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Once more Keriss took the flight from the Venomweald to Xerxes, but instead of the city that she had once fought in, she found a city that seemed to be crumbling. It was a confusing sight to her. Was she too late? Had she missed an important battle? Her thoughts went to assumptions as she flew towards what remained of the Cipher.

She landed outside and inspected her surroundings, attempting to piece together what had happened at the city. "Strange." the beast muttered to herself, gazing at the cinders before her eyes went to a mound of ash. Keriss stared for a few moments before turning her back to the ruins and thinking. Crossing her arms, the demi-goddess grunted.

Keriss, turned back to the Cipher and walked in, not expecting to find much but burnt objects inside. Ruin was the only thing that she had found, only living up to her assumption that something attacked the city. She doubted that Sin would have been slain, thinking Vestec would save him from the same thing he prevented from Keriss from doing. Her eyes darted from smoldering remains to smoldering remains, becoming angered that she may have missed the battle. A familiar feeling came to her- bloodlust, the same one she had felt upon first entering Xerxes. "Amartía! Where are you?!" She called into the ruin, wanting to be sure that nothing inhabited it before she would departed.

What Keriss did not know was that a predator stalked her every movement. From the moment she entered Xerxes, the hunter knew of her existence, documenting each and every movement she made. The stalker silently traversed the smoldering ruins with unnatural ease, its glowing eyes borrowing into her as she called out for it.

Suddenly, the eternal voice called out in a sly tone. "You search for me? You're back so soon?" it mused.

"Unfortunately, the plan did not work as expected. However, Vestec did release some information to me." Keriss relayed, keeping her sight trained directly in front of her rather than searching for the source of the voice. ”Lifprasil is coming with a powerful army of Knights, blessed by four gods.”

Silence reigned upon that revelation. A yawning void of uncomfortable soundlessness that prevailed for but a few seconds before a large mass dropped gracefully unto the dias that lay before Keriss. Amartía rose from a crouching position to his full height, showing off the full force of the Face of Wrath to the Lizard. As his unblinking eyes trained itself on Keriss, the voice spoke out; "An army of Knights. Tell me more about these…..Knights." the voice commanded, its curiosity clear.

Keriss gazed upon Amatía's new form, a more savage form that seemed mildly intimidating at first glance. ”You have changed.” The lizard said, stating the obvious before eying his new form a bit more. Keriss straightened herself, speaking in a clear voice, ”Vestec was vague to say the least. All he said was that it was an army of Knights, designed and empowered by four gods. Along with a normal army, in which I can only assume is mortals.” Keriss reported.

”Now tell me, what happened here. What foul chaos occurred to destroy this place?”

Despite the shock that Amartía felt at that moment, his gaze displayed a different emotion, sheer rage. With his face contorted already, upon the mention of four gods, a growl echoed from his throat.

Machinations of war spawned from the imagination of four god's was no simple matter, it was a reality that no mortal could think up. It was a fairy tale of a story; but Vestec had no reason to lie, or exaggerate, not when he had clearly won. No matter what he did, he lost. There was no fight, no perfection that could bring him back the retribution soon to face him, the Armageddon of Xerxes would soon be upon them. But this frustrated Amartía, how could he be so naive, so short-sighted, so stupid?

Sin stood unmoving, his mind attempting to wrap itself around the ramifications of the Hain gods curse, and Keriss' news. As was such, behind the Lizard, in the city, stirred it's people, his army, his artistic rendition of perfection.

"No mortal army could take such a force." the ethereal voice murmured, voicing Amartía's current concerns as he willfully ignored Keriss' own.

Keriss nodded in agreement with Amartía, not wishing to say anything to displease Sin in his new form. She looked into his eyes for a few moments, feeling the rage that was imitating from his gaze. The demi-goddess turned to look outside the Cipher’s ruined entrance, taking a deep breath.

After a few moments of silence, the lizard spoke up in an emotionless tone, ”What is your next course of action? Abandon the remains of this dead city? Or shall you fight to the last man over Logos’ promise of power?” Her gaze did not shift from the city, not bothering to inspect the form of Sin any longer than she needed to.

"I'll take it all back..." the voice whispered.

Confusion came upon the face of the lizard, forcing her to look at Sin to figure out what he had in store for. "What do you mean by that?" the beast inquired, wishing to indulge herself in the thought process of Amartía.

"I'll take it all back." the voice repeated insensately, a growl spitting itself out at the end of the statement. Sin no longer cared. Playing god made him no weaker than he already was compared to them. The Dagon could not make a case against the abomination that was the god's imagination. There was no point to fighting them at this point, less he actually survive after the battle.

In silence, Amartía began to make his way to Keriss, his vestigial eyes gazing through her.

The lizard continued staring out at the city, a city that had become ruined for reasons unknown to Keriss. She gaze out a sigh at Sin’s harsh voice before forcing herself to turn to the approaching monster. Watching him approach, Keriss retained an emotionless stare. ”I ask once more, what happened to Xerxes?”

Amartía suddenly snarled, his teeth gnashing as his faced Keriss. "The city? You worry about the city! Curse that Hain and his pretentiousness! I gave my city perfection!" the voice spat.

Keriss snarled back at Sin, disliking this new attitude that he had gotten with his new form. ”Of course I worry about this city! This is where the war is coming and all I see is ruin! Is that your perfection? Or is there some underlying secret that I have not been informed of?” The lizard growled, her wings flaring out slightly.

"What difference does it make, I gave the people power! But it means nothing! I'm protecting my city and all I get is judgment! Judgement!? For what? For what?" Sin bellowed, his hackles raised as he bared his predatorial maw.

Keriss eyes widened to give Amartía a dumbfounded look at his reasoning, her mouth open at the absurd notions. ”Protecting your city?! Have you looked at the state of this place?! There is nothing great to fight for anymore! You fight for ruins! You fight for yourself and not for any basis of morality! What do you stand for Amartía?! Please tell me!” She hissed, a deep grumble coming from her throat.

Sin growled, "What do I stand for!?" Amartía paused. "What do I stand for?" he murmured. His mind raced, searching for his pillar, his meaning in life. "What do I stand for!? I am sin incarnate, a being without morality. What is your point."

”And what is Sin? No morality? A false pretense, for even sinners have morals. I ask again; what do you stand for?” Keriss inquired, voice filled with annoyance.

Amartía remained silent, for he knew exactly where Keriss was going. But he wouldn't admit it, he couldn't admit it, not to her, not to anyone, not to his nation. Upon that notion Sin turned to gaze at his city, at its twisted perfection. He watched as Dagon crawled from the rubble of thier old home's, screaming into the air as rage pulsed in thier hearts. For a moment, Amartía missed the perfection of imperfection, the imperfection that plagued every being in the universe and spawned sin. It was the reason why Amartía couldn't agree with Logos, he couldn't side with the god of Order, the little morals he had wouldn't allow it. Bringing perfection to the world would destroy him.

Slowly, Wrath drained out of Amartía, his claws shrunk back into well manicured nails. His fur torso shed and realigned itself as red energy commanded rock to rise and transmute into a linen skirt cloth for himself. His predatory maw evolved, returning itself to normal as his teeth flattened and closed the space between them. Finally, his blood red eyes returned to its natural brown color, and his black, unkept hair turned white once again.

Amartía looked upon Xerxes, remembering the Hain gods words; he had destroyed a civilization, but he couldn't care less. Sin did not feel remorse, only bitterness towards the Face of Wrath and the gods power.

"I stand for myself." he finally retorted, his voice returning. "But if this god damned nation is what makes me…me, then I'll play this differently."

"Whatever you say." Keriss huffed, wings slowly retracting from their flared stance. She turned to look upon the ruined city as well, daring to speak another word of the subject to Sin. At least now, her worries of a fight could rest as he seemed to settle into some degree of calm, by Sin's standards.

However, the thoughts of the demi-goddess wondered and her gaze returned to Amartía once more. "What of Tauga? How does she fare through all of this?" Keriss investigated, wishing to know of how her one mortal friend fared through all of this.

"Tauga? You mean the Blowfly girl?" Amartía jibbed rather harshly. "She's off somewhere I'd assume, shambling with the rest of her turned brethren. Find her if you will, I need to see her. Amartía sighed, waving Keriss off.

Keriss narrowed her eyes at the comment that Amartía made about Tauga, the very one who kept this place intact while he was away. She hesitated upon leaving, wishing to do nothing more but to reprimand him. However, that may yet bring back that beast that she was previously conversing with, she held her tongue. The Demi-goddess turned and proceeded to walk out the way she came, looking at the Dagon momentarily before taking flight. Focused she remained, beginning the search for her hain friend.

Meanwhile, Sin himself was lost in thought. The Hain god's curse, Keriss' words, the impending invasion that was still without a viable solution. He was back to square one; at least this time he was king without a nation. Amartía no longer understood himself; a demi-god of sin condemned because of his nature and because of how he treated his nature. Amartía grunted, it was an ironic existence.

Sin scrutinized his city, its buildings stood in defiance of the people who once were. Vulnerable flesh no longer existed, only stone and scale, not as timeless as the mountains that encircled the city but able to outlast the civilization that created them by centuries. Given enough time even the smooth grey would give way to a jungle of green and his civilization would gain the moniker “ancient”. It would lay ruined for future generations to discover and perhaps piece together how Xerxians lived. One would wonder what disaster befell the great nation, with all its complex devices and culture.

Such a stain on his pride would never wash away.

From the shadows behind Amartía materialized a Dagon, a Victor, Asmod, the first. Kneeling, he spoke; "Liege, the civilians are stirring, shall we organize and prepare them?"

Amartía was silent for but a second, but his answer was resolute; "No."

Asmod, confused, cocked his head to the side. "But master, how will they be ready for the impending invasion."

Amartía sighed. "They won't." he echoed simply. "You will." Without warning, Sin's hand darted out, grasping the Victors face before he could react. Fear shown in his eyes as his masters impressive face started down at him, masking his true intentions.



It didn't take long to spot the general- She, too, was airborne. The glow orbiting plumes marked her out as she glided slowly over the city, a tiny figure scanning the ground from above. When she noticed Keriss, she swept effortlessly through the rain towards her.

"What is it," said Tauga, shortly, simply.

”Personally, I wished to see how you fared through all of this the utter destruction of the city and all.” Keriss responded happily, glad to see her mortal friend seemed unharmed.

"Same way I get through all the other shit," was the vague response. It was easy to get the impression that even without the flight suit's goggles, one wouldn't be able to see much life in Tauga's expression.

"Don't waste time thinking 'bout me. I'm already dead." Stretch. Some of the blood rain still dripped from her as she moved. "Anything else?"

Keriss’ expression turned to confusion towards Tauga, the hain certainly did not seem dead in the eyes of the Demi-Goddess. ”You do not seem dead, in fact you look living. Anyways, Amartía wishes to see you. Though, I wish to know what causes you to believe that you are dead.” The lizard inquired, flying ever so closer to Tauga. The arms of the beast went behind her back, the eyes focused on the hain alone. Tauga didn't flinch.

"Yeah. I guess that's a story."

As broken buildings passed below, they slowed their course at the hain's lead, made speaking easier. "I'm a stonemason's daughter. Peasant. But way back, when I was doing my second hatching, a cultist of Y'Vahn found me. I was her apprentice. Her name was Help." A short silence.

"Help taught me stuff. She cared, I guess. When the Purifiers came to burn everything, God showed up to take her back. She wanted me to follow her. I chose not to. Then I changed my mind." With a quick flourish, Tauga unsheathed the sword Keriss had been teaching her to use. "This was her scalpel."

"I was alone in the place where she went. It was Hell. Tunnels that ran forever. Metal walls. Shaped like twisting bodies. Huge worms. Dim cold light. There was water, everywhere, dripping, but no food. After a while it got worse. My body went all light, like nothing was attached to the ground anymore. Every once in a while I found things. I still don't know what. Twitching shapes in puddles. I tried to eat them. Couldn't. And then I starved. It's the last thing I remember."

"And then," she concluded simply, as they made the final descent and touched down, "I was here, and I was this, and I had ophanim floating above me and tentacles in my skin and a mask on my face, and since then I haven't felt jack shit. So I'm probably dead. Oh, no, wait, fuck, frustration. I still get pissed every now and again." Shrug. "It's not a great story."

Keriss listened to her fullest extent, tilting her head ever so at the end of the story, her eyes seemingly staring into the soulless mask of Tauga. "You have a far more tragic history than I would have expected from a mortal. Though, I suppose you are past the worst bit from what I have heard." The demi-goddess commented, her gaze going forwards once more.

Then the Suffering One went silent, trying to think of a new topic of discussion but finding none, nor would she find any advice to give to her friend. An audible sigh emanated from Keriss, looking down at the ruins as they approached the Cipher. "Do you support this reckless destruction by the hands of Sin?"

Tauga's answer was reflexive. "The Énas is wiser than we know. He means the best for us." Evidence to the contrary resounded from somewhere in the city as a damaged building collapsed and a newborn Dagon snarled. Evidence in staggering abundance. Tauga stared resolutely ahead as they navigated the Cipher's damaged walls. "In the end, everything will be better."

And she obediently cast down her gaze as they entered the presence of Amartia.

Sin's gaze fell upon Tauga, his dead eyes revealing little of his intentions and current mental state as his grip tightened on Asmod's face.

"Tauga. Blowfly. Gaze upon the city behind you." he commanded, his voice devoid of life.

She did. It only took a quarter-turn of her head. Tauga's left eyes scanned the dismal horizon while she looked at Amartia with her right.

"What do you see? I want you to tell me the truth, because I see perfection, desire made real. But you... you may see different."

”I know what I see,” scoffed Keriss.

Amerita glared at the lizard before staring at Tauga expectantly.

"Well, the buildings are wrecked," observed Tauga, monotone. "The fields are untended and the crops died in the blood rain. Also, everyone is Dagon. So that's pretty fucking weird, I guess." There wasn't a trace of incrimination nor of discontent in her voice. She just recounted what she saw, as she'd been told.

"I'm not good at the whole... City thing. If you think this is better, then there's probably just something I haven't realised yet. Sir."

A smile danced itself upon Sin's face. "Well that settles that!" he boomed as he dropped Asmod's face and glared down at him. "Gather the Victors." with a fearful nod the Victor scurried off.

Keriss’ eyes only narrowed at Sin.”He only does this to please himself, to satisfy his lust for power. I see something only Chaos would bring and look at that, a child of Vestec sits right in front of us.” Keriss goes, making the snarky remark, folding her arms.

Leaving Tauga, he turned to Keriss, a frown marring his face. "You don't have to fuck the mood up all the time." he sighed, pausing for a moment before turning to Tauga. "I used that right, right? 'Fuck the mood up'?"

Keriss only growled lightly, not content with Tauga's willingness to go along with whatever Sin wanted. "Leave him be, Keriss," said Tauga, voice as flat as ever. "Sin's desires have always benefited us in the past. He's not the Devil."

A whistle caught the duo's attention to where the Énas waited expectantly. "Come, come now, we got stuff to do!" he called, gesturing for them to follow him deeper into the Cipher.



The war-room had once been an impressive dining-room, but the impact had taken its toll. The table that sat in the middle of the hall was long and solid wood- A banqueting table. The once crisp golden wallpaper was torn in places, revealing the organic metals below. On the walls were gilded mirrors but the frames were dusty and the light that shone off them showed flecks of dirt and food that was never polished off. The floor at first glance appeared to be mud, but it was made of large terracotta flagstones covered in ash and grime. Above the table hung a bronze candelabra with several black-wicked candles in it burnt to stumps.

Amartía sat at the head of the table, his chair carved of a fine oak, crested with several jewels and decorative metals forming an elegant coat of arms, a simple triangle and eye. Although the seat of the Énas was impressive, it was a mere stool compared to the throne he sought to reinstall after this war.

Loud thumps could be heard as Keriss strode into the war room, seating herself upon what seemed to be a dusty chair. The seat bent as it struggled to support the weight of the beast. Her tail folded over her lap, her eyes remained narrowed as her gaze went to Amartía. Keriss dared not lean back in her chair, fearing that she may break it. Keriss reached for her crown of thorns, taking it off her head and onto her lap, tail curling around it.

Sin chuckled watching Keriss' display. "I did not know the demi-god of Pain and Suffering to be so prim and proper." he chortled.

”Suffering is not all caused by violence and savagery.” Keriss remarked in a low growl, her eyes narrowing even further before forcing herself to look away. A calmer look came to her face as she looked away.

Sin raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, that seat seems to be a good example of that."

Tauga's boots clicked into the room softly amidst the conversation. She bowed and stood to attention without taking a seat.

In step followed three Dagon who dwarfed her in height and muscle. The rhythmic cadence of their footfalls marred by the incessant clicking of claws on tile. Their predatory gaze remained straight ahead, but as they stepped through the threshold of the makeshift war-room their eyes dropped in respect.

Amartía gestured for them to stand at the head of the table, while Tauga was offered a seat to his left. She took it gingerly. "Hey, Keriss," she greeted.

”Tauga.” Keriss nodded to Sin.

Sin clapped suddenly, capturing the attention that already belonged to him anyway. "Well then, lets get started shall we?" he smiled, his bright white teeth flashing.

"As you all may or may not know, Xerxes faces an invasion on a scale we cannot imagine. All we know about the enemy is that four gods had a hand in their creation." he explained, giving Keriss a sideways glance. "This means that we have nothing to go on. So," he paused. how do we play this?" he sighed, leaning back on his throne.

”Vestec was very vague when he released the information to me. However, I do know that we must not have any distractions during this battle and thus we should evacuate the city of anyone who cannot fight during this. Primarily the young and old,” Keriss stated, pushing her wants for the entire city to evacuate once more. Tauga didn't blink.

"Young and old no longer exist, only Dagon." he huffed, his face deadpan despite the gravity of the atrocity.

"There's nothing left to defend except ourselves," echoed the general. "Fields, buildings, ruined. Fifty, maybe sixty thousand Dagon. Few thousand animals caught in the blood rain. Three hundred Victors, quarter-thousand Rotflies. Nothing's left that we can't use 'til it breaks. With your permission, Sir."

”If there is nothing left to defend then why do we not just leave the city? Odds are we could avoid a battle, that may cost us our lives, if we just leave. A city just like this could be built anywhere else on this planet, probably better.” Keriss suggested, her eyes flicking over to Tauga.

"Granted. But Keriss, I didn't go through the process of transforming fifty-thousand some odd mortals to run away. This is no longer about Logos, never has been. Its about principal and pride." Sin countered.

"Lets not forget who's involved here, the gods. There is no where we can run that they can't find us. It would be futile and beneath me. If anyone wishes to leave though, they could, I won't stop you." he affirmed, gazing at both his lieutenants. The lizard growled at the notion of this war being about pride, forcing her to now stay. Tauga put it in simpler terms.

"If we don't fight here, we'll be cut down on the run, in the wilderness. Might as well die on home ground."

"Alright then. Back to the task at hand." he began, leaning forward in his seat and placing his hands on the charred table.

"We have quite the man power, or sin power I might add." he jibbed, smiling at himself. "None the less, we can only assume that our army is about a quarter of theirs. I'm not sure if the gods are capable of minimalism. I'm not."

Keriss thought to herself for a moment, an idea came to her soon enough. ”We could attempt to hold out in here. Get as many Dagon as we can in here. While it is not a fortress, we could certainly use the entrances as choke points. Or we could outpost Dagon in any other buildings as well.”

A Dagon Victor spoke up. "I mean no disrespect my lord." the Dagon began, dipping his head at Keriss. "The Cipher is no fortress as you said, with the numbers the Blowfly made known to us, we would make little use of the only advantage we may have one our side." he explained. The general's eyes flicked to the recently dented walls. Tauga, whose Jvanic tendrils plunged far into the architecture of the gifted palace and seen that it had, not long ago, been a formidable defense, said nothing.

Amartía nodded.

"Stuffing ourselves in here doesn't sound like a good idea. Nothing stops one of many Divine enemies from pointing a finger and blowing this place up." he sighed.

Another Dagon spoke up. "We are also limited by the lack of knowledge we have on our enemy, nor do we know from where they will attack "

”Well then I am sorry to say that I do not have a clue as to what we are going to do. We have not fortifications, virtually no choke points, and we are fighting a battle against the strongest enemies that, potentially, any of us have faced. I am at a loss.” Keriss admitted, feeling defeated already.

"We have no fortifications," echoed the Blowfly, her thoughts beginning to surface. Home ground. The palace. Ruins. "There's this story the soldiers used to talk about. A strong man faces a weak man in a- A forest, I think. Then you ask a question. 'Would you rather hide behind a shield or a shrub?' The right answer is shrub, because anyone can see you hiding behind a shield. They see the shield. It has some kind of meaning. I forget." Something shuffled in the air, as if waving away a distracting thought.

"Keriss and I fought to clear the city for some people to get out. None of this is new to me and the Rotfly Watch. For us, Xerxes has been a war ground for weeks. We've gotten good at killing in the City. The ones of us that are left, anyway." Was the voice from the mask even colder than usual? Impossible to say. Probably not. "They're coming for us, right? So they- 'they-' expect us to be defending. But we're not defending. If they look at Xerxes, they'll see tatters. But it's not. It's a forest. Our forest. And it's not a weak man hiding in the trees." Tauga's glove rose to point sharply at the hateful eyes of the Dagon Victor. "It's that."

With each word Amartía smile grew wider and wider, but he remained silent, hushed by the void of uneasiness that washed over him upon Tauga's last few words. But soon, he spoke.

"If we act like prey, they’ll act like predators." Amartía began, his eyes leaving Tauga and focusing back on the rest of the group. "So we flip the switch, play the game differently. They wish to come to Xerxes and play the predator, but this is our 'forest'," he said, air quoting his lieutenants words. "and we will stalk from the 'bushes', turning them into the prey. The thing is, without buildings to hide in, our 'forest' looks pretty bare."

”As much as I hate to say it, I agree with Amartía. We have no buildings that anyone could truly hide in, unless we tried all the ruins we could.” Keriss began, her mind suddenly switching a different subject as she spoke. ”Amartía, how do the other gods feel about Lifprasil?”

Amartía turned to Keriss unflinchingly. "What the fuck is a Lifprasil?"

Keriss gave a bit of a confused look upon Sin's answer, trying to determine whether he was messing with her or not. "Lifprasil, my brother, your brother. Maybe the one who will be attacking this city with an army of Cosmic Knights." The demi-goddess answered in a confused tone.

Who cares, mouthed Tauga in her mask, finger tracing lines in the gathered dust of the table. Her thoughts had left the room and were already patrolling the streets, moving men. Out loud, she said, "Does he have worshippers? They might talk."

Her eyes shifted to Tauga. Her gaze went back to Amartía, ”Sadly, we are out of his worshippers, most likely. Though, it is a simple question, allow me to rephrase it; do the gods like Lifprasil.”

Sin's frustration bubbled, as it always did when he didn't understand something. "I don't know who this Lifprasil is, nor have I ever heard of him. So how would I know jackshit about how the gods feel about him?" he breathed, an edge gathering in his voice.

Keriss bared her teeth towards Sin, feeling that he was lying. Unknowingly she had stood up, a blink of realization made her realize that her mood needed some calming. ”I am going to take my leave, now,” came her voice in the form of a powerful hiss. With that she turned to leave, placing her crown upon her head once more. The unknown facts upset her. The fact that four gods would go out of their way to help a brother who she had not met yet, upset her. Having to fight for someone else’s honor upset her. At the very least, she knew that she was no help while being upset.

There was a conversational blank. Without lifting her gaze from the table, Tauga spoke as if she hadn't noticed the words of the last minute. "I have some plans. The city looks worse than it is. We can still make it- " Keriss reached the end of her tether on one of her tentacles, jerking it free- "-a place to fight in." Her face had twitched slightly towards Keriss' wake midsentence, and it dawned on Tauga that maybe she was meant to do something. But she didn't know how. So she didn't do anything.

The clenching and unclenching of Amartía's fist was the only indication as to his current mood. Thoughts that where best left unsaid assaulted his brain. Letting out a frustrated breath, he turned to Tauga, momentarily erasing Keriss from his mind. "What is your plan?"

"Basements. False floors. Hovels dug into fallen masonry. Arksynth." said Tauga, as if it answered the question. Most of her brain was still pacing around the drawing board. That, and the laboratory in the barracks. "Hiding in buildings isn't hiding at all. It's still a shield. A drunk will guess that there are people in buildings. A forest is- Chaotic. City is too. To count on what's still intact is stupid, but we can turn the mess into a disguise, make them think we're broken when we're not. We have the manpower to hide an army in the ruins. The Dagon are loyal to you." She paused. One could sense her gaze focusing on the once-Victor. "I think."

Sin rubbed his chin absentmindedly, his mind split between Tauga and Keriss' words. To play dead was what he garnered from her plan, which was fantastic if they could expand upon the idea. But this Lifsprail being suddenly had him worked up. Why was Keriss so worried about him?

Amartía turned to Tauga. "Before you continue any further, he paused, dawdling on his words. "have a talk with Keriss. Bring her back."

"Sir." Tauga stood to loose attention. The pose didn't suit the environment. It felt forced. Obsolete. Her heavy presence left the room with her and spilled into the streets, sprawling like vines. Her sharp walk split into a run.

The cord swooped down to catch her as she leapt, carrying her effortlessly up and over the dreamlike cityscape. Outside the barracks, Tauga was all but alone. A single figure was walking the maze now, somewhere, and there was nothing to do but look for her as the arc of the hain's leap came to a slow landing. From one rooftop to the other, she scouted the city.

A tendril tasted something familiar and the hain at its base spun, jogged, then walked in its direction. "Keriss?"

"What do you want, Tauga?" the lizard asked in a blank tone, not bothering to turn towards her friend.

"Amartia needs you," said Tauga simply.

”And why would I want to go back right now? Planning for war while angered is not particularly good.” Keriss growled, crossing her arms.

"Oh." Tauga touched the back of her neck, as she often did when she'd drawn a blank. It seemed to be something she'd forgotten to consider. "I guess that's true."

Was she losing touch with how to talk to friends on intimate terms? No. No, she was long past that point.

"You could tell me why you're angry," came a lame response. "Then we could go back after a while. Wait here until then." Fairly useless suggestion. "Or we could fight it out." Oh, no, wait, that was worse.

Keriss turned to Tauga, giving a look of angered confusion. ”Do you now fight Amartía’s duels for him? You dare challenge me on the behalf of some foolish coward!?” Keriss hissed, balling her hands into fists.

Tauga leaned back on the side of an abandoned wagon, unclipping her mask. Her eyes, when they were revealed, rolled. "No, you big scaly fuckwit. Spar. See if you have any new tricks for me." She grabbed hold of one of the wagon's arms, and pushing her shoulder at it, broke it off at the yoke. The stick made a satisfying thak thak as she tapped it on the road.

"Sometimes, when two human soldiers are at odds over a girl or something," explained the general, "We put them in a ring in nothing but a loincloth and gloves, and we make them box. Because it's better that the blood gets spilled sooner rather than later in some backstreet, with knives involved." Thak thak thak. Tauga ambled closer as she spoke. "Same thing here. You're steaming, Keriss. You're absolutely blind pissed over something. Don't hold it in. Whatever it is." She prodded the great lizard's thigh with the stick.

Eyes narrowed, replacing the confusion that was previously on her face. ”My anger is rests on the gods, it does not concern you.” Keriss admitted to her friend. ”And, unfortunately, I would rather not talk about family business much. It would only make me angrier.”

"Then don't. It's not my pit to crawl out of." Pacing around Keriss took a surprising amount of time for a hain, even a tall one. "I don't have the head to deal with it anyway. All I have is hands and a stick." She rapped the lizard's clawed toes with the pole, trying to make the point more obvious than it was. "Don't need much else to get rid of anger, honestly." Keriss' tail came into view and she batted at it.

”Very well, you wish to spar? Then we will spar,” Keriss hissed, moving her tail away from the hain as Tauga began batting it.

Keriss had her claws bare by the time Tauga ducked into thrashing range. The stick sang as she whipped the big girl's hand at the wrist. "Finally," answered the hain, and rammed her heel into the lizard's ankle.

After sparring for what seemed hours, Keriss and Tauga returned to Amartía, battered and bruised. For the Demi-goddess, the term bruised meant that she was missing a scale or two in certain places. For Tauga, well, who could say? The flight suit was as grey as ever, even if its occupant was moving a little more carefully.

Keriss gazed at Amartía with a blank expression. [color=green]”I heard that you required my presence,”[color=green] she stated with an equally blank voice.

With a look of exasperation on his face, Amartía's tapping fingers welcomed the two lieutenants back. "Well I don't know Keriss, can a king win a war without his general?" he sighed, biting sarcasm in his voice.

”If he is capable enough, yes.” she answered, ignoring his sarcasm as she walked to the table to sit once more. Tauga didn't comment on the apparent exchange of ranks. It was probably just a turn of phrase. Stand to attention. "Sir."

Amartía pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience waring thin. "Have a seat, both of you. While you're at it," he turned to Tauga. [color=Crimson]why don't you go over what our reptilian friend here missed."[color]

Respectful nod. "We have manpower in the Dagon, but we also know that our enemies are stronger. Whatever they are. So our real edge is home ground. Xerxes is a ruin but it's a ruin we know well. Numbers are good for more than just... Swarming. In what time we have left, we can turn the City into a trap. Taking its safest places for ourselves and leaving everything else as dangerous as we can. Hiding. Disguising. Leading them on. My Watch is used to losing an open fight, so we know how to fling a sucker punch. There's some 'synth tricks I can work too. It'll help make a maze of ambushes." A shrug. "I'd get to work as soon as I can, sir."

”That sounds like a sensible idea, I feel that should work to our best advantage.”

The look of confusion danced across Amartía's face, not a side-effect of Tauga's plan, but a cause a resurfacing memory. In a flash its played; roving beasts of chitin, constantly changing, always adapting, always consuming, and at its head, was a boy-god.

Gritting his teeth, Amartía endured the sudden pain that lanced his eyes. It had all been so familiar, all so close yet so far away. Confused yet unditured, Sin played off the feeling of deja vu and rose from his throne; he had a war to win. "Go forth Tauga, enact this plan of yours. Within your oversight I leave the Victors." Amartía paused and turned to Keriss. "I would like to have a word with my……sister. Alone."

Nod. Tauga shared one last glance with Keriss, willing her to pull through the second round of Amartia's company alone. Then she spun on her heel once again, bent into an unnaturally easy sprint, and was absorbed by the action of the coming days.

”You calling me sister? That's certainly new. What is it that you wish to discuss, my dear brother?” The world slowly ran off her tongue, a crude and mischievous smile coming to Keriss’ face as she stood. Her eyes gazed not at her brother as she walked towards him, but instead at the scales of the back of her hand and her nails.

Sin gritted his teeth. "Don't get used to it." he spat, folding his arms across his chest. "I have two things I need to relate to you about. First, is this Lifsprial. I truly have no recollection of such a being in my life. Where did you hear that name?"

”I have heard his name from father, Vestec.” Keriss began, pausing as she stopped next to Sin, ”I also share a mother with him, Vulamera, who informed me of his existence shortly after my birth. However, I have not met him, unfortunately.”

A small chuckle fell forth from Amartía's lips, the notion of 'mother' setting him off. It wasn't a jest in spite, but one of genuine amusement. "So that makes this Lifsprial your brother." he breathed. "That brings me to my second point. Dear sister of mine, I walk a thin line between life and death; I am certain that this war will take my grace from the face of Galbar."

"Vestec will not let you die, just as he will not let any of his children die," Keriss informed, her cheeky smile disappearing as she spoke. She walked behind him, a softer voice coming to her, "Like it or not, dear ol' father cares for us. My enemy cares for me. The one you seem to detest cares for you."

Amartía snorted at the thought. "Keriss, I am a byproduct of curiosity and cruelty, forged by the fires of conflict from the very moment of my conception, an immortal stuffed in an mortal body soaked with chaos and stringed by a foreign soul; so believe me when I tell you, if and when I die, I want to warn you."

"And what would you have me do with this knowledge? Do you wish for me to treat you any different upon knowing of your death? Perhaps you would like for me to fight harder to avenge you or continue your devious work? In all potential cases I will do no such thing." Keriss inquired, circling around to his other side. She folded her arms behind her back as she walked.

A smirk danced itself upon Sin's face as he stepped away from his sister and made his way towards the exit. Before he crossed the threshold, he spoke. "No, Keriss. I warn you because I fear for the world's safety for when I return from death."

Keriss could only chuckle, turning her head towards her exiting brother. "Then I look forward to our rematch." Soon her chuckle disappeared as her head turned away. "But, let us focus on destroying our current opponent."

Amartía only pitied his dear sister. When he returned; he wouldn't make the same mistakes again.

"Consume and adapt I always say. We have work to do."

One Week Later

Anger and confusion only continued to stew within Keriss’ veins. When she left that meets a week ago, the thoughts of the gods helping her brother after she toiled around on the planet destroying chaos plagued her. She had no clue of the deeds that Lifprasil had done but Keriss sacrificed happiness, she sacrificed her life, and her own child in order to destroy chaos and where was her recognition? ”Where is my praise? Where is that promise of the gods loving me, mother? The only one who treats me with what I deserve is Vestec and he is supposed to be my enemy!” She roared internally.

Keriss no longer knew what to truly think anymore, thoughts seemed to pelt her like an endless storm. These thoughts made her blood boil, finding no solace in the confines of loneliness that allowed her to simmer down and reflect. The thoughts refused to yield, her mind attempting to quell the rebellion that it caused itself.

In the ruins of some building that was barely standing, she awaited for herself to calm. Keriss gripped her horns, she wrapped herself in her wings as if attempting to hide from the thoughts but to no avail.

”Pull yourself together, Keriss, these thoughts- this anger, is pointless.” She commanded herself. Her breath grew shallower and shallower by the second, closing her eyes and pointlessly attempting to calm herself. The Demi-Goddess would not let her emotions get the better of her any longer. ”A dreadful existence was what I was born to. They only created me to destroy chaos, a war machine. They never cared about me, no one but Vestec.” Keriss told herself, the thoughts seemed to overwhelm her.

She forced herself to unwrap her wings from around her, there she saw only serpents of ash approaching her. Keriss did not move, the serpents edging ever closer.

The lizard stood to full height, staring at the ash. The very burnt wood of the building seemed to be dissolving to join the serpents, slithering towards Keriss. The thoughts only seemed to grow more aggressive as the serpents approached, the lizard turning around and around only to see more serpents. The worms refusing to stop, one began to surround her foot.

”No,” Keriss commanded lightly to the worm, the serpent refused to recognize her order. ”Stop!” she growled. The worms only seemed to move faster. Keriss soon found the worms set crawling all over her, some segments joining with other serpents in their attempt to surround Keriss.

”Go away!” Keriss roared, wings flaring, teeth bared. The ash scatter into a cloud around her, a ripple seeming to go through their forces as the ask slowly began to reform into a cloud gaining greater and greater speeds. For now Keriss could see through the haze of the cloud that formed around her. The building only seemed to join the ash, adding to its power. She saw that other burnt buildings began adding to the storm. She could see the very ashen winds pelting the Dagon outside. Soon it all became black, the wind roared.

Keriss looked around, she could barely see two feet in front her as she slowly began to walk out of the ruin that she was in. The lizard spread her wings and flew upwards before the winds pushed her back down in a violent fashion. Nothing could be seen as she returned to her feet. THWAK. She looked back in time to see a plank of wood smash into a Dagon.

She made her way back to the Cipher, remembering the path somewhat. Hiding behind a wall, she shallowly breathed as the ash storm only continued to rage outside. There was no more ash within the ruined Cipher, it had all gone to the storm. What had she done? What had she created?

Whatever this was, it certainly did not like it when Keriss rejected it. ”What is with this storm? Why is it so powerful?” The thoughts spoke to her once more, unrelenting in their assault, never giving Keriss peace.

Lounging upon his dais in all his glory was the one and only Lord of Sin, his face the epitome of hubris as Dagon carefully braided his flowing white hair with claws capable of cutting clean through bronze.
-------------------------------
As was expected of one as ambitious as Sin himself, the week spent preparing Xerxes and the Dagon was more than enough time. Miles and miles of underground trenches dug with Dagon's claws, a byproduct of his genius intellect. Hiding the Dagon underground had been his idea, and with his guidance- and Tauga's presence, he supposed- thousands of Dagon now roved and raved in the ground, their ravenous instincts festering into uncontrolled rage, just waiting for the opportunity to attack. With every pocket of Dagon, each numbering in the twenties, lay a single Dagon Victor, ready to lead to hordes to the surface. With their superior senses and keen yet killer instinct, the moment to strike was left to them.

Tauga herself had virtually disappeared, lost in the sheer scale of the operation. The Rotfly Watch had splintered into pairs and trios that led work-gangs hundreds of Dagon strong. The speed of the change from cutting down sin cultists to organising Dagon was uncanny; Within days of the last ship's departure, both their environment and their task had been overturned utterly. Still they adapted.

Left to tinker in the barracks while they weathered Amartia's initial storm, Dracces had managed to craft a spore-producing arksynth body, the organic powders of which fused painfully with skin, clothes and exoskeleton, spreading mycelia that could only with difficulty be scrubbed away. Something about the bizarre growth was sensitive to both texture and colour, and within hours the pallid blue fibres took on the dusty, ruinous appearance of the City itself. Tauga vanished into the makeshift laboratory for two days, and by the time she returned, she had weaponised the symbiotic camouflage in both yield and visual accuracy. The new strain even mimicked stains of blood, and could be coaxed to accept grafts of detritus. Only the decomposing matter required to fuel each body limited the output of sporeskin; Thankfully, Amartia's stone provided all in abundance.

Most of the Watch had experimented with the mycelia and, despite its discomfort, had added a layer or two before the fight began to loom. The Rotflies moved through Xerxes like the ghosts they were, forced to wear colourful rags just to recognise one another against the background. And those ghosts remembered every twist and trap in the City they had watched die. Each and every Watcher was a veteran of the Dark Carnival, and their hands were the ones that spirited away the Dagon horde between charcoal and bones.

Xerxes had been swamped by the blood rain. Every road was mired in it, and the sea had turned red. It did not clot easily, nor did the maggots thrive as they usually would in spilled blood. To this terrain Tauga brought a pulsating device like the scarlet gills of a gutted fish, and then, later, another- Soon every team was equipped with one. The 'synth organs absorbed blood and secreted vast films of a gelatinous membrane that mimicked the sanguine pools exactly, even supported the weight of real blood above them. It was like liquid woven into a textile, fusing with the earth at its edges, and did not easily wear. All evidence of tunnelling disappeared beneath the false streams and lakes of scarlet fluid.

Other kinds of surprises were scattered around Xerxes as it was transfigured into a deathtrap. The 'synth devices that Tauga had used to turn sugar into that volatile, toxic alcohol with which she had burned down Amartia's storehouses just weeks before were revived and fed on pure glucose from the Philosopher's Stone. These the Rotflies planted in many hidden places, their sacs bulging with the flammable liquid. Whether by torch, flint, or flame-tipped arrow, they could be ignited at any time from the Watcher's hideouts, spilling rivers of clinging liquid fire into the streets.

So the preparations spun, and night and day the City was crossed by Victors and Watchers, only ceasing when the ash storm drove them to their hideouts, ready for war at a moment's notice. Cautious eyes watched as a reptilian demigod strode through the scorched gale, the broken pyramid in her sights.

Smelling Keriss' approach long before he reached the throne room, Amartía saw fit to confront her of the unwarranted addition that raged on outside the Cipher's walls. "You made quite a mess out there sister." he cooed

”How do you that I caused this?” Keriss questioned, her eyes still wide and her breathing still shallow. Her wings folded around her, wrapping her body but keeping her head within view as she looked to her brother.

Amartía smirked. "Come now sister, I'm Lord of Sin, King of Transgression and Wrongdoing; not much gets past me. Not to mention your wide-eyed gaze and shallow breathe are a dead give-away."

She looked away from Sin as she gripped her horns once more. ”I cannot think correctly any longer. I can no longer silence my mind,” her voice sounded panicked as she explained the only thing she could.

"And what am I to do about it? I need a capable leader not a mental patient."

”Silence the thoughts, leave me alone, I do not know.” Keriss growled, before covering her head with her leathery wings. ”I do not know.”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, Sin abruptly rose from his recently polished throne of marble, interrupting the Dagon's hairstyling, earning him a short snort and growl. Pacing his dais, he pondered on his sisters growing dysfunction. Many a man gave notion to the nastiness of women, but Amul's Eye Keriss was a handful that Fate made a mistake in ever shitting out.

"Look Keriss, I….understand your plight; and I assure you I'm more than concerned about you." he jibbed, sarcasm thick in his voice. "But I can assure you, whatever has happened to you, is nothing compared to the yoke on my end. I regularly am subjected to episodes random visions of a past I know nothing about. There was an attempted assassination on my life yesterday; thankfully taken care of by Tauga, I have a population of super-predators who can't braid hair for the life of them, and the gods will probably smite me off the face of Galbar who knows when!" he droned breathlessly before waving Keriss off.

"So if you find it necessary to curl up in a ball, then realize that your problems are the least of anyone's concern."

Turning to his sister with a look of genuine concern despite his scathing words, he continued on. "Great talk though!" Now, where my mentally stable lieutenant?"

Keriss remained within her ball, silent. "You were right about my existence being a long and lonely one."

Amartia snapped his fingers and sent a faint pulse of Wrathful energies out into the air, just as a Rotfly messenger had awkwardly instructed him to do on Tauga's orders. A faint smattering of fresh blood joined the ash storm beyond for a moment, the two demigods' powers momentarily intertwined. Not long after the first and last droplets fell, sprinting boots were heard approaching through the ruined palace.

The Blowfly's splay of unseen tendrils filled the room before she did, the taste of blood fresh in their memory. "Sir. You signalled."

At the sound of Tauga's voice, Keriss shifted her wing around so that she may view her friend. Slowly, the lizard unravled her wings, remaining silent.

Struggling to keep the look of utter disgust and reproach from his face, he forced a deadpan expression and turned to his Lieutenant. "Tauga, you have done a wonderful job so far. With all our pieces set in place - are we ready for this little invasion of ours?"

Days of work by tens of thousands of abhumans were condensed into a single "Yes." And they were ready, Tauga knew. Ready to die. Her soldiers had given everything they had left to this bloodbath, and now they waited for the end.

Outwardly, she unclipped her mask and brushed ash from its surface, standing to watch Amartia with one pair of eyes and meet Keriss's gaze with the other. She could see her friend's anxiety, and acknowledged it without really thinking, added it to a list of things that needed her attention. [color]"What's with the storm,"[/color] Tauga opened flatly.

Keriss looked away upon hearing Tauga’s question, not daring to open her mouth to the subject any longer. She wrapped her tail around her legs, slowly. The thoughts only continued to roar, thousands of voices speaking at once.

"Come now Keriss, what exactly is this storm about?"

Keriss let out a long, heavy sigh as Amartía dared to question her. ”I know not why the storm has come to be so. All I know is that the thoughts do not stop talking.”

Though she spoke, she refused to look at either of the two, disgraced in herself.

"Drink," said Tauga, not a grain of malice in her voice. "It shuts up the voices for a little. I think." A small shrug. It was borrowed advice, but back when there were still people left in the city, still hope to be lost, it had been easy to watch that advice in action. When Tauga continued, she was addressing Amartia, deliberately pulling both their gazes away from Keriss. "You think you can stop the wind?"

A frown played on Amartía's lips; he may be an all-powerful, beautiful man of a man, but even in all his glory, some things just escaped his soft -- yet capable -- hands.

"Unfortunately, he began, another sigh of exasperation escaping his mouth. "Such a storm is not in my pay-grade. If you haven't noticed, I'm a meta-physical bugger. Speaking on such matters, Keriss, why not just relinquish yourself to the rage, that'll shut up the background noise." An almost imperceptibly small head-shake from Tauga's end of the table.

”No.” Keriss simply responded.

Amartía sighed. "That's to bad, I was looking forward to seeing you on a rage-induced rampage." No more movement from the hain.

Opting to change the subject, as was earlier attempted, Amartía switched his gaze to the hain, paused, and returned to Keriss. "Anything else you'd like to share with us? Before we move on?"

”No.” Keriss repeated softly, not returning the gaze. "What next," hastened Tauga at the same time.

Sinking into his throne, Amartía medicated on that very question. What was next? As soon as the answer came to him, a wolfish grin marred his features. "We wait."

Susa
Level 4 hero

"So, it is morning over here, huh?" said Susa.

The first rays of light of the rising sun were the first thing she noticed when she stepped back into Mesathalassa. Not an instant ago, she was in Alefpria, where the night sky ruled.

"Makes sense I guess..." she shrugged.

She had yet to grasp most of the concepts taught to her after she became involved with the godly world, but even in her limited understanding, this change in time made some sense.

"Good thing I decided to visit this place before the actual meeting."

The leather charm she received back at the innkeep was the typical family keepsake of the inner Mesathalassa. All hunters, and by extension, shamans, had their own empathetic animal, which defined most of their training in both life paths. The ritual in which the connection was established is deeply religious, but for most people, after training was over, it didn't mean much outside of a token and maybe the source of a few jokes, still, most accomplished families proudly carried accessories inspired by or printed with the animals. Susa had a hawk, only one of her village and thus why people called her hawke. Her mother had a deer, an animal rare to Mesathalassa but of extremely religious importance.

However, there was not only a deer and a hawk in the charm but also a few inscriptions. Some families did that, with some scrambled references to their homeland or implications about their values, this one looked like that at first, but upon deeper analysis, there was a certain wordplay that led to a location and marked a certain point in time.

Susa had noticed this in the first day she got it but didn't care much for it until she was already back at the capital. Life under Lifprasil was always hectic, but lately, it became suffocating. Endless bureaucracy, training sessions, mock fights, all this while she had to put up a responsible face for the soldiers and guard. This wasn't new, from the first time they met she had notice Lifprasil's effort to try to convert her from a huntress into an army archer, but she didn't mind it, she was grateful for the healing she received, and as time went forward she grew to like him, and Belvast, and Lakshmi, and Tira, and all the other people from that odd city. Still, she was aware of it, and ever since the falling start attack, she became very anxious about it, and in typical fashion, started to deflect the issue by seeking some new trouble that looked less troublesome to trouble her mind with.

She didn't care about the absent mother or the intrigues of shamans and hunters, and that was perhaps the charm behind seeking the whys behind someone giving her the little leather charm.

That was only in a few days, though, for now, her curiosity had brought her to Mesathalassa for other reasons.

---

The huntress rested her back against the abandoned palisade of a ruined building she had found. Not too far from the northmost harbor town and the Vascogne tradepost.

She breathed in deeply and tiredly. She was impressed at just how fast she managed to run across the entire region, overlooking all of its key cities on the human side. Sadly even if she ran at her peak speed without stopping it would still take almost two days to reach Alefpria. Thankfully she had Belvast to create a portal between the distant regions.

It appeared that most of the region on the human side had been spared from the worst of the Realta attack. It made sense, from what Lifprasil told her, the falling stars only target the works of certain gods, and luckily, Mesathalassa lacked in those. The northern wilderness suffered the most casualties, mostly due to being in contact with the eastern coast, dominated by hain and a with moderate jvanic influence. The southern wilderness and the western coast were largely spared. Only two of the harbor towns even reporting an attack.

She felt glad, which was curious, as she could remember when the hordes strolled by the region and that no razed town or dismantled tribe caused her much grief beyond her own hometown. After all, those were, at the time, such foreign places to her. She remembered vividly her first visit to harbor towns with her father, back when she was still a child, she recalled how Tabata was too hot, Puperute too crowded, Water's Edge too fetid, Kivico, Inganani, Jan, all odd and different.

Now this whole area felt like her personal homeland, and she felt as if all the people there were closer to her than the people elsewhere for reasons that felt bizarre to her, yet somewhat logical...

Susa shook her head.

That didn't make sense. She knew the people of the region better than they knew themselves, and it was easy to remember a thousand or more fellows who were big nuisances to her across her travels.

"Travel lightly," she said, repeating this mantra of the hunters as a way to ward off whatever unneeded feeling that was.

---

Staring at the map and at the reports of the surveys the scouts held in the marshes south of Alefpria, Susa took a heavy breath and faced the room full of Lifprasilians.

"I stand by my point, we should not expand the farms into this direction. Instead, we should leave it as it is, maybe build up some roads, set up a watch. New farms can be built further down south."

Her tone was serious, matching her clothes, an adaptation of the higher officer uniform of Lifprasil's guards with a few changes born from the huntress threatening to throw Meimu out of the highest window in Alefpriel should she ever think about forcing her to wear thick long sleeves.

It was a miracle she managed to get into the outfit before the meeting started, this whole morning had been hectic due to she arriving back from Mesathalassa a bit later than the planned. She also owed Belvast a few barrel worth of fish after making the poor cat wait for hours.

Unaware of the situation, the Lifprasilians in the meeting thought she was just very serious about what she was saying. Still, they had objections to voice.

"Sorry ma'am, but I cannot agree with your idea." a high-ranking officer said, trying to not be too nervous about disagreeing with her "this would need far more resources to be built, would present no boost to productivity and would also split the population, as the new farms would be isolated."

Susa glanced at the officer, almost sighing, almost saying how terribly boring transforming the local wilderness into endless farms would be, but that wouldn't do it, she needed an excuse.

"Most of the land to the north, east, and south are marshes, making this area a reserve would give our guard the opportunity to train in a tame version of this environment and thus making them more familiar with the environment of those regions in the future."

She suppressed a smile, the made up point actually almost made sense. Then she suppressed a frown, as she realized she was talking about conquest again.

It was fine, wasn't it? Lifprasil was a good boss, he did good things, he brought the people a good life. Yet...

The meeting had ended by that point, but one of the officials decided to ask Susa a question. "Miss, I have been thinking about what kind of structure we should build in the area. So far, we never had a major outpost like this in the uncivilized wilderness, and, you know, since your people come from such areas I thought..."

There was a hint of annoyance in the woman's face but she sighed it away. It wasn't that far from the truth, but still, the man could surely take some classes in euphemism with the divas.

"Yeah... I can help, I guess. I know the sort of structure we should build."

---

Her hands carelessly ran trough the wooden walls of the abandoned housekeep she had found on the day prior. Most of the buildings were long gone, what remained were the stone foundations and the wooden palisades.

"So, who lived here?" asked Belvast.

The huntress shrugged.

"Do you think they were attacked?"

"I don't see evidence arrows or fire being used. So I don't think so."

"Huh, I wonder what happened then."

"Eh, maybe the game became scarce, maybe the hunters got lost in a storm and never came back, maybe the people just left."

"It's a shame we can't find out who lived here before. It got me curious... oh well. I will be going now... don't miss the time, this time."

Susa was left alone among the ruined plots and buildings, the location was far closer to her points of interest than the previous portal location. However, she didn't leave for those places, instead, she continued her exploration of the locale.

First, she thought that it was just for the sake of seeing the structures, as the hold they would build in the marsh near the capital would be similar to this typical mesathalassan hold, but eventually, she accepted she was just curious.

It was not that the building in itself was special in any way, but the fact its owners were gone made it interesting in a frustrating way. She was partially aware there was nothing useful to be found but...

Suddenly she threw a rock in the air, almost hitting something sneaking by.

Belvast shrieked in surprise.

"You are lucky I noticed it was you at the last moment in which I could still change the direction of the rock" she scolded.

The cat demi-god answered with a "humpf"

"So, why are you still here?"

"I just got curious. Why are you digging holes in the ground, miss Susa?"

"Eh, decay travels faster trough air than trough earth, apparently. Stuff just last more when under the earth, I think," she said pointing at the muddy cloth she had recovered.

"Oh..."

There was a moment of silence.

"But why are you doing that?"

"Eh? Just curious, to find the stuff lost in time, maybe a few clues about who lived here."

"I see. It is a bit sad, though, isn't it?"

"For sure, in a sense, it is very bitter to see how easily things that were once held dearly can be lost and forgotten."

"So why are you digging it up? Do you think there is something useful down here?"

"I don't think there is anything to be discovered here that is good or helpful, but even then, it is fun just finding out."

---

The assigned place was a limestone ravine, particularly, the section of it that had been used for rituals in times past. The light of the summer sun did not combine well with the walls of beige rock and the dryness of the area, forcing the huntress to find herself a shadowy area to rest, as waiting for hours there was uncomfortable even for a blessed person.

Out of boredom, she started to look at the ritual drawings that decorated the walls of the ravine. Mostly animals, representation of tales and other normal stuff, not too different from what she had near her own village. Even in shrines, it was considered bad luck to draw the gods, as the local belief was that one could never properly represent spirits of such magnitude, the exception were the caves, especially the ones near the Halagan mountains, where the darkness would always conceal most of the drawing, even with a torch, so no one, not even the one who drew it, would ever be able to have the perfect idea of what was in the rock.

However, being a place seen as holy, some figures were more likely to appear than others. The particular breed of Shamanism in the region had a clear cut division between gods of the heavens and gods of the earth, and while the most venerated gods were those of earth, there was a sense of purity and holy seen in the realms of the sky and fire. Due to that, many heavenly creatures were drawn near the shrines, most of them real, like elementals, others, however, as Susa discovered when she was exposed to the true divinity, were not as real.

One of such cases that particularly impressed the huntress were the little bright fly-like things that she and many others saw flying around them, as proven by the many depictions of such things in the rock murals. Shamans disagreed on what they meant, some said they were nocive creatures attracted by rot in the soul, others said they were guardian spirits, in truth, it was just blood within the eye, Susa never understood the explanation very well, but stuff in the blood at times acted oddly and thus the bright dots were created. An entoptic phenomenon, the smart people at Alefpriel called it.

At times she felt silly for having spent her whole life getting things wrong, but at others, she kinda preferred it over the actual deities around. Those bright and fast dots never dove down from the sky and set the world ablaze unlike a more "real" kind of phenomenon.

Perhaps that was why she was even there to start with. She had a chance to get involved with Shamanism before, went far enough into the Hawk path to get people calling her Hawke, but it just wasn't of her interest and it involved way too many rules and social expectations, being with Marcelo also did give her a good reason to not walk "the paths of purity" but it was far from the main reason. Now that she had a wider worldview, she felt more distanced from it all, and oddly, such position made her more interested in all that mess.

Finally, when the sun was about to set and Susa started to lose faith in her ability to read cryptic leather charm messages. Susa's mother finally walked into the ravine, probably doing what the divas described as "fashionably late", the sound of rattles announced her presence before she could be seen.

"Ah, I see you are here." Anzam, if Susa still recalled her name correctly, was wearing a very simple dress and her only accessory was a walking stick with the noisy rattle. Usually, Shamans liked to make their presence clearer and also wore objects of status made from rare animals, not her, though. "That is good, it seems you are still aware of the traditions of your homeland."

"Why did you invite me?" Time was a rare resource in these days, she needed to make that clear.

Her mother's aged face didn't wrinkle any bit more from the rude reaction, it was all expected, and it was good it was like that. "To invite you into the path of awareness."

"Seesh, it is a bit late for that, not sure how much you know, but I almost got married once. Furthermore..."

"Never did I say that you would take a normal path. Surely, for you, the normal path is long gone. But if you were normal, your hair would be graying out, and the bites of time would be showing in your body."

"Oh, so we are going to cheat my way into the circle? But for what purpose? You never really showed any interest in my life or growth, not even when I was being introduced to basic shamanism."

"Do not think this is because you are my daughter, in truth, there are others that could do the same, but you happened to be easy to contact secretly, moreover, I trust your capabilities."

"Oh, and what is this big plan of yours?"

Anzam thought to herself for a few instants, judging how wise it would be to tell her without a promise of loyalty beforehand. "Most of it you would be able to do naturally just by joining the circles. Do you truly need to know what my greater goal is?"

"Huh, now that is funny, do you think I will just..."

"Yes, you will. Truth be told, even if I left at this moment without saying a word, you would try to get back into the path just to see what in the rotting depths you could do that was so impactful. The scent of curiosity and anxiety is just all over you right now."

Susa had to pause a moment to develop an answer "Well, you are right, I guess. So, I will play my part in your little plan, what is next? Surely they won't let me just walk into the great caverns in the Halagans."

"Your identity is somewhat safe, Marcelo and Livina covered your tracks when you crossed the land a while back. Nobody will suspect you are who you are since you are too young to be my daughter, we will just pretend you are some northern huntress who got lost, the current high elder loves people not from here so he will get you involved in a blink, the opposition to letting a stranger into the path would be from my side, but I will downplay it for you."

"Sounds like a bad decision, don't you fear losing ground?"

"I'm too old for that, they will just think I'm being soft because you vaguely look like my daughter. And that is the essence of it, from there onward it will be a natural path for you."

"All right..."

She hastily interrupted her daughter"Good, I will be leaving then, the more time spent together the larger is the chance of something going wrong."

"Wait, aren't you curious about why I'm still so young?"

"Sincerely, just like you will try to figure out my objective once you are involved with the plan, I'd also prefer to find what sort of sorcery or miracle made you stay young by myself instead of having you explaining it to me."

And just like that, as the night took over the sky, the meeting was over, she was handed a second leather piece, this time it didn't even try to be disguised as something else, it was a clear instruction of what to do next and how to fool her way into the shamanic path. She would need to analyze it later, however, as she needed to return to Alefpriel, where the sun had just started to rise, as she had a long day ahead.

Beauty mightn't have been his realm, but Zephyrion had always strived to achieve that precious state in all things. The Nature that he had helped to build was a virtuoso of its own right, and the Celestial Citadel was ever musical. One only had to listen.

A mighty gale pillowed through an open gale and down a spacious white hallway before it at last was met by a wall. The wind broke, but its breath was not gone: a draft echoed back to sing more of the dying wind's song.

In like manner, the words of his Master in their most recent quarrel still resonated within the Vizier's mind. "So go, return to intervene directly with the mortals once again if ever you see fit. I implore you to see if it gives them any lasting benefit. In time you will see for yourself the truth in my words," Zephyrion had promised, yet Ventus was not one to be so easily dissuaded. Now he descended from the alabaster turrets of the Celestial Citadel and down to the Firewind below, with nothing less than the intent of teaching mortal men the secrets of Nature herself.

It was his want to bestow upon the mortals...harmony. Spirituality, a thing greater than raw and unearned power or purpose without meaning. That was the greatest gift that he could offer mortal men. Only the most meditative and serene could derive that enlightenment from their own hearts; to all others, it was as flighty and unattainable as soaring through the sky. In a way, Ventus was giving them wings.

Zephyrion might have held it that men were not meant to fly, but to the Vizier's mind it was a cruel sentiment indeed. What good were the heavens above if their sight could only ever taunt those bound to the earth?

Leaving his Master to brood in the spires above, Ventus skirted low to Galbar. He was a great wind billowing across the Firewind's gleaming dunes. The sand eagerly joined him in his flight, but destruction and storm were not what the windjinn sought to bring, so he stifled the forcefulness of his flight.



The sands rustled and shifted beneath the nomads' feet as they strode onward. Every step of his shamble a battle against the heat and his own fatigue, it was with relief that his band at last returned to the sanctity of the oasis. The one that led this band was the first to kneel before the cool waters. With weary hands he removed his headwrapping of white cloth. A wind rustled through his sweat-soaked hair just as the sand had rustled beneath his feet. In equally similar manner, this offered no respite; the scorching air that gave the Firewind its name meant that the wind could offer no refreshment.

Only the water could rejuvenate the weak and tired. Y'Qar plunged his head into the cool relief, then he cupped his hands and drank deeply. The other wanderers did likewise; some even stripped free from their white robes to bathe in the pool. Y'Qar, ever focussed, did not take such time to relax. He filled his waterskins, sat for a few moments to regain his strength, and then left to pace by the shores of the Firewind Resort in search of a spot to make their next camp. He found a small clearing near the waters, surrounded by palm and date trees. There would be the perfect place, with ample room and shelter from the harsh winds...

Or so he had thought. It was just then that the trees began to sway and a wind suddenly broke forth from the small gaps in the treeline and into the clearing. Even with the trees to slow it, the gale still held enough force to knock up the sand and blow it into the youth's face. Y'Qar grimaced and pulled up a cloth facemask for protection. The wise men of Vetros said that this desert was a sacred paradise created by Master Zephyrion, the best place on this world, and the people believed such tales. Y'Qar, however, had wandered lands far beyond and witnessed places so fertile and green that it made these sandy wastes look dead, seen villages of strange bird-like beings that thrived off those green lands, felt winds that were cool to the skin...

It was hard to see such sights and maintain one's zeal. Y'Qar was hardly a godly man, for in his eyes the Master Zephyrion that condemned his people to live and die within this desert was more worthy of scorn than of praise.

Aye, and the seeds of that resentment had been sown long before! The youth had not always been a wanderer; he had a birth of great importance and privilege, and yet his purpose had been seized in its entirety by nature of primogeniture, another one of Zephyrion's accursed laws. Among his band of nomads were a diverse and many people: there were adventurers that wandered the world, merchants seeking profit, former outlaws seeking haven, Horse People that had been exiled from their tribes or separated from their warbands, but many a few were simply second sons. Y'Qar was one such second son, with his future stolen by an unworthy (yet elder!) brother. Whereas others were born onto a glorious path, it was for Y'Qar to blaze his own trail.

The wind moved in strange ways, buffeting the fronds of the nearby palms but leaving Y'Qar untouched, as if it were courteously keeping a respectful distance. When the vaporous visage of a djinn manifested itself before him, the youth was not surprised by its presence there; the signs had been telling. He was taken aback by why it had chosen to appear before him in such a way and converse. It was rare for djinn to meaningfully go out of their way to interact with men.

"Before you is Vizier Ventus," the djinn lightly breathed, and Y'Qar felt that voice wash over him from all directions. Disconcerted, he realized that the face before him was but one facet of the expansive spiryt's mass. Its ethereal form was big enough to quite literally surround and engulf the entire clearing, perhaps.

Without thinking, the nomad responded in the way that men spoke to djinn in the tales and records of Vetros. The customary introduction went, "And this mortal was named Y'Qar."



The two found their gazes locked upon one another in silent contemplation. Y'Qar's face was one of youth but also hardship, skepticism, and...exhaustion, perhaps. The Djinni Lord's amorphous face betrayed little. Behind it was no roiling wind and raging storm; his being was the embodiment of calm, and that control over his own form demonstrated his power.

Of course, the nomad was no djinn and did not know such things. That name, 'Vizier Ventus', had a familiar ring to it, but whence his mind recalled memory of it he did not know. He could merely look on in captivation until that voice reverberated through him once more, "This leaf has been swept far from its branch. The desert sings with your heartbeat and the winds dance with your breath; you are of the tree of Primus. Have you lost your way?"

"A wanderer is not always lost," came the Prince's answer as he stiffened; it had been many years since he had left Vetros, and so it was not oft that he was recognized. His name even eluded the speech of the Vetruvians now, and he was all but forgotten by all save kindred.

The djinn twisted its face into one that held a look of bemusement. He inquired, "Then what is it that this wanderer seeks?"

"Glory. Fortune. Destiny," the Prince responded without a blink of hesitation.

"Is there no Glory in your name, Fortune in your birth, and Destiny in your home of sacred Vetros?"

Scorn burned bright in the youth's eyes, as brazen as the sun.

"There be Glory only in the shade of another, Fortune at the mercy of others, Destiny to be forever beneath Heru - ah, my elder brother, undeserving and cruel as he may be, but nonetheless the lawful heir.

No; I am prince of only what I may claim for mine own: these far-flung sands, this lush oasis, these scattered people. Vetros no more, for I have abandoned it, and it done like to me."

Even embittered, Y'Qar left the impression of a great many things: eloquent, steadfast, and perhaps even noble and wise in his own strange way. The Vizier contemplated all this and ruminated upon those words for a pregnant pause, the playful eddies about his form brushing across his company.

To one so timeless as he, 'twas but only the blink of an eye. Yet for the mortal before him, the djinni had grown silent for an eternity. "Is your only course to billow before me and stare? I think our exchange over," Y'Qar finally spoke, a hint of contempt poisoning his tone.

The nomad turned his back upon the djinni lord and began to make his way back to his flock.

"No," the Vizir stated as though his command was law. A myriad of things swirled through the prince's eyes in that moment: confusion, derision, rage, perhaps curiosity. Before such emotion manifested as word or even refined thought, Ventus went on.

"Our exchange has merely begun. Your plight and your tale interest me, young one, so I offer you mine own," he continued. The scholar within Y'Qar was invoked, and at once the prince was a new man, or rather, perhaps an inquisitive youth; with childlike reverence he beheld the djinn anew and took in every word of his storyteller's vibrant voice.

"In the time before Time there reigned a great Void, a state of nothingness that yearned, nay, begged for substance. It longed for Change but could not have it, for there was naught but a state of Oblivion so thorough that only the most divine of magics could conquer it, but alas, such magics were never capable of manifesting from nothing.

There finally came Creation from somewhere Else, and with it that divine energy poured into the void. Gods manifested, some from that same mysterious source where the divine magic was summoned whereas others simply exploded into existence for the first time as the magic coalesced.

But there was one great being that was born in its own way: so great was the Void's desire for Change that this longing came to life in the nurturing glow of the divines! From the amalgamation of magic and nothingness and a cry for Change there was formed Master Zephyrion, our noble and common lord, the Embodiment of Change, Master and Maker of Djinn, He Who is within All Things. Whereas the souls of other divines seeped in to this plane from gaps both wretched and heavenly, only Zephyrion was eternal and ever present, and so he alone claims the title of Supreme Being.

I begin with our Master's tale, for his is mine; it was from his own long breath that I was formed, and after me, all other djinn. I am eldest and eternal, for unlike the other Skylords it is not my role to maintain the cycle of nature and rule the winds; I must forever serve Zephyrion as Vizier.

The stars are my elder, but little else; I observed this world take shape, saw the birth of life, and even guided the Life-Goddess Slough as she walked these desolate lands and spawned from her own flesh all things living. I have seen the rise of men in these lands, and though their worship pleases Master Zephyrion he concerns himself with far greater things. In a way he recedes, higher and higher, ever farther detached from god, man, djinni, and earth alike. Serving as the Shepherd of the Faithful and Recepticle of Prayer now falls unto me; thus, I have descended to meet those that I would watch over.

It be my only wish that I teach men how to fly, that they soar e'er higher above and reach the heavens where their Master dwells. To bask in such divine warmth would make you whole, and so it must be done, but this is not something that I may force! By your own wings must you ascend, but by my guidance may you find the strength. So listen, Y'Qar the second son of Akthanos, and I shall tell you the world's secret lore."



Broke merchants, transient criminals and beggars, paupers all. Those were all that made up the small crowd before the shaman now, and while he had come to speak with them, they had no worldly possessions to offer. No livestock or currency, for with it they would not be in the position that they were no in. No food, for if they had such things then thei own children would not be starving. This was of no import; even the poorest man could offer his time and his life, and it was precisely that which this stranger openly seeked.

Y'Qar needed a following, for though he had done as that djinn had willed and shared the secrets of shamanism with those other nomads of his camp, they had taken to the art as fled with it upon the wind. Many saw the gift as something of a second life; the chance to return to their villages and be welcomed as wise men, rather than spurned and turned away once more. Others had only been exiled by their own will, yet it was in the nature of those sorts to refine the new art in seclusion or perhaps wander the Holy Land to spread the teachings. In any case, they had not recognized Y'Qar for the great messiah and teacher that he had been to them, for the great scion that he was of all this land, nor for a man worth dedicating their futures to. No, the object of all their thanks and worship and eternal praise was not Y'Qar, but rather Ventus - that djinni lord that had taken the time to teach him all those things, yet then appeared before the rest of his following, if only briefly. In doing so he forced Y'Qar's hand - he could not have simply left without teaching the others, not once they knew. So he had been forced to stay and mentor them all, one by one, repeating the wisdom and lessons of the djinni lord. Y'Qar knew not whether those students of his were fools that took to the art painfully slow, or whether his own near-instant understanding had been the product of his own superiority or some such magic of Ventus. In either case, he wasted the better part of a year teaching those nomads, but he suffered through it nonetheless. He had hoped that they would remain as his following, growing only more loyal to him for having given them such power, and then he would be commander of a mighty force indeed - a man worthy of praise and glory and tale.

Yet for the reasons aforementioned, they had still scattered like so many grains of dust, and so be it. Rather than that man of greatness, Y'Qar remained nothing, and so he had muttered curses upon them all and then left without turning back. If they were to disperse like dirt, then they might as well be worth the dirt beneath his feet.

Here, he stood before a lot not so different from those nomads before, but now he would try a different approach.

"Witness," he proclaimed to the crowd of ragged men, women, and children, "my powers over the desert and the sands!"

After that, he made sesticulations and his face contorted as some primal utterances left his mouth. There were silent screams and mumbled words of some strange language that men could scarce do more than imitate, and the people looked on like a lunatic. But then, lo and behold, from the dry sand underfoot there burst forth a geyser of fresh and indescribably pure water. Beneath the noon, it reflected gold in the sunlight, and for people of the desert it was just that. When the wells grew dry, the rains scarce, and the Mahd receded, such pure water was a divine blessing.

They all rushed forward with cupped hands to drink from that geyser, and the taste of that water surpassed all expectation imaginable; it was like the sweetest honey, the most succulent fruit. And yet it was alive! With a start they all jumped back when the geyser itself twisted and warped into a humanoid form, its eyes meeting the shaman's only after glancing irritatedly over those that had tried to drink from its spray. It spoke in some strnge language, and the magical man before them answered it in kind. Whether he be begging or haggling or ordering the djinn they could not tell, but after some conversation the elemental nodded and then receded back into the depths of the sand, leaving that pool of water behind where it had first emerged.

Though the shaman seemed tired, his words nonetheless carried a new regality and authority behind them as he addressed the onlookers once again, "All this and more, I can do. And perhaps you could too, for I could teach you. You need only leave behind your lives here and follow me, swearing your loyalty to me."

Their eyes flickered back and forth. They owed their lyoalty only to the Priest-King in the great and faroff city of Vetros and to the Master above. Yet many of these people had never even laid eyes upon Vetros, and though there were fables of the King having great magic and performing similar miracles, none had ever witnessed such powers in person. This man before them had demonstrated such power, and so all that awe and mystery that they attributed to the King fell upon this man, and he knew it. To them, he was a demigod. And because he stood before them and not the King, the choice was easy to make. Men always followed the kings and gods that they could see, believe, and touch. To a man, each of those homeless paupers knelt before him and swore their undying loyalty and promised to follow him to the sunset and beyond. When word spread, even some of the landed people that had lives and things that they would leave behind decided to follow Y'Qar. And so they went on to the next riverside village, and the one after that, and it was always the same.

He had managed to reach these remote villages before any of the other wandering shamans of his former nomad band had taught the arts of shamanism freely, and so to these people he was something out of myth, something they had never seen before. By simply tempting them with promises that he might eventually bestow upon them such powers, he had their undying loyalty. They would walk the blistering sands by his side and travel to the ends of the world for him, whereas those that he had actually shown the gift had become disillusioned and left. The Vizier Ventus had wanted Y'Qar to spread this wisdom and these gifts to all that he could, but do that he would not! There was far more to gain by hoarding such secrets to himself.



Shaqmar of the Sunlit Eyes was no philosopher. He was not known for his honeyed tongue - though it was honeyed! if but they knew - or for the depths of his mind - though it was deep! if but they could see. No, his tongue and his mind had long ago been eclipsed in the eyes of his people by the greatness of his frame and the width of his shoulders and the strength in each of his mighty arms. And though they, seeing the brightness and sharpness in them, named him for his eyes, it was the sharpness of his sword and its quickness that made his name known across the deserts and the plains; aye, that and his skill on the horse. Some heretics went so far as to say that when he first learned to ride, it was great God himself who came down - in the form of a horse - and challenged the young Shaqmar. And where none could tame the Eternal Sky, Shaqmar had wrestled the horse and gained its back, and gained the reins of power and authority over it. Aye, they claimed some wild things, some of them, but they were fools!

They heard, from afar, of the prowess and skill of a mere man and glorified him more than he deserved to be glorified. Before long they would declare him a god in his own right - and an own son of the Eternal Sky! By all things sacred, they were declaring one man or another a son of God every other week. But as it were, it was not Shaqmar's wit and tongue that gained him fame amongst his people, but his strength and skill with sword and horse. Even so, he had long known that neither strength nor great wit alone could get a man where he had gotten. To unite the disparate tribes of southern Rukbany under one banner, under one Qa'id Adheem, was not the result of pure physical strength - though that played a part - and it was not the result of pure wit - though that too played an important part. It was the result of both. Wit was like the back legs of a horse, and strength like the front legs, without both the great beast could not walk, let alone gallop. And that
was the case with any man who was fated for glory - he had to have the means by which he could gallop! How many were those amongst men who thought themselves mighty and great when they were nothing more than legless horses? Too many, by God!

His great steed, Layl, took a few steps from side to side as he stood gazing across the glittering gold of the desert sands. Stroking the war beast’s lion-like mane, he whispered comforting words to it. It carried him on its back in life, and when he died it would go with him and he would ride it into the Eternal Sky and through the hallways of God's great palace and into his sublime court where sat all his illustrious ancestors. Aye, and Layl would carry him there.
The horse was a divine being. If you be one in search of all things beautiful, all things noble, all traits and characteristics sought by all who seek perfection; power and grace, elegance and strength, fearsome authority and unparalleled affability and dignity, supreme physical beauty and peerless spiritual splendour - look ye no further than the horse! Take for instance the foremost feature of the horse - its head. Look first into those onyx eyes which hold within them one thousand and one Rukbanian nights and numerous more tales. Look - aye, look! - to the shape and the natural kohl in those eyes, which would cause within the heart of the fairest maiden unbridled jealousy - Aye, even within the heart of his own wife Layla, who was amongst the women of God's land as the pearl to mud and sand. Stand a horse beside your wife, if you would subject the divine beast to such debasement - but let not Layla know that Shaqmar thought thus! -, and nine times out of ten you would be certain to glorify the beauty of the horse over that of the inferior human form. Why, if you be a maiden-warrior - and Layla was not, but still was she worthy of fear -, stand that same horse beside your husband or any of your co-wives (and Layla had no co-wives!), and ten times out of ten you would praise the God who created the horse for having created the perfect being. Look to the forehead of the horse, how it tapers ever so gently till it reach the nostril, and how in the finest of horses there is the most distinct upturned shape, as in the noses of the finest maidens. And look to the nostrils also. How can two holes on one's face ever look appealing, let alone beautiful? Go ask the God of the horse, for he has made it so!

Were you the most well-travelled of men, and had you seen all that the world had to offer and seen the delights and horrors of the mountainous north and the deserts of the south and the plains of the west and forests of the east, you would surely return crestfallen after a short while, having found on God's good earth no equal to the horse. And 'tis true, there are those foolish ones who are of the belief that the camel is a kind of horse whose beauty far surpasses that of conventional horses - but to them Shaqmar said: fools! What saw they in the lazy, goat-like chewing and lumpy form of the camel - and his toed foot - which caused him to surpass the horse in beauty and grace? There could be no comparison! Indeed, what could be said of those who, upon seeing a pearl like Layla, turned away and proclaimed the beauty of that star or that moon, or such and such a place at such and such a time? That was the example of those who preferred the camel over the horse, and Shaqmar merely used Layla here as an example - none could compare to the horse! Though let not beautiful Layla know, else the Qa'id Adheem will not for long be! Indeed, were it not for the Eternal Sky, Shaqmar knew that he and all of Rukbany would have worshipped none other than the horse - but sanctified is the Eternal Sky! it sent down its Prophet and bid them worship none but it, and they were of those who obeyed.



'There they are,' Shaqmar at last murmured to himself. For there, in the distance like a giant worm slithering swiftly across the desert, was a passing caravan of Vetruvians headed south. Though it was not the place of the Qa'id Adheem himself to be leading such petty raids, it was custom. It was important to regularly hone the skills of the sons of Rukbany, and there was no better time to do so than during the hunting season. Even now hunting parties would be scouring the land for game deeper in Rukbanian territories, and elsewhere along the border with the Vetruvians hunting parties would be setting their eyes on bigger game as he did even now, and as did the eagle when it set its eyes on a wolf instead of a fox – indeed, Shaqmar’s eagle, Lalatai, had recently hunted its seventh wolf! It was only fitting that a lord of eagles like Lalatai should serve a lord of men like Shaqmar. Aye, it was custom to raid them during the hunting season and, which was more, one had to show those inferior heretics their weakness and the errors of their ways from time to time - for look at them, look how they build up great walled towns and cities, and plough the earth like fools, only to fall victim to those whose swords were sharper and steeds faster, and whose forms had been tempered by life in the desert and on the plains and upon the back of the horse. The Vetruvians believed themselves to be chosen of God, they believed that they had inherited the earth - but they realised very little that they only inherited the earth who were independent of it and self-sufficient! Just as he loved a woman who was ever independent of her and never let her for a second feel that he was overly in need of her. If only someone had told Shaqmar that before! for alas, he was, despite being master over all, a slave to Layla's wiles- but shush, lest the winds carry the silent thoughts to minds best kept unaware that Layla had robbed Shaqmar long ago of his heart and mind, so much so that he had proclaimed in the darkness and silence of the night, 'Oh Layla!- have mercy on those you have slain!' Aye, be quiet you ever thinking thinker whose mind is far away in another's arms.

'Come! Let the strong seize what the weak cannot protect; for that is the ultimate law of the world, the greatest force under our one, Eternal Sky,' and with that Shaqmar, some fifty horsemen at his back, led the assault on the hapless caravaneers.



On that night, in that tent, deep in the desert with his newly wed wife away from all other humans as was Rukban custom, he had poured forth his verses as the Mahd poured forth its life-giving waters. But with each verse that he poured out, life gushed forth into his soul, and with each sigh of desire love had nestled deep within and built a nest so firm that no great winds or storms could ever hope to unsettle it. And Layla sat across from him (though in truth, she was sat upon the aching chest of his feverish soul) as he poured forth his verses, her hair and eyes covered with an intricate headdress, her bridal scarf draped around her neck and covering her bridal dress and upper body, and her eyes downturned.

and such was what gushed forth from his being at the time - but had he known what he now knew, and had he known the depths of his love for Layla, never would he have shown it. It was not that he feared it was not reciprocated, but he well knew that in this matter of love he was, as the Vetruvians, tied down and burdened by that which he most loved: for they loved the earth and so grew dependent on it, and so grew weak without it; and he loved Layla and had allowed himself to grow dependent on her, and so grew weak without her. And he realised also that his warmth and confession of unbridled love made it impossible thereafter to be cold towards her and distant. It became difficult to be the Qa'id Adheem around her; he was her maddened Shaqmar and she the possessor of all he had given up to her willing and unwilling.

After he had exhausted himself utterly and dried his soul of all verses, he had fallen upon the furs and she had, after carefully removing her headdress, joined him. And in that state of supreme purity the newly-weds had fallen asleep. For it was considered forbidden among the Rukbans to consummate the marriage by engaging in physical intercourse on the first night. The first night was the night of spiritual intercourse; an intercourse of their everlasting, ever-living souls which - upon their falling asleep together - would rise up to the Eternal Sky together and be united there before their hallowed ancestors by God himself. And their union would be blessed, and their spiritual bonding completed.

Unlike their Vetruvian cousins to the south, the Rukbans had no lengthy marriage process - it was a simple matter of the groom informing the bride's father and, given his acceptance, the marriage would go a head as soon as the respective clans could gather. It was what occurred after the marriage that was emphasised; the ritual of spiritual reunion on the first night, alone in a tent in the desert or on the great open grasslands, and the ritual of the hunt the next day. This was a simple matter of the new husband leaving the roundtent and hunting for food and bringing it to his wife. And the final ritual, on the second night, was the ritual of physical union. For just as the horse required its back legs and front legs to gallop, and just as great men required their wits and their strength, so too did any marriage require a spiritual and physical union to be perfected. But Shaqmar had broken the Law and had not gone through with the ritual, for Layla had wanted to simply lie together with him as they had done the night before. And who was that love-maddened Shaqmar to reject his Layla's command?

'I do not think,' she had whispered with a voice which, alone, was to him as the thousand and one herbs and drugs the witchdoctors claimed could bring one happiness and ultimate delight, 'that the God who created yesterday's experience would wish for us to experience anything less pure and pristine. Why drink from muddied waters when the source of the Mahd gushes before us that we may taste of it?''But what of our union and its completion?' he had asked, and she had turned to him and buried her face into his shoulder, and her muffled whisper reached his ears.
'And what unity after yesterday's unity does the lover's soul seek, Shaqmar?' he was silent and allowed himself to listen to the greetings each of their hearts sent the other.
‘The lover’s soul seeks nothing more, the lover’s flesh knocks at the door,’ he had muttered in response.

And that night, it was her who spoke.
and so passed their second night, two nights as had rarely passed between them since - not because their love had waned, but because the tongue had since been forced to withhold its passions lest others should hear, and the heart in its stead conversed. Indeed, for all the years he and Layla had passed their days and nights together, never had they taken one another's ultimate purity. And Shaqmar would sometimes in exasperation say: 'But what is the clash of one purity with another but a greater and purer purity?' But despite his attempts to persuade her and his clear desire for a son and heir from her – ah! A son from Layla! -, she would never budge and they had not been able to leap together over that particular fire, though they had leapt together over many a flame every new year's eve as was custom. They jumped the flame and they beat the drums and they chased the evil spirits from themselves and from their camp and from their tribe and land, and they purified themselves with the flame, and all that was evil and of Y'Vahn in them was carried away into the Eternal Sky just as the smoke of the fire departed and left nothing behind but the purest light and hottest flame. And the people would play the Igilir and sing traditional songs of all sorts. These were centuries-old traditions - they had been around even before the coming of the Prophet - but something new had come about in Shaqmar's own life, not many years before he had first lain eyes upon the beauty of Layla and known himself forever lost to her.

It happened one new year's eve as the drums were being beat and Shaqmar was preparing to leap over the fire for the seventh time that the winds calmed and the sands settled and all was still. So calm did it become that the flame died down and all would have been darkness were it not for the moons in the sky. And the witchdoctor Alqama had stepped forward, looking towards the skies and raising his walking stick into the air and beating his drum with it as he spoke.
'He comes! He comes!' he had shouted hysterically. And He - if it was He - did indeed come.

As Ventus descended, he fell lightly upon the clearing and a rush of wind kissed the faces of those gathered before him. Wordlessly, he drew the air about him like a cloak. The smoke that rose still from dead firepits was pulled into his breath and so gave him form for the eyes of men to see. The air churned slowly with Ventus' rhythmic breathing, but he controlled himself and did not manifest as some terrible and destructive vortex.
"Before you is Vizier Ventus," he spoke softly upon the breeze. Alqama gulped and brought his raised staff down and raised his drum-hand instead, in salute.
'Before you are the Azad, sons of Rukbany, sons of the Eternal Sky,' he brought his arm down and swept it sideways, gesturing to those who stood around him. Alqama once more gulped and stood there, slightly uncertain of what more to say. He had expected something more than a simple djinn, but that in itself was still something right? At this time, in this place - it had to be some kind of sign, even if a small one...
'What is our honour that a celestial son of God deems us worthy of his blessed presence on a blessed night like this, when the four great stars are aligned and the skies are as free of clouds as the head of a maiden is free of white? On a night when the innards of birds and the bowels of camels alike speak of great things coming our way, and the droppings of horses speak of a change in the fortunes of these humbled sons of Rukbany, and the seeds whisper in excitement upon being spat out, and the dried skull of the fox and the wolf both declare that victory is nigh.'

"I come bearing a great gift: wings that will let you soar," Ventus offered in answer to the witchdoctor. Alqama's eyes widened in excitement and he looked at those behind him before turning back to the Vizier and beating his drum expectantly.
"...for we djinn look unto men and see a people that walk without Sight and hear a people that speak without proper Voice. With such blessings, you will be at one with yourselves and in a grand communion with nature and the Master, as are we djinn."
Alqama nodded slowly, looking at Ventus and wondering why he wasn't showing them these blessings. Was there some kind of process they had to go through? Did he have to say certain things maybe?
'Uh, that sounds...that sounds tremendous, my Lord Vizier Ventus. The Azad are your willing servants and loyal subjects, and shall treasure your blessings even as the new-born calf treasures its mother's milk,' saying this he looked behind him, nodding more to encourage himself than the others. Behind him, Shaqmar gave him a reproachful look - for Shaqmar, even then, refused to be enslaved. And yet such was his fate, and who could blame him when Layla was his slaver?

Alqama turned back to the Vizier, still nodding - if less enthusiastically than before.
"It is not something to be given by hand, nor explained by mouth, nor magically bestowed. You are the cocoon: it is already within. I only need help you find it."
The golden mist of the Vizier's breath and the wind wrapped about his fingers flowed freely and found their way to Alqama and those others that were worthy of being the shamans to speak for their people. Knowledge of nature and spirituality was unlocked to their discovery; they needed only to look inwards and find that innate lore that they were born with.
"So I leave you with this final counsel: when the lonesome wind howls to you or whispers in your ear, speak back! When the flames of your pit fires roar, listen deeply. Hear and see all that is Nature, and you will learn the ways and tongues of the djinn, and in time perhaps you will look unto the shifting sands and see signs of the future ahead.

I go now to bring my gift to other tribes. Faretheewell, noble Azad," he finished. As the djinn's breath faded, so too did his form. Alqama stepped back and as the djinn disappeared, he raised his stick and drum-arm into the air and let loose his ululations and wildly beat his drum, and all others did likewise.
Shaqmar alone stood unmoving and unspeaking, the singular word and the briefest gaze of the djinn burning itself into his memory. Noble, it had said. And it had looked his way.

And noble he had indeed been, and noble had he proven himself. And with him the once weak Azad, who had been amongst the tribes of Rukbany laughing stocks and monuments to weakness and despair, rose to rule over all. Or at least all in southern Rukbany, for there were stubborn tribal confederations that resisted his power yet - such as the Ma'Erkoz in the north. But it would not be long before they too were brought low before his unconquerable destiny - they would come willing, and if they did not then the Eternal Sky would bring them against their will. They would fall before his undeniable, divinely granted nobility in one way or another. Ah, a noble slave who conquers and enslaves all! Was it not fitting that the greatest slaver of all should be slave to the weakest and most delicate of God's creations? Aye, it was most fitting indeed! Who was not in some way or another a slave, after all?

The raid over, Shaqmar sat upon Layl and watched as his riders gathered up the captives and the loot. The captives would be enslaved and sold off to passing merchants from strange and distant lands in exchange for other more useful goods, such as metal swords - after all, those of the Azad Confederation kept no slaves. It was not their way to do so and Shaqmar forbade it - keeping slaves endangered the lives of the vulnerable (who could trust a slave?) and endangered the purity of Rukbanian blood (there was always the danger that the weak heart would find within it something even for an inferior slave!)

Now, Shaqmar by no means differentiated between Rukbans and non-Rukbans, slaves or freemen, but there was no shame in wishing to preserve the purity of one's line from the blood of other peoples. Taking pride in one's culture and bloodline was only natural, and seeking to protect that did not mean to say that other peoples were truly 'inferior'. Inferiority was relative, after all. A Rukbanian man could on these deserts and plains be the greatest of men, and in the cities of Vetruvia the lowliest and most debased, despised by all. What woman would then wish to so much as approach him, let alone have his blood in the veins of her descendants? And likewise, the queens of Vetruvia could in their high castles lord over all and claim the purest and noblest blood, but what sane, dignified son of Rukbany would wish to have that self-same blood flowing in the hearts of his children? The matter was clear, no controversy was there in the inferiority and superiority of people, for the greatest of men were at the same time elsewhere the lowliest, and every man in his time is slave and slaver both.

With the newly captured slaves taken care of, and the caravan thoroughly looted, Shaqmar steered Layl away and rode with his men back into the desert. And as he rode his mind carried him to the last time he had spoken to Layla, when she had come to him as he stood beside Layl staring out to the horizon. And with none around to hear them, she had untied her tongue and let loose a little of what lay hidden in her heart.
'Shaqmar, I have come. It is I,' she had said, placing her two small hands on his back. But he had not turned to her in greeting, and merely continued staring into the skies, 'Shaqmar?'
At last he turned with a sigh, and moved away from her.
'Get thee away from me,' he had commanded her, 'for my love for you busies me from you,' and he had untied Layl from the tree and gotten upon the horse's back, and without a backward look had ridden away and was soon followed by his men. And he did not see the tears in his Layla's eyes, and he did not hear her lonely sighs and cries - for sometimes, it was the idea of Layla rather than Layla herself that occupied his mind and soul. After all, when souls love one another the physical body in which the soul is contained becomes irrelevant, and wherever one places their eyes they find there the eyes of Layla, and there her fragrance, and there her subtle sighs and there and there the shadows of her steps in the sand.



One of his riders came alongside him and grinned at the Qa'id Adheem.
'What is this that I hear? Do the Sunlit Eyes of Shaqmar find themselves blinded and his heart stolen?' Shaqmar turned his head towards Qaseer and laughed.
'Aye! For who can know the beauty of the Eternal Sky and not fall deaf, dumb, and blind to all other forms of beauty and love beside it?' Qaseer nodded with a stupefied look.
'Ah, yes yes, all praise the lovey dovey Eternal Sky and all that. You were saying earlier about the remaining rebels...what's the plan?'
'Rebels, son of my uncle?' Shaqmar asked, raising an eyebrow.
'Well yes, cousin, for they have rebelled against our just and well-deserved rule. Of the tribes of Rukbany, we the Azad have been chosen. And of the Azad, the clan of Irqa. And of Irqa, the line of Muharaq. And of Muharaq, the family of Buraq. And of the sons of Buraq, Shaqmar! And when I say they are rebels, it is true, for they have rebelled against the Qa'id Adheem Shaqmar son of Buraq son of Muharaq son of Irqa son of Azad and refused to submit themselves to his justice. Why not call rebels rebels?'
'Cousin, they are not rebels who were never under our sovereignty to begin with, and enjoy supreme power in their lands and the obedience of many tribes and clans.'
'Aye, that may be so, but they are rebels who see that the very land beneath them submits to our sovereignty, yet remain unbowed.'
'They who live upon the land need not do as the land dictates - indeed, the land must do as they who are on it dictate. And so long as they are on it, it shall glorify their sovereignty, not ours.'
'Alright, alright. When will we at last break them, that is all I seek to know!' Qaseer finally snapped.
'It is not my intention to break anybody, cousin,' came Shaqmar's amused response.
Qaseer gave Shaqmar a deathly stare, and the Qa'id Adheem knew that the man's bald head was probably boiling red beneath his blue turban. He was a short stocky man, and as was the case with most short stocky men, he had a temper as short as a fair maiden's beard - that is to say, extraordinarily short. Be not fooled by the length of Qaseer's beard!- for there was little wisdom or patience behind those deep, pretty brown eyes; as each of the man's ten wives had swiftly learned subsequent to being wooed by the little devil! Aye, some fair maidens very quickly fall for the broad chest and silver tongue of a hot-headed demon - ere he flashes his sword and displays his prowess, the poor thing is all but panting with desire at his feet. Beware of devils, ye fair maidens; not all that shines with beauty shines all the way, and is it not said that the terrible beast Y'Vahn itself - which dwells on that dark moon Azmund-Y'Vahn - is viewed in the eyes of its slaves as the most beautiful of things? And he had a drop of divine wisdom who first realised that the eyes of mortal beings are the greatest of all liars, swiftly followed by that unseeing mortal heart!

'Shaqmar, you know what I mean. When will we launch our assault on them, when will I at last be able to sate my sword's thirst for Hunayra's blood?' Shaqmar rubbed his aching shoulder and shrugged.
'Your rivalry with Hunayra is no concern of mine, Qaseer. I will not launch a foolish assault on the Ma'Erkoz and their allies so that you can satisfy some whimsical desire to prove yourself against him. And truth be told, I am even less inclined to do so when I know that the only reason you wish to fight him is to get your hands on his wives, especially Arya. You will have me dishonour myself so, that all will say, "The Qa'id Adheem slew the Ma'Erkoz so that his cousin could get another woman"? Go pester someone else, you saucy boy,' Qaseer's face reddened significantly, and his eyes darkened. Without a word, he turned his steed away and joined a group of riders further back.
Other than Shaqmar, none but Qulut - Qaseer's father and Shaqmar's uncle - could rein in the notoriously hot-headed Qaseer. He would be angry for a little while, that was true, but, as was always the case with Qaseer, he would soon forget. Left to his thoughts again, Shaqmar's eyes returned to the far horizon, and thoughts of Layla once more preoccupied his mind.



But there were blades that were equally keen - the sword of betrayal and its cousin the knife of treason. As their steeds rode the dunes, golden sand gave way to gold and green grasslands as far as the eye could see. Great rolling hills and wide plains merged into one another, forming a magnificent tapestry. Herds of horses could be spied making their way over the grass, and elsewhere riders with their yaks or goats or camels could also be seen. And dotted here or there was the odd roundtent or two.



And as the hunting party came to the crest of a hill there came into view on the wide horizon an encampment with a stockade surrounding parts of it. It was not unusual for smoke to be drifting lazily from such temporary encampments, but Shaqmar felt that something was amiss and immediately reared Layl in. He looked with his sharp eyes towards his distant encampment, an ever-deepening frown growing on his face. It was burning.

The demigods can be watched with the birds, Minus. It is time you returned to Cornerstone.
...
Is there something preventing you from returning?

---

The work was never done in the home of the dwarves. They thrived on it. Every day, there were hard metallic strikes pinging and pinging in a rhythm against the walls. More space for the growing population.

The familiar ring of picks sang out even in the ever-crowded, ever-burbling expanse of the communal dining hall. Rows of stone tables flanked by stone thrones seated carousing dwarves of all shapes and disciplines. They always drank -- it was a paradox of their physiology that the fungal ale they brewed was what kept them focussed and healthy. That did not preclude them from slurred speech, giddy personalities, and the occasional wrestle.

Granted, too much ale would still render them intoxicated. Albeit, far more than what would kill most other living creatures.

The routine repeats.

One dwarf lass with straight black hair sat half-asleep with her chin in her hands, leaning her elbows on one of the tables. She had been carving stone all day; tools and furniture, mostly. Her fair-skinned hands were delicate as dwarves go, but the others saw her as a symptom of being blessed by the leaders -- the demigods. After all, none could quite shape stone so precisely as her. She was well sought after in the home.

"Oi, Mafie Snowhands!" One of the dwarf men called out to the lass from down the table. "Ye look as'f you 'bout to fall dead! Come and 'ave a drink and I'll beat ye shapely backside easy in a contest! That'll have ye lookin' lively!"

Mafie opened her eyes and cast the man and his group of friends a sly smile. Contests of the liver were something of a matter of pride amongst the stocky dwarves. When Mafie won her first contest without so much as swaying, she had since upheld a high standing as a strong drinker, even above most men in the mountain. None had yet expressed suspicion when she only afterwards began to show weakness in such contests.

"Yer the big chug-dwarf under the mountain, now, aren't ye Asmel?" Mafie said, lowering her hands flat on the table and grinning. "Champion? Aye, yer riskin' big pride thinkin' ye can pu' me under the table!"

"Och! That'd be easy." Asmel's teeth glinted from behind his lush orange beard. "We play fer wagers," he growled and stabbed a finger at his wide chest. "I wun, and you be me wife."

Mafie's widening smile and narrowing eyes looked Asmel up and down as her head slowly tilted. There were few enough things to bet under the mountain. Courtship was becoming a popular alternative in the medium of gambling. "What if I wun, you clevur git?"

Asmel extended a hand upwards and nodded. "Name yer price, snowflaeke." His words held a mocking congeniality.

A haunting laugh permeated the hall, causing the chatter immediately surrounding to fade. Mafie breathed and continued to laugh as she stood up onto the table and spread her arms. "That were yer first mistaeke, Asmel." She walked with long strides, landing her feet between the plates and steins without looking, despite apparently using her arms to keep her balance. When Mafie reached the seat opposite Asmel, she leapt and twisted in the air, landing on the stone throne with a fabric thud. The winter clothing was good for cushioning falls.

"How about I choose what I make you do after I wun?" Mafie said over her poked out bottom lip. She leant her forearm against the table, leaning forward at Asmel's widening eyes.

Everyone was watching. Waiting. No one had been able to win Mafie into marrying them before. This would be the fifth attempt.

"Done." Asmel slammed his favourite mug onto the table between them.

Mafie leant back to unbuckle the mug on her belt and slammed it down in turn. "Then yer on, bear shite!"

---

There is one more lead of investigation I must follow regarding the demigods. It will not take longer than thirty-six hours.
Act as you see fit. Update me after thirty-six hours or earlier and then return to Cornerstone.

---

"Igan...I-gan-'ave anoder..."

"Asmel. Asmel?"

He reached up and realised he was against a wall. "Gemme'up. Igan Still drink!"

"Gerrup, Asmel!"

Delicate fingers grabbed his hand and he felt a wrenching sensation. Asmel felt the wall fall away as he turned sideways. He peeked his eyes open and realised that the wall had been the floor and he was falling over the other way towards it. He was caught by the blurry black and white shape in front of him. He focussed his eyes on seeing Mafie Snowhands, in double. Her hands were in his. Everyone else was watching, some chuckling. "Siddown a moment, ye great lout!"

"Huh?" Asmel flopped backwards and landed in a seat. At least he was still in the dining hall. "I los'?" he slurred at no one in particular.

Mafie walked back a pace. "Aye, now it be time to pay fer yer mistaeke, Asmel. Just follow along." Mafie spun on her heel and pointed to the occupants of another table. "All'a you!" She clapped, clapped, clapped, clapped. "As I said before!"

The dwarves thumped their mugs on the table in unison with Mafie's continued clapping. Mafie grinned with satisfaction and turned to another table, clapping a different skipping rhythm. The other table used their mugs to replicate. The thundering beat permeated the hall. The ever-present pick axe strikes were finally drowned out by the beating heart of the mountain, channelled through the stone and clay mugs of dwarves. Mafie beamed and opened her arms, her eyes drooping as she took in the music. She instructed one last table with a rhythm, off the beat of the first two, establishing a song that made her lightly step in place to it. Her eyes found Asmel after her light steps edged around to face him.

"Whadid'ye...? Whass goin' on?" Asmel was fidgeting on his table in fear. Even if he could run, he was still too drunk. "Whaddid'ye do to everyone!"

Mafie bent her knees slightly and lowered her arms. Her head was angled forward, daring Asmel. "Go on, see if ye can catch me!" She shouted over the thundering mugs. She thumped her chest and beckoned. "Come on! Ye wanted a wife! Catch one!"

Whether it was the drink or whatever effect was influencing everyone else in the room, Asmel felt his previous intentions become amplified with the regular drumming. He clasped both his hairy hands onto the sides of his chair and pushed himself until he stood. He took one uneasy stomp forward, then another. Asmel's eyes bored into Mafie and her grin.

"Do it, you gaspin' trout!" She shouted.

Asmel grit his teeth and launched forward, hands outstretched. He was barely able to move his legs fast enough to keep upright, sending him halting onto the side of a table, through the thin air that Mafie used to occupy. A bridge of laughter broke through the drumming mugs.

Mafie's voice rang out behind him. "Not good enough, Asmel! Try again."

Asmel pushed off the table and spun around. He launched himself in a similar manner, with similar consequences. He stood up, tried again. Stood up, tried again. The blue welts forming on his head and torso did not stop him. Mafie's voice took a turn for the sympathetic after the tenth time. Or the eleventh -- he had lost count.

"Yer tryin' too hard, Asmel," she said, this time placing a hand on his back as he struggled to return to his feet. The mugs still thundered on around them, yet he could hear her perfectly. "Look, ye see me like some challenge, some preize. I ain't all I'm chiselled out to be, a'right? Don't think I'm all that."

Asmel turned his head around, throwing a confused and defeated look through his black eye.

"Look, promise ye'll treat me like a dwarf and a friend and we can 'ave a dance, then I'll decide whether I wannae pu' up with ye for the rest of me life." Mafie worried her brow and smiled. "Would that be a'right with you?"

The broad body under Mafie's hand shrunk as Asmel exhaled. After a moment closing his eyes, he nodded and stood up to his feet, before offering a bruised hand to Mafie. "Care fer a dance, Mafie?"

Mafie's actions were her answer. She beamed and took Asmel's hand, pulling him into a spin. She laughed as Asmel twisted his face in an awkward effort to keep balance. They slowed to a rhythm with the ever-thundering mugs, but they were not the only ones dancing.

Around Mafie and Asmel, many other dwarves had taken partners to spin and step and leap with the drumming stone. They danced to exhaustion, drunk on ale and thrill.

---

What is your assessment of the demigods' servant race?
The dwarves are industrious, yet they take after some of Slough's propensities to a greater degree than the hain. However, their dependency on ethanol in their diets makes them unreliable and at the same time dependent.

---

Mafie and Asmel stumbled out of the dining hall in each other's arms, still cackling at a half-baked joke made ten minutes earlier. They staggered through the dark halls in search of their beds with hardly an understandable word emerging from their drunken mouths.

They were about halfway there before Mafie even chose to speak up seriously. "Asmel, yer not a bad dancer for havin' lost a drinkin' contest, ehheheh..."

"And yer not a bad drinker for..." He pulled his chin back to silence a belch. "Havin' two left feet."

"Don't go givin' yerself too much credit now, ye still step like a fish," Mafie laughed. Asmel joined in as that next laugh set them off for another long while of walking.

Mafie pushed up closer against Asmel and sighed. Her contented smile was contagious.

"Do ye really want to marry me, Asmel?"

Asmel's grin faded, joining his moustache with his beard once more. "Actually, Mafie, I just wanted to see what it was like."

Mafie's face scrunched up incredulously. "You dirty dog. To see what what was like?" She looked up at Asmel and her face darkened. Her eyes widened at the creature she was holding. The surface she was holding became cold against her fingers, causing her to gasp and step back.

The lean, armoured figure stood taller than Mafie, though it was thinner than any dwarf. She thought that it might have been a demigod. She hadn't seen or heard of this one before. It was white clay, plated, lithe. The soft rattle of chains brought her attention to the flail-like weights snaking around him...her...it. It was impossible to know. It wasn't Asmel.

Minus looked down on Mafie's shocked silence, just in time for her to fall backwards onto a seat on the floor. "To see what it was like to dance with another," the gentle voice had the texture of custard. Sweet and smooth.

The chains snaked forward with a mind of their own, shooting around Mafie's legs and neck. She tried to scream, but the chain around her neck tightened. She could not even breathe.

"Thank you, dwarf Mafie Snowhands for this favour. I must cover my tracks now."

Mafie struggled against the chains now wrapping around her entire body as she was lifted from the ground. Her eyes beaded with tears as they rolled backwards.

"Asmel never existed. You were very nice to him."

Mafie squeaked something, mouthing words that could not be given strength. It was pleading. Pleading that her crying eyes were expressing to greater effect.

"Goodbye."

Mafie's black hair flew in a twist and a bony set of cracks sounded. Her body went limp with her hair. Minus had its chains so entwined that it could feel her soft soul exit her body. Like a discarded doll, Minus unrolled Mafie's body over a staircase next to them, letting its chains retract back into its arms. Mafie lifelessly tumbled to the bottom of the flight, landing in a twisted pose. Her dead eyes were frozen open.

In the silent hall, Minus summoned forth its spinning clay wheel from the floor. A body replicating the form of Asmel was shaped, with a broken neck added to his now lifeless form. Minus tossed the corpse over the stairs in the same manner as Mafie's body. It then walked to the exit on clinking clay sabatons.

---

What did your lead find, Minus?
It was inconsequential.

---

The rushing expanse of ice below Minus repeated onwards to the horizon as it flew back north. The dwarves would have found the bodies by now. It would be marked with sadness and tragedy.

Minus only bowed its head, flicking it every now and then. It spotted the rare wildlife of the tundra.

They were weak. The best of them would not have survived the dance.

The idle journey drove Minus to extend one chain low enough to the ice to have it bounce and make marks through the snow. It served no purpose to do so. It simply preferred to see what marks would be made instead of thinking of the previous failure.

A quick death. She was in love, not in pain. Simple creature.

Minus' head perked up suddenly. It banked to alter its course with the latest message from Toun.

---

Alter your flight. You will now meet with Majus outside of Xerxes.
At once, father. What shall we do when we arrive?
Observe. Do not interfere unless I order you to.
Understood.

The halls of the Celestial Citadel were rarely lively. There simply weren't enough beings living there to inhabit those halls. A few marionettes lingered, routinely maintaining the plants Teknall had brought up here, but while their mechanical natures were interesting they made poor companions. There were only the gods, and they tended to be quite busy. Plus, there was little to do here. Only so many little machines can be made with the leftovers of the Lifprasillian occupation, and there was little point with no one to use them. She might have spent years tinkering in Teknall's Workshop, but it was so small and she had no power to travel interdimensionally, so it would quickly become a prison.

But more so, there was so little life in either place. Life was so fascinating, inimitable by any artifice. And it held so much beauty. There was the confined plantation of Teknall's Workshop, and the pot-plants in the Citadel, but every time she looked out from the balcony of the Citadel she saw the vast masses of green below, which contained the tapestry of life in its full glory.

Kinesis had made up her mind. It was time to travel the world.

She packed her things, although she had little to take. There was a selection of tools and useful trinkets she had made. And there were the clothes on her back: her white cotton dress which had been adapted into a blouse, short-legged dungarees of brown leather, and a leather satchel to carry her belongings.

As she packed, she felt a familiar presence enter the room.

"Are you leaving now?" asked the gentle voice.

Kinesis turned to see Teknall standing at the doorway. "Yes, father," Kinesis answered simply.

Teknall gave a small smile and stepped forwards. "Then I wish you a safe journey."

He stepped forwards again and embraced his daughter. Teknall planted a light kiss on Kinesis' cheek then let her go. "If you ever need me, just call."

Kinesis bowed her head shyly. "I will, father."

"Good. I'll let you go now." Teknall stepped back and waved. "I'll see you later, Kinesis."

"Bye, father," Kinesis replied. Then Teknall left.

A few minutes later, the young demigoddess stood on one of many balconies of the Celestial Citadel, overlooking the world far below. Butterflies danced in her stomach. Her nervousness was not of the heights, but of her soon departure from the security and familiarity of home. But she desired the independence to go out into the world and see its many marvels. So Kinesis took a deep breath, put one foot upon the quartz railing, lifted her other foot over, then dived through the atmosphere below. As Kinesis plummeted, ethereal wings manifested and turned her fall into flight.

Kinesis soared high above Galbar's surface, savouring the crisp air above the clouds. She descended when the lush green of the Deepwood came into view, and soon she was among the towering trees. The light filtering through the canopy above danced across the young demigoddess as she swooped between the trees. She watched the diverse gallery of life rushing past her, seeing all the marvellous creations of Slough.

Her flight was not aimless. She had a specific destination in mind, one remembered from her first visit here. Kinesis flew up through the canopy, and a sea of leaves spread out beneath her. And towering above this sea was a great old ash tree. This king of trees dwarfed the rest of the Deepwood trees just as the Deepwood trees dwarfed the trees her father had planted across the world. It was to this tree Kinesis went to, and she alighted upon one of its great branches.

The Kingash was a forest unto itself. This single tree, a titan among trees, hosted a biodiversity which surpassed whole forests. A group of stripe-faced aphids trekked across the branch in single file. A duster ooze had set up its slimy net between some lesser branches. A rainbow silky feasted on one of the Kingash's enormous flowers. A nectar blush skittered along the great bough. Birds and insects of all sorts inhabited the great branches of the Kingash, branches so massive that they are as thick as the trunks of even large trees. Kinesis walked down the branch, marvelling at the resplendent glory of nature. When she got to the trunk, Kinesis climbed up to the next colossal branch and explored it. By the time she had reached its end the day was drawing to a close, so Kinesis sat and watched the sun set over the Deepwood. The sky turned to a beautiful orange hue, clouds were turned to scarlet, purple and pink, and long shadows were cast across the forest canopy below her. Countless birds were flying to and from their tree-top homes as dusk approached. In the Kingash many pinpoints of light manifested as bioluminescent insects awoke for the night. Soon the sun had set and the great jungle was plunged into darkness, lit only by the faint light of the moons and stars above.

It was a truly beautiful vista, but now it was time for Kinesis to find somewhere safe for the night. Besides the cold and darkness, the clouds which had made the sunset so beautiful were actually approaching storm clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance, the sounds of Zephyrion's children at work. From her satchel Kinesis removed a metal rod capped with glass at one end. She flicked a switch on its side and light suddenly emerged from the glass end, illuminating wherever she pointed the rod. With this electric torch Kinesis navigated her way down the branch, around the wildlife, and towards the trunk. It was a long walk, and the first drops of rain were starting to fall as she found some shelter.

At the trunk she found a great hollow, evidence of a branch several metres in diameter which had once existed but had, at some point in the past, broken off from the Kingash and left behind this hollow, which had since become large enough to walk into. Kinesis stepped through the threshold and into the wooden cave, where numerous small mammals and birds had made their home. A nearby colourfully crested rodent shrieked in surprise and scurried away. "Fear not, my friends. I am Kinesis, a niece of Slough. I mean you no harm," she cooed gently. This seemed to placate the animals, and they made space for Kinesis to enter and sit down.

As Kinesis made her camp in the hollow, the storm brewed outside. Rain started to pour down in sheets from the branches above, and the wind howled and beat against the tree, although the Kingash was unmoved due to its great mass. Despite the storm outside, the interior of the hollow was tranquil, a sanctuary, almost sacred. Kinesis felt compelled to do something to honour this great gift of nature. So Kinesis opened her satchel and removed a few tools. She stood up and approached the wooden wall of the cave and, with tools in her four hands, began to carve.

Several hours later, the hollow had been converted into a shrine. Carvings adorned the walls all around. As a whole, the carvings bore natural curves and lines which resembled the bark and grain of the tree from which they were made. But up close the details revealed artful depictions of every creature and plant Kinesis had seen in the Deepwood. And in the centre of the piece was a great and majestic deer, skeletal in parts although not macabre, and with antlers looking like flower-covered branches. Text in a basic runic alphabet was woven through the art. In a lower corner Kinesis carved a depiction of herself sitting cross-legged, with two hands folded in prayer and two hands stretched out in a gesture of meditation. Below that image Kinesis wrote 'By the sweat of her own brow, Kinesis the Craftsmaiden, Daughter of the Great Artisan Teknall, honours her aunt, the lifedeer Slough, with this shrine. May the life that springs from her thrive till the dusk of time'.

Kinesis stood in the middle, put her hands on her hips and looked around at the shrine she had made. She was quite proud of the work she had done here, but this high up in the centre of the Deepwood she thought that nobody else would ever see it. That was when she heard a flowing voice behind her.

"It's beautiful."

Kinesis turned suddenly to see where the voice had come from, casting torchlight upon the newcomer. Standing in the back of the wooden cave was a female figure of translucent green. The figure's curved body was made of a viscous flowing translucent green liquid, held together by some unseen force into the shape of a woman. Her eyes glowed with a soft green light, and her head was adorned with long moss rather than hair. The sweet fragrance of a flower surrounded the figure like an aura. The figure gently bowed her head in greeting when Kinesis saw her.

Kinesis blushed at this stranger's compliment. "Thank you. And who are you?"

The figure gestured to herself and said in a voice like flowing sap, "I am Chloryss, a dryad, waterspirit of the tree. We dryads tend to the trees and help them grow."

It took Kinesis just a moment to figure out what that meant. "I see, you help bring the water up from the roots against gravity. That's how these trees can grow so tall."

Chloryss smiled widely. "Yes, exactly. It is thanks to us that this tree and those around it can grow so tall. But what about you? Who are you, and how did you get all the way up here?"

"I am Kinesis the Craftsmaiden, daughter of Teknall. I got here because I am a demigoddess."

Chloryss gasped and clapped her hands over her mouth, an action which made a sticky sloshing noise, then quickly flowed forwards into a bow. "A divine being! I welcome you to the Kingash, Kinesis. I am humbled by your presence."

Kinesis blushed again and glanced aside in embarrassment. She was not used to such displays of fealty. A booming thundercrack and the flash of lightning interrupted the scene, leading both women to look out through the entrance of the hollow towards the storm raging outside. Water was pouring from the pitch-black sky above, illuminated only by Kinesis' torch and the occasional flash of lightning. The wind howled outside, whistling through the branches and blowing about leaves and sticks. Yet despite the chaos outside and the ferocity of the storm, the hollow was strangely calm.

"Do you ever worry about those elementals?" Kinesis asked.

Chloryss shook her head. "No. The skylords respect our domain of the trees and our place in the Natural Order just as we respect theirs. There is rarely any conflict between us."

"That's good then."

The two were quiet for a little longer, watching the storm outside, until Chloryss finally broke the silence. "I must return to my duties now. This hollow will provide safe shelter from the storm. Thank you for this beautiful gift," Chloryss stretched her arm out to gesture at the carvings on the wall. "You are always welcome in the Kingash, Kinesis the Craftsmaiden."

Kinesis bowed her head. "Thank you, Chloryss. May we meet again."

Chloryss then stepped backwards into the wooden wall of the hollow, and her body of sap broke apart into streams and rivulets and flowed into the wood, disappearing into the innumerable xylem and phloem of the Kingash. Kinesis inspected her shrine by torchlight for a few minutes more, before finding a soft patch on the floor to lie down and sleep on.

When Kinesis awoke, the morning sunlight shined through the entrance, illuminating the hollow. Kinesis climbed to her feet, dusted herself off, picked up her satchel and stepped into the entrance. There, she turned to look back into the hollow, taking one last look at the shrine she had created. Then she stepped out of the tree to explore the world beyond.

When the last of the sun’s rays kissed the heathland and the greenish purples melted into grey under the moonlight, the warrens emptied, freeing the rabbits to forage and play. They moved slow, lolloping in their ungainly way, grazing as they went. At the slightest noise, they'd perk up on their hind legs, black eyes staring in the direction of a potential predator.

Unfortunately, its stalker lay in the opposite direction, in deathly silence behind a thicket of bushes. With deadly precision, the predator rose, its hungry eyes bearing down on its prey. Without making a sound, it smoothly drew an arrow from its quill and nocked it. The rabbit, oblivious to its hunter’s presence gazed ever deeper into the bleak void hiding unknown danger. Within the blink of an eye, the nocked arrow released, the once ever so cautious rabbit suddenly impaled upon the adjacent tree through its neck.

For but a moment the jungle froze, silence settling upon the massive, living, breathing ecosystem, seemingly paying homage to the loss of life, before a gruff voice broke the void of soundlessness.

"Lucky shot." the old man appraised grumpily, rising from hiding place.

Alongside him rose his pupil, the reaper of the rabbit’s demise; Tobias. For hours, they traversed the Venomweald, cutting their way through dense, suffocating undergrowth, fighting through the very air, which hung heavy, moist and still. All around them the jungle lived and breathed, a contentious cycle of prey and predator in which all who habited it walked by. Mika, a woodsman by trade but a hermit by habit, mastered this very cycle of cat and mouse, and like a loving father imparted his vast wealth of knowledge to Tobias.

Smugly, Tobias acknowledged his masters reluctant praise as he strung his bow across his back, it wasn’t every day that the mighty Mika complimented him.

”Luck had nothing to do with it Mika.”

With an exasperated sigh and a grumble of disappointment that Tobias was sure he was mentioned in many times, Mika carefully stepped over their cover of shrubbery, his body creaking with old age. Stifling a chuckle, Tobias followed his master over to the impaled corpse. Kneeling, the old hermit pulled the arrow from out the tree, careful not to snap the shaft or break the arrow head. With practiced ease, Mika slid the carcass off the bolt and handed it back to Tobias, who grimaced and cleaned it with a rag.

”A nice and fat one too; Fate smiles upon you boy.” Mika praised.

Tobias grinned as the old man strung the rabbit over his shoulder and started home, no doubt impressed by the skill he displayed the evening. If Fate didn’t see a double portion of stew in his future, then by the gods themselves he was wronged.

Only a sliver passed before Tobias opened the door of their hut and was greeted by the aroma of stew. Throwing off his boots and setting down his hunting tools, he rushed to the fireplace. “When did you have time to make this? We’ve been out all day.”

Settling into a chair, Mika picked up his favorite dagger and began to whittle. “When you were asleep. It’s been simmering all day, which might I add, is the only proper way to make stew.”

The whole house smelled of spices, onions, and roast rabbit. Warmth seeped back into his numb fingers. Outside, the wind howled, and the chimes that hung from the low eaves crashed. “The wind is really picking up.”

Mika grunted. “Zephy's been raging lately. He'll grow tired and settle down soon enough."

Tobias was skeptical, after such a successful hunt, surely the smell of slow cooked rabbit stew would pleasure the harrowing gale? But a childish fantasy that was.

Grabbing a spoon that hung from the clay fireplace, he stirred the stew. His mouth watered and he eyed a piece of golden brown meat. He snatched it, and then juggled his steaming prize before popping it into his mouth. It singed his tongue and he yelped.

Behind him, Mika chuckled.

Tobias turned with a glare. “Are you ever going to finish that thing?” he motioned to the piece of wood in the hermit’s hands that vaguely resembled a pipe. Instead of saying anything, Mika calmly put down his tools and disappeared into his room.

Tobias heard him rummaging, and then dragging what sounded like a large object across the wooden floor. With a grunt of success he came back out carrying a dark blue trunk with a tarnished lock and gilded with ebony leaves. He set it down with a heavy thud.

Grabbing the stool from the table he placed it before Tobias, and then sat back down. “Sit,” he said. Tobias had never seen the ornate chest before, and a thousand questions wrestled in his head. Shadows played on the chest, and the ornate ebony looked out of place in the rustic cabin. Mika lifted the heavy lid. He hid the contents and drew out something. Then, he shut the lid with a bang, and shoved the chest to the side.

With a flourish, Mika set out two wooden bowls along with a crusty loaf, causing Tobias to frown, he was expecting something more. Snatching the bread, he hooked the teakettle over the fire’s flames, grumbling as Mika began to chuckle, when there was a soft thunk from outside, barely loud enough to be heard over the wind. He cursed. Probably just another loose shingle from the roof, and he'd be the one to fix it. As he turned, a loud rasp made him freeze. He leaned forward, peering out the darkened window. Branches swished. Just the wind, he repeated when a movement caught his eye. “What kind of animal...?”

A shriek split the wind’s moan, and he backed away from the dark window.

“Douse the flame boy!” Mika kicked the kettle. The fire hissed and the room plunged into darkness.

He snatched the hermit’s sleeve. “What’s going on?”

Mika put his fingers to his lips, pale moonlight lighting the man’s features. In the silence, Tobias heard it. Low grunts and snarls. “Go to the back door,” the hermit whispered. “Then when I tell you to—”

With a roar, the door burst and Tobias was blown back. In a daze, he crawled behind a nearby chair when he saw the gleam of metal. Mika’s dagger. He gripped it, then tucked it in his leather belt.

Like an apparition, Mika slid into the shadow of the wall. Unease in the pit of his stomach, Tobias peeked around the chair, peering at a cloud of dust where the door once stood.

Click... click... click... it sounded like nails rapping against the wood floor.

Click... click... It came closer still.

Then, it stopped.

With his back pressed to the chair, Tobias twisted to look for Mika and saw only shadows, when a clouded breath filled his vision. Silently, he scrambled away, moving to the other side of the chair. He looked back and saw his nightmares confirmed. A massive head swiveled to the sound—where he had been only moments before. The beast gave a violent, jagged snort. With a rasping breath that frosted in the air, the massive head slunk back and the room returned to a chilling silence.

Tobias caught his breath as more shadows skulked across the window, their strange shapes reflecting on the wall. He eyed his open bedroom door. In a bent dash, he slipped from one dark shadow to the next.

A rough hand clasped over his mouth. “Stay quiet.”

He glanced over his shoulder and saw the hermit’s lined features. He nodded and silently, they made their way to the back hallway. Long scratches marred the walls, and pockmarks in the wood floor reminded him of the rivets of a nail. He paused.

“I can’t leave it,” he whispered and Mika raised a thick brow.

“What are you talking about?” Mika reached out, but was too slow and Tobias scrambled to his room. Inside, other than the broken window and the strange ruby light that filtered through and lit his bed, the room seemed unscathed. Spotting the bundle of cloth that he held so dear, relief flooded through him, it was still here.

Upon grabbing the bundle that hid his sword, the rapping sounded again. Click... Click... Click...

Dread flooding his veins, he quickly slipped through the window, staying low and keeping to the shadows of the walls. Quickly, he made his way to the back of the house where the hermit was waiting for him.

Mika scowled. “You’ll explain that to me one day, and I’ll win that argument.” He gripped his shoulder. “Stay close to me, and don’t stop for anything.”

Swiftly, they sprinted through the jungle, legs burning as he followed the hermit’s cloak through the night. Tree limbs seemed to reach out, lashing at him as a roar cracked through the woods. Suddenly, Mika skidded to a halt, causing Tobias to nearly run into him. They stood in a small clearing, to his left was a sheer cliff with a view of the vast canopy of the lower woods, far below.

He slumped against a tree, catching his breath. “What’s happening? Those things were vergs weren’t they?” He shivered at even saying the name. Vergs were monstrous creatures, myths rumored them to have lived since the fledgling years of the Venomweald, forged by the veil pools of scabbing evolution.

Mika didn’t seem to be listening, he moved as if searching for something. “It was here! It has to be,” he muttered. He set down a strange short-sword that Tobias hadn’t seen until now with brown sheath and obsidian-like handle. The hermit’s hands grazed the trunk of a silveroot. He tore into the brush at the base of the tree, ripping away clumps of tanglevine. Tobias watched in confusion as the hermit’s fingers pried into the tree’s base, pulling away a perfectly square hunk of wood from the trunk and unveiling a dark cubbyhole.

He stepped forward. “How did you know that was there?”

“Because I created it, a long time ago, and have kept it concealed for a much needed time.” Reaching in, Mika extracted a brown bag. “I will answer all, lad, but this is not the time. Now come forth.”

Mika grabbed a handful of the forest floor, and then rubbed the soil between his palms. He then put a hand to Tobias' head, the warmth of the man’s palm against his temple comforting him against all odds A chill then coursed through his body. “W-what did you do?” he stuttered.

“Secret,” Mika hurried. “It’s nothing special much, but it will hide your scent for five days, and buy you time to get out of the area..”

“But where will I go?”

“North and stop for nothing. Follow the Silvas River. It will lead you to safety. I swear I will meet you there. You must go now.” He picked up the bag and pressed it to Tobias chest. “Here, take this.”

“What’s this?”

“Some of the answers to your past,” said the hermit, “Now, go! There isn’t much time.” The howls grew louder, emphasizing his words.

He unsheathed his black from his back. “I won’t let you fight them alone. I can help.”

Abruptly, the woods darkened, and even the silver light from his sword dimmed. “Go!” Mika shoved him, withdrawing his blade.

“What is that thing chasing us?”

“A veil creature of the Venomweald,” Mika grunted, urgency sharpening his words.

Suddenly, a figure stepped out from the shadows, head scraping the belly of the bent boughs.

Despite uneven shadows, Tobias saw teeth like hand-length daggers jutting from a wide mouth.

“Run, boy! Now!”

Tobias took a step backwards.

The verg gave a throaty growl. Its head snapping in his direction.

“Flee!” Mika yelled.

Something flashed within the dark slits of trees. The shadows materialized, leaping towards him. He dove to the ground, pitching beneath a set of glistening fangs. His sword tip caught the dirt and was ripped from his grip. He turned to see a large black beast. It turned its massive head, eyeing him with burnished red eyes. Tobias' heart hammered as he grasped for his sword. It was nowhere to be seen. He twisted, and in the pocket of his vision he glimpsed the blade. It was several feet behind him, teetering on the cliff’s edge.

Slowly, he edged towards it. In the corner of his vision, Mika leapt over the verg's massive swipe, moving with incredible speed. As he looked back, the beast lunged. Tobias reached for his sword. As he gripped the handle, sharp teeth snatched his arm scraping against bare bone. He screamed in pain. Still, he gripped the sword and kicked at the beast, slamming his heel into its muzzle. The beast didn’t budge, its teeth like pincers. It snarled and shook, ripping at his flesh. Tobias gasped, pain blotting his vision when he saw trunk-like legs pounding towards him.

“No!” Mika cried out.

The verg's huge hand seized Tobais' arm and heaved him into the air. He cried out, stretched between the beast's snarling jaws and another verg's brutish grip. Mika dove, lashing at the first verg , lacerating its trunk-like legs with his sword. The vergs gave a bestial roar. The earth shuddered as its fist cracked the ground and shards of dirt flew. Tobias' body whipped like a wet rag. Through his agony, he felt the beast's teeth slip. He heard a loud pop and his vision clouded in pain, voice too hoarse to scream.

When his sight cleared, he saw Mika. The hermit was slumped against a cracked tree trunk. The vergs eyed the hermit like a child playing with a broken doll. Quickly growing bored, one turned its massive head his way. Tobias closed his eyes, feigning unconsciousness

Suddenly, something pressed against his back, digging into the root of his spine. His dagger.

Tobias reached for his dagger, but the verg moved quicker. The beast swiped at him, expecting his attack. At the same time, Tobias unleashed a cry of rage. Ignoring the stunning shards of pain, he grabbed his hidden dagger. With a sudden burst of inhuman speed, he sidestepped the clumsy attack and slammed his dagger into the verg's muscular arm, piercing its thick hide. The verg howled in rage, then flailed, but Tobias held on. He sliced down, cutting bone and tendon. The beast roared. With its free hand, the verg gripped him around the waist, and threw him with a grunt.

Tobias was ripped from the dagger and he catapulted through the air. Hitting the ground hard, he felt the air rush out of his chest as he skidded towards the cliff like a pebble across water. His fingers clawed the ground, but it was useless. The last thing he saw was Mika horrified face as he slipped over the edge and beyond, falling towards a sea of trees.

On the southern coast of the Shimmering Sea was a town, with quaint wooden houses and a simple lighthouse. This town was distinguished from almost every other on Galbar by the presence of a port, consisting of a jetty sticking out into the sea with a couple of sail boats moored to it. The town was nondescript despite its above average living conditions, it maintained a low profile within a blanket of drowsy fog. The streets were well maintained, superbly maintained, even, and the mannequins that serviced them paced within thick shawls to hide their unusual nature. The other residences were sparse in their numbers, congregated around the bay as fishermen, or the shimmering town walls as guards, carrying polearms upon horses, or bows upon dull, dimly lit towers.

Over this town drifted Teknall, concealed from mortal eyes. It was an impressive town despite its small size, for it was ahead of most of the rest of Galbar. However, Teknall knew that this was just the tip of the iceberg, and the true Alefpria lay further inland.

So inland Teknall flew. The wall of mist and illusions was unable to deter the god, and in moments he was looking over Alefpria, a grand city of fantastical architectural design and utopian culture.

But his gaze was instead drawn to an object in the sky, over a kilometer long; some amalgamation of flesh and metal hovering in place under the steady roar of rucket thrusters. Teknall was unable to speak for a few moments, his gaze transfixed and mouth ajar. Finally, unable to contain himself any longer, he burst out into jubilant laughter. "A spaceship! She made a spaceship! A starship even!" Teknall's eventually laughter trailed off. "Why don't I have a spaceship yet? I'm further behind than I thought."

For Teknall was indeed far behind. Although cities had been on Galbar for decades now, Teknall, the God of Civilisation, had only recently even set foot within a city. How events could have possibly conspired to prevent him from doing so, even he was not certain.

Over the city Teknall flew, taking in the sights. His Perception gave him a complete picture of Alefpria in an instant, but observing something with his god-sense was not the same as seeing it up close with his eyes. He needed to take a tour, and who better to give him a tour than the Emperor himself?

Towards the palace Teknall descended, he saw that the majesty of its construction was even grander than the surrounding city. Teknall had been wrong to question Ilunabar's ability to construct a city, for this place was divine in its splendor. Teknall alighted on a balcony and walked through the hallways of the palace.

He paused for a moment as an almost mechanical hum reached his ears, and his eyes turned to find the source, a small white bird. He observed the bird for a few moments, and the bird seemed to observe him in turn, until it fluttered out of view. Teknall continued walking until he found Lifprasil.

"Lifprasil," Teknall greeted warmly, walking closer, "Long time no see. This is a beautiful palace you have here."

Lifprasil took pause, it appeared as if that, when Teknall materialized within his halls, another guest had his attention: a vessel of god flesh mixed with mortality. "Prosit." greeted the Emperor of Alefpria, intrigued by the God's more sudden appearance. The other person, a human far taller than Lifprasil, made bare by the process of becoming a Cosmic Knight, stood silent, "naked", if the body of ArkSynth could be considered legitimate flesh.

"Thank you, Alefpria is an oasis on our turbulent world, I would like to think," said Lifprasil, turning to face Teknall within his armor Nicielite, the shimmering metal having not lost its vibrant hue since they had last met upon the Celestial Citadel. "What summons you to my palace, Teknall?" asked he, a tired smile gracing his slender lips.

The Cosmic Knight behind him seemed disciplined, calm, his exuberant torso pertained to a perfect V that held broad shoulders, which in turn held broader arms; those which looked as if they could tear off Lifprasil's pretty head on a whim. The superhuman was a pillar of vitality and power, the only soft, human flesh remaining upon his body encompassing a portion of his neck, and his human-esque head.

"I am here primarily on a formal visit to Alefpria. I am long overdue for visiting this city. But I have other questions too," Teknall replied. He circled the Cosmic Knight, inspecting it. With his expert gaze he discerned the hands which had designed it and its kin. Physical might from Vestec. Powerful magic from Astarte. Angelic powers from Niciel. Mental resiliency from Lifprasil. And physiology from Jvan. Plus some strange bioorganic material he had only recently seen. "We'll start with these supersoldiers. They are quite intriguing."

Lifprasil took his place beside Teknall and crossed his arms. "What would you like to know?" he asked. A closer look revealed indents built along the Cosmic Knight's body, peppering his form in areas that mirrored one another.

"I've already discerned the technical details, so I'll ask something else. Why have you made an army of super soldiers and what do you intend to do with them?" Teknall asked curiously.

"The intent is to destroy the Realta." Lifprasil replied.

Teknall paused for a moment, before saying, "You were a little slow there, Lifprasil. I've already killed most of them and the remainder are retreating."

Lifprasil looked like he was at a loss. "So soon? And what of Logos?" he asked, feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment.

"Logos was rather non-committal about where he was going from here," Teknall replied. "Vestec mentioned that you would be fighting Xerxes. Is that correct?"

The Demi-God sighed, and nodded. "Yes, I intend to take it from my brother, and if necessary; kill him," he said. "Now, at the very least, I can allocate more Knights, and more soldiers to the effort of taking Xerxes."

Teknall nodded. These Cosmic Knights were of terrifying strength, and although there were only a few at the moment, Teknall could see that Father Dominus held the capacity to manufacture thousands more. Such an army would be overkill. But, then again, he had thought three Avatars would have been enough to take down Violence, but he had been wrong, so best to err on the side of caution.

"I've been to Xerxes recently," Teknall said slowly, "Amartia had been absent for a while. In that time, free from his influence, Xerxes experienced a redevelopment of sorts, and made good progress as a civilisation despite its struggles. When Amartia returned with his blessings from Logos, he brought about a time of plenty, but rather than do anything useful with it he sent his city spiralling into riotous partying. Then, after thirty days of that, he transformed the population into violent monsters."

Lifprasil appeared hopeful at first - but his hopes were quickly dashed by Teknall's revelation. "Abhorrent." is all he said, losing some of his composure.

"Indeed. I believe that if Amartia were to be supplanted by a more competent ruler then Xerxes might flourish once more, although at this stage the road to recovery will be a long one," Teknall continued, "Fortunately, there are some refugees, sent north, who are untainted by Amartia's curses and, if they are willing, could return and help repopulate the city once Amartia has been removed. A hain called Tauga was responsible for that. She's hard to miss, for she wears a Jvanic flight suit and is accompanied by giant floating metal orbs. She's done a lot of good for the city. Now, as you are invading Xerxes, she will almost certainly try to fight you and your army, but I ask kindly that you don't kill her. If nothing else, then if she cooperates she would be invaluable to the restoration of Xerxes."

Lifprasil nodded. "Thank you, rebuilding is key to my conquest of Xerxes."

"There is another thing. Vestec tried to make a deal with Logos," Teknall said. "If you capture Xerxes, Logos leaves Galbar. If Amartia retains Xerxes, Logos gets to stay and Vestec joins Logos is his rampage across Galbar. Logos did not explicitly agree with the deal, but he implied that he might be at the battle. Not his Realta, though."

Lifprasil nodded, silent until the mood took him. "Then I suppose the urgency of my siege has made itself apparent, for all of Galbar rests in the balance," he said, frowning. "Will Logos be there?"

Teknall thought for a moment, remembering, before replying, "Yes."

"Then, may I ask for your council?" Lifprasil asked.

"About Logos? You've got a tough time ahead," Teknall replied, "I would make sure you steer your army clear of Logos. As for dealing with Logos, well... maybe you'll have better luck talking to him than I did. Maybe. He believes the Universe is his right, by means of being the one who brought forth the Laws from the past Worlds. He considers all of Galbar a small price to pay for the security of the rest of the Universe and Reality. He considers Jvan, and everyone else who refuses to conform with his narrow view of Order, as threats to the stability of the Universe. He does not fear Fate or Amul'Sharar. What is on your side, for this encounter anyway, is that Logos believes he will benefit from either outcome of the Xerxes battle, so he may leave most of the warring to Amartia. If you do get into a fight with Logos, he has a blackhole sword which you really don't want to get stabbed by, and watch out for him shooting a relativistic stream of iron. Was there anything else you needed to know about Logos?"

Lifprasil narrowed his eyes, wearing a scowl. "How selfish, the universe belongs to all those who inhabit it, he stated, reciting his diction. "I intend to talk to him, and if he refuses to cease his selfishness, I intend to kill him." explained Lifprasil. He seemed confident, if not sour, at the face of adversity.

Teknall's eyes widened. Slowly, he said, "And how, may I ask, do you intend to kill him?"

"I can tell, but not show, so long as you promise not to give away my secrets," Lifprasil said, "Do you?"

Teknall nodded. "This secret will be safe with me."

"Fate was kind enough to bring a weapon to me, capable of killing a god instantly in the form of a girl named Tira. I'm sure you're familiar with its previous form: the Codex of Creation, one of the things first created when you were but as young as me." Lifprasil denoted, motioning the Cosmic Knight away, of whom was silently robed by a pair of mannequins upon his exit.

Teknall almost jumped at the mention of the Codex. It was here! "Of course I am familiar with the Codex; I was one of its principle authors," Teknall said. "I've actually been trying to track the Codex down for a while. What happened to the Codex? Is it still readable?"

"Vowzra changed it after he trapped mother inside; I have naught an idea as to its legibility, that would be determined by Tira if she wasn't recovering from an episode," Lifprasil explained, and rose a brow to Teknall's intent to find it. "What would you need it for, precisely?"

"I had been hoping to use it to consolidate my understanding of the exact physical principles governing the Universe. Although I had watched most of it be written, I did not see what Vowzra wrote, and having the real thing would also validate what I do remember of the Codex," Teknall explained.

Lifprasil nodded "Fair enough, the Codex of Creation dictated all things material. I had but a brief time to absorb its information during my birth, but in this time, I realised that mortality is no weakness, with the powers of flesh and mind: anything is possible." he said.

"As far as physics go - what could you stand to gain from from learning these rules directly? You could call my question silly, but I'm not wholly familiar with your tinkering."

"If one has exact knowledge of the rules which govern the Universe, one is well equipped to create things to perform any desired function," Teknall explained, "This Universe is a complicated place. There is far more than Logos' physics at work. This is a world of magic and chaos too, all of which is governed by the rules described by the Codex. A total understanding of those rules would be the height of knowledge and allow for the most advanced of technologies.

"I have another question of my own, though," Teknall added, "You mentioned your mother, Vulamera. What happened to her, and what did Vowzra have to do with it?"

"She went mad trying to comprehend the scope of the Codex, so Vowzra trapped her inside, so no harm would come from her insanity." Lifprasil warned, sadness in his eye.

Teknall bowed his head. "My comiserations, then," Teknall replied. He maintained a moment's silence, before continuing, "So, if the Codex has been transformed into a god-killing weapon, I take it that it would be inaccessible to myself?"

Lifprasil nodded. "It is, but I intend to see if there is anything salvagable from its changed state once my schools are established. Mortals appear unharmed by its awesome power." the king said in his usual state of verbose.

"Oh well, I'll just have to work from memory then," Teknall replied, then paused as he registered the rest of Lifprasil's words. "Schools, you say? You will have to show me what you have so far when we tour Alefpria."

"That's the thing," chordled Lifprasil nervously, "There are none, yet. I've tasked Astarte to building them - but you know of Astarte's reliability." he explained, and armor shifted as he scratched the top of his head. "If you would request a tour, however. then I would be happy to show you my Alef."

"I'll be happy to assist in the creation of these schools," Teknall offered. Then he gestured to the door. "But first, let us take a tour of your fine city."

Lifprasil paused.

"Ah-! Thank you, Teknall. The assistance is appreciated. I want to make Alefpria a haven for all things helpful and willing to mortals; so your expertise and your craft would be appreciated alongside the multitude of Gods that have joined me in creating my Alef." he thanked, before he motioned to the intermingling of Trolls in shimmering armor at the end of the great hall. They each gave their emperor a dutiful nod, and heaved open the truly massive gate of otherworldly colors and metals opposite to the massive gap Teknall entered in.

Lifprasil's feet left the ground, and floated to the agape doors, revealing a winding stretch of maintained brick road, which looped around the cusp of the cliff overlooking Alefpria, and thus into the town. There were two towers overlooking the entrance to Lifprasil's Palace, each almost as tall as the structure itself, and interlain with portholes and balconies each attended to by archers of varying disposition and race. The wide highway from the palace down to the city below was flanked by trees native to the landbridge Lifprasil settled in. Each had a hefty head of purple leaves upon white bodies of hardy wood, creating cool shade over the path Lifprasil led Teknall through; only a few wary pockets of light actually penetrated the carefully aligned canopies.

"I call these King Trees," Lifprasil noted, "They were created by Ilunabar, however inadvertently, when her actions wrought a great flood of color and dreams through this very pass. Whatever stood against the tides were stained by the pigments of the most intimate of imaginings - and thus altered forever. Whatever, or whomever faltered, however, was destroyed." he explained, propeling himself to reach the violet leaves above, and snipped one for Teknall.

Lifprasil then delivered the leaf to Teknall, graciously leaving it to his care before he continued down the path.

Teknall inspected the oddly coloured leaf as he walked along the highway. "It is indeed a quite peculiar transformation. It is all the more fantastical when you consider the chemical redesign required to maintain photosynthesis with the new pigments. And the colours seem to match nicely with your palace."

"I would assume the nature of aesthetic holds a higher tier on the physical hierarchy than practicality to Ilunabar." he said as they approached his Alef.

"Of course. If Ilunabar wants to make purple leaves, all she has to do is make the leaves purple. But I think it is a testament to divine power that such a simple command will induce whatever complicated modifications are necessary to cause that change," Teknall added.

Lifprasil found the observation intriguing - he never really thought of it that way. As they descended on the busy city streets, the trail to Lifprasil's palace tapered off to a group of guards. They saluted Teknall and Lifprasil each, and then the two entered the confines of what appeared to be a bazaar. "You have something I don't," Lifprasil said to Teknall as he drifted effortlessly through the crowd that parted in his wake.

The sounds of talk and music threatened to deafen even Teknall as the crowd thickened even still, through tight streets the duo paced as Lifprasil witheld himself, overseen by curious Alefprians upon their finely built houses of stone and clay. It seemed as if every other citizen of Alefpria was serviced by the strange mannequins of Ilunabar's creation. Each contraption was covered in great shawls of otherworldly coloration, matching the brilliant aesthetic of the paints and banners that plastered the walls of the surrounding buildings.

Wooden horses pulled ever saturated wagons, and their wooded joints creaked loudly with their movements, crude iron hooves clattering past upon worn brick roads alongside their arthritic pace. It seemed as if there was a constant, even flow to and fro across Alefpria, the city was a body, and the streets gestated into veins of merchants and socialites. "Perspective," Lifprasil confided, his voice echoed within the divine cerebrum of Teknall, as he attempted psychic conversation; rather than yell.

Teknall seemed to think on the word for a few moments before replying sagely, "Perspective is a relative term. One does not have more or less perspective than someone else, only a different perspective."

"Then I suppose your perspective is far more broad than mine - it had never crossed my mind that one rule pertained to all under our creation; the things we make just work. Even I know not the inner workings of my Lifprasilians - did you ever take into account what was inside your Urtelem? Or Toun's Hain?" Lifprasil asked.

"I did, actually. I am a craftsman; I have to understand what I am making. But conveniently such understanding comes naturally to me. Toun is likely a similar case. Some of the others are likely different, though. Whether consciously or unconsciously, divine power does what is necessary to ensure that our creative will is fulfilled," Teknall explained.

Lifprasil nodded his head. "I guess you could call our creations wishes, only on a scale inconcievable to some; but it is not in my conscious to doubt the power of Mortals." he said, and stopped with Teknall in tow at the center of Alefpria, marked at its core with an intrinsic, fanciful fountain of great height. "This is the heart of my Alef, what I had just shown you were but smaller parts of my great, blessed city." Lifprasil explained to Teknall, almost glowing with exuberant pride at the gift he had given, and helped to grow.

Teknall walked onwards and circled the fountain slowly. His gaze scanned the buildings surrounding the city centre and penetrated into the web of streets beyond. He observed the movement of thousands of people throughout the city, each contributing to the grand civilisation of which they were a part.

Eventually Teknall circled back to where Lifprasil was standing. "It truly is a great city," Teknall said. "Where to next? Shall we investigate the artisan's district?"

Lifprasil nodded, having taken a seat at the cusp of the fountain. Beside him, however, knelt a well-groomed female figure. She wore considerably duller clothing than her fellow countrymen, and carried a bow that clung to her slim waist. "Hello." she greeted, looking Teknall up and down with a bemused face. "Are you the craft-god Teknall?" she questioned, her lengthy, brown hair swept to a left shoulder. Her mannerisms seemed less careful than Lifprasil's, carrying a brashness about her that few possessed in the civilized Alefpria.

Teknall nodded at the female. "Indeed I am," Teknall replied, "And you must be Susa. You are already aquainted with my servant Gerrik Far-Teacher. I take it that Lifprasil has become your patron, of sorts."

"Yes, I am," Susa responded drably, before she stood up and served him a slight curtsy as greeting. "I do know Gerrik, he was kind to me when we met. How is he?" asked she, still looming over Lifprasil and Teknall.

"Gerrik is doing alright. He went to Fibeslay, and under his direction the lighthouse was finished to an excellent standard. However, due to some... issues he has had to depart. But he is coping well, setting out to new places," Teknall said.

"Excellent, I wish him luck in his next venture." Susa said, seeming much more pert than when Teknall last saw her. "What brings you here?" she asked, stepping around Lifprasil and Teknall as she sized up the apparent Hain. Lifprasil just resigned to allow his hero to have a conversation between herself and his guest, however, running a hand through the teal blue behind him.

"I'm here to look at the city. As craft-god, it is my duty to inspect hubs of technology and civilisation. So far I am fairly impressed," Teknall explained, "What is it that you do here?"

"I protect, I train, I explore. One of the many things I've done is help Alefprian scouts to navigate Galbar - or the parts I know." Susa explained, and took a knee beside Teknall. "I also keep Lakshmi and Tira in line."

Teknall nodded. "Sounds like a good use for your skills," he replied. "Did you and the rest of the Grand Parade manage to acheive what you set out to do?"

Susa shrugged. "Just about, we heed the call, but I don't think our line of work is one that ever really ends." she answered, running a hand through her hair. "And what of you? Have you acheived what you have set out to do?"

Teknall flipped up a palm. "Like you, my work is never really done. Finish one task, get two more. I spent a few decades teaching the hain, and that has achieved incremental gains. I helped fight back the chaos hordes. I set the Rovaick up with metalworking. I fought back the Realta. And now I have four cities on Galbar springing up and becoming civilisations without me, so I have some catching up to do."

Lifprasil smiled at the mention. "Four? I had no idea you were so busy. What of them? How developed are they?" he asked, armor shifting as he crossed a leg.

"There is Xerxes. As you know, they too have a demigod as ruler, so their technological advancement has been, until recently, fairly impressive. It's a bit of a mess at the moment, though. Another is owned by the Rovaick. They're the ones I helped with metalworking, and are currently under the protection of Toun. The other city..." Teknall turned up both his palms, "I'll let you discover the details of that one. It isn't quite as developed as Alefpria or Xerxes, but it appears to be a purely mortal city, which makes it impressive in its own right."

"Interesting," Lifprasil stated, as if he made a mental note of the last city. "I already know of Xerxes - I intend to take it from my brother and cease his inane excuse for governing in exchange for my own. The Realta were my original outlet for my Knights, but now I have nothing but the world within my grasp, and with him," Lifprasil made sure to motion to Father Dominus up above. "Maybe the cosmos."

Teknall froze for a moment at Lifprasil's mention of the world. After a brief pause, Teknall spoke, "You will need to show me inside your spaceship soon. However, before we do, there is one more thing I'd like to look at down here. I notice that you have found a rather unique method of metalworking. Would you like to show me?"

Lifprasil noted Teknall's pause. "Is something wrong?" he asked as he maintained a smile.

"Oh, it's just... I am concerned for the development of Galbar should you sweep over with your Cosmic Knights and take dominion of everything. Galbar is special in its grand diversity, and that gives it a sort of strength and resilience and beauty. There are many peoples growing independently and uniquely. Global conquest doesn't sit well with that. Makes sense?" Teknall explained.

Lifprasil nodded "Worry not, I aim not to stint the growth of those things I held so dear - I merely believe mortals are strong, and underneath one banner, less hardships will be faced in their strength," Lifprasil explained as he gazed off into the distant horizon; imagining a vast kingdom greater than himself. In this moment, he exhumed the look of a leader: arms crossed, with watchful eyes over the vast scope of his being. "This journey me and my great soldiers will take is selfless, it is one to bring quality of life to those of whom suffer alone, is that not a boon to Galbar? Unity?"

Teknall sighed. "I suppose. Whether your ideals are actually achieved by conquest is another matter, but that is something time will tell." Teknall looked down the streets. "Now, were we going to continue our tour?"

"Yes." responded Lifprasil, before he leapt down onto the street with Susa in tow, both wordlessly walked for some time, until Lifprasil lead Teknall to a large rectangular building; that which took up half a city block, and was attended by many workers. "This is one of the many workshops of the armorers and weapon-makers of Alefpria. Would you like to look inside?"

"Of course," Teknall answered enthusiastically.

When the trio entered the workshop, they saw that every which room was connected by opened doorways, each one held tubs of smoldering iron ingots, and were tended to by Alefprians in aprons of thick hide. Every smith wore masks of the same alluring shape, each with three pressed, horizontal lines which opened to their mouths and eyes. They all worked in the same open candor to one another, some hammered swords into shape with great mallets, whereas others stretched the metal with their calcified hands.

In the center of a group of doting Hain smithsmen stood the hulking Bay Commander, Hogarth, in his massive hat as he made sure of the newly crafted weapons: shortswords of a much rarer metal than iron - steel.

"This is one of the three workshops within Alefpria, my friend, each one works around the clock to produce weapons and armors for my people." explained Lifprasil as he made a sweeping gesture around the building.

Teknall nodded in satisfaction. "It is a decent production line that you have here," he commented.

"Thank you," said Lifprasil graciously. "Most of it came from our Hain population after a few hundred years."

Teknall's palms flipped up. "They are an innovative bunch, after all."

Lifprasil nodded, and walked past Hogarth, of whom payed him little mind as he reviewed the shimmering metal before him in beguiled wonder.

"I do not know much of the craft, but I do know our metals - particularly those of whom are harder to retrieve, aren't very agreeable." he explained as he encroached upon an elderly Hain's work. The beaked person's hardened arms pressed into the glowing metal below him without much fear of burning. The doughy substance was contained in one of many pits built into the stone floor, layered in sandstone as barrier between the carefully measured rock and the excessively hot liquid.

"Hello, my Emperor, hello Susa, and hello newcomer." said the jaded smith below them as acknowledgement, his focus impalpable from his craft.

Teknall nodded his beak in greeting. "Hello." He watched with interest as the smith plied his craft.

The smith toiled, and pulled long bands of the metal liquidity below him, before folding it over the original structure, pressing the inconsistencies below, further and further down into the mesh as he went. "The magic that allows our smiths to toil at metals without burning them is of complete happenstance; when my Alef was created, the few of my people developed...Growths. These were similar to Lakshmi's own, but they did not have the same fantastic power, they were much more mild." Lifprasil explained, before he bent a knee and extended his hand to the Hain Smith.

The Smith rested his smaller, taloned hand in the palm of Lifprasil, and he motioned for Teknall to look. "The salt from the world's oceans has coalesced onto the forearms of all here, and it has made their extremities powerful, they can superheat their skin, and are able to bait its injuries. At first they were thought sickly - but this is truly a gift." the Emperor finished his explanation, and thus left the Hain to his work.

"Careful, boss, you act like you're looking to reveal all our secrets." Susa wearily said, eyeing Teknall. "If Teknall has the goodwill of mortals in mind, he is surely an ally." replied Lifprasil, graciously pressing fingertip to fingertip.

Teknall nodded and looked to Susa. "An ally indeed. I desire to see Alefpria prosper, along with the rest of Galbar." There was a flicker in the corner of the heroine's vision, something which looked like a bird, coloured to blend into the masonry. "Besides, there are few secrets that can be kept from the Gods."

Susa crossed her arms, and resigned to craning her head in the general direction of the oddity she hypothetically saw. "You guys can't know everything, you know." she protested. "It's not right."

As the Smith kneaded the metal with his bare hands, Teknall continued to observe with fascination. Manipulating the metal as though it were clay, unfazed by the extreme heat, heating the metal red-hot at will; it all remined Teknall of how he sometimes worked with metal. Mortals a step closer to divinity.

"Anyway, there is one last thing I wish to look at. The spaceship," Teknall said.

"Spaceship? That's a term." Lifprasil chuckled, before he turned to walk out.

Once he stepped outside, the sun began its descent in the east, fiery light cascaded through the mountains, hardly pressing past jungle trees and into the colorful city below. The inkling pink clouds just barely covered the form of Father Dominus floating above, his overwhelming presence threatening to smother the comparatively tiny Emperor and his guest; of whom were at his dutiful mercy. "I always thought him a flying beast of a greater majesty, rather than a ship, much like my Throne." said Lifprasil, as Oevadia came hovering from the skies above.

"He is a hybrid of both ship and beast. A glorious feat of bioengineering, as is to be expected from Jvan," Teknall said.

Her jets fired as she balanced herself, and landed upon the top of the workshop Teknall had just been inside, she balanced carefully on the building before she climbed down from her perch. As she did, the crowd parted as they gazed on at awe at Lifprasil's jet powered mount, and once she was positioned beside her master, she lowered herself to allow him atop her. Once he was comfortable atop luxurious saddling, Lifprasil hoisted Teknall atop Oevadia, and set the apparent Hain behind him.

"I think the only other time I saw something quite so massive was when I fought Grot, or when I visited Jvan's garden. Do you think my father's crisis could have been avoided if I commanded such power back then?" Lifprasil questioned - albeit rhetorically.

"I think Vestec would have just made a bigger Horde and a bigger mess," Teknall replied.

Susa opted out of Lifprasil's assistance when it was offered, and clambered atop Oevadia herself, taking a seat behind Teknall. With all three patricians boarded, the jet powered beast took off, she hovered gently before pressing forward; up to Father Dominus. They climbed steadily, Oevadia demonstrating her power as she carried them high and far.

"Jvan's given you both this mount and that spaceship," Teknall commented as they ascended, "Why did she give you them?"

"She believes that I can offer her things in turn, I would suppose," said Lifprasil in turn. "Or she believes that I can show that her creations are not malignant. I speak of protecting Galbar and bringing it prosperity - but I believe that she does not care for those things, she cares for creating, and for creatures accepting them as creations." he stated. The throne now flew under the belly of Father Dominus, racing past the chitin and ArkSynth skin that was its hull and past the cusp of its form. The flesh parted in front of the calvacade, and opened into an opening just wide enough for Oevadia, granting Lifprasil access into the cylindrical innards of Dominus.

The inside of the beast was surprisingly uniform, ribs dotted the walls of the ship, a spinal column of glimmering, metallic chitin was mounted above them, and there, distantly sat the bridge, hosted by a Sculptor with a hand for a face. "Oh! Greetings Emperor," greeted Dabbles, now the nervous upkeep of the ship, of whom was surrounded by strange, heart shaped beings."The ship is at peak performance now, Emperor, once you will it, we can produce more Knights for your army, and whatever else you may wish - with some changes, of course." explained Dabbles, listlessly stepping down the flat, organic steppes to his position.

Teknall's neck twisted and craned to take in the views of the interior of Father Dominus. "I will have to visit Jvan some time and commend her on this feat of bioengineering," Teknall said, partly to himself, "And while I'm there I have a bunch of other things to talk about too. I should probably visit her next, actually."

Teknall waved a hand dismissively. "Anyway, that doesn't concern you. I'm here to look at this ship!" Teknall looked at the Sculptor with one pair of eyes. "And what is your name?"

Dabbles shakily bowed into a sharp kneel at his address. "I am Dabbles - a sculptor of godly flesh of whom was given to the Emperor by my superior." he said before he stood, wreathed in a cloak of thick sinews and muscle. "Have you come to admire this installation in its beauty?" he asked. Lifprasil silently clambered down from his steed, of whom chirped and shifted in place, almost purposefully knocking Susa off of her back. The huntress grimaced once she landed on her bare feet, steadying herself on the unfamiliar interior of Father Dominus. "Agh..." she sighed, wandering away from the Jvanic creature.

The formerly bare floors of Dominus were now sprouting with vegetation, lichen, grass, and even flowers grew from the skin of the Flagship upon Lifprasil's lordly touch, creating a much warmer atmosphere within the otherwise oppressive creation. "What would you like to know about my ship?" Lifprasil asked Teknall with his usual cool demeanour, whilst Susa knelt and examined the garden that grew around her like a miracle.

"Hmm..." Teknall looked around at the walls of the ship a little longer. With his Perception and innate knowledge of technology, he knew all the technical specifications as soon as he stepped inside, and he doubted Lifprasil could give him any better description. "What have you named this ship?"

"Jvan named it Father Dominus, but it can reproduce based on its androgyny - I prefer to call Dominus a 'He', however. based on his name-sake." Lifprasil explained, while Dabbles chordled odd nothings in the background.

"Reproduce?" Teknall perked up, pondering the possibilities. "The whole ship? Or do you refer to the factory for Cosmic Knights?"

"The entire thing, it is an organism, after all, the factory can be repurposed, and after enough time can produce another creature," explained Lifprasil. "You seem slightly more interested." he then remarked, facing him.

Teknall's hain palms turned upwards and he let out a chuckle. "It's just that the idea of a self-replicating ship is too good to ignore. To construct a self-replicating machine is a great challenge, but Jvan has side-stepped that obstacle by making this ship a living being. The gestation period would be enormous, but you'd still achieve exponential growth given adequate food." Teknall straightened up. "This is a powerful gift Jvan has given you. Use it wisely."

Lifprasil nodded, prideful of his gift, "Galbar needs leadership, guidance to hold it fast against the dangers of Logos, which you have done your way, and I will soon do mine," he explained. "I will use my gifts to their fullest extent."

Teknall looked to Lifprasil with his right pair of eyes and Dabbles with his left pair. "Do either of you know the technical details of the biocatalysed cold fusion or the gap-thrust propulsion on this ship?"

Dabbles shakily raised a hand, "I can show you!" he volunteered "Although, I'll have to take you back to the end of Father Dominus, he is a beautiful, expertly built machine of greatness. You simply must see his inner machinations in person." he swooned, brandishing a chuckle from Lifprasil, and egging him out of his stoicism.

Pleasantly surprised that someone actually knew anything about the technology, Teknall replied, "That would be marvellous. And after that, we can look at the factory," Teknall nodded to Lifprasil, "if that is alright with you, Lifprasil."

"I will have to leave you to Dabbles, but you do have my permission to explore my Dominus alongside him," Lifprasil said to Teknall as he turned on a heel - but then stopped suddenly. "Oh - and for you: my guest." he noted, as the floor then parted below him. "A meager portion of my valuable material to good faith. Strong as metal; but interchangable as flesh. Do not share its qualities with anyone but yourself, please." Lifprasil told the craftgod, and invested a ball of the geometric, porous uniformity of Jvan's creation to his palm, and with it his trust. Both of these things were open to Teknall, now.

Teknall's eyes widened upon seeing the orb of grey flesh. Gingerly, he reached out and held the orb in his hands. "Ah, this stuff. Biological tissue. High potential for differentiation guided by external stimuli." Teknall put the orb under his nose and sniffed it. "Shares components with this Jvanic ship and Mammon's demons, plus..." Teknall sniffed again, and his eyes squinted in thought and his head tilted indecisively, "...something else. I've seen this in use in Xerxes, by Tauga. I had been hoping to get a sample. Thank you." Teknall bowed his head in thanks. Then he removed a clear plastic sheet from his apron pocket, wrapped the fleshy ball in it, then deposited the large orb in his apron pocket, where it appeared to vanish.

Teknall turned to follow Dabbles down the hallway. He gave Lifprasil and Susa a farewell wave. "I'll see you two some other time. Thank you again."

Teknall walked down the metal-flesh hallway beside Dabbles, engaged in animated conversation about the technical details of Father Dominus, the Cosmic Knights and Arksynth. Soon the pair disappeared into the bowels of the ship, passing Sweethearts, bulwark doors, and glowing air-plankton along the way.

Lifprasil stood at a bend, and watched Teknall disappear into the bowels of Father Dominus with Dabbles. He mused over his visit in silence, and once Susa was sure the inventor-god was out of ear shot, she paced up to the Emperor with purpose.

"I don't trust him." said the huntress, looking down that same corridor that Teknall disappeared into.

A brisk dismissal was Lifprasil's reply, a discernible "Hm." parted his narrow lips only slightly, as he stood hunched. "Something was watching me, I swear it." Susa then said, before the same gaze stirred her to turn, pointing bow and arrow to a new presence.

"How did you arrive here, Fortemiel?" Lifprasil questioned, dwarfed by the Knight he had hosted in the palace earlier. Susa relaxed.

"We willed it." was the Knight's reply, as he motioned to his partner. Navy blue armor, covered in subtle mounds of glistening ArkSynth adorned the other one. Their head was hidden from sight, instead hosted by a helmet that extended on a neck similar to a wise Tortoise, and ended with an armored top punctuated with two beady, watchful eyes.

"Hm."

Digging his knees into Layl's sides, stallion and rider leapt forth and flew across the grass, leaving Shaqmar's warriors far behind as they tried to keep up with their lord's impossible steed. Dashing through the makeshift gate, he came to a halt in the burning camp. The roundtents had been overturned and were now burning. The people had been taken, and those who had not been taken were either dead or weeping and screaming. The Qa'id Adheem stared numbly at the scene, his senses blind to those who had gathered around him, tears streaming from their faces and unheard words and screams. And there were hands reaching out for him as though his touch alone could waken them from the horror of it all. Layl, as though hearing his master's thoughts, leapt forward suddenly and made for the Qa'id Adheem's Great Roundtent in the centre of the encampment. He dismounted before his burning home and, his skin blind to the fire's heat, walked in. His eyes did not see - could not see - anything that was not Layla. And Layla was not there. And he dropped to his knees there and roared his grief and fury to the burning heavens, and punched and clawed at the ground, and he had to be pulled out by Qaseer before he burned along with the roundtent.

'Where is she?' he groaned even as tears poured forth from his eyes and he wept with the weepers and cried with the criers and screamed with those who screamed. Qaseer and his other warriors stood shocked and disconcerted at the Qa'id Adheem's paralysis and womanish behaviour.
'You!' Qaseer shouted at one of the weeping women, grabbing her by the scruff of the neck, 'who was it? Who did this?' he demanded.

'The Ma'Erkoz,' she managed through her sobs, 'they...my girl. Masmuni!' she cried and beat at her head and tore at her white hair. A high-pitched cry suddenly rose up and a young woman appeared before Qaseer and screamed her soul out at the Qa'id Adheem.



The furious cries of the womenfolk rose once more, and Shaqmar, even through his bitter tears and even in his deafened and blinded state, heard that same voice continue its screams, 'Where is the avenger from the line of Azad? Where is the avenger for the shed blood of Azad! Where is the saviour of the stolen Azad? Where is the smiter of our foe and the honourer of the friends of the Azad? Where are the men and where are the warriors of Azad? They left to hunt sheep, and sheep returned but not - oh, but not! - not the Azad!'

Placing a hand on his face, the maddened Qa'id Adheem attempted to find some degree of sanity. And he dried the tears of his eyes - though there was no stopping his soul's feverish sobs -, and he brought a degree of calmness to his face - though there was no calming the forever cracked and broken face of his heart -, and he rose to his feet - though there was no rising for the feet of his mind after this fall.

'Qaseer,' came the voice of the Qa'id Adheem. The man turned and looked at Shaqmar.
'Yes, my Qa'id,' he responded.
'Go,' and he looked into the distance as he spoke, 'and gather every living creature and every Qa'id of every tribe, and command them to gather their spears and their bows, and their swords, and let them gather all their powers and all their strengths, and let every magicker and every shaman come, and let him bring with him every sliver of the Eternal Sky's fury. Gather them, and their people, and gather the staunchness of the earth and cutting blade of the wind, and gather the blaze of every flame and crushing might of the flowing rivers and streams. Bring yourself and bring them and let them bring themselves. The Qa'id Adheem marches to war. The heads of the Ma'Erkoz will be my loot, their blood my life-giving water, their flesh and bones my straight road, their screams my victory song, their tears the coolness of my heart's seething fury,' as Shaqmar spoke, Qaseer's eyes slowly widened and any colour present in his face slowly seeped away. He gulped, bowed, and quickly mounted his mare and set-off.

With that, Shaqmar turned upon the woman who had screamed and dared question his bravery and manliness.
'Surayka,' he said, 'go and tell the dead to sleep easy, for the day has not come when Azad blood is spilled and goes unavenged. By the eternally living soul of my forefathers, by the sanctified soul of God, I shall kill of the Ma'Erkoz until I am sated, and I shall then kill of them until you are sated, and then I shall kill until the dead are sated. So go and weep, Surayka, and tell the dead to weep, for were the earth itself to bleed on their behalf, and were the heavens to wail for them, never shall I be sated!' and he turned away from her and gestured to the women to rise and for the men to walk with him, 'come! Burn your slain.'

'Shaqmar,' came Surayka's voice, 'do you not know who is among the dead?' he froze at her words and turned weakly towards her, his heart trembling at the ghost of the thought. He looked to Surayka, his eyes barely managing to hold back his tears.
'Who?' he at last managed. The woman looked away, her lips pursed and her eyes gathering water.
'Is it...' he took a few steps towards her and suddenly found himself shaking her violently by the shoulders, 'is it!?' Wailing, and thereby causing the other women to begin wailing and slapping themselves and tearing at their hair once more, she pushed him from her and turned away.
'No, you madman! It is Arana. It is your mother!' Shaqmar stumbled from her and turned away, walking towards Layl while shaking his head and muttering in denial.
'No,' he was saying, 'you lie, Surayka. You lie!'

'It was Firasi, Shaqmar. He sought her and Layla and sang out as he searched and slaughtered all who crossed his path:

And he killed your mother, and he took Layla.'

Shaqmar stood frozen by Layl, leaning heavily on his stallion. Slowly, he slid to the ground by Layl's front legs and placed his bearded face in his trembling hands. His mighty shoulders shook with rage and grief, and none could tell whether the sound he emitted was a groan or a scream or a sob, or something else altogether. At last, he raised his head from his palms and spoke.



And tears wet his beard, and none accused him for them and men and women alike lowered their gazes so as not to dishonour their Qa'id Adheem by seeing him in his moment of weakness. When he had regained some of his composure, he commanded Surayka to lead him to his mother's body. And the dead were washed and pyres were built for them. And many good mares and stallions and camels were slaughtered and placed on the pyres with the bodies of the dead. And Shaqmar set them all ablaze. And the smoke rose up, and their souls rose up on it and on the spirits of their horses and camels, towards the Eternal Sky. And Shaqmar bid them farewell, and he pledged staunchly and sincerely that he would not allow a single warrior of the Ma'Erkoz to live, and that he would slaughter every single one of them who was taller than a cart wheel, and he would scatter their allies and massacre them, and take their women and subjugate them, and kidnap their children and raise them to hate the memory of the Ma'Erkoz and all their allies.
'And 'tis an oath agreed, and 'tis a thing decreed.'

Over the years, Shaqmar had slowly conquered and allied his way to complete control over the northernmost regions of the Firewind and the southernmost grasslands of the Barrens of Rukbany. From the eastern banks of the Mahd all the way to where desert and grasslands gave way to hellish deadlands, the word of the Qa'id Adheem Shaqmar was supreme. The Azad and all allied and subjugated tribes migrated where they wished and fed and watered their horses and camels and livestock where they pleased. They hunted in safety, and all pledged undying allegiance and loyalty to Shaqmar and the ruling Azad tribe. And they regularly paid tribute to the Azad, and gathered together at the Azad encampment for various events – sometimes for the great annual hunt, or for lesser events such as tribal tournaments. And it was common that marriages would be agreed and would take place during these great gatherings.

While the Vetruvians mistakenly thought that Shaqmar had already united the tribes of Rukbany and ruled over huge swathes of lands to the north and beyond, this was not the case. But it was an easy mistake to make, for he had seized all the Rukbanians lands that bordered Vetros, and it was often the case now that the raiders who penetrated Vetruvian territory were loyal to him. As it were, however, Shaqmar was merely the Qa'id Adheem of one Rukbanian tribal confederation - that being the Azad Confederation.In the beginning, Shaqmar had managed to subjugate some of the smaller clans in the region before succeeding in striking up an alliance with the powerful Mu'aykala tribe and their chief, Urtagai. The powerful Huntalla tribe had in due time been defeated by their allied forces and been brought into the fold, and the Dhul'Dhanab had, after a few futile skirmishes, surrendered before the might of the Confederation. But internal struggles proved more fierce and difficult than those on the battlefield, and for a long time Shaqmar and Urtagai had struggled for the title of Qa'id Adheem. Only the old man's death had prevented the outbreak of war, and even then his sons proved difficult to placate. Only their great number, and the many competing factions within the Mu'aykala tribe, ensured that their infighting prevented them from turning on Shaqmar. Instead they split into hostile factions and clans, and the intelligent Azad took the opportunity and had himself elected to the position of supreme power.

It had not been long since that consolidation had taken place, and nothing more than a few light skirmishes had taken place against the Ma'Erkoz Confederation who occupied the northeastern region of Rukbany. The Tagham Tribes to the northwest had maintained friendly relations and restrained their raiders from striking at Azad herding grounds. Seeing this, Shaqmar had decided to foster good relations with their young Qa'id Adheem Tiqodae. With this heinous Ma'Erkoz attack, he suddenly found that nothing brought friends together better than shedding blood together. If the Tagham were to be trusted, they would respond to his call and help him take revenge. If not, he would know them for what they truly were and respond accordingly in due time.



While Shaqmar was aware that Rukbanian tribes existed even further to the north, tales reached him of ones that existed on the steppes - tribes of little white men as well as Rukbans. And tales reached him of places where the bodies of the dead were not burned, and so they rose and walked amongst the living. And tales reached him also of a blissful valley where winged humans dwelled. Of course, these great open grasslands had strange things of their own. There was the odd Azmundian Horror that found its way out of the desert or out of the horrific deadlands to the west. And wrathful djinnis often wreaked havoc on the plains. And then there was that horrific merchant race - 'Ogs' as they were called - who passed through the grasslands with their goods. The living dead sometimes made their way out of the deadlands to the east and all forms of terrible things. But the bewildering power of shamans and magickers and witchdoctors stood ever stalwart before the assaults of these fearsome sons of Y'Vahn. Indeed, ever since Shaqmar's rise the creatures from the deadlands had not been able to penetrate as deeply into the Barrens of Rukbany as they had in previous decades and centuries. It was further proof that the Eternal Sky stood at his back and protected him and his people.

When the many warbands of the Azad Confederation had gathered into one great war party at Shaqmar's camp, he waited until nightfall and then gathered everyone and called forth all the magickers and witchdoctors. And they came forth, shaking their heads and causing the hanging thread-like strips over their faces to jump from side to side, along with other strips elsewhere on their dress. And they beat at the ground with their feet and danced around a great fire, and beat their camel-skin drums all the while. As their drumming grew more frantic, they began to release strange grunts and growls, until suddenly they started singing - if it could be called singing. The gathered people slowly began to beat at the ground with their feet also, and the shamans grew louder and more frantic, leaping around the fire and wildly bashing their drums above their heads with their little wooden beaters. Their leader was recognisably Alqama.
Though by now ancient, he was the most vigorous of them, grunting and drumming madly as the spirits of Shaqmar's ancestors were called upon and summoned to give judgement and command. One by one they leapt over the huge fire, drumming as they did so, and landing with a roll before leaping back up, screeching, and continuing their spectral dance around the flame. Now this one bent backwards as he beat his drum, and now that one bent forward and beat frantically with his feet at the ground, causing a little cloud of dust to gather around him. And now that one spun on one foot, pausing momentarily and banging the drum loudly with every spin. As the ritual continued, Alqama took up a small clay jug with some kind of white substance in it and poured it around the flame as he circumambulated it and, once done, threw the jug with a sudden powerful dart into the flame. The fires hissed in anger and the sudden change in temperature, as well as the throw, caused the jug to burst. It was a tremendous display.
At last, when the hypnotising display had reached its climactic crescendo, the shamans all turned towards the fire, gave off simultaneous screeches, leapt into the air, and fell rolling on their backs and were deathly still for a long time. All sound immediately came to a stop, and the people watched with anticipation what would now occur.



Seated above all others on a raised wooden platform with torches to either side of him, Shaqmar now rose. The shamans rose with him and they appeared to be in a drunken trance for they stumbled hither and thither uncertainly, and their heads were drooped forward. Alqama finally stepped forward, to speak on their behalf. He gave off the same guttural sounds from before and beat on his drum slowly.

'Shaqmaaaaaaar,' came his growling voice, 'I am the spirit of your forefathers. I am Arana your mother. I am your father Buraq. We are your forefathers Muharaq, Irqa and Azad and those before who loyally followed the Chosen of Heaven. We have been dishonoured and humiliated before the Eternal Sky - as we sat in God's court a red cloud of shame came and hung over our heads, and it hangs there still, and shall hang so long as your pledge to us goes undone. Go and chase the clouds of dishonour away, all those taller than a cart wheel you must slay!' Shaqmar descended the platform and fell on his hands and knees before his forefathers.
'By your honour, by your spilled blood, it shall be done. Protect me, honoured ancestors, strengthen my resolve and cleanse me of all mercy and weakness. You shall be avenged!'

'Shaqmaaaaaaar,' came the grating sound, 'I was killed in the sanctity of my roundtent, in the inviolability of your encampment. They have done a thing never before done in all of Rukbany. Who will avenge my spilled blood?'
'I!' was Shaqmar's reply.
'Who shall ensure the sanctity and inviolability of what the Eternal Sky has decreed sanctified and inviolable?'
'I!'
'Who shall elevate the friends of the Eternal Sky and bring low its foe?'
'I!'
'Shaqmaaaaaaar,' came his raucous voice, 'backstabbing and death have descended upon your encampment, and my chosen spouse in life and after life has been cut down in the twilight of her years. They have created a precedent which they will, must, grow to regret. Who shall give them cause to regret?'
'I!'
'Shaqmaaaaaaar,' came his rough voice, 'go forth and know that the furious spirits of your forefathers are in your every strike and every roar, we fly with your every arrow and guide the plunging spears, and we are the shields in your shields and the sight in your eyes and the boiling pit of courage in your stomachs, and we are the whispers on the breeze and the heralds of victory,' and with that, Alqama fell on to his back and was once more still, and all the other shamans did likewise. The Qa'id Adheem rose and returned to his place on the raised wooden dais, and a small clay bowl of fermented mare's milk, kymis, was brought to him. He raised the bowl to eye-level in two outstretched hands and looked around at the faces exposed by the flittering light of torches and fires in the night.

'You have heard the words of our blessed forefathers, and you have heard also my vow to eradicate the Ma'Erkoz for their sins. And you well know that my word is my bond, and what Shaqmar speaks is done. Tonight we drink and feast the feast of war. And on the morrow we rest and prepare, and on the day after we ride out. And you have heard it said before, and I shall say it here once more: we ride out once and once alone, and we return only when our foes are slain and gone - or we never,' and with that, he brought the bowl to his lips and drank, and all others raised their own bowls and did likewise. And food was brought forth and cooked, and all ate and feasted, and poems were recited and drums were beaten and the shamans growled their forbidding growls and hummed their hums of war and chanted their chants.

Leaving them to their preparations, Shaqmar retired to his tent to rest. But he found that he was restless and eventually got back up and paced around the roundtent. His thoughts revolved, as they always did, around Layla. But he also thought of his murdered mother and his vendetta. Eventually he seated himself on the furs and commanded one of the guards to call Surayka and bring more kymis. When she came, she brought an empty bowl and a clay jug brimming with the beverage and, when he gestured for her to do so, sat down on her knees beside him and filled the bowl for him before handing it over. He took the bowl and emptied it in a single gulp before handing it back to her.

'Surayka,' he said as she refilled it, 'you...you were there when he did it, were you not?'
'Yes, my Qa'id,' she said as she handed him the refilled bowl.
'Did she say anything?' he once more emptied the bowl and handed it back to her for a refill. She looked at him anxiously and put the bowl aside. He had drunk a great amount during the feast already and was quite clearly tipsy. He did not need anymore.
'No, she ignored him completely and walked away from him into her tent. Once his men overturned that, he went in and stabbed her. She was seated and did not so much as look at him. And when he delivered his heinous blow, she did not so much as moan. And when they departed to loot and kill elsewhere, I ran to her,' he picked up the bowl and handed it back to her with a trembling hand for a refill. She pursed her lips and poured him more, 'drink slowly, Shaqmar.'

But he did not seem to hear her, or if he did then he ignored her for he quickly gulped it down and extended it to her for more.
'What happened?' he asked. She put the jug to the side and, taking his hand into both of hers, took the bowl from him and likewise put it aside.
'She asked about you, my Qa'id,' he turned his head to her.
'What...what did she say?'
'She said, and she kept saying until life departed from her: Where is my Shaqmar? Why hasn't he come back yet?'
A small moan left the man and he turned away from her and buried his head in the furs and was still. She remained sat there; her eyes downcast and a silent tear rolling down her cheek. Outside, it began to rain and thunder roared and lightening flashed, and those who were feasting left everything and swiftly escaped into their tents. After a small while, Shaqmar rolled over and stared emptily above him and, wiping the tears from his eyes, listened to the sound of the rain.

'The Sky is angry,' he at last said, 'and rightly so.'
'It is weeping,' Surayka murmured.
'And rightly so,' said the Qa'id Adheem. He gestured for Surayka to go rest on his bed - for it was forbidden to walk outside during the Sky's fury, 'go rest and I shall lay here until the sun rises and the Sky regains its calm.'
She bowed and did as he bid her, but did not fall asleep. Every now and again he would ask her something or make a remark, and she would respond.
'Surayka,' he abruptly said after a long period of silence.
'Yes, my Qa'id?'
'You are amongst the most famed beauties of Rukbany. Why did they not take you too?' she did not respond for a minute or so.
'Is that some kind of accusation, Shaqmar? Would you have liked for them to have taken me too?'
'W-what? No, I don't mean it in that way. Of course I wouldn't want them t-'
'Would you have pledged your pledges and declared your oaths had it been me and not Layla that was taken? Do you care at all, Shaqmar, for all the others who were taken? For your cousin, Yesla, or my sister Uta?'
'Surayka!' he hissed and sat up, 'what are you suggesting? That I do not care for my people? That I have no concern for anyone but Layla?'
'Not at all, Shaqmar,' she said quickly, 'I'm just in a bad way and spoke foolishly. Forget what I said...I'm sorry,' he looked over his shoulder at her. She was lying with her back to him and the cover drawn over her. Where Layla should have been.
'Surayka, you should get married before you get old and lose your beauty. Then you would have a man to protect you and wouldn't need to ask me questions like that. I will rescue Yesla and Uta and Layla and all our women and children. But even were I not here, Yesla has her brother, Qaseer, to avenge her. And your sister has her husband Muja. And yes, Layla has me,' and so saying, he lay back down and continued staring into the air and listening to heaven's rage. She made no response and eventually he stopped speaking altogether. His breathing grew long and deep. And he slept. Hearing this, she raised her head and looked wistfully behind her at him.

'For a great poet and eminent weaver of words and meanings such as you, Shaqmar, you seem blind to all my meanings and deaf to all my words,' and placing her head back on the Qa'id's fur pillow, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Indeed, as Shaqmar well knew, there were words that were spoken though the tongue uttered naught, and eyes hid meanings for eyes with true sight.

The Qa'id Adheem rose as the sun began to peer over the horizon. He glanced briefly at Sukayra and, noting that the fur blankets had slid off her in the nigh, walked towards her and covered her properly. Her face was at peace and she murmured inaudibly in her sleep as he covered her. How many nights had he sat up captivated by the beauty and tranquillity of Layla's sleeping face? How many sleepless nights had he spent worshipping before her sleeping form, and how many pining kisses had he rained upon her cheeks, only to have her - sometimes smiling and sometimes frowning - turn away and murmur for him to go to sleep. He may have been maddened with love, but not even a madman would so much as think of sleeping while the queen of beauty and peace lay beside him.

Suddenly nostalgic, he turned away and left the roundtent. The jugs which had held kymis the night before were many of them turned over, and the clay bowls sat in the soggy mud holding within them the clear tears of the Eternal Sky. Scooping some water from one of these bowls, Shaqmar washed his face and drank. When rainwater was unavailable and the Mahd was too far away to get water, the Rukbans relied on kymis for hydration - and there were many who preferred kymis even when water was available. Shaqmar was not of them. Many times had he reprimanded his men for drinking too much kymis and being drunk all the time. Kymis was good, a divine blessing, but drunkenness was no good unless one wished to drown out their grief and sorrows - and even then!

Today was the day of preparation. His warriors would soon rise and sharpen their swords and spears and arrows, they would prepare their battledresses and ensure their horses were fit and ready. They would gather thereafter and sing together and recite war poetry before the wrestling would begin. Thereafter they would get on their horses and race around the encampment five times while firing their arrows at targets on the stockade. After the midday meal, they would rest for a while and then rise to duel one another. And as evening descended, they would once more sit around the fires and recite poetry and sing and dance, and all would retire early to their tents and spend the night with their wives and children. For on the morrow, they would go to war, and none knew who would return and who would be struck down in the heat of battle. For on the morrow, they would ride and cleanse the world of treachery and dishonour. For on the morrow they would cause a new river to erupt from the earth – a river of Ma’Erkoz blood and tears which would rival the glorious Mahd in the east. For on the morrow.

And it was so. Early on the morning of the third day Surayka took Layla’s place and dressed the Qa’id Adheem in his battledress. And she braided his hair and brushed down his beard before placing upon his head one of his wolf-skin headdresses which marked him out as the Qa’id Adheem, and which proclaimed to all that he was officially at war. Dipping two fingers into a bowl of kymis, she rubbed the liquid lightly on the headdress and on his beard. His sword belt was then wrapped around him and his bow’s sheath was attached with a small strap to the belt and held firm. The quiver, as was custom and as was most efficient, was positioned on his back so that the arrow feathers stuck out just above his right shoulder. It meant that when on horseback a new arrow could be pulled out immediately upon firing the last, in one continuous circular motion.

At last, Surayka brought him his spear and handed it to him. He looked every part the famed Shaqmar whose name was glorified by the very winds and grasses and rolling Rukbanian hills. His eyes held within them a dark severity and a barely restrained fury – or perhaps it was merely that madness she well knew existed in him. And though all people held within them a tinge of madness, Shaqmar’s madness was deeper and deeper still. It was not a madness of the mind, but a madness of the heart and soul.

‘Shaqmar,’ she murmured softly. He looked to her and smiled thinly, ‘please, whatever happens, be sure to return to us. We all need you. Very much.’
He cocked his head and gave her a level stare, ‘Surayka, I will only return if life awaits me here.’
She understood what he meant and she looked away from him, busying herself with tying the wolf’s feet together so that the headdress would remain steady.
‘You are the guarantor of life for many of us, Shaqmar,’ she whispered shyly.
‘The Eternal Sky guarantees life for whom it wills, not I, Surayka.’
‘And yet your life alone seems guaranteed by one other than God,’ she responded cuttingly, her tongue speaking before she could restrain it. He was taken somewhat aback by the sharpness in her voice – anger even.
‘The Eternal Sky guarantees physical life, but the life of the spirit is guaranteed by those we love,’ he at last said.
‘And so I say again, you obstinate man, you are a guarantor of life for us,’ and so saying, she turned away and left the roundtent, with Shaqmar staring earnestly after her. Sighing, he gripped the spear she had handed him and soon emerged from the roundtent also.
Layl had been prepared for him, and so too had his other horse – a mare he had named Lula. For all his speed and power, Layl was a stallion and could not provide Shaqmar with milk. For what promised to be a long campaign, he would need to take Lula along with him too. Most of his riders were doing likewise either way, for the long journey would mean that one horse would tire too quickly after miles of constant galloping. And so they would jump from horse to horse in order to allow them to rest even as they continued without stopping. The women and children would be following at a slower pace behind. Mounting Layl and tying Lula’s reins to those of the stallion, the Qa’id Adheem spurred his horse into a slow trot, surveying the warriors who were for the most part all ready and the roundtents which had been brought down by the women and the camels whose backs were already laden with their belongings. Shaqmar’s roundtent alone was not brought down. The great thing had been built on a massive cart pulled by some thirty yaks and would be coming along with them intact.



What were the great palaces of Vetruvia before this? What was a home if one could not place it upon his shoulders when he so wished and depart with it? What was one’s home if it locked him away from the Eternal Sky and the great green hills and the flowing waters? This was the greatest of all palaces, for it was a home and not a prisoner of the earth it stood upon.
As he continued his inspection, he came upon Surayka as she brought down her roundtent in preparation for the journey ahead, and his thoughts turned once more to her last words to him. He was no fool and saw through all her hints and suggestions. And Shaqmar was a mere man, he denied not that her beauty drew him and her piercing eyes stoked the fires in his loins. But there was nothing more to it than that. It was lust. And it saddened him that he could not feel anything more for her – for all that he was belonged to Layla, and all that he could feel he felt for Layla, and the pinnacle of his desires was his desire for Layla, and the purest of them was that for Layla, and the most complete also and the most divine. All things shrank before that, even Surayka. And that was not due to any fault in the woman – on the contrary! But what was the beauty of all the moons in the skies, and all the stars, when the sun rose in the morning? All faded and disappeared, and only the sun could be seen. And it was not due to a deficiency in the beauty of those moons and stars, but such was the startling superiority of the sun. And such was the superiority of Layla before all that existed.

She saw him looking at her and paused in her work. He approached and spoke.



She looked at him with wide eyes, and he – unable to hold her gaze – looked away sadly. She said nothing, and he quickly steered Layl and Lula away and continued his circuit around the massive encampment. And it could only be massive when all the tribes of the Azad Confederation had gathered in one place.There were some three thousand Azad warriors, five thousand warriors of the Mu'aykala tribe, four thousand of the Huntalla tribe, six thousand of the Dhul’Dhanab, and some two thousand from the other smaller clans and tribes – which alone came at fifteen tribes and clans, each with their own Qa’id. If one were to count the women and children, the number would have been considerably more. In total, however, the united war party itself came at an earth-shaking, sky-splitting twenty thousand warriors. These were the riders of the Azad Confederation. They were the growl of thunder and strike of lightening against all who thought to raid Azad lands. They were the movers of mountains and shatterers of the earth. They were quick and certain death to heinous criminals such as the Ma’Erkoz.

Checking his saddlebags for sufficient food – salted meat for the most part - Shaqmar watched as the sun continued its ascent in the distance over yonder hills. He would have to one day reach the distant land where the sun rose and set every morning and night. Perhaps he would be able to speak with it when he did, and perhaps it would listen. And perhaps he would be able to command it, and perhaps it would obey. Alqama had told him that one who happened upon the sun as it was rising caught it at its weakest and could tame it. It would be good to tame the sun. If there were any Ma’Erkoz left upon the earth when he at last came to do so, his first command would be to completely destroy them. Such was the fate of criminals.

As he marched out with the war party that fateful morn – the women and children stirring and following slowly behind -, a large Dhul’Dhanabite man came up next to him, skilfully steering his mare with his legs alone and with an igilir in his hands. And he played it, and he recited the chant of war. It was good to have him so close, for his words fed the flames of Shaqmar’s steely fury, and they caused him to tighten his grip on the reins, and they caused death itself to manifest in his eyes and his every aspect. Soon, Shaqmar also began reciting with him, and others joined until the earth too seemed to chant and growl with them, and the slow thunder of their horses’ hooves seemed to be their roar. Once the chant was done, Shaqmar dug his knees into Layl’s sides and the powerful stallion leapt forward, dragging Lula along with him. Behind him the mighty host also stirred their horses. And the picturesque, rolling Rukbanian hills reverberated with their rumbling onset as they left the sluggishly moving encampment behind. And it was as though the gates of heaven had opened with a frightful boom, and its wrathful denizens had emerged to make right what had gone wrong, and to punish the sinful for their sins.

Indeed, as Shaqmar looked behind him at the great cloud of dust and dirt which his host kicked up, and how they emerged from it as though they were the vengeful spirits of his forefathers, he could not help but be affirmed in his belief that he was the punishment of the Eternal Sky – had the Ma’Erkoz not committed such crimes and sinned as they had, God would never have sent a punishment such as him against them. And those who did wrong would ultimately come to know what vicissitudes their undertakings will take and thereafter to what ultimate fate they would be turned. Had they thought they would be left alone despite all they did? If so, then they were asleep, and he was their terrible awakening!
They crossed from Azad herding grounds into those of the Ma’Erkoz a week after having set out. Upon crossing, Shaqmar’s force split into four equal parties and each set off in a different direction. The first, under Shaqmar’s lead, continued north. The second and third forces, headed by the Dhul’Dhanab Qa’id Siruga and the Huntalla Qa’id Chenar, changed direction and headed west. Chenar would head north after some days of travel, and Siruga would do likewise once he reached the Venom-Forest’s edge. The final force, under the leadership of the foremost Mu’aykala Qa’id Tadatunga headed eastward, and would turn north upon reaching the edge of the Tagham herding grounds. And if the Tagham Tribes proved faithful and to their overtures of friendship true, they would join with Tadatunga there and eventually meet with the other forces when Shaqmar sent his messenger to them.



The morning breeze carried the Mahd's sweet smell to the Vetros' High Temple, though it was laden with something else. Just as the overripe plum was sickeningly soft and sweet, the taste of death clung to the air and corrupted its purity. It reached the nose of the King upon his balcony, and he at once retreated back into the temple. Through the winding passages of the upper level that was his palace, he made his way downwards. Through the grand chambers and halls of worship he walked with haste, and on his way he encountered a band of soldiers that had been on their way to summon his attention.

They tried to tell him of what had happened, but were ushered silent for Akthanos had already sensed it. Looking at the horror that had been wrought in blood upon the street, he followed its path. Down other paths, those had had risen early looked on in horror too; there were trails of blood to be seen everywhere. All led to one great plaza, and where they came together was a sinister work indeed. He was not blind in his old age, though now he perhaps wished it upon himself. To gaze upon such evil was to bring ruin and curse upon one's self, or so the common folk believed. Akthanos knew that his power could ward off such things, but there was still the matter of protecting his people.

With shocked eyes, and then furious ones, he beheld the message that Heartworm had left behind. Its message was so simple and basic that it took no brilliance to discern; indeed, through the pure shock of the scene, the message forced itself into one's mind like the midday sun forced itself upon one's skin. With little effort, every detail of the intricate design burned itself into his memory. He would banish this evil from his city, but he would not so easily forget it. The King raised his staff a few humble inches from the ground, then brought it down. The earth itself seemed to crack under that force. Underfoot the ground shuddered and churned, and the sandy soil roiled until it had buried and obfuscated the bloodied painting that defiled Vetros. The cobbled roads were remade as they were, and then peace and tranquility had returned.

The morning sun rose, and with it the cityfolk. They gathered around and watched as they found their King kneeling in the streets, incanting a prayer at each one before walking to the next. So stoic and solemn was his expression that he projected an aura of silence, and so on that quiet morning they all observed wordlessly.

At each street, Akthanos summoned the power of his god and cast a spell upon the people to ward them from the evil that had come in the dark. On and on this went until midday, when at last the Priest-King found himself before the Temple of the Bond. It was said by some that within there was a witch, and that within those halls were infidels that hid from Zephyrion's light. Was it right to bring salvation unto vermin? Was it just to spare from one great evil what might simply be an evil of a different face?

He looked upon that Temple for a while, the great crowd assembled behind him looking on as well. The condemning stares of a thousand men and women beat down upon the Temple's walls more harshly than the wind, the rain, and even the sun, and then Akthanos knelt. With a few words, he blessed the Temple and warded those inside from the night's evil.

He stood to his feet a few moments later, exhausted. He thought to reflect upon whether he had made a righteous decision, but the fatigue of his mind stymied such musing. Wearily, the old king returned to the High Temple and climbed the staircase to his palace above. He at last found himself at his bed, and there he collapsed.



Unlike the Priest-King, Yara had not needed to wait till the morning after to discover the horror of the night before. She had lain back in her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as she now did every night, her eyes clearly elsewhere, when she felt the strange presence. For her, the aura of the Priest-King's divine artefact had become a familiar sensation, one of the only pleasant ones that remained for her. But this sensation, which took the blankness out of her glazed eyes and filled her with intense and violent terror was not pleasant. She remained frozen in her place, pale and trembling, sweat lining her brow. What if it could sense her?

She could feel it slithering through the city. She could feel it working its tainted, unilateral magics. There was no finesse to it, and no harmony. She felt the forced penetrations and injections of energy as though it were her own skin which was torn and her own mind that was forced against its will to become something that it was not. There was a gift in it too. A unilateral gift that was not asked for, and a unilateral seizure which was not accepted. Thus were the ways of the gods! Where were the limits, one wondered. What was to prevent these gods from doing as they pleased with those vulnerable to their wills and whims and desires? There was nothing. There was no guarantee. Only against her did they have a guarantee, for her contract with all that existed was her bond. None were touched by her, none were harmed. All that she did, she did under the strictest and most strictly upheld contracts. And she had, in times aforetime, contracted with all that existed and would exist that she would, at the very least, do no harm unless it was under contract. Who of her siblings had done likewise? None had, and so watch the Universe go to ruin if you have eyes to see.

And she had slowly sat up and brought herself to her trembling feet. Pale and full of fear, her nightgown sticking to her body, she slowly made her way out of her room and walked barefoot through the temple's torch-lit halls. She thought she heard a sound from time to time, but it was not until she heard definitive footsteps that she froze and moved no more, listening intently. Yes, footsteps. Her mind went blank. Footsteps.

Wait.

Footsteps. Things that slithered did not step, right?
'Witch-Priestess? Is that you? Are you alright?' came a soft yet strong voice. She gulped and turned to find the scarred face of Gadar looking upon her. She nodded deliriously and stumbled towards him, putting a hand on his shoulder to stabilise herself.
'Please, take me to the Miracle Room,' she whispered with a quivering voice. Nodding, he placed an arm hesitantly around her waist and helped her along. Silence hung between them like the heavens upon the back of the Solitary Mount, until Gadar eventually spoke.
'Mother...' he looked anxiously at her, 'I...I have been quite...well, worried about you recently. You have not been yourself at all. Has something happened?'

Yara was quiet for a while, not looking at him as they walked closer and closer towards the Miracle Room.
'Mother?' he asked after a while, at which she stopped suddenly, anger flashing in her eyes.
'What? I haven't been myself you say? Do you know me that you can say that I haven't been myself? What makes you think that this isn't how I always have been? Stop asking me useless questions and just get me to the room,' with that she made to continue walking, but he remained standing where he was, his arm tightening around her waist. She blinked in confusion and looked towards him. There was an odd look in his eyes. She shook her head and looked again. In her delirious state she had, for the briefest moment, thought that his left eye was functioning. It had been a strange, piercing black.
'Gadar, can we get going please?' she asked impatiently.
'Mother, you helped me when I was weak and vulnerable. You brought me back from what may have been the jaws of death. Please, let me help you now. Do not deny me this, for I am in your debt,' she could not deny that his wording took her off guard.
'N-no, don't say that. It wasn't like tha-'
'I am indebted to you, Mother,' he repeated more forcefully. She groaned and looked away and tried to fall away from his grip. But he took her up in both arms and carried her to the Miracle Room and laid her upon the altar. And she did not look at him and asked him to depart and leave her be.

'I will wait outside. Call on me if you need anything,' he said, ignoring her command. She had forgotten, by this point, why she had sought to come to the Miracle Room in the first place. And so she lay back on the altar, as he had placed her, and closed her eyes. And in her sleep, she saw with horrifying clarity all that the slithering thing did.

When Gadar gently shook her awake, it was to tell her that a great crowd had gathered outside the temple gates not long ago.
'What? Why?' she asked.
'It appears the Priest-King led some kind of parade through the city. Something happened last night. Something bad.'
Yara nodded. Yes. She knew. And this strange glow which seemed to emanate from the temple walls and from the air and even from within her, this strange warmth, was testament to that. Something so bad that the Priest-King had felt it necessary to cast wards all over the city. It was nice. It was warm and comforting. Almost like...

She looked at Gadar thoughtfully for a few seconds.
'Will...um. Will you take me back to my room now?' she asked sheepishly. Gadar looked visibly surprised but eventually smiled ever so slightly and bowed his scarred head in obedience.
'Your words are commands, Mother.'



There was the dull, unending pain that came from aching bones. He had grown used to it, accepted it; like a limb, it was a part of what he was. It was the sickening twisting within him that tortured Akthanos. He lied down upon his bedding and turned once more, just as he had done all day. Rest evaded him; how could he sleep when the vile beast that had butched his people and desecrated his streets yet drew breath? Normally Akthanos was of a kind heart and calm temperament, but now he thirsted for retribution, and even something darker...vengeance.

He wanted It to beg as it shriveled in the sun and burned.

Yet as wise men knew, the lazy wolf finds no lamb, and the resting warrior conquers no land.

He rose up. Pain was his body's protest to that decision, but he was determined to go to the Temple of the Bond once more. He had ruminated upon all that he knew and had heard of that Temple, the newest of the city, and suspicion had grown within him and eaten away at him like a tumor.

So he would go just there, to that strange place, but not as a King. No, he would go in the dead of night as a humble peasant, and in the darkness he would find the truth. The path clear to him now, his disciplined mind banished the pain that hindered him and his exhaustion gave way to a restlessness. He shed free from his kingly robes and about him swirled the sand and dust that had been in the air. Clothes or no, he was King and his word was Law; from those swirling sands a roughspun and pauper outfit wove itself around him. His magnificent bejewlled scepter of gold became a gnarled walking stick, and all its power drifted free like so many drops of rain falling from a cloud.

Through the starlit streets he walked, keeping to the blackest corners just as any other man of such circumstances would. To be seen at this hour would be to have one's self taken for a burglar or other villain of the night, and so it was best to do one's business unseen.

And the will of the Priest-King was indeed unseen. For none but Yara could see or feel the golden hue and the warm glow which bathed the city and all who dwelled therein. So strange was the feeling that she remained all day in her room, sat up in her bed and simply gazing at the glow, savouring the way the simmering heat of the midday air seemed to drift away. Aye! There was a certain kind of evil brought by too much sun. And from time to time she would call on Gadar and her eyes would savour him also, for he seemed to shine with an intensity unparalleled by all else in the temple. And he was only too happy to come back and go away at her beck and call, though he did nothing more than stand before her silently whenever she did call on him.

And as the day withered and the shadows grew ever longer, there came a change upon the glow and warmth. It was not entirely noticeable at first. Like the first cool breeze which returns after the long summer months are almost over, and the icy bite which takes one unawares as they walk by the Mahd on the first sundown of winter. And just as that first sundown brings with it a biting cool and darkness, so too did that glow, which had been so warm and bright at morn, descend into its own frozen darkness. And were it only so that it was indeed a frozen darkness! For frozen darknesses are not to be feared! 'tis not frozen which descends upon one's brow and collapses in on one's breast and forces its way through the orifices till one screeches in terror and horror. As though it were not trauma enough for such things to occur, it was doubly more so because the self-same kindness of a sunny morn now turned its vicious night and moonless cruelties upon her. What despair it is to have the hand which warmed and fed and protected one in better days turn on one and bring on dark dejection.

Blinded by the darkness and her own terror, she fled her room and ran fast as her little bare feet could carry her, the darkness hot on her delicate heels. And it was as though Fate itself had aligned with the darkness for there were none to save her nigh. And the stars in the night sky, having made their allegiance known, were snuffed and not one could be spied. Aye and even the blessed moons, as though knowing of the coming horror, had lifted up all their ornaments and made their spiritless escape from the heavens. None remained - in that hour of desperation, all were gone. Was that not always the case? Who was there for her in the end? Other than...

Even as she began to think it, her mind backed away from so much as uttering his name, lest the very thought become a screeching plea and he should descend from his ivory tower in the the unknown sky to gloat at her weakness yet again. And she flew through the gates of the temple, into the lighter darkness of the waiting streets. And behind her the great mass of chasing darkness reared its great head, as though it were a Leviathan of the deep, and she looked on with horror as it, rising even above the arch of the temple gate, came crashing down upon the helpless, faultless, friendless once-goddess.

And there came through that heavy darkness an ancient man, bent double. And his eyes were dark and endless, for even beneath the darkness of his cloak, their darkness shone with an ever greater darkness. You, came her silent thought. I did not-
His walking stick at last came to a stop on the sandstone path, and the darkness withered and withdrew all around them as though it had never been - though she could feel it clawing and tearing at some hidden barrier, waiting on its release. She stood there, a barefoot little woman, quite clearly drained of all life and energy, staring with near-empty eyes at he who stood before her. It was the longest time before she realised that it was not him. He was not one for eagles.
No. It was the Priest-King.

The eagle resting upon his shoulder turned its head, beak facing sideways, so that one piercing eye gathered up Yara in its withering gaze. With all its power - and indeed, it had a good deal of power, for eagles are king over the skies - it sought to shine a light upon her heart and banish all secrecy. Akthanos, in his guise, reached up with a withered hand to calm the bird. Knowing not that his identity had been revealed, his mouth opened. "Alms," he cried out to Yara, "you of that temple, would you bless an old man with alms?"

She looked at him for a few seconds, slightly wide-eyed, fingers trembling, heart leaping here and there in terror. And she did not truly hear what he said, but a certain part of her understood, and the sharpness of her tongue responded.
'What need have they for alms who are as eagles in our skies? The eagle doth not ask, the eagle can but screech - it has tasted command.'

"Answers were the alms I sought, not gold," he replied with a look of genuine shock about him. But then his face hardened again. "...but as you say, the eagle may take what it will."

His hand reached up to pet the eagle, and he stroked its plumage softly. But then the raptor suddenly shrieked, and its feathers with incinerated and flesh disintegrated; the bird was no more. Where it had perched upon his shoulder was now an orb of brilliant, awesome magical power. Globules of the stuff fell down upon the beggar's walking stick, like so many drops of rain. The gnarled staff was became a rod of gold that glowed like the sun, encrusted by countless gems, with the likeness of that eagle for its head. Then, holding the King's Law, even in his ragged vestements Akthanos looked regal once more.

What subtlety and speech might not have gleaned could be found by force. Akthanos raised the King's Law high above his head, and though it cast a blinding light, it made the gnashing darkness that bayed at Yara ever more potent. The brightest of flames were those that cast the greatest of shadows, after all.

The quiet night's sky itself reverberated about that artifact's obscene power. The winds scattered the sand and sang a sacred hymn, and the humming in the air rattled the sandstone and mud brick about the city in such a way that they too joined in on the glorious chorus. And yet, for all that, the city slept on. As he thrust the full force of his light upon the Witch-Mother to illuminate her, he was sure to stifle his own power and show the utmost restraint, lest he destroy his own city or harm so much as an insect that was an innocent bystander.

Through the blinding light and slashing winds Akthanos' eyes peered. No evil or lie was so strong and no darkness so black as to withstand the torch of the King's Law; let the light be verdict, for beneath its might the wicked may only burn and the pious glow.

Yara's eyes closed ever so slightly as she bathed in the searing heat of the restrained power of the King's Law, her long black hair flying up and whipping around her head in the face of the bursting energy, and her white gown fluttered violently around her. Yet despite it all, she stood unflinching before it all. Indeed, to any bystander, and perhaps to the Priest-King himself, she would come across cool and composed, utterly unabashed. But what were exterior forms of creatures to their interiors? It was not coolness or composure, but the sight of death - at last! At last it had come - that brought about her stillness. It was not with bravery that she stood there facing the might of a god, it was fear that paralysed her. She had never known it about herself before, but she realised then - and what did it matter if she admitted it or denied it now? - that she was something of a coward. An ungrateful coward at that. Selfish too, now that she thought on it. Perhaps it should not have been so surprising, but she was rather surprised by the sudden illumination.

How quickly had she fled when she thought danger nigh - she had not even paused to think that maybe it was not only her who was threatened. She had only thought to run. And she had blamed the others in her heart for not being around - Chjekaya, whose heart was only full of love, pure love; Malikhet, whose only care was that her Witch-Priestess rise ever higher in the eyes of the people and become truly appreciated for all her beauty and wisdom and mercy, that loyal Malikhet; Gadar...she could not bring her heart to imagine having doubted him in her moment of unadulterated cowardice, to have doubted his warmth when all other warmths seemed to have failed. Aye, she had blamed even him, but in her heart she knew, also, that she had nothing she could blame him for. He had given her of himself unlike any other, and all she gave him was ungratefulness and hatred and anger. She looked down, fear seeping from her as she came to terms with these her final moments. And in her heart she hoped that, if the souls of all that lived, divine they be or otherwise, gathered somewhere after all of this, she would very much like to be united with all who loved her, and all whom she now realised, with the most sudden pang of pain, she also loved.

'Oh,' she moaned inaudibly, 'oh Belvast,' for she had made a promise long ago, and now it seemed that she would not be able to keep it.

She had abandoned him.

Suddenly angry, she lifted her head and stepped forward towards the blinding light. Her eyes watered and for the first time she felt the heat. It hurt.
'You will not...not today...' she whispered inaudibly once again, raising a hand to protect her eyes from the intensity. Then she heard it, and she felt it writhing around her. It was almost as though the light, much like the darkness which even now threw itself like the ocean's waves upon the cliff-like barrier holding it at bay, had a life of its own. And now and again it touched her here and tapped her there, and whispered softly in her ears and lifted her hairs and inspected them. Is it good... she thought she heard, is it bad?
She looked around herself curiously, the burning sensation now waxing and waning with every heartbeat. Strange. Strange one... she could now hear, not good...but not bad.

And the light withdrew, and its whispering slivers disappeared. All that remained was the slightest burning sensation, and before her the Priest-King with the mighty sceptre in his hand. Despite the strange experience, she mustered a cool stare and looked at him silently, waiting on him to speak.

Stoic before, now there was a hint of grim resolution upon the king's face. He had seen something. In defiance of Yara's expectance, speak he did not and indeed could not, for he brought his scepter upon the ground and all was quiet. Dark. Still.

The slightest outline of his figure was obscured by darkness, and then swallowed. Oblivion.

The earth and shadows shifted in strange ways, and in that twilight realm, a portal opened and there was a ghostly sort of light; 'twas fitting for a scene that showed ghosts of the past. And Yara was alone to witness that scene anew!

It was a scene of profound tenebrosity, terrible in its scope, terrifying in its aspect, mortifying in its intimation. It was not a shade like that Leviathan which had struck down upon her from the heavens not moments before. Nay, this was a gloom wherein swam many such Leviathans. This was the roaring ocean of eternal twilight and obscurity which gave life to those horrors which even gods had learned to fear. Nay, which they knew in the screamings depths of their essences that they should fear and would do well to flee from.

And though the ocean was home to Leviathans, yet there was amongst them a being before whom even these venerable and mighty shades shrunk in dread-filled reverence. Consuming the darkness where it went, wallowing in the intensity of the depraved night which oozed from it and followed it wherever it went, there ripped through the floundering tides a beast whose proportions were so great as to be incomprehensible to beings and minds so small as those of Yara and Akthanos. Aye, even the Primordial Sun was reprehensibly deficient in size and horror when brought before this epitome of frightful breadth and fearsome form.

There he came, the moth-eaten shadow of a dragon who had died long before the gods were even a thought. And there he came, his antique body, though falling apart, still holding strong. Aye, there he came, Discord incarnate, he who forgot how to die.

'Hail,' came his rumblings, 'you who fled from us in our moment of Desperation.'
'Hail,' came her response, 'you who severed this cord that long united us.'
'It was not I that severed. 'tis you that fled.'
'Nay, blame me not, Algamex, for disunity and separation and toil are the fruits you sow, not I.'
'Aye, you speak a little truth. You separate not, you merely rise in terror and find somewhere to fly.'
'That...that's not-'
'You most loveless in creation, you brimming with the blackest blackness that these oceans could e'er conjure. Do you fear the Leviathans of the deeps and the dragons of my haughty heights? There are no dragons and no Leviathans before your primal gloom!'
'No! That's no-'
'You have sat dormant, sinking in the sands of despondency and inertia. And mayhaps that is for the best of all. For the release of your inky blackness unto the world is something even I would not wish.'
'Stop...'
'You see, there are different kinds of evils and villanies that exist and have potential to exist. There are diabolical forms, there are sinister and vicious forms, there are cunning ones, and there are foolish cantankerous ones. There are ones which have eaten of wickendess and drank of malignity, and ones so depraved that they cannot see their own evil (aye, and this is the most common form! Why, this very type may well believe sincerely that it does good!) And there are many types which were I to list them all we would be here for a very long time indeed - not that time is of much relevance to us.'
'What are you getting at?' she hissed, 'spit it out.'
'What I am getting at is that of all these forms, there are none as unto you. Belruarc, you flighty coward; you slinking worm; you insectoid of desperation: you are the worst of them all, the most stagnant cesspool of moral filth - not that morality matters to any form, of course. What distinguishes you is that you tap into a level of repulsiveness which even the most decadent and depraved of villains find inherently execrable. To make it easier for your now-human mind to grasp; of all the evils that the animal kingdom has in store for humanity, there are none which are abhorred quite like the slug. Its form, its excretions; all that it is disgusts and repels - even other animals. That is your comparison, Belruarc.'
Frowning angrily, Yara tried to look away from the beast, but there was no escaping his imposing form. And so she spoke instead.
'You are a petty little thing, Algamex. What have you to gain through these empty words?'
'I've naught to gain, I come only with revelations. A warner to those who would heed my warning...'
And with these words, the ocean gave way and a penetrating void engulfed everything. And only Yara remained.
Every now and again, a familiar form would flit by - there an oaken countenance, there a little black tail, there a fluttering dress and feminine form, and here rolls a shell and there stands a mighty tree, and behind it a deathly visage looks on into the depths of her being. She walked in the void of familiar forms, and every now and again paused and looked more carefully at this or that, and a sudden memory would burn bright in her mind for the longest second before fading back into her subconscious.

At last, she came upon a thing hovering in the void above her. A winged creature, unashamedly naked and slim, of turquoise complexion and with five infinitely black eyes and hair of onyx.
'You are me,' Yara said in awe.
'And who are you?' asked Belruarc coldly.
'Mother Yara, the Witch-Priestess,' came her response - rehearsed and perfect, as though they had practised it somewhere till each knew their lines and movements as well as they knew the feel of a non-existent sun upon their skin.
'And I am Belruarc, Ink Incarnate. Why, I am GOD,' and suddenly, the gaze of the goddess turned away from Yara and pierced the void so that she looked direct into the eyes of Akthanos.



Like a great tidal surge crashing upon stony fjords, that revelation battered at Akthanos' mind as he witnessed it. The water pounded upon the wall that was his faith, yes, but then it clung to that stony surface and climbed upwards, welling ever higher until it seemed as if his whole world would be enveloped beneath the dark waves of that ocean.

And then there was the brightness of his scepter, and the King was grounded in reality once more. Never could his zeal wane, not with that nurturing glow before him.

He lifted it from the ground once more and released his grip upon reality and the witch before him, then brandished it into the air once more. He leveled the staff cautiously towards Yara, and the eagle that crowned the scepter stared forward without a hint of fear.

Finally he spoke, "I see now where your power comes from and that the tales be true; I have seen what you are, and yet know that in this place my power holds say over even you. Faithfully I have been shepherd to these people, the flock of Zephyrion, and it be my sacred charge to ward them from wolves. What, fallen one, do you do amongst our kind, if not prey upon men as a wolf upon lambs?"

Yara scowled and wrapped her gown around herself more tightly, staring defiantly at the raised sceptre.
'I am not a "fallen one", Chosen of Zephyrion. Dishonour me not with such labels. And dishonour me not with such low assumptions on what it is that I do here and my reasons. What is it that you do here? What is it that anybody does here? Have I no right to live and prosper just as you live and prosper? Just as the most lowly of creations may? What am I that you would deny me what is open to all?' she took a deep breath and looked towards the temple gate, 'I am not come to overpower you or seize from you your authority. Had that been my will, there is naught that could have withstood me. So stir not a cool and gently burning flame which warms all around it, lest furious infernos erupt from where you never thought they would.'

"The goddess that leaves glorious Zephyrion's side is the fruit that rots in the shade of its tree. The one in Vetros that builds a temple to any other than the one Master is a thief of my people's faith, an apostate that stands anathema to heaven's mandate, and a scourge upon the world.

Your words smell of honey yet taste of bitter poison; you claim no harm unto me, yet I awake in the morning to a scent of death clinging to the air, to butchered men left to rot in the street, to vile icons and symbols drawn upon the ground in blood. I too hear tale of your witchcraft withering a youthful boy to dust; by what right dare a creature so vile draw breath?"

'I have done no such thing. Walk ye into the temple this instant and inspect it. Ask all who are in it who their Master is. I have not come here a goddess, Priest-King, I have come here a priestess. I have come with knowledge and a desire to benefit you. I have enforced the law written in your books, and upheld the traditions, and expanded on your sciences. And I have, where I could, cured the sickly. And I have educated the young. And all as a Priestess of the Master, none other. Are these the acts of one who wishes harm unto any? Are these the acts of one who butchers innocents in the night? And which is more, it was not I who butchered those of whom you speak. You know well who it was,' she cocked her head and shrugged slightly, 'and as for those who come to me, I take nothing other than what they give, and give nothing but what is asked. I have had those who have come to me seeking youth, and if they had the means to gain it, I have granted it them. And this young man was brought to me by a woman from whom he stole three years. In his arrogance, he declared that he would give all the time he had in recompense if it were possible. And I made it so. And all the time he had, in accordance with the meaning in his words, was taken. I have not oppressed or sinned. I have upheld your religion and the religion of the one you worship. And I have done so with absolute sincerity, and it is not Yara who tells a lie.'

"You say that I know. Yes, it is no doubt the work It; all fear Y'Vahn, the Enemy of Infants, and yet that beast can take many shapes.

It is not Yara that breathes or speaks or stands before me; I have Seen you for what you truly be, and so is the facade of your very being now not an act of telling a lie?" came the retort, albeit with less fervor than before. He knew not whether she be an agent of Y'Vahn or an innocent as she spoke, and he lacked the heart to do the obvious right and purge her all the same. He would have to look for signs amongst the stars and divine the truth first; only the guilty could die. The Priest-King's hardened gaze wavered, and then it at last broke from Yara.

'I assure you, I may be many things, but Y'Vahn I am not. Unlike my...unlike Y'Vahn or even the Master and the "lesser" gods, I can do no harm to the unwilling. In many ways, I am a merchant. I buy and sell and contract with people as they wish; no more and no less. And, as you can see, I have settled here and now call this place home, and I do all I can to beautify my abode and elevate the lives of those around me. I am not come here with a sword to savage or a lance to gore, but only with the pen to teach and write down your lore.'

A merchant that sold harm to the willing? Some worry was alleviated by her brevity, yet his wariness was far from gone. To the side he turned, and then he paced to and fro as if in great turmoil and thought over the whole ordeal. In hushed murmur he breathed to himself, "Beware, O beware Akthanos, of the evil eye and the false wind!"

'Do not go, Priest-King. I would have you come in to the temple with me. It is not seemly for the greatest of all priests to have ignored us for so long. It would dishonour us to have had you so close to our gates only for you to once more turn away. Please,' and she gestured with a hand towards the great arched entrance, and the large courtyard beyond it, and the great iconic steps leading into the temple proper.

"...beware!" came one last utterance, and Akthanos wet his finger to touch it to the ground. The dry soil clung to his flesh, and with that muddied finger he drew upon his own forehead the likeness of a third eye. That symbol was a sacral one; it warded from the evil eye and brought safety and foresight.

"Be ignored no longer, then. I give chance to prove your claims," came his words more audibly, yet quiet still. Smiling, she bowed ever so slightly in respect and led the way.
The great arched gate passed overhead, and even in the darkness of night the great beauty of the temple's gardens was breathtaking. Nature had a certain grandeur about it, and night and day both brought out its glory in their own unique ways. Indeed, there was nothing quite like lying beneath the branches of a tree as darkness set in and watching with wonderment the silhouette of the branches against the night sky. There was a life to them that one could only appreciate and truly see in darkness alone.

They mounted the steps and passed the sandstone pillars beyond which was a great chamber, largely empty save the great statue of the Master against the far wall. There were various doors leading from this chamber into various winding halls leading further inside the temple - some towards the famed left wing where patients were kept, others towards the sleeping quarters of the priestesses, and others towards Yara's own bedroom, the library, and the Miracle Room. If one wished to enter the school building, one had to return down the steps and walk around through the courtyard towards it. And of course, other than the chamber itself, where any could come and worship, there were separate prayer rooms for men and women deeper within the temple's walls - and who knew what else?

The edge of night did naught but hone the King's suspicion and paranoia; where Yara found peace and sanctity, the shadows brought only fear unto Akthanos. It had not been so long ago that he had found himself alone in the dark...

Within the temple, though, there existed lights: the library and an unorthodox strange ritual room kindled curiosity, but he was far from at ease. Upon the Miracle Room's slab there might have been heinous witchcraft commited, and scratched unto the library's scrolls might have been all manner of vile heresy. Looks could deceive.

As though seeing into the man's doubt-filled mind, Yara picked out a few of the books on the shelves and laid them out before Akthanos.
'This one here is my own. It discusses medicine, expands on pre-existing knowledge on the human anatomy, and diagnoses some common diseases which have thus far been attributed by the superstitious to supernatural causes,' she opened up the tome and bid the Priest-King look.

'This is another of my own, largely on Vetruvian culture and traditions in the first half, and discusses the divine laws in detail in the latter half. I could not find any texts which brought together the body of religious law in one place as an easy reference for priests and priestesses settling cases, and so I wrote this - relying on the most authentic and authoritative sources only - for easing the job,' she opened up this tome and laid it upon the first for the Priest-King's inspection, 'I am certain that as first amongst priests you have often faced this issue of authorities being strewn in differing tomes and scrolls written by different people. Perhaps this book in particular would be of interest to you,' she then described the others - a poetry compilation she had bought from an old man in her early days in Vetros and whose compiler was unknown, a small treatise on the history of the holy family beginning with Prophet Primus himself and ending in the first half of Priest-King Marutkaman II's reign.
'I am considering writing an additional tome to this one which would bring it up to date,' Yara commented as she put the volume aside and showed the last of them, a scroll concerning early Vetruvian construction methods, most likely a manual at some point.
'Highly outdated, but there are some aspects of it that surprised me,' Yara remarked.

Construction methods. The words of the lawgivers. Poetry. These were what 'Yara' (he still thought of her by that name, even after the vision that revealed Belruarc) concerned herself with? The child within yearned to demand from her knowledge of the outside that only she could know, knowledge that men had never before even imagined to attain or realize, not these...memories. These libraries only depicted ghosts of the past.

But was the future not a tapestry of the past? The priest in him knew that some fruit were best left untouched.

Weakness returned to his body, and he once again felt weary as he had been earlier in the day. It was the kind of weariness that denied its own respite and left one unable to rest. Was it maybe death's grasping fingers?

Such musing cames to an end alongside his strength. With a gasp, he stumbled as he walked alongside Yara. His decrepit body crashed onto the hard stone floor and likely broke bones, and the King's Law rolled free from his clutches.

No... No! He could never allow Zephyrion's power to fall into the hands of another; it was heavenly decree that only a Primurid's hand touch that staff. Like an infant, he crawled across the floor in desperation and found the staff where it had rolled. His touch found the staff and its power was released. Into a golden mist the staff transformed, and from that mist was borne a mighty raptor.

"To my son..." he croaked in a hoarse voice, and then he was still.

The bird fluttered through the hallways and away, just as Akthanos began to fade away.

It all happened very swiftly, and Yara did not notice that Akthanos had collapsed until the sound of his sceptre hitting the floor rang out through the hallway. Turning around in time to watch the great golden bird disappear, she rushed towards the fallen King.
'By the Mast- uh, my goodness. I thought you seemed...' she put a hand on his deathyl cool forehead, and felt on his neck for a pulse. Though weak, it was still there. It would be a catastrophe if, on his first visit to the Temple, the Priest-King were to die. And not only that, under such suspicious circumstances - no one knew he was here, no other priestess had seen him. They would think the worst of her, no doubt.

Sitting him up against the wall, she looked around in a panic. He was old and weak, that was true, but she could not lift him.
'Gadar?' she asked uncertainly. There was silence for the shortest minute, and his calm footsteps could soon be heard as he walked down the hall, and his form appeared as he turned a corner and stopped before her.
'Mother?' he asked. She let out a small sigh of relief, though in her mind she thought it most strange that he had indeed heard her.
'T-the Priest-King,' she stuttered, 'get him to the Miracle Room. Quickly.'

She did not pause to think it odd that he did not think it odd that the Priest-King was here. He simply nodded, bent down, and gently picked up the most powerful man on Galbar. Old, frail, weak, muttering something about his son every now and then, or demanding she release him. Gadar laid him on the Miracle Room's altar, and Yara rushed into the room beyond in search of something. She emerged with the tiniest phial, and grabbed the larger phial of time from the shelf as she approached. Gadar stepped aside and watched as she poured a small amount - some three years' worth - into the tiny phial. Putting the larger one aside, she once more felt for the Priest-King's pulse. Faltering, but stubbornly there.

Without further hesitation, she poured the content of the little phial on to his forehead, and she watched it gather slowly on the eye of mud and disappear into the old man.
'You...you gave him that freely,' Gadar suddenly said. Yara looked at him in surprise.
'I...how?...No. Well,' she bit her lip and looked away, 'you wouldn't understand.'
'Of course.'

They both watched Akthanos in silence, waiting on the years to take effect and for health to return.

The Priest-King rest deathly still, though his muscles tensed; he might have tossed and turned, were it not for this seeming paralysis. Within his dream, there were many eyes. Eyes stared at him all directions, and no matter where he turned, they were always there to torment him.

Most were faceless, floating orbs in the dark; however, one had a body, and a hulking one at that. Akthanos could tell that it was a colossal being even though its form was shrouded in darkness, and its eyes flitted about menacingly in the Akthanos' direction as if searching for what it knew was hiding there somewhere. It searched, and yet Akthanos stood in plain sight.

In that dreamworld, the Priest-King moved his fingers to his forehead, and felt something caked upon it. He scratched at it until it came off, but only then when it was too late did he realize the gravity of that mistake. Like a fool, he had removed the third eye that he had painted upon the crown of his head with mud. In an instant, the great monster locked its eyes upon Akthanos, having finally found its quarry. With delight it conjured some sort of dark magic in one hand, and then with the other it raised up a strange stone...

With a start, Akthanos returned to the world of the living. Choking for breath, he saw the eyes of Yara and Gadar upon him and cowered backwards, reaching for the King's Law to burn out their eyes, yet he found nothing. The King's Law was gone!

Yara leaned back and let out a breath of relief.
'You had me worried there. Are you ok? How are you feeling? I think your right arm is fractured slightly, but that should return to normal in the next few minutes. Just don't move too much for now,' she bowed her head slightly before thanking Gadar for his help and letting him leave.

"Where...what have you done with my scepter? I saw...a monster coming...the kingdom needs my protection," came out his voice, weakly.
'Don't worry about that for now. The kingdom is not going to fly away, it will still be here in the morning. For now, you must rest. I insist,' Yara placed a hand on his forehead and noted with contentment that his deathly cold had waned and there was more of the living warmth in him, 'as for the sceptre, I saw it fly away in a golden mist.'

"Its eyes...it saw me!" Akthanos insisted, and he brought a hand up to feel his head. There, surely enough, the eye painted above his brow had worn off in his sleep. At once he felt unsafe.

He regained his calm a few moments later. "If what you say be true, I must find where my staff has flown. Without it, Vetros is doomed."

He then looked unto Yara with a newfound and icy suspicion that held tenfold the venom that had been upon his face when first he met her. Had she stolen the King's Law?

But then he realized that he no doubt owed his life to this priestess, and so reluctantly trusted that she said truth. His expression was stoic once more and he meditated a few minutes, then began to rise to his feet. Yara quickly came around and helped him rise, and held on to him as he began to walk. He was yet weak, even if he did not realise it.
'Let me call on Gadar, he can help you back to the palace,' she said, looking to him for approval.

"Yes. Thank you, Bel-Yara. Yara," he managed to say.
'Yes,' she said gratefully, 'Mother Yara.'
As they left the room, she called once more on Gadar, who came swiftly, and she bid him help the Priest-King get back to his palace, 'be careful, for he is yet weak. But he is stubborn and will not stay put for the night,' Gadar nodded wordlessly and took the Priest-King by the arm, another arm going around his back and helping him stay up. And with that, they continued walking, Yara remaining by them till they reached the temple gate, and there she stood and watched as they disappeared into the darkness of the night.



A pair of dried feet walked, caked in the desert's equally dry sand. They were cracked and gnarly from countless years of walking barefoot, and yet the walker had no regrets. In this early day, the thin coating of sand upon the cobbled road was cool, much like the dew upon grass in lands greener than the Firewind. So through that sand-covered road, he trudged forward with his crisp feet, one step after another. As he walked, he did so with a staff in hand. His stick was nearly as weathered as his feet, but it still served its purpose as faithfully as ever. Onwards, another step to the horizon!

Rap.

He took another step, and brought the staff down hard on the ground again.

Rap.

On the third step, he struck the ground more sharply.

Tap!

He continued on through the lonely streets of Vetros in that early hour. Rap. Rap. Tap!

The motion of bringing down that staff was just as natural to him as was walking or breathing; he did it without thinking, and he did it perfectly. Rhythmically.

Rap. Rap. Tap!

...

Rap. Rap. Tap!

...

Rap. Rap. Tap!

As that sound echoed through the empty streets, it woke the people sleeping in their hovels and cottages and mansions; bleary eyed, their faces looked out from windows and balconies. 'twas a sound they all recognized: that of a herald demanding the attention of the townfolk, or that of a storyteller keeping beat for his epic poem. In either case, this man walked in solemn silence with nary a tale nor a piece of news!

Once enough eyes were upon him, he finally proclaimed, "I walk! I walk! Join me!"

Many did indeed rush out of their abodes to join him and form a procession, but just as many were not intrigued by curiosity or too irritated to do such a thing in the morning. They returned to what sleep they had time for, cursing that fellow as they lay back in their bedding.

Rap. Rap. Tap!

"I walk! I walk! Join me!"

Rap. Rap. Tap!

...

The procession marched on with purpose, though precisely what purpose that be evaded most of them. Finally one young boy ran to the head of the march, right beside the man with the staff that had roused them all. That man's eyes darted down to the boy, but he continued his walk and his proclamations. Nervously the boy asked, "Good man, to where do we walk?"

Rap. Rap. Tap!

The man kept perfect beat with his staff, but now ceased calling out for others to join him. Instead he only looked oddly at the boy in silence, as if contemplating an answer. He finally answered to the beat of his stick, "Yonder we go, to false shrine, den of evil, seat of heresy. There we stand, in Primus' shadow, blessed by Zephyrion!"

The boy's eyes widened, and he darted back into the crowd behind to tell them of what the man had said. It then became clear where he was intending to go: to the Temple of the Bond, where that Priestess Yara had long stirred rumor or heresy and evil and witchcraft. Blessed though King Akthanos be, he had failed thus far to alleviate the peoples' fears over that place yet also failed to deal with them in person. It certainly hadn't helped that a rumor was afloat; one man claimed to have seen a giant of a man emerge from that Temple to carry the unconscious Priest-King back to his palace! It was time that the people take the matter into their own hands, and so it seemed that this traveller was prepared to do just that. Though his face was not unknown to some in the city, he dweled in the hinterlands and mostly walked from riverside village to village. It had been a long journey to come to Vetros, and he would tell that to any who doubted the gravity of what he did!

Though his pace was slow and measured and the walk seemed to last an eternity, it eventually neared its end. The procession came to the entrance to that courtyard garden before the temple. The wanderer halted for a moment, and that pause rippled all the way to the back of the crowd. He looked at the gate and the garden inside, spat upon the dusty ground at the side of the road, and then strode on in. The hundreds of people at his back followed, many spitting to the side in perfect imitation of their demagogue.

Quick steps echoed through the halls of the Temple as one priestess rushed towards the library. She did all she could to walk as quickly as she could without running. It was not right for a priestess to run.
'Mother,' she whispered as she walked swiftly down the library towards the seated Witch-Priestess. She had, for some time now, taken to occupying herself with reading and rereading books and writing prolifically on all things.
'Yes, sister,' Yara responded sharply, not raising her head as she continued scratching away with her duck-feather quill.
'A large procession of people have marched through the temple gate,' the priestess said anxiously.
'Sister, the Temple is open to all. They may march in and out as they please,' Yara said, halting her work and looking up at Malikhet with a raised eyebrow and small smile.
'Yes Mother, but they seem...well. They don't seem all too...how should I put it...friendly,' the Witch-Priestess sat up completely in her seat and surveyed Malikhet for a few seconds before nodding slowly.

'Very well, Sister. Bring me the Temple Staff and gather your Sisters,' Yara commanded. Malikhet bowed and, turning on her heel, made her swift way out of the Temple Library. Yara looked down at what she had been writing - it was on the superstitious and irrational nature of humankind. She slowly rose and walked thoughtfully out of the library, her brows furrowed and her shoulders hunched and her hands behind her back. Sister Malikhet was waiting in the Temple Chamber, which led towards the majestic Temple Stairs and large courtyard and gardens beyond.
'Mother, your staff,' Malikhet said, getting on one knee and raising the wooden staff up towards the Witch-Priestess. Yara examined it for a few moments before taking it with her right hand and resting its butt on the stone ground.

It had come to her some weeks ago. Gadar had been seen walking into the Temple with a large block of wood and had disappeared into his room for a good week. When he emerged, he had the Temple Staff in his hands. Its most eye-gripping feature was the beautifully carved head, a very fine and detailed carving of a Mahd Crocodile's head emerging from a knot. To one who examined it more closely, the more subtle carvings all along the length of the staff became apparant - words of wisdom, scenes from nature, patterns. Here it read, 'Be sure of this, O young ambition, all mortal greatness is but disease.' And there it said, 'Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home.' And there, 'The colour of the mountains is the Master's body; the sound of running water is his great speech.'

'Mother, it is mandatory upon every temple to have a Temple Staff. It is the sign of a temple's legitimacy, and a sign also of the authority of the one who carries it. A merchant came and had with him something most rare - a piece of wood he found buried in the desert sands, ancient and crossed by all forms of divine beings over the ages. I was seized by a will not my own, and an inspiration not of me, and I carved from it a staff for you, Mother,' he had bowed and raised the staff towards her with trembling hands.
'Gadar,' she had murmured, 'I did not know you had this skill,' she placed a hand upon the staff, and a little shiver ran through her and she quickly withdrew her hand.
'I do not, mother. It was not of me,' had been his response. And she had taken the staff from him and knew that it had indeed been carved of a blessed and aged wood. She looked at Gadar, and the way he looked upon the stick reminded her of a similar look she had seen long ago in the eyes of a Treemind who looked with unconditional adoration at his Ik'Grarg'Ki.
'We thank you, Gadar. We shall treasure it immeasurably,' and now she led her priestesses out between the pillars of the Temple, and she stood at their upon the the Temple Stairs, Temple Staff in hand, and she looked defiantly down upon the gathered mass and the Rapraptapper at their head.

It washed over her at once and drowned her: in that courtyard was a sea of silence; only the faintest sounds of wheezing and the cry of a mewling babe was audible from the crowd. There was no speech.

Rap. Rap. Tap!

That sound was the only one that rang loud and true. Like the concussive waves of a true sea, it surged from that ocean of silent anticipating and struck the Witch-Priestess and all those assembled by her. It was a challenge. And so too was the condemnation in the ragged wanderer's eyes; indeed, the condemnation in the aces of all those others assembled in that great crowd!
But violent though their silence and glares were, the priestesses stood as straight and defiant as their Witch-Priestess. Her cold eyes moved ever so slowly until they clashed with those of the Rapraptapper. She raised her Temple Staff and, coolly, brought its butt down upon the stone floor.

Thud.

She stepped out and descended the stairs after her thudding staff, and she stood before the the Rapraptapper and looked up at him frostily. If he had come here thinking that fear came with him, if he thought it was a weapon in his arsenal, then how wrong was he. The priestesses behind her stood in their pure white uniforms, a constant reminder of their position and the purity and sanctity of this place, their cold faces a reminder that the wrath of the Master was upon all who came a-warring in the holy places.

His voice at last boomed out; aye, boomed, for his was one of an orator, "Do you know who I am? Why I have come here?"
'Yes,' came her blunt response, 'no great intuition is needed, for your likes are the flourishing rodents of the earth. You grow, like smoke, on the fires of division and discord. You have come to gore peace, and that tongue is your sword.'

A murmur rippled through the crowd and some now turned to the man at their head with a new wariness in their eyes, but before their minds could stray he proclaimed, "The day that a witch may name a godly man vermin and with such poison sway the hearts of the people will be the day that Vetros is set aflame."

More ripples went through the crowd as he declared a high priestess to be a witch (to her face no less, beneath the open sky and Zephyrion's sight!) and yet they did not last so long, for he did something to silence them once more.

He let go of his gnarled stick, a twisted and hideous twig before Yara's magnificent staff, and the wooden thing clattered to the ground. With both his free hands free, he gripped the folds of his robes and pulled, and the clothes became undone and fell to his waistline. There, upon his bare and exposed back and upon his chest were the scars of war. He spun for all to witness those marks of his honor, and then he fixed his robe and reclaimed his staff from the ground. Only after that did he speak once more, "These scars bear witness to my love for the Master; I have bled in battle against the vile Horse People, fighting for the Master's eternal glory and for these sacred lands. These poor feet of mine, cracked and beaten, attest to how I have walked to the ends of the desert spreading the Master's word; I am but a man from the faroff village of Talal, and yet I have come all this way for you!

Aye, for you! Word of your evil and deceit spreads far, near as far as your foul deeds, and so serious are the crimes I lay unto you that I have walked seven days and eights nights to face you, where others were afraid.

Again, I name thee deceiver! Heretic! Witch!"

He had yet to even lay out evidence for his claim, yet many among the people had already thought such things about Yara, though perhaps with less zeal. It only took his vocalization to tap into that raw anger, and so explosive was the spittle and anger that flew forth from the calm just moments ago that it was as if a spark had been cast into a tar pit.

'I have named you vermin, and Priest-Kings before me have named your ilk vermin, and scholars and priests,' she declared, raising her staff, 'for we well know the seeds your ilk sow, and the vile fruit which you leave in your trail. Hardened hearts, blackened, which have lost the pleasure of the Master and the pleasure of all those whom He loves,' she looked at those who followed the stranger.
'For we, chosen of the Master, come and elevate the people and create peace wherever we find them, and we dwell with them, and we aid them. But you only come like a passing storm, uprooting all that is built and destroying all that is raised up by the Master. Who are you to accuse me? Where are your works? Where are the people you have, with the aid of the Master, cured of all ills. Where are those you have judged between with justice? Are you so much as a lowly priest? Do you belong to a temple? Does the blood of the Prophet run in your veins? Who are you, snake-tongued, nameless devil, to accuse Mother Yara?
You come displaying your scars, but the scars that true lovers of the Master bear are not those of the body - they are the scars of building society according to his Laws. They are the scars of building the future' and here she turned and gestured to her priestesses and the Temple.
'They are the scars born by the mother, by the father, by the farmer. It is easy to die for the Master. Far more difficult is it to live for him!' and she turned again and her cold eyes appraised the Rapraptapper, 'are you, oh broken outcast, one who lives for the Master? Where are your children? Where is the wheat you grow? Where are the young you teach?' and her staff came down with a powerful and final thud.

The scowl that he bore upon his face only deepened, though he weathered her words with calm. His father and his father's father had been storytellers and heralds; on that profession stretched, back six generations. He knew how to leverage such vile words against the ones that spoke them!

"No." Rap.

"No!" Rap.

"No!" Tap!

The first step was a solid rejection of their slander; and so he denied it with the rigidness of a wall in his tone and unbroken confidence in his poise. The next step was to dismantle exactly what false charges they had levied unto him, and crucify them for each falsifiable word!

So he turned his back upon Yara, a grave insult to one that was a High Priestess (though he thought her to be no such thing, and that was not lost upon the onlookers) but a direct appeal to the crowd. To them, not her, he spoke, "Hear, hear how she does nothing to shake off what charge I would levy unto her, but only seeks to direct your scorching and rightful anger from her unto me. She rejects the countless labors and sacrifices I have made in the Master's name. Rise, rise up those of ye who are veterans of past wars, whose uncles and brothers and sons and fathers fought the heretics; she would demean and belittle you all. 'To die for the Master is easy. Nothing.' Perhaps it be she who should die!

In a way, she is no worse than the Horse People. She threatens those of you who hear the truth in my voice with a fate of blackened hearts and the loss of our Master's favor! Fear, o that fear that she wields! I have seen that fear before; it is a weapon that the Horse People use. Aye, fear is the first of many foes, and so we must ignore her hideous lies and threats, and judge her. It is not we who stand to be put upon trial today!"

The final step was to deliver a blow back to the one who bore false words. A blow so hard that they would reel, and could barely return to their feet!

He turned back to Yara. He threw the full burden of proof onto her with a few simple words, "What say ye to that, witch?!"

'I say it is time to let the Master himself judge between us. It was a mistake to allow you to speak before we set the parametres. Here, let us raise our staffs to the heavens and call the curse of the Master upon whosoever of us is the liar: cursed by him to travel eternally on this wide earth, never able to stop long enough to cause discord wherever we land. Come, raise your staff and let it begin.'

The demagogue took that response from her as his own triumph, declaring, "See now? No word nor witness nor evidence has she to offer. It would seem that she truly be all those vile things, through and through!"

What moments ago would have driven the crowd into a roaring fervor against Yara now only created murmuring; he saw then the craftiness of the Priestess' ploy. She had cornered him here, for the will of that mob was his only power, and that mob no doubt willed he play her game. If he failed to do as much and win they would take him for a charlatan, and if he won then they would only arrive back where they had begun: with her defending herself against overwhelming evidence of her own wickedness. It was a genius move on Yara's part, for in challenging him she had nothing to lose but everything to gain.

He had no choice. Though his heart skipped a beat, his words did not, "But! She now invokes the Master's judgement, and who am I to question Him? I shall raise my staff as is our tradition, and then we shall receive divine answer!"

He turned back to Yara, and advanced towards her. "I accept these terms," he forced himself to say with a calmness that betrayed none of his anxiety. When at last he stood at an arm's length from her, he raised his weathered walking stick, and there the people beheld it: an ugly and beaten piece of wood. It lacked all the power and regality and awe that Yara's radiated, and yet for all that it only seemed closer to the earth. In that stick, there was no smoke and mirrors. In its own plain and unquestionable way, it attested to the wanderer's claims of having walked all four corners of the Holy Land in the Master's name. And where the staffs met there flashed the unseeable divine power of the sleeping goddess. And the pact was sealed.

'We play the Master's Game, and upon the loser falls the curse,' she said.

"So be it! Where shall the battle be fought?"

She stepped back and moved off the stone path. With the butt of her staff, she drew a large square into the earth. There, within the bounds she had marked, was to a faroff eye nothing more than a patch of grass in the courtyard garden. Closer inspection revealed the mundane details: some fallen twigs, a loose stone or two, and tiny bare patches of soil between the tufts of grass. That was the battleground, the manner of 'board' used in the sacred game of Minidi, and each miniscule detail was important. The grass represented dense woodlands, the bare soil empty planes, the smallest contours of the ground representing great rolling hills and valleys. It was a game of opposing generals. Under each player's control was an imaginary djinni lord and his great retinue, the objective being to assert total domination by having your djinni lord devour the other. But of course, such a triumph is easier said than done! Djinni lords are of course not so easy to subdue and to devour one required surrounding and beating it utterly through tactical maneuvering to separate it from its own forces and surround it with your own

As Yara had chosen the battleground, her opponent had the initiative to choose what position he would occupy at the start and what manner of djinni lord he would command. After thoroughly examining every contour of the patch of ground, he devised a strategy. The patch of ground that Yara had selected was unusual in that it sloped gradually inwards to create a small bump in the center. That high ground would be a strong position, albeit one that would leave one exposed to all sides. But that was a trade that he could accept! Intending to take advantage of that terrain, he began, "For my position be steadfast and adamant as the mountains, I choose Earth. As in for my position, I shall occupy the crest of that hill, and in doing so I loom over you from that raised land just as I do from a moral high ground," he finally said.

Wasting no time, he gathered some loose pebbles to represent his djinni lord and retinue. He then began to array them upon the raised bump that was right in the middle of the battleground, placing them in a circle at even intervals apart. In the center of that circle and upon the center of the hill's crest, he rested one larger stone that represented his djinni lord.

'So be it. I shall be air,' and even as she spoke, Gadar stepped forth and haned her a number of tiny feathers, which she scattered carefully around the hill where the Rapraptapper had chosen to concentrate his pieces. Behind them, she planted a large feather to represent her djinni lord of air. With their pieces ready, she looked to her opponent and gestured for him to begin.

He sized up the position of the pieces that represented her pieces. He had intentionally allowed himself to be surrounded in exchange for the advantage of higher ground, and it took no brilliant strategist to forsee that his opponent would seek to poke at his defenses and outmaneuver him. Air had been a fine choice for that strategy, but at the end of the day, how did she expect a few gusts of wind to whittle down the hillock that was his bastion?

As if in anticipation of a full-blown frontal attack, he pulled one of his pieces from the side opposite Yara's lord and brought them to reinforce the side directly in front. His own djinni lord remained in the center of the small rise, encircled by his retinue, but with that one noticeable gap in the backside from where he had pulled a piece. The brazen move of her sending her lord and those nearest straight at the hill would be folly; he had the advantage of higher ground and was already reinforcing that point. She would have to do something more subtle than slam the brunt of her might straight into his defenses.

Scanning the square coolly, she moved the feather standing directly before her Lord forward, some way up the side of the hill. She thus left an opening for her Lord to move, but also an opening in her own defence for the Rapraptapper to exploit if he so wished. She gestured for him to make his next move.

He looked at the piece that she had sent to approach, sized it up, and scoffed lightly. He repeatedly his prior move, taking another piece from the side farthest from her lord and moving it to reinforce the side closer. Noting that one of his sides was now getting steadily weaker, Yara moved one of the pieces on the other side of the hill towards her opponent's weakening front.

And now the man suppressed that smile that yearned to creep onto his face and that glean that hungered to fill his eyes, for she was playing right into his hands. He only needed to continue to occupy her attention with that diversion that was the rear side of the hill; his backline hardly mattered. He debated upon the merit of moving to stop her advance on the other side of the hill, but ultimately decided against such indecisiveness. He moved yet another piece from the far side of the hill to that closest to Yara. Perhaps his strategy would become apparent to Yara's eyes now, but if not then her defeat would only be all the more crushing.

Yara raised an eyebrow and looked up at the Rapraptapper quietly. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she took one of the pieces close to her lord and moved it to the other side of the hill, right by the piece she had moved the previous turn. For the first time, she used the special ability of the player who chose air and moved a second piece next to them, creating a three-piece advance against her opponent's weaker side.

Though he had by now removed two of his own pieces from that back line, he had been sure not to remove two that had been directly next to one another. There were weaknesses there to be sure, but there was no gaping hole large enough for those troublesome three elementals of Yara to slip through without a fight. They would have to confront what defenses he still had in place on that side, and while they might ultimately win through superior numbers, it would not be so quick as she might think. A djinn of earth was hard to budge, especially when defending from atop such a solid foundation as a hill.

In any case, it was now time for him to bring his strategy to bear. Where he had tried to act as if he had repositioned his own pieces towards her lord defensively, as if to prepare for an attack from her, in reality he had been amassing them for a downhill charge. Whilst she might have thought herself at an advantage by having his hill surrounded, in reality she had only spread out her retinue in such a way that he could simply bring all his pieces to bear upon her lord's side of the board, leaving it nowhere to run. She would of course have the option of wreaking havioc upon the side of his hill that had been weakened, but he was willing to hedge his bets upon defeating her lord before she could defeat his.

Just as the djinn of air were nimble and could make us of extra movements as Yara had just done, the djinn of earth and water were exceptional in their prowess when moving downhill. That bonus would only make the Raptaptapper's strategy of a devastating charge even more effective. After four turns of mere maneuvering by the two players, he attacked first by moving one of his frontal pieces downhill in the direction of Yara's lord, and in that same turn he attacked and struck down that piece in front that she had advanced on the first turn. It was satisfying to imagine a landslide at his command!

Yara lifted the crushed feather and the pebble from the game and placed in their place a slightly larger pebble, to represent the absorption of the air djinni by the earth one. She then considered the game once more and made her move. Her lord moved towards the newly strengthened earth piece, pinning it down. A smaller piece was then moved beside the lord, striking down the strengthened earth djinni and absorbing it. Both were then removed, and Gadar handed Yara a larger feather, which was placed where the reckless earth piece had previously been. With her moves done, she gestured for the Rapraptapper to proceed with his turn.

And so the dance began! With the now-empowered air djinni and its lord having advanced in front of their own line to take vengeance upon the attacking earth djinn, they were left overextended and exposed. The issue now was just how he would deal with that piece! One of the pieces that he had brought from the back as a reinforcement was directly behind one that had been part of his original circle. He set that piece forward, rolling over its ally to combine the two into a stronger djinn. The next turn, he would use that empowered piece to challenge Yara's.

Gadar looked at the scene before him and frowned slighly. He opened the giant tome entitled The Secret Ways of the Master's Game and flicked through it until he came to the relevant page.
'Ah, yes, I thought something seemed odd,' he muttered, 'when an earth piece begins its roll down a hill, it cannot stop until it reaches the bottom, and all pieces in its way are batted out of the way or absorbed,' and with that he closed the book and pointed at the Rapraptappers two-piece, 'that must continue its roll.'

"So be it," accepted the man, and with the tip of his staff he flicked the pebble towards and over that piece beside Yara's lord, driving it all the way to the edge of the square that was the battleground. Gadar looked at the two more or less even pieces and opened the tome once more. Flicking through it he eventually came to a page discussing the clash of equally powerful pieces which were not one-pieces. One began a game with thirty 'one-pieces', and as they absorbed others and grew, they became two-pieces, three-pieces, four-pieces and so on. The more they absorbed, they stronger they became. When two powerful pieces clashed, they game mechanic for their clash differed from that for simple one-pieces.
'Right,' Gadar said as he placed the tome down and picked up a little pebble and placing his hands behind his back for a few moments. Then, he brought out his clenched hands, 'there is a pebble in one of my hands. If you,' and here he nodded towards the Rapraptapper, 'guess correctly where the pebble is, your piece will absorb the opposing piece. If you guess incorrectly, your attack will fail and your piece will be absorbed,' and Gadar's clenched hands hung before the Rapraptapper.

Intuition led the man to point to Gadar's right hand. Gadar opened his palm to unveil the pebble there. Yara took out her large feather and the pebble, placing in their place a small stone to represent the Rapraptapper's five-piece. Hardly had she done that before she took her djinni lord and moved it towards the newly-formed five-piece, consuming it. On the other side, she used her second move to move yet another of her pieces next to the three one-pieces.

That done, the Rapraptapper turned back to examine his position in the game. The five-piece that he had just lost was a large blow, and in taking it with her lord she had also maneuvered it further back. It was now behind the protection of a few one pieces, but of course that was no real "protection". His stone pieces could simply roll down the hill and through her lines, pinning down her lord. Yet if he did so, he would only be sending more pieces to feed her lord, one by one. So, after some consideration, he made a bold and incredibly aggressive move. He took his own lord atop the hill and moved it downhill until it came to rest directly next to Yara's lord, its path taking a one piece along the way. The two were both pinned down, and now it would most likely be a scramble to see who could get their smaller pieces in position to surround the other's lord. A move such as this would normally have been folly against air, seeing as they could move two pieces in one turn, but with each passing turn he would be able to roll another piece of his down the hill, crushing one of hers along the way.

After a few moments of thinking, Yara moved the pieces that had been to either side of her newly-consumed piece, each of them consuming a fellow one-piece. With two two-pieces on the board, she looked back at the Rapraptapper and gestured for him to make his move.

He was still willing to hedge his bets on winning through overwhelming force. He rolled one of his one pieces at an angle such that it struck and combined with another of his one pieces before going down the hill. Then, the two piece consumed one of Yara's new two pieces before ending as a four piece at the bottom of the hill, next to their two lords. Pursing her lips, Yara moved one of her one-pieces and had it consumed by the remaining two-piece, then she took the newly-formed three-piece and moved it towards another one-piece, thus creating a four-piece. She gestured for him to make his move once more.

Cleverly, by combining those pieces she had prevented him from simply rolling down more of his own to eat them and wind up at the bottom stronger for it. However, in taking the time to do that she continued to leave her lord perilously alone. With a casual flick, he send one of his stones rolling down the hill to arrive next to the much larger two stones that already stood next to her lord. On the other side of the board, Yara moved her closely-alligned pieces into two two-pieces.

It was too late for him to switch tactics at this point, not as if he felt any need to. He sent another one-piece rolling down towards the feather that was her lord and the manny pebbles that were beginning to surround it. Moving one of her newly-formed two-pieces, she caused it to consumed the other two-piece before continuing on in the same move in an arc until it came to the four-piece, which was likewise consumed. With an eight-piece now on the board, she made to go for her second move.

'Wait,' Gadar suddenly said, 'I think that already counts as two moves,' Yara looked up and raised an eyebrow.
'How so? The earth-piece before consumed one of its own and one of mine in one single movement,' Yara said.
'Yes, but I believe...' he flicked through the tome, 'that's due to the advantage the downward roll gives it.'
'If that is the case, then can I not have my four-piece ascend the hill and pass through this gap, before consuming this lone earth-piece and continuing on to unite with the waiting four piece down the hill?' Gadar paused and looked slightly confused.
'I'm...not entirely sure,' he looked to the Rapraptapper uncertainly. Of course, he would dispute the validity of such a move as it would provide his opponent with a frightening nine-piece, 'give me a few moments while I look through the rules.'
Yara sat and looked at the board as Gadar flicked through the rules.

After a few minutes, Gadar rose and laid out the rules.
'While the gap is large enough for your four-piece to ascend the hill and consume the lone one-piece on the other side, the rules do not mention a downhill advantage for any players other than earth and water. Your piece will have to stop there. If you decide to go with your arcing manoeuvre, the continuance after the first consumption towards the four-piece and its subsequent consumption will count as the second move,' most of the onlookers looked positively baffled, but Yara sighed and nodded in understanding. Rather than uniting her two two-pieces, she moved one of them in an arc around the hill instead, uniting it with the four-piece on the other side. She then took the newly-formed six-piece and move it beside her djinni lord and that of the Rapraptapper. It was his move now.

The Rapraptapper now bent down, slightly at first, and squinted at the tiny bump in the ground that represented the mighty hill. He took a very long time now, whereas in other turns he had hardly seemed to think before acting. Finally, he moved. He sent one of his two-pieces atop the hill in such a roll that it picked up one of his other one pieces, then continued down as two until it came to strike her six piece. "So now," he began, "the final battle happens. Because my two piece initiated it, I carry the advantage of stone's downward roll. It is my lord, my four piece, my one piece, and that two piece against your six piece and your own lord, though it be known that the strength of stone be greater than that of feathers."

'The downward roll of earth expires after a certain distance, does it not?' Yara asked, 'I am more than certain that the distance travelled by that piece is more than enough for there to be no such advantage,' she looked to Gadar for the correct judgement on the matter, and he nodded.
'Just as a rolling stone eventually loses the speed and power given it be a downward roll, so too does an earth-piece. Were the target closer to the hill than it is, the advantage would have carried. Thus, it is the power of the initiating two-piece, your djinni lord, your one-piece and the four-piece, against the enhanced djinni lord of wind - for it consumed a five-piece - and the six-piece. That is to say, a djinni lord of air and an eleven-piece, and a djinni lord of earth and a seven-piece. Earth has a natural strength advantage and wind has a natural weakness so-'

"A hillslide slope does not flatten to conform with the climber's notion of distance, so to claim no rolling advantage is absurd. Look at where her pieces lie," he exclaimed almost incredulously, pointing to their position at the bottom of the hill.

'The pieces are at the very edge of the board,' Yara said coldly, 'the crest of the hill is as far from there as can be.'

"If you find such distance to be a factor, where it obviously should not be, then why did you allow me to use such advantage unchallenged thus far?"

'The advantage was quite clearly being used on those pieces much closer to the crest of the hill than the current pieces,' Yara pointed out, 'these pieces are now at the edge of the board, as compared with the ones against whom the advantage worked, who were considerably closer to the centre.'

"Because I am sure that the Master shall favor his faithful, I shall concede that the roll was indeed longer and the stones might have lost much of their speed, but down the hill they nonetheless went in this turn. The advantage may be perhaps lessened, but not wholly denied." Yara frowned and looked to Gadar for a judgement on the matter. He looked between the two and pointed to the rulebook.
'It says nothing of a lessened form of the advantage. We can only apply it in full or disapply it completely. The general rule is that the advantage applies for the same amount of distance on flat ground is it took to create by descending the hill. Thus, is we measure the distane from the crest of the hill to the bottom, we can work out the area surrounding the hill wherein the advantage applies absolutely,' and so saying, Gadar bent down and measured the distance from top of the bump to its bottom with his thumb and forefinger. It transpired that the earth-piece had in fact moved beyond the advantage radius, and Gadar said as much. He then moved away and brought forth fourteen sticks. Seven were short and seven long.
'The natural advantage of earth applies, the downhill roll does not apply. The natural weakness of wind applies. It can be said that the forces are more or less equal. We will have to draw sticks. There will be seven long sticks and seven short sticks. Whoever pulls more long sticks than short sticks will have won the exchange,' and so saying, he gripped the bundle in such a way that one could not tell which stick was short and which was long, and he extended it towards the Rapraptapper.
'You have initiated the attack, you must draw first.'

He drew, and then she drew, and it soon became apparent that he was to lose, for she had drawn three long in a row and needed only one more. But then, she drew a short, and he a long, and she another short. The odds remained against his favor, but there was still a hope. He drew once more and found a short, and so with four short sticks there was no longer a way for him to win. And the long and tense affair was sealed. Yara stepped away from the board and returned towards the steps, and there she turned and looked at the Rapraptapper.
'You did not heed my warning, and now you are lost,' and with that she ascended the steps and disappeared into the temple. After a short pause, the priestesses likewise turned away and entered the temple. Gadar remained alongside the defeated man, and the people who looked quite clearly crestfallen. More than a few were giving Gadar wary looks, as though they suspected him and that book of his of some treachery. His scarred face fended for him however, for none would doubt the integrity of what appeared to be a mighty veteran.
But then again, was not the Rapraptapper himself a veteran? And had he not lost? Did that not then mean that he had not had the favour of the Master all along?

'You feeling alright?' Gadar asked the man softly. He had expected the curse to fall on him immediately, but it seemed that its effects had not taken hold...

"The goodly Master, god of change, has protected me from any ill change thus far," he began, "though I worry that she might try to work some ill magic upon me now. But what say you? Has she worked her craft to bewitch you?" Gadar laughed at this.
'I have seen her work her magic many times, but she never worked her magics on me. Only nurtured me back to health when I stood before the gates of death. Though of course, there are some magics which every man or woman can cast, and if it is to those that you refer, then I am undeniably bewitched,' and with that, he bowed slightly to the Rapraptapper, 'I wish you safe journeying, and pray that if anything has descended upon you it, is not a curse but a hidden blessing.'
So saying, Gadar turned and bid the people leave, for there was nothing more to be seen here today. The innocence of the Witch-Priestess had been proven, and her detractors had been left with the wind blown out of their sails. One could not say that 'knowledge' had triumphed, but it had been protected even if at the terms of the ignorant.

When the Raptaptapper finally turned, he met the disappointed eyes of those that had not yet dispersed. He looked down to the ground, at his weathered feet; their journey was not done yet. With his faithful walking stick, he began another pilgrimmage. The long and dusky road would be his daily meditation.

And so with the song ended
they turned to some flickering flame
and to it the priests tended
until the sacrifices came.

First was offered the sweetest fruit
an animal beheaded by the Eagle King
the last, the greatest sacrifice was absolute
flesh of the living.

To the pyre was she flung
and to the sky they turned their beaks.
No longer was the prayer sung
for the air carried only her shrieks.

So hear them, Xos!

Inside the bio-metallic walls of Father Dominus, Teknall and Dabbles returned to the entry chamber after their tour through the ship.

"It was good talking with someone who has an interest in this technology," Teknall said.

Dabbles bowed deeply, almost toppling forwards. "It was my honour, Great Artisan."

Teknall motioned for Dabbles to stand. "I'll let myself out. Thank you for the tour."

Dabbles bowed again. "No, thank you, and may every Blessing, and High Virtue, accompany you for as long as your Journey may be of..." Dabbles was still speaking, but by then he had drifted back towards the cockpits.

Teknall turned to face the valve-like door which led outside. It was here that he was confronted by one last being.

With a buzz across the room, a flesh-grey bird swooped and perched on a small ridge above the door, its colours shifting to its true texture of glinting porcelain and metal. It jumped in place, flicking and tilting its head side to side, up and down. It did not chirp or even so much as open its mouth. Instead, the dark pits that were its eyes began to glow a bright blue.

You flatter the demigod more than you need to, brother.

The familiar, quivering voice rang gently in Teknall’s mind. Toun was rarely one for trading niceties.

Though, I failed to send my eyes out as early as ideal, given what I overheard between you two.

Teknall looked up at the bird. I think my level of flattery was entirely appropriate, given the occasion, Teknall retorted telepathically, with the mental equivalent of a smirk. He then belayed some of his humour as he continued. Although, I take it that our conversation raised some more specific concerns beyond my mannerisms.

The bird bounced in place to turn to its other side. A few details, yes. I will not dwell on the more philisophical objections I may have with you for the sake of patience. That can be done when there are less pressing matters. I will instead focus on what we can both agree upon the nature of. Events, mostly.

Sounds reasonable. Carry on, Teknall replied.

You took a side against Logos. My Majus observed you and your...machine's actions. He will not soon forget such a response, and not just for ruffling his feathered pride. Are you certain what you did was appropriate?

Teknall shuddered. Although he did not put words to it, it was clear that he still feared Logos. I could not allow him to burn the planet to the ground. It is dangerous, yes, but my conscience demands that I protect this world.

A sigh from Toun sounded in Teknall's mind. The bird continued its twitchy surveillance uninterrupted. I fear that what fate decreed of you has exposed you to sentimentality. I understand it as a flaw in you, brother, but beyond my personal preference is the speculation that Logos will use that against you. It is inevitable. Toun's tone shifted. You are aware that he has not signed the Oath of Stilldeath, yes?

I am aware, Teknall replied.

Then I will trust you to exercise caution. Toun projected a stern mind's eye. I gave Vulamera that same trust when she took guardianship of the Codex. I do not desire it misplaced again. Speaking of which...it has been fashioned into something else, hasn't it?

It has. I take it you overheard that part as well.

The bird, finally having found a position comfortable enough, lowered itself to roost on the ridge, only twitching its head occasionally. It was joined by Toun's quivering getting worse, in spite of his volume remaining at a mental murmur. I heard all that was said. It does not matter to the little prince that you did not keep it in confidence as you promised, for this concerns us all in our family. I had been searching for the Codex for some time, trying to find hints and leads through various means. Mentions of its new form were unreliable. Now, it presents such a danger that I have begun taking measures to contain it, among other things. The worry in Toun's tone brought about a rare humility that Teknall was privileged to even notice. When I do contain it, brother, I will require your help to render it innocuous. The two of us are of the dwindling few who are familiar with most of its contents and my knowledge will not be sufficient. What say you?

Teknall paused for a moment to consider, then responded, Sounds like a good plan. Being able to negate that threat is important. You have my assistance.

Thank you. The bird's head leaned back into its body and its twitching abated for the moment. That only leaves one matter I wished to discuss with you. Our... The word was hissed out. ...sister. I have seen few lashings of her influence, but I found her physical form on Galbar wounded and insular after what Logos did to her. There was the stench of the Other everywhere. I would have words with her to hear of previous events, and...I must check for her health. You spoke a desire to speak with her as well.

I indeed have many, long-overdue things to speak with Jvan about.

Are you aware of a means to revive her?

Well, through Goliath, I have found that she has a space-station of sorts in orbit, amongst the rings. I am not sure exactly what powers it holds, but it is probably our best bet, Teknall said.

A construct away from the surface? Toun paused as if mulling in his thoughts. I will come with you. If there is something of the Gap about it, we should not find it as dangerous in mutual company. We can resolve our business with her at the same time. I will meet you in the thin air above Alefpria. I do not wish to acquaint myself with anyone else in the prince's city today.

We shall rendezvous in an hour, then. I have something I need to prepare first, Teknall replied.

At that, Toun's presence in Teknall's mind faded as the blue light in the eyes of the droningbird reduced to a deep jet once more.

At Teknall's touch, the valve-like door opened, a rush of high-altitude wind whistling through the opening. The bird jumped to its feet as if realising a task previously forgotten, leapt into the air and flittered ahead of Teknall through the door. Teknall followed, and the door closed behind them.



When the world was in turmoil, when white fire spilled from the sky and the clouds bled, there was yet peace to be found beyond its borders.

Blips and chirrups of radiation thrummed in the vacuum. Voices in the cold. Quiet frequencies from the noctus fronds as they fed, mating lights of imagen that jetted in swirling courtship dances through fertile clouds of microbial bubbles. Others, too, that hummed and zipped, the thrilling tongue of the Diaphanes.

The forest was a rich ecosystem. Much of the matter generated by the nocti wound up as organic ices, many exotic. Light, fragile atoms, plentiful water for the tongue of Mother Suprema. Flows of colour darted and tussled around the branching tubes that vaporised chunks of ice, inhaling them to be consumed by fusion in the gut of the Ark.

Soft pink things darted over the fuel lines, latching on and inspecting the huge structure for damages. Winged entropites pursued them lazily as the sweethearts performed their instinctive duties. Their adoptive mother was a haven, and yet a responsibility; and wild though it was, the Diaphane sisterhood never left behind one of their own. And so, they supervised the same crew they teased and consumed, and were as diligent as they had to be. And there was harmony in Lex.

Into this strange environment came two figures, alien to the aesthetic of all around them. Both were shaped from white porcelain gleaming in the unfiltered sunlight. One was a tall, lanky and spotless human shape, dressed in a loose robe that flexed like fabric despite its material being the same clay as his skin. The other was shorter, beaked, somewhat dirty compared to the first, and dressed in sturdy fabric and leather clothing. They drifted through the vacuum with purpose.

The latter gazed around at the ecosystem in wonder. The sight of the Ark seemed to make him particularly excited. The former scanned the environment with tempered judgement. It was a cloud of mould to him, but there were features that gave him pause, not least of which the largest living shapes of the floating heap. The colossal serpents moved by, the repeating patterns on their flanks whizzed, one segment after the other, until their bodies tapered to its end before the interlopers' visions.

Toun huffed in disgust. "It never ceases to vex me that any part of Jvan's creations could just as likely function by design as by their undirected iteration." Toun wrinkled his missing nose. "It is not whether there is purpose that is in question, but if such purposes were even intended."

Teknall shrugged. "I actually consider it a sign of robust design if a creation is capable of fulfilling purposes beyond the original plans," he commented, "but such opinions aren't too important right now. We are almost there."

Blue eye turned forward, Toun squinted. He did not retort.

The shape that had long bulged in the distance was increasingly distinct. Tilted to one side and quiet since the violence of its last activity, Ovaedis revolved slowly. It was a mountain between the dust of the meteoroids that drifted along -- a thin film by comparison. Its surface was mottled with dark mauve, a reef that had grown lush in the years since its creation. One of its horns arched over the ring, leaning to listen to a faint hum of telepathy echoing from Galbar below.

Jvan's brilliant glass eyes traced eccentric orbits around it. Whether anything was on the receiving end of their signals was a mystery all its own. A mystery that neither approaching god admitted to with more than silence. Jvan, while being something of a creator and designer herself, diverged her designs so far from the already divergent approaches of Teknall and Toun that the brother gods slowed to a stop near the surface of Ovaedis, at first, at a mutual loss. Seconds passed where the possibilities ran through their calculating minds.

Toun extended one splayed hand forward, stretching it to the surface of the reef crust. A faint probe for what was beyond was not something he would allow Teknall to remind him to do again. In constrast to the dormant imprisoned demigod they had found in the Cube, what Toun detected burned in his senses.

"She is here. Amongst this body." Toun retracted his hand and flicked his eye to Teknall's double hain eyes. "There are Gap energies lacing within. Thick and wretched. Feel them for yourself." Teknall nodded in confirmation, his eyes scanning the structure.

Two calm movements of Toun's head went left and right. His eye then lingered on one end of the mass of bone and life. "There, I spy an opening. If we are to proceed inside, I would prefer to use a designed ingress rather than one iterated ourselves."

"Use of the existing entries would be wise, but before we intrude, there is an easier option to try." Teknall gestured to the horns and the eyes. "This place contains a sensitive telepathic sensory array. We shall start by simply asking Jvan if she's awake."

By his reckoning, there were no risks great enough with Teknall's suggestion for Toun to object. He straightened and the pair drifted towards the opening of one of the horns.

At such close proximity, the thrum of telepathic communications made their minds itch and prickle. Teknall cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted through the telepathic aether, "OI, JVAN, ARE YOU THERE!? WAKE UP!"

After that outburst, Teknall went silent and listened intently. He hoped for a reply from Jvan.

They both waited.

Arms folded, Toun flicked his eye sideways to Teknall again. "That was very sensitive of you," he murmured.

"Well, a whisper wasn't exactly going to wake her, now was it?" Teknall muttered in retort.

"I've tried. Don't bother."

The brothers turned their heads at the same time.

It was a fresh voice of the First Tongue. It sounded low, almost hushed, even though it, too, had been shouted. A change-eater's voice. The sizable newcomer slipped towards the two brothers in an oddly amoeboid fashion, bubbling her way across space, filling and contracting. Something dark, jagged and heavy hung in her core. "Our Grandmother's been silent for weeks now. I don't know where she's gone."

If anything, the greeting was abnormally quiet for an entropite. She had neither broken into a sprint, nor yelled some tease. In fact, her antenna flexed in something that was almost a curt bow. "Diaphane Whisper, pilot of the Mother Suprema. I don't think I can help you, but I'll try if I can."

Toun's reaction, or at least what could be read from his few facial movements, was a narrow-eyed suspicion. "Capable of our language. Wisdom to approach cautiously. Evidence of intelligence." Toun's eye darted to the shifting shapes of Whisper's body. "Very particular method of sustenance. Adaptable, but limited. And, as usual, vexing." Toun finally turned his body to face the Change eater. His following directness was comparably respectful, though not by much for the way he talked down to Whisper. "Mortal. Have you been within this construct?"

A faint note of disgust tinted the silence. Whatever the thoughts, and there must have been several, for her pause was long, Whisper didn't show what she felt. "Not inside the manufactory. The amplifiers are hollow, though, and sometimes children hide there. Not too deep. Nobody knows how far in the tubes really go."

Toun tilted his head back from Teknall, eyeing him.

Teknall shrugged. "Sounds like the easiest method of ingress. Let's go." Teknall paused to address Whisper. "We'll see if we can wake your Grandmother."

The big sister waved a dubious farewell.

Teknall then flew headlong into the cavernous maw of the listening horn. Toun stayed for a moment longer, looking back at Whisper. He paused as if about to say something else, but instead unfolded his arms and followed after Teknall.

"At least, of the creations we have seen so far, Jvan gave that one a clear purpose," Toun remarked. "Tell me, brother. Does your sentimentality extend to creatures such as that mortal behind us?"

"Hmm?" Teknall was contemplative for a moment. "Hard to say. On one hand, they're sentient and fly spaceships. On the other hand, their capacity for civilisation and independent technological development is miniscule."

Toun looked ahead. "Interesting."

Ahead was darkness. Darkness and warmth.

Living tissue composed the inner wall of the tube, calcareous, gnarled webs of gill and vein. A faint atmosphere lingered as if sulking, and yet nothing grew. Here the reef ended, and equipment began. At some point function had eclipsed art. Life flourished regardless.

You could ford the river at Fursiph, pulsed a voice on its way past the wanderers, a clear thought among hundreds of fragments of Whyso? and heh-heh and Try!. Songlines untouched/By Ancient hands/Since the Hiltmounts were young, hummed another, swirling its way into a node embedded in the structure, glowing faintly. (Who's yelling?) Pockets of babbling rhythm were distributed whimsically between the vast silence, spun around floating focal points like unseen motes of dust. Flourished esotery! -by the flow of time, or its raw grind on the nothingness forever? demanded someone as an asymmetrical monitor-drone picked its lanky way around, all legspan and flowery earlike apparatus without a front end. Go, then, sweet child. it whispered. (~oh ~some Spirit ~looking for Her)

Teknall drifted in silence. He dared not speak carelessly in this place of whispers and messages, lest he intrude once more upon the fragmented conversations of a thousand beings.

Toun's eye followed the monitor with a similar silence to his brother as they passed by. His mild disgust had been temporarily replaced with his own quiet contemplation, as evidenced by the relaxed peering of his eye.

He eventually broke the silence, albeit speaking with a dim volume. "She has been listening. Listening to everything of her inhabited mortals' minds, it seems. Little enough purpose to most of it. Such a needless cacophony." Toun looked ahead again, this time speeding up to reach whatever the tube might have lead to. "I see no reason to linger."

do.

The brothers halted. It was just one voice, fading astray from the multitude. Impossibly faint and only here concentrated enough, propped up, and amplified to be heard.

Somewhere in the monitor-drone's endless pickings and jerks of movement, it found a node. It pressed its spindly paw into the node's hollows, illuminated by the haunting glow. It pulsed once, extinguished, and the pattern of ambient chatter changed, suppressed to a murmur around the brothers. Another node, more distant, ignited. stay.

why this

The voice was familiar, despite its faintness. Teknall's hain beak flicked back and forth, searching, although there was no physical object towards which he could address his speech. Teknall settled on speaking into the aether around him. "Jvan, is that you? We're here to check on your wellbeing."

Toun remained silent. The glowing nodes drew his eye.

oh

Nothing. After a fashion the voice returned. empathy. um. More loneliness. regeneration sequence scheduled for when Logos' lieutenant falls. all current resources pre-emptively allocated to executing my. ah. return. Thoughtless technical babble. Even that much came out sounding like an exertion.

"She is a mess of trauma, brother," Toun commented. "She is in no shape to speak without help."

"Then we should find a way to help her," Teknall replied to Toun. "I have put off talking with Jvan for too long, sometimes with disastrous consequences, and I'm not going to let this setback delay me again." Teknall then spoke to the faint voice. "What can we do to accelerate your regeneration to the point where we can talk properly?"

h-

A caught breath. Jvan's presence, such as it was, receded- Redirected. Lambent energy accumulated in the depths of the tunnel and flowed out through its veins, passing the brothers in a wave that, for a moment, cast the hallucinatory architecture into relief. handle this.

make yourself useful i don't have the energy

In the wake of the pulse, the convalescent deity quietened. Another, firmer thrum filtered through the aether. Closer. Hold that thought, Teknall- Our honourable lump of charcoal has a voice, and can hear. You'll see me in person within a few seconds. How I love sublight travel. Giggling, as of one who evidently did.

In the vacuum of the tube, a psychic wind blew by way of a sigh of recognition from Toun. His shoulders hunched as if what was coming would only hinder them. Then again, Toun's mannerisms were rarely optimistic towards anything.

Remember me, Toun?

"You..." Something in Toun's tone was held back, in spite of the mood the newcomer put him in. "You felt the need to get an answer to your natterings this direly, did you?"

Pure, clean laughter flowed like water. Truth be, I started running the moment I heard your brother shout. Jvan just doesn't like my meddling with her machinery. Her approval now is precious. But would you prefer if I shut up again?

Toun had his head bowed forward and his eye looking up at an indistinct wall of the tube. He spoke to Teknall in a low monotone as a way to ignore the question, or perhaps any notion of engaging the voice further. "Brother, you are a gentler sort than I. However you act, do not damage it."

Teknall rolled his eyes and waited for Jvan's representative to arrive.

Check, Toun, commented the voice airily. He hasn't even cared to ask who I am. I think I'm in safe enough hands with you. Then, Estimated arrival in ten.

A tangled flash of azure split the darkness, sending the monitor-drone into a panic. However slow she was in relative terms, the new voice's arrival still blitzed her down the hollow structure more or less instantly in a coil of bright, rippling sheets and helices. In the shadows and the flesh, she was the truly alien thing. Not dark enough. Not living enough.

"Evening, dear cousins. I believe you're my first gods. An honour." The way the newcomer said it left a nagging ambiguity as to who, exactly, she felt was being honoured.

Teknall was the first to speak. "You implied you had a name of your own. Would you care sharing it?"

"Of course." The spirit swirled in on itself playfully. "I am Chiral Phi, the Painter, Composer of the Light. On the one hand, I am a psychic projection from an Avatar imprisoned in a spacial rift on the surface of Galbar- That's true, but tells you nothing. On the other, I am a great liar- That's false, but tells you all you need to know." It was the first time she had introduced herself to anything with some degree of honesty. The experience was an almost illicit thrill.

Teknall glanced over to Toun, then back to Phi. "How much of Jvan's knowledge do you have access to?"

"All of it and then some- At least to the point where we were separated by Logos. There are many things Jvan keeps from herself, but I am observant. Knowledge is, after all, my only source of power." Phi flicked herself teasingly in Toun's direction. "For example, I know this- Jvan's apparent weakness now is deliberate, and for her sake, shouldn't be accelerated. Vowzra and Logos have burned her to the ground, and this time, she does not intend to let herself regenerate slowly or spontaneously. There is a design in mind that must be implemented from the ground up, rather than through gradual sprawl. When that happens, it will be violent enough. Until then, she pupates."

Rather than follow from Phi's choice of opening facts, Toun unfolded his arms and chose a different, direct, approach. "What has she to say, Chiral Phi?" Toun spoke. "In justification of destroying Vowzra?"

"Start hard, don't you? Fair enough, Toun. I can, how did she say, 'handle this.'" Phi would have grinned, if anyone could see, before her voice hardened and her light slowed.

"A confrontation between Vowzra and Jvan has been inevitable since the birth of this universe. That it was left for so long only allowed fuel to accumulate. When the time finally came, the decision to kill had already been made."

"Vowzra always operated on an unknown scheme and schedule. His inability to answer for his actions only aggravated their nature, which was fundamentally violent. I'll list the most critical."

"You know the nature of the Other; I needn't explain it. That ecosystem is not, and never was, what Jvan authored into the Codex. The Other was initially only unsafe due only to how foreign it was to this world- Jvan's intent was to nurture it, craft it to her artistic desires, and introduce it where incompatibility would not prove destructive, at least by her admittedly unique standards. Before she had the chance, Vowzra impregnated the Gap with living entities of his own. They were aggressive. Their power, their hunger, was amplified by the Other- And its ability to evolve. Since then, Jvan has had to fight for dominion over what has always been rightfully hers. The suffering she's experienced in dealing with the aftermath of Vowzra's aggression since the first day has been immeasurable. And yet, Vowzra never gained anything from this, nor made any further addition to the Codex. For an entity that values creative diversity above all things, this offence was grievous. Jvan forgave."

Teknall, who had been listening silently and intently, began to rummage around in his apron pocket, looking for something. He still kept an ear on Phi's words.

"Time passed. Vowzra's inexplicably fruitless aggression continued. A heroic mortal was created and sent to attack her in futile, petty spite. Mortal minds were forcibly altered to revile what was strange, restricting the spread of the Sculptors. Hazards were pulled from the Gap and scattered through realspace. The turning point, however, came with Vowzra's behaviour towards Slough Rottenbone, who is Jvan's dearest sister. The Life Deer's death did not disturb Jvan unduly- Through it, she had created a new ecosystem, and continued on her ever-changing development. Vowzra expended... Exuberant amounts of energy in reversing that change. To see her old enemy go to such lengths to impose his will on a being she nearly worshipped was... Damaging. As it happens, she was quite wrong- Vowzra's intent had been to allow Slough to take charge of his power, and she did recover, albeit altered. But by then his death warrant was signed."

"Vowzra was a paradox to Jvan- a Riddler. He had tremendous creative potential, and yet chose to destroy without producing anything of value in the process. Vestec at least has stimulated change with his antics. When Jvan unclipped Chronos from its plane, she believed she was separating the art from the mad artist, keeping the valuable and destroying the unsalvagable. Whether she succeeded is, I suppose, for you to judge."

An exhalation from Phi. She seemed to bask in the wake of her own words, satisfied at how the challenge had worked out.

Toun, on the other hand, only evidenced a notion of a 'wake' in the soft flowing waves in his robe as it curled in the vacuum. He had otherwise been exactly still from the start of Phi's testimony to the end, boring his eye into her. If he had any other reactions -- any disparaging remarks or judgements -- he omitted them for the way of the next, direct question. "Does she intend to behave similarly should other...territorial disputes arise?"

Phi collapsed into a speck of white, then exploded, laughing. "She can't! I wrote a name we share on the Oath of Stilldeath. She's neutered. Any god can protect themselves from her violence now."

The pupil of Toun's eye twitched. "That is not what I asked."

"Very well, Toun." Phi sighed off some of her mirth. Some. "The answer depends on whether any such 'dispute' can arise. There was only ever one Codex, only one Slough Rottenbone, only one Riddler. The former is complete, the latter has proven herself resilient, the third is dead. Vowzra was unique, and Jvan learned from him. The precedent he raised for aggression is beyond anything the rest of our family is capable of, even Logos, bless his genocidal heart, whose motives are obvious. In that, you could almost say his death is self-sacrificial- There was a time when Jvan's reckless angst was willing to pledge violence for the pettiest slight. No more."

Toun's voice took a turn for the scathing. "The sacrifice of a god is not worth learning self-control." His head stretched forward from his neck. "No matter Vowzra's crimes, atrocious as they are."

"Few sacrifices are ever worth it," purred the spirit, very softly. "Just ask the Exiled Hain."

His head returning back, Toun lifted his chin and droned. "You condemn Jvan further, Chiral Phi. Not by presuming more than you know, but by ignoring what you should: Vowzra was not Jvan's to have sacrificed." With that, Toun shifted to a direct quivering once more. His arms recrossed. "My only other business here is Jvan's health, that I shall assess with or without your or her permission." His eye flicked to Teknall. "But you are not done answering us, Chiral Phi."

Teknall seemed to find what he had been looking for and stopped rummaging. While he could have found the item immediately, he had let Phi finish speaking first. "You mentioned the Codex. That Jvan's Other had been relatively benign. That Vowzra impregnated the Gap with hostile entities. This disconnect between the original design and what presently exists is something I had recently been made aware of, although had no clue as to its cause. But- how about I just show you?"

From the pouch in his apron, Teknall withdrew a two-meter long roll of parchment and unrolled it in the space in front of him. The parchment was scorched, tattered and soiled. Teknall looked to Toun and said, "This is familiar, yes?"



Toun tilted his head to it. Phi inflated like a balloon. "Oh, you could say that," murmured that spirit, leaning in. "Is this really..?"

"The real Codex is inaccessible. This is merely a replica, reproduced from my memory, back before it was the Codex. As such, it lacks any contributions which Vowzra may have made." Teknall pointed to the Gaps, filled with the Other of Jvan's design. "These are the designs of the Other as Jvan wrote them. Extrapolate as I may, but they simply would not result in the more..." Teknall shuddered. "...nasty characteristics of the Other as we see it. Which left me to conclude that the design of the Other had been tampered with. What Vowzra had to gain from doing so, assuming it was indeed him, I don't know either, but he's always been enigmatic."

Toun chimed in. "Following from my previous desire to defer disagreements of philosophy, I would only dare to ask, Teknall, that you refer to this not as a replica, but an approximation. If you wish to understand the codex via such an instrument, that descriptor is an important one. Regardless..." Toun took a breath for thought. "As sickening as it is to see this again, your interpretation is the same as mine from this approximation. Vowzra added to the Gap. A worthless guess at his motive is in hindering Jvan for some purpose." Toun's head still faced the parchment, but his eye flicked to Phi. "That purpose may relate to what the projection here was alluding to earlier."

Teknall nodded. "Perhaps." He turned his head to look over the parchment again. "While I have it out, Toun, did I forget anything when making this approximation, or does it match your memory of the Codex too?"

Toun's half-closed eye drifted up to express derision at Teknall.

"Well?" Teknall asked impatiently.

"I think he was a little preoccupied at the time," chipped Phi knowingly.

The blue eye flicked to Phi, then back to Teknall. "It will serve...your practical purposes. I dare not make this project my own, brother."

"Hmph. Alright," Teknall said. He rolled the parchment back up and slipped it back into his apron pocket. "That's enough with that for now. Time for my other questions."

Teknall looked to Phi. "Although some of the matters I had wanted to discuss are only worth discussing with Jvan directly, I still have some things to talk about. Let's talk a bit more about the Other first. Although the Other is not entirely in Jvan's control, she still has the most power within the entire pantheon to control the Gap, be it to keep the Other sealed away or to unleash it upon the Universe. That power has been raised as a...concern. What is the likelihood of Jvan allowing a full incursion of the Other into the Universe?"

zero.

Whether or not she had been irked by the idea that Phi was intruding on her brother's ability to talk freely, this was evidently not something Jvan was eager to see the giggling spirit pass off for her. the Painter submind only exists to hold in the tesseract rift. all who'd play in my garden must pass through me. i am gatekeeper there. Her voice faded in and out of audibility, strung on steel cords of will. i will not see my domain stolen for bloodlust again. while i breathe, this world is safe.

Although mildly surprised to hear Jvan speak directly, Teknall seemed content with Jvan's answer. He could sense that such an answer strained Jvan's limited resources, so he did not try to press too much further. "Fair enough," Teknall replied. "While you're there, I'd like to say that I am fairly impressed by your spaceships. That was a phenomenal feat of bioengineering. You've set the standard quite high for when I build my own."

...! The prospect seemed to swell Jvan audibly. Static crackled over her words. then we shall have a race, one day. thank yo- oh- Oh- Teknall- the realta- i still haven't- i owe you so much- you shot them down. my students, i- did- Thank- Too much sound, too fast; The voice was overwhelmed by its own distortion, leaving only a hum.

One of the nodes sizzled in the near-dark and wilted suddenly, drawing a dutiful monitor. Phi had been making an odd ticking motion. "And she's gone. Rest assured, Teknall, Jvan is still listening. And she is tremendously grateful for your work with Goliath." This time her tone, while still abnormally content, was more friendly than smug. "As am I- Sculptor populations take centuries to recover, and the Urtelem narrowly avoided a societal collapse. Thousands of adolescent hain and Rovaick owe you their lives, too. It's a serious debt."

Despite the heaping of gratitude, Teknall expressed only subdued acknowledgement. "It is good that some people appreciate the risk I undertook to protect Galbar. I shall remember that."

Teknall paused for a moment before speaking again. "There is another more serious matter I have to discuss, though. The beings which call themselves Diaphanes. I have studied their movements and forays to the surface, and identified that they are your soldiers in your conflict against the elementals. This I have no particular objection to. What I am more concerned about is the danger they pose to everything else on Galbar. The only natural beings strong enough to resist the Diaphanes are the elementals, but if you 'win' your conflict then you would have more Diaphanes than the elementals can stop. Is there anything preventing the Diaphanes from eating the rest of Galbar?"

It took Phi a few moments to get back to the question. She seemed to be savouring it.

"'...Win,'"

mimicked the spirit. Her ability to reproduce Teknall's voice was uncanny. "Winning. Victory. Curious idea, isn't it? Sometimes, even the casualties succumb to it." Chuckles. "Even you don't seem too concerned that Jvan is enacting a plan not all that different to Logos'. Genocide from space."

The buzz of Jvan's broken voice spiked into a piercing bark over which only Phi's unceasing laughter was audible.

"Oh, she hates that. In any case, the comparison doesn't hold. If you want your question answered, Teknall, know first: Who and what is Jvan moving to destroy?"

"When the ashlings first spread, fiberlings were one of the forces that repelled them. Later, more efficiently, lenslings. Vowzra's curse of the hain was followed by the invention of the Second Hatching. Even Lex was once nothing but ruins left by Vestec's whimsy. When Jvan is pressured, she will not, often, destroy. She integrates."

"The stubbornness of Djinni cannot be overstated. Zephyrion's legacy runs deep. Jvan could not send that species into extinction if she tried. The Diaphanes will come, and they will kill, and they will die. On Galbar, their numbers will be in constant flux. Lex is a population reservoir from which fresh entropites will descend only according to ecological dynamics that are written deep into their design. They are predators, not plague. And the Djinni, like any prey without fear, are overpopulated. Until now."

"In the face of a constant and unpredictable threat, the elementals will never again be able to seize full control of the biosphere. Their average size will fall as the largest and most active are targeted, and the endless internal conflict that pits Djinni against one another and empowers the victor will stutter for lack of rivals and fear of division. Robbed of their supremacy, elemental control over natural processes will become more sporadic. Galbar's ecosystems will fluctuate between elemental order and natural chaos, and achieve a new harmony. The childish hands of Zephyrion's descendents will no longer decide what lives and dies. Djinni Lords who wield godlike power, of the kind whose names have passed into legend- Murmur, Cyclonis, Char- Will fade into nothing more than that. Old legends."

"That," concluded Phi, "is what this war is waged to destroy. Hegemony. Not lords, but lordship itself."

Though it was unclear at first from his demeanour exactly why, Toun turned his head from side-to-side for several seconds. "Do you expect Zephyrion to react with greater leniency to Jvan's 'integration' than Jvan did to Vowzra's aggression?" He asked. "Zephyrion, unlike us, has not signed the Oath of Stilldeath. You would make an enemy of him, should he return to Galbar. And that is nothing mentioned of any others who might be perturbed by the changes to Galbar's environment, and thus its life."

This answer was a scoff. "Since when has Zephyrion cared for his firstborn heirs? They revere him as Father, and yet he's done nothing for them since their birth. When the Storm Djinn raged, he didn't so much as comment on them! The council that decreed a crusade against Jvan never even drew his notice, nor did her treatment of the Stonelord Gneiss. By the time he returns, if he ever does, the system will have changed beyond reparation. Not without burning it all to the ground, at any rate." Phi twirled, and flicked like a sash. "The First Gale's been idle and his own domain has passed him by. As for everyone else- Hah. That's moral debate. If you want to take that up with Jvan, I wish you the best." Twirl, twirl, stop. "There is one entity that acts as what you might consider a voice of reason in this compacted pile of absurdities. You met her on the way here. In fact..." Snickers. "You insulted her to her face."

"The pilot, Diaphane Whisper- One of the three eldest entropites, the leading sisters. She's been enhanced by divine means. For reasons that are... Frankly stupid, though some might say 'complex,' Jvan saw fit to educate her and absorb her into the Jvanic community. That is, she's a Sculptor. Of sorts. All this out of some meagre attempt to stir a moral voice in with the rest of the swill." A loopy sine wave that might have been a shrug. "What a cop-out."

Teknall, who had been contemplative, spoke up. "Don't be so confident in your security. I know Zephyrion better than you. He does not interfere with the affairs of the elementals because he holds absolute confidence in the capacity of the elementals by his design to maintain some state of natural balance. Whatever the elementals, and any of his other creations, choose to do he claims it as part of a properly working system and a sign of his allegedly superior design and wisdom."

"However, Zephyrion is also fiercely territorial and short-tempered. Supplanting the elementals from their position of lordship is guaranteed to draw his attention and likely his ire. Perhaps he might be lenient- Zephyrion is fairly unpredictable in nature, after all, and his exile might leave him Changed. But I recommend you prepare for the worst, just in case. The effects on the climate and the elementals may be irreversible when Zephyrion returns, but that won't stop the storm from raging."

"Consider your recommendation noted," said Phi. Somehow, she turned pleasant courtesy into a mocking gesture. "A pity that we won't get to see the world burn again, but, alas, the big girl does not intend to watch herself get torn apart a fourth time. Any overconfidence she's accumulated from her last few tantrums and brawls is fairly compensated by the new body she's building. If Jvan was tough meat before, she's cast-iron now. Experience is an excellent teacher." Flick, flick, twirl. "The thought isn't appealing to her, but if Zephyrion hauls an angle grinder from wherever he's wound up, she'll at least be able to give him the fight of his life."

"I shall wait to see Jvan's transformation, then," Teknall said.

There was silence for a few seconds. Then Teknall resumed speaking. "Jvan's choice of fights isn't her only choice which might be questionable. How wise was it to give an aspiring emperor with dreams of global and interstellar conquest a kilometre-long self-replicating spaceship?"

An unsurprised response, albeit one of bemusement. "Mm? I'd like to know, honestly, what makes you think those dreams weren't the exact reason she donated that helium-pumped swimbladder to our dear cousin Lifprasil." Phi swivelled upside down. "Psyche! I wasn't being honest and I couldn't care less what you think. I can answer this one, though."

"Jvan's motives, tarnished though they are by a quagmire of glitches she likes to call emotions, remain fairly simple. She values diversity. Jvan is hopeless as a critic; Anything that's new and different catches her eye like a shiny bauble. With the obsolesence of quality, then, she favours quantity. More is better. And that is expansionism."

"Given what I've gleaned from Jvan's past lives, it's something of a miracle- and a testament to just what a madhouse this pantheon is- that she's kept herself to Galbar and its satellite orbits. Give her another, oh, century or two and she'll start using those Arks to terraform the rest of the system. After that the sky's the limit. The lower limit. You lot made a proper big world out here." This seemed funny to her. "It's... Kind of stupid. Just how many galaxies did you think you'd need to start killing each other over them?"

"Lex was the trial run. If Jvan can construct an ecosystem in the vacuum of space, she can do it anywhere, and will. She's piggybacking Lifprasil for as long as she can. If any empire is being established here, it will be hers. Her nibling is just the spearpoint. If he actually finds anything worth conquering, good for him! Let the kid have his dreams."

Phi made another inexplicable flight around Toun, folding into a speck and expanding again as she finished the orbit. Toun partially followed the flight by rotating his head just enough to maintain indifference. Phi continued. "Before you try gutting me with a scowl, though, I know that's only half an answer. See, Jvan doesn't entirely trust our little emperor. Jvan likes filling voids, so she's sponsoring anything that'll send Lifprasil off to go colonise one. Beyond Galbar, the only thing he's likely to damage is a few icecubes and space djinn. What she was afraid of when they met is that Lifprasil would spend his entire life on this wet rock without ever looking up, and eventually establish a planetary empire of peace and love and techmaturgical advancement without a hint of war. Can't have that, that's a monoculture. The more time he spends out there freezing his manicured toenails off in space, the more planets get to acquire mould, the less time he has to put out the garbage fire that is Galbar, the better."

Teknall's eyes followed Phi. "What a novel solution. Dilute Lifprasil's thirst for global conquest by spreading him out across the stars. And you get to piggyback on his expansion as a personal benefit. Whether it will work is another matter. Sure, he'll conquer the stars either way, but with his army of Cosmic Knights he seems pretty set on using them, first on Xerxes, then possibly the rest of Galbar." Teknall stroked his chin. "Ideally, the Xerxes battle would reduce the size of the Cosmic Knight army by a sufficient degree that they are no longer a force large enough to conquer the world. But we can't afford for him to lose that battle either. We may just have to wait and see and act from there."

"Speak for yourself. I've got my fingers crossed for Amartia, the traitorous little underdog. There's nothing left for him to flip the odds with, but... Can you imagine? Wow. The look on Lif's face."

"If Amartia wins, then Logos retains a stronghold on Galbar. As comical as Lif's face might be, I don't think that's worth it." Teknall continued, his eyes closing as he focused on remembering. "You wouldn't have heard; Vestec tried to make a deal with Logos, regarding the Xerxes battle. In Vestec's words, 'Winner is whichever mortal side holds Xerxes at the end of the fight. If Amartia holds Xerxes still, I will join you in your mass and careless purge of Jvanic entities, and you won't have to deal with me continously bothering and distracting you while you're trying to fight the other Gods and purging things. If Lifprasil holds Xerxes, you go home and stop smashing Jvan's things.' Logos' response was 'I will be there. Regardless of your actions, I will benefit.'"

Teknall opened his eyes and cast a stern glare at Phi, who had listened with a smarmy yet keen interest. "There is more at stake here than a city or some demigod's pride. Even you will be affected."

"...You make some strange and very false assumptions about me, uncle dear," said Phi, but, for once, she said no more.

It was up to Toun to speak. He did so as if it was tedious. "Logos is part of the reason Chiral Phi exists and will continue to exist, brother." He took a long blink. "As long as the consequences of Amartia's victory are sanctioned by Logos, Vestec will pose no danger to her." Toun cast Phi the promised scowl regardless of his lack of mouth. "Of course, trust of Logos is an assumption that none should fall for in such sensitive matters."

"Indeed. Logos is a cause for caution. I can only hope he'll leave us alone for long enough to prepare for the next time he comes," Teknall concurred. "Speaking of which, that reminds me of the other reason I made my 'approximation' of the Blueprint." He leaned towards Phi and asked, "How good are you at mathematical modelling, Phi?"

"How long is a piece of string?" The answer was blasé. "How bad is Jvan at controlling herself? Very, Teknall."

"Excellent. If you are truly that good, then you might just be able to solve a problem I have." Teknall pulled out the long roll of parchment which was his replica of the Universal Blueprint and unfurled it. "If you would help me, can you simulate the entire Universe in order to determine the current locations of the Orbs of Darkness?"

"What, for free? Of course not."

In the dubious pause that followed from that, Toun cast a question in the form of twisting his head an eighth further to Teknall. "What do you plan with them, exactly? Are you intending to use the orbs as a heuristic to search for something else in the universe?"

Teknall hesitated, clearly reluctant to answer that question. "No. They will be a...countermeasure, a defence, an insurance. I'm sure you can put two and two together."

Toun softly blinked more dubiousness into the situation. The new pause ended in a short hum. "I should hope that the endeavour is for more than envy of Logos' sword, then." He lowered his shoulders in a silent sigh and returned his gaze to the wispy shape. "You could think this a fortunate opportunity, Chiral Phi. To pay off your debt to Teknall for protecting your mortals is a valuable price."

"Why would I be grateful for a chance to lose a bargaining chip?" Phi sounded genuinely confused, insofar as anything about her could ever be genuine. "I said it was a debt, sugar cube. I never offered to pay it off." Had she only raised the point for the sake of saying this later? Almost certainly. "Even a little edge over the Blacksmith God is better than a few hundred thousand extra mortals. Mortals are cheap. So how's this? In a few years, I plan to have a very-"

DO IT

"..."

do. it.

"...Ye gods, she recovers fast. Alright." Phi took the blow in stride, settling back into a happy-go-lucky tone. "Alright, sure. What the hell. We're doing this." Jvan's presence seemed weighty again, if only by virtue of its anger.

"If you'd be so kind, Teknall, do pass me that tattered old rag again." The avatar vanished and reformed behind the brothers, giving the impression of one looking over their shoulders. Her light began scrabbling up around the edges of the universal blueprint. "And one of you boys scrawl me a temporal log of everything that happened to it in the first few hours of its existence. In milliseconds, with a confidence interval no smaller than, say, ninety-three point oh four percent. No need to detail the actual specs of the magic. My guess is as good as yours when it comes to half this arcane poppycock." She gestured, specifically, to Logos' formulae. "Like this trash. Wow."

"Everything?" Toun droned with growing annoyance. He closed his eye in preparation for revisiting unpleasant memories. "Concentrate on your part in this. I will not allow wasted time by having either of you recollect those moments with accidental discrepancy."

With his eye still closed, Toun placed his palms and fingers together, twisted the surfaces together for a quarter turn, and separated them up and down. Between his palms stretched a white membrane that connected the two. It stretched to such a thinness that it began to let through the diffused light of the pulsing behind it.

The reality on the membrane crackled like thrown paper.

The surface became pocked with tiny points of red. Though they formed a distorted noise, they described Teknall first creating a length of unassuming parchment in a perfect void. The points animated into lengths that almost made an image of the event without merely one perspective observation. It was every movement, unobscured and conveyed.

Wafting and wending followed.

The membrane was scratched over and over by the actions of Teknall, soon joined by other gods, adding and adding more detail. Except, every detail that was added did not stay in this image. Toun scribed points in time, just as Phi requested. He was not recreating the codex.

There was an abrupt hiss that interrupted itself.

Chaos marred the membrane as the scratching whirled and cut into the bickering of young gods. Every detail was captured, down to the last fleck of Jvanic flesh that hit the parchment from Toun's first attack on her. Waves of anger and entertainment mixed into the aura that hit the parchment.

At last, the membrane was soaked with something overwhelming. Unfathomable. It was a symbol of Tounic calligraphy that described the very beginning. Of such power that even Toun himself did not fully comprehend what he scribed. This point, in contrast to all others, was done by mere approximation. It was the one data point that Phi had no use for.

As the history continued, there were only mild events along the axis of time. Being carried in the hands of a late goddess to various places. The scratching and whirling had slowed. It stilled into the final millisecond just as the membrane began to bulge forward in a gentle expression. As it bulged, the round surface advanced from its position until it tapered behind itself. With no springing reverberation, it left the area between Toun's palms, separated to form a sphere, and drifted as a rigid bubble, printed fully with all the requested events, in front of Chiral Phi.

Finally, with a sombre movement, Toun's hands closed, subsuming the remaining fluid substance. He turned his body away.

"One hundred per cent. Go on and find your darkness," Toun grumbled. For all the pain that the parchment witnessed, Toun was hiding whatever anger remained from those events. His arms drifted to his sides and he looked ahead, blank and still.

"Excellent," whispered Phi, whose immaterial eyes had soaked up every detail. Every moment of the Codex, and- Every twitch on Toun's porcelain face. "This will do me nicely."

The light contracted into a white speck, knotting itself away into the core of the empyrean glyph. Chiral Phi's projection rippled as it collapsed, dwarved by what it dared to enter. She disappeared. A penumbral wind of whipping indigo light began to seep from the printed sphere, trailing linear fragments of waveforms into the tunnel as a buried furnace smoulders through the earth.

i hate her, said a very quiet voice that was realising, for the first time, the truth of those words.

Teknall watched the mathematically-exact patterns of light dance off the orb as Phi calculated from within. But Phi would be a while, for even the greatest calculators in the Universe would struggle with a task of this magnitude. So there was nothing to it but to wait.

Teknall cautiously asked the still-stressed Toun, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Toun's robes softly curled and ebbed with their previous momentum. He did not move. After several seconds, his quivering voice spoke at a low pitch. "No." The clay fabric flowed to a flick. "It would serve no appreciable purpose."

"Well, I just thought that perhaps talking about it rather than bottling it all up would help ease some of the pain. But if you don't want to, that's your choice," Teknall shrugged.

Toun clenched a fist. "I choose not to speak," he quivered. His fist relaxed.

Teknall lapsed back into awkward silence, staying quiet for a minute more, watching the shadows cast by Chiral Phi's calculating light. Then he spoke up again. "Perhaps... you could tell me about the hain," Teknall suggested. "I've pieced together clues from their legends as to their origins, but mortal myths are hardly a reliable source."

For a tense second, there hung in the air the possibility that Toun was going to stick to his words in a broad sense. That changed when his head twisted a fraction to his left. "You wish to know the nature of their creation?" Toun asked in a wavering monotone.

"Yes," Teknall replied.

Toun rotated in place until he was side-on and looking at Teknall with his raw red eyelid drooping in mental fatigue. "If it is important to you..." Toun's chest swelled in thought. "I required servants to delegate menial details. Creatures with enough autonomy to make trivial decisions, collaborate, and survive to an appropriate point in their purpose. I could have calculated a natural adaptability myself had I not had other requirements to meet at the time -- calculating the construction of Cornerstone being the highest priority. I looked to borrow what had already been calculated in Slough's essence. Her lifeforms survived by trying random chances, and while inelegant, held completed solutions to complex life." Toun raised an open hand, his fingers slightly curled, and eyed his palm. "I took up a piece of her discarded essence, incorporated it into a durable construct, and repeated the process for as many as the first generation would require."

One of the tunnel's ridges was fraying from within. Through the gaps, a colony of flatworm-like constructor cells began to writhe, clumping together and trailing strands of mucosal components. It was an oddly fitting vision of Jvan as she fiddled with an endless wreck of herself, still trying to cobble together something that worked.

Toun's hand floated down to his side again, he lowered his head in synch. "Unfortunately, the...suggestions that Slough had an ear open to before the beginning seeped into every creation containing her essence. I would have destroyed them and tried again. I could not, as Niciel had forbidden harm in her land. In my frustration, I adjusted a few to be subservient enough to fit my purposes and sent the most of the rest elsewhere on the surface of the planet. It was courtesy to spare Niciel cleaning up or hoarding my mess in her valley." Toun raised his head and continued in a clinical tone. "It was not an optimal outcome, as so late into their construction, those few I adjusted had their intelligence irreparably damaged."

With a disinterested tilt of his head, Toun faced Teknall and concluded. "I have since bred them to number and role. What was lost in their capabilities, I have made up for in additional functions within Cornerstone itself. And manual control. They may be replaced when they reach the limit of their utility. If you have need of them, I could loan up to four hundred and seven. Unless you are satisfied to make use of the unadjusted feral hain that survived for this long."

"I have no need for your subjugated hain. As far as hain are concerned, those out in the 'wild' building their own civilisations are adequate for me. I have some plans for servants of my own, but hain won't suffice for that purpose," Teknall replied. "I've seen Cornerstone in passing several times, although I've never properly visited. Perhaps I should take a tour at some time?"

Toun blinked and looked off ahead. "I could not stop you," he said as a matter of fact. "There is little to behold and less still to be impressed by. I have no love for the salt that clings to its base."

Teknall shrugged. "I'm sure I'll find something to look at."

i don't know what she's DOING

A voice blurted. Jvan had reached the limit of how long she would quietly try to find resolution to her anxiety. toun, she. she. had. the data. orbs have a one-way gap link. i ran this calc long ago. the painter should still have an- uncorrupted copy. i thought- i- she was- i was waiting for a proof. so she could say she wasn't lying. but she just! isn't! doing! anything! The constructor colony was swarming, labouring to give the voice strength to say what needed saying.

The words were enough to encourage Toun to face the last space that Chiral Phi had occupied and narrow his eye.

she's not using that sigil! she's SITTING in it!

"Chiral Phi," Toun elongated each syllable to the length of his fuming patience. "You know I can find you. Return. I will not warn you again."

Thought you'd never ask, said Phi. The divinely inscribed sphere shed its last beam of light, then began to spin as pale indigo plasma began to seep into its skin. It developed a wobble, compressed, bulged, and erupted.

Ignited by a wave of light that washed away all other vision, the three gods watched the birth of the universe.

Those forces locked in the Codex swelled into their full strength and collided with cataclysmic fury in the first instant, and the Shattering Disunity began. Chaos reigned, and Chiral Phi resolved that chaos into horrific visibility, cutting through the power of the first moment to reveal visceral layers of unbalanced energies, their laws fluid and slippery as quick mire, yet to harden into observable form. Within the light, forces physical and elemental surged against one another, dominating their rivals, breaking and succumbing until they began to lock into each other's contorted remains and desiccate into solidity.

The Painter's hand held, with quivering wrist, the force of Disunity; And now she cracked it open to reveal the screaming ichor within. In the first age, there was only cosmic fire. Change roiled against Order in the ignited cloud of energy, each burning the other into vapour. A golden light that would never be equalled shone from those first years, illuminating the blood of the shattered void as it condensed back into the existence it never had. Shimmers turned to smoke and smoke into a cloud.

There was darkness. Shadow burgeoned in the smog as reality began to sprawl, subjugating the turmoil of its elder siblings, crushing it with the pressure of the vacuum. Chiral Phi magnified the black cloud into an all-consuming haze of distance, burning through the strain of holding infinite space in her mind's eye. For the briefest moment, things crawled in the nascent World- Primordial sentience that gnawed on the cold and the elemental wilderness, and kicked bursts of fresh chaos into life.

And through them speared fifty-six motes of dust, leaving paths of desolation as they hungered on the warpath.

But old forces were rearing again, and the spirit's vision leapt into dizzying freefall, sweeping through a labyrinth of lines traced by the first matter as it began to collapse. Atomic sparks seared themselves into the universe, and their distant specks multiplied into a flurry, expanded into vast monstrosities of heat and gravity. Innumerable stellar gods swarmed the void, lived, died, and dominated, claiming galactic kingdoms built on the corpses of their elders. Through a bottomless ocean of raging eyes did the shadowed orbs fall, fearing nothing, alone and exiled from their fellows for eternity.

Phi held the cosmos she was creating even as its mind-razing scale destroyed all hope of grandeur, leaving only ephemeral dust on an infinite gale to show for the creations of man and god. With eight sevenfold gazes that were yet one, the brothers saw Julkolfyr's retaliation lost in the well of night, undying, unyielding, a vicious scorn against everything that aged and rotted in the indescribable depths of All.

Time slowed. The passage of the stars halted and died. There was a haunting instant of deterioration- And the Painter's simulation blinked into silence.

It took a long while for the tunnels of Ovaedis to seem real again. If they ever were.

Teknall blinked, and blinked again. "Staggering..." was all he could manage in those first few moments after the vision faded. Yet he had noted and memorised the important data from that simulation, particularly the locations of the Orbs.

"You mentioned the orbs having a one-way gap link. That wasn't in the original design," Teknall eventually said.

The comment shifted Toun's stare from Phi, who was only just beginning to rematerialise. "A link in which direction, exactly?"

vowzra's doing. destroyed matter is funnelled gapwards. fertilises the other. stimulates faster growth. Jvan's voice had grown clearer since it had last sounded. The cells had been busy for some time, and her senses were still too dull to watch the simulation.

Teknall crossed his arms and drummed his fingers against his elbows. "Interesting. I may need to make some modifications to my designs. I'll have to do some tests to figure out the details." Teknall unfolded his arms. "Thank you Jvan and Phi for your help. I'll be sure to put the data to good use."

"Same to you, dear," purred Phi. Her own telepathy was as artificially chipper as ever, even as the projection sat heavy and dim in the tunnel, spent.

Toun's head was stretched forward into a slouch. He stared at Phi with his brow low and his body pointing slightly away. "Chiral Phi," he breathed, displaying no loss in his previous warning.

"Why, is there a problem?" It was a dare, not a question.

Without breaking his stare, Toun elevated one arm with his half-closed hand facing upwards. His fingers cupped the still floating orb that held the record of the beginning. "Eighty-nine..." Toun's fingers began to curl and the calligraphy on the orb dissolved. "...Point seven...seven...six..." A hairline fracture shot up and around the orb. "...Recurring." Toun's fingers closed in as if through empty space, so easily did the spherical manifest shatter into gently spinning petals. The thinness of the orb itself made the shards take on the appearance of ice flecks in the burning blue sun that was Toun's unwavering eye; melting as they did into nothing. The temporal record was gone.

"Consider that new confidence interval the most generous consequence you will take by trying to deceive us," Toun flicked his thumb over his hand twice to dislodge any remaining shards as they folded out of reality. "For that is now the quality of the temporal log, only due to witholding information."

A laugh, uncomfortably close. "You never asked, I never told! It doesn't matter. I have what I need, even if the position is a few... Say, hundred... Light-years off. And yet, even if I had harvested nothing from that sigil, kid..."

The glow sank closer, close enough to kiss Toun on the nose. "I'd still consider myself well paid."

There was a snap, as of elastic cords slashed with a knife. Chiral Phi bent wildly and was gone.

Toun blinked and deflated back into his conventional humanoid shape. The weight off his mood collapsed, partially. "I hate her," he hissed.

oh really, said a rancid whisper from Jvan.

"She is rather irritating," Teknall admitted.

The vacuum around them lacked media to carry sounds in the first place. That did not make the next moment of silence any less demanding. The gods were idle, waiting for one another.

Toun eyed Teknall once more. "If you are done here, you know how to contact me, brother," Toun said. The quiet moment had calmed his voice. "I will forward to you the state of Jvan's health." Toun began to turn around. "You have your countermeasure to find. Not every one of Julkolfyr's orbs will be out of place, by strong likelihood."

"Yes," Teknall composed himself, then flipped his palms upwards. "I shall see you again some time. Thank you for the help." Teknall pushed gently off the wall of the tunnel, did a half-turn in the microgravity environment, then flew back up the tunnel towards the exit. A faint psychic tailwind followed him, clinging for a moment to the hem of his apron, as if unwilling to be left alone in the dark.

fare you well, my brother

Then the words were lost in the floating currents of Sculptor thoughts.

Toun's head and blue eye turned behind, further into the tunnel. He angled forward. As if the creases were the tentacles of a white squid propelling him, his robe curled taut against his body as he flowed onward, out of sight.



(Hey now, that's...)

(~Welcome back)

(How dare/This filthy air/Rest so heavy/On the rain-soaked heart)

(Use a hollow rib, nn?)

(Loralom soil...Fertile, ashen texture...Touch like the birth of a rose...)

(Yon craven bastard, and he goes by Hudjo- 'the Magnificent', no less!)

(...So it continues.)

(See up, look out/See truth, know doubt/See things beyond the weathered track/See those who see you staring back)

(Did you find her?)

The last whisper sounded double in Teknall's mind, telepathy shadowed by a change-eater's lightvoice nearby. Between the frayed lip of the tube, the Diaphane hero rested patiently, the smear of Jvan's blessing still dark inside the resting cells of her body.

Teknall drifted to a halt as the change-eater came into view. He nodded his head in greeting. "Hello Diaphane Whisper. We did find her- or, more accurately, she found us. Her voice is still quite weak, but she's on the way to recovery."

"Thank you." A slight movement rippled through Whisper, a simple nod. It became a shake, as if to clear her head from whatever new anxiety was replacing the old. "There was another. A third deity in white, with metal creatures all around. Watching you, I think. We spoke."

The thought of Logos listening in on the earlier conversation paralyzed Teknall for a moment in fear, eyes wide and teeth chattering silently in the void. How much did he hear? Does he know? he thought.

An uncomfortable pause, and Whisper contracted, rising to face the Haingod as a tower of eyes and jointed arms. "Teknall," she said, though she had not known the name before. Her tone held a philosopher's angst, desperate to understand, not simply know.

"Is it wrong, to kill?"

Teknall's jaw steadied and his eyes narrowed as he carefully contemplated the question. "It depends," he said, "To cause death and destruction without good cause is definitely wrong. But sometimes the only viable way to prevent a catastrophe is to kill. Killing is something to be avoided, a last resort if anything at all."

"Without good cause." From top to bottom, the eyes shut. It was not an optimistic gesture. "A child born violent, then. Is it cursed? Should it be destroyed for its bloodlust?" Whisper's eyes opened. "Would you wield the knife?"

"Can it be proved that the child is violent? Does that mean the child will actually commit murder?" Teknall retorted, "Or could the child suppress its violent instincts, and become a functioning member of society? The trouble with such a preemptive strike is that it assumes that you have preempted correctly." Whisper's tailfin twitched a little.

Teknall looked out over the glimmering rings of Lex. "Consider the imagen. A predatory imagen hunts and kills other imagen. It must, or else it will starve and die. But the prey does what it can to avoid dying. If it is able, it will fight and kill the predator. It must, or else it will be killed. Neither of them are in the wrong. The prey avoids killing unless forced, and the predator kills only as it needs to eat. These aren't moral beings, so the analogy is limited, but it makes a point nonetheless. In general it is wrong to kill, but sometimes it is necessary."

A stoic by nature, Whisper did not indicate her disappointment with the little aproned being that hovered before her. Three deities she had met this day, and three times she had been let down. To explain the law of the wild to an apex predator... Condescension and waste. Still, somehow, Teknall eventually told her what she needed to know.

"My grandmother said that you were moral. I guess this is what she meant." Whisper's gaze neither blinked nor shifted; Hard enough learning about the gravity-walkers without trying to master their body language. "When this child is born it will kill. The world will resist it. I know the scent of slaughter, Teknall. So... If the-" The metaphor was starting to show cracks- "'Child' can be destroyed, it will be. Even though it never asked to be born."

"Nothing does. Neither the predator, nor the prey." Whisper gestured, an alien, unpracticed sweep of the limb, first to herself, then to Teknall, and then out to Galbar below.

Slowly understanding dawned on Teknall. He gazed down at Galbar for a long while, trying to come up with the right words. "People will fight to protect what they hold dear, although few will fight for something distant from themselves. Although the child will kill, and although it will be resisted, perhaps the child will have the wisdom to avoid angering those who can destroy it."

No words came after that. Whisper's fluorescence had dulled, slightly, as if the stain inside her was leaking into her soul.

"May you find peace, Teknall," said Diaphane Whisper as she melted away into space. As always, her thoughts were her own, though they were no longer so bitter. Only sad. "I doubt we'll ever get a chance to talk again."

Her tails brushed past the frayed fingers of the listening-horn with patient affection as she departed into the shadows of the meteoroids below. In the distance, the Mothership hovered above a frozen forest, waiting, once again, for the touch that bade her deliver death to the world.

"May you find peace too, Whisper," Teknall said quitely towards the change-eater's departing form. He solemnly watched for a little longer, then turned and descended towards the planet below.

Since the first winds howled over the surface of a lifeless Galbar, there has stood a long and narrowing isthmus between the lands to the south and the heart of the first waters. For many eons have the waves battered against it, and the earth shaken beneath its roots, and always it stood firm, for there was one who would will it to stand forever as a path and an open door towards her own face.

Time, however, is noticeably less ruinous than certain other forces. Today, the narrow stretch of land has been warped and scorched, sunken and flooded. Its stones are curiously burst by the expansion of ice, and its sand glazed into obsidian by a roiling fire. Still more curious anomalies hang yet in the air. At night, the place seems to hum with radiation. And for all this hardship, the bridge finally collapsed, and its far end leads only to a perilously splintered reef extended neck-deep for a few miles out, and then dropping away altogether into the abyss.

The abyss, however, is not empty.

Enter a lone Sculptor yet unnamed, of whom wore an unusual, circular head dress upon her palor face, suspended upon a freakishly long neck. The gaze of this wandering novitiate was hard to follow, for her eyes were as milky white as her scrawny face. She made sure to hold onto her hat, which the wind had threatened to relieve her of, the weather this far into the tumulous sea was less than favorable, unpredictable, even.

The Sculptor let out a huff, vexed by the sogging wet state of her wardrobe, her changed form didn't feel the least bit comfortable against the cold breath of a Galbarian storm.

"O All-Beauty, where ar't thou." She remarked, before she dove into the water with a single, fluid motion. When she was rescued from the surface by the mild embrace of liquidity, an addition of arms unfurled from her person, leaving a spinal column as her torso. She used her multitude of limbs to bat deeper into the bosom of the body of water. A single, lonely eyefish, perhaps the last one left in the empty waters, thought it was at prithy to follow the visitor, who managed to keep an impressive pace on her way to the abyssal depths.

"Here," sounded a voice. It held a slight reverberation, coming from two sources at once. Strange to hear the sound of a dream that has long been waiting in reality. "Look down. I'm deeper than I once was."

In the dark, a wide, faint flash of carmine, like an afterimage. A tug played at the brim of the Sculptor's hat, a peculiar current leading to its source.

The Sculptor followed, and discovered a cavernous archway, deeply charred, and yet textured still with geometrics that even she would find difficult - if not impossible to replicate. She grasped the otherworldly rivets and compressions within, and clambered along the surface until the Sculptor found an entrance into the body upon the ocean floor. A sickly green light cascaded down from the heavens, from the divide between surface and submerged, as if just to illuminate the twisted gap the lone Sculptor found herself swimming within.

"Is this the body of thee, O All Mother?" the Sculptor asked aloud, despite the curtain of water that persisted around her.

"Do you think so?" came a voice, heard in person, and with it a misty carmine luminescence from the ever-falling tunnels within. "Would you be disappointed if it wasn't? Did you come seeking something strange, or did you come for me?"

"I came for thee, All Mother, I seek direction." stated the visitor.

"And you found me. You found me." A soft breath, stirring the currents around her guest like a breeze. "It's been so long since last I've spoken to you, child. How many decades?" Low static, crackling then whining with weak laughter. "Come, ask this toppled tower, burnt-out rubble of a thing that I am. Strange that I might be visited by you now. We're all burning here."

"Four, and I am sorry for my neglect, but just four moons ago, my hovel was annihilated by flying beasts, all of my creations were lost, but I survived. I am not so sure about my kin, however, many of them were already killed before I had any notion that we were being attacked. I require a new place, in which I can remain steadfastedly secure against the flying creatures." explained the Sculptor, only now noting the conditions of the All-Beauty's exterior.

Faint buzzing, tuning sounds, as the god puzzled out a tone. Then, accelerating as if it was leaping its way out of the tunnels, a cackling laugh that cracked into distortion and returned in waves.

"All this way for a hut? To the depths of the ocean and the belly of a deity, to introduce yourself in humble terms, when all you want is safety? Oh, my dear inkblot, when did you get so formal?" The sound dissolved into giggles. "Rest easy, sweet haberdasher child of mine. I'm... I think I'm touched." Another exhalation, humming, and one could tell the god was thinking like a girl twiddling her hair in her fingers.

"Never be sorry for anything, dear," resumed the voice in a purr. "You've turned out quite well. I know places and I know places. What you've had the misfortune to see are the Realta. War constructs of a distant god. One who takes... Some... Objection... To my existence." A faint note of savage resilience. "No, you've come far, and to the right place. I'm as safe a fortress as exists, but I think I can do you one better, and one riskier. May I?" Now the voice was teasing, copying its child's own polite tone.

"Of course," replied the Jvanic follower, now grounding herself in the swirling artery. "These Realta... They were made to destroy us? Whatever made these manfowl must be truly brutish." she said, arms returning to the shape of a cylindrical torso.

"Brutish... That's certainly one way to put it. Experience tells me that they were defensive weapons, at one point. If they were made for the task they'd be more efficient around faeries. I digress!" The distant glow solidified into something that hovered in the waters, revolving, with squared shapes and moving pieces. "East of here, far east, there is a mountain range- the Ironhearts. At its center it is cut through by Shalanoir, a low rainforest."

"And just southwest of Shalanoir there is a magnificent gathering of people and gods- A city the likes of which has no match on Galbar. It, too, has suffered under the Realta. Yet it remains. Alefpria is its name."

"Among the deities that consider it a residence is its founder, Emperor, and my nibling cousin, Lifprasil-Vesamera. He has a protective heart and an eye for diversity. Sculptors are welcomed within his borders, he intends to defend the entire city- The whole of Galbar, maybe- With the force of his divine alliances. Mine among them."

"The notion lacks permanence, I would say." commented the Sculptor, but she listened still.

The mirage broadened until it filled the tunnel and the Sculptor was looking down on a city, far below.

"If you can make it there, you'll be warmly welcomed. And if you stay, you may find something... Of interest." A swirl of carmine fog and the illusory city vanished, became a ticking mechanism of sockets and contracting tendons, distributing weight around a set of bones as they walked. "A new technology is due to spread there, in time. It is my own craft, the art of working with living, twitching material. I think, eventually, you'll learn its name yourself." The leg disassembled and took on an earlier form, each individual piece being stretched, compressed or moulded into shape with delicate wooden frames. "That is, if you go that far- Again."

"Interest...? As a shaper of flesh, I would take thee's offer, but what of this creation? I am curious," said the Sculptor, watching her patron goddess work.

"And what is it that you are building, All Mother?"

An excellent question, duly mulled. On a technicality, of course, it had not been her who had started the project. "Riddle me this- Why did I create you? Tell me, a little, why you exist, hm?"

The Sculptor thought. Curious, she never had a thought regarding existentialism within her field.

"To create?" she hypothesized. "I assumed, always, that I existed because thee willed my existence, as gods do."

"Correct and... Somewhat correct. I made your ancestor-" Another easy half-lie- "And the rest was just guidance. Never overestimate my family and I."

"But you were right. You exist to create. And this, too, this thing that is developing in Alefpria, is a means of creation. I only have one mind. Mortals have many. Diversity begets diversity- And so I choose to pass on my art to my heirs. What I've made is, simply, divine flesh, soft enough to be moulded by mortal hands. Its potential is limited only by patience and creativity." Aware that it was improvising, the voice quickly continued. "And luck. Lots of luck."

"Divine flesh..." The Sculptor thought aloud, it was as if a dream, as if she was offered something impossible.

"O All Beauty, you mean to give such a gift to mortals like myself?" she asked, this sounded irresponsible, but the idea of being a creator like the living citadel before her was far too seductive. This was a gift for her own selfish gain, she concluded, and she felt a slight guilt, as the Others, those that perished in her hovel, were not here to witness this gross display of potential metamorphosis.

"Well, I mean, yes...?" A wry wave of static in the voice, 'nnn-nn'. "Believe me, nothing you can do by deliberation could damage Galbar half as much as I have by accident. And, besides-" Subtly intimate tones, as if sharing a private thing. "Let me offer you some divine advice."

Distantly, the fizz of distortion lowered its pitch, and a new sound separated from its wavering whines. A sound like blinding moonlight, rising anew from the depths. The voice smiled, then grinned. How many children had she borne? How many had tried to hide their doubts? More than enough. "No one ashamed of indulging their creative desires knows how good it feels. So with that, I say to you-"

And the carmine light in the distance was pierced by a spear of white, and a new life hurtled into being like a dark speck at its apex-

"Never feel guilty for anything."

The moonbeam disappeared, leaving only the tumbling, silky black creature at its apex to collide with the unfortunate Sculptor as it rose, its wings floundering in the water to slow its pace. Wings flapping above three clumsily tangled legs, and eyes that shone from a face like a skull.

Cascades of mirth flooded from the tunnel. A challenge had been issued, and a petty one at that- The Sculptor was on her own. "Stay in touch, haberdasher!" And in a voice of thought, as the little mount huddled closely to the shins of its master, its turbines blazing at incautious intervals- I'll be with you every step of the way.

Lazarus was putting the final touches on the machine, something she had long planned to do. It was easy, trivial, almost, using her knowledge to create the machine. It bore no mechanical parts, powered purely by divine energies. Such was the simplicity of the design. When the time came, it could be used to measure the baseline of divine energies, using the powers imbued in the gem. The rest of the time, the residue divine energies from a god, demigod, or even those blessed would power the machine.

It would light up the gem when divine beings or those blessed by divine beings were nearby, no more, no less. This made it useless, almost -- to view the gem, you must be close enough to have it set off by your own signature. Nevertheless, it was a step in the right direction. Once the gem lit up, she stopped her work, and she prayed to Vestec.

Vestec appeared in a flash of light. “Lazzy!” He cried, throwing his hands wide. “It’s been too long! How have you been! How are the dwarves and what’s that delightfully shiny little thing you’ve got there?” The gem was a swirling mass of colors, matching Vestec’s own colors. “Cheeky little thing isn’t it.”

“The dwarves are preparing to march. I’ve not heard good things about Xerxes -- But more importantly, do you remember the promise you made to me so long ago, regarding the detection machine?” she asked, “I need you to take it somewhere remote now. It’s complete.”

She motioned to the gem, picking it up and holding it out. “Take this to somewhere at least a thousand miles away from everything divine.”

“No problem!” Vestec took the Gem and flashed away. In an instant he was back, floating in thin air, hand on his chin. “I hope you wanted it on a moon. Cause it’s on a moon’s surface.”

He spun upside down, looking at Lazarus. “You said the dwarves are preparing to kill things?”

“Yes, I’ve dispatched a section of the militia to organize and prepare for war. They’ll be marching to Xerxes soon,” she responded, seemingly unaffected by his odd sense of orientation. “They’re well-equipped and are lead by many of my magic-wielders. They should at least do something to Xerxes.”

“Oh! Oh! I can help!” Vestec clapped his hands together cheerily. “I can take them there immediately and put them in an advantageous position if they don’t mind being asleep until the battle begins!” He giggled maniacally. “Or sharing space with possessed Ogru. They’ll be asleep too though...probably.”

“They’ve learned to trust my word, if I say it’s the best option, then they will believe it’s the best option. Do what you need to do, as long as they make it there unharmed,” Lazarus responded.

“Perfect perfect perfect! They’ll love their time there I promise. Incidentally, whose side would they be on.” Vestec asked innocently, examining his fingers as he did so. “For administrative reasons, you understand. Things get so unorganized in war. It’s hard to keep track of whose for who.”

“They’re against Xerxes,” she stated matter-of-factly, “this way.” She lead Vestec through a maze of tunnels, eventually coming to an overlook of the main hall. There, six hundred men stood in rows, each one clad in bronze, carrying a bronze pike. About twenty men came to and fro, the psykers of the army.

“Brilliant, just brilliant!” Vestec declared, clapping his hands together as he surveyed the small (literally) army. “I’ll just take them and put them in a very safe place. They’ll love it!” He paused. “Before I go, I noticed how you created Fraux from a piece of Reathos. Very nice! However, I put poor Reathos into the ground so he wouldn’t be disturbed,not yet at least, so I must fix that.”

Vestec disappeared, reappearing before the door that lead to his holy site, Reathos’ corpse. The body of a dead god reached towards the doors, with the souls of the Pronobii swirling around it, trapped by the power of Reathos’ spirit stone and guarded by Reathos’ avatar. The avatar had been driven mad by the death of it’s creator. It prowled around the chamber, behind the massive doors, snarling and wailing.

“Let's not have you drawn out just yet…” Vestec murmured gathering all the souls of the Pronobii around him. “You will defend the corpse of your god, for eternity. Until the worthy bring his pieces back together.” Vestec declared, divine power reverberating in his voice and shaking the room. The Pronobii wailed and howled as they were forced into new bodies.

“You are the Guardians of Death, waiting for the worthy to lead you on a new crusade.” Vestec turned his attention to the raving Avatar of Reathos. “You lack the power necessary to test those who would claim to be worthy, and the urge to do so. This will be fixed.” He grasped the head of the Avatar, filling it with power and bloodthirst. It writhed and screamed.

Vestec dropped it to the ground, walking away. “You have your decree, your task. All that is left to do is wait.” The Avatar picked itself up off the ground, and howled it’s rage to the sky as the doors closed with a definitive thump behind it. “Now...to ensure the ‘worthy’ go questing.” Vestec giggled, cupping his hands and blowing softly into them. A shrieking gale burst forth, going to the far corners of the land.

Vestec reappeared in front of Lazarus. “There! That’s all settled. I’ll be taking your army now, unless there’s something else?” Vestec suddenly paused. “Wait. What’s that?” He turned side to side, like a hound on a scent. Vestec gestured and a section of wall turned into slithering snakes, hissing as they swarmed towards the darkness of the tunnels. “Ooooh, what’s this?” Vestec cooed, picking up the creature. It’s essence was strange. Close to divinity, but not quite. “Hmmm. The best thing to do is to field test it.” With a gesture, the creature disappeared, heading out in the dangerous and rather insane world.

Lazarus grimaced as Lasis was whisked away. She, however, did not say anything.

---

One moment, Lasis was deep within tunnels. The next, the sun glared into her sapphire eyes. She lifted a single, wooden arm, protecting herself from the brightness. Next, she climbed to her feet, looking about into the valley that surrounded her. With no other recourse available to her, she began to explore.

Eventually, Lasis came across a small group of sheep, being herded by two large beings. She emerged from the undergrowth, waving at them. The two Tedar, massive compared to the two-foot golem, shared glances with each other curiously as Lasis stepped out into sight.

Lasis then spoke to them, “Hello! I’m Lasis.” She spoke simply, and optimistically. One of the Tedar responded, in a deep voice, “I’m Luk,” and the other Tedar followed suite, “And I’m Giik.” Lasis tilted her head slightly upon hearing their names. Then she grabbed a short stick from the ground, and in some loose dirt began to draw.

The Tedar watched on as the drawing took shape, a fanciful depiction -- for being made with sticks and dirt -- of them, herding sheep. The sheep, meanwhile, continued to not care. Once Lasis completed the work, she sidestepped, allowing the Tedar full view. She dropped the stick, bowing as she motioned towards the work, “It’s you!”

Luk and Giik smiled, crouching to look at the small drawing. “It’s very nice,” commented Luk. They began to talk some more, and then nearing the end of the day, Giik put Lasis on his shoulder, and then the two Tedar began to herd the sheep back to their cave.

Once there, Lasis located some plants near the entrance and mashed them up into pastes. Then, she took her fingers, dipping them into the paste. She began to paint on the walls of the cave, much to the amusement of the Tedar. She painted crude but well-designed scenes of sheep, mountains, and Tedar. Not only that, but she placed herself in a few of the scenes. She continued this through the night until a good portion of the cave was decorated with art.

There are moments the words don’t reach.
There is suffering too terrible to name.
You hold your memories as tight as you can
And push away the unimaginable.

Kri’Tral moved to a different hain settlement and learns to live with the unimaginable. Those who see him alone in the forest of the Venomweald have pity, for he is dealing with the unimaginable. He sat there alone, his eyes closed with tears flowing down the sides of his face. The hain held his hands to the sides of his head.

“Ip, you would have liked uphill. It’s quiet uphill,” the hain male told himself is a fragmented voice, grieving the loss of his child as well most of the tribe due to Keriss’ destruction. Kri’Tral parked on a large stone, cool to the touch in the air that surrounded him, the air of suffering. “He deserved not this fate. If I could trade his life for mine, would that be enough?,” he continued. Wiping away his tears, he attempted to regain himself as he always attempted to do to no avail. That unimaginable had come to him, how could he have trusted an outsider enough? Blaming himself, his gaze shifted down.

If you see him walking through the streets,
Walking alone,
No one by his side,
Have pity,
For he is working through the unimaginable.

The stone, that was his only companion now, the only object that would no longer bring out the aching sadness within him. Though, it seemed the very nature itself was determined for him to stay down. The sound of a bird flapping caught his attention, flying to its nest, a home. A wished he were that bird. Another bird, larger, landed having brought back some insect. Another sound, chicks which desired the worm. Kri’Tral looked away, the tears returning. That hain got to his feet and proceeded to move onwards.

His head was spinning, battling to control his emotion and attempting to live with the unimaginable. “Look at where I am, look at where I’ve come. Is that enough,” stated he, gripping his arms together, his gaze towards the ground. “Do you uphill, it’s quiet uphill,’ he sighed rhythmically, now looking to the sky as if speaking to someone else. More tears continued to flood down his face. Kri understood what the newly found silence meant for him. That silence only stared at him with a sorrow-filled gaze.

“There is no replacing what I’ve lost, but I am not afraid,” chirped the hain, closing his eyes as he walked forward. “There is a grace too powerful to name,” another rhythmic tone filled the air as he began climbing up a small hill. That hill was his destination, where maybe the suffering would lessen.

His voice has gone hoarse,
He passes everyday,
They say he walks the length of a city.

How could one do such as to destroy an innocent child? There was a constant questioned that floated upon that hill. There the hill would reveal stones. Many stones had been built around the top of the hill, each of varying heights. A pattern formed as Kri’Tral reached the top of the hall, the pattern of the stones coming to the tallest pillar.

In front of that pillar did he collapse to his knees. “Do they know the challenges I am facing? I know who is at fault,” he stated to stones. “Ip, do you like it uphill? It’s quiet uphill,” he repeated before his jaw clenched shut and tears ran down his beak, attempting to do the unimaginable. Finally, he let out a sorrow filled screech at the top of his voice. That very cry is what the silence pitied.

Can you imagine the unimaginable?

It is not scarce knowledge that Jvanic equipment is rarely built with comfort in mind.

Although they did not thicken and their gradual narrowing did not significantly impact the grand scale of the listening-horn, the tunnel walls were steadily growing more and more obstructions. Ridges turned into sizable cliffs, then arches, then beams and boughs spanning across the tunnel. Telepathic nodes grew not only in number and diversity, but also size. Their veins flickered more or less constantly, pulsing light from one to another. Every now and again, the largest would snap shut and retract, fanned gills tens of metres across stirring a buzz of stray thoughts like gusts.

If the monitor drones were vast spindly things before, they were awesome now. Only the occasional shift of a leg betrayed that they were mobile, and not just webs of flora spun between the boughs. Some seemed to have fused with the substrate, as if they had forgotten themselves, or else never had anything to forget. They had no eyes, nor faces to put them in, but their ear-like sails seemed to watch Toun's flight unblinkingly.

you’re going in deep. why

"To check on your health," Toun's calm telepathic voice responded as if it was a matter of fact. "There are some things I cannot do without close proximity. Away from others."

Neither any scrap of tissue nor a single errant thought was disturbed by Toun's physical touch as he flowed on. His silken wending around the boughs and branches were that of a veil in an unfelt wind, sliding past, near-weightless, and unerring. The skewed flesh lattice of the tunnel would have bested many a vertebrate cave explorer leagues behind.

"Do you speculate why I am here, sister? Why I arrived?"

i really don’t think i’m in a position to investigate right now

Only when Toun’s flight reached the zenith of its grace did it start to become clear that there was no longer any tunnel for the mechanisms to obstruct. At the innermost space, where the horn attached to the manufactory true, the arches simply multiplied until there was no obvious route between them. What lay beyond was insulated by the structures, or else cleverly hidden. Yet the stream of consciousness did not simply dissipate here. Somewhere close by was some ultimate transmitter, the eardrum and vocal chord to which the Fae Folk sang.

careful…

Toun halted and flexed back into his default shape, but only for a moment. His eye darted to sixteen different points ahead of him before he picked a direction. His unseen propulsion resumed. "I am always careful," he lied.

"Since the beginning, sister, I have always held anger and disdain." Toun's voice twinged with regret. "To varying intensities, it was directed to everyone in the family. You were not reserved the least of it. The vitriol and bile I spat was thrown onto everything I saw. And then something happened."

A surface of biosynthetic wall that was almost smooth, buried in the jungle’s floor at the end of the tunnel, a crevice beneath the canopy of esoteric architecture. No light remained but the soft blue of Toun's eye glowing. This was the deepest place.

"By the time I was made aware of it, one, two, three, four, five siblings had perished. I dare not count more." Toun slowed as he approached the crevice. "It made me ponder on the purpose of all our fates. Tell me, do you act because Fate dictated it so in the beginning, sister? Or does another reason drive you?"

...that word. i hear it everywhere. fate. i never found out what it meant.

Jvan’s voice was so close, now. It was almost clear.

you know what drives me, Toun. don’t listen to the painter. i do what i do because i have feelings, and i want to see a beautiful world before i grow up. that is all.

Toun sized up the obstacle in front of him, panning his gaze over its surface. "I had predicted your motives being indirect of Fate. It took Vowzra's death for me to realise that my own motives were not simply her words either." Toun reached a hand and splayed his fingers. His arm stretched to the surface in front of him and narrowed into a sharpened edge. Gently, he drew two parallel vertical lines with two fingers, joining them at one end with a tiny incision, and pulled a cross-section of material out as a thin, broken flap. When his arm retracted, he progressed through the new breach by letting his body taper into a flat shape, only to reform on the other side. He stopped to take in what he saw.

Vast open space. Atmosphere.

Before Toun’s gaze, the telepathic reflector rose, smooth and spoked like a wheel- A disc one hundred cubits wide and broad shining with cyan light. The voices of Galbar’s strangelings resolved their dissonance and rebounded from it in a solemn hum, as visible as an eddied vapour of blue and green. Ligaments suspended it by the rim, and beyond- Jvan.

Familiar carmine fog cloaking a fractal mantle of grey flesh, shifting, collapsing and rebuilding around bubbles of pocket dimensions. In the deep distance, the fetus-shape that was Ovaedis’ power core curled around a singularity, its eyes black and non-Euclidean, its heart shining like an old and fragile sun leeching light through the umbilicus.

"...Please be gentle."

The caution was audible. Toun's eye shifted to find its source. This was as far as he needed to go.

There was little use in warning Toun in his approach. He was a ghost to the delicate apparatus around him, floating to the centre of the great disk and sitting cross-legged, hovering barely a hand's width above its surface. The light cast a dark shade over his upper features and reflected blue over the gloss of his skin and robe. He began, as he did, directly, and without pleasantries.

"I was terrified, sister."

The blue eye bore straight ahead with only a slight hue distinguishing it from the light below. Her voice was strongest here. "When Logos found you. I feared for your life."

"I… Well, me too. Ah." It was a lame answer. "I’m… Not sure what to say, Toun. Brother. I was… Decommissioned very quickly."

The lower half of Toun's eyelid twitched on his otherwise frozen face. He hesitated to speak. "...You were on Galbar. Why did you not call for help?"

There was nothing on the disc that could convey mood, but the shadows from behind it seemed to pause slightly. "It… Never... Occurred to me. All my life here, I’ve been a benefactor. I have power. I give, and give, and I don’t need anything in return. I guess… I never thought it would be offered." Still unsure, she continued, "Not to me."

Toun's grip on his knees tightened. Anger flared on his still face for only a moment, then relaxed. "You are a fool," he mumbled. "You are a fool to think that we would not help you, sister. More than enough have died."

"One of them by my hand, Toun. Two, maybe, if you count the worm I lost. I’m- I was- Part of the slaughter. Forgive me for not thinking that the love of peace would extend so far."

Words sliced into the room at speed. "I would have stopped you if I KNEW!" Toun's head angled up as he shouted into his surroundings. The landscape around him receded, shying away at the sound of anger.

Toun's voice calmly went on. "That is irrelevant. Irrelevant to..." He lost his words again. A hand carefully lifted from his knee and spread his fingers over his chest. His head bowed. "The purpose I mentioned for my goals. The reasons, independent of Fate's words for my actions. Do you know why I wished for a paradise, sister?"

"...Paradise is a curious concept. Some say it means a perfect place. Others a wholesome one. I… I can’t imagine either." The outburst had quieted her somewhat. Jvan wasn’t used to being the smaller of two voices, so she spoke cautiously.

Toun's eye and brows lifted. "It could have existed as either and both. Its purpose would not have altered." Speaking with sincerity seemed to ease the quiver in his voice, if only for a moment. "I was to build paradise for us all. Everyone in the family." His chest deflated in a sigh and his head bowed again. "For Teknall, Niciel, Ilunabar. For Vowzra, Vulamera. Vestec. Logos. Even you. Everyone."

His eye closed. "Every sibling lost is another failure. With or without the paradise." Toun's voice lowered to a mimic of Jvan's, out of sadness more than caution. "I cannot fail again. It brings a paralysing hollowness. I treated you poorly in the beginning, but...I care that you live. No more killing."

"It’s… Not a very clean way of doing things, is it?" managed Jvan, weakly. "...We’re not so different, then. I’m tired of… Emptying. I’d rather make. I’d rather watch them all make. Even Vestec. Damn him." Again, just the faintest touch of humour. For some time now, all Jvan had known was destruction. "What does this mean for your paradise, brother? Will you go on?"

For once, Toun's silence was not condescending. He slowly opened his eye and gave the ponderous quiet some time to ferment.

He did not think, exactly. He came to an acceptance of what he had not yet put into spoken words.

"The paradise was made impossible," he finally murmured. "I go on in pursuit of other things now. There are matters of the world I would seek answers to. I fear the family does not know them any more than I do."

"Pursue, then," was the answer, encouraging, faintly sad. "Everything I’ve seen and forgotten since Vowzra showed me has only told me to keep looking." Mention of Vowzra made Toun's hand tighten for another instant as Jvan continued. "There are answers, somewhere. And… We live on the road." She did not ask what had extinguished the utopian dream. For her, it had seemed impossible enough in the beginning.

Toun conceded with silence, nonetheless.

They ruminated in each other's quiet company for a solemn time, remembering. Perhaps minutes passed. The regular patterns of inbound sculptor thought seemed to tick with such timings. As the sculptor thoughts passed, so did theirs, until they both listened without listening.

They refilled all the comfort that their anxieties would allow.

Toun's sad voice sounded, after a time.

"Sister? May I borrow a hand?" Toun did not lift his head, but instead extended his right hand, flat and open to the ceiling.

"I… Guess?" A psychic tug wrapped around Toun’s wrist, faint at first, then growing in warmth until a carmine wisp twirled around his fingers, yanking slightly. Toun's fingers curled into a gentle grip in return.

From the porcelain fingertips, a warm, blue array of splitting veins crept up the carmine at speed. Jvan felt nothing but the leaking feeling of comfort and safety that is never fully felt until it is lost. A loving familial embrace. And yet, the tingling relief was searching for something.

It searched further than what might have been comfortable. Then it suddenly stopped.

Clink...

Toun's eye widened. His countenance froze into a shock of realisation that swept from his back, up his spine and cheeks, and over his head in a wave. His fear was realised. Now it transmuted itself into a melting wax of regret. Toun's head was seared in its flow.

"I..."

His shoulders twitched and his eyelid began to convulse in flittering blinks. He felt as if falling from a height. Even as he tried to prevent it, a rivulet of red streaked down from his eye to his smooth nasal mound and dropped a tear onto his crossed legs. He spoke pained, breathing words.

"Sister. I am so, so sorry."

The blue veins receded, throwing themselves inverse up Toun's arm. Jvan could feel the cold surface of his clay mind rush past as fast as her own could keep up. They came to an abrupt stop at his eye. A sharp sensation of awareness struck her in turn, like unwittingly seeing a mirror without knowing its nature.

In the peripheral pockets of Toun's being, she ran into a scrap of herself, roiling still.

The Jvanic scrap perpetually tore and ripped at the Toun around it in a reflected twin picture of the clay shard in Jvan's own self. The way it left its surroundings scarred and inflamed, the way it pulsated and bled. It all told of mutual torture, constantly burning and scarring since the beginning. It was pain, and yet…

It’s... Beautiful.

Toun's body continued to twitch and deform into the dislocations that his now audible sobbing was driving. His shoulders bulged upwards, his back sank, and his arms slacked into a pitiful bend. His core jerked with the tension of his sudden emotions. Any pretense of his superiority, disdain, and hatred was lost to outward grief. "I am so sorry." His grip on Jvan's psychic hand tightened, and all she could see was how far he’d come, now that his soul was finally reflected in the still-beautiful warps of his body.

"Toun."

The deformed porcelain god did not lift his head.

"Toun. Brother. This is something I’ve said to many mortals in my days- Friends- ...Enemies. And now I say it to you." Jvan’s half of the clasped hands held fast, and the fog swelled, billowed around Toun in a soft, obfuscating cloak. It was Toun's turn to feel the embrace of family. "Never regret. Never be sorry. Whether by Fate’s intruding hands or no, we all must grow into the flesh we’re given."

"I’ve never looked back on… Hurting you. And, maybe, that’s wrong. I mean… Maybe. But, more than that, I’ve never regretted the wounds I’ve gathered on the way. Not yours, not Vowzra’s light, not even… Phi. Our marks do not detract from what we are. I’ve been scarred, I’ve been bruised, I’ve been crushed, I’ve gone mad. That’s just the flow of Time. We grow up, Toun. And you are still Toun. Maybe not… The Toun that was meant to be. But nothing is ever as it’s meant to be. You are who you are. And you’re more than you were. Fight it, or accept it, but, in this moment- You are who you are."

Toun's torso regained a modicum of solidity, if only to tremble out groaning defiance. "How can you forgive me?" He quivered. "How can you possibly forgive me for dooming us both to an eternity of pain?"

"I-" The hand thinned, receding from Toun’s body, and back into a wisp around his wrists. "I never… Thought about it as something to forgive." Thinner still, until Jvan was as faint as a feather on his fingertips. "You know I don’t- I, ah- I don’t cry out… I guess. My pain is my own. You did what you chose to do. We both… Dealt with the consequences." Those consequences, she was quickly learning, that she had felt all too lightly in comparison with the one who brought them down. The knowledge began to churn heavily in her, a dull acceptance. Jvan absorbed as she grew, but Toun, it seemed, had chipped; And it was a wound she could not and would never repair.

"It…eats at me, sister. It grows." Toun turned his head level, allowing the thick red rivulet from his eye to begin dripping from the bottom of his chin and onto the blue disk below. Though his voice did not carry blame, Toun still retained his regret. "I cut it, I slash it, I shred it away. It still grows. It makes me create things. Wretched things. I build for purpose and it iterates and adds until the creation is something entirely flawed. I cannot stop it. Not unless I keep creating -- that is all that placates it. Creating flawed things that I try in vain to perfect." His lower eyelid lifted, pleading. "But...what I do to keep it contained, the cutting and burning and scraping away at every writhing detail that it sprouts forth at every moment. I know that is what my own flesh is doing to you."

Oh, no…

Toun drew both his wrists to his chest, pulling Jvan's presence close. He whispered to the feather-like coiling that held him. "And yet I go on. Through all that I have suffered, even now...I need you to know that it is not my pain that I regret most. It is yours."

The blue eye held its pained stare on the carmine fog long enough for his message to sink behind it. Only then did he ascend from his seated pose. His legs straightened to a stand and his arms lowered, his fingers finally relaxing their grip on Jvan's makeshift contact.

"I-...That shard will keep hurting you. And there is nothing I can do to stop it." Toun's raw fleshy eyelid slowly closed, letting another few drops of red ink fall. He began to turn to the incision in the wall, but the vaporous speaker whirled, strengthening, into his way. The spots of red were whipped away into the abyss as raindrops in a storm.

"...I wouldn’t have it any other way, you know," said Jvan.

The words had Toun stop and look at the manifestation.

Jvan knew that Toun had set his thoughts, and did no longer try to dissuade them. The time for that was now over. "Listen- If empathy is a foreign thing to me, then at least consider that pain might be, also. I’ve lost nothing of myself, so I suffer contentedly."

Toun turned his head down and flicked his eye to one side.

"You do not exist in vain, Toun," Jvan continued. "Perfection might be- A… Lie, in, ah, in my eyes. But to cut away- To purge- That’s worthy pain, Toun. I will always grow back stronger. I haven’t lost more than I’ve gained from you."

Toun was a statue. A long pause ran. His eye shifted to look at his lower right and left in turn.

At the end, Jvan felt the telepathic breeze once more. The breeze that sounded Toun's sigh. A fresh few red droplets left his chin after being forced out by his blinks. He raised his head to show his sad brow curling up in front of the fog. "That is the truth?" The mostly rhetorical question drew from hope. Quiet, cynical hope.

"Sure as stars."

Toun's torso pulsed with small, rhythmic movements that seemed to speed up. They only lasted as long as he didn't notice them

"You lie about one thing, sister. For claiming that empathy is foreign to you, you did not have to say such things." Toun never smiled. He did not keep the lips to do so. "And yet you did. You proved that I have underestimated you."

He hadn’t been the only one.

"...I, ah..." But there were no more words. Only a bittersweet willingness as the fog dissolved out of his way.

The red rivulet from Toun's eye curled and continued to flow with fresh red. He let out another breeze. "I only wish I could be as..."

He stopped that thought. His face relaxed back to a neutral expression.

He was curt. "I ought to allow you rest, sister." Toun resumed turning to the incision. "I would ask that you keep this conversation in confidence. For the safety of us both." He peered to an inconspicuous point in space. It shimmered with a fragile bubble that had had been containing their conversation from eavesdroppers for some time now.

"Agreed," said Jvan quickly. "Do not see it dispersed that I’m playing dead. I only need to wait so much longer." The brisk return to pragmatism faded as briskly as it came. "And... Maybe we can do better this time."

Down, up. Toun's nod was all the affirmation necessary and no more. He returned his look to the exit and began to float towards it. Abruptly, the shapeless red obscuration swept into opacity before him.

"Wait," said Jvan, a little hurriedly. "Would you like to take the faster way?"



Not more than a few minutes later, the slow, axial swivel of Ovaedis carried its gate nearly level with the glittering river of Lex’s meteoroids. With surprising soundlessness, the portal stretched, revealing a nest of layered apertures within the small opening it made. One by one, these barricades slid, warped and twisted away, and a tiny figure was ejected from its heart, skyless sunshine glinting from his robe as the forest flickered away below. Still red rivulets lined his face and robe like cracks.

With both creases and glossy reflections, the robe fluttered against Toun's body behind him in a mock illusion of atmospheric drag. He looked ahead to his trajectory and slowed to a leisurely stop to gaze down at Galbar. In all the turmoil of his encounter with Jvan, he found himself forgetting his next plan for a moment longer. It came back, along with the rest of the situation.

Teknall, brother, Toun sent down to his sibling by way of his previous promise. Jvan is recovering well. She will be in no danger from the recent past.

That would do. Teknall could speak with Jvan again if he needed any further details.

The pause in space gave Toun the opportunity, once again, to spot the great ark Mother Suprema from the corner of his eye. The colossal serpent rested above Lex just as gracefully as he remembered. It was close, by what he initially believed to be happenstance, until something looked back at him.

Whisper froze, contracted slightly, as if squinting, then shuffled down to a more distant part of the Ark.

"You have been waiting." Toun's calm voice quivered down to Whisper in spite of her escape. A few seconds gave the words the look of a question, which was stoically ignored for several more.

"Not for you. You and I will never meet again. Farewell." Whisper kicked off from the surface of the beast and flowed down towards the forest, noticeably faster than she needed to.

Even so, Toun could trace Whisper's movement just as easily as he could continue communicating over the distance between them. "That is not for you to decide, sculptor." Whisper's title was added with only the slightest emphasis. "Who are you waiting for? Your grandmother?" Toun scoffed. "If a serial liar I recently met is breaking her habits, I am convinced that your purpose would be better served by finding others to talk to in the meantime. That is your decision to make, Diaphane Whisper. Convincing yourself that you can escape is barely worthy of being called lie by its blatancy."

Diaphane Whisper blurred into a combat form, her gaze burning at the deity. Her voice never rose.

"Do not. Ever. Presume on my choices, Toun the Creator."

Toun quirked his head.

"My journey is my own. I’ve heard enough from you and your kind." She ascended, no longer fleeing, nor rising to the bait and closing in, only meeting Toun eye to eyes over the expanse of vacuum. "Leave."

Another time, Toun would have let the anger at Whisper's arrogance bubble through his visage. Another time, he might have cut her to pieces. Not this time.

Of course, Toun held no illusions as to her position. As much came across in his tone. "My kind? If you have heard enough from any kind, your journey has already ended." His head levelled and he turned his body to face Whisper directly. "I could predict just how much of my kind you have heard. By certainty, Jvan, my sister of burbling anxiety and poor manner. My brother, Teknall, who's intellect is unsurpassed, but his wisdom never his qualification. Myself, only as much as to treat you as one who decides to ask no questions...Perhaps you met Vestec?" He continued for no rationalisation to himself, not immediately. "Vestec is the one that would give you a different answer to the same question until there were no more different answers to give."

Pupils shrank into quivering dots in their sockets. Whisper did not break stance.

Toun raised a finger. "Or, Niciel? The one who's kindness is beyond the worth of all who feel it? She would sound to you what she believes would grant you health and comfort in equal measure. No?" Toun continued, sounding louder in Whisper's head, almost to the point of pain. "Lifprasil and the other children? The inheritors of dirt who lord over what you pick off like a carcass? They would have answers in as many droves as their worshippers." The venomous slavos beat Whisper down. "Indeed -- they are just of one planet. You could find Logos to give you a planned place in life, free of self-determination! What a comfort, no? Or you might perhaps entreat with Zephyrion, if you feel like being so wilful as to make demands of a god."

Toun defied relativity in how instantly he conjured himself in front of Whisper's nearest eye, crossing space like less than nothing. They stood a hair apart. She could see the now-stagnant red liquid lining from his eye and did not understand them. He growled words into her. "I say to you, sculptor. Never presume my kind."

For two moments, Toun restricted Whisper's ability to move and speak. He released her from the powerless state without so much as a blink. Her form whipped forwards in a gale of eyes and jaws to engulf him. She found herself engulfed by her own mind's eye in an instant.

"Let me see you, that I can confirm Chiral Phi's natterings."

The arrogant god was an echo in a rushing tunnel. Diaphane Whisper was sent through every single one of her memories, from hatching alone in the nitrogen sea, to the violence of her Jvanic indoctrination, to speaking with gods, to the present. The blue eye that she so desperately tried to devour flicked its blue bloodshot gaze over every moment of her existence until reality struck her again.

Rough ice and stone. Whisper curled against a meteor. She found herself being looked upon by Toun in exactly the same pose as he had before, if just beyond his arm's length. She found, not painlessly, that she could no longer move again.

"Would you believe, her deception is ever spiced with truth." Toun cooed, crossing his arms. "Now that I have seen you, Whisper, do you know why I have not destroyed you?"

It took some time for the entity to choose a response. Scared as she was by the forced reliving of a life already too bloody and promising nothing more, perhaps she preferred to answer with silence.

"...Because I’m a useful pawn of your sister and cannot be replaced."

Toun slowly shook his head. The bubble shimmered to divine eyes, containing his words to Whisper. "Wrong. I am no nihilistic, impotent worm." Toun's eye relaxed. "It is because we share a love for our siblings."

The words alone wilted Whisper, and their meaning seemed to drain her empty until only the sound of dark smudges still carried her voice. "And none for each other. Isn’t that the irony of all of us?" She meant the Diaphanes, but knew it applied beyond. "My worst regret is that our time together grows so short. Please. Do not sour what I have left."

"I have no intentions of putting any further ill taste to your mortal life." Toun's head tilted curiously. He wondered why he spoke with a gentle voice now. Perhaps he was amusing himself, he thought. "You speak of irony, though it should only be as such to myself. Sharing experience and love for others with loving families...That is your choice as well, Whisper. Choose wisely."

She said, "I will try." And the shadow at her heart spilled out into her body like black inkdrops shattering.

Whisper had not questioned the red stains on Toun's face and robe that were left over from Ovaedis. The fact that anything stained him was contrary to his entire appearance, even in the choking flora around them. And yet, her eyes were helplessly drawn to the red as it began to move. It flowed, as veins on skin turned inside out along Toun's surface, converging to his shoulder in forking streams and down his arm. The arm lazily rose to gesture in Whisper's direction. As the rear points of the flowing red sank behind the streams, a droplet formed at the end of Toun's sharp finger. The finger flicked at Whisper, sending the droplet across space and onto her body. Toun was clean again.

The quivering returned in Toun's voice, foreboding. "See that you do."

Before Whisper's many eyes, Toun's pose winked into the shape of an endless white pin that shot out towards Glint on the surface of Galbar and disappeared. Her body was released from its paralysis at a gradual pace, tricking her mind into wondering just how long she had been released for.

She knew something was spreading on her surface; She’d felt it. Whisper focused her gaze, and found a symbol on her pulsating form that would not shift with her. Quickly she learned that she could move it around her body, but it refused to morph. The muted smudges of lightlessness seemed to be repelled by it.

It had meaning. Whisper tried not to think about that overmuch, and to no effect. Toun was always clear. Though it brought her little peace, Whisper could not deny that the mark of his hand was a gift, of sorts. Nor could she ignore the significance of its form- The shape that meant, simply, ’Will’.

At last she stretched, dismissing the glyph from her mind and allowing herself to collapse back into blessed liquidity. There was no gravity to follow, so she selected a direction at random and drooped into it, puddling around noctus fronds without the strength to avoid them.

One of her own granddaughters found her there. One of Sprint’s, child of her firstborn. She floated wavily over to the Big Sister, too young to dissolve easily out of her core form.

"Hi, Whisper!" piped the little inklet, oblivious to the pain of her ancestor.

"Hello," she breathed, feeling as fragile as she had when she herself was fresh out of the egg, fresh and fragile in a world of crushing air and murder.

"You look really bad."

Whisper didn’t reply.

"Can you tell me a story?"

She curled up and held her granddaughter, solidifying only enough to grasp her firmly. Her hands were a bloodied sepia brown.

"Of course," said Diaphane Whisper.

A sudden jolt went through the essence of the female, jumping awake from her spot on the cold ground of gravel, the ground shifted with her movement. Shallow breaths overcame the female, she could not understand anything nor did she know anything. No memories to recall, no previous, knowledge, nothing to speak of. ‘Twas a strange predicament that she found herself in, thoughts surged through her head as she tried to recall something, anything.

A clap of thunder sounded, gaining the attention of the female as she attempted in vain to remember. Instinct kicked in and the being got to its feet, finding it a necessary to run along the gravel and away from the sound that only a storm could produced. She understood not how she knew a storm was coming. Nay, she understood not. The woman breathed deeply, letting her legs move her. A singular blink was all it took until she found herself in a different terrain altogether, a thick forest with a forest floor that seemed to be littered with leaves, such things were common in a forest.

A face of confusion came across the woman, as she looked back to see only more forest and not the gravel that she had been running on. How could such a thing occur? As far as she knew, that could not be possible and she barely knew anything. Deep howls - more or less growls but still frightening to her- sounded around her, fear grew inside the heart of the woman. She turned from where she heard the least growls and ran in that direction, letting her feet carry her once more. Pushing past trees, she ran and ran not stopping even when she began to tire. A turn to look behind her only worsened her fears as winged shadows ran after her. The shadows - while not truly shadows, only that way to her - had glowing red eyes, two horns on the either side of their head, and a serrated teeth. They bore a look of self-doubt, an odd feature.

Such predatory features were certainly frightening to one who knew nothing of the world, as well of one who even did know the world. However, the fear of the unknown was much greater than the fear of anything else as the imagination was an incredible thing. That fear of unknown is what drove the woman to run, best not leave it by chance and die some horrible death of cruel beasts. Indeed a strange thing to find that one would rather avoid the unknown rather than discover what the unknown bore and to see if it were peaceful. Imagination, both treacherous and true at the same time - it is a funny thing as well if one were to certainly think about it.

The woman came to a sudden stop, slipping on the leaves and skidding across the ground as she barrelled towards a cliff which may prove a fatal fall. She flipped to her chest and grabbed at the ground, attempting to slow herself before she became some sort of flat object against the ground. Her legs went over the edge, hitting the hard rock that made the cliff. The shadows continued only to run and she could see them getting closer by the second, she looked down and saw that it was a steep drop onto gravel.

Gravel, that substance she remembered from when she had awoken. Further back did she look to see an area she was familiar and some silhouette was running across the gravel. Confusion, spread across her face like a wildfire as she attempted to think before grunts and howls overtook her thoughts. The shadows seemed to be right on top of her, startling her enough to release her hold on the forest ground and allowed herself to plunge downwards through the air. Her eyes locked on the edge of the cliff seeing the shadows’ claws attempt to grab at her from the edge. Such a thing was not fated for them as she was well out of their reach now. The woman twisted her body to see the the wall of gravel approaching her at a scene in which she could not fathom. Bracing herself for an inevitable death, she closed her eyes and awaited.

Hard stones were not the objects to connect with the body of the woman however, it was something other yet still hard. The wind was knocked out of her before she felt her head become submerged. Submerged, that was not a word that would be expected to use in this circumstance. The eyes of she opened to find herself under water, struggling for a breath of the precious air that lie above the water’s surface. The question now, which way was up?

The woman shift in the water before swimming in the direction in which she thought was going to be the way to break the surface of the water. She was wrong, finding herself only going deeper and deeper as she struggled to turn in the water before her body truly ran out of air to use. Disparity ran through her, struggling faster and faster in that last ditch effort. Eventually, she broke the water and gasped for air, coughing up small amounts of water.

Luck was not on her side, however, thunder roared all around her and rain poured and seemed to try pushing her down. The waves did not help, only furthering to attempt to drown her. Though, a light shown in the distance, a light a brilliant white filled with holy ambition that compelled the woman to attempt to swim over to the light. With a sense of purpose renewed, the woman used what little strength she held to swim, wanting nothing than to end what seemed a nightmare. A form appeared behind the light, a barge of magnificent salvation moved towards her. To that she shouted in an attempt to flag the attention of whomever be on it.

A chain of blood and metal answered her call, impaling itself into her shoulder and dragging her onboard the barge. She let out a cry of pain, such as anyone would do in this situation and attempted to go back into the water. ‘Tis a lovely time when the very thing you attempt to escape becomes the one you wish to embrace once a worse fate is presented to you - not so strange if you think of the instinct of a living being, a being holding a will to live - forcing you to choose the lesser of the two evils. The chain continued to drag the bleeding figure of the woman onboard the barge tossing her onto the wooden planks.

The woman gazed up to see a large, round figure chortle before grabbing her legs and dragging her across the barge. The light illuminated the figure and she saw a fat, reptilian being with dark red scales. That color could be the blood of previous victims or rather it truly was the natural color, she was in no position ask nor did she want to. Finding it uncomfortable, the woman attempted to move into a more comfortable position which the being found as an attempt of escape. The lizard lifted the woman and slammed her into the boards of the ship, disorienting her.

She was dragged into a room adorned in blood and wicked machines, dimly lit at that, which held captives who screamed at the top of their lungs. It was not a pretty sight to say the least, but she refused to even open her mouth the great lizard. Being ruthlessly tossed into a cage, the woman had a chance to properly gaze at her surroundings after recovering from the disorientation. They were all reptilian in nature, all having blackened skin and an aura of depression around them. Recognizing them as the shadow beasts which haunted her, she gave a look of strange satisfaction to see her foes suffering. The lizard could be heard chortling at the screamers.

The machinations seemed to move independently; one slowly rotated a cylinder encased in spikes across a man’s legs, another seemed to be a metal coffin with red ooze flowing out of its cracks. There were many more, but the woman dared not look lest terror consume her entirely. More chortling was heard from the great lizard, earning a gaze in the direction of the beast. The ugly thing stood in front of the cage, examine the prize that it had fished out of the seas. It held a putrid breath, one of rotten meat and infection.

The woman looked away from the beast, intimidated by what was being presented to her. A large, meaty hand went through the bars of the cage and grasped the neck of the woman, pulling her towards the beast and reorienting her gaze. The two eyed each other for a moment; the beast having a sadistic look whilst the woman was one of terror. Desperately trying to avoid the gaze of the lizard, the woman rotated her eyes and noticed something at the lizard’s waste. A sword, not ornate in any fashion, just simply a sword. After a moment, the lizard released its grip and that was when she made her move.

With reflexes that only a child of a god could produce, the woman grabbed the handle of the sword and pulled it out of its sheathe. Another move lodged the sword inside of the lizard’s left eye, receiving a roar of pain from the beast as it clambered backwards and slammed into one of it’s own machine. With a kick, the door of the cage swung open, not having been locked by the trapper. The woman got to her legs and ran out of the cage, hearing large stomps as the lizard regained its composure and gave chase. The woman ran onto the deck of the barge, the wind and drops of water whipping her as she made her way to the bow of a ship.

“No run,” a voice of deep seated hatred rang from the other side of the ship, the lizard had caught up and it had a sword in one hand with a chain in the other. It was right, there was no where else to run unless she wanted to tempt fate and dive off the side of the ship. The woman looked at her body and found something strange, there was no sign of injury on her from the chain that had pierced her; no scar, no blood, nothing. However, that was not destined to stay as the chain which pierced her before had done so again, dragging the woman to the great beast.

Leaning back, the woman used her feet to stall her approach to the great beast and instead allow her the time to pull the chain from her leg. With a grunt of pain, the woman succeeded and the beast roared in annoyance before it charged her. With great agility the woman rolled to the side, dragging the lizard’s chain with her before she ran to the side of the beast and lodging the chain into the foot of it. She pushed and the lizard toppled over onto its fat stomach, suddenly it would find that a chain was wrapped around its neck. Gasping for breath the beast attempted to do anything it could to avoid death but to no avail as with one great pull the woman crushed its windpipe. Laughter followed the woman, she seemed to enjoy causing this suffering to the very thing who had dared trap her.

With the death of the beast, its body turned to a white light before a stream went straight into the chest of the woman. It burned - merely a feeling of burning as nothing outwardly was truly happening to her - as the stream pushed itself into her body. Memories came flooding her, horrible memories that only a sadist would enjoy, a sadist she was. A wicked smile came across the face of she. Now she understood, this was no reality and was truly only a dream of the mind that she possessed. She remembered what she had gone through as a person.

Doubling over, the woman felt her head swirl with thoughts, chanting one singular word, a word which she remembered that she hated. Choose. By her side to figures appeared, one was a woman with tabby wings and long red hair while the other was large and resembled the beast she had just killed. A blink of the eyes revealed the shadow beasts which she had previously run from. Her breath grew shallow once more, she couldn't choose.

”Choose” they all roared as she remained there on her ground, wanting her to choose between two opposing sides. One side preached an everlasting war to suppress the other in order to have peace for the world. The other want more blood, the promise of peace through destruction. The woman could no longer see, everything was black and only the sounds of savage pleas for her to choose were growing louder by the second. “What is my name? Who am I?,” the woman cried, she began forgetting once more. She closed her eyes in an attempt to stop the voices.

A jolt ran through the woman, forcing her eyes open to reveal a sight of gravel. She had no memory or recollection, what was her name?

A clap of thunder could be heard in the distance.

Teknall stood on the north-west shore of the Metatic Ocean, standing on ground which had been violently melted then re-solidified. To his left was the ocean, and far to his right was a glittering white forest of Acalya. Somewhere up ahead was a blinding white smear of light- the incandescence from Goliath's flamethrower in action.

Goliath had made good progress, but the Acalya was more stubborn than he had anticipated, and the Xerxian refugees were getting closer with every passing day. While Goliath was clearing the Acalya at the predicted rate, Teknall had noticed a few factors which made that rate inadequate. The spores carried a fair distance if the wind was favourable, and while the Sculptor and Urtelem guardians were able to uproot any spores which took root in small, individual plants, these few spores could still have a detrimental effect on passing creatures. Complicating matters was that the Acalya seemed to grow just as well underwater as it did in open air, and that had expanded the Acalya's reach to where Goliath's flamethrower struggled to cleanse it.

So Teknall needed to take action. Adamantine maul in hand, Teknall swelled in size as he allowed his divine radiance to manifest, and waded into the ocean. At that time Goliath stopped what it was doing and flew off, seeking out another forest to cleanse. Teknall kept wading, going deeper, the water soon coming up over his head. And he kept walking until he had reached the creeping edge of the Acalya's submarine advance.

There, Teknall raised his maul, then with a single forceful blow drove the tip into the seabed. From that blow the earth trembled and the ground cracked and fractured. Then it seemed that nothing more happened, although Teknall knew otherwise. Swiftly, Teknall withdrew the maul from the ground and walked out of the ocean. When he reached the shore, he did not stop, and continued heading inland.

About two minutes after Teknall had struck the ground, a second earthquake rumbled. Then there was an explosion.

Only now did Teknall stop and turn and watch. A colossal cloud of steam rose from the ocean where he had struck the ground. A second explosion rumbled, and more steam rose, this time mixed with flying chunks of pumice. A third explosion, then another, and the explosions fused together into a continuous roar. The water vapour, now mixed with a fine dust, formed a colossal black cloud, already bristling with lightning and ashen rain, which would have rivalled the storms of even the greatest djinn. A great wind driven by the updraft blew inland, against the crystalline forest.

The eruption continued to rumble, until a few minutes later lashings of a viscous red liquid coated in black burst above the surface of the water. The molten stone continued to spurt upwards and outwards, as though an artery of the earth had been severed. And the eruption continued to pour out a continuous supply of exploding lava. And this lava collected and cooled, slowly building up a mound of igneous stone, which eventually poked its way above the surface of the ocean. And the eruption continued unabated, continuing to climb.

Teknall had created a volcano, and this volcano would smother the Acalya forest in this region. The Acalya on the seabed would be smothered in lava and buried under hundreds of metres of solid rock, the volcanic fallout would provide another barrier to the Acalya's advance, and the new mountain would prevent the aerial spread of Acalya spores past it. Additionally, the foreboding volcanic storm should deter the Xerxian refugees from settling in this region, and in time the volcanic soil would provide fertile farming grounds for local civilisations.

It had been a fairly brutish solution. The creation of the volcano had created a small tidal wave (an outcome he had been careful to mitigate although not eliminate by minimising how much the earth had been suddenly shifted by the earthquakes), which might disrupt some nearby coastal villages, although not more severely than the annual monsoons. A volcano also lacked finesse. But on such short notice, with the refugees not far away, it had been the best solution available to him.

With that time-sensitive issue dealt with, Teknall disappeared.

---

Teknall wasn't simply teleporting away. He actually wanted to disappear, at least as far as the senses of the other gods were concerned. 'A third deity in white, with metal creatures all around. Watching you.' How could he have been so incautious as to allow someone to spy on him like that? It had been just as well that he hadn't said outright what he had intended to use the Orbs of Darkness for, or else Logos would have certainly killed him. But if he had been listening, then Logos would know that Teknall was seeking the Orbs of Darkness, and being the strategist he was Logos could probably decipher at least part of Teknall's purpose. Teknall had to assume the worst- that Logos knew he was seeking the Orbs of Darkness. Teknall's only advantage, he hoped, was that Logos didn't know where any of the Orbs were, while Teknall did. If Logos had managed to acquire that knowledge, then it would be better for him to abandon the project all together, but this risk had to be taken if Teknall was ever to be able to stand up to Logos.

So Teknall needed to be certain that he wasn't being followed. He needed to ensure that his divine trail could not be traced to his destination. So he devised a strategy. Teknall teleported into the Celestial Citadel, one of the first Holy Sites in the Universe. Many gods had travelled these halls, and it was thick with divine essence. When Teknall appeared, he exerted every effort to conceal his own divine essence, and to hide the trail he left. In the halls of the Celestial Citadel, this ultra-faint trail would be nigh impossible to detect against the divinity oozing from the walls.

Having spent barely a few seconds in the Celestial Citadel, he teleported away again, manifesting quietly next to the Cube in New Chronos. Invisible even to divine eyes, Teknall hid his trail and teleported again, going to the Hilt. Then the Oath of Stilldeath. Then Cornerstone.

He paused for a moment longer in Cornerstone. He had said he would visit, and while this was no time for sightseeing he could spare a second to observe. This landscape of flat porcelain tiles was populated by subjugated hain and strange automata of Tounic design. It reminded him of how the Celestial Citadel had been, mostly barren and sterile, much too large and grand for its few occupants, isolated from everything. Toun wasn't far off in saying that there wasn't much to see here. He could admire the architecture, and his creations, but that was about it. He disappeared again.

Deadwood Sepulchre. Wraith Stone (hey, Vestec seems to have made some changes around here). Valley of Peace. Pictaraika (it's interesting what Ilunabar did with the Darkened Spires. Perhaps I could learn something that will help). Ovaedis. That shattered cocoon of Slough's in the northern tundra forests blessed by Belruarc. To all these places of intense divine power Teknall went, and hid his divine trail as best as he could. All the while, he was also watching carefully, observing for the slightest hint of Logos' presence which could very well blow his cover. Finally, running out of Holy Sites, Teknall made one last step, but this time not to anywhere on Galbar, or even the Universe.

He entered his Workshop. In his private dimension, there was almost no way he could be followed. Even if Logos were to somehow follow his trail, it would be broken where he entered his Workshop, and even Logos shouldn't be able to follow him here. It might have been excessive to cover his tracks so thoroughly, but Teknall couldn't be too safe. What if Logos were able to enter his personal plane, given just the subtlest clues left behind when he teleported here? That could not be permitted, so Teknall had made sure to cover even his trail leading up to the Workshop.

As Teknall stood in the Workshop, he recalled the map of the Universe Phi had presented him. So vast, with its many galaxies, there were just 56 Orbs of Darkness drifting through it. Those Orbs may be stellar in scale, but compared to the Universe they were just specks. Without the map, finding them would have been nigh impossible. He picked one, then teleported one last time.

Teknall drifted in the void of space, far from Galbar or any other known object in the Universe. To one side was an infinite expanse of distant stars. To the other side was solid blackness, darker even than the unending night sky. The darkness eclipsed a circular patch of the starscape.

It was one of Julkofyr's Orbs of Darkness. The mark of Julkofyr's defiance against Logos and the Universe.

Deep space didn't give much sense of scale, but this Orb was massive. This particular Orb had a radius of one million kilometres, including its fuzzy shroud of oblivion. It was not the smallest, which were still bigger than planets, but it wasn't anywhere near the biggest, which could be trillions of kilometres across. The scale of the Orbs was truly cosmic, which meant even Teknall's godly Perception could observe only a tiny fraction of it at once.

Before coming here, Teknall had already run calculations from his imitation of the Universal Blueprint as to the physical properties of these Orbs. However, Jvan had revealed that Vowzra had tampered with these Orbs, converting them into one-way Gap portals, so Teknall would have to collect fresh data to determine their actual properties.

As a first test, he would simply throw an object into the Orb. Teknall pulled out his railgun, leveled his aim at the Orb (not that he could miss such a big target), and fired. The metal slug flew from the barrel and travelled in a straight line towards the darkness ahead.

The bullet entered the outer fringes of the Orb's field of influence, which extended beyond the shadows. As per the design in the Codex of Creation, the Orb's field of influence negated physics, which would in turn erase matter and energy from existence. But not every physical law was equally strong, and the field of influence was not uniformly potent. Travelling through the fringes of the Orb's field involved travelling through several layers with differing degrees of physics negation, all of which Teknall had calculated earlier.

The first fundamental force to disappear was gravity. Gravity, particle for particle, was the weakest of Logos' four fundamental forces, and as such the easiest to erase. Out here in deep space the effect of this was negligible, with less than a femtoNewton of force between Teknall and the bullet, the only two objects nearby. But it was this effect that would be the most useful to Teknall, if he could harness it.

The next fundamental force to disappear was the so-called weak nuclear force, which was the next-weakest. This was the force which governed nuclear interactions and transformations. The bullet, being made of monoisotopic adamantine, had no nuclear reactions for Teknall to observe, but he would send a more appropriate probe later. While the weak force was important to the Universe as a whole- without it Ull'Yang's stars would not be able to perform nuclear fusion- its localised absence was not of great importance.

The next part of the Codex to wane in the bullet's flight was not one of Logos' laws, but that of magic. While Logos may have intended otherwise, his Laws were on equal footing with those written by everyone else as far as the Codex was concerned. And this meant that magic was not immune to the effects of the Orbs of Darkness, an effect which started at the fringes of the field's shadows.

The submaterium, of Mammon's design, was most visibly effected, but not uniformly. The submaterium consisted of innumerable connections between all objects, and those connections were of varying strengths. Deeper into the field, those connections were progressively severed from weakest to strongest. Teknall presently lacked the instrumentation to properly observe that phenomenon, but that was what was predicted.

Just as the weakest submaterium links were cut, Belruarc's magic began to fade also. Belruarc's system of magic was made to imprint patterns upon the Universe, manipulating matter, energy and reality to the user's design. However, while it excelled in versatility, flexibility and control, it lacked the visceral force of Mammon's or Astarte's magics. As such, Belruarc's magic was the first to be erased completely by the Orb's field on influence. Again, the bullet was not a suitable probe for this effect, so Teknall would need another test to confirm it.

Around here the third of Logos' fundamental forces was majorly affected- electromagnetism. As Julkofyr's domain was shadows, the effect had started a fair bit further out, at the shadows. The outer fringes of the Orb attenuated electromagnetic fields, which caused light to fade, leaving behind darkness. But here the effect became stronger. Light was blocked completely, such that only Teknall's Perception could see the bullet. Eddy currents and their resultant magnetic fields which were in the bullet, a byproduct of the electromagnetic propulsion of the railgun, were similarly quenched. A little further and the Coulombic forces holding the atoms together in the metal would fail, destroying solids and molecules. That would soon be followed by the complete destruction of charge, which would cause electrons and nuclei to dissociate.

But that destruction never came. Before the bullet could reach the point where it would fall apart into its constituent atoms, it faded from existence.

This was not according to Teknall's calculations, but it was not a surprise either. He had been told that the Orbs had been turned into Gap portals, feeding the Gap with matter. This function would be useless if the matter was destroyed beforehand, so it made sense for Vowzra to pick the cross-over point where it was.

With a crude initial measurement taken, Teknall now needed to obtain some more specific data. While the broad features of the Orb appeared the same, up to the Gap portal, Vowzra's tampering had likely interfered with many of the finer details, and these finer details would be important.

So Teknall disappeared into his Workshop and returned about an hour later, having constructed a small assortment of probes and measuring devices. Folding out from a pinprick of space beside Teknall was the Shard Conduit, his portable connection with the Stellar Engine.

To measure gravity, Teknall had constructed a large rectangular slab of solid osmium, weighing half a million tonnes, with a very sensitive gravimeter attached to one face.

To measure magic, Teknall had assembled a magical device of many components. This magical device didn't perform any notable function, but its many components operated using differing magics, so their individual weakening and failure would be used to indicate the effects the Orb had on magic.

To measure the weak nuclear force, Teknall had collected a series of radioactive metal ingots, each undergoing a different kind of radioactive decay.

To measure the effects on electric fields, Teknall had brought two connected metal orbs, which could have the electrons brought from one to the other by an applied voltage, then the orbs separated to provide two charged objects.

To measure the effects on magnetic fields, Teknall had brought a permanent magnet.

All these probes Teknall activated one by one and threw into the Orb, carefully observing and measuring the effects the Orb had on them at various depths until, ultimately, the probes were lost to the Gap. The gradual weakening and final failure of each one of these probes gave Teknall valuable data on the nature of the Orb.

Teknall also needed to measure the effect the Orb had on light, of all wavelengths. Teknall sent the Shard Conduit around the Orb, until it was partially eclipsed by the Orb's shadowy field. There the Conduit opened up, faced towards Teknall, and fired an intense laser beam, with the power of the Stellar Engine behind it. This laser beam started right down in the radio frequencies, with wavelengths measurable in metres, then slowly worked its way up through microwaves, infrared, visible light, ultraviolet, x-rays and finally gamma radiation. As it scanned the electromagnetic spectrum, it also swept the beam through different depths of the Orb's field of influence. Teknall observed and measured the intensity of the laser beam after it exited the Orb. With this information Teknall was able to construct a spatially-dependent absorption spectrum for the Orb's field of influence, which added to his data and understanding.

Teknall had one last probe, and this one was the most peculiar of them all. The Orb was a Gap portal of sorts, which meant it must somehow interact with the Gap. This interaction was the most mysterious to Teknall, but also likely to have a strong effect on the nature of the Orb. As such, he needed to measure it. But conventional measuring techniques, or even his divine Perception, could not probe the Gap, and Teknall dared not enter the Gap to observe it directly. But, as had been demonstrated by Jvan, there were ways to send messages across that dimensional barrier.

This probe was a simplistic reverse-engineering of Ovaedis and the Sculptor telepathy network. It was a machine which could send messages across the Gap to a receiver, which Teknall had also built. The probe bristled with sensors, and it would process that information and send it to the receiver to be read by Teknall. All he had to do was send it to the Gap.

So Teknall threw the probe towards the Orb, where it was swallowed by the darkness.

For a few tense moments, the receiver displayed nothing but noise. Then an image resolved itself amongst the static. There were no words to describe it. The probe's cameras were trying to project the non-Euclidian geometry of the Gap onto a two-dimensional plane, and the result was an ever-shifting tangled bundle of stuff, imaged in grainy greyscale. But even this ghost of a shadow caused Teknall's mind to ache slightly. Superimposed onto the edge of the image were the numerical readings from the other sensors. Many of the sensors gave only errors, some gave meaningless and chaotic values, but a few gave some useful readings.

Despite the strangeness of the video feed, Teknall could identify that the probe was spinning. Soon the probe had turned such that its cameras were facing backwards, to where it came from. The Orb was unmistakable, somehow retaining its spherical shape even in the twisted geometry of the Gap. But it was not dark. Instead, it shone, appearing to reflect whatever passed as light in the Gap. It reminded Teknall of his Mirror Armour, a force which repelled so strongly it deflected light.

The probe turned further, and some objects came into the field of view. He recognised them as the other probes which had gone before this one.

Then the probe turned a little further, and a less familiar object entered the field of view.

Instantly Teknall's mind was racked with pain. It was exactly like the pain he had experienced when Logos had given him a glimpse of the Other-beast he had fought. And this image on the receiver, while far from direct, was much clearer than what Logos had shown him. Yet even with the being in view, it was still unfathomable. Even the screen could not properly display even a projection of it, the image distorting, darkening, obscured by static. There was a glimpse of something which might have been a tentacle, something resembling an eye, something reminiscent of a claw or fang, but nothing stayed the same for more than an instant.

And it was getting closer.

The Other seemed to have sensed the probe, and its soulless stare somehow seemed to meet Teknall's gaze through the receiver, and Teknall was paralyzed. The numbers on the side of the image twisted into horrific symbols. The pain raged like fire in Teknall's mind, with an eldritch pressure that would have slaughtered a mortal a million times over.

And it kept getting closer.

The image on the receiver was meant to be just pixels on a screen, a reproduction of a digital signal with ordinary photons, yet somehow the Other seemed to be getting realer by the second. It gained depth despite the flat screen, which only served to make its image even more maddening. It was getting closer to the probe. Closer. It reached out towards the probe, towards Teknall, towards the Universe.

With a scream Teknall clenched his eyes shut and brought his hands together, crushing the receiver into oblivion. And in that position Teknall stayed, his breathing short and quick, his eyes shut, his hands clenched, his body trembling, and his hain-teeth chattering.

How long it was until he opened his eyes again, Teknall wasn't sure. The trembling had subsided, although his teeth still chattered. He looked down at his hands and slowly opened them. From out between them drifted twisted metal, shattered glass and broken electronics, with no trace of that Other-beast. Yet that eldritch image was seared into Teknall's mind, haunting him still. His every rational faculty told him that the Other-beast was still safely contained in the Gap, but the primal fear induced by that otherworldly being was still strong in Teknall.

Teknall did what he could to calm down. He made an effort to breath deeply, and he occupied his mind with the data he had collected. He collated the numbers, compared them against models, adjusted for abberations and non-idealities, and developed his numerical verdict. That seemed to work. Teknall soon resumed regular breathing, regained control over his jaw, and had managed to push the eldritch vision into some dark corner of his mind.

Then Teknall left, doing what he could to cover his tracks as he did so. And the Orb of Darkness drifted through the void alone once more.

"Restless wings earn no blessings," an old adage said, "for strength must be earned, and sloth spurned."

So it was that Pasach's tribe encouraged his wandering about the great island that was their home, and naturally the youth enjoyed that freedom. Wings were a blessing that he could scarce imagine so much as existing without; though his people were settled and did not need to wander from island to island like some nomads, to traverse even their own island required flight more oft that not. The land was wild and rugged, with towering spires and sheer slopes everywhere to be seen. Those were the scars that the land bore, memories of ancient cataclysms when the chunk of stone that would become their island has splintered off from a larger chunk, or from where it had collided with other islands. So the myths of creation said.

Ah, but let us not stray far from the topic of wings: their majesty and their greatness were as shining diamonds where all other things were akin muddy riverstones. Nothing could compare, even the awesome creation of Caelum, the forging of their entire world, was surely but a trivial thing compared to what it must have been to design something so majestic as wings.

As he perched upon the precipice at the island's end and contemplated such wonders, Pasach looked downwards. It was a sight that inspired both beauty and terror: countless other islands above and below and parallel, most tiny chunks of rock but some massive, all hurting through the vast sea of nothingness. Though a dozen layers of clouds obscured the oblivion that was the fall straight down, it was known that the bottom of the world was a spherical core covered by a great and turbulent ocean. Horrific monsters dwelt in those waters and in those tempestuous parts just above, so Caelites of all tribes feared the alien world below.



There he remained upon the precipice, at peace and yet restless at the same time, for merely being in the proximity of that sheer fall was enough to deny him the pleasure of ever fully letting his guard down. He looked outwards, and witnessed a few nearby islands within sight, though they were of course little more than barren rocks. He yearned so desperately to reach out and touch them...

Yet it was dangerous to leave the island, and foolish in a way to risk one's life over something as frivolous as exploring some nearby rock. The islands themselves were adrift and as one wandered away from their masses, strong winds could blow you away and returning into the struggle of your life. Indeed, the Great Sea of nothingness was so treacherous and unpredictable that travel was done only along a few very well known routes, each one along one of the ninety-seven blessed winds. When those winds were weak or the islands were not in position, safe travel was nigh impossible and so the Caelite tribes all stayed isolated upon their own islands. Only the strongest of Caelites could undergo the training and conditioning needed to navigate the empty skies and endure long enough to travel without a blessed wind, and young Pasach was certainly not one of those.

Yet the temptation to wander off was still so great! The island was right there, a proverbial stone throw's away from where he sat, and with the ninety and seven winds so weak surely he would be fine.

He was overcome with brashness, that strange combination of bravery and foolishness. Without another thought, he leaped from the cliff and began plummeting downwards. There was panic for a split second, but then he found his wings and was in control. He made his way to the island easily enough and landed upon it laughing.

From his newfound vantage point there was even more to see; he stayed for some time as his eyes soaked up their fill, but then he at last stood and made ready to go back. It was only then, of course, that a sudden flurry came to life from the still air. Quickly it turned into a treacherous, staggering gale, so much so that Pasach's rock was sent into a tumble. Unable to keep purchase on the wildly spinning thing, he tried with all his might to fly back towards his own island. It was futile, of course. With each passing moment came another exhausted breath of his, and his home slowly faded into the distance.

For hours he fought, adrenaline fueling his agonized and exhausted wings, but now he was lost in the sky with nothing in sight. Desperation finally gave way to despair, and he began to fall. Down, and down, and yet further down he descended, trying to stay aloft with feeble flaps of his wings. The outline of something expansive came into sight, and then there was a crash, and then there was darkness.

---

His eyes opened again, yet his vision was blurred. Or was it that the entire world was distorted rather than some haze covering his eyes? He tried to sit up, and then he felt it: pain, a sharp, glowering sort: agony. It throbbed through every part of his being, but it originated from one leg. Memories of his fall came back and without even looking he knew that his leg had been shattered by the fall. But he was alive. Or was this some sort of strange limbo that he suffered in death?

Pasach let out an agonized groan and made a torturous attempt at rolling over. He felt pain of a different sort as his bleeding wrists chafed against something cold, and soon enough he realized that was shackled to the ground. At once and without thinking, he wailed with more despair than he thought possible, and then he heard the scrape of footsteps upon the stone floor. If his mind was capable of logic or rational thought he might become terrified that his captor now knew that he was awake, but as it was he only had a base sense of...pleasure? Just having heard those footsteps helped alleviate his sensory deprivation and return sanity. To wallow in the darkness and observe nothing but his own pain was already maddening, and it had only been mere minutes.

The footsteps grew louder until Pasach heard the sound of a door opening, and then a blinding flood of light poured through that portal and into his cell. His eyes burned as if on fire and he closed them for a few moments, and then when he opened them once more he could suffer the pain long enough to witness what was before him.

It was merely a jailer carrying a small torch, the flame's meager light enough to blind him. In a strange accent so thick that he could hardly discern the words, that jailer called for assistance. Two others came in, and then they began to remove his shackles and carry him out of the dark cell and through a labyrinth of passages. Why they had chained him was beyond Pasach's imagination, and why had he been in some dungeon to begin with. He tried to ask but little more than a croak came out of his parched throat.

At last they left the tunnels behind and emerged onto the surface of some island. With more light he was able to squint and catch glimpses of all those around him. They were of smaller stature and had dark plumage; he knew then that this was a tribe of ravens. Their ilk was reviled, for it was said that they gorged upon the flesh of other Caelites and performed dark sorcery.

It was before one fearsome raven that he was brought and then set down. From his ceremonial robes Pasach guessed that this was one such sorcerer. He was not far from the truth, for that was indeed the high priest. He was the absolute leader of the cult of ravens that made inhabited this island, and the air of authority about him said as much.



"Summon all our brothers and sisters," the priest croaked after a pregnant pause, "for this ritual can wait no longer."

One by one they came, falling likes shadows from the air down into their places. They formed a great circle around the priest and a stone altar, with Pasach having been set down at the altar's foot. The circle was in utter silence as more and more arrived, though some attendants lit braziers nearby and began to draw strange symbols on the ground with pieces of chalky stone or paints of crushed dye.

"What is this? Where am I?" he demanded after mustering the courage.

The horde of ravens offered many different faces as reaction: many seemed angered or irritated that he had so much as opened his mouth, whilst others had mocking sneers or laughing smiles or eyes of sadistic glee. Only the odd one or two showed remorse or sympathy. A dark feeling set in on Pasach after just a moment of absorbing all those looks, but then the priest addressed him. "The sacred winds have stopped and storms curse our island, yet one gale delivered you unto our temple grounds. There is no question: mighty Xos has sent you here to be our sacrifice, and so it shall be," the priest decreed. "With your death the winds and Xos' favor may return, the curse lift, and our tribe know salvation."

There was a roar of approval and then Pasach was unceremoniously lifted. They hefted, almost threw him onto the stone altar, and then began their ritual. Pasach was broken and defeated. He had not the strength to fight nor any words that could convince the zealots to spare him, so he could only wait. The ravens chanted and sang in prayer. They danced in circles and threw strange herbs and other small offerings into the braziers.

Pasach waited in paralysis for the priest to come with some knife or club to end his misery and dedicate his soul to Xos, but that did not happen. Rather, the priest had wandered away from the altar some distance to talk to some youth, a fledgling girl. Pasach spent those moments staring, wondering what those two were speaking of. The priest was weeping as he embraced her. The mystery intrigued Pasach's mind such that it somehow distracted him from his pain and his impending doom. In watching that and trying to make sense of it, he found peace.

At last, as the ritual neared and the priest returned towards the altar to finally perform the sacrifice, there was a great gale of wind. The ravens were sent staggering and the sacred flames within the braziers extinguished in one blink of an eye. Then, there was a tignled in the air, and above the circle there manifested a great figure. That being stood suspended in air, far greater in stature and both power than any Caelite who had ever lived.

Silence reigned as the entire tribe looked on with stilled breaths. After a long and tense pause, Xos descended. His feet landed upon the ground so gently and so perfectly that there was not even a sound, much less a stir in the air.

Pasach could not see much of the Lord of the Winds and all Caelum, for he stood between the altar and the priest, his back turned to Pasach as he faced the priest. The priest fell down upon his knees in terrified reverence, and the entire tribe followed suit. With a sound almost like a scoff, Xos turned to look at the altar.



With gaping eyes Pasach tried to behold the being before him, and yet he somehow felt as though his senses failed him as he was assaulted by a hundred contradictory things. Xos was both a terrifyingly huge figure that loomed over them all, and yet something about him seemed like a mockery of life, it was if he was a shell of a being. His robes seemed empty and puffed, as if there was nothing within, and yet Pasach could sense that whatever form was within could hardly have its power contained; indeed, Xos had a metal mask, high boots of gleaming gold, and a flowing robe of what seemed like pure darkness save a few ornamental plates and lines that served to define his shape. No part of his being was visible, and yet his presence was suffocating. There were no hands that could be seen in the sleeves of his robe, and yet he held them all by their throats in a deathly tight grip.

There was no doubt that he was a god, and he was furious. Beyond palpable, his anger was almost visible in the air itself, for it seemed to throb with barely contained rage.

"I answer your summons," an inhuman voice reverberated, from the air itself as much as from the Great One himself, "and yet I see no fitting sacrifice!"

The priest tried to speak but only stammered, his feeble attempts further enraging Xos. At last, he managed, "There...upon the altar...he was sent to us by the storm! We thought it your intent-"

"You knew well my intent and my will: it is the eldest of the fledgling girls that is to be sacrificed. Your daughter. And yet in your greed, in your naivety, in your delusions, you try to justify offering me something less. This insult will not stand! You and your tribe will pay dearly for this!"

A collective wail of terror came out from the ravens, but Xos spoke over it, "I am the Storms and the benevolent Sacred Winds, the one that guides the islands that you cling to, the Lord of Caelites. I am Caelum! So look unto me, those of you that would repent for your egregious offense."

Xos' sleeves raised up, and for a brief moment Pasach thought that he saw incorporeal hands of light reach towards the god's helmet. Some instinct seized control and he shielded his eyes and rolled to face away. Not even a moment later Xos lifted his helmet, and there was a blinding flash. All the ravens shrieked and clawed at their faces, gouging out their own eyes as if they had seen something indescribably horrible. Though he dared not turn back, Pasach could sense that Xos was utterly still for a few long moments, as if reveling in the torture that he had inflicted upon them. A few moments later the was a slash of wind that beheaded the entire tribe of ravens simultaneously, in one sickening slice. Only Pasach was spared. He felt Xos' gaze upon his back. That withering stare burnt holes thorugh his, but with all his might he shielded his eyes and continued to look away.

"Hmmph."

Xos effortlessly manipulated the air itself. He lifted Pasach from the altar, spun him around, and whipped his arms down so that his hands could no longer shield his eyes. Pasach stubbornly forced his eyelids to remain shut as tightly as he could, but he could sense Xos' anger. With great reluctance he chose to risk opening his eyes once more and gazing upon the god, for he feared the alternative even more.

Xos' helmet was back on, and he looked just as he had upon arriving, before he had grown so wrathful...

The Great Being spoke, "So I have utterly destroyed your tormentors and captors; the memories of them are nothing but dust upon the wind. I have no doubt that this brings great consolation and pleasure to you."

Xos released his choking grip on Pasach and returned him to the ground. From his sitting position (for his shattered leg still lacked the strength to stand) the Caelite lowered himself even more. "I offer you my eternal loyalty and worship, O Great and powerful Lord!"

"Recognizing one's innate inferiority call hardly be called 'worship', and it earns nothing but my scorn. It is easy, nay, it is nothing to praise my name. That alone will earn you a fate little better than what befell these vermin around you. No, it is only through sacrifice that gratitude can truly be shown, and my favor earned. So you claim to worship me, young one? What tribute do you offer?"

"I...I do not know what I have to give..."

Xos did not respond, but his anger began to rise. Desperately Pasach tried to think of something, but it was too hard. His body was exhausted and broken, and the pain had sapped his spirit. He remained there upon the ground, choking on his own silence until Xos could stand it no longer.

"I bring you utter salvation, and yet you offer me nothing? Not even the bodies of those that lie dead before you, nor your own blood, nor even a promise of future tribute? You disgust me!"

He lifted Pasach with and with one small tug he tore the Caelite's wings from his body. The pain transcended that of his fall or his broken legs or his shackles or even his tragic fate, for losing one's ingswas unimaginable to a Caelite. It was the most sickening and horrific form of torture known, for it brought pain beyond imagination to both one's body and one's soul. But of course, Xos had intended to inflict nothing less. With another disappointed scoff, he cast Pasach's broken body off the side of the island.

Still living, Pasach felt the god's burning gaze upon him for a few moments as he fell once more. And then the gaze was gone, for Xos had disappeared from the edge of that island as suddenly as he had appeared.

It had grown over time before the gate. It was a plant, humanoid in shape and green - its wood and bark could scarcely be distinguished from its leaves and flowers. And it stood before the gate.
From what seed it had emerged, none could tell. But it was well known that the gate had, in times before, had a guardian. In many ways, guardian and gate were inseparable. Where there was the gate, so too was its guardian, and where there was the guardian, so too was his gate. And though the guardian had been obliterated, the gate remained. And though he was dead, thus was his return.



He had not returned overnight but over years. For long none ventured through the gate and none ventured out, and even the creatures of the great northern forests did not so much as venture nigh. The guardian-soul, tied ever to its gate, found fertile ground in a piece of broken and pierced - yet still living - bark. And with nourishment from the weathers and the earth, and with spiritual nourishment from the guardian's soul itself, the shell of bark grew roots and shoots. And kindly Galbar cherished and unceasing time nourished and in the shade of Old Bark-Skin it flourished.

But despite the life which pulsed within the restored Guardian, all around it decayed. The earth hardened and the trees became gnarled and lifeless, and no creature passed by except that it was dead. The north had, long ago, been cold but alive. Now all things died, and only the Guardian Restored remained: it was the bastion of the living, the Guardian of Life. It was not with pride or gladness that it realised this, for the death of life had never been its master's goal. But was it not fitting that life should wane - even a little - when time expired and died? A low moan left the Guardian's lipless, head-like growth, and it reverberated through the forests and icy plains, and here or there an undead man paused in his work to listen to the cry of primal dejection and gloom.

'Ain't that quite fittin' background music for our hidey hole Mister Oradithooliz?' Bjorn chirped as he walked in on Oradin-Thulemiz's makeshift base. It had once been a deep cave inhabited by a few bears, but since the coming of the Necromancer the walls had been sanded down, along with a path, and one could walk more or less upright inside. While the entrance was as inconspicuous as it had always been (other than the terrifying numnber of undead who seemed to have made the area around its entrance a home), everything else was not so. When one walked in, it appeared to be any cave. But if one pressed onward, the cave's walls soon gave way to clear signs of rovaick and hain alterations.

After some five minutes of darkness, the winding path gave way to a great chamber. On entering, the first thing one saw was the great throne carved into the far wall and sinking deep into it. In the wall, creating a great crack, were carved some five-hundred steps which led up to a great stone throne buried deep in the dark crack (but what was darkness to the eyes of the Necromancer's undead?) Near the ground to either side of the crack, a ledge was carved into the wall all the way around. It was clear from the many body parts and gore layered all the way around on this ledge, and the blood that seeped even onto the ground from it, that this was the Necromancer's workroom.

And as Bjorn walked in, it so happened that the Necromancer was at work. The undead's words had barely left his mouth before a horrific screech resounded through the chamber and a massive creature leapt upon him, taking him up in its massive jaws and tearing his torso and lower body apart with its disasterous claws. Before it could do any truly permanent damage to the undead man, it was restrained by a large hand of Necromantic energy. Bjorn's lower body was caught by those same energies and put back together, and the strange, inherent healing magic within the Necromancer - though healing magic was not truly the correct term - mixed with his deathly powers to restore Bjorn to his unmutilated form.

'Unless you wish to be torn asunder, Bjorn, you will not enter until commanded,' the Necromancer's cold voice sounded. Bjorn nodded vigorously in understanding.
'Yes Mister Oradithooliz sir!' his eyes turned to the massive thing that had attacked him, now hanging up in the air just above the Necromancer's head, writhing and growling, thirsting to be released.
It was a Pack-Mind. Or at least, what may have once been a Pack-Mind. Compared to the monstrosity that now writhed above them, the Pack-Mind form was suddenly a testament to all things alive and beautiful. This creature-
'I will call it a Deadwolf,' the Necromancer suddenly said as he brought it down and once more dug into it-
this Deadwolf was huge and had a far more brutish and larger form than living Pack-Minds. Its muscles were bloated and swollen and its arms unnaturally long, with lethally sharp claws of bone at the end of each of eahc of its massive 'hands'. Fur covered some areas of its body, and in others the muscle and bone was revealed. Its fangs were brutishly large and vicious, and its head seemed to be so heavy - and its shoulders and torso so large and bloated - as to cause its neck to lean forward permanently. It was really quite ug-



'Quite ugly, is it not. Yet far more beautiful than those living ones. Far from ideal, but it will do for the time being. It needs some fine-tuning however. A bit too unruly and difficult to control at the moment - that blasted mental link has proven extraordinarily difficult to over-ride and is causing it to react with extreme hostility to my commands. 'Tis merely a matter of time, however,' Bjorn nodded slowly and allowed his eyes to wander elsewhere around the workshop-throne room. There were strange creatures of all shapes and sizes lying on the ledge-table - along with the many limbs and other unsavoury organs and bits. Some were moving, though clearly restrained by the Necromancer's energies, and others were utterly still. Various horrific tools hung on the walls or lay here or there on table or floor. It was all quite messy and...well, primitive.

'Mister Oradithooliz. You have all these smart slaves - rovaick and hain and humans who have knowledge and are your willi...uh, unwilling minions. All you've done is have them sand down a cave and dig out this chamber for you. Why don't you build something grander, something...more worthy of your status. You know, to let the world know how great you are. And so that you have a better place to experiment and stuff!'
The Necromancer paused, one of his arms buried deep in the Deadwolf's torso, and considered Bjorn's suggestion.
'A...tomb. Yes. A citadel. Purgatos Sepulcha,' he stepped back from the creature and seemed for a long time lost in thought. At last, he turned to Bjorn and brought him near with a Necromantic summons. The undead walked forth at speed and the Necromancer leaned in and inspected his head.
'You've quite a good head on you, Bjorn. I think I will preserve it for you when your turn comes,' the undead gulped and smiled uneasily.
'Th-thank you Mister Oradithooliz,' indeed, the Necromancer had seen it fit to ensure that Bjorn as a whole remained for the most part unchanged. Whereas other undead quickly decayed, Bjorn's body had over time grown only stronger; his muscles did not decay but grew, his skin did not rot but whitened and hardened, his hair (once ruddy brown) grew jet black. He could no longer be rightfully called a zombie - but he was by no means a lich or a vampire. The Necromancer had from time to time injected his trusty sidekick with Necromantic energies or changed him in some way, but Bjorn had not yet undergone any major experimentations. When Bjorn had asked the Necromancer as to why, he gave an almost emotional response.
'We don't want to break you now, do we?'

With Bjorn close behind him, the Necromancer made his way out of the cave and into the semi-darkness of the the forest. Before the cave mouth the undead were amassed, prepared to receive the Necromancer's command. He called forth a few former-craftshain and tedar and bid them prepare the design for his tomb-citadel. It was expected to be underground for the most part: he expected a major expansion of the current cave into a multi-level, ant nest-like tomb. The first level was to be where the great majority of the undead would stay - for it was becoming increasingly more difficult to hide the fact that the undead were migrating en masse to the north. The second level was to hold the Necromancer's new throne room. And he demanded that its walls be carved with shelves from top to bottom. He did not know why, but a part of him felt it was of utmost importance - even though he had never seen a book other than on that occasion where he visited the dormant goddess, and even though he could not read.
The final level was to be his new workshop. He wanted it round and with a ledge similar to the one in the present throne room. But he wanted more rooms on that level leading from the main workroom where he could focus on independent projects and keep different experiments separated from each other. Once the underground part was completed, he would have them change the appearance of the entrance also.
The cave entrance would be covered and a small, perfectly round hillock would be erected above it. It would have a perfectly flat and equally round top. A series of stairs would lead up the hill to a large entrance. The entrance would lead down a hallway which would end with downward stairs leading to the now-covered entrance of the cave and the snaking hallway beyond (which would also be enlarged) to the first level. The hillock would be of solid black granite. Unless one travelled through the forest itself, and came upon the hillock, it would be completely undetectable by normal means - for the forest would prevent anyone seeing it from above the treeline, and this exact location was near enough impossible to find - not that anyone ever came searching for anything in the north anyway.

With his silent commands given, the undead architects began working on their designs. The undead had a cutting efficiency, Bjorn had to admit, for it was not more than a few days before the little skeletal goblins were running all over the place like little ants digging and hauling as commanded, and ogres were making their way down into the main chamber to begin the lengthy excavation and expansion of the Necromancer's citadel-tomb. It was silent work, and the eerie moans of the Guardian Restored did not bother them, or affect their committment, or give them reason for pause. Revere the working dead!

But its moans did not go ignored overlong: the mighty of Chronos did not so soon forget their own, and it was not with ambivalence that they responded to the pulsing of a kinred Vowzrid soul beyond the gate. Old Mora, sat upon his rock, shifted slightly and called a Battle Brother of the Hallowed Hundred to him. It was Battle Brother Juras, twentieth in rank.



'You summoned me, Battle Brother Morarom,' he stated.
'Yes, Battle Brother Juras. I heard a cry beyond the gate which spoke of loneliness and pain. I send you forth to look into the matter and return to me with news. I am given also a prophecy that you must deliver. It is from Our Master the Bard, and it is:



Deliver it. And once that is done, go also to a farther place and find the one that you must find and chase the dust jailing their mind: for Fate comes even for the heedless blind.'

And after a brief discussion with old Mora regarding the finer details of his venture beyond the gate, the Victors were gathered - and they were joined by many of the inhabitants of New Chronos - and they all marched solemnly towards the location of the portal. It was a huge cuboid slab standing like a small tower before them. It was perfectly straight and perfectly white, though the side now facing Juras was far broader than the other sides. The chosen Battle Brother stood still and silent before the portal. The unforgiving stone wavered before him, and the Vowzrid Mark on his white back seemed to shimmer as he walked through, and the ant in his mark seemed to move ever so slightly as he disappeared completely from the safety of Vowzra's paradise.

He emerged from the broken mockery that was now the portal leading from Galbar to New Chronos. He did not feel the cold, for he was near enough immune to it. He did not look around - for the uniform of the Vowzra's Victors left one sightless and near enough unhearing. No, he sensed his surroundings completely - so much so that he could taste the earth underfoot and feel the bark of Old Bark-Skin behind him. And yes, he felt the unmistakable presence of a Vowzrid being where the empty shell - from which Slough emerged renewed - had once been. And yes, he heard its moan, even if not with his physical ears. He was eyeless yet seeing, earless yet hearing, noseless yet smelling, mouthless yet tasting, skinless yet feeling. Behold: he was Vowzra's Victor.

'I hear you, brother,' Juras said, 'think not you are forgotten. Think not you go unheard,' and Juras approached the strange, sentient, unmoving, humanoid plant. The bark was of the Celestial Above, and it had held within it Life, and it had been blessed even after all that by Our Mother of the Words. And the lostling soul of the Guardian of the Gate, after the destruction of his body, had found in it a new anchor and home. And it had grown. And it was growing still.

Juras placed a silk-wrapped hand on his plant brother's head and set about establishing a link with him so as to communicate better. Ever since the exodus of the Treeminds to Chronos, the Victors had been exposed to forms of magic entirely different from Wi - which focused largely on telekinesis. With the coming of the Treeminds, however, there came telepathy. A magic deeply ingrained into their being, it proved difficult for Treeminds to 'teach' the others how it worked. But with time aplenty and much patience, the Victors had been able to develop their own telepathic abilities. It was nothing before the advanced telepathy of the Treeminds for now, but it allowed Victors to communicate mentally when in direct physical contact with one another. More powerful Victors could communicate via a conduit - so, if one Victor is touching the same wall as another, it is possible to use the wall as a form of indirect physical contact. To Juras' knowledge, none other than Battle Brother Jrolfir and Battle Sister Arabella - excluding Treemind Victors - were capable of this.

As it were, Juras placed a silk-wrapped hand on his plant brother's head in order to establish a link and better communicate with him. Battle Brother Morarom had told him that he would find out who to search for - after delivering the prophesy - from the Vowzrid beyond the gate. And as he peered within the yet disjointed and unformed mind and memories of the Guardian Restored, he saw the horrors. What had that bark seen! What had that Guardian! What had those gods!
With the visions still rocking his mind, he stepped away and was frozen for the slightest second. One did not hone the mind eons to be rocked and brought low by mere visions - but ah! what horror!
'You have your demons, Brother, and we ours. May the Celestial Above aid you in your struggle,' and with that, Juras turned away and began walking. For days he travelled, until his senses brought an unusual amount of movement below the earth to his attention. Following his senses, he came upon a little hill of stone - clearly an unnatural construction by the hands of sentient beings. Had he not sensed it, it would have been near enough impossible to find or detect: for it fit in all too well with the darkness of the forest from afar, and even up close it looked like a mere dark silhouette until properly inspected. Or in Juras' case, sensed completely.

While he felt clear signs of movement from below, it was too far out of range for him to get any proper understanding of the creatures down there. Whatever they were, however, they were capable of building pyramids - if this round stone hillock could be called that - of pure granite. He detected the stairs and entrance and considered temporarily diverting from his given mission to investigate. On further thought, he decided it would be best to do any investigations once his primary goals were accomplished. Turning away, Battle Brother Juras continued south.

The once vast sea of impenetrable darkness that filled the interior of the spires had gone through drastic changes. The deep black had given away to dark clouds of blue and purple, that, along with the sparkles created by clashing energies, gave one the impression they were looking into a mirror of the starry sky above.

In the monumental circle of mountains around the region, still as impenetrable as Julkofyr had designed it, it was possible to sense four buildings in opposing sides, but only one of those was completed.

Diving into the sea of stars would eventually reveal the true surface of the Pictaraika, a region of gray islands and large "roots" that rose from Raka, all that bathed by an eternally moonlit sea. It was a desolated expense, but at its very center, something shone.

The structure itself, resting atop of a hilly island, could be better described as a "whimsical lighthouse", it was a tower made of brass-colored metal, decorated with illustrations, lights, and mirrors (It heavily resembled a carousel, though less mechanical). Some sort of tune played from it, it seemed to be produced by an instrument that the mortals had yet to invent.

In one of its floors, carelessly writing down a crateful of projects, sat Ilunabar. She had changed drastically since Teknall's last visit, at least outfit wise; gone was the fancy dress and jewelry, now she only wore a simple cloak. It was easy to realize the craftsman was not the only one worried about being discrete.

From the door of the room came a knock and a familiar voice. "Hello Ilunabar. May I come in?"

"Teknall?" Ilunabar commented aloud, a bit puzzled that she hadn't noticed the sibling arriving. Even when distracted, she was typically able to notice such things. "Sure thing, give me a moment"

The door slid to the side and the goddess welcomed the craftsman with a hug. "It has been a while, brother. I take this is your first time seeing this area after I decided to take over what Julkofyr left behind?"

"It has been a while, Ilunabar. And it is my first time visiting this place, at least properly," Teknall replied. "It seems more spacious and with less unwanted guests than the Celestial Citadel."

"Indeed! And the whole structure from here down to the connection with the Raka is built with my needs as a creator in mind. Also, no more illusory walls everywhere to keep the Djinns out..." she sighed "They were too much like their creator, some softer ones would have been welcomed."

"I am curious as to what will happen once their creator returns. A personality like that tolerates no rivals," Teknall remarked. "Although, I have observed another breed of elemental which could possibly be more to your liking. They live in great trees, such as those in the Deepwood, and nurture the trees. Feminine in form, a sub-type of water elemental. You could probably make a good story or two from them."

Ilunabar immediately showed a lot of interest "That is interesting. I will surely be investigating that very soon. Hopefully, by then, Logos will already have stopped to bother us so I can see those myself."

Almost involuntarily, Teknall's hain head flicked from one side to the other at the mention of Logos, glancing around him. "Yes, Logos." Teknall looked up and down at Ilunabar's simple cloak. "This place isn't simply a new home for building things, is it? The deep connection with Raka makes physics optional here. This is a place you can hide from Logos."

"Hide... That isn't a word I like to use, but I think you got the idea of it correctly. After Zephyrion left and Vowzra... well, you know, I decided it would be unwise to not take action."

As she was talking, she walked past Teknall and signaled him to follow her as she started to go down the metallic stairs of the tower.

"So I created this little abnormality in Reality, where Logos would be out of his element. Not that it would stop him from hurting me, but decisions are taken by counterweighting the rewards and risks of an action. I don't know how angry he is for what he would pridefully call stealing," there was a hint of scorn in her voice that felt uncharacteristic to the Muse. "But I have generated a lot of potential trouble with this structure, and only a fool would think a vendetta is worth all of that.

Teknall nodded. Slowly he said, "I'm also being cautious about Logos. I personally beat back his invasion of Realta, and you can imagine how unhappy he was at that."

"Oh? That is great to hear you took down those repulsive things." Following the path of the roots downward Ilunabar intended to fully showcase her Holy Site to Teknall "Logos' trouble with me was because he thinks I stole humans and brought them to Galbar, but in all sincerity, look at a human, then look at me, or at Astarte; he is the one who stole the aesthetic and design."

"It is peculiar that many of us gods would share such a body structure. There is nothing especially remarkable about the human body, compared to all the possible viable permutations for a sentient species, yet somehow the majority of us, at least originally, manifested as humans or in humanoid forms. If I was more inclined to philosophical thinking, I could spend eons contemplating the ramifications of this shared phenotype."

"Ah! I knew you would also notice that." she sounded excited at the chance to share what is in her mind "It was one of the first motifs I noticed, I call it the Aesthetica Humana. For example, you must be already aware of Lifprasil's flesh ships; let's say he was to take his empire to the stars and spend millions of years under zero gravity. Can you imagine how much mankind could change under that time and conditions?" she drew something in one of the rocky surfaces of the caverns they had entered.

"Yet something tells me they won't ever be like that, even if rationality were to lead to it because most things lean to the humanoid form for reasons beyond the laws of nature, and more, twisted humanoid forms cause discomfort even in us, gods... In a way that is oddly similar to an animal's instinct."

Teknall pondered the image and Ilunabar's words for a few moments. "It is strange that things would follow such a pattern against rationality. It's all rather metaphysical. The Codex never specified the human form, although it would not surprise me if by influence of being created by so many beings of humanoid form it was thus subliminally programmed to favour the humanoid form over others; life and sentience were mentioned in the Codex, so any subliminal influences would also shape such things. In fact, the only one of us who regularly breaks from the humanoid pattern is Jvan."

"Yes. Jvan is interesting, it is no wonder so many have seen her as an issue, which she might be, or might not; it is really beyond me, I'm just an artist." she shrugged.

"I wouldn't rely too much on the Codex, though; there were things and concepts before the Codex, there are things and concepts beyond the Codex. I have a whole palette of Beyond Colors to prove it. It is one of the reasons I decided to experiment and defy the Codex when the universe was created, making the Dreamweaver with a little bit of cloth I took from the original schematic."

Suddenly she seemed distant, her mind focused on something other than the visitor by her side. "Actually, I might need to ask, did something happen to the Codex recently? The Dreamweaver started to act in bizarre ways all of the sudden, and now it... became a bit different."

As Ilunabar finished saying that the cave opened into a large area where a massive structure made of strings and brass pipes floated motionless, lit by the light of a fake sky. "It isn't exactly a harp anymore..."

Teknall looked up at the strange, musical structure. "That's a bit of a change," he said.

"The Codex has been modified," Teknall continued after a short pause. "After Vulamera was consumed by the Codex, Vowzra transmuted the Codex into something else, according to Lifprasil. That something else is an artefact called the GodKiller, which the aspiring emperor says is within his city."

"Sounds like a brutish thing, I... Did Lifprasil tell me about it? I think not, otherwise, I would have made this comment already... My memory about the last time I talked to him is hazy, it was just after I had created the Pictaraika, which, for some reason, I don't remember anything at all. This change to the Dreamweaver wasn't part of my original plan, but when I woke up it was there along with a Diva I don't remember creating. Chronicle is her name, she is... vexatious, but witty... I guess."

Teknall tilted his head. "It is curious that this project would deviate in such a manner. Perhaps it is the nature of your projects, or perhaps it is the nature of projects of such magnitude, or those which twist reality in such a way.

"Speaking of which, I've wanted to ask a bit about how you made this place. Julkofyr's darkness used to be nigh impenetrable in this area, and now there is barely a trace of it."

The two doubts had the same answer "It was my most demanding project to date, there was no way to change the nature of the darkness if not by sheer force. Half of the struggle was creating the connection between Raka and Reality, I had to use an Aurora as powerful as three Phantasmagorias and Vestec's help for that. The other half was stopping the flow of dreams from flooding into Galbar and possibly ending things as we know it."

She once against started to move forward, leading Teknall deeper into the Pictaraika. "Most of the Darkness is still here, but it is superimposed with my illusions, as I can create color without light.

Teknall's beak dipped thoughtfully. He inspected the place more closely with his Perception, and realised that it was indeed made largely of illusory colours. While photons had quantifiable wavelengths, the conversion of wavelength information to colour was largely one of perception and interpretation, especially with the complex array of tricks a typical mind applies to make image processing more efficient. It was a simple step for Ilunabar to bypass the use of photons and the retina altogether and go straight to influencing the perception of colour.

The next layer of the Pictaraika was composed of an empty, flowerless garden and a large building complex. Anukramanika Akhanda, easily referred to as The Index, was, in simple terms, an overextended version of Ilunabar's piles of old schematics, paintings, and maps. Except that with so much space and under the strict control of Piena, it all became heavily organized and categorized. Endless rooms hosted exhibitions of maps, scale models of entire cities, architecture and costumes of countless mortal cultures, statues of heroes along with not exactly exact biographies.

It was far from its full glory and all collections had holes, but the effort spent into storing knowledge was clear, and in a sense, similar to the one Vulamera had proposed back when there was no universe. The Muse didn't have the same divine tools that The Scribe had, but she made up for it with an extensive bureaucracy of mortal affairs, religious orders, and the Divas.

"Piena should know where the drafts of this project are, I will get them."

"Alright, I'll wait here then," Teknall replied. He watched as Ilunabar walked off into the depths of The Index. As she disappeared, Teknall went to inspect some of the displays around him. With the highly logical arrangement, it did not take him long to find the biographies of Stone Chipper and Gerrik Far-Teacher. He knew their true stroies verbatim, since he was one and he continually monitors the other. What he didn't know as well, however, was how exactly everyone else saw and remembered them.

So he inspected the myths and legends and tales told about Stone Chipper and Gerrik Far-Teacher. There were many small inconsistencies, many embellishments which had worked their way in. A few groups considered Stone Chipper as a god. Some revered him as a highly holy person. Most simply regarded him as a very wise teacher. What was most interesting that different regions of Galbar had different entries, corresponding to the different cultures and perceptions. Even different groups within the same culture saw them differently. The most stark example was in Fibeslay. The records of Gerrik from the general populace were fairly amicable, while the Chipper population, under the sway of Shammick, had a fairly hostile recount of Gerrik. While this was the biggest contrast, it was by no means the only one, with each culture adding their own flavour, their own religious and technological interpretations, modified also by what exactly Gerrik and Stone Chipper had done in those regions.

Ilunabar walked back into the room carrying half a dozen scrolls under her arm. "Sorry that my divas are so busy and can't properly greet you today. Life has been hectic for all of us down here, there is so much to be done, as you can tell from the pseudo-garden outside."

She placed the schematics on a table and opened one of them. Ilunabar wasn't the most scientific of the gods, but it was possible to follow her reasoning. Most of it followed magical patterns and the chaotic patterns of a dream, some of it, however, described the flow of what she called "energy" across the darkness, the superimposition of illusory information and real matter, some notes about Julkofyr's dimension and some vague idea of all the oddities that could happen when she caused her plane and reality to crash.

The very last scroll was nothing but a drawing of a statue, there was no context about it, but it was odd in composition, as Ilunabar had used Beyond Colors to draw it, giving it the impression it was reaching out of the paper.

Teknall inspected the scrolls. The phenomena discribed were esoteric and abstract, containing little connection to the physical sciences he was confident with. But that had been the very reason he had come here, to get a unique perspective. Some of these insights would likely be useful to him.

On reaching the final scroll, Teknall froze. That thing made from paper and ink was coming out of the paper. Closer to him. Reaching.

He closed his eyes, and he realised he had been overreacting. The figure was ordinary and regular, nothing eldritch about it, and it had simply been painted in Beyond Colours which gave it unnatural depth. And it was static; he had merely imagined the movement.

He opened his eyes again and looked at the image of the statue. It still appeared to pop out of the paper, but at least Teknall had figured out the illusion. "What's this a statue of?"

"Hmm, I took a wild shot and expected you would know." she leaned softly against the table "I found it when exploring the spires before blasting it with an aurora beam from the orbit. There was a lot of stone rubble in a circle and this statue of a person. It is quite odd, perhaps some project Julky had, but whatever meaning it has is now lost. A Shame."

Teknall picked up the scroll and took a closer look. "Hmm." He rotated it around and inspected the details. The three-dimensional image aided his inspection greatly. "It was definitely made by Julkofyr. The rubble, although worn and broken, has retained some features I can identify; they were statues of the pantheon. The one figure standing, though, I do not recognise."

"Wait... Really? The rubble is formed of broke statues of other gods... That is curious, you have a good perception for such things." She looked at the mysterious shadowy form. "It is a little disturbing that we don't know who this is. I want to say Julkofyr could have imagined something, but you just never know.

"It is strange indeed," Teknall said.

She pressed a blank sheet against the drawing and copied it. "Here, just so we don't forget this entity again."

Teknall watched Ilunabar copy the image, then turned back to the other scrolls. "It is interesting what you have done here. A completely different paradigm to my own." He looked up. "It reminds me of a conversation I recently had with Lifprasil. We were passing by the King Trees in Alefpria. You remember those?"

"Ah, King Trees, an offspring of Niciel's Holy Trees, except with purple leaves. What about them?"

"Lifprasil pointed them out to me. I remarked on the significant chemical modifications which had taken place to create the purple leaves while retaining efficient photosynthesis. But Lifprasil and I suspect that you made no such considerations; you just willed the trees to be purple. Is that so?"

"Well, I could just will it to be purple quite easily, no physical change to it, just color change. Also, Meimu must know how to make actual purple trees, she is good with the plants."

Ilunabar smiled softly. "But the thing is that I never did anything to it, neither did the Phantasmagoria, in fact. I suspect the angels brought the Holy Tree over during the Horde War. In response to the new climate, the leaves went from blue to purple. Since the war and Phantasmagoria happened closely to each other, and my divas were very active at the capital during that time, I think the locals just assumed the new purple tree was related to that."

"Is that so? Teknall's palm turned upwards. "It is interesting how such events get distorted over time, truth mixed with legend and misperception. Of course, you would know all about that, since stories are your specialty."

The Muse giggled "Or at least that is what Fate told me. Maybe my true destiny is to be a sailor and I just never gave it a try."

Teknall laughed. "Perhaps. But you are good with stories regardless."

He looked back at the scrolls. "The point I was trying to make, though, was how differently we work. Dreams and Beyond Colours and illusions are as strange to me as electrical engineering and quantum physics are to you. And it's not just us; each member of our family works slightly differently, or very differently, creating in different ways, with knowledge of different things. And this diversity shows through, and covers the gaps which exist in a single god's abilities. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Of course I agree. This whole building is a monument dedicated to the work we did together, not only us gods, but also many mortals. And I do my best to value the input everyone brings to our world, I don't really want to see another case like Vulamera or Julkofyr, where one's potential is lost to madness."

Teknall nodded. "That is good. Our family has lost much already. What remains should be treasured. What has been made should be valued."

"The greatest challenge is that a lot of existence is based on contraposition, clashing differences tend to get increasingly distinct. We, for example, form a duality between two different methods of creation, with increasingly different paths, because you are the Craftsman and I'm the Artist. Now, beyond creation style, there is the issue of mindset, on that point we are quite similar, but you with Logos, for example, form a duality, the one who reasons and cooperates and the one who rules and dictates. We can try to search for the mistakes in Logos' mentality, but I fear that doing so will just increase the antagonism and make the autocrat a more integral part of his personality."

She took a deep breath. "I think that is why I'm down here. I'm not hiding, I'm just avoiding a conflict I want no responsibility for."

Teknall was quiet for a moment, until he said, "There are some conflicts that are wiser avoided. Discretion is a useful attribute."

"Discretion and awareness, I think."

She clapped her hands twice. "But let's stop with this downer talk. So, is there anything else you need here today? If not, I would like to show you one last thing before you leave."

"There is nothing else I have planned here," Teknall replied, "What is it that you have to show me?"

Without much thought she led the way forward across the layers of the Pictaraika, the destination here, was the very last one. The Purger, a pitch black land against a bright white sky and the barrier between Reality and the Raka.

"Since you value privacy, I thought I would show you an alternate exit." she casually said as she strolled through the odd landscape.

"But also..." In these forests the only non-monochromatic thing were the mirrors, either the actual ones or the mirrored versions of Galbarian buildings. Ilunabar picked a hand mirror from the wild, changed it a bit, and then waved it around in the air until she managed to capture some of the shining white energy that filled it.

Immediately, she pressed it against her chest and used her cloak to envelop the mirror. A new cloak enveloped her body instantly, otherwise it would be improper.

"Take this as a souvenir. Or as something that could help in whatever you are doing. I have no idea really."

She smiled and gave her sibling another hug. "I have linked one mirror as a one-way trip to an unassuming Hain house in the Gilt area. Thank you so much for visiting me."

Teknall hugged Ilunabar in turn. "Thank you as well, Ilunabar. We shall meet again some other time."

He held the mirror and looked into it. He checked through the mirror as he might a window, and saw that the house was unoccupied. But there was the matter of how to travel through it. Even ignoring the glass in the way, it was too small to fit him, and-

He was overthinking it. Ilunabar is more intuitive than that. He gazed deeply into the mirror, and when he looked away he found that he was no longer in Pictaraika but in a hut on the Gilt Savannah. The mirror in his hand was now mundane to all appearances, displaying his reflection. Checking around him one more time, he pocketed the mirror and walked out of the hut.

"I hope Mother Niciel will be ok," Falas said worriedly as she wrung her hands continuously, having returned to her hut. Loth was there with her, looking somewhat upset, but remaining calm.

"I have faith that she will be fine," Loth reassured her. "We're still inside the Valley of Peace, and I'm sure Mother Niciel is not without her own defenses." Loth's eyes then shifted to Falas' lance. "In any case, we still need to discuss your weapon. Specifically, your compatibility with it."

"What's wrong with it?" Falas asked. "It's served me well all this time."

"I'd like to believe that. I really would," Loth said. "But be honest with me. How was it during battle? Do you find it comfortable to use?"

Falas' mind flashed back to the battle against Grot. Despite the lance's power, Falas' attacks had been limited to mere beams and a few thrusts and slashes here and there. Not a bad way to fight, but certainly not the best.

"It- it's done well enough," Falas stammered,turning her eyes away from Loth. "I couldn't ask for a better gift from Mother Niciel."

Loth was silent for a time, then he sighed. Loth could make an educated guess from what Falas was thinking, and he wasn't far off either. "As I thought." Loth reached over to it to pick it up, testing its weight in its arms himself. "It may be a beautifully made weapon, but this type of weapon is not your style," Loth explained disapprovingly. "You prefer blades, not a pointy stick like this."

"Don't speak of Mother Niciel's gift that way!" Falas shouted as she stood up, outraged at Loth's choice of words.

"Would you describe your use of this weapon any differently?" Loth asked as he raised an eyebrow, unfazed by Falas' outburst.

Falas began to argue further, but she found herself unable to come up with something to respond with. "I..."

After a moment's pause, Loth sighed and continued, "I thought as much."

"Well, what do you expect me to do? I can't just ignore this precious gift," Falas said.

"And you shouldn't, but neither should you limit yourself because of it," Loth responded. "Niciel intended well for you, Falas. I'm sure she expected you to grow rather than get stuck where you are."

Falas was silent for a while, then eventually asked, "Well, what am I supposed to do then?"

"That is for you to decide," Loth answered. His eyes trailed off around the room, soon landing on Falas' shield, which was resting on the wall. A strange attraction began to settle within him, and the more he continued to stared at it, the more that attraction grew.

"Loth?" Falas said, following Loth's line of sight. "Is... is something wrong?"

"That.... shield...." Loth said, pointing at it. "May I take a look at it?"

Falas turned back to look at Loth, then back to her shield. "Uh, sure," Falas said, going over to her shield to pick it up and toss it to Loth, who caught it in both hands. Holding it in his left hand, Loth continued to be mesmerized by it. Then, both he and the shield began to glow blue. Together, they resonated, the glow pulsing and becoming brighter every second, but then the glow faded away. Loth began to stumble backward, but barely managed to regain his footing. Alarmed, Falas rushed over to support him, grabbing him with both arms. She noticed that Loth looked rather fatigued from the short event. "Are you alright, Loth? What just happened?" Falas asked, concerned for him.

"I... I'm fine, no need to worry. Just a little... tired, is all," Loth answered, placing his hand on his forehead for support. Surprisingly, he felt himself recover quickly, and he was able to stand up again as if nothing had happened. "I don't know what happened... I just felt like I really needed to have this shield."

"Well, perhaps we should keep it away from you for now," Falas suggested, reaching towards the shield. However, a semi-transparent barrier appeared in front of Falas' hand, preventing her from even touching the shield. Confused, Falas tried again, only to hit the same barrier. "What is this? Loth, are you doing this?" she asked.

"It no longer accepts you as its wielder," Loth said.

"What?"

Loth suddenly blinked, and shook his head. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I said that. How peculiar."

In that moment, there was the sound of urgent knocking on the wall near the entrance. "I should answer that. You should stay here and get some rest," Falas suggested. "Perhaps I will," Loth agreed, nodding his head.

Reaching the entranceway, Falas was greeted with the sight of Sabathiel, one of the Archangels. "Commander Falas, there are strange creatures in the Valley of Peace!" Sabathiel said.

"Strange creatures?" Falas asked.

"Yes, Commander. They look similar to us, but appear to be made out of rock. They don't seem to be hostile, but they do not exactly put me at ease when I look at them."

Falas had a sinking suspicion as to what Sabathiel was describing, but she had to see it for herself. "Wait right here, I'll get my lance," Falas ordered him before running back in to grab her weapon. Falas hesitated a second when he saw it, but quickly put aside those thoughts and rushed back out after grabbing it. "Lead the way," Falas commanded, and the two Angels flew off.

---

Upon spotting them, Falas felt a chill down her spine. The Realta were here. The other Archangels were here as well; why haven't they evacuated the other Angels? For that matter, what were the Realta doing? Sabathiel did say they were not hostile, but why was this the case? Granted, the aura of the Valley of Peace was a likely factor, but was something as simple as that really going to stop a God who wanted to destroy the world?

The other Archangels were already on the scene, supervising the area. Raphael, upon spotting Falas, bveckoned for her to come over. Landing, Falas asked, "How is everything so far?"

"It's been peaceful so far," Raphael reported. "Everyone is keeping watch to make sure that these creatures don't cause any trouble, but they seem to leave us alone for the most part. A few Angels have engaged them in conversation, but nothing of further interest has happened."

Falas was relieved to hear that, but was still concerned about the Realta's presence. They had attacked Alefpria, so why were they not doing anything now? "Even so, stay on your guard," Falas ordered. "I don't trust them. I've seen what they can do. Even for us, they'd prove to be very dangerous, the Valley's aura or not."

"Of course, Commander," Raphael said with a nod of his head, then flew away to continue surveillance.

What are they planning? Falas thought to herself. What do they intend to accomplish by being here and doing this? While lost in thought, Falas felt the familiar presence of the only being she revered.

"You've been busy, I see," Niciel said, walking up to Falas. Falas turned to face her and immediately knelt down. "Yes, Mother Niciel," Falas said as respectfully as she could. "None of the Realta will cause trouble in the Valley of Peace under our watch."

"Rise, Falas," Niciel ordered, and Falas got up from her knee. "It is important to keep the Realta from causing trouble, but take care that the Angels do not cause trouble for the Realta either. I have promised Logos the Valley of Peace as a temporary haven for his Realta, and I have no intention of breaking that promise."

Falas was shocked. These monsters being granted safe haven in the Angels' home? "Bu-but Mother Niciel!" Falas objected.

"No buts," Niciel interrupted, raising a finger to silence Falas. "I am aware of what I am doing. While I do not understand Logos completely, I have learned that he does not have malevolent intentions. Should the Realta harm any Angels, you have my word that I will be the first to banish them from the Valley of Peace."

Falas was still concerned, but decided to trust Niciel on the matter.

Just as things finally began to settle down, however, a sudden force was brought to attention. A loud but distant scream was heard, one so malevolent that even Niciel's eyes widened in surprise. A number of screams soon followed, making Falas shiver. "What was that?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," Niciel answered. "I'll go see what has happened after I make some preparations." On that note, Niciel disappeared in a flash of light.