---

Things had been uneasy for a few days for Synn. She had given them the names of two zenii, Wiktym and Slouwe, that had shared the notion of the Beast Queen with her and given her inspiration enough to build her own tale around it. Her meeting with the renowned Masol had been a hurried and confusing affair - the muscular zene had barely looked at her, and cordially welcomed her to the larger group before going back to armwrestling another zene she did not know.

Serrat, the zene who dragged her in front of Masol, had taken Gaher and the zena who tailed him and left the camp again. Synn had originally thought that was it, but the large crowd around the three blackstones whispered and stared wherever she went. Despite this, there was always at least one other zenii keeping an eye on her, urging her to join various social activities or tale-tellings. She was courted several times by both sexes to sample each others bodies, once in a group. The only thing that she wasn't allowed to do was leave. The one time she tried to walk straight out of the camp towards the river, two burly zene grabbed her shoulders and politely but brusquely turned her around and said Masol would love it if she stayed. Their tone implied it was not optional. With that very living wall hiding in the sidelines, waiting to guide her back to camp, Synn settled for a quiet existence, taking in the people and the sights during her stay.

There were yareners, who used sharpened sticks and scavenged bone and stone to mend discarded or torn yarene into new clothing. They stripped the dead or willing of their garments and added the scavenged cloth to other clothes, sewed in bits of bark or other ornamentation, and caked them with different rudimentary dyes to color them in experimental colors. There were mudders, who gathered wet mud and clay and shaped it into pots of all sizes to be used by everyone else to gather, store and collect. There were groupers, who taught the zenii way to forest scraps and hair and grass, making them stick together in lightweight baskets, flat boards and large shelters from the rain using nothing but their hands. There were fishers, who stood in the shallower parts of the river to capture fish with hand and basket. And there were foresters, who had until recently ventured into the forest to learn about the world, animals, the woods, and pick berries. Now they were part of the people just sitting around, refusing to go back out into the woods. Synn found herself drawn to this crew, partly out of curiosity, but also a niggling shame that was proof of the power of her words.

It didn't take many questions to find them, but there mere act of asking others where to find a forester earned a scoff of distaste. Tempers ran high, even if no one made an open fuss. Eventually Synn found herself at the edge of a group of frolicking zenii, seven zena and five zene, bundled up and talking about different animals while toying with each other's hair. They looked rougher than most others, their clothes torn and their garments stained with grass and wood. Synn had barely shimmied up to their little gathering before a gawking zena raised her voice at her. "Before you ask, yes, we are foresters, no we aren't going out. No, we don't want to just sit around."

Synn cleared her throat, stopping in her tracks as all eyes turned to her. She tucked lock of hair behind her right ear, shuffling awkwardly. "My name is Synn.. I'm a tale-teller. May I sit?" She said a little more demure than she had intended.

There was a brief silence before one of the zene raised his arm to her. "I'm Whyte." Synn sat down beside him, and his arm crooked around her shoulder to pull her into his warm embrace. She shifted to relax against him. It was all the group needed to relax themselves, going back to idle murmurs among themselves.

"You said you don't wish to sit around," Synn began in an attempt to formulate her thoughts. She welcomed the warmth of another, even though she expected him to push her away soon. "Is it the Beast Queen that keeps you in the camp?"

Silence followed once more. Brief tension in Whyte, but he did not move. Someone snickered, and the group soon howled like mocking wolves with laughter. Whyte raised his hand to ruffle her hair and flick at her ear in teasing. The gawking zena that had first 'welcomed' her took tone to explain with condescending trills in her voice. "Yes, we fear the great and mighty queen of the woods. She who bucks her snout in the ground and grinds her horns against the bark. She whose droppings smell particularly foul."

"You are making a joke of me," Synn reasoned with a tight-lipped frown. Her declaration gave her a soft hum of sympathy from another zena, who abandoned her heat partner - much to his dismay - to shuffle across the group and drape herself against Synn in comfortable assurance. She wrapped her arms around her as the man played with her hair. Given the last few days, being accepted so handily was intoxicating.

"You must forgive Koulde," Whyte offered and gestured to the speaking zena. "There is nothing she enjoys more than making others miserable." The zena responded with a gesture of her hands that Synn hadn't seen before, but given the amusement of the group, she could guess it wasn't polite.

“Forgiven and forgotten,” Synn professed quickly, earning a few snickers and a challenging glare from the zena known as Koulde, who did not seem to particularly enjoy being forgiven. “So-... if you’re not scared of the Beast Queen, wh-”

“Why do we do nothing?” Koulde interjected, apparently having been waiting for a moment to cut in with her consistently down putting tone. “What reason could there be?”

Synn thought on this for longer than she cared to, the heat of bodies and the stares making it hard to focus, and the pressure of saying the right thing making her anxious. “Uhm… Masol..?” A look around at the grim and displeased faces rolling their eyes collectively convinced her she got it right.

Whyte was the first to verbally confirm it. “Mmh. Who else? He and his closest will not let us risk going out there until they have found the source of the tale. Says we cannot lose more zenii - must make the Lady proud and look after each other.”

“But why not simply leave? Does everyone fear the word of Masol here?”

Koulde scoffed softly. “Fear? He is not a scary zene. Strong? Yes. Good with words? Yes. But he is too gentle, too busy making zenii like him. He is d-..”

“Koulde,” another zene interjected, growling from his seat. “I have told you not to diminish his name before. If you do not like him, go challenge him or lay with his favorite zenii, or something. He is doing this for us.” There was a soft sigh among a few of the group, and Koulde moved her strict gaze from Synn to glare daggers at the zene instead.

“Masol is just a zene,” Whyte declared idly by Synn’s side, a little lower. “What he wants is what the blackstones want. The zenii are scared of the forest, so Masol declares it is not safe. Did he decide first, or did he listen first? Does it matter? Zenii trust him, and he has many close friends with strength, skill and thought. When the matter is resolved, a decision will be made.”

“What if you can never go back to the forest?” Synn followed up, her own mind spinning little intrigues out of what little she knew. It was a big enough question to draw the attention of the group back to her and Whyte.

“He won’t say that. He and his friends are many things but they are not dumb.” He answered sharply, looking towards Koulde who smoldered with indignant frustration. “We will need the forest, for food and for materials. Even if he stops it now, he will allow it when our stores run low.”

Synn pondered this in silence, simply humming a soft confirmation after a time. She had been searching for a reason she was blamed, why she was kept here, but it became ever more difficult to find one.

“Did you say you were a tale-teller?” Koulde eventually shot in, eager to change the topic. Synn nodded politely.

“Ohh, tell us a tale!” the zena sidled up against her cooed happily, reaching up to weave her hand around the belly-portion of Synn’s yarene, holding her close.

Synn offered a soft smile to the group, pushing aside her selfish thoughts for the evening. The Blackbird would be a decent opener, she thought. “Of course. Let me tell you one of my favorites.”

---

Blackbird

Blackbird!' clamored I, 'Yes blackbird!'
And so you came gently mocking
Carrion crow - carrion crow - carrion crow!
What could there be more purely low?

Deep into that darkness sing
Reciting and reciting with my cry
Teary carrion crow - teary carrion crow
The singer brought such sorrow

I have dreamed of the songbirds
And the crows never descanting
A bird ever grieving - a bird ever grieving
All my heart within me disbelieving

On that day my soul grew peregrine
That carrion, carrion roving
Blackbird - blackbird - blackbird
My heart shall wander backward

---

Slouwe was dead. Synn hadn’t heard much more of Serrat, Gaher and Jem’s findings over the last few days other than the rumours washing through Masol’s blackstones like a wave crashing over the riverbank. A zena had killed him - a slaying despite the Lady’s words - with some freakish and cruel attack that had squeezed the life from his bones. When Serrat himself came a day later to fish her from the forester crew - who now were quite reluctant to see her go - he did so by grabbing her arm and telling her to follow.

“Wiktym also named Slouwe as her source,” he mumbled in haste as he pulled her along. “Masol wants to see you.” That was all he gave her. She asked for more, but he remained tight-lipped, busying himself with greeting all the zenii they passed on the way as they walked through the sizeable camp consisting of more than the three blackstones it had when she first arrived. Old yarenes modified by skilled yareners had been tied to each blackstone pledging some manner of community with Masol. There were more than she could count poking up over the heads of zenii. Most of the valley had declared themselves to follow the wisdom of the zene first named by the Lady. Synn reminded herself of when she had first met Whyte, and his words on scarcity guiding the hands of leadership. How many zenii were simply hoping to offload their problems on another?

They found Masol engaged in a wrestling brawl with another zene. Their yarenes were off, their bodies caked in slick mud, arms locked as they tried to push the other down with brute strength. Judging by the number of mud-covered zenii of both sexes crowding the test of martial ability, this tradition was becoming quite the popular social event. It certainly gave the thoughtful Synn time to study zene and zena alike. The contest barely lasted a moment longer than Synn’s arrival - Masol shifted his biceps and that pressure was too much for the other zene who was on the ground in the dirt in mere seconds. Masol squatted forcefully down on his chest and battered his torso with knocking pounds of his fists as a bullying declaration of victory - to the cheers and jeers of all present - before helping his competitor off the ground and giving him a reconciliatory hug. He was about to take on another challenger when he caught sight of Serrat. His breezy expression of carefree happiness vanished in an instant, and he shared a laugh with the crowd before excusing himself to head her way. Synn could not help but look down over his body.

"Synn was it?" He questioned as he drew close, gesturing to a nearby footpath. "I need to wash by the river. Will you join me?" His hand extended to her, and she found herself putting her hand in before she had dared speak. The words got stuck in her throat and her heart beat hard in her ears. Shameful thoughts bid themselves awakened at his innocent offer, but any such matters were quickly put to rest when she realized Serrat followed them. The journey to the river should have been swift, but the muscular zene stopped at every little grouping along the way, grabbing arms and hugging and chuckling, ingratiating himself with each zenii he met with a boisterous laugh - even while caked in mud and not wearing his yarene. Synn began to feel embarrassed, for following him, like she was on display. Even though she said nothing and tried to hang back as much as she could, she could not deny eyes fell on her quite a bit for being Masol’s chosen walking partner.

When they had finally made it to the river, where but a handful of other zenii were relaxing a distance away, Masol let go of her arm one last time and wandered into the shallowest part of the river, covering no more than the lowest parts of his thighs. “So. Forgive me for putting the matter off for so long. Some talks are best had in private.” He turned and said with a firm smile. Privacy was a strange concept for any zenii, no doubt the other bathers could hear every word spoken in this conversation, and one could barely whisper in a group without alerting everyone to the full contents of what was said. Still, this was as private as it could be without walking out into the forest or standing amidst the graves. Serrat made himself comfortable at the edge of the water while Masol continued. “Since you came freely, I hope you have not been mistreated. I know Serrat has a way with zenii that doesn’t suit everyone.”

Serrat grunted a little huff of amusement, ripping a small reed from the ground to idly fold and bend. “No, I felt like I could not leave at first, but I’ve found some good camaraderie with the foresters.” Synn remarked back to them both as Masol began to wash himself in the water. As before, she found simple pleasure in watching his body work. “They do not fear the Beast Queen as the rumour goes, they take a lot of spite for everyone else’s sake.”

“Easier that way,” Serrat cut in between dragging his reed between his lips. “Stops others from coming up with wild theories about what’s out there if they have someone to blame.”

“But now we have a real name, don’t we?” Masol asked as he rubbed his arm free of mud and clay, a long slow process that required many dips of water.

“Mmh. Slouwe was part of a blackstone led by a zene named Lonam,” Serrat continued, and Synn realized this may yet be a long conversation - though not why she was part of it. She slid down to sit beside Serrat, and pushed her feet into the cool water. “The zena who did him in is the one who started the rumours, according to his people. Nimueh. She was part of his blackstone, came out of the forest one day babbling about the Beast Queen. They tried to bring her to us - that’s when she slew him. Just like that, they said. Like it was nothing. She called on the woods themselves to crush him dead.”

Synn considered death, and the depravity it must take to kill another so willfully. Someone from the same blackstone. Nimueh must be a truly bleak-hearted kinslayer. She imagined her on a throne of branches, cackling like the blackbird over the death of her kin. There was a story in there. Her thoughts were jumbled when Masol continued. “Very concerning. If she can command the woods then there might be legitimacy to this Queen after all. What if she has given her life to some wretched spirit, like the Lady spoke of? Perhaps this Beast Queen is our first challenge - an evil like none the Lady has come upon before?”

“The Lady did say she meant for us to battle evil.” Serrat murmured noncommittally.

“Do you intend to keep the foresters tied down forever?” Synn interjected, earning a glance from both of the men and quickly regretting interrupting their discussion. After a few moments of awkward silence, Serrat took it upon himself to reply.

“No,” he answered. “We have swept away the clouds around the rumour. Keeping them cooped up much longer will hurt our food reserves. Not to mention a few of them are quite good trackers. Perhaps this Nimueh will keep close, and in that case, we’ll track her down.”

“Mmh, yes.” Masol agreed, slowly sinking himself deeper into the water. “No, what we need is to make it clear that this zena - Nimueh, was it? - spread fear out of malicious thought. She tried to slay our minds with, and when this failed she slew her friend and fled into the unknown.”

“Didn’t you just say there might be something to this Queen?” Synn argued with a frown, leaning back to plant both hands in the summer-warm grass.

“I trust my foresters,” Masol countered with brusque confidence. “We will tell them the truth and they will use their senses. If there is a dangerous ruler of the woods then sitting and learning nothing of it will not help us. We must verify our safety so that we do not bother the Lady with the fantasies of a single kinslayer. For those that need not venture into the forest, it should do enough to know there is a crazy zena out there lurking in the trees. It will make this threat understandable, but it will also keep them away from danger.”

Synn frowned to herself, fishing a lock of white hair from her face and tucking it behind her long ear. The reasoning made sense, she supposed. Between stolen glances of Masol, she glanced over towards the woods, deathly dark in the evening light. What mysteries lurked out there, she wondered. A slayer and a queen.

“That is why I wished to speak with you, Synn. People who know of you say your skill in crafting a tale is without equal.” Masol continued.

“Oh-..” she remarked with a quick reddening of her cheeks. “I don’t know about that… I just enjoy the possibilities… The thoughts of what may be and what has been.”

“Beautifully said,” Masol returned with a warm smile from the river. It was enough to send shivers through her body. “I want you to stay with us, Synn. Help us craft this truth of Nimueh and her beloved beast into a tale worthy both of purpose and of action.”

“It will seem more convincing, coming from you. You have only been with us a few days.” Serrat cut in with a more pragmatic argument. It wasn’t necessary. Synn had her eyes on Masol, and unbeknownst to the two men she had already begun crafting a tale in her head as she’d listened. She couldn’t help it. The tales came easy to her.

“I don’t know,” she lied. She felt anxiety bubble at the back of her neck as she tried to downplay her decisionmaking. “I don’t think anyone would listen to me. It would take very long to spread such a tale.”

“That is where you are wrong, Synn.” Masol stood up and turned towards her. Almost clean now. His hands extended in open invitation, and after a brief hesitation she stood up to walk out into the river with him. His firm hands settled on her arms, tugging her closer slowly. “I will give you whatever audience you desire,” he offered. Her own arms lifted to touch at his chest, her eyes roaming over his well-toned body. She heard Serrat shuffle to his feet and walk away, but did not have it in her to look away. It was difficult to breathe in this handsome zene’s presence. “If this zena’s beast is a ruler of the woods, then I am the ruler of the valley. And I need you.”

Synn pushed her lips to his, a need borne of constant touching and cuddling in the forester’s group, a naked body, a handsome smile, and a feeling of being wanted. Life could be good here, her heart told her. In the arms of the First King.

---

A sage old manbjork trekked through the woods alone with a trusty walking stick in hand, humming nonchalantly to himself. This was a beautiful clime, and it was good to stretch his legs every once in a while; he holed himself up in his burrow more than was healthy. It’d be good to set aside time for excursions like this one more often.

It was just about dusk now; that was mayhaps for the better, as there’d be less of the locals bumbling about to get in his way, or try to see if he smelt right. Still, it was remarkable what they’d done here! The elderly bjork found himself astride a great river now, and upstream he saw the magnificent Dam Voga. Clay, timber, and even stone all brilliantly brought together into one cohesive whole… what a marvel! That Yaroslaw Boulderbite was a blessed fellow, indeed. To toil that diligently was admirable, but to dream so large, to conjure up such grand plans, that was even more impressive!

The shuffling of footsteps announced that his oldest friend had met him there at their arranged place. Taking care to be quiet and stealthy, his favorite compatriot whispered, “They’re out there, alright.”

The former bjork could only chuckle at that; it was almost like Susanoo had expected something to go awry. “Well then, my dear friend, now our day’s labors are about to finally bear fruit. You’ll see that chewing down all those trees in that wood and bringing out here was worth it, aha-ha-ho! Now Susanoo, take up your place!”

The other bjork quickly swam across the river and then scurried off to a high hill that had been stripped bare the industriousness of the local Voganid Clan; that dam had seen nigh every good tree in a long ways chewed down. Still, it hadn’t proven too much of a nuisance to bring the materials here; he’d mostly just needed some sticks and plant fiber, anyhow. Some tallow rendered from the leavings of the shamans helped too, of course.

Night had totally fallen now, and this was a most umbral one. A great eagle soared overhead in the distance, searching for prey, but that was not the most dangerous predator out here in the cold dark. In the moonlight, spearbjorks patrolled the distant dam’s heights with torches in hand, to ward off vertans, corpse-demons, and beasts just as much as to ward off the air’s chilly bite and the moonless night’s gloom.

Drawn to Susanoo’s warmth, darkened silhouettes began making their way toward that hill. Susanoo’s vision was not quite as good, but even he would no doubt hear them; the beasts were overconfident, as they were wont to be after having had such easy picking for so long, living on the periphery of civilization’s stink and picking off the slow, the fat, the foolish who strayed too far or otherwise made themselves vulnerable.

Unfortunately for the bloodsuckers, they were the fools that night. The old manbjork giggled with glee as his discerning eyes witnessed two revolting vertans – one of the mosquito and one of the tick variety – make their way up the most obvious approach to the hilltop. Right where they were supposed to be! They didn’t even have time to so much as cry out before they stepped on the trap, falling through a few flimsy sticks covered in a thin layer of dirt and leaves, right into a pit full of sharpened sticks that had been coated in all sorts of nasty things. Oh, but there were more than two beasts in the night!

Another one, a stealthy leech-sort, had been creeping towards the bait (and it turned out that Susanoo was getting good at being bait – why, he wasn’t even crying out for help or trying to run away!) with a small line of saplings as its cover. That was a cautious one, hiding by the trees even when it was this dark outside. Unfortunately, the oversized worm was too dumb or too blind in that monster form to see the tripwire, so it crawled right over it and got skewered by a giant sharpened log that swung down from above, attached to a practical spiderweb of ropes that had run through all the trees.

The bjork was cackling louder now. “Ahoo-aha, ha-ha-ho!” his maddened voice echoed through the night. The soft sound of beating wings heralded a bat as it swooped down toward him, claws outstretched. But he was even better at being bait than Susanoo was. He didn’t even flinch as he used his trusty stick to thwack a switch at the last second, triggering a net to fly out from where he’d hidden it and entangle the bat. The thing fell into a disgraced heap and broke a wing. Its mewling stopped only after he thacked its head with his stick a dozen times. Mumbling something incoherently, he washed the blood off his stick in the river, then held it up to his eye. The thing became a spyglass, but damn! He’d missed the chance to witness the next trap go off on the far side of the river.

By now this clan of vertans had finally realized something horrible was amiss, and grown wise to these traps. Eh, he figured they’d start running and regroup over in that one clearing over there, which was why he and Susanoo had drenched it all in that animal fat from the shaman, with a bit of oil mixed in for good measure. This was all just too easy! Mortals were so predictable. His spyglass suddenly was a bow, and the god likewise procured an arrow from where he’d set it down. This arrow was tipped with a greasy rag, and with a few curses and murmurs, he used magic to set it alight. Then he fired the burning arrow clean across the river, into that clearing, and laughed as the whole thing was almost immediately transformed into an inferno. No less than a half dozen vertans were caught in the blaze; that was probably another whole clan of the pests wiped out.

Maybe those goofy bjorks would even see the show from atop their dam! The thought made Shen laugh so hard that he almost dropped his lunchbag, but that’d be no good! He reached into it and claimed a meal, his reward for this day’s hard work: a single grain of rice. He didn’t work well on a full stomach, so he was on a diet. A bit of hunger kept his ideas fresher anyhow!

Susanoo shifted back into his draconic shape and flew from that hill over the river and back to his master. “All according to plan!” the two guffawed together in unison.

Nimueh could smell it. The deer were close. They were probably grazing in the nearby clearing. She made sure she was moving into the wind, so the deer wouldn’t catch her scent on the wind. An instinct forced her to look left and right. Nothing. She didn’t have a pack and something deep inside of her yearned for one. She always yearned for a pack as a wolf. While as a bear she was perfectly fine with being alone. But she was more in control of her own feelings than a regular wolf would be and she used her will to refocus on the deer. The sun was setting. This had been half a day of work. Slowly she crept closer, staying low to the ground until she pushed through a bush to find the clearing.

The deer were indeed grazing. One must’ve heard the rustling of the bush and looked up. Nimueh stopped moving completely. The wind whistled in her ears. She could hear them chewing the grass. As a wolf she could hear so much more than any zenii ever could. The deer returned to eating. Nimueh took a step closer. The wind shifted. A breeze came from behind her. The deer all looked up and straight in her direction. She was made! Her instincts drove her. She started running straight for them. The deer started to run away. She had her eyes on one of them. The oldest. She was getting closer… closer. He turned. She couldn’t turn fast enough. He was getting away! No! No!

Nimueh tried to chase him through the forest, but the deer were gone. Her stomach growled as she turned back into her zenii form. It would never work without a pack but still, most of the fun came from the excitement of the hunt anyway. For now she just gathered a few berries that she knew weren’t dangerous and ate those.

The forest had given her ultimate freedom. She didn’t have to do any chores anymore or listen to Lonam. Every day she could just learn more about the Beast Queen’s gift. And she felt almost ready to do the one task she was given. There was really only one zenni who could make the zenii abandon those pots and baskets and that was Masol. She’d talk to him. He’d understand. Or so she hoped.

Tonight though, she’d do something differently. For too long had she held it off. Though in her defense she tried to understand magic better first. She must’ve thrown a thousand sticks at trees. None of them sprouted roots and tangling vines like she had done that fateful night. So now, with the scarred moon rising, Nimueh sat on her knees in the clearing, closed her eyes and said: “Queen of magic. I was hoping we could speak?”

For a moment, there was simply darkness as the young Nimueh sat in the clearing with her eyes closed, the rustlings of nature and the animals that lived within it joined by the odd gust of wind that managed to slip past the outer layer of trees to drive deeper into the forest. Then there seemed to be a change; All the natural noises seemed to cease, and the air started to… taste funny? As if something was infused with it but not in a physical way.

“I must admit, no one has ever called me a Queen before. While I disagree with the title, I am thankful for the respect you deemed to show me by using it my dear.” A soft, happy voice rang out.

If she opened her eyes, Nimueh would find herself seated in a completely different location then she had entered her meditative state: She appeared to have taken a seat at the edge of a forest clearing where a ring of mushrooms had grown in the middle. And sitting in the middle of side ring of mushrooms was a figure of zenni like body, but shorter with an equine like face and hooves on their feet, while a poofy mane and tail seemed to defy gravity as they floated slightly behind the smiling figure. While there were twinges of other colors, their hair seemed to currently be many different shades of green, while their tail had adopted a variety of blues.

“For what it’s worth, I’ve recently taken a shine to using the title of ‘Keeper’. Before you ask, your body is still where you asked to speak with me… But I recently shared with the world the ability to dream and it’s already proving surprisingly useful for communications like this on top of everything else. But enough about that…” They offered with a chuckle and waved off that point of conversation. “What is your name my dear?”

Nimeuh jolted up when she saw she was no longer in the forest. That’s where the other zenii are! But when she saw this keeper she knew she wasn’t in the real world anymore. She was in the dream world where she could meet the gods of the world! “Oh, sorry for calling you queen. My… protector,” she said, before pondering on what to call the Beast Queen in relation to herself. “Said you were a sibling of her and I just thought-“

She stopped herself from rambling as she was wont to do, took a deep breath to swallow her excitement and started again. “I’m sorry. I’m Nimueh and I was just hoping, Miss Keeper, if you could tell me a bit more about this ‘magic’?” She finished with a small, awkward, nervous laugh as she stepped a little closer.

At the name of the ‘Beast Queen’, the strange deity blinked slightly in confusion. “You’ll have to forgive me, but I have many kin that I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting personally. Would you object to me peering into your mind in order to see my sister?” The expression on ‘Keeper’s face and the tone of their voice suggested to Nimueh that the god’s request was… just that. A request. Considering the Beast Queen could read her mind, it was likely this one could as well but seemed to respect her individual right to her mind and thoughts enough not to just impose upon her like that.

Still, Nimueh’s request brought a smile to Keeper’s face. “Of course I would be more than happy to help you my dear Nimueh. In fact, you’re somewhat special because you’re the first mortal to ever actually ask me to teach them about the powerful resource that I brought into this world. How to teach you is a bit more...challenging though.”

Bringing their hands together in front of their chest, Keeper’s fingers interlocked so that their pointer fingers were pressed together against their lips for a moment of contemplation. “I can see two methods that I suspect you would excel at, though many would find their natures conflicting. I do not doubt that you’ll be able to combine them together in time to do great things, but as a starting point… which do you value more my dear: Your mind or your instincts?”

The request took Nimueh by visible surprise. At first it freaked her out. A goddess in her head!? Just like that? Though after a moment she realized that the goddess could probably do so without even asking and the Beast Queen had already done so. So what’s the harm in letting another look into her mind? “Sure.” She said in her usual peppy self. “Wait!” She then suddenly shouted as she even put her hands up as if she could stop whatever would come. “Before you read my mind you have to promise me that it won’t hurt.”

“The process is painless, but since the past can be painful I cannot say for certain that this dive won’t be painful for you dear.” Keeper answered back before they simply peered into Nimueh’s memories. The girl herself would see flashes of what Keeper was looking into; While it was true that they were actively trying to limit themselves to seeking out their new patron deity only, memories connected to the Beast Queen were also tied with other memories that were dragged to the forefront solely because of the association.

Still, the procedure was over and done rather quickly. “I see… so this is the Green Murder of the Bjorks.” They muttered aloud to themself.

As the god peered through her memories Nimueh had her eyes closed, hoping it would help the process even a little bit. She didn’t mind the recurring memories, mostly because the only memory she really had of the Beast Queen herself was her dream of the green-furred fox. But then she heard what the Keeper called her. “Green Murder?” She asked as her eyes opened. “That’s a pretty mean thing to say about someone.”

Keeper shrugged at the statement. “To my understanding, she took offense to the Bjorks making their homes out of wood and trees and decided to send a warning… by assaulting one of their settlements and slaughtering the population. As you can imagine, the Bjorks themselves didn’t take too kindly to this.”

Nimueh had no idea what a bjork was. Still, the words ‘by word or by claw’ suddenly sounded a lot more real than before. Slaughter was the word the Keeper used and her imagination was quick to roll with it. It would happen to the zenii as well if she failed.

But then she shook herself free from her own imagination. She was here - wherever here was - for something else. “Right, right.” She said as she shook her head a little bit. “You asked me what I valued most, my mind or my instinct. Both of them are important to me but if I’m being honest: the best things that happened to me happened when I followed my instincts.” The instinct of a squirrel let her climb a tree she couldn’t climb as a zenii. As a wolf there was nothing more thrilling than following her instinct in a hunt. Even as a zenii it was her instinct to run from the predators that had chased her to the tree where she had eaten that fruit. Her mind was important but her instinct brought her way more happiness. “So yeah, instincts.”

For their part, Keeper didn’t seem inclined to inform Nimueh of what a Bjork was. But since the matter wasn’t important enough for a follow up question it seemed to be dropped completely as Nimueh finally got around to the question that had been asked of her earlier. “Very well. I could explain in detail to you how to channel the various shades of mana but… the Beast Queen has offered us a surprisingly simple method that would let you learn how to do so without truly meaning to.”

Finally moving their arms, the Keeper lifted them above their head as they shifted their fingers around and started to pop joints that hadn’t moved in a little while as they stretched out. “All you need to do is transform into a rat and let the instincts of the form guide you.”

“A… rat?” Nimueh asked. At first she didn’t want to believe it. Then after a moment she realized that weirder things have happened. If it was a joke then well – it would be short lived at best. So she set aside her own doubts for a second as she focused on turning into a rat. She wasn’t sure if it would work in the dream, or if it did that it would work as intended but still she focused on becoming a rat.

The world grew huge around her as it always did when she transformed into a smaller animal. As usual her senses changed. This time, however, she started to experience the world in a very different manner. It was as if she got a second sense of smell. She also felt it on her fur. There was some charged energy all around her. Instinctively she knew it was green, even if she couldn’t see the energy. As a rat she wanted to dig. She moved a paw to move the dirt underneath her. A rush enveloped her and suddenly with one move she had dug a hole she could hide in if she wanted. But the reflective instincts told her more than that. It was as if she was underwater yet not. She felt the energies moving about, giving her answers to questions she barely thought about. It was too much. She knew she could fly only by wishing for it. She would fly not on wings but on the air itself! She would-

Immediately she transformed back. “By the Lady that works!” She shouted out loud. Her eyes were big and looking down at her own hands. Almost everything of what she spontaneously knew had faded away again. Almost everything, but some things lingered. Now, though, her rational mind started working again. “Why does that work?” She asked the Keeper.

There was a musical chuckle of amusement as Keeper observed the excitement from the transformation. “Back when myself and my kin were newly born and we were creating the world on which you exist, mana… or ‘magic’ as you call it didn’t exist just yet. Wishing to add it to the world, I started to gather the various shades of mana around me… but one shade required something more in order to be properly brought forth. Mana is intertwined with life… but in order to do that fully it must also be intertwined with death and no living creature had died at the dawn of creation yet. So to connect Mana with death, I selected one of the first mortal creatures to be created and killed them… and that just so happened to be one of the first rats.”

“There is more to the story that involves her creator, the Lord of the Hunt, but the short version of the story that is relevant is that the survivor of the pair of original rats made her case that I had stolen something from her… and I was inclined to agree. As compensation for killing her mate in order to help bring an otherwise absent shade of magic to the world, I blessed her and all her descendants to be able to instinctively use magic. They are so far the only race of creatures on the planet in which all members can instinctively channel mana for their uses. You are also the first mortal to be informed of this fact. So… do with that knowledge what you will.”

There was an innate desire in Nimueh that wanted to go shout the tale from the top of all the blackstones in the valley. How could she not? It was a tale about the dawn of the world. About the creation of magic, a tool most zenii were probably not even aware of. Then her heart constricted as she realized that none of her kin would listen to her probably. She had killed a zenii and because of that she was a pariah.

She didn’t let that thought ruin her mood though. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” Nimueh said as she rushed over to the Keeper and hugged them tightly. “I promise I will never forget this!”

For their part, Keeper was honestly surprised when Nimueh ran over and hugged them. They had… never been hugged before. It was an interesting, new sensation and… honestly they found themselves rather enjoying it. Despite the surprise, after a few moments their arms wrapped around the zenii girl and hugged her back surprisingly gently.

“There is one thing that I would ask of you.” They muttered softly, seemingly somewhat reluctant to let the girl go now that they had been shown physical affection for the first time. “I want you to teach others. Mana and magic is a gift to the world, but some are more blind to it than others and require help.”

A cold shiver ran down Nimueh’s back when the Keeper asked them to teach others. There were no ‘others’ to teach. Who would even listen to her? But she didn’t have the heart to tell the Keeper of her predicament. She didn’t want them to think she was useless or a lost cause. Nimueh released them and offered a smile to try and hide her own fears: “I’ll do my best!”

And then she opened her eyes. She was back in the clearing on her knees. The scarred moon hung high in the sky. Normally Nimueh would’ve transformed into a fox to find a den to sleep in. Instead she transformed into a rat and a whole new world opened up for her.

---

The great and mighty Tlanextic, legendary ruler of Chicomoztoc and demon-banisher, had been watched over in his life. Perhaps not his entire life, but once he had banished the first of the demons, he had certainly felt a looming gaze watch over him and his great city. It was as if the indomitable sun, through the stone and night, had never let its gaze fully leave the empire; even in the time of great darkness, when the blackened clouds blocked out the sky itself, it seemed as if the sun had never left him, and, once those demon clouds were cast away, the sun never shone brighter. Chicomoztoc and Tlanextic were clearly the sun’s chosen on the Galbar, for they had banished demons and erected the greatest empire that could be witnessed; for over a century had the divine emperor directed the labors of his seven tribes, and now within the grand and sprawling capital city beneath the volcano, there were a dozen palatial abodes that were each grander and more ornate than any dwarven hole, let alone the hovels that other breeds erected on the surface.

Yet, that was so long ago and now Tlanextic had grown old and venerable, the old heat of his youth having left him long ago. The slow-death, petrification, was beginning to set in. On each occasion that he spilt his blood into the flame, as was now custom, the chisels had to bite deeper through his rocky scales, and each time there was less blood, and it was colder. Even now, as the venerable king laid within his chamber, deep in the volcano, the sun never left him. Even as someone approached from around the corner, with skin glowing brighter than any of his kind had seen before, the sun never left his sight. Then, the stranger spoke in a proclaiming voice as if it was a king to a subject, the voice commanded all attention, Tlanextic’s attention.

”Tlanextic, Mighty Ruler of Chozomoztoc, Banisher of Demons, you have served me loyally for your entire life. You are the only mortal to show such strength against those great pariahs, for that I have come to personally see you, your loyalty demands as much.”

And the First Tlatotoque was not surprised, for he had looked into the molten flows and seen this scene many times before in the prescient visions. He bowed his head, more than a little blinded by this figure who had come into the dark halls garbed in the aura as the sun. ”Great Sun,” Tlanextic addressed the Monarch of All, ”thy presence honorest a waning Tletzintli beyond words. Perhaps thou hath Seen mine intention: soon my time shall be at end, and rather than turn stone, I would rejoin the flames. With the sacrifice of all the blood that I have left, mayhaps the Smoking Demon may die, or be remit for ages to come.”

”But the honor is mine, Tlanextic, for it is no small feat for your kind to match the Smoking Demon.”

The Great Sun’s words ebbed through the chamber as He looked down upon the relieved ruler, glowing eyes scanning the aged form meticulously. The Monarch of All allowed Himself to inch closer to the old one, taking His time to gaze upon Tlanextic in what amounted to a bit of awe. It was only when the Monarch of All was but a mere step away from the First Tlatotoque that He allowed the light of His form to dim so that he may gaze upon the Great Sun. Calmed words, ones of reassurance softly came from the Monarch of All’s form.

”I am sure your blood would be enough. You will be remembered as someone for having fought until you were naught but mere stone, young one.”

To all of Chicomoztoc, the First Tlatotoque was beyond venerable, his youthful body torrid to the point that it had allowed him many, many more decades than any Achtotlata could rightly expect; any other would have cooled to his present point long ago. It was strange then to be called young, but then even the stone itself must seem a petulant youth to the timeless magma below. ”I think that nothing less would be meet. Hereat mine expiry, my demesne must pass to another. I sired many fruit, and all all think such station fain. My final yoke is to anoint the next Tlatotoque; in sooth, it behoof the land to choose ‘tween two, yet I am at a loss.

“Pleading for shrift, I would ask only one favor from you, Great Sun. Would thou rede me which be the worthier: Yolyamanitzin the elder eke hath wisdom past his year and warmth, who conjureth they that built the fire-dikes, or Yaotl, he who is stronger, who hath carveth many of these tunnels, who thinketh himself like the heated flame below, who doth swink without tire, yet who doth be the younger.”

"The answer is clear to me, Tlanextic: Yaotl, for he will carry all that you have built. He would grow to dislike the - nay! Yaotl would hate Yolyamanitzin! Know that Yaotl will grow wiser over the years, but Yolyamanitzin shall not grow stronger."

The Great Sun’s answer was swift and uncompromising, for He knew that His choice was the correct one; thus was His decree. The God’s eyes had reached the blood that Tlanextic had drawn with an unmoving gaze, only shifting when a drip slowly came. It was a moment of silence, as the Great Sun continued to study the great elder, seemingly hesitant on passing a judgment, before a smile came across His lips. Yet, still, He said nothing more.

Tlanextic had briefly contemplated the answer; the Monarch of All sensed that this had not been what Tlanextic had expected to hear, or what he likely would have done, but apathy and deference to authority were more than enough to make him see reason.

”In wisdom, I rise,” the Tlatoani quoth as his eyes lifted up from the floor and slowly, his gigantic form began to shudder and move. ”Thy will be done.”

The Monarch of All stepped out of the way of Tlanextic, moving an arm to gesture towards the door and bowing His head to the venerable leader. It was He who understood to bow to another in their domain, for it was their place to rule; He would follow behind Tlanextic until his sacrificial end. The Great Sun spoke once more with a soft and gentle voice not afforded to even many of the gods, affirming to the king that all would be well.

”Know, O great Tlanextic, that your rule was just and that your heirs would eagerly seek to follow in your footsteps. You will be missed by many, hallowed by many more. This will be a sad day for your empire, though they will be happy knowing that you shall sit by the Great Sun’s side.”

That last statement had finally roused the Tlatoani’s attention; perhaps the sun’s light had been too bright for him to have Seen such a fate. ”Be that the place whereinto all fare, eftsoon expiry?”

The great Ruler of the Gods shook His head, dismissing the assumption that all would join Him within the Divine Palace, by His side amongst the other gods. He continued to speak softly, though with a voice that carried with it a modicum of pride as His words graced the Tlatoani.

”No, your destiny is much greater. As such is the fate for those as mighty as yourself, dear Tlanextic, that you would be the first to earn a seat at my side within the hallowed Halls of the Gods. I know you shall understand.”

Tlanextic nodded, and in that moment the shuffling scrape of a dozen claws upon stone echoed from a passage outside. It was time; his escort had come, and so they followed after their ruler’s gradual gait. The Monarch of All walked with them too, and even the base guards who lacked the Sight could sense His power. They knew then that this must be a great sacrifice indeed, to draw the attention of a divine; not even they knew that it was to be Tlanextic’s final such rite, though.

It was in the sweltering heat of the volcano’s open caldera where all had assembled. Two suns illuminated the shadows of the pit: the one overhead, and the Great Sun among them. And the red-glow of the Galbar’s blood was overbrim in the bottom, a feverish lake of fire, and its red glow likewise banished darkness. The air itself simmered from the calidity.

Tlanextic lumbered to a ledge imminent above the bubbling lava. Aides made to bring whetted granite chisels and an obsidian bodkin, but the Tlatoani reared up to stand on only four claws, and used one of his foremost to wave them away. No more bleeding.

”Hist! Hear ye?” the lord quoth, and thousands of salamanders affirmed with cheer or roar. Inly Tlanextic began to grow afeared, but the Great Sun’s assurances helped to banish the seeds of those poisoned thoughts before they could sprout. ”My time is forby,” he declared suddenly, a statement that shocked them all into silence. The bubbling of the lava and hiss of its volcanic gases were all that sounded.

”Ye rejoice; meseems not one but two spirits grace us,” he continued, one molten eye flickering to spot the silhouette of Ea Nebel where she had stood in one of the few shaded alcoves.

The maiden stood silent, then revealed herself with dignity: a slim Tletzintli, her face covered with fibreglass woven as finely as tetlacuicitl-wool, and bright bangles of moonstone on her wrists. Under the veil, none could see her alien eyes which did not shine, nor that they faced not the crowd, but the Great Sun.

“By the grace of the Highest God, let the sacrifice proceed,” she said, and all heard her river-soft voice.

The Great Sun let loose a warm smile as Ea Nebel let herself be known to the masses, His head giving her an affirmative nod before the almighty gaze shifted over those under Tlanextic’s reign. When He spoke, the voice boomed and yet was soft, all within the Empire could hear and all would be graced by the Monarch of All’s words as the gentle words swayed within the breeze that carried it.

”Know, children of Yoliyachicoztl, that you have prospered under Tlanextic’s rule, for it is he who had banished the Smoking Demon. Know that it was he who fought where others could not. O’ mighty Tlanextic, may your sacrifice keep the great beast from awakening for generations to come, and may you serve by my side forever longer as you ascend to the Sun.”

”Let my yearn be discovered,” Tlanextic boomed, ”I hight lief Yaotl as Tlatoani; rule hence, rule well. Take my last sacrifice – this gift – and inscribe my name, and forget not my rede.”

And then Tlanextic cast himself from the ledge, down into the brimstone. The lava did billow as his massive stony form fell upon it, but then there was nothing as he sank and his once-formidable body returned to flame. Only once the body was no more did the Great Sun look into the air, before reaching out to pluck something out of the rising gasses. There was an iridescent orb sitting within His hands, a soul, Tlanextic’s soul. Aloft He held it so that all present may witness it, to bask in its radiant glory before extending a hand to Ea Nebel and beckoning her to join Him at His side. With nary a tremble, the young goddess approached, and laid her salamandrine hand in His claw, turning once more to the people. Her form wavered, like a reflection on rippled water, and for a moment they saw her embodied as a woman in imperial regalia. Then she was one of them once more.

”Yaotl, as Tlanextic’s chosen heir, may you strive in his great footsteps and lead this empire to yet further heights!”

With that proclamation, the Great Sun and the Shrouded Maiden disappeared in a flash of light, leaving Yaotl to pick up where the First Tlatoani had left. In the sky, the sun had shifted from its zenith to pronounce the end of the monumental event for Tlanextic’s empire.

---

Upon a grassy knoll, the Monarch of All looked over Ea Nebel, His true form, albeit not as mountainous as it truly was, still stood over the Lady of the Grave. His eyes looked over her before dismissively looking away, offering not a word before speaking to the soul He held within His hands. Only when He released it to go to the Divine Palace did the Monarch of All turn back to face Ea Nebel, once more in natural form, and speak to her.

”Good day, spawn of Iqelis. It is a bit early for us to be meeting. Though, that is not an issue. Pray tell, why were you in Tlanextic’s empire?”

“Sire,” Ea Nebel curtsied in her gown and held the pose. “I wanted to see what happens when a demi-god dies.”

The Monarch of All let out a cruel laugh, almost mocking the assumption that Tlanextic had truly been of the divine without holding a shard. The four arms of His form each grew long claws as He stepped towards the smaller goddess, casting a long shadow over her form. He let out a nearly frustrated sigh as He could not bring His true menace to bear against one who did not deserve His ire. The claws slowly receded back into His hands. He spoke slowly, His voice carrying with it a neutrality as His supposed animosity subsided.

”Tlanextic was not a true Demi-God. He was surely powerful, and soaked in divine energy, but he was not one such as yourself.”

She nodded slowly. “You honoured him very highly. His reign must have been great...” She looked up and held the innumerable nameless colours of His eyes firmly in her gaze for the first time. Only for a moment. Only through the veil. “Who else on this Galbar could possibly have earned such a privilege?”

”None have proven themselves enough. Tlanextic has done a great service for me and my realm by banishing one of my ancient enemies. No mere mortal could perform such a feat. Yet…”

The Monarch of All looked away as a pang of guilt overtook Him and He spoke in a saddening tone filled with that same guilt.

”I am sorry that it is you that must answer for your father’s crimes.”

Ea Nebel blinked, stiffened a little. “I… understand that he has slain the god, Aletheseus. I can only imagine that it was in his nature.” She tugged a little on the wide skirt of her gown, fingers curling in against the black lace of her glove. “It was before I was- born. I only know what I’ve been told.”

It was then that He let out a small sigh, looking to the skies and trying to speak more about why He had done what He had to Ea Nebel. Yet, none of His years of rulership had made Him ready to face what He was currently dealing with. For once, the great Monarch of All was stuttering over his words before two for His hands went to rub the sides of His head. Knowing that He had to tell Ea Nebel to free Himself of the feeling, He spoke in a slow voice.

”I have imposed a punishment upon Iqelis, one which would ultimately determine your fate, for that crime. I know that you do not yet know of what I speak, but in due time you will. I will not tell you what it is that you must do. What I have required of Iqelis to do to you.”

Ea Nebel’s hands tightened into fists on the silk of her gown. She could not unclench them. “Very- Very well. Sire. My father and I will suffer his just punishment together. I trust that your judgement will be both fair and wise.” A bead of milky sweat like candle-wax had formed on her forehead. “Is there anything else that I should know?”

Within a moment, the Monarch of All was sat upon one knee with His eyes gazing sadly upon Ea Nebel, unable to meet her gaze. Raising an arm, He tore loose a length of fabric from His own cloak, just large enough to fit around Ea Nebel’s form. It was there that He threw it around her, only then able to meet her gaze.

”Know that while I cannot tell you of what you might face, you can be prepared for it. This- it will allow you to make even the fiercest and most vile of creatures enjoy your presence, so long as you bear no hate in your heart.”

Ea Nebel shivered a little as the shawl settled on her shoulders, lifting its edge to her gaze with trembling hands. The entire surface was like a portal into a kaleidoscope world of many-coloured forms and patterns. Every angle of it showed a new parallax of hue, even as she moved. “Thank you,” she said, feeling oddly exposed under the cover of a garment so bright, “Grandfather.”

Grandfather.

That was a title that the Monarch of All did not think that He would have heard from the likes of someone whom He felt had been wronged. He froze, unable to know what to think of the word, unable to accept family from someone so below His station. Family had been forfeit for Him since He had taken up the name and station that was the Monarch of All. Yet He spoke not against the word- ‘Grandfather’- truly not knowing what to say. He knew not of whether or not to consider Ea Nebel as family, as He knew not of whether or not to even consider the gods themselves as His family. The Monarch of All rose away from Ea Nebel and spoke to Her.

”I- I shall be watching over you, Ea Nebel.”

For her part, she could only nod, and then, of course, curtsy. It would soon be time for her to depart.

And so the Monarch of All returned to His hall and climbed atop the Jade Throne with a troubled brow. Finally, He cleared his mind, and called out, "Arvum, your works have not gone unnoticed; you, who Taught Man to Toil, are to be honored. I would give offer unto you a courtyard in my own palace, if only you will cultivate it into a worthy garden. And Zenia, Soul of Joy, I would like to see you in these troubled times."

---

It knew nothing but pain. Burning, biting pain. It could not escape the agony. Not as it’s fur burned away to crispy skin, nor after blackened chunks of flesh ripped apart with each cruel step.

It screamed.

Then it tumbled over rock and stone, plunging into an abyss. It hit water cold, as a fiery malignant mass, extinguishing the flames in a blink. Yet the sensation of burning did not leave, like a thousand pinpricks of hungry hate.

It knew not how long it sank, or how long it drifted in the deep, but the colder it got, the better.

Despite the pain, it sensed death and another pain flared because it was hungry.

Ever hungry.

So it pressed on, leaving the husk of that burned thing behind in the water. It had tried before, oh so many times to leave, but the burning would have consumed it to ash. But now, it was free.

Never free.

It drifted in the water, the light of the sun becoming more and more apparent as the watery floor met it. All the time, the feeling of immolation never left its senses. Then it saw death. A small, scaly thing, decaying and preyed upon by smaller things as the water rushed by. It found more, so many more, with the smallest of orbs floating like the stars. Life growing within.

It cared for life. For life brought an end to the hunger, for a time. So it went into the dead fish. For fish were what skimmed in the waters, the most elusive sustenance. The blackened spirit was diminished in size and strength by the burning and thus it fit right at home within its newest host carcass.

It was a new purpose.

So it fed and gained strength.

This went on for many moons, as more and more life came hither to his maw. Dying in droves before he could even reach them. He swam with death for they were kin and he ate, never fulfilled. Then one day there came the rushing of water, like the power of that dread kin, and it swept him away.

Far, far away.

There was no point in fighting, yet it did so for it knew not what else to do but lash out in the face of that which stole its food.

The flood as it were, eventually began to subside and the fish that it was, continued on in search of prey with little direction in mind.

The water began to turn, growing wider and deeper as the taste changed. What was fresh grew with salt but it did not seem to mind until its form broke apart by those waters and thus the change was felt.

So it adapted, jumping from carcass to carcass. There were many in those waters. Some fresh, some dying, some already dead. Feasted upon by multitudes of fish, crustaceans and other creatures that swam in the depths where even it dared not to linger.

It drudged on, finding a way to survive in the endless blue by allowing itself to be eaten, before killing its host and inhabiting a fresh body. It saw many sights in those days and heard many voices, songs and hated melodies. There were giants that swam without care, larger than any it had ever seen that had walked upon land. They avoided it as his stench only brought danger time and time again. There were also vast multitudes of colorful rainbow-like fish that swarmed the waters. Despised adversaries, as they were not scared of its stench but hungered for it. Many a time it would flee only to be sucked apart and eaten. Each and every time its spirit would diminish in strength until it was forced to hide. A relief came when their presence faded and it was at last able to gain strength once more.

He grew stronger.

For all the wandering, the eating, the hungering and his battles- They brought about an awareness gleaned through a crucible of struggle. He hated that struggle. For it was ever a perpetual cycle, driven only by his unending hunger. A hunger brought by the one who cursed him.

The plague god.

He hated the plague god with all his spirit. He hated the kin who denied him his meal. He hated the morsel that burned him. He hated the colorfish that nibbled on his spirit, he hated the giants with their songs, he hated the dancing fish that he could not catch and he hated the ocean.

He was not a predator here. He was prey. It was time for a change.

Yet awareness was a fickle thing at that time, and it came and went. Lucidity depended upon the state of his hunger. For it was endless as that which he swam through. Either bountiful, splendid when teeming or fathomless and empty as his soul. Still his appetite begged him ever on.

Time went on.

Then there came a gradual change. Where the waters became shallow with warmth. By then he had grown accustomed to the churning temperatures of the sea but this felt better. He did not like the warm but his fel eyes did not spot flame, which even he dreaded and that was all that mattered. Corals came with small fish, unlike the giants where he came from. Rocky outcroppings gave way to sand and at long last, a verdant land splayed before him.

Ripe for the taking.

To shed his watery form, he would need a carcass. One more suited for land. The form he wore currently had been a large predator. Full of sharp teeth for rending flesh, with fins to cut through the water and a tail to propel ever on. Now decayed, twisted and blackened as he.

Though he was large, he swam through narrow channels, heading up intakes and rivers in this quest. He saw many creatures drinking and swimming, all far too small for his needs and much too out of reach to satiate his hunger. He eyed the shores when he could, taking in the sights. It all felt… Wrong. Much too small.

Too peaceful. He hated that too.

It was not until dusk that his opportunity finally arrived. An antlered prince with his court, paltry to any he had seen in his memory.

But it would do.

With an explosive burst of speed, he launched forth from the water before they could react and in an instant with but one bite- It was all over.

And it was a beginning.

---

It was a silent night.

Not even the wind yet stirred amongst the Eidolon Plains, not even the great saltlands to the south of a lonely tribe, which consisted of not even fifty souls, stirred in that silent night. It was still dark as well, the great and indomidatable clouds over them had yet to disappear and it had not for untold suns; suns, which not even they could not track. They had been surviving but just barely - herds feeding on what long grasses could be found along the plains’ southern border, not that there was much to begin with. Despite the situation, the people of the tribe slept soundly enough knowing that they would just need to continue their trek to the east.

Yet, it was that dead of night where an Eidolon stumbled out of the salt-filled deserts, on the verge of starvation and dehydration with the prospect of death quickly following behind him. This did not go unnoticed by a sentry, a scrawny man by the name of Asur, who roused the sleeping people before running to the aid of the man from the desert. Once the sentry reached the man, the stranger collapsed and fell into the arms of Asur who looked back and with a worried voice, “Water! Grab water!”

As someone ran to fetch the life-giving substance, Asur was able to look upon the man and notice how beautiful that he truly was, even in this state of near death. He was transfixed on the man for a moment until another had come barring a small bowl of water of which the stranger eagerly drank and in its entirety before two others came to take the stranger away for some much needed rest. Yet, Asur’s eyes could not stop looking upon the beautiful man, staring upon the man until he was out of sight and then roused from a hand shaking his shoulder.

“Asur, are you okay?” asked a familiar voice.

He turned his head to meet the view of his woman, Styx, who had given him a worried look due to his blatant dissociation. His response required no words as he took her bronze-skinned hand before bringing it to his cheek and giving it a singular kiss. Asur gave her a warm smile that was all the answer that she needed, allowing a moment to pass before she would take back her hand and begin walking back to the tribe. His mind began to travel back to the aesthetic man getting lost in trance once more; ponderance had begun to take his mind as the strange person consumed his thoughts.

’How could a being be so beautiful?’

That was the question to which Asur pondered as his mind tried to wrap around the man as it was less so that the man in question was extremely attractive. Rather, the man was simply unnaturally beautiful, so much so that he did not even look to be a true Eidolon but a replication of one of his own kind. Perhaps he was being too harsh in his line of thinking, but one could never be too sure during these dark times where the unnatural loomed around every petal of grass. It just seemed so strange that an Eidolon would come from the salt desert, to which no life could go into without dying; where only the dead of his tribe would venture out to. Asur had his suspicions, but he was taken away from his thoughts when the clouds began to give way to a full moon, bathing the plains in its beautiful light.

Asur could almost smile, though a shrill scream cut through his relief before further screaming and yelling came from his people. He stood frozen as he saw dozens of abominations lung from the tall grasses, chasing down any and all in their path. The creatures had fangs longer than any creature he had seen and their visages were more terrifying than any darkness that he could have lived through. For that reason, Asur remained glued to his place, unable to move as he witnessed the creatures pounce upon person after person and drain them of their life force by piercing their fangs into their bodies like savage beasts. The worst part was that Asur knew that there was little that he could have done to save any of his kinsmen, unable to even think of what could be done in the situation.

Then he saw him. That so elegant man, stepping away from the slaughter and approaching the stunned Asur with malice and evil deep within his smile, within his eyes. No, this man did not look as if he were upon death's feet; he was death incarnate, come to kill him for his cowardice of leaving his people to their fates. Yet, the man’s visage began to shift with bones snapping out of place as he walked, gait becoming predatory and eyes becoming nothing more than blackened beads, fangs growing and maw opening, back elongating in an unsightly arch. His finger grew into claws and his skin became taught and skeletal. Truly, this was the silhouette of death itself so terrifying and evil that Asur could do nothing but stare and make noises that only came from a cowards lips.

He knew that he must fight for his survival! He knew that he must fight just as his ancestors and his kinsman would have!

Yet, Asur was not his ancestors nor was he his brave kinsman whom he could hear fighting to drive away these monsters. All he could do was swallow his own spit whilst taking a step back, only to lose his balance and fall backwards. It was then that the terrible man lunger upon the form of Asur, sinking his fangs deep within him to draw out the life force of the Eidolon. Asur let out a scream as he thrashed, kicking and punching with all the might that he could muster, trying to survive. However, each passing second brought with it further strain, yet further bleariness as he felt his life ebbing away. There was nothing that he could do to save himself.

So, he gave in. His arms fell to his sides and his legs collapsed as his breathing began to slow. Asur looked upon the beast that drank from his heart and all he could see was beauty. Beauty was terrible, it was naught but death and hunger that stalked in the night.

The man, his murderer; he was beautiful.

And so the night was silent.

Unnatural Selection

To visit old feeding grounds was a cathartic thing, especially for such a god as Yesaris. And there was nothing more cathartic than the realm of the hivelands, the site of their crash upon the Galbar. And their favored spawn had certainly done them proud. The fungal hive had spread rapidly ever since its first creation, its roots and mycelium stretching beyond their crater home. Trees dominated by the wide brims of fungal sporocarps, beasts made twisted mockeries of their forms, sporocarps pushing through their skin and bones, and great fungal cores organized it all, it was truly beautiful. But, there were still problems.

First, there was that annoying desert of salt, its heat cooked their spawn alive, there was nothing to eat or consume and even if every last inch of it was poisoned, and if you didn’t watch your step, it would explode! It was a barrier the hive could not pass, yet, it was one they would need to find a way to break or go around, as the grounds of uncorrupted lands were dwindling rapidly, and the only other options to go beyond was the ocean, which their favored spawn were not equipped enough to traverse.

Then, there were those beings of stone and dirt, it was clear to Yesaris the mark of their kin of the earth, and they had chosen to take note of that, as these grand beasts of stone were pains in their plans. Fighting back the infections from their spawn, destroying Hive Cores and causing havoc whenever the hive tried to expand. This was a serious problem, and if these beings became powerful enough, they might even threaten the hive itself, this, this would not do.

As they stared upon the first hive core, its massive bulb suspended above a small lake deep in the crater, its fungal form pulsing with life. They tried to figure out a solution. The hive needed more power, they were trapped in their confines and faced with extinction, but more power would surely mean the attention of their kin, and there was little doubt in the Lord Parasite’s mind that if the hive was a great threat, the kin would not be hesitant to strike it down. They needed something more, subtle, and not as overt.

Their gaze was drawn towards one of the beast forms as it drank from the putrid, algae filled, lake. It’s feline body was covered by the sporocarps that broke through its skin, dried blood caked upon its fur. Yesaris began to ponder this, perhaps, was there a way to twist the natural world to their advantage? They were a parasite after all, it was only in their nature to do such things. Yes, yes, this would do, perhaps they could just, speed up some natural processes. Perfect.

Yesaris grasped at their mouth once more, emanating a retching sound as their chest heaved. Slowly, a pale yellow sludge began to fall from their mouth into their waiting hands, soon, there was more than enough for their plans, and they yanked their mouth closed once more. Digging through the dirt that laid beneath them, they soon found what they were looking for, the large and extensive mycelium network that ran through the entire region, keeping the Fungal Hive connected. Grasping it in between their claw hands, they smeared the sludge along its length, allowing the substance to fuse along the network, its pale yellow stain soon coming to pulse alongside the white glow of the fungus.

The effects were quick to take effect, the beast form just nearby began to convulse and twist, bones snapped, elongating, only to be forced to fuse back into place, what remained of its flesh strained and cracked in efforts to keep up with the growth, a sickly blood pouring forth, drenching its rotten matted fur in its dark red colouration. Soon, the beast was larger than before, its maw filled with teeth and a jaw that could crunch stone when needed, its body able to take more blows.

The Lord Parasite couldn’t help but widen their smile at the presentation, exactly what they had wanted. They had, in short, twisted the natural process of mutation into something far more, beneficial. The hive did not reproduce, so it would have to be sped up some, happening to any being connected to the greater network and thought, its effects were still random though, merely influenced by what the hive was dealing with, and not all would be beneficial to the hive. But, this would certainly do, it was something more to aid it.

Content, Yesaris arose, as much as they enjoyed being around their favored spawn, things needed to be done. There were still lands that had yet to see their beautiful creations to their full power. And that, needed to change.

In the calm and even seas, Rosalind the Feverfoot rowed her boat. The sun shone gently and skies were blue, and a joyous breeze played with her hair of twilight as the salty fragrance - for she loved it! - tickled her small browned nose. Her oar disappeared into the waters - the liquid parting, dancing, laughing around it - and the boat moved that little bit more towards its destination, carried by the bobbing waves. All had been peace since her encounter with the Exile.

From time to time, when the trembling of her feet became nearly overwhelming, she stood up in the boat and allowed herself - with no small amount of fear - to dance gently there. She danced like shy waves and gentle skies. She danced like a beaming sun and leaping rays. She danced like little joys and innocence, like the forgetting of past wrongs and pain. She danced like sweet, little joys.

It did not satiate the fever in her feet, but it was enough to keep the terrifying conflagration of fevered dancing - that uncontrollable and destructive motion - sleeping, simmering, for a while. She danced a little, she rowed a little, she beheld the liquid carpet around her and the great blue one above. She counted stars and sighed for starlight - wondered how the great blue carpet of the heavens turned to darkness and the one that flowed about her turned to blackness in the night.

Any other person, perhaps, would have found the whole thing frightening - all alone upon the ocean with naught but a boat and her clothes. But Rosalind rather liked it. Here, alone, away from others, she was a danger to no one - she could dance her little dances, little dances of sweet joys, and cause no pain to another or herself be brought to pain. Here there was no great risk that some sudden change would so astound her that her feet - without any warning - would leap up and start their dancing, start that motion of horror, movements rippling, darting, piercing. Cadence of her ancient terror.

No, here there was peace. And beyond here was the cold head of Galbar and her cure. All, she sighed with joy to know, was going to be well.

_mahm

The sound had never really not been there, but suddenly she heard- or rather, felt- or rather, even, lived it. It rumbled through the water, the air, the world - and more than anything, it rumbled through her being.

_{mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm, mmahng}

It was not an unfamiliar sound by any means, and it was not an unwelcome one either. She glanced about, trying to find the source of the sound somewhere on the waters, in the heavens.

_{pfsht! pfwush!}

In the waters.

mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm...

Her head turned from side to side and her eyes darted. And then she leaned over, her bangles jangling and her tresses falling and flying as the waves grew more tempestuous and the boat was rocked and tested.

And then there it was, a shadow below her, a shadow all around her, a cloud in the ocean whose shape could not be mistaken. So close was the whale, so vast, that she could hear the voice in its throat even through the air, almost a bark, almost a chirrup, slow and impossibly deep. The whale itself was barely an arm’s length below her. Rosalind could see the faded markings of its skin. Its gentlest motion rocked the boat above, like a feather in light breeze.

She gave off a small squeak of sudden fear, a rational moment amidst emotions of awe and wonder - and no sooner had the sound left her mouth then her feet were trembling beneath, tapping tapping tapping tapping. She turned to them in sudden horror, glanced again at the rising shadow, rose to her feet and tried to dance, but only stumbled, tripped and fell down - jangling, rustling, crying out in shocked frustration. All about the waves were rising, rising rising with the shadow.

And then the waves ceased, for there was no more water. The boat heaved once and then rocked no more. It had settled, though there was no beach or shore, and around her was a little island, smooth and black and glistening, adorned with neither sand nor stone.

PFASHT!

Hot steam erupted from the whale’s blowhole. The plume, tall and straight as a pine, was swiftly dispersed on the sea breeze, washing away the potent stench of seafood. It did not dive. It basked there in the merry sun, carrying along Rosalind’s boat as though it were a pebble, its massive tail swirling the water behind at a sleepy pace.

The goddess righted herself and rose to behold the view. Not many could say - no one at all, perhaps - that they had ever been on a boat, on a whale, on the sea. She trembled and her feet - they had her now! - carried her off the little wooden structure and onto the whale’s leathery back. Her feet curled at the odd sensation of life, enormous life, beneath her.

It was only a second of stillness, however, before she leapt - gasped - and paused. Then tip-tapped forward - swiftly - skin of foot on skin of back, then paused. Then twirled to the jangle of bracelets and the breathing of her great skirt, then paused. It was as exhilarating as it was terrifying - her feet were light and loose, her torso tensed with fear. And then she darted forward and, with a sweeping pirouette, disappeared - spinning, shrinking, evaporating - down the blowhole of the whale.

All was quiet on the surface of the waters. The whale flared its blowhole briefly, spouted a confused puff of steam from its itching nostrils, then closed the hole, arched its body downwards, and dived, thoughtlessly flicking the empty boat with its tail.

And then there was no longer any sign of either of them.



Now, the normal order of business for any creature’s trip through the interior of a whale is rather replete with introductions to numerous coatings of saliva and various kinds of gastric juices. Even those who take the somewhat odd route starting with the blowhole can expect a rather pungent welcome followed by swift eviction (or, failing that, they will be swiftly booked in for a one-off introductory session with contracting muscles pulverising one’s form from all directions).

Rosalind, however, did not suffer any of that. While no one has (yet) come to truly understand how or why she suddenly shrank, vapourised and found herself flushed down the whale’s blowhole, it was not an experience that she would very soon (or ever) forget. And, indeed, these matters should not be overly studied; one should rather rest in the foreknowledge that such inexplicable oddities are bound to happen from time to time and are of the many peculiarities that make the world so exciting, wonderful, and (for Rosalind) terrifying.

It was made truly unforgettable - as I, being intimately familiar with Rosalind’s history, can conjecture - by the faint but conspicuous sprinklings of Yudaiel that lay scattered all across the Feverfoot’s physical and metaphysical being. As the Feverfoot moved and feverishly rippled through the whale,^[1] the scatterings of Yudaiel within her made it so she did not just see and feel the whale, but for a time there she was the whale; that was her motion on the currents, that her skin against the waters, that her sight and those - those her memories.^[2]

The first thing that Rosalind saw in the whale was, in fact, the beginning of memory.^[3] Out of the darkness of forgetfulness the whale rose so that for a time it danced and sang alongside its mother, but then - before it was full-grown even - it boldly struck out alone. This was the flame of youth and lust for adventure, and as the whale swam - being then the singular light gliding through the darkness of forgetting - it sang out night after night, in sunlight and in moon: mmam, mmang. mmam, mmang. mmam, mmam, mmam, mmam, mmam, mmam…

Its throat had voiced this sound long ago, but only at that moment - as the Feverfoot comprehended it and motioned it - he comprehended it and understood it. Mmammmang, Mammang, Mamang; it was his name. It had always been his name. He had always known it was his name - his fin, his tail, his eye, his lips; all had known that to be their name.

The Feverfoot shifted, rippled, and continued seeing and becoming. She saw, as he saw, the curiosity that was the hole in the ocean, and the death it promised - the curiosity that was the Exile in the boat, and the death it promised. Knowledge - experience - not sin, was the natural death of innocence and the birth of fear. And fear was a good, loyal, watchful friend; this wisdom Rosalind had learned; this wisdom, too, was Mamang’s.

There, in the mind and memory of the whale, were the words of gods. How they had lodged themselves in there is another of those peculiarities of the world - words from the Moon, words from the Apostate, and, clearest of all, words from Ruina, speaking of Iqelis, words of war and warning.



Free from woe now - made less innocent, true, but joyous once again far from the island of air - Rosamamang^[4] chased the calls of friends in shallower waters, pushed past the surface and beheld the moon and far horizons. It was not curiosity this time, but lack of caution - the great explosion of the Eye (he had known it was the Eye even then, he knew it more so now, Yudaiel the Eye, Yudaiel the Eye) had punctured his ear and burned up his face. He watched the red goddess dance and sing in the aftermath, and he thought - and he had not thought it back then, but he thought it with the Feverfoot who thought it now - that it was right and good to dance for the dead. All who died deserved a final death dance.

It was lonely for a time then, lonely to return to the waters of childhood and neither hear the song of his mother nor feel youthful purity and cleanliness. He drifted, in a stupor, past the deathsong of orcas which, when last he tasted these waters, would have sent him fleeing into the protective under-fin of his mother. Of no danger were they to him now. But sick at heart, sick in form was he, burdened and unclean, liced and wormed was he. And so the memory of that strange ice spirit was sweet on Rosamamang’s mind, and he lingered on it as it cleansed and purified his form and in his heart - and he had never conceived this thing until now, never until the Feverfoot conceived it, moved it in his heart and mind - he was grateful. He had never quite realised that he felt, either, but now his eye seemed to gaze on his inner self even as the Feverfoot gazed, and he beheld emotion.

He watched then, as Rosalind saw, how he waxed mighty, how he challenged the greatest bulls, how in the battle season he could have, had he so wished, thrown himself into the company of his kind - company, mind you, for which he yearned - and still withdrew. He was older now, it was true, he had been gnawed at by the tooth of experience and had been burned by fear, but his wanderlust was greater still than the company for which he yearned. And so he threw himself eastward and greeted those friendly but distant eastern whales - for they were not of his kind. So southward he threw himself, did the whale, crossed into the strange shade of heaven before turning tail to flee from it in the company of that loyal friend, fear. Then, calmed by the call of one of its kinsmen, it crossed again with the certainty that there was nothing here to fear.

Amongst the dwarf rorquals of the south it wandered for a time, those little ones living forever, over and over, the calf’s fear of the orca and drowning - distant fears for Mamang, far off fears for that wandering whale. It travelled southward still, to waters that no whale wandered, putrid waters of green death - and he had never known green to be anything but life! Through pain and anger he beat his form, listened to the stationary song of whales in the farthest south (though how could they be whales? What whale sang such stillness?) He swam through that pain, swam through the death of his layers of skin and all that lived on it, till he came to the churning malice that painted the water with unlife.

It was not fear that caused him to turn away then, sick and starving though he was and with much reason to fear. Perhaps it was caution, for that was something his wandering - the loss of his ear - had taught him. Perhaps, having gained that wisdom, he turned away for purer waters where his skin was healed and he could feed and wander among the living and so return to life. He travelled back to familiar shores and his song, song of the world-wanderer, beat back every brazen bachelor when summer and the call of mates was nigh.

He stayed, then, with his kind for a time - and his place was one of honour, world-wanderer that he was! - so that when the red goddess (that is, gentle reader, Homura) passed by with her giants walking unnaturally through the water, Mamang won the feast while the others chased the giant legs. These were sorcerous seas, Mamang knew and Rosalind now knew too; they were lucky indeed who had only stumbled on a murderous Exile or fallen down the blowhole of a whale. They were lucky, also, though not as lucky, who had crossed the Royal hound - and Mamang knew then, as Rosalind motioned, that the Royalty above the hound was the Monarch. And Rosalind’s motion was fear - for the Monarch was fear, just as his hound was fear. Those who had survived the hound were as lucky as those who had survived its master.

And luck was an odd thing, Rosalind - and Mamang, too - had learned. Luck was like those little furred things drifting - dying - on wood in the middle of the ocean, preyed on by the weathers and sharks. He had circled them, watched them, and returned after feeding. He had heard their song and cry, felt their distress, and perhaps the paternal instinct in him had bid him stay and protect. Odd things with great flat tails - except one, whose tail and manner differed from the others. Still, he saw them to safety, those distressed calves of the dry places.

And once he had done so, he went a-wandering - for he was the incarnation of the wanderlust - and watched odd creatures that had (very suddenly, oh so sorcerously!) emerged. He ate of the godfish, glutted his hunger and felt power and vitality rush through him as had never done so before - not even at the height of his youth. But it was only for a short while; in the wake of the godfish came others. He had seen the dancerfish before, eaten his fill of them even, but never these laektears.

While their coming spelled the end of the age of plenty and the dawn of the age of fear, this here too was a wisdom - even in the manner godfish preyed on laektear as laektear preyed on godfish. All things were restored to balance - and they, the tribe of the whales, were now also restored to balance. They would still wander, but now the fear of the calf years would be a lifelong fear. In his heart Rosamamang wept that this should be, but knew, then, that these godfish, these laektears, were to whales as bangles on the wrists of a goddess wildly dancing the end of all things.

And it was only right that he should know - for had they not swum together, and were they not swimming even now, beneath a clouded sky and within a bloody sea in which even the imperial Sun Himself had been humbled? Of smoke-filled trenches the lady within Rosamamang knew little, and of gods the whale knew only dance. But he had tasted the burning ichor. He had smelled the iron and the hatred. That fog was dispersing now, as they travelled, their united wisdom whispering clues of a mystery best left in the depths.

So, as their single vision turned at last to the moments they were living, the movement that was Rosalind formed up and greeted the whale - a strange greeting from one to oneself, for they were one another though they had never met.

Mmang, said the whale. He said it to himself, as much as he said it to all things in creation, to every fish^[5], and even to the curious dance that had taken seat inside him. It was all he ever said. It was all he would ever need to say.

So he said it with love.

And love was as novel to the goddess-motion as it was to the whale, and as it dawned on both of them it coloured - in one momentous instant - the entirety of their lives. Love danced in those far-off memories of mother and son, cow and calf; it danced in the jangling of red-gold bangles; it danced in the lust for new waters, new sights, new sounds; it danced in the soft forgiveness of an Eye; it danced in the anger towards sorcerous things spewing green unlife; it danced in a dreamborn boat; it danced in a stranger spirit’s cleansing of a stranger whale’s skin; it danced in the breaking form, the furious gaze, the rocky smile, of an earthy god; it danced in the mind and body of a whale in whose motions moved a god.

The goddess moving in the fin moving in the sea moved differently after the discovery of love. The whale flowing in the waters flowing in the great valleys of the world flowed differently after the discovery of love. The change within was clear in their cadence, and it was clear on all things. The currents of after-love were not the currents of before-love and the fishes and orcas and- all things of before-love were not those of after-love. It was impossible to know whether the change was simply in their mind or in their dance or in everything - difficult to know if mere knowledge had changed their motions so, had changed the world so.

Trembling feverishly and filled with wonder, the Feverfoot within the whale drew itself in and curled up on itself again and again until - still curling, still turning, still spinning further and further into itself and the whale - it nestled deep inside the great, broad, expansive heart of Mamang. And by all things, was he a big-hearted whale! There was space enough for an entire god in there - and, though none need believe the claim, there was space enough for even the world in there.

In this way nestled - the Feverfoot nestled in the Feverfoot and Mamang nestled in Mamang and whale and god, made one, nestled one in the other - there descended on them a quite different vision. It was not one of the past, for they had encompassed their now-shared past in knowledge and experience. It was rather a vision of death - a vision, that is, of the future.

Some may think it quite convenient to sit and write past prophecies of things which, to us now, are merely history. It is all too easy to sit and declare: ah, but so-and-so predicted that we would sit and speak of just this matter; or so-and-so predicted that past victory or that past defeat or that past birth. But if it is not sufficient enough for the critical reader that this is near enough to a primary account as we can have, then I do not know what manner of evidence will suffice.

So it was a prophecy of death. Now, the certainty of death is known to all, but it was a source of especial consternation to the Feverfoot in the whale - who, I should remind the reader, had only moments before learned and been awed by the idea of love. Whether she realised it or whether she did not, Rosalind pulsed then within the heart of the whale, bubbled and rippled - and was carried away, quite unawares, with the flowing hot blood of that giant. She became that flow, that movement, that cadence; she became the dance of blood through arteries of back, of stomach, of tail, of fin, of mouth, by blubber. The flow of bluest blood she was through veins returning, rising, gushing, flowing past capillaries, reddening, brightening, laughing. She was the movement of air from bluest blood, through thinnest walls, into the greatest of all lungs. And even as she was gathered up inside the lungs of Mamang, something of her remained - in his heart, in those arteries and veins, dancing in his fins, in that tail, flowing endlessly, moving ceaselessly, gyring tirelessly; the deathless dance that was Mamang.



PFASHT!

The back of the whale broke the wind-stirred water’s surface with barely a ripple. His flukes dipped back down under the surface with only a little splash. The season had been cold, then warm, then cool again. Now they were in the northern havens once more, and Mamang could only lift his head and spy the far peak of that friendly island, from which little things with little feet would crawl into the ocean to listen to him. And now they could watch, too. The Rosamamang dance is a splendid storied dance- isn’t it?

PHWUSH!

Another tall plume of steam blew away on the crisp wind. The whale-and-god approached a shore, where white birds wheeled and squawked their boundary-song between the land and sea. Their story now had swirled together like the waters of two oceans, and somewhere in its verses, written into Rosamamang’s blood and lungs and all over the secret folds of their singing throat, was an ending.

The dance of the dancers grew in the whale’s muscles, one final trembling tension, and he lay there in the shallows, a great and perfect silhouette, holding the final pose, and then- he breached with all his might.

For a single timeless moment, they were a white fountain of sun and whale, visible from horizon to horizon.

When they fell at last, the sound was heard for miles, and waves swamped the shore as though whipped by a gale. Mamang lay in the waters, sinking, exhausted, and completely relaxed, as the curtain of seafoam fell on him, his last bow taken, his marathon run. He stirred his tail, and his tired head peeked once more above the shallow waters. And when he caught his breath-

PFWOOSH!

And Rosalind was there under his plume, veiled by fog, obscured by a rainbow. Her hair of dusk unrolled first, like a great tapestry across the heavens. Then her spiralling skirt of velvet turned in the air blow it, followed in swift succession by the rest of the goddess. Her bangles were the very last to form about her wrists, and as they did so a single bracelet of red and gold formed about Mamang’s caudal peduncle. The goddess beamed down at him for brief moments, and then she was carried off on a breeze - light as a feather, flowing like air - and had soon disappeared to that northward isle. Disappeared, that was, except for the trail of sprawling onyx strands she left behind, which stretched endlessly upward, southward, eastward, seemed almost like another layer of sky. They danced there, for a short while, with the weak northern sun rays, shivered and trembled for brief moments against the sky, and then snapped away - like a spritely young tree held down by some mischievous rascal, only to be suddenly released - to disappear after the goddess who was motion.

A wrinkled eye watched them go, and disappeared once more into the blue. He was not one for long goodbyes.

Mahm, mmang. Mahm, mmang. Mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm, mahm…

• Summary [+]

  Row, row, row your boat! Rosa rows her rowboat rosily 'round. Everything is fine and peaceful at sea. She handles the isolation well, and she can even dance in the boat.
  
  Then all of a sudden, what's this? The sound of a whale!
  
  Mamang lifts up her boat... intentionally? who knows. Rosalind's fever catches her by the feet and she starts tap-tap-tapping her way across the whale's whole back, until, with a hop, a skip and a jump, she falls right down his blowhole.
  
  Somehow, Rosa is inhaled. Yudaiel's influence on her essence contributes to her evaporating and merging with Mamang as a being of pure motion, united by dance- Rosamamang.
  
  One by one, the Rosalind within the united being revisits the memories of the now rather storied and ancient whale. She listens to his memories of singing, and the two of them discover- though, of course, they had known it all along- that the song is Mamang's name.
  
  We even see some hints of memories that have gone unposted: the whale is aware of the presence and absence of the Pariah, and has heard the shouting of Apostate and Yudaiel.
  
  Finally Rosa catches up to the present moment she is experiencing as Rosamamang, and they 'greet' one another. She listens to the whale sing and learns that he is singing with a big-hearted love, which they both learn about together. The discovery of love induces a subtle change in the whale, in his future and in everything he touches.
  
  Rosa curls up warm and cosy inside Mamang (who is in turn curled up warm and cosy inside Rosa's dance), and, while she is washed back and forth in Mamang's blood, she experiences an untold vision of the whale's death. Her dance and movement unites with the motion of Mamang's heart and blood, in a way that will remain long after that blood has ceased to flow.
  
  Rosamamang surfaces somewhere around the Academy as Rosa builds up in Mamang's lungs. About a year has passed. Their dance comes to an end off the coast of the Thousand Lakes, and Rosa leaves Mamang in a spout, insofar as either of them can ever truly leave the other. A matching bangle forms around his tail, and then she is blown away on the wind.
  
  4,236 whale points danced into being by the power of love.
  
  Total whale points: 15,233
• Vigour [+]

  Rosalind:
  

  Starting: 17 Vigour
  4 Vigour [Reduced to 2 by Dance]: Mamang, soulless, now possesses an essence of pure motion. It is not a soul, it is pure movement - dance. Should he ever die, this force will be released unto Galbar and will be able to completely reshape any region of his choosing into one of absurd cadence - dancing hills, sands, rocks, winds etc. While he will thus be a phenomenon - akin to an aurora for instance - in this state Mamang will still be able, on occasion perhaps, to exhibit what is arguably a consciousness.
  
  1 Vigour [Reduced to 0 by Dance]: Bless Mamang’s form and movements so that he swims in complete harmony with the currents of the ocean, is more agile and moves with even greater beauty, speed, and finesse.
  
  1 Vigour: Enhance Mamang’s functioning senses - his good ear, his sight, his sense of smell and taste (which tend to be rather weak in normal whales) and his echolocation sense silly Kho, only sperm whales have that!
  
  2 Vigour [Enhanced by Dance]: Transform one of Rosalind’s bracelets into the Band of the Love Dance, presently worn on Mamang’s caudal peduncle tail. It changes size as necessary for the wearer. This enables the wearer to dance in such a manner as to inspire feelings of love - in its broadest sense - in all who look upon it. This can range from simply remembering things which should engender feelings of love - e.g. a loved family member, a beautiful scene - to bringing about feelings of love, from the brotherly, to the protective, to the romantic.
  
  2 Vigour [Enhanced by Dance]: Retrospective payment for bracelet Rosalind gifted to Voligan. Transform one of Rosalind’s bracelets into the Band of the Guardian Dance. It changes size as necessary for the wearer. This band enables the wearer to execute a defensive martial dance, countering the strikes and agiley warding off anyone exhibiting aggression or hostility towards individuals or things the band-wearer deems worth protecting. Onlookers, even non-sapient or inanimate things, may also be drawn into the power of the dance and so form up to likewise protect whatever the wearer is protecting.
  
  Remaining: 10 Vigour

Ea Nebel flicked her long scarf out of her face and its tail flew off to one side, the Monarch's colours snapping in the wind like a banner. It was curious just how windy the innards of this wreck could get. A hot metal shell, seized in place, played many tricks with the desert air; here cool, here windy, here stifling and dry and full of dust. She cocked her slurbow with a windlass and shot her grappling hook up onto a high ledge, across a wide gap that had probably been a colossal hip socket.

Tug, tug. Firm enough to shimmy her way up. She hauled herself up the rope with her gear, out of the dead machine's femur and into its lower body.

Astus was everywhere here- his materials, his notes, his greasy handprints. It was quite galling. Ea Nebel had forced herself to enter by a maintenance port on the heel only after much stomping about and muttering on the cool night sand outside. 'So long as you bear no hate in your heart...' Well! She felt entitled to be a bit miffed, and her outburst, frankly, had been far too composed.

Well. What was done was done. She'd said all she needed to say. No time to bear grudges. She would work through her feelings on the Astus incident here, now, and leave them behind in the sand. She had every intention to be worthy of her grandfather's gift, no matter how...

...

...Garish. Besides, Ea Nebel was planning to build a house, and it is very bad luck to draw the shape of a house with a heart full of anger. She did not want to be reminded of this episode by the walls of her own home.

She thought all this as she walked down some kind of hydraulic chute, dragging the Doomclaw along its metal wall, its new ivory hilt snug in her gloved fist. It left a ghastly metallic screech and a gash as tall as she was, rusted to powder. Then she conjured a spiked club and buried it in every control panel she passed.

"Oh what's this?"

Treasure! Ea Nebel dropped her club and it dissolved unnoticed, her fury lost in the fun. Something shiny in a delicate socket. She pulled off her glove- her otherworldly scarf, always exactly as vivid as it was in direct sunlight, somehow did not provide any illumination whatsoever. A white flame danced on her fingertip, and there it gleamed: a bright golden ring, set with a heart of jade that glowed soft and green, like the Monarch's own throne.

"A gift!"

She slipped it on, watching glyphs of her own divine will fade in and out of the air around her fingers as she did. It was the perfect size for a woman's hand. Ea Nebel extinguished the light and rotated her wrists together, watching it glow opposite the blood diamond on her other hand.

"You really are too good to me, Voligan..."

---

Groi-groiiii.

The demigoddess didn't move. The Iron Boar scraped the dust vigorously with both its forelegs, but still, no sign that she had heard- still crouched over on knees and elbows, head stuck under a scraggly bush. This was improper. Scrounging in the dirt was his job, and he did it much better, anyway. The giant hog sniffed and wandered off.

Ea Nebel rested her chin firmly in her hands and watched the scene under the twigs with big-eyed fascination. What a cute bug!

It was a wasp. Not a hornet or a yellowjacket or some other stinger-happy eusocialite with an obnoxious sweet tooth. A proper wasp, built like a bull-ant, with spindly splayed legs and a narrow body, marked here and there with the most brilliant orange. Even the wings were tinted. And a big wasp, at that. It marched staunchly on over the gritty, twiggy sand, dragging with it a twitching huntsman spider bigger than Nebel's palm. What a splendid insect!

She reached out slowly with her pointing finger, and it dropped its catch immediately, scurrying and buzzing back and forth around it in angry semicircles. She withdrew her hand and it went back to its business. She summoned the Monarch's scarf onto her neck (she couldn't wear it all the time, good heavens) and held it with her other hand. This time, the wasp let her stroke its wing.

It was a mud-dauber, she learned. A gravid female.

Ea Nebel had no desire to be interrupted while she built her house, especially with another massacre, so she wandered the earth seeking a fitting slave to help her intern bodies in her absence. Her delightful babiruša pigs were more than willing to help, were it not unforgivably lazy to leave any cadaver in her care to a shallow dirt grave dug by swine. As for the hagfish... she was surprised they even left bones. Very clean bones.

But the mudwasp was perfect!

She tapped the busy mother gently on the thorax and a stiff, rubbery clone fell out of her. Ea Nebel pulled it into the sun and left the wasp to her work. She wasn't sure quite what god or goddess had built such an exquisite animal. The life mother, Phelenia? Whatever. She drew a wide magic circle around the effigy, clapped her hands, pulled them apart, and enlarged it to the size of a coyote.

When Ea Nebel was finished her happy little dance around the sunny circle, the tombwasp's front feet had turned white, like gloves, and everything else about it was black. Even the wings neatly folded over its back were black, with a faint bluish iridescence, like rock-oil. She ducked back under the bush to see what the mudwasp was up to. The spider was gone, encased in a neat clay sarcophagus, like a pot, to which the mother was constructing a lid. All done! Just like me!

She tapped the tombwasp's forehead twice and one soul flew into each of its colourless eyes, lighting them up with a pale blue glow. It whirred its wings and pattered about, taking in the world with its huge eyes.

"The second soul is gratis, but you'll only be able to make one for each of your eggs. You'll have to find more for your babies. Only intelligent souls will do. Your soul is feeding you with mana right now, see, and only mortal souls accumulate enough of it. If you find a body out in the open, you can use it to summon one into your egg from... wherever they go. Am I clear?"

The tombwasp spread its wings and whirred off over the plain. The deva laughed. She wasn't worried. She'd let the giant insect keep its sting- she was of the thought that more weaponry was always better- after she'd given it an aversion to the taste of blood. That would keep it away from living targets, and leave the blood-marked Eidolon to sleep undisturbed under their shrouds.

The tired mudwasp mother buzzed away to find a meal. Ea Nebel still wasn't sure which god had designed such an elegant animal. Tuku Llantu, maybe? Perhaps Uncle Jiugui had dreamt it up in a fit of poetry and booze.

---

Within a deep cave below the ocean, somewhere between the great central mountains and the eastern continent of Orsus, Arvum continued his endless toil.

Above the ocean had formed a great island according to his will. He had named it the Serene Island, Hortus. Food, water and medicine were plentiful upon it. The air was clean and soil was fertile. Windswept meadows gave way to bountiful forests. Hot springs dotted the landscape. Honey bees flew through various fruit and tea trees to land upon a radiantly colored flower.

The island was not entirely without danger, but it was accommodating to mortals by design. Snakes roamed the grasses and ponds. Ants would bite those who trampled over their nests. Predatory birds might occasionally swoop by to scare something away their nests. The fiercest predators of the island were the various species of omnivorous bears who territorially guard their cavernous homes.

The caves were plenty with life, mostly composed of simple plants like grasses and vines, fungi, insects and fish. There were deep and labyrinthine, become more dangerous as a person climbed down them. The ground was not always stable underfoot, and the flora and fauna was less cooperative to mortal-kind. However, it was not without wonder or intrigue. Water was still plentiful in many underground reservoirs. A blue moss grow among the rock and dirt, providing illumination in certain parts of the cave. In parts of the cave, it would appear that there was sky above, while it dimly lit others portions and was absent from still others, leaving them to the darkness. There was also exotic and potent medicines which only grew within these caves.

As the cavern twist in turn, they occasionally run past the borders of the island above. In the upper regions of the underground, these tunnels connect to the surrounding sea, creating pockets of salt water where oceanic fish dwell. Even deeper these tunnels connect to the molten caves below. The heat overwhelmed these portions scouring away organic life, however the earthen plants of the magmatic environment might take root in these places.

In the deepest of these caves, Arvum stood around a lake of green primordial life - proteins, lipids and glycans forming together and breaking apart. Etched Pillars rose from the floor to support the ceiling. The wild life of the cave did not enter the sacred chamber for it was the patient god's will.

The lake embodied his domain of cultivation, however it also represented something else, his aspirations. Arvum realized that there would be times where he would need to heal the world so that life could flourish upon it. The lake stood as testament to that commitment. Merely being in its presence would help organic beings to meld themselves. However to truly benefit from the lake, one would need to bathe within it or drink of its substance. It would be able to cure mortal injury or deadly plague. He named this sacred place the Eternal Bastion.

His ambitions were still grander, but while he was confidant from mortal tampering for a time, making it more potent might draw the attention of the gods. He was not prepared to watch it over for eternity while there was work elsewhere. He raised his hand and pedestal rose from the ground. He called for the lake to begin pouring into the pedestal's basin, and he began his delicate work of shaping and empowering it. The liquid morphed to his will and formed into a singular cell, far larger than any other. In accordance to his design, its out membrane harden until it was like stone. He was even able to etch a symbol into it. Its meaning clear to any god who read it, it was the name Arvum.

He held the stone sphere within his hand. It would be a difficult task for most mortals, as it was larger than the average Homuran's palm. However a god did not truly need appendages to hold an object to them, he stored it away under his verdant cloak. Wielding the orb would mildly increase the health of the wielder. However, its true power was that it would amplify the power of the Eternal Bastion should it ever be returned to its pedestal.

After creating the artifact, the Asclepius Orb, he took some time to consider how to proceed. It was then he heard a familiar voice, "Arvum, your works have not gone unnoticed; you, who Taught Man to Toil, are to be honored. I would give offer unto you a courtyard in my own palace, if only you will cultivate it into a worthy garden..."

---

The air was being filled by bjork's screams as they watched the wall of water coming for them. It was too violent and too fast to do anything about it now. Tens if not hundreds of bjorks were swept up in the water. They were part aquatic but they were flung against rocks and trees swept up in the water as well. Soon streaks of red began to color the water as well. As the wave of the river neared its end Phelenia found a suitable branch to land upon and observe her work in the small valley behind her. Quite a few bjorks had died. More managed to survive though. This was of no worry to Phelenia. Those dredges that still lived would flee in all directions and from what she had seen, these sinner beasts were very territorial.

This was only the beginning of the strife. There would be a shortage of space and food first. After that there would be fights over who got what. Many more lives would end because of the flood. Many more bjorks had seen her as well. It would send the message: the Green Murder has returned, and this flood was its divine punishment.

As much as she reveled in the destruction and pain that she wrought, she did hope that this would serve as a lesson. She warned them before and the sinner beasts did not listen. Now she had punished them. Will they listen?

A wind began to blow, cold and fierce and though the clouds overhead threatened to bring about a snow, it never fell. What did come however was the presence of another. This time her work had not gone unnoticed to the eye of the divine. It descended as a giant, white orb from the clouds overhead. In one quick action her damage was lessened, the bjork who suffered and the dying were healed while the water, where it should not have been, was pulled into the sky. There it froze like a lance pointed at Phelenia.

"Where is my daughter?" he asked in a cold voice, a voice that demanded answers. "What have you done, Green Murder?" he spat with a vile chill.

Phelenia stared down the orb without budging a feather. Clearly whatever was floating in front of her was divine in nature like she was but she had no idea who it could possibly be. A nuisance at most, clearly. “I know nothing of your daughter, Cloud Orb.” She said, “What I have done is punish these sinner beasts for their vile habits.” She looked down at the lance that was forming in the sky. “Sadly, the lesson they were supposed to learn will now be lost to them for sure.”

"The lesson was a farce." He stated. "With cruel intent did you murder for murders sake. Now I shall ask again, where is my daughter? I heard her scream… What did you do?" his tone became rigid and like that of a father.

“You failed to listen.” Phelenia said. She still sat unmoving upon the branch. Her senses began to better understand the orb though. It was cold. Colder than regular snow or ice could ever be. Which gave her a pretty good idea of at least what part of her Father this one was made of.

And then she realized a connection. The frigid wind suddenly became awfully familiar. A pang of pain traveled through her chest. “Ah, the frostfire one.” Phelenia said, giving voice to her realization. “She perished in the hands of a foolish manbjork. The encounter was interesting.“ She hid the fact that the creature did in fact manage to harm her. She also did not speak with glee nor sorrow. She was simply stating facts. “Right now she is shattered ice swept up in the river.”

The swirling wind ceased abruptly. The clouds overhead seemed to shudder and grow quiet. The ice that formed the lance crackled in anticipation. Meanwhile the God itself stilled. Nothing could be discerned from him, for his shape held no feature, after all. But if there was any indication to the emotions he felt, the air grew colder.

It plummeted in fact.

Then all at once the frozen god burst forth towards her, heralded by the lance that exploded into slivers of sharp ice.

An eagle screech echoed through the valley as Phelenia – still in her eagle form – flew away in an instant. With supernatural speed her wings carried her through the wind towards the open ocean at the horizon.

A chase began. For the white orb was her equal in the air. He made no sound as he closed in, it just got colder. In that element there were none equal and it began to assault her. She felt the tips of her wings get colder, and colder. Moving them - something that should be effortless - became harder and harder. The frost was overtaking her. She folded her wings and went plummeting from the air.

The landing was rough. Dirt and rocks got pushed up around her as her eagle form rolled across the ground. Quickly she gathered herself again and transformed into the fastest creature possible. As a green-furred, black speckled cheetah she rushed towards the coast. If she got there she could shake him for sure.

As she ran she could hear trees break and land like mini earthquakes behind her. He was still following but he wasn't gaining. Perhaps more alarming was the care he had shown to the land upon the outset of her flood, had suddenly vanished as more and more trees fell. Some even exoding from the sheer cold.

What came next was more insidious. A thunderous noise that drowned out everything else, followed by a great beam of pale blue, ice and fire, like a maelstrom of malice. It shot right beside her and obliterated the landscape. Her trees, her green and nature. Gone in an instant, reduced to a semi circle of dirt and lingering fire. Another blast came to her right as she dodged. Then above her.

Phelenia barely registered the attacks as she was running for her life. A feeling that came completely from her divine self, not from the cheetah instinct.

The next beam hit its mark. Phelenia's luck ran out.

Her flesh was sundered around her. She didn’t scream. Her lungs were gone. For a split second there was only her Shard. Out of pure desperation it covered itself. First with nearby wood and moss. When that was obliterated into nothingness it forced that dust - through sheer divine will - to assume her true shape around the Shard. Then she screamed. It was a bloodcurdling scream that echoed far across the horizon.

Phelenia felt only one thing: pain.

A thud landed beside, for he had come. Changing forms into a giant of a man. Brown bare chested skin with white hair and piercing icy blue eyes. He loomed over her, raised a fist and punched Phelenia in the face with a fist like solid ice. A more physical beating came, each blow like a thunderclap as she was driven deeper into the earth.

The goddess took the first few hits as she regained her senses. They hurt but not as much as the beam had. As Chailiss’ humanoid form pulled its first back one more time Phelenia transformed part of her arm into that of a bear and slashed open Chailiss’ chest. Cold ichor fell upon her as the god grunted. At that moment she was upright again but still reeling. “Another kinslayer.” She wheezed as her body was still reforming itself correctly. “I should’ve known.”

The God's face twisted into a grimace. With one hand he touched his torn chest and with the other he raised it high, posing to strike but he stopped before letting his balled fist drop in defeat. With a snarl he spoke next, "I won't kill you. You deserve it for your crimes but I am no judge or executioner. But I, Chailiss, promise you this; You will be judged by Homura, as is her right decreed by the Lord Creator. Her verdict I shall follow. And I will have blood for blood. A life for a life so that you might feel an ounce of the pain in my soul. I swear it."

“I have… accepted the death of all… my children… from the moment… I made them.” Phelenia managed to get out. Now that the savage attacks had stopped she felt no more pain. But her body was still in tatters. Everything required to speak coherent words was still restoring itself. “It is a part… of nature… to perish.” Still, a curiosity beset her. There could be no doubt that she, mother of all life, loved all her children the most and she could surrender them to death when their time came. Every time.

“Why… would you do this even?” She asked. “Why would you attack me for just causing… the inevitable end that comes to all mortals? If your daughter died tomorrow, would’ve brought down the same fury upon whatever creature killed her? If she died in a hundred years because of age, would you have raged against time itself?”

”It is a part of nature to die, yes. That I do agree with. The cycle exists for a reason. Without death there can be no life.” His voice turned dark as his gaze hardened, ”What has no reason is this senseless murder of the bjork and my daughter. It is not part of nature to be murdered at the hands of one who proclaims herself to be a mother. You are no mother. Mother’s nurture their offspring, teach them right from wrong and ensure they survive. You.. You are a butcher. You came to my land once and razed its denizens against each other. You spilled blood. You murdered innocent children. All because you thought yourself right. That CHILDREN had sinned. For they were children, all of them and instead of teaching them what was right, or what was wrong. You. Killed. Them. A God, acting like a child over broken toys. The irony.” Chailiss closed his eyes briefly. His fist shook and when he opened them again, his gaze was unwavering. ”Death is inevitable. This is the only certainty in existence. It was our job, as caretakers, as parents- To guide them. You failed that task. You are no mother but a monster wearing a disguise.”

Phelenia gave an animalistic sneer at being called a monster. She took a step forward but her body failed her and she fell to one knee. That alone made her reconsider making her sibling pay for the insult. She was just thoroughly defeated. Still she could not face this misguided sibling of hers on her knee so she rose up again. “Senseless murder. Right and wrong. Ensure their survival. You are a coddler. Nature does not know right or wrong. Morality doesn’t exist beyond the minds of fools like you and mortals that think too much.”

She clutched her newly formed chest where once the icefire spear had drawn divine blood. Phelenia realized something then. “You don’t even know how your daughter died, do you?”

”Morality… It seems to me you are aware of the concept. But it is laughable, to believe yourself a part of nature. You may put on a good show, claiming yourself as a mother of nature, but we both know it to be just that. A show. A deluded mind grasping for reasons to justify her thoughtful actions. If you were an actual proponent of the cycle, you would leave nature be. Not propagate violence and murder with your every step. Even a predator knows when enough is enough, when a belly full is bliss.” he walked back and forth amidst the rubble, never taking his eyes off her as he continued his speech.

”You know naught but anger and hatred for beings that know nothing of your ways, because you did not TELL THEM. A GOD, who even now is thinking of ways to hurt me and this world further. The difference is apparent, if only you had eyes to see. I may be a coddler and a fool, as you say, but at least I know my place.” An ornate box came into his hands, glowing a hot icy blue. His demeanor changed as he held it between his hands, pointing it at her. ”Now, careful with what you speak next about my daughter, monster. Your new body is only just healing, after all.”

The words that stung the most to Phelenia were not the last ones of the speech. It was the accusation that she didn’t leave nature to be. It stung because it was true. Before now the goddess of life had always assumed that the results justified her means. That whenever she bent and even broke natural order she did it for a valid reason. Now a dreadful thought crept into her mind. Had she overreached. Has she gone too far?

But her fire hadn’t extinguished. “She died willingly, in the hands of a manbjork who wished nothing more than to kill me.” She spat. “I did not force her to jump into the fires of vengeance. I did not force her into the shape of a spear that could hurt me. I did not force her to expend every last bit of her power in service of another. You daughter chose to die moments ago for no other reason than to hurt me!”

“And if that is a reason to strike me down then show your own hypocrisy and do it right now.”

He stared at her, she stared at him, for several moments. The air grew still, noise fading away as the smell of burning and ichor permeated the air. Then Chailiss broke eye contact by looking down, his shoulders drooping and he shook his head. ”Perhaps you should take a good hard look at yourself, if you think their vengeance was unjust.” His voice was quiet, growing distant. ”There will come a time when the weight of your crimes will rear its ugly head. Those better than we shall prevail. Now leave this place before our words breed more violence. If you ever return, judged or not, I will slay you. Remember that, as a third promise..”

“His wish for vengeance was just.” Phelenia said as she transformed again into her eagle form. “But I never raised a finger towards your daughter until I had to defend myself.” She stretched out her wings. They felt different now. She turned around to fly away but stopped for a moment. When she would leave now, she would abandon her children here forever. They would be gnawed at and bitten. Chopped down to be used in those dams. How long until the sinner beasts deemed some animals too dangerous to roam? When all the wolves were slaughtered to the last, who would take care the deer wouldn’t grow too numerous?

A sickness hit Phelenia like a wave. These were the consequences of her actions. For a moment she turned back to her true form and knelt down on the ground. If this icy deity took offense to her parting with a place she did love then so be it. She laid a hand upon the ground and whispered: “I hope my fears won’t come true. Father, Monarch, please don’t let them come true.” With those words said she rose up again, transformed into a great green eagle and flew away.

The God of Cold remained, head dipped low.

Very much alone.

Setting: The North-West Eidolon Plains

Of the many clades found across Eidolon culture, the Ekotone were a small collective of bands already in the fringes of the North West plains. Following the strife south and east of the Ekotone, another, more numerous clade had turned into an alliance and their rapid change in policies saw the Ekotone pushed further north. The reason for this was the Ekotone were herders, and without the pastures their ancestors used, they had no choice but to start their migration to greener fields, away from the strife.

That’s where they found themselves currently. The Night Lord’s grasp was on the sky and the more respectable members of the (informally) leading band known as the Bolog were asleep after long talks about turning the bands of the clade into an alliance. While nothing was decided upon, it was becoming increasingly clear that a leader was going to be needed during these troubled times, but these worries weren’t on the mind of Cabel at the moment.

Cabel was a young man with broad shoulders and a hunter’s physique revealed by a simple woolen shirt that hung down to his knees and belted at the waist — but he also held the soft eyes of a shepherd still ripe with idealism. His mother was the leader of the Bolog and the sole reason his band was likely still intact after the strife of the exodus. Even still, his thoughts weren’t on that as he sat down on a wicker bin tipped upside down, his hands between his knees and his eyes on the old Salter known as Farro.

Next to him sat his friend since birth, Tarowwe, a bulkier man with showy, curved horns, big friendly eyes and a slack jawed grin. Tarowwe was holding in a laugh as he listened to Farro, the old salter’s words amusing a small group of young men and women — all but Cabel, who withdrew a smile, eyes focused on Farro.

“So you see,” Farro continued, “Gorga the Jealous had crafted the perfect trap for her victim, one that she was sure would capture Hurnarin so she could wed him.”

“But Hurnarin fell in battle in the last tale,” a stray woman corrected.

Farro held up a finger. “Yes! So Gorga fashioned a tool similar to that of a field spider and up in her cloud pasture she cast it out down to the fields below. Like the silk of the spider, her line was invisible, but at the very end she baited it with a beautiful woman — a puppet to her whims — in the hopes of capturing Hurnarin.”

“I can tell you who it would have captured.” Tarowwe elbowed Cabel, but Cabel only gave him a half-hearted smirk.

“Unable to find Hurnarin, Gorga still sits on her cloud, her line cast and bait ready — so if you find a strange and beautiful girl in the middle of nowhere who seems a little too eager to give you a hug, perhaps it is Gorga’s trap.” Farro continued.

“Worst case,” Tarowwe spoke loud now, enough for Farro to also hear. “I could try inviting her into my tent, if she is strung to a cloud she won’t be able to enter and if she isn’t — I have a beautiful girl in my tent.”

Farro rolled his eyes. “It seems the legacy of Hurnarin lives on in the breasts of some.” He sniffed idly. “Well, the night lord has taken the sky, so off to bed for another day — I’m sure Chief Halinda has plenty for us to do in the morning.”

Shallow groans and deep yawns followed the instruction as the listeners hobbled away, tired and sleepy. Even with how bright the moon was that night, it only took a handful of steps to be turned into a silhouetted blur and once the only people left in the small alcove behind the storage tents were Cabel, Tarowwe, and Farro — the old man raised a brow.

“Not leaving?”

“You know a lot of stories,” Cabel suddenly said.

“A long life brings many,” Farro answered, cocking his head. Cabel stared at Farro with an intensity that mirrored a growing fire in his stomach. The young man fidgeted, his fingers shaking. Next to him, he could see Tarowwe’s posture also change, his friend standing up straight and squaring his shoulders.

“What is this?” Farro glanced between the two, but his eyes never met Cabel’s.

Cabel held out a hand, extending his palm. “Shake my hand.”

“Cabel, this is ridiculous —”

“Shake his hand, Salter,” Tarowwe growled, giving his friend some resolve. Cabel took a step forward but Farro tried to step back. Launching a hand out, Cabel caught Farro by the shoulder and pulled him back into the conflict. The old man stumbled in and Tarowwe grabbed the back of his neck. A sharp sensation came flooding up Cabel’s arm as his body translated the emotions of Farro.

“What am I feeling?” Cabel demanded of Farro, but the old man blubbered. Cabel furrowed his brow and looked at Tarowwe. A pang of worry entered his stomach, Cabel hadn’t hoped for this outcome.

“I feel his hunger,” Tarowwe looked over at Cabel with sad eyes. “Your mother was right.”

Farro fell limp to his knees, nearly causing the two boys to collapse along with him. “Don’t kill me!” He begged.

The display sent Cabel’s stomach squirming and put a cold press on his mind. He closed his eyes. “We won’t.”

“Really?” Cabel could feel Farro looking up at him, likely with big pleading eyes, but he kept his own eyes shut. The old man’s body fidgeted under his grasp, but then Tarowwe’s strength pushed him still.

“Yes, just copy me and close your eyes, we are going to take you away from here. No one has to know why, okay?” Cabel could hear his own words coming out smoothly, though his own mind was racing. He could feel his breathing shallow, and from the sounds coming from Tarowwe, he wasn’t the only one disturbed by the task before him.

“Okay?” Tarowwe reiterated, though his voice was shaky.

“Oka-” Farro’s words turned to a panicked gurgle and a warm trickle poured over Cabel’s left hand, his fist up against the old man’s throat and his knife hidden inside the dying Vertan’s artery. A sick feeling rose up Cabel’s throat, but he burped it back.

“We are just taking you away from here, don’t panic.”

“Don’t panic.”

“Don’t panic.”

The words were practiced — often heard by rams before slaughter.

Rosalind the Feverfoot was fairly convinced that she had lost her boat. She stood on the surf-addled shore where her strange journey had carried her, shivering slightly - though whether it was due to the cold or due to the fever was not clear even to her - and gazed across the seas where Mamang had disappeared. She could not see any sign of Yudaiel’s gift. Though that would have filled her with sadness before, she received it now with a certain acceptance - or rather, hope. Or rather, even, certainty. Acceptance, hope, and certainty that her boat would find its way back to her, and she a way back to it. It was sad to go boatless and completely oarless into the world, sadder still to go without hope of ever finding them - and Rosalind (oh happy days!) was glad to not be of that luckless sort.

She turned away from the screeching sea gales and drum of marching waves and saw that the coast gave way rather swiftly to forest. Stumbling forth on her ever-quaking feet, she advanced into the darkness of the woods. It was with no small amount of trepidation that she did so - for who does not fear the darkness and the unknown? - but she was pleasantly surprised by the immediate warmth that washed over her as she passed the line of thick trees - giant trees, trees unlike anything she knew trees to be. It was like somebody had spread a quilt over the entire world to keep the wind and cold and sound of crashing waves at bay.

The forest was not quiet though. There was an incessant background hum that sent small spasms down her form and caused her feet to convulse and almost burst into fevered motion. She did not let it though, and - somewhat fearfully now, for she did not wish to see so much that she would lose her feet - she looked around and listened to the forest. Birds chirruped and little creatures skittered here and there - stealthily, invisibly, perceptively . She heard the birds but did not see them, heard the little skitterers but did not spot them. Those things that wished to hide hid well.

But there were plenty without fear. The giant antlered deer stared at her without fear as she passed by. The moose paid her no heed, and she kept her distance from that thing of terrible size. Martens and minks darted here and there, the hooting of watchful owls, the flapping of ravens. At one point she spied the oddest thing - a white raven. It stood on a branch observing her with blue-eyed intent, and the goddess shivered and moved away. She saw all kinds of cats also, great and small - the little wildcat, the bobcat, the lynx, the jaguar perched high in the trees. Boars grunted at her or stood glaring, a wolverine passed before her - paused and glanced nonchalantly - then disappeared beyond the girth of a tree. Rabbits went hopping and hares leaping, squirrels darted - or, in some cases, flew - and the stout badger, scowling, went sniffing and bumbling by. All watched her - if they watched at all - with curiosity, but otherwise kept their distance. The bear, of enormous size, watched her as she came to a small stream, and a few wolves, reclined on the other bank, perked up as she came to a standstill by the pristine waters.

Her lips were parched and skin - especially where the Exile had bitten her - irritated, and she instinctively knelt down and dipped her hands into the flowing water of the stream. It was nothing like seawater. Even now she could remember the sting of the salt on her eyes when she had fallen in. She cupped the pure water into her hands and brought it to her lips, to her face, to her hair. And then, with a shy glance around, she loosened her skirt and removed her blouse and, with a yelp at the cold, waded into the waters in nothing but the bangles her father had gifted to her. She washed her hair, freed it of salt, cleansed the wound on her neck and, closing her eyes, allowed water unadulterated by salt to flow over her.

When she was satisfied and the cold was beginning to get into her bones, she re-emerged and sat by the bank, allowing her body and hair to dry before she dressed. Lazily, then, she picked at the flowers that grew on the riverbank - blue and red and yellow flowers, sweet-smelling and odourless - and her hands weaved them, as though by instinct, into a necklace of flowers and a crown of flowers, and flowery bracelets and anklets. She sighed, smiled, remembered the whale and wished he could experience this. Remembered Voligan and wondered where and what he was doing now. Thought of Alethesius and Ao-Yurin and how they had perished so soon after their coming into the world, thought it sad how such powerful things could disappear just like that while she - who had created nothing, nothing so beautiful as water, nothing so sturdy as determination - had survived. She thought also of Yudaiel, her kind sister, thought of how swiftly that all-seeing Eye had forgiven her failings and given her the means by which to arrive safely here on Galbar to be cured. Thought also of Iqelis, who had told her not to cry out for help - and he was right, of course. It was no good to be helpless. But that was the plight of the weak, and surely - as the laektears had done when the Exile was upon her - it was the duty of the strong to help? She thought of Ruina’s words about Iqelis, remembered the words of Yudaiel in the mind of Mamang. Recalled the red goddess and her funerary dance for the slaughtered thousands. Remembered, also, the voice of the Apostate - and shivered. For she knew his voice; it was the voice of the mountains.

As she brought another flower to her nose, she thought at last of the Monarch and, now that she had learned love from Mamang, realised that it was not only fear that she felt towards that great being. Sure, his punishment had come swift when she erred, but so too had his aid when she needed it. She placed a finger on one of the seemingly infinite bracelets he had gifted her and, in that moment (a bit late, perhaps,) she was grateful. Had that not been a father’s love? She threw herself back and lay to the jangling of bangles on a pillow of velvet hair, and she watched the grey skies and breathed. The world, it seemed to her, despite all the awful things she had witnessed - yes, despite the death of gods, despite fate striking down the strong, despite the Exile’s deceit, despite the green death that polluted the ocean, despite all that - was intrinsically beautiful and good. Her father was good, her siblings - Yudaiel, Voligan, that red dancing goddess… even Iqelis, in his way - were good, even that voice in the mountains that had driven her into the sea, it too had been good. Mamang too, the sea - so beautiful that ocean, so vast and breathtaking - the laektears; all those were good. The whale mother, the rorquals dancing in the north, in the east, in the south, the dolphins, the fishes; all those things were good. Even the Exile - in his way - was good, despite the bite, despite the treachery, despite the murder. She exhaled slowly. The world was good, and in so good a world what need had she - really - for fear? She may lose an ear, true, she may even lose her life - but was that really all that bad? It was not bad at all when placed beside what good she had thus far known.

The crack of branches broke the calm stillness about the goddess, and the wolves and bears and beasts all around fled in abrupt panic. As the smell of death washed over the stream, the reason for their panic became quickly clear. There, emerging from the trees, was a hunched figure, clad in a tattered pale cloak that neither hid their white chitin underneath nor their four clawed arms. It did seem to hide their face, though, in pitch blackness - except for a wide toothy smile that seemed to have been plastered on.

The being took a few staggered steps over to the stream, letting themselves almost fall down next to it, and slowly cupped their hands to guzzle down long draughts of its water, almost as if they had not drunk anything in unknown aeons. But as they bent down for another, they spotted the goddess laid upon the ground of the other bank, and froze. The smile did not vanish in the slightest, but it was clear they were entirely unsure on how to react, and so merely stared at Rosa - or, at least, somewhat stared, for their eyes could not be seen.

As the creature continued to stare and the eerie silence washed over the place, the goddess lying by the stream seemed to feel that something was amiss and so opened her eyes and sat up, her hair rising like a waterfall that had forgotten gravity. Rosalind’s gaze drifted sideways and settled on the grinning creature huddled on the other bank. For a few moments her face was blank - with surprise, perhaps - but then an inkling of the essential fear that so coloured her being crept into her eyes and she slowly, carefully, without taking her eyes off the creature, shuddered to her feet. Gulping and taking one glance towards the trees before returning to the creature, she gave a trembling smile and spoke. “H-” she swallowed, “hello. I am Rosalind.” She paused hesitantly, and some spark of courage seemed to shiver in her eyes. “What’s your name?”

The figure tilted their head some, as if trying to fully figure out who they were looking at. Silence washed over them once more as they continued to stare at Rosalind, before they finally spoke, their voice strange and echoing, almost as if it overlapped with itself. “We, are Yesaris. You are, Kin, are you not?” They remained where they were, not once having taken their eyeless gaze off her, hands still ready to drink once more from the stream. It was almost as if their entire body had stopped working.

Rosalind frowned and cocked her head to make out the words that even now echoed on the wind - echoed even though the lips of Yesaris had stopped moving. At last though, understanding bloomed on her face and a stronger smile returned to it as she nodded. “I- I think so. Yesaris. It’s good to meet you. I- I hope we can be friends.” She walked along the riverside until she stood right across from him. “Your voice is not like anything I have ever heard, Yesaris. It echoes so sadly - and it’s like there are so many other voices in there. It’s very beautiful, but really quite sorrowful. But then, I look at you and you are smiling. Why do you look so happy but sound so sad?”

Yesaris pondered that for a moment, their head looking down upon the stream, trying to figure out the answer themselves. Their head snapped abruptly back up towards Rosa, and in that same, sad, vast voice, they replied. “We, do not quite know Kin Rosalind, you are, in truth, the first to describe our voice like that, and many would not describe our smile as… happy.” Their gaze towards her seemingly began to lose focus, and Yesaris began to quickly shoot looks beyond Rosa, as if searching for something. The goddess glanced behind her, found nothing, and looked back at Yesaris.

“It is a little bit of a strange smile, but there are stranger things in the world so it’s not bad to be a little strange I think. Though you’re right, maybe it’s not a happy smile,” she mused, “but if you’re not smiling because you’re happy, why are you smiling?” She asked, then glanced behind her again as Yesaris continued to look beyond her. “What are you looking at? I- is there something there?”

“No, no, at least, not currently,” they chuckled, their laugh buzzing, almost like a swarm of bugs. “We apologize, we are, hungry, but, as for our smile,” they reached one of their hands up to touch their sharp and jagged smile before continuing, “we have merely, always, been smiling, we suppose it is one of warning, many seem to think it is… unsettling. We suppose they are right.”

The goddess’ own smile fell at this. “Oh. Well, I was a little scared when I saw it first. But then I thought that it was bad of me to think that, that maybe you only meant well by it.” She paused and her eyes of twilight, bereft now of fear or courage, took him in. “So you want to be unsettling? You want others to be afraid? Why?”

Yesaris rose from their kneeling position, though they were still noticeably shorter than Rosa. “Well, it's simple. Fear… it… messes with one’s mind. Those who are afraid are… easier… to deal with. At least, for us that is.”

The goddess watched the other god with a slight frown. “That’s a strange way to think. How can you deal with somebody who is terrified of you? Surely you wouldn’t be able to - they’d, I don’t know, run away or scream or faint.”

Yesaris chuckled - buzzing and echoing as if it were everywhere. “Yes yes, they do that - though we can still catch them if they run, or wait for them to wake. But those who are afraid tend to be more willing to… make deals. Their rationale erodes, and we… can swoop in.”

Biting her lip at the disturbing image, Rosalind scratched her cheek and was silent for a brief moment. “That… doesn’t sound…” she paused and looked at the dwarfish grinning thing, and its teeth seemed to glisten in a way they had not done before. “You… enjoy doing this?”

“One could say we do. We have to admit… seeing fear can be… tantalizing,” their words brought a sudden, but ever so faint, scowl to Rosalind’s face, and the wind seemed to pick up and the running water flinch at the unprecedented motion on the dancer’s face. One of Yesaris’ arms gripped where their stomach could be expected to be as they once more scanned the area, before snapping back to Rosa. “Our apologies, but, you wouldn’t happen to have any, food on you?”

“Food?” Rosalind repeated, looking around as though it would miraculously materialise. “Uh, I don’t. I don’t have anything, no. I’m sorry. Maybe- oh! I can maybe try and catch a fish for you.” She leaned over and looked into the stream, and her curtain of black hair fell as she did so. “I’m sure we can catch something - you’re a god! And,” she chuckled at how crazy it sounded, “I’m one too!”

“Yes yes we are. It is a… simple process.” They drew their gaze down to the stream alongside Rosa, and merely watched the stream intently, though they continued to speak. “Tell us Kin Rosa, what god are you? We all have our, purpose, what is yours?”

Rosalind paused in her search for a fish and her brows furrowed as she thought. “Oh. Purpose?” She bit her lip and scratched her cheek. “I… well. I’m not sure. I mean, I know I need to- well, find a cure.” She glanced down at her feet. “I… have a sickness- a fever, more like, in my feet. So I guess my purpose is to heal it. Or, well, not my purpose, but it’s something I need to do to be able to… live properly, I guess, and not be a danger to everyone.” She glanced down at her trembling feet with a small sigh, then turned her gaze back on the grinning Yesaris. “What about you, Yesari- uh, Aris? Yesa?” She grimaced awkwardly at her failure to grant a nickname as naturally as he had her. “Uh, yeah. What god are you? What’s your purpose?”

“We eat; we consume; we are… a parasite. That is our purpose.” They kept their focus down upon the stream, watching intently with the air of a predator, almost, eager to get something to eat. “Though one has to wonder if our father did truly mean to create us. We are not the most conductive god to the life of our world,” They snapped their head up to Rosalind, the grin still there. “And it sounds like you’re not either.”

The goddess flinched away slightly, but then couldn’t help but chortle slightly. “That was actually funny - a bit scary, but funny too.” She giggled, flashing him a full-toothed smile, before releasing a long breath and staring back into the water. “But you’ve got a point. I mean, I don’t doubt that pap- uh, father- meant to create us. I think it’s more…” she looked up again and set her lips in a slight contemplative pout, “maybe I just need to realise it, you know? Like, there are some of us - like Yudaiel the Eye or Voligan the Earthheart - who just knew their purpose right away, but I didn’t. If pa- father wanted me to know it then I would’ve - but since he didn’t tell me, I’ll have to find out for myself. Maybe that’s my purpose - to find out my purpose. And when I find it, I’m sure I’ll be able to be conducive to life too. I don’t doubt that you’re conducive to life - you probably just haven’t seen it yet. You should probably try to find out.”

“Possibly possibly, though… we have to admit… we have far more… pressing matters.” The grinning god stared into the stream, seemingly growing frustrated with the lack of fish appearing within. They slunk down, nearly flat upon the bank of the stream, waiting, silent. Rosalind flashed him an amused grin and chuckled.

“Well aren’t you antsy.” She laughed as she hiked her skirt up and waded into the freezing water. She stared into it for a few seconds, focusing, and then darted suddenly. Her hair burst all around her and fell into her eyes, and her crown of flowers descended into the waters and was carried off with the flow, so that her hands came up empty. She shook the wild black strands away and quickly bunched them up in a wild bun and tied it tightly in place with a lock. With that, she looked down into the clear cold waters and was still, but for her feet shivering on the stream bed. Her breath came slow, her exhalations billowing like dancing clouds before dissipating. She watched the dance of the flow, was swept up in that dance, became that dance; and in that dance - that is, in her - moved the fish. Her hands dipped into the water - there was no splash; her hands were the flow - and her fingers danced with the fish, were the dance of the fish, so that she did not catch the fish but rather caught herself.

The goddess stood in the shallow stream, hugging the great salmon to her chest with a broad smile on her face. She waddled over to Yesaris and beamed down at him. “Look Yes- uh, Ris?- I caught one for you.” She fell to her knees by him and held the massive salmon out. Everything in these lands was massive.

Yesaris snatched the large fish from her hands, inadvertently tearing her flowery bracelets, and grasped it in their twisted claws. With a sudden crunch, before the startled Rosalind’s eyes, they clamped down upon the fish’s flesh, sinking their teeth into it. Blood poured forth and down their face as they pulled away, tearing the chunk of fish away from its body - and they barely even chewed, merely swallowing it whole. They went back in, again and again, not even stopping due to the bones, they crushed and swallowed them too, letting the blood pour across their face and arms. All until there was nothing left of the fish; all had been consumed. They paused for a moment, breathing heavily, before turning to Rosa. “We… thank you, Kin Rosa.” They continued to stare, now seemingly focused on Rosa herself.

Though clearly disconcerted by the display, Rosalind managed to smile faintly and nod in response. “My goodness, you really were hungry.” She muttered, clutching the edge of her skirt and bringing it up to wipe the blood off Yesaris’ face and mouth. “You’re one messy eater!”

Yesaris stared at Rosa’s hand and skirt as they drew close to their face. Their mouth began to open as a chattering sound emanated from within, and suddenly snapped at her. Their bite missed her hand by mere inches and the goddess flinched away. Yesaris fell back, hunched over once more, the chattering getting louder and louder as their gaze remained entirely on her, their smile widening.

Furrowing her brows, the hand she had nearly lost to Yesaris’ maw resting on her chest, Rosalind stared at the grinning god. “Uh, R- Ris? Are you okay?” She rose to her feet cautiously. “Do… you want another fish?”

“No…no…we think…we want something… different.” The flesh hungry god rose to their feet as well, taking a few steps towards Rosa, their clawed hands twitching as if filled with a sudden urge. The chattering only kept growing as the god seemed to lose their original cohesiveness. Clearly perturbed, the goddess slowly backed away.

“Something different? Like what? Uh- R-Ris you’re scaring me a little now. I-If you’re joking then- it’s not funny anymore.”

“Oh we don’t joke,” they took another step, and another. “We would run if we were you…it’s far, far more fun that way.” Their smile only grew more and more, becoming more unnatural. The goddess looked at him for a second and then, to her own surprise, frowned and stepped towards him with purpose.

“Look here, I’m not falling for this - I’m not going to do this getting scared stuff you seem to like. So you’re going to stop. Stop this right now.” She did not sound very convincing, but she backed her words up with a half-hearted slap - which seemed to hurt her far more than it did Yesaris.

The god did not reply, but instead lunged towards Rosa, their jagged grin clamping down upon her hand, crunching through bone and flesh alike once more. With a wrench, they pulled back, taking the hand with them, before swallowing it down their gullet in one gulp. And their grin only grew at the taste, and their hands reached out, clawing for more.

Rosalind did not scream, but quick hot tears exploded almost immediately from her eyes, and her eyes fell on those of Yesaris for the briefest seconds before she brought the bleeding stump to her chest, turned on her trembling feet, tripped over the hem of her skirt, and fell head-first into the freezing waters of the shallow stream. She came up with a gasp, her hair coming undone and sticking to her face and neck. She managed to stand and half-wade and half-stumble across the rivulet, heedless to the flow of red-gold ichor that seemed to change the very nature of the waters. Still sobbing, she dragged herself out on the other side, weighed down by her velvet skirt. She grabbed it with her remaining hand, spared a backward glance at the advancing Yesaris - swimming, it seemed to her, in a river of red-gold blood - then hurtled into the warmth and perceived safety of the trees.

The chattering of Yesaris followed close behind, rushing towards the bleeding goddess who had enticed them so. Running upon all six of their limbs in order to keep up pace with her, they purposefully refrained from bounding any faster than her, merely running at a pace to keep track of her, following the red-gold drink that their mind was entirely focused upon. They wanted this to play out; the fearful ones tasted better after all. And they kept the chattering loud and present, echoing through the woods and trees, surrounding Rosa as she fled away from that which wanted to feast upon her.

As she ran she left a clear trail of blood and tears and wetness, of sobs and gasps, a clear scent of fear and pain - and, most poignantly, betrayal. In that state of delirious fear and trembling the world seemed to move against her, the earth below and the sky above and the filling of air and wind between - and winds, Rosalind knew, never do blow as boats desire. There she was, who was the dance of all things, flagging and falling as the eruption of pain and fear caused her to forget that she was the motion dancing on the winds that even now beat her back, she the trembling dance of the earth that thrummed even now against her, she the great open dance on the sky that even now closed its gates to her. Forgetting all this, she felt - oh greatest betrayal, oh most treasonous knife of all! - her very spirit fail her so that, with a final exhausted sob and an expiration of pearly tears, she fell to her knees and planted her face in the earth, holding her bleeding stump to her chest and sobbing gently into musty soil. She could run no more and was tired, and her thoughts turned away from the horror descending on her to wonder, instead, if she would be able to rest when this was done.

The beast was quick to catch up, panting as they rose upon their legs. Slowly staggering towards the wounded goddess who lay upon the ground, their smile oh so incredibly wide, wider by far than it had ever been. Soon they were practically on top of Rosa, staring down at her before gripping her bleeding arm and forcing it out from under her huddled form, away from the warm safety of her chest and, hunching themselves down, let the ichor that ran from it fall on their parched tongue.
“R-Ris- no, please-” she turned to them and pleaded weakly, but Yesaris ignored her weak pleas - delighted in them, perhaps. Shuddering from the drink, they opened their gash of a mouth and clamped down once more, this time biting into her forearm, tearing a chunk of flesh away from it, which they too gulped down in a single swallow. One of their arms crept up to Rosa’s face, their hand clasping her mouth shut before taking another bite from her arm.

The goddess convulsed beneath him and cried out into his hand, tears flooding and wetting her hair and the ground beneath her, and her remaining arm snapped up, instinctively, to weakly grab the arm that muffled her. She struggled, but she was weak and defeated; there was fear and pain in her eyes, but also surrender and a desperation - a pleading - for it to be done.

As Yesaris bit into her with slow relish, delighting in the unprecedented taste - god! The flesh and ichor of god! - something moved in him. It was not the stirring of conscience by any means, but a rather more physical movement. It moved in his ichor, in the darting of his heart, spread through his form until, gently, kindly even, it settled on his mind. Yesaris saw nothing, only savoured the ready, fear-seasoned flesh and bone - but the Eye within the goddess he feasted upon had opened, and it saw Yesaris. Or rather, felt Yesaris. Felt the agony that ate on him even as he consumed all things, felt the pangs of insatiable hunger that addled his mind and sight with a near madness - such needs, had Yesaris, such terrible needs as would shatter the hardest heart of stone; what, then, of Rosalind’s kindly heart? Had she been created thus she too would have fed on all things - willing or unwilling, with or without relish; and truth be told, she had much rather relish in her needs than give way to the misery of guilt and self-hate and revulsion.

Beneath Yesaris, the goddess shifted her gaze and brought her good hand to the feeding parasite’s face. Gently - without resistance, without reprimand, but with coaxing tenderness - she drew him to her, brought his mouth to her shoulder, and whispered. “Here, Ris, eat from here.”

Yesaris paused. This… was… different.

They quite honestly did not know how to continue. Their feasts did not offer themselves to them; they screamed, they flailed, and in the end they gave in. The hungering god would have thought more about this, but the taste of the divine remained upon their mind and it forced the oddity out of their head. They wanted more of it, they wanted… no, they didn’t want it, they needed it. Anything to keep the hunger away. With another lunge they clamped down upon Rosa’s shoulder, tearing away the flesh and gulping it down, hoping to feed their desperate hunger and keep the pain that racked through every last inch of their chitin and flesh at bay. It was a wonder the parasite did not choke upon their food.

As he bit into flesh and bone, the goddess shuddered and convulsed once more, but her face was in all ways serene - it did not twist in pain, though her brows furrowed ever so slightly as though in deep focus. She spoke in a low, gentle tone. “Does it still hurt? Are you satiated?” She drew him to her other shoulder, where the wound caused by the Exile’s bite on her neck had opened up again. “There’s more if it still hurts.”

Yesaris stopped for a moment, hunched over the chewed form of the dancer. “It… always hurts.”. Then they jerked back, away from Rosa, hunching over towards the grass that surrounded them, retching and heaving. With a violent vomiting sound, the golden bangles Yesaris had incidentally consumed erupted from their mouth, falling upon the ground with a thud. All except one, one that seemed to form itself upon one of Yesaris’ wrists. “What… what is this?” they asked, turning their head towards Rosa’s bloodied form. Her blank eyes shifted to the single red-gold bracelet on Yesaris’ arm, and after a moment of stillness there was motion.

It began in Rosalind’s eye - a single tear formed. It was not like any of those that had formed up before - not a tear of self-woe, not one of fear, not one of frustration, not a laektear. It was a tear of sympathy - pity - perhaps the first tear shed in empathy by divine eyes. The tear did not fall down, but rather fell up, and it tottered in the air, trembled, and burst so that its movement pervaded the space around the two gods. And while the moments before that eruption had known nothing of movement, now they were a stranger to stillness. The goddess lurched up, and Yesaris found her in his many arms. Her blood danced about his chitinous form like a second skin, and his mouth passed now along her waiting neck and now across her shoulder.

But as they whirled in that strange grove - and it had not been a grove before, but was now becoming - the hungering god forgot his hunger, lost track of pain, and beheld only the sister who had given herself entirely, freely, unstintingly to him. He did not ask why, but danced why; she did not say why, but they spun why and weaved why and whirled why. And if tears could form in them, tears would have fallen from hunger’s two wide eyes. The dance did not merely speak, it moved something within Yesaris - his heart panged, his eyes wettened, his feet swirled. And Rosalind the Feverfoot hung on his arm, her smile sad, her eyes sad - not for her, he realised, he knew, but… for him.

The Parasite, for once in their existence, was confused. These feelings that came from the dance were… strange… foreign… different. This surge of thoughts beyond their mind caused them to chuck the broken goddess from their arms, down upon the grove’s haggard grounds. Clutching their head they began to scream - not their sickened chattering, but a true scream, demanding (through pure noise) for the thoughts to go away, for their heart to calm itself and, perhaps, for the pain to finally go away. They stumbled backwards, crashing against a tree before slowly sinking down. “What, have you done to us?” they nearly screamed out towards the goddess.

The crumpled goddess shifted her head and her empty gaze, with that even wet stream flowing from her eyes, beheld him. “You- hurt so much, Ris,” she managed, “why?” The gentle flow became a cascade and she sobbed, her face twisting and snot mixing on the ground with tears. “Why’s that there?”

“It has always been there… that… piercing hunger… we… must feed it.” They didn’t even raise their head to look towards Rosa, clutching it still as the emotions smoldered deep within them. “What did you do to us, what are these thoughts.”

“I- I don’t know,” came Rosalind’s response, “I didn’t do it.” She paused and looked sorrowfully at him. “If it still hurts then…” her gaze drifted to her mauled form, though her head did not move, “I don’t mind. If it will ease your pain then… then it’s okay. You can have your fill.”

Yesaris shook their head “Your flesh would not fill us. Its taste is beyond what we’ve had before, but… it would not be enough. We need far more.” They staggered up, using the tree to stabilize themselves and finally bringing their gaze towards Rosa, yet remained silent. The silence remained and grew between them until the goddess shifted, grunted, and picked her broken and bleeding form up. Her feet trembled and tapped wildly so that she looked like a broken string-doll as she moved slowly towards Yesaris.

When she reached him, she extended her one good hand and cupped what passed for his cheek. “If I’m not enough, then I’m sorry Ris. I- I’m not strong - I don’t know how to help. This,” she glanced down at her form, then returned to his eyes, “this is all I have to give.” She caressed his brow like a mother would her child’s, or a sister her sibling’s. “I hope… I hope you find what you’re searching for - and the end of all pain.” She smiled then, faintly, through her own pain. “And when you do, come back and show me.” She took a step away. “So go. Go. If I won’t do, then go sate your hunger on something better.”

Confusion still wracked the mind of the Parasite, but even they had to admit that the dancer’s words were… comforting in a way. They wiped away the blood caked on their mouth with their cloak, gazing at the kin they had taken chunks out of only mere minutes ago. “Very well kin Rosa, if we find a solution, we will show you. That… is our promise.” With a snap, their head turned towards the skies and the forest, intently listening to something beyond. “We suppose it is time to take our leave then. This is farewell, Kin Rosa.”

The goddess’ gaze shifted with that of her sibling, and she looked towards the skies and listened intently too for a few seconds. She ran her hand through her hair, and when she brought it back there was one long, dark lock there. She approached Yesaris, took his braceleted hand and - somehow, despite her one hand - managed to weave the long lock around the bracelet and fasten it with a small knot. “Just a… so you don’t forget. You promised, right?” She sighed and released him. “Goodbye Ris, for now. Maybe when we next meet we’ll both be better.”

“We can only hope, Kin Rosa. Goodbye.” And the Lord Parasite took their leave, heading deep into the forest.

The goddess watched him go, and once she was alone she shivered and limped across the newly-formed grove. Leaning on a tree, she slid down against it. She sat there, blank eyes of pure twilight watching the darkening skies and pure ichor pooling around and slaking the thirst of the soil. She closed her eyes and was quiet and still - but for her frantic, frenzied, feverish feet.

• Summary [+]

  We open up on Rosa, having just come off her trip with the big whale boi and needing to get herself cleaned up, and does just that at a nearby stream. After ruminating on life and everything, Rosa’s calm relaxation is interrupted by the arrival of Yesaris, who is off putting, as Yesaris does.
  The two have a chat, learning about each other and what they’re all about. Yesaris’ attention though, is drawn away to their hunger, and Rosa helps get them a fish to help feed themselves. This, goes wrong, and Yesaris quickly snaps at her and bites off one of her hands. Chase ensues.
  Rosa gives up and let's Yesaris take chunks off her, but suddenly becomes connected, and learns of the pain the parasite goes through. This makes her more willing to share her flesh with them, and via an accidental ingestion of bangles, Yesaris gets one and they get empathy danced!
  The eating of another god stops, but Yesaris is shaken up. Rosa gets them to promise to seek a solution to their pain and show it to her if they do. And so they’re, kinda cool with each other? Who knows.
• Vigor [+]

  Yesaris - No Vigour Spent
  
  Rosalind - 10 Vigour
  

  2 Vigour: Turn the rivulet Rosalind bathed and bled in into a monument - the River of Blood and Flowers. This river flows red-gold with the blood of a goddess and flower petals of all colours and scents. Those who drink from it are immediately refreshed, tiredness and aches healed and minor illnesses cured. Those who bathe in it are strengthened, made more agile and lithe for a few hours or a month depending on their pre-existing level of health and fitness. Moreover, the scent of anyone who bathes in it is immediately and permanently changed into a distinctly floral one - every person receives a distinctly different floral scent, with no two ever being alike. The strength of their scent is not changed in any way.
  
  2 Vigour [Enhanced by Dance]: Transform one of Rosalind’s bracelets into the Band of the Empathy Dance. The wearer instinctively knows this dance, and on dancing it fills all those who witness it with great pathos, pity, sympathy, empathy. In the case of Yesaris, onlookers will gain a glimpse into his pain and may be driven to such heightened states of pity as to willingly give themselves over to him so as to sate his hunger and alleviate his pain. The dance can also affect the dancer, but that often depends on their psychology. It would be difficult for a psychopath, for instance, to feel pity even while dancing, but it may be possible if they strongly desire it. Those without such psychological irregularities may also be driven to heightened states of empathy with others. The effect of the band, as with all such bands, generally comes to an end with the dance and any long-term effects are purely due to a genuine change effected by the dance rather than due to the dance continuing to hold sway over either the dancer or audience.
  
  2 Vigour: Create the monument Blood Grove of the Empathy Dance. This sacred space, bereft of trees but surrounded by them, open to the wide heavens and the ever-seeing Eye of the moon, summons forth the sensitivities of all who wander into it in ways rarely experienced outside of it, except by those who have awakened their empathetic potential. A judge who delivers justice here is wont to do so with empathy, the criminal brought to justice here is wont to empathise with their victim, the victim with their victimiser. Feuding parties who parley here are wont to be moved, by sympathy and understanding, to compromise and agree with one another. A declaration of love in this grove is wont to bring the hardest heart to love back, or in rejection to reject with empathy, the rejected to receive with understanding. Festivities held here are wont to bring out the best of people’s care and kindness to one another; in all ways, empathy is strengthened in this grove and enhanced.
  
  4 Vigour remaining.

Deep within the Duskwall, survivors huddled together for the illusion of safety. They had no herds, no steeds and no weapons except for one broken spear. From the old stories, the north was described as a place of promise and wonder. Some people merely found their band, while others choose to the journey to find escape from conflict or injustice.

They marched forward seeking paradise, knowing that they would only find the shroud. Intruders did not need to rely upon deception within the eternal dark, and there attacks were constant. Some where brash enough to demand tribute, but the only tribute where those who fought off the monster. They knew they could never win, but they could distract it long enough for the others to escape. Food was scarce, and yet it was shared anyways with the healthiest choosing to eat last. They had learned that lighting fires was a beacon to the intruders, but found warmth in each other.

A young women, who was practicing to become a storyteller, started to one day clasp her hands together and ask for the ancestor's strength to find paradise. Diana was charisma, and her stories where a source of hope in these dark times. She had originally done it in private, and had never intended her it to spread, but she was happy that others found something from her little ritual.

Eventually, everyone had said the ritual except for one. Gerard had carried the spear that his father had once wielded long after it had been broken. He thought it was rather silly. The ancestors had left this world for whatever was after, and they couldn't hear or offer aid even if they wished it so. Gerard once muttered to himself about how people did asked for the ancestor's help were fools, but Diana walked behind and said that they were fools with hope.

Then members of the still numerous crowd begin to disappearing one by one. A mere blink and the person walking ahead would be gone. Diana was the first to disappear, and the crowd reacted with uncertain panic. As more and more disappeared, they begin to instinctively huddled closer together. Gerald waving his broken branch outwards towards the unseen adversity. And yet more and more people disappeared.

It happened so far, and suddenly Gerald was alone. Confusion and anger radiated from him, except that he had nowhere to direct it. He cried out skyward, "Whoever stole away my people, reveal yourself"

As commanded, a person appeared before him, an Eidolon dressed in the traditional furs. Gerard's emotion boiled over and he began to laugh, "You possess the form of the Eidolon, but I know that you are not."

The strange spirit replied "The truth of your words depends upon perspective. What is an Eidolon?"

He tried to explain, yet his words kept failing him. He pushed past that, "Why did you take my band? Why was I left behind?"

"They asked. You did not." he replied. His tone even and neutral as if he was simply repeating a fact.

He was stunned, his emotions manifested as a flurry of questions, "And so if I asked, you would take me to them? Are you some spirit of wishes? How do I know that is not some trick and that they are all dead. I have heard the shroud described as paradise."

Arvum calmly answered the questions, "Yes. If you asked, I would take you. No. I am not a spirit of wishes, my true nature is different. I must admit that I might not have intervened had I not need. You must understand that I am powerful, but I am not without limits. Nor am I without equals, I could easily scour the intruders from the plains and yet it would likely only provoke a greater response from their creator. They are alive, and they were each given the choice to return to where they were. The shroud is another matter, but should I have wished that to be your faith, all I would have needed to do is not intervene."

He attempted to process this information, but how could he when he didn't know how true his words were. "How do I not know that you are diverting us with lies to hide away the daylight from us?"

The spirit pointed north and asked, "That was the direction you would have headed towards?" and the man hesitantly nodded. Suddenly, he was within Arvum's arms and they begin to walk in that direction. However he was walking far faster than Eidolon should be able, and the only reason that he could tell is because he saw that landmarks would appear and quickly disappear. He could not feel the strangest emotions, but something else. Something familiar. It reminded him of the sacred grounds, and what it felt like to run his hands along the strange golden grass that grew there. Quickly, they appeared before three winged intruders, eidolon corpses strewn about them.

Gerald froze, and yet the the spirit seemed to have no fear of them. They lunged towards him, and he merely looked at them and their wings failed them causing them to tumble to the ground. When it took small steps towards them, it was intruders who ran away. Gerald asked, "Why are we here."

Arvum waved his hand, and suddenly two knifes appeared in his hand and he outstretched one towards him. He flinched, until he realized that he was handing him the handle. "Do you want to fight. You think I am scared of you and your illusions now."

He turned around, and grabbed something behind him that wasn't there before. It was a rawhide by a stack of them. There was also two clay pots, one filled with water and the other blood. It took a second realization, and after he saw the spirit preform the funeral rights for one of the fallen, he began to do so as well. The feel of their dead corpses and the gleam of their hearts was unmistakable, this was no illusion.

Once they finished their task, he had only one question, "Why?"

"I am one of the great forces which roam the world, our works grander than your current imagination. I seek to preserve life and permit it to flourish. For reasons I myself do not truly understand, I believe that mortals are vital to achieve my ends." he said.

"Reveal to me your true form and nature, and mayhap I should believe you." he insisted.

"I warn the experience is unpleasant to mortals. I would advise against it." he said. And yet, he did. And so Arvum revealed his true form and the man's breath was taken from him. He found himself falling to one knee. He looked deeply into his featureless face, and began to see the stories that he had the storytellers repeat from generation's past. However, he saw them as they were and not as they were told. He begged forgiveness even as he felt he was going to collapse from exhaustion. As he returned to his disguise to allow the eidolon to recover.

"Why did you leave?" he muttered.

Arvum replied "I am a spirit of many things, but the core of my essence is cultivation -- growth. Had I remained, I would have provided shelter but that shelter would have covered you from the sun and limited how far into the sky you could have grown. There are some which perished due to that, while others flourished. My choice had consequences, and yet any other choice I would have made would have also had consequence. My power means my choices have far greater consequences, for good or for ill. I can not make them lightly, yet I must still make them. Inaction itself is a choice."

He still muttered, "I do not truly understand, but I trust you. Perhaps I am a fool, but I would be a fool with hope. With nothing else but a broken spear, I can claim that. I do not care what your conditions are, I ask that you take me to paradise."

Arvum nodded, "You will not need a spear, broke or otherwise. I ask first that you hand it to me." There was a long pause and he grabbed his broken spear and held it close to him. The spirit continued, "Where you words empty before?"

Still recovering from the god's presence, he replied, "It was my fathers. I value it."

He expected the spirit to become angry at defiance, or maybe amusement by his stupid mortal sentimentality, but instead he nodded in agreement, "If you value you it, then I shall value it. It will be treated well."

He hesitantly handled the broken spear to him, and he took and held it high. The broken wood regrew from nothing and the pole of the spear had been fully repaired, however it still lacked the pointed end of a spear. He then handed it back.

Gerald was confused even further, "You said that I didn't need a spear."

The spirit replied "It is now a staff. The island has predators upon it, but present them this staff and they shall become docile unless provoked. I have appointed Diana as leader of all Eidolon upon the island, obey her rule and the rule of her successors for as long it is wise and just. Attempt to the best of your ability to live in peace with yourself and all that lives upon or below the island. Strive to better yourself and your community. Know that the island's depths hold danger and that you are not to tread deep below its ground lightly. Hold none in higher regard than my creator, the creator of all the powerful forces of the world, however you may otherwise give reverence as you please. " he said.

Gerald knew his answer immediately, but was paused by weight of the conversation, he closed his eyes, "I accept your conditions. I ask that I be taken to this island precious to you, my ancestor and creation of the most high one."

When he opened his eyes again, he was upon the island and he saw his fellow Eidolon making preparations. Diana walked over to him, and they had a long conversation about his encounter with the greater force of cultivation.

“Rehair.” Nimueh said as she carefully tried to shake awake the zena. “Rehair. Wake up.” She whispered.

Rehair slowly rose from her slumber, until she recognized the voice and jolted upright. She locked eyes with Nimueh and looked furious. “What are you doing here!?” She whisper-yelled at the zena girl who stood rather sheepishly in between the pile of sleeping zenii. Rehair took her by the arm and carefully took her away from the warmth of the blackstone. “You need to leave right now.”

“I know, I know. I’m no longer welcome here but Rehair you have to listen to me!” Nimueh said with a big smile on her face. Rehair stood in front of her with her arms crossed. “I want to teach you something.” A doubtful eyebrow rose from Rehair but the zena didn’t stop Nimueh. “Right, how to do this?” Nimueh asked herself out loud. “One second.” In an instant, she transformed into a rat. Rehair almost screamed and stomped her. The rat scurried around a bit, seemingly grasping at the thin air around before it transformed back into Nimueh: “Okay, look at this!”

Nimueh reached out with her hand towards some grass nearby. At first, it only started to glow green. Then it began to visibly grow towards her hand. It grew so fast that it could wrap the grass around her fingers before she released the magical power. The green glow vanished and Nimueh looked up at her friend with an excited smile.

Rehair just frowned.

“See? Magic!” Nimueh exclaimed in pure – though somewhat quieted – excitement. Slowly she pulled her hand back. The grass retained the shape of her fingers. As if some phantom hand was still supporting it.

“Is that what you used to kill Slouwe?” Rehair’s question cut straight through Nimueh. She lost all excitement in a blink of an eye.

Suddenly there was a tension in the air that Nimueh hadn’t felt before. She always considered Rehair to be her friend through thick and thin. Like a sister. Now she was less sure of that. The zena woman radiated something she had only felt coming from Lonam: hostility. “I didn’t mean to-“

“You didn’t need to mean it. It still happened.” Rehair cut her off. “Go. Leave. Take this… this horrible thing with you. It will bring nothing but blood to the blackstone.” Rehair turned around to head back to the safety and warmth of the blackstone.

Nimueh grabbed her arm. “No, Rehair. I promised I would teach-“ Slap! Nimueh staggered backwards as Rehair finished her backhanded swing.

“Stay away from me.” Rehair sneered. Her eyes were now burning with hate. “I got nothing to learn from you!“ The zena looked up and down Nimueh’s body. Most of her wounds and scraps had healed and she wasn’t hungry or thirsty. It was obvious that she could survive and even thrive in the wilds. Away from the blackstones. There was even a glow around her. A glow of someone who found some kind of purpose. “You’re obviously doing well. So leave the zenii alone. You’re no longer part of us. Head into the forest and never come back.”

The girl stood defeated and ashamed. Before she thought that maybe at least Rehair would still forgive her but clearly she was mistaken. Her former friend now held nothing but the deepest hatred for her. “I need to come back.” She stammered. “The Beast Queen, she-“

“Again with your Beast Queen!” Rehair almost yelled.

“She’s real!” Nimueh almost shouted, but she didn’t want to wake up the other zenii. “And I have to tell you guys, all of you guys that you cannot enter her forest with pots or baskets or anything like that! She doesn’t like it.” Pure despair was growing in the young zena’s heart. By word or by claw, the words the Beast Queen used made it clear what would happen if they didn’t listen.

“You greedy grub.” Rehair sneered. “We’ve finally found your treasure trove of food in the forest. Enough that we wouldn't have to worry about it anymore, and you would take it all for yourself?”

“It’s not about greed!”

“Go away.” Rehair said as she turned around again. Leaving Nimueh in the cold air away from the blackstone. She stood there for a moment, defeated. Eventually though, she transformed into a rat and skittered back towards the forest.

Neither Rehair nor Nimueh had noticed the handful of restless zenii in the pile being awake with their eyes closed.

---

Arvum walked upwards upon the air until there was no more air beneath him, however he continued to walk. Eventually, he reached the moon. It was rather barren, a lifeless and pale surface broken up only by the rifts and craters that scarred it, but perhaps that was simply its nature.

He allowed his feet to gently rest upon its surface near the boundary between the light and dark half, well away from the worst of the craters and ravines, and waited. His coming had of course been observed, if not predicted, and Yudaiel’s presence became clear soon enough. The usually motionless regolith shifted as it was charged and blown by some shrouded force – even on the windless surface – as the goddess drifted closer to the visitor with her unseen vastness. She made no efforts to mask her telekinetically charged bulk or her divine presence and nature, but neither did her advance come as a surge so rapid as to seem overly threatening.

A wordless, wispy, invisible tendril of thought reached out to establish contact. There was a dark landscape, but it was at least cool and peaceful. Dawn and dew came, as when the day’s warmth reinvigorated all the verdant greenery, a white daisy bloomed and turned ever so slightly to face the sun – not the Great Sun, but rather that one which wore a cloak of soil and greenery so vast that even this very Daisy grew upon one of its folds.

”Greetings, Shardbearer and Lord of Visions. Much has happened since we were born into our divine responsibilities.” Arvum stated.

Much indeed had happened. A kaleidoscopic array of images flashed into sight, a hundred in every which direction and in every instant. The river of color and thought moved too quickly and frothily for much to be discerned, but it possessed a surreal beauty nonetheless. Interspersed here and there where Arvum focused his gaze were the sights of him in Nalusa, shaping rivers and speaking to the ones called Darius and Medes. Those visions in particular were laden with some amount of pleasure and satisfaction – a silent offering of gratitude, perhaps. Ah, but then the focus honed in upon gemstones, a few that Arvum had once palmed himself.

The vast array of color and sights was consumed by a fire that wiped it away as quickly as it’d first been presented. From the ashes diamonds were compressed and coalesced, drops of blood staining them. The undertone for that was markedly different – displeasure, laced perhaps with even a small bit of anger. With every passing moment, those diamonds scintillated and bent light in strange ways, obscuring one another and muddying the vision’s clarity.

Gracefully ignoring the latter part of the message, Arvum replied, ”I did not expect anyone within the landscape so shortly after it had been ravaged. However, Darius and Medes were interesting characters who seem to have the potential to be good rulers. I believe I owe you the honor of having the chance to meet them both, I must thank you for that.”

With renewed perspicuity the diamonds broke down into shards, then dust, then soil. A daisy sprouted, and the first vision was restored anew. It withered and died just as quickly. Countless different seeds became like raindrops and fell onto the soil with a light patter, but it was dry clay and they rested unburied.

That empty slate of a landscape almost audibly begged the questions: What would the gardener cultivate? What did he want?

Arvum gestured vaguely towards a point upon the Galbar, a godly eye being able to trace it down to a particular island. ”As I believe you know better than most, there have been troubling events that bode poorly for the future. I believe that some preparations could save us from heartache later. Your vision pierces deeper than most, I believe you can see what the island guards.”

Arvum’s words were the narration for what almost passed for a play: first the so-called isle of Hortus presented itself, the likeness of the Asclepius Orb, then the face of Diana. His final statement prompted the bubbling pool of life and its components to come into view… and then the shadowy silhouettes of tiny buzzing flies and great demonic monsters appeared along the periphery of sight, creeping down through the caverns above like moths drawn to flame. Yes, she Saw what Arvum had done, and also what he feared.

He continued his thought, “I believe I have created something good and precious, but it is a shame that good and precious things must often be kept under lock and key. I cannot stay beside the lake forever else I will be unable to continue my work elsewhere. Any barrier I can create, another could destroy. But as I understand it, none but the Lord of all Lords can elude your sight.”

Blinding light flooded into view; it was the Greatest Sun’s own brilliant aura of awe. From the unyielding brightness eventually emerged shapes, and the resplendence of the divine palace was arrayed, where He, the one who had declared Himself the Monarch of All, sat upon a throne of jade with a tired and glowering visage. And then He rose, and walked backwards down the bridge into the depths of the ocean, and shook the corpse of a demon back to life, pulled spears from its shadowy flesh of smoke, met with a ready Tuku, and then asked the Master of the Hunt to accompany Him. No, she seemingly Saw all things, and clearly was slighted by even the idea that she could not peer through His aura and see on the other side.

Arvum was surprised by the vision, but he continued as if it was a casual conversation, ”I was unaware that there was an unseen foe that the Monarch dreaded. My attention had been turned elsewhere. I must thank you again for sharing this information.”

A veil emerged to conceal once more the revelations of that near-omniscient perspective. The cloth was woven thin enough that pinpricks of light poked through, and perhaps a discerning eye could see the shadowy shape of things beyond it, but what good was that?

The veil came closer, so close that it was near smothering, and it obscured Arvum’s Sight. If his mind could not tear through or push aside these curtains, perhaps another could. She could certainly remove the veil from others, and had done as much even for some mortals. But of course, blinding light and unadulterated chaos lurked on the other side of that thin cloth. The curses of madness and inaction-through-indecision could afflict those with the Sight who looked too close or too often into the discord, and perhaps leave them worse than blind, the vision warned.

Still, it made for a tempting offer.

Arvum ultimately pushed against the idea, ”I believe it is unwise for me to accept such a generous offer. There are some things I would be glad to be surprised by, and for everything else there are methods to avoid them. Asking for your assistance to pierce through the veil of time is perhaps the most cautious means but I believe the situation warrants it. I also ask that you do not mistake blindness for being senseless. We all have our ways of navigating through existence.”

The sea of consciousness that surrounded Arvum on the bleak moon just danced with bemusement for a moment, seemingly unbothered and unsurprised by his refusal.

”I would appreciate your assistance creating something that I can place within the caves that can sense intruders and their motives and relay that information to me. You would also obviously have access to that information as well. I merely wish to protect my project, not obscure its true nature from any shardbearer.” he said.

Quizzical silence reigned for a while as the goddess mulled over such a request. The Great and All-Seeing Eye focused its gaze upon Hortus; the terrain of the island’s surface was no impediment to her viewing of the caverns below and all that was contained within. Her attention was sustained for a few moments by the beryl glow of some subterranean moss of Arvum’s make. There was also the squat and subtle presence of something else that had been created of her own volitions – that fungi that held the key to burning away the veil, that which had the potency to expand and dissociate the mind of its eater, that which was her boon to all the mortals that dared accept it. An idea crossed Yudaiel’s mind – bringing about the union of those two specimens could perhaps accomplish Arvum’s goal. So, she showed him.

A future possibility presented itself: the caverns’ moss and fungi crept closer and closer, guided by divine intervention, until they finally intertwined. Together, they became something vastly more than the sum of the two constituent lifeforms. It resembled not those stalks of shrooms that grew like trees, either alone or in little copse-clusters, but that moss which carpeted whole walls and ceilings. This was a rapacious and greedy sort of being, one that clambered across the cave walls like mold and expanded to cover as much space as it could. It grew and lived with some degree of sapience, for it was a living and breathing organism, one great colony that was both conscious and sapient. When trodden upon, it hissed and roared and screamed in a silent voice, and for those with ears to hear, that was alarm enough. When eaten, it catalyzed psychosis if not death.

Yes, mortals would not easily tread unknown through those tunnels when every step agitated that hivemind of psychic fungi, but then the divine were not so easily thwarted. Some would be foolish enough to ignore or not see the nature and purpose of the colony and would tread upon it like any others, but some might fly or otherwise transpose themselves into the cave without disturbing the guardian-colony. Well, at least the divine could hardly help but project an aura so pungent that even a blind seer could See it from nearly over the horizon. Moss and lichen were things very sensitive to their environs, and so likewise this prescient colony would be sensitive to all manner of magic or other powers in its surroundings. It would know if any of the divine visited, even if it could hardly stop them, even if they sought to teleport through or otherwise bypass the places where it grew.

”It is unformed, and yet I can sense its aggression.” he said without judgement. In answer, a rose bush appeared without thorns, and it was soon devoured by a beast that lacked claws, and that hapless animal was in turn beset by a predator and similarly made into a meal. Self-preservation warranted some amount of aggression.

”I believe that slightly below the ocean’s floor would be an excellent place for your creation. I am not sure if fungi have been properly appreciated by god or mortal, but I must commend you for your intricate colony design.” Arvum stated.

From high up on a mountain, cool spring water emerged, fresh and pure, as a result of their productive pairing. It flowed outward to the precipice of a cliff before cascading down. It made for a stirring and beautiful sight, but once it struck the rocks down far below, it came time to spill forth and create another waterfall… such was the way of reciprocity.

When those waters continued on, gleaming in the light of the sun, they landed in dry foothills and meandered on as a tributary, before eventually merging into a much larger river that ran its course through a dry stretch of desert. Upon the riverbanks, weary and exhausted and with an arm both burnt and somehow decayed – aged, even – by perverse powers, there rested a familiar prophet. So Arvum saw then that the Medians had arrived at the place he had offered them, after a long and arduous trek, after fending off a lion and encountering the one called Apostate.

Arvum reached his hand and closed it. ”As I have favored those who followed Darius, I have favored those who followed Medes upon your behalf. They shall have legumes, root vegetables, and spices, but they shall not have grain. I have given them a different gift, one more suited to your nature than mine.” he said, opening his hand and revealing a strange stem with pinkish-purple leaves. ”This spice shall enhance the mystic properties of any food or drink served with it. I believe it is well suited to your purposes?”

The weight of Yudaiel’s ever-present stare became much heavier with those words. She carefully examined the odd plant, and its leaves rustled without wind as she turned it over and pried and prodded at it telekinetically. The visions did not come during that intermission, but as they were close and their minds still partially linked, some bits of her thoughts seeped through: she was very pleased, and more than a bit curious, but she’d quickly enough determined that the substance was far too mild to have any appreciable effect upon her vast Sight. Still, that was only to be expected – how would any of these gods beside her ever perfect the Sight, or improve it beyond the pinnacles of her abilities? Though not at all suitable for her, especially given her formless nature, it might nonetheless prove very useful for those seers and prophets that she had blessed, and any other sorcerers besides.

Yes, a bargain had been struck.

Space distorted and rippled slightly as she projected magic and mind and might across the vast distance between her moon and the Galbar, plucking at invisible threads that ran all the way into the depths of that cavern. Her confinement upon the moon was dreary, but even from afar, she remained capable of exerting a good deal of power it seemed… this was just a laborious and somewhat slow task, made difficult by the distance. This time she did not have that Codex to act as a focusing lens, after all.

Engineering this creation demanded time, and the better part of an hour passed. While she was engrossed in the work, Arvum was left alone to his own devices on the bleak lunar landscape, but it was worth the wait. The colony of fungus was born; it erupted into life with a silent chorus of telepathic song, and in that moment she truly did feel some fondness for it. It was not quite like a child, but it was a living and thinking being all the same, and the first one of that sort that she had truly created all on her own. It would serve Arvum well, and she might enjoy occasionally speaking to it. Perhaps even he would, too. As his sentry it had an ingrained means of calling out to him in particular, after all, and on occasion it might babble even if it had little of import to announce.

Arvum nodded, sensing the creature’s presence from far away. ”Splendid work. I apologize for leaving so soon, however there is a great deal more work to be done. Perhaps we can collaborate in the future.”

Yudaiel withdrew and began drifting back to her usual seat in the grandest crater. Her parting ideabstraction was one that bore the sentiment of her farewell, devoid of any refined imagery but nonetheless clear enough. In place of darkness came an omnipresent warmth and color, and soothing undertones were laden into it too. And then the two had parted ways.

Zelios’s outfit for the day was a dark grey hooded robe, with a pair of black feathered wings at his back. As he roamed the sands of the desert, he had quickly come to discover that dark colours were far from ideal for warding off heat. This would, perhaps, have been bothersome for a mortal, but he was a god, and could stand it easily enough.

He had spent most of his time thus far wandering the world. He had meant to do so as soon as he made the Ring, but had instead been tempted by a quick nap and… it seemed he had overslept. He wasn’t sure how long, but much of the world had already been made, and it seemed he had missed out on a great deal. He had begun travelling to see what he had missed, and his travels had brought him here.

He was bored. Every now and then he would kick up a cloud of sand and watch it blow away in the wind. This desert had carried a certain charm to it at night, but during the day he did not care much for it. He squinted at the rising sun and frowned with distaste. The sun was no real danger to him either, aside from making him slightly weaker and more uncomfortable, but it would be best if he got a move on. “Perhaps to somewhere with a bit more shade,” he mused aloud. “Or back to the Shadowlands, maybe.”

Somewhere in the distance, to the far left of where Zelio was currently walking and likely only noticeably by the same because of the fact that they were a deity and had much better senses than those of mortals, a portal burst open into reality in a flash of blindingly bright light.

The portal itself was only open briefly. Long enough for the six legged equine Aethel to trot out of it, turn around and offer those on the other side a respectful wave with both one of their front hooves and a number of the countless tendrils that seemed to float around their waist. “Thank you kindly.” was all that was said before the portal was closed… and Aethel turned to look around at where they had requested to be dropped off.

There was… determination on their face as they slowly looked over the horizon… and noticed a figure somewhere in the distance that caused them to tilt their head slightly in thought.

Zelios leapt a great distance into the air, before using his wings to glide and control his descent. He landed just a few paces away from Aethel, and looked the colourful god up and down. “Hm, yes. Aethel, was it?” he asked. “I do believe we have already met.”

There was a moment where the colorful deity needed to think about where they had encountered the winged, dark god before… before they perked up. “Oh wow. We haven’t seen each other since the world was nothing but water. What brings you all the way out here?”

“What brings anyone anywhere?” Zelios asked with a shrug. “Which I suppose would just be an evasive way of saying there’s no reason for me to be here in particular. I thought I would wander the world, stretch my wings, and take in the sights.”

“A fair enough reason.” Aethel answered back, before glancing around slightly as they clearly put some thought into something. “I actually came here with a goal in mind… and honestly, I think you might be able to speed up the process a bit.”

Having clearly come to an understanding within themselves, Aethel looked at Zelios with determination. “ I actually came here because I wanted this land to be where I develop a new civilised species to add to the world. Well… okay, they would just be a species to start with, but given time they would hopefully build something of themselves.”

There was a brief moment of pause before they quickly added “If you’re wondering why I’m planning to do it here, it’s because the goddess of plants is currently waging a one deity war against at least one civilised species up in the northern parts of the planet… possibly two depending on the efforts of the poor, sweet girl she’s dragged into her crusade... My hope is that since there isn’t a great deal of plant life down here and she’s already got enough people up north to try and kill, she’s not going to bother coming down here for a while.”

“That sounds like madness,” Zelios observed. [color=black][b]“Who is this goddess, and why has she resorted to such extremes?”[/color][/b]

For their part, the equine just shrugged. “Haven’t actually met the deity in question personally, through I know for a fact that she’s going by the titles of ‘Green Murder’ and ‘Beast Queen’. It seems like she has some sort of grudge against anyone developing into a civilization and trying to become something beyond a nomad tribe, though exactly why this is… no idea.”

“Hm. Well, pardon my vulgarity, but I suppose if any god had a proverbial stick up their rear, it makes sense that it would be a deity of plants,” Zelios quipped. “Still sounds a tad extreme, though.”

Aethel chuckled softly at the pun, before continuing.

“At any rate. I was intending to spend a great deal of time searching this land for a suitable place to morph and enlighten the species I had in mind… build up some power in the process, you know? But… pun intended, but it seems like your presence here is divine providence! I would welcome your input on a good location… and invite you to assist me in my efforts to develop the species in question if you’re so inclined.”

“From what I have seen in my travels, water is essential. Doubly so, in hot lands such as this. Lakes, and rivers, are what you need. Freshwater, not the salt water of the ocean. Most creatures can’t drink that, which seems something of an oversight, to tell you the truth. I know there are water sources in this land, and I could show you some.” He paused for a moment. “Unless you intend to create a species that doesn’t need water at all?”

There was a shake of the head. “The base creature I intend to uplift into a new, sapient form does drink water so that is a factor.” There was a slight pause… before a sigh escaped them. “I guess I should come clean. My intention is to use the humble rat as the original creature in question, uplifted into a new form to become something more than an animal. Considering they’ll likely burrow into the ground as both a survival tactic to escape the sun and instincts from their original ancestry, water sources both above and below ground would be welcomed.”

Zelios raised his eyebrows. [color=black][/b]“Oh, that is intriguing. An instinctive desire to burrow into the ground to escape the sun is something that I share! Haven’t actually done so, just yet, so I can’t help you in regards to underground water - you or your creations will have to find that on your own. But there is a major river in this land, just to the north of our location.”[/color]

Aethel beamed as their front hooves came together in a joyous clop sound as they clapped. “Wonderful! Shall we go for a walk and see it then? While I intend to largely leave them to their own devices, I can show them enough compassion as to try and pick a good place for them to start where they’ll have the best chance of success going forward.”

The God of Darkness offered a nod. “It’s not far, and it can’t be missed. Let’s go.”

---

The great river which served as the most prominent feature of the northern half of the desert did in fact exist, and Zelios had led Aethel to it without issue. Grass and plantlife grew along its banks, as it inevitably did wherever fresh water could be found. “And here it is,” the God of Darkness said, with little in the way of fanfare. “I believe it is fed by the mountains to the east, and eventually drains into the sea to the west. Riveting commentary, I know.”

For their part, Aethel’s head followed Zelios’ ‘commentary’ rather seriously, their head turning towards the east and then to the west respectfully… and a smile grew on their face as they nodded. “I think they’ll survive and thrive here rather well.” before they made a noise of thought before turning to look at the god of darkness. “Out of interest… Before we commit to developing this race, I suspect we should discuss the form we want it to take. While I have my own ideas, you are investing your own power into this project and it would be rather rude of me not to get your input in how you might want things to go.”

“You know, I haven’t actually made any such commitment,” Zelios pointed out. “Although I suppose it has been a long time since I actually created anything. And it would be rather inconvenient if our lord and/or father was upset with me. So, I suppose I might as well offer some assistance. First, and foremost, since it’s your idea, what are you imagining?”

For a moment there was quiet as Aethel considered the question. It was a good one and deserved the effort put into it after all. Turning away from the river and walking towards the more dry and sandy… sand of the desert, a few of their tendrils beckoned Zelios to follow.

Stopping where the sand was dry and loose enough to move around easily, the sand seemed to come alive as it lifted up and formed the shape of an ordinary rat. Nothing truly noteworthy or special about it, just an example of a normal rat made out of sand. “As tempting as it is to leave them at this size, I admit they’ll have an easier time surviving in this world if they were somewhat bigger.” Aethel started, the tendrils swaying as more sand flew onto the sand rodent, growing its size until it was about three to four feet tall.

“The benefit of being able to move around on ones hind legs while having ‘hands’ in order to do things is too great to pass up… but at the same time being a quadruped has its benefits. So how about instead of sacrificing one for the other we select something that offers both as valid options…” was mused aloud as alterations were made to limbs of the sand rat. The hind legs were extended and strengthened to allow and encourage a bipedal stance… but the original clawed feet remained, including the joints that allowed for four legged movement. The arms were strengthened and extended as well in order to give them the ability to properly reach and move their arms, but the length and strength was not to the same extent as the hind legs.

The result was a creature that was standing on its hind feet, but naturally seemed to be hunched over slightly. While this would likely look painful in another humanoid, with the minor alterations required to adjust the rest of the body to the changes in size and limbs so they would work in concert rather than against each other, the result suggested a small humanoid that could scurry on all fours rather naturally but could also stand straight in order to work tools.

After a moment, Aethel turned to Zelios as they stated“This seems like a good start at least. Any input you wish to add?”

Zelios took a few moments to ponder this information. They were indeed merits to being able to switch between walking on four limbs and two limbs. But there was far more to a species than that. “Seems workable enough. I’ve not much to add beyond things that might give them a better affinity for the dark, but rats already have plenty of that. Tell me, though; how long will these creatures live, and how fast shall they reproduce?”

The blank expression on Aethel’s face said it all. They clearly hadn’t thought about those kinds of details up until this point. “...How long do rats normally live?” was not a question that a divine being creating a sapient race should be asking but… there it was, in all earnesty.

“How long do rats live?” Zelios asked, somewhat bemused.[color=black][b] “They…”[b][/color] then he stopped. “I don’t actually know for certain. But… I don’t think it’s very long? A few years, at the most?”

One of Aethel’s tendrils reached up to rub the back of their head… before they just shrugged and answered “Well… it’s not like we can’t just give them a longer period anyway. How’s fifty to eighty years sound to you?”

Zelios considered that. “Well… I would hope they don’t reproduce at the same speed as their smaller brethren. Else they’d overwhelm the entire planet within a few generations. I doubt the others would approve.”

“Smaller litters perhaps? To make up for the fact that they’re bigger and smarter than their smaller kin and thus have a better chance of survival.” was offered… even if Aethel didn’t exactly know how many the average rat litter was.

“Might not be enough,” Zelios said, glossing over the fact that he didn’t know the exact numbers either - though he did know they were quite considerable. “Longer maturity rates, shorter lifespans. And a point in their life at which they become infertile. My word, this has gotten rather complicated…”

Aethel considered this for a moment… before offering a counter point. “They are rather small compared to some of the animals and creations of our kin… and Tuku’s curse on rat kind will likely transfer over in that most mortals will see them as lowly and dirty creatures, even if they aren’t. But that’s the price we pay in order to make sure that my original blessing carries over as well.”

Zelios squinted in confusion. He had neither known nor been told any of this.
“Curses?” he asked.
“Blessings? On rats?” He then paused, clearly about to say more, but not quite sure on the best way to phrase it. Finally, he settled on a simple question. “May I ask why?”

Aethel seemed amused by the question. They did rather enjoy being a storyteller after all. “Well, it started back when we were making the world. Tuku created the first rats, alongside a bunch of other small creatures back in the Celestial Palace. As I was creating Mana for the world, in order to properly balance things I required mana connected with death, destruction and decay… so I killed one of the first rats to create it. The surviving rat, without her mate, went back to Tuku and requested a solution to the problem… which he offered if she stole something from me.”

“Which she did… but she also took a second item because she was angry with me for killing her mate and putting her in this position in the first place. Tuku wasn’t happy because she lied about it, so he cursed her and her descendants so that everyone would think of rats as lowly, dirty creatures. As for my blessing… when I caught up with her, she was completely honest with me and I deemed it wrong to punish her because one of our kin decided to put her up to it… plus I kind of owed her anyway for sacrificing her mate so, I blessed her and her kind so that they would naturally be able to understand and channel mana to use for their purposes.”

“All that sounds very dramatic,” Zelios mused. “As well as a tad petty, and just a little bit inconsistent.” Suddenly, the god took on a much deeper and slightly animalistic tone. He had never heard Tuku speak, but it was what he imagined a God of the Hunt would sound like. “‘Go steal for me. Oh, you lied? I curse you and your entire species.’” He shook his head. When he next spoke, the mocking tone was gone. “I suppose I’d be cross if someone lied to me, but an entire species? Bit too far. I’d likely just draw the line at the individual.” Another pause. “And maybe everyone they love, if I’m in an exceptionally bad mood.”

Aethel shrugged. “No one has ever accused me of being consistent. I’m personally rather prone to flights of fancy so… I’m not exactly in a position to judge someone else for having strange moralities.” They actually paused as they smiled and added “Plus the feud with Tuku this started has been rather enjoyable to take part in. We haven’t even met personally and we’re already deep in a prank war that has raged since the world was young. I fully recommend embracing the chaos sometimes and running with it… it can be rather entertaining.”

“That certainly is something to consider, although I’d rather wait until I meet someone who deserves it. It doesn’t sound like there is any shortage of such gods, however.” He shrugged. “Anyway, the rats. I would say… hm. Perhaps have the litter size remain the same, but limit each female to one litter per lifetime?”

Aethel shook his head a little at the suggestion. “One litter per lifetime can go very wrong if there are complications. How about we half the average size of the litter, but they can have several over their lifetime?”

“Math,” Zelios breathed. “Fun,” he said, with a tone that suggested the opposite. “What if each litter took a year to carry, then? And they can only begin reproducing after an age of… let’s say a quarter of their maximum lifespan? And stop reproducing at the halfway point?” He still didn’t know exactly how many rats were in a litter, but it couldn’t be too much, right? And it’s not like this climate was easy to survive in to begin with.

Aethel just shrugged and made a small noise of boredom. “Good enough. I mean, I doubt any of our kin put this much thought into this when they were creating a species so…”

Since the matter was now effectively settled as far as Aethel was concerned, he turned back to the sand display briefly. “Might as well get what modifications you want done to the model before we get started.”

“There’s not much I can think to add at the moment, beyond making it easier for them to navigate the dark - something I believe they were already good at to begin with. Better night vision, perhaps?” the God of Darkness offered another shrug. “Either way, let’s get this done.”

Nodding in agreement, the model dropped back into the sand as Aethel stopped giving it any further attention… and turned back towards the more fertile grounds beside the river and its banks. “Let us begin then.” was all they had to say before they closed their eyes and focused.

The first step was, of course, getting the rats there in order to enhance them in the first place. This would not be a difficult task; While some gods might have just teleported or provoked them into making the trip on land, Aethel had a much easier solution. Their horns glowed for a moment as they sent out a signal through the winds and currents of mana… and one by one rats started to appear in front of the pair of gods. Some materialized out of the wind, some borrowed up from the ground where there hadn’t been tunnels before, some even appeared in flashs of flame or stepping out of the river itself, completely dry. The winds of mana offered many paths and passages for those with the gift to see them after all.

Soon rats in their thousands had gathered by the riverside, watching the gods with an unnatural stillness as if bewitched by them.

“What next?” Zelios asked, not seeming the least bit unnerved by this.

Somewhat pleased with the results of the summons, Aethel turned to Zelios as several of their tendrils intertwined together, a grin forming on the equine’s face. “Simple really. We alter and enlighten them. Shall we?” Offering one of their hooves to Zelios, Aethel started to build up power in order to enact the transformation… but was clearly waiting for the god of darkness to join their power before fully committing to it.

Zelios extended a hand to one of the hooves. No doubt this made for a rather unusual sight - the two of them a stark contrast to one another in every possible way, standing before a sea of rats. The God of Darkness then focused his power. After his years of inactivity, his reserves were quite vast… but he only offered a small portion to the mana god. He had plans of his own, and he wasn’t that invested in this species to begin with; it would not be wise to squander too much of his potential here.

---

The first thought that went through their head as the blackness faded and their eyes opened was a simple ‘What?’

Confusion quickly followed as thinking in a context beyond basic survival was a brand new experience and they didn’t exactly know what to do with it right away but… after a time they finally opened their eyes. They were… bigger than the furry memories in their mind suggested. Their body felt different as well… not in a bad way, just different. Even as the wind blew against their skin and the warmth of the light in the heavens soaked into their fur, the first to awaken pushed themselves up onto their hind legs and looked around and the rest of their slumbering people.

Glancing down to see their genitals, they blinked slightly as the concept of ‘they’ turned into ‘he’. He was still somewhat confused by these new developments but… at the same time a feeling bubbled up to the surface that they had never felt before. He couldn’t describe it but… it felt like despite the increase in size that the world had suddenly grown larger and more full of opportunities that weren’t there before. All he needed to do was reach out and seize it.

“Hello?” A voice, and a snapping sound, could be heard nearby. A figure with smooth skin and black wings stood before him. “Can you hear me? Can you understand me?”

Turning towards the sound with a flick of their ear, he blinked slightly as he gazed up at the tall, dark figure with wings… and the more colorful, smaller figure with poofy hair and tail standing beside them. As the questions were asked, he blinked slightly… before nodding his head and saying for the first time “Hello?””

The smaller figure grinned. “Hello to you as well. How are you feeling?”

There was a slight blink at the change of energy between the tone of the two figures, but he took a deep breath as he answered the rather complicated question with “Different… stronger…was in murkiness before but now can see clearly. Who are you?”

“My name is Zelios, and this is Aethel,” the black-haired and black-winged figure said. “We created you.”

‘Aethel’ was about to nod their head in agreement, paused for a moment as if they were going to say something, considered the matter for a moment… and then nodded all the same to Zelios’ statement.

For his part, he looked up at his creators with wide eyes, remembering them as the clearest of the murkiest memories before the darkness and awakening. “T-Thank you. But… What is my name?”

The expression that came across ‘Aethel’s face was new and unknown to him, but the look in their eyes was familiar: Panic. The currently nameless one watched as the smaller of their creators reached up to take Zelios’ hand and muttered a quick “Please excuse us one moment…” before pulling them away in order to have a quick chat with them outside of their hearing range.

“I take it you didn’t think this far ahead either?” Zelios asked with an amused smirk.

Aethel shook their head. “ I was planning to let them figure it out for themselves… I didn’t think I would actually have to name them!”

There was a brief discussion between the two deities… before they returned to the waiting, unnamed former rat who had been waiting rather patiently. “After some discussion, we have decided to name you-”

Although the unfortunate truth was: no such decision had been made. Indeed, both gods had hoped they would think of something in the time it took them to walk back to the waiting rat, and would say the first thing that came to mind. Zelios looked expectantly at Aethel, stunned at how long they were taking, but equally embarrassed by the fact that he hadn’t come up with anything either. In the end, after the ensuing pause had become too awkward for god or mortal to bear, he decided to just blurt something out.

“Raethal.”

“Norvegicus” Aethel said at exactly the same moment… before proving that if nothing else, they could at least improvise on the spot when required. “Raethel Norvegicus, the first of the Rattus.” That part was admittingly debatable, but they were the first to awaken and that deserved something.

Reaching out to place a hand on Raethel’s shoulder, Aethel offered a smile as they poured a little extra something into their new creation. “We have entrusted you to be the one to lead your people forward. We trust you’ll be up to the task Raethel.”

Raethel for their part looked amazed… blinking in surprise as they felt something infused and strengthened their very being… before turning to look at Zelios to see if they had anything to say.

“Wield your power responsibly,” the God of Darkness intoned seriously. “Do not abuse it. First you may be, and power you may hold, but never forget that a leader must give as well as take. And that a leader who fails to serve the interests of those who follow him may find that he no longer has a following. Remember this lesson well.”

Raethel listened to the words of one of his creators with wide eyes and his full attention… before respectfully bowing his head. “I will… I will remember what you have said.”

“Good,” Zelios nodded. “Now, I shall give you your first task as leader. When the rest of the Rattus awaken you must… help them name themselves. If they cannot think of a name for themselves, then you shall come up with one for them until they do.”

There was a squeak of… excitement? As Raethel turned to look back at the rest of their still slumbering fellows… before he nodded his head as they looked back at their creators. “It will be done. I promise.”

Aethel for their part reached out to playfully run their hand along Raethel’s head, causing the rat’s eyes to widen… before leaning into the pats. “We look forward to seeing what you and the Rattus become in time, Raethel.”

“Indeed,” Zelios nodded, adding a bit of extra self-importance to his voice. “And now I must leave, for there are matters I must tend to elsewhere.” He turned back to Aethel. “Unless there is anything else?”

Aethel for their part shook their head. “I might stay around a little longer to make sure that they know the basics of survival. Give them a good head start… but that shouldn’t take all that long. Thank you for your assistance Zelios.” Aethel even offered a respectful bow to show their thanks.

Zelios responded with a bow of his own. “Think nothing of it. Though I may request your aid in the future should I require any assistance with a project of my own.”

“Of course. Until we meet again.” Aethel offered… before turning their full attention to Raethel and the rest of the Rattus. “Now then… I think we should start with what is and isn’t safe for you to eat.”

The rivers flowed, the winds blew. Wolves howled, reeds grew, the old 'uns passed away, new kits were born. Things went well, by and large. The Bjorks in the north navigated the currents of many gods in their native land, and in the south, the Bjarska simply shrugged and lived another day. In the decades that passed, a neutral observer might have noticed a peculiar difference between the two: Bjorks fought when times were tough. Biarsks fought when there was plenty.

"HAAARGH!"

Grotnip reeled back from the blow, already winding up his strong arm, and slashed his claw across Kmak's face like a fistful of blades.

Let's take a moment to see how things came to this.

---

"It's my bloody creek and it's my bloody stone! Everything south of the marker post belongs to the Western Lubov!"

"You MOVED the fecking post!"

"I moved it BACK! You moved it all the way past the second willow!"

"What? From where I'm standing, that's the third willow! Count 'em, you shit-brained maggot rat!"

Rolling her eyes high up into Heaven, Yek dragged her hands down her face and begged the Singing Maker to come and smite both men. She stamped down on her husband's tail to get his attention, and he yelped. "Grotnip! Quit your jabbering! Get back in the lodge right now before Toka gives birth with no-one but a rockslave to help her!" Actually, she realised, maybe Toka would prefer if she just went home and left them here.

"Shut your stinking gob, woman!" Grotnip pulled his long tail away with his hands and pointed in her face. "This isn't lodge business, this is men's business! You have no say here! It's the law!" Yek had no answer to that.

"The law?" Kmak had not forgotten their quarrel for a moment. "Let me tell you what's in the law, you sneaking old creep! This slave-rock was in my half of the brook, which makes it mine!"

"Well, I've seen where you dug it up, and it's on my side of the damn post!"

"YOU MOVED THE FECKING POST!"

The two bjarska continued to scream insults and accusations over the large pebble until Kmak abruptly picked it up and hit him with it.

Grotnip roared, and so their fight began: rolling in grass, in mud, into the creek splashing and tumbling every which way, digging nails into one another's pelt, sinking their stained teeth deep into shoulders. It was over in seconds. Kmak rolled his enemy's skull onto a river-rock; it connected with a bang and he went still. Blood trailed down the clean shallow water.

Yek yelped, clutching her hands to her mouth and splashing down to her spouse. "You bastard! That was my favourite husband!"

Kmak said nothing, gasping and groaning as he clutched his deep wound. Yek backhanded him with her work-hardened knuckles.

"You know the law! You killed my husband, now you replace him!" Kmak gave her a dazed and a pained stare. "Swear it! Swear it right now!"

"I swear," said Kmak, raising his paw, "by the Maker of lake and sea, and may the Sun-Headed Giant bear witness from his hill, that I have done you wrong, Yek of Svietla. I beg for thy mercy, and I grovel before thee, I relinquish my lodge, and I offer myself as the lowest of thy husbands."

There was a quiet pause as they both regained their breath. Something small swished the grass. Yek looked up and saw the pebble-headed earthenslave approach them. "My god, she really is giving birth. Damn you. You killed her only husband," she said, fretting with her hands. "Orphaned on the day they were born."

A noise in the brook. They turned and stared. Grotnip lay there on his back, eyes closed. His chest was heaving.

"I'm! Not! Dead!"

Yek threw a clod of mud at him. Kmak turned to Yek and roared, but the words could not be unspoken. "YOU! YOU TRICKED ME!"

"YOU SHOULD HAVE MADE SURE THE BASTARD WAS DEAD!" She scratched the sides of her face, groaning audibly. "Now I have three bloody husbands to deal with! Three! Shit!"

The two bjarska continued to fight with words only, as was proper between manbiarsk and wifebiarsk. Grotnip rolled and tried to at least get on all fours.

"Oh. Look, a slave-rock."

Dizzy from the head-blow and woozy from all the blood he'd lost, Grotnip yanked from the mud the stone he'd fallen on, a big gleaming pebble perfect for carving. The crude stick-and-bone golem on the riverbank watched with stupid interest. Then it turned and tottered back to the reedy mud-heap that was their lodge, where its mistress lay curled up by a little fire stoked by her brother-in-law.

Toka gave birth to eight healthy kits, and life went on.

---

“You did WHAT?!”

Midnight Lavender recoiled, pulling up her hands in time, barely, to protect against the sandal that had been thrown straight at her face.

“What the hell, mom!”

Midnight’s mom fumed and held her temple. The teenager could swear her mom was about to burst a vein. “I TOLD you not sign up. I TOLD you! Now what are we-”

“We? WE?! We haven’t done anything! YOU haven’t done anything! Even though everyone’s being carried off into the guts of this stinky ass place, you REFUSE to even let ME do ANYTHING to improve our lives!” Midnight stomped on the metal ground, a shot of pain travelling up her right leg all the way up to her hip as if it was lightning. She huffed.

Her mom stepped back for a moment, but Midnight knew her very well. There wasn’t a chance that she would back down. “D… Don’t talk back at me like that, you little bitch!” The very air froze. Her mom stood in front of her, hand high up and ready to come down on her face. But it never did, instead, her mom blinked and made a face she’d never seen before. Tears welled up in her mom’s eyes and her shoulders began to shake. “I-”

“Fuck you! I’m done with you and this tiny can of sardines.” Midnight shook her head and began to dig through the scarce few drawers in their home and put some of her clothes and essentials in her backpack.

“I-I’m sorry, Middy. I don’t know what came over me. Please stay, let’s talk this over.” Her mom began to plead, gently placing her hands on Midnight’s shoulder.

Midnight pulled away, closed her backpack and left the cell they’d called home for the past seven years, pushing past her nosy neighbours in the process. As she turned a corner in the metal labyrinth, she could hear her mother’s sobs slowly fade away.



Midnight wiped the cold sweat off the old man’s forehead and then helped him stretch his limbs one by one. The man groaned, eyes closed and face flushed. His fever had only risen and risen since he had been quarantined, his body slowly starting to atrophy, skin colour changing little by little. Lucidity wasn’t the strong man’s suit, as he had dementia from before he’d caught the Spores, but even that had been deteriorating lately. Over the last three days, the only time that the elder had said anything was that morning.

“Hunger…” He whispered then, and then fell into slumber once more.

It was a sign that he was close to the end. She knew, because this was the twentieth person she’d been assigned to in the last week, and the only one to remain well enough to still be considered alive.

The others laid completely covered in white sheets on the beds they died on, lined up along the walls of the ward.

“Homurans should take care of Homurans, isn’t that right Midnight?” Asked a somewhat muffled voice. Midnight turned to see a familiar face. Pale skin and red markings that seemed to bleed off of his fiery red hair were always a sight for sore eyes. She smiled at Bloodred, her half-lidded eyes only exacerbating the dark bags under her eyes. She wobbled a bit.

“Wow wow, easy there tiger-” He rushed to her side and held her by the shoulders. He lifted one of his thick eyebrows as he looked deep into her eyes and pursed his lips. “What did I say? You need to rest, Mid.”

“Nah…” Midnight grumbled, taking just one second too long to turn back to her patient. “I got work to do, hunk.”

“I feel so objectified and sexualized.” Bloodred smirked, although the expression was covered by his half-mask.

“You can handle it. Semma Aqua, on the other ear…” Midnight sighed, slouching just a tiny bit.

Bloodred sighed and used one arm to hug her from behind and the other to gently caress her head. She started to cry, the sobbing muffled by her half-mask.

“It’s been tough, hasn’t it?”

“Y-Yeah…”

They remained like that for a little while, until…

“Gggheelll…”

A voice Midnight hadn’t heard in days suddenly groaned. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, a shiver going up her spine and her ears shaking and twisting and turning to try and confirm whether the sound came from where she thought it came. She tried to turn around to face the source of the groan, but Bloodred’s grip had tightened, and upon looking up at his face she could see him looking back at whatever had groaned.

“Mid, the list said that Semmi Aqua died two days ago, right?”

“Y-Yeah, why?” Midnight asked, still trying to free herself from her partner’s embrace. “Why? What’s there?”

“”Two days… That shouldn’t be enough time for Spores to get this bad…” Bloodred said quietly, before looking down at Mid and nodding. In an instant, he hoisted her up with a grunt onto his shoulder and walked toward the exit. “Situtation’s evolved love. There’s no way to know when the other 18 people in your ward are going to wake up, so we’re leaving.”

“Wake up?! You mean-”

“Yup. The infection cycle has accelerated.”

The last thing Midnight saw before the door to her ward closed behind them was the shambling form of Semmi Aqua, Semma Aqua’s lifelong mate. Her skin was a sickly colour, her eyes clouded over, she had strange growths under her skin, and was making her way straight for Semma Aqua, who laid unconscious on his bed.

Then the metal doors closed, and Bloodred smashed the emergency button next to them. Red lights and an alarm started blaring all over the quarantine zone.

“W-Wait! We have to go back for Semma Aqua! If we don’t, he’ll-”

“Die? You know as well as I do that there’s no cure for Spores. If we saved him now, he’d die tomorrow or the day after.” Bloodred explained, still carrying Midnight on his shoulder even as he made his way to the quarantine zone’s exit.

“... How did this happen? It always takes at least four days for the last stage to begin! Four!” She repeated, burying her face in her hands.

“No idea.”

The hiss of an opening airlock betrayed the fact they were entering the decontamination chamber. It was only after they walked inside and the airlock closed behind them that Bloodred set Midnight down. “Sorry about that, I didn’t want to risk you running off on your own, Mid.”

“It’s… Fine.” she sighed.

“HOMURAN PERSONNEL DETECTED. UNDRESS IMMEDIATELY.” Demanded a robotic voice through the intercoms. They didn’t hesitate, they quickly and efficiently took their white overalls off and tossed them into a chute in the wall.

As she stood there waiting for the Quarantine Assistant to proceed to the next step of decontamination, Midnight felt Bloodred’s hot breath on her ear.

“Looking sexy as ever, puma.” He whispered. He chuckled and pulled away as soon as he saw Midnight fidgeting and her ears flattening against her head.

“UNIFORM STERILIZED. PREPARE FOR DECONTAMINATION.” It didn’t take long for the room to fill up with a thick, cool fog. It burned their airways a little as they breathed it in, and they couldn’t help but cough and sneeze.

It was all finished soon enough and the gas was suctioned out of the room via vents placed all over the floor.

“UNIFORMS DISPATCHED. DRESS YOURSELVES IMMEDIATELY.” A ding sound accompanied the announcement, and two compartments opened in the wall containing an uniform for each, which they quickly put on.

“DECONTAMINATION COMPLETE. PROCEED TO HOSPITAL.” The airlock leading to the hospital then opened, and the couple walked out of decontamination at last. Posted on either side of the airlock were Primes, each holding a shield and a spear.

“Report to the Archivist at once, Homuran Midnight Lavender. Homuran Blood Red, report to the Head of Security.” Said one of the two Primes, an exceedingly tall and strong-looking one.

“After reporting your failure to your superiors, you may take three days to rest.” Said the other, much slimmer and feminine but made up of sharp and intimidating parts.

Midnight sighed and rubbed at her temple, then began to walk towards the Archivist’s study. Bloodred, who had to go the opposite way to the Head of Security waved at her with a stupid grin on his face.

“See you tonight at Celeste’s Tuna Emporium?” He asked loudly, to which Midnight merely waved her hand.

“Sure, sure. Seven.”

Bloodred made a fist pump. “Yess!”

“Detecting high levels of pheromones in atmosphere composition. Possible source: Clingy, needy, sexually underdeveloped feline Homuran.” The feminine looking Prime said, a high pitched whirr coming from within her body soon after.

Bloodred blushed and shook his head, walking away. “Tsk. You bags of bolts wouldn’t understand how great she is even if I explained it…”

Setting: The Valley of the Elves, nondescript wooded location

“Heh!”

A particularly angular zena by the name of Hafface chortled to herself as she walked through the woods. Underneath the canopy of the tall trees was one of her favorite places to be, to be drowning in the sounds of the wild and feeling the mottled beams of sun on her disfigured face always sent a certain calm down her spine. As always, she found refuge among the leaves, and found friends in the foliage of the wilderness. Often she found herself shunned by common society on account of her injured face, particularly the right side, but never found judgement among the bark.

With recent restrictions on the forests, it was only her knowledge and frank disregard for authority that led her away from her fellow Zenii and into the maw of the woods. Duly swallowed by the many trees and hidden in the unknown of greens and yellows, Hafface could feel all her tensions falling from her shoulders. She let her eyes close and her feet lead her through the familiar roots and brambles.

Onward she sank through her sanctuary, until she felt the warmth of the sun flash across her entire face and the sounds of grassland sparrows fill her ears, she had found her secret glade. Sucking in a strong breath of air, she released her eyelids and stared up at the blank blue sky with wonder — how she had missed this peace.

Something felt wrong. Hafface furrowed her brow and her ears started to pop, a vibration shaking under her feet and sending adrenaline down her legs. Suddenly a blast clapped overhead, nearly throwing her to the ground and bending the trees. A dreadful whistle deafened her and she witnessed a flaming streak burst through the sky. As quickly as it had cut into her view, it crashed somewhere beyond the canopies with an explosive flash.

This time the shockwave did throw her to the ground, a deep ringing in her ears. Aches were already groaning in her bones from the fall, but her curiosity found her scrambling to her knees. The smell of soil and metallic flame filled her nostrils as she clambered forward, back into the forest to find whatever fell through the sky.

Hafface knew by the time that she found the land devoid of trees — the ones that used to be present now in splinters — she had been going in the right direction. Her head was still spinning but looking forward she was sure she wasn’t hallucinating.

There straight ahead was a mighty crater carved into the forest land, with a ring of fiery destruction all around it. The birds were refusing to call, and the crackling of coals filled the air instead. Luckily the wind from the blast kept the fire by the crater and not by the still standing woods, but the more horrifying detail was the shadow rising from the bowl of destruction. Hafface froze in place, her knees locked and her adrenaline in a confusing swirl as she watched on. The figure of a man was rising from the devastation, his figure obscured by the smoke of the coals until finally he stepped past the veil and into view.

Immediately the sun caught the man. He held a round shield on his right shoulder, covering half of his body with it — the sun angrily shone off of it, forcing Hafface to put her hands over her eyes in an attempt to focus. He came into focus and she gasped — he had horns on his head and big smokey eyes, a wicked grin on his face, and a shimmering crucifix sword of white in his left hand. His body was wrapped in strange woolen clothing (not that Hafface knew the material, nor that the instrument in his left hand was a sword). She was still frozen, even as his eyes fell onto her, a determined look swelling on his face.

“Ho!” His voice was strong and confident.

Hafface opened her mouth but only a dry puff of air escaped. She still couldn’t move as the man approached. His smile widened as he flourished his blade before slamming it into the ground at her feet. Before she could react, the man fell to one knee and bowed his head against the pommel of his sword.

“Dearest Hevel, I pray to thee thanks for a safe delivery so that I may have the privilege to meet this creature that stands before me. I pray unto you that I do not lose your favor but instead prove my worth in your eyes, amen.”

“Uh.. uh… uh…” Hafface twitched, suddenly finding her motor functions again. Taking a step back, she couldn’t help but let loose a horrific scream. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!!”

The strange horned man was blown back onto his rump, staring up at her with wide eyes. “A majestic singing voice, ho! But I do request perhaps a quieter tone for my gentle ears, ho!”

He stood up, nearly jumping, and threw back his shoulders. “I am Farwaen! Knight of Hevel and first of this land.”

Before Hafface could even speak, Farwaen interrupted her. “Pray tell!” His face fell serious. “Could you point me in the direction of where the services of a knight may be needed?”

He held out his hand, as if expecting it to be clasped. Hafface closed her eyes and let loose a soft breath before turning away from the man. Hidden inside her own mind, she started to walk away — leaving Farwaen standing frozen in his pose.