Cold and dry are the desertified plains of Dalawakz, which rise on a vast plateau overlooking to the northwest the Great Inland Sea below. It is an empty place. Yet by night the sky awakens, vivid and lit with auroras and cinder-bright starseeds threading alien beauty into the crisp, thin atmosphere in hues of sacroline, amaranth, sapphire, and jade. By day, the east tropaean wind claws at the terrain unabated, churning up grit and stripping vegetation of bud and leaf. Grass grows in sparse, tall clumps—thorny and bitter. Quake-sand and snow-shard frost cling to the profusion of exposed stones, their shimmering patches the ideal alchemy for mirages and phantoms. It is not safe in Dalawakz, and Oblins roam, territorial and aggressive: beings of aberrant evolution alike only in their defiance of natural symmetry. It is not a good place, except perhaps for a clear, pure view of the stars — or to hide and scheme.

In a long, nameless ravine south of the Gaze of Gofn—a mirror-still crater lake held sacred by the region’s animal tribes—are remnants of an ancient, abandoned city. Crudely hewn in haste and vertically set in the cliff face, the tall, slanting edifices dissemble their true nature—mere facades. Behind sand-etched pillars and hollow portals, the stone lair opens into caves that descend into stygian tunnels penetrating perilous cavities and the marrow of an unknowable world. Wending through in disorienting irregularity the paths double back, intersect, and unmoor those critical percepts of time and place. Impasses are frequent, calamitous. Throughout resounds the incessant tapping of vermin claws, the gnawing of bones.

Only by a particular well-trod path does the dark journey finally culminate in a destination. A slit bores through the overhead rock, scattering light across the mica and bathing in warm illumination a flat, smooth surface. Thereon a star is engraved, dominant, both motif and inscrutable enigma. From it flames whip and writhe down upon a host of travailing figures. A keen eye traces the serpentine rays and sees them for what they are: tongues of fire that set the laborers below it ablaze.

Traces haunt the engraving’s recesses and are likewise scattered on the ground: scraps of wool, and hemp, and other incendiary fiber; broken splinters of flint; scorch marks in the rough notches of the timeless stone eyes, wide in perpetual fiery torment. Within them burned and smoldered those impious offerings, and thus secured passage through and beyond the barrier.

Inside, a vault extends into shadows; austere, brutal, partially lit by two centralized half-moon halogen lamps descending midway from a lofty ceiling. The lines of the space are smooth and linear. Amethyst salt crystals set with spinels and purple topaz gird the perimeter, exotic sculptures of souls performing acts of unremitting labor. While quiet, the air is not still. Its current flows gently, warmly. Beneath the half-moons, a conversation pit sprawls around a large, flat oval of opaque eru-glass inset with a copper lattice.

Nearby, a woman stands beside an elongated decanter half-full of viscous, amber fluid. Her lavish gown cascades from her crown, intertwining with her long, black tresses while obscuring her features. Ornate, the titanium triangular-link pattern glints among flecks of crystal and copper shards, loose upon her face and throat, but tight against her hips. It serves its purpose well, masking the wearer’s identity while her vision roams unimpeded. Yet with each stride and gesture, it chimes, undeniably proclaiming on her presence.

“Port Solt lies in ruins, yet in the millet fields of Celwezc the workers marshal their courage,” she speaks with measured finality, her statement hanging.

A relatively tall man by human standards stood before a wounded Titaness, a dark, chromatically oscillating tulle mask obscuring his identity as he brazenly confronted her. His sloppily knotted, sandy blond hair, interrupted by fine gray streaks struggling to dread, jostled just off the floor as he advanced.

“Gerrika…” Tossing her name so casually felt like an affront to her being.

The half-punched cut-outs of the magical fabric over his face, in quite a few ways, worked as a shield, distorting any direct path from her worn, bright emerald eyes to his. Beyond the veil, his conviction was clear. His gaze not only suggested, but his aura commanded the weakened Titaness bend to the relentless authority of the wicked poppet with white, diamond eyes he held like an urn.

Surrendering consciousness once more, Gerrika's fading image of the masked man and doll was all she could focus on. His beard was long, surprisingly unkempt given the neat button-down and tie he wore under the pashmina shawl draped over his shoulders. Its tassels gently wafted like a drifting jellyfish in response to the energy wrung from her frail figure. She was beginning to feel they would never find her…

In slumber, her dreams rippled, larger waves cascading upon reality. Skies darkened, predators grew bolder, slumbering forces awoke to the tune of her agony, chambers of Orst's inner depths unearthed. A Rube Goldberg machine of occurrences set forth.

The man before Gerrika sought all the planet’s secrets, for he did not believe they were merely skin-deep. His name was Silvaire, a name befitting of his capitalist urges, hubris, and greed. Yet, were you to entertain his silver tongue, he’d almost sound philanthropic compared to his Ig contemporaries.

Almost.

Any good deeds cankered the moment the methods used to acquire such resources became known. Through deceit, he had convinced the fallen otherworldly Titaness to work with him, and like the true businessman he was, exploited that.

The oddity of light dissipating around nothing, locked in an eternal struggle with the darkness of night. Shadows danced upon the ground like entranced people whose bodies seemed to move of their own accord. Sun blocked by spiraling masses of stone reaching for the light as if to escape their darkened fate, imprisoned deep within the stygian tunnels and cave systems. Rumor brought footfalls along the softened ground, each one carefully picked and each movement well thought. The sound of shifting leather, creaking softly in the darkness, barely seemed a whisper compared to the ever-present sounds of tiny claws on the stone.

Thalen held the hilt of his sword over his shoulder, prepared to draw in defense of a monster which may or may not lurk within the darkness. He’d tracked the path for days, following it up through the ravine and into the depths of the cave systems. Rumor brought him here, and now in the darkness the low light seemed nearly impenetrable darkness. The soft, amber glow of his eyes – a magic pouring into them which enhanced his vision in the dim light of the cavernous pathway. His ears reached out to latch to any sound, any noise in the distance. Any kind of foreboding or hope of finding the subject of his search.

He kept his movements slow, careful – methodical. He tracked beings he knew little about, and rumors only gave so much information before they faded into myth. His hand eased his sword, the metal-backed leather gauntlet tightening on the hilt. Dark brown armor, nearly black (especially in the dimness of the caverns pathway). The ultimate destination of this foray into the cave seems far away. The pathway opens into a cavern of nothing, and from that point the trail ends. Sighing, his hand released the hilt of his sword. “Nothing again.” His voice seems solemn, quiet.

It took him twenty minutes of retracing his steps before he stepped out into the brightened morning, the sun shining its blazing rays down on the mirror-like lake nearby. He set about himself, casting out to find another trail, another pathway. It took him another twenty minutes to find it, footsteps leading away from his current position. He took up the trail and began again, walking cautiously – his eyes and ears always seeking sound of threat.

He happened upon a thin slit in the rock and peered inside – his vision adjusted to the lower level of light immediately. A star engraved upon a rock caught his attention, and the scattering light seemed to make it shine brightly before him. ‘Bingo’, he thought to himself – and pushed through the thin slit, barley fitting his body – and in fact having to remove his sword to press between the two pieces of stone properly.

Reattaching the longsword to his back, he reached to his side and pulled up something from his pouch – fingering the eyeholes in his mask, he slid it on. Yet more leather seemed to be his motif, the blank-faced mask a solid piece of darkened, worked leather which he saw through with his magical vision.

Inside he saw the remains of what they were, the burned sacrifices of many. His fingers tightened into a ball, fists clenched against themselves – covered nails barely held back by the material of his gauntlets. He stepped further in through the shadowed vault – his body melding as one with the shadows, his footsteps quieter than should be possible on the stone – and the darkness surrounding him like an old friend. “Port Solt lies in ruins,” he heard the voice of a woman say, and his anger flared beneath the surface – boiling like water on a campfire in his blood. His hands clenched as he sneaked further inside, looking for the source of the voice.

There she stood – her gown flowing down her body, and her hair dancing. He listened to the sound of her movement, the tinkling of her gown with each step. Who was she? What was her goal? He wasn’t sure, but rumor brought him here. He sought only to find out what was going on, and so he settled into the recesses of the room, hidden among the shadows and listened.

Elsewhere, a priestess stands in a semiarid breeze.

An undyed linen toga her sole attire, the warm wind teases her exposed limbs and ensorcels the spalted pillars of Celwezc’s humble holy site—upon one of which her open palm presses, delighting in an exchange of warmth, a unanimity of flesh and verd. Young, bronze, and without blemish, her soot-ringed gaze reflects the golden millet swaying and racing as a single, vast organism across the steppes and beneath the great day star’s farthest fall.

Before her, she sees the sweep of scythes, the sway of buckets yoked on strong, sun-touched shoulders. To an eye untrained, the laborers appear content. She knows better. For that cause, no smile lights up her face. Instead she ponders their pains, then retreats from the porch. Into the cool, the shade, the obscurity of her domain her steps compel her. Nailed to the doorless entrance are the five edicts of her faith, on which her eyes momentarily linger:

• To provide for one’s family is to honor the gods.
• Life in and of itself is meaning.
• To die dishonored in the eyes of the gods is to be forgotten.
• Take only what is in good faith offered.
• Let no impious eydolin disgrace thy home.

Eokadya recites those edicts mantically in her mind, drifting meanwhile with outward placidity through the little sanctum where she sometimes explicates to her congregants the profound nature of those few, simple phrases. It is not for her to sermonize. Group rituals are few and far between—births, deaths, consummations; rites for good times that warrant gratitude and periods of woe that demand sacrifice. Should one of her flock come to the temple with a question, she will answer. Individually, as it should be. As a family, as they are meant to be. To speak on behalf of the gods requires intimacy, knowledge.

Beyond the only door in the temple, she arrives in her chamber. Bed, basin, and the storage of necessities befitting her role. Therein, there is no window. A lantern flickers and reflects against the silverglass of a small vanity, revealing the simplicity of her private space. It is special, for only she may enter; her, and one day in the distant future her postulant.

Suddenly kneeling, she traces the edges of a large stone floor tile with her fingertips. They locate a lever, which she releases. The tile lifts, and she swings it on its ancient hinge to expose a flight of stairs. It is well-oiled, and moves silently. Immediately she hears the babble ascending. It emerges as a distant, indecipherable drone—the god-speech. Retrieving her lantern, she descends. Nine steps, then she stops. Another lever she pulls, shifting the tile above her back to its prior station. This place she must keep holy, hidden, and silent save for the god-speech. Pausing, she lifts her hand in a sign and fortifies her mind and soul. The stairs descend for a great while, yet she counts the eighty-three steps by rote. At the bottom, the lantern flame shudders in tandem with her resolve. Shelves extend from linear recesses in the hardened clay walls, and on them recline the god-speech dyads of her people’s eydolins, queer little dolls fashioned of lignum, bark, and dry grass. These around her possess only tongues.


Beyond the termination of her words hums a moment swollen with portent, unheard and wraithlike yet striking out at the senses as iron needles that scratch and grate along cold, stimulated flesh. Before her, by no obvious sign, the eru-glass table dims dormant, its copper fibers releasing their heat, their electric charge. For a while she looms quiescent—immaculate, straight spine, and erect skull from which twin pronged, serrated antlers curve, either through or as part of her lavish gown. Three of her four arms hang slack at her sides as her final forelimb crooks under the point of her chin in that emblematic posture of rumination.

For a moment, all is still—the woman dripping in metallic glamour, the crystal figurines, the shadows lounging apathetically at the chamber’s edge, and even perhaps the interlocutor who within their dark embrace skulks.

Timeless are those whiles of anticipation that stretch instants into aeons. Yet at the end of such a while, her lips part, a nigh-imperceptible dimple in the perfection of her veil denoting that subtle shift in form.

Eager ears perhaps strain to capture her secret murmur, her indulgent, breathy brevity. Yet no coherent words emerge. Instead, a scream. Erupting and otherworldly, it seizes the chamber and suspends the air’s current in stultifying malevolence. At the edges of the space, the shadows raise their hackles, their once smooth edges shifting to echinate barbs that slice the walls with a frigidity of remote horror that lurks distant behind the glare of stars. As abruptly as it emerged, the scream abates. The shadows relax. And, bizarrely, chamber’s features remain intact.

Beneath the feet of the Earth Riders of The Moving Island, stone eerily caterwauled, the surface grimaced, spirits scattered. Landsliding plateaus excavated, leaving tall, ancient petrified thought-structures in their wake. Along the base of the monoliths were Skogatti markings, ancient yet familiar.

The sight was unsettling. This directly conflicted with the tribe’s long-sworn aversion to technology. Yet, surface-level deciphering revealed a contract entombed, bound by sacrifice on these pillars of primordial technology. In the distant past, they were of great purpose among Skogatti ancestors. Perhaps they were learned from, maybe revered. However, at some point, that adoration fermented into rejection.

Into fear…

Silvaire’s once altruistic, almost naive, teenage thoughts had been prone to such fears. In time, they were perverted. Years spent absorbing literature ranging from ancient scriptures to niche cultural novelties of fallen worlds produced the opposite of their intended effect. To the mogul, fear was a state of mind that confined potential. With every drop of insight gained, his moral well ran drier.

True power lies in confronting fear, transcending it, bending it to one’s will.

Gerrika’s arrival was proof that something deep within Orst had been disturbed, that the natural order was no longer being maintained. She only had to tell him why. It was surely an omen. Why did she emerge wounded upon its surface? The orc tribes, scattered across nearly every terrain, knew more than they let on. Now, Silvaire intended to force them to confront it.

Spirits on the island now behaved incorrectly. They fell silent, meandering without purpose. The elders felt it keenly like a calm before a storm.

The Eydolin Silvaire held had starry eyes. It channeled a directionless voice echoing off of nothing at all. It was an unfamiliar voice to everyone but Gerrika. Her long, sharp curls falling like a capelet bounced as she shot awake, gaze locking onto the doll as it projected.

“You were raised in the interval. You mistook it for history. It was only a pause…”

Silvaire’s heart raced. His nerves knotted as his body froze. He was hearing the voice of something that predated recorded memory. Fear reared its head again. Could he maintain his sanity?

Imperious as the sandstone Pillars of Vor’zat marking the divide between the River Zeczieb’s headwaters and floodgates, her chin ascends. Behind her veil a scheme glints metallic: an expression belying a sharp intake of breath, a hiss absorbing the appositional silence. Stillness yet dominates the interlude, grasping and strangling the chamber’s cold, veiled margins. The moment lingers, trembling on the verge of motion, a memory, a spell wherein neither figure acts, one hesitating while the other imprisons time, making of it her captive.

Motion transcends the moment, her long, strong arm ascending from her voluptuous flank. Serpentine, it seeks the table’s brim. Triangular patterns chime, exalting her lissome gesture, rippling, trembling, evoking conceits of a tundra cataract tintinnabulating through an icy, sleeted gorge.

For shadow skulking errants, her manner appears deliberate, ritualistic, yet imbued with raw ferocity, with grace, with intensity building towards an inevitable disunion, a breaking of order.

From a recess in the table, she plucks a shard. Glowing soft, pale, and aureate, it hums before her examination, occluding the cusps of her darkly iridescent talons. With a flick of her thumb, it ascends, sedate above her open palm. Another arm lifts, and she claws a sign—talon striking, as if dashing a burr from a thread. Dispersing, it floats, luminous motes drifting and tracing after her movements, as if under the thrall of an ultramundane compulsion. Her fingers seize and pattern, attenuating the golden nebula to a lambent filament that coils gently in the hollow of her hand.

Fingers snap, her arm drops. It hangs like a dead, wind-sheared branch. No more is there a radiant weave. That is absent, in its place a translucent, golden gem rooting its essence in sixfold titanium prongs shimmering along a procession of simulacra sweeping from her nostril in a downward arc, then rising, at last uniting with the veil at the curve of her jaw.

Aloof, alien, yet unmistakably female, she splinters her voice into trifold echoes, to audible shapes. Crystalizing into three languages common to the region, to Dalawakz, she reveals:

“Nictating Gloam Snitch, what is it you seek? Do you know? I doubt it. If you yearn for this world’s truth, emerge from your cowardice and stand beside me as a man!”

Abandoning her stronghold at the decanter, she takes three long paces. Nearer him, her intruder, she swells to something immense. She stops, formidable and decisive, her gown sweeping across the arc of a circular pattern etched in the stone floor. Within, it can attend three forms in tolerable propinquity. Glancing in her interlocutor’s direction, two of her arms extend in an imperious invitation and point down at the circle on the floor.