Illyd
Dyll

---

Illyd Dyll’s fingers played across his harp, the sweet notes whispering in the corners of antiquity as the other gods went about their days and businesses. The plight of mortals was weak in his mind, and the struggle of the gods was even weaker. His fingers just knew to play and his mind just knew to smile. A freckle of darkness seemed to itch past this golden paradise, weak though it was, it was noticeable.

He tucked his smile into his cheek, leaking a certain doubt, his finger missing a note. He furrowed his brow at the sour spot and sighed, perhaps it was time for another nap. He wriggled out of his hammock and began to untie it, eager to bring it back to his valley. It wasn’t that he wanted to be alone, he just didn’t know what else to do or where else to go.

Throwing his bundle over his shoulder, he walked back through the messy rip in reality that led to his realm. His happiness couldn’t help but feel damp under an inexplicable rain of sadness. He had no reason to be said -- and because of this doubt he felt a vibration in his chest that lead out to his voice.

“I don’t like this,” He said out loud, tucking his cheek again as if awaiting the wind’s response. There was nothing and he sighed, shifting his way through the golden wheat fields on the path to his trees.

“I am happy,” He reiterated to no one as he hopped over the gentle brooke that cleaved his realm in half.

“Right-” Illyd cut himself short, his eyes noticing a hammock swinging in his usual spot. A fuzzy warmth reinvigorated his heart and he beamed a smile, he had a visitor. With a small skip in his step he bounded over, eager to peak into the hammock.

With a bright smile he leaned over, “Hi! I’m-” Once again he froze. A cheshire grin smiled up at him from the rough looking hammock. It had crooked teeth set between two chapped lips which in turn were set between two cheeks with a sickly blush. The owner of it all was a pale woman with dark curly hair and bloodshot eyes. She wore a long collared dress the same color as her hair.

“Well you don’t have to act so shocked,” Diana trilled, “It was only a matter of time.”

“How?”

“Oh foo, you didn’t think you were rid of me that easy were you? I had to show up sooner or later.” She sat up, as if the hammock was a swing and motioned to the spot next to her. Reluctantly, with his harp and banjo protectively huddled against his chest, Illyd Dyll sat down next to Diana. He immediately felt uncomfortable, causing him to tighten his grip on his instruments.

“The figure of meekness,” Diana rolled her eyes, “As if that’s fooling anyone.”

“I have no idea what yer talkin’ about,” Illyd protested.

“Of course ‘ye’ do,” Diana mocked his baritone, “You can’t lie to me, you know.”

“What do ye want?” Illyd Dyll faced her.

“Oh huff, I just missed a dear friend is all,” Diana smiled wide, “Did you miss me too?”

“Absolutely not,” Illyd Dyll shook his head, Diana erupting into a cackle.

“Oh how I missed your jokes,” She put a hand on his arm, a burning itch forming where she had touched. “So what are you planning this time?” Her eyes turned wicked.

“I don’t know what ye mean,” Illyd Dyll shuffled away.

“Come on now,” Diana tapped her chin, “A mastermind like yourself must have something.”

“I’m no mastermind, lady,” Illyd Dyll gave her a silly look.

“And all of your previous machinations were just goofy accidents then?”

“I have no memory of any previous ‘machinations’,” Illyd Dyll defended.

Diana flicked his nose and he made a short scowl, “That’s a lame excuse.” Diana’s grin was fading, “As if a god could forget. You have a divine memory, and I am no fool, Illyd. You know everything you did, don’t you?”

“I don’t really need to listen to this madness,” Illyd Dyll hopped to his feet, the blue sky darkening above him.

“And wha-”

A massive boom of thunder interrupted Diana.

“Oh foo-”

Another raging boom drowned her out. Illyd Dyll had a soft smile on his face, his eyes watching he mouth move but all his ears could hear was the storm above.

---

A great storm was rolling across the highlands and beyond. Tremendous winds and flooding rains, all for one area centered around nine haggard men and a single wooden cup. They stood in the ruins of Yalin. Orchards of stone spires rose among the piles of debris. Children wailed alongside the survivors of the previous onslaught and the creaking of wheels carried away the countless dead.

The nine men who stood around the cup were dressed in dented armor and wore broken weapons, blood smeared on their faces. Hal was there, his hands still gripping the cup tightly -- his grandmaster Talun looking between him and the others.

“So it is decided then,” Talun cleared his throat.

“I beg that you come with us,” one of the knights, Gerome, insisted.

“Nay,” Talun shook his head, “I am of more use in the view of the people.”

“And our enemies,” Hal reminded him.

Talun gave a grim smile, putting a hand on Hal, “A leader cannot hide, Hal. I will stay in Yalin." He looked at the other knights, "You five will go to the catacombs of Saint Bartholomew and Saint Oyticon with the Holy Grail. Hal, Timothy, and Persius will split up and make contact with our other brothers.”

There was a long pause before Persius, the largest of the nine solemnly bowed his head, “Then let us pray to the Golden Light that we are correct in our decisions, and that all will be safe.”

“All will be as the Golden Light decides it will be,” Talun nodded, “Let us pray...”

Entr’Acte: The Tide of Blood

---

Blood. Flesh. Bone. Feast. Food. Hunt. Hunt. Hunt.

The hunger drove them to hunt, to feed upon flesh, their minds had become warped and broken, long forgetting their origins as the very beings they now descended upon to sate their eternal hunger. They had become a scourge upon the northern highlands, entire villages would fall silent after their hunts, blood soaked tents and ravaged corpses were often found by the druids who dared to travel the northern reaches and far too often those druids failed to return, another feast for the flesh hungry abominations.

They were the Iskrill, though that was a name only they would use for themselves, the humans they hunted often referred to them as the Scourge, Abominations, Beasts, the like, even the trolls knew to hide when the call of the Iskrill hunt sounded in the distance. They were feared amongst the north, and even the south knew of their hunts, they were at their height.

Then the damn walls came, the spears, the metal, the humans had learned to fight back, the hunters, became the hunted.

A city arose, it dedicated itself to fighting the scourge, the Iskrill were unprepared and were shattered, their stranglehold upon the north had fallen and they were forced to split. The eastern broods fled into the twisted forests of the Aberrant, a region the Iskrill found themselves perfectly at home in, sending hunts into the highlands, testing the city. The western broods had little to flee to, until they found another city, a shining beacon devoted to a false goddess of the sun. A fest waiting for them.

The Iskrill had been beaten, but they refused to go, they were a parasite upon the north, and they would feed until there was nothing left.

The Beast and the Wasp

Serkox and his pack had been following the beast for a while, a mighty giant moose that could feed their brood for quite some time, they were drawing close through the mangled trees and brush to it, he could almost taste its flesh upon his tongue, the thrill of the hunt’s best part was drawing close, the killing of their prey and getting the first feasting of its flesh.

The 5 hunters stalked quietly through the brush, their weapons, some javelins and axes drawn, their claws and teeth could be used in case they broke, but that would make things, far more difficult. They followed the beast’s scent, drawing ever closer, that is when they heard it. Echoing through the forest they could hear the cries of the moose, Serkox could begin to sense something else in the distance, it was not anything he had come to know as native to these woods like a wolf-bear, they were different, this couldn’t be good.

He gestured towards his pack, ordering them to move quicker alongside him, their pace quickened, eager to drive back this new scent and gain their feast. They found themselves in a small clearing, a giant moose fallen to its side, already smelling of death, then, there were the creatures, they were strange, like nothing the hunter had ever seen before, they were human like but insectile, red and brown striped with large stinger like body parts, hovering on fast buzzing wings, they wielded weapons similar in make to the hunter’s own, it was clear they have lived in these woods as well and had too hunted down this giant moose.

There were three, an easy number to take down, but near them Serkox could see smaller insect looking creatures, they were similar in design yet smaller, and more bestial looking, he counted five. Fuck. This could be difficult.

He gestured for his men to ready their javelins, he still had the element of surprise which could prove useful. He cocked his arm back, javelin at the ready, aiming it towards one of the larger creatures. With a soft prayer to the All Father he chucked it with all his might, as did his pack members.

A few struck true, two piercing right through the smaller creatures, and Serkox’s flying right into the larger one’s chest, bringing it crashing down, it's wings sputtering with last gasps of its life. The remaining creatures turned towards their direction, their wings buzzing angrily and weapons now drawn and at the ready. The hunt’s best part had begun.

The hunters drew their axes and charged towards the creatures, Serkox crashed against one of the larger creatures, its own spear-like blade and stinger clashing against his axe and claws, each one slashing and stabbing at the other, seeking an opening. A battle began around them as well, the two larger creatures proving themselves the match of the hunters, the smaller ones though buzzed and dashed around the hunters, being far more of a nuisance, though the occasional axe, claw, or stinger struck true, causing the hunters to howl in pain or the creatures to buzz louder.

It was bloody, Serkox caught the creature in its leg with his axe, blood spurted out from the wound as the creature loudly buzzed, with a sickening crunch he dug the weapon head deeper, grabbing the bottom with his extra bottom arm, and he pulled with all his might.

The creature screamed, and the sound of tearing exoskeleton only barely covered it, the leg tore at the wound point, muscles stretching far beyond their limit with a wave of bright green blood pouring forth. A final snap echoed through the clearing as the leg ripped, Serkox held it aloft, the creature crashing into the ground from the pain, he twirled his axe around before finally embedding it into its skull, ending its life.

The other hunters had managed to dispatch their creatures, two were heavily injured from the smaller creatures though, the stings apparently contained some poison. Serkox doubted they would live much longer. They needed to get as much feast as they could.

“Gather as much as you can.” The hunter growled at his pack members. They moved as quickly as they could with their injuries, gathering enough flesh for their brood, before slowly returning home. The two stung would soon pass.

This would not be the only encounter with the insects, both beast and wasp would clash time and time again, fighting over the same hunting grounds, predator versus predator, the Iskrill’s savagery clashing against the Swarm’s sheer numbers, hive against brood, a war that for whoever won, humanity would only lose.

The Fallen Sun

Ykkat walked through the bloody and ruined streets, charred and broken buildings surrounding her, now home to her fellow brood mates, feasting softly upon any sort of flesh they could gather, be it human or animal. They had come to this city long ago, descended upon its inhabitants and slaughtered them, eaten them as a glorious feast, by the All Father if only Ykkat had been there for that.

Now they had come to live in the city, hunting whenever they could, they had to gather a lot to feed the numbers they held, which proved difficult with the anarchic nature of the broods, each one vying for more and more flesh to sate their endless hunger. Even in the past they had been like this, and now, even after having claimed the ruins of a mighty city, they were still behind their enemies, especially that of their hated rival beyond the mountains and the river.

Ykkat knew this needed to change, they would not last long if their prey sought to fight them in force, they grew more and more powerful each day, while they stagnated.

She came upon the home of one of her companions, Zerkam, a strange Iskrill who was born with rainbow eyes and had strange powers, many called him blessed by the All Father but few ever interacted with him, afraid of his power. They were fools.

She entered, finding the Iskrill sitting on his cot and staring at one of his arms, a soft flame glowing in his palm, as soon as he spotted her he seemingly snuffed it out, rising to greet her.

”Greetings Ykkat, what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

”I wished to talk to you about some things, but I see you were busy doing something.” The flame had been an improvement, as the Iskrill had little knowledge or control over his powers, he was learning, this was good.

He looked upon his arm, the one that had held the flame ”Yes, I was just learning more about my powers, it is difficult, a bunch of trial and error mostly, but enough of that.” He turned back towards his cot, gesturing for Ykkat to follow him ”What did you wish to talk about?”

The two Iskrill sat, Zerkam looked ever curious as to her visit, they were not that often admittingly, but he enjoyed them nonetheless. He offered Ykkat a piece of flesh, which she ate slowly, thinking of her words.

”Well Zerkam, I wished to speak to you about something, it's about our people here. As you know, we are rather divided, we fight amongst ourselves even as we are hunted down by our own prey, it needs to change.” This was the first time she had ever voiced her opinions, and she could see his reaction to her words, his eyes widened, unsure of how to respond.

”So you’re, wanting to unite the Broods? All of them within this city?”

”When you say it like that yes it does seem daunting, but we can do it brood by brood, start with ours, organize ourselves, make sure we can fight back against our rivals. Then we can go to the next brood, if they see the benefits it’ll get easier with each brood.” She had put a great deal of thought into this, she had no desire to see her people destroyed by their prey, the prey was meant to be hunted, not the predators.
Zerkam sighed ”You’re obviously going to do this with or without my help so I might as well.”

”Perfect! Since you’re chosen by the All Father they should listen to you more, now, lets see if we can’t help your powers some more.”

The two talked, trying to learn more about the strange Iskrill’s powers and Ykkat’s plan to unite the broods so the hunt may continue, their plane would need some help, they both knew that, but they wouldn’t quite expect the help they would get.

A watching father

Yamat had watched his children with increasingly curious eyes, while he himself admitted that the Iskrill were not his best works, they were more than proving themselves as worthy of their father’s aid. And that aid he would give them.

That blasted city had split them in two, now his eastern children were engaged in a war with those wasps and the western ones were seemingly sitting, waiting for their deaths, he needed to give them a boost.

But what could it be? He thought to himself a great deal, that one Iskrill within the fallen city would have to gain some other aid, he could not make a ruler that was for sure, but he could assist his children in another way. Those wasps, while enemies of his children, were interesting too, perhaps those who had proven themselves in the Aberrant could be helped as well? It would make the play far more interesting.

It was decided, he would bless his children, and the wasps of the north, now exactly what would he give them? They needed some sort of ability to counteract the organization of the humans, hmmmm, ah ha! That would do just fine.

He raised his hands, his runes glowing their beautiful gold, and he conducted his blessing. To the Iskrill and the Vespians he would give the gift of mutations, each one could force upon themselves mutations, only physical ones though, wings, limbs, claws, acidic spit, anything they could think of, they could gain it. Though of course, even Yamat could not just give them a straight blessing, instead he made it random, the Iskrill would have to wait a week before the mutation was fully complete and the result was random as to what they would get, but their thoughts would influence the range and they could still operate, with the Vespians he opted to give them more powerful mutations and a bit more control, but at the cost of having to live within one of their cocoons, unable to work, that would be a fine balance.

He would give the groups a slight nudge as to their new abilities, perhaps a few new mutations at some inopportune times? Yes, that would sate him until his other plans were needed. Speaking of which, he turned his attention once more to his avatar, he had a package to retrieve.

Some time ago…

A cloud of blood surged outwards, filling the little clutching grotto with its dark, arterial presence; another of the spawn lost its life in the clutches of its kin.

The clutch of vrool spawn slowly popped from their hatchery, one by one tearing themselves free from the lumpen blob that was their egg-sac. Numerous eggs, dozens if not hundreds, sat nestled in the soft confines of the clutch and after nearly two seasons having passed they had begun to hatch. The first that had pulled themselves free, ripping through the soft exterior of their eggs, had swiftly turned towards the clutch itself to tear and bite away at its surface. As with all vrool spawn there was an inherent panic about their actions fueled by a manic instinct for self preservation; if an egg did not hatch, its contents could not kill you. Nearly half of all vrool spawn died this way, aborted by their clutchmates before they were able to hatch.

During the tumultuous period of these initial hatchings the clutch-keepers of tyrants and powerful vrool would go acquire the respective sire so that they might observe. This could be an arduous swim indeed, as the tyrant might be far afield from his grotto. Nevertheless, it was the solemn duty of the clutch-keeper to alert their master of its rising and duty was one thing kept to if life was a valued commodity. In the past the vrool had found others of their own cold-blooded kind to fill the role but ever since the advent of slavery it had been found that warm-blooded concubines served as far better clutch-keepers. They were good at staying in one place, prone to being fond of repetitive tasks, and seemed to enjoy the fairly simple and light workload of a clutch-keeper. Akuan elves in particular were highly prized for their attention to detail and sensitive ears and smell; a notably skilled Akuan clutch-keeper could hear their charge being nibbled on by fish even from the other room.

Now, with the dread form of Kaarnesxaturl leering over the grotto, his surprisingly dedicated clutch-keeper remained back far and away; she had seen how voracious the spawn could be during the initial stages of their violent birth. The All-Tyrant, for his part, was far more intrigued.

This was his fifth clutching over the years and like all of the powerful vrool tyrants he was free to allow his spawn full reign on themselves. Some vrool, particularly the poorest of their ilk, suffered the misfortune of having to keep their eggs apart. As Kaarnesxaturl had learned, the policy of clutch-separation had been put in place by a number of tyrants beneath him in order to weaken the lesser classes; let them spawn numerous clutches that begin life small rather than letting them have the added edge at birth over the noble-born vrool who had fed well on their siblings. It was an overtly-civilized notion to the All-Tyrant and one he could hardly stomach yet the use of force to quell the behavior was likely to be a waste; let those petty lords waste their time with use trifles. To Kaarn, it was far better to have his kin act in the old ways before he had risen; there we too many things lost, he had come to realize, over the thousand year rule of his iron tentacle.

Nevertheless, there were more interesting things to observe than the pointless recollections of distant tyrants and their poorly managed realms. Four previous clutchings had gone quite well, although the fourth had produced no offspring to survive all the way to maturity; the largest, which had eaten all of its siblings, had then promptly died. The warlocks assured Kaarn it had nothing to do with his prime siring but instead that the idiotic whelp had simply torn its internal organs by feasting too thoroughly. Stupid thing best left dead, Kaarn had stated matter-of-factly, for he had no interest in the mentally unsound to carry on his name. Across the other three spawnings he had ten surviving offspring, each now large and dangerous. Some, of course, would always be the runts of their litter, but they yet carried his blood and name and that meant something in of itself. Here would be his last clutch for some time, Kaarn had considered, as he wished to see his youthful spawnlings grow into true terrors before siring more to replace them.

In the pit the violence had become all the more intense as all the eggs had now hatched or been butchered and devoured. A magnificent swarm of Kaarn’s spawn now tore into one another, the little beaks with limbs keeping maws wide over as tentacles lashed at one another to gain purchase. The tyrant had always enjoyed this part when the spawn became sluggish from stuffing their gullets. Though they had but two simple eyes to rely on, the other four yet ungrown, Kaarn swore he could see a fire in them that mirrored his own. A hearty, boiling chortle warbled from his bell, surging the water around him into tight whirlpools that rose up to press against the top of the cave’s ceiling and bubble away into nothingness.

At long last there were but three that remained, two locked in contest with one another and a third, smaller one seemingly content with devouring what was left of a slain spawn. That one in particular caught Kaarn’s eyes, all six rolling into place to glare down at the little creature. It was small, perhaps the smallest of all his spawn that had survived the initial conflict of siblings, but there was a cunning in its eyes, an awareness Kaarn couldn’t shake. It seemed to glare back, menacingly, and Kaarn could only help but return the glower. With that Kaarn hissed at his attendants and they came swimming, the clutch-keeper in particular loath to leave the All-Tyrant waiting at the completion of these duties.

“You have served well this cycle, Kaia, and for that you have earned a continued home in my halls. You may keep the room gifted to you for services rendered; your skills will be needed soon, with my oldest sirelings no doubt soon to seek their own.”

The Akuan woman seemed to offer a begrudging smile, partly appreciating what it meant to simply enjoy a room so freely but also entirely unexcited for the arrival of Kaarn’s offspring. They were a violent lot and often looked upon her far less favourably than the tyrant himself. To him she was a prize, a trophy, and a useful one at that; to them she was an object to be tortured at their convenience. Nevertheless, she bore it all with an unfortunate grin.

One of Kaarn’s retainers, an aggressively corpulent monstrosity by the name of Rawg, pulled his way through the circular entranceway and seemed to flop down onto the ground. Baring no weapons or armor in this most sacred of places, he instead simply bore the threat of his size and powerful body. As one of the primary bodyguard retainers of Kaarn he was trusted with a level of freedom about the Ziggurat not afforded to most and often served as a herald for recent arrivals.

“My intrusion holds purpose, Lord; I present the Warlock Xes, arrived to offer sacred duties over the successful spawn.”

Just as Rawg had said, the Warlock-Lord Xes swam gently through the circular aperture that led into the spawning chamber. Unlike the collosal Rawg who needed to force his body through the entrance, the diminutive and shrivelled warlock was more than adequately sized to swim about the place with ease. Clutching a lance made of long coral bound with all manner of trinkets, the witcheries of Xes seemed to emanate out from him to affect the entire room. Even Rawg was quick to make his exit, reviling the presence of the warlock and remaining only until his master gave him freedom to leave. Kaia, for her part, was always unperturbed by warlocks as most non-vrool were. They were dangerous, without a doubt, and their attentions were nothing to bring upon yourself but that was no different from any other vrool. She stood away from the whole exchange and simply watched and waited.

“All-Tyrant, I bid thee salutations and congratulations from all my coven; another successful spawning is worthy of praise, especially for a vrool of your considerable years. We certainly wouldn’t want a repeat of the fourth spawning, after all. Luckily, you are as virile as our great creator, Kaarn.”

Kaarnesxaturl scowled at the warlock knowing full well his words carried no good will within them. Though he had come to respect the witchling creature over the years he knew Xes had a vicious sense of humor and cared little for the decorum by which most vrool behaved around their rightful overlord. The warlock had, however, proven his use time and time again over the years and Kaarn had no interest in altering that situation; let the warlock enjoy his coven so long as he continued to provide the tyrant with what he needed. Two tentacles bade the warlock closer and the wizened fish closed the distance with ample speed belied by his looks and with none of the hesitation many other creatures showed when around Kaarn.

“Three whelps survived, Warlock; an acceptable number. Better than the last time, certainly.”

The trio had finally lost to the ravages of their conflict, the initial energy burst that all vrool spawn surged with during their hatching having left them as they fell to the bottom of the pit to rest. Their beaks opened and closed rapidly as their little bodies seemed to engorge themselves even further with water, their gills small and incapable of retaining enough oxygen to support continued aggression. It was a good thing vrool spawn did run out of energy, of course, for if they didn’t there would certainly be nothing left in the sea. Xes crawled into the grotto and plucked up the little beasts, making sure to keep tentacle far from the business end. With a tentacle-full of tentacles and beaks, Xes pulled himself free of the grotto and carried the would-be princelings to a depression in the spawning cavern meant for just such an occasion. A cut out led down and out into the open sea and through it, a connection to the siren call of Vo and Ku herself, the center of all the ocean waters. With that the Warlock shut his eyes and began to chant in the holy vonu, summoning the eyes of the many gods the Vrool called their own, but most of all to the creator of them all.

---

In the shadows of the room six eyes watched intently. The black vrool stared with lidless at the ritualized spiritual birth of three new vrool. Something had drawn the entity to this place in this most auspicious of moments, the pangs of destiny and of prophesied life yearning it closer. Though it seemed to flow into the shadows unbound by physical limitations of shape and form its essence filled the space most utterly and the gibbering warlock at the center of the room responded to the presence. The aura of black depths brought heaviness into the chamber as the witchling raised its keening calls higher and higher, the words in vonu beginning to flow together as one.

Yes, this certainly had happened before.

Mawar, the Black Vrool, the separated limb of Klaarungraxus, felt the furor of memories past flow into its mind. It was unused to such complex thoughts, its mind once more accustomed to concepts rather than solid things. Here was the actual happenings of the world, fed to it through its own senses rather than as information pinged to it by the overmind. It was, in a sense, a sub-overmind all its own. Though the gentle grasp of a mind far greater still tethered Mawar to that distant realm of Saxus, in this moment it thought utterly to itself. This happening had been predicted.

One of the vrool spawn seemed to react to it all, wriggling violently in the unseen dark aura of the avatar of deepest depths. New energy flowed into it and the form darted forward from its spot, interrupting the ritual to dive towards nearest prey. A woman, cursed with only four limbs, was instantly attacked by the creature and blood was drawn. With little effort it was restrained, the master of this cavern acquiring the wayward clutchling and returning it to the warlock unharmed. The woman, though startled, seemed overtly unharmed; it had seemed to only draw blood with its aggression. Mawar watched with fascination, having previously experienced great curiosity where mortal lives were concerned. What had provided fresh motivation to the little beast and why had it attacked the Akuan so far from it when a perfectly viable meal saw gibbering above it?

Mawar’s attention closed with the ritual as it began in earnest once more and a touch of destiny caught its mind. The quiet hum of Ku called to Mawar for action and the tentacle-mind-made-more felt a pull towards an idea beginning to form in the depths of its thoughts. Uttering a poem known only to the sea under its breath the soft tides began to twist and turn the cloud of blood from the Akuan woman towards the little princeling to be. As its name was chanted into the holy tides of the great blue Vo, so too was it echoed by Mawar, the blood of the Akuan woman offered up as a final gift of sustenance to it. He was named Kremmesxaturl by the warlock Xes and he would have a destiny like no other vrool before or after. Those cunning, deadly eyes opened once more, peering at the world around them with a new found awareness unlike any other.

---

In the present day…

Krem peered casually into the distance over the vast expanse of Aopoa. The immense, continent sized reef stretched out in all directions as far as his six eyes could see. All across that tumultuous landscape the lights of growing undersea civilization could be seen, glowing vibrantly. Even well far afield from the urbanized center that had grown up around Kaarn’s ziggurat the light of villages and strongholds could be seen. Bioluminescent flora was gathered and stacked in tight bundles, used as makeshift torches as fire would be used above. Their lights, even this far out, could be seen on clear days when little refuse and particulates filled the seas. Krem let out a gentle rumble as he thought on their inhabitants. Some would be vrool of course, be they high-born or low-born, living out in the wilds either as their own personal fiefdoms or as servants to greater vrool; of these creatures Krem had little interest. Since the admittance of free Akua into the realm of Aopoa so that they might worship at Ku, many of those lights were shining from villages of warm-blooded folk. Now they were far more enticing curiosities.

Krem had met plenty of warm-bloods in his time; since he was no serious contender for the throne as the Thirteenth Spawn of Kaarn, he had considerable freedoms to go about his business. He was smaller than nearly all of his kinsmen but larger than the vast majority of low-born vrool and many nobles. That size difference meant little in the ziggurat under the watchful gaze of their sire and his retainers but allowed Krem a great deal of leeway when dealing with lesser vrool. He had harmed and even slain a good number of vrool even in his relatively few years and felt fear of a far smaller number of his race. They were terribly slow-witted, at least normally, and despite his kind’s general capacity for clever thought it required much deliberation for their many-minds to come to an adequate conclusion on anything other than violence. It was warm-bloods that Krem found the more fascinating of the two races.

“Pau hana, Krem, an’ you come foa’ dis place? What's got an akamai fish like you lidat?”

Krem did not respond immediately, nor did he turn. The voice was so obviously Kaia, the heavy accent of his Vonu more than enough even without the inflection of her voice. The Akuan woman had been his shadow ever since his spawning, a baggage that he had hefted with all the derision that came with it. She was his keeper, assigned to him through the commands of the wretched witchling Xes and his father. Oh, the poisonous barbs that had fallen upon his bell for having a warm-blooded keeper. It was the fire of his youth that had planted those shackles so heavily upon his tentacles, the large scar across Kaia’s clavicle made by his very own beak before his overmind had even formed. Regardless of all the disdainful mockery he had received, however, Krem simply couldn’t bring himself to kill her and rid himself of her presence. The akuan woman had been with him since his earliest memories and had been his closest confidante even during the pangs of youth. She had never been fond of when he brought torn up fish and sea-mammals as gifts for her, a proclivity he only recently came to understand, but she was there nonetheless. It was times like these when they were alone where she let her Ku’Ano tongue speak true, dispensing with all the pleasantries she made herself use among less discerning crowds.

“I am watching.”

Kaia closed the distances with the huge cephalopod and stood beside him. There they remained for a long while, peering out across the clear ocean depths at the world around them. Such moments were far from uncommon between the pair, the furtive mind of Krem prone to bouts of melancholy that Kaia was obligated to bear witness to. As they remained unmoving but for the gentle push and pull of the tides one tentacle-mind stretched forward to slowly grab onto Kaia’s forearm, curling around it before simply sitting there passively. Kaia, for her part, moved her arm up to gently pat the dangerous creature on what amounted to his hand, reminding him she was there. Though he hated to admit it, particularly to himself, Kaia had fulfilled a role unknown to vrool; she had nearly been a caring mother for him. A black rage began to overwhelm his heart as he noticed his pitiable act of affection before Kaia’s words, as they always could, pulled him out of that dark abyss.

“Any kine help I can give?”

The huge princeling vrool let one eye rotate down to look at his surrogate mother. This was not the first time she had melted the ice of his heart with her compassion, an oddity among vrool and unexplainable even among her kind. How could she care for one of his race, afterall, with such motherly affections? Surely his species did not deserve nor desire any of it. Perhaps it was that she had never had a child of her own, or some quirk of her mind lost on the vast majority of intelligent species. No matter the reason, she fulfilled that role gracefully and with not one demand of her pseudo-son. As always, his shell cracked quicker than he would like.

”I am lost, Kaia. I drown in my father’s halls.”

The kindly akuan gave his tentacle a squeeze just as he began to retract it, once more doing exactly what was needed to remind him of her comforting presence. She had always been good at that, even when his mind was first forming. Other than that first bite he had never attacked her, the reason why unknown to even his father’s warlocks. If he had he would have likely been harmed in return as a lesson not to damage his father’s property. So his tentacle remained, holding onto the woman who was by almost all rights his mother. She would know what to say; she always did.

“No can live like dat, likkle He’e. Moke i’a like you, choke thinking, you should be free.”

“You are more deserving.”

The woman laughed in that way only creatures of the sea could; it was never as full as that of air-breathers but it was hearty nevertheless. Somehow Kaia had managed to develop laugh lines living in the world that she did. To that she kicked off the floor to swim up onto his shoulder, patting his head like he was a child. It was a behavior she did somewhat frequently, though only when they were alone, and always when she thought he had said something childishly foolish but devilishly kind.

“You know dats no how dat works, He’e. Besides, if I was free, no could be here say nice words to you. Dass why. When I float, prayin’ big Klaar heself put me back so I go hana hou.”

At that Krem turned all eyes on the left side of his head to look at Kaia; he regretted in that moment how rarely he allowed himself those moments of weakness. The mockery of his siblings had been enough to stop him from looking at her for guidance and security and even now, grown into a dangerous bull vrool, he could not break from their beaks. Right now, however, he would give himself the luxury.

“What then?”

“Hmm, kay den. I say you go,” mumbled Kaia, seemingly thinking deeply about her suggestion, “Aurite, yea, you up and go. No moa stayin’ heya’; make youself free. Momona fo’ da picking, your life be, He’e.”

Krem rumbled his acknowledgement as his other three eyes stared out across the sea. He certainly could do exactly that; there was nothing holding him back from that freedom. His siblings came and went as they pleased, as he had plenty. He just always returned. Many vrool, particularly those who were so far from their sire’s throne, left to make room for themselves in the world. Why not he? Though more laconic than the rest of his race, and perhaps more clever, and baggaged with considerably more affection than other vrool, what truly made him so different that he could not? Nothing. A pang of awareness hit him, a thought he had had numerous times before but relegated to the depths of his mind every time.

“You will join me.”

To that, Kaia was uncharacteristically quiet. His three left eyes stared at her, glowering with an internal glow that demanded an answer of her. In a deeply unsettling moment, she turned away. Krem’s heart fell in his chest, the massive organ thumping so powerfully that the water vibrated around him. After a long while she turned back, true sadness marring her visage and the closest thing to tears an Akua could experience underwater forming in her eyes. A smile broke through despite it all as she leaned in and hugged him around the head, his eyes remaining open despite the closeness.

“You know I can’t. I wish I could.”

Her short response and the change from her less freely used Ku’Ano accent to one more managed and restrained told him everything. The unfortunate tidings of that realization that dawned on him were enough to make even a vrool weep, if only they could. Instead he simply sank inwards, his eyes deepening in the mass of muscle and water-sacs that amounted to his skull. It gave the monstrosity a pensive look, as if his eyes were slightly closed in thought. He knew full well what she meant. She was the property of the All-Tyrant and Kaarn parted with nothing that he had personally gained. Krem reflected pensively on the idea; perhaps all mortals had to leave their mothers eventually. This was not a time for weakness on his part for it would be Kaia who would suffer far more than he. It was she who was chained here, not he.

“Then I will return.”

Kaia forced out a smile, a small laugh following suit as she set her chin down on the top of his head. As they floated there several more tentacles rose up to lay gently across Kaia’s back, holding her passively; it was the closest thing to a hug the pair had ever experienced. They remained for a long while, the gentle words of Ku emanating from the deep pit where the urstone lay just off in the distance. It was a solemn song that undersea evening, as if the ocean’s center knew their pain and mourned their parting. No mother should ever need say goodbye to their child, though every mother would. It was a story even the ocean itself could shed a tear for. In that moment dark things watched, humbled by two beings’ parting. When before had mortals wrought such empathy in the hearts of greater things? Perhaps it was the absurdity of it all; a vrool boy to leave home an akuan mother to say goodbye. This moment would be remembered in more minds than just the pair who suffered it.
Krem’s heart beat powerfully as that moment reached its crescendo; he would leave and he would return, greater still than what he was now. The hot blood in his veins, known to no vrool but Krem, demanded it.

---

Far from that distant setting the black vrool Mawar mourned. Even when she had been but a submind of the vaster entity that was Klaarungraxus, when it was known simply to itself as Right-Forward Two-Down, it had felt a fascination with the mortals of Galbar. Now, with her mind more her own than ever before, Mawar felt more for their troubles than even Klaar had ever felt possible. The surprisingly lithe form of Mawar floated melancholic on the waves, keening with the song of Ku as the pair, ocean and avatar, wailed for the loss of a son for a mother.

This act of loss simply could not go unanswered.

Mawar and Ku, two voices of the ocean, rose their gentle hum into a cacophony of oceanic voices. The dirge of the sea rose up, an orchestra belting out a tune of both woeful desolation and absolute love. In the oceans just west of Kubrajzar a massive maelstrom formed, water from all directions being twisted into that single point. Huge black clouds gathered in the skies, crackling with lightning and thunder before billowing forth enough water to fill every lake on the surface of Galbar. Waves rose and crashed the size of mountains, churning the surface into a violent mess.

Despite the magnificent furor of the storm above, the ocean below was the complete opposite side of the proverbial coin. All the energy that churned the surface and drew in millions of gallons of water filled the sea bed with nutrients and the richness of life. Though the surface roiled above, giving the image akin to a stormy day on the surface, there was a refreshing current in the water that filled the seafloor with hope. The storm was utterly massive, large enough to blanket an entire archipelago in its dark embrace, but it brought the gift of devotion as the ultimate symbol of a mother’s loss and love.

With that the storm began to move, slowly and inexorably, eastward to the coast of Kubrajzar. Though the storm certainly seemed ferocious in nature, wherever land and life was the eye of the storm followed. Gentle rains and soft winds, spears of golden or silvery light thrusting through the clouds, would herald a mother’s love and pain to the world. For as any good mother, though they felt hurt and pain in their hearts for their children’s loss and suffering, they would never let it harm those they loved. And Mawar, for her part, understood the pains of a mother with distinct clarity. To the Akua it would be named Makuakane Makuahine; the Mother’s Heart.

---

---

Rahma wiped the sweat from her feathered brow with a sticky, grimy ball of woven material that was at this point so degraded calling it a rag would be overly kind. She looked up at the sun, using the loosely held rag to help shield her eyes a little from its blazing light, and sighed to herself as she urged her camel onwards. It had been three days since they had left to transport goods to Tekhen, abandoning their own encampment, and the heat had been particularly unbearable, even for her tribe--while they, being alminaki-human amalgams, did not need quite so much water, the incredible heat had dried out the well they usually used around this time of year and they had been forced to dip into their reserves of water far earlier than normal. It was almost as if the sun had been kindled into a funeral pyre by some strange event, and the arid dryness of the badlands had been amplified far beyond the point of survivability. Her camel lurched another step forward and Rahma was shunted forward with it, dropping the sorry excuse for a rag and watching as it got trodden into the clay-red soil. She snorted under her breath before unfurrowing her brow and realising that it was probably for the best that it could not suffer anymore--it wasn't like it had been actually bringing her any relief or comfort for the past two days.

She gave her camel a fond stroke before using her now free hand to pat down the goods she was managing to carry with her, making sure that it was all still securely hitched. A few ingots of copper, an awl, an axe--as well as their living and camping essentials-- and a hempen sack that bore a pot containing lebahr khan, some tehr, and some yak jerky that had just about been ready when they'd decided to leave. Truth be told, there was little else of value or note on her camel, as her brother Serrah had taken the brunt of the load they shared. But the conditions were so uncomfortable that even this relatively light load was cumbersome to bear.

“Do you think we'll all make it, Serrah? Zahna's running out of water, and if we give her any of ours there's a chance we won't make it either. We've still got at least six more moons to go before we get to Tekhen if we keep a decent pace, and she's falling further and further behind every hour.”

She made a concerted effort to look concerned as she spoke, despite the overwhelming weariness that came with baking under the hottest sun she'd ever felt. It wasn't even that she was thirsty or hungry - she was just exhausted, and if she felt this way at a healthy twenty-two, Zahna's sixty-something years were enough to be a reasonable cause for worry. Still, she thought, she's never been one to give up. Even at night when she thrashes and writhes in her sleep like she's being attacked she always wakes up in the morning.

And for all her old age and the desperation of the situation, Zahna seemed at complete peace with it all. “Whisht, girl,” the little old woman would often say when Rahma commented on her carefree nature, “is there escaping death?” And while there was no escaping death, that was not exactly the kind of thing - to Rahma’s mind - that afforded a person peace of mind. “Oh I know what you’re thinking, so young and full of life is lovely Rahma. But when you hear what I’ve heard, my dearest, and when you see what I’ve seen, I don’t think you would blame me at all.” But that was days ago now, and old Zahna was at the back of the caravan, and the hukkam had told a couple of the young men to tie her camel to one of theirs and keep an eye on the elder.

Zahna, it was said, was born over the mountains in a land where springs burst from every hill, and where there were more lakes and rivers than stars in the night sky. Trees lined the earth in all directions and all manner of fruits and animals filled the land; and the people there, who lived in the great city of Qabar-Kirkanshir, wanted for nothing at all. Neither Rahma nor her brother had ever ventured out with the caravans that crossed the treacherous mountains to that far off paradise. “Why would you ever leave such a place, idda-ti?” Serrah had asked her once, “it seems like a land of dreams”. The old woman had smiled and, bringing the then tiny Serrah to her lap, spoke softly to him and his sister.

“We all have a path, my children, that we must see through. We must live it out, even if it carries us over mountains and into a land of endless sun. There is a song we follow, a dream just out of sight, a little bit of truth we must uncover for ourselves, and that will make us whole. My song and dream carried me away from home and memory - to you my dears. And I would never have it any other way.” But that was many years ago now, and Serrah shook the memory off.

“Hah!” came the as-jubilant-as-could-be-expected cry from Serrah, reaching over to nudge his sister but falling just short. “I told you she’d be alright. It’s us I’m worried for, what’ll we do without her?” he continued, smile filled with as much mirth as he could muster in the heat.

“... yeah. You’re probably right.”

Rahma leant into the jab, and for a second it looked like she would lash out with a riposte of her own, but the look in her eyes made it clear she just didn’t have the energy to deal with her brother’s boundless energy.
As if making a conscious decision to make an unconscious decision, the strapping young man reached into a hempen sack at his side with one hand and steadied the reins of his camel with the other, bidding the poor thing slow down. It seemed as grateful for the reprieve as a camel could convey, and it only took a moment or two for him to slip back to Zahna’s position in the ranks. He pulled out a canteen from the sack, took a final swig, and passed it to the older woman.

“We’ll find more, make sure you drink up. Rahma could serve to lay off the khan anyway!” he chortled, letting himself fall just a little further behind until he was right next to the woman. He motioned with his head to Arash, letting him know he’d take over watching Zahna, and the older man gave him the slightest of nods and a sharp exhalation of breath for his trouble - a very expressive gesture of thanks, by his taciturn standards.

Rahma looked back at her brother tiredly. She had barely slept a wink last night, tossing and turning in the dirt, unable to clear from her dreams the image of a still pond darkening with ink and flowing onto a page. It was a little unusual - she’d normally have talked to Zahna about a dream like that, or mentioned it to Serrah and he’d have blabbed to her with his sing-song “Idda-tiiiii…” like he always did, but something had been different about it. A thought came to her, unbidden, as she looked over at the mountains in the distance and something escaped her lips as if possessed of a life of its own.
“O, its walls are the size of starlight;
and its bounds as dark as snow.”

It was a little ditty, something in the young girl’s heat-addled mind that had given in to a subconscious desire to escape and be free. For a second, she thought she heard the mountains singing back to her in a voice like gravel rolling down the blood-red cliffs, but she shook her head and it was gone. A heat mirage, an illusion, surely. Still, in her uncertainty, she turned back to the elderly woman with a hint of worry in her eyes and waited. She’d say something if something had happened - she always did. But old Zahna only smiled knowingly, and her eyes also wandered to the far mountains.

“Did I ever tell you the story of Red-clay, daughter of the Great Old Mount?” The elder asked, turning to Serrah with her wrinkly old eyes.
“Red-clay? The one who sings on the mountain-top?”
“The very one,” said the elder.
“Yeah, I remember. Something about… uh, her hair. I remember what you said about her hair because it was made of red feathers that covered every horizon.” Serrah responded, his brows furrowing as he tried to remember.
“When Red-clay was a little girl,” the elder spoke, “her father, the Great Old Mount, would sit her and her sisters down inside the mountain and tell them many tales by the fire. They never ventured from the mount, never even peeked outside, and all of them were safe and warm deep in their father’s home. But one day, when the wind was mighty, Old Mount turned to his youngest daughter and said, ‘oh, Red-clay, my daughter Red-clay; climb up to the chimney and tell the Aerian Wind to gentle blow, for I fear he will tip the mountain over. But whatever you do, my daughter, do not stick your head out at the top.’
“And so she climbed, beautiful Red-clay, and she spoke as her father bid her to the Aerian Wind. But then she remembered what her father had once said to her as she lay wrapped up warm and safe in a blanket by the fire - ‘If you go up and look over from the top of the mountain, you can see the ocean in all its vastness and wonder.’ Well, Red-clay was curious and only so small; and she raised her head - ever so slightly, mind you - to see.
“But she saw nothing but the ruffling of her long red feathery hair as it whipped all about her and disappeared even beyond the four horizons. And the Aerian Wind caught her, and carried her oh so far away to a land of endless sand and rock. And she dragged her hair in clay till the grizzly found her and took her with him home. And there in the home of the grizzly bear, with his wife and all his children, the little red-feathered girl grew. Then in time she was no longer a little girl, but a woman full-formed and beautiful.
“And she married and was happy, and her naked little children danced and played about her feet - funny little things, neither bear nor god. And they brought much joy to their mother, and they brought much joy to their many fathers. And she dwelled in a small lodge near her father’s mount, and was in all ways content.
“And when the old grizzly knew that death was soon coming to accompany him on the next journey, and he feared ascending to see Red-clay’s father once his life was ended, he called upon all the grizzlies and sent one of her children up to call Great Old Mount down, that his daughter may be returned at last. And Great Old Mount came rushing down as a mighty whirlwind to the lodge where his daughter lived expecting his little girl. But when he saw the full-grown woman and mother, well then a great anger took him, and he struck the old grizzly down and cursed grizzlies everywhere to forevermore walk on four feet, their head cast low; and he cursed them again, to be gone from his sight, which is why you never see grizzlies this side of the mountains or that side anymore, but only far far away in the north.
“And he scattered Red-clay’s strange feather-haired children - his grandchildren! - across the earth in a great and violent storm of ink and song. And he put out the mountain fire she had basked in as a child and took her and all her siblings - every single one of the gods - back with him to the sky, from where she constantly launches her gaze earthward just as earnestly as her children look heavenward. And her father caused nature itself to oppress them, and so the only relief they have is when their mother’s voice, come down from the heavens, echoes through the great hollow mountain and spreads everywhere. If you listen carefully, it is said you can hear it to this very day.” The old woman’s tale came to a close, and Serrah sighed and sank into his place. Zahna turned and looked to Rahma, and gave her that knowing smile once more.

“You know”, said Serrah, “I think I’ve heard it before. Really. There was this windy night many moons back, and I’m almost certain I heard a song in the night.”
“Oh, you want to be careful with songs in the night now. That might be the Beast with a Face like Death.”
“Th-the beast with a face like death?” asked Serrah, eyes wide. Zahna nodded sagely.
“Yes, he lures his victims to him with his beautiful voice, and as soon as they see him,” she clapped her hands together, causing the lad to jump, “they fall down dead!”
“That’s just an old wive’s tale, can’t scare me with that stuff. And anyway, that song sounded too beautiful to be some beast. It was definitely Red-clay on the mountain.”
“Oh, if you say so,” the old woman laughed.
Rahma chortled at Serrah’s expression, turning back for a second to steady her camel, before sighing gruffly to herself and slowing her camel down too. She’d never hear the end of it from Serrah if she didn’t help watch idda-ti and left him all alone. She was secretly sure that if she did leave him alone with her, or even move just a little out of earshot, she’d start telling him stories that she’d never tell Rahma again. Serrah would get that stupid smirk on his face where the right side of his mouth would practically leap up off of his face and his right eyebrow would twitch and ruffle like a man possessed! She couldn’t have that, oh no, and even in this sleep-deprived sun-addled state she wouldn’t let him get away with this kozshur.

So she nodded to Abbaz, who had been waiting for her to relieve him of his duty and barked out a laugh. “Like brother like sister, eh?”
There was no small amount of indignation on Rahma’s face at the comment, but as the two crossed paths and he gave her a playful nudge she forgot for just a moment how hot it was and laughed. She settled down next to Zahna and turned to face her, then to the mountain, and then back.
“I… we’d not let you go without, idda-ti. If you don’t make it, who’ll sing to us at night and tell us stories? Who’ll keep our souls alive?” She didn’t mean to sound morose, but something about the song had gotten her worried. She couldn’t explain why, but something just sounded… miserable. Depressed. Something about the tribe, about the journey, about them abandoning their home - it was like she could feel a longing hanging over them like a pall, a dull ache that only came from realising you’d abandoned a place you’d lived for years and years and would never hear the song of again.

“The Beast with a Face like Death doesn’t have anything on you, Zahna. Nothing is more beautiful than when you used to sing lullabies to us.” Serrah nodded wistfully, his eyes losing focus for just a moment. If he concentrated, he could almost - almost - hear that song on the wind, with a voice like thunder and a passion like ten thousand thousand fires. It made him think of the smell of smoke after a fire, and the cold light of the moon.

The old woman sighed and smiled pensively at their words. “Places have memory, and the stones and the earth sing those memories to all who hear. Perhaps a stone somewhere far behind us still sings a lullaby you once heard, my dear Serrah, just as beautifully as you remember it. The poles of a tent, long turned to soot, may sing of the hands that held them once, and that slept in safety and peace beneath them. The bones of the dead, their very dust, sing too; epic tales of people who once coated them in flesh, and humble ditties of love and little sadnesses and secret tears, and of simple joys - for it is often the case that the simplest things cause the greatest of joys.” She paused for a few seconds, as though trying to remember something. “The poet sings:



So what does it matter if you depart a place when all you love depart with you?” She spoke to Serrah, but she said it in that manner she had when it was intended for another’s ears, and Rahma had no doubt that those ears were her own. As though knowing this, Rahma seemed to perk up, the feathers atop her brow practically quivering with the excitement. She didn’t want to hope beyond hope, but - if there was some way that they could remember the little details of their home, some vesicle of dreams and songs and poetry… it would have gone a long way towards setting her mind at ease. She recounted fondly that once idda-ti had told them all that the only true death was to be forgotten, and as long as things were remembered they could live on forever and ever. If there was some song or verse that could help her keep remembering - and help everyone else remember too… Well, that would have been very special indeed.

Atop his camel, Serrah’s eyes looked out toward the distant horizon, but it was clear that he was still enraptured by the song and the sentiment it carried. It sat within his skull and nested there, a little halo of light glittering just beyond perception resonating with the luminance of the sun. “... is the song louder at night? Sometimes, just before I fall asleep, there’s something there--a dream, a song, a prayer… I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like knowing that something else is there, something just out of sight. It isn’t every night, but sometimes the wind whispers things to me and it’s all I can do not to get up and dance!” The old woman smiled knowingly at him, as she always did when she approved or agreed, but said nothing.

“Can anyone hear it? Can anyone… sing it, like you do?” Rahma half-mouthed, half-whispered. It was almost enough for her to forget about that infernal sun. It was almost enough for her to not feel quite so bad about leaving the stones and the sticks and the love behind. If she carried a part of it with her, like Zahna did, maybe they could make Tekhen feel like home in no time. Maybe even loss could become something beautiful, if only they remembered.

“Oh no doubt,” said the old woman, “we’re made to sing as we’re made to walk and ride, and as birds are made to fly and eels to swim. And I have found all things in the song, and I have found the song to be all things. But if it’s memory you are after my fearful young Rahma…” the old woman paused and frowned, bringing her knuckles to her lips, “I know of a man beyond the mountains. Taqla met him in Qabar-Kirkanshir when he went with the caravans last, and he was very impressed with him, for he claims he found a pond - or a lake, maybe - that had within it the beginning and the end. Everything that ever was and everything that ever will be. Maybe you should travel with Taqla when the caravans next make the crossing. It’s about time you saw the world out there anyway.” She glanced at Rahma, “but anyhow, we must set you up with a howdah tonight, the sunrays have had it out for you these past few days.”

Serrah shot Rahma a supportive glance from the sidelines, agreeing with Zahna with his eyes if not with his words. She shot a glare back at him, half-heartedly, before nodding with what little energy she had left. It had been a taxing few days, and from the looks of things it wasn’t anywhere close to being over. She thought about offering a prayer to Ura ʿAliaa, but the teachings of the kayhins had not really ever been something she’d concerned herself with - oh, she listened when they came wandering by and talked about all the gods could do - but they were fanciful and, worse, some were preachy. Virtue for power was not virtue at all - virtue, Rahma knew, required a cause beyond the self and the tiny world one found oneself in.

She recalled a time when Serrah had had a terrible dream, shaking and quivering like a leaf in the wind, and he’d mumbled things under his breath. She could barely remember them now, like even her memory of that moment was but a dream, but he’d said things he couldn’t have known. He’d spoken of worlds beyond theirs, across vast… oceans, she vaguely remembered him saying (whatever those were), and names had rolled off his tongue like an unfurling sheet of tehr. Toraan; Mydia; Khesyr - they could’ve just been nonsense, but something within her knew they were as real as the land they walked.

She’d listened a little harder than usual when the kayhins had spoken of Miġra Zaʿl, though - and, if she thought about it, she could connect a lot of what she remembered to the way that Zahna acted. She was utterly mad, no way around it - completely sun-addled, some had said, and as Rahma looked up at Ura ʿAliaa’s great, fiery orb in the sky she half-wondered if the same fate lay in store for her. The old woman spoke of a great song beneath the world, lying within the rocks and the dirt and the homes, and that sounded like something that god of ink and song and poetry would have had a hand in. If she asked - she turned to Zahna, and the elderly woman gave her a knowing wink - she knew there’d be a verse about just that.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully for the Mirtaah tribe. They found a little nook, up against the base of the mountains, that would shield them on one side from wild animals and winds - they set up camp fairly quickly, with Serrah bounding off to help the hukkam set up his tent and do the rounds to make sure that nobody else had any troubles. With the threat of the sun having abated for a time, Rahma had perked up a little and helped set Zahna’s tent up, listening to her recount stories and songs and poems the whole time. It made her feel like the task was over practically as it began, and soon the waxing moon of Qibbar Husnu shone brightly above.

Serrah had returned to a freshly made taffeem and settled in as comfortably as he was able, falling asleep practically the second his head rested upon the ground. It had always been a talent of his - sleep came naturally to him in practically any circumstance, and he was almost always loath to break from the visions he had in the night. Some people howled and shook and screamed in their sleep, but it was very rare that Serrah ever had any issues.

Zahna, however, did not sleep when all others drifted away from the night and darkness to the safety of dreams and reprieve. Serrah had spoken true when he spoke of the song and dance of the night, and so, when near all mankind was asleep, her eyes remained open and she rose to walk among the sleeping dead. About her a gentle breeze formed and played around her head and behind her ears, and the red clays of the night-clad earth exhaled and welcomed her awaited night-song.



And as the elder sang, the radiance of the great white moon seemed to flow about her in a whirling stream. It spun and twisted, and gathered itself up into a great ball and landed there in the old woman’s hand: a perfect orb of Qibbar Husnu’s light. Merely holding it was enough to cause her eyes to drift off to sleep, but she shook off the temptation and raised her arms high, thanking the goddess. “I give thanks to Qibbar Husnu, true light of the darkness, shamer of the dark moon. I give thanks to Ura ʿAliaa, by whose punishment we come to delight in the mercy of Qibbar Husnu. I give thanks to Miġra Zaʿl, giver of inspiration that we may well sing the praises of Qibbar Husnu. I give thanks to Buʿr Iynas the Great Old Mount, lord of the clay and father of all, by whose red earth we may learn to magnify the white glory of Qibbar Husnu. I give thanks to Zharuuʿ, by whose stars we are guided to the majesty of Qibbar Husnu. I give thanks to Kiʿranuʿjaza, who is the sea beyond the mountain, by whose spreading waters we may see on earth as we do in heaven the light of Qibbar Husnu.
I give praise to Jinasa, in whose green bosom we are saved from the sight of the dark moon. Aid us, great Jinasa, that we may ascend the heavens on the back of the great tree and crack the dark moon so nothing but the light of Qibbar Husnu is made to shine; and that the darkness may forever shed its terror. I praise you, whom the kayhins praise; on the redland and in the mountain, upon the sea-beyond-the-mount and on its shore, and as you are praised in the swamplands and in the jungle.”

And with that, the orb of moonlight in the old woman’s hand became a viscous liquid ink that she rubbed into her other hand before bringing both to either side of her face. When she removed them, two nearly perfect white handprints adorned her ancient visage. The old woman exhaled and felt a deep sense of peace overtake her. The flame that coursed through her in the night was calmed at last, and she could go and join her tribe in death-sleep; and so she did.

But even as her light dimmed and the dark overtook her, other things yet stirred. Within that pristine stillness of slumber, that little mind-death as today’s self gave way to a new tomorrow, not all was still and not all was asleep.
It had started many moons ago, as an inkling of desire cast out into the world with nary a care for its destination or its fulfillment. A simple prayer to the god within the mind and within sleep - “O, what I would not give for this journey to be over!” - whispered and released without consent or understanding. Though the great Ai’jaal did not listen, another force within its murky realm did. A thing from beyond comprehension paid careful attention to that little plea, and a spark of interest lit up deep within the bottomless crevasse of its hunger.

As the days had gone on, as the sun was pushed up into the sky by Ura ʿAliaa and replaced by Qibbar Husnu’s great silvery orb, those little wisps of desire grew and grew. In the dead of night, when the song dimmed as its singer slumbered, those little wisps collected within the blackness and the dreams of one fervently praying to Ai’jaal kindled a great spark of longing within that mass of light. Soon it shone fervently, brightly, blazing in the dream-world’s sky like a new sun - a beacon to those who hungered for such light.

When Ura ʿAliaa next brought the day and banished the night, when the sleepers struck off the shackles of the great dream, they awoke to find that one of their tribe’s number would never wake again. Their hukkam did not rise at first light as was custom. The hasharaf looked into the veil surrounding the man and it revealed itself as a tomb. Oh, their hukkam still supped upon the air, but his eyes did not open even when shaken and roused. The rocks sang of a well of ravenous hunger, and amidst the clamour of the camp that song floated its way down to Zahna’s old bones and deep within her mind. And the old woman shivered and a certain dread filled her - as, indeed, it filled all her tribe.

It was not uncommon for death to creep upon the sleeping, as it had upon their hukkam, and forget to take his soul. Even now Zahna could hear the crippled song of the soul within the man. Only yesterday he had been full of laughter, his eye gleaming with determination in the midday sun, and his song bursting forth fully-formed and beautiful, tickling the songs of all and inspiring them onward - not long friends, not long comrades, until before our sight great Tekhen shall arise. As she looked upon the yet-breathing corpse, however, and listened to the great hunger that emanated from his place, she knew that only further evil could arise from this. She had seen such things before, and knew that the first death promised many others unless a kayhin was called.

The old woman was silent when the people approached her with questions and fears, and within them all there grew a great desperation to be gone from this place and to get to Tekhen as soon as they could. Their desire for the journey to be over, for safety to be found, was never greater. But Zahna ignored the distressed song that emanated from them all and sat herself in the shade and sang in a low tone, sending her soul’s voice off into the cosmos that a wandering kayhin may hear and come to their aid. And when the people saw this, they quietened and knew that their elder was calling upon the gods, and though their distress and desire to be free of this journey was not lessened, yet did they find a degree of solace in knowing that aid was on the way.

The elder sat for many hours, and the tribesfolk grew restless - while these endless redlands taught patience, distress often caused that to flee. But in time the people began to whisper and point, and they cried out in stunned jubilation; for there above the wide horizon, a little cloud shading them from the sun, floated the undoubtable figure of an airborne kayhin. As he approached, they could see his endless feathery hair and dauntless beard that floated off behind him like many-coloured wings - for the forces that some of these kayhins called upon caused their hair to come alive and grow unlike that of normal folk. At last he descended from the skies above, wind whirling gently all about him and causing dust to fly off - which, strangely enough, never landed on him.



His body boasted tattoos of different bright colours - white and red and orange - and he was also coated in ash and chalk in addition to spatterings of ink that flowed down his face and neck and seemed to flow from his eyes in dark tears. Indeed, his closed eyelids were the darkest onyx, and his lashes seemed kohled with the blackest ink. Great rosaries were piled about his neck to rest on his naked chest and, while it was not uncommon for the wandering desert kayhins to go completely unclothed, he was wearing a sarong stained with red and orange and blue and green and yellow inks. With his eyes closed, he seemed to be asleep on his feet, though when Zahna approached him he slowly fell prostrate before her and sang in a trembling voice - “I adore and salute the eternal song in you and confirm and attest that the song is One and True; for the myriad voices that arise by dusk and dawn all point towards a god that is mighty and alone.” As he spoke, a cool, damp wind swept through the encampment and all above them clouds formed one upon another in great mountains to shield them all from the damning sunrays. Zahna bowed her head to the kayhin who continued to prostrate himself before her.

“I too adore the one great song in you that gushes from and is Qibbar Husnu. By the bright rays that bring the night alight, cast out our fears and rid our sleep of fright - that death, which stole the greatest of our own may not again come cause us tears at dawn.” The kayhin got up onto his knees, his eyes still closed, and his head turned in the direction of the dead hukkam. He rose to his feet, and even as he did the wind carried him so that he flew above the heads of the gathered tribespeople and soon hung above the body of their deceased leader with his legs tucked beneath him. For a few moments there was silence, and then the wind began to whistle and play, creating an unmistakably flute-like sound, and the kayhin began to hum and rock back and forth in the air. It was a low hum at first, but steadily became louder and louder until everyone within the encampment could hear nothing but the trilling hum, and soon it was not possible to make out the kayhin’s hum from that of the wind.

Beneath him the sleeping hukkam convulsed and shook from time to time, and then this convulsion grew more frequent and foam began to build up around his mouth, and it seemed that his body was in great pain and distress. The strange hum became more persistent, as though coaxing sand from stone- and then, it quietened completely and the kayhin began to sing words that no one understood. But the great cloud of peace that permeated across the tribe could not be denied, and the hukkam’s body ceased its convulsions and seemed to float upward, breathe deeply, and very suddenly collapse back to earth while releasing a great wispy cloud that held his visage for a few seconds before disappearing from view. And the hukkam breathed no more.
The kayhin ascended slowly into the air, rocking side to side and singing to himself, before he started spinning on the spot in the air. Having exorcised the trapped soul of the hukkam, his job was complete until nightfall.

The tribespeople meanwhile began preparing the hukkam’s body for burial, cleaning him with earth and dressing him in all his armours of bone and hide and putting his weapons and all of his personal wealth about him. His wives, from the most senior to the least, wailed and cut their hair, and then his sisters did likewise, and his mother and his brothers. Had they been nearer the mountains, they would have offered his body to the great white guardians that dwelled there so that his bones may return to that sacred earth, but being far from there the earth of this endless redland would suffice.
And so with drums beating and Zahna reciting a chant of lament, they slaughtered his favoured camel and sprinkled his body with its blood. The drum grew louder and the hukkam’s wives joined Zahna’s lament, slashing their arms with bone knives so that they bled and wept everywhere. And the hukkam was buried, with his camel and weapons and wealth, as the last rays of sunlight disappeared over the distant horizon. Zahna wandered back and forth before the bleeding women, gathering up their cut up hair as a fire was prepared atop the grave, and she threw each of the women’s hair into it where it exploded and fizzled and curled into ash. None of them would remarry until their hair was as long as it had been before.

With darkness come, the hum of the spinning kayhin grew louder once more, and all the tribesfolk made for their tafeems, wrapping up tightly for the night. The wind rustled, the kayhin hummed, and all awaited the second coming of death.
It began, as so many of these things seemed to, with a song. The song of the unformed land hidden behind dreams and desires was even more tenuous to grasp than the loudly and proudly blared song of souls - muted by some unseen veil, pressed against by the vastness of a space beyond the physical and compressed into thin ribbons that fluttered along to the pounding rhythm of the wind-song.

Just as those clouds had come forth to offer succour amidst sorrow, those ribbons of incomprehensible desire expanded outwards like a sprawl of lurid colour, slipping through the spaces between rays of pearlescent moonlight and refracting the silvery song of peace and respite into a cacophonous clashing. The unbound rhythm of what wanted to be but never could stripping bare the quintessential element of song from the souls around it, quieting and quelling their thoughts until only husks remained - this was what that new sound promised, and beckoned by the veritable feast of impatience, the sight and sound and name of the evil that had claimed their hukkam made itself known:

‘Seall orm: rinn cabhag feòil!’ It sang with the voice of the wind and the fury of the sun, and each shrieking buzz of frenzied intent seemed to solidify its presence. It began as a shimmer of unknown colour; it ended as a writhing mass of grey-gold smoke, billowing forth from some unseen tear into the land of dreams beyond this one.

‘Bidh an teine ​​anns na bolg agad a ’sàbhaladh an t-acras orm agus a’ cuir crìoch air do dheireadh.’ The smoke curled in jagged wisps, each word intensifying its colours and its solidity. Each wisp became a shard of sharpened jade; each golden tendril a cluster of coruscating crystal; each pulsating thrum of song beckoned forth and coaxed into being the resplendence of a true physical form. Two great horns of curling crystal jutted out from a snarling, gnashing visage: two eyes, each the hue of hunger - a great snout wrought from petrified and glassine bone, pocked with rivers of infinitely shifting colour. Teeth carved from the tips of green-gold mountains, and honed to jagged points as if cut from the sun-blasted tips of those great peaks. Stretching out behind it, the coils of a gem-studded serpent: dissolving into smoke and reforming within the thin sheets of moonlight and the tempestuous gusts of wind.

Illuminating it all, carried on the swirling winds that cradled and rocked each of the tafeem, an oil-slick tint like gaseous flames spreading from that ravenous maw as a spider’s web to entangle them all. Each filament connected through that iridescent ether to the members of the tribe - slipping deeply into the forms of some, and burning away before the others, unable to find purchase in their stilled and centered souls.

Above, the inkstained kayhin’s eyes at last opened, revealing themselves beneath the rays of the moon to be glistening night-ink. The black gaze fell upon the dreamhorror that could not quite sink itself into its resting prey. The kayhin breathed deep and sighed, and then his mouth opened and a thunderous sound emerged, sweeping through the world of souls and rearing up all about the horror.



The song started its undulations around the great beast, strong in its own right, but was unable to find purchase - each buffet of wind struck only smoke, or held in its grasp some fragment of that great beast that shrieked out a cacophony of its own soul’s making and so dispersed the kayhin’s tenuous grasp and rejoined its greater whole. As the song grew louder, as the great maelstrom peeked its way into each tafeem, and as each soul within let loose its inner light, those souls touched by grief and loss and hope joined in the great chorus. Each syllable, a torch; each soul touched, a mote of flame. In unity their songs burst forth to bolster the raging winds and thunderous boom, and soon a radiance of cataclysmic proportions threatened to engulf the shadowy smoke-thing that had feasted upon the hukkam’s very thoughts.

From within, a sickly-sweet song of its own making poured out, cloying verses building within those exposed souls and kindling those nascent flames until a great inferno blazed within all those souls it had touched. It spared only those closest to the kayhin and those who could walk through the veil of dreams of their own accord - it was only by the grace of Serrah’s spirit that Rahma remained untethered. It was only by Rahma’s determined resilience that old Zahna’s song was not turned against her.

As the inferno raged and built up within those less fortunate, the dream-thing’s song trickled through the oily cords of subconscious desire it had fed into their souls, travelling down the wisps of chromatic smoke like a flicker of flame across oil. It seeped into their very essences, and soon their passions burned them from within and withdrew, bolstering the sickly green-gold light within the dimming pillar of effulgence.



Its gem-studded tail of smoke wove its way around the camp, extending and contracting as it slithered between the tafeem. It wound its way around them in a great pattern, a blade cutting through the fabric of reality, until it formed the portentous symbol of the Two-as-One: the holy Triquetra, that symbol which breached the real and drew all within deeper into the embrace of the world of dreams. Within that torn fabric, the Song was different - muted, touched and twisted by the great Dream, channelling notes of desire unknown to even the most passionate in the waking world. It reared its fanged maw back and lunged towards the kayhin, laughs like peals of distant thunder tumbling from it and crashing against his form.

The kayhin frowned and brought his palms together as the laughter crashed against his form like waves against the stalwart cliff, and all about him the laughter formed into swirls of ink and the moonrays condensed into liquid form; and all of it twirled about him at speed as the monster accelerated towards him. His palms flew open and he held them out; and two swirling twin hands manifested in the airborne ink and were filled with power.



Even as the airborne hand wards attempted to keep the monster away from the kayhin, and the song and ward sought to banish the dreambeast, the inkstained practitioner of the druidic arts called upon his favour with the aspects of the great being of the universe that ruled over the night and moon and the realm of sleep. Speaking a few poetic words of praise he cast a net of calm and utter peace upon all who slept in the camp, sweeping the flame that the beast attempted to kindle and spur within them all with a great dousing wave of peace. “You will not eat here and won’t feast, be banished now and ever, beast!”

Each line of verse caused the trembling dream-beast to sizzle and sputter, as if throwing tiny droplets of oil against a great flame. Great gouts of dream-fire lashed out in response, each punctuated by a shrieking hiss of cacophonous colour that fizzled out upon reaching that most sacred symbol. At its end, a shriek greater than the sum of its predecessors rang out from the jade-encrusted crystal skull of the terrible beast, fracturing its horns. It slithered itself forwards, then, right up to the mass of ink and poetry before it, and let out another great peal of laughter that continued and continued, echoing through the symbol, before slipping straight across it so it was directly face-to-face with the kayhin.

’Tro mhulad nan aislingean bidh do ùrnaighean a tuiteam air cluasan bodhar. Gach diog bidh thu a feitheamh agus an dòchas a biathadh na lasraichean agam.’

As it spoke, each of those syllables caused a fire to gutter out, the threads of colour linking its soul to those of the tribe who had been powerless to resist its suppurative touch fading into a lurid mass of colour that threatened to engulf the entire camp. When it finished, the last word it spoke kindled new, void-black flames within the souls of the unfortunate - Basirah, the hukkam first wife; Duha, his favoured hasharaf; Inarah, Serrah and Rahma’s mother - each mind snuffed out like a fading candle crushed beneath the infinite void. As those flames extinguished, the lights within An-fhuras’ empty sockets surged into life and its mocking laughter surrounded the kayhin once more, threatening to shatter the fragments of song protecting him still.

The tattooed amalgam trembled beneath the weight of the fiend’s assault, his lower lip shivering and teeth chattering ever so slightly. Black eyes glistened and liquid ink dripped from them. But despite his stalwart stand before the powers of the waxing beast, he could feel himself weakening and the song about him diminishing in the face of the monster’s absurd assault. He opened his mouth to speak, but was horrified to find a blankness there - the verses that had danced about his tongue and gushed forth like the thousand rivers beyond the mountain were now all of them dried up and gone. His wide black eyes could only stare at the silent, verseless, songless abyss within his chest.

His body shook and a vast despair seized him then. “Oh!-” he cried, unable to bear the ugly emptiness of whatever this was, “-‘tis better I should die!” And without a moment more he called on all his favour with the great being of the universe that ruled over rock and earth and so summoned all that power to him; the earth shook beneath kayhin and beast and rose up in a great cascade to engulf them, burying them in wave after wave of red clay. And the earth consumed them both, crushing and gnawing at them until they were indistinguishable from the red earth that stretched endlessly above and endlessly below.

Or such at least was the kayhin’s fate, for the beast he fought was not a thing of flesh and bone but a thing of thoughts and dreams, and it slowly clawed its way out of the earth and rose into the night, powerful and ravenous - and now, unstoppable. It let its hunger guide it until it stood above the waiting form of Inarah, who hung in the twilight zone between mature adulthood and old age and who even now still possessed that distant beauty she was famous for in youth. She had grown and matured well; her fate had always been to sate the craving of a maddened being. And as it sunk its claws into her mind and felt the waiting feast that lay within, it relaxed and a sigh reverberated through it.

But when it bit into her mind, it was confused to find that it could not latch on, could not consume anything. Anger and confusion mixed within it, and the beast looked up in time to feel a horrific presence breathing down its neck. Slowly, it turned about and found itself looking upon two great, oddly similar beings. They were tall and wispy, but in all ways appeared to be the reflection of one another. The one that was Serrah looked to his twin, then looked to the beast.

“Hold my hand, Rahma,” the dreamwalker said, “and let’s send this thing back into the abyss.” The wisp sung, and the sleeping souls of the tribe joined it one-by-one. Each keening note of defiance against the thing’s hunger layered itself atop the song, and soon great verses of pure desire poured into the smoky vessel of endless consumption.

“We see you as you are, An-fhuras. Le gràs an Dithis-Mar-Aon, tha sinn gad chasg.”

The wisp that was Rahma extended its free hand out, cutting through the prismatic haze of colour and hunger before them in swift and decisive strokes. Each movement of her hand was a blade of reflective light, each word she spoke a binding seal - as she finished, the holy Triquetra adorned her face like a ceremonial mask, and from those sacred lines trembling golden light spilled forth like blood from a wound.

The shifting and turning corridors of the dream shuddered violently and creaked beneath the weight of the wisp that was Serrah’s tender exhortations of song, and in a moment the holy Triquetra that the dream-beast had formed with its body winked out of existence and took with it the lurid veil of unfulfilled desire that had surrounded that place. The fractures within its horns grew, the colours receding and dimming, and great flakes of silvery crystal seeped from the cracks. As its horns shattered and were replaced by the growing mantle of mirror-bright crystal, the Two-Wisps-as-One placed their palms together and brought about an inky amalgam of the symbol the kayhin had manifested before - though faint, his song still emanated from beneath the dreamscape’s ground.

Serrah collected the wisps of it with vehement exhortations and trilling verses, binding them together, and patterning his palm with that ink - Rahma stole from the writhing and howling beast a glimmer of its reflection from its now-silver horns and poured the stolen images into that hand, where they mixed with the ink. Now complete, the symbol of the Twin-Hands pulsated and thrummed with argent crests of energy, and lashed out with tendrils of ink-black energy. They wrapped themselves around the struggling beast and severed it from its connection to the physical plane.



’Aonachd mar sin! Cuir às dhomh, ma-thà, nach coimhead mi air an làimh sin tuilleadh!’

And so the Two-Wisps-as-One kissed their palms and kissed their reflections upon the forehead, and strode up to the dimming and fading beast. They placed their palms upon its head, and spoke sacred words of banishment. They placed their palms upon its horns, and sang the song of untethering. Each word borrowed from a sleeping soul, each verse the pounding of a great drum - and with that, the tribe saved those who had not yet been consumed and granted their hukkam the gift of vengeance.



When Zahna awoke with dawn, the camp was silent. Once more a heaviness weighed upon the place, though there was a certain finality to it this time. Getting up from her tafeem and leaving the tent, she found the kayhin lying on the ground in a small pool of ink. His song came gentle and low, but it was there. That could not be said for Basirah or Duha; even from here Zahna could sense the emptiness and lack of soul or song from their tents, and she bowed her head and felt a few tears flow down her ancient creased face. She wiped them away swiftly and went to prepare the bodies for burial. All things were fated towards termination, after all, except great songs and the masters of creation - who thought to escape death?

When the people awoke to find their late hukkam’s wife dead also, and his chief guard, they were seized by sadness. And the drums were beaten and the bodies cleaned, and the mourners swayed from side to side with Zahna’s lament. Duha’s wives came forth and, like the hukkam’s wives before, slashed themselves and bloodied the earth and chanted alongside Zahna until the bodies were beneath the red earth. They too cut their hair and Zahna threw the strands into the flame, ridding them of the past that the future may grow unburdened. And the people scattered and were filled with fear, for these nightly visitations by death did not seem to be at an end - the kayhin they had summoned had had proven useless!

In their hurry and their fear, none among the tribe but old Zahna gave thought to the inconspicuously missing twins. She could still hear their songs, even through the commotion and despondence hanging in the air, but they were different, somehow - something ethereal and not-quite-present was about them and their notes. As night fell once more, and the kayhin was yet to rise, the two twins emerged from their tafeem at long last and made their way towards his slumbering form.

“Still he slumbers beneath the weight of the song. Wake, friend of the Taw’amahn,” intoned one.

“Cut through the web of lies. See what truly is,” mused the other, deep in reflection.

With a shuddering, wracking gasp, the kayhin emerged from his waking dream and stared blankly at the twins before him. He breathed deeply and seemed to sigh with relief as the song of the world once again embraced him and planted trembling kisses across his being.



As he sang weakly, the kayhin was carried on an unsteady breeze and stood before the twins. He bowed deeply, “I salute the divine growing in you and bid you welcome to the cosmic song and lyrical spew,” and with that he was carried off into the air, and soon was consumed by a great cloud that disappeared off beyond the horizon.

“I see you have woken up, my children,” Zahna’s voice came, and she stepped out of her tent and approached the twins, “in more ways than one.”

“We salute and reflect upon the song that is you, by the grace of the twins and Qibbar Husnu.” The two spoke as one, and as they finished they turned to one another solemnly, nodding, and broke out into uncontrolled fits of laughter and joy. They hugged the old woman with a zeal surpassing even that of their youthful forms, and there rumbled from them a song of joy and ecstasy and love and hope. They held her tightly and then let go, holding hands all the while.

“I… Serrah, he…”

“I prayed to the Dreaming One, and invoked the name of Ai’jaal. I don’t know why I felt compelled to do so, but- I could feel his eyes upon me! A great cloud of star-speckled smoke from beyond the veil of dreams placed its eyes and its hands on me, and I knew from then I would sleep no more. I don’t know what happened to Rah--” the excitable young Serrah began, but was cut off as the name seemed unwilling to rumble from his throat.

“When you became what you are, I received a visit from a god too. A thing of glass and claws, it touched me and all I could see was light - and now I see that light everywhere, even when I wake. It fills my mind and my tongue and my heart, and I am not Rahma any more. I… I think my name is… Cagairean. Naomh Cagairean. I was chosen to seek Truth, to… to help, I suppose? It’s just as well - I never could listen to the kayhins for long.” She laughed, skittishly, as if unsure whether or not she still could. She took Serrah’s palm and kissed it, and then did the same to Zahna. “I see the song now, too. So does he- but his is the song within the world of dreams.” Zahna nodded slowly, a smile on her lips and a small sadness in her eyes.

“If these strange gods have indeed spoken to you, my children, then you must not keep them waiting. We have lost a great many whom we love, to lose you too is painful. But it will be good to know that your song yet echoes throughout the world; the body far but soul ever near.”

“I can stay until we reach Tekhen, but… from there, I don’t know where Truth will take me. Serrah will find a home amongst the kayhins, I suppose?” Serrah nodded, as his sister-turned-Saint outstretched her arms and summoned forth her newfound power. Slowly, at first, a glimmer of silver hung in the air - before rapidly increasing in intensity and crystallising into a thousand reflective petals. With a wave of her hand, Naomh Cagairean bid them form a circular mirror and they did so, reflecting her image as they did so. Serrah opened his mouth as if to sing, but the song that erupted from his tempestuous soul was beyond the physical - within the reflection of the mirror it could be seen shuddering and sighing from his very being and resting upon that mirror. Briefly, the moon could be seen within - and then the stars, the mountains, an ocean, a horn - until it showed only reality once more. “Call our names, and we’ll be here. We’d never leave you.” The one who was until recently called Rahma spoke. Serrah nodded vigorously, sweeping a hand through his mop of sandy-brown hair and offering a coy smile to Zahna, and then to his sister.

“I’ll… see what Ai’jaal wants of me tonight, in slumber. We can at least have this day together.” Zahna beheld the mirror with awe for a few moments, looking at the strange face that stared at her from within it, and then nodded to them.

“Remember, children, wherever the gods carry you and whatever you become: you have memory here, and you were and will always be scions of the Mirtaah tribe.” And with that the trio parted ways. The old woman wandered among her sleeping tribesfolk for some minutes before leaving the encampment, and her sighs and songs in praise of great Qibbar Husnu reverberated throughout the Worldsong long into the night.

• Summary [+]

  This post takes place in the badlands. The Mirtaah tribe is moving as they have run out of water, and are heading towards the city of Tekhen. It’s very hot. The twins Rahma and Serrah speak with the tribal elder, Zahna, who is an unconscious spiritsinger and inkweaver.
  In the night, an Unfulfilled (attracted to their impatience) attacks them and kills their chieftain, though his soul is still in his body and he still breathes. In the morning they call upon a druid, called kayhins. A kayhin arrives and exorcises the chieftain’s soul, allowing him to die. The tribe buries the chieftain. The kayhin then confronts the Unfulfilled when night arrives, but he is defeated and commits suicide by causing the earth to clamp above him and the Unfulfilled.
  The Unfulfilled survives and prepares to feast on the tribe members, but Serrah and Rahma have become a dreamwalker and a servant respectively, and they banish the monster. The next morning the tribe buries more people who have died. Rahma, now called Naomh Cagairean, and Serrah wake the kayhin up (his suicide having been an elaborate illusion brought about by the monster’s power) and they converse with Zahna once again. They will soon be leaving the tribe, it seems.
• Meghzaal Might [+]

  Create druidic holy order: Circle of the Turning Away.
  

  4 DP - Divine Madness IV: Members of this Circle are all somewhat crazed due to operating almost exclusively on the plain of the Worldsong. This means they are far more attuned to the Worldsong than normal, almost one with it, but it also means that it is quite difficult for normal people to communicate with them properly, and so think them to be mad. Due to their intense attunement, things like eating and drinking, as well as excretion, all occur passively, and rather than sleeping they enter into a meditative state where they are in union with the Worldsong.
  1 MP - Ascetic I: Members of this Circle are ascetic by nature and seek to overcome all desires and pleasures of the flesh. True pleasure and joy is found when the material is shed. This means they are generally more resistant to material harm and environmental extremes.
  0 MP (2 Free Titles due to Domain) - Inkstained II: Ink seems to run through the members of this Circle, and their eyes are night-black ink. Their inkweaving powers and ability to create inks that have the effect they desire is notable.

  
  1 MP - Bless the Hand of Ink & Poetry to provide protection against the Unfulfilled:
  

  Drawing the Hand of Ink & Poetry in any of the following ways will provide protection against the Unfulfilled:
  1) Simply incorporating ink derived from a Dreamsong into the Hand of Ink & Poetry.
  2) Drawing two hands, one out of ink derived from the Dreamsong and the other out of ink derived from a reflection.
  3) Incorporating the Triquetra into the hand - e.g. a hand of ink & poetry formed out of many interlocking triquetras.

  
  1 DP - Grant amalgams the ability to use ink magic.
• Firinn Might [+]

  2DP - Consecrate a Hero: Naomh Cagairean
  Thymesian Seer II: Naomh Cagairean is capable of directly reading another being's memories through the Collective Unconscious.
• Aicheil Might [+]

  2DP - Consecrate a Hero: Serrah
  Dreamsinger IV: (4/5 towards Astral Portfolio) -- Upgrade Dreamsinger II to Dreamsinger IV.
• Prestige [+]

  - Circle of the Turning Away -- 5 Prestige
  - Seekers of Truth -- 5 Prestige
  - An Caithriseach -- 5 Prestige
  - Naomh Cagairean -- 5 Prestige
  - Serrah -- 5 Prestige

Iternis looked down onto Galbar. He had thrown himself across the branches of a large tree in his personal realm, the rough bark catching at the strands in his robes as they fluttered in a wind he had made just to make the sitting a little more pleasant. Down on the planet, things were playing out as they always had. People lived and died, all the while running around looking for things that they did not have. It was quite trivial and he, as a god, was above it all. But oh how longed to be in the thick of it, all the meaninglessness, all the struggle and pursuits of pleasure.

Iternis sighed and stopped the wind, having ruined his mood. He plopped down from the tree and cast off his flowing robes. He had grown to appreciate more simple clothing as time had gone on, the robes gave him an air of mysteriousness that he no longer enjoyed to have. Down planet-side, he could hear all the mortals blabbering, calling out to him for aid or a safe travel, but almost never by name. Anyone who knew Iteris knew him as a folk hero from old legend, not as a god. The only mortal he had ever explicitly shown himself to be a god to was the witch Hofmar. Iternis smiled at that one, she was still desperately trying to ignore the job Iternis had charged her with and it was quite amusing to see her try and come up with increasingly elaborate excuses to not help the boy she swore to protect.

Speaking of the boy, he should be about old enough now. All the other gods had created their avatars in an instant, thrusting out their will into the world like it was just another part of their arm. Iternis felt like that was cruel. He longed to be able to walk around Galbar again, probably more so than the other gods, but he also knew that he couldn’t. Creating a being that was forced to follow his command just to fulfill the god’s nostalgia would be cruel. Sure, he could create a mindless puppet, but that seemed almost worse. He had decided that he would meerley give some mortal all the choices he no longer had. Iternis supposed he may try to take the boy’s memories for himself at some point, make a copy so he could live out his avatar’s life without ever going to Galbar, but that was long in the future.

Iternis kicked a clump of grass that exploded at incomprehensible speeds away from the ground and spiraled into the endless void of Iternis’s realm. He had gone and gotten nostalgic again. The god’s mind drifted to his very first creation, Toog, and his heart plummeted. He had made the loyal dog so that Iternis could not track or control him, he didn’t want a slave to be his first creation, but that meant that Iternis had no way of finding him now. Guilt racked Iternis as he remembered the way he had abandoned his companion that had loved him so much.

The God of Journeys had left because he had wanted Toog to go on without him. Their departure was inevitable and Toog had clearly wanted to live like a hero, in the world’s spotlight and Iternis knew he was holding the dog back from that. But Iternis had also forgotten that Toog had always wanted, more than anything, to be with him. Iternis punted another chunk of grass into the void and watched it until it vanished from even hsi godly vision.

He had ignored Toog’s prayers to him because he thought Toog would be better off without him. It was only when Iternis realized he was worse off without Toog that Toog had stopped calling out for him. And for two thousand years, Toog had been silent and Iternis wasn’t even able to seek him out to apologize.

Iternis shook himself out and let out a large sigh, he needed to do something, he needed to not be thinking.

Itenis whirled back to the tree he had been sitting in and, before he even stopped moving, he sliced it straight off at the trunk. The wood slammed into the ground and shed all its leaves in an instant. He needed to make something, a gift for the mortal world. Something that would see every nook and cranny of Galbar and maybe even find its way to Toog.

With a wave of his hand, Iternis shore all the bark and twigs off the trunk, turning it into a long, twenty-five foot cylinder of hardwood. He spun his finger and the lare dowel rolled, shedding wood like dust until all that was left was the frame of a thin boat. The wind danced along the sides of the boat, carving intricate images of all sorts of animals running, swimming, and flying along the rims. Iternis raised his hands upwards and fine furs and tanned animal skin sprung from the ground, wrapping themselves around the frame and stitching themselves together.

Next, Iternis snatched two young saplings from the ground and instantly they grew into mighty paddles, eight feet long. The wood was perfectly polished with smooth handles of ivory that were incapable of splintering or giving blisters. The god laid the two paddles across each of the two cockpits in the shallow boat. Iternis took a step back and looked at his masterpiece, glowing a golden brown in the light and looking so beautiful it couldn’t be anything but divine.

Now all that was left was to bless it. Iternis rested his palms on the hull of the incredible ship and began to let his godly energy leak out into it. This boat would be able to go anywhere, allow any rider to explore the entire world. It should be given to who ever needed it the most, Iternis scrunched his eyes as his mind began to drift. This boat should take it’s user to wherever, whoever, they need to see most. It should be able to deliver someone to their destination, no matter what. If only Iternis could use it, if only he could paddle his newest creation to find Toog again.

Emotion welled up in the god again, he had been unable to keep it down. He needed to find Toog again, to make up. More than anything, he needed someone to talk to. The other gods were gods, who revealed in their divinity so they wouldn't get it. He couldn’t just make some creature that would be trapped in his realm, that would be cruel. He needed, more than anything, to have a friend again. Someone who would always pursue what they wanted, so he could help them and not make the same mistake he had made with toog. Someone who was sure enough in themselves to be able to tell a god when they had made a mistake. Someone who would have almost as much love in them as Toog had.

While Iternis was moping about like an exceedingly wet blanket, he had forgotten that he was still leaking his power and divine will into the kayak. Too much of his spirit poured out for it to remain a mere artifact that held part of another's consciousness. Iternis’s musing filled the expertly crafted vehicle and soon began to manifest in ways that the god had never intended.

A single somber tear rolled down Iternis’s cheek and splashed onto the polished wood of the kayak

“Holy shit, stop with the melodrama!” A shrill yet booming voice yelled out, “I don’t need your tears all over me!”

Before Iternis could process what the voice said, the kayak shot away from under his hands, causing the god to stumble and almost fall on the ground. The boat sped away, its paddles whirling through the air on their own accord and propelling it through the air. The ship eventually banked and made a wde, but quick, turn to circle back and pass by the befuddled god once more.

“You, sad sack!” The voice shouted again as the boat whizzed by, “Is this all there is in this place? A bunch of lame trees? Where the hell is the ocean!”

“Wha-” was all Iternis could say before the voice continued.

“There isn’t even a stream here! How the hell am I supposed to go around being the best boat in the goddamn world if all there is is trees and a lame guy!”

The boat turned so that the very front was pointed directly at Iternis. Iternis just stood there, trying to work through everything that was happening in his mind.

“Ugh, you’re unbearable. I know you’re a god, but you are acting like a straight up village idiot right now,” The voice continued, exasperated. The boat turned away from the god and began flying around through the air again, “Where is the exit to this boring place. You’re so lame I won’t let you near me so I have to go find some other, cooler people, to ride me.”

“You.... are the boat,” Iternis said slowly.

”Damn straight ‘m the boat!” The kayak responded, their paddles still launching them through the air, “In fact, I’m The Boat! The name’s Kanoe. Now send me to that Galbar place you were thinking of when you made me, it seems way more interesting than this dump.”

“Why are you sentient,” Iternis frowned and crossed his arms, “That wasn’t the plan.”

“Oh, gee thanks, for saying I’m a mistake,” If Kanoe had eyes they would be rolling them, “I’m exactly what you wanted, with your mopey, self-pity induced internal dialogue. Just get over Toog or try harder to make up.”

“Wait, you know what I was thinking?”

“Uuggggghhh!” Kanoe held that out for about thirty seconds, “Only when you were making me! Was I really that much of a mistake? Forget you, I’m ditching this shitshow!”

“No, you’re not leaving!” Iternis exclaimed angrily, “You need to stay so we can work this whole debacle ou-”

Kanoe the Kayak ignored their creator’s indignant shouting and zoomed off, using a bit of the excess power Iternis had left on them to shatter a break in the realm and squirt themselves out into Galbar. In an instant, Kanoe was unleashed on the world and Iternis was left alone, confused and not the least bit perturbed. BUt maybe Kanoe had a point: Iternis had been being a bit of a mopey sad sack…

---

“ATTENTION FELLOW GODS! What if I told you there was a way to interact more closely with the world? All you need to do is bind a small piece of your soul to another form, and send that form to Galbar. It will be able to pass through without interference from the Lifeblood, walk the world, and perform divine actions on your behalf. You can thank Gibbou for this trick. Oh, and if you haven’t set foot outside your realm’s portal yet, please do; it’s perfectly safe! That will be all!”

Thaa was not particularly pleased.

In fact, Thaa was quite affronted that anyone would tell him what to do! Especially as he was planning on doing that anyway! Although the trick mentioned was quite a nice piece of information to have, and clearly rather than just not coming out of spite he now had much more important things to get to.

As Thaa retreated from the portal back into Aquibeophates, he did leave behind a few meager beings to guard that entrance to the realm, at the very least they might grant some pause to any interlopers as Thaa would act more properly on them, and determine their intentions.

A piece of his soul now was it? Quite the thing to try of course, although the whole thanking Gibbou he was not quite so sure of given that while some of her actions were quite good, it wasn’t entirely clear that they were intentional. Afterall he had the memories of the first trolls to mull over. While troll-kind had done a great deal of benefit to the world below, encouraging death and such, the first numbers revealed the intentions may not have been so noble.

To focus on the task at hand, Thaa had a great solution, he cut off his ‘hand’. More precisely he cut off a portion of himself to act as his soul-let piece to be sent to Galbar. He did not let this new thing form entirely on its own of course, he forced it to form properly into something that could traverse Galbar, as well as spewing most of his own knowledge about the world into the forming mind.

It is precisely this intervention that caused a bit of an inconvenient circumstance, as it happens, trying to form a barely prepared and still formulating divine creature, may not be the most stable of affairs. Almost immediately it tried to fall apart, Thaa did not permit this, roughly keeping it mostly together as it still stabilized before him. It was somewhat fragmentary at best, three pieces were quite distinct even if it could not quite fully collapse, still Thaa helped the fragment form into a stable being.

Three snake heads at the end of long necks came into being as a form of their curious fragmentation. Each met a markedly scaled body that served as their primary means of locomotion with four legs and a long tail. Soon each began to look around at the environs they found themselves. Thaa spoke.

“What are your names, little ones?”

“Kiim.”



“Good, well you know your tasks as I have imprinted them upon you and I expect great things.”

A brief pause as the three heads looked at one another, the middle head, Jaav, spoke.

“Actually, might it be possible that we could remain here for a little while longer?”

Thaa thought, he needed them to get to work so he needed to be firm but not too harsh. Make them see the necessity of the task at hand and that such pleasures could await another time, for now they needed to go to Galbar and complete several tasks. He needed them to know that they shouldn’t disobey but not to be so harsh as to distance themselves from him. Yes he could do that.

WIth the screaming of a million discordant voices,



With that Thaa grabbed them by their body that they shared and threw them through a portal to Galbar, specifically the Vescii Temple in orbit. Yes, very firm.

---

Once their heads stopped spinning, Jaav spoke,

“What a prick!”

And Kiim replied, [color=YellowGreen]“Come now, I’m sure he had his reasons even if it was a bit harsh and sudden.”[/color

“He threw us into this golden mess! I think we might have even dented the wall back there, if he’s as good as he makes himself out to be with all this shit in our heads I’d hate to meet those, ‘demon-hearted originators of evil’ he was sooo fond of ranting into my permanent memory.”

Kiim replied once more on the defensive, Guul however, was done listening and had started walking them to the central room of the Temple. The tasks wouldn’t get themselves done and Guul was quite hopeful about the possibility of sleep even as the other heads bickered. Let’s see now, deattach the central First Soul Crystal, form a remote control mechanism in its place…

“...and even if it was unnecessary to be quite so strong on the throw Thaa could not have known if there would be resistance on account of our divine nature now could he?”

“Resistance! He could have gotten us killed! What if we weren’t small enough to be ignored by the Lifeblood? Here you are making excuses when really we should…”

...take said Soul Crystal out of the Vescii Temple and create a secondary array to boost the signal from the Galbarian side and increase rates of Soul accumulation…

“...even given that, if it is the case, why should we worry about Galbar at all! If in the case that creatures born of and from the realm of death are superior and it is the case that death allows for the supreme victory in the end over any living thing, then why should it even be cause of worry what happens on Galbar? Truly I think your argument has…”

...finally a craft to descend to Galbar outside of the Vescii Temple with and to descend to the surface of a continent, what was it now…

“...it is a moral obligation to assist those in need of someth- wait a moment, Guul! What have you been doing this whole time, where have you brought us?”

“Hey is that the Temple back there!?”

“Well I got tired of listening to both of you bicker about all that so I just went and did everything, goodnight!”

With that Guul rested her head, curling her neck in of itself and settling down on top.

“Well I have to say this craft is quite gaudy, gold and all that everywhere, just seems like a shinier version of a mortal craft really.”

“Oh you would say that wouldn’t you? I bet you think the Vescii Temple is ‘gaudy’ too. Just shows that you have no taste in the finer elements of design.”

“Finer elements of design? Slapping gold on everything you mean? I say you do not have a singular grasp of anything…”

---

“You have done well, Fennelle.”

“Jumpin’ jimminy!” The vampire leapt a foot into the air, startled. Her ghoulish reflexes still not enough to keep her from spilling the bowl of sacred water all across the tile. She cursed under her breath and picked up the shattered pot pieces, stuffing them into her heavy robes and shooting a nasty look at the god. “Do you have to sneak up on me like that?”

Fe’ris shrugged, his long cloak whispering across the floor. In any other building, the stained glass panes would’ve cast mesmerizing rainbows across the dark floor, their high, elegant shapes harnessing the sun to create colorful works of art. Yet the light that came through was minimal, the glass tempered and painted with choice minerals so that the deadly sunlight might not touch within the haunted halls. Every aspect of the cathedral had been engineered with one aesthetic in mind: foreboding. And that sense of foreboding wrapped around Fennelle as she faced the god she had faced all those years ago, before the Cult had grown to spread its crypts across south Kubrazjar. ”I can sneak up if I wish. This is my holy site, after all.”

Fennelle huffed and stood at her full height, almost rivaling that of the god. The spring burbled behind them, its headwaters tamed and surrounded by holy masonry. “You’re welcome, by the way! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to convince bloodthirsty monsters to give up hunting long enough to build castles and chapels and crypts and whatnot?”

“I would imagine,” he murmured, swishing by her to pick up a few of the shards, “that it’s not very hard at all, given the nature of my blessing.” The god rolled it around in his fingers. “They are eager to create, are they not? Just like you.”

She folded her arms and huffed. “It’s not easy. We can only build at night, and the mortals that know of us are too terrified to strike up trade of any sort. Your cult is isolated and stagnant. It cannot grow any further.”

“Ah, that is all true.” With a swift slice, he tore a gash in his blackened hand, dripping the godly blood into the spring, turning the pool it bubbled from a deep maroon. He dipped the shard in, and when he pulled it out, it was not fired clay, but a sliver of silver. “Even with my spring?”

Fennelle nodded. “Even with your spring. We need people, plain and simple. All the cultists, vampire or not, are too preoccupied with protecting their hoards to go out and spread the good word.”

“What keeps you from doing so?”

“I have responsibilities! You know, the ones you gave me and Araon? I can’t just leave.” She pushed past him, dumping the broken bowl in and pulling out one slightly smaller, but far more whole.

“He has the soul of a wanderer, even in his growing years. And you, Fennelle, have a commanding presence. Speak, and you will he heard.” The bat god tugged on the tiny, fragile strip of silver, molding it with his hands into a strange cloth, with shiny threads that moved as if it had a mind of its own. “What might it take you to convince you two to abandon what you have built, provided the effort expended by yourselves sees that the cult grows further?”

“I want to take my hoard with me,” blurted Fennelle, before she could even consider what he was proposing. “I want a way to carry it all, without having to worry about weight or thievery. And I don’t want to fear the sun any longer.”

”As you wish.” He spun the cloth around in his hands, shaping a bag that shimmered and glimmered in his black fingers. The god tossed it at her feet, and the bag sat upright, its strap moving around like a judgmental pair of eyebrows. It hopped forward, mouth opening and closing like it wanted something to contain. When the vampire bent to slide it over her shoulder, an intense tingling sensation ran through her body, fierce as lightning and cold as a winter wind. When it faded, she looked up at the muted light coming in through the glass panes overhead, and found her eyes to be far less sensitive.

”I think now you will find sunlight to be not so deadly, though I would not suggest seeking it out on your own. But my boons do not come so cheaply.”

Though fascinated by her new abilities, Fennelle noticed the sharp hint to the god’s tone. “What do you mean? What must I do in return?”

“Not you. Him.” As if summoned, Araon bumbled in, a little grayer for his years but no less excitable. The human cultist gaped at Fe’ris, enchanted by the god’s elegant, yet pointy, attire.

“Oh wow! A god, and not just any god, but our god! Right here, in one of our churches! Fennelle, do you see this? Are you seeing this? Oh man, it’s really him! I’m so honored to be in your presence, Lord--”

A wave of the bat god’s hand, and Araon crumpled, tiny pouches of who-knows-what tumbling from his pockets. Fennelle gasped as his tan skin paled, his hair turning thick and gray. Color leached out of him, and to the layman’s eye, it really looked as if he was dying.

“Fe’ris! Your Holiness, stop! You’re killing him!” She pulled at her braided hair, wanting to stand in their way but terrified of what might happen if she did. The violet eyes glittered with amusement.

“Oh, am I?” He gestured to the man on the floor once more, and Araon stood up, possessing an odd youthfulness despite his apparent age. “My, I had no idea. Araon, do you feel like I’m killing you?”

“No, my Lord.” Araon knelt, his eyes the same violet as the god’s. “I feel nothing but loyalty. I shall continue to serve you, and be your living will on Galbar. And also go on adventures and stuff.”

Fe’ris nodded and turned back towards the fountain. ”Go, then. Make me proud.”

Araon leapt up and tugged on Fennelle’s hand. “Come on, you heard him! Let’s explore! Let’s go see what all there is to see on Kubrazjar!”

Fennelle sighed, but secretly, she was thrilled. Hiding in stone crypts got boring after a while.

She couldn’t wait to see the world.

Kallak/ The Avatar (of Artifex)

Kallak rode bareback across the desert on the back of a Soldier ant, which he had named Chompy, pursued by a number of rat lizard tiger things that had started hunting him in the jungle and had decided that following him out onto the heat blasted sands of the island’s interior. His cloak of the commoner flapped in the wind behind him as Kallak clung to Compy’s antenna, guiding the ant across the broken ground as best he could, but the predators must have done this before, for they were gaining ground as they dodged around soft sand traps after him

“Artifex!” Kallak yelled at the sky “Artifex a little help here!”

”Hmmm?” Came a rather distracted voice in his mind ”Ah. These mammalian pests again. Really now, just use my power to summon some insects to save yourself again.”

“I am in the desert, there are no wolfants in the desert!” Artifex yelled, before jerking Chompy’s antenna to the left to dodge a lunging beast.

“There is insect life here, you simply need to know where to look” Artifex explained calmly as his avatar failed to create dangerous creatures on the fly

“Well I don’t! So find it for me”

“Very well” artifex said before the presence of the god disappeared from his mind.

“Hey. Artifex! Father! Hey! come back! Ah beetlejuice. Keep running Chompy!” Kallak yelled before going for plan c: Spellcasting. A difficult thing to do while riding across unstable terrain, because making elaborate gestures and perfectly pronouncing the words of the incantation was difficult when you were being jerked around and clinging for dear life to a barely tamed giant insect.

It also didn't help that he had only had time to independently learn what where being described by the city’s new spellcaster’s as First Tier Spells before being sent out into the wilds by Artifex, which meant the Avatar was firing ice darts at the rat-tigers when salvation arrived on buzzing wings.

Swarmlings, the large wasps who were part of the same species as the Vespian, shot out of the heat haze of the desert, the low flying bodies having been hidden by a dusty brown camouflage found in the palace of their usual red and blacks stripes. They descended upon the beasts, claw and fang meeting stinger and scything talon. Insect and manal both fell to the dusty floor as Artifex turned Chompy into the fray now that the odds were more even, the massive pincers of the ant grabbing one of the pursuers by the head, slowly crushing the scrambalting beast till artifex drove an ice dart right through each of the monster’s eyes.

The chase that had lasted an hour ended in 30 seconds of brutal violence, the remaining predictors fleeing back across the sands as Kallak cheered his savior's prowers in battle, right up until the sarmlings turned their ever hungry eyes upon him.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked the creatures before remembering that he wasn't in Sancta Civitas, and he hadn’t somoned these creatures himself either “wowowow no not. I’m not food” he told them, spreading all four of his arms out in various directions to ward them off “and i’m not a threat either. Neither is Chompy here. Uh. Friends? I mean Friendz? Part of Hive, so no need to attack me yez?”

The agitated buzzing slowed and calmed in response to his words and power, the insects ceasing their turned to the dead hunters and fallen swarmlings, beginning to bury most of them in the sands while either eating or gathering up parts of what they did not to be taken back to the hive.

“Ok good good. Thank you all for your assistance… where did you all come from anyway? Well I mean your hive guess, but what do you normally eat” the avatar looked around, but all he saw was sand and heat as far as the eye could see. “Yeah you can't answer me I suppose, but could you take me to your big sisters? They’ll know how anything can survive out here right?”

The swarmlings did not respond to this either, but considering they were loading themselves up with meat to carry back to the hive, Kallak knew all he would need to do was follow them.

Unbeknownst to all but the lifeblood, long ago mortal life had spawned, lived briefly and then died here, cursing the gods as they all went to their graves. Then, ages later, new life had fallen from the skies. Vespian. The aliens had adapted to the environment in their cocoons and then excited to meet a dry and seemingly inhospitable land. Now that he wasn't fleeing for his life Kallak could even see their landing site, the rear end of a large ship made from strange paper and metals from beyond this world poking out of the sands that had swept into the crater it had made on impact.

It didn’t take long for him to meet some of the descendants of the stellar refugees who had ridden the ship down, as they came buzzing towards him and the swarmling hord he was following. They were clad in white cloths made from the tough paper their kinds could produce, their faces covered by hoods that covered everything including their antena and eyes, though the latter could be seen through a meshed section that Kallak guessed kept sand out while still letting them see. Each one carried an obsidian spear with two long secondary spikes sticking out at an angle either side of the central blade.

The band of Vespian slowed as they saw Kallak, who waved up to them from where he was riding just below the Swarmling hoard.

“Hello there! Artifex bless your hive to be ever sturdy” he called out, invoking the name of their sahed creator in a hope that they would not be as aggressive as their feral kin. In a show of peace he dismounted Chompy, pet the giant ant and then walked closer with his arms spread. “From which hive do you ladies hail?”

A flurry of discussion erupted among the Vespain woman as they hovered before him. Then one flew down and landed before him, planting the point of her trident in the sand, using it to support her weight as she ceased flapping her wings, standing without their support. It was something Kallek knew as practically unprecedented among the city dwellers, who would only use walking staves if their wings no longer functioned.

“You. Stranger. How have you stopped our little sisterz from attacking you? And why did they fly all the way out here in the first place?” she barked as the others landed around her, planting their own tridents in the ground, the secondary prongs stopping the polls from simply sinking through the soft sand.

“Oh that. I, uh, commanded them to,” Kallak explained “hope you dont mind”

“You commanded our little sisters!” the first yelled, clearly minding

“You can command the swarmlings? How” asked another at exactly the same time. Younger, this one, and when Kallak looked at her he saw the tell tail rainbow flecks of a Servent in her massive compound eyes.

“With magic of course. I’m but a humble mage from Sancta Civtias, sent on a pilgrimage by Artifex to your, ah, lovely home seeking various types of Bee that I learned of through a vision”, he half lied.

“Beez? Mana? Magez? What is this nonsense” the leader of the woman demanded

“Oh, well mana is what mages use to cast spells. Here watch” he replied, before casting the simple light spell most mages learned to ease them into things. The simple orb of colored light appeared in his hand and drifted upwards and hung there for the rest of their conversation, marveling the Vespian.

“Amazing” said the Servant Vespain, her rainbow flecked eyes drinking in the spell like she was a woman dying of thirst. “And you can use this to controle Swarmlings?”

“Uh yeah, sure. Any insects in fact. Like Chompy here. It’s pretty specialized though, not a lot of mages do it” The avatar lied out of his thorax.

“I don’t like it” the leader muttered

“Please please please sister. It would be so useful to learn how to do thiz, we could have actual guestz. People could come here to trade instead of us going allll the way out there if they don't attack people. Oh we should have him as a guest!” the Servant begged, her enthusiasm gripping several of the others who echoed her desires.

“Gzzz, fine. Fine.”

“Yez!” the Servent took off in her excitement before waving at Kallak to come after them “Come on come one”

Kallak’s cartilage shifted to a happy yellow as he clicked his mandibles. He hadn’t even had to ask and he was getting a place to set up for the night. He mounted up as the other vespain took off. Some headeded the way he’d come, following an invisible pheromone trail to the buried battlefield while the rest followed him and the Servant, who’s name Kallak found out was Silandrazz, back towards their hive. As they talked he found out that she had no idea she was one of the Servants, which seems to be a ubiquitous state of being on the island. Sancta Civitas had had to seek out the city's two Servants on their own inorder to induct them into the mage training course at the library.

After a bit of travel they stumbled across the Vespians home. Literally. Kallak had to throw his weight back to stop Chompy from falling down into the hidden canyon the Vespain hive was built in. it was a bastion of life in the sun baked desert, a veritable paradise compared to the harsh world beyond. At the bottom ran fish filled seawater, constantly spilling in from the distant ocean through canyon, cravases and caves. As it evaporated in the heat it rose upwards, fresh and clean, feeding inumerable plants that grew on the walls and ridges of the cravess’s walls, including vast trees whose roots crossed from one side of the canyon to the other. Long vines dangled down from these, drinking in the seawater below. Fish swam in the seawater below, hunted by trident wielding Vespian, and rodents scurried about the plants, hiding from the swarmlings buzzing too and fro. The hive itself was a dome of paper built into the side of the valley. A large flat sheet of paper fanning out across the seawater, connected by vine ropes to the other side, that Kallak larter learned was used to catch evaporating water and bring it down into special collecting chambers in the hive.

Kallak marveled at this as hidden civilisation tucked away in the seemingly inhospitable desert as Chompy carefully crawled across a root bridge and then towards the hive. He entered, noting that here too the Vespian walked with their staves (butt down instead of points down on the more solid ground) and after a minor incident where one of the hive’s hulking guards nearly dissolved him in a spray of acid, was treated as a guest of honor. Their first guest ever in fact.

The disguised avatar ate well, and told them about his travels to the frozen peaks of one of the island’s extinct volcanoes, to the depths of the cave system below it and to the waters of the lake that lay at its base and which fed the river that ended at Sancta Civitas.

“Air, earth and water elemental bees” he explained, “and I’m here in this roasting land to find the final kind, the elusive fire mana bee”

That wasn't all he told them about of course, they were all eager to hear his tales of the land beyond their desert home, and of the self proclaimed shining jew of their island, Sancta Civitas. They had yet to hear the stories about the Embissarie’s arial and their great magical library. Silandrazz was the most eager of all, hanging onto his every word and asking the most questions during the evening until eventually the sun set and the moon and stars came out to watch over the cold desert night

When the hive was asleep, its varis casts snuggled together for warmth around their massive queen, Kallak snuck out. He had a final job to do, and then he’d be done with this quest and could go home. Not that he hadn't kind of enjoyed the adventure, but it would be nice to get behind the safe walls of the city again rather than having to worry about being eaten by whatever lifeblood made rat mammal the island was going to throw at him next.

The avatar snuck away from the hive, using the light of the moon to light his steps until he was far enough away. Then he cast the same light spell he had demonstrated to the Vespian earlier, bathing the area around him in a pale blue before attaching it to a small beetle he conjured from nothing and sending it to light up various bits of the canyon.

“Now. lets see” Kallak said to himself, as he gazed around the canyon “where could you be… ah, there, there and there! Yeah that works” he said, spotting several likely locations far away spots using his Avatar senses as the light illuminated them.

Having found plenty of spots the fire elemental bees could be he rapidly approached one, leaning into a nice looking crack in a section of steep cliff. When he looked inside however there were no Fire Elemental Bees to be found. Of course there weren't. Because they did not exist yet. But then, with a wave of the Avatar's hand, they suddenly did. A nest of red bees suddenly formed, complete with stores of honey, hundreds of red and black workers, grubbs and a queen. Almost as soon as it had come into being the bee’s set a fire inside their own hive, bozzing out to get firewood and then fuling it to keep the grubs, queen and themselves warm though the cold desert night.

“Yeah that’s not what I expected but ok. Well it worked, lets just do the rest quickly shall we.” he stepped back, turned and found himself looking at a crude looking at a mudskipper-eque creature the size of a crocodile that had been creeping up on him as he inspected the hive. Seeing the jig was now up the land fish lunged at Kallak. Kallak screamed as it came at him. Silandrazz screamed as her wings flared to life and the Vespian lunged from her hiding place. The fish monster screamed as her trident stabbed into it, thrashing wildly, causing the obsition blades to tear its flesh apart. The fish died messily, blood soaking the canyon’s banks.

“I. What. Where.” Kallak panted between gasping breaths.

“I couldn't sleep and then you snuck out all suspeicouz like so I followed you” the Vespian explained nonchalantly asking exitedly “how’d you do that?”

“Do what?”

“That thing you just did. I felt it, but it wasn't like the magic you did. It felt different. Why’d you start a fire in a” she pushed past the still stunned Kallak and looked inside to see the Fire Elemental Bees. “Ohh what are these! So cute. They have a little campfire. And they feel like how you do when you do spells.” she stepped back a bit “Yeah can still feel it. How have I never sensed this before? Who are you? Did. Did you make these? Did you make all of them? How?”

“Magic?” Kallak tired

“No. no I don’t think so. Felt different” Silandrazz said, with uncertain certainty

“I’m a druid?”

“I don’t know what that is. And why would you say you were a mage if you aren't?”

“I. uh. Well I am a mage but” he tried to explain, but Silandrazz kept going “And why would you go around making weird bees. You made all of them didn't you. The onez you talked about ‘finding’. And you said you are on a quest from Artifex… like a prophet. But even the onez in the storiez couldn't do stuff like that, they just hear him. What are you?”

She stared at him as the disguised avatar raised his hands and tried to come up with a response. She looked at him harder than anyone had ever bothered to do. Demanding understanding, the rainbow flecks in her eyes sparkling until she saw it. The same power he had used was on the cloak. Lighting fast she made a grab for it and before the avatar could stop her she pulled away his disguise. Nothing about his appearance changed. He still had the grand pair of horns and second set of arms she knew he had, but suddenly a connection she had not been allowed to make was made in her mind.

“You look like. Like in the temple. You look like Artifex? How could I never see that before! I. what. My god?” she stammered, shocked at the sight of Avatar. Normally when he was like this Kallak would stand tall and proud, his cartilage would turn jet black and he would speak with confidence and authority. But here, now, unmasked all of a sudden, he remained the slouched brick red Mantarin he had been just moments before.

“Ah. yeah. Well no.” Kalak said before sighing “I’m not Artifex”

“But you look” she began “I know I know. I’m not Artifex but I am kind of his hand crafted presence upon this world. An Avatar. The hand of god on Galbar” Kallak interrupted before sighing “you see why I wear the cloak now”

“What? No! That’s amazing! If I was something special I’d flaunt it!” Silandrazz insisted, to which Kallak laughed once “What? You mean the eye thing? Thatz nothing”

“It's not nothing. It’s how you can sense magic like you are, how you understand it just by looking at it, how you managed to see that there was a link between the creation I just did and my cloak. You’re a Servant”

“I’m nobody’z servant! And stop trying to distract me!” Silandrazz complained

“Ha, yeah that’s apparently basically what the other two said. Kinda the fault of whoever gave them such simplistic names” Kallak said, having more or less gotten over the shock of his unmasking “But yeah, you’re a rare magical prodigy. They can also talk to each other over long distances which is pretty neat”

“I. oh by prophetz. Thats. I always felt like. No, wait, you're distracting me. What is your deal”

“Look. I just don't like attention, least not all the time. But I also have a job to do, which is whatever Artifex wants doing and... Ok look, you don't really believe me but I swear to… actually instead. Hay. Artifex. Back me up on this”

“My son speaks the truth child. Also good job, got the last of the Elemental Mana Bees in place I see. Let's just spread them around a bit more though. Stable breeding population and all that” Arifex said into both of their minds

“Holy prophetz on high!” the Vespain cried as suddenly hundreds of tiny little lights lit up all across the canyon, noting the location of more Elemental Bee hives coming into being.

“Ok that’s cool. Can I go home now?”

“Wait. so you were lying about the insect thing weren’t you Kallak. It wasn't magic it was, well, this.”

“He was. My son has a tendency to do so. However I see your desired child, and your potential. Know that the power you seek does lie within mana, you will simply need to be the one to discover it. Some would say it is arrogance, to desire to change what the gods have made, as changing the nature of the swarmlings would be. They are fools to do so. You, my child, shall show them that. I dub thee, and all who walk in your footsteps, the Lords over Nature, may you take what was made by the gods and bed it to your will. Build upon our fondation child, and you shall achieve wonders unseen.” the god announced to them

“Oh and yes, Kallak, My Avatar, you may return home. You should go with him, Silandrazz, to the library. Meet your fellow Servants, learn from the library's many scriptures, and add your findings to them.”

“”I. I will, father!” the young Vespian cried out to the night

“Welp. Good luck with that.”

“Hey. No. If I’m going, you're going to take me.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because it's the right thing to do!”

“Is it though, I mean it’s a long dangerous journey” he began before the Vespian butted in “And I have your cloak and your secret” before dangling his enchanted robe in front of him

“Ah. Fair.” Kallak sighed, but inwardly he knew he’d probably enjoy the company “Let’s go back to the hive. We’ll try and explain this to your sisters in the morning”

---

In the earliest days of humanity, trolls were not the only foes the humans faced.

There was another threat. This one far to the north. They had once been humans themselves, but had been changed. Corrupted. They became monsters.

They became Iskrill.

The Iskrill ravaged their former kin who had not been changed. Moving as a ferocious tide, they tore entire villages and tribes apart. When they ran out of victims, they began to migrate southward, intent on slaughtering all that they could find. Resistance seemed impossible, and many chose to flee before this onslaught.

But a few chose to stand and fight.

One such tribe was the Skonos Tribe. Instead of fleeing the danger, their warriors advanced toward it. They took position on a hill, constructing barricades and fortifications. The Iskrill had not expected such a unified defense, and came at them in bits and pieces. For four days, ach attempt was driven back.

But eventually, the Iskrill learned. Their warbands joined together, intending to use the weight of their numbers to overwhelm the hill’s defenders. On the fifth day, their first unified attempt failed, but they inflicted such grievous casualties upon the defenders that they would surely succeed the next day.

Then Simain Flameweaver arrived.

Wielding unmatched magical might, she appeared just as the Iskrill began their advance. She bathed the disorganized horde in fire, and made the ground too muddy for them to find their footing. Once again, the Iskrill were driven back, and with their chieftain mortally wounded, the Skonos chose to make their saviour their new leader. With Simain’s magic reinforcing their defenses, they prepared for the next attack.

But this time, they did not stand alone.

Cadien himself had taken notice. The prayers of his followers as they were consumed for food or driven from their homes had not gone unnoticed. So as the fleeing tribes prayed for salvation, he answered. Rather than offer them the relief or the salvation they sought, he berated them for their cowardice. If they would not fight for their homes, if they would chose to flee while others stood and fight, then why were they worthy of his blessing? Why were they even worthy of their own lives?

And so, the master of mankind had convinced his stray and scattered children to turn back, and gave them directions on where to meet their foe.

So it was that on the seventh day, as the Iskrill were in the midst of another attack, the Skonos Tribe was finally reinforced. Hundreds of men and women arrived on the battlefield, striking the Iskrill host in the flank. The arrival of help gave the exhausted defenders new resolve. Together, the Iskrill army was pushed back, taking heavy losses and once more scattering into disarray.

But they did not stop there. The Iskrill were not just a threat. They were a blight. A stain. An insult. They had to be eradicated, until none remained. So Cadien urged his followers to carry onward, to continue running toward the danger instead of away from it. The Tribes forged an alliance, and under Simain’s leadership, they embarked on a crusade northward.

Now it was humanity that was united, and the Iskrill that were in disarray. The abominations were steadily driven back, and although the crusaders took heavy casualties, their numbers continued to swell as more and more answered the call to flock to their banner. The Iskrill were pushed all the way back to the sea, only for a host of Merelli to emerge from the ocean and attack them in the rear. After linking up, the combined wrath of the Merelli and the Humans drove the abominations eastward.

The Iskrill had been driven back, and the Eastern Highlands were saved.

The crusaders rejoiced. But Simain was no fool. She knew that as long as the Iskrill existed elsewhere, there was still a chance that they might return. So she founded a kingdom. Both the human tribes that followed her and the Merelli who aided her settled down on the land, which was named ‘Acadia.’

Acadia was meant to be an ever-vigilant shield to the rest of Highlands, by keeping the northern front secure. Both the human tribes that followed her and the Merelli who aided her were integrated into this new society.

To this end, they threw themselves wholeheartedly into the worship of Cadien, striving for perfection and efficiency of all else. They created a caste system, with the warrior, mage, and priests being at the top, while the labourers and farmers were at the bottom. Those who were born with noticeable defects or disabilities were cast out, as caring for them was seen as a waste of resources. It was strict, rigid, and perhaps even harsh, but those who disliked it were kept in line either through religious zeal or knowledge that infighting would leave them vulnerable to mankind’s ancient foes.

And indeed, those foes still remained. From the west across the river, and the east in the Aberrant, the Iskrill continue to plague Acadia to this day. For while Acadia’s numbers have grown, so have theirs, and both sides have only gotten bolder over the centuries. Some whisper that a new crusade might be in order, lest the Iskrill become too powerful once again. Others say it would be better to remain on the offensive, and continue to serve as an immovable wall.

---

“Hmm…” Cadien mused as he surveyed the latest developments of the city which bore his name. “I must say, they’ve done quite well for themselves.”

And in fact, they had. Acadia was one of the largest and most powerful of all the Highland cities. They controlled a vast amount of land, possessed a remarkable grasp on magical talent, and their warriors were some of humanity’s finest. There were certain elements of their society that Cadien found distasteful, such as their disposal of infants with defects - even one who is has been disabled can still find other ways to be useful - and their rigid caste system, which could force people into careers they weren’t best suited for. But despite these flaws, there was no denying their commitment to their cause, or their successful fulfillment of it.

And yet, from his wider view, he knew that Acadia was in more danger than its inhabitants realized. No doubt the Iskrill in the Aberrant had replenished their numbers by now. Then there were the Iskrill to the west - they had spread more slowly, but no crusade had been launched against them, so recently they had been able to lay low an entire city. If they found a way to travel across the river en masse, then Acadia would be fighting a war on two fronts.

Then to the south, there were the strange insect creatures which arrived from orbit so long ago. If they joined forces with the hated Iskrill, then Acadia could very well find itself to be surrounded and cut off. To say that the Acadians had grown complacent would be inaccurate, but they simply weren’t prepared to deal with a threat of this magnitude.

Perhaps it was time to lend them further aid…

---

As the human King and the merelli Queen of Acadia knelt for their morning prayer to the gods, they made the usual requests. For Cadien, they asked him to grant their warriors the strength to vanquish humanity’s foes. To make it so that neither their valour nor arms will falter on the field of battle. And to ensure that the next generation would not be plagued with sickness or defects.

They made the same prayers every day, as countless generations had before them. They had become routine. That was not to say they did not earnestly believe in the gods, but they knew the chance of such prayers actually being granted were slim to non-existent. Nonetheless, they kept at it, out of respect and tradition, if nothing else.

Which is why it came as a colossal surprise that, when they finished their prayer to Cadien, and were just about to move on to their prayers to Evandra, a mysterious voice spoke deep within their minds.

Granted.

---

The changes Cadien had made were subtle, but would become known in time.

There was a forge on the western end of the city, where spears and swords were crafted. Cadien had imposed a subtle enchantment on that, while the local smith prayed to him that morning. All metal crafted on that forge would be invulnerable to water damage. This would greatly aid the cause of the city’s Merelli warriors, who frequently engaged in amphibious warfare against the Iskrill across the water.

Throughout the rest of the kingdom, Cadien bestowed a series of blessings. In dire situations, their warriors and mages would be less likely to be crippled by fear. The warriors would remain in their physical prime for far longer. And both the warriors’ and the mages’ children were guaranteed to be born healthy.

It was not just the warriors Cadien aided, however, but the people who supported them too. The labourers were made stronger, while the farmers were gifted greater stamina. All of these boons were subtle, but were immensely beneficial in their own way, and would give the kingdom the edge it needed in the years to come.

---

---

The influx of a tide of information it washed up upon the shores of Aicheil's mind, shifting about the arrangement of his thoughts, like sand disturbed by water. Gazing out across the Subtle Weave, the Dreaming God pondered the many things which he had come to know and understand in recent spans of time. The Love and Sorrow of the Lovebound Goddess; the dreadful sensation of air, driven to perfect stagnance; the many-minds of Klaar, ever-learning, always reaching out for more; and the avatars of many who had been borne unto the world.

As if absently, Os-fhireach reached out a shifting strand of thought, and as it passed into the Dream it faded. Still, it remained, a thread of intention, and it wove down to Galbar and touched a place of cold and desolation. It strummed the cords of consciousness and found that for many miles there was little to be had--the glacier was all but barren, no mortal minds upon its shifting sheets of ice. This displeased him, and so he reached into its center and began to work.

Lidded eyes revealed themselves and a sliver of strength slipped out, empowering his actions. The caves of glacial ice were born the sheets of frozen liquid gathered elsewhere to be prepared. Roused now from his drifting slumber, the weight of his vast and cosmic mind rested upon Galbar. His open eyes which gazed down from afar, they beckoned and so arrived his avatar.

---

Faireachan A-staigh dripped outwards from the Dream, entering the newly wrought caves of Khesyr's frozen glacial plains. Its form coalesced, each particle of moisture arranging itself according to its will. Shifting idly it glided forth, its silhouette humanoid in form, its gaze eyeless much like its master's former form.

The Watcher gazed about, taking in the shape of this ice wrought place, coming to know it intimately. Though these things were solid, Faireachan found them rendered as ideas, each individually reflected within the many droplets of moisture that composed it. Soon it understood and so touched by Aicheil's dreaming mind, it lit up with light divine. That prismatic glow shot out in all directions and refracted from the many flawed facets of the glacier's ice so that in scarcely moments it was blinding like the sun.

Flexing then its tremendous will, the Watcher bent the light. Thus it came to illuminate a massive gathering of ice. The great crystal rose taller than a tower, its many tips--measured end-to-end--easily wider than a house. Yet as the light then struck its form it seemed to shrink until it was no larger than a mouse. Moving then, the Watcher approached the glowing artifact and took it in their hand. It carved into the crystal's reflection an utterance most magnificent and grand.

With their blessing the crystal sang and the Watcher held it aloft, before--his work done--he vanished and was off.

---

That beating heart of light and ice it hung in Aicheil's mind, a gleaming testament to his power in the world. It brought to his eyes and mind a smile of great contentment. With this done his eyes shut closed and he retreated into himself.

---

Cutting winds tore through every layer of clothing that he had as he answered the call of madness. He'd been hearing it for weeks, months perhaps, and knew he'd lost track of time and reason. The others in his village had denied hearing it even when he'd asked and begged that they tell him the truth, and though they lied...he saw that same strange longing in their eyes. So he had set out from his small settlement unable to resist any longer.

Fèin had trudged through woodlands, across rivers and streams, as he made his way to the base of the Great Glacier. Unsure how to proceed he'd dallied a score of days before preparing a makeshift sled and gathering as much food as he could manage. That done, he'd traveled until he'd found a cave shorn of ice, which he'd promptly entered.

With only remembered songs of warmth, his hides, and his strong will had he managed to keep a light to illuminate his way. It had taken him a long time to reach the top of the glacier, but when he did so, his conjured flame--and the song which had helped sustain it--were torn away by the shrieking wind. Flecks of ice and flakes of snow battered at his hood and face. He quickly wrapped his scarf more tightly and pulled down the brim of his clothes. So he had come to traverse the barren ice of the glacier and in time he came to foster regret at his foolishness.

Yet, he knew he could not turn back, for he had not known the way, and found now that he could not recall it. At the thought, he might have frowned if his face had not been frozen in a scowl already. Against his flesh the constant gale was like a thousand blades...but like it, he would not stop, knowing that his only chance was to find whatever it was that called him. At times--when he tired--he would be lucky and would find a cave or even an outcropping of stone or ice which shielded him from the horrid wind.

Today was such a day. Settling into the dip behind a jutting blade of ice, Fèin set up a small camp and set to warming himself and some food. There was little left. Quietly--his eyes closed--he breathed and then began to hum. His song had no words, but it guided his will, and it uplifted his spirit. It was something that had been passed down from generation to generation in his family. 'Spiritsinging' his grandmother had called it, though his grandfather preferred 'hogshit' instead. The thought of their bickering elicited the smallest of smiles on his thawing features and it brought further strength into his song.

It was never quite the same, he knew, but the core of it, the emotions and the cadence always held true and after perhaps a minute or so a gentle flame was coaxed out of the cold. Working swiftly he removed a small amount of what remained of his wooden sleigh, and set it upon the fire, all the while continuing his spritely hum. As the flame began to catch he took in a breath and split his focus faintly. His iron will--stronger now than it had been before he'd begun his journey--called upon the flowing currents of energy in the world and, ever so slowly, he forced a shred of that strength into his body and the flame. Another couple of minutes passed and finally, his fire was warm and hearty, and he could feel a glimmer of warmth in his weathered flesh.

Sighing contentedly he kept up his humming and set about preparing his food--mostly salted meats now--and when he'd finished he ate. Only then did his humming stop--though the fire remained as if hoping he would continue. While he scarfed down his pitiful meal, he marveled at his luck. If he had not encountered that sorcerer all those years ago he could not have made it this far. If his family had never felt him worthy to inherit the song he could not have lived for long, not up hear in the biting, killing cold. All the little skills he'd picked up in his life...they'd served him well on his journey, and he felt blessed to have them.

The meal finished, Fèin offered up a prayer to the gods, one and all. He did not know many of their names, but he praised their spirits hoping they might hear him and know that he was grateful. When he had finished he glanced up at the sky, considered the few hours which remained, and decided he might as well hunker down for the night.

---

Flashes of color. Biting cold. Dancing flames, and the image of a faceless starlit facade. A great droning echo, the piercing silent scream of knowledge impossible to hold. The cold sweat of fear, then a sudden movement and images of a place not too far off, a cavern that went down into the ice...but was lit from within. The air was heavy, he could not breathe...he was suffocating, but there was air. Confusion.

---

He awoke suddenly and all at once, bolting upwards into a sitting position. His fire still burned, but it was pitiful and small. The sun was just coming over the horizon and a whisper of its warmth touched his face, though its light pained his hazy, sleep-dazed eyes. Fèin gathered his wits, taking deep gulping breaths, before he slowed them down, the ice biting at his lungs. It took him a score of minutes to fully calm down, and in that time he gathered what remained of his fire and tools, set them in his pack, and set out on the ice on a new tact.

In every direction, there was only blue and white, ice and snow and sleet and the clearness of the sky. He wasn't quite sure how long he'd been walking, but he knew that he would be happy when he was done. Still, something greater than simple comforts pushed him forth that day, and he discovered what soon after midmorning had passed him by. Simply put, before him was a maw of frost, with strange light emanating from within. It tickled at his senses and reminded him of song--though he was yet to hear a single note. He hesitated there for a long moment, then pressed on into the cave, assured that it led to his destination.

It wound, always down, into the glacier, but its slope was slight and he never felt that he would lose his footing and slide the rest of the way. Still, he was careful and so it was not until well into the night that he reached the unknown hidden haven. The place was beautiful, Fèin knew, for it was filled with glorious light and there was a weight in the air that he'd only heard of in stories. Though the walls were frozen, it was warm here and he felt his skin relax. As he scanned the great cavern--eyes glancing over the perfect curves from floor to ceiling--he noticed just how many caves led off and up. There must have been several hundred different caves that led to this place and at the thought, he realized something else. The place was strangely stable. Here, the ice did not creak, and though it seemed slick to the touch, it never seemed to change.

However, perhaps most strange was the tiny shining crystal that hovered in the center of the cavern, as if unbound by gravity or any other law he knew. As he stared upon it he realized he was moving, his feet carrying him forwards. With each step, tension grew and so when he touched the shining gem of ice something finally gave out.

It was pain and ecstasy in equal measure, which rolled throughout his mind as if he too were ice, and by contact alone, the divine artifact had sundered him. For seconds, or maybe years, he remained in that state and--distantly--realized he'd fallen onto his back. His eyes were filled with colors and so he could not see. His mind was filled with knowing, and so he had no awareness beyond himself.

Thus, without his notice, the Watcher lifted his mortal body and whisked him across the dream. In time they reached his settlement and upon their emergence, the people were surprised and terrified. Faireachan ignored them and laid Fèin upon the ground.

Then, without words, the avatar gestured and people retrieved the man, soon coming to recognize him, despite his beard and weathered appearance. With the passage of time, Fèin's mind would return and he would know what he must do.

So it was that the Watcher departed and Aicheil's first true hero was brought into the world.

Ceres flew into the heart of the lands south of the Zodiac Stones. Plagued by endless storms, the region was unique. She had descended into a cave, unsure of it was carved by mundane or divine forces. It was deep but otherwise unremarkable. Being called underground was unusual, especially considering how remote and uninhabited the area is, but she tried not to question it.

She eventually found a dry branch of the cave raised from another path downwards, which drained the water. Following it to a dead-end, she closed her senses and allowed her to act as a divine conduit.

When she cast her sight out once again, she was standing in a cluttered room. Notes covered the walls and the newly formed wooden tables. Sirius had consecrated this room as the Augur's Legend.

Sirius had some experience with magic, having created Xuanwu to bind celestial energies to telluric energies, and having helped witches also connect themselves to it. He had noted the presence of servants, witches, warlocks, and druids, along with other mortal magicians. They all had the potential to be tools of good, and should not be quick to dismiss any of them. But they lacked subtly. Even Druidry, while aligned with virtues, appeared to lack a certain finesse.

He had taken some asteroid debris and formed into a crook. He had attempted to use it as a magic tool, but that did not satisfy his requirements. He needed to understand magic before he could truly create a system of it of his own. Thus, he created the Legend to monitor and record magic. He did not mean to be too intrusive with it, simply record the broad-strokes and particularly notable instances.

However, while his holy site operated, he could still work on separate projects. Several subjects had his attention, but his connection to the Hir made Druidry a good starting point. Reaching out through his avatar and the Hir, he blessed druids with new power, drawing specifically from his essence.

As druids of the guiding lights prayed to him, he whispered back, "Understand the zodiac, devote yourself to the virtues of one of the celestial animals under the stars in a place of druidic importance, and when you call upon a celestial animal you have formed a kinship with it will appear. It will not be impressive at first, but as you grow in piety, it shall grow too. Wish upon it, and it shall borrow your druidic power to serve you in ways that fit it. Go and share this knowledge freely."

Her whole live Auriëlle was told she would achieve greatness. Family and blood meant a lot in Acadia. Even from before she was born, the priests claimed she was destined for greatness. Her father’s bloodline could be traced back to the few mighty warriors that stood with the Flameweaver herself. Their family history is drenched in Iskrill blood. Every boy born in that family is destined to one day die and be buried with the bones and skulls of their vanquished foes. On her mother’s side the blood of Simain herself coursed through their veins.

By all portents, believes and laws of Acadia, Auriëlle should have become the most talented and powerful mage of her generation. The one of whom bards would sing songs until the end of times. She would be blessed by Cadien with unrivaled beauty and by Aurius with endless magical prowess. In secret, crusaders were already being palnned with her at the spear’s tip long before she was born. The Iskrill would burn. All of them and the vile land of the Abberant would burn with them. Her name would be known from the sun touched plains to the far east to the massive mountains in the south.

In the end, she turned out to be a huge disappointment. Auriëlle did not make fire or cast magic at a young age. The anticipation began to crumble when she showed no aptitude for her ancestor’s spells. In fact, she even lacked the fighting spirit that came with the fierce blood of both her parents. Instead she preferred to spend her time laying in the grass and look up to the sky.

Time moved on. Even though she had shown no talent for magic, she was still to be trained as a mage. For a while at least. Acadia had no patience for lackluster results though. At an embarrassingly young age Auriëlle’s training stopped and she was deemed unsuited as a mage. Her parents, ashamed, could not risk her to be seen in the public too much. They hired tutors to learn her the details of writing. It crumbled the last bits of her own confidence. At age twenty now, Auriëlle’s entire life could be found on her scribe desk. Being a scribe so young was terrible. She wasn’t copying the epic poems or the knowledge of spells. She was just adding up and archiving how many sheep were born and slaughtered each year.

At night she felt so bad that she just couldn’t go to sleep. Her dreams would confront her with her own failure, again and again. So instead she trekked up the hill, towards the sacred grove. A place where all other mages would train during the day. It wasn’t too far away from the city but she had to evade the estate where the soon-to-be mages resided before they would take their final test: to kill a wolf. She hated that estate. She hated it so much she wanted to burn it all. Because getting kicked out had made her the black sheep to her age-mates. Every girl that could fling fire like it was a stone began to laugh in her face whenever they saw her out in the market. Auriëlle tried to turn the other cheek and not let it get to her. But there was only so much laughter she could take until it began to chip away at her.

So now she was going to show all of them. Several stone rings were spread around the clearing. They were filled with hay and wood to light up. Everything else was black of the fire that burned so often in this place. From the grove on the hill you could clearly see Acadia off in the distance. It looked beautiful but every night she crawled up so high, she began to doubt if she could call it home. Sadly there was nowhere else to be for. So she put her bag down and pulled out the clay tablet detailing the immolation spell. It was a trusted, constant if not vexing friend in these trying times. For half a year she had trudged up the hill to practice it. To no avail. Yet she pushed on. It should’ve been a simple spell: just three small hand signs. Yet she just could light a flame.


Through the winds of magic, Qael’Naath had been observing Acadia for some time now. Their mages were gifted. Especially with fire, though they never limited themselves to just that. Which gained his admiration. Magic in the other cities was used, yes, but never to a scale as here. It deserved encouragement. From high up, he had observed how the aspirants trained their magic in a clearing near a creek. At night it was abandoned. Giving him the perfect opportunity to bestow his gift and slip back into the endlessly shifting colors in the skies. The Winds flew until they were over the clearing. To its magical senses, there was no-one there. The obelisk began to take shape amid the gaseous form. It was made of jet-black marble with white veins running through it. There were no other markings or runes. Slowly it descended from the heavens, until the last few meters. The fall dug it deep into the earth. Then he blessed it.

Auriëlle barely saw the obelisk coming before it fell. The shockwave billowed up dust and earth, which coated her entire dress. When it all settled she cursed and sunk to her knees. Great! Now her her dress was dirty also! She was on the edge of sobbing when a sudden sense of warmth overwhelmed her. The hollow pit in her stomach vanished. It was filled with something else, something overwhelming.

Then, the shades appeared. At first she only thought she saw them in the corners of her eyes. She turned around, but there was nothing there. She thought she heard footsteps behind her and turned again. Nothing but night. Something whispered. It moved just on the edges of what she could see. Then she turned again. There it stood. An Iskrill, or what looked like one at least. It looked like it was made of black forge smoke. It hissed at her. Auriëlle began to slowly back away as the shadowy creature approached her. Others appeared from the corner of her eyes. Some crouched down to approach here. How did they pass the guards? How did they get so close to Acadia!? Auriëlle didn’t want to know the answers, but her mind was already imagining the corpses of the guards. Blood and entrails everywhere. She would’ve puked if she wasn’t running. She hated all this violence, why couldn’t the Iskrill and humans just talk it out!?

Well she would’ve loved to ask that question to the shadowy monsters growling behind but that very growl told her that it would rather snack on her than talk. She just had to reach the estate down the hill. She could already see the lights of the hearths inside. It was close. They would save her! Then she tripped.

She fell down face first into the mud. Time felt as if it slowed down. In that split second a thousand thoughts coursed through her mind. She would die here. Away from everyone. Away from her mother, who she loved so much. Away from her grumpy father. She just wanted to say goodbye one more time. She closed her eyes, not so much to resign to her fate as to not have to watch whatever was following her. She just wanted it to be gone. She wanted those dark things to burn like they burned in the stories.

She felt nothing. Not a claw or the warmth of her blood. Did she die and go to heaven? Slowly she opened her eyes again. If it was heaven, it looked a lot more muddy than she thought it would. Auriëlle turned over and the shadowy things were gone. She got up again and looked around her, but then a shadowy figure appeared off in the distance again.

It was too much. “Just die! Burn!” She shouted with all the might in her lungs as tears coursed off her cheeks. She wasn’t sure if she shouted it at the monster before her or at herself. Probably both. At least one person’s wishes would be granted tonight. She closed her eyes again, ready to take the claws. Then she felt the sudden heat on her face. She opened her eyes to see the shadowy Iskrill trashing and screaming as fire just appeared on its body and consumed it entirely. Yet it made not a single sound. The fires raged higher and brighter for a moment, then vanished entirely. They didn’t even leave ash of the thing.

“Did I… do that?” She asked herself as she looked at her hands. They were dirty dirty but it didn’t matter. She turned towards the house again. Things began to move inside. She could see the torches coming outside.

She only felt hate. For years they bullied her, taunted her, embarrassed her. For a split second she really did want to burn down the entire estate. To take her vengeance. The second she thought it, she pushed it away. No! She didn’t want to do that but she couldn’t stay now. Not with the power she had now.

Then her gut collapsed again. Did she really want to become the next Simain? The moment her parents would notice she could make fire so easily, they would insist she resumed her training as a mage. Did she want to fight in the mud and the rain against the same horrific things as one she just killed? Suddenly everything she hated about being a scribe felt so welcoming. The indoor warmth of a hearth, not being bothered by anyone. She even got paid decently well. It wasn’t perfect but it was a good life. That was gone too now. She just couldn’t return. So instead she got up and ran away. She would ran as far as her legs would carry her, which was further than most would expect but she was, after all, still Acadian.

A white humanoid figure made of dense mist appeared just behind her but Auriëlle never saw her. The figure was that of a woman, who waved her goodbye. “Be seeing you, Auriëlle. It’s a shame you couldn’t stay. I could’ve helped you.” Then she dissolved again.

Gibbou had fun watching Twilight flop around in the water on his third day of swimming. There was something satisfying about watching that little dumby try out some repentance for once. Truth be told, though, she had no idea what to make him do once he actually reached Kubrajzar. She had brainstormed some punishments, sure, like counting the number of sand grains on the beach he’d make landfall on, or by writing “I hate Neiya” one hundred times in that same sand. Perhaps she’d make him do both.

She poured herself a drink - thinking up punishments for that two-faced scoundrel was thirsty work. Her environment didn’t help much either - there are many ways to describe the surface of her moon, and ‘humid’ isn’t one of them. She sat in a somewhat cold and stiff armchair facing the planet below, feet resting upon a frozen cushion. There, she sipped on her magical cup which kept the liquid inside it cool, yet fluid, despite the much cooler and non-fluid objects outside of it. This cup was at least in the top five of the most convenient things she’d ever made. Granted, in terms of convenience, it was unclear whether things she had made could even number more than five, or five at all. It was a sad thought, and one she tried intently to dismiss as soon as it popped into her head. As is the case with thoughts one wants to disappear, however, thinking about it only made it stronger and stronger until she plopped her face into her hands, shooting a hopeless groan through the blue straw sticking into her glass. She knew she had talked to Oraelia about her feelings of uselessness, and sure, it’d been nice - really, really nice - to have someone to just talk to about them.

However…

”Why am I such a useless goddess?!” she shouted into the void. A void response was all she received in return. She groaned again and emptied her cup. She would have to regain her honour as a goddess… She needed to stop making all these no-good, hopeless species and artifacts that were either so specific that they could never be used, or so broad that there would be no way to control them!

She conjured for herself another drink and gave it a stern sip. Something truly awesome would be her next project… It’d need to be bigger an better than anything she had made before. She took another sip. Yes, bigger, better - something to show mortality just what she’s all about - a peaceful night’s sleep! Yeah! That would surely fix up her image, and maybe even do some good for her own psyche, too! She’d just make enough helpful stuff for people to forget all about the trolls and the vampires and the sword and…

The train of thought made her finish her drink and conjure forth a new one. She eyed her cup, noticing that it has been joined by a twin just like it, oddly enough held by her second left hand. She noticed her skin feeling hotter than usual, and her face feeling oddly itchy.

Eh, it would probably pass any minute. She’d talked to Oraelia now and was a responsible goddess now! She wouldn’t repeat that one time - no way!

---

”Aaaan’... Baaazoooooom!” shouted Gibbou with a cackle. Down on Galbar, specifically in the jungles of Kubrajzar, there popped into existence a blue, snake-like dragon with a great, blue mane that waved in the air like a drunken fire. On its face, it wore a mask, on its head grew black antlers, and its hands were soft, fluffy paws. It was soon joined by more like it, with little hatchlings rolling around on the forest floor. Nearby, an Itztli huntress dropped their spear in fright and slowly backed away. One of the adult dragons caught sight of her, eyeing her hungrily. The huntress spun around and tried to run, but the dragon soared off after her, floating just above the ground like some sort of ghost. The Itztli tripped over a root in her panic and crashed into the ground. With the dragon fast approaching, she screamed for help and her life passed before her eyes - her family, friends, lovers, enemies - all of them filled her mind in her last moments before the dragon caught her.

… Except it wouldn’t be her last moments. In fact, the huntress found herself very much alive and, surprisingly enough, growing increasingly calm. There was an odd sensation around her torso, as though she was bound by some sort of thick rope. She dared open her eyes to investigate, only to stare the masked dragon in the face. She would have gasped, but her body just didn’t seem to find the whole ordeal stressful at all. The dragon titled its head to the side and the Itztli looked down to further survey her situation. The dragon was hugging her, and that in a very sweet, friendly way. It was the sort of hug that is perfect no matter the situation - it just made her feel safe and at peace. The dragon’s skin was warm and soft; it wasn’t covered in reptilian scales, but dow-like fur; it purred softly like a cat, too, which only made her drowsier. It didn’t take long for her lids to grow heavy and for her to realise just how intense today’s hunt had been. As her body grew heavier with exhaustion, the dragon gently laid itself under her and curled up around her. There, the Itztli slept soundly, all the stress and worry in her body seeping out and feeding the dragon underneath her.

When the Itztli woke again the following morning, she had been left on the forest floor, a thin nest of blue hair forming a mattress underneath her. She touched her head - that night’s sleep had been almost too good. She looked around for the beast that had, uh, attacked her the night before. However, they were all completely gone. She plucked at some of the fur and gave it a smell, comparing its scent to that of the surroundings. After searching for them for an hour or so, she shook her head in sadness.

Those would’ve been amazing to keep around after a hard day’s work.

---

”Boohee,” giggled the moon goddess with a snort. ”Issha sho kyoooooot! Oh-boo-boo-boooo!” She reached out to pat it, only to realise she was staring at a projection of the dragon.This bummed her out, so she mixed herself another drink, right before realising she could conjure forth one just like it in her realm. So she did (making certain, of course, to give it the necessary traits to survive the vacuum and temperature of space), and it immediately proceeded to pack the goddess tightly into its coiling body, its soundless purring reverberating through Gibbou’s body as opposed to the air. GIbbou was far from done, however.

”Yesh! More! More kyootsie fhungsss!” She waved her hand just as her forehead crashed into the Dormiron’s furry tail with a ‘puh’.

---

In the deep jungles of the Mydian island of Whakarongo, along the coast where the lands grew humid and warm, an odd, fluffy flower popped out of the sand. Its bloom was a grayish black, fuzzy nob connected to a thick, dark green step which also sported a circular crown of green leaves which seemed to redden at the tip. A nearby Akua couple were walking along the beach picking empty seashells. They exchanged flirty jokes and giggles at one another there in the warm, beautiful sunset.

“... Oh, Tonga, you can’t say those things!” giggled Moana. Tonga smirked back and picked up a shell which had flushed in all the way to the tree line, not too far away from the flower. His smirk became a wide smile and he waved with playful dismissiveness at her comment.

“Well, it’s true! You know _{his mother is...}” His voice faded as he was talking, and he hadn’t quite noticed it himself before he saw Moana’s eye-roll and smirk.

“Oh, so now you can’t say it?”

Say what? was what Tonga tried to say, but while his lips moved and his vocal cords vibrated, nothing came out. He grabbed his own throat and he saw Moana was starting to frown.

“Tonga, are you _alri...?” she approached, arm outstreched. Tonga pointed at her and tried to shout something, but nothing came out. Moana froze in fear - Tonga’s every movement and body signal had indicated that his words would’ve been loud enough to give a Night Elf tinnitus, but what actually came out had been completely void of sound - to the point where she doubted even a Night Elf with celestial blessings could hear it. She tried to respond, both she, too, was silent. Terrified, the two of them ran back homewards, but after running for about fifteen paces, they realised they could hear each other panting. They embraced one another in relief and stared back at the forest in horror.

“What was that?! Some kind of spell?” whimpered Moana.

“I don’t know…”

Meanwhile, the little, black flower licked its metaphorical lips. It had been fed ample amounts of sound, and was now ready to spread out across the forest!

---

What shall we do with the drunken Gibbou?
What shall we do with the drunken Gibbou?
What shall we do with the drunken Gibbou
Earlay in tha’ evenin’!”

The moon goddess whooped and grabbed a salted peanut from a pile she had conjured forth on the lunar surface next to her. She flicked it up into the air and tried to catch it with her mouth. She failed miserably and it landed in her open eye. She scream and waved around clumsily with enough intensity to wave up the Dormiron she was sleeping on. In her flurry, she cast a bolt out of her hands, which soared down to the surface of Galbar. She stopped and eyed its destination - it was in the middle of the Anchor Mountains. With a ‘prrt!’ of the lips, she snickered.

No harm done.

---

High up in the World Anchor, in the great halls of Thunder the Mountain King, sat that ancient monster whose attack on humanity had been the first, flanked on each side by his two favourite spawn: Quake and Crush, both equally skilled in manhunting, and worthy successors of the Cragking Crown. In total, he had spawned perhaps six spawn, but two had been lost to the Eye of Death, one had gone for a trip up north and never come back, and another had gone south… And never come back. Truly, there was no respect in being a father.

The whole cave quaked for a moment, and all three of them wondered for a moment if it was -that- time again. However, the quakes stopped as suddenly as they had come, and they all looked up to see that something had broken through their stone-sealed door. It was a pair of glasses, glass black as night. However, they were trapped in the middle of a deadly solar ray beaming in through their doorway. Thunder had an age-old rivalry with the sun - he was not about to lose now. He clapped his favouritest spawn, Quake, on the shoulder. The smaller dovregubbe, barely a millennium old and just having regrown his shoulder forest after it was shed off to make some spawn of his own, flashed a frown of reluctance at his father. However, all dovregubbes knew that, when it came to their hierarchy, none could defy the Mountain King - that was just a rule of nature.

With quivering legs that hadn’t moved for months, Quake rose up to his full sixteen metres, stretching out for a moment. Then, with rabbit steps, he snuck over to the glasses in the light. With deft patience honed for a millennium, he waited for the sun to be blocked out by a cloud. He waited and waited, and waited some more.

There! While the sun dipped behind a cloud, he knelt down to pick up the object. However! Just as he did, the sun peeked back out. Instinctively, he brought his hands to his eyes, putting the glasses on his nose.

Crush rocketed to his feet in shock, and Thunder, who hadn’t risen for two hundred years, felt age old eyelids that had barely moved since he last moved, part in sheer disbelief. There, his spawn Quake, stood in full sunlight, wearing a pair of black-glassed glasses. Quake’s lip quivered - he hadn’t died. He hurried back into the safety of the dark and the three trolls inspected this artifact closely, and tested it out more in the following days. Indeed, it made it almost as though whatever reality was, their bodies experienced the world as night.

The three trolls exchanged wicked smirks. Maybe it was about time to extend the reach of the Cragking Crown?

---

Gibbou squinted her blurred vision down at the mountains. ”Waaait a minuzz… Ain’t that wher…” A hiccup made her forget her train of thought. ”Dunmatta, mo’ stuffz!” The Dormiron was beginning to feel uncomfortably full - the goddess just seemed to ooze out more and more excitement. She bounced up and down in her soft seat and ‘thought’ about what to make next. She made narrow eyes at Ha-Dûna, that most amiable of villages.

”Bet bein’ mortal muzz be hard, huh, misser dargon.” The Dormiron gave her what could be approximated to be a frown. Gibbou cracked up her fingers and snapped her fingers. ”Lez dere be PEEEEEEEAAAACE!”

---

Down in Ha-Dûna, a number of peasants and druids suddenly got the strangest idea to head out into the meadow in search of a very specific weed. This weed was collected, sampled and replanted, with a small portion being sent off to dry. Plants and logs of wood were turned into pipes of various shapes and sizes, and the whole town started smelling faintly of burnt weed as its citizens breathes deep in the plant’s calming smokes. The pipeweed was immediately made into a pastime for the peasants in between shifts at the farm, as they would meet up with their neighbours to crack a joke, drink some milk and have a smoke. The druid apprentices became ample users, the curriculum of their education much too stressful to study without at least something for the nerves. The druids and archdruids eventually just joined in because everyone else was doing it. The druids brought this culture around wherever they went, as well as a little extra to barter for food and shelter whenever the local chiefs were a little harder to negotiate with. With that, Ha-Dûna enjoyed the sensation that would be known as the peace pipe.

---

”PHEW!” whooped Gibbou and flung her hands victoriously in the air as she fell back on her dragon cushion. She had done it. She had made the world a better place. She should drink like this more often - it made her such a great goddess! The fatigue of the dragon’s meal, the alcohol and the power spent began to sink in, and Gibbou nearly fell asleep. However, in the last minute, she jumped out of the dragon’s grasp and made herself another drink.

”No, no, party ain’t over yeeeet!” She threw her arms in the air and screamed. ”GO HARD OR GO HOME!”

And hard, she went.

---

Illyd Dyll walked out onto the stones of antiquity. Behind him lightning flashed and curtains of rain poured veils. He himself was sopping wet, a big goofy grin on his face and his robes sticking to him gray.

A peal of thunder rocked behind him as he made his way across the floors of antiquity. His sandals mucked and slapped as he made his silent journey, leaving a soaked trail behind him as he strolled straight into Cadien's realm.

The realm had changed since its last visit. Although the pathway and the fortress remained the same, the platform upon which everything stood was now an island rather than a cloud; in the midst of a sea rather than an empty void. As he was taking in this new sight, a voice could be heard. “Illyd Dyll? Is that you?”

Just then, Cadien’s bare-chested figure emerged from the gatehouse. Upon seeing that he had been correct, the God of Perfection leapt through the air and landed mere feet away from the God of Agriculture. “Welcome back!” he smiled. “What brings you here this day?”

"I was jus' walking forward and now I'm here!" Illyd matched the energy with his own," What's going on, good buddy?"

“The usual,” Cadien said with a wave of his hand, as he turned and began walking back toward the castle - no doubt assuming Illyd would follow. “Listening to prayers, planning my next creation. How is your avatar doing?”

"Good!... Ye get a lot of prayers do ye?" Illyd Dyll was aimlessly looking around as he followed, still dripping.

“I do indeed,” Cadien nodded. “I have helped create a number of species, which has made my name quite memorable.”

"Like what?" Illyd pulled a harp out of seemingly nowhere.

“The Humans, the Merelli, and the Goblins,” said Cadien as they walked. “I didn’t do it alone, of course. Evandra helped with the humans, and Artifex aided me in creating the Goblins. I helped Neiya create the Merelli, who are perhaps the most beautiful of the three.”

“Ah well, who are we to judge something so... what’s the word? Subjective?” Illyd Dyll strummed a small tune, occasionally whisking his wet bangs out of his eyes, “But they all sound just lovely. Good job, Cadien!”

“Hm. So, have you created anything?”

“I like to think I create fond memories with all my friends,” Illyd Dyll plucked at a particular string over and over as he thought, “Oh, and I did make a cup.”

“A cup?”

“Yeah, it’s like a bowl but smaller,” Illyd explained, “Good to drink out of.”

“I know what a cup is,” Cadien sighed, as they began to ascend the stairs. “Anyhow, what else is new?”

A sad crook formed in Illyd’s smile as he slowly shook his head, “Same old thing, the usual, the common corn, the boring barley.” He sighed and shook his head with a little more vigor, sending out droplets of rain water, “That’s not true... barley is pretty exciting.”

“Hm. I see,” Cadien said, suddenly bored as they reached the top of the stairs. “And what did you say you were the god of, again?”

Illyd bit his finger in thought, “I don’t think I ever actually did say, now that I think ‘bout it.” He shrugged, “But for what it is worth, I figure I’m the God of Agriculture. You know it?”

“I’m aware of the concept,” the God of Perfection said as they crossed the threshold of the gatehouse. “So, this is just a friendly visit, then?”

“I s’pose it is, I was jus’ out for a walk’n’all,' ' Illyd tuned his harp, “Why, were ye looking for somethin’ else? We could do somethin’ fun if ye want.”

“Well…” Cadien came to a stop in the middle of the courtyard, and he turned to face the farmer. “It’s just that, I already have another guest here.”

“The more the merrier, I bet we could rascal up somethin’ great.” Illyd gave a smile.

Almost as if summoned, a third shape slipped through the large double doors in the distance, a horned and pale goddess hovering out into the courtyard, toes only a few inches over the ground. ”Cadien, I can’t find these bells you were talking about,” she offered with a dispassionate tone, eyes sweeping a last measure over her shoulder before she spotted the two stood in the courtyard and froze in the air. ”...Oh. Hello.”

Cadien’s smile suddenly returned as the goddess made her appearance. “This is Illyd Dyll, the God of Agriculture,” he said, introducing the farm god. “Illyd, this is Neiya, Goddess of Love.” He turned to Neiya with an apologetic look. “Sorry. His arrival was as much a surprise to me as it is to you.”

Neiya’s light frown creased further as her brow quirked, an ice-blue gaze twisting to settle solely on Illyd Dyll. Slowly the pale goddess resumed her drifting across the courtyard, closing the distance between the three. She was unrelenting in her examination, eyeing the humble god with a critical and regal sneer as she drew close. Still, she managed some basic pleasantry, extending her hand languidly as if offering Illyd the rare chance to kiss it. ”...A pleasure. What is agriculture?”

"Heya!" Illyd gave Neiya a firm handshake before returning to his hands to his harp, "It's nothin' really. Nice to meet ye!" Illyd plucked a note, and smiled warmly at the two -- eyes big and brown, "You guy's wanna do somethin'?"

Neiya gave the smiling god a bewildered look, slowly flexing her hand and fingers as he retreated back to his harp. Her hand slowly rose as she watched him, fingers stretching out once more in a brief, thoughtless attempt to reach for his face. Seeming to snap out of it just as quickly, she retracted her own hand and glanced away with a sullen frown. She found Cadien to gaze at instead, and the frown evened out just slightly. ”Perhaps I shall go to visit the ocean.”

"Oo! I like that idea," Illyd Dyll's smile widened, "Salty breezes and little turtles. Let's do it; you in Cadien!?"

Cadien’s frown soon matched Neiya’s. He gave the goddess an apologetic look, then turned back to Illyd. “I think it would be best if we allowed her some privacy, for now.”

"Oh," Illyd's smile didn't seem to change too much, but shifted to face his instrument instead. A pluck or two went by and he craned his neck, "Don't s'pose... You want a lil privacy too, Cadien?"

“No, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Cadien said, shaking his head. “Come, we will talk more inside.” He turned back to Neiya. “I will rejoin you when we’re finished.”

Neiya frowned at Cadien, but still managed a nod. She glanced back to the kindly god of agriculture with no change in disposition, sizing up the visitor a last time (swearing she saw a slight wink) before looking ahead with a determined and thoughtful gaze instead. ”I will wait there. Enjoy yourselves.” she squeezed out with a disappointed tone, and then simply lifted higher off of the ground to pass over the two, and drift towards the gatehouse from whence they came.

Regret flashed across Cadien’s face for a brief moment, and then without another word he turned and carried on toward his main hall, gesturing for Illyd to follow, who did without seemingly a second thought.

---

“So,” Cadien said as they stood at the table in his main hall. A series of scratch marks were on the far end, which Cadien had elected not to comment on. “How much do you know about Galbar’s current state?”

Illyd plucked a stray string and then looked up at Cadien, "I s'pose just nicks and knacks. Everything okay?"

The God of Perfection nodded. “I am just wondering if there was something you could help me with.” He snapped his fingers, and a map of Toraan’s Highlands appeared before them. He pointed to an area in the northeastern corner. “Are you familiar with a city known as Acadia?”

Illyd nodded slowly, "No, what is it?"

“A city in this region,” Cadien explained. “Settled by Humans and some Merelli.” He then gestured to two forested regions on either side of the area - one to the east and one to the west. “These areas are inhabited by Iskrill.” He spoke the word with disgust. “Abominations. Humans that were warped against their original purpose, and began to hunt and kill indiscriminately. Little better than savage animals, now.” He sighed. “Anyhow, Acadia was built to keep them at bay. To keep their numbers down with raids, and to serve as a line of defense which prevented them from spilling into the rest of the Highlands. It is named after myself, of course, and since I had a hand in creating humans as we know them today… I’m sure you can imagine the city is quite important to me.”

"It certainly sounds very special to ye," Illyd agreed with a strum of a sudden banjo, sleeves still dripping.

“So, this city of mine is in something of a predicament,” Cadien’s hand went lower on the map, to the south side of a nearby mountain on the west side of the river. “There was another city here, dedicated to… Oraelia, I think. The iskrill destroyed it some time ago, I’m not sure exactly when. But apparently Acadia relied quite heavily on them for trade, and they’ve had to go without that for a few decades now.” Then his expression flickered into one of annoyance. “It doesn’t help that there’s a massive rainstorm ravaging all of northern Toraan right now. I suspect the involvement of another god, but I’m not sure who. Anyhow, I’m sure you can imagine this has all been terrible for the city’s food supply.”

Illyd looked up from the puddle forming by his sandals, "Yeah, I can only imagine. Whatcha thinkin'?"

“Well, the obvious course of action would be to stop this storm. Either that, or give the humans of the Highlands the means to produce food despite it. I imagine that simply stopping the storm would be easier. Afterward, Acadia’s fields could be salvaged and their yields improved. Enough to not only help them recover, but make it so they no longer depend on trade. Since you are the god of agriculture, I was thinking you could be of some help with that.”

“Oh yeah for sure!” Illyd smiled, “Changing the weather is real easy too, I do it all the time--” He grimaced slightly, “Though I can’t exactly change it right now.”

Cadien frowned. “Why not?”

Illyd’s smile faltered before failing completely, “Oh you know...” His voice dropped to a whisper, “There is a really unpleasant lady taking up residence in my abode.”

Cadien furrowed his brow. “Your abode? You mean your realm?”

“That’s the one!”

“But… it’s your realm…” he narrowed his eyes further. “Which goddess is it?”

Illyd’s face turned a shade of pink and he stuffed it down with a small grin, “Ye know, I’m even better at making food than changing the weather. Maybe I could talk to your city, see what they need help with? And after, I can skip on over and do a little weather changing.”

Cadien’s expression did not change, however. “Forgive me, but your crisis is more urgent. If there is a goddess who has the power to eject others from their own realms, that cannot be allowed to stand, for it means none of us are safe. So please, tell me more about your problem.”

“Ah psh,” Illyd waved a hand, “I can go back I left on my own accord, ye see. I just didn’t have the wherewithal at the moment to... er what’s the word?” Illyd pondered a moment, “I know there is a word for it. Ye know the one... mediate? Is that it?”

“Mediate?” Cadien seemed confused. “You mentioned only one person. If this dispute was solely between she and you, then wouldn’t a third party be required to mediate?”

“Argh yer right,” Illyd tapped his chin, “Ye got a thesaurus in here, somewhere?”

“I don’t know what that is,” Cadien admitted. “Some form of lizard?”

“Kinda, but more like a collection of synonyms.” Illyd explained.

“Hmm. I’m not sure I understand. But we have digressed. If this lady is no true threat to you or anyone else, then she is unworthy of further conversation. So, you are willing to improve Acadia’s food production and then put a stop to this storm as soon as you are able?”

“Yeah,” Illyd Dyll agreed, “I’ll go shut down the storm right after this -- but uh -- but what or how did ye want to do the whole food thing?”

“Hmm. To be truthful, I assumed you might have an idea. Surely you must know more about such matters than I.” He stroked his chin. “Then again, I do know the area better. Hmm. Mayhaps-”

“Ye know what,” Illyd Dyll suddenly spoke up, “I could just go down and scope it out myself - er well other me could head on down I mean.”

“That would work too,” Cadien nodded. “How long do you suppose it will take?”

“The getting there or the fixing?” Illyd Dyll knitted his brow.

The Lord of Perfection shrugged. “Both.”

“Not very long, I’ll just hitch a ride on a cloud and stop by,” Illyd smiled, “N’ from there it’s just zip zap zoop, enough veggies for a soup.”

“Very good,” Cadien said, breaking out into a smile as he clapped Illyd on the shoulder. “I appreciate the help. Now uh… not to be ungrateful, but I did tell Neiya I would rejoin her, and it simply wouldn’t be fair to keep her waiting. I know it’s poor form to ask a guest to leave so soon after he offered to aid me, but… well, you’d be welcome to come back another time. Mayhaps I can even help you with this uh… lady-problem, of yours.”

“That would be nice, I don’t get a lot of visitors,” Illyd Dyll’s smile seemed to shimmer, “But yeah, I’ll be heading out now.” He raised his banjo in salute, “Toodle-doo, good buddy!”

---

When the onslaught of trolls came crashing down upon humanity, there were those who looked for guidance from the gods. Prayers unheard, lost to the echoes of time, forgotten and uncared for. Even as Oraelia slept, the people prayed to her for help, for compassion from the monsters in the night. They fell upon deaf ears, but such prayers were easily answered. There came a man, whose name was forgotten, remembered, changed, forgotten again. Yet his message remained. He who wielded the Oaken Branch, who could heal grevious wounds of the flesh- He who spoke for Oraelia when she had no voice.

He told the people of the land, “Does not the Sun Mother answer our prayers with the rising of the sun? Are we blinded in her light? Left fumbling like we do in the dark? No! This is her gift to us! That we might grow in the light of her sun! That we might be healed by her warmth! She gave this staff to my grandfather as a token of her affection, so that we can live! So that we may thrive! She may be silent to us, but her Sunlight never will!”

It took years for his message to take root within their hearts, and long after his flesh was bones did it finally bore fruit. The message of his sermon brought about a beautiful city. Born in the Highlands, built pebble by pebble, stone by stone, all under the light of Oraelia’s sun. For it was her light that banished the Trolls in the day, her light that turned them to stone, her light that allowed life to flourish. They faced many threats, from trolls to the abominations, but never faltered in the face of uncertainty. How could they? The sun always rose.

Until it didn’t.

---

It was any other day.

The festival of the Bright One was in full swing. From sunrise to sunrise, the city of Solaria was bustling with merriment in the celebration of life. Beneath the statue of Oraelia, who stood tall over the four, was showered with gifts she could never see. Her gilded statue pointed to the sun when it rose, ushering in a new day. But now, the sun was setting in Solaria and behind her head did it sink on the horizon. Throughout the streets, the celebration continued on. Druids spoke of their travels, craftsmen bartered for goods, artisans created art as children laughed at plays. Common folk and royalty mingled with one another, sharing in drink and food, for all were equal under the sun.

Solaria had stood as a beacon of light and hope in the Highlands, far removed from the corruption and decay of Keterfa while still maintaining trading routes of goods. It was a city of wealth, for in the shadow of the mountain, they had found minerals and ores ripe for the taking. Chief among that was a silvery metal that could be added with copper to produce bronze. They called it tin. Thus, trade was established with the city to the north, Acadia.

Long had that trade route been established, for Acadia depended on Solaria for much, and in return, Acadia provided weapons. It was a relationship born of necessity, but both prospered from it.

It was the watchers on the wall that noticed it first as the sun sank into the night. A nameless mass moving from the southeast, dark shapes large and numerous. A few had their suspicions, and many more just wanted their shifts to end. It was probably just a roaming pack of Quillats, or so they thought. It wasn’t until the mass made a beeline for the city that they realized their mistake.

---

_{Accompaniment II}

It was the outskirts that came under attack first, before the warning bells could even be struck and when they did, the city quieted for just one moment, before hysteria broke out. Guardsmen began to run off to their homes, for they would be needed.

Distant fires erupted amongst the fields outside the walls, as masses of people began to flee towards the gates. There was screaming and shouting, followed by the first of the attackers.

The abominations of man.

Iskrill.

Guardsmen boldly defended against the first wave of monsters, trying to save as many as they could, but then the call was shouted.

“SHUT THE GATES!”

More panic ensued, there were still more people coming!

“SHUT THEM NOW!”

The great wooden doors began to shut, people were forced back as the last few lucky ones got through. With a resounding boom, hope died for those that remained outside. Then the horde came, and they were murdered before supposed salvation.

A desperate battle began, as the Iskrill began to climb. There were thousands of them, all in various shapes and sizes of grotesque hideousness. Solaria’s guards fought valiantly against the tide, but they were caught unaware with little preparation and the flood of enemies overwhelmed them. Devoured where they fell, broken apart by vicious teeth and claws. For the Iskrill did not care about battle or war, they simply hungered and so the ramparts ran red.

As the tide of Iskrill entered the city from over the walls, the gates were broken by their strongest hunters, allowing the sack of Solaria- No, the slaughter of Solaria to commence. Many put up a brave fight. Druids prayed to their gods for powers, magicians unleashed their powers in climatic force, while normal folk died in droves. The Iskrill were impartial to what they ate, for their hunder induced a feeding frenzy so absolute, not even children were spared.

The statue of Oraelia remained silent as her city was devoured. Eyes ever ahead on the horizon, waiting for the sun to rise.

But the people of Solaria would never see it.

Auriëlle hated the road and hated the small, constricting villages she was forced to visit between Acadia and Ketrefa. The muddy, dirty places were disgusting. Yet she needed shelter and food. When she first ran away, she just stole some farm-daughter’s clothes that hung out to dry. These days she made her money in a different way. She entered the local tavern. Up north those were the places you went to meet people, or to be met. The second she took her place in front of the hearth and paid for her watered down wine (she hated ale), three local thugs approached her. How could they not? She was unlike any woman they’ve ever met. Nice looking, homely, with that one scar on her cheek that showed that she wasn’t afraid to get into trouble. One side of her fiery red hair was braided and was used to tie the rest of her hair into a pony tail. The copper knife on her hip was just cherry on the pie.

“So what’s a pretty lil’ lady like you doin’ in a place like Norfulk, eh?” The stick-thin thug asked as he took his place in front of her.

Auriëlle had seen it all. It made her tired. So instead of answering she opened her hand and let a flame burst forth from it. Then she grabbed her mug of wine and took a small sip. “Let’s skip the introductions and the comments, shall we. I’ve already heard it a thousand times” She said with a disinterested tone. When she was twenty and just ran off, the comments some men threw her way were disgusting. Why did they talk to a woman that way? After two years she got used to it. Somewhat. “You’ve got a job for me, now that you know I’m a sorceress. So tell me what it is so I can get paid and leave this shithole.”

The thugs looked at each other. Auriëlle often told herself she could smell their fear. That wasn’t entirely true, but she saw it. They were tense. One was nearly gripping his club. She didn’t want to fight. Not here. She wanted to sleep. But she would if they were stupid enough to take a swing at her.

The leading thug spat on the ground and then said: “Fine. I’ve gotta customer not payin’. I need you to convince ‘im. Think you can handle it?”

Auriëlle downed her wine and got up. “Just point me in the right direction.”

Minutes later and under the cover of dusk, Auriëlle made her way to the house. It smelled nice. From the stall outside she could see bits and pieces of herbs laying around. She hated bullying herbalists. They were often the cleverest people in a village. Some could even write. Gods how she missed writing and reading now. One time she had met a herbalist kneeling in the middle of the woods and praying. Some of them were very, very odd. She politely knocked on the door. After some time and some rustling behind the hinges, it opened up slightly.

“Come back tomorrow.” A man behind the door said.

He tried to slam the door shut again but it was blocked by Auriëlle’s foot. “I need to settle a debt.” She could basically hear the man swallow behind the door. He opened the door more and opened his mouth but Auriëlle was ahead of him: “I don’t need your excuses. Just the coins.”

“And why should I give it to you?” The man was about mid-thirty. Strong, with a few more scars on his arms than Auriëlle. His rather rugged appearance told Auriëlle that he used to fight. A lot. Maybe a wandering boxer or a militia volunteer.

She raised her arm and sparks of lighting arched between her fingers. “Just give me the money. We can both walk-“ A fist cut her off. She took it straight in the face. Before she knew it she was down into the muddy ground. Something hot dripped from her nose. Instinctively she rolled. Just in time. The man had jumped where she was a second ago. She put one hand on his shoulder and pushed the lighting through him. He couldn’t even scream out in pain. His entire body locked up and then fell flat into the mud.

Auriëlle got up and kicked him on his back. “Idiot! I could’ve killed you!”

“But you didn’t.” the man said in between coughs. “I can’t pay you.”

Auriëlle ignored him and turned towards the opened door. Where two little kids, neither more than eight, appeared in the doorway. “Daddy is everything okay?” One asked. Auriëlle stopped in her tracks. “Go to mommy.” She said, hoping to get the kids out of the way as she forced the man to pay up. The job didn’t pay enough to deal with children. Nothing would pay enough.

“We’ve got no mommy.” The youngest said.

Great! Perfect. Wonderful! Cadien’s Curse, she just couldn’t get a break! All she wanted was to sit back for a night and then sleep on something else than moss with a belly that was filled with an actual meal. Yet here she was in the dusk, in a mud street beating up the only parent of two.

The man got up, but didn’t try to attack her again. He just pleaded with her: “Please don’t take my money. It’s all I have! Tell them I’ll pay later. My kids, they need to eat. Please.”

“Shut up.” Auriëlle mumbled under her breath as she pinched the bridge of her nose. “I have an idea. Give me any coins you can spare now. I don’t care how much it is. Just give them to me.”

Half an hour later she walked back into the tavern. Nobody cared that she was half-covered in mud. The fact that they didn’t care was even more reason for her to hate this place. She approached the three thugs and dropped the very light sack onto their table. “The debt’s settled.”

One thug lifted the purse and dropped it again on the table. Now the three thugs could clearly hear the lack of many metal clangs. “No it isn’t.” The leader shot back. “What? I told you clearly how many coins he owed us.”

Auriëlle took a chair from one of the tables and seated her near the thugs their table. She peered into the three candles lit on the table. They grew large and hot. Some fire jumped from one candle to the other. Just three years ago she couldn’t do that. Now she did it because she wanted it to happen. There was no spell. No runes or hand signs. It was just her, wanting something to happen. “I could burn all three of your faces off right here, right now if I wanted to.” She said as she kept peering into the candle lit fire. “Now tell me his debt is settled.”

All three of them released an annoyed grunt, but knew she probably wasn’t kidding. So they just nodded.

“Good.” Auriëlle took the purse off the table and put it in her own mantle’s inner pocket. “Payment for my services.” She said with a tone that would not accept any discussion about it. This annoyed the three thugs even more.

“And finally, you three are going to swear you’re not going to bother that man again. You’ll swear it on Tekret. Do you understand?”

The three thugs shared some wild eyed looks with each other. A small grin formed on Auriëlle’s face. She knew what would happen if she just got up and left tomorrow. By the time it was lunch time, the herbalist would be bleeding on his own floor. She made that mistake before. Never again. Priests of Tekret told her that swearing something on Tekret’s name drew the god’s attention. Making the agreement binding on a divine level. She wasn’t sure how much to believe of that. The past twenty years she wasn’t so sure about any of the gods. What mattered now was that the thugs believed it.

“Swear it and I won’t have to make sure you don’t become an issue in the future.” Auriëlle pressured them.

One by one they gave in and nodded. When all three had nodded they said: “We swear on Tekret that we won’t bother Horace again.”

“Pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen.” Auriëlle said, as she got up and walked up to the bar. She dropped the small purse on the counter and said: “A bed for the night.”

The bartender lifted the coin purse, then emptied its contend on the counter. It wasn’t much but he shoved a few coppers back her way. Which she quickly pocketed. He also bit down on one silver piece to check it. Then he gave her a grunt of acceptance and motioned her to follow him upstairs to her room.

---

Alys was sat by a fire, eating a handful of blueberries. The fire had been of her own making; all she had to do was pile some sticks and logs on top of each other, and wave her hand.

Well, there was that one time she accidentally caused a forest fire, but that was four days ago, which was basically forever.

The berries tasted good, and the fire was warm, both of which helped alleviate the fact that she was utterly and helplessly lost. She thought she would have found another village by now, but it turned out that aimlessly wandering far from any roads or landmarks was not the best way to navigate.

She did not know it, but she had in fact been wandering in circles.

---

Mathius had been wandering for some time as well, often cursing his creator for his very existence. He had been told to go south, so, south he was going, he had no idea what for but, whatever Yamat said, he would do.

The darkness had begun to settle into the woods, it admittingly didn’t bother him, he could see fine without any eyes in the first place, but he felt like he should probably find a place to stop, at least to gather his bearings.

Then, he saw a soft orange glow in the distance, a fire? Who the antiquity was doing all the way out here? He slowly drew himself closer to the sight, making sure to make as little noise as possible. From behind the trees he could see a small child sitting by a fire, now that, was not what he expected.

”Very good Mathius,” a voice suddenly spoke in his head, it was him again ”,you found what i wanted, make sure you don’t lose her, she’s important.”

So he wanted a small child? Not the weirdest thing, but how the hell would he not lose her? He could follow her, but he didn’t have much confidence in his skills. He sighed, he opted to do something probably stupider, he stepped forward.

”Hey, what are you doing all alone in the woods?” That's how people talked right?

The girl jumped, startled at his sudden appearance. As she did, a violent gust of wind shot forth in all directions, reducing her fire to embers and forcing Mathius to stagger. She swivelled in place to face him. “Wh-who are you?”

Mathius did his best to stabilize himself, but still stumbled and had to catch himself on a tree, he held his hand out, trying to calm down the child ”It's alright, i'm Mathius, i'm not here to hurt you, just curious why a child is by themself in these woods.”

She looked away sheepishly. “I…” she had been about to say ‘I’m lost’, but then remembered that she was on her own now. She had to be strong. So instead, she met his gaze and spoke in a defiant tone. “I’m not a child. Why are you by yourself?”

”Cause i'm not a child and can defend myself, you never answered why you’re out here.” He looked both at the child and the former fire, the wind was strange, no wonder Yamat had been interested in her.

She crossed her arms and let out a stubborn ‘hmph.’ “I don’t have to. You’re not the boss of me.”

Mathius could feel a presence again, his creator didn’t seem to be happy with how this was going, that's when his perception was directed to a faint presence on the girl, divinity, so that's why. ”Listen, i'm not here to hurt you in anyway, i'm here to help, i was,” he paused, a slight headache told him to not tell the direct truth ”I was sent by the gods to help you out.”

Another ‘hmph’, and she somehow crossed her arms even tighter, this time looking away. “Well I don’t need help. I’m okay just by myself. My father was friends with Cadien and taught me everything I need to know.” Her words were filled with considerably less resolve, however, and it was clear to anyone that this was just an act.

Mathius didn’t recognize the name, but he was getting there, ”Was he now? Just so happens Cadien has been worried about you, so he got the gods to send some help, and well, here i am” he held his hands out in as non-threatening a manner as he could, gesturing to himself which, was admittingly not a lot.

Just then, a voice spoke in Mathius’s mind. I don’t take kindly to those who spread lies about me, Cadien said icily, So mayhaps choose your words a bit more carefully?

Mathius froze, ah, so, that was Cadien, huh, fuck. He looked at the girl, ”Well, it's more like we’re doing it, as a gift to Cadien, make sure his prodiges aren’t, in too much danger.” He could feel Yamat in the back of his mind, the madman was getting intrigued, he had to get the child or else problems would come.

The girl looked back at him, and sized him up. A long silence followed, until at last she spoke. “My name is Alys,” she told him. “If you want to help me, then… alright. But I’m in charge, and if you try to hurt me I’ll burn you.”

He nodded, lowering his hands ”Sounds perfectly fine to me,” He drew closer, looking at the campfire ”Any idea where you’re heading?”

“Um… that way,” she said, pointing in a random direction.

”Do you...have any idea what's in that direction?”

Her eyes widened. “Y-yes!” she insisted nervously.

Mathius sighed ”If i may offer some advice, perhaps it’d be better to head this direction,” he gestured off, towards the direction of Ketrefa ”That should lead us to actual civilization.”

“I-I’m in charge! We’re going my way!”

Mathius just stared at the child, before emitting a long sigh and whispering ”Gods save me.” He looked off in the direction the child had chosen, yup, about what he expected, wilderness. ”I would highly advise my direction...but, you’re in charge.” He could feel a chuckling in his mind, damn his creator.

The girl nodded, pleased at his concession… and then immediately began marching off in her chosen direction, despite the fact that night would fall soon.

”Uh, night is about fall, shouldn’t you, rest?” She ignored him and carried on. Mathius sighed once more, he was going to tear his creator a new one for this.

---

Not even ten minutes later, she suddenly came to a stop. “I’m tired,” she said, beginning to rub her eyes. “We should stop here.”

Mathius stopped, he was going to kill someone by the end of this, preferably himself. ”Alright, i’ll keep watch then, you get some rest.” he hoped the child would listen to some common sense.

She shook her head. “No. We need a fire.”

”You seemed to be able to make it before.”

The girl let out a frustrated sigh. “No! The fire needs… we need a pile! Away from any grass or trees, so that it won’t spread!” Another sigh. “This is why I am in charge.”

Mathius merely raised his hand, snapping his fingers, a sudden snap of branches echoed through the woods, portions of the trees above them fell onto the ground, and some squirrels and birds, but hey, they were fine, he thought. ”There’s a pile”

Alys looked at the fallen branches with a pleased expression. She quickly knelt and arranged them into a stack. Then, she stepped back, and waved her hand.

A nearby bush set fire.

“Oops.”

---

As the four crested the hill, the village of Evenstar came into view. “Oh thank Tekret,” Ruvar breathed exhaustedly. The sun was low on the horizon. They had been travelling for hours, and even though they had long since broken out from the forest, the journey had been hard on the soft merchant nonetheless. The wounded guard, who had eventually introduced himself as Rollo, was winded as well.

Carn and Arika, for their part, had been wary. Without the forest, they had only the hills for cover. And while hills offered a great view, anyone could see if you were standing atop one.

Fortunately, the bandits had been preoccupied with looting the village, and there seemed to be no others in the area. They had been able to reach the village with little incident. And now, the four hurried on, eager for the refuge the small community provided.

---

Another day, another stinking place to call home for the night. Auriëlle knew absolutely nothing about the village of Evenstar except that it existed and that it laid at the end of the mud road she was following. That was generally enough. Most places were alike to her. Except as she crested the hill that looked over the village, she noticed that there was a suspicious amount of desolation there. More than usual. Looting became common in the southern region, or so she thought.

She didn’t care. Auriëlle hadn’t cared about much in the last three years. She just drifted from place to place, doing odd jobs. There were always people willing to pay for a little magic. It was all meaningless though. It was all just survival. The first year she made the mistake of staying too long. People were happy to see water move or the small arcs of lighting in between her fingers. But when the fires danced to her hands, most wanted her out. She understood, though she wished she could go somewhere where she could use those big flames without being forced to march in armies.

From the hill she made her way to the village. Most ignored her. She was dressed like a mercenary, yet lacked any obvious weapon. Save for her copper knife on her hip.
Save for a watchful guard who stood at the village’s fringes and eyed her warily as she passed, her arrival went unnoticed. She would soon discover why, for a sizeable crowd had gathered on the other side of the small settlement.

That caught her attention. Crowds could be fun, unless they were happy crowds for marriages. Though generally, when a crowd formed it was more often for a fight. She began to push through the crowd without apologies. They weren’t chanting or screaming and there was no commotion coming from the center though. This wasn’t a fight. She looked at their faces and saw a slight hint of awe. Was some Ketrefian princeling marching into town? She was curious now. Finally she reached the edge of the crowd and saw who they had gathered around.

What she saw was considerably less impressive than what she had imagined. An out-of-breath merchant, a wounded man who wore the battered mismatched armour of a mercenary, and two more mercenaries who were in considerably better condition. One was a woman, while the other was a strange-yet-handsome looking man with fine white hair in bright purple eyes.

Both the woman and the wounded man looked to the merchant for guidance, as if expecting him to take charge, but he was too winded to speak. So instead, the white-haired man stepped forward. “Stop gawking and bring us someone who can treat his wound!” he waved a hand to indicate the wounded man.

For the first time in far too long, she smelled something else than a gods forsaken village. For one, the merchant looked far too plump and far too nice to do much fighting on his own. Especially considering he had his three fairly well armed friends. Which meant he had money to pay them. Yet here they were, winded, dirty and without much else. She smelled excitement.

So she stepped out of the crowd. “Not a healer.” She immediately announced. Someone else would take care of that. Then she turned specifically to the white-haired big guy with the strange eyes. A grin formed on her lips. This day was getting better and better. “You’re Carn.” She was stating it as a fact. Mostly in the hope that they could skip some of the pleasantries and show him that she knew who he was and what he did. “What happened to him?” She asked as she pointed at the wounded merchant.

Carn’s eyebrows rose when she recognized him, but he did not let that distract him from the business at hand. “Bandits,” he answered, waving back the way they came. “They attacked our cart. One of our own turned on us and another two were killed.” Meanwhile, someone in the crowd had peeled away, heading for the village shrine.

Six guards in total? This far south? There was a fair chance the load was gold. Which meant the merchant was more loaded than she first thought. That was good. She turned to the winded trader and asked: “How much if I help you retrieve your cart?”. Bandits were dangerous, even for her. Yet it had been a year now since last her heart beat with excitement. Surely with the locally famous Carn everything would be okay.
A skeptical look crossed Carn’s face, as if she was wondering what help she could be with just a knife. But the merchant spoke next, having recovered his breath. “I’ll pay you well,” he said. “The cart was loaded with-”

The wounded guard punched him in the shoulder, and both men let out pained grunts.

“We can discuss payment later,” Carn told her. “For now, we have a wounded man who needs treatment, and the rest of us need to sit down. Now move aside!” That last part was directed toward the crowd as a whole, rather than Aurielle specifically.

The crowd swiftly parted, just as two older-looking men arrived. One was dressed in the threadbare robes of a priest, who stared at Carn with a certain sense of awe, while the other wielded a staff and had the finer robes of a chieftain. “And what’s going on here?” the chieftain asked in an authoritative tone.

Carn frowned, as once more he was required to offer an explanation. “Bandits,” he said rather bluntly. “We have a wounded man and he needs treatment.”

“Mind your manners, boy, you’re speaking to a chieftain,” the leader of the village sneered. Then, he tapped the priest on the shoulder, and pointed to the wounded guard. “Tend to him.”

The priest nodded and hurriedly stepped over to the wounded man’s side. Placing a hand on his good shoulder, the priest began guiding him toward the village shrine. The priest kept glancing back at Carn during the walk.

Meanwhile, the chieftain addressed the rest of the crowd. “Go back to your lives. There’s nothing to see here.” And with those words, the bulk of the crowd parted, as the chieftain turned back toward his hall.

Auriëlle kept her eyes on the priest. There were few people she distrusted as much as a priest. She ignored the chieftain’s call to disperse and turned to Carn while his comrade was helped towards the local shrine. “We should find an inn to stay at.” She said. Then she got closer to Carn. “Why was that priest looking at you the whole time?” She asked, as she followed him towards wherever he would go.

Carn shrugged. “How should I know? People are always looking at me. Either due to my rugged good looks, or my strange hair,” his expression shifted to a smirk. He was considerably more relaxed, now that the wounded man was being treated and he was receiving something close to hospitality.

“You’re not that good looking.” Auriëlle said. It was a lie, but she wasn’t about to admit that he was one of the better looking men she had met so far. Though she didn’t forget the priest watching them. They were always up to something. Spinning stories, telling you what you should and shouldn’t do. Maybe she would pay him a visit later tonight. She wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. “I’m Auriëlle.” She said, to introduce herself.

Carn, Aurielle, and the female mercenary who went by the name of Arika sat down at a table at the village inn. The merchant, Ruvar, had decided to accompany the priest to the shrine in order to ensure Rollo was alright. “So,” Carn said, after Aurielle had ordered a drink, looking around the room to make sure nobody was listening in. “You’re interested in helping us get that wagon back?”

“It’s suicide,” Arika interjected. “There were at least a dozen of them. Probably more. We won’t stand a chance.”

Auriëlle clearly did not share Arika’s concern. She just grinned ear to ear. A dozen, a proper challenge. She even fell back in her chair and took a big swig of her watered wine as she tried to stifle a laugh. “A dozen? Maybe more? Perfect. The more there are, the more fun it will be.” There was a fire in her eyes now. No, there would be no sleep tonight. Then she turned to Carn and leaned in to make sure only those at the table would hear it: “Yes, I’m very interested.”

“I hope you brought more than just that knife, then,” Arika muttered.

Auriëlle hovered her hand over her own tankard and slowly raised it. Droplets of water, suspended in the air, lifted out of it. Not too high, just high enough to show those at the table. Then she dropped them in the wine again. “I can do a lot more but I don’t trust this place. I wouldn’t be surprised if one poor sap was already running to your bandits telling them a redhead joined the survivors.” And she most certainly didn’t want to give away that she was a sorceress. Then she turned back to Carn. “So tell me what happened. I need to know in what sort of place we’ll find this scum.” She sounded almost thrilled.

“A rather pretty redhead at that,” Carn had whispered, much to Arika’s annoyance. Then he got to business. “They ambushed us on the south road, as we were passing through the woods. They cut down a tree to serve as a roadblock, but we saw through it. Unfortunately, one of our own turned on us, and even without that, the bandits still outnumbered us.”

“You were here before we were,” Arika pointed out. “Have you heard anything about these bandits?”

“No.” Auriëlle answered. She sunk back into her chair, this time without laughter. She needed to think. “So what’s the plan?” She asked them, though she was mostly looking at Carn.

“First, we need a few more people.” Carn decided. “Even if Rollo recovers, the four us will be hard-pressed to do this alone. There’s at least a dozen of them, and they all have bows… if I could get in the midst of them, I’d cut most of them down, but I suspect they would fill me with arrows before that.”

More people meant more people with whom she’d have to split her share. Auriëlle wasn’t that thrilled about the idea of sharing that much. Still, he had a point. Four against twelve in unfamiliar terrain. It might be a bit too risky. “I think if you took a tour in this place, you could round up maybe eight or seven men. Especially with your reputation.” Then she turned to Arika. “So are you like, his woman?”

The question made Carn chuckle. Arika narrowed her eyes. “No!” she blurted out angrily, causing more than a few heads to turn. “I met him two days ago!”

Auriëlle sat back in her chair and raised her arms as if she was surrendering. “Was just asking.” She said. “So what’s your story? With the white hair and the…eyes?” She then asked Carn. “And if you tell me it came from a god, I will slap you.”
Carn shrugged. “Slap me then, because that’s what I was told since the day I was born.”

She actually did reach over, though she didn’t wind up her arm. Instead Auriëlle just gently tapped his cheek and sat back down. “You don’t actually believe that, do you? The gods aren’t watching us. They don’t care.” Not when things like Iskrill exist. It was impossible to deny their existence but she had doubted their intentions a lot in the past years. “If they did, wouldn’t you think your divine parent would’ve protected you and your friends from that ambush?”

Carn’s languid expression darkened. “The only ‘parents’ I know died, when some crazed warriors attacked my village. My father always claimed to be the Champion of Cadien, but in the end it didn’t do him or the rest of my family much good. But I know my appearance isn’t natural, and I’ve seen a few other unnatural things over the years too. So for an actual answer to that question: I don’t know. But if a god was watching over me, I suspect I would have had better luck by now.”

Auriëlle raised her tankard. “Cheers to that, my friend. Cheers to that.”

“That talk is blasphemy,” Arika whispered. “You should both have more respect.”

Blasphemy, as if the gods cared. Auriëlle knew they didn’t. She just chuckled at Arika and said: “If I have done anything wrong to the gods then may they strike me down with great vengeance and furious anger.” She raised her tankard again in great defiance and this time emptied it whole.

“I’d be more concerned about the anger of those around us,” Carn commented. All eyes were on them now, and her comments had not gone unheard. Some directed hateful stares toward her. Others grew fearful, bowing their heads and praying or even leaving the building entirely, as if her challenge could very well invite the wrath of the gods.

“Alright, enough is enough,” the Innkeeper said, drawing near. “Get out. I’ll not have blasphemers sleeping under my roof.”

The innkeeper got a deadly stare from Auriëlle. She kept at it for a moment, but then released a deep sigh. “Too far again.” She mumbled to herself as she got up. “Alright then. Guess I’ll find somewhere else to get some sleep.” She offered no other resistance as she got up and walked towards the door of the inn.

And in that moment, the door swung open, and in stepped the priest. He stood in Aurielle’s path, but did not move aside, and instead scanned the room. His gaze settled on the white-haired man who had just risen from his own hair. “You,” the priest said. “Are you Carn?”

“That I am,” Carn said as he stepped up next to Aurielle. “I’m quite popular around here, it seems.”

The priest dropped to one knee, and cast his gaze downward. “You must save us.”

Carn’s face fell. “I must what?”

Auriëlle’s face fell as well. “He must what?”

“Over a week ago, I received a message from Cadien. He said: ‘in seven days, your land will be plagued by bandits. On the eighth day, a white-haired warrior will arrive. On the ninth day, he will defeat them. On the tenth day, he will lead you.” The priest looked up at Carn. “That can only be you. You’re not the first to fall victim to these bandits; they made their first attack yesterday. And now you’re here. Just as foretold.” He dipped his head down again. “F-forgive me. I thought I was hallucinating. Or dreaming. Neither I nor my predecessor have never known the gods to speak to a mortal directly…”

She managed to keep it together throughout the explanation the priest gave. In fact, Auriëlle made an effort to hear every last drop of what he had to say. Yet when it was clear he was finished, she couldn’t contain herself and burst out laughing. She even bent over clutching her stomach as tears came out of her eyes. She then pushed the priest back out of the inn and looked around. It was dark and there was no-one around. She managed to gather herself for a moment and asked: “Okay so obviously you’re lying but I want to know why. Do you like Carn that much or do you hate the chieftain that much?”

The priest gave her a hard stare. “I have never known that man before in my life, and I have nothing against my chieftain’s leadership. Now move aside, girl. A divine command is no laughing matter.”

Auriëlle frowned, but let him through. Though she kept her eyes on him. He was lying, he had to be. Gods didn’t talk to mortals. Gods dumped obelisks on your head, sends shades after you and then gives you magical powers without explaining a single word.

The priest entered the building. A fortunate thing, too, because an angry crowd had gathered near the door, and Carn seemed to be the only thing preventing them from pouring out into the street to give Aurielle a piece of their mind. But as the priest re-entered, unharmed, they fell silent.

“Who will aid this holy warrior on his quest?” the priest asked.

All fell silent, until one voice spoke up. “I will!” said one man, whose armour suggested he was part of the village militia.

“So will I!” a female voice pitched in.

“Me as well!”

“And me!”

“Aye!”

And on the voices went, until at last Carn had a good eight or nine volunteers, not counting himself, Arika, or Aurielle. “Well,” he said, as he turned to Aurielle. “It seems we have our reinforcements.”

“Idiots.” She mumbled under her breath, making sure nobody heard them. Gods didn’t talk, didn’t give visions and certainly didn’t help mortals. It was all ploy to get the chieftain out. Screw it, she couldn’t care less. If others died so she didn’t have to, it would be fine by her. “I’ll find you when the sun’s coming up.” She casually told Carn as she walked away. Maybe she could find another mossy stone to catch some sleep on.

---

Illyd
Dyll

And the short post.

---

The sky above was a terrible grey, cracked with busts of violent lightning and shaken with thunder. Sheets of rain flooded from the heavens, dowsing Ketrefa endlessly. The hideous storm had forced most into what comfort they could find from their homes, while others huddled under whatever they could -- all for one person.

Under the veils of rain, Illyd Dyll walked without a care in the world. The howling wind and icy water didn’t deter his smile, and through squinting eyes he plucked at his banjo aimlessly. Only the odd glare of wonder paid him any mind as he continued his walk down the streets of Ketrefa -- his white robes as gray as the skies above and just as soaked.

He hummed to himself as he plucked and plucked -- finding the right cord. The sky rocked, he plucked. The evening air was fuzzy with electricity, he plucked. People were doing all they could to keep the water out of their homes, he plucked. He plucked, and he plucked -- wait!

Illyd Dyll stopped suddenly in the middle of two crossing roads, surrounded by buildings and people hiding in alleyways. He plucked the same note he had just found again -- yes! His smile deeped and he hit the note a third time, transitioning to a great followup. He giggled past the rain and let his fingers dance across the banjo. Curious heads were starting to turn as he began to send out a flood of notes as unstoppable as the rain.

“What is this!?” Illyd laughed to himself, fingers screeching up the length of his banjo and blasting out energetic notes. His fingers quickened to a blur -- the notes screaming as his crowd began to grow.

“What is thhiiiiiiiisss!?” Illyd Dyll grinned madly as he rocked his banjo -- the sky opening up. A blast of lightning cracked from the heavens and erupted over Illyd Dyll and his banjo- electrifying the sound as the god continued to shred out chords.

The crowd was in speechless awe as the thunder began to match the song -- as if it were a set of unholy drums. Illyd’s fingers were moving at a divine pace, lightning pillaring down over him at the end of each note. The god closed his eyes, falling into his music. The banjo shrieked and waned, calling more and more to witness the scene.

Cheers began to erupt around the city -- be they excitement or fear. Either way, Illyd didn’t seem to notice, falling to his knees and raising his banjo to the sky. His fingers split across the surface of his instrument -- the thunder quickening -- and then all at once, Illyd let out a loud scream of joy and one final chord that sent waves through the crowd, blasting the very rain back up towards the sky.

“WOO!” Illyd shook with energy, slamming his banjo into the ground and shattering it into pieces, the clouds above breaking and moving away at seemingly the same time. Blue began to peak above and the rain was slowing. Illyd wiped sweat from his forehead and held out a hand to the rain, barely collecting anything at all.

He smiled and looked over the crowd, “Hey thanks for listening.”

An old man stepped forward, but before he could croak a word -- Illyd Dyll had leapt onto a cloud and was already surfing away through the sky.

---

Oraelia stirred, having slumped from a daze. She sat upon her porch, long after Evandra had gone. They had watched the clouds for a long time, enjoying each other's presence. She knew not how long it had been since then, for her mind had wandered after consuming the berries. It was a period of low, but not entirely terrible. She wanted more, but Evandra had warned her of consuming too many. Nevertheless, she left a bush in Oraelia’s realm. Oraelia just had to make sure a certain Genesis didn’t find it. She could only imagine what they would do to her.

Oraelia got up and traveled back inside, up the stairs. Perhaps Genesis had finally awoken? She arrived at the room and opened the door quietly. She scrunched her nose when she saw the same familiar bundle under the covers. The slow rise and fall reassured Oraelia that Genesis still breathed and thus, was still alive. As she shut the door, the thought was an odd one, needing to breathe being a God. She hadn’t needed to when there was no oxygen, yet it felt so natural. She rubbed her brow as she went down the hallway.

She opened the door to her room. Her room was far larger than depicted from the outside. A vaulted ceiling with two massive skylights in the roof hung far over her head, illuminating the rich comforts the room offered. Such comforts she had no idea existed until she willed them to be. There was gilded furniture, a grand bed that could fit her, Gibbou, and three Genesis’ comfortably, and a variety of live plants as well as a small trickling fountain that worked as a stream running down several layers where it sat in the corner. She made a beeline for her dresser, where a mirror awaited her. She sat down and went to work on her hair, putting her wavy locks up into a messy bun. Loose strands fell down either side of her face as she looked at herself. Satisfied, she got up to leave but paused as she took in her figure.

She wore nothing. She did not feel ashamed of her nudity, but perhaps it was time to take a page from Gibbou. She snapped her fingers and a wardrobe appeared beside her dresser. She opened it to reveal many clothing items with another mirror on the inside of the door. She began to rummage through, picking one she liked to keep and snapping the others out of existence. She would have to do the same with Genesis once she awoke. For now, she chose a short dress, sky blue in color with two small straps. She looked at herself in the mirror and frowned. It needed something. She rubbed her chin and then realized what she was missing. Deep within her wardrobe she reached and pulled out a sunhat. Large brimmed and cozy, it nestled upon her head and complimented her look. She smiled and shut the wardrobe before leaving the room.
Oraelia headed downstairs and outside, where she went for a walk. But a short time later she paused as her thoughts turned to the mortal world below. She answered prayers, healed those she could and offered her advice where she could. She checked on Solus, only to find him ripping apart a stone troll, throwing it’s chunks at those who fled before his radiance. Oraelia paused in the path as next she watched through his eyes as he extended a hand to a fallen caravan. Bodies dead, children crying- loss. It broke her a little further.

She knew it was happening all over Galbar. Try as she might, she could not be everywhere all the time, and neither could Solus. Nor could Lucia, or Sanya. The druids were a good start, but she needed more. Another solution.

Beings who could wield her light, who could help those in need with love and compassion yet still protect with a guiding hand. An idea struck her, but she couldn’t do it alone. She would need help and she knew exactly who she would seek.

”Neiya? Can you hear me?” she asked, sending her thoughts towards her sister.

A moment of silence followed, enough to convince the less hopeful that no reply would be forthcoming. Then, the familiar spark of connection, thoughts returned. ”...Oraelia? Is that you?” a thought bubbled back to Oraelia, along with a stretch of emotional turmoil. A brief pang of anxiety, and uncertainty. ”...Is something the matter?”

Oraelia grew concerned at Neiya's response but carried on. "Um… No, everything is fine. I just wanted to talk with you about a proposal I have. Is that alright? If now isn't a good time I can get back to you later if you'd like?" she said gently, letting her warmth go Neiya's way.

The brief wash of emotion faded away, and it wasn’t long before a conscious stream of more vibrant feeling returned in an initially silent response to Oraelia’s warmth, before the goddess of love responded properly. ”What do we have if not time? I will hear your proposal.”

Oraelia smiled happily and became giddy. "Excellent! Okay so lately I've been seeing a lot of people who need help down on Galbar and I can't be everywhere at once as much as I'd like to be so I thought why not take a page from Gibbou's book and create a race who can protect life during the day. Obviously I can't do it alone and I thought who better to ask then my sister Neiya! With her love and compassion and my life and sunlight we could do a lot of good. That is if you're willing?" Oraelia asked, out of breath as she sent her happiness towards Neiya.
There was a brief pause, before another reply came. ”With my love? I am touched that you thought of me, Oraelia. I have only ever joined in the creation of one species, so I am worried that you will have to guide me. I wish for nothing more than to show my love to the world beyond, if you would have me.”

"Don't worry about it, I've only created animals so you're already ahead of me!" Oraelia said. "So yes, I would have you."

Oraelia was assaulted by another short wave of emotion, a warmth not unlike what she had responded with in the past. ”Perhaps we could meet? This sensation we are sharing now is taxing and unfamiliar to me. A being so bright should be admired in person.”

"O-Oh of course! Uh, Genesis is still sleeping so I'm free to go to your realm or you can come to mine. Usually I'd just recommend coming here but if you're more comfortable in your realm I that's okay." Oraelia sai.d.

”I would love to see your realm one day, Oraelia,” the distant goddess replied. ”I must confess however; I’ve had some… unfortunate… encounters with our kin recently, and this shared land between our realms feels very foreign to me. It would mean so much to me if you came to see me in my realm. Perhaps you could help me spark some life in it.”

"I can do that for you." she said with sympathy in her voice. "I'll be there soon."

Again the goddess was met with a brief wash of relief and warmth in their shared connection. ”I look forward to your visit. I will ask the trees to bloom in your honor.”

The connection faded between the two and Oraelia began to walk off over to her portal. Before she did that however, she went and checked on Genesis one last time, just to make sure she was sleeping. And the little plantie was, so as much as she didn't want to go, Oraelia locked the door on her way out and then left her own realm after a quick walk. She then hesitated again before reassuring herself that Genesis would be okay.

It wasn't long before she came before the familiar view of Neiya's portal. Tentatively she took a deep breath and then passed through.

The realm beyond was not a particularly inspiring view for the Goddess of Life. Much like she had sighted the first time she had gleaned through the jagged tear that was the entrance to Neiya’s realm, the landscape was dominated mainly by a barren and wide plain, with short stalks of grass almost ashen grey in colour, and the dirt below seemed lifeless and bleak. All around her were sparse pockets of dark trees, with twisting branches that hung in wait for a bloom that seemed like it would never come. A river cut through the landscape, a rapid stream of clear water, seeming to wind endlessly in the distance. Perhaps even more out of place was the singular, dark wooden door that seemed haphazardly halfway between the entrance to the realm and the river. It had a golden doorknob, with a shining amethyst embossed on it. A stark contrast to the rest of the landscape.

That seemed to be all there was to Neiya’s realm, until a single motion caught Oraelia’s view. Past her eyes sailed a small deep blue butterfly, fighting through the quiet realm to fly off into the distance with determined beats of its wings. Its destination could be sighted in the distance, a single dense grove of trees upon the plains. They were unlike the rest she could see; even from her distance she could see the bloom of soft pink and hues of gentle red. Petals whirled with a gentle wind, raining the ground below with a bed of soft pink. A tranquil scene in an otherwise troubling landscape.

Oraelia made her way there. The walk was dreary, perhaps even a bit depressing but that didn't stop her from looking to the horizon. It did leave questions on why Neiya's realm was so bleak, however. She would have to ask her sometime. Oraelia broke through the treeline, and stepped into the thicket.

It was like entering a different world entirely. The gentle rustle of trees, the falling petals, a whole throng of butterflies peacefully sailing around. If the entire realm had been like this, it would have been a paradise. As the bright goddess continued, another new sight became apparent. The trees parted and gave way to a clearing nestled deep within the miniature forest. Again, the quiet rush of the river made itself apparent, snaking from one side straight through the grove and out the other. In the middle of the clearing sat a sizable pavilion, hewn masterfully out of marble and granite. A small path interspersed with white flagstones pushed the river aside to give access to the pavilion, which was otherwise surrounded by the clear water. As though the trees had ended already, Oraelia felt her feet touch the first smooth stone on the path.

Even from afar, she could see the easily recognizable silhouette of the love goddess, sat reclined on a throne of sorts, embellished with silver and draped ornately with fine silks in blue and silver.

Oraelia waved as she approached, a smile breaking out on her lips. "Hey Neiya! Isn't this just a lovely little place? It makes me so happy." she gushed as she made her way into the pavilion.

Neiya rose from her seat as the life goddess approached, the ever present frown a thin and mellow purse of her lips rather than any clear display of displeasure. Feet on the marble, she stepped forward to meet Oraelia as she walked into the refuge at the centre of the thicket. She bowed her horned head with a tranquil grace, clasping her hands formally in front of her. ”Thank you for the kind words, Oraelia. It pleases me that you like it. I must say I consider it peaceful. When I asked them to bloom on your behalf, they could not resist.”

Oraelia smiled as her body grew slightly brighter. She then gave a curtsey in return, dipping her head lower than average. As such her sunhat slipped off her head. She looked back up at Neiya with embarrassment before grabbing her hat and putting it back on. "S-Sorry about that. It's a new look for me." she confessed. "You're too kind Neiya." she then continued, "I'm surprised your realm isn't always like this. To be in the presence of love is to bloom with life."

Ice-blue eyes followed each motion of Oraelia’s, each twist and shift in her features and demeanour. Her head tilted gently as she watched the goddess, a slight narrow of her gaze with no following change to her expression or tone. ”We are both trying beguiling new looks, then,” she offered with a gentle lift of her hand towards the blooming trees. ”As you say, love is an unstoppable sensation of life. How fitting then, that we are here together now.” Neiya took a single step towards Oraelia, hand raising slowly and tentatively as she continued. ”What wonders shall we make today, Oraelia?”

Oraelia tilted her head, eyes twinkling as she looked at Neiya and then to her hand. "Here, let me show you! It'll be easier than explaining." Oraelia said before grabbing Neiya's hand with both of hers, much to Neiya’s apparent surprise. A feeling of warmth flooded into Neiya as a vision of a man came before her. He was young, with huge bird-like wings, a flaming sword and halo of sunlight hovered above his head like a crown. The image faded as Oraelia left her impressions on Neiya of a race molded after him. Oraelia then spoke as Neiya's vision came back to view a giddy sun goddess. "I daydream a lot but that's the general idea. A race of humanoids who can fly, protect the life that they will come to love and flourish under the sun. I think you and I could make them through use of our avatars. The Luminant will be their home, I've seen from my holy site that there lives small colonies of humans and Sylphi there. They would fit right in before expanding to help the rest of the Toraan, then the world! What do you think?" she said enthusiastically, letting go of Neiya's hand.

Neiya retracted her hand as she flexed her fingers, watching the happy sun goddess intensely. For a time, she remained like that, lost in her own thoughts, until she blinked at last and lifted her chin ever so slightly. ”Certainly an impressive vision, Oraelia. Such a being would be free, able to spread love to all corners of the world, just as you said. Unhindered and strong.” she said, with a deepening frown twisting her features. ”For too long did I suffer the cries of anguish from the mortals beyond. This would be a force to be reckoned with. To put the savagery to rest once and for all, and allow love to flourish.”

Oraelia looked at Neiya, her golden eyes going wide as she noticed the frown upon her face. "You've... Suffered sister?" she asked quietly.

”No.” Neiya responded with some clarity, though her eyes held their sorrowful expression as she regarded Oraelia. ”Or, perhaps I have,” she continued musing, exhaling a slow breath as both her hands reached out to mimic Oraelia’s past gesture, seeking a single hand to grasp hold of with gentle grace. ”But no more than a parent suffers when their children stumble and fall. I-... I don’t have an avatar. Cadien said that it was reckless. But I fear I have waited for too long to reunite with our children.”

Oraelia smiled as she gave Neiya her hand. She then said, "Oh Neiya… It's never too late. I should know, I left my daughter upon Galbar while I slept and only now am I building up the pieces of our relationship again." she gave a gentle squeeze. "The only thing reckless is not trying and letting the problem or problems we face, go on further. The mortals need us, perhaps more now than ever before. Why not try?"

A flash of determination ran through the Love Goddess’ features, followed by a definite rush of a tingle communicated through their touch as emotion seemed to roil within Neiya. She nodded at Oraelia, taking another step closer to diminish the gap. ”You’re right. Nothing will happen if we do not make it happen. You’re as wise as you are bright.”

Oraelia grew even brighter still as she shuffled on her feet, bobbing her shoulders up and down as she looked to her feet and then to Neiya's face. She felt strangely nervous in Neiya's presence. "Y-You're too kind. I just like helping people, and inspiring them. That's all." she said bashfully, heart pounding in her chest.

”You’ve inspired me with all kinds of ideas, Oraelia,” the horned goddess uttered with a breathy whisper, gently leaning forwards as she gave her hand a gentle squeeze, eyes intently watching her yet. ”I look forward to sharing them with you.”

A pause, a gentle crane of her neck, and then Neiya gently released her hand. She lifted both her hands upwards, gently grasping the sunhat and adjusting it to rest neatly on the shuffling life goddess’ head. With that, she swept to the side with a silent drift along the marble and drew a long, tranquil breath. Her hands ran to touch Oraelia’s shoulder with a few brushes of her fingers. “But perhaps we should begin with yours? Perhaps it is time I create an avatar. For both of our benefits. Do you have any ideas?”

Oraelia straightened herself and fixed the creases in her dress as she looked at Neiya with fascination. She felt all sorts of things about her but she needed to remain focused. "Avatar. Yes! Um well, if you don't have any concrete ideas, perhaps you could mold him or her after what I showed you?" she inquired.

Neiya lifted a few inches from the ground, hand lifting to gently touch at her own chin in brief thought. Relieving Oraelia of her immediate presence, the horned goddess floated a small distance towards the wide river that ran alongside the edges of the pavilion. ”Yes, I should very much like to try. she concluded as she turned back towards the Bright One. Neiya drifted back to Oraelia, coming to touch down on the ground beside her. ”So, I-... shape something out of my own essence?” Hand lifting, she closed her eyes and focused her attention forwards. The wind around the pavilion picked up in an instant, whipping and howling as flurries of petals spun into the river in beautiful patterns. One such spiral carried with it water as it spun into the pavilion itself. Gentle threads extended from the Love Goddess’ hand, wispy tendrils that seemed to reach out towards the spiralling energies. The strands connected, and with a sharp breath the goddess visibly imparted part of herself, letting her divinity flow free towards the spiral of petals and water. The result was a whirling cascade of colours, deep blue, gold, pink. It spun in place like a typhoon, slowly taking shape to something vaguely humanoid.

With a final exhalation of expended effort, Neiya lowered her hand, and the tornado fell still, washing over the stonework they stood on. As water and petals washed away, in its place stood a pale woman with dark hair, several heads taller than a mortal human, though not unlike them - or indeed Neiya herself - in features. On her head were a single set of dark horns instead of a halo, though other than that she had not inherited Neiya’s horned attributes. Under her eyes were patterns in the same likeness as the Love Goddess herself. The woman blinked at the two divine observers, and immediately knelt to the ground subserviently. On her back was a pale comparison to the envisioned wings of Oraelia’s idea; more akin to the coloured plumage of a bird, a wingspan barely made itself apparent in a blend of blue, gold, and pink intermingling to form new colours.

”...Not exactly what you showed me. It was-.. Hard to focus. I’m sorry, Oraelia.” Neiya concluded wistfully as she beheld her creation, who waited dutifully knelt on the ground.

A reassuring hand fell upon Neiya’s shoulder as Oraelia went to her side. ”Nonsense! She’s beautiful Neiya! And so… So tall! I love her already, but she does need a name, don’t you think?” Oraelia gushed as she looked at the new avatar.

”A name? Yes-.. I’ve never. Never named a being before,” the horned goddess admitted with a certain glee shining through her worries and woes. ”How about… Aveira?”

”Aveira.” responded the avatar, lifting her chin to look up at the two. She smiled, a confident and charming affair. ”I know my purpose. The time for action is now. Love must be allowed to spread.”

”Welcome to life Aveira!” Oraelia exclaimed, clasping her hands together. ”Yes! Love should spread and you’ll be such a great help! Through you wars can end and the land can be in peace and harmony. Oh, it’s wonderful!” she looked back up at Neiya. ”I’ve sent Solus to the Luminant, he should already be there actually.” she said, rubbing her arm. ”I may have sent him there before I came to see you, but it worked out!”

”Her will is my will,” Neiya offered crisply to her avatar. Aveira nodded sternly in turn, still knelt on the ground. Without another word, the winds picked up again, and the water on the ground began to twist and roll along the stone. Before the two goddesses, a vortex of water and energy spun into motion beneath the avatar, and the ground opened up beneath her, offering brief and chaotic glimpses of what was unquestionably the Luminant. Aveira sank into the vortex as she rose to her feet, and as swiftly as it had picked up, the vortex closed and vanished, leaving the stonework wet and with the avatar nowhere to be seen. Somehow, Neiya managed to look both incredulous and pleased with herself. ”I can-.. I can see so much, now.”

"Avatars are incredibly useful. They provide us with a stronger connection to Galbar. Ingenious really." Oraelia mused. "Ah, I can see Solus just found her. Are you ready to begin?"

Neiya turned to look at the bright goddess. After a moment of hesitation, her hand reached forwards, fingers nestling against Oraelia’s own hand. ”Guide our way, Goddess of Life, and we will begin a new era for Galbar. Together.”

Oraelia took Neiya's hand within her fingers and then grabbed her other and faced her. "Together." she nodded before closing her eyes.

Like before, the area around them began to gust, sending leaves, flowers, and buds into a frenzy in the air. Oraelia’s breathing slowed as she worked through Solus’ eyes. Aveira was beside him, good. She could feel Neiya waiting for her, and without further ado, the Goddess of the Sun beckoned life to come.

And they came.

From the trees, from the ground, from the very air, they came. Beings from her imagination, taking shape before her very eyes. They started as shimmers, hazy and without form, but slowly, ever so slowly- They took shape. A torso here, a hand there, a head, feet. It was a delicate process, one that could not be disturbed and the Luminant knew this, for not a sound could be heard in the land. More and more materialized, wrapped in their wings, eyes shut to the world around them. They took Aveira’s height, these… Aiviri, yes. Aiviri was what they would be called and the tallest of them was half of Solus. They had white wings, golden hair, and many different skin tones. Most were quite attractive, their features soft and kind to the eyes. Oraelia ushered them to wake, breathing in precious life to their souls. Slowly and surely they began to open their newborn eyes, amazed at the world around them.

Yet, they needed more, Oraelia knew this. Simple white garments materialized around them as a start. She then unlocked within them ability to use her sunlight as a tool for life and growth. Next she let the sunlight nurture them, renewing their bodies but not age, so that they could always be youthful and in a prime state to protect life. As she added these traits to the Aiviri, she felt a pinprick in her mind, intrusive and alarming. She reached out to Neiya questionally, but stopped when she saw what her sister was doing.

Visions and emotions streamed through their connection, flashing before Oraelia’s eyes and consciousness in equal measure, joined as she was in both hands and energy to the Goddess of Love. The intrusive pinprick became an overbearing ache as images of pain, injury, suffering and war flowed free to mingle with their new creations. She saw her constructs once more, and became intimately aware of an endless variety of weaponry - polearms, swords, bows. If another mortal race had used it, it seemed to bubble to the surface now, reimagined as long and sleek weapons of light. With it came a primal knowledge, the means and intent do to harm. The authority of power, and stewardship through force. Though she had come to work alongside the love goddess, there seemed to be no such emotion spared for their shared creation.

An audible gasp ran from Oraelia, ringing loud and clear between them. She spoke between the connection they shared, horrified. ”W-What are you doing N-Neiya!”

But Neiya did not reply. Oraelia felt her hands gripped tight, saw through Solus how Aveira lifted up off the ground as a vortex of divine energies continued to flow unabated and with ever greater force to manipulate their new creations. Violence, resentment, even outright hatred rushed through gods and mortals alike at increasing intensity. What was at most a harrowing sensation for the sun goddess was taking a greater toll on the Aiviri, some of whom fell to the ground helplessly, twisting in agony as their minds were assaulted. Others raised their eyes and arms to the sky to accept this new sensation, and Oraelia saw the features of her creation begin to warp before her eyes. Wings were staining in new colours, both natural browns and terrifying hues of red and black. Aiviri turned pale as snow as life itself and all joy seemed to drain out of them. A building sense of malice rocketed through her connection to Neiya - a perpetual dread that warped the very being of the Aiviri.

Oraelia tried again in vain to stop Neiya but she saw how her sister warped the Aiviri and how those who had fallen were in such agonizing pain. She turned her attention to those in such a poor state, flooding them with her life and mending, enveloping them with her light. She protected their features, golden hair and sunkissed skin. Their features grew kinder, softer, and within them blossomed an ability to heal. She attempted to change back those that Neiya was influencing but it was no use, more and more fell so Oraelia protected more before her sister’s touch corrupted them further. The Luminant was no longer quiet, but a maelstrom of emotion and turmoil.

Oraelia spoke again to her sister, ”Neiya! Stop this! Please!” she cried loudly.

The goddess of love was not listening, as Oraelia’s only reply was continued assaults upon their creation, a painful grip on her hands to keep them both in what had once been a tender hold. ”Y-You’re hurting me!” Oraelia cried out again, struggling to break free.
When no more remained of the Aiviri - either twisted into a terrifying shadow of the peaceful guardians they had been intended to be, or blessed by Oraelia’s light to resist the scourge of dread and pain, the twisted creation of Neiya’s turned their attention upon their former kin. From Solus eyes she saw Aveira lower her arms, turn towards him with malice in her gaze, and redirect the last of her divine energy towards him, an act of betrayal just as the creation she had helped twist.

Solus was struck in his chest, the mighty giant falling over from the blow. As he landed, her connection to him faltered and Oraelia opened her eyes to see a maelstrom of energy not unlike the one that had assisted in the creation of Aveira - only now it enveloped the both of them and the pavilion, a raging torrent of divine energy that seemed to center on them. It flowed over Neiya in waves, who not unlike the Aiviri had warped and twisted in shape; a process she was still undergoing as Oraelia opened her eyes to the chaos. Her skin had gone from merely pale to a white, with flowing white hair cascading down over a slimmer face. The ice-blue eyes stirred with renewed vigor, red and black swirling with an animosity reflected only in the horrors of emotion she had made Oraelia suffer. Gone were the horns, replaced with bony extrusions on her face and shoulders that melded seamlessly with her skin. Metal-like jagged edges grew out around her protectively, dangerous ornaments of beauty and violence. Fingers like talons dug into the sun goddess' hands, the frown on Neiya’s lips tantamount to disdain.

Oraelia looked down at her hands, now dull, almost ashen in color. She saw her ichor dripping down on the floor, and looked back up at Neiya, horrified. She tried again to free herself but struggled in vain against her sister’s iron grip, ”Let go of me!” she shouted as tears streamed down her face.

”You wanted my attention, Oraelia.” the once-horned goddess echoed with a venomous, haughty tone. ”Here it is. My undivided attention. Now you don’t want it?” Neiya breathed a sharp chuckle, equal measures fascination and malice. She lifted from the ground as the swirl around them dissipated, forcing Oraelia up with her. A brief, painful lift, before she rocketed forward, crashing them both up against one of the pillars holding the pavilion up. Oraelia finally had her hands free, but at the cost of the rampaging goddess pushing her in place. White talons reached to touch her chin. ”I thought you understood, my sweet. We must take action. The naivete of love through guardianship is a delusion. We must bring love to them. We sit idle for a breath, and a thousand mortals suffer.”

A shocked look was on Oraelia’s face, as she attempted to push her sister off her, but it was no use again. She shook her head, rearing from Neiya’s touch as she spoke back to her, ”No no no! This isn’t what I wanted Neiya!” she struggled again to break free, ”I only wanted your help and now you’ve gone and twisted them! Why! Why would you do that! Just let me go!” she cried looking up at Neiya with fear in her eyes, ”You brought violence to them! Not love! And violence brings suffering! You hurt Solus! You hurt them!” she gritted her teeth.

Neiya flashed an expression of unfettered fury, the storm in her eyes swirling without mercy. ”You’re as ignorant as the others, Oraelia. I did you a favor, and you fight me. Do you think love is free? Do you think love is simple?” she spat out with building frustration on top of her already hair-trigger temper. Her eyes stared straight into Oraelia’s own, as her clawed fingers reached out to caress the sun goddess cheek. ”Let me show you what love truly is.”

Neiya’s palm rested itself firmly against Oraelia’s cheek, cupping her face forcefully as her eyes filled and turned as white as her skin. After the briefest pause, an onslaught of emotions barraged Oraelia’s mind; a wild and unfocused maelstrom made up of worry, sorrow, hatred, despair, longing and dread. Interspersed were brief flashes, memories of peace. Pink petals falling to the ground. Images of Cadien’s embrace. An ocean. Lovers declaring their love for eachother. The crying humans on the riverbank, and what they felt as Neiya called their sorrow to the forefront, and the anguish as they realized their friend was a murderer. Any peace, any joy, lost in a constant barrage of pining, loss, envy, and unrequited love. It was maddening.

The connection broke after what felt like an eternity, talons gently scraping along Oraelia’s skin in a twisted caress as her palm lifted. ”Now you see. Now you understand. We can spread love together. Whatever it takes.” she uttered with considerable calm.

Oraelia’s eyes were hollow. Her entire body had lost its lustrous shine, her light had faded as she looked up at Neiya with a gaunt face. Everything she had felt, every bit of emotion, came as a blow over and over again. It ruined her, and was draining. Yet Oraelia could not help but feel sorry for Neiya, she was no longer so afraid of her or so angry. It all made sense, since that day so long ago by the riverbank. She had just been too blind to see it. Neiya was Love, yes, but she focused on all the negative and in that moment, Oraelia pitied her and something else deep down. It took every bit of strength in her body, but she managed to lift a hand and place it on Neiya’s cheek. ”I…” she said weakly, ”I’m s-sorry. N-Neiya… There is m-more to Love, than t-this obsession y-you’ve inflicted... u-upon yourself.” she then gave her a small feeling, one she felt towards Gibbou, then to Genesis, then to life as a whole. It was not powerful, nor overbearing, but was pure. A gentle warmth, a kiss on the cheek, watching growth, feelings of doubt, a reassuring touch, the words ‘I love you.’ They were her own feelings of love, and she knew not if it was enough, but she had to try to show Neiya, even with all the bad and the negative, the positive still existed. Through all the tears and pain, love could still endure. Her hand at last dropped, and a single tear ran down her face as she looked to see what Neiya would do to her next.

Neiya’s dark eyes opened wide, transfixed and wholly surprised by the rush of emotions, despite its waning strength. It seemed enough to shock her, and in the aftermath of Oraelia’s reply, the ivory skin under her eyes burned with a warmth and gentle colour that seemed to stir great turmoil in the goddess. Her hand recoiled from the sun goddess face, her body shifting uneasily in place as she began to turn away. Given a moment’s hesitation, Neiya drifted away in shocked silence, releasing Oraelia from where she had trapped her, and letting her sink to the ground. Instead she hovered to the center of the pavilion, touching at her cheek in distant, demure thought with white talons as she hid her face from the exhausted Oraelia. Despite her treachery and brute assault, the anger did not seem to return, nor did she have a retort.

Oraelia, through her pain, smiled weakly at the sight. ”N-Neiya… It’s o-okay to… f-feel… ha-...” she tried to say, voice fading as her eyes fluttered shut.

---

Her eyes snapped open and she looked around, unfamiliar with her surroundings at first before she blinked and sat up slowly. She was in her room, tucked in. A wash of emotions came over her as the last thing she remembered was being in Neiya’s realm. She clutched her heart, the pain of those emotions still there like a dying coal. She looked down to her hands. They were barely glowing, having healed slightly, but the scars of Neiya’s fingertips were still there. Something wet fell on her hand, and her eyes focused on a golden tear. Why did that…? Her eyes began to water, before the floodgates opened. She tried to stop it by placing a hand over her mouth and wiping away her tears, but it was no use.

The Goddess of Life cried and for a very long time.