Villagxor stood at the base of the temple, its white-and-gold walls catching the light. He raised his voice, not too loud but just enough to carry across the village. It was a sound the people had learned to follow. One by one, they turned from their work. Stones settled back into place. Knots were left half-tied. Conversations faded as feet shifted toward the tower without argument or delay.
They gathered in a wide ring around the temple’s lower level. Some stood, some sat on the ground or on half-shaped stone blocks. A few leaned against one another, tools still in hand like they did not quite trust the moment to stay calm. These were not born villagers. They were wanderers, foragers, survivors, now rooted in a place where the ground itself could decide to disagree with reality.
And yet, they came. Every single time. Always for Villagxor. The one who was with them from the beginning. The one who guided them even before they knew which end of the stick they should hold.
Villagxor let his gaze move across them. Elders watched him with thoughtful eyes. The foragers who knew the valley’s edges stood a little farther back, instinctively leaving themselves room to move. This was still new, all of it. A village. A temple. A name that meant responsibility. Alechior had made the tower, but what stood around it was theirs to keep standing.
He stepped forward, stopping just short of the temple’s shadow. The Anchor hummed within the tower, a reminder of both safety and consequence. Villagxor took a breath and held it for a moment. Words mattered now. Rules mattered. If Gamblerdise was going to endure, it would not be by luck alone and he intended to make sure everyone understood that before the valley decided to test them again.
Villagxor waited until the last stragglers had found their place, until the scrape of feet and the low murmur of voices finally thinned out. He lifted one hand, not too high or theatrical, just enough. It worked. Conversations died one by one as eyes turned toward him, bodies positioning themselves in his direction without being told. He gave a short nod, a smile forming on his mouth. “You came,” he said, voice carrying without strain. “Good. Means you’re listening. Means this matters.”
He walked a slow half-circle, hands clasped behind his back, gaze moving from face to face.
“I won’t waste your time,” he went on. “You know why we’re here. We live close. We work close. That means we clash. When two of you disagree, truly disagree, you come before me. No shouting matches in the dirt. No grudges kept. We settle it with chance. A game. The heavier the dispute, the harder the game. Skill, nerve, luck, whatever the game demands. The one who loses, loses the argument. End of it. No grudges carried forward.”
He stopped and looked at the villagers again, letting the words sink in before continuing.
“Second. Every seven moons, we celebrate. Inside the temple. All of you. Food, drink, noise, games. Those on night watch that evening will swap their next shift with those who rested. No one gets punished for keeping us safe and no one dodges their turn either.”
A few heads lifted at that, some surprise, some relief. Villagxor noticed and smiled wider. “If we’re going to endure, we don’t do it tired and bitter.”
Finally, he said with a grave voice this time, “Last. I will choose two of you as Game-Masters. I’ll pull you from your current work, so don’t get comfortable. These will be people who win more than they lose, people who understand chance without trying to strangle it.” He tapped two fingers against his chest.
“You’ll keep games fair, keep celebrations from turning too rowdy and you’ll help me invent new games. Better ones. Smarter or crueler ones, if needed.” He let the words sink in again then nodded once. “That’s the shape of things. Simple rules. Follow them, and we all keep breathing.”
A few hands went up almost immediately, hesitant but still.
“What if-what if someone refuses the game?” a young forager asked, voice trembling slightly. Villagxor shook his head, a small grin forming at the corners of his mouth. “Then they lose by default,” he said evenly.
“No whining, no hiding. Refusal is part of the wager. You accept it when you step into the circle, or you accept the consequences. Simple as that.”
Another voice, older this time, came from the back. “And the Game-Masters. What if they argue amongst themselves or they can't decide what's what?”
Villagxor leaned against a post for balance, arms crossed casually.
“Then I arbitrate,” he replied, shrugging as if it were obvious. “I’ll keep the games fair, I’ll keep the rules straight. You’re not inventing your own version of the world, just following it and making it fun. Stick to that and all will be well.” A few nods rippled through the crowd, some relieved, some thoughtful, but all listening.
Villagxor continued patiently, addressing other questions that surfaced and clarifying how disputes would be judged, how celebrations might be adjusted for unexpected events and how new games could be proposed without upsetting the balance. He spoke calmly, his tone firm but encouraging, making it clear that rules existed to protect everyone and ensure the joy of the tribe. Slowly, the tension eased, replaced by murmurs of understanding and occasional chuckles at some of his examples.
When it became clear that all concerns had been voiced and answered, Villagxor nodded, a small smile crossing his face. “Alright, that’s enough for today,” he said. “Go on, everyone. Do your work, rest, play if you wish but remember the rules.” One by one, the villagers dispersed, heads held a little higher, chatter and laughter filling the center as they returned to daily life, carrying the new order and the promise of games into every corner of their village.
Villagxor calls upon the people of Gamblerdise and sets some rules/ways to do settle disputes/new jobs.
He walked amidst the ash for an age. When the earth had at last calmed and no longer shook, the Lord had stayed holed up for a few days. When he at last poked his head out, sure that the danger had passed, he was greeted with silence and in that eerie quiet, the skies wept. Not with water but ash. He was all too familiar with it and its stink. Already a layer of it coated the ground and covered any of the fish that had remained to die under the sun. That light now hidden behind roiling clouds, turning all to perpetual twilight. The Lord was frightened but he knew he could not stay. There was no food and there was no water. He had to travel back from whence he came and thus he did.
It was a meager existence. He was able to scavenge what he could and drink from the foul waters, now choked with ash. It made him sick, even with small mouthfuls but he had too. Even as his body grew lean and his belly ached. The ash became so high he had to close his eyes as he tunneled through it. Worst of all was a great windstorm that had whipped up the ash and blinded the world. He was almost picked up and carried away before he found shelter amidst rocks.
The world smelled of death and brimstone, he could no longer groom himself for the ashen taste would make him sicker. The silence began to wear on the Lord. He had been so used to the chorus of life within his forest home, a home he now yearned for, that the lack of any such noise was almost too much stimulation. He began to call out, just to hear a noise but his throat began to go dry and his voice hoarse, so he had to stop. He kept on going, growing tired more and more each passing day. Eventually the ash lessened and disappeared from the skies. Light shone here and there behind the pale clouds. Perhaps he would see the forest again.
A grey ghost but skin and bones finally made his way back to a great incline. It was not one he remembered and upon his ascent, the incline grew and grew. It was a struggle for the small Lord, as weak and weary as he had become. But he knew what would await him on the other side. A forest of green. Ripe little prey. Fresh water to drink and perhaps a nice burrow somewhere to have a good sleep.
The Lord was not prepared for what he found. He paused in contemplation, his animal mind racing. There was nothing but an ash covered landscape. The same he had traversed. His tail wrapped around his body and the small cat shivered. He could tell there had once been a forest but it was no more. Destroyed by some calamity that had rocked the world. He could not truly grasp what had happened. All the Lord knew is that there had been a great fire, a great flooding and then the world quaked. It had been so long since his last rest without worry and fear. Not since he had found the soft perch in that great hollow tree had he felt safe. Perhaps he never should have left. Perhaps the Pale Giants would have fed him? Oh well. His hopes dashed, the Lord flopped to his side, utterly spent. Dehydrated and starving, he could go on no longer.
So, the Lord of All Cats shut his eyes and all faded to black.
There was a time that it wasn’t. Then there is the time that it is.
There was a time before. And then there was an after the time.
It knew this. It wasn’t sure what it was called. Or is called. But it knew of a time before and it knows of a time that is now.
It knew of the light above and the darkness below. Or the darkness above and the darkness below. The first Cephalopod knew this because it had seen it. When the lights above come, the white sea above is white. And when the lights above disappear, the white sea above turns dark.
It knows that the white sea didn’t turn completely dark as well. Little lights, little fishes, light the white sea when the lights above disappear. But sometimes, dark whales engulf them. And when that happened, the dark seas become just as dark as the dark below.
But this darkness is unlike the darkness below.
This darkness does not last eternally. Forever long it may take, little fishes would depart from the black whale’s belly and lights up the white sea above. That, or the lights above shine once more. And when it disappears, in its place would be the little lights that returned.
“The light above” = sun, white sky, sea portion that can be shone by the sun “The white sea above” = sky “The darkness below” = deep sea “Dark whales” = cloud “Little lights”/”little fishes” = stars”
Of Birth, Of Love, and Of Something
But that is not all that it knows.
It knows that it is the first.
It knows this because it could not see others like it.
And because it gave birth to its spawn.
The little itself that quickly ran from it.
The little things that scream and squirt ink to it.
The little crunchy squishy things that was much too hard to capture
And the little stillness that it felt when the little self left it by itself.
Of the Darkness below and The Drifting Ink
It knows of the darkness below, where the lights above could not reach it. Where there are much odder things than itself existed. Fishes that swim without fins, but by moving like tendrils. Fishes that do not swim, but by having little lights that act like bait. Fishes that do not know their sizes and attempt to eat things that are much too large.
Black whales live here. Gargantuan things. Much larger than it. And it is much afraid of them.
It does not know why the black whales are so ferocious, or so persistent in hunting it full . But it had lost one of its limbs to the black whales. It was how it learned of the other liquid it produced outside of ink. It produced blue liquid. The deepest blue, almost like the liquid that it swims in. But the painful sensation it felt when that liquid escaped it…
The tentacles have regrowned. It could tell no difference from the new old to the old one. But the sensation did not. It didn’t know why it could not forget the sensation, or have it regrowned yet. It is something that it remembers.
That is why it doesn’t like to enter the darkness below, even if its skin could blend in more easily compared to the part where the light above touches.
But the darkness below is not the only danger of the blue liquid.
There are regions it has learned that are unnatural. Regions where crabs acts just as ferocious as the fishes that hunt them. Where mackerels bite sharks and swallow black whales while inside them.
These regions are unnatural. It learned crabs to be docile and harmless creatures. It could cause no harm to its beak and tendrils. All these square things could do is to continuously scurry along the sea floor before it could no longer scurry. But in the drifting ink, the crabs were just as dangerous as it was to them. It could felt a strong thing inside the little box when they scurry into one of these “drifting ink.” Something changes them from fleeing to fighting.
What naturally are prey, turned predators inside those strange waters.
Strangely enough, it has learned to straddle between the normal liquid and the Drifting Ink. Because fighting is a dangerous thing, it knows. And not all prey, not even with the Drifting Ink, could turn into a true predator. So it continuously swims between the normal water and the Drifting Ink, feeding upon the wounded and those that are unfortunate enough to be caught alone
These are the things that it knows.
And it knows a lot.
“Darkness below” = aphotic zone, zone where there are no lights “Dreadful Ink” = zone where creature are faced Yzechr’s corruption more pronounced
This is based on my understanding of what is being written
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.
=> Assume this is the normal state of a sea creature. Weirder as they traveled down into the sunless zone. They don’t have much of a mind, so they can’t really understand what is the normal state of being. First Cephalopod’s cannibalistic past would be self-explained by it.
In the depths of the corrupted ocean, something pulsed.
The pearl-white shell that Yzechr had consumed had not been destroyed, not truly. It had dissolved into the very substance of the sea, becoming one with the darkness and the deception. But shells, especially those touched by mysteries, have memories. And memories have a way of surfacing when least expected.
At irregular intervals, sometimes hours apart, sometimes days, the ocean would clear. For a handful of heartbeats, the lightless depths would become transparent, the water as pure and safe as it had been before corruption touched it. Ships could sail. Fish could swim without mutation. The alluring whispers would fall silent.
Then, just as suddenly, the clarity would fade. The corruption would return, darker than before, as if angered by the interruption. The gods who had collected other shells from the shore, pretty, nacre-bright things, felt those trinkets grow suddenly inert in their grasp. The faint magic that had clung to them, the sense of significance, drained away like water through sand. They were still beautiful. But they were just shells now, nothing more.
=> There are now phases where the sea becomes not corrupted. But more importantly, there are now phases where part of the sea becomes much more corrupted. This is as indicated by the phrases “The corruption would return, darker than before, as if angered by the interruption.” So now, the First Cephalopod learns to straddle between these two parts. One part where the corruption is at the normal state, and one part where there is more corruption as a result of that part of the sea was momentarily “cured of corruption.”
Love was a fickle thing. To many it never truly took root within the heart. Still others sought only the basest pleasures from what they thought was love. It was a tool for procreation, to further the species along. For many a moon no one knew what it meant until the first child was born. There had been no grand Mes of Reproduction, it was simply instinct. And so it came to pass, with any love story, there came a fateful meeting. During the dark days when the world had wept ashen tears and the ground rumbled with discontent, a Ur-human woman and a Ur-human man, fell into step side by side as they fled from the danger on all sides.
He helped her when she fell. She helped him clean his cuts. Slowly a bond was formed through shared trauma. She watched friends and family pass away. He watched her and guided her through the grief. Eventually the earth stopped shaking, the skies cleared and they were able to find untouched lands. They had walked into this new world holding hands and had left the old behind or so she thought. But he had had a secret all along. He was not of her people but of a different breed entirely. He could not help how he felt for her but never disclosed such information. Whether oblivious or malicious, she never found out.
But as love grows, as the world heals, so to does the need to make new life. She became pregnant not long after arriving. With it came a mix of emotions too complex to truly name. It was everything, it was nothing. He helped her throughout. He picked things up for her when she no longer could. He washed her when she felt too ill. He hunted and gathered for her sustenance and the days passed in quiet comfort.
Until they didn’t.
No one knows what happened. He simply left one day and did not return that night. But something could have happened, surely. And the woman waited and she waited. For she knew he must return. She asked the other men in the village what had happened and they had said they did not know. For the man had been a loner. The days passed still and the woman understood a new side of love- heartbreak. It was during this time, with her emotions in disarray, that water broke.
The baby was coming.
This was the most difficult thing she had ever gone through. But with the help of elders and a few friends, a baby cried. But an elder screamed, almost dropping the child. The woman was not yet done however, for inside her there had not been one, nor even two babies, but three. There came hushed whispers as the delirious woman took her children to her breast. She felt them first, warm and mewling things, before her eyes were able to focus on them. She had to blink to comprehend what she saw. For they were not normal babes. Instead of small pink ears, there were tufts of fur, like that of an animal. Their skin was both of ur-human and that of a beast. Soft and delicate, in white, brown and grey. Furthermore, they all had small swishing tails.
She could hear what the others were saying. Abominations. Miracles. But the woman- no, the mother found something else entirely. Filling in her broken heart came a new sort of love, one she had never known until that moment. Of protection and joy. A willingness to sacrifice everything. For them. The love of a parent for a child, the purest sort there could be. She shushed them with her voice and they all slept in peace.
So it was decided that night by the elders. They would not shun the woman, they would not shun the newborns. If they were abominations, only time would tell. If they were miracles, then they should survive.
So the village banded together despite the uncertainty.
And time passed
“W-What have you done, Toffee?” Teefee asked in a shaky voice. Toffee barely registered her sister’s voice. It was a muffled noise. Her ears were ringing and there was a twitch in her eye as something hot mingled with the rain as it flowed down her face. Thunder rumbled in the distance but it sounded like some terrible giant stomping his way, closer, closer, clos-
Her arm was tugged and Toffee felt her throat restrict as she swung her fist to- She saw her sister’s terrified eyes and stopped a mere finger's length from impacting her face. That lovely, innocent face with huge blue orbs rimmed red. Had she really been about to strike her own sister? Even if she hadn't, the damage was still done with crushing effect. Toffee could see it. The fear. The uncertainty. Teefee was terrified of her. Her innocence was shattered because of a sister who didn’t know when to stop.
Toffee reached out to Teefee and the girl flinched, driving home the depths of what Toffee had done. Her hand fell to her side clenching and unclenching. Teefee, for her part, was the one who gradually reached out and cupped Toffee’s face. The touch was reassuring without having to say anything at all. It was only then did Toffee begin to cry. Deep wracking sobs before she fell to her knees and vomited. It all happened so fast before she felt Teefee wrap her arms around Toffee’s now shivering frame.
It continued to rain. Mixing with the blood surrounding them. There was so much inside hateful men, it was no wonder it burst forth from their flesh when pierced. For that was how Toffee had killed him. The one who had… who had hurt Teefee. The stone spear was embedded into his very heart. A macabre sight on the shores of the Hillgrass tribe.
Perhaps love wasn’t so fickle when it came to protecting those you loved.
Sirele's Witnessings - Boulder's Ideo-Marked Biosphere Part 1 - Imantails
You are most likely thinking the following:
How come there is a scroll about Sirele’s observations of the Parai that existed in the Valley of the Boulder, when she only learned to write and sketch half a century after she left that land?
My answer to that is simple — This scroll was not written by Sirele and was instead written by me, Mael, her fifty seventh descendant. I obtained this knowledge directly from my mother after she had retired to the frontier. We spent a lot of time together back then and so I bring to you the knowledge that many had assumed lost.
Without further delay, here is the information.
I draw these memories from the deepest parts of my soul — They are amongst my earliest and my most valuable, for the things that appear in them have long been taken from our plane.
My first encounter with the Ideo-Marked happened when I was collecting wild leaves to make a concoction for Saries. On that day, on the last bush that I intended to inspect for suitable leaves, I instead found a squirrel, a squirrel that was eating a rock!
I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me — That perhaps my curse had also affected my senses, you know? It might sound strange to you, but back then we had only ever witnessed such strange behaviour from the local Tormenta population. You know, the birds that used to have total control over rain and storm? Rarely seen nowadays — Poached to near extinction by the likes of Kur-Laka… Anyway. The squirrel was really eating a rock.
Not only that, but its front teeth glinted in the midday sun, much like the glint one can see coming from metal. And upon closer inspection, the squirrel’s “fur” wasn’t really fur at all, but an incredible amount of extremely thin tendrils of metal, all of them covered in a dark, powder-like substance.
So not only was the squirrel’s behaviour odd in the sense that it ate rocks and was unafraid of Humanity — It was also anatomically wrong in the way that only the Tormentas could have been back then.
That’s when I understood it for the first time. Life was in flux, always changing, ready to show you something new if you take the moment to just look.
I grabbed that squirrel and brought it to Saries, who confirmed what I already suspected. It was Ideo-Marked, but in a lesser way to the Tormentas. We named that species of squirrel “imantails”, and soon enough discovered that the black powder that clung to them was a very specific kind of sand that they actively searched for along the banks of rivers. All they had to do to become covered in the sand was roll around for a few seconds, and the sand would simply levitate out of the ground and stick to them as if it had always belonged there.
It took some time for Amunites to realize that that black sand was a type of metal that worked well for tools and such — Iron. And from then on, finding an imantail anywhere was taken as evidence that a large deposit of such treasure was nearby. Naturally, once this discovery reached the ears of the Accord of Peth-Amun, the Eight Nomes commissioned the person who originally reported the imantails’ existence to go out into the world and document every single Ideo-Marked species in the local regions.
That person was me. And as payment they allowed me to name this newly discovered branch of life, which I named Parai — Which so happens to be the Shamanic word for ‘paragon’.
And so after I was dismissed from the council of the Eight Nomes, I became Peth-Amun’s first ever sanctioned explorer. That is how I made a name for myself, and it’s what eventually allowed me to find transport out of Amunite territory.
Imantails These are Squirrels that have been blessed by the Patron of Magnetism. They are covered not in fur, but in thousands of tiny, magnetic metal filaments that attract sand and/or gravel rich in magnetic material. Those filaments absorb and metabolise that material, reinforcing their musculoskeletal structure in order to permit them to consume a diet of non-metallic rocks and crystals without any ill effects.
Given that they need to remain near sources of easily-metabolised material, finding an imantail usually means that there is a decently sized magnetic metal deposit nearby.
Given their diets and anatomy, mundane animals tend to not consider Imantails as prey, as their flesh is extremely hard to digest and processing it tends to result in severe cases of kidney stones. On the other hand, they are particularly susceptible to other Ideo-Marked beasts such as the Earth-Blessed or Death-Blessed.
Examples of Imantail variants are: the docile Amunite Iron-Coated Imantails, the rare and territorial Bird-Hunting Platinum-Coated Imantails, and the Dwarf Iron-Coated Imantails of the First Coast.
Short post, styled as if it was an in-world scroll available in different libraries to be read by scholars. Mael, Sirele’s 57th descendant, relays Sirele’s memories of the biosphere that existed in the Valley of the Boulder before its mass deforestation and resulting ecological collapse. This post describes the Parai(Ideal-Marked beasts, AKA magical beasts, AKA future monsters) Imantail archetype.
They had been many once. Families, elders, children, all fleeing together when the ground split and the sky burned. Hunger had changed that. Hunger had made choices for them long before anyone dared speak them aloud. When the animals vanished and the land turned hostile, when the weak slowed and the injured begged to rest, the group learned a new rule. Anyone who could not keep moving fed those who could. By the time they reached the edge of the valley, they no longer pretended otherwise. They walked hard-eyed, bodies scarred, mouths stained by things no one spoke of anymore.
They had been on the move for weeks, maybe longer. Time blurred when every day was ash, dust and the constant fear of the ground killing you without warning. They skirted fire, crossed cracked seabeds, drank water that burned the throat. They survived by stripping the dead of anything useful, by turning on outsiders or by turning on their own when desperation demanded it. Eating one another had stopped being a last resort and become routine. It was not ritual. It was not madness. It was survival.
The valley stopped them from their journey.
Green cut through gray like a wound in the world. From a rise overlooking the land, they saw water that did not stink, fields that had not burned, trees that still stood. Smoke curled upward, not from destruction but from ur-human made fires. Shapes moved below, people, alive, unafraid, gathering and working instead of running. Safety existed here. Order. Food that was not stolen from a corpse.
They did not descend right away. They crouched at the edge of the valley, watching. Eyes narrowed, stomachs aching, minds racing. This place should not exist. After everything the world had done, this should have been impossible. Yet there it was, Gamblerdise, untouched at its center. To the cannibals, it looked like salvation or a feast or a challenge. None of them knew which yet. They only knew they had finally found something worth stopping for.
They sent one of the light-footed ones first. A woman with scars like tally marks along her arms. She moved alone, slipping down into the valley while the rest waited in the rocks above, watching the green swallow her shape. For a long time there was nothing. No scream. No signal. Just the wind moving through leaves and the distant sound of water that didn’t taste like ash.
When she returned, she was pale beneath the grime, breath coming too fast. She did not sit. She did not smile. She stood before the group and spoke all at once, words tumbling over each other like she was afraid the valley might hear her if she slowed down. “It’s wrong,” she said. “Not dead wrong. Moving wrong. The ground does things. The air does things. I hit a stone away and it came back at me. Trees change when you don’t watch them. I saw fire eat itself.”
They brought her to their leader, a huge man crouched near the largest fire they dared light. His shoulders were thick, neck corded with muscle, teeth filed uneven and yellowed. They called him Fangs. Not because he smiled, he never did but because when he bit, things stayed bitten. He listened without interrupting, dark eyes fixed on the scout as she spoke, fingers absently scraping a sharpened stick against stone.
“There’s a center,” she continued, voice dropping. “A place where it stops being insane. People live there. Real people. They don’t flinch at shadows. A tower of white and gold with something shining inside it. The madness stays away from them, like it knows it’s not welcome.” She swallowed hard. “The fire froze. My water pack turned solid." She continued as she fell to her knees, then into a fetal position as she kept repeating the words again and again.
Fangs did not argue with her fear. He did not comfort it either. He stepped forward, shadow swallowing her curled form and drove his stone knife down once. There was no flourish, no anger in it, just finality. The scout stopped moving, words cut off mid-loop. Fangs straightened, wiped the blade on her hair without looking and turned away. Fear that could not stand was not useful. Fear that spread was worse. So, more food to the group was made.
Fangs finally moved. He leaned forward, firelight catching the edges of his teeth and grunted low in his throat. “Mad land still feeds,” he said. “Mad land still bleeds.” His gaze drifted toward the valley, toward the green. “If they live there, they can be eaten.” He stood, towering over the others. “We don’t turn back now. We’ve eaten worse odds than this.”
They began the descent at dawn, filing down into the valley with weapons clenched tight. Sharpened stakes, chipped stone blades, bones tied to wood with whatever they could find. Hunger had made them efficient. The green below looked wrong up close, too alive, too calm. The air felt thick. A man near the back laughed nervously when his shadow lagged half a step behind him. The laugh stopped when the shadow snapped forward and pulled him off his feet. He vanished into the grass without a scream. Fangs did not turn around. “Keep moving,” he growled. “The land eats the slow.”
Further in, the ground betrayed them. A woman stepped on solid earth that turned soft under her weight, swallowing her leg to the knee. She screamed as the soil hardened again, trapping her in place. The others pulled, skin tore, bone cracked and when they finally wrenched her free she collapsed, bleeding and shaking. The air shimmered once and she was gone, erased like a bad bet. Panic rippled through the group. Fangs slammed his spear butt into the dirt. “Forward!” he shouted. “The valley takes cowards first.”
They crossed a stream that looked clear. Halfway through, the water surged upward, freezing mid-splash into jagged shapes. Two men were caught, arms locked in place, breath coming white from their mouths before stopping altogether. The ice shattered moments later, bodies dropping like broken dolls. The rest scrambled across, soaked and sobbing. Fangs stood on the far bank, arms crossed, watching. “It bleeds,” he reminded them. “Everything bleeds.”
The forest edge took another three. Trees leaned when no wind blew. Branches twisted into hooks, snapping shut around throats and wrists. One man managed to scream before bark sealed over his mouth. The others tore themselves free, leaving blood and skin behind. Fangs dragged the last one loose by the hair, shoved him forward and snarled in his ear. “You live because you walk. You die when you stop.”
By the time the madness eased, fewer than half remained. The valley opened before them, quieter now, almost gentle by comparison. In the distance, they could see it. White and gold rising clean against the green, calm where everything else had been chaos. Smoke that smelled like cooked food. Water that reflected the sky instead of swallowing it. Fangs bared his teeth in something close to a smile. “See?” he said softly. “The land shows us the prize and more of our people are coming down. We'll have a FEAST TONIGHT!”
They came through just after midday, baskets heavy with roots and fruit with laughter that followed them. But something was in the air. Something wrong. A feeling. The birds were quiet. The wind smelled wrong. One of them, the youngest, slowed first, eyes noticing shapes where shapes should not be. Too many figures. Too still. The laughter died without ceremony.
The strangers did not announce themselves. They rose from the grass as if the land had decided to stand up. A shout broke, sharp and startled then cut short. One gatherer turned to run and was taken from behind, dragged down into the green. Baskets spilled, food scattering uselessly across the ground, bright against the dirt.
The third tried to fight. He raised a knife meant for roots and bark, hands shaking but stubborn. It bought him a heartbeat, maybe two. Enough to see faces streaked with mud and teeth filed or broken or bared in joy. Enough to understand that this was not a misunderstanding. When he fell, it was fast.
The last one ran.
She did not look back. Branches tore at her skin, stones bruised her feet, breath burned her chest raw but she kept moving. The valley seemed to lean after her, shadows stretching, sounds chasing just behind. She broke through the tree line like an animal fleeing a snare, lungs screaming, vision tunneling, fear holding her upright when her body wanted to fold.
She reached Gamblerdise with blood on her hands that was not hers and a story that came out in broken gasps. Strangers in the valley. Killers. Teeth and stone and hunger. Her voice carried, panic ripping through it, and people began to scream. Shouts overlapped, questions turned to cries, feet pounded as doors were thrown shut or opened again. The noise spread fast, a raw, human alarm.
Somewhere within the village, Villagxor lifted his head. The sudden shouts of fear was impossible to miss. Whatever calm Gamblerdise had been clinging to collapsed in an instant, replaced by the old, familiar certainty that danger found them again.
A large group of ur-human cannibals finds the valley of Gamberdise. They decide that the Changelings look very yummy and proceed to attack. They manage to kill 3 changelings but not before the 4th one leave and alerts the village.
Moren was in the company of the Hollow Tree when it all began.
A ring resounded in the goddess, not a sound, but a pressure, a voiceless cry originating from the world itself. It rolled through her being in waves, crashing against its core which wrenched from it a psychic pain unlike any other. It rang of destruction, of irreparable damage, and brought with it the scent of imminent ruin.
The world hadn’t truly begun yet, but it was already facing its doom.
But wasn’t that how it was? Life could be snuffed out at any given moment.
So, why did this feel wrong? As she understood it, one of her tasks was to oversee death. Would it not be right then to witness the end of their world?
Moren could only assume their creator had built in them a self-preservation mechanism. Or perhaps the gods sensed the world’s wish to continue via their innate connection with it. It was logical; without anything to rule over, what would they be? If they perished, what then?
She still believed it was natural that one day, all would end. But that ‘one day’ was not today. She hadn’t yet witnessed the world’s completion, had barely got a taste of its growth, development, and decay. There was so much more to experience – and only in life would there be death.
She journeyed through the lands, away from the Hallowed Tree. Its territory of peace and repose was one which she was proud of, but it was not where she was needed.
The seas were receding deep bellow, swallowed into her sibling’s precious domain. An odd choice on his part; just what did he mean to do with all that water?
Moren wasn’t concerned with that just then, however; far more imminent was the mass death of marine life. Bleached corals, stranded fish, desiccated mollusks, dried algae, beached whales…hectares of land which had been under sea were littered with such a variety of corpses, she could only marvel at the collection. With each of the beings dying, she felt that intangible essence pass – some into nothingness, others into her recently created realm. As they alighted into her dimension, a sensation akin to a light tingle brushed the back of her mind.
With the sheer number of deaths, it was a constant hum, spiking every so often.
Having seen enough, Moren shifted, traversing from the realm of the living to her realm of the dead with but a thought. Familiar black shores greeted her, but the seas were changed here, too. Oh, they still spanned their original expanse, but the previously darkened waters were now shining from within. From schools of tiny fish, to drifting jellyfish, to the larger shapes of dolphins, each of their essences had taken on shapes they’d been familiar with in life. They were not creatures of flesh, but of spirit and soul, so the colouration they had had had was more of a suggestion here; generally, they were motes of dull light gathered into a cohesive, individual form reminiscent of the one they had held.
The coast by the shore corresponding to the one where the gods had first appeared was so lit up, it could be seen from miles away. Moren realized she had unconsciously designated this as the spawning point, thus drawing most of the deceased souls nearby. Strangely, many a fish were flopping on the beach itself – they needed no water to exist, but the memory of their existence was so ingrained into their being, she watched them cease to be by the scores. Those who managed to move into the sea or who had spawned there were the depiction of pure chaos; bigger fish rent apart the essences of the smaller ones, squids ejected part of their spirits as a facsimile of ink, jellyfish evoked their memory-of-stringing to cause echoes-of-pain in their opponents, and so on. There was simply too large a gathering of essences in one small area to peacefully co-exist; though none were driven by hunger, they retained their territorial instincts as well as their drive to hunt.
Realizing her misstep, Moren sashayed into the lapping waves, and affected her godly powers to create temporary currents in the sea, sweeping away the essences every which way. Some were scattered into nothingness, ceasing to be, but most were simply dispersed far away enough that they wouldn’t shred each other in their confusion.
Now, this wasn’t a permanent solution, she knew.
So, she closed her eyes, extended her palms, and let her mind wander. It expanded outwards, along the metaphysical seafloor, and here and there, she created tiny ‘anchors’, areas where the essences of marine life would be drawn to in the Afterlife.
Moren had no idea how long she worked, and she stopped only when she was forced to; a haunted scream assaulted her mind as the world itself thrashed in the throes of death. She was nearly sent to her knees, water splashing around, as her awareness suddenly snapped into her godly manifestation, alerting her to yet another world-changing event.
Now what?
TBC...
Actions: Creates miniature 'anchors' beneath the Afterlife's oceans; multiple areas where the essences of deceased marine life will be drawn to after crossing into her realm.
It had been three dims since the world broke. Three dims since the earth had screamed and fire had vomited from the mountains and the sky had turned the color of old blood. Three dims since half their tribe had been swallowed by cracks in the ground that opened like hungry mouths, or buried beneath avalanches of superheated stone, or simply disappeared into clouds of ash so thick they choked on their own breath.
Forty-seven had survived. Forty-seven out of nearly two hundred.
They found refuge in a shallow basin where a spring still ran clear, nestled between hills that had somehow escaped the worst of the devastation. The water tasted of minerals now, sharp and metallic on the tongue, but it didn't kill. That made it sacred. They built their shelters low and wide, remembering too well how the earth could shake, how vertical things fell and crushed.
The hunters went out despite their fear. Prey was scarce—most animals had fled or died—but desperation made them bold. They learned to read the new landscape: where ash-fall was thick enough to muffle footsteps, where the ground was stable enough to trust, which plants had survived and which had turned poisonous from the black rain that still fell intermittently, burning skin and eyes.
They learned to cover their mouths with hide when the wind blew from the south, carrying choking clouds of volcanic dust. They learned that fires needed to be kindled in sheltered places, or the ash-laden air would smother them. They learned that the old songs about gratitude and plenty rang hollow now, so they sang new ones instead—songs of survival, of stubbornness, of forty-seven voices refusing to be silenced.
The elders spoke in hushed tones about the gods, about what terrible transgression had provoked such wrath. The younger ones didn't care. The gods had names and stories, but the Kesh-Mir had hunger and wounds and nightmares. Theology was a luxury for people who weren't slowly starving.
Still, they endured. The women gathered what roots and fungi still grew, learning through painful trial which could be eaten and which brought fever-dreams or death. The men hunted in pairs, never straying far, always watching the horizon for the telltale plume of a new eruption. The children, those few who remained, played quieter games now, games that didn't involve running far from sight.
Slowly, impossibly, Scar-Home began to feel like home.
⚬────────────────────✧────────────────────⚬
The boy's name was Teth. He was nine, small for his age, and had learned silence the way other children learned speech.
He had been with his father on a hunt when they were separated. Not dramatically—no earthquake, no predator, just Teth pausing to examine a track while his father moved ahead through the ash-dusted undergrowth. When Teth looked up, his father was gone. He called out once, twice, then remembered the first lesson of the broken world: loud sounds attracted attention, and not all attention was survivable.
So he walked. Following the direction he thought his father had gone. Trying not to panic. Trying not to think about the stories of children who wandered into the deep woods and never returned.
The forest here was strange. Less ash, more green. The trees grew thicker, older, their bark unmarked by fire. Teth noticed flowers—actual flowers, colors he'd almost forgotten existed—blooming in impossible profusion despite the fact that it was the wrong season and the world was supposed to be dying.
Then he saw her.
She stood in a small clearing, illuminated by shafts of light that seemed brighter than they should be. Her skin was bronze, but not the bronze of sun-touched flesh—bronze like heated metal, with dark fissures running across her arms and face, and from within those cracks came a faint glow, orange-red like the molten rivers Teth had seen pouring from the mountains the night the world ended.
Her hair floated. Not blowing in wind—floating, suspended as though underwater, each auburn strand moving independently in currents Teth couldn't feel. It reached her waist, drifting, hypnotic.
She wore something translucent and violet, a fabric that seemed more like colored air than cloth, draping her form without quite touching it. Her feet were bare. Where she stepped, vines erupted from the ash-choked soil, twisting upward in accelerated growth. Flowers bloomed in her footprints—white, luminous, already wilting as she moved on.
She was picking an apple from a tree, holding the fruit delicately between two fingers, studying it with the focused curiosity of someone encountering the concept of "apple" for the first time. She turned it slowly, watching light play across its red skin, tilting her head as though listening to something the apple might be saying.
Teth forgot to breathe.
Then her gaze lifted. Her eyes—amber, bright, glowing with the same internal light that leaked from the cracks in her skin—locked onto his.
She tilted her head, mirroring the gesture she'd made toward the apple.
The woman-who-was-not-a-woman watched him, waiting, as flowers continued blooming around her feet and the world held its breath.
Conviction Rewards: +1 to all gods, as a Christmas gift. Merry Christmas all! +1 to all gods who posted at least 1 time (Alechior, Excelsis, Khthon, Moren, Sarhush, Saries) +1 to all gods who advanced plot/created major content(Alechior, Excelsis, Khthon, Moren, Sarhush, Saries)
Conviction Expenditure (Other): TBC in next week's GM Post.
Turbulence Expenditure: TBC in next week's GM Post.
As mentioned in OOC, the overall conviction will be recalculated next week. Any missing or bonus con that should have been awarded/any con that should have been deducted in this post will be given/deducted then. Again, Merry Christmas to all <3.
Villagxor listened to her story closely. He stayed close while she spoke, one hand braced against the ground, the other resting open and visible so she could see it. The words came tangled, soaked in fear but he pulled sense from them all the same. Strangers. Sharp stones. People torn apart. When she finally ran out of breath, he nodded once, slowly and helped her to sit upright.
He rose and turned to the village and the noise started to turn into a uneasy silence. “No one is chasing you right now,” Villagxor said, calmly. “You are here. You are safe.” He let that sink in before continuing. “Panic will make us loud. Loud things attract danger. We will not do that for them.” People quieted almost straight away. They trusted his certainty.
His instructions were simple and practical. Stay together. Bring the elders inside the inner paths. Close openings. Put out excess fires. Water covered, food stored, nothing left scattered or inviting. Runners sent to warn those still outside the village to come home swiftly and together. “No one goes out alone,” he repeated. “Not now. Not today.”
Finally, Villagxor looked toward the trees, where the green thickened and the valley watched in its silent way. “We've never been fighters,” he said, without shame. “So we will not pretend to be. We endure. We hide. We stay calm.” His gaze returned to the villagers. “That has always been our strength. And it still is.”
When the movement settled and people began to follow his words, Villagxor spoke again, quieter. “While you shelter,” he said, “I will not be standing among you.” A ripple of unease passed through the gathered villagers, faces turning toward him all at once. He raised a hand before fear could bloom again. “Not away. Not gone. I will be where I must be.”
He gestured toward the heart of Gamblerdise, where white and gold rose clean. “I will go into the temple,” Villagxor continued. “I will call upon our patron, our Fun God.” The nickname carried weight, not thunderous, but steady, like a stone dropped into water. “Whatever reasons they might've had to get us here and protect us, they clearly care about our survival. Let's hope they still care about us.”
Some murmured prayers. Others simply bowed their heads. Villagxor did not dress it up or promise miracles. “I do not know what form the answer will take, if any,” he said. “A sign. A warning. A chance.” His eyes moved across them, meeting each in turn. “But I will ask. Clearly. As one of you.”
He took a step back, already turning inward toward the path that led to the temple doors. “You do your part,” Villagxor finished. “Quiet. Together. Alive.” Then, without ceremony, he left them to it, walking toward the light at the center of Gamblerdise.
Inside the temple, the air felt steady in a way nothing else did. Villagxor stopped near the center, right in front of the Anchor, not kneeling, not bowing, just standing where the light pooled clean and bright. He didn’t clasp his hands or lower his head. That wasn’t how this worked. Alechior wasn’t a god that cared for gestures and Villagxor had never pretended otherwise.
“Alright,” he said aloud. “This isn’t a game.” He exhaled slowly. “There’s a group coming. Ur-Humans. Armed with sharpened stones and nothing to lose. They’ve already killed some of mine.” No anger yet, just fact. “My people don’t fight. They don’t know how. They won’t learn in time.”
He shifted his weight, eyes fixed on the Anchor. “I’m not asking for spectacle. No lightning. No miracles.” A brief pause. “I’m asking for something that works. A way to stop them, scare them off, slow them down, or make them choose to leave.”
Villagxor straightened fully. “If you want games, I’ll give you games later. If you want offerings, we’ll talk.” then he added with a bit more power in his voice, “Right now, I need help. Tell me what you’re willing to give and what it costs.”
Meanwhile
Fangs stood at the edge of their crude camp when the others arrived. Shapes emerged from the treeline in small, ragged clusters, thinner than the ones already with him, eyes sunk deep, ribs showing through skin. Reinforcements, if the word could be stretched that far. They carried the same tools, sharpened sticks, stone knives, bones tied with sinew. Some limped. Some bled. All of them looked scared, the valley took its toll.
He counted them without moving his lips. Fewer than he’d hoped. More than he’d feared. It was enough. He let out a low grunt, a sound that passed for approval and the newcomers settled in quickly, collapsing near fires, gnawing on whatever scraps remained. No greetings. No questions. Hunger flattened all of that. Fangs turned his gaze back toward the village, already deciding how many would starve before dawn and how many would eat.
A scout returned a few moments later. She came in fast, breath harsh, eyes wide in confusion. She dropped to one knee without being told, head angled toward him. “The village,” she said. “It’s quiet.”
Fangs looked at her slowly. Quiet was never a good word. “Quiet how,” he growled.
“No smoke moving. No people outside. No noise,” she said, swallowing. “The survivor must've warned them.” She hesitated, then added, “But I felt watched.”
Fangs bared his teeth, the firelight catching on them as his chest rose with a low, pleased breath. “Good,” he said. “That means they know we’re coming.” He turned back to the gathered mass of bodies, voice lifting just enough to carry. “Eat what you can. Sharpen what you’ve got. When the light comes up, we go and FEAST!”
Nothing came back. No flicker of light. No twist of chance. No voice, no laughter, no sign that anyone was listening at all. The Anchor remained still, beautiful and empty, its glow unchanged, uncaring.
His voice rose. Words turned sharp then broke apart entirely. He shouted at it, at the stone, at the silence. Anger bled into the sound, then fear then something raw that scraped his throat. He demanded answers. He demanded help. He demanded to know why now, of all times, there was nothing. The temple swallowed every word and gave nothing in return. When his voice finally failed, the quiet felt worse than any reply.
Villagxor stood there shaking, fists clenched, eyes burning. Alechior was not coming. Whether unwilling or unable, it did not matter. The truth settled heavy in his chest. Whatever was walking toward Gamblerdise, it would not be turned aside by chance or mercy tonight.
He left the temple without looking back. In the village, people watched him pass, fear written plain on their faces. He stopped only long enough to take a sharpened stick from where it leaned against a shelter wall, simple, crude, meant for nothing more than probing ground or scaring animals away. He gripped it tight, jaw set. If the valley would not protect them and the god would not answer, then he would stand in front of the danger himself. Alone, if that was the wager forced on him.
The sun crept up slow, pale light spilling between the trees as the forest began to move. Shapes peeled themselves from shadow, one after another, until the undergrowth could no longer hide them. Fangs stepped out first, broad and scarred, teeth bared not in a snarl but a promise of a feast. Behind him came dozens more, thin from hunger, eyes sharp with it.
They stopped at the edge of the village. Smoke drifted from cookfires long gone cold. Huts stood quiet. No voices rose to greet the morning. Fangs lifted a hand and the others slowed, spreading slightly, instinctively hunting even without prey running. His gaze tracked across the village until it found what stood waiting.
Villagxor was there. Alone. No line of defenders. No raised tools. Just him, feet on the group, a sharpened stick held low at his side. The early light caught the red of his markings and the dust on his skin. He did not step back. He did not call out. He simply stood, watching them approach as if this had always been where he meant to be.
Fangs laughed, a short sound that carried. “One?” he called, voice rough and loud. He took a few more steps forward, boots sinking slightly into the gentler ground. “This is what guards the fat place?” Laughter rippled through the group behind him. Hunger made them bold.
Villagxor lifted his head. His grip tightened on the stick but he did not raise it. His voice carried clear, steady despite the fear burning behind his eyes. “This is as far as you go.” There was no threat in the words, only statement. As if rules still mattered. As if the world might listen.
Fangs stopped a few meters away, his shadow stretching long across the grass. He leaned forward slightly, eyes scanning Villagxor from head to toe, weighing him with his eyes, already thinking of sticking his teeth into him. “You stand alone,” he said. “That is brave. Or stupid.” His smile widened. “We will find out which.”
Behind him, the group shifted, gripping stone and sharpened wood, breath quickening with the promise of blood and food. The sun rose higher, burning away the last traces of night. At the edge of Gamblerdise, with no god answering and no one at his back, Villagxor stood his ground
Villagxor shifted his stance and lifted the sharpened stick, not in attack but so it could be clearly seen. “You want this place,” he said. “Then you deal with me.” His eyes stayed on Fangs, not the mass behind him. “One against one. No others.”
A low murmur rolled through the cannibals. Fangs tilted his head, amused, curiosity cutting through his hunger. Villagxor continued before Fangs could reply. “If I win, you turn around. All of you. You leave this valley and you do not come back.” His grip tightened, knuckles turning white pale. “If I lose, you get what you came for. Food. Bodies. No one will stop you.”
Silence followed. Fangs stepped closer until they were nearly face to face, his breath hot, his grin wide and ugly. “You against me? Fighting me with what?” he asked. “One thin stick?” He laughed again, louder this time and spread his arms as if embracing the idea. “I like this. I'll eat you whole! But why wouldn't I just have my people tear you from limb to limb? Why should I do this?”
“Because you’re not a coward,” Villagxor said plainly. “And cowards hide behind numbers.” His eyes stayed locked on Fangs, unblinking. “If you let them swarm me, you prove you were afraid to lose.”
He shifted the stick in his hands, planting its end into the dirt between them. “This is simple. You win, you take the village. No running. No tricks. No one gets in your way.” His jaw tightened. “I win, you leave and you don’t come back. You don’t test us again.”
Villagxor leaned in just enough to make the words bite. “You asked why you should do this,” he finished. “Because when you walk away after beating one man, everyone behind you knows you earned it.”
Before Villagxor realized, Fangs lunged forward with a roar. The larger man’s momentum was terrifying, each step like a drumbeat shaking the ground. Villagxor barely managed to sidestep the first swing, the stick scraping against Fangs’ crude wooden club and sending sparks into the air.
He stumbled back, narrowly avoiding a second, heavier blow that would have crushed him outright. Each movement felt like a roll of the dice: duck here, step there, hoping the larger man’s strength didn’t catch him. Villagxor’s strikes were quick but clumsy, more desperation than precision, slapping at Fangs’ sides or feinting to draw attention rather than landing hits.
Fangs laughed deep, swinging again, forcing Villagxor to leap sideways. A branch snapped under Villagxor’s foot as he rolled to avoid being pinned. The larger man’s attacks were relentless, sweeping and punishing, each one designed to end the fight fast. Villagxor’s best defense was instinct and luck, barely managing to keep the stick between them when Fangs’ club slammed down.
A sharp turn, a quick feint and Villagxor thrust the stick toward Fangs’ knee but misjudged the distance. The tip bounced harmlessly off the earth as Fangs barked a laugh, swatting it aside like it was a toy. Sweat stung Villagxor’s eyes, muscles burning from the effort, but he forced himself to reset, planting his feet again, bracing for the next charge.
Fangs lunged again, catching Villagxor’s shoulder with a heavy club, dropping him to the ground. Dirt and leaves scattered as Villagxor rolled, barely escaping another crushing blow aimed for his head. His lungs burned, every movement a gamble, a hope that the larger man would over-commit or misstep. Each thrust he push was less about striking and more about surviving long enough to find an opening.
Even as exhaustion hit him, Villagxor stayed visible, refusing to disappear into cover. His movements could give a trained fighter a heart-attack, but each dodge and block carried the weight of the wager: survive or fall. Fangs pressed the advantage, grinning as if this was all a game he had already won. Villagxor’s strikes biting nothing more than air, most of the time.
An armourless angel rests by her wooden battlements watching like a shepherd over an empty pasture. Her pure white gaze lingered towards the decorated sky from her siblings. A creation that filled an empty space that their creator had forgotten. She eyed in complete wonderment while her heart slinked deeper into envy. War was a creation meant for endless rivers red, the clashing of metal against flesh, and furious cries parted their dirt covered lips. Sacrifice was meant to honor those who gave everything for cause, a city, a person. Making memories into stone until everyone will forget, except her.
For the past few days, she felt her siblings' influence. The shaking of earth, the cries of anguish and new shapes of fate. She knew these events by the littering corpses on her roads. Dying men and women who fled for safety often told the stories of shaping earth. If that wasn’t convincing enough her paths had been made more treacherous. Spiritual journeys for safety had become trails of both land and beast. Only some made it far enough to meet her scared guardians of nature. To protect the only treasure that not even Khton’s iron grip couldn’t keep.
The little cooing that echoed below her lap. The Child biting on her fingers without a care in the world. Looking up towards the angel with a wide smile with senseless babbling. Forcing the angel to laugh in simplicity, almost forgetting her worries of her god siblings and their effect on this unfinished canvas. She simply sighed, nuzzling his noise with a soft giggle as she watched him with loving care. Yet beneath that care was dread, for every hour the goddess ‘breathed’ it was day for the child. A child that is growing in more ways than one.
She wasn’t a mother, nor did she have one to learn from. She learned that milk was the best way for mortal offspring to grow. Unfortunately, the child was almost out of that stage. Her fingers knew that the child was growing rows of teeth, the problem was if she wore her metal gloves the child would break his teeth, and Adria wasn’t cruel. If she has to sacrifice her fingers just so the child could be entertained. Carefully she maneuvered the child into her arms, giving her the chance to stand and spread out her crimsoned wings stained by ash of those bodies she burned in remembrance of those who traveled for safety.
Now, she is tasked with a new purpose. She must learn how to raise a child before she begs her sister of death for the chance to spare the child from her realm. With the crack of her wings, she lifted into the air, soaring above her fortress of stone and wood, traveling to the closest village for some inspiration. Yet as she soared above, she felt something wrong when she hovered above a village in the canyon. Waste of blood. Slaughtered in malice and pleased by death. Her body twitched with bitterness as she slowly lowered herself onto the outskirts of the field.
Silently covering the child in a black cloak she moved closer towards the villager center. Staying in the shadows, watching the marked humans with a glare. They seemed completely different to the ones she seen patrolling her roads, and the dead she smelled bared different traits. Was this the work of one of her god kin? Or was a consequence of their action.
Then finally her eyes landed on Villagxor against a monster swinging a club with ease. A cruel weapon she witnessed in the fog. She watched in silence and in awe of the creature moving, dancing and striking like a game she'd seen the civilians play. However the game was not in his favor, he moved better then most people would call a soldier, but his footwork was sloppy, his attacks were pointless and the monster had experiences. It was a game that he was fated to lose. Perhaps if this was a fair fight, or that they shared the same guilt she would just watch and honor the one that failed.
Yet blood lingered on the monster’s lips, his jagged teeth spoke nothing but cruelty and greed. While the other fighter fought for something greater than themself or greed. He was trained with a fitting body, but his hands had never tasted blood. For that, his sacrifice would have to wait until he earned fair and square. She would have to tip the odds. Carefully she reached out towards the mortal with a low him as her eyes glowed brighter within the darkness of the shadows.
Her hand twitched with a command as she locked eyes with Villagxor. “By my breath and command, learn what it means to be a shield against malice and hate.” With a low breath she whispered her blessing. Almost as if his muscles were blessed with knowledge. His hands and feet knew exactly how to wield the stick in between his hands. Then she clenched her fist tightly, humming with energy. “By my eyes, see what flaws monsters make when they face their consequences.” She ushered her command granting his eyes the ability to see the flaws that Fang was making. Then with a soft hmm she offered her final blessing.
“Show him the error of facing a shepherd against wolves.” She hummed with a nod as she backed away into the shadows. Hiding the child with a nod as she watched the evening fight.
Adria sulks in the shadows offering her blessing to a doomed mortal to hedge the bets. [Surreal -2 Conviction: Grant gift] Gift of Staff: Villagxor had been blessed with the ability to effectively wield a staff with ease and proficiency as if he had been training for years. [Surreal -2 Conviction: Grant gift] Gift of Eyesight: Villagxor has earned the blessing to know the weak spots of his enemies but only those who threaten his life or others. [Lucid -0 Conviction: Power mortal champion.] Temporary blessing of pain durability: Villagxor feels and takes less damage until the end of his fight.
The change was not loud. No thunder, no light tearing the sky apart. It came as a breath that Villagxor did not take, a pressure settling into his bones. The stick in his hands stopped being just a piece of wood. Its weight made sense. His grip adjusted without thought, fingers shifting, stance lowering, feet spreading just enough to hold ground. Muscles that had only known labor and walking suddenly understood leverage, distance, balance. Not strength, not yet, but knowing.
Then his sight sharpened. Fangs no longer moved as a single, overwhelming wall of death. Villagxor saw the twitch in his shoulder before each heavy swing, the way his weight lagged half a heartbeat behind his rage. He saw the moments where confidence made Fangs careless, where power replaced precision. It did not make Fangs smaller, but it made him readable. Pain still flared when Villagxor was struck, but it dulled quickly, letting him stay upright when he should have fallen.
When Fangs charged again, Villagxor did not scramble. He stepped in. The staff snapped up to meet the club, not blocking but sliding along it, redirecting the force past his shoulder. The impact still rattled his arms, but he stayed standing. He struck back immediately, the staff cracking against Fangs’ ribs hard enough to draw a sharp grunt. It was the first clean hit of the fight and the laughter stopped. The group behind Fangs leaned closer. It was the first time they saw him taking a hit
Fangs snarled and came in closer, trying to overwhelm Villagxor with brute force but he moved with purpose now, pivoting, letting blows glance instead of land. He jabbed low, clipped a knee, then pulled back before the counterstrike could crush him. Each move cost him breath, his muscles screaming under the strain but he no longer felt lost. He was choosing the moment to strike, not guessing it and hoping.
The fight tightened. Fangs adapted, using his size, forcing Villagxor back step by step. A heavy blow caught Villagxor across the side and sent him skidding through the dirt. He rolled, came up slower this time, blood in his mouth. The blessing did not make him stronger than Fangs, did not erase the years of violence carved into the other man’s body. It only kept him in the fight.
Villagxor rose again, staff held steady, eyes locked on the flaw he now knew was coming. When Fangs rushed him once more, Villagxor met him head-on. Wood cracked against bone, breath exploded from both of them, and for the first time the fight stood even. Not because Villagxor was a warrior, but because he had become something else entirely, a shield that refused to break, standing between hunger and his people.
And then...Fangs overcommitted.
It was small, almost nothing, a step taken too wide as he lunged again. Villagxor felt it more than he thought it, his body reacting before fear could argue. He dropped low and swept at Fangs’ legs. Wood struck shin, then ankle, the motion clear and desperate all at once.
The giant went down like a felled beast. The impact shook the ground, dust bursting up around him as he hit on his side and rolled onto his back, more shocked than hurt. Fangs snarled and tried to rise, but Villagxor was already moving forward before doubt could catch up.
The sharpened end of the stick pressed to Fangs’ throat. Just enough to prickle the skin and make the point clear. Villagxor’s hands shook, arms screaming, breath ragged in his chest but he did not pull away. His stance was wrong, his balance fragile but the moment held.
“I won,” Villagxor said, voice rough but steady enough. There was no triumph in it, no joy. Just fact. He swallowed and added, quieter, “This ends now.”
Fangs froze. His chest rose and fell fast, eyes locked on the point at his neck. For the first time since stepping out of the forest, the hunger on his face faltered, replaced by something close to disbelief. The crowd behind him shifted, murmurs rippling.
Villagxor did not press harder. He did not draw blood. “I don’t kill,” he said. “Not you. Not anyone.” The stick stayed where it was, unwavering despite the tremor in his arms. “You lost. So you leave.”
But it wasn't the end for Fangs.
His hand shot up, fingers closing around the shaft of the stick. With a yank, he dragged Villagxor forward and off balance, the pointy bit skidding uselessly away from his throat. Villagxor hit the ground hard, the breath knocked clean out of him as Fangs surged on top, his rage boiling over into something wild and wordless.
Hands closed around Villagxor’s throat. Thick and squeezing. The world narrowed instantly, sound dulling to a roar in his ears as he clawed at Fangs’ wrists, feet scraping uselessly against the dirt. Fangs’ face loomed inches from his own, teeth bared, spit flying as he snarled pouring everything he had left into that grip.
Villagxor twisted, panic flaring, vision starting to blur at the edges. His staff lay just out of reach, fingers brushing wood but finding nothing to hold. Fangs leaned closer a final, desperate bid to turn loss into food.
And then...the pressure vanished.
Music cut through the air first, like a dozen dice skittering across stone at once. A sudden flash of gold-white light burst between them, forcing Fangs back as if the world itself had decided it was his turn to lose. His grip slackened, his snarl cut short as he collapsed sideways into the dirt mid-breath, eyes rolling back as his body went limp. Not dead. Just asleep.
The light didn’t fade right away. It twisted, pulsed and then settled into rhythm, a tune humming through the air that felt like laughter dressed up as music. Footsteps echoed without touching the ground. Alechior stepped out of the glow as if emerging from behind a curtain, arms spread wide in exaggerated relief. “Oh good,” they said cheerfully, glancing down at Villagxor. “You were about five seconds from making this very awkward for everyone and having me to look for another Cleric! Really, can't have that.”
They drifted down, feet hovering inches above the ground, golden light still clinging to them. Alechior looked at the unconscious Fangs, then back at Villagxor, eyebrows lifting. “Strangling? Really?” they added, clicking their tongue. “Honestly. No sense of drama at all but the come back at the end of the fight? That was cool, even if a bit overplayed.”
They snapped their fingers once. The light dimmed to a warm glow, the music settling into a low hum. Alechior smiled, wide and bright, and offered Villagxor a hand. “Still,” they said, amused and proud all at once. “Very good odds you just beat there even if you had some help from one of my siblings.”
Villagxor took the offered hand without hesitation, fingers closing tight as Alechior pulled him back to his feet. His legs shook now that the danger had passed, breath coming hard, chest burning but he stayed standing. He bowed his head first, deep and sincere. “Thank you,” he said, voice rough. “Truly thank you but you came late.” The words were careful but they carried weight. “People died before this. I thought you would answer sooner.”
Alechior blinked, then laughed lightly. “Sooner?” they echoed, hand pressed to their chest in mock offense. “Villagxor, you have no sense of timing. Or drama.” They gestured broadly at the clearing, the unconscious Fangs, the stunned cannibals frozen in place. “You were mid-climax. I don’t interrupt climaxes. It’s rude. 'Just had to see how you'd be dealing with all this!”
They leaned in a little, grin widening. “Also,” Alechior added conspiratorially, lowering their voice as if sharing a secret, “I made a small bet with myself. Whether you’d lose in the first five minutes or not.” They straightened, clearly pleased. “You didn’t. Not even close. Which means you won the wager, I get to keep you as my Cleric and everyone learned something important about courage today.” Their eyes flicked back to Villagxor, warm and bright. “See? Perfect timing.”
Villagxor opened his mouth, ready to answer, to argue, to say something that had been burning in his chest since the prayer went unanswered.
Alechior lifted a finger.
“Ah. No,” they said with absolute authority, cutting him off mid-thought. “Save it. You’ll either thank me again or try to scold me later. Let's do that preferably with less blood nearby.” They turned on their heel in one motion, golden light trailing after them like a comet, and faced the cannibals.
Their smile never left, but it sharpened. “Alright,” Alechior said brightly, clapping their hands once. “Everyone stays exactly where they are. No running. No screaming. No brave ideas.” Their eyes flicked across the group, counting, weighing. “If you move, the valley eats you. Slowly. I promise you” he said with a wink and an impossibly wide grin, face revealing way too many teeth that should fit in their mouth.
The silence that followed was immediate.
Alechior turned back to Villagxor, all warmth restored in an instant. They tapped his shoulder lightly, as if this were a casual favor. “Keep ’em here,” they said cheerfully. “Try not to let anyone get eaten while I’m gone.” Already they started lifting above the ground even higher than before, “I need a word with my dear sibling who decided to meddle in mygame.” they added before flying high into the sky.
Alechior cut through the air at high speed. They slowed when they saw her, hovering just above the valley. Black armor caught the light without reflecting it, elegant and cruel in equal measure. Six blood-red wings spread wide behind her. Silver hair framed a face too calm for what she was, white eyes unreadable and in her arms, impossibly gentle against all of that, a Ur-human baby slept.
They stopped short, hovering in place, head tilting as if taking in a stage set. “Well,” Alechior said, hands spreading slightly with amusement. “That is certainly a look. I was expecting dramatic, but you went straight for funeral chic with extra wings. Bold choice.” Their eyes flicked from the armor to the wings and then, finally, to the infant. The smile softened, just a touch. “And a baby? Now that’s either excellent timing or the worst disguise I’ve ever seen.”
Alechior drifted closer, curiosity outweighing caution but kept a respectful distance from the child and their god-sibling. “We haven’t met,” they continued lightly, tapping their own chest. “Alechior, you are very clearly not from my usual crowd. So I have to ask, before I start guessing wildly.” Their grin returned, playful but sharp. “Are you always this terrifying, or did you dress up because you knew I was coming?”
Adria's blessings helped Villagxor almost win the fight but right at the end, he gets defeated. Not that it lasted, as Alechior, in their grand design, appeared and put Fangs to sleep. After almost being told off by their Cleric, Villagxor, Alechior tells him to stop talking and goes over to Adria to see why did she disturb their game. @Necrodancer
The underground was very different from the surface. It was dark, rugged, cold, and isolating. As the god-orb travelled through the dark caves of the world, a constant stream of ideas for new trials and visions of future triumphs filled his mind. These caves and underground rivers would be excellent challenges for mortals. It would test their endurance and sense of direction, most certainly. That wasn’t why he was in the underground though.
Excelsis eventually found what he was looking for deep in a cavern. In the middle of the cavern was a lake of lava with a crystalline root stretched over it. Excelsis had seen the same sort of crystal roots before, but smaller. This one was by far the biggest one. It was oddly akin to Excelsis, when he was born. He, too, had been grasping at the world with strange tendrils.
His hundreds of senses stretched themselves to observe the crossing of the lake of lava and the crystal root. He flew over it. Tiny tendrils stretched out towards the molten rock. It was clearly trying to figure out its environment. “Consciousness?” Excelsis asked out loud. “How else could you attempt to comprehend?”
He got closer to the root. It was clear that the heat of the magma below was affecting it. However, Excelsis needed it in its base form first. ”Let’s give you some reprieve,” he said, as he willed the lava below to cool for now. He allowed small pools of lava to remain, so that the crystalline tendrils reaching out wouldn’t be shattered by hardening rock. Already, the main root was cooling. ”There you go,” he whispered as he reached out with two dozen arms, several more mortal-like senses, and his god-sense towards the crystal root.
However, Excelsis’ tampering did not go unnoticed.
”Trespasser! Invader! Vandal!” Khthon’s furious voice boomed through the cavern, making the walls tremble in its wake. ”You! How dare you! How dare you come here, without my knowledge, without my permission, to take what is mine?!”
The Earth God’s body emerged from the lava, dripping with molten stone and glowing red hot from the heat. ”Answer me, God-Brother, lest I see fit to expel you by force.”
Excelsis forced himself to remain rather calm in the face of such an outburst. If he was ever going to be crowned king of the gods, he would have to handle his more temperamental kin as well. “My apologies,” he said as he retracted his senses from the crystal root. “I did not intend to trespass, and was unaware that anyone had claimed dominion of all the underground.” That being said, he had seen the strange piles of food and small sculptures at the cave entrance through which he stepped into the underground. Perhaps they had been offerings to this god?
“As for invading I-” He was about to defend himself when he realized he did alter something. He stopped exerting his influence over the recently solidified stone below him. It cracked, bubbled, and boiled as the superheated temperatures quickly consumed the stone.
“Now, we might have gotten off on the wrong foot here, I’m afraid,” Excelsis continued as he slowly and as non-threateningly as he could floated away from the crystal root. “Allow me to explain. I am Excelsis, god of discovery, and I am burdened with a grave duty. This world is being torn asunder. By us, I’m afraid. I am trying to find a way to prevent that. These roots—” A crab arm, a humanoid arm, and a tentacle one motioned towards the root below, already being heated again by the lava. “—seem to be foundational to the existence of this world. So I merely wished to examine this root just now. Since the strange seismic and volcanic activity is breaking them apart.”
The trembling of the walls ceased as Excelsis moved away from the crystals, but Khthon still wasn’t fully satisfied. ”When this world was born and we awoke on the black shore, I turned my gaze to the world below. No one else did. My claim remained uncontested, and so, yes, the underground belongs to me alone.” Khthon approached the crystal root and slowly looked it over for any crack or damage. Satisfied to find none, he fully emerged from the lava lake and climbed onto solid land.
“I am well aware of the struggles of the world as it adapts to the heat I have instilled in its bowels. A sad necessity. But I am not striving for the demise of our world; rather, I am working towards its further continuation,” Khthon explained. “You must think not of the immediate present, but the far future. The Earth was inert, and what world can survive when its very basis, the very thing it rests upon, is already dead?”
“I have given it warmth, and the power to change. I have calmed its thrashing, so that it does not tear itself apart as it learns its new shape. If harm came to your creations on the surface, I apologize; but it is not my fault that fragile life emerged when my work had still been unfinished.”
Khthon took a short pause, letting his words sink in. He did not seek forgiveness for his acts, for he did not regret them. He only hoped for some form of understanding of the necessity of such drastic changes.
“You say you are Discovery. Then I must warn you that I am Secrets, and that I and my realm alike resist such intrusiveness; our secrets are our own, and we do not appreciate attempts to rip them away from us.” The God’s gaze fell back on the crystal root, and he briefly fell silent once more. ”...But we are willing to make an exception. You seek to understand these roots, and protect them. I seek the same. Perhaps… cooperation is in order.”
The god of discovery was visibly pondering the information given. When Khthon explained his reasoning Excelsis felt himself get filled up a little bit, as if the discovery of the purpose behind the tectonic activity was making him a little bit more whole. It was an intriguing sensation for a god. A part of him admired the forethought of this god of secrets and the underground. Of course, such a being would be an excellent architect for a world and its many necessities. The explanations satisfied him greatly.
“If my creations could not deal with most of the upheaval, then they should deal with the harm that followed.” Excelsis said dismissively. “My concern is for mortality as a whole. I would not want to see it smothered by rivers of molten rock or ash-choked skies. Right now, volcanoes are still belching out lethal smoke and rivers of lava.” Even if, for individuals, a cataclysm was a most excellent catalyst to embrace their own greatness. Even as he spoke, he felt the small sparks imbued within countless mortals across the world. Each of them would fight the world as it was right now in their own way. So many would die, but many would also be triumphant.
Then his gaze too fell upon the roots. A part of him wanted to engage Kthon on the nature of secrecy. Was the ultimate purpose of a secret not to be uncovered? The greater the secret, the harder anyone should slave away to pull its dark essence into the light of comprehension or understanding. Such philosophical debates would have to wait. “Cooperation would indeed seem like the most expedient action!” he said as he approached the heated root. “This one seemingly is trying to comprehend its environment. Notice the tiny geometric outcroppings stretching towards the molten stone.” Excelsis continued, freely offering everything he had learned about the roots. He told Khthon about his theory of sentience, the great bell in the cave, and the broken roots he had seen in another cave.
After the lengthy pseudo-lecture on everything Excelsis had learned about the roots and theorized further still, he finally came to the end of his spiel. “So in conclusion, I think we should work towards finding ways of restoring and regrowing these crystal roots.”
Khthon let all the new information roll around in his mind. He had not been aware of the bell, or of its possible connections to his precious crystal roots. He had however intuited the possibility of them being alive, in a strange mineral way. The death of some of them he had witnessed only reinforced that idea. “Very well. I have already worked towards acclimating the crystals to magma, and protected the more fragile ones from heat they could not withstand. It is slow work, however.”
“Though I am loathe to letting someone run through my domain unhindered, I believe splitting up would yield better results. Your mastery over Discovery might even help them adjust more than I can as of now.” Khthon hummed a bit in thought. “You will see many things within the stone, and you will tell no one. In exchange for your silence, I am willing to fully stop the raging of magma. It has found its place, and can now be calmed.” Of course, the occasional eruption and earthquake would still happen, that was a reality he could not change without further unbalancing the world, but they would now be much rarer events and much less destructive too. The kind of seismic catastrophes that could wipe an entire tribe off the map would be once-in-a-few-lifetime events, rather than daily or weekly happenstance.
”Do we have an understanding, God-Brother?” Khthon asked.
The demand that none of what would be learned in the dark could be shared with others was a steep one. So steep that it gave Excelsis pause for a moment. There was a bounty within the underground that was needed if Excelsis wanted to explore beyond his own limits. Not to mention that mortals would require resources from it, too. Not being able to talk about that would make it rather difficult.
But he could worry about the future of himself and mortalkind when he had secured it. “We have reached an accord!” he enthusiastically agreed, as part of the god-orb began to slouch off of him and drop down onto the ground. The primordial sand, perhaps the last in existence, began to take shape into an arachnid-like creature. Its front pair of spindly legs reshaped themselves into thicker, clawed appendages to burrow through the earth and stone. Four pairs of eyes could each see a different spectrum of light. Ferro-magnetoreceptor spines along its back would make sure it knew wherever it was. More senses were added as well, and it got a thick carapace to protect it from the boiling lava. When it was fully formed, it was nothing but a marvel of discoverability and resistance to survive the underground.
“This is Anakalypso.” said Excelsis as he presented his work. “She will roam the underground to examine, study, and work on the crystal roots at my behest. Her mind is linked with mine. All she knows, I know.” And so it was, but perhaps most striking was her mouth. It was a spindly thing, more akin to a spider’s than anything else. Sufficient to eat as an animal would, but without any vocal cords. Anakalypso would never speak.
“I think that would conclude my adventure into your underground, my God-Brother. But before I leave, there is one small matter I must ask you about.” The God-Orb moved away from the crystalline roots for a moment. “Above ground, there will be an empire that will stretch the whole of the surface. It must worship the gods, all the gods, in the ways that each god sees fit. Thus my question: how are they to worship you?”
”Worship… I do not see why I should seek out worship from the mortal creatures above. We live in very different worlds, after all.” Khthon thought back to the countless mortals who had foolishly perished in his caves, trying to steal his treasures, and of the few who escaped. ”If they were to seek out blessings or gifts, however, a trade could be arranged.”
”I have no care for food or drink, but I am fond of beautiful things. Mortal craftsmanship, bones, things that can withstand ages and are not seen beneath the surface, I desire them all.” Khthon gave a jagged smile. ”Let them bury their offerings, so that they reach me. Let them call unto my name. In exchange, I will gladly trade some of my wealth, offer them safe passage through my realm, or forever hide within my hoard what they wish to make disappear.”
”Let them know that the Earth is jealous, and that nothing is given away for free.”
With those last words, Khthon exerted his will through the magma bubbling deeper in the Earth, finally calming it to a truly docile state. Volcanoes all over the world fell into a dormant state, with only a few smaller ones remaining active. Seismic activity slowed to a point where noticeable earthquakes became a rarity rather than the norm, except for a few places near major faults. Though it would take some time, the surface would now finally have a chance to heal from the devastation.
Excelsis goes for a little trip deep underground. He encounters a crystal root being heated by a lava lake and cools parts of the lake for a moment to better study the root. Khthon does not like this transgression and appears in a fury. The two talk about the roots and the tremors. They come to an understanding.
Khthon quiets the earth a little bit more and allows Excelsis to examine the underground roots. In return, Excelsis will not tell anyone of his discoveries underground. Excelsis accepts and creates the avatar Anakalypso, an arachnid-like creature designed to live in and study the underground. Excelsis asks Khthon how he wishes to be worshipped. Khthon desires no active, aimless worship. Instead, he seeks a more transactional relationship, where he is willing to trade boons and minerals for offerings he deems precious.
Conviction Spent - Excelsis created an avatar (-1 Conviction) - Khthon fully calmed magmatic and seismic activity to a much lower, normal level worldwide, except for a few areas of high activity (like volcano belts or near major faults like in San Francisco. Pretty rare overall) (Calm a disaster, In-Domain, Lucid, 0 conviction)
Adria offered a small smile for the defender. Watching him fight with her blessing written on his body with invisible ink. The cracking of wood against wood sounded like beating dreams of fate. A duel written as if it were a story begging to be read. To see what blessing would do against the experience, to see if she truly could help change the way life could be. To not see the world in a consent state of warring nations. Kin against kin in a senseless duel, hate sparking their hearts to push forward towards the rivers of blood. She only hoped that she was able to help him just enough.
For each dodge and strike he made, she silently cheered as he danced like he knew each action. She did this, she provided the chance to make this fair. Now it was up to him and him alone to face the monster. Her armored talons creased the child cheek with tender care. If she could protect this mortal with blessings then maybe she could protect her child with her power. Protect the world with her strength. She just needed more.
Yet as she was lost in her thoughts, a sudden thud echoed from the floor. Her pure gaze lingered on the defender and giant. This was his chance, there beneath his boot laid a strong beast against the blessed. Now all he needed to do was end it. Finish this story so that they would learn that they were not easy prey. They invaded his home, slew his people, blood must be answered with blood. This is what is needed, to stop those who keep poisoning the world.
It was simple, to stop a predator, you either must end it or make sure he never hurts again. This warrior has the chance to do it. It was simple, with one. Hard. Crack. She held her breath waiting for the moment to answer their crimes. Yet, there came the words. A moment of pride, pride that she saw from god kin. A frown formed on her face as she backed away as she watched him order the pack wolves to flee. Yet she knew the truth, a wolf won’t bow to a dog until blood is drawn.
She watched as the giant lunged forward. Choking him with boiled rage, a rage she knew all too well. She knew that look, it was the same look that the fog showed her. The face of a monster that relished conflict and cruelty. The guardian had lowered his shield and now, the monster tore right through. A frown formed on her face, she did what she could. She would refuse to force the actions of another. Even if it meant the life of a guardian
She prepared to visit man, ready to provide the dying a comfort to match his sacrifice. A reward, a blessing for him and him alone. Ready to build something in his memory, just then before she could even step out, a familiar presence echoed. Her own kin. The shining lights, the echoes of music heralding an approaching god. Her eyes lingered on her god kin, the sparkling god as he stole the show. Her eyes then darted all over the place as noticed the little hints that this valley belonged to a god kin.
With a little sigh she backed away in darkness, humming softly to herself as she took a moment to flee from the scene. Breaking the wind with her wings as she slowly hovered above the scene, watching the scene unfold with a curious glance. For once it seemed like there was another sibling that cared for creation. Or perhaps it was for their own little desire to have a community. Or… Followers. Perhaps that’s how she gains more power to help, to stop death. Perhaps that is what she needed.
Yet before she could fly away, her ear twitched and her nose wrinkled, then her eyes settled on him. The glorious sparkled god. Shimmering like the stars that surround the sky, as she locked eyes with their golden gaze. They were something to beholden to. Unlike her other siblings they seemed to always be something dramatic. Even she couldn’t deny the little smile on her face. She offered an easy look towards them. Playfully scoffing the remark about her design.
“Not as bold as you.” She offered a tease. “Then again no one is. Even among gods, you are truly a star.” She lightened the mood with a careful gaze, already studying the best way to neutralize them, if they posed a threat to the sleeping child in her arms. “Believe me, the funeral chic is better than what fog or the visions offered me.” She reminisced as she was certain he received the vision of their perfect domain. Yet her smile faded completely.
“Neither.” She explained her tone rising as if she was lifting both a shield and sword. She watched carefully for a moment longer. “The child raises no concerns to you. Make sure curiosity doesn't kill the cat.” She warned carefully before her fist loosened back into a freely opened hand, tending to the child’s needs with a soft smile on her face as she listened to their babbling, as it did make her laugh slightly, though it was almost silent. Like the peace before a battle.
“It’s true we haven’t formally introduced one another. Though I always called you the sparkling one.” She teased as she listened to their name with a curious gaze for a moment longer. They were certainly strange, though she did like the creativity behind the trees they made. She paused for a moment thinking about their question, before she smirked in response.
“That depends. Do you always flatter your prey before asking more dangerous questions?” She glanced in recognition at his question while her pure pearl eyes eyed him carefully, this time she circled around him with the ease of her beating wings. “To be honest, I wasn’t certain you would come.” She answered his question with a careful glance. “I didn’t know you had a village. All I knew was that blood was being spilled. Unnecessary blood.” Silently she gazed over to the field where the three changelings suffered their fate to the hands of cruelty.
“For that, I cannot ignore.” She remarked as she glanced towards the cannibals with scoff. Perhaps if they had a better reason other than for a cruel sin. Her wings filled the silence for a moment longer until she turned back towards him. “Please undress the honey from your words and tell me directly what I can answer for you.” She stated clearly. Showing a little distaste for flattery.
Alechior laughed outright at that, brightly, the sound ringing like chimes kicked down a staircase. “Obviously I’m a star,” they said, puffing their chest up theatrically and gesturing at themselves with both hands. “I mean, look at me. Sparkle. Glow. Dramatic entrance. If I weren’t a star, it’d be false advertising.” To illustrate the point, they spun once in midair and snapped their fingers. A brief spray of harmless golden motes burst around them, drifting down like glowing confetti. One mote bobbed, wiggle, then turned into a tiny puff of light that squeaked. The baby let out a delighted giggle, arms flailing. Alechior froze, eyes lighting up. “Ha. See? Tough crowd, won over. That’s a personal best.”
They tilted their head at her warning, grin never quite going away. “Also, not a cat,” they said lightly. “Though I did once meet one the saying absolutely did not apply to. Very curious. Almost lived forever. Spite did most of the heavy lifting with a bit of help from yours truly.”
At her comment about not being certain they would come, Alechior’s expression softened a tiny bit, still playful but more honest underneath. “Oh, I was always coming,” they said. “I was just letting the dice roll a bit first. Wanted to see if Villagxor could hold the line without me leaning over the table.” A pause, then a small sigh. “Admittedly, things went a bit off script when those ur-human eaters decided foragers were on the menu. But that’s gambling for you. Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose.” Their eyes flicked toward the unconscious bodies, then back. “I don’t let it go too far. Ever. House rule.”
Alechior flew in a slow circle around her, inspecting the armor, the wings, the way she held herself like something that expected blows and welcomed them. “Alright,” they said, tapping their chin. “Black armor, red wings, posture like you’re bracing for impact even while holding a baby. You’re either very committed to intimidation or you’re something along the lines of conflict management?” They smiled at their own phrasing. “No, that sounds too tidy. You feel more like consequences. The part after someone makes a bad choice. After they finish a game.”
They stopped in front of her again, tilting their head. “Not raw slaughter though,” they added, glancing at the child, then back to her eyes. “You wouldn’t bother with that if you were. There’s restraint there. Weight. Like fights that matter, losses that mean something.” A small "hmmm" of curiosity escaped them. “Struggle with purpose, maybe. Endurance. Cost. Death? Fighting!” Their grin returned as they shouted the last word. “I’m probably wrong, but hey, guessing is half the fun. Other half is watching the reveal.”
When she asked for plain answers and stripped words, Alechior snorted, shaking their head. “Wow. Serious. You really aren’t my usual crowd,” they said, amused rather than offended. “Most gods I know would have turned that into a monologue by now.” They leaned closer, peering at the child with open curiosity rather than threat. “Which brings me to the real question.” A brow lifted. “What are you doing with an ur-human baby?” A second later, a grin. “I mean, gods can be caretakers, sure, but usually it’s for more than one. This feels very specific.”
Teefeen was running. The tall grasses tickled her belly, ever widening the smile on her face. She spread her arms out, feeling the soft foliage swish over her skin. The stars shown bright, the birds were chirping and the day held a wondrous warmth that made her feel radiant.
Then she was tackled from behind.
“I got you now Teefee!” Toffeen laughed as they rolled in the grass. Right! They were playing catch-the-tail.
“No fair Toffee! Teef- I wasn’t paying attention!” She said with no real accusation in her voice. Toffee had pinned her by this point and the all too familiar weight of her larger sister pushed down on her chest. Honey brown locks of Toffee’s hair cascaded down her face like a curtain, blocking the outside world from view. Face to face now, her sister’s gleaming yellow eyes held a smugness to them that Teefee was all too familiar with.
“Head stuck in the clouds again? Tsk tsk, sister. One of these days you’ll focus and you might just escape me.” Toffee smiled before getting up. She extended her hand to Teefee and she gladly took it. With a powerful pull, Teefee was on her feet in a moment. She gave a slight hiss at the jerk and rubbed her shoulder though.
“Oh sorry Teefs. Sometimes I forget my own strength.” Toffee then flexed like some of the men they had seen in the village. It was very exaggerated and Teefee couldn’t help but laugh before she shoved Toffee and sprinted off towards the village laughing all the way.
They arrived with Teefee in a firm headlock, Toffee tussling her hair as she looked around, unbothered. Teefee escaped her sibling with a careful tickle in the side and half sprinted, half jogged back to their tent. As they passed their tribespeople, pleasantries were exchanged, words of advice were given and promises were made. Life was never dull in the Hillgrass home but there was a certain sort of urgency in the air. Only Toffee caught onto it and when the two entered their fur lined tent, their mother, Ina, was busying herself.
She was a middle-aged woman, with lean features and plaited brown hair, just beginning to streak with grey. Her eyes were a large dark brown. Teefee walked over to their mother, still shorter than her and gave her a hug. Ina stopped what she was doing and returned it before giving her a kiss on the forehead.
Toffee studied their mother’s face as she walked over to her. “Out playing again my loves?” she asked them.
“Oh yes!” Teefee exclaimed. “The sky was so pretty today mama.” Ina ruffled Teefee’s hair as she pulled Toffee into a hug with her free arm. “And what did you see today, Toffee?”
“I saw… An urgency. Something’s going on, isn’t it?”
Ina gave her a knowing smile and kissed her brow. “Come, help me with the evening meal while we wait for your brother.”
“And where is the troublemaker?’ Teefee asked.
Ina just sighed.
The blow landed squarely in Tad’s gut, leaving him wheezing as he crumpled. He was lifted back up and though his vision was beginning to fade at the edges he could still see Malac’s sneer. Tad couldn’t help but smirk, it had taken three of them to subdue him and he had managed to land a few blows on Ruk and Gerp before they had bested him. Of course, Malac had stayed back, preferring to leave his cohorts to do his dirty work.
Tad tried to spit in his face but the blow to his cheek from earlier made opening his mouth difficult and his spittle drizzled out of his mouth. Malac just laughed, the sound like a wild ass.
“I hope you’ve learned your lesson, tramp.” Malac crouched down, his expression now grim. “You lay a hand upon my sister again and I’ll be sure to skin you alive mutt.”
He made it sound like Olive hadn’t been all too willing to be touched. But Tad supposed it was because of what Malac viewed him as, a mutt, a tramp, a halfbreed. Or maybe it was just because he bested him when it came to the hunt. One could never tell with Malac’s type.
“Luckily, you won’t have the chance to ever try again.” Malac said and Tad finally began to listen to what the man was telling him.
“Huh?” Tad said, his voice a little sloven.
“You heard me mutt. We won’t have to deal with you or your ilk anymore and we’ll be glad of it.” Malac bragged. “Come on, let’s get out of here before we catch sick.” Malac gave him one last parting shot, just enough to make Tad wheeze. His inability to ask questions, just another detriment to his current situation.
But when they were well and truly gone, Tad was able to lay in peace for a time and recover his wits. His stomach throbbed. His face hurt and a dash of his pride wouldn’t be able to be recovered until he had his revenge upon Malac. But that could wait. He had a different beast to tackle before the night was done. And that was his mother and sisters. He couldn’t wait.
Toffee was pestling some herbs when her brother came stumbling into the tent. All three women looked up from what they were doing at the spectacle. There was a moment of silence before Teefee began to giggle, then Toffee lips broke into a smile. Only their mother was the one who wasn’t pleased. She stood up, hand upon her hips and said, “Tab, by the ancestors, you best not be hitting the sap again. You know how dangerous it is!”
It was only when Tad looked up did they go silent again. Even though their brother gave a goofy smile, they could tell he had been in a fight. Dried blood ran down his nose, his cheek was puffy and his eyes held deep bags from exhaustion. Ina only sighed and began barking orders.
“Teefee, fresh water to a boil. Toffee, help me with him.”
As Toffee grabbed her brother, Tad tensed and tried to shove them off but failed to do so. Toffee let out a hiss.
“Stupid man! What did you do this time?” The accused as they helped him to sit next to the fire.
“Toffee!” Their mother’s voice made her flinch, her ears folding flat. She backed up as Ina came to sit beside Tad.
“Explain.” their mother demanded.
All was quiet now as they looked upon the bruised Tad. His smirk had faded, replaced with a frown of contemplation. Even now he was thinking about what to say instead of just saying it. That was unlike him, Toffee knew, so there had to be more to this.
Teefee handed Ina a damp bit of cloth and their Mother began to fuss over her only son. He protested with a small hiss as she cleaned his cheek.
“It was Malac and his friends. Just a bit of a disagreement, nothing more.” he finally said.
Ina raised an eyebrow. “The chieftess’s son should know to act better. I will go to her and have words.”
“No!” Tad snapped his eyes flashing with something… before he calmed himself. “That isn’t necessary, mother. It was handled. No need to involve her.”
“Are you hiding something from me, boy?” Ina asked with a gentle voice. Like a viper waiting to strike. Toffee’s air stood up and when she glanced at Teefee, her sister’s hair was also raised slightly. One did not go against mother when she used that voice. Tad knew this and all sense of bravado escaped him. He deflated and Toffee could see just how tired he was.
“Misha… She wanted to talk at the grove and Malac found out.”
Now it was Toffee who couldn’t help but smirk at that but she quickly hid her face by turning to look at a very interesting spot on the floor.
“Is she with child?” Ina asked, her voice now worried.
Teefee audibly gasped at that and Toffee spun back to look at him with wide eyes.
“No!” Tad said immediately. “No it isn’t like that! By the ancestors' mother!”
Ina sighed with relief, then smiled as she went back to cleaning him. “I believe you, my son. So then why did Malac attack you?”
“You know why.” He murmured, eyes downcast.
Toffee knew. She hoped Teefee didn’t but it was difficult to avoid the stares from those who had never liked them. Those that whispered behind their backs. Who said cruel words with their cruel hearts.
Ina nodded with sad realization.
“Mother, he also said he wouldn’t have to deal with us anymore. What’s going on?” Tad asked, a hand upon his mother’s wrist.
Toffee furrowed her brow.
Ina sighed again. “I am sorry, my children. All my life since you’ve arrived I’ve wanted to keep you safe. For you to be happy. I have achieved this to a small amount. But now, the wind is changing.”
“What do you mean, mama?” Teefee asked.
Ina’s shoulder’s slumped. “I was going to tell you tonight, either way. My children,” She looked at each of them before saying, “It has been decided by the elders that this land has grown too small for all of us. Game is harder to find. Foraging comes back with less and less each season. Our tribe has grown too large. And so, the Hillgrass tribe is disbanding. We and others are being cast out. I am sorry.” She said, tears in her eyes.
It was funny how life could change just like that, Toffee thought.
In the face of their goading she smiled at their foolishness. Their words carried far more truth than she expected. Her brow arched curiously as she heard the child giggle at her god kin antics. It was a laughter she heard a dozen times before, yet this time it seemed to brighten her smile, for a moment. With a dismissive shake she eyed them carefully, though it seemed less guarded, by the request of the child's laughter. “He certainly is a tough one.” She remarked with a little smirk, her armored talons slowly faded into fingers allowing the child to freely grab as he wiggled and giggled. Sharply her eyes turned back towards him. “Adria. It’s what I am calling myself. Figured to make the game fair if you know me as well.”
Her eyes widened slightly at the remark of the cat, uncertain of what kind of cat amused a god so much that a god aided the cat with a blessing. A second laugh escaped her lips, was this the god of laughter or tricks? She couldn’t exactly, after all, what kind of entertainment does a god get from protecting a village? It definitely seemed to carry more responsibility, responsibility that she didn’t believe the god had during their time on the beach. Perhaps they were something else entirely, though she wouldn’t put much thought into her until she found further proof.
Adria listened while her gaze lingered on the field that brought her attention to the place that led to the shepherd in his first battle against wolves. She glanced towards the glittering god for a moment as they explained they were just waiting and watching. “Sounds like you enjoy a good game.” She remarked noting the protectiveness of house rules in their voice. They weren’t responsible for the shifting earth nor the deaths of the Ur-humans. “I prefer when the game is fair. Especially since a new player entered your game.” She gestured towards the Ur-human cannibals with a disgusted look on her face. “A player that doesn’t obey your house rule, kin.”
Then they circled, only smirking at the effort at his guesses. Their looks as they begin to weave together what she was. It was almost enjoyable watching their effort as she simply scoffed in playfulness gesturing openly towards him. “You are more insightful than I thought.” She offered with a little smile before continuing. “You’re not completely wrong with your flattery. I think you said it best, I am a consequence.” She spoke a little softer, glancing back to the child that she nestled in her arms, blissfully unaware of life itself. She forced a smile as she brushed his cheek. “But also a comfort.”
She snapped from her momentary peace glancing back to the glittering god with a slight nod and a smirk. “No. No monologues aren’t for me. I may have some elegance with my form, but that’s where it ends.” She mentioned with a wink. “Besides, if I began monologs every now and then, my words would lose merrit. I’ll let you and the others decorate your words.” She remarked with a causal shrug, but she seemed to tense up from their question about the child. She gave the question weight as she watched the child coo against her chest.
“Just like you and your games, I live for stories." She answered glancing back to Villagxor, watching them from a distance before continuing. “Their stories." She clarified as she glanced back at the child with a smile. “Their victories and their failures. Are mine to remember, and I just witnessed one of the first chapters of your people. Of him.” She remarked with little flourish she stole from them. Doing her best to keep them entertained.
“As for the child. Consider him my first.” She remarked admiring the child with a loving gaze until she turned to her sparkling sibling with a nod. “A mother had a terrible hand against a wolf. But she won the game and bought herself time until I came along. She fought so hard to stay alive, but the wounds wouldn’t let her. I did the only thing to honor her sacrifice.” She spoke softer, filled with regret and sorrow for a moment until she sighed away the emotions. “The first sacrifice. I couldn’t let the child die with his mother, so… I am his caretaker.” She stated with honesty though their was more to her story then she let on. Yet she moved past the remark.
“Now my turn.” She eyed him with a grin. “Why are you a caretaker for this little village of peaceful souls? I don’t think there is much enjoyment in being a leader among people.” She asked with curiosity. Finding this question game with some amusement to her tone.
Alechior’s eyes lit up at the name. “Adria,” they repeated. They swept into an exaggerated bow, one hand to their chest, the other flung wide. As they did, soft lights bloomed around them in little sparks, gold and white motes spinning like fireflies that chimed faintly as they collided. One zipped in a slow circle near the baby’s face, changing colors every heartbeat. Alechior straightened with a grin. “A pleasure, truly.” Another spark bounced and the child laughed.
“Oh, introductions,” they added, snapping their fingers again as the lights arranged themselves into tumbling dice before dissolving. “Right. I’m Alechior. God of Gambling and Merriment.” They placed a hand over their heart with mock gravity. “Chance, wagers, laughter at the table, the joy of a bad idea that somehow works out, and sometimes the joy of a bad idea that absolutely does not.”
At her remark about enjoying a good game, Alechior’s grin widened. “Enjoy? Adria, games are the best thing in existence.” They floated a little higher, spinning once in the air for no reason at all. “They teach without preaching. They test without drawing blood, usually. You learn who someone is when the stakes rise and the dice don’t care.” Their tone was light but there was conviction under it, they were being truthful and half-serious for once, even if they didn't look like it. “You can laugh, lose, win, try again. That’s life, just faster and with rules.”
They tilted their head, hands spread as if weighing invisible scales. “As for fairness,” Alechior continued, “a game is always fair and never fair. At the same time.” They chuckled. “Perfect fairness is boring. Perfect chaos is useless. You need risk. You need that moment where things could go beautifully wrong.” One of the lights flickered, then vanished. “If there’s nothing to lose, it’s not a game. It’s just a performance and those are fun too but not always.”
Alechior glanced back at Adria, golden eyes bright. “So yes,” they said warmly, “I enjoy a good game. I built a space where people dare to play one. And sometimes,” they added with a conspiratorial smile, “I watch very carefully to see what they do when the odds stop being kind. Like now.”
Alechior laughed and as the sound rang out a handful of their words physically peeled themselves from the air. Letters spun, curled, and popped into existence in front of them, gilded in gold, rimmed with sparkles, some dripping confetti for no reason whatsoever. The words rearranged themselves with theatrical flair, hovering before dissolving into harmless glitter. Alechior winked at Adria, grin wide and unapologetic. “Decorate my words...Like this?”
They tilted slightly in the air, expression softening as her talk of stories lingered. “Oh, I live for that kind of thing,” they said. “Villagxor already proved himself to be a fantastic leader. My first mortal Cleric, no less. Very cool, very sharp, definitely smarter than the average crowd he’s standing in.”
Alechior gestured vaguely back in the direction of Villagxor. “I see a great future for them. The kind that spirals outward, pulls others in, leaves marks on the world that don’t fade quietly. He’s already halfway to proving himself a hero, whether he realizes it yet or not.”
They leaned closer, lowering their voice like they were sharing a secret. “Honestly, you should absolutely keep an eye on him. One hundred percent. That one’s going to be a story-making Changeling in no time. Triumphs, failures, drama, improbable wins, spectacular messes. The good stuff.”
Their attention shifted back to the child, eyes lighting up with amusement. “And I have to say, I appreciate the gaming metaphors,” Alechior added with a wink. “That’s a very fun way to honor a game. Elegant, even, in its own way. Risk, stakes, something precious on the table. Wish I could've seen the mortal.”
They clasped their hands together, confidence radiating off them. “That said,” Alechior continued, glancing between Adria and the baby, “do you need some training in making the little one laugh? I’m exceptionally good at that. World-class, really. One of a child and all that!”
Alechior’s grin softened, not gone but tempered. They tilted their head at her. “First correction,” they said, though there was weight under it. “I’m not their leader. Never was. I’m just keeping them safe.” Their fingers twitched, sparks dimmer now. “Safe from the games of the other gods. Some of which are less fun and more dangerous.”
They glanced away for a moment, gaze drifting toward the distant village. “I’ve cared for them since those two gods fought and created them,” Alechior continued, tone steady. “You know, the evil-looking naked guy. He made them during that whole mess with the big bad dog god. Poor timing, honestly. They were born into chaos before they even knew what chaos was.” A small huff of laughter followed. “Someone had to stick around.”
Their seriousness cracked just enough for warmth to leak through. “So I taught them things. How to play games. How to laugh. How to lose without breaking. How to enjoy life, even when the world insists on being unpleasant.” They shrugged, casual again. “Joy is a skill. You don’t just stumble into it.”
They lifted a finger, punctuating the last thought. “As for the no murder rule, that wasn’t even my call originally. But I agree with it completely.” A grin returned, sharp and amused. “The more people you murder, the fewer people there are to enjoy themselves. Bad for morale, terrible for games, absolute disaster for long-term fun.”
Alechior’s tone brightened again. They tilted their head toward Adria, thumb hooking lazily over their shoulder in the vague direction of the restrained group. “That said,” they went on “if you want the cannibal lot, you can have them. No objections from me.” A brief shrug. “I care very little about them at the moment and that’s me being generous.”
They smirked. “I’ve already checked the odds. They’re not exactly the trading-for-games type. Human meat over dice and laughter, every time.” A small, dismissive flick of their wrist. “So if they’re useful to you, take them. If not, I'll kick them out of the valley and I they ain't gonna survive round two against it. Trust me on that.” they added with a wink.
It has been a long time since the First Cephalopod made its discovery. It does not know how long it is. What it does know is that there are more days than it has tentacles to count for. It tried to compare the number of days to the number of fishes it had eaten. But, there are certainly more days than the number of fishes it has consumed. Three of its brains think so. It thinks.
The others' heads were inconclusive.
Still, it did grow a lot compared to its first discovery days. It is the size of a reef shark now, with length and width easily covering one with its tentacles. Still not something to show when comparing to the sperm whales, but the increase in size means gradual behavior changes. The First Cephalopod becomes a little bit bolder compared to its younger self. More prone to exploration. A little bit less fearful in its conduct.
With boldness comes new knowledge that it didn’t know before.
It consumed these floating from the Darkness Below. They have no brain, and colorful light. Especially noticeable in a midst of eternal darkness. They tasted “weird.”
The First Cephalopod did not know how to describe its experience. Some of them make the First Cephalopod hear the voice from above the surface. A voice that is not ferocious. A voice that is warm. Like when fishes entering its beak and the red liquid escaped their body. A voice that is full. These floating things didn't make sound when the First Cephalopod ate them. They barely ran actually. But the tingling sense they grant is “curious” for the First Cephalopod.
And then some tasted like poisonous rock fish. No, worse than poisonous rock fish. They tasted vile. The First Cephalopod did not know how to identify them. But they tasted vile. The taste actively expunged the meat and ink in the process. Involuntarily one might add.
It did not know how to identify these from the heightened sensation floaty things. It thought that those with red were vile. But the purple ones are just as vile. Then the yellow…
Alright, the first yellow one was vile. But the next yellow was not vile. And the before red was not vile as well.
It didn’t know how to process it. And after tasting another vile floaty thing, the First Cephalopod decided to leave the floaty things to themselves and continue on its own way.
First Cephalopod ate the gacha jellyfish. Some jellyfish heightened the Cephalopod's sense to hear Saeries’ voice, while some jellyfish poisoned it. It didn’t understand that it is because of the alcohol dosage it consumed.
Minor size update = equal to roughly a coral reef shark
Changing Seas and New Current
As the First Cephalopod continued its journey across the ocean, following sea current and straddling between the normal water and the Drifting Ink, it noticed some peculiarity. The mountains, usually located from the Darkness Below, are now rapidly making out of the water. Where there was sea, now reduced into land.
But these lands were not green nor red nor purple. Few things grew in the Darkness Below, and corals are not one of them. As their jagged teeth rose from the waves, they carried the lifeless color of wet sand, black dirt, and the skeletals of some unnamed creature’s bones. The First Cephalopod is afraid of this occurrence. It saw first hand where there was once open sea, replaced by land from the down under. And the splashing sound of fishes being dried en-mass and their suffocation…
The First Cephalopod learned what it means to sympathize. It could imagine itself being one of those fishes. Flopping around on the wet sand and black dirt. Moving up and down in the no sea zone, and then dying from being too far from the water. The more it imagined, the more it was afraid. And the more afraid it is, the faster it swims.
But there is more than just land rising from beneath the waves. The White Sea above has disappeared, and replaced with the Grey Sea. And this changes, it thinks, is eternal. After every night and day, the First Cephalopod would rise from the surface and look for the Little Fishes above. They did not appear. Even White Light above disappeared beneath the Grey Sky and a cold barrier (ice) began to appear across the sea-surface. But compared to the fear of land rising, this was nothing more than a curious note in the First Cephalopod’s journey.
And lastly was the increase in current’s strength. The First Cephalopod felt it. Others must have felt it too. Still, all the aquatic life must be swimming in the same direction now, pulled toward somewhere. The First Cephalopod couldn’t tell if it was swimming to its own end. All it knows is that the current is pulling it somewhere.
The First Cephalopod experiences the draining of sea water, rising landmass, as well as the Grey Sky caused by volcanic eruptions. It is now making its way to Kthon’s hole.
Clarification : The First Cephalopod does not “sympathize.” It does not feel angry or happy. I would say that while it did possess the modicum of these “human emotions”, the quality of these basic emotions are lesser in the First Cephalopod.
The narrator wrote that the First Cephalopods “sympathize”. What actually happens is that the First Cephalopod imagines the scenario and quickly leaves the area when felt that it is in danger. It does not lament for the squids that may be trapped in the shallow waters, but simply understands the dangerous scenario that it now found itself in. An indication for the development of intelligence in the sense that it is now able to forecast the possible dangers rather than possessing the capability to feel for other similar beings. It is a learned behavior, not compassionate. For now, I would say that the First Cephalopod possess some emotions, but does not respond strongly unless life or death situation
The Me of Fire bounced up and down in Sarhush’s blackened palm as he walked. When he finally arrived at the forest’s edge, he brought the hot coal of the Me so close to his mouth that the heat kissed his lips, and then he blew. The Me grew white-hot like a tiny sun, and tongues of fire shot out to lick and singe his fingertips. Then he pressed the Me against a mighty cedar.
The bark caught fire quickly enough. Sarhush paused to look around; there were so many trees! Would a single blaze leap from branch to branch and consume them all, or would it gorge itself and slumber after just a few?
He watched the flames crawl, slow and reluctant, along the cedar’s resinous skin. The wood hissed. Sap bubbled and popped. Wisps of smoke and steam escaped, but the lazy fire did not run. It lacked vigor.
”Too wet,” Sarhush muttered to himself, cursing that he had suffered the Patron of Water to have even a drop. He should have truly smited all water from existence. A thin film of volcanic ash covered the bark in places, and carpeted much of the forest floor and undergrowth. It was like grey snow, up to his ankles, and it was not helping the blaze to spread either. The powder stuck to everything, and it smothered nascent flames as surely as water.
He tore dead branches from the forest floor where they stuck out from the ashes and fed them to the flame on that cedar tree. It grew brighter and hotter, but remained uneven. The living trees resisted, sweating their lifeblood to smother the blaze. Nature was wasting his time just as it always did.
Sarhush snorted and crouched, raking his fingers through the ash, through the detritus of the forest floor, deep enough to almost touch soil. He felt dry grasses, fibrous reeds, strips of bark that had peeled off of the trees. He bundled these things in a heap.
“Fire does not merely need fuel,” he realized aloud. “It needs to be fed properly.”
He began to twist the fibers together. This was done not with care but with brute certainty. He bound strand to strand, crossing and tightening, forcing the weak to reinforce one another. Sarhush had an affinity for bending and twisting, binding and breaking. Kingship meant subjugating all things. The bundle grew thicker and denser until it held its shape even when he released it.
Sarhush regarded the crude wicker. It just might work.
“That’s better.”
He ripped out more grassy fibers and he began to weave faster. Bundles piled at his feet; they were dry, tight, eager to burn. When he so much as held the Me of Fire towards them and blew, the sparks and embers that it cast out immolated the kindling instantly, and then the fires blazed hot and fierce. He hurled these burning knots into low branches of the forest, into the undergrowth that poked through the ash, and into the shadowed spaces between trunks where flame had struggled to reach.
The fire had been yoked and harnessed, spreading in deliberate arcs and lines, and now the trees screamed. The roaring of the inferno and the sweet, resinous scent of woodsmoke were music to Sarhush’s ears and incense to his nostrils. This was a fire fit to consume an entire woodland, and satisfied, Sarhush pressed deeper into the forest as it followed in his wake. The Me of Fire had fulfilled its purpose for now, so he choked it inside of a tightened first, then for lack of a better place to set down the warm coal, he placed it into his mouth. It smoldered obediently against his tongue, tasting of triumph.
He must have looked like a herald of destruction, caked in volcanic ash, filth, and the dried gore of the burst whale. Bathing was unthinkable, but he would not walk Ashuru as some naked beast. Order demanded form.
Deeper in the forest, the ash lay thinner under the canopy. The living roof of leaves had spared the undergrowth from the worst of the nearby volcano, and fibrous plants thrust up eagerly from the soil. Sarhush seized them as he walked, tearing free long strands and winding them about his fingers. He twisted and crossed them with practiced certainty, tightening weakness into strength, binding many into one.
The fibers became cord. Cord was then woven into structure. Sarhush wrapped and looped the clothing about himself without pause, cinching and fastening until it held fast against his stride. Now his appearance reflected his nature: not beast, and not merely man, but master and king.
As the last knot was drawn tight, a new Me manifested before him. This one took the shape of a length of cord, perfectly bound along one half, while the other unraveled into frayed ends. Its fibers were impossibly varied: green twigs braided with sheep’s wool, human hair twisted alongside dry grasses, and veins of pale, stringy stone that should not have bent at all.
This was binding made manifest, not adornment and not comfort. It was control. He beheld the ropelike Me of Weaving with pride, but then felt droplets of water fall upon his face. He cast his glowering eyes upward and through the gaps in the leaves, he picked out a bird soaring high overhead, conjuring rainclouds with great buffets of its wings. The insolence was astounding, but then, beasts had no intelligence of their own unless some greater force was there to break and drive them. Sarhush contemplated ensnaring and capturing that bird, that he could harness the power of the rain through it, but why bother? He had no need for water.
The god seized up a rock nearly the size of a man’s head. He toyed with it in the grip of one great hand, gauging the distance and imagining how he might cast it to smite the bird. This was a terribly long distance to hurl a stone. But he held the Me of Weaving in his other hand, and perhaps it could help…
He quickly tied together some of the loose strands at the end of the Me. They would come undone soon, he sensed, but what mattered was that for the moment he’d coaxed the wild frayed fibers into something resembling a loose net. He set the rock inside that makeshift pouch, then gripped the Me from its rope end. He began swinging it in great circular motions above his head, around and around him, until the rope was moving so fast that it was a blur. Then he slackened his grip upon this first sling, and that sent the rock flying like a bullet. It struck the bird and shattered its wing, before it had managed to summon more than a paltry drizzle.
Sarhush raked up more fibers from the forest floor to continue his weaving. He corded fibers and then folded them inward to bind space itself into enclosure. He was growing tired of the Me of Fire’s taste, so he spat the thing into his newly created sack, then stuffed the Me of Weaving in there too.
When the smote bird had tumbled out of the sky, it came to land somewhere not far. Sarhush trod in that direction with a mind to inspect his quarry and similarly toss it into his sack; perhaps he’d be able to fashion its remains into something useful, or cook it for a meal. He emerged into a small clearing in the woods to see a gory mess where the bird had crashed down atop some great boulder, with some band of ur-humans standing all around in shock.
They weren’t an impressive bunch – most of them lanky, underdressed, ribs showing – and yet even in their sorry states, some of them were rushing to the boulder to try and remove the gore from it.
It was a couple seconds before one of the ur-humans – a young teenage boy who immediately gasped and fell backwards – noticed Sarhush emerging from the edge of the clearing they called home, garbed in clean and newly woven clothing but with a visage still covered in ash and gore. The commotion turned a few more heads, and this in turn turned more and more heads until every ur-human present had stopped worrying about the grisly remains smeared across their precious boulder.
Then they looked past Sarhush, and saw the growing plumes of smoke behind him and felt the heat radiating from the approaching fires. It finally dawned on them then – The Valley was finally burning, and the unrecognizable gore covering the boulder now looked very similar to the remains of one of the increasingly rare Tormentas responsible for putting out fires.
“The Man-God…” Came a whisper, from the very first teenager who had noticed Sarhush.
That whisper broke the crowd out of its reverie, and in a sudden flurry of movement, dozens of ur-humans ran into their crude huts and started to collect their belongings.
It was then that two figures ran out of a half-hidden path nested between two large bushes. One of them, the most remarkable, was nearly as tall as Sarhush and had a burning gaze that was completely unafraid of him. He held a club as large as a leg in his right hand and a crude obsidian knife in the other, fashioned from a naturally sharp piece of the jagged rough slotted into the end of a stick.
The other man, a hunched-over ur-human with a graying goatee pointed at Sarhush several times, his skittish gaze moving from the remarkable man to Sarhush and back until the tall man nodded, at which point the older man left in a rush to gather his belongings, like the rest.
“Man-God! You are not welcome here. Take your fires and killings with you and go from here! We thrived when you left, lived in balance with this Valley that you now threaten, and now you take our guardians and defile our lands.” the great man said with a booming voice, the impact enough to momentarily stun the lesser ur-humans around him. “I, Oxen the Strong, will do what it takes to protect my people. Even against the likes of you, Man-God!”
Sarhush snorted in bemused contempt. “Has it been so long that you have forgotten my name already? Have you already forgotten my first commandment: that the forests must be burnt?”
“My people would not follow me if I told them to slaughter every rabbit and every chicken. They would not follow me if I told them to delve into the under-earth where it is dark and there is no air.” Sarhush raised an eyebrow. Oxen tightened his grip on his club. “So why should we listen to you when you tell us to burn our primeval home to the ground?”
The clearing awaited the god’s reaction with a heavy silence, but Sarhush regarded Oxen for a long moment in silence. His eyes swept from the man’s powerful frame, to his club in one hand, the crude knife in the other. He advanced, one step closer. A wave of heat came with him, accompanying the growing roar of the encroaching fire behind. “This forest, primeval as you called it, was no ‘home’ for man. It was a den for wild beasts. Man must build his dwelling, not squat in Nature’s hovel.”
He did not pause for even a breath. ”You should have felled and burned it yourself to make way for pasture. What animals you could not tame should have been slain or driven away, lest they prey upon your livestock and children.”
Sarhush came closer, every word set to a footstep, every footstep drawing a twitch from Oxen. The ground crunched beneath Sarhush’s weight. “It matters little now. I am a generous god. I have started the fires myself. They come. Soon I will have cleared away this forest for you and your kin. Now let us speak of rulership.”
He stopped at last, standing close enough that Oxen could see the black flecks of soot staining his yellowed teeth, the gray ash crusted across his tongue from when the Me of Fire had rested there.
“You ask why they should listen, but they already do. They gather when you speak and scatter when you command. They fear you, Oxen the Strong. You stand tall, and you still draw breath.”
Each word grew louder, until Sarhush was nearly shouting in Oxen’s face, “They know what follows defiance. When you raise your voice, NONE DARE ANSWER!”
Oxen fell to one knee at the pressure of the shout. His point made, the god quietened again to finish. “That is rulership. Fear is its spine; violence its breath. You will obey me.”
Sarhush at last set down the sack he’d been carrying in one hand and reached into it to produce the Me of Weaving.
“And they will obey you.”
Oxen, already on one knee, trembling before Sarhush, let his obsidian blade drop to the floor and reached around to pry his grip around the handle of his club open. Once that was done, the great club fell to the ground with a thud, kicking up bits of dirt and grass as it did so.
“I do not intend to fight you, Man-God. I also do not intend to run from you, or grovel and ask for mercy, for there is no future for my people if I were to walk either of those paths. So give your orders if you must, but know that my people are proud, and will not burn their lives down for a God who only offers magical trinkets.”
Finally, Oxen hung his head and fell into a short silence, punctuated by the hushed whispers of the ur-humans around.
”Oxen knelt…”
“No way, is he really…”
“I’m never letting a monster tell us what to do, I’ll…”
“Quick, someone tell the…”
Sarhush’s gaze remained fixed only upon Oxen, still kneeling, trembling, breathing.
“Good,” he answered, voice steadied and quieter now, but heavy with finality. “For there is no fighting or running or groveling from me. There is only listening.”
“You spoke of your peoples' pride,” he continued. “I see it! It has kept you alive. It made them clot around you, instead of scattering like prey.”
His eyes flicked, briefly, to the gathered humans.
“That alone sets you above them, but pride without vision is nothing. The beasts of the forest have pride. The wild bull lowers its horns, the boar raises its tusks and charges. They die or are broken all the same. They leave no mark and eventually sink back into the dirt that birthed them.
“I do not offer charms, trinkets, or comforts,” Sarhush said. “I wrench you higher. I would raise you above animated dirt, so that your lives sear meaning into the world and are remembered. I will show you how to bind plant fibers, each weak alone, into cord strong enough to drag stone from the earth, just as you bind these people. I will teach you to hew shapes where Nature only sprawls.”
No one spoke. Behind him, the forest crackled and groaned, a long animal death-rattle. The Me of Weaving swayed in Sarhush’s hand; he lowered it so that its frayed ends nearly brushed Oxen's head. The loose threads of the rope’s unbound end writhed freely now, knotting and then coming apart like so many living snakes that did not wish to be bound.
“Look at them,” Sarhush eventually continued, “Separate, these threads fray; they snap, they rot, they are weak.”
But then he began to twist and torture the loose fibers together with a slow, deliberate motion of his fingers, extending the corded rope. “Bound, they can lead beasts, or yoke them to pull your burdens. Bound, they can drag stone from the earth. Bound, they can choke the wilderness into submission.”
Sarhush kept twisting the fibers tighter until the cord creaked. Then he leaned down, close enough that Oxen could smell the ash on his breath. “Your lives spent in some ‘balance’ with Nature were no lives at all, for the purpose of man is to overcome and surpass all aspects of Nature. You must twist and bind it to your will, as I have.”
He let the Me fall onto the ground at kneeling Oxen’s feet. As if to punctuate the god’s terrible coming and proclamation, a not-so-distant tree succumbed to the wildfire; the once-towering thing crashed down with a sound like that of a breaking spine.
There was no hesitation, and yet the movement was not reckless. Oxen grabbed the Me with his hand, reacting as if it was the most natural thing in the world when the many threads wriggled and wrapped themselves around his fingers and palm and wrist. What Sarhush had been shouting about suddenly made perfect sense. It was sickening – Every single thread wanted to be itself, they wanted to break apart from the bunch, but by pushing and pulling against the others, all they achieved was to strengthen the cord even more. There was no escape for any of these threads, they would never be separate from the cord again, not without it completely breaking.
Oxen the Strong closed his eyes and held the Me of Weaving with a tight grip, close to his chest. Knowledge beyond humanity flowed into his core, giving him the hows and whys behind every single technique one could use to make a cord, or a cloth, or a tarp.
But Oxen was not a crafter – the technical treasures flowed into him and twisted and distorted into something different. The realization that he was no longer free, that he was now bound to follow Sarhush’s commands, came suddenly. He was a thread, and he’d been added to the cord.
Oxen had people to protect and traditions to uphold. No cord should ever be allowed to snap. So, there was now only one path that a man such as he could take.
The Me of Weaving slowly unraveled and dropped to the ground after Oxen loosened his grip. Then, the man stood and looked at his gawking tribesmen.
“We shall honor Sarhush for his gifts!” Oxen announced. “Women, you will forage for dry grasses and vines. Men, you will hunt a bear, a wolf, and a suth-human. With their hides and furs we shall decorate the rope that our women will weave to commemorate this day, the day in which we were chosen by the Man-God Sarhush to be the first thread in His cord. From today onwards, every single thing we do must be for the sake of strengthening that cord, lest we snap and be swallowed by time like so many tribes before us.”
After that was said, many of the men and women of the tribe came to grab the Me of Weaving off the ground and then ran off to make their preparations, at which point Oxen picked up his weapons and half-turned to Sarhush.
“I have done as you asked, Man-God Sarhush. The knowledge you have granted us is valuable, and I have declared you as our patron. But the fires are here!” A wave of heat washed over the clearing as the walls of fire finally reached its edge. “We cannot stay here, or we will burn as well. Where should we go or what should we do?”
Oxen had hoped–perhaps even expected–to have been granted some reprieve or salvation in exchange for submission. But that was not Sarhush’s way. The weaving of the first rope would come, but not on that day. First they had to survive.
”You already know what must be done,” the god stated simply. ”Let this fire be a test. Those who flee with nothing will starve. Those who cling to too much will stumble and be dragged down. Those who hesitate will burn.”
Smoke billowed freely into the gathering place then, sparks and embers dancing through the glade like so many swarming insects. The dryer patches of grass were immolating already, and the wall of burning trees began to creep around the clearing’s edge to encircle them.
Sarhush watched as the ur-humans ran into their huts to claim what tools, supplies, and precious things they could not bear to lose. The god did not follow them. He stood alone in the center of the clearing as the first huts and crude dwelling by the edge caught flame, as the grass itself caught fire and burned even up the edge of the great boulder. Licking flames blackened the stone and the still-wet gore of the fallen Tormenta bird sizzled and boiled. Sarhush was unbothered by the heat. Through the walls of smoke all around, his sharp eyes could make out the lines of retreating ur-humans.
Eventually the voracious fires began to subside, and the heat died down. Sarhush turned and walked away into the smoldering wastes that remained. For now, he was content to know that the first cords were being pulled taut somewhere out there.
Conviction Expenditures: Sarhush creates Me of Weaving (0 conviction in-domain lucid action)
Sarhush invents weaving so that he can make wicker bundles to start fires and more efficiently burn down a forest.
While he’s burning down the forest, he figures out how to create a sling to lob burning stuff, and he makes some nice clothes to replace his old hides that got burnt to a crisp in that one post where he was down underground with Khthon making magma. He also uses his sling to lob a stone into the air and kill a thunderbird that was trying to summon rain to put out the blaze.
Then he finds the Accord of the Boulder (family/tribe of Saries’ twin prophets, though those two weren’t home!) and gives them the Me of Weaving and a free lecture to boot.
“Uhm-mm, hello?” A tinny voice called out from behind. Moren turned to see several more souls had appeared on the shore while she’d been busy.
A small group of ur-human spirits huddled in her vicinity while a few predators circled from farther away – they could detect her nature as Death, and were cautious of her. At a glance, she could tell how they had died: the child who spoke to her had drowned, the mother with her arm around her had dived in, while the father, uncles, and a cousin had their raft torn apart when they’d followed to retrieve their corpses. A pair of wolves had been caught in a landslide, a snake battered by a fallen branch, a bear trapped by quicksand. Farther away were spectral, green-tinged patches of grass, outgrowths of shrubbery, and copses of trees: trampled by escaping herds, choked by remnants of fire, felled by ur-human hands, uprooted in avalanches.
More would be coming. So many more. A veritable exodus of the lost would descend upon them – a shiver in her spine ascertained her of this.
She needed to act, and fast.
With a crafting of divine will, Moren spawned new entities into existence. They were small balls of immaterial flame, each its own colour, ranging from pale blue to gold to fiery red, and others. They felt inviting and warm to the dead, who would be compelled to follow, whereas the living would experience an unbearable cold if they encountered one on Ashuru.
“Go now.” At those words, the myriad flames dispersed. The ur-humans, noticing that each predator group followed one flame, eventually went after another leading in a different direction.
As for the goddess, she meant to witness the disaster she had felt the echo of.
When she emerged into Ashuru, volcanoes belched fire and smoke while rivers of lava eroded the surface as the newly unleashed energies threatened to rip apart the world from within. Wherever she looked, wherever she traveled, there were ever new, grander sights. The plane thrummed far below, brimming with energies capable of destroying it. It had been granted a heart – but would its body survive the implant? Veins of magma were threaded throughout, pumping that immense power into each corner and crevice. The earth rumbled in protest as its innards were consumed, tectonic plates forming as it was ripped apart by forces it could not oppose. Great fissures swallowed thousands of surface-bound species, and earthquakes claimed them by the hundreds. The skies were choked by smog, and the heavens wept black, poisonous rain. Birds fell from the skies, no safer than the critters upon the ground.
No one was safe.
It was magnificent. As terrifying as it was beautiful. Who knew ruin could be so glorious? Even as she mourned the countless deaths caused by the extinction-level event, Moren couldn’t help but admire how lively Ashuru now was. It groaned, it wept, it screamed – it thrashed in defiance, striving to keep whatever semblance of life it had. Through it, she experienced a facet of existence, the desperate attempt to cling to survival which was intimately known to mortals, yet nearly unfathomable to the gods.
So, this was what it was like to fear your end.
Moren tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and wept. For as much as she marveled at it, as much as she felt enlightened by it, all those pitiful mortals had been the one to pay the price. Gods played games, but it was hardly they who reaped the consequences, was it?
She felt a sensation akin a note playing within her mind, she focused on it. It was one of her Ethereal Flames alerting her, so she reached out to it. In her mind's eye, she caught glimpses of her Afterlife – the initial area was filling with spirits even as the ghost lights rushed to and fro to get them all sorted out.
The goddess sighed. Time to return then, and continue imbuing her realm with more anchors.
Even in that period of endless work, she popped back into Ashuru here and there. While the eruptions had calmed, the smoke had only thickened. Great clouds snaked above, filled with gray and black particles, while an ashen blanket had covered the surface below. It was quiet – sounds stolen away, a preternatural silence had enveloped Ashuru. Those fragments of life which still remained were secreted away, as if afraid their breaths would be snuffed out if they were heard.
Moren met countless dead and dying in that time.
One day, she was drifting across her realm, securing yet another anchor. A glance at the area after she was done – and a small form curled into a ball lied where there had been nothing before. Moren approached, calling out softly, “Welcome, little one.” She hovered a palm above its spectral shape; darker spots covered a lighter gray body. Its rounded ears twitched, its whiskers trembled. Then, it jumped up and away, appearing surprised it had been able to do so. Its pale, transparent green eyes looked this way and that, then it ran off. It dashed atop ghostly grass that had a definitive tinge of colour, past trees that were more plentiful now – all signs of the vast quantity of vegetation destroyed upon Ashuru, whose essence had leaked into her domain. A small smile played about her mouth as the phantasm of a cat disappeared into an immaterial forest, chasing after an ephemeral butterfly.
Perhaps…perhaps there was yet more she could do for her charges. Actions: Ethereal Flames/Will-o’-the-wisps: Immaterial balls of fire which does not burn. To the dead, it feels warm and inviting, whereas the living experience a deathly chill if they encounter one in Ashuru. Largely, the ghost lights are scattered across Moren’s Afterlife, acting as non-sentient managers of her realm. They are drawn to death, so will at times cross into Ashuru, gathering in areas where many have died – though a singular but ‘impactful’ death might also lure one in. They can ping Moren if something unexpected happens, and she can also choose to focus on one and get a brief distant view of the situation from their perspective.
Soul anchors: Adds more spawning points for the deceased were placed around the Afterlife.
