yoshua171

Scorched Earth

Is this still going?

Yoshua's Character Storage Mark VII

Ⱦatasuko, Ⱦeishi. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Theme I ♦ Theme II</sup>

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Hider

【Personal Info】

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【Alias:
【Age: 350.
【Age Appearance: 35.
【Gender: Male.
【Race: Human-->Plus-->Shinigami.
【Rank: Captain.

【Additional Appearance Info:

【Biography:

【Capabilities】

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【Zanpakuto】

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Sealed State

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_{~“I am its host, not its master, it says. Nonetheless, its power moves at my behest.”~}

Inner World & Spirit:

Teishi’s inner world is an endless abstract dimension of black and white, devoid of almost any color. Often is it that only he and Hakumei are the sole entities to populate the slowly shifting murk with life or hue. Though the realm can at times take on more distinct shapes, it is always with an unreal bent, every surface bearing the paint-like splotches of ink and untouched parchment. Illuminating it all is a sourceless silver glare, ever-present, and offensive.

The Spirit of Teishi’s blade has always been a mysterious entity, its likeness inhuman–yet still familiar, like some primordial force, a natural aspect of the world given shape and voice. Shifting its shape to suit its needs, Saigo Hakumei is most often a masculine figure with pitch-black hair and flesh, sharp claw-like nails, and three eyes like glimmering starlight. Its movements are starlit silence, its voice carrying the weight of an echoing boom, with the subtlety and control of a whisper. The entity is, beyond its relationship to Teishi, seemingly unrelated to the shinigami or his temperament–a thing that will one day be known as something truly unheard of. However, it does bear some similarities to its would-be master. It is filled with both quiet rage, and a stolid unwavering purpose. Further, it seems to desire always more–be it of the world or the man it calls its host.

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Shikai

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_{~"Sunder, Saigo Hakumei(最後薄明 ‘Final Twilight/Twilight’s End’)"~}

Ability: The manifestation of Teishi’s shikai could be considered deceptively simple in both appearance and use. In essence, his chipped and battered sword serves as a gateway between this world and the unreachable emptiness that dwells beyond all things. Preceding all things, the properties of this forgotten plane are those of creation and destruction both, for it is from this womb of emptiness that all existence sprung. The precise mechanism through which Saigo Hakumei channels this otherworldly power is through a faintly glowing reiryoku that fills in the cracks of its jagged edge. Through the movement of the blade, and the exertion of his will, Teishi is capable of bringing the very essence of void from the emptiness beyond. The properties of this exotic phenomena are those of pure destruction, taking on the form of a jet black ink-like fluid that erases all it touches, wiping such from existence. In this unrefined state, this primordial quintessence possesses no other unique traits, and given the lacking medium of his incomplete zanpakuto, Teishi holds little to no sway over the precise movements and behaviors of the substance. However, the essence will largely obey some semblance of the world’s physical and spiritual laws, allowing Teishi to influence its movement and manifestation through the skillful utilization of his swordsmanship. Lastly, Teishi is capable of pouring his reiryoku into his blade, allowing him to generate more of the hazy energy that serves as a gateway for Saigo Hakumei's power.

Techniques

Hider

Hekikai Kenmaku(劈開剣幕 ‘Cleaving Sword-Curtain’):

Kamisori Kadō(剃刀渦動 ‘Razor Vortex’):

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Bankai

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_{~"Bankai...Saigo Hakumei, Shinkū Hassan(最後薄明, 真空発散 ‘Twilight's End, Empty Emanation’)"~}

Ability:

Techniques

Hider

( ‘’):

( ‘’):

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( ‘’):

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

𝒞ath ℳelainea

Cath Melainea was born as the Shard of Temperament, formed deep within the psyche of the Monarch long before she was ever expelled to express herself as an individual essence. So it was that she was borne unto the firmament as a roiling iridescent flame of violet hue, a coiling fractal of experience. Coalescing after many of her siblings, Melainea came to know herself only in those moments that followed, as if every instant before had been spent as a growing babe, coming to understand herself and her place in the world to come. Thus, as she was borne unto the Palace of Creation by her father--where for a brief time she remained--she ruminated her existence.

As she pondered, her Father--indeed, the Father of All--let her be, having greater endeavors than soothing his newborn daughter*. So it was that she came to understand that from which she had been wrought.

Consciousness.

Her essence, having remained within the Monarch of All's embrace for longer than most, had been condensed and tempered into a specific form and within this vessel--this Crucible--it had become another thing completely.

Emotion.

As the goddess of such a potent phenomena, this great tempest of experience, Melainea understood herself for what she was: An agent of change. Through the rising and falling tides of sorrow, joy, and rage she could inspire--nay--invoke in others a shift. With subtle grace, or careless abandon she might tip the scales and insight in others grief, reflection, or even understanding. Her Shard--her Aspect was that of Temperament and so, as she once had been, she decided then to be the Crucible within which Galbar--and indeed its inhabitants--might become ever greater. Through her will she would foster greed in the heart of lords, driving them to steal from and trample others. On her command, love might surge forth in the hearts of many, and inspire an age most golden. Through her touch, the esoteric power of her ethos might be infused unto a stone, its essence that of heartbreak, of sorrow, and woe unyielding. So twisted by such a burden, the stone would warp and twist and shatter, becoming a collection of many rings.

Smiling at the thought, the Goddess rose from the flawless surface of the palace and gazed down onto the world that was their birthright and soon her second home.

“Rings to bind together when worn in pairs; rings to bend and break when fractured by life's affairs.” Her violet eyes shone with glee, and then with malice, then with an almost mournful contemplation.

Temperament, a thing forged in the great tempest of experience, a reflection--an expression perhaps--of consciousness, and in its changing, a thing that might be refined and tempered into an ever greater form. She was a confluence of these ideals. In that instant her perspective expanded, blossoming into yet still a greater form. Violet eyes blazing as she transcended her former self, Melainea laughed, her voice soaring within the cavernous halls of the Palace.

She was emotion, the font from which it flowed, and its purest manifestation. Rage and Bliss; Hate and Love; Contentment, Apathy, and all things between. Through her will, others could find their innermost worlds expressed tangibly upon the firmament. Yet, this ability to twist and warp the fabric of the world was itself another facet of her shard, it was not of Temperament, but of Tempering. So forged in the divine womb of their genderless Father, the Monarch of All, she had been crafted for this purpose and turned into a thing of ascendance. To be infused with, or indeed to bathe within her quintessence was no mundane thing. Where a taste of rage gifted unto a mortal might instill in them a righteous fury, a burning desire that could carry them through life, to bathe in the Crucible's core and know the esoteric source of such a feeling would be to change utterly. A Homuran might thus enter the Crucible of her being, only to emerge entirely renewed, as a caterpiller is remade in its cacoon, emerging a butterfly, so too do those things touched or suffused with her divine ichor.

Raising a hand before her she gazed upon her open palm, and within it was conjured stone. With a gentle caress, the stone crumbled, as heartbreak touched it, guiding it to shatter. Watching the small stones tumble through the air, she flicked her wrist downwards and for a flickering instant there was no hand, but instead a fractal of experience, a rift upon the world playing as if it were as a thing of mortal make. From it spilled flames of indigo and violet too. They fell upon the stones midair and before they'd touched the earth, what they once had been was burned away. What remained were several mournful crystals, shining dully upon the ground. Kneeling, she cupped them in her grasp and imagined what they might do.

“Sorrow's Ore, thy name shall be,” she whispered, her fingertips stroking across the stones as if they were some favored beast. The stones hummed, and their voices were deliciously full of woe, they danced within her mind, conjuring images of mortals collapsing at the sound. Tears pressed at the edges of her eyes and spilled over, yet a smile remained upon her lips. “Ah, but what might your touch incite,” she mused aloud, running a perfect nail over the surface of one smooth stone.

Despair tore at her heart, and then indeed her flesh, splitting her fingertip oh so slightly. Joy surged behind her eyes, burning away the sadness as she sucked in a startled breath. Astounded, astonished, pleased she withdrew her fingers and rose from the cold stone of Creation's Palace. With a flourish of her palm as it fell to her side, the stones vanished through a rift.

Through that tear upon the firmament, she gazed down upon the world, before prying it further open and stepping through.

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Night had long since fallen and the young man was only out on account of knowing that the next day would be the Long Rest–one of oh so few days that the men and women both spent time to recuperate from the near-constant work that it took to survive in the wilds at the edges of the great Eidolonian Plains. He'd snuck away from the sleeping bodies of his family, desiring some solitude in the gentle embrace of the night. Brushing his fingertips through the tall grass of the land he'd always known as his home, he stared off into the distance, the stars laid plain upon the heavens above. They were beautiful, those swirling flecks of light painted on a canvas of blue, and black and purple. There was a mystique to them and though his people had stories for what they were, he had never quite believed them.

As he stared into the night, pondering small things, and considering what might lay beyond the far horizon, that young man's mind went mute as he noticed the sudden absence of sound. A shiver ran up his spine, and the hairs at the back of his neck stood on end. The chirping song of the crickets had grown still, as if all at once they had tired of the tune they'd sung for every night from the evening he'd been born, to just a moment prior.

Turning about, his motion slow and deliberate as he bent at the knees, using the tall grass to obscure himself, the young man peered into the moonlit night, a subtle dread growing in his heart. There were stories of the things that sometimes prowled the plains and though they often knew better than to stray too close to the village, there were always exceptions to the rule. Suddenly, his desire to be alone seemed an awfully foolish thing as he found himself crouched within the grasses, peering blindly into the black.

Then he saw it, not aground, but a league or so away, hovering within the air. He had no word to describe the thing, but it reminded him of a day now months past when his tunic had been snared by the thorns of a bush, and turn as he ran an errand for his gran. For it was like that, a tear in the fabric of the sky. It widened and in a flash, something dove through it, falling down towards the ground. The tear slowly closed, its strange light dimming with every moment.

Quietly, Somni crept towards it, careful not to rustle the grasses as he moved with practiced ease through the field of plants. Strangely, he'd heard no thump, no sound of one thing striking the next as the unknown had fallen from the sky-tear and towards Galbar's soil. Eventually, he noticed something strange, the closer he got to the area he'd surmised the object must have fallen, the easier it became to see. Frowning slightly, his brow creasing as he considered this shift in circumstance, Somni considered that perhaps to approach this complete unknown was not a terribly wise course of action. Yet...he felt compelled to find out what could possibly have emerged from such a strange phenomena as a tear in the world.

In that moment, as he considered his actions and debated upon changing course, a sudden shift occurred. The sky was suddenly above him, stark in its swirling display of light. Then the air was driven from his body as he hit the earth, skidding back a pace before a weight settled upon him and a silhouette of pitch blacked out the sky above. Wheezing as he tried to pull air into his lungs, Somni tried to strike the figure above him, only to find his wrists pinned to the ground by slender hands. Then, as he watched--a panic overcoming him--two violet orbs opened in the night, as unseen eyelids slid away. Calmly the regarded him and slowly he regained his breath and again tried to struggle.

“Cease thy struggle child,” a woman's voice chided, cutting at the silence. Gradually, a faint violet light filled the air, illuminating his assailant's visage. Heart in his throat even as it beat a feverish rhythm in his chest, Somni went still as the supple outline of a feminine form made itself known in the low light. Yet, he did not recognize her voice, it was nothing like any of the girls of the village, nor their mothers. Nay, this was a stranger come into their fields, now atop him, preying upon his foolish inattention.

“Wh--,” he began.

“Shhh…” she replied, cutting off his query. Gradually he became aware of an entirely different discomfort. In the low light, he saw her smile and he swallowed hard in response.

“Such a strange thing, thy body,” the woman said with amusement in her tone. Slowly, she released his wrists, tracing fingertips over his chest before pushing off him and to her feet. The light dimmed as she retreated. Somni did not wish to see it go.

“Wait,” he said, finding himself almost breathless, his voice weak. Propping himself up he met the eyes of the woman, who stared back, her violet gaze seeming almost to bore through him.

He shuddered.

“Bold,” she said, her tone carrying only the barest hint of its earlier warmth, he found that he did not know quite how to respond. She glanced away, casting her glowing gaze elsewhere, though she did not leave him. Rising to his feet, Somni covertly tried to brush himself off. He found that they were of a height with one another and yet...beside her felt so small. Why was that?

“Who are you?” He queried, his words filling the empty air. She chuckled, and with that melodic sound, the crickets once more began to sing. Somni glanced around, confused. The woman turned, reaching out to him and he found himself rooted to the spot. Her velvet palm caressed his cheek and then coy words teased his ears in kind, "Mmn, twice you ask the wrong question." Lightly, she patted his cheek, seeming to forgive him. She paused a moment and heard his breath catch within his throat. Again that bewitching smile. Yet, there was something strange in her violet gaze, emotions he could not quite fathom. Her clothes too were elaborate and foreign, now that he took the time to notice. Still, in the faint light, he could ordain very little.

“Cath Melainea,” she said, as if in reply. He blinked and he watched as she rolled her eyes.

"Tis my name."

"Ah. Somni's mine."

The amusement returned, and her eyes burned, flaring with violet flames. He found himself taking one step back.

"I know," she replied. Dumbfounded, Somni felt his mouth go suddenly dry, his breath hitch. Why was it that he hadn't fled? Hadn't asked her why she'd pounced upon him. How had she gotten here, surely she had not entered through the tear he'd seen. No, surely not, for what mortal could do such a thing.

"Ah, what mortal indeed," she purred, and then in a sudden flash of light, she burst aflame. Burning away all semblance of familiarity, those violet fires they engulfed her form entire, rising into the air and setting even the sky alight. The stars danced far above, and so too did the wind join them, kicking into a gale. He stumbled away from her, mouth agape, eyes wide, the only thought in his mind that she hadn't screamed. Then the fire moved, but not as fires do, no it shifted as if it were itself a woman's silhouette, but burning against the black of night, consuming the darkness.

"What is this?!" He demanded, terror in his visage, voice filled with conviction.

The burning figure laughed, and the sound was perfectly resonant. As he heard it, it tickled at his mind, tugging a smile onto his lips as if against his will. It became a grimace.

"Closer have thy questions have become, thus a gift you shall receive. As I said, I am Cath Melainea, the Exalted, a daughter of the Monarch." She gestured with a hand composed of flame, indicating her form, "...and this a form truer to my nature."

Confusion crossed his guise, then filled his mind. Her form glided across the field and the tall grass parted to let her pass. where she touched it, not a single stalk was singed. "What...I. The Monarch? There is no lord in these lands. What do you mean? Are you some fell witch come to prey upon my people?" Though his chest was tight with fear, his loyalty won out, and he raised his fist, as if he were not powerless before her. As if somehow a man could strike at flame.

She paused in her approach, regarding him.

"Admirable," she crooned, sounding almost impressed.

Then she drew herself up and the flames winked out.

Somni's vision flashed, his mind filled beyond its limit with a feeling. Cloying fear, overwhelming terror. Then another joined the fray, deepest joy, adoration, love, and contentment too. Surging, warring within his mind, his psyche seemed not his own. Reeling, he fell to his knees and distantly felt tears slipping down his cheeks. A terrible whine reached his ears and he realized it was his own whimpering, subdued scream. Before him stood a glowing metallic flame, teardrop-shaped and spinning. In it he saw himself reflected, and within himself, he felt the reflection of that thing. Coiling flames reignited, snapping outwards from the floating metal heart. Their amaranthine hue took away all other sights until it was all that he could see. No longer were there stars above, or grass on every side. There was only flame and spinning metal. A burning figure torn into the world, feminine and pure. Behind it, within that rift were fractals endless and true and awful to behold. Like peering into an endless crystal he lost himself. Like bathing within a pyre, he felt himself consumed. Like drowning beneath a boiling lake, he burned and felt his lungs fill with bile. His mind screamed, his voice gone ragged.

Yet he desired nothing more, he deserved nothing less, would not settle for it in fact. The coiling heart, the burning rift-torn figure embraced him then and as if given a final release, all thought fled his psyche.

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Oblivion. He had surrendered to the darkness of the sleeping mind. Chuckling, her voice the crackling of fire, the soothing sound of a woman's gentle laugh, the bending, grating, dripping sound of tearing molten metal. A crack of thunder, closing eyes. The Crucible died down to a simmer and she allowed her form to calm, rendering itself once more into a mortal guise. Gently she knelt before the unconscious man who now lay upon the grass and in the dirt.

"So fragile, these mortals are," she mused, brushing hair from the human's cheek. "Tis but a strand of feelings," she said the words gently, soothingly, almost as a mother might to a fearful babe. Yet he did not wake so she took him into her embrace, lifting him from the soil. Lightly and with inhuman ease, she carried him home.

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In time she arrived, the stars still twinkling far above, the wind a gentle caress upon her flesh. However, it seemed that they'd been noticed, for within the hearth she spotted a flickering mundane flame. A man and woman rose, seeing the boy she held in her arms; seeing Somni. His mother rushed over then, abandoning propriety and any fear of the stranger who had brought her son back unto the fold. Fussing over her boy, she beckoned her husband come, and he shook his head. After a moment to assess the stranger, he sighed and then obeyed, joining his wife before the figure. So offered, the father took from her his son, carrying him back to the warmth of the flame. Yet, the mother remained, staring up into the eyes of the Violet-eyed woman.

"Thank you," she said, her relief almost a tangible thing between them. Melainea smiled and nodded, placing a comforting hand upon the woman's shoulder. She shuddered, but could not know why. Not yet.

"Think ye not of this. Remember only that he is yours," the woman replied before she turned and walked away.

Somni's mother only frowned, confused, but shrugged it off swiftly and returned them to the fire and her kin. The coming day would reveal the truth of things.

The younger sister looked upon it all with an aloof gaze, taking in the sights and sounds of the truly strange interaction. So it was that as they settled in by the fire, the mother spoke,

"What a strange, yet kind woman," she muttered, stroking the cheek of her sleeping boy.

Her daughter replied, her tone distant and small.

"She had glowing violet eyes…."

Both her parents slowly turned upon her, staring.

"No, 'twas simply the moonlight."

"Nay, it was the stars."

Both parents denied the truth and so the daughter relented. Still, she knew in her heart of hearts that had not been just a woman, nor a mortal either. No, this encounter had been different somehow, something other had touched their family and she knew not what it would soon entail.

Doom or Glory?

This they would know in time.

Summaries

Narrative Summary

In which Cath Melainea comes to understand the essence of her nature and enters the scene on Galbar. At once, a member of a closely-knit community of outcasts has a harrowing and incredibly significant, encounter with the Goddess. Such things will shape their fates far more than any could have guessed. Herein are introduced, Somni and his family.

Resource Summary

Starting Vigor: 4/4

Create a Champion (-1 Vigor): Somni.

So forged in the purest essence of Melainea, Somni is transformed into the first of her champions. So tied to the physical world by his experiences, he has two notable capacities beyond generally enhanced capabilities. The first of these is his voice, which has been enhanced such that it carries far more emotional resonance than normal, allowing him to more easily influence others who hear him. His other ability is another manifestation of his voice's potency, allowing it to carry such emotion that it resonates with the world around him. This power allows Somni to wield magic through the lens of emotion, accessing the True Cathyrian Tongue. This language is one that any can glean meaning from, though none may truly understand its words. It is a divine language crafted in the core of the goddess. Only the Resonant may tap into its might.

Bless a Mortal (-1 Vigor): Somni’s Mother - Athia.

Having come into physical contact with the Goddess, and thanked her in an expression of significant emotion, Melainea deigned to bestow unto her a gift beyond her son’s own. This blessing allows her not to influence others, but to project her emotions more poignantly. This can result in physical effects, such as subtly increased healing or pain and harm depending on the emotion.

+1 Spirit for starring in the post.
+1 Spirit for it being a medium-length post.

Somni’s Spirit Earnings: 2
Ending Vigor: 2/4

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

Edited the sheet above as well as added it to the Character tab

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

𝒞ath ℳelainea. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴄ ʀ ᴜ ᴄ ι ʙ ʟ ᴇ

^{"Hide not thy nature, burn brightly your truth, until nothing else remains."
-- Cath Melainea, The Exalted Goddess.}

^{Theme I ♦ Theme II ♦ Theme III}

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Hider

^{C A T H M E L A I N E A
Kaath Mel-eye-neya}

Aspect
^{♦Temper / Temper♦}

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Her shard held long within the Monarch's essence, when he bore her unto the world so was forged a twofold power. The Aspect of Temper, a tempest of emotion, endless and unyielding, gentle yet all at once unwelcome. This facet of her power held dominion over the Emotions of others, living or not. Through its influence, such things could be guided, dulled, or–indeed–inflamed. Frustration becomes fury; laziness, sloth; sadness, despair. Upon mortals, this facet of her shard can manipulate the tides of their emotion, driving them to any number of things as if controlled by their passions--or the lack thereof. Yet, when used upon that which does not think or breathe, such as trees or stone, this power may coax them into motion or still them once again. Indeed, as despair and heartbreak can break a man, so too might they sunder stone. Though such physical manifestations can be potent and varied in effect, this facet of her power is mercurial in its ways, as certain to remain as the weather is to stay the same.

Such is not, however, the only facet of her power, for within her shard was born a second fundamental force: Tempering. Steeped so long inside the Monarch's molten core, Melainea's shard took on some traits that once were her Father's own. Like the Monarch, she holds within her a great desire to create, however, unlike him she instead holds only the power to alter and rejuvenate. By drawing from her central strength, the Goddess may infuse, or bathe, things in her violet light. In so doing they may be reforged by the tempest she holds inside. So it is that with the influence of emotion, she might cause metamorphosis in others, be they of flesh and blood, or sea and stone.

In this way, a joyful man, can become a beacon of euphoria, enrapturing all around him. Still, one ought be wary, for so too can her power unleash calamity upon both the heavens and the earth.

Notably, Melainea’s Aspect deals primarily with the expression, infusion, and manipulation of emotion in its many forms. As such, discounts cannot be gained to create things that are not of emotion or at least sufficiently symbolically related.

“Her power, its facets many, has revealed itself many times and in innumerable forms, each almost too glorious to behold! Look upon them now, gaze at these creations, each a fragment of her endless power! Ah, but listen true, do not touch them, for to do so is to invite their ire, and such is a thing that one must be careful not to kindle.” – Thelys Maer’ator, High Cathyrian Priest and Steward of the Guardian Order.

Upon the pedestal, sheathed in a dull morose light which emanates as if from nowhere, is what may have once been the bone of some fell beast’s limb. It is smooth and without blemish, its color pale and lifeless, the weapon bears only one distinctive marking. ‘Pon its hilt are red and maroon engravings, each carved with impossible precision, they depict beating hearts, each skewered by a thorn and bleeding.

The Placard beneath it reads, “Forged in Our Lady’s essence pure, this woeful blade is a terrible thing indeed. Suffused with a despairing heartbreak more true than any other, it does not kill, but its every strike drives thy foe further into the clutches of sorrow. Though it is composed of bone, its name arose from the fact that with enough contact with the blade–be ye its wielder or its victim–the heartbreak seeps into you, soaking even your bones. Those touched by it are surely cursed by Melainea herself, for as life leaves them, so too does color and substance as they dissolve into naught but grotesque mush."

“Sorrow’s Bone”

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Surrounded by four rings of consecrated chain, all shining a different hue and emitting each their own subtle hum, are two intertwined spirals of stone. They are anchored to the floor such that it would be impossible to move them. One appears as if carved of marble, the other of obsidian. They shine from within, the light they emit that of their polar opposite in color. Even standing many paces away, out of reach even of the consecrated chains, one is struck by a strange twisting pair of emotions. However, so separated from the monolith–for indeed it stretches almost to the high ceiling of the great cathedral–it is impossible to tell precisely what these feelings might be, only that they are in fierce opposition of one another.

The Placard–placed several feet from the outermost ring of silver chain–reads as such. “A testament to the dual nature of emotion, and indeed, our most cherished and revered goddess, these spiral pillars are a gift. Still, we warn against approaching such a powerful edifice, for the unprepared are unlikely able to resist their power. Ah, and do not be fooled by their fanciful name, they earned it in honor of the king who fell to its power. As, when exposed directly to its resonance–yes that faint pull you now feel–one is split in twain. The Shadow is unleashed from within, given form and power both. This dreadful doppelganger and its glowing counterpart of Light are destined only to doom the other. It was through the Chime’s influence that Bountiful Lheiran–and his empire–were laid to waste, divided by him and his Shadow, and driven to war.

For this reason, the Chime carries with it another name, a far simpler thing.

Yes, some folk only call it ‘Discord.’”

Lheiran’s Spiral Chime

The Cathyrian Church

Persona
^{♦Curious ♦ Wise Naive ♦ Callous ♦}

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While a wide spectrum of terrifyingly beautiful and endless emotions writhe storm-like beneath her divine flesh, Melainea is--above all else--endlessly curious. This may take many forms of course, sometimes manifesting in an inquisitive nature, whereas in other moments she might briefly take on an almost child-like wonder. However, while this emotion drives much of her behavior, she too is the callous observer, the seemingly uncaring scientist tinkering with the lives and environs of others. However, this is indeed only that, a seeming, as the reality of things is that Melainea simply does not--perhaps cannot--see her treatment of Galbar and its inhabitants as anything but moral. To her, whether a man becomes a plague of woe or a beacon of hope matters little so long as he becomes something that before he was not.

^{Perhaps though, it is better to understand Melainea as mortals would. Thus, in the interest of greater learning, we the Cathyrian Church present the following.}

"Fickle is too little a word to encompass she Our Lady Melainea. No, for she is beyond such mortal things, she is above them, greater than. Indeed, any mortal experience is far too constrained by our very nature to compare. Yet, in my studies and my musings, through my many interviews with survivors and witnesses alike, I have discovered a commonality. We share some aspect of our psyche with her--no! She shares it with us, I think. Yes.

For though she is above curiosity, she is curious. Inquisitive as she gazes upon our world, and us, its inhabitants. There is always a glimmer in her gaze, I am told, and I believe that it simply must be this part of her nature. I daresay that curiosity is indeed something foundational for her, it must be for her to interact with, and observe us as much as she does. After all, is she not Emotion and Experience itself? Is it not the greatest desire of all feelings to be seen and acknowledged? I think it simply must be so. She is the Psyche of this world, all its feelings and impressions, observing its reflection in us and we our own in her." -- Aldyran Caste, A Cathyri Scholar.

An Excerpt from Chapter Two of "On the Curious Nature of Melainea"

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♦

"As I write this I am in hiding. I can scarcely tell you where, my dear reader, but I can say this...no place is truly safe from the clutches of the Cathyrian Church. As the Church has burned all of my published work, I sit here scrawling down my thoughts so that perhaps one day they might be seen by someone of like mind.

"Though I feel I may not have the time to explain the precise nature of my predicament, know this: I have been excommunicated from the Church, and exiled by the state for my beliefs. They are as such. Our Lady--to whom I still owe not only my faith but now my life--is as much a fool as any man can be. She is naive and ignorant to the precise experience of us mortals, whether clad in scales or fur or flesh. The Church will not hear of such things, they think me a blasphemer and a charlatan who calls Our Lady Melainea a simpleton. Tis not so, by this I swear! It is simply that if she is to be the truest Crucible of all emotion, as we believe her to be--nay--as she has told us she is, then she must be as foolish as she is wise. Perhaps, I say, her Callousness arises from such a place. Perhaps it is not that she is sometimes a cruel mistress, burdening men and mer with misery through a desire to see us suffer. I refuse to believe this! To say that she is cruel is to imply intent to harm! The clergy think to control the public perception of their god and so they cannot have a detractor such as I--a man who once had high standing, whose word was well respected, and widely known--contradict them.

"So it is, here, and in other places, I write these words.

"Cath Melainea is not cruel, nor is she kind. She is the Crucible. She is the lady of misery and bliss both. To us, her children, she gives of herself so that we might experience the world, and perhaps so she might experience us in return!

"And if it is a clergyman, indeed, an inquisitor even, who reads this. Curse you. Your Church cannot control, nor contain the truth!

"Know that even should you catch me, that my word will live on, for I cannot, will not, be silenced!" -- Ela'Kaern Unas Haran; Genius, Scholar, Madman.

An excerpt from the widely distributed "Writings of a Blasphemous Madman"

♦
♦

"We mortals will never know the inscrutable aims of the gods, yet I cannot help but wonder at the angle of the deity the Cathyri call 'Cath Melainea'. The religious literature--and much of what the Cathyri claim to be factual (though I severely doubt it)--consitently characterizes her as a loving goddess. They speak of her with reverence and respect, rather than fear and trepidation. Yet, this seems to me in direct contrast to the precise consequences of their goddess' influence.

"For, was it not the 'loving' gaze of Melainea that drove Eddrick Cathiel to madness, and his country to ruin? Did the goddess, that flaming Crucible of violet flame not appear before Mystaiphies and render her--once the finest singer in the land, adored by all--a wretched, ruinous siren, driving all who heard her into a state of complete insensibility, as if they had at once become merely husks of their former selves? I believe that it was.

"I simply do not see the love in these actions, nor the benevolence or kindness. To me, these seem the acts of a callous, uncaring goddess. A malign entity that desires only that we mortals suffer, be it in unending, uncontrollable bliss, or ruinous sorrow. So, with each passage I read from these 'respectable' scholars I wonder: If she is not a loving goddess and her aim is thus not to nurture us, her children, then what other goal might her actions suggest?

"Though I am sure few will heed what I say, I nonetheless must confess my belief and record it upon the page. She is not our mother, after all, she did not create us. What proof have we of such in the first place? None. Yet, I know what the clergy, these so-called scholars would say and to them I say this. Yes, I understand, one does not need to be a mother to care, or to nurture. One need not even understand someone to care for them, or to treat them with kindness. However, to truly care for another, to nurture them, you must desire for them the best. This desire can be skewed, slightly twisted even, but above all else it cannot be wholly selfish. It is a thing of compassion, of empathy.

"Cath Melainea, the Violet Bitch, she has never shown us anything resembling such compassion. Passion, certainly! Kindness? Perhaps. Yet, when the clergy come to you, preaching of their goddess, remember this.

"Every recorded act, even as biased as the texts are in her favor--written to serve the interests of the Church--paints her as a being of selfish want. Why does she change us? Why does she change our world? Why does she interact with us, and so often at that? To sate her own curiosity. To experience a fragment of what we 'lesser' creations might feel. She changes us, because she must, it is in her nature as it is in the scorpion's to sting and she is little more than that.

"A scorpion, though with divine ichor running through her veins." -- Taltherian Cray, Lord of Herice, a cynic, a scholar, a tyrant.

From an outsider's text, "Melainea's Temper"

From the Cathyrian Text, "The Crucible's Nature"

Visage
^{♦True Form♦}

♦
♦

"The Truest Guise of Cath Melainea is best understood through an experiential lens as to attempt to describe it in simple terms is a misleading and troublesome thing. Still, despite this, I will try."

Cathyri Scholar

She is a flash of violent violet light, shattering perception, yet enrapturing the viewer. This light, it emanates from a churning core of writhing indigo flame in an almost teardrop shape. Its surface seems--somehow, despite lacking true solidity--reflective, and upon perceiving it, the psyche of the beholder is flooded with endless emotion, filling them overfull with the experiences of their lifetime. Beneath her light, annoyance becomes fury, contentment–euphoria–and disappointment: anguish. Yet, she is still more than this Crucible, for superimposed upon this is what might first appear a woman's silhouette, but is in truth an amaranthine tear in the fabric of the world. Within this god-shaped hole are endless fractals of experience, all intertwined like multidimensional crystals. To gaze too long into her visage is to invite it into thyself, and in so doing, render oneself utterly hers. Those few who survive the ordeal of her manifestation find themselves indelibly changed by the experience, and whether for good or for ill they will never know the difference as those who gaze into the Crucible of Emotion, become naught but elementals forged in Melainea's essence.
♦♦♦♦♦♦

^{Poetic reimaginings created from various accounts of those who survived the manifestation of our Lady Melainea.}

"She was a turning mirror, reflecting minds, each consciousness a burning flame, drowning all else, mixing...diffusing. A maiden, a mother, a crone ensconced in effervescent violet flames. A metallic fractal, containing coruscating light, crystalline and pure, yet malignant and destructive." - Thellasi Poet Carian Sarr.
♦
♦
"Two orbs, a pair of shining eyes blossoming before my own, her gaze, it ensorcelled me, wrapped me in its embrace. As we stared, I upon her, and she into my secret self, my hidden soul, a felt a stirring within my brow and beneath my breast. Like a burning flame of terrible bliss, agonizing in its intensity, I was overcome with emotion until at last, I became it!" - A Violet-eyed survivor.
♦
♦
"Soothing warmth, purest duress, I was enlightened. Without her there is only the burning cold of this emotionless world. Men hide their feelings behind a terrible mask we call a face. I call them blasphemy! Ye apostate who would deny expression, deny truth, deny her sorrow and her love! Shame! Shame!" - A scholar of the sciences, driven to feverish madness.

Excerpts from "Glimpses of the Goddess"

♦♦♦♦♦♦

^♦Facade♦

♦
♦

Though the Goddess may at some times present herself to mortals in her truest shape, more often is it that such a thing is only ever glimpsed in fragments. These fragments are known as Melainea's Facade and simply put, they are other expressions of her Aspect's physical manifestation.

Though she most often appears as a violet-eyed woman with an elaborate set of feathers in her hair, and two curving horns--as depicted far above--below are other depictions of witnessed manifestations.

Artistic Renditions of Our Lady Melainea

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay Mk. VI

𝒞ath ℳelainea. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴄ ʀ ᴜ ᴄ ι ʙ ʟ ᴇ

^{"Hide not thy nature, burn brightly your truth, until nothing else remains."
-- Cath Melainea, The Exalted Goddess.}

^{Theme I ♦ Theme II ♦ Theme III}

---

---

Hider

^{C A T H M E L A I N E A
Kaath Mel-eye-neya}

Aspect
^{♦Temper / Temper♦}

♦
♦

Her shard held long within the Monarch's essence, when he bore her unto the world so was forged a twofold power. The Aspect of Temper, a tempest of emotion, endless and unyielding, gentle yet all at once unwelcome. This facet of her power held dominion over the Emotions of others, living or not. Through its influence, such things could be guided, dulled, or–indeed–inflamed. Frustration becomes fury; laziness, sloth; sadness, despair. Upon mortals, this facet of her shard can manipulate the tides of their emotion, driving them to any number of things as if controlled by their passions--or the lack thereof. Yet, when used upon that which does not think or breathe, such as trees or stone, this power may coax them into motion or still them once again. Indeed, as despair and heartbreak can break a man, so too might they sunder stone. Though such physical manifestations can be potent and varied in effect, this facet of her power is mercurial in its ways, as certain to remain as the weather is to stay the same.

Such is not, however, the only facet of her power, for within her shard was born a second fundamental force: Tempering. Steeped so long inside the Monarch's molten core, Melainea's shard took on some traits that once were her Father's own. Like the Monarch, she holds within her a great desire to create, however, unlike him she instead holds only the power to alter and rejuvenate. By drawing from her central strength, the Goddess may infuse, or bathe, things in her violet light. In so doing they may be reforged by the tempest she holds inside. So it is that with the influence of emotion, she might cause metamorphosis in others, be they of flesh and blood, or sea and stone.

In this way, a joyful man, can become a beacon of euphoria, enrapturing all around him. Still, one ought be wary, for so too can her power unleash calamity upon both the heavens and the earth.

Notably, Melainea’s Aspect deals primarily with the expression, infusion, and manipulation of emotion in its many forms. As such, discounts cannot be gained to create things that are not of emotion or at least sufficiently symbolically related.

“Her power, its facets many, has revealed itself many times and in innumerable forms, each almost too glorious to behold! Look upon them now, gaze at these creations, each a fragment of her endless power! Ah, but listen true, do not touch them, for to do so is to invite their ire, and such is a thing that one must be careful not to kindle.” – Thelys Maer’ator, High Cathyrian Priest and Steward of the Guardian Order.

Upon the pedestal, sheathed in a dull morose light which emanates as if from nowhere, is what may have once been the bone of some fell beast’s limb. It is smooth and without blemish, its color pale and lifeless, the weapon bears only one distinctive marking. ‘Pon its hilt are red and maroon engravings, each carved with impossible precision, they depict beating hearts, each skewered by a thorn and bleeding.

The Placard beneath it reads, “Forged in Our Lady’s essence pure, this woeful blade is a terrible thing indeed. Suffused with a despairing heartbreak more true than any other, it does not kill, but its every strike drives thy foe further into the clutches of sorrow. Though it is composed of bone, its name arose from the fact that with enough contact with the blade–be ye its wielder or its victim–the heartbreak seeps into you, soaking even your bones. Those touched by it are surely cursed by Melainea herself, for as life leaves them, so too does color and substance as they dissolve into naught but grotesque mush."

“Sorrow’s Bone”

♦
♦

Surrounded by four rings of consecrated chain, all shining a different hue and emitting each their own subtle hum, are two intertwined spirals of stone. They are anchored to the floor such that it would be impossible to move them. One appears as if carved of marble, the other of obsidian. They shine from within, the light they emit that of their polar opposite in color. Even standing many paces away, out of reach even of the consecrated chains, one is struck by a strange twisting pair of emotions. However, so separated from the monolith–for indeed it stretches almost to the high ceiling of the great cathedral–it is impossible to tell precisely what these feelings might be, only that they are in fierce opposition of one another.

The Placard–placed several feet from the outermost ring of silver chain–reads as such. “A testament to the dual nature of emotion, and indeed, our most cherished and revered goddess, these spiral pillars are a gift. Still, we warn against approaching such a powerful edifice, for the unprepared are unlikely able to resist their power. Ah, and do not be fooled by their fanciful name, they earned it in honor of the king who fell to its power. As, when exposed directly to its resonance–yes that faint pull you now feel–one is split in twain. The Shadow is unleashed from within, given form and power both. This dreadful doppelganger and its glowing counterpart of Light are destined only to doom the other. It was through the Chime’s influence that Bountiful Lheiran–and his empire–were laid to waste, divided by him and his Shadow, and driven to war.

For this reason, the Chime carries with it another name, a far simpler thing.

Yes, some folk only call it ‘Discord.’”

Lheiran’s Spiral Chime

The Cathyrian Church

Persona
^{♦Curious ♦ Wise Naive ♦ Callous ♦}

♦♦♦

While a wide spectrum of terrifyingly beautiful and endless emotions writhe storm-like beneath her divine flesh, Melainea is--above all else--endlessly curious. This may take many forms of course, sometimes manifesting in an inquisitive nature, whereas in other moments she might briefly take on an almost child-like wonder. However, while this emotion drives much of her behavior, she too is the callous observer, the seemingly uncaring scientist tinkering with the lives and environs of others. However, this is indeed only that, a seeming, as the reality of things is that Melainea simply does not--perhaps cannot--see her treatment of Galbar and its inhabitants as anything but moral. To her, whether a man becomes a plague of woe or a beacon of hope matters little so long as he becomes something that before he was not.

^{Perhaps though, it is better to understand Melainea as mortals would. Thus, in the interest of greater learning, we the Cathyrian Church present the following.}

"Fickle is too little a word to encompass she Our Lady Melainea. No, for she is beyond such mortal things, she is above them, greater than. Indeed, any mortal experience is far too constrained by our very nature to compare. Yet, in my studies and my musings, through my many interviews with survivors and witnesses alike, I have discovered a commonality. We share some aspect of our psyche with her--no! She shares it with us, I think. Yes.

For though she is above curiosity, she is curious. Inquisitive as she gazes upon our world, and us, its inhabitants. There is always a glimmer in her gaze, I am told, and I believe that it simply must be this part of her nature. I daresay that curiosity is indeed something foundational for her, it must be for her to interact with, and observe us as much as she does. After all, is she not Emotion and Experience itself? Is it not the greatest desire of all feelings to be seen and acknowledged? I think it simply must be so. She is the Psyche of this world, all its feelings and impressions, observing its reflection in us and we our own in her." -- Aldyran Caste, A Cathyri Scholar.

An Excerpt from Chapter Two of "On the Curious Nature of Melainea"

♦
♦

"As I write this I am in hiding. I can scarcely tell you where, my dear reader, but I can say this...no place is truly safe from the clutches of the Cathyrian Church. As the Church has burned all of my published work, I sit here scrawling down my thoughts so that perhaps one day they might be seen by someone of like mind.

"Though I feel I may not have the time to explain the precise nature of my predicament, know this: I have been excommunicated from the Church, and exiled by the state for my beliefs. They are as such. Our Lady--to whom I still owe not only my faith but now my life--is as much a fool as any man can be. She is naive and ignorant to the precise experience of us mortals, whether clad in scales or fur or flesh. The Church will not hear of such things, they think me a blasphemer and a charlatan who calls Our Lady Melainea a simpleton. Tis not so, by this I swear! It is simply that if she is to be the truest Crucible of all emotion, as we believe her to be--nay--as she has told us she is, then she must be as foolish as she is wise. Perhaps, I say, her Callousness arises from such a place. Perhaps it is not that she is sometimes a cruel mistress, burdening men and mer with misery through a desire to see us suffer. I refuse to believe this! To say that she is cruel is to imply intent to harm! The clergy think to control the public perception of their god and so they cannot have a detractor such as I--a man who once had high standing, whose word was well respected, and widely known--contradict them.

"So it is, here, and in other places, I write these words.

"Cath Melainea is not cruel, nor is she kind. She is the Crucible. She is the lady of misery and bliss both. To us, her children, she gives of herself so that we might experience the world, and perhaps so she might experience us in return!

"And if it is a clergyman, indeed, an inquisitor even, who reads this. Curse you. Your Church cannot control, nor contain the truth!

"Know that even should you catch me, that my word will live on, for I cannot, will not, be silenced!" -- Ela'Kaern Unas Haran; Genius, Scholar, Madman.

An excerpt from the widely distributed "Writings of a Blasphemous Madman"

♦
♦

"We mortals will never know the inscrutable aims of the gods, yet I cannot help but wonder at the angle of the deity the Cathyri call 'Cath Melainea'. The religious literature--and much of what the Cathyri claim to be factual (though I severely doubt it)--consitently characterizes her as a loving goddess. They speak of her with reverence and respect, rather than fear and trepidation. Yet, this seems to me in direct contrast to the precise consequences of their goddess' influence.

"For, was it not the 'loving' gaze of Melainea that drove Eddrick Cathiel to madness, and his country to ruin? Did the goddess, that flaming Crucible of violet flame not appear before Mystaiphies and render her--once the finest singer in the land, adored by all--a wretched, ruinous siren, driving all who heard her into a state of complete insensibility, as if they had at once become merely husks of their former selves? I believe that it was.

"I simply do not see the love in these actions, nor the benevolence or kindness. To me, these seem the acts of a callous, uncaring goddess. A malign entity that desires only that we mortals suffer, be it in unending, uncontrollable bliss, or ruinous sorrow. So, with each passage I read from these 'respectable' scholars I wonder: If she is not a loving goddess and her aim is thus not to nurture us, her children, then what other goal might her actions suggest?

"Though I am sure few will heed what I say, I nonetheless must confess my belief and record it upon the page. She is not our mother, after all, she did not create us. What proof have we of such in the first place? None. Yet, I know what the clergy, these so-called scholars would say and to them I say this. Yes, I understand, one does not need to be a mother to care, or to nurture. One need not even understand someone to care for them, or to treat them with kindness. However, to truly care for another, to nurture them, you must desire for them the best. This desire can be skewed, slightly twisted even, but above all else it cannot be wholly selfish. It is a thing of compassion, of empathy.

"Cath Melainea, the Violet Bitch, she has never shown us anything resembling such compassion. Passion, certainly! Kindness? Perhaps. Yet, when the clergy come to you, preaching of their goddess, remember this.

"Every recorded act, even as biased as the texts are in her favor--written to serve the interests of the Church--paints her as a being of selfish want. Why does she change us? Why does she change our world? Why does she interact with us, and so often at that? To sate her own curiosity. To experience a fragment of what we 'lesser' creations might feel. She changes us, because she must, it is in her nature as it is in the scorpion's to sting and she is little more than that.

"A scorpion, though with divine ichor running through her veins." -- Taltherian Cray, Lord of Herice, a cynic, a scholar, a tyrant.

From an outsider's text, "Melainea's Temper"

From the Cathyrian Text, "The Crucible's Nature"

Visage
^{♦True Form♦}

♦
♦

"The Truest Guise of Cath Melainea is best understood through an experiential lens as to attempt to describe it in simple terms is a misleading and troublesome thing. Still, despite this, I will try."

Cathyri Scholar

She is a flash of violent violet light, shattering perception, yet enrapturing the viewer. This light, it emanates from a churning core of writhing indigo flame in an almost teardrop shape. Its surface seems--somehow, despite lacking true solidity--reflective, and upon perceiving it, the psyche of the beholder is flooded with endless emotion, filling them overfull with the experiences of their lifetime. Beneath her light, annoyance becomes fury, contentment–euphoria–and disappointment: anguish. Yet, she is still more than this Crucible, for superimposed upon this is what might first appear a woman's silhouette, but is in truth an amaranthine tear in the fabric of the world. Within this god-shaped hole are endless fractals of experience, all intertwined like multidimensional crystals. To gaze too long into her visage is to invite it into thyself, and in so doing, render oneself utterly hers. Those few who survive the ordeal of her manifestation find themselves indelibly changed by the experience, and whether for good or for ill they will never know the difference as those who gaze into the Crucible of Emotion, become naught but elementals forged in Melainea's essence.
♦♦♦♦♦♦

^{Poetic reimaginings created from various accounts of those who survived the manifestation of our Lady Melainea.}

"She was a turning mirror, reflecting minds, each consciousness a burning flame, drowning all else, mixing...diffusing. A maiden, a mother, a crone ensconced in effervescent violet flames. A metallic fractal, containing coruscating light, crystalline and pure, yet malignant and destructive." - Thellasi Poet Carian Sarr.
♦
♦
"Two orbs, a pair of shining eyes blossoming before my own, her gaze, it ensorcelled me, wrapped me in its embrace. As we stared, I upon her, and she into my secret self, my hidden soul, a felt a stirring within my brow and beneath my breast. Like a burning flame of terrible bliss, agonizing in its intensity, I was overcome with emotion until at last, I became it!" - A Violet-eyed survivor.
♦
♦
"Soothing warmth, purest duress, I was enlightened. Without her there is only the burning cold of this emotionless world. Men hide their feelings behind a terrible mask we call a face. I call them blasphemy! Ye apostate who would deny expression, deny truth, deny her sorrow and her love! Shame! Shame!" - A scholar of the sciences, driven to feverish madness.

Excerpts from "Glimpses of the Goddess"

♦♦♦♦♦♦

^♦Facade♦

♦
♦

Though the Goddess may at some times present herself to mortals in her truest shape, more often is it that such a thing is only ever glimpsed in fragments. These fragments are known as Melainea's Facade and simply put, they are other expressions of her Aspect's physical manifestation.

Though she most often appears as a violet-eyed woman with an elaborate set of feathers in her hair, and two curving horns--as depicted far above--below are other depictions of witnessed manifestations.

Artistic Renditions of Our Lady Melainea

Yoshua's Character Storage Mark VII

𝒞ath ℳelainea. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴄ ʀ ᴜ ᴄ ι ʙ ʟ ᴇ

^{"Hide not thy nature, burn brightly your truth, until nothing else remains."
Theme I ♦ Theme II}

---

---

Hider

^{C A T H M E L A I N E A
Kaath Mel-eye Neya}

Aspect
^{♦Temper / Temper♦}

♦
♦

Temperament, a thing forged in the great tempest of experience, a reflection--an expression perhaps--of consciousness, and in its changing, a thing that might be refined and tempered into an ever greater form. Simply put, Cath Melainea is a confluence of these two ideals. She is emotion and its expression, its manifestations--physical and otherwise--are hers to command. At once, her heart is the forge of these tumultuous powers, changing all it touches. In this way, Melainea is a force of change, whether it be through mastery or circumstance it does not matter.

When pulling upon the power of her most divine essence she might invoke in others emotion, bringing rise to agony, or joy, or awe. At once, through these things she may change things, be it through imbuing them with such things, or through giving those experiences tangible form, and thus causing metamorphosis in all such a thing might touch. With the Crucible's influence, a happy man, might become a shining beacon of joy, a wellspring of euphoric bliss, enrapturing those around him. Yet, so too can her power bring about calamity....

Persona
^{♦Curious ♦ Wise Naive ♦ Callous ♦}

♦♦♦

While a wide spectrum of terrifyingly beautiful and endless emotions writhe storm-like beneath her divine flesh, Melainea is--above all else--endlessly curious. This may take many forms of course, sometimes manifesting in an inquisitive nature, whereas in other moments she might briefly take on an almost child-like wonder. However, while this emotion drives much of her behavior, she too is the callous observer, the seemingly uncaring scientist tinkering with the lives and environs of others. However, this is indeed only that, a seeming, as the reality of things is that Melainea simply does not--perhaps cannot--see her treatment of Galbar and its inhabitants as anything but moral. To her, whether a man becomes a plague of woe or a beacon of hope matters little so long as he becomes something that before he was not.

Visage
^{♦True Form♦}

♦
♦

"The Truest Guise of Cath Melainea is best understood through an experiential lens as to attempt to describe it in simple terms is a misleading and troublesome thing. Still, despite this, I will try."

Cathyri Scholar

She is a flash of violent violet light, shattering perception, yet enrapturing the viewer. This light, it emanates from a churning core of writhing indigo flame in an almost teardrop shape. Its surface seems--somehow, despite lacking true solidity--reflective, and upon perceiving it, the psyche of the beholder is flooded with endless emotion, filling them overfull with the experiences of their lifetime. Beneath her light, annoyance becomes fury, contentment–euphoria–and disappointment: anguish. Yet, she is still more than this Crucible, for superimposed upon this is what might first appear a woman's silhouette, but is in truth an amaranthine tear in the fabric of the world. Within this god-shaped hole are endless fractals of experience, all intertwined like multidimensional crystals. To gaze too long into her visage is to invite it into thyself, and in so doing, render oneself utterly hers. Those few who survive the ordeal of her manifestation find themselves indelibly changed by the experience, and whether for good or for ill they will never know the difference as those who gaze into the Crucible of Emotion, become naught but elementals forged in Melainea's essence.
♦♦♦♦♦♦

^{Poetic reimaginings created from various accounts of those who survived the manifestation of our Lady Melainea.}

"She was a turning mirror, reflecting minds, each consciousness a burning flame, drowning all else, mixing...diffusing. A maiden, a mother, a crone ensconced in effervescent violet flames. A metallic fractal, containing coruscating light, crystalline and pure, yet malignant and destructive." - Thellasi Poet Carian Sarr.
♦
♦
"Two orbs, a pair of shining eyes blossoming before my own, her gaze, it ensorcelled me, wrapped me in its embrace. As we stared, I upon her, and she into my secret self, my hidden soul, a felt a stirring within my brow and beneath my breast. Like a burning flame of terrible bliss, agonizing in its intensity, I was overcome with emotion until at last, I became it!" - A Violet-eyed survivor.
♦
♦
"Soothing warmth, purest duress, I was enlightened. Without her there is only the burning cold of this emotionless world. Men hide their feelings behind a terrible mask we call a face. I call them blasphemy! Ye apostate who would deny expression, deny truth, deny her sorrow and her love! Shame! Shame!" - A scholar of the sciences, driven to feverish madness.

Excerpts from "Glimpses of the Goddess"

♦♦♦♦♦♦

^♦Facade♦

♦
♦

Though the Goddess may at some times present herself to mortals in her truest shape, more often is it that such a thing is only ever glimpsed in fragments. These fragments are known as Melainea's Facade and simply put, they are other expressions of her Aspect's physical manifestation.

Though she most often appears as a violet-eyed woman with an elaborate set of feathers in her hair, and two curving horns--as depicted far above--below are other depictions of witnessed manifestations.

Artistic Renditions of Our Lady Melainea

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay, Mk. V

A Coincidence of Magic

---

It’s not often that miracles happen - the arrival of the gods was one, sure, but otherwise, they don’t happen much.

However, with all the rampant magical energies still surging about, the breakdown of reality still occurring throughout the Shard (reduced, sure, but still), and the divine changes enforced upon the land to keep it together, it wouldn’t be unheard of that something slightly out of the normal could happen simply because of chance.

One such case happened in a grove of Kel’a Maeori trees - these titans of life deep in the mountains that had been created to stabilise the chaos of magic. As if the creation of these trees by Malath Kaal hadn’t been miraculous enough, one trunk among tens had, upon its inception, been struck by a particularly potent bolt of magic. While the bolt’s power would have disintegrated even a biological fortress like this, the tree had--despite all probability--refused to be reduced to cinders. For in the same second as its unfortunate exposure to magical lightning, the tree had realised it had a soul, and the determined soul within the tree had learned to wield the very forces that threatened to undo it. The tree had twisted the potential of the bolt that would end it into a spell - a protective charm fused into its bark that deflected the worst of the damage and spread it out across its leaves and the leaves of its peers. The very air around it had radiated an oily aura - the thickness of magic texturing the very air. Lithulmisomilin, the One-Who-Refused, became the first of the Sage Trees, whose souls were enlightened with knowledge of magic and the wisdom to pass it on, be it by creaking bark or twisting root.

Lithulmisomilin would have been utterly alone - as a tree, it had no mouth with which to speak, and despite its magical potential, it could not bring itself to move (at least not yet). However, whatever had created it and its compatriots had tied them and all that grew from the soil together with an endless network of information - the Ke’esath Sae’a. Using these billions of fungal nets, webs and roots, it reached out, its wooden voice pulsating throughout the network like a shockwave, quelling all other whispers of lesser floral souls.

”Help.”

There came no answer. Lithulmisomilin felt a disheartening gust of wind test one of its branches. Its soul had authority on the network, but what was authority good for if no one connected to the network could understand it? It was far from the only powerful voice on the network, too - other trees notwithstanding, other Kel’a Maeori boomed almost as deafeningly as itself, the strength of the magic pumping through their roots not necessarily any weaker than its own.

Its determined soul was not one to give up, though. It called out again.

”Help!”

---

The pulsing thrum of blood through veins more vast than the bodies of most creatures pumped as the mind of the Formless Flesh writhed unseen. A great violence had upset its slumber, stirring the vast bulk of its mind to motion.

For far beyond its mountainous abode, near the shard’s far edge, a terrible conflict had occurred.

So it was with a groan like a great falling tree that Malath Kaal did wake, his veiled form writhing and grasping in the dark. For a time he dwelled upon the nightmares he had envisioned, wondering at their meaning, grasping at their cause. However, all at once, he realized that it had not been violence which had caused his sudden waking.

”Help!” It was a silent voice, one heard only by a few, and even they caught only whispers. For all but Sa’a Malath Kaal had ears aplenty with which to listen, and so, to hear.

Thus summoned, the god did move, towards the child that had called him.

---

Lithulmisomilin had not expected to be alone, it confessed - it had hoped that the vast network of souls whose chaotic discussions it could hear so clearly, would have at least one other soul that could answer it. In its mountain recluse, where it grew alongside maybe thirty or fifty of its compatriots, the One-Who-Refused stood amidst unenlightened moss, dull pines, foolish fir and some surprisingly thoughtful mushrooms. The mushrooms, however, did not seem interested in it, no matter how Lithulmisomilin asked. So in its solitude, it reached out to the moss around its roots.

“Bloom,” it said and cast its second ever spell. The moss stirred slightly and then spawned a crown of white lilies to set Lithulmisomilin apart from its peers. Hearing the cacophony of the lesser florals, it declared itself superior - as an enlightened tree and a practitioner of magic, how could it not? Though as a tree, it saw not with eyes, but felt the world through its roots, through the Ke’esath Sae’a. It felt, however, that the world around it was more than just the underground; just as the earth buzzed with insectoid and floran life, the air blew at its leaves and bark, and the air was cool and frisky. As time passed, though, it felt a quiver in the fungal network - something great was approaching. While Lithulmisomilin felt quiet relief that something came for it, it could not help but feel fear, as well. It cast its third spell, and the air immediately around its bark turned to grains of clay, blowing around the trunk in a cautious patrol.

“Who?”

For a drawn out instant there was no reply ‘cept the thrumming lifeblood of the mycelial network amidst its roots. The wind spun about and danced lazily, stirring the clay throughout, spreading it further and further out. Then, quite suddenly--as the clay brushed against something truly vast in size--the wind sped into a gale and blew against the great trunks of the many trees in that first grove.

Some trees of lesser structure shattered into splinters, but many simply bent and waved in the sudden storm of wind. It carried on this way for a time, leaves blowing free of branches, shrubs shredded, trees bending to the wind’s whim, but it could not last.

So it did not, the wind becoming still air in an instant, the grove becoming quiet and subdued as if every living thing remaining held its breath.

Strange light then fell upon its branches and the bark that was its skin. It was warm and familiar, yet all at once unknowable and alien. Through the great network beneath the earth all fungi and flora grew silent, holding their breaths like all the rest. Then, a pulsing rhythm surged through the Ke’esath Sae’a and it was purer than any other could be, or had ever been. It continued, but changed, becoming more complex--intricate and full with nuance and brimming with life. When it touched the roots of Lithulmisomilin it blossomed into meaning, and spread throughout its core, suffusing it en full.

That sound it spoke to the newborn Sage, and its words were thus:

“Child of bark and blossom,” it thundered, coursing through its every fibrous cell. “O’ arcane son, you have awakened!”

There was elation in the rhythm, joy in its thrumming tone, but above all else something greater was communed.

Power. Endless surging might. Echoing through each cell, through its mind, through branch and vine and blossom.

The power had a name, which to the Sage tree instinctively arose.

Sa’a Malath Kaal.

“Rejoice!”

The god’s exclamation was transcendent thunder, twas laughter and roar alike. The wind shook through many branches, but no longer harmed. Soon animals emerged once more, curious at the being in their midst. Yet they could not find end nor beginning to its shape, for that God of Form was wreathed in a haze of faintly glowing fog.

Still, within that vast roiling vapor, there dwelled a silhouette, and it was ever-shifting, always changing, and unspeakably vast; impossibly huge. Though glimpsed, it remained a mystery all the same.

“Lord,” greeted the great tree and knelt before the magnificent being in all sense but the physical. A gust of the wind rocking the forest turned around, and seeds now sailing on the gust, harshly blown from their homes, blossomed into flowers of orange, red, blue, white and yellow, all floating in gentle offering to the source of the mighty, yet wise quakes shaking Lithulmisomilin’s core. An arcane arc of blue twisted through its bark with excitement.

Gentle bursts of wind pulsed against the Sage tree’s leaves and blossoms both, and with a moment’s time, Lithulmisomilin might realized that the exhalations were the laughter of the god.

“Son,” the Great Presence answered. The miasma twisted about its form, writhing into a column, and so the shape of the Formless Flesh changed with it, becoming as tall and rigid as its child. Root-like appendages pressed down into the earth and met with the Ke’esath Sae’a, and in that moment they could truly communicate.

Deep within the fog, the Eye of Malath opened, and it was bright and powerful as its gaze fell upon the great tree. Through the mycelium, and indeed through Lithulmisomilin’s very roots, the thrum of communion became apparent.

“Unto me did you call, so I have come,” the roots and fungi said, carrying their great father’s will.

“What distresses you, O’ joy of mine?”

The Sage Tree tested its metaphorical tongue - complex thoughts and words were still quite foreign to it, but in the safety of a peer like this presence, it dared explore new vocabulary, which its roots could milk from the ever-giving thrum in the mycelium. In its voiceless and wordless language, which still almost had a sound to it like the roll of thunder, groan of bark and trickle of earth, it spoke: “Alone. Seek others. The Lord… Arrives.” If its mycelium could bow, it would. “With help, find more. Learn… Learn… Learn… More others. More Lithulmisomilin.”

Meaning drove through the weft and weave of fungi, reaching easily their father, who in turn responded. Shifting in place, the miasma that hid his shape splayed out, reaching forth in many directions to touch other trees--both near and far. Each of them had been borne of his will, shaped by his power. Then, with a limb of flesh and bark and chitin, Malath Kaal touched his conscious son.

His great and glowing eye, that symbol in the haze, it pulsed suddenly with brilliant life and so the Sage Tree would briefly become dazed.

Finally, that Deity of form--the Formless Flesh, the Unbent Lord--did speak, and his words echoed far and wide, heard by any who cared to listen. Its sound carried a single word, and ‘twas an edict that he proclaimed.

“Enkindle!”

In a single momentous instant, all nature--even his newly awoken son--would black out. Birds from the sky would fall, predators cease in their hunts, prey stumble to their knees.

The sky shook, leaves crashed outwards, carried by the fell wind of his voice. It was a shockwave of forceful power, an expression of divine purpose, it was life--of both flesh and mind. In some seldom few who were not yet ready, seeds of conscious flame were planted to perhaps one day awaken. Yet, in others...in others it blossomed into awareness and flowered into being.

Across the vast shard that remained of a now dead world, other Sages became aware and through roots and fungi did their first cries swell.

Around that God, that Deity of Form, animals awoke once more confused and quite unsure. Nonetheless, life would not wait and so they carried on, unaware of precisely what had changed. They might never know, but one would always remember: Lithulmisomilin.

“So unto you I’ve given siblings, from which to learn and with which to commune!”

Unsaid, other meanings slithered, whispering ’...and perhaps one day to subsume.’

All around the world, the Sage Trees had acquired sapience, and the fungal network filled immediately with enlightened thought of a hundred philosophers; although their vocabularies were still in very early development, one could sense the complexities pumping through a million magical fibres. The voices were not coherent at first, but once all of them understood that they needed to cooperate, they did. Many hundred voices combined as one and spoke, “Thank you.”

In woods all over the Shard, in certain groves, the blue-streaked, glowing bark of a subset of the local Kel’a Maeori trees flickered with the realisation that they could think and that they could practice with the magic fueling their leaves. In every grove, miracles of magic came to life through the work of the Sage Trees. Dying animals healed at the roots of trees who found themselves benign; others who felt themselves to be superior wonders of nature, turned all creatures insolent enough to disrespect their glorious persons to stone and ash. Lithulmisomilin probed the network again, permitting itself a moment to not address its lord.

“Who?” it reverbed.

“Militabulkim,” said one voice.

“Quasaarmahavizim,” said another.

“Rutulmodipilin,” said a third.

The voices presented themselves in calm and collected order, and as Lithulmisomilin inquired as to where they were from, they answered the likes of “mountains”, “vale”, “sea”, “lake”, “ice”, “grass”. Truly, they spanned the world, and while their numbers were few, they were protected by their wisdom and knowledge of the arcane. This, it was certain of. So its metaphorical face turned back to its master and spoke, “Now… Learn… Together.” Warm and pleasant winds blew from its branches towards the miasma. “Gratitude… Overflowing.”

With a nod and a pulse from his great eye, the Deity of Form retreated, leaving the Sages to their discourse as he traveled across the shard and back into his mountain.

Summary

Due to strange arcane phenomena, one of the Kel'a Maeori trees--rather than being struck down by a tremendous burst of magical power--is made conscious, becoming the first of many Sage Trees. Calling out through the network, the tree, Lithulmisomilin, desires companions and soon Malath Kaal takes notice. Heeding the call, he arrives, listens to his newborn son and fulfills his dearest wish. Thus many such Sage trees are created from his preexisting children and a method is bestowed by which they might accrue sapience with time.

Might

0MA - Some Kel'a Maeori Trees are given sapience.

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay, Mk. V

The Primal

Theme

_{^{He Who Twists and Breaks and Changes}}

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^{The Primal | The Great Presence | Moniker | The Formless Flesh | The Unbound}

The Domain of Form

The primordial ooze from which life once sprung, the Domain of Form is just as one might think: that which presides over all living shapes. It is the domain of flesh, and blood, and bone. It is the flexing of muscles, the products of glands, the vessel for consciousness, and the foundation of all life. Sa'a Malath Kaal is both the quintessential source of primal physicality and the legacy of that which coalesced from the remnants of the decaying cosmos and its forgotten gods. With this power he can mold the shape of all that lives so long as from substance it was wrought. From this primordial ooze a vital essence erupts, which by his will arises as beings of great variance in form, size, or function. However only the forms that living, evolving flesh might take can be rendered from this essence and so is the Deity of Form bound by its own essential nature.

Yet as the Domain of Form--as understood by the deific intellect of the Great Presence--begets shape and function, so too does it dictate evolution and change. It is the shifting of the body from parent to child and the gift of metamorphosis. Similarly, it is the curse of deserved (but oft unwanted) transmutation of limb or spine or fang. Just as from that wellspring did all forms once coalesce, so too may it transform them.

TL;DR

The Domain of Form is concerned, mechanically, with all things biological with a particular focus on the process of metamorphosis and/or evolution. The domain may be used to influence the shape, size, and function of organisms, as well as to outright create such. It is limited by its nature as it cannot create non-biological entities though it has the capacity to interface with them by creating organic structures that can interact with said forces or beings.

Persona

A form in flux, a mind to match, Malath Kaal is an entity engrossed in its own nature, in the endless possibilities of Form, concerned with life (but not worried by it). He is a being interested in balance and imbalance, predation and prey—survival and alteration and change. The Great Presence, the Formless Flesh, the Unbent, the Primal is intrigued by mortalkind, be it their minds, the forms, or even those instinct-driven beasts that live in the wild--or the many florae they devour.

So say his edicts: Living is essential; Metamorphosis divine.

-- Myth --
The Tale of Tsa Merek

[+]

A long journey was behind him for it had been an arduous trek from his homeland across rivers, around lakes, and through treacherous plains filled with predators in a world that was not kind to those few left to inhabit it. It had been after months that he'd finally stood before the great mountain that his people revered, the place known as the Black Maw. From afar it had seemed almost normal, though vastly greater in size than its many peers which stretched from east to west to either side of the monolithic peak. Now however, from so close, Tsa Merek beheld the truth.

Before him opened a perfect parabola, an arch, a gateway beyond which light seemed not to pass. Above it was the mountain, its peak stretching past clouds and into the blue skein of the heavens. Unlike its slate grey relatives with their reddened cliffs and white snow-capped peaks, the entirety of this mountain seemed as if it had been wrought from the night sky, but bereft of stars. It was utterly black from base to tip, and had it not been midday Merek might have missed the deeper darkness of its entrance.

To look upon it was to glimpse the threshold between the mortal world and the divine, it was to peer into an unknown beyond which one could not fathom the contents of the world. Merek swallowed hard, feeling bile travel down his throat, going back from where it had risen. The sensation reminded him of the stories their shaman had told him of the Primal's wrath.

"To gain the Ire of the Unbound God is to open oneself to the fullness of its attention. For his gaze to fall upon you is to feel the writhing of your flesh as it is twisted against your will. Malath will change you without care, its intentions beyond any mortal's ability to comprehend. Know this, Tsa Merek, to pass beyond the threshold of the Black Maw is to step into the domain of that god. To stand in the Primal's abode is to invite his judgment. Step lightly and speak with only truth and conviction. Do not lie, Merek. Do not lie, for to do so is to invite the wrath of eons into your body."

They were words he could not have forgotten. Even when his memory had begun to fail him he had repeated them, he had scratched them into stone, then into his flesh. They were engraved upon his chest. Not so he could read them, but so he knew the meaning was writ upon his being.

He took a breath and stepped beyond the threshold of the Maw; what awaited him was silence, stillness, and an impossible abyss. The ground was cold and level, perfectly smooth, but as he continued forwards, reeling in the dark, it warmed beneath his feet. Slowly it seemed almost to come alive as a gentle thrumming pulse beat a soothing rhythm against his soles. He grit his teeth and barely breathed, terrified by the black. He faltered, glancing back only to find that no exit remained behind him. Where before the threshold once had stood, there was only endless black, as with every other direction.

Turning back around, he remained still, unable to move. He was terrified, moreso than he had imagined he would be. In that moment he thought--no, he was certain--that he was going to die. Then the silence broke and the mountain shook as the Black Maw--Se'raa Kelet--spoke.

"Tsa Merek. Seeker, Father, Adherent," the voice said, shaking his bones with its vibration. The darkness changed, but Merek could not decide how, for no light had entered the god's domain. Unsure what else to do, the man moved slowly to his knees, prostrating himself before the force he had come there to entreat.

"Please," Tsa Merek said, his voice feeling tinny and small, his ears still ringing from the thunder of the Maw. For a time there was no response, in fact no sound at all, and then something slipped against him, fluttering across the cloth of his back. He shuddered as--moments later--the sound of something huge dragging lithely across smooth stone emanated from behind him.

Slowly more sounds faded into his awareness, each accompanied by the churning of the air as if something unfathomably vast was moving through the chamber.

"Seeker of protection, O' ye of tested faith," began the low drone of that titanic voice, its sound sonorous and primal. "Mah Lia you have abandoned, left behind in your home of earth. Your people did you depart, seeking out divines with which to consort. Seeking aid, seeking miracles unearned."

Though he could not see, Merek's eyes widened at each utterance of the voice, his heart growing panicked and frantic in its rhythm.

"Begging you kneel before me, your convictions frail as grass or leaves or silt."

Directly before him something struck the stone. It did not crack, but the sheer force of the thing pushed him back as wind blasted from its point of contact. Curling in on himself as he recovered, Tsa Merek peered desperately into the dark, seeking any sign of hope.

"Please," he whimpered, terror in his tone, "...I came only for my people, to save them from famine and from drought."

The sounds stopped and stillness returned.

The shadows unfurled and from them emerged a symbol. Merek gasped.

The Eye of Malath had opened before him and briefly beyond its glowing gaze the man had glimpsed a vessel of monolithic size. It coiled and writhed and twisted through the chamber, its many limbs pressed against the walls and floor. Yet, he had caught only the barest image of the Deity of Form, seen only a silhouette frozen in two moments before the light became a blinding brightness that shook his mind and body both.

"Seeker. Father. Faithful child, protector of the weak," proclaimed the Eye.

Merek did not hear the words, he felt them in his bones. He heard them with his flesh, they tingled across his skin and rippled in waves throughout his mind and every neuron in his form. The light grew and its glow suffused him, filled him, lifted him from the ground. He opened his mouth, but could not scream or speak or cry. His body shook, but not from fear, no; it was like every iota of his being was vibrating with the power of that deific entity before him. Yet, something was wrong, deeply wrong, for his mind--his awareness of himself--faded as the power grew in intensity and size.

'No!' his mind screamed out, but there came no response and soon the man-who-was-not-a-man, who had once been Merek, had forgotten his distress and even why he might have felt it.

---

For many days after he wandered the land, trekking across the wilderness, through storm and flame and snow, until finally, he came upon a village. Red-leaved trees and buried houses which perhaps once were carved from stone. A sense of familiarity came upon him and with it came the light. Kindled within him, it grew and grew...and grew. No, it was he who changed as the light added to his bulk even moreso than before. Once more he forgot his former shape, becoming sluggish in his expanse. In time, the sweat from his many glands fed the earth around what the man Merek had once known as his home. Plants grew and the people--once his family and his friends--took of his flesh to feed upon.

As they rose from the darkness of their homes and cast aside the misery of starvation a feeling came upon the man who had a beast become; Satisfaction.

Visage

[+]

The Primal

Formless, yet possessed of all that flesh might birth, the True Form of Malath Kaal is one both of endless metamorphosis and imperceptible stability. Ever-shrouded by a blanket of midnight fog, attempting to behold the Great Presence in its entirety is an impossibility. Instead, one catches only glimpses, hears only the sounds of claws grinding, flesh slithering, and limbs skittering over surfaces. Eyes and lengths of winding viscera and bone, skin or muscle are seen, but never all at once. Utterly an enigma, the shape of this God of Form is its own contradiction for while it is ever-changing, it too is utterly unchanged, remaining always in a static form whose various aspects cross between the perceptible and the unseen at the slightest whim or provocation--or so one might theorize.

The Eye of Malath

[+]

Image courtesy of the amazingly skilled CorrosiveCherri!
_vvv ^{Click for full preview.} _vvv

The Primal simplified, the Eye of Malath is a symbol of variable size, color, and luminosity that can appear before those upon which the Great Presence’s attention falls. While not precisely a form in the truest sense, it is instead a non-physical projection of the god’s awareness, appearing only where its awareness is most focused. This state of being is possessed of strange properties, as it is unburdened by the limitations of flesh and of anonymity that the True Form imposes upon the Primal. Thus, the Eye can pass beyond barriers, solid or energetic, or even interpose itself upon the forms of entities less than divine. Though all forms of Malath have the capacity to invoke drastic and incredible changes upon the vessels of living things, it is the Eye that can do so with no more than the faintest touch from the strange illumination it emits.

Divinus: The Deity Roleplay, Mk. V

Among the Teeth

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The revelry had lasted for quite some time, but joy waned; reason surged, and the Vhan-ka realized their shift in situation. The stone beneath their feet no longer remained utterly level and smooth. When they moved, they heard the edges of the cavern, and indeed, no longer was it lightless. While many of their ilk grew worried as their contentment faded and reality set in, their leader remained calm and resolute.

Once-Fein--Meae Natah-- looked with his trio of eyes about the room. Finally, he beheld once more the world in truth. Unlike his clansmen, who he had led for generations, Meae understood the gifts he'd been given, for it was not his first encounter with divinity. Patiently he watched the others--the man he'd come to know as a brother, the woman who he knew cared for him beyond a friend--as they reoriented themselves and began to panic. As he observed their faces, he knew how they must feel. He knew that their every instinct told them that they'd left behind protection, that they were lost and would not be found again. Meae saw in the growing whites of their eyes an old fear, fostered by entities both ravenous and strange.

However, he knew something they could not: They had a second chance now.

"What are we to do?!" One called out through the dim murk of the cave, his voice a frantic whisper.

"I cannot run any longer," another said, and there were tears in the child's eyes. Reborn or not, these people were tired.

"...my belly yet aches, despite that being." A girl who might grow to be a woman in a year or three said, her voice a quiet plea, a somber echo of long-carried misery.

Meae let their words touch him; he let their emotions suffuse his skin. He let their worries briefly slide amongst his bones--eyes closed in contemplation--then he shed them. Silence cut off any further protest from his tribe, and they looked to him. There were no gasps, but something in them changed as they saw him. Before he had been an ageless figure, a symbol of survival and stability in a harsh and unforgiving world, a world tearing at every seam. Yet, he had been flawed as any of them, as if he too had barely held himself together. They had respected him, and he had been an ideal they could aspire to, but not out of reverence or awe as beyond all else, he had been one of them. Imperfect. Human. Beaten down. Exhausted. It had been his perseverance and his ageless nature that had struck a chord in them. Now? Now he was different. He was more.

Before, he'd been a living idol to perseverance--an old and weathered bulwark against a storm that might soon break him. Now it was as if he had been utterly renewed. There was no strangeness in him as they looked, for it was almost as if they'd known--somehow--that he'd always had three eyes and skin of shifting pearlescent black. They'd known he had power beyond their knowledge, but it had always seemed to drain him as if every time he used it, the magic aged him many years. Now, as Meae raised a hand, there was magic inherent in the movement, something otherworldly living alongside him in his skin, bound by his Will.

"So we will not run," Meae said.

His flesh pulsed with unearthly light, and his eyes grew effervescent as burning stars.

"But we cannot fight them--..." one said.

"We can," he replied.

Meae's light filtered outwards through the dim-lit cavern and touched each of them in turn. With its caress across their skin, eyes drifted shut, and breaths caught or blew away. Their age-old tension left them, each and every one until there was only stillness. Then, where it had lived, hope appeared within them.

Meae smiled and strode out from the cavern. They followed, no longer daunted by the cold wind's bite or the beasts that lurked beyond.

They would not run any longer.

It was time to fight for what was theirs.

---

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The Unheard Dirge

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Once, the world had been new, and upon its surface had lived an endless deluge of prey. Their minds had spread all across the globe and penetrated beyond its unseen seam. Then they'd had another name--those beasts--a name feared, reviled, cursed. Yet in those ages, they'd been little more than thought-forms bereft of bone or vicious flesh with which to thirst.

And yet...

Yet they'd known hunger.

Terrible, all-consuming need.

To be full, to be whole, but this power was not theirs, so endlessly they'd had to feed.

Then, in time, into vessel's they slipped, finding purchase 'pon that aging, forgotten land.

And yet...

Yet, they could not feed for the apocalypse had come.

Of course, worlds may tremble, men might fall, stone might crumble--the forgotten gods could flee--but their flesh, their minds, their hunger...these things could last an eternity.

So it was that those beings, the Unfulfilled, children of Dream's flesh, had survived unscathed throughout the dread apocalypse.

Yet now, though flesh they had to devour and predate, they found that so few lives remained to plunder and so once more their hunger they could not sate.

And yet...

They ate.

They ate.

They ate.

Too late.

Too late.

---

Among the Teeth

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A thing lurked upon a mountain’s peak but remained unseen. It hailed from a realm beyond the pale where seldom mortals tread. It knew their minds, those delicious treats. It knew desire and thought and emotion too. Now, it was more than these for flesh had it been gifted, yet even such a gracious gift could not leave its mind uplifted.

For it was a fire in the chest, seething, seeking to destroy. It was what might kindle fury or revenge. Red and black were its colors. Blood, fire, and decay. Its eyes they reviled, its talons twisted, and muscles gripped and tore. As it lusted after targets, it swore and swore and swore. Pure malice: Discontent. Vile, putrid mind-rot, and yet in this beast, it would not relent.

Head rising, wrought of black and silver bone, the beast sniffed the mountain air and smelled something it could not bear.

Joy. Contentment. Hope. ‘Disgusting pestilence,’ it thought. Yet these things were held by living beings with minds that it still sought.

So it opened churning eyes, casting mind's gaze across mountains and snowing skies. With supernatural ease, the beast rose then before its talons tore the earth. In moments it vanished downwards, drilling through soil and stone, like knives cut at supple meat. With violence, it destroyed, ate, and expelled the shard's decaying peat.

Soon, it knew, soon…it would eat.

---

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Up a rocky ridge, through snow and gale, they trod. It was a perilous path, but they struggled no more. Their steps were sure, their minds at peace, and in them burned the warmth of hope.

The tribe did not know precisely where they were headed, but they trusted Meae Natah; he’d never led them astray. To follow him was easier than to again consider the coward's path: To cower and to flee. No more, they thought as one—no more running.

Far ahead, just behind Meae's brother—if not by blood, then by bond—considered the changes in himself and in his kin. Vham Ane he had been, but now it did not fit. In his skin, he felt a strength beyond his own, beyond a normal man's. He knew that he could run farther than before, that he could leap farther, higher, and land as if with practiced ease. The cold bit at his skin, but it no longer felt like shearing claws that sought to tear away his vital heat. The world seemed brighter, but above all else, there was something in him that he did not understand.

Power.

"Brother," Meae said, and his voice cut through the wind without great volume or any sign of strain. "What shall I call you now?"

"I'm not sure," he replied, and in his voice, he found strength he’d never known. He heard it clearly and knew that so too could his kin. "This is all so strange; I don't understand what we've been given."

Meae did not respond, but his tattoos pulsed, and the light melted snow and warmed the air around him. “In the time before,” he began, and the wind carried his words to all, “I could cast my Will upon the world and bend it to my desires.” He let the words linger in the chill wind as it danced about them, creating intricate flurrying patterns from the snow.

"They called us Willcasters, and I am the last of them. This power...what we've been given, it's different somehow, but similar." Meae stopped then, turning to his brother. "Open yourself to it," the Willcaster said, and his brother complied without thought.

A warmth rose in his chest, then a glow touched his flesh, and he felt a tingling in his feet, through his shoes. Somehow, then, he felt the earth beneath him, vast and without clear thought. Meae nodded then spoke, his words a command, "Bind it!"

Meae's brother gaped, unsure what he should do exactly, but nonetheless, he tried. He focused his mind, his awareness, and with a glacial slowness, the wind around him stilled. The glow of his flesh suffused the air, creating a glowing halo that increased in brilliance by the moment. Then the light flashed, winking out into oblivion.

"I am Ka-Vhalen," Meae's brother said, and as the words left his lips, he felt that the power had not vanished when the light had. No, it still built around him, and soon the air creaked with the force of his Will, begging to be released.

So he did.

Casting a hand to the side, he cast his power out. What followed was the rapid movement of wind and snow like a tearing gale that rose upwards in a pillar of force as if some titanic beast had erupted from the earth with great violence. Ka-Vhalen stared at the result of his actions before turning his gaze down to his own hands. When he looked up at his brother, he found Meae smiling.

"My power was one of attunement. I believe yours is similar, but know this...it is not the same. I command the world with my Will, but you...you are doing something else," he said, then looked past Vhalen and to the rest of the tribe. "Each of you has this strength within you. I know not its limits--not yet--but I know that it should come to you with ease. Often, the gifts of the gods desire to be used more than anything."

Meae turned his gaze cast elsewhere. "Today, we test those gifts. Brace yourselves; our enemy approaches."

Rha Lia stepped up, putting a hand to Meae's shoulder, standing with him. For a moment, she regarded him before—with a worried caste to her features—she followed his gaze. "Who are they?" She asked, an old part of her dreading the answer, knowing the truth.

"This one is Hatred," Natah responded.

Lia frowned.

Soon after, the earth shook beneath them; the tribe hardly stumbled. Far off, birds took off, fleeing from Hatred's gaze.

Then Hatred arrived.

Stone shattered, snow shot upwards towards the sky, and a terrible sound reached their ears. It was like a scream, a roar, like a rock being crushed. The snow cleared, and what lay behind it was unveiled to them. Some few among the tribe stepped back, but none ran.

What stood before them, pulling its jagged, jet black skeleton from the mountain's flesh, was indeed a horror to behold. It stood on four painfully thin limbs, its body devoid of any true meat. Instead, it possessed numerous stringy sinews that blew in the harsh mountain wind. Blood dripped from it and froze in the air before boiling away into steam from the incredible heat it expelled with every breath. Its head was like the skull of some long-abused creature that had long ago been slain and buried. It had long curving horns with spines that zigzagged every which way as they swept back from its skull as if they sought to cut away at the very air around it.

It stood atop not two or four limbs, but six, each ending in thin digits possessed each with eight talons. Spikes and frayed frills protruded from its spine, and though there was little-to-no flesh elsewhere, something grotesque protruded from its midsection, like a distended stomach or the overripe belly of a woman soon to give birth. Behind it whipped and twitched a sinuous tail that seemed composed of intertwined bones that wove and jutted out at strange unnatural angles. This creature prowled several meters off, knowing somehow that there was a difference in these beings, sensing the Power sleeping therein.

It snarled and snapped at the air, then it reared up, frills flaring out, spines bristling, and roared a thunderous melody, its voice rife with maladies unending.

"Run, chattel; Flee or fight! I will subsume you all the same!"

Then it lunged at Lia, who had stepped away from the others, terror in her eyes. The wind howled, the earth shook, her muscles grew taut as the beast hurtled through the air like a black flash of hateful lightning.

Ka-Vhalen met its charge, his body a blurring burst of movement as he pushed from the earth and slammed a fist of coiled Power into the beast, sending it careening off its course. Other members of the tribe stepped forwards, calling out. Some cheered.

Vhalen landed between his Lia and the vile beast, which reared up again and shrieked, its voice cutting at their nerves.

Lia's every breath was ragged, but she grew steadier by the moment, and before long, she took a step forward. Ka-Vhalan looked at her, and she nodded, then both smiled and joined hands. Meae simply watched as a gale stirred at the feet of the pair.

Sensing the disturbance, the beast's gaze turned to a glare, the churning orange of their unearthly glow somehow diminishing even the happiness in their hearts. Vhalen and Lia faltered as it touched upon their minds.

At this, Meae spoke.

"Stand firm."

So they did, steel creeping into their eyes as they fought against the monster's insidious psychic snare. The world began to warp and flicker in the space between their gazes; the snow melted and froze, the wind whipped about then died. Snow trembled at their feet, freezing in strange patterns even as some of it melted and flowed as water across the stone and dirt. A red haze crept across the pair's vision, and black overtook the natural hues of their eyes. The beast took a step towards them, then another.

Once more, the wind howled and whined, but now the tribe knew it for what it was: The laughter of the beast.

That knowledge was all it took to shatter the illusion. The pair needed their help, so they ran.

Yet none fled, for each and every one charged the beast, crossing the distance in mere moments. It roared, but the sound cut off as fists and blasts of Power beat upon its form, driving it back. It snarled in disgust, lashing out with tooth and claw and tail, but they fought on.

Unbidden, a voice pressed upon its mind. 'Too late,' it said, and there was a smile in the sound. For a blessed moment, despite all the horrors it had wrought in its long existence, it felt at peace. Then hunger and pain tore through it, body and mind, and its form surged with a terrible blazing black. The flames scorched the earth and took several tribesmen by surprise, searing them to ash.

It roared, and the sound scattered clouds. It shrieked, and eardrums ruptured. It growled, and hearts stuttered in their rhythmic dance.

Only then did Meae move.

One step was all he took, but in that movement, there was a quiet ancient grace. As he shifted the position of his arms, opening his mouth, the world held still. In an exhaled breath, his voice blossomed outwards in a wordless song of pent-up righteous fury. It was the sound of one once deprived of beauty, a man who had persevered despite it, who had preserved others at the cost of himself. It harmonized with the heartsong of the hateful beast, but not for long.

Erupting into a rising note, the sound tore away at Hatred's flesh; it rent his spirit, it flayed his sinew and burned his mind. Black and silver bone was shaved away, flames of pitch were doused, and strength fled his every limb. He fell, collapsing to the earth as if a colossal weight had struck it down from far above.

The song stopped, replaced only by the soft crunching of snow beneath one man's feet. Hatred looked up with the last of its strength, its eyes only faintly burning. There it glimpsed the 'Caster's solemn smile.

"I forgive you," the man said, and those words they slew the beast.

In a blinding flash, its entire body decayed away to smoke and mist. What was left behind was but a vestige of the thing. Its orange gaze fell upon Meae before it too was turned to pure quintessence.

A long silence descended as the tribe looked then upon the bones of their ancient foe. It was naught but ash now, blown swiftly away by the wind. The beasts were no more remarkable than men, it seemed, just as fallible, just as flawed, and mortal in their way. Strangely, despite their victory, not one of them felt the need to celebrate or cheer. For, despite their age-old rivalry, those men--in that moment--had discovered an unexpected kinship. So, rather than joy, they felt only a displaced and disconcerting sadness.

Still, they had only a moment before Meae turned and continued on. As before, they followed, but now in utter silence, reflecting on that moment.

After all, without their notice...everything had changed.

Summaries

Post Summary

The Vhan-ka realized that they are no longer within Malath Kaal’s divine sanctuary, and so they begin to fret, only to be reassured by their leader. He leads them out of their new cave in an effort to teach them of the strength they now possess.

Not too far off, a being of Dream and Hunger possessed of flesh catches wind of their delicious scent. Soon, the beast and those long hunted by his kind meet, and conflict ensues between them. After a struggle and some fatalities, Meae intervenes, and all come away from the encounter, having learned something new. Still, oddly, not all are entirely sure what that lesson was.