@Double Capybara not at all, I'm the slowest post reader in existence ^^' no need to apologise
As for the Warface, and Blood-heads and their warmasks when pops are high enough that they start spawning, I've no plans at all. Feel free to do as you please with the Un/Sullied and all that Seihdhara has left behind :)
@Double Capybara if memory serves, it was one of those things we implemented partly to prevent gratuitously long posts. We didn't want the hero prestige system to devolve into long posts = good, short posts = baaad
TheFirst Tabletof His Prophet Who is called the most beneficent Who is Uhulmikown
This is the great speech of he who has seen everything. He will teach you all about He who has experienced all things, for his eyes have been set ablaze and he has realised the entirety of knowledge. He witnessed the Secret of Secrets, discovered that which is Hidden below the Hidden, and has brought forth from the Darkness Beyond Sight all things. This is so that the Truth may be known and the terror of that which lies beyond the Darkness Beyond Sight may not hurt your heart. To bring about the rule of righteousness in the land, to destroy wickedness and all evil; so that the strong should not harm the weak and so that He who has brought forth all things may rule forever over the feather-headed people and bring enlightenment to the land, and that Ado which is the First and the Last may be eternally sanctified and made holier-than-holy and the light-of-lights and the highest-of-highs. Let this be declared with all of creation as a witness, and let even the great Fog-Serpent of the Blue Eyes bear witness also, for it shall be written on the great tablet of lapis lazuli when He is King.
The most beneficent one, who is Uhulmikown, did speak with Him in the Darkness Beyond Sight, and he questioned Him about the beginning of all things. He, who is Eokihiltchin, spoke thus upon the most beneficent Uhulmikown:
In those times no name had been announced, neither 'heaven!' had been voiced nor 'earth!' named. Before the 'harvest' was known, before the 'corn-field', before 'reeds' and 'marshes', before the great opening up of the waters; and even before the gods were each of them named. For the great race of the gods, who are the Inwhniwt but were not then so, had not any of them been fashioned, not one, and nothing was known of greenery or of trees or of grain or of the god of grain, and nothing was known of Man for the gods had not come into being and brought Man into being, and nothing was known of the great temples which would be built in honour of the gods. And no one was yet called by name and neither destiny nor fate were fixed. Neither had a ewe bleated nor had a lamb from the innards of its mother dropped, and there were no flocks and no shepherds and no herds and no herders.
The great GodKing had not yet been named and the crown of authority - the glorious feathered and horned tiara - did not yet rest upon his brow. The sun had not been named and shone with no great radiance. The moon had not been named and did not light up the darkness of night. The stars had not been named and did not twinkle in the tapestry of heaven, and heaven itself, and earth, had no name. And even Ado, and even Giwabi the Kingdom, were not so much as a whisper or a thought.
In that time was only He, who is Eokihiltchin, who is the great progenitor and father; and She, who is Bihmat-Iyan-'Uk, who is the great Fog-Serpent of the Blue Eyes, who is the chaos of the sea and the great terror, who is the great deliverer and mother. And He, who is Eokihiltchin, and She, who is Bihmat-Iyan-'Uk, did their waters mingle; and in their midst did the gods all come to have names and did they come to be when they had before been as naught.
First was the forest-eyed goddess on whose brow rests the eternal bush fire and whose cry is love and war, and who is Eitwylsihder. And with her came the one whose tongue is a mountain and whose voice is thunder, whose eyes are lightning and whose shoulders bear the world-burden, who is Tkol-Iraemus. And their name was caused to shine, and they grew in stature and power and authority and strength, and they were made in all ways glorious. And then there came others, Tixezomox of the teponaztli and of the ayotl and of the huehuetl and of the huilacapitztli and of the tecciztli, and Hwe-Mectl who is the light in every darkness, and others yet, the four - Kixaworu, Ivimigidokil, Beraril, Trwikiyum. And their days were long and many, and they all were made great and glorious.
And of the seed of Tixezomox of the sonorous sounds and the radiant Hwe-Mectl was Cuaxiplli, and he was crafted in the image of his father and was mightier yet. And of Cuaxippli emerged Hatatu and Xukutu, the sacred sisters who in unity are mightier yet even than he who begat them, and though they were of a womanly form were they crafted in their father's image and were they strong of limb and broad of chest and shoulder, and wiser yet and of sense acute, and they perceived that they had amongst their forebears no rivals.
And they banded, all of them together - Tixezomox and Hwe-Mectl and Kixaworu and Ivimigidokil and Beraril and Trwikiyumand and Cuaxiplli and Hatatu and Xukutu; but not Eitwylsihder of the forest-eyes and Tkol-Iraemus of the mountain-tongue -, and sought to pierce the divine womb of their great deliverer and mother, who is Bihmat-Iyan-'Uk, who is the great Fog-Serpent of the Blue Eyes, who is the chaos of the sea and the great terror; and sought also the crown of their great progenitor and father, who is Eokihiltchin. And this their movement and noise, and this their thanklessness, vexed and distressed Her much. And though they caused their mother pain and grief - was She not yet their mother, and Her heart unendingly loving? - She forebore and was patient and shed Her tears in silence.
But He, who is Eokihiltchin, saw the pain of She, who is Bihmat-Iyan-'Uk, who is His spouse, and was much angered and waxed wroth. And He brought Himself before She who is the great Fog-Serpent of the Blue Eyes, and He commanded the gods keep silent and be humble, and He commanded they sanctify their great mother and fall before Her and grow regretful of all the pain and grief they caused. But they heard Him little and did Bihmat-Iyan-'Uk keep Her patient and tearful silence. And these acts of heinous rebellion which the gods committed only caused the wrath of Him, who is Eokihiltchin, to grow greater.
And so He, who is the great sire and progenitor of the gods, summoned forth His spear Indiliballi and called upon Her, who is Bihmat-Iyan-'Uk, and His word was thus: "Bihmat-Iyan-'Uk, come forth and bare the terrible fang and let shine the horror of Your eyes, which are lapis lazuli. For these ones here, who are called the Inwhniwt and came forth from Us, are a wicked lot and have brought pain to Us and wakefulness. By day You weep and by Your weeping am I brought to grief, and by night You are sleepless and sighing, and so I too am sleepless and sigh. Come, let Us put them to an end that silence may reign once more and that We may rest once more and sleep, and that grief may depart from Your heart and Mine forevermore."
But She, who is Bihmat-Iyan-'Uk, who is the great deliverer and mother, was afflicted by anguish and distress at this and besought Him, who is Eokihiltchin, to do no such thing, and She spoke thus: "Shall We, who are mother and father to all, put an end to what We together named and brought into being and pained over? Their acts may cause Us grief, and their rebelliousness may pain Us but We should bear it in good part as all parents must with their progeny."
And there emerged then Eitwylsihder of the forest-eyes and Tkol-Iraemus of the mountain-tongue, who had heard all that their begetters had said. And Tkol-Iraemus, whose great tongue dragged behind him as he strode forth, spoke with his great resounding voice. And his words were thus: "Count us not of that rebel race, the Inwhniwt, but count us of those who are faithful and true." And they sat at the feet of their begetters, and they were silent and prepared.
And so He, who is Eokihiltchin, held back His spear, which is Indiliballi, and He went to rest.
In their wisdom waiting, ingenious and resourceful, the sacred sisters Hatatu and Xukutu were aware of all, discerned that He, who is Eokihiltchin, was asleep. And so they gathered together, and they brought all the others, and they fashioned it, established it; the first and greatest of schemes, the treasonous plot that taught treachery and made it law. They made it artful, mixing with it great magick and terrible auras. They all, together, recited it and brought Him, who is Eokihiltchin, to rest in the waters. They put him in a slumber far deeper, caused Him to sleep completely, drenching Him in drowsiness whose terrible spear was far. Eitwylsihder of the forest-eyes and Tkol-Iraemus of the mountain-tongue were set upon also, caught and tied and felled - but a killing blow was not struck.
And they untied the great red sash of He, who is Eokihiltchin, stripped off His crown of authority - the glorious feathered and horned tiara. And they took His great aura, and the sacred sisters donned it and became one, and they were called Giwabi the First GodKing. And they tied Him, who is Eokihiltchin, and killed Him and made of His great body the earth; of the tongue of the tied and bound Tkol-Iraemus they made the mountains and forced him to carry his father's great body, and he was imprisoned and bound with great bands. But Eitwylsihder of the forest-eyes escaped to her mother, who is Bihmat-Iyan-'Uk, and together they fled into the Darkness Beyond Sight. And they took with them the great soul of He, who is Eokihiltchin, for His word would be heard even through the Darkness Beyond Sight.
Thus spake He, who is Eokihiltchin, to the most beneficent Uhulmikown, that all may know Truth and may come to know to whom belongs the power and the crown and the authority, and who is the true once and future King.
This is the word which is Truth, brought forth that your heart may know peace and be called to the true prosperity. The most beneficent, who is Uhulmikown, sends praises upon He, who is Eokihilitchin, who shall before long return for the final vanquishment of the usurper GodKing who is called Giwabi, and who shall cause the throne of Giwabi the Kingdom to be taken from the one who is Giwabi the King. To bring about the rule of righteousness in the land, to destroy wickedness and all evil; so that the strong should not harm the weak.
In 1872, Smith found a large fragment covered with a thick deposit which, when removed, revealed a large part of the [Chaldean] flood narrative. Reportedly, he exclaimed, "I am the first man to read that after more than two thousand years of oblivion," put the tablet on a table, and ran around the room maniacally, taking off his clothes!
Of all the things to do on discovering an ancient tablet xD
1) Set in Qari'Ab (which Eskandar established as a camp all the way back in the first Eskandar post); Fikra is in love with Ruya, but suppresses his emotions so as to push through a marriage between himself and the new Eliad Matriarch, Fihriyi. Qari'Ab is teeming with people from all over the Realm in the South (if you remember, many came to pledge allegiance to Fikra, and now many others have come to pledge allegiance to the new Eliad Matriarch Fihriyi). Fihriyi's aunt tries to persuae her to accept Fikra's marriage proposal, but Fihriyi despises Fikra and wishes to marry her beloved Iybar. Her aunt, Malha, organises for Iybar to meet Fihriyi. They meet and Iybar is adamant that Fihriyi marry Fikra. Fihriyi is upset with him and demands he leave. She eventually agrees to meet Fikra and, following a conversation, reluctantly agrees to something of a religio-political marriage of convenience.
2) Set in the capital of the Realm in the South, Darofid (established following the Orifid uprising); we meet Seriyn the Yadillum, who is the most powerful person in the Realm beside the Orifid Matriarch herself. He is the Chief of the Meraids. A member of a Yadanite holy order is present before Seriyn. (Yadanites trace their learning back to Yadan, the seventh child of Kae [Eskandar's seventh wife] who was a famed ascetic. He had no children, but many pupils learned from him, eventually establishing many 'Yadanite holy orders' - some of these are scholarly and others more militant, and their creeds can differ very widely). This Yadanite reports that Fikra and Fihriyi are to be married, and Seriyn commands him to see to it that Fihriyi is killed, as this union is an immense threat. The Yadanite declares it will be done and goes off, likely to gather members of his order for a strike. We are next introduced to various members of the Orifid court, chief amongst them the Lezid, Baernid, and Ragawid Chiefs. We are then introduced to the Matriarch Inar herself. Discussion ensue regarding a raid on Kuysa on the military shortages experienced by the state.
3) Bikama, the chief of the Damids and an Isken in the military, learns of the Seriyn's plot. He quickly informs Fikra and Fihriyi, and it appears a plan is in motion to both foil the assassination attempt and build a Bato-Elyd spy network.
Year: 232 P
The course of true love, it is said, never did run smooth; and the hand that perverts its course oft is the one that has most to lose by it. The stone-hearted Fikra oft did find himself dwelling on Ruya's sharp eyes of honey, her manner of speech, her proudly raised head, her purposeful yet graceful movements... she was every part the descendant of one proud Garid chief after another, every part the image and manifestation of the perfect companion... None before had ever dared to hold his gaze as she did and attempt a peek past the hard facade of the Patriarch to the man within. And so, when Fikra lay back, resting his head and closing his eyes in the depths of the night, it was the face of Ruya that came to him.
And yet his heart was none the softer, his face showed no more emotion than it had always shown (that is - none), he exhibited none of the signs that Hajjam - that wise old reader of signs - had relayed. To all onlookers, to the disciples who sat at his feet near the shrine of the Prophet-Patriarch, Fikra was in all ways unchanged. Perhaps his aunt Ely knew - for such was the motherly instinct - but she did so silently. He went daily before the shrine of his hallowed forefather and sent praises upon him and worshipped the Moon-Mother, and he would then step behind the great shrine to the smaller shrine of Zekra (access to which was permitted only to Zekrid chiefs and those they allowed). And he would sit by the shrine of the mother of all Zekrids and worship quietly, brooding silently and sadly on all the pain and suffering she saw. And many were those who came to the Patriarch, whether in the shrine of the Prophet-Patriarch or as he walked the streets of Qari'Ab, for blessings and prayers, and Fikra carried out his obligations dutifully, the call of his heart suppressed and denied and rejected.
He Did No Miracles, But He Healed Their Hearts
But Qari'Ab was not home to the Prophet-Patriarch's tomb alone. Not too dar away from the great town was the shrine and tomb of the Madhlum Bato Durghal. His hallowed father had ordered he be buried where he died; where the spear of the Prophet-Patriarch had pierced his sanctified breast and brought to an early end his blooming life. Annually, on the day of the Durghal's death, the people of Qari'Ab gathered together to commemorate his death and marched in a great procession to his tomb out on the prairie. The Ilwlad-Bato celebrations went on for a week, and the procession from Qari'Ab was led personally by the Bato-Elyd Patriarch. But Fikra visited the shrine of his erroneously murdered ancestor on a weekly basis, often making the walk with a small host of people in tow - some of them students of knowledge, others dervishes, and others yet simple folk seeking the blessing of being in the Patriarch's presence.
The number of shrines and tombs in Qari'Ab were more than could be numbered - the tomb-shrine of the Qai, those of all the Prophet-Patriarch's wives (bar that of the Bayda whose tomb lay in the capital of the Anjawid Realm in the North), that of the Shohiquy, and others. But that of the Matriarch-Superior Ely Nafzakia, and that of the Shohiqam, were in Eli-Enia to the west. The Radids of Eni-Elia were scrupulous caretakers of the shrine, rivalling even that of the Prophet-Patriarch in size and grandeur. Indeed, there was an aura of peace in Eni-Elia and the shrines there that differed distinctively from Qari'Ab, though Fikra had never been quite able to grasp the nub of what made it so.
As the days drew out into weeks, the people who had gathered in Qari'Ab waited expectantly on the union between Fikra and Fihriyi. The Eliad Matriarch, for her part, had maintained her silence in the weeks that followed her period of mourning for her father; and yet the people grew more eager and excited at the prospect of the alleged marriage and they thronged from far and wide to witness the historical union.
'The people await your marriage with great zest, Fihriyi,' Malha informed her one day. Fihriyi, still dressed in white despite the fourteen days of mourning being over, did not respond to her aunt immediately, allowing her displeasure at these words to fester. Malha discomfort became apparent and she fiddled with her sleeve.
'When Iybar sees reason, they will have what they await so eagerly,' the Matriarch said tersely, causing Malha to sigh. 'Will you not at the least see Fi- uh, the Bato-Elyd.' Fihriyi had grown so sensitive to Fikra's name that she had demanded his name not be uttered in her presence. 'I have not spoken to Iybar, who is the most beloved of men to me; why then should I grant that privilege to the one I most despise?'
'Then shall I bring Iybar to you?' The Matriarch turned to her aunt with an immediate smile at these words. 'Could you? But don't tell him it's an order, tell him to come only if he wants.' Malha pursed her lips for a few moments. 'And if I persuade him, will you meet with the Bato-Elyd like I've asked?' Fihriyi scowled and looked to the ground. 'If you can persuade Iybar to come and speak with me, then I will grant your wish.'
And so Malha had made immediately for the abode of Iybar, who had for over a month kept himself in the darkness meditating. Indeed, he had declared that he was now set upon a life of asceticism and celibacy. When his aunt Malha spoke to him, he was aghast.
'What? This talk again? Does Fihriyi not know that I no longer desire marriage? And you would have me speak with her? Do you not know that I have pledged to Fikra that I will stand aside?' 'Yes, Iybar, I know. But Fihriyi is stubborn and will neither listen to me nor to your mother. So go and speak with her, perhaps your words will strike true where ours have failed.'
Iybar considered Malha's words for some time, and then his jet-black brows drooped in acquiescence and his onyx eyes were concealed behind his eyelids. 'If it will do good. Tell her I will come before her when the sun next dawns.'
And when Fihriyi's eyes fell upon her beloved she could not restrain herself from rushing forth and embracing him and stroking his bearded face, her facade of strength falling away before the one who was her great pillar and support. And seeing her pain and need for him in that moment, Iybar could not but allow her what she (and what he, in his heart of hearts) desired. They held each other long and were silent, and the silence spoke her words of reprimand - where were you when I needed you most, Iybar? - and they spoke his sorrowful regrets - where a greater duty demanded I be.
And He, In His Heart of Hearts, Desired Her
'Will you not let us be wed, Iybar?' She spoke at last. And though he gripped her just as tightly as she did him, he spoke words that demanded he do otherwise. 'I have taken to a life of asceticism and celibacy, Fihriyi. One better for you than me now waits to be wed to you.' She buried her face more stubbornly into his shoulder. 'If you have condemned yourself to celibacy, then you have condemned me also you foolish man.'
One of his hands ran through her red-brown curls and he shook his head. 'If you do such a thing, then you condemn the line of the Prophet-Patriarch's true heirs to death. Can you stand to meet the Moon-Mother with that on your conscience, Fihriyi?' She looked up at him, her eyebrows now furrowed. 'Can you?' He pursed his lips at the accusatory tone in her words and made to release her, but her grip on him only tightened and she brought him close once more. 'Don't leave me Iybar.' She placed a hand on his head and, crushing his kapak, brought his head to her shoulder. 'I will not leave you. But you have an opportunity here - a chance to create peace. A relatively small sacrifice on our part - and, no doubt, on Fikra's part,' she flinched, 'will spare the lives of untold thousands. Consider that Fihriyi. An opportunity like this may never come to pass again.' She was silent for a while.
'I hate him,' she spoke low, but he heard her nevertheless. 'You can grow to love him,' she jolted at this and looked him in the eyes, horrified. 'How can you even say these things?!' She let him go and turned away angrily, 'aren't you listening? I don't want him. I will never want him. Rid us of these fantasies of peace - even if I were to marry the Bato-Elyd there would be no peace.' She turned back around, her eyes beseeching, 'don't sacrifice our happiness for fantasies, Iybar.'
'The poet spoke true when he said - "Perhaps what you fear will not come to be, and perhaps what you wish for will soon be. And perhaps what you sought after can ne'er be, and perhaps what you fought shall regardless be. Perhaps what you thought easy is not so, and perhaps what seemed hard will not be." So don't be so sure that what you deem fantasies are indeed but fantasies, Fihriyi.'
She furrowed her brows and groaned, looking around desperately as if for some aid against this stubborn man. 'This isn't the time for poetry, Iybar,' she moaned, leaning against a wall and allowing herself to descend to her knees. He approached hesitantly. 'Fihriyi...' he spoke, and even in the darkness he saw - when she looked his way - that there were tears in her eyes. He placed his back to the wall and slid down beside her, sadness overwhelming him at her grief.
'I don't want it Iybar. I don't want it. Why won't you understand?' 'I- I promised Fikra. I can't go back o-' 'And didn't you promise me too?' 'Your marriage to him is for the greater good of a...' 'And what about what's good for us? What of our happiness? Would it please your heart to know I live a life of grief?' 'The Mother gives as she wills, we cannot resist her impossible will. It is for us to create our happiness out of what she grants us, not to attempt to steal it from what she has not.' Fihriyi's eyes widened at Iybar's words. 'And who are you to decide what the Mother has willed and what she hasn't, Iybar? Am I the Matriarch here or you?'
He looked down diffidently. 'If- if it is our Matriarch's command that I marry her, then the choice is cl-' 'No, be quiet! That's not what I meant or want and you know it,' she said angrily, 'you can go.' And with those terse words, she wiped her eyes and turned from him. She had been a fool to think that, like her father before her, she could have somebody who loved and truly supported her by her side. Iybar got to his feet and bowed slightly. 'If you ever need me f-' 'Iybar, get out.' He closed his mouth, bowed once more and, with a regretful look, made his way out. She watched with a certain degree of frustration and helplessness as he went.
For a day thereafter she refused to see anyone, and then - an entire week after the expiry of the mourning period - Fihriyi at last emerged from her abode and made for the shrine of the Prophet-Patriarch.
'Neath It the Remains of He Whom the Moon Mother Blessed
There she prayed and was accosted for blessings by supplicants. The Matriarch stood at the tomb-shrine of her great martyred forefather, hand extended as the people crowded towards and around her, some touching her hand, others kissing it, and others getting down to kiss her feet. At one point one little bald man got to the ground before her and raised her foot so it was upon his forehead and stayed like that for a good few seconds before someone else took his place.
When she, at last, made to move, the people swiftly parted before the Eliad staff in her hand (which, like that of the Durghal, had been made by the Shohiqam during her rite of passage and had been passed down from Eliad chieftain to Eliad chieftain over the ages) and the people followed her even to the door of her abode, and she stood at the door for over an hour as the tide of people ebbed and flowed.
At last, sapped from the sudden exposure after weeks of isolation, she retired into her home and was for a while alone until her aunt Malha came to her. 'How are you today, Fihriyi?' The older woman asked, a smile on her face. Fihriyi smiled at her aunt, the simplicity and purity of the day's happenings having left her in a lighter mood than she had felt since her father's passing. 'I am well. All is well.' Malha nodded and was quiet for a few moments. Fihriyi looked at her and immediately knew what she was after. 'You want me to see the... to see Fikra, yes?' Malha nodded and smiled broadly at Fihriyi's reference to him by name. 'Very well, tell him I will see him tomorrow.'
And it was so. Fikra came to her some hours after the sun had risen, the famed Bato-Elyd staff in hand - but rather than the red cloak he had been famed for in prior times he was enwrapped in a great white one, which he had taken to wearing ever since he became Patriarch. She met him at the entrance to her abode, a kapakel on her head and a blue cloak draped across her body, under which was the famed kop of Qari'Ab. She saw that he was accompanied by a large host and, looking into his eyes of ice, spoke. 'Let us speak alone, Patriarch,' came her rigid words. Fikra nodded and, turning to those who had accompanied him, bid them depart. He walked into her abode, removing his sandals at the entrance, and she presented him with food and drink, as befit a guest. Silence reigned between them during the meal, and once they were both done he cleared his throat and watched the ground for a few moments.
'My aunt says you have something of some importance to discuss with me, Patriarch,' she finally broke the exceedingly awkward silence. He nodded and looked at her, and she did not flinch when she met his gaze. Her eyes were just as cool as his, equally guarded, her mouth set in just as hard a line. 'Your aunt spoke true, daughter of our most honourable forefather, for it has been my intention for some time now to ask you honour me by uniting our houses.'
He was not one for frivolous speech or small talk, so much was clear - he got directly to the point. So much so that Fihriyi was somewhat taken aback by the directness of the request. 'I- well. Yes, I had heard,' she managed, 'and I have made clear to my aunt that I have no interest in such a union.' She looked into his eyes for a reaction, but he did not so much as blink in surprise or showcase any annoyance or dismay at her response.
'What may I do, daughter of my noble forefathers, to make our union a reality? For it is my sincere intention that peace and goodwill reign between us and our followers.' Fihriyi, maintaining her upright seated position, looked to the ground. 'It is a noble goal, and we most certainly share it with you. But it is my belief that a union is not necessary for there to be peace.'
Qari'Ab: Will the Town of the Patriarch Come to Know Peace?
Fikra shook his head firmly at her words. 'Matriarch, I do not speak of a peace for our time. I speak of an eternal and permanent peace. A peace for all time. A peace that, regardless of what Patriarchs and Matriarchs come and go, will never be broken.' She looked into his frigid eyes, and he saw that she saw that he spoke a little truth, 'and there is more to it. I will not lie to you, Fihriyi - if I may -, but both you and I are young and, like me, you are no doubt surrounded by those who would like little more than to use you and your station amongst the people for their own ends. If I have you by my side, and if you have me by your side, we will be mighty.'
There was silence between them as they watched each other, but Fikra saw that Fihriyi saw he spoke a little truth. 'I cannot say I know what you speak of, Patriach. My people are unfailingly loyal and obedient. If you are having problems getting your house in order, then that is not a matter for me or mine to get embroiled in.' She glanced over at the Patriarch, but his face was, as always, deadpan.
'My offer stands, Matriarch. You know it to be good, and you know I speak truth - and I plan to build our relationship on nothing but truth, if you will so honour me.' Fihriyi chuckled. 'And what is truth, oh wise Qarqaz?' Fikra looked at her for a few moments and then brought his head down and spoke. 'I will indulge you, Matriarch. Here - the truth of things, as far as my no doubt limited knowledge goes, is their essential nature. Speaking the truth is, as many of our pious and more knowledgeable forebears assert, to say of what is that it is, and of what is notβ that it is not. Thus when our speech corresponds to external reality, it can be said of it that it is true. We find then, in legal disputes, that a true proposition is one that corresponds to reality, while a falsehood is a proposition that does not correspond to reality.β He looked to her and found a slightly surprised look on her face.
'W- well. That is... that is quite interesting.' She paused for a few seconds and then suddenly chuckled, 'you really are the serious type, aren't you Patriarch.' The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop herself. 'It is not out of choice, Matriarch, but difficulty breeds hard folk.' She almost sensed a sadness to his words, but his face betrayed nothing. She sighed.
'If you wish for this to be built on truth, then here. I do not love you Fikra. You have forced me from the arms of the one I love, and for that I despise you.' Fikra bowed his head. 'I do not ask that you love me, Matriarch. And I cannot say that I love you either, and I cannot promise that I ever will. I only ask that you marry me, that you trust me, and that you always be truthful with me. I will be your strength and you mine, and we will heal the great rift that has turned Zekrid against Zekrid and Eskandar against Eskandar.' He extended a hand to her, 'will you not do this with me, Matriarch?'
Fihriyi looked to his extended hand and sighed. He remained as he was a long time, and she looked from his hard eyes to his hand. After longer than either knew, she slipped a tentative hand into his, and she could not look into his eyes. 'You have done a good thing, Fihriyi.' Fikra said. She looked at him, part of her hoping that he would perhaps be smiling, but his face was hard and she quickly looked down again.
'It is not out of choice, Patriarch, but difficulty breeds hard decisions.' She echoed his earlier words and took her hand away. Fikra nodded and got to his feet, staff in hand, and Fihriyi did likewise. 'I will not be bad to you,' he assured her, and then turned to depart. Fihriyi followed him to the entrance and watched him leave. He had not taken five steps before he was joined by two women; one of them, with long ruffled brown hair cascading outwards in curled tresses that seemed to have a life of their own, immediately clung to the Patriarch's arm, while the other - a shorter woman - walked by his side and spoke a few words. At Fikra's response, she turned her head backwards and looked at Fihriyi. And, Fihriyi knew not why, but she felt her to be sad.
***
The City of Darofid
Seriyn brought the gold-silver, gem-studded cup to his lips, tipping its crimson content into his mouth in one movement before raising it for a refill. A cup-bearer dutifully refilled the cup, and the reclined Meraid chief set it down on the small table and looked out over the grand city. Reclined as he was on a couch placed on a balcony overlooking the city from the grand palace atop the hill at Darofid's centre, he looked every part the important Yadillum to the Orifid Matriarch. He was a man of some forty years, less five, with an impeccable beard of brown, decorated with little golden rings and larger golden bands that held it all together. On his head he wore a head-dress made of gold, and he was draped in a stunning deep blue robe. His brown eyes, beneath bushy brown brows, were kohled and even the strong smell of incense from within his grand room could not over-ride the sweet smelling perfumes he adorned himself with. Though the young Inar was Matriarch, the Yadillum Seriyn was king in all ways but name.
'So Fihriyi agreed...' he murmured to himself, his eyes taking on a certain distance. These mere children were upsetting the power-balance in more ways than they could possibly imagine. Did they truly think a thing like this could be allowed to happen? The Yadillum looked up at the Yadanite who had brought him the news. 'You have done well in keeping me informed, Mokala. See to it that our beloved Matriarch Fihriyi... perishes tragically.' The Yadanite, a dark Karkid dressed almost entirely in black garb, bowed deeply at the Yadillum's order. 'Your faithful slaves will see your will done, great lord.' And taking two steps back, he disappeared over the edge of the balcony. Seriyn raised his cup to his mouth once more and, emptying, breathed in the fresh morning air. There was nothing more satisfying, to his mind, than seeing threats crushed in their infancy.
The many Yadanite orders - which were more than could easily be counted - were not all of them militant (indeed, a great number were of a scholarly-spiritual bent and had little to do with war), but those that were produced exceptionally skilled zealots willing to march into the very jaws of death to see through what they believed to be their divine duties. It made those of them that did not hold a favourable view of the Orifid Matriarch a notable risk, but it made those that sanctified the Orifid Matriarch an even greater boon. And the Meraids had, from the earliest days of the Orifid dynasty, established themselves as the foremost patrons of pro-Orifid Yadanite orders, so that now their zealous warriors, spies, and assassins reported almost directly to the Meraids.
The Palowids had thought fear and force of arms alone would ensure their dynasty's survival (and now their rule was over, their name cursed, and those of them that remained used as mere pleasure toys by those who had toppled them), but Seriyn, like his forefathers, well knew that survival lay in holding the monopoly on knowledge. It lay in identifying potential threats long before they bloomed and eradicating them. In so many words, it lay in a vigilant weeding policy. And while Seriyn's zealous Yadanites enjoyed Meraid patronage and all the riches a state could afford its loyal servants, all Yadanites whose theology was considered a threat to the state were watched carefully and decimated from time to time. The Eliad and Bato-Elyds were no Yadanites, it was true, but the Yadillum, in his wisdom and foresight, saw that the time for decimation was nigh.
With that business done, he shook himself from his reverie and rose, tossing the empty cup to his cup-bearer, and strode into his room and out into the great hall. Flanked by two guards, he made his way to the royal throne room where the first business of the day would be starting before long. When he arrived, he found the other three members of the Matriarch's Highest Council already present. They turned to the Yadillum and bowed respectfully as he strode past and took his place on a great golden throne positioned to the right of the Matriarch's own, but a step higher.
In All Ways a King
On each side, his throne had small statues representing the great Earthen-Beast, the terrifying winged being with the body of beast and head of man that fell from the heavens and terrorised mankind until the Prophet-Patriarch had tamed it. And rather than the great terroriser and harbinger of destruction that it had been, it became the guardian and wise counsel it now was. Seriyn leaned back and placed a hand on one of the sculptures.
'How many times do I have to tell you, you lords of the line of Orif, there is no need for all this bowing and formality between us; we are all the faithful slaves of our Matriarch.' The three councillors - respectively the Lezid, Baernid, and Ragawid chiefs - found their seats to the left and right of the Matriarch's raised throne as Seriyn gestured for them to be seated.
'Yes Seriyn, but it is important to observe formalities from time to time. Just to remind ourselves that though we are all our Matriarch's slaves, not all slaves are equal,' it was the old Baernid chief Arno who spoke, his piercing blue eyes looking out at Seriyn from beneath drooping snow-white brows. Like the other members of the Highest Council, he was dressed in a white robe embroidered with various intricate patterns that now twirled and now zigzagged across its front and all the way to tasselled sleeve hems.
The Ragawid chieftess Devina waved off Arno's words quickly. 'You're getting senile, old man. Shouldn't you be home with the grandchildren?'
'Oh wave me off will you? It's like you don't know the tale of the three bulls - you'll remember it when some stupidity of yours gets me gone.' Arno glanced at the younger woman with his cutting eyes, but she did not look his way. For his part, the black-haired, dark-eyed Lezid chief Mingin maintained a stoic silence. A military man, he made a point of maintaining his silence on all things that did not pertain to his field of expertise.
'Let him speak his mind, Devina. The Law commands respect for our seniors, after all.' The Yadillum finally responded. Arno crossed his arms and sat back in his wooden chair, looking every bit as irritated as he was.
'Yes Devina, the Law commands respect for our seniors. Why don't we all be good little boys and girls...' but the rest of the old man's words were an unintelligible grumble. One by one and in small huddled groups, the lower councillors and advisors and viziers, as well as military men with reports and others, began filing into the throne room and, after paying their respects to the Yadillum and the members of the Highest Council, found their places and awaited the coming of the Matriarch.
'I see you're back again today Arka. You'd think that after the fiasco yesterday you would have had the good wit to not show your face around here for a few moons,' Arno declared when a jittery old man entered the throne room and came to pay his respects. 'S-sp-p-pare m-me y-y-your t-t-tonngue, H-H-High C-C-Counci-ci-cillor.' The old Karkid stuttered. 'Speak properly you old lout, no one understands a thing!' Arno snapped at him, gesturing for him to take a seat to his left, 'have you actually got the report on why our grain supplies are dwindling or did you forgot it again like the tongueless buffoon you are?' 'I h-have i-i-it, H-H-Hi-' 'Good good, I'll spare you the effort of my full title, just spare me any further bungles today will you?' The old Arka, used to Arno's brusque nature after over forty years working with the man, bowed his head.
He had barely raised his head when the throne room's two doors were flung wide open and a dozen soldiers marched in, their sandals and the butts of their spears smacking the ground in synchrony. All heads in the great throne room turned toward the wide open doors and an instant hush came about. Behind the soldiers came the young Matriarch Inar and her attendants. Her golden crown shone brilliantly atop her head and a number of jewels were clearly visible even from where Arno was sitting, and from her ears hung lustrous triangular earrings with little gems embedded into them. Her neck boasted a great golden collar embroidered with pearls, on top of which was a long necklace of gold and silver.
Her arms were bedecked with golden bracelets and bangles, and various bejewelled rings adorned her fingers on both hands. In her right hand was the Prophet-Patriarch's own spear - now a staff -, which he had gifted to Orif when the latter had become a Warrior-Chief, and she was dressed in a loose-fitting, full-sleeve, ankle-length damask robe of many colours, embroidered with various patterns of gold brocade. On her feet she wore an embroidered shoe with a metal point. A separate, cloak-like garment of many colours, was wrapped about her arm and waste.
She strode neither too quickly nor too slowly across the great room, and she was neither too aloof - looking upon all present and making eye contact - nor was she too familiar - maintaining an altogether stern visage. Climbing the steps to her marble throne, she paused. And then with deliberate slowness, she turned and all those present, bar the members of the Highest Council, rose to their feet. The soldiers swiftly fanned out about the throne room, with two taking up positions to the right and left of the Matriarch. She watched everyone with an imperial gaze, and when all were silent and still and hanging their heads in diffidence before the possessor of the world, the Matriarch placed her staff in a long, narrow hole beside her throne and sat down, leaning back and resting her arms on the throne's high armrests.
Glory and Might
She raised her palm upwards and gestured for all those standing to be seated. With that, Seriyn rose and came around before the Matriarch's throne and descended to one knee. The Matriarch Inar gave him her right hand and he kissed its back silently. He then backed away and returned to his seat. Arno came next, managing to rein in his sharp tongue, and silently kissed the back of the Matriarch's hand. He could not quite stand back up on his own - as usual - and the soldier by the Matriarch's right side helped him up. Helping the old man back up had almost become as much a custom as the daily kissing of the Matriarch's hand. Mingin and Devina followed suit, and then when they were returned to their seats the Matriarch's chief attendant stepped forth and declared loudly, with ceremonious sobriety, that the court of the vicegerent of the Moon-Mother on earth, the true and supreme heir of the Chosen of the Moon-Mother, opened its temporal and spiritual gates for the business of the day.
'Matriarch, a messenger arrived this morning from Qari'Ab with further news. We had feared that fighting might erupt once more with Chief Peral's rejection of Chief Fikra's proposal of marriage to the former's daughter. The goddess be thanked, that has not come about. It would appear, however, that Chief Peral has quite recently passed into the mercy of the Moon-Mother.'
Seriyn watched the man delivering the report with a deadpan face - these bureaucratic sorts were always at least a month behind everyone else. It never ceased to surprise him - if the Orifid dynasty depended on their likes for intelligence, it would have perished long ago. 'Would you like us to send a delegate, or a messenger with our commiserations, Matriarch?' The Matriarch shook her head and spoke in a clear, strong, charismatic voice, which nevertheless retained a distinctive femininity that only caused it be the more compelling.
'There will be no need for that, Councillor Haerid, for our messenger departed with our commiserations and returned before the last new moon.' Haerid spluttered an apology before hurrying along to the next piece of news.
'W-we have here a report re-regarding a raiding party of some fifty men who managed to cross our southern border. They made it all the way to Kuysa. The town held, but the nearby fields were ransacked and set aflame. We should compensate the farmers and provide for the town, else it may well starve.' The Matriarch leaned forward, frowning.
'How did Foz-Kiyan allow them to penetrate so deep? Where were the clansmen he promised would protect Kuysa?' Haerid bowed his head low at the Matriarch's display of displeasure. 'M-my Matriarch, Foz-Kiyan and a great number of his people remain in Qari'Ab. We had charged the Alk-Kuy with protecting the border, but they are all - from their youngest to their eldest - paying homage to Chief Fikra during this period.' Inar leaned back in her throne and turned her head towards Seriyn.
'Did Foz-Kiyan seek permission for this? I do not recall allowing it.' Seriyn placed an elbow on one of the Earthen-Beast sculptures and turned to the Matriarch. 'His letter arrived before me long after his people had left for Qari'Ab, Matriarch. I had arranged for you to informed and for a temporary garrison to be established in Kuysa, but our military has of late been busy with ensuring peace in Qari'Ab and the matter of the northern incursions. The number of people from the north who have made for Qari'Ab, the number of soldiers who have taken leave, is enormous. We are faced with a pressing situation. A small raid on Kuysa was, to my mind, the least of our Matriarch's problems.' Inar considered him with kohled brown eyes for a few moments.
'We will speak of this matter in private, Yadillum,' she then turned her head back to Councillor Haerid, 'Councillor, let it be known that a garrison of five-hundred men is to be allocated immediately to Kuysa. Have a strongly-worded letter sent to Foz-Kiyan ordering him to have his people return to their duties. As for him, have him summoned before our court to answer for his disobedience and the threat he has created to the safety of the Realm.' Haerid bowed deeply.
'To hear is to obey, mighty Matriarch,' he then fiddled with the clay tablets in his hands and began to relay further news, but the Matriarch interrupted him tersely. 'Councillor. Go do it now.' Spluttering and nearly dropping the small tablets, he bowed a few times and made a swift exit.
'Matriarch, if I may,' the Lezid chief Mingin spoke up. Inar gestured for him to continue, 'sending a force of five-hundred to Kuysa at this moment will leave us unprotected. Removing them from the north will almost certainly lead to a Jarlid breakthrough. Removing them from Darofid will leave you poorly defended. Removing troops from the east will mean nomadic raids will grow more effective, and we have no troops in the west to speak of. The threat to Kuysa is not immediate - even unprotected, these fifty raiders could not take the town. The Alk-Kuy will return when your command reaches them and Kuysa will be safe once more. There is no need to send any further troops.' Inar brought a finger to her brow and considered Mingin carefully for a good minute. Anyone else would have most certainly grown uncomfortable under the Matriarch's prolonged stare, but Mingin maintained a stoic stillness, his head bowed.
'You are a military man, High Councillor, and your view on these matters is of weight. I agree with you that our forces are spread thin - but not all of them. We have in Qari'Ab a forced approaching five-thousand men!' Her eyes flashed angrily, 'and you speak to me of a shortage. A force of five-hundred will be dispatched from Qari'Ab to support Kuysa, along with the Alk-Kuy, and a further force of two-thousand will be dispatched north to ease the situation against the Jarlid forces.' Mingin frowned deeply, his disagreement with these decisions clear, but it was Seriyn who spoke.
'Matriarch, there is no need to rush to these decisions. The situation in Qari'Ab will soon ease and we will be able to safely move troops out then. Moving the-' 'What do you fear in Qari'Ab, Yadillum - two newly-weds?' Seriyn pursed his lips immediately and leaned back in his throne, loosing a breath. This woman was a nightmare. 'Of course not, Matriarch. I have no doubts whatsoever about the good-intentions of our Zekrid cousins. It's not like their heresies condemn our dynasty only a little less than it does the Palowids,' and here he leaned back forward and turned to face Inar, 'we can never be too careful with those who have their eyes on your throne, Matriarch. Let us leave the garrison at Qari'Ab as it is and, with the Moon-Mother's aid, this entire affair will pass without any upsets.' Inar sighed and looked at Seriyn for a few moments.
'Very well. We will refrain from sending an extra garrison to Kuysa. But my word on the matter of reinforcing our northern border stands. Whether our Zekrid cousins pose a threat is debatable, but the threat the Jarlids pose is undeniable.' And with her decree established, the Matriarch sat back in her marble throne. A jittery old man rose and came before her, and she smiled slightly.
'Ah, I see you're back again today, Arka,' the Matriarch chuckled.
***
The scarred Isken Bikama looked over the small tablet that had reached him, his forbidding grey eyes showing little emotion as he read over it, then reread. Dropping the tablet on the ground and crushing it underfoot, he closed his eyes and brought two fingers to his scarred brow and rubbed, grumbling something unintelligible under his breath. He wondered if it would be wise to inform the Patriarch of the news that had reached him, but on considering it he determined that the details could be foregone. Time was of the essence.
Getting an agent into the Yadillum's circle had been amongst the most difficult endeavours - for the man was scrupulous about who he employed, and there was little in the realm that he did not already know - so vast was his network of spies. It had been a delicate operation, and he was well-aware that it may have never succeeded - that even now he was merely playing to the man's tune - or that at any moment all would be revealed. But it had been for moments such as these that Bikama had decided to infiltrate the man's circles.
Speaking with a few of his men, he commanded them to organise an armed group of Damids and establish a permanent protective force for both the Patriach and his promised wife. Though Bikama trusted them all, he did not give any reasons beyond the high number of people in Qari'Ab and the increased risk that a crazed person may do something unexpected. 'Under no circumstances must either of them be unwatched, do you understand me? Day or night, wherever they are and whatever they are doing.'
Not long thereafter he found Fikra at the shrine of the Prophet-Patriarch, swamped by supplicants. The grey-eyed Damid chief watched the crowd as it ebbed and flowed, and eventually caught the Patriarch's eye. Bikama was not an overly spiritual man, visiting shrines and displays of worship and devotion simply did not come naturally to him. Certainly, he believed in the Moon-Mother and was loyal to his Patriarch, but he had never understood and had little patience for this level of fawning. Fikra had seen this in the man, and finding him at the shrine left little doubt in the Patriarch's mind that the Isken required him for some matter.
He began to move, and the crowd immediately parted before him, and he was soon walking beside Bikama. 'Patriarch,' the man said with his usual business-like brevity. 'Isken,' Fikra responded. 'I have become privy to certain intelligence which calls for a meeting between us and your bride.' A supplicant approached Fikra suddenly, hands extended, causing Bikama to instinctively grab the stranger's arm and hold it away from the Patriarch. He quickly saw, however, that the man was empty-handed. Fikra maintained his disinterested expression and took the somewhat surprised supplicant's hands as Bikama released him. The little man babbled something to Fikra that Bikama did not quite catch, busy as he was watching the impossible number of people around them. Once he was done with that man, they continued walking through the crowds, Fikra keeping one hand extended for supplicants to touch or attempt to kiss. How Fikra could do so, and how the fanatics managed to maintain enough discipline not to grab him and tear him apart in their bid to touch him, Bikama could not understand.
'I take it that this intelligence that has reached you does not bode well for us,' Fikra finally responded. 'It would be best to speak in private, Patriarch.' Bikama said, eyeing the hundreds of people around him. 'We are easily overheard in an empty room, but here, surrounded by those who love us and the din of ten-thousand voices, we are safest of all,' came Fikra's response. Bikama could see the reasoning, but he did not agree. Crowds like these were the perfect hiding place for would-be-assassins. A swift strike from an unseen hand was all it would take, and the culprit would never be found. 'I would place my trust and your safety on walls and mud, Patriarch.' Bikama said. 'Indeed you would, Isken, for you are a military man. Come, let us call upon Fihriyi.' And so saying they made their way towards Fihriyi's home and were greeted at the door by a slave-girl who informed them that the Matriarch was visiting relative and would not be back for some hours.
'Go to her,' Bikama commanded, 'and inform her that the Patriarch is extremely concerned about the colour of her wedding gown and wishes to speak with her about it.' Fikra did not bat an eye, though it was the first he had heard of it, and though the slave-girl seemed perplexed at how this could of any importance at all, she nevertheless invited them in and bid them wait while she rushed to inform her mistress.
'What is it that has reached you, Isken, and requires so much secrecy?' The Patriarch finally asked when they were alone. 'The Matriarch Fihriyi is in grave danger, and you may well be also. There are those, it would appear, who are not pleased at the prospect of this union.' Fikra looked down and nodded. 'Of course there are. It is only to be expected. Indignant zealots perhaps? Those who wish for a return to violence?' Bikama pursed his lips and shrugged.
'It is not important who, only that it is so.' Fikra considered Bikama for a few seconds. 'How is it that this information came to you, Isken?' Bikama looked away. 'The how of it is not important, Patriarch, only that it came. There are many who conceive of you as a threat, and so it is important that measures are taken to be well-informed of the activities of one's rivals.' Fikra was quiet at these words, leaning back against the wall and looking up. 'And so we resolve one conflict only for a thousand other conflicts and threats to emerge from the cracks.' Bikama nodded.
'It is always so, Patriarch. Never think to bring all conflict to an end - wherever there is life there is struggle.' Fikra sighed. 'I will be content to meet our mother Elysium knowing I leave behind me one conflict less.' He was silent for some time, and Bikama saw fit to say nothing. 'In what form will this danger you speak of come?' He finally broke the silence. 'Yadanites.' The Damid chief said simply. 'They will neither be dissuaded by threat or reward, fanatics that they are. Our only line of defence is to protect you both at all times. You must limit your ventures and all unnecessary contact with the people. You must not sleep in one location always - perhaps it would be best to leave Qari'Ab entirely for the foreseeable future.' Fikra closed his eyes and shook his head.
'Limiting my contact with the people is impossible - unless you wish to forcibly keep them from me, which I could never permit. As for leaving Qari'Ab - staying temporarily in any other town will only serve to delay a Yadanite strike, and we are only more vulnerable in strange places, especially when all our followers are here in Qari'Ab.'
'You misunderstand me, Patriarch. I do not say leave Qari'Ab for another town. The mountains and hills have many caves, easily defendable locations from which you can easily come and go to Qari'Ab. Anyone who approaches will be immediately spotted, and even if these Yadanites know where in the mountains you are staying they will never be able to get through.' Fikra shook his head again. 'This will only serve to notify whoever has sent them against us that we know - and surely that would place your agents in danger, Isken, would it not.' It was Bikama's turn to shake his head this time. 'No, something like this is easily justified. We could, for instance, declare that due to the coming historical union between them, the Matriarch and Patriarch wished to retreat to the mountains and worship the goddess together and seek guidance as to how best to serve the needs of their respective communities. Or something to that effect.' Fikra considered Bikama for a while, his forbidding eyes boring into the veteran. Yet the battle-scarred Bikama had seen over a hundred battles and gazed into the eyes of death more times than could be counted, the eyes of a man - even so hard-eyed a Patriarch as Fikra - had long ceased to faze him.
'You are rather adept at quickly formulating lies, Isken,' it was almost an accusation. Bikama's grey eyes shifted to Fikra swiftly. 'War is deception, Patriarch. Our foes do not perceive that we perceive them, they think us unprepared though we are in truth prepared. They believe they have the element of surprise, and they will still think they do once you move - they may even think they have you trapped in a secluded place, and it will make them careless while we are in every way scrupulous. The Yadanites who assemble against us are mighty, and so we must evade them, wear them down slowly, cause them to become divided amongst themselves as their endeavours meet with failure after failure. And, all the while seeming oblivious, do all that they did not foresee. These "lies" you point out - as though to question my loyalty - are the fruit of bitter experience, of wounds,' and here he touched his disfigured face, 'that a scholarly man like you cannot comprehend. You may condemn these tactics all you like, Patriarch, but this is how the Bato-Elyds - and all you seek to build - will survive.' Fikra had clearly touched a nerve, for Bikama had never deigned to speak so defensively before.
'I did not accuse or condemn you, Isken. You are right, war is deception. I can only be glad that you are by my side. My father, during his time, was approached by various Yadanite orders that professed utter loyalty and pledged themselves to his service; he thanked them for their loyalty but kept them at bay. And now many of them have come to me, pledging allegiance and professing undying loyalty. Like my father I thanked them but had intended to likewise keep them at bay. Perhaps... well, do you think there can be use for them, to further your purposes.' Bikama seemed somewhat surprised at Fikra's apparent openness to use of military tactics in protecting the Patriarchate, and when he overcame his surprise he smiled slightly.
'These militant Yadanites are a double-edged sword. They are privy to knowledge and magicks that make them a boon, but those that hold to a creed hostile to the Orifids are heavily suppressed and actively hunted. Association with them will almost certainly see the wrath of the Matriarch at Darofid directed towards you.' 'Hmm, I see. So it is safest to follow in the footsteps of my father on this matter.' 'Not necessarily,' Bikama said with a knowing look, 'direct them to someone you trust, someone discreet. Have this person report to me, and we will see to making use of them. I doubt they will prove immediately useful, but perhaps in future.' The Patriarch nodded, and he found that the grinning visage of his old aunt Ely suddenly sprang into his mind.
Moments later the door of the abode opened and the voice of the slave-girl sounded, 'they are waiting through here, Matriarch,' and Fihriyi appeared at the entrance to the large room. 'Thank you Sira,' Fihriyi said with a small smile. She eyed the scarred Bikama for a few moments and looked questioningly to Fikra - something told her this was about something more than wedding gowns (in all truth, her immediate reaction to being called urgently for such a matter was that it was downright foolish). 'Here, take this and go find yourself something pretty to wear for the wedding,' and she handed the slave-girl a small pouch of Orif-Figs. The little slave-girl squealed in delight, thanked her mistress, and rushed off. With that, the Matriarch entered the room and took a seat by Fikra.
'I am sorry for calling on you at such short notice, Fihriyi,' Fikra said, 'but a matter of some urgency has arisen.' Fihriyi chuckled at this. 'While this matter of wedding gowns seemed *exceptionally* urgent to my mind, something tells me that that isn't what this is about.' 'No, Matriarch, it is not,' Bikama spoke, 'we have uncovered a plot to have you murdered.'
Seihdhara of the Red Hair, The Crimson Goddess, The Bear Mother, The Flame Eternal, Whose Beginning Is Tears and Teaches Laughter
Level Three Goddess of War(Martial Combat)
Six Might & Two Miracles
&
The Purifier (II), The Shapeshifter (III) One Prestige
Time: The Present
It had been a long while since Aella had departed, leaving Larwen alone under The Pale One. He leaned up against the grey bark of the tree, his long legs resting comfortably in the tall grass, while his arms likewise rested on either side of him. His mind was wrapped up in thoughts, mostly about Aella and the excitement that she brought him, such feelings were once truly alien to him but the Goddess of Kindness had opened his heart a little. Still, Larwen was finding himself amiss in reality with a strong sense of longing. The tender warmth of the tree soothed him little, for it paled in comparison to Aella's own. The tree's whispers were kind, as was intended, but they had little effect on one who helped create such beauty. Such kindness was not meant for him, for Larwen only wanted her, the one who's kindness was genuine.
Still, the God of Perfection lounged under the tree, for it was the closest reminder that he had of Aella. She accepted him for what he was, for who he was, and he could not deny the attraction he felt towards her. There were few greater joys than that. Yet Aella had not left him alone without more to contemplate. For she had gifted to him an Oasis near the Anathema's, a bastion in the desert she had also created. In time he would inhabit this bastion with his creations and children, but not now. This desert would also prove to be an obstacle for his long term goals, but Larwen had not wished to spoil the moment by telling her such a thing, she had only meant to protect him and besides, there were other pressing matters to deal with.
The war between his forces, and those of his siblings who so needlessly brought their own creations to his doorstep, was Larwen's top focus. Lasis would pay, but so far her insect men had done nothing, and their so called rebellion, it had been the least of his concerns. Seihdhara's Unsullied and Sullied Fae however, were a different story entirely. Larwen did not like Seihdara, and her creations only proved his assertion. The Fae did not see his gift as a blessing like their Perfected Cousins did, they had fought with sticks and stones against the Zalsarix, a futile gesture to creatures as mighty and fearsome as they. Their maiming only irritated Larwen, but the true loss of several Zalsarix at the hands of unseen opponents, heightened his irritation to unease and coupled with Regulus' mist, meant his children were unsafe.
The Zalsarix were precious, and unable to procreate, meaning the lives they lost could not be replenished. He had pulled them back to Pervanon upon the same day he loosed the Perfected Fae into the world. In the meantime, the Perfected Fae fought doubly hard to secure their home from their less inclined cousins. They were creatures of dust, and they could be returned to dust, or Perfected in the Forge of Purity, this he knew. As Larwen still sat against the tree, he hoped the war would be swift and over soon. With a victory for his forces and one that would finally bring him closer to securing the Anathema's from his foes.
Time: Takes place at least SEVEN MONTHS after the Day the Gods Came
But it is written in truth that matters rarely occur as one wishes or plans, and the Unsullied had a stubborn will to survive and thrive and be that was just as relentless as their mother's. It was as though in their very existence and resistance was the shadow of Seihdhara's primordial proclamation to Larwen - 'I will not flee. I am the enduring fire that will sear your corruption from every heart and plain, the sheltering flame against your unwanted perversions. Be afraid, boyo.' Yet it had not been Seihdhara's direct intention, when she created the Sullied and the Unsullied, that they fight Larwen at all. Larwen had been the last thing on her mind then; but it seemed the very nature of Seihdhara's fae had brought them into conflict with the perfectionist god. And when the goddess descended and saw the plight of her creations, she had not declared herself their saviour and messiah - as the Lord and Lady of the Unsullied Court at the Anathema Heights had so hoped - but had instead deigned to gift them with the skill to fight off their oppressor before rushing away to find her 'Dwyni'.
The clash of different forces one against the other was only normal and to be expected. From such clashes emerged heroes and brave deeds, from such clashes mortals and immortals alike came to know what ought to be valued and cherished and fought for, and what ought to be shunned and repudiated and repelled. The Sullied and Unsullied would fight Larwen's forces, and the victors would emerge bettered and refined and would be made glorious in the eyes of Seihdhara - and most importantly, they would be free. The forces that would restrict the essential freedom of all things could win battles, could even establish an ephemeral order that would seemingly last eternally; but nothing could for too long hold at bay the will for freedom, the dams and shackles of oppression and enslavement were ultimately destined for breakage.
The goddess tore through the sky, searing the earth with her eagle gaze in her search for her Dwynen, until her gaze fell upon two figures down below. One of them had stunning red hair! And so the goddess descended quickly to see who it could possibly be -an admirer of hers, perhaps? The other figure, Seihdhara quickly realized, was none other than Brentylwith, Seihdhos in his hand and a host of some ten Unsullied behind him. The red-haired one had a most familiar aura, but looked like no one Seihdhara knew. Brentylwith opened his mouth to greet his creator, but the shout of the other over-rode him completely. 'Mother!' cried the pale, red-haired humanoid. Seihdhara looked at her more closely and frowned, for this carapaced warrior-woman had hair as red and thick as her own, and yet Seihdhara did not remember creating or mothering her. 'Mother, it's me,' the pale woman stepped towards Seihdhara, sheathing the sword she had been holding extended towards the Unsullied King.
'I am mother to many things. Are you a fae of some kind? Where are your wings?' 'No, I am no faery. It's me, Newygnong. I have become beautiful - like you.' The pale one smiled and Seihdhara's eyes widened and she approached the former-millipede, stroking her face admiringly. 'Wow, Newy! You've really changed. How in the world did you do that?' Newygnong beamed at Seihdhara's clear display of approval for her new form. 'Do you love me now? Will you be my mother?' Seihdhara cocked her head in confusion. 'What in the world do you mean, Newy? I've always loved you - but your mammeh is Kiko, not me.' Newygnong's face fell and she frowned. 'B- but... I ...' she paused, 'why can't you be my mother? When I was hungry you... and when I was ugly I looked to... and when my mind was frail you... why can't you be my mother?' Seihdhara pursed her lips and considered Newygnong, stroking her hair gently. Before the goddess could respond, however, Brentylwith spoke. 'Mighty Flame-haired goddess. Do you know this one?' Newygnong looked to Brentylwith and placed her hand upon her sword pommel guardedly. Seihdhara turned to the Unsullied King and nodded. 'Yes, she is mine,' Newygnong's eyes widened at the strange phrasing and then she flushed and began mumbling unintelligibly. Brentylwith raised an eyebrow. 'I have drawn my sword, Flame-haired one, and I refuse to sheathe it before the blood of the one who forced me do so wets it.' Seihdhara shook her head at these words. 'Now that's a bit extreme I'd say. Whatever's got you two at each other's necks?' It was Newygnong who responded. 'We crossed paths and, instead of ignoring me and going on his little way like any normal person, he choose to accost me and demand I identify myself. I did not at all like the way he addressed me and naturally refused to do anything he asked of me. Then he began swinging that sword of his about and, well, here we are.' Brentylwith scoffed at the carapaced woman's words. 'For all I knew you were an enemy, it is only natural that I would stop and question you. If you truly meant no ill, you would have had the common courtesy of complying and making clear that you are no foe.' 'Had you not made your hostility so abundantly clear, I would have given you no reason to think me a foe,' Newygnong retorted with a scowl. Seihdhara chuckled at their childish spat.
'Alright alright, I get it. Stop bickering will you, you're like a married couple already,' the two glanced at the goddess in confusion, manifestly ignorant of what this "married couple" was, but Seihdhara continued without pause, 'there's no need to kill over a silly misunderstanding like this. Here, to settle this issue - since you both clearly need to get all the excitement out of your system -, you can duel until one or the other surrenders.' Newygnong and Brentylwith continued to look in confusion towards the goddess, and she hurriedly explained. 'You fight one another, but not to the death. When one of you emerges as the clear victor, by disarming the other or drawing first blood, the duel is done. Simple right?' Newygnong and Brentylwith eyed one another carefully for a few moments, and then Newygnong nodded in understanding and was followed by the Unsullied King. 'Oh, and stay inside this ring. If one of you steps or is forced out of it, they lose.' Even as the goddess spoke, a large ring with a diameter of ten metres was marked on the ground around them in glowing orange.
The King and his carapaced opponent began circling each other, Newygnong slowly drawing Purity. Seihdhara immediately knew it to be of her son's making - such was the motherly instinct - and wondered what Telum Dei had been up to since he rushed off into the world. As Seihdhara watched, Brentylwith took a single step forward before suddenly leaping forth at immense speed, swinging Seihdhos downwards in a mighty slash. The lithe Newygnong saw him, however, and sidestepped quite easily with an equally swift yet strikingly graceful movement and made to strike her opponent. But the very earth where Seihdhos landed erupted in a mighty cacophony and broke away, leaving a large crater and forcing the pale Newygnong to leap away from the area of damage. She frowned and gave the Unsullied King's sword a strange look, as if reassessing how to go about this.
But it quickly became clear that Brentylwith had no intention of giving her much time to think, for he leapt at her once more, this time powerfully swinging his sword in a horizontal arc. Rather than dodge once more, however, Newygnong brought Purity up and, bracing herself, met the King's strike head-on. The two terrifyingly powerful blades crashed resoundingly one upon the other... an ear-piercing screech sounded even before the blades touched, and at the very moment of contact (the swords touched only for a split-second) both Brentylwith and Newygnong were violently blown away like mere ragdolls. The entire duelling ring was rent asunder, dust and earth exploded into the air, and the two duellists landed some hundred metres apart (Brentylwith crashing into a number of his warriors and taking them with him).
Through the dust and falling debris came the slow sound of clapping, and the burning hair of the Flame-haired goddess shone bright even through the thick dust. And when the dust settled, the goddess was gone. Brentylwith floated to his feet and looked through the haze - for the close had left the ground and very air searingly hot - to where his opponent had been. The red-haired warrior woman flew through and landed some distance from him. Brentylwith raised a hand and sheathed his sword. 'Peace, Newygnong,' he said, 'our duel is ended. You are clearly blessed by the gods.' Newygnong did not smile, but nodded and sheathed Purity. 'And it would appear that you are likewise blessed. Did Telum Dei craft your sword also?' Brentylwith frowned and shook his head. 'No, this is Seihdhos Sword of Victory, the First Warsword. It was crafted by the Flame-haired goddess.' Newygnong raised her eyebrows in surprise and looked to Seihdhos was sudden interest. 'Who is this Telum Dei that you make mention of? I take it she crafted your sword.' 'Telum Dei is my brother. He is the son of the Flame-haired goddess. And yes, he gifted me with Purity. Purity is not merely a sword - it is a living, speaking sword. But I have yet to hear it speak.' Brentylwith approached Newygnong and inspected her more carefully. Her lithe and graceful movements during their fight had surprised him and made him very suddenly aware of her femininity. Her pale face looked like it had been chiselled of snow, her black lips small yet full, and seemingly ever-pursed in a disapproving straight line. 'Are you certain you are not a faery?' Brentylwith asked, hovering so that he was face-level with her as he continued inspecting her features. 'No, I am certifiably not a faery. Until very recently, I was a giant bug actually.' Brentylwith grimaced and backed away somewhat. 'Ah, I see. Well. You have a done a rather good job on yourself. Why, you are as pretty as any one of the Unsullied Queens.' Newygnong blinked in surprise at the sudden compliment and attempted to mutter a thank you, but Brentylwith continued, 'and you are mighty in the fray, so much is clear. Newygnong the fiery-haired warrioress, daughter of the Flame-haired goddess, wielder of Purity the Livingsword, will you not forever honour me by joining me in the defence my people?'
Newygnong considered the Unsullied King for a few moments. 'Is it Larwen that is attacking you?' Brentylwith frowned, clearly having no knowledge of this Larwen. 'We fight the Morig - hideous beings that kidnap our people and take them into the heart of the mountain.' And Brentylwith gestured towards Pervanon, where Newygnong knew Larwen had his lair. She nodded in understanding. 'Then it must be Larwen. Your request is granted, Brentylwith the King, for your foe and my foe is one.' The Unsullied King beamed at her words and, approaching her swiftly, placed a hand upon her nose. 'You speak so seriously. Are you made of stone?' Newygnong pursed her lips more tightly and moved her face away from the little man, 'and yet your very frowns are fairer far than smiles of other maidens are!' Newygnong batted him away quickly, her pale cheeks reddening ever so slightly. 'Are- are you- what are you even- faeries don't even-' realising that she was jabbering, she quickly closed her mouth and huffed. 'Are you stupid?' Brenylwith the King only laughed, and his followers giggled and chuckled also. 'Come with me, deadly beauty, for there is a war to be won!' The King declared as he leapt high into the air and dashed away, followed by his entourage. Newygnong watched him go for a few moments before gently - if uncertainly - lifting off from the ground and leaping after him.
Time: Takes place at least EIGHT MONTHS after the Day the Gods Came
As quickly as the Zalsarix had come for the Fae, they swiftly and deliberately vanished over night, back to Pervanon at their master's bidding. It would be the very same day that Larwen would unleash the Perfected Fae upon the fragile world of the Unsullied. It was also the day that Larwen would go and confront Regulus about the debilitating fog, only to be attacked quite needlessly. All these events transpired in tandem with one after another, ramping up the battles between foes to untold heights. Larwen would be greatly absent from viewing the battles taking place, his mind was elsewhere and his body preoccupied with the dealings of his siblings and Aella. The God of Perfection had great faith in his children however, with their magical abilities and lust for power. They could only prove themselves to him by winning the war and inflicting great casualties upon the Unsullied.
Larwen had the uttermost confidence in them, but his domain was not War. He knew not the subtleties of battle, the honing of the mind and blade, the adrenaline during combat, no, Larwen knew how to infect the hearts and minds of those he touched. How to weave them to suit him and Perfect them in his own way. The Perfected Fae were but a horde of cruelty and sadism, hating everything not like them and fighting recklessly without abandon. Their strategy would be of overwhelming power, hoping to beat back their cousins with sheer force of abilities and numbers. And so the Great Fae War had began.
All had been quiet that day of days. With the Zalsarix gone, and no more Fae being taken, an eerie sense of quiet had washed over the Anathema's like a dense rain. As if drowning the world in a heavy thickness of apprehension. The very tension in the air could be cut by a sword, and still remain. The pale sun was swallowed by clouds as the day progressed, and obscured further by Regulus' lingering fog that wafted through the untouched lands of the Unsullied. The Unsullied themselves would still be at an advantage in the fog, for its mystical properties darkened the vision of what Regulus deemed 'corrupted.' To be at such an advantage was paramount, but did the Fae even know what it could do?
And through that fog came Brentylwith and his airborne force of five-thousand, and through that fog came Newygnong leading the way forth on land, another five-thousand at her back, with Purity severing the tension before her. And they left the Unsullied forest and its protective fog behind them. One faery, flying high above the marching and flying forces of the Unsullied, raised a conch to her lips and blew, and below the thousands of warriors massed into formations, Brentylwith's commands booming unnaturally loud. Faeries dashed to the King, notifying him of swarms of a strange new enemy spotted directly north of them and to the north-west, and the King sent to Newygnong, bidding her direct her forces to the north to face the enemy there. And with Seihdhos raised high, the airborne Unsullied horde followed its King.
The earth shook beneath the feet of Newygnong's earthbound regiments, their spears pounding the ground and wickerwork shields brought close. Soon enough the swarming horde of strange dark creatures came into sight, and there was no doubt in Newygnong's mind that they were creatures of corruption. Sending a fleet messenger to inform the King of this - so that all doubt about the nature of these swarms would be known - she had her newly formed army prepare to take on the enemy. Some fifty Eshgaebars with elaborate leafy crowns shouted out order to their companies as small messenger faeries rushed from Newygnong to them and conches were blown to bring the entire army to battle readiness.
In the distance, the Perfected Fae came. The Perfected Unsullied flew above the sullied that ran like beasts, with no signs of stopping or slowing down. The tension lingering in the air had finally been broken by a flood of perversion and wickedness. The small shadow sullied pulled ahead of the group, numbering in the hundreds, their eyes glowing a bright red, while their mouths revealed sharp teeth for biting. They growled and snarled as they came, the chorus of loosed animals on the hunt. After them came the larger sullied, seething a corrupt dust from their malignant forms. Their very bodies were broken, with their arms mostly formed into sharpened appendages and feet but claws; the sullied were but weapons. These sullied did not number so greatly, but they were fearsome creatures, whose voices howled, adding to the sick cacophony of the corrupted horde.
High above them came the Unsullied, glowing vibrant colors within their bodies of blackened dust, they would be the ones in charge. Reigning in the sullied would prove to be challenging once the battle commenced, but the Unsullied did not care. For with them came the arrogance of truly perfect beings, they were completely in line to Larwen's will, and saw the host before them as inferior beings. They would use their innate corruption as weapons for war, for they too had sharp claws and pointed teeth, curved into dreadful smiles. They very sky itself seemed to darken as they came closer, their colors, like faded stars, as the only light so far up above. These Fae sang twisted songs with voices vaguely familiar to those whom they once were.
The familiar sounds alarmed the gathered Unsullied, warriors looked from one to another in fear. But Newygnong, who felt their fear, stepped forth and delivered a bloodcurdling cry. And even before their eyes the beautiful yet deadly commander morphed into a horrifying beast. Purity raised high, she turned to them and cried - 'Follow me, and let them taste our fury!'
Follow me!
And with that, the great, humanoid insect of war rushed ahead. So unnerved by their strange commander that their fear at hearing the cries of their brethren was forgotten, the Eshgaebars released their warcries and bid their companies charge. And as one, the Unsullied host rushed forth to meet their former comrades.
The flood that the Perfected Fae were at last collided with the charging Unsullied host under Newygnong, like waves crashing upon stone. The Perfected Unsullied looked upon the beast with the gleaming sword, and hissed. Such a creature they had not been expecting, but the perfected sullied paid no mind. The lesser shadows fought violently against the Fae, biting at any openings found, and clawing upon shields and skin. They fought till they could no longer move, turning to a black dust as they passed. The Perfected greater sullied fared better against the larger of the Fae and targeted the bug creature with impunity. Up above was great confrontation between those that could fly. Perfected Unsullied and Unsullied zipped around at quick speeds, small explosions of dust erupted throughout the air as the Perfected passed violently into dust. Those they killed brought great satisfaction to them and violence seemed to be their true language. Whenever they could, they pelted the great bug with stolen weapons and their own corruption. The sounds of war were deafening, and would be heard to all that listened as the battle waged on.
Newygnong's screeches sounded even over the din of battle, her boney tale snaking out at terrific speeds and spearing corrupted fae in her vicinity, her various arms batting them from existence with impunity while Purity cleft them into mere clouds of dust. All around her was black mist through which she strode as if to teach the meaning of true terror to those who erroneously and naively thought they embodied it.
Spear-wielding Unsullied companies, encouraged and directed by their commanding Eshgaebars, raised their shields and tore at their foes, and in the air the shouts of the leaf-crowned commanders provided a semblance of order in a world of utter chaos. 'Shields!' here sounded and, 'SPEARS!' was the cry there. Small beasts of shadow tore at the shields and were swiftly speared with eagle-eyed precision before another took its place. Shields were torn and spears broken, and Unsullied warrior took on corrupted fae in barehanded combat - the warrior chafing beneath the pure strength of the corrupted being. And when a company found itself faced with one of the larger corrupted creatures, spears came up and they attacked en masse - warriors were flung like ragdolls here and there before the brute strength of the beast, but spears struck true.
Eshgaebar Tingalina, spear in hand, directed her airborne company at a group of massing corrupted Unsullied who seemed to be focussing their attacks against the mighty Newygnong, flinging looted weapons at the commander - who either cleft them before they reached her with tail or sword, or caught them in midair before flinging them back. And there were those that landed and clanged off her carapace. 'At them!' Tingalina cried, and the company arced in the air - keeping its formation - and slammed into the enemy from above and fought them to the ground. The ground was strewn with black and gold dust, and in the air and on the winds the dust of former fae was carried.
A few Perfected Unsullied broke away from the battle, gaining height and surveying the chaos of below. They looked to each other, frowning at the realization that the battle was not going favorably. It seemed that the Fae had learned combat in their absence, with formations of warriors battling with precision. The Perfected only fought with barbarity and strength, without the training to truly hone such skills. They were effective, but lost too many and did not have the sheer force of numbers they had hoped to throw at them. Then there was the mighty bug warrior, an unpredictable element that fought for the enemy and seemed to have no weakness that could be exploited easily. The sullied bore the brunt of this assault, and their forces were quickly diminishing but not without inflicting their own pain upon the Fae. Yet still the battle waged on, the dust beginning to clog the very air itself.
With little else to do, the Perfected Unsullied up above screamed, a high pitched noise that sounded harrowing. It made the sounds of war quiet or cease altogether and the Perfected Fae began to retreat en mass. They cared not for any wounded, for they would only slow them down. The perfected sullied lingered longer than the perfected Unsullied, but soon retreated at great speeds across the earth. The Unsullied who flew, hissed in dissatisfaction as their host lost the battle. Angry talk and curses would usher from their mouths and always with the promise of revenge. The Corrupted beings of Larwen had been defeated in that battle, but the war was far from over.
As the enemy force made its escape, Newygnong's force gathered about her and the yet rejected daughter of war morphed back into the form her brother had granted her. She turned to her warriors and, raising Purity high, gave a victorious cry. Her warriors raised their spears and echoed their commander's cry, and they hammered with the butts of their spears at the earth. Then Newygnong leapt into the air and dashed across the heavens, her host following close behind, and rushed to aid Brentylwith.
When Newygnong arrived with her now smaller force, she found the King engaged in battle with the other swarm of corrupted fae. The King could clearly be seen, flanked by his warriors, swinging Seihdhos about with skill, sending forth a great pillar of black dust. Airborne regiments clashed with corrupted Unsullied, and the giant creatures of darkness down on the ground swung their great arms about and flattened dozens of Unsullied warriors with the one movement. And yet the warriors held, and on the coming of Newygnong's force Larwen's swarms knew that they had no hope of victory today and - like the first swarm - the cry went up for a retreat and bit by bit the corrupted creatures began to disentangle themselves from the fray.
Newygnong made to give chase with her warriors, but the King's conch sounded and all troops descended to the ground and formed up in their various regiments before the King. Seihdhos in hand, the Unsullied King flew here and there gesturing to the fleeing enemy.
'They are brought low and humiliation is their lot!' He declared, and the troops slammed their spears into the ground in approval. 'Before the might of the warriors the Unsullied race, they have no hope! Never again will our brethren be taken from us! NEVER AGAIN WILL THEY BE SULLIED SO!' The cry of the troops went up, 'and we will end their misery on the field, and they will re-emerge from death and join us anew! And they- will be- UNSULLIED!'
Time: Takes place at least EIGHT MONTHS after the Day the Gods Came
Eshgaebar Tingalina lay in the branches of the tree, her spear hanging from a hand as she looked up into the night sky through the mystical mist. The golden-haired faery fiddled with the crown of leaves that adorned her head. It marked her out as an Eshgaebar, commander of a one-hundred fae company of warriors. When selecting who was worthy of being being appointed to the position, the King and his commander, the strange Newygnong, had consulted long with the Lord Elabeen and Lady Fylmira. And Tingalina had been amongst the first to be selected.
'Tingalina was amongst the first to witness the attacks - she fought the protect her beloved Rowan, and was injured and hurt, but still managed to return and warn us of the impending threat. And she has since led groups of faeries deep into the mountains in search of Rowan, and has been the cause of much pain to the hated Morig.' Elabeen had informed the King. And Newygnong herself had summoned Tingalina and, morphing so her form was closer to the size of the little faery, tested her martial skills until she was satisfied that Tingalina was indeed a warrioress of some standing (and it was only natural, for the Flame-haired goddess had seen fit that Tingalina be one of those she selected when she taught the Unsullied the ways and laws of war).
And in that first encounter with those strange fae, Tingalina had fought and killed faeries whose voices and faces - and whose eyes - she thought she recognised. And in her heart of hearts she feared that Rowan had met the awful fate of becoming one of those... things. The thought brought her no comfort at all, but only caused a tear to come to her eyes. She stood up and looked into the distance, her small childish form now rippling with strength and her once-innocent face betraying the horrors she had seen. She was no longer simply an Unsullied - she was a warrioress. A soldier. The small spear in her hand was held in grip now familiar with it, and her fingers were already calloused and scarred. Bringing her hardened fingertips to her cheek, she wondered if Newygnong would teach her how to make her body soft and beautiful again, and she wondered if somewhere in the far off mountains Rowan waited on her to come and save her.
Gripping her spear and unfurling her wings, the faery flew up high until she was above the mists. There she raised her voice and shouted long, and she thought her cry reached the heavens and echoed through the mountains. And her cry was Rowan. But her cry echoed below also, and Newygnong heard her. The crimson-haired wielder of Purity found the little faery above the mists and joined her. There were tears in the faery's eyes, and Newygnong instinctively raised a carapaced hand and - the protective shell morphing away to reveal a pale white one below - wiped the tears from Tingalina's eyes. The faery seemed stunned and raised a hand to touch Newygnong's pale limb. It was incredibly soft. It was also cool.
'Why are you crying, Eshgaebar?' The red-haired warrioress asked. Tingalina did not let go of Newygnong's hand as she brought it down. The faery looked off towards the mountains and considered how to respond. 'I... had a good friend.' Newygnong looked off towards the mountains too. 'She's been gone a long time now and... after what we saw, those creatures... I'm worried.' There was silence for a time between them as Tingalina stroked Newygnong's hand, 'if... if Rowan has become like them... is there a way to cure her?' Newygnong did not respond, causing Tingalina to look at her. Silently, Newygnong brought the little fairy into an embrace and stroked her golden locks. 'If there is a way, we will find it.' She said at last. The childlike faery held onto Newygnong's hard carapace and was filled with wonder. 'How is it that your shell is so hard yet your hands,' and here the faery grasped Newygnong's pale hand once more, 'is so soft? And your face,' and she placed a tiny finger onto Newygnong's cheek, finding it just as cool and soft as the heroine's hand. Newygnong shrugged. 'I guess I just happened that way.' Tingalina cocked her head at this odd response, 'I mean, I wasn't always this way. When I was first born I was... well. I guess it would be easier to show you, would it not?' And before Tingalina's eyes the little red-haired warrioress grew into an enormous worm-like creature with a carapace of dark blue and mandibles as long and sharp as blades. 'But I did not like it, and I willed I be otherwise,' and once more Newygnong morphed and became a smaller, stockier insectoid - yet still a giant to the little Tingalina. 'And then my brother came and helped me, and he made me beautiful.' And Newygnong was once more her beautiful red-haired self. 'So under this black shell,' Tingalina touched Newygnong's carapaced chest, 'you are... all snowy and soft?' Newygnong smiled shyly and looked away. 'I've never looked, so I don't know. But I would think so.' 'And you just... will yourself to change form? Can you become anything at all?' Newygnong thought on it for a few moments. 'I am pretty good at it, so I guess anything that I put my mind to, yes.' Tingalina smiled mischievously at this. 'So can you grow two heads?!' 'Yes, and two hands to whack you with,' and Newygnong thwacked the Eshgaebar (lightly, mind you) on the head.
Time: The Present
Larwen had not left the confines of the Pale One for a very long time, slowly recuperating his strength and watching the first Perfected Unsullied on her journey towards true enlightenment. She had once been called Rowan, but that name was no longer sustaining, no longer confining her to a shell of dust. Larwen had looked into her very heart when he had first taken her. It had not been by chance, for Larwen saw in her a thirsting for more. It was by this foundation he would build her into something truly special. The first step involved power, a tool that drove sentience forward. Larwen saw it everywhere, to the Zalsarix who fought one another for leadership, to the Perfected Fae who bickered over Lords and Ladies, it could be all consuming. Temptation was a part of power that led the weak to strength, and the strong to Perfection. That was what he had seen in the little Fae, always playing at the heartstrings of those she touched, and no matter how she used her gifts before the Forge, now they would truly shine.
Larwen had known her new name the moment she had emerged gloriously from the Forge. Like sweet nectar, the taste of a little bit more, subtle at first but steadily growing till all consuming. Intoxicating. Beautiful. Alluring. With the promises of desire. Maeve would be her name, for this name envisioned all of what Larwen had seen. She would be a Queen, beautiful to behold but terrifying towards her foes. She would caress the very hearts of those she touched, whispering to them the greatness of Larwen and the gift of Perfection. His will would spread through Maeve, and her power would grow as he did, until at last the world was at peace, cradled by hands untainted by imperfection. All the little one had to do, was speak her name aloud, to let it flow gently from her lips, to be heard by no one, yet everyone. This was Larwen's hope, and even as Maeve sat upon a rock in the deep of Pervanon, Larwen watched, the anticipation palpable. She was close, so close to finding herself but Larwen's attention shifted to a noise he had never heard before. That which sounded like a baby, and it was coming from the Forge. Larwen then willed himself there, and was confounded by what he saw before him.
There was a faint noise coming from Larwen's forge. At first it seemed like nothing out of the ordinary, however the noise was becoming more noticeable as time passed. The sound was distant but was there never the less. To a keen ear it sounded like the cries of a child, but these cries were not loud like those of a normal baby. The cries sounded softer and were more like a whisper, Something noticeable was coming though the forge which would be strange to the great corrupter. A few moments later what appeared to be a bubble was slowly coming out form the forge, A rather strange sight to behold especially when there was something inside the bubble.
If anyone was to look at the now floating bubble they would see a small baby sized god inside, the baby itself was wrapped in a long yellow robes. The body was a dark green with many tentacles coming form it's tiny body, It's feet were tentacles but it's hands were like a human hand expect with three long looking fingers. It's face was strange as well with tentacles where it's chin should be, Dark greenish yellow eyes and a sharp teeth mouth could be seen on it's face. The bubble was coming closer towards Larwen, The crying was still soft like the wind blowing in the sky.
Larwen stood still as the small bubble floated towards him, carrying within it that which looked like a baby, but the God of Perfection could tell it was no mere child. He perceived that of a newborn god, connected to his Forge of Purity in a way that he had not considered before. Quite so, Larwen was bewildered by such a creation before him. It mewled softly, a noise he did not fancy in anyway, and it looked incredibly deformed and unsightly. Somehow it had came from his Forge, but it was not yet perfected. This would have to be corrected before the child grew into a god. Larwen then went to grab the bubble, and to his great dismay, he popped it and simply watched as the babe fell to the floor.
With the bubble popped the baby now laid on the floor, crying still before suddenly the room became eerily quiet. The yellow robes covering the baby stayed the same size as soon the baby started to grow. The small figure inside of the robes becoming larger so it seemed the god would be quite tall, more tentacles were poking out of the robes and sprawled all over the floor. A few moments later and there laid a newly formed god, the figure slowly lifting himself onto his tentacles stood before Larwen looking like he was going to touch the sky, "Wh...where am I?" The god spoke but sounded more like he was speaking to himself in a soft whisper. Looking around the area he could see a frightening figure, not knowing it was Larwen, His eyes looking down at the robes before his so called feet. His eyes then darting towards a reflection in the small pool of water from the bubble, he saw his reflection for the first time.
From what he saw he did not like in the slightest, letting out a gasp of horror at his own appearance. His strange hands covering his face, his emotions telling him there was a monster looking back at him. "A beast..I am.." He thought bumping into the robes he was clothed in. Looking down at the cloth, picking it up and covering his body, "I must cover this hideous face, No human...nor god shall lay sight to this abomination" He spoke using his robes to hide his face for a moment. Crouching down now his hand outstretched in front of him, pointing to the floor trying to see if he could make a mask to cover his face. The rocks around him moved and changed shape to create a pale emotionless mask that was then placed upon his face.
Larwen watched all of this unfold before him with curiosity. The new god did not seem to know exactly what he was, and thought of his body as a hideous thing. He was not wrong in the slightest, his body was off putting to be sure. Larwen thought a moment on what to do with this God. He had been wanting to test out his Forge upon divine flesh, perhaps this would be the opportunity he so desired. He felt only a small connection to the God, mainly because he had emerged from the Forge. He let his presence be known then, "You are in Pervanon, my home." Larwen began in a rich silky voice, "You have come from my Forge but are not of it, or me. A most peculiar predicament indeed. But of course, where are my manners, I am Larwen, child. Lord of Mount Pervanon, and God of Perfection. Who are you?"
The newly formed god had to think for a moment of what his name was, Luckily for him he remembered it and then some. "My name is Memoriae. Was it you whom created me from that?" He asked pointing to the forge with a long finger. His mind was racing with thoughts and questions he could give to the one named Larwen.
"Memoriae." Larwen stated aloud, "No I did not create you. For if I had, you would be Perfected and not how you are now." It was true, Larwen did not voluntarily create this God. He was not of him, not perfected and beautiful like Larwen's other creations. No, Memoriae was not his child.
"If I am not your child, then why am I here? Was the great creator playing some sort of joke on me? I remember something about another god...but it is hazy" He said softly looking around feeling intimidated by the other god. The robed god now moving a bit closer towards Larwen, "Whatever the situation my be...I must have memories" He said his mask doing well to hide his face.
Larwen was puzzled by the God's words. A great creator? Memories? Why was Memoriae moving closer to him? He spoke after a time, "I know not why you are here, or this great creator you speak of. All I know is that you are not of me, and that means you are imperfect, a flaw like the rest of the gods. Memories or not, you will go back into the Forge, and become Perfected." Larwen stated flatly.
Memoriae was moving backwards now from Larwen, feeling more afraid as time passed on. His curiosity on what kind of memories the other god had would be a big risk to him, "If I was to become like you, then you would take my memories for yourself!" He said sounding angry now, as he kept moving backwards. Looking around his the area he needed a place to be alone and this was not the place for him. "If you will not help me collect memories...then you are useless to me." He said turning around summoning what looked like a bubble but was more solid looking, Trying to float away form Larwen and to some place safe.
Larwen stood still has Memoriae talked, listening to the God try to rationalize what would soon happen to him. Larwen had no need for memories, he simply wanted his Perfection to change the God before him, so that he might be more inclined to his own thinking. It mattered not now, as Larwen put on a sadistic smile as he saw Memoriae backing away. He spoke with the same silky tones as before as he began to walk towards Memoriae, "Come now little one, this is not the time for games." Larwen then summoned his divine weapon, Willbreaker, the mace of domination. But before he could take a swing at him, Larwen heard her. Maeve had said her name at last and was ready for his grand plans. He looked at Memoriae once again, stopping in his tracks and letting the god go. "You are lucky child, now begone from this place less you incur my wrath further." Larwen the whispered for Maeve to join him.
Memoriae was floating away form the other god, he was glad that he had escaped from the wrath of Larwen. Eventually he found the exit from Mount Pervanon, opening up the world to him. Turning to face the horizon Memoriae hoped he could get to some place safe and to also start collecting memories. His eyes eventually looking towards the greenery of a forest far away from the mountains. This is where he would call home for the time being. Moving his bubble closer towards the forest and letting it pop as his tentacles touched the ground. His eyes then scanned the area, seeing the animals frolicking, so he took this moment to take their memories, finding nothing important nor entertaining about them.
He then started to walk into the forest, changing his appearance to a more human one. From the hazy memory he did have of them, he knew what one particular face looked like. His plan now was to make a home and eventually collect memories and followers. Finding a good spot for him to build he created a small house for the time being to house him. The house itself one could say was quite cute being mostly made out of the timber around him. The inside was filled with furniture and other things you would normally find in a home. Beds, drawers, cupboards and what not with many bookshelves being placed inside of his new home. Putting things he would need for his stay in his home, he hoped he would not run into anymore scary gods.
Back in Pervanon, Larwen sat by the Forge of Purity, awaiting Maeve in the dim glow. His Zalsarix came and went about their business, carving more bones and huddling in groups. They did not speak, but Larwen found them to be social creatures who preferred the safety of a pack when out hunting or taking creatures to the Forge. Larwen knew that he would have to elevate them further if he ever wanted to see them grow and expand their numbers. For it was one thing to exist, but another to live and the Zalsarix were stuck somewhere in the middle. They existed, and lived but their lives were paltry compared to the Perfected Fae, who communicated with one another their thoughts and feelings, their hate for the unnatural. Larwen wished the Zalsarix would reflect that behavior, that drive, but it had not been how they were created. Soon he would Perfect more children, ones that could communicate, grow and build a civilization unlike Galbar had yet seen. He would teach them the wonders of his gifts, and bestow upon them his will. But first..
"Maeve, you have arrived at last my child." Larwen said into the darkness, and before him came the Perfected Fae still as pretty as she had been when she first emerged in the very same room, born anew. Her journey had come full circle, but it was far from over. In fact, it had barely even begun. Maeve strode up to him in confidence, in her heart she was satisfied but yes, Larwen smiled, she still craved more. She then sank to her knees and grovelled before Larwen saying, 'Yes, O'Powerful one. I have done as you asked and found my name within the depths of the mountain.' Came Maeve's voice, reverberating through his mind. "Speak it." Larwen commanded her. The very weight of his voice pressing down the air. 'I am Maeve, daughter of Perfection.' she said proudly in the dark. "That you are, child. That you are." Larwen then stood up and looked down upon her, "Rise Maeve, First of the Perfected Unsullied Fae." The Fae did as told, her height a quarter of the size of Larwen. "You have been gone a long time, I was beginning to think your search was futile, that I would have to find another to take your place." Maeve shifted slightly, Larwen could tell she was irritated at the idea of being replaced, in her mind she sought to be at the top, powerful and loved by all who saw her. This pleased Larwen and he continued, "But you have done well, take heart in that dear one. Much has happened since you left. The Zalsarix have been busy, taking your kin for the forge to fight Lasis, one of my sisters and we have been most successful. Your cousins, the imperfect Fae did not like this, for in their stupidity they decided to inhabit these lands, and now their king has come to save them. Then my brother, Regulus, decided to cloud the Zalsarix's vision in a dense fog over their lands, halting any new life being Perfected at the forge. Your siblings have gone to war, yet there has been no victory and that is where I turn to you." Larwen finished at last.
Maeve stood at attention, in reverence towards her God and patron. She listened to his words most carefully, and found herself amiss when told that she might have been replaced if she could not find herself. Such a thought was daunting, to be cast aside so easily for failing. Thankfully, her fear could be put aside for now but Maeve would always keep in mind that failure was a term Larwen would not tolerate. It had seemed the war had begun, against her inferior cousins and their foolish king but she could hardly believe her siblings had lost so easily. 'My lord, permit me to ask, how did my siblings fail?' Maeve questioned. Larwen said nothing for a moment then began, "Your siblings were caught by surprise. It seemed the Fae have been taught the merits of war, by who I can only assume is Seihdhara, my sister. They fought with tactics, formations, precision... Though your kind did inflict damage upon them, it was not satisfactory, but I shall leave this blame with myself. I shall teach them more in time. Even as we speak now, they flock back to Pervanon's safety." This shocked Meave, for how humble her God could be. For she cared little for her siblings other then that they show her signs of affection, but for Larwen to blame himself instead of them, heartened Maeve. 'I am most sorry for this loss, my lord.' she said softly, 'I will do anything I can to make this situation better. I would sunder the very mountains to win the war for you, I would break the Fae King's neck if he were in my grasp, I would lay down my life if it so pleased yo-' Her voice was cut off by Larwen raising a mighty hand. He leaned in closer to Maeve and whispered into her very soul with a warm softness, "This pleases me, Maeve. I did not by accident choose you so long ago. I looked into your mind, your very heart and I saw the seeds of greatness stirring. You wanted more for yourself, even if you would not admit it. You desired the power to one day be a queen, beautiful to behold by your peers. So I took you, to see if these seeds would bloom, and my dear sweet Maeve, they have grown."
Maeve's body grew warm with Larwen's voice, stoking the fires that gave her strength, that gave her life. She could only listen to Larwen, for her voice had abandoned her to sheer delight. What he said was true, she had never realized her full potential before the Forge, her desire for power had long been in her heart, repressed by other, now diminutive, emotions and thoughts. She wanted it, she needed it. "I have decided that you will be a Queen. Monarch of the Perfected Courts, beautiful and empowering, deadly and terrible to behold, you shall be the sweetest of nectar, and the most tempting of forbidden fruits. Will you take upon yourself this burden? This beautiful curse? Or will temptation consume even your heart I wonder?" Larwen finished, pulling away from Maeve and looking down upon her once more.
Maeve's entire body tingled, writhing in euphoria at the very words of her god. A great hunger had been awoken inside her, it thirsted for more. Larwen had given her but a taste of temptation, now he offered more. To be greater then those that had came after her, to be stronger then the inferior. This was her destiny, she would be able to show Tingalina what it truly meant to be Perfected, and have her sister Fae love her even more. Maeve at last found her voice, after standing in front of Larwen with graceful smile she looked into his eyes and without hesitating she answered, her voice full of dignity and pride, 'I accept, o'graciously, my lord.'
Larwen smiled, he raised his arms far apart horizontally, and with one mighty clap, Maeve's world changed forevermore. The Fae collapsed into a heap before Larwen, her very body of dust growing longer, her chest breaking apart in several spaces between her ribs, to reveal a luminous white glow. Her arms and legs lengthened as her body became more feminine around the waste and chest. Her skin turned black, hardening into a substance not so different from the Zalsarix, but unlike them, her body was smooth and rigged along her core. Her head grew longer, the same luminous lights erupting vertically in four places upon her face, while sat atop, was a crown. Finally, her back gave way to long, luminous white strands deeply intertwined, glowing and moving freely as wings. Maeve had been born again, for the third time in her life. She gasped aloud when the process finished, for she felt stronger then she had ever been. She began to sit up, marveling at her long arms and slender fingers, then looking down at her body, noting the changes and marveling at their perfection.
She had almost forgotten Larwen was present but when he spoke, she focused on him in a new light, "Come Maeve, come and look upon yourself within the place of your conception." Larwen then offered his hand, and Maeve slowly took it, feeling the God's flesh with her new senses. Larwen lifted her up but Maeve, not used to her feet yet, began to fall face first as the god pulled. But Larwen was fast, realizing his mistake, and managed to catch her along her waist with his free hand. Flustered Maeve began, 'I-I. Forgive me, this body is new.' her voice quickly rang out, sounding fuller and resonating the perfect tone.
Larwen, though slightly embarrassed touching her around the waist, showed no signs of such thoughts. "There is no need to apologize. An accident it was, and nothing more. Come now, your body must practice walking." And so, after a few steps, Maeve was well on her way to walking once again. Larwen in the meantime, brought her closer to the edge of the Forge, and once they loomed over the pit, he spoke, "Now look into the Forge, see your reflection in all its glory."
Maeve cautiously looked over, careful not to lose her footing and fall in. What she saw looking back was the purity of her flesh, the crown she now carried atop her head would always be with her, as was her divine right. She touched her face, the light within warm and soft. Maeve had truly become beautiful, and all who looked upon her would know it and despair. She turned to Larwen and sank to her knees, bowing in respect, her voice shaking as she spoke to him, 'Words cannot describe... I thank you for this my lord... my master. You have made me powerful beyond anything I could ever imagine, and it... I am truly beautiful.'
Larwen crouched down, taking a finger to Maeve's chin, raising her face to meet his. "Once you entered the Forge, you became one of the most beautiful creatures I have ever seen. You have power here," Larwen pointed to her glowing chest, "And here." Larwen pointed at her head. "You have been born to expand my influence, to lead my armies, to be a Queen. Use both your strength of heart, and your strength of mind to do so. None shall stand in the way of your voice, your power, your might. Now rise, Maeve the Beautiful, the Queen, the Temptress, firstborn of the Perfected Unsullied Fae. I have a gift beyond what has already been given my child."
Maeve rose, noble with her head held high, but within her mind a single phrase played over and over again, 'You became one of the most beautiful creatures I have ever seen.' One of the most beautiful. Larwen's words only meant that she was not the first, a troubling thought but Maeve would have to deal with it another time. She then looked to Larwen expectantly, and from Larwen's hand Willbreaker materialized. The Mace of Domination. He handed the hilt towards Maeve but the Exquisite Fae hesitated, not sure what to do. Larwen spoke bemused, "I bequeath to you Willbreaker for the time being, I have no use for it here in Pervanon and a Queen needs a weapon fit for her stature. This Mace dominates all that come into the radius of its influence, it will compliment you and it is a most useful tool when fighting. Though you have not been trained for combat, you will find yourself capable of using the energy within yourself as a weapon. Do not be afraid to test your limits. A word of caution Maeve, you must be wary of those that wield blades, for their make is exceptional, and their wielders trained. Show them no mercy, no hesitation to strike them down before they do the same to you. Now take it." Larwen finished.
Maeve, finally gripped the handle and felt the divine weapon's power flow through her. To a certain extent she could also feel its influence, but Maeve found herself immune to such an effect, for she was already under Larwen's influence. Once again she bowed deeply, and stated, "You honor me once again, my lord." she paused then continued, 'How are you planning to fight the Fae exactly? If they have been trained for war, what advantage do my subjects now possess? I would hate to fail you before I even had a chance.'
To this Larwen thought for a moment. His children were woefully unprepared against a trained enemy but an edge could be provided, a gift of true power might be able to turn the tide. Larwen simply smiled at Maeve and beckoned for her to follow.
Sometime later, when the Perfected Fae had returned from their failed battles, and Larwen had introduced them to their new Queen, they had gathered near the Perfected Ley's chamber. By now the growth of the ley had progressed throughout Pervanon, and to the surrounding mountains. Larwen could feel the souls awaiting for bodies, but he was a crafty God and a solution to the problems he faced had arisen within his mind. There existed his Perfection within the Ley, this he knew but his questions had brought him to a final conclusion- they could be used for other purposes beyond awaiting for flesh. Similar to how Maeve and the Zalsarix worked, he would gift all of his creations the ability to use the energy, or the essence of the soul, within their bodies and allow them the extension of casting it into the form of physical embodiment. A basic form of magic, that he would call the Corr. With a weave of his hands, Larwen made it so, imbuing the knowledge of how to wield the Corr into the Perfected races under his sway. Larwen then turned to Maeve who stood by his side.
"There is your advantage Maeve. Now go! Use it well and smite my enemies from these lands!" Maeve nodded, turned to the great host of Perfected Fae, raised Willbreaker into the air high above her crown and proclaimed loudly, 'TO WAR!' The Perfected Fae cheered, stronger than ever before, and with a Queen to lead them -what could challenge them now?
The great Unsullied forest, home to the many faeries who called the Unsullied Court at the Anathema Heights home, stood proud and free at the foot of the heights, straddling the source of the river which now went by their name and encroaching ever so slightly on Larwen's domains. Small though the Unsullied forest was - for it had not been in existence for long at all - its inhabitants well knew that it was fated for eternal expansion. The Unsullied forests of the world would grow forever until all the earth was but one great, grand, beautiful forested metropolis. They had not thought they would face any obstacle to achieving their brave utopia other than their recalcitrant Sullied cousins. And yet they now found that they thought very little of the Sullied, faced as they were with a threat far greater and more dangerous than the Sullied - who, after all, were still Fae and still sought the expansion of nature's dominions.
The foe they faced sought not only their destruction - and that would have been a mercy - no, it sought far more than that. It sought to possess them, to alter them at the most basic level, and to use them for a purpose so repugnant to their present selves that they could barely stomach to think of it. In the days since the first engagement with their Stolen brethren, the warrior-fae of the Unsullied Court at the Anathema Heights had battled again and yet again with the strange beings of corruption. They were smaller engagements, it was true (for the Stolen had taken care not to attack the Unsullied in large numbers, having realised their inability to face them on the field), but they were opportunities for the Unsullied to cement their tactics and see the training and knowledge their troops received bolstered by true battle experience. And behind the strange wall of fog that covered their forest, they were safe.
Eshgaebar Tingalina had personally led her loyal one-hundred in various raids into the mountains and closer to home, warding off small parties of Stolen fae who encroached too near to the Unsullied forest. But she did not merely fight to protect her forest home - in truth, she fought also to find Rowan. Even if the single cure for this corruption was death, Tingalina would have been at peace knowing that Rowan had been released back into the essence of the world and could return unsullied once more. As it were, she had not come across any Stolen fae that resembled Rowan in any way.
Rowan, there is no good in the world and all in it If you desert us along with all those who have deserted
The mourners mourned Rowan for me so I said to them Has the earth drowned us, or have the pillars of heaven fallen?
Were it only so that the heavens fell upon all beneath them And the earth collapsed and perished with all on it!
Tingalina remembered well the meek faery she had been, how Rowan had always been spirit of freedom and adventure, always pushing her towards new and exciting things. In many ways, it had enabled Tingalina to settle comfortably in her inner world, confident that Rowan would always be around to ensure she sufficiently explored the outer world. She was always there to grab her by the hand and force her from one reverie or another to stare in wonder at the barely visible souls in the river, or listen to the snoring spirits in the trees, or to watch for the longest time as the trees of the forest bore fruit and life bloomed.
And then she was not.
And that fact had dragged her out of all reveries. She was suddenly ever awake and ever alert. But Tingalina did not think it to be a good alertness or wakefulness, certainly not the type Rowan had created. This was the wakefulness brought about by loss and the alertness engendered by pain. Her once soft, dreamy brown eyes were now as bark, her once-soft hands that knew no hardship now those of a warrior that had seen more than a dozen encounters, her voice - that only knew laughter and song - the cold, commanding one of an Eshgaebar. And her lithe, feminine form was now sculpted and rippled with strength - which was rather unsettling when mixed with her childish form.
When the sound of the conch reached her ears - three blasts, alerting all who heard that a large enemy host was approaching - she was swift to call up her brave one-hundred and assemble before Brentylwith the King and Newygnong his foremost commander. Taking to the air, they all formed up in the sky above the protective mist and looked upon the distant clouds of darkness that approached the Unsullied forest. Even from so far away, it looked to be a simply enormous swarm. Brentylwith raised Seihdhos high and gestured for his forces to follow him. Newygnong likewise signalled for her Eshgaebars and their companies to follow her behind the first force, and Tingalina followed her crimson-haired commander.
The two army groups raced towards the enemy force, Brentylwith spear-heading directly for the enemy centre. Newygnong maintained her force's position in reserve. The enemy force grew ever closer, and in the air just north of the Unsullied forest, two great forces of Stolen and Unsullied clashed once more.
Maeve had left Pervanon with her host of the Perfected Fae, days ago, and their journey to the Unsullied forest was uneventful. She talked with several Fae under her about the tactics their cousins had used in previous battles. Their answers left her unsatisfied, it seemed her subjects did not have the greatest minds for details. Nonetheless she learned the basics of their weaponry and shields, plus the commanders. One she knew to be the king, the other one, a 'bug demon' as they called her, she knew not the slightest about from her past. All the while, she thought of Tingalina, for Maeve had not found her among the Perfected and she had also learned she had never been taken. Her excitement grew as the forest came into view at last, she could taste the very air, and it was one of certain victory. The Fae would be unaware of their newfound abilities, and of her. The trap was set.
As soon as her forces collided with the Fae, there came a frantic melee upon the ground and in the air, and Maeve remained in the back with a few Perfected Unsullied as guards, surveying. From where she hovered, watching the battle escalate, she could see all. When her forces had mingled enough with the enemy, she gave the signal, a beautiful wail emanated from her luminous mouth, signalling the Perfected Fae to let loose the Corr. The very energy from within, utilized for war. From the hands of the Perfected came spherical balls of darkness, their centers glowing red or the color of the glow within their chests. They flung these Corr Shadows at the Unsullied, where if hit, the Fae would suffer a grievous wound that ate their dust. Down below, the Perfected Sullied used the Corr to enhance their abilities, hardening themselves from the blows of the Unsullied.
Then Maeve took to the field with Willbreaker, her presence strengthening the Perfected near her and her figure dazzling the Fae. They would not have seen anything like her before, for she was new and powerful. She flung her own magic at the Unsullied with impunity, turning them to dust in a flash of light. Willbreaker pummeled any Fae who came to close, and it exerted its influence, breaking the nearest hearts of the Fae of their will to fight. They became easy pickings for her forces. Maeve herself laughed as she killed, no longer feeling anything for the creatures of her youth. She thought them nothing but inferior, weak and easily defeated by her beauty. In the back of her mind, she kept an eye out for Tingalina, secretly hoping to find her within the chaos of the battle. Would her old friend even recognize her? Probably not, but it would not stop Maeve from her search.
Shocked by the unexpected Corr attack, Brentylwith's force recoiled from the enemy and found itself fighting desperately to hold the Stolen at bay. The strange magick - unlike anything in existence - tore through the wickerwork shields and destroyed the wooden spears, and more Unsullied fell in one Corr attack than had fallen in entire engagements before. And the coming of the strange commander with her mighty mace only served to add to the desperate situation. This Newygnong saw, and the conch was blown to bring her forces to attention. Raising Purity, she dashed upwards in a great arc, and her troops followed her in an aerial flanking manoeuvre that saw the great force of Unsullied crash into the Stolen from above like a tremendous wave. And this time, the red-haired warrioress did not taken on an insectoid form, but chose to battle in the form gifted her by her brother and which so resembled the mighty war goddess. Her hair, like that of her mother, seemed to have a life all its own as she swung Purity with a fury and sent up black dust everywhere.
Tingalina and her brave one-hundred, like the other companies, had followed their crimson-haired commander into the fray and hammered into the strengthened enemy with an equal fury, unfazed by this strange new magick that they now had. And when Tingalina saw the enemy commander she was set upon by the strongest desire to face her and give her the freedom of death. 'On me!' Came the Eshgaebar's voice through the madness of battle, and her warriors formed up on her as she took to the heavens once more, arcing in the air and coming crashing downward towards the enemy commander and her guard. 'UNSULLIED!' Came the terrible warcry which hammered the foe even before the spears and shields landed.
The battle took a sour turn when she spotted a crimson warrior, different than the Fae, lead a charge upon her forces from above. The few Perfected raised their hands to answer, but before they could inflict a grievous injury upon the army, they had already struck. She saw the sword within the warrior's hands, and Larwen's words reminded her not to engage one such as her. Begrudgingly, she signaled to her guards to back up, trying to put distance between them. Before she even turned, she heard the cry, and her voice. Maeve looked up, just in time to see a Fae aerial attack assault her position, but she did not care about the slight injuries she received from the warriors. Maeve did not care for her own guardsmen turning to black dust around her...
No, Maeve had found Tingalina, her strong voice still echoing with her childish candor. Maeve raised Willbreaker, floating towards Tingalina, smacking aside several Fae warriors who stood in the way, while driving the mace's influence to break their will- all except Tingalina. She left her old friend alone. Seeing her brought back memories, flawed ones that held no place any longer within her heart. She had sought her youthful friend out, and fate had brought them together at last. She was surprised to see her in such a state, she looked far more hardened and warlike then when they had last seen each other. 'That's alright,' Maeve mused, 'It seems we've both changed. As all things do.'
Maeve faced her directly within the heart of chaos, standing tall and erect, with Willbreaker to her side. Her voice spoke clearly above the noise, with old familiarity, 'I've been waiting for you...My dear Tingalina.' The Eshgaebar froze on hearing the enemy commander speak in that familiar voice, and speak her name. She looked at the tall, skeletal black figure who shared no resemblance whatsoever with her beloved. Her jaw tightened and her brows furrowed, and her eyes - hard as bark - did not soften.
'And I have been searching for you, Rowan. I searched in the mountains and the streams, in the skies and in the earth. I could not find your presence even amongst the dead. I...' her lower lip trembled, 'I missed you so.' Maeve tilted her head to the side as she listened to Tingalina speak, noting how utterly sad she sounded. It was never Maeve's intent to bring her pain, for she already lived a painful existence. To be without Perfection, was to be dead altogether. No, Maeve wanted to change that, to make Tingalina whole.
'And I missed you, my love. On that day I was taken, my last memories were of you...' Came Maeve's sorrowful voice, 'I wished Larwen would have grabbed you as well, so that we might have been together all this time. Alas, your search for Rowan was always going to end in suffering. For Rowan is gone now, in her place I stand. Maeve the Beautiful. For that discomfort, I am truly sorry.' Maeve then floated slightly closer to Tingalina and reached out one of her long skeletal hands, 'Come with me Tingalina, let me show you what Larwen has shown me. He can Perfect you, he can unlock your true potential, your deepest desires...I will even help you find your true name, my love. Let us be together again! Please. All I care is to hold you once more...' Maeve finished in a kind tone, one of longing.
A certain degree of doubt seemed to show in Tingalina's eyes, and she floated up to Maeve's strange head, ignoring the extended hand, and placed a calloused hand upon what passed for her face. 'Rowan...' she whispered, her hard fingers moving mechanically up and down the side of Maeve's face - which seemed to be made of a substance not at all dissimilar to what the Morig were made of - 'Rowan is not gone. If she is gone, how do you know me? How can you miss me? That is not "Maeve" speaking, that is Rowan. Maeve is not beautiful - any beauty she pretends to is but a mockery of the true beauty Rowan has. Because in my eyes, Rowan was always perfect. Come back with me, Rowan. Newygnong can fix you - we will be happy again, you will remember who you truly are and be with those who love you for all that you are. Come back with me.' It was hope and desperation that clung to Tingalina's voice, and perhaps hope was the greater in those moments.
Tingalina's touch was elating no matter how rough her hand now was, Maeve sighed aloud before letting her own hand fall. She listened to Tingalina's whispers, they were invigorating at first, but quickly soured her mood. Still, her heart faltered when she heard her voice and how desperate she sounded, but Maeve could not allow her to have such ideas. She needed no fixing, and she was beautiful. Larwen had seen to that. She pulled away from Tingalina, stroking the Fae's face with but one finger down her cheek. 'Rowan is dead.' Maeve said coldly, 'Rowan was flawed, she was not perfect. Her memories are my own, but the past is gone.' Maeve's voice dropped, before becoming softer once more, 'I miss you. Maeve misses you, Tingalina. I do not need to be fixed by this Newygnong, for I am happy. Please, I ask again, come with me. I can show you the Forge of Purity and we can be happy together...You'll be like me, and perfect.' But Tingalina only shook her head and, taking Maeve by the hand pulled at her gently.
'You are not yourself - I don't know what they've done to you, but you need to know that this isn't you. We were happy before - you were happy, don't you remember? Don't you remember when Selsibella caught that huge fish and she was scaring everybody with it and then you-' and here Tingalina suddenly smiled, 'and you took it from her and thwacked her all the way back to the river! And that other time when you were so excited over the apples blooming and insisted we sit and watch them from the end of winter until they were in full bloom - you got so bored waiting around, but in the end stayed just for me. And when we stayed up all night at midwinter's just to watch the stars - and you put your head on my shoulder and it was so... it was so right. And when the fireflies came out for the first time! Don't you remember how happy we were?'
Maeve was unmoving from the spot they floated in, but she did not pull away from the small Fae's grasp. Tingalina's smile made Maeve grip her hand tightly, an unspoken display of affection. Emotions swelled inside of Maeve as the tall Fae heard Tingalina's soft voice, and the memories she spoke of in fondness. She remembered Selsibella and the fish, the apples blooming in the spring, the midwinter star's, the fireflies of summer- all of them, from the day they first met. But whatever love and beauty there might have been, was replaced by the flawed life she recognized throughout them. It was all wrong. She looked to Tingalina, a small bit of light, not unlike a tear, rolled down her chest slowly evaporating into a small mist. Maeve saw Tingalina, but she was not the Tingalina she remembered. She was hardened, calloused, a warrior- not the soft Fae who Maeve stole glances at when she wasn't looking. They had changed her, the King, this Newygnong. They had taken the Tingalina who would have listened to her, and buried her beneath armor.
Maeve forcefully pulled away from TIngalina, her voice full of emotion, 'I..I.. remember everything. How could I not? But I do not care for those memories, all I care for is you, Tingalina. You! How can you not see? They've changed you, haven't they? The king, this Newygnong! Your tender heart is gone, replaced by a warrior of stone!' Maeve lamented. 'I should have known this would happen, how could I not? I should have come for you sooner, before they twisted you away from me. That way... That way you would have listened...' Maeve's voice dropped to but a broken whisper now, 'I love you ya'know? I thought... I thought you would love me too... Like this.' Tingalina jerked in slight surprise at the unexpected confession - not that it was anything she did not know - but it very suddenly warmed her. Maeve continued without pause, 'I'm better now, I was wrong before, but I'm better now. I wish you would see that. I wish it had been different, but now, no- Now I have to force you. I need you Tingalina, you're not perfect, but you will be. And in time, perhaps you will love me once again... I'm-I'm sorry.' Maeve then snapped to attention, grabbing Tingalina by her right forearm, attempting to fly away from the battle. Tingalina was too stunned to immediately react to the stronger faery's grasp (could she be called a faery, truly?), but when she had regained her composure she immediately began resisting.
'Rowan! St- stop! Let m- let me go! Stop it!' But there was little she could do against the might of Larwen's chosen, and she felt herself pulled slowly, but surely, from the field of battle. Maeve's heart broke more at Tingalina's cry, but she was adamant in her grip, no matter how much it pained her. 'Sel! Miri! Help me!' The Eshgaebar cried, but the two could be seen down below fighting desperately with the others in what was clearly a losing battle, and Newygnong's crimson hair could be seen in the distance as she single-handedly fought off the enemies swarming her, and it was almost certain that she could not see or hear Tingalina's plight. 'Rowan, please - don't do th-' but her words were suddenly overwhelmed by a new sound - it was like the drone of ten-thousand squiggles, and even those fighting paused momentarily to look about them, fearing some enemy ambush.
There, in the distance but approaching at terrifying speed, was a great swarm that blotted out edge of the world. They came in their thousands, in a surprisingly orderly manner and wielding wooden spears and holding their own shields of animal hide. They came wailing their warcries and screeching their fury - for they too had been wronged by the vile Morig, and had been set upon by their corrupted brethren. The great Sullied horde crashed with a thunder that shook the heavens - for like the earth, even the heaven could be made to shake! - and they set upon their Stolen foes. 'DUST! DUST! MAKE THEM DUST!' was their wrathful cry.
Confusion swept the ranks of the Perfected Fae, Maeve herself looked at the approaching horde, momentarily forgetting who she handled and her grip slackened. This allowed Tingalina to escape away from the tall Fae into the thick of battle. Maeve's voice let out a sad cry, 'No no no no! Come back! Don't leave me...' but before she could give chase, her bearings took hold and she realized the threat of the sullied would overwhelm her forces. Begrudgingly, she signaled the sound of retreat, and began to fly away lest they all die to the combined might of both Fae hosts. She wept in silence at the thought of Tingalina, for Maeve had not- could not believe the outcome of their fated meeting. She had hoped it would have gone different, but Tingalina had softened Maeve's heart with her lovely voice, and she felt differently throughout their encounter than she had before. As the Perfected retreated en mass, she realized Larwen would be watching, and he would not care for defeat once again. The next time, Maeve would have no choice but to fight until the last Perfected stood standing, or succumb to dust before the Fae. How bittersweet it all was...
With the Stolen retreating before the mad strike of the Sullied swarm, the significantly reduced Unsullied armies permitted themselves a sigh of relief before quickly forming up and swiftly retreating for the safety of their forest home. The Sullied continued to fight, groups breaking off an giving chase to the retreating Stolen, screaming obscenities and pledging bloody vengeance. Eventually, however, the Mistress of the Sullied Court at the Anathema Heights reigned her subjects in and sent a messenger to the Unsullied, inviting them out to parley.
'Parley! With dirty Sullied?' some exclaimed, but Brentylwith the King flew with a small guard of honour and met the Mistress. A tall, female Sullied of green complexion, four-armed and and legless (for legs she had a single appendage that somewhat resembled a tail), she was everything that an Unsullied was not. With large eyes of complete gold and a mouth in each of her two cheeks, her face was in itself an unnerving sight.
'Hail, Brentylwith the King,' she spoke, 'I am Fiula, daughter of Asula the Matriarch, Mistress of the the Sullied Court at the Anathema Heights. My greeting is peace, my offer assistance, my foe is your foe and I would avail myself of your strength as you would be well-advised to avail yourself of mine.' It was clear that she had no interest in frivolous talk and had no desire for these discussions to take longer than the absolute minimum necessary - mutual foe or not, the Sullied and Unsullied were by no means natural or easy allies.
'You have my thanks, Mistress Fiula, I believe that my standing here is owed to you,' spoke the considerably battle-worn King. 'Your assistance is appreciated, and I would be a most foolish King if I refused the assistance of one who has already offered it freely. Though I do not deny the mutual hostility of our two races, yet this Stolen foe is a danger to us and more than us - to nature on which we all depend. I would ally with you and fight by your side, Fiula of the Sullied.' And it was a thing agreed.
For her part, Tingalina had disappeared deep into the forest the moment she had disentangled herself from the battle, searching for a place of darkness and warmth to bury herself a while and forget her very existence. And she found just such a place in a cave who entrance was nearly entirely concealed by greenery, and the inside of which was a humid mess. She lay on the ground, burying her face into the warm cave wall and bringing her arms about her head and her knees to her chest. And she remained in that way for a long time, replaying the events of the battle and the words that Rowan - Maeve? - had spoken.
Even now it was surreal - the idea that Rowan could have spoken those words was both cause for joy and misery. It was so clear she was in there, so clear that despite everything they had done to change her they could not change her quintessence. And yet she was not entirely Rowan - this Maeve was eating at her, burying her, suffocating her. Tingalina turned her head from the wall and looked in the darkness towards the cave ceiling, and though her eyes were teary there was a sudden hardness there.
For next time, if Newygnong was not close by to truly fix her, she would stop at nothing to set her Rowan free.
A couple of days had passed since the forces under Maeve had attacked the Unsullied Fae, victory had almost been assured but the untimely arrival of the Sullied Fae sent the victory well out of Maeve's grasp. But she did not care about that. No, she cared for more of her failure with Tingalina. The Perfected sullied had retreated to the base of the Anathema's licking their wounds and preparing for the final assault upon their cousins. Maeve had wandered to a nearby stream, the life here slowly warping to suit the host of the Perfected, for she willed it so, but the stream remained untouched. Clear cool water, gently flowed across shiny stones and pebbles. The very noise itself one might find relaxing, but Maeve, she sat huddled at the edge, her long arms wrapped around her body and legs. Her face was tilted to look at the water, but she was not seeing it, for her thoughts blinded her.
Tingalina consumed her, drowning her in the loss of losing the one she loved. Where once Maeve thought she had not missed her, their meeting had stoked the fires that had brought them together so long ago. Maeve had always missed Tingalina, there was no denying that now. Her laugh, her comforting embrace...Her very smile. yet at the same time, Maeve knew this to not be right, for Tingalina was not Perfected. She was imperfect, the little Fae did not have Larwen's gift, but then why did she miss her so? Why would she not call her Maeve? Rowan was gone, she was but a memory of a person. A shell that contained Maeve, like a caterpillar before the beauty of a butterfly, she had been what emerged from the Forge. Better and new.
Rowan had liked butterflies. The thought came uninvited, like an insult slapped in her face.
Maeve lurched forward and smacked the water with one of her skeletal hands, sending droplets flying. A few Perfected Fae turned their heads to look, and quietly flew away, not wanting to involve themselves with their Queen. Anger coursed through her like fire, her luminous white glow turning a light shade of red, before returning to milky white. Her clawed fingers tore into the dirt before her as she looked into the water. 'I was born anew.' She said aloud angrily, 'Pure. Rowan is the past. She is dead. DEAD!' Maeve yelled, slapping the water again. For the briefest moment, she thought she saw fiery red hair in the reflection and the droplets of water, but it vanished, leaving her in doubt. Her anger cooled, leaving only sadness behind.
She fell back on the green grass, and where she touched, the ground began to blacken slowly. She looked up into the sky, not knowing what to do. The war had to be won, that much was certain. But the combined might of both Sullied and Unsullied? It was unheard of that they would even join together. But to fight side be side against the Perfected? She no longer felt confident at her chances of success, there would be a great loss of life, not like she cared- but would Larwen? Then there were the two sword wielders, Brentylwith and this newcomer, Newygnong. The very name felt disgusting, this red haired warrior that Tingalina had spoken of. Why had TIngalina thought to seek out her help? What could she possibly do? Jealousy crept inside Maeve's heart, making itself at home, for this Newygnong sounded like the culprit that had poisoned the mind of Tingalina.
Maeve sat up. It made sense now that she thought of it, who else would teach the Fae how to fight besides the Goddess? Had the Goddess sent this champion to the Fae to help them in their plight? This Newygnong, this creature, she had hardened the hearts of the Fae into warriors, she trained them into knives. She had taken Tingalina from her. She would pay. Yes, and when she lay dead before Maeve, only then would Tingalina see. Only then would her love open her heart to Maeve once more. Only then...
Maeve plucked a yellow flower next to her, holding it gently in her hands. It was small, yet reminded her of Tingalina. A Tingalina who she knew before the war, one soft and innocent. And Maeve slowly watched as the flower's stem darkened, the yellow petals becoming luminous not unlike herself. It was true beauty, and Tingalina would accept Perfection in the end, it was the only way. Maeve let the flower fall to the blackened grass around her as she stood up, and floated back towards where her army waited. If she had looked behind her at the flower, she would have seen it crumble to dust...
Larwen had watched the battle between the Fae with eagerness. He had decided to view it personally, but without intervening, so he watched from high up in the sky. His body tilted horizontally and his eyes scanning everything that was going on. It had been going so well, but when Maeve had stopped fighting to talk to a small Fae, a mix of anger and curiosity swelled up inside of him. What was her obsession with this imperfect creature? They touched each other, even held hands and it dawned upon him slowly. Aella came to mind as he watched Tingalina and Maeve, two lovers caught up in war. 'One like me, the other not, how tragic it must be for them', he sadly thought. But this was problematic, for Larwen had been the first to see the Sullied Fae on their way to battle, and Maeve, now dragging the Fae with her, was oblivious to the danger. And then it was over, his forces lost. Larwen lingered longer, having watched the Unsullied and Sullied meet before slipping back to Pervanon.
Larwen was disappointed at the outcome, but knew there would be one last battle, for Maeve would not bring herself to return empty handed. Even with the Corr magic at their disposal, his forces faced another grave predicament, they would be outnumbered now. But Larwen knew what had to be done, if he was to win this battle. He bade the Zalsarix to follow, and fourteen followed him where once had been eighteen. He led them to a cave unused by anything deeper then even the Forge of Purity, and there he spoke, "I have neglected you my firstborns, my brave children. For this I can only ask for forgiveness. However, I believe I have found a solution to the problem that ails you. A gift of thanks for all that you have done." Larwen then cracked his knuckles, and with his might, he willed into existence a most peculiar creation.
Along the sides of the cave, deep red lines tore up into the walls, creating patterns not unlike what the Zalsarix had been doing with their bones, but more refined and perfect. Sat in the middle of the cave there now sat a large stone cradle. Blackened spikes twice the size of a Zalsarix ran along the sides of the stone, stretching out to touch the ceiling. The inside of the cradle glowed a deep crimson not unlike the wall symbols, and it sat within the black rock like a pool. Leading up to the the cradle there were large steps fit for a Zalsarix, and around the edge there existed a large flat surface capable of letting several Zalsarix stand about and watch. It was truly the largest creation of Larwen's to date.
Larwen then turned to the Zalsarix, "You have served me well my children, now behold your birthright, the Cradle of Zal. This is yours and yours alone, for it is a place where new Zalsarix will be born. Powerful souls will take root within the crimson liquid, and from it they will emerge strong and mighty. But alas, they will never be as strong as their forefathers, and will instead glow the shades of red within their hearts of stone. Now, you must guide them, for they are already arriving." As if on cue, a new hand emerged from the pit, another dripping red across the black stone of the cradle. Its head emerged, slightly smaller and more lithe then its progenitors, it tried to stand but fell above the steps. At this sight, several of the old Zalsarix rushed to its side, helping the smaller creature to stand.
That was most unexpected to Larwen, he had not known them to be able to care for one another, but the god watched as they huddled in a group around it, doing what they did. But Larwen did not have time to watch. He spoke again pointing to several Zalsarix, "You seven are needed in the war. Go now with haste to the Unsullied forest and meet with our forces. The rest of you, well, carry on." Larwen then left the room following the Zalsarix who would march to war. He paused halfway through the tunnel, leaning a long arm against the cool stone of the mountain. He felt... different, more attuned to his Godhood in a way that he had not known as possible. It delighted him, for he felt stronger, and he no longer felt so confined to his form. 'I can take any form now.' He realized, and a wicked smile crept up on his face.
It was not too long after Larwen left his lair, grinning wickedly as he was wont to do, that a certain red-haired goddess - following a trail only she seemed to perceive - came upon the entrance. Looking left and right, agitated by the clear presence of corruption in this place, she called out: 'Dwyni! You here?' The goddess stepped into the strange cave, her hair a source of immediate light in the sudden darkness. 'Dwyni!' she called again, stepping deeper and deeper within. The little faery's trail led, without a doubt, into this place. How she could have ended up here, Seihdhara could only guess.
Eventually she came to a strange pit frothing with a clearly vile and toxic substance, and she turned her nose up in disgust. 'By all things Dwyni, how did you even find this place?'' The goddess murmured. She sensed a movement above her and immediately looked up. There, hidden in a crack in the cave ceiling, was the undeniable winged form of a tiny faery, staring out at Seihdhara in what could only be shock.
'DWYNI!' Seihdhara cried out in pleasure, reaching out to the little thing. Releasing a happy squeal, the small fae zipped down and fluttered about Seihdhara's face, stroking her ears and pulling at her hair playfully, before eventually settling down on the Bear Mother's nose. Seihdhara gently stroked the little one's head and cooed slightly. With her beloved companion found, she turned around and began making her way out. She had not taken more than a few steps from the pit of poison, however, before a great figure - rivalling even her in size - appeared suddenly. Seihdhara frowned and took on a guarded stance.
'Larry.'
The God of Perfection had been simply musing about his new attained status when he felt the most peculiar of sensations- Another God had entered Pervanon. It seemed his mountains were a hot spot for divine intervention. Frowning heavily, he cautiously made his way to where he believed they might be. When he arrived before the Forge, blocking the path of the God, he realized it was none other than Seihdhara herself. She looked much the same, naked as he, with long flowing locks of red hair, that illuminated the forge further. His frown became a blank stare, and the only question that came to mind- was why? Why would his sister be here if not to antagonize him further?
"I now know where your son found his impeccable sense of curiosity, sister." Larwen started in a tone devoid of any emotion. "But unlike Telum, who decided to sneak his way inside, you walked in quite brazenly. I admire that. So, what do I owe this most prestigious visit from the Goddess of War? Have you come to destroy me at last? Tell me how wicked I am for taking your Fae? You can blame Lasis for that." Larwen finished with a hint of anger in his voice. It had all started with her. Well, perhaps he would finally have his test subject after all. Seihdhara only frowned in confusion.
'You mean... you brought Dwyni here? Why would you do that - you know Dwyni is mine.' The faery settled atop Seihdhara's head and looked at Larwen with an expression of clear irreverence. 'I don't much care who you're taking and doing whatever it is you do to things, but Dwyni is mine and you had no right to take her from me.' With a hostile look, she made to move past Larwen and leave this horrid place.
Larwen was slightly confused, he did not know what a Dwyni was, he had been referring to her Unsullied and Sullied Fae, but somehow Seihdhara believed him to have taken her. Larwen supposed it really didn't matter in the end, but he began to open his mouth to protest her assertion when she tried to bolt past him. Larwen moved in front of her with quick speed, growing saddened that she would leave so soon. Larwen spoke then, his voice almost sorrowful, "I am sorry Seihdhara, but for our siblings' sins against me, and for those of your very own son, who have all escaped my punishment, I cannot let another go. Forgive me, sister, I did not wish it to be you in such a place as this but soon you will be like me, and all will be forgiven." Larwen then tried to grab Seihdhara with is claws around her right forearm, and then, drag her to the pit.
Though him grabbing her was a clear act of aggression, Seihdhara did not feel immediately threatened at all - who could hope to truly post a threat to her, after all? She only raised an eyebrow as the surprisingly strong Larwen dragged her back into the cave. 'What, you still think that you can put me out, that I'll descend into a heap of ash? Give up on your delusions, Larry, this isn't a flame you can just put out.' And with that, she brought the arm he was grabbing up against his chest and, leaning forward, pushed him back with a short strong shove. Larwen felt the impact from the strong Goddess, as it sent him falling backwards into stone. 'And don't you know it's bad manners to force yourself on a lady? You need to work on your flirting technique!' She laughed.
He grimaced, standing up to his full height once again, a low hiss emanating from his throat. "Put you out? No dear one, I only wish to brighten your flames further. The Forge will show you true enlightenment, and this petty fight will be but the start of a beautiful future. Come now, don't be like this, I only want to improve you." Larwen stated in a silky voice. Every word he said was true, he no more wished to snuff out her flame than to harm Aella. Larwen only wanted Seihdhara to be like him, was that so hard to ask? Larwen then held out a hand to her, "Where are my manners? This is correct, you will have to forgive me again. I will only ask once, will you not join me? Become something greater in Purity? Please, I beg you."
'Well, I guess you do have manners after all. But no Larry, I'm pretty happy as I am - we're your siblings, not your playdough, take us as we are.' A golden mist seemed to suddenly become clearer and more defined around her, and it coagulated into the form of a silver shortsword with a pommel in the shape of a roaring bear's head. 'Now I'm going to leave, forget your delusions of "punishing" me. If you try to stop me I'll be doing more than pushing you.' And with a final wary look, she turned and made for the cave's entrance at a swift trot.
Larwen's long hand dropped at the start of her words, shaking his head slightly by the time she finished. The sword was a deterrent to him, with Willbreaker now out of his hands but there were other ways to subdue a Goddess. "So be it." he whispered. From the palm of his left hand came a small ball of concentrated perfection and with his right hand he went to grab Seihdhara again. He did not know what was about to happen, and the moment he touched Seihdhara's skin, Aella flashed before his eyes and he reeled back. His eyes now going wide, as a humming began in his head, a pale light was distant in his vision. The memory had returned, stronger then ever before. On his touch, Seihdhara turned on him with a sudden fury, her face morphing very suddenly into a monstrous visage and her form growing threefold, red fur exploding everywhere.
The Terrible Visage of War
'BACK OFF!' came her dreadful, sonorous growl, and with a vicious, powerful, and swift movement that was over before Larwen had completely registered it, she skewered him through the chest with the sword. The force of the strike alone caused the ground beneath Larwen to explode into dust, and the god was forced from her sight, Ursus Mater still impaling him, as the singular assault sent him flying into the depths of the cave. The sudden display of divine force shook the mountains, and outside the horrific sound of the world breaking pierced the heavens, and the earth shook and Mount Pervanon trembled.
With that, the Crimson Goddess turned and - in a few lithe strides - exploded from the cave in a flurry of red hair. Twisting up into the air, the feminine form of Seihdhara was revealed unblemished and fair. Except for her right arm, which was black and blue and writhing and sickly, its surface bubbling like a mudpot. Seihdhara stared at her arm in horror and saw that the corruption was growing aggressively. Her ascent into the heavens faltered and she found herself circling about the pinnacle of Pervanon before she landed on it with a grunt. Her entire arm was now consumed, and the corruption was growing up her shoulder and sending snaking tendrils up her neck and right breast.
Coughing, and finding that ichor and corruption emerged, she released a great wail that echoed across Galbar, that echoed even into the soundless spaces beyond the stratosphere, echoed even where Axnas sat in silent vigil. And the hair of the Crimson Goddess went up in flames, and Dwynen cried out in fear and grief as Seihdhara forcefully burned - it was better far to burn out with the cry of freedom than to buckle and fade away a slave. And her skin flayed and ichor sprang up into the heavens and was carried on clouds to far and distant lands and places, and it mixed with souls and with the Ley, and everywhere the ichor of the goddess landed there grew a Blood-head; Seihdhara's crowning gift to the world. And her face hardened and became a warmask of fire-burned wood.
And the body of the goddess burned, and her ichor became a rain of blood, and her brilliant fiery hair...
On the peak of Pervanon there burns An eternal flame; A smokeless fire whose fuel is God The Flame Eternal
Larwen had looked at his sister like a child who made a mistake, and as Seihdhara's form changed, he did not have time to react as she impaled him. He felt the very rock break and crack as the force of the impact sent him like a meteor into the dark depths of the mountain. He knew not where he was when he at last opened his eyes, for a daze had taken him in the blackness. He tried to move, but Larwen was stuck to stone with Seihdhara's sword still embedded in his chest. He vaguely tried to grasp the sword, realizing that his ball of perfection was no longer in his hand. That was odd, then again, the impact must have knocked it away. Or maybe...
Then he heard Seihdhara's wail, that terrible wail- it broke the haze that fogged him. With it came a coldness unbearable, the ball of perfection... It had gone to her. Larwen could feel it consuming her godly essence, snuffing her flame out. It was a terrible mistake, how could he be so foolish? Panic overtook him then.
"No... no, no, no, no!" Larwen screamed trying to rip the sword out of him, but his efforts were futile, for he lacked both strength of mind and body to be able to do so. Such weakness did not stop him from struggling with the it however, trying so desperately to free himself, so he could get to her in time. Pale tears streamed down his face as it dawned on him he could not move. His voice was but a broken cry now, "I... I can fix you...sister. Please. I just... I just need...help." His struggling ceased quietly as he realized what had been done- a kinslaying. Larwen could feel her slowly dying, until she was nothing but flame and it was all his fault. He, who had not wanted to be alone with his perf- his corruption, he had committed a most heinous act.
"Seihdhara... no... That was... That wasn't supposed to happen...I-I'm so sorry..."
Larwen's voice then faded, the only sound around him were his tears hitting the cold stone below, a stark reminder that he was alone, contemplating the monster he truly was.
And in the skies, not far from where the death of a goddess would soon be declared, the warring mortal hordes gathered once more. With seven Zalsarix at her side, and her eyes set unswervingly on victory, Maeve floated at the head of her cacophonous horde of Perfected Fae, and swarming before her were the united forces of the Sullied and Unsullied, conches blaring and commands sounding. They were confident, for they had achieved victory twice before and were almost certain that now, with their great numbers and training and discipline and weaponry, they would be undefeated once more. A certain euphoria filled the hearts of the Sullied and Unsullied, and they did not think much of death but thought only of the vengeance they would wreak on these Stolen fae.
With three-thousand at his back, and four-thousand standing ready behind Newygnong, and the great horde of Sullied that numbered over ten-thousand, the forces resisting corruption stood ready. Then a conch sounded suddenly and, raising Purity high, the crimson-haired Newygnong ordered her troops forward. Unafraid to do her mother's bidding, she led from the front, roaring warcries as she dashed forth. And even as she did, in the distance the earth could be heard to shake and the mountains seen to tremble.
Maeve gripped Willbreaker tightly as she saw the crimson-haired demon Newygnong in the distance. She screamed a war cry in return, and the Perfected Fae charged at the Unsullied and Sullied, from the air and from down so far below. The Zalsarix had been a surprise, the meaning of their presence quite clear to her, they were to help win and nothing less. It was a dissapointment that Larwen did not think her capable of final victory, but she would not misuse the Zalsarix, for Maeve could feel it in her body. This would be the final battle, one way or another. The tall Fae charged at the front of her forces, Corr magic flew past her, hitting the first Fae and sundering them to dust. She came in swinging Willbreaker, crumpling the advanced charge of the Fae and sending them reeling before fresh troops took their place.
While the battle had started, Maeve kept a close look out for TIngalina, for she would find her and take her this time. If this was to be the final battle, then Maeve would have her love by her side, for better or for worse. The only way to find Tingalina without searching, was to face the Demoness in battle, this Newygnong. Maeve would break her, or everything would be for naught. She had much to prove, not to Larwen or even Tingalina, but to herself. She charged towards Newygnong, killing Fae left and right on her path. The crimson-haired warrioress saw the skeletal Maeve immediately and, hefting Purity, dashed towards her with a great cry, and sword met mace.
This time, unlike when Newygnong had clashed with Brentylwith, the warrioress had a better grasp of her sword's powers and no great blast ensued. Circling lithely around the enemy commander, she speared at her neck with Purity.
The force of the blow caught Maeve off guard, she had no realized the demon would be so strong! She barely had time to dodge, half flying, half falling backwards to avoid the blow of the sword, still the tip touched her face, and agony went throughout her body. It burned with a power unknown to her, and it sent a pang of fear throughout her limbs, Maeve would have to be careful with this opponent. She clutched at the mace with one hand, willing it to send out his influence of domination, no matter how effective it would be on the demon. She hoped for any advantage, and swung with a fury once more, hoping to crush the creature across her chest.
Fearlessly, Newygnong leapt forth to meet her foe's strike, the ultimate weapon of corruption facing off against the great weapon Purity, the great corruptor facing the Purifier. But in the split second before their weapons clashed once more, a horrific sound of thunder seemed to split the world, leaving everyone frozen and aghast. It was momentary, five seconds, ten seconds perhaps, and everyone swiftly returned to the fray. Everyone, that is, bar Newygnong, whose beautiful crimson hair had suddenly become as white as snow. She drifted in the air before Maeve, shock clear on her face, her suddenly weak grip loosening and tightening around Purity's hilt.
The thunder came abruptly, quieting the field of battle, and stopping Maeve in her tracks. She looked for the source, but found nothing and as the battle started up again, she saw the demon's hair turn white, her face stricken with shock. Now was her chance, and Maeve swung Willbreaker high into the air, and brought it quickly down about Newygnong's chest. There was a sickening crunch of carapace breaking, a small shock wave ripping through the air, and then the warrior began to fall, leaving Maeve but watching, relishing in the moment. Now Tingalina was her's, and she would truly see her greatness, her love.
And a trail of blood followed in the falling Newygnong's wake, her eyes glazed over and her hair whipping about her as her body tumbled head over heels, twisting and turning in its earthbound trajectory. Purity was released from her grasp and for a few moments fell by her side, as if in mourning. And then the distance between them grew and the sword stopped its descent altogether, and began to rise. In the chaos of the aerial battle, the golden-haired Tingalina watched in dumb shock the fall of Newygnong.
But it could not be Newygnong. The one who fell had white hair.
And Purity rose with sudden speed, shrinking and morphing to fit the grasp of the one who would wield it- him now. And the voice of the Livingsword sounded, and it was -
'Go Forth, Tingalina.'
And she dashed across the aerial battlefield towards Maeve, loosing a shriek of demented fury. On the aerial field of death, former-lovers met in death-duel.
And it was all for naught.
Brentylwith the King, Seihdhos at his side, stood watching the long, winding columns of fae that now made their slow flight, stretching out to the distant horizons. The haggard King looked where, in the distance, the skeletal figure of the ultimate victor stood watching their flight. His jaw tightened and he bent his head as his mind turned to the slain. To Elabeen and Fylmira, to more fae than could be counted, to Fiula the Mistress of the Sullied. To Newygnong, whose corpse even now lay on a purified spot north of what was once the Unsullied forest at the Anathema Heights, her sword Purity buried in the earth by her where it had fallen when all was lost.
The defeated and broken King released a long, tired sigh and turned away from it all, following the refugees who now sought shelter in homes other than their's. Where was there to turn? Before them was endless desert, endless desert, and death. They had dwelt safely in the earth beneath their forest and known only bliss, but now--
The Earth is closing in on us pushing us through the last passage and we tear off our limbs to pass through.
And where would they go, those who had lost their home? Where would they turn?
Where should we go after the last frontiers? Where should the birds fly after the last sky? Where should the plants sleep after the last breath of air? We will write our names with scarlet steam. We will cut off the hand of the song to be finished by our flesh. We will die here, here in the last passage. Here and here our blood will plant its olive tree.
Larwen sits beneath the Pale One contemplating on Aella and her gifts to him. He thinks about the Fae war, but just wants to relax for the moment.
FLASHBACK!
Seihdhara continues her search for Dwyni and comes upon Newygnong and Brentylwith facing off. She tells them to calm down and teaches them how to duel. They fight, there are lots of explosions, and then they team up to beat up corruption.
The first major battle between of the Fae war takes place. Two Unsullied armies of 5,000 led by Brentylwith and Newygnong fight two separate Stolen/Perfected fae forces and are victorious. Brentylwith gives a victory speech.
After the battle Tingalina, now an Eshgaebar in the army, thinks about her friend Rowan and is sad. Newygnong comes along and comforts her.
Beneath the tree, Larwen thinks about Rowan when he hears a baby's crying. It turns out to be a newborn god, Memoriae. Larwen is about to perfect him, but lets him go when he hears Rowan say her true name: Maeve.
Larwen makes Maeve into a hero, gives her Willbreaker, and grants the Perfected Fae a new form of magic: Corr. It's corruption magic yo.
Maeve's forces go off to the Unsullied forest and another battle ensues. Tingalina and Maeve have a mid-battle reunion, and things get real. As Maeve attempts to take Tingalina with her, a Sullied horde arrives and saves the hard-pressed Unsullied force. The Perfected retreat and the Sullied-Unsullied claim victory. Both Maeve and Tingalina are sad after the battle. Maeve thinks Newygnong has changed Tingalina and pledges to slay her, and Tingalina now thinks that the only way to free Rowan is to slay Maeve.
Larwen was watching and is disappointed at the defeat. He creates the Cradle of Zal so the Zalsarix can reproduce, and sends seven to join Maeve for the final assault against the Un/Sullied. Then Seihdhara goes into his cave looking for Dwynen. She finds her and is about to leave, when Larwen shows up. Miscommunications take place and tempers rise, and Larwen ends up shoving a ball of corruption into her. (He decides not to last minute, when he remembers Aella, but too late!)
Seihdhara goes all werebear on him, stabs him, and runs off. But she's been corrupted and it's spreading fast. She turns into a fire on Mount Pervanon and creates various things in her death throes - like the Blood-heads, Warmasks, and a divine weapon literally made of her own face, called the Warface. Larwen is sad depressed.
The final battle between Maeve's forces and the Un/Sullied takes place.
Newygnong faces off against Maeve and seems to have the high ground, until Seihdhara's death cry reaches her and all her power disappears. Maeve then easily slays her, and Purity goes to Tingalina, commanding her to go forth. And it all fades to black.
Brentylwith watches his people flee into the desert, and we end on extracts from Mahmoud Darwish's poem, The Earth is Closing In On Us.
Seihdhara:
Domain(Portfolio) action to teach: Dueling 2 Might to bless Ley and souls everywhere: one in every million souls will be a Blood-head (see 'Blood-heads' in Seihdhara's creation sheet) 1 Might to create a war magic known instinctively by Blood-heads: Warmasks (see end of 'Blood-heads' sheet) 2 Might to create Divine Weapon: The Warface (see end of 'Blood-heads' sheet)
Memoriae: MP=3 Miracles= 3 1 Might points for the house. 1 Miracle for the mask 1/4 to Level up
-1 Might point spent to make Maeve a hero. -1 Miracle spent to gift title 'The Queen' to Maeve -1 Miracle spent to gift title 'The Temptress' to Maeve -2 Miracles spent to Level up the title 'The Beautiful' for Maeve -1 Might point spent to create the Corr. A basic foundation for which corrupt magic can start. -1 Might point spent to create the Cradle of Zal. A birthing pit for new, slightly lesser Zalsarix.
2/6 Might left 0 Miracles 6/6 to level. Level up! Level 4 achieved! 0/8 to level
Purity:
+1 Prestige; Minor Role in Post +1 Prestige; Minor Role in Collab
Maeve: The Beautiful (II), The Queen (I), The Temptress (I)
+2 Prestige for playing a major role Title claimed - The Beautiful (I) -2 Prestige for title claim +2 Prestige for jolly cooperation +1 Prestige for following a quest = 3 Prestige
@KabenSaal You might have posted all this stuff earlier, but I can't seem to find it. Can you quickly give us a recap of the Domain(Portfolio) you're considering, your character's personality, and which god you imagine will parent her (seeing as your 'The Emperor' idea was shot down)?
I have decided that once the current collab with Zee is finished, I will be dropping from the game. If I do not deal with Seihdhara's fate in the collab, I will leave it to you all to decide between yourselves how to remove her from the game. Thank you for what has been, for me, an enjoyable go at this iteration of Divinus.
Lord Zee
BBeast
DracoLunaris
Frettzo
Cyclone
Vec
Torack
