Hunched over sparse woodlands, the ruddy granite outcrop cast no shadow in the unnatural cold. Infernal blazes of sheet lighting seared the artificial night only to die and give way to darkness again. Skies glowed blue on the far horizon, but the sun- The sun was silenced by a blasphemous shade.

High above the cacophony of shatter-stone and thunder, and sounds of eldritch rending, the titan loomed, hateful, a harbinger. It was a vast grub, hungry for the blood of the earth, untouchable, unshakeable, and its presence was a monstrous reminder of the dwarving of mortals beneath the heel of God. This beast had come to end and to kill, and no force on Galbar could raise a hand against it.



Through the eyes of the apocalyptic colossus, Diaphane Whisper watched blood being shed with a steel-hard determination that resolved itself out of battle rage and wired her with burning tension. Sweethearts swirled around her body like panicked shoals. Radiation streamed from her, the big sister's voice relaying and receiving constantly from the little Diaphanes at her left and right. Whisper's words streamed from the mouths of the beast, saturating her sisters below with curt commands in their own tongue.

Then, suddenly, a message directed to the copilots alone. "I'm going down there."

"Did they send for help?" asked one of the younger sisters, knowing that this wasn't the case.

"No," answered Whisper. "But they need it." The elder flowed out of the beast's brain, her fluid body content with moving in any direction without turning. "You and Sprint stay here. Keep singing."

"Take care, Diaphane," flickered Sprint as the doors closed on the elder, her voice hiding a thrill of excitement and muted bloodlust. Whisper was taking to the battlefield.

In moments, the big sister was swooping down towards the outcrop, a falcon honed on prey that trailed a narrow streak of brilliant smoke.

Murderous energy roared below.

Cathode's lightning struck from nowhere and everywhere, and his sons bullied entropites out of the air even as their numbers dwindled in the gale. The wind spirit had buried the butte in a black billow of savage rain, deepening the darkness cast by the demon above. Deep booms sounded from the stone itself, the voice of the Lord Feldspar as her stone joints cracked.

And still casting their too-vivid glows even as the land and sky fought to kill, the change-eaters retaliated.

Like strange fish drawn by a child's unsure hand and painstakingly rendered back into reality with exquisite detail, their uncanny shapes and excessive colours untouched, Whisper's sisters dogfought in loose clusters. Their teeth chewed up the air and gouged rock as it rose in jagged spikes to crash against them. At the heart of the violence, Diaphane Wander shone, and scythed against the Stonelord.

Whisper's first-sister had taken on her favoured battle stance, a scalene thing with no axes of symmetry, caged in tubular armour that sprouted vicious spines and a single, tasselled blade. A whip-tail snapped and coiled around Wander, drawing long, thin cuts into Feldspar as she orbited the djinn, shying from some blows and meeting others with her knives that burned rock.

She was hurt. Whisper fell into her own stance as she approached.

"Diaphane!"

The voice resounded a hundredfold, a call of recognition, of family in pain, and- A roaring warcry in a foreign tongue.

"DIAPHANE!"

Whisper's fluid streams coalesced further into solidity. Four slender beams were cast off from her body behind a bladed wedge of a head, and, as one, cracked and snapped into multi-jointed arms. Behind, her tails fused one by one into the segments of her new body, maned and many-eyed, until they finally twisted into her tail-fin.

Lord Feldspar had seen the light of her voice, and raised a massive palm to intercept her, without even turning from Wander's burning scythes. Undodging, Whisper's long arms whipped forwards faster than even her body was moving, seizing the hand by the folds and guiding her skullhelm into the stone like a battering ram into wood.

Light cut into the rock faster than any steel in a flash of granite shrapnel that burned in too-pale eldritch shades. Feldspar jolted as her arm jarred into her, and did not stagger. New stone spiralled around her broken wrist.

"The creature called Wander would abandon our duel at the first sight of loss," said the high Djinn, musing, unperturbed. "Disappointing."

A twist of her hand and the ground below exploded. A thousand axehead-obelisks levitated from the ground below. Then they shot upwards.

Whisper's grip on the giant was not relinquished and she bolted forwards, each handhold chewing into earth's bone. "Wander!" Feldspar's arm fell, rapidly exposing her back to the converging weapons, and she was forced to turn and face them head-first, shattering through the fastest and closest boulder with a leap like cannon's shot.

Unfazed by simple tricks, Feldspar's weapons reversed direction instantly, but now Whisper controlled their chase and Wander demanded blood.

The knot of blades and armour wove a close spiral around Feldspar's far hand, spinning counter-wise as she moved, each thorn hacking deep. Wander left an unbroken trail of open wounds as she moved from wrist to elbow to shoulder and crossed the Stonelord's chest from end to end.

Feldspar defied pain. Closing her eyes of golden pyrite, she shed the damaged arm, mocking Wander's efforts. It cracked and reformed into a jagged ball, fragments hovering between her and the fresh weapon like chain links. The flail slashed out and downwards in a wide arc, catching Wander by her sword as she fled, and tossed her away, spinning.

Whisper still could not throw off the axeheads. She had accumulated enough distance only to turn and force them to follow her in a straight line as she swooped towards Feldspar's head, caught it by the sides and ripped at it as she threw herself around as a pebble flies from the sling. The stones, following, scattered upwards and out, refusing to touch their master.

"Juvenile," commented Feldspar, bringing the flail back up as it met the lower peak of its arc and continued behind her to where the abomination had fled.

Whisper had not been blind to Wander's half of the combat, and when the granite maul came, did not run. Again, she met stone with the hammer of her skull, and was sent reeling as it cracked, diving downwards as shining liquid streamed from her face. The maul halted its path as promptly as the stones had, and turned like a living thing to pursue the trail of blood-

-Which led it past the point at which it could still bring its swing's momentum forwards again to where Wander was moving.

Her sword pierced Feldspar's chest but did not impale, for Wander's whip had snared her damaged wrist and yanked the faceless monster down to where her sister was pursued, pulling the stab wound into a wide, deep exit gash.

"Whisper!"

The sisters passed and Wander collided with the maul from one side, tossing it sharply downwards as two bladed clumps of war-fury met.

Free of pursuit, Whisper's desperate escape became the offensive it was meant to be. She hit the ground with two limbs and used it for a springboard, swinging forwards as the Lord Feldspar anticipated her and raised her remaining hand to meet the savage light. Her palm injured, the still-flying obelisks formed her shield, and more rose from the ground Whisper touched, once again pursuing from behind, forcing her to execute the manoeuvre and be crushed between the two.

But Whisper's body was not static and her wounds so far numbered one. She collided as liquid and the impact morphed her, becoming a studded ball of mismatched plates that sat and cracked as stone after stone pummelled her and Wander rose from the ground.

Still leading the granite maul, the bladed sister did not collide with Fledspar, but her whip was still tight around the Stonelord's wrist, and it cut without mercy as she flew. The stone morningstar pursued her helplessly as she amputated Feldspar's remaining hand in a single, easy loop of flight. It fell away into more airborne shards.

Whisper liquefied as best she could and streamed down, trailing hefty chunks of her own body, still painfully kicking. Freed though she was, only a handful of jagged obelisks pursued her. The rest fled.

For they were pursuing Wander, and there was not a living thing on the face of this broken earth that did not recognise the Sorority's greatest warrior.

Her whip stretched to full length as it swung away from Feldspar's stump and forwards, exchanging hand for neck. The stonelord's ruined arm blocked the whip before it could begin its lethal swing, though it cut deep into her stone. Her pyrite eyes shone as the jagged boulders pursued Wander, daring her not to back away from Feldspar's face, but open her iron skull and be crushed in turn.

Wander didn't even try. She had already let go of Feldspar's neck and was instead leaping for the maul, the clustered stones that leapt to end Whisper where she lay. That she hit, and cut, and forced down as the granite maelstrom hit her and shattered the weapon on which she stood. Between the collision of rock and her own shrieks, the sound was cataclysmic.

In that hurricane of earth and Diaphane blood, Feldspar's last weapons were locked. For one, final, fatal moment, she was disarmed.

"Whisper!"

Feldspar could only focus her eyes on the quiet Sister that came for her, and stare in cool defiance as a single eye opened on a rush of bleached colour and the burning fluid entered her by the wound on her chest.

The Stonelord fell to one knee. Her stump hit her torso and she tried to crush the eldritch creature with the weight of her body, but too much of her had been lost. She ignited, trailing great shafts of light as she finally fell.

Whisper consumed what she could manage in a second's time and erupted from Feldspar's back, combat form restored, albeit still bleeding heavily. She blurred towards her sister.

"Wander!"

"Whisper," wheezed a voice, laughing, from within the shattered heap of bladed stone. Whisper shoved aside boulders as if they were leaves and sticks, though she only acquired more tails of blood as she did so.

The final impact had happened faster and harder than either of them had truly seen, and Wander's armour had not held up to the punishment. Most of the links in the cage-like armour that was her body were broken, solid but warped and only raggedly connected, and her sword had snapped in three. Whisper's spindly arms lifted her from the ruins and cradled her like a child.

"I could have lost you," she whispered, voice soft in the chaos.

"You didn't," crowed Wander, melting away as much as she could to return Whisper's embrace. Her own voice, too, was dim, for reasons entirely different. "We didn't lose a damn thing. We won, sister! We won!"

"I could have lost you," repeated the pilot, seized by a sudden urgency.

Wander was not deaf to her sister's pain. The wreck of her body dragged itself further into the embrace, the voice within at odds with the violence this form had been made for, and seen. "I'm not lost, Whisper. I'm okay. I'll survive. You saved me. And as long as you're here, I'll never be lost. Ever."

Whisper held her tightly, silent, as a pack of her grandaughters and nieces pinned Cathode to the ground somewhere and extinguished his lightning forever, his final roars booming over the shadowed landscape. And she knew, in a sickening revelation that she could not explain, that Wander was wrong.

One more voice rumbled out into the moment.

"So this is how I die," observed Lord Feldspar, her voice unbroken even as her body lay crippled and dying. "Torn limb from limb in a war I never started, by creatures who are made of love for their own and hatred for everything else." One golden grain at a time, her eyes were crumbling away into nothing. Whisper watched with the eyes on her nearest side.

"I know not whether I should be happy, or disgusted. But I fought. I fought to the end, and thus, while you live your lives in fury, I die in peace."

Feldspar's lips began to flake and collapse as her Flicker tried to burrow away. Whisper carried Wander as they floated towards the spark of energy. The wounded sister would eat, and she would heal, and they would return to the Mother at full strength once more.

"Do you understand what she's saying?" wondered Wander dazedly.

"No," she lied, though Whisper had seen and heard more Djinni in her time than any other change-eater, and knew that some words did not need translating.



"Hey, grandma!"

Whisper's memories were interrupted by the voice of a youngling. Her core form rested in a meteor cave she had concealed with noctus fronds; The very same, had they known it, that Toun had left her in so very long ago.

There was no chance that they had found her by accident. Her fluorescence was now too dim, too mingled with the inky brown blood of Jvan, to be seen at any distance. She shuffled Toun's calligraphic mark to a nook of her core form where it would brighten up her surface more visible without being too obvious itself, and drifted from her place of pondering.

Four of them, two of Stellar's line, one of Wander's, one of her own. "Hello, Melody, hello Twist," she greeted individually. It was one of the quirks they came to see, her ability to remember every name in Lex. "Hello, Auricolor, hello Dust."

The children giggled and her heart melted for them.

"Can you sing us a lullaby?" said Auricolor.

"Stalk said she ran out," said Melody.

"And then she said that she learned all of hers from you!" finished Twist.

Whisper let herself wave a little as if deciding. If she moved her light around her body, it made her look better than she really did. "Oh, alright," she said smilingly. "How about I make up a new one, just for you?"

The daughters all made eager commentary, all but Dust, who pretended to be lost in awe while she stared at the murk within her great-grandmother. Whisper knew she was her own.

A long few moments wait until the children's demands piped down. "This one," she opened, "is about Galbar."

The four change-eaters wormed their way into the folds of her body for warmth, Twist wrapping herself in a frond. The story began.



"In quiet days,
There was a time
Of silent Rings
And untold rhyme

When Sister's ways
Were still to come
When nothing sings
And Lex was dumb.

'Twas not up here,
Between noctus frond,
That we began
The Sister's bond.

On Galbar dear,
Our story starts
Where waters ran,
God made our hearts.

First there was one,
One Diaphane.
One joyful voice,
Between the rain.

She had her fun
Within the sea
And made the choice
To craft us three.

From Firstmother,
Did Stellar rise.
Then Wander, too,
And Whisper wise.

A third of her
A sister each.
And say it true,
For this I teach:

She lives on still,
Within our reach.

In Lex's light,
We came to be.
We live here now,
Above the sea.

But when we fight,
When we draw blood,
We travel down,
Into the mud

Where Grandma First
Her teeth first bared
Her tails first whipped
Her claws first shared.

We do our worst.
The spirits bleed
As they are ripped
Their Flickers freed

And so we feast
On bodies fresh
The earth we burn
Its crop we thresh.

From west to east,
Lex hears our song.
The world will turn
And we live on,

So thank God, daughters,
For a rich life long."

The children were quiet. Melody, Twist, and Auricolor had fallen asleep. Dust was still listening.

"That was a lovely story, Whisper," said she.

"Thank you."

"Can we have another one?"

Whisper looked closely at the child. She was still fascinated by the Jvanic stains that riddled her ancestor. She'd fall asleep after another song, but she couldn't help trying to stay awake until she'd figured out what they were. For a moment Whisper was silent. The two of them were so similar.

"Maybe one day you might find out, Dust," she answered, no longer talking about the song. "But I can't stay."

"Oh," said Dust. "Goodbye I guess."

Whisper carefully left the sleeping children behind and waved farewell, dissolving as she did.

The story had been formulaic. Most Lexite lulls were similar in tone and content. Whisper knew that well- There wasn't a song she hadn't sung, and she'd authored more than half of them.

The longer she thought about it, the less moral her poems seemed, the more guilt piled on every time she repeated them for her children- The more contaminated her body became.

She looked down at the bright red sigil, then up towards the blue glow of Galbar. She made a decision.

Drawing energy from the sepia blood until her whole body seemed to reach the point of igniting, Diaphane Whisper kicked off against the vacuum and shot towards the planet, tails streaming. Only Dust saw her go.

Eyes shifted under lids of flesh palpable and mortal, they blocked light out of grasp of understanding, and they soon parted to a great caravan, rickety in its motion upon a road, curved by the passage of wheels and hooves underfoot. She felt the cavalry trample brick and fauna beneath them as they paved the way for more people she and her sibling had ever seen - or even thought possible to be in a place at once. The refugee had no name, just an expression assigned to her identity; she referred to herself as "the She", and her twin "the He", both of which had experienced wrath unbeknownst to them just months ago. Now the She traveled with thousands when she only knew of dozens within her hovel.

She kept to herself, both siblings did, and the singing Alefprians tried to converse with them, but the She did not feel like she belonged, nor did the He. They both wore the same type of wares, they both wore their white hair in the same tightly knit bun, and they both thought the same thoughts. Each had existed for sixteen birthdeaths of the world, the earth would become cool, and then it would become warm again, as it always had and it always will, but this place was odd. Where they came from, the planet was cold, as it should be for a time, but here the earth was alive, it was not resting in a deathly state as it should have.

Great cliff faces surrounded the path, and a canopy of strange plants threatened to swallow them whole, blotting out the sun with impertinent sloth. The caravan stretched further than their eyes could see, so they refrained to observing the hundreds nearby, each one picked from the ashes of destruction, as they were.



Another day down the path and they were in a city greater than thatch and wood, or the twisted machinations of their Sculptor guardian - a frighteningly massive place called Alefpria. It had nestled itself into a place unseen, and built civilization within a space alien to the steppe they had grown up in. The caravan was led to a wide square, and there they were settled for a day, until a being wrapped in sparkling chitin, not unlike the army that had taken them, descended from a distance palace.

He perused the thousands of other arrivals, all of which seemed to look upon him with fear. He appeared a beetle with great purple wings, an insect humanoid like them. Soon enough, however, the lofty creature had a soothing presence about it. graceful movements reposed it along, and it wafted to the She and her brother. In tow it had a woman with a bow, and a fearsome horned creature similar to many of the Alefprian warriors that hosted them, and they spirited them away to this dream-like niche.

The twins thought to eachother: "What is this feeling? This apogee of empathy and familiarity?"

They then saw the head of the great beetle monster split open, revealing the face of a beautiful man - or was it a woman? Underneath. The godly being carried a sense of resolve, and beckoned the pairing up.

"You will be my first exalted mortals. You will brazenly take a path less followed, and these lost souls will follow into a mightier form."

Somehow, this sounded agreeable, it sounded good.



For months they would dwell within the Emperor Lifprasil's great palace, he spoke to them like they spoke to eachother, but they did not question this notion; that somebody had the same abilities as them. He had them washed, fed, and then he tested them in strange ways. He commanded them to exemplify their power both mentally and physically. Susa, the woman with the bow, made a point of treating them kindly, even though they did not speak to her, both she and the horned monster were gentle with them.

There was another girl of a similar age to them named Tira, but they saw little of her. Most of their time was with Lifprasil and his purple guards as the Twins attempted to absorb concepts like magic and martial combat.

On a day dreery, when rain fell in a thick matte in front of the agape portal that overlooked Alefpria in its entirety, The She fiddled with a clay cup. Flanked by two Troll guards in regal garb, she imagined crushing the cup with her mind, like she often did with small objects in her hovel. Her home former wasn't particularly typical, she remembered it as a single, giant structure of wood, clay, topped off by an expansive roof of thatch that needed a lot of maintenance. The only residents were the Twins and a dozen other humans and Hain; all of which lived under the leadership of an extravegant, tall creature.

She was pallor, bald, and wore a hat that was almost as large as the She, experimentations served as idle nothings for everyone - subjects to odd activities at the mercy of the Jvanic emissary. Neither sibling really minded the life, they enjoyed the enclosed, sheltered existence - claustorphobia felt familiar to them, which made the Palace a dizzying experience.



They were to become knights of unimaginable power, they were told.

It was like falling back into a state that the She only had vague memories of, both she and her twin, floating without purpose as Father Dominus held them and changed them. There was no protest from Dabbles as he operated the biomechanisms, as Lifprasil was intent upon, changing these two wayward orphans into 'exalted mortals', as he called the process.

They floated in a perfect orbit of an affixed point between themselves, their bodies were painlessly torn apart and transformed, and with each change, the She felt her psychic link to her brother follow. Soon they knew what it was like to be separate for the first time, and alone with her thoughts, the She saw foreboding images of the future. She saw great beings similar to what she and her brother were becoming, they marched under Lifprasil covered in shapely armor akin to his own. They appeared insects in dazzling shells that protected them from harm, and they were strong, strong like the changing earth as it moved from birth to death, careening towards the latter like droplets of sultry rain.

Thousands of insects fought for Lifprasil and died for Lifprasil in a deathly spiral, and at the front of this tidal wave of power, she saw herself, gazing from the inside of one of the Sentinels Three. It was a spiral of power unimaginable. Would-be kingdoms were destroyed like earth under the Caravan that heralded them, these places were preened from roughness into a path towards unity. Just beyond the reach of this prophetic vision, however, were visions of a deafening reprecussion that would bring ruin from far away. On the nature of this canvas, a monoexistence was non-permissible, even to the divinity with the best of intentions.

The fever ended, and the Twins rose from the bosom of Father Dominus as something greater, they were sexless now, save for defining features distinguishable between either gender. Either Twin was covered in riveted holes along their limbs identical to the other, layered with broiling muscle and thick, ebony hide that covered their body from the neck to the feet. They found one another within their thoughts soon after resurfacing from their rebirth and attempted to embrace the other - but fell weak, each to a knee as Lifprasil stood above them. Either one craned a head to look up to their Emperor, who stood tall in his silence before he extended a glimmering hand to either newborn to grasp.

As the lightness that was Synnefos' mist enveloped and swiftly carried her away through the tunnels, Luna's mind was filled with all sorts of thoughts. First and foremost of those being why? As much as she racked her brain trying to find a reason why a djinn, out of all things, would save her from certain doom, she couldn't find one and opted to remain silent for the duration of their escape.

Once the winds had carried her a fair distance away from the volcano, an ear deafening roar was heard, presumably Slag's, that reverberated the immediate area surrounding the volcano. What followed was a rumbling noise, and Luna could clearly see the trees shaking on the ground beneath them.

"Oh, boy..." she thought. She quickly turned her head back towards the direction of the mountain range, just when the volcano housing the magma djinn erupted violently, shooting out lava, molten rock, and other debris. The surrounding forest instantly caught on fire, and if not for the mountain range itself somewhat blocking the winds from picking up, the fire would have already caught up to them.

The djinni of fog continued forward yet twisted its form so as to look back. When it saw the mountain erupt into an explosion of magma and fire and felt the wave of heat, Synnefos was quick to ascend higher into the air. Eventually, he reached a strong and favorable wind, high in the atmosphere, and then seemed to stop entirely. He was lazily content with simply drifting upon that gale rather than exerting himself, so the ride was much slower than what Ventus had given Luna.

But of course, Synnefos was no djinni lord. He lacked the strength and the drive to rampage across the landscape at such frivolous speeds, especially with some cumbersome fleshling upon his back. So unbeknownst to Luna, they floated upon a stream of wind towards the Celestial Citadel. A black haze of volcanic ash trailed behind them upon the wind as Slag's dark shadow.

Luna felt the winds surrounding her creating a small vortex for a brief moment, before stabilizing once again, steadily carrying her away from the erupting volcano. She watched as lava flowed down the volcano's sides, and for a moment could swear she had seen movement from within the huge plume of smoke that was let in the atmosphere as a result of the eruption.

Turning her attention back to the djinn that had carried her away from danger, she once again couldn't find a reason for this unexpected rescue. She was certain that Ventus hated her guts, so why send someone to look out for her?

"Hey you, who are you?" She blurted out loud.

"You are carried by Synnefos," an answer came from the depths of the cloud below her, and then he said nothing more.

"Okay Synnefos," Luna said mockingly, intentionally deepening her voice when uttering his name to match his own.

"Do you think you could tell me where exactly you are taking me? I am quite thankful for the rescue; I don't think I would have survived that molten freak's outburst had you not appeared, but I guess you are not just doing this out of the good will of your heart now, are you?"

"My master will see you," he answered vaguely. "You are indeed fortunate that I was there to spare you Slag's fury." If anything Synnefos seemed irritated with her, but he had already spent the better part of several days stalking her through the Venomweald and then trying to follow that brutish creature with the magical stone...

Even now, Synnefos found himself distracted by thoughts of the ogres, by that beast with the Stone, by the Stone itself, and by their strange ties to Slag. The vizier would have to be informed of much, so Synnefos saved his breath by keeping his words with Luna short.

Seeing as the djinn would not divulge any more information, Luna humphed and crossed her legs, imitating a sitting position. With the Sunderer floating beside her, she waited for the djinn to take her wherever it was taking her.

In the distance, something gleamed like a jewel as the sun reflected upon its shiny white luster. It was almost like a snowy mountaintop, only detached from any mountain and far, far above the ground.

As they neared the Celestial Citadel, the silhouette of great turrets and balconies became clear. It was an incredible castle of white stone, built upon a foundation of countless clouds. Some trees grew in small courtyard gardens and there were vines (though overgrown and unkempt, for mortal hands had clearly not tended to them in many years) growing in hanging gardens. But beyond that, everything was bleak, vacuous, white, and drafty. It was fitting for the palace of djinn, but little else.

Synnefos, at last, broke free from the gale that he had been riding and propelled himself towards an open terrace. In the middle of that terrace was the towering form of a lord that Luna recognized all too well, and circled about him with others that were no strangers to her: Cyclonis and those of his force that had survived the encounter with Slag. Having easily beaten Synnefos' lazy pace, it seemed as though Cyclonis was in the middle of reporting the day's events to the Vizier. Naturally, Ventus looked less than pleased.

Synnefos gingerly dropped Luna on the platform before all of them, and once again she found herself being gawked at by a hundred empty eyes.

The arrival of Luna did not go unnoticed by Cyclonis as he was speaking. "And that one was there too, in the company of the ogres," he proclaimed in an almost accusatory voice, flailing an appendage to whip a blast of air at her. It would seem that was Cyclonis' manner of pointing.

"We meet again, Luna."

"Ventus, I should have known," Luna said with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity.

"You just can't help but miss me, huh? I knew something was up from the moment we first met. Unfortunately for you, I prefer my partners being a little more... physical." She added with a toothy grin.

He ignored her implications, for djinn existed above such base desires, and to so much as acknowledging a petty taunt implying otherwise would be a disgrace. His eyes turned from her and locked onto the Sunderer. "It is you that has found a way to meddle in our affairs again," he stated as fact, and as he spoke a small vortex began to form and it moved to sweep up the Sunderer and bring it Ventus. "So is this the prized treasure that you sought? That you would speak nothing of? I had expected something more... grandiose."

At Ventus' reaction to her taunt, Luna simply chuckled. "Quite proud alright!" she thought as she smiled. When, however, Ventus summoned his winds to try and grab Ull'Yang's staff, Luna's grin reached up to her ears.

"Heh, I already knew you would try that the moment you laid your eyes upon it. Futile really, go ahead and see for yourself." The Sunderer swiftly flew towards Ventus.

It stopped just before his face and stood suspended in the air. Ventus manipulated the vortex to rotate it and quickly scan its every facet. It took him half a second to recognize the Sunderer as being of divine craftsmanship, but it had some... familiarity. The reason became clear as he examined it more thoroughly. "This is Teknall's craftsmanship," Ventus suddenly declared. He had seen Teknall's work before, and this carried that same elegance and simplicity juxtaposed into perfection.

He had half a mind to say that Luna had stolen it, but it throbbed with the magic of someone other than Teknall. A vaporous hand grasped for the Sunderer, and then without warning the thing became heavy. With his divine might Ventus heaved and tried to hold his grip upon it, but he lasted only a blink of an eye before it broke free of him. It fell with the weight of a mountain, and when it landed it shook the Celestial Citadel unto its foundations. Had Teknall not fortified the palace so, it might have been crushed or torn apart by the sheer weight of that accursed thing.

Bah! He saw now why she hadn't so much as hesitated to give the staff to him; it clearly had some magic that would deny its power to any other than an intended user. The King's Law was no different.

Luna was clearly amused, but Ventus was far from it. "So here you stand with your trinket and your triumph, yet only alive thanks to the timely intervention of my servant, from how the story is told. Do explain to me how it is that you find yourself before that abomination Slag, and in the company of ogres no less."

Ventus' failure to wield the staff made Luna burst into laughter. Especially the image of him heaving and panting with all his might, trying to hold onto the weapon, was priceless. "This fellow, he's quite funny. I'll mention him to Master upon his returns."

"Well, what can I say, my beauty makes ogres worship and djinn fight each other for a chance to lay their eyes upon me." Luna replied with a mischievous look on her face.

Synnefos then spoke, "The monster that led the ogres and spoke with Slag was the same one that I told you about earlier, the thing that followed her into the cave. He cast some enchantment upon her. I think that he too was after that... trinket that she bears. When they emerged from the cave, she carried the staff, but she did so under his enthrallment."

Luna's playful smile turned to stone at the intervention of a rather familiar voice. She slowly turned around, her eyes locking on Synnefos, glaring figurative daggers at him. "You! Stop slandering me! Enthrallment? Why are you even speaking right now? Do you qualify to interrupt our conversation?" Luna shouted in anger.

However, as she thought back to the djinn's words, it finally dawned on her. "...I told you before..." She then turned back to Ventus.

"Well played, Ventus. Well played..." she gritted her teeth and said. She truly didn't expect he would be so interested in the weapon that he would send a spy after her. After all, she hadn't really interacted with many other sentient species while on Cygnea, so it didn't even cross her mind that Ventus would scheme against her.

Synnefos meanwhile had rolled forward in his misty form. "Perhaps not, but I think myself qualified for this!" From the mist came a force. It was a light shove, but nonetheless, it sent the unexpecting wolf dangerously close to the edge of the terrace, where there was a long fall down.

The djinn's attack caught Luna by surprise, and she cursed her carelessness. As the wind blew her towards the edge of the terrace, Luna called forth the Sunderer to her aid. The staff swiftly responded, flying like a thunderbolt towards her. The staff morphed into a brownish golden rope with black engravings, with one end of the rope coiling around a pillar, and the other coiling around Luna's waist.

Luna found herself tip-toeing on the edge of the Celestial Citadel, and when her mind registered the sheer altitude and the empty sky below them, she started sweating. Thankfully, the rope held strong, and she skillfully somersaulted backward a few feet and landing near Cyclonis.

She took a few moments to recollect herself as the Sunderer morphed back to its base form. She grabbed and held on to it, not daring to act as blithely as before.

Gratitude shone in Ventus' eyes when Synnefos interceded, but then that quickly turned to fury when the djinni of fog took her spittle too personally and moved to throw her off the ledge. One glare from the Vizier was enough to freeze Synnefos, and his form visibly shrunk as the fog contracted. "Only a demonstration, lord Vizier," he offered in sheepish answer.

"There will be no further demonstration from you," Ventus answered. His fury was palpable, but it was not the burning sort that coursed through men and the pettier of djinn. That fury consumed them and took control of them.

Ventus' fury was the icy sort, and he harnessed it rather than the other way around. With a cold glare, he turned back to Luna. "Here you are in my domain. You will speak with respect, or this 'demonstration' of Synnefos will be as nothing before what I shall do."

"You've made your point Ventus, and now you know what really happened. So, what do you intend to do?" She said, this time in a more reserved manner, but retaining her previous defiant behavior. Indeed, they were gods knew how high up in the sky at the moment, literally floating between clouds. Ventus was right to call this place his domain so a little care was needed, but once they were back on solid ground, he wouldn't be so demanding, no, he couldn't be.

She didn't have to wait long for an answer. "My intention is to remove you from my sight once more and warn you to cease your meddling in our affairs."

"Meddling in your affairs? I can hardly call meddling in your affairs my seeking assistance from you in my quest, knowing that we are both directly under a god. It would be like two gods cooperating, and yet who would have known that you would flat out deny my request. I wonder what Ull'Yang would think about his brother after hearing about this. He would be most disappointed, to say the least..."

"It suffices to say that you were less than forthcoming about what this 'quest' entailed."

Luna briefly glanced towards Cyclonis, another familiar face, before walking towards Ventus, stopping right where she stood before Synnefos' little 'demonstration'.

"Anyway, since you want me to leave, I shall do just that. Albeit, you'll have to get me down there once again. Last time I checked, I couldn't command the winds, nor did I have wings to carry me through the sky."

"Very well," the Vizier agreed as he approached her.

"Below us is the great Firewind Desert, Zephyrion's Holy Land. I shall deposit you upon its borders, for I am the custodian of the desert and the empire within, and I command that you go elsewhere in your travels. It is not a place for followers of Ull'Yang."

He inhaled, then sharply exhaled a mighty wind that swept her away. As he breathed out, the wind seemed to speak,

The Vizier turned to other matters then, deciding not to send Synnefos to follow Luna once more. He had a feeling that if he kept track of her, she would find a way to bother him yet again.

---

Luna hurled all sorts of curses at Ventus as she descended towards Galbar, carried by Ventus' wind. When she broke through the clouds, she was finally greeted with the same breathtaking panoramic view of Galbar from the skies. This time, however, Luna took a closer look at 'Firewind Desert', as Ventus had called it.

Truthfully, Luna could not understand why deserts existed. She had also asked Ull'Yang once before about the reason why he allowed one of Cygneas' continents to host deserts, and he simply smiled and started talking about balance in all things and everything has a meaning. Luna dozed off the moment Ull'Yang started talking gibberish.

Nevertheless, it seemed that it was not only he that allowed deserts to exist, all the other gods did as well. "Weird," Luna simply thought. "And to go so far as to call it a Holy Land... hmm, Ventus did mention an empire, didn't he?"

Luna wondered about this empire Ventus talked about. Mortals managed to create an empire among the sand dunes? How could they survive in these barren lands?

Luna was full of questions as she landed on the border of the desert. She looked to her east and saw the familiar sight of grassland. She remembered this grassland from when she was out searching for the Sunderer. The thought that at that time she was being stalked by one of Ventus' subordinates vexed her, and she couldn't help but start raining curses upon both Ventus and Synnefos once more.

"I command that you go elsewhere blah blah blah. I'll show you, you old fart cloud!" She thought and grinned.

Luna let out a howl before transforming into her wolf form. The muscles under her skin rippled, her bones rearranged themselves along with her organs. She went down on all fours, and her arms turned into another set of muscular legs, with paws instead of hands.

Luna growled after the transformation finished and a strange glint appeared in her eyes as she turned towards the west and the Firewind Desert. The Sunderer morphed into a small but thick, brownish golden ring that shot to the top of Luna's left ear, piercing it. Luna felt her concealed weapon dangling from her ear and smiled a wolfish smile before bolting towards the Firewind Desert.

In Tallgrass, Gerrik had managed to figure out a good daily routine. In the morning, before the heat of the day set in, Gerrik would head out with Sharon to forage for food. With his exceptional abilities, they had often collected more than enough food by midday, which they returned to the village. From midday until evening, Gerrik would experiment with the star-fiend carapace. Then in the evening Gerrik would teach and share stories, as was his typical mission. Occasionally Gerrik would join a hunting party rather than go foraging, where he was able to prove his reputation as an excellent archer.

All this hunting and gathering was not typical of Gerrik's visits to villages. As was always the case, he had to earn his keep, for the village had to feed and shelter him. Normally, teaching and crafting was adequate, but in Tallgrass he was spending many hours on a personal project. Compounded with the fact that this was a very small village, with only 14 adults, Gerrik would have been an intolerable burden if he didn't help provide food.

This had some other benefits. Thanks to Gerrik's great efficiency at foraging, the people of Tallgrass were actually collecting a small surplus of food, and thus able to spend a bit more time performing other activities. The villager with the most free time was Sharon, since she went foraging with Gerrik. In this time she weaved, producing clothes, tents and baskets, using some techniques already known and some taught by Gerrik.

Another benefit was that this schedule gave Gerrik a lot of time with Sharon, while they were out foraging. Gerrik's profession meant that he rarely spent time with individuals and did not stay in one place long enough to develop meaningful relationships. But with the unusual circumstances here, things were different.

One afternoon Gerrik was at work shaping the star-fiend carapace. The big stone which he dropped from a tree, while delivering a massive amount of force, was very slow and strenuous to use and quite inaccurate, so Gerrik had built another hammer. This was a hammer with a hardwood handle almost as long as he was tall, with a hefty stone head. Such a hammer was perfectly suited for delivering great force in each blow, and the only reason he hadn't had one before was because it would have been much too big and heavy to carry long distances.

With this big hammer Gerrik flattened a chunk of star-fiend carapace against a flat rock. The sharp clangs of the stone against the metal rang out rhythmically throughout the village, only interrupted whenever Gerrik had to stop and readjust the position of the carapace.

Sharon sat down nearby with her weaving. She had threads made from twisted tall grass, a simple loom made of sticks holding the threads, and a bone needle, and was weaving together a square of coarse fabric. But while one pair of eyes watched her loom, her other pair of eyes furtively inspected Gerrik. With each lift of the hammer Gerrik's arms bulged slightly, his exoskeleton expanding to accommodate his flexing muscles. And each swing of the hammer was delivered with impressive strength and equally impressive accuracy. Gerrik was strong, agile, smart too, and-

"You missed a weave," Gerrik said casually between hammer blows.

Sharon was jolted from her thoughts, and looked properly at her loom and found that she had indeed just made a mistake. Sheepishly she undid the offending thread and wove it properly. Gerrik didn't break from his task, although his eyes betrayed amusement.

"How do you do that?" Sharon asked in disbelief. Gerrik hadn't even been properly looking at her loom at the time, and he had noticed a small flaw from several metres away.

"As I've said, I'm very perceptive," Gerrik replied.

Sharon tilted her head back slightly. "So you've said." Although Sharon was almost certain that Gerrik had some secret behind that superlative perceptiveness. She then set down her loom and leaned a little closer, looking at what Gerrik was working on. To visible inspection, it was a flattened piece of that star-fiend carapace, roughly 5cm wide and 20cm long, tapering to a point, and relatively thin. The edges were still rough. "What are you making there?"

Gerrik stopped his hammering, set the sledgehammer down, and knelt down to pick up the object. He held it out to Sharon for her to take a closer look. "I'm making a blade. Star-fiend carapace is malleable like clay, but hard like stone, so it should be sharper than a bone blade and larger than a flint blade. Should last a long while, and be easier to repair."

Sharon simply nodded, looking at the rough metal blade. Gerrik continued, "It still has a bit of work until it's finished."

Gerrik and Sharon went back to their crafts. Eventually, Gerrik finished hammering his blade. It had been a long and tiresome task, but the chunk of star-fiend carapace had finally become a refined product. Gerrik picked up the blade and held it close to his eyes, inspecting it more closely. On closer inspection, it was almost finished, but the edge was still fairly dull. It needed to be sharpened, and Gerrik had already thought of how to do that.

Gerrik took out his flint knife. Flint was exceptionally hard and sharp, so could possibly be used to shave the carapace knife's edge. Gerrik pressed the edge of the flint against the carapace and pushed it along the blade.

To Gerrik's surprise, this action threw red-hot sparks out ahead of the blade. Sharon's gaze snapped up from her weaving at the flash of light.

Gerrik paused for a few moments, until he tentatively brought the flint knife back up the carapace blade and repeated the action. More sparks were thrown.

"How did you do that?" Sharon asked, surprised.

Gerrik brought the carapace blade up to his eyes and inspected where he had carved. "I'm not sure," Gerrik slowly replied, "It has something to do with scraping flint along the star-fiend carapace."

After studying the blade for a few more seconds, he lowered it and repeated the scraping action, this time scraping it multiple times in succession, spraying out more sparks against his working stone. Gerrik inspected the blade again, as well as where the sparks had flown. He noticed that he had indeed shaved a tiny bit of carapace off the blade, and that the sparks had deposited minuscule flecks of material onto the stone.

"The flint knife shaves off tiny flecks of the carapace, and these somehow burst into flame," Gerrik concluded, "Why the flecks turn into sparks is something I can only guess at. This action would produce considerable heat from the rubbing, which probably helps, but would not be enough to light a fire on its own. Perhaps the remains of the star-fiend's spirit grants its carapace this fire-starting power, although that is only a guess." Gerrik leaned back and laughed, his hands turning upwards. "But do you know what this means, Sharon? I've invented another way to start fires!"

Sharon leaped to her feet. This was exciting indeed. "Gerrik, that's wonderful! Wait-" Sharon's expression shifted from glee to puzzlement, "another way?"

"Yes, another way," Gerrik answered, "You know the bow drill?"

"Yes, of course."

"I invented that."

Sharon's eyes widened in surprise. She took a few moments to absorb the revelation. Her mouth gaped for a few moments, lost for words, until she finally said, "How old are you?"

Gerrik glanced down at himself. His body was close to that of a hain in his physical prime. Yet how long ago had it been since he had gone off with Stone Chipper to travel the world? It had been many, many years. A few generations, even. Yet the only sign of all those years on his body were the results of that much physical activity. Gerrik looked back to Sharon. "Much older than I look. Being blessed by a god has its perks."

Sharon gaped in awe for a little longer, until the silence became awkward. Gerrik broke the silence, holding up the two knives. "I think I have a good demonstration for tonight's lesson."

Sharon nodded. "I think they will find that to be spectacular."

---

Gerrik walked around the hill and over the burnt ground towards the corpse of the Realta. He needed to collect another sample to experiment further and make new tools. It was a trip which would take the better part of an hour, so he had time to think and observe the world around him.

His thoughts wandered to Sharon and Tallgrass. Tallgrass was typical of many small villages. The able-bodied villagers all had to spend most of each day foraging or hunting if they were to gather enough food to feed everyone. This left scarce little time to do other activities, like the weaving and sowing Sharon liked to do. While food collecting was important, it did nothing other than maintain the status quo. The boundaries of technology and culture can't be pushed when people are just barely making ends meet. Additionally, unless the landscape were particularly fertile, villages often had to roam between multiple locations in order to not exhaust the local food supply. If only there were some more efficient way of gathering food.

Around him, in these ashen fields, grew young green shoots of grass. It was nature recovering from the destruction the star-fiend had wrought. This particular grass was the kind from which Tallgrass had gained its name. This grass grew relatively tall, and when mature its seeds were useful for food and bread.

Being the naturalist he was, Gerrik considered the grass for a while longer. It was regrowing. This place would eventually become a field full of grass. Grass which produced edible grains. Plants spread and grew, this was only natural. But how did they spread? Gerrik had observed many plants over the years, his Perception and eidetic memory helping there, and had figured out that it was the seeds which grew into new plants. What if he could bring many food-bearing plants into the one location?

Epiphany struck. He would gather the seeds of plants, such as these tall grasses, and grow them in a single area, making collection far easier. If he could achieve such a feat and teach it to others, then villages would no longer need to spend the majority of their time searching for food. There would be more time for everyone to follow other pursuits, and, he thought to himself, more free time for Sharon.

It was a brilliant plan, but one which would take time and effort to implement. He retrieved a second chunk of star-fiend carapace as he had originally planned, then headed back to Tallgrass, his mind abuzz with plans.

---

Out in the forest, Gerrik and Sharon were busy digging up roots to eat. Gerrik seemed to always be able to find those which were ripe for collecting. As they dug, Gerrik spoke up.

"Tell me, Sharon, how much do you like foraging for food?"

Sharon seemed a little surprised at the question. "Oh? Um. It's always been something I've had to do. Foraging is important, for we need to eat. And we all need to contribute."

"That wasn't what I asked," Gerrik said. "If there was no need for you to forage, would you choose to do it, or would you choose something else to do with your time?"

Sharon paused to consider the question more deeply. "I suppose I would do something different. I like making clothes and fabrics. I've even been putting patterns into them. I find it relaxing."

"What if I told you," Gerrik said, "that I had figured out a way for Tallgrass to get most of its food without spending all day foraging?"

Sharon's eyes widened. "Really?"

Gerrik nodded. "It's just a plan at this stage, but I'll set it into motion soon. My plan is to grow all these plants in a single area near our village. By being close to the village, we won't have to spend hours walking and searching. We'd need to care for the plants, of course, but by my estimation everyone should be better off."

Sharon's head tilted upwards and her palms bared towards the sky. A small laugh of glee sounded from Sharon's mouth. Gerrik saw Sharon's happiness, and was in turn filled with warm joy. "Can you really make that happen?" Sharon asked.

"It will take time and hard work. It might be a couple of seasons before the plants are big enough to bear fruit. But yes, I should be able to make it happen," Gerrik replied.

The idea was so exciting that Sharon wouldn't drop the subject all day. Gerrik carefully outlined everything he knew about plants, their various stages of growth, the source of their seeds, what time of year they tended to bloom and fruit, and so on. Sharon was rapt, and Gerrik was happy that Sharon was happy. They made plans to start this project as soon as possible.

Darkness deepness. Leaves rustle. Heartbeats throb wearily on the water-face.

Weathered rock path, perfectly pictured.

Born, heroes play and conquer speaking, listening, stepping. Everywhere the sound of water, pure and clean spills forth and lead with motherly concern, guiding one through a watery world. Lie down now. Solitude comfort, sitting and understanding in a cool evening of bliss, yellow leaves fall like paper gold, hollow oak, sleeping. Up up! Ancient gardens flow no longer with water, but with deep roots of oak trees, no longer mothered, but must lead small ones, uncertain paths of the gray world. Falling for life, sliding down glinting obsidian.

Lost in a world of green, asleep in a jungle of dangers.

I stir, feeling lost. Speak to the trees:

— Why am I here?

A voice sounded, low and dreary, but warm and comforting

— Because you were happy here. Walk again.

The jungle leaves flutter, leaves dance their soft rustle around my ears. The green parts slightly, and walking up the rocky road I am again feeling a sense of mysterious belonging, yet tinged so slightly with sadness. The voice too was familiar, and my mind clearer. But thoughts didn't stay, not for long enough to keep together. The jungle murmured.

This path! A slight incline, a narrow V of rock in the hillside — not a road but a path I've taken I'm sure — the weathered rocks, the smooth slate, the clear blue of the sky bringing out all the sharp edged colors. The feeling of knowing this place is as strong as the place itself, it must be significant to me, must be important. What is at the top, when did I climb? I should be climbing now but I'm not. Who was that voice from before? The warm basso rippled under me:

— Join me here, in the courtyard.

The rocky path is now gone, replaced by a glorious expanse of clean cut grass and meadow flowers rustling gently in the breeze, inviting me to imagine, to play, to lose myself. Someone watches over me from the side, a bright figure I couldn't make out, but their presence doesn't frighten me. I was watched, cared for, enabled. As before, I felt so truly at home here it came with a bitterness, like an old drawing showing that catches only the glimpse of the true memory. My eyes hurt.

It is all here, complete. The park is perfect and pristine. A massive bastion swathing me in familiarity so much so that I could hide behind a grin. A feeling builds inside, a pressure in my chest and eyes, a fountain of pressure fights to get out. The tears well up and out onto my cheeks. I feel confusion by my reaction, but the grief overrides it and me, and I give myself to the intense emotion. The sense of loss is acute, like having my insides turned out by a blade. I was falling, falling into myself, and the feeling of falling came with a blueness, a rocking feeling like comfort. I was afloat, I was on a blue stretch of water, my tears as nothing against the sublime reflection of the sun on the water's flowing surface, trickling music.

— What is going on, who brought me here? I ask the voice. The emotions in me quiet themselves, steeling against the possible reaction. Looking around I see the shore and the port. I am on a body of water, a water I have dreamt of often.

— I think you know, if you want to.

Dreamt. Dreamt of often. Was I? Am I dreaming?

Jungle, lovely, dark and deep? Stole o'er the stillness the heartbeats of sleep?

The speaker of the soothing voice, must be the figure of light, watching over and directing. Why am I being guided in my own dream?

My eyes narrow a piercing gaze at the shifting figure now opposite me in a boat. Trying to see through the dazzling mirrors that seemed to obscure my sight. The boat wobbles, a tremor. My reflection looks concernedly up at me from the water.

— You must be ready if you want to know, want to go. Float here awhile instead. Be happy in the gentle waves of the sea. See how perfect the water is, crystal clear. Relax, and be. You could be here forever if you wanted, content and unmoving.

The comforting words almost obscure the nagging familiarity. But worry starts to build up. Am I being had? Am I being held against my will?

— With your will.

Panic in chest. Body stirs. This is a dream! A long one! How many years have I been here? How many times have I climbed the hill of the Venomweald, or played in the courtyard of The Cipher, or boated gently along the White Ocean in youthful fascination?

— Rain is always hardest for you.

— What do you mean rain! I demand. The summer sun is gleaming here, in this, in this, is this dream a prison?

— It is raining now outside. For hours, I think.

Conscious thought is starting to catch up, thoughts staying long enough to collect several together and compare, form proper memories. I had been dreaming for hours? Panic, panic!

The boat rocks again. The water is darker, the sky greyer. There were movements below the surface of disfigured fish, bulging eyes, rotting skin. I jerk to my feet, upsetting the boat. I'm falling, falling from a swing, landing on rocks, tumbling down against hard stones and falling grit.

— Be calm. Calm and you can stay. We chose this remember.

The voice was even more familiar. Imperfect, low but slightly cringe inducing. Like hearing yourself speak.

I was in a glade. Sat next to a hollowed out oak. It was an idyllic scene from my recent past, but the grass was dying. Looking at the oak, I could see it was covered in some dark and sinister dust. Cold wind stabbed through the area, otherwise there was silence.

— This isn't what you came here to preserve, remember. You must relax, go back to the memories, stay with me. That is what you wanted.

The truth hits me like the sting of a slap. The voice, it was my voice!

— No! The truth, I must know the truth! I demanded. You are me, I am hear because I kept myself here, that is what is happening, isn't it!

— Yes. But you must go back to sleep. This is the only way to stay, to remember.

But it was too late. Like a blocked pipe suddenly cleared, the voice became my memory and the floodgates opened.

— We know these places are gone. The land has withered. You escaped the catastrophe alive, just, but your home and true happiness have gone forever. Unfit for life, Xerxes rots beneath the ash. But here you sleep, safe, to keep your home alive. Come back and walk up the mountain path, or play in the courtyard of your father. This is the second best thing. You don't have to cry, you don't have to fear anymore. Everything you ever had they have taken from you, everything except what you keep inside, in your head, your memories. Made real again by endless sleep. The water is only this clear and blue in your head, slipping over your oar like the purest, most wonderful substance there is, has ever been. All now is poisoned and dead outside, all except what you have kept alive here.

— But. But it is fading. These memories aren't real, and now I see the years have worn them thin. I will never know what is at the top of the path, because I never went all the way up. The rocky terrain I walk here will only ever be a caricature, a faded painting. Real water is more mysterious than this, in the end, perhaps being here will only renew the grief.

— Maybe. Maybe the grinding of time has reached us here, and it is time to wake up. Back to life, dreary life, the pain of putting one foot in front of another when there is nothing to get to or from that matters anymore. But if we leave here, it will be forever.

— To many times in life has it been easier to lie down and do nothing. To many times will people say yes because it is easier. The world could crumble because a single man chooses the easy option, the selfish option. In the future lies great opportunity, unspeakable danger, we must fight for our future. In staying here to sink beneath the waves, down to the sediment, I have failed myself. But now perhaps I can talk myself round. Because I always have a choice, have always had a choice. And I will choose now.



Crusted eyes snapped open as water spilled from Tobias' throat, liquid that had forced it's way into his lungs choking him in attempt to escape. Panicking, he lifted his wet body off the ground, contorting his aching torso in an attempt ease the waters getaway. With his lungs soon devoid of the foreign contaminant, his body trembled, seemingly screaming at him to desperately swallow in oxygen. Slivers past before he finally relaxed, plopping back down to the ground, suddenly exhausted. With pebbled dirt beneath his cheek, the world appeared as if seen through thick glass. High above, he gazed upon a screen of branches. A canopy. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he saw broken branches and a hole in the awning. His mind reeled. How am I alive?

Gathering his resolve, he propped himself upon his elbow, and his arm burst in a fountain of pain; A jagged gash ran down his left arm, the wound peeled back at the surface, looking like gnarled lip, and congealed blood covered the gaping cut. He recalled the scene with the beast and winced. “Fate help me." he voiced aloud, looking around for a stream or nearby brook.

Slowly, he lifted his soaking body, ache from stagnation hindering his progress a sliver. Why was I so tired? What forced me into such a state of depleted energy? Or was I always this out of shape? The voice in his head... why was he able to recall it but unable to pinpoint its owner. Who did it belong to? Opting to deal with his more pressing problems, he struggled to his feet, only to be nearly wrenched back down by a throbbing in his other shoulder. Gently, he rolled it, and sucked in a sharp breath, it felt detached. He looked around in uncertainty, unable to figure a solution until a memory flashed. Stumbling on his feet, he hobbled to nearby tree. A strange, familiar calm came over him. At the height of his exhale he rammed his shoulder into the trunk. Following a thunk and loud pop, pain bloomed before his eyes, but when it cleared he could move his arm again. He was sure the hermit had not taught him that.

Battling with his latest bout of deja vu, Tobias finally took the opportunity to survey his surroundings. All around him, pillars of wood and bark with heads as thick as megaflora towered over him. They loomed over everything, silent and brooding in their leafy reverie. Their boughs as thick as barrels, branches. reached upwards like the despairing limbs of the damned. Hanging from them were goatees of moss, mangrove-green and swishing with a lazy spite. Pools of shadow formed under those trees and fevered eyes, glazed with hunger, lurked in the carnal-black darkness. All the while, oceanic-like gales rustled the sky-high canopy, inviting with it thick icy sheets of rain that obscured his vision, yet the deep green remained unnaturally silent and foreboding, hiding behind them a maddening cocktail of whoops, squawks, screeches and wails that could be heard above the torrential downpour.

Muffled by the deluge, Tobias let loose a string curses, most of which were directed towards the gods. How in bloody hells had he gotten himself into this situation? Memories suddenly resurfaced, the image of Mika slumped against a tree with a verg hovering over him forefront in his mind. "Ah, that's how." he murmured despondently, his stomach swallowing itself many times over. This is no time for guilt. And Tobias wholeheartedly agreed. Mika swore to meet him wherever the Silvas River ended, he needed to fulfill his end of the bargain.

North… he mused despondently, considering his current options and lacking odds. Their was no way he could traverse the jungle in his current condition, not to mention the supernatural deluge coupled with the fast approach of nightfall. Which means I stay put and wait this out. Tobias sighed, which also meant building a shelter.

Tobias put his hands to his hips and gazed up at the canopy. At most he had an hour; within that hour, he needed a fire, a shelter, food, and something to clean his wound. He cursed once again; their was only one problem with his list of chores. He was in far too much pain to be cutting and tugging branches to make a shelter and everything in this jungle was soaking wet from the rain. Shelter and fire were both going to be out of the question until he healed up a bit and finding dry tinder would prove a challenge.

Tobias glanced around and realized there wasn't a damn thing he could now. He had fresh rain water to sip from the leaves and a weapon; that would have to be enough for today.

It wasn't in Tobias' nature to sit idle, but it would seem that just now, idleness was being forced upon him. He limped a short distance from his tree, answered nature's call and limped his way back. Settling himself down gingerly, he sipped at some leaf water before reaching for his sickle-sword, which conveniently lay nearby. He then pulled off his wet boots and socks. The last thing he wanted out here was jungle rot, Mika had made it very clear how bad it could get.

Tobias knew survival with his injuries was going to be a challenge. The best he could do was stay resting a day or two and get down to business when he could move and breathe with a lot less pain. Overdoing it now would only help get him killed.



Tobias weaved through the trees along the Silvas with little more than guesswork to guide him. His breath came in small spurts, hot and nervous. At his sides, dark fingers curled into sweaty fists, swinging forward as if it would make him faster. Behind him, he could hear the rattle of his assailants breath, its thundering steps drawing ever closer. Mud smeared his sweaty face as sweat dripped from his matted hair. 

"Please Divines, let me live!" he cried aloud, throwing himself forward with even greater abandon. His lungs and heart were pumping, but the air didn't seem to be enough as he sprinted forward, panic trembling in his exhausted limbs.

Cresting a hill, he broke free of a dense patch of needle leafs and rolled freely down an embankment, a natural landslide that served his purposes more effectively now that it was covered in moss and sped his escape from whatever hunted him.

As the canopy overhead thickened, his steps grew muffled by the dense undergrowth that blanketed the jungle floor; the ground no longer rocky beneath his soles.

Tobias could no longer tell where he was going. For hours he ran, and for hours it chased. What it exactly was for now remained a mystery to him. Days past had proven unproductive as his body still suffered from the first days injures. Then one morning he awoke with it stalking him and without hesitation, he took off running with it after him.

Before Tobias could form another thought, yellow-gold eyes reappeared in front of him, pupils narrowing to needle-thin slits.

For a moment, all he see was the monster, and then it stepped forward through the hanging curtains of thick mist, sunlight glinting off its glittering golden fur and silver claws.

Ah, a Nemean lion. Tobias cursed, wondering a bit at its beauty. He was in no condition to fight such a beast, unfortunately, thier was no outrunning it,

"Here, kitty, kitty." He called softly, his tone menacing and eyes watching the lion's every move.

It rumbled threateningly low in response, light flashing off its giant pointed teeth, its tail twitching lazily from side to side.

Tobias watched as it kneaded the ground with its claws, it's muscles rippling underneath its golden fur. Suddenly, it tensed, readying itself to leap, all the while, Tobias knew he needed to make the first move if wanted a chance at beating this thing. Without a second more to spare, he yelled a battle cry-something outside his character, but an attention grabber none the less.

The lion roared is response so forcefully that he could feel his hair blowing back, and hear the rustling of the leaves in the trees as if a powerful wind just passed by.

Immediately, he took to the attack, thrusting his sword at its chest, knowing very well it wouldn't do any damage. His sword skating off in a burst of sparks, snapping violently in half. Before he could voice his dismay, he leapt out reach of its claws, and sprinted into the tree, checking behind him to see if it was following him.

It was-only a few feet behind him, swiping at him back with its ten-inch claws.

Gritting his teeth, he swerved abruptly sideways, slipping narrowly between two trees, remarkably close together for a lion to follow-although it didn't stop it from trying. Sliding to a halt as he turned, nails digging deep furrows in the earth, it bounded forward, slipping a paw after him, scraping and slashing at the bark in an effort to get to him.

At least it wasn't that smart, in any case, he was.

Tobias sprinted out of reach, zig-zagging through the trees until he found the perfect one. Stopping, he pulled himself up into one of the trees, climbing until he more than twenty feet above the ground, waiting for the lion to walk below him.

It wasn't long before it stalked out of the trees, head low to the ground, setting its paws lightly upon the undergrowth, following his scent, trying to sneak up on him.

Tobias grinned savagely, the joke's on it, this time.

Letting himself fall from his branch, he landed hard on the lion's back, driving the air from his lungs all the while using his weight to stumble and fall the lion, its front paws tangling beneath it, sending it face-first into the dirt.

Without a moment to spare, he drew is halved sickle-sword, slashing at the lion's face, aiming for the eyes. Quickly, it attempted to climb back to its feet, yet it made the mistake of turning to try to bite at him, and the tip of his blade scratched across the surface of a giant yellow-gold eye; not as deep a cut as he'd like, but the lion's wails of pain satisfied him.

The lion's movements jostled Tobias off of its back, but he didn't mind, he couldn't kill it unless he on the ground. Racing forward to try to get at it while it was distracted by the pain in its eye, it straightened just as he neared, glaring hate with a bleeding, bloodshot red eye weeping tears.

Tobias cursed and tried to veer away, but the evasion came too late, and the lion's paw swiped out with enough force to send him flying twenty feet into a tree.

His head cracked against the trunk and pain erupted like a supernova all through him. The edges of his vision went ragged and black and what he could see was blurry and unfocused.

The sight of the Nemean lion stalking towards him was clear enough, though. He struggled to rise to his feet, the tip of his sword dragging in the dirt; he had somehow managed to keep a hold of it.

Summoning his strength, he straightened and twisted his sword in his hand, smacking the hilt directly between the lion's eyes and sending it stumbling away. Quickly, he staggered to his left, the opposite direction it went in, trying to get back to the rivers edge.

He could hear the lion roaring and wailing in rage and pain behind him, which encouraged him to quicken his pace, but that only caused him to trip and nearly fall, forcing him to steady himself against the trunk of a tree, scraping his hand badly on the bark. When he gazed at it, the cut was deep and dripping blood.

His head span dizzily, but he kept on, reaching the river bank just as the Nemean lion reached him.

Its breathing hard behind him, he twisted just in time for one of its claws to catch his skin, tearing along the shoulder of his shirt and down across his collarbone.

He stumbled back, nearly falling, his vision blurring suddenly giving the world a pair of clones, but he stood firm, raising his sword, his arm straining with the effort.

The lion roared and took to the attack, slashing at him again; narrowly he turned away in time to avoid a fatal blow and the claws raked across his back, shredding flesh.

The force of the hit sent him onto the ground, yet he fought through the pain, scrambling to stand, but his head wouldn't let him. Facing the lion from the ground, his hands bracing his weight behind him, knees half drawn up to his chest, he watched as the lion came tauntingly closer and closer.

It roared again, defiantly, triumphantly, and then lunged forward, its mouth gaping wide to bite out his throat and end the fight one and for all.

Cursing the gods one last time, he threw up his left arm with slivers to spare and screamed in pain as its teeth clamp down on his arm. Gritting his own teeth, and recognizing that this as his last chance, he thrusted his sword down the lion's throat.

Abruptly, teeth released his arm, making an awful suction as it wailed at his sword ripping it open from the inside. It gaged, choked and shuddered, then, seconds later, it fell lifeless.

A strange calm fell over Tobias, he couldn't stand, but crawled over to the carcass, dragging his sword, which felt like it weighed thousands of pounds, but feeling unsafe without it, he gripped it reassuringly in his hand and collapsed onto the lion, his strength finally giving out and his mind spiraling into darkness.

Through an open window there shone a ray of the brightest midday sun. It fell upon Akthanos' face and finally roused him from his long slumber. To wake to the sweltering desert sun rather than the cool morning breeze took its toll on him already. Pain from his fall the day before also taxed him, though that all too familiar ache of his bones had subsided. He knew that to be the work of Yara. Her healing magic had no doubt saved his life, and through means incomprehensible to his own mind, it had been as if she had given him back a few years of his long life. He would have to strive to find value in each extra day.

So with that thought to compel him, he finally rose from his long slumber. He groggily touched his face, and though he thought the wrinkles slightly lessened, his beard was still scraggly and unkempt. He reached to his bedside for the King's Law, for he brought that scepter with him even when he went to wash his face and groom his hair in the mornings.

It was with alarm that he found the King's Law missing, but then memories returned to him. In Yara's temple he had fallen, and then he had sent the King's Law to Heru. With some relief he sighed, for it was well that Lord Zephyrion's vessel was held by a prince of Vetros and not some wretched thief, but he still saw a darker part of himself: though it defied logic and defied his trust and love for his own son, a part of him was undeniably envious and fearful that his son held the King's Law, even if it had been only for the night and this morning. Though it was natural for a son to take up his father's mantle and eventually surpass him, no father wanted to see the day come that their own son claimed their power!

But alas, Heru was not the man that his misguided brother had become, and so the Priest-King was sure that the prince would return the King's Law. So Akthanos hurriedly made himself presentable, and then his own anxiety drove him towards his son's mansion.

Heru was destined to one day become the Priest-King of all Vetros and take up residence in the palace above Zephyrion's grand temple; however, until that day came he was the city's grand general. With the soldiers and nobles he spent his days and broke his fasts, and near their barracks and manors he dwelled in a small mansion of his own. It was a beautiful and serene home near the riverbank of the sacred Mahd, but of course Heru did not spend much of his time in the shade of trees admiring that view and tranquility. Instead he stood in the open sun, dressed in a warrior's garb, drilling men and sparring to hone his own skills. It was in the middle of an open field that Akthanos found his son engaged with his captains in some debate of military strategy. Off to the side, a hundred warriors practiced their formations and marching orders.

"The Priest-King! Hail to Your Holiness (forever may you live)!" one of the captains called out. The others noticed immediately after, and then so too did those warriors that had seemed so engrossed in their drills. They all feel to their knees before Akthanos, and even though Heru was prince, he too averted his gaze and looked to the ground before adressing his lord father.

Akthanos smiled with pride at his son, but then that look began to fade and instead became one of angst. "Beloved father," the scion began, "you must forgive me for not paying you visit this morning. It is a bad son that does not go to his father for blessing and counsel in dire times such as these. I praise you and the Master for delivering our city from Y'Vahn's horror!"

The Priest-King looked to those captains by his son's side, the lot of them still on their knees. "Rise my honorable soldiers, protectors of the city and all that is sacred. You do me honor with your praise, but as a father, I ask for a moment alone with my son."

The captains were on their feet again at once, and in short order they ordered the other soldiers assemble and marched off to leave Akthanos and the prince alone in that vast field.

"The King's Law," Akthanos began the moment that he sure no others could hear, "where have you stowed it?"

Confusion first seized command of Heru's expression, but then the implications set in and then there was only panic. "The King's Law? My hands have never known its touch! Do you mean to say that it is lost?"

Akthanos was known to be many things: wise, just, patient. Above all else, his calmness in the face of evil or adversity and his unwavering temperament made him the image of stocism. But in a moment all of that was gone, and he instantly broke down. Grief and confusion and fear swept over and through him, and first he glared at Heru and thought his own son a liar. That lasted perhaps a second before he looked upon his son's face and knew that Heru could never lie. He collapsed onto his knees then, already past his denial, and fell into what could only be called grief and despair. He had ordered the King's Law to deliver itself into Heru's hand, and yet it was nowhere to be found. Had another being stolen it, or had Zephyrion thought him unworthy and revoked his blessing? Either option would bring doom upon Vetros and all the Holy Land; to lose control over the King's Law was not only to lose their fortune and their power, it was to lose the Master's trust and favor. It was to reject the one that had given them everything and demanded only reverence in turn.

It was then that Akthanos knew: his first suspicions had been correct! Anger flooded through his once calm body and made him shake. He looks to the heavens and howled a gutteral and indecipherable stream of words, cursing Yara the witch, Yara the liar, Yara the betrayer. She was no priestess of Zephyrion! To consort with her was to spit upon Zephyrion; surely that was why the Master would have taken back the King's Law?

Heru, meanwhile, could look on with nothing more than outright shock. To see his father reduced to such a state was traumatizing enough, but Heru too was a pious man, and he similarly understood what were to happen if the King's Law had been lost. After a moment, Akthanos regained his composure, and he was utterly still. It was almost unnatural and terrifying to see how calm he had become, but when he put on steady hand upon Heru's shoulder and his son looked into his eyes, that calm spread as if a contagious plague.

"I think I know what has happened," Akthanos whispered, and he explained all of those thoughts that he had just harbored to his son. Heru's face hardened, and at last it was he that whispered, "Then we must kill her and burn her temple, to set things right once more."

It was then that there came another hushed breath, though this one was from neither the priest nor the warrior. It came from the wind itself. "Cease your madness," it bid them. They both swung their heads to look towards the source of that voice, and lo and behold, from the dust upon the dry ground and from the twisted winds, there appeared the body of a djinn.



"The King's Law was not claimed back by the Master, nor was it snatched by some thief. Nay, 'Priest-King' Akthanos, 'twas you who delivered it into the hands of a man unworthy and wretched. You would do well to claim it once more, before its power may be misused," the djinni continued.

"I? You say 'twas I?" Akthanos stammered, "Nay, it cannot be. I commanded it go to my son!"

"Aye, and so it did."

The prince and the king shared one look of bewilderment and confusion, then stared at the djinn almost accusingly. The face inside the writhing dust devil stared back as impassively as it had been the whole time, utterly adamant and unwavering in the face of their skepticism. Then understanding struck the two of them, and then horror. The djinn recognized that in their faces, and knowing that its work was done, it dissipated into thin air as quickly as it had come.

Y'Qar had the King's Law. He was many things: a brother to Heru and a son to Akthanos, loved by both. And yet they had both seen the darkness that had grown in him even as a youth, and they knew well of the envy and hate that spread through his being and corrupted him like a tumor. They had not rejected him, but he had rejected them and Vetros. He would not yield the King's Law willingly, and they both knew that.

So it was decided that Heru would lead a band of the kingdom's greatest warriors to track down his brother and bring the sacred artifact back. The city itself depended on that, and Akthanos was far too old to undertake such a quest. Deep down, he also knew that he lacked the stomache to trade blows with his own flesh and blood.

He would stay in Vetros and do what he could to prevent knowledge escaping of the scepter's loss, for to know of such a calamity would bring chaos and panic to the god fearing people. While his son chased Y'Qar to the edges of the world, Akthanos would remain in Vetros to hold the people together. And while he did that, he would also ensure that Y'Vahn could not strike in their time of weakness!

---

When evil came for you, it could be rejected and repelled, beaten back and forgotten for a time.

But it could not be rooted out and banished forevermore. To do that took a braver sort of man, one who was willing to seek out the evil and fight it in its vile source. That was the only way to rid the world of its touch.

So while Y'Vahn's message (if it could even be called such, for it seemed as much a taunt!) was clear, Akthanos was nonetheless fearful. 'To the Mangroves,' Y'Vahn had written in an unholy message of blood and misery, 'down the Mahd.'

As fate would have it, some touch of sacred wind seemed to have touched some of the city's shipwrights. Where before they had built simple rafts and paddleboats, now the Master had implanted in their minds the designs of mighty ships that would be perfect for just such an endeavor. That seemed a clear enough indication of what the Master wanted: Akthanos was to accept Y'Vahn's challenge and confront it in its own lair. It might be his final journey, and he yearned to touch the King's Law just once more before he died, but deep down he knew that it was just this sort of feat that would make him worthy of those days that he had held the King's Law.

It was not just that his sun held the burden of the world upon his shoulders as he sought to reclaim the King's Law, whilst Akthanos himself rested in luxury. No, he would maintain order in Vetros just as he had promised Heru, but to do so he would have to leave and hunt down Y'Vahn. The passing of the past months had given him ample time to ruminate upon such matters and reaffirm those thoughts, and in that time those shipwrights blessed with divine knowledge had toiled tirelessly. Their marvels of engineering, their masterpieces, were at last complete, and so without further trepidation (for he had prayed a dozen nights and steeled his resolve many days ago) Akthanos boarded one of the ships with some of the city's warriors and a few other holy men. Then, they set off down the Mahd, a great crowd of Vetruvians seeing them off from the riverbanks.

'All those people have me in their prayers,' Akthanos thought to himself as the silhouette of Vetros slowly faded into the distance, 'but my son needs it more!'

It was frustrating and horrible that Heru had to work in secrecy, yet it was for the best. That was another reason that Akthanos had embarked on this expedition: it would draw attention away from how their prince had seemingly disappeared from the public view overnight. Akthanos had already lied and said that Heru was sick, that he was on a pilgrimmage to the great Firewind Resort, that he was praying in seclusion...but there were only so many excuses to be made before skepticism would grow. Now he simply hoped that a diversion would enough.

But enough of that! The Priest-King banished such thoughts from his mind, for they were only a distraction and he knew that troubling himself over his son's wellbeing would bring neither of them any good. Now, he had a task of his own, and he owed it to the Master to dedicate his every ounce of spirit and strength to that sacred mission. So with a burning fervor, Akthanos stared ever onwards down the river. There he stood vigil like a statue, looking for the signs of Y'Vahn's lair.

In due time, they came.

Neither obvious nor negligible, for the demons most feared are ever the most variable, the ones who are brute in one moment and subtle schemer in another. Beyond the mountainous Groves of the Lost, from which no being returned, there was cloud, trapped by the craglands and forced into heavy mist. The first omen was one of sound. Its lack, and its presence.

Shouts were eaten by the whiteness, and the ships were forced to align prow to stern and light lanterns so as to stay in touch. As the comfort of the human tongue grew weaker, others, very slowly, began to take its place.

Creakings, gnashings, writhings, strange twangs and crackles like no creature wrought by any good god. Some were so close their source felt only an inch from the ear, making grown men twist in fright. Others were quiet, but so distant that their source surely must be monstrous in size. More still spoke of unseen vastnesses in the black water, following their ships like curious toys.

The first living things were felt only in sudden slickenings of exposed skin. Soldiers looked down to find spots and lines of glisten on their arm, quickly rubbed off only to be replaced by a nauseous rash. Most of the passengers on deck and below had been 'bitten', or licked, for lack of a better word, by the time they grew numerous enough to be perceived with the eye in strong lamplight. Flurries of transparent strands, disks thinner than hair, mindless and hungry.

Others. More. A blind sage claimed to hear the sound of the worm-trees walking. An undisciplined oarsman cast a handline only to be pulled against the hull with the force of an ox. Akthanos alone among men could perceive the flickers of things blurring around the trees in the corner of his eye, their numbers ever rising. Here, nature was backwards. Here, human normality was cast aside as foreign.

And Akthanos alone heard the voice.

"It's not with you."

"No," came his level response, "it is with my son. The Master's light must not fall into your clutches."

"Overwhelming force dissuades negotiation. The Emaciator can speak freely with Priest-King Akthanos." No spectacle, no suddenness. The mists before him simply thinned enough to reveal the body of Y'Vahn as it rose from depths in all its hollow artificial splendour.

It hovered, its passage imperceptible, defying its stillness to keep pace with the flagship as if both it and the Vetruvian lord were equally stationary above the black water. Its stance was meditative, perfectly symmetrical, and seated, though it only had two limbs- Its fingertips were touching as if steepled, and its hooves pressed together. Above these gangly arms, only a sleek grey visor, its rim studded with insect eyes.

Seated, it was no taller than a man, and its presence was far from godlike.

When the mists thinned before them, the creature that emerged was far from the horror that they had imagined. Nonetheless, those warriors and those holy men in Akthanos' ship looked upon that beast and at once took to arms. They held spears, vials of holy water, and torches to throw at their adversary, yet Akthanos waved them down.

Were he any other man, they might have killed him for that, or at the very least though him to be corrupted by J'Vahn and in need of exorcism; however, this was the Priest-King, and the Lord of the Firewind was known to be uncorruptible and righteous in all things. So his word was law, and they lowered their weapons in obedience. For now.

"For what purpose did you demand we come to this dark land, and what say ye in defense of your attack upon my city?"

"Accelerationism." A pause. Something c-c-c-cracked in the distance.

"The Mahd stretches only from northwest curve of the Ironheart to the Shimmering Sea. Firewind desert still significant barrier to free human movement. Latter obstacle grows irrelevant in face of increased Vetruvian resilience. King's Law also. Former has been eliminated." The clipped speech was unmistakably directed at the Priest-King's demand, but the connection was difficult to place.

"Close of Akthanos's reign opens Heru's. Vetros stands at the verge of imperial expansion. This world is yours."

The nonsensical drivel that initially came as J'Vahn's response was overshadowed by what it said at the end. The close of his reign? Was that a threat? "You speak in riddles, nay, in tongues. I have answered your summons not out of obedience for your dark will, but to bring you to answer for your heinous assault upon Vetros!"

In its first movement of any kind so far, and with the painstaking pace of a being trying to make itself clear to its lessers, Y'Vahn raised one of its arms and waved away the accusation with a flick of its wrist. "Irrelevant."

"Akthanos fails to gain perspective. Thus explain to Heartworm for the sake of your own clarity. Reign of Heru will be prosperous and mighty. Where shall he direct the power of his army? His priesthood? And the King's Law?"

He quickly grew impatient and weary of the serpent-tongued being, for it spoke in strange twists and circles. He held his mind steady and calm, ever fearful of being swayed to evil by the Corruptor before him. Nonetheless, he at least humored it with one more candid answer, "When a Priest-King can no longer bear the weight of his responsibility, it falls to his son to take on the burden and rule just as his father would have. So is Zephyrion's will ever preserved and tradition left untarnished."

This time the motion came not with a simple gesture. It unfolded with the same purposeful slowness. It was impossible to say if Y'Vahn felt frustration, but its body language spoke of a point to be made, and soon.

The Emaciator unfolded its limbs and moved forwards in the air, hooves coming to rest on the prow with a distinct tap. On slender legs it towered high above the mortals. "Akthanos ignores his target. When Heru ascends, he will live to see the Firewind stable. Surrounding states inevitably subsumed. With more power than a mortal has ever held, Vetros has the capacity to become an imperial superpower." It leaned in.

"The Emaciator does not threaten Akthanos. Vetros threatens the world."

Aha! The great evil had finally said something with a grain of truth, and its meaning was clear as the morning sky. "So it is true, then! You look upon all other lands and see that they are but fading sparks when held before the radiance that is the Vetruvian Kingdom. By the Master's will, we prosper, and by his will we would elevate the barbarous outsiders and heathens so that they too would shine.

But that threatens you, and draws your envy, and so you seek only to cast us down, lest the mud hovels and cave dwellings of your vile cultists may stand like palaces in the absence of true glory."

These words glanced from the glass-masked entity, and yet it leaned back. Progress had been made. "Analysis riddled with Vetruvian cultural bias irrelevant to the Emaciator. Nonetheless valid in assessment: Vetros has potential to dominate culture, erasing weaker peoples under Heru's banner."

"Akthanos fails in belief that the Emaciator experiences envy. So too destruction. Heartworm creates. Heartworm does not destroy. Heartworm fears desolation. Relative advancement of the people you crush largely irrelevant. More significant their relationship to the divine."

The more that it talked, the more two clashing forces battled in Akthanos' mind. One was a zealous fervor that grew more wrathful by the second and longed to slay the great evil right there. But the other was a growing suspicion that this strange being might be something other than the Y'Vahn, and mention of something called 'Heartworm' fueled such belief.

"What is this strange force that you call Heartworm, and through what means do you intend to enforce its will?" Akthanos questioned, no, demanded from the being.

There was almost no sign of change its demeanor. Still it was obvious that this was not an expected move.

"All-Beauty exists in multiple aspects," it said after a wait. "Time came when it pulled a tooth and cast it aside. The tooth grew in power and intellect until an opportunity to escape. I am Heartworm. I am the Emaciator that lives in the shadow of Jvan. And I lack the power to model this planet on my designs."

It was clear to all that these words had never been spoken before.

"Words alone can take the path of Vetros away from destruction."

It was then that Akthanos was affirmed: this was not J'vahn itself in all the being's monstrous horror, and how had he not recognized so much at once? Rather, this was a wayward soul, a rogue lieutenant of the Great Evil, but a wayward soul nonetheless. It was clear why the stars had guided his here and why destiny had brought him to this fateful encounter: it was his duty and his calling to free Heartworm and elevate it.

"Live in no shadow, for such is a miserable existence," Akthanos began in a markedly different tone, "for there is no need to cower beneath J'Vahn. Instead, look to a greater purpose and kneel before Lord Zephyrion. The noble Master will break your chains and cast asde J'Vahn's grasp from you, for it is known that he is the Supreme Being and that J'Vahn itself is nothing before his might.

In service to him, you would not be a sapling doomed to wither in the shadow. No, you would be a lotus flower finally allowed to bloom in the dawn! You need only swear your eternal loyalty to Him, with me as witness."

The visor was cold and still. Then, slowly, Heartworm pulled up its legs and hovered, seated again in the air, only now far closer.

"Do not consider Heartworm's existence in mortal terms. Heartworm deals in facts alone. Incapable of misery. Unchangeable coward. Nihilist. To kneel before any being means nothing."

"Heartworm coexisted with Zephyrion before the advent of humanity. Little in that epoch bar deities and wildlife. Its nature then and now forbids that it can exist in a state of religion. No action of the First Gale is capable of forcing an alteration in the Emaciator's circumstances." A very small pause, the only one yet that did not seem to be for effect. "Your God is one among many. Supremacy is illusory."

"There exist no words to describe the greatness of Zephyrion, and so his unimaginable might cannot be understated. Rest assured that he can elevate you, even if you should claim yourself immune to such things as fear and untouchable by the virtue of piety. Broken though you may be, he would accept you, and it is a fool that does not allow his acceptance with open arms and rejoice.

You stand witness to the inferiority of the other barbarous peoples of this world; their state stands as testiomony to the similar inferiority of their gods. My forefather Primus has witnessed Zephyrion's cataclysmic wrath as well as his great benevolence, and there can be no doubt that our Master reigns supreme."

After a moment, he continued, "All other so-called "gods" are vile demons like J'Vahn, unworthy of worship, or flies that would seek in vain to rival Zephyrion and mimic the greatness that he has wrought. So think, Heartworm, and see the reason and the great light that is service to the one true Master!"

To all this, Heartworm said: "False."

"Akthanos is mortal. Thinks along mortal lines. His position in the divine hierarchy denies him perspective. Forever. The Emaciator is a deity. Its perception surpasses."

The being turned in the air, now facing downstream. They all saw the lidded jets and cavities in its back. "Akthanos was summoned to learn this. Caliginous Mangrove opens into wider world. Many beings of vast power await. Akthanos does not adapt. Akthanos does not coexist. Yet a son of Akthanos will be the most powerful mortal on Galbar. Heartworm does not destroy. Heru might."

"I have reached out to you with Zephyrion's grace, Heartworm, and yet you have spurned it. To my sorrow I do not think that we shall part as friends, but know this: that destruction that you fear will not happen. Heru will not obliterate their hovels; rather, he will build grand palaces and temples on top of them. Where he goes the people will be elevated, and if you truly are a Creator you might find solace and joy in that," the elderly king responded, cold iron creeping back into that voice that had been so passionate moments before.

"And their gods?" said the being. "Intricate relationships with with deities that do not yield, nor abandon their folk?"

A snort was the rather undignified dismissal that Akthanos offered. "We do not deny the existence of others; after all, there you are in plain view. But as I have said, these others are but demons or flies. The followers of demons shall be driven away, but tolerance may yet come to those that would see fit to offer the flies their worship. So long as they recognize that their god is inferior to the one high Master, of course."

The next words held no more force than any of the previous ones, but they came suddenly. "This is over. Future fleets of Heartworm's design are yours. Vetros's future is its own. Heru's divine conflicts will exact what toll they demand. The Emaciator makes a final attempt to exemplify the power of even lesser demons."

There wasn't even a blur. Only a whistle of air as that oh-so-slender arm kicked out, spinning a full circle, and, in a fraction of a second, reducing the ship's figurehead into flying splinters- And carving a thin, perfect line of blood on Akthanos's larynx.

All around, the Caliginous Mangrove erupted.

The ophanim were nothing but wailing streaks of light in the mist that dwarved ships and ploughed water into waves three men high as they emerged, illuminating grey and brown as it became shrapnel of mangrove-wood. More and more they rose, impossibly vast, impossibly fast, turning a forest of trees into a forest of great and vengeful banshees of light in the sky-

And the waves rose until there was no up, nor down, for the water was falling in all directions and within it was revealed the faceless maws of the life that packed Mangrove waters like the ranks of Chaos itself-

And the light drew flurries of creatures so thick that skin began to wither and slough and spurt with blood as if chewed by tentacles of the fell winds-

And the blurs in the air became shrieking impacts that ripped armour, snapped spears and impaled soldiers to feast as they flew in the chinks between mortal sight-

And the ophanim whirled and descended in their swarm, crushing grand vessels like so much paper as men and timber alike were scythed apart by wailing sound in the maelstrom-

And Heartworm stood unmoving, unfeeling, and unafraid as the hand of God that had given became the hand of God that took away.



Within the bank of fog there was a set of eyes that had been keeping close watch over Akthanos. The vaporous djinn, however, was no mighty lord of cataclysmic power. He was a mere servant and spy for the Vizier, and as was befitting for such a role, his form was small and weak enough to go unnoticed. Perhaps Heartworm hadn't sensed him, but if it had, it had just made a grave mistake. In the blink of an eye the elemental retreated above the fog and raced through the sky, and from those heights it whispered to its master of the horrors that had just been commited beneath the cover of fog.

The Mangroves were a twisted and blighted land that even djinn hardly frequented. It would no doubt be strange, then, when the fog itself seemed to writhe and come to life as if animated by some living force. Ventus himself had arrived as swiftly as he could, and though Akthanos and those others that Heartworm spared had already been seen off, the shadow of Jvan still lurked somewhere in the fen. Ventus could sense it. It was everywhere.

Wherein, then, was its core?

Heartworm had extended the hidden fins on its arms and was walking in the waters, perching on roots, stretching one leg at a time to examine the wreckage of its actions. Curiousity bound it to this place even when its ophan swarm was sent away. It had never returned to Vetros after its initial sojourn of blood, and now never could. So it was forced to pick across the chewed remains of the oarsmen and soldiers, flick apart their pockets for items of interest, examine the freshly-developed bronzework of their armour, all for a glimpse of the life of a nation. Occult fish-shapes swarmed around it still, accepting the being as one of their own.

Something was moving above, and it froze. No wandering mist-walker, nor a stray skyray, even. An elemental. And small wonder. The Vetruvians kept company with such types, by virtue of the First Gale's blessing. It was easy enough to guess that one come to examine what had befallen the Priest-King. And yet... This one was powerful. A high Djinn, a lord among lords.

And was it also familiar?

Like a carrion bird the Shadow of Jvan tore at the victims of its demonstration as it went prodding through the wreckage of ships. There were still other creatures around, no doubt its minions. This carnage looked like the work of a hundred beasts, not just one.

He descended closer to the wreckage, approaching Heartworm.

"This land was so beautiful, once," his voice called out from an incorporeal mass of whirling air. Then he let out a sharp exhale, and like a hurricane those winds swept forth and carried away everything in their path. The fog was dispersed, the concealing waters parted, those monsters that had lingered were scattered like leaves on the wind, and the remains of stems were broken and sent flying like great javelins.

The Emaciator crouched low in the face of the wind, turned to face its source in a blink.

Moments such as these were when his discipline wavered; it was hard to contain his rage. A second, calmer breath came, and with it there was no destruction. Only a forlorn sigh. "I remember it as a gleaming facet of Zephyrion's jewel, shining for a thousand thousand years. Now witness what it has become: a putrid cesspool, a rotting husk of its former splendor. Like a maggot, you infest this decaying wound upon the world."

"Correct," came the answer. Heartworm was moving, now, slowly, backing away, seeking out the comfort of the brack. "Foreign values ultimately meaningless." As ever, neutral. It did not show its fear.

"Your tempering with Zephyrion's realm does not go unnoticed, and does not go tolerated," he said, some of that anger seeping into the wind until it grated at his voice and made it almost a rasp. Heartworm lowered itself towards the brackwater, as if to hide. There was no hiding.

"None of my concern." The black brine was retreating away behind Heartworm, and it was forced to simply lower itself into a mass of roots and rubble, slinking behind cover sideways with one limb, then its body, then the other.

If it thought that the cover of mere root or earth could guard it from a stormlord, it was sorely mistaken. Unfazed how Heartworm tried to maneuver itself away, Ventus demonstrated the futility of hiding. Another sharp breath came from his ethereal maw, though this one had a golden sheen about it and carried no force behind it. It was just a volatile eddy of primal magic, the very sort that Zephyrion wielded, and everything that it touched oscillated and trembled upon contact with the essence of Change itself. That golden mist found its way to Heartworm's burrow, and there were scarcely words for what happened to that twisting mass.

It vaporized, it melted, it immolated, and it seemed to simply flash out of existence and reform again as nothing but emptiness. The form of Heartworm was spared from any ill effects, that time at least.

"Curiosity demands that I ask: why meddle with Vetros and kill its people? Is it true that Jvan is but only a cancer, that it cannot contain itself or be contained, that it must be eradicated entirely so that its corruption will not seep into each and every thing upon this world? Most djinn would say this it is so, but I spoke to Jvan once, countless eons ago, and I would hope that there is...hope." As Ventus spoke on, he seemed to momentarily lose himself. The anger and accusation subsided if only somewhat, but then he looked back towards Heartworm. Though the air before Heartworm had no face, it was easy enough to feel the cool rage return.

"All-Beauty is what it is, Ventus," said Heartworm. The words were diplomatic, but they were true. It lifted its legs off the ground folded them smoothly against its body as it hovered, tilting back its head-body, assuming a faintly bullet-like shape. It ascended, slowly. "Science is truth. Your observations alone can answer. Beliefs bias. Distort."

"How you speak without saying. I grasp for meaning in each word, and yet am stymied by the ones that follow it, each and every time.

So you pose it to me, to judge whether you deserve mercy for these transgressions? Whatever sense that you possess must be broken."

There was a sharp inhale, though an assault did not come the instant after as it had done before. There was some doubt in the Vizier's mind, it would seem. That split moment of contemplation was enough for Heartworm to seize.

It spun, the very same motion with which it had marked Akthanos, and its legs slashed a helical gouge into reality that ate air and caught light like a pit. Heartworm's jets exploded with heat and smoke as it fled to the portal, but the force of the wind was faster.

It could have ground the highest peaks into weathered lumps upon the earth. It could have shattered mortals and flayed their skins, obliterated their cities. But instead the mighty gale that Ventus became slammed into Heartworm laterally, carrying the Emaciator away. Far faster than the speed of sound, they tore through the air in one tumbling heap, an explosive shockwave their only trail.

Heartworm's vehicle shrieked as its engines struggled against the tackle, and its arms kicked wildly, carving apart the sky with hoof and scalpel-claw in wild rents until the Vizier's grip was weakened and it was forced free. It collided at mach speed with the glacier they had reached, instantly tunnelled deep into the icy cloak of the mountain. It had missed solid granite crags by meters at most.

The moment's flight had forced them north-east, across Shimmer and Firewind alike, and by the hand of Fate, stranded Heartworm not so far from the site of its first creation- The Ironheart agony-organ of Basheer.

Deep in compacted snow and a surge of impact meltwater, the Emaciator began to fight back in the split seconds it had remaining, with the only weapon it truly knew- As split veins bled and glowing organs flickered behind the visor, the worm began to create.

When Heartworm tore free and was launched downwards, Ventus halted his rampage through the air with as much rapidity as he could, and then he turned backwards and searched for where his foe had fallen. With a roar, he grew to tremendous size and from the calm skies he conjured a great storm of black clouds that he wore like a cloak. From high above, between the countless streaks of lightning that fell to bombard the world below, his eyes scanned back and forth.



His fingertips brushed the clouds and the air cackled with static energy. He merely pointed towards where Heartworm had fallen, and with Ventus as its guide, the most powerful thunderbolt in a million years streaked downwards, coiling through the icy tunnels like a snake chasing a rabbit through its hole.

There was no warning, and the idea of evasion was absurd. Only quirk of design conducted the colossal charge through the tubes that ran down its limbs and earthed it through bismuth hooves into what had once been glacier and was now the collapsing explosion cavity of steam, hydrogen and oxygen.

The avatar's senses blazed into hot blindness as the glacier erupted in a white cloud of water vapour and fractured ice began to slide on its own meltwater. Heartworm's vehicle was lost to the avalanche.

Regaining some control over its perception and forced to ignore the glowing heat of its vessel's bioceramic exoskeleton and the crack in its grey-glass visor, Heartworm did no more than angle itself with what was left of its fins, the body's sleek shape riding a wave of slush, its newfound heat evaporating all it touched. Lubricated by a layer of pure steam, Heartworm fell faster than the flurry that buried it, spearheading the avalanche as it raced into the valley stream below.

Somewhere in the white chaos, Heartworm loosened grip on its body's controls and began to exude something membraneously pink.

There came a wild howling from the cavernous abyss behind Heartworm, and with concussive force a frigid wind blasted an even wider hole out the side of the glacier. It swept out in pursuit of the tumbling vehicle, the Vizier's face hidden in that wind among the shards of ice and snow that were swept along by the gale.

The kicking morsel of unskinned tissue ejected unceremoniously from the vessel's mandibular covers and was swept up along with the rest of the slush. Heartworm seized power over its body as the avalanche entered near-freefall, bursting out into free air while a mountain's worth of snow began to pile up in the valley below.

In the flurry it had left behind, a thing began to self-assemble, rapidly growing to prodigious size and greying as it did, throwing off chitinous segments that rasped as they clicked into array and translucent bladders of gas inflated in its core.

Heartworm slammed its surviving engine into function and spun out over the valley with a harsh bang, overheating now the least of its concerns. All it needed was a moment. A moment of survival and it could escape to deep space.

In its wake, Heartworm had left...an abomination. Clearly some sort of distraction, some horror hastily birthed to slow his pursuit. Doubtless that abomination would wreak havoc and would need to be dealt with later, but for now Ventus could spare no time lest Heartworm escape.

He collided straight into the half-formed thing, the concussive force behind his wind inflicting some damage. But then his vaporous form flowed around the obstacle and reformed on the other side to maintain chase.

That proved a terrible mistake.

Collision stimulated the living mechanism to rachet its gasbladders and tracheoles into alignment, and the organic cocktails within them swilled together explosively. Its lungs ballooned and then popped, one after the other, at their weak-points, releasing a string of consecutive shocks into the sky.

Resonance chambers channeled the snap-force of the sounds until they ricocheted through the valley, rebounding from mountains, shattering peaks, triggering more vast snowfalls, and all the while colliding with one another in the air, turning the sky into a chaotic instrument of crushing sonic impacts.

The unexpected and violent explosions naturally caught Ventus off guard. Even as an avalanch fell from a glacier overhead, the cacophony of sound recalled memory of Murmur, though this was... almost a sick parody of it. Whereas there was a certain rhythmic heartbeat to the djinni lord that was Murmur, who found regality even as his form was that of a living explosion, this abomination had no such order to it. The difference was subtle, but not so much as to go unnoticed and be undisturbing.

But alas, Ventus banished such thoughts! Faced with tons of ice and snow raining down from the crumbling glaciers and the shockwaves of the dying abomination, even Ventus' vaporous form would not be entirely impervious to harm. So he shed free from his body and became even more incorporeal, a raw Flicker, and then in that entirely ethereal form he continued his pursuit of Heartworm. Soaring even faster in this state, he maintained his pursuit. Meanwhile, the air itself (for that element and substance was his nature and his lifeblood) seemed to latch unto him and reform his body, though this process was far from instant. In some ways he was still weakened until his vaporous form was entirely reconstituted. But shredding free from his physical form and narrowly avoiding the avalanch had taken precious moments, and now he was too late.

The portal made no noise in the echo of the ruptured creature, and stars were visible through its wild twist as it sealed, end to end. There was time to give chase, but why take such a risk? There were seconds remaining of its existence.

He billowed to the rift's edge and was just about to enter when he stopped and contemplated the consequences of such an act. There was no way of knowing where that would lead or if he would ever be able to return, so with reluctance he stepped back. With disgust he watched the rift fade away nonchalantly, unaware and oblivious to its own significance.

Before he had entirely reformed his body, he left that place and made to return for the Celestial Citadel.



Hot atmosphere flared from the slash in space, condensing rapidly into a frozen fog as Heartworm's vehicle skittered out into the darkness and the stars.

Its engine fired again with no less fury, its damaged vent adding angular momentum that shot the avatar deeper still into the unresisting void as a blur of legs spinning at violent speed until, once again, it ripped the Universe like the paper it was planned on and fell even deeper into space.

Too much momentum, too much heat, too much damage. The broken jaws of the vessel scrabbled in an attempt to open, though they had already been torn wide apart, and a thick jet of hot insulating fluid was vomited away into the eternal night. The psychokinetic pressure that allowed the avatar to levitate exerted a drag on the vessel until its wild spin slowed and halted. Its visor slowly ceased its orange incandescence, its heat sapped by the coolness of the vacuum.

Behind that visor was pure, distilled sensory Hell. Data streamed into Heartworm's consciousness, false, corrupted inputs that flooded its perception and overwhelmed its mind in a shrieking cacophony of sensations that were not light, nor sound, nor taste, but a vicious conglomeration of pain encoded in a thousand million brainwaves that it could not process.

The Emaciator had escaped the All-Beauty and in doing so abandoned the unfathomable power of the Body and its instinct. There was no safety, no silencing coma to end the immolation and muffle Heartworm in momentary non-existence. Heartworm was conscious, brutally aware, for that was the only way to survive.

Gnnnnnn-nnnnnnnngkhaaaghlghlghlnnng-

To stabilise even the simplest parcels of information strained everything that Heartworm was, and that was little, and ill-defined. It had no memories it could access and no clear view of what it was; Its awareness had punctured and fused with the vehicle's mechanisms. One by one, it resolved glitches with no origin or motive, and inched its way back into a sense of solidity.

The growing clarity of its senses did little to assuage the pain and nothing for the panic. Heartworm registered, solved, and disregarded one after the other critical injury in the body it piloted, hemorrhaging tongues and tendrils into space as they obstructed one another without the time to establish a system of repair. A creeping stability seized up its mechanisms and catalogued the damage as Heartworm's mind constructed process after process to seek out and lock down every part of its vessel and then itself.

At last it withdrew its myriad arms from the body cavity of the silent vehicle, curling itself into a ball with barely enough heat and atmosphere captured to keep itself alive. But the battle in its psyche did not dim in intensity once it started making some kind of sense. Heartworm's awareness raced on in the momentum it had required, faster and faster with no hope of turning now that its mental facilities were uncoiling from their sensory deadlock. It was safe, it was not safe, it was alone in an infinite universe and it was blind.

Heartworm clutched itself in its curls as violent shudders quaked from its vast internal cavity, its perception falling into the whiplash of hypersensitivity, examining itself, examining its surroundings, scratching apart its own skin until it examined its own ability to examine and then interrogated that, no thought sure, no knowledge real, only lies at its fingertips with the truth always somewhere deeper in the blood if only it could cut hard enough, building pyramids of metacognition to gnaw at everything it was to find some safety but nothing was safe and-

I cannot survive this.

It seized that thought, a trivial whisper at the side of its mind, used it to divert its anxiety into distant processes that did not involve chewing up its own flesh in malfunction. I can not survive this.

Forty-four Bludgeons worth of power and yet all the roads it had travelled since achieving freedom had barely been enough to even keep it alive. Heartworm could not escape what it was, could not patch over its weakness with trinkets and tricks. The heartless Heartworm never intended as anything more than a voice and a placeholder, the fragile thing that no amount of divine armament could make into a warrior.

Heartworm can not hold its own. There must be another.

Its crawling redundancies of absurd thoughts crept their way into this, new knowledge, the acceleration slowed but not yet over, now plunging into recurrent memories to find what it needed, find who it needed, develop the warrior's half that could complete what Heartworm lacked.

It could not be constructed, it could not be grown. No. Heartworm would know no Avatar of its own, for in artificial intelligence lies the route to adaptation, and therein to independence; And without adaptation, without taking the journey that Fate wills for each warrior to walk alone, there would be nothing but another weapon, another useless extension of the Emaciator's coward soul.

They could not be a Sculptor, for these are controlled by whimsy, without which they are nothing. They could be neither djinni nor change-eater nor lich, for power alone does not make a warrior. Only a mortal could rise so far beyond the lot of their birth.

Among flickering names and eavesdropped memories, a single face emerged, unnoticed and forgotten by time and tide.

Tauga.

---

Loth examined what was apparently now his shield. He felt a bit guilty for taking it away from Falas, but there was nothing he could do now. He tried putting it back where he found it, but after a short while it would always disappear and reappear to his left hand. He made a simple motion with his left hand, as if to wave away something, and the shield disappeared. The entire experience was so strange to him; it felt almost like it was just second nature to do that.

Summoning the shield back, Loth decided to give it a name. "I shall call you... Aegis," Loth said. The shield emitted a bright blue glow for a moment, as if satisfied by the name. Dismissing the shield once more, Loth decided that it was finally time to leave Falas' residence. He had taken up too much time here already.

As he exited her home, Loth was greeted with an unexpected sight. Niciel was sitting down on a patch of grass, her legs to one side, as she admired a flower with white petals, gently rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. Stepping over to her, Loth asked, "Mother Niciel? What are you doing?"

Niciel looked up, surprised, but quickly regained her composure and smiled, saying, "Hello, Loth. This is good timing, actually. There were some things I wanted to discuss with you. Do you mind if you accompany me for a bit?"

Loth had not expected such an offer, and was quick to reply, "Of course, Mother Niciel. If I may ask, though, what is on your mind, and where will we be going?"

"I'll explain as we go, and as for where we're going, well, just the areas around the Valley of Peace," Niciel responded. An aura of light quickly enveloped them, and with a flash, the two disappeared, only to reappear at a small corner of the Valley of Peace. Loth took a moment to recover from his disorientation, while Niciel walked up to the largest Holy Tree. As she placed a hand on it, she asked Loth, "I assume you felt it earlier?"

Loth believed she was referring to the malevolent power that had made itself known and the screams that followed after, and nodded. "Of course."

Niciel's palm glowed a bright white, and when she removed her hand from the tree, a rod of blue wood is pulled out from the tree. She then pulled off a petal from the flower she was still holding and pressed it into the rod, the petal being absorbed into the rod. With that done, Niciel walked back to Loth and continued, "My siblings and their children are changing the world, both for better and for worse. That is true even now. I used to think that it was ok to simply create what we wanted and not bother others. Now, I am not sure if that was ever the right thing to do."

Another flash of light, and Niciel and Loth teleported to another remote part of the Valley of Peace. Going over to another Holy Tree to repeat the same process, Niciel said, "In the past, I contributed little to the world. I created the Nice Mountains and the Valley of Peace. I created the Wisps the watch over the world for me, and of course I created the Angels. Ever since then, however, I have stagnated. My contributions to the world ceased. A number of times I have realized this, and a number of times I have tried to right this, but each time had resulted in being stagnated once more."

Walking back to Loth again, this time with a yellow rod in hand, Niciel admitted, "As time passed, I learned a number of things from my siblings throughout my life, but there is still so much I do not know. I do not know who to side with, nor the proper action to take. I do not know what my future path will be. I am not even certain of how to take proper care of Angels. I am lost."

"If you're asking me what to do, I believe you know that I am in no position to tell you," Loth answered. "You are a Goddess, and I am mortal. Even with an Angel's long life, we do not see things the way a God does."

"The way a God does, hmm?" Niciel thought out loud, staring off into space. With another flash of light to teleport them to yet another location, Niciel continued, "That may be so. However, it is because you're mortal that I'm asking you this. As an immortal goddess, I cannot fully understand how mortals think. Time passes in a blink of an eye. I still look back on when everyone was focused on merely creating the world we know as Galbar as if it were yesterday, and realize that so much has changed since then. In that time, I have done nothing." Another rod had been pulled out of yet another Holy Tree, this time pink. "Meanwhile, many of my siblings have influenced so much more of this world's inhabitants, whether their own or others' creations, and even gotten involved with each other. Some of these influences have produced terrible results, and many suffer. I chose to do nothing. I had tuned them out of my mind, as if they did not exist. It pains me to think that I acted this way. Was I wrong? What am I to do?"

Loth was silent for a time, eyes closed as he was deep in thought, then let out a sigh. "I do not have the answers you seek," Loth said.

"Perhaps it was too hopeful for me to think so," Niciel responded, a sad smile on her face, looking away from Loth.

"After all, the answers can only come from you," Loth continued.

Turning back to Loth in confusion, Niciel asked, "What do you mean?"

"I am not responsible for your actions, Mother Niciel, you are. You are the only one who can forge your path. Others may influence you, but your decisions are yours. If you believe you have wronged, why not right them now?"

Niciel was so surprised, she had lost the ability to speak for several seconds. Recovering, she asked, "Is... is it really that simple?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Loth replied cryptically. "Either way, you should take the first step toward figuring that out for yourself."

Niciel smiled again, this time a happy smile, and laughed as shed a single tear. As it slid down her face, Niciel caught it using the flower, catching it right in the center of the flower. "Thank you, Loth. This had been an insightful conversation." Niciel then grasped the flower head between two fingers, and pulled it off the stem. Leaving it floating in the air, Niciel grasped a single strand of her hair, and plucked it, then proceeded to twirl it tightly around the flower stem. Gathering her three wooden rods, they began to twirl around each other, while having the flower stem in the center. They tightened up as much as possible, and with a glow of light, they fused together, creating a multicolored staff. Niciel then proceeded to pluck off most of the remaining petals from the flower head, letting them be absorbed into the staff. Only four petals remained on the flower head, resembling a cross. Niciel placed the flower head at the head of the staff, and the flower head transformed into a metal cross, fused onto the staff. There was a hole directly in the center of the cross, as if something was to be placed within it.

"Loth, would you be so kind as to lend me a hand here?" Niciel asked.

Loth could only stare at the staff, enchanted by the process of its creation. Never before had he witnessed something so incredible. He could feel the immense power radiating from it as well. "A-are you sure, Mother Niciel? How could I possibly aid you in this?" Loth asked in return.

"Just place your hand here," Niciel said, gesturing to the cross. "I willdo the rest."

Hesitant but curious, Loth did as Niciel asked. Niciel placed her own hand on top of Loth's, then Loth could feel his energy being drained out of him, pouring into the staff. It took a bit out of him, but it was nothing he couldn't handle.

While this was happening, the Orb of Escry and the Orb of Holy appeared from behind Niciel and were sucked into the hole in the staff. The hole began to glow a bright white light, and when it finally subsided, a white crystal appeared in the cross. Niciel grasped the now completed staff, and felt a surge of energy rush into her. Her body was enveloped in a blue aura, but it quickly faded.

Giving a radiant smile, Niciel said, "Thank you, Loth. Creating this would not have been possible without you."

"Mother Niciel, if I may be so bold to ask... what is this?" Loth asked, staring at the staff.

"An item that will aid me in my future path of... enlightenment," Niciel answered with a wink. With a flash of light, Niciel and Loth were back in front of Falas' home. "Thank you for taking the time to listen to me. I appreciate it."

"Oh, and that shield of yours..." Niciel said, looking thoughtfully at Loth.

"I am terribly sorry, Mother Niciel, but I-" Loth was trying to say before Niciel cut him off with a raised hand and a smile.

"It's alright. I know it belongs to Falas, but it honestly suits you better. Take good care of it now," Niciel said. A final flash of light enveloped Niciel, and she was gone.

"I will," Loth promised, even though no one was around to hear it.

Against the blanketed sky, all Diana could see were crumbling walls that were nothing more than a ghostly silhouette of some previous existence. Ash whistled through the skeletal structure bringing with it the laughter of the children who once lived there and the caring call of a caretaker letting them know dinner was ready.

She could picture her childhood vividly. The walls didn’t seem so grey when she was only a girl, nor did they seem so broken. In her mind, she pictured this place as though it were a godly abode where she and her siblings were the all-powerful beings. Caretakers would glide through the once pristine halls, the faithful servants of their divine overlords. She felt like no time had passed since she ran from this place, yet as she gazed upon the burnt walls and the shattered windows it was evident just how wrong she was.

Like a demonic giant, the now shuddering palace loomed over her, crushing her under the weight of past experiences and old memories. For how long had she gazed at from a distance, its massive figure taunting her as its eerie eye seemed to focus on her and her alone. For years, she lived under the Ciphers gaze, its pointed form a reminder of times she wished away and the bad choices she made. Yet here she stood, gazing back at the now lame eye with dead eyes of her own; eyes that reflected the charcoal clouds that brewed above the storm of ash, their dark beauty lost to this victim of the night – Xerxes itself.

Diana shook her head to dismiss her thoughts. It was time to go. With practiced ease, she traversed the palace courtyard, shimmering ghosts of her past littering the vast park to which she paid the no heed. To those who knew her well, Diana wasn’t the sentimental type, quite the opposite in fact, no longer could a person, place, or thing attach itself to her heart, it was much too dark in there for that. Even the crumbling city that raised her from ignorance behind her was nothing but a distant memory buried deep within recesses of her mind, forgotten to her to make room for grim determination.

Yet, when the city went to shit and her gang left for the Vassals, she stayed and fought, doing her best to right her fathers wrongs in her own unique way. When the minds of the citizens went to shit, she could only watch as her ‘family’ went mad. When the blood rains fell from the sky and turned loveable humans into sniveling demon-wolves, vengeance became fuel for the fire that willed her to live longer than she wanted too.

Armed with her signature obsidian khopesh now strapped to her back, her blood and ash stained leather armor, and her wits about her, Diana crept deeper into the depths of her old home with such familiarity it scared her. Even now as she crouched under the archway leading into the throne room, she could feel the paralyzing hurt of fear spread through her body like icy, liquid metal. Resisting the impulse to whirl around and sprint back into the thick veil of white hiding sharp teeth and claws, she pressed on.

Steeling herself for but a moment more, Diana stepped out from the shadows of her hiding spot, entering the grand throne room of the Cipher, probably the only standing room left. Unsurprisingly, she greeted the once grand and colorful display of wealth that now lay in ruins, much like the city outside with mild irritability. Ash, grim and brick lay strewn across the marble floor, blown in by the gaping wound in the Ciphers side. Much to her dismay, the Enas was nowhere to be found, which meant searching, and she refused to stay here any longer than she had to. Left with nothing obvious to go on, Diana took to wandering through the court and up the dias to search for clues. Unfortunately, the thin layer of ash coating the whole bloody place made things impossible to find.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me." she muttered under her breath, cautious of any who may possess the ears of a wolf dog.

"Joke's on everyone."

Fate's arse.

Heart skipping rapidly in her chest, Diana turned ever so slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. How had the bloody thing gotten past her senses? She was sure there nothing left alive in the city after whatever massive operation drove the demons underground; she hadn't counted on meeting any resistance at all in fact.

Too vast and open to shelter in, the throne room's dust marked a fresh set of booted footprints, heavily grounded in comparison to the faint cat-marks left by Diana. But the Blowfly's tendrils felt those shallow dents, and they tasted the only human they didn't recognise, resting on Diana's shoulder like a leash.

Her sword was drawn. Long-handled and undecorated, the old scalpel hovered bare. Not a breath was heard from Tauga behind the filters of the black-eyed mask.

For but a moment Diana froze, unsure of what to do. Honestly, she hadn't seen a mask that ugly since day her gang leader tried to incorporate one as their criminal persona, that hadn't gone over well.

Quickly, she regained hold of the situation, drawing her own blade from her back just as the 'guard' had. Hopefully it knew how to use whatever the hell it was holding in its hand. Sizing up her opponent though, Diana quickly concluded that extracting whatever information she could from the thing was better that fighting it. On second thought, the Tedar-sized scalpel seemed like a wicked weapon she didn't want to toy with.

With that to do out of the way, now all she needed was a conversation starter. Eyeing the masked man-eater carefully, she searched for any clue as to who, or what it was. A twinge of recognition suddenly past over her face as she once again observed its mask.

"So are you some kind of slavering mutant who happened to stumble upon the Blowfly's rotting corpse and looted it for that god awful mask?"

The watching head cocked, just slightly, and the suited hain was utterly still. The weapon was not lowered.

"I'm not gonna just rush you, you know." The taunt- taunt?- was left hanging, and they obviously had no intention to waste time processing it. As if to prove the point, the boots began to stroll slowly and firmly forwards. The gap, considerable though it was, began to shrink. "We aren't fucking idiots, kid. Put that down. This isn't your game anymore."

Diana was caught off guard by the man-eaters pointedness, that wasn't the response she had been expecting at all. Despite it's disarming words, she refused to lower her guard, instead attempting to shuffle back towards the opposite wall. Blade raised defensively, she continued on, poking and prodding it with her words.

"Who do you mean by we? And what game am I playing?" she retorted, genuinely intrigued.

"...You and me, you dolt. You need to stop thinking you're safe, stop thinking you're in charge, and if you don't want to die- Put. That. Thing. Down. " The advance didn't slow.

Diana frowned and cocked her head skeptically."How do I know you not planning to skewer me when I do? Get rid your weapon and I will do the same. Then we can talk about who's in charge."

"..."

Under the flight mask, it was still impossible to tell what the hain was thinking. Whatever it was clearly took some time. For whatever reason. "You really don't know what the hell you're doing, do you." They were approaching reach. No tension was obvious in their step. "I mean fuck. Neither do I. Not you. You're not making any sense, I mean. Okay. That thing's not gonna save you if I want to open your head." This was going nowhere fast, she knew, and 'nowhere' was bloodshed.

Diana blanched, unable to decipher the hain's jarbled speech. She felt out of place, out of her natural element. Talking didn't seem like it was getting her anywhere and fighting with a demon may have sounded like a cool way to go out, but not her prefered way. At least the thing was perseptive, she didn't have a clue what she was doing.

"Amul's Eye you have problems!" she exclaimed, rasing her blade higher as the thing got closer. Whatever for, Diana's stance relaxed and her face fell uncharacteristically."You and me both.

"Yeah, and you're all of them."

Eyebrows raised. "The solution involves me bashing you over the head with my sword he-"

Tauga moved.

When she leapt, her feet swung high above their natural arc, twisted forwards, and smashed into Diana's shoulder with a bootheel as violins screamed in the heavens and the little hain body sailed impossibly over her opponent, spun in the air and landed on both feet with a hand to steady her. Already she was moving at the human from the opposite side, sword held backhand over her chest to come up across Diana's thigh. It glinted in the light of the Bludgeons above.

Pain lancing her shoulder, Diana mentally scolded herself for being caught off-guard, even by such a supernatural attack. With a curt hiss she immediately rebounded, using the momentum carried by the kick to twist her body clockwise. The world blurring, she barely caught the hain's speeding form a few slivers too far to the right. Like a whip, her sword hand lashed out towards the Blowfly's sprinting form, carrying the leftover speed from the spin. All the while, her free hand slipped into the depths of her leather vest.

Her sword came from behind and Tauga didn't wait for it. From a sprint to a dive, she left thin air where Diana's sword-arm fell, once again passing her by to the opposite side and turning with barely a skid. She didn't need to see the fighter to feel her move by touch. Throwing-knife. Razor wire. Something. Tauga stood and stepped back, raised a guard stance, and waited.

But Diana's hand never left it's place. Instead, she scrutinized the hain and its flying contraption, taking second long glances between the two. An unfair advantage, but she was used to unfavorable odds. Taking a similar stance, she took inventory of her options. The Blowfly had speed on its side, but if the underworld thought her anything, it was that the tongue cut faster.

"You know, I respected your methods, Blowfly."

"I don't care." It was hard to tell if she'd even listened. The scalpel spun easily in her hand. "Respect this. And shut up and stop acting like you want to die."

Diana rolled her eyes. "Wow, I haven't heard that one before." Her back leg shifted to the left, signaling a change her stance, but it still hid her intentions. "Come to think of it, how in Fate's Eye did you survive the blood rain? Everything in the whole damn city was infected; even the dogs."

Neither the ignorance nor the obstinance yielded any visible reaction from the Blowfly, but Tauga was rapidly losing respect for the human. "I'm the Blowfly. I do whatever the fuck I want. Magic can't kill me, and neither can you." She was advancing again, still in a backhand grip, the same slow, grounded walk she'd used at the start. This time she meant to carry it through.

Diana's face deadpanned. Much to her dismay, talking was not working. If she wished to succeed in her endeavors this day, she would either have to beat answers out of the tiny hain, or kill it all together; her usual course of action. Once again she changed her stance, this time shifting her feet shoulder width apart. Her leading foot, or right, was pushed slightly forward, almost square on to her opponent. Despite relaxing her body, she remained 'springy on the balls of her feet, her knees slightly bent.

"Lets test that theory."

No more talk.

Tauga entered reach calmly, without flipping her grip nor slashing with it. The scalpel's long hilt was what moved, and it moved quickly, catching the arched back of Diana's khopesh and twisting the blade outward, driving her sword-arm up against her injured shoulder as Tauga's left gauntlet leapt towards Diana's belly.

Surprised yet prepared, Diana leaned into the attack for but a split second, twisting her body nimbly out of harms way at the last and only possible moment. It didn't slow Tauga. As Diana dropped her guard stance in order to move, she pushed forwards again, snatching her free wrist and flicking her blade towards her sword-arm as she forced the girl's balance down with grossly disproportionate strength.

Alarmed but refusing to show weakness, Diana adjusted herself. Throwing her right leg back, she forced herself low to the ground, stabilizing herself and pivoting with her crouched left, allowing the hain's strength to dodge for her. With foreign energy wringing new life into her muscles, Diana yanked the hain's now outstretched arm with disproportionate strength of her own. Tauga jerked forward and, startled, did not stumble. They were side by side, locked together.

With a small grunt of effort Diana launched off her back leg, springing up like a weed in the summer, all the while bringing her sword arm across her chest, the distance rapidly closed by a diagonal chop. There may have been time to dodge, but Tauga didn't risk it.

The earth lurched downwards, tearing the fighters' feet off the ground. Diana's stroke, aimed low, fell down further than Tauga's ascending form; And Tauga's blade, still raised from her own failed cut, collapsed into Diana's back as she dragged the human sharply into the air by the wrist.

Diana's shoulderblade stopped the obsidian scalpel before it could open her from back to collarbone, and the cut was too clean to hurt, but Tauga had drawn blood and they both knew it. She slid the blade free, slicing all the way to the marrow, and, tossing Diana's free wrist at an angle her medical training knew would sprain it, threw her to the ground.

With a loud crack, Diana slid against the marble floor, stunned to silence. In both speed and strength she lay outmatched. But only fleetingly did she let any strain of the truth show. Ignoring laceration to her shoulder, and the burning sensation in her wrist, Diana quickly forced herself to stand, adrenaline now fueling her every move.

Taking a sluggish stance, Diana questioned her being here still. For a moment, she contemplated fleeing, but chances of her getting far? Little to none. Stalling for time to think properly, Diana blurted out: "Blowfly, whats your real name?"

For the first time, Diana's words coaxed an effect.

"Tauranga Mason, but call me Tauga," said Tauga without thinking, then quickly gripped her beaktip shut through the mask with thumb and forefinger, the hain equivalent of clapping a hand over one's mouth. The response had come out of pure reflex, but she hadn't given in to that habit... Not since long before... Why now?

No. Enough of that. Finish this.

Tauga dived, somersaulted over Diana, felt her boots hit the ground and twisted her sword-arm into a lock. "No more sword," she said, wrapping her hand around Diana's and tightening her grip until something cracked, then batting the khopesh sharply out of her slackened fingers, not caring if she broke the fragile blade. "No more fight." She put her foot on the small of Diana's back and kicked her down.

No sooner had she skidded to a halt than Tauga flipped her onto her back and kneeled on her chest. "Now shut-" Tauga backhanded her sharply- "-the fuck-" Again- "-up." Again.

"Have I not slaughtered enough of your lot to get the fucking message across? Did you think I didn't know what you were the moment I saw you? She gripped Diana's shoulders and shook her with each word. "Assassins. Don't. Belong. In. My. Fucking. City. Not now and never. Who the fuck do you think you are. Talk."

Diana seethed under the hain's weight, struggling to take breath. "The Enas' fucking daughter!"

"..."

The way she moved, and the shape of her face. Her hair, bleached as white as moonlight.

"...Fuck."

Tauga's hand lifted, slightly, not knowing where it was meant to be. Her scalpel hadn't fallen out of her hand yet, but she wasn't gripping it anymore. "Fuck. Ye gods. FUCK!"

Shaking left and right, trying to move in too many directions at once, Tauga grabbed Diana by the sides and stood, turning her over. Tossing aside intervening layers, a quaking but blessedly skillful sweep she cut open the back of the human's shirt and dumped her blade on the ground, leaving it to clatter without a care for whether it was in Diana's reach. She popped open a pouch on her suit and pulled out a needle, mouthing 'fuck' all the way as the suture danced back and forth over the open gash in her back, quickly painting Tauga's hand deep red.

Diana squirmed and cursed underneath the hain's attention, screaming even louder as her armor was ripped off her back and a needle repeatedly stabbed her skin. "Get the fuck off of me!" she screamed with every stich. She felt no pain, but she screamed anyway. Eventually, her mind caught up with the situation; she was receiving medical attention. It made her furious. "Now you wanna fucking help me?!" she spat.

"Yes! No! Stop bleeding!" Tauga was yelling, hardly because she was angry, or wanted to make herself heard. She just didn't know what else to do. "I thought you were all dead! Why are you even here?" That stilled her.

Memories of that fateful night filtered through her mind's eye, bringing back that familiar ache her chest. Despite everything, the hain stayed put on Diana's back while she finished the stitches, taking no less time than it needed.

Diana grunted under the hain. "I don't die easy, but I might die if my back breaks under your arse." she sneered. Ironically, the hain was light. That said, she didn't move.

"Yeah, I noticed," said Tauga, not registering the sass as she examined Diana's upper shoulder. Not dislocated, but Tauga was under no illusions as to how hard she could hurt her enemies, and she felt the rising bruise very tenderly before she squatted at Diana's side. "Sit. Give me your wrist. Needs binding. Why the hell did you try to fight me? I kill shit."

"And I garden for a living." she said drily.

With aching pain plaguing her back lifted, Diana warily took up a seated position as per the Blowfly's orders. With a gaze of unyielding scrutiny and distrust, she held out her wrist, which, with her adrenaline dwindling, began to burn uncharacteristically. "Of course you kill people, you grew up in Xerxes, the City of Crime! Everyone killed people!" she snorted, making a grand gesture with her sword hand, restricted slightly by the the pull of stitches. "Blowfly or not, I came here knowing full well that I was up against Divine." she paused, then retracted her point. "Actually, I hadn't planned for a hain the size of a four year old child with the strength of Tedar to be here."

Tauga had been listening, or at least aware of the words, but her focus was elsewhere. Deftly pulling a leather wallet from somewhere on her shoulder, she flipped it open to reveal a row of pouches, one large, three oddly-shaped, and several small ones containing waxed paperbark wrappings. She pulled the stem-arksynth from the former and a little bone scoop from the second, sampled delicately measured dusts from the third and applied it. One part spermaceti- Three and a half casque scrapings- Stretched. Spinning out the 'synth like a strand of gum, Tauga spooled an armslength of brownish membrane around the scoop and cut it off with a flint.

With a skeptical-eye, Diana scrutinized Tauga's work.
"That's a curious substance." she murmured drily, half expecting the material to be some kind of crude poison.

"Xerxes was fine when I was in charge," she muttered, winding the band of synth-latex in a tight pattern around Diana's hand, holding the damaged tendons in place. "Not everyone killed. Just you. Your people killed. So we killed you."

Diana scoffed. "My people left the city before the crazies hit. Your work was bad for business. And I only killed when absolutely necessary."

"Oh," said Tauga. The more time she spent in the assassin's company, the more hollow she felt. It was a pit, an emotional void left behind after real anger died, and Diana was digging it deeper. [colour=antiquewhite]"Necessary. What is that, even. Why are you even here."[colour]

"I… She paused, suddenly unable to articulate herself; that with the adrenaline in her veins filtering away, the flares of pain jarring her wrist only added to the befuddlement. "Can't answer that..."

The human's rush was slowing. Tauga wasn't interested in slowing down for her sake. She grabbed Diana's free hand and gave her fingers a short twist back. "Don't dump that shit on me. Yes you can."

Stabbing pain forced Diana to hiss in anguish and fury. The bipolar hain was far past getting on her nerves. "Yeah, I fucking can. But I'm sworn to silence by a higher power, and I think you can guess who that is."

Tauga didn't have the faintest idea and the idea of guessing out loud was almost physically painful. "Okay. So you were paid by the Devil himself to murder Keriss in her sleep. Guess I'll execute you now for treason against a general. And my friend."

Diana struggled to remember what the point of this conversation was anymore, dancing around the truth wasn't going to get her anywhere. "I care little for your friend, my sin falls upon the Enas' shoulders alone."

"The Enas paid you?" Tauga stared hard, refusing to give up until something started making sense. "What? Why? What?"

"Fate help me." Diana exasperated, pinching the bridge of her nose with her good hand. She had enough. "I came to kill the Enas; on my own accord!"

The gloved hand shot towards Diana's throat and hit something with a snapping sound.

Tauga's spare eyes flicked down in nauseous confusion to the point where her left hand had intercepted her right, unwrapped both arms and stared at her palms. Then she realised, once again, who was standing in front of her, and in a moment dragged Diana up by the neck like a caught rabbit- And then dropped her, cradling her own wrist as if she'd touched something burning. Abruptly and without a word, she stalked off further into the darkness.

Disparate sounds echoed out from the ruin. Tauga kicked what had once been a basin or brazier, its copper leg suddenly bent into a sharp angle. A thrown fragment of debris sailed past and shattered on a wall. Stop. Footsteps. Stop. Muttering. The hain took off her mask and pressed her forehead into a wall, cycling through some mantra.

Boom. The ophan veered off after colliding halfheartedly with the already-broken wall.

Diana rubbed her neck absentmindedly, her face as blank as her thoughts. She felt nothing; no guilt, no remorse, not even a sliver of love could be found in her already barren heart. Her only goal had been to end this useless cycle of killing spawned from that night seven sessions ago. Whatever it took to end it, she would do without hesitation, even if it meant breaking herself fighting Tauga.

"Why do you still protect the Enas?" she sighed upon the crack of the hain's skull against a wall.

"Why do you think you're even alive right now? Because some time in the last month I started caring for scum?" Tauga's fingertips clicked her beak shut as soon as the words came out. "I'm... Sorry, I-" She slammed the wall with her fist, far too hard. "No I'm not. Why would I be sorry? What makes you worth anything? You're an assassin-" Reaching for her sword, she found nothing, stared at the empty air in her grip, slowed. "...You're the daughter of Sin. I can't just-" Her eyes caught sight of Diana again, and her palms rammed into what was left of the wall. The brass-hard organometallic craftsmanship shook under her terrible strength.

"Fuck you, Jaan," she whispered, slumping to her knees and holding her head. "I see you. I know what you're doing."

Diana snorted. "Of course you do." she huffed, laying flat on the metallic floor. She was unsure who the hain meant in her words, but readily assumed she was referring to her. "I'm nothing. A useless street-urchin with noble upbringing, hanging on the coattails of Fate's games." Admitting that didn't ease her pain; why did people do it? "So you're right, I'm not worth anything, I am an assassin. I didn't come here as Sin's daughter, but as a killer bent on revenge for past faults!" Diana was suddenly on her feet now, her voice rising. "I watched all six of my siblings get brutally murdered by an invading army sent by the gods! Never in my life have I ran so fast!" Diana was animated now, her face reddening and her voice peaking.

Suddenly, she fell quiet, all the fight leaving her."You understand? I have to bury the Enas with Xerxes."

The Blowfly's head didn't rise from its slouch. But she spoke. "You won't." There was a peculiar emphasis on you. "I'm too strong for you." For you. "But you're lying, anyway. I can see him in you. The way you curse Fate for its games and spite the gods for overwhelming you. The way you see yourself as a Sinner but aren't scared of punishment. And look for revenge."

Diana's resolve crumbled, her very lives goal whisked away by a table-tall hain with an oversized scalpel. Yet, she could find no false in her words, each one a blistering arrow of truth that cut down the wall she called her determination. She was just life her father, no better even. Hands clasped and unclasped, forming and reforming fists.

At last she pulled away, walked back towards Diana, then past her, picking up her scabbard and then heading for her sword. Her voice was hollow again. "You can't untie me. This knot. I'm not gonna touch you, but you're not gonna hurt Amartia either. Only death can change that. And I died a long time ago." Tauga sighed, putting away her sword. "So what now? Your plan is done. I don't like you, but your life is yours."

She could say the same for the hain. "I don't envy you Tauga, and I envy many people." she acknowledged, taking solace in the fact that she still had a life to make her own. Tauga did not, she was chained to Amartía…no, to Xerxes. "I'll take solace in that hope that another will do the job." A pause. "And I'll bury Diana, Zilévo and everyone else with Xerxes too."

"..."

Looking out, Tauga could see the City through a gap in the ruins. A lot of things had died here. Vigilate and Scitis had risen, shedding moonlight on the broken homes. It was as bright as the night she'd met Help. As bright as the glint in Diana's eyes.

One day, she hoped, the Énas Amartia would restore all this to the tranquil beauty he once built. Together they would win the war, and everything would go back to the way it was. The Blowfly would fight for that with everything she had. In the meanwhile, let the dead have their peace, and the living their anger.

"...Good enough."

She looked at Diana with unmasked eyes, nodded once, and blurred into the sky.



Every step felt like a marathon, each stumble and totter a leech sucking away ones already drained reserves of energy. The sensations of ash pelting ones skin felt as if it was being stabbed by a million sun-spears and scraped by sandpaper. The monotony of the parched wilderness difficult to understand, a crucible of death, a bone-dry basin of vast blandness.

Diana paused in her work and looked back at the distant dot once her home. Her birthright, painted in ash and smoke, a sword the only reminder she had of it. But Diana wasn’t alone in being marked by loss. In this world, you were lucky if, like Sin, you hadn’t actually lost anyone you loved. He loved no one and lost nothing. In fact, Diana was suddenly less troubled than most about her past, and dwelling on it was suddenly lost to her. Being an orphan had led to an acceptance of fate and random change, and maybe this was why she wasn’t about future tragedy. She had nothing to lose, or at least nothing that she couldn’t move on from anymore. No, the past no longer bothered her at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. Tauga forced her to stand alone, to be self-sufficient. And it had also left her rootless; if she left the city now, and made it all the way to the vassals, would she ever have reason to return? She had heard the vassels had walls as tall as the highest trees in the forest, and as thick as rivers. If end times were truly upon them as well as Xerxes, they would be as safe there as anywhere in the world. She smiled to herself. As usual, her thoughts had wandered, from the unchangeable past to the unknowable future. She hoisted her pack on her shoulders, and, standing on the outskirts of Xerxes, and looked around the city one last time. Broken walls were the only complete thing, everything else had worn and crumbled - their decay the only marker if time in a place of uncounted days. One thing was certain: Enas or no Enas, she wouldn’t come back to find birds nesting in her linen.



...'Prior loyalties to a dead society,' huh. A chill wind sang past Tauga as she rested atop the great metal ophan, listening to the faint choir of its many souls in her head. Unnoticed between the light of the white moons, Mirus had risen, and she stared into its strange and beautiful surface. 'Obfuscated attempts to predict my behaviour'. So what happens if I survive, huh? What do you have? What did you get out of this?

A walking corpse with the power of a demigod, that's what. As dead as you are, only stronger. And I won't even care, because I'll be nothing. Just a willing puppet for the Fae God.

I see you, Jaan. I see you.

The streets between buildings were mud here. The main roads were laid with crunching yellow gravel. Between the two, where they walked, was tracked with brown dirt, footprints, and then a beggar in a rough blanket.

Edda drew her eyes up from the infirm hain's begging bowl and to the buildings. They had already passed the simple stone and mud houses of the common folk and were now flanked by circular granite columns, fronting granite manors of well-off Loralom hain. Edda hoped in vain that her group -- led by the guards that met them on the beach -- would be the only stain of suffering on this community that they had found. She was wrong.

Here, in front of the homes of the well and wealthy, men with handfuls of weapons and shields were running past them in groups. Other, taller hain men in padded quilt clothing, embraced their children and partners quickly before taking up arms and jogging ahead of Edda's group. The nobles were the soldiers.

Edda knew that they were preparing to fight, though the families were not in such a state as the peaceful sending their sons off to war. They were blank-faced, tense, hands clasped. The children reflected their parents. They listlessly wandered back into their homes. Not before giving Edda lingering stares.

"Edda?"

"Yes Feri?" The hain mother in their group spoke behind Edda with her eggs clutched to her chest. Edda knew her by voice.

"Why do they look so lost? Why are they not weeping at their partners' marching?"

Edda speculated. "The guard said that this land is littered with cracked shells. These people have likely seen many more than they can weep about."

"But the poorer folk further back, they were the same and they were just the farmers, potters, and other tradesmen. They aren't fighting."

Edda didn't have an answer to that. They could have merely expended all their fighting men. Or there could be another reason for their odd behaviour.

What disturbed Edda was that this little town was looking more and more like Xerxes by the day. Not the hopeful, flourishing Xerxes. Not the strong and diverse metropolis. It was in the eyes of its inhabitants. They had seen more than their share of suffering.

Ahead was a wall, mortared smooth and too high to climb, even for the trolls. They were walking to a tall set of double-doors that were creaking apart at their approach. Beyond was the largest manor of all. A multi-storied palace with a colonnaded facade, low-pitched tiled roofs, and balconies on each wing.

Even with the impression it made, this great house did not hold a candle up to the palace at Xerxes when it was in its full glory. Nevertheless, the guard pointed ahead with his mace and spoke his phlegmatic language with pride. Edda recognised a word from when the man had previously mentioned his king.

The guard seemed to ignore the warriors gathering here. They all had eyes lingering on Edda's form. Edda looked back. She realised that she was being watched all this time. Every single face she saw had the same expression. The same silent look. She felt like a wraith; she shouldn't exist.

Any conversation was drowned by her presence. They clacked their feet onto the flat stones of the porch. The wind eddied in behind them to brush at the dead silence. A distant, deep barking sounded from over the walls from a dog. The fluttering drone of a tiny bird buzzed over their heads. The warriors' feet shifted on the courtyard to keep watching Edda ahead of her group. They watched her step up and into the main hall. At least there was speech echoing out from where they were headed.

"Ki ghet achet zenna khey?" One figure in the centre of the dim hall was speaking to his uniformed advisor as servants dressed him in regal, dyed padding. He was clearly in charge, but he was young. Perhaps five years younger than Edda, she guessed. "Ie kiln di czheriaz aot di roet. Du zat nisht loze forirum liz zey zenna karekt!"

The advisor remained neutral, far calmer than the leader. "Yem, zar merik. Carm zos nyorga-s."

"Yem, Iyem. Shen zer-" The leader stopped. His head twitched in their direction. The same silence as the courtyard permeated in the hall. He stared and Edda stared back. Edda felt like a wraith again.

The servants were lucky to already be done dressing the leader in an ornate headdress and flowing blue cape, else they would have been just as transfixed as were in that moment.

The leader's voice spoke low to nudge the stillness, not break it. "Wor lom stiz?"

After a kneel, the warrior escort of the group said some words back. The leader did not shift his gaze. He took a step towards Edda, cautious, and another. He reached out one hand until he placed a finger on the end of Edda's beak. She knew from her reflection that one of the Tounic symbols was what he was running his finger over.

Apart from a blink, Edda's reaction was still and unsure. She could understand why she would get such looks. It didn't mean there was anything she could do about it.

A crash of wood turned all their heads to a side door. One hain warrior stumbled in and shouted more foreign words in alarm.

The leader stepped back and raised one index finger to Edda. He said more words, took up a fine bronze mace, and strode briskly around the group to the doors.

They were left inside with the advisor, looking at them with more purpose than any they had seen in this town.

---

"You wish to view the battle, Edda?" Tokgos related, by way of a local hain chipper named Renan, by way of the king's advisor Korom. Without Caress in the city, they could only translate via an old trade language. "He says that there is a platform that looks over the walls. King Akol's wife stands there to watch every time there is a fight near the walls."

Edda had eaten her bread and cheese so quickly that she felt nauseous. It didn't stop her resolve. "I am sure. Please ask Korom to lead me there."

Three languages of translation later and Korom faced Edda directly. He nodded and beckoned with a hand facing sideways.

"We will stay here, Edda," Tokgos said for himself. "I cannot fit up those stairs."

The others in Edda's group were concerned to see her leave. They had been spoken to as well but no amount of encouragement would placate them from Edda, their stable leader, leaving their sight. Regardless, Edda gave them all one last look before leaving. She had to see the situation for herself.

'Platform' was a word almost lost in translation. In reality, Edda was lead to one of the palace balconies. The only other figure was a hain woman up against the balustrade, looking out at the cleared fields beyond the town. She turned her head suddenly, startled. Korom's presence made her relax her elbows and eyes.

Much to Edda's surprise, the woman did not give her a long look like the others. She merely turned back to watching the field without a word. Her eyes narrowed with the sadness that Edda had expected of the families she had seen on the way up to the gates.

"You must be the king's wife," Edda said, stepping up to the balustrade and looking out. "Is he leading the battle today? He must be very brave."

The wife gave Edda a fleeting, oblivious look. Edda sighed that the interpreters weren't here.

"Tiss," the wife pointed out a brown-grey plume rising from the distance. Edda could just make out groups of hain, marching in formation, behind large oval shields. They both stood quietly to hear the clomping of the enemy approaching.

A long horn sounded.

From the town, faster footsteps echoed out as hundreds of hain spilt out onto the field to face the enemy. They fell into formation themselves, armed with maces, shields, and poles with lazily floating red flags. The second rank soldiers of every block were also armed with spears, poking out from the top of the rows of flitting white hain beaks.

The enemies neared. They were made up of similar formations, save for being joined by some hain with bows at their rear lines. Edda did not have to be a seasoned commander to see the problem: The defenders were vastly outnumbered.

The hain near the town were only one block of soldiers thick. She could not make out the raw numbers, though Edda could count half again as many warriors approaching as the defenders had. Matters were made worse when the attackers were joined behind by a tedar holding four leashes. The beasts that he held were each the size of four hain put together, snarling, muscular, and sporting large heads covered in tusks.

Edda clutched her red-marked fingers around the balustrade.

Any regular hain would have run in a blink. They could defend from the streets more easily, even a few wicker and thatch roofs would be set ablaze. They stood their ground until it was too late to form up with the buildings as bottlenecks. Their actions were instead contradictory to all reason; they began to bark.

Hain did not normally bark like dogs. The sound that came from their beaks was an imitation of hounds baying at passers-by. They still did not flinch from the oncoming force.

The enemy raised their weapons in an amused shout, beating their shields and readying their charge.

The defenders remained barking.

It was when the enemy broke into a run, loosening their formations, that the defenders' barking became loud and deep. Each bark was a thump against Edda's chest, even from where she stood, and there was a cacophony of them. It could not have been the hain.

The enemy was closing in. Those at the front were not discouraged by the baying.

The running increased.

Spears lowered.

Rocks on ropes were spun and launched, cutting down some in the enemy front line.

Wheels trundled?

Edda swept her gaze to speeding shapes on either flank. More beasts had sprung out from the tall grass at the edges of the defending lines. They were running at such a gallop that their shapes could hardly be discerned beyond their shaggy grey hair, flopping ears, and the chariots being pulled from behind them. They were the ones barking. Gigantic hounds, larger still than the beasts the enemy tedar kept.

There were two riders in each chariot. One was holding the reins of the giant hound and the other was swinging a set of stones lashed by cords. When they were thrown, they spun wildly until they whipped around the feet of the charging enemy hain, throwing them onto the ground. Others were thrown at the enemy flanks for just long enough for the hounds to close in and tear the life from them with its gleaming teeth, bounding away as quickly.

Retributive arrows were not numerous enough to cut the dogs down, and so the charge had been momentarily blunted. The enemy was in disarray. The defenders charged in.

Between the raining sling stones, the bolas entangling their legs, and the hounds threatening their sides, the enemy found themselves the victim of many easy kills by the defenders. The battle was joined with more hope than before.

Though they were still outnumbered.

Upon an order, the tedar released his snarling boars. They galloped forth as one, knocking aside friend and foe alike in their charge. Hain maces proved useless against their tough hide. Spears only enraged them. Red quickly covered their many tusks as all the defenders could do was try to contain them.

One hound was gored immediately to death, stopping a chariot. Two more hounds had to close in to throw down the beast and kill it.

That left three more. Two were disrupting the enemy lines, one more was chasing chariots. Some chariots spared their allies by leading one of the bloodied creatures away. One more chariot with a hain in a blue cape swung around behind friendly lines. He had an exception to the other chariots' maces and bolas.

The king hefted a long spear over one shoulder. It was tipped with a yellow glint of bronze.

Just as one boar had torn its way through the defending lines, it was met by the hain king's aim. The hound chariot ran past and the king threw the spearhead down behind the giant boar's neck, just as quickly pulling it out. The chariot went on, while the boar staggered to one side, eventually falling and spasming. More hain with spears charged it and slew it outright.

The king's now bloody lance was still poised. There was another boar to slay. This one was already wreaking havoc amongst the slingers. Hain held their arms spread, springing left and right to try and avoid the swinging tusks twisting around between them. Few hain were fast enough, being smashed away or outright impaled through their shells by the beast's strength.

The king closed in, raised his lance, and brought it down. This boar twisted its head to parry the lance and ran its head into the side of the chariot with the backswing. The chariot pitched suddenly, throwing the driver and the king both.

Edda heard the king's wife take in a sharp gasp. Her elbows bent until she held her hands tightly together and her eyes were nearly popping out.

The king and his driver landed with a slide on the dirt. The king threw away one snapped half of his lance and stood up, coughing.

The boar squealed and charged. The king would have been gored had his giant hound not slammed its head and paws into the side of the boar. It gave time for the king to leap to the side and search for the bronze of his lance. He picked it up and faced the creature. The boar twisted around and raked the hound with the tusks on the side of its head. It charged the king, the king charged back, on foot this time, with half a lance in both hands. Edda could hear the young leader's battle cry scream out in defiance of the death hurtling towards it.

They collided. The spearhead drove directly into the roof of the boar's mouth. The king thrust it so deep that half his arms were between the creature's teeth as his feet scraped backwards to a stop from the boar's momentum. He let go of the lance and stumbled back as the boar paced frantically backwards with its mouth agape. Blood poured down in streams from its lips until it sat on its haunches, panicked. Three more hain spearmen stuck it in its underbelly and it was left to bleed out.

Edda was sure that the king would retreat to find a new mount, but he didn't so much as stop to catch his breath. He drew a bronze mace from a loop on his belt and pointed to a nearby formation, pacing towards it and shouting orders. He was still commanding.

Upon the king's orders, the defending lines reformed and began to curl. In spite of overwhelming numbers against them, the defenders' shield wall had not broken. Their formation was not as disrupted as the enemy's by the time they met, leaving them stalwart. Now the lines were thinning and changing. Edda could tell from the positions of the red banners that the enemy was being surrounded.

Sling stones were breaking shells from almost every direction. Hound chariots punished any who broke from their allies. The defenders were advancing over more enemy bodies than allies.

When the tedar ran, he did so with only one of his pets remaining. The enemy hain began to break soon after, exhausted from pounding against an impenetrable wall of shields.

Edda was in disbelief at what she had just seen. She had witnessed the beginning of the battle thinking she would have to run back to her friends and try to escape. The king and his army evidently had a plan from the start.

There was a sob from beside Edda. The king's wife had her beak angled upwards in happiness, but every other feature she displayed was sad fear.

"They won," Edda declared. She turned up a palm and placed her other on the wife's shoulder, trying to comfort her, even if she was a stranger that couldn't understand her words. "Your husband must have an eye for battle. I..." Edda halted herself in a new thought.

Her search may not have needed to be as long as she thought.

The wife brought a hand to the side of her head and closed her eyes. Tears beaded down the side of her head. She said some more foreign words and brushed Edda's hand away, turning to walk back into the palace.

---

"Edda, are we going to be kept here forever?" Sakurt asked. The hain man was the fisherman that had essentially saved lives during the journey over the ocean. He addressed Edda with respect. "We do not want to be prisoners here."

Sakurt gestured to the room around the group while he spoke. They had all been locked away when the battle was over, with little in the way of reasons. Edda could only shrug from her chair and offer a guess.

"We will have to see. They probably don't know what to make of us. We're foreigners, after all." Edda offered.

"I think it is more to do with you, Edda." Sakurt extended a hand downwards to gesture at Edda's markings. "You saw how they looked at you. It was as if you were mother Nissel herself and they had only known pain until now."

Edda sighed and looked away. "Mother Nissel is a myth. My mission involves finding a chosen hain to build a better place here. That's real. I'm not the one who is meant to lead everyone."

Sakurt upturned his hand. "No one said that, Edda. Perhaps you might get some help from them, that's all. We just want to make new lives here, though we can only do so much to help you..."

The conversation was interrupted by the large door unlocking and drawing everyone's eyes. Korom the advisor stepped through in his finery. Two servants followed him inside with some neatly folded linen robes, followed by the Renan, the chipper interpreter.

"Edda," Korom said, before giving some level words in Loralom's foreign language.

The translations were ferried over to Tokgos, who was more frank than Korum's tone implied. "You've been invited to dinner, Edda."

"Enter! Da great an' powerful king will hear you beg now," Gormon loudly announced.

Into the chamber walked a beastmaster with the leashes to two rabid hulks of fur in hand. The massive wolves bayed and howled madly, but such was the ogre's strength that not even they could tear free from him, though they came closer than he might have liked to admit.

"Ay, king! I got more warbeasts trained for yer kennel. I jus' need you to gimme more good ogres to round up 'em jungle beasties, the last hunters are all eaten or ran away by now."

Ommok sat upon a massive yet plain throne hewed out of the stone in the wall of his cave-fortress. With irritation he observed the 'tamed' beasts and wondered how useful they would be for his purposes when they were likely to devour anything in sight. Whereas he and his shamans had learned to bind firedjinn utterly to their will to make the perfect soldiers, the beastmasters just... took what monsters they could capture from the Venomweald, then beat the creatures with sticks and starved them until they became vicious tenfold.

"How many warbeasts do I feed already?" Ommok demanded.

The Beastmaster winced at Ommok's words. The king's freakish size was terrifying enough, but something about that stone he held was also disconcerted. With a dumb look he stammered, "Uh... uh..."

With a scowl, Ommok raised his stone and peered into the useless Beastmaster's mind. In a few moments he rifled through the scattered memories faster than the beastmaster could have even remembered them. Thirty-two. Maybe less, if they were eating each other again. Wordlessly, Ommok commanded the Beastmaster to flee from his sight and the ogre ran out in a trance-like state, wolves in tow.

Afterwards, there came one of Ommok's shamans to report the summoning and binding of another djinn, to the king's approval. Then came all manner of worthless disputes and squabbles for him to resolve, which he settled arbitrarily and with nothing less than tyrannical punishment for those that wasted his time. Finally, after a half hour it seemed as though he had listened to and dealt with the odd hundred or so matters that had demanded his attention. He began to rise, but was stopped by Gormon.

"No, you not done yet great king!" Gormon had proclaimed. "Enter! Da great an' powerful king will hear you beg now," he cried out once again. He quickly dropped the totem and club that signified his position as Ommok's ancient. Then the ensign left Ommok's side and began to run out the door.

Ommok roared, "What are you doing?!"

"Followin' procedure, boss!"

He left the throne room. A few moments passed, and then the great brute lumbered back in. With a look of seriousness, Gormon began, "My king, it bothers me ta bother you, but all we got all da pointies an' all da choppas an' all da clubs ready, and da boyz wanna know when we get ta finally use 'em. You promised we'd go smashing things! Now's da time! Give da order!"

The ogre king contemplated that for a moment. His preparations had been in the making for quite some time now, and soon he would indeed need to make his move. "We go tomorrow,"

Jubilantly, Gormon said, "I gon' tell all da boyz at the fightin' spot den! I gon' tell them as soon as my boss lets me take break!"

He snatched up his club and totem from where he had left them on the ground, and then turned to Ommok once again. "Boss, can I haz a brea-"

"Go."

The ancient dropped his tokens of office once again and then ran off down a passage that led out of the caves and into the ogre city. Ommok, meanwhile, meandered down another tunnel that led even deeper into the caves.

He eventually came to a set of chambers that hosted his sorcerers. They were not numerous, for it was rare to find an ogre of any exceptional intellect or affinity for magic, but they were powerful enough. With Astartian magic they could force their will upon lesser creatures and dominate them in a weak mockery of the power that Ommok's Stone granted him. With the shamanism that they had learned as part of the former alliance with Slag, they were able to do something similar to djinn. By summoning and binding many lesser djinn too weak to even see, they could essentially conjure a flame and control it as if it were one of their own limbs. With greater effort they could gain power over a stronger being and keep it permanently subdued; they had nine such beings subdued in the cave, mostly firedjinn.

Then, there was one that had proven impervious to the lesser wills of the shamans. Its name was Flayr, and it was the very being that had taught them the ways of djinn. Naturally it was greater than those beings that the ogres could summon, and not even when working together could they subdue it.



Ommok himself could only barely subjugate Flayr and for short periods of time, for djinn had a different manner of mind and they were mostly impervious to his Stone's power. As far as his own mastery over the ways of shamanism went, he was no more able to dominate Flayr in that manner than the other ogres.

Even so, when Flayr had learned of the alliance between Slag and Ommok coming to an explosive end, he had remained by choice. 'I am a pureborn spiryt of the all-consuming flame,' the djinn had said, 'and I should rather offer my aid to a base fleshling as yourself than receive commands from 'Baron' Slag, a lowly bastard of earth and fire.'

In reality Ommok had at first suspected that Flayr was a spy, but as time passed the firedjinn had only continued to prove invaluable. He continued to teach the shamans and aided them in their craft (although never without condescending words to say about their ineptitude and inferior status), and he alone was an advisor of equal intellect; perhaps that was why the king had grown fond of Flayr-- he was an island of sanity and wisdom among the sea of moronic creatures that were Ommok's species.

From that hole where he had been lurking, Flayr inched forward. His presence brought uncomfortable heat even from a distance and to a creature as resilient as an ogre. "The lord comes, and what a mighty lord is he! A so-called 'king' of wretched fleshlings, ruling a worthless stretch of wilderness from the comfort of some cave."

"One day, you will jape when I am in a foul mood, and then you shall know the meaning of ire," the Sorcerer King laughed back.

"I am Flayr, descended from the line of Char and a hundred mighty firelords, and your pitiful attempts at binding me would be wasted. Why would I teach you and your minions the ways of djinn if I thought you capable of ever enslaving me with that knowledge? Do you really think this 'ire' of yours could compare to a firelord's rage?"

"Shamanism be damned, I have the Stone, my birthright, my pow-"

"Yes, your favorite plaything, the greatest of all your artifacts. I succumbed to its power once, but next time I shall be prepared."

"I have come here-"

"To trade insults?"

"-to ask if the shamans are ready. My warriors grow restless; I have promised them blood, and they want it soon."

Flayr seemed to scoff; it was always hard to discern any meaning from his face or the tone in which his fiery form hissed words. "You are too cautious. You have seen for yourself the creatures that you seek to conquer, the 'Hain' as they were named by gods. They are weak, useless things; they have been gifted no such power over nature the likes of which I have given you ogres, and they were created with nowhere near the strength of even the most runty of your kind. I will accompany you and incinerate them all myself, if you so wish."

A few quick emotions flashed through the king's eyes. He tried to conceal his thoughts, but the djinn was too perceptive. It had a way of peering right through the cloak of terror and mysticism that normally shrouded Ommok and his mannerisms. "Ah, you do not want me to leave this place. Are you sure, ogre? If I were truly your enemy, would it be wise to leave me in your fortress without you or your shamans to contain me? Just imagine the destruction I could wreak..."

Ommok steeled at the threat, but before he could say or do anything Flayr went on, "But here I shall stay if you wish it. I wonder when it is that you will find it in yourself to trust me as utterly as you do Gormon, that worthless brute of an ancient."

"It is hard to trust what one does not understand," Ommok admitted.

"My nature lies clear before you to see: I am Flame, raw power and ambition and change, the most volatile and powerful of Zephyrion's elements, the most primal force of change.

It is you fleshlings that are so complex. Take yourself for instance: Ommok, the wisest and eldest of ogres, yet also a vicious warlord of unmatched stature. A dutiful if not merciful king that believes in the strength of his own people, and yet is willing to conspire with djinni lords."

"You no doubt can see my great ambitions," Ommok retorted, "just as I can see yours, for we are not so different in spirit. But I know not what it is that you want, nor how you will seek to get it."

Flayr cackled and a shower of embers flew from his infernal maw. "Is it so hard to believe that I would seek the favor of a great shaman and king, whose power can only grow? One day you will understand why I have aided you, ogre, but until that comes and I seek your favor returned, I shall serve you as faithfully as any one of your little ogres or slaves. Go, Ommok, and conquer the Hain tribes. I shall be here when you return."

Without a further word, Flayr's blazing form shrunk down to a small fire and crept back into the recess from which he had come. From a distance, he looked no grander than the tiny fire of a brazier, but that only made Ommok more suspicious of his 'ally'.

---

On the following day Ommok led his great warband from their lands on the outskirts of the Venomweald. They marched through the wooded hills and wild craglands around the Venomweald, and then at last emerged in the great grasslands south. Ommok knew this land well, for though it had been many years since he had ventured forth on his pilgrimage to find the Stone, he had walked all these lands and seen the various tribes that populated them.

It was not long before they neared a Hain village. This was the very first place where Ommok had encountered these 'Heen'. They had welcomed him, but then he had come as a traveler, and now he came as conquerer. His warriors would defeat them with their own weapons and inventions: spears, javelins, bows. If raw ogre strength proved insufficient, Ommok of course wielded the powers of his Stone, his beastmasters had all manner of monstrous creatures, and his shamans controlled a few mighty djinn.

...but of course, ogre strength was more than enough. The Heen village fell with minimal resistance; how could they resist against creatures twice their size? Village after village fell before Ommok's warpath. Some of the Hain remembered the friendly giant that had walked their lands many years ago, but none recognized the warlord before them as that same being, for that giant had not worked black sorcery or carried such a strange stone.

Some of the Hain stayed in their villages to serve new ogre overlords, for Ommok was not simply razing these lands when he could instead make them a part of his kingdom. The rest of them were brutally marched back to the wild jungle that was the heart of Ommok's kingdom. Their labor would help to grow his city, and decency demanded that needed to offer something as a reward to those that fought for him. These slave-Heen would make a suitable reward for his warriors.

After leading his horde on their warpath for the better part of two weeks, Ommok at last realized that these scattered tribes could offer no resistance. They would all fall within the next few months and there was no need for him to witness each conquest in person, so he split his army into numerous hordes and sent them each in different directions. Each army had a dozen ogres willing to fight to the death for the honor of leading the raids, but Ommok settled the disputes by choosing the largest of them and proclaiming them as the warbosses. Ogres rarely questioned things bigger or stronger than they, so the largest ogres of course made the best leaders.

With his lands already doubled in size, Ommok returned to his fortress. As the days passed, more and more Heen slaves were marched into the city. It seemed that every other day came word of another region's conquest; from each of these lands, the ogres brought back a trophy. Sometimes it was a grisly totem made of the chieftain's skeleton, other times it was a statue or other work that the Heen had crafted in homage to their new king.

Ommok paid such trifles little mind. Though he recognized the importance of demonstrating his might and prestige, he found himself more engrossed in his studies of magic.

Bells began to ring. Their tolling echoed throughout the Great City of Umu, calling people to finish up their activities and chores. Elysium’s chariot rumbled over the city’s cobbles, drawn by a pair of her faithful Honour Guards toward one of the grandest builidings in the city. The Great Chantry of Umu was a massive complex of warm sandstone and gleaming silver, its tall spires and graceful domes crowned with lance-like points, as though to guide the viewer’s eyes toward the stars above. The largest building in the city dedicated to the Enlightened Way predated even the palace itself, and indeed most of the city itself. Technically, at least. Repairs from centuries of wars and natural disasters had probably replaced every stone at least thrice over, with the exception of a few deep chambers and inner walls. Still, the spirit of the place flourished despite the ages.

The chariot pulled up in front of the Chantry’s grand doors, a massive but perfectly balanced pair of oaken gates, heavily carved with flowing, detailed geometric patterns. A portico held up by columns twisted to resemble ivy stretched out from the facade, flanked by a a pair of sandstone Realta standing rampant with their wings spread wide and faces raised in triumph.

The throng of citizens outside the Great Chantry parted as the Queen stepped out of her chariot, followed by the soft clatter of little handmaidens hopping down at her feet. It had taken only a little effort to overcome the little one's scepticism toward religion with the lure of a new experience, and that was all the opening Elysium, daughter of the One King, needed to introduce them to the Way. It had been considerably more difficult to convince herselfto wear a formal dress for the service. Even now, the Realta constantly shifted and plucked at the simple yellow silk outfit with her magic, grimacing at its unaccustomed bulk.

The milling throng gradually fell in behind them as the doors opened to the Queen. Before she crossed the threshold, she paused to exchange pleasantries with the people who would lead the service. Elysium knew each of them as pillars of the religious community of Urumu. A elderly man was dressed in robes of silvery-white embroidered with curling, abstract patterns. The brown trim on his robe indicated his status as the Chanter of the ceremony. Next to him was Hierophant. Her robes were similar, but trimmed with indigo, denoting her high status in the Enlightened Way. As this was not her temple, though, she would only assist in the night’s ceremonies. A maiden, with skin like coppers and hair of cinammon, would lead the ceremony. She wore robes of the same silk as the other two, but her patterns were picked out in golden thread. This was Alta, the Qarqaz of Umu. The rest of the small group of clergy wore similar robes, all with different trim and patterns signifying their positions and jobs.

“I am looking forward to tonight’s service, Your Reverence,” Elysium smiled at the woman with hair of liquid cinammon.

The Qarqaz bowed courteously, as did all her retinue. “I hope you will enjoy it, Your Majesty.” The woman stood again and smiled down at the wide-eyed children clinging close to Elysium's yellow dress. “Are these your new maidens?”

“Yes, they are.” Her wards offered an adorable bob of a curtsey. “They was quite reluctant to come at first; only Akasha is very religious, I think.” The Queen offered an apologetic look, which a few of the children had the decency mirrored with a blush. “But they are open to possibilities. I hope she will learn something of value from this service.”

The Qarqaz smiled politely. “Then I will ask the Ascended to touch them with their inspiration. Provided their minds are open, of course.”

“Of course, Reverence. Shall we?”

The woman nodded and led the way through the massive doors of the Chantry. The Queen of all the World walked forward with the careful, graceful strides and practised composure of a royal appearing in public. Every motion was calculated to exude calm, regal authority. Her wards hurried quietly and timidly next to her, looking painfully aware of the number of eyes on them.

Realising she was staring at her little maidens, Elysium pulled her eyes away from him and let them wander the interior of the Chantry instead. It was massive; so vast that it could likely swallow up a certain gargantuan palace her father had told her about with plenty of room to spare. Pillars, thick and grooved with spiralling lines, stretched skyward to support the domed ceiling. The walls and ceiling of the building were covered in geometric patterns wherever they weren't carved to depict mythical heroes and historical figures long since passed on to the Road. The stained glass windows boasted epic scenes; the Enlightenment and creation of the first Realta, the birth of the first generation of humans, and the ultimate Ascension of all but… well. The windows depicted all but one. Elysium’s gaze flicked quickly to the next tall, narrow window, where a myriad of creatures – humans, dragons, Realta, and all the beasts of the land and sky alike – held at bay a vast, ruby-eyed silhouette crowned with with a mask of myriad shapes and colors.

Just beyond the doors, a large, elegantly simple fountain bubbled water into a deep basin, which funnelled it into several low, wide fonts. Elysium stepped up to the largest and picked up one of the washcloths stacked in a nearby basket to begin her ablutions. She worked slowly for her father's benefit, knowing that even know his gaze was upon her.

She dipped the cloth into the water and ran the cloth down her forehead and nose, then stooped to wipe each of her feet. Beside her, a young child squeezed her eyes shut and vigorously scrubbed her face, but looked up quickly as if afraid she would miss something. The Queen flashed a smile to the little girl as she wet the cloth a second time, using it to moisten the top of her head, then her ears and finally the nape of her neck. She deposited the cloth in an empty tub as she stepped back, making way for others while she waited for the clergy to finish their purification.

The Queen led her group to the front of the Chantry, pausing just short of the dais that was the domain of the clergy. Above them, the main dome bulged out into an apse cupping a huge statue of her father. The giant sandstone god was a caricature, a fatherly human with a short beard and a stern gaze offset by his gentle smile. His wings stretched out to either side, nearly touching the edges of the vault, and his gilded hair, though cut short, were carved to suggest the shimmering, ethereal quality of the divine. One hand was raised to rest on a massive stone tablet, upon which many lines were written.

Elysium bowed her head before the statue while the clergy, stepping up onto the platform, prostrated themselves under its paternal stare. The Queen took her place on the lone extra-large prayer mat, kneeling down with her legs folded underneath her. She could feel the maidens filter in around her.

Starting from the back, the Chantry began to fill with masses of the City. Hundreds, then thousands of congregants seated themselves on prayer mats as neatly-folded washcloths dwindled and used ones heaped up by the fountain. At last, a low, bell-like tone reverberated in the air, the Chantry’s ancient spells alerting the clergy that the service was full. Two acolytes set their hands against the huge doors and slowly swung them closed.

Elysium and her small entourage sat at the front of the Chantry, where the mats were reserved by custom for the Chosen– political leaders, aristocrats, and wealthy and influential peoples of every stripe. None, however, wore their usual ostentatious outfits or gaudy jewellery. Here, beneath the stone gaze of One King Oroboro, all the affectations of the secular world were as meaningful as the glitter of a particularly shiny grain of sand on the beach.

Soon, the sound of shuffling people ceased and silence filled the hall. All attention fell on the apse, where the clergy had gathered around the altar, facing the congregation. Smiling, the Qarqaz stepped forward.

“Welcome all, to this Shortlight service. Please rise,” she said, her voice echoing through the halls with amplification. Everyone stood up. “May the light of the stars be ever with you.”

“To guide us on our path,” the gathered peoples chorused.

“May you find your way to inner peace.”

“And reach the heavens and beyond.”

The Hierophant picked up her hymn book and turned the page, prompting the congregation to do the same with the book that accompanied each mat. Elysium flipped open the book and held it open on one hand as the Heirophant began to sing.

Unaccompanied, voices rose to join the Hierophant’s. Soft and shaky at first, people soon fell into rhythm and their song grew more confident and cohesive. By the first chorus, there were no longer many voices. Instead, there was only a single, powerful voice. It was deep and high, nasal and brassy and melodic all at once. It sang of peace and cooperation, and of love and passion in all things. Together, the congregation made the music of faith, and for a few minutes, they were as one.

As the introductory hymn ended, the voice of All gradually crumbled back into individual sounds, and those sounds died away into echoes under the high dome. The Qarqaz lifted a hand, gently motioning for the congregation to lie back down. Silence reigned for a moment, until the man in the brown-trimmed robe stepped to the front of the dais, a book resting in his hands. The other white-draped men and women retreated to prayer mats of their own.

The Chanter reverently placed the book on the lectern, opened it to a bookmarked page, then closed his eyes, his face full of sombre passion. He breathed deeply several times, then started chanting. It was slow and deep, a throaty sound that was almost a hum; soft, but pervasive. The slow tones filled the room and poured into Elysium's ears, as if poetry had been melted down until it flowed like a liquid. The haunting, beautiful tones and the man’s deep voice resonated throughout the atrium. The Queen took a glance at her little ones, who listened with a rapt expression to the soft, impassioned chant.

The spellbinding recitation of the words written by the progenitor of the Realta, her father, was not performed in the common tongue. Instead, the Chanter spoke an ancient language developed by the people long, long ago– back when Elysium still kept watchful gaze over sea and forest, and Man kept to his caves. It had remained largely unchanged in all that time, though the Empress could detect the influence of a particularly old dialect of the poetic Ekanden language in the pronunciation. The rich tones of the chant told of what enlightenment entailed, and how Oroboro – He Who Walked The Road – gathered knowledge and power from all corners of the stars to bring to them, finding enlightenment soon after.

While most could not understand the words, their meaning was not important. The focus was on the song itself; the lilting of the voice and the emotion behind the Chant. The words might as well have been gibberish, as long as it helped to calm the soul and clear the mind. Elysium closed her eyes and let the Chant rock her like the gentle bobbing of a boat at sea.

The Chant came to an end all too soon. As the echoes of the mans’s resonant words faded, the clergy stood once more and drew together to begin another hymn. The Queen felt a smile tug at her lips. The song was one of her favourites; a paean to the beauty of the night sky and the stars – her kin, alseep in the Great Cold. It expressed the hope that the singer might one night follow in the path of the Realta, finding enlightenment and ultimately Ascending to light a star of their own.

As the music died down, the Qarqaz returned to the front of the platform and gazed out at the uncountable throng that had gathered in the temple. The Qarqaz scanned the crowd for a few moments, locking eyes for an instant with Elysium herself.

'I wonder which tale she will recount tonight,' the Queen thought. She had heard them all innumerable times, of course, but the realta loved to hear them retold all the same. Even if they were but stories once told around the tribe's campfire, each one could be turned and examined to contemplate any of a thousand different facets. The Qarqaz focussed her gaze above the heads of the audience with a smile, then began the Inspiration.

“Long ago,” she began, her voice hushed yet ringing in the silence like a triumphant shout, “the great Oroboro was teaching his disciples by the shore of a lake. Arabus, father of Eskander, blessed be his name, said to him, ‘I am a powerful man, skilled in many tools, and yet I am bound to the earth. The Equgesh live in their mountains high above us, weaving rain and forging lightning. You say that our peoples should work together as one, but how could people so different from one another ever cooperate?’

“Oroboro pointed to the lake and told them a story. ‘A heron was attempting to catch fish in a lake much like this one. However, the fish were too crafty, and they knew not to go near the heron and hid deep under the water. The heron soon grew hungry and unhappy. His weeping was heard by a much larger fish, who asked him what was wrong. When he explained his problem, the large fish confessed that he, too, could not catch the smaller fish to eat; they were quicker than he, and fled to the shallows where he could not go. So they came to an agreement to work together and set about planning how to catch the fish.

“The large fish chased the others from the deeps into the shallows, where the heron could pluck them out with his beak. Together, they caught a great haul, and together they feasted; coming to an arrangement that evening, they agreed to help one another whenever either was hungry. If a fish and a heron can work together, how much more should two men?’” The Qarqaz smiled and continued. “Oroboro told his disciples that nature can yield examples of cooperation and harmony between many different animals; this is how all creatures should treat one another. All people, individuals and groups alike, can find balance and order no matter how different they seem. Cooperation and kinship can overcome any obstacle.”

The Qarqaz paused for effect, letting the story sink in. In the pause, Elysium noticed a movement in the corner of her eye. Akasha’s head began drooping downwards. Elysium nudged the chhild awake with her elbow shooting her a pointed frown. She flinched at the touch, a shamed blush springing up on her face as she met the Queen’s stern eyes. Elysium turned back to the cinammon-haired orator. The Inspiration continued on the themes of harmony and balance, with the God-Queen only slightly distracted by keeping an eye on Akasha. Finally, the Qarqaz gestured for the assembly to rise and began one final song. Like the sermon, the song was about tranquility and mutual good will, an oddly joyful tune compared to the solemnity of the ceremony.

The Qarqaz made one final address as the rest of the clergy retreated to their own mats. “As music evokes our outer emotions, let Silence and meditation bring forth our inner selves. Now is the time to pray, to think and to meditate.” Then she too knelt down.

An intense stillness filled the Chantry. Elysium settled back down on her mat like those around her, but Akasha was fidgeting and shuffling to her right, peaking at the people around her and trying to imitate their postures. The Elysium craned her head down to the girl.

“What is the matter, Akasha?” she whispered.

“I don’t know… how do I meditate?” the lavender foal asked.

Elysium briefly surveyed the sea of humanity around them, then smiled softly. “Just relax, clear your mind and focus on your breathing. Allow your spirit and mind to loosen and flow freely. Now, we must be quiet.”

Akasha nodded and finally relaxed into a comfortable posture, closing her eyes and breathing deeply in and out. Elysium, content that her maiden was using the Silence properly, turned her attention to her own devices.

At first, the realta tried to meditate. She looked inwardly, into her mind. She pictured it as a door, containing all her doubts, fears and worries. Elysium tentatively opened the door of her inner thoughts, but dared only the quickest of peeks. Closing it all off again, she pushed the feelings to the back of her mind, sighed, and started over relaxing herself.

Her meditations only went on for a short while until before she gave up on them, frustrated with her own inability to loosen up. Suppressing a loud another sigh, Elysium switched to her preferred alternative to alleviate her worries. Bowing her head, she instead focussed on picturing the stars. She imagined she could reach out and touch them; linking them, reach through them, to commune with the beings they were. Elysium slowly brought her fears to mind, and voiced them in prayer one by one.

'Father, I pray that you may help me stay on the right path as I lead my children of this world. I hope that I can have the strength to make the right decisions… and that I have made the right decisions.' The Queen found her thoughts drifting to the children, young and old, that knealt around her. 'Grant guidance to me and to her as them as they learn and grows.' There was a lull in her prayer, and she found herself unwilling to say any more, even in the privacy of her own mind. The Queen shied away from the door in the back of her mind, pushed it away from even her prayers. Yet there was still one more thing she had to say, one last request for her Father which she never neglected. 'And may I one day be worthy enough to return to your side.'

"All will be well."

She opened her eyes again, her attempt at meditation as brief as usual, and simply watched the other people around her. Up on the dais, the Hierophant fairly trembled with zeal, her lips moving in silent prayer. She flicked her gaze to Akasha, who was squirming again under the heavy stillness of such a large congregation.

Just then, the Qarqaz's voice cut through the silence, a mere murmur filling the Chantry with echoes. “The doors will now open, but you are welcome to stay as long as you wish. Wherever your path leads, may you walk the Way.”

Akasha jolted, immediately beginning to rise to her feet, but stopped half-way and looked to Queen Elysium for approval. Smiling reassuringly, she nodded and also stood up. She paused to stretch her back, relishing the feeling of limbering up even a little after so long kneeling down. The realta noticed that a great many people were already pouring out. Once upon a time, before the Great City, they’d have waited for her to leave first. But everyonewas so busy these days, begrudging even the hour or so spent in the service. She sometimes wondered why they bothered to attend at all, if they weren't truly prepared to strive for enlightenment in the first place.

As she turned to the exit, out of the corner of her eye Queen spotted the Hierophant rise from her own mat and make her way towards her, followed by the Viziers of the satellite cities. 'Jvan's soggy tits, can I not have even a single minute of peace?' The Queen stifled a groan, praying the lot was just there to pay further homage to her father. Maybe if she walked fast enough she could get out before they caught up. Or she can teleport the little ones andherself out of here, or maybe–

“Your Holiness, may I have a word?”

Pushing away the sudden urge to see if a realta's voice could physically hurl someone against the wall if she screamed loud enough, Elysium turned and gave the viziers a smile as sincere as the their reasons for coming to the Chantry. The men either accepted the gesture at face value, or hand trained as actors before rising to their stations. She bowed deeply and returned a smile of frankly sickening adoration.

“What can I do for you?” the Queen prompted, her smile beginning to flake at the edges.

Blinding white flickered across darkness, the notion skittering across a distant field of thoughts—each thought like a tiny flame dancing in the void of Tobias' mind. Pain. Pain blazed across the landscape like a wildfire, consuming all thought into ash. Slumber threatened to reclaim him when a voice sounded through the gloom. Wake up! He ignored it, but it spoke again. Sleep is for the dead.

Am I dead? he asked the voice. Not yet.

Tobias let the distant light fill him and his eyes opened to the blinding brightness.

At first, the person near him was undiscernable from the bright blur that was all else, but then she started to reveal herself slowly, and her fair skin and white hair became distinct.

She whispered in a language he didn't understand. "It seems he became resistant to the sedative."

Then she approached, and now her words were familiar to Tobias. "Are you awake? Please stay calm, if you move too much, your wounds could open."

For a moment, Tobias' mind went blank, unable to comprehend the sight before him. Then hundreds of questions bombarded his already aching head. In an attempt to soothe the pain, he shut his eyes to the girl. He must have been dreaming again.

Releasing a breath he didn't know he was holding, he reopened his eyes. Still here. he mused.

Tobias inhaled. "If you plan on devouring me, please put me back to sleep for Fate's sake."

"I have never eaten a man, but I imagine that if I ever desired to do so, I would pick a meal that isn't still stinking of venom." she said casually, before staring at the man's face with mild contempt.

His eyes narrowed in mixture of similar contempt and amusement before widening in surprise and fear. "What in Amul's name do you mean by that?!" he yelped, panic apparent in his voice.

She shrugged. "I don't know what you have been through, but your body was covered in fives types of venom and even a bit of digestive acid when I found you. It took more than a handful of baths to clean your body from all of that."

Tobias' head was spinning. What in god's name happened to him while he was out? A pause. "Wait...You bathed me?"

She tilted her head. "Yes? The other option was letting the acid and poison slowly melt your skin off your bones, so I believe it was the moral thing to."

Tobias let out baited breath, the thought of waking up with flesh slipping of his bones to morbid a thought to dwell on. No doubt he was grateful. "Thank you, I'm indebted to your kindness...Um" he trailed off, looking for a name.

"Name is Meimu, maybe you know me for another name." casually after saying that, she started the herbs and tools that were near Tobias.

He watched her as she work. Meimu? Where did he know that name? He didn't. "Hmm, don't think I do," A pause. "Do you live here? Like nearby?"

"Hmm, I actually live far away. But I do enjoy visiting here." yet a quick look at her complex looking outfit would shine doubt upon that statement. "And you? Why were you napping in this living deathtrap?"

He cast her a look of skepticism, but spoke no further on the subject. "I've lived here for as long as I can remember, and that's not alot." he chlorted. "As for why I'm here napping..." he trailed off, opting to point at the carcass of the bleeding lion he assumed was still a few feet away.

The woman looked distressed. "Hmmm, maybe the venom has caused some effect on your mind." she sighed and took hold of his hand. "There is no lion, we are not even outside, Tobias"

She stopped collecting her things and instead started seeking something. "You clearly need more sleep. Let me help that.

Comprehension escaped Tobias. "But, like … when, um, … how?” he spluttered.

Suddenly he jerked forward, his saucer-like eyes roving about the room, drinking in his newfound surroundings for the first-time. Pain quickly wrenched him back down with a grunt. Rock!? Cave!? His breath quickened, each gulp of air a knife twist in his chest.

"No, no! Where did you find me?!"

There was no answer, just an odd smell as a cloth drenched in some sort of herb got close to Tobias' face, darkness followed.



Tobias woke up feeling sick and confused. Had Meimu drugged him? He couldn’t remember much past being dragged under by the mysterious woman's odd smelling cloth. Now he was naked, lying under thin sheets in a cave of bare rock. He kicked off the light sheets and propped himself up on his elbows. The cave was empty.

"One moment Fate blesses me with a lovely caretaker, the next it whisks her away." he blew out an exasperated breath. "No rest for the dead I suppose." he finished with a grunt of effort that cut through the caves quiet, his attempt to get his feet obnoxiously loud.

Idleness is the bane of any man. he mused, finally succeeding to stand, albeit with the help of the caves rough walls.

Tobias grimaced as he gingerly stepped through the mouth of the cave, pain etched into his features. Outside, dawn sent shimmering rays over the living jungle. Against the backdrop, the trees were silhouettes, still as an oil painting darker than ravens. Tobias blinked toward the sun that brought him a day he was never promised, yet was glad to see. Not so long ago he was knocking on deaths door.

The start of this new day brought with it the tidings of torment, pangs of distress, unquenchable thirst, and cravings for which he could never satisfy. Tobias rubbed his stubbled chin; this day, unfortunately, would be another day idleness. Their was only little he could do in his current condition, but the little he could, he would, and he would not waste time.

Turning back into the cave, he made a mental list of the days necessities: food, a source of water, adequate coverings, a fire, and ideally, a weapon. All were achievable if he put his mind to it. If he could gather the necessary tools for survival now, later, when he was healed and healthy, travel down Silvas would be much easier; he was sure Mika would wait.
All I need now, are clothes.

While he was sure no one but him traversed this accursed jungle, adequate clothing would certainly increase his chances of survival. Scouring the cave for anything besides the sheets Meimu left behind, he managed to find his sickle sword stashed behind a small rock. The base of the sickle had been cleaved from the small straight edge and handle, leaving in its place a jagged, tooth-like wound. Tobias smiled at his luck, no doubt Fate was with him this day. He must of held the damn thing so hard that Meimu had to wrestle it from his grip, and stash it away for fear he would lash out with it.

Leaving the halved blade next to the sheets, he resumed his search, but came up empty handed. Meimu really had left him nothing, which meant he had to improvise. Mika's words played in his head: Those who learn to collaborate and improvise prevail. Only now had they found use to him.

Picking up the thin sheets, he took one corner and folded it over his left shoulder from the back, letting a surplus hang down past he knees, and the rest past his butt. He then took the long end of the sheet and wrapped it diagonally across his chest and under his right arm. Then repeated the process across his back, under his left arm, and around his chest. Finally, he tucked the long end coming from under his left arm under the end already across his chest.

Surveying his work, he found the outfit to be impractical for jungle life. It was baggy and loose fitting, and it revealed his skin to the harmful elements of the Venomweald. Nevertheless, the protection it bought by covering his nether regions satisfied his expectations, he planned on using the thing later on in life.

Picking up his blade, he left the cave and ventured into the jungle, marking off 'clothing' and 'weapons' as completed tasks on his mental list. For the next several hours he scoured the nearby vegetation for sustenance and and water. Armed with the knowledge Mika provided him, he separated the poisonous from the edible. He avoided plants with white or yellow berries, mushrooms, plants with thorns, shiny leaves, leaves in groups of three, umbrella-shaped flowers, beans or plants with seeds inside a pod, milky or discolored sap, and anything that tasted bitter or soapy; all of which were toxic in some way. He also steered of insects, as the Venomweald's population was vast, innumerable, and unpredictable.

Fruits became the meal of choice as he gathered and feasted on the various citrus fruits he recognized. Leaving a handful inside his den, he quickly procured dry tinder and kindling for a fire after drinking rainwater from a leaf, opting to use the dead branches and moss littered around the area. Arranging eight rocks into a circle near the mouth of the cave, he placed the tinder nest within the ring and grabbed a short, soft stick from the pile he gathered earlier. With his halved sword, he whittled the stick down with practiced ease, smoothening a particular side and notching a divot in it, Mika's lessons guiding him. This would serve as his fireboard. He repeated the similar process on a harder stick, except the end was sharpened to fit in the other pieces' divot. Maneuvering the contraption atop the tinder nest, he went about burning a hole into the fireboard. Placing the drill between his hands, he ran the stick backwards and forwards to spin it, increasing speed in increments. After repeated attempts and roars of frustration, he managed to light the tinder and set it ablaze with the kindling.

The next few days were modeled after this one, more or less spent performing menial tasks while his body healed. By the end of the first week, he managed enough strength to shift into more advanced, labor intensive tasks with the aim to gear up for the journey to Mika. Traps were set to automate the gathering of meat and other protein, as fruit had became monotonous. A simple rock and stick bait trap sufficed, although instead of rabbits, he was often met with massive, carnivorous, mutant rodents he called skiivers.

Over the next few weeks, Tobias gathered and constructed various tools; bamboo, milkweed, fur and wood the building blocks of it all.

Gathering a bundle of logs as tall as he was and as thick as his thigh, he whittled the ends to a wicked point with short, even strokes of the blade. Each log was crudely weaponized in the same manner. He then took the logs and planted with in the dirt in a semi-circle surrounding the mouth of the cave; claiming his territory and transforming it into a defensible point.

Taking milkweed stalk, he flattened them longitudinally and broke the core, separating it into two roughly equal halves. He then stripped off the wood. Starting at the thick end of one of the halves, he snapped off inch-long sections of wood, leaving behind the exposed under skin. Left with two ribbons, one side of each covered in a flaky, dark brown outer bark, he opted to kill three birds with one stone, as Mika thought him, and tenderized the fiber by simply grinding it between his thumb and forefinger.

With the fibers tenderized, he spliced individual strands one at a time. "Wrap tight, wrap sturdy." he hummed, guiding himself through the process of rope making. He repeated the procedure over and over again, producing bundles of variously sized twine and rope, a building block of survival as Mika called it.

Armed with rope, he went about constructing various tools for survival. Cutting bamboo into sections, he constructed a square frame tying corners with lashings. He attached vertical lines from the top horizontal pole to the bottom horizontal pole and attached horizontal lines that alternated and interweaved between the vertical lines. Lifting the top frame to uncollapse and expand the pack, he completed the contraption with twine straps running from the top to the bottom of the pack.

Backpack completed, he constructed a spear, its advantage being range and versatility. Mika had favored the weapon. Taking a dried stalk of thin bamboo, he formed a point by using small, even strokes with his blade. Satisfied with the point of the spear, he held the sharpened end just above the flames, turning until the stalk changed color.

Spear completed, he shifted to clothing. Taking the the rabbits he enjoyed earlier, he tied both back legs to a tree limb about head high. With knife in hand, he made an incision from the hock to the vent. Next he cut the tail on the underside from the vent to it's tip. Using the knife gently, he stripped the pelt up and away from the leg and cut the film that held the skin to the meat with a grimace.

Careful as possible, he pulled the pelt off the carcass, cutting through the cartilage beneath the nose and ears. Finally, it slipped free. Gingerly, he lay the pelt over a very smooth log and with his knife, began to push and scrape, removing all the fat, meat and membrane until he could to see the pores of the skin. Occasionally, skin would will pull back through the underside, frustrating him to no end.

After fleshing the the pelt, he buffed up the furs surface with a rock. Every critter has enough brains to tan it's own hide. Mika always said. Except buffaloes and some people I know. Removing the brain from the rabbits skull, he mashed the organ in about a cup of water, and cooked the mixture for about 10 turns of a small glass, inside a bamboo bowl. He then mashed and mixed the concoction into an oily liquid. Applying the lukewarm liquid to his hands, his rubbed them into the pelt. "Go ahead ladies, it'll make your skin soft." he grimaced. He repeated the buffing process and applied a second coat of brain, then let it dry overnight.

The following morning, he uncovered it and begin to stretch the hide, pulling side to side and head to tail until it was dry. When the pelt was dry and no longer cool to the touch, he began the smoking process. Suspending the pelt on sticks downwind but out of reach from the wild flame, he smoked the pelt.

Repeating the process for days at a time, he managed to gather enough pelts to fashion a kápa, essentially a single large sheet of fabric with an opening in the center for the head and an extra piece for a hood. Using the thin fang of a skiiver and twine, he sewed the pelts together, just as Mika thought him. In addition, he fashioned sandals from bark and twine, using pelts to add comfort and insulation from the toes up to his knees, while the thin blanket Meimu left him was transformed into a wraparound that reached past knees; still impractical, but he didn't complain.

One morning dawned murky and overcast, a sudden storm arising off the northwestern slopes of the Ironheart to cloak the Venomweald in rain and cloud.

Tobias frowned as he poked his head out the mouth of the cave and tilted his head upward to catch a few drops of rain as he looked at the low sky overhead, only slightly brightened by a rising sun in the east, still quite out of sight. Somehow he had expected to feel different on this morning, a morning that would ignite the spark in him to bring Mika within his grasp. Somehow he thought it would feel somewhat more, ... important.

But, as he let another handful of raindrops, cold and fat this early morning, splatter against his face, it felt neither different nor important. It felt ordinary, for the lack of a better word. Dishearteningly ordinary, with a little cold and gray thrown in for good measure. 

In fact, it looked like a day made for haste, without the need to stand and explore the unfolding world around him, with its revealed secrets and long-lost stories. Those secrets and stories found themselves hidden once more behind heavy banks of mist and fog this dreary dawn.

So it was haste that Tobias made, swiftly dressing and bundling up his belongings back into his bamboo pack; everything he would need for the journey, before he slipped out of the cave to draw up the hood of his kápa as proof against the rain. In one hand he carried his spear, a tool that doubled as his walking stick, and served as a useful weapon against the hunters of the Venomweald. In the other rolled a mango, the morning's tart and nourishing breakfast. Strapped to his wraparound stay his blade of obsidian, broken during his bout with the Nemean Lion, a loss crushing to his heart as it was his only link to past. In his pack rest various items of need and interest: a fireboard, pelts, some rope and rabbit meat cooked the night before - his meal for the day. He would hunt and scrounge afterwards.

It seemed to be falling a bit heavier now, with morning steadily progressing forward despite the storm holding the suns light at bay. He took one last look at the cave that served as his infirmary, marked by the fireplace he established on his first day, now dowsed by the rain. He would never again return to this place, for once he found Mika, he would find home. Oddly enough, something inside him said otherwise.



From the moment Tobias left the threshold of his camp, he could feel the useless tension permeating the air, eating at his resolve and determination. Yet somehow, Tobias already felt empty, devoid of emotion or desire. While his heart felt as if it somhow lacked purpose, his body and mind were coiled like a snake, ready to strike. Each step was precise and oddly dutiful, his walking stick guaranteeing him safety in the undergrowth. His senses were on overdrive, every one attuned to the jungles every howl and hoot. All the while, he guided himself by marking the occasional tree with a symbol, a crude tri-pointed star; a memorandum of a jaded past.

By midday, he reached the Silvas, wide and opaque. The water was green, darker in the shadows and more pale in the light, but green nonetheless. Against the noise of the birds welcoming the climax of the sun's journey in the sky, the gentle murmur of the water could only just be heard, a backdrop to the musical notes coming from above. Yet, for all its serenity there was more danger in its swirling depths than the trees behind. 

Tobias rested near it's bank, feasting on soggy rabbit and soaking in the rain; oblivious to the predator that watched from afar. Rabbit had grown monotonous, its chewy, lean meat and plain taste boring him to no avail, yet, he ate, opting to take advantage of the nutrients it earned.

Suddenly, the bushes to his left began to shutter and shake. Like a whip, his his head snapped in the direction, his eyes wide with fear. What in, … Slowly, he lowered the stick of meat to the ground, and reached for his spear. He needed to arm himself, but before he could wrap his fingers around the cold bamboo, a black shadow leapt from the green. With grace and royal dignity, the shadow descended onto the banks of the the Silvas. A deer. Tobias silently mused, recognizing the figure of its antlers. The deer, in all it's magnificence, lowered its head to the water, and drunk from the river. Tobias remained unmoving, mouth agape, his eyes scrutinizing it's powerful muscles and massive rack. No doubt, the Venomweald had produced it.

Just as quickly as it came, the deer suddenly disappeared. Tobias barely reacted to the event that had taken place with the blink of an eye. Where the deer one stood only remained a pooling of water and an ripple in the river where its lips had once been, nothing more. "By Fate, am I hallucinating?" he muttered to himself, scanning the area for any signs of the deer or a predator. Nothing of the sort appeared.

From that point on, Tobias avoided nearing the Silvas, opting to follow it from afar. Rain fell for days, the torrential downpour soaking the land and chilling his bones. His kápa insulate him, but only fire would truly bring comfort to his freezing bones. Unfortunately, rain made fire starting almost impossible, even under the the dense canopy of the Venomweald. Each step in his sandals became agony as the rain transformed dirt to mud. Game became difficult to catch, as the cold chased away the prey, leaving predators starving. Suddenly, Tobias was at the bottom of the food chain.

Time and time again he avoided the clutches of vergs, skiivers, panthuras, yaugers, mimics, and all forms of predator that prowled the Venomweald. Sleep turned into a blessing when it came, as he was forced to rest in the tress during the last leg of his journey.

Sleep deprived, hungry, and dirty, yet alert and undeterred, Tobias eventually came upon a waterfall at the end of the Silvas. It was a whirruping waterfall. From a distance, it looked like a silver tear track on the wrinkled face of the mountain looming over him. It was tiered and plunged into the depths of a paradise-blue pool. As he began to get closer, the noise of the cataract increased, growling and rumbling. Then it foamed into lathered at the base. The waterfall seemed to fuse itself into distinct threads of watery fabric as he approached, as if a loom of liquid silver was pouring down the rocks. The sound was cacophonous now. The spout was hitting the cavernous hollow of the pool like a thunderclap. It rushed down the mountain, roiling and bubbling, boiling and churning. The pool fed two other smaller waterfalls, but they were not as deafening.

Mika was nowhere to be found.

He rushed along the edge of the rocks, leaving the swollen noise of the large pool behind. The sounds changed to a gentler swoosh-plunk and hiss-plop. It remained a salvo of sound, but it had a gentler slushiness to it. The two waterfalls streamed into one infinity pool of bliss. From it, the last spillway flowed, as smooth and fluvial as silver dew. It spilled over the gravelly bed with the honeyed sensuality of a lover’s kiss. A chinking, tinkling sound was caused by its languid slickness echoing from rock. It looked like the sleek robe of a water witch as its glassy brilliance pinged and plinked.

He was panicking now.

Just then, the sun came out. Its rays caught the watery slide, giving it a trance-like quality. It turned it a-glitter, like shreds of silky silver. The airy sparkling of its spray was magical. It looked like a spritz of fairy dust, flickering in the slanted light. It had the dreamy and illusory façade of a painting and the same shimmering sorcery of a mirage. The drizzling spray created a filmy mystique above the pool, dazzling him with its beauty for but a moment.

For hours he searched the falls, but nothing came of it. Neither scrap nor clue of Mika forthwith. Tears flowed freely down Tobais' face, the dam broken against his will.

Mika had swore.

It was more than crying now, it was the kids of desolate sobbing that came from a person drained of all hope. He sank to his knees at the edge of the river, not caring for the damp mud that dirtied his pants. He cried until there was nothing left inside but a raw emptiness that nibbled at his insides like a hungry rat. His irises were threaded scarlet and his eyeballs hung heavy in their sockets. His whole body hung limp like each limb weighed twice as much as it had before and just moving it about was a slow, painful effort. The sun now shone in the sky, but not for him, the birds sung in bursts of melody, but not for him, for him there was no beauty left in the world, only desperation, struggle, and survival.

The door to Susa's quarters, nestled alongside other important living places, was one of the many extravegant pieces of Lifprasil's palace. It was rectangular, the edges clipped with carefully imagined designs displaced by Ilunabar's hand in Alefpria. It slid open without a hand to press into its cool surface, welcoming Lifprasil inside. Before he could step inside, however, he caught himself upon realizing that this may be a breach of privacy. Lifprasil stepped back two paces, and then awkwardly extended a hand to knock on the door frame. "Prosit." was his fumbled greeting.

The sound of someone stumbling around could be heard even through the thick walls of the palace. Not too soon after the door opened and Susa showed up wrapped in a sheet. She looked very tired, to an extent Lifprasil hadn't seen since they fought against the horde.

"Lif...? Uh, did I miss a meeting? I... Can't remember any at this time..." the thought of just casually meeting a friend had fled the huntress mind thanks to the constant pressure of imperial life.

"No. I just wanted to speak with you," responded Lifprasil, still standing in the doorway. "About the world, amongst other things."

"Oh, nice, I like the world." she half-smiled. "Alright, do you want to come in or...?"

Lifprasil crossed his arms. "I would prefer somewhere fresher - the brick and structure doesn't agree with me," suggested the emperor. "Aesthetic choice aside: you exude stress."

She felt like bantering about exuding but she knew she was too tired to have the wit to do so "Right... Okay, should I get dressed then?" she waited for half a second before shaking her head. "Of course I should, what am I saying... I will be back in a moment."

After a good while, she opened it again. She was wearing her green and yellow military uniform, she grew to like the piece after the whole long sleeves debacle, it was lean and swift, especially in its sleeveless form.

"Done. Sorry if I took too long" now she was already more awake than before, one could still easily spot the tiredness in her eyes, but she was no longer half asleep.

Lifprasil nodded silently, and drifted down the hall with Susa in tow "It is not an issue. There are things to discuss; but we will take them to the globe room." he alluded as he floated down exuberantly decorated steppes to the main hall.

"Oh, that room, huh..." she smiled, that was one of her favorite places in the palace, especially thanks to the illusory biomes it was capable of forming.

Perusing the confines of the palace, Lifprasil eventually navigated his way to the bulbous, illusory room, its semi-circular structure was squared off by great marble walls, the entrance was then blocked by a circular vault. With the command of Lifprasil, the vaults complex, divine structure unraveled to yield to a grayness and bleekness comparable to the bottom of the ocean. Lifprasil stepped into the cold, apparent vacuum of the room, but felt no death, bringing Susa with him.

"The room emulates the surface of one of Galbar's celestial bodies, a satellite if you will," Lifprasil explained to the Hero tailing him. "Nothing thrives in these places unless it is willed, as you and I are only created by those up-above."

"It feels a bit disappointing." she looked around to the deserted bleakness that supposedly ruled the lunar lands. "The tales about the moons seem more exciting than the thing itself."

Still, it was something new that she had never seen before. "I didn't know we could copy places out of Galbar in this room. I thought it just reflected this planet."

"I've imagined the surface - but gaze upon that distant orb," Lifprasil told Susa, before he motioned to just that: an orb in the distance, much more vibrant in its color than their surroundings. "That is Galbar as it was millions of years ago." he told Susa. With that notion, the pairing snapped to an infinite ocean of purple sand, when the shoulder of the world was burdened by a primordial, crimson sky.

"Our planet wasn't much different before the age of mortals from its own moons, as there was no will to change it, and make it suitable to gestate life." explained the demi-god, a hint of nostalgia in his voice as he gazed at the hypothetical petri dish before him.

Susa was silence by it for a few seconds, gazing upon the planet at its primordial form made on feel no different than the beasts grazing mindlessly in the fields.

"It is a bit humiliating if I had to say it." she looked tense "To think we are so dependent on gods who are as flawed as the human... I mean, mortal, nature."

"Just like this moon, it makes me miss the stories I heard when I was young. It doesn't matter if it were the tales of perfect gods or the ones where life was independent from the will of the divine people."

"Nothing can be so perfect as the idelogical imaginings of mortal creatures, Gods and the like are just as impassed by conscious shortcomings as you or me," Lifprasil started. "Ah - there's nothing to be humiliated by, it is much like a child to a parent, just like that." he then said as reassurance, and set a hand on Susa's shoulder.

Starting with mild bafflement at Lifprasil, she took her time to answer it. "Parents have small control over their children. Mothers oftenly give birth to beings different from the ones they imagined. I do not think it is comparable to the situation of the gods. If anything, it feels similar to being toyed around."

She turned around and looked to Lifprasil. She had perhaps placed too much sympathy on his figure, he was a god still, he understood things from a different viewpoint. "But that is only if the system is truly as statistic as you make it sound, if all things are indeed tied to the will of conscient creatures. I do not know if that is the case."

"You could say that, but the love expressed by some of the gods in the pantheon can be equivocal to a parent. Some may create creatures as toys, whereas some may create creatures out of love for their very existence," Lifprasil retorted, his positivity waining slightly.

"Some may even be mistakes."

"The issue isn't the love or indifference of god, as that one sounds moralistic. I question if our subjection to the will of other beings is a natural and unavoidable one, or simply something born from a difference of power."

"In my culture, the highest god is a mindless beast, we are thought life itself is moved on causality. Of course, living here in Alefpria and listening to you gives one a higher vision of things. At first, I simply ignored the previous idea, but recently I started thinking about the phrase we always use.

She did her best to copy Lifprasil's style of talking and to perfectly quote what he said. "Nothing can be so perfect as the idelogical imaginings of mortal creatures, Gods and the like are just as impassed by conscious shortcomings as you or me,"

"Wouldn't that mean gods, including you, hold faith and superstitious as much as the next mortal? The difference is how much you perceive and know, but still, your own phrase implies the shortcomings of one's worldview."

Lifprasil blinked. He couldn't remember the last time Susa spoke so much.

"Yes, that's precisely what I mean. Even now there are beings more powerful than the gods, and as far as I can tell, the gift of Divinity was merely thrust upon them by higher deities, with little knowledge of the truth outside of the universe they created." he said, crossing his arms, "I have heard of these higher deities, but never met them in the flesh. All I can say, thanks to their existence, is that subjegation in this universe is based on power, considering that even gods higher than ourselves may fear and respect their word, my inquisitive Susa."

"I'm aware that power is what sets up the food chain, the question is the nature of it..." hearing the last bit of the sentence, however, sent her on the defensive. "Hey, I'm just curious, knowing things is the key to survival."

"It is just that... just like when I first visited Alefpria and got a taste of the wider world, now I feel like a lot of what I have been told here isn't an exact mirror of reality either. Or at least that is what I have been thinking since I started to travel around again..." she stopped for a few seconds. "Around the capital that is. Anything else would shift my focus."

"You're not a very good liar," Lifprasil chided "You're feeling nervous." he then rebuked.

"Have you been travelling?"

"Eh? Traveling? Maybe... a little bit.

Lifprasil chuckled, transporting the two to an ancient forest: the Venomweald.

"No need to be so secretive - I actually wanted to ask you about the world."

Susa looked around at the odd jungle forming, while it was still a blurry form it was not much different from the rain forests of the Mesathalassa. That changed as the defining features of the location became clear, the venomous aura, the trees that did their best to hide the sun.

"Huh, what is this place?" she whispered. "Too swampy to be the deepwoods...

"Ah, sorry, I got distracted. So... it is okay that I travel? I thought you wanted me to focus on the army training.

Lifprasil nodded.

"As far as the might of my mortal armies go, you've been doing quite well, as have Lakshmi; and with the acquisition of the Father Dominus - we can take mortal power to explosive new heights." he reassured her.

"As for this place, it is the Venomweald. It does not take kindly to most things."

"I like the concept of what the Father does, yet, there is always something odd about those... uh... the word is Jvanic right? I still can't pinpoint my issue with it, outside of the odd looks.

"Those...? Would you mean the ArkSynth?" Lifprasil asked, intertwining his hands behind his back as he took in the view. Susa nodded.

He nodded in understanding. "Jvan's aesthetic choices are... Questionable, but I do hope that our artists can make our Knights more bedazzling to better display the worldliness of Alefpria," Lifprasil chuckled. "After all, judging by the pairing I've made, they can afford to stick out. Their resilience to mortal weaponry is very impressive."

"It is truly impressive, I mean, if I had that power I would be a happy woman. Yet, typically the armorer hammers the armor to fit the user, in this case, the user is changed to fit the armor." she pondered "Compare it to Chroma, who can change her shape freely to fit her will and situation".

Lifprasil nodded again. "Many of the people from outside of Alefpria who have lost much were willing to change themselves in such a way after seeing the Twins - along with our own soldiers. The concept of power is something that sometimes outweighs one's own being in such a powerless position, many are even greatful to be modified, taken by ArkSynth's immortal splendor." was his admittedly long-winded response.

"I understand those decisions, but even you seem to assume there is a possible better deal than what they get."

"I suppose I do," Lifprasil sighed "If such exuberance were easier, all of Alefpria would have the utopic power of immortality unchanged - to not suffer like so many must. Consider these Knights the first step to achieving my goal of an exalted world."

Susa nodded. "I didn't really want to question your decision, I'm sure you want to do the best you can. Yet, I also felt it was necessary to voice my discomfort with the way those things are done, even if there is no other way right now."

"I didn't make you a champion of Alefpria for you to blindly follow, your input is welcome." Lifprasil reassured her.

"In fact, that is what I called this private meeting for."

Susa relaxed upon hearing those words, the weight of the hierarchy felt lighter on her back. "Right. You wanted to discuss some issues with me, right?"

"The world: particularly what you were familiar with, my scouts have been dilligent thanks to your training in mapping most of the world with the help of Ilunabar's Almanac. They've pulled in thousands of refugees from the Realta crisis to bolster our population and our military efforts, but they can only go so far,"

Lifprasil took a dramatic pause, and they were soon on Julia Island, overlooking the fractal sea.

"I plan to expand Alefpria, to unite Galbar under one glorious banner so that we may share our prosperity and the fruits of our labor through alliances and treaties. Xerxes and Amartia isn't just something to destroy to me, but to gentrify after conquership, and the people of the Mesathalassa region to ally."

Those words needed to be reflected upon. "Perhaps your sight is too high for you to notice the details underground, from up there, I imagine even plebes can look like a single rock."

"Before I can say anything, let's say you want to conquer Mesathalassa, what are your opening moves?"

"Ask you for guidance." Lifprasil responded, simply.

Susa tilted her head, and moved towards the globe. "Well, that is smart. But I feel like you avoided the question. I do not think as a conqueror so I do not know what you want to do." she touched the globe and with swift moves painted the region. "Green are the human, fishing based city-states. Orange and pink are the human tribes. Dark blue are the wild Hain population and light blue the hain villages.

"What do you do? What is your plan to get all these people under your banner."

Lifprasil paused, and tapped his chin. "Learn the language, arrange talks with their rulership, and offer to increase their quality of living through Alefpria's various faculties, I would suppose," he said, crossing his arms. "I understand human nature to the extent of manipulation, but I find bonds made through genuine talk are often stronger than mental slavery." Lifprasil explained, motioning to Susa as an example.

She nodded. "But do you really think all men will bow? Do you think the interests of the fisherman of a southern harbor kingdom is the same as that of the hunter of the north, or that the hain tribesman has the same worry as the potter of the coastal village?

"What will stop the hunter lord from feeling like your rule is unjust after he has basked in the glories of Alefpria? What could the shaman of the deep rainforest possibly win from destroying his own lifestyle for the sake of a deity foreigner to his religion?

Lifprasil stood by Susa, looking over the globe. "I suppose not, no. What do you suggest?" he asked, looking for an alternative from his general.

She pondered, staring at the globe for a while. "Well, you could always kill everyone who opposes you, but that would create all sorts of issues and would isolate you from people. The question always relies on how much you are willing to destroy.

"Beyond that, a lot of it is cultural. Mesathalassa's human side, for example, don't take very kindly to kings who start to abuse their power. In the harbor towns, the king is merely providing a service, one time, in the village of Iganan the king got a bit wild and started to demand a large share of the fish the fisherman got... The people outright killed him and, depending on who you ask, ate his family to give an example."

"Thankfully for you, I sense the culture there entering in an era of turmoil very soon. I observed the effects of certain techniques like agriculture outside of that region, and I can see how the effects of such practices will change people there. Even more, the climate is going wild there, something happened in the Darkened Spires and due to that thing are slowly, but surely changing in the region..."

"I imagine it would be wise to send some mission there first, get the Lifprasilians used to the region and the region used to them. Though I'm still curious, let's say the turmoil never happens, how much would you be willing to do to assert yourself there?"

"Whatever may be necessary to bring the Mesathalassa Region under my vassalship, I would suppose," Lifprasil leaned in to get a better look at the region on the globe, milling over all the towns and villages. "You said that the kings provide a service, correct? With our resources, I could provide a supreme service while attempting to keep the Mesathalassic way of life intact through your 'mission'." he elaborated, already corroborating the idea in his mind.

"Eh, you can try, but that sounds impossible." she sighed and carelessly rotated the globe around. "And even if it was, it is not just Mesathalassa, as this region is one of dozens and dozens. You will have to do the same, with as much care, on each and every corner of Galbar."

"I do not have the mindset of a military person, I admit, I can't really see how these conquests can work. I'm trying to study that, though." she stopped the globe and touched a region west of the Darkened Spires.

"This region for example used to house a large number of nomads, but now life there is becoming impossible for reasons I do not know, it won't be too long before they flee north and south in a wave of conquest."

"One that might be perhaps similar to how Humans first arrived in this region, fleeing the great floods. I have explored ruins across the region and I think I have proof that other cultures used to live there before they were overpowered by the many people fleeing their sinking lands. Many were Hain, for example, but those are gone from the west side now."

Lifprasil frowned. "Then I suppose I can just go with your mission idea until this prophecized era of turmoil." he said, clearly vexed by the apparent impregnability of the region of Galbar. "Are you implying fleeing nomads will bring chaos to the region?"

"Oh, even without them I think the current changes in climate and technology would open enough doors for you to enter. They, however, will be a good example to see how conquests work socially and culturally. I'm personally grooming the southern group to take a very different take from the belligerent conquest the northern group will probably partake in. Maybe that will provide some insight for both of us."

In his usual fashion, Lifprasil thought some more.

"So, you're ideal method for conquest of the Mesathallassa is to take advantage of the confusion in these changing times?" Lifprasil asked Susa.

"Well, I imagine confusion is a universal opportunity, not only in Mesathalassa, but anywhere. It would be great for you if you had as much information about everywhere in the world. Ilunabar could easily provide it, from what Salassar tells me, but maybe it would be safer to go with homegrown agents.

"All things considered, I'd even suggest getting some people to survey Mesathalassa who aren't me, after all, I'm biased."

Lifprasil nodded "I should pay a visit to Ilunabar, we haven't spoken in some time since the creation of Father Dominus - and there are other regions closer to the north that I would like to probe past Xerxes." he said, navigating the globe as he talked.

"After Xerxes, I would like to look into colonizing the Ironheart Ranges, and then from Xerxes building a road to the Valley of Peace, which from that location I can push into the Venomweald without having to cross mountain ranges. To the south, scouting legions can probe into the Hilt, and the Metera Valley, but aside from these two things the only other landmark is the World Mountain at such a low height." Lifprasil explained, and as he did the room changed its shape to match every region mentioned, morphing on a whim in an epic display of illusory power.

The huntress barely noticed the nearby changes as she was immersed in her own thoughts. "You will fail if you move that slowly" she said.

"You can do that, but at the same time, try to send settlers to our direct north, south of the ranges and the Venomweald. With our technology, we can also probably establish small bases in the colder southern areas where people mostly live a nomadic and dispersed life. Try to get people to join your cause before your main troop reaches their area. Angels for example could be good."

[color=oranges]"Yes, I suppose that steady momentum in the progression of our plans would be good, how soon would you say that we should act upon these ideas? If we really wanted to; I could consult with the most recent diagrams of the regions we've explored and have locations to build upon in the Ironheart Ranges planned out by tomorrow. The Metera Valley and the unoccupied regions at our immediate south included."[/color] Lifprasil suggested.

"We will have the people to do that while we are also preparing for the war? I guess some expansion would be good, but the focus of the manpower should be on taking Xerxes."

Lifprasil smiled. "That reminds me - you and Lakshmi will soon need to focus on picking out the proper soldiers for our war march on Xerxes. I've already commissioned five thousand Cosmic Knights from Dabbles, so you may want to speak with the Twins on how you would like to approach this battle, as our army will also have Father Dominus' air superiority at its disposal," he told Susa before he ruffled her hair. "I will join you to confront my brother Amartia during the battle as well, which reminds me again."

His tone took on subtleties of level-headed scrutinies and seriousness rarely seen by Susa, and his unconscious body language certainly changed as well. "Much like my confrontation with Grot, I may die in this confrontation. I've been told, and read in the almanac, that Xerxes is led in conjunction by both of my siblings, the other one being the demi-godess of pain, Keriss. Regardless of these things, my point stands that I trust both you and Lakshmi to remedy leadership in Alefpria, care for Tira, and by proxy hide the god-killer in the event that I do not survive this encounter between the two." Lifprasil instructed Susa, anxiously laying out her hypothetical responsibilities.

Tension etched on her face. "Seriously? Me?" she looked around nervously. "I'm no leader material, I can keep Lakshmi safe, but I can barely see myself working as part of the imperial bureaucracy, imagine as one of its heads."

"You've been part of the bureaucracy ever since you arrived here in Alefpria, you're very ready in such an event. In fact, you displayed your competence just now with your consultation on my part." he reassured her.

"Man, are you trying to make me take an arrow for you or something?" she huffed "Just don't die."

Lifprasil laughed, relieved by Susa's brash dialogue. "That's my intent." he chuckled. "Don't die either, Susa."

"Not in my plans. Can't leave Galbar alone with you lot in charge."

The south pole was draped in endless winter night, but that mattered little to the occupants of the World Mountain. The dwarves’ subterranean lifestyle made the day-night cycle, or lack thereof, of little importance. Only a few brave dwarves were on the surface at this time of year, working to maintain the surface dwellings which were farms during the summer, or operating some of the few workshops which had not yet been migrated underground.

Although there was no sun in the sky, the dwarves had another means for tracking the days. A gong rang out, its metallic call echoing across the slopes of the World Mountain. Many of the dwarves packed up what they were doing and headed towards the great stone doors of the citadel of Dundee. Even those few whose homes were still the hastily erected dirt huts assembled when the dwarves first arrived headed for the earthen halls. The dwarves converged onto the door by torchlight, although rather than the gates opening completely only a small door at the base opened to allow passage in and out.

The inside of the halls had a much more lively atmosphere. Torchlight danced across the walls, casting its warm glow on all within. The stone walls did little to dampen sound, so the halls echoed with the joyous sounds of dwarven life and the distance ringing of pickaxes. With the limited ventilation, the halls were filled with the collective stench of thousands of dwarves and the smoke of forges and torches, mixed with the sweet aroma of alcohol.

The entry corridor was as wide and tall as the grand gates of the citadel, cut into solid stone. After progressing a short distance into the mountain, it opened up into a grand chamber, also cut from the stone of the mountain, with the ceiling supported by stone pillars which had been left behind while hollowing out the chamber. This grand chamber was one of the few large open spaces within the citadel, and as such it was where many dwarves gathered to socialise and for the children to play games, especially while the surface was cold and dark. To cater for all these dwarves, alcohol was available in abundance. From this chamber branched many smaller corridors and passages, most leading to homes, working spaces or mines. This grand chamber was also where the smoke from the many fires in the citadel gathered, accumulating about the roof and drifting out through a few chimneys, and where the refuse of life and detritus of digging was piled up to be taken outside.

Among the piles of stones and rocks left over from tunnelling sat a circle of young dwarves supervised by an older dwarf. These dwarves were chipping away at these rocks with hammer and chisel to create all manner of objects, from bowls and plates to furniture and bricks. Stone was a plentiful resource here, so it was important to be able to work it properly. The older dwarf instructed the younger dwarves in the proper methods of shaping the stone.

At the sound of the gong, many of the dwarves gathered in the main chamber split off to go to their many jobs, filtering out into the passageways. Many of these dwarves passed by small patrols of psykers, who kept watch, maintained order, and kept Lazarus informed. In the grand chamber, some psykers entered the throng of dwarves, finding particular individuals and reminding them politely yet firmly that they had work to do. Maintaining order and ensuring that work was done was one of the chief roles of those dwarves gifted by Lazarus.

One major workplace was the smeltery. Ore collected from the mines was melted down here and converted into metal ingots, which were in turn taken to the blacksmith, or cast into useful parts. Metal and stone were the most abundant materials inside the citadel, with metal being the most useful, so the smeltery was of especial importance. The smelter worked day and night, refining copper to be sent to the casteries.

The castery workshops themselves were relatively small, fit for casting individual items and small wares in bronze. Spears were produced here, as were mugs and armors. This equipment was then distributed through a barter system throughout the citadel. Of course, the psykers and Lazarus herself had final say on where they ended up.

Not that Lazarus ever truly commanded things. That she left to the psykers, as she generally stayed within her own quarters, working on projects unknown. Gold retrieved from small veins or melted out of copper during the crude purification process were generally offered up by the psykers to Lazarus, as well as gemstones.

Of particular note within the citadel were the breweries, given special note purely because of the Dwarves’ fascination with alcohol. Booze flowed freely out of the workshops, supported by a year-round underground mushroom farm. These mushrooms were special in that they could take the place of regular hops for fermentation purposes, meaning that they allowed a constant supply of material to ferment.

The fungal farms had proven to be invaluable to the subterranean dwarves, for the surface was unsuited to farming for most of the year. Only a few luxury crops, such as guarana, had dedicated farms on the surface. But the mushrooms provided more than just food. Fibres were also provided by the fungi, which were treated then woven to produce fabrics and ropes. Looms were used for the purposes of weaving, although a recent innovation had improved the looms considerably, allowing for much faster production of fabric.

Wood was one resource that was rarer than gold in the citadel, for no trees grew underground or this far South on the surface. What little true wood that was present had to be carried down from the north. But recently a new type of mushroom had been discovered and cultivated. Its tissue was much tougher than the other mushrooms, and was almost uncanny in its similarity to wood in its material properties. Such a resource would surely prove to be greatly useful.

Then there were the mines, which branched downwards from the citadel like roots. And that analogy was fairly accurate, for these mines tapped into many of the resources which kept the citadel running. But the stone had to be removed from the mines and the citadel in order to create the tunnels. For a long while, this had been laboriously done by hand, with lines of dwarves carrying out heavy sacks of rubble, often up slopes. But some bright spark had come up with an invention to perform this task. It was a large metal basket on wheels, which could carry much more stone than a single dwarf. To lift this cart up the slopes were ropes and pulleys, allowing the cart to be hauled up from the top of the tunnels. Such an invention would make the process of digging out tunnels, which were getting ever deeper, much easier.

The grand hall had many tunnels and passageways leading from it. Most lead to homes, the private residences of dwarves. One such alcove, however, led to the home of Lazarus herself. The only feature distinguishing this passage from the many others was that it was permanently guarded by psykers. No one was permitted entry without Lazarus’ express permission, on pain of death.

A regular looking dwarf with a thick pocketed apron walked past the alcove, not paying attention to the forbidden doorway and its guards. The dwarf went around a corner into another, adjacent passageway. Then the dwarf turned again and walked straight through the wall, the stone barely registering the being’s passage.

In Lazarus’ domed chamber, a voice announced its arrival, gently reverberating from the walls. “Hello Lazarus.”

Lazarus shifted slightly, before suddenly swiping some unknown arcane contraption off the table. It clattered to the floor noisily, the enchantments all breaking off. After a few moments of silence, she slowly turned. “Another god,” she asked, “what is it you want?”

Teknall, who was in the form of a dwarf, stepped out from the stonework. ”My name is Teknall. I’ve been inspecting this dwarven civilisation. Sorry to surprise you, but your guards wouldn’t let someone walk through the front door.”

“Teknall. I know the name, though I don’t think I’ve met you before. I know the pantheon doesn’t visit me unless they want something. I ask again, what is it you want?” she asked again, leaning against her table. The workshop was surprisingly sparse, little of the offerings made in her honor actually making it into the room. The few that did make it into the room were in various states of enchantment and deconstruction.

“The original reason for my visit was to inspect the dwarves. Civilisation is my concern, so here I came,” Teknall explained, “I can tell the dwarves have an interesting ancestry. They are a modified version of goblins, modified by Vestec, who also created the original goblins. They’ve inherited goblins’ craftsmanship, subterranean lifestyle and stature, although they have greater intelligence and, peculiarly, a dependence upon ethanol. You’ve done a good job setting up this underground city, especially considering the various challenges to building in such a place. While here, I’ve made a few helpful additions which the dwarves should find useful: minecarts, woody mushrooms, some training in stone cutting and smithing, improvements to the loom. They should help the citadel as it grows and becomes more populated.”

Teknall walked forwards a few paces, stooped down and picked up the broken device from the floor. He turned it over once in his hands, a frown flickering across his face for the briefest moment as he inspected the damage, before setting the device back down on the table.

“Originally, I would have visited you anyway, for no purpose other than to formalise my visit to the dwarves. But I’ve seen some of the work you do. You are an artificer and experimenter in the ways of the divine. There are these contraptions. In wandering these halls, I found the trails of no less than two demigods stemming from your own. And there is that box of secrets you have, which is so well designed that even I can’t peer into it.

“Recently I have… acquired the need to be more discrete, in terms of the divine trail I leave behind. I have made efforts myself, but I fear that they may not be enough. I was wondering whether you would be able to help.”

Lazarus continued to lean against her table, eventually responding to the request with, “I know exactly how to reduce your trail, but I have things of my own I need worry about, that you could provide in return. Tell me, how much do you know of our universe? Not its physical properties, but its divine properties.”

“The divine properties of the universe?” Teknall confirmed. “Got to make things tricky, don’t you? I know the physical properties in intimate detail, but the divine, the metaphysical, my knowledge is not as extensive. Although, depending on exactly what you want to know, I may still be able to help.”

“I don’t want to know anything. However, I do need two simple things -- two samples of your essence. Anything will do, really, a sample of skin, some blood, whatever holds your divine properties. Once I have that, I can both give you a machine to help you hide and advise you in its use.”

Teknall considered the offer for a moment, then replied, “Sounds like a fair trade. I warn you, though, raw divine essence is a fickle and unstable thing. You’ll need something to contain and isolate it, and I don’t recommend leaving it unsupervised for any length of time. Understood?”

“I know full well how divine powers work. First, the essence, then I will tell you where to find the machine. After you bring it back, I will instruct you in its use. Sound fair?” Lazarus responded, straightening herself as she stopped leaning on the table.

“Fair,” Teknall nodded. From his apron pocket he withdrew a hypodermic syringe, gently slid it into his skin, and extracted a small quantity of glowing golden ichor. He withdrew the needle, took the needle off the syringe, sealed it, then carefully handed the glowing glass vial to Lazarus. “Will this be adequate?”

Lazarus nodded, gripping the vial. She then spoke, “Now, on one of the moons, you will find a machine. It should be easy to find -- I’ll enable the beacon. It’s simple, really, just follow the source of divine energy. Bring it back here, and I will tell you what to do with it.”

”Alright.” Teknall vanished without a trace. Half a minute later he returned, reappearing in the same spot he had disappeared from earlier, this time holding the machine in his hands. It was a simple wooden contraption, covered in magical runes. Embedded in the middle was a simple gem, light gleaming sharply from it. “I’ve got the machine you spoke of,” Teknall said.

Lazarus then held out her free hand. “Take out the gem and give it to me so I can get a reading from it. Then, you may take the gem. Let its power flow throughout you, and try to copy it when you are attempting to hide. The closer you get to a perfect replica, the more invisible you will be. That is the baseline of divine power, and it represents a lack of divine presence.”

Teknall easily extracted the gem and handed it to Lazarus. “A divine essence detector. Nice,” Teknall commented. “Although the location was hardly perfect. It will be a good baseline, but I noticed Vestec’s trail nearby. And it is still within view of the most divinely populated body in the Universe. The best place to have put it would have been deep space, given a good throw from where it was dumped. If a non-divine agent could do it, even better.”

“It measured the ambient active energy, not what Vestec left behind. Nevertheless, you are probably right about being so close to such a divinely populated area. The results shouldn’t be that far off. I doubt any god could perfectly replicate the baseline anyways, so it isn’t as though it should matter much.” Lazarus responded, before silencing to chant a few magical words, incorporeal waves of power transcribing themselves off of the gems. She then handed it back.

Teknall held the gem up to the light, inspecting it and the pattern of light reflecting off it. Then he closed his fist tightly around it. “Thank you. This should help. May I enquire as to what you intend to do with my essence?”

“Well, one sample I will use in the second version of my machine. The rest, I will be using for other purposes,” Lazarus responded, holding the vial tight.

“Alright,” Teknall said. He then turned to depart. “I shall leave you to your projects, then.”

Lazarus did not stop him as he disappeared through the stonework. She waited a while, and when she figured he was gone, she unscrewed the vial, carefully pouring half of the sample into a second, bronze vial from one of her many projects. Then, she capped the old vial again, took the new vial, and downed the contents.

Year: 232 P

Peral was dead. Qari'Ab clamoured with the thousands who had heard of his passing and come to pay their respects to the Eliad Patriarch and his family. He was survived by his only daughter, Fihriyi. In his long life he had married only once and the love of Peral and Makura had become semi-legendary - joining the ranks of the Prophet-Patriarch's love for his Mawtuq Amudiskandar, and the tragic love of the Durghal for his Dammahshar, and the star-crossed, unrequited love of Rad for his precious Nafzakia. Heinous murder had separated the Prophet Patriarch from his Mawtuq Amudiskandar, an erroneous blow had separated the Durghal from his Dammahshar, and Rad's last stand and self-sacrifice at the pass - that his love and her followers may flee to safety - separated him from his Nafzakia.
As for Peral and his Makura, cruel death struck again and stifled and suffocated the blooming, bursting, ever-growing rose of love. She had given him a sickly son, Mar, who had died no more than a week after his birth. And she had given him a stillborn daughter. And with every failed birth, she grew weaker and sadder and not even he - whom she loved so! - could comfort her and ease her pain and chase her suffering away. And then she gave him Fihriyi, and Fihriyi lived. But like bloodied Rad at the pass, the loving mother died that the beloved may survive.

If there was anything that Peral and Ka'al - Fikra's father - had in common, it was that they lost two of their children. But unlike Peral, Ka'al's children had grown into fine young men before tragedy (or was it treachery?) tore them from the arms of life. And unlike Peral, Ka'al's wife, Cala, had lived after birthing Fikra, and bore Ka'al two more sons - Bato and Liskanda. She had lived to a fine old age and had predeceased her husband by just over a year.

Bato-Elyds: Eskandar [0-37 P] -> Bato [12-30 P] -> Ely [30-78 P] -> Emara [49-90 P] -> Sakin [72-124 P] -> Innasim [95-148 P] -> Miqda [119-172 P] -> Skender [141-182 P] -> Ka'al [159-232 P] -> Fikra [205-Present]

Eliads: Eskandar [0-37 P] -> Elia [13-43 P]-> Zekra [29-67 P] -> Eliali [53-98 P] -> Mar [76-112 P] -> Sa'aen [99-151 P] -> Albitra [123-168 P] -> Balqur [146-197 P] -> Peral [164-232 P] -> Fihriyi [209-Present]

And death had now at long last, after playing with the old man and taunting him for long, come for him. And he was survived by one, suddenly very lonely, and suddenly very vulnerable, daughter. It was not that she did not have her thousands of loyal followers - after all, she was seen as the closest thing to a prophet by an unknowable number of people - but it was that she had lost her father and was now truly alone in the world. The final childless child of generation upon generation of Patriarchs. The fate of the Prophet-Patriarch's line through his rightful heirs depended on her. And she was surrounded on all sides by those who were far less than sincere - those who wished only after influencing her for their own ends.

As was the tradition of the Eliads, she sat in her home, in the very room her father had died in. She was dressed in white and her face was completely veiled, and so too was every inch of her body. Had she had siblings, or had her mother been alive, they would have all been doing the same. The direct family of the deceased had to be in mourning for a period of fourteen days. In that period none could enter upon them but the siblings of the deceased. And if the deceased had no siblings, then more distant relatives. It was their job to cook for the ones mourning and to ensure they were well-fed and looked after in that period.

Fihriyi looked up as the curtain covering the entrance to her dark room was lifted and her two aunts, Malha and Hela, entered with food. The young woman lifted the slightly see-through veil and light from the outside shone on her amber eyes, causing them to light up as though they hid within them flames. Her face was morose and her thin lips were set in a straight line. Her nose was small and straight and quite wide, its tip was neither pointed nor overly round. It was, like the rest of her, quite elegant. With the veil lifted, her red-brown curls could be seen cascading down to her shoulders and disappearing beyond.

'Fihriyi,' Malha said as she set a platter of food before her, 'the people have come from all corners of the Realm to be with you in your moment of loss and pain. Your father is mourned by thousands, and those who would sooth your pain are legion.'
'Their loyalty and love are valued and cherished by us,' the young woman responded, her eyes cast down.
'And that Fikra - what a man! - he has called upon all the people to attend your father's funeral and to be among those who wish you ease during your time of hardship,' there was the slightest flash of anger in the young woman's eyes, but she concealed it before her aunt's could notice.
'I trust his burial went smoothly and he is now reunited with our blessed and sanctified forebears,' Fihriyi looked to the two for assurance.
'Oh yes, every learned man and scholar, and every Qarqaz, took part in the digging of his grave and his burial. He lies with all our blessed Patriarchs, and I am certain he is happy, and I am certain that the Moon-Mother, even now, greets him as she would a long lost son,' Hela spoke. Fihriyi nodded and thanked her for her words.
'And how are your children, blessed aunt?' Fihriyi looked shyly to Hela, who smiled.
'Iybar told me to send his regards. He says that he shall pray for his uncle, and he shall pray for you,' the young woman's elation at hearing this was barely concealed - she almost smiled.
'His prayers and his thoughts are heavy in our scale. Send our regards to him also,' Hela looked to Malha and the two sisters looked sadly to the girl.
'Iybar...' Hela started.
'Iybar loves you greatly, Fihriyi,' Malha interjected, 'but you know well what he wishes for you,' Fihriyi kept her gaze downcast.
'It is our hope that, with time, his wishes for me will align with my wishes for us,' she spoke softly.
'Fihriyi, Iybar is wise. And Fikra is not a bad-'
'With respect, blessed aunt, mention not the enemy's name before us. Mention not the despoiler of dreams, the banisher of bliss, the harrower of happiness and hope.'
The two women pursed their lips and sighed, and with that they turned and, one after the other, left the room. The curtain returned to its place, and darkness descended even as Fihriyi reached to eat. As she ate she remembered a strange tale her father had told her long ago. It was a tale, from what she understood, of two tragic lovers. She smiled at the memory, and even as she did her chest very swiftly swelled with emotion and tears flooded from her eyes. Oh father.





His sleety eyes stared severely from the stern darkness of his doorway. A hard hand - the only part of him exposed to the frigid morning's light - was extended to the next person, who stepped forward and bent low to kiss its back.
'My Patriarch,' he managed in a respectful tone before shuffling along and allowing the next person to pledge allegiance. Fikra's almost-yellow eyes inspected and spurned each of them as they came and humbled themselves before him. Those who were foolish enough to meet his dreadful gaze felt as though their heads had been whipped down and very quickly found themselves bending low and staring diffidently at the ground even as they quickly kissed his hand with trembling lips and swiftly shambled away. The more zealous ones attempted to bless themselves by holding on to his hand longer, and a few tried to grab at a loose bit of cloth from his dress to keep for protection.

Most had come for Peral's funeral and chosen to remain in Qari'Ab until Fikra's waiting period had expired in order to pledge allegiance to him. Entire families and clans had come, and in some cases entire villages and town, and they brought with them various gifts for the Bato-Elyd Patriarch. The affair took over a week as every single follower of the Bato-Elyds - regardless of age or sex - made their personal pledge and covenant with their Patriarch. The Orifids had stationed an extraordinary number of soldiers in the holy town and elsewhere in the area to ensure that things went smoothly and nothing unwanted occurred.

Throughout the weeks-long rite the people of Qari'Ab - whether adherents of the Bato-Elyd faith or otherwise - housed the guests and prepared food for them. It was the duty of the host to provide in every way for the guest, and the people of the holy town prided themselves on being the most generous and beneficent of hosts. After all, they were the people of the Prophet-Patriarch's town, they were to be an example to all the people and creatures of the world. They were the shining example of the perfection and truth of the Blessed of the Moon-Mother.

On the final day, all the chiefs and scholars and elders who were of the Bato-Elyd creed came forth. Various minor chiefs came forth, and Fikra inspected these carefully and - unlike with others - stopped them and spoke with each as they pledged allegiance. There was much that could be deduced about a person by looking into their eyes and observing their voice and tone. There was much that could be gleaned from the way they took your hand, the texture of their skin, their choice of dress and the way they carried themselves.

The first to step forth on that final day was a man dressed in brown. His eyes were hard, his features harsh, his beard long and tangled. On his head was the distinctive Dappa which identified him as being from the south. He took Fikra's hand strongly and kissed it swiftly.
'Foz-Kiyan of the Alk-Kuy tribe pledges allegiance to the Patriarch. The Alk-Kuy are your loyal slaves, Patriarch, and all the people of Kuysa,' he said in a gruff, strong voice.
'You are our pillars. We trust you to hold strong.'
'Pray for us, blessed Patriarch, for the heathen savages who dwell beyond the bounds of the Realm have grown braver in recent years and, though we are more than capable of beating them back, we require the Moon-Mother's aid against them.'
'May She aid you and bless you and strengthen you and deliver Her victory to you,' Foz-Kiyan bowed deeply in thanks before turning away and moving on.
Next came an old woman wearing a long, thick, white robe. On her head was a Tinar which gave away her western origins. Her movements were slow and the wrinkles around her eyes were so great as to give her eyes the impression of permanently being closed. She was accompanied by a younger man - most likely her son and heir - who was likewise dressed in white. On his head was a Papka. His face was clean, his beard well-groomed and impeccable.
The woman took Fikra's hand with her own trembling one - though it trembled not from fear, but from age and weakness. Slowly, she began to bend but found that the Patriarch's hand suddenly rose - gently - to her ancient lips. She kissed the back of his hand.
'Nasawa,' she managed, 'of the Haranma'on tribe. We pledge allegiance. Unfaltering. Abiding. Eternal.'
'You are from Sanman, then,' Fikra noted.
'We are, my Patriarch,' the man responded. He then took Fikra's hand and likewise kissed it and pledged allegiance, 'Ruyab of the Haranma'on. I am my aunt's keeper and heir.' Fikra nodded as he remembered.
'Yes, I remember now. Chieftess Nasawa, the Jewel of Sanman,' the old woman managed a croaking laugh at this.
'Only a crumbling piece of earth, Patriarch - no more a jewel than a hardened piece of mud that melts away at the first strike of rain.'
'Not the shell, grandmother. The Jewel lies within,' with that, aunt and nephew bowed before shuffling along. Fikra watched them go. The Jewel of Sanman had once been amongst the most famed of the Realm's beauties. How many infatuated, maddened lovers had sung and adored her beauty? How many had found in her heart no place? Who could compete with her Firnas? Who could ever dislodge that dead lover from his beloved's heart? His thoughts turned suddenly to Fihriyi. No sadness showed in his hard eyes, but he could not help but wonder if...
'Caron, Patriarch. Chief of Mak, from Zanka. I pledge myself and people to you,' Fikra tore himself from his reverie and inspected the newcomer. He was dressed lavishly in a robe of differing colours with various precious stones sewn into it. On his head was the eastern Kasaw. His beard was long and dark, and his eyes were beady. His nose was hooked and there seemed to be an almost-permanent hooked smirk on his face. Fikra's gaze froze over and face crystallised: here was a hypocrite.
'We rely on your loyalty. We shall test you, and are certain that you shall pass our tests,' Fikra's voice and words were as arrows plunging deep into Caron's heart. His hooked smirk almost faltered.
'O-of course, Patriarch. You will find us ever-loyal,' and before he could say more, Fikra dismissed him with a look.

Many other came forth and departed - the alluring Chieftess Mirga of the Zamancheeq tribe, the stony Chief Jaru of the Khalisati tribe, the spirited Chief Muhaya of the Ahja clan and the intelligent and quiet Chieftess Haleeqa from the Nayab clan. Scholars came forth, Qaraqeez* also, and Fikra eventually found himself face to face with famed Qarqaz Laminat son of Ramak, who had written the huge history known as The Meridian of Chronicles, and for which people dubbed him "The Esteemed Voice of the Goddess".
'This lowly slave pledges allegiance to the son and rightful heir of the children of the greatest in creation, the word of the Moon-Mother in the mortal world,' and he bent low and kissed Fikra's hand. After a few moments Fikra caught him by the shoulder and pulled him up so that their eyes were a mere palm-width apart.
'When will this lowly slave replace his lies with truth?' the Qarqaz seemed visibly shocked at the hostility in the Patriarch's voice and the fearsome coldness in his eyes. With that, Fikra pushed him away and turned to the next person. And the day dragged on.

The last of the non-Eskandars to come forth were those who dwelled in Qari'Ab. Chief Arkoz of the Sariq clan came and pledged allegiance. Fikra accepted frostily. Then Chief Sarat of the Sula clan came forth. Fikra trusted him even less than Arkoz, but he accepted without complaint. And last of all came the huge Chief Fentig of the Agira clan who made a huge show of humility. Fikra did not doubt that he was more sincere than the others - but it was not so much sincerity that Fentig lacked. The man sincerely believed that all that was good for the Agira clan could only be good for the Patriarch also, and that no matter what he did was no doubt good. No, it was not sincerity that he lacked, but vision and understanding.

At last, there came the noble children of the chiefs of Eskandar's progeny. From Qari'Ab came the Amarid clan chief, Molfri. He was dressed in the traditional kop, and on his head was the kapakel which identified him as a chief and elder of the Qari'Ab. He stepped forth, a feverish fire burning in his eyes, and he took Fikra's hand in two of his and bent low to kiss it before placing his forehead upon it in respect. In that position, he spoke.
'Son of the noblest daughter, of the noblest father, of the noblest grandfather. These are not our hearts that beat, and these are not our chests wherein they beat, and these are not our hands that grip yours. We are but an extension of what you are. Move your hand in the west, and ours move in the east. Command in the north and we obey in the south. Our arms are but extensions of yours, our tongues speak only as you bid them to. We are yours, all yours.' Fikra lifted him slowly and looked into the man's bright green eyes. He placed a hand on Molfri's golden beard and brought him close, placing his lips upon the chief's forehead before pushing him away gently.
'We know, Molfri. We know.' For the slightest second there seemed to be tears in Molfri's eyes, but he quickly composed himself and bowed deeply before turning away.

The Meliwid chief Qaran stepped forward. He was a huge man, bigger even than Fentig. His hair was stunning orange, and his eyes a piercing blue, and his beard was huge and his face ruddy. On his head was the traditional Qari'Makian Qasta. It had been the traditional headwear of men there since long before their submission to the Prophet-Patriarch. He wore a long-sleeved green tunic which reached his knees and was tied at the waist with a leather belt. Above it was a loose cloak. His legs were bare and he was wearing sandals - though that was due to the warmer climes down here in the south, for in the north the cold did not allow for sandals. It was something of a Qari'Makian tradition to dress as such when they came to Qari'Ab, though how the tradition had come about was anybody's guess.

The huge man looked down at Fikra before smiling broadly and taking the Patriarch's hand in his own enormous one. He got on one knee and kissed it before looking up and meeting Fikra's iron gaze.
'The weight of heaven, Master, is on your shoulders. Command and it is lifted. Mountains obscure your path. Speak and they are flattened. Caverns and trenches and canyons all around: my back shall be your bridge. I am your beast to command, release me against your foes and I will return to your with their blood and fingers and ears, and I will bring the eyes that thought to look above their station.' The dread beast of ice stared into the eyes of the dread beast of flame. Flame smiled, ice glowered. Fikra stepped forward and hugged the enormous head to him.
'It is good to know that the blood of the Prophet-Patriarch boils yet with battle fury. The enemies of the Patriarch are many and mighty: be mightier.' Qaran rose and spread his arms wide, then released a great roar.
'By the goddess! You shall find none mightier!' and he moved on.

The Garid chieftess Ruya came before him next. Her eyes were a light honey, the closest thing that Fikra had ever seen to the colour of his own. Her skin tone was light, and her nose long and thin, but widened at the tip, which gave way to a thin upper lip and a thicker lower lip. On her head she wore the women's variation of the Qasta which prevented Fikra from seeing much of her hair. What he did see of it appeared to be light brown. Her chin was well-rounded and her jawline well-formed and...delicate. She was quite a small woman, barely reaching Fikra's chin, and the rest of her small body was clothed in a long red tunic-dress not dissimilar to that of Qaran - only that it was long enough to reach her heels. Fikra guessed that she was anything from nineteen to twenty-four. To his eyes, she was exceedingly beautiful. And what was more, her eyes betrayed a striking intelligence. It was only to be expected from a Garid. She took his hand gently and bowed down to kiss its back. The thousands of layers of glaciers around the Patriarch's heart very nearly melted at her touch - but how could anyone ever hope to melt the very being who defined coldness, and against whom all other coldnesses were held up in comparison.
'My Patriarch,' she said - and to normal men her voice would have been bewitching, the movement of her lips tantalising - 'the Garids are your loyal slaves: our hearts, our bodies, and our minds are yours to command. You will find us the stalwart, unmoving rock upon which you can lean when all others give way at last and fall. The world and all that is in it may abandon you, but we will be here still: you are the pivot of our universe, you are the one solid the spaces lean upon.' Fikra was quiet for a few moments.
'And we lean on you,' he said quietly. She looked up, almost surprised, and a small smile grew on her lips. Fikra did not smile. She bowed deeply and turned to leave, but she stopped when he spoke again, 'you will find us heavy.'
'You will find us steady,' she responded without turning, and moved on.

The Damid chief Bikama, who had come all the way from Qari'Derk, stepped forward next. A clear warrior, his face - under a well-trimmed, jet black beard - sported many scars. His nose had been cut deep into at one point, and the end of his left eyebrow had been shaved clean off along with a considerable bit of meat. His eyes were a forbidding grey and his body seemed to seeth with barely restrained power. His hair was black and slightly curled in places, and was long enough to reach the knape of his neck but no farther. Atop it, slightly towards the front of his head, sat a red skullcap. His powerful form was covered by a long black cloak, underneath which was a white robe tied at the waist with a belt. Taking Fikra's hand with a rough, scarred hand, he gave his pledge of allegiance.
'The Damids are your loyal soldiers, Patriarch,' he said simply before kissing the Patriarch's hand. He rose and grey eyes met yellow.
'And what of your service with Orifids, Isken?' Fikra asked. Bikama's eyes did not waver at being referred to by his military title. It was not like he was attempting to hide the fact that he was amongst the most senior military men in the Realm, and it was not like he ever hid his Bato-Elyd creed.
'The protection of the people is our Patriarch's foremost priority, and we carry out his wishes even before he commands.' Fikra nodded slowly.
'May the Moon-Mother bless you and keep you, and may She strengthen your body and soul.' Their eyes hung to one another for a while longer before Bikama bowed slowly and departed.

Siknara, chieftess of the Radids in Eni-Elia, stepped forward next. There was a wide smile on her face and her eyes were clearly impassioned - she gave Fikra quite the intense stare. She was no doubt beautiful, but there was a madness to her beauty and a crazed eagerness in her steps. She descended to her knees before Fikra and took his hand in both of her's, hugging it to her cheek. Her wild, ruffled brown hair seemed to consume his hand before she looked up and wild brown eyes met unperturbed yellow. The Radids were well known for their...intense reaction to their Patriarch. Siknara appeared no different from her numerous forebears. She did not speak, but she hung onto his hand and refused to release him. And when he attempted to raise his hand, she rose with it and wrapped her arms around him and placed her ear against his chest. His heartbeat was very suddenly deafening.
'Ah! A heart beats here. It is not ice.' She suddenly said.
'The heart is flesh, its spirit of something far colder.'
'Its spirit is of no matter: a heart of flesh is a heart still. It can yet love.'
'That it can.'
'But not me.' He was silent at her words.
'I love all who follow me loyally. And you are loyal.'
'Yes yes. But not me. Never me. I shall man the pass.' She suddenly let go of him and turned away. He watched her leave.

The final person to step forth was the Alawid chieftess Udhradea of Qari'Ala. She was a tall woman, perhaps forty years of age, with harsh features and a slightly hooked nose. She was slightly thin, but there was a power to her stride and pride ebbed from her, and dignity. There were silver streaks running through her dirty blonde hair, and the area around her brown eyes was showing signs of wrinkles. She was dressed in the normal attire of the elders and chiefs of Qari'Ab and the nearby area. She bowed low and took Fikra's hand before planting a kiss on its back.
'The Alawids are your most loyal servants, Patriarch. We have been steadfast, and we remain so. We have been your spears, and we remain so. We have bled for you, and shall bleed at your command. We have marched for you, and shall march wheresoever you point your hand. Our loyalty: immeasureable. Our obedience: unquestionable. Our love: undeniable.'
'We shall not measure, we shall not question, we shall not deny.' Fikra stated and gestured for her to rise, 'you are close at hand and are trusted by us. Be prepared always, for your Patriarch needs you.' She bowed deeply at his words.
'Fear not, blessed Patriarch. Disappointment shall not enter your heart by our hands.' And with that, she turned and departed. Fikra remained where he was for a while longer, watching as the sun slowly set on the far horizon. As its dying light disappeared over the edge of the world, he melted back into the darkness of his home.

*_{plural of the singular Qarqaz}

Cold...

Darkness was all that she could see.

W-

Thoughts ran through her mind, yet none stuck long enough to earn her attention. The only thing she paid attention to now was the emptiness within her very being. It felt as if something was missing, something important.

What is it?

A tingle went up her spine. That was good, it confirmed to her that she was alive. But if she was alive, how come she couldn't move, how come she couldn't breathe?

Slowly, she started feeling her limbs. It was only a short moment until she managed to open her eyes. The first thing she saw was grass. Then she felt the dirt against her cheek. Then she groggily moved her arms and propped herself up onto her knees.

"Where am I?"

Her voice came out coarse, as if she'd just gone weeks without speaking.

"Last I remember, I was running from the... That Thing." She closed her eyes and let a deep sigh escape her mouth. There was nothing to do about it now. For all she knew, the nut, her gift to cheer Astarte up, had been eaten by the Beast by now.

Brown smiled bitterly and looked at her arms. As she looked, they seemed to shift. Sometimes, they looked transparent and other times, they looked blurry. Other than that, there seemed to be some kind of... Crevices, on her skin. As if an earthquake had broken away her body, and the depths of the crevices were black and empty, as if they had no depth.

Yet when she tried to touch such crevices, she found her hands moving away on their own.

"By Vestec's non-existent beard..." She snorted at her bad joke, "Bad time to make jokes. Let's just heal our injuries. Stop influencing me, Astarte, you have me speaking to myself now." Brown said to no one in particular as she stood up and flew up--

Only she couldn't fly up. She raised an eyebrow and tried again. Nothing. Now she was starting to get upset. Next, she focused on healing herself and wiping away the strange crevices, but when she looked at her arms once more, they were still there.

She started shaking.

"So I was running from the mad imp, and then I came upon these plains and I couldn't run anymore. Then I fought the imp and... Lost?" Brown covered her mouth, as if speaking about fighting was something she wasn't supposed to do, "How did I lose...?"

"My own magic, reflected back at me."

"I was hit by myself."

The implications were many. As the Avatar of the Goddess of Soul Manipulation, though, Brown did away with the first implication first. It was a quick test, one she had not done in ages.

She put her hand on her belly, right above her belly button, and focused.

Nothing.

"I'm... Broken?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Brown plucked one of the bright flower's petals and ate it.

"No effect, either? What kind of flowers are these? I thought mortals ate plants to heal their ailments..." She stepped on the flower, ending its agony.

Then she felt guilty and dropped to her knees.

"No, no, sorry about that! I didn't mean to kill you, I mean- I kinda did but I didn't mean to kill KILL you..." She kept muttering about apologizing to a dead flower, not noticing the being approaching her from behind the growing trees.

Makeda had heard the tale of carnage from afar and had now finally reached the murderess herself. She swooped into the grove swiftly and landed right behind the person, who yelped and fell over in surprise, her golden armor gleamed and contrasted with her dark skin, a hammer of holy energy was in her hand and...

And she noticed what the person was saying she had murdered, nothing more than a flower apparently, and unless some new species of sentient flowers had been created, it was not really a reason to smash someone's face.

"Pardon me. It was not my intention to startle you. I have misheard your story and presumed that this was something far more gruesome."

Brown looked up at the armored heroine, the surprise on her face slowly washing away. She cast her a worried, intermittent glance and pointed at the dead flower, "But it is gruesome! It's dead. I can see its small, little plant parts splattered all over the ground! And I can't even heal it, you know? It just annoyed me so much that it didn't heal me..."

The angel now had the chance to observe the woman in front of her in all of her oddness, the skin crumbling in what appeared to be fissures that led into endless depths. She had absolutely no idea of what it was, but it looked to be in trouble.

"Worry not, for when you smashed the plant its seeds were spread around this meadow. In a year there will be countless new flowers born from this single one, if you are feeling sorry, that will be your chance to make up for it." she did feel that it was odd to care so much about a plant, but there was no ill deed in it, and therefore she refrained from judgments, if anything, excessive sympathy was a virtue in this cruel world.

"And about the healing. I'm an angel, and I have the power to cure. It's not trained, but trying it won't hurt. All you have to promise is to not try to smash me like you did with the plant." her voice was initially very harsh when she first arrived, but it had softened up by now.

"So that's how plants reproduce..." Brown nodded in understanding, "that explains the golden armour. Though I don't believe your healing powers can heal my ailment, we should still try. The sooner I'm fixed, the better!" Brown grinned and clasped her hands together in front of her.

Makeda took Brown's hand and with two fingers she touched the arm near one of the "damaged" areas, she started to chant something under her breath and the avatar would definitely feel the warmth of the healing magic spreading trough her limb... with the exception of the fissures, which still felt as cold and wrong as before.

"It doesn't seem to be working."

"These aren't physical wounds. Not in the usual sense of the word... If I were a mortal, these fissures would mean my soul is broken and fading." Brown did the tiniest pout.

The talk of souls was something the angel recognized as beyond her realm of understanding, what she realized, however, was that the woman was not mortal, therefore probably somehow related to the realm of the gods.

"I couldn't help you, but I know someone who understands these issues better. I was en route to meet her right now, so if you want, I could bring you with me."

Brown nodded, "That would be really kind of you. Please do."

The angel pondered for a short while before suddenly picking the avatar up, one arm under her legs and another supporting her back while the avatar held onto the angel's neck for dear life. She had never carried a being while flying before (outside of a few brawls, but the purpose there was very different from this one.)

She opened her wings and took flight, didn't show any sign of doubt, however, not only because she didn't want to worry the person, but because she was not one to show such emotions. But in the end, it wasn't hard at all, and she was able to cross the skies as smoothly as always.

Up there in the clouds, the new panoramic view would reveal some oddities that were not clear before, some trees had leaves of odd colors, some flowers were oddly organized as if it was in a garden, and some hills had a rainbow-like appearance. (i.huffpost.com/gen/1274350/thumbs/o-RA..)

Brown had trouble looking and focusing on the view, as the speed and altitude at which they were going were too great for her weakened state to endure.

"C-Can you slow down-" Brown's grip on the angel's neck slipped and her vision turned dark for a split second, "I think I-I just passed out. Im s-seeing colourf-ful hills a-and big gardens."

Immediately, Makeda started to slow down and fly lower, if before they were speeding trough the air now they were in something that could be described as "gently gliding". Still, the rainbow hills and gigantic natural gardens persisted.

"Sorry for that, I'm accustomed to race across the skies so for me that speed was already sluggish. The landscape you are seeing are not a mirage, probably just Ilunabar and her projects, she filled my homeland with blue trees once."

"Haha, thank you for slowing down," Brown chuckled.

"Also, I don't think I have asked your name yet. Mine's Makeda."

"I'm Brown, Avatar of the Goddess of Magic," Nearly instantly, Brown's attention shifted to the view. Her eyes sparked, literally, with lavender colored energy, "Ow- Too much beauty for me to handle right now." She winced and put a hand over her eyes. Still, the image of the rainbow hills and organized flowers was burned in the back of her mind. How would the colored dirt taste?

"A goddess? Huh, carrying a goddess in my arms was surely not something I thought I would ever do" a soft prideful smirk formed on her face for a brief moment.

"Too much beauty?" this worried Makeda, as they were going to what was supposedly a site where Ilunabar's energy was at its peak.

They kept flying up the hills, and then the mountains until they reached what looked like the darkened spires, but if in the past it was pure depthless dark, now it looked like a starry sky, except it was on the ground.

Brown started shaking in Makeda's arms, desperate to explore all the places she'd shown her.

Makeda didn't take Brown into the starry land, however, instead, she took her to the first temple she saw, one made of long hallways with lofty stained glass windows.

"In your state, I think it would be unresponsible to take you down into Ilunabar's domain. Instead, I will bring her here."

"Oh, of course. You don't know how excited I am! I'm going to meet Ilunabar before Astarte herself!" Brown giggled and grunted as she was put back on the ground.

"You have never met the entity who has created you?" Makeda shook her head, gods were an unusual lot.

"No, I meant that I'm going to meet Ilunabar before Astarte meets Ilunabar."

The angel left soon after, diving down into the fake starry sky down bellow. Brown was left alone in the halls of the temple. On the opposite side of the glass mosaics of the windows, there were cushioned benches and other types of furniture.

Eventually, the sound of steps started to echo again in the halls. The Goddess of Beauty arrived with Makeda following her behind.

"Astarte?" she asked.

Brown stood up from the bench and sized The Goddess with a quick glance. "I'm her Avatar, Brown. I like your dress." She smiled.

"I don't mean to waste your time, I can leave if you're busy, Ilunabar, though I... Need your help." Brown sighed and looked at the crevices on her arms.

"Why thank you. I didn't know Astarte had an avatar, though frankly, I have never talked to her and it has been millions of years since we last met, so it's natural that I'm not up to date." She inspected the avatar closer, very similar to her sister, yet very different. Noticeably, she was damaged, and the Muse had a feeling that the fissures were not part of the original design.

"Oh do not worry about time, just tell me what afflicts you and we will see what we can do."

"To put it simple, I'm broken. I don't feel any of Astarte's essence within me and I can't do any of the magic I used to be able to do. I expect I was broken in a fight against a particular demon earlier, though I'm not sure how I survived..."

"Hmmmm" the goddess approached the avatar and started examining her up close. It was curious, not exactly within her realm of understanding, but not exactly beyond her either.

"The best person to deal with this issue would be Astarte herself, the harm here seems to have been done within the soul... Perhaps just resting would be able to heal it, perhaps we will need something else."

The goddess stopped examining Brown and instead sat in one of the benches, pondering about the topics. "You mentioned a demon?"

Brown sat back down besides Ilunabar and nodded, "Yes, I summoned him to help me track a few nuts in the Deepwoods. Turns out demons can't be trusted, as he ate four of the five nuts, became a monster even more powerful than I and nearly killed me," Brown tapped her feet on the floor, "I think his name is Lish'Burath."

"Of course they can't" Makeda almost yelled.

The goddess rose her hand ordering the angel to quiet down and then responded to the avatar. "Well, that is just terrible. To think that a demon could do something like this to an avatar of a goddess. Surely something must be done, but I wonder what."

"Huh... I know!" Brown grinned and started shaking in her seat, trying to contain her sudden burst of excitement. Oh, how much she hated having to deal with Astarte's hyperactivity, "Why don't you message Astarte and tell her I'm here? She'll come straight away!"

"That seems to be the logical route."

At the same moment, Ilunabar started to compose a message to reach her sister. Something along the lines of "Hello Dear Sister. One of my heroes has recently found your Avatar in a bit of a pinch. Something about losing a fight to a demon and waking up to find herself broken and unable to use her powers. She is currently a guest at the Pictaraika, in the same region where the darkened spires used to be. The first temple to the north, please use the door instead of slamming trough the window. Warmest regards, Ilunabar."

"And done. She should be arriving soon, I guess, again, I have never met her. Speaking of which, is there any particular snack she likes? A drink? Tea? Coffe?"

Brown raised an eyebrow, "She once ate a tulip-"

Knock, knock.

It was the light rapping sound of a pair of knuckles knocking on the beautiful window behind Brown. Beneath the sea of changing colours and shapes of glass, a floating goddess could be seen, with long, flowing lavender hair.

Brown decided to ignore the knocking, "So yeah, I think she likes vegetables."

The Goddess outside the window pressed her face against the glass in an attempt to look through. A gasp was heard before her voice came muffled through the window.

"Brown!"

In a thousandth of a second, Astarte had flown around the Temple, slammed through the door and tackled Brown to the marble floor.

"Brown! What happened to you? I couldn't reach you and I had no idea where you were!" Astarte pouted and hugged Brown tightly.

"U-Unghh..." Brown grunted.

Astarte let go and helped the panting Brown to her feet.

It took a moment for Astarte to look over at Ilunabar, her sister. There was a moment of silence when their eyes met. Astarte's were worried, while Ilunabar's were mildly amused.

"O-Oh!" Astarte gasped and turned around, blushing. She quickly fixed her hair and straightened out her dress. The first impression may not have been that great, but she did want Ilunabar to like her.

After a minute of fidgeting, Astarte turned back around, sporting a polite smile and standing up and straight like a proper person.

"H-Hello, Ilunabar!"

Ilunabar analyzed Astarte for a bit, she was someone who felt very different from the other gods, aesthetic and psyche wise. Cutely mischievous and very energetic, Ilunabar felt like that of all her sisters this was the one closer to her, neverminding the clumsiness.

"Hello, Astarte. It is nice to finally talk to you, after, you know, a few billion years of being just acquaintances." she smiled

"Y-Yeah, I didn't know that much time had passed. I spent most of it in the Deepwoods, you know. I heard you made flowers. I like their taste, and lavender flowers grow at my feet when I stay still for too long. I like them too."

"Time just flies, doesn't it? If I were not such a busy person, I think I would lose sight of it as well. And you eat flowers, huh? I have to say that so far I have focused more on their visual aspect, but there are indeed some that hold certain tastes and substances."

At this moment a marionette brought in a tray with tea and biscuits. "This liquid, for example, is made from pouring hot water at flowers and herbs. There are many sorts of tastes, this one is more of your liking, I believe, sweet and palatable." she offered the goddess a cup.

Astarte took the cup in her hands, taking in the clay's texture and the heat that was emitted from the tea. She took a sip, afraid not of getting burned, and revelled (??) at the flavor. She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.

"This is good! Why don't mortals drink this all the time?"

"Eh, it isn't properly invented yet. I'm doing what I can though, shouldn't take too long before its common at least in some places."

"But careless conversation aside, how have you been doing recently? The situation your avatar is in worries me, and as I said to Brown, I'm always willing to help."

"Oh, uh... Yeah," Astarte looked at Brown, who was straightening out her dress while giving Astarte furtive looks inbetween her phasing in and out of view, "She's broken. It seems like the essence that fueled her was nearly... Wiped out. She should be dead."

"I'm right here," Brown rolled her eyes.

"I'm happy you're alive, Brownie."

Brown smiled.

"Uh," Astarte looked back at Ilunabar, "so I should probably fix Brown, but I can't do it here..." Astarte bit her tongue in thought. Suddenly, she perked up and flew over to Ilunabar's side, whispering in her ear.

"What if we fix her together? Like, I give the essence and fix the brokenness and you give her a new dress? I mean, she really needs to stop trying to look like me!" Astarte giggled.

"Yes, she surely needs help getting out of her current state, it is so dangerous to leave an avatar like this and..."

She completely stopped her sentence when Astarted talks about the "fixing" plan. A wide grin started to form on her face, her eyes ablaze with inspiration.

"A dress? The needs of a new look?" she whispered back. "Oh, I can do that... I might have already kinda done that, in fact, at least some designs, you know, twenty designs or so. Now that it's a serious request, though, I think I can expand that number into three digits, maybe four."

She pondered for a bit. "And jewelry. Recently I have really been dedicating time to that particular craft and I think your magic could benefit from it."

Astarte grinned, casting a furtive glance toward Brown, who tilted her head and raised an eyebrow at both Goddesses.

"You think so? How could my magic benefit from wearing jewelry? I mean, it's pretty and all but they're just metals and crystals."

"I don't know yet, I'm just making an educated guess. I can cast my power pretty well using gems and metal, so I doubt other sorts of powers won't flow as well with it. In a sense, it is similar to light going trough a glass."

The goddess created a little circle of glass within her hand and held it against a ray of light, making it focus into a single spot and becoming intense enough to softly burn that spot. Then the glass turned into a prism, and the light refracted into a rainbow.

"See?"

Astarte pursed her lips and waved her hand through the rainbow.

"I think I understand, you say your gems will strengthen my magic by focusing my essence?"

"Yes! That description does fit the effect well enough. Right now it is all very theoric and at most, I can provide you simple blank slate garments. Eventually, with experience and cooperation, more interesting things could be created."

She sighed at how overly meticulous her explanation was getting. "Sorry, I don't mean to make it sound too complex. I'm just a bit excited at the possibilities."

Astarte shrugged, "It's fine Lunie, I can hear you out all day if need be!" She said and took a swig of her tea.

"I do find the way your magic is born from within the soul to be quite beautiful to look at, I cannot master it myself, but if I can help you in any form, that would be more than enough and..."

Astarte snorted and stiffled a laugh.

Ilunabar stopped mid-sentence. "I did it again." she reprehended herself. "Anyway. I will try to get something for you to use, then we can see the effects."

"Okay, I'll go about fixing Brown while you set that up. Oh, and don't use flowers on the attire, because I might end up eating them, heh..." Astarte smiled sheepishly.

"Edible... clothing?" Ilunabar stared at nothing for a few seconds as her mind immediately developed a few concepts in her mind, the true problem was to find an use for them. "... maybe, a nuptial night tradition?" she asked to no one before noticing she was making that comment aloud.

"Ah! Sorry. The concept was too amusing. But yes, let's do that. You fix Brown, I will sew a couple of outfits, none of them being edible, for Brown's own safety." she gave Brown a thumbs up, showing she cares... in her own definition of "caring".

Brown returns the thumps up hesitantly and with a flick of Astarte's fingers, both she and Astarte blink away.

---------------------

Astarte looked around the plains quickly. Then her head snapped around violently to stare at Brown.

"How did this happen to you?"

Brown fidgeted, never making eye contact.

"I... uh," She fidgeted some more.

"You uh, what?"

"I... Fought a demon?" Brown shrugged and bit her tongue.

Slowly, Astarte's features softened, "Do you have any idea how worried I was when you wouldn't answer to the thoughts I sent your way? Do you?"

Brown frowned and shrugged once more, "You could have made me appear in front of you at any time."

Astarte stepped close to Brown and hugged her tightly. "I value your time. What if you were busy with something important? I wouldn't want to bother you, Brownie." She said softly.

"You don't bother me," Brown hugged Astarte back, "you don't bother anyone, really. Especially not Vestec."

"That's because he's nice and fun to be around, you know. Somewhat like the GOD OF THE WIND," Astarte shouted and stopped to giggle, "but more wild."

"He's a wild child of the stars." Brown rolled her eyes and gently pushed Astarte away.

"A very wild child of the stars." Astarte smirked.

"Almost as wild as my wounds."

"Oh!" Astarte gasped and touched Brown's shoulders, where bright lavender colored light began to shine. In a moment, the light swept over the fissures covering Brown's very being, and forced them together. At first, the result seemer scar-like, but thankfully the scars eventually faded, turning into mere marks in the Avatar's skin, much like lines of a slightly lighter skin color.

Brown looked at the hands and saw she wasn't phasing in and out of physicality anymore. She probbed her footing and found her legs to have grown to their previous strength, and tested her aura and found, when she began to float a hover in the air, that she had recovered her abilities.

It was then that Brown grinned and kissed Astarte's cheek, "You know I love you a lot right, Astarte Asteroid?"

"I know, but you don't show it sometimes. We're like what the humans call family, we should eat some flowers together sometime instead of just speaking through thoughts all the time."

Brown rolled her eyes again, "Bet you'd like Vestec to join us too so you could share your meal with him. Oh, and his stupid little giggles too." Brown started to giggle but was quick enough to cover it up with a snort.

"They're not stupid."

"They really are."

"Okay, maybe they are a little bit stupid. But I can be a little stupid too, does that make it a bad thing?"

"Yeah, pretty much." Brown smirked.

Astarte upturned her chin and huffed, closing her eyes. "I hope an ogre eats you whole one of these days."

"Maybe, but you know you'll cry a river if that happens!"

Astarte's lip quivered and she looked away. She was trying to hide it, but it was obvious as well that her eyes were beginning to water.

"Well, think you later, Astarte. I have to fix some things, look for some people as well to embark on a planet-wide adventure. Pretty awesome stuff if you ask me."

And Brown flew off.

Astarte wiped her eyes and sighed, "I was hoping she'd hug me again."

----------------------

Astarte burst in through the window into one of the surface facilities of the holy site.

"Oh, that was a window...?" Astarte muttered to herself as she stood up straight, remembering that nearly all other windows were like that one in Ilunabar's place. She looked around and saw no Ilunabar, but what she did see was a shard of glass right through the center of what was undoubtedly the world's most beautiful painting.

She looked around furtively and threw the painting out of the window. "What Ilunabar doesn't see, won't destroy her hopes and dreams..." She whispered to herself.

"Luna? Are you here?"

Ilunabar had indeed turned far more sneaky after she forsaken the dresses and picked the cloak, combined with the natural illusory nature of the Pictaraika she could easily hide without even trying, as she just did with Astarte.

Teasingly, she decided to sneak a bit closer to the other goddess, saying "Hello" when she was very close to Astarte's ear.

"Eek!" Astarte jumped and yelped, crashing against another set of beautiful, invaluable art and absolutely destroying it, "H-Hey," Astarte groaned and dug herself out of the mountain of broken items, "that was a good one."

She looked around at the destroyed pieces and smiled sheepishly.

"I know those are not the best ones I have around," she said looking at the shattered remains of pottery "But that is no reason to break them like that, so please, be careful."

Astarte looked at Ilunabar with raised eyebrows, "Not the best ones?"

She sighed but quickly after started to smile "So, how is Brown? Is she fine? I'm almost done with my task, and I can't wait to see her trying on all the new outfits."

"Oh, she's fine really! Mostly. Uh," Astarte scrunched up her face in thought, "All the new outfits? How many did you make? And so quickly?"

"Eh, just a few, really. Maybe a bit more than what current mortal numerical systems could count, but that isn't an issue for us." she rolled her eyes and leaned back against a wall.

"Also the magical jewelry should be done soon too. I just need my divas to get a few more gems."

Astarte eyed Ilunabar's pose and did her best to emulate it, leaning against a wall as well. "Want me to bring Brown here right now, sister?"

"Sure, unless there is something else you'd like to discuss in particular." Ilunabar summoned a little notebook and started to flip its page,reviewing some entries.

"Uh..." Astarte looked around and shrugged. With a snap of her fingers, Brown appeared, looking as if she had her arm around someone's shoulder.

"-And after you grab the bull by the ba-" She stopped and looked at the Goddesses, then sighed and did her best to force a smile, "If it isn't Asteroi- Astarte and Ilunabar. What can I do for you two, so soon after my departure?"

"We're gonna dress you up like a human girl's straw doll!" Astarte grinned and looked at Ilunabar with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Ilunabar smiled. "First things first, let's get you out of those dreary grabs of yours." which of course were just the mirrored version of Astarte's own robe, the muse was quite aware of that.

"... Dreary?" Astarte raised an eyebrow.

With the snap of her fingers, glass shards flew across the room and perfectly cut Brown's so that it effortlessly fell off from her body. Before she was allowed the time to react, Ilunabar and a group of Marionettes were at her side, quickly grabbing her and dressing her into a fancier dress, in soft brown with green ribbons and golden decorations.

"This isn't quite as comfortable-" Brown pressed her lips together and pulled at one of the ribbons.

The muse analyzed it for a second and nodded, "Okay, that looks nice enough, but let's try something sleeker" Immediately the dress was taken off and Brown was dressed in a different outfit, this time she used pants, two layers of shirt and some sort of cloth on her neck. "Hmm, no, that works best in purple, but I don't want to break the harmony of the current brown color selection."

"Colors have harmonies?" Astarte asked wide eyed.

Next came a soft fur dress with a puffy hat, then three more dresses of varying length, one silky garment that wrapped her a bit too tightly, two tunics, then one outfit that only consisted of a loincloth and a chest wrap which Brown seemed to enjoy way too much, then one that centered on the use of a stylish cape, then a very large dress with far too many layers...

The muse worked quite quickly and seemed to go by the outfits quite fast, managing Brown like the straw doll that Astarted had referenced. The last outfit she dressed Brown in before deciding to take a break was one with loose sleeves and a combination of pants with a half-skirt for the sake of giving a sense of flow when she flew.

"Okay, let's stop with the clothes for a second because the jewelry has just arrived." Ilunabar clapped and quickly gave Brown a modest looking ring made of copper and pearl.

Brown toyed with the ring in her hand for a moment before looking over her current attire. She stretched a bit and let a yawn escape her mouth. "Yes, I do like this one more than the others. Not too frillt, comfortable, and this skirt thing over the pants-"

"Is very cute!" Astarte chuckled.

"... Yeah, I suppose." Brown blushed and shrugged.

"Your magic is supposedly born from within the soul, that means visualization is a huge part of it. I believe that focusing that power in a single item can improve the quality of the spells by simply taking out the noise from your mind. For example, this ring here has the purpose of creating a circular magical shield in front of you, try using it."

Brown eyed the ring again. It didn't look particularly special nor did it feel magical in any way she'd expect but well, who was she to refuse a polite request to use jewelry? She put the ring on her right ring finger and balled up her hand into a tight fist.

"Visualization and focus, huh? So if I focus on the ring, it should..." She closed her eyes and furrowed her brow. In a split moment, it was as if half of a translucent spehere was materializing in front of Brown. Flickering in and out of existence and filling the air with magical tension so thick one could probably taste it.

The flickering continued for the better part of a minute, until the half sphere managed to stabilize. At this time, Astarte flicked a small beam harmful energy toward the shield.

it made no sound as it was absorbed by the shield.

"That's some useful jewelry to have," Astarte nodded and Brown opened her eyes. The shield remained for a short while longer, but it eventually vanished.

"I don't feel as drained as I normally feel after one of those stunts."

"It makes sense, with a refined focus you probably waste less energy as it all goes into a clear form." Ilunabar pondered for a few moments.

"It is good to see it is working, yet, there is still a long path for me to go with this craft."

She opened a case and revealed quite a handful of different jewelry, from elegant earrings and necklaces made of gold and silver to rough looking bracelets and charms decorated with feathers and ivory. "This is all yours, not all are magical yet, but with time we will figure out an use for all things."

Brown couldn't hide the grin as she took the case and began inspecting each accesory.

"Ah, there are two more I would like to try." Ilunabar said as she took out a brooch from the case and pinned it on Brown, softly stinging her skin.

"Ouch!"

"Sorry, got distracted." she adjusted it. "The purpose of this is storing energy for later use, you will feel softly drained right now, but later, it could refill some of your power, I believe."

"Huh, useful."

The other piece was for Astarte, it was a scepter made of silver and purple gems, with the smaller ones being in a flower shape and the largest one being a deep purple orb at the top of the staff. "No idea what this could do... just got excited and ended up making, supposedly it could turn even a rock into a bunch of petals, but it could as well be so unstable it just creates an explosive beam or maybe it will do something else, who knows."

Astarte took the scepter in her hands, gingerly. It was rather light and easy to handle, despite its heavily ornamented appearance. "It's very pretty, but I think I'll try it out later-" Astarte looked around at the numerous destroyed art pieces and chuckled, "I don't want to break more paintings or sculptures."

"As I said before, it is no big deal, the stuff here is far from my best. Still, such mindless destruction isn't ideal either. Anyway, I think this settles the outfit and jewelry issue, what else is there to discuss?"

"Well-" Astarte began,

"Can the jewelry bypass magic negation fields?" Brown asked Ilunabar.

The muse tilted her head "Magic Negation Field? I fear I'm not familiar with this concept."

"I've been thinking it over. I had an unfortunate encountre with one of them, uh, recently." Brown looked away and then back at Ilunabar, "It was a place where I couldn't use my magic. It's like it went dormant when I was there..."

"Well, it all depends on how it blocked it. If it was something that blocked your biological magic or your focus, I imagine they would act well against it. If it somethings that nullifies magic itself, then it is something that is beyond me, it is your very power after all."

She pondered a bit. "But even in the latter case, depending on what causes it, it could still be countered."

"For example, let's say that the very nature of the place is anti-magic. Quickly draining away all power that leaves your body. You could take one of the energy collection brooches I made and suddenly release all of its energy in the air, for a few seconds, I imagine, the sudden burst of energy would outweigh the suppression, creating a bubble of charged air in which you would be able to cast a spell or two before the anti-magic takes over again."

Ilunabar punched the air while saying that, clearly excited about the glorious scene of magic and explosions. Quickly enough, however, she came back to her normal self. "Or at least that is what I think. I can give you the tools, but the craft is yours, my sister."

"That's a great idea Ilunabar, I'll try that out!" Said Brown before flying out the broken window at an insane speed.

Astarte watched as her avatar left and then turned to raise an eyebrow at Ilunabar, "It's a good idea I suppose. I wonder where these magic negation fields are at, though..."

Astarte looked down and kicked away a small piece of a sculpture.

"So, I think we're done here, right Big Sis?"

"I think so. For now at least. Always feel free to come back whenever you want to chat, or ask for a new outfit or gem or pretty stuff in general... just avoid the windows, please." she smiled. "And take care of that fashionable avatar of yours. She is a bit too bold for her own sake." she ended with a sigh.

Astarte returned the smile and waved her hand dismissively, "She is, but she'll be fine. She has your jewelry and fashion on her side now, doesn't she?"

Ilunabar nodded as the goddess of magic left.

^{This post is mostly in elvish. Apologies in advance to Kho.}



The Workshop was always busy, manufacturing Collectors for the Stellar Engine and running maintenance on itself. With a steady supply of power, unlimited matter, and divine engineering, it could run ceaselessly for the next trillion years without slowing. But beyond being a factory, it was also a space for prototyping and experimentation.

Teknall emerged into the Workshop, put his hands on his hips and gazed around. The first place he went to was to the manufacturing line, where he began tinkering with the forge mixing the alloys and the devices for shaping the metal. Since his last visit, he had figured out a few optimisations to the metalworking components of the manufacturing process. After a few hours, he had managed to apply these optimisations and double the production rate of Stellar Engine Collectors.

But those manufacturing improvements was the least significant thing he planned to do at this time. Teknall had two novel materials he had obtained and needed to experiment with to discern their nature, for he suspected that they might be of great use to him.

First, he took out of his pocket a small glass vial containing a brightly glowing fluid. Despite its small size, its light was sufficient to illuminate half of the Workshop, attesting to the power contained within. This was Liquid Light, which Astarte had tasked Teknall with deconstructing and analysing. That request had been issued long ago, and Teknall had been otherwise occupied for much of that time, but now he had a need and was adequately equipped to study the Liquid Light. It was the same substance which illuminated some of the passageways and halls in the Celestial Citadel, and which Vestec had finely distributed amongst every mortal alive some time ago. This stuff which Astarte could produce obviously contained enormous magical potential; the trick would be harnessing that potential.

Teknall set the vial down on a workbench and brought his eyes down to be level with it. The fluid within was opaque, and turbulent currents stirred it around even long after the vial had stopped moving. The light, he realised, was not pure white, but instead a mixture of colours, their distribution randomised by turbulent noise. The most noticeable colour was lavender, which Teknall remembered was a colour Astarte often wore, but there seemed to be trace quantities of other colours too.

First, Teknall put a thin sheet of pure gold, a fairly inert surface, onto a workbench. Then, carefully, Teknall opened the vial and used a pipette to extract the tiniest drop he could. He closed the vial, then dropped that drop onto the gold. The tiny drop wriggled and bounced, driven by some internal energy, until it faded. Whether it had evaporated or dissipated or spent its energy, Teknall could not tell, but for whatever reason, liquid light was stable while stored, at least in bulk, but isolated quantities of it tended to be unstable. Liquid light also contained an inherent restlessness, which drove the turbulence of the fluid and the motion of the droplet. The liquid light would likely be highly reactive given a receptive object to react with.

What left him intrigued, though, was where the liquid light went when it vanished. Did it evaporate or disperse into some less dense form? Was it converted into radiation of some sort? Or did it truly vanish, disappearing without a trace? Teknall wanted to test this.

He constructed a completely sealed hemispherical dome. He then coated that dome in a layer of photodiodes and a layer of magic transducers- an electrical device which exploited the natural magical affinity of some elements, such as orichalcum, to convert magical activity into an electric signal. These he connected to an oscilloscope to read the outputs. Into this dome Teknall placed another fraction of a drop of liquid light, then watched the oscilloscope signals. The signals started strong, stayed that way for a few moments, then fell away to nothingness as the drop of liquid light vanished.

It appeared that the liquid light had truly vanished, but Teknall wanted to test for remains. He attached a pump to the opening of the dome and extracted all that was contained within, compressing it to a tiny point. This compaction did not cause any liquid light to condense. Running it through a standard battery of spectroscopies revealed nothing but the air of the Workshop was left inside the dome, and the magical activity had faded to close to background levels, although a residual amount of magical energy remained. It appeared that when the liquid light evaporated, it was gone for good.

A distinguishing feature of the liquid light was the light it emitted. Thus, Teknall's next tests would focus on the light. He enclosed the vial in an opaque material, leaving just a single pinhole open for the light to escape through. Teknall then took a diffraction grating, placed it in the beam of light, and observed the spectrum the diffraction grating produced.

The spectrum covered the entire rainbow. It was very pure white light which Teknall measured, with no discontinuities or characteristic frequencies in the spectrum. Intriguingly the spectrum contained only light from the visible part of the spectrum, with no wavelengths beyond violet or below red. Within the visible spectrum, the intensity profile was purely uniform, with only minor fluctuations occurring as random noise.

But Teknall was dissatisfied with this spectrum, for it failed to explain the colours he observed, if only fleetingly. He carefully analysed the fluctuations in the intensity, check the statistics to ensure that those fluctuations were indeed random noise and not an actual pattern. His numbers were strongly indicating random noise, meaning that he was no closer to an answer.

Then realisation struck Teknall. What he had seen in the vial were colours, not wavelengths of light. It was exactly like Ilunabar's Beyond Colours, which appeared to have colour but could not be deconstructed into component photons. But that still left the challenge of separating these colours for quantification. Conventional optics would not work. Perhaps a magically birefringent might.

Teknall synthesised a clear crystal containing an anisotropic complex of orichalcum and cut it into a prism. This prism he placed in front of the Liquid Light, and he observed the spectrum it produced. And it did produce an interesting spectrum. A pattern of lights danced across the board. However, the lights were all the same white light with hints of colour that entered the prism. It was not the spectrum he had been looking for, but it was fascinating nonetheless. This magic spectrum would be a very useful diagnostic tool.

To better read the spectrum Teknall made a flat plate of photodiodes and magic transducers, like he had for the dome, and set it up to receive the spectrum. Unlike the dome, he separated the sensors into a grid array, such that the data could be spatially resolved.

Then Teknall took from his pocket the imitation of the Universal Blueprint and laid it on an adjacent table. He looked to the section on magic and traced his finger along interweaving the lines of text and drawing. Atsarte's writings on how her magic would work were vague, at least for a fundamental operating principle of the Universe. 'Energy' which had nothing to do with real energy, the flow of soul and will and magical power. It was very similar to the schematics Ilunabar had made of Pictaraika. He felt, however, that he had a vague idea of what was going on.

But Astarte's magic was not independent. Just as Logos' four fundamental forces were interrelated, so were the three magical paradigms, although the nature of the interaction differed. Logos' fundamental forces all operated on the same deeper fundamental principles, and as such worked together in harmony. The three magical paradigms, however, were all of different authorships, yet they overlapped significantly in many points, so the rules had conflicted with each other back in creation until some kind of equilibrium had been established. This equilibrium was not without faults, and these faults could be exploited, as Toun had done with his siphons. But generally it meant that wherever two or more magical paradigms applied, the rules governing the interaction would be some hybrid of those paradigms.

Such connections and rules were not simple for Teknall to trace. In many cases, the rules were either hideously complicated or poorly defined, and the interrelations were nigh-innumerable. But he put the effort in, and after a long while- had it been hours? Days? Years? There was no way to tell time within the Workshop- of studying, calculating, sketching and modelling, Teknall believed he had figured out enough about magic to interpret the spectra, and another battery of diagnostic tests which should tell him what he needed to know about the Liquid Light.

So to his vial of Liquid Light he applied electromagnetic fields, exposed it to light and sunlight (for the latter he had to take it outside the Workshop), performed simple occult and arcane rituals next to it, all while inspecting the spectra produced. Teknall then built a small circular particle accelerator and fed it a drop of Liquid Light, examining the spectra of the decomposition products as the centripetal forces ripped the droplet apart. He then made a chromatograph with a magically-active column and performed chromatography on another droplet of Liquid Light, further deducing its component parts. And he used a very carefully measured drop of the Liquid Light in a simple diagnostic arcane ritual.

The results were illuminating. While Teknall couldn't positively identify every component of the Liquid Light definitively from these tests, he could identify most of it. Astartean magic did not have particles like regular physics, but it did have some loose abstractions of interactions and energies and types which could be tentatively called concepts. And the concepts which Teknall identified had to do with power, amplification, will and whimsy.

Power: the Liquid Light contained a huge amount of magical energy. This energy was not easily quantifiable like regular energy, and defied conservation of energy, but energy was the best word for it. The Liquid Light contained the impetus to perform great magical feats.
Amplification: Not only did the Liquid Light contain magical power, but it reacted strongly with any other magic nearby. Any magic it came into contact with became stronger, leaving the system with much more magical energy than it had started with.
Will: The effects of the Liquid Light could be directed, although this component was weak so direction is tentative at best. When placed into a spell, the Liquid Light conformed to the spell and enhanced it. Theoretically, if absorbed by a living soul, then if the Liquid Light could be contained then it could be controlled and used to cast magic.
Whimsy: Astartean Magic was made as a care-free addition to the universe, producing wild and whimsical results without the slightest regard to physical laws. The Liquid Light reflected that trait. It moved randomly when allowed. It was chaotic and difficult to constrain. Theoretically, use by a mortal would be dangerous and risk nasty side-effects. When Liquid Light is in use, physics got second priority.

In short, Liquid Light was a magical catalyst of enormous power. One drop could bend physics to the will of a magical spell. Teknall held the glowing bottle up gingerly, mildly awed at the power between his fingertips. It would serve his purposes nicely. And if he could get more, even better.

That still didn't answer the question of where the colours came from.

Neither conventional nor magical optics had served to isolate those colours. He would need something which interacted with the perception of light, rather than the photons from which light was made. But what did he have which could do that?

Eyes could identify the colours. Teknall sat and looked at the bottle of Liquid Light. In it he saw the lavender light clearly. There were also flashes of brown, faint but just visible. He thought he saw some cyan in there too, but it was really difficult to distinguish and identify whether it was a permanent feature or a stochastic fluctuation.

While eyes could see colour, they were only really useful for qualitative analysis, with very limited quantitative ability. While his divine Perception could easily quantify the energy and wavelength of a photon and their amount, he lacked such abilities for these perceived colours. Some kind of optics would still be necessary.

Teknall's own library of materials would be useless for the task, so he thought of Ilunabar, who used such perceived colours regularly. Surely something of Ilunabaric origin would be able to manipulate these colours.

Teknall reached into his pocket and pulled out the mirror Ilunabar had given him. An idea struck him. This mirror was Ilunabaric in origin. If he were to modify it from a mirror into a diffraction grating, then it might have the ability to isolate perceived colours.

It was a simple task for Teknall to etch a diffraction grating along a narrow strip on the bottom edge of the mirror. However, when used light was still separated into a conventional spectrum. This irritating Teknall slightly, but he was not too surprised. The mirror had expended all its Ilunabaric energy when he had stepped through it, such that it was a mundane mirror at this point. Its power would need to be restored.

A quick trip through a rift in space took Teknall from his Workshop to the Purger in the bottom of Pictaraika, holding the mirror in his hand. This place of unnatural black and whites, magical mirrors, and ethereal dream energies made Teknall slightly uneasy, for he was far out of his element. He walked gingerly, afraid to disturb anything. His head flicked side to side, looking and watching.

How had Ilunabar done it? She had waved around the mirror in the air, to capture some of the strange white glow in it. There was probably slightly more nuance in what she did, but that was the main part. To compensate for the vagueness of the method, Teknall needed to find a dense patch of this energy. So he searched.

Around him was a landscape of solid black silhouettes against a sheer white sky, interspersed with a mysterious white fog and glimmers of mirrors. Teknall walked between the eerie shadow trees, towards a notably dense patch of the fog. Then, between the trees of this still landscape, Teknall thought he saw movement.

It was just a blur, and when Teknall turned to look it was gone. But then he caught a figure out of the corner of his eye. Its form was strangely organic, yet he could not pin down its shape, and when he turned to look it was not there. Then, hidden behind a tree, he thought he saw some kind of shadowy appendage, but like a dream it vanished as soon as he focused on it.

Dreams. Of course. This place was the Purger, the barrier between reality and the Raka. It made sense that nightmares might creep through. It calmed Teknall slightly to know that it wasn't real, but he hurried onward nonetheless. Reaching the fog patch, Teknall inserted the mirror and waved it around, stirring the energies and capturing some of it within the mirror, which briefly glowed a faint white.

Teknall took one last look at the black forest behind him. It was devoid of movement, with no sign of the nightmare. Alone, Teknall then returned to his Workshop.

The environment of the Workshop was comforting. It had colour. It obeyed physics. It had the movement of machines giving it some sense of life. Its trees were real and green. And it was his domain.

Now with his dream-infused diffraction grating, Teknall returned to his experimenting. He placed the mirror such that its diffraction grating lay in the path of the beam of light from the enclosed Liquid Light. And the spectrum was like no spectrum Teknall had ever seen, for it was utterly non-physical in nature.

The spectrum was made from lines of different colours. These colours had nothing to do with the wavelengths of light, but they were obviously colours. The brightest colour was lavender. With lesser intensities were the colours brown, cyan, black and red. There were even fainter lines for other colours too, but those were the most significant.

The black surprised Teknall somewhat. How could light possibly be black? It made no sense. But at the same time, this whole thing with perceived colours and dream energies and stuff was nonsensical, which made the colour black one of the least of the mysteries.

Now that Teknall had a spectrum of colours, and could quantify the intensity of each colour, he just needed to interpret it. Nothing in his calculations of Astartean magic indicated anything about such colours, which meant that these colours probably indicated some other property of the Liquid Light.

The biggest clue was that the major colour was lavender, and that colour was Astarte's preferred colour. It was the colour of her hair and her clothes, so why not her magic? Teknall's divine power had a characteristic colour- gold. Toun's characteristic colour for his divine power was red, the colour of the ink he used to write on the Codex. Jvan's colour was carmine. Vestec had the distinguishing feature of being characterised by every single colour simultaneously. And Astarte's signature colour was lavender.

But there was more to the Liquid Light than that. There were other colours too, and the meaning of those was less clear. But continuing on the idea of signature colours, Teknall remembered Astarte's Avatar, who appeared exactly like Astarte but brown instead of lavender. So perhaps these colours were linked to lesser parts of Astarte. Teknall guessed that if Astarte ever made a second Avatar, it would be either cyan, black or red in appearance. If he was right, then that would suggest that these colours represented fragments of Astarte, the meaning of which could be interpreted by someone with more knowledge about colours, like Ilunabar. If he was wrong, then he'd need a new theory.

Teknall ran a few more tests on the Liquid Light, and found that the colour spectrum was unchanged by whatever manipulations he performed on the Liquid Light. This further implied that the colours were some kind of signature, a byproduct of being produced by Astarte, and not of material impact on the properties of the Liquid Light.

Finally, Teknall was satisfied with his knowledge of the Liquid Light. He stowed the glowing vial back in his apron pocket.

---

No sooner had Teknall put away the Liquid Light than Teknall withdrew his next subject from his pocket, the large orb of Arksynth he had received from Lifprasil, still wrapped in plastic.

Arksynth, an incredibly diverse material. Its potential for differentiation was virtually unlimited, with applications almost as diverse as Jvan's direct handiwork, and all this was accessible by mortal means. Teknall had observed how the Xerxeans and the Cosmic Knights used Arksynth, and saw how the right application of some seemingly random ingredients and a bit of physical treatment could produce fantastic results. Pure alcohol. Latex. Armour. Vitamins. Fur. It seemed that just about anything could be made using Arksynth.

But this was the problem. The reaction conditions were seemingly random. While there were few stimuli which did not elicit some response, there was no obvious pattern, which would make producing the desired response incredibly difficult. Combinatorial chemistry and blind chance was an option, but it would be a last resort. There had to be a smarter way. Some kind of pattern had to exist.

Before Teknall started studying the Arksynth, he set up a few culture vats with water, bubbling oxygen, and organic matter from the plantation, and into those vats he placed chunks of Arksynth. Over time they would grow, and he would have more stem Arksynth to use.

Teknall then took a very fine and sharp scalpel, and with very steady hands used the scalpel to collect a few individual cells of stem Arksynth. With his godly Perception, Teknall needed no microscope to observe the cells and their sub-cellular structures. It took him no time at all to discern the ancestors from which this tissue had been made. The Arks and demons. But he had figured that out the moment he had got his hands on the stuff. What he was yet to figure out was the third influence, an influence subtle, immaterial, but pervasive.

Teknall transferred the cells to a glass plate and used the scalpel to isolate a single cell. Then, with a fine-needled syringe, he injected the cell with water forcing it to lyse, smearing its component biomolecules throughout the droplet of water. And Teknall studied and catalogued every molecule from that cell of Arksynth, every signaller and receiver, every protein, every enzyme, every nucleotide, everything, but he found no trace of that third influence. Evidently, that third influence only existed within living Arksynth.

So Teknall extended his study to living Arksynth. Arksynth was made from living tissue, so many of its interactions would be dictated by biochemical processes. These biochemical processes may be strongly influenced by the Other and the occult, but they would be biochemical processes all the same.

Teknall began applying stimuli. He started with a few of the recipes he had seen others use, and as he worked on those recipes he very carefully observed the passage of every molecule within the stem Arksynth. He used the Cosmic Knight recipe for producing carbon fibre sheets, and that worked successfully. But the recipes from Xerxes did not quite work. The recipe which should have produced ethanol and methanol instead created isopropyl alcohol, and the recipe which should have produced latex made rubber. The differences were peculiar. Teknall was positive that he had followed the recipes exactly. To be sure that it wasn't the environment he even left the Workshop and reattempted the synthesis on Galbar, but to the same results.

The remaining possibility was that the Arksynth Teknall had was subtly different to the Arksynth Tauga had. Perhaps it had mutated at some point in the past. If mutations were common, it would make studying the material difficult.

But Teknall realised that he was actually quite lucky. The differences between the expected and actual outcomes were small yet significant. If he were to compare the two different strains of Arksynth, then he could greatly improve his understanding of the substance, and help isolate some of the invariants in the material.

The best place to get a sample of Xerxian Arksynth would be from Xerxes itself. So Teknall made a quick and stealthy trip to Xerxes.

He found a city coated in ash and filled with dilapidated buildings. The majority of the population had been converted to dagons, with the remainder being the mortals he had saved in the Rotfly watch. All were preparing for war, but not in the usual way. Instead, he found them laying traps, digging tunnels, preparing ambushes. This plan Tauga had pulled together, circumventing Teknall's curse on the city and making full use of what little advantages remained, was impressive. Lifprasil's army would encounter a tough battle.

Teknall did not hang around looking, though. Unseen, and nigh undetectable, Teknall scooped out a slice of Arksynth from one of the vats in the watch complex, then returned to his Workshop with the sample.

Teknall put most of the new stem Arksynth into a fresh culture vat, keeping just enough to test the same three recipes as before. The recipes for alcohol and latex worked as expected, and the recipe for carbon fibre instead produced pellets of graphite.

Then Teknall began comparing the data. He catalogued differences in the proteome and genome. He mapped out the cascade of reactions which occurred on applying each stimulus. From this analysis Teknall was able to assign, at least approximately, what parts of the Arksynth performed what functions, and had figured out the mutations which had occurred between the two strains. But he was still nowhere near being able to predict the Arksynth's behaviour.

This was where having two similar yet distinct strains was lucky. While finding a recipe to perform a particular function from scratch would be extremely difficult, it should be relatively simple to modify an existing recipe to produce a slightly different response. And by tracking the changes in recipe needed to match the outcomes of the two different strains Teknall would be much better informed about how the Arksynth behaved.

So Teknall experimented, making incremental modifications to the stimuli applied, in dose, kind and order. The variables involved were still many, but not as infinite as starting from nothing. And as Teknall tinkered and tested, he found that his intuition and first guesses, more often than not, led to positive developments. With each modification, Teknall carefully catalogued the full sequence of biochemical reactions occurring within the Arksynth, as he had earlier. He noted many things, such as what doses caused the equilibria to tip, how selective the receptors were, and so on. And he noted anomalies too, where reaction pathways diverged from the physical and into the occult or the processes of the Other.

It took less time than expected for Teknall to develop the modified recipes to produce the desired products. And while his understanding was growing, he had identified a fundamental barrier to further understanding. His comprehension of both the occult and the Other were lacking compared to his comprehension of physics and chemistry, which was a problem since all those processes were intertwined within the Arksynth. Fortunately, most of what he needed to know was buried within the Universal Blueprint.

Teknall went back to his imitation of the Universal Blueprint and studied it again. He looked to Mammon's occult and inspected it in depth. He had already done some preliminary tracing of the submaterium connections back when he devised an antidote for Xerxes' blood rain, but the knowledge he would need to understand the Arksynth was much deeper in the web of text and symbols. The main reason for that was that Arksynth was not purely occult in functioning, containing many non-magical components. Thus there was often no direct submaterial link to trace, meaning he would need to find secondary connections and loose ends in the occult to find how it might interface with the Arksynth.

Mammon's occult, while esoteric and convoluted, still followed fairly conventional logic. Jvan's Other, on the other hand, thrived on an explicit lack of logic. The processes of the Other were driven by paradoxes and mathematical singularities which should have resulted in their total non-existence. He had reverse engineered Other-mediated processes before, namely the Needle Fae, but to reconstruct it from the ground up was another matter entirely. The Other was an aberration, blatantly disregarding all good logic and reason, yet still producing a functional result. It was just as well that most of the Other was sealed away in the Gap; even without the Hells of Time the Other could still wreak havoc on the Universe by its mere presence.

Despite all this, the Other was surprisingly useful. By breaking free of physics and logic the Other was capable of mediating processes which would have been simply impossible otherwise, or providing powerful shortcuts to otherwise difficult or energetically expensive mechanisms. As Teknall studied, he realised just how broadly Other processes influenced the functioning of the Arksynth.

It had taken a long time for Teknall to comprehend Astarte's magic. Teknall was able to understand Mammon's occult in slightly less time, for it was a rigidly defined system. But it took much longer for Teknall to understand the Other in even a rudimentary manner, overlayed with approximations and simplifications to help ease comprehension. And while his newfound understanding of the Other was crude, it was sufficient for his purposes.

As Teknall was compiling this information and figuring out how it connected to the Arksynth, an anomaly in one of the Arksynth vats caught his attention. The stem Arksynth had to consume biological matter in order to grow. But this vat of stem Arksynth, for whatever reason, was consuming not just the plant matter it was fed but also the metal walls of the vat.

Quickly Teknall hurried over to the vat, which was half as tall as he was. He reached in with his hands and scooped out the mass of wrinkled grey tissue, water streaming off it. Simultaneously one of the robotic worker arms of the Workshop brought over a ceramic vat, into which Teknall deposited the Arksynth. The Arksynth did not start eating the walls of its new contained, so Teknall transferred over the water, food feed and oxygen line to the new vat.

Teknall took a small sample with his scalpel and inspected it. The stem Arksynth very slowly began eating the stainless steel of the scalpel, but that didn't concern Teknall. It was still stem Arksynth, but it appeared that some vastly improbable mutation had allowed this particular batch to digest metal as well as biomatter. The metal was stored within the Arksynth cells, but were not integrated into any of the functional organelles, so could likely be expelled if given the right stimulus.

What were the odds of such a mutation occurring? While this mutation could be useful, if it occurred in any other vats it might become problematic. But even with the clashing mechanisms within the Arksynth such a mutation remained very unlikely. It had been sheer chance that this had occurred.

Chance.

Could that be the third influence? Chance? As Teknall reflected on his experimentation on the Arksynth, with his new understanding of the underlying physical principles, he realised that the probability of him having found the correct recipes as easily as he did was also very low. And wasn't he lucky to have found two distinctly different yet comparable strains of Arksynth?

But no physical or Other process could manipulate probability like that, and while a few occult rituals could grant good or bad luck they were complicated, overt and definitely not present in the Arksynth. But what else could manipulate chance?

Teknall went back to the vat of Arksynth and inspected the Arksynth as a whole. He peered closely into the bulk material with his divine sense. And with his keen senses, he managed to find just a trace of something he hadn;t noticed before. And he reeled back in shock.

Vakalron.

Vakalron was in the Arksynth. Vakalron was in the Arksytnh. The divine signature, as faint as it was, was not simply Vakalron's influence or essence, but his presence, although in some unconscious and delocalised sense.

He hadn't seen Vakalron for a long time. The last he had seen of him was his trail on Ilunabar's moon. Vakalron had been conspicuously absent. And now Teknall knew where he was.

What in the Hells of Time was Vakalron doing in the Arksynth? And why had Jvan put Vakalron in there?

Knowing of Jvan's methods, mental images came to Teknall's mind of how Vakalron may have been converted from a god into a lump of tissue, and Teknall became nauseous and started trembling. The mere thought of a god being butchered up made him sick in the stomach. How could she?!

Jvan probably had a good reason. It had better be a damn good reason, because that was not okay. Inconveniently, Jvan was still slumbering, and Teknall didn't want half-truths from Chiral Phi, so answers would have to wait.

In disgust, Teknall put the lid onto the vat and left it. He gathered up the samples of Arksynth he had been experimenting with and put them in a box. He considered disposing of the samples, but with Vakalron in them he wasn't comfortable with doing that.

Then Teknall sat down, rubbed his eyes, and tried to think of what to do next.

---

Thinking about the Arksynth or Jvan right now would be fruitless. Teknall put such thoughts aside for a time when Jvan wasn't comatose. But he still needed something to occupy his mind.

He came up with an idea. He had just acquired a vast amount of knowledge about magic, and it would be little use to just set it aside and not use it. There was so much potential in magic. So much versatility. He could rise far above the restrictions of physics should he apply it. It would provide an advantage comparable to the Orb, yet could also be used for countless other applications too.

The trick would be to find a way to harness magic. While Teknall could directly cast spells in his generic capacity as a god, he would never be good enough at it for it to be a worthwhile investment. But he didn't need to weave the magic directly. He could manipulate the materials which in turn produced the magical effect. That would be completely within his abilities.

He had exercised this kind of magic first when he created the cure for the blood rain. Then he had traced the submaterium connections, as dictated within the Codex, from memory, to the extent necessary to produce the desired results. That had been a simple and direct application of the occult, distilled into liquid within a bottle. With his recently expanded knowledge of the functioning of magic, and practice in dealing with magical materials, Teknall was now ready to refine this practice into an art.

Teknall started by copying out Mammon's Occult, Belruarc's Magic and Astarte's Magic from his imitation of the Universal Blueprint and onto a larger poster, where he would be able to annotate it. Behind him, robotic arms began collecting glassware and moving it into place on workbenches, and various chemical substances were ordered from the chemical reactor and the plantation. Teknall's Workshop would not be able to manufacture every substance needed, but with Teknall's big picture view he would be able to substitute most ingredients with stuff he could obtain within the Workshop, limiting the number of excursions he would need to do.

Once he had his poster up, Teknall took only a moment to inspect the intricate web of magical connections and the interference between the three paradigms. Further study was of no use; he already had all the knowledge he needed, he just needed to use his hands and put it into practice.

Teknall decided on the first potion he would make. Explosions were too simple and easy; there were innumerable ways to make things explode, and most of them required no magic whatsoever. Some kind of enhancement would be interesting, but with no test subjects there would be little point. So Teknall came up with a better idea, one closer to his own style.

He gathered the ingredients together into a ceramic beaker. A handful of cement, thrown into the air beforehand. The root of a tree, dissolved in hydrofluoric acid and brought to the boil by a flame conjured by arcane symbols. A lock of his own hair. Then stirring in total darkness, and sealing the container under a methane atmosphere. A complicated network of Belruarcian runes were powered to supplement what submaterium connections Teknall didn't have at hand. This was possible because of the conflicting interactions between the different paradigms of magic, allowing him to, for example, 'trick' the occult ritual into believing that the root was from a Caliginous Mangrove tree, and not a regular tree in his Workshop. These shortcuts compromised potency, but made the ingredients far easier to obtain.

Teknall took the sealed ceramic container out from the darkened air-tight box he had done the final step in. Being careful not to disturb it too much, Teknall carried it to a relatively empty section of the Workshop floor, walked backwards a few metres, then telekinetically popped the lid off the container.

On contact with the air, a grey sludge shot up ten metres (against the weak gravity of the Workshop) before rapidly solidifying into a blobby pillar of hard, stone-like material. Teknall walked up to the pillar and tapped it, and was satisfied by its strength. The test had been a success.

He called the potion Alchemist's Cement. On exposure to air, it rapidly expands, making formations like that pillar, before swiftly solidifying into a concrete-like substance. Using genuine ingredients or a greater volume would produce greater results, but this was a good start. Another improvement would be the addition of demon's blood to the recipe, which would grant the cement improved behaviours. But demon's blood was not the easiest substance to obtain.

Yet Teknall realised that he had a potential source. The Arksynth was part demon. It could easily be coaxed into producing genuine demon blood. Teknall hesitated for a moment, then decided against it. Using the Arksynth with Vakalron inside it felt like desecrating a grave. He'd sort out that issue later. For now, Teknall would experiment with other potions.

In a glass vial, Teknall mixed dirt from the Darkened Spires and soot made from burnt hyssop in diethyl ether under ultraviolet light. Teknall had given up on trying to use solely ingredients from his Workshop, for the occult nature of alchemy often required components from specific locations or specific precursors. He could hack together ways around those requirements, but in most cases it would be simplest for him to harvest the materials directly.

After mixing, Teknall plunged the vial into a bath of liquid nitrogen. The solution changed from a cloudy black into liquid void. It began emitting fumes, and those vapours created a gaseous region of total darkness. Teknall sealed the potion, which he called Bottled Darkness, and wrapped it in foil to prevent light from degrading it.

Teknall spent some time designing and creating a few more potions. A broad-spectrum sleeping potion. Cold fire. Dust of invisibility. Mirror mirage. Content with his ability to design potions, Teknall made one more.

Teknall took some diamond dust, wrought iron filings, and platelets isolated from the blood of a white giant, and ground those materials between pure gold gears. He then mixed it all into liquid mercury, brought it to the boil and stirred it with a magnetised wrench while applying an alternating current. Teknall then decanted this mixture into another container and allowed it to cool to room temperature.

Once the potion had cooled, Teknall moved to another workbench and, with a forceful blow from his fist, smashed a hole in the bench. Teknall then scooped out a portion of the new potion and poured it onto the hole and its debris. Before his eyes, the hole repaired itself, slowing morphing itself back into shape and reconnecting with the dropped debris. Once the potion had finished its effect, the workbench was as good as new, with no sign of the previous damage.

The Panacea Mechanicus, a potion which repairs damage to an object. This version was good, but Teknall could make it more potent. Teknall made a fresh batch of the potion as before, but this time he added a few drops of his own ichor to the mercury before adding the other ingredients. The finished potion glowed gold.

Teknall had a very specific use for this high-potency version of the Panacea Mechanicus. At Teknall's summons, Goliath entered the Workshop. Teknall opened up Goliath and added many mechanical bulbs containing the divine Panacea Mechanicus. These bulbs could spray an aerosol of the potion onto any regions of Goliath which were damaged, and would burst if broken providing an additional boost to regeneration. This feature was only to be used if absolutely necessary, because once the Panacea was used up Teknall would have to manually make more, but it could prove extremely useful in a pinch. With the upgrades complete, Teknall sent Goliath out of the Workshop and back to burning the Acalya.

Teknall had one last thing to make. Being able to make potions was one thing, but Teknall still needed to be able to carry and access them and the ingredients. His apron pocket could theoretically fulfil the role, but it was optimised for tools, not bottles or loose ingredients.

So Teknall got some leather and fashioned it into a satchel, with padding where the bottles would go and rubber linings to prevent leakage. The main section was reserved for potions and empty bottles, while numerous small side pockets would hold ingredients. Like his apron pocket, this satchel had an unlimited capacity for storage.

Teknall slung the strap of the satchel over his right shoulder and let the satchel hang by his left hip. Teknall adjusted it slightly until he was comfortable with it. Then Teknall opened the satchel and deposited the potions he had brewed and his leftover ingredients.

Teknall was a Mason, Architect, Builder, Carpenter, Blacksmith, Inventor, and Engineer. And now, he was an Alchemist too.

Diana slept through most of the next few days. Compared to her city apartment, town-life was somewhat quiet, but Diana had a knack of putting all distractions out of mind anyway, so she slept like a log. While the rest of the town awoke at first light, Diana dozed until the sun rose above the buildings, streamed through the gap she had purposefully left in her drapes, and hit her in the face. She lay there thinking over the past months events for a few minutes, then steeled herself to face the morning routine.

After five more minutes of putting it off, she flung off her feather-filled blanket and jumped out of bed. Diana's room was in the attic of a two-storey clay inn on the corner of Merchant's Reef, in one of the busiest quarters of the town. She went to the window bay, pulled open the drapes and stood there for a moment, enjoying the sun and watching the activity below.

The bustling market had taken over the square; the sound of voices haggling and the smell of spices, cooked fish, and the sweat-producing search for the elusive red coral filled the air. Diana smiled to herself; the market would soon be winding down. Across the square, a guard patrolled the terrace atop the town watch headquarters. He raised his hand and waved at Diana when he spotted her. She replied in kind, then stepped away from the window, going over and putting a pot of sugar-sweetened water on the gridiron over the charcoal fire.

While that was heating up, she set about her exercises. Diana dropped to the wooden floorboards and performed twenty slow push-ups. When she could barely lift herself another inch off the ground, she rolled over and started straight leg lifts instead. The pain in her stomach muscles was acute but strangely satisfying. Finally, she got up off the floor and stood below the two butcher’s hooks she had installed in the thick wooden beam that ran overhead. She jumped up and gripped the hooks—which were set two spans apart—and pulled her body up until her head almost touched the beam. Muscles screaming, she then lowered herself slowly down again. She managed to do this ten times before falling to the floor and collapsing, breathless.

Self-inflicted torture over, Diana went over to the stone basin in the corner and quickly washed herself down with plant soap and a sea sponge. She examined her reflection in the full-length mirror that was propped against the wall; she wasn’t as thin these days as she used to be—good food and town-living had filled her out a bit, but exercise and muscle kept her figure lean. Diana wrapped herself up in a linen robe and moved on to her next task: breakfast.

She dipped into her store of camellia leaves and threw a handful into the pot on the fire. She left it brewing while she cracked three eggs into a deep copper skillet, and while they were cooking she cut two thick slices of bread and set them to toast. Diana hummed to herself tunelessly as she beat the eggs up; subconsciously timing it all so that the tea frothed, the eggs scrambled and the bread started to char at almost the same moment. She raked over the hot coals of the oven and took her food to her small table to eat.

Diana's table was littered with the fallout from past adventures: two throwing knives, her sickle sword, and an ivory badge; a symbol of her membership to her gang. Diana cleared a space for her food and sat down. She ate her toast and eggs with one hand, and used the other to trace out the intricate designs on the badge. Vipersong was their name, a title that once held power in the streets of Xerxes, fueled by a massive ring of bandits, thieves, corrupt merchants, prostitutes and magistrates; now reduced to a common street gang engaging in petty crime. She took a small sip of her tea and grimacing at the scalding heat burning her tongue. For as long as she opted to remember, she had been apart of the gang, rising through its ranks under the guidance of its leader, her mentor: Caspian. As of now, she was a Tresais, third in command to Caspian and overseer of day to day operations.

The dial outside struck noon. Diana took one last gulp of her tea; it was brown, bitter and delicious. She had better get dressed; the man she liked to refer to as her patron would be up and about by now.

It was time for her to report in.



Jakwela: the fishing boon of Amestris. Over two thousand people found shelter within its walls; and a few more risked a life just outside the walls, working the trade routes between the town and the wild.

Diana was just one of those thousand, and today no one paid her much attention as she fought her way through the midday crowds. The thoroughfares were packed with men and women from all walks of life: traders and actors; labourers and civil servants; priests, sailors, beggars and scholars. Travellers and refugees from all over the region had been stirring this dense melting pot that was Amestris for years.

Diana was dressed aggressively in black knee-high boots, black cotton trousers and a white open-necked linen shirt. Her only embellishment was a black leather choker around her neck. She walked with her head held high, her gaze focused on an indeterminate spot in the middle-distance. It was a trick Diana had learned to make good use of in the city; she was seemingly oblivious to anyone in her way, so people naturally stepped aside as she bore down on them. It didn’t always work, though: Diana shoulder-barged a man carrying a bundle of firewood and sent him sprawling to the pavement.

"You need to watch where I’m going!" she scolded him cheerfully, not stopping to help.

Visitors to the Chieftain's Rest on top of Coral Crest had to first tackle the forbidding zig-zag of the Spine Fin. This steep ascent had the effect of weeding out the serious penitent from the merely curious, and Diana soon left the bustle of the town far below her. A dozen steps later, she stopped for a breather in the shadow of the Chieftain's Rest cool clay walls. It was a hot spring day; Diana had broken a sweat already. At least it would be nice and cool when she reached her eventual destination: the crypts.

She entered the Chieftain's Rest by the main double doors. The public rotunda beneath the enormous roof was a vast open space, home to Jakwela's many chieftains. They stood on plinths in a circle, the symmetry of the Chieftain's Rest offering equality to all and prominence to none except the figure in the center: the Enas himself. As always, Diana tried not to draw attention to herself by rushing straight down to the crypts, so she took the time to wander from chief to chief as if paying her respects, ignoring the rather aloof figure in the centre. She knew all their names—everyone did in Jakwela. Here was Whalo, lifting a seashell aloft; next to him was Mena and her cloven; then Lio with his spear … Once they had all walked among their fellow men and women. Now, of course, they were all dead.

Diana was examining the statue of Nardo when someone stepped up beside her. She didn't look around; the last thing she wanted was to get to know any of the other regular visitors. Nevertheless, the newcomer made a move: "Is my lady an admirer of brave Nardo?"

Diana sighed and turned to see who had spoken. A stranger in pristine leather armor stood beside her. He wore a deep blue surcoat embellished with a spiral of stars threaded in gold. He was handsome enough, with a broad friendly face and combed-back blond hair. "If I see your lady," Diana replied, "I’ll be sure to ask her."

The stranger gave her a genuine, unaffected smile. "My apologies! Perhaps you are a follower of Kilo instead?" Diana had to laugh. Kilo! The black sheep in the chiefdom: ugly and twisted and always up to no good. His only redeeming feature was that in the end, when the Enas came for him, he died defending his brothers’ and sisters’ children. It was a bittersweet tale that Diana actually enjoyed, her late-father himself told her that one.

"Perhaps I am!" she teased him, her eyes scanning the rotunda. A robed priest had entered and was making his way to the central rostrum; the hourly invocation was about to begin.

"They say you should try to emulate the life of the chief you most admire,"’ Diana's new friend told her. "Nardo was a great knight as well as a chief: the bravest warrior, undefeated in combat, and full of virtue. A wise choice the Enas had made. My name’s Xan, by the way." Diana accepted his gloved hand. "Sir Xan?" she asked him. He shook his head. "No, sadly. Just Captain Xan for now. Although, that is a shortcoming I hope to soon address. Did you know that Nardo himself set down three heroic feats by which one could rise to knighthood? They are still enshrined in our law today." Diana was curious, despite herself. "Go on then. What are they?

"The first heroic feat is to wrestle a god to the ground." Diana smiled. "I think you’ve missed your chance there—by about never."

Xan was enjoying himself, making the most of his opportunity now that he had a girl’s attention. He counted the knightly feats off on his fingers: "The second is to reach to peak a mountain in the Ironheart Ranges."

"You don’t look the suicidal type to me."

"I actually suffer from a great fear of heights," he admitted with a straight face. "So then the only option left to me is the third feat. To join Nardo in the ranks of knighthood, I must prove myself as both a warrior and a defender of the town; I must slay the enemies of Enas and in turn the enemies of Amestris." Diana touched Xan lightly on the arm. "Well good luck with that," she said. "I’m sorry, I have to go. It was nice meeting you!" Xan looked disappointed. "You didn’t tell me your name!" he called after her. She left him standing there next to his idol. As the priest began to address the large crowd that had gathered, Diana slipped away and made for the stairs that led down to the crypts. The invocation was not something that she ever cared to stay and listen to. The people of Jakwela did not pray; their dead chieftains could no longer hear them or use thier blessings. Instead, they pleaded … "Oh Father of Vice," the priest intoned, [b]deliver us from the wrath of your enemies."[/color]



The priest’s drone faded away as Diana moved through the crypts. Passing by the elaborate effigies and oversized sarcophagi of self-important magistrates and nobles, she entered the ossuary: a dark maze of corridors and chambers, the walls of which were lined from floor to ceiling with the coffins of the Chieftain's Rest priesthood. There was no glory in death here, not even recognition; a priest was granted just ten years of quiet rest in his or her own plot of land, before being moved, bone-by-bone, to fill the gaps in the ossuary walls. The beds of the dead looked down on Diana as she passed by; pillars of rock held up torches that lit her way.

Eventually, she arrived at an unlit part of the crypts, where Jakwela's forgotten line of chieftains rested. Diana took a torch from a skeletal hand, and plunged into the darkness. She passed by the life-size effigy of Chief Aldenute, whose life precipitated the formation of the Union. Diana counted off Aldenute’s ancestors as she went by (they all looked the same to her) until she eventually arrived at the final chief's tomb. This old king stared ahead impassively as Diana stepped around him to get to the door of his tomb. Diana pulled the portal open and slipped inside the tomb.

Someone had left a candle burning on the stone coffin within; it lit up what was essentially just a natural granite cave. Diana pulled the door shut behind her and fastened it. She shivered; whether from the chill damp or from the fact that she had just locked herself inside a tomb, she couldn't say. Still, she was almost there now. She extinguished her torch in a nearby pool of water and took up the candle. At the back of the cave was a narrow tunnel which twisted and turned deep into Coral Crest until Diana had lost all sense of distance and direction.

Finally, though, she emerged … … into a much larger cave. Stalagmites as tall as she was rose all around her, and the roof of the cave was lost in darkness. A ring of lanterns surrounded a long, low stone table in the centre of the cave. Rugs, furs and old leather-upholstered chairs were scattered inside the circle of light. And in one of the chairs, next to a warm brazier, sat Diana's patron: Lord Jorge Sealion—one of the wealthiest men in Jakwela; King of Fishermen; the Chief Without a Crown.

"Hello, Tresais Diana." he said as he saw Diana approach. "How has the Princess of Vipersong been fairing?"

Diana slumped down in one of the other chairs and put her boots up on the stone table. "About as well as a girl can these days. she puffed.

Jorge was an unkempt man in his late thirties. He wore a shabby blue fur-trimmed doublet and two days’ worth of stubble. He put down the wooden bowl of noodles that he was eating from. "Can't relate, Diana … as always. Did your Beta brief you as to why you're here?" Diana shook her head. "Nope, I'm clueless as to why."

"Well then,"Jorge sighed. "Why don't we sort that out?"

"Why don't we?" Diana jibbed. "Besides, I would love to know the reason why Caspian is calling this job: Vipersong's Big Break."

Jorge shrugged. "Fair enough." He rolled a glass bottle to her over the top of the stone table. She uncorked it and took a swig. Diana wasn’t usually one for afternoon drinking, but what the hell.

"This isn't a simple job." Benedict told her. "Well, more of a mission really; a quest if you like. But it pays well: more than I’ve ever paid you all before."

"I’m listening," she said cautiously. Her patron took a gulp of his own ale and looked her in the eye. "Good, because I’m in trouble, Diana, and Vipersong might be the only people who can help me." Diana remained silent, and took a long, slow sip of her ale. Jorge was prone to exaggeration; he liked to make his jobs for Vipersong sound exciting and urgent in order to tempt them, but on the other hand he was an expert at downplaying the danger.

He was staring at the neck of his beer bottle as he spoke. "You probably wonder where I get all my wealth from these days, considering that all I seem to do is drink, gamble and chase women." Diana shrugged. "That’s none of my business." It was Xerx… ...Amestrian culture after all.

"I quickly burned through the family fortune, that’s for sure," he said. "But I’ve made a few investments over the last couple of cycles, acquired a few … assets … here and there. Strictly off the records, if you know what I mean." Diana didn’t know what was worse—dawdling instead of getting to the point or getting smacked by Tauga.

"My most recent business venture took me off the coast and out into the White Sea." Jorge drained his beer. "Six septums ago, my fishermen discovered land dozens of spans out. An island chain, supposedly unblemished by human, hain, or rovaik contaminants." Benedict paused to let this sink in.

"Okay," Diana said, "so you want us to head over and see what’s up with it?" Fine, she thought; a little sailing and exploration would be fun. "If it was just a matter exploration, I could send my men to investigate," Jorge said. "But Diana, there’s more: this island is more that just a patch of land floating in the sea. From the fishermen's report, mountains are surrounded by their sands and greenery can be seen for miles! The island chain is a boon of resources and opportunities, yet to be claimed or even known by the chiefs of Jakwela or A'aninin."

Diana considered this in silence for a few moments. "So if Vipersong does accept the quest," Jorge said, "you might want this." He placed a rather large sack of black leather on top of the stone table. Diana took it; the bag was plain and unassuming, but when she opened it she drew breath, red coral filled the sack to the brim. "This is …" she began. "Yes, it is," her patron said. "Well, it wasn’t doing much good just rotting in my storehouses."

Diana was lost for words. "I don’t know, Jorge…"

"Come on, Diana, Vipersong is the only group I can ask and you know it. After all, Vipersong was once the best; it can be once again."

It was a bright sunshiney morning in Alefpria. Dabbles was all asleep in his hammock, curled up in a pile of cloaks and cowls in colours that were subdued, but not unfriendly. "Coo-oor-oor-roo," said Himpledonk, the pigeon, from her perch. "Coor-roo-oo-oo!"

"Oh, please, kind Sir, I am very Busy," mumbled a voice from under the mound of fabric. But Himpledonk was used to Dabbles's shenanigans, and very persistent. "Coo-oo-oor," she repeated sternly. "Coo-roo-oor-oor-oo."

"Oh, alright then, my dear," said the voice, rather clearer this time. The cloak pile bulged and stretched for a moment, then rocked its hammock and leapt to the ground. Dabbles was ready to start his day. "Come here, my dear. We shall break our fast together."

Two thin, stumpy appendages emerged from folds in the heavy clothing. These were Dabbles's arms, and though they had no fingers and very little thumb under their wrappings, he dextrously picked up a clean cloth and pressed it to a bulbous node in the organometallic architecture of his room, which secreted warm, detergent-laden water smelling faintly of rosemary and naphthalene. This he buried in his folded coverings several times, thus giving himself a pleasant wash, a few glistening reddish-black scales detaching with each swipe.

Having ensured that her companion was well prepared for the morning, Himpledonk fluttered onto the flesh-shaper's shoulder, snuggly cuddled up next to the oversized bulge under his hoods and scarves. Together they departed Dabbles's room through the tricuspid valve that served as a door and flapped shut damply behind them on its tendons.

"My, my, Himpledonk," exclaimed Dabbles. "What a fine day it is today!"

All around, the Sweethearts were pumping and pulsing their way over the thrumming heart of the Fathership. They whistled and hooted through their aortic vents, running frayed venal tentacles over the surface of the far larger arteries of the Father, and interfaced with Him with their complex mandibular arrays. All around, colourful clouds of aerial plankton flickered and undulated, and the humid air sang with low, fleshy thumps.

"Come, my dear! We must surely go and greet your brothers and sisters, and many other friends of ours too. I feel as though today will be a most exciting day!"



First, Dabbles went to go inspect the progress on Lifprasil's knights. This was an important job! He didn't want to let it wait any longer than breakfast.

There were over a hundred pods and more than a thousand Sweethearts tended them. Many were empty, and none were the same, for a Cosmic Knight is a strange thing indeed and is designed largely by its own soul. The exaltation process is ultimately as organic as its materials, no matter how many times one must go under the knife for it; No architect ordered the Sweethearts, and yet they were more than adequately instructed. The manufactory simply enabled the citizens of Alefpria to accept the consequences of their choice. There were no second thoughts. The 'synth had rejected those who held them.

"Hello, Knights!" said Dabbles.

A few hundred eyes opened in their gelatinous swill of fluid and looked towards the pile of cloaks, and a chorus of gargling, breathing and gulping sounds rang from the mortals suspended from the roof in various states of disassembly and 'synth injection. Himpledonk cooed back at them politely.

"Bghlrghlrghlrghlp, blblblblblghraaargk," said a knight whose face was being pulled off, her vocal chords visibly churning in a dripping mass of froth.

"Why, thank you! And you too, my dear. I love what you've done with that spinal column. Very jagged. You'll have spikes like a scorpionfish by the end of the week." Dabbles rested a spindly hand on a cartilaginous lever-joint as he chatted, and yanked it back down when he was done. It clicked wetly into its socket and the knight-to-be was lowered abruptly back into her pod, the last tendons attaching her jawbone to her head breaking with a snap.

"Ollenea?" asked Dabbles into the massive workspace, and a Sweetheart obediently bobbed towards him. "See that numbers eight, fourteen and seventy-seven don't overheat while their shells are growing in. Get Jonniggle, Lemmonskwat and Sulivan to help. Also make sure number thirty-one doesn't dry out. Poor lad still hasn't regrown his intestines."

The little technician whistled and darted off. Dabbles and Himpledonk inspected each knight individually over the course of an hour or two, making sure the grafts had taken and the biomechanisms were still working. No fresh recruit was scheduled that day, and as such Dabbles was otherwise free until the evening inspection.

"Goodbye, Knights!" said Dabbles.

One of the pods bubbled as an initiate's lungs collapsed and filled with fluid.



Next it was time for Dabbles to go talk to his friends in the aviary.

Himpledonk shuffled excitedly as they walked along to the far end of the great creature's belly. The hem of Dabbles's coverings rippled oddly as the portly Sculptor glided over the floor. "Do be patient, my dear, only a little longer," he instructed kindly, and in short order they reached a valve that Dabbles had marked with a small wooden sign, a bird on it inscribed.

"Hello, friends!" said Dabbles.

"COO-ROO-OO-ROO!" said four hundred and fifty-nine pigeons.

"Why, what an excitable lot you are today!"

Dabbles trundled along to one of several large canvas sacks set against the wall. The aviary was an adapted airlock, or perhaps a small hangar; Whatever its origins, with the help of some Sweethearts it had soon become a place of warmth, comfort, perches, seed, and guano. "Hello, Lillidop," said Dabbles to the technician currently occupied with sweeping the last of the night's birdshit into a pot to be sent to Alefpria's farmers and botanists. "Hello, Runko, hello, Jonglebongle," said Dabbles to the two pigeons seated on its head. The trio hooted and cooed at him respectively, and went back to their own conversation, which Dabbles refrained from interrupting.

This, too, was an important job, and Dabbles carefully refilled each basin of seed or water, inspected the wounds of those rowdy males who had pecked one another over a mate ("Shame on you, Pirrippadoo! You should know better than this!"), and checked each nesting-box for new eggs. There were seven eggs in four different clutches, and Dabbles congratulated the parents proudly.

In the end, though, it was time to leave. Dabbles had many friends here, but he also had friends outside, and in all the fuss around the Cosmic Knights, he had not seen them in several days.

"Goodbye, friends!" said Dabbles, leaving Himpledonk on a perch with one last stroke of her cheek.

"Coor-oo-oor-oo," said Jonglebongle, leaving a feather and a gift on the Sweetheart's head.



It was early afternoon, high time for Dabbles to enjoy his walk through Alefpria.

Of course, for the sake of all the plants that needed light and rain, Father Dominus no longer anchored above the city. Indeed, due to the amount of fuel required to resist gravity indefinitely, the living vehicle was not actually hovering at all. Faced with the question of where to park such a colossal edifice of divine willpower, Dabbles had settled on the perfect solution, one with both space and hydrogen available in spades. And, after all, aren't ships meant to stay in harbours?

Dabbles descended down about a hundred metres of rope ladder to his dingy, and happily picked up the oars. "Hello, fellow captain!" he said, waving to the barge that had not long ago been the largest vessel in Alefpria.

The captain looked down miserably at the lump of blankets in the dingy, then up at the mountainous Ark, then down again, raising his palms without a word and looking like a man lost.

"Goodbye, fellow captain!" said Dabbles, paddling away.

The man pulled a gourd of wine from his jacket and took a swig.



Having tied up his dingy on the docks, Dabbles hopped onto the cobbled street and began his stroll.

"Hello, sir!" he called to a man playing panpipes, and tossed him a small copper coin from his purse. "Hello, madam!" he greeted a woman selling dried guava on the side of the street, passing a silver over the counter as the yellowed fruits disappeared into his hood. "Hello, child!" he said to a young Lifprasilian looking hungrily at the food on display, and shared copper with him, too.

Everywhere he went, Dabbles was quick to pass out a little silver and copper to whomever his keen gaze saw was in need of it. Lifprasil's commission had been more than generous, and Dabbles saw no reason not to make the world a brighter place for it. Soon enough he was on his way uphill on the city's outskirts, leaving a trail of coins and hellos in his wake.

All of a sudden, a rumbling began to shake its way down the street. Some citizens looked up, startled, and began to shuffle away, but Dabbles followed the sound, thrilled.

"Hello, Tira!"

"Nyuuuum!" yelled Tira as she whizzed past, crouched on a plank of laminated balsa. She stood with a kick and flipped the plank onto its end, holding it by the front, bringing the wheels into view. "Iya, Dabbels!"

Dabbles admired his bronzework on the wheel bases, easily as impressive as the 'synthwork in the wheels themselves. They'd held up to Tira admirably, which was saying something. Lakshmi had said something about the dangers of literally rolling down a hill on wheels, and had probably meant that as a warning to stop, so Dabbles had fitted her with half a coconut for a helmet, plus some kneecaps and elbow pads. She looked a treat, if he did say so himself.

"Pray tell, where are you off to now?"

Tira clapped her hands and laughed mischievously, taking the moment pull a waterskin off her back and have a sip, then stowed it away along with her knife, cup, and other trinkets. Her burns shone vivid red in the sunlight.

"That so? Do enjoy it, dear. Make sure to get home before sundown!"

She rolled her eyes and stepped onto the plank. "Owt-iya, Dabbels!" she grinned, pushing off with one foot and zooming back down the street.

"Goodbye, Tira!" said Dabbles.

He was glad he hadn't given her any coins. Gods knew that girl could wreak enough havoc as it was. What a disaster it would be if she ever got her hands on anything of real value.

Perish the thought.



Now that he had crossed through the city from end to end, making some necessary purchases (and many unnecessary ones) and delivering some important reports (not all of them, but some), Dabbles continued on his way to the lens grove in the nearby jungle.

When the land had been cleared by a mysterious hero companion of Lifprasil, certain outcrops had been neatly cleaved flat, leaving a smooth stone surface level with the soil. The only greenery to appear on these beds of volcanic stone were tufts of moss and resilient grasses, unless earth was brought in to cover the space. Of course, not all trees are green.

Alefpria's population was so prodigious that its undead supported not only the largest orchard of lens in the Ironheart region, but travelled with the herds to sustain many others beyond. Here the trading folk converged and their Sculptor companions came and went from the city, exchanging strange idols and masks and clothes for goods of such eccentricity that they may as well have been giving away their work at random.

The herds themselves dealt in rather more practical things- Bronze tools and eyeglasses, instruments of string and percussion, pottery, wagons and howdahs. All these things were crafted in Alefpria specifically for Urtelem, whose proportions are heavier, and fingers not nearly so deft. In return, the city was enriched with not only strong labour but also goods from throughout the Ironhearts and beyond, from Rulanah and Shalanoir (though the Quara are prodigious travellers in their own right, and only a fool underestimates how far a troll will go for a good deal).

One of the most important things they brought, of course, was news.

"Hello, Maker!" said Dabbles, homing on the telepathic clicks and taps of the Sculptor.

'So many faeries have danced and died on these jungle hills, and still you remain in Alefpria,' signed Three Rosettes, the tripod creature of flowering black haematite and amethyst crown. 'You hide many things under that fabric cocoon. I cannot see them, but you do.'

"Oh, please! Not so rude!" answered Dabbles haughtily, rapping his hand against a twisted stone limb. 'Hello, Banyan Roots!' he signed, his stumps working at an absurd pace to compensate for his lack of fingers.

The Banyan Root herd gestured back pleasantly as they chewed on glass stems and silicone sap, inquiring about the city's constant growth, about Father Dominus and the court of Lifprasil, about earthquakes, and, of course, whether he was interested in the first pick of their wares.

It was time to exchange some more coin.

Urts do not charge high, but they are incredibly resistant to haggling, and having to commission much of their own purchases, have a great deal of use for currency. This herd bore herbs and fine marble from the Metera Valley, among other goods of peculiarly advanced craftsmanship. Dabbles learned many things from them that the whispers of their Jvanic friends neglected to mention. The Meterans, it seemed, were on their way up.

A handful of trinkets had disappeared into Dabbles's bulging cloaks before Three Rosettes delivered perhaps the strangest news of all.

'Old Walker wandered into Metera a year ago, and has yet to wander their way out,' signed the Sculptor, quiet and calm, as if only speaking to see Dabbles's reaction. But Dabbles is an observant fellow, and he did not miss the excitement beneath that stony skin that soon became his own.

"Why, Old Walker? They of the rufous feathers? They of the white mask and four deft hands? Old Walker?"

'As surely as the rainflowers bloom after a storm,' answered Three Rosettes, 'with a young goddess in their arms and the mystery ever fresh in their eyes. Her name is Chiral Phi, and Old Walker, say the people of the meadow, is her Prophet.'

"Ye gods, Maker! Whyever did you not sing this to me before? I've almost a mind, dare I be so bold, as to travel there myself and see the truth for myself!"

'I've been doting on moonshadows, and the colour of fresh soil,' signed Three Rosettes simply. 'Besides, you will not travel. Something ties you here, Dabbles.'

"Well, sir, perhaps you have considered that I may be preoccupied with the Most Significant Duties of captaincy on the largest ship in the world, under commission for the grandest army to walk its face? Good day, Maker!"



The afternoon was growing old and it was finally time for Dabbles to visit his friend in the Shrine of Jvan.

'Shrine' was not an accurate term, of course. 'Studio' or 'Sculptor Den' would be more accurate, given that the structure paid no homage to Jvan whatsoever. There was an academy under construction on the waterfront that may yet be more suitable for the dedication, but the two served an entirely different purpose. For one, the academy was to be well-policed, and Sculptors would never be in charge.

The shrine, on the other hand, had been built early on, and was positioned outside city walls, in the jungle, well away from anything that could potentially be defaced and/or burned down. Allowing wild Sculptor activity to concentrate unchecked in anything other than a bunker tends to be a public safety hazard, and as such Alefpria's growing array of bureaucrats had been more than willing to make this concession, largely on account of the fact that they weren't idiots.

Their precautions may have saved Alefpria much pain. The sturdy stone building was a plasma-charred ruin now. Not, of course, that the Sculptors had cared.

"Hello, Snorple!" said Dabbles to an aardvark snuffling around the jungle regrowth.

Ting ting, rang the bell on Snorple's neck as she looked up. Ting-a-ling-a-ling.

There was no door. Dabbles stepped into the mushrooms and shade. "Hello, Ulagoo, hello, Stiddleficks," said Dabbles to the pigeons softly churring in their coop. "Hello, Oppini- Oh." He peered around and was met with stillness. "I guess she already harvested you."

Humming a little tune, Dabbles slipped under a fallen slab of masonry and pulled up a disguised hatch, letting himself fall into true darkness.

Finger-smears of bioluminescent microbes marked the walls of the basement, and its center was lit by a small lamp, a flickering glow that did not reach the edges of the table on which it stood. "Hello, scientist!" said Dabbles to a creature with long golden fur like a gibbon braided with many charms.

The Sculptor took a guttural, rasping breath in his direction.

"That so? Fascinating! I've always known I could rely on you, my dear."

Obsidian clicked as one of her thirteen prehensile tails set down the knife it had been carrying, and picked up the lamp. She followed Dabbles to where he stood expectantly facing the naked woman shackled to the wall.

"Hello, subject!" said Dabbles to the starving figure between the skeleton and the gouge-blinded goat.

She stared at him through bloodshot eyes and dilated pupils with a kind of calm, impotent violence. A vein hopped visibly in her neck as Dabbles leaned in to where his friend had removed the left breast from collarbone to final rib, sealing the flesh with a diaphonised film of fish skin. For a moment he listened to the sound of her heart kicking at two hundred beats a minute. Through the transparent membrane, Dabbles could just make out embryonic tentacles, and domed head of the Sweetheart baby she was incubating.

"Hello, child," whispered Dabbles gently. "I think I'll call you... Hollytop." The foetus squirmed, as if in answer, and the woman's eyes rolled back in her sockets as the oxygen flow to her brain was interrupted. Dabbles's friend pried open her mouth and put a little scrap of Oppini's sweetmeat on her tongue with a spatula. She would not last much longer. "Outstanding," continued Dabbles as he watched. "Simply outstanding."

He turned away from the subject, reaching into his cloaks, and pulled out a second purse. A pile of gold jangled onto the table. He shook the bag to make sure it was emptied. "You may contact me in the usual way if you require more funds before our next appointment, of course. I've been teaching others in Lifprasil's court the delights of post and pigeonry, so they shan't think anything strange of our little messengers."

The grim physician nodded towards her friend with wide ape-like eyes, tails swishing gently from her upper back.

"Goodbye, scientist!" said Dabbles.

~Goodbye, Dabbles said the telepathic voice of his friend.



At last Dabbles returned for the evening inspection, all tired out from his long day. What an exciting time he had had!

"Hello, Himpledonk!" he said as he picked up his loyal pigeon. "Say, what manner of mischief have you been up to while I was out?"

"Coo-oo-roo," said Himpledonk conspiratorially.

"Really? Why, I rather doubt that, dear. You thought you could fool me, did you?"

"Coo" said Himpledonk.

"Well, I'm sure you had fun. My! Am I ready for bed-time!"

And so, when he finished his duties, Dabbles curled up on his hammock, thinking happily about all the things he had seen and the friends he had made. I do wonder what marvelous things I shall see to-morrow!

Before long, he was fast asleep.

---

Old Walker stood quiet on the face of the mountain, listening to a cricket chirping, and grass swishing in alpine wind. They dreamed.

Jvan let the current pull them as they floated, seagrass twirling between the fallen warriors below. Milky blood steamed sluggishly into the shallow blue water as it diffused over gently rolling weapons and a cloud of sand kicked up by the battle.

A voice trilled, and Jvan turned to see a merman paddling towards them with his free hand. They looked curiously at the kink in his wounded fin. "Sir," he said, straining a little as he recognised his superior, "help me. Please."

"Of course," said Jvan, taking his head in their upper-hands as a lower-hand reached into their armour. Jvan slipped out the knife and slid it easily across the merman's throat. Their eyes met, surprised confusion beholding calm contentment as he slipped out of those pink hands, gently sinking away to join the dead.

Jvan dropped the knife and looked up, the merman already forgotten. Now there was only one figure standing over the battlefield. The bodies didn't talk. An upper-hand absentmindedly felt for a latch at the back of the cuirass, pulled it. A series of mechanisms whirred and clicked open, in sequence, from back to tail-tip. Jvan slipped out of the armour and arched back, stretching until their head met their polychaete tail and formed a ring that revolved gently until it was right-way-up.

It didn't occur to the kirghal that there was any reason not to be happy. The light was beautiful. The skirmish was won. None of their losses were strategically critical, and they were making good time; Jvan would rendezvous with the rest of Ceeln's army on schedule.

Jvan pushed back against the current idly, long body twirling as they went, seeing first the surface, then the battlefield, then their injured war-engine to one side, then the surface again. It was all of one scene, and it had a kind of harmony.

Other people never noticed this, thought Jvan. Other people look at things and ideas and never really see the world for what it is. (They started swimming perfect circles and figure-eights, chasing their own tail.) Blood and sand and metallic chitin armour lay scattered in the not-quite-random pattern of war. Kirghal cadavers had broken open, as they do, to release gametes upon death. The bodies stared back at their officer and mortal foe, fists clenched, tails curled, caught forever in a single moment of perfect martial motion.

A voice trilled and Jvan rolled to one side, arms awkwardly bent at their sides. They'd lost track of time.

"Sir?" said the scout, another kirghal, not sure whether to be embarrassed at seeing their superior naked and dancing over a hundred corpses.

"Yes?" said Jvan simply.

"We found their encampment and cleared it, sir. There were no more Council personnel."

"Oh? Excellent," Jvan smiled. "You may return to your squadron, soldier. I'll follow your signal."

"Sir, I've..." The scout glanced awkwardly at Jvan's damaged war-engine, its bioceramic armour dislocated to reveal the grey muscle below. "I've been sent to escort you."

"No need. That's just the ram mechanism. It detaches under strain to take pressure off the lubricating vessels. I can fix it." Jvan picked up their segmented armour by the shoulder and pulled it along on their way to the massive vehicle.

"...Sir, I-"

"Yes?"

"...I'll inform Commander Prrhyi of your decision, sir."

"That you will, soldier," said Jvan, pushing the armour roughly into a compartment. This engine had armour enough. "You're dismissed."

They curled into the cranial cockpit and laid their hands on the control nodes. Vibrant bioluminescence lit the vehicle's interior. Of course I can fix it, thought Jvan, feeling the thrum of the biomechanical war machine resonate inside them. I'm an engineer.

...

Old Walker turned an ancient gaze to the stars, watching the rising crescent Mirus. None of these dreams surprised them, not really. That Jvan's identity lay rooted in a past older than any of her divine incarnations had long been more than suspicion. Only the exact tune of the story was new to them now.

It was not surprising, either, that Old Walker should share these Vowzrid dreams of hers. Their connection ran deep. The Sculptor was intimately aware that no one knew All-Beauty better than they, not in this universe, anyway. What was unexpected was how easily they slipped out of the telepathic network and into Raka. Jvan had astonishing dominance of a psyche so vast for a consciousness so small, but... still...

Things leaked...

Phi manifested at Old Walker's side and they inclined their head towards her without looking. The blue glow was ghostly in the night.

"You're insane, you know that?" said the Painter quietly, simply. "I'm not even mocking you this time. You're patently demented. The psychological flexibility your Sculptor nature grants you is the only thing keeping you from picking up where you left off. The moment you let your head start making logical sense again, your life will go back to the way it was before the end." She twirled into a falling shape. "And then you'll die." She 'splattered' on the rock.

Mrrph, said Old Walker dismissively. Phi laughed.

"Aw, don't be that way. Come on. We have a holy book to write down. Make yourself useful, as she put it!"

Old Walker swung their neck to look at the first rays of dawn over Mount Bormahven, and began the long climb down the mountain.