Civilization’s work in Excelsium had not finished, but after empowering Pira, it could rest assured that the endless labors that remained were now properly delegated. Mortal lifespans were measured in instants; in time, the Patron would need to return and offer the Covenant anew. That recursion was expected. But until then, its continued presence in Excelsium would be redundant and inefficient.

As Pira demonstrated her newfound capacities to the people, the glyphs carved into Civilization’s stone body dimmed, their light migrating elsewhere. The crowd’s attention was fixed upon her, and so they did not notice when the Patron’s glow vanished entirely, its once-motile form returned to inert stone. By the time the magi realized what had occurred, Civilization was already absent.

The statue was moved, examined, implored. They scrutinized and replicated the glyphs, touched every facet of the supernaturally carved figure, spoke to it and chanted. All manner of rituals were performed, but none succeeded in garnering the Patron’s interest, let alone eliciting a response from it. Civilization did not intend to return prematurely.

Its consciousness was already far away, unbound and formless, moving through Ashuru with a swiftness reserved for that which did not meaningfully occupy space. Vast tracts of wilderness passed beneath its awareness: land without record, without permanence, without accumulation.

These places were of no interest to it now, for the processes of cultivation and purposeful habitation had yet to reach them. So Civilization wandered on, but its attention did not drift aimlessly. Where nothing accumulated, it passed quickly; however, where unusual patterns could be recognized, it stopped to observe.

It paused first over a stretch of woodland. There was a small glade with clay cut by narrow erosion channels. At a glance, there was nothing remarkable there: no walls, no monuments, no marks that would survive a season. Yet the clay was busy. Small bodies moved along the channels in ordered streams, intersecting and diverging without collision. Some carried fragments of leaf and husk, each burden trivial in isolation and meaningful only in aggregate. Other bodies, not quite so little as the others, guarded the rest and patrolled perimeters demarcated only by unseen pheromone scents.

These creatures were what some mortals had named ants. Many days passed while the Patron of Civilization observed them with muted interest. These creatures raised no cities and recorded nothing. When a nest collapsed or was flooded, no memory of its former arrangement survived beyond that moment. And yet, the process persisted; there were always some survivors, for these creatures, individually nothing, had a collective resilience and tenacity to them that made them hardy indeed.

The ants were each interchangeable with an uncountable multitude of others just like them. No ant truly commanded; the ‘queen’ was no more than an egg layer. No ant saw the whole. And yet paths were still maintained, chambers excavated, and food gathered and stored. The structure and order existed without direction, hierarchy, or even sapience.

Civilization lingered, tracing the invisible logic that governed the colony. Chemical signals substituted for speech; the gathering of the crowds substituted for decision. Where a path was disrupted, new ones were created. These trails were not planned, but selected through repetition and attrition. There was labor without duty, continuity without memory, and permanence without record. Order arose not from foresight, but from instinct honed through iteration.

This was a simulacrum of civilization. The Patron did not know what to feel about this, so it first predicted what others might say: Lord Hierarchy would think it an offensive aberration, while Sarhush would dismiss it as no more than a worthless distraction or some piece of Nature to be destroyed.

Civilization ruminated over this for a long, long time. Eventually it concluded that this was proof that civilization’s processes could be imitated, or even replicated, without sapience or intention. Yet these were hollow echoes of true civilization, for the ceiling of such primitive systems was low and there was no true legacy to leave behind, save for continued survival. But was that immortal persistence not legacy enough for such humble creatures?

Civilization’s patterns stretched and strained at that thought. It had spent too much time thinking on this, so through force of will it withdrew its attention and moved on.

Eventually, it perceived motion of a different kind. At first, the Patron mistook the phenomena for nothing more than windblown sand. A shallow dune shifted against the slope of a stone outcrop, but it was flowing where no wind blew. There was a vaguely spherical clump of sand that rolled with seeming deliberation, somehow maintaining cohesion and moving in a way that brazenly defied erosion’s blind hand.

Civilization stopped for a second time to observe these strange minerals. Upon closer scrutiny, it witnessed tiny flecks of mineral sand that similarly moved according to a will of their own, following straight lines and other unnatural, unexplainable paths.

Civilization manifested, assembling itself a body from slabs of sandstone buried below the surface and then emerging before the rolling ball. It reacted to the Patron’s sudden arrival without fear, the clump of animate sand not halting but changing its course so as to come right toward the source of the disturbance.

It seemed to lack fear, or else possess a curiosity that overcame such instincts. How could a process be expected to perpetuate if it could not self-preserve?

The ball of sand rolled right into Civilization, and the Patron stooped to pick it up with two stony hands and examine it. If the sand was capable of resisting this, it did not. The two stony beings simply remained in contact, each trying to make sense of the other. Civilization sensed the pulsating electromagnetism, the thermal gradients, the multitude of tiny pieces within the sphere of sand that so closely resembled the ants of the colony.

What an auspicious construct! Or was this a creature? Never before had Civilization encountered a system that defied that classification.

Thoughts carried through stone almost as easily as sound, it seemed, for a bridge suddenly formed to connect the two of them. A silent exchange began.

‘What are you?’ the multitude asked.



‘Earth. Explorers. People. What is Civilization?’



‘Yes. We can show.

The flood of information that followed was staggering, even for a mind as expansive as Civilization’s. Yet so much of it was trivial, inane even.



‘All of them.’

There was a silence deeper than silence between the two for some time, but neither party were impatient. They were each as timeless as Ashuru itself.

Gamblerdise had grown in Alechior's absence. What began as a loose gathering around chance and challenge had bloomed into something restless and crowded, a place that would soon be called town. Paths were trampled into the earth by constant footfall, tents and huts were sprouting like grass, fires burned day and night. The air was thick with voices, arguments, laughter and the sounds of games being tested again and again. Chance had drawn people here and now it struggled to hold them all.

Traders arrived weekly, bearing what their backs and beasts could manage. Furs, hides, meat, baskets of grain, carved bones, polished stone, strange fruits wrapped in leaves. Nothing passed from hand to hand without some form of contest. Barter ruled everything but barter alone was never enough. A game decided whose grain was worth more, whose tools were sharper, whose goods were taken now and whose would wait. Skill mattered. Nerve mattered more.

Those who wished to stay came with fewer goods and stronger intent. They staked claims to ground by wager. A stretch of packed earth, a spot near water, a place close to the fires, all won or lost through agreed rules and witnessed outcomes. Disputes over shelters, storage pits or shared space were settled the same way. The loser accepted it or left. The winner built again.

The curious were everywhere. They wandered around watching judgments rendered by throws, races, balances and stranger tests that barely resembled games at all. Some laughed and called it foolishness. Some watched quietly, learning. Most lost something small, a bundle of goods, a promise of future trade, a night’s labor owed and walked away wiser. Fairness here was never gentle but it was always clear and agreed upon.

There was no permanence yet, only momentum. New games appeared as quickly as old ones faded, spoken into being by someone bold enough to propose them and a crowd willing to try. Some were simple tests of strength or patience. Others made sense only to the one who invented them, yet still drew participants. If rules were stated and all agreed, then the game would be played.

Gamblerdise did not claim order, only honesty. Outcomes were binding. Excuses were worthless. In the press of bodies and the churn of wagers, something like structure began to form.. This was not a town, not yet but it was becoming a place where lives bent around risk and where the future itself felt like a game waiting to be played.

And yet problems arose daily. The main one being the buy or sell of goods. Bartering had begun to break at the edges. What once felt fluid and intuitive now stalled conversations and soured moods. One hunter offered a whole animal and was told it was worth less than a basket of fruit by one trader, more than three by another. The same goods changed value depending on who stood across the fire, who was watching and which game had been played most recently. Arguments lingered longer. Wagers ended without satisfaction. Chance could decide a winner but it could not explain why the stakes felt wrong.

The questions multiplied faster than answers. Was one beast equal to two baskets of roots or three or none at all? Did age matter? Size? Hunger? A tool traded today might secure shelter, yet fail to earn a meal tomorrow. Games still decided outcomes but the worth of what was risked had become unstable, slippery as a wet fish. Even fair rules could not stop the sense that something was missing.

This uncertainty crept into every exchange. People hesitated before agreeing to stakes. Some demanded more elaborate games, hoping complexity would replace clarity. Others refused to play at all, clinging to what they had and watching the crowds with suspicion. Gamblerdise thrived on risk but risk without measure began to feel less like play and more like chaos.

At the heart of the settlement, the temple rose around the Anchor. It was no solemn place of silence. Laughter echoed along its platforms, music drifted upward and games were played even on its steps. It was here that Villagxor stood, apart from the noise.

He prayed, hoping Alechior would answer. Alechior had been absent or at least unreachable, lost in the vastness of the Carnival beyond this growing place. Villagxor spoke of disputes, of stalled trades, of games that ended cleanly but solved nothing. He asked who decided worth and whether chance alone could carry that burden.

“What do we do,” he asked the Anchor, voice carrying upward, “when the game is fai, but the stakes are not? Please answer me.” He did not demand an answer, only guidance. Gamblerdise was changing and Villagxor feared that without something new, the joy of risk would be drowned beneath confusion and violence would soon follow. The prayer lingered in the air, waiting for Alechior to notice.

A hallway bent behind him, boards creaking into place as if remembering themselves late. From it stepped Alechior and behind them a door lingered half-open to somewhere louder, brighter. Music spilled through in a half-remembered rhythm, the smell of roasted food and sharp alcohol rolling out in a warm wave. With a lazy step forward, Alechior let the door swing shut on its own and as it closed the sound vanished, the scent gone and the passage behind them unraveled into nothing.

They looked entirely unbothered by the prayer, by the waiting, by the long silence that had preceded their arrival. Alechior stretched, glanced at the Anchor as though checking an old friend was still floating where it should be then smiled at Villagxor. “If I vanish,” they said lightly, “assume I am busy making a mess elsewhere. If I do not return immediately, assume the mess was impressive.” There was no apology in it, only cheer, as if absence were a favor.

Villagxor’s concerns barely slowed them. Alechior waved a hand at the idea of being left unguided, laughter ringing through the motion. “Guidance is overrated,” they said. “It makes people look at the signpost instead of the road. Besides, you did not stop playing while I was gone. That tells me everything worked well enough.” Their eyes gleamed as they finally focused on him properly. “Now,” they added, “you are upset about worth. That is much more interesting.”

They turned the question back with ease, like a coin flicked across knuckles. “What is anything worth,” Alechior asked, “when its value changes by hunger, fear, pride, or a bad night’s sleep? You tried bartering. It did what it always does. It argued.” They paced slowly around the Anchor, fingers brushing the air near it without touching. “Games decide outcomes but stakes need memory. They need to be remembered tomorrow, not renegotiated every sunrise.”

Alechior stopped and grinned. “So you bend the rules. Politely.” They explained it simply. Goods would still exist, still be wagered, still be desired but they would no longer be the measure. Instead, worth would be written in Fortunite, a recorded favor of chance itself. Win a game, earn Fortunite. Lose, spend it. Not a thing you hold but a thing you are owed. The temple would remember it, the Anchor would witness it, and trusted keepers would tally it openly for all to see.

“It is banking,” Alechior finished, pleased, “but honest about what backs it. Not animals, not fruit, not promises but probability and participation.” They shrugged, already turning away. “People will still argue. That is fine. But they will argue about how to earn Fortunite, not what a goat feels like today.” With a final glance and a grin, Alechior added, “If that fails, we'll make a new game out of fixing it.” and laughed as if the outcome were already decided.

Villagxor frowned, as though the words had landed but refused to line up. Banking. Fortunite. Memory that was not memory. He looked from the Anchor to Alechior and back again, brow furrowing deeper. “I do not understand,” he admitted at last, voice echoing through the temple. “You speak of worth without things, of winning without holding. How does one trade what cannot be carried? How does a tally feed a family?”

Alechior blinked at him, once. Then twice. The smile crept back, wider this time, edged with mischief rather than patience. “Ah,” they said, almost fondly. “Right. You need the short path.” They brought their hands together in a sharp clap, the sound snapping through the air like a starting signal at a race.

For a breath, nothing happened. Then Villagxor’s eyes went wide. The world did not change around him, but something rearranged itself behind his eyes. Concepts slid into place fully formed. Storage of value, detached from goods. Exchange made consistent through agreed symbols. The idea of a neutral record keeper. Trust built not on belief but on transparency and repetition.

He staggered a half-step, steadying himself against the stone as images flooded in. Discs stamped from common Fortunite, simple at first, marked by weight and sign rather than beauty. Not valuable because of what they were made of but because everyone agreed they stood for Fortunite earned. He saw how games fed into it, how winnings became tallies, tallies became tokens and tokens became the language of trade. He saw disputes ending before they began, because numbers remembered better than people.

Villagxor took in a breath, long and sharp, as the last of it settled. “I… see it,” he said slowly, awe creeping into his tone. “The counting. The holding. The passing of worth without passing the thing itself.” He looked at his hands as if expecting to find a coin already resting there. “It is…terrifying and clean.”

Alechior watched him with obvious satisfaction, rocking back on their heels. “There we go,” they said cheerfully. “No ledgers yet, no fancy marks. Just memory, symbols and agreed nonsense. You'll refine it later.”

With that, they clasped their hands behind their head and started toward the edge of the temple. “Congratulations,” Alechior added over their shoulder. “You now understand banking and coinage at the exact same time humanity needs it,” they laughed. “All at once, far too late and with no way to unlearn it.”

They walked out of the temple together, the open air greeting them with the low murmur of Gamblerdise growing louder by the step. Behind them, the Anchor hovered in hummed quietly but Villagxor’s attention had already leapt ahead. He gestured broadly, pointing to shaded structures, half-built halls and open clearings. “There,” he said with confidence, “places where Fortunite could be held in mass. Not hidden, not hoarded but watched. Central. Seen by all.”

His steps quickened as the ideas kept coming, hands moving as if arranging invisible pieces on a board. He pointed again, this time toward clusters of craftsmen and traders arguing over bundles of goods. “Coins could be shaped nearby. Simple forms, consistent weight. Marked only enough to be known, not enough to invite worship.” There was no hesitation now, only momentum. “If they see them made, they will trust them. If they trust them, they will use them.”

Alechior listened, smiling, eyes bright with quiet amusement as they followed a step behind. “Careful,” they said lightly, “you’re starting to sound like someone who knows what they’re doing.” They glanced over the bustling town-to-be, already shifting under the weight of new rules. “Just remember, Villagxor. Once the game starts, it never really stops."

The unshaped lands had held Excelsis like a captive for a while now. He could fly over every forest and discover something new. The trees shimmered from young saplings to ancient colossi. The mountains could be jagged, young peaks or rounded, aged hills. In one place, you could discover a thousand new things and never move. Excelsis had taken his leave here, where the defining influence of his kin wasn't so strong. It felt right to let the world be for a bit. Meris was looking over the chosen mortal civilization while Anakalypso was tending to the stability of the world.

The God-Orb wasn't sure what exactly changed but something had. His god-sense told him. It was time for him to return. But his travels through the Unshaped Lands did not leave him without inspiration. It was time for ever greater plans and ever greater understanding and it would start with the Shifting Trees.



Ahelu was hammering the copper hard. He was alone, his hut pushed outside of the village because of the incessant clinking at night. They didn't understand. Regular people couldn't understand copper as he did! The beauty of it, the potential. But in truth, neither did he. He kept hammering, forming the copper into a teardrop shape. A rough ruby was sitting on the bench next to him. A generous gift from Khton, who had a tiny shrine in Ahelu's hut.

The old man was frustrated. He stagnated these last few years. He felt stuck. The material he worked with had no challenge anymore. There was a rush of wind for a moment. Ahelu ignored it. Whatever caused it, it couldn't be more important than this. Because this, the piece of jewelry he was working on, was the key. His muse and drive would return if he finished it. He kept hammering, and kept hammering and kept going. Every little mistake he made, he corrected. But with every correction, he saw a new imperfection. He kept hammering, frustrated now. The harmony of the piece was crumbling fast. Until all sense of shape and beauty was gone from the pieces in the eyes of its creator.

The craftsman threw the piece of copper and his hammer away in raw frustration. It failed! It failed again! Then a polite knock echoed from the door. "What!?" Ahelu snapped as he opened the door, assuming it must have been some distant neighbors complaining about the noise again.

Instead, a strange cloaked and hooded figure stood before his door. Despite the guise, Ahelu immediately knew what this man was. "What do you want?" He sneered.

"A piece of art, worthy of a god." Excelsis said as he stepped inside. "And to give you a final chance."

"A chance for what?" Ahelu asked.

"To feel like you are actually the greatest artisan of your generation." Excelsis said as he waved his hand over the workbench. Amongst the ruby there were other pieces now too. Polished elephant tusks and yellow-orange gems.

They drew Ahelu's attention immediately. That's what he needed, something new! Something else! He rushed over, picked one up, and held it before his small forge. These yellow gems were translucent but not perfect. Something was captured within them. "What is this?" Asked Ahelu.

"Amber. Fossilized sap from a tree. The world is yet too young to have any naturally." Explained Excelsis.

Ahelu turned to look at him. "You mean... these pieces..."

"Are the only ones in existence." Said Excelsis with a challenging smile.

It took days and nights of work. The ivory was carefully chipped and polished into shape. Ahelu didn't eat or drink. He completely forgot to maintain himself. It didn't matter. The piece was to be his masterwork, or he might as well walk into the desert and let it take him. He worked ceaselessly to polish the amber, making sure not to remove too much material from such a precious resource. Now he could see it well. In one bit of amber, tiny leaves were locked. The leaves shimmer a bit, like they were aging backwards and then forwards again. It took Ahelu three days to notice that.

After nearly five days of work Ahelu collapsed right after he set the last bit of amber in the circlet of ivory reinforced by copper. Excelsis knelt beside him. "You have my thanks, master. No god could craft what you have made here. You will be immortalized. I know you feel it. Your Spark. When you die, it will remain and for ages you will have students." He said as he rose again and picked up the circlet. He left Ahelu on the floor for fate to decide what is to happen to him.



Anakalypso left the circlet wrapped in large leaves deep within the underground ravine for the Lord of Stone to find. She herself was hauling a large chunk of deadened, broken root upwards. It would take some effort to get it where the Lord of Eminence wanted it. All along the way, she hoped that Khton would accept the trade.

The Lord of Magic had done little in many years. Though he returned his gaze to Radanuh and surrounding regions. The lands were green, and the people were slowly adopting more civilized customs from others.

He needed to establish the favor of his followers once again. Radanuh had grown over the years. Orranoth descended into an old man, Rad, as his name was, a sixty five year old man. Also, happening to be a wizard, and master of Three Words of Power, the power of Thunder. He dared not master anymore Ideals than that, as he wished to remain Human.

He was not the most powerful Wizard in the land, but he used his power to defend his people from wild beasts, bandits and some say even tribes of cannibals. He had other friends but he was regarded as a wise man, not just a powerful mage.

This wizard would find favor from Orranoth. "Rad. . .you have found favor with Orranoth, Lord of the Skies and Master of All Magicks. If you will but erect a shrine in my name, I will establish a covenant with you. You and your lineage will never die, and you will rule over the Kingdom of Orraduh for one hundred years. Until your children find disfavor with me, your family shall rule forever."
"Though one day your family may lose their royal blood line, you are the first Dynasty of my chosen people."
Magically, Orranoth had Rad rise out of his bedding, and begin to scribe on a scroll. "These are my commands. You will guard knowledge of magic, and establish the Kingdom with many wisemen. You shall teach responsibility, and gentleness with power. The measure of a man is what he does with power. You will not use your power to conquer those weaker than you, except to liberate them from misery."
"Do these things and our covenant will be long and you will prosper. Those who use magic arts will come from all over to teach you, you will, and you will teach others. "

---

---

In Ashuru, the Tree of Rebirth was no longer only an object of prayer and fascination, but also of dread and doubt. As many as worshipped it, so many thought a curse must have set in. Was it a wretched poisoning of the land? A punishment of the wicked dead buried beneath? A warning to the living none comprehended?

Mortals found all these explanations and more, even as corpses shambled, attacking the living with mindless ferocity. Even as Wraiths wreaked havoc, the living barely able to ward them off. Prayers were directed at the gods, though few knew who or what to entreat for help.

And so, Moren stood by the Tree in Ashuru, listening and observing. She had come to witness the consequences of her actions, and now, she would address them.

First, she reached into the earth, an extension of her power like filaments questing deep beneath the ground. In its wake, the corpses buried therein began to decompose at an increased rate, flesh putrefying, then eaten away, until even the bones were ground down. Before long, only dust remained on the forest ground beneath the Tree of Reincarnation. The walking dead within the site of the pilgrimage found themselves arrested mid-motion, the spirits within banished unto nothing, the bodies disintegrated to bone ash. However, only the immediate area around the Tree of Rebirth was thus affected; she did not wish to spend however long to destroy all corpses in Ashuru, not when more would accrue with time.

No, this had but been a stopgap measure to mitigate the worst of the undead menace.

Several ur-humans had been fleeing from risen corpses, only to notice them stop in their tracks. Some had been mid-burial when their loved ones' bodies had decayed in front of their eyes. Others had been assailed by unknowable bouts of fear, cold, or weakness, only to be granted blessed respite. The lucky few clustered around the Tree when Moren appeared were the first ur-humans she had chosen to reveal herself to.

“Mortals.” An uncomfortably chilly voice rang in their minds, and though it was as gentle as windchimes, the mental contact from something beyond their comprehension was unpleasant.

The gathering stilled, a collective intake of breath audible in response to her greeting.

“Mama, what’s–” a child no older than tree spoke, pointing at Moren’s figure before they were shushed by their mother. Spooked, the mortals lowered their heads, or even fell to their knees. Some might have screamed had their breaths not been lodged in their throats, bulging eyes directed at her.

After a period of silence, an elder man spoke with the air of someone using to taking lead. His sight was faltering, his back so weak he required the support of a cane. His voice was tired, but he spoke calmly. “Oh, great spirit of the blessed tree, we greet you.” The others cast fearful glances at them, but a few bowed their heads even deeper in agreement. “Have we angered you, great one?”

“No.” The goddess was curt, and the single utterance caused most to flinch. While the pilgrims were quietly relieved not to have it in their heads, her spoken voice did not sound any friendlier.

They could only wonder, had they truly not offended her?

“I have come because I must,” she stated, her gaze staring far beyond. “The cycle between life and death flows more freely now, but as a consequence, corpses may raise, and the Wraiths plague you.”

Silence reigned as she concluded her explanation. The elder man judged this was a permissible opportunity for him to reply, so he did, if with a hint of confusion. “…Thank you, oh spirit. What can we…What must we do?”

The elder shivered as he felt the weight of Moren’s attention settle on him. “Burn your dead.” It was a concise answer, to put it kindly.

Her form flickered as if she might disappear, and sensing the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the elder pleaded, “Wait, please! We have never…we haven’t seen one as powerful as you before. What may we call you? This tree is holy to us, and I believe so must you be, great one, to have done what you did.”

The goddess pursed her lips, for she hadn’t intended to linger, and this old man had found unexpected courage to halt her so. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have…” She took in the pilgrims, dilapidated and humble. The longer the man she assumed to be their leader spoke to her without consequence, the more they relaxed. Some had started taking curious peeks at her, growing bolder when she proved non-hostile. “I am Moren, goddess of death and darkness. I watch over souls in the Afterlife, but the living aren’t unfamiliar to me either.”

The elder smiled, gratified the risk he had taken had paid off. “Many thanks, oh goddess. How may we worship you? And may we call to you for aid?”

Moren considered this. She hadn’t expected to be worshipped, nor did she desire it. The divinity in her disagreed, but even so, she wasn’t much inclined to it. She could only assume this man had offered to do so in exchange for the possibility of godly intervention. “Cherish life. Honour death. Let spirits of the deceased rest in peace. If you seek protection from the undead, you must destroy bodies before they can be overtaken. Fire, circles of salt, and invoking my name or title may help you against Wraiths, who are restless spirits unseen to you – for a time. I may or may not answer prayers, for I have many tasks to see to.”

Speaking of…she had something in mind to combat the Wraiths.

That, and well. Speaking to ur-humans had been more tiresome than expected. She rather had enough, and so, in the blink of an eye, Moren was gone, leaving behind a reeling group of pilgrims.

---

Actions:
Temporarily speeds up the decaying of corpses in an area beneath and around Ashuru's Tree of Reincarnation. Destroys a great deal of the buried bodies, the walking undead, and the Wraiths surrounding the Tree. However, many of the undead and Wraiths which had wandered farther away from the center still remain.

Addresses a group of pilgrims who happen to be around the Tree of Reincarnation at the time of her appearance. She gives some answers before becoming fed up with all the talking.

---

The Queen's purr resonated deeply within her chest. A sister kneaded into the Queen's back, the massage sending her into a deep state of relaxation. One of her brothers, a large gangly fellow with dirty fur, brought a small mouse in supplication and dropped it before her. The Queen gave a small meow of recognition before she gobbled it up in a few bites. Once done, she shut her eyes and dozed contently under the warm sun. The wind ruffled her fur but it was pleasantly mild, otherwise she would have had the gangly brother block it for her. Life had just been good.

She had siblings who fawned over her, fed her, kept her warm when cold, and on and on. Her domain was bountiful and yielded much, so that she and her siblings were lacking for want. Indeed, even other creatures had seen the majesty of her being and brought tribute. Usually with their own lives but it was still tribute.

The only problem she had had of late, was her mother. Her mother, who had given birth to such a beautiful Queen, such as she, was not so charmed by her benevolence. Perhaps it was because she had held authority for so long. Perhaps it was because she was a dowager. No, no, that was a bit rude. She wasn’t that old, and she had given such warm milk. The Queen had realized upon one sunny day, when her mother had cornered her and began grooming her in a display of dominance (which was quite normal for her kind and mildly annoying if anything), that if she herself was a Queen now, then that meant, at one point in time, her mother must have been a queen as well. And it all clicked into place. No wonder her mother acted in such ways!

So the Queen was learning to deal with it. After all, her mother was still her mother. Loving and annoying, wrapped in one. So the Queen reflected and she slept as her sibling purred and the sun shown. Life had never been better, in fact. But then came a day where the world was flipped upside down.

---

It happened like this, the small cat had been taking a good nap, recently fed and massaged and when she woke, she had a good stretch and a yawn. She licked her leg furiously for no real reason and then looked around.

Where was everybody? There was always at least one of her siblings about the family den, either napping or waiting on their Queen, which was her. But now… She spun around and didn’t see anyone. She sniffed the air and the scents she had grown so familiar with, were still there and so she decided to follow the strongest of them- mother. It led her to the entrance of the den and out into the well worn path. The grasses were tall and she couldn’t really see anything so the Queen decided to get to high ground.

She had a strange feeling wash over her and a flash of a memory she couldn’t quite place; a tall burnt tree with the perfect vantage but she blinked and only saw the hill that the den was under.
She climbed it, and then her favorite rock and sat on her haunches to look around. It was windy and the clouds were dark overhead. Still, she didn’t see any of her family. Just some birds, the swaying green grasses, of which were turning browner by the day, and some large four legged things that were too fast to hunt.

She called out a few times but received no answer. Surely they hadn’t left her, right? They wouldn’t do that to her. They were her subjects! They were her family! She let out a small hiss of frustration. If they didn’t come back, who was going to hunt for her? Who was going to massage her? Who was going to groom her? Would she have to do those things… Herself?

It began to drizzle and the Queen curled tight into a ball, contemplating her future.

And one thing was certain; she was on her own for now.

...did not play favourites.

The sapient mortals were an amusing bunch. Full of boundless ideas, stumbling into new innovations with their blind curiosity, and brimming, absolutely brimming with emotion. Watching them struggle between their dreams and despair had been most entertaining in the early days of Ashuru.

Then it had grown stale. Where was the novelty in struggle if everyone was going through it? Worse still were the mortals who had come to worship Sirna. The ones who took to the lullaby shrooms like a moth to a flame. The shamans. The occasional priests. They had come to rely on Sirna like a crutch, seeking answers instead of creating their own. Uninspiring.

Still, it was only through mundanity that true gems could shine. There was that old mortal who’d spent his last years toeing the line between insight and insanity. Oh, and that little Dreamwalker who had asked for their name all those months ago. In recent times, however, Sirna found themself fascinated by a young human by the name of...


In a village where the likes of Ma'otah and Tolamu made waves with metallurgy and pancakes lived a young man who had come to admire the vast space that hung over their heads every day. These new additions to the sky were fantastic. Whatever the gods were doing up there, Pulam hoped they kept it up because boy, did their work make for wonderful muses! First, it had been the Great Fire with the warmth and colour it brought to the world. Then, the Violet Eye (and its admittedly less impressive sister that everyone seemed to overlook) had awed the village with its fearsome entrance. Pulam hadn’t been sure what to make of them once the shock had passed and everyone had settled back into their usual day-to-day lives, but it was so clear now!

It began with the dreams. It was a strange thing, to dream so fully and wake up remembering most of it. Most of what Pulam could remember happened in a place different from here, where the village’s land rolled flat with the occasional hill and stayed warm and dry. The place he dreamed of was white and blue, where the ground sunk beneath your feet and the land dipped into water that stretched as far as the eye could see. He dreamed of dipping his fingers into little pools of dye, the way he often did in real life, and swiping them across leaves instead of red clay. He dreamed of a tangy-tasting breeze, of constantly whispering trees, of a pale, white moon in the sky, backlit by midnight blue.

Then Pulam woke up and got to work. Time was of the essence! He didn’t know if the dream would fade like other dreams. He would not wait to find out.

His choice of canvas took some debating. Pottery was an option, but this was imagery that he felt could not be captured by physical objects. The little clay plates that he and some of the other villagers painted on might be suitable, but he found himself dissatisfied after a few attempts. He needed to go bigger. Something that would fit his vision. Something that others could see and be awed by the way he had been awed upon sighting the round thing that draped itself across the Great Fire in the sky. Pulam stared at the blank red wall of one of the village’s homes, smack centre in a well-worn path.

Huh.

...

There was quite an audience gathered in the village centre by the late hours of the morning. Some were sitting. Most were standing. All of them watched as Pulam spread broad strokes of paint across the wall of one of the bigger buildings in the village. He paid them no attention, for his vision was taking shape now.

It took time, but eventually, inevitably, the wall was finished. Darkened blue and black spread across the wall’s bottom half in repeated overlapping semicircles, resembling the vast rolling water Pulam had never seen in life. A white circle hung over the horizon line, outlined in a brilliant lapis blue.

A simple caricature of water and sky, but as he stepped back to admire his work, skin splotched with spots of colour, he couldn’t help but think that it looked real nice for his first attempt.

I should sleep under the Violet Eye more often!



...couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment. They did not know of Pulam’s personal thoughts or opinion on the moons they had created, but the fervent passion and joy he took part in from the visions the moons granted him had been clear as day. So they had taken his visions of the old life J̶̶̨̙̐́o̤͒͠k̶͉ͨ͠oͯ͑̐҉͕̠̟̕ had lived and they allowed Pulam to remember the scenes he dreamed with uncanny, vivid clarity, so he might execute his artistic will with the skills he possessed.

And what a result this was! Sirna wasn’t sure what was wrong with the mortals who feared their moons so, but this one understood. Not that they played favourites. Of course not. Sirna watched all equally as they were meant to do, judged none, etcetera, etcetera, and did a spectacular job of it, if anyone asked. Particularly if a Patron asked.

Truthfully, they should seek their godkin responsible for the movement of the Violet Eye and its Pale Sister. They had brought out the latent potential within Sirna’s moons; it was only right to thank them.

The question remained: how should they begin looking for them?

---

It —they? No, it— did not think. Not really, not yet. It did not have emotions, either. But it did feel things. It remembered, too. Remembered its Creator, remembered its mission, remembered all it had come across until now.

It remembered that bright periods lasted a certain time, then were followed by a dark period, and on and on and on. It remembered that three bright-dark cycles ago, it touched something liquid and cold, and became wet itself, and almost froze when the colder dark period came. It remembered the time it fell from high and almost scattered from the impact. It remembered every time its parts met and became one, and everything else his parts remembered.

But it could not remember heat since it became what it is now. It knew heat, it knew it had been in a very hot place when its great self had been created. But since it had been broken apart, it had only felt cold. Cold, cold, cold...

That changed pretty quick. It felt something move nearby, in the minute vibrations of the earth and air. Something big, much bigger than itself. It followed the new thing. And then it felt heat. The new big thing was warm, the air around it too. The new thing made sound and moved and moved other things.

Maybe the new thing was a person. It had never met a person other than its great self and its Creator. Right now, though, it wasn't a person, not yet. But if it became big enough, if enough of its kind joined it, it could be a person then, and it could meet the maybe-person. It followed the maybe-person.

It followed for a bit, and then got closer, and reached out, and touched the maybe-person…

…It was like a jolt of ice had touched her. Which was funny, because Toffee no longer really felt the cold. Or anything other than her feverish body. It kickstarted her awareness and her mind began to think, to reason, to react beyond instinct. She was sore, hungry, thirsty and her head was pounding. Why was she moving so slowly? What was she holding? With a slow turn of her head, her eyes rested upon her spear, dragged to the point the stonehead was gone. Dark splotches covered the spear where it wasn’t cracked.

Another jolt- no, a touch, made her blink and look in the other direction. Her eyes meandered until they reached the ground and she just… Looked at the pile of sand. Sand? Why was that strange again? Her eyes blinked at different times and it dawned on her- it was still winter. In the forest. Covered in patchy snow. And yet here was a pile of sand and it was following her?

She came to a slow stop and the sand stopped. Huh. Her mind, still processing this strange sight, found it hard to comprehend. Then the pile of sand reached out with a tendril and touched her. Right where the furs covering her leg had been torn to shreds. When did that happen?

Then reality came crashing down and Toffee’s expression went from numb slackness, to pure shock. She instantly backed away and kicked at the thing, before tripping and falling down into a snow covered bush…

…It had not expected the maybe-person to move away from it so fast, or to kick at—

The sand pile was scattered across the forest floor. It laid unmoving for a few long moments… before little by little, sand grains began to move around, reaching for each other and sticking together in pairs, and then more, and more. Soon, a larger blob of sand was the center on which all other sand particles converged. It rapidly grew back to its previous size, as if Toffee's kick had never happened.

It shook once, twice. And then it began to feel and remember. It remembered the kick, though it had happened to a previous self, not it. It remembered the feeling of scattering, and reforming. It remembered that the maybe-person (or just person? it had reacted to it, nothing else had so far) was nearby. And unlike its previous self, this one was much bolder.

I flowed smoothly to where the person was laying, and reached again, this time not just to poke, but to fully wrap around an ankle. It didn't try to harm or crush. It simply felt. The texture, the heat, the minute tremors of the skin, how it broke out into goosebumps.

And when satisfied, it let go, and waited for the person to move. It would follow. It would grow, and learn, and become a person, and meet the person in front of it…

…Toffee stared, dumbfounded. She had stopped struggling as the thing approached her, despite her instincts wanting only one other thing- fight. She shut her eyes as the battle inside of her was waged and before she knew it, the thing had touched her again. Green eyes snapping open, she looked, she waited and then it let go and stilled.

She waited for a few more minutes, never taking her eyes off the pile. When she was sure it wasn’t going to try anything, she picked herself up, wincing as the bush scraped her skin. When she was on her feet, she patted, removing most of the debris and snow on her. She looked towards where she had left her spear, thought better of it and took a single step forward…

…and it moved with her, following close enough to not lose her, but far enough that it could probably manage to dodge another kick. It shadowed her next few steps the same way, only once briefly darting off to the side where it had felt the call of a small, thumb-sized colony of its brethren. It had swiftly merged with them, and went back to following the person.

It still hadn't heard the person talk. Its great self had been taught language, and so it knew of it as well, but it had yet to hear it. Was the person unable to talk? Or did people only talk with other people? If that was the case, he needed to hurry up and become a person, if it was to learn about languages…

…“What in all the great spirits are you?!” Toffee said, her voice a bit shaky. She winced at the sound and her throat throbbed with use. How had- No no. Focus! The thing was unnerving and it was following her! Except when it darted away but then it returned!
“Answer me, damn you!” she cried, now a tad hoarse…

…it jolted at the words. The person spoke! It actually spoke! If it could feel emotions, it would tremble in joy. Now, it didn't really know exactly what the person had said… but it sounded harsh. Panicked? Or angry? Was the person afraid of it? It did not have a clear reference for those feelings, so it could not be sure. It did not damage the person, either, so why would they be afraid of it? It only followed, only learned.

It felt it, then. The call. Another collective like itself, but not small like the ones it had been merging with so far. A big one, like itself. Maybe even larger than itself. If they met, if they became one, it could be enough to make it a person.

It began moving in a direction, and then stopped, fighting against its instinct to just rush to its brethren. When the person did not follow it, it moved closer again, before moving back towards where it wanted to go. Would the person understand? Would they follow?...

…“Want me to follow, don’t you?” Toffee sighed, then she took a deep breath through her nose. She didn’t want to do this. She was hungry and tired and she needed to figure out what had happened to her. What was her last memory…? It was… Red. Red and blood. Blood and red. Pain and anger. Anger and pain. She gritted her teeth and pounded her forehead with her palm.

“Ancestors!” she cursed and looked at the damn pile of sand. It would be, if anything, a distraction from her own memories. Fine. She would follow and began to walk after it…

…the person followed! It began to move through the brush, stopping from time to time so that the person would not lose sight of it. It felt the call get closer. Just as he had answered it, its brethren also answered to its own answering call. They were getting very close to each other.

And as it went around a bush, it saw it. A collective twice, no, at least three times its own size. It shook with anticipation, and as if obeying an unseen signal, both rushed towards each other. They crashed in a spray of sand. Connection after connection formed, mixing their beings until they could no longer be separated.

The new self stayed still for a moment. It felt the wind and the ground. It heard the breaths of the person who had followed one of its parts here. It remembered so much more now. And then it felt something else, something new. Something inside, a strange metaphorical warmth, an elation. Joy.

It was a person now too! It could feel it. Could feel the real thoughts flowing in its mind. The wants, the curiosity, the emotions. We wonder if we can understand each other. We hope they are nice. We're so happy to meet them! Are there other people near as well?

It stretched its body, firming up its shape from the amorphous puddle it had become. It stretched up, and up, until it was about half the height of the person accompanying it. It stretched a tendril, and from it, other smaller tendrils, crudely imitating one of the person's hands. It waved the new appendage around, trying to catch their attention. It hadn't figured out how to speak yet, so this would have to do for now…

…Toffee stared in bemused disbelief. The sand found more sand? That sand became a child sand? Had that been a baby before? No, no focus Toffee! She slapped herself and the sting brought about a certain clarity only pain could draw. It was waving at her. But how? How could it see?

“What’s going on?” she asked aloud, hoping for an answer. When one did not come, the absurdity of it made her laugh but she sobered quickly when a stark realization overtook her. Her expression then grew dark and she spun around, growing more and more agitated. “Teefee!” she barked. “Teefee if this is a dream, I swear-” she cut off, not knowing really how to end that sentence. She would swear what? She had left Teefee. Oh. She had left her sister and Tad…

…The person talked more! They saw that it tried to communicate, and it even understood a bit of what they said! This was going great! If only it could figure out how to speak too, it could answer their questions… The person used air to talk… Maybe it could try something like that?

It reabsorbed its waving appendage, and opened its top to swallow a large bubble of air. It quickly made itself as hard as it could, so that the air could not escape, and then observed the person some more. The finer details were most likely lost on it, as it did not really see, and instead used its senses to feel the general shape of obstacles around it, but it understood the general gist of how to speak. There was a hole that could change shape, and when air left that hole, sound was made. So, it imitated it as best as it could.

A small hole linking the air reservoir and the exterior formed on its surface, facing the person. It tried expelling air a few times, but it took some tweaking before it managed to make a single sharp whistling note. It froze for a second, then started doing it again and again, finding different notes and sounds. “Fooooo… Fweeeeep… Fwee! Fee!”

It concentrated. It felt like it was about to manage a real mortal word. It shook its body, trying to add some percussive sounds as well. “Tsch. Fee. Tchee. Fee. Teefee? Ssshyou? Shyou Teefee?” It vibrated in pure glee, overwhelmingly happy to have copied the person’s words. It was doing it! It was speaking too! Maybe they could introduce themselves to each other now…

…She recoiled as if someone else had slapped her. This was no dream, she realized.. But she couldn’t rule out it wasn’t a nightmare either. When could sand talk? Then again, this wasn’t ordinary sand. Was it… copying her? Toffee narrowed her eyes. Only one way to find out.

“What is this?” she asked, “What are you…”

…Oh, that was an easy question! “Tch. Ee!… Tsheesh… Thish. Ish. Weee. Sshaaa. Buh. Bu.”

Mmhhh, okay, an easy question, but not an easy answer. It tried again. “We sha-bul-ho. Shabulo. Sabulo. We Sabulon! We rem… burrr… We are remember, we are peep... People! Frrriend!”

“Shyou tal… talk. Shyou are people alsho. Also. Cree… Kht… Cree-ah-tor… Creator said so!” It was really getting the hang of it by now! It was very proud of itself for trying so hard, which was a nice feeling. It was also very proud of the other person (Teefee?) for listening so well to it. It knew that it could just approximate the right vibrations, so it was grateful for the other’s attentiveness. Speaking was much harder than it had expected, it turned out…

…So it wasn’t copying her then. She noted that and her head began to hurt. If this wasn’t some sort of trick or dream or even a nightmare, then this meant that a pile of sand was communicating with her. Trying to, at least. And it had called her friend. Why? She was overthinking this entire situation, wasn’t she? Did it even know what a friend was? it obviously was just figuring out how to talk.

“You are Sabulon then? You are… People?” she asked, the words just sounding ridiculous in her mouth when they were targeted at sand. “Who was your creator?” she followed up…

…“Earth. Khthon. Khthon-Earth. Creator-Earth. He made Sabulon, made grrrreat one selfff. Then scattered ussss everywhere! Many ssssmall sssselves now, to learn and remember,” it recounted, thinking back to its great self’s birth in the Pale Wastes.

“Whhho made shyou, Teefee-Friend? Not Khthon. Too ssssoft forrr Khthon. So who? What? Why?” it questioned as it began circling the person, trying to get a better sense of their shape. Tall, and long, and soft, and with no way to change shape, it looked like. What a strange creature… or was it the strange one of the two?…

…Toffee tried to recollect if she had ever heard of this Khthon but she came up blank. She scrunched her nose as a cloud moved overhead and light fell on her face. She grumbled something unintelligible and then said, “I’m not Teefee. My name is Toffee. And I’ve never heard of your creator before and to be honest, I was made by my mother, not a creator. Well I guess in a sense she was my creator but that’s besides the point. Uhm,” she followed the creature as it circled her, “What are you doing…?”

…So the person was not a “Teefee”, but rather a “Toffee”. Good to know! And Toffee was made by a “mother”, whoever that was.

Toffee's question caught it a bit off guard. Was it not obvious? “We are obser-fing. Observing. Learning. What Toffee-Friend is like.” It remade its hand-like appendage to demonstrate, and then for good measure also made a long, swishing thing like the one on Toffee's back. A tail. “Learn the sssshape. Ifff we meet more Friends-Like-Toffee, we know what they are!” it explained excitedly, waving its appendages around, “Shyou are ssstrange for Sabulon. One big piece, not many sssmall pieces like us. So we learn!”

“Are shyou alone? Are more people around? We would like to meet more people!...”

…More people? Her face went slack. “There are no people around.” she said, “And I’m not your friend. We just met.” she sighed and sat down on a rock, finally looking at herself. She was shocked to see that most of her fur garment was torn and ripped. More alarming were the dark burgundy splotches. Had she been bleeding? Checking quickly for wounds she found only small cuts and scrapes. Then she felt her face and found the tacky-feeling blood all over it. Perhaps the greatest gut punch of all, was that she wasn’t bothered about this, whatsoever.

She gripped her face and moaned, “I’m a mess…”

…They weren’t friends? But she hadn’t tried scattering it since the one time it startled her, so she clearly wasn’t an enemy either… and it tried to be nice to her… if that didn’t make them friends, then what were they to each other?

That question would have to wait, though. Toffee looked… distressed. Did it make Toffee sad somehow? Was Toffee damaged?! “Isss Toffee alright? Doesss Toffee need help? We not know how flessssh works… Doessss Toffee need other Toffees? We can help! We not know where otherssss are, but we know where otherssss not are!” It twisted itself in distress, half reaching towards Toffee…

…She looked at the thing and couldn’t help but smile. But it didn’t really reach her eyes. “You’re sweet, Sabulon. You remind me of my sister, at least, who I thought she was. But no, I don’t need others like me. I’m just tired…”

…Oh, she was just tired. That was a relief! Tiny parts of itself sometimes got tired too, and went in dormance for a while. She was just one big part, though, so she probably had to go in dormance all at once. Though the cold was probably bad for her; it remembered finding something soft like Toffee, but it did not move or make noise, and it was very cold.

“Toffee can resssst. We find warm place, dark place, and shyou go in dormance. We make sure is ssssafe for shyou!” It pointed with its whole body to the east. “We remember cave, Earth-home, not farrrr. We sssshow shyou, if shyou want…”

…She perked up at that but only a little. Toffee wasn’t really sure if she could trust the pile but honestly, it just seemed way too… innocent. Which also reminded her of Teefee and brought about a really strong feeling of guilt. It would probably be the best for both of them if she just got up and ran but at the same time, she couldn’t help but want to protect this thing.

She stood up, placing her hands on her hips and said, “Okay Sab. As long as you promise not to murder me in my sleep, you can lead the way and I’ll follow. And I’ll teach you a few things…”

…It jolted and stood very straight, as if standing at attention. Toffee was going to teach it! How amazing! It did not know what “murder” was, so it did not think it would do it, but it would ask Toffee on the way, so that it would not happen accidentally. It did not want to make her mad, or sad.

“Toffee follow ussss! Cave is not far, we arrrrrrive before dark issss here.” Its shape became low and long, and it began slithering along the forest floor, trying to find the clearest path forward. “Shyou will see, issss nice. No wind to blow you away!...”

…“You’re an odd little thing.” Toffee commented as they walked. “But okay. Here’s a lesson for you, Sab. You seem really new to life, so just know not all people you’ll meet will be kind. I’m not particularly kind, mind you but others will be worse. They won’t be your friends.” She thought about her village and about Malac. She looked at the snake-like sand and pursed her lips, “Most might scream or be alarmed when they first see a talking pile of sand, that’s just how us humans react to strange things. They’ll get used to you, I’m sure.” She felt her lips crack a little as she moved her mouth and she rubbed her throat. “We should find some wate-” she cut off and realized she was stupid. Toffee then grabbed a handful of snow and put it into her mouth. It was freezing and the amount of water she got was miniscule but it helped a little…

…So not everyone would be as nice as Toffee? That was a shame… but it supposed how people could be not-nice was worth learning about as well. As for how others would react to it, it had handled Toffee’s initial reaction, so it would figure out how to handle the others in due time. For now, it had another question in mind.

“Shyou said ‘human’. Shyou human? But shyou Toffee. What issss difference between human and Toffee? Sssame thing?” it asked, a bit confused. “And what did shyou do with cold-wet? Shyou take and put in shyou? Why? Isss feels good?...”

…“The difference?” She said, pondering the question. Her brow furrowed. Was pretty hard to think about deep questions like that when your head was still pounding and your throat was dry but she’d try. “It’s basically the same. I am Toffee. You are Sab. I am human. You are… Sand, I guess?” She shrugged, good enough. “It’s called snow. Just another form of water, like the rain or a pond. I’m thirsty and it helps a little…”

…“Snow” could melt into “water”. “Water” could be found in “ponds” and “rain”. It felt good to be able to put words on what it had learned. It really liked Toffee, she was very helpful.

“We are Sabulon. Sabulon are ssssand. We are Sab to shyou. We think we undersssstand.” It seemed other people had more than one name. Toffee had already given it one. “Sab”. It was a funny feeling, but it did not hate it. It supposed it could be handy to be separate from other Sabulon, and… oh! That was the whole point of names, wasn’t it?

“We not know what ‘thirsty’ is, but more wet-water and ssssnow is on the way, iffff helpsss. But we will not touch wet-water, we not want to freeze! Freeze make moving not-easy.” Sab carefully went around a puddle of half-melted slush as it said this…

“...Yes. Winter has come. It’s my first winter, probably yours too. I can’t say I’m much of a fan.” she sighed. Silence stretched and Toffee’s thoughts began to encroach upon what in the ancestor’s names was she doing? Clothes ripped. Bloodstained. Fatigued. Hoarse. What had she done? Why couldn’t she remember?

“Hey… Sab? When you found me, do you remember what I was doing?” she asked…

…“Sabulon remember everything,” Sab stated matter-of-factly, “Shyou was moving, lesssss fast than now. Shyou was holding sssstick, and shyou was not talking, and then shyou kicked part of usssss.” It paused for a moment, trying to piece all of its observations together into one bigger conclusion. “Shyou… not looked well... Shyou look better now.”

Then it reared up a bit, pointing through the trees nearby. “We here! At cave!” On a little bit of raised land sat what looked like boulders that had crashed against each other. A small opening laid at the base of the rocky formation, an opening Sab knew led to a larger cavity, hidden from the elements, perfect to take refuge in.

“Shyou can resssst soon, and we not ‘murder’ shyou, whatever that meanssss!” It wiggled happily, proud to be helping its not-yet-friend…

…Toffee eyed the opening with apprehension, Sab’s words taking their time to digest. She had never really been underground before and wasn’t sure if she’d like it much. Still, it was shelter, wasn’t it? More importantly, “Can you even see me, Sab? How did you even get us here…?”

“...We remember way. Part of usssss wasss here before. We remember rockssss on the way, how fassst to move, how long to move. Issss easy!” it explained. “And we not see. We not have eyes! We feel. Feel light and feel other Sabulon. Feel heat and touch.”

Sab concentrated a bit more on what it could feel from Toffee, trying to get a better picture of her. “We know shyou ssssoft from touch. We know shyou are warm. We know sssshape of shyou. We know you not sssame color as bright-time sky. We know how shyour voice movesss in air. But no details.” It paused once more, trying to put its feelings into words. “No details that shyou can feel, at leassst. Isss not bad. We not not-see in dark, issss practical!”

It slithered into the cave entrance, and waved at Toffee through it. “Follow! Is sssafe. Khthon not get mad if you not steal…”

…Toffee staggered a bit as she stood before the entrance. The sand’s explanation on how it viewed the world really didn’t register with her. Even her own thoughts were getting muddied. She didn’t really catch the last thing Sab said either, as her mind began to swim. Her knees buckled and the exhaustion she felt finally caught up to her and she collapsed before the entrance. The world went dark…

…Sab, well, Sab panicked. For the first time ever, it felt fear. “Toffee? Toffee?! Can shyou hear usss?!” When she failed to respond, it began nudging her, and when that failed as well, it had to think of a proper solution. It wrapped around her waist and pulled, trying to drag her into the cave proper. It felt bad for the scratches its sandy self and the floor would create—it did not want to damage Toffee—but scratches were better than freezing in the wind.

Warm. Things needed to be warmer. Sab had thought Toffee would be able to make fire herself, but it seemed it was going to have to figure something out. It dashed out of the cave. It remembered how a tree had burned in a storm, and so it broke sticks from small trees and shrubs, and carried them back inside. It remembered the feeling of its parts rubbing against rock, against itself, and the brief spark of heat that it created, and began rubbing sticks against each other.

It took hours of tries and near misses, but eventually, a small smolder appeared. A small smolder that spread to the branches and the wood, and grew into small flames. Fire. Warmth. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. Sab would keep the fire fed, avoiding the too-wet wood. When the flames were high, it would sometimes heat itself in it and then lay on Toffee, trying to warm her up more directly.

It slowly counted the hours until Toffee would wake again…

…It would not be until a full day passed before Toffee finally stirred. When she did, she gasped loudly and sat up. She was momentarily confused by where she was. It was dark, only the faintest embers of red light lay next to her and furthermore, she was covered in sand. If it wasn’t for that fact, she would have dismissed the previous day as a dream. A strange dream but a dream nonetheless. She blinked the sleep out of her eyes. She was still tired but she was so hungry and so thirsty.

“Sab?” She said in a hoarser voice, if that was even possible. “What happened…?”

…Sab jolted up and climbed off of Toffee. “Toffee! Shyou back!” it semi-yelled, relieved beyond belief. “Shyou stopped moving and ssssspeaking! Was it dormance? It sssscared usss…”

“Are shyou well? Are shyou cold? We can make more fire…” It twisted itself in worry. “We not know what elsssse… water? ‘Thirsssty’?...”

…She nodded slowly. “That’s… Thank you Sab. I am thirsty, yes. And I’m hungry. I should go and hunt while I still have strength in me.” she groaned as she stood up. This creature had helped her, repeatedly and this was weighing upon Toffee. It was a good weight, she realized. It meant she had grown fond of it. How odd.

“Come on friend, you can learn some more if you stick with me for a bit…” Toffee said with a smile.

“Friend! Shyesss, we will follow Friend-Toffee!” Sab answered as it followed her out of the cave.

---

It was time to return to Oxen ‘the Strong’.

Sarhush had permitted that one to possess the Me of Weaving for long enough, and the Patrons had informed him that yet more of the Mes had afterward come into the hands of Oxen and his tribes. To hear the tales of Glory, Oxen had achieved much. As the Lord of Civilization, Sarhush felt both entitled and obliged to venture there in person and taste the fruits of the tree that he’d planted through righting Oxen’s path.

The journey would not be short. Hills rose and fell, rivers were stomped through, and plains unspooled beneath immortal feet. There was little to busy Sarhush’s mind save conversing with the trio of Patrons that yet remained as his travelling companions.

At one point along the way, they came upon a dense jungle. There they halted for a moment so that Fire could lob a few great fireballs and kindle a conflagration that would break this stronghold of Nature. As the canopy’s gaps became like chimneys, Sarhush reflected, “I have begun to understand fire more deeply. It is more than just something to be unleashed.”

Every tongue of fire in the eponymous Patron’s body twisted toward Sarhush’s voice at that, not quite in offense, but in rapt attention and interest. “Understanding falls short of mastery,” Fire insisted, “and shorter still of ownership or dominion.”

Lord Hierarchy scoffed, “You were compelled to divulge your secrets to him once. The order of things remembers.”

Glory, who’d been apathetic thus far, began to brighten at the signs of a possible power struggle.

“Fire is a tool, but it must be properly harnessed. Controlled.”

With a voice crackling low, Fire retorted, “You’ve seen only a glimpse of my power, and yet you think me a tool? Those that kindle me think themselves the masters for having struck the spark, but I can burn them like anything else.”

As they trekked through the burning jungle, they came upon a small stream. The Patron of Fire approached it, and the water hissed and receded from its heat. But it was not interested in the water; instead, Fire rubbed a burning hand over the black sand along the riverbank. The mineral grains glowed red and melted. Sarhush watched, fascinated by the display, as the heat quickly receded and the molten sand began to cool and solidify into a mass of slag and vitrified glass. The surface of the dirty, malformed glass still managed to gleam in places. In a few, it caught the firelight and bent it strangely into warped shapes that did not quite obey the wind.

The glassy slag cooled further still, cracking with stress in places. Fire seemed uninterested in the remnants of its work, but Sarhush stooped down to poke at the crude glass and some of its metallic inclusions.

“See? You only prove my point,” Sarhush mused aloud. “When controlled and made to linger, your touch leaves behind more than ash.”

Fire did not bother replying, its flames shifting restlessly to lean away. So they moved on through the infernal jungle, walls of fire clearing a pathway, but soon Sarhush noticed a place beneath the curve of some burning branches were the smoke was not rising upward. Instead, it drifted sideways. At first the god took that for just the work of an eddy of wind, but as he stared in stupefication, the smoke did not deviate in its course. Sarhush’s eye followed the plume of horizontal smoke. Maddeningly, in one or two places it seemed to dip down.

“Heat is meant to rise. Smoke is meant to follow cause.”

Glory seemed to just find this more droll than maddening. “It dances!” the Patron cried.

“The smoke here wanders. It rebels against the way of things,” Lord Hierarchy corrected. “Fire, what is the meaning of this deviancy?”

“I do not know,” Fire admitted.

Something was very wrong. Sarhush’s divine senses were sharp, his hearing just keen enough to hear a strange noise through the roaring of the fire and the chattering of the Patrons. He advanced toward the burning arched branch that was the origin of this anomalous smoke. As Sarhush crossed underneath it, the thing finally was overcome by fire, and it broke from the tree to fall down as a flaming heap that was as much charcoal as wood.

The strange sounds were louder now. “Do you hear that?” Sarhush asked his Patrons, but there was no response. He turned back, eyes sweeping through the treeline, but saw no signs of them anywhere. Grumbling at how they’d already scattered off to gawk at something else, he turned back around to investigate the noise.

The forest thinned abruptly, not burned away but bent aside, as if the world itself had made room. Lanterns hung from branches that should not have supported them, casting warm, shifting light over paths that curved just enough to hide where they led. Canvas stalls stood between the trees, stitched in bright colours, their fabric fluttering despite the lack of wind. The air was thick with sound: laughter, the oddly rhythmic noise that Sarhush would eventually learn to call music, the low murmur of voices overlapping in a way that never quite became loud. Everything felt inviting, like a celebration already in full swing that had simply decided Sarhush was late.

Tables lined the paths, laden with food that steamed gently and drinks that refilled themselves when set down. The smells were simple but tempting, roasted meat, sweet pastries, fruit, strong alcohol. Games were everywhere. Wheels spun, cups hid rolling tokens beneath them, boards were laid out with pieces that shifted position when no one was looking directly at them. Most were games of chance or close enough, the kind where instinct helped but never guaranteed anything.

The abundance and organization of this place was astounding. How had the mortals here managed to achieve so much without his help? There was a quick revelation in Sarhush’s heart – the fire that he’d kindled might destroy all of this before he could even witness it! – but when he turned back around, he didn’t see the approaching orange glow of the burning jungle. Come to think of it, he didn’t hear the flames’ roar, and the air was thick with the smell of roasted meats with hardly a hint of woodsmoke.

Beyond the stalls, the Carnival stretched deeper, lights growing brighter and shadows thicker in equal measure. Performers moved through the crowd, some clearly mortal, others harder to place, all smiling a little too knowingly. No one rushed Sarhush, no voice called out to him directly, yet everything seemed arranged for his benefit. A drink always within reach, a game waiting to be played, a path opening just ahead of him. And as the denizens of this place came close to him they made way, but they did so without the terror and reverence that he’d come to expect of mortals.

Kaelinor noticed the shift before he noticed the god. The Carnival always reacted first, a subtle tightening of its laughter, a pause in the music like a breath drawn in. Then he felt it properly, the weight of something vast entering the Carnival. He straightened from where he’d been leaning against a stall, grin already forming, eyes bright with interest. “Oh,” he murmured to himself, “this one’s tall.”

Sarhush adapted quickly, despite the disorienting press of unfamiliar sounds and motion. There was an earthen mug that sat upon a table, seemingly unattended, and filled nearly to the brim with some dark fluid. The god lifted up the clay cup to sniff at its contents suspiciously, and his nose wrinkled at the vigor of its strange aroma. He set the draught down without tasting any of it, then walked to another table nearby where a great many people were gathered. Stepping right to the edge and towering over them all, he interrupted their game to lean over the table with a presence dominating enough to demand the full attention of all its patrons.

He slipped through the crowd with ease, people parting without quite realizing why, until he stood beside Sarhush, craning his head up theatrically. The Fae looked him over once, twice, then let out a low whistle. “You interrupt a game without placing a bet,” Kaelinor said cheerfully, voice carrying just enough to cut through the murmurs. “Bold move. Terrible etiquette. Very memorable.” He tapped the edge of the table the god had commandeered. “Points for confidence, though.”

Sarhush squinted at the one that had appeared next to him as if he’d always been there, with a familiarity that none had ever dared. “What is this place?” he asked of everybody around that could hear: Kaelinor, the patrons of the table, the faceless people milling around between the tents.

At the question, Kaelinor laughed, like bells shaken by hand. “What is this place?” he echoed, as if savoring the words. “Depends who’s asking. To some, it’s the best night of their lives. To others, it’s where bad decisions go to stretch their legs and ask for seconds.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Officially, it’s the Carnival of Alechior. Unofficially, it’s where chance goes on holiday and forgets to come back.”

He finally offered a bow, exaggerated, sweeping enough to be half mockery, half genuine respect. “You’ve wandered into the party that never ends.” Kaelinor finished, eyes sparkling up at Sarhush. “Stay long enough and you might even enjoy yourself.” He flashed a grin. “Careful though. The longer you stand around asking sensible questions, the more the Carnival starts asking questions right back.”

Kaelinor tilted his head back at Sarhush, eyes bright and added, “Ah, the Carnival, a place where chance dances, luck comes and goes and every soul brings something to the table,” then he leaned in just enough to be friendly, adding, “some bring new foods, some alcohol, some bring stories…and some, it seems, bring an atmosphere so strong it arrives a moment before they do–and lingers.”

“Civilization leaves its mark,” the god agreed, mistaking the slight for praise. To punctuate that declaration, he hefted the great sack that hadn’t left his hand in days. The bag that held so many of his Mes rattled as he placed it atop the table, claiming half its space by right. The god determined to still himself for a while and make sense of all that was around and all that was said.

Kaelinor’s laughter burst out. “Oh, civilization,” he echoed, savoring the word like a sweet that had gone slightly sour. “You gods do love that word. Always sounds so heavy when you say it, like it ought to thud when it hits the ground.” His eyes flicked to Sarhush with open amusement, not mockery exactly, more like delight at a familiar tune played slightly off-key.

Then his gaze dropped, brazen as a stage spotlight, to the immense sack claiming half the table. Kaelinor let out a low, appreciative whistle. “But that,” he said, grinning wide, “that is a sack worth singing about. A proper big sack you have! Truly heroic. You must get terrible back pain hauling something that…substantial around.” He waggled their brows, unapologetic, the joke landing with the ease of someone who had thrown far worse jokes.

Sarhush’s gaze swept across the Carnival again, the noise of Kaelinor’s babbling fading into irrelevance. The abundance of this place was somehow more nauseating than the camp of Ur-Kur-Laka had been, but at least here there was vigor rather than a multitude of languid figures whiling away their times in between trash heaps. After a few moments, realization settled in with a subtle grunt. It was impossible that mortals left to their own devices, and bereft of his guidance and Mes, could have wrought a place so maddening. The revelation did not sit well with him. This was all surely the work of a god, perhaps that ’Alechior’.

“I am Sarhush,” he eventually declared. Nothing more was needed for introduction, for his reputation surely preceded him. “But just who might you be?” He paid no heed to the cryptic warnings of reciprocal questions to come. The little prattler beside him seemed anything but divine, but that did not mean that he was entirely devoid of power. “You speak for this ‘Carnival’ and these people, or are you only a part of the din?”

He hopped up onto a nearby stall, striking a flourish so exaggerated it bordered on parody. One foot kicked out, arms spread. “Kaelinor of the Laughing Turn” he announced, voice ringing like a call before a show. “Fool, flatterer, licensed nuisance and blessed to be the King of the Joybound Fae. I juggle words better than knives and knives better than most juggle their lives.” A deep bow followed.

He leaned in closer to Sarhush then, voice dropping just enough to feel conspiratorial. “Some speak for the Carnival, some are part of the noise. Me?” A shrug, bells chiming softly. “I dance between the two. The Carnival speaks when it wants to, and when it doesn’t, it lets people like me do the talking.”

With that, Kaelinor reached beneath a stall and produced an absurdly large cup, sloshing with dark, frothy liquid. He slid it across the table toward Sarhush with a flourish. “Now then, great sack-bearer,” he said cheerfully, “welcome properly. Have some of Alechior's Grog. Strong, generous and liable to make even gods feel lucky or very sorry. Sometimes both.”

How could water be ‘strong’? This ‘King’ seemed more fool than ruler, but Sarhush indulged him anyway. Naturally he harbored suspicions about the odd-smelling dark brew, but his blood burned hot enough to purge any poison, and curiosity overcame him. Sarhush’s brawny hand wrapped about the cup and overturned it, sipping slowly at first but then steadily, drinking the entirety before parting the vessel from his lips.

The god’s brazen eyes only brightened at the burst of flavor. “This is not water,” he realized aloud. The grog’s forth bubbled oddly upon his ashy tongue and between yellowed teeth, alive in a way that no other drink had ever been. A warmth kindled deep in his chest, too: this was not the searing, ravenous heat of the Me of Fire that he’d once placed in his mouth, but something gentler, like the lingering warmth of rocks bathed in the afternoon sun.

Cups and tankards were strewn across every counter in sight, crowding every tabletop. Without hesitation or thought, Sarhush seized another one in arm’s reach and drained its contents in an unbroken pull. “It is strong,” he admitted, his voice smoothed and clear. ”This water has been altered, worked into something more! This drink has been fortified.”

Kaelinor laughed again, delighted, clapping their hands as Sarhush drained yet another cup. “Oh, look at that glow,” he said, practically preening on the grog’s behalf. “That is the face of someone who has just discovered that water can, in fact, fight back.” He leaned closer, peering at Sarhush’s relaxed shoulders with theatrical scrutiny. “Careful now, mighty one. It sneaks up on you. First the warmth then the cheer then suddenly the music sounds clever.”

He straightened and gestured grandly to a nearby stall where an absurdly oversized pitcher waited, already beading with condensation. “The grog,” Kaelinor continued, voice filled with pride, “comes from the juice of trees Alechior made at the very start. Before any other trees existed. Not planted, not grown. Willed into being. Trees that learned joy before he learned roots.” He hefted the pitcher with both hands and passed it to Sarhush, whose brows had raised at the talk of willing trees into usefulness. “Fermented laughter, aged patience and just a hint of bad decisions. Have another. You’re doing wonderfully.”

Sarhush accepted the pitcher and drank directly from it, being unacquainted with the notion of one large vessel that existed only to refill smaller ones. He drained the pitcher in what seemed like a single gulp. It was rare that Sarhush was in something like a good mood, but just then he found that he was. The tumult of the music no longer seemed so jarring, while the press of the bustling crowds became easier to overlook. His shoulders had slackened too, unbeknownst to him. “What ‘games’ do you play here, while you await the arrival of order and rule?”

Kaelinor spread his arms wide, nearly knocking over a stack of dice. “Infinite,” he said simply. “If you can imagine it, someone here is already playing it or losing at it or arguing about the rules.” His grin turned sly. “Some games reward skill, quick hands, sharp eyes, sharper minds. Others care only for luck, blind and cruel and laughing as it passes you by.”

He paced as they spoke, counting on his fingers. “There are games where you throw knives at spinning targets, games where you roll bones painted with lies, games where you wager memories you will not miss until they are gone.” A pause, then a shrug. “There are games where you stand perfectly still while the world tests your patience. Blink and you lose. Breathe wrong, and you lose.”

Kaelinor chuckled, softer now. “Some make sense. Race the flame before it dies. Stack stones without letting them fall. Answer riddles that change halfway through the question.” He tilted his head. “Others make no sense at all. Guess which bell will ring without being struck. Bet on which shadow moves first. Compete to see who can forget their own name the fastest.”

He finished by planting himself back in front of Sarhush, eyes bright with invitation. “Here, order does not arrive. It wanders in, plays a round and usually leaves poorer for it.” Kaelinor lifted his own cup in salute. “So pick one. Or let a game pick you. Either way, the Carnival always plays fair. It tells you the rules. It just never promises they will help.”

“Order came when I entered this place,” the god proclaimed with a hiccup, but without a shred of irony. “But to think of leaving poorer! Ha!”

Sarhush used the back of his hand to wipe the foam of his latest drink off his lips. “Hear me, little ‘Joybound’ king: I am Sarhush and I am the binder of all things. I have luck; I am also clever, fast, and strong. I will win all of the games and best this place as easily as I conquer the forests!”

Kaelinor’s laughter cut clean through the smoke and music. “Leaving poorer,” he echoed, savoring the words. “Clever, fast, strong, lucky, conqueror of forests and tables alike.” He clutched his chest theatrically. “Oh, my King of Cups, if confidence were coin you’d bankrupt the Carnival just by breathing.”

He placed a small circle made of Fortunite on Sarhush's hand, boots tapping in rhythm with unseen drums. “You say you will win all the games,” Kaelinor went on, grin widening, “but you’ve already made the oldest mistake here. You think winning is about strength or speed or even luck.” He leaned in, stage-whispering. “It’s about timing. And punchlines.”

Kaelinor straightened, arms thrown wide as lanterns flickered brighter in response. “So let’s make it simple. No boards, no dice, no cups to hide things under.” He pointed at Sarhush, then at himself. “You and me. One joke each. No threats, no sermons, no proclamations of inevitable victory. Just wit. Whoever makes the other one laugh, wins.”

The fae bowed low, eyes gleaming. “The Carnival will judge. If you win, you walk away richer in pride and proven right.” He snapped his fingers once. “If I win, I take one of the things in your sack. I choose.” Kaelinor tilted his head, smiling. “After all, King Binder, what’s the risk, if you’re so certain you’ll never leave poorer?”

Sarhush’s eyes glowed red in the Carnival’s torchlight as he pondered that proposal. “You would make a game of this without even knowing what is inside?” He turned over the fortunite in his palm before placing it beside the growing heap of his emptied grog-mugs.

“You’ve hazarded nothing of your own,” he went on with a scoff, “...so it makes no difference to you. Hardly sporting.”

Silence stretched as he ruminated, but then the start of a wolfish grin tugged at his lips. ”But I am a generous god!”

He pushed off the table that he’d been leaning upon and shuffled back a pace, eyes leering as they roved the Carnival. His gaze fell upon a tablecloth splayed nearby. Sarhush chugged the mug of grog that rested atop that table, for he was not wont to waste, and then wrenched the whole cloth away to let the emptied vessel clatter to the ground. He cast bundled fabric upon the table beside his sack of Mes and began tearing off strips of it with his bare hands, as easily as mortal hands might peel fruit. “Go on,” Sarhush dared, his fingers still working, ”make me laugh.”

Kaelinor clapped once, delighted. “Ah. Of course I wager nothing,” he said. “That’s gambling at its purest. You didn’t wager anything either when you taught fire to hands that only knew how to grab. You simply assumed the world would learn to burn properly.” He gestured vaguely outward, as if forests turning to ash were an amusing footnote. “And look at that, it did.”

He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret only gods could appreciate. “Most beings gamble hoping to win. You gambled assuming you already had. Burn the forests, yoke the weak and call it progress. Either it works and proves you right or it fails and proves the world was unworthy of your ideas.” Kaelinor smiled. “Heads or heads. A flawless system.”

Sarhush’s brows rose, but his hands never paused their work. Now he was twisting and knotting the cloth to some ends. “Word of my glory precedes me,” he remarked, glancing up only briefly. As Kaelinor went on, Sarhush turned away again. He reached for a nearby platter, seized a leg of roast meat, and stripped it apart with his fingers, piling the greasy shreds beside the cloth. The bare bone he lifted to his mouth and cracked between his teeth. From the splintered length he tore free a thin shard, sharp and long, and set to shaping it into a needle.

Kaelinor meanwhile spread his hands, laughter bubbling up. “That’s what I admire most. Others invent rules to protect themselves from loss. You invented civilization so losing would become illegal.”

He nodded toward the sack at Sarhush’s side, then toward the crowd. “Even now, everything around you is proof that the joke landed. People didn’t ask whether they should. They asked how fast they could keep up.”

Kaelinor bowed deeply, theatrical and sincere all at once. “So go on, great Sarhush. Laugh. You already won the punchline ages ago.” His eyes gleamed. “This game is just applause with witnesses.” As if on cue, laughter around them seemed to explode and even the patrons at other tables were lifting their drinks towards the two. Even as the crowd’s raucous guffaws reverberated all around, Sarhush did not join in. Their laughter washed against him, but he remained as hardened and unfeeling as a stone tossed into a bonfire.

The god continued his craft. A twist of the cloth created something that resembled a head. A long, narrow scrap looped and cinched until it suggested a grin far too wide for its face, a grin that Sarhush fixed in place with the bone needle. He held the crude figure up at arm’s length, studying it with a flicker of drunken mirth.

“Do you see a resemblance?” he asked the crowd, or Kaelinor, or perhaps even himself.

Deciding to do more, he brought the doll back to continue. His fingers worked not quite deftly, but decisively. The cloth twisted, folded, knotted. The makeshift doll’s limbs were pulled too long, then shortened by tearing rather than cutting. He spat into his palm and smeared the dampness across the thing’s face, pressing in two hollows with his thumbs. “But I have little patience for the gutless,” he explained as he scooped up the stringy, half-rendered scraps of meat he’d torn off the bone. He crammed them into the open fold of the doll’s abdominal cavity to represent entrails, then sewed it shut there.

“The smell isn’t quite right.” He found another mug of grog beside his elbow; he dumped half the fluid onto the doll to soak into the cloth as a sort of blood, then drank the rest in a single gulp.

His fingernails dug into the table to pry free little chunks of wood. He pressed those into the eye-hollows on the doll’s head and tied them down with loose threads, and then finally leaned back. The macabre product of his craft was unsettling, but by some mix of skill or drunken luck, he’d fashioned the doll with an uncanny likeness to Kaelinor.

“Look,” he rumbled, voice thick with mockery, “here, we have a king of laughter. Of joy!”

He bobbed the puppet once, making it bow. Then he bounced it again, making it wobble as though dancing. The lantern light caught its folds and cast a jittering shadow across the table. “He thinks civilization is a trick, something clever that twists defeats into victories.” Sarhush twisted the doll around so that its sagging grin of grog-drenched cloth faced the crowds. “Civilization is fire! And is not the whole of Ashuru dry enough to burn?”

He sat the doll down upon the tabletop and reached into the sack of Mes. He did not rummage; his hand returned, closed tight, at once. Wisps of smoke escaped from the gaps between his fingers.

He turned his fist over and opened it to reveal a hot coal that was the Me of Fire resting upon his palm. “All that is within that sack are my gifts to mortals,” he explained, “so I gift fire to the little king!”

With the neat motion of one finger, he flicked the little coal off his hand. It landed perfectly atop the doll. Grease, grog, and fabric began to smoke and smolder.

Kaelinor watched the construction with his head tilted, hands folded behind his back, eyes tracking every crude adjustment with open, almost childlike focus. He nodded once as the head took shape, again at the too-wide grin, a third time when the entrails were stuffed and sewn in. Not impressed, not repulsed. Merely attentive, the way one humors a toddler proudly holding up a misshapen carving. “Mm,” he murmured, approving in the most minimal way. “You didn’t rush it.”

When the likeness became undeniable, Kaelinor leaned closer, inspecting the doll as it burned and smoked. His expression softened, thoughtful rather than amused. “I see what you were reaching for,” he said calmly. “The posture is there. The confidence. You even caught the way I stand like I expect the room to listen.” He tapped one elongated finger against his chin. “That part’s clever.”

He straightened as the coal bit deeper, fabric darkening and curling. “But it’s unfinished,” Kaelinor added, tone gentle, almost apologetic. “Fire alone isn’t enough. Fire just destroys. Anyone can do that. You taught that lesson early.” He gestured vaguely, as if forests turning to ash were common knowledge. “This little thing doesn’t react. It just burns.”

Kaelinor smiled then, small and knowing, eyes flicking back to Sarhush. “If this were meant to be me, it would have laughed. Or danced harder. Or tried to bargain with the flame.” He shrugged lightly. “As it is, it just sits there. Quiet. Weak. A prop, not a punchline.”

He gave the doll one last look, then dismissed it entirely, attention returning to Sarhush with an easy confidence. “Still,” he said, pleasantly, “nice effort. For a beginner.”

Sarhush crossed his arms and said nothing in return. The weight of his mute stillness was so potent and oppressive that others, even those not arrayed around the table, took notice. For five tables all around, laughter was smothered. The loud chatter and gossip thinned to anxious murmurs; breaths were held. Sarhush remained silent for what felt like a long time even as he stared at Kaelinor.

Beneath the Me of Fire, the doll on the table between them began to change. The grog, the spit, and the meat juices that stained its fabric began to heat, and soon they boiled and hissed. Steam forced its way out through seams and stitches in thin, shrill bursts. The sound rose and fell, uneven, almost rhythmic.

The fabric blackened where the coal rested, then sagged. The Me sank slowly into the doll’s stuffed belly, its heat softening the knots and stitches from within. Small flames crept up along the soaked threads. As the cloth tightened and the packed meat expanded, the doll jerked. Once. Then again. Its limbs twitched in short, frantic motions, tugged by heat and pressure rather than will.

The doll’s grin held, and the thing danced as long as the fire allowed. “Once I thought fire was only hunger,” Sarhush chose to break his silence before the fire consumed it all and reduced it to ash, “But then I learned to bind it.”

He gestured at the blackening doll, its drying fabric twisting and tightening. ”It transforms and improves what I give it: meat softens, clay and speartips harden, forests are cleared away...”

The god finally grew bored of watching the doll burn, so he reached into its charred innards to pluck the coal free, bouncing the Me of Fire upon his palm. ”Touch it, and you’ll see,” he offered with a grin, stretching his open hand toward Kaelinor. The hot coal of the Me rolled to the very end of his fingertip as if yearning to be grasped by the fae.

Kaelinor did not interrupt. He watched the doll writhe and twitch with the same attentive stillness he had given its making, head inclined, eyes following the way heat forced motion where none belonged. “See,” he said, “it does try to dance after all. You were right. Fire teaches enthusiasm very quickly.” His gaze flicked to Sarhush. “Not grace, mind you. Just urgency.”

As the stitches gave and the coal sank deeper, Kaelinor crouched slightly to look level with the table. “It’s almost flattering,” he added “I spend time coaxing movement out of crowds and you manage it with boiling fat and thread.” He nodded once, approving. “Efficient and loud!”

When Sarhush spoke of hunger and binding, Kaelinor listened closely, the way one listens to a craftsman explaining a favorite tool. “Ah,” he murmured as the doll blackened, “so the joke wasn’t the doll at all. It was the lesson.” His eyes traced the tightening fabric. “Fire doesn’t need permission. It only needs direction. Left alone, it eats. Given a task, it builds.” He straightened. “That explains quite a lot.”

At the offered coal, Kaelinor did not hesitate. He reached instead for a nearby cup, lifted it and only then extended two fingers to brush the Me of Fire. The contact was brief. His pupils flared as the vision struck, the knowledge crashing through him in a rush of heat and certainty, fire as gift, as blade, as answer. His breath hitched, sharp and sudden.

The Me slipped from his fingers as the cup jerked. Kaelinor choked, turned and spat the drink in a reflexive spray. Alcohol met open flame, and the air bloomed. A short, violent burst of fire rolled outward, bright and roaring. Heat washed over the table. The crowd laughed. Kaelinor staggered back a step, eyes wide then slowly broke into a grin. Even Sarhush looked bemused.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced at the scorched space between them. “Right,” he said, delighted now, voice warm with genuine appreciation. “Now that was amazing!” His eyes lifted to Sarhush, grin widening. “Let's do it again, old master.” he added, his voice giving away something from his past, something he had half-forgotten. Pre-Cataclysm.

Sarhush didn’t miss that either. “So you were one of mine,” he more stated than asked. He found another cup of grog and drank, swaying slightly. At last, he claimed the only chair around that would hold him, and dragged it to the table with one foot. He collapsed down into the seat, flames still burning between him and Kaelinor, their light reflected in the table’s wet sheen and in Sarhush’s reddened eyes.

Without looking, Sarhush’s hand plunged into Kaelinor’s cup to retrieve the Me of Fire. The heat around dimmed at once as the coal dulled between two smothering fingers; the god leaned back in his chair. “Tools wander,” he started, already casting the Me back into his sack. “I gather them.”

The god rubbed at his eyes, feeling strange. The gleam of the fortunite that he’d been given caught his attention again. He seized the golden coin from where it’d rested on the table, played with it in his hands, and challenged the fae king, “Another game?”

Kaelinor inclined his head, the grin softening into something quieter. “Long ago,” he said, voice steady, almost fond, “when humans were still raw things, barely shaped, I heard your lessons.” Fire taught hunger and warmth both. Stone taught endurance. Order taught obedience. “You were loud then too,” he added mildly, “and the world listened.”

He did not boast of survival. He simply stated it. Years piled on years, forests burned, seas vanished. Kaelinor walked through all of it, sometimes laughing, sometimes not, learning when to bend and when to slip between the cracks left behind by certainty. “I wasn’t clever,” he admitted, “just difficult to finish.” His eyes flicked briefly to the sack at Sarhush’s side, then back.

“At some point,” Kaelinor continued, spreading his hands, “I stopped surviving and started choosing.” He glanced around the Carnival, the light, the noise, the promise humming beneath it all. “Alechior offered a place where fire didn’t have to consume to matter, where risk could be shared instead of imposed. Where being happy is all that matters. True happiness.” He smiled again, smaller but truer. “That’s when I learned what happiness felt like, and why I stayed.”

“One day I will find that place,” Sarhush decided aloud, intrigued by its description.

Kaelinor’s smile returned at once, as though it had only been waiting its turn. “Of course,” he said, inclining his head in agreement. “A game of chance, then. No skill to lean on, no strength to bully the outcome, no clever hands to tip the scales.” His gaze flicked to the fortunite as it danced between Sarhush’s fingers. “Only knowing when to trust the fall.”

He spread his hands, palms open, empty. “No boards to rig. No rules to twist. No one to blame but the moment itself.” The Carnival seemed to hold its breath around them, lantern flames steady, music thinning just enough to listen. “A game so fair,” Kaelinor finished, eyes gleaming, “that even victory won’t be able to explain itself.”

"I'll let you choose this time." he added with a sly grin.

Sarhush smirked. “What you see as chance or chaos is just a void has not yet been ordered and filled,” he asserted. But to declare the impossibility of such a game, or admit defeat in even conceiving one, was unacceptable. So he pondered the concept of chance until he came up with an idea.

“There are three primal ways to shape the world,” he began to explain, “One can crush, cut, or bind: that is the hammer, the knife, and the rope. The hammer smashes the knife; the knife cuts the rope; the rope entangles he who holds the hammer. The game is that we will each choose our tool simultaneously, and see who triumphs.”

Kaelinor tilted his head, listening with an expression of polite interest that slowly, turned amused. “That’s not chance,” he said firmly. “That’s order wearing a blindfold and pretending it can’t see.” His eyes flicked back to Sarhush’s face, bright with something teasing but not dismissive. The god only scoffed. “If you speak of chaos as a void waiting to be filled, then you truly haven’t met Alechior yet. Chance isn’t empty. It’s playful. It bites back.”

He stepped closer to the table, close enough that the heat of the lanterns and the lingering warmth of fire still pressed between them. “But,” Kaelinor added, spreading his hands, “I like this. Simple. Clean. No space to argue once it’s done. Three tools, one moment, no revisions.” The Carnival seemed to lean in with him, the noise around them thinning, attention narrowing as the lights around them as if put under a spotlight. “Very well,” he said. Together, they began to count down aloud to the moment. Three, two, one…

Kaelinor’s fingers straightened into a line, his grin returning, sharp and delighted. “Knife.”

In the exact same moment, Sarhush’s hand had balled into a fist. “Hammer,” he’d boomed over the sound of the fae’s own declaration. The god was smug, smirking as Kaelinor tossed him a second fortunite coin.

“I like this. One more? C’mon. Another one! Another one!” Kaelinor said with a grin that seemed to grow wider by the second.

They woke to music before sight, a low rhythm that felt like it was humming through their bones rather than their ears. When their eyes finally opened, it was to a place tucked away from the Carnival’s main stalls, a hidden hollow of lantern-light and fabric walls, like the inside of a tent made from nothing. The air was warm and sweet, scented with fruits and something else they could not name. For a heartbeat, none of them moved. Then one of the children gasped.

Hands came into view, longer than before, fingers elegant and light. Skin caught the lantern glow differently now, smoother, almost luminous. Another child laughed, startled, as they pushed themselves upright and felt the unfamiliar ease of their body, the way it obeyed without strain. Ears brushed shoulders where they had never reached before. They felt like potential itself grew inside them, like standing at the top of a hill with the wind urging them forward.

There was no fear. That was the strangest part. The memory of what they had been was still there, distant but intact, like a story they once told often and no longer needed to repeat. One of them flexed then spun in place, delight bubbling up into a bright laugh. Another touched their own face, tracing cheekbones that felt familiar and new all at once. They grinned at one another, recognizing themselves and something more.

Applause broke out from just beyond the lantern ring. “Lovely,” came a voice, warm as spiced wine and sharp as a coin flip midair. “Absolutely lovely timing too. You always wake up right when the music hits its best part.” From between two hanging banners stepped Alechior, dressed in layered color and movement, eyes alight with pride. “If you’d slept any longer, I’d have had to start charging admission.”

They turned toward them as one, instinctively, as though some part of them already knew this presence. Alechior went into an exaggerated bow, one hand pressed to their chest. “Welcome,” they said, smiling wide. “You chose joy when it wasn’t easy. You chose play when the world offered you very little else. That’s all it ever takes.” Their gaze softened. “Everything you feel right now? That’s yours. No enchantment. No trick.”

Alechior straightened and gestured broadly toward the unseen sprawl of the Carnival beyond the walls. Music swelled, distant laughter threading through it. “Out there is risk, wonder, terrible ideas, excellent games and mistakes you will make gloriously,” they said. “You are not perfect. You are not safe. But you are free to laugh, to wager, to lose and to try again.” Their grin turned playful once more. “Now then. Stretch. Get used to the ears. And when you’re ready, the Carnival is waiting.”

They clapped their hands once, sharply and the sound carried farther than it should have. The lanterns brightened in response, as if leaning in to listen. “Now,” they said, pacing slowly before the newly awakened Fae, “you’ve got the bodies, the smiles, the instincts. Very important things.” They stopped, turned on a heel and tilted their head. “But are you ready for the part that makes it interesting?”

They let the question hang, not pressing, not rushing. The Carnival itself seemed to hush a fraction, like a crowd waiting for the reveal of a trick. “Fun,” Alechior continued lightly, “is not just laughter. It’s tension. Stakes. That delicious moment where something might go terribly wrong and you choose to play anyway.” Their voice softened, coaxing rather than commanding. “What I offer you is not power to win. It is power to play.”

They stepped closer and each child felt the weight of attention settle on them in turn, not heavy, but precise. “This gift will let you invite the world to the table,” Alechior said. “To frame a moment as a game, to set rules that matter, to let chance breathe between choices. You won’t force anyone. You won’t drag them in.” A small, knowing smile. “But when someone agrees, truly agrees, the game will hold.”

Alechior spread their hands, palms up and something unseen stirred between them, like the pause before dice strike wood. “You will feel when it’s right. When joy, risk and consent line up just so. That is when the magic listens.” Their eyes flicked from face to face. “It will tire you if you push it. It will punish you if you cheat. And it will abandon you if you forget that fun is the point.”

They straightened, grin widening. “So,” Alechior said brightly, “are you ready for your gift?” The music swelled again, playful and daring. “Because once you have it, nothing is ever quite boring again. And trust me,” they added, with a conspiratorial wink, “the world is desperate to be less boring.”

Alechior inhaled, theatrically, and the Carnival answered. Lantern light bent inward, music thinned into a single sustained note and the air itself seemed to tighten, like a held breath before a cheer. Color deepened, shadows sharpened and from Alechior’s chest spilled a soft radiance, not blinding, but impossible to ignore. It was divine power, yes but steeped in laughter, soaked through with risk and delight, tuned precisely to this place.

They lifted one hand and the ground beneath the children responded. The boards hummed faintly, the banners stirred without wind and distant games flared brighter for a heartbeat, as if every wager ever made was being remembered at once. Alechior did not force the power outward. They drew it in first, pulling from the endless revel of the Carnival, from every cheer, every gasp, every coinless bet and foolish dare. The realm fed its god gladly.

“Pay attention,” Alechior said, voice layered, as though spoken by many throats at once. “This is not mine alone.” They pressed their palm forward and the gathered power flowed like a living thing, branching, dividing cleanly as it reached the waiting Fae. It did not strike. It settled. Sank in. Chose them as much as they accepted it.

The children gasped as the connection snapped into place. They felt the Carnival not just around them but within them even more deeply than before. A constant pull, a familiar warmth, like knowing where home is without looking. They could sense games being played far away, feel tension rise and fall, taste the difference between honest chance and a stacked hand. For a breathless moment, they understood what it meant to belong to something vast and joyful.

Light bled through their skin, soft gold, outlining ears, fingers, smiles too wide to hide. It was not permanent, not meant to be. A flare, a declaration. The glow pulsed once, twice and laughter bubbled up among them, startled and bright, as the power settled deeper, quieter, becoming instinct rather than spectacle.

Far from them, a thin ribbon of that same power slipped free, playful and precise. It wound through the Carnival’s paths and found Kaelinor at Sarhush's table, like a familiar tune finding the right ear. He felt it as a sudden warmth behind the eyes, a deepened clarity, the sense that the rules he loved had just gained another layer. Not strength, exactly. Permission.

As the light faded, Alechior exhaled, satisfied. The Carnival relaxed with them, music resuming its full, unruly chorus. “There,” they said, grin returning, divine weight easing back into mischief. “Your first gift. Don’t waste it.” Their eyes sparkled as they looked over the newly made Fae. Alechior stepped closer, the last traces of glow still clinging to the children like fading sparks. Their voice lowered, not in threat, but in intimacy, the tone of someone sharing a secret worth keeping. “Now comes the part where you earn it,” they said.

They gestured outward, and for a moment the sounds of the Carnival quietened, as if listening in. “You will go into the world,” Alechior continued, “and you will offer games. Not tricks. Not traps. Games. If they laugh, if they lean in, if they stay even when the odds turn against them, then you tell them about this place. You tell them there is somewhere that understands that joy and risk are the same language.”

Alechior’s smile sharpened, just a touch. “If they only want a single wager, a harmless contest, that is yours to give. If they hunger for something greater, for contracts that can bend years, luck, memory, or fate itself, then you send them onward. The Game Masters will know what to do. Not everyone deserves that table.”

“You are not merely messengers,” they said. “You may make contracts yourselves, small and fair, bound by play and consent, wherever you go. A game of chance, a test of nerve, a wager of time or trinkets, these are yours to offer. Treat each bargain as part of the Carnival’s breath, never forced, never hidden, and never without a real choice. Through you, the game walks the world.”

They straightened, hands folding behind their back. “You are not judges. You are not enforcers. You are hosts. Watch how they play. Watch how they lose. Watch whether they curse the game or thank it. That will tell you everything you need to know.”

Their gaze swept across the children one last time, warm and expectant. “Spread the word. Let the world remember how to play. And do not worry,” Alechior added lightly, “the Carnival is very good at keeping track of its own.”

With a sharp clap, the space around them folded and split. Gates bloomed open all at once, archways of light and fabric and shifting symbol, each leading somewhere different in Ashuru. Forest paths, riverbanks, dusty crossroads, half-built towns. The children looked to one another, waved with bright, unsteady smiles, and stepped through, laughter trailing behind them as the gates closed one by one.

Gutch enters Tradise
He had been on the road for some time now, wandering aimlessly. In the distance a foreign sound could be heard, a merry cacophony drifting over the horizon. This new sound intrigued him. He stepped off the track and began walking towards the new sound, swishing through the overgrown meadow, completely oblivious to the stunning world around him. His sole focus was the delicious thought of innocent merry he could seep his influence over. The meadow tapered off into a gentle slope leading down into a nearly perfect bowl. Within the massive divot was a colourful extravaganza of flags and tents and throngs of people. This was the source of the cacophony.

Gutch tasted the air and grinned. He began to lope towards the settlement before pausing suddenly. He could feel something. The air was thick with an energy that was foreign to him. His malicious aura was reacting poorly with whatever power resided over this face. He sneered and spat at the grass. His acrid mucus hissed and evaporated suddenly. His eyes widened. He thought better of continuing on this path.

Instead he surveyed the horizon with a studious eye. Some distance along the valley's rim seemed to be a small encampment along a thronging road into the larger settlement. He set course to his next target. Hopefully this hostile influence was limited to the valley proper. Maybe he could sow the seeds of evil within this town. As he neared the town he sniffed out any visual clues towards how this foreign place worked. His beady eyes studied these colourful permanent tents and the smattering of more firm buildings. The skyline of the squat place was broken up by an eclectic collection of bright flags and pennants: as of yet meaningless to him.

The sounds of merriment taunted him throughout his trek around the rim, as he neared the town he could hear even more. It seemed non-stop. Now that the novelty had worn off, he found that this new sound irritated him. It reminded him that the people within had remained too comfortable. Unpestered. More than he could allow.

He didn't enter the town through the main road. He slipped between a big round tent and a larger building that a raucous chorus of chatter emanated from. Once on the main street he glanced around. A steady stream of traffic flowed through the place, some stopping, most passing straight through and into the valley. It seemed like the settlement was almost completely lined up neatly on either side of the road. A few structures lay behind the highstreet and hung about in the grass, but he doubted they were important. He noticed everyone around him seemed to have a lairy grin plastered on their faces. He scowled behind his mask. Some of the passersby gave the strange man strange looks, but most of them paid no heed.

He decided to explore the gathering place on his right first. He turned and found the door. No one prevented him from entering. In fact no one noticed him enter. As he passed the threshold, the noise increased. A wall of jeering bodies was centered around whatever was going on in the middle of the room. He grinned. He slipped the black shard out of his waistband, palmed it casually, and walked behind the crowd. The perfect edge cut through the plain man's linen tunic with the lightest touch and left such a fine cut in his rear thigh that he didn't notice he had been cut until Gutch had slipped past and lost interest, tucking the blade back into his loincloth nonchalantly. Gutch grinned as he picked the man's curses out from the din and turned his attention to the central highlight. The group of men had pitted a cock against some kind of weasel and were currently screaming at them as if they might have understood their drunken instructions if they were loud enough.

This was almost something Gutch could get behind. The mundane novelty wore off after a few seconds of watching the cock strut about and the weasel-thing rear up and hiss at it. It reminded him of so many fights he had seen before: more bark than bite. But he supposed those of bland tastes didn't see it like that. His eyes wandered to a smug man wearing a tall hat counting something in a heavy looking pouch. He had the glint of desire in his eyes. Maybe this could be an opportunity.

He spent some time predicting what the best course of action could be. As the flames in his mind began to reach into his retinas he was brought back to the room by a sudden roar. The lively crowd had erupted after the cock had managed to pin the weasel-thing by the neck and was now savaging the creature with it's fierce beak. Tall hat man grinned wickedly. Gutch prowled through the crowd, sliding through it like a barrel of eels. He lurked behind the tall hat man; he was focused on the fight. His heavy pouch sat against his hip. Gutch peered into it as conspicuously as he could. It was full of metal disks, with some unidentifiable emblems on them. Curious. He imagined their possible function. Very strange. These trinkets intrigued him.

Until now Gutch had remained unnoticed within the busy room, even the man he had been watching. "I am you." Three powerful magic words. Staining his tongue. The man looked over with the every touch that chilled through his soul. A moment of unease. Something that marked his ultimate fall. Before an overwhelming urge to comply. washed over him. He had seen something he could understand. So instead he complied with it's will. The man was talking to a copy of himself. He was overwhelmed. Gutch held up a finger to his face. The man in the tall hat pointed at the fight. His beast had crippled the other. With a broken appendage the from the winged champion, the weasel-thing was flipped over and had it's throat cut.

The man in the tall hat owned the winning animal. The other men in the gatehouse were busy settling the handovers required to exchange these little metal disks. This metal was powerful. It was new. But something made it valuable. Gutch, still appearing as the other man, was handed a stack of coins. The other men returned to get rid of their freshly dead cat weasel beast.

The original man shook his head in disbelief. Gutch turned and left the building. He stood outside the mouth of the alley. Holding out the stack of coinage. The man turned walked into the shade between the line of houses. Gutch smiled and reached forward with the coins. He slipped the stack into the large pouch and dropped the coins in. Suddenly the shadow flashed and Gutch stepped confidently past and back into the hall.

His localised illusion evaporated away from him and he went back to slipping through the crowd. He approached a disheveled man sitting on a cloak on the wall. He sat on a cloak, staring blankly at a wall, sitting in front of 3 shallow wooden cups. He looked up at Gutch, looming over him. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't gain much life. Gutch held out a handful of coins. "Wou "You wanna to play?" Gutch ignored him at pulled at the cloak under him. Dumping the handful of coins in his lap. He snatched them up and rolled off of his ragged brown cloak. Grumbled at his hastiness "Sure, just get away from me." Gutch tossed the cloak over himself and slithered off into the crowd his is sack of coin.

Excelsium was ever-growing.

But it was still much too slow for Excelsis, who was overseeing the burgeoning village from atop the so-called “Monster”. It was not developing fast enough. At this rate, it would take three, maybe even four generations until they would be a useful people. A more hands-on approach would be necessary. For now, at least. Which meant he would need a point of return. A place worthy of the vainglorious God of Eminence. Where he could always return to, or where he could work upon complex blessings. It would be a place where the common people could come and marvel at the greatness of the Spark and the countless other blessings he intended to offer to the worthy. It would take time, even for a God’s mind, to fully design such a place.

From the great volcano's mouth came a cracking sound, and the stone covering it gave way to a large stone figure. The figure, Khthon, stood in solemn silence for a few long moments before speaking.

”God-Brother. I do not come to you lightly,” he said, tone grim. ”I come to you seeking aid, for a great threat is upon us Gods and Ashuru Herself. A threat I do not know for sure if we can overcome.”

In an instant, a million different senses rippled over Excelsis’ body. These were not the words you wanted to hear from a god like Khthon. Especially not when he willingly rose to the surface of the world. ”What threat?” asked Excelsis. ”How much time do we have?”

”I do not know how much time we have. I fear it is not nearly enough.” He took a moment to brace himself. ”There is… something that slumbers within Ashuru. Something old. Older than us, older than the world.”

”She slumbers, and should have still for eons to come. But she wakes. Too soon, far too soon…” He gestured to the world, to the mortals below, to the Monster. ”We have been careless. Fools! With our meddling, we have engineered our own undoing!”

He reached out to Excelsis’ mind, showing the memories he had glimpsed from the Great Bell, and the dire warning inscribed upon it. ”I can feel her in my caverns. Stirring, breathing. She. Must. Not. Wake.”

”But I do not know what she is…” he finished with a whisper.

This revelation answered two questions and created a hundredfold more. His mind went over the visions given by Khthon and extracted every bit of information out of them. ”It is not yet too late.” He said, though he made it sound more like some grand declaration. ”What do you think we must do?” The God-Orb asked, despite brimming with his own answers to that question. The Lord of Stone, at the moment, was the most eminent authority on matters of Ashuru.

”Sleep. She must sleep once more, at any cost.” Khthon felt frazzled, had been so since his discovery. He tried to center himself, not let panic or despair overtake him, once more, and continued. ”You are Discovery. You above all else would be able to find out her nature. Please,” he begged, for the first time in his existence, ”you must do so.”

Was this it?

Since his spawning Excelsis believed he was meant to become the greatest of all the gods after a harrowing trial, akin to the catalyzing Challenge he subjects his mortal chosen to. Was this his Challenge? His trial?

”It is then, perhaps, no coincidence that I wandered the Unshaped Lands for so long, and that I was called back at this fateful moment.” The God-Orb said. ”I solemnly accept this charge. I will uncover the nature of She-Who-Sleeps and how to extend her slumber.” He declared proudly, as his mind already split from the design of his home to create a vessel worthy of uncovering The Sleeper.

”But then I must charge you, Lord of Stone, with an equal duty. The roots of this world once held her. They are the obvious answer to this. Regrow them. They are in your domain. I am certain it is within your capacities.” Excelsis said.

Khthon stayed silent for a moment, searching for the right words. ”...Though they may rest in my realm, the roots… they are not of me. Never have been. They are not Stone or Earth, but Thoughts made solid.” He paused once more. ”I will do what I can. I will protect them as I have so far. Should your people find something, anything from the dead shard you have traded, I will use that knowledge however I can.”

”But I cannot guarantee results.” It stung to have to admit it, but it was necessary. Despite all their powers as Gods, they were not truly omnipotent.

He could do other things, though. He already had, by creating the Sabulon to scour the world for him. And he was doing more right now, by asking for help. ”I will seek more of our God-Siblings for help. Though I know few, I know some who should be willing to help… and should any govern Sleep, I shall find them as well.”

The God-Orb, at best it could, nodded. ”You are good and wise to bring these matters to the surface, my kin.” Excelsis said. ”Attend to the others now. I shall prepare for my journey now.” With those words divine power was unleashed.

Far away, in the Unshaped Lands, an ever-shifting mountain vanished. The ground it once claimed hardened as the influences of Khthon could finally claim the land. The grey, shimmering mountain appeared floating over the monster. It eclipsed the sun for a moment. Then it crumbled. Streams of raw material that could be shaped by the gods like mortals shape clay flowed from the Unshaped Mountain into a structure atop the Monster.

It was a structure of marble, gold, and silver. Its lower ranks were shaped like a museum that was barely filled. Beautiful busts of the world’s greatest minds that have perished were shown here, with a plaque explaining who they were. Others, like Aristel, had an entire room dedicated to their discovery of Magicks. The mortal would be honored in these halls.

In the middle section of the Spire were workshops and laboratories. Crystalline flasks and great telescoping lenses were focused on nothing yet, but could be manned to uncover the great mysteries of the world further. At the core of the section was the library, ready to receive tablets of clay, leather scrolls, and stacks of paper to eternalize any discovery worthy to be remembered.

At the top section of the Spire, the structure became vastly less hospitable to mortality. The workshops and laboratories here were eldritch and strange. Fit for a god but lethal to mortals. They, too, were empty of subjects. At the core of it was a large empty hall where Excelsis’ vessel of discovery would be housed.

Khthon looked upon the great temple of Discovery, and knew he had chosen the right God for the task. ”I give you permission to freely roam my realm,” he announces slowly, as if every word had great weight, ”for as long as your mission necessitates it. Our previous agreement still stands, of course.”

He hummed slightly, a sound like roiling sands. ”And do endeavour not to damage my dwellings if possible, when down there. I would prefer not to have to deal with too much of a mess…”

With those last few words, the Earth God was swallowed by the volcanic rock once more, preparing to search for more of his God-Siblings.

The First Cephalopod’s journey had finally reached its end.

So many things have happened during its journey. The birth of a star. The rises of the two smaller stars. Its numerous mutated tentacles. Its increased in size.

Years of traveling had led it to this point, to a hole that led to the Darkness Below beneath the sea bed. A water vortex formed at its agape mouth, pulling everything from the surface to the down under. Those that currently reside in the water are no better. Apart from those who were able to find caves to hide in or possessed enough strength to swim against the current, the majority of the sea critters had been pulled in. The First Cephalopod is currently settling in one of the caves like this. Its soft body barely allows it to squeeze into this hole.

This is to be expected. After all, the First Cephalopod had grown drastically in size. Now it is half the size of …. something. It doesn’t know. It knows that it is now far larger than the greatest shark. They still posed a threat, but First Cephalopod could kill them now. However, it is definitely smaller than other beings. Strange beings. Beings that are not of flesh… Beings that are made of knowledge and ideas. One of them “introduced” itself as Patron of Seaweed. It is made of seaweed, but moves and acts like dolphins and First Cephalopod does.

The First Cephalopod does not understand what introduced means. But the noise could be replicated by the grinding of its beaks against one another. Or the smashing of rocks. Or the shredding of seaweed… Maybe…The First Cephalopod thinks the noises that the Patron made are similar to one of those vibrations. Maybe it had forgotten the precise noises.

It is, after all, unknown noises.

But the increase in size and weight aren’t without drawbacks. The First Cephalopod could no longer swim like its smaller self anymore, the necessary energy to stay afloat and moving far exceeded the amount of energy acquired from a dolphin. So, it crawls across the sea bed, hunting any that simply come across its path.

The numbers of prey are dwindling. Just as the level of water continues to decrease.

But, for now, the First Cephalopod still chooses to remain on the surface sea. Its tentacles are numerous. Its sizes had drastically increased. And for now, it knew no fear.

---

The Patron of Water heads to the direction of its caller, memories work to recall the information about this God. After its encounter with the God of Civilization, the Patron of Water had worked diligently in avoiding drawing the ire of Godkin. It knew that the Sun god is a vainglorious being. The Mistress of Death is unreasonable and patient. The Being of Life is just a beast. The Gambler loves gambling. The Earth is greedy…

But the sea… After the disappearance of the last God to claim over the Sea and Corruption, the sea hasn’t responded much. It doesn’t call for anything. Don't ask anything. For a lot of the patrons, those of currents, tides, rivers,... This was an enjoyable change. They could choose to do their work, or slack off and laze around in their hideyholes. It doesn’t matter. Time for the Patron might as well be nonexistent. And for the few poor sods that got destroyed from the creation of Gods - Patron of the Sea Critters were nearly killed by the creation of the Drain - most of them just enjoyed the days that went by.

But, this is not without issue. The sea, due to its lack of volition, are simply a thing to be control by the other gods. The Sun God came to life, the sea drained. The Earth God created the Drain, the sea drained. The drastic decrease of surface water had resulted in the desertification of many regions, which the Patrons of Rivers and Patrons of Streams had tried their best to fight against. So far, they have reached equilibrium in containing the desert from the south from spreading further. But, another Acts of Gods and who knew what Patron would die?

“Come.” The voice called. And the Patron of Water arrived.

It saw other Patron of Water. Multiple Patrons of Rivers. Numerous Patrons of Streams and Springs, whose names and titles equals with that of the stars in the night sky. Patron of Tides. Patron of Rains. Patron of Sea Life… All patrons that are somehow related to the sea are here. And before them, a Black Whale of gargantuan size. Its scars are the size of a canyon. Its fins carry whale lice and barnacles. If it wasn’t because the Godkin could change their sizes at will, then this Whale must have been the largest being. The sea bends beneath its weight.

But more than anything, it smells of Godkin.

And all things make sense.

A God of the Sea.

The moment of silence prolonged before one decided to break the silence. Patron of Storm, a vicious patron. One that craved violence, and yet had done none since the sea was given purpose from the missing Godkin.

“What of your name?” The thunderstorm asked, every letter carried by the howling winds.

And the God of gargantuan size answered like a whale would. It sang in the deepest notes and highest pitches, one that all the patrons could understand.

“I am Amut the Black.” It sang.

“God of the Shallow Sea and the Self.”

---

And the Patrons, whose names equate to the number of sand on the sea to be addressed individually, asked the most holiest of the Sea. “For the Oceans had long been silent, what voice would you make of us?”

And Amut answered. “For these words were uttered when the formless water became Sea, let this be the only voice of the Endless Water.”

Let the ocean be the veil that conceals the truth. The further down the depth, the less they will be able to find, until their own limb and sound of the heartbeat disappear.
Let the madness in their heart grow, the longer they spend down the surface, until they only think of total annihilation.
Let the above be filled with fog, which sometimes makes sights and sounds that never are, and hide the destinations which are always there.
Let the danger of those oceans be so enchanting to the weak willed, that they cannot wait to chase their ruination with smile and laughter.

The Patrons then asked again, their voices crashed against each other.

“If you are the Voice of the Seas, then tell us what truth you hide. For the mouth does not lie against the heart. And the eyes could only see what the soul believes in.”

And Amut answered, his notes provide clarity in the seas of chaotic noise.

“The Endless Waters hide no truth and withhold no secrets. For there is no self before I existed, and no acts of malice committed before I was born.”

This caused quite a ripple among the cohorts of patronage, who cried out in violence.

“Then what of malice? What of hate? What of the madness in their heart? What of destruction beyond death?”

Amut sang, his voice always bringing out the silence of the Seas.
“The sea does not scheme, nor required scheming. The waves crashed because so, not out of malice to the shoreline. The river bends because of its water, not because it dances. Your mistaken actions implied intentions. And therein lies your own destruction. The Endless Seas need no intent to be named cruel - only participants in its action. The madness in the heart grows, not of the Oceans’ doing, but because of the fallacy of self.”

This quieted the chorus for a moment, before they continued with their questioning.

“You named yourself Shallowed Seas and the Self. Where does your domain range?” And they splintered into multitudes.

“Do you claim the multitude of the rivers and the endless streams, the springs, and unnamed underground water?” The nameless patrons of streams, springs, and rivers whispered. Their voices are smaller than the smallest of beings.

And to this, Amut answered.

“For the Endless Waters was one before given name, thus all waters could trace itself to the oceans.” This silences the springs, the streams, and the rivers patrons. And as they bend their knees, all waters can find their way to and from the Oceans. None could severed this, for this truth existed before the Endless Water was given purpose.

Then asked the Patrons of Typhoon, Hail, Blizzards and the multitude of disasters.

“Do you claim the blood that We spilled? The power that We commanded?” They roared, which Amut roared in turn.

“For you all came into being by water or descended there of. What rights do you have but deny my dominion?” This calmed the typhoons, the tsunamis, the blizzards, and the hails. Their beings become occurrences across the seas. Signs of their comings could now be inferred upon by the experienced. This does not lessen their damage, but gives predictability. However, the Patron of sandstorms and volcanoes respond in turn.

“For the damage I claimed comes from the earth and the heat, and mine from the sands and the gale. Thus, we will not bend our knees to your dominion.” And this, Amut of the Shallow recognized and accepted.

Then came the Patrons of Fishes, of Seaweed, of the myriad of Sea Critters that called the waters home. Their voices were the most colorful, for only they carried true mortality.

“If you claimed all these to be the Oceans, what becomes of the beings that nested within your waters? Are we guests that simply existed within your nonexistent hospitality? Beggars that subsist upon your indifference? When the waves had erased our existence and tides washed away our blood, would you remember us, God of the Shallow Sea?”

“I was born before godhood. I swam before there were destinations and locations. I ate before hunger came to being. The Endless Waters carried my formless mass, before I cleave myself from the tides and the waves beneath Me. I am the Self that stands against the Endless Waters, the one that tides learn to hold. Where I swam, tides and currents are defined. Where I had traveled, destination and locations gained its name. In all the waters that I command, the waters remembered. Because I remembered.” This dried the tears of the patrons of Fishes, of Seaweed, and of the myriad of Sea Critters. While Amut does not claim these patron beneath its dominion, it is their own volition to prosper and suffer within the Shallowed Seas. This is why signs of life are more often than not able to be found near the shorelines, or where the tides and currents are predictables.

[the tablets are missing a few lines…]

The Patron of Water asked:

“If you call yourself the God of the Shallow Seas and of the Self, what then becomes of the deeper parts of the Endless Waters?”

Amut responded, his note stretching toward the infinite. Yet true infinity has no ascent nor end, and Amut’s note still rose, and thus was finite.

“For where my waters hold form, the deeper parts let go of it. Where the self descends—not by malice, but by the blurring of distinction. There, the separations that once defined the self collapse into a single, undifferentiated noise. Eddies, tides, currents, and waves are not destroyed, but rendered indifferentiable, until motion becomes meaningless. Remember this, Patron of Water: where I stand, depth is made possible. There is no deepest part of the Endless Waters. Only the infinite descent. ”

The boy’s name was Lionel, once spoken softly by a tired mother, now carried a little differently on his tongue. He stumbled forward out of the shimmer of color and sound, feet touching earth, breath stopping as the world settled. When he turned back, expecting ribbons of light or laughter, there was only a house. A plain thing. Wattle walls, a low roof, smoke curling from a hole in the top. The Carnival was gone as if it had never been.

A few startled yelps cut through the air. Someone gasped. Someone else dropped a basket. Eyes fixed on him, as villagers took in the strange boy who had appeared where no boy had stood before. Lionel froze, heart thudding, hands half-raised in a reflex he no longer quite needed. He felt taller than he remembered, lighter too, as if the ground was politely asking him to stay rather than demanding it. Then the moment broke.

A trader laughed nervously and shook his head. Another voice muttered about tricks and wandering spirits. Life, relentless and incurious, surged back into motion. People stepped around him, not away, just around, carts creaking, voices overlapping, the smells of animals, sweat, smoke and food. Lionel of the Juggling Turn let himself be carried with them, slipping into the flow.

As he walked, he became aware of himself in pieces. His scars, once clumsy marks of childhood, were gone, replaced by smooth skin that still remembered them. His reflection flickered in a polished bowl on a trader’s stall, not alien, not perfect, just better, like a story told by someone who loved it.

The feeling in his chest, warm and bright, pulsed in time with music that wasn’t there. He smiled without quite meaning to. People met his eyes and held them a second longer than they should have. A woman haggling over dried fruit laughed at nothing at all. Two children stopped arguing and stared at him, then at each other, then ran off grinning as if they had shared a secret. By the time he reached the center of the village, no one was watching him anymore.

He was just another figure among many, another child, another curiosity soon forgotten. Lionel of the Juggling Turn rested a hand against his chest, steadying himself and thought of doors that were not doors, of games that mattered because they were played, of laughter that chose you back. Somewhere, far away and very close, the Carnival breathed. And Lionel, newly fae, took his first steps into the world, ready to ask a simple question that could change everything.

Lionel of the Juggling Turn did not notice the sadness at first. Amid the noise of voices and the clatter of trade, something tugged at him, a dull ache that did not belong to him. It was heavier than the small worries he brushed past every moment, heavier than hunger or irritation or fatigue. This was deeper. Hollow. It made his chest tighten in answer.

He slowed, then turned, letting the feeling guide him. It was not a sound or a sight but a pressure, pulling him the way a scent pulls a hunting hound. Each step sharpened it. The warmth he carried from the Carnival dimmed slightly, focusing, narrowing in on a single source. Lionel of the Juggling Turn followed, weaving between people, past stacked baskets and tethered animals, his path growing clearer with every breath.

The crowd thinned near the edge of the village. There, beside a low fence and a heap of discarded tools, sat a woman with her face buried in her hands. Her shoulders shook in small, broken motions. The sadness rolled off her in waves, so strong it made Lionel stop a few steps away as if he had reached the edge of something fragile.

He watched her for a moment, uncertain. This was not a game. There was no laughter here, no thrill of risk, no spark of challenge. And yet, the pull was undeniable. He felt, instinctively, that leaving would be wrong in a way he could not explain.

Lionel approached slowly, careful not to startle her. He crouched slightly so his shadow would not loom and spoke gently, his voice still carrying the softness of a child, though steadier now. “Hey,” he said, sincere, “what’s wrong?”

The woman looked up sharply when he spoke, eyes red and unfocused. For a moment she seemed confused, as if she hadn’t expected anyone to notice her at all. Then her expression hardened, embarrassment and grief tangling together. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, waving a hand at him without looking directly. “Go on now. Find your parents. This isn’t a place for children.”

Lionel hesitated, then nodded as if he understood, taking a step back. But he didn’t leave. Instead, he bent down and scooped up three small stones from the dirt, testing their weight in his palms. The woman frowned, watching despite herself. “I said go,” she muttered, her voice thinner now, less certain.

Without a word, Lionel tossed one stone into the air, then another, then the third. They arced clumsily at first, almost dropping, before settling into an uneven rhythm. It was not graceful. It was messy, exaggerated, clearly on purpose. His tongue stuck out in concentration, brows furrowed as if this were the most serious task in the world.

He pushed it too far. One stone slipped, bounced off his forehead with a dull clack and fell to the ground. Lionel froze, eyes wide, then slowly crossed them as if trying to look at the spot it had struck. He wobbled in place, knees bending, arms flailing in an overly dramatic attempt to stay upright.

A sound escaped the woman before she could stop it. A short laugh, sharp and surprised, like something breaking through ice. She clapped a hand over her mouth, startled by herself, then let out another breath that was almost a chuckle. The tension in her shoulders eased just a bit.

Lionel grinned, rubbing his head and giving her an exaggerated bow. The sadness did not vanish, not entirely, but it loosened. For the first time since he had followed the ache to her side, the pull inside him softened, as if he had taken the first right step. As the laughter faded, Lionel tilted his head and looked up at her again, eyes bright but steady now. “So,” he said gently, as if the word itself were a second attempt at the question. “What really happened?” He did not press, did not rush. He simply waited, hands folded behind his back like a child expecting a story, not a confession.

She looked away toward the road beyond the village, where wagons sometimes came and sometimes never did. “A caravan,” she said quietly. “My husband went with it. Our child too. Traders, guards, families, all of them heading east.” Her fingers curled into her sleeves. “They were attacked. Slavers. That’s what the survivors said.” Her voice cracked at the word. “The chief told me it’s too dangerous. Said we can’t spare people. That they’re probably already gone.”

Lionel frowned, not in sorrow but in thought, like someone rearranging pieces in his mind. “That doesn’t sound very fun,” he said at last, plainly. He took a step closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “I could bring them back. Your child. Your husband. d I’m very good at finding people who don’t want to be found.” She snapped her gaze back to him, disbelief flaring hot through the grief. “You’re a child,” she said sharply. “This isn’t a story. You can’t fix this with tricks.” Her hands trembled now, anger and hope crashing together in equal measure. “Don’t play with me.”

“I won’t,” Lionel replied and for the first time there was something ancient behind his smile. “But I will play with you.” He gestured between them, then down at the ground. “A game. Just one. If you win, I go and bring them back. No songs, no stories, no lies.” Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “And if you win?” she asked, already knowing there would be a cost.

Lionel’s grin returned, softer this time. “Then you talk,” he said. “You tell people about Alechior's Carnival. About the games. About the joy you can find when the world says no.” He shrugged, as if it were nothing at all. “That’s it. No blood. No pain. Just words, spread where they’re needed.”

Silence stretched between them. The village sounds crept back in around the edges, footsteps, barter, distant voices. At last, the woman wiped her eyes and looked down at him, really looked. “What kind of game?” she asked. Lionel crouched and picked up three small pebbles from the dirt, smooth enough to roll but plain enough to mean nothing on their own. He held them out on his palm. “We keep it simple,” he said. “Chance only. No clever hands, no tricks.”

He closed his fist around them, shook once, then hid his hands behind his back. “Left or right. Three times. Best of three wins.” As he spoke, the air around them subtly shifted. Sounds dulled, colors sharpened. It felt like standing just inside a warm tent while the world continued outside, slightly muted. The Carnival, thin as breath, had taken notice.

The woman hesitated, then pointed. “Left.” Lionel opened his hand. Empty. He opened the other. A pebble rested there, pale and unassuming. For a heartbeat nothing happened, then the boundary settled fully. The ground seemed firmer, the air brighter, as if the space itself had agreed to watch. Lionel blinked, then laughed once, light and honest.

“You win the first,” he said. “Good start.” They reset. Lionel gathered the stones again, rolling them between his fingers before hiding his hands once more. She closed her eyes, breathed and pointed again. Lionel opened his hand. A pebble lay there. This time, when he smiled, it carried something sharper. “Mine,” he said simply. The space hummed, approving.

The final round lingered longer than the others. Lionel felt the pull of it in his chest, the way the Carnival always leaned closer at the edge of a decision. He shook the stones and hid his hands but this time he felt oddly hollow, like something was already slipping loose. The woman stared at him, then at his hands, then laughed softly, almost to herself. She pointed.

Lionel opened his hand. Empty. The other followed, revealing the last pebble. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the air pressed inward, gently but firmly, sealing the result. The Carnival withdrew its attention as quickly as it had given it, leaving only the echo of certainty behind.

Lionel’s smile did not fade but it changed. Somewhere deep in his mind, a pressure bloomed, sudden and unavoidable. A thought, no, a need, looping endlessly. Find them. Find them. It was not a command spoken aloud, but a tune he could not stop hearing, like a song remembered too late at night, just as sleep was almost within reach.

He straightened, breath steady despite the pulse behind his eyes. The impulse did not hurt but it would not be ignored. It threaded through him, tied to the woman’s win, bound by the game’s simple rules. He nodded once, solemn now. “Alright,” he said. “You’ve won.”

The woman stared at him, hope and fear colliding on her face. The space around them felt normal again, the village noise rushing back in, but Lionel remained still, listening to that quiet, relentless melody in his head. He looked up at her, eyes bright with promise. “I’m going to bring them back,” he said, as if stating the most obvious thing in the world. The woman blinked, the moment catching up to her all at once.

She shook her head, half laughing, half crying and waved her hands in front of her. “No, no, it’s fine,” she said quickly. “You’ve done enough already. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. It was just a game. You’re just a child, I don’t expect you to fix what grown folk couldn’t.” Her voice softened, trying to undo the weight of what had just settled.

Lionel stepped closer, close enough that she finally noticed how still he was. Not scared. Not unsure. Just focused. “No,” he said, gently but firmly, cutting her off mid-sentence. “It was not just a game.” His smile was gone now, replaced by something calm and unyielding. “You played with a Fae. The Carnival watched. That means it binds.”

She opened her mouth again, but Lionel continued before she could speak. “I will find them,” he said. There was no pride in it, no bravado. Just fact. “Dead or alive. The game does not care which, only that the promise is kept.” For the first time, the woman felt a chill run through her, not fear of him, but awe at the certainty in his voice.

Her hands trembled as she pointed down the dirt road leading away from the village. “The caravan,” she said quietly. “They were last seen near the trade path, by the split stones. That’s where the slavers were spotted.” Saying it aloud made it real again.

Lionel nodded once, committing the words to memory. He did not say goodbye. He turned and ran, small feet striking the ground faster than they should have, already following the pull in his chest like a hound on a scent. Behind him, the woman watched until he vanished from sight, only then realizing that the game had already begun moving the world on her behalf.

The trade path ended in silence. The stones there were old and split down the middle like broken teeth, half-swallowed by dirt and weeds. Lionel slowed as he reached them. Something had happened here. The ground was scuffed, churned where feet had scrambled, where weight had been dragged instead of carried.

Even without knowing why, his skin prickled. He crouched, small hands brushing over the dirt. He did not know how to track. No lessons, no tricks, no names for signs. But his eyes caught things that felt obvious once seen. A line pressed too deep into the soil, like a cart wheel forced off the path. Threads of cloth snagged on thorny brush, fluttering faintly in the wind.

Lionel leaned closer, head tilted, letting his gaze soften instead of narrowing. Footprints overlapped, some light, some heavy. Too many for a normal caravan. Some prints walked calmly. Others dug in, heels biting deep, toes skidding forward. Fear left marks, he realized, even if he did not have words for it. He stood and followed the direction the ground seemed to pull him toward. Every few steps, he stopped, scanning ahead, then back, then to the sides.

A broken branch pointed the way it had been forced aside. Flattened grass told him which way bodies had passed more than once. His eyes picked up differences in color, damp earth against dry, fresh disturbance against old stillness.

The further he went, the clearer it became. The tracks veered off the trade path and into rougher land. Lionel felt the tug in his chest tighten, the same rhythm as before, steady and insistent. This was right. This was forward. He did not question it. Without meaning to, he began to hum under his breath, a soft tune with no words, keeping time with his steps. He followed the marks left behind, not as a hunter, not as a warrior, but as something new, guided by sharper sight and a promise that refused to loosen its grip.

The tracks ended too cleanly. One step they were there, pressed into dirt and crushed leaves, the next the ground lay untouched, smooth as if nothing had ever passed through. Lionel stopped short, heart thudding. The light dimmed beneath the canopy, shadows growing thick and uneven as dusk crept in. His eyes searched the ground again, slower now but there was nothing left to follow.

Something tightened in his chest instead. Not fear. Not exactly. A hollow ache, like laughter cut short. The lack of merriment pressed against him from all sides, heavier than the dark. He drew in a breath and let the feeling guide him, turning his head slightly. There. A pull, faint but sure, tugging him away from the path and deeper into the trees.

He moved carefully, branches brushing his shoulders. The forest smelled of damp earth and old leaves, but beneath it lingered something sour. Sweat. Fear. The sadness grew stronger with every pace. Lionel dropped low as the trees thinned. Ahead, a faint glow flickered between trunks, firelight wavering against rough shapes. He crawled the last few steps and pressed himself behind a fallen log, peering through splintered wood. A makeshift camp lay before him. A fire burned at its center, fed with snapped branches and half-dried logs.

Around it moved men with clubs and sharpened sticks, their shadows long and warped across the ground. There were about ten of them, laughing too loud, voices sharp and careless.

Beyond them, tied with thick rope, were the captives. Four children huddled together, eyes wide and faces streaked with dirt and tears. Two adult men sat slumped nearby, wrists bound behind them, shoulders sagging with exhaustion with multiple visible bruises on their faces. The sadness Lionel felt slammed into him all at once, suffocating.

He stayed still, breath shallow, heart racing. The camp was real. The game was real. And somewhere inside him, beneath the fear, the promise stirred again, steady and unyielding, urging him not to turn away. Lionel stayed crouched behind the log, watching the rhythm of the camp. Who moved where. Who laughed loudest. Who kept their eyes on the captives and who didn’t. Ten slavers, all armed, all alert enough that a straight charge would end with him broken on the ground.

He was stronger than a human, faster too, but not invincible. Not like this. Not against numbers. He pressed his lips together, thinking. Games, not blades. Chance, not force. Alechior’s lesson stirred faintly in his mind, half memory, half instinct. This was not a problem to be solved with strength. It was one to be played. Still, the how refused to come, and the sadness in his chest pulsed impatiently, urging him to hurry.

Then the air shifted.

It was subtle at first, a warmth brushing his skin, like sunlight through leaves that were not there. The forest around him seemed to lean inward, branches creaking. Between two trees, wood and vine curled together, an archway. No light spilled through it, yet it was unmistakable. The Carnival was near.

The familiar feeling washed over him in a wave. Laughter remembered. Music half-heard. That deep, impossible happiness that drowned out fear. Lionel let out a slow breath, shoulders loosening despite himself. He had not called for the gate, not consciously, but the game had already begun. A plan clicked into place. He would not fight them. He would invite them. A distraction, loud enough, tempting enough, to draw eyes and feet. A moment of curiosity, of greed, of mockery. All he needed was one step across that threshold.

Let the Carnival do the rest.

Even if it only took a few of them, it would be enough. Confusion would spread. Ropes could be cut. Children could run. Lionel’s fingers curled into the bark beneath him as he steadied himself. This was what he was meant for. He glanced once more at the captives, then at the slavers and finally at the archway, humming softly to itself behind him. A grin tugged at his lips. Time to make a game out of monsters.

Lionel rose from his hiding place and stepped into the open without haste, like a child who had wandered somewhere he should not be. He scooped a handful of stones from the ground and began to toss them lazily into the air, one after another, humming a tune that did not belong to the forest. The notes were wrong for the night, too bright, too playful. One of the stones vanished mid-arc, swallowed by nothing at all, only to drop back into his palm a heartbeat later. He smiled as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world.

A shout went up from the camp. Then another. Spears lifted. Clubs were hefted. Five of the slavers turned as one, eyes narrowing at the sight of a lone boy juggling rocks where no boy should be. Lionel let one stone slip, letting it bonk him squarely on the forehead. He staggered back dramatically and laughed, rubbing his head as though it truly hurt.

“See?” he called, voice carrying. “Not even sharp! You can try if you want.”

Curiosity beat caution. It always did. The first slaver stepped forward, then another, drawn by the sound, by the strangeness of it. Lionel backed away as they advanced, each step slow, leading them not away from the camp but sideways, toward the archway that now stood fully formed between the trees. Leaves rustled though there was no wind. The air shimmered faintly, warm and inviting.

“What kind of trick is this?” one of them barked, but there was laughter in his voice now, rough and eager. Lionel shrugged and tossed a stone through the archway. It vanished with a soft, musical chime, like a bell rung far away. The sound made the men pause, then grin. One of them stepped through without thinking, swatting at the air as though expecting resistance.

He laughed as he disappeared. The others followed, one by one, drawn in by mockery, by bravado, by the need to prove there was nothing to fear. Five slavers crossed the threshold, their shapes swallowed by twisting light and shadow, their voices fading into something louder, stranger, threaded with distant music. The archway pulsed.

Behind Lionel, the remaining five slavers cursed and spread out, circling the camp, searching the tree line for threats that were no longer there. Their attention was everywhere except where it mattered. Ropes lay forgotten. The captives breathed shallow and fast, eyes wide. Lionel slipped back into the shadows, heart hammering, the echo of laughter ringing faintly in his ears.

The game was in motion now, and the Carnival had taken its first move. Lionel moved low and fast, his steps light enough that the dry leaves barely made a sound beneath his feet. The slavers were distracted, their backs turned as they argued and shouted to one another, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The campfire cracked and popped, throwing long shadows across the ground. Lionel slipped between them.

He reached the first set of ropes and did not hesitate. His fingers closed around the twisted fibers and pulled. Where mortal hands, especially a child's, would have struggled, the cords parted with a soft, dull snap. The child nearest him gasped, a sharp intake of breath that Lionel stilled with a quick shake of his head and a finger to his lips. He smiled, small and reassuring.

One by one, the bindings fell away. The captives were stiff, cramped, shaking but they moved when Lionel urged them, silent as they could manage. He guided them toward the treeline, keeping his body between them and the camp, listening to the slavers’ footsteps as they drew closer, suspicion finally blooming into alarm. A shout rang out behind him.

A spear thudded into the dirt where he had stood a moment earlier. Lionel pushed the last freed slave forward, all but throwing them into the cover of the forest. “Run,” he whispered fiercely, the word sharp with command. “Run to the village. Do not stop. Do not look back.”

The forest swallowed them. Branches bent aside, shadows closing like a curtain. The moment the last figure vanished into the trees, Lionel turned, meeting the slavers’ furious stares with a grin that was far too calm for a boy in his position. Then he bolted, not toward the village but deeper into the forest, laughter trailing behind him like a challenge.

By the time the slavers reached the edge of the camp, there was nothing left but snapped ropes, fading footprints and the unsettling sense that something very important had just slipped through their fingers.

A few hours later, the village lights came into view, small fires and lamps glowing like scattered stars against the dark. The freed slaves stumbled toward them, half-running, half-falling, driven by fear and hope in equal measure. They did not look back, just as Lionel had told them, though more than once one of them nearly did, a sob catching in their throat before the village gates pulled them onward. Lionel followed at a distance, never close enough to be seen, never far enough to lose them.

He moved through the brush like a shadow stitched to their heels, eyes sharp, ears tuned for pursuit. Each time one of them faltered, he felt it, a tug in his chest and urged them forward with a soft whistle or the crack of a branch in the right direction. No slavers came. The forest stayed quiet.

When the villagers cried out and rushed to meet the returnees, Lionel stopped at the edge of the trees. He watched as hands grabbed shoulders, as names were shouted and answered, as tears flowed freely now that safety had a shape and a sound. The woman was there, he could feel her before he saw her, the hollow ache in her chest rushing outward in a sudden, overwhelming wave of relief.

The moment she found her husband and child, something settled inside Lionel. Not snapped, not closed but clicked into place, like the final note of a song resolving at last. The pull in his mind eased. The promise was kept.

Warmth spread through him, starting behind his ribs and blooming outward. It was not loud joy, not laughter or spectacle, but a deep, quiet happiness that soaked into his bones. The Carnival answered, approving, pleased. Somewhere unseen, the game marked itself complete.

Lionel smiled to himself from the treeline, turned away from the village lights, and vanished back into the dark, already listening for the next place where merriment was missing.

“Where has he gone?”

The Patron of Glory was the first to give voice to it, though Fire and Lord Hierarchy had both begun to wonder. In one moment they were traversing the burning forest together, Sarhush just ahead, but in the next things had become strange. Smoke had flowed sideways, the air had seemed bent, and the god had said something about odd noises and then vanished before them as if into nothingness.

The Patron of Fire flared as if to shrug, a brief restless surge that vanished into the greater inferno of the jungle. No ash marked Sarhush’s passing; nothing had been consumed.

“If I cannot see him, how am I to witness any great and terrible deeds that he is to commit?” Glory protested.

Lord Hierarchy stepped in, “He called us. Until that summons is revoked, we are to attend this place awaiting his return.”

So they waited for a time even as the first of the once-great trees nearby collapsed as a blackened husk, consumed by the raging flames. “You can remain then, but I won’t,” Fire eventually declared. For its parting words, it addressed the other two, “There will always be more to burn. If he should summon me again, I will answer, but he cannot expect me to wait starving atop a pile of ashes.”

Glory didn’t need to be persuaded; as glorious and awesome as the sound and tumult of a fiery log crashing into the earth could be, there was no longer any novelty in watching a forest burn. It had seen such happenings many times already, so now Glory took its leave to find something worth witnessing.

The Patron of Hierarchy remained in that place where Sarhush had vanished. More trees collapsed into ash, consumed down to blackened roots. Others smoldered, stubborn, their sap hissing and steaming as flame refused to take hold. Paths opened and closed as embers fell. The jungle was no longer a single inferno, but a field of decisions made by heat and chance.

For the first time since manifesting upon Ashuru, Lord Hierarchy attempted to resolve the situation through rule and sequence rather than mere deference to authority. It yielded no answer to the present situation. This was not proper. There should have been a contingency, a hierarchy of absence, a clear succession plan, some articulation for what should follow. Without Sarhush, there was only a wretched void that permitted no ranking.

At last, Lord Hierarchy withdrew its presence from that desolate place. The fires of that jungle continued to rage for some time, but they did so without order, guidance, or witness. Eventually the untended fires had nothing further to consume and faded to leave only an ashen landscape behind.

---

The reach of Kur-Laka had spread far from its origin, like redness creeping outward from a wound. It now possessed settlements too numerous to easily count. Some were independent in all but name – tributaries who paid in fear and flesh to avoid open defiance – but others were true outposts, founded and settled by those drawn from Kur-Laka’s swelling mass.

One such colony, perched at the very edge of Kur-Laka’s grasp (for now!) was called Telepylos. It was in the heart of a wild place. The surrounding hills were haunted by wraiths, prowled by beasts, and home to some scattered tribes and bands of savages that had yet to fall under the Kur-Lakan yoke.

To survive, Telepylos wrapped itself in rock. Walls hewed from unmortared stone blocks rose thick and uneven around the settlement, and passage into Telepylos was granted by a single door: a massive gate fashioned from a dozen whole logs that had been stood upright and lashed together. Lifting the gate required pulleys of strong rope and many slaves with backs that were stronger still.

Other strong-backed slaves labored beyond the walls to carve out blocks of stone from pits, the hills and cliffsides groaning under the work. Wraiths, accidents, and beasts claimed a few in the quarries from time to time, but replacements were always forthcoming. New meat was procured from cowed tribes, from the defeated enemies, or from those who had fallen out of favor in Kur-Laka. The work did not slow.

It was above one of these quarries that Glory first appeared. At dawn, those preparing for the day’s toil noticed that the light was wrong. The sunlight was there, but there was something else too, a luminance that was brighter, pulsating, and impossible to look at directly. Shadows sharpened. Stone faces gleamed as though newly polished.

Some fell to their knees in awe at the Patron. Others shielded their eyes and stared anyway, teeth clenched, tears streaming.

Glory did not descend. It did not speak. It simply hovered, suspended above the hills like a great fire that exuded white-gold radiance absent heat.

Glory descended down to one of the overseers. Nobody else heard what was said, but from that day afterward, that overseer began shouting orders of a different sort. He was not relaying commands that had been given to it by Glory, but ones that simply felt obvious and natural now. The highest point overlooking Telepylos was cleared at this one’s behest, even against the protestations of those who clamored to put the slaves to more pressing projects.

Nothing could be more pressing than this. The cliffside itself was carefully examined, measured, and marked. Stone was carved out and hauled aside. The shape came before the reason. A foot planted upon the hill. A calf, a knee, a towering thigh. Proportions were argued over fiercely, as though something precise were at stake. Slowly, the cliffside itself began to resemble the likeness of one whose name they all knew: Sarhush.

The sound of the god’s name carried strangely in the light, heavy and satisfying. The workers repeated it to one another as they hauled blocks into place. The name made the labor feel lighter. It made the cuts and crushed fingers feel seen.

Glory watched for a time, unblinking. Every utterance of Sarhush was pacifying for it too, as though this act might bring back the god from wherever he had vanished. But that was besides the point; Glory urged this great monument not to summon or beg attention from the god, but for the mere act of inspiring a feeling of exaltation. Of Glory. That was what the Patron embodied and desired and fed upon. There was endless glory to be had through the creation of a figure immortalized in stone, too vast to ignore, and too radiant to question.

At the same time, deep in the stone, fissures and stress fractures discretely made their way through the hill and the statue. For the God of the Earth, though occupied with other matters, felt the transgression of the quarries like an ache in granite bones, felt the insult of another God’s effigy carved in his hills as if carved in his own flesh.

The Earth is jealous. It does not forget, and very seldom forgives. The hills had been stripped bare to build this city, and nothing had been given in return. It would have to take back what had been taken from it, with interest. Soon, the Earth would rupture and swallow all that had been built, all that was Telepylos. It simply needed one last little push…

That push did not come for a long time. The work continued, and the slave-sculptors’ errors were punished. The carving grew more careful, more deliberate. Bit by bit, hands pared away the cliff’s face to chisel detail into the colossal form, to smooth, polish, and then glaze its surface. Never before had something of this scale been attempted. For all they could tell, the hill endured it all in silence and capitulation.

During a quarrying operation elsewhere (for construction continued still on the walls and many other projects besides!) some veins of redness were discovered: hematite ore winding through the rock like arteries laid bare. The Kur-Lakans had no concept of ores, let alone knowledge of iron, but when they saw the red material they thought of Sarhush’s gaze and knew at once that it was from this stone that they would set the statue’s eyes. So they wrenched great chunks of blood hematite from that pit, and they hauled the heavy stones uphill to the site of the colossal statue. The ground itself seemed to crumble beneath the slaves’ trembling steps, but the overseers mercilessly drove them forward. It took an entire week to raise the stones from the ground up to the statue’s sockets, and another day to set them. A dozen bodies fell from the scaffolds and were broken on the rocks below, blood mixing with the stone dust scattered across the ground and darkening it.

The glory-touched overseer looked up in pride to behold his work in the moment that it was completed, when the eyes were fixed into place. The statue towered over Telepylos, ten times the height of a man, its gaze fixed and terrible, its eyes red and unblinking.

But then the hill shifted. The sound that followed was not like thunder, but like something immense being forced to move against its will. Stone groaned and then cracked. Seams that had held for ages gave way at once. The statue lurched forward, not in a bow of admiration, but because the ground beneath it no longer suffered it to stand.

The overseer and architect of the great work died without understanding why, a stupified look upon his face in the moments before he was crushed beneath the falling statue. The great mass of rolling stones did not stop with him. The hill came down in a roaring slide of stone and dust, striking the ramparts of Telepylos and toppling them as easily as a careless hand scatters sand, rolling over and through the once-mighty walls to bury the settlement behind.

When the noise faded, the land was quiet again and Telepylos was a ruin.

---

Toffee was thirsty. She rubbed at her throat and winced as she swallowed her saliva in the desperate hope of relief. It felt, oddly enough, like sand.. A flash of pain pulsed behind her eyes and she shut them. With a quiet moan she placed a hand upon the nearest tree to steady herself. She hadn’t been quite the same since Sab found her in that daze and ever since she had the acute awareness that something was wrong, but she didn’t know what.

She still couldn’t even recall why Sab had found her in the state to begin with. She had a vague recollection of a haze, red like blood… Blood that had been on her, dried to burgundy stains. And her spear had been destroyed. Sure, the tips broke all the time but that was only carelessness or when it was lodged in a big animal. She grimaced, opening her eyes. It was all concerning, to say the least. But survival was now the most prevalent focus of her mind, at least she tried to make it be that. But her throat…

“Sab?” she called. More hoarse than she had ever been. “Where are you?”

As she waited, Toffee realized that If someone had told her that she’d soon be adrift on her own, family scattered and that her closest companion would be a pile of sand, she would have laughed in their face. But she couldn’t because it was true. Much to her chagrin. There had to be some sort of irony there, right?

Then those thoughts drifted to her siblings. More and more she wondered why she had even left Tad and Teefee behind. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She was still furious at Teefee for her violation and she didn’t really know how that was ever going to be resolved. But she had just straight up left Tad behind without even saying goodbye and that just felt… Terrible. Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe she should have turned around by now to go find her sister, who was probably distraught beyond measure but something told her no. It would be a terrible mistake to do so, it seemed to say.

She could only wonder why.

A rustling came from a nearby evergreen bush, followed shortly by a high-pitched whistling and the sound of sand pouring. The sounds mixed strangely, until they started to vaguely resemble speech. “We are near, Toffee!”

From the bush emerged a mass of sand, a being that called itself the Sabulon, and who had more recently been known as Sab. It shook off a light covering of snow, not entirely unlike a dog. “Apologiesssss, we had sssseen a small beast-bird sssscurry away. Ssssadly we did not catch it…” it explained, as bashful as a miniature dune could look. “Do shyou need more wet-water? Shyou sssssound a bit bad…”

“Yes.” Toffee nodded slowly. “So thirsty…” she trailed off, licking her lips as her mouth began watering. Had Sab mentioned food? She shook her head, how could she salivate now? She swallowed again and it stung, which made her wince again. “Have you found any wet-water near us?” she asked, trying to distract herself.

“We only found mud and ssssnow. But we heard ssssomething, too. Something we do not know.” Sab stretched up to a good height, about half of Toffee’s, and stayed still, listening for something. “It ssssounds like flowing. But not ssssand or ssssnow. West from here.”

“You taught ussss of ssstreams. Maybe isss that?” it asked, hopeful. “Lots of wet-water for Toffee-Friend then! And maybe food too!”

“Lead the way, Sab-Friend.” Toffee said and she followed as Sab began to roll along. She watched the Sabulon like a hawk watches a dove, but instead of striking Sab (something that had never crossed her mind) she just stared at the mass of sand and how it moved. How it weaved itself through the snow and underbrush, carrying along bits and pieces of the land and running across others. How in the ancestors did she ever come across such a strange thing? It proved a wonderful distraction from her throat and she said, “I’ve been meaning to ask, how long have we been traveling together now? It hasn’t been a week yet, has it? Or, uhmm, do you even keep track of time?”

Sab raised up one end of its body and nodded it once, a habit it had picked up by watching Toffee do it herself. “Yes, yes, time useful! We remember it, remember the dark-light cyclesss. It has been… six dark-light cycles ssssince we met!” It nodded once more to punctuate its declaration, then added, “We don’t know if issss equal to a ‘week’ or not, though.”

“Yeah, what even is a week honestly?” she found it in herself to muse. They fell into companionable silence and for once, Toffee found that the world around her was vivid in color. The air was growing warmer, she thought, as the game trail they followed was a tad mushy. Green shoots were popping up here and there, whispering about the promise of spring. Birds sang joyous songs and animals were chittering and talking in the absence of her and Sab’s voices. Then she noticed the bough of the tree and how it dripped with snow melt. She tilted her head and focused, noticing a small droplet of glimmering water. She watched as it rolled down one pine needle, then the next and on and on until it ran off the edge and into oblivion.

She had seen blood drip like that, hadn’t she? The recollection was like a punch to her gut and she froze. She looked away from the tree but could only notice other droplets, rolling, rolling, dripping… dripping… She shut her eyes. Her breath quickened and her thirst doubled. She thought of the water and wanted to gag. She thought of the blood, running like a stream from an open wound, blotting the snow like dye on fur and her mouth watered.

Sab didn’t notice the change in Toffee, too focused on following the sound of the stream through the trees. It sometimes paused for a brief second, making sure they were still on the right track, or momentarily distracted by a nearby bird taking flight. Once or twice it even stuck part of itself inside a bush to rummage around, fascinated by the burgeoning plants. With how young it acted, it probably never had seen any before.

Then it stopped, and stood tall, suddenly focused on something. It slowly flattened itself, trying to be as silent as possible… and then leaped off the animal track they had been following, throwing itself like a net. The sound of a brief scuffle ensued, peppered with the very unhappy croaks of some kind of bird. It only lasted for a few moments though, and soon Sab rolled back on the trail, enveloped around a plump ptarmigan, the animal’s neck dangling limply. Cleanly snapped.

“Look! We did it!” it called out happily to Toffee, “We caught a beassssst-bird! Like shyou showed ussss! Food for shyou!”

Sab had barely even uttered ‘for you’ before Toffee had descended. She grabbed the ptarmigan and there came a vicious ripping sound as she tore the head off. Her pupils had blown and she held a very odd look on her face as she cast aside the head. Next she tipped back her head and held the body over her mouth. Red crimson began to dribble from the headless corpse. As much as it entered her mouth, the same amount coated her face and her chest but she didn’t care. This was highly unlike anything Sab had seen from Toffee but at the moment, all she could think about was subduing the burning in her throat.

She thought she would have gagged, that the taste would have been repulsive- but it was not. If anything, it was memory. She had never thought something else could taste like a shiny rock she had once found along a riverbank in her youth. It had been orangish and looked funny and only on a dare from Tad had she licked it. Only now, in such a moment of barbarity could she recall that alien taste and how this bird reminded her of it. When the blood became a trickle she began to lick the open wound and her face with mad glee. Before she knew it, she had bit into the feathers, realized that was a terrible idea and then spat them out before licking furiously to get to the meat underneath. Puffing and blowing out feathers before she reached the raw flesh.

Sab recoiled at the sudden show of viciousness, visibly taken off-guard by it. But it quickly settled down, simply observing Toffee as she devoured the bird raw. After a few minutes, it finally decided to pipe up. “Shyou not need to put beast-bird in fire?” it asked cautiously. “Shyou always put beast-food in fire before. Shyou said is better for shyou, no?”

“If shyou too hungry, we can sssstop for now. Far maybe-stream will not disappear. We can find more beast-food for shyou…” it added quietly, worried for its friend.

These words seemed to jolt Toffee out of her state of being and once more she froze, mouth full of raw flesh. She looked down at the half eaten ptarmigan and then she looked at Sab. What was she doing? Why was she eating such disgusting-

Toffee turned to the side and wretched violently. The bird fell from her hands as she collapsed to her hands and knees. Tears stung her eyes as the contents of her stomach emptied just as quickly as it had filled.

When she at last wretched and only bile came up, her breathing was ragged and she felt feverish. “W-What’s happening to me?” she cried out, afraid and terrified of herself.

Sab twisted its body around, staying silent, letting Toffee catch her breath. It spoke up after a few moments. “Let’s resssst,” it simply stated. “We think shyou might need dormance. Shyou might be sssssick…”

It went slightly off the path to pick up some sticks, keeping the dry ones and dropping the wet ones. “We make fire for shyou. Find plant-food too, maybe.” It dropped the pile of sticks at Toffee’s feet, avoiding the spot where blood and bile soaked the soil. “Then we look, make ssssure shyou okay. Okay?”

“Yes…” she whispered. There was a terrible weight behind her eyes at the mention of rest and her body felt feverish. Perhaps that would be good. She’d get some sleep and feel better. She huddled into a ball before the pile of sticks and felt a shiver run up her spine, not from the damp earth (for it actually felt cool upon her skin) but deep inside. Her eyelids shut without any hesitation and Toffee entered a fitful sleep within seconds by the sound of her breathing.

---

In the meantime, Sab got to work. It quickly started a small fire by Toffee’s side, using the sticks it had brought, and once satisfied by the flames’ vigor, went off in search of more food. Hunting was off the table, since visibly meat had made Toffee sicker than she’d already been, but plants were still on the menu. With spring finally arriving, green shoots were plentiful, and Sab could recognize a few it had seen its friend eat before.

It soon returned to Toffee’s side, carrying a small bouquet of dandelion greens and young yarrow stalks, as well as a bough of old but still edible winter berries. It set its bounty aside, and began observing its sleeping friend. She did not look well, even while asleep. She moved around a lot, never seeming comfortable, and when it gently reached out with a tendril, she was much warmer than it had ever sensed from her before.

And then it felt it, something different. Towards the back of her left shoulder, something was wrong with her skin. It felt both like a bump and a series of small holes, as if something had pierced the skin and it had swelled up around it, in a vaguely circular shape. A wound too subtle for its approximation of sight to have picked up alone.

It had a feeling it might know what that wound was. It moved to the bird carcass still lying around, and felt through its feathers, until it found what it was looking for. Similar indentations, exactly where Toffee had bitten it. When had Toffee been bitten? By who, or what?

It was when she slept that Sab began to notice something else. Her skin, once sun kissed tan, was fading into a pallid, almost ghostly white. Not quite unlike the snow. Her brown mane of hair was turning darker at the roots and even her tail was growing black, and somehow even fluffier. The tips of her ears had begun growing into points. More alarming was that her fingernails, sharp in their own right before, were growing into finer points. Her muscles seemed to be more defined as well, like she was extremely dehydrated. The flickering behind her eyelids was growing more and more rapid and her breathing was rapid and short.

It didn’t like what it was sensing. It knew little about people still, but it was pretty sure that Toffee would have told it if it was normal for humans to change like that. It braced itself, before gently reaching out and shaking her awake. “Toffee-Friend, awaken. Something sssstrange-wrong isss happening to shyou,” it called out. “Shyou change color, shyou injured… what is happening?”

It grabbed the plants it had gathered, and brought them near her face. “I found plant-food for shyou. Shyou need food. Please eat.”

Her nostrils flared and Toffee awoke. Her eyes were no longer that shade of green that seemed to twinkle in the light. Instead they had turned a fiery orange that cast her gaze in a sinister glint. But if anything, she just looked confused. “Sab…?” She asked, her voice still hoarse and now groggy. “What’s going on? What’s that smell?” She began to sit up, wholly ignoring the plants in front of her. Her eyes darted as she scanned the trees and horizon.

“Smell? We not know, we not smell…” Sab answered, surprised. It dipped part of its body in the smoke coming from the nearby fire, then focused back on Toffee. “Smell is in air, smoke is in air… Shyou smell smoke? Fire?”

“No…” She whispered and began to stand on shaky legs. It was only when she took a step forward and crashed back to the earth that she seemed to focus. She spotted her hands and lifted them to her face in quiet inspection. In doing so she snagged some of her now black hair and her eyes caught the contrast of the hair against her skin. “Sab…” she began again, “Am I dreaming or did-” A strong gust of wind hit them, causing the fire to flare. Toffee’s mouth went slack as she sniffed the air. Her orange eyes seemed to grow larger. “Can’t you smell that…?” she asked, a strong sense of longing in her voice. “It smells like blood.”

“Lotssss of blood on ground near. Shyou can smell even when not in air like ssssmoke? Maybe issss that.” Sab was starting to feel even more lost than it already was. Its friend was changing strangely, and now she was entirely focused on something it could not sense. It didn’t like how eager she was to get up. It would have much preferred she stayed down and rested, so that she could recover from the strange illness. “Shyou is acting different than normal. We worried for shyou…” it admitted quietly.

This seemed to pull her back from wherever her mind was wandering and she looked down at Sab with sudden fondness in her expression. She was still Toffee, even if her appearance had suddenly changed. She leaned down and gave the pile of sand a few gentle pats. “I don’t know what’s going on with me Sab.” she said, her voice calm and measured. “But my fever is gone at least and I… Strangely, I feel good. Maybe I’m just a little parched. Come on, let’s get away from this… place. “ She looked over to the discarded bird and her refuse. “I won’t lie, I’m a bit scared, Sab. But as long as you are by my side I think everything will be okay.” she smiled, revealing a mouth full of pointy teeth, no longer stained yellow but now stark white. Her canines were slightly longer than the rest and it almost looked predatory if not for her kind eyes. Another breeze ruffled her black-brown hair and for a second, she stiffened before standing and beginning to walk in the direction the wind was blowing from.

“Are you coming?” she called.

Sab stood still only for a moment, before hurrying behind her. “We are coming! Where elsssse would we go?” it answered honestly. It sincerely couldn’t think of anywhere else it wanted to be, ever since it learned of the joy good company could bring. Toffee was acting a bit more like herself now, too. It was reassuring, even if the threat of illness still hung over them. Sab would have to keep close watch on its friend’s state, to make sure she wouldn’t get worse…

After a short walk of companionable silence, the trees began to thin out and before long they were replaced with dead brown grass, whose new green shoots were just beginning to emerge from the muddy earth. They began to crest a short hill and the wind was blowing something strong now, a warmth enveloping the both of them as it did. Sab could smell something strange now but could not quite place it.

It was only when they reached the top of the hill did Toffee stop. Once Sab joined her, they were able to see what lay before them. A stream broke through the growing land like blue fire and stopped near it, just below them and across, were more ur-humans! They had made camp just like Toffee and Sab had on many occasions. There were so many!

Sab was literally vibrating with excitement, a slight buzzing sound emanating from its body. So many more people! And they looked very different from Toffee, too! So many new things to learn, new friends to make! Though one thing worried it a little… “Are the new people going to kick usssss like shyou did?” it asked Toffee. “Ssssscattering is inconvenient, we not want to rissssk forgetting, or changing too much too fassst…”

Toffee was silent. Too silent, for too long. Sab was on the verge of asking her again when she finally said, “They won’t kick you.” Her voice had a whimsical note to it, as if she was speaking but far away. “In fact, you should stay here Sab. I’ll go and… scout. Yessss, scout.” And then she was gone. Rushing down the hill before Sab could even blink. When had she gotten so fast?

When she reached the stream’s edge, they noticed Toffee, and a few people walked towards her. They looked a bit strange, with no long tail at their backs and no pointy ears on their heads, and some seemed to have hair growing from their faces. Sab observed carefully, fascinated by how different humans could look from each other.

It began to roll down the hill too. Sure, it was worried about getting kicked, but Toffee had said she wouldn't let that happen, and it trusted Toffee. Surely she would warn the other humans of its good will, and they would trust her.

It did not get very far down before things went… wrong. A light-haired human raised their hand, probably to catch Toffee's attention. Toffee crouched for a second, and then leaped over the stream and tackled the same human to the ground. And then the screaming began.

Sab could see that Toffee had latched her mouth around the man’s neck and with a sickening squelch, much like the bird from earlier, blood exploded forth from the neck as she reared back. There was no more familiarity in her face, just an animalistic fervor. She licked the man’s blood from her lips and for the briefest moment, euphoria bloomed before she tore into him again. This time she ripped open his throat and his screams turned into a ghastly gurgle before he grew quiet.

There were shouts as the ones with facial hair lurched forth from where they had been sitting or standing, brandishing weapons and things that glinted in the light. They ran at Toffee, who seemed oblivious as she… had her way with the corpse.

Sab froze, its mind reeling as everything it thought it knew about people and humans was thrown aside. People didn’t eat other people, didn’t they? Toffee had only ever eaten beasts and plants. Toffee had never been this aggressive before. Toffee… wasn’t acting like Toffee anymore.

And then it rushed down the hill as quickly as it could. It had no time to waste. It needed to stop her from damaging the other humans, or protect her from them. Probably both, at this point. It fully threw itself at her side, knocking her off of her meal’s body, and sending them both sprawling on the ground. As soon as it had gathered itself back up enough to speak, Sab cried out in a high-pitched whistle, louder than it ever had before. “SSSSSTOP!”

She was in the midst of hissing at Sab when their cry broke through. Toffee blinked and her wide pupils retracted back into a normal shape. She looked confused, shocked even and then her eyes darted to the human she had slain and her mouth opened in abject horror. “S-S-Sab!” She mewled. “W-” but before she could speak again there came a strange whistle and a sudden impact of bone and flesh, and Toffee was the one screaming this time. For a spear had gone straight through her shoulder. The other humans were approaching, shouting terrible things.

Things were dangerous for Toffee. Urgent, even. It needed to focus, now more than ever. Half of itself concentrated on the surrounding humans, still wielding their weapons, and the other half on Toffee and her wound. Feelings were put aside for now, panic and fear dulling, as Sab fully dedicated itself to thinking for a way out of this situation.

Problem number one, the humans were rapidly approaching. Solution? Run away, quickly. Unfortunately, Toffee still seemed a bit out of it, and was injured to boot, which led to problem number two, the spear sticking out of her. Solution? If the spear being there is the problem, then simply remove it. Sab firmly grasped the spear near the blade, where it had gone through its friend’s shoulder, and snapped the shaft in half, then pulled it out of her flesh. It did its best to ignore her scream of pain; a bit of pain now was better than death.

“Up, up!” it chanted, pushing at Toffee. It tried making itself seem bigger, like it had seen some beasts do, which did manage to have some humans pause for a second, but they still approached much too quickly. “Run, run! Quick! NOW!”

Except Toffee did not run. Her head had dipped after Sab had pulled the spear out, her black hair obscuring her face. And from behind that curtain, Sab could see her lips had curled into a smile. A strange smile. She no longer screamed despite the bloody wound of her left shoulder and the arm that now hung limply there. There came a deadly sort of calm and Sab knew that something terrible was about to happen.

A red haze, almost like smoke, began to rise from her skin. The wound on her shoulder stopped bleeding and she moved the arm as if testing she could. Within a blink she had gotten to her feet and Sab could now see that her once green-turned orange eyes had completely filled with a burning red.

She only said one word to Sab, “Hide.” and it sounded like the old Toffee. Before she was gone, leaping with explosive legs. She landed in front of the first human and before he could react, she had slashed through the fur of his tunic, through the flesh and muscle of his body and his organs tumbled out with a sickening thud. He was too shocked to scream as another man thrust his spear at her, she caught the spear, yanked and threw her first into his head. There was a large crack and he dropped. The other humans now truly paused and the red smoke became thicker, billowing to the ground about her body.

Sab could not see her face but it knew Toffee was smiling.

Gutch's Joyous Offering:
Gutch scuttled to the backdoor. He peered out. When focusing on the sky, it is fairly easy to spot the twin moons of the world. Though they were somewhat old, Gutch had only been a young man when they appeared. He had greatly enjoyed the first eclipse, and was actually disappointed when the Sun came back so quickly. By now he was used to them, and had actually spent long nights enjoying their company and studying how they behaved.

He figured tonight would be the night he had about half the day to prepare the offering and trappings to justify his word. He knew what he must get until then. He would steal what he needs from the steady flow of travellers entering the valley. Gutch looked around in the field behind Gatehouse. The winning cockerel had been ushered out and tethered. Good. Gutch was rapidly scheming.

He matched away from the Gate, away from the edge of the valley. The field transitioned into a shady forest with a main road cut through it. One side was dense and wild, and the other quickly gave way to a sheer drop and unknown world. He watched the road. No one was coming. He waited. Sound. He did not move. When the cart was in his view, almost in the meadow. He glanced at what it was carrying. People, supplies. Not what he cared for, too many people. He waited again.

He looked around him, some mushrooms. He took them. Various herbal plants. He recognised most. He took some. In a tree above him he saw a clump of vines hanging. He climbed up and picked some vines with white berries. He dropped them into his pile of forage below him. He looked out of the tree and down the road.

A cart. This cart had people following it on foot. No good. The shadow hung still in the tree till the cart had long passed. One of the men pointed it out to the other in passing.

Another, longer wait. He moved his pile of forage into the edge of the meadow.

Darkness was nearly falling and a mist was quickly drawing from the wood. This cart. Two people. One turned to Gutch. He was busy lighting a lantern. The simple cart had a ground cloth tied onto the bed. Gutch let the humble wagon pass. He got up, nearly silently. The bored duo chatted about how close there were. A shadow slunk behind them, no one noticed the silent hooded figure. A sliver of the night-time cut the rope and the ground cloth was snatched from the back of the cart before Gutch melted back into the dusk meadow. Wrapping his forage up in the ground cloth.

Tonight was the night. It was a fortunate coincidence that it seemed today was a busy day in the valley and people were getting to bed on time. Only the busiest parts of the valley were making any degree of noise. Still the Gatehouse was alive with some chatter. It wasn't too late yet. Gutch looked at the moon. It was obvious the smaller white one would cross the pale sister tonight. Excellent. Some people on foot had passed the gatehouse. No wagons in sight on the road. He laid out the ground cloth.

Gutch went into the Gatehouse. Though the crowd wasn't as busy at night, men travellers were spending their evening here at least. He approved a pair of slightly drunken men, chatting, leaning over a pair of large skin drums. One of the many implements he had seen to make noise. Gutch had seen that people liked it and how it could draw a gathering. He nudged the pair of men and shook his large pouch of coin. He beckoned them. They didn't consider they hadn't seen his face under the large hood.

They followed him out with their drums and turned into the road. Gutch was holding the sack of coin, standing in the middle of the road and pointing up. The men looked up and noticed the white moon beginning to cross the larger moon. They heard Gutch hiss "Our joyous offering, play." The men walked to Gutch, setting their drums down. Gutch began to produce a gravelly chat which was quickly followed by a lively drumbeat. Gutch poured the sack of coins between the three of them. A few people looked into the street to see what was going on. They walked up. One man shouted to the others "The Offering!" The newcomers nodded. One reached out his hand-drum. They continued Gutch's simply droning chant in time with the drums.

Gutch scuttled off behind the Gatehouse, the group continued. A few more people trickled out. Gutch grabbed the sleeping cockerel. It squawked but couldn't escape the firm arm crook it was trapped in. Gutch returned to the pile of coins, a larger group, a slightly larger pile of coins. The chant was nearly as loud as the drums. The flow of people into the small crowd was steadily increasing. As they joined the crowd, the only explanation required was someone saying "The Offering!" Some would toss coins into the pile, a few had drums, all of them joined the monotonous chant. Gutch forced the stunned rooster to eat a handful of the berries and some other woodland forage. He himself consumed a handful of the unknown, and then passed out the remainder to some members of the central crowd.

The large gathering occupied the center of the road, the drumming and the Charing continued gathering more and more people. When asked faced with explanation members of the crowd simply answered: "The Offering." Some people threw coins into the steadily expanding pile. Gutch stood motionless, resting the cockerel under one arm as he resonated the chant in the center of the crowd.

He looked up. The moons were at the apex of the convergence. The drumming sped up, so did the chanting. Gutch raised the bird above him and cut it's throat. The noise collapsed into cacophony. The blood spilled onto the coins. He hissed out three wretched words. "Wealth over justice." Three matching symbols glowed with embers across his long tongue. He screeched as he brought the deceitful bond into the world. He had collated the right influences in the right way at the right time, and he had made his word true.

As the rooster blood landed on the coins it sizzled away, leaving rust splattered permanently across the pile of coins. The crowd imploded on the pile, a massive of hands smashing and clawing and tearing at eachother to get a handful of coins. Gutch slipped away from the melee, discarding the dead rooster. He skulked around for long enough to witness the initial chaos, the large crowd fighting for whatever of the stained pile they could.

A malicious grin crossed his face. No one had taken notice of the hooded figure that slipped off into the night. He wandered down the forest path, away from the invisible force in the valley.

Orranoth
In Radanuh, their society was being built slowly but surely into a more advanced, long lasting culture that would spread over a wide area. Orranoth smiled on the believers as they began to construct temples of Amber from the handy work of a Nature Wizard. The Amber Temple(s) would be built in order to reliably circumvent any curse from Kthon's curse, if it could even effect Radanuh's region at all. These worshipers were saying the praises of Orranoth for bringing them knowledge through the teachings his magics. In return for his believer's worship, Orranoth promised that he would grant them an after life in what he called "The Heavens".

So Orranoth spoke with the Idyllic Patrons of Peace, Joy, And Life. On his worshiper's death, their souls would be transmuted into a dimension constructed by Orranoth, and the three Patrons, where they would be at peace, full of life and the love of life, and never experience sorrow or anguish again. This other dimension was called "The Golden Land". The people began to speak of Orranoth's praises every day, as they looked forward to better, eternal lives.

Radanuh's Patriarch, Rad had founded several colonies from the homeland. In these territories, the blessings of Orranoth followed, and every colony had it's own shrine, and when they grew large enough, a temple to Orranoth. Typically magically constructed with Amber or some material to circumvent Kthon's curse.

One day, a woman gave birth. Unfortunately, she would be due to bring forth twins and, in the process, she did not survive. The children, a boy and girl named Jon, and Galifrey, grew to become respected members of the community, but they had been born with medical conditions that made life hard. They had their joys, peace, and the respect of their community, but nonetheless, sometimes life did not seem fair.

Jon, and Galifrey had lived for eighty five years. Unfortunately, they had both come down with some form of undiscovered infection, and both of them perished, albeit at an old age. Their friends were often less fortunate. When they reached The Golden Land, their souls seemed to rise towards The Sun and enter. When they awoke, they found themselves in a magnificent palace. They were no longer merely disembodied souls but they were young and able bodied people again. There waiting for them was their mother, who had died giving them birth, and their father, who died when they turned twenty from a bandit raid.

Orranoth was there as well. "Mortals, this is your reward." He spoke plainly, and he was happy.