[center][h2][colour=steelblue]Mamang.[/colour][/h2]
[h3]XXIII[/h3]

[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ucGqQ-RbLWA]THERE IS STILL TIME[/url][/center]

Heavy were the fins of the whale that crossed those cold northern seas. Heavy were its lungs that had breathed of many skies. Thin had grown its wrinkled eyes. 

Mamang was old.

Long over was the age of whales now. Cows calved, bulls sang, and dancing lights ripped them apart in the night. The hound of Heaven had its fill. The sea was ever filled with them, as ever it would be as long as the cows swam south to calve, and every year the weaned grew smaller. Their kind had supped on the gifts of the Life Mother, though those gifts were small as their nature decreed, and their race were titans. Now her bounty revealed its hidden price: all things have their balance. Even the giants. 

Even Mamang.

He knew what was coming. Only one clan had defied the crushing grip of Nature so, their ancient size preserved where others of their race shrank away. They were lords of the sea, unmatched in cunning and supreme in violence. No armoured scales could resist them, nor would they ever forget the secret of immortality. When Mamang had feasted on godfish, they had bolstered him, for a time. [i]They[/i] had gorged. [i]They were gorging still.[/i]

They were the god-orcas, and their song was the wolf-whine of death.

The alliance was forty strong, and bulls were with them also. Three matriarchs led the slayers into position, holding their voices quiet as they spun their wide net around him. Mamang did not need to roll his unbroken ear around to know that he was at the center. The fever had sharpened his sight, and he saw through clear water the black and the white, the two colours together that every whale feared.

Mamang's ancient heart began to hammer as he gained speed. He had seen it all happen before. It always began this way. First they marshalled. Then, the chase.

The elder whale accelerated. His body was an arrow, his heart a furnace, his banded tail a great wing. He flew through the waters, and his gargantuan body was no impediment, an engine of muscle that propelled him with terrible speed, speed enough to swallow whole schools of squid before they could scatter, speed to throw himself up high among the birds. He could not slow. He could not tire. To tire was death.

The matriarchs purred, and the god-orcas drew nearer. Divine power had seized them. Their song chittered with bloodlust. They would [i]never[/i] give in: the Love Dance called them on, to slaughter, to glory.

The horror of death was the horror of utter helplessness. Mamang could do nothing to defend himself. When he finally tired, then the thrashing would begin, the desperate flailing sweeps of a tail that could propel him away no longer. An orca that fell in the path of that titanic wing could see its jaw crushed against its skull, or the wrist of its fin shattered in an instant. Sometimes a young bull would be maimed that way. The matriarchs never were. They led their slayers well.

Mamang's tail burned and he blasted air at the surface, breathing heavily, never slowing. His plume was the only one. The god-orcas never breathed.

After the thrashing, the drowning. Their net would close. They would be around him, on top of him. They would cover his nostrils. They would bleed him. They would shred his fins with their teeth until blue became red. They would circle in and out of the carnage as they tired, leaving the victim no respite. They would ram him as they entered the fray, until his pale-patterned skin was black with bruises. All the while, he would try to breathe.

They did not need to kill him. Once he could swim no further, they would feed.

Mamang flew on in the waters, surrounded, hunted, cornered, utterly alone.

Memories of his mother flickered unbidden in the whale's terror-soaked brain. No mother could help him now. Memories of swiftness. Memories of death. The chasm of air. The taste of poison. Zhongcheng's claw. Memories of corpse-blood fouling the ocean with its smell. Memories of the voice that had whispered at the chasm of death. Memories of other voices.

[center][i]Kn... ...t... ...ef... ...nc... ...s... ...ed.[/i][/center]

Memories flashed in his roiling brain like storm-lightning. His tail heaved. Mamang swam. He swam. He flew. He breathed. The sun burned his back. The god-orcas would never falter. 

The chase went on, and on, and on. Exhaustion crept on the whale.

[i]And yet it did not end.[/i]

Memory after memory burned in Mamang's eyes, and he did not slow. He tired and did not slow. He tired, and [i]did not slow.[/i]

Memories burned before him. Memories of blue. Memories of speed. The memories were all around him. The memories were blue. The blue was speed.

Mamang's heart began to calm. He let his tailbeats lighten, then cease altogether. He glided, faster, faster. The blue wrapped itself around him like a pod of his cows, carrying him on. He was soaked in it. It was his.

He would not die today. He was beyond the orcas- beyond what he had been before his hundred memories. Mamang was not a calf. He was the bull, the ancient, wandering bull, lord among whales. The god-orcas would scatter before him. They would fear him. They would fear him like fish- because he could hurt them like fish.

Mamang's broken ear pounded with blood. 

Memories of hurt flared within him.


[center][b][colour=9966cc]I̸̛͎̟̠̦̙̝̣͎̼͎̮͍̩͕̤̲̤̫͔̥͍̊̔̾͗̾̑̐̏̑͑̒̈́̄̂̍͗́̀̑̈́͜͝ͅ ̶̨̨̡̨̛̝̼͎̱̪̲͓̥̲̩̦̘̫̖̩̬̳͙̮̽̓̈́̅̀̅̌̎͌̉͘͜s̷̤̤̻̦͕̟̫̺̳͈̠̗̼̥̞̒͜ḧ̸̖͕̥̪̳̪̬̝̀͆̕a̴͎̝̜̬͙̲̠͎͖̬̜̮̜̓̅l̶͇͙̙̫͍͈̩̺̼̻̈́̈́̾̿̃̊͛̃̎̾̍͑͑̽͆̾͘̕͝l̸̡̨̨̧̦̬̞̺̲̭͕̬̻͍̠͌̆̀́̓͊ ̸̨̢̖̥͈̙̥̠̩̙̠̹̦̈͛̓͛̃̒̀͋̍̑̚͘̚͜͝d̴͈̫̙̥̖̱̍͆̈́̓̄̈́̀̀̾̈́̿̕̚͠ͅͅî̷̡̢̬͔͙͓̲͓̭̲̥͓̟͉̥̥̹̼̣̯̜̦͗̇̽̓̃̄͂̏̇̈́̐̍́̓̈́͒̕̚͠͝͝v̸̡̧͖̥͎̭̜̲͔͈̻͉̰̓̉̓̓͋̓̆͆̇͊̑̈́̾̓̎̾͜ͅo̸̧͂̊͋̏̅̌̋̀͂͆̒̋̈̋̾̉̈̀͒̆͋͝ŕ̷̨̫̼̫̺̤̻̩̦͎͈͇̇͂͌̉͊̌̉̂͐̓c̴̖̍̉͛̋͗̓̅̈̌̽̔̿̈́̊̄ͅę̵͇̯̖̰͆̐̓͒̽͂͂͑͝ ̶̨̦̞̣͚̬̙̺͍̘̗͎̙̅͑̍͑̽̿͊̐̆͗͒̄̿̾́͒͘̕̚͠m̵̖̫̤͐̈́̓̆̒̊͛͊̃̓̔̂̎̈́ͅy̶̡̛̰̿̀͝ ̷̢̨̟̦̜̺̤̣̮͔͉͈̜̟̣̟͎̰͇̹̩͇̯̿̅̑̎̔́̐̋̒͒͆̄̕͝͠t̶̺͔̟͈̖̝̗͔͖̣͉̖̺̮̺̠͙̫͍̰̜͒̒́͋͑͂̔̀̏̾̔ỏ̴̢̡̹̬̰̱̮̻̫͌̈̄͛͗̉̓̐̚͘ͅṳ̷̾̍͌c̴̛͚͇̱̯̟͍̬̹̺͎̪̻͓͎̩̋̀͗̈́͘̕͝ḫ̸̨̹͔̺̺̥͇̻̤̭̔̀̂̀̈́̊̄̔̋͒͠ͅ ̵̧̧̤̟͙̪̦̯͍̣̳͉̪͍̜͐̅͌̿͜͠f̸̱͚̪̥͕͋͋͋̔̓̂̉̽̋͌̏͐̽́̚̕͠͠͝r̷̛̬̙̦̹̲͍̱̜̮̤̙͓̃̑͊̂͂͊̒́̅̐̌̐̃̽̈͆͌̚̕ờ̶̦͙̬̌̅͑̑͗́̓̊͆͝͝͠m̵̡̪̹̊̌͋͒͆͐̇́̓̍̅͠ ̶̟̻͆̈͋̎t̴̢̢̡̛̫̲̬̫̙̯̻͕̠̓̄̒͐̚ḩ̸̨͈͔̙̜͕͈̜̳̮̝͕̖̗̖̼̘͙͚̻͖̻͋̈́̾̋̚̕ͅȩ̵̨̛̤̤̖̩͔͓̯͚̰̼͇̖̬͎͔̱ ̶̧̛̫͙͍͖̳͓͍̥̪͎̞͖̭͔̳̦̤̹͍͌͆͑́͐́̄̋́̈̈́̅̾̍̈̑̔̈̍́̈̓͝G̵̯͉͚̯̞̤̭̟̬̳͚͖̻̜͚̗̹̾͑̇̈́͋̀́̈́͠͠͝ǎ̵̰̘̤̥̭̝͓͉̠̋͗́͊́̐̿̈͋̈́̾̿͛͗̉̕͝ḽ̷̢̨̧̧̬̯͚͕̰̻͔̥̤̼̩̜̲̞̻̜͂̎̑̄̄́̊͐̋͊͌̀̂̉͘͝͝ͅb̸̨̧̺̯̗͈̗͖͕͕̠̔͛͗̈́͋͒̄̈́̾͂̐̾͜͜͝͠a̸̧̛̩͎̺̘̜̩̖̜̻̫͈͎̺͎̲͇̦͈̖̽̈́̌͌͆̈́́͋͆̿̕͘r̵̢̻͙̟̱͖̬̥̱̩̣̈́̒̈̌̓̒̽̒̈́̓͐̓̆̅͊̕ͅ'̷̼̠̺͍̬̿́͐͆́̂̔́̓̓̄̓̽͑̓̆̅̾̚̚̚͝ş̸͈̯͎͎̬̗̬͙͙̱͓̗͖̞̺̗̗̦͛͜͝͠ͅ ̸͙̟́̑͑̄̍͌̌̂̊͆̋̀̉̉̚͝ṣ̷̛̙̗͔͚͓̑́̉̎̔̔̈́͆͌͋̐̎͝͝ͅų̸̨̥̞̪̯̪̯̖͎̙̣̬̬͓͓̰̪͚̹͈͒͑͌͑̿̂̌̉̏͝͝ŗ̸͔̬̬͎̱͍̳͎̜̙̙̭̈́͗͗̂̇́̄͌̍̉̅͑́̂f̸̡̨̗̤̙̀̋̉̏͐̾̽̋͂̎̈́͛̂͒̍̀͑̏̊̕̚̚͝ͅä̵̖̻̱̦̲̙͎͎̖̙̙̩̭̯̟́̐c̴̱͍̠̠̿̊̏͊̚̕͜ͅę̶͓͙̼͕͕̜̮̠͂͋͝͠.̸̡̨͎̯̻͓̜͎̥̜͔̏̓͗́̐̎̒͒̑[/colour][/b][/center]


Blue memories.

Mamang breathed, casting into the air a high spout of steam. He allowed himself to slow. The god-orcas would never cease to hunt him, not while he still wore the band that was his shackle. He let them approach. He let his head sink below the surface. He raised his tail above the glittering blue. 

He swung it down.

[b]C r a c k.[/b]

[center][h3]XXIV[/h3][/center]

Mamang left the god-orcas with neither haste nor patience. Rolling and whining in the waters, eyes bloodied, they called to one another with seized and deafened voices. He did not stop to listen. 

They may as well have been fish to him.

It was the season for whales to travel north. Mamang journeyed south. His song was sparing. He could hear it now, in that song: the ancient ocean he called towards him with melody, its soul wrapped around him, its unrelenting, endless [i]blue.[/i] He had heard it before. He had always heard it. It had ever been a part of him, growing stronger and stronger. The Laektear-Mother had shown him what he had always known. Now, he understood.

Others could not hear it. He was not like them. He was barely even a whale.

Continents sailed past him. The whole world was nothing but a bay. He knew every rock. Mamang travelled south, and the journey of months was nothing to him. The stench of the curse grew closer and closer. 

Mamang inclined himself towards it, and he moaned his song of death. Against that song, there was no equal. It was as if the curse made no noise at all.

He left that thing in pieces.

[center][h3]XXV[/h3][/center]

At the end of his journey, Mamang finally slowed. The water was blue around him. It had other colours, too. Green. Black. White. Colours for which there were no name.

The ocean burned. It shone, it cracked. Mamang watched it churn in restless chaos. He could hear them, now: whales, giant whales, like the lonesome giants that had once crossed the north. Or perhaps only their ghosts. The echoes of their song.

Whatever they were now, they were whales no longer. Somehow they had followed the godfish here when they had first spawned, and were feeding on them still, as godfish fed on the mana. The colours had soaked into them, and their undying voices were laced with light. They were nowhere to be found.

He could not stay here. He was not like them. He had only one colour- the natural colour, the ocean song, the blue. Perhaps the laektear-mother had that colour too. In time, the god-orcas would claim it as well, and then there would be no escape from the curse of the Band.

For a while Mamang drifted, feeling colour fade to colour fade to colour on his skin.

After all, he was only a whale.

[hr]
[hider=Beginning of the end]
More Galbar ocean ecology. The giantland whales, finally at their population limit and faced with predation and competition, begin to decline to natural whale sizes, leaving Mamang a relic of the primordial days.

We can presume this happens to most orcas as well. However, some pods of orcas have learned the effects of consuming godfish. They're the only animal in the sea smart enough to understand and teach this knowledge, and lethal enough to consistently hunt them. This gives rise to the god-orcas: an ocean-crossing subspecies of immortal, armoured orcas who never need to breathe, and never lost their enormous size.

Mamang is cornered by these god-orcas, whipped into a frenzy of bloodlust by the Band of the Love Dance. Mamang, however, is now so ancient and storied that he's sitting on a mountain of blue mana, which memories of divine voices help him unlock. There's a chase scene.

Mamang travels south, feeling weird. He destroys CoolMachine #1 pretty much effortlessly and finally visits the far edge of the shade of the Tree of Harmony.

The sounds he heard before, it turns out, are in fact blue whales- or were at some point. Prolonged contact with the endless storm has transformed them into some kind of eldritch mana-ghost or echo. The presence of godfish feeding on the mana storm as best they can also seems to play a role in whatever the fuck they are or were.

Mamang leaves. It's established that, eventually, the immortal god-orcas will also begin to accumulate blue mana, and Mamang will no longer be able to escape them. He is living on borrowed time.

1,404 whale points conjured with magic.

[b]Total whale points: 19,818[/b]
[/hider]