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.

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

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?