Rocks are, as far as inanimate objects go, objectively quite nice. The best kinds are the smooth ones, the ones with a nice even color to them and were probably hauled from some river, tumbled to the perfect shape over the ages. So naturally, there were few things that you could find deep in the woods that were better than a wide, sturdy rock of superior make, preferably with a touch of deep green moss atop it. One of those things, however, would be several wide, sturdy rocks of superior make, stacked on top of eachother.

And that was all Forral could think as he ran through the mountain trails.

The hot day didn’t bother Forral much as he dashed along between the pine trees, the Cord of Summons for Tinmine clutched in his hand. All that he focused on was spying the next stack of stones that marked the seldom used path. Each time he passed a cairn he made sure to run his free palm over it and appreciate the odd power the waymarkers seemed to hold. They dutifully guided the young boy, having been put up many years ago and never once failing.

Maybe he could make some of his own cairns once he joined the Grand Army; Forral would be doing all kinds of exploring and adventuring, surely someone would need a new path marked!

Forral had been running for about an hour, taking breaks whenever he needed. He had filled a waterskin at the point where his path diverged from the creek so he didn’t have to worry about dehydration. Speaking of which, he reached for the skin and took a large swig, running all the while. His water was about half-empty now but he felt he was about halfway to Tinmine, so it probably wouldn’t pose an issue.

The ground beneath his feet turned rocky as the trees began to thin. Forral was higher in the mountains now and his breath was coming harder. He ignored hsi short breath, pushing through. He needed to deliver this Cord as fast as he could so that he could prove to Taev that he was responsible. Forral felt like he was making good time and, indeed, he was ascending the mountain far faster than any other runner would have, but that wasn’t quite because he was swifter than other people.

The cairns lead Forral around a large chunk of granite and into a crag. The path was still wide enough for a wagon to cross, but now a sheer, rocky slope shot off the side of Forral’s route. The young boy passed, his chest heaving. His head felt fuzzy as he peered over the edge of the path, although he knew that he could usually run further than he already had, so he wasn’t that tired, despite how much his legs felt like stones.

Maybe he should rest a little, just in case. Forral peered across the large gap that had opened up in the mountains. Who knows how many feet down, pale green dots that he knew must be treetops dotted the valley floor. He didn’t know if they were so hard to see because they were miles beneath his feet or because his vision was tunneling.

As he heaved his gaze upwards, pushing through the dizziness, he could see the many switchbacks that would bring him around the valley walls and up the otherside. A thin trail of smoke danced across over the mountain crests on the other side of the gash in the land: Tinmine.

Forral tried to steady his labored breaths, determination filling him again. He could see his destination now. Forral took one step, gearing up to throw himself into another dash, but before he could even start the blood seemed to rush from his brain and his vision closed.

As the rocks skid from beneath his heel and a numbness filled his extremities, Forral suddenly remembered hearing somewhere that you should always climb mountains slowly. The Altitude sickness made sure that Forral wasn’t fully conscious of his peril as he slid and tumbled off the canyon wall.

---

The smell of cedar. A dull ache. The feeling of tumbling down a hill despite not moving. A soft humming dancing at the very edge of thought and the taste of wet dirt in the mouth. A sharp stabbing pain.

The boy’s eyes shot open. His eyes focused and unfocused, not moving, as the sharp stabbing continued, he could feel the pain radiating from his hand, but he couldn’t see it. He couldn’t move it. He couldn’t move anything. He could hardly even think, but he could still see.

He saw soft grass. A tree trunk. It hurt to breathe. Orange needles littered the ground around the trunk, fending off any young green things. Two legs, gnarled, bloodied, and shattered. His head was tilted downwards, he couldn’t see much. He couldn’t move. A speck! A moving speck. His eyes latched onto it. An ant. Large and red, a green shard of foliage clasped in its mandibles.

His eyes moved now, slowly, tracing behind the ant hauling its load. The small thing was coming closer. A second stabbing pain, joining the first. The ant meandered closer, passing his foot, marching ever onwards. He had to turn his head to follow the small thing. It crawled up his hand. He could see his hand now.

The ant was not alone, two other ants, just as big and just as red, were biting and stinging the back of his fist. The third ant seemed to notice this and dropped its leaf. He felt tears welling in his eye as the betraying ant clamped down on his hand, sending a third shoot of pain.

There was a flutter of wings and the pain was gone. A small sparrow had appeared, gobbling up the three ants and now was perched on his hands. His eyes drifted up to meet the bird’s. They were deep and dark, endless yet cheerful wells of ink.

“Forral,” The voice came from nowhere, “Get up.”

Forral felt like his soul was being punched in the face and he slammed back into his body. He flailed in place for amomet, his heart pounding and a strangled shout escaping his lips, but then whatever had just happened passed. He was merely leaning against a tree like it was another day.

Where was he?

Forral stood up. His feet brushed aside the scattered pine needles which pricked his skin a little. Forral looked down and frowned. His shoes were gone and, despite the fact that he had been lying in the dirt, his feet were incredibly clean. In fact, all of him was oddly clean. He patted himself down, finding that his roughspun clothes were gone, replaced by a simple, woolen robe that hung loosely on his body and nothing else.

Had he been robbed? That wouldn’t explain why he was so clean, or why he didn’t remember how he got here, wherever here was.

“Hello!” He cupped his hands and shouted, “Where the hell am I!”

The only response Forral got was his echo, bouncing countless times back and forth. This was a helpful response, however, as it answered his question. He was in a canyon. But how was he in a canyon?

Forral gazed upwards, he couldn’t see the sun but the sky was not red, so it was either morning or late afternoon. It was hot, so it was probably the afternoon. He looked up and down the canyon. It was about a hundred feet wide and much longer, he couldn’t see an end down either direction. He also couldn't see any path up or down or anything that could tell him how he got down to where he was.

Had he fallen in? The canyon walls were at least eighty feet, probably more. There would be no way to have come out of a fall like that unscathed, let alone washed up and in strange clothing.

‘Well… fuck,” Forral muttered, scratching his head as he looked around.

Forral shrugged, figuring someone must have brought him down here so there had to be a way to get back out. Until he found an exit, he didn’t have anything that was in his control to worry about so he might as well just pick a direction and start walking. He chose left.

As he strolled through the pine trees, trying to ignore the feeling of the needles jabbing the bottom of his feet, Forral couldn’t help but notice how strangely calm he was being about this whole situation. By all measures, he should be panicking, but something was suppressing that urge and Forral was grateful, if a little perturbed.

Regardless, Forral made his way through the canyon. There was a small stream running through the center which fed all the pine trees. He couldn’t see any animals bigger than a bird, but there were definitely a lot of birds. Almost every tree he passed had at least two bird nests in it. For there to be so many birds, there must not be anything big enough down there to eat them.

As he walked, Forral scanned the walls for any crevices or slopes that he may be able to climb to get out, but he found nothing. Eventually, once the sky began to darken and warmth was quickly leaving the canyon, he found something.

The cave looked like it had been carved by some water flow that had long disappeared; it seemed incredibly smoothly cut and out of place among the jagged rocks of the Anchor Mountains. It was dark inside but also dry and would probably be warmer than lying out in the dirt for the night. Forral crept into the cave, suddenly worried that there might be something inside. The tall mouth quickly dipped into a low ceiling but most of the cave was still illuminated by the dim light from the darkening sky. The ground was solid stone and almost completely flat.

The air smelled like animal, not too strongly but it was still there. Forral hopped it wasn’t fresh and slipped himself into a small indent in the cave wall. The stone was cold and he curled his knees to his chest, wrapping the simple robe he was wearing over his legs. Like a wave, exhaustion hit him and he drifted off into a restless sleep.

---

When Forral opened his eyes not much changed. In the pitch dark of the cave, he couldn’t even see the tip of his nose. It was the dead of night, but something had woken him up. Forral would have stood up to investigate, but some sixth sense kept him rooted in place.

He sat motionless, listening intently and trying in vain to peer through the gloom. His nostrils flared, the smell of animal hitting him harder than when he had entered and, finally, he heard it. What he had first thought to be the wind brushing by the mouth of the cave, was something else. Long, slow breaths dragged themselves across the stone cave. The steady rise and fall was so subtle and so dragged out that it could easily be ignored as background noise.

But still, the breaths of something large and sleeping echoed through the small cavern in the cliffside. Forral was frozen, his mouth drying out. HE had to fight the urge to swallow, as that may make noise. The young boy tried to muffle his breathing and rise to his feet, moving as slow as his jumpy muscles would allow.

He couldn’t see anything so he had no idea what was in the cave with him, but he could still feel its presence, bubbling outwards like a warm balloon, pressing Forral against the cave wall and squeezing the breath in his chest. He was standing now, so now he could begin to make his way out. Forral inched along the wall, arms outstretched to keep his balance. He only moved when whatever it was in the cave drew a breath in, when it was the loudest. As Forral inched his way closer to the exit to the cave, both the light and the noise of the beast grew.

Forral could make out a large shape barely a shade darker than the rest of the cave, rising and falling. It was larger than him, larger than even a Stonebird, although he still could not discern any details of the creature. Its hot breath pooled outwards, steaming against Forral’s toes, as if to remind the boy that its jaws were right there, just waiting to be woken up and snap.

His knees wobbled and his muscles screamed, every fiber of his being was urging him to leap into action or to flee, but Forral had to fight it. The beast kept on sleeping and he kept inching onwards. He could see it now, the outside world. A cloud must have been covering the moon because now the world shone silver, just a few feet away. The mouth of the cave was so near and it was all Forral could do to not make a dash at that instant.

The sound of a bird call split the night. It sounded like a bird being attacked by something and squawking one last, harsh time. The sound rang through the cave and shook Forral, his heart plummeting. He felt no pity for whatever bird had just been killed, because the breathing had hitched.

Forral’s body iced over as he tried to become one with the stone wall. The short, curt inhale of someone waking up was followed by a long, sighing puft of air. Forral screwed his eyes shut as the beast stood up, the sound of claws scraping against stone etching themselves into Forral’s ears. The boy made the mistake of turning to look at the creature.

The tall, dark silhouette filled the cave in its entirety, looming like the specter of death itself. It hadn’t seemed to have noticed him, but still, eight feet off the ground, Forral saw two glinting amber orbs, shining forth from the gloom. The thing yawned, revealing a gaping maw filled with glinting, curved teeth that glistened with saliva, reflecting the moon.

Blood pounded in Forral’s ears and hundreds of chemicals flooded his blood. His eyes darted between the beat’s terrifying amber wells and the jaws that could surely sever an arm in a single snap. He felt his leg twitch, his robe rustling. The beast turned its gaze towards him and then suddenly Forral’s feet were pounding against dirt and the night air rushing by, bounding like a rabbit away from the cave.

A shadow passed over the moon and plunged the world back into darkness as his feet carried him away from the cave. Forral heard the beast get startled by his sudden appearance, but only in the basest part of his mind, where all thought had been shunted. Likewise, as he thundered blindly through the canyon floor, he heard a growling bark that shook the trees. Forral barreled into something hard and shaggy, thudding backwards and falling to the ground. How the hell had it gotten in front of him!

Forral tried to get up but an enormous, clawed paw shot down onto his chest, pinning him to the ground. Forral screamed, tears openly flowing, The thing’s snout descended and hovered above Forral’s face. Boiling breath washed over Forral as the beast opened its jaws. He tried to bat the thing’s face away, but it wasn’t affected, it just hovered there, breathing deeply.

“Why can’t I smell you,” A deep, gravelly voice hissed out, “Why do you not have a scent.”

Forral was momentarily frozen. Had it been the thing that spoke? The clawed paw pressed into his chest.

“Well?! You aren’t Him, you are clearly mortal! Why can’t I smell you,” the creature growled, its jaws still placed directly above Forral’s neck and dripping with spittle.

“Y-you can talk!” Forral gurgled out, his eyes never leaving the terrifying maw.

“I have been able to talk since before your sniveling species learned how to stack two stones together,” The beast sneered as the moon reappeared from behind the inky clouds, illuminating Forral’s attacker.

The beast’s shaggy gray fur was matted and unkempt. Its barrel chest cut a strangely proud shape against the night sky and Forral could see a long tail swishing behind its strong haunches. The creature’s wolf-like face was curled up in a vicious snarl, its orange eyes blazing with rage that seemed ill-suited for the beast. Despite the fear coursing through his veins and the fact that he had never seen the once-regal being before, Forral felt a rush of recognition and even sadness as he gazed upwards at the monstrous visage.

Forral was speechless, a turbulent whirlpool of emotions, some not even his own, spiralling inside him. He felt the claws dig into his chest as the beast leaned down closer to Forral. Soon, all the boy could see was the snarling face of Toog, the First Hound.

“Now tell me, who the hell are you.”

Mortalkind had proven to be an unknowable enigma in many respects. Even with all of its knowledge, even with the time to reflect upon that knowledge, and even with the emotional context provided by its twin--working out a strict pattern that governed the behaviour of mortalkind had proved impossible. This was a good thing, in truth--if the way to live and the way to act could be distilled to a unique and perfect pattern, existence would lose swaths of its meaning. Without that meaning, there could be no Truth--and so it was that the God of Truth gazed upon mortalkind and devised another test to determine what mortals might do when attempts to subvert their Truth, in one way or another, failed. Of all the species to bless with this gift, there was only one that seemed rightfully fitting--the spawn of Klaarungraxus Rux, made in his great and terrible image. They had proven to be an exceptionally consistent people, socially and biologically, and some remained that had been present when the Gods still walked the earth. Despite the trials and tribulations of their existence--filled with internal strife as it was--they had largely remained the same and resisted outside influence exceptionally well. Anything that had been brought into the fold of the Vrool had been done so in their image and at their pleasure--they were not prone to the eddies of the cultural zeitgeists that the other races seemed to find themselves at the mercy of. They had remade all that they encountered and allowed into their fold in their own image--this was their Truth. In order for the God of Truth's experiments with mortalkind to have any merit, they needed a control group--and given the nature of the Vrool, they were the perfect subjects to suspend in perpetuity.

So it was that the God of Truth elected to bless them with the greatest gift of all: resistance to change.

By its design, the Vrool would find themselves completely inured against any and all effects that would seek to alter their mental state. Fìrinn had a particular mind to ward them against the infectious bliss of hedonistic pleasure and the carnal rapture of beauty and charm that had laid so many low in the past. Visions of the Goddess of Love sprung to mind, and scenes of debauchery filled the infinite mirrors of the Worldly Circles as Fìrinn remembered what Neiya had done to mortalkind in the past, and what those she had helped create might do if left unchecked. Such weapons, though typically ineffective against those with vastly different Truths, could conceivably find a way to corrupt any other being through the tangled skeins of the Great Weave, and Fìrinn would do all in its power to prevent such an abuse of its work from ever occurring. Fortunately, the basis for such a blessing had existed and integrated itself into Vrool society over thousands of years--the anchor at Ku had woven their minds together, and through the auspices of that ancient alliance Fìrinn could work new miracles.

---

Deep beneath the waves, in the caves inhabited by the Coven of Xes, a group of warlocks huddled around the soft golden glow of a sheet of polished nacre. What had once been the half-shell of a colossal bivalve had been scrubbed and polished and washed in telluric sorcery now served as an instrument of scrying and reflection. Within it, from time to time, they had spied the strange, glassy form of a creature which looked wholly unlike them--and it had been a sign of augury and prognostication each time it had chosen to reveal itself to them. It had never spoken, it had never done anything other than wait and listen--but on this fateful day they spied it and it looked just as they did! A portentous moment, to be certain, and one that merited much in the way of discussion and debate--then, for the first time, it spoke! Its glassy voice rang in their minds like the sound of great gyres turning upon themselves, and as it spoke they were filled with not light but illumination.

Thy sorcery is great, but it protects not the seat of Truth. From now until the end of time, you and yours shall never stray from Truth.

Then, as swiftly as it had appeared, Faileasiar was gone--and the illumination within them remained. A new dawn had risen for the Vrool.

“Oops.”

It was a beautiful day on Galbar, or a horrible windswept one. Or it was blistering. Or freezing. Quite frankly Galabr had more climates than was worth mentioning. The lifeblood wasn’t a fan of minimalism, really. Anyways the point is, somewhere someone was having the day of their lives. It was beautiful, where they were.

That person was, in fact, having the best day of anyone on Galbar. Why? Well, a god on high had made a mistake. It wasn’t something that happened every day, or every century, but the gods were as far from infallible as their creations. Age brought wisdom, yes, but nothing removes that particular stain of intellectual dishonesty which begins with ‘Well I thought it was a good idea’.

Because it was not a good idea. It was a terrible idea. The god who’d done it was entirely aware of this. In the future they’d defend themselves, if it came to it, but really they’d done it to see what happened. What happened was not good. Well, not good for certain people. For one person it was effectively the greatest thing that would ever happen.

You see, Tekret Et Heret, the god of Rulership and Contracts, the King Maker, had lost something. Well, it wasn’t lost so much as thrown at Galbar with a reckless abandon. Tekret had, as was their fashion, created something in the hopes that it would help some would be king or queen. This time though, they'd decided to leave it around and see who found it.

King or Queen, it was just a title after all. Often a good King was one who just blundered into it. That was the theory anyway. The execution had come up short. Extremely, terrifyingly, short. For Tekret had created an artifact of terrible power, something which could change the fate of nations.

It had been meant for a man or woman to change the world, or at least a corner of it. Instead, it had landed in the hands of Gregory. Gregory was, as it happened, the most alcoholic man currently alive, or close enough that the competition was essentially a toss up. He’d imbibed so much liquor that he was half blind, yellow in the face, and utterly destitute.

At least, until a ratty old book had fallen from the sky and knocked him out. Had Gregory been a smarter man, he might have thrown the book away, after all it was clearly trash thrown from a window. Sadly, Gregory was stupid like a fox. He’d opened the book, learned what it was, and using a finger covered in gutter filth written something in it.

This was how Gregory, a man with maybe a year or two of life left in his frail body, became Supreme High Lord King Emperor Man The Best of his shitty impoverished Mydian village. How did this happen? Well, he wrote it. Gregory had, through absolutely no merit of his own, stumbled upon the Book of Law.

Unfortunately, he had once been a better man and so knew how to write.

He wrote that he was in charge.

Sancta Civitas

It was almost finished. The mighty sailing vessel, the designs of which burned in Tadiza’s mind like an angry god trying to break into reality, was almost finished. It had two decks, thus creating a relatively safe internal area, and sticking out of either side of the ship were two rows of oars, one atop the other. It was the largest and grandest ship Sancta Civitas’ shipyards had ever produced, dwarfing them in terms of size, capacity and rowing power. Even its sails were grander, its mighty masts towering above all others, each end of the beams bound by ropes that spooled down to the deck which allowed them to be directed.

There was little else to be done, she knew, as she carved the Figurehead, the face of the ship in the image of symbol she did not know nor understand, but which she knew was important. Already the winds gently whipped around it as they did the figureheads created by the Emissary, but this one would be something more. It meant something more.

The Inscrutable Inventor knew in the back of her mind that once she finished carving the figurehead it would all be over. Her work would be complete. The rush of inspiration would die. She soldiered on regardless, she couldn’t help it, couldn't stop. She had to see her work complete no matter what.

Others, however, had different plans. The Builder-Priests had seen this play out once before and refused to be caught flat footed again when Tadiza’s Inspiration died and the plans for how to create the wondrous vessel died with her. For the most part they’d been content to shadow her, a small story of priests watching her every move, examining how she and those caught in her spell had created each and every facet of the ship. It had worked so far, they had compiled their findings onto stone tablets that they could use to build yet more craft, but this final part of the ship had them stumped.

“It is like what we make but there's something. Something more”, admitted a carpenter who had produced numerous enchanted figureheads for the city’s vessels.

“I agree,” conquered an Akua Servent called Velnik. The Mage was for all intents and purposes an utterly hairless night elf who lacked the distinctive fonds of the elf clad likely due to a goblin clad ancestor somewhere in his line, “Whatever she is producing I do not understand. I do believe the carving itself is a form of Somatic magic however. Her motions are inefficient and have that artful grace to them that the non verbal spells in The Library knows have.”

“Can you replicate?” asked the aging goblin woman, clad in a black toga and wearing a crown adorned with a replica of Artifex’s horns, who was leading the builder-priest’s observation team.

The Servant shook his head, “no mam, and you’re running out of time.”

“I know child” she told the Akua, who was already older than she would ever live to, before coming to a decision “The ship is a wonder even if we install a mundane windcaller figurehead and who knows when inspiration will strike her again? The risk of ruining the enchantment is worth what you might learn”

She beckoned to a pair of royal guards she’d enlisted and pointed to the Tadiza “Take her. Gently”

“Of course your artfulness” one of the pair of Mantarin woman replied before the two approached the inventor. The two hulking armored ladies stepped around either side of Tadiza’s buzzing wings and grabbed her by the shoulders simultaneously.

“Ah! oh. You scared me. Go away I’m in the middle of some very delicate work” she complained, before squirming futility in their grip.

“Sorry, but you need to come with us” one told her, before they both pulled her off away from the nearly completed figurehead.

“No. Wait. You can’t! I need to finish. Help. Help me!” she yelled to the various workers who had been aiding her in her work. They looked over at her in alarm, but the goblin priest stepped past her, telling them that “All is well. She committed no sins. Will released soon. This all part of Artifex’s plans,” specifically directing these words at the Vespain woman’s sisters who had wound up working on the project.

It was not they who rushed to her aid however, placate as they were by the words of the priest, but instead a goblin captain, three workers and a builder-priest, all of whom had been exhibiting lesser degrees of the same uncanny abilities as the Inventor. The quintet of minions pushed their way out of the crowd, clamoring for her release and echoing her urgency that the work needed to be done now. The builder-priest would have none of it telling them that “you stay till return. Artifex wills it”

“He wills that this task be done!” retorted the Mantarin builder-priest among Tadiza’s minions who loomed over the goblin “and we need her, the vision of his glory burns bright in her”

“We take her. Holy work is to be done. This been agreed by council.”

“Why were we not included? Are Tadiza and I not also two of his many hands upon Gablar?”

“You here. You not right of mind. Stay. It is ordered.” the goblin commanded the comparatively titanic Mantarin, before turning her back on her and moving to join those currently dragging Tadiza away. There was a tense few moments as the Mantarin physically vibrating on the spot as she glared down at the goblin builder-priest walking to rejoin her fellows and the captured Inventor, the other four minions standing tense at her side. But she did not make a move, for in the end her loyalty to her loyalty to her faith blunted the power the Inventor’s mania held over her.

The pair of royal guards dragged the Vespian though the streets as she raged and cried at them to let her return and complete her work, but after a certain amount of time she gew sullen and instead began to moan about them ruining her work and how much she’d need to redo. Her demands were sternly declined. Instead the builder-priests dragged her to an Ant drawn cart, which took her and them up into the palace district, and then to The Library.

The institute of hub of magical learning was abuzz with activity as Tadiza was pulled inside, flanked by Velnik and the gaggle of Builder-Priests. Citizens and professional mages alike could be seen perusing the shelves full of magic literature, listening to lectures, discussing spell-craft or even practicing non destructive spells with the slab sat in front of them. The commotion caused by only drew a few curious glances at first as Tadiza was brought to a section of the library dedicated to the recording of new magics.

“Now. This important. You show The Library magic you inscribing.” the goblin builder-priest ordered her.

“No. You already ruined it. Just let me go back!” Tadiza yelled at her

“Once spell documented you may go child” the goblin explained calmly

“Fine!” Tadiza replied, before, still held tightly in place by the guards, making a grab for one of the glowing motes in the library.

The light did as it was meant to, forming into a stone tablet in her hands which Velnik the Servant eagerly grabbed as soon as it was finished. He rapidly read it over and then shook his head, “It’s like the druid mural. It just says how to become what she is, not how to do the specific thing she was working on. It even says here that it’s not something she can actively decide to do. She needs to be ‘Inspired’ to do anything and then once she’s done the knowledge just slips away. Interesting, very interesting, but not what we were aiming to record.”

The builder-priest sighed, before instructing Tadiza to “Do again. Focus on figurehead child.”

“I am! I can't think about anything else!” Tadiza screamed back at her, grabbing another mote, and yet this too produced the same description. As did the next.

Her screaming and yelling had brought the rest of the library to a standstill. Most simply watched, struck by bystander syndrome. In the end it was a painter who barreled out of the newly constructed section of the library containing the Walls of Infinity to complain about the ruckass.

“Be quiet.” the goblin artists demanded, jabbing a paint mixing stick at them “making happy paint. you ruin my joy with noise!”

Everyone shut up and stared at the fuming goblin. Then Velnik had an idea. “Yes yes, this is perfect we can still get something out of her. Expect this I mean” he said before shoving the tablet about Inventors into the priest's hands and walking over to the painter “You can make paint out of anything, correct? Even abstract things like thoughts and emotions?”

“Seems so? Expose ink to thing. It becomes like thing” the goblin agreed, still rather angry “what to you?”

“We’re going to need some rope”

---

“Was mad. But this cruel” the painter admitted as Tadiza squirmed and raged in the chair she’d been tied to, surrounded by bowls of ink in the vault used to store that paint. She’d been tied there for quite some time, which had allowed the ink to soak up her Inspired mental state, or so they hoped. Several of those present were starting to regret the entire ordeal, but they’d come too far now to stop.

“Must be done now?” the builder-priest said, to which the artist nodded, before asking “Who test?”

“Well it was my idea” Velnik said, taking a paintbrush and dipping it in the ink “I just apply this to my body and it’ll work?”

“Yes. Briefly. We trying make better ways-” the painter was explaining when Velnik dabbed the ink on his forehead. He stopped explaining because the elfine Servant promptly decked the builder-priest in the face and then used magic to form a trio of stone knives out of thin air which he fired at the three sets of rope holding Tadiza captive, expertly severing each and every one.

“Be free, free! ah ha ha ha!” he laughed as the wasp took off and bolted past the group, before coming to his senses just in time to be tackled by one of royal guards.

Once the dust settled and things had been worked out the group went racing after the Vespian.

“There was some of it in there, I could feel the ‘Inspiration’, but it was distinctly her Inspiration and it was clouded by the anger and frustration” Velnik yelled as they raced through the streets. It was obvious where Tadiza was going and in quick succession they traveled by ant back down to the docks where the Vespian Inventor was yelling at her minions and the workers to start tearing out parts of the ship. She completely ignored the arrival of her kidnappers, having become deeply re-enraptured with her project.

“So. It wasn't all in the figure head. Interesting” Velnik noted as the ship’s mast crashed down onto the dockside, while the builder-priest cupped her head in her hands and mourned all the progress they’d just lost.

“All for nothing” she groaned

“Well, we could always try pulling it directly out of her right?” Velnik said as he glanced at the painter for confirmation,

“Well. yes. create also destroy” the painter reluctantly explained

“No. Done enough damage.” the builder-priest said, her own actions having grown nauseating to her in the stark glare of hindsight and at the sight of the destruction it had caused.

“Could bring ink out here. Absorb while working?” the painter suggested, “much less cruel”

“Ah but wouldn't that have the same issue of contamination?” Velnik replied

“From sun. Working spirit. Sea air. Not rage. Less distracting?” the painter replied

“Hmm. perhaps. There must be a way to filter the ink. Get exactly what you want” Velnik thought, rubbing his chin, “but even if we do that, we’ll only be able to get this servile effect.”

“Will Inspire her again?” the builder-priest asked,

“Maybe? She seems to be a new breed of Servant or witch. Only specific people can do what she does”

“If so, do it. Get something out of ordeal”

Which was how Tadiza ended up spending the entire rebuilding process being followed around by people carrying bowls of ink, much to her annoyance.

---

Volv Eaoir hadn’t exaggerated - their lessons had started the very next day. To begin with, the eight initiates had been divided into four groups of two and been subsequently given to four different mentors: Gion and Chass had been given to Cer Bron, a gruff-looking man with a scar over his blind left eye; Tolk and Fina had been given to Cer Cayn, the Night Elven druid who had gathered the nelfling apprentices; Logo and Iro had been given to Cer Voin, a giddy Night elven woman with bright tattoos all over her body and a blindfold over her eyes; and Pia and Call had been given to Cer Tess, who seemed rather satisfied with the arrangement.

The first lessons focused almost entirely on intercultural exchange - the humans would learn of Night Elven culture, and the nelflings would study human culture. Additionally, they would spend the first four years of their education learning each others’ languages fluently. To begin with, though, the mentors functioned as translators.

The first day, the children and nelflings learned to greet each other properly. As such, the nelflings were given ample amounts of moss to put in their ears so they could practice their voiced speaking, while the humans were given exercises and tongue twisters to be performed while whispering. From dawn until midday, all the children who had human mentors did was practice their pronunciation; the nelflings who had human mentors had joined them, many-layered blindfolds around their eyes to make the experience less unpleasant. For the children under the guidance of a Night Elf, they sat blindly in the night practicing alongside their nightkin peers until midnight. When the apprentices had each practiced until midday or midnight, the time came to learn the respective greetings.

Pia stared intently at Call, whose sweaty brow and flat mouth indicated obvious discomfort with the time of day (or the fact that it was day at all). Even through the thick blindfold, Pia could see pained, quivering eyelids trying to block out the powerful midday sun. Cer Tess offered his shoulder a supportive pat.

“Shoch’ak’. Pia-hsa ta-cha-k’ok’,” she whispered calmly to him. Pia frowned with confusion while Call looked down at his knees in embarrassment.

“‘Eh… ‘Elloh,” he squeaked. Pia couldn’t help but snicker and Call grit his teeth shamefully. Cer Tess shot Pia a strict glare and the girl piped down. She then squeezed Call’s shoulder again, softer this time. “Ee-ok’ shoch’ak’.” Call tried again.

“‘Eh… ‘Elloh. Ma-ee na-eem--”

“Name,” Cer Tess corrected.

“Nee--... Nah-eem…”

“Name - neh, neh.”

Call’s frown hardened even through the cloth. “Nah, nah.” Cer Tess sighed.

“Hso pok’-see-toch. ‘Nah’ ak’-loch. ‘Neh’ loch.”

Call snarled and hammered at the ground, causing Pia to flinch. “Tseet’ loch!” he whispered sharply. Cer Tess nodded understandingly.

“Tseet’ loch’ee-oh. Seek’ k’ee-ar’fach’ee-oh. Hso tro-eet’ paa’loch’ee-oh,” she said with a small smile. Call looked away

“Hsee tro-eet’ paa’loch ak’kolch…” Cer Tess sighed again.

“Hso rak’ kaam’ak’.” She then looked at Pia. “You give it a go.”

Pia snapped into focus again. “Wh-wha?”

“I said, give it a go.”

Pia frowned. “B-but he hasn’t finished yet!”

“He said he’s tired and needs a break. Maybe he’ll feel more at ease if he hears that his companion has been practicing as diligently as he has.”

“He probably just wants to hear me fail like he did…”

“That can also help him feel more at ease,” said Cer Tess with a snicker. Pia’s cheeks flushed and she offered Call a quick look. She could tell he was staring back. She drew a nervous breath and sighed.

“Ch-... Chao’shee--!” she said slowly and loudly as though speaking to someone hard of hearing. Call instantly covered his ears and groaned. Cer Tess took Pia by the shoulder and pulled her in close.

“Quieter, Pia - so quiet you can barely hear it yourself.”

“I-I’m trying, but--!”

“Calm down. Give it another try - and remember: So quiet you can barely hear yourself talk. Also, it’s ‘tsao’hsee’, not ‘chao’shee’.”

“I-I know that!” Pia’s frown darkened. “Why do they have to whisper all the time?! It’s so… Stupid!” She hear Call groan again and looked up to see him cover his ears defensively, his brow revealing the irritated glare aimed back at her.

“Hsa tsa-ee paaok’ loch!” he whispered sharply at Cer Tess, who hissed back through her teeth. Call instantly backed down. The druid grabbed Pia firmly by the arm.

“L-let go!” struggled Pia.

“Pia, listen. What Volv Eaoir said yesterday wasn’t a joke, you understand? You are here now, and this is your new life. I know - I know how -awful- this training is in the beginning, but I promise you that you’ll come to like it eventually.”

“N-nooo! I wanna go home!” Cer Tess pulled her into a hug, which Pia desperately tried to get out of like some trapped beast. “Stop!”

“If you need to take your rage out on someone, take it out on me,” whispered the druid soothingly into her ear. Pia pummeled and bit at one of the arms holding her trapped. Cer Tess whimpered a little, but held on. “You hate it here, I know. You miss your parents, your brother-- agh! You hate Volv Eaoir, you hate Call, you hate me - you hate everything and everyone you’ve seen and met over the past night and day.” Pia’s strikes were growing weak with weariness and the girl unleashed challenging screams and shouts as she pulled and tore at Cer Tess’ now-bleeding arm. Call wrapped his arms over his head to block out all the sound. “But we don’t hate you,” Cer Tess continued. “You’re unique - there’s only one Pia, and none of us would trade you away for anything or anyone. You’re one of us now.”

Pia’s sloppy strikes reached their limit and the girl slumped down into Cer Tess’ arms. The druid offered her a small smile and caressed her cheek. “You’re one of us.”

“... You don’t even know me…”

“Well… It’s not like we won’t have time to get to know one another, right?”

Pia looked away with a scoff. She then pushed herself out of the now-weakened grasp and sat down across from Call again. Looking down on the ground again, she mumbled under her breath: “... Ch-chao’shee--...”

“Tsao’hsee,” corrected Cer Tess as she pulled strips of cotton off the hem of her robe to wrap around the bleeding bite marks on her arm. Pia scoffed at her and looked back at Call, who was wearing a somewhat pitiful expression.

“Ts-how’see…” Pia scowled over her shoulder. Cer Tess sighed, but nodded for her to continue. “... See-... See Pia choh-loch.”

Call’s frown hardened and his lips pursed. “Hso sok toch?”

Pia blinked and looked helplessly at Cer Tess. “What’s he saying now?!”

“Quieter, Pia. He didn’t quite understand you. Here, do this with your tongue…”

The rest of the afternoon was spent reviewing the tongue twister and voice exercises from earlier and trying to perfect the pronunciations. Many more outbreaks of anger took place from both Call and Pia, and by the time the sun was setting, Cer Tess’ arms were full of cuts, bite marks and bruises. Pia had acquired a black eye from her and Call fighting at one point, and she had retaliated by biting a bloody mark into his lower right arm. The knives they were glaring at one another could’ve cut someone at range. Cer Tess had promised them - one proper greeting. One proper greeting, and they could call it a day. Pia had been close - she just couldn’t manage that soft palatalisation. It was Call’s turn now - their battle could potentially be settled any minute. The nelfling opened his mouth:

“‘Ello. Ma-ee nah--... Ne’-eem is… Call. Na-ees tee-- too! Meet’ yee-- yu!” The two of them looked at Cer Tess expectantly. The druid scrunched her nose.

“Hsok’ hso dar mak’ ro-faal ma-ee loch.” Call drew a hopeful breath as Cer Tess wagged her head pensively from side to side. “Cho-faal’ee-oh. Hso kaam rach’ak’.” Victoriously, Call threw his hands into the air, got up and ran to the hut they had been sleeping in the night before. Pia looked at Cer Tess as though she had stabbed her in the back.

“You let him go for -that-?!”

“He’s been trying hard all day. You have too. He showed me his best, and it was good enough for his first day. Therefore I let him go to bed. If you do the same, I will let you go, too.”

Pia frowned, but managed not to let her anger and frustration surface for a change. She whispered quietly to herself to warm up before opening her mouth properly to say, “Ts’ao’see…” she opened and studied Cer Tess’ expression, who motioned for her to continue. “... See Pia choh--... chohl’loch.” She felt that familiar sting in the nose whenever the tear canals activate. She had failed again. Call had skipped off without issue and she had failed again.

Cer Tess sighed. “... We’ll continue tomorrow. Go get yourself some sleep.” Pia blinked.

“B-but that was worse than before!” Cer Tess shrugged.

“It may have been, but I doubt it’ll improve by you getting frustrated while battling those falling eyelids.” She got to her feel and eyed the darkened sky. “We’ll be starting early tomorrow, too. Get yourself some sleep.”

“B-but…!” However, Cer Tess walked away, leaving Pia alone on the plateau. The Nelven groups were beginning to prepare for their lessons. With a defeated bend in the neck, Pia retreated into her, Cer Tess’ and Call’s hut to sleep.

---

The weeks passed quickly this way, and while the constant exposure to the same faces over and over didn’t exactly lessen the brewing tensions between the apprentices, they eventually got so used to one another that they couldn’t even be angry at one another anymore. After the first week, all the groups would switch from day to night and night to day. This switched back and forth every week, and the apprentices felt it only served to tire them out even more. The weeks turned to months, and months turned to years. Their respective foreign vocabularies grew ever richer as their mentors introduced stories of the gods and sacred lore into their daily routine. The students learned the story of creation, how Or and Kii created the sun and moon; how Por created the ground and Laa, the sea; Chann, the woods and Ros, the sky; Finn, the mind, and Ma’k’, the heart. They learned of the cultures and customs of one another - humans learned to whisper properly and politely to their nelfling peers, and the nelflings learned to sing and talk using their voices. The children were schooled intensely in different kinds of flowers, their scents and textures, as well as medical and olfactory applications; the nelflings were taught about colours and how to paint, exploring the spheres of visual art. In their free time, Cer Tess took Pia and Call to study birds and animals in their habitat to learn more about nature’s balance.

“An’, an’ t’at? Vat iss t’at?” Call squeaked giddily and pointed at an enormous owl resting atop a tall tree. Pia, meanwhile, was dozing off on Cer Tess’ shoulder. The mentor grinned from ear to ear.

“That’s an owlix, Call,” she whispered back. “They are the children of Kii. Every new moon, they are born, and for a whole month until the moon is reborn, at which point they die and, too, are reborn.”

Call narrowed his white eyes. “Onlee a mons? Why sso sho’t?”

Cer Tess shrugged. “One of life’s great mysteries, I suppose.” Call narrowed his eyes.

“Sho’d not troo-et noch?” he whispered. Cer Tess snickered.

“It’s pronounced ‘druid’ and ‘know’, Call, and no, I don’t think we should. It’s important as druids to understand that the world, the way the gods made it, it’s not for us to understand in its entirety. We need only understand our godsgiven mission and carry it out to the best of our ability.”

Call remained unconvinced. ”Ch’ot loch…” Cer Tess sighed.

“Call, today we speak k’ee-cho-ag, not tsao-cho-ag...”

Call clicked his tongue through a frown. ”Tsao loch. Hsii tsao-cho-ag see-tach’ee-oh.”

Cer Tess closed her eyes. “One day, my son, you will encounter humans who need you aid in the middle of the night. By that time, you must’ve moved on from thoughts like that that only seek to divide daykin and nightkin.”

”Hsee seek’ pok’ loch k’ho’? K’ee-cho-ag k’ee-ta loch; tsao-cho-ag tsao-ta loch. Ar hsok’ ro k’ee tsao hsach loch. Hso hsee chee toll-fach ak’sal, ro’sok?” Cer Tess shook her head.

“We are your family now, Call.” She scooped up Pia into her arms and pulled Call in for a hug, though he seemed reluctant. ”Hsii tok’ hsamsa loch.” Call growled angrily, but didn’t fight it.

---

The second, third and fourth year were dedicated to fully understanding one another. The children were tasked to make scented oils and perfumes from plants and growths they could forage in the forest, and were schooled heavily in what they dubbed “whisperspeak”. They were taught to carve nelven wood glyphs and understand them with their palms. They were taught how to navigate the world in the dark of the night and the deep caves and caverns around Godlach’s area, as well as the importance of both oral and bodily hygiene. They had also been practicing gestures and sounds for a while, and Pia and Call sat facing one another one day. Call was wearing his sweat-yellowed linen blindfold. Pia was nervous - she had been practicing her gestures for the last four weeks; today, she had to show her skill.

They weren’t overseen by Cer Tess this time - she was busy evaluating Gion and Chass across the plateau. No, instead Cer Voyn kept a close eye on them, her bright tattoos beaming just as much as her smile. The mentor clapped her hands and glanced at the two of them through her blindfolds.

”Tah, ar-hsoe. T’ompi k’ho?”

”Hsee, jah, k’o-tii loch.” Pia replied. Call nodded in agreement.

Cer Voyn giggled. ”Ah, hsee hso chee k’at pak’ loch-ee’oh! Ak’k’o-tii, llo - shoch’ak ro-faal, ak’cho-faal, ah…” She offered a sympathetic shrug. ”Ak’k’o-tii-ak’! Pia, hso shan tso’ak’. Hso Call hsiak’ see-tach, Call-hsa hso ak’aa-ee chee hsok’ see-toch-ee-oh. Fak’hsia ro’sok?”

Pia sighed in relief. This one was easy. She opened one half mouth and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth twice. To her panic, though, both Cer Voyn and Call shook their heads.

”Pok’-see-tach. Hsok’ ro aa-ee ar fak’hsia-ee-oh. Ee-ok’ shock’ak’.”

Pia calmed her breathing and pursed her lips, placing her tongue behind her lower front teeth and clicking it against the roof of her mouth. Cer Voyn smiled.”Loch! Hsoa hsok’ hsil ar cha-ee-ee-oh - choo rrap: ppo; srrah lak’: wah! Loch k’ho?”

”L-loch.” Pia responded politely, readying herself for the next question. Cer Voyn noted her silence and continued:

”Tah, jann hsa-ee: Call hso ppan loch, hso oo-tach chee cha-k’ok’. Ro’sok’?”

Pia narrowed her eyes. Trick question.

Hsa pi hsee t’a sha-oo?” Cer Voyn smirked.

”Ro-faal. T’a loch.”

Pia rose to her feet, then stopped. She still didn’t have all the pieces. ”Hsee hsa ro-faal-ro-pok’ rak’shii?”

Cer Voyn shrugged. ”Ppan loch. Jaaaah… Cheen-ppan loch!” Pia clicked her tongue sideways and walked around Call’s back, laying a flat palm on the lower end of his back muscles. Call swallowed - it was evident he was a little uncomfortable. Cer Voyn patted his shoulder.

La-shoch loch-ee-oh, tofi-hsee. Hso hsok’ cheen-aff oo-akk-la chamkii-loch.” Pia, meanwhile, sat back down opposite of Call and Cer Voyn clapped her hands together softly. ”Ro-faal, Pia! Tah, jann hsa-ee - hso cha-ee tso ak’toll-fach, seek’ Call chee mah hoh rafach loch, hsa chee ka’rak’ nak’ee choom rachon?”

Pia furrowed her brow. ”Hs-hsa chee ppal?”

”An! Ro’hak’?”

”Ppal shaa-chon chee tt’an loch, shaa-chon chee aa-che-an mah-pah rafach tok’ hsam-kach.” Pia replied determined. Cer Voyn smiled.

”Ah, pang ro-faal! Pang saaf, fanfi-hsee! Tah, oo-an hoh-ee! Call hsok’ barr-parr-ee-oh k’ho?” She giggled and Call gulped. Pia nodded firmly. ”Tah… Hso Call tok’ aa-ee-mak’ loch, ka’rak’ nak’ee choom rachon?”

With that, Call rose up, his face a dark shade of plum, visible even underneath the old blindfold. He sniffed sheepishly and looked off to the side shyly as he spoke, ”Voyn-kar, hsii, hsii fach k’ho?”

Cer Voyn put her hand on her cheek and giggled. ”Lo, fach-ee-oh! Troo-et chee shaak’ loch!”

Call looked in the direction of Pia, who looked to be underestimating the gravity of the gesture that was about to be undertaken. Reluctantly, he sat back down on his knees, collecting his feet underneath his bottom and hanging his head. ”Choom’ak’...”

Pia frowned, but shrugged, crawled over and put her palm on Call’s belly. The nelfling whimpered in discomfort for the duration of the gesture, which he felt lasted ten times longer than necessary, and kept an elevated breath even after Pia had retreated. Cer Voyn clapped her hands again.

”Ro-faal! Ro’hak’ hsa nak’on choom, nah?”

”Tsao-mak’ totsi ma’kra’ loch ar hsiich, nak’on kanchoo-aa Ma’k’ chee hong moh tok’ paa’loch. Pia replied, feeling almost shocked that the gesture took that much out of her partner.

”Ro-faal, ro-faal! Chang-k’ong loch, fanfi-hsee! Pang ro-faal!” Cer Voyn shot a glance over at Call. ”Hsii kaam’ak. Hoh Call chee jann loch.”

While the children had been learning anything and everything regarding the Night Elves, the nelflings had been heavily schooled in the ways of daykin. They had been taught to use their voices to produce clearer and more distinct sounds, and were given lessons in painting with colours, singing and understanding stories presented with petroglyphs without touching them. They had also been trained to use their blindfolds as less of a blocking device and more of a light dampener, even though many complained that this was immensely painful on the eyes in the beginning. Most importantly, perhaps, were the hand gestures they had been taught. The break neared its end and Call and Pia once again sat down opposite of one another, Cer Voyn overseeing the two of them with a smile as bright as the sun.

“Okay, I think we’ll switch to k’ee-cho-ag this time. Would you be alright with that, Call?”

Call frowned, his hands halfway covering his ears. “Y-yeah…”

“Wonderful!” Cer Voyn cheered. “Did you bring your moss?”

Call sighed and pulled some moss out of the arm of his robe, stuffing a handful into each ear. Pia nodded at him and he nodded back. “Okay, Call, here’s your task. Pia has yelled something to you over a distance and you want to confirm that you heard her. How do you show this?”

Call frowned and looked down at his hands. Gingerly, he raised them above his head and presented two erect thumbs. Pia nodded, and as did Cer Voyn. “Very good! What else can this gesture symbolise?”

“Approval! Uhm… Cheerfulness? Support!”

Cer Voyn nodded. “Yes, all of those. Anything else?”

Call blinked behind his blindfold. Anything else? What else was there to show? He hesitated. “... Yes?”

Cer Voyn made a lopsided smirk. “Yes, there is.” She copied his gesture. “Sometimes, this may simply mean ‘upwards’.” Call made the kind of frown one makes when fresh fruit tastes unripe. Cer Voyn continued, “Particularly when humans build, the master builder will use this gesture to show that the workers should lift something higher. Likewise,” she inverted the gesture. “This can mean both ‘down’ and ‘bad’, ‘no’, ‘sadness’.” Call groaned and Cer Voyn giggled.

“Come now, that was only the first question. You did well, and there’re stlll three more.”

”Hso kan’pah-ee-oh,” whispered Pia with a weak smile. Call didn’t return much beyond a quiet scoff.

“Next task - demonstrate applause.”

Call flinched instinctively. “Do I have to?”

Cer Voyn nodded. “Indeed. Applause is a very important part of daykin cultures! If you feel like it’s uncomfortable, just put more moss in your ears.”

“I mean, it’s not just-...” He looked back at Pia, who still kept her small smile. The nelfling took a deep breath, sighed and breathed in again. He then started clapping his hands loudly, shouting, “WOO! WOO-HOO! Yes! Amazing! Bravo, bravo! Huzzaaah!” He didn’t look to be enjoying it one bit, but at least the sound was genuine. Cer Voyn joined in with a gleeful chuckle, and Pia couldn’t help but clap along, too. Call grimaced and eventually gave up, his sore hands clapping down on his kneecaps. Cer Voyn kept up hers for an additional few seconds.

“Very good, my son! Very good! Just… Next time, try to look like you’re enjoying it, too, alright? Nightkin might not see your face for its details, but the daywalkers will see your entire history on it.” She whooped one final time and then continued, “Okay, next task…” She turned to Pia and said, “Pia, your hair’s stupid.”

Pia turned and made a face. “Huh?”

Cer Voyn pointed at her while facing Call and said, “What expression is that?”

Through his own blindfold, Call observed. “A frown.”

Cer Voyn nodded. “How can you tell?”

“Furrowed brow, slight downwards nod as she pulled her head back. Mouth’s straight.”

Pia rolled her eyes and sighed. Cer Voyn pointed again. “Now what?”

“She’s pouting.”

“How can you tell?”

“Cheek’s propped up on her fist. Lips are loose or neutral. Brow’s still furrowed or flexed in some manner.”

“Yeah, yeah, keep staring - I’m just Pia with the stupid hair, la-dee-da…”

“Very good, my son! Now--” She poked Pia in the side and the girl squealed.

“Ow!” she whimpered and stroked the sore spot. “What was that for?”

“Call, how is she feeling?”

Call shifted to her in surprise. “Well, hurt, obviously!”

“How can you tell?”

“She just said--”

“Visually, my son.”

Call swallowed. “W-well, she’s… She’s frowning, showing that something’s upsetting her--”

“Does a frown always show that someone’s upset?”

“W-well, not always, but often! It’s usually some kind of disapproval. Furthermore…” He ran his eyes over his partner again. “She’s rubbing the sore spot. Her eyes are glistening more than usual, indicating that she’s about to cry--”

“AM NOT!”

Both Cer Voyn and Call covered their ears. Pia shrunk together. “Sorry…” Cer Voyn shook her head.

“No, no, this is good. People who have been hurt are liable to act out, and whereas nightkin would usually turn to speaking, daykin will often turn to yelling. You have to be ready for that, Call, to make sure your ears don’t start bleeding the second you try to help someone wounded. What else do you see?”

“I see… She’s glancing away.”

“Why is she doing that, you think?”

Call grit his teeth. “I-... Is it embarrassment?”

“Yup!”

“I’m not embarrassed!”

Cer Voyn chuckled. “Okay, that’s enough for now, I think. You both did very well. You both pass!” Call and Pia exchanged looks, mixed joy and relief on both faces. Cer Voyn reached out and squeezed both their shoulders. “You’ve both deserved a break. I think. Get yourselves some grub and enjoy the day. Tomorrow, we’ll practice some more.”

Pia and Call both nodded, bowed as low as they could while sitting and chorused. “Thank you. Tok’ maak.” Then they turned to one of the huts and walked together.

“Y’know… Your accent’s almost gone,” Pia noted. Call clicked his tongue approvingly.

”Hso ok’ mak ak’ro-moll-ee-oh.” He sighed. ”Ee seeh nan… Nak’ee zok’, nah?”

“I don’t know… Although…” She joined in his sigh. “... I wonder how my brother and parents are doing.”

Call stopped in his step and gave Pia a sympathetic frown. Pia stopped a few paces ahead, her eyes beginning to glisten. She immediately brought a finger to her right and wiped it thoroughly. “D-don’t look at me like that. I’ve accepted it, okay? I’m here now, and there’s no going back.” Call approached and put took her hand in his own. Pia sniffed. “... It’s weird, really. Among us, this is what boys and girls in love would do.”

Call recoiled. ”Hsoa tok’ droch k’ho?”

“No, no, no!” She held up their interconnected hands. “This. Handholding.”

Immediately, Call disconnected his hand and took a step back. Pia blinked, then giggled. “What, you didn’t know?”

Call looked down at his hand in disbelief. ”Hsee… Mak ‘hso aa-ee’ ak’toch, nah?”

“No-ho, nnno, you didn’t. And even if you did, by the way, I would’ve said no.”

He shook his head as though he had just seen flying pigs. ”Haho-kam aa-ee chee fal loch k’ho? Seek’, seek’ shan-hsa ta-cha-k’ ar hsa aa-ee shee ro’hak’?”

Pia waved and nodded upwards and Call rolled his eyes. ”Tah…”

“Yeah, it’s hard sometimes…” They had reached their hut. “Well, I’ll stay out for a bit longer. You’re going in to rest your eyes?”

”Loch, nah… Haho t’ong-ee-oh. Ro Cayn-kar chan, ar ka Call-hsee fafe t’al, faal-moll?”

“Yeah, sure! See ya tomorrow, Call.”

“See ya.” As Call ducked under the flapping pelt “door” of the hut, Pia ventured out across the grassgrown plateau in search of Cer Cayn’s delicious smelling pot of stew which he should be heating up around this time. Soon, the second part of their training would begin, and she was starting to feel eager to learn the practical duties of a druid.

The priestess tightly grasped a bloodied clothe as she felt the entire weight of the night sky upon her shoulders. From a young age, she learned of the five, the old-tongue, and the proper appeasements. She felt forsaken by the gods. A year has passed since the sky raged against the earth and devastated the freeholds unfortunate enough to settle on the lower grounds. The Ketrafans lacked mercy and reason, and when the only recourse was violence, the forces of the united settlements fell before their bronzed weapons. A stranger who spoke the old-tongue carried the lone survivor, and it was a matter of time before the Ketrafans approached upon their position.

The stranger spoke a fable that the thane once told, one of far-away paradise, repeating a phrase she had heard uttered from the old fool, "The stars lead to Elysium." It was hardly time to consider such things. All else died or deserted, the burden of leadership fell upon her. It seemed every day, more misfortune manifested. The thane's second son was born healthy but bore the monstrous features of the trolls. People have started to question the divinity of Tekret and had chased one of his priests from the camp as the people thought him loyal to the Ketrafans. The others doubted her leadership, and she could not fault them.

Her prayers to the five echoed out and were left unanswered. She obeyed the advice of the foolish thane and shouted her frustrations to the heavens. As she released her emotions, she heard the ever quietest whisper, "The stars lead to Elysium."

As her eyes opened, she saw a tranquil grassland and grazing beasts. It was must more simple and not as perfect as the stories, but she could feel what her eyes could not see. There were no trolls or Iskrill, and while she sensed something alien and threatening, it was distant. The soil was fertile, and the animals were gentle. There was a warm, welcoming aura surrounding the island. She tried to find its source but only caught a glimpse of a small, robed figure with a crook. Reaching out towards it, it almost felt as her hand brushed against fur.

Her vision was pulled away from the island and back towards her body. It went so quickly that she could only catch faint glimpses, but she could viscerally feel the length of the journey.

As her senses returned to the highlands, the presence lingered. It whispered, "Restraint is wisdom, dogma is foolhardy, kindness is divine."

Despite her sight returning to normal, her senses have not fully normalized. She shouted, but instead of words, she heard her intentions. Echoing back to her was her true feelings that she had buried. It was a surreal but oddly comforting experience. The friendly whisper left with, "Be aware of yourself and strive each day to be better than the last. You may become doubtful, you may falter, and you might experience hardship, but never shall you be alone. My strength goes with and awakes your own, Leto Delphi."

Delphi approached the remnants of the freeholds who gathered around a fire. She held the clothe woven by each settlement and blessed by Tekretian leadership rites, and as all of their eyes rest upon her, she tossed the trinket into the flame. The deadly silence was broken by her voice, "Today, you can follow me or you can not. I will walk towards a new land, Elysium. I recognize that it will not be perfect and that we shall find trials there as well. But it is a tranquil land, and when we arrive, the stars shall welcome us home." Her eyes rested upon the thane's wife, and her tone made her intention clear, "I will do whatever I can to protect and advocate for any person who follows me."

Auriëlle was getting close to Ha-Dûna, though she suspected the route she was told to take had been much longer than it need be. Curse those damn travelers. Why did they have to send her all the way up the high, rocky hills? Eventually, she caught sight of the place from atop a cliff. After one look she already hated it. The fields were just thrown around with seemingly wild abandon. Then again, you had no choice in a gods forsaken place like this. From her vantage point, she could see the various peasants tending the fields and filling their granaries. She felt a little happier, knowing that she never had to live as a farmer. These days, if someone told her to pick up a sickle she would have burned a field before the day was over. At the center, she saw a sizable town and a palisade core. After that there was just forest. “Should’ve chopped or burned that.” Auriëlle muttered to herself. The forest would’ve given more even ground to grow food on. But this was the land of druids. They lived in peace and harmony with the world.

What a load of deeply spiritualist, complacent crap that was. Druids could help grow fields and talk to the wild-life. Why the hell would they choose to live here? Screw it, it wasn’t her decision. She didn’t have to suffer living here. She only had to be there for a day maybe. Hopefully less.

She took the slow and winding path down the cliff. The closer she got to the town, the more she was blending in with the common pilgrims visiting the megaliths of the gods. Auriëlle ignored everyone and began to wander around the town. The language was utterly comprehensible, even though she knew it Ketrefian influences. The accents made it sound like they'd thrown Ketrefian into a mangle grinder and then let it soak in pig fat. She kept away from the palisade core for. Something there just felt…off. She knew druids wouldn’t harm a fly but it felt like that was the problem. Perhaps worse were the children constantly running about and playing. There were just far too many of those things around. Finally, she found someone dressed like a druid.

“You, druid. I need some answers.” Auriëlle approached the druid with a rather brusque demeanor.

The girl Auriëlle addressed looked up. She couldn't be older than seventeen. “Oh, I’m not a druid. Just a simple apprentice. What can I do for you?” She said with a much too cheery voice.

“I need a druid. Like yesterday. I need answers.” Auriëlle said though she began to question why she was so harsh. Perhaps it was the place. It was playing tricks on her. Something was wrong here, she felt it in her skin.

The apprentice didn’t seem to be bothered at all though. Which only made Auriëlle feel even more bothered. “Not a problem!” She said. “Follow me, I will bring you to the main hall where you can meet a druid.” With enthusiasm and almost a skip in her steps, she led Auriëlle through the palisade gates. “And these-“ She said as she spun around and swung her arms open, with the great stones of the gods behind her. “-are the megaliths!” She spun around and began to point out each one and which god it was dedicated to. When the stood amid the dolmen, she turned to Auriëlle. “Why do you require a druid?” She asked as she guided Auriëlle towards the courtyard with the megaliths.

Auriëlle was about to say that it was none of her business. Except it was her business. “I've got questions about the gods. The questions are-” It were questions she didn't trust with a city's priest. "-sensitive." She answered as she kept her eyes on those carved to the likeness of Oraelia. “Wonderful! I will notify the concerning druid. Please wait here.” The young girl said.

Auriëlle nodded in affirmation and began to walk around the courtyard. The tributes to the gods were stunning, even she had to admit that. She recognized some, like Oraelia who the druids called Reiya. Other had been foreign to her until she had talked to a druid, about a year ago. Like Mascal and Seeros. Though she saw the great stones more as a testament of how powerful mankind was. They had raised those stones, not the gods.

“A druid will talk to you when he has the time. Should you require a place to stay, the hall of the weary always has a bed free for a pilgrim such as you. Perhaps I could show you?” the apprentice asked, with a gentle, caring smile.

Auriëlle didn’t trust it. Druids talked to animals. What if they had a snake in her bed already? There was no reason to suspect they wanted her dead and druids rarely hurt anyone. But then again she probably sinned against half their rules in the last seven years already. “I’ll stay here.” She said with a very short tone. “Thank you.”

The apprentice let out a small sigh and walked away. For a few minutes, Auriëlle felt alone and good. A stranger amongst the other strangers waiting in the courtyard. Either marveling at the megaliths or waiting for a druid to talk to them. Auriëlle kept pacing between the rocks. This place was having a strange effect on her. The air was too thick. Like it tried to suffocate her. It wasn’t just that. It was the general niceness. People were smiling, handing out food and water like it was nothing. They were so friendly. Having lived alone, then with Carn and his mercenaries and then on the road alone again had made her suspicious of anyone who helped others too much.

“A cup, my lady? It’s water from the basin of the weary.” The apprentice returned holding a wooden cup in her hands, offering it up to Auriëlle. The water was see-through and thoroughly pure. “I assure you that it will do you much good because… well, apologies for my directness but you seem gaunt. You must have been traveling for-“

“I don’t want your water!” Auriëlle snapped as she slapped the cup out of the apprentice’s hands. The outburst garnered a lot of attention. Guards armed with spears approached. Auriëlle took a deep breath. “Bring it.” She whispered to herself. Ready to cast her magic and erase those guards from existence. Consequences be damned. At least she would feel good for one bloody moment in the place.

Yet as she was making herself read, the apprentice held out her hand to the guards. “No need, no need.” She slowly said as she picked up the cup from the ground. “I-I think I have been a bit to insistent.” She told the guards. They shared a look. Auriëlle knew it well. “I assure you, I’m fine. I don’t think our guest means any trouble.”

It took every fiber in Auriëlle's body to shake her head.

“Very well then. Return to your post, brave guards.” She told them, and they did. The attention wore down. Still, the apprentice approached Auriëlle again. “Apologies if I gave any offense, my lady. I meant none. I just-“

“You wanted to help." Auriëlle cut her off. “I get it but I don’t need your help. I never had any help. I just need a druid and answers.” Auriëlle didn’t look the apprentice in the eyes though. Shame began to eat her up alive. They meant no offense. No pain. The apprentice only offered comfort. She was just being nice.

The girl backed away and seemingly returned to her duties. The guards kept an eye on her, as did several pilgrims. She didn’t care. All she had to do now was to sit down on a bench and wait until a druid came to see her. Hopefully, that would happen soon.

Hours passed. Pilgrims were met, guided inside and waved off again. The sun had long since reached its peak. The courtyard was becoming empty as the shadows grew long. Many of them retreated into the resthouses. Farmers outside returned to their cottages. Only a handful of guards remained outside. Them and Auriëlle, who hadn’t moved from her bench.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep at one of the resthouses? I can ask around. Surely some of them would still have a nice, comfortable bed.” A now familiar voice said behind her.

Auriëlle turned to face the apprentice. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“I don’t.” She said with a slightly self-assured smile. “Kaer Harla says that’s one of my strengths. I never give up.”

Auriëlle let out a sigh. Just her luck. She talked to an apprentice who never knew when to quit. “What’s your name?” Auriëlle asked.

“Sennah.”

“And you’re an apprentice. You druid apprentices have to serve people, right?” Auriëlle continued.

“Yup! It teaches us many of the druidic values!” the apprentice answered.

“Good. Then serve me this way: go home and get a good night’s sleep.” Auriëlle said.

“But-“

“No.” Auriëlle was using the same tone she used to use on the Redspears now. “Go. Home, Sennah. Be with your parents. Or the one you love. Stop trying to help a bitter girl like me.”

She looked as if she wanted to protest again, but then quickly turned around and walked away.

Auriëlle let out a deep sigh and stretched herself out over the bench. Maybe she could close her eyes for a little while? Just to let her body rest. She did so, let her body relax for a moment. It felt good. Until she janked up again. She didn’t hear the usual hammering of smithies or gambling going on. No the courtyard was just completely quiet. Which was just wrong. It was the wrong place to even close your eyes. So she got up again and waited. No druid would talk to her now, probably. Yet she still waited.

Boredom soon caught her. Auriëlle began to walk around the courtyard. Inspecting the megaliths one by one. Eventually she sat down against the one of the World Tree and faced those of Gibbou, Oraelia, Mascal, and Seeros. She let out a chuckle. “Dear Oraelia…” She began in mock prayer. She even held her hands together. Though her eyes remained wide open. “Is this the life you had envisioned for me? Or did you never look my way? I’m not sure what would be worse: my life going exactly as you planned or you just not caring. Maybe it’s according to one of the other god’s plan? I don’t know.”

She then turned to the megalith of Gibbou. “Do you hate me now for being up this late? Druids told me you like it when people sleep at night. Maybe you just pity me. I know your druids do. They might think I can’t see them peering with those sad little eyes of them. Can you see in my head what I want to do to those eyes? If so, can you see all the other things as well?”

Then she turned to Mascal. “They say you made the world beautiful. Colorful. Vibrant. Happy. Those are the words they use for you. I don’t see it. They say you love dancing. I’ve never danced. Maybe it's you who cursed me that fateful day. Tell me Macsal, are you in the habit of dumping obelisks?” As if in answer, Auriëlle could hear the wolves howl outside in the wild. Above she could swear the inky colored sky moved a little faster. Though she chalked it up to coincidence.

It was all mockery. Pure mockery. As if the gods would respond. Though she then turned to the megalith of Firinn. “For you I only have questions. what’s my truth? Am I blessed by a god? If so, what god?” She wasn’t sure if she would thank him or hate him. She let her hands fall to her side again. What use was praying? Even if the gods were listening, why would they answer her?

“A mortal life is a precious thing, Auriëlle.” Came a sad voice inside her head, followed by a gentle warmth, small but steady. The voice spoke again, “What would life be if not the choices we make of it? I do not control you. Life was not made to be enslaved by some predetermined fate. You were born free, to be as who you wanted to be as you grew. As you grow.” The voice paused before continuing, ”I have always cared for you and I will always care for you. Since the moment you drew your first breath, until the moment your eyes shut. It is my sacred charge to care and protect life, sworn before the world flourished, before the green, before the mountains and before the seas came to be.” The warmth became light, growing brighter as the voice spoke, before fluctuating again as it continued on, ”Not every prayer comes with an answer. Not every answer is the one wanted to be heard. Such is the nature of divinity. But you have called and now I have answered. I am Oraelia, Goddess of Life, and I have heard your cry.”

For a minute Auriëlle thought a druid was playing tricks on her. She even had her copper dagger pulled half-way out. Yet that light, that warmth in her mind, it couldn’t be mistaken. It was godly in every sense of the word. It made her drop to her knees. The dagger fell to her side with a clang. A tear dropped from each of her eyes. It was majestic to feel, wonderful. Safe.

Then she shook herself free from that spell. “Now!?” She said as she kept her wide eyes focused on the ground below her. “Now you appear!?” Her body was shivering. Inner conflict raged. She should be feeling happy, relieved, secure yet she didn’t want to be. Those feelings were dangerous and utterly foreign to her. “Now you appear with the guts to tell me I was born free!? I was chained by my family and my city for a decade and then they hid me away for another one.” Something twisted in her own stomach. “If you protected all life then where were you in Jalka!?” She said those words in her own mind. Accompanied with all the rage, pain and regret she couldn’t put a stop to now. “Where were you when I killed those people who just wanted to eat!? They didn’t have a choice. I didn’t have a choice! I never had choices!” It was kill or be killed in the last few years.

The warmth in her head grew small as she lashed out until she had finished. It ruminated her thoughts and shared in her pain. The warmth erupted again as Oraelia spoke with sorrow in her voice, ”Not every answer is the one wanted to be heard…” she repeated softly. ”You chose to leave your home, you chose to live your life on the road, killing for coin and food. You chose to go to Jalka, did you not? For war? Why Auriëlle,” The Goddess’ voice seemed to break, ”Why did you not walk away when you could? Before you murdered innocents? That was your choice. You could have been better, could have used your power to help them and now you come before me in mock prayer, alone and afraid despite your anger and rage and you ask why I didn’t prevent those deaths? When you, all along, could have?” Her voice faltered, sounding not angry, but terribly sad. ”You are terribly lost, Auriëlle. Terrified of what anything else but hate might bring. You must ask yourself this question; Is this who you truly want to be?” she asked, the warmth and light at its brightest.

“But what else is there for someone like me!?” She screamed it now. Her voice was shrill. In her head and out loud. Hatred mixed with pain and regret. “I’m a monster! I can’t do anything else. I don’t want to do anything else. I’m good at killing!” Even saying felt liberating but wrong. Like it was a secret she should never have said. Tears ran down her cheeks. “You saw what I can do. They called me blessed for it!” A shameful truth began to boil up. She wanted her old life back. The life of a scribe. She was comfortable in Acadia, surrounded by safe walls with a warm hearth. She just had to count sheep. It was so simple, so peaceful. Then she was ripped from that life and could never return. Now she would always have blood on her hands. No matter what she did. “What kind of wretched thing would bless me with this!?”

"You are not a monster." Oraelia said sternly in her mind. "A monster does not feel remorse, guilt, regret and pain, Auriëlle. I have seen what you were, what you are and but a glimpse of what you could still become. Wanting to kill and killing are two very different things. If your desire is to kill in the great game of win or lose, so be it. But that is a path you will never recover from. It will consume you. However, as my daughter showed me once, there is a path to take that protects those who cannot protect themselves. Who fight evil men and bring about justice. Which one will you find yourself on?" she asked her. Then once more her voice returned, but softer. "I know not who empowered you, only that I can taste the divinity upon your soul and it is unfamiliar to me. I am sorry."]

She couldn’t say anything anymore. Only cry. There was no way she could bottle everything up again. Maybe Oraelia was right. Maybe not. She couldn’t think now. She just felt pain and cold. So cold. A chill, midnight wind had finally taken to her.

Then there was warmth. An embrace. Someone was hugging her. “You’re not a monster. Nobody’s a monster.” It was Sennah’s voice. The young apprentice was holding her tight. Auriëlle felt like she was melting in her arms. Yet as she felt the warm and the touch of someone caring, her senses suddenly fell away. Her eyes became heavy and her mind blank. Had fatigue finally caught up with her? She couldn’t fight it. There was no fight in her life. She just fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

”Hah! That’s right! Go to sleep, you rowdy, little--... Thing.”

"Gibbou…"

---

_{39 BA
Jalina River
City of Mal Bagora}

Although in the morning the crowds were silent when the troops had first marched into the city, by the noon parade they were cheering.

It hadn’t been a bloody entrance, he had made sure of that. As the captain of the guards he had betrayed the upper class of the city and made a deal with those that besieged them. Everything had been taken already before the sun rose. The army marched in carrying supplies, they had been distributed all day to gain the weakened populations trust, seizing control of the grain stores helped on that matter as well.

Next on the list was dealing with the former rulers and their wealth, he could tell some of it was being distributed to the poorer portions of the population. Bronze medallions and gilded gifts tossed to the thronging crowds, it was a good plan. If you didn’t have enough food you could trade a merchant, if you had enough, well you earned a pretty prize.

Hralin had to admit, with the siege and the battles before that, he did not expect the populace to be so welcoming to a foreign army. Then again, he wouldn’t have expected to see the king and the nobles parades around the city bound either and that was something to cheer about.

It was a rather large procession in true form to that of a conqueror. From the gates of the outer walls in the south, marching onwards to the inner city. Men with wooden shields and good spears guarded the procession from the crowds, led first by the disgraced nobles and the king, followed by the elite troops of the invader. The Elk-riding Conqueror himself and then a number of more troops behind him.

Hralin smiled and waved, to the crowds and the column marching now towards the inner city, he hoped he had made the right choice.

---

Khres of Solaria, or at least formerly of Solaria, even out here in the west the news of Solaria’s fall had brought concern, even if it reached Mal Bagora a while afterwards. Still the most surprising thing to Hralin about this Khres was not that he refused to be acclaimed King of Mal Bagora, but how young he was. Couldn’t have been much more than a kid when Solaria fell, although he supposed that might be why he was out here rather than as some refugee in the east. In any case, some manner of titles had to be upheld, if even just for the pride of the priests who were still free. Not much point in risking angering the gods even if half the priests were almost as bad as the King and his like.

After the parade and welcoming the new power into the heart of Mal Bagora, he had been brought along to the former Royal Palace where the Solarian met the Priests, dismissing most of the ones that he could soon afterwards from his presence. And then promptly seemed to ignore any real attempt at making merry in truth. He seemed, preoccupied.

Hralin approached the former dining table that Khres and his Captains stood around, looking at maps and occasionally talking. One of the guards moved to stop him but was waved away by one of the Captains, he looked more like a mountain-man than a soldier, but then he supposed it didn’t really matter given the situation.

“Conqueror Khres,” Hralin began, the title had been a compromise with the High Priest of Heresh. Continuing, “I do not mean to sound impertinent but you have just taken the city and you do not celebrate, you seem to be quite busy and I must ask what place you would have for me?”

Khres was young, perhaps only in his twenties really. Dark hair and eyes, hair cut short, his face was tanend according to one who wore a riding helmet, not surprising given the recent campaign. Khres spoke in an accent that was clear he was from the Great River, or at least kept up at that.

“Ah the Guard Captain! Yes, Hralin was it? You will be left in charge of the city, with a few of my men for now and your own of course. I would recommend you start making more permanent arrangements for rule, work out something with what of those priests you can trust. I may send a need for supplies or laborers in the future but for now your job is as we discussed before the city was taken, rule it for me. I trust you can get to that now.”

Hralin bowed low, Khres had gotten annoyed at the kneeling of some of the priests before, in Mal Bagora it was normally reserved for royalty. He noticed a small sun pendant around his neck, which made sense for a Solarian.

“Yes I didn’t want to go against any of your wishes O Conqueror.”

Khres waved him away, that went far better than he might have hoped. There was something about Khres which unnerved him, it seemed more like his eyes looked through you rather than stop, some kind of assessment there. Hralin was happy to get to starting to turn the city around from the old King’s mess.

---

Hralin was not upset to see them go, not that they interfered much with his control over the city. There was a ceremony for officially putting himself in charge of the city but beyond that Khres seemed much more focused on his next campaign, and was still early enough in the year to do that given his own help in speeding taking Mal Bagora.

In any case, most of his army moved out, towards Mal Pocora to the east, it was along the river directly unlike Mal Bagora. Three days was all he stayed after taking Mal Bagora, rest to his troops and supplies in good order. It didn’t seem like Conqueror Khres planned to stop there either, might be a while before he saw him again and that Hralin thought would be a good thing.

---

Oraelia walked through the tall grass of her realm, feeling every stalk as she ran her fingers through the tops of them. She was wearing a simple white dress, no sun hat this time, but she did wear pink ribbons in her hair. Her light had returned a bit more too, she hadn’t realized how dim she had become. Genesis was off somewhere, she knew not where but her presence brought her comfort, just knowing she would be there for her. Gibbou too, but she had not spoken to her sister since before her foray into Neiya’s realm. She was hesitant to tell her what had happened, she knew not why, only that it tugged at her heart.

Gibbou would find out eventually, there was no denying that. Her scars were a dead give away that something had befallen her. She just… Didn’t want to be a bother, she supposed. Gibbou had enough to deal with already, no sense in adding her any more hardship.

She was feeling better lately though, but Neiya’s assault was still vivid in her mind. If she dwelt upon it for a long time, she would begin to reply it back in her head, from the Aiviri’s warping, to Solus’ wounding, to Neiya’s anger… It sent shivers down her spine. Her white scars had healed fully now, but they would never fade- acting as a painful reminder of what could have been.

Luckily, Solus was fine, if not a little bit upset. His wound had been easily healed but he too had a scar in return. For the most part, he tried his best protecting the Oraeliari but the Neiyari were a relentless foe, bolstered by Aveira. She would have to come up with some sort of solution to help them out further. For now, something else was on her mind.

It was love.

Neiya’s Love had sent her spiralling for a time. What she had been shown, haunted her greatly. All the worst aspects of love, focused like the edge of a knife to sow only pain. It was sorrow, hatred, despair, longing and dread. With only the briefest flashes of warmth, the tiniest traces of happiness, all drowned in a tide of pure obsession. Did she even know there was more? Oraelia had seen how she reacted to her touch and then she had awoken in her own realm, hadn’t she?

She wanted to believe Neiya did care. That she was just lost, that she was scared to feel anything other than what she knew. That her obsession blinded her to happiness, warmth, kindness, joy, romance and understanding. There need not be war, but peace. If only she could just show her that!

She paused from where she walked, eyes going wide in realization. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? It seemed so simple in hindsight. Her lips formed a wide smile.

There was a way.

She just had to show her it and there was only one way to do that.

Oraelia sat down and as she did the landscape around her changed. Tall prairie grass melded back into the shifting earth, which gave way to soft green grasses. Trees sprouted up around her, gnarled with twisting limbs- they sprouted flowers of pink, light reds, light blues, violets, and whites. Roses of the same colors sprouted up all around her until the fields as far as her eyes could see. Like a sea of colors, swaying gently in the breeze. From where she sat there was a clearing with her in the middle but the earth parted again and she hovered over a hole that quickly began to fill with a golden liquid. When it reached the top, she submerged herself within it and as the sun watched her from above, she shut her eyes and opened herself.

She knew what she was looking for. Oraelia had seen it, she knew it, and it was what she wanted. It did not take long for the trickle of emotion to start.

At first she felt very familiar emotions, the sort that Neiya had inflicted upon her. The sting of unrequited feelings, the heartbreak of a dead lover, the pain of being alone, the self hatred and it went on. Oraelia gritted her teeth, hands tightening into fists where she was submerged, she had to fight through it. She had to. If not for her own sake, but Neiya's.

She shook as the tide grew stronger. The sadness of a life ended too soon, the pain of never knowing what could be, the longing of desire, the dread of dying alone- The joy of a first kiss.

There!

There it was, that wonderful feeling of bliss. Oraelia focused on it and more began to follow, washing away the negative. A kindness born from caring, a romance fit for the stars, the happiness one felt from friends and family. This was it, this was love!

It came stronger and stronger, those feelings of love as it should be through the uncertainty of life, it endured through all the hardships. It brought peace, comfort and pure bliss. She enveloped herself within it, as Blythe landscape outside exploded into an endless wave of color. The bloom of life and love, molded by the light that she was best known for.

Oraelia exploded from the golden pool, grabbing from her chest an orb of the same color before pressing it to her heart and then letting it go in a cascade of gold that mixed with the other colors in an endless tide. It traveled her entire realm, bathing it in a warmth that stirred the heart in love unfettered.



She took on a new form in that moment. Her bright glow, so luminous and blinding, cooled off to reveal sun-kissed skin, the same wavy golden hair, features soft and kind with baby blue eyes as she opened them to look upon herself. She looked mortal-like, human specifically and she was around the same height as before. It would be a look she would need to become used to but it fit.

She wrapped herself in a hug, hardly containing the smile on her face as she let out a satisfied sigh. Love was a part of her now, her own love and she vowed right then and there, she would let it bloom.

---

Somehow, they had found their way out of the forest.

They were well into the afternoon when they saw the village - a few dozen huts, and some fields where sheep grazed. “People!” Alys shouted excitedly. “Follow me!” she ordered Mathius, and then rushed forward.

Mathius was honestly stunned, they had actually managed to find their way to civilization? Perhaps he had been too harsh on this child. ”Alys wait up!” He called as he rushed to follow her.

The girl did not wait, though he would have little difficulty catching up to her. Shepherds cast confused looks toward them, as did the handful of people who were out and about the village’s streets. As she passed, the sheep in the fields began to panic, letting out nervous “baas” or even running away.

They entered the confines of the village just as an older-looking woman stepped outside of a nearby hut. “Who are you?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as they settled on Mathius’s boney black-robed frame.

“I’m Alys!” the girl said excitedly. “What is this place?”

But the woman did not answer. Her gaze remained set on Mathius.

”We’re travellers,” Mathius replied, looking the woman dead in her eyes in return, well, if he had eyes. ”We come from the south.” he hadn’t realized how strange his form was until now.

“Why are you dressed like that? And why do you have a child with you?”

“I’m not with him!” Alys protested. “He’s with me! I’m in charge!”

Mathius sighed “She’s my niece, her parents died and i’ve been put in charge of her, as for my dress, i’m a magic user.” He looked over at Alys, hoping she would keep up the facade.

The suspicion did not abate. “Why is your face covered, then?” A small group began to form, as more and more noticed the confrontation.

Mathius paused for a brief moment, he kept forgetting that part. ”It, is part of my order, we’re trained to see through the mana and as such,” He gestured to his face ”We cover our faces.”

The woman stared at him in confusion. After all, a random villager from a shepherd community in the middle of nowhere was unlikely to know anything about magic or those who practiced it. After a few moments, she found her voice. “Well, you’re not using yer magic right now, are you? Show us your face.”

Ah, he had worried they would ask that ”Well, you see, its, uh, against our beliefs to do so after we’ve trained far enough, after a while its better for us to just continue using the magic then, showing our faces.” He was growing increasingly nervous, this was not going well.

“They say the chieftain of Morganstead was murdered by a white-haired boy,” said a man in the crowd. “Tilda, do you think they might’ve been mistaken? Maybe it was a girl instead.”

“Could be,” the woman - Tilda, presumably - nodded.

“Morganbread? Where’s that?” Alys asked, confused.

[color=A52A2A}’Morganstead, and I too am unfamiliar with such a place, we are not from the area.”[/color] He glanced towards Alys, it was then he fully realized they were the most suspicious duo in pretty much existence.

Tilda’s frown deepened. “I’ve only ever known of a few people who had white hair,” she said. “Konrad of Thyma, and his children.”

“You… you knew my father?” Alys asked, wide-eyed.

“Well, there we have it,” Tilda said. “We can take her to Morganstead. Find out if she was the one.” She looked to Mathius. “We’ll have to bring him too.”

Mathius put his hand upon Alys, bringing her closer to him ”We will be going nowhere, we know of nothing in relation to Morganstead, we just wish to pass through.” he could feel Yamat beginning to take interest, he just hoped he didn’t have to kill anyone.

“L-leave us alone!” Alys protested. “We didn’t do anything!”

“Sorry, child,” Tilda said sympathetically. “But we need to know. We’ll let you go if it turns out you’re not the one.”

One of the villagers stepped forward. “Let’s see what you’re hiding, ‘mage’,” he said, reaching for Mathius’s face.

Fuck it. He had enough, if these people wanted conflict, they would get conflict. He raised his hand, the golden cloth glowing ever so slightly. In an instant the villager was tossed backwards, flying through the air and landing with a thud. ”Leave. Us. Alone.” He commanded, his voice harsher and more booming than before.

The villagers stared in astonishment, all too frozen to move.

“GO AWAY!” Alys shouted, raising her hands, and a great plume of fire shot forth. Tilda and another villager were engulfed in flames, and they fell to the ground screaming. The others turned and fled. Alys turned and with a wave of her hand, set a small fire on the roof of Tilda’s hut, which quickly began to spread. “Your village is ugly!” she shouted.

Mathius knew he should probably stop her, but hey, they deserved it, he turned towards the fields and raised his hands once more, suddenly the once green grass began to turn a sickly brown, rotting and decaying ”Don’t worry,” he spoke mostly to himself ”It'll end in about a week.” He turned back towards Alys, tapping her on the shoulder. ”We should get out of here before they come back with weapons.”

“No. I’m in charge,” Alys shook her head. “I can do whatever I want,” she said. It wasn’t just a stubborn rejection; there was a certain sense of revelry in her voice. She began walking forward. “Ugly! Ugly! Ugly!” she shouted, setting a house ablaze with each word. One man ran out, screaming in terror. “You’re ugly!” she shouted, setting him ablaze. A smile flickered across her face.

Mathius felt a tug in his mind, a suggestion, now would be a good learning moment. ”Well then,” He followed behind her, waving his hand to cause a tree to collapse upon a non-burning house, crashing down straight in the center. ”How about we show this ugly town why they shouldn’t mess with us?”

---

Half an hour later, the village was in ruins. The huts that weren’t ablaze had collapsed. The villagers had offered no resistance; those who survived had fled in terror, vanishing into the woods. The fences had been broken and the sheep were set free… though Alys did set a few on fire, after they refused to let her pet them.

“That was fun,” Alys remarked, as they stood outside the wreckage.

”Feels good to let loose doesn’t it?” Mathius asked, gazing upon the broken village, he could feel a sense of pride in his mind, both from his own creator, and towards Alys herself. ”What now Alys? If I may suggest, we should probably leave the local area, though, if anyone wants to pick a fight again I'm sure we can give a message.”

For once, Alys did not object.

---

---

Evette was perched atop a rooftop, staring down like a watchful owl at the dark village streets below. Not too long after her encounter in Korstone, she had heard unusual stories from another village nearby. A tragic murder, followed by people waking up with sore necks. Signs which often suggested the presence of a vampire. With nothing better to do, she had gone to investigate.

So, here she was, watching over this village whose name she couldn’t quite recall, as she waited for any signs of suspicious activity. Her glowing halo made it rather difficult for her to conceal herself, but hopefully if a vampire chose to walk the streets at night, they would not have the wherewithal to look upward.

The odds of actually finding one were slim. But she was persistent. She would wait out this night. Then the next one. Then the next. In the day she would rest, then interview the locals and scout out possible hiding places. She would do this until at last she found her prey, or could determine that there truly was no vampire after all.

”HEY! You!” a voice blasted at her like cannonfire, and the moon above seemed to just briefly flash with white.

Her gaze darted back and forth across the village, searching for the speaker. She had been spotted, and it only seemed sensible that one might react in such a manner if they saw a strange winged human sitting on their roof. But nobody seemed to be out, save for the guards posted on the village’s fringes, and they had not noticed her. They had not even reacted to the strange voice at all, which was puzzling. Her hand grasped the hilt of her sword.

”Hel-loooooo! Talking to ya here! If you could just-... No, nope, it’s not that guy. No, not that one, either! Look, it’s not the guards, okay? I am-...” There was a pause. ”... Sorry, it’s just my… My pet dragon wanted some… Oh, are you hungry, big guy? Oh, yes, you are… Yesh, yoo aaaare…”

“Cadien’s Grace…” Evette whispered. “Am I going mad?”

”Well, you just might with how much you stay up all night! You know how bad that is for your health? _{Here you go, bubby, eat up...} Anyway, yeah, you should be sleeping right now!”

“Show yourself!” she hissed. “Where are you?”

”Where -I- am isn’t important - it’s on the moon, by the way. What -is- important is that you are on a roof when you should be in bed!” The voice offered a passive sniff.

On the moon? She looked up at the night sky, and her eyes widened ever so slightly. “Are… are you…”

”Yeeeaaah, yeah, come on. Say it.”

“Are you a goddess?”

”Bingo! Name’s Gibbou - I live on the moon and watch people sleep! Wait, no, that didn’t come out right… I am the watcher of the sleeping… No, that still isn’t…” There was an empty pause. ”I’m Gibbou.”

For a moment, Evette was speechless. That a goddess would reach out to her so directly and so casually, over something so small. Then, the surprise turned to annoyance, and she pursed her lips into a frown. “I am Evette,” she introduced herself. “Daughter of Cadien and Champion of Oraelia. It is my duty to hunt down the creatures of the night, and I need to be awake to do that.”

The voice didn’t respond for a moment. Then came a sharp scoff. ”Pfft, yeah, alright. Okay, listen “Evette” - by the way, weird name - you do not talk to me like that. Here it is I who ask the questions and you who answer ‘em, capiche? Firstly, who are your parents and why do they say you’re a daughter of Cadien? Secondly, why do you call yourself a champion of Oraelia? And thirdly, how dare you?”

The mention of her parents gave her pause, as she was forced to recall the unpleasant memory. “I… my father was Konrad, of Thyma Village. He was Cadien’s Herald, and had Cadien’s blood. He… died.”

The voice instantly lost all animosity. ”Oh, shoot, really? Ooooh no… Look, I’m, I’m really sorry, I-... I just tend to get all, y’know, when talking to mortals, and… Okay, okay, how about you just tell me what you’re doing out so late, hmm?”

“After my father died, I was on my own. I was captured by a vampire, and he wanted to… keep me, so he’d have a constant blood supply. There were others, too. I was just a girl, and there was nothing I could do…” her voice was quiet and sorrowful. “Then Solus, Oraelia’s champion, saved me. He blessed me with wings, gave me a weapon of pure sunlight, and charged me with the duty to hunt down the vampires.” She looked back up at the moon, and her voice hardened. “That’s why I stay awake at night.”

Another long pause, broken eventually by a ”Huh.” Gibbou sucked in a long breath. ”How about that… Well, as much as I absolutely hate the idea, and am frankly pretty offended by the fact that that sword is a thing, I suppose you’re doing your job protecting life and mortalkind in the night.” She hummed. “Tell you what, why don’t I give you this?” In Evette’s right hand, there appeared a small, black stone. It glistened with a midnight glow, but looked otherwise fairly mundane. ”It might make the job a little easier for you.”

“What is it?” she asked.

”Oh, right - this is a Sleep Stone! They’re incredibly rare - this one’s the only one in the whole world! It should help you sleep better for shorter periods - so you at the very least can catch -some- z’s while you work.” She sighed. ”Look, I didn’t mean to come in and be all mean and stuff, but… People should be sleeping at night. Bad things happen when darkness is prowled by those who do not belong in it.”

“What sort of bad things?”

”Oh, y’know, thievery, wolf attacks, murder… I mean, I -get- it: It’s hard to see, so it’s easier to get away with your crimes, and people are asleep, so they don’t hear you or pay attention, but, like… C’mon. Why would you ever wanna steal anything instead of lying in that soft, cushiony mattress and make out with your pillow?”

Evette blinked. That was uh… too much information. “Thank you for your gift, Gibbou,” she said, trying to get the conversation back on topic.

”Oh! Oh, that was no problem! I mean, phwah, it’s not like, like, eheh… Y’know, heh... She cleared her throat. ”You’re welcome.” There was a quiet pause. ”Ssssooo… Wha’chu doin’?”

“Hunting a vampire,” she answered. “I believe there is one hiding in this village.”

”Okay, cool, cool.” There was a pause. ”There, uh… There isn’t, by the way.”

“What? How can you be sure?”

”Well, I -am- the Watcher in the Night, _{sister, that sounds so lame...} I know this stuff.”

She sighed. “That is… both disappointing and relieving, I suppose.” She fell silent for a few moments, and then spoke again. “Can I ask you a question?”

”Oh yeah, go ahead, go ahead!” There came a watery trickle. ”You don’t mind if I have myself a cuppa, do you?”

“I don’t know what that is,” she blinked. “I just… I want to know which god created vampires in the first place. Who would do something… so evil?”

The voice didn’t respond for a bit. Eventually, there came a gingerly sip of liquid followed by: ”Yeah, beats me. Must’a been some nutcase. Lotsa them around here.”

“Do you mean other gods?” Evette asked. “How many of them are there? The ones that are… ‘nutcases’, I mean.”

Another sip. ”Oh, uh, y’know, a couple. There’s this one chick who’s completely sick in the head. You know Neiya? I could call her a bitch, but I doubt even dogs would wanna be around her.”

“Isn’t Neiya the Goddess of Love?”

”Wow, she -still- sells it like that? Give. Me. A. Break! She is to love what tapeworms are to people.” An angry sip. ”Nuh-uh. She’s the goddess of suffering and death of hope...”

---

The sun was just cresting over the horizon, and Evette was still on the rooftop.

”... and like, who does that, am I right? Who gets a divine gift from their creator without saying thank you? Promise me this, sister, if you ever get together with this guy, dump him in public for everyone to see. It’ll be hard, sure - he’s really handsome and caaan be pretty cute every now and then, and sure, his hair’s pretty nice… But no, he’s actually a jerk! That actually reminds me of this -other- guy I woke up up here. Boy, he was weird…”

“I see…” Evette said numbly, while within her mind she was struggling to fight off an existential crisis. These were the issues gods concerned themselves with? “This ‘Twilight’ man sounds unworthy of your favour.”

”Oh, I swear, sometimes I wish I could just wring him apart, but… Oh, when he has his moments, he just…” There came a soft hum. ”He’s not all bad! Sure, he never does anything right, shirks his duties and hasn’t talked to me for six years, but…” Another pause. ”He -can- be a nice guy.” There came a sniff. ”Oh sis, I sound like such a loser… Why am I like this, Evette?”

“Maybe you should just… move on?” Evette suggested. “If he doesn’t appreciate you, find someone who will. Maybe, the reason he shirks his duties is because he thinks you’ll keep taking him back?”

”I couldn’t do thaaat! He’s precious to me!” There came a clinking of glass and a rush of liquids into some kind of bowled container. ”Shoot, that’s too much… You won’t tell on me, right?”

“Who would I tell?” she asked. “You’re the only god I’ve ever spoken to. But, if you wish to keep this a secret, I shall. Now… I think I should be on my way. But may I ask one final question?”

There came a series of glug-glug-glugs, followed by a loud gasp. ”Urk, that’s strong. Yeah, yeah, yeah, go ahead.” The same sound of running liquid followed.

“What is Cadien like?”

Sluuuurp... ”Hmm… He’s really nice, actually. Sure, I think he has terrible taste in women, but as a person, I admire him. He has this charisma and motivation to improve stuff that’s so rare in gods nowadays… Why, you interested in knowing what your lineage’s like?”

“I just…” she sighed. “My father claimed to be his champion, but… I know nothing about him beyond what my father and the priests of different villages have told me. He never has never answered my prayers and I have never felt his influence. Do I truly have his blood, or were those just stories? I know… I wasn’t normal, even before I met Solus, but…” her voice trailed off.

Glug. ”Oh, that’s just uncalled for. Of course, you’re related. I’d know that divine scent wherever - divine as in holy, by the way; I don’t mean as in… Anyway, not answering your prayers? Dick move, but girlfriend, listen: You’re, you’re a pretty nice and righteous lady. Don’t let these kinds of thoughts pull you down, okay? You’re stronger than that.”

A wave of relief washed over her. “Thank you,” Evette whispered, as she wiped away a tear. “And… I would say the same to you, Lady Gibbou.”

The reply came mid-drink. ”Hmm? Sorry, didn’t catch that.” It was followed by a burp. ”’Scuse me.”

“Nevermind,” Evette shook her head. “I think it’s time for me to get going. I would like to be alone with my own thoughts while on the road, if that’s alright with you.”

”Aaaw, really? Nah, I, I, I… Sssh, here it comes. No, I understand. You, uh, you stay shafe--safe, okay? Yeah?”

Evette nodded, and dropped down from the rooftop. The villagers, now roused and awake, stared at her as if she was mad.

---

---

It had been weeks since they had last heard from Cinna. Termurick knew it was only the start and that he would never see his brother again. Part of him was grateful, spitefully so. Cinna had been a demon of a child and a monster of a brother, always pulling him into all kinds of trouble, hurting him, insulting him…

And yet… Bonds of blood do not break so easily. He looked up. His lap balanced an untouched ceramic plate with his breakfast on it: kheft, xoag and chuam, respectively a mash of basil, salt and durum flour; a lukewarm salad containing chopped raisins, spinach, mushrooms and okra, all heavily seasoned with rose pepper, salt and rosemary; and a pemmican-like pudding of bison meat, fat and whatever else one could find in a bison, seasoned with salt, pepper and cinnamon. It smelled heavenly, but Turmerick couldn’t find the appetite to taste it. The atmosphere in the small dining room of the King’s half-hut, half-cave felt oppressive: every hair on the shadowtiger fur upon which he sat felt like a barb; the hunting and war trophies lining the cave walls were screaming at him as though they still lived; the friendly moonlight peeking at him through the openings in the roof awnings felt cold.

Worst of all, perhaps, were the two hard eyes glaring down at him across the room. “Son. You aren’t eating,” came the harsh whisper and clicks of King Safron. Turmerick flinched.

“I’m, I’m not hungry, father.”

“A growing prince must eat his every meal, lest he’ll become a weak king,” the king responded and pinched a piece of chuam between two trunks that could barely be described as fingers. “Clove, you, too. A princess must also eat the food she’s given, lest her--”

“‘Lest her husband’s mother will despise her.’ Forgive me, father. I will eat faster.” There were four of them now - their father sat in the innermost part of the circular room, the majority of his surroundings being cave walls carved handsomely with the story of his reign; on his right sat their mother, Queen Clove I, a beautiful woman of 154 years with skin as dark as blackberries and hair as black as the abyss. Only her white eyes, ashen body paint and quartz-jeweled, alabaster dress were visible in the shadow of the night - there was no woman more beautiful in all of Fragrance; opposite of her, on the king’s left, sat Princess Clove II, who to the king’s chagrin had only inherited her mother’s hair, but her father’s light plum skin. Efforts were made to bring out her assets, such as charcoal paint around her eyes and milky paints paler than her mother’s for her markings, but the whole town knew that she would never live up to her mother’s beauty. Finally, opposite of the king, sat Prince Turmerick II, pale plum skin made paler by quivering nerves in the oppressive shadow of his father. Reluctantly, he took a pinch of kheft and licked it off his fingers. It was delicious - some commoners would likely have killed for this sort of food - and Turmerick couldn’t bare to swallow it. The family returned to silence, the subtle slicks and licks of tongues and chewing teeth making up the only sounds in the room.

Then the queen let out a sigh evidently conditioned to be as soft as dow. “Once again, my most sincere compliments to the cook. Old Erbal has certain outdone himself this time. Where did he even get this basil?”

King Safron raised a blue brow. “I could ask him for you, my moon.”

The queen tittered softly. “Oh, no, that won’t be necessary, my stars. I would like to acquire some apples from him, as well, so I can ask him while I visit the kitchens.”

“Very well, then.” Silence ruled again - while normally a good thing, the atmosphere weighed it down to a suffocating level, and Turmerick could see his sister feel it, too. After the energy of the food filled him with enough bravery, he channeled it all into opening his mouth while facing his father.

“Father - I have a request.”

King Safron stopped mid-bite, milky eyes shifting from the juicy pinch of xoag to his son across the small room. He put the food back down on his plate and wiped his finger on a linen napkin. “What would that be?”

Turmerick swallowed. “I… I wish that you would show me our lands.”

The three of them all blinked at the prince. “Where’s this coming from?” asked the king, his voice carrying a parasitic infestation of surprise.

“Ci-... Cinna is gone. That means I am next in line to become king.” The prince sucked in a breath. “I… I want to see the lands I am to rule.” Silence briefly reconquered the room. The king offered an amused scoff and clicked his tongue approvingly. He slapped his palms on his thighs one time in applause and stood up, crossing the room to stand before the miniscule prince. He knelt down and squeezed his shoulder.

“I never thought you would ask, my dear boy. Eat up and meet me outside as fast as you can. I will have Nut ready our baqualos.” With that, the king hurried out with almost giddy steps. The prince followed his step with an almost uncomfortable stare and turned back to his mother and sister, who both clicked their tongues approvingly.

“Thank you, my sweet, little boy. I’ve not seen him this happy in at least seventy years,” praised the queen and collected her husband’s plate. The princess shuffled over and touched her brother’s shoulder, Turmerick almost cracked a smile upon seeing his sister’s white-toothed grin, speckles of food dotting the slits between the dents.

“Already doing better than Cinna,” she whispered with a wink before she crawled back to help her mother clean. The compliment was genuine, but it didn’t feel like a compliment. A clump of guilt buried itself in his chest, one that seemed to develop needles the longer he dwelled on it. He finished his food in a hurry and sped on after his father.

Outside waited the king, dressed in in his skin tunic padded with buffalo fur, leather pants and a long shadowtiger cloak. Upon his head, he wore a circlet fashioned from the many branches of the Tree of Fragrance, their most holy site on the outskirts of town. He clicked for Turmerick to hurry up, and the prince quickly tossed on the lesser cape their servant Nut gave to him as he mounted his baqualo. The buffalo-like beast shook its mighty mane, sending tremors through the considerable smaller prince. The king mounted his own beast, sitting himself comfortably upon the linen blanket laid over its back. He looked at Turmerick and snapped his fingers for attention. “Are you ready?”

Steadying himself, the prince clicked a yes. He felt like he could never get used to having such an enormous, powerful creature between his legs, but he would have to try if he were to become king. The king breathed out in acknowledgement and gently dug his heels into the baqualo’s sides, pulling a rope that was bound around its muzzle to the left. The beast shook its head and clopped leftwards with a slow, quiet pace. The prince followed suit and his beast did, as well. The rustling and hustle of the town around them made it difficult to ask the king about the surroundings. The king’s hut stood atop a slop, halfway built into the mountainside where the ancient caves of the first Night Elves who settled the lands of Fragrance had been. The hut was fashioned from mud over a wooden skeleton, roofed with linen awnings where the walls extended out of the mountain. It was wrong to call it a hut - only the exterior resembled anything like that. In truth, the vast network of caves and halls inside made it the largest refuge from the sun in all of Fragrance. Immediately after leaving the king’s home, however, the townscape became visible: the Fragrancians preferred caves, like any sane nelf, but for those who wouldn’t afford a good plot of land by the cliffside had to settle for single or two-floored, cylindrical houses built of mud plastered over a wooden skeleton. As became evident when they reached the lower town by the water, those that couldn’t work with mud settled for wood.

The first crescent of buildings forming a perimetre outwards from the king’s hut and the cliffside, were the homes of the aristocracy and highborne. These were plantation owners, royal family and merchants, constantly travelling between their homes here and their lands across the river or closer to the sea. Their houses were large - larger than the king’s hut - and fashioned from wood and mud. Some were even two-floored, and each one was surrounded by a thin, shoulder high wall of wicker. The richest had built huts into the cliffside like the king - these looked almost like gates into mysterious mountain halls. Turmerick had visited several of them before, and while they were not as large as the king’s, a few of them certainly looked wealthier on the inside.

There came a trickle of water, followed by quiet chuckles. From the back of his baqualo, Turmerick could see into someone’s yard as they passed by. A large bath had been filled with water, evidently scented with mint and vanilla. It smelled beyond heavenly. Three nelves sat chatting in the bath - two girls and one boy. Turmerick caught one of the girls’ eye and she smacked her lips invitingly. The prince felt himself blush.

“Do you know who’s house that was?” came a sudden question from his father. The prince quickly recovered his focus as they turned the dirt road corner where the houses began to swing rightwards down the slope.

“Y-yes! That was the manor of rach and rachfi Nilla!”

The king clicked agreeingly. “Correct. Do you know what they do?”

“Rach and rachfi Nilla own the town’s largest vanilla plantation. F-four acres, with another six reserved for other spices.”

“Correct again. Do you know why they are rich?”

This stumped Turmerick’s train of thought. “... Because… Because people like vanilla?”

The king nodded. “Vanilla is a labour-intensive plant to grow - rachfi Nilla’s father was the one to acquire the land first. He maintained an acre all on his own, allowing for vanilla to be produced and enter the perfume and spice market in sizeable quantities for the first time. He died very young due to exhaustion from all the work, but his wife used their accumulated wealth to hire a workforce and acquire more land.”

“How could they pay for all that?” The king chuckled and reached into a pouch on his belt. He pulled it a long, black stick - except that it wasn’t a stick, but a bean pod. Turmerick furrowed his brow. “Vanilla…”

The king pocketed the bean. “That’s right. With the items they had bartered for through the years, as well as the promise to pay their workers a wage of one vanilla pod per harvest, they acquired all the land and wealth they own today. As a king, you must understand the powers at work in your kingdom - they are your mightiest tools in your possession, and the worst of enemies if they oppose you.”

They reached the second ring of the town - the centre of the olfactoriums, cookhouses, perfumaries, incensaries and herbal tents, all scattered between market stalls, wooden and mud houses meant for commoners, and public bath houses. These were really just wicker fences surrounding communal tubs overflowing with hot water scented with herbs and flowers to hide the fact that they didn’t switch the bath water too often. The sizzles of hot cooking oil, bubbles of stews, a million perfumes and a thick blanket of incense in the air - all waged a grand and beautiful war for the attention of the prince’s senses. Joining the battle came the gentle tones of street performers barely touching the strings and surfaces of their instruments, all while whispering and humming their sweet songs. The commoners greeted their king and prince with clicking tongues and smacking lips, and the king greeted them back by laying his palm on the heads he could reach. The prince did not follow along - he knew he had no mandate to do so yet.

“Great son of the moon,” whispered a florist poetically as she offered the king a bouquet of sweetpeas. “Please, accept this little gesture from your admirer Cacaoa.”

The king exhaled in amusement and spoke,
“Forgive my curt and soulless words -
My heart’s in glee like summer birds,
For this, for sure, I did not see -
Alas, at home, she waits for me.”

Turmerick barely had time to even attempt to understand what had just happened before the florist retracted her flowers and bowed. “Understood, great son of the moon. I pray your wife is still well and beautiful.”

The king clicked his thanks and the pair moved on. Turmerick tried to ride a little closer. “Father, what was that?”

“Hmm… No, I agree. Not my best verse.”

“What? No, I mean, why verse at all? What just happened?”

The king turned sideways and glanced curiously at him. “You mean your brother never told you?”

The prince hung his head. “Cinna didn’t tell me much of anything, really.”

The king sighed. “... I should have expected as much. It irks me that I didn’t think of training you sooner. I was just afraid that it would widen the already great rift between the two of you - between him and his family.” He closed his eyes. “Either way, allow me to explain what just happened…” He brought his baqualo to a halt and turned to point an intentionally shaky hand back towards the florist. “You see, when a commoner of the opposite sex offers you something of value to them, you can either accept or decline the gift. However, if you wish to decline, you must do so in verse.”

Turmerick frowned. “But why?”

“Always been,” mumbled the king with a shrug. “The seer Laurel suggested once that it’s an ancient tradition put in place by Mag’tsaal himself.”

“The singing god?”

“The very same. Now, keep in mind, if you were to accept the gift, that means you owe the commoner in question a favour. In accordance with a king’s need to be generous, this favour must always give back more than the king received.”

The prince’s frown deeped. “But why did you decline by saying ‘she waits for me back home’?”

The king gave his chin a gingerly scratch. “I… I will tell you that when you’re older.”

They continued past an olfactorium, bright, flickering light blinking at them from inside the workshop. The king pointed his intentionally quivering hand at the light and asked, “Do you know what that is?” The prince clicked negative. “That’s fire, fire used to heat a large clay kiln.” He held his right arm in front of him horizontally and ran his left hand over it. “The top is flat, and lined with lots and lots of small copper pots filled with almond oil. They then add sweatpeas, vanilla, sweet alyssum, wisteria or other plants while the oil is warm, but not boiling, and allow them to steep. This infuses the oil with the flowers’ scents, but doesn’t cook it. Only the best olfactorics manage to preserve that perfect balance between where the oil is too hot and not hot enough to extract the most scent.”

Turmerick brought his mount closer in hopes that he could spy inside, but there was no such luck. The smell was amazing, though - like a blooming garden. However, a ruckus of clanking metal and snapping fires roared from the inside, and the prince retreated.

“By--...! Petuni, I will have you whipped through the streets if you spill my oil like that again, do you hear me?!” came a furious whisper from the inside, immediately followed by tearful apologies in the whispers likely belong to Petuni. The king sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“Let’s move on. We generally keep these markeds and workshops away from the higher town on account of sudden noises like that.” The pair continued to the third ring, which was hardly a ring and more of a collection of huts, gardens, fields and sheds. The smell here was wholly different from the upper city, hardly floral and much more animalistic. The prince could’ve sworn shadows turned to hide in the alleys between houses as they approached, and in those same alleys, he could barely make out squatting figures composed of hardly more than skin and bone. He decided not to inquire, but instead probe the soundscape of the area. Many of the huts were workshops that produced terrorisingly loud, gnawing sounds.

The prince grit his teeth together at the hazardous noise and asked, “What is that ruckus?”

“Those are querns, my son. This is the part of the city where much of the loudwork happens.” The king opened a pouch and stopped his baqualo. From the pouch, he pinched two nips of raw cotton, leaned over and offered them to Turmerick. He put them in his ears and watch his father do the same. “Yes, loudwork’s gruesome, but necessary. This is where we allow the workshops that almost break the Great Peace, but remain within the legal range. Still, it’s far from acceptable, so we banish them here, near the water where the area is more open and sound isn’t as loud.” He pointed at various huts and sheds. “Querns, woodworkers, oil pressers, potters, those sorts of businesses.”

Turmerick frowned. “Wait, oil pressers and potters aren’t that loud. Why are they here?”

The king pointed back the way they came. “It’s not just an issue of sound - oil presses in particular require space for storage and space becomes an issue in the second ring. Also, considering the oil is made from almonds, a good deal of nuts have to be cracked.”

Crack! came a sound from inside one of the shops, followed by many more, as drupes were crushed and ground into a flour.

Turmerick flinched. “What happens to the nuts after they’re crushed?”

The king hummed. “I believe they are heated over very low heat to extract the oil, which is then potted and sold up the street. Speaking of pots, they are down here for the simple reason that they occasionally tend to break and make a ruckus.” With that, the pair of them continued on towards the town gates, a wooden palisade wall with twin doors that hadn’t been closed for decades. A long train of farmers ventured in and out carrying full or empty baskets, clicking their greetings to the king. Flanking the gateway were two guards on each side, clack in fur and padded hide tunics and armed with obsidian pi-xxois, a long javelin. They bowed as the king passed by.

“Past the gates here, my son, we exit X’ao-Hwah and reach the Keh-Hwah . Here, the sun shines too brightly during the day for any nightkin to walk about.” The canyon opened up into a river delta running into the Sao-kweh, The river delta was flanked on each side by acres of grains, fruit trees, spice plants, flower fields, herbs, vegetables and much more. The whole of the shore and the hills up towards the drylands above the canyons had been turned entirely to farmland, checkered with irrigation canals in the lowlands. The highlands were mostly fruit and spice trees. Shattered between the fields were small collections of huts and houses belonging to the workers. Everywhere, farmers zoomed back and forth in their work, the slap and hack of tools striking soil and cutting stems louder than much of what had been happening in town. By the very shore, the prince could make out what he knew to be fishing boats. The king continued forward and it took Turmerick a second to react and follow along.

“Do any of these lands belong to rach and rachfi Nilla?”

“No. These fields belong entirely to the peasantry. Their plantations are further south. Would you like to see them?”

“I would, actually,” the prince agreed. King Safron nodded and summoned one of the guards by smacking his lips at him.

“Bring us a raft to ferry me and my son across the delta, and fetch us an escort of six strong.” The guard clicked in acknowledgement and jogged off. Turmerick frowned.

“Why an escort, father?”

The king’s brow darkened. “Truth be told, the lands south of us, including the lands belong to rach and rachfi Nilla, are contested territories. Do you know what tribe lives to the south of us?”

The prince scrunched his nose. “The Hui-Prra?”

“Correct. Fragrance and the Hui-Prra haven’t had the most peaceful history - they envy our access to the Tree of Fragrance and the Moonwell, as well as our defensible lands; on the other hand, we long for their fertile flatlands and bountiful timber. Our wealth is greater than theirs ten times over, but our people cannot survive on spices and herbs. We need wheat, yams, okra, beans and roots; we need hay for our animals during draughts and wood for our buildings after fires and rockslides; we need acres to grow our cotton and flax… You get the point.”

“W-well, couldn’t we just…”

“Take their land?” The prince quieted down and the king nodded. “Oh, yes, that -is- a possibility. While their lands are richer, our warbands are greater, better equipped, better trained; however, it wouldn’t be enough. Our losses would be too heavy to sustain, and Fragrance would be left almost as weak as the remnants of the Hui-Prra. No… While we may skirmish every now and then, all-out war is something neither I nor chief Tsarri want. When you one day become king, you will need to understand which fights to pick and which to avoid.”

Turmerick clicked half-heartedly. It seemed he would have to study his neighbours closely. After a time, their raft arrived, and they dismounted to ford the river. On the other side, new baqualos were provided for them and the pair continued southwards along the coast, quietly followed by a group of six warriors. Their journey brought them past smaller workshops that screamed loud blasts of air, flickered hot-white lights and unleashed mindgnawing ting-ting-tings at anyone unfortunate enough to be in their presence.

“Whitesmiths…” mumbled the prince. The king nodded.

“For those whose work is so loud that they disturb the Great Peace, we have no choice but to banish them here. We cannot outlaw them, of course - copper is almost as precious and important to us as saffron and roses; however, they are simply too loud to keep inside the city.” The workshop was in truth a kiln next to a roof suspended on wooden poles. The prince’s eyes met one of the workers’ and the commoner clicked and bowed his greeting. The king took note and clicked back. “While our people generally don’t associate them on account of their poor hearing and loud speech, their wares fetch enough of a price on the market that they actually live quite well out here. For the most part.” The prince considered what his father’s final sentence meant.

After a while, the number of larger huts diminished and gave way to shacks, tents and lay-tos almost built haphazardly around the fields. The fields themselves were neatly maintained and well-irrigated, and almost stood out among the otherwise poor surroundings. Working some of the fields were what Turmerick observed to be skinny, beaten nelves, wearing rags for clothing and giving off an unwashed stink that the prince could smell nearly fifty feet away. He shook his head disapprovingly and asked, “Father, what are those?”

“Slaves, my son. Criminals or prisoners of war and raids sent to work in the fields or, in this case, the pepper acres of rachfi Jasmine.” Turmerick blinked and looked closer. Indeed, a few paces away from the ragged nelves, he saw a mountain of a man wearing considerably nicer clothes of hide and leather, armed with a whip. He turned to his father again.

“Why do we force criminals and prisoners to do this sort of work under these conditions, father?” The king’s face seemed to revert back to its stern standard, and his eyes stared miles ahead into the southern jungles.

“Your brother got three men killed and nearly killed you, too. For his crimes, he was exiled. In truth, I treated him unfairly in the eyes of the law. He was my son - I couldn’t give him the punishment his crimes truly deserved.” He reached up and plucked a jasmine flower from a shrub they passed by. “... In truth, manslaughter is punishable by death.” The prince gasped quietly. “Yes… I was too weak to execute your brother, my own son, so I ignored the laws. For this, Haroses will surely punish me someday. The law is nothing to scoff at, my son; as a king, it is your greatest ally and your greatest enemy.”

“But if you’re king, can’t you decide what the law should be?” But to this, the king clicked his disagreement.

“No, my son. No matter how mighty the king, they will forever only be as powerful as the people who support them. A king who cannot follow his own laws, or makes too many changes to suit themselves, will be a short-lived king.”

Turmerick nodded slowly. “And who supports the king?”

The king smiled. “You’re catching on, my son. As a king, the more support you can get, the better.” They turned left towards the hills leading up to the arid wastes above the canyon. In the distance, Turmerick could hear yelling and collision of objects. He looked behind him and saw the guards put cotton into their ears. “However,” the king continued as he patted the dots already in his ears a little deeper, “some supporters are more powerful than others - rach and rachfi Nilla, for example, are important allies to our family; as is rachfi Jasmine and her family; rach and rachfi Rose, as well as their family in Scenta… Perhaps most important to a king, however, are his warriors.”

They arrived to see a vast dry waste, stretching longer than the eye could see. Turmerick realised now what the yelling earlier had been, for here it was much louder. In several small stone rings lining a central pathway stomped by sandaled feet, warriors dressed in only linen loincloths sparred with wooden sticks, the stink of sweat and blood oozing from the whole area. As they ventured further into the mustering grounds, a small group came to meet them. They were all clad in padded hide tunics with light kilts about their legs, while the two men in the lead were also cloaked with a large buffalo skin cloak each. They all bowed their greetings and clapped themselves on the chest. “Long live the son of the moon!” said the oldest among the two out loud.

“Long live!” sounded the group, as well as anyone around them who heard the call. The king clicked approvingly and dismounted, walking over and placing his hand on the shoulder of the one who had spoken.

“Warchief Gardenia and rach Rose, good night. May Kipo’s dark ever shield you from the Chien-Xorr. How goes the evening’s training?”

“Hail, great son of the moon, king Safron,” greeted the older nelf, who the king had identified as warchief Gardenia. “The desert is cold and the wind bites hard, but the elements only strengthen our men.”

The king nodded. “Good. Rach Rose, how many have we now?”

The nobleman, a middle-aged nelf in approaching his second century, offered a polite bow. “Great son of the moon, your latest reforms have much bolstered our potential for war. With the promise to pay their wages in incense, we have managed to recruit an additional twenty sons our forces. We have never been mightier!”

The king clicked. “Acceptable numbers. I want them bled as soon as you think them ready. You have no doubt heard the rumours from the Chi’oa-Hwah, I expected?”

The warchief and rach both smacked their lips in acknowledgement. “Indeed, we have, great son of the moon. News of his death have spread far and wide by now. We will squeeze this opportunity for all it’s worth,” the rach said proudly. The king nodded.

“Good. However, I want the skirmish to be of the lowest possible risk. His death is mysterious enough as is - if it’s xweh-bach, our losses may be immense. Have the seer paint the warriors with sun ink before you leave.”

“Of course, great son of the moon. Your wisdom is unquestionable,” offered the rach with another bow.

“They won’t enjoy that one bit,” mumbled the warchief. The king scoffed.

“They will endure it is they want to live. You said it yourself - the elements strengthen our men.” The warchief was quiet. The king then reached out and patted his son on the shoulder. “You better take some time to get to know these two over the next decades, my boy - you will be joining them in a decade or so.”

The prince grimaced and met the eyes of the two officers, who both offered polite bows back. “My, is that the young prince? Why, I haven’t seen him since he was the smallest, little nelfling, barely past his first decade. Prince Turmerick, we would be honoured to have you apprentice under us when the time comes.”

“Most honoured,” echoed the rach. “Forgive me for asking, but how old are you now?”

“I’m twenty-five,” mumbled the young prince to the nods of the officers.

“My, then there’s not even a decade left.” The prince swallowed to the sound of chuckles. “But worry not, young prince - ‘tis the duty of a king to soldier.”

His father clapped him supportively on the back. “Well said! Well, we must be going. The future king has much to see, still, and dawn will rise eventually.”

The warriors all stepped aside and stomped their salute. “Of course, great son of the moon. Have a safe journey.” The pair continued on, followed by their escort. They rode deeper into the wastelands, shrubberies and dry grasses disappearing before an evergrowing onslaught of sand, dust and rock. While it would likely have been deathly scorching out here in the day, Turmerick felt his fingers stiffening from the cold of night. All he had learned today was wrestling over his attention, but one thing stood out in particular.

“Father? What happened deeper into the valley?”

The king growled. “... Rumour has it that the king of Monsax has been slain. However, no rumours of an actual attack on the town have reached us so far. The options are therefore either assassination or, as I fear may be the case, cold-blooded murder.” The wind picked up for a moment, tossing a small wirl of sand around them. “... It has never been a secret that the prince of Monsax, Amon, has been envious of his father’s position. If he indeed has usurped the throne, he may have caught xweh-bach...”

The prince hung his head uncertainly. “In either case, why would we want to risk our own people to take a town such as that? One potentially infested with a demon?”

The king looked to the stars. “Do you know the plight of nelvenkind?”

The prince followed his gaze. “You mean our disadvantage in the sun?”

The king’s face grew grim. “No, this goes deeper than so. Nelves age slowly, very slowly.”

“Well, everyone knows that, don’t they? The source of our long lives!”

“Indeed. However, as you may have noticed if you have ever met a pronn-ai-ai, they can birth nearly eight generations in the time it takes one of our own nelflings to reach maturity. A single nelven life is the culmination of decades upon decades of training, learning, love and hardships. To suffer even a single loss robs the tribe of emotions, experiences and opportunities that will take half a century to recover, if they even can be recovered.” He paused and raised his hand towards the sky. “If we can get the people of Monsax to swear allegiance to Fragrance - have them join us instead - this will give us a population boost to be reckoned with. It may finally tip the scales and allow us to take the south - perhaps they will even surrender upon seeing how many we are?”

“But what if they don’t?”

“Chief Tsarri and his people suffer from exactly the same plight as we do, my son. If he knows defeat is certain, he will not risk it. Of that, I’m certain.” Up ahead, the familiar sound of hard materials colliding brought back memories of the whitesmith. However, as they approached, the source of the sound was revealed to be coming from a large pit up ahead, within which dark shades contrasted with the yellow sand of the desert. A pair clad in thick clothes ascended from the pit with a baqualo in tow, clicked their greeting at the king and prince and moved on, baskets on the beast’s back full of white crystals. The prince reached out at took one of the smaller crystals out from the bypassing basket. The texture felt very familiar. He wondered if it was…

He gave it gingerly lick. “Salt?”

“Correct. Fragrancian salt from Xorsha is worth its weight in pepper. We found this vein just last year - the people are loving it. We hope to use it to form relations with the inner canyon tribes. Although, we are still uncertain of how common it is as a commodity. Scentia reportedly has found nothing like it, but they do not have the easier access to the plateaus like we go.” He offered the prince a nod. “When you are king, you will need to keep in mind what resources are at your disposal and how badly your people demand them.” The prince nodded. The king looked around and drew a deep breath. “I think that’s enough for today. Let’s head back.”

“Father?”

“Yes, my son?”

The prince reached out and squeezed his father’s hand. “Thank you. I look forward to my following lessons.”

The king clicked approvingly and squeezed back. “So do I.”

For once the road she travelled was familiar. It allowed her to return to her old mindset. Whatever happened in Ha-Dûna was nothing short of an embarrassment. The road back allowed her to return to her own mindset. Weakness might have been something allowed in the druid town but outside of it, it was exactly the thing that would kill you. Still, the words of Oraelia did not fall entirely on deaf ears. To protect those who were weaker than her, it seemed admirable. Kind. Yet then again, why would she do it? Those very same people always chased her out of the city. Fearing her magic. The sun’s daughter could do that because they loved her. How could they not? She healed and freed people. Did that make her as strong as Auriëlle? Someday she would have to find out. For now, she would hold to her promise to find Carn and the Redspears again.

So she went back to the area around Ketrefa, assuming he would remain in the vicinity. She heard whispers of the Redspears left and right. Their deeds in Jalka hadn’t been forgotten. Some even recognized Auriëlle in the inns. Her pale-scarred forearm had become a sort of mark for her now. Some were afraid of it, others asked her to tell her story. She indulged the latter, though left certain parts out.

Now she was on the road as a drifter again, rarely disturbed unless she reached a village. Chasing behind a group of people whom could really be anywhere. Like always, her highland stag just followed the road. Allowing Auriëlle to sink deeply into her own thoughts. Until suddenly she heard noises coming from the nearby bushes. She got off her stag and prepared to cast her sorcery in case bandits were stupid enough to attack her. After her encounter with Oraelia, she wanted to be a little more mindful of who she harmed and killed but for bandits, she had no mercy. One man, dressed in rags but with an axe in his hand, jumped out of the bunches but not at her. Instead, he jumped out a few meters away and ran away from her. Screaming all the way. Though not from Auriëlle. More rustling came from the bushes.

Then three…things jump out of from between the leaves. None of them looked like anything she had seen. They had the shape of a dog but with carapace armour on their back and black fur on their sides. Their tails were either compromised of several fleshy tentacle ones or that of a scorpion. One had his jaw split down the middle and open. Revealing its sharp teeth. Another had a normal, dog-like mouth but with three horns on its head. All of them had black shaggy fur with red eyes.

They didn’t howl at all. With her eyes she followed them as they ran behind the bandit and into the open field on the right side of the road. One caught the man by his leg. He fell amid the high weeds. Even though Auriëlle couldn’t see him anymore, she could still hear him for just a little while longer. Until there was nothing. Strangely, only a few moments after the scream stopped the dog-like creatures jumped back out of the tall weeds in front of Auriëlle. Their snouts were red and blooded but they clearly hadn’t eaten him.

“Stop.” A voice said. One demonic dog, the one with the split jaw who was slightly bigger than its brothers, sat down like a dog would. Three people emerged from the bushes. One had the tell-tale rainbow eyes. The other dogs didn’t move much further. “You’re in the lands of Vanhym. State your business.”

“No business. Just passing through.” It was what she usually said when she was stopped. This time around though, her eyes were drawn to the dog-like creatures.

“Interesting things right?” The Servant asked as his demeanor shifted to friendly. “I’m Sarren.” He said as he approached her, extending his right arm. Auriëlle didn’t really know why he was suddenly so friendly but decided to return the gesture. When they shook hands, the Servant caught a hold of her sleeve with his other hand and pulled it back. “Just as I thought, one of the heroes of Jalka.”

Auriëlle tightened the grip in her right hand and pulled the man close so she could grab his arm with her other hand. “Think very carefully before you tell me you’re an ally of Melok.” She said slowly, making the threat clear. The dog-thing got up and growled at her. “Oh it does make sound.” She noted.

“Sit!” The Servant commanded to his pet. It looked as if it was going to refuse for a second, but then obeyed. That couldn’t be said for the other two dogs who began to growl now as well. “Kannek, Surreth. Control your demons!” He commanded. The two much younger apprentices quickly called out to their demons to sit down. Both did, after several repeated commands. Then the Servant turned back to Auriëlle. “Vanhym is not an ally to Melok. Truth be told, we don’t really care about Melok. What we do care about is how you destroyed Galdezor.”

“You’ve heard about?” Auriëlle asked as she released the man’s arm. She sounded slightly surprised.

“All Servants around here have heard! Actually we’ve seen it! His last memory. That translucent wave of destructive energy! Gods what a power. We could only imagine it” The Servant sounded enthusiastic. “Is it true? That it’s a power that comes from Aurius?”

“I’m not sure.” Auriëlle answered truthfully. There was no sense in lying for now. Though she didn’t want to tell everyone she was indeed blessed. “It doesn’t matter, because clearly you can do things that I can’t.” She pointed at the dog-like demons. “I’ve never seen those things. Demons you call them?”

“Aye!” The Servant said as he walked back to kneel beside his split-jaw creation and knelled beside it. “Truth be told we don’t really know how they came to be. Someday one of my brothers just told me about them. He taught me the spell and well…now I’m teaching my own apprentices.”

“Mind if you taught me?”

---

The Demonspell was literally the only spell she ever managed to learn. Though in all fairness, she stopped trying to learn spells after leaving Acadia. None the less, it appeared extremely easy to use.

“You ready to try it out?” Sarren asked.

Auriëlle was looking at the knife in her right hand. It was sharp enough. “Let’s do this.” The two apprentices brought the bowl of water. It was the size of any other bowl. Slowly Auriëlle let the blade cut across her flesh, drawing blood which fell down as a trickle into the water. Clouding it. She then held her other hand over the water and said the words of the spell with her eyes closed. When she opened them again, golden fire hovered over the blood-clouded water and then slowly but surely floated down into it. The water became brackish and dark. Auriëlle used the time to quickly bind the self-inflicted wound on her hand. The bowl, meanwhile, turned even darker until it seemed to just consume the midday sunlight. Then a red eye popped open. “What the…?” Auriëlle wanted to dip her finger into it, but Sarren quickly stopped her. Several more red eyes opened up.

“That would be a bad idea. That demonic mass would overtake you. I know because well…that’s what happened to one of my brothers.” He said. “Now draw some of the demonic flesh out and mould it like you would clay. But only with your mind.”

Auriëlle nodded and held her hand outstretched over the black liquid. Slowly she raised it like she would raise water out of a tankard. Until she had a respectable amount of demonic matter hovering below her palm. Yet the inky, eyed mass in the bowl didn’t seem to have shrunk a bit. Her attention turned back to the orb she held suspended in the air. With her mind she began to shape it, expecting it to push back against her. To her surprise, as long as she channeled mana towards it, it seemed fine with all her manipulations. Eventually, the shapeless mass had taken its form: that of a raven with two sets of wings. It had three eyes on one side, and one on the other and its beak was long and hook-shaped. Ready to tear out flesh. Slowly Auriëlle guided it over solid ground rather than the infinite mass in the bowl and dropped it.

To her surprise it collapsed like a broken bird. But then gathered itself and got up, without any broken parts. She also felt that faint link running from her to it. Not a link of mana, it was something deeper. Something more personal.

“You did good.” Sarren said. He said a few words in a language she didn’t know. Like one would smother a flame, he smothered the stream of mana running into the bowl. Instantly the eyes closed and never opened again. The inky blackness began to dissipate slowly. Until it was all water again. “I’d suggest you don’t keep your demon for too long. They can become greedy for your mana.”

Auriëlle was listening but not with all her focus on him. Instead she was looking at the majestic and only slightly horrifying bird that jumped on her arm. “I guess I won’t be naming it then.” She said.

“No, best not.” Sarren said. “You’ve made one but now you best dispel it.”

She nodded in agreement and said the few words that she was taught. The raven demon lit up in golden flames. Though it seemed utterly unphased by it. The fires worked fast, spread across it and turning every bit of demon they touched into ash. Eventually, nothing was left of it.

When the demon was gone Sarren turned to Auriëlle. “Now that I have taught you this, I can make my request.” He said, his voice becoming a little more serious now.

Auriëlle turned to face Sarren and frowned. “What does Vanhym need of me?” She didn’t like to be bound to thrones or crowns. Even though sometimes she had to, like in Jalka. Still, she didn’t like it and she preferred not to get tangled up in another problem.

“Not Vanhym.” Sarren said and then pointed at his own eyes. “Us, the rainbow eyes. There’s a land east from here. For the passed years it has been…strange. I used to hear about a brother there. His name is Parn. Lately he has been asking some strange questions about runes. Sometimes the questions are a bit too specific.”

“You want me to check up on him?” Auriëlle asked.

“Yes, and check up on that entire land. They say something has build a very big place there. And I really mean big. Local leaders are coming over to make assurances they say. Auriëlle, something is wrong in the land of Nallan.”

“Any suspicions?” She asked.

“Nothing concrete now. Maybe it’s nothing or just a very peculiar king but Parn is utterly mute of who he serves. That in of itself is not new. We talk to each other but sometimes we trust our lieges more than our own brothers and sisters. Still, I worry about him. We worry about him.”

“I understand,” Auriëlle said as she got up and walked to her stag. She did owe the Servants a favor and a small little detour before meeting up with Carn again wouldn’t hurt right? “I’ll visit this land named Nallan but only because you taught me something valuable.”

---

It was late in the afternoon - the sun was beginning to set on the horizon, warm reds inking the clouds dim shades of pink. The day’s laborious tasks were over for the Dûnan peasantry, and most gathered around the mealhouses on the outskirts of town - large longhouses made for hosting up to twenty people each. In total, there were two of these around Ha-Dûna, placed strategically where the terrain grew too harsh and cumbersome for exhausted farmers to make their way all the way back to town. The northernmost establishment, the one also furthest away from the town proper, had acquired an air of age and usage, musty smells of old thatch and smoked wood filling its insides. Its patrons were, however, still as eager customers as ever, filling every bench flanking the three hearths lining the centre at three points and exchanging jokes and stories over bowls of stew and brown bread. A roaring chorus of laughter came from the benches closest to the door.

“You’re talking piss, Gondar!”

“No, no, no!” Gondar snorted the teary snot back inside his nose. “When Macgram came back, she not only found Fionn hip-deep in his daughter, but the herd he was supposed to watch had skipped to the hills over Blikkenberg!” The chorus resumed, intermittently interrupted by wheezes and coughing. “And!” sniffed Gondar, “and it took ‘em three days to get ‘em back!”

After everyone’s sides were properly stinging, an older man tugged thoughtfully at his bushy mustache. “Kids these days, I swear… Macgram oughta take that lad’s hand for laying it on his daughter - especially since it nearly cost him his whole herd.”

“Always one for the harsher punishments, aren’t you?” mused Gondar.

“Classic Arald, that,” rumbled another.

“It’s what the old gaardskarls did back in Jarnstad - it worked wonder, y’know,” protested the mustached man.

“The old gaardskarls are just that - old! Ha-Dûna has different laws, Arald - thought you’d know that after three years.”

“Can’t teach an old sage knew wisdom,” mused Gondar again and chuckled into his clay cup. The mustached man growled quietly. Gondar sucked on a tooth and wriggled his nose. “No, no… I reckon he and Macgram’s daughter’ll both get a stern talking to by Kaer Pinya before the druids’ll make ‘em marry and go at it under the grace of Reiya and Taeg Eit. ‘S how it usually goes.”

“Ain’t right,” Arald rumbled. “Why should they get to decide that?”

“They don’t - the gods do, old fool,” snapped one of the others and Arald glared back.

“What was that?! Got something you wanna say?!”

Gondar stood up and waved for them to calm down. “Hey, hey! Lads, we’re having a good time, alright? Let’s not ruin it with squalor. Vlanders, be respectful. Arald raises a good question… It ain’t always right that the druids can overrule the plans parents have for their children, but… At the same time, cuttin’ of the hands of a somewhat touchy lad - is that right? Taeg Eit will be happy as long as they marry.”

“It’s the old way.”

“For the gaardskarls, it is. Rest of us, the ciennon fen, the herjegallings and the rest - for us, that ain’t the old way.”

The mustached man finished his cup of drink and growled. “I’m heading home.”

“Oh, Arald, come oooon… We were having such a great time!” The man didn’t reply, instead pushing the animal skin door curtain aside and stepping out into the autumn afternoon. The three other lads on the bench sighed - a different bench had taken on the responsibility of keeping the mood light and bubbly.

“So… What now, Gondar?”

The man hummed to himself. “How about another story - this one from outside the Dûnlands.”

“Which one’s that?”

“The Reaper of Ramhome.”

The room went silent. All eyes turned to Gondar, who accepted the stares with defiant confidence. “I’m serious.”

“Gondar, we-... Is this a good time? We ain’t exactly out camping.”

“C’mon, horror stories are perfect for this kind’a mood. Besides, it’s along the same lines as our earlier conversation. You, come join us.” Their own conversation having wilted away, the other benches were pulled closer by their occupants until a halfmoon had formed in front of the man. Gondar received another cup of kefir and leaned in so the flickering shadow of the hearth danced across his dirt-shaded face. “Long, long ago, there was a beautiful young lady named Robin, and she was beloved by her whole village. She had yet to marry, waiting so eagerly for her sweetheart to one day arrive. Then, one day, her sweetheart did arrive - a tall, strong man came to their village in the night, tired and weary of the road. It was love at first sight. In their lust, they snuck out into the woods and had their way. Taeg Eit saw this and was furious - the agreement of marriage had yet to be made, and no druids were there back then to right their wrongs in the eyes of the gods. So she sent a tremorous troll and seven swathes of reaving raiders at the village, until all that remained within the fortnight was Robin, kneeling in its ashes. She begged, begged for forgiveness and for someone to take her sorrows away - she had lost everything: home, friends, love. From on high, Naya cursed her arrogance - sorrow is for us to keep, see - and took away her beauty and her love for others, forcing her to wander the world for eternity until she would realise the true meaning of sorrow.” He paused and eyed the crowd. “... No one saw her for ages… Until there once came a cloaked figure to the town of Ramhome. None of them knew her story, and none had time to learn it. She went from door to door, slaying everyone in the village with her terrible spear. Did she do this to learn what sorrow is? Maybe she thought that, to learn what sorrow is, one must see others suffer?” He shrugged. “None by the gods know what she truly thought, for none lived to tell the tale of Ramhome…” The crowd exchanged uncomfortable frowns, and Gondar smirked. “And some say… She’s still roaming the highlands to this day.”

The room was silent, only the gingerly slurps of water or goat milk being heard in the background. Eventually, Vlanders slapped him on the back. “Way to bring down the mood, goatbrains! Tell ye what - I have another story! Story of our favourite hero, ladies and gentlemen!” The crowd turned to the man, who at this point had risen up, found his pipe and was patting the bowl full of pipeweed. “Yes! The song of Gaard Goldhair!” The crowds cheered and started clapping along. Gondar rolled his eyes and snickered into his cup. The song rumbled in the walls until the curfew set in, and laughter and cheers followed every verse:

Leto Delphi looked over her people and her supplies. Just above half of the original united freehold populations remained. Not all left by choice; the old and injured were unable to the long, perilous journey and needed to stay at the nearest haven. Most of their original supplies went with them as barter in the arrangement.

However, the high-lands were their home, and forage came easy. Druids, who referred to themselves as the Guiding Lights, flocked to her, additionally replenishing her population and supplies. A few mentioned that they had mentors who had settled in the city to the west known as Ha-Duna and that they would be happy to supply the pilgrimage and offer she could hardly ignore.

One of the pressing issues dividing her followers was a matter of religion. Everyone had their own opinion, and it threatened to destroy whatever sense of community lingered. At one point, she needed to have two way-finders separated as people worried about the severity of their argument. The druids were odd, as that very night, the same ones were laughing over drinks. To make peace, the worship of the druidic gods and the god of perfection, the goddess of love and the goddess of flame, shall not be discouraged. Nobody was satisfied with it, but it quelled the tension.

After some travel, they arrived at the Constellar Lodge. A wooden longhouse out of the walls of Ha-Duna. While her druidic followers had spoken of Ha-Duna, she had a more in-depth talk with one of the Constellars named Cionn.

Cionn, who was born from the Gaardskarls, guided her through the city. As they went to enter the city, they saw cow-pulled plows drove the soil of the fields. Going through the market to barter for supplies, they saw men smugly and lazying smoking a drowsing herb, and more practical men admired the new craftsmanship of glasswork. Finally, the stopped by the circle of the gods to ask that the gods bless the journey, she saw druids admiring a mirror, although she could tell it was different from admiring mundane crafts.

While Cionn as a translator, she spoke with one of the druid attendants about herself, Elysium and Ketrafa. At one point in the conversation, she slightly confused when the Long Strider suggested they travel north. After the confusion resolved, there was a mild tension, but it ended peacefully with him helping with the prayer, before being escorted back to the lodge.

The Constellars spent a large amount of wealth, supplying them with food, clothing, and simple tools, and pull carts. Delphi expressed concern about this. Cionn explained the resthouse system, how they had used their wealth to be independent of it as a matter of pride, but that it would mean they wouldn't starve.

They managed to leave, handing southward towards the lowlands, on relatively good terms. But the day before they left, they heard rumors that floated around them, such as that one of their babies was cursed to become a monster and that they Taeg-Eit was displeased with them, but also that the Leto was blessed by Seeros, or they were accompanied by an ancient folk hero that saught after Elysium long ago and never returned. The arch-druids clearly stated that such gossip was nonsense.

---

She had to stop this. She was immortal, sure, but this had to be unhealthy even to her. Missing both slippers this time, the moon goddess dragged herself across Antiquity towards her sister’s portal, clutching her gut as though it had been stabbed with a pike. One of her eyes was crusted shut, and that frighteningly common trail of stiffened goo was all too present around her lips. He held in her right hand a glass of that delicious ginger and orange juice Illyd Dyll had made for her that one time - her only solace in an existence of pain. She eventually stumbled into her sister’s realm, faceplanting into the gentle, inviting grass. For a moment, she actively protested societal pressure to get up and move on like something higher and more sophisticated than trash would do. However, the resistance was eventually suppressed, and the moon goddess persevered towards her sister’s house, cursing the terrorising brightness shining from above.

”Oreeeeey… I miss you! Your sister needs heeeelp!”

It took only a second for a reply and it was one that oozed pure joy. "GIBBOU!" her sister shouted from seemingly everywhere. In the distance a bright object shot up into the sky and made a beeline straight for her. A myriad of bright colors followed the Goddess of life as she landed before Gibbou in her new form, arms outstretched for an embrace as she approached her sister with a giant smile.

”AH! LOUD! OH! BRIGHT!” screamed the plum-hued goddess and collapsed onto the ground in a fetal position. Quivering eyes braved the surroundings and locked onto the form before her. Meeting in the middle, she hugged her sister’s feet for comfort. ”Don’t scare me like that!”

"Oh my goodness! I'm so sorry Gibbou!" Oraelia quickly said, bending down and snapping her fingers. The area around them became a shadow, save for Oraelia's small glow. She then placed her hands on her sisters shoulders and poured healing into her again. "Is this going to become a routine thing?" she asked playfully.

The moon goddess faced the ground in guilt. ”... I’m sorry. I just, there was this party going on down in the Azumai region, and while I kinda wanted to put all of them to sleep for, y’know, obvious reasons, they were having such a good time that I had to join in!” She looked back up. ”But hey, you look giddy! What’s up? Did you try that exercise regimen I recommended? Feels good, right?”

Oraelia shook her head quickly. "Nope! Haven't tried it sis, I've been busy. Real busy. I created a race even! Of course Neiya helped but well she uh… She and I had a disagreement and it puzzled me for a long time until I figured out a solution! You know how she's the Goddess of Love? Have you met her? Well it doesn't matter, what does matter is that I decided to take Love too! I feel so sorry for her you know, she's obsessed with all the negative aspects of love and she showed me…" she paused for a moment as she looked away from Gibbou. "It was… Mind opening and terrifying." she gulped down some air and looked back at Gibbou with a smile. "I'm going to show her there is a better way. I have too."

Gibbou immediately rocketed up and grabbed Oraelia by the shoulders. ”Wait, what did she do to you?! When did she do it?! What do you mean terrifying?!” Her face paled. ”Oh, no, did she-... Did she hurt you like she-...” She started hyperventilated. ”Oh, no. No, no, no, no…”

Oraelia's face contorted into worry. She immediately put her own hands on Gibbou's shoulders as well. "Gibbou! Gibbou! It's okay, it's okay! I'm fine! I'm okay! I heal fast remember? See!" she showed Gibbou one of her scarred hands. "I'm all better now and Genesis woke up and she's so old now and you're here and I've adopted love and everything is going to be okay!" she said quickly, her voice shakey.

Gibbou’s eyes linked up with Oraelia’s, but, like her body, were quivering in fear. ”No, no, no, NO! I should’ve told you about her! She hurt me and, and, and, and now she’s, she’s hurt you! Oraelia!” In what almost felt like an attack, she embraced her and squeezed her close. ”My sister. My sweet, innocent, beautiful sister.”

Oraelia was stunned for a moment, before she embraced Gibbou back. "It's-it's…" she began but what followed was sobbing. Oraelia let herself be held, a bond only felt between sisters. From her chest there came a warm feeling, caring a sense of comfort and love with it. She was safe in Gibbou's embrace and Gibbou was safe in Oraelia's. She cried for a time before asking, "She… Hurt you too? How?" she asked, her voice soft.

”Ages ago, before Antiquity. She filled my head with lies and hate and fear, until I finally snapped and kidnapped all those creatures and brought them to my moon. I have never seen her since. I had hoped she had died in the past, but then Twilight came into contact with her and fell for her, her… I dunno, can it even be called charm if it’s her? I’mma say spell. Either way, that revealed to me that she was still around… And now she has gone too far.” Gibbou rubbed her cheek against Oraelia’s scalp. ”I should’ve been there to keep you safe; to stand by you in the heat of battle… I won’t let her hurt us again.”

Oraelia nodded but then she tilted her head. "Who's Twilight?" then her eyes went wide. "You… You kidnapped… Mortals?"

Gibbou blinked. ”Wait, I didn’t tell you? Oh… Shoot.” There was a pause. ”Yeah, I, I did that… Not my proudest moment, but I felt like I had to protect them from her, y’know, and all the other evil that happens down there at the leisure of the nutcases among us.” She let Oraelia go and sat down opposite of her. ”They’re all safe, mind you. They’ve been asleep for two thousand years. I’ve awoken some of them through the ages, but… Yeah, I think I’mma stop doing that…” She stared shamefully at the ground. ”You’re disappointed in me, aren’t you?”

Oraelia sat down as well and said nothing for several moments. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little disappointed." she started, "But more so in myself for sleeping for two thousand years. I understand why you did it, I do and I'm glad you won't do it anymore too. But uh, yeah, she showed me the same thing more or less. I pity Neiya, Gibbou. She can feel what love is but she let's herself drown in the bad. I don't think she can really help it either." Oraelia said quietly, placing her hands in her lap.

Gibbou crawled over on all fours, sat down next to Oraelia and laid her head on her shoulder. ”... I’m… I’m not sure anyone can help her, sis. She strikes me as the type who’s always been like this. You’re you, so it’s in your nature to be sympathetic to her condition, but…” She sighed. ”... She… She causes suffering, sis. Real bad, too! I mean, have you seen what those people in Ketrefa are up to at night?” She gagged, and it was hard to tell whether it was fake or genuine. ”It’s traumatising.”

Oraelia leaned her head on Gibbou's and sighed contentedly. "You're right but it wouldn't be me without at least trying. She… Brought me back to my own realm after our… Discussion. I think she can be reached, deep down."

Gibbou looked unconvinced, but nodded. ”Okay… I trust you in this. If anyone can make it work, it’s you. Although…” She looked down at her clenching and unclenching fists. ”If something should go wrong, we must be ready. Ready for anything.” With that, she caressed Oraelia on the top of the head, guiding it away gently so her own head could straighten up. She rose, the darkness created for her following her along as her bare feet softly found their roots in the grass a few paces ahead. She looked over her shoulder and asked, ”May I summon a bit of moonlight in here?”

Oraelia sat up and nodded. "Of course sister, don't have to ask me. What are you up to?"

Gibbou nodded and reached up towards the shadows in the sky with one hand. The darkness around her swelled, and a glimpse of her moon, white and full, appeared inside the rift in the sunshine. The goddess took on a lunar glow and then lifted up her other hand. The moonlight thickened, becoming a liquid that gently flowed through the opening in the heavens, dripping down onto the moon goddess in large, crystalline droplets. The droplets melded together all over her form, covering her clothes and skin. First, she was gently raised, as the moonlight about her feet hardened and dimmed, becoming silvery sabatons with white lines following the markings on her skin underneath. Her shins followed suit, the light on the front becoming metallic plates that reach up to cover her kneecaps, while the light underneath the plate became dark and scaly like dragonskin; around the outside of her thighs formed protective platings bound by the same divine leather to protect well the veins in her legs. Around her waist, there bound itself a wide belt of holy leather, buckled with moonsteel and jeweled with moonstones. Her torso flushed with whites, silvers and greys as the light became metal harder than any on Galbar, forming a breastplate unmatched in durability and strength, stretching all around her upper body. Over her shoulders, the light became pauldrons which grew long, upwards-pointing blades that seemed more ceremonial than practical, all things considered. The light on her arms became elbow protectors, wristbands and gauntlets, while the inner layer of armour continued the leathery trend. Around her neck formed a throat guard, and her moonlight wreath combined with the moonsteel to form a horned and plumed helmet, a purple mane manifesting out of the scalp of the metal to match her skin. Finally, from underneath her shoulders, a long green and grey cloak that seemed almost to hide her entire body under the neck, engulfed her. She lifted her metalled arms, the rustling of chainmail, clank of plate and creek of leather present with her every movement. She turned to Oraelia and opened her arms wide, pushing the cloak apart to reveal her whole form for her to see. ”What do you think?”



Oraelia was standing now, hands covering her face. Her eyes were wide in awe as she breathed, "Gibbou! It's wonderful! You're so… soooooo protected! How did you come up with such an idea, it's perfect!" Oraelia gushed.

Gibbou stepped over, every step feeling like she was carrying a mountain spread out all over her body. The ring and rustle of moonlit metal followed her as she moved. ”Oh, that’ll take some time getting used to… Anyway, I’ve, y’know, always wanted to be a protector of sorts. Up until now I… Well, let’s be honest. I’ve been terrible at it. She looked at one of her palms, clenching it into a fist to the sound of creaking leather and steel rubbing steel. ”But Neiya’s attack was the last straw. Bear witness, sister - this is the start of a new era for the two of us. I will become a protector of all life, for now I know my enemy.”

"Oh Gibbou…" Oraelia said sniffling. "I'm proud of you." she said. "Now hey! I could use some help in the protecting department, actually. Remember the race I mentioned earlier?" she asked.

Gibbou blinked and removed her helmet to scratch her scalp. ”The one you made with Neiya? Yeah, I remember. What about ‘em? What they need?”

"Well you see… Neiya has made war and conflict her new purpose. So when we created them, the Aiviri, she warped half of them into beings who wish to dominate and terrorize life. They are the Neiyari and mine, those who I saved from her corruption, are called the Oraeliari. I tried to give them an edge but I fear it won't be enough. They know how to defend themselves due to Neiya's influence but they are protectors of life and I think you could further help them. Give them some of that stuff or teach them how to make their own, you know?" Oraelia said.

Gibbou’s expression darkened. ”Oh, that’s bad. That’s real bad. If Neiya’s aiming to become a matron of war and she already has servants ready to carry out that purpose, we have no time to waste!” She conjured forth a model of Galbar using moon dust from her earlier transformation. ”Show me where they are.”

Oraelia walked forward and looked over the map. "Very pretty, Gibs." she then traced her finger before landing on the Luminant. "There we are. Home sweet home for them. It tears me apart knowing that they are fighting each other down there." she said sadly.

Gibbou focused the globe into a local view, the dust shapes collapsing and reforming into trees, hills and shrubs, all surrounding a small Oraeilari camp. They looked exhausted and weak from days on the run, and their fire was small as to not draw attention. Gibbou pointed at the group. ”Are these the right ones?”

"Yes, a small number. They don't number many altogether, after the split…" she took a harder look at them. "Oh those poor things. They look so hungry!" she shot up straight at that. "Oh no. I forgot to teach them how to grow food for themselves! I'll have to go ask… um Illyd… Illyd! That's his name, he seemed nice."

”Oh yeah, he’s such a great guy! We ate pie and drank tea for hours the other day. Really, there probably isn’t a better listener out there - except for you, of course,” she ended with a smile, which contorted into a worried frown as she looked back down at the map. ”... Hmm… They’re already quite weak, I reckon, so I shouldn’t give them anything heavy. This will have to do for now, and then I’ll implant the knowledge on how to make stronger armour in their minds.” She collected a handful of moondust and rolled it into a small pile, which she deposited on the orb. There, that should do it,”

Down below, the Oraeilari in the camp suddenly saw the earth in their camp part into a rift, revealing a hoard of bronze bracers and thick tunics and elbow and shin protectors of leather. They also learned in an instant how to make these items, should they ever come across the materials necessary. The source of the gifts was nowhere to be found, but above them, the moon winked a twinkle of light.

Back in Oraelia’s realm, Gibbou blinked. ”... That felt odd. Interesting, but odd. As if a new part of me that’s never existed before just came to be.”

"Ah, as I told Genesis, you're growing up." she sniffled again.

Gibbou stifled a snorting giggle. ”D-d’aw… Don’t say thaaat… You’ll make me feel old.” She hung her head a little. ”... Or that I used to be less responsible. Either way, I’ll do my best in the coming years.“ She took Oraelia’s hand in her own, frowning at the inability to feel her warm, soft skin through her gauntlets. ”Tell me ahead of time when you go to see Neiya. I refuse to let her hurt you again, so I will come with you.”

"Of course, I wouldn't dream of doing it without you." Oraelia said with a soft smile.

”Then it’s a deal.”

---

Clad in his armour, Cadien stood outside what he knew to be the portal to Gibbou’s realm. He recalled the words he had exchanged with Neiya, and the warning she had given him. But, he could not simply leave the issue at that. He needed to know more. He needed to resolve it somehow. He had considered many different ways to approach this issue, but ultimately concluded that the most direct way would be best.

So without further ado, the God of Perfection stepped through the portal. The scenery became dark and empty, the rotating Galbar visible above, contrasted by the hard rays of the sun on the moon’s horizon. The texture of the ground felt rocky and sandy, and the only sound was an oppressive lack of it. Up ahead, visible only with holy eyes, was a large, round dome of glass, within which there were numerous shapes - one of which was moving around.

“Gibbou?” Cadien voiced, as he approached the glass dome - the only structure in sight. The shape halted, then disappeared behind what looked like a door, which upon further inspection looked more like a tunnel. A door at the end of that tunnel swung open, revealing Gibbou in her usual midnight shirt and pants, bat slippers on her feet.

”Oh, Cadien! Hi!” She stepped out and closed the door behind her. ”It’s, it’s been a while! What’s up?”

Cadien did not carry his usual smile. “There is a matter I must discuss with you,” he said. “It is quite serious.”

Gibbou put on a frown. ”O-oh, okay, uhm… Why don’t you come in and we’ll, we’ll talk about it?” She pushed the door open for him to step inside.

The God complied, stepping through the door and turning back to face Gibbou. “I have recently heard some allegations against you,” he told her, in a tone that betrayed no emotion.

The moon goddess blinked in confusion and closed the door. ”A-allegations? Look, if this is about those vampires…”

Cadien’s eyes widened in shock. “Vampires?”

The moon goddess froze, droplets of sweat gathering on her face. ”Uh… Yeah, what about ‘em?”

The God frowned. “Why did you just bring them up?”

”Becaaaaauuuse… They usually appear at night and, and do a lot of bad stuff.” She groaned. ”Oh, me and my big mouth… I, uh, I may have had a hand in making them… I’m not proud… At all.”

Cadien’s expression darkened. “A hand? Who else was involved?”

Gibbou glared. ”Hey, I ain’t no snitch! It’s someone or no one. Coulda been a figure of speech. Now, I’m sorry for doing it - might’a had a somewhat skewed idea of what a good, effective curse is, but on the brightside? There are fewer people who kill for power now.”

Cadien returned the glare. “There are fewer people who kill for power now,” he corrected. “But in the future? When they find out doing so will grant them eternal life, strength and speed beyond measure, and all they have to do is stay out of the sun and drink a few cups of blood a week?” He shook his head. “There will be more, not less. The very idea of it makes a mockery of my ideals.”

Gibbou rolled her eyes. ”Yeah, well, if I had to take into account everyone’s ideals, I wouldn’t be able to make jack, would I? Like, you’re free to just, y’know, change ‘em however you’d like. Besides, do you know how hard they have it after the curse? Like, even getting touched by the sun equals poof!” Balled fists rested on her hips. ”If you want a better apology than ‘I’m sorry’, I’ll write you an essay on how sorry I am, for sure - or whatever else you want. But I have -just- done my hair and watered my grapevines and I am -not- in the mood for a lecture right now.”

“And I wasn’t in the mood for this conversation, but here we are,” Caiden said. “You inflicted this upon my creations without telling me. They already have enough to deal with as is - trolls, iskrill, vrools, vespians, witches, even each other. You’ve created another foe for them to fight, and now I must deal with it. I can change them, yes, but so can others - already someone seems to have reduced their dependency on blood. So I must find another way to strike at them,” he sighed in disappointment. “What about you? Do you have any plans to fix this?”

She scoffed. ”Oh, I’m sorry - do we have to ask permission to do our jobs nowadays? And why are you speaking of my trolls as though they are a pest? Do you even know that only two out of four kinds actually kill people? One’s even really nice! Oh, and by the way, vampirism isn’t exclusive to humanity, so stop acting like this is just -your- issue.” She took a moment to taste her words. ”Okay, I realise I’m not selling my case well here, but I’ve already got plans to give mortality their shields against the vampires. Alternatively, you know, they actually learn how to kill them. Isn’t that your whole shtick? Overcoming challenges through improvement?”

“Within reason,” Cadien argued. “Some challenges are so great that they destroy the opposition before it can improve. That doesn’t lead to improvement; only more destruction. Now tell me, what is your plan?”

Gibbou groaned and snapped her fingers. In the blink of an eye, the dome they were in dug itself under the ground, tunneling through the entire moon until it appeared on the other side, right in the inferno of the sun’s light. The moon goddess flinched and summoned a pair of sunglasses for herself and Cadien. The blazing rays turned the surface around them an eerie white, and the moon goddess turned to dig through a nearby chest, throwing lumbs of rock and metal over her shoulder while searching for something.

Cadien remained silent, glancing down at the sunglasses in his hand, which he did not need. Gibbou eventually came back to his side, holding a copper plate in her hand. ”Observe.” She reached out and grabbed some of the sun rays that broke through the glass ceiling and smeared them all over the plate until it turned a brighter version of itself and sported an odd inscription saying, “Example”. ”Sunplate. The method isn’t perfect, and I have no idea how mortals’re going to make it, but the plan’s to offer some to a group of warriors brave enough to seek out a vampire. If it works, the vampire should disintegrate upon contact.” She paused and shrugged. ”Work in progress, obviously.”

“And how long will this take to develop?” Cadien asked her, looking at the plate with something akin to curiosity.

Gibbou shrugged again. ”I’unno. If you got a group of warriors in mind, I’m sure we could test it right away.” She left the plate in his hands and went to clean up the mess she’d made.

“There is no shortage of warriors in the Highlands,” Cadien said. “Or among the Merelli and the Goblins, for that matter. Any group of them could serve, if they are willing.”

”I’ll get to it at some point, I suppose. You kinda caught me in the middle of, y’know, gardenwork, so I didn’t plan on making anything today...” She snapped her fingers and the dome travelled back to the dark side of the moon. ”Right, now that -that’s- over with, I’m going to make myself something soothing to drink. Feel, feel free to sit anywhere.” She stepped over to a different part of the dome with some cupboards on the wall, from one of which she extracted a cup. ”You want anything?”

Cadien shook his head. “I’m afraid our business is not yet concluded. As I said earlier, there were… other allegations.”

”Can you at least pretend like you’re here for a nice visit -just- for five minutes while I make my tea?” She conjured forth some hot water, poured it into the cup and a teabag dropped into the cup out of nowhere. She flicked her free hand and a beanbag rolled over to Cadien’s feet like a lonely pet. ”Sit down, by sunlight - you’re stressing me out…”

“It was not my intention,” Cadien said, as he sat down on the… ‘chair’, “but this conversation is necessary. For what it’s worth though, you do have my apologies. Just let me know when we can continue.”

”You ever notice that? No one just comes for a nice visit. Everyone always wants something - ‘Gibbou, make this’, ‘Gibbou, you screwed up’, ‘Gibbou, we need to talk’. Illyd and Orey alone know how to be nice nowadays.” She sat down on her own bean bag and gave her tea a sip. ”Alright, what is it?”

“To be completely fair,” Cadien said, sidestepping the main issue for now, “you’ve only ever visited me once, and that was when you needed something.”

”I did say everyone, didn’t I?” She attempted to smirk. ”No, you’re right. Wrong timing.”

“Don’t worry. You were pleasant company regardless,” Cadien said, with a reassuring wave of his hand. “Much better than that Aicheil fellow, anyhow,” he shuddered.

”The Dreamer Boy? Met him once. Didn’t say much and was a bit grabby right away. I thought you two’d get along.” She winked. ”Sorry, but it was right there. Anyway, what happened?”

“I welcomed him into my sphere, as I generally do,” Cadien shrugged. “He demanded access to my mind. I said no, because he was being quite rude, and I insisted on a regular conversation. He continued to refuse, despite my attempts to help him learn, and then seemed to be in some sort of pain, so eventually I gave him what he wanted.” The god scowled. “He then got himself hurt in the process and saw fit to insult and criticize me, before fleeing after I told him to leave.”

Gibbou frowned. ”That’s disturbing, sure, but… Well, when I met him, he wanted to do the same. I mean, he didn’t exactly say ‘I demand access to your mind’, but he kept saying ‘connect’ over and over again and held his hands out. He didn’t do much up there - I think that’s just how he talks to people. Sure, he’s, well, weird, but I didn’t take him to be much of a critic.” She sipped her mug again. ”How’d he hurt himself? Must’a been something fierce if it was enough to hurt a god.”

“I do not know,” Cadien shook his head. “Perhaps my mind was simply too advanced for his. There is one detail I have withheld, though. After the encounter, a number of mortals on Galbar were driven to madness. I suspect this was his doing, for when he hurt himself, he let out an immense amount of power which seemed to reach even beyond my realm. The fact that he would do such a thing, from my own realm no less, is a grievous insult.”

Gibbou gasped. ”Wait, what?! Madness?! But…!” She sprinted over to the window of her dome and stared searchingly down at the planet below. ”B-but then I have to help them! Helping people relax is, is my purpose!” She conjured forth a model of Galbar with moondust and started scanning the whole surface for outbreaks of madness and hysteria. ”How long ago was this?”

“A few days,” Cadien said, as he rose to his feet. “On Galbar, I mean.” He stepped up behind her and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “If they need you, then I’m certain they or someone close to them will pray to you. Your druids have spread your name quite far, haven’t they?”

Gibbou sighed. ”I mean, I… I guess… I haven’t heard anything, though. Most just complain about not being able to sleep or all the horrors that happen in the night.” She cast a sideways glance at the hand on her shoulder. ”By the way, could you… Not?”

Cadien instantly withdrew his hand. “My apologies,” he said, somewhat sheepishly. “Uh… anyhow, I do believe I have gotten off track. I meant to discuss the reason I first came here.”

”After berating me about my screw-ups and nearly giving me a heart attack, how could we forget?” she replied with a roll of her eyes. ”Go ahead, talk.” She dipped her lips into her mug again.

The God took a deep breath. “It’s about your feud with Neiya.”

In an eruptive move, she spat tea all over the window, coughing violently afterwards. She collected herself bit by bit and rubbed her nose which was runny with tea. ”On a roll today with picking terrible topics, aren’t we?” she groaned, followed by ‘ahs’ and ‘ehs’ as she snorted everything back inside.

“Your words hurt her, Gibbou, more deeply than you might think,” Cadien frowned. “What I want to know is why. Until now I have never seen you angry.”

Gibbou blinked, lifting a small index finger to her chest. ”Wait… My words?” She cocked her head to the side, suspicion darkening her eyes. ”Cadien, wha-uh… Wuh… what is this? A-uh, a bad joke?”

“What do you mean?”

Gibbou scoffed in disbelief. ”A-are you actually…” She breathed in deep and brought her right fingers to her face. ”Oh, my sis… Cadien, what is your relationship with this woman?”

“My relationship with her is irrelevant to this discussion,” Cadien frowned uncomfortably. “I simply wish to see this feud resolved.”

Gibbou shook her head slowly. ”I… I can’t believe this. Has she actually… I don’t even know how to ask this, even. What exactly did she tell you, Cadien?” Her eyes were round and erratic with confusion.

“She told me that you are not to be trusted, and that you spoke to her with enough spite and malice to cut her for millennia,” Cadien frowned. “That is why I am here. Until today, I never would have thought you capable of such behaviour, so what happened?”

Gibbou twisted the fingers on her face into a flat palm. ”Hold up… Let me get this straight...” She chuckled almost maniacally. “… She told you… That -I- was not to be trusted… And that -I- spoke to -her- with enough spite and malice to cut her for millennia?” She then leaned in and looked at Cadien in the same way one studies a mirage in the desert to verify if it’s real. ”... And in spite of you already knowing me for the person I am, you believed her?”

“I do not know who to believe,” Cadien insisted. “It is because I already know you that I am here at all, asking you these questions. You deserve a chance to tell me your side.”

She drew another deep breath. ”I appreciate that chance - really do, but…” She reached out for one of his hands, taking it with her own two. ”Cadien, listen to me very carefully. Neiya is not who she says she is. Yes, we met two thousand years ago, and she spent the better part of a night telling me how useless and hopeless I was as a goddess. She tried to poison me into becoming some, some toy of hers. I swear this by that crazy guy Tekret, for what that’s worth to us. I am guilty in telling her I never want to see her again - which I don’t! But if this is the story she told you, you -need- to get away from her!”

Cadien’s face was blank as he withdrew his hand. Then, his expression turned troubled. “I…” he looked away, unable to meet Gibbou’s gaze, as his mind searched through his earlier interactions with Neiya. “But she’s always been…” his voice trailed off. He recalled Neiya’s words. They will try to tear us apart... They think I’m a monster... She is not to be trusted.

If Neiya was right, then the only correct thing to do would be to disregard everything Gibbou had said and leave immediately. But if there was even a small chance that Gibbou was telling the truth… or that both of them somehow were…

At last Cadien gathered himself, and found his voice. “I need to leave,” he said simply, in a stoic tone that barely concealed his inner troubles. He turned away and made his way toward the door. “I have… a lot to think about…”

Gibbou sighed. ”Cadien… One last things.”

He stopped at the door. “What is it?” he asked, without turning his head.

”Be safe.”

The God only nodded, and stepped outside.

---

The endless, sandy beaches of the Kubrajzar deserts baked in the sun, almost to the point where one could wonder whether water could even exist nearby. Had the sun had its way, all the water would’ve likely boiled off this beach a long time ago. Except for the odd brave bird scanning the seas for anchovies, life was rightfully absent from this large slice of wasteland. The waves lapped weakly at the deserts, and the moisture they left behind seemed to disappear in an instant. Salt and oceanic refuse coloured the beach a murky gray, and it all it all just looked like the most hostile place on the planet, save for a few others.

And it was there one could find a corpse. A corpse? No! It was very much alive, give or take a few heartbeats and exhausted wheezings. He had done it, the madman: Twilight had swam across the largest ocean in the entire world, and he swore to himself and anyone who was listening that he would never do it again. His sea-salt crusted eyelids cracked open to reveal bloodshot eyes looking up at the burning fate awaiting him if he decided to walk forward. While not optimal, he also had no idea where these drighinas were - they could be living in the desert for all he knew. He dragged himself around in the slushy sand until his legs remembered how to stand. Then he cupped seawater into his hands, purified it and drank deeply. These divine powers were coming in handy, even if their owner bugged him about using them responsibly every now and then. What did she know about responsibility anyway.

The avatar rose up slowly and stretched out. He had done this all on his own. He was his own man, and nothing could stop him now from completing his mission and learning the secrets of worldsong!

NOTHING!

He heard it too late, all things considered. A distant noise, hardly audible over the lapping waves, rapidly resolved itself into the familiar sound of a woman screaming, "aaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHOHNOOOOWATCHOUTDOWNTHEREEEEE!"

Had he been mortal, his every bone would have broken and he would’ve rightfully been pronounced dead on the spot. However, considering he was in fact part deity, he managed to get off the hook with only a mild concussion and an aching back. He had been flattened against the sand once again, though, brought low by the weight of another, presumably female creature. Wheezing for air, he struggled to produce words one might say in a situation like this, such as “hello” or “how’s your day” or “get off me, dumb bitch”.

The dumb bitch, having had her fall cushioned by Twilight, wasn't more than a bit stunned. She lay on Twilight, looked up at the desolate landscape around her, and only after a good minute did she bother to check on the man under her. Or get off him. Despite her shaky legs the woman got to her feet, took a few deep breaths, and began lightly kicking Twilight, "Are you uh, alive? Hello? Helllllllo?"

The man groaned and slithered weakly around in the sand. With every kick, he whimpered angrily until he finally said, “YES! I’m alive! Stop kicking!”

"Oh, good. Great. Whew," She eyed Twilight's sand caked face for a moment before, eventually, asking, "Sorry are you Twilight? I'm supposed to meet a Twilight."

The avatar dusted his face free of sand and got to his feet. ”Pfft! Pwah, eh! … Yeah, I’m Twilight. Who’s askin’?” He beat the sand and leftover kelp off his clothing.

The woman stopped, hesitated, and slowly pointed to her face, which bore an increasingly concerned expression, “...Me? I’m asking?”

Twilight sucked in deeply. ”I understand. I realise this. It may have crossed my mind that it is, in fact, you - the only other person within what I can guess is a radius of forever - who is asking. If you would allow me to explain for a moment, that phrase is merely a way of asking…” He cleared his throat. ”WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT DO YOU WANT?!”

“WHY DIDN’T YOU JUST SAY THAT,” The woman screamed back before, rather suddenly, deflating and protesting half heartedly, “It’s not my fault existing is so stressful! That fall wasn’t even a quarter as fun as I thought it would be, and then you start asking crazy questions and yelling at me. This is terrible.”

After a moment spent moping she let out a huff, stood up a little straighter, and held out a hand, “But I’m Kesheret. Which is long, so you can call me Kesh. Or K. Errrr, no, Kesh works. Anyway my Mom, or Dad I guess? Momad? Damom? Look Tekret is mad at you and sent me to tell you to go grab a sword and give it to a guy.”

Twilight froze. ”Oh, uh… That so. See, I was hoping it’d take him, her, it some time to, y’know, find me and give me something to do in order to, uh, repent. I’ve kinda got plans already aaaand, y’know, not too keen on being a delivery boy just yet.”

“Wow,” Kesheret regarded Twilight incredulously, “Seriously? I’ve been alive for like, a week, and I already get that's not how this works. Uhhh, but if you’re insisting well... I guess I can let mom know? I mean her first idea was to just have a whale swallow you, and oh! Oh! I did suggest she curse you with impotence. Maybe that one?”

Twilight flinched. ”W-well, I would just have Gibbou uncurse me! How’s that, huh?!” He looked up to the sky. ”You’d do that, right?” No response. He deflated and made hard eyes at Kesh. ”Look, look, look…” He pursed his lips. ”You said you been alive for a week, right?”

“Weeeeeellllllll,” Kesheret pursed her lips in thought, turned around, and started counting on her fingers before nodding to herself. Task done, she turned back to face Twilight with a flourish and proudly declared, “Nine days!”

Twilight scoffed in exaggeration. ”Nine days! Why, that’s plenty old enough to think for yourself, missy. C’mon, think for a minute - what has your mad-dom ever done for you?”

“Uhhhhhmmmm, made me?”

Twilight clicked his tongue in disapproval. ”Rookie mistake, kehd. Sure, they might’a done something dumb like that - like -making- you, but what have they done for you lately, y’know? Like, when was the last time they gave you help when you were in trouble? Or the last time they invited you out for a cup’a tea? Nah, nah, you gotta stick it to the man, ‘cuz the man’s never gonna look out for you. You get me, sister?”

“Well, one: I’ve never actually been in trouble, though that does sound fun. Uh, two: not sure what tea is? And pretty much every day Tekret was with me she was a lady.” Kesheret took on a contemplative expression for a moment before finishing, “Also I don't think I’d want to stick things on Tekret even when she’s, he’s a man? Kinda sounds messy.”

Twilight smirked. ”So y’see… You -could- get me to swim aaall the way back and, what, receive, like, empty thanks and another mission… Or…” He hooked his arm around her neck and gestured at the horizon. ”... You could try aaall the things you said you’ve never tried before - and more - if you do a liiittle bit of duty shirking.”

Kesheret ducked out of Twilights hold, turned to face him, and threw a thumb over her shoulder, “Sword’s on the other side of the desert. Which is where I’m going, to try all those things. Because unlike some, vaguely fish smelling people, I don’t piss off gods and get duties to begin with.”

With that Kesheret set off, took her first long steps into the blistering heat of Kubrajzar’s wasteland, promptly stopped, squinted in an effort to see anything other than sand and hesitantly added, “Buuuuuuut if you want to tag along, I won’t tattle?”

”Not tattling? Now you’re speaking my language. Buuut I have something I need to do first - I gotta find a drighina. Promise it won’t take long - I’m just tryna learn the secrets of the worldsong. A week or two max.”

A woman's head turned one way, then the other, and after seeing nothing but water and sand she concluded, “Well, no drighinas here. So uh, I was gonna go that way?”

She pointed into the desert, “Do you have a preference or? I don’t know if the uh, ‘world song’ has a directional bias, but I’m pretty sure I don’t.”

Twilight shrugged. ”I heard they live by the sea, so… I saaaaay we go that way.” He pointed due north.

“mMMmMMMmMMMMMMmmMMMmmmMMM, ok?” Kesheret mimicked Twilights shrug and set off....

That way.

---

There were few times that Kiim and Jaav agreed upon something, and now was not one of them. Guul had to admit that their continued ability to find something to argue with each other about was quite a skill, impressive in its own way even if quite tiring. The golden barge that they all rode upon was not big enough to escape it, especially considering they were all joined to the same body. Still Guul had found some pleasure in fully exploring the craft, even though it was her own effort that created it she was only going by Thaa’s designs. As it turned out he had quite the eye for detail, even if in rather odd places.

Of course there were the generalities as they approached the island that some of the mortals had taken to naming ‘Pakohu’, an odd name in Guul’s opinion but she supposed they would find ‘Guul’ to be an odd name. But yes, the generalities of the craft, it was perhaps a little larger than most mortal’s river barges, even if it was still well in their capacity and ability, they seemed to have little need for such larger craft. Ornate as it was, discounting how the entire structure shimmered in golden coloration and texture, it was in of itself well designed to show mimicry not so much of how the mortals actually did build on Galbar but something that they could understand, an expansion upon what was already shown perhaps.

Guul did not know how creative Thaa was really, but so far she could come to appreciate the delicate detailing of the sides of the craft. Where they could have been simply smooth instead there were inlays hard to see unless one looked closely. She seemed to find that the more she looked there seemed to be more details to find.

Guul found herself increasingly looking beyond the craft, to Pakohu and the waters below, it wouldn’t be too long before they would need to be presenting everything to the Night Elves. Thaa had been rather quiet of late, a blessing if there ever was one with how Guul had ended up taking the long way to their collective destination, but he had mentioned that they were skittish with death in his experience. Although, Thaa seemed abrasive at the best of times to Guul at least, easier to go along then try to resist for her experience at least.

The sun’s light seemed almost completely gone at this point, though they were not quite there yet, it would seem that they would arrive in good time to speak with Night Elves in any case. Their boat rolled slowly into the mouth of the river Tal, and divine eyes could even in the darkness see the fields and checker-pattern of irrigation channels. There was a frightening lack of Night Elves, however - at least until harder eyes affixed on various shapes all around. The shapes held javelins, and had taken positions in the darkness where the light was at its dimmest. From one corner of the shadows came a whisper, “Who are you and why have you come?”

In whispers came a reply, “We are the divine servant, Kiim’Jaav’Guul. We have brought a gift for King Safron, we assume you are our honor guard as none would commit such folly as seeking to threaten a divine servant.”

There came no response, and in the darkness, milk-white glares paid close attention to the divine servants. Eventually, one shape exited the shadows, clad from top to toe in fur clothes and with a herbal wreath on his head. He clicked his tongue in greeting and knelt. “I am Safron, son of Turmerick I, king of Fragrance lands. Our people are all pious and godfearing servants of the gods, so we pray from the bottom of our hearts that we will be spared their ire. Now… What honour have we been granted?”

Kiim and Jaav watched the Night Elves that remained in the shadows, all three moved their body closer to the edge of the barge closest to Safron. Guul spoke in a whisper that carried only to his ears. “An honor for you Safron, son of Tumerick. My Master hopes it will help your people and guide them on the right path forward, but that it left up to how you use this gift. Rise and board this vessel if you are willing.”

Silently, a path of stones from the river bed rose up, forming a connection through the air up to the barge and back to near where Safron knelt. The king swallowed nervously. Behind him, his wife, daughter and son approached and the king turned to see them.

“It’ll be alright. I will be back before you know it.”

“Father, why--?”

“We do not refuse the will of the gods,” replied the king sternly. Queen Clove nodded somberly.

“Come back to me.” The king leaned in and kissed her forehead.

“I will.” He did the same to his daughter and placed his hand on Turmerick’s head. With that, he turned to the barge and stepped aboard. The river stones drifted to the shore, forming a small pile. And the barge lifted, coming up above the river, above the trees and a far range above all the land below. Guul whispered to the King.

“I apologize for the necessity, but some of the instructions are very clear in how you are to receive this gift from my Master. This will not take long.”

The king took a deep breath. “... I understand. I will follow the wishes of the gods as they have planned for me.” He closed his eyes and stood ready.

Kiim broke in, a whisper but a harsher tone, “Open your eyes dear Safron, you will need them for the fullness of the gift.”

Jaav whispered, “Look out at the landscape, you have an opportunity to see the lands that you rule from a perspective most mortals won’t. There must first be some explanation of the full qualities of what will be given to you, and this is for your ears alone. Once you have accepted it and returned, speak as you wish of this whole encounter, it matters not who you tell, but we must only tell you.”

The king frowned, and moved over to the edge to observe the world below - he didn’t see much on account of the darkness, but the shapes known to him stood out. “... We irrigate smaller fields than I thought,” he remarked and went to the other side. “... There’s Scenta, Xiang, Lukt…” He drew a breath. “The world seems small from up here - as though conquest and domination were merely days away… How do the birds handle seeing everything this way?”

“Not our concern, but it is our hope that you take these sights to heart.”

“The gift has power innately, but it pales in comparison to the power one could achieve through properly applying it’s abilities.”

“It is time that you know of it.” A Sword floated towards Safron from out behind the three headed form of Kiim’Jaav’Guul, it stood in the air, hilt to the ground and pointed to the sky. It was almost entirely golden in color, shade varying between the blade and the handguard. The handle was dark in coloration, almost a complete black although hints of blue appeared under close inspection. Some small amount of decoration was evident along the hilt, although nothing that might impede function. “A sword, beyond that of mortal means. It is as sharp as any mortal blade, more durable than any weapon of mortal make as well. It will not lose that sharpness.”

“Most Importantly however are the abilities that this sword possesses. You need to know three. Firstly as Owner and User you could choose to upon your death embed your soul in the sword, you would then be able to speak with the next Owner of the blade.”

“Secondly, when the bright Moon of Gibbou is absent from the night skies you can wield the blade and speak questions to the souls of the dead at rest in Aquibeophates, the Afterlife. It does not translate for you, so be aware of your limitations.”

“Thirdly, this blade is far more dangerous to your enemies than a mere cutting instrument. To mortals, if you so wish it, the sword will rend their soul from their body upon the slightest hit from the blade.”

“Our Master has instructed us that you have the opportunity to refuse the Sword, but it will not be offered to you again. This is an opportunity for your people, for you, for your family, to take your fates into your own hands and to understand your world and fate better. Consider carefully Safron, son of Tumerick I, King of Fragrance.”

The king looked upon the sword and the three heads of the messenger. Was there truly anything here not to want? A sword like this could give him and his dynasty a reputation that could cull the morale of their foes. Sharper than any pi-xxois javelin, perhaps even the obsidian type, and durable for all eternity. He could stay as his son’s mentor even after death, and his son could be his son’s mentor, and this could continue for eternity, ensuring stability in his kingdom. The offer was good… Almost too good. He offered the servants another kneel and whispered, “The gift is beyond what we deserve… It would be foolish not to accept. However, before I do, I must ask - does your master demand anything in return for his weapon?”

Kiim was quick to whisper a reply, “It is indeed beyond what you deserve, but it is not our choice or decision.”

And Guul followed up, more helpfully, “There is one thing you, and all your descendants must do if you wish to keep the favor of our Master for this gift; use it. No worship is demanded nor how it is used, as long as you are bold and serve yourself and your people to your best ability.”

Jaav had one last thing to whisper, “Will you accept?”

Use it? A simple demand. The king clicked. “Yes.”

“Then rise and take your sword King Safron of Fragrance, we will return you now.”

When the king grabbed the hilt of the sword nothing immediately happened, a bit of a let down given the whole build up for this, well his new sword. Suddenly upon that very hint of a thought of ownership, he felt a wave of… ...something pass through him. The king hissed at the sensation. “What is this?” he whispered and wiggled his body somewhat.

Kiim and Jaav seemed disinterested in the king after he had accepted it, the barge began to move back towards the spot on the river. Guul replied with some measure of amusement, “You are now its owner. I trust you will learn to use it well, you may be unused to swords as I do not believe your people use them much yet. It is pointed like a spear but also the edges of the blade are sharp like that of an axe, practice and you may very well become a true adept. It is your fate to make now, learn to use it well and it will serve you well, that goes for all its aspects.”

“I…” The king pursed his lips. “Of course. It is what we agreed, after all.” The boat touched back down on the river, and the king disembarked back ashore. He reunited with his family and turned to the barge and its three-headed passenger. “The people of Fragrance thanks you and your master for this gift. We will be certain to use it within the moon.”

The golden barge already began to depart, taking to the air and away. A last call came out, Kiim was the last to turn away, “We will be watching.”

The king turned to his people, his sword in hand. It glistened a pale bronze in the moon which had begun to peek out between the clouds. He raised it into the sky and spoke, “Tomorrow, we will travel to Monsax and relieve it of its tyrannical vampire lord! This new weapon will see us through it! Fragrance shall grow stronger!” His words were met with low, celebratory claps.