Lord Zee
BBeast
DracoLunaris
Frettzo
Cyclone
Vec
Torack
~6 Post-Realta
The trees of the Deepwood towered above all trees of Teknall's creation, towered above even some created by the oak-faced god. And the Kingash towered above all the trees of the Deepwood. The presence of the Life-Deer permeated this place even though she was far away from here, in distant unknown lands and places. Battle-Brother Juras did not make the most subtle figure as he strode silently throw the forest's thick undergrowth, gently bending baby trees and bushes out of his way with Wi, detecting the most unintrusive path through with his heightened senses.
Not too far from here there had once been a giant shell buried beneath the earth, and not too far from here a fleeing woman had once received a crimson scarf from a waiting guardian. And no doubt an unknown number of mortals and divines had likely passed this very spot - why, were not his ancestors, Seihdhara and all those wrenched from the hands of Death by the Celestial Above that they may come to Chronos, were they not sacrificed by the sporting gods not mere metres from where he now stood?
Juras was calm however, no emotion shook him and no great degree of rancour surged through his being. Aye, for he had purged these vices in the Chronos Bloodwells created by Our Master the Bard. It had been but an infinitesimal amount at first, so little that were it not for his senses he would have thought there was nothing there. Mora had injected it right into his bloodstream, and the potency of Amartía's poisonous blood was immediately apparent. He sensed it and fought it as it rapidly, with an insatiable hunger, violently cracked and permeated his blood vessels, transforming them into clones of itself and expanding.
'Do not fight it. Do not destroy it. Tame it - overcome it.' Mora's voice, directly into his mind. Juras had done just that, had relaxed himself utterly and willed his body to embrace the invasive substance. Pungent odours diffused from his skin, and his colouration shifted now from its natural state to a deep crimson, then back again, his nails now elongating and now condensing. It had surged through him, cackling and ripping not only at his body, but now at his very mind and now at his soul, seeking to bend everything to its will and unhinge all that was healthy and balanced into profanation, viciousness, and unintelligent stupor.
But even as it came at him with all its unadulterated vice, its effects washed over him like steaming water in which one was helplessly afloat. It was disorientating, true, uncomfortably hot, but it was just water. And like water, it flowed from him or caused his skin to whiten and shrivel, but it did no more. It only left him cleansed. He had emerged to Battle Brother Mora's knowing gaze, and the Treemind had bid him go rest and meditate, for the next dose would be greater.
'But before you leave once more for Galbar, you will have bathed in the Bloodwells and emerged complete,' Mora had prophesied. And it had been so. It was true, the blood of Amartía had left an indelible mark, a lasting influence that would be with him forever now, the hint of whispers prodding testingly at the edge of his mind for any signs of weakness; but what mattered was that he had overcome it. True, his skin was ever of a reddish hue and his nails, if not filed, grew into black hooks, and his frame was somewhat broader and taller and hair somewhat darker, but he had overcome it. And he would continue to overcome it forever.
To live was to overcome.
And as he thought, he stepped out into the clearing around the Kingash, and there rose in the shade of the mighty tree a colossal ant, not quite large enough to be one of the Deepwood's Mammoth Ants, but far too large to be a vicious Bull Ant, for it was easily the size of a moose or larger.
And yet...it was a Bull Ant
The tremendous creature raised its head high and stridulated angrily, and the Battle Brother took half a step back as it swung its great head at him and charged. 'Stop!' Came his thundering voice just as the mandibles of the giant sprung open and its head looked ready to snap forward towards him. And it stopped. It stridulated questioningly and the Battle Brother raised a white hand towards an open mandible, patting it slowly. 'And how did you get so big, hmm?' he asked her gently. She stridulated a response - she had been in the Deepwoods a long time, she had consumed Bull Ants and Mammoth Ants, had conquered the song of the Deepwood Sloth, and even the tail of the Rainbow Silky had availed it aught when the mandibles sprung shut. Nectar Blush or Severe Blush, they oozed when she was done with them, and the gargoyle that thought to ambush her from above soon found that the ambush lay below. While Bull Ants had no colonies and were ruggedly individualistic, she had made the Deepwood as a whole her colony and herself the Queen over all.
And that was what she called herself - The Queen of the Deepwood Colony. What she went by in bygone days, Juras could not have her reveal. She was 🇹🇭🇪🇶🇴🇩🇪🇨, The Queen of the Deepwood Colony, and that was it. There was but one, 🇹🇭🇪🇶🇴🇩🇪🇨 proclaimed, who stood between her and unchallenged supremacy. It was the First Formica. 🇹🇴🇧🇮🇦.
'But surely you cannot think yourself a match for the Chosen of the Celestial Above!' Juras declared in surprise. But 🇹🇭🇪🇶🇴🇩🇪🇨 thought herself that and more. Migrating birds and travelling ants, and others who thought she did not hear what they spoke, had carried word to her of a quadrupedal mammal, domesticated by humans as aphids were domesticated by ants, who went by the name of Layl. And this quadrupedal mammal, it was said, had ascended to the ranks of the gods! If a lowly domesticated mammal could thus ascend, then 🇹🇭🇪🇶🇴🇩🇪🇨 saw it only right that she should take up her deserved placed as the sovereign goddess of ant-kind.
'And you think challenging and defeating 🇹🇴🇧🇮🇦 is what you must do to achieve this?' Juras asked sceptically. No, she responded, but it was one of the things she would have to do. By the strength of her mandibles and the single-mindedness of her unbreakable will, she would reign above all. 'I'd almost think there was a hint of disdain for the gods in your tone,' Juras chuckled. 🇹🇭🇪🇶🇴🇩🇪🇨 turned her massive head towards Juras and flashed her mandibles in what must have been an attempt at a laugh.
[I like you, Trialled In Sin,] she stridulated, [when I'm a goddess I'll keep you by me]. The Battle Brother surveyed the massive creature for a few moments before speaking.
'Well, if you wish to challenge 🇹🇴🇧🇮🇦, then staying here will do you no good. 🇹🇴🇧🇮🇦 has seen Galbar entire, she has travelled the stars and seen worlds incomprehensible to an ant that has seen nothing but these woods. You have a long way to go and much to see before you can stand on an equal footing to her and declare yourself a challenger.' 🇹🇭🇪🇶🇴🇩🇪🇨 gave the Victor a side-long stare, an antenna brushing over his cloaked head.
[You are a traveller, 🇹🇷🇮🇳🇸🇮🇳. You will accompany me.] It was a statement that would not suffer itself to be refused.
'You mean you will accompany me,' Juras laughed, 'god-to-be or not, I'm the veteran traveller here.' And without skipping a beat, the Victor hopped up onto the ant's thorax and positioned himself behind two well-placed bones. It was as though the Bull Ant had been made to be mounted.
[Were I not in such a good mood, I would eat you for that, 🇹🇷🇮🇳🇸🇮🇳.] The Queen stridulated.
'Less of that noise and lets get moving. I should have done this on my first journey.' 🇹🇭🇪🇶🇴🇩🇪🇨 let out a noise that may well have been the closest thing to a harrumph an ant could make, and strode forth.
It skittered before them at speed, a hain, so much was apparent, but a Horror too. Unlike the one Juras had slain so long ago, this one was quadrupedal and had strange skittery legs. Its two arms sported large porcelain spikes rather than hands, and a swarm of Needle Fae followed after it as it fled through the long golden grass of the Gilt Savannah. Not too far behind it, a creature of considerable size - that Juras immediately recognised as an ogre - was giving chase. It rushed past the Victor on his ant-steed without a glance, grunting and growling something about dat stoopid four-leg heen, gonna show it gonna.
Juras signed for 🇹🇭🇪🇶🇴🇩🇪🇨 to go after them, and the ant - stridulating something to the meaning of well you're getting comfortable, aren't you - turned and ran after them at a gentle pace. Despite that, its six-legs easily carried it across the earth and it had soon quickly outpaced the ogre who towered above Juras even atop the back of 🇹🇭🇪🇶🇴🇩🇪🇨.
'Watchu lookin' at pinkthing?' The ogre growled in his guttural language and swung a stone maul at the Victor. 🇹🇭🇪🇶🇴🇩🇪🇨 leapt forth suddenly, and the maul missed completely.
'Out of the way Whit-Killer!' a voice came from up ahead. It was the Horror. Sensing that something bad was about to go down, 🇹🇭🇪🇶🇴🇩🇪🇨 abruptly changed direction just as the ogre hurtled past. The ground where his feet landed suddenly burst with light and the earth collapsed where he stood. The ogre flailed in surprise for a few moments and seemed to hang in mid-air, and then he fell into the relatively deep pit. Juras had not sensed any weakness in the ground ahead. This was some kind of magick, there was no doubt. 'You're the dumbest, most mushroom-faced ogre I've ever come across. Give up Mush-head, you're never catching me!'
'I'mma mash you, four-leg-heen, I'mma crunch yer 'ead off!' The ogre responded in his own tongue. For a minute or so they shouted abuses past each other. It was clear that neither understood the other, but there seemed to be history between them. Juras observed the butterfly-like Fae that fluttered about the Horror as it went about shouting into the pit. He had not seen Fae properly on his previous journey, this was an opportunity. Reaching out swiftly, he caught one by its long blade and brought it close, allowing his senses to wash over it. Eighteen-wings, a turquoise, green and faded orange colouration. Intricate geometric designs and patterns - a hallmark of many Jvanic beings. Interestingly, the Horror did not seem to notice that he had caught one of its Fae, or if it did it did not care. He reached out with his Wi in an attempt to bring another one closer, but he found that... there was nothing. Baffled and suddenly disorientated - for he had never experienced a lack of Wi - the Battle Brother released the Fae and balanced himself by holding on tightly to one of 🇹🇭🇪🇶🇴🇩🇪🇨'🇸 protruding bones.
'Horror,' Juras said, once he had somewhat adapted to the hollowness and vulnerability of being without Wi. The Horror jumped away from the pit and turned to Juras, aghast.
'White-Killer! You're still here! Don't kill me!' It skittered backwards and made to turn and flee, but Juras spoke.
'I will not kill you, do not run.' It paused and turned its head towards him.
'You... but you're a killer. Murderer. Trickster.'
'No less than the Jvanic Entity - but here, I keep my word. I will not kill you.'
'So you will maim me? Torture me maybe? Amputate a limb or two? Suck my soul? Carve a-'
'I'm not going to harm you in any way, Horror. I only have questions.' The Sculptor observed him uncertainly for a few moments... and then approached, curiosity ultimately over-riding its instinct to flee. 'What have you done to my Wi?' Juras asked. The Horror looked at him blankly.
'Wee? You mean... as in... bodily fluid excreted via-'
'No no. My magick. I can't feel it.' The Horror pointed its sharpened hand upwards in what must have been an imitation of a hain-smile.
'My Fae. They suppress many things, magick amongst them.' Juras cocked his head.
'But what you just did there, to the ogre. That was some kind of magick.' The Horror nodded.
'It was! A trick I learned from urts. I've been running Mush-head here round in circles for days waiting for it to charge up. Doing this stuff to him never gets old,' the Sculptor giggled and looked to the side, 'maybe a swarm of earthen bees with rocks for stingers next...'
'What do you mean. Explain.' Juras demanded.
'Well, the urts draw patterns - magickal patterns. Then they charge them up using skylights. And then boom, all kinds of things. Big bridges, lightning bolts, and pits. And more. I've been experimenting on Mush-head. I don't know the urt language, but it's meant to look nice so me and my luck most of the time. Once I made it rain hairballs on him. Another time he sprouted nails from his armpits. One time he sprouted an extra pair of legs and nearly caught me! But he went and... uh, "amputated" himself. To put it mildly.'
'Urt script you say? And have you ever tried using any other languages?' The Horror raised its head at this suggestion and was silent. 'I'll take that as a no.'
'Eh, it just... well, it never crossed my mind really.' But Juras was not entirely listening.
'Skylights... you mean the golden lights of heaven, yes? The urts have a way to power their spells with them?' The Horror nodded, busy writing something with his pointy appendages onto the ground.
'Here, you're strong right? I'm going to go over there with my Fae, and you see if you can power this spell with your magick.' The Horror ran off some distance with his Fae, and Juras descended from 🇹🇭🇪🇶🇴🇩🇪🇨'🇸 back and told the ant to back away. The Victor did likewise and, focusing on the area the Horror had marked, channelled some Wi into it.
Nothing happened. The Horror remained where it was, watching cautiously. Minutes passed. 'Have you powered it yet?' The Horror eventually asked.
'Yes, a while back,' came the Victor's response.
'Oh,' the Horror said, somewhat crestfallen.
'I have another idea,' Juras said and returned to the area where the Horror had written out the spell in the strange pseudo-language Sculptors used to communicate telepathically. Wiping it with a foot, he wrote something else with the bladed butt of his polesword. Once he had stepped away once more, he channelled his Wi towards the marks he had made and, after a few seconds of silence, the earth suddenly rose up in a small jagged spike.
'How!?' The Horror ran up to the spike and danced about it gleefully. 'Tell me, tell me. How?' Juras walked towards the spike and inspected it. It was not quite as he had wished for it to be, clearly brittle. But it established an easier script for him than that of the urts: the divine tongue itself. It was only logical that the very script in which magick, and the world as a whole, was created would be naturally attuned to magick.
'Divine script.' Juras said simply. The Horror cocked its head.
'Dunno that either,' it said in defeat.
'Well, I guess your experimentation on Mash-head continues.' Its head shot up, and it turned a pointy appendage heavenward.
'Mash-head secretly loves it, really.'
'I'm sure he does.' The Victor said with a slight chuckle, before turning away and mounting 🇹🇭🇪🇶🇴🇩🇪🇨. 'Farewell, Four-Legged-Heen.' He said as the ant leapt away across the golden grass.
'You what?' asked the perplexed Horror. But Juras was already gone.
(Everybody! Listen, listen - I just met a White-Killer!)
(This pot is leaking again)
(He didn't kill me!)
(If you cover yourself in honey you'll be sweet)
(If your pot is leaking get a new pot)
(But what's really cool is this - the divine script has urt magic!)
(You'll also be sticky though)
(Can someone teach me the divine script?)
(What's a divine script?)
(I need to get an ogre out of a pit)
(This pot is leaking again)
(He didn't kill me!)
(If you cover yourself in honey you'll be sweet)
(If your pot is leaking get a new pot)
(But what's really cool is this - the divine script has urt magic!)
(You'll also be sticky though)
(Can someone teach me the divine script?)
(What's a divine script?)
(I need to get an ogre out of a pit)
Actually, I just wanted to see what it was like.
And then he cracked her neck.
It had been so warm. There had been so much life, so much joy - exhilaration, excitement.
And then he cracked her neck.
And he had held her close in a hot embrace; why, not all the snows in the sky could have cooled them then.
And then...
There was a sob.
he cracked her neck.
And she heard them. Beneath the frozen ground, the rocks, the snow, the ice; she heard them talk. Aye, thar loue wiz legendary. A mingin' trajady tha'. Tae Mafie Snowhands 'n' tae Asmel, eh? Aye, tae th' best dance th' mountain's ever seen!
But it was all a lie. A horrible, twisted, selfish lie. Things like this... they should not happen. Sure, slaughter all you like, maim, torture, wipe life from the plains and the mounts and the hills - gods could do as they pleased. But this. This deception. This use of people's heart for sport... she was dead, it was true, her skin peeled away and her flesh rotting - holes for eyes. But still, she cried. And she walked.
She had been walking for god's only know how long, trudging purposelessly north, answering the imperious cold call. Perhaps, if she had the will to, she could have resisted it. But there was nothing to resist for. Here she was, brought back from the embrace of death as though her life had not been plaything enough and now they wished to sport with her death too.
She paused atop a hill and surveyed the miles of shrubbery that lay before her. The odd hill decorated the landscape, strange animals grazed here or there - creatures she had never seen in life. And up the hill was coming an enormous ant. Her observation done, she allowed her feet to continue their mechanical walking. But the ant called out to her in a tongue she understood, and she froze and looked over.
'You are Mafie Snowhands, are you not?' The ant was saying. The Cursed dwarf stared emptily at the ant. 'I'm up here,' she looked up, and there on the creature's back between two jutting bones sat a humanoid figure clad entirely in white.
'How... how d'ye ken me?' She asked.
'The God in the Stone sends you his regards, and Our Mother of the Words.'
'Th' who noo? Gods? A've na business wi' gods. Pick a windae, yer leavin.' And so saying, she spat and continued walking. The ant followed her.
'The God in the Stone is grieved by what the gods do. He is not like them. He offers you justice.'
'Thir's na yin that kin gimme justice, fella. Nae yer god nor ony ither eejit.'
'So what more do you stand to lose? The goddess of the Word offers to give you her word - you'd be a fool not to take it.' Mafie did not stop walking.
'Braw then. Tell yer goddess ah will tak' justice. Nae juist fur me though - fur a' they th' gods oppress. Tell 'er that.'
'I don't have to tell her anything, Mafie. The God in the Stone sees all, hears all.' And the words had barely left his lips when the earth began to rumble and shake. And before them it twisted and parted and cracked, and a great stone hand emerged from the earth and, pressing down, pulled itself out of the bowels of Galbar. Another hand emerged, an arm, and a third, a fourth, a sixth. They strained, and then a rock head burst forth. It was followed by a torso, legs, and it flew up into the air; a floating mountain.
A Temple of the God in the Stone
In the abdomen of the floating humanoid stone was an unmistakable entrance of some kind - the facade of a great complex. 'Wha th' bugger is that?' Mafie managed.
'You have contracted with Our Mother of the Words, and she is not one who lies.'
'Bit ah didnae gie anythin' in return. Whit kind o' messed up trade is this?' But it was not Juras who made response, the voice came out of the great rock.
'They who come before the Temple of the God in the Stone have paid the price in suffering.' And the Cursed dwarf was suddenly afloat. She let out a yelp and looked at Juras.
'Awright, whit's gaun o- pat me doon, pat me doon!' But the dwarf was raised up high. Juras raised a hand in farewell. And dinnae ye wave at me - git me doon! was the last thing she said before the chuckling Victor turned his ant and rode away.
Mafie found herself placed gently at the entrance of the rock-man's abdominal temple entrance. She huffed something about gods swinging their boabies about before slowly making her way inside. The stone was ever shifting, now expanding and now shrinking. For the moment, there was only a long straight corridor that eventually led to a well-lit altar. Behind the altar was a white-clad... man? Woman?
'Weel gang oan then, ye promised me justice 'gainst th' god whit hart me. Les see it then.'
'Mafie Snowhands,' spoke the Victor. It was a woman. 'By Toun oppressed. Deceived, heartbroken, murdered in cold blood.'
'Toun then? That's th' name o' th' bas whit did me?'
'Our Mother of the Words recognises your anger, Mafie Snowhands, but there is no need for insults and irreverence. Here,' and the Victor pulled out a small sheet of paper. 'Our Mother of the Words did, long ago, establish limits as to her conduct with all that did and would exist. That the mighty and the vulnerable may live side by side and all may be secure. None, she pledged, is to be touched by her, none to be harmed. Her affairs and relations with all, all evil and all good, would be dictated by pacts. But here, she has taken it on herself to add to that primordial contract: she shall bring justice against the gods to all those who take up this Pact. Where she cannot - for who can force the hands of the gods? -, she shall grant favour commensurate to the suffering inflicted.' Mafie was quiet as the Victor droned on, but eventually grew exasperated and grabbed the sheet of paper.
'Les see whit it says. Hmm... A'richt. A'richt. Braw. Br- hauld yer goats, whit's this aboot "Merciful-Virtue"? Whit th' bugger's that?'
'Was just getting to that.'
'Weel ye shuid hae said it foremaist, soonds bloody important!'
'In return for Our Mother's protection against the gods, in return for holding them accountable to any who take up this new contract, the contractee must live their life in accordance with Our Mother's philosophy of Merciful-Virtue.'
'Kill me noo,' Mafie said irritably. 'Braw braw, ah gree, whitevur. Noo punish that damned Tounboy.' And so saying, she took a reed pen from the Victor, dipped it in a small fount of ink in the altar, and signed her name at the bottom of the Belruarcian Contract. The Victor looked at it briefly as the ink dried, and then disappeared beyond a door behind the altar. Mafie looked around at the shifting walls. Where before she had been at the end of a tiny corridor, the place had now expanded into an enormous chamber with various openings apparently leading into new sections. The Victor soon returned and placed her hands upon the altar, and when she spoke it was not with her voice that she spoke.
'Toun,' her voice was soft yet strong, captivating, 'you are called to account.'
