Gods of the Galaxy (IC) - A Solar System of Supernaturals

[Gengy]

GODS OF THE GALAXY
Part 1 - Be Still, my Great Heart

The Chitori were a race of large eared, leathery skinned, pug nosed people. They had no eyes, for they had no need of them. Their large mouths were a perfect circle shape when fully opened, and the sounds they could make produced an echolocation that was perfect for their otherwise dark world. Among Cosmos, the Chitori were the only ones whom could fly on their own power. With their ability to use echolocation, and the lack of the need to breathe in space, they were able to fly in the complete blackness of space.

It gave their Hero and Emperor, Gotori the Only, a huge advantage when he set out to conquer other nations. He and the Guard of Gotori would flap their proud wings far higher than any other Chitori, and Gotori, with his massive echolocation abilities, never lost ‘sight’ of the planet or the objective. Under his lead, he and the Guard would swoop in on other Chitori nations and the conquest would be over before it began.

Had Gotori known of other planets, he likely would have swiftly gathered his Chitori Empire and conquered everything. Given a few years, with nothing else to fight, he and his Guard would have begun to explore the universe, and with their ability of flight, they would have been nigh unstoppable in the darkness of Cosmos.

But there was the pulse of a heartbeat, and Gotori died. So did the Chitori. Even their leathery bones are dust.

Among the Ole’mis, Ko’tak was revered as a living Goddess. Her powerful claws could dig through anything, and the bulky fat of her body was fit with muscles that no other Ole’mis had. She was a stunning example of her race, and each who dared challenge her dominance was soon slain by tooth or claw.

The Ole’mis lived among the soil, and had no need of weakness. If you could not dig yourself out of the birthing den, then you died there. If you managed to survive – crawl out of the hard packed soil of the den – then a den mother would find you in the tunnels, and show you how to better use your claws, and how to pray to Ko’tak for her blessing.

Ko’tak remembered fondly of her time in the birthing den. She had not crawled out of the soil. She had survived by being strong enough to command those of her siblings to craft a larger tunnel that would not collapse. It was by Ko’tak’s will that they began to use stones as supports in tunnels, and by Ko’tak’s will did they go into the Above, where there was no dirt to swim through, to search for more stones and other things that could make into tools.

Given time, Ko’tak would have led her people to the skies, and there were very few who would be able to match her wits or her prowess. She and the Ole’mis would have dominated the soil of any planet they came across, by the feel of their claws alone. They had no need of sight or sound.

They did have need of touch, though. They felt a wave of fire, and Ko’tak died. All the Ole’mis died. They were returned to the soil they had labored to live inside, before it too was burned and broken.

Within the asteroid fields of Cosmos, there was a race of leathery scaled, slithering beings that called themselves Jumpers. They could coil their whole bodies up, and licking the air around them, they would smell the next asteroid, and spring over to it, through the blackness of space. The Jumpers were peaceful, and though their jaws could unhinge to consume mineral deposits five times their size, they savored each mineral, and stored them away, so that all among the Jumpers might enjoy the richest of foods.

This was by orders of the wise Hacht, oldest among the Jumpers, and He Who was Everlasting. The tales said that Hacht’s real form was that of the asteroid belt itself, and that it had coiled into a single circle that swirled around all of Cosmos. Hacht denied these claims, stating that a healthy diet and an understanding of the universe was what kept him alive; he could not, however, deny that he had lived among the asteroid fields through more Hatching Cycles than any other Jumper.

Still, when another of his race would ask for his wisdom, he would lick the air, and taste their sincerity. If he found them unworthy, he would answer their questions, and they would be sent on their way, to bound between asteroids until they found him again. If, however, they were found worthy, Hacht would invite them to join him, and together, they would leap through space until the worthy one made its final leap into the unknown. Hacht had always considered doing the same, but his people needed him. And until he found a truly worthwhile successor, he would remain. He would not begin his drift into the unknown just yet.

With their longevity of life, and the wisdom of millenniums, the Jumpers could have overrun the universe; perhaps that might not have been so terrible, with Hacht in charge. His code of morals and ethics were what made many among the Jumpers consider him still the most worthy among them to lead.

However, they heard the sound of a single heartbeat, and then tasted fire, and the asteroid belt was washed away. Hacht died. The Jumpers died. Even those who had been adrift in space, contemplating the great unknown, had also died.

Konsuum knew only hunger. He had been born many feastings ago, and his rows upon row of scars were only beaten in number by the rows of teeth he had inside of his gigantic body. He had beaten and eaten all that he had come across, and now he hungered.

Konsuum did not know that he was the last of his race. He did not care. He only knew that his gigantic body, with its thousands of legs, had propelled him around the entirety of this tiny ball that had once been so vast and huge to him. He had begun eating it, when he could find nothing else on the planet to satisfy his hunger.

After what must have been months, he found the spicy core of the planet to his liking. It fought with fire as it went down his massive gullet, and the burning sensation felt wonderful. How could it not, after feeling nothing but emptiness inside himself for countless moments. Konsuum devoured it, and found himself adrift. He could see nothing. He could feel nothing. He could eat nothing.

Had he had any form of intelligence, Konsuum might have sought other tiny balls, with other things to eat on them. He might have opened his great maw, and swallowed a planet whole, savoring the heat of the core as it burned on the way down.

It was not the sound of the heartbeat that slew Konsuum. It was not the fire that purged him, though it did break down his remains into pieces smaller than atoms. With nothing to eat, and a hunger to fill, Konsuum found his massive tail, and reveled in eating it and each of his thousands of legs, one by one, until he died by his own teeth.

----------------------

Cosmos was a vast and uncontained sprawling section of the universe. It held many wonders, many planets, and many powerful beings that could shape the very Cosmos themselves. These beings were leaders, tyrants, hermits, socialites, young, old, and any number of other things. They were known for their wisdom, their courage, their tenacity, and above all, their power.

There were none whom could combat them, save themselves; none whom could harm them, and few whom would dare try. So it came as something of a shock when they all died. For the first time ever, there was light. Pulsing within the center of Cosmos, filled with the energy of the power of all those beings that could not be harmed, a giant light filled Cosmos with warmth and pushed back the darkness.

It was dubbed The Great Heart, and it filled Cosmos with heat and brightness. It was an apt name. The Great Heart was slow to beat, but it did. Once.

With a vast pulse of fire, and accompanied by the soft sound of one single heartbeat, all that was in Cosmos died. The Great Heart remained. The new Cosmos was born. It held many new wonders, many planets, and again, the power was distributed back to their sources. Upon each planet, power surged. Some of those planets would come to know consciousness almost instantly. They would witness the budding growth of life upon their planet, shape it to their liking, and be content. Other planets would focus their power upon one being; one worthy vessel that could receive all that was the power of their very essence. If no worthy vessel were found, they could wait. Some even shaped their own vessels, and these avatars strode the surface as the representatives of the will of the planets.

The consciousness of each planet knew many different things, but each held the following to their core: They were not in darkness. They were not alone. There was hope. Fear was far away, and Death traveled the Cosmos equally.

The planets and their godly representatives knew these things from the moment they awoke. They knew these things as though something had written them within their very hearts, and to them, this knowledge was a powerful motivator. Each planet reacted in a slightly different way, once the knowledge came to them.

It was this knowledge that tied them together, bound them as more than just a solar system. It was this knowledge that made them share their stories into one great tale, as Gods of the Galaxy.

But first… they must Wake.

Join us in the OOC (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?337835-Gods-of-the-Galaxy-(OOC))

[Yuki Akuma]

The Waking of Zermaius

"This is the truth of our beginning.

Once there was a world. A young world, its surface more liquid than solid, barren of life. The world was content to spin in its place in the Cosmos, never once considering what could be beyond it.

Years passed. The world's surface slowly cooled, becoming fixed in place. The world continued to spin and fly through the Cosmos, delighting in the warmth of the Great Heart, never once considering what could be beyond it.

Then, one day, the world was struck. A chunk of rock and ice from space impacted its surface, sending volcanic shards up into its cloud-choked atmosphere. The world immediately realised this wasn't part of itself. It wasn't the Great Heart, either. Perhaps it was a star?

The world sent its own heart to investigate. The world's heart marveled at the chunk of rock and ice that had struck it. It reached out its hand, and burned itself on the heat of the rapidly-melting ice and still-solid rock.

It reacted with shock for a moment, then reached out again. It looked up into the sky, and began to consider what could be beyond it." - Sacred Maiden Aerewyn, the Book of Origin


"The world sent its heart out for the third time. The heart flew up high into the air, parting the clouds as it went. It frowned at what it saw. Black clouds of ash and poisonous gasses, not letting the light of the Great Heart shine down on the surface.

The heart of the world took a breath, and choked as ash and poisonous gas flowed into its lungs. Tears rolled down its face. In a sudden rage, it swepts its hands outward, collecting up all the ash and gas into its hands. It then flew down to the surface, and hurled the ball of gas and ash away into the sky.

The ball became stuck to the sky, floating around the world as a satellite. At last the sky was clear, and the Great Heart's rays could shine down on the surface." - Sidhe Sage Selene, the Book of Origin


"The seventh time the world sent out its heart, it returned to the meteor that had jarred it awake so many cycles ago. The chunk of ice and rock had become a jagged chunk of rock surrounded by a small pool of water.

The world's heart reached out its hand to touch the rock. The rock was jagged and sharp - the world's heart cut its hand, its blooding dripping to the earth.

The world's heart reached out its hand to touch the water. It was cool now. The world's heart looked at the pool of water for a few moments, and then decided that it should be bigger.

The world's heart soared into the air, and out into space. It searched for the comets it had spent its fourth adventure dancing amongst. It took hold of one of the comets, and fashioned it into a rope. It swung the rope around its head, and captured the other comets, before hurling them down to the planet below.

The chunks of ice and rock impacted with the world, causing a large gash in its surface. Ice and water erupted up into the air, before falling back to the ground, forming lakes, rivers and oceans.

The world's heart returned to the first meteor. He found, by his feet, a pool of blood - from the cut on his hand. Within the pool, there was a single green stalk." Sidhe Sage Aeribeth, the Book of Life

[Draken]

Nyttårsfestivalen

The violet flame draws long shadows to itself from those who sit around this campfire in Isenvei, it gives light in the long, frigid night of the ice world, but no heat, such is the nature of rimefire ignited from bracken oil distilled from the droppings of gigantic Frost Worms that roam the wastes. This fire belongs to a sauran tribe, hardy folk of Isenvei that they are, clad in scales and sometimes in their own shells, as well as in the leathers and furs of the glacial fauna they hunt. The sauran are the chosen people of Isenvei, those who were five times exalted in the eyes of the Voranakk, for fortitude, cunning, wisdom, guile and resourcefulness, and gifted with its infinite favor.

Who is the Voranakk, you may ask? The Voranakk is Isenvei, of course.

This tribe marches as all tribes march at least once every five years to the mountain at the roof of the world, the geographical tip of Isenvei which sees day and night only once every year, each. At the front of that mountain is a cavern so vast and so deep that the light of the first day of the year can only barely reach its deepest space to draw forth the titan within. This pilgrimage is a festival in which the young of Isenvei learn from the thundering mouth of God the history of their world, and all men and women of Isenvei are reminded of the power and glory of That Which Holds Dominion, The Frost Leviathan, The Voranakk.

Those who arrived early have begun setting up the grounds for the world-spanning festival. The priesthood keeps accurate numbers of the population of Isenvei and of which of the roaming tribes will be attending that year as well as how many caravans will be coming from which of the cities great cities of Isenvei. It is hard work that demands preparation all year long, but the results are worth it, such feel the clerics who take up this task and see it through.

The towers of Storhelligby rise from the sides of the mountain, it is the most vast and ancient of settlements in Isenvei, and some dare say of the whole of Cosmos. The city houses the priesthood of the Voranakk and all others who serve in the great bureaus that govern all aspects of life in Isenvei, from highest heaven to lowest fathom, all things answer to the eyes of Weather, Knowledge, Destiny, Divinity and Mortality.

After months of preparation and weeks of setup, the festival of the New Year is ready to begin. On the first rows at the front of the great cavern are the young, behind them are those who are at their peak, and those who are oldest of all sit on either side, each to watch the great spectacle from a different angle. All expectant.

The earth shakes.

Isenvei trembles as the mountain rises. Snow gathered from a long year of storms pushed to the edges is shaken off by powerful limbs that have heaved continents over the course of millennia. The cavern at the front rises meters above the ground and breaks the sheets of ice that formed at its entrance. The Voranakk makes itself known to a new generation of sauran.

As a vast serpent would, a great thing slithers from the cavern before the Voranakk, it is plated and tipped by an elongated visage, with forever-smiling sharp teeth, and it takes place at the far right of the God-monster. It is Shakkal, Whose Will Shatters The Land and The Sky.

On the far left, slithers out of the cavern another vast thing. Covered in scaly hide bearing a short head with no visible teeth and a crest of spines rises Gorgokkon, Whose Counsel Begets All Glory and All Greatness.

Next to Shakkal comes a third long neck. Bearing plating of smooth ice in a rounded head with a great beak and small, black eyes, rises Tortokk, Who Knows All There Is and Shall Know All There Will Be.

By Gorgokkon rises a fourth serpentine head. Doubly so, this one, for it has the visage of a cobra with a stretched hood. Dulkkes, Whose Whispers Incite Propriety looks down upon its people with a more stern glare than the rest of itself.

And last at the center slowly surges Mekkari, Whose Design Is Absolute. Frilled Horns standing back as the head roams low above the assembled people, its great eyes measuring the crowd. Before rising to stand tall and proud among the others.

The Great Heart rises and the Voranakk roars, every adult roars with it, the voice of a world drowned by the voices of its world.

Festivities begin.

[Raz_Fox]

First Part of the Shogeoni: Creation

This is the first story, so sit and listen well.

When everything began, there was only Afis her own self, and she shone alone. She had no mother and no father, being self-made. Being furthermore lonely, she shook out the threads of her dress, and with them she set the wandering stars in their rounds, each to their kind. Then she breathed her breath into the wandering stars to stir them up and open their eyes. This done, she wrapped herself in light and set herself at the center of everything to wait until the cycles of her breath came back to her after passing through death, so that they could tell her such stories as she'd never heard.

Shoney-of-the-rocks took a breath on the seventh day, and knew only that he was something more than the sum of his bones and his back. Just as you are. But he didn't know what he was or what he was meant to do with his strength. And he was strong, believe you me. So he made himself into a salmon with the darkest scales you can imagine, and he burst from the earth at Shegel: that is, the Salmon's Run. From that spring, all the rivers and lakes and seas of Shoney's back spilled forth. As Shoney swam about, from his mouth came everything that swims, from the whale to the seal. But when he asked the spirits to speak to him, the Eel-spirit and the Trout-spirit, they would not speak, for they were frightened by his dark eye and his voice that was as cold the winter storm. So Shoney knew that he wasn't a spirit of the cold sea, and he looked upwards towards the gray sky.

So he made himself a raven, and his fathers were as ragged as a thing ever was. He launched himself from the waterfall at Morrey: that is, the Raven's Leap. From that leap, all the winds and storms of Shoney's back issued forth. As Shoney flew about, from his molting came everything that flies, from the eagle to the bat. But when he asked the spirits to speak to him, the Sparrow-spirit and the Hawk-spirit, they would not speak, for they were frightened by his vicious beak and his voice that was as vicious as the spring tempest. So Shoney knew that he wasn't a spirit of the harsh airs neither, and he looked down to the black soil.

So now he made himself a stag, and his antlers were as white as fresh snow on the high hills. He stamped down his hoof at Swiffet: that is, the Stag's Hill. From the caves of that hollow hill, all the roots of every tree that ever was grew forth and covered his back. As Shoney traveled through these black woods that grew thick and wild, from the prints of his hooves came everything that ran on the ground, from the goat to the wolf. But when he asked the spirits to speak to him, the Bear-spirit and the Fox-spirit, they would not speak, for they were frightened by his broad shoulders and his voice that was as dangerous as the summer fires. So Shoney knew he wasn't no beast, neither, and so he came to rest at En Morr: that is, the graveyard of the trees, where their bones lay littered all about.

"Bones I see; bones I'll shape. That's it:
all these roots dug in my broad back,
they'll be my first-shaped children, so.
First Man, up! First Woman, come out!"

So he shaped them out of the bones of trees, and under his careful hands, the bones were like reeds, able to be woven together easily and yet not break. Two nuts he pushed into the skull to be eyes, and a leaf he pressed within the mouth to be a tongue, and moss he draped over the shoulders to be hair. In this way, he made First Man and First Woman. Even so, there was no life in them, and they were cold under the light of Afis. So Shoney shook them, and he cradled them in his arms, and he begged them to stand and speak. Finally, he breathed into their mouths some small measure of the breath that Afis had hidden in him, and this stirred them to life. In the same way, you can bring life to children who are born without their proper breath, by sharing some measure of your own.

First Woman and First Man were the first of the Shaboan, and Shoney took the form that he wears these days so that he could teach them everything that they needed to know. He taught First Man how to hunt and how to make the proper offerings to the spirits of river, wind and forest. Likewise, he taught First Woman how to plant the squash and the corn, and how to shape bone and wood. First Man and First Woman taught each other how to make a child, and when they presented their child to Shoney, he asked them if they had made the child as he had made them. Their first child was named Firgith, and their second child was named Matha, and their third child was named Kullach.

But still, Shoney did not know who he was. He couldn't touch Afis, who shone at the heart of all things, and he wasn't of the same kind as First Man and First Woman. He began to see how they grew old, how the breath that sustained them began to thin and fade, and he remained the same. And though he knew the secret ways of life and could teach them, he was not a farmer, and he was not a hunter, and he was not a carver. In time, he took to wandering the heath alone, wondering who he was.

One day, Shoney his own self came to visit First Man and First Woman, and found before his eyes that First Woman was lying on a woven mat, filled with fever and trembling with weakness. Shoney knelt by her side and took her hands in his, and she said to him:

"Father, I'm blind--
I can't see your
face, your comfort.
Where is my hope?
I leave, not knowing
where I go. There
is no path through
the mist. Please, please,
don't let me go.
Keep me from death."

And in that moment, Shoney held her in his arms, and he felt her straining to get up and walk the long road. He saw the terror in her blind eyes, and he heard First Man wailing in pain at the thought of his wife's journey alone. In that moment, Shoney knew what his purpose was: he would become what First Woman needed, a guide through the dark.

"My daughter, bark-shaped sweet lass,
I'll hold your hands and guide your feet
wherever you are bound, I shall.
No matter where the road leads,
I will be there with you until
we both come to a gentle place.
No one deserves to go alone.
Quiet now. No more tears, no more
suffering; I will lead you on
to a place where there is no cold,
and neither will there be hunger.
If I am made for a purpose,
and you in turn have an ending
to your journey, then let us go
and seek such things along the road.
First Man, my son, don't you fret none.
I'll not let her from my sight, no,
and neither will she be hunted--
not while I'm at her side. On now--
I see the path that we must take."

So Shoney got up, and he led First Woman down the road that only the dead may walk. And what he saw there is between her and him, it is. But he came back, after a time, and he told First Man that the love of First Woman still beat underneath his skin, and that the things which First Woman had done would not die until their story stopped being told. First Woman remained in the shape of his cup, and the memory of her hand on his, and in the memory of the trees.

They spoke at En Morr about these things. And Shoney told First Man such things about the road that made the moss of his head turn white with fear, and assured him that the dread of his gaze had driven all evil things from First Woman's path. Further, that he had seen the lost and wailing from afar off, and there was much for him to do in the space between life and death, day and night, and road's beginning and road's end. So to the Shaboan he gave these things: stewardship over his back and the beasts of river, wind and forest; the duty to petition the spirits before the hunt; blessings of craft and seeking; the friendship of the forest forever; the long journey of the soul, to seek the shape of the story and the road. These things he gave to First Man and his children. And in the same way, these things are yours.

Matha was the first High Maharath of the Shaboan; in her honor, we name those who rule Maharath. She lived two hundred years and left with Shoney smiling after this time.

This is how the first story ends.

[Snowfire]

Sacrifice

It's the feeling of power that she remembers most from the time Before. Power and exhilaration pouring through in in equal measure, her body made light by the streamers of raw Beauty turning between her hands. Together they form a beacon of unending colours uncountable, shades and tones impossible to describe in the seeming of the Now. Sheer light invisible to all eyes but her own, pouring through the Gates down into screaming dark to drown its pain. A whirling, wraparound blaze of prismatic shattering holding tight to the worlds, a Web of unseen Beauty to hold against a gathering storm.

Step beyond the Dreaming, Child. Stretch your being and see the Beauty of rebirth.

The words she remember well too, the echoing last whisper of a mother/father/parent/carer/lady/lord. She never can tell which of those voices that it was, and when she dwells upon it that makes her sad. Yet she does as she's told (somehow) and the Careful Child peeks from one of the Gates to stare into the Heart of a dying existence. Silver eyes blink once and twice, confusion grappling with a mounting understanding that itself is set upon by a denial of agony and she tries to cry out. Except she can't. The sight before her is too much, too beautiful; for even as it heralds the death of everything it sings with a promise of Wonders anew.

The Gates seem to shiver, the Web of Beauty contracting at the Child's sudden hesitation - a mirror to her frown as she shakes free from the heart-stopping vision. Yet now that heart is torn, when it was never meant to be. The Gates always retreat in the end, with her behind them, when the time that was Then and Now came. Back to the Dreaming they flew, to keep her company in the long watches as the cosmos was reborn or another found within which to play. Safe in the Dreaming she always stayed, shaping through the Gates in a secure knowledge that the turning of Being couldn't touch her. And yet now it had. The Child's shoulders shake, tears tracing down a pale face as the choice before her registers - a choice that is in itself none at all. How could it be?

She tears her eyes from the kindling Heart to the Gates that are the Web's source and anchors, each now straining - yearning - to return to the Dreaming with her to wait in safety...and she makes a choice. It was surprisingly easy for one who could've been truly immortal. She focuses suddenly, creasing her forehead, and the flow of Beauty simply stops.

Power, nascent Wonder this time, crackles into being around the Gates as the vast constructs flash across the narrowing edges of safety, seeking the right place and the right moment for their power to be discharged. The Child runs with them, a song of a story composing effortlessly as it falls from her lips to hold a space upon which she can stand, where Wonder might flourish after death, like the seeds that spring so vibrantly from the soil of a grave. It doesn't take long. The Gates spin, turning inwards around her to each hold a point of a Sixfold Cardinal as the Wonder behind and beyond them grows in strength, each flickering through moments of time sevenfold. The Web collapses, fleeing inwards to seek its anchors and creator. And it begins.

It takes seven seconds to create the world. Seven seconds for each Gate, each of which lie far apart from any ever, woven into the reckoning of Time in a Wonder of displaced Six-and-Seven. Forty two instants, each alone and linked together in ways that defy rational understanding, not least of the Child who set her Gates to the task. But then to ask of such a Wonder is not rational, and she knows this. The Careful Child forsakes the bond of caution, taking her stand at the heart of her forging world as she dances to the song of her own heart set free. Power explodes outwards from the Great Heart, birthing in its first Heartbeat a vast wave of light shorn in crimson echoes of a wilful death that is the source of an obliterating fire.

The world shakes at the touch of the fire, yet only one of the strands to which its Wonder is bound is found in this place and instant, so it endures. Beauty burns away at its touch, fires erupting from the beginnings of a paradise that Was and Is and Shall Be, yet Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder in this place – fire itself is as beautiful as flourishing growth – and so it endures. The Child at the world’s core where she stands within Wonder in song and grace screams as it touches her, white hair staining a bloody crimson as the essence of Self beyond her core changes. And yet she, too, endures.

For as her scream pierces the bounds of sound, the Gates blaze up in reply to her pain, caring not as the Dreaming falls away from them. The immense power held within them punches out across the Void between to catch the last vestige of a turning memory. For the First Sacrifice, the Child’s Sacrifice, is worth more than a world even in defiance of annihilation. It is born of a greater surrender then simple creation, and so the Gates reach beyond themselves in a moment of timeless synchronicity, catching in their shared grasp the purest fragment of the Dreaming’s Wonder. Deeply rooted currents of energy burn across the world below, the Sixfold Cardinal born of the Wonder of Six-and-Seven draining the last of the vast power of the Gates away. It wraps that shard in a sheath of absolute and solid Power, within which it will endure the passing of the flickering ages that lie ahead.

The Gates begin to close then, their power – that which had always seen them home – now expended in the protection of their Child and the seven acts of Creation that each had wrought alone. Yet one last thing remained, and there was power enough between them to grant that. The Child, asleep in result of pain greater than her body’s ability to endure, needed the shard. It was a Talisman that held to a past that she would not remember, a fragment of memory in an existence where all had been forgotten by those inside. And whilst she might never realise it, also a key that would open herself and so much more if given the chance. Yet in this moment, its greatest power lay in that as a Talisman, for in lonely dreaming of the To-Come she would change greatly – yet with the Wonder at Talisman’s core around her neck, that change would take only the pain of the Sacrifice from her. Only of that sacrifice, never another, but it would be enough.

It could not stop the other change, but perhaps that was to the good. The Child had long been a Child. And in her step beyond the Dreaming she had rejected the bliss of irresponsibility.

Time to grow up.

[Tychris1]

To Love Someone

Were one to pass by the planet Atreyah, all that would be found is a desolate husk. Dead, unfeeling, gray. It would be of scant interest to tourists, present little joy to adventurers, and hold no future for merchants. All that dwells within it is ash or dust. Yet it was not always like that, there was a time when it was bountiful. When it was full of life and color, where trees swayed with the wind and lakes created scintillating mosaics of light. Atreyah was a veritable garden of life, a natural utopia full of variety. Life bloomed on its lush form, supporting the smallest fungus up to the oldest oak.

Yet there was no true life on Atreyah, no sentient life. With all its trees, plains, forests and swamps it had no animals. No Deer scampered through the groves, grazing gently on the grass before springing away at the sight of a predator. No birds to soar through the air and fill the sky with a myriad of colors and beautiful songs. No ants to build homes and colonies for generations to come, clashing and battling against one another in wars of a microscopic scale. No wolves to howl under the moon light, and mourn the death of their kin. For all its intense life and fauna, it was ultimately deprived that vital spark of life, stuck in a state of eternal slumbering peace.

Perhaps it was days, perhaps it was years or millennium but eventually the planet stirred. Softly, gently, with great deliberation and energy it unearthed a representative. A physical manifestation of all its regal glory, power, and grace. Formed from the obsidian buried deep within its mountains, Atreyah's Godly Form was born. Slumbering within its mountainous birth place, Atreyah rested there for months, occasionally stirring out of his sleep to look at himself. Despite the darkness that was his womb, the light within him granted him sight, and with it he garnered true self consciousness. His scales were glistening and polished, dark as the midnight sky, and as powerful as the material he was formed of. Spikes jutted out of his arms, legs and neck, curving and intertwining like a trees roots. Upon his chest was perhaps the most wondrous gift of all, a radiant beacon of flame pulsed within him, and through him it shone with a fiery glory that ebbed and flowed with his heart. Truly he was a glorious sight.

Yet slowly Atreyah learned everything there was to know of his form, its every curve and indentation, the way it shone purple in just the right reflection, and a plethora of other trivial things. He wished to know more, to see more, and so he left his massive home, with its low ceiling and its cramped corridors, and instead walked into the light of his own true form. He gazed upon his vast oceans, his endless forests, and his immobile mountains. He walked among the trees, taking note of every mote of grass, and every low hanging fruit. He basked in massive fields of corn and wheat, snorting in the aroma of the crops around him, and absorbing the glorious rays of the Great Heart. With each expedition he would retreat to his mountainous home, and return to a peaceful time of slumber. His life was simple, enjoyable, tranquil....... and yet it lacked something. He would stop and look into the lakes and rivers that coursed through his body, staring deep into his reflection, and in those moments he would feel a twang of sadness. Something was missing in his life, and yet he did not know what.

This emptiness, this hole infuriated him, he needed to fill it. As he stared into his reflection, he began to spend less and less time sleeping, and more time around his great watery organs. He danced his claws against the surface, flitting and bouncing over it, and yet never truly touching it. What would happen if he interfered with this other form of himself? What of this stranger who wore the same face as he did, who bore the same great wings, and strode with the same magnificent horns. There was so much more he was missing, so much more. Pacing around his aqueous puzzle, he glowered and snarled at it, his anger boiling to uncontrolled heights. His fury bubbled forth out of him, and in one powerful swipe he smashed a boulder next to him into a million pieces of debris. As this was happening, the Great Heart slowly rose over the horizon, and casted its magnificent rays over Atreyah. The pebbles, in their multitudes, scattered over the lake and distorted the image. Light poured through the lake, which now heaved and hoed violently, and in that single moment Atreyah did not see his reflection. No, he saw something different. His form, distorted and warped, now appeared in a whole new light. A complete stranger, yet one who bore a similar face. Someone like him, who could do the things he does alongside him.

A companion. A friend.

Filled with newfound purpose Atreyah left the lake and returned to his sedimentary womb. But this time it was not to rest and slumber the weeks away, no he had work to do. Carving up great piles of clay, Atreyah stooped down and began his passionate work. All sense of time was lost within his mountain, hours turned to weeks into months and years. The world itself could have died in a fiery holocaust and Atreyah would be none the wiser. For Atreyah was truly and wholly invested in his quest. With claws more fit for destruction, eyes more fit for viewing his vast lands, and fiery breath more fit for annihilating those who stand before him Atreyah crafted sculptures. Each of them were based on him, though on a far smaller scale. Each of them bore great wings, fangs, tails, claws, and spikes or horns of some variety. Yet each one was cast aside or demolished. Too fragile, too lumpy, too right heavy, too left heavy, too small, too many malformations. Atreyah found errors in each and every one of his designs and casted them aside with great haste, rapidly working on the next one that would be just right. Buried within his massive home, a secondary mountain of failed attempts began to pile up underneath Atreyah, slowly stockpiling and creating a mound from which he could view his older works and compare them with ease.

A nagging thought began to worm its way into the back of Atreyah's mind, one of doom and failure to ever complete his task. With each failed attempt Atreyah grew closer and closer to the ceiling, his frenzied attempts to create his companion only steadily burying himself in failure. Restraining himself, Atreyah set aside his tools for once, and rested. He contemplated every mistake he made, every stroke or cut, and slowly processed everything he had done. Returning to his work after a seven days and seven nights of pondering, he returned to his quest one last time, making sure to take the process slowly and more efficiently.

Finally, after dozens of attempts, Atreyah got it to become just right. It was absolutely perfect, different enough from him, and yet still in the same area that he could relate to it. Well built, regal, with wings that stretched wide and spikes along the back of its head and neck. A grin spread across his face as he looked upon his creation. With a deep and thoughtful breathe, Atreyah exhaled the final piece of his creation, and allowed the sculpture to be consumed in his fire. The glowing aura within his chest shone brightly, emitting a beam of light that pierced the sculpture and bonded them together. Hardening under his fiery caress, scales, teeth, muscle, and bone began to form over the sculpture. The beam grew steadily more vibrant and powerful, widening until it blinded the whole room in light. In one final flash the light flickered away, Atreyah's flames died out, and his heaving formed leaned in close to observe his creation. The young dragon stirred to life, looking around as it processed everything around it, before setting its sights on Atreyah. It was beautiful in the Dragon Gods eyes, with scales as red as the life that pulsed through his chest, with teeth as gold as the Great Heart above, and cloudy eyes gray as the raging storms from the ocean. He was a masterpiece, a true conglomerate of everything that was breath taking in the world, and yet he held something that none of the sunsets Atreyah could witness had. Sentience, a true life and mind that could be shared with Atreyah, and much like the clay he was form of Atreyah would mould and guide it with the same precision and grace.

Had he not the indomitable fortitude and strength of will that came so naturally to him, Atreyah would have shed a single tear. The pride that flowed through Atreyah's body as he looked at his sculpture given life nearly beamed out of his smile. Wrapping a single claw around the newly born Dragon, Atreyah raised it up high, holding it to his true level of eyesight, and embraced his child in a hug. With a voice as powerful as the mountain, yet steadily shaking in sheer bliss, Atreyah spoke for the first time ever.

"You are my Son."

[Midgardsorm]

To...Be

Aware... is that what I am? I... Self... Self-aware, yes. This stirring... desires, thoughts; where do I begin? Sensations, so many... I feel... heat? what am I close to, I can't tell... I want to, but what...see?

Pathos closed the journal after reading this line, for it was all that needed saying to the new construct before him. He recorded everything so as not to forget, and to easier impart knowledge to the new creation he had just willed into being.

"These are moments, however long or short, they are moments. Important moments, yes; trivial moments, yes; moments all the same.
It was the start of me... us; and just as self-awareness will cause a ripple, so will the actions that follow. Ripples from ripples, but where did they start; or were they always?
In the time since my first moments, in the time since I first manifested this avatar to manipulate and gather and study, I devoted myself to this cause. Yes, instinct dictated, instinct stirred, and ultimately instinct awoke me to sentience; but what was the meaning in it?
In the first moments, complex and simple as they were, I learned multitudes in my want; but never am I satisfied. For as I continue to stretch the bounds of what I can perceive, I always find more questions than answers.
Through space I've seen the organics inhabiting other forms similar but very different to mine. Strange, is my only thought on the matter. For from my gaze I have seen many of them as soft and fragile, I can only wonder at the moment how they came to exist. Are they like you my child Faustus? Created from another, or are they like me, with no knowledge of what came before, and no certainty of what lies ahead... only the stirrings."

An understanding whir emanated from the behemoth of metal as the avatar of its creator vanished; Pathos intent now seeming to rumble through its very structure. Faustus would be Pathos only child, made from bits of his own body; and as such, he gave his child something he himself did not feel he had, a sense of purpose. His child in turn, gave him something he wanted, one less distraction in self-maintenance. Faustus made sure his fathers' body was optimal, using bits to create his own children; other automatons of various shape, size, and purpose; blessed by Pathos, one and all, with sentience.

Molten metal briefly shot through an opening in the surface like a high pressure cannon; and while a constant thing, it was sign as to where Pathos was deep in thought. This vent, as the golems would come to understand, meant philosophical musings on part of Pathos.
As such my first moments conclude, as such my first moments continue. For when this chapter reaches a conclusion, so shall its next begin, until its book is complete and the next one starts anew... I will understand this cycle one day.

[planswalker]

That Light Was Life

A great heart beat a single stroke, and all died in flame.

Fire. A great Light Fire purged all and brought forth new Life from the ashes of the dead.

Light. The Great Heart beat, and life began anew. This life began with many, and yet one. All began with the thought, "I am not alone."

With this thought in mind, many planets, great and small, were born and this thought rang throughout the universe. None are alone, and all know that. This hope was Cosmos gift to itself. Gifts have been known to take on a life of their own.

This gift, this singular thought drove Life forward. Not all planets were aware of their knowledge, and few gave it much thought. The thought itself, however, was aware. When the Great Heart pulsed and gave birth to all things new, fire, light, heat, and Life surged through the Cosmos. Great chunks of ice were bathed in Fire, and this gave birth to Life. Within a particular orbit of the Great Heart, several thousand such chunks of lifeless ice became the liquid embryos for kernels of life. Each had at its core a piece of the Green. Even while these sessile kernels lived and grew without thought, there was a thought that ran through them all: "We Are Not Alone."

For countless untold aeons these kernels of Life grew in isolated unity, an unthinking congregation all whispering the same verse, "We Are Not Alone." As these seeds grew into the sprouts of the Cosmos, an unknowing instinct drove them to seek each other out.Stems grew from the seeds, Roots and Tendrils sprouted from the Stems, and all throughout the kernel of an idea grew: "We Are Not Alone." This idea drove the Life to advance, to seek out other Life, and to end the isolation of their unity.

Slowly, century after countless century, Life sought out Life, and the Many found each other and Became One. The roots of these cosmic plants entangled with each other and sought out one another, and thus were the connections formed. Their stems shot forth beyond the edges of the great spheres which had nurtured and protected the young Life, propelling its tendrils and its branches into the Light of the Great Heart.

When the last of the primordial trees had joined with its siblings in a great Collective, a Thought traveled the immense interconnected maze of roots at the core of the now-immense sphere of water. This thought was not THE Thought, the one birthed as the Great Heart's beat that gave birth to All, but it a child-Thought, born from the realization of that Thought:

"We Are Not Alone, and We Are One."

This Second Thought, birthed by the realization of the First Thought, marked a permanent change in the nature of the great colony-planet that would come to know itself as Graiyah: For the first time since the birth of the Cosmos, this Life born of the union of fire, ice, and light generated a Thought of its own. Thus began the Collective to think, and with that, to become aware.

With this awareness came a new understanding of the First Thought. Though all the Green was now as One, the Green knew that its purpose was not yet over. Rather, the world-organism known as Graiyah had merely at last given birth to itself to enable it to know the true purpose of the Cosmos: There are Others.

Though all the Green was One and with that a birth of a new and greater glory to Life, this was merely the beginning, not an ending. For now the Graiyah knew a second great truth: "We are One, and there are Others."

There were many others out there. Things that were not of the Green existed throughout the Cosmos, and they were not alone. The Green did not know what they were or how many of them there were, but it knew that they Were. This drove the infant planet to develop yet another new thing: a desire.

"We must join with the Others and become One just as We are One."

This desire would end up being the driving force behind all the glories and horrors yet to come from within the Green. However, the Graiyah knew that itself as it was would never be able to achieve the task set out of itself. It would need to grow yet more, to change in new and different ways. The great Collective was vast, and this interconnected vastness had given birth to Thought, but this was not enough. The thoughts of the Green were sluggish, primordial, vast, and unwieldy. In order to fulfill its desire, the Graiyah would have to grow beyond itself and become something more. It did not know what more it was that they needed to become, for the thoughts of the World Trees alone were too large and ponderous to divine such an answer.

Thus, the Green solved its first problem in the manner that it would come to solve nearly all problems: the Green took Life, and grew that Life to become something new. The great tendrils of vegetation that grew out from the stems broke off from the trunks of the World Trees and began to float within, Life adapting to this change of state by learning to survive and thrive without the anchorage of the stem. These long strands of underwater plant life would come to form great beds of kelp tangled upon one another and bridging gaps between the World Trees.

When Thought surged though this new Life, the tenor of its thought was different from that of the Trees. Different still was the melding of the thinking of the two forms of Green as they met together. From this protolithic think-tank birthed a new set of ideas: "We must have more Life, in more varieties. With this Life we shall learn to reach out to the Others and there bring all into One so that all know the single great Thought: 'I am Not Alone.' It is our gift to the Others."

[mystic1110]

Starlost Pride

***

He couldn't see but he could hear, and all he heard was carrion birds. In the endless darkness he heard them squabble and squawk – rip and tear into flesh. Some of that flesh was his. Peeled and torn, he felt the stitching of his veins break apart. And restitch. He tried to raise his hand to wave the birds away, but he couldn't – his arm was too heavy, as if embedded with weights or as if he was pinned down upon the ground. In fact he was. With a grunt, he lifted one of his hands and felt in his mind's eye the countless spears that pierced through it. The spear handles hit the handles of the lances and swords that skewered his chest. Wood against steel, it broke, and the splinters rained upon his wounds.

He tried touching his face – but a dagger in his hand merely clanged with a knife in his eye. A dull sound. The carrion birds laughed at him. He grunted and stood up – an awkward process. The weapons within him fought against the pull of his sinews and muscles. With his other hand, which was luckily free of any impalement, he grabbed the handle of the knife in his eye and pulled. It didn't come out – the point had pierced the opposite side of his skull – it was too deep. He gave up and just stood there listening to the sounds of defeat. Defeat, to think that one day he had feared it more than death. To think that he once thought that only death that mattered was his own. Why was he so wrong? The birds mocked him, and he agreed.

He remembered the clashing blades and blood on yellow grass.

***

Ormentros, was born a distant world, far beyond the shadows of giants. Small and insignificant compared to the jewels of the sky which hung closer the Great Heart in the sky. It was if Ormentros was on the precipice, at the edge between the embrace of the Great Heart and the lost planets of the void. Perhaps it had already fallen of that edge? There was no ocean, the continents that formed floated upon a liquid sea of molten fire – the sulfur rose and formed into acrid yellow clouds that rained acid upon the surface. The continents crashed into each other forming great mountains along their edges, mountains so vast, large and beaten that they were almost walls. The great inner planets created eclipses that lasted for days and blocked out the stars.

Somehow, life found a way. Acid was like water, and weeds that fed on it sprouted from the cracked ground. Yellow. Everything was yellow – the acid and red glow in the the sky bleached the land. Eventually misshapen trees with shallow roots formed. Rodents that fed on sad little leaves were born from the worms that lived in the sulfuric mud puddles. Eventually some of them took flight and became birds, carrion birds that grew strong from the meat of those on the ground. The fire and acid streaked against their black glass feathers.

The world wouldn't, couldn't last. The life that had taken root on it was doomed from the start, but it was defiant, it would mock fate and eventuality, and it would keep growing. The birds knew the futility of it all – their cries of mocking laughter filled the sky. The rodents grew over time, larger, more resilient to the elements, to each other, to their predators. Beasts rose and died. Flocks fell. And men had arrived on this broken sphere. Somehow.

Men began as mountain folk, living on the inside edge of the walls that surrounded the continents, shielded from the heat of the ocean and protected from the rain. Their skin was smooth, and made of aluminum, and their hair oily and made of lead. Adaption was a marvelous thing. The first men were farmers, growing yellow plants in caves and watering them in rows with acid collected from higher up on the wall. They lived in clans and tribes – there was no fighting, no war, just survival in this harsh hell was hard enough.

But the planet thought it could be more. Why should it be consigned to its fate as a dying orb in the night sky – a small red light among titans? Ormentros didn't want just be a meaningless sphere in the deepness of space, eclipsed by brighter lights and larger shadows. It wanted its name to be known to the cosmos. And with its vanity and pride it formed a representative. Whenever a carrion bird died, it's black feathers would fall into the magma sea, the glass would melt and collect far beneath the surface. Eventually whatever formed, infused with the desire for greatness, burst out from the fire ocean, sending great waves crashing against the continental walls. Noramiros, gleaming in bright silver armor, stark against the red sea and yellow sky. Raven black hair and yellow eyes – like those of a crow's. A face that both sneered and seduced. A platinum halberd in his right hand. Looking upon him was like looking at a tool. A tool of death.

With footsteps full of supreme confidence he strode on top of the red ocean, till he stood against the great wall of the largest continent. He placed his hand on the wall and felt the teeming mass of humanity within. He smiled, and sprouted great black wings from his shoulders and beat them against the air, the hot currents of the ocean raising him up in one leap. Landing on top of the wall he looked upon the yellow empty fields and only saw one thing. . . a battlefield. This world would never survive, but it could etch its name into the history of the cosmos with valor and greatness – people would speak of Ormentros as a land of legends.

Over the years the tribes of humanity began to worship Noramiros as he walked among them in their caves. He straightened their backs and taught them what honor was. He instructed them how to mine and find metal in the ground and forge it into swords and spears. He showed them how to eat meat. He drilled into them swordsmanship and tactics. He taught them how to desire – how to want more. The eternal war wouldn't be about land, women or riches he decreed that it shall be about one thing and one thing only – to force the cosmos to recognize you – to die so you may live on in song. To die in the pleasure of death and killing. If favor was a peak, you had to climb to it upon a pile of the unworthy.

And for centuries, that what it was. An eternal war with no purpose – just the sounds of screaming, or boasts and laughter, carrion birds feeding, and Noramoris flying above in his finery, challenging the most distinguished warriors to battle. And that was the legend of the War without End. You were born and lived for glory, and if you rise high enough with accolades and skulls beneath your feet, Great Noramiros, Lord of Legends would beat his wings and land upon the blood soaked fields and exchange blades with you – and you will lose – but your name would live on.

There was Harlis, the Tall, a man roughly seven feet tall, wielding two great axes in each hand and able to cleave through bones like so much weed. There was Horsson, the Wonderful, a child of not even sixteen, whom moved so fast that you died before you knew it. There was Rivijla, the Beautiful, whom it was rumored, seduced Noramoris, slept with him for years and then challenged him to a duel. There as Urlynda, the Cruel, who screeched across the battlefield like a wraith. Vin, who was a charismatic and princely man who used the sword like a paintbrush. There were so many names and legends. Myths formed and disappeared into mist.

Noramiros blessed the people with no need for nourishment, but there was still a need for sleep – and so various opposing bands formed. Women were warriors and not mere brood cows, but they still had the pains of child birth. The bands and banners would protect each other during birth months, and during the night. Eventually the legends changed – while individual accomplishments were still heard, the stories talked round the hearth fires were about the heroic and dashing deeds of groups: of the Golden Army that remained undefeated for two centuries, till defeated by the Million Lances. The Brethren of the Feathers whom are told to have stripped one feather each off Noramiros in a great battle before falling to his Halberd. The Blood Sisters, who were rumored to be able to kill with a bow from over a mile away. The Black Children, young orphans that left there bands and joined together in a shadowy organization that murdered in only the darkest of shadows. The Knights of the Cliff, who once held a single cliff face for two decades against a force a thousand times their size.

While territory was never a point of the war, there was no point, territories formed. Certain banners and armies held onto fronts and borders. These borders and names were always changing but one could have made a loose map. Warrior Kings and Queens were created by chance – the best killers rose high in the ranks. Alliances were formed and broken. The war went on. Noramoris watched this all with a smile. He looked upon the world with eyes without fear, eyes full of delight and amusement. He was a god in his prime. His yellow eyes twinkled with unrestrained blood lust. This was an eternal battlefield, and it was glorious.

However from his perch he did not see the shifting sands, Soldiers had died in this pointless war ever since Noramoris woke ten thousand years ago. Some died with smiles – most died afraid. It was simple: there was bravery and cowardice. Yet there were also whispers. Kings and band leaders met in secret – spoke with letters carried by vultures. Why die at all? Why die for the amusement of the War God? These were the seeds of rebellion. Not every war leader was involved – most enjoyed the war as much as Noramiros, some just accepted it. The rebels were few – they called themselves the Skewered Servants. In essence the Skewered Servants created a nation – their war bands would not attack each other or anyone else, but they would defend themselves with force. It was powerful enough that other bands stopped attacking them, or joined together to attack. And so under their system, everything was consolidated further – instead of small mobile nations, countries formed. But the important change was that the countries reached an equilibrium where if one attacked another, it would be destroyed by the rest.

And thus peace came.
The yellow grass went without blood for a single day.
The birds didn't feed on a single new corpse for a single day.
For a single day no one called forth Noramoris and challenge him to a duel.
For a single day Peace had come.

Noramoris was furious. How dare the cowards end the war? He flew down and entered the encampment of the first nation – and the masses parted before him as he stalked for the tent of the Skewered Servants. He found it – a plain tent without adornment, but large, and entered it. The God stood tall, with his wings unfurled before the eleven men and women who ended the war eternal. Holding his Halberd, he decreed them:

Cowards!

Most of those assembled cowered in the presence of the haughty War God.

Raise your swords and fight. There is blood to be shed and glory to be won.

One of the Skewered Servants stood up, angry, veins bulging. An old man, meaning a fantastic warrior since one did not live long in this world otherwise.

"Glory?! What Glory?! There is nothing Glorious in war! There is only torment and anguish. How many brother and lovers have I lost in this war? For what end?"

Noramoris laughed.

War is its own end, coward.

Another Servant stood up, a young woman with white hair.

"How would you know? Have you ever truly fought in a war? You are a God. Great and terrible, powerful and mighty. Have you ever known fear? Have you ever known terror? Have you ever had an ally you saw cut down??

Noramoris paused at this remark. Before he could remark, another Skewered Servant stood up and somberly remarked.

"Have you ever thought about death and what lays beyond?"

Another stood.

"Have you ever felt pain?"

Yet another. And another. And another, till each of them stood. Noramoris no longer smiled, and instead grimly spoke.

No. But why should I?

The first Servant who stood, the old man, spoke.

"Because you are our God. Those you killed and those that they have killed need a meaning. You are the only one with the power to remake this world. . . you owe it to them. You owe it to us."

Noramoris bellowed in seething rage.

"I owe you NOTHING!"

And with his halberd, in one clean sweep, he collected each of their heads. Their bodies fell unceremoniously to the floor.

Among the carnage however, the God's pride was injured. These fools challenged him. They challenged him! He would accept. The war would continue – the nations which were formed would fall apart with the Servants gone. And for the next thousand years he would live mortal lives, and live through the war for the next thousand years. He would live and die over and over – and then he would come here to spit on the Servants' graves and declare victory. It would be amusing. And with that pronouncement he picked up one of the fallen swords and took the head of one of the Servants off the floor. He hacked off his wings, which shattered when the glass feathers hit the ground, and placed the dead persons face upon his own. His first mortal life would be this man.

He would taste war in all its bloody finery. He would show these cowards that Eternal War was truth and beauty. He walked out of the tent and into the crowd, just one face among many. One soldier within a legion.

The birds laughed in between their feasts of eyes.

[Erik Vale]

BenFicu

The Rise Of A God

In Universe: Written by a Unknown Seer, to be found in many eons.
Actual: Modified Modified 'For Want of a Nail' by Full Paragon



For want it was lost.
But what if,
Because it was?


For want of a pause, leftovers became a message.
Because of the pause, the leftovers stayed.

For want of a the waste, There were none to catch.
Because of the waste, the eyes were caught.

For want of the catching, others were seen.
Because of the catch, the eyes didn't see.

For want of blindness, others grew bold.
Because of the blindness, others were weary.

For want of caution, others were struck
Because of the caution, no blows did land.

For want of another, they were too wounded
Because of the peace, there was speech.

For want of health, they were struck down.
Because of the speech, they stood on.

For want of a pause.
Because of a pause.


It was waste. It was what was left. Not enough for even a field.
It could be given a spark, given to show others.
Goodbye child.
No. No. No!
Won’t Go!
Caught. Slowed. Held.
Joy.
It's thoughts were basic. But that would be remembered. It was a small accident. But the pause was there. Calculations were wrong. The Messenger was at the wall, not in the fields.


---

In Universe: Ben'Ficu's creed: For all a purpose.
Actual: Modified 'The New Colossus'

"Give me your scraps, your junk,
Your massed leavings wanting a new purpose,
That which you left for that a golden age,
Send these, the refuse, far-flung to me,
I extend a hand through utopias door."

’I'm Calm. I Think. I Watch. I Grow.
The play. They are more.’
How dare?
Something comes. To hurt. Large.’
’But hit friend.
’Catch!’

The asteroid was slowed instead slamming into the cloud that was it, it would no longer impact another, instead it was caught within the ‘waste’ that was Proto-Ben'Ficu. There was little of the asteroid. But it made it grow ever so slightly. It thought... Better… Faster... More...
‘I will catch all!’
The strikes heated him. They cooled him. They shaped him. They added to him.
Matter of all kinds made up it’s form due to the impacts, and within itself it hid other gifts that were hidden. Tiny creatures from beyond. Templates for life that did not last but would be remembered. Pockets of gasses so that he needed not rely on others.
But they stopped coming.
There was more waste, not too far. He willed it to him and they came. He felt joy as he noticed all that could came to be him, all the cast off, the waste in the darkness of space. Altogether, hundreds of tiny voices behind his own, slowly willingly subsumed, each altering him ever so slightly. Each wishing growth, his rage was cooled.
"That is it all... I can grow no more... But now what do I do?"


---

In Universe: Ben'Ficu's Creed: Return to Grace
Actual: Return to Grace, by me.

"Beyond the scars I do look,
To the beauty they took,
I see the purpose forsworn,
For hope you thought forlorn,
Open your eyes you I hold,
And let me grant you the grace to be bold."

There was pain in being shaped; there was pain in becoming one. There was pain in the burning and freezing of his being, and because of this, it had let itself heal any which way, giving it mountain peaks that would pierce the thickest atmosphere, and deep trenches where pressure would make air liquid.

"This will not do. It won't do at all."
It had lost it's company in becoming one, the voices were mostly gone for it did not know how to keep them. And so he wished to have something he could watch or to which it could talk and play, but he could not do so like this… And it would give him a new purpose.
And so in the moments where time was fluid, time ran fast, mountains wore down, shifts of millennial happened in moments, heat surged as light impacted more than it should have, and he manipulated it. Plains of sand from mere dust to that which one calls rock formed and mountains became ranges. Some plains fused as they became glass and mountains cracked and exploded as they heated and cooled, reactions that should not occur did, and then the warmth bled out and time did slow, water falling in the craters left behind.

And from his memory and from his desires, life sprang to being in all it's glory. The survivors were small but mighty beyond what one imagined. Some stayed as one, some joined together. Some kept what made them one as they joined, some subsumed each other into a single one. Some joined as single ones and were subsumed again, some joined together but remained separate, working together... And in the heat trapped by will and dense air, life thrived under the light of a candle.

But in the dark it was cold.
And the cold was death.
Those who forgot the dirt died, as did those too big to hide. A few however fed so well that they simply rested, coating themselves in the lightest layer of sand and resting. And such was the speed of the rotation, than many strode ahead of the twilight, staying in the warmth.

And so life went on in the time of many lights, and much was quiet. The time of the time of the chasing lights came again and life thrived, a cycle of life and migration or hibernation...
It looked, and to it's senses all was good... There was pain, but there was growth. Niches were filled, everything was...
The new planet-god looked unto the sky, and spoke his first actual words, spoken in the language of the gods, and reverberating in the darkness of space through the void between planets.
"I am Ben'Ficu. I have purpose."

[TheDarkDM]

Birth

It began with fire.

It ended with fire.

In all the infinite vastness of the universe, no being could resist that first terrible breath of cosmic light. It sundered timeless empires, slew the leviathans of the before time, and banished Darkness to the cruel mercies of the Outlands, never again to feast on the fears of mortalkind. The Great Heart wrought devastation, but in the path of devastation was hope, the promise of utopia beneath a shining sky. Within the boundaries of Cosmos, one planet above all gorged itself on that promise, drinking in the fire and light of the solar awakening until its entire surface had been burned to shimmering glass. So complete was the metamorphosis that the light of the planet's white-hot core shone through its body, a cold mirror to the glory of the Great Heart. And for a time, the heart of the planet was content, exulting in the purity and the power of its birth. So intoxicated was he that the being that would come to know itself as Azadriel turned his eyes away from the outside world to contemplate the searing truth of Light.

So it went for untold generations, the crystal magnificence of Azadriel's body shaping itself subconsciously to the revelations taking place at his core. Towering prismatic mountain ranges grew to overlook fields of mirrored glass, only to be encompassed by seas of gleaming quicksilver. The surface beamed with light, refracted and reflected until the entire planet seemed a diamond suspended in a velvet sky. And as the splendor of his body increased, so too did Azadriel's pride, for in his brief glimpses of the universe beyond he could see no other to rival the glory of his spirit. So it was that the fragments of a discarded Cosmos were drawn to the unfamiliar promise of light, and began the birth of their terrible doom.

The asteroids were small enough that Azadriel paid them no mind, believing rightly that their impact could do nothing to harm the perfection of his being. Even as more and more fragments of the past found their way to him, it was naught but the stinging of a fly. The planet rumbled, the crystal latticework of its surface smoothing away the blemishes of time, and Azadriel returned to his meditations. That is, until a part of his surface grew dark. It was a small thing, barely more than a pinprick upon his shining skein, but its intrusion shattered Azadriel's cultivated perfection. Perplexed and afraid, he reached out his divine perception for the first time, and was repulsed by what he saw - life.

[Forever Curious]

Oiled Gears

A flash, and then nothing. That is how a universe ends. Countless lifetimes of effort and ideas vanishing in a fraction of a second.

Well, not vanishing. But condensing.

A single mote floating in space as the heat died and the universe was left to rebuild anew, a small drop of black oil containing the calculations and blueprints for all that was lost and then some. A substance unrecognizable in the universe before. The speck floated on, gathering more stray bits of intellect and thoughts into itself as it orbited the Great Heart, growing more massive and intelligent.

And with this intelligence came ego, and with this ego came greed.

And with this greed, came Pentex.

And Pentex, expanding it's newly formed conscious out from it's core of corrupting ichor, knew it would need a more suitable form. A solid form to sustain not only itself but what it would create. Like an oyster with a grain of sand Pentex enveloped itself with a fine shiny coat of beautiful metal, flawless as a fresh pearl and, after countless more years, strode upon its own surface: its first creation.

[planswalker]

That Life Was the Light of Knowledge

Graiyah considered its selves and thought of what move to take next. It knew that it must adapt and grow for it could not conceive of what must be done to reach out beyond itself. The Green was of one mind in that time, but it was a mind as large and ponderous as the great World Trees that formed it. Though its thoughts were vast and it clearly saw the paths that the future could be taking, its vision was as imprecise as it was large. It saw a future where all in the Cosmos were one together, all in harmony and filled with the true realization of the Hope that all were born with. A future where none feared the loneliness of isolation.

"We are large and mighty, yet we are limited. We are slow and cannot see fast enough to know what is to do so that what is to come shall come. We must become small as well as large." Thus was it decided, and the Green began its eternal cycle of growth and adaptation.

Life began as a cosmic, titanic thing. The will to grow and change, however, began as the tiniest thing of all. The Green tore from itself many branches and countless strands of kelp. An outside observer might call this a sacrifice, but the concept was alien to the Green in those days. Though it hurt the overall being of the moment, the organisms who damaged themselves did so for the overall good of Graiyah. To them it was nothing more than the discomfort of growing pains.

These bits of foliage detritus were allowed to die and lay follow in the ocean. The light of the Great Heart beat upon the mass of dead vegetation as the waves agitated it and the Green vibrated with Life all around it. At that time, there was nothing to consume the dead matter, nothing to reclaim its material from death and continue the cycle of life. However, this matter began to break down. Between the energy of the light of the Great Heart and the agitation of the oceans, eventually the mass of fallen material broke down into component parts. It was then that the Green acted and filled this floating bog of decay with the light of the Green. Life began once more, this time at the tiniest, most miniscule level. The infinitesimal particles quickened and began to absorb the light of the Great Heart to become life once more. The life added to the collective consciousness of the Green, adding new thoughts and new ideas to the whole.

As the waves carried this new life across the surface of itself, Graiyah came upon the realization that it must indeed make more life of many new kinds. While all life so far fed directly off the Light of Life from the Great Heart, this would never be sufficient. To truly know what it must do to achieve the proper fate of the Cosmos, it must have life in abundance that would move and act on its own, life that could think and be aware of itself above and beyond its contribution to the whole. However, such life could never be sustained by the passive absorption of the energy of the Great Heart. Instead it would need to feed upon concentrated Life found within the Green itself, for that would be the only way to sufficiently condense the energy needed.

Thus did the Green direct itself to form colonies of the algae which overtook its oceans. These colony-organisms then began to specialize its various member-organisms to better suit itself for the task of devouring its former companions. It took many ages and many forms of passive, Light-absorbing colonies before one developed to the point where it could directly devour the nutrients of a fellow plant. From there the cycle continued until one colony-organism began to prey upon another, this one having specialized members of itself to the point it could seek out others to consume to better concentrate its own energy.

This cycle of predation continued unabated through the ages and continues even to this day; the tritons and the accipt prey upon the lower life-forms who in turn adapt to become more dangerous to hunt and even hunt them in turn. This struggle drives the advances of the Green today, and it is a thing seen as not merely necessary but good by the inhabitants of the Green.

However, this cycle of predation and adaptation is inefficient. The life which is consumed that life may continue is very far from perfect in its absorption. The Green saw that it needed itselves to be able to recycle those bits which were discarded from a kill and thus some of the algae were altered to subsist not on the Light but upon its remnants. These dark forms of life form the basis of all life that has the will to not merely think and follow its nature of predation but to rise above that and choose actions contrary to their own nature.

The Green saw in its mold and fungi and other things which consume the remains to ensure all stays connected to the cycle of life a potential for something more. As colonies of these detritus-feeders began to gather at the surface of the waters around the World Trees, Graiyah reached out with its will and invested its own thoughts and consciousness into these masses in distillate form. Where these bands of thought and will concentrated most strongly, they began to bud out and form separate entities. These distinct creatures were both like and unlike the matter from which they spawned: they shared in and contributed to the thoughts of the all, but they also could express their thoughts independent of the collective. They spoke one to another and to the collective itself, their Words marking them as different from the rest of the world.

This pleased Graiyah immensely, as now the All was not merely One but many. Each Word begat another, and thus did these creatures come to cover the face of Graiyah. When stimulated to bud from the mass of the scavenging oozes by other Words or directly from the Green as a whole, these embryonic sacs quickly adapt to forms suited to their surroundings. Those spawned far below the surface of the ocean grew fins and tails and jaws and limbs and would come to call themselves Tritons while those that spawned above the surface grew wings and feathers and talons and beaks with which to soar in the skies and roost in the highest branches of the World Trees.

Graiyah was pleased with itself and its many overlapping and distinct voices. At last it had the complexity needed to see that which it must become to fulfill the destiny of the Cosmos.

using the turn 0 advancement to create sapient life: the Words of Graiyah. Words tend to take one of two basic forms either suited for the air or the sea. As their biotech advances, they'll be learning to tap into this pluripotence to grow new features upon themselves.

My next awakening post should be the last; in it I will be exploring the origins of the first Voice of the Green as well as writing to small fluff-bits about the basic cultures of the two major forms of Words.

[HalfTangible]

[Tyranny of Steel]

Life survived on Vissota.

Oh, the Great Heart killed everything, to be sure. The planet lay barren and fallow for a long time, spinning through the void with nothing but jagged spires of metal and rock rising into the air. There wasn't much to burn, so the fires could not last for long after they had taken all that lived. But even when the universe itself has arrayed against it, life presses on and finds a way. And on the surface of Vissota, life would come again, and it would survive.

From the Western Mountains came the Steel Dragons. Titanic beasts of iron scales, with eyes that glowed like fire and breath like lightning. Their strength was unmatched with sinew of steel and claws that cut like the mightiest of blades. Their wings shined like chrome upon the world below, and their will was iron. They ruled the skies by lightning, fang and claw, and wonted for nothing, for they feasted on metal. Vissota didn't have much life, water or safety, but it had plenty of metal. The Steel Dragons gave in to decadence and sloth, wanting nothing more than to indulge every whim that a self-satisfied species gets to.

In the Eastern Desert were the Dark Elves. These tanned creatures lacked strength and constitution but made up for it in community, intelligence and reproductive rates. They fought over what meager scraps the desert had to offer, forever at the edge of existence. Always desperate for their next meal, their next cup of water.

And the strong rose to take advantage of their weakness.

The Steel Dragons lost their motivation to do any work, and so set about conquering and enslaving the dark elves to do their work for them. The elves died in droves, both from the raids and the lack of water that plagued them within the Western Mountains. It was not long before their entire race lived in fear of the shining demons from on high, beasts of iron and steel that would take everything they wanted and leave the elves with nothing. For centuries, the steel dragons built an empire on the backs of their slaves.

But then, deep within the center of the Great Eastern Desert, something happened that would change the face of the planet forever. A single act that signaled the beginning of the new age.

Vissota opened her eyes.

Shorter and less detailed than I'd hoped, but this has been here since the forums came back and it's not getting much better. This story should be three or four posts long. Maybe five or six, depending on how much detail I decide to go into

[Grimsage Matt]

Unbroken

When the great fires came, some did not instantly die. Some roared their defiance, challenging the scouring flames. They of course fared no better then those that died without protest, without pain. On a world that had no name, Kargoth Var'Malfar, a giant of green flesh, born from the whim of chaos and war, baptized in bloodshed and death, and having never known peace, meet his end. His frame, which more resembled a mountain of scars from untold eons of service to his master and creator, did not easily consign itself to the inferno. He fought, he dueled, he raged against his end. In the end though, his efforts merely stayed off the inevitable. As his eyes evaporated, as his flesh vaporized, as his very soul began to burn, he laughed. As his body turned to ash, his broken and insane laughter boomed across the empty world. Slowly, his ashes fell, and only an imprint of his defiance remained. Of the Frist-Born War Troll, the first solider in the army of the primordial titans, who fought against the madness of the far realms and the usurping lawbringers, only a vestige, a memory, remained, burned into the planet by solar fires.


But still, as the eons passed, the world proved to be more influenced by him then most would have assumed. Already massive, life seemed to explode into being, with a riot of shapes, colors and essences. But, it did not stay peaceful long. As life rose, so some forms began to devour others. At the first, this was merely herbivores and plants, but it was still life devouring life to sustain itself. But, eventually, the first predators would rise, and the long cycle would begin.

[Midgardsorm]

The Forging of Faustus

A legion of over a hundred thousand now stood before the avatar of Pathos. Each one a hand crafted child of Faustus, who now rested until his Father would call on him again. The legion looked upon the one they reverently named the Father of Faustus, for it was on this moment in every cycle the Avatar would appear before them to speak; the one moment Pathos would pause his pursuits to remember his family. For though each child was crafted of his flesh, each one was unique with a personality, existence, and independence their own. Pathos looked into space and the freckles of light dotting the otherwise inky blackness, then to the raging inferno of the Great Heart, and finally upon his grandchildren, great grandchildren, and so on, who had begun sitting for the story that was to come.

"This moment we remember! My son, your forefather; Faustus. He lays here in rest now, a rest earned, and one he will wake from. As you, he was shaped from my being, though by my very hand, but why? The new generation knows my tenets, and such sentimentalism seems out of place. Such is why this moment is repeated, for learning. For without the foundations of the past, the future will never exist.

A tome appeared quite suddenly within the fragile hands of Pathos. It did not materialize, it was not hidden, but it was as if it had always been (much as the Children's limited understanding of Pathos himself). The tome itself looked overly used by the state of the pages, though the spine and covers seemed an immaculate, shimmering satin. Pathos' cracked the book to its first pages, and a slight smile crept upon his features as he began to read.

"If a mortal being can be overcome by the sense of loneliness to the point of crippling inaction, so too is this true for immortals who know not the sting of time and more...

[Draken]

[The Voranakk's Tale]

The breath of Shakkal creates the worlds in rimefire for the Sauran to see, from the Great Heart to Ben'Ficu. And Tortokk begins.

"In the beggining, the Great Heart beat a single time. And that is when from whence the earliest memory comes..."

Since the very first dawn, Isenvei towered over its nearby siblings, Atreyah and Shoney, much more so over the later than the former that is for sure. But tower did the ice world do.

But Atreyah was a heaven of color then, for its vibrant flora, and Shoney steadily begat a wild variety of living things. Isenvei was but shades of blue and white, from ocean to frozen continent, and its many great slavering maggots, no, the ice world was not a place of beauty. It was desolate.

And Isenvei envied its brothers.

In its cosmic jealousy, Isenvei stretched its icy claws and grasped at any and every last tiny god that came from the furthest reaches of the universe and crashed them unto itself, it would not let one comet or meteorite reach the other two worlds and give them further, or take from them, for that matter. Envy does not need to be entirely malicious, after all.

From these cousins, the ice world took a great many things. Scant few metals and dirt, compared to the immensity of itself, and the seeds of life other than the titanic worms and extremophile algae that laired upon it. Charred furs and dead diseases and ancient bones and blackened leaves and hard amber, all of these it got from the little hitchhikers of the vast dark, all things it could use. The most complete thing it ever got from one of these was a turtle, frozen inside a comet.

Nothing is ever quite as great as ice can be.

That turtle was dead, that is for sure, but that is moot. Isenvei blew hail and snow into the visage of that beast. This was Tortokk, and into his Isenvei poured some of its will and power. Tortokk set about roaming the great world and gathering the bits of dead foreign life into his gullet, he was nowhere as big as the Voranakk is now, that is certain, but still towered vast upon even the largest frost worm of the day. When he had enough bone and meat and nails inside, Tortokk would grind them together into a paste and spit it onto a puddle in the ice, and depart. The things in the puddle would grow and spread, and become the ivory woods that cover much of the north.

It would be an age before Tortokk found a frozen snake inside a comet.

Again Isenvei made the snake into a visage of ice and again it breathed will and power into it. But it did not work. So it made Tortokk bigger and put the snake next to his head, and Dulkkes was born. They didn’t get along very well.

Tortokk went about his rounds and Dulkkes watched from the sidelines. They then came upon a crocodile and an iguana on ice, and both times Isenvei grafted the heads on the body, stretching the turtle’s shell and giving it many more limbs, and giving it two flat tails. Shakkal and Gorgokkon had no peace to add to that which would one day be the Voranakk. What they did add were more and more stops from Tortokk’s rounds, to make the sea churn and the winds swirl, or to bore and sunder the ice. Dulkkes was silent while the other three bickered over how to spend their time, how to do Isenvei’s will. Dulkkes had his eyes on the sky, far beyond Shoney. Ormentros, whose brutality made the four brothers look positively civil in their arguments. Ormentros had one thing that Isenvei wanted, which stoked Dulkkes’ envy. Those who praised it.

[Tychris1]

Death in the Family

Oh what joys a father can have with his son. The stories he can garner, the experiences he can share, and the wisdom he can pass down. It is a relationship that has no comparison, no equal in all the vastness of the Cosmos. That innate connection, that blood bond between two people, and the emotions it invokes is merely breath taking. Even Gods can be touched by this emotion, some Gods even more so than others, and it is this emotion that Atreyah felt the most after he had created his son. Suddenly his world was less boring, less stale. Suddenly there was life and joy in it, a spark that had been missing since the day he awoke in that dark, dank mountain. When Atreyah watched the Great Heart set over the horizon, it was not by himself anymore, carefully contemplating the meaning of the universe and whatever subject sprung to mind at the time. No, now he had a head that leaned upon his body, and would ask about the stars above and the planets beyond. A voice that would wake him up in the morning and soothe himself to sleep at night. A companion with whom he flew over the lengths of oceans with, watching the waves dance and crash against one another in a foam filled display of dominance. Everything seemed to be at peace, like the universe was in the right place. And Atreyah loved it.

As the years passed on, Atreyah watched his son grow older and older, slowly growing larger inch by inch as he came to become his own independent being. Where at first Atreyah would accompany him everywhere, shepherding him with his powerful shield like wing, occasionally Atreyah would allow his son to roam the world by himself. Atreyah would lounge in his birthplace, slowly returning to his work on more children to populate his world. He began to take more liberties with his designs, considering some things out of the ordinary or increasingly divergent, and whenever his son entered his workstation he would turn to him and show him what he was working on. And so Atreyah found another source of bonding, he discovered that with his son he can do more than simply experience things with him and enjoy his company, he can absorb his input and perspective. Whenever Atreyah left to roam the world, his Son could be found with him or in the cave working on more clay figures, and vice versa. Weeks would fly by as they sat together, appreciating each other's presence without a word, slowly working on a new figure, and would occasionally stop to compare and share ideas on what to do next or what to change. Atreyah was in utter bliss.

It was on one such day that Atreyah was working on his sculptures that something changed. His son was not in his presence, having left for a fly around the world. Normally this would be cause for little concern, they had done so hundreds of times before. Yet there was a pain in Atreyah's chest, a sudden unnerving feeling. Slowly, he placed his working tools down and began to leave his mountainous home. His supernatural ears began to pick up on a faint sound outside, and so he followed it, having never heard that particular sound before. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.

His sons throat was slit open and gushing blood.

Atreyah loomed over his child, his iron like and pensive expression merely a mask with which he hid his emotional turmoil. His entire world was turned upside down, fear, confusion, powerlessness, and anger ruled over him. As more and more of the Dragons crimson life force was drenched into the earth, the shadow of death casted an umbral shade over him, and it began to creep in. With all the power and hatred in him, Atreyah banished the wretched spectre from his sight, but it returned with a renewed vigor, and was hungry for his son. Desperate, Atreyah began to beg and plead for his sons life.

"You can kill all of my air. Go on take it, I don't care, there's no possession I can't spare....."

And with that the winds around Atreyah died down, the faintest breeze snuffed out in an instant as the Dragon God leaned down to his child. At such close range, Atreyah could determine the true source of his sons woes. Tiny fragments of wood and leaves were embeded into his throat, and his leg was malformed and melted by intense heat. With the winds gone, Atreyah looked up to see a storm roaring above him, and a path of destroyed trees before him. Clenching back tears, he clutched his son tightly to his chest, warming him with the incandescent energy from his chest.

"Since I gave my heart away."

Yet even with the proposed appeasement death wormed its way into Atreyah's son, causing his body to slowly stop jerking around. Sensing his son slowing down, Atreyah grew even more desperate to save his first child.

"Take my beauties beyond count, the likes of which you can't surmount! Things of beauty, what are they.... since I gave my heart away......."

His son began to haggardly breathe into Atreyah's chest, blood gurgling and frothing out in revolting, painful spurts. Atreyah clenched his eyes shut, his body trembling as he too found it hard to even breathe or think in his current situation. His claws gripped his son in a tighter and tighter grip, smothering his child in a vain attempt to preserve his son. The oceans died away, waves and currents coming to a halt as Atreyah offered it upon death's altar. Seemingly everything of beauty began to grow stale and wilted as Atreyah tried to appease that inevitable gaping chasm of oblivion. Yet death was still not satisfied, and the Dragon sons heart began to slow down, his fingers barely moving.

"So take everything! Rule over me! And all of value you might see. But if you take my son from me, that's a price I cannot pay, since I gave my heart away."

The son took another ragged breath, his eyes closing as he leaned his head against Atreyah's chest, and fell into an eternal slumber. The slowly thumping feeling against Atreyah's chest ceased, as did all the warmth in the Dragons body, and it is with that that Atreyah came to the blatant and awful realization. His son had just died in his arms, and he was powerless to stop it. With trembling, tentative arms Atreyah set his child down against the dirt. And so the Mountain God stood still, saying nothing as he merely looked upon his son's corpse. His head tilted upwards, staring into the thunderstorm above,and with eyes still clenched he roared. He roared with all the pain and misery and aching that could be felt in the world. Tears rolled down his face, crashing against the ground like bombshells, soaking the grass and turning the dirt into mud. He clenched his claws and began to beat against his chest, anger and violence boiling within him the likes of which he had never before experienced. His battered and bruised body was heaving, sobbing in the wretched agony that a father feels when he has failed his son. Clawing at the dirt infront of his deceased child, Atreyah looked upon his son with teary eyes, and moaned to the spectre of death as it relished in its gruesome work.

"You see I love him.... he's my son. And if my world with him is done. Then finish off what you've begun!"

He turned his head back to face his mountainous home, the birthplace of all his joy and happiness.

"Turn me now to wood, or stone, or clay......"

Clenching his claw into a fist, he smashed it against his chest, and groaned in pain as he broke his own ribcage. Opening his fist, he raked his claws against his chest and tore the flesh from the broken bones. Blood gushed profusely from his wounds, yet Atreyah paid it no mind, and continued with his gruesome work. Fueled by his misery and self loathing, Atreyah buried his claw into his chest, puncturing his lungs, and tore his heart out. The massive organ still frantically beat as it laid in Atreyah's claws.

"SINCE YOU TOOK MY HEART AWAY!"

And with that Atreyah crushed his heart, chunks of meat exploding everywhere, drenching the entire landscape in gore and blood. As his blood washed over the corpse of his child and washed it away, Atreyah began to sway woozily for a few seconds, and prominently collapsed against the ground. The thunderous sound that came from Atreyah collapsing against the ground was akin to a sonic boom, knocking over trees and sending rocks flying through the air with intense force.

Yet it was the silence that followed that was most deafening of all.

[mystic1110]

Playing Mortal

Years pass – Noramoris was no longer in the skies – the legends left him behind. Legends from his time also faded. Even the brief peace of the Skewered Servants' disappeared into myth and then became tradition. Great Warriors were often compared to those who challenged Noramiros in the past, great companies were compared to those like the Black Children and the Brethren of the Feathers. The Legends began to repeat themselves. War for the sake of war lost its meaning – now it was just war. And in this was another child was born. His parent's didn't name him. Warriors claimed their own name when they were strong enough – the weak died nameless.

Years pass – the boy lost friends on the battlefield. He earned his name. He killed, raped and pillaged. He was wounded, he feared for his life, he heard the carrion birds calling his name. He cried, he lost sleep, he killed more. He grew strong and arrogant, he called himself Noramiros. His lover was killed, and he lived for vengeance. Eventually he was struck down. Died and buried under a tomb, which was eventually weathered by the acid rains. His song was sung and then forgotten.

Another boy was born. Weak, he died nameless. Another, a girl, proud warrior, she fought with her sisters victorious against their foes, then she was betrayed, savaged and left for dead. Another boy, tortured. Another girl – became a commander in one of the largest battlements, they called her the Fire Queen, as she blazed a fiery path of charred bodies across the landscape. Another boy who filed his teeth. Another boy. Another girl who chopped off her breast to be better at the bow. Another girl. Another boy. Another girl.

For a thousand years they were born in the forge of war – for a thousand years Noramiros lived and died, a mortal, in fear and sadness. Fury and passion. He learned so many names, forgotten more. He held his brethren in his arms as they died.

They all whispered to him: “why?”

Noble Knights, Cynical Assassins. Grand quests of revenge. Lofty goals in favor of the greater good. War in the name of peace reared it's head. War for the sake of war. So many ideals lost in gangrene and rot. Lost in madness or sickness. Lost in ignoble deaths. Lost in accidents. Lost to themselves.

He remembered the clashing blades and blood on yellow grass.

And the carrion birds laughing.

His last life was a man with white hair, weathered and worn. His sons and daughters, all felled before him. Now he was a famous sell sword. Belonging to neither company he traveled the war, and fought for any side for a month or two. A brown cloak hid his rusted armor, his teeth yellowed, his eyes strangely yellow like the grass and sky. He had journeyed far and wide to find this place. The old legends told that this was the last place the War God Noramoris was seen – he had vanquished eleven powerful warriors called the Servants of Peace . . . or something. Legends warp overtime. The old camp ground was not even hallowed ground. There was no hallowed ground in a war. There were plenty of half erected tents here. The man made his way through the maze of tents looking for something he did not know – his desire to come here was a mystery.

This man was the last living person on Ormentros. The eternal war was hardly eternal after all. Like a raging fire it ate its own fuel and exhausted itself, sputtering out. Only birds lived underneath the acid rain and the above the fire sea. Without the watchful eye of Noramoris, observing from the sky – the war went on till only one man was left. Think of war like a garden. Without a gardener, the weeds take over, chocking the life out of the flowers within. It might be strange to think of war as a thing with a life, but it did. War breathed and writhed, propagated itself and grew sick – and without its caretaker, war grew weary and eventually died. The last battle was a sad pathetic affair, a couple old men and women hitting each with sticks and falling in the mud. The old man didn't even know he was the last person remaining. He was in too much shock – the clash of swords broke none of his bones over the years but it had shattered his mind. Now he was just driven to walk.

Eventually he came to an empty circle of yellow grass where eleven crows rested, feeding on a carcass of a fallen soldier. The old man looked up into the sky – like it always was, yellow clouds illuminated from the bottom with red. He thought about his life. . . the death. . . he could not cry. His eyes were dry. He fell to his knees – his heart finally giving in. And then he fell face forward in the grass, unceremoniously. His blood slowly seeped out of his wounds. A couple hours passed, while the corpse was just a corpse.

Then black feathered wings burst out of the corpse's back. The burst of feathers came with a gale, knocking the tents off their anchors and pins. The muscles of the corpse contorted into ones of a man in his prime, the worn shirt fell into tatters, his hair turned black and vital, his teeth white, strands of rust floated into the air and began to form into armor. . . . a halberd twisted into existence, as the man stood up, the God reborn did not pick the fallen weapon up. His head was bowed.

He lifted his hands and from the ground dust and grass swirled, the acid from the sky changed into blood as sinews formed and bones were compacted together. The ocean of magma began to bubble in the distance behind the great continental walls. Every sword and every piece of armor ever forged was reduced to rust which began to tumble, in a world wide spiral, towards the God's location. The rust formed weapons and helms. The first people formed from this maelstrom were the Skewered Servants. They emerged in fine gleaming armor.

Noramoris couldn't move. He felt the death of each slain person weigh on him, as if they had their hands on his limbs, dragging him all the way down to death and beyond. He did manage to lift his head to look them in the eyes.

I am sorry.

They stood silent. For the dead could not talk. But they stood accusing. He was their God and instead of leading them to greatness he made them kill each other for . . . what? Nothing.

I will do better, I swear. I know now. There are no enemies. No death worth pursuing. Each war a mistake. There will come a time when mortals would wake and not know the fear of death, nor the sting of loss. By each blade, I promise.

And with that the eleven plunged their weapons into Noramoris. His wings were cut, knives were inserted into his eyes. His heart was cleaved. Stigmata formed in his hands. And then the servants' wraiths vanished into blood, rust and acid.

Next came each proud warrior who once fought Noramoris one on one. Lances in each limb. Axes in his back – like new wings. Each victorious warlord, challenged his pride once again, but he did not fight back.

Then came each person they themselves had killed. And the ones after that. And so on. Then more. Each and every person who perished in the war eternal marked the God – wounding him permanently. Finally came each of his former lives stood before Noramiros. Formed out of blood and rust, Noramiros would have cried if he still had eyes. Each of his mortal lives seemed so pointless. . . and those pointless swords cut him down.

Noramiros fell defeated by the blades of those he had made die and kill – the Skewered King.

***

Noramoris stood, seeing, through the eyes of vultures, the ruin of Ormentros. The world did not deserve to be remade – all the life on it had perished and creating new life in this world. . . would be a crime. Instead the birds looked up and the God lifted his head towards the heavens, towards the Great Heart and thought of its warm embrace. Death was still out there – he heard the sounds of war and wars to come, the sounds of pride grinding away at the souls of others or pride about to blossom glorious and horrendous. He clenched his fists, shattering the blades that were in his palms and fingers – his wounds open but not bleeding. Scars upon scars. He would make good on his promise: There will be no more wars. No more violence. No more death.

For once the birds did not mock him.

[THEChanger]

Telling the Tale

As the dark months came nearer, a young Hüljanud sat by their elder, and asked them a question. “Elder,you tell me many tales. You have told me of Errantes, who guards our world from those closer to the Heart, and of Ben’Ficu, who shields us from the outer dark. You have told me of Zermaius, who gifts us with curiosity, and Noramiros, who teaches us of peace. You have told me of the great hunter Kargoth, whose form changes as ours does, and of Pentex who is ever-still. You have even told me of the terrible Voranakk, who we appease during the dark months that we do not freeze, and of Shoney, who takes us to our final rest. You have told me of all the gods, yet you do not speak of Matkaja. Why have you not told me the tale of the One of Three Masks?” The elder Hüljanud sniffed, and shook its head. “We do not tell the tale of Matkaja until you are old enough to understand, for it is a tale of anger and loss. But now, my child’s child, it is time you know the tale. It takes some time to tell, but with the dark months coming, it is time you knew."

In the Times Before Times, when all the sky was bright as the Heart and the world still was chained to the center, before the coming of the Hüljanud, there lived a people and their king. The kingdom was lush and beautiful, and the crown jewel of it was a mighty tree, whose roots stretched to the very bottom of the world, and held it together. The people were strangers, not a people who were born of the land, but who came from a distant place beyond the clouds. Still, they were kind to the land, and gave it tribute. And their king was wise and fair, and wore a cloak spun from beautiful silks, which shone with the thousand colors of a rainbow.

Now, in those days, Shoney had not found his way so far out, and the true death was not known to those who lived in the kingdom. Those who died would linger, and would take on new shapes, a new body and mind, forgetting what had been done in the past. But the king had lived many lives, and always he remembered. That was how the people knew who their king should be - it was always the person who remembered their lives which had come before.

When the strangers had lived in their kingdom for a very long time (we do not know how long, for time worked differently in those days), their king was visited by a beautiful woman. Her laughter was like crystal, her eyes spoke of secrets beneath the earth, and her smile was as brilliant as a diamond in the light. And she spoke with the king, and she dined with the king, and she shared the king’s bed, for in those days people did not care as much about such things. And before she departed in the morning, the woman offered the king a deal. She offered freedom in exchange for his kingdom.

When the king first heard her offer, he scoffed. For he was king! What freedom could he desire? Yet, as the days passed, the king sat upon his throne, and listened to the words of his people, and he grew despondent. For it was always the same arguments, the same troubles, the same petitions of blessing. Yes, he was highest among them. But he was trapped. Always going through the same motions. It had ever been thus. For all his might, he was bound to his throne.

So when the king was born again, and the woman whose laughter was like crystal came to him again, the king accepted her offer. So the two of them left with the morning light, and they walked a very long way. As they walked, the king’s fine robes grew filthy with dust, and tattered with the thorns and briars which lined the path. Eventually, the king and the woman came to the edge of the world, where the chain which held our world to the Great Heart lay. The woman handed the king a great ax, and told him to sever the land from the chain, and his freedom would be his. The king did as he was bid, and sundered our world from the Great Heart. This is the reason the planet no longer stays in a single place, but wanders in its circles about the Great Heart. When the king looked up from his work, he saw the woman was gone, and he knew he had made a terrible mistake.

This was the first of the king’s three follies. I will tell you of the second folly another night...




Remembering

It was as people say.

I was the king. I must be the king, for when I was presented with the choice, I chose the three objects of kingship. The rod, and shield, and the simple crown, not the one encrusted with gold and jewels, but the one of carven stone. So the elders said I was the king born again, and the people cheered.

But I was young. I was afraid. I knew nothing of being a king. I was a simple shepherd's boy. I had never even seen a crown before. I never wanted what I had been chosen for. Still, you must do your duty for the people, and my duty was to be king, and keep peace between them. So I was taken from my home, and brought to the great hall and placed upon the throne.

I did not remember. They said I would, in time, but I did not remember. I did not know how to be a king. I was a simple shepherd's boy. So I did what I thought was right. Settled disputes as seemed fair to me. But no one thought I was right. Everyone was surprised when I told the man who claimed his cattle were stolen by that young woman he had no proof, so he could not make her do anything. Or when I told the shopkeeper to give back what the old widow had paid for the broken plates and cups. They all thought I was doing it wrong.

So when the voices began to whisper to me, I told no one. What would they say? A king could not be mad. A king did not hear voices in the back of his head telling him to run. So in the day I sat upon my throne and did my duty, and in the night I curled upon my bed and sobbed in the dark. What else could I do? You did your duty for the people, and my duty was to be king.

Until the day she came. No one else could see her. She did not come for them. She was beautiful, and she told me she could release me from my duty to the people who put me on the throne. So I followed her. I left my throne, and my people, and I went to the edge of the world, following the mysterious woman and the voices.

The rest happened as people say. I was brought to the chain which held our world to the Great Heart, and I broke it. And then the voices left for a time, and the woman disappeared. That was how I took up the first of my masks. The mask of the laughing child. I never enjoyed my duty, though I made believe that I did. But there, at the edge of the world, I took off that mask, and hung it at my waist. It had never been real.

It was as people say.

[Raz_Fox]

Second Part of the Shogeoni: Scathann's Ride

This is the second story, so listen well.

If you wake at midnight and hear hoofbeats far off, it's because Scathann is racing Shoney again. She'll never outrace him, though she rides the skinned horse Malech who is faster than any else that has hoof, but she still tries. She's never quite forgiven him, you see.

Back in the days when there weren't no moon, Scathann had herself a child. She gave birth under the roots of a tree, and stained them all red with her boiling birthing-blood. She named him Bartham, and she crowned him with barrow-leaves and cast the charms to make him a Maharath, and crowed to all that would hear her that she had been blessed with a child. But Scathann's hopes don't make for fate, they don't, and one day she let her own son wander before her woven-reed hut while she prepared the mead of inspiration for his lips. A boar came upon the boy and gored his bones with his white tusks, and Bartham fell on his face. As quick as lightning on the hilltops, Scathann rushed out of her hut with a wild face and a shrill cry, and she seized the boar and tore him into two halves. The forelegs she threw before her, and where they landed, they became the wooded peaks of Tuitha. The back legs she threw behind her, and where they landed, they became the barren peaks of Dummal.

But there wasn't a thing to be done by mortal means for the boy. In a great terror, she began to perform rites to cheat death over her child, tying his breath to his body with cruel bonds. And as she did this, Shoney-who-attends-the-dying came riding up on Drullach, his shining-black horse who is heavy-shouldered, whose hooves are white as ash. He slipped from Drullach's back, even as Scathann cursed his boots to burst and his nails to crack.

"I'm sorry, lass, I truly am.
You've done nothing to deserve this.
Dearly he was cared for, that's true.
So I'm here to lead him onwards,
and I'll carry him through the dark,
warding away the night-terrors
with the venom of my sharp gaze.
Give him over to my care now,
that I might guide him on homewards."

Scathann pulled her cloak tight around Bartham's body, and she leaped right onto Malech's back, driving her boot-heels into his dripping flesh. And even as she urged Malech to ride onwards through the night, that she might escape Shoney's grasp, she called back over her shoulder:

"Away with ye, stormcrow!
I'll not let ye have hair
nor hide nor sinew, no,
not of me bairn Bartham.
He's mine, of my flesh, aye,
and naught of your shadows
will claim his errant soul.
On ye go, Malech dear--
find your mistress safety,
and outride swift Drullach!"

This being during an eclipse, caused by the chill of Voranakk's eye, Scathann and Shoney rode across the night. Malech tore up the earth as he began to gallop, and in such a fashion the gorges of Shoney's back were made. Still Drullach pursued, nimble-footed leaping over chasm and gorge. Scathann rode from Shegel to Hafan, and there she threw her shoe at Shoney, for he was clutching at her cloak. Where it landed, the great lake of Hafan was formed, for the rain collected in its impression. On they raced, and where they lit across the earth, the wind of their passage uprooted trees and clove rivers from their beds, and a wilder ride through the night there's never been, there hasn't.

When Scathann came finally to the wasted heath of Myllemenounn, there she finally fell from Malech's back, cradling Bartham in her arms. Shoney his own self, who had kept pace with her for three fortnights, slipped from Drullach's back, and walked across the heath in his ragged boots. Scathann fixed her dreadful eye on him, and made stones of his bones, and said to him as she cradled her boy:

"How dare ye run me hence?
Have you nothing of shame,
of grace, or nae of guilt?
May ye be all broken,
shaken like a morsel
caught betwixt a wolf's jaws!
Go off, ye auld grave-haunt!
Your suffering I'll set
in Afis' net, I shall.
Touching fire he'll be,
consuming your cold heart,
should ye lay hand 'pon him."

Shoney didn't flinch none, but took one heavy step forward, his hand outstretched to hold him, and only one thing he'd say:

"Scathann, can't you hear him crying?"

She held her babe tighter, though tears ran down his cheeks and stopped his breath. Bans she wove about her, that froze the grass and froze breath and froze the night sky itself, but Shoney still stood in the breath between motion and stillness, and she spilled out her fearful hatred:

"Ah, ye have some courage
when taking the sweet seed
of those what bravely bring
new life into gasping
breath 'pon your broad back.
There's nae heart within ye,
nothing of the small reed
what bends the knee to gust
and frost's heavy burden.
Hear this, my foresight, then!
Claim my own bairn indeed,
drag him from my sweet care,
carry my blood and bone
far away from my arms.
But even as you claim
my beautiful Bartham,
so I lay this on ye:
just so ye will likewise
carry your own sons on,
and ye will tear your flesh,
beat your breast, and make wail,
just as I do these things
in mourning for my bairn.
Coward ye'll be to shirk,
damned ye'll be to take him.
Go on now! Spare your own
children, and leave me mine,
or set in course their deaths,
and be forced to lead them
along your darksome path
into the unlit lands.
So speaks Scathann, herself."

Shoney stood there for as long as it takes for a fox to bark, and then he took yet another heavy step forward, his hand outstretched to take him, and only one thing still he'd say:

"Scathann, can't you hear him crying?"

She began to laugh bitter tears, and pulled her cloak from Bartham's body, revealing the rot of his goring and the wetness of his face. Her bans were ripped away as the storm tears away the root and the leaf, and Shoney touched her face as he knelt to claim the boy. But she would not release Bartham, and instead said these things to Shoney:

"It's true as they say, then.
Shoney has his own self
nae heart, nor love for kin.
He leaves the cruel on rounds,
and claims the kindest heart.
Nae love for his own sons!
One will kill the other,
then follow in his grief,
in such as this season.
Yet Shoney, he cares not!
Take him, then! Curse your soul!
I pity she who bears
your seed within her womb,
if to all ye show hate
and the coldness of death!"

Shoney took Bartham in his arms, and kissed his brow, and wrapped him up in shadows and the kindness between sleeping and waking. Then he offered his hand to Scathann and helped her to her feet, and gave answer to her:

"I'll tear my flesh, I will, in time.
I'll hold my dead children close
and let loose my tears on that day.
But Bartham, he was crying now,
and I love him for who he is, aye,
and for who he could have become.
Tying him to the rounds of stars
and seasons past his fated time
is cruelty: there is living breath
within his bones he must exhale,
and I am the wind that drives him
over forest and dark dale
to the other side-- that holy place
of which even I cannot speak.
Just know that Afis sets it such
that those given breath shall journey
on the path, and that out of love
I keep their company along
that road, that they might not feel fear.
No one deserves to go alone:
this my creed, this my fate, until
all breath has come around to home.
Now go. You've hurt me sore, setting
into Afis' weave this dark road
that I must travel, from the birth
I'll celebrate with a dear lass
to the time when I must bear them,
bleeding and tired, into death
and that which lies beyond story."

And Scathann saw Shoney's face veiled by the dread which lies in the hearts of the living, and screaming she fled from Myllemenounn, and where she came to rest, she made her house which is called Strife, and still she struggles against Shoney, though she hates him only in so much as he hates her.

From Scathann the Shaboan learned the arts of the flowers that lie at our feet, and the skill of making charms to ward away disease and suffering, and the secrets of poison and bloodletting. These they learned at Strife's narrow door, which is called Pride.

This is how the second story ends.

[Midgardsorm]

Community to Self

Pathos looked on from his heart into the vastness between his siblings. Those other forms were indeed alive as he was, though he had not the understanding to approach them, and continued to gaze them from his maps and chance passing. Each was maturing in a different way, and he hesitated to make himself known for the prospect of influencing a great experiment lacking a control. However something was happening on a number of his kin he found fascinating; civilization, creature comforts, families telling of distorted histories, what was the purpose of this? Were his own searches and studies too narrow?

It was at this point a thought occurred to Pathos... What stopped him and his own from doing these things? The distorted histories he saw no use for. After all, such tales only suit those who live short lives, embellishing what were once facts into sorry false-hoods, giving symbolism to what once had actual meaning instead of perceived meaning. Mind made up, his avatar appeared before the silent body of his son, Faustus, and he bid the construct awake once more.

"My child, a new age begins for us this day. Gather your children and their children and so on, and make yourselves places of conduct. No longer need my flesh wander my back, instead, shall my being be shaped to construct areas of residence, of rest. As you continue to keep me pristine, you will now write your own way and find your own problems and solutions. The time of remembrance shall now become a time to share and discover ideas. This is the beginning of not only your society, but the dawning of a renaissance!"

[planswalker]

Finding the Voice in All

Thus did the Tritons and Accipt begin to form their societies and to live in the land. They were different than the rest of Graiyah, for they had thought separate from the collective, yet were part of the whole as well. The Green knew that such forms would be necessary for them to achieve the thought and discovery required for Graiyah to reach beyond itself and seek out others.

After an uncounted number of years, the eldest Accipt, simply known as "Eldest" since the concept of names separate from Graiyah had not yet entered into their culture, felt a call deep from the oceans below. He knew not why, but he felt in the deepest parts of his being an urge, a desire to plumb the depths of the ocean and discover what was at the heart of the world. It had never occurred to his people to wonder, for they knew the Triton's experience: there is light on the surface, but in the great depths, there is nothing but darkness and the taproots of the World Trees. However, the Tritons do not go more than a half-days' swim into the darkness.the roots of the World Trees continued deeper, but the Tritons refused to explore it. They knew that nothing would change from that point, and so they did not try.

The Eldest knew that they were wrong. He did not know why; all he knew was that they were wrong. He felt a call from the Green at the very center of the world, days' travel beyond the depths. Thus the Eldest flew down from the heights of the treetops to the surface of the vast endless ocean below. Despite being lords of the air, the very nature of the Acipt is one born in water and thus they breathe underwater just as well as above it. The Eldest knew that the Tritons likewise could breathe air, should they so choose to breach the surface. They being unable to fly, he did not understand why they would so desire.

He continued his journey under the water, following the trunk of the World Tree down until he reached the roots where a tribe of Tritons made their aqueous nests. One Triton hunter came out to greet the ancient Acipt.

"What brings one of the Acipt so far into the ocean?" This Triton, known simply as "Hunter", for that was his greatest skill and that which brought him great glories in his tribe, asked not because he could not feel the Eldest's answer in the mind of Graiyah, but rather because it puzzled him. He could not feel the call that drove this Acipt to swim to the unexplored depths, only the old one's desire to do so.

"The Green calls to me and I must answer." Was all the answer given.

Surprised to encounter a mystery such as this, Hunter asked to accompany the Eldest on his journey. Though the Acipt could maneuver underwater and breathe, it would be difficult for a lone lord of the air to hunt for himself in the depths. His form had none of the speed and grace underwater which earned the Acipt the accolade of being the undisputed lords of the sky. Thus Hunter accompanied Eldest on his way into the darkest depths, hunting for the both of them and driving off the predators of the depths. Their journey continued for a day as the ocean around them grew darker and darker.

When at last Hunter could glimpse the glimmering form of the Great Heart no more, he told the Eldest, "We can go no farther, for we cannot see beyond and the great blackness holds many predators. I cannot protect you if we go forward. These depths hold the Mindless Hunger which hides within the mind of the Green and has no thought of its own to give away its intent."

The Eldest, being an Acipt with eyesight far better than that of a Triton, simply said, "I can see still. I can be your eyes."

Curious, Hunter reached out and touched Eldest and linked with him so that he could see through his eyes. Indeed, though all color was gone, the Eldest could see the Great Heart still, though even his sight saw it dimply. The shadowy forms of the things that hunt in the dark abyss betrayed the presence of the Mindless Hunger. Hunter became excited by this. "Now I see the provenance of Graiyah that we should accompany each other on this journey."

Together, the eyes of Acipt and the instinct of the Triton kept the duo safe for another day's journey. There at last, even the Eldest's sight could not penetrate the depths below. "Now at last we must turn around, for even your sight cannot penetrate the blackness."

"Have faith, Hunter. The Green calls to me and I serve the will of Graiyah. If it is the Green's will that I feed my body to some hunter in the dark, so shall I feed such a lonely creature. However, I still feel the call and I do not believe such will be my fate. Return home to your tribe and tell them of the wonders you have seen in your journey so far."

Thus did Hunter return to his people. Though he traveled a day in darkness, his instincts as a hunter and his skills at predation protected him from the Mindless Hunger until he at last returned to the Light. For three days after parting ways with him, Hunter still felt his presence in Graiyah, then suddenly the mind of the Eldest vanished into the Green.

He told his tribe of all the things he had done with the Eldest Acipt, of their discovery of the marvels of an Acipt's sight and the horrors of the true forms of the Mindless Hunger. He spoke of the faith and determination of Eldest to heed the call, regardless of whether or not he did so at the cost of his life. This tribe of Tritons honored the faith and wisdom of this Eldest Acipt in songs and stories told of the great deeds done on that journey.

Many years later, when Hunter himself was now an Elder in his tribe, a great stir arose in all the Green. Graiyah had given Voice to the Will of the Green. An Acipt, filled with the viridian glow of the Green, spoke with a voice for all beings. This Voice of the Green performed many signs and wonders weilding the might of the Green itself.

One day, the Voice came to visit the tribe of Tritons where Elder lived. When Elder saw the form of his old traveling companion, the Eldest Acipt, he wept for joy to understand the mystery of the call that had sent him on a journey no Triton had ever dared before. upon seeing him, the Voice paused and said, "We thank you for accompanying this vessel on its journey to answwer the call of the Green. With our aid, that Words and Will of Graiyah united to give Voice to the Green. We thank you for your service.

Know that Graiyah stirs for one important reason: there are other worlds in the Cosmos, other beings who need to join the All which is One. Prepare your people, prepare all peoples, to be able to join us in our cause to unite all together as one. Strive now to reach to the stars and learn to travel the Cosmos. For such a purpose as this were the Words of Graiyah given form. We go now to prepare the way for you."

Thus did the first Voice leave Graiyah in an emerald shimmer and begin to travel across the vast gulf between the worlds.

[Draken]

Ormentros, the first place of the system in which civilization bloomed. A world of pointless barbarism under the watchful guidance of a world-god with a lust for the glory of carnage. The people of Ormentros did fight among each other for the favor of their capricious divine, such fervor and adoration inspired the serpent’s greed.

We all know how Ormentros turned out in the end, but that is not what this tale is about, and it shall not be recounted.

Dulkkes would need time to create his followers, time that Gorgokkon, Shakkal and Tortokk already bickered plentifully over. Each of them carried a spark of Isenvei’s all-encompassing will and the totality of the world’s power, but divided as they were, each head had its own priorities. They needed a mediator. Providence had them stumble upon a comet carrying the frozen remains of a creature.

Smooth and sleek, with fins for swimming and a head bearing horns that supported crests going down the neck and back, greater than any of the component beasts yet, and five-headed. A sign, no doubt.

Isenvei did its work as it had done before. Mekkari took the center and the Voranakk was at last complete. Isenvei’s will was granted to the new head, to make the whole self of its representative work properly as they should, and all five knew this to be true. The bickering and competition of minds molded after simple minds whole in themselves was no more, all of the Voranakk shared silent insights into their grander designs, into the will of Isenvei.

So Tortokk spat a mass of primordial matter, and all of the Voranakk set out to cultivate soup into the first sauran. You most certainly have never seen such a pool, but it is a vast, shallow lake of pallid oils with coagulating chunks of something floating within. It has been said that they smell quite terribly by outsiders.

The first batch of sauran was comprised of a thousand males and a thousand females made by each of the five heads, with physical traits matching their creator. Chelons, Suchus, Varans, Ofides, Hydras. The ten thousand progenitor sauran who built the first settlement upon the slopes atop the Voranakk and with it carried out Isenvei’s will, leaving their children behind on all corners of the ice world, there to grow into the cities and tribes of the present day.

”This, little ones, is the origin of us all. Of us, the Voranakk, and of you, the Sauran. There are other stories you will hear from your elders of our world and of your tribes, and of the other worlds as well. But these are for another day.”

“For now… Go join the festivities. We all have a long year ahead of us.”

The old Voranakk looks up to the sky, to the bright Heart above and to all the worlds arrayed between.

Turn zero advancement goes into creating a race, the Sauran, at stone age.

Sauran have five subraces, tailored after turtles, crocodiles, lizards, snakes and... Something else, a form of ancient sea dragon perhaps. There are differences between the races, for sure, but they all breed true. Sauran are quite large and physically imposing but have an overall humanoid stance, if somewhat hunched over, specially in the case of crocodilefolk, less so for serpentfolk.

[Yuki Akuma]

"The final time the world's heart emerged, the small sprout had grown into an immense forest. Plants of all shapes and sizes stretched out beyond the valley as far as the world's heart could see; and, he knew, covered the entire world, from pole to pole. The heart of the world smiled, and began to explore.

Things were so different now. No more barren volcanic wastes, but rich, fertile soil, populated by flora and fauna of all types. The animals and plants, all born from the blood of the world's heart, lived together in harmony, and delighted the world with all manner of games.

One day, the world's heart came to a cave. Curiously, it ventured within, to discover a girl, weeping from loneliness. The world's heart stared at the girl, and the girl stared but. For a moment, she glimpsed the true nature of the world... and in the next, the world's heart was a mirror image of the girl.

He held out his hand. The girl took it." - Sidhe Sage Aeribeth, the Book of Life

"The girl explored the world hand in hand with the world's heart. They ate fruits and played with animals, and the girl gave each one a name. They traveled and traveled, over mountains, past lakes and through valleys.

One day, the world's heart decided it was time to leave again - to go dormant and let the world continue without him for a time, like he had done several times before.

One night, he stood up to leave. The girl immediately took hold of him. She told him she had thought up a name for him - 'Zermaius'. A nonsense word, like all the names she had made up, but the heart of the world liked it.

He decided not to leave." - Sacred Maiden Aeronwen, the Book of Sidhe

[HalfTangible]

[Hand Up]

Eldrid's actions were now driven by desperation rather than any genuine expectation of success. The young elf had been alone for a day and a half, and he knew not the way to the nearby oasis. The rest of his tribe had been taken by the steel demons, but he alone had managed to escape. Of course, he had fallen from the claws of a dragon. Both of his legs were broken, and now he was going to die out in this endless expanse of sand. He knew he would die without water, but he had no way to reach an oasis, and the nearest he knew of would've been too far even on foot. But youth is a burning thing, full of spirit and naievete. He began to dig in the ground beneath him. Perhaps he could not run, but he could dig. And perhaps he could dig deeply enough for a well to form, and he might drink. It wasn't much of a hope, but it was a hope.

And then he would die a few hours later from bloodloss and shock.

The wind whipped around him as the beating of wings filled his ears. Fear gripped him as he turned, ready to face his death. Instead his eyes were met with what appeared to be a half-dragon elf. She folded her silver wings behind her, pupiless teal eyes gazing at him with curiosity from under raven hair. The woman was clad in leather and leggings that left her midrift exposed to the elements, as well as her shoulders and arms. Scales covered her sides, and her hands and feet bored sharp claws (the latter of which didn't look particularly useful, given it was still an elvish foot) He found his eyes sliding along her form, his thoughts turning to how healthy and fertile she- he shook himself. This was no time to get distracted.

He looked up to the woman. "Miss, I need help! Can you fly and get a healer?" She was silent. "...Some water, then?" She was silent. "...Hello?"

I heard. She said coldly. I just don't give handouts.

Eldrid scowled. Of course. He turned and continued digging.

You should stop. She growled.

He didn't dignify her with a response.

You should get help for your legs if you actually need it instead of digging your own grave.

"I won't make it crawling, it's too far." He said coldly. "I'm hoping there's a well here."

She tilted her head. ... Huh. That's a long shot if I ever heard it.

"It's a chance. My last chance." He replied, digging. "I will live, woman, whether you help me or not."

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, the woman tossed her raven hair behind her head. "Call me Visotta, goddess of survival."

"How humble." He said dryly, still digging.

"Humility is for those with no reason to be proud. Now stop digging a minute, we need to have sex."

Eldrid stopped. It took a few seconds for her statement to fully process. "What?"

"As I said, we need to mate. I need to harvest traits for incorporation into the dark elf race, but I also need to spread good ones further around." She said matter-of-factly, as if she were discussing the weather and not just told someone she'd just met they were going to bang. "You have a strong spirit. That is something worth preserving."

"I..." He gulped, trying not to look at her. He was beginning to wonder if this was a dream. Females didn't walk to him and say 'hey let's do it'. Not that he was objecting, no, he actually liked the sound of it. Mating with this beauty? He could probably die happy after that. But this seemed almost unreal.

"Are... are you sure you-"

"Yes, I'm sure, don't make me repeat myself." As if he wasn't already both confused and aroused enough, the leather he had seen her wearing plopped onto the ground right before him. "Now, turn over." She sounded bored, and as he turned over, he could feel her tongue on his neck.

---

When he finally awoke, he found, to his surprise, that water had begun to spring up in the hole he'd been digging... That somehow was about twenty feet deeper. And while he still couldn't move his legs, he found they no longer pained him. It would be many hours before he was found, but a dark elf healer was able to get his legs working again with little effort.

Visotta didn't give handouts. But occasionally she gave a hand up.

[Tempestfury]

The first pulse of the Great Heart had consumed many in its fire. Burning away the species of old, so that the new could take their place. New life, born in the light and warmth of the Great Heart, that would be able to do what no other species could do before: To see. And with this new age of the cosmos, and new life that came with it, came new gods that were unlike any seen before.

And yet, the old, through burned and scoured from the cosmos, were not completely gone. Their had a history, long and proud. And with this history, came many, many stories. Stories of heroes and villains, of war, love and death. Of large monsters beyond imagining, and great champions that vanquished them. These stories, myths and legends, were not simply scattered across time and space, to be lost and forgetting by the new. Instead, they gathered together, a swirling maelstrom of creative energy, and from it, on a barren, empty world. A god was born.

The stories of old filled it. Of the big, and of the small. Of the husband protecting his wife. Of the mother, protecting their children. The firstborn, protecting his siblings. Soldiers, fighting to protect their homes. Healers, fighting to protect their patients from death. Teachers, protecting their students from ignorance. Liberators, fighting to protect the freedom of living beings, police, fighting to protect the law and order of their civilization.

All these stories came together to form a being, a being of power beyond the mortal. A being unlike another other that once was, and will ever be. A being that’s very first thought, was the purpose bestowed upon to it, a purpose taken from the stories and legacy of the old age.

Protection.

* * * * * * *

With its goal set, the god pondered how to set about its goal. It thought back upon the stories that had created it. Of how the heroes journeyed across the land to vanquish evil. How the champions moved from place to place in order to hunt down the dangerous beasts. Of how the healers moved around the forests to collect the herbs for their medicine. And of of how the teachers moved to schools or from town to town, in order to teach.

A spark came to the god, and he focused on these thoughts in more detail, looking deeper into the importance of action. Of how to fight, the limbs must move, to teach, knowledges moves from the teacher to the student. And to heal, the medicine must be moved to correct spots. The sick and bad, moved out from the body. Yet, this was not enough for the god, and even deeper did he study it.

The beating of the heart to send blood round the body. The breathing of the lungs to take in the life-giving air. The pulses racing up and down the nerves, ordering the body how to move. The firing of the neurons in the brain, controlling it all. Even during the deepest of sleep, that could not be waken up from, there was still action. With this, the god came to realize an important part of protection, and of life itself.

Movement.

* * * * * * *

To protect, and to move. the god knew its goals. And it knew that without a body, it could not achieve these goals. But what type of body should it have? A giant, that could crush opponents, and be a living shield with its size? A speedster, to eliminate threats before anyone could get hurt, and take aid to those faster than anyone else? What form? What size, what weight? To answer these questions, the god reflected on the stories once more.

The champions that slew beasts many times larger than it. Warriors, that took on entire armies by themselves. Heroes, that inspired generators to come. Once more, a pattern began to emerge. Strength, speed, stamina. They were all liked, they were all respected. Yet, that is not what the greatest stories of were about. The greatest stories were about something, much much different.

The underdogs, winning despite all odds. A champion’s passion, driving them to achieve what others do not dare. The will of heroes pushing them forwards to accomplish the impossible. Stories of how anyone, with enough dedication, could become a legend. But there was more to ponder, more to reflect, bringing back stories that had already been gone over once before to create its purpose.

Teachers and ignorance. Doctors, and healing. Liberators, and freedom. A spark ignited in the god, as it realized that not one single form could fit. That from world to world, and people to people, the best form would differ. However, it could make a form for itself.

Tall, yet not towering. Strong, but light on the feet. Scales, to provide a natural armour against blows. Powerful legs, for fast movement. A tail for agility and balance. Wings, to take to the sky. Hands, to use tools and weapons as he see fit. The god’s body had its form, but it would differ greatly. For it now understood another important factor in protection and fighting.

Ideals.

* * * * * * *

With its body, the god could now wander its world. On foot and on wing, it explored. Yet, there was nothing to be found. The world was barren, scoured clean by the pulse of the Great Heart. Burned, blacked and flat. It was featureless, and lifeless. This would not do, for such a planet had nothing to be protected. it had to change. Yet how could it be changed? In what method should it be changed?

Through it stories, it knew that there was many different types of life that existed on many different environments. To chose between one or the other would be unfair, and to decide the proportions of terrains and environment was something he could not simply do. Instead, he needed a method that would randomize the process of shaping his world.

Again, the stories came to him. But these stories were unlike anything that had come before. Instead of tales of heroes and protect, they were about destruction. About howling wind, and pouring rain. Of burning lighting and booming thunder. Storms that could destroy entire civilizations... and allowing new ones to grow in their place.

Not only that, but the word had been turned into a meaning of aggression and force... and both of these was necessary to shape the world to what he wished to see. With this in mind, the god unleashed his power, the world become engulfed in black clouds as he created a storm unlikely anything that had ever been seen before. A storm created by a god.

The land was split apart and smashed together, raised up high and squashed down low, flooded with rain and drained of water. The god did not know how long the storm raged, but when it began to recede, life began to flourish of its own accord. Fungi, plants and animals all came to being, living, breathing, eating, breeding, dying. It was a beautiful world, harsh at times, but even that had its own beauty. And every now and again, a new storm would form to change a small portion of the land forever. The god had found a expression of power that he had a strong affinity with.

Storms.

* * * * * * *

With his world now alive and flourishing. The god now had chance to reflect upon himself once more, and think about what exactly he was. All the people of the stories had at least one thing in common. They all had names. It was obvious to the god that he needed to name himself as well, but what names could it be?

The god reflected on what he was... Protection. His goal. Movement. His Method. Ideals. His strength. Storms. His powers. Stories. His life. But then the biggest spark ran through the gods mind. For he wasn’t originally a being of so many things. In fact there was a time he wasn’t alive.

The world reflected this as well, from a barren, burnt wasteland, it was now teeming with life and many, many environments in which to live. A diversity of life that was amazing to observe and wonder. Yet, even this didn’t capture it properly. For the cosmos as whole had been in darkness before, but now thanks to the Great Heart, it was full of life.

Casting his mind back into the stories, the god searched through the languages of the old. Searching for words, combining them, mixing them, discarding them. Until finally, he had reached his conclusion. Five words in five different languages, each one meaning a different part of who he was, come together to create a new name. A name which encaptured his final part of self.

“I am Rivsibaes Arcantos Proteluacell. I am Change.”

[Midgardsorm]

Thoroughfare to the Thorough Fair

Each of the main paths that lead to Pathos' Observation Hall were flooded with the Children of Faustus. A mockery of civilization had risen from the same body they were crafted from in a sense. Tools were created rarely, for they were later only destroyed, and even then were generally only in place for constructing housing, communities, cities. There was no need for weapons or forges at this period, for there was no need to eat and nothing to be eaten. Those tools not used in construction were used in measurements, sometimes on the planet, more often in the cosmos; and no tool would ever possess the ability to process like their own minds could.

In droves they poured in, sharing their thoughts with one another, the most remarkable ideas would be shared with Pathos directly... Faustus now had the honor every cycle on this, the Time of Inception, to choose who would have this opportunity. Those ideas that interested Pathos the most he would name the bringers as paragons of that cycle. While honorary, it was a benchmark that each held with pride, for it showed a true academic accomplishment that something as powerful as a god might recognize their brilliance.

This Time of Inception was different though... true, everything proceeded in normal fashion until one of the newest generation came to place his ideas to Faustus. Now Faustus new much, for Pathos' kept no secrets from those willing to learn, but idea and the theoretical science behind it alone! He knew not what to make of it and put ceremonies on hold to personally usher the young one to Pathos. What the god heard intrigued him beyond mere words; hints of an energy type unlike any yet encountered, defying known laws of property and coherency, yet seeming to have purpose and direction. It was brilliant, flowing contradiction, where the beginning and the end of the equation made sense, but the middle was missing.

It was obvious these new quantum properties had to be studied in depth and Pathos made an offer he'd never made before, he bid the child join him in study. For if he was the one to discover, it was only right he help solve the riddle. Thus the forty-second Time of Inception came to a close... and another chapter... and another book...

[Raz_Fox]

Third Part of the Shogeoni: Ileria and Sullaga

This is the third story, so listen well.

Once, Shoney had his own self no moon. In the long hours of the night, the only light on his back came from the unburning fire of the seas and the gentle shining of the high flowers, and it was not safe to travel the forest ways unless Lys was in his high house. Shoney stood beyond all brotherhood and family, and his only company was to be found along the final road, or else when he came to feast with the children of Matha on the Sannacht Night. But his strength was such that he could bear such a burden, and so he endured without any being close enough to him to remove his furs.

One day, he came to rest on Faleffet: that is, the Folded Hill. He folded his cloak under him and laid his head down, and he dug his fingers into the loam of his back as he looked off into the night and took an hour's rest from his Rounds, for mercy's sake. And as he lay there, and the moss of his head laid vinelike about his shoulders, he saw Ileria-- but, of course, he did not know her yet. All he knew of her was that she was like him, and yet unlike, for while his back was dark and tangled, she shone like the flowers of the high branches, and when her light filled him, the weariness of his duty lifted from his shoulders.

So he went wandering up to meet his visitor, whose light seemed fairer to him than that of Lys in his high house, and presently he stood upon her back, which bore only silver flowers and hummingbirds of indescribable colors who fed on their nectar. There he wandered for a while, and the hummingbirds scattered where he walked, and finally it so happened that he stumbled upon Ileria in her ceaseless flight across her own back. Her hair was all a-tangles, her gown was torn and flimsy, she lacked any cloak to cut out the chill wind of her back, and her dancing was without rhythm or rhyme. Seeing her plight, Shoney chased after her, and as he ran alongside her, he pleaded with her to stop and speak with him, seeing as she had tarried so close to his own back. But she replied, as she spun and whirled, in such manner:

"Would that I might, stranger of mine!
I, daughter of the wild stars
that I am, suffer underneath
a terrible curse of motion:
no rest, no kind sanctuary
may I find in such state as this,
not while still I may dance onwards,
whirling about the errant stars,
unable to stop- to observe-
to choose for myself my future,
whether path, company, or fate-
Afis, pay heed to me, weary
and haggard from my constant flight!
Shatter my legs, if such brings peace-
seal me behind the dark gate
that binds dreams and savage nightmares-
but, o, let me know some respite!"

Hearing this, Shoney's heart was shaken for her sake, and he reached out to seize her, that he might hold her close and give her respite from her endless journey. But no sooner had he caught her than he found that she could not be held; she broke free, wailing and begging his pardon, even as her violent motion threw him from his feet. Shoney tried a second time, once he had caught up to her once more, and she threw him so far quite by accident that the trough of his landing can still be seen as a faint scar on her back. Once he had found himself again, for his wits had been tossed just as far in the opposite direction, he said to himself that there was one thing that he could do to aid her.

So a third time he caught up to her, running as swiftly as he could to keep up with her, and this time he offered her his cloak, heavy with furs and clinging shadows, so that she might have some protection from the cold. They argued for a time, she not wanting to take his property from him and never return it, he refusing to allow her to go on her journey without its warmth to cover her. Finally, she relented, and he threw it over her, and she wrapped it tightly all about her frame and cried out in happiness that it was as warm as a summer's day. In her joy, she wished that she could stop all the more, for if she could, she would linger for a time and thank her benefactor all the more happily. And when Shoney heard this, his resolution became as firm as the mountains.

On the very next day, during a lull in his Rounds, Shoney his own self went to visit Scathann in her hut, which is called Strife. He passed through the narrow door, which is named Pride, and he bowed his head to her, saying:

"Scathann, honored midwife, I come
to you needing your skill displayed.
My own cunning has failed me:
I cannot find the path that leads
through the mists encoiled all about,
neither can my strength serve me well--
but you know this as well, you do,
that my strength is fettered by will;
endurance is all that remains.
Seeress and cunning-counsel named,
your craft can't be overcome, no,
not by heaven nor by the earth,
until Afis should so declare
that its time has come to an end
and I come to lead it on through.
Above our heads the stars do dance
and make merry, but for this one
who hangs so close over my brow;
her name's Ileria, I've heard,
and I would help her, as I can.
Journeys I know: may I cease hers?
It must be so, for my heart yearns
to see her smile, her bloodied feet
brought to rest, her tangle-hair straight,
and if it is ordained just so,
I would, though I sacrifice all
that I can spare, that the lost dead
have not already claimed as due."

Well, he'd addressed her as was her due, and he'd praised her skill rightly, and so Scathann made reply that she'd perform her secret arts to see what might be done to bring Ileria's mad wandering to an end, that she might herself choose when to travel and when to be still, when to alight and when to rest. Scathann crushed the flower-petals of the mysteries, and she cooked them over her fires, and she peered deep within her black flint mirror as the smoke coiled around them both. Between one moment and the next she slipped, looking with her eye unseeing, hearing with her ears all deafened, and though she sat in her hut she wandered between the stars. When she had seen the things that her arts had made known to her, she said to Shoney:

"Your fate is heavy, aye,
and much shrouded to me.
But hers I see clearly,
like stars' light on the hills.
Hear this! A lariat
must be woven to bind
her to one whose shadow
lies long over all things:
then only may she rest.
It must be woven well
by mine own hands from these:
a stag's monthly issue
and a doe's molting horns;
the breath of a mountain
and the song of dry bones;
the regret of lovers
and the joy of widows;
the wing-feathers of wolves
and the hooves of minnows;
the sound of cold hatred
and the bark of despair;
water caught in the hand
and so too the high air.
Only such lariat
can restrain her mad flight.
Gather such, and I'll weave
them into line and lash."

Shoney left that place without uttering word, brooding over the things that she had seen, but he left her charms of bone and strange dreams at the foot of her bed, for to give her payment was only courtesy.

At crow's-call of the following morning, as Ileria's path dipped close to Shoney, and her silver light was draped gently over the high branches and the bald mountain slopes, Shoney stepped through Pride again with a sack flung over his shoulder, sewn whole from a white boar's skin. Scathann fixed her dreadful eye on him, even as she bent over her fire's circle, and asked of him:

"Well, you've come quick, you have.
Have you been gathering?
I'd reckon they're rare, aye,
and nae simple to find,
these things with which I'll weave."

He handed her the sack, and when she undid the vine-knot about its mouth, the light of her fire was drowned by the darkness within. Shoney's horns scraped against the rafters of her hut, which were the woven roots of two vast trees, and he made answer:

"I traveled through the gate of horn
which stands as white as sand and star
between sleep and true wakening.
There I searched and found their shadows,
long-striding sideways through distance.
Here they are not, but their nothing
can be held between your fingers.
Take these, and weave my lariat
for her soul's sake, and your skill's sake,
that she may rest, and you earn praise."

But Scathann furrowed her brow and frowned, letting the darkness lick about her fingers. After a time, she said:

"Shadow-woven line, ha!
Won't catch naught but shadow.
Mayhap you can keep her,
hold her shadow tightly,
but won't break her curse none,
it shan't. She'll return home
to your door soon enough,
but always roaming be.
They're true and false at once,
shadows be; standing true
with their master Shoney
where spirit and root meet.
But never was there shade
what could hold fast the flesh,
neither hold the true heart.
Fool ye be, giving such
to be spun through my hands."

Shoney brandished then a bone before her, and into its whiteness was carved the words Yan Tyan Tethera, which is: Land Under Wave. This, too, he had retrieved from the limitless confinement beyond the gate of horn. Scathann fell silent, though her fingers twitched with her desire.

"I have brought you a bridge, Scathann:
the death that Afis wove for me.
In my dreams I am bound by grass,
lying with my fingers in loam,
and the sea rises up to me,
over my mouth, over my eyes.
It washes away all I am.
Nothing I fear more than water,
more than the all-consuming wave;
this is the shape I have chosen.
Real it is, and true as well,
enough to hold her fast and firm,
and break the curse's harsh handhold."

This said, Scathann took the bone eagerly in her hands and broke it, and let its marrow flow out into the shadows: the marrow smelled of cold waters, and endless weight, and air's end. Once there was nothing left of his death's marrow, she seized the shadows and twisted them between her clever fingers, and turn by turn lashed them into a lariat, as long as all rivers and as thin as a hair, gleaming with Ileria's own light. She named this lariat Sullaga, and gave it over to Shoney's hands. For this service Shoney gave her the charm for walking under the hills.

By this time, Ileria was beginning to spin away from Shoney's back, for her constant flight had forced her away, just as it had forced her near. Seeing this, Shoney set himself places to stand. First he set Moramath, the chalk mountain, to be the seat of his right foot. Straight after he set Hoarath, the black flint mountain, to be the seat of his left foot. Then he wove Sullaga tight about his arm, and spun it out with his hand, and bade it catch her right and well.

Before Ileria could be lost to the vastness between the stars, Shoney let Sullaga loose, and he caught her fast with the shining line. As soon as can be believed, he had woven it all about her back, and he set his feet against Moramath and Hoarath as he pulled on Sullaga for fear of losing her. Well, Ileria's motion was violent enough, even all caught up in the finest lariat that there ever was, that Shoney strained and groaned to hold her, and Moramath broke underneath his right foot, which is why it has been broken to this day. But Hoarath stood strong beneath his left foot, though he wore its slopes to sheerness. Sullaga itself was pulled so taut that it bit fiercely into Shoney's arm, and slipped as neatly as you please under his skin while he wasn't minding it, and to this day can be seen gleaming silver there, which is why you aren't to wind a line about your own arm. But Sullaga held where no other lariat could, and Shoney pulled Ileria back down until she hung close above him.

When she was close enough, Shoney leaped from his back to hers, and he used the tip of tall Hoarath to be tall enough to reach her. Landing in her silver flowers, he followed Sullaga to where she'd fallen, still for the first time in her life. He found her wrapped up in his cloak, and Sullaga's light shone bright against the shadow pulled warmly about her. Seeing this, Shoney took care to bind Sullaga firm about Ileria as a belt, and as he did so he said such:

"You wished some rest, or so I've heard.
While this line holds, such rest you'll have,
and no more go roving all about.
If I've sinned, then say as such, aye,
and I'll set you loose soon enough,
though my heart would feel it sore.
But if to rest here's your wish, lass,
then I'll bring you up a moss-bed,
and a white horse to be your own.
And if I might, I'd seek your hand,
for none I've seen be same as you--
in light, I mean, and soothing grace.
I'm no fair husband, to be sure:
I walk beside the mournful dead
every day and night, with naught much
time to rest my weary head by.
The living fear my shadow, aye,
and my strength's such as needs control,
not to be shown for aught as praise
or glory's crown. No king I be--
though I be master of the road
and that which lies between all things.
Whatever your word, I'll abide
by its law and serve as I can.
Such is only right, after all."

Having heard this, Ileria embraced him, and pulled him down to lie beside her. She entwined her gentle fingers into his hair, and then lay still for a time longer, looking up at the cycles of the stars. Finally, she spoke, moving her lips as little as could be managed:

"I have seen much of what exists,
and yet have never tarried long
enough to see proper customs--
the customs of husband and wife,
of bright brides and their handsome grooms,
and I admit this as a flaw.
I do not know how to be good
to my savior, who caught me fast
before I could be compelled onwards:
the dark sky is bereft of me,
of my gown's trail and my tears!
Yet, if you would have me, dark god,
I would be yours. No fair husband?
You are kind to the desperate,
gentle despite your strength's vastness,
and even having me caught here,
bound by this unbreakable line,
you offer to release me hence:
your own happiness sacrifice
to allow me my heart's freedom.
I reject your offer, my king!
Never release me! Keep me close
by your side, allow me to be yours,
and I will make you mine in turn,
though I know nothing of marriage,
and my own strength pales by yours.
Give me a wedding veil, pray,
and a gown of white owls' feathers,
then I'll marry you and treat you right."

So Shoney fetched his bride a veil woven by the children of Matha, and a gown of white owls' feathers stitched by his own hand, and a crown made from a young buck's horns and her own flowers made as hard as stone by the Scathann's art. They were married at Fal Ineth: that is, the Moon's Stone. And for a week after, Shoney sent a kestrel to bid the dying wait for his guidance, for Ileria had woven Sullaga around their wedding-bed to keep him close.

To this day, Hoarath cuts the sky, and the clouds break on its strength. Moramath lies all in pieces where it fell, and the goats graze on its back. Fal Ineth shines where Ileria stood, and to sleep there is to know her grace.

This is how the third story ends.

[Erik Vale]

"It is crushing, to be alone in your moments of triumph. Now imagine the position of the gods, for whom the mutterings in their sleep shape entire cultures. They are at the highest heights, but they must stand there alone, forced only to revel in another's glories lest they reshape the world in one direction. Think long and hard, young one, before you decide that the god's silence is reason not to believe."


Echoes sounded through the void, others occasional declarations reached him as muffled words, but here on the outskirts, he was alone, unheard...
It was demoralizing for any being to be alone in a moment of triumph, but Ben'Ficu as Ben'Ficu felt that disappointment, he turned instead to look at what he achieved. He looked inwards to what was growing, he had his own achievement... Now it was time to watch those of the others, and it was here his spirits soared, his loneliness forgotten, even as he just watched.

His creations were but the scraps others left, but changed. The world was cold, had it a system like many other worlds that chose to bare life, it would be a desolate frozen wasteland... Instead it was a place where the very air was inimical to almost all life forms in the galaxy, and so he changed the templates, and on a thought given them the ability to remember what previous templates had, and he set them loose.


They died by the billion, kinds that were unsuitable broke down and were eaten. There was competition, adaptation. In a biological eye-blink protokaryote analogues become what one could state were rather similar to eukaryotic bacteria based around fluorine and silicon... And then things slowed.
Many forgot how to remember. It was a waste. They adapted, they forsook the ideas others had had, and learnt from their own mistakes and failures. They were winning. Eventually there would be none who remembered
And then, those who remembered knew of masses. They grew large, they grew as far as they could, but in much it didn't help. More died.
And then some realized.
This isn't the template for just one.
This is the template for many as one.
There was an explosion of types. Those who forgot were left behind, in much their achievement didn't quite match the making of old ideas into new glory, but in their practice and in the errors of memory, they found place. Some even mimicked, and made their own masses through trial and error, eventually in some ways better masses came out. The acid seas were a flush with activity, competition in all forms existed, some were forced back, and back.
And then thought of the land.
Slowly, life took a foothold, things didn't act quite the same.
Things were different.
And things needed gathering.

Life stalled in the amphibious stage. None could quite push themselves out of the water, everything was close. Things communicated, memories weren't as useful hear, but some ideas gave strength. Trial and error, the failed were learned from and made into the strong...
And then it was mastered. The breathing of air came to those who achieved, and they chose to leave in mockery of others, quick to try and claim the land. These also learned how to make from the world their own nourishment, and kept to themselves and maybe their own kinds selfishly. Plant analogues were finally truly present.
The air changed, then re-balanced, unlike other worlds where similar events happened, the atmosphere stayed stable, whilst chemotrophs and autotrophs had existed before and caused some change, the new variants were rather different, but the air was such that the difference wasn't notable for life, even without the touch of Ben'Ficu.
Then others came, their ideas on how to thrive separate but similar. Each filled their own niches, land animals and then air animals came to be.
The plants fought back, they were selfish, but they fell, and eventually some had to choose harmony, and life became stable. The steady advancement of kinds improving themselves and fitting into the niches that was the ever changing life.

It was now, he chose to look at the creatures as they adapted, creating their niches within niches, rising to their own heights and finding their own places.

He found those that had become masses, and decided to mimic explicitly. They were the most similar to those that were from before, and those from whom the template had been taken. Each one remembered well, with some dificulty seeing back into the days of their fathers fathers to know their greatest events, some of those who risen well found means to remember further, or even remember the less important events or in clearer ways. They rose quickly, however they were less adapted to the world, and could often fall to those who remembered less. However within them were some that didn't remember, and they needed them, as they needed the tools they remembered, and Ben'Ficu saw no waste, he saw how things were, and he deemed it good.

He found those that remembered only as a template, and forgot some of the later, they were similar to the least of those who came before... But, they were adapted, each was strong as a individual, and they remembered well enough to see that they needed to improve. They remembered differentiation in more than what they did themselves, and could as those chose, become one of many, their powers improving... Each were self sufficient, but chose to grow beyond oneself, and even achieve as a group where one would fail. He felt pride in their strides, and he deemed them good.

Then were those that forgot, they were most adapted. The mimicked at some point to keep up, becoming masses, however that was where similarity ended. There mimicry was a failure in many ways, but whilst they weren't specialized individuals working together, either as multiples as those who sometimes remembered or those who remembered, those who forgot were just one being, working in concert, and having overcome barriers others had. They were most adapted, and in many ways were very powerful, triumphing over all others... But they were more dependent on the water even if they could not take to much, and they strode not as quickly. They fell behind, but remained in sight. Eventually the entire band they dominated was all one life existing in semi-harmony. Each achieved to it's most, each taking from the looser. They did not waste, and grew as the chose, and so he deemed them good.

And so he watched and waited, looking in instead of out, alone in his own little world of joys, troubles forgotten as he watched others grow, the need to find those that talked forgotten in the joys of parenthood.

[Tychris1]

The Earth Parts,
And I am Born Anew

Blood. That which binds all those who truly live, that flows through gods and mortals alike. Blood holds a different meaning on Atreyah. That world in which it is scarcely to be found, save in the most scant of areas. It is sacrifice, it is hardship,

It is rebirth.

The ground rumbled, the world of Atreyah convulsing and shaking violently. Hurricanes and twisters blew from his lungs, tearing apart chunks of earth, picking up massive oak trees, and tossing them about like with the fury of a titan. Volcanoes erupted, spewing fiery death onto their surroundings and smothering the land in boiling destruction. Plants burst into flames, cracking and withering as lava approached, before being swept aside carelessly and utterly annihilated. The earth trembled and quaked, fissures miles long and wide cracking the face of Atreyah, and consuming anything near their gaping maws. Tsunamis and floods ran rampant as the oceans boiled and spumed, scalding hot water evaporating rapidly and covering whole swathes of the surface in a disturbing fog.

For on Atreyah, Death, that selfsame deity referred to as Shoney, means something else. It is not that inevitable end, that untimely demise that must be succumbed to and simply accepted. It is more then that, so much more. It means more then any other mortal or god-world could understand. It is the mountain that must be climbed, that must be swept aside in the sands of time.

For as Atreyah, Lord of the Eternal, stood at the precipice, where those lost and damned find their way through the darkness, he did the unspeakable. He felt that cold embrace, felt that gentle, understanding hand tugging on his own, beckoning for him to rest.

And he spat in his eye.

He turned from the edge, spreading his wings as he shirked the overwhelming macabre cloak, wrapped so gently and caringly around his shoulders, that same cloak offered to his child, and he lit it aflame. He danced upon its ashes, cursed its name to the heavens themselves, and vowed to never return again. And when the edge refused to let him go, when it followed him from the full length of the east and the west, from the highest mountain to the lowest valley, and continued its pursuit from day and night. He drowned it in his blood, he drowned it in his anger and anguish, his fear, his sense of self, his tears, his pride. He washed it away, banishing it from his sight once and for all. And when at last he was alone, stuck neither on that road all must take to thy enigmatic conclusion, nor on the endless fields of life and bounty that the living so eagerly and naively take for granted, Atreyah dreamed.

He dreamed of a barren world, a dry, witless mockery of those aforementioned endless fields..... And awoke to find himself on it.

He breathed, not in the physical sense, but in the metaphorical sense of one who first takes in his surroundings and must come to grips with them. And when he had finished holding his breathe, he released it onto the world he now found himself upon. A world unlike the one he had previously witnessed, yet still somehow the same. Altered, and yet, altered for the better. It lacked the beauty and grace it once held, yet Atreyah felt something different. Something warming. He could not feel his heart beat anymore, as that titanic core had long since beat its chest and perished, and so it was something else entirely. It was a mental warmth, a bond he felt, distinct and yet unknown and interesting. It was his son, the bond they shared stretching to the edge of death itself, and yet so much more. Its elasticity was pulled, the tiniest of threads unraveled from that central ball of yarn, and woven into an epic mosaic, one that still continued to stitch and weave itself a pattern taller then any mountain Atreyah could lay claim to.

It was his son. And it was his family.


Atreyah will use his first Advancement to create the Dragon race! They are a race of massive, scaly, badass mother****ers. They are slow to reproduce, with a small clutch of eggs coming once every half a century or so, yet hold life spans that stretch for several milleniums, sometimes even longer. Possessing several redundancies, backup organs, and an incredibly complex and controlled metabolism allows them to live with very few resources, food, or water for long periods of time (And are capable of shutting down several of their organs to enter a catatonic state, in which they can remain hibernating for decades, eating nothing). As they age they grow stronger and stronger, with young hatchlings bearing scales no tougher then studded leather, whilst adolescent Dragons with several centuries under their belt can withstand the most devastating of artillery. They never stop growing, continuing to stretch and expand over the years, though doing so at a rather relaxed pace (Baby Dragons are normally born the size of a shorter then average man). They possess a retinue of deadly natural weapons, from razor sharp claws that can rend stone, teeth that can pulverize men in their iron like jaws, and compact muscles that hold boundless strength. Each Dragon is capable of flight, sporting wings that can hold them aloft and send them zooming forth at a fast pace, and despite their size and build hold an aerial nimbleness that belies their almost expected clumsiness. Of course, what would a Dragon be without his most titular weapon, his breathe attack. Capable of unleashing a torrent of destruction tailored to whatever breed of Dragon they may be.

Currently there are 3 breeds of Dragon: Stone Dragons, Zombie Dragons, and regular Dragons. Stone Dragons are built of a variety of rocks, minerals, and debris bound together and granted life in a draconic form. Unlike normal Dragons who reproduce, Stone Dragons are born in one of two ways, either through naturally coming out of the landscape (As mountains overtime either are worn down to reveal a Stone Dragon underneath, or slowly grow and jut out a Stone Dragon) or by crafting. In much the same process Atreyah first created his son, two Dragons will come together and forge a child from an assortment of rocks and minerals carved into the shape of a hatchling. From there they depart a tiny fragment of themselves into the model and grant it life. Unlike standard Dragons, Stone Dragons are capable of devouring crystals and gems for nutrition and can sustain themselves on it purely. From their mouths they spew pounding bolts of lightning, bone rattling thunder, and a scintillating hail of crystals. Aside from that they possess all the standard Draconic features and still naturally grow over time.

Zombie Dragons are shambling abominations, fused messes of bone, sinew, and rotting flesh given motion. They come in a plethora of states of decay, yet they never seem to naturally rot any further then they currently are. Despite having tattered wings, torn muscles, and withered skin, they are equally as strong and fast as their living counterparts (albeit their movements are certainly more unnerving, jerking actions that move too slow at some points or too fast at others). Unlike their living or Stone brethren, they do not require anything to "live", though they must eat and drink to repair themselves as they do not naturally heal. Much like Stone Dragons, Zombie Dragons are made in one of two ways. The first way is the most obvious, and that is when a Dragon dies on Atreyah. Instead of falling into the jaws of death, escorted down that winding path by Shoney, they are snatched back to the world of the living and in minutes a deceased Dragon rises from its grave and will continue growing and maturing (In a much more sickening and macabre way, though when a Zombie Dragon dies, it is final). The alternative is when they arise from the shifting seas of ash, as for some reason entire boneyards and cemeteries seemingly appear under those ash oceans, and a few Zombie Dragons will occasionally rise from them as deformed aborted hatchlings. Zombie Dragons can unleash waves of corroding acid, toxic miasma, and pestilential gales from their slavering maws.

Standard Dragons are just that, standard, holding all of the same basic features as there more exotic variants. They come in a variety of forms, ranging from red to blue to black and white and every color in between. They can breathe fire, ice, water, and a plethora of other devastating elements. Currently the population balance holds all 3 types in about equal regard, with Standard dragons being slightly ahead.

When on the subject of Dragons two facts must always be kept in mind. One, that every aspect of a Dragon becomes more powerful and deadly with age, from their iron like scales down to their torrential breath weapons. Flying in the face of standard aging. Secondly, it is important to note the first Dragon, the one Atreyah sacrificed himself for. As the Mountain Gods blood flowed over his childs corpse, it did not exactly ressurect him. Rather, it fractured him, taking the light that shined within Atreyah and his son, and splintering it into a thousand fragmented pieces. Each of these pieces were scattered and spread amongst the entirety of Atreyah's remaining clay models, and thus the Dragon race was born. A tiny bit of the First Dragon (Whom, upon the discovery of Shoney, would be named Shinoy or "Shoney's Runaway" in a mocking tone) is inside every Dragon, his spirit spreading and imbuing every Dragon born. And so he lives on, bound to every member of the Dragon race, and thus rendered practically immortal.

[THEChanger]

Telling the Tale

In the depths of the dark months, a young Hüljanud sat by their elder, and asked them a question. “Elder, it has been very long since you told me of the first folly of the king. You had promised to tell me of the second another night.” The Elder sighed, and shook its head. “For one so young, to desire to hear such terrible tales! But it is the dark months, and I did promise you, child of my child. So I shall tell you.

After breaking the chain which held this planet to the Great Heart, the king was left with nothing. Having forsaken his kingdom, all that was left for him was his tattered robes. Bearing a great shame upon him, he carved from the nearby stone a mask, a mask which showed the face of a laughing child. He would leave behind the king he had been, and travel the land. Long did he walk, and many were the things he saw. He scaled cragged mountains, and forded mighty rivers, and walked under the shade of gleaming green forests. But dearest to the heart of the laughing child were the towns. For he still remembered the days when he was king, and he loved to be among his people.

As the planet spun away from the Great Heart, the world grew colder, and the people despaired, for they had never known such things as this. Night fell for the first time, and terror gripped the people from beyond the clouds. But the laughing child gathered those close to him, and he told them tales of all he had seen on his journeys, of majestic glittering snow on the mountaintops, and stones rubbed smoothed by the rivers, and the light of the Great Heart shinning through the leaves of the forest. By the laughing child’s stories, the people did take courage, and the child taught them games of chance to pass the time. For chance is both skill and luck, and such things make the heart strong against the dark of night and the cold of winter.

Yet the king knew that his people would not survive for long against the coming cold, and all that the laughing child did could not save them. So he walked even further, until he came to find the beautiful woman whose eyes spoke of secrets beneath the earth. He asked her what could be done to save his people, and she replied that she could give him warmth, in exchange for his heart. The king knew of the coming cold, and so he agreed to such a bargain. So the woman took him to the top of the world, where grew the massive tree whose roots reached down to the bottom, and held the world together. And she once more handed him the axe, and bade him to chop the tree down. The king hesitated, for the tree was great and beautiful beyond compare, taller than any mountain, wider than any river, and which glimmered with a deeper green than any forest he had seen. It would be a true loss to destroy such a tree. But he required warmth, so he did as he was bade.

The tree came crashing to the ground, tearing its roots with it, sundering the planet. This is why our world lies in four pieces, for the roots of the tree no longer bind the pieces together. But in the wake of the tree’s passing, great holes were opened in the world, and great quakes shook it. Watching, the king knew his people were no more. Some may have survived the quakes, and the holes, and the fall of the tree itself. But not enough to stay alive. The woman laughed, told him his warmth was beneath the earth, and disappeared. The king felt his heart harden, and began to travel downward into the earth.

This was the second of the king’s three follies. I will tell you of the last folly another night.



Remembering

It was as people say.

I wept for a long time. I had done a great wrong, that much I knew. I would not know how great a wrong until much later, but I still wept. And then, not knowing where else to go, I walked. In my soiled and ripped robes, and with nothing but the stone mask at my waist, I walked. I hear I walked over mountains, and through rivers, and under forests. And I may have. I do not remember that time so well. I remember that I was lost. That I was looking for something. Where I walked, and what I saw, they were not as important in that time. It wasn't what I was looking for.

Then I came to a small town. Far, far from my home, the people here did not know my face. This is what I was looking for. A place to start over. So I started over. I still remembered the skills my father taught me, of shepherding, and so I helped their herders. As the cold drew nearer, I told stories, and played games, to pass the long nights and to keep the chill from our hearts. It was a small thing I could do for these people. They took me in without question, without suspicion. They held hospitality in their hearts, and that is something I would always remember. Yet, I never felt home there.

So when the voices returned, telling me to run, telling me to leave, I told no one. I couldn't trouble these people with my madness. But I stayed for a time, because to leave in the cold would kill me, and because I was happy there. Yet, in the depths of the dark months, the village began to run low on wood to burn for our fires. Someone would have to leave, and gather more. So I volunteered.

Long I walked, long in the cold and dark, alone, save for the voices in my head. Calling now, pulling me deeper into the dark forest. Until I found a clearing, and waiting there was the beautiful woman. She beckoned for me to follow her. What else could I do? I was so cold.

The rest happened as people say. We came to the top of the world, where the tree which held the world together stood. She told me she would give my village and I warmth in exchange for my heart, and I chopped down the tree. After that, the voices fled once more, and my guide disappeared. But I knew. I knew the quakes had destroyed that village, and those people were ruined. That was how I took up the second of my masks, that of the man in anguish. For my sorrow at all I had lost was too great to bear. But there, before the gapping hole at the top of the world, I took off that mask, and hung it at my waist. It had never been real.

It was as people say.

[Yuki Akuma]

"The world's heart continued to travel with the girl, who had decided to name herself Berry-River. They came across other people like Berry-River, people with arms and legs, who walked upright and carried tools. They were totally unlike any of the other animals they had come across before.

The people were living in small groups, in dwellings carved into trees by their stone tools. The two came across dozens of groups, none of whom knew anything of the world outside their small group. The girl and the heart of the world delighted in telling them everything they knew of the larger world.

Over time, the groups began to congregate together. As the social groups grew larger, it became easier for the people to find food. And so, the people found themselves with time to explore and learn for the sake of learning. And they found the time for games." - Sacred Maiden Aronwen, the Book of Sidhe

"The people were named the Sidhe. They were intelligent and hardy, naturally inquisitive and prone to flights of fancy. In many ways, they seemed to be reflective of the world's heart itself.

Over time, the Sidhe began to discover things the world's heart hadn't known before. They began to teach their own world about itself and the animals that inhabited it. Later came structured rules for things, like how to act towards your mate's parents, or rules for complicated games that require you to think.

The Sidhe discovered a way to record learning that didn't require you to remember every detail. They stored learning on paper, allowing any number of people to learn from a single sage.

This came in handy when it turned out that Sidhe died after only a hundred revolutions around the sun." - Sacred Maiden Aronwen, the Book of Sidhe

"Generations of Sidhe came and went, but the world's heart and Berry-River continued to travel and explore. One day, they declared that they had explored every corner of the world, and seen everything it had to offer.

As one, they turned their gaze to the sky. Maybe there was more to explore up there." - Sacred Maiden Aronwen, the Book of Sidhe

[Gengy]

----------------------

Beat.

----------------------

In the beginning, there had been darkness. There had been the sound of purest silence. There were no regrets. There was no sorrow. There was only calm serene darkness.

In its simplicity, there was perfection. Nothing was everything, and everything was nothing. The thing in the darkness was content, for it was all. There had been the nagging thought of another, but it was soon dealt with. The thought that followed was also dealt with, but that one proved to be more troublesome.

In its death, it gasped, and something unfamiliar burst forth. All was no longer one. Nothing was the same, but everything changed. In the middle of it all, something pulsed with more than darkness. The calm serene darkness was gone, replaced by terrible lights in the sky, all screaming aloud in their own voices. It was life. It was confusion. It was horrible, horrible confusion. Everything had its own voice, and was making more and more life as every second ticked by.

Worse than all of that, worse than the light, worse than the life that spread throughout everywhere, worse even than the pulsing beating heart that heat the center of everything was the knowledge. The knowledge that brought identity. That brought the lack of unity.

The darkness was not alone. The darkness despaired, for perfection had been lost due to one nagging thought. The darkness knew fear for the first time, and decided then and there that it would do everything it could to return things to that which was before.

Serenity. Calmness. Oneness. Order.

Even if it meant throwing everything into Chaos before that which was returned.

Stars twinkled in the distance. And then, though it would be some time before anyone within the Cosmos noticed, one no longer offered light of any kind, and was simply gone.

----------------------

Beat.

----------------------

Some might find it unusual to consider that an entire Universe had life. Some might argue that only a portion of a Universe had life, and others portions were empty. Some could be right. Some could be wrong.

What mattered was the thinking. The pondering. The wondering. Every question had some form of answer to it. Some would find it. There was a fire that lit the curious, and a burning question begged to be answered.

What caused it all? Some might never know.

----------------------

Beat.

----------------------

She knew. That was the difference. She knew, and could not speak. She could only listen to the beating of the heart of things, and hope.

----------------------

Beat.

----------------------


TURN 1 BEGINS

[Raz_Fox]

Fourth Part of the Shogeoni: Anaboan and Taboan

This is the fourth story, so listen well.

Shoney's back is all covered with such things as he created: all that lives in the water, and all that lives in the air, and all that lives on the ground. All such things are born according to their kind and nature, and though Shoney his own self did not make them with such in mind, each learned from their own kind how to make children, and how to raise them well. But Ileria, his beautiful bride, has nothing on her back but the hummingbirds that feed on her flowers, and these ain't born natural, but hatch from the shining opals that lie beneath her back's skin. So it is that when Shoney and Ileria lie together, she cannot become swollen with child, and one day her yearning for a child to call her own became so great that she traveled off to meet Scathann in her hut, which is called Strife, while her husband was off on his Rounds. Sullaga glowed about sweet Ileria's waist as she poured out her griefs to Scathann, whose dreadful-gazing eye flashed with fire as she remembered the fate of her beautiful son Bartham. For this reason, she replied to Ileria:

"Daughter of the cold stars,
don't ye fret none over it.
I know the herb-secrets
and charms hidden from all,
even your cruel husband.
For pity's sake, perhaps,
I'll open up my hoard
and offer ye the cure:
this branch, enchanted well,
soaked in the blood of stones
and broken eggs of trees,
will open your womb-door
if it lies between ye
and your damned groom, Shoney."

Thus heartened, Ileria took the branch and fled from that accursed place after making proper thanks, and to this day, the opal-eggs of hummingbirds that she left Scathann in payment glimmer in the firelight of Strife. They lie above Scathann's bed, they do, and hummingbird-chicks sleep within them. Now, the branch lay between Ileria and Shoney when next he tarried from his Rounds in their wedding-bed, and soon enough she was made heavy by sons. When she told Shoney his own self that he'd be a father yet, he held her tight to him, knowing that her joy would not last until the end of days. Yet, he said to himself, she would still have joy enough. So he said nothing of Scathann's curse to her, and kept his mouth shut-- which is easy enough for him, they say.

When the time came for the children to be birthed, Shoney feared for his bonny bride, who was pale as ash and bled silver moonlight when cut, and so he called for Scathann to come and be their midwife. There's nothing that can impress that one more than to be called upon as midwife, for she knows best the arts of saving both mother and child, and it warms her proud heart to be trusted with any beginning. So Scathann came as he called her, riding on Malach through the twilight to Kaern Shathel: that is, the Hall of Shoney. She sat by Ileria's bed there, and when the children came forth she was there to draw them out, all bloody and raw.

First came Anaboan, and he was born with a heron's head, gasping and wide-eyed. Scathann wrapped him up in cloth, and held him tight, and said over him such words as these:

"Ye shall be killed in time
by one twisted all about:
his heart will turn just so,
and his body alike,
stronger than the proud bulls.
Your brother's death ye'll be,
though never hand ye'll raise
against him till ye die."

Second came Taboan, and he was born with a wild dog's head, barking with his eyes shut. Scathann wrapped him up in cloth, and held him tight, and said over him such words as these:

"Ye shall be killed twice o'er,
once in wrath, once in grief,
and both by your design.
Your brother's death ye'll be,
though dead ye'll be in turn
afore and after, but
neither pierced by harsh spear
nor the cunning arrow."

Scathann gave them then up to their mother, who held them close to suckle at her breasts, and once this was done proper Scathann saw Shoney's face once more veiled by the dread which lies in the hearts of the living. With a shriek, she fled across his back, riding Malach backwards half the way home. Thinking no more of her, Shoney bent over his boys, kissing both on the brow in turn, and he said over them:

"My boys, these things said over you
are beyond my power to change.
But I will add this to her curse:
one of you will teach Shaboan
arts unknown to even Scathann,
which will be to their good and joy.
The other will have loyalty
from all who hunt alongside him,
and never suffer betrayal.
Remembered you'll be while stories
are still told among the living
or the dead who have walked with me.
Loved you'll always be, no matter
how stained you make yourselves with blood,
for your mother and your father
will always care for you, we will."

Ileria raised her boys at Halthamare: that is, the Golden Cove. There they both grew into young men, strong and limber, skilled with every sort of craft and able to speak well on every topic. There weren't two with the same bright eyes or clever wits on all of Shoney's back, true as rain, but never did they know their father. Oh, Shoney rocked their cradles when they were babes, but soon enough they began to see him with the eyes of the living, and cried when he drew near them; from that day onwards he saw them only from far off and onwards, watching his boys from hilltops and the penumbra of twilight, and he'd leave charms of bone and strange dreams on their willow-woven beds every year on the Sannacht Night.

Fearing that they would kill each other just as Scathann had spoken over them, despite how well they loved each other and cared for each other's health and fortune, Ileria sent her boys away when they were of age, sending Anaboan one way and Taboan the other. Good food she gave them, and fine clothing as well, such as she'd made for them. At Halthamare she stayed for a time after, resting after her labors and contemplating the intentions of Afis, until the day came when she gathered her handmaidens and began to travel across Shoney's back, sharing her grace and bounty with those who had nothing.

Anaboan walked on the road he'd been set until he came to Anethu: that is, the Sea of Anaboan. There he built Hrollen, the Heron's Hearth, with the help of those of the Shaboan who had come to follow him on his road; it was the first true barrow-city on Shoney's back. Great mounds of earth he heaped up, and walls of thorns he set in every direction but for the sea which sat at his back. Once this was done, he sowed seeds in fields and set the Shaboan to tending the plants; he built rafts and gave the Shaboan spears of bone and nets of vines with which to catch their fish; he caught aurochs with clever traps, and kept them in great wood-whittled pens from which they could not escape. All these things he did with his cunning, and the Shaboan learned these things from him, and committed his stories to memory. Maharath, they named him. Though they struggled to provide when Anaboan was young, as he grew in strength their fields began to blossom, and the spirits of the sea offered up their bounties, and the cattle yielded to them and gave up their offspring and their milk. Whenever Ileria visited Anaboan on her travels, he boasted of his skill, and she embraced him.

Taboan walked on the road he'd been set, and he never stopped; all around him he gathered those of the Shaboan who found joy in the wandering, and with them he hunted for his supper. There was none among his people who would refuse him, were he to call upon them, and there was likewise none who enjoyed the chase as much as he; he shared his food generously with all he came across, and left little for his own self, becoming in time as lean and dangerous as an arrow let loose from the bow. Maharath, they named him. No one knew more of the charms of spirits as he did, and it was even said that he could go wandering through the dreams any as he pleased, just as his father could. Whenever Ileria visited Taboan on his long hunt, he offered her the furs and charms that he had collected, and he embraced her.

But when both brothers came into their thirty-fifth year, Voranakk eclipsed Afis's wan light uncharitably during the bitter season, and all across Shoney's back there was hunger, for the cruel cold killed the last fruits of the forest and the young of the wild beasts. Only those who lived in the great barrows of Hrollen knew plenty, though Anaboan his own self kept careful records of how much there was eaten and left to eat, and said to himself that he would not risk emptying his granary and his cattle-pens in the bitter season.

It was in this season that the great hunt of Taboan finally happened upon Hrollen's briar-walls. Anaboan came forth from the barrows and embraced his brother, who had become thin with starving, and together the two shared a meal. Once they'd cleaned the flesh brought out from the last bone and devoured the last fruit offered to its peelings, Taboan said to his brother:

"Eldest, who came out first
from our mother's good womb,
let my people on in,
that we may all survive
this harsh bitter season.
I've heard such vast things, aye,
of your cunning and wits,
and how you have enough
to eat within your house."

Anaboan replied, coldly:

"Youngest, who came out late
from our mother's kind womb,
I cannot risk the loss.
To you, I give my food,
but this wild rabble
would devour it all.
Go use your charms to hunt,
and feed your people so."

Taboan shook his brother, and made reply with tears in his eyes:

"Brother, who came with me
from sweet Ileria,
to hunt in this season
is madness! Every beast
hides away in hunger;
the spirits bar pursuit.
I have spoken to them,
and the sea will offer
up enough for us both,
if only we rest here
and empty your storeroom:
it will be full again
in the growing season.
Open your heart and door!"

But Anaboan wouldn't suffer the followers of his brother's hunt to enter Hrollen and eat all he'd gathered, and so the followers of Taboan made their camp by the sea, which shone with its fire that does not burn in defiance of Voranakk. And as they erected meager shelter against storm and wolf, Taboan raged against his brother's name, cursing that they both had been born together, and yet even in the same breath wondering if it were better for him and his people to die, and for his brother to continue teaching the Shaboan the arts of his cunning.

Having heard this, Scathann rode Taboan's wife, Eshaney, and her dreadful eye scorched his heart as she said to him:

"Mighty hunter! Your strength
be prized from east to west,
your skill at hunting praised
from north to south, it is.
Were ye to go to war,
I could teach ye its lore,
and none could defy ye
on the battlefield!
Slay cruel Anaboan!
Though you his brother be,
he no longer treats ye
as kin: he be a beast,
nothing more than the prey
ye bring down with your skill."

But Taboan fell on his face and wept, saying:

"Such I'll be forced to do
if I love my people:
their Maharath I am.
But I cannot kill him,
not if I am to be
Taboan, Shoney's son.
I cannot harm him so!
I should rather be dead
than wage war against him--
though I hate him, I do.
I hate his cold cunning,
his carelessness with lives
of those who I do love.
Fury holds me, but no,
I can't destroy him so
and be Taboan true.
Oh, father, let me die!"

Eshaney made reply, holding him close:

"Then kill ye I shall, love.
Let your own self die here,
beneath the sea which kills
as surely as fire
consumes the forest trees.
You cannot survive this:
if your body rises
from the waves, you will be
a new man on old bones.
Pass through death into life:
be reborn a shadow!"

So Eshaney took her husband in her arms, and she waded into the sea, as cold as ice and as terrible as endless night, and there she held him beneath the waves for nine waves' strokes, even though he struggled against her madly. Once the deed was done, and Taboan struggled no more, she brought him back to shore. She wrapped herself well in furs to avoid his father's eye, and she called for him to rise and speak, if he could.

Lugach, his shadow, rode Taboan when he opened his eyes. His body twisted, until every part of his back faced his front, and every part of his chest faced his rear. The strength of his legs became the strength of his arms, and the strength of his arms became the strength of his legs. Every part of him twisted so. One eye in his head grew large, splintering the socket sharp, and the other eye shrunk into his head, though blood dripped from its empty socket. Every part of his hair stood on end. Bloodthirsty and wild, a killer baying for blood to lap up, Lugach raised his head and let loose the rig mal: the scream of the dead king, which is unending and terrible in its grief and its fury intermingled.

Eshaney then took the bones of an auroch and from them shaped the first and cruelest sword, which is named Barkcleaver. This, Lugach took in his hand, and he called upon his people to take up their hunting-spears and their bows, that they might fall upon Hrollen and put the barrows to the torch. Such was their love for their Maharath that not one turned their head and refused him, and the Morri sang overhead in the form of horrid crows, gossiping together of murder and war, of the feast of the dead and the violation of the weak and the emptiness of ashes.

Even as these things happened just so, Ileria and her handmaidens came to the briars of Hrollen and begged for shelter from the bitter season. Anaboan opened the doors of his barrow-halls wide to welcome his mother, and bade the best of the granary be brought out to celebrate his mother's return. But when she was told that Taboan's host had been turned away, Ileria grew stern of heart, and spoke to those gathered around Anaboan's hearth:

"Such evil befits you little,
my cunning son. Trust in Afis:
fate will provide a way to thrive,
though it require your full strength.
Your father would open his doors,
the great bone doors of Kaern Shathel,
were the starving to gather there,
and help them regain their power.
Perhaps they might never repay
the debt they owe to your mercy,
but that is their burden to bear,
and you will stand proudly afore
your father, should the worst befall.
Open your halls and feed the lost!"

When this rebuke lashed his ears, Anaboan wept at his mother's feet, for he knew then that he had wronged his brother. He embraced his mother with wet cheeks, and called for messengers to be sent to his brother's camp, begging for forgiveness and offering his bounty to the followers of Taboan. Yet no sooner were the gates of Anaboan's hall open than the host of Taboan surged through the briars of Hrollen; they were seized by the fury of the rig mal, and Lugach led them.

Anaboan took up neither spear nor bow, but strode out alone before the host, and he held up there his empty hands. Before he could say even a word at all, Scathann threw a spear over the host of Taboan and the mounds of Hrollen, and the Morri screamed their obscene convictions on their black wings, and battle was made in Hrollen. Certain of the households of Hrollen struggled against those of Taboan's host, but others fled rather than take a life unjustly, or else pled with those driven mad by the rig mal. Anaboan himself stood alone amidst the storm before Lugach, and would not raise his hand to defend himself, but lowered his head and asked for forgiveness, and whether he sought such from his brother, or his mother, or his father, none can say.

Lugach hewed his brother's body there seven times, and Barkcleaver ran wet with the blood of Anaboan. Then, taking up a torch, Lugach burned the cattle-pens and the fields, and he passed through fire; there he was burned away, and rode Taboan no more. Taboan was reborn in his own bones amidst the fires of the fields, and bore Barkcleaver out of the bonfire that Lugach had made of Hrollen, and stumbled upon his brother's body as he came.

"Ah! No, this cannot be--
my brother, dear to me,
lying here, torn apart
by some brute animal!
But here, covering me,
on my hands, my weapon,
matting my hair and skin,
my brother's blood lies wet.
If I have done this, then
I do not deserve life!
Not while this sin stains me,
this horrid, vile act--
one road remains to me.
Weapon strange, claim my blood,
punish me for his death,
for the blood I have shed,
this unnatural deed
that claimed my brother's life!"

And Barkcleaver made answer, as Taboan stood amidst burning Hrollen:

"I am hungry,
ever hungry.
Since you took me
up in cold hand,
I have lusted
for your hot blood.
Fall here, god's son.
Spill yourself out
over the grass;
join your brother
whom I have claimed."

Taboan fell full upon Barkcleaver, and in such way claimed his own life, and fell dead into his brother's arms. Barkcleaver was stained black by his blood. Just so, both of Shoney's sons were killed for the other's sake, and they were met by their father on the last road. Never had he held them since they were old enough to cry when he approached, seeing him with the eyes of the living, and so he embraced them then, and held them close by, now that they saw him with the eyes of the dead. Shoney-who-hears-all-sorrows wept then, and held them all the tighter, and his tears were his sons' own, and their tears were his own, and together they made the boundless time of the last road sacred through their grief.

"My sons, my sons, long forsaken
in my sight-- I wish longer still--
for now that you do not fear me,
I must take you upwards, onwards,
along this final road to home.
There's not need for old sorrows here,
dry your tears-- ah! Can I ask this
when my own fall so easily?
Your own pain has ended, my sons,
and no more torment can pierce you,
but mine has only begun, aye,
for I have seen both your folly
and your virtue, your spite and love;
I will carry you within me
until Afis has guttered out
and I lay my head down to rest,
never to awaken again.
But your own tears I will wipe off
your cheeks, for there is no more need
to mourn what has been done before.
What's done is done, what's passed has passed,
and I'll lift this burden from you
to leave you shining like the stars."

But Anaboan shook his head, standing whole and hale by his brother's side.

"Father, I have done wrong.
Should not I mourn these things?
That I did not freely
offer up what I had?
That my legacy, now
scattered by war and pride,
is lost to your children--
for they are yours, father.
I wasted my talent
and stained my brother's heart.
Do not tell me to dry
my tears when I deserve
this sorrow for my sins.
I will not cast it off
as easily as that;
this pain is mine to bear."

As this was said, the two felt their mother's embrace, and the kindness of her wan light filled them both with the coldness that kills pain and the warmth that makes the eyes close, and she wept over them for a sacred space of time. When she found the strength to speak, held close by her husband and her sons, she stroked Anaboan's cheek and smiled through her tears.

"Do not say such dark things as this:
you will pass through the night into
a more glorious morning light.
The road ahead is dark and harsh,
but your father will bear you on,
in his arms if he must do so--
and I have seen, as Shoney has,
the extent of what lies beyond.
I may not speak of it to you,
for death's seal lies upon us both,
and all that is granted to me
is to say: many gates stand there,
each opening to the worthy,
leading on into a bright sea
and places far stranger beyond.
I have done what I can to save
your gifts here, my lovely children,
by turning the household of Eife--
a noble woman, as you know--
into swans, who now fly westwards,
across Anethu to safety.
Seven years hence I will find them,
black-winged and beautiful of form,
and I will restore their old skins,
returning them to their true bones,
and charge them to keep your knowledge
alive among the Shaboan.
They will have to learn them again,
these arts that you displayed to them,
and it will be a long journey
until they have mastered them all,
and may build long barrows again.
Now, do not think you lived in vain!
It hurts me sore to lose you both,
to no more have you close at hand;
no longer will I hear your laugh,
my beautiful Anaboan,
and neither will I hold you close,
my strong-hearted boy, Taboan.
But I know the necessity
of walking this road once life's thread
has run its full length, and your breath
must return once more to Afis.
Do not ask me to dry my tears,
do not ask me to abandon
my children as they walk this road:
rather, I will walk beside you,
hold you when you stumble and fall,
soothe your pain as it surfaces
along our journey through the wood
that lies between the joy of life
and death's sublime mysteries, which
I must give you over to now.
Blessed, all the gods will call me,
that I was given time with you;
and yet, despite all my knowledge,
all my memories and my hopes,
still I cry, for loss is cruelest
where love burns strongest. I will live,
and bear your memory, and weep,
for the day when I will join you
is far-off, and I have much yet
that must be done here in this life."

Hearing this, Taboan asked his mother and his father:

"What of me, murderer
and war-monger, killer
of his own dear brother?
I do not deserve to
walk beside my brother,
whose flesh bore my harsh blows.
The wood ahead seems dark,
and the path is shrouded
by the shadow of thorns;
I fear that they will cut
at me, tear me apart.
But let them! I deserve
no less than to be torn
into as many parts
as I hewed my brother
there among the fires.
I cannot stop my tears--
I wish I had never
been born, because I bear
this abominable
sin in my very flesh,
and not even my death
could make me fully clean.
Father! Hold me close here,
or cast me out into
the dark thorns to pay
for the things I have done."

Shoney held him all the tighter, wrapping his cloak tight about him, and said:

"I cannot lie to you, my son:
the road you will walk is not his.
But I will be beside you both,
and though the thorns will cut you dear,
I will wring the dark from your wounds;
your suffering will not last, no,
and once I have torn your burdens
from your heart and bones, we will
meet with your brother to travel
onwards, on stranger roads than this.
Your mother, too, will hold your hand,
and her light will guide you along
the Ethen Mola, the blood-road.
The Etheg Bal, the gentle road,
is given to your brother, who
sinned, but did not spill the life-blood
that pools in the heart and the soul;
such action stains down to your bones."

This said, Shoney walked with his sons, and bore Taboan along the Ethen Mola, and walked with Anaboan along the Etheg Bal; Ileria walked between them, in the space where space is not, and shone her light on them both. And as they walked on the last road, Shoney offered his sons a Choice, for such was his right: they were yet of his blood and his bone, and there burned a light within them that still shone in that dark wood. Both of them chose to tarry for a time, and Anaboan built a barrow at the halfway point of the Etheg Bal, that the dead might rest from their labors there; Taboan set his charms along the Ethen Mola, that the Morri might not hound those who walk the cursed path. Then, where the roads met, the brothers passed on from all knowing.

There are those who say that they both stand at the end of the last road, and there Anaboan judges the hearts of the dead, and Taboan opens the ten thousand gates of the last sea to usher the dead beyond. But there are also those who say that, despite how he wishes it might be so, Shoney cannot let any linger, for such is the stricture that death placed upon him as the price of letting him return from his journey with First Woman. Some claim, instead, that Taboan and Anaboan will not die until the last story about them is told, and that they still ride those of the Shaboan who open themselves, being nothing more than shadows who walk restlessly along the Etheg Bal and the Ethen Mola.

For seven years, the household of Eife lingered along the shores of Anethu in the form of black swans, and every year they gathered at the ruins of Hrollen and cried out songs in languages unknown to spirit or Askla or star. After these seven years had passed, Ileria found them, and she restored the skin that had been their skin, and returned to them the bones that had been their bones. The knowledge of Anaboan she charged them to maintain, and to rediscover, and to pass down, even to the seventh child of the seventh child.

Then to Halthamare Ileria retired, and let it loose from the moorings of the world; her door she named Loss, and her feast-hall Sorrow, but the servant at her right hand is Hope, and the servant at her left is Compassion. This, too, is the home of Shoney when he has a moment's rest from his Rounds, and together they remember their children.

This is how the fourth story ends.

[Draken]

How is life in Isenvei?

In one word. Harsh.

Now, there are worse places to be, that is for sure. You could be on Ormentros or Visotta, or worse yet you could be stuck on Atreyah. But Shoney and Ben’Ficu and to a lesser degree Lys and Zermaius know but the least touch of the harshness of winter when the Voranakk deigns to align its titanic world-body with these other planets and cast Shakkal’s glare upon their lands.

Then again, winter is not a season known to Isenvei anymore than summer would hold meaning on the Great Heart’s surface.

As the tale goes, when it was young and had but one head and the simple body of a great turtle, the Voranakk walked Isenvei and seeded life around great pools. Not of water, that is for sure, for water is plentiful if solid in the frozen world. What the Voranakk left behind in its travels were festering oases of indigested wood and meat crushed into a pallid slime within the cavernous expanses of its body. These pools attracted the worms of Isenvei as well as the world’s lice, to feed on them and drown there to add to the pools. Eons passed and ivory towers grew at the edges as trees and shrubs do in more wholesome places, waiting for the vermin to approach to lash at them with their barbed tongues, and feeding the worms in turn.

By Tortokk’s design, other things crawled from the pools. Great fish and crustaceans fled into the oceans from the hungry barnacles that slowly grew reefs about the oily pools, and the beasts that would come to give faces to the Voranakk also crawled from these pools into icy land and sea, made cold as fire by the flames of Isenvei that burned within. Bears like rats and seals also came from Tortokk’s glare upon the pools and those had the more mundane fire of the great heart that most life in the twenty worlds shares. Nothing ever came from Isenvei that took to its sky on wings of its own, not even those rare Hydras, for the ground has too strong a call.

It is not pretty at all and the stench is unthinkable at the heart of such oases, but life in Isenvei is harsh.

It has been many turns since last Tortokk went to a pool and made something new, but life flourished and grew diverse without its input. The worms are no longer lonely and vast in roaming the glacial wastes, but must compete with scaled titans and smaller, but no less imposing beasts of fur and feather. Wood is not known to Isenvei, its plants shell themselves in ivory and hunger for flesh the further they range from the oases of their birth, that is so for ice is a poor source of nourishment and soil is so scarce in this world as to not meaningfully exist.

Such a world is Isenvei.

[Snowfire]

Beauty

The world spun and turned around her as she slept, the ancient flare of Wonder secure around her neck a security to her soul, by its grace remaining full of her Child-self's curiosity and love. Even as her body grew, taller and shapelier and far greater in grace in the passing from Child to adolescent to the fullness of adulthood that fiery shard of forgotten memory whispered and sang through sightless dreams. Dreams of Beauty; sunlight upon her face as she tasted the clouds and reached to touch space itself, and of memory of the Dreaming, in the light that sang upon her features and in counterpoint brought alive a silver grace. Crimson fire burning high and bright, spinning through the being of death and sorrow to the wonder of absolution.

She dreamed of vast waters, clear and full of endless life. And so it was in the world above. The oceans spread wide, rain pouring down from skies that had not held a drop of water before that moment. The First Rain soaked into Eden, a deep and cleansing draught forever cleansing the blood of the First Sacrifice from its being – yet its fertility stayed. The creatures of the rivers and the sea followed swiftly; fish and sharks and eels and the birds of rocky cliffs that find all their needs satisfied by the ocean. Whales and dolphins were born of the Rain too, the warm blooded brothers of the sea from which the very first families grew. For decades, centuries, maybe even millennia, the dreams of ocean water and clear rivers were all that filled the head of the growing Child. Yet water is a transient thing, flowing down and away into the sea as quickly as it is given by the sky. It could not be all that her dreams were.

She dreamed of great plains next, grass of gold and green amongst vast carpets of flowers that had such variety of colour to be beyond the ability to describe or count the variations. Of trees and fruit upon the boughs brought by the summer sun. Of vines and ferns and seeds and roots and all the living green, gold and brown that would be the underpinning of a paradise. The harsh rock above covered over with earth and gentler stone, green blooming across it in sun-bathed splendour.

And as she grew into the fullness of her youth, the planet that carried her grew as a mirror to her dreams, realising in itself the reflection of Dreaming that Talisman carried and sent pouring through her mind. And she dreamt of the World of Dreams, of a place where nothing died and all was beautiful. And as it could...Eden was shaped by those dreams. The flowers came first, vast carpets of them that glowed with an inner light - granted from the solid core of Wonder at the world’s heart. And as the Child’s dreams progressed, more life grew. Trees spread their limbs across the land, sprouting leaves beside flowers of their own. And from these flowers came the first life of the world. In the Dreaming, between flowers and trees there swam jewels of pure light and whilst such could not be replicated in this place, the world came close.

In the end it was the dragonfly that it chose, or at least something akin to it, each clad in carapaces that reflected the light of the Heart like the jewels they had been created to mimic. Yet in their own way, they were even more beautiful, for the jewels of the Dreaming had no sparkling iridescence of wings around them, to split the light in prismatic splendour. They dived and spun upon the gentle winds of the world, from flower to flower flying an endless course across a world where there was always spring. From their dutiful work the first fruits came and them the first seeds, to allow the rebirth of the life that had made them.

Yet there was more to the dreaming of the Child then just jewels of light singing between flowers of impossibly majestic colour, so much more. For fruit must have some purpose beyond just being. The soil of the land must be enriched anew by their final remnants. For the dragonflies there must be more than just the endless circle of blooming flowers. In the Dreaming there were great beasts of light and Beauty that reigned over kingdoms of lesser kin. Relation within the Dreaming was such a strange thing, yet in the end all that it had been was the same. Dreamstuff is dreamstuff; its shape does not matter. And in that there is a blissful purity of purpose and knowledge that there is truly no difference between all, regardless of the shape you wear. The single difference had always been the Child – for even the Gates had been forged of the Dreaming, so very long ago.

Within that place she had been an anomaly, a being that was of the Dreaming and yet not born of it. She’d never been able to remember her birth, and the Gates had never spoken to her – in their own unique way – of those moments. They must know though, mustn’t they? In her mind they had always been older than her, and their ways of being around her had always been those of gentle parents and older sibs. They had taught her of the Dreaming in their way, shaping the world around them so that she could of herself understand and then learn. She had learnt…she had learnt everything from those Gates. All that she knew had been their gift to her, and yet there were holes in that knowledge that even now she did not understand. Not what was missing, nor the reasons behind its nonexistence.

Yet in the end it had been undeniable. The core of her being, her heart, it had been made to interface with the Dreaming…but it was not of it. It was that, and that alone, that had in the end granted her mastery over the Gates and all that lay within them. She had been their Child-Queen, endlessly curious and creative, forging Wonder in every breath from the Beauty about her. And from those breaths had come something truly magnificent. A creation so complex, so powerful, that for them she needed only to be a friend. Not a mother, a ruler, a creator, at least not in a way that would always elevate her above them. A friend – and mentor in the ways of Beauty to those worthy of its power.

She called them the First People, Born of Beauty, and they were a testament to the limitless power of a Child’s ingenuity. With them she had made the Dreaming a true world, a place where life had become something…more. Something magnificent and wondrous, that could not be contained. These were those she had taught and sang with in the Dreaming, those who she had risked everything to abandon in vain attempt to safeguard a place not her own. And yet what else could she have done? In their own power they had been secure, she knew that. And whilst a great touchstone as – in the end, yes – their creator and mother, the Child had not been required for their existence to perpetuate further.

Yet that did not stop her dreaming of them. Nor of all other creatures of the Dreaming that had been her friends. And as in her dream, so was it done upon the fabric of Eden.

Animals in vast herds formed from the earth, variation upon variation countless and incredible in their simple natures of being. So many animals, these children of the earth, that the world seemed to burst with their arrival. Monkeys and horses and rabbits and foxes in their pelts of shimmering softness. Ants and lizards and snakes with their skins and carapaces shining with the brightness of reflecting jewels. And so very much more. More than could be expressed, even in her dream, for the world had delved even deeper into her mind than the openness of dreaming in what it found to be of its soil. Brilliant colour filled the lands, the buzzing wings of the dragonflies ever-present in their ways, and skin and fur reflected the brilliance of iridescence.

Yet it was not ready still, for even with the dragonflies the sky was heart-achingly empty if compared with the sky in the growing Child’s dreams. And so from cloud and spun winds came the last of the elemental children, those of air. The skies darkened as the flocks were born; enormous swarms of butterflies the first newcomers to Eden’s skies - and the rest were not long in coming. Insects were the first, those creatures that would tame each other and ensure that the world was held in balance at the lowest and most crucial of places. And then came the first birds. Small ones to start with, the little things that would eat of the vast tides of insects and keep them in check. But then bigger, and bigger still. Through magpies and swallows to the hawks and eagles it went, endlessly upwards. Brilliant plumage upon a sky of deepest blue, the Heart blazing down upon it and seeing all that went.

The birds swooped and sang, raptors reaping their toll from the mice and small creatures of the Earth. Slender feathered ravens and crows harrowed those raptors as was their right, beneath them hiding the smaller creatures of the air that had no place in such melee. Dragon and butterflies swooped and spun even below them, hoping to avoid the attention of the smallest of the feathered children. The world echoed with the song of those children, a morning chorus that could never end but for the fall of Eden entire. Beauty meshed with beauty, and order rose from the mix. No…not order. Balance. Wait…that wasn’t it either. Ah, that’s it.

Harmony.

The Dreaming had been a miracle in and of itself far beyond any world that lay beyond the Gates simply for that, the harmony that had held it together since forever. The Child did not know, nor did the Gates, not even the beings of the place know where it had sprung from. But its presence had been undeniable…and irresistible. Yet it had been the greatest power of the place, for with it had come an ability to forge true Wonders that had been unmatched except in the creation of Eden itself. Only a Sevenfold creation of the Gates in Unison could match such things, yet from that Wonder could come even greater things. It was possible. And so it would be. The Wonder encased in the hourglass around the Child’s neck flared with power as its wearer’s dreams touched the core of that ideal, coming to life like an emerald star, and the one still extant and living fragment of the Dreaming that remained in reality pulsed mightily.

Harmony would be. It had always been beyond, and here it would be too as home for the Child when she awoke. The dreams of her sleep would be reflected in the world that was hers to protect…and yet there was also a down side. For in giving her this place, the dreams would become only that. Dreams. A reflection of what was to her would be only that until the Gates were restored. She would wish that, for Talisman’s Wonder would drive her to find the home of its power. It would be a long road, a harsh one in many ways, and yet it would also be – so the slumbering thought of Eden hoped – in the end, worth the struggle. So much would be lost to her, lost and forgotten even as she grasped for the memories of all. And yet...

There would be sunlight. And summer and snow and autumn leaves to crack softly beneath her feet. There would be Beauty of the like never before created, magnificent Wonders towering fit to pierce the blackness of the void itself. Conjecture and deception and truth and ice and a unifying chorus to tie it together in the endless song of peace and hated war that would never and forever be found in the endless watches that turned between the nothing and the knowing.

One day it would come. The truth of the dream would be found with the Gates restored and swinging open to usher in glories untempered by loss and untouched by the pallor of death. Yet for now only the vaguest memories would endure.

The forms of the First were raised across Eden, in the sky and upon the earth. Yet they were only forms, with no heart or being for such was impossible without the Beauty of the Child. So they sat in testament to the Dream, statues without soul, waiting for the Child to wake and grant them life. Eden waited as though under that spell for many long years, time over time turning upon itself and around the Heart. Not yet, not yet, sang the clocks beyond the stars.

Then when, was the answer of Eden.

Soon, said the clocks.

What is soon to a reality? Only it can tell, and yet in the end it mattered not. For in the end, upon a day that was spring and summer and autumn and winter all together – if one looked to the right places – the Child who was a Child no longer opened her eyes again.

[mystic1110]

His blade collided with the opponents sword, causing sparks to fly out into the air actually igniting some of the raining acid. The short lived burst of fire ended almost as soon as it began. The blades, still interlocked, slid off each other as their wielders pushed harder. Both combatants pulled back and let loose at each other once again. The first went low. The second went high. Right before they scored a hit they both rolled out of the way, letting the momentum from their swings carry them just a fraction of an inch away from their opponents reach. Almost just as soon they got up and swung towards the midsection. Their blades collided, and the spark and fireball came and went at their touch. If you blinked once you would have missed the entire exchange. The two opponents eyed each other, their long hair braided to keep it out of their eyes. They were observing each other for the time being. The slightest twitch would give a plan of attack away. One of them clenched his fist - a feint, intended to provoke the other to defend from an attack that wouldn't come. The other blinked, slower than usual, hoping that his opponent would rush in to take advantage.

It was a beautiful and intelligent game.

One of the men, his patience run out, lunged at the other. A flurry of blows as swords parried each other over and over. The attacker spun in place, exposing his back, but at the same time pulling a knife out of its sheath which was attached to his belt. The opponent tried to strike his exposed back, but didn't make it in time. Instead he was impaled by the knife, which punctured his armor. The would wasn't fatal, but it hurt and most importantly it slowed him down. He clamped his hand on the other man's hand, which was holding the dagger and held it tight. Pushing the dagger into himself even more. It hurt, but it kept the dagger out of the equation. While doing so, he positioned himself so his shoulder was below the attackers chin, and with a short hop he hit the man's jaw and took out his balance. The two men tumbled to the dirt, swords torn from their grasp.

Their was a brief lull in their battle.

Suddenly the man on top, the one with a knife in his gut, began to fight anew. He moved his elbow till it was pressing on the other man's jugular. The man on the bottom, regaining his mettle, put his hand on the first's face, trying to gouge his eyes. Both men were still using their other hands to hold the knife or to pull it free. The man on the bottom used his legs to try to flip himself over, to reverse the positions, but the other spread his own legs to make that effort harder. It was only a matter of time before the man holding the knife passed out. A finger finally made it into the eye of the man on top. It slid in with surprising ease, little more than jelly. The man screamed. Which man? Maybe both? Finally the struggling hands stopped struggling as the blood of the man below stopped flowing into his brain. The man on top, wasting no time, took the knife in his side and ripped it out, and slid it against the throat of the unconscious man. Blood didn't spray, but oozed out like oil. The man victorious, bleeding out of one side, and his damaged eye hanging from his skull, breathed hard - the pain in the background ignored.

A shadow fell over him.

The newcomer had a pair of black wings and was covered in immaculate armor. There were no dents or rust or dried blood on it. The Newcomers hair was upbraided, and floated in the harsh wind, nonetheless it never covered his eyes. Some of the strands of hair even stayed afloat as if gravity was none of their concern. His eyes were yellow, and haughty. They were orbs of pride. The newcomer carried a halberd in his left hand, simple an unadorned. It was a tool of death not art. His right hand was empty and extended towards the victorious man.

Well Fought! Well Fought!

This was his god. This was his god praising him. With a smile on his lips the man grabbed the god's hand as if grabbing hold of an old comrade. The God laughed, and then kicked his legs from underneath him, forcing the man to fall to his knees while still holding onto the God's hand. The God chuckled, not with malice. and then placed the blade of the halberd he held upon the mans helm.

I deem you worthy to face me in battle. When Isenvei leaves the sky, I shall come for you. Be ready.

With that simple pronouncement the god let go of his hand and flapped his wings, the gush of air forced the man already on his knees to his back. He held his hand over his eyes to protect it from the rising dirt and sand. Wait. . . eyes? The man felt his face. Then his sides. . . it wasn't just his body, his armor gleamed. . . his wounds gone. He looked into the sky and saw a crow, a raven and a vulture, and knew that he was marked. The birds will follow him everywhere till the eclipse ended, which could be years, and then his God would come once more. His emotions were mixed - elation, pride, accomplishment, from his new found status as a marked man - relief, wonder, awe, from his survival - and, dread, fear, despair at his inevitable death.

For you can not kill the War God. Not unless he lets you.

-----------

Noramoris stood in an empty field of nothing, which was not that different from the rest of the surface of Ormentros, since it was empty everywhere. Even if life flourished here first, it met it's end here first. Even Atreyah had life of a sort on it, Ormentros only had the birds and its failed God.

A crow landed on one of the swords that stuck out of Noramoris' chest. He remembered the soldier built of rust and blood who had placed it there. He remembered each and every face of the constructs he made who had pierced his flesh. Each sword an accusation. Each sword a promise. The soldier who put it there. . . . just another one of his many many challengers. He flew above the acid clouds and searched for potential. Whenever he found it, he would heal them and make them invincible for three years. He would mark them with three birds. These were the marked warriors, who proved to Ormentros that they could challenge Noramoris. For three years they would train in preparation to their battle. Some would journey to find other marked warriors to train or band together. Eventually he would come. . . and he killed them all. For nothing. Not even amusement. It wasn't a game to him - he simply was better, and he needed to show it. To prove it to no one, but prove it to the universe itself, nonetheless. Pathetic. The warriors, in the end before his fall, had stood in a line that stretched across the planet. One by one they relived their battle with him. Except Noramoris didn't fight back.

Each sword an accusation. Each sword a promise.

Noramoris couldn't look out his eyes (he remembered the warrior who held the sword the crow landed on had also lost an eye before he restored it), and he refused to pull the spikes out. He was still proud after all. The was the curse of pride. It grew like a weed, strangling even good intention, making punishments and lessons into rules and codes of honor where none were needed or were healthy. Noramoris recognized that. . . but . . . still . . . he would not pull the sword out.

He looked upon himself from the eyes of the carrion birds. They flocked to him as if he was a carcass. He supposed he was. He saw himself as a ruin of his former glory. His fair no longer floated in the wind, it instead hung down dredged and heavy with blood. His armor, the portions that weren't punctured or torn, were brown with rust with veins of verdigris. His yellow eyes - replaced by rusted steel spikes, the coloring of the rust appearing like a crude drawing of his yellow eyes. He felt the birds caw and laugh at him. It was a weird sensation, since it felt like he was laughing at himself. He supposed he was.

The birds looked up, and around - so he saw the plains of Ormentros and the heavens all at once. He felt the dying of mortals above, and felt the dead below. This planet didn't deserve anything, its pride led to him, and he lead to this. Let it wallow in the edge of nowhere. . . perhaps he would return and reclaim it when he learned what the stars had to teach. Maybe he would return when he learned humility. Maybe he would return. For now. . .

The birds rose into the air in a swarm. One grabbed the hilt of every blade inserted in him, so he looked like a cacophony of wings. An observer, looking upon him, would only see a mass of beaks and flapping feathers. And he slowly rose from the ground - his own wings severed. Through some of the birds he looked upon the world he was leaving.

Each sword an accusation. Each sword a promise.

[Erik Vale]

"Termites have had air conditioned skyscrapers, war, politics, agriculture, for melinia before we had stone tools. Look down to learn, because we're only on top due to sheer dumb luck."


If you have enough brains, you'll figure out that bashing a nut against a rock you may break open the nut, on Earth, such was an event many million years in the making after species began to roam the land...
On Ben'Ficu, we're it not that they figured it out faster and figured out more brains was better faster, through stealing, such would have taken many million years instead of many mellenia, and it wasn't really due to increased intelligence.

Yoy see, when one of the species you compete with has some basic future knowledge encoded in it's DNA that it looks at regularly, it's only figuring out how to apply the knowledge that takes time, which is much shorter than learning it yourself. And this is what every other species on the planet had to contend with, only the truths of being underwater. They had stone age tech already, but advancing further wouldn't be happening for a long long while, and their sentience was different due to the realities of underwater living, not as much could be put into advancing given the needs of survival.

However, the competition was... Different.

Yes, the Di'Alugo advanced quickly, mimicking various successful races well. It mastered beating with rock in eye blinks [biologically], tools came fast, however adapting them to be what it needed and finding rocks that acted similarly was hard, not so much so for bone and would though.
Whilst the new found weaponry didn't work very well against some species, there was something unusual and rather helpful that aided them more than the others. Each species was either more that a little more interdependent and 'willing' to be domesticated, in similar positions, or aggressively and assertively lonely at the top of a food chain. Animal domestication for the Di'Alugo wen't smoothly and quickly compared to other species, whilst only slightly ahead of friendly wolves that occasionally help each other for aggresive means, they had animals that can be watched and guided much faster than most other species.

It's interesting to note however, this extended right down to microflora, and is noted now, because it's effects are most profound in the Di'Alugo.
The microbial ecosystem of Ben'Ficu [Currently called sand by it's land dwelling inhabitants], could by and large be classified almost wholly as communalistic if not mutualistic. Most 'diseases' were caused by oppetunism undertaken by Nutralistic microbes. Both the microbes themselves and their multicellular hosts had guided evolution that way surprisingly quickly, and those that took it up survived... This was mostly because of what parasites did do.
They... They evolved quickly, beyond any ability to normally deal with, accidentally they became something that would have wiped out all life but the amorphic, and even that would depend on the amorphs destroying them instead and taking their biological capabilities for their own. By becoming, even by accident, so aggressive and destructive as parasites instead of hiding and taking a communalistic role, they killed their food, or became the target for every other microbe to fight them off.
In time, just about all microbes were either beneficial to the host, or were so careful and did so little harm they wen't unnoticed, and would continue to do so for mellenia, and what was left of the parasites either became relatively unstoppable but slow, causing quarantine procedures to become quite advanced, or were so rare that outbreaks were large, almost entirely lethal, and rare, more like natural disasters on par with a volcanic eruption in a localized area.

As for why this is most noticable in non-Ma'gu'gay and Amorph creatures [Such as the Ka'gulay and Evu'da] is really quite simple. Ma'gu'gay species being composite species could isolate infected members and thoroughly destroy them, the only microbes that could survive in them had to contribute without causing any harm, contribute in a manner that far outweighs harm, or be so omni-present they could infect all [or most] of the minor organism in the major organism at once, which was rather hard to do. This would make their reaction to most diseases to be a small drop in capability due to a loss of some minor organisms that made up the whole organism, in truth being like having to shed skin or a very very minor burn.
And Amorphs... Whilst very technically multi-cellular their near uni-cellular make up meant that that so much could be brought to bear that contaminates were simply destroyed, and anything useful was later kept and possibly replicated for repurposing, or to be used in fighting each other. The Amorph version of Tetenus was wiped out within years of arising for example, and just became another biological weapon in their arsenal.


All this lends the question, of how do creatures like these have a 'stone age'?
They don't... They have technological analogs.
The amorphic beings that were the Evu'da couldn't truly use weapons against each other, and could throw stones with enough force that once they figured out how to, they spent a long time just flinging random rocks and other stuff to assist in hunting non-amorphs without truly learning to improve it. Instead they devoured their primitive microbes to better combat each other, leaving no room for them to improve and be taken later. They began to realize that certain plants were worth cultivating and remembering, and when the Di'Alugo began herding, the Evu'da began farming.

And the Ka'gulay, they did the same thing, but learned instead shaped the stone and other materials, making up for their lack of speed with higher quality weaponry, however against each other such weapons were almost as useless as such weapons against amorphs. However in devouring stone they learned to incorporate it within themselves, adding to their mass and resilience.

---

"Tit for tat, the world goes that way. You may not know where the tats and tits are from or where they are going, but everything is balanced in life's great check books. All debts are paid in full, even if you're not sure where from."


As interesting as it was watching the creatures grow all over his planetary self, Ben'Ficu began to hear the dull echoes of other gods. There was only so much he could hear before getting distracted, and remembering that which was beyond his world. For a moment he felt angry, before he remembered being caught... Perhaps there was something good.
'I've yet to meet him... I should... If nothing I need to thank him.'

And into the void between worlds Ben'Ficu consigned himself, into the inky blackness marked with bright lights he traveled to that which was closest. He traveled to Errantus, the bright spark in the sky with it's dark ring making it into the bright hemispheres to which he clung in his darkest hours.

Ben'Ficu traveled with a debt, to his favorite lights in the sky.

[THEChanger]

Telling the Tale

As the dark months did pass, a Hüljanud, now not so young, sat by the deathbed of their Elder, for the Elder had taken ill in the chill of shadow, and Shoney would soon come to that place. “Parent of my parent, you have told me many stories. Now, I think, it is my turn to tell you a story. Please, what would you like to hear?” The Elder took the hand of the child of their child, and shook their head sadly. “No, not yet. There is yet one story I must tell you. I have not yet told you the last of Matkaja’s tales.” And a tear fell from both their eyes, for the younger knew that this would be the last story that would pass from their Elder’s lips.

After sundering the tree which held the world together, and bringing a great cataclysm upon the world, the king followed his guide beneath the earth. No more did he know the joy of the Laughing Child, and so he carved from the stone walls of his strange new path the mask which is the Grieving Elder, the mask of those who have seen too much, and feel the weight of their errors upon their shoulders. And he took the mask of the Laughing Child, and hung it from his waist, as a reminder of all that had come before, for though his heart had hardened, the king still knew shame.

Long he walked the deep tunnels which run beneath the earth. There he saw such things that no one may speak of, creatures dark and terrible, great abysses and stone which craved for flesh. Yet the mask of the Grieving Elder told of all the king had done, and all those things which could have slain him drew away in fear, for one who had wrought such ruin on the surface would surely destroy them as well. And so the king walked on, unmolested, protected by his grief. And the king did marvel, for even in this darkness, in the very depths of despair, there was beauteous things. Great pillars of stone carved from running water, glittering metal and jewels, and light! Yes, even here, there was light, soft from moss which grew upon the cave walls. And so, for a little while, the king found solace in the depths of darkness, and grew to know it well.

Yet he could not sleep, for his dreams were filled with the shame he had brought into the dark with him. So the king did always walk those tunnels, until sleep would catch his feet and pull him down. Even then, he would not sleep long, rising as soon as he felt well enough to walk again. This continued for so long that the king forgot time, not knowing if it had been weeks, months, or years since he had left the surface behind. And, eventually, the king did come to the center of the world, where in the very bottom of the darkness lay a grand temple carved of brilliant diamond, which reflected the light from the moss into dizzying arrays of rainbow light, which surpassed even the cloak the king had worn so very long ago. And there, standing before the doors of the temple, was the woman, whose smile was as brilliant as the diamonds in the light. No words were exchanged in that sacred place, for none were needed. Both knew what the other desired.

And so the king entered the temple which is carved of diamond, and approached the altar in its very center, the true core of the planet, where sat a jewel of purest quality, which surpassed all other diamonds which have ever been. And there he laid his head, for he desired to receive power, to undo the mistakes he had made. And the woman picked up the ax which had been used to sever the chain, and used to fell the tree, for what she desired was the king’s life. For she was the emissary of this place, the speaker of the spirits which lay dormant in the diamonds, waiting to be given life.

The ax fell, and the king felt his life pass from his body and into the core of the planet.

There, in the very center, the king died, and the diamond which was the core of the planet came to rest above him. Beneath where the diamond had lain was a mask of stone, a simple mask with just two eye holes. This was the Mask of the Blank Slate, for that was what the king had been reduced to. And the three Masks began to circle the core of the planet, as the three outer shards do circle our planet, and Matkaja did rise, born in the body and mind of the fallen king.

The woman then asked Matkaja to bring her people to life, to give the diamonds a true body, for it was his duty as the god of the temple, and she had done him a great service in freeing him from his mortal form. But Matkaja grew wrathful, and played a most cruel trick on the people of the diamonds. He did as he was bid, and from the clay near the surface, molded bodies for the spirits of the diamonds. But he did not finish his work, and left the clay weak and wet, instead of baking it in fire to keep its shape. And so the people of the diamonds found their form was not solid, instead changing and shifting uncontrollably. Having laid his curse thus, Matkaja left the temple, for he did not desire to remain among the people of the diamond, for Matkaja was in truth a stranger to this planet. That is why we are called the Hüljanud, for we were forsaken by the god we were promised by the Great Heart.

Having thus finished the story, the Elder squeezed the hand of the child of their child, and let out his final breath. Through their tears, the young Hüljanud looked out the window of the home, and saw upon a nearby hill two figures. One was black as night, bearing a crown of leaves and cloak of raven’s feathers. The other was stooped, but a light shone from his head. He wore a cloak worn and battered from use, and leaned upon a large walking staff, gnarled and twisted. And the Hüljanud knew he saw two gods that night.


Remembering

It was not as people say.

Everything else, yes, it happened as they tell. Sure, some of the details were different, but it was still the same in the end. This was different. They don't remember, not like I do. They did not have eyes in those days, so they could not see, nor did they have hearts, so they could not feel. They had no mind, so they could not know.

There is nothing beneath the earth. There are no dark and terrible creatures, no yawning abysses, no glowing moss or great pillars. Just the tunnels carved by the tree's roots, and the dark. There is no solace in that deep despair, in that darkness. Just pain. And I could not even cry, for my heart had been taken from me. I just felt a deep emptiness, as though I had been carved out. I could not sleep. I just walked on. On through the darkness, with nothing to distract me from the voices, which grew ever louder. Reminding me of every mistake, every stupid decision I had made.

I did, eventually, find my way to the center of the planet. And there is a temple there, a grand cathedral, carved of diamond. But you wouldn't know. There is no light there. No beauty. Or maybe there is beauty, but you could never see it. Not down there. I fumbled around that cavern, the voices shouting at me, until I found the door, until I went in and found the altar. There was a diamond there, and a mask, and the ax, that same, damned ax. But the woman, no, the woman wasn't there. She was just something the voices had made, to lure me here. And so we made another deal. The last deal. But I didn't ask for power. They'll tell you I did, but that wasn't what I asked for. I asked for release. I asked for the voices to never trouble me again. And they agreed, but demanded my life in exchange.

I thought I would die. I thought I would finally die, and not be reborn again, to live another life of suffering and pain. But they lied to me. They did not release me. They brought me back, sealed my life in the core, and bound me to the planet. Or, they tried. Because they wanted me to serve them. They wanted a god, so they could be made. But they tricked me, and broke their promise. So when I was made into this, I couldn't do it.

Because they took my kingdom, they received a land barren and destroyed, that they would have to rebuild themselves.

Because they took my heart, they would never know their beloved's true face, always changing into something else.

Because they took my life, they would have no god, and be alone in the dark.

But you have to understand. I didn't do any of that. They brought that on themselves. That was the price they chose. Me? I didn't choose this. That's why I don't come back here. That's why I wander, why I am Matkaja, instead of some other god. Because my people, the people who were supposed to worship me, they tricked me, and tried to use me. Tried to bind me to them. But I can't be bound like that. I have to be free.

That's why I have the blank mask. It isn't a blank slate. It has eyes, to see with. Because it is the mask of the Wanderer. My mask.

Matkaja turned away from his sibling. "I. I just needed to tell you. Because they'll tell you their stories. They were always good at that, the voices. Telling stories. And their stories will make it sound like I betrayed them. But I didn't. And I don't really care what they think of me, but you, I care about you. So. Now you know." Having said his piece, the Three-Faced King went away from that place, to wander about the stars, and see what the universe had to show him.

[Raz_Fox]

"-And be well, your own self."

Then he was alone, yet again, but for Drullach. He tangled his fingers in Drullach's thick, coarse mane, and looked onwards for a moment. There was a sound that was something like the shore of the sea, lapping against the land. Then Shoney rolled his shoulders, and exhaled, and that was that. He turned back, and though all the length of the road was the same to him, he walked with Drullach for a time as he came to the beginning all over again.

"For sure," he said aloud after a time, "I'm not certain of it, neither. An itch in the bones may mean much, but who's to say it's mine to mark? Just because it's all running along my spine don't mean I'm to pay it heed. Yet if I don't, who's to do it right?"

Their course turned, almost imperceptibly, and they passed between two trees, and the path that they walked on was not one that was there before. The trees overhead stretched out bare fingers to the bleak twilight sky, and the road was lit by light that had been, but wasn't going to be soon enough. Shoney settled into a long gait, and Drullach followed without neither bridle nor bit.

"It'll be nothing, you mark me," he murmured to himself. "And me with so many yet to care for, and my white lady waiting. More fool I, aye, that's the right of it." But still he walked, and for a time longer, because of the feeling dancing up and down his spine, and the sour taste of knowing aught is wrong, but not knowing quite what.

The trees had roots that weren't quite stone, now, and the leaves were starting to crystallize underfoot. Should have been summer, though, should have been all in bloom; should have been the could-have-beens of panting deer and hungry fledglings. The leaves scraped against the beaten dirt of the path underfoot, caught up by his fur-lined boots and his cloak drifting after. Weren't right. The trees were leviathans, grey bark stretched tight about trunks wide as bursting, branches high enough to scrape the flatness of the sky. Then: gouges, torn deeply into the path, something long and wide and heavy dragged along; a tree, tossed idly across the path, stronger than any wall.

No words now. Shoney pulled himself on Drullach's broad back, and held firm as Drullach sped him on, over the broken tree and between the gouges as vast as valleys, until the air was rank with decaying flesh and the things that fed on such fruit, and the cloying scent of things more foul. And the path came to its end, and Drullach's hooves came to rest on the cooling ash of Atreyah. In the space between then and now, Shoney looked about him, and sharply hissed to see such things. Fog hung thick all about, and what could be seen: steaming lavabeds beginning to scab over, livid wounds in the earth hanging loose and torn, and not any life to be seen. There had been cause for death here, and yet--

And yet something perversely clung.

Weren't right.

He gently spurred Drullach on, following what intuition he had, the paths of lava-flows and the tearing of the earth, towards the person of a dead planet.

[mystic1110]

A spear was throne. Predictable. She ducked low, letting it sail above her head. Almost instantaneously she pushed with her legs, bare foot - letting her toes dig into the arid soil, finding a foundation, giving her power. She dashed towards the spear thrower. The spear thrower held another spear in his hands. When did he grab it? No matter - if she closed the distance, her knives against his spear, it wouldn't even be a contest anymore. The spear thrower smiled. She was leaning forward, her head almost at his waist, her hands against her hips holding her knives. The spear holder fell backwards, on purpose, catching her off guard. She was prepared to spin and swipe at him, striking his groin and bladder, but the backwards fall made her run right into him and fall with him. The spear holder was falling with one leg held out kicking, as to allow him to spin with her on top and end up on her instead. She was faster. With her forward momentum she dragged her toes against the dirt at the last second, she made her body fall the other way, colliding with his spin. Almost as quickly, and a practiced move of her legs, she was back on her feet. But so was he.

The spear thrower begun to twirl his spear above his head. Possibly to close off any direct opening she had to his vital areas. She threw a knife at his neck. At that instance he stopped spinning and swung down with the spear and knocked the knife out of the air. It happened in a blink of an eye.

What also happened in a blink of an eye was that she threw a second knife. The spear thrower was fast enough to knock one down, but the second one found purchase in his throat. The man looked shocked. His life ambition - the only possible ambition that one could have in the eternal war - was snatched from his grasp. To be chosen to duel against the War God. To die at his hands. Instead he was clutching the knife in his throat, pathetically wheezing, to stupid to know he had been killed by one as young as she.

A Prodigy!

She turned around and saw that she was in the shadow of a man dressed in the finest of armor - black hair that played with the wind, and eyes as yellow as the sky. Her God. The man behind her fell to his knees, not out of supplication, but due to them giving out. He was still struggling to live. His rasps marked the God's words. Almost as if it was a reminder, she bowed as well. For that's what dying was on Ormentros, bowing to the whims of war.

The man behind her died, and she could hear the blood oozing out of him as it did so. She smiled while facing the dirt. She made her God proud, and what else is their in life? She was proud of his pride. She felt the cold touch of his blade upon her lithe shoulder. The cold made her shiver, but the God's words made her shiver more.

I deem you worthy to face me in battle. When Shoney leaves the sky, I shall come for you. Be ready.

And with that the god walked away, not taking to the air with his beautiful black wings. She watched him go, but did not dare stand up until he was gone from the horizon. When she did it was with taller legs. She was a woman now. The God had taken her childhood and made her appear in her physical prime. She was sure she would be marvelous to look at as well. She was sad, but happy at the same time. She began to walk in the opposite direction, the shadows of a crow, raven, and vulture following her footsteps. Till Shoney left the sky's she would be invincible, do whatever she liked. . . and then her God would kill her. It was a foregone conclusion.

For you can not kill the War God. Not unless he lets you.

-----------

Noramoris ruminated while being carried by the countless birds. Their wings flapped against nothing, but somehow they bore him forward and onward. His sightless eyes saw nothing, but the ravens saw the countless stars in ever direction. There was so much more than death in this universe. So much more than war. SO much more than him. He knew himself then to be as to the great heart as mortal men were to him. Insignificant. Pride was a foolish game, especially when he lost that foolish game and his reward was countless swords.

He was more wings than swords.

The void between the planets allowed him to think back to all of the warriors he killed over the years. He touched a dagger that was inserted into his wrist. A young girl - a child soldier - but then again that wasn't anything special. They were all child soldiers. He remembered her prowess, her skill, but most of all he remembered her happiness at being marked. At being chosen. At being told she would die at his hand. Like him before the rest of the cosmos. . . she was insignificant.

But was she? What did he learn?

He felt the dagger as the birds flew him to a planet that was being circled by one great moon. He still mused - Each life had a purpose; Each life was special; Each life was a story in it's own way; Each life didn't deserve to die. Now he lived for a billion. For each life that died in his war.

How would he live it? How would he live for them?

[Tychris1]

Atreyah rested, his body sinking into the side of a mountain, and his skin began to crust over and harden. Soon his entire form would be shrouded once more, the colossus scaled corpse would merge itself with the surrounding barren world again, and he would be able to rest and meditate. His eyes slowly closed, the heavy boulders concealing the massive cave that was his eye socket, and granted him some level of peace. His haggard breathing, a phantom motion from an age he could scant remember even now, began to slow down, and it too eventually stopped.

Yet even as his vessels eyes closed, his world eye opened, and through it he began to observe his children. There were so many of them, hundreds of them scattered across his rotten and desolate frame. Each of them began to carve out their own homes and abodes, dens that they would call their own, and brood within for time immemorial. These immortal beings, strengthened by age and unamused with the concepts of mortality, began to settle down one by one. Unknowingly, or perhaps instinctually, they sought to emulate their great decrepit father, and so they began to enter a rest. By some strand of fate, some unknown hand or eternal mind, a massive hibernation began to ensue. It was an epidemic, spreading from Dragon to dragon, even with hundreds of miles separating each of them, and it seemingly possessed them like a supernatural sedative.

Some did resist, their energy and spirit too strong to be contained or put to sleep, and these few Dragons mingled amongst the remaining awakened. Most of them interacted sparingly, occasionally soaring by one another as they roamed their territory, and searched for the cracked and bleeding mounds of flesh that break through Atreyah's world skin. Some feuded, some debated amongst each other and formed small familial units, and others merely reproduced with each other on sight. No words, no passionate feelings of romance blazing within the heart, and certainly no long amount of time spent knowing one another on a moonless night. Merely an intertwining flight, an aerial dance of wrapping claws and fluttering wings, a soundless display of understanding. And once the act was finished they usually went their separate ways upon the eggs being released.

And so it went for several weeks, which upon another world may seem like a scant amount of time for anything of major importance to happen. Yet time works differently upon Atreyah, it's rotation a painfully slow process rapidly outpaced by every single one of its fellow celestial bodies. What would amount to an hour on that barren world could be days on another world. And throughout it all Atreyah guided his children subtly, pushing them this way and that as he moulded and sought to protect them as a whole. Maturing them under his rigid gaze minute by minute as they slumbered peacefully.

Yet Atreyah had come to learn that all peace is eventually disrupted, and so it was that the Mountain God found his benevolent peace obstructed once more. He had no name to put this disturbing presence under, this ocean of crawling spiders running under his skin and shaking his stilled blood violently. Whatever it was it felt wrong, sickening, a horror clawing at the edge of his mind that he felt so familiar with. He began to pick through his mind as he tried to grasp what it was that intruded upon his domain, quickly eliminating his own Dragons as the source, and running down an expansive list of the most mundane of things he had encountered. Finally his thoughts focussed upon a singular idea, a morbid motif that seemed to plague his life and now his state of undeath. The mountain cracked at first, boulders exploding out as his shoulder rose up, and promptly locked itself in place. After a few minutes, his other shoulder creaked its way out of the binding earth, and now a steady stream of rubble rolled down the mountain side. Energy began to lethargically course through his body, picking up steam with each revolution through his massive frame. His shoulders soon pushed up and outward, tearing his entire torso out of the mountain side, and issuing forth a devastating avalanche that could destroy entire villages in seconds. Grinding his eyelids, those impervious saucers rouse steadily, inch by inch, until the light of his one eye was partially visible. Eyes half open, whole tracts of land falling off his frame, and with his teeth ground together in contempt, he began to address this intruder.

His voice rumbled forth from his body, a powerful emission of air that whipped up a twister on the far side of his body, and demanded to be heard by whomsoever trespassed. He had tried to reason with this thing once, then he tried to kill it, and yet it returns to him once more, and so Atreyah decided to understand this abomination further. He needed to know everything about it, so that he may best deal with it quickly and curtly.

"What.... Do you want?"


Spending 1 Advancement to age all of the Dragons on Atreyah rapidly (A century or so forward) as the new standard. Where before the majority of them were man sized or a bit larger, with scales like hardened leather, they now crawl about like burly SUV's or armored transports. Their scales aging to a tough and remarkable iron like quality, claws that can rend flesh and bone with ease, and overall increased power and durability in all their natural ways. Oh, and there are a couple of new dragons, like 1-2 clutches, but that's a minor population bump (Like 7-8% really).

[Draken]

Isenvei

Sanna was hunting a mammoth.

Not among the greatest furred beasts, towering about her height, but much longer and heavier, with a pair of large ivory tusks and a singular, long snout. A fairly common female, lagging behind the herd somewhat, perhaps from age or sickness, a fortuitous find, it would provide good meat for the caravan.

But the ice worm had other plans.

It erupted beneath the old creature with its maw open and swallowed it whole, the herd fled on the spot, and Sanna herself made to run, but the shrill keening of the wasteland monster shattered the ice under her feet, never had she so dearly hoped to be an hydra, but if she were, she would probably not have been here to begin with.

She wasn’t in much danger from the worm, it had plenty of juicier prey to go after, but now she was wet and rime was setting in, making her harness heavier than it should be, and she had lost her prey to a screaming, bloody worm. Not the best way to start a day.

Shoney was appearing on the fleeing horizon and that was not a good omen. Back to the caravan it was, a short stop to gather the products of her foraging in the oases earlier that night and then back for some rest while. It was good fortune that the holy city was but two days away. The sight of the Voranakk in the horizon was soothing, this trip neared its end.

But first, Oszas.

Oszas was the caravan’s quartermaster, an old turtle with snake blood in his veins, and also one of their thaumaturges, not that he did much of that job since two actual priests of the Voranakk were traveling with them, and as such she was not even sure what kind of thaumaturgy he knew. So old Oszas stuck to keeping inventory, she had to hand over her findings for cataloguing before she could go have some rest.

“Fifteen shi1 of dry manure, twelve mammoth tusks.”

Another hunter had found a mound of worm excrement and called those nearby to help harvest it.

“Seven logs of pale muscipular.”

Sanna would sooner slit her own throat than meet Shoney because of a plant, that is for sure.

“Twenty-three purple scarabs.”

Vermin the size of a fist, spicy.

“Ten giant ratels.”

Maniacal beasts that attack anything smaller than a mammoth and fight to the very last. Coincidentally, the last she had packed on her ahkio. With that chore out of the way, she retired to her hammock on one of the sleeping wagons.

Caravans cross the surface of Isenvei, traveling between its many cities, mostly those under a single federation, but not all too rarely between different ones, and very commonly towards Storhelligby, the capitol astride the Voranakk. During the long trips, they stop by the Oases to let hunters out to procure supplies to keep up and add to the stores of the Caravan, and it is considered a great failure to arrive somewhere with as much or less than they had upon departing the last city.

Caravans are made of at least four wagon-sleds pulled by beasts of burden such as giant monitors or glacier horses2. Half for supplies, half for the travelers to sleep inside. The routes between the cities are old and held in regard, with many rules and laws to observe in order to make use of the caravanserais on the way, for the Voranakk is a thing of records and schedules, and Isenvei runs on strict timetables. The priesthood makes sure of it.

The priesthood! How could one not speak of those thaumaturges who are found fitting by the Voranakk to receive its numinous power and ennoble their power and vision with further wisdom and authority? Perhaps, first, one should speak of thaumaturgy instead.

The Great Heart beat once in a time before the first hour of each world, but even in this age between cataclysmic pulses it radiates energy into the system, energy that the Voranakk taught its chosen to absorb and direct to the world around them, working wonders in the natural world. Any individual of talent could become a thaumaturge, and every thaumaturge studies hard and trains body and mind to channel this great power through the schools. This being Isenvei, there are few great schools for sure, those of Cold, Water, Flesh, iron and Wind, things known to Isenvei, with many lesser schools for the rarer materials of the world, stone, fire, wood, and those unusual disciplines of the insubstantial and subjective, which nonetheless hold great power, death, order, war, strength and bureaucracy.

And priests, exalted thaumaturges who seek out the blessings of the gods and are found worthy, allowed to channel power from the world itself and not just from the Heart, and given the knowledge and authority of the divine to work even greater marvels upon the cosmos, by the grace of the gods.

But where were we? Sanna’s caravan, approaching Storhelligby on the slopes of the Voranakk, the capitol of Isenvei, the citadel of the priesthood, the seat of the Divine Bureaucracy. Its libraries hold records going back to the first generation and further before still, slabs of ivory inscribed by the Voranakk itself and scrolls of parchment tracking lineages most old. The logs of the city tell of the origins of all others, the great trunks standing as proud testament to the history of the world.

It is home.



1Shi, an Isenveian unit of weight, closest to kilograms in value.

2Actually a cetacean adapted for both land and sea.


1 Advancement spent to create Thaumaturgy, the divine magic.

Obviously, it is not the magic of the gods. Thaumaturgy is magic used by mortals, following several schools that, at their simplest and most direct, manipulate the matter in the natural world, but can interact with many other things! Some not all too substantial. There is a school of Thaumaturgy for every conceivable sphere and domain. Although not all of them are known to or prosperous in Isenvei at this time, the powers of earth and fire would certainly be great in a place that is not 95% water.

Thaumaturges must train their body, mind and spirit to receive energy, store it, and channel it in manners that affect the world around them. Thaumaturges manifest their abilities as Power and Vision. Power offering control over the subjects they are schooled in and Vision granting them, well, a heightened ability to notice things pertaining to their schools.

The gods can further empower thaumaturges, trained thaumaturges, empowering any random joe doesn’t work any better than putting the baby on the captain’s seat of a plane and giving it a cap. It won’t fly the plane. A thaumaturge so empowered is called a Priest, and receives greater mastery over those things related to the spheres and domains of the empowering god. Priests add Wisdom and Authority to their range of capabilities within the schools of their gods. Wisdom supplying knowledge in the school, if it was lacking before, or augmenting such knowledge if it was preexistent, and Authority providing… Well, it is similar to Power, really. The best way to describe it, is that Power allows you to move a rock and Authority allows you to tell a rock to move.

Thaumaturgy can do wondrous and miraculous things if the wielder is sufficiently potent and skilled, but it can’t do the outright impossible. A thaumaturge can make a fire grow, dwindle or move, but can’t make it burn if there is nothing to consume nor can he make it turn into live birds of flesh and blood.

[Raz_Fox]

On Atreyah

Now, Shoney his own self ain't what you'd call small, not at all. Wherever he goes, he tends to be larger than most; people look up at him, or else see him afar off, a shadow and a paleness cast against the world, and that's when their teeth clatter and their knees shake. But some things are bigger than him, aye, and stronger, and old Atreyah's one of them. It's said that to challenge Shoney to a bout of wrestling's a fool's errand, seeing as he'll just force you down no matter what you do, gentle as you please but never letting you gain an inch of ground. But were Atreyah to grapple with him, it'd be anyone's guess as to who'd win.

So he looked up, and up some more, and up even more, as Atreyah burst from his mountain for all the world like a chick bursting from the shell of an egg. Drullach flared his nostrils and whinnied, and Shoney let his breath out in a slow whistle, for he'd not seen the like in all his days. He was little more than a splotch of shadow underneath Atreyah's wings as vast as thunderclouds, for all that he'd been known to cast about mountains to be places to set his feet. The rocks underfoot ground together and splintered, and yet Drullach's hooves seemed to only be where the chaos weren't, and not even a pebble happened to strike even Shoney's heel; but when Atreyah spoke, he had to clap one hand to his brooch to stop his cloak from being ripped right off his shoulders, such was that wind.

Shoney looked the great dragon-god up and down, and as he did, he began to frown. Not such that you'd notice easy, mind you, for Shoney ain't much given to show all he's thinking right clear on his face, but Drullach shifted under him, all uneasy, for he weren't much liking what he saw, neither. The ribs of Atreyah were all out and open for the world to see, right on his right side, and the flesh hung in tatters as long as whales and as thick as trees, but there weren't no blood running down from it no more, and those eyes -- big enough to lose all of yourself in -- weren't right to the sight.

So he tipped his head, just the once, and spoke, and though his voice weren't near as loud or vast as Atreyah's bellowing whisper, still there ain't none who can't hear Shoney when he's speaking. His words are as clear as still water, and as crisp as the snap of a dry leaf underfoot, and though he don't mean to frighten, it's still enough to send the chills running down any spine. "I'm wanting an explanation, if you don't mind. Something's been done here which shouldn't right be done. Now, I feel the fault's mine as much as any other's, for not being here to help, but the sooner you share what's been done, sooner mended."



On Shoney

A raven alighted on one of the balconies of Halthamare. Truth be told, it were less of a true balcony, being woven from the roots of the great trees surrounding Halthamare, but there it rested all the same. Soon enough, the lady of the house raised her head from the tapestry she was painstakingly weaving, brushing back her silver locks from where they hung around their face.

"Oh, is Shoney--" It coughed, and she stopped to listen, silent as the growing of the trees. And when it had finished, she nodded, and gestured for it to come to her. There, she brushed its feathers once, and though her hands were cold as the waters that lapped at Halthamare's shore, it shivered in delight.

"Please, inform our visitor that he is free to avail himself of Shoney's hospitality. He is still on his Rounds, but I will be delighted to entertain our guest." She kissed it once, and then let it loose on the wing. Once she could no longer see it, she reached down to the silvery thread only barely visible about her hips, and tugged on Sullaga once.

[mystic1110]

While the balconies of Halthamare were welcome to him, Noramoris did not know so. Instead with the planet before him he descended slowly towards the various twisted branches which caught his birds' eyes. The ravens, crows and vultures settled him in the forests of briers and dark wood, which have come to be known as the home of the forest folk and where Scathann sits in her hut, the hut called Strife, with a narrow door - appropriately called pride. Perhaps that's why he came to the forest instead of the hills or the sea. Worship comes in many forms, and perhaps the people of this land paid more attention to pride than most. Or maybe he came to the edge of the forest because this was were this world's war was - where Lugach and Anaboan fought and killed.

Blood was spilled in the woods, and blood still called to Noramoris. He could still feel the war of this world - like an open festering wound. A small one - nothing compared to his own eternal war. This would have been a mere skirmish, beneath notice on Ormentros. The strife on this planet, the death, the fighting was less than nothing compared to that. It made him sneer. However the daggers that pierced his cheeks and jaws bit into his skin, reminding him of what he was sneering at. He sneered that the people here did not die, did not fight. That they lived their lives free of deaths ever present glare. He did not deserve to sneer at them, no . . . for if they looked at him it should have been their mouths who curled.

The birds that perched on his weapons took flight, cawing in the wind. If any Askla heard, they would have heard a cacophony of shrieks and cries - they would have seen a Murder of Crows surround them. They might have run from them, seeing it as a harsh omen, but then they would have noticed the kettle of Vultures that sat on the high branches looking down. The Askla probably would have run, an Unkindness of Ravens following him or her. The Birds laughed in unnatural ways.

In the epicenter of unkindnesses and murder stood Noramoris, who breathed the fresh air of Shoney. His own planet was just a ball of fire and acid. The fresh air a novelty. Or tried to breath the spears in his lungs and the pick in his nose did not allow the air to do itself justice. Nonetheless Noramoris tried to be humble. This rock was greater than he was, he was sure - the wounds in the earth were smaller. And thus he began to walk towards the nearest settlement - where lights played in the distant trees. The lone Askla who ran from his birds probably already made it there, telling storied of carrion birds. The God shuffled forwards. He could no longer fly, and he was too wounded to run.

The moon appeared overhead as if lighting his travels.

[Tychris1]

On Atreyah, with Shoney

To say that Atreyah had an intimidating visage would be an understatement. His claws were like racking scythes of destruction, the plows of war. His frame so massive that mountains are rendered lesser in his presence. Only a blackened, stilled ichor remains under his skin and in his veins. Poisonous, acidic saliva bubbles and gurgles within his mouth, stilled to the point where bacteria fester and reproduce at an exponential rate. His skin was hard as rock, with the stench of decay wafting up through the air, and permeating with an almost physical aura. His teeth were like titanic swords, his claws like battering rams, his wingbeat was a hurricane, and the slow swishing of his tail was like an earthquake. To any sane mortal, the sight of Atreyah would induce heart attacks, gaping displays of awe and fear in incomprehensible amount. He was the God of Dragons, father of the most terrifying beasts to enter the galaxy. He was immortal, powerful, fearless!

And yet this..... thing before him made him tremble.

Tremble with equal amounts of disgust, confusion, and fear. The thing was all..... was all WRONG. Everything about it was sickening, even the most trivial of details was seemingly crafted to antagonize and anger Atreyah. It was unnaturally thin, like some sheepish scarecrow, a construct of bones and flesh pulled too tight that mimicked and mocked Atreyah's state of decay. His skin was dark, like that of Atreyah in life, and yet it was also pale at the same time, adding a further fusion of Atreyah's own principle elements and appearance. His eyes were full of a deranged light, a light not reflected from that of this world or the next, but the light that shone inbetween. A cloying, blinding light that sparkled with such randomness that it held the threat of smothering everything within sight in its incandescent display. But the worst thing of all, the one infuriating detail that almost caused Atreyah to guffaw and smash the impudent creature infront of him, was his hair. It was a collection of dark leaves, brushed about messily in a sort of macabre parody of what a real tree's leaves would look like. It was then that Atreyah truly recognized who it was he looked upon, it was then that his innate disgust and hatred finally made a modicum of sense in his head, and it was then that the gears in his head began to grind slowly, fueled by new found anger.

Here it was, that same specter of death that appeared so long ago, wishing to take Atreyah's child from his arms, and then having the audacity to try and take Atreyah himself. That maniacal reaper, careless force of death, child killer. That was who Atreyah looked upon, a beast with such arrogance and cruelty as to crown himself with leaves. Taking the initial offering of Atreyah (For Atreyah was all too willing to throw away all the natural beauty he possessed), the very same offering that slit his child's throat and nearly killed him in that long forgotten forest, and wore it upon his head like some kind of a symbol of power. This thing... this... this monster had such arrogance! Such.... Atreyah failed to grasp at words, at even the concept of thought as he listened to the beast talk. And oh did it talk, it spoke with a maw almost as fearsome as Atreyah's, with the jagged fangs of a wild and rabid dog filling his lying mouth. Gritting his teeth, Atreyah ground them slowly, inch by inch, as he tried to process what was said. Finally, after staring into the tiny wretch infront of him for long enough, he worked out a suitable answer, and spoke with a hushed voice. A voice of barely restrained power and contempt.

"I too would enjoy an explanation. An explanation of who you are, what you are doing here, and what exactly gave you the right to enter my home and deem it fit to give me orders. I've done nothing wrong and I've certainly never wronged you."

[HalfTangible]

[Bronzewing]

Upon Visotta, in the mountains that border the Great Desert, there lived a brood of Steel Dragons known as the Bronzewing, named such for their scales and how the sun and sand reflected upon them. The brood was one of the wealthiest groups of dragons upon all of the harsh world, for they hunted slaves within the Great Desert. However, this alone was not enough, for no elf can outrun or outfight a steel dragon, not really. The easiest way to get a slave is to fly into the desert and get one yourself, and when a dragon can do that, they have little reason to buy from someone else. However, the dark elves learned that the oasies within the center of the desert were safer than those on the edge. Over time, it became more and more difficult to get elves at the edge of the desert, and unfortunately for the Steel Dragons very few of them could go into the desert for long periods - they overheated very easily.

However, the Bronzewing had flown deep into the desert for generations. They had long ago become accustomed to long stretches of time in the blazing sun, and as such could more easily find new Dark Elf slaves for their clients. They became incredibly wealth through trade, as well as the work of their own slaves. They resided in caverns loaded with decadent amounts of jewels and metal, gorging themselves on the profits of the labor of others. To their caves came many customers, as well as many suitors and guests, all eager to gorge themselves on the brood's great wealth. The Bronzewing had little interest in such, however. They simply hunted for slaves and took pleasure when they wished it from their customers, many of whom were all too eager.

One evening, the Bronzewing captured a particularly interesting interesting specimen: A dark elven woman with bronze scales as strong as a dragon's was brought in, and the master of the clan was quite taken with her. She was put to work immediately, and quickly became the master's favorite. She could lift far more than a normal elf, last longer and was far tougher. She was there for only a week, however. One night, the master summoned her to his bedchambers. The next, she was gone without a trace.

The Bronzewing told no one, of course. A runaway slave - especially one the family couldn't track - would be bad for business. Vissotta counted on it, and it would be their downfall.

Granted, it would take a generation or three, but at least then she'd get to fight.

[Raz_Fox]

On Atreyah

Shoney his own self simply raised one hand in a soothing gesture towards Atreyah, just as an auroch handler might run his fingers through its shaggy mane to settle its heart. Truth be told, it was more for his own sake than for the sake of the dragon-god before him, stronger than the hearts of mountains and rotting from the inside out. The vast intelligence before him, wrapped in stone and fossilized by wrongful arts, was enough to set his teeth on edge; the wind that came all a-rushing out between those vast teeth carried with it age and decay, the sick scent of something what was clinging to life and couldn't claw its way back into the good graces of Afis.

"Now, it ain't exactly proper to send a question back on its head, but in good faith, I'll give answer first. I'm called Shoney, and such I'll answer to, and don't mind none. And my lot's to look after those what are going on homewards. No one deserves to go alone, after all, not a one who's ever been born. And as far as I can tell, you're stuck like a sparrow in a fox's jaws, past your time but not moving on."

He gestured, then, at the withered heath all about. The cracked earth, jagged and savage-sharp, too hard and dead to yield the harvest ever again. The air, choked thick with dust, oppressive in its weight. All grey, like the dull scales of the king of dragons. His own back was hardly a paradise, but it was rich with life that turned, in its own time and way, all back round to death. This world had come to an end, plain for all to see.

"But it's all right, don't you fret none. Whatever's been done here, I'll set to mending, put to right. That's all I'm here to do. Soothe the sore, close the earth, and lead you onwards on the road. Might hurt, but it'll hurt like setting a bone, or likewise letting a boil. It's all for the good in the end."