[u][b]40,000 Years Ago… The Mortal Realm… Deep Beneath the Earth…[/u][/b] The cavernous room where the gathering was held overflowed with pitch; torchlight wielded by the Arbitrator’s men the only source of light. Just beyond the penumbra they cast, a darkened figure knelt before a vast well, delving even deeper into the Earth; further than had ever been ventured by mortal creatures. The Arbitrator, adorned in dull gray robes that foretold his impartial temperament, spoke to the darkened figure with a stern voice and eyes that were harder than glaciers. “…have spoken. The gods themselves condemn you for your hubris, Andromache. You have been marked accordingly with the symbol of Sathanas, and you shall shortly be cast to remain forevermore into the deepest pit of the Earth, where you shall remain for all time. There is no story or plea you might utter that we might suffer. Only for the sake of my own dignity, not of mercy, do I deign to ask of you your final words. Speak, and then fall.” “The gods shall abandon you.” The woman’s voice was deathly calm and acrid, scathing through the air like steel. “The gods shall abandon your people. The gods shall abandon your world. When the last of the gods no longer looks upon the world, I shall ascend.” “Your hubris in foretelling the acts of the gods is not unsurprising at this stage.” The arbitrator replied, reproachful in stance. “Enough of this folly. By my authority as Arbitrator under the gods, I cast you down.” He gestured with his hand, and the darkened figure was pushed by an unseen force, back, into the finality of the abyss below. The arbitrator gestured once more, and the cavern trembled as rock, soil, and dust tumbled from all directions to fill in Andromache’s tomb. “That’s the end of this grand mess.” One of the guardsmen said with relief as the three of them began to climb upwards, back towards the surface. “Arbitrator, this castigation has illustrated now, more than ever, the need for piety in these times. Might you have a suggestion for how I should pray to the gods this evening?” “Indeed.” The Arbitrator said evenly. “Pray for them to forever watch over this world, least the scorned and rancorous beast that is Andromache be unleashed upon it. Though it might be heresy to say, I have seen the essence of Truth in man enough to know that her final promise was prophetic in its telling.” [b][u]Dawn of the Age of Incursion The Mortal Realm The New World The Crescent Savannah Dawn[/u][/b] The Crescent Savannah, the massive rolling plain of fertile soil and sporadic tropical flora and fauna, was the jewel of the New World. Hundreds of kilometers in diameter, hundreds of nomadic tribes and small villages occupied its expanse. Five large metropolis built by the indigenous Archaics. Tens of millions of souls lived off the fruits and under the haven the Savannah provided in the otherwise harsh territory of the New World. Though there was often war between the many diverse people of the Archaics, the Savannah itself was a haven of peace - considered by most to be sacred ground, upon which blood should never be spilt. As dawn came, the Earth began to tremble as, unseen, the many planes of the cosmos began to unite in Conflux. Many omens began to manifest - the many mothers in the world bore still births. Tears of tar began to dribble from the eyes of statues. The stars in the sky seemed to move aflutter in ways that were scarcely possible. The most malign of the omens had yet to arrive, however - and the moment the crown of the sun ascended the East horizon and its light touched upon the Crescent Savannah. The trembling of the Earth increased, progressing to a shudder, then a throe, and finally a quake. Shockwaves flashed across the breadth of the land. Those upon the epicenter of the event were thrown meters into the air as their homes and crops were literally shaken to pieces. With a long, overdrawn bellow of rock grinding against rock and unseen humors emitting from the depths below, a great rift tore itself across the plains. A massive chasm, deeper than any other in the Mortal Realm, began to yawn open like the Abyss itself. The quake lasted for well over an hour, the Fissure ever widening and harrowing the earth, until at last the Earth stilled and the terrible wound in the world ceased its advance, covering more than twelve miles from end to end. Even once the Earth had ceased trembling however, somewhere in the deepest part of the Fissure, the earth became uninterred as a [url=http://th07.deviantart.net/fs71/PRE/i/2012/037/3/c/buried_by_sarafinconcepts-d4ox97u.jpg]writhing, flailing mass[/url] tore its way out from a secluded hollow. Seemingly the earth itself come to life, the thing slowly took shape into a vague, barely humanoid form that then unsteadily knelt upon the ground on all fours, having torn free from its tomb. The sounds of its ragged and hoarse breaths joined those of the earth shifting and rocks clinking as they fell from on high upon the sides of the newly revealed layers of crust. Blind and horrid, the creature scrabbled about the bottom of the Fissure for several hours ineffectually, until finally, the sun reached the apex of the sky - and blind though it was, the creature could still feel the heat of its light - and began to ascend. [center][s]888888888888[/s][/center] Many hours later, as dusk began to fall upon the riven lands, a group of Archaics had gathered at its edge - most of them wore thick layers of cotton padding and bore large clubs, fanned out and watchful. Two more, standing upon the edge of the Fissure itself, wore ceremonial raiment - one carried a spear adorned with several totems and emblems - more ceremonial than functional. "I do not understand the nature of this wound." The younger of the two said, the sewn emblems on his garb displaying his standing as a junior shaman. "Is it an omen, or the injury the world itself has sustained the other omens warn us of?" The elder, clearly the leading shaman, looked pensively across the ravine to where a whole river of water had been cut off, now running directly into the maw of the Fissure itself seemingly without end. Below, several pools of ground and river-water were beginning to fill. "This was no natural occurrence." He replied. "Though it is said that quakes of this sort have happened before, nowhere on all of Ati is there a crevice equal to this here. I do not believe this to be an omen however." "So it must be a wound. That must be what the omens have warned us of. Something has come to Ati and has made this cleft in the world." The junior shaman muttered in response. "But what could wield such power? We saw nothing undue on our way here. No Mortal could have done this." "Surely not." The elder agreed. "From what I know, not even the Iwadwacki could not have done this." "The Iwadwacki?" The junior blurted, turning to face the elder with surprise. "I was certain they were just a superstition. Why have you never told me of this before?" "Calm yourself, boy." The elder admonished, tilting the spear somewhat downwards in annoyance. "They do exist, though none have come to Ati since before the outlander colonies were first made. It would be known if they were here." "We will speak of this again later." The younger man said, anger plain in his face. He turned to face the Fissure again, frustration creeping into his features. "It simply makes no sense. There's...no..." His voice drifted off as his eyes alighted on a strange, undulating column of loose earth that appeared to be pulling itself over the lip of the Fissure and onto the plain. "Elder, beware!" He cried, pointing to the strange aberration. His shout drew the attention of the armed natives, who turned and startled at the alien sight. The Elder's eyes bulged as the strange creature rose, coalescing into a treelike shape as its appendages flung out. "It is a demon!" The elder declared, recovering quickly and leveling his spear. "Slay the creature! It is surely a minion of whatever caused this wound upon the world!" Two of the natives advanced cautiously, brandishing their clubs - and if they trembled, their intentions were firm and their faces stern. The young shaman backed away quickly, being closest to the creature and unarmed - but there was something strange about its form that drew his eye and made him focus. He stopped, despite the danger, and looked. Now that he was paying attention, he could see that the strange mass of earth had a vaguely humanoid shape - including a small arch just above the ground where it's otherwise solid form broke apart. Though its mass was blocky and stuck out in every direction, there were a few strange places were its body curved in a familiar way. Though it was hard to see in the darkening light, he could also swear there was a reddish tint to the creature's mass - some kind of fibrous substance? No, they were hairs - All the pieces clicked in to place then. "Wait, I do not think..." He began to call out, but was too late. Both of the advancing warriors had broken into a charge and began to bludgeon the kneeling human woman - carrying and caked in so much dirt and filth, she was not even recognizable as living. She seemed to recoil only faintly when the clubs first hit her, but with the successive blow, she moved, one of her arms coiling, reaching up to grasp the length of the club - and the woman [i]pulled[/i]. There was a faint rush of air as the man wielding it was plucked off his feet and sent hurtling through the air as though launched by some unseen wind carrying him aloft, screaming as he ascended - having let go of the club both out of shock and because of the sheer amount of force the woman had pulled on it with. Holding the club aloft in the air, the filth-covered woman paused as her other attacker continued to beat her, seemingly only driven on by the abrupt departure of their ally. The woman did not even appear to register the blows as they rained down about her head and chest. Then, with a single jerking swing, she swung the grip of the club at her attacker. A popping noise was heard as the club connected with the warrior, splintering to pieces in the woman's hand even as her assailant was tossed cleanly off their feet to land on the ground with a thud, their cotton cuirass soaked through with blood. They did not move again. The first warrior finally began to descend, down, down, into the Fissure, still shouting in surprise rather than in terror. "Strengthen your spirits, do not allow this demon to shatter your will!" The elder cried out. "Onwards! Slay the creature, we cannot suffer it to live!" He then grasped his spear in both hands, determined to fight himself as all the warriors began to shout battle-cries and charge the woman, to overwhelm her with their numbers. The younger shaman, in an uncharacteristic showing of good sense, continued to back away from the ensuing mayhem. The ensuing chaos lasted perhaps a minute and a half. When the warriors had surrounded the woman and lain hands on her to hold her still while the others clubbed her, she had shook and flailed like a bull and sent them flying, then would strike those nearest to her and inevitably kill them outright, sending fragments of bone and viscera scattering through the air. Those who had merely been flung to the ground would get back up and make another attempt, and so it continued until finally only the Elder was left, keeping the seemingly indestructible, harrowed woman at bay with his spear. "Foul creature from the earth, go back to where it is you were made! This world shall never be yours!" The elder bellowed, his voice cracking as he shouted. The woman did not seem deterred, reaching out and gripping the blade of the spear with her bare hands, now free of dirt clumps after having used them with such force. She tugged, and the elder stumbled forward and fell. In an instant she climbed atop his body and began to beat him about the head. The younger shaman simply stood, stunned, watching in shocked silence as blood was splattered all over the ground. The woman did not stop, her fists rising and falling again and again, reducing the elder's body to a grisly mess of pulp and charnel. The young shaman turned and began to run into the darkness, in the direction of his desolated village - when he turned to look over his shoulder, he saw the woman crowned by the setting sun rising and turning towards him, the elder's ceremonial spear in her hands. He didn't look back again. He did not need to see the horrid woman to hear her heavy footfall crushing the ground beneath her as she followed him. When darkness fell, he stopped to catch his breath, sure he had lost her - but from the darkness, her footsteps sounded, and he fled once more. The journey back to the village was a long one - they had set out from it at dawn and arrived at the Fissure by dusk. Each time the young man stopped to rest, he would soon hear the sound of the woman storming through brush and cracked earth - but strangely, always from a different direction, and never facing him. Almost as though she was not sure of where he was, though there was nowhere to hide in the plains, which stretched out for miles - the starlight from above illuminated the expanse fairly, and so even in the night one could see approaching figures from miles away. It was almost as though the woman were blind. Eventually, the young man decided to test the notion - he sat perfectly still on the ground as she approached, holding his breath. She swept past him, the stench of gore, death, and rotten plant matter flowing off of her as she passed. She did not notice him, but she stopped before going too far, standing still for several moments. She then turned back around and marched back, this time passing nearly within a foot behind him without noticing - and yet again, she stopped, paused for several moments, and turned. Blind. But not without perception. The man did not wait for her to eventually walk straight into him, instead springing up into a run once more. Her footfalls increased in pace. [i]'Can she hear me?'[/i] The shaman thought as he ran, his heart racing and sweat dripping from his brow - more out of fear than exhaustion. [i]'...No, she could not have heard me, sitting perfectly still and with still breath. How...?'[/i] No answer came to him as he ran. He made better time on the way back to the village, running as he had been. When the shockwaves from the quake had hit, it had destroyed what few standing shelters they had - though they had been largely nomadic, and so the loss was not so great. Those who had stayed behind had even erected a replacement for one of the yurts, facing the oasis. The shaman cried out, calling for somebody - anybody - to help. Most of the oasis' temporary residents were sleeping, with some still working on garments or with shredding gourd husks, but many people awoke while those who were already up came running. "Tien'dia, where are the elder and the others?" One of the village men asked, looking out behind the shaman into the darkness beyond. "...And who is that approaching?" Tien'dia blanched and broke into a dead run again, heading straight for the primitive yurt where those who had left for the Fissure had been permitted to leave their possessions for safe keeping. The inquiring man looked after his retreating form, puzzled, and then turned back to see the mud, dirt, and blood encrusted woman less than three feet away. He drew a startled breath, and the woman passed him without pause. The man blinked as his eyes followed her, finally fixating on the elder's staff, the haft soaked in blood but the blade clean and gleaming in the starlight. "Wait, stop!" He said, turning and walking after her. "That is the elder's spear! Why is it that you have it? What are you doing here?" In the distance, he saw Tien'dia babbling wildly to a small group of villagers who had met him at the yurt entrance. In the glow of the faint torchlight from within, he could see the looks of confusion and fear on their faces, and for a moment he stopped - which saved his life, as the tip of the elder's spear swung about to slice through the space he would have stepped into had he continued walking after the filthy woman. Surprised, he stuttered and backed up, nearly losing his balance but catching himself after a moment. "-Lostwoman, do you hear me?" Three women from the group that had been with Tien'dia had drawn near - keeping a safe distance away from the woman and the tip of her stolen weapon. She turned her mud-obscured face in the direction of the new voice. "Do not be angry - I am not going to attack you..." The three all slowly crept up to the woman, the foremost speaking soft promises and requests for her to be calm. One of them reached out to touch her shoulder, gently tugging, and the woman slowly began to move with them in the direction of the oasis itself. Another attempted to carefully extricate the spear from her hands, but simply fell over when the woman's grip proved to be far firmer than it had any natural right to be. Tien'dia watched the spectacle, relief flooding through him as the relentless, monstrous, invulnerable woman was led away. He shooed away the people crowding him, and sat against the back of the yurt, his mind going blissfully blank as he simply stared at nothing. Once he had finally gathered his mind back together, his thoughts turned to the elder with his rare, rolling laugh and his endless stories, the knowledge he had - the warriors, always rough and harsh, always encouraging others to be stronger in order to cope with hardship. Not all of them kind, or benevolent - but none of them had deserved death. The elder least of all. He would never see them again. As quietly as he could, Tien'dia began to cry and wipe at his eyes - out of sorrow, but also greatly out of frustration. [i]'What am I supposed to do about her?'[/i] He thought, turning his head down, away from those who might look. [i]'Even if she gives the spear up, or refuses to gives it up, we cannot leave so soon after coming here, and she cannot be slain...It's not fair...'[/i] With a grim certainty, Tien'dia distantly recalled the omens that he and the elder had seen, and saw them in a new light. They had been warnings to leave, to go far away from the Fissure and the rancorous demon of a woman that had crawled out from it. Then, perhaps, blood might not have been spilled upon the sacred plains. Having tasted of it, the land would undoubtedly thirst for more.