FernStone
Kalas
Shienvien
Noctis
Fetzen
The Grey Dust
Mixtape Ghost N
The web of consciousness had been gathered and bound, but its effects on mortalkind across Galbar were yet to be observed and understood--and it was Fìrinn’s nature to both observe and understand. Its divine twin had work to do within the web of dreams that had been spun, and so it fell to the God of Truth to ensure that the mortal races could sleep, and dream, and live out their truths. Tracking down the creations of its yet-unmet deific siblings might have ordinarily been a fairly perilous task, but Fìrinn was capable of perceiving the vast web that linked all thinking minds together, and so following its many strands was certain to lead to results.
Fìrinn’s journey across the continents and oceans of Galbar was fairly peaceful--the animals that noticed its presence saw themselves reflected in its shimmering form, and there were no deities that had chosen to make their presence known along the path. In what felt like mere seconds, Fìrinn had already made its way to a vast hub of busy minds who seemed to be on the opposite end of the circadian rhythm that most life seemed to follow. A creation, perhaps, that signified rebellion against the Sun? Perhaps friendly rivalry? Fìrinn could not draw a true context without further knowledge, and this lack of knowledge spurred it on with even greater speed towards the group of beings it had detected.
Divine eyes were sorely needed to observe the ongoings of the inhabitants of these canyons. Neither torches nor other forms of lighting were used, and the still soundscape was only occasionally cluttered with the pitter-patter of wet feet against stone, the odd snap of a twig or vine, or soft, quiet whispers. It was as though whoever lived there made every attempt not to be noticed. Even children's cries and laughter were quiet as sobs and snickers. Shadows in the moonlight revealed the return of a small band, possibly a hunting party, which was affirmed by the droning drag of something large behind the group. Divine eyes could see evident signs of a landshark carcass scraping up the stone floor of the canyon. The party was met with praises and laughter, though none of it would’ve been audible over an adjacent distance.
However, it didn’t take long for the celebrations to pass. A very powerful presence was near, and while none of the elves could actually -see- this presence, its unmistakable smell made it quite clear that it wasn’t one of them. Hasty pitter-patters of feet trickled upwards from the canyon below as the villages’ young, frail and old were helped inside the deep cave networks the elves had made their homes. Then, led by a tall, powerful female, a small hunting band approached the source of this scent.
Fìrinn made no effort to explicitly reveal itself, per se, but mortals intrinsically had a sense of the divine--at least, if they were only a few feet away from one another. It took a moment to observe, first, clearly sighting the glittering threads of the Gréasán Treòir that linked each of them to one another and to the Tairseach. Each filament was a mote of smoke, spun into an almost ephemeral haze, twisting and turning upon itself as thoughts and feelings and aspirations made their way across its spidery surface. Fìrinn admired, for just a second, the quality of its handiwork and the successful completion of a task before it made its presence known.
”I am Fìrinn. I am here to determine the success of the Gréasán Treòir and its anchoring to mortalkind. Will you permit me to examine your thoughts?”
The words echoed out through the air and the ground, carried by waves of a soft, crackling energy that was something akin to sound but not quite there. It was more akin to knowing that something had been said and being able to recall the memory than actually hearing and processing words, and it might have been jarring at first. If any discomfort registered on their faces Fìrinn would reach out with its mantle apologetically (and perhaps a little sheepishly) to signify its regret for such a careless action.
Discomfort was a mild adjective to describe what the elves felt. The echo hammered in their powerful ears like war drums, and half of the hunters dropped the crude weapons they were holding to clutch their ears. Their leader hunkered down momentarily, but was quick to re-assume her stance, could considerably more defensive, with a low point of gravity and a spear stuck out forward. She and some of the others who were beginning to recover, gave sharp hisses and the leader spoke in a sharp whisper, “You stand upon chieftain Pinae’s land - the site of the Moonwell and its keepers. What manner of plague are you, to disturb us so violently in the middle of the night to, as you so claim, ‘examine our thoughts’?”
Fìrinn’s expressionless face was not one capable of showing emotion, but if it were, the current emotion upon it would quite plainly be confusion.
”I am Fìrinn. Is this not enough?” Fìrinn asked, its voice emanating from it in a wave of sound rather than a direct transmission of thought. It was shaky, at first, but by the end of the second sentence it was the sound of silence broken by a droplet of water, or a gentle exhalation, or perhaps the gentle rustling of reeds in a light breeze.
”You lack context. The Anchor has not permitted the sharing of thought and experience--perhaps these things must be dreamed? You might call me… Truth, or perhaps Understanding. I am akin to the one that spun you from the infinite ether, a being of divinity. I believe the word you use is… God?”
Fìrinn paused for a moment, its mantle-claw retracting and resting gently in front of the god’s torso, as if cradling something just out of perception. This had been an unexpected result of the weaving--perhaps it would take time for them to understand? No, that was against the nature of Fìrinn’s truth. Perhaps the weaving had not been powerful enough? Fìrinn did not know how many siblings it had, but if the number was considerable enough it simply may have been a matter of the dilution of its Lifeblood. Perhaps they had been created after the threads were woven, and integration into the grand design took time, or a catalyst, or both?
Questions illuminated the God of Truth’s face like tiny flickers of dancing lights, playing off one another for suddenly-long seconds before another response came.
”Do you view the unknown as a plague? Do you dream of mysteries beyond comprehension as you slumber?” the Watcher Behind wondered aloud, its thoughts coalescing into sound as if by instinct rather than by intent. Though it had not meant to ask the questions aloud, they were questions that demanded answers--it waited patiently for the reply, unmoving.
The elves flinched at the noise again, though they were less taken aback this time. The others behind the leader closed in with wooden spears at the ready. The leader remained as tense as before. “We have been visited upon by godkin before - neither time was particularly pleasant. A plague to us is whatever disturbs the Great Peace - a crime which your presence, Fìrinn, perpetrates.” She straightened up and dunked the butt of her spear into the ground twice before resuming her combat stance. “... And I, Cilantra, won’t let you approach any closer.”
”You are motivated by a desire to protect from the unknown, as the unknown has proven dangerous to you and that for which you care before--but to close yourself off from the unknown is to live half a life, and it is not your truth. You must shed this delusion if you are to achieve enlightenment and complete your purpose.”
As Fìrinn spoke, its mantle began to gesticulate and weave back and forth, the threads of its tri-tipped claws snaking apart from one another and weaving themselves into the form of a triquetra--the symbol of the Twin Gods. The mantle’s divine essence sparkled and shone with a glint of the moon and its cool light, before Fìrinn reached down to touch the ground with its true hand. As it did, the waters of the canyon swirled and churned beneath the surface of the ground before bubbling up in a neat circle beneath the God of Truth, the soil crumbling away beneath the surface and rising moments later as a neat ring of silvery crystal. The waters of the valley rushed in to form a shallow pond, maybe a centimeter or two deep at the most, and as Fìrinn withdrew its digit the waters stilled themselves completely.
”Through Reflection you may see Truth. Look into the pool, and see the truth of what path your suspicion shall forge.” Fìrinn’s words, though phrased like a command, carried none of the authority one would expect of such a statement. It was a soothing balm against the infernal heat of doubt and suspicion, a gentle application of water against a burn--a promise of safety and sanctuary, unintentionally much like that of their beloved Moonwell.
Contained within the pool was a vision of Truth, and of what a world closed to the new would bring. As the tribe became increasingly insular they would find themselves beset within and without by perils of every make and design, and the peace they laboured to forge would elude them at every turn. It was not the future, and yet it was also not false--a single glimpse at a single facet of the infinite jewel of possibility, a warning of what might happen and simultaneously a warning of what would.
“Close your eyes!” Cilantra commanded, but curiosity ensnared one or three of them. The hunters approached the pool, but Cilantra and the others stepped in front of them as if they could see them clearly. “No,” another hunter pleaded.
“Look, it’s just trying to show us--”
“Don’t be a fool, Parslie! You never know what these things can conjure forth. What if it’s like the Light, hmm?”
The whisper brought two of the approaching elves to a halt, but the third one glanced over Cilantra’s shoulder into the pool. “H-hey! It’s our cave!”
“Damn it, Dyll, I said don’t look!” commanded Cilantra and reached out towards the elf in question. She grabbed him in a hold and tried to pull him away, but the young man then said, “No, wait! It showed death! Death and decay!”
This made Cilantra freeze. Another hunter slowly turned her blind expression to face in the party leader’s direction. “Cilantra, you aren’t actually--”
“Fírinn,” Cilantra whispered as though a shout. “You said this pool conveys the truth?”
”It conveys your truth. Truth is understanding; Truth is context. It is the limits of your perception, and how that perception influences your reality. It is a glimpse of what could be, what will be, and what might not be. I cannot show you the future--I show you Truth, the Truth of your existence. It is both real and nothing more than a vision in a pool.”
Fírinn’s answer was not designed to be cryptic. To Fírinn, it was as simple as what it had said--but it had the perspective of eternity, and it was the very embodiment of that which it spoke. Cilantra might never have been capable of understanding the words that Fírinn spoke, but she would understand in no uncertain terms that the words this god spoke were Truth in its purest, most personal form. Perhaps they could never be understood by Cilantra, or perhaps she was the only person that could ever truly understand it. Neither of them would know for certain until she gazed into the pool and saw.
Fírinn gestured with its mantle to the pool, offering the elf nothing but choice and possibility.
The night elf scowled at the god, an expression every bit as furious with closed eyes as with open. But even though her party members all whispered for her not to look, the chance to see what lay beyond was too great and too important to ignore. She opened her eyes and gazed into the pool.
The instant that Cilantra looked into the pool, she would see nothing but the reflection of the God of Truth before her and her brethren, pushing against her in an effort to look into the depths of the pool. After a second she would see her friends fade into the background, their silhouettes the shape of moonlight, until they were simply a feature of the night sky and nothing more. From the blank depths of the night sky a gibbous moon came into being, swallowing the silhouettes in the background with its passage, each adding a new layer to its ever-growing form until the whole pool was naught but the glimmer of a full moon in the sky. A rush of sensation would overcome her, like the sharp shock of an unexpected fall, as the moon rippled itself across the pool and faded back into the empty canvas of the night sky. She would see a vague form approaching the cave, bloodied and haggard, each sharp inhalation of breath the acknowledgement of a wound and each exhalation heralded by a wheezing cough and splutter of silvery blood coating its tongue and spraying through the air like pollen.
Cilantra would know, immediately, that this was her.
The caves that had once been teeming with life (however furtive) were a barren and desolate mockery of their former glory. The stream had run dry, replaced by a coppery film of barely-dissolved sediment. The huts crumbled to little more than piles of rotting sticks, crumpled hands and legs peeking out like leaves from a macabre tree. The moonwell, in the centre, blackened and scorched by some terrible light from deep within--what little fluid left within its cadaverous remains leaching out like her own vital essence. She would be drawn into it, staring deeply at the loss of the peace she craved, and as her lungs burned and her heard hammered in her chest and her legs quivered with the overwhelming weight of her body there was an almighty crack deep within the base of her skull. Blackness trickled in from every angle until there was nothing left but that same night sky, now devoid of moonlight and starlight, and the blinding glare of that infernal Light seared the empty hollows of her eye sockets and she was jilted back to consciousness.
"A glimpse of Truth. A moment that will come to be, in your dreams or in the waking world. Dreams do not remain Dreams forever, Cilantra. Which Dream crosses the Tairseach and becomes real is a choice that you can make. Which Dream becomes Truth is for you to decide."
Cilantra collapsed to one knee and her comrades swarmed her to see if she was alright. Chalky tears dripped out of her eyes sockets and she made considerable efforts to wipe them away on her wrist before looking back at the god, colouring it a twinkly alabaster. “Is this… What’ll come to pass if we shun interaction with others?” The others followed her gaze towards Fírinn.
"I show you one path of many. There are infinite possibilities as each second moves on to the next. The path changes with the moon and the sun. Which path comes to pass is a function of your Truth, Cilantra. What I have shown you is one possibility of many. It is not the future; it is merely your Truth.”
Getting a straightforward answer from the God of Truth was, it seemed, not nearly as simple as its moniker might suggest. Fírinn placed the tip of its mantle-claw upon Cilantra’s shoulder, its presence as gentle and soft as the kiss of moonlight upon one’s skin. It offered her a support to stand, if she wished, as Fírinn spoke again.
”Truth is not a matter of what will or will not come to pass. It is a matter of possibility, and far-off certainty. While I cannot say which of the infinite paths of your Truth will manifest, I can tell you that if you progress as you are now the paths where this eventuality does not take place will fall away into nothingness. Perhaps only the path you have seen will remain. Perhaps it, too, shall remain a Dream. Only you have the capacity to know. Only you have the capacity to decide.”
“B-but… What will we do, then? The world has only shown us that strange powers bring unrest and threats, and yet we should open ourselves to them? Why should we? How can we know if this would even come to pass if we keep on as we do?”
”Enlightenment is your goal. You must align reality with your Truth. But Truth requires experience. Truth requires context, and understanding. While you close yourself off to these elements you will never allow Truth to cross the Tairseach. Dreams will remain Dreams, and your Truth will consume you from within. You cannot know what is to come--such is not the fate of mortalkind. Such is not the fate of godkind, in most cases. I only offer you the certainty of what may come to pass. I only offer you a chance to become the you that your Truth demands you be--and I offer this to you freely, without reciprocation, and without hesitation. You may call upon me in any moment, at any hour, and I will align Truth with reality, and Dreams with Truth.”
Fírinn extended its mantle out towards the others, beckoning them closer as if to embrace them. Its offer was not limited to Cilantra, and its pool was not only for her. Even after it left this place, some element of its reflection would remain--and where there was a reflection of Truth, Fírinn would answer the beck and call of any that spoke its name. Gods did not have to be cruel. Perhaps this could become Cilantra’s Truth, and in time, the Truth of all of the Night Elves.
The other elves, choosing to offer their trust to this being, closed in around the pool to see. Squinting eyes scanned the visions for details, and these were shared between the hunters - making enemies of the gods out of fright would leave them poor and undernourished while the rest of the world would surpass them thousandfold. The populations of odd-shaped shadows that looked nothing like the children of night would grow to be millions, while the night elves themselves would hardly exceed a few hundred. In the end, as per Cilantra’s vision earlier, nothing would remain except for midnight blood and shadowed corpses.
It was unlikely that none of this would come to pass, some of them agreed, and yet, enough of them confessed that the possibility was just great enough. Their discussion grew from soft hisses to full-blown voices, and Cilantra knew a decision had to be made. She quieted her companions and faced the god, though her spear had long since been left on the ground. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “What is this… Tairseach? Will our contributions to it keep these shards of doom from cutting into our Great Peace?”
”You need not concern yourself with the Tairseach. It is the Anchor that binds the Gréasán Treòir, and forms the bridge between Dreams and Truth. I will show you.”
Fírinn reached down once more with its true hand, the very tip of its finger barely impacting the unnaturally still water of the reflecting pool. As it did the visions contained within passed without like steam and it shone with a glassy silver luminance. Those who looked within would see the threads connecting them to one another, the vast web of collective unconsciousness that allowed mortals to Dream, and though they could never begin to understand its intricacies without their minds breaking beneath the strain they could at least contextualise the information that Fírinn had provided--enough to know that what it spoke was true.
”I do not desire your worship or your obeisance. I do not require tribute. Your Truth and your reality do not currently align--all I can give you is the understanding to bring these disparate elements together, and to safeguard your Dreams from my Twin’s unchecked influence. Have you begun to Dream, yet?” Fírinn’s question stood in the air, almost returning the conversation to an earlier point in time. The Elves had never answered it, after all, and it could not leave until its purpose for coming to this place and these people had been fulfilled.
“I-I’ve had a dream,” mumbled one of the hunters in the back. The party turned to her. She shrunk together timidly out of reflex before restoring her stance. “Y-yeah, I woke up with the weirdest feeling that, that something happened in the night, but…”
“You probably just woke up and saw someone going to take a leak,” one of the other hunters rationalised. The first was taken aback.
“Nuh-no! I definitely saw something really, really weird! It’s just…” She groaned. “Ugh! Now I can’t remember it!”
Cilantra sighed. “Forgive her, Fírinn - she’s like this sometimes.”
”It is to be expected. I could not be sure how mortalkind would interact with the web, so I followed it to you to check. Alas, my purview is not over Dreams--I am only the force which provides context to the realities you might experience amidst slumber. My Twin, Àicheil, is the God of Dreams.” Fírinn explained, pausing for a second between sentences to consider its words carefully. Mortals without the understanding inherent to the Divine were more difficult to adroitly communicate with than it had imagined, and each word carried so much less weight than it was used to with Àicheil.
”A dream is… a reflection of reality. A warped image, flooded with thoughts and feelings far beyond your own--they are the sum of all mortalkind’s experience rendered abstract and filtered through sleep. What you experienced was very real, but it is not yet a part of reality--that is the purpose of Truth. Perhaps this will help you understand?”
Fírinn’s mantle drew a lazy figure-eight in the air with a clawed tip, gently pulling at the weave that linked that particular hunter to her fellows. As it continued to strum the chord of dreams hovering in the air, visible to the elves only through the pool, Fírinn’s other mantle-claw dipped itself into the pool and gently stirred its contents, bringing forth another vision. This time, it was simply a repeat of the Dream that the hunter had experienced.
”I can only repeat what you saw. My mastery of the weave is limited--it is not my place, and I am yet to do more than simply create it. I apologise for my inadequacy in this regard. Perhaps, in slumber, if you call for my Twin they may be able to explain? A word of caution, however--do not interact with them without my presence. I cannot guarantee the safety of your mind without being there. Call our names at this pool before you sleep, and we shall endeavour to guide you from beyond the Tairseach.” Fírinn paused, expressionless, though a glint of moonlight across its face suggested a degree of pensiveness.
”It seems that I have fulfilled my purpose here. You are more closely aligned with Truth, and the Gréasán Treòir appears to have been a success. Is there aught more you would ask of me before I depart?”
Cilantra looked to the others, who nodded back. It was likely that they were thinking of the same question. “How do we call your Twin?” she asked in an almost humble manner.
”As you slumber before a mirror, you need simply call my name. I shall summon my Twin for you, lest his presence overwhelm you. May your Great Peace be woven into reality and your Truths realised.”
And just as quickly as it had arrived, Fírinn simply departed. From the elves’ point of view, it would not even be that it moved--it would simply look as if the world had rearranged itself in some small way, and that a function of that change was that the God of Truth was no longer with them.
