile in that lush paradise. All around there was a vast expanse of desert that would shroud their homeland from outsiders and shield them from their enemies, while within their was of course the Mahd, the grandest and most beautiful of all rivers in Galbar.

It was upon that river's banks that the wanderers settled and built their grand city of Vetros, and it was from Vetros that a sprawling kingdom was formed.

Had the hysterical cancer known, in some dangerously prescient part of its mind, what, exactly, were the consequences of what it was doing?

Or was it just a coincidence?

Heartworm didn't care.

The caliginous mangrove suppressed sound between its mists and drooping aerial roots much like its parent forest, but not with the same consistency. Certain sounds carried where others simply died, and carried much further than was natural in such a densely overgrown place. The splash of a shoal suffocating in the stagnant water. The crying of the last hain to die of thirst. The scratching of her beak at the grey bark as she shivered, quaked, tried desperately to scrape off a little moisture from the mists. Where these sounds echoed, another was lost between them.

It was a kind of wet, raspy tearing noise, irregular, coming and going from one side to another, and it was accompanied by a peculiar whining. Very high, almost inaudible. The sound of tinnitus, damaged bones in the inner ear, that might resonate to the very gut of a listener. A listener, of course, who wasn't there to listen.

At last the sound stopped with one last thin sound of stretched veins snapping. Heartworm pulled out the viciously barbed limb from where it was buried, twelve inches deep into a patch of bent light in the air, its mouth unzipped to display a variety of eyestalks and hooks, its true eyes vibrant. It examined closely the pulsing globule of distortion it had sliced out of the rest of reality. It seemed to bleed rivulets of glass. Heartworm retracted the spike it was impaled on and swallowed it.

Adequate.

Then it slipped through the wound it had slit and was gone.

A few miles elsewhere in the mangrove, Heartworm emerged. It tasted the air with a tongue and found nearly nothing. Its divine essence was camouflaged, so to speak, by the mundanity it had consumed. That would do, for a while. It diluted the link to Jvan.

On all sides, grey. Heartworm looked out over the dim confustication of root matter. Free at last, the Lord Emaciator sank its needle hands into the flesh of the mangrove, and resumed the work it was made for.


The eye is the measure of truth.

They traverse the clogged spaces with a slow, sleek fluidity that defies how tightly grown the swamp truly is. Like the old ghosts, like the things in the moonlight that those ghosts fear, their bodies simply slip between the gaps, always knowing the perfect path. Their legs are very long, and their antennae even longer, stiff, supple feelers that coat their whole bodies like a cloud and bend easily around any obstacle. On a memory do they walk, a memory of a thousand steps and a thousand touches for each step, for they are blind. They blinded themselves long ago.

Passing from one place to another with mindless aim, the reminiscent ones do not see, and are never seen, for the fog that surrounds their dwelling-places is eternal. They follow the mist and multiply it with their breath and their nests, knowing the world by touch alone where sound and sight and smell have died. And to go into these places is to be known by them, to be touched, to be stroked gently, as if by a breathe that never was, to be felt by those who feel as one stumbles, face down, for the last time into the obscuration.


To live is to judge what is seen.

A life taken at speed does not last long, and thus they soon die. They travel along the outskirts of the bleak realms, clustering around the bodies of those who are lost from outside, fish that come here to breed in desperate safety. Muscle like harpstrings cords their limbs, of which all are hands, or can otherwise grasp. Gravity weeps for these. The breakneck pattern of leap and land twists a body too flexible to be touched, it seems, even by air.

Those faces foolish enough to look find nothing, for they are clever, and anticipate all things. Every twitch of the eye finds them gone, the cone of vision a blunt instrument indeed. They may spend so much time flitting between the peripheries of awareness, dodging the gaze of even their own, that they simply come apart and exhaust themselves. They rarely do. Such a small, lithe thing, to come so suddenly. Such a big, clumsy form, to be harried by a hungry wind, scream, and flail, always in the wrong place, always at the wrong time, dying without ever catching a glimpse of the ghost that taunts the eyes from the corners.


What is unseen cannot be appraised until it reveals itself.

It is not the nature of a floodforest to be immune to tides. With roots above and roots below, it is difficult to track their passage. The brown slick of algae-grown roots fades under black tannin water which may be a puddle, or more than deep enough to drown. But nothing drowns here. Not in the usual way.

Knowing the paths between the growth where the water is always deep is one way they hide. Cultivating those very channels is another. They are always near. Not once has the still surface of the mangrove ever been rippled by one of their kind. They do not breach, for air or food, but only ever dive, dive down, and pull, pull what lives in the light under the water to join them for eternity.


The chronically invisible are free of all reckoning.

For so long have they eaten roots, perhaps, that they have become of the roots themselves. For these do not betray themselves by smell, nor by sight, nor by motion. So still they lie that others such as themselves may twist upon them like the plants they imitate, and whole knots of mangrove may not be mangrove.

They slither, imperceptibly, leglessly, like worms, or a clew of worms with many heads, walking on branched tentacles draped with algal strands. Woe for the ones who mark them as milestones and are lost to wander with them. Woe, far more, for those outside the forest who see a marked tree, and elect to follow its trail.


Art is salient expression.

Energy begets complexity. It is inversely true that the simple demand little from their existence. In the Caliginous Mangrove, there are those which have paid for prosperity with mind and body, who have become, like wraiths, so thinned, so meagre, that their bodies are as the water and the air around them. Tasteless. Transparent. Universal.

They float atop the surface of the water. They float through the stagnant air. They grow on the surface of the roots. In body they are sparse, flattened, reduced to only a handful of strands of flesh or a few layers of cells. A touch causes them to dissolve into fragments, so fragile are they. A touch reaches out and feels them hanging in the air like gossamer. Feels them clinging to the skin unseen, slippery, without gloss. Touch alone warns of the ghosts that drink living flesh, slowly, patiently, one cell at a time, a thirsty lethargy that weakens muscle, uproots hair, and thins, thins, thins until there is no more, not even bone.


The veiled sculpture is isolated identity.

Fear is the ultimate protective force. Fear holds them in the places where they are safe. Through fear they lock themselves in the safe places, the prisons that contain the only true darkness. It is within the roots that they exist forever, never knowing the eldritch touch of light. There they have created purgatory.

Tunnels. Tunnels to everywhere. Blinding black motion, hunting in the labyrinth. Shivers from those who hide. Bodies that occupy the entirety of the paths they carve, expanding for fear of being consumed from behind. Chambers where old radial things curl, served by myriad concubines. Sudden death. Trembling birth. Intimate closeness to things mutually unknown. No way out.


Purity exists only in the eye of the blind.

Rare is the body that relies on others, for only surplus can satisfy their hunger without murder-suicide. They are scarce, and their orbits wide. Fitting, for such silent tyrants, that dominate the feeble, reign over the will of others. They are the reality, their subjects grafted onto the dream.

It is in their breath and their sweat and their blood. It is liquid phantasm, the distillate of all nightmare, and for each one they concoct it unique. They disperse it on microscopic glass needles, on misty smoke, and to breathe it is to see perception unravelled. The eyes lie. The ears echo. The mangrove is folded upon itself infinite times, becoming a tesseract where no plane is constant and the growth twists before the face. All is malleable. Illogic is comprehended and obeyed. And they laugh, laugh mute hunger at those that dream while the world around them wakens.



Heartworm sliced and stitched at the creature's spinal cord, adjusting the malfunction in its nervous system. When it sealed the wound and tossed the eel-like larva back into the water, it submerged immediately, and was gone in the blink of an eye. It was still there, the avatar knew. That was how it was designed. The caliginous mangrove was a place of hiding, and so it hid.

Just like its maker.

Jvan had created a dim and solemn place and abandoned her puppet there; She had no-one to blame if that puppet ran away out of sight. Here, Heartworm was relatively safe. It had not rebuilt its laboratory-vehicle, though it bitterly regretted the loss. Something so vast was difficult to consign to secrecy, and more difficult still to manoeuvre through the cloud forest. Without it, Our Lord Mutilation was just a worm among worms, a speck of dust in a grim grey haystack.

Of course, it still needed something to hold its samples.

Skinstitch's retinue of aides were all Sculptors come to find their god, albeit perhaps not the same God who had once spoken to them. This iteration was quiet and small. It edited them swiftly, directly, as its needs dictated. Each in their own way, the four of them were satisfied with their role in the massive project.

There was a once-Djinn, an earthen being with no name made of a great quantity of powder and silt, a great worm to carry the little one. She had no limbs but a single line of hands growing down the entire length of her body, and avoided the other Sculptor of earth, an Urtelem with far too many joints, whose body had grown gaunt as it smelted itself into multicoloured bismuth. Their name was a double-handed flourish in which the right hand led with thumb and ring finger while the left hand rolled its wrist around it, a sign that meant 'Engraver'. The third's name was unpronounceable, and varied depending on which moons were new. Their hain flesh spilled from his carapace to form flexible tentacles which which he swam. And the fourth, once a goblin miner, now a cat-like arboreal creature, was named Se Na Uo Na Tay, which was a melody only he seemed able to sing in tune.

They carried slices and tangles of flesh, some freshly cut from one corpse or another, some still growing, all contained in fluid-filled membranous sacks labelled with symbols written in vein growths. Most were borne within the silt sculptor's body, and she surfaced them so that the glistening bulbs studded every inch of her when Heartworm had need of one wriggling clot of blood or another. Se Na Uo Na Tay and Engraver were often extracting the mature embryos for release, or else bringing more. And the once-hain?

There is a use for everything.

The day's work done, and night beginning to fall, Heartworm crept into the brain of the unspeakable artist, and together they dove into the deepest waters of the mangrove. Down, down, to the place where the wyrms had once chewed stone, and where, buried beneath millennia of debris, Heartworm measured and numbered the still-beating blood wells of the sleeping Scholar below.

Hain villages don't normally have walls. There was normally no need, or at least no need great enough to warrant the effort. Yet here a need had presented itself, and through days of gruelling work trees had been felled and a palisade erected around the village, which stood atop a small hill with forest and marshland surrounding it. Under the direction of Gerrik Far-Teacher, the wall was built to be fairly sturdy, supported from behind, and platforms allowed Hain to stand high enough to use weapons like spears or bows over the palisade.

Extra weapons had also been made. Spears. Clubs. Axes. Slings. Bows. And arrows, lots and lots of arrows. Gerrik wanted to be sure that when the battle came he would not run out of arrows.

However, morale was fading. At first the villagers had been driven by fear of this great threat that was coming. Then they were driven by determination to defend their homes and fend off these enemies. Yet now they were growing weary and sceptical. Initially Far-Teacher had told them the horde was only ten days away. Then he had changed his mind and said it was thirty days away. The flurry of activity which had marked the first days had all but vanished, with some beginning to doubt that there even existed a horde.

Gerrik sat near the new gate of the village, knapping flint arrow heads. His sense of Perception enveloped the whole settlement, and as he sharpened the rocks he observed the activities of the other hain. Some were cooking. Some were treating animal hides. Some were preparing to go hunting or gathering. They were living out their lives unconcerned by the impending threat that was going to arrive in a few weeks.

All of this, Kyre could see as he flew ever closer to his destination, and just as any hunter might have thought they had seen a speck in the air, he dove down into the woodland and landed. The rest of the comparatively short distance he walked, and he soon broke from the trees within sight of the village. Appearing as a Hain sturdily built, and purhaps a bit dirty.

As Kyre came within about a hundred meters of the wall, Gerrik sensed the presence of the newcomer. Surprised at the lone stranger approaching, he picked up his bow and climbed the platform and looked out at the Hain with his own eyes. He was not sure whether this was an enemy or a friend.

Don't panic, Gerrik. This one is a friend of mine, came the voice of Teknall in his head. Quite a good friend, in fact. Welcome him in and listen to him.

Somewhat releived, Gerrik slung his bow over his shoulder and descended to meet Kyre at the village entrance.

The god of war slowly approached, observing the defenses that had already been set up. While the village was set atop the hill, protected by floods with good visibility, it was only steep enough to slow attackers a little bit. The palisade looked sturdy, despite being hastily built, with platforms for added defense. Then he watched Gerrik arrive at the gate, and Kyre knew who he was due to his being the only hain willing to approach him, and the blessed weapons he carried, his sense revealing Teknall's essence within them.

It only took him a few moments to reach the disciple, and he stopped feet from him, "You are Gerrik," and then continued in his head, Disciple of my brother. I see he has treated you well.

"Indeed I am," Gerrik replied, although his eyes widened slightly when the next sentence entered his head telepathically. Disciple of my brother? So this hain is the brother of Teknall. So that must make him a God too! He continued, "And who would you be?"

"You may call me Wind-Striker," Kyre looked around once more, observing how the palisade was reinforced on the inside, "You have done well in preparing defenses, though improvements can still be made. Will you and other respected hear me?"

While most may have not given the name a second thought, the similarities between the names Wind-Striker and Stone Chipper were blatantly obvious to Gerrik's sharp mind. If Stone Chipper was merely Teknall's alias for when he walked amongst Hain, then it would be likewise for Wind-Striker. Wind-Striker's real name was still a mystery, though.

"Of course we shall hear you. Come this way," Gerrik replied, and motioned for Wind-Striker to follow him into the village. They approached a hut which was larger than the rest, which was the home of the village elders. Gerrik stood in the entranceway and announced, "Elders, we have a guest. His name is Wind-Striker." He stood aside to let Wind-Striker in.

Wind-Striker stepped into the tent, looking around at the elders with a gaze of respect, of knowledge, and of hidden grief. "Elders, as he has said, I am Wind-Striker and I come... From the east. From what i have seen, you know of the horde approaching?"

The elders stirred at the mention of the horde. They had known it, but they had put such thoughts aside. One of them spoke. "Oh, yes, the horde. Far-Teacher here has told us about it. Have you also seen it?"

"I have seen them, yes, and I have seen what they leave behind in their path." He turned to show on his left arm where a once substantial wound was, "I have wandered close enough that some came after me, and I had to defend myself lest I be killed."

The elders moved closer to look, and saw that there was indeed signs of struggle on this Hain's body. Their faces betrayed traces of fear as they had when they had first been told of the horde. And now it had been verified by a second witness. Another of the elders asked, "So what news do you bring?"

"Their path is leading here, and if they are able to win, then..." A distant look took over for a moment, eyelids slowly lowering in remembrance, before he shook his head clear. "I walked with a father, in a ruined and destroyed village, and I reached down while he crawled to check on him, only to find he was already dead. His body only stopped when he reached his family.

"The huts were crushed, food and supplies taken or destroyed, the bodies broken and beaten to inhain degree. No cuts or piercing, everyone was beaten to death. The only thing I could do was to burn what was left, or leave them to avoid any of the horde left behind." Wind-Striker reached behind himself and grabbed a small hide pouch, holding it out to them, "These are some of the ashes, taken as proof, and to further impress upon you the danger of what is coming." He waited for them to look at it, or take his word.

It was a chilling tale Wind-Striker had told, one which had conveyed the importance of defending their village more than Gerrik ever could. Even Gerrik was shaken by it. Sombrely one of the elders took the bag in the palm of his hand and looked inside, the other elders peering over his shoulder to see the ashes inside. Gerrik did not crowd around to look, although he didn't need to for he could perceive it clearly. After a few moments the elder returned the bag to Wind-Striker. The mood in the room was grim, and the beaks of those present were down-turned. "What more, then, can we do?" one of the elders finally asked.

Wind-Striker stood straighter, legs straight with arms at his sides, hands loosely balled into fists. His head squared with the center of the group and held upright, eyes taking on a more focused and ready look with his beak slightly upturned. "We prepare, and when the time comes, we fight. For if the horde cannot be stopped, then the fate of all Hain will be grim. That, fellow Hain, elders, is why I have come." He paused, to let the weight of his next words come in full, "That is why I have come to teach how to fight. How to kill... Hain."

The elders were taken aback at such a suggestion. Sure, they would have had to fight and kill the horde anyway, but to be explicit about it seemed so controversial. Gerrik, however, thought solemnly for a few moments. He himself wasn't a warrior. He had never killed anything more than a wild animal. Yet he had been sent to prepare these Hain to fight and kill. As the elders stood back bewildered and aghast, it was Gerrik who spoke, determination in his tone. "If that is what it will take, then so be it." He looked to the elders, who had stopped their muttering to look at him. "You know quite well that when the horde comes we will be forced to fight and kill, or be killed. We've known that since the start. So there's no use being shy about it. Wind-Striker is able to teach us, to train us, to prepare us to defend ourselves and our village. It would be folly of the highest degree to ignore him."

The elders were silenced by Gerrik's words, for he spoke truth and they knew it. Finally, although they were still visibly uncomfortable with the idea, they came to accept it. "Where shall we begin, Wind-Striker," one of the elders answered.

Wind-Striker's stance relaxed slightly, relief in the back of his mind over his being able to convince them and prove what needed to be done without directly influencing their minds. "First, the defense set up so far is decent enough, but more can be done to slow them as they climb the hill. For this I propose stakes to be placed in the ground in scattered groups all over the hill, pointing directly outwards from the palisade. It can at least injuries those who rush, and slow others.

"For training I will need the largest open area in this village, and a few of your most capable Hain, hunters, gathers, it doesn't matter. What's more, send messengers to any villages further west for aid and volunteers, ask that they come straight here if they can send any." He paused and looked around at them to both observe their reactions and make sure they were listening, "I will also need a few of your most learned crafters gathered. I may ask for more later, but that is all that I need for now."

The elders agreed to Wind-Striker's request and went off to announce the news to the rest of the village and arrange for the tasks to be done. The largest space in the village, within the walls anyway, was in the center of the circle of tents and huts, in which there was plenty of space for the whole village population. Soon eleven able-bodied Hain plus three craftshain, as well as Gerrik Far-Teacher, had gathered into the central courtyard to see Wind-Striker.

Wind-Striker looked over the Hain gathered before him, Yes, they will do for a start, the first to learn of combat. He beckoned Gerrik over with his hand, and once he got closer spoke, "Has the construction of the defenses I requested begun? And the messages for aide...?"

Gerrik nodded. "Yes. Messages have been sent to three nearby villages, and work has begun on making the wooden spikes as you requested."

"Good, I'll be out there soon to supervise, but for now..." He turned towards the gathered, "Fellow Hain, I will assume that the elders have told you why you are gathered here, so let us get started," A pause to make sure he had their full attention, "I am called Wind-Striker, a traveler of sorts who has seen the threat that is coming to us firsthand, and whom is here to teach and to train. All those gathered here, I am going to teach how to fight, moreso those here who are not craftshain." Another pause, this time beak down with hand on chin and eyes narrowed, in thought, "Gerrik, what weapons and supplies do we have now? Some of you gather here at least one of each tool and weapon, along with what you each use most."

As the gathered hain split briefly to collect weapons, Gerrik reported, "We have prepared bows, spears, slings, clubs and axes." The hain returned quickly, each having armed themselves with a weapon of their choice from the stockpile. Gerrik had collected some arrows as well as a spear, and he also held the Eenal Bow.

Two of the craftshain had axes, the other had a club, and the rest of the hain had bows, spears and slings. Although, the majority had bows and slings. This told him that hain in general preferred to fight at range, information that was good to know and confirm now rather than later. "I can tell by the weapons you chose that you hain are hunters, spears... Allow me to show you a stance to practice with right away," Wind-Striker walked forward and held out his hand to one of the hain, and once they gave it to him he took the spear with both hands.

He placed his left hand forward on the spear, and his right towards the bottom end, "You place your main hand here, as that arm will provide the power in your thrust. In my case it is my right hand. Place the opposite foot forward and bend your knees like so. The goal for your legs is to both be hard to knock down or get pushed, and add power to your strike. Watch." He faced to the side, away from the others, and thrusted forward a few times, taking a small step forward with his front foot and sliding it back each time he pulled back his spear. He returned the spear when he finished demonstrating, "Each of you practice this when you aren't doing something else or training with something else. Those of you who only wish to use the spear, train in that stance every chance you get, and that is all I have to teach you for now. Go over there and practice, stay side by side but keep distance from eachother."

The spear-wielding hain watched and, when told, went to the side and began practising using their spears as shown. Gerrik also stepped aside from the other hain and experimented with the spear thrust a few times, his technique almost perfectly mirroring Wind-Striker's, before stepping back into line.

While he didn't show it, Wind-Striker was impressed at just how quickly the young hero pick up on the stance. He looked to the other hain wielding bows and slings, "For you, I must say that there isn't much difference in using a bow to hunt, and using a bow to fight. The main difference being whether or not you are trying to hide. How you will be fighting with them will be determined by how accurate you are. So, one of you go find another craftshain and ask that they make a doll of reeds, in the shape and size of a Hain. As that will take some time another two of you go gather some long sticks and large, wide pieces of wood." Once they were off doing as requested, he turned to Gerrik, knowing that the bow had power, "Grab a hunting bow," the one you have is powerful, and if used wrong can harm an innocent Hain, or worse. For now you may keep it with you, I will teach you how to use it later. The rest he spoke to the young craftshain's mind.

"If you say so," Gerrik replied, slinging the Eenal Bow over his shoulder and getting a regular bow.

That done, Wind-striker gestured to Gerrik and the craftshain to come to him. Once they were near he reached out for the spear and an arrow that Gerrik had with him. "Craftshain, I have a few requests for you. All things to be made. The first is a weapon, second is ways to improve weapons already made and being made, and third is a tool that helps to defend one's self." He held up the spear and arrow side by side, one in each hand, the tops even with each other, "The weapon I ask to be made is a shorter spear, half-way between the sizes of these two weapons, and sharpened with a long point." He gestured to the Hain furthest to his left, one wielding an axe, "I will task this to you, make one and return to me with it. You can also gather the needed tools and supplies near here so you won't have to travel as far."

The hain nodded and went off to do the request, and Wind-Striker returned the spear to Gerrik. The arrow was a simple flint tipped one, no feathers on the shaft. It would take too long to add feathers, but for the tips... "For this arrow, there are other tips that can be made, stone, clay, and bow. The same can be said for the spear, and a javelin. The stone and bone tips can be treated the same as the flint. The clay tips, while they can also be made beforehand and treated the same, can also be made onto the end of the arrow itself, hardened onto. The shape you reach for making for all of the tips, the easiest being clay, will be this," Knealing down, Wind-Striker used the arrow to draw the shape in the dirt, it resembled the general shape of bird beaks when viewed from the top and elongated. "Or for the clay, you can harden it into a long spike, a simple and straight one, or shaped like this," He drew another another shape, this one matching a Bodkin point. He looked to the craftshain with the club, choosing him as the one to go off and make a few.

"And finally, something else entirely new for you to make. It is called a shield." Wiping the previous images clear, Wind-Striker drew a circle and drew straight lines through it, "It is made of thick, strong wood, shaped like the sun, a circle, with hide covering the outfacing side of it and large enough to cover the forearm. There are a few ways to make it, and for that I will leave to the both of you to figure out. A challenge, you could say."

A shield. This was not an unfamiliar concept to Gerrik, as he looked down to the small wooden plate strapped to his arm which Teknall had given him. Yet now he needed to make shields which others could use. He tilted his beak upwards and replied, "Then I accept your challenge." He looked to the other remaining craftshain. "Come on. We have work to do."

Gerrik and the other hain went to go gather materials. They would need large pieces of wood, rawhide, glue, bone nails and rope. The rawhide, when wet, could be stretched over the wooden shield and it would contract into the shield and firmly attach itself as it dried. Gerrik also observed that strength could be further improved by using two pieces of wood layered on top of each other with the grains at right angles, as had been done in the Guardian Shield, which would give it resistance to splitting. The glue would help bind the layers of wood and hide together beyond the tension of the hide alone, and should set in about the same time as it took the rawhide to dry. For further stability, everything was also nailed in place.

However, the shields still needed to be held somehow. They prepared a quick prototype from an off-cut of wood and started experimenting with different strap designs. It needed to be firmly attached to a hain's arm so it could be controlled, yet adjustable for different arm sizes. Eventually they settled on a design involving two straps made of loops of rope. These loops passed through the wood of the shield. One strap the hain would hold with their hand, the other would go over their forearm, although it could also be used with both straps firmly tightened around the forearm. On the wearer's side the rope loops had knots in them, which could be untied and retied to adjust the size of the straps to suit the wielder. The rawhide would go over the top of the rope loops.

Satisfied with their design, the two set about creating several such shields. Some were circular as Wind-Striker had originally suggested, while some were elongated, such that they would protect more of the torso than a circle. Some were thick and strong, while some were somewhat less thick yet lighter. This variety of design would give the warriors a choice, to pick a weight and shape which suited them.

Over the rest of the day they would make enough shields to be used, and they were left to dry lying on top of the drying racks for rawhide.

While Gerrik and the craftshain were making the first shields, the hain that Wind-Striker sent off on their errands returned, one assuring him that a large reed doll was being made, the other with a bunch of wood in his arms, a couple hainlings following with the rest. After sending the young ones on their way, Wind-Striker set up a crude wooden target wall, putting old and worn down strips of hide on the face of it. He told the bow wielders to fire at the target strips at different distances.

Using this to judge who the most accurate were, and who could fire the furthest, he set about teaching them different ways to fire when in combat, such as higharcing fire which would rain the arrows directly down on enemies. Each of the other craftshain also returned, only needing a few attempts before the new weapons were made in such a way that Wind-Striker was satisfied.

Once the craftshain had finished designing the first of the new weapons and left the creation of more to others, he set about teaching all the hain present how to use clubs or axes to fight. "I will teach you stances to use when the shields have been made, for now..." He would go on to teach them to aim for the head, neck, and joints, and further show them a way to put more power into a swing or chop without overexposing themselves.

The training would continue for some time into the night before they were allowed to rest for the night.

---

Wind-Striker sat in the middle of the training area, examining the first of the shields to be completed. Most of the village was still asleep, the only ones being awake were the guards on watch or early hunters. Gerrik and the craftshain had done well, and they were already making a small variety of the shields, from large to small. Still, for now, he would wait for the rest of the village to awaken before gathering the warriors-to-be hain.

Gerrik did not take long to join Wind-Striker in the training area. He walked over to him and said, "I see you're admiring the shields I made."

"Admiring may be a strong word," Standing, he put on the shield and shoved into the air with it as though pushing or bashing an enemy in front, an audible 'whoosh' accompaning it, "But I must say, you are a worthy disciple of his to have done more than complete my challenge." Wind-Striker would not fully say it, but he was indeed pleased with Gerrik's work. It would be more than enough for the battle to come.

"Tell me, what do you know of combat? What have you experienced?"

Gerrik's expression became serious. "I have hunted wild beasts. Occassionally I have faced down predators, including Herakt. And I am quite practised in archery- I had been using bows long before I was given this one, and I've been able to practice with this bow too," Gerrik said, "However, I have never fought another Hain before, or any other intelligent being for that matter."

"You will find that fighting another Hain or intelligent being is quite different from facing wild creatures. While all beings have a need to survive, intelligent beings feel it more strongly and are much smarter in how they fulfill that need." WInd-Striker put down the shield, resting it against a short wall, "You have practiced with that bow? Then do you know what it is capable of?"

"Yes," Gerrik answered. His head flitted side to side, checking for anyone else nearby. There was none, so he continued in a lower tone. "As you have sensed, it is far from an ordinary bow, but one given to me by Teknall himself. Should I so will it, it fires not like a normal bow but with force greater than lightning. The arrow flies straight and true, and tears through flesh and bone and wood as though it were nothing and can split solid stone. It is a fearsome weapon indeed. One which Teknall gave along with my shield so that I may defend myself against foes who would overwhelm any regular Hain, or so I suspect."

"Hmm, I will ask that you later show me what you know that bow is capable of. For now though," He looked to the Hain from yesterday walking to the square, lightly influenced by Kyre to get up early, "It is time to continue training. If you would, line them up side by side here with their weapons and then stand with them." Wind-Striker moved over and reached down to pick up what appeared to be a blunt spear with thick hide covering the ends.

Gerrik left the Eenal bow to the side and picked up a spear and hunting bow as he had yesterday. He walked over to meet the warrior-hain-in-training as they entered the square. "Good morning all. I hope you are well-rested. Today's training starts with us grabbing our weapons and lining up here, side-by-side." The hain did so, with Gerrik among them. To the hain beside him Gerrik asked, "How is this training going for you?"

The hain thought for a moment before responding, "Well, it's something new. To be honest, though, I'm a little nervous about having to fight other hain, you know?"

Gerrik nodded and replied, "It's definitely something new. We're going to have to fight one way or another, so we may as well be prepared. Might take some of the nerves off, hmm?"

The hain flicked a palm up in response, and the two turned their attention to the front where Wind-Striker was standing.

"First, and foremost, I want those here to show what they learned yesterday. Spears first, the bows, then club and axes." Wind-Striker put the staff over his shoulder, letting his right arm rest on it as though balancing it there.

One by one the Hain showed to him what they remembered, and one by one they proved to have learned well, which was good considering they would have to teach others in turn. Once that was done, Wind-Striker proceeded to hand out staffs like his own to each of the Hain that were trained with spears. "These are for the next bit of training with spears, which will involve redirection and countering..." He took a few steps away from them before continuing, "Would anyone like to volunteer for an example?"

There was silence for a few moments, before Gerrik finally stepped forwards. "I'll volunteer." With the padded staff in hand, he walked forwards until he was three paces to the side of Wind-Striker. He paused for a moment before removing the Guardian Shield, little more innocuous-looking slab of wood to anyone without divine vision, from his left forearm and casting it aside. It would be no good to have a shield which magically blocked every attack in an exercise meant to train blocking and parrying, he thought. He then faced Wind-Striker, set his feet in the stance Wind-Striker had taught yesterday and held the staff as though it were a spear in the manner he had been trained.

He knew Gerrik would be the first to volunteer; after all, he was a hero and someone who needed to learn as much as he could. Readying himself in the same stance, Wind-Striker faced Gerrik, "Watch carefully. When you are ready, make to strike me."

Gerrik took a step forwards, maintaining his stance and watching Wind-Striker intently. After a couple of moments he thrust the staff at Wind-Striker like a spear, his movement fast and precise and his grip firm.

Wind-Striker watched, internally pleased that Gerrik had remembered well what he had been taught. As soon as the striking end of the staff was past his own, he used his to knock it away from himself and proceeded to quickly thrust it against the young hero's gut. The impact was slightly audible, and made Gerrik grunt. However, Gerrik was quick to step back and return to the ready position.

"Did you want me to go again, or were you going to say something?" Gerrik asked.

Wind-Striker's head twitched to the side very slightly, only enough for maybe Gerrik to notice, before he turned to address the other Hain, [color=orange]"As you must have seen, I knocked his weapon aside as he commited to the strike, this left him open to an attack. With that opening, I delivered a [i]quick[i] strike, not too powerful because I didn't wish to leave myself open."[/color]

The gathered hain nodded and there were a few murmured words amongst themselves. Wind-Striker went on to further demonstrate with each of the Hain present, showing and explaning different ways to counter. Once he thought they were understanding, he directed them in sparring sessions against each other. The rest of the day went on like this, practicing everything he taught them so far until the sun began to set.

---

Under the light of Galbar's many moons, Gerrik found Wind-Striker alone in the center of the village. Gerrik approached the teacher of combat, Eenal Bow slung across his chest and Guardian Shield strapped to his arm, where they normally where. "You said you wanted to see me use my bow," Gerrik said.

Wind-Striker turned turned his head towards the side where Gerrik approached him from. "Yes, I believe tonight would be a good one to start. But first, we must make our way out of the village, away from prying eyes and ears." He began walking, gesturing towards the craftshain with a hand to follow, walking out of the gate past the watchhain as though they weren't even there.

Once they were far enough out that there was no way they could be heard or seen, Wind-Striker moved to a tree and with a wave of his hand formed a perfect target sign. Walking back to stand next to Gerrik, he spoke, "Tell me, and show me what you know of your bow."

Gerrik took the Eenal Bow in his left hand, and with his right he took an arrow from the quiver by his waist and nocked it against the bowstring. "Typically, this bow functions as a normal bow, albeit a very good bow," he explained. He lifted the bow and drew it in a single movement, took a moment to aim, and loosed the arrow. The arrow flew through the air and embedded itself close to the center of the target.

Gerrik nocked another arrow. "But as you know, this is far from a normal bow. I just need to 'will' it..." Gerrik inhaled slightly, and there was a flicked of concentration in his eyes as he raised and drew the bow again. But this time, when the bow was drawn, a faint golden glimmer danced across the bow's limbs, along the bowstring and around the arrow shaft. When he released the bowstring, a shaft of golden light shot forwards and struck the target with a mighty crack. The arrow burst out the far side of the tree in a shower of splinters, and with its energy mostly spent it tumbled to the ground several meters from where it had emerged.

"... and it does that," Gerrik continued. He lowered the Eenal Bow and held it by his side.

"Hmm, my brother never holds back in his work; this is proof of what he is capable of. However, you have yet to discover its full capabilities." Wind-Striker removed the quiver from Gerrik, taking a step back with it in hand, "Now, fire it again..."

Gerrik opened his mouth as though to protest, but then shut it again. He had underestimated the Guardian Shield when it had been given to him (how could he have forgotten Teknall's response?), so it was probably similar with the Eenal Bow. He mimed taking an arrow from the quiver he no longer had and held the bowstring with two fingers as though nocking it with an arrow. As before, there was a flicker of concentration in his eyes as he drew the bow. But when he released the string, there was the twang of the string snapping back into place and the bow limbs oscillating before coming to rest, but nothing else.

"Again."

Clearly he was missing something, thought Gerrik, but what?

He drew the bow again and pretended to fire another arrow, and yet again nothing more than a pretend arrow was fired. He definitely needed something more. So he thought a bit harder. Wind-Striker wanted him to fire an arrow without using an arrow. This implied that the bow was capable of creating arrows, somehow.

His first guess was that it could grow arrows, just like the Guardian Shield grew more of itself. He ran his hand along the limbs, willing something to happen, such as an arrow splitting off. He tried drawing the bow all the way from the body, as though to extract an arrow from it. To no avail. Not so much as a splinter came off the bow.

But perhaps he was just looking in the wrong place. The other remarkable feature of the Eenal Bow was the energy it put into the arrows it shot. Perhaps this was how the arrows would manifest, out of raw power, just as lightning manifests itself in a storm. Such a mechanism was abstract to Gerrik, but he'd have to try anyway.

Gerrik drew the bow once more, this time willing it not to fire as before, but instead willing it to coalesce where an arrow should be. This time the golden motes appeared, and swirled about where an arrow should go. But they were faint, and when Gerrik released the bowstring they dissipated and faded.

This was encouraging, but he wasn't there yet. There was one more ingredient he was missing. He repeated what he did before, but this time held the bow drawn and ready so he could inspect it properly. The flecks of golden light were faint, much fainter than when the bow was normally used. And the longer he held the bow, the fainter they became. To maintain the ethereal imprint of the arrow he willed it to stay, and as that became inadequate he willed it harder. As he willed harder, the light grew ever so slightly brighter, and Gerrik was spurred on to focus even more strongly on the imprint. This made the golden motes even brighter, more numerous and denser, and Gerrik realised what needed to be done. Yet the combined strain of keeping the bow drawn for so long and prolonged focus on the bow made his arms tremble and breathing short, so he relaxed the bow back to its neutral position, the golden energy disappearing.

Gerrik held up a finger to Wind-Striker to indicate for him to wait as he took several heavier breaths and shook his arms. Then he was still and held the bow with eyes closed and taking long, deep breaths, gathering his full mental and physical faculties. After several breaths, he then opened his eyes, and in one swift movement he drew the bow, lifted it, and put as much strain and effort as he could muster into willing an arrow to manifest. The Eenal Bow accepted the offering of power, and channeled the energy into a solid shaft of golden light which crackled between the drawn bowstring and the bow's limbs. Then Gerrik released the bowstring, and the shaft of light became a beam, lancing from the bow, through the target and tree and into a tree far behind with a speed far greater than the last arrow fired.

In glee Gerrik threw up his free palm, but his happiness was dampened somewhat by a wave of exhaustion. Gerrik's legs bent and he leaned against his knees. His breathing was heavy. And all over his muscles burned as though he had just sprinted. He was breathing for half a minute before he swallowed and finally managed to say, "Give me a moment. That took a bit out of me."

If his Hain face could have easily allowed it, Wind-Striker would have smiled. Teknall had chosen a more than worthy follower, as proven by his dedication, intelligence... and stubbornness. "You have finally discovered it." Standing, he moved over and replaced the quiver where it belonged on Gerrik. "The bow's making itself is far ahead of the crafting techniques of these times, but with its power there may never be another like it. What you have achieved is perhaps its most powerful ability, however... It takes energy from its surroundings and, as you have experienced, mostly from you."

Wind-Striker casually took the bow from Gerrik, directing him to sit on a fallen tree before taking an archer stance. With ease, he drew back as a golden shaft materialized in position, an orange aura radiating from it. He released the string, letting the arrow fly at a different tree. Similar to when Gerrik fired, it went straight through the tree, however it left a perfect arrow-sized hole both on entry and exit, and it dissipated just a short distance beyond the tree.

"You have discovered how to activate this function, but next is learning how to control what it does. This function is what I will help you with mastering, you can decide how powerful the arrow is, how much it penetrates, even how far it goes. What you cannot do, is have it change direction in flight. However, you only need to aim directly at your target with it, can you tell me why?"

"Because it travels in a perfectly straight line," Gerrik stated.

"A simple answer, but correct all the same. It has no physical weight, so there is no need to think about the arrow dropping as it flies. Now, before we continue, let us go over the shield..."

---

WInd-Striker stood in front of the Hain, the warrior Hain, looking them over. They were nowhere near as tired at the end of the day as they had been on the first. With his influence, Kyre had helped train them to nearly master all that he had taught them, enough for them to become trainers themselves. "Today has been the last that I will train you, you have learned enough and trained enough yourselves to have nearly mastered what I have taught you. Enough so that I leave this next task to you, train other fellow Hain as I have trained you, those that are willing to fight."

None of them showed signs of disagreement, and with a nod and bow, Wind-Striker sent them off to rest for the night. Now, he would be able to focus more on Gerrik's training, and organizing the defenses of the village. Speaking of Gerrik, he had sent him to see the Hain coming from the villages to the west. Knowing where he was, Wind-Striker made his way to him standing a distance away as he watched him meet with the incoming groups of Hain.

They had travelled some distance, and Gerrik was there to welcome them, brief them on the situation and allocate them to tasks. "... so we need some to craft weapons and defences, some to train to fight and defend the village, and some to gather food to support those who are training and crafting. But it is getting dark now, so make your way inside and set up your tents." The arrivals headed on up the hill and through the gate into the village.

With those hain dealt with, Gerrik went and approached Wind-Striker. "Time for tonight's training?" Gerrik queried.

"Soon. For now, walk with me, it is time to see what other ways we can improve the defenses..."

Nguxhil did not appreciate White Giants. White Giants did not appreciate them. It was, they tended to think, a fair enough set of circumstances, into which they happily enough played their role.

But Nguxhil was a wanderer, one of the fair folken, and there were many other realms and roles to explore, and many other places to leave their offerings. Some safer than others.

Today Nguxhil was female, and her name was Nimble. Nimble did not wander like Nguxhil did. She was more of a scurrying kind. In Nguxhil's body, carrying in a net-bound cluster on her back all of Nguxhil's possessions and in her upper-left hand the decorated staff around which Nguxhil's fae orbited lazily, Nimble hopped delicately on her only leg up and down the large and growing waste midden to the far side of the Place of People. The fingers of her hands and her foot and her twitchy tongue darted out to sample the refuse, tasting rancid fish, mouldy yams, and a great deal of crude mason-rubble, scouting around for interesting shapes of bone.

The Place of People had a name, she knew. She could pronounce it, like she could pronounce anything. Like she could listen in on the roughly conflicting dialects and pidgin-banter of the city's rapidly heaved-together culture and know every word and where it had come from and the subtleties that were lost as it was used. It was interesting, curious.

Abruptly Nimble hopped from the refuse heap, travelling twice her considerable bodylength in a single bound, arced, and finished her somersault on the flat-topped roof of one of the houses, a lightly plastered surface of wooden slats that dum'd at her landing. She opened her lower-hands and smelt the fresh construction with them. It was a smell that characterised the city.

Nimble hopped on in this way, smelling, touching, looking, stealing. A flute went abruptly missing from a street-player's hands and spun a wild, grating tune from the merry monster before being discarded. Meals had bites stolen from them, straight out of hands. Odd designs were scratched into plaster. Nimble mapped the stamped-down earthen streets in her head, gauging the emotions of the city, exploring. Planning.

Amartía left the comfort of the Purple Sand, ridding himself of his Sloth. He body rose from the dunes and gazed at his ever growing city. A large number of Hain, Rovaik and Human had gathered together to build Xerxes, which he was proud of. He found it daunting, though. Hain, Rovaik, Human, they all meant little to him but toys to pay with. No. More like collectables. He protected, provided, and nurtured them as his toys. His Greed made him that way unfortunately.

Suddenly, another Sin appeared, a great one that didn't belong to him. This was a sin that trumped those of Xerxes, or the Illumi. It became and itch under his skin, a tick he couldn't quite get rid of. Gluttony. It angered him, annoyed him, intrigued him. Licking his lips, he turned to the direction that the Sin emanated from. It came from no normal force, it oozed from a being he didn't regonize.

Quickly padding through the streets he knew oh so well, he came upon his culprit, a whirlwind of Gluttony. "Gluttony! What do you seek?" he called gazing at the being greedily.

Nimble stopped dead still in the middle of a road, still licking a piece of unbaked terracotta clay which she dropped only reluctantly. This one was quick, quicker than she was. Had found her effortlessly, though she did not remember seeing him before. She leaned in, cautious, narrowing her eyes, examining the red newcomer that seemed so... Dignified.

Soon enough she leaned back out, bouncing her weight restlessly on her foot. The human-like figure was unarmed, but Nimble doubted it was wise to venture too far into his personal space. Not with this one.

And it had been talking at her. That was strangest of all.

"I'm..." Said Nimble's lower-left hand, uncertain of how the words worked. "Looking up down out and in for the things that are the things I want," said her lower-right, its words bouncing nervously, much like she did. The mouth in her face was mute.

"Are you," said the two hands together, as if prompted to do so. "Are you one of the ones who do the deeds done to the world from the not in the world?" Nimble swivelled, suddenly very uncomfortable, and hopped sideways, backing away in the direction of the closest plot of land left to greenery. She seemed unable to move her gaze away from Amartia, though she turned her neck at a sharp angle to avoid standing face-to-face.

Amartía stood warily watching the being move and speak. He was on edge, ita Gluttony calling to him, his own Greed threatening to overwhelm him. But he held himself back, which was a difficult thing to do, he was holding back the very thing that made him a demi-god. Bystanders watched silently and in awe of the being and their Enas. The pounding of hammers and and yelling of Goblin, Human and Hain ringed out throughout the growing city.

Looking for things it wanted, sounded lik Greed to him. But his Greed quickly bit back, did it dare to take what belonged to him? The light of his eyes flared for a moment before diying down. He pushed his Greed down and watched the creature move, its eyes never leaving his.

Wearily, but with Pride in his voice, he answered the creatures question. "If you are referring to the massive coming together of people on this location, and the building of this great city-state Xerxes, and its loyalily allied conglomerate of Tribes and people forming under the name of Amestris!" he pronounced, he hand sweeping across the air as a gesture. "Then yes, it was I." he finished, his voice flat.

There was a moment in which it seemed to be Nimble's turn to speak. When she passed it up, the onlookers either dispersed or decided to stay for good, their curiousity only drawing more. Nimble prodded a small human in the chest with the staff in her upper-hands just to give herself room to back up further.

"That isn't," began one of her palms, wet its lips, and went on. "You did this- You made Xerxes." It needed no repetition. Amartia knew what he had done, and was abundantly confident. "He was the man who brought together the men who were brought here." Nimble didn't want to stay, but she'd stopped moving, and she raised one of her lower-hands to her ear, then the other. She was whispering to herself, very urgently.

"Have you," Nimble blurted suddenly, her whole body tensing up. "Have you known the name of the one who has the knowing?" Then she seemed to tire of what she was doing, or seeing, or hearing.

"Is the name of Y'vahn spoken by this people!"

Both hands clapped together and pressed against the mouth in Nimble's face. For once, her eyes left Amartia, and seemed to understand the sway of the bystanders. This was his crowd. "I mean," she whispered, startled by her own yell, and clearly not about to take up the subject again. "Who is the speaker who I'm speaking to?"

Amartía's eyes narrowed, the green light eminating from them becoming narrow slits. Its speech was begining to incur his Wrath, but he beat it down, forcing his anger back. It spoke of beings or objects he knew little of. He hadn't been born more that a few years, maybe a few decades back. Time seemed to have lost all meaning to Amartía, his age was irrevelant though.

Stepping forward, he mulled over its words. Y'vahn. Was that not the unusual god that the Roavik were familiar with, maybe worshiped? He wasn't to sure. Roavik worshipped a plethora of gods and godesses, many in which Amartía had little knowlegde of. Rubbing his bald head, he took another tentative step twoards the being, who seemed to weary of him. As he stepped forward, it stepped back. Unusual.

Quickly the being changed the subject, covering its mouth as if it had spoken a taboo. Interesting. Sloth suddenly overcame Amartía, and with quick gesture to a human child, a cushioned seat was brought to him, and another for the being infront of him, if it could even sit at that. Nodding to the child, he took a seat, leaning forward and placing his fist on his chin and his elbow on his knee. More children gathered around the seated Amartía, trusting in his guidance and proection, despite whatever pain they may have felt from being so close to him.

They looked on eagerly as he spoke to the unsual being. "You are speaking to the Énas of this land. The king, the emperor. A demi-god of Chaos. he affirmed, watching the creature carfully. "May I get the honor of knowing who I'm speaking to." he coaxed. If he had a mouth, he would have been smiling at that moment, unfortunately he didn't.

"I'm Nimble," replied the lower-right hand immediately, reassuringly, and from the left: "But I'm not- That's not- All." She was looking down at the seated Énas, though she didn't feel that way at all. It was like trying to talk to someone from around a corner. Slowly, uncomfortably, Nimble kneeled, balancing on her knuckles. Respect, or maybe fear.

A small goblin, either imitating its companions or acting with the genuine goodwill of a child, offered her a small cushion, which she promptly started to chew on. "She says she knows another one." Pause, listen, speak again. "She wants to know this one too."

There in the middle of the street two strange beings looked at one another. Nimble was forcing herself to ignore the crowd, facing the regal thing in front of her, listening to hands that whispered sudden, sharp phrases, debating something that wasn't there. "It's too-" "He might-" "You can't-"

After a pause, she held out both palms. "Would you will," Nimble breathed, "To talk to the one who talks to me? Will you know she who knows the other Emperor with goodwill? Would you let her talk to you with me, and just let me be?"

Amartía was at a lose for words. Children watched, whispering silently as the one named 'Nimble' spoke, in its oh so unusual way. Some snikered as Nimble began to chew on her cushion, but he payed no attention. Who was it speaking of? It was beyond him. He remained silent for a few seconds before speaking. "Who is 'She'? he said tentatively, the green light of his eyes dimming.

"The grey mountain, far far away," came a faint murmur. "The whisper of inspiration."

Glancing at her out held palm, he slowly reached for them, careful not to scare the unusual creature, it seemed jumpy enough at it was. "Yes. he affirmed, allowing his Pride to rid his soul of his nervousness. A king was never nervous. "Allow for her to speak though you."

His fingertips were soon enough pinched by Nimble's own, between thumb and index. She was nodding, though not, it seemed, to Amartia. "Alright. Alright." Nod. "Please."

Nguxhil's body closed its eyes, and spoke in a voice so well pleased it was almost sultry. "Thank you, Nimble." They opened. Amartia's fingers were released and the new speaker delicately wiped a thread of cushion from her smiling mouth, sitting still, a great deal of tension released from her shoulders.

"I hope to believe we are well met, Énas of Amestris, even though we have not yet shared names. You have been guarding yours, I see. Very well. I am Jvan. I am the All-Beauty."

The onlookers recognised the shift, if not the name, at least not the way the stranger spoke it. There was a little more quiet on Nimble's side of the street. One of the hain gave a shiver, and knew not why. "And these tribes are yours. Congratulations on your work." Now she grinned. "Welcome to my family, little brother godling."

For a few seconds, Amartía was silent. Watching Nimble with curious eyes. It wasn't every day that one was greeted by a being as unique as this one. He was slightly put off by her. The beings multiple mouth which spoke in garbled touges. But as the Prideful being that he was, he neglected to show it. It was difficult to show emotions with a face like his anyway.

Suddenly, there was a shift on the air, and it showed on Nimble. It looked as if a weight had been lifted of her shoulders, and her whole demeanor changed. It was startling.

His arms fell to his lap once she let go, and instantly, he grew wary. Nimble's Gluttony had disappeared, replaced with an unusual emptiness. The fact that Nimble began to refer to herself in the third person proved that it was a different being speaking. "Jvan… he mumbled despondently, looking at Nimble in a new light. Her presence brought with it a new weight on his shoulders. Her voice reminded him of the beauty of the jungle in which he had the opportunity to explore. It seemed that he wasn't the one who noticed the shift in the air. The moment that name was uttered many Hain who watched, both children and adult shuddered.

Greed suddenly over took him, but he beat it down once again. Once regaining control over his emotions. He turned to the being, kneeling on one knee in a show of respect. His Pride attempted to stop him but he beat it down, like he did all his vices since he met this being. "I thank you for the welcome and praises. I am not worthy. You are the first of all the gods to approach me since my birth…or rebirth. he replied, slowly looking up at the goddess, whispering on the last word. Almost instantly he was able to deduce that she was a god.

The idea of a family was an interesting, but he knew better than to believe her. If he knew one thing about this world and its gods, Chaos gods weren't exactly loved. It was an evil but much needed element. "I am the embodiment of all Sin. Greed, Wrath, Envy, Sloth, Gluttony, Pride. Amartía. he proclaimed, his words surprisingly silent. His Greed began to crawl up his throat, he wanted that power, this ability to change the atmosphere of an area with just ones voice. This Jvan fascinated him, and he quickly became infatuated. He craved godhood.

"Amartía..." A good name. A new name, reborn or no. If the Lord of Sin had a predecessor, Jvan did not know who it was. "The first, you say? Then the privilege is mine, Énas. You've earned what I've said. Maybe more." The body looked around, relaxedly.

Jvan liked the development. She liked what it did. Bringing together people brought together different shapes, different minds, different tools and tricks, and from them made more. This, most likely, was what so possessed Lifprasil to form a unified empire of all things. "But this is different. This is quite different, in execution, at least."

"I pride myself in doing things differently." he chimed.

Was it because, unlike the High Lifprasilians, the people of Xerxes came from no shared creed or name or history? Or because all they had they had made themselves, with only one deity among them? Jvan looked over the variety of persons around her, and found it hard to tell. "All Sin. All... Desires of the individual, I suppose. Seems strange, that one community may be put together so neatly from the many. From chaos."

Nguxhil's body tilted its head a little. "Forgive me some old emotions, Énas, but seeing you, seeing what you do, it's... Pleasing. There are many Chaotic gods. One has rebelled against the rest of us, sowing destruction prematurely. Another is an- Abomination, that has invaded this world from elsewhere, under a divine guise. A third is wise, but has made certain... Dangerous mistakes. And now this! A turn of events!" Jvan spoke directly to Amartía, ignoring the people who were giving her strange form and talk of dark powers a wide berth, gravitating towards their masked sovereign.

"But why? Why do you create these forms you do? That I want to know."

Pride rushed through Amartía. It wasn't an evil or am arrogant pride. It was a Pride in ones hard work, in ones creation. One could consider it a good Pride. But was any Pride truly good? It was called a Sin for a reason, he knew that oh so well. Nodding in agreement with her first statement, he took a seat once again.

The childrens excited chatter soon became silent as they observed the conversation between deities. Listening to Jvan, he made sure to take note of her presence, to understand for future reference. When he became a god, he wanted to exude such power. It was as if she commanded the floor. The crowd gathered around began to shift to his side, which he welcomed.

As she spoke of his Chaotic brethren he frowned. In end, he would be no better. Chaos gods would be Chaos gods. His Chaos was a creative force, just like Order. The universe could not function without one, or the other. Sin knew that well.

His green eyes began to dim as he mulled over the goddess's question. Why? Why did he go through so much troble to create this empire? He had only been born a few years, may decades back. The answer was simple, Greed.

"I could lie. I could say that I wanted to unite the people to protect them, he began. "But in truth, it was my avarice that compelled me to do all this. I am the living embodiment of Greed. From the moment I stepped foot in this land, I wanted it people for myself. I consider them my pets. I will protect them, feed them, and provide for them like so." he explained simply. He could care less of her opinion. His

"Pets," repeated the voice of Jvan, tapping the fingers of her upper-hands. "Illunabar, characters. Lifprasil, equals, Teknall, students. Myself, artworks. And now Amartía, pets." The corner of Nimble's mouth twitched upwards, and the her other hand continued. "Why do you seem concerned about what your feelings are? You are the king, the emperor, a demi-god of Chaos! And mortals are mortal. Pretty, but mortal. Express yourself!" She laughed, and trailed off into a slight groan. "Just don't destroy what hasn't yet come to fruition. Enough is enough." A shake of the head. If the puppet body had ever been as confident as Amartía, it certainly wasn't now. "Enough is enough."

Amartía laughed at that. He liked this god. He hoped that other gods would be as kind and friendly as Jvan was. Buy he knew better than to believe such things. Gods were benevolent beings who didn't understand the stuggles of mortals unless they walked among them. As thr god of Sin, he understood the struggles of mortal and god alike. No being in this universe was perfect.

There was a faint sigh. "Well, they're yours now. Keep them. Enjoy being young." Nimble's form hopped to her foot, suddenly, stretching. Someone flinched. "Pets? I guess I also have a few pets, though none call me Énas, and they feed themselves well enough. You're looking at one now. My initiate to the arts, my Sculptor, to ornament the world. We have some things in common, Greed. Or Lust. I make what inspires my own excitement."

That was no doubt true. She may have not reeked of it, or oozed it. But Amartía could see her Sins, feel it, and no doubt he unconsciously fed from it.

Lifting the staff, she made a wide gesture with it, pointing to all the assembled, looking them in the eye. "Pets, indeed! As for this one, you can keep her. She's frightened of you, but she'll stick around Xerxes. And others will come. Sculptors are scarce and wily, but I think we can share. Enjoy the ornaments."

"Sculptor... he mumbled in fascination. Another toy to keep for himself, how delightful. He was grateful to the god, a god who Greed was able to be set aside. It was difficult for his Greed to give up anything in his possession, but his Pride would over shadow that.

A note of business returned to Jvan, back with the same grin, the same intimate enthusiasm. "What am I saying, now? I mustn't let my students just wander about your workbench without a token of goodwill. Mm, Énas Amartía, Lord of Greed, what do you say? Do you think we can share a gift, or is it too soon, too strange?"

Smiling, Amartía stood in front of the Sculptor who Jvan spoke through. "I am the embodiment of all Sin. My insatiable Greed will no doubt allow me to take what is given to me without question. I share this gift. he proclaimed. The children watched on, planing to imitate this conversation between deites later. A Tedar craftsman was careful to step around them, carrying loads of wood and stone.

Reflex flicked Nguxhil's eyes to the movement of the passerby. When they refocused, it seemed Jvan had had a thought, which she punctuated with a raised finger above her speaking mouth. "No, not without question. I could build you a tower, only to let it fall when you need it most. This is your opportunity. Create. Take control. It shall be given to you, only ask."

Jvan tensed her loaned body and made it spring in a high flip, backwards, back onto one of the many neat rooftops of Xerxes. Its shadow flowed onto the street, herself lit by a bright sky where the ring of Lex glittered above. It seemed she was soon to release Nimble, but for now, she stood square, gripping Nimble's staff like a scepter in her upper-hands.

"Speak, then, and the flesh will listen patiently. Show these eyes the design of your desire!"

Amartía watched in awe as Nimble jumped onto a roof with one foot with little effort at all. Young children oh'ed and ah'ed as their Enas followed suit, jumping onto the roof next to the god, who seemed to be losing control. Gazing upon his land, he grew Wrathful at the large open patches of land that appeared . He planed to use them for his palace and for temples of woship to the other gods.

Then then quickly realized his opportunity, Jvan was giving him the opportunity to build his palace in his image, and that he would do. He wanted something that would set Xerxes apart from the world, something that would set Amestris apart. Slowly, it came to him. He would create a structure that would represent his power and the power of the Illumi. He would watch from the heavens. Then idea came to him.

"A grand structure that no being has ever seen before. I want this structure to stand in the designated stops in which has been left. The largest standing in the very middle. A building with a quadrilateral base, representing the four corners of Amestris' power, which will rise to a triangular point standing some 500 cubits into the sky, and occupy an area of 20 acres. Where the point meets, I wish for the eye signifies my perseverance over the people." he proclaimed. Truly a palace fit for a king.

Mouthing the words as he spoke them, Jvan closed her eyes and calculated. "Grand temples... A monolith to claim the heavens. An Eye all-seeing."

From her pedestal she folded her right hands over her chest and extended the left, and made a low bow. "It is done. Good choice- I'll build it with pleasure. See it as a sign of your dominion and my goodwill to it, Amartía, until we meet again." Nguxhil's body gazed out over the empty spaces, and seemed to see something that wasn't yet there. Then it was sent down into the street, leaving Sin alone to stand above all.

She gestured up high, to the ring of Lex, and spoke for the last time with the same hand.

"Watch the skies, Énas!"

Then the Sculptor was quiet. Nimble blinked, and pivoted, glancing quickly to take in the streetwalkers and artisans around her. She flinched when she looked up, saw the demigod there, and turned from him. This time her own eyes did not betray her, and Nimble fled, pursuing her own way, skidding in the dust until she regained her balance and fell into a hasteful bound. Far down the street she looked, briefly, over her own shoulder, and was gone.

The usual city noise. Barter and labour. Ownership and debt. Bricks and fabric.



Thoughts of his potential palace and the beauty of his places of worship for the gods insighted Greed to take over. No longer woud his Envy eat at his soul, now his Greed would soon be saited, and he would have the opportunity to enjoy and create the best things on life. That was what Sin was, was it not? All the best things in life.

Amartía closed his eyes, leaning against the pillar on the roof of a fairly large home looking over the large clearing in which his palace was to fall, breathing in the last of the long day. He allowed the children to play with the frays of his garments, the glow from the other end of it matched the sunset before him. He found himself watching the sunsets recently, no Sin there. The way things were going so far had a calming effect on him and soothed his sanity which threatened to slip away from him with every passing day. Sin wasn't exactly an easy constant to deal with, especially around a god.

The the season cast an orange haze above the horizon, lighting up the sky as if lit by fire, yet the haze was so crisp and clear. The sun, like a large, grandeur orange fireball in the distance was partially cloaked by the hanging clouds, which were all splashed with the random colors of hot pinks, reds and even hints of purples and blues accented by the Rings of Lex. The sun was so large that he felt he could almost touch it. It seemed to look at him with a dull glare, knowing that it's beauty and the planet's dependence on it for survival made up for it. Quite an amazing feet preformed by the gods, or a god. He wasn't sure, Tedar and Goblin always spoke of a god called. . .Tinkall?

The sun which had it's time to shine for the time it was given, seemed to whipser "Farewell" to the world as it sunk lower and lower in a lazy manner; almost as if it never wanted to leave.

"Watch the sunset…" he mumbled despondently. A young goblin suddenly screamed in awe and pointed at the sky. He was tempted to kill the child for yelling in his ear, his Wrath bubbling forth, but a massive shadow soon warranted his attention.

Leaning off the pillar, he walked over to the ledge of the building, gazing at the massive object apparently falling from the sky. A cool breeze passed, making him laugh wildly. He let the wind run against his bald head, almost like a human touch. It had been a while since he had been touched by another or even shook another's hand. The first in a while had been Nimble's. Then again, he hardly trusted anyone. Only those who he made loyal to him, his pets, were who he could trust.

He looked at the massive object again. The sun was almost as orange as the sky, like a ghost almost, but the shadow some how ate the sun. Yet even from behind the shadow, it seemed to stare at him; a silent ball of wonderment that was really a raging ball of Hellish fury.

Soon the shadow became an object, and then a creature, a bloated behemoth that sank on its wings, trailing fog as it passed through the clouds. It dragged against the air, stalling its momentum on a tail spread into a vast parachute, until it collapsed onto the ground where his massive palace was to be before. Heavy sprays of earth dotted the air and settled. The monster's wings drooped, and frayed as they decomposed, along with its tail. Its dying body heaved on, twisting itself into shapes that soon became recognisable.

What looked so solid and heavy began to unfold, almost to bloom, as the cramped skeleton righted itself into angles and struts. The immense bulk that had sunk into the earth was already excavating itself, hollowing out, and rising from the center. Not chaos, was this ungainly fall, for a tower was burgeoning from the grave, a pillar to hold up a monument for the ages.

The cathedral stretched, higher and higher, shedding residue only for those remains to fall into place at its feet- Nothing was wasted. Inner bowels of the carcass were revealed as its flesh rearranged itself into the outlines of halls, amphitheatres, spiralling stairwells. They formed pipes and walkways, inner walls and secret passages of metallic organs, filling all the manner of industrial function. Abruptly the spread halted when it reached the edge of the allotted space, and an elegant facade began to knit itself together, sealing the architecture into a grand pyramid.

At ascending central spire, whole layers of architecture were being shed. Here the temple was growing faster than its own support, its shadow reaching over the entire city in the low light, faster and faster as the sky grew darker. And when the sun finally died, the peak of the pyramid was breached.

A carmine mist billowed and faded, and the great Eye opened.

Under its shadow, more constructors began to fall from the sky, landing on the specifc spots which were dedicated. They descended and unfurled quickly, forming foundations, pillars, simple ceilings, which would one day be painted in the colours of divinity, and built upon to match. But standing supreme, closing and reopening on a different face of the peak to greet each temple, was the Eye.

Gesturing to the monumental pyramid in the center of his city. He turned to the children, who gazed at the monolith. "Look upon my abode! A wonder of the world!" he proclaimed. The children, and many of Xerxes inhabitants were speechess, just they way he liked it. His voice boomed. "My palace will be appropriately named... The Cipher!" Suddenly, the Énas disappeared from the sight of the children. As the sun set and darkness blanketed over the land, they were greeted by the massive, Eye of Cipher.

Avatar creation Custos

The night air was refreshing and cool, Kyre's hain nose breathing it in despite him having no need of it. The preperation of the Hain villagers was going well, and while they rested at night he had a good oppertunity to prepare a counter to Vestec's avatar. He went a fair distance into the woods before stopping, keeping the the village, the horde, and their surrounding areas within his god sense.

While the Hain would be capable of fighting the horde, only an avatar would be able to fight its leader. That... that is why he was out here, out of sight of anyone, and out of hearing distance as well.

Kyre took his preferred form, that of a suit of armor with liks of energy, before hovering around to see what materials there were to work with. Stone, wood, hide, that was what was available to him here, and that was what he would use. With his will he moved the materials over into a pile in a clearing, stones, wood, and hide in a jumbled mess. Hmm, he'd have to be a bit more organized in the future.

On to work, first would be the frame. Moving the wood into the shape of a headless man, he returned life to the wood and watched as the once dead branches and roots grew into each other, twisting around one another and fusing together, leaves sprouting at various points.

Next came the armor, as the stone was floated over to the frame, latching onto its arms, legs, and torso. Once all the pieces were in place, the stone seemed to liquify in places to look more akin to the armor it represented. Thick stone plates covered the forearms, thighs, shins, biceps, and finally the chest, stomach, and back.

For the hide, its role was to cover the joints on the arms and legs, as well as to fill any gaps in the armor covering the torso. The armor was now complete.

Still, it needed something that would allow it to travel great distances quickly. There was still some hide left... Yes, wings, wings would do. The avatar to be was stood up, and after Kyre placed his hand upon its back, thin but strong branches grew out, the leftover hide fusing with it to create two pairs of batlike wings, then leaves grew out all along them, giving them the appearance of feathered wings. Once done, the wings retracted until they fused back into the main body.

All that was left was the head. Kyre grabbed hold of his own helm, griping the front and slowly pulling a stone copy of a full helm from himself. It seemed to give off an aura, and as he went to place it upon avatar he further decided upon its capabilities. Firstly, its appearence would change as the technology of civilization did, as though to accomodate advances in weapons and armor. Secondly, it would be able to grow weapons from its body or summon ethereal versions at will. Thirdly, it would have the ability to form weapons and tools out of its limb or shoot projectiles from them.

THe helm was now inches above the body, and the branches grew up to fill it in, forming the neck and completing the head. In turn, the avatar was finished. Ethereal light glowed through where the eyes would be, looking intently at Kyre as though waiting for orders or awaiting being controlled.

"I name you Custos, my will made manifest."

In recognition of its name, and Kyre's authority, Custos got down on one knees and bowed its head, fist on its chest.

"Rise, there is work to be done."