The Quasar, a realm of harsh light and sheer darkness, began to shift. It was still defined by the contrast, but the zones of consisting of these extremes began to grow smaller and smaller, divided by a thin sliver of twilight. Forming into orbs of brightness and shadow which shifted around at variable speed and directions.

Nemea sat on one of the few perches within the realm, watching the occurrence with some interest, the space they resided in did not seem immediately impacted by the changes. However, what was happening was difficult to perceive without divine senses. One by one, the orbs began to manifest anomalies. One was hot as lava in one second, and let was cold as ice in the next. A piece of debris flew into another and was then wildly launched out. Sparks danced at the edge of another, and let never crossed the threshold. Each of the events were confined into their own spaces, except for one. It escaped its sphere and moved freely through the void.

Sirius was contemplating his conversation with patron of mana when he felt the freely moving force pass over him. It felt nice, he recognized it was of Galbar but he had never had a chance to experience it for himself. It awoke him from his stupor, and he noticed the chaos that his residence has been cast into.

The wind began to rage as Sirius self-reflected, the harsh lights and shadows of his plane vanished and were replaced by the expanding twilight. The god recognized that his realm needed to change. That he needed to change.

Ethereal pathways of tangible soft purple light formed starting from the door of his realm and expanded outwards in a labyrinthine manner across its entirety, zigzagging up and down forming many layers of walkways. Bolts of lightning would generate behind and beside the pathways and seemingly follow them to unknown destinations. The temperature of his realm would quickly shift at random, but if a creature was within it, it would always be tolerable for them so long as they remained in the good graces of its master. In fact, the entire realm became far more habitable for any potential visitors, as most beings would be able to see fine within the dim light that now subsumed it, though some absolute light and darkness remained as pillars extending vertically, no pathway passed through them. The lightning that traversed the realm would be harmlessly pass through anyone whom Sirius did not wish harm upon. Despite the size and complexity of the pathways, guests would never get lost wandering them and would have to try to jump off the platform they were standing on in order to fall down. If they did choose to fall a measure below the lowest platform, an unseen force would catch them and gently return them to the walkway. As for someone who was outside of Sirius' good graces, it is unwise to offend a god within their domain.

In addition, a gentle breeze would almost always be blowing, typically in the direction of Sirius when he was present. And when he was present, his door remained open in contrast to the few decades since it was first built. He created a new stone perch for Nemea so that was closer to the entrance so that she could watch over it.

Sirius appreciated his new found power. He was sure that he would make good use of it.

---

_{Year 29AA, middle winter, Ha-Dûna...}

Boudicca held her chin up on her thumbs sticking out of her folded hands. She sat atop her bed, a number of animal skins criss-crossing a mattress of dry reeds, hay and grass, legs crossed and knees supporting her elbows. It was one thing to change a friend - another to change an enemy. The restructuring of the Dûnan identity as one of peace and diplomacy didn’t sit well with everyone - the théins like Hilda the Leoness had been furious, originally. Battle was her life, and to not be allowed to exercise it was a great dishonour to her and her men. Boudicca had to admit it, too - peace wouldn’t sit all too well with her personally, either.

Still, it was the preferable outcome, and after a long and arduous discussion between herself and the other théins, they had all come to the same conclusion: While war brought glory and revelry to the fighters, those swept up in the chaos suffered greatly - and there were always many, many more that didn’t fight than those that did. As the greatest power in the region, they had an obligation to rule it justly and peacefully. The théins who wished had been put in command of the professional soldiers, the hildargeach, and would spend their days drilling them in tactics and survival in the wilds. The warriors weren’t many, but in time, they would be good - very good.

The théins who hadn’t chosen military employment served as administrators in Ha-Dûna or were sent out to the various villages to function as chiefs. Valix had been among these, bringing with him migrants and supplies to the small mining town of Ha-Klan over Risenberg, earlier known as Gleann, the first village to fall in the conquests. They were often accompanied by one druid each to serve as spiritual guide. If the village already had a druid, then there was no need. This way, Ha-Dûna had once again begun to strengthen its foothold.

However, it hadn’t been easy to get them to accept a capital-sent chieftain. Some villages had shown signs of rebellion, which had had to be put down. Instead of killing the rebels, however, Boudicca had requested that they be given a choice: death, or to be taken prisoner instead, to be brought back to Ha-Dûna to serve as monks and nuns in the temples to the gods. This would be their new alternative punishment as part of their shift to diplomacy - the temple thralls.

Today, she was to speak before the people and give their thanks to the gods for their aid in the city’s recapture. She had written the speech in her head in its entirety, but in truth, it wouldn’t hurt to beseech the gods for courage before such a performance. She knew just the one. Rising out of bed, she made her way past the central hearth and out through the wolf skin curtain door, stepping into the snowy town core from what had once been the Hall of the Weary. She turned to the left, pulling her plaid and furs ever tighter around herself to ward off the cold. She received greeting bows from passersby going about their daily duties, and she greeted them back with a pound of the chest and a straight-armed, flat-palmed wave. As she pondered how much she regretted not wearing her cap to ward off the wind, she turned the corner of a longhouse and reached the ageing Circle of the Eight. Already, a number of druid apprentices had gathered there with their mentors, being evaluated on the sincerity and ability of their prayer. The mentors stood at the ready with birch branches, ready to whip those who took too lightly to their task. Occasionally, Boudicca would hear a smack! and a pained moan. She paid them no mind - though greeted them when they greeted her - and knelt down before the megalith statue to Macsal: a tall, rough stone triangle where the only triangular characteristics of the stone were that it had three tips. It bulged and caved in places, but the side facing forward had been chiseled and sanded flat through days and weeks of intense sculpting long ago, and now displayed a beautiful mural of a handsome, brown-haired and clean-shaven man, sitting in green and golden grass under a tree and singing for all the animals of the world. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.

“Great Macsal, Holy Poet… Please hear my prayer… My heart is set, but my mind is clouding me. I have the will to lead my people, but I know not if I have the voice to charm them - to sway our former enemies to becoming our friends. Is there a way I can show them all the importance of peace? The keys of stability?”



Boudicca bowed her head ever lower, almost to a kowtow. She swallowed and took a deep breath. “I… I think I understand. But what if I say something wrong? What if I say something I will regret? What if… What if they misunderstand me?” The air rippled around thesanndatr, and from the inked and smiling stone rose a roiling shadow. From the shadow appendages crept, and with their emergence colour spread. The roiling inky mass formed up and took a more solid shape until there hung above the stone a feminine almost-human thing - only that its skin was a multitude of wondrous colours, very much like the heavens. And as the smiling woman above the stone looked upon thesanndatr, the colours left her skin and hair until a perfect human floated there. And although she appeared in all ways human, there was a certain swirling of colour in her eyes and luminous allure that danced about her. Without knowing how or why all those fears in Boudicca’s breast were swept away; and only an excitement and a desire and inspiration to speak beautifully remained.

For a few moments the strange magic hung between Boudicca and the creature, until she leapt lithely from the stone and looked around. It was not frantic - or did not seem to be -, and there was no worry or anxiety - or at least, Boudicca did not think there was. At last the creature stopped looking around and turned to Boudicca, shivering slightly in the crisp morning air (for her strange, low-cut dress was ill-suited to such cold climes and windy morns). ‘How strange, only now I was with the others and now…’ she laughed slightly - nervously? - and her brows furrowed (was it fear?) and she seemed to jump whenever a distant smack would sound.

The druids who had been praying at the other stones had already scurried over to behold the miracle. “It’s a gift - a gift from Macsal!” they praised. “Macsal has given Ha-Dûna a most beautiful young lady!” The shouts seemed at once to effect a change in the woman, and her variegated eyes seemed to twinkle and lips to dance.

“Hush, hush!” Boudicca cautioned and held out a flat palm. It was clear on her pale face that it took every ounce of her concentration not to join her peers in sheer awe at what had just occurred. With her other hand, she reached upwards to the lady on the stone, wetting her winter-dry lips as she thought of what to say, “A-are you alright?”

The woman looked from the commanding Boudicca to the druids gathered about her, then back to Boudicca again, their excitement playing in her eyes. ‘I am my lady,’ came the serenade of her voice, and she lowered her head, bowing ever so slightly in that universal and instinctive show of humility and respect. ‘I am Shaeylila, a lowly plier of songs and poesy, you honour me with so gracious a welcome,’ she fell silent for a few seconds, as though listening to something. Her eyes rose... and fell on those of Boudicca, ‘and I am told there is a strangled song that weeps within your breast, my lady. What hurts and woe have made it so?’

Boudicca instinctively laid a palm on her chest. “A, a song?”

“Have you doubts, good sanndatr?” came a voice from one of the druids behind her. “Macsal will often metaphorically use musical or poetic words to describe ailments of emotions and the like,” she declared proudly in a well-read manner. Some of her peers whooped quietly in awe at her encyclopedic knowledge. Boudicca frowned.

“Is that what you meant?”

Shaeylila bowed again, her eye lashes shimmering in thought before her head rose up again. ‘Yes, you seem to be sick at heart my lady... but I am a stranger here, and perhaps my hearing is- ahem, I mean, perhaps I am reading too much into too little.’ She glanced at the gathered druids for a long thoughtful moment, eyes seeming to wander off in thought, before they focused again and she smiled. ‘My but there are… so many of you here. And who is this Macsal you’ve made mention of again and again?’

“Why, Macsal is your creator, is he not? The great, the outstanding, the unbeatable poet of--”

“Kaer Guni, please, just--...” Boudicca raised a palm and took a breath. “Please, leave me to talk to her by myself.”

The druid blinked and the others, too, looked confused. “But sanndatr, this is a great holy event! We must log every single--”

“Later! Later, I promise. Now leave us be for a time.” The crowd slowly, very slowly began to disperse, disgruntled by their leader’s orders. Boudicca sighed in relief and looked back at the song. “Forgive them - they are eager, always eager, to meet any sort of creature the gods hold dear. I barely had room to think. They didn’t scare you, did they?”

Shaeylila watched them depart and turned back to Boudicca with a knowing smile. Taking the sanndatr by the hand, she drew her towards the stone and sat down against it, on the strange white snow. ‘Not at all! They are all… very sweet. But certain words , these matters of the heart, are sometimes best not heard by so many ears. Especially not the matters that plague a leader’s heart,’ she paused and tidied her dress, then gestured to the other woman. ‘Come come, sit. Speak to me. I don’t know about this Macsal, but I will listen.’

Boudicca nodded slowly and did as told, sitting down next to the stone of Macsal, as sitting on it would be blasphemous. She twiddled her thumbs slowly, trying her best to ignore the cold snow melting into her tartan plaid and checkered pants. Eventually, she drew a breath through her teeth and spoke, “I am troubled by some of my peers’ attitude to peace - we have been at war almost constantly for five years, and while most appreciate a good breather like the one we have now, I fear that we will need only one unruly troublemaker to break this fragile peace we have. I do not know what I can say to my people that will not fuel sentiment for these troublemakers - if I appeal to our pride as a unified people, this pride will be used to push down those that are not us; if I appeal to our strength as victorious conquerors, they will ask why we have stopped showing it; and if I mention neither, they will see me as meek and cowardly. I… I don’t know what to do, what to say.”

Shaeylila was silent for a while, brow bowing gently and lips creased. At last, however, she looked at Boudicca, lips chattering. ‘This white stuff… snow... I can’t feel my- oh me.’ She flushed red and leapt lithely to her feet, looking down at her wet and ruined dress of silk. She patted the remnants of quickly melting snow away and then considered Boudicca for a few moments, before she spoke through blue and shivering lips. ‘Maybe, my lady… rather than placating them with what you say you should instead put something on display. A story! Do you perhaps know the tale of Great-horn Brin’s battle against the Thrice-born Terror? There is a lesson there perhaps more eloquent than words.’

“Oh, gods, you must be freezing! Again, forgive me! You, trell! Fetch this lady furs and a plaid!”

The apprentice, seemingly picked at random from a crowd, immediately set off in a sprint towards a nearby hut. Boudicca sniffed the last of her sternness back inside and raised a brow at Shaeylila. “I have not heard this one, no. Would you tell it to me?”

Once the trell in question had brought the furs - at the song’s inviting glance helping her into them, and receiving whispers of delight and warmth before scurrying off again - Shaeylila turned back to Boudicca, hugging the cosy furs to her. ‘My, so this is what cold feels like. Brrrr.’ Her rosy cheeks were flushed with the cold and a delighted smile decorated the delicate features of her face. ‘But yes! The tale.’ She stood before thesanndatr and spread her hands so that little blobs of ink spiralled from her palms and formed up into a great dark mass of battling warriors. At the centre of the mass were two great figures, one with a prominent horn atop his head and the other boasting three heads, three sets of arms and feet. They danced about each other and Shaeylila’s voice seemed all at once to provide the shouts and cries of battle, the clanging of weapons and twanging of bowstrings, and the grunts of the two great figures as they leapt to and fro and clashed against each other.



With the epical verses and inky performance complete, the dark figures melted back away into Shaeylila’s hands and returned to that rose-tinted beige at which the skin of people here seemed to hang. She looked at Boudicca expectantly, biting her lower lip ever so slightly and her eyes of whirling colour wide. ‘D- do you think a performance like that would set the scene for what you have to say, my lady?’ She paused for a few seconds, ‘because if not, there is also the tale of the Great Vile King - whose greed and hubris grew so great that he quaffed and gobbled up everything, even himself in the end!’

“That was…” Boudicca trapped her nose between her palms. “I am torn here, too - the story has a great moral, certainly, but pride in ourselves is…” She looked over her shoulder. No one was watching them intently from what she could see, so she shuffled a little closer. “... Pride in ourselves as the rightful sovereigns of this land is a large part of what keeps us going. The conviction that we are the chosen people is powerful - very powerful. Of course, I…” She paused and suckled thoughtfully on a breath. “... I supposed it could be framed as a return to moderation - a hope that we can still be proud of our role, status and deeds without believing ourselves superior to others… But will they listen to such a message? Will Hilda listen?”

Shaeylila pressed her lips together and brought a forefinger to her nose in thought. “Hmm, Oh! I know! Maybe what you need is something… tailor-made. In an attire that really speaks to your people. But for that, tell me more - who are you people? Why have you been at war so long? Who is this Hilda?’ She turned around and started walking off, ‘come! Let’s walk!’

“I should’ve led with this, really,” chuckled the sanndatr and followed her, eventually taking the lead on the tour through the city. The route took them out of the city core at first, taking a right towards the industrial district where the air grew thick with the fumes from molten glass and burning wood. Pottery lined the edges of the gravel road, and the pair had to dance between the currents of sleds and pulks pulling frozen clay and lumpy metal to their rightful places. “While Ha-Dûna has existed for merely one score and four six years, the people who would call themselves the ‘Dûnans’ after its founding have journeyed together for decades before that. In truth, we are not one people, but four - the gaardskarls, the clennon fen, the herjegalling and the brasforts - all of whom hail from various places to the southeast. At least, that’s what my mother told me.” She paused. “When we first came together, we stuck together - fighting off the Ketties and bandits and that sort of scum. ‘Course, fusing together four different tribes takes love, will and effort - our history isn’t without infighting; in fact, that’s been much of the reason why, ever since Ha-Dûna was founded, we’ve focused on becoming one people. Already here, we encounter issues: Too many of the théins are gaardskarl or brasfortsian, and not enough are druids; they have a fondness for battle and conflict, and I’ve never known a single gaardskarl who didn’t carry harsh sentiment against foreigners. Likewise, not enough clennon fen are théins - their ascetic roots keeps them from chasing any sort of leadership role that isn’t rooted in divinity. So I’m stuck with warmongering théins and peace-suing priests. Are you following so far?”

Shaeylila looked over at the sanndatr with scrunched up brows. ‘Yes my lady. Angry karlfortasians and gardmarks who don’t like outsiders…’ she pursed her lips and looked around with raised eyebrows, ‘so I, uh, better keep a low profile,’ she scratched her cheek and drew the plaid up so it covered her face to the eyes. ‘And peace-loving dravidian-priests and glennon vens wandering around not wanting leadership. Got it. So what happened next?’ Came her now-muffled serenade. Just as Boudicca started again, the serenade picked up once more. ‘Though I- uh.’ She sighed and her eyes grew dim and downcast, ‘I don’t know if a speech or a performance is going to fix all this, my lady. It already sounds so terrible and it’s only the beginning. I’ve never really… dealt with these kinds of things.’ She stopped walking and the plaid fell somewhat. ‘Seems like some cruel playwright perfectly set-up a tragedy.’

“Don’t say that, this is stressful enough already,” Boudicca confessed with uncharacteristic honesty. The smoke of industry thinned, and the pair soon exited the fumes into a livestock market, smells of sweat, fur and manure washing over them like a tidal wave. They had to compete with moos, bleats and grunts to be able to hear each other, and their promenade would come to a stop many times as traders herded cows, goats, sheep, elk and reindeer to and fro like they were irrigating the city with flesh. “On top of this, the last five years have been nothing -but- war, and I fear my officers have grown to like it, and our neighbours are beginning to get a taste for it. The loss of Ha-Gaard to our former allies at Kirin’s Rest only shows that we are increasingly alone in this land - our neighbours aren’t quick to forget what we did to them five years ago, and I’m already beginning to feel that the quest to become a cultural centre did not carry the appeal I thought just some months back…” She looked at Shaeylila and frowned at herself. “I’m sorry for overwhelming you with all this - it may have been fool’s hope that all of this should be solved with poetry.”

Shaeylila’s eyes seemed to harden with anger and she let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Yeah…’ she murmured sullenly. Looking towards the great town, now that they were at its outskirts, a small ripple of colour grew in her eyes until it was a great spark. She turned to Boudicca with a conspiratorial smile, biting her lip slightly. ‘Wh-what if…,’ she hesitated, ‘those people back there said... I am a gift from that Maxwell right? W-well… what if Maxwell… isn’t very happy? What if he is actually quite upset by all this fighting - fighting and killing and goring and not a single poem or song, no epical record by all those vainglorious warriors, no performances, no wisdoms... ’ she paused and glanced at Boudicca with a guilty smile, ‘what if Maxwell is really quite angry? What if even now he is preparing a great furious song condemning before all the world the death of all art that Ha-Dûna’s constant warring has brought?’ She paused, eyes wide, ‘do you think that might shock them towards more cultured pursuits?’

Boudicca pulled away and turned to the sky as though reflecting on this compelled her to apologise to whatever was up there. She caught herself just before her knees were about to give out and cupped her chin in her hand. “Hey… Hey, that’s a great idea! Rebellious, though, my officers may be, they have no wish to be mentioned in Macsal’s cursesongs!” The giant woman took Shaeylila by the shoulder and grinned from ear to ear. “This is perfect! Tell me, tell me! What should I say? How should I frame His anger?” Shaeylila’s elation was all to clear and she seemed to bob up and down in response to Boudicca’s happiness and relief.

‘His anger?’ Shaeylila paused, and the smile slowly faded from her lips. She looked at Boudicca, and where there had been a spark before her eyes now seemed to crackle. She extended a hand to thesanndatr’s cheek. ‘I will show you.’


Thesanndatr stood upon a handcrafted pedestal of wood, carved with intricate images of flames and daemonic battle, at the centre of which was the staring visage of a furious clean-shaven youth. Beside her on the ground, wearing an equally forbidding countenance, was the one everyone was saying had been sent down by Macsal. Anger crackled in the siren’s eyes, and the giant sanndatr’s own eyes seemed to reflect no less a fury. Tension hung in the air for what felt like the longest time, before the Macsalian thing looked down to the ground and spared the gathered people the gorgon in her aspect. The sanndatr glared outwards, a crowd of beards, of scars, of dirt and of cold, red cheeks staring back with baited breath. It was then that the giant raised her arms to the sky and boomed,

“With me, people of Ha-Dûna, as we begin this confession by greeting the gods: As with every dawn, we give thanks to the Sun, to our Mother, Reiya, who helps us keep warm in winters such as this, and pulls our crops out of the soil so we may eat our daily meals without a worry in the world.” She pointed to the horizon.

“We give thanks to the Moon, to the Nightwarden Gibbou, who keeps the wolves at bay when our tents lay exposed and our children are asleep, and ships us off into the realm of dreams.” She pointed to the ground.

“We give thanks to the Stone, to the Boar of Earth, Boris, who gave us the ground we walk and the tools we use. The eternal mountain never breaks down, no matter the passing times.” She arced one arm across the heavens.

“We give thanks to the Stars, to our Beacon of Hope, Seeros, who inspires us every day to do our utmost for both friends and family; the million lights that glisten above when all other lights go out.” She turned around and gestured to the shore below.

“We give thanks to the Sea, to the Ocean Father Claroon, without whose seafood bounty, we would have starved long, long ago. The steady tide brings us high water on which to sail our boats, and spring rains and autumn storms bring our city both crops and feed.” She placed two hands on her temples.

“We give thanks to the Truth, to the All-Knowing Fìrinn, for guidance in these times of ignorance and confusion. The mirrors reveal all, and the holy glass he gave us has let us divine the struggles ahead with graceful accuracy.” She pointed to the forests beyond the city.

“We give thanks to Jennesis, the World Tree, to whom we owe our eternal love and loyalty for all that grows, for the forests that give us game, wood, fruits and nuts. Her power is mighty and her ire is great - may we ever live in her grace, and always respect the line between woods and mankind. Finally…” She gestured to the crowd.

“Let us give thanks to Macsal, the Immortal Poet, whom we must thank for our songs, our lyrics, our dances and theatre. Without Macsal, much of what we think of as Dûnan would simply not exist - the Worldsong would not be here to help us listen to the worries and counsel of the very earth and sky. So let us praise him, and let us praise the Eight for their kind vigilance over our people, which has allowed us to grow into the great civilisation we are today.” She took a brief break to let the message sink in.

“Let us also give praise to Caden, whose strength lifted us above our Sigeran foes in this war; to Taeg Eit, whose will and law kept our people and our marriages together through thick and thin; to Naya, whose colossal heart carried all our sorrow for us so we could fight on despite our losses; to Artafax, for giving us walls and houses unbreakable to any bandit; and to Vandra, for the fire to last all seasons. We thank the gods; we thank them all - we must thank them all, for these past five years have shown that we have grown insolent; we have grown spoiled and ungrateful in the face of the gods, and our people have never been further out of reach of their favour than we are now.”

Ripples of malcontent moved throughout the crowd. Boudicca held up a silencing hand. “There is no denying it and every man, woman and child here knows that quite well: We chose Sigeran. We chose Sigeran over the true gods!”

“The Sigerans chose Sigeran!” came a retort, supported by furious “yeas”. “We stayed true - that is why we won!”

Boudicca raised a hand again. “We didn’t stay true at all! Had we done so, we would’ve never gone to war in the first place. Our rampant massacre of our neighbours to the east was what drew Sigeran to us to begin with!” Whispers flowed between heads like water through a shifting delta. “Had we been true to the teachings of Reiya, to the gospel of Gibbou, to the faith in Seeros and the songs of Macsal, then we already would have known where these sorts of black thoughts would take us!” Before the retorts could come, she took the initiative. “I know what you will say in defense: We had no food - our people grew too many, too fast! And I know this, too - I said the same thing! Our growth took us plundering without a care in the world for how it would affect us in the coming years - how our standing with not just our neighbours would suffer, but with the gods as well!”

“... No… When faced with such grand devastation as a famine, the pious, the virtuous, will not take from others what they want; instead, the virtuous will fall to their knees in prayer, for the gods are good - they are kind - and they will help us if they see our suffering.” She gestured to the many snow-covered fields beyond the city walls. “And lo and behold - Reiya saw our dire need, even after we had taken to the axe, and gave us fields of unprecedented growth! The pious is rewarded; the vile, punished.” Murmurs grew quieter - the sharpness in their words had been dulled.

“We turned hoes into clubs; plows into shields - we neglected the earth and soil for blood and wealth. We used axes and adzes meant for shaping wood into objects of art and architecture, to slay innocents by the thousands. Spears meant to hunt the Highlands’ bounty with, were instead turned on our neighbours - even those of Dûnan blood! We gave up our long poetic traditions for war cries and ceaseless boasting. Our borders may be longer than before, but there is no Dûnan soul left to fill it. Our neglect for culture has gone so far that Macsal himself, furious as we’ve made him, is even composing a cursesong for our people! One that may plunge us into centuries of misfortune!”

At the very moment that mention of the cursesong was made, a collective gasp arose and with it the head of Shaeylila snapped up. Her eyes were as roiling ink and her hair seemed to harbour lightning.



The world around the song seemed to darken even as streams of colour and ink surged about her, and the inks were given form and the verses came alive. The ruin of art stood unveiled, and around it humanoid shadows shed crimson tears even as the ruins disintegrated into dust and a great surge of gushing blood exploded from it until the scene fell away and only the crimson gore remained.



A great blade cut through the endless cascade of blood, and the inky ichor exploded into audible sighs, and the sighs became a hum and song reverberating through the world. Beneath the humming song the sword fell away and was a staring, flame-eyed youth sitting below a burning bush. His chest beat with a flame, and when he stood a field of spears and arrows stood against him. He walked through it unafraid, a song of flame dancing and billowing from his eyes, and all about him the spears and arrows melted away and became extended hands which he pulled from the earth and united with the extended hands of others.



The earth fell away beneath the fire-eyed youth and great demons with golden tongues ripped and clawed at him, ripping him limb from limb and consuming what remained. And even as they stood in the darkness, their bellies bloated and the flame emerged from their melting forms. Above it all the youth, a giant, rose and stood. He remained like that, slowly growing into the undeniable image of Macsal himself.



The full-grown form of Macsal was gored, and blood of unknown colours frothed forth as the god fell; and from the blood there grew a hill atop of which was the great shadow of Ha-Dûna.



Dark clouds billowed about the inky Ha-Dûna, and the visage of Macsal - half tearful, half furious - formed in the inky heavens and looked down upon the hill, and into the gathered crowd. Only the ambient sound of rushing winds and the promise of a storm remained in the ink. After a half-minute, the whole thing dissipated and Shaeylila’s gaze returned to the ground and she was silent and still.

The onlookers were white as sheets, no lip left unquivering. The silence choked out even the instinct to scream, and a minute passed as though frozen in time - only the wail of babes still overcoming the terror of the display could be heard. The shock shattered when there came a thump in the snow - on the front rank, one woman, her husband and their children had fallen to their knees, lifted their arms to the podium and shouted, “MACSAL! FORGIVE US!” The sentiment washed over the crowd like a crashing wave, and soon, the hundreds, the thousands of Dûnans who had filled the city core to the brim and spilled over into the streets beyond all collapsed in wailing prayer, begging and pleading for forgiveness. Boudicca offered Shaeylila a knowing nod, the song’s eyes twinkling back, and let the masses lament their sins. This would be a breakthrough for their people - their need to change their ways was now more evident than ever.

• Prestigios [+]

  Boudicca 2 + 5 = 7
  Circle of the Long Stride: 17 + 5 = 22
• Might [+]

  | 5MP and 5DP | 1MP towards Puppetry | 2DP towards Acting | 2DP towards Inspiration | 3DP towards Music | 2DP towards Dance |
  
  2MP to grant all sapients the capacity to summon songs.
  

  There are two manners in which songs may be summoned to Galbar: either passively or actively. The active manner involves a magically proficient person carrying out a magical ritual to bring them forth into the world - these songs are referred to as Succubi and are generally masterful singers and entertainers. These rituals vary across time, place, and culture. However, all who summon them in this manner should beware for they are flighty things and will not be kept for long; the words of a lovestruck poet or the zealous singing of a bardic lover may see her eloping in the night.
  
  The passive manner of summoning songs occurs when a person - artist or not - wishes to create something beautiful and is in desperate need of inspiration. This level cannot be any normal or fleeting desperation, but must be born in pain and repeated failings and tears so that it becomes a constant companion and weight. When any person reaches such a frightful state, a song is brought forth from the divine realms to be their inspiration and their muse.
  
  While most songs summoned to Galbar will live in communities, it is entirely possible for one to get lost. Such lost songs can be found living wild in lakes and rivers and woodlands, and may also hide in perfectly rotund mounds. As this implies, songs cannot be de-summoned and do not automatically return to the divine realms, but remain and live out the remainder of their now-mortal lives on Galbar.
• Sum-Sum! [+]

  Scene 1:
  In the aftermath of the reconquest of Ha-Dûna, the great town stands at a crossroads and Boudicca faces the near-impossible task of steering the people towards a more peaceful way of doing things. While she has met with some success, it has not effected the deep changes necessary to transform the martial spirit that had long been ascendant into one more peaceful. Wishing after Meghzaal’s blessings in her coming speech, she gives a prayer before his stone. Her prayers receive a cryptic message, and her lack of understanding drives her to ask desperate questions which cause a song called Shaeylila to emerge. Those gathered in the stone circle are excited by the appearance of this creature (who is very confused and has no idea who this “Macsal” they associate her with is) but Boudicca soon shoos them off and the two walk together and discuss Boudicca’s problem: how is she to turn her war-loving people towards more peaceful pursuits? Shaeylila is no philosopher and can’t offer up any great idea to uproot the martial ways of the Dûnans, but she is able to come up with an innocent lie that may well solve all these problems… that Macsal is furious with the people of Ha-Dûna for pursuing war and abandoning art and even now prepares a cursesong that will disgrace them before the world. The two then retire to prepare the performance off-screen.
  Scene 2:
  Boudicca stands before the gathered people of Ha-Dûna and delivers a powerful speech that first praises the gods for all their blessings and then reprimands the people for having turned their back on the virtuous ways of the gods, pursuing war and slaughter instead. There are protests at this, but Boudicca swiftly sweeps the protests aside and reveals that Macsal, saddened beyond measure and furious at what they have done, is preparing a terrible cursesong against them. Shaeylila then gives a great poetic performance that leaves the people aghast and repentant. Boudicca shares a knowing look with Shaeylila at the ploy’s success.

Three young men gathered around behind a shed, each one carrying a semblance of the clubs wielding by the Stone Mauls. They each had at least a grandparent who belonged to the clan, but their blood was far more mixed than they would like to admit. Blood purity is not a large aspect of Stone Maul culture, but living in occupied lands, people cling to what they can.

They spoke in harsh whispers about the rumors of dissidents being taken from their homes in nearby cities to be slaves for the Dûnan priestly elites, and how the negotiations with the leader of the town had broken down and the Kirinians were leaving soon.

More conspiratorial thinking crept into the conversation, someone mentioning that they heard someone say that the Kirinians were leaving because the leader had already decided to join the greater Ha-Dûna hegemony. Another that he had heard a rumor from that the defeat of the Sigerans was merely a trick and that so-called thralls would be sacrificed to the dark god. And various other unfounded claims keep slipping into the conversation, while none were taken at face-value, they keep feeding the fear and anger towards the Dûnans.

A druid found the three boys whispering, telling them that they couldn’t discuss this here. They were angry at first, until they realized he was wearing Stonemaul druid garb and what he was actually saying. He led them to a gathering of people who support Kirin’s Rest.

They were rallied by a gaardskarl of all people, a seasoned warrior and pious man, known by the name Enki. Many of those gathered were hesitant by his presence, especially as he made no attempt to hide his heritage, but their apprehension faded as he spoke. His voice had a deep anger to it, but it spoke to their anger. He told stories his family would tell him about Ketrafa, drawing stark parallels to it and Ha-Dûna. He told his story about how he was rejected and pushed away from the Dûnan military after the battle of Grimholt as he did not trust Sigeran from the beginning. And he said that tomorrow there would be a new story that they will tell their children about why they would never have to suffer from Ha-Dûnan tyranny.

The next day, the assembled force claimed Ha-Gaard. There was hardly any fighting. The Kirin loyalists were about equal to Ha-Dûna loyalists, and both combined were outnumbered by those who were neutral, but the Kirin Loyalists were the one to attack first, they were armed and surrounded by allies. A few of the more brash Dûnan supporters attempted to fight back, but they were suppressed quickly.

Enki claimed the town and pronounced his fealty to the queen of Kirin’s Rest, and that henceforth, it would be renamed Bright-Shield.

A messenger was sent to inform the nearby Kirinian outposts that they no longer needed to leave, they were not surprised by this turn of events. They never started making preparations to leave. One female light-wing, whose butterfly pendant was painted with bright purple and greens seemed particularly pleased at her work, while Sid seemed a bit more apprehensive at how this was achieved though still relieved that it was.

The Dûnan loyalists were to either confess loyalty to the Kirin Queen in the name of the druidic gods or were forced to gather their possessions and were expelled to the north. While the fortification remained, the road between the city and Ha-Duna was reopened, however there was already talk of potential taxes placed upon Dûnan traders. Only three families and a few extra odd people left the city, and very little actually changed within it, though little was done to quell the tension between the two nations the city now bordered.

“They will reject us?” The girl riding beside Darragh, Ciara, said. Her dark eyes looked on as if they were peering through the burgeoning town. She always had a strange fascination with the place and the druids. Their connection with the gods was so much stronger than their own. Even though they had lived in these lands for so many years. Only a few years, which felt like a lifetime, she had snuck into the town again and again. Pretending to be a pilgrim as she learned about Reiya and Seeros. They were so different from her own seasonal gods. They did not go to sleep for three quarters of a year, and could apparently hear them everywhere.

“Yes.” Darragh said from atop his highland deer. A hundred miles at least to the east laid a cove of dead Sigeran worshippers. Slaughtered to the last. Their duty was fulfilled and he had no doubt that the théin Boudicca would honor her word. But the druids were a dangerous and arrogant bunch. Where Ciara's dark eyes were filled with admiration as they approached the main gate, his blue eyes looked icy in comparison. They were slowed down at the gate, as a long line of entering travellers blocked the entrance with sleds of wares, livestock or big family flocks. At the gate stood guards - from their vantage point atop their deer, they could see he was carving down something on a wooden plaque as he let a family enter into the town before waving over the next.

The two of them awaited their turn. Darragh kept fiddling with his spruce wood carved icon of an owl that hung from his neck. Speaking wordless prayers to Irra to protect them. As her emissary was now protecting their homes. Ciara, for her part, could not suppress the smile she had on her lips as she would enter the great place once more. When they finally could approach the gate and its guards, Darragh said: “I have business with théin Boudicca.”

The recording guard looked up past a raised brow. “That’s sanndatr Boudicca now - long may she reign. Have you anyone to speak for you?”

“Only sanndatr Boudicca herself.” Darragh already prepared himself for the refusal. Such was the way with the serpents. Words and honor never meant anything to them. None the less he remained calm. Hiding his disdain for the place behind a mask of friendliness.

“Mhm,” the guard mumbled skeptically and looked to one of his colleagues on the right. “Go, uh, go see if Aifric’s available.” The guard nodded and went off into the city. The gatekeeper pointed to a few benches off to the side of the gate, upon which there already sat some families around a campfire in the centre. “Please, have a seat while we see what we can do about your query. If you’d like anything to eat, ask for Duncan and he’ll bring you some grub. Now, if it pleases, move to the side, if you would. The line is long and the air is cold.” Before they could move, the guard had already stepped to the side and beckoned over the next family in line.

“We will, thank you!” Ciara practically beamed as she stepped her deer away and then dismounted. Darragh was right beside her. Out of earshot he mumbled: “Only a Dûnan would complain about the cold.” None the less the two Cenél sat around the fires. Families were talking and sharing food. Ciara was quick to join them in the conversation. Many children asked about the long braid that fell from her brown hair to her shoulder. Adorned with white plumes and small trinkets. Though she brushed it off as just something she liked. The girl asked many from where they were and what they were doing here, outside of the town.

Darragh, meanwhile, stayed away from the fire and the people but also stayed out of the way as well. He kept fiddling with the owl icon as he stared intensely at the gate and its keepers. His eyes strayed upwards from time to time. Hoping to catch a glimpse again.

“So, what brings you here?” came a voice. It came from a large, round man with a sloppy cap that hid his receding hairline and patchy brown beard covering his jaw like a ragged blanket. He wore thick furs, and in his gloved hands, he held a bowl of steaming oatmeal with what looked to be mushrooms and onions. In between chews, he offered Darragh a sun-like smile, enhanced by the redness of his face.

“The words of-” Darragh tried to say, but Ciara was quick to jump in: “We’re here for sanndatr Boudicca. About a deal we made with her back when she was a théin.” The girl said as she pulled off her leather glove and offered a hand, together with a nice smile, to the man she assumed was Aifric. Her elder, first surprised, then took a step back. Letting the girl handle the dealings. She, after all, had a strange talent for talking with the Dûnans.

The man gave a small sign that the declaration had made him choke on his porridge. He brought his fist to his mouth and, after breathing for a bit, swallowed. The man took the hand politely. “Ugh-... Pardon me - didn’t expect that, is all. Where’re you from, to have business with the sanndatr?” He grunted. “Oh, and I’m Duncan, by the way. Nice to meet you…” He turned his hand as to gesture for her to name herself.

“I’m Ciara.” The girl said motioning to herself. Then she pointed to her elder behind her. “And this is Darragh. We’re from the-” A hand on her shoulder stopped her from speaking. The old man stepped in for a second. “We’re just with a band of mercenaries. The sanndatr asked us to finish some heretics away from here. My daughter here, you see she loves the sanndatr and always wanted to meet her. She’s a true inspiration.” Ciara, catching up quickly, nodded with a smile. “She’s amazing!” That, to her, wasn’t a lie though.

“Oh, she sure is,” agreed the cook, scooping another spoonful of porridge into his mouth. “Mercenary work must be good in these times - bet you two will be walking home with a bag of silver trinkets each. Was it Sigerans you went after?”

“Yes.” said Darragh, as he released his grip on the shoulder of Ciara. She glanced behind her, seeing Darragh take his seat again. “I’m sorry for my dad. He can be a bit grumpy. If I may ask a question, why must someone vouch for us now? I’ve been in town a few times and they always greeted strangers with open arms?”

“The Dûnlands ain’t what they used to be, y’know,” the cook lamented with a shake of his head. “With Sigerans on the warpath still, and bandits attacking traders and travellers in open day, sanndatr’s been pretty thorough with checking around for their ilk, and that’s why we’re taking down the names of those who enter and leave.” He ate some more porridge. “Ain’t nothing we want more than to welcome everybody in here to just live together in peace and joy, but, well, that just ain’t possible. At least not nowadays.”

Darragh was turned away from everyone. Luckily, because he nearly winced when he heard ‘Dûnlands’. As if it was theirs. As if they had always been around. They weren’t the same? What did the druid-kin know of these lands? Darragh walked over the bones of his ancestors. Ciara remained friendly though. “That probably explains why they didn’t let us through. They went to get someone called Aifric. Do you know who he is?”

“Oh, Aifric’s no man. She’s a fine lady, a théin at that! She’s in charge of the guards in town. Proper, polite, powerful - can’t ask for more in a théin. Oh, there she is now, I think - yup, that’s her.” A leather and fur-clad woman with a bronze belt buckle and a woolen bonnet approach, flanked on the right by the guard who had fetched her. She had an axe at her belt, but otherwise looked rather civilian, her torso held warm by a red and green plaid and her legs, covered by a kilt of the same pattern reaching down to her knees. From her feet to her knees, she wore white, woolen kneesocks. Duncan offered her a chestbump salute, and Aifric returned it.

“Afternoon, Duncan.” She said politely. “Are these the ones?”

“The very same, théin. Old man’s named Darragh; girl’s name’s Ciara. Say they’re mercenaries coming to claim the prize promised by the sanndatr.”

“Mercenaries? We haven’t hired--...” She paused for a bit, eyeing Darragh closed. A light of realisation flashed in her eyes. “... Oh, no, I, I know what this is. Alright. Thanks for waiting with them,, Duncan.”

“Least I could do!” the cook answered with a grin and toasted her bowl to both the guests and the théin.

“You two - come with me, please.” Aifric beckoned for them to follow while the guard at her side returned to her post.

“See you later Duncan!” Ciara said as she waved him goodbye. Darragh just offered him a very small nod and a grunt as he passed the cook. Letting Airfric guide them into the town. As usual, Ciara looked around with awe. Every time she returned it seemed as if the city had grown. Darrah, for his part, was looking for the scars left by the Sigerans. While great efforts had been made to hide them, three years of neglect and destruction could simply not be erased in the span of a few months: many buildings and houses were still in ruin; the road was bumpy and unkept; blood and soot could still be seen in spots and stripes on many walls and corners. This city’s scars would take decades to fully heal.

“How’s Cenél this time of year?” came a question from the théin before them, her head turning slightly to ask as they walked.

“Well enough.” Darragh lied. The Cenél were reeling as much from the Sigeran threat as Ha-Dûna had, and they didn’t have the copious amount of blessings from the gods. However, they did have generations worth of knowledge of the land. They would heal like the land would heal. Their houses would be regrown and sacred groves would turn wild again. But for now, they were consigned to suffering as the Dûnans were.

“That so? That’s a relief. There were talks earlier about sending over a delegation with food and supplies eastward to those affected most harshly by the winter. Cenél was on the list, y’know.” She offered Darragh a knowing look. “The offer is still there - you know what they say about the oatcakes here.”

Darragh cast some dark, hard eyes towards the théin but the pleading gaze of his student soften it. It would break his honor. What were they without their honor? Alive, at least. But the Cenél would have to restore their glory. “It would be appreciated.” The elder finally said.

Aifric nodded. “We’ll be discreet about it. If you’d like, you could bring it to them yourself, say you earned it on your own for your people. Ha-Dûna doesn’t have to be involved in any way. It’ll be Cenél’s achievement - not ours.” She took a left onto the main street and nodded to the guards flanking each side of the walled city core. She then pointed across a bustling marketplace to an ageing longhouse adorned with shields, carved animal heads and a great plaque featuring the symbols of the each represented with jewelry and gems: a golden sun, a marble moon, an aquamarine, a silver star, an emerald leaf, a tiny mirror, a wooden harp and a granite tusk. “She’s in there.” Aifric turned back to Darragh and crossed her arms over her chest. “And about the supplies… How you want it delivered, though, is up to you. We don’t want conflict anymore - none of us do. We understand, though, that nothing can go back to the way it was…” She looked off to the side. “We can only, well, beg for forgiveness and pray that bonds of friendship can be relinked.”

Can bonds be relinked if they never existed in the first place? Darragh was about to challenge Aifric’s statement, but chose not to in the end. “I thank you for your offer, but I would be lying to my people then.” With those words spoken Darragh passed the théin. Ciara just offered up a meek smile as she followed her elder towards the longhouse. “They represent the eight Dûnan gods.” She whispered to Darragh, as they both looked at the symbols. The elder had no short amount of distaste. It was, after all, a Dûnan god who caused the atrocities. Not of the last five years, but of the last three decades. They pressed on, reaching the longhouse.

Pushing aside the bearskin door curtain, they were greeted by the scent of charcoal, burnt grain and sweat. The inside felt like a sauna, the heat slapping them in the face like a wash of hot water. Six bodies hunched around the central hearth turned their heads curiously, then lowered their brows in suspicion. “Hail,” came a polite greeting. “You lost, strangers?”

It took a minute for both Ciara and Darragh to recover from the sudden, almost oppressive wet heat. “We… théin Aifric told us we could find the sanndatr here.” Said Ciara. Behind her, Darragh was already preparing for the worst: having been played with.

“Oh! Yeah, she’ll be here any minute. She’s just around the corner, uh, answering nature’s call.” The speaker tugged on his shirt, which was drenched in sweat. “By the gods, Brian, do you really have to keep it so warm in here?”

“Sanndatr’s orders, Faolán,” a fat bearded man likely known as Brian retorted with a nod. “Nothing irks her more than the cold.”

“Yeah, but this is just sadistic.” The man known as Faolán dabbed his forehead with a towel and turned back to face the two at the door. “Well, don’t just stand there - come join us by the fire! You must be freezing, you two!”

“Plus, you’re letting in cold air,” came a sour addition from a brown-skinned woman with black hair. Brian sighed.

“Now, now, Hilda, don’t be rude to our guests - all travellers are welcome in our town.” The woman scoffed and got up from her seat. However, just as she was passing by Darragh, she stopped, eyeing him closely.

“Hey, I remember you.”

Only a Dûnan would complain about the cold. Darragh’s eyes avoided those of the woman named Hilda, as he stepped inside. Though he kept his distance from the fire and the other people. “You must be mistaken.” He said with a faint smile as his eyes wandered around in the longhouse.

Ciara, meanwhile, did not have the same reservations and threw off her heavy fur cloak and the thick wool garment underneath that. Stepping closer to the fire in a very dull wool tunic that was held together with a belt and some copper pins. “It’s really warm here!” She exclaimed to both Faolán and Brian.

“Sure is. Hope it’s not offensively hot to you, friend. Hey, you hungry, by the way?”

“Oh I just ate outside at the gate!” Ciara said as she sat beside Brian with a big smile. “And I mean… I don’t think I’ve ever been in a place this hot.” The Cenél didn’t burn their fires so hot. At least not to warm such a big longhouse. They found it deeply wasteful. She wanted to ask how they could stand it for seemingly such a long time but she didn’t want to insult them.

“Yeah, none of us really do, either - well, except maybe Kaer Aethel over there.” Brian pointed at a bearded man sporting his first wrinkles of age, barely dressed in a white robe with a plant fiber rope around his waist. The man frowned back and slapped the pointing hand playfully away.

“That’s because I live here, you dolt!” the druid replied. Meanwhile, over by Darragh, Hilda cracked a smirk.

“No, I definitely know you. You were the one who held up Boudicca for an age just as we were marching on Ha-Dûna earlier this winter. Come to claim your prize for the work, have you?” Around the fire, the others grew wary.

Even Ciara turned tense as she watched her elder closely. Darragh turned to face the woman. “I have. And I shall claim it off the sanndatr.” His eyes trailed from Hilda towards the druid sitting by the fire. He would not like what would be said in moments.

Hilda eyed him up and down, her bead and bone-decorated brains swinging with her bobbing head. She eyed the cautious stares of her peers by the fire and then turned back to Darragh and scoffed quietly. “Alright. Behave yourselves while you’re here.” With that, she cast aside the door curtain and stepped out. “Shit, it’s cold,” was the last thing she said before her voice disappeared into the distance. By the fire, the five others unleashed as one a long sigh.

“Sorry about her, friend… She doesn’t take well to for-... Strangers,” Brian apologised quickly.

Darragh just let out a grunt and turned away again to observe the longhouse. It felt soulless and bloodless. Completely unlike the houses grown by the Cenél. Darragh was calming himself down. Once the Dûnans were strangers. In his eyes thirty years didn’t change that fact.

Meanwhile Ciara looked visibly anxious as she fiddled with her fingers. Her eyes darting around. Eventually she broke the question: “So what’s she like?”

The five got quiet, exchanging nervous looks. “She’s a bit of a wildcard, that one,” offered Kaer Aethel and took his ceramic pipe out. Brian caught the gesture and took out his own, as well; the remaining two who hadn’t identified themselves yet did the same. Lightning his pipe up with the bowl half-full of pipeweed, he continued, “Fantastic fighter, dutiful théin and able commander, she is, but her heart is full of rage and hate for, well…” He took a slow drag and exhaled into the fires, the smoke shooting up through the hole in the ceiling with the hot air. “... Let’s just say she isn’t very supportive of the sanndatr’s wish to open up Ha-Dûna to everyone again.”

Ciara got quiet for a second. To her, Hilda probably lost someone. Recently. Someone dear. Darragh who overheard was more sceptical. The Sigerans came from within Ha-Dûna. Not from without. Hilda probably despised the locals. Despised them. The two remained quiet and just waited for the return of the sanndatr.

A few minutes passed in smoking silence, the room filling with the cabbagy scent of pipeweed and the occasional sound of coughing. Then, at last, there came stomping on the doorstep and the curtain flew off to the side, revealing none other than Boudicca, dressed in unlaced boots, a woolen kilt, a bear pelt that hung down over her shoulders a little past her chest, and nothing else. She gave her scarred cheek a scratch and groaned. “Ugh! That was the hardest, sweatiest, most painful shit I’ve taken in--” She then caught sight of the visitors and swallowed the rest of her sentence, clearing her throat. “Oh, uh… Good, you’re here.” She stomped over to sit by the fire, taking her reserved spot with the druid at her right hand and one other woman at her left, kissing the woman on the forehead and the man on the lips. “Welcome to my hall, Darragh the Cenél - I see you’ve brought a companion. What’s your name, little sister?”

“Ciara!” The bright eyed girl said. “It’s an honor to finally get to meet you, sanndatr.”

Darragh looked less enthusiastic. “Sanndatr Boudicca.” He greeted her with a small nod. “The heretics lay dead.”

“Good. I expected nothing less from the Cenél. The Sigerans were once our kinsfolk - we take no pleasure in eradicating them; however, just like the herd must be culled when disease is found, so must the evil be vanquished so the kind may remain. You have done us a great service.” She rolled her head around on her neck and shrugged the bear pelt off her shoulders, sweat dripping down her forehead and making her chestnut hair stick to her face. “Name your prize.”

The elder suddenly straightened his back. Standing slightly taller and straighter than before. “A promise of tranquility, peace and respect towards my people and our lands.” The words had been carefully chosen to declare Cenél’s independence from Ha-Dûna. Taking back the conquered lands of the Sigerans, and simultaneously taking the assurance that they will not be attacked in the future by some warmongering Dûnan who would doubtlessly want to raid the lands they once saw as their own.

“And…” His eyes fell upon the druid sitting at the ring. “...a promise that the sacred rites and traditions of my people will never be ridiculed and prosecuted by the Dûnans ever again.” Anyone who knew anything about the Cenél, knew that he wasn’t asking for something as dull as religious freedom. Darragh was talking about magic and his gaze did not waver from the younger druid.

Boudicca furrowed her brow and pursed her lips. “Done,” she then said curtly and stood up, baked sweat running down her torso like rainwater. “Let anyone who speaks ill of the Cenél or transgresses their border be subjected to the whip and rod. Five lashes for blatant ridicule; fifty for religious persecution; one hundred for bringing unrest and chaos to their lands. Pen this down in Dlíbóka post-haste, so it may be made law.” She looked back to Darragh and raised a brow. “Will that suffice?”

“One more thing.” He said, as he walked up towards Ciara sitting by the fire. He put both his hands on her shoulders as he stood behind her, looking at everyone around them. The gods knew he hated this, but it had to be said. Ciara, for her part, had no idea what was happening and looked around rather nervously. “To foster prosperity between our people...I and Ciara will remain here. As representatives to the Cenél.”

“What!?” Ciara exclaimed as she shot up and turned around to face Darragh. “You can’t do that!” Yet as she looked into Darragh’s eyes, she realized he could. Slowly she sat down again. Still looking shocked by the news.

Boudicca gave her armpit a pensive scratch. Following her example, too, the other Dûnans around the fire started loosening up their shirts and robes to avoid their sweat soaking their clothes even more. With a wry brow, she leaned over to Aethel and whispered something to him. The druid’s face turned into a frown and he whispered something back. Boudicca’s answer was curt and the druid sucked regretfully on a tooth. “You’re both welcome to stay for as long as you’d like. You will be given lodgings and food as any other guest would, and you will have my ear should you have thoughts to share. However…” Boudicca rose up, stepped over the bench she had been sitting on and went over to a table upon which stood a covered pitcher and a couple of neatly arranged drinking horns. She lifted the fabric cover and poured some yellow, watery substance into the horn and gave it a sip. “... You will not be allowed to pray to your own gods in the Circle, nor in the temples. Just as we are to respect your faith, we ask that you respect ours by keeping it separated from the Eight. You may have a patch of land on which to build your own altars or godhouse, however - that can be arranged.”

Pray to gods in a temple? Darragh had to fight the disgust so it wouldn’t appear on his face. The Cenél did not worship the seasonal gods at man-made places. They worshipped in places the gods had given them, amongst nature. Of course, only druids would be so arrogant as to create their own, convenient places of worship. “I thank you for your hospitality.” Darragh said with a small nod. “May Cenél and Ha-Dûna prosper with this newfound friendship.”

“That was ever our intention,” Boudicca added and the two clasped hands.

---

Cadien observed the Black Hussars from afar, who seemed to be adapting to cavalry tactics surprisingly well. It helped that Shadowsteeds were exceptionally obedient, of course - the beasts were quite literally made to be rode - and he had imparted his own small blessing on the Neiyari cavalrymen to make them better at riding.

The Hussars had also made an innovation of their own. Using their natural ability to create sunlight weapons, they began creating curved sabres, which were ideal for quickly slashing a passing target. They had also conjured forth long spears - lances - which were meant to be thrust into foes and then discarded.

He could tell they were yearning for fight, and at some point he would give them one. But first…

If he was going to deploy them into battle, they would inevitably take casualties. His deal with Thaa ensured their souls would inevitably find their way back into his realm, but he couldn’t help but worry there was some risk that the arrival of the souls would be delayed, or his deal with the God of Death might somehow be undone. So, a precaution needed to be taken.

It was a simple one; a connection between the souls of the hussars and the realm of Meliorem. Upon their deaths, they would be drawn back here, and given a new body, so that he could send them out once more.

---

With that done, it was time for Cadien to turn his attention back to a rather more important matter: the souls that were due to arrive. They would need accommodation, and so he swiftly set himself to the task, raising vast quantities of islands within his realm. On these islands he created structures: collesseums, villages, taverns. Some islands were left empty, to be used for battlefields or athletic activities. They were connected by a series of ornate marble bridges, to allow easy passage.

The God of Perfection built and built, occasionally stopping to destroy a creation he was unsatisfied with so that he could remake it. He lost track of time, but when he was finished, Meliorem’s new islands extended far beyond the horizon.

---

---

The trees rustled warily in the howl of the agitated storms in Neiya's realm. Stone cracked and splintered as talons dug into the pillar holding up the centre pavillion, and subsequently crumbled under pressure as Neiya pulled back, ripping the stonework from its foundation to wield the pillar like a club. With a furious scream not unlike a petulant youth, she swung her massive weapon at the remnant of her luxurious structure, sending shattered debris all over the riverside glen as the building toppled under the impact and collapsed under the combined pressure of it's own weight and Neiya's assault. As if the realm itself knew the significance of this event and the resident deity's unbridled fury, the ground shook and the walls of the realm itself rumbled warily.

Another furious roar as the goddess continued her tantrum, and threw what remained of her pillar with all her might. It smashed into the remnants of her old nesting place, spraying rock and dust everywhere. Thick coils of black energy twisted and churned around the goddess that had once allegedly stood for love, but now seemed to fall ever deeper into some lovelorn despair. The black tendrils extended to touch all shadows in her realm, and in the darkness, something stirred. Countless eyes, teeth, and growls resounded about the primordial world, as it twisted and warped into something wildly unrecognizable compared to it's old shape as a natural garden.

The goddess swore and cried two names, swinging her arm out over the landscape in a fit of unbridled anger. The realm responded, and vast swathes of the land were set ablaze with an endless fire. In the blaze soon wriggled new creatures, wrought to life out of the sheer fury of the goddess. Horned, burning silhouettes skipped around, and before long were sunk deep into brawls amongst themselves.

Neiya did not notice. Heaving heavy breaths, Neiya stumbled across the chaotic ruins of her realm. Her eyes whipped to and fro, as though trying to find something new to destroy - to no avail. It was then that she turned to Galbar. Her gaze and mind focused on Oraelia's lake in the Luminant, home to her traitors. A new plan formed, of revenge and justice. An eye for an eye. Gibbou would be next, as soon as she figured out what Gibbou had ever done on Galbar. For now, Oraelia's creations would suffice.

And so, the Goddess began to sing. She suppressed her fury into a cold and centered vengeance, and listened to the endless torrent of mortal woes to channel all of it at the Oraeliari. A song of eternal sorrow, infectious and unrivaled in beauty. It caught the ear of a single unassuming man in the glowing forest, and Neiya silenced herself, knowing the deed was done.

Now that her focus was here, however, she could just as well try to influence the Oraeliari further, and add to her collection. Trying to focus on a village in the Luminant, Neiya parted her lips to sigh, and a portal tore and whirled open to the world beyond. She was about to call out to the confused denizens beyond when something skittered into her vision, a black beast, licked by dark flames, quickly darted past to escape her realm and dive onto Galbar through the portal. A whole pack of beasts slipped after it. Neiya blinked, her petty scheme of vengeance replaced with confusion. Then, out of nowhere, a tall humanoid that looked like a poor copy of the goddess herself, though licked by flames, ran past at breakneck speed, throwing itself through the portal with a yowl. Before long, the portal closed in on itself.

Neiya stood there bemused, then took a glance about her ruined realm. It was teeming with strange life, called into existence by her reckless behavior. Unsure what to think, Neiya took a breath and considered her curse.

She'd need to do some digging before she could hit Gibbou where it hurt.

---

---

_{Year 29AA, middle winter, Ha-Dûna...}

Hilda sat across from a colleague théin, one of younger, more slender and leaner build than her and of a mood a thousand times brighter than her own. Between them stood a small table reaching them to about the kneecaps; on top of the table was a smaller wooden square, painted with black lines in a criss-crossing pattern. A heap of small, uneven stones laid in one bowl for each, dark for Hilda and light for her opponent. The board has a number more of these stones, spread out like walls up against each other. Hilda stared a pair of daggers at the smug smirk on her opponent’s face and placed down a charcoal stone next to one of her white.

“That’s it for your line, Materix. I win,” announced the Leoness. Around them stood a small crowd, all of whom looked to disagree with the statement. The théin Materix shook her head patronisingly and sighed.

“Hilda, Hilda, Hilda… You’ve left yourself open.” With that, she picked up a stone and placed it on the opposite side of their line, where Hilda had unknowingly left an opening. With that, Materix’ stones had surrounded Hilda’s flank, and her line was compromised. Hilda blinked and squinted at the spot.

“You’ve removed one of my stones, haven’t you?” she snarled. Materix’ smug turned to a frown.

“That’s sorry loser talk. No, Hilda, I did not touch your stones. I won fair and square - that’s all.” A ring of metal quickly silenced her explanation, though, as she saw Hilda’s left hand had wrapped itself around the hilt of her long dagger.

“You’re undoing that move right now, missy, or I’ll send your axe-hand to your mother in a sack.”

Materix blinked back. “She’ll have you executed for that, you know.”

“Jailed and put to work in the temples, at worst,” Hilda spat back, putting on a lopsided smirk of her own. “That’s just the kind of spine she has nowadays, after all. Say, you think I’ll cut through the bone on my first try, or will I have to give it a second chop?” Instinctively, Materix pulled her hand to herself. That instant, the crowds next to them parted, and in came Boudicca, her sword unsheathed and ready in her right hand.

“Hilda, that’s enough. Leave my daughter alone.”

Hilda turned her head and raised a lazy brow at the sanndatr. Then, in a near-instantaneous move, she grabbed Materix by the neck of her tunic and pulled her in close, dagger resting at her throat. The crowd and Boudicca instinctively stepped in closer, and Boudicca managed to place her sword on the nape of Hilda’s neck. “Enough. You’ve had your fun.”

Hilda grit her teeth and drew a caged breath. “Who do you think is faster, hmm? Can you take my head before I coat this here table and floor in Mini-Boody-blood? Oh, I’m sorry - what I meant to ask was whether you’ll have time to find me a cozy bunk and some clean clothes in the Temple of the Moon?” She pulled the now whimpering Materix closer, the knife drawing a droplet of blood. “It seems I’ve been a -very- naughty girl.”

“Hilda, I’m warning you--”

“Oh, -now- comes the warning? Seems that we have plenty of time left, sweety,” snickered Hilda and gave Materix a kiss on the forehead. Boudicca growled and swung her sword arm back, but stopped as Hilda let Materix go and stepped back. The girl hurried over to her mother and was immediately surrounded by many more from the crowd coming to tend to her. Hilda shook her head slowly. “Back in the day, you would’ve taken my head without a second thought, woman. What happened to you?”

Boudicca snarled and sheathed the sword. Hilda rolled her eyes. “... And even as I stand here, you put down your weapon. Where’s the Boudicca that would kill a man for spitting in the wrong direction?”

“She never existed, Hilda,” answered Boudicca, “and if she ever did, she’s been long dead.”

Hilda sucked thoughtfully on a tooth and scrunched her nose. “Yeah… Yeah, suppose she has, huh. Shame.” She sheathed her dagger and turned around. “She was a good friend of mine.” Then she left, the crowd parting before her like grass blown down by a hurricane. When she was sure she had left, Boudicca spun around to her daughter, shoving her way through the thick wall of people to embrace her.

“Materix! Are you alright? Let me see the cut!”

Materix slapped her hand away and grit her teeth. “Mom, I’m fine!” Her breathing was ragged with anger. “Why did you let her do that to me? Just like that, without any repercussions!”

“Materix, I’ll think of something for her - some time in the--”

“In the dungeons? In temple service? You think that’ll do her some good? You’ll just be proving her right!” Materix pushed her away and Boudicca got a good look at the faces of the others around them: Their frowns seemed to suggest that Materix’ words made quite a bit of sense to them. Boudicca growled and grabbed her daughter by the hand, pulling her away from the rest. She fought, groaned and snarled, but could not outmatch the strength of her mother.

“L-let go of me! Answer for yourself, you stupid--!”

“One more word, Matty, and I’ll have Kaer Moyen beat you for childish behaviour!” The two rounded the corner out of sight of the rest.

“Oh! So -I- can be punished! For speaking, no less! Yeah, that seems fair! Hey, everyone, watch out! Ha-Dûna’s top criminal coming throu-ough!~!” They rounded another corner and Boudicca slammed her into a wall, nearly knocking the air out of her. “Ah! Ow, mom!” But before she could continue, the expression on her mother’s face sent terror running through her skin, bones and the wood in the wall behind her. It was the sort of face that every child, and anyone who’s ever been a child, fears more than anything - one that can outfrighten darkness, wolves and even death itself. The giant woman glared down at her daughter before lowering herself to her eye-level, which only seemed to make her more intimidating.

“You think I don’t want to kill Hilda? Even her threat to take your hand made me want to slice her up into pieces and bury them all over the Dûnlands. When she drew your blood, it took every inch of my body to not take her head, do you understand?”

Materix tried to remain defiant. “Well, then, why didn’t you? She’s obviously a thorn in your side - why not just get rid of her?”

“Thinking like that will make you a terrible théin, Mat. We can’t kill someone who hasn’t killed anyone else. Only murder warrants murder. If we succumb to our wrath and kill anyone we don’t like, society as a whole will crumble.” She brought a hand behind her daughter’s head and pulled her slowly in for a safeguarding hug. “... Tell you what - she laid her hands on a fellow théin and drew blood. I’d say that falls under the Dlíbók definition of violence against one’s own kin. That warrants fifty lashes, if I recall.”

Materix pulled away a bit, a smile forming on her lips. “Really?”

Boudicca frowned. “Yes, really, but wipe that smile off this instant. We do not take pleasure in punishing others, even if they’ve done you wrong.”

Materix frowned back. “Yes, -mom-.”

---

Later that same day, Boudicca had gone for a walk down to the shoreline beneath the city, walking along the rocky beach to the wish and wash of the winter ocean. Fishing boats braving the icy waters were making their way to shore with the day’s catch, and the gulls were circling their hungrily in hopes that they could catch whatever fell overboard. The ocean winds tested the warmth of her plaid and furs, but constant movement kept her warm enough to last. A particular rise in the stone ground invited her to climb it, and there she stood, scanning the horizon of the sea, as though expecting something to come. Nothing would, of course, and in truth, she mostly did this because it soothed her.

---

Within her realm, Celestine sat upon the throne that lay within her visitation chamber. It had been a short amount of time since her accidental visit to Cadien’s realm. She was currently receiving no visitors, and thus her eyes were closed as she focused her divine senses upon the surface of Galbar, studying the mortals that lived upon the surface in an attempt to learn more about them and the cultures that they had created. It wasn’t too long before something tugged her attention towards a particular conversation. An argument, followed by anger, and then a scolding. But there was something more there, restraint followed by honor and reason. The base foundations for what Celestine championed: Chivalry. Such actions came without any teaching and Boudicca, as Celestine learned she was called, seemed to be a perfect candidate to be the first to receive a boon from the newly born goddess.

Focusing in upon the particular mortal, Celestine studied her movements and saw an opportunity. Boudicca was alone enough that mass panic would not ensue. Perhaps it was time to extend her recognition of exemplary conduct. Focusing on the area nearby, Celestine extended a tiny fragment of herself outward to craft an illusion in her image, and began to project it down unto the surface of Galbar.

A small comet of silver light would impact behind Boudicca, and after the light faded she would see an illusion of Celestine rising from a kneeling stance. Her red and gold cloak flowing gently in the breeze, and revealing her lengthy silver hair that lay concealed beneath it. Opening her eyes slowly, Celestine took a moment to study Boudicca in more detail for a short time. After a moment of silence, the illusion would speak, a slight echo in her voice adding further evidence that this was merely an illusion and not a goddess manifesting upon Galbar. ”Greetings Boudicca. I am the goddess Celestine, and your actions have earned you a piece of my favor.”

While she initially had reached for her sword, the figure’s self-idenitification as a goddess stopped that hand rather quickly. The warrior dropped to one knee, needing to stabilise herself atop the rise on which she stood, and then bowed her head. “C-Celestine, great Celestine!” She paused. “F-forgive me, but… Our faith is small and, and ignorant. I fear I’ve…” She swallowed. “... I beg most humbly for your forgive when I say I don’t, don’t know of you. Please! Give me a chance to redeem this grave sin!”

Celestine’s illusion gave a slight smile at Boudicca’s rapid apology. Giving her head a slow shake, she spoke once more once her hair had settled once again. ”Be at ease, Boudicca. I am very recently coalesced and have virtually no distinct followers, you have done no wrong. But you have acted in accordance to several of my commandments, even though you do not know them. It is with those acts that I have chosen to bless you as the first of what will hopefully be many knights.”

It was now that Celestine’s illusion began to move. It raised its left hand and placed it upon the sword that hung upon its right hip. Drawing the weapon slowly, Celestine’s illusion would place the flat of the weapon upon Boudicca’s right shoulder, and then her left. With each tap Boudicca would suddenly realize the chivalric commandments that she had been unknowingly following fairly well. As this took place, Celestine’s illusion would speak softly. ”I dub thee with the title of Ser, and beyond that I grant you the knowledge of my chivalric commandments. May you continue to exemplify them as you have been, Boudicca.”

With that done the illusion of Celestine would slowly stow her sword, and made motion to pull something from the air. Though this motion ceased as the illusion took notice of the potent divine magic already residing within the sword that Boudicca possessed. Given her recent time in Cadien’s realm, Celestine was easily capable of recognizing the magic imbued within it. This gave pause to her actions, as she did not wish to gift a sword to someone who did not need one, nor did she wish to potentially insult Cadien by giving something so similar. Lowering her hand for the moment, the illusion of Celestine both thought aloud and posed a question. ”Typically I would bestow a sword to go with that title, but it would appear to me that you would have no need for something like that. As the first knight, I will offer you a choice: Do you wish for some other form of armor or weapon, or do you wish for a different kind of blessing altogether? I am not as mighty as some of the other gods, but I will do what I can with my limited ability. Perhaps in time, if you continue to shine as an example of chivalry, I may bestow more gifts when I am better able.”

With that said, the illusion of Celestine would fold her arms and wait for an answer.

“A… A blessing? Ser? Knight?” Boudicca snatched a second to rub her eyes. A certain twinkle in her eye hinted that she understood everything, but still had great difficulties grasping the basic concept - the title was awarded to her for virtuous behaviour, yes, but she hadn’t done anything - she had just done her duty and stood right by it. She swallowed and sighed. “Forgive me, this is a bit to take in. I wasn’t expeting all this on my Reiyasday walk, is all…” She paused briefly. “May I ask for, for a blessing to my people rather than myself?”

The illusion of Celestine smiled at Boudicca’s words. Even when given the choice of any gift she wished she thought of her people before herself. Celestine was confident in her choice for the first knight. Giving a nod, Celestine’s illusion spoke once more. ”Of course, Ser Boudicca. I will answer your request to the best of my ability. Name your wish.”

Confidence filled Boudicca’s frame, and the giant straightened herself up somewhat, as much as she could while kneeling respectfully still. “Unrest grips at my people’s minds - our rapid change from a warring state to a peaceful hegemony has left many of our seasoned veterans without anything to do; they thus take their anger out on their kin and comrades. I know not if this is too much to ask, but we have no place for these warriors to expel their energy in the form of combat, save street brawls and the like. Would you help us create a place where combat can be turned into a source of joy? Of accomplishment? Of, of chivalry?”

Celestine gave a few nods as Boudicca explained her predicament. Moving gently, Celestine’s illusion approached Boudicca’s kneeling form before pressing two fingers to her forehead and speaking once more. “I hear your wish, Ser Boudicca. Thus, I shall teach you of tournaments so that your warriors have a means to expend their energy and better themselves in organized and regulated combat.”

As Celestine’s illusion spoke, the point upon Boudicca’s head that she touched would glow with a white light momentarily, signaling the infusion of the promised knowledge into her mind. When that was finished, Celestine lowered her hand from Boudicca’s forehead and stepped back once more to speak again. ”Should there be doubt regarding my existence and where you learned of this information, you will merely need to invoke my name and I shall send a sign as I can. Rise, Ser Boudicca. Let your people know what you have learned.”

Boudicca did as told, standing up a little taller than before. Her head had been filled with suggestions of tournament organisation, optimal arena sizes, various activities and the like that they hadn’t given much thought to during, for example, Helgensblot or any of their other holidays. She gave a tooth a quiet suck. “I will. Do you have any other tasks for me, great one?”

Celestine gave her illusion’s head a shake before speaking for one last time. ”Nay. All I require for you to remain within my favor is to follow the chivalric code I have taught you, and do not stray. Fear not, for I am watchful. You have been chosen. Also, as a final gift before I depart: Know that I shall strive to grant reward in the afterlife to those who follow my chivalric code. Your faith shall not go unrewarded.”

With that, Boudicca would likely notice that the illusion of Celestine was fading. There was perhaps time for one final question before it was gone, but little more.

“I see. Thank you, then, great one. I’ll live up to your expectations to the best of my ability.” With that, she bent the knee again until the vision faded completely.

Within her realm Celestine opened her eyes as she pulled all of her senses back to one location and ceased actively observing Galbar. Rising from the throne, she took a moment to stretch before beginning to walk towards the doorway that led to Antiquity. She figured that it would be wise to seek out a method to secure Boudicca’s soul sooner rather than later, as from her memories in the lifeblood mortal wars could be unexpected and brutal. She didn’t want to make the promise of a reward and fail to deliver, after all.

---

Back in Ha-Dûna, Hilda had entered one of the smokehouses to have herself a pipefull to relax the nerves. Now she had done it. Not even this Boudicca, this utter parody of the great chieftess she had known for decades, would let such a blatant attack on her own daughter go so easily. Hilda had joked, challenged her to give her capital punishment, because she had been confident she wouldn’t do it; now that some time had passed, however, the eerie lack of reaction sent shivers down her spine. In truth, she had no deathwish - Hilda was very much content with living: Barring her right to plunder and raid as she had for decades, she had a husband, three kids, many friends, and even one or two very, very, very good friends. Her rank entitled her to her very own tún, and she and her family worked it so well that she herself could almost afford to train as a soldier all year.

She took a deep drag from her pipe, catching a shifty stare from another smoker across the room who immediately looked down in his lap. Yeah, she had everything: wealth, family, power and, most importantly, aura - her presence brought tremblings to her subordinates, and her spirit had invigorated every soldier who had ever fought beside her.

Exhaling a huge plume of smoke in a sigh, watching it join the greater fog cloud hanging under the ceiling, she frowned. She had a few lifelines left in this city, but they wouldn’t be on her side for long if she kept up this attitude. They had their own lifelines, after all, and at some point in the web, those lines all led back to Boudicca and the champions of their peacekeeping cause.

The curtain door was pulled aside, and the opening filled with a giant shadow that could only belong to a select few in this city, and Hilda recognised its contour well enough to know who it was. As the shadow stomped towards her, she pulled a defeated drag and sighed the smoke out. “Alright,” she began, “just make it quick, plea--”

SMACK!

A leathery wack clapped against her cheek with such force that it knocked the pipe out of her lips and hand. While she was far from concussed, it still took Hilda a good few seconds to even blink, much less grasp what had just happened. A wet whap came from the floor and Hilda looked down. She then knelt down and picked up the item. “A… A leather glove?”

“I challenge you to a duel, Hilda - may the best of us win.”

Hilda blinked at Boudicca’s stern expression, then shifted to the glove in her hand. “What?”

“In five days’ time, we will host a tournament - one with games, fights and challenges for all my théins and hildargeach. You’re coming to, and I’m going to grind you into the dirt for what you did to my daughter.” She leaned in. “I know you don’t like it very gentle, though, so I’ll be as mean as you’d like.”

Hilda blinked again. “What?”

“Don’t be late. Five days from now - our battle will commence at midday atop the hill beyond the south gate. Follow the crowds and you’ll find it. Prepare yourself however you wish - I want to fight you at your best.” With that, Boudicca spun on her heel and left again.

Hilda remained dumbfounded. The others in the smokehouse were equally out of it, though it was hard to tell if it was the situation or the pipeweed that had caused that. Finally, Hilda uttered yet again the only work she could think of:

“What?”

Slithering tendrils of subtle, dark-hued fog engulfed the dust and detritus of the dark moon’s pale inanimate facade. It pressed forth, obscuring the smooth surface for many miles, growing vast as the God of Dreams intruded upon Gibbou's chosen realm. The leavings of the Goddess lay strewn about in haphazard fashion, evidence of her weakness, and her folly. Uncaring and unrepentant, the Dreaming God grasped these and--with a flicker of emotion--reduced those mockeries to ash and then to nothing.

Treading forth, the Unnamed Presence cast its attention far afield, taking in the essence of the place and the recollections it invoked.

---

An act of kindness, repaid by a gift of scant atonement for actions not yet made. A flash of sorrow and confusion--

---

The Presence cast away the thoughts with viciousness as it reached its destination. Before him was a vast glassine enclosure, black in the dark-clad locale of the moon-bound realm. Heedless, he raised a hand and pressed a fingertip against the pane of glass, and pushed. A distinctive sound rang out into the silence of Moon God's realm, echoing throughout. It was the sound of cracking glass. Without hesitation, the Dreaming God pressed forth, and before the tremendous might of his deific vessel did the glassine prison break.

Yet, the barrier remained, though it no longer impeded his progress deeper into her realm. In his wake, many things appeared to freeze or wither as if affected by the great chill beyond the dome. Through many halls, and past a great many rooms--some sealed, others yawning open--did the Dreamer walk. Each brought to him new information that he could not have otherwise possessed. Such was the cost of his absence and the separation of the gods from Galbar and the rest of their creations.

Eventually, led by the sounds of hopeless sobbing and the distinctness of a once-felt essence, the Thrice-Named God came upon the Goddess he had sought. She was a pitiful thing, really. Small and replete with the suffering of deluded self-loathing and long frustration. Even as she watched she raged against the world, shattering the glass of a bottle she had emptied.

Distasteful, thought the Presence and its displeasure was soon made known.

As with the lands outside the dome, a miasma did encroach upon her room, devouring the light, and burning at the edges of her vision--warping all it touched. The haze gathered about the Dreaming God and limned him like a second skin, his form bright against the essence despite its void-black hue.

Then, when all that seemed to remain were the Goddess and the Presence, the emptiness spoke.

"Why?" It asked, the sound a hollow earthquake 'gainst her ears. "Wisdom did we give to you, so many eons past," it said, and its voice was filled with sorrow, rage, and woe.

"Yet still you cannot see, though eyes you surely possess."

"Why?!" the Presence rumbled. The glass of that vast Sanctuary clattered at the fury in its voice.

"Is it fear?" He asked. "Insecurity," it wondered, knowing well the answer.

"Indeed," it mused, the Presence stepping towards its sibling, "...perhaps you are frightened of the light that dwells within, waiting to be harnessed."

Crossing the distance laid between them, the Dreamer left scant feet to separate their forms. There he loomed, too large even for the great hall in which they'd reunited, though his form touched not the arching ceiling of the dome. There he did remain, awaiting her reply, perhaps hoping that she might betray his expectation, though doubting that she would.

In the corner of the dome, lying on a frozen-over blanket surrounded by empty bottles, glasses, pots, and drinking horns, a small, humanoid figure stirred to life. It did not face the Dreamer, but the raging heat bubbling atop her skin revealed just what sort of expression she could be wearing. ”... Listen, you fuck… I’ve had a really, really, really bad day. You comin’ in here, cracking open my house and killing all my plants and pets when there is a perfectly good door -right- over there…” She thumbed over her shoulder with murderous intention. “... That was the last straw.”

With that, she disappeared, the last flickers of light in the realm disappearing into an all-encompassing void so dark and silent that the Dreamer could not even hear himself think. The shadows of the black moon gripped his incorporeal form as though it was as tangible as skin and bone, and two bloodshot eyes with pupils like the blood moon provided the only light in the darkness, meeting the Three-Named god’s open hood with a wicked quiver to them. The portal out wasn’t behind him anymore - it had seemingly disappeared. The eyes glanced over him with disgust. ”What sort of sick bastard does that, hmm? Waltzes into someone’s home, breaks all their stuff, and starts moralizing the owner? Who does that kind of shit? Are you that kind of person, Aich? Are you?” The darkness tightened like the gravity of a black home. Gibbou scoffed. ”I haven’t seen you for two thousand years and when you finally come to say hi, maybe hang out, you do this… How about I just return you to the Lifeblood right now and you won’t have to come back.” There came a single giggle. ”I’d be lying if I said that wringing some rude cunt’s neck wouldn’t sound just perfect right now…” There was a pause. ”Well, speak up, bitch! WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?!” The darkness on his mind and voice lifted.

Suspended in the black-clad fury of the Goddess, the Dreaming God remained placid as if within the eye of a great storm--untouched. The sensation of a smile pressed its way out into the black, followed swiftly by the miasma of his essence, spreading 'cross the surface of the Moon. Gone was the sorrow from the waters of her mind.

Deep beneath the rage, there was the agony of loss and the sorrow of her plight. "Lost in the dregs of your emotions, you fail to see," replied the Unnamed Presence, his voice bereft of fear or feeling.

"Drowned by sorrow, the imaginings of madness are writ upon your world."

With a gentle sternness, the Dreamer cast away the black curtain to reveal the truth of things.

The ice had fled, its chilling embrace gone, and with its absence life remained--singing with stasis song. Pausing, the Eldritch God pondered her many queries, considering its reply. For mere moments did the silence last, before the Thrice-Named God--the Unnamed Presence--deigned give the Goddess a singular response.

"Aicheil is gone," the Presence said, its utterance a curse.

"I am Mhaireann," the Presence said, its words a twisted blessing.

”Shitty last words,” spat the eyes. ”You even manage to make killing you seem like a chore.” Within seconds, the darkness dissipated. The grip on the Dreaming God disappeared, and as what little light there was on the Dark Side of the Moon returned, it revealed the small, plum-skinned woman with chalk-white eyes, sitting cross-legged on the floor in a corner of her home, one hand propping up her head and the other holding a bottle. ”Tell me what you want so you’ll leave.”

"Yet I remain," Mhaireann replied, dry amusement in its tone. Drifting lightly to the ground, the Dreaming God folded its legs and sat across from the blue-skinned goddess. With deliberate slowness its eyes opened to meet her pallid gaze. Where before his eyes had been golden-hued and filled to brimming a deluge of spiralling color, now they seemed drained of life. To meet his stare one was forced to stare into the empty pits where once his eyes had been. Within the darkness of his eyeless gaze something stirred, but the movement was filled with wrongness. It moved at impossible angles, defying all reason or common sense.

"I express to you the sentiment of the fragments whose souls I have replaced." The miasma frothed about him, writhing upwards like tendrils of sickly smoke. "In the age of our first meeting a gift was given unto your Firstborn child. In exchange was asked only that you forgive transgressions yet to pass."

He let the statement sit in silence between them. The silence said, Remember you, this thing?

”What, you’re checkin’ in that voucher now? For coming in here and making it look like you blew up my house just to get my attention? Alright, fine - I’m not mad anymore. In fact, I was never mad. Killing you and grinding you into itty-bitty pieces of ghostly cape or whatever you wear, did not cross my mind in the slightest. I forgive this stupid, heartless and outright unnecessary attack on my personal privacy, as a thanks for the lightshow and all that.” She had a swig of the bottle, its nut-brown content bubbling with every gulp. She dragged her fist across her jaw and stifled a hiccup. ”And now you -better- hurry up and say what you want, ‘cuz now your good boy-card is spent, ghost man.”

Though perhaps a solemn fragment of the Dreamer might have once felt amusement at the display of his sibling-god, Mhaireann seemed to grow cold instead, the air about them becoming utterly still. As its gaze lay then upon her, its emptiness seemed a deeper, darker, thing. Malicious, hungry and filled with unsung wrath.

In the still air, the sickly fog began to dance and weave. At first it was formless and indistinct, but as the seconds passed two figures resolved themselves within the curling eddies of the essence. They were each distinct in shape, one the shape of Love and War and Sin, the other of Night and Protection. The figures, though small and writ of sickly fog, swiftly recreated the scenes of conflict that had occurred not so long ago.

Mhaireann raised its empty eyes from the display and met Gibbou's baleful glare.

"Am I to fear your wrath, sister, when this is all it can dole out?"

Mhaireann lashed out then, its fingers like talons, cutting through the image of the fight. All at once he was standing, mere inches from her face, empty orbs piercing past her fury, a wreath of miasma splayed out behind his form.

"No," he whispered, but the essence of her realm it shuddered with the vibration of his voice. He drew back from her, looming as he stared out of the glassy dome. "I came, knowing of this failing, seeking to right this wrong."

His gaze drifted down and met hers once more. "Unless you would remain as you are. Pitiful and weak. Crushed by the weight upon your shoulders, would you deny my assistance?"

Though harsh, there was something to his words, his actions. As if he were chiding her, not because she was pathetic, but rather out of love though perhaps twisted was its shape. Nonetheless, the feeling in the air, it spoke of such a thing.

Gibbou’s eyes lost no animosity; in fact, they only seemed to redden with fury and blue with sorrow. ”Wow. You come into my home - the only place I feel truly safe and at peace - and you wake me up in the rudest possible manner and call me mean shit. And then you go out on a whim and say -I- need help.” Her head shook slowly from side to side. ”I don’t even know what to say to that. We don’t talk for two thousand years and then you show up here with that attitude. Not even Thaa was this mean - at least he didn’t attack me as a person (much). You’re closer to Neiya, really, you fucking asshole. No, you know what? I’m not going to take this.” She turned to face the wall and thumbed over her shoulder. ”The door’s that way. Do me a favour and slam your face against the portal frame when you leave so I know you’re gone - if your corporeal ass even works like that.” She then gave her bottle a sip and sighed deeply.

His response was a strange, deep, reverberating chuckle and a dancing haze of fog. It swayed and flowed in motion with the laugh, then slowly grew still and cold. There was silence for a time. It was long and without mercy or any sign of an emotion.

Yet, it was not the quiet of departure. It was not a sound of loneliness or loss. It was the stretched patience of an elder wishing only to impart an important lesson. In the miasma was writ his great disappointment, as it became as black as oil, or pitch, or a starless, moonless night that fire nor lightning dared to touch. Yet somehow it grew darker still, its haze seething gently where it had settled upon the surface of the floor.

Within the endless depths of emptiness of the Dreamer’s visage, which had once been made of starlight, angry crimson fractures formed. He took a step towards the goddess, but as his foot came down he went utterly and truly still.

White and blue cracks slowly formed over the surface of his cosmic flesh and they warred with the red clashing. The tension in the air grew about his form and it would feel almost as if a storm was threatening to break. However, with time the many fractures in his facade diminished until there was a flash of not-light. A psychic impression of sorts. The ground beneath him cracked with a sickening sound and the tension was released all at once.

“Very well,” the Unnamed Presence said, its voice devoid of all emotion. It turned from the Goddess of the Night and made its way out the door. However, upon the ground on which he’d stood was left behind a message.

From the cracks, written in desperation by the cracks, were these words.

“Hateful Malevolence.”

“Pain.”

“Help.”

The jet-black fog shied away from those words, replaced instead by the sensation of the Dreaming God’s essence. Perhaps if she paid attention, she might notice the difference between the Unnamed One and this familiar emanation.

But she didn’t - at least, not for the time it took Aicheil to leave. The moon goddess simply sat facing the corner like before, tapping her knee with an increasingly impatient finger as she waited for the presence to leave. Her blueberry hair, black as could ever be in the shadow of her moon, started to curl ever so slightly with stress for every second the Dreaming God took to exit. Eventually, there came an angry growl, followed by a sentence like a ball of nasty spit: “Are you gone yet?”

There was no reply except for the empty silence of her realm. The maddened essence of that Unnamed Presence had departed leaving behind only the message and the faint traces of Aicheil's more familiar aspects. Gibbou gave her bottle another slurp and noticed the letters on the floor. ”Pfft… If you wanted help, you should’ve opened with that… Dumbass…” With that, she continued what she had been doing before: sobbing into her bottle and making sloppy moon-clay models of stuff on Galbar. She had gotten quite good at it, all things considered, shaping walls to be quite nice - perhaps even nicer than they were in reality. She gave her bottle yet another sip, but found that it was empty. She sniffed and smacked her lips in disappointment.

At least she was good at building walls - just as good physically as… Interpersonally…

She had to chase away those thoughts somehow. Quickly, she took a handful of mud and shaped it into a tower in her hands, placing it down on the ground. Then, on its own, it suddenly started levitating, hovering over to a nearby rock and suddenly starting to patrol around it. Gibbou watched curiously as the clay tower then started chasing away curious moon bugs that came over to inspect the stone, as though the tower had declared the stone to be its treasure.

”Cool,” mumbled Gibbou.

---

_{Meanwhile, down in the Prairie...}

“OH GODS, WHAT IS THAT?!” screamed Manjahi as a number of colossal, white towers came floating across the prairie, furiously blasting his community with beams of fire. Since forever had their people lived at the food of the Umbasi, the Great Red Rock of the Yellow Sea; now, out of nowhere, a pack of what appeared to be tall marble pillars topped with a singular, many-pupilled, golden eye were chasing them off with brutal magics. Terror swept the village as the floating towers leveled everything and burned anything they could see, turning the plains on which Manjahi’s family had lived for centuries, into a smoking wasteland. Manjahi himself had barely managed to evacuate his family and some more, and they watched with stinging eyes as the towers approached the Great Red Rock slowly and, as though protecting an enormous egg, began nuzzling and caring for it while others in their, for the lack of a better word, pack patrolled around the vicinity.

Manjahi swallowed. “Gods help us…”

---

Gibbou, of course, didn’t notice any of this. She gave the tower a wet poke and recoiled as it zapped her hand with a small beam of light - or rather, the pain came more from the sudden flash than from the beam itself. The protective behaviour of the tower gave her an idea, however: She would create the perfect guardians - this time, it’d be someone who’d do guardian work as part of a contract! It’d be perfect!

The ultimate sentinel!

She got to work rolling up a ball of clay, then attaching limbs and eyes - a lot of limbs and a lot of eyes. The darkness around her intensified further as day turned to night (though it was always dark in her realm). Her creation would be amazing! She’d show them all. She put some eyes at the ends of the limbs, too - why not - a few extra mouths, too, to scare off any bad guys.

Boy, this was turning into quite a project!

---

_{Meanwhile, down in the forests east of Solkra...}

“Fuck, Amestrius… I’m actually getting scared now. Are we lost or not?”

“I’m telling you, Gaius! I have control! The checkpoint shouldn’t be too far up.” The two hunters were, in truth, utterly lost in the woods. Neither of them had ever been this far away from their village, and both were scared of the same thing: that they had entered Iskrill territory. They were running low on food, for the game they had been hunting had long since run off, and night had fallen for real, darkness swallowing up even the brightest shades of moonlight.

There came a snap of a twig. Gaius jumped. “Did you hear that?!”

“By Cadien, relax, Gaius,” Amestrius soothed. “It was probably just… Just something.”

“What something?” came a sharp retort.

“Not Iskrill nor wolves, at least… Probably. Now hurry up, or we might actually -get- some of those on our tail!” The two quickened their pace. There came another snap of twigs and they stopped, now both equally sweaty with fear.

“W-was that a wolf, you think?”

Amestrius gulped. “... A whole pack in that case.”

“... I… I think I just pissed myself.”

The snapping twigs grew louder… Then branches began to snap.

“Oh fuck… Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!”

Trees were run down like grasses of straw.

“RUN!” The two set off into a sprint. Behind them, the thunder of ravaging forest intensified, sending thousands of birds flying and hordes of forest critters fleeing alongside them.

“I-- I cah--!” panted Gaius and Amestrius stopped to help his brother. It was too late, however - the approaching shadow was right behind him.

“NO! GAIUS!”

The next few moments happened in a daze. Both Gaius and Amestrius could barely move as they witnessed the creature before them: It was enormous - larger than a building. It had eyes… Just… Eyes… Too many to count - half were of a blind, milky white, and it was hard to decide whether those were creepier than the other hundred or so with pupils of every colour, staring curiously down at the two brothers. Its three-four-five mouths opened and closed at different intervals, and its tens of limbs all did half-friendly attempts to wave, which through some eldritch power seemed possible even in the complete darkness.

“Heeeeeeeeeeey…” wheezed the the Beholder, and three of its mouths formed grins of varying creepiness. Amestrius took this chance to also piss himself. The creature paid it no mind and rubbed together two pairs of palms. “Saaaay… Are you two in the market for a bodyguard, by chance?”




Yamat knew not how to identify the sudden intrusion, that strange almost maddening fog and that summons by a long-forgotten voice and form. They did not know truly what had occurred, but several ideas had sprung up into their mind, it was most certainly not one of their other allies and no other god had such an impact that made even the Great Director intrigued. That's when it hit them, it had been so long since they had heard anything of the God of Dreams, now it looked like they had awoken and decided to stop by, perfect timing. The Director rose from their seat and with a flourishing bow spoke.

”A pleasure to meet you, it's been a while since I’ve had a visitor to my lovely domain, so tell me, God of Dreams, what brings you out of your silence? It's been long since I’ve heard from you, or your twin.” Their head turned in a curious manner as they rose from their bow, the one eye eagerly awaiting the response.

With lidded eyes the Dreamer regarded the bowed form of that Tragic Chaos God, finding its words each as empty as the last. Imperious and foreboding, the Thrice-Named God--the Unnamed Presence--gave not the slightest in obeisance, forgoing the illusion of politeness. Yet in the raucous cacophony of wind was revealed the intensity of his attention, for the words--as if solid things--were caught in their embrace and dashed across the endless wastes. Discarded.

"Your highest muse I summoned. Yet these are naught but empty platitudes and needless queries," replied the unnamed presence, its voice a thunder bereft of lightning's spark. The miasma of his essence whirled about them then, spreading far and wide, eclipsing the sky and stone and sand of Yamat's wasteland of a home. Remaining in the silence was a constant droning tune, the dread-wind's terror moan.

With an unseen tell, a gesture implying psychic might, the nameless presence let loose a flash of rage. In an instant the coiling streams of wind and dread took on a crimson tint, lashing upwards at the sky. Gashes of painful essence rent across the heavens of the realm of Tragedy, giving rise to a quiet knowledge. Beneath the placid mask of the Dreaming God's facade, there dwelled a sleeping beast whose wrath was barely kept at bay.

With his intent laid bare to see, the presence gestured idly with a hand and with swiftness the sky's blood drained away. What remained was naught but many rifts upon the torn flesh of that solemn empty sky. Withdrawing from his sibling-god the dread-wind cast itself outwards and away, banishing the miasma within which the Dreaming God had stayed.

With deliberate slowness, the lidded gaze of the Dreamer turned down and met Yamat's single glowing orb.

"Upon dream's tapestries I've seen the many threads of tragedy you've sown," he said as if no insult or barb had been prior laid. The presence gestured with a hand and the dread-wind obeyed, carrying in its embrace the miasmic currents of the Dreamer's might. That power it spiraled out and deepened, depicting swiftly a breed of mortal to which Yamat alone could lay claim.

"The Iskrill," he began, the words of that unknown presence entrapped by the dis-ease and fear of many mortal minds. "Unto them, I will bestow a boon."

Though he did not ask, there remained a question beneath those simple words. Still, the Dreamer spoke instead as if it was meant as a command.

The director nodded, the display shown by the dream god was interesting, to say the least, and not at all what they had expected. But, they could work with this. “A boon you say? Well, I’m sure they would appreciate the aid, especially with that whelp Cadien mucking about.” With a flourish they spun around, and with a wave of their hand brought the mighty canopy where they would spend their days closer. They came upon the great map that sat upon their table and spoke once more to their guest, though admittedly while still staring upon the board. “What is it you’re thinking of bestowing?”

The dread-wind calmed at the response of the Chaos God as if to imply a faint shift in the nameless one's demeanor. Approaching, the figure loomed high beside Yamat as it cast its attention upon the map. He laid a long-fingered hand across the surface of the board and the dread-wind's currents coiled about its shape, before writhing across the surface of the substance. Though filled to brimming with pigmentation, the churning wind did little to obscure the great map's surface, seeming only to add to the detail of its construction. "Know you of my creations?"

As if to clarify, the churning winds took form, depicting briefly a myriad of swiftly shifting shapes. Ever-growing, their formless eyes held within them a hunger unending in its bounds, each ruled by a singular emotion upon which they'd often sup.

A god, regarding them for any length of time, might come to know their dreaded name.

Chomhlíonadh. The Unfulfilled.

The director nodded, wiping some stray black sludge from their eye. “I know bits of your creations, I have heard of their, capabilities, though never truly seen them in action myself.” They slowly sat into their chair, with a wave of a hand creating a cup of tea and saucer, which they drank ever strangely, never taking off their mask. They looked up towards the god of dreams, silently encouraging them to explain further.

Attention shifting, the hidden gaze of that Dreaming God turned to meet Yamat's. His hand raised from the board and swept across its surface, splitting the miasma of his essence. Then, slowly the essence gathered into colored mounds, revealing Perfection's human brood. As seconds passed the colors changed, shifting to crimson hue.

"My creations, they feast upon the minds of mortals without direction or restraint," explained the Unnamed Presence as it gazed eyeless 'pon the map. "With this boon, your children, they may summon such a thing to aid their growing horde." Though expressionless, the presence seemed to smile, the air about them changing as if joyful at the thought.

Yamat too seemed to smile, though their mask hid any true emotion. “Now that, would be a beautiful boon.” They took another sip of their tea before continuing. “Oh to see the look on those Acadians...now, of course, I must ask, how safe would my children be? I understand your creations can rarely be controlled, but I’m sure you understand the need for safety, not that much of a boon if it could wipe out your own forces.”

Chuckling, a dark cast to the essence of his form, the Presence gathered the miasma 'bout his visage. That dark fog pushed out before him and writhed into the Dreamer's desired shape, forming a detailed depiction of an Iskrill horde, the Chomhlionachd looming large above them. "This gift, it will protect their essence from the intrusion of my creations."

"In exchange," the Nameless Presence said, its voice a soothing thrum, "...the Iskrill will not devour all the humans that they kill."

The director nodded ”I see,” They looked upon their own board, picking a specific piece, that of an iskrill, one hand aloft holding an axe, another holding a shield, emblazoned upon it a golden sun. ”And what would you have them do with those they do not devour?”

With a gesture, a diagram was drawn upon the map, showing Yamat the place to which the bodies must be moved. “Buried in the earth,” intoned the Dreaming God.

“They will guard an edifice of my making.”

”I see, a simple enough task, is this all you desire as compensation for this boon?” They took another sip of tea, placing the Iskrill piece back on its spot in the highlands of Toraan.

Thoughts turning inward, the Dreaming God pondered his Chaos-brother's query. The dread wind about his form spread out as he lost focus on its movements and it carried far the miasma that wreathed his form. Seconds passed, then minutes, before finally the Dreamer roused, his presence touching something far off in the realm of Yamat's making.

"Within the Wastelands of your realm there dwells a roiling sea. Of its parasitic waters I would take a brood to call my own." Faintly, a sense of content amusement washed over the God of Tragedy, the dread-wind stirring faintly as it gathered once more around the pair.

”Ah yes, the demon pit, feel free to take as many as you desire, there is an unlimited supply of them within that pit, they will fill the hole within seconds.” They gestured off into the distance of their realm, towards a great valley in between two mountains ”I believe it is over there.”

Turning to Yamat, the Dreamer laid a hand upon the shoulder of the smaller god. Opening its eyes, he revealed empty pits like pure emptiness staring back at the Divine Director. The moment did not last and the Unnamed Presence turned away, shutting fast its eyes against the world, its touch departing just as swiftly. In a flurry of sickly color, the Dreaming God then cast itself across that Wasteland-realm, the dread-wind swiftly scooping up the brood that to the Presence had been gifted.

Then, in a single blurring motion, the God of Dreams rose high into the sky, its form growing far vaster than the blackened sun. Essence shifting through the veil, the Dreamer delivered unto the Iskrill a most frightening boon.

---

Corruscating hues and vibrant emotions pressed themselves to-and-fro like many waves in an endless ocean of minds. Disorganized, but content, they were not prepared for the tremendous malevolence of their creator’s passing. So it was that the gentle swirling of that Endless Dream was churned into a maelstrom of terror and emotion.

A slipstream current carried the Presence through the mire that was created by its presence, carrying him to the many minds of Yamat’s chosen mortals.

Like a horrid pallid smile made with twisting lips, the eldritch god was pleased by how events had transpired with the God of Tragedy. So with this dark-borne pleasure, the Dreaming God lashed out and struck the countless minds of the Iskrill Horde. With a terrible confounding twisting motion of his will, the Presence gathered many ideas, forms, and things. These he bound unto their minds and wrought from them a power.

It was built from that which had been for some time prior. From the abstracted bond that made demons heed a conjurer’s callous call and from those infinite connections that within the Subtle Weave exist. With these parts drawn together into, the Nameless Presence crafted the Iskrill’s boon.

Satisfied, he pulled back--observing--leaving many of their ilk dazed, terrified, and confused. Scores fell in battle that day, but it was a pittance before the terror that they wrought to repay their enemy’s evil acts. With a frightening swiftness, the Presence noted, the Iskrill drew upon their gift and called forth what had once been Aicheil’s get. With a ferver, the Chomhlíonadh tore through the ranks of a menagerie of mortals, stripping them of their will. For without a mind, they could not act, survive, or kill.

Buoyed by their success, the Dread God, Mhaireann withdrew.

---

Then, with a flash of black and red and sickly green he vanished, departing the Black-sun Wastes.

---

_{Year 29AA, middle winter, outside Caisteal Na Grèine...}

“Oh, I cannot wait! I cannot wait! To feel the Statuette once more… How can we be so fortunate?” The young man Macdouh clapped his hands together and had a skip in his gait, kicking up snow with every step. His brown linen robes were characteristic for a monk, and in true monkly fashion, he had given up his family plaid in favour of simple furs. Indeed, nothing less was expected of an acolyte of the House of the Sun. His excitement was met with a somewhat patronising chuckle from his left. The monk turned to see the old, speckled face of Kaer Pier, his balding head covered with a well-sewn and ornately embroidered squirrel fur hat.

“Now, now, young Macdouh - we haven’t even started negotiations with the Reiyar - there is no guarantee that we will be permitted to touch the Statuette.”

Macdouh’s excitement was quickly capped by the elder’s words, and the gait lost its momentum. The monk folded his cold hands instead and attempted to assume a more conservative stance a little behind the druid. “Of course, father - forgive my overreaction.”

“My son,” the druid soothed, “one should never have to apologise for one’s excitement; after all, excitement is but the sun’s will made manifest within our souls. The greatness of Reiya and all of her gifts given to this good world comes to light in the sensations of joy, life and excitement.” He clapped the monk on the shoulder and lifted his tree branch staff to the heavens. “Come now, sing with me! Sing praises to the Daymother! Oh Reiya, oh Reiya~~!”

The druid was quickly joined by Macdouh, as well as the other seven monks and nuns who had come along for the trip. A little behind, two elks trudged through the snow, each carrying a plaid-dressed, copper-helmeted warrior wearing vigilant stares as they surveyed the hills around them. Behind them again, thirty or so foot soldiers followed, all armed with copper spears and small, wooden shields.

“Oof, here they go again,” muttered one of the commanders. The other rolled her eyes.

“Only you would complain about hymns to the Sun, Cumhail. I think they sound rather nice, actually!” Cumhail, théin of the farmstead of Ha-Reyr, gave a long, drawn-out groan.

“Not another word, Cat. I did not ask for this mission; I want my bed; I want my wife; and I want my morning porridge.”

“You had porridge this morning, though…” Cumhail exhaled hot air.

“I want it the way -she- makes it. Campfire porridge cannot even begin to compare!”

“Okay! Okay, relax.” Catryn, théin of the mining village of Ha-Tind, pulled her green and red plaid tighter around her torso. “Didn’t mean anything mean by it…”

“Look, I know you didn’t, but, c’mon, show a man some respect, would you, and don’t make him think of his wife’s porridge while in the field.”

“You’re the one who brought it up, tho--”

“Shush! Not another word.”

Catryn looked to be on her last thread of patience, but a call from ahead in the column caught her attention enough that she let go of the handle of her axe. They kicked their elks gently in the sides and the mounts sped up to top a hill. There, over the top, they could see the red stone castle, standing out from the surrounding like a spot of blood in the whitest snow.

Caisteal Na Grèine.

“We’re here!” announced Kaer Pier to the sound of applause from the monks and nuns. “Now, remember the plan - I will approach first with the acolytes and ask for lodgings. You warriors will await outside.”

“In the cold?” Cumhail replied curtly and sourly. Kaer Pier nodded.

“Most unfortunate, I know, but I will not have armed men and women enter the holy halls of great Solus - of Mother Reiya. Remain out here, and we will make certain to plead for permission so that you, too, may come in. Now, come now, young acolytes! Let us do what we do best!” The druid trudged ahead through the snow, followed by the monks and nuns, some of whom were pulling pulks. The théins looked grimly at one another. Catryn growled at Cumhail and turned to the warriors.

“Well, you heard the man - set up camp and get a fire going. I’m freezing my tits off…”

Meanwhile, the druid and his companions reached the gate of the Sundom, its radiant heat having melted all the snow around it in a several metre radius. The druid motioned for his followers to kneel as he himself approached the gates and knocked. “Great Reiyar - servants of the Sun - we come bearing gifts in honour of your great aid earlier this winter, and pray we may spend the day strengthening our great friendship!”

It did not take long for a reply to muster forth in the form of great golden Leo. peering its head over the walls, body precariously perched upon the stone as if it was finding its footing. A great halo shimmered above it'a head as two curious eyes looked upon them. It lifted its head to sniff at them and then seemingly disinterested, it turned and disappeared over the wall.

“A beast! A beast of the sun!” one of the nuns burst out and squealed, being joined by her comrades. Kaer Pier seemed a little less giddy about the whole situation and gently knocked on the gates again.

“With great humility and respect, we pray we may enter this great castle again in hopes that we can further our bonds of friendship - the Reiyar and the Dûnans!”

The gates did begin to open, revealing winged men and women standing tall on either side of Tevuri and a shorter woman. She wore embossed plate armor of the sun, a faint Halo was above her golden hair. In stark contrast to the Reiyar, her skin was dark… Her arms were folded in front of her and her facial expressions were neutral.

"Dûnans." she stated in a strange accent. "Please, come in, you must be cold." She smiled.

It was the druid’s turn now to stand dumbstruck in awe. The monks and nuns hadn’t risen from their knees, and a few of them were nervously looking around for the signal to stand up. Instead of giving such a signal, the druid himself fell to his knees and laid his staff down on the ground, saying, “Oh… Oh, what fortune - what joy! To think that I, the humble sinner that I am, would be so fortunate to gaze upon the beauty of the Sun’s daughter twice in one lifetime. I greet you from the bottom of my soul and wish you all the blessings of my people, Lucia Helgen!”

The monks and nuns gasped. “A helgen?!”

Lucia remained still. "And I greet you. All of you. Please, rise. Rise and tell us why you've come. No one was expected here until spring at the earliest. Or so I was told."

The druid rose against slowly and the monks and nuns joined in. “Oh, but we couldn’t wait to show our appreciation for the Sun’s aid in reclaiming our home. We’ve brought gifts of ale, food and crafts for all to enjoy, and my acolytes here, a selection of monks and nuns from the House of the Sun, were all eager, so eager, to travel as soon as the weather would allow it. And, as it happened, thanks to the grace of Claroon, no storms have come to keep us at bay this month. I hope we are not intruding.”

"I see. What do you think Cardinal Tevuri?" she asked, turning to the taller Reiyar.

He stroked his chin and said, "I for one always welcome the mixing of culture and exploring the Humani's customs. They are most welcome here. Plus the Oraeliari would do well with something to do."

"Well, that's settled then. Please, come in and be welcomed." Lucia said.

“We cannot express how grateful we are, kind helgen,” praised the druid and took a step forward. “Oh! Before I forget… Atop the hill there, our escort awaits in the cold. They number roughly thirty or so. Would it be too much to ask if they, too, may stay inside the warm castle?”

"Of course." Tevuri said. "We do ask that any weapons are given to us upon entry however. They will be relinquished when you decide to leave."

“Oh, certainly, certainly. Whatever you request be given over, shall be given over. Macdouh, son, would you run up the hill and invite the warriors into the warmth?” The monk bowed and immediately set off on a panting spring through the snow. Kaer Pier smiled and walked over to one of the pulks a nun had dragged with her, from which he untied a thin-necked clay vase with a bark cork. He then stepped back over to Tevuri, bowed his head and offered the vase. “Good Cardinal… Please accept the first of our gifts - the wholly new invention of our people: golden ale.”

Tevuri took the vase with gentle hands, as if he was holding a baby. He brought it up to his puzzled face and asked, "Golden… Ale? What does it do?"

The druid smiled. “It is a drink, friend - a tasty, round-flavoured drink that keeps your belly warm and happy in winter times. In excess, it will soften your soul just enough to reach into the divine plane and speak to the gods. Indeed, I have tried and succeeded - much a similar effect to pipeweed and joyberries.”

Tevuri still looked skeptical but uncorked the jug and took a long whiff of the ale. "It smells good." He said, taking a swing. His face puckered and he passed it to another Reiyar. "It is different, but different is good. Go on and try it Yuleari.” The woman was hesitant in her reaction but sniffed and drank, a small smile creeping onto her face as they passed it around to try.

“Be not afraid to drink it all - we have plenty more! If there is a table somewhere, let us prepare you the feast we have brought with!” At this point, the warriors arrived through the gate behind them, looking blessed to be in the heat of the castle. The two théins dismounted their elks and each offered curtuous bows to both Lucia and Tevuri.

“Gods’ peace be upon you,” Catryn greeted and took her helmet off, blonde hair flowing out of it and down over her cloaked shoulders.

“Yes, gods’ peace,” Cumhail offered just politely. Kaer Pier cast him a sharp glare.

“My companions have naturally accepted that they must give up their arms and will do so immediately,” the druid reminded through a forced, toothed smile.

“Oh, right!” Catryn blurted out and all the soldiers quickly disarmed themselves, neatly arranging a pile by the gate. There were daggers, spears, axes and even some swords - mostly copper, with one or two bronze artifacts scattered in there. There was even a sunforged weapon, which Cumhail seemed terribly reluctant to leave behind. He hung over the pile, holding the long dagger in his hand, grimacing harshly.

Tevuri clasped his hands, "Please, this way. We shall prepare some tables in the dining hall. In the meantime, warm up and mingle as you humani do." Tevuri and Lucia walked off ahead into the keep.

The Dûnans didn’t ignore his suggestion, and many immediately snuggled up against the sunstone wall, many taking off their thickest clothing to not sweat them soaking wet. Kaer Pier and his followers rounded up sacks of oatcakes, pots of cheese, vases of ale and much more from the sleds, following Tevuri with their arms full of gifts. When the food had been moved over across the grand courtyard and into the warm keep, the druid picked up a small wicker chest, beautifully woven and ornately decorated with speckles of chalk, amber and a cross-shaped, golden sun atop its lid. Ceremoniously, he carried it over to the tables and put it down, placing his hand in kind protectiveness over it. “Now… Shall we feast?”

Tevuri nodded, looking around at the many humani and Oraeliari entering the chamber. Each table was large enough for a Reiyar to sit at comfortably but the Humani were a bit short. Lucia had vanished however, most likely through one of the many doors in the vast chamber. As Tevuri sat down at the head of the hall, he looked at the box and asked, "I don't think I ever caught your name?"

The druid smiled and bowed again. “Forgive my insolence - I should’ve opened with that. I am known as Kaer Pier, former archdruid of Ha-Dûna and now trusted advisor and messenger of our sanndatr Boudicca. I also oversee the Daytemple, temple of the Sun.”

“No need to apologize, Kaer Pier. It is nice to meet you.” Tevuri said, taking off his gloves. Around the room the two species mingled and merriment was had, as the Reiyar tried the ale and food. They in turn brought out some of their own items that they had brought from the Luminant. Lumos berries and oran bread, bright and colorful but not as delicious as when they were ripe. “Former archdruid? Sanndatr Boudicca? Has there been a change of leadership in Ha-Dûna?” Tevuri queried.

“So there has,” said the druid and received a horn of foaming ale from a bowing nun. “The Moot declared that the druidic leadership had brought our civilisation nothing but ruin and infamy - we elected that we should have one leader instead, one selected on account of their stellar virtues and inborn charisma: the sanndatr, the True Daughter, or sannsonn if our next one is a man. Boudicca was the only viable candidate in the eyes of the gods and the Moot, without a doubt. Some among us are naturally skeptical of leaving power to a single individual, but the last thing we need now is a crippled council government. A single, righteous leader of such exemplary moral character as Boudicca can make effective, solid decisions and have them be carried out on the day they are made. -That- is what we need; that is a leader.” He sipped his horn with a nod.

Tevuri took a sip of some freshly poured ale, smiling at the nun in thanks. “Change can be many things. Good and bad, it is simply a matter of perspective.” He took another sip. “I can not comment on singular leadership I’m afraid. The Oraeliari people are guided along by we Cardinals. No easy task, but the light of our Oraeliara guides us along. I hope things go well for you and your people.”

“As do I, friend. As do I.” Pier helped himself to an oatcake and scooped onto it some cottage cheese from a nearby bowl. “If I may ask, what has become of your policy on the local, for the lack of a better word, conflicts in the Dûnlands? You helped us reconquer our home, but… What will you do now?”

“Ah, that. We were unsure after reclaiming your home, but now with the Sun Daughter’s arrival, our purpose is clear again. We shall help build a lasting peace here in the Highlands, between all clans, villages, peoples, and races. It is the Sun Mother’s will made manifest.” He said, taking another small sip.

“Then we are of one mind, friend. Peace is the only sensible goal left for these lands - if we can achieve it, then all will be well.” He smiled. “Naturally, Ha-Dûna will wholeheartedly line up behind you as an ally in this matter - whatever you may need, whether it be knowledge of the tribes, connections around the Dûnlands or manpower and resources, you shall get it.”

"Any help is appreciated." Tevuri smiled. "Now, I've noticed that box you brought with you and I must say I'm curious to what might be contained within."

“Oh, this? A small gift for the Cardinals personally - one we hope to exchange for a small favour in return, is all, a favour that to us would mean a great deal.” He opened the lid: The inside of the box was upholstered with wool and bird dow, forming soft, pillowy protection against uneven movement. In the centre of the pillows, there laid a set of four golden rings, intricately adorned with bulbs of transparent glass, with one verdant piece of chiseled malachite in the centre. “Had we known the Sun Daughter was here, we would have naturally brought another one; let us bring it at a later date.”

Tevuri's expression narrowed as he looked the rings over. He said nothing for several moments, as if deep in thought. When he did speak he looked to Pier. "They are beautiful rings, one cannot deny that and I cannot speak for Lucia but before we Cardinals think of accepting this gift, I think it prudent you speak of this request of yours."

“Oh, it’s not as much a request as it is a simple question of permission, my friend.” The druid closed the box and pushed it gently aside for a spell as he took his horn and gave it a sip. “As you no doubt know, these upheavals and our years in exile have taken their toll on our population - many fine, beautiful youths who were meant to grow up and carry our people forward were taken from us much before their time.” He sighed somberly, and the monks, nuns and warriors around the table who had heard him either joined his sigh or teared up. These were comforted by their peers. The druid gave Tevuri a broken stare, the residue of his smile lost completely. “We ask therefore for permission to have our young and newlywed come here on a pilgrimage, just so they can touch the belly of the Sun Mother’s statuette and help our people recover.”

Tevuri looked them over, eyes lingering on the sad faces he saw before him. He then looked out over the room and said, "Such a question cannot be answered by myself alone. Thus I propose that in the morn you gather those of you who speak for your sanndatr and I shall gather mine and we shall discuss this. For now, let us enjoy ourselves in the warmth of Oraeliara and friends."

“I wholeheartedly agree.”

"Good." Tevuri smiled, "Now please, pass the butter?"

---

A sun of red began to rise, warming the foggy keep. The feast had gone on well into the night and most had fallen asleep in the grand hall, but those that were able to walk found rest in the barracks and dorms of the Reiyar. The day was full of anticipation, stemming from the weight of the question posed. And after a quick breakfast, they were guided to where they needed to go. Up winding stairs, down long corridors until at least they reached another short flight of stairs and looming above, a great door. The Reiyar standing guard pushed on the doors and sounds of straining wood and creaks filled the air. Before them sat another room, not as long or tall as the dining hall, but ornate with windows letting light stream in. Rows of tables and chairs lined the sides of the room, leaving a walkway to the front, where another longer table sat, facing a raised platform that stood half as tall as them. Upon that platform sat another table, and sitting upon great chairs were Tevuri and three other cardinals. They wore simple white robes with golden sashes.

These cardinals sat on either side of two figures. One was Lucia, wearing a sleeveless but simple gown of lavender. Her golden hair was let down, matching the color of the Cardinals wings and her own shimmering tattoo’s. Above those five, shimmered their ever present Halos, marks of Oraelia herself. The sixth figure who sat next to Lucia, was a broad-shouldered woman with no easily determined heritage beyond being fair of skin. Her black hair flowed reminiscent of the Ketrefan south, but her face - locked into a thin frown - had the same sharp lines as Acadian nobility. Beyond all that, she was shaped like a western warrior, with athletic muscles hidden underneath thin black fabrics woven like layers of veils over the skin rather than any thick clothes for weather. Lucia turned to her and said something, placing her hand upon her shoulder.

Behind them all, carved into the very stone of the wall, was a depiction of Oraelia. She held a glowing sun in one hand, and a flower in the other. She looked down, smiling with kindness.

As Kaer Pier and his party approached, Lucia rose with a smile. ”Welcome, welcome. Please sit.” she gestured to the table below before continuing, ”Tevuri has informed me that you wish to ask something of the Caisteal Na Grèine. So please, before the eyes of my Mother ask us what you will.” She then sat back down.

The Dûnans offered their most respectful bows, though young Macdouh stood staring at the mural of Oraelia, descending slowly to his knees. “Oh, Mother Sun,” he whispered, then furrowed his brow somewhat. He leaned over to Kaer Pier and whispered something to him, and then the druid put his hand on his shoulder, squeezing it firmly.

“Don’t be disrespectful, my son,” one could barely hear him respond through a forced smile before greatly loudening his voice. “Sun Daughter Lucia, helgen of helgens! Once again, I must express from my heart’s deepest cavities that to see you once again is nothing short of a blessing, and as much as I wish we had come purely for the social exchange, wise Cardinal Tevuri speaks true: We have come also with a request - one that, if granted, would mean the world to our people’s present and future.” He took a breath and bent a knee, his followers doing the same. “We wish, with utmost humility, to be granted permission to open routes of pilgrimage to this holy keep, so that our promising youth may touch the belly of the Sun Mother’s statue and be granted her bountiful fertility.”

"Ah, so the object of your desire is the statue? And you wish to pilgrimage here to be able to touch it." Lucia folded her hands across the table, her expression marked with neutrality. "You are aware that the statue is one of the roots to the problems this land has faced over these years? That my mother blames herself for what she gave you in her naivety? That you could be trusted with it in good faith, so that it could be used responsibly? If the Sun Mother had known the path it would send you on, she would have never given it." Her voice grew softer, "But who could have predicted you would use it so fanatically that your own land could not keep up and then when she gave you everything you needed, it still wasn't enough. After the wars, after the bloodshed." Lucia sighed and her expression grew hard. "I shall ask you this now and answer truthfully. Do you think you are worthy still of such a gift?"

The druid frowned. “Would it not be blasphemous to not employ a gift given by the Sun Mother herself to its greatest extent? Would it not be insolent to willingly restrict ourselves and our people’s growth when the gospel of the Sun forever preaches fertility and proliferation? Our sins are not the Sun Mother’s fault - they are ours, and ours alone. No matter the size of her infinite heart, she cannot take our guilt away from us - not even Naya can. Our growth was but a mere factor of a greater evil within our ranks - one that no god can truly take the blame for; I dare say not even the cruel Sigeran can be blamed for planting that first, wicked seed of greed within Kaer Teagan all those years ago. In regards to sustenance, Sun Mother realised our plight, of course, as wise and great as she is, and our lands can now feed our population tenfold, at least. Our estimates cannot keep up with the true yield, even.” He paused. “We are learning, wise helgen, and it is all we can do for as long as we live. That is all we can say to that.”

The dark-haired woman managed to look even less pleased than before, but shrunk back into passivity as Lucia spoke up. "To learn is to grow. To grow is to live. My mother embodies that, and just as you have learned from your lessons, so as she. For life is such a precious thing, it surrounds us in its beauty but with every breath we take it can be taken away in an instant." She paused. "Too much of a good thing can be abused and turned to cruelty, can it not? I have no doubt your intentions are pure however, you are faithful to her and her teachings. But you must learn that excess so often turns to greed. I think you were wise in coming here asking for pilgrimage, for that is admitting you are willing to change further. Now," she turned to her peers at the table. "Does anyone else wish to speak?" she asked.

Tevuri cleared his throat, giving Lucia a nod. He then looked to the druid and then other followers. "Lucia speaks with wisdom. I knew this day might come, where you would come to ask for it but I do not fault you for that want. It is a powerful gift and should not be denied, to any. I would like to say this, if you wish to make pilgrimage here then we cannot only allow the people of your nation, but any who wish to touch the statue. We wish to remain neutral when we have to and in good standing with all of the people that call these lands home. We cannot show favoritism." He said, finishing his speech.

Cardinal Amara then stood up. "Tevuri speaks after our own hearts, as does Lucia. If you wish to pilgrimage here then we would also ask that any weapons be collected at the gates before entry, any violence committed within will result in immediate expulsion by all members of either accountable parties. And finally, before Oraeliara, we do ask that bad blood, grudges and other pettiness be cast aside in favor of understanding and compassion to your fellow man." She then sat down. The two other Cardinals, one known as Ponifiri and the other unnamed both gave nods in agreement. The dark-haired warrior beside Lucia murmured something under her breath, though it wasn't particularly audible for anyone but those closest to her. In turn, Lucia glanced at the woman but her own expression remained neutral.

The druid lowered his head and smiled. “What joy, what fortune - to have such wise and understanding lieges to stand before. Of course, the gift should, no, must be shared with all in the Dûnlands - that has ever been our intention, for we restricted no one from using it before. Now, however, that it is placed much more centrally, perhaps we can all share in the Sun Mother’s blessing. All of these conditions are most acceptable in our eyes - we are grateful.”

”I am glad we could come to this agreement.” Lucia said. ”I do have a request of my own however, one unrelated to the statue. The Sun Mother has sent myself and my wife to bring about a lasting peace in the Dûnlands and beyond. We were relieved to hear that Ha-Dûna has been reclaimed and that the fighting has settled down, however, Oraeliara scouts have seen some rather disturbing things from the settlement of Scawick? Scawack?” She frowned. ”As such we think it best to gather those who have been wronged in the past and call a grand moot of sorts. A meeting between village heads, town leaders, kings and queens, elders- All across the Dûnlands so that we can talk about peace, settle mistakes from the past and move forward towards a brighter future. I ask you deliver this request to your sanndatr.”

“Such is our intention, as well, make no mistake - but the Scawicks have proven angry and hateful towards our cause of peace. We met them in the field earlier this winter and tried to talk sense to them; they would not listen. We were forced to employ blunt weapons to keep them from murdering us all. We managed to send the majority of them back home with food and supplies, but…” He hung his head in shame, his monks and nuns joining him. The warriors seemed less inclined. “... Alas, when a wolf pack takes too many of your own flock, some must be culled in response.”

The dark-haired woman beside Lucia tapped the table before them a few times, a thoughtful and erratic break from the hitherto calm back-and-forth discussion. Seeming to come out of her thoughts and behavior with a brooding peer at the assembled pilgrims, she spoke up with a broad dialect that seemed equally difficult to place. "Do not fault the wolf for remembering who struck it in the past. Your legacy stretches further back than you may be keen to remember."

Kaer Pier shifted his look to her, his polite smile losing most of its composure until only a frown remained. “Oh, do not misunderstand us - we do not fault them for their behaviour; it is common amongst people like the Scawicks to be… Less in control of their emotions.” He held up his hands. “And we absolutely understand - again, the Dûnans have a history as warmongers, and this we must repent for; however, if they murder our peacemakers when we come to them with a message of harmonious existence, then we cannot simply turn the other cheek, can we?”

”People like the Scawicks…” It was Lucia who frowned now, shaking her head. ”One step forward, another step back…” She massaged the bridge of her nose. ”I must advise, in the future when you come into contact with those who will not listen due to past prejudices, that you ask a neutral party to be a bridge between the two. To ensure such life is not unnecessarily lost.” She rested a hand upon the dark-haired woman’s cheek for a moment, before dropping it out of view. ”We shall go talk to the Scawicks to see what can be done. Now, is there anything else that you wish to ask?” she asked.

The druid bobbed his head softly. “If all aforementioned clauses of the agreement remain, then we have nothing left to ask. We thank you from the bottom of our thousand hearts for your wise and merciful decision to allow not only us, but all peoples of the Dûnlands to access the statuette through pilgrimage.” He extracted the box with the golden sun upon it once more, knelt down again and offered it in the direction of Lucia, Sanya and the Cardinals. “To solidify this agreement, allow us to offer you the gifts intended for the wise administrators of the Sun’s will, as tribute to let you know that, through thick and thin, Ha-Dûna will always be loyal to Caisteal Na Grèine.”

”Not tribute, but rather a deal made.” She turned and nodded at Tevuri, who stood and pulled out from beneath the table a box of his own. He walked down the steps and placed it before Pier.

“We offer this in return, to affirm this agreement.” Tevuri said, opening the chest to reveal an assortment of glowing seeds. Some resembled familiar nuts and acorns, but others were wholly exotic. “Take these seeds from our homeland, grow them in your fields and remember that the light lives in us all.” Tevuri said.

“A gift from the Sun Mother!” celebrated the clergy, and Kaer Pier’s followers quickly scrambled to pick up the chest and carry it to the door. Kaer Pier managed to calm them down a little with some whispering and gesturing, but they couldn’t hide their eagerness in beholding something so sacred. The druid eventually gave up and turned back to the council with a wide smile.

“As their reaction proves, we are infinitely grateful for the gift. Come spring, these will be the first seeds to be sown.” Once more, he bowed. “We cannot wait to bring these wonderful news back to our people, and to all peoples throughout the land. Today is a most fortunate day for the Dûnlands!”

“You and your people are welcome to stay for as long as you like, Kaer Pier.” Tevuri smiled. “Though I think we will understand if you wish to leave to spread the word.”

“Your hospitality is legendary, wise Cardinal, but it is as you say - these news must be brought back post-haste. The celebrations will almost certainly ravage the city all over again, I reckon,” he chuckled.

“Then we wish you a safe journey.” Tevuri said.

”Indeed. Thank you for your time, Kaer Pier. Until next time.” Lucia said, turning to the woman beside her. Something murmured under her breath, and the dark-haired woman nodded towards the druid as well.

---

A few days had passed since the retinue from Ha-Dûna had departed and Lucia found herself watching the Oraeliara train outside the barracks. Today, like the last few days, she found her eyes falling upon Sanya, who had taken a liking or perhaps a purpose, to avoid boredom. She taught them how to wield the spear with deadly intent. Lucia enjoyed watching her partner do something she enjoyed, it was good to see. Sanya had kept up practice these past decades, switching to unarmed forms when she had buried Sorrowsting. Now she had the chance to meet and train with students who seemed eager enough to learn, and Sanya used the opportunity both to impart her knowledge and perfect her new fighting style. She weaved into different forms and stances, and taught them grapples to dislodge and overwhelm opponents.

But she found herself lingering for too long however, and with reluctance she moved on. Through the warm halls she walked, greeted by the tall winged one with friendly smiles. They did not revere here as much as the Druids did and for that she was thankful. Eventually Lucia found herself back in the chamber of mother’s likeness, where they had made their agreement. It was empty, but only of mortals.

”You did well, Lucia.” Rhiona’s voice came from the statue of her mother as she walked forward. ”The people here are fanatical but perhaps they will learn in time.”
”I hope so. I cannot bear to see them act so cruelly. You saw how they made mention of the Scawicks…”

”Indeed. What was it that Sanya said? Wasn't it, humans never change?”

Lucia frowned and took a seat. "I love Sanya but she has a very pessimistic view on humans and I don't blame her. But some do change for the better and some change for the worse. It's one of the view journies in our life we have to take."

"Mhmm, spoken like your mother. Now, I believe I might have a few things you'll be interested in. For there is always more to give in the name of peace." A large topaz appeared on the table in front of her, giving off an aura of calm. Lucia felt as if she could burst from empathy just being in its presence. "Use that in the name of peace and negotiations. Also I made more Joyfs. Goodluck Lucia!" Rhiona said with haste in her voice before her presence disappeared.

Lucia was so wrapped up in the stone that it took her a few seconds to realize what Rhiona had even said.

”Oh goo- Wait! More Joyfs?" and as if on que, there was loud shouts coming from the courtyard and Lucia grabbed the gem before running off in that direction. Her worry began to fade as shouting gave way to laughter. She turned the final corner and the courtyard came into view. The first thing she saw was a massive head of a Joyf, looking around excitedly.

Then she saw smaller yet still large Joyfs frolicking with the Oraeliara, in fact, several swarmed over Sanya, one was laying on her legs, head at her chest, begging to be petted as the others licked at her face and head. The dark-haired warrior had all but given up any attempt at sparring practice, and was now fully caught up in trying to wrestle free from the fluffy mound of cute animals. An energetic and big joyf licked her over the nose, and caught off-guard, for once, Sanya offered a genuine and peaceful chuckle.

Lucia laughed and watched as the largest one… This Queen Joyf, fall to her side and whimper. In an instant a swarm of Joyfs went to her and several Oraeliari, all providing helpful pats to her thick fur.

Lucia rolled her eyes and looked up to see the two cats circling above. It seemed they were the only ones not a fan of the newcomers.

---

_{Year 30AA, late winter, Ha-Dûna...}

“A-are you sure this is a good idea, Burud? Y-you know what they say about her, a-after all! Oh, there’s gotta be another way!”

“Shut up, Murtagh! The Dûnans are paying for what they’ve done to us - to this whole country. You know as well as I do that this is the only way.”

“B-but is it, though?” The two were, in truth, beyond lost deep inside a forest to the far east of Scawick, almost beyond the Tordentind Mountains. They had been travelling for a full two weeks to get here - three days ago, they had reached the border of the woods. At this point, they were certain some sort of terrible charm had been cast upon them to throw them off their trail. They were, after all, chasing a legend - a local myth said to be dwelling in the deepest, darkest middle of these ancient woods.

A witch.

Burud kicked away a snow-covered, rotting stock and stepped over a frozen root. Murtagh had never seen a man so determined - fueled by a need for vengeance, he was an unstoppable machine, trekking through these endless woods for days on end, when all energy should have been spent weeks ago. Murtagh could hardly keep up. Then, as Murtagh had to keel over to take a breather, he noticed one of the roots on the ground looking slightly more twisted than usual.

“Hey, Burud? This root’s a little weirder than usual.”

There came a wet spit from up ahead. “They’re all weird here - these are cursed woods, after all. Nothing’s normal here.”

Murtagh squinted at the root. “No, no, you don’t get it… It’s… It’s pointing somewhere.” He knelt down to inspect the root’s direction. Burud sighed up ahead.

“Alright, I’ll play your game… What’s it pointing at? The trunk?” Burud stepped over and shot the root a lopsided view; at that moment, he also noticed that it seemed to, quite literally, gesture in a certain direction. “Well, I’ll be damned…” The root pointed off the beaten path, in a direction that not even the local fauna had seemed to step in - there weren’t even signs of critters having ever made a path through the snow in that direction. “... Could this be it?”

“What were the directions?”

“‘Go into the woods and keep walking until the forest itself shows you the--... It was pretty obvious now that I think about it, actually,” Burud confessed. Murtagh scrunched his nose.

“Well… After you, chief.” With that, the pair placed the first pair of feet in the snow which had laid untouched all season. Almost immediately, the woods shifted, as though the scenic view they had been shown for three whole days had been just that - a view. The old trees grew eldritch and overgrown, and the bark grew wicked faces which seemed to glare or grin at them as they went by. The sounds of birdsong and wind in the branches had disappeared completely - the silence was deafening.

Murtagh jumped suddenly, scaring Burud into drawing his axe. “By the gods, Murtagh, what’s wrong with you?!”

“D-d-d-d-did you hear that?!”

Burud held his breath and looked around. Murtagh’s eyes darted in every direction. “Did I hear what, exactly?”

“Th-th-there was a laugh - a laugh on the wind. S-s-s-sounded like a ghost!”

Burud groaned. “Kid, there’s no such thing as ghosts! It’s your own mind playing tricks on you, I bet.”

Murtagh then jumped again, Burud grabbing his shoulders controllingly. “Murtagh. calm down!”

“THERE IT WAS AGAIN! Oh, Burud, I can’t do this. I can’t, I, I--” SMACK! The younger man shut up as Burud’s palm clapped him hard across the face, then he stiffened with obedience and fear as his superior grabbed him by the collar and pulled his face in close.

“Man yourself up, you squirt! We’ve come too far to piss off now! Listen to me - there is nothing out there. Now… Let’s--”

“B-b-b-but I hear it, Burud! As clearly as I’m hearing you, and, and, and-- OW! Stop hitting me!”

“Then stop fffffreaking me out, you shit!” Burud spat back. “Calm yourself down -right- now, or I’m gagging you with your own balls - do you understand?”

“B-but--”

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!”

Murtagh nodded carefully and Burud let go of his collar. The two shared a mutual stare for a few seconds before a sudden scent caught them both by surprise. It was smoke - smoke with a faint hint of herbs and meaty flavours. The two widened their eyes and one another and quickly set off into a sprint. The scent grew stronger and stronger as they ran, their nostrils filling with the scents of applewood cinders and venison stew. Jumping over one final stock and rounding a corner of thickly growing trees, they saw it - a hut, centered in a clearing that somehow was darker than the woods around them. Inside flickered a flame in the hearth, and the two quickly realised how dearly they longed for proper shelter. They scurried over to the wooden door and, after some back and forth about who got to knock, Burud gave the planks a gentle bang.

“Coming,” came a frail voice and Burud and Murtagh frowned at one another.

“She sounds ancient,” whispered Murtagh.

“Well, according to the stories, she’s been around for centuries - way before we came.”

“Three hundred and forty-eight years, just about - give or take a decade.” The wooden door slid open, revealing a face so twisted by age that neither Murtagh nor Burud could be certain of whether she was wrinkly or bark-skinned. Her eyes had long since passed the definition of what could be considered hollow - unless one squinted hard, it was hard to tell whether she had eyes at all. Her nose stabbed at the air like the beak of a long-dead crow, with warts popping up all over it like the forest floor in the mushroom season. What little hair she had left hung in strands that could better be described as webs, looking as though they had been holding onto her skull for many lifetimes. The smile she offered them didn’t have a single tooth, and the gums looked to be rotting away in her mouth. It would be accurate to describe her frail frame as more bone than both skin and flesh, and her dress was a collection of moth-eaten rags haphazardly wrapped together with stinking animal furs. The witch studied their expressions with quiet amusement before posing with surprising energy for her appearance. “I know - aren’t I just the pinnacle of beauty?”

“How in the gods’ names are you so--” Murtagh swallowed the rest of the sentence as Burud punched him in the throat.

“So ugly?” asked the witch with a shrug. Murtagh nodded through his gasps for air. Burud groaned from the depths of his lungs. The witch snickered. “No, no, no, I love it when people ask - they’re always so afraid that it’ll be, y’know, ‘offensive’ or something, but it’s actually a fun story! Come in, come in! I’ll tell ya.” She herded them inside and went over to the kitchen table, where a fresh wooden tray of oatcakes sat steaming. She gestured for the two to sit down on each their small tree trunk stool next to a small saloon table. She stepped over with uncanny agility and put down the tray, taking a biscuit for herself and sitting down on a stool opposite of the visitors. Burud looked at the tray with skepticism, but helped himself to a biscuit as well as the witch’s gestures grew too intense to ignore.

“You knew we were coming?”

The witch scoffed. “Of course, I knew. I’ve known you two were coming for the last three days. Truth be told, i thought you two would give up.”

Burud swallowed his cookie bite and frowned over at Murtagh, who had also helped himself to a biscuit. “We would have arrived sooner. You’re not an easy woman to find.”

“Pffft, come now - I think the trees were actually quite helpful in showing you where to go. Not their fault you two can’t take a hint.” She then burst into a cackle that neither Burud nor Murtagh felt they could participate in, not even politely so. The witch then immediately stopped laughing, her eye twitching slowly. She sat in silence for two seconds exactly, not enough to be awkward, but just enough to be uncomfortable. Then, as soon as she had frozen, she thawed, her toothless smile returning. “So, anyway, I had this rival, right?”

Burud put down his biscuit. “Look, lady, we don’t have all--”

“Shushushush, let me tell my story, alright? Basic courtesy, son.”

Burud groaned. “In all honestly, lady, we’re not here to--”

“And zip!” As the witch waved her hand, Burud suddenly began to scream in agony. Murtagh dropped his biscuit and looked on, white as a sheet, as Burud’s teeth became like plaster, twisting out of his mouth and digging themselves into the meat of his lips like thread on needles, sewing them shut as blood gushed into his mouth and down his throat. The man fell down on the floor and clawed at his mouth for the pain to stop, only worsening the damage as nails and fingers tore at flesh and skin that was never meant to be exposed to this sort of treatment. Murtagh’s breathing was as quick as his heartbeat, and the witch let out a soft “prrt” through her lips.

“Alright, while the whiddle bebby cries himself to sleep on the floor, do you wanna hear my story, my boy?”

Unable to do anything else, Murtagh nodded slowly. The witch clapped happily and grinned from halved ear to whole ear. “Great! That actually means a lot to me - I don’t get visitors very often, so it’s nice to talk to somebody, y’know. So anyway, I had this rival, right? Used to call her the Wicked Witch of the East, or between you and me - the Wicked Bitch with the Broad Side - heyooo!” She paused for applause that never came. “Anyway, we had a fight, because she was a bitch and I hate her, and we did some mean shit to one another - I mean really mean shit. Come on. Come on, ask me what kind of mean shit.”

“Wh-wh-wh-what kind of m-m-m-mean shit?” stuttered Murtagh as he constantly shifted over to the still-screaming Burud on the floor.

“Ho, boy! Strap in, ‘cuz that was a reeeeaal bad year everyone involved. Think we levelled, like, six villages and burnt down a whole forest or something. Oh, and she made me like this. Can you believe it? Around two hundred years ago, I was the most beautiful girl in all the land - now I look like something some deviant dug out of a grave to have a last little round with on a lonely night.” She shrugged. “Pretty crazy, right?”

Murtagh swallowed. “Wh-wh-what happened t-t-t-to the other witch?”

“The bitch, y’mean? Oh, I killed her.”

“K-killed her?”

“Killed her dead.”

“Killed her dead?”

“Dead, deadiddy, dead-dead. Made her tongue twist backwards, run down her throat and lick her lungs to shreds from the inside. That felt so good.” She offered the crying Burud a glance. “Okay, I’ve told my story - let’s hear yours.” She snapped her fingers, and in the flash of a second, Burud’s mouth went back to normal, his wounds healing as though they had never existed. Immediately, the warrior pulled out his axe and scrambled to his feet.

“What in the demons’ names are y--”

“And back you go!” sighed the witch with a roll of the eyes and waved her hand. Once again, the hut filled with Burud’s screams as his face pruned like drying meat, his eyes shrinking into mere raisins and his tongue turning into a stiff stick of jerky. After a while, one could only hear him wheeze.

“NO! You’ll kill him!” pleaded Murtagh as his mind finally snapped and he scurried down off his stool to help his comrade. An invisible force stopped him, however, and he was forced back onto his stool, trapped there by an unseeable chain. The witch shook her head slowly.

“Relaaaax, I’ve got him. This is my field of expertise - I make dying take time. If I wanted I could make him live like this for, oh, I dunno, years. He’d need help to eat and drink, of course, but you could give him anything as, y’know, he wouldn’t be able to taste much with a tongue like that.” She shrugged. “Or, y’know, you’d need to done none of that, and I’d just let him thirst and starve until I felt like he’d suffered enough - he wouldn’t die unless I said so, of course; he’d just thirst, and thirst, and thirst and starve, and starve and starve, until he could no longer remember what it’d be like to have a full belly or a wet throat.” She stood up from her stood, stepped over to Burud’s wheezing, dried up corpse of a body and squatted down. “Now, when I turn you back, will you be a good boy?”

Utterly defeated, Burud wheezed something that sounded affirming. The witch nodded.

“Good, because if you even think about doing something stupid again, I will have your skin peel off so slowly that you’ll be able to feel every fiber snap loose from the muscle beneath - and I don’t think I’ll remember how to reverse that spell.” With that, she snapped her fingers, and Burud’s body instantly returned to its normal state, though the man remained on the floor, eyes devoid of hope and fervour.

“B-Burud?” whimpered Murtagh, unable to look over due to the invisible force. “BURUD?!”

“Ugh, you two are so noisy!” complained the witch as she sat down down on her stool. “Come on, why do you think I served you cookies? Eat more, talk less.” She had another biscuit and offered Murtagh a lopsided frown as she chewed. “So, never asked, why are you actually here?”

Murtagh swallowed. “W-w-w-we need a curse.”

“Pfft, obviously.” She rolled her eyes as though Murtagh had just told her that water is, in fact, wet. “Well, come on, give me the details - who, what, when, where?”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-Dûna.”

“Ha-Dûna where and who?” the witch asked impatiently.

“Ha-Dûna,” said Murtagh again. Upon seeing the witch’s confused squint, he elaborated, “L-l-like, all of it.”

“All of Ha-Dûna?”

“Y-yeah.”

“As in all the lands, the people, cows, pigs, chickens and grain?”

“All of it.”

The witch blinked skeptically to herself before raising both eyebrows and bobbing her head from side to side. “Phew. That’s a tall order, kid.”

“T-tall order?”

“Too tall. Much too tall for old Resla.” She shrugged. “You’d have better luck asking the gods for something like that. At best, I can give you an afternoon of raining frogs, but that’s about it… And even that would be an ordeal.”

“Th-then… A, a Dûnan village?”

“Better, but I gotta clarify for ya that curses, well, they’re stronger the fewer people they affect. So if you really want someone to pay, I’d recommend aiming for a certain family or even just one person. I could hex a village for you, of course - poison the wells, sterilise the men, give the children lead poisoning - no biggie. But that’s not exciting enough, is it? If you two came to me, then I think you have it out for a certain someone who’s done you a lot of wrong.”

“... Yes… There is one,” came Burud’s exhausted voice. Murtagh realised the force no longer was gripping him and rushed over to help him.

“Burud! Are you alright?”

“Alriiight! One person - now it’s getting hotter.”

“One family - if she goes, so will her family. Her ilk must be wiped off this world for good.”

Resla grinned her toothless grin again. “Oh, I like the sound of that. Give me a name and I’ll figure out the rest.”

Burud sat himself up weakly and looked the witch in the eyes. “Hilda. Hilda the Leoness.”

The witch pursed her lips and quietly tasted the name on her lips. “Hilda, Hilda, Hilda… Sounds familiar - can’t quite put my finger on it, but sounds familiar. Eh, I’m sure I’ll remember when I check up on her. Alright. How would you like her cursed?”

“Make it slow - as slow and as painful as you can.”

“Emotionally or physically painful? Or both, maybe? She sounds evil enough that we can include both, right?”

“Both. Both is good.”

Resla rubbed her bony hands. “Alright, I think I have some ideas. I’ll need a little something from you two, though, for the curse to become as potent as possible… And I’ll need some payment for the service.”

Burud sat up a little stronger, supported by Murtagh. “What do you need?”

“Well, for the curse itself, I’ll need a good sacrifice. Does this Hilda have a child, by chance?”

Murtagh looked uneasy, his eyes shifting over to Burud. Burud, on the other hand, looked dreadfully determined all of a sudden. “Yes. She has many, actually.”

“Oh, good! That’ll make things so much easier. Tell you what - if you could get your hands on one of them, we’ll just use that. Otherwise, I’ll have to ask you to head into the Prairie to fetch a leon or to bring me the head of a ranglefant or tongue of a drighina, and, well, out of those four options, a child is just so much easier to get, y’know.” She snickered to herself, ignoring the terrible weight of the conversation which seemed to be crushing Murtagh and, to a lesser extent, Burud.

“And what… What’s the fee?” asked Burud warily. The witch snapped her fingers.

“Oh yeah! Almost forgot - hand to remember stuff when you’re almost three fiddy, y’know.” She held up her hand and pointed at her ring finger. “One from each, please.”

Murtagh’s breathing quickened again. Burud grit his teeth together. “Our… Our fingers?”

“Ring fingers, specifically. A lot of power in exactly that one. Most people think it’s useless, but it’s actually that one finger that holds the most power in the whole hand, seeing as it’s just left to gather strength on its own, almost never being of use to anyone. Being cast out and seen as hopeless by others makes you powerful - self-reliant. Like me!” She giggled to herself before immediately shifting to a colder mask. “So yeah, that’s the price. Hand over your fingers and bring me the child - after that, I can guarantee you that Hilda will never be at peace ever again.”

Murtagh and Burud looked at each other again. Murtagh’s quivering lips told Burud everything he needed to know, and the senior took his companion weakly by the colour and brought his face closer to his. “Remember all the people she’s killed, Murtagh - how she’s spat on our people for decades. Our own flesh is a small price to pay for justice.”

“W-we’re talking about killing a child here, Burud… We’re talking about killing a child and giving up our limbs in the process.”

“One limb, Murtagh! One tiny finger in exchange for the juiciest vengeance we could ever have.”

“A child, Burud--”

“HER child, Murtagh!” The younger man grew quiet. Burud’s eyes have an intimidating darkness in them, one that no moralising speech could pierce no matter the gravity of this heinous act. “Her ilk is no better than herself. They will grow up to become slavers, raiders and rapers, butchering our people and allies throughout the realm for decades to come. Come on…” He placed a hand on his heart. “... Do it for Wenya.”

Murtagh’s eyes opened slowly and began to fill with tears. “Don’t you fucking mention her name to me. Not here. Not now.”

“They killed her, Murtagh. Those two Dûnans killed her and Hilda defended them like they had beaten some dog in the street as part of some sick game. I bet she took part in the murder herself.”

“Shut up…” wept Murtagh. Burud drew him closer.

“... This is our chance, lad. She will fucking pay.” A minute passed where the only sound was Murtagh’s silent sobbing, his tears dripping down onto Burud’s face. Eventually, he hulked a louder sob and bobbed his head up and down. Burud nodded back, taking his axe from his belt. Still weeping, Murtagh pulled off his right glove and put it between his teeth, laying his ring finger down on the tree trunk stool. Burud looked him in the eyes to see if he was ready, and upon receiving a nod, brought down his axe. The finger was lopped off in a single strike, and Murtagh rolled back, screaming into his glove through biting teeth. Burud took off his own glove and hesitated slightly as he held the axe over his own finger. He frequently looked back to the witch, who had by now placed her head neatly on the balls of both palms and left it to observe the situation with a toothless grin.

“Oh, don’t let me distract you. Go on,” she giggled. Burud closed his eyes and hefted his axe.

“Oh! Keep your eyes open - don’t wanna split your hand or anything,” added the witch quickly. Burud sucked in a breath through the nose and, opening his eyes in a split second, brought down the axe. The finger hopped right off, leaving a quickly growing pool of blood over the stood, with more running down his palm as he slowly lifted up his hand. His body pumped him so full of adrenaline that he could hardly feel it right away, but he was nonetheless compelled to groan painfully and gasp for air, clutching his hand to his chest. A slow clap brought his eyes back to the witch.

“Bra-vo~! Solid effort by the both of you!” She tossed them each a length of linen, ripped from her own rags. “You two are really desperate for revenge - I like that; nothing beats a good vengeance story, in my opinion.” With a giddy gait, the witch hopped off her stool and collected the two fingers. She then crossed the room and deposited them into a clay jar. “Alright. The pact is sealed. Bring me the child at your earliest convenience, and we can begin.”

Burud finished helping Murtagh wrap his hand and pushed himself to his feet with great effort, the shock of adrenaline almost paralysing him. “W-will we find you here as we have today?”

“Yup! But don’t worry - next time, I’ll let you waltz right in as soon as you arrive. Would you like anything for the road, by the way?”

The two Scawicks supported each other with grips around their shoulders and shook their heads in unison. The witch shrugged. “Alrighty! Then I wish you a safe journey home! Toodles!” With that, she snapped her fingers, and the two suddenly found themselves standing at the border of the woods, a mad cackle haunting them faintly on the wind. Murtagh could barely stand, and soon fell to his knees in exhaustion. He was about to cave forward into the snow, too, but Burud caught him.

“Murtagh. Murtagh! Stay with me!”

The young man gave Burud an exhausted glance. “What have we done, Burud?”

The elder was shaken, but tried to maintain his determined facade. He did his best to help Murtagh back to his feet again, and the two slowly started making their way back towards home. “What was necessary to get our justice, brother.”

---

With effortless movement, a figure limned with writhing prismatic light walked across the ocean vast. It had been weeks since last he’d seen Khesyr, his birthplace, and years since he’d known his home. It merely tickled at the nostalgia in his reforged mind, bringing him little in the way of thoughts of comfort or belonging. That was not his place now. No, he was more than a small town hunter now, he was above petty gossip and mundane things--though they were not beyond him and each, indeed, held their own innate value.

Wondering at where precisely he might be upon the vast oceans of Galbar, Fein let his breathing shift, allowing him to fall into a light meditative trance. The shifting light around him expanded rapidly, encompassing several dozen feet in an orb of writhing essence. With each weaving dance the wind picked up, and as if blown through trees or reeds, they took on a subtle tune. A gentle windblown melody picked up, and he accompanied it with his own voice and intent.

Far beneath him, ocean creatures danced within the waves and currents of the sea, but none strayed too close to the figure who tread upon the water’s surface. Then, his meditation entered, his mind expanded and so opened before him were the boundless reaches of the Endless Dream.

Threads of chaos and pain remained throughout the Subtle Weave, likely caused by the resurgence of a vast mind.

’Aicheil. The Dreaming God,’ trailed off the thought before he turned his attention elsewhere. He focused on the many minds beneath and far afield of his location. With their dreams and memories, he crafted a map within his mind, weaving it into existence with illusions and dreaming song. This image he crystallized within the sixfold gaze of his mind before opening his eyes and letting the swaying dance of his Will abate. All that remained was the gentle hum of his intent that cast his Will upon the surface of the sea.

---

He emerged from a deep slumber, his mind a haze of confusion and a fading sense of skull shattering pain. For a time he could not even remember his name, let alone understand where he was or recognize the many faces around him. “Agh,” he exclaimed with a pained groan as he opened his eyes and moved his head. There was blackness around him, broken only by the faint light of a nearby candle on what could only be described as a shrine. Frowning, the raven-haired man slowly turned his head but found he could not find any more meaning in his surroundings--dark as they were.

Head pounding--though the pain was fading swiftly--he pushed himself up on his elbows and sat up. “Hello?” There was no response, but his voice echoed through the space, revealing its size. Was it a barn, perhaps? How had he come to such a place…?

He could not have walked, not after...the thought trailed off, for he realized he could not quite remember what exactly had occurred. Had he not been upon the Great Glacier, beneath its sheets of ice? Fein screwed up his brow and rubbed his temples, trying to clear his mind and perhaps make some sense of what had happened. There might be answers there. Thinking back, he recalled a vast hall of unmelting ice, illuminated by many scattered shafts of light, diffusing through the space. It was a vivid recollection, but something about it was wrong as if some aspect of the place hid from his awareness. Frustrated, he pushed for the memory only for a flash of black-clawed agony to tear at his mind.

He called out in an aborted scream as his jaw tensed and he convulsed, curling in on himself. He felt sensations upon his flesh and a writhing burning essence in his mind, but the latter faded and the former resolved into the feeling of warm hands. Someone’s voice spoke to him, “Fein?”

He blinked clear his vision as he opened his eyes, the haze of crimson fading swiftly once more. A familiar face greeted him, a welcome one, his grandfather’s. Wincing, Fein turned away, but it was not the brighter light of the open barn door beyond his grandfather’s form that had caused it. Instead, it was the look on the man’s face. Worry, pity, and a brief flash of fear. Swallowing hard he gently pushed the hand away before forcing himself to speak, though his throat was dry and his voice hoarse.

“I’m alright, gramps. Could use some water.”

The man nodded and turned away, “A’right, Fein,” he said, exiting the barn. There was a barely veiled franticness about the man’s movements, as if he couldn’t quite wait to get out of his presence. Then again, maybe the man was just relieved to see him? It had been...months? Years? He couldn’t say for sure. It stood to reason that his grandfather would have worried after him, especially considering his destination.

Few made it back off the ice of the Great Glacier.

Rubbing his temples once more, his fingers digging roughly into the soft patches of skin, Fein wondered about the state of things. If even gramps was like this, how would the other villagers react? How had he even gotten here..? He’d have to ask, it was unlikely to be a pleasant conversation.

---

He’d come a long way to find the small abandoned temple. It was not a place the gods had blessed, he could tell--it didn’t feel the same as that far off Heart of Ice. Finding the temple had been difficult, even with his connection to the Two-as-One. Both seemed far off and beyond any proper communication or simple prayer. He wondered why, but he did not lose faith.

Kneeling now before a pristine mirror composed of silver crystal, Fein bent his head and took in several long deep breaths. Gently his mind sank into a stupor, then opened in three directions, forming an expanding refraction of the Endless Dream. A smile touched his lips, he spoke.

“God of Truths, I beseech thee,” he began, his tone even and calm. “May your chosen form upon this earth anoint my mortal mind so that I might seek this world’s Truth as you do.”

Then he raised his head, opened his eyes, and stared deep into the crystal mirror.

Within its reflection manifested the silhouette of a clawed, mirror-bright being whose silver seemed to have tarnished as if the passing of years had suddenly caught up with it all at once. As its clawed fingers gripped the very edges of Fein’s perception and it sidled into view, a feeling of exigent relief washed over him.

“The World’s Memory has withdrawn, Scáilgasúr. Its ministrations upon the Subtle Weave are required to keep the balance--and it cannot turn away. Only I am able to hear your prayers.”

The words flowed from the glass like ribbons of shredded crystal, softly humming at first and then shrieking within his skull, their sounds unfit for the uninitiated.

“But you came here to seek Truth, and seek it you shall. I may draw from the World’s Memory to anoint you with the grace of the Two-as-One. Rise, Naomh Dealrach.”

As Faileasiar spoke, the crystal-threads of its essence began to seep forth from the mirror like liquid crystal, creeping along the floor and into every pore of Fein’s skin. The resonance of the words within his thoughts began to swell, his skull began to vibrate, and very soon all perception of the world left him as he entered the manifold realities of the Dream.

Therein he would see a great triquetra, cleaving falsehood from its surroundings, and in the centre an eye--an eye that locked onto his own, and the knowledge of a hundred epochs trickled up his skin and into his ears and directly into his mind. In another instant he was in the temple again, but the blessing of the God of Truth had once again found its way into the hallowed place and a gentle sheen seemed to permeate the air. As he turned back to the mirror he found a silver triquetra upon his forehead, gently thrumming to the beat of his heart, and a mirror seemed to have laced itself beneath his sclera.

So inducted by the hand of Firinn’s own avatar, Fein felt his mind expand with the knowledge he had been given. It was overwhelming, and yet...he was not consumed by it. Immersed in that radiant moment, the World’s Memory stretching his mind far beyond what he’d once thought its limits

Then he felt it, a growing swell of endless emotion held barely at bay. Physically it was but a breath of mist and warmth upon his face, but as he opened his eyes he found before him quite a sight. Refracting light between numerous beads of prismatic moisture, a figure stood before him, its form composed entirely of luminescent droplets of unknown nature.

He knew this figure, unlike that of Faileasiar, who he’d only heard of through myths and tales. This one he had felt before--and in many visions seen.

Faireachan A-staigh. The Watcher Within. First Avatar of the Dreaming God.

It spoke into his mind and its words dripped with boundless meaning.

“Through the Mindshadow will you walk. Bound by the firmament of endless aspect you will be.”

A shock pressed itself through him and it was like taking a breath for the first time, like feeling true joy and rapture all at once. His mind unfiltered, his emotions raw, Fein felt tears track down his cheeks. Voice shaking, he replied as a mortal must.

“You honor me. Thank you.” He almost choked on the words as sobs leapt through his chest, the emotions too potent to hold. They writhed through his body, changing his very essence, touching his soul--elevating it. He felt his skin shift, its hue almost golden in its hue and his eyes followed suit until not just his sclera were touched by the influence of the Two-as-One, but the irises and pupils too. What were once merely black dots grew in depth, becoming pits of endless pitch, deeper than any Galbarian abyss. The colors of his irises, once a gentle brown, shifted then as well, growing flecks of silver, theur hue ever-changing from tint-to-tint.

Knowing that its work was done, the Watcher faded and with drew, its presence dwindling to naught but mist.

Fein was left with his feelings and his thoughts and he embraced them for a time. He remained, kneeling, head bowed as he wept into the ruined floor of that long forgotten temple. It took many minutes before his mind had adjusted to its altered state, but when it did he rose clear eyed and departed that solemn altar from which he’d been reborn.

It was then that he knew the world must change, though he could not yet know how.

---

A swell of oceanic power. An emanating song. Its cadence was slow, more a constant undulating rumble than a proper melody. The waters twisted and churned beneath him, as if a deific force pulled them ever deeper into the depths of that unknown blackness far below. Yet, there was not the faintest trace of darkness in that place--even in the night--for within the waves and currents there was a smattering of color. Like a painter’s palette writ-large and dumped into the waves the colors swirled and intertwined. As the currents wove and spun they created a vast and swaying tapestry of chaos and beauty both. Twas that whirling dervish of waves which held his six-fold gaze.

Yet the world would not stop for him, for far beneath him, he felt the presence of many mammoth entities, their minds manifold and vast. He watched them for a time before his attention earned him the dire curiosity of a certain Vroolish mortal. Up from the depths a ten-ton tendril reached, slapping at his form, but before it struck him he let out a single piercing tone.

It was a one-note song, wrought with a voice transcendent. It spoke unto the world and said ‘Protect me from any violence, rebuff and rebound.’ So the world did heed the call, heaving currents to-and-fro, making air writhe in deadly shearing blasts that swept away that unknown vrool’s once mighty limb. The winds calmed about him, returning to their ocean dance. Fein stood atop those rainbow swells and cast his gaze on the far-off form of the vrool who desired him as prey.

He smiled and into the depths did drop. So submerged, Fein’s eyes shut, suffocation held at bay by a gentle humming song of many twisting tunes. It spiralled out and touched the bell of the dazed and frustrated being, whose waters Fein was thought to have invaded.

“Tis not my place to invade these waters, oh conqueror of the deeps,” he sang into the waves, his mouth taking not a drop of water. The waves danced upon his words, holding him mere feet from the ocean’s surface, pressing him forth and closer still to the vroolish aggressor.

The leviathan curled in upon itself, coiling perhaps to strike, but Fein only smiled and slipped slightly to one side. Though little had seemed to change, the vrool missed his would-be lethal lunge. Twisting violently, the duodecapod struck out into the empty sea, whirling his many limbs intent, perhaps, to wound Fein mortally. To no avail he found, for where his limbs had struck there was nothing, no human to constrict or strike or pound. Instead, Fein had slipped between the strikes of that twelve-limbed cephalopodal foe, and had chosen above the surface to go.

There was no purpose in fighting here, he found, for any victory would only waste good minds. With that in mind, Fein crested past the waves and to his destination turned. For though he could thrive upon the abounding bounty of Galbar’s seas, his feet missed solid earth and the many voices of mortals simple and profound.

Soon there would be little need to yearn for such things, he knew. For the Subtle Weave, the Endless Dream, it had granted him this boon of knowledge. Like a far-off artifact which had began his journey, this wisdom from beyond pulled him ever forward. He wondered what precisely he would find at the end of this journey.

For it seemed that the Dream--though endlessly vast and filled beyond brimming with experience--could not inform him of such a thing.

So it was that he traveled, excited to discover that which the Dream could not on its own teach him.

In his way, he sought out Truth. For what else held value in the world?

---

---

Though displeased with the results of his stay in the realm of night, the Presence found itself amused at the proceedings with the God of Tragedy. A fortunate thing, if only for the others. Fog twisting about its blackened form, the Dreaming God entered its endless realm and pressed its mind down into Galbar.

---

A brief flash of oceanic thoughts and swirling currents of emotion swept passed the Dreamer’s dark attention as he sifted through the weave. Finding what he sought, he plucked upon the cords of the world’s mind and emerged as an unbound mist.

Faireachan, his avatar, had responded to the call.

So it was that, with the tessellated power of his mind, the Dreaming God wove a subtle blessing into the world.

A shrine off a well-traveled path where many feet had touched--and would surely touch again--did form. It was like a gateway, but writ large and hidden by the mire of a light-refracting fog. It was formed from ideas of formlessness and mystery, illusion and solidity. Though it was real, it could not be touched, though it surely left its mark upon the world.

Satisfied...for now, the Dreamer then cast away and left behind lonely edifice, sure that it would serve its purpose. At least, in due time….

---

“Come on come on!” Elena shouted, voice full of fright as her brown hair whipped in the wind of her own feet. They ran through the woods, sticks and brambles poking and scraping them with every step. Every frantic step. It felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest but they kept going and all the while, Elena held tight to that basket.

A dog howled behind them, it was getting closer now, followed by the sound of Yazif’s men. They whooped and shouted, egging the dog ever towards its quarry. Them. They weaved through the forest, hoping to make it to the river. That way they could lose the dog and it was so close, he could see the break in the trees!

But one wrong step by Elena, and it was over. She tumbled to the ground, her basket of ill gotten fruit spilling out onto dry leaves and yellow grass, like bright jewels. He stopped in his tracks and went to his friend but Elena protested. “Zayd go! Run!” she shouted but it was futile. He wouldn’t leave her behind. How could he?

She gave no protest when he began to help her up, but by that point it was too late. There came a deep growl, and Zayd whipped around to see the black hound of Yazif, teeth bared and hackles raised. He froze with fear, staring into it’s yellow eyes. Footsteps followed it not long after, and three men came running towards them. Zayd tried to fight back but it was no use, a punch to his stomach sent the wind out of him and he felt Elena be ripped from his grasp. She screamed, the dog barked and Zayd fell to his hand and knees, gasping for breath.

Someone whistled and in an instant the dog stopped barking and whined. He lifted his head up to see Yazif, wearing his family robes of crimson, emerge from the trees. Elena was held by one man, but her eyes were on Zayd. Blue eyes brimmed with tears.

“Did you really think you could steal from me and run away? In broad daylight no doubt! I mean, honestly,” he came over and grabbed Zayd’s hair, lifting his head up. The smell of stale ale permeated from his lips, “You kids aren’t the smartest in the bunch and oh, you’ve wasted it.” His eyes fell upon the spoiled fruits. Yazif frowned, his black hair greasy and unwashed as he moved it out of his eyes.

“Well, let’s get this over with. You know the price for stealing.” He pulled out a long, copper knife from his robe. “Shall I start with you or the girl?” Zayd’s eyes glanced at Elena and Yazif wrenched him free from his grasp, landing with a grunt.

“Girl it is.” Yazif said without a hint of emotion.

“No! No! It was me! It was my idea! I wanted your fruits, not her. I-I-I dragged her into this. Don’t punish her! Please!” Zayd shouted, trying to get to his feet, but he was shoved to the ground again.

Yazif turned to him and crouched down. “Oh, is that so? Well then, I suppose that means instead of a finger, I’ll take a hand.” Zayd began to breath faster as his anticipation grew at an alarming rate. A sickness he had never felt welled up inside, almost making him throw up. Yet he felt himself lifted, arm outstretched as he fought back but it was no use. Yazif lifted the knife higher and then-

“No! It was me!” Elena shouted, “It was my idea, don’t listen to him! Punish me, not him. Not him.” She cried, no longer struggling against her captor.

For the first time, Yazif looked amused. “You know girl, I believe you. It takes a certain type to take the blame for another. Honorable even. But, all it really does is make him a liar. A lying thief, at that.” Yazif touched the tip of the blade to his cheek and stroked his goatee as he looked between the two of them. Then he laughed, a cruel smile forming on his lips, “Fine, I won’t take his hand. But I will take his tongue.” And he gave a nod.

A grimy hand grabbed his cheek, Elena began to scream in protest and before he knew it, his mouth was being pulled open. He couldn’t bite down, all he could do was panic and plead like some pathetic creature. Some pathetic creature that couldn’t even speak. Was that his future?

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be boy, or we’ll take something a little more sensitive.” Yazif sneered, gesturing with the blade. “Trust me, you’d rather keep that then a tongue.”

Zayd’s eyes went wide at the thought of that- He wanted to be a man and not… With a great amount of reluctance, he stuck out his tongue and felt the taste of metal as Yazif pressed the flat of the blade on his tongue. Yazif was toying with him, even now. The anticipation was beginning to take its toll on Zayd, as tears and snot ran down his face.

“Remember boy,” Yazif said, flipping the blade up.”Women are never worth it.”

There was a sharp sting, a flash of pain and the loss of something dear. Something needed.

He could feel a warm liquid fill his mouth as the world became a fog. Elena’s screams and Yazif’s laughter fading into the black abyss of sweet silence.

---

Zayd ran his fingers through the dry dirt. The sun was beating down on his bare back, only adding to the stifling heat of the day. There was no breeze to be had and no rain cloud in sight but the work had to be done with or without the few comforts the gods could afford. As his baba had always said. Now that old man looked down on them, probably laughing at their misery.

He smirked at the thought, worming his index finger into the dirt to make a hole. He then grabbed the bag of chickpea seeds and took one out. He looked it over, making sure it was healthy. Satisfied, he placed it into the hole, then pushed the dirt over the seed and gave it a slight pat. That was one down, and now… He looked over the small field he found himself in, half was planted and the other half still needed seeds. He breathed out his nose and grimaced. Then got to work.

Later that night after the planting was done for the day, he went back to the homestead. Several huts sat around a large opening, cobbled together with stone, mud and clay. Draped with colorful cloth and drying clothes, it was a hectic place. He was not the only one who called it home and that was apparent when a band of children came to greet him. Running, whooping and hollering in the dying light of Oraliyah. For Zayd came from a large family. A very large family.

His father and his brothers all called it home with their wives and children, having come to settle there with baba and his wives. For baba had come from the old stock, from the west, having won his freedom and fortune by chance one fateful day, or so baba had said. As he walked to his father’s hut, Zayd could hardly count all the faces of his cousins, nieces, and nephews. There was great laughter here, infectious with each passing step and Zayd did his best to greet everyone with a wave and a smile. The very air smelled wonderful, full of spices and cooking things. It made his mouth water and his stomach growl. He picked up his pace, for he knew his mother would have the nightly supper ready.

Before he could enter his family's hut however, his older brother, Saban erupted from the door as if he had been waiting for him. He was pulled to the side of the house and out of sight from anyone. Saban’s curly hair was unkempt and his face still yet to be washed, was grimy. Zayd frowned, pushing Saban’s hands off of him. He raised his eyebrows and Saban began to grin like a fool.

“Zayd, my brother, you are looking fine today. Perhaps a bit too smelly for mother’s liking but that just means you worked hard, yes?” He spoke in a silky voice, the type that made one know where this conversation was going to go. Zayd shoved him in return and began to walk away. Saban grabbed his wrist. “Okay okay! Brother please, listen to what I have to say! You’ll like this I swear.”

Zayd turned to him and crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side as he stared at his brother.

“You know how mother and father want you to wed Nashwa?” He could hardly contain his smile now.

Zayd grimaced and stood straighter, that was a topic of contention of late. He did not want to wed that woman. She was far too needy and loved to be pampered, even her voice made him cringe. Zayd outstretched his hands and shook them at Saban. His brother chuckled.

“Relax, Zayd. Today they found out she’s going to wed some snob from Artikulah. You’re saved!” Saban clasped his shoulders and Zayd let out a large sigh of relief. That was wonderful news. He then grabbed Saban’s shoulders and looked him in the eyes, nodding his head in question.

“Yes yes, I am sure of it. Mother tells me everything, remember?” Saban’s smile faded as he looked to the floor. Zayd’s eyes narrowed and he shook him. “There is some other news, I’m afraid. The captain of the guard in Artikulah… He demanded every house under their ‘protection’ deliver them two sons of age, in accordance with the old ways. For war.” Saban squeezed his shoulder. “Father is sending myself and Imraan.”

Zayd gulped and began to shake his head as his face turned into a scowl. He would go give his father a piece of his mind on this. He knew it should be him! Not Saban! As he tried to free himself from Saban,his brother did not let him go.

Instead he spoke, “It’s the only way, Zayd. Imraan has always wanted to be one with the sword, you’ve known that the moment he could wield one to practice and I, I do my duty for my family.”

Zayd looked away from Saban, a wash of emotions welling up inside, wanting to burst forth.

“Zayd, look at me. Look at me!” Saban said in a stern voice and he did after a moment.

“This is not your fault brother. Do not blame yourself, this is for the best. Just trust me. Let’s just go and eat alright? Mother has made your favorite.” He cracked a small grin.

Zayd nodded and when Saban finally let him go, he bolted.

“Zayd no!” Saban called after him as they entered the house.

He found his parents and siblings around the table. All eyes fell on him as he entered the room, pointing at himself. Why wouldn’t you pick me? Why why why? He wanted to shout, but all he could do was point at himself, shaking his head in anger.

“Zayd, what the matter?” His mother asked, raising from the table.

Saban then arrived and his mother looked to his father, who he had not taken his eyes off of. He was a large man with an even larger beard. His laughter could shake the whole house but at that moment, all he could see was a betrayer.

“Saban, you didn’t.” His mother began to shake her head.

“I- wanted him to hear from me. I thought he would understand if I explained it.” His brother said.

“Oh Saban.” His mother frowned.

The rest of his siblings all grew quiet as his father finished the piece of meat he was eating. He took a drink and then said, “Sit down and eat my sons. We can discuss this tomorrow.”

Zayd shook his head and stomped his foot on the ground.

Now his father stood and everyone seemed to grow still. “What do you want me to say!” He slammed a fist onto the table and the rest of his children scattered, leaving the oldests among them remaining. Imraan, Saban and Eshe, his older sister.

“Kaid, please.” His mother said in a pensive tone, hands on the table.

“Salma, not now. If the boy wants to know why I won’t send him in Saban’s stead, then he can learn a hard truth.” His father said, brushing off his shirt. Zayd relaxed his shoulders and crossed his arms again, looking hard at his father. Waiting for whatever lie he was going to be told.

“Don’t give me that look Zayd. You have no idea what this means for this family. This is a great honor, to be in service to the Hash’Lahan, to mean something! So they can make names for themselves, your brothers! Be happy for them, for they will be able to have multiple wives like baba! They can have their own land like baba! They won’t have to be stuck in one place forever like us!” He looked to his wife for a sign of reassurance, but her face was of stone. His father sighed and looked him dead in the eye, “I am sorry, Zayd. I will not send one who has no tongue. It would dishonor us all.”

Zayd recoiled as if stuck. That was not a lie, was it? His face all at once became a canvas of shock and sadness that melted into anger each passing second as he looked to the faces of his siblings who would not return his gaze. He clenched his hands into fists, taking a ragged breath before turning and running out of the hut. He could hear shouting behind him, and his name being called but as he ran, their voices were replaced by the roar of a fading fire and the eventual cold of dark.

---

Upon his arrival at Ketrefa, Carn had wasted no time. He threw his camp up quickly, and sent a messenger to the city gates, demanding a parley with whoever was in charge. To his surprise, it had been accepted.

And now, the time had come. The Lord-Captain of Ketrefa and the Warleader of Cadien would finally meet face to face.

---

The gates swung open, and Brundt stepped out with his retinue - Grandmaster Varsilis, Lord Milos Karras, loyal Gelos, and half a dozen guards. Lord Carnelian, the man that Ketrefans had spent so many months fearing and despising, was already approaching from his own camp, with an escort of his own.

As they neared each other, Brundt was immediately struck by the enemy’s white leader and purple eyes. He had not seen such a thing since…

“My name is Carn,” the man introduced himself rather bluntly, and in that moment recognition struck. As Brundt stood in stunned silence, Carn narrowed his eyes and continued speaking. “Ketrefa’s reign of tyranny and bloodshed has gone on for far too long. I give you a choice. Surrender. Open your gates, lay down your weapons, and free your slaves. Do so, and your people will be spared. Resist, and every man, woman, or child who owns a slave will be put to the spear.”

“Carn…” Brundt said slowly, not quite believing it.

“Yes, that is my name,” Carn rolled his eyes in a vaguely familiar fashion. “Do you not have ears? Surrender or death - what will it be?”

“My name is Brundt.”

At first, Carn stared at Brundt as if the Lord-Captain had gone insane. But then, as he looked into Brundt’s eyes, recognition finally struck, and now it was his turn to be thrown off-balance. “No…” he whispered. “No.”

“It has been a long time, brother,” Brundt said. It was all he could say; he could not hug Ketrefa’s greatest enemy in front of his men. Nor could they see their Lord-Captain break down into tears. For the longest time he had believed his family was dead. “I… I didn’t know you were…”

“I thought you were a slave!” Carn snapped, suddenly angry. “But now you’re one of them?”

“I did not choose to be here,” Brundt protested. “It was Cadien’s will.”

“Cadien?” Carn asked in disbelief. Then realization dawned, and his anger only seemed to increase. “Damn him!” he cursed, his companions wincing as he uttered the words.

“Hold your tongue,” Grandmaster Varsilis interrupted, stepping forward. “You will not speak of our Creator in such a manner.”

“It was Cadien who sent me here, you fool,” Carn spat.

But Varsilis only glared at him. “Cadien chose Ketrefa. He chose Brundt. I heard his voice with my own ears. Whatever being you claim to have heard, that was not Cadien. Some malicious god masquerading as him, maybe, attempting to lure you to your doom. To fight your own brother. But it is not too late to change course. Stand down.”

Carn returned the glare with a venomous look in his eye. “I’ve been betrayed by the gods, so you would have me betray my own men?”

“Tell them to stand down too.”

Carn snorted derisively. “They won’t accept that. Nothing will get them to accept that,” he looked down at his cloak for a moment. One thing he had noticed was that the loyalty it projected only seemed to go up to a certain point. “They have been promised freedom and vengeance. And now, after they have come all this way, you would have me deny it?”

“You’re outnumbered two to one,” a new man - Milos - cut in. “You will find neither freedom nor vengeance here. Only death.”

“I have advantages that make up for my numbers,” Carn said, fixing his gaze on Brundt. “If I tell my men to stand down, they won’t listen. Nor should they. It is you who must yield to me. We need not fight. The people of this city - they can be spared. It is the leaders I have come for. The Lord-Captain.”

“I am the Lord-Captain,” Brundt said, his voice surprisingly even.

Carn blinked. “They made you their leader?”

Brundt nodded grimly. “And I cannot yield. I cannot betray the people who put their trust in me.”

“You would fight your own brother for this?” Carn seemed genuinely shocked. “For these slavers and tyrants?”

“I could say the same to you,” Brundt countered. “Your own conduct has hardly been honourable. If I open these gates to you, how can I guarantee your own men will honour your promise of mercy? You said it yourself, they came for vengeance, and they won’t listen to you if you deny them it.” He shook his head. “The city is flawed, it’s true. Decadent, tyrannical. But I was chosen to fix that. And I will.” Then his expression softened. “Please, brother. Stand down. Try.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Yarwick whispered, though Carn wasn’t sure if the man was referring to Brundt’s request, or the war itself.

“It’s a trick,” Ingrid said. “You can’t trust a Ketrefan. How do you know if this man really is your brother?”

“I know he is,” Carn said, looking into Brundt’s eyes. They were violet. As far as he knew, the children of Cadien were the only people in the Highlands who had such features.

“Even if he is, he’s one of them now.”

That… that was true. Brundt wore Ketrefan armour, stood under a Ketrefan banner, and had even adopted a trace of the Ketrefan nobility’s accent. But did that mean his brother was lost to him forever?

He thought about it. Brundt was… eight, when Thyma was attacked. That was nearly thirteen years ago. Brundt had spent more time in Ketrefa than he had with Carn, and his time in Ketrefa was far more recent. Looking at Brundt now, Carn saw very little of the small boy he had remembered, and he suspected that Brundt found him equally unfamiliar.

Once more, Carn looked his brother in the eye. “I refuse,” he said, and then turned away.

---

Carn felt numb as he returned to the camp. “Find the other commanders, and meet me outside my tent,” he said to Yarwick and Ingrid, his voice empty. As they nodded and went off to go search, Carn scanned his surroundings, and set his sights on Aurielle. He began walking toward her.

The sorceress stood cross armed. Watching the great city’s walls. Mages, druids and other magical folks were standing or sitting not too far from her. Preparing for the now inevitable attack. Esiré and several of the Cult had managed to learn enough magic so Auriëlle could force them under her command. Though the girl watched with solemn eyes as some of her brethren had been moved away to fight under different commanders. “Don’t die.” She told them all one last time before they had left. The rest of them were huddled around bowls of water. Ready to summon their demons should they be attacked up close. Others were carving some distinctly Ketrefian runes in wood.

“The walls will be too thick.” One mage was pleading. “We don’t have the magical force. We must devise something different. Perhaps a ritual to draw out the stone bit by bit.” He was old and his voice was hoarse. “Or perhaps we should probe their magical defenses first. Doubtlessly they have carved runes on the other side of their wall to protect it. I implore you, commander. Let’s not be overly quick about these things.”

Auriëlle hated the old man for being right. But she hated that wall more, that much was evident from her peering gaze. She hated what it represented: an obstacle she couldn’t break down. A monument towards her powerlessness. Not that she really was powerless. Still, it represented something she couldn’t do. At least not yet. And yet while the old man and several other mages had spoken truth, she didn’t really want to admit it. She wanted to step forth and try. After all she was Auriëlle. She razed Teperia. Had Bul-Gadin burned to the ground. She killed Olwar the Leon Rider. And now she wanted to sunder Ketrefa’s walls.

“Aurielle,” Carn nodded to her as he approached. It was clear that a lot weighed on him - more so than usual. He looked to her companions, then back to her. “May I speak with you alone?”

It wasn’t the words that pulled her from her own vainglorious thoughts. It was the way he said them. She turned to face him as a frown of worry appeared on her brow. Something was wrong. Not like the usual wrong. Something was gnawing at him. She quickly looked at the people around her and said: “Leave us.” Before turning back to face Carn. The rest of her retinue did as commanded, standing up and walking away. Leaving the two alone. “What is it?” She immediately asked.

“It seems Cadien has a sense of humour…” he said, though there was no levity in his voice. He looked around to make sure nobody else was in earshot. Even then, it still took a few more moments to get the words out. “The Lord-Captain of Ketrefa is my brother.”

The expression on her face shifted to disbelief, then anger and then no small measure of confusion. “This is cruel.” She whispered, making sure the others didn’t hear them. She cast them a quick side glance. Esiré and her people kept their eyes on the two of them. The others were still preparing their magic. Off in the distance most were preparing what they assumed would be their last meal. Rabbit stew. Venison. Boar. “You know you can’t stop this now, right?” It didn’t look like it, but momentum was too high. The raids, the counter attacks on their patrols, now sitting here within sight of the city. “They’re not going to stop even if you tell them to.”

He nodded grimly. “I know,” he whispered.

She then turned sideways to face the great walls again. Though she remained quiet for a long while. Trying to work through the news. “Will he die?” She asked him. He could give the command. ‘Spare any with white hair’. But that wasn’t what she was asking. What she was asking for was permission.

“I don’t know,” Carn replied. “He won’t surrender.”

Auriëlle’s eyes looked up at the clear blue sky. It was a beautiful day. Yet inside she was consumed with anger. “You can stop bloodshed today.” She whispered, perhaps just loud enough for Carn to hear but she wasn’t the one she intended to hear. “It probably takes you just one sentence, maybe just a word and hundreds of people will live.” Yet she didn’t plead the words. Instead they were filled with malice and resentment.

Carn had no words for that. He looked at her blankly. “I’ve called for a meeting outside my tent. Come as quickly as you can.” And with those words he turned away.

---

Once all the warband commanders were gathered in a circle, Carn addressed them.

“I met with their leader,” Carn told them. “And he won’t surrender. Which means we’ll have to take this city the hard way. I want ditches dug around the camp, and barricades built. Double the sentries, too. It’ll be awfully embarrassing if they attack us before we attack them.” Despite the quip, his voice was still almost monotone. “We need to get through the wall.” His gaze shifted to Aurielle. “Do you have enough mages?”

“The wall will break.” There was no doubt in her voice as she stood in the circle with her arms crossed again. Her eyes passed those of Carn to look at the others. Daring them to speak up against her. She had heard it a thousand times before. ‘Nobody has ever broken those walls’. Indeed, nobody has. She would be the first.

“How long will that take?”

“A few hours at most.” That was hubris. Even she had to admit it. But right now she couldn’t let Carn down.

He nodded. “We start tomorrow, then. At dawn. As soon as the walls are down, we launch our assault. Any questions?”

There were none.

---

When dawn came, Carn roused himself. He donned his armour, a mix of bronze and iron, and brushed his hair into a presentable state. Just before he left the tent, however, he suddenly seemed to remember something, and he turned to Aurielle. “Hold out your hand,” he requested.

Auriëlle didn’t really know why. She had been preparing herself for battle just as Carn. Dressed in robes and leather straps to keep herself maneuverable, she had been busy putting silver pins she had looted from one of the farmsteads in her hair. Holding it up as an intricate weave of strands and braids. Back home girls would put up their hair like this when they would marry. Right now she was marching for war. Still, when Carn asked her to hold out her hand, she did.

Carn placed his hand over hers, and dropped something into her palm. When he pulled his hand away, she saw that she was now holding the ruby amulet he had given to her so long ago.

Auriëlle pressed her lips together when she saw the red gem. A blush came over her. For a second she was at a loss of words, but then she remembered her own words. With a teasing hint of a grin on her lips she looked up at Carn. She knew what it meant. “Thank you.” She whispered, as she clutched it in her hand and gave him a deep kiss. After which she put the amulet on. It wasn’t nearly as grand-looking as the thorns and heart shaped periapt given to her not that long ago. But as she let it dangle from the piece of string around her neck, she realized she loved it vastly more.

Again she looked up from her amulets to Carn, her gaze grew more playful now. “We shouldn’t let fate wait for us.” It was meant as a bad joke to spur on her love. Today Ketrefa would fall. That much was certain. But for the first time she realized that she could die here. The idea of her dying had never entered her mind since the last siege she and Carn were in. Yet now, it somehow felt like a very real possibility and yet that did not make her despair. No, it gave her new life. A second breath. “Let’s go!”

With one final nod to her, Carn stepped outside.

---

“We cannot do it!”

The old man was joined by many others. Almost all of her mages in fact. Only the handful of her followers were still trying. Yet every rune or spell they hurled towards the massive wall bounced off. Harmlessly. Neutralized. Auriëlle had worked tirelessly for the last two hours to unwind some of the protective enchantments carved into the wall. To little effect.

She lowered her arms, letting go of the next enchantment which she had barely cracked. “So is this it!?” She yelled over them. “We lost!? Because you cannot bring about the strength to rip through that wall!?” Why wouldn’t the stupid thing just break!?

“We have done everything. Everything!” The old man yelled back. Exhaustion was carved into his face. Many of the sorcerers were actually out of breath, while most of the wizards looked tired. Each had rune after rune carved in front of them in the dirt. “We must starve them out.” It would’ve been a valid tactic if the besiegers wouldn’t be starving much, much sooner than Ketrefa would. Besides, Auriëlle had never backed down from taking something with force.

“Fine!” She yelled back. Shooing everyone away. “Fine, I’ll do it myself.” Again she reached out with her hand. Forcing magic to do her bidding. And her bidding was to break the wall. Yet every assault she launched fluttered once it hit the stone. It was as if her power just blended into the wall itself. Again and again and again she launched her attack. Even as her breathing turned ragged she tried to tear through the wall. And she felt, for a split second, success. A tiny crack in the wall. Appearing after an hour of ceaseless demands of ruination. Yet as quickly as she had her fingertips into the invisible, magical barrier that protected the stone, she realized her own hubris.

The stone beyond was massive . They weren’t bricks. It was as solid as a mountain. She couldn’t break that! The second she felt it, she knew that. Defeated, she released her hold and dropped to her knees. The barrier restored itself immediately as a trickle of blood ran from her nose. “I’m not.. strong enough.” She muttered, looking down at her own still shaking fingers.

As she tried to admit her own defeat, the old man appeared from behind her again. Yet this time his rainbow colored eyes weren’t just tranquil. They were glowing. Slowly he approached her. “It’s okay my dear.” He whispered, but with the sound of a hundred voices.

Auriëlle looked up. The hair on the back of her neck rose up instantly. Yet she didn’t dare to turn around. Her entire body locked up as she felt his footsteps come closer. And finally, he put his hand on her shoulder.

In an instant, her half-formed demonic image exploded into her full shape. Great, majestic horns spilled from between her hair as the skin around her arms turned to scales instantly. A cloak of shadows poured from her shoulders as her eyes lit up red to all who could see it.

Her entire body coursed with a power she had never felt before. It was primal, elemental, fundamental. In her chest her heart raged. The illusion of the periapt exploded again. Wings of flowing, iridescent light burst from her back. The scales from her arms fell off and turned to dust. None of them hit the ground. Her eyes turned from red to bright shining purple. Her cloak of flowing shadows vanished in the bright light that shone from her and was instead replaced by a dress of coruscating crystals. Finally the horns protruding from between her hair crumbled away as well. In it stead appeared a crown of seemingly woven white gold with shimmering pearls inlaid. Around her, the only wilted and pale grass instantly collapsed under its own weight. Small waves of reddish energy pulsed from where Auriëlle stood. Each pulse flattened and then blackened more of the green around the sorceress.

As the transformation completed, Auriëlle was stripped of her fear. She only felt power. Pure, total power. It brought her pure joy, but then her attention turned towards the unyielding obstacle. Yet now, in her eyes, everything that fought her just a moment ago felt like withering candleflames. So easy to snuff out. While the stone itself felt like nothing but wet clay before her. Slowly she extended her arm, pointing her index and middle finger towards the stone. A thin beam of light shot from her fingers, seemingly harmlessly hitting the wall. Yet when it hit the wall it cracked the stone already. Violent blue winds erupted from the wall where the thin beam hit as the wall around it turned red hot. Then, from Auriëlle appeared a bead of light which flowered across the thin beam.

A blinding flash. A terrible roar. Dust exploded from where the beam hit the wall. Burning rock was hurled through the air as a shockwave raged across the field. With a satisfied smile, Auriëlle lowered her arm again. The wings of color vanished together with the dress and crown. Her illusionary form reverted back to demonic looking as the dust slowly began to settle and everyone could see the miracle she had performed. Ketrefa’s wall was breached.

Carn’s warriors, their attentions roused by the sudden display of magical prowess, stared in astonishment. It was Carn himself who snapped them out of it. “Form up!” he shouted.

---

Brundt had slept very little, during the previous night.

How could he?

He was going to fight his brother. His brother, who he had thought was dead, but was in fact alive. His brother, who had refused to see reason, and was now going to die - perhaps even by Brundt’s own hand. He wished it wouldn’t come to that.

He had considered giving some sort of order, to spare Carn’s life. But he knew that such an order was unlikely to be obeyed, and would only make him look weak. So all he could hope that his brother would not lead from the front, and would flee when the tide of battle inevitably turned against him. Assuming Carn didn’t have some sort of trick up his sleeve…

At least he could take some solace in the fact that the battle would not be for another few weeks, at least. There was little fear that Carn’s mages would break down the wall. Brundt’s mages outnumbered theirs, and actually had some form of standardized training. Whatever damage the enemy inflicted on the walls or gates, they would repair. Which meant Carn would have to take the city the natural way; with ladders and battering rams, which would take time to assemble.

When morning came, Brundt had partially mobilized his forces. The enemy mages seemed to be concentrating their efforts on a single point, so it was a simple enough matter to send Ketrefa’s own mages there to magically reinforce it, along with some archers to stand atop the wall and deter their foes from getting too close. And lastly, some soldiers who would be ready to hold the line should the wall by some miracle fall, though Brundt knew that wasn’t going to happen.

He had even toured the wall when the magical assault began, and saw with his own eyes how little progress the enemy was making. Satisfied, he had returned to his headquarters, where he began going through reports.

Then there was a massive crash, the sound of thunder and shattering stone, on an unimaginable scale. In that moment, Brundt realized he had underestimated his foes. Stepping around his desk he crossed the room and flung the door open, already shouting for a messenger.

The battle had begun.

---

Carn’s men wasted no time, assembling in the formation they had agreed upon with an impressive speed. His most elite soldiers were at the front, the fodder behind them, and the archers at the very rear. The mages were on the flanks.

“This is it!” He shouted. “All of our lives have led up to this moment! Everything we have marched for, trained for, and fought for has come to this! Today, we take our revenge. Every comrade slain and every family member stolen shall be avenged tenfold. Every chain shall be broken, and every slaver strangled by the shackles they would place upon us!” He drew his sword, the silvered blade shining in the morning sun. “Now, come with me! For freedom and glory! CHARGE!”

And with those words, he turned and began running toward the city. His men wasted no time in following.

---

---

Rain washed away the salt upon his face as the sun stared at him in front of dark clouds. The crashing of waves was as consistent as each of his breaths. Roaring like a monster behind him, lapping at his feet. So many faces, so many neutral stares. Blank, impassive. They watched him like vultures watch their prey. Hungrily, waiting for the inevitable. He was defiant, he was strong, even in the face of such impervious cruelty.

Yet he would fail and they knew.

It made his blood boil.

All had been going so well. For more than a decade he was in charge, he was a king! A RULER! A CHAMPION! A GOD!

Anything he said was decreed law, anything he made was decreed divine, every breath he took, every woman he made his- It was his right. For they were inferior. The Gods had made it so! He took them from their lowest point and made them strong! Forged them into something new, something better!

And what did they have to show for it?

Nothing but contempt. Of Pity.

They had fostered such resentment, such fear, that at the moment their destiny was made clear, was made absolute, they faltered and sneered. They did not want him, an outsider, this GOD made flesh.

His grip tightened on his mace. The mere thought of such betrayal made him grimace, then snarl.

Was that how it was?

Fine!

If they would not listen to him in the face of such danger, in front of such lies and slander, then they were not worthy of his time. They would all of them die and he would do it but first…

He turned to the sun, made manifest and pointed his mace at it. The giant came on the eve of his war, his war he had planned so meticulously. From the druids upon his ‘land’ to the ‘replacing’ of those pathetic chiefs who would not fall in line. Before him had gathered the largest army the Litus tribes had ever seen. Would EVER see. And now, at the mention of this disapproval, this ‘divine’ decree, they had stopped. They had questioned their ways that had made them so great. And now he faced the sun alone, for they were cowards and fools to believe what it said. You could NOT trust a GOD!

The Daemon placed his helmet upon his head and with a defiant roar he barrelled forward to the giant.

There was a bright flash and then he was tumbling down a hill of stone, breaking sticks and twigs with each crack. The light was bright here and he could barely keep his eyes open long enough to see. When he finally came to a stop, he laid still for several moments, trying to register what had occurred.

He at last sat up and removed his helmet to meet a wave of crushing heat and a sea of red all around him.

Malri let out a frustrated roar.

---

As Carn raged his battle eye to eye, blade to blade, so too did Auriëlle fight from afar. Wielding not blades but the elements of this world. Arcs of lightning were thrown up the wall, while a torrent of arrows flew down. Unbeknown to the sorceress, the eyed metal disk on her hip was subtly moving the arrows around. Leaving her unscathed even after an aimed volley. Seeing all the arrows around her but none of them hitting her made her laugh out loud as she threw another ball of fire that collided up against the wall.

The sorceress only saw a flicker before she felt a searing pain in her tight, forcing her to a knee. A beam of pure light had burned away the cloth armor on her leg. Cinder still ate away at the black edges of the elsewise blue cloth, while the skin underneath began to bleed. With a snarl she pulled the gnarled wooden staff from her back and put it against her leg. It hurt, but flesh began to knit itself together again. Auriëlle held it near the wound for just long enough to seal the wound. There was no time to spare. When she ducked out of the stone covered she looked up. Only to be blinded by another flash. She winced and ducked away again, blinking a few times in an attempt to regain her sight.

“Now you’re pissing me off.” The sorceress said. Again she pulled from her cover but instantly reached out with the building hatred for whoever was throwing the light at her. The malice manifested itself into the sorceress’ eyes. “You think light will save you!?” Auriëlle yelled out, knowing her victim couldn’t hear her. “But if you love it so much, then I’ll take it from you. Forever!” She closed the grip of her outstretched hand, completing the hex. Knowing that high up there on the walls, whatever fool had thought her prey was on their knees screaming as her hex destroyed her eyes.

It brought a strange sense of serenity to Auriëlle as another five arrows fell just short of her and someone else died, impaled on a shard of ice beside her. A smirk formed on her lips. “Look at your pathetic follower, Oraelia. That is what worshipping you brings them. Maybe they should’ve been worshipping me.”

”There you are.” Came an impassive feminine whisper all around her. The air began growing warmer. ”Betrayed by your hubris.” She said with a mocking laugh. All at once a pillar of light descended from the heavens, surrounding Auriëlle in a torrent of color that resembled a rainbow. Nothing else could be seen, not even the battle that raged around her. ”A mortal life is a precious thing, Auriëlle.” She said with anger, there was no warmth here, just heat.

The sudden pillar took her by surprise but she quickly shook it off, replacing it with defiance as the goddess spoke. She could still hear the battle raging around her but saw only color. A snarl formed on Auriëlle’s face as she kept a tight grip on the staff in her hand as she realized the voice lacked any kindness. It wouldn’t matter, she survived the onslaught of something divine before. She could survive again, maybe even kill it! Arcs of blue lightning travelled over her scaled arm in anticipation. Her red eyes peered around, ready to strike at whatever form the goddess would take while saying: “Then I have destroyed many precious things. I chose to kill” A smirk formed on her lips. “And I’m no longer afraid. No longer alone. No longer lost. I have found myself.” By now she was practically begging for the sun goddess to take form.

”Yes, you have found yourself. That is clear now. No longer are you the misguided child Oraelia talked to so long ago.” A woman’s face, made of light appeared before her from the wall. She looked disappointed. ”And look how far you’ve fallen.” She said, lips unmoving.

Auriëlle almost frowned when she heard the mention of Oraelia. Did she just send a pawn to deal with her!? How disappointing. “Fallen?” She took a small step back, her smirk growing into a full grin. “I have ascended!” Auriëlle proclaimed, firmly ignoring Neiya’s advice to never go up against a god. “I have grown more in power than any of your worshippers. Nothing can stop me!” With those words said she reached out with her arm, launching the bolt of lightning at the manifestation of light.

The lightning hit the face on the wall, then arced upwards, briefly turning the pillar blue. When it at last dissipated, the face was gone yet the ring of light remained, fading back into its colors. ”And it seems,” the voice came again, a new face forming in the wall, ”That your aspirations have clouded your judgement. You are sick, Auriëlle. Sick of the mind. Drunk on this lust for power. You have murdered innocents, you have razed towns and now, you attempt to be worshipped like a god? What are you doing Auriëlle? Think for but a moment, is this truly what you want to be?”

She never had to think. She had two years to think. Yet even now she looked down at the hand that had cast the lightning. Was this who she truly wanted to be? But the scale that had formed on her forearm brought her back. Why wouldn’t she want all this? Before she was weak. Now she was strong. The goddess before her would have her believe, apparently, that this lust for power was a sickness. Was wrong. How could something that felt this good be wrong.

“It is.”

Again she threw her magic out, lightning arced from the oaken branch towards the newly formed face. With her free hand she called upon every bit of shadow found in every nook and fold on herself and bid it to crawl out. To banish the light and push it away.

The light bent backwards, the chorus and view of battle seeping into view like slits on a cut bag, then it exploded outwards and dissipated. The battle still raged on and the heat was replaced by cole. But it was not the end.

”So be it.” Came the avatar's disappointed voice. A blinding flash of light erupted before her in the very air. When the light died down, a tall oval mirror was suspended over the ground. It did not show any reflection from her world, but of one beyond beauty, of a faraway place beyond the war that surrounded her. And then from that mirror- no, that portal- She came.

Tall, eatherael and with beauty beyond compare, an avatar stepped forth. An embodiment of Oraelia. Arms outstretched.

Waiting.

This time, her lips did move when she spoke. ”Go on then. Strike me down. Kill me. Show the world how it should fear you.” She said in a voice like a summer breeze.

For a second the taunt pushed Auriëlle off base. Could she really kill a god? Was she powerful enough for that? Seeing what she assumed to be the goddess herself now made her doubt. After all, just a moment ago she learned that there was another curtain in her life, and she had peered beyond it for only a moment to realize she was still just a speck of dust compared to what was truly out there. How she wished she still wielded that power now.

But this speck of dust was going to stand up now. Like before, she didn’t just imagine the goddess dead. She wanted her destroyed. Erased from history even! Never to have existed! With a banshee scream she unleashed the mirage wave at the creature of light.

The wave consumed the avatar, wrapping all around her in foul dark magic. All was quiet, a singular focus was on that sight. Then the mirage was cast outwards, like leaves blowing in an autumn spring. Revealing an untouched being, who dropped her hands down to her side.

”I wanted you to see me. So that the last thing you ever saw was the Light.” she said, unbothered by her attack. She then tilted her head at Auriëlle and waved her hand. ”I now take from you, that which you took with your hex and cruelty.”

Real fear gripped Auriëlle when the avatar waved her hand. What did she do!? Where would the stone come from!? Nothing happened. It was nothing. Of course it was nothing! She was protected after all. Now even from the gods… wait. Something was happening. The bright day, once an ironic symbol of what Auriëlle presumed to be a true uncaring goddess, grew dim. It wasn’t even close to evening? Did clouds appear? The world became darker. Akin to early dusk, yet the sun was still bright above. “What did you do?” Auriëlle asked, an inkling of fear crept in her voice. The world kept darkening. Shadows grew more prominent. “What did you do!?” Auriëlle yelled. Day turned to night before Auriëlle’s eyes. The only light she saw came from faint, unfocused fires. But even that fire faded. Coated the world in a deep darkness.

The sorceress collapsed on her knees, frantically looking around her. The fighting was everywhere around her, yet she couldn’t place it. “What did you do!?” She screamed as she turned around and around, trying to find something to see. Fear truly gripped her now as her body began to shake. Anything could be coming for her. Anything could hurt her now.

Her voice was closer now, ”Why, you serve the darkness do you not? Taking sight from those you have murdered. It seems only right that the same punishment is given to you.” Her voice loomed over Auriëlle now, ”Isn’t it fitting, to feel that fear? To know, in the end, you were powerless to stop it? Nalla felt the same. In fact, she’s the reason I even found you, her memories were so… So fixated on you and your crimes. Now you’ve both been punished but… Hmm… Yes, I think every face that sees you, every child, woman and man- They should know just how far you’ve fallen. A testament to hubris and the enemy you've become of life.”

A finger touched her forehead and something burned in her flesh, lasting for a painful few seconds. The finger then lifted away. ”There, a Sunbrand to mark you.”

A second after the finger touched her forehead she struck forward. Bidding fire to explode before her. And a second later she heard deafening screams. The fire hadn’t struck the goddess but her own mages. Two of them were now burning and screaming and running. Others turned to look at her. Even if the battle’s flow had ebbed somewhat, arrows and bolts of fire were still exchanged. Most didn’t know what was happening. Most didn’t know Auriëlle and her magic well enough. But when the sorceress clawed back, causing another great burst of fire Esiré was one of the first to realize something was deeply, dangerously wrong. She looked at the light and then her increasingly frantic Prophetess. Fear gripped her own heart.

“I will kill you!” Auriëlle screamed as she unleashed a burst of ice hitting and gutting another sorcerer. The druids of her band were stepping away, muttering their prayers to Oraelia or whatever native name they knew. “I will kill you!” She kept yelling as she frantically flailed around with her magic. But tears began to stream from her face as fear set in completely. Eventually she tripped over something, she never saw what, and fell down. Her rage shattered like it was thin ice. Replaced by desperation and dread.

”Now you see what happens to those that aspire with such wickedness in their hearts. Fear not Auriëlle, by the grace of your god you still yet live, as thanks for his patronage of My Lady’s daughter.” the voice seemed to echo above her. ”There are much worse fates than losing your eyes, just ask all those that you’ve marred. I shall leave you now, but know this, Auriëlle. I wish you the best and perhaps one day, you will find your way to the Light again. Farewell, Daughter of Qael.” There was a strange sound, like fabric being ripped and then nothing but the dying of men.

Loyal Esiré waited, hidden behind one of the raised stones until the avatar and her light had finally vanished. Auriëlle kept throwing around magic in a desperate attempt to hit something. Anything! Anything so she wouldn’t feel so weak. So helpless. Esiré dashed towards her, sprinting and dodging arrows left and right. Her heart nearly broke out of her chest as she managed to jump over a wave of fire unleashed by the Prophetess. A roll only half-broke her fall. Something warm began to trickle from her shoulder but she ignored it. Finally she reached Auriëlle. “It’s okay! It’s okay! I’m here. I’m here!” She exclaimed, taking Auriëlle into a hug and ceasing her indiscriminate assault upon everyone around her.

For a moment Esiré held her there as Auriëlle cried out. When she pulled back though, she saw frantic eyes looking around and something new. A black arch with thorns, no a black half-sun branded upon the Prophetess' forehead. “I can’t see you.” Auriëlle said in a meek voice as she held Esiré firmly. Afraid that she’d be alone and in the dark again if she left. “I can’t see anything.”

“Ah, there you are. You know they’ll be wanting you soon Prince Stavin.”

The young man glanced back to scowl at the gardener who’d found him. He stood up from his position, sat on an overturned vase in the courtyard garden, and turned to face the elderly groundskeeper. “I won't stand the humiliation of it,” He complained, “For them to accept him into their circle and ask me to stand there and watch? I won’t stand it. I’m not going and if they’re sending you then they know I can’t be made to.”

“Hah!” The old man chuckled, “They don’t send me to do anything but water the trees and bushes, my prince. I’d just thought to let you know the house servants are looking for you. They’ll check my garden sooner or later, even if you’ve never taken the time to visit before. Not everyone’s forgotten this place, you know.”

Stavin colored, his tan face flushing from the embarrassment. All of seventeen years old, the boy, or man as he insisted on being called of late, coughed into his hand and croaked out an apology, “I- Uh, sorry. I didn’t mean the offense. Thank you, for telling me they’re looking, but I stand by what I said. I won’t go.”

“Then don’t.” The old gardener shrugged and found his own vase to turn into an impromptu seat. He motioned for the prince to return to his seat and went on, “But be sure you know why you’re not going. When you’re as old as me, and your bones can’t even bear their own weight for long, you’ll begin to realize a lot of the things you did in life you did without much thought. You’ll wish you’d lived for a reason, acted with a purpose, instead of just reacting to everything that came your way.”

“I know why I’m not going!” The young prince retorted, irritable once more, “They’re giving a bastard a place in the circle of Patriarchs. A bastard.”

“Your brother.” The gardener observed.

“My nothing.” Stavin’s voice shook, “I have nothing to do with that worm. That parasite. How dare they elevate him, how dare he. My own father.”

“They say your parasite won a battle at sea. The circle has long honored those who’ve defended it.” The old man scratched at his head and paused before adding, “Or so I’ve heard.”

“A battle at sea? More like he butchered a gaggle of apostate fishermen!” Stavin spat, “Father is elevating him because he loves the reminder of his dead idiot mistress more than his own trueborn son. It’s beyond insulting.”

The old gardener nodded. He eyed Stavin carefully, and when he spoke it was with a seriousness that caught the prince off guard, “So you refuse to bear the insult and let everyone know what you think. Reacting, young prince. That’s all you’re doing, and you don’t even realize it.”

“Of course I’m reacting! What am I supposed to do, go and witness my own father put that scum before me? Like some sort of whipped animal?” Stavin said bitterly.

“If that’s what it takes to get what you want.” The old man met the young prince's eyes and held them with a cool intensity, “Because that’s what this is about, young prince. What you want. You’re furious because you were denied it, but instead of rededicating yourself to it you’ve given up. Decided to react.”

Stavin hesitated and looked at the groundskeeper meaningfully, “Why are you telling me this? What you're saying is dangerous old man.”

“Dangerous?” He questioned the young prince, “What’s dangerous about a rightful son claiming what’s his? Or do you mean to tell me you think your parasite should take everything from you without any effort beyond withstanding your temper tantrum?”

Stavin’s face reddened, but he held his tongue and his anger at the accusation. He wasn’t totally lacking in self awareness, and it was perilous business to deny throwing a tantrum while hiding in a garden with a commoner. He nodded slowly, but his resolve quickly faded and he spoke with no small measure of despondency, “It doesn't matter what I do. Father will elevate that worm, and I’ll lose everything to him. It doesn’t matter if I go or stay here.”

“Maybe.” The gardener agreed, “Or maybe you’ve blundered your way into an opportunity. Not everyone scorns this courtyard my Prince. The plants hear things. Their tenders remember.”

Stavin stood up suddenly, both furious and excited at the realization, “You’ve been spying on my father? My brother?””

With a chuckle the old man shook his head. He gestured to a creeping vine, covered in little black berries, that curled around the overturn vase he sat on as he spoke, “I wasn’t being metaphorical, Prince Stavin. It’s not a well known secret, but the plants can hear. Some of them. It’s a new magic, or maybe an old one. Were you to take the berries from that vine and boil them into, what I’ll admit is a rather acrid tea, you’ll come to understand what I mean. The plant remembers, and men can too. If they know how.”

“I didn’t know you were a mage.” Stavin said, looking dubious.

“Hah! A mage. No, just a curious gardener with a penchant for trying new things. You don’t need to believe me, my prince, but the truth remains.” The groundskeeper pulled a little sack off his waist and offered it up as he spoke, “You might find what these berries remember interesting. Do boil them, though. The fruit, I’ve found, has a deeply unpleasant effect without that step.”

The young prince eyed the sack for what seemed like an eternity. Only seconds passed. On some level the prince knew the old man's words were true, and it was there that he feared for what he might learn. Perhaps in another life, if he were a different person, an older or a wiser one, then he might have refused the offer.

Instead, he snatched the bag and hid it under his robes. He nodded, curtly, and spoke in a clipped tone, “The ceremony will be starting soon. They’ll be expecting me.”

“I imagine so,” The gardener fixed him with a little smile, “You mustn't be late, if you don’t wish for them to suspect anything.”

For a moment Stavin wondered what he’d done. What he would do. In the end, it didn’t matter. The gardener could have been anyone, in his heart Stavin knew he could not have lived with the embarrassment of doing nothing. Of not trying.

He would not resign himself to reaction.

---

Following her brief interaction with Boudicca Celestine felt a surge of belonging and assurance within herself. Not only had she been able to bestow her first knighthood unto a mortal of Galbar, but that mortal had impressed her with their desire to improve the lives of her people instead of accepting a personal gift. Thus Celestine had promised her that a reward would be awaiting her in the afterlife. But that promise was at risk of being broken for Celestine did not have dominion over their souls.

Her meeting with Cadien had not broached the topic of which god did hold dominion, but Celestine’s interaction with Boudicca gave her the drive and confidence to seek this knowledge out for herself. Stepping away from the throne that lay within her visitation chamber Celestine walked confidently towards the door that she knew led into Antiquity and pushed it open before stepping through into the common area between the different realms of the gods. Noting that the common area was once again empty, Celestine took a moment to extend her divine senses outward before beginning to walk among the various portals to peer inward at their connected realms in order to try and find the answers that she sought.

It took a few laps around the colosseum but Celestine was able to eventually locate a portal that was linked to a rather misty realm. Out of all the realms that she had seen, Celestine came to the conclusion that this realm was the best candidate for one associated with the souls of mortals. None of the others seemed to fit quite as well as it did. Pulling her celestial senses back into a more passive state, Celestine tugged her red and gold traveling cloak around herself a bit more thoroughly so it could act as a sort of barrier before pulling the hood up over her head.

It was likely not much in the way of protection, but she felt more at ease to have an additional layer around her when confronting a god she had no information about. Cadien had staunchly warned her against Yamat, but Celestine did not know how many other gods such a warning might’ve been applicable to. Thus, she opted for a cautious approach even though she was fully confident in her ability to defend herself.

With little other preparations to make, Celestine stepped over the threshold of the gateless gate and into the unknown beyond, hopeful that she had made the right choice with her selection of portal.

The mists gave only a bit as Celestine entered. Almost all was obscured so thick they were, reeking of death in an almost pure form. A shadow stretching far into the sky, as much as that could be said to be different from the roiling mists surrounding her, stood off to one side, everywhere else seemed to be covered in the same deathly mists.

No sounds came forth, the only thing to be heard was her own feet as they stepped onto the stone floor of the misty realm, all else came deafening silence.

Celestine’s eyes darted about quickly as she entered into the realm of mist and silence. The resounding lack of a greeting of any kind was concerning, but at the very least it was not an outright attack. Observing the surroundings for a few moments Celestine took note of the shadow stretching into the sky and figured that it was the best reference she had for travel. Steeling her nerves and pressing onward Celestine began to move towards the shadow that was off to one side.

As she walked, Celestine contemplated how she might approach such a topic. What if the governing deity of souls was hesitant to give them unto her? What if the governing deity of souls was hostile to the question? Was she ready to fight another god if needed? Celestine took a small amount of comfort from the weight of her sword upon her right hip. It was something, at the very least.

After a few moments of walking, Celestine noted that she really seemed to have made no progress towards anything in particular. As a matter of fact, she didn’t think she’d made any progress at all! Frowning in frustration, Celestine moved onto another strategy. Raising her voice to the levels she would use when giving a speech, Celestine spoke clearly into the surrounding darkness. ”Greetings, Deity of Souls. I am the goddess Celestine, and I have come to bargain with you over the final destination of a particular subset of mortals. Will you not appear before me so that we may discuss an arrangement?”

Celestine hoped that this would be enough to garner the attention of the hopefully residing deity, though the questions that she had posed herself earlier still lingered in her mind. Obscuring most of the motion with her cloak Celestine brought her right hand up to the top of her scabbard, preparing her sword to be drawn quickly should an attack come in surprise. Hopefully she did not have to draw it, but she would rather have it ready and not need it than need it and not have it ready.

Her words echoed out into the silence for a few long moments.

Suddenly the shadow fell out of sight, Celestine had not moved and it took only a moment for the goddess to realize what had and was happening. She had not moved, rather the ground beneath her was, her feet were sure-footed to stone, but all around her the stone flowed at a breath-taking speed.

Rapidly she came to a new locale off in the distance similar shadows reaching towards the sky stood, however before her was something quite different. Rather than a shadow only visible in the vaguest detail, before her stood a mountain. On the edge of being swallowed by the mists, she could see in clear enough fashion. It was not one of stone, earth, or any other such occurrence. It was a mountain of corpses reaching deep off into the mists where it became naught but shadow, and reaching towards the sky in its own terrible height.

A voice came resounding in millions of voices, of chirps of birds, of growls of prairie cats, to the baying of celestial sheep, they came together in one voice, one coherent sound. "I bid you welcome to my realm of Aquibeophates Celestine."

From above the mountain curled downward towards her, coming to a point wide and tall as the Goddess herself, a massive eye emplaced in a spiked disk. The downward forming spire brought the eye above her and half the distance away from the base of the mountainous mound.

"I am Thaa, Lord of Death, Guardian of the Afterlife, Protector of Souls, and Creator of the Undead. What arrangement would you seek?" The voice came again, but it did not stop with one question, "I have not seen or felt your presence before, here or on Galbar, have you simply held quiet observation or are you another of our deific kind to be brought forth from Lifeblood?"

Celestine’s first reaction to the motion around her was to enter a state of high alert for a few moments while she assessed what was happening. Upon realizing that she was not being threatened, Celestine relaxed once more. Lowering her hand from its place upon her scabbard, Celestine came to lower her hood as she began to notice a shape coalescing as the environment shifted around her. When the sense of motion stopped, Celestine simply stared in awe at the mountain of corpses for a moment. It was grotesquely impressive, and Celestine personally viewed it as all the more reason to arrange her bargain sooner rather than later, lest the great feast laid out within her hall went unused.

As Thaa made his introduction, Celestine gave a curtsy as she lifted her cloak as one would lift a skirt. Once she was standing normally again Celestine began to answer the questions that Thaa had posed to her. ”Greetings Thaa. I am the Goddess of Soldiers. Your second observation of my upbringing is correct, I emerged from the lifeblood only recently. The arrangement I would like to make would be for the souls of the honorable mortal warriors who perish upon Galbar. Within my realm lies a great hall that has been set for a grand feast, and I would like to reward those who dedicate themselves to the higher calls of chivalry and honor with the chance to enjoy a reward in the afterlife. I am also planning to add in a dedicated area for tournaments to be held so that those who wish to compete against those who came before their time or those who came after their time may find their desire to test themselves satisfied. But I have no control over the souls of the mortals upon Galbar, which is why I came to ask you for your assistance.”

Celestine hoped that her explanation would prove enough that Thaa would agree to such a proposition, though she was worried that there was perhaps something she did not know. Hammering the concern away, Celestine focused herself upon the conversation at hand and waited for Thaa’s reply to her request before pondering further.

"I see." The great eye had remained focused on her during the entirety of her speech, now continuing to reply. "I would be willing to make such a deal, in exchange for appropriate recompense. Another had come wishing for the same souls you had, I made a deal with them that would allow the soul to choose either my realm or the other's, I see no reason that you could not also be included as an option of their choice. Should you be willing to provide assistance at some future point to myself for such a service."

Celestine raised a finger to her chin for a moment. Another god made a similar deal? Interesting, and concerning. The deal was relatively fair, though Celestine did wish to modify a small aspect of it in light of the news that another god had a similar bargain. Lowering her hand, Celestine spoke again. ”The terms you have laid out are fair, though I would like to modify the arrangement slightly. There are some mortals that earn my recognition and blessing through valorous acts upon the battlefield. Of those I dub with the title of Ser, I would like their souls to be guided exclusively to my realm upon their death. Though I would impose no restrictions upon them leaving once they arrive, save for perhaps some highly distinguished few that I would request to stay as advisors for affairs happening within the mortal world. A corridor shrouded in mist already exists within the great hall and I would not be hesitant to make that corridor a connection to your own realm in addition to the favor that you request, in exchange for the assurance that those I bless would be directed to my realm without fail and permission to keep a small amount of notable souls as advisors. Is this acceptable?”

"I agree, on the condition that should any other deity interfere with said souls reaching me that I will not be at fault and you will aid in rectifying such an error?" The mountain roiled in the mists, shifting slightly before calming back down.

Celestine gave a nod to Thaa’s proposal before replying. ”Yes. I will agree to those terms. I desire overall neutrality, but I am not opposed to personally addressing the theft of souls that have been promised to me.”

At this point Celestine would’ve held up a hand in order to finish the negotiations, but it was plain to see that Thaa’s form granted no hand to shake. Thus she had to commence the finalization verbally rather than her preferred method. ”Do you have any other terms you would wish to initiate? I am satisfied with the bargain as it stands and would see such a pact finalized.”

"The Pact is Made then. I do wish to ask on a different matter, if you wish to be overall Neutral why do you do this? What is so important as to override Neutrality?" Thaa did not change as he spoke, his eye kept itself upon Celestine, although one change was notable, it wasn't silent anymore. The Dull thuds of something could be heard in the distance now, rhythmic to an extent but with a small degree of progression.

Celestine blinked in response to the question. It was simple, yet something worth contemplating for a moment. However, Celestine only needed a moment before she gave her answer. ”I remain neutral because a soldier can come from anywhere, if I were to begin picking sides I would be abandoning at least some section of soldiers. Thus I opt to not pick sides as much as I can, because I hope to abandon no-one. That is also why I offer my blessings based upon provable merit, and why I would also see this deal made: Should two soldiers faithful to me meet upon opposing sides of a battlefield, it is my hope that them knowing a reward awaits them in the afterlife will encourage them to not shy away from facing others who are faithful to me in battle. They put their faith in me, earned my recognition for courage and honor and with it the promise of a reward in the afterlife. I would not want to be made a liar by promising them something I cannot directly give.”

The sound of something approaching caught Celestine’s attention by now, and she once again brought her right hand up to the top of her sword’s scabbard. Straining her eyes against the mist-covered surroundings, Celestine tried her best to trace the approaching sound with her ears, but could find little visual indication of what might’ve been approaching. This concerned her, and the most natural reaction was to be ready for assault. Presumably, Thaa wouldn’t let something of his own creation begin causing harm to a visitor, but something else could’ve slipped in that was outside of Thaa’s control. There were many unknowns when it came to things like that, and Celestine would rather be overly cautious for no reason instead of totally relaxed when danger was present.

The thuds grew louder, closer, the scratching of something along the stone floor of Aquibeophates soon joined the thuds, growing from quiet echoes, to louder ones with each thud, entwined with them. Thaa spoke, seemingly not noticing or caring about the source of the sound, “As fair assessment of such things as most go it would seem. You are aligned much better than most I feel in some order there, have you met many of our kind so far?”

The mists gave little to no clue to the source even as Thaa awaited answer in his questions.

Celestine gave a nod to Thaa’s mention of meeting other gods. ”I have met Cadien thus far, and he told me many things about many different gods. Though he did not speak about you in particular, if you’re wondering.”

The increasing amount of thuds that were still approaching were rapidly becoming more concerning for Celestine. Especially given that Thaa was making no comments about it. Taking a moment to draw her sword, Celestine posed a question about the oncoming noise. “Thaa, if I may inquire, what is making that thudding sound? It is causing me to be concerned for my own safety.”

After speaking, Celestine took up a ready stance, holding her sword forward in a traditional longpoint guard as she prepared to defend herself from whatever was oncoming.

At her question was the first time Thaa broke his gaze from her, turning to his right facing the mists, then the left. His great eye did not blink for it could not, it stared out into the great obscurity that were the mists with no reply.

He fixed his gaze upon Celestine once more, not replying still. The thudding and scraping noises continued, tunnels through the mist took shape, barely opening pathways of sight. Surrounding the goddess in every direction these tunnels formed. From above, to the right and left, behind, at the same time a sense of curvature and yet one could see as clearly through as though they were straight.

Forms were moving in these unobscured pathways of sight, some gigantic dwarfing even the mountain form of Thaa and his main corpses, others small, the size of Celestine herself or smaller. Their shapes were just as varied, from things that bespoke of the same idea of form that brought bipedalism to so many mortal sophonts, to others that seemed a mix of many beasts, to others still that defied clear classification, a number even seemed to not quite be set solid in form as looking upon their form twice came away with the same or more impressions of what was seen.

All of these were at work, moving stone, construction as it did seem to be. Some worked on the ground, some in the sky. Others still seemed to watch further in the mists, endless giants watching obscured still, the tunnels not reaching out far enough to bring them into easy sight. The thuds and scrapes corresponding to the works set out in construction by the many formed beings.

The tunnels closed and Thaa spoke, “Tower Construction.”

“Not much of your concern but I understand the worry. I will say one thing of Cadien and what he, or any other god, goddess or other deific being may tell you. Don’t trust it. Make your own decisions, your own judgments. Too many are caught up in their own concerns and agendas, their minds are not your own. Do not even trust what I tell you now, keep in mind at all times there is always an angle. All will tell you as they wish and think from that angle of theirs, know what they say, and know what you can see and find from your own sense.”

He paused briefly, breaking away eye contact from Celestine once more, traveling around to look at something behind him he spoke once more.

“I look forward to working with you in the future Celestine, Goddess of Soldiers. Did you have anything else?”

As Thaa left, Celestine grew increasingly worried. Now she was beset by a strange and unanswered noise and was left without the council of the master of the realm. Such a situation naturally caused her to tighten her grip upon her sword. When Thaa returned Celestine did relax from her stance even slightly, and even then the relaxation was subtle. It wasn’t until the true source of the sound came into view and proved itself to not be hostile did Celestine change her stance to be neutral once again. Taking a few moments to return her sword to its scabbard, Celestine gave a nod to Thaa’s long awaited answer. Celestine then listened intently as Thaa explained his opinion on the machinations of the various other gods that had awakened before she nodded once more before speaking. ”I will keep that in mind. Thank you, Thaa. As for our bargain, I have nothing more that I wish to add to it. We can consider such a deal made should you have no qualms over it. If all else is finished, I will take my leave and see to connecting the corridor within the great hall of my realm to your realm.”

As she finished speaking, Celestine would place her left arm across her chest and bow respectfully to the floating eye of Thaa. When she was finished, she waited for a few moments to listen if Thaa had anything more to say. If he didn’t, Celestine would seek the exit back to antiquity so that she could return to her realm and begin what she agreed to do.

"The Pact is made, I will speak to you about the favors when the time is right." With that said, Thaa withdrew himself into the mists, the mountain form collapsing back into obscurity. Everything remained still for a moment with only the repeating sounds of construction coming from the mists. However those too faded as the ground began to shift beneath Celestine once more, bringing her to the portal. The mists seemed to be less obscuring, several distant towers could be barely made out, the earlier one seen before was apparently gone.

Celestine gave a nod as Thaa departed and would then turn to begin the journey back towards where the portal had been previously. She had barely made it a few steps before the ground began to shift again. Standing still as before, she waited to arrive at the destination she was being sent to, and was relieved when the portal came into view. Taking one last look at the confusing realm that Thaa maintained, Celestine stepped back through the portal and into Antiquity.

Her time there was short, and soon thereafter Celestine was within her own realm once more. Moving quickly to The Longhall, Celestine stood before the fog shrouded corridor that lay within it, and raised a hand. Extending her divine senses forward Celestine began to alter the realm in this particular corridor. Pushing at the boundaries of her realm, Celestine connected this particular portal to the realm of Thaa, a connection he would likely be extremely aware of as Celestine made no attempt to be subtle. However, she did make this connection distinctly one-way.

While she was modifying the realm, she chose to add a message upon the floor of the corridor, easily visible and readable by all due to being written in shifting, self-translating runes: “Those claimed by the mist cannot return. Be sure of this.”

With all said and done, Celestine pulled her divine senses back into their passive state and nodded to herself. All things yet required on her end of the bargain were finished. Hopefully Thaa would keep his end, and all would be well. Celestine turned back to her realm at large now, and began to make plans to modify it further. Since there would now be the souls of warriors present within her realm, Celestine needed something more than food to keep them entertained. Moving about her realm, Celestine placed down wood and stone structures to support jousting, dueling, boxing, wrestling, and a large arena for large scale battles to be held. She then took the time to pave her realm's hardened dirt roads with cobblestone like she had seen within Cadien’s realm.

With her work finished, Celestine nodded to herself. These changes would make her realm much more enjoyable for those who carried the flame of conflict with them into the afterlife. Now it was time to wait and see what would happen now that her realm would receive a flow of souls for her to harbor. Taking a seat upon the throne overlooking The Longhall, Celestine waited to see how events would unfold.

---

It was so terribly annoying how clingy souls tended to be to their lives. He had always wondered if it was some result of years of trauma, certainly, the older souls were less than great about it. In truth, though he knew he had to work with it, one of the main reasons for creating the undead that now roamed Galbar, it gave an outlet for the worst offenders that might bring some good. A kind of therapy he hoped at least that might give them the chance to let go.

Of course, that couldn’t go for everyone really, only so many had a bad enough case of attachment that they might even get anything real out of going back. It was dangerous enough anyway to send such souls back in any regard. Thaa had always hoped for some assistance but in truth most seemed utterly unwilling or unsuited to even be asked for aid. The life protective gods were out as they were more likely to do more harm than good. He couldn’t yet ascertain the loyalties and motivations of so many others, and a number were themselves clearly in need of their own assistance.

So he had to do it alone, which as things seemed to go most of the time, the tragedy of being more moral and competent than your peers. In truth, though his recent meetings had given him a bit more insight into the issue as it were, rather than approaching the issue of trying to ‘fix’ them, perhaps he should instead be focusing on accommodation. The tragedy of life had happened to these souls, they’d been tortured through Life- damned with living. Perhaps the best he could do would be to give them what they want without the torture. Turn the Oraelian trap back around as it were.

It was clear that Life so enamored so many with its fragile and few in-between spots of good between the endless torment. It was how so many were kept going, for those little spots of good. He had those, these souls beyond all the minutia, they remembered their little spots of good.

He had been spending so much time focusing on overcoming the memory of life, putting them into a blissful rest, no doubt superior objectively by his sight, but these souls were limited. They had been through much and perhaps subjectivity would work better. He could run a test at least. A small number of souls, only a few hundred thousand, to give a good amount to figure it out among all branches and kinds of life.

Generate their paradises, a blissful moment here and there, but remove all the evils, the hunger, the pain, the suffering, leave the calm, the joy, and the happiness. Let them explore it, let them exploit it, let them interact and be with one another as they wished in these moments beyond just rest. Let them fluctuate and experience the different joys that they know, perhaps that would be better for them then a constant high-level bliss and rest. They had been molded into these habits, into acting through life, perhaps for their death, they would need something familiar to go well into.

It would certainly be easier to explain to those living at the very least, he always had trouble with that. Yes, a test would be good, truly it would be better to find out and explore the possibilities for the future.

Aquibeophates shifted, the towers shifting and the mists roiling as it changed according to his wishes to set up his ‘test’ as it happened. His thoughts drifted to other concerns…

---

“C’mon!”

“Hnng… HRRRNG!”

“You can do it! PUSH, MAN! PUSHPUSHPUSH!”

“RRRRRRRRRAAAAAAH!” Tulipan’s muscles could come bursting out of his skin any moment. The fresh, fat palm trunk in his rough, hardworked hands weighed could be weighing almost twice as much as him for all they knew - and that was part of the fun. Its bark sported tiny needles which dug into his palms, so blood mixed with the sweat and dirt; Tulipan paid it no mind, though - he knew no pain. He was the man; he was a monster - a beast, the KING of beasts!

“TULIP! TULIP! TULIP!” the other men egged and clapped their hands, pounded their chests and slapped their thighs. Tulipan’s comically massive arms slowly brought the trunk up to chest level, his crooked back attempting to straighten out. His breathing was almost deafening, groans and growls booming in his ears to the rhythm of his heart. He was close now - just a few more inches and the trunk would reach his face. He would be the strongest - strong enough to challenge even Lavender!

Then a sound - a wicked snap that sent a cold cringe down everyone’s spine. The trunk hit the ground with a thunk and Tulipan descended to his knees, his jaws locked in a silent scream. Then, a wheeze, one which slowly caught hold in his vocal cords, producing a very quiet wail, like a child slowly realising it has been hurt immensely. He knelt unmoving, though, and the onlookers shifted between each other and his sorry state.

“H-hey, Tulip? You okay?”

“M-m-m-m-mah back…” he quivered in response and fell backwards, barely able to move a muscle.

“Is -that- what that snap was?!” came a gasp. Then silence.

“By the gods, that’s awful…”

“Yeah… Shit…”

“Yeah… So does that mean Dandelion wins the bet?”

“I think it does, actually.”

Tulipan gasped for more air. “Guys, it really, really hurts--”

“Alright! Dandelion? Where’d he go, damn it.”
Tulipan rolled onto his belly. “Guys, I… I can’t move my arms very well… Nor my legs.”

“Pfft, yeah, yeah, walk it off, big guy. You won’t let a little muscle ache get you down, will ya?” The crowd had already dispersed, half returning to finish their daily workout at the training area, the other half going to get herbs to pay off their lost bet with. A smaller man named Syrin squatted down next to Tulipan and patted him comfortingly on his paining shoulder. “Hey, don’t look so down. You’ll be right back up in no time.”

Tulipan cringed and looked sorrily up at his colleague. “I… I don’t think this is a normal muscle ache, brother…”

“Oh, come on, when’d you become such a girl? What, you’re gonna tell me that you, Big Tulipan, got done in by a trunk?”

Tulip swallowed. “‘C-course not! Just… Would you get me a sage?”

“Oh, quiet down… Have some xoag and you’ll be right as night.”

“Syrin, I’m telling you, I think something is--” He gasped as he tried to move his arms again. “... I think something is very wrong.”

“What could -possibly- be wrong? Did you drop the trunk on your arm?”

Tulip forced himself onto his elbows, the pain straining his face to the point where veins began popping up. “By [abbr=Fragrancian god of Night and Might]Kippom[abbr], I wish this didn’t hurt so badly…”

’Kippom?’ Hm, that’s what you went with? A deep voice wondered from within his head. Tulipan swallowed.

“What was that?” he mumbled. Syrin clicked curiously.

“What was what?”

”Oh, hey, Cades! Got called, too, did ya?”

It would seem that way. ‘God of Night and Might’. Hm. Do they think we are the same?

Tulipan tried in futility to reach his ears. “What is going on?!”

“Hey, woah, Tulip, calm down, what’s up?” Syrin tried to restrain him gently. “Hey, look at me - are you okay?” A crowd started forming around them,

Pfft, heck if I know. Probably. Would make sense, kinda - from what I know of these, uh... There was a rush of paper pages. ... Fraygranzians… Is that they think the moon’s the soul of a big, mighty man. I suppose they’ve sorta just fused us together as a result. Funny how that happens, huh?

But there are two moons. What does the second one represent?

Hey, guy with the bad back, what does the purple moon represent?

“There are two voices in my head, Syrin! They’re talkin’ about the moons and shit! Am I going crazy?”

“Gods, man, you weren’t kidding! Hey, Cinnen, go fetch a sage! Well, I don’t know - anyone!”

There came a stunted sigh. I’unno, they won’t tell me. Probably his boyfriend or something, if I know these people right. I mean, it is purple, after all - these boys like purple.

Well I suppose they have a fine taste of colours, if nothing else. Anyhow. Young mortal, what seems to be the issue?

“Now it’s talking to -me-, man! It’s talkin’ to MEEE!” The muscled giant had been restrained by three others, all of whom were trying to calm him down. However, his arms were twisted onto his back, causing the grounded man to weep in agony. “ACH, MY BAAACK!”

Think he might’a done a lil’ snip-snap on that middle back, y’catch my drift?

Hm. Oh dear. Yes, this is quite grim. He may never fully recover…

“Wh-what?”

...I suppose I might as well fix that.

Then suddenly, a purple glow enveloped his body. The pain faded, as his abused muscles were mended. An ache still remained, but Tulip could once again move his arms and legs.

The man suddenly stopped squirming, then slowly pushed himself to his feet as the others climbed off of him, noticing his sudden change in behaviour. Tulipan flexed and unflexed his arms, squatted up and down a few times, then shot both hands into the air and whistled so the others had to cover their ears. “I’M CURED!” he whispered triumphantly and the others cheered with him.

“Then what the hell was that just now? Did you play with us all along, or?”

“No, no! It was in super bad pain, then all of a sudden, I get these two voices in my head. They start talking about the moons, and then one of them mentions my back, and boom! I’m healed!”

“That’s because you were talking to the gods, you bafoon!” came a sharp whisper from outside the crowd. Cinnen had returned with a silver-skirted man, his bare chest bejeweled with rare stones suspended on silver necklaces, piercings and nipple rings. His fingers were ringed with all kinds of stones and metals, and his black beard was braided in silk. The nelves parted the route between the sage and Tulipan, and the sage went over to slap the giant across the face. “Show some damned respect, you subnelven slug. Down on your knees and hands - all of you!” His command rang out despite never exceeding a whisper, and soon, all the nelves were on their knees. The sage drew a slow breath, sitting up and looking around to make sure everyone had assumed their proper positions of subjugation. Then, placing his palms together at the belly, fingers facing down, he whispered, “Great gods - I am the sage known as Crocus the Capable. I was summoned thinking there would be only one idiot to save today, but found many who have so foolishly forgotten their masters of the Night Realm.” He bowed forward into a kowtow again. “Forgive them, please.”

Oh, no harm done, the voice said dismissively, this time for all of them to hear. All of you, rise.

They did as told, waiting patiently for the next order under the eagle glare of the sage. Meanwhile, another voice made a soft hum.

Aight, cool. So you got this, you think?

I suppose I do. Why? Are you leaving?

I mean, I can hang around if you want. Not like I’m doing much. Only if you want, though - don’t wanna intrude or nothin’.

“Why are there two voices?”

“Sssh!” the sage snapped.

I am Cadien. God of Beauty, Strength, and War. The other voice is Gibbou. Goddess of Night, Moon, Protection, and um… have you picked up anything else lately?

Nah, it’s alright, you got it.

“K-Kaitian?” the sage mumbled. “Tulipan, who on Galbar did you summon?”

“I-I-I dunno! I called out to Kippom!”

“Yeah, he said Kippom, but are there two of them? Who else did you call for?”

Woof, how these folks have fallen… But they’re my creations, so... There came a defeated sigh.

“What was that?!” the sage gasped. “Have we wronged you somehow, great Kippom? Your voice sounds pitched with sadness.”

No, no… Gibbou said in a faked deep voice. No, just thinking on the past and, and being manly.

“Ah. Naturally. Great Kippom does as he does. But yes, back to this new great one, uh, Kaitian. We welcome you to Fragrance.”

Cadien, the voice corrected.

“Keytian, understood,” the sage replied respectfully. There came a gibbous giggle.

I do not understand how you have this job, ‘Keytian’ sighed. Anyhow. You. Tulipan, was it?

The nelves all scuttered away from Tulipan, leaving him alone in the centre of the crowd. He sat up slowly and pointed at his nose. “M-me, your greatness?”

Yes, you. I must say, as a God of Strength it is gratifying to see somebody commit themself to physical improvement with such vigour. But for one to nearly cripple themselves while doing so is counterproductive. Do your people understand the importance of stretches and warm-ups?

“You mean, like, jogging?” came a voice and a raised hand.

“No, idiot, he means like gwachwoi.”

“Ugh, I -hate- gwachwoi!”

Hate it or no, some preparation is necessary. If you dive into the heaviest exercises too early, you end up like this Tulip fellow here. It’s important to start out with light exercises, to get your muscles used to some amount of strain, so that they may endure even greater strain later on.

“But wait!” came a voice. “Tulipan’s the strongest of us all! Why shouldn’t he be able to lift what he wants right away?”

Because of what just happened. Are you not paying attention? All bodies, even the strongest, have limits. A true athlete must know how to reach those limits without breaking them. Tell me, what are the most common exercise methods among your people?

“Lift stones and sticks, then fight with sticks, gymnastics, running, dancing…”

“Dancing’s awesome!”

“Sure is, brother!” The sound of two clasping hands echoed across the otherwise silent area.

Hm. That is a start. I believe you could do with some more refined facilities, however. Find me a place in your city where I can build.

The sage suddenly piped up, “Great Keytian - may I offer some counsel regarding placement of what I assume is a training ground - thank you a thousand times for that, by the way.”

What is it?

“Put it not in the city, but outside - perhaps right here, even. Exercise is classified as loudwork, after all - it would be terrible for the citizens to have to hear the groan of lads and the hack of stone.”

Oh, that’s my bad. Shoulda mentioned that. Sorry, Cades.

Hm?

Oh, uh… Nothing, nothing. Nelves don’t like loud noises, is all. Shoulda… Probably… Mentioned that earlier or… Or something.

“Kippom speaks the truth. The great calamity is sourced from cacophony,” said the sage sagely.

How strange. Hm. Very well, then. It shall be built here.

And with those words, the ground began to shift, becoming flatter and firmer. Brush and debris were cleared away. Then, equipment seemed to materialize out of thin air.
There were racks with weights of varying sizes, crafted from metal and stone, and nearby there were a series of benches with metal rods on which the largest of the weights could be fixed. There was an obstacle course, with various hurdles one was meant to leap over or dodge under. There was a raised fenced platform, clearly meant to be some sort of sparring or wrestling ring. There was a range, on which one could practice throwing javelins or heavy stone balls. There were raised metal bars, intended for pull-ups and chin-ups. Cadien had also crafted a series of what seemed to be soft mattresses, where one could perform exercises that required no equipment in a state of relative comfort.

Those were but a few of the apparatuses Cadien had created; there were many more, some of which were not immediately obvious in what they were meant to be used for. There was also a dirt track surrounding the space, and beyond that, a stone wall roughly equal to the height of a tall nelf, clearly intended for privacy or security purposes.

Sick.

“The gods have given us a blessing, men! As one now - bow and give your thanks!” The sage lead the rest into a kowtow once more and they all whispered as one.

“Thank you, great Keytian!” As soon as that was said, some on the fringe of the circle scuttled off to regard and test the equipment. “Woah, this is so convenient!”

“What is this substance? Is it bronze?” came a curious whisper followed by some metallic knocks of fingernails on the chin-up bars. The sage rose up in a jolt.

“Hey! Get back here and be thankful!” However, as he did so, the rest hurried to their feet and scurried over to the gym to join in. Gibbou’s cosmic laughter rang out and there came a quiet clap.

Not bad, not bad at all. Feel like I oughta add a little something, at least. Here.

The dry soil around the gymnasium lushed with dark blues as the wind blew across the midnight grass. In the midst of the conservative growth, there sprouted tall, straight shrubberies which leaves curved barely and firmly, much like the hair atop a pineapple’s head. The centre of the shrub revealed a dark-leafed flower with a centre of shiny, gelatinous seeds. The sage, having no more nelves to herd back into place, gracefully stepped over and dramatically picked a single seed, the substance bobbing elastically between his fingers. Placing the back of one palm on his forehead and leaning back, clicking his tongue and drumming his feet for attention. “Oh, Kippom, great Kippom - what is this berry Your Grace has given us?”

Gibbou tried to darken her voice even more, sounding as though she was imitating a toad. This, my child, is a Powerflower - eat just one seed of this here bloom, and your, uh, gains will surely be… Better, or something.

The sage eyed the seed closely. “What an honour - what a joy!” He popped it in his mouth and forced a smile through tears and cringing cheekbones. “Thishishthebesht.”

Uh, yeah, least I could do, uh, sage.

“Hey, what’s this?” came another voice and another hand grabbed a few seeds, shoving them into his mouth. Immediately, he fell to the ground vomiting. “UGH! BLEEEH! These are terrible!” The sage slapped him to the ground.

“You fool! This is a divine gift! Forgive him, great Kippom - he meant nothing by it!”

Clicks sounded from the cosmos. No problem, fam. Y’all just… Just be careful about eating too many, okay? Too much of a good thing and all that… So, Cades, you done?

One more thing, the God of Perfection said to the Night Elves. In one year’s time, I shall require you to assemble ten of the most physically fit and able among your number. A competition shall be held, and a champion will be chosen. And with those words, the gods’ presence departed.

The sage Crocus stood valiantly with moisture in his eyes. “Yes. Yes, great gods. The tournament will be LEGEND!”

Tulipan put down the barbell and gave his sweaty head a scratch. He clicked for Syrin’s attention, who was in the middle of stretching his back with some bent-over bows. The nelf held his pose, scalp pointing to the ground and clicked back to signal that Tulip had indeed captured his attention.

“Did you hear what Keytian just said?”

“He said anything?” replied Syrin and levered himself back up with a straight back.

“That’s what I’m not sure of… Hey, pass me the oil, would you? I gotta look good for this set.” Then they returned to their workout.

---