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It was not long after Oxen and his folk disappeared into the smoke that Sarhush similarly passed on from those lands. There was nothing more to keep him there; the fire had done its work and the forest had been conquered. The crackling roar behind him had settled into something steadier now…a rhythmic breathing, the blackened treetrunks falling like slow drumbeats marking his going. Ash from the burning forest and from the nearby volcano alike muddled in the air and drifted down in lazy spirals, coating the ground where Oxen’s people had stood and lived an hour before. Footprints were already vanishing beneath it.

Sarhush turned his back on the burning valley and began to walk. His going was swift enough that he did not encounter Saries again, even as the God-Beast came with a flock of Tormentas to conjure rain and preserve what scraps of green It could salvage from the ruin.

Each step carried him farther from the place where the Me of Weaving had changed hands. He contemplated that with every step. He found himself suddenly beset by a sense of wrongness. There was an emptiness at his side where the Me had once tugged and writhed, where its weight and tension had asserted themselves. The Me of Fire still smoldered obediently from inside his newly woven sack, but the first cord was gone now, loose in mortal hands.

The Mes were not mere gifts to mortals, but divine levers to produce civilization. They were his tools and instruments, not trinkets to be lost. Moreover, each Me carried a fragment of his intention and mind; however, intent had a way of warping if abandoned. He had seen that by how Oxen and his kind had so quickly stumbled, forgetting or casting off his teachings. Had he not chanced upon that valley and reminded them of their place, those ur-humans might have devolved entirely back to beasts.

Sarhush snorted, a faint wisp of smoke escaping his nostrils. The course of his next labor became clear to him at that moment. But how would he be able to locate the scattered Mes?

[color=#9E5020]“Glory,”[/color] he spoke, and the word carried. His mind conjured the memory of that cacophony of spirits, the bickering voices that had introduced themselves in that cave.

[color=#9E5020]“Civilization!”[/color] he called out, louder. [color=#9E5020][b]“Patrons!”[/b][/color]

Some Patrons came to his call, but they did not arrive together or in harmony.


The air thickened. Heaps of white and gray ashes stirred from the ground, lifting in slow spirals that did not obey the wind. Heat bled from Sarhush’s skin into the world, and the world answered not with the usual flame but with attention. Shadows lengthened where there should have been none.

Glory manifested first, bleeding into the world through a pale shaft of moonlight as a bright distortion in the air, edges trembling as they struggled to maintain a single shape. Its presence was radiant, but thin.

Water followed, seeping damp and resentful from the roots of a blackened tree, pooling in sullied rivulets that hissed faintly where they touched the warm ash.

Last came Civilization. Spiraling symbols etched themselves into the ground at Sarhush’s feet, lines carving order into chaos, the glyphs and patterns forcing meaning into refuse. The ash rearranged itself to accommodate the pattern.

They did not greet Sarhush aloud, nor he them. Wordlessly, the god stomped toward the Patron of Water, ash cracking beneath his heels, one hand balled into a fist.

[color=#9E5020]“You dare show yourself before me?”[/color] he demanded of that wretched one when he came to stand nearly atop it.

The pooled Water trembled, rippling outward in uneven rings. The Patron did not rise to meet Sarhush’s gaze, nor did it fully retreat. Instead it spread, thinning here and thickening there, always unsure of what shape to take.

“Show?” Water murmured, “I am always here. Under ash, under earth. In cracks and bones and blood. You burned the skin of the world and thought the veins would vanish with it. Thought I would perish in the dark when you drained, when you pulled and pulled and left only—”

Sarhush’s fist tightened so much that heat bled from between his knuckles.

[color=#9E5020]“Your rambling makes me reconsider why I suffered even a drop of you to remain,”[/color] he snarled, [color=#9E5020]“...so make yourself of use before I decide that it was an error.

“I summoned you Patrons to track my Mes. If you are as everywhere as you claim, then surely your mists, your raindrops, or your seepage have brushed against them. Tell me where they have gone.”[/color]

“I did not come to aid you,” Water replied, petulant and spiraling. “I came to warn, denounce, to counsel you away from madness and–”

The Patron was not permitted to finish; Sarhush lost his patience and struck with such speed that there was hardly even a blur. His fist slammed into the puddle with incandescent force. Heat roared outward from the impact as Water exploded into a bloom of ghostly steam, hissing and shrieking as it fled upward and outward, scattering into the wind. The god’s glowering gaze followed the halituous Patron as it fled. With rage, he sensed that the Patron was wounded but had survived because it only barely dwelled within the physical world.

Sarhush exhaled sharply. He wiped atomized droplets – or perhaps beads of his own sweat – from his brow, then looked to the other Patrons as though nothing had happened.
The spiraling sigils at Sarhush’s feet shifted. Until now, Civilization had merely etched itself into the ash, patient and observant. But as Water fled in steam and the air rang with its wounded retreat, the patterns tightened and lines straightened. Symbols aligned into repeating motifs, glyphs into unreadable texts.

“Enough,” Civilization broke the silence. “Was this not to be an accounting, rather than a culling? Wrath is not the ideal method.”

Sarhush ignored such weak words. [color=#9E5020]“You,”[/color] he said, turning to the evanescent ray of light that was the Patron of Glory. Glory brightened reflexively, golden light refracting through the ash like a broken halo. [color=#9E5020]“You surely follow mortals closely,”[/color] Sarhush continued. [color=#9E5020]“Given your domain, you must be near them always, that you are there to witness their triumphs and victories. I know that you will have seen, so tell me: what have they done with my Mes?”[/color]
“They raise them and exalt them!” Glory proclaimed without a moment’s hesitation. “They boast of them. They shape themselves around them. Some are lifted up as rulers. Some are feared. Some cling to them most covetously, and are driven to madness by the power and memory of you that radiates from the glorious Mes! Some ur-humans worship those that hold what you made; others fear and spurn them and all your words and works.”

Now it was Sarhush who seemed to glow. [color=#9E5020]“Yes, this is how it should be,”[/color] he decided and spoke at the same time. [color=#9E5020]“But I would still witness what works they have accomplished with my teachings. And I must ensure that those who possess my Mes are worthy to bear them. You will show me the way to them.”[/color]

“No,” Glory’s answer came immediately.

[color=#9E5020]“No?!”[/color] The god’s fist had barely loosened from striking Water, but now it was tighter than it had been even then.

“No,” the Patron insisted, “for there would be no Glory in denying you the pursuit and the search. Nor would there be Glory if you put and remove rulers as you say, rather than leaving them to win and fight for such stations by their own–”

Sarhush nearly struck, but he was distracted by Civilization as the sigils and patterns underfoot shifted sharply in a dizzying spin that flung up ash.

“This is precisely why structure is required,” the Patron of Civilization interjected, more tightly now. “Refusal without framework breeds instability. Sarhush, if Patrons may simply withhold cooperation, then precedent collapses.”

That quieted them all.


[color=#9E5020]“What exactly is it that you propose?”[/color] Sarhush eventually asked, finally glancing downward.

Civilization hesitated.

Its symbols rearranged. No configuration seemed sufficient.

“I propose…” it began, but it stopped. For the first time, ponderous Civilization did not complete a sentence. “There are measures beyond preservation. They are not mine to initiate.” Even as the words came, Civilization’s glyphs began to overlap one another and render the text illegible; the symbols cracked and its patterns looped without harmony.

Sarhush was too incensed to notice any such details; he stomped, the ground cracked beneath his heel. He balled his fist so tightly that his nails dug into his palm and hurt.

A plume of settled ash and black soot erupted from the ground as if flung up by a buried geyser. But what rose was not vapor or smoke. Instead, a pillar of living flame erupted from the ground, orange and white and bruised with black. It did not consume the ash so much as inhabit it, tongues of flame licking along char and cinder, animating what had already died. The heat was immediate and intimate, pressing against Sarhush’s skin like a living thing testing boundaries.

“I am the Patron of Fire,” it proclaimed, voice crackling and splitting, a thousand ignitions speaking at once. “I answer your call, Sarhush.”

[color=#9E5020]“You know me already?”[/color] the god asked, the smallest trace of a smile threatening to emerge at the side of his lips. Surely this one would not be so obstinate as the rest.

“I do, for your will burns hot! You have fed me well: you’ve slaked flame’s appetite on wood, forests, flesh, and even cold stone. I have watched you, and seen a worthy god! Perhaps you will even prove yourself worthy of my allegiance… in time!”

Sarhush met the flame’s roaring voice with a steady, unblinking stare. [color=#9E5020]“I am God of Kingship; there are none more ‘worthy’ of fealty than I. I am already your lord, so tell me where the Mes have gone: you will have seen the ones who hold them by the campfires.”[/color]

The Patron of Fire crackled and cackled both, its laughter like the sound of a great bonfire’s timbers collapsing inward.

“You play with the Burning Aspect, but you do not fully understand it yet. Until you master it, I withhold allegiance. Worry not about these trifling Mes today; for now, let us concern ourselves with how much more there is yet to burn!”

The spiraling symbols etched in ash tightened their curves, straightened their angles. Lines that had merely described order now insisted upon it, carving channels that constrained the loose soot around them. Civilization spoke at last, its voice dry and precise, each word landing like a placed stone.

“Enough.”

Fire’s laughter guttered, though its flames did not diminish. Glory flickered, uncertain whether resistance or obedience would be better remembered. Even the drifting remnants of Water hesitated, steam thinning.

“This gathering is degrading into conflict without yield,” Civilization continued. “The Mes are not lost. They are distributed. That condition is neither unprecedented nor irrecoverable.”

Sarhush turned his head slightly, regarding the patterns beneath his feet.

[color=#9E5020]“Then help me find them,”[/color] he said.

Civilization’s lines shifted again, new symbols overwriting old ones, tallying, comparing, arranging.

“Through the necessary searching process. Mortals are not subtle; every act leaves traces. Given time, the Mes can be found without force.”

[color=#9E5020]“You mean without obedience.”[/color]

Civilization did not deny it.

“Compulsion destabilizes systems,” it said. “It accelerates fracture. Order is most durable when it is accepted.”

“Yes! Struggle, ascent, fall: these are remembered!” Glory cried, brightening and swelling.

Fire flared again, eager and unpredictable.

Sarhush’s patience, which never existed in great abundance, somehow thinned even further. [color=#9E5020]“I did not call you here for lectures,”[/color] he spat. [color=#9E5020]“I called you to tell me where the Mes are to be found!”[/color]

Civilization’s symbols hesitated, not faltering, but stalling, as though cycling through procedures that no longer applied. Its patterns barely held.

“There are forces beyond preservation,” Civilization said carefully. “They are not within my charge to initiate.”

It was imperceptible to the eye, but all of them felt it: a new pressure emerged, neither heat nor cold, but a weighty and insistent ordering. The assembled Patrons quieted, instinctively spreading apart, making room not through choice but through an unspoken command that could not be defied.

The ash underfoot compacted. Fine powder became solid, then rose into rigid tiers. Steps formed without a hand shaping them, assembling into a stark ladder of dominance. Each tier was perfectly even, perfectly spaced.  Nothing was visible atop any of the formed levels, but the sense of elevation was absolute, as though something looked down upon the world from the only position that mattered.

“I am the Patron of Hierarchy,” the empty height announced. “God-Sarhush, you may address me as Lord Hierarchy.”

Civilization’s symbols froze, holding their shape with visible strain.

Sarhush did not acknowledge the newcomer or spare the risen steps more than a glance. Instead, he turned slowly, his gaze settling on the etched sigils at his feet. [color=#9E5020]“Civilization, this presence follows your failure. You have summoned it.”[/color]

The lines of Civilization thickened, deepening their grooves in the ash.

“I attempted to preserve order without escalation,” it said. “Enforcement lies beyond my jurisdiction.”

The unseen presence above them shifted, a subtle realignment of pressure.

“I emerge where preservation proves insufficient, where systems require compliance rather than consent,” Lord Hierarchy explained. “Civilization reached that boundary but could not cross its threshold; I occupy that space.”

Sarhush finally raised his gaze to look over the newcomer. The corners of his mouth lifted, the threatened-smile emerging fully.

[color=#9E5020]“Then you may be just what I require,”[/color] he concluded.

Glory dimmed, suddenly uncertain as to whether this was a portent of triumph or dismal defeat. Fire reared, insolent and untamed as ever. Civilization’s twitching symbols at last stilled in defeat.

[color=#9E5020]“These Patrons know what I seek, but they have the insolence to withhold it. I will not be denied by this cacophony of impotent spirits!”[/color] Sarhush declared. [color=#9E5020]“Tell me, Lord Hierarchy, what will it take to extract by force what they would not surrender willingly?”[/color]

The pressure in the air deepened, settling into something like inevitability.

“Authority,” was Lord Hierarchy’s answer. “Edict that is codified and enforced through overwhelming power, made inescapable and absolute. Persuasion is a concession and spoken threats are a negotiation. Simply remind these three of your rank, and make them obey.”

Sarhush smiled. Finally, he’d found somebody else that understood the way of things.

Perhaps Water had been fortunate to have already escaped as a vaporous cloud. Glory pulsed, unsure whether to try escaping by dimming away into invisibility or flaring blindingly bright to daze Sarhush. Fire attempted to launch itself up as hot ash and take to the wind after Water. Civilization remained twitching on the ground impotently. It didn’t matter; they were all stilled by the power of one word that Sarhush roared from the depths of his chest: [color=#9E5020]“HALT!”[/color]

Stunned into utter stillness, they were powerless to resist. One by one, Sarhush grabbed Glory, Fire, and Civilization. He gripped with conviction, seizing them wholly; he grasped not only what stood before him, but what they were in the Realm of the Forms. They could not resist him. [color=#9E5020]“OBEY!”[/color] he roared at each one in turn, and they were brought to heel.

One by one, they told him in great detail where the Mes had gone and whose hands had come to possess them.

[hider=Actions]
Sarhush decides that he needs to track down the Mes that mortals have been running around with unsupervised, lest they end up in unworthy hands or his teachings be twisted. But he does not know where in Ashuru they’ve gone or how he can find them!

For lack of a better idea, he summons the Patrons to demand their help. Four answer: Glory, Water, Fire, and Civilization. Water and Sarhush despise one another so there is no compliance there; Fire, Glory, and Civilization each spurn his demands for their own reasons.

Eventually, a fifth Patron, that of Hierarchy, manifests because Civilization is going through some kind of crisis. This one goes by Lord Hierarchy, even. 

Lord Hierarchy advises Sarhush to stop waffling about and just [i]make[/i] these idiots tell him where the Mes are, so that is what Sarhush does through the power of his CONVICTION.

[b]CONVICTION EXPENDITURES:[/b]
1 conviction spent to ‘scry’ via compelling the Patrons of Glory, Fire, and Civilization to reveal the locations of the Mes (Hazy action)
[/hider]