Garga was smaller than most Ur-Humans but no one mistook her for weak and those that did, didn't last long. She moved like a thought given legs, quick, sharp, always a step ahead of danger. Her eyes missed little, tracking shifts in wind, posture, tone, the subtle tells that decided whether a moment ended in flight or blood. The scars along her arms, face, legs and body were not trophies, they were lessons, each one earned and remembered. The tribe followed her not because she was the loudest or strongest, but because she survived everything that should have killed her.
She led without ceremony. No speeches, no sacred paint, no empty threats. Garga watched, listened, decided. Orders were short and practical. If she told someone to run, they ran. If she told them to wait, they waited, no matter what. Survival came first, always. The tribe hunted when it could, scavenged when it must and crossed into cannibalism when the land gave nothing back. It was not reverence, nor hunger for cruelty, just another line they crossed.
Unlike many ur-humans, Garga did not rule through terror. She punished mistakes and never ignorance. Those who learned were kept close, those who refused were sent away. The way she taught was her people was simply, strength mattered but cleverness kept you breathing. The tribe reflected her values, lean, alert, adaptable, more willing to withdraw than to charge headlong into death.
The tribe moved like slowly for days. There was no word from the advanced scouting group that was sent a few moons ago. Garga walked near the front, eyes scanning the horizon as the ground dipped toward the wide valley ahead, the place where the advanced scouting group was sent. That was when one of the outriders raised a fist, movement spotted.
A figure slipped into view moments later, breathing hard, one of their scouts from Gamberdise. He dropped to a knee before Garga without being told, head lowered more from habit. His eyes flicked back toward the valley as if expecting something to rise from it. “No word,” he said plainly. “Not from Fangs. Not from the others we sent after him.” His voice carried the weight of days spent listening for signals that never came.
Fangs was one of hers. Not in loyalty, not in affection, but in use. He came from her tribe, shaped by the same hunger and where others saw a problem, Garga saw a tool. He was violence given direction, a blunt force she could point and release when subtlety failed. She did not like him, did not trust him but she understood him and that was enough. A hammer does not need to think, only to strike where it is aimed.
She kept him at the edge of her plans, never far from the fight. When intimidation was required, Fangs went first. When fear needed a face, it was his. Garga remained clean of the worst choices while still benefiting from their outcomes. If he broke, she would replace him. If he turned, she would deal with it. Until then, he served his purpose and in Garga’s world, purpose was the closest thing to mercy anyone could expect.
Garga did not react. She crouched, dragging her fingers through the dirt, thinking. The scout continued, careful with his words. Fangs’s crew had descended into the valley when they spotted movement there. They were supposed to return with signs, with meat, with something. They did not. No smoke. No runners. No screams carried on the wind. Just the absence of all that.
The tribe shifted behind her, unease rippling through the group. Valleys swallowed people sometimes, that was nothing new or so the legends said. Still, this one felt wrong. Garga rose slowly, eyes fixed on the distant dip in the land. Fangs was a hammer, but even hammers could shatter if struck against the wrong thing. She gave no orders yet. Not until she understood what, if anything, had struck back.
Garga listened to the murmurs ripple through the tribe before she cut them off with a gesture. “It isn’t worth it,” she said, voice final. Heads turned toward her, some in disbelief, others in dread. Fangs had been part of the advanced scouting group, sent ahead because he was fast, vicious and hard to kill. If he had not come back, then whatever waited in that valley was not prey. It was a death.
The reaction was immediate and ugly. Voices rose, frustration spilling out after weeks of constant movement, empty bellies and too many nights slept with one eye open. Some cursed Fangs for failing. Others demanded they go after him, that they could not just leave the people he took with him behind, friends or family. The idea of turning away after coming this far felt like another loss piled onto too many others. Fear and anger mixed, a dangerous thing in a hungry crowd.
Garga let it burn for a moment, then stepped forward. “If we go down there,” she said, louder now, cutting through the noise, “we don’t come back.” She met their eyes one by one. “Not all of us. Maybe none.” Her tone softened, but the words did not. “We didn’t survive this long by charging at every unknown. Dying is easy. Living is the hard part and it’s the part that matters.”
She straightened and pointed east, away from the valley’s shadow. “We go around. All the way around. It’ll take longer and I know you’re tired.” A pause. “But you’ll still be breathing.” East it was. Around the valley, not through it. Fangs, the hammer, was gone and Garga would not break her people trying to retrieve what the land had already claimed.
We shift attention away from Villagxor, Alechior, Adria and Fangs to focus on the tribe Fangs belonged to, a nomadic group led by Garga. A short Ur-Human, Garga leads through caution rather than force. The tribe has been on the move for weeks when they encounter a scout sent ahead to learn why Fangs has not returned. Upon reaching the valley, the scout reports that Fangs and his group have disappeared. Ever cautious, Garga decides to abandon the search and lead the tribe around the valley instead.
Her kiss was sweet as nectarine. He felt dazed as her lips touched every bruise upon his body, replacing painful memories with something sweeter. It was an indulgence Tad knew he shouldn’t allow but one thing had led to another faster than he could have anticipated. But deep down, he had hoped for this. Misha was kind and loving and the complete opposite of her younger brother. He had sought her out in the night, when his own family had gone to sleep. Now the two fawned over one another deep in the grass of their hilly home, far from prying eyes. But now it was coming to the difficult part, the one he had been dreading.
“Did you know?” He asked when their lips finally came apart. Misha’s face was flushed, the daze in her eyes being blinked away with each flutter of her eyelids.
“Know? Know what?” She asked.
“Me, my sisters, my mother… We are being cast out.” he said, staring at her expression. There was a flicker of recognition but Misha quickly furrowed her brow.
“I…” she began but Tad took her hand within his.
“Just tell me, please.” he gave a gentle squeeze and rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand.
Misha looked away from him.
“Yes… but I tried to stop it. Believe me Tad, please.” She looked back up at him with pleading eyes. “I have never had a problem with you or your family unlike others in the tribe. I begged my mother but fear has grown in her heart. She is scared for the future.”
Now it was Tad who looked away. “I do believe you, Misha.” he sighed, “But why did you not tell me sooner?”
“I wanted to. I just didn’t know how.” Tad felt her hand upon his chin, guiding him to look at her. She smiled but the corners did not reach her eyes. “I could not bear to see that smile fade from the lips I’ve claimed. Or the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh. How you make me giggle like a child. I did not want it to end. I thought if I could prolong this, then it wouldn’t have to happen. Selfish, I know.”
“It doesn’t have to end, Misha. I feel the same about you. I love the way you smile and the way you make me feel wanted and seen. How many adventures have we been on? Why does it need to end? You could come with us! We could be together. Please. I know it would be a step, one fraught with danger but you wouldn’t be alone. I’d be with you and so would my family. ” Tad said, grabbing both her hands as he searched her eyes for an answer he needed to see. Instead, he found the opposite and he felt a piece of his heart shatter.
Misha deflated a little and she glanced away from him. “It’s a whimsical thought, Tad. But I can’t do that. I have responsibilities here. When my mother passes I am to become chieftess, you know.”
He let go of Misha’s hands and stood. The mix of emotions welling inside was confusing to Tad Anger, sadness, anger, sadness- on and on. It was hard to even look at her.
Misha looked up at him though. “Tad, please. You have to understand.” Her voice was firm now, the playful quaintness gone. “I don’t… I can’t betray my family and the people. I have a destiny I have to follow.”
“I understand Misha. I think I always have. I loved you and you only adored me. Like some mutt pet.” His voice now brimming with ice, just on the cusp of anger. Tad looked down at her, a look of shock now etched on her perfect face, then he turned and walked away.
Misha did not follow nor did she speak again but before Tad went too far, he stopped to listen in a fool’s hope. As stupid as it was, he would have gone back if only she had called his name. If he had heard her crying for what could be.
Silence reigned.
So Tad went back to his family's tent.
A few days had passed since their mother’s announcement. Their coming exile, because that’s what it really felt like, would be soon. Just after they had gathered what they could, stocked up on water skins and dried food stuffs. There was now an air of anticipation in the tribe. Once friendly smiles were now replaced with slight nods and words of guidance. Many were glad that their family had been chosen instead of their own but many more were greatly saddened by this upcoming exodus.
Upon the dawn of the final day, Ina had tasked Teefee and Toffee with scrounging up some herbs on the outskirts of their territory. Tad seemed to be in a haze of some sort. The two sisters had never seen their third triplet act in such a way and it was slightly alarming to them. But their mother bade them not to worry and that Tad would be helping her pack what they could.
So Teefee and Toffee went off when the starlight was low. They chatted for a time about the future. Toffee was uncertain about where’d they go, or who’d they find and Teefee was just excited to see new lands and meet new friends.
When they arrived at the forest, Toffee stretched using her spear to twist her back with her arms wide.
“Well no use in sticking together. We’ll find more of the herbs mama wants if we split up.” Toffee looked at her sister, who was already huddled on the ground, watching a line of ants carrying seeds. She wasn’t paying attention, of course.
“Teefee!” Toffee said, snapping her fingers. Her white haired sister looked up at Toffee, her ears slightly bending back and down as if she had been scolded by mother. “Find herbs, remember? I won’t be far away. Just yell for me if you need help.”
“Got it sis!” Teefee exclaimed, all smiles now, her ears erect as ever.
Toffee began to walk off when she paused and looked back at Teefee. “And stay away from any sap! You know it made you sick last time you tried some.”
Teefee grimaced, then gave a toothy smile. “But before that it tasted very yummy!”
“I am not dragging you home again!” Toffee put her hands on her hips. “No sap!”
“Ugh, fine.” Teefee muttered.
Satisfied, Toffee began her hunt.
Teefee, meanwhile, stuck her tongue out at her sister and watched as she vanished into the trees.
Birds chirped now and again, the wind ruffled her hair and the scents upon the air were normal. The musk of earth and old trees. The occasional flower here and there. Teefee gave a contended sigh and began her search.
A while later she had managed to collect a bag full of the herbs and leaves her mother liked to use for cooking, healing and drinking. Teefee, of course, had lost track of the time and the whereabouts of Toffee but she was certain her sister would find her, for she hadn’t gone very far into the woods from where they started.
But there was a problem. The sky had grown dark with roiling clouds and the wind had shifted, bringing with it the scent of rain. It was a nice smell but Teefee preferred it when she was inside the family tent, not soaked through. A little water was fine when it came to bathing but being unable to get dry was the part she didn’t like.
So Teefee had found herself underneath a tree, the forest behind her, and the hills of her home before her. She twiddled her thumbs as she waited for Toffee. She would have gone looking for her but the last time she had tried, she had gotten so turned around she became the one needing rescued. Tad had been the one to find her and he still gave her grief for it.
So she would wait.
It began to rain.
Then a shape began to form in the tall grass and Teefee felt an uneasiness wash over her. As she watched the shape coming closer, she placed her back against the tree and squinted. The shape had gotten close enough for Teefee to make out that it was someone from the village. Her unease washed away. Perhaps Tad had come to check in on them? Or someone had gotten caught out in the rain and sought shelter?
So Teefee stepped away from the tree and raised her hand before shouting, “Hello!”
The figure stopped for a second and then raised their own hand but did not speak as they drew closer. It was only when she could make them out did Teefee’s uneasiness return. It wasn’t Tad or anyone with a friendly face from the village. No, it was Malac. His long russet brown hair was dripping down the sides of his face. When he saw her, his normal sneer turned up into a smile.
“Well, well, well. Look who it is!” he said, coming to a stop just outside the protection of the tree’s canopy. “You’re that one named Teefee, right? What a surprise bumping into you here of all places.”
Teefee’s ears twitched. She didn’t want to appear rude by not speaking so she said, “You are Malac right? Son of the chieftess?”
“Yes. That’s me. I know your brother, somewhat well.” he smiled and it made Teefee shiver.
Teefee only nodded. She knew Malac was trouble but didn’t really know what to do. Maybe if she just placated him he would leave her alone?
“It’s funny, really.” Malac said, crossing her arms. “I’ve been meaning to speak to one of his sisters.”
“You have?” Teefee said, clutching her bag of herbs and trying not to fidget.
“Yeah. I just thought, since he’s been putting his filthy hands all over my own sister, I might return the favor. Give him a taste of his own medicine.” Malac’s smile turned sinister, his dark eyes full of something Teefee could not describe. But his words, it took her a few seconds to fully grasp what he meant and then she began to back up.
She gulped. “That’s not… That isn’t right Malac. You’re just kidding right? J-Just trying to scare m-me?”
He did not respond as he took a step closer.
Panic blossomed in Teefee’s heart with each step of Malac. The smile on his face never dimmed, not in the slightest so Teefee bolted.
It was a short pursuit, for in moments, Malac had grabbed her hair and gave a nasty tug. Teefee cried out as she was yanked to the ground. Pain shot through her scalp as she struggled to keep her eyes open as rain pelted her in the face. A heavy weight pressed down upon her and Teefee squirmed as she tried to free herself. She could now see Malac above her, a sneer on his face. He reached out and touched her right ear before Teefee was able to press it flat against her head. She gave him a hiss that only invoked Malac to laugh. What made him stop laughing was when her sharper-than-the-average ur-human nails tore across his cheek. He cursed and Teefee was able to escape from under him. She struggled to her feet as she ran out into the tall grass.
Her feet squelched into a patch of mud and she slipped, sprawling out into the grass. Malac was upon her again and this time Teefee screamed as loud as she could for help. They tussled in the grass for a moment before Malac whipped her around to face him.
She was silenced when Malac slapped her across the face. Her ear rang as the sting of pain made her cheek warm and tingly. She blinked hard and noticed Malac had produced a bone knife.
“Be quiet you filthy mutt.” he growled.
Teefee reluctantly shut her lips but looked up at him with a scowl.
“Try anything again and I’ll send you back to your mongrel father.” Once again he fell to his knees, locking them around her torso.
Teefee’s breathing sped up as Malac loomed over her. Blood dribbled down his cheek where she had slashed him and combined with the wild look in his eyes, Teefee felt true genuine fear for the first time in her life.
“P-Please.” She said in a very quiet voice, “D-Don’t hurt me.”
He only licked his lips as his head drew closer and closer.
But then there was a sharp THWACK and Malac grunted, his hot fetid breath washing over her before he slid off to the side.
“Get away from her!” Toffee screamed.
Malac didn’t have time to avoid the second hit, straight to his shoulder blade. He screamed out in pain as Toffee followed up with a kick, distancing him from Teefee, who scrambled away from Malac. She got behind Toffee, who loomed over the man like some terrible spirit of vengeance.
“How dare you touch her!” Toffee bellowed, raising her spear to thwack him again, but this time Malac rolled to the side and she hit the ground. Malac then lunged with his knife and managed to cut Toffee, who let out a hiss of pain as she backed away. Blood ran down her face.
Malac got to his feet on shaky legs as the blood on his knife was washed away by the rain.
“What are you going to do mutt, fight me?” he challenged, arms spread wide. “Going to protect your little mongrel of a sister? How cute!”
Teefee saw it before Toffee even knew what she herself was doing. It was that look one gave on the precipice rage. Where thought lost all reason. And she only knew this, because she had seen it before.
“No!” Teefee screamed but it was too late.
In a flash, Toffee had hefted her spear and thrown it right at Malac with a furious roar. It impacted with a sickening squelch, followed by a boom of distant thunder. Teefee’s eyes went wide as she saw Malac’s sneer fade into one of horror. Then, slowly, like a feather in a gentle breeze, he began to fall backwards before his body impacted all at once and crimson flowed like a geyser.
“W-What have you done, Toffee?” Teefee asked in a shaky voice.
Tad talks with Misha and has his heart broken. Teefee and Toffee go off on a mission to find herbs before they begin their journey into the unknown. It ends with another heart being broken. Or maybe skewered… [
Orranoth Orranoth, great god of the Sky, begins to erect a monument of Light which he would call "The Sun". The Light of the World of Ashuruh. This magical, stellar body would be similar to the artificial sun that he conjured in the village of Radanu, only this Light would be a fixture of the world, hopefully for eternity, granting the world light and life over the eons. The light would cause life to flourish under it's gaze. Orranoth conjured an illusory dagger, pricking his thumbs with it's edge, and he literally bled light, in this case a ball of light would spring out.
The ball of light and fiery power would be magically compelled to die down before the night and rise at the dawn.
At least -4 to create the magical Sun from his own blood. Maybe -5, but it is in his domain. The Sun creates life underneath, not all at once, but it aids in the fertility of the soil, granting light and it's nutrients to the ground down below.
The sea was a beautiful thing. This, Joko decided for the umpteenth time as he sat by its shore, a long stretch of unruffled sand between poisonous black waters and the thick trees gently swaying behind him.
It could absolutely kill him. They all knew the stories of drowned forest fellows. How the water carried voices that pulled in anyone who waded in; how the darkness festering in its murky belly took hold of weak minds with vivid ferocity; how their people, who had not known better then, had lost themselves to confusion in unforgiving currents. Treading water was no less than seeking death.
That did not take away its beauty. His fingers, coated in dark violet dye, swept gently across the broad leaf spread flat against his knees. His work swirled and shifted before him as it took shape. So did the flowers pushing through the sand. The canopy above cast shadows on the lit, moonless landscape. On a nearby stone sat a hare, its coat an impractical shade of yellow.
The sea could kill him, if he tempted it so. So could the forests, or the animals, or the wandering travellers that made passage through their humble community. (They were lucky, so they had been told, for there were places that were beset with rampant fire and wanton culling. This did not distract Joko from noticing the greed glimmering in the travellers’ eyes, hunger that was borne of shrivelled hearts instead of shrunken stomachs. Most travellers left without trouble. The rest were best left undiscussed, as Joko had not been raised to speak ill of the dead.) But here he sat, untouched and unwavering, drinking in the calmness that came with freedom and time. His strokes of paint steady. His need to capture the bewitching unknown sated. Joko was content.
Then the world broke.
~
Oyuna was drowning.
There was no explanation for the why of it, no series of events leading up to this that came to mind. It just was. The more she struggled, the deeper the currents dragged her, snaring her like prey caught in thornsteel vines. The ocean spilled into her open mouth, crammed itself down her flexing throat. She could not draw breath. A creature drifted by as her struggles slowed, small and squishy and luminescent.
For a time, her mind wandered. She should be dead. She was not. She was unsure how long had passed by the time she thought to clench and unclench her fist. A smooth, white pearl came to be in the palm of her hand.
I see, she thought, and landed on her feet on the floor of the Corrupt Sea. Her lungs filled themselves with impossible air. A nightmare.
An irrational one, at that, but she supposed that fears would not be fears if they could be rationalised away. She blinked once, twice. The darkness of the corrupt water remained. Too much to hope that it would be that simple, eh? She flexed her fist again and when her fingers re-opened, her pearl shone, a light strong enough to illuminate a few meters of distance before her. Black sand swirled idly beneath her bare feet. Massive oblong silhouettes stood still in the dark. Something darted past her, an animal that should not leap as quickly as it did in water, in these depths. It did not glow, but it glimmered, and that was enough for Oyuna to follow.
They neared one of the silhouettes and did not stop until Oyuna found herself standing before the base of a stone golem, craning her neck up in awe as she stared up its skin of weathered rock. It never got any less impressive to see one of these up close; shards of stone conjoined in impossible ways, marked with engravings that her commune had yet to make sense of.
‘If only you could speak,’ murmured Oyuna. She lifted her pearl, traced her free hand against the sharp, precise markings in the stone.
It flashed. Not fleetingly, as they were wont to do, but a prolonged, sustained light that swirled and filled those engravings like oil in water. The depths lit up, as if the sky itself had broken open underwater somehow, and Oyuna gazed in awe at the hundreds of golems that littered the sea bottom. There were so many of them. She had only ever seen two, and the second had been far away from the first. To see all these golems in one place brought a buzz of excitement to her chest.
There had been rumours of a smaller tablet, a simple slab of stone that outweighed all these golems’ worth of knowledge, claimed to drift within the sea’s domain alongside these treasures. Oyuna had often dreamed of finding it washed ashore, as unlikely as the thought was.
But then the world had broken.
~
Giddiness. It swept over Adi head to toe, threatened to consume him entirely. To giggle was not befitting of a shaman, however, and so Adi did not. He allowed himself a small smile, however.
Before him stood a mass of clouds. They did not drift. Did not move, did not rain, did not hail. They were not white, and they were not grey. Instead, they were swirls of light blue and pink, colours that made him think of syrupy sap and sweet berries for some bizarre reason. They shaped a structure with a permanently billowing roof and soft, round arches supporting puffy walls. He did not touch them as he entered the open, door-less entrance, but the clouds he walked on felt simultaneously solid and malleable, like he might fall through at any time. He did not.
Inside was a room that was much larger than the outside, barren of furnishings, with walls the colour of violet midnight and a carpet of stars. He strode no further than ten steps from the entrance. Posture perfect. Breaths even.
‘I am Śramaṇa Adi,’ he said, quietly. ‘I seek an audience with you, our Grand Gifter of Guidance.’
For a heart-stopping moment, silence. It stretched on long enough that Adi began to fidget, folded fingers rubbing the ruby ring on his left hand.
Then black mist seeped in from the walls. They gathered themselves in the centre of the room, a plume that rose high above him in a vortex of shadows. Water cascaded from its unseen peak in a neat roll, a waterfall that fell through the glimmering floor. Briefly, the water parted, allowing the moon – the moon! – to float out and up, settling on the lip of the waterfall.
‘I grant you audience, Śramaṇa Adi.’
The Gifter’s voice was soft. A hushed lullaby to the ears. He did not speak any further, his faceless moon expectant. Was it tinted pink?
‘I thank you for it.’ The giddiness surged again and Adi had to fight to wrestle it back under control. Too much excitement in a dream was never good, no matter the refinement of the lullaby shroom tea. ‘I have come to you in efforts to seek closeness with you, o wise Gifter. We walk your realm and find answers that would otherwise have been lost in the limits of the real. For your generosity, we are grateful.’
‘You seek answers,’ answered the Gifter. The pink deepened in intensity. ‘To explain the calamity that has shifted your community. To justify the suffering your people has withstood. What of the answers you claim you have found?’
‘We are grateful,’ repeated Adi. Breaths even. Panic would get him nowhere. ‘But for as much as possibility lives in the Dreamscape, it only teaches us that our world could be so much more. That we could do more, be more. You have shown us much, but this broken world limits us.’
The Gifter’s moon tilted on its axis. The pink had faded now, darkening to a dim blue. Adi swallowed.
‘“Dreamscape”.’ A fresh wave of water crashed over its waterfall, bluer than before. ‘Yes. I like that.’
Confusion took hold. ‘Pardon?’
‘Hm?’ The moon rolled again. Adi had the faintest feeling that the Gifter may not have been looking at him before. ‘Oh, yes. The answers lie within your reach, Śramaṇa Adi. Your only obstacle is to think what has not been thought before.’ The black mist from before wafted from the waterfall’s unseen bottom, reaching up to surround Adi’s shoulders. ‘You are a shaman, yes?’
‘Y-yes.’
‘Then you should be used to working for what you seek, instead of waiting for it to be handed to you. Ashuru is not broken, Śramaṇa Adi, or you would not be here.’ The moon flashed pink. ‘You have my answer.’
Adi blinked bleary eyes open to a room with wooden walls and musky incense. His spine ached for the period of time it had stayed upright for, however long it had been, and his crossed legs had long fallen asleep. The mug in front of him was cold, left with the dregs of his lullaby shroom tea. He lifted his gaze to the lit stick beside it, soaked in the perfumed flower oil that gave the room its aroma as the singular flame at its tip flickered and burned. He looked back at the mug.
Perhaps a different method of consumption was in order.
ᦓ꠸᥅ꪀꪖ
Sirna had heard every word from Sarhush, all those days and nights ago. They had not intended to cause offence, either by word or action, but it seemed Sarhush had taken it regardless, leaving without interest in a response.
‘Interesting,’ they had murmured. ‘So very, very interesting.’
Sarhush saw competition where Sirna saw complement. They were in no hurry to outdo the self-assured king. Civilisations would rise and fall; without dreams, they would not do either. What need did Sirna have to plant roots when the mortals did so themselves? Already, there were mortals aplenty wandering their realm of dreams. Already, there were those who dreamed not in sleep but in waking, as aspiring tribe leaders and knowledge-seekers. Sirna was content to watch from the sidelines as Ashuru flourished.
Except Ashuru did not flourish. Or, if it did, the gods who shaped it had a vastly different idea of what flourishing constituted of indeed. The world broke, the mortals died, and Sirna watched with avid fascination as the realm of dreams, previously a placid, gentle place, became home to an increasing number of rumbling spots of void. Dreams were abundant, but so were nightmares, and the mortals caught in between ranged from begging to a more sophisticated sort of begging. Prayer, the mortals called it. Dedicating themselves to Sirna, for the mere deed of existing within the realm they had created on a whim.
Truly, there was no need to rush in the way of Sarhush when this lovely planet and its inhabitants did so very much for Sirna, all on their own. In the wake of yet another shaman’s visit, Sirna stood in their temple, the foundations of which had been laid by nothing but the imagination of their frequent visitors. Their moon was colourless.
‘Hm.’ Their waterfall body had quieted to a dull trickle. ‘...Perhaps there is a little need.’
They had sensed a few other developments aside from Ashuru cracking open like an unruly egg. The mortals dreamt of a pocket dimension, a plane of existence similar to Sirna’s own that differed in purpose. There were those artifacts that were lost out there in Ashuru too, free for the taking. Perhaps a wander through reality was in order. Playing with these mortal fools did get bothersome after a while, especially when all of them seemed to adore their rituals and order so.
Sirna huffed and let their moon sink into the crest of their waterfall.
~
• MORTAL: Joko has a glimpse of his life pre-Catacysm. • MORTAL: Oyuna dreams of the Stone Golems and the Akashic Vessel, the latter of which is now thought to be lost post-Cataclysm. • MORTAL: Adi, a dream shaman, asks the Gifter (Sirna) for some advice post-Cataclysm and unwittingly offers a cool name for the realm of dreams in the process. Sirna gives him some super duper helpful advice in return. Adi now fiddles with the fantastic idea of lullaby shroom pot. • SIRNA: In other news, Sirna has realised the utter boredom of having non-whimsical followers. Why’s everyone so serious? It’s just a little planet-breaking! • HAZY (In-Domain): The constant dedication and prayer of mortals who follow Sirna have lead to the natural development of Sirna’s Dream Temple, located within the Dreamscape.
• As Sirna theirself put zero effort into developing the temple, it’s barren. Think fantastical exterior, empty interior. • -1 Conviction
It had taken a single howl from Saries for the Valley’s population of Tormentas to assemble. There were all kinds of them – Large and small, predator and prey, healthy and ill – and, for that day only, they set aside their differences and worked together as demanded by their Progenitor.
The Twin Tongues Jiva and Sirele of the Accord of the Boulder could only watch from afar, perched upon a large tree protected by two Gold-tipped Tormentas, as their friend Saries and its offspring faced the approaching inferno head-on.
Water was a rare sight in those days, and when it came it came blackened. This time, it was no different. The rain came moderate and too warm for comfort, but it was rain still, and every drop did its part in fighting the flames.
II
Seconds turned into minutes. The flames grew bigger and bolder. Sarhush’s fires had been taken care of quickly, but they had achieved their purpose. Now, the fires of the burning world were attempting to swallow the Valley. Droves of Tormentas dropped from the skies and the rising plumes of smoke poisoned the air and clouds above – And yet Saries would not let them die. The Tormentas rose again and again with every howl and every bark that came from the Beast-God.
Minutes turned into hours, and the Twins started to worry.
Where the battle between life and flame took place, the wall of fire did not advance. But everywhere else – The mountain peaks, the flanks, even the valley behind them, had become engulfed. There was only so much that the Tormentas and Saries could do.
It was then that the air stood still and turned into writhing flames, licking their skin all over and making it tingle and burn. A booming voice, one that burned the Twins’ eardrums, whispered like the crackle of a campfire.
“Go on, come into it. Into my warmth.”
The leaves on that great tree lit on fire, and the branches sparked and smoked. Jiva grabbed Sirele by the arm and immediately jumped off the tree, landing on the dirt ground below with a sickening crunch and a scream.
“Jiva!” Shouted Sirele as she stumbled up onto her feet and dragged her brother away from under the canopy of the burning tree. A look was all it took to figure out what happened – His right ankle was bent the wrong way, and his foot flopped around with every movement.
Tears rolled freely down his face, but there was no crying, only grunts and moans of pain. Sirele could almost feel his pain, and in the distance, she heard an anguished howl.
The burning air did not remain in the canopy. It followed them!
But the Twins’ escort arrived. A gold-tipped Tormenta covered in a thick shield of rainwater dived right into the burning air.
It was a split second, but in that moment a great explosion rocked the clearing. Water vapour went everywhere, burning the Twins’ uncovered skin and smothering the unnatural burning air.
And in front of the twins landed their protector – Only a foot in length, with the front half of its body burned beyond recognition, smoking still from the encounter. It twitched, its one remaining eye looking up at Sirele before glazing over.
Sirele felt sick. She was dizzy, disoriented, and for a moment wasn’t even sure what had happened – But then she turned to look at her brother and saw him unconscious, skin puffy and red, and she cried out.
One of her tears froze and floated off her face, and then it spoke.
“How unfortunate,” It said in a quiet voice that was almost not there, “How cruel.”
A cocoon of frost formed around both the Twins’ protector and Jiva, and all the pain and heat emanating from Sirele’s own wounds suddenly disappeared.
“Stand, Sirele. Know that Cold has taken of the blood of Saries, and that for this battle, you may take of the blood of Cold.”
It came in an ever-increasing wave – An unforgiving, deep cold that chilled her very soul. She thought she was going to die, but death never came. Instead, she felt hunger.
She extended a hand towards the burning trees around her and did not blink twice when the flames cooled and sputtered out, all their heat flowing into herself and granting her a small reprieve from the cold that had taken root in her.
And so she walked, aimless, in a daze, absorbing the heat of the world and putting out fires and freezing the land.
III
How many days had it been?
Before Saries was Sirele, curled up into herself in a small nest of ice and snow. She was naked, and although there were clear burn marks all over her, she did not look to be in pain. She was asleep, after all. Hibernating.
The fires were gone now, and the skies were clear. But the damage had been done. Most of the area was burned, and what had once been a rich ecosystem would now have to work hard to recover. It was possible it would never recover at all.
But lives had been saved. Plants and their seeds, animals and their offspring, even insects and parasites.
Jiva, who had been riding on Saries’ back, jumped down from his mount and rushed over to his sister’s side.
A quick huff from Saries made it clear that he was not to touch her, and so Saries approached first and sniffed her face, then pressed its mouth against hers and inhaled.
The air in her lungs was so cold it was almost liquid, but such a thing was no issue for a God. And so when all the frozen air in her lungs was gone, Saries spat it out to the side and blew warm air in.
Slowly, the frost covering her skin melted, and her eyes fluttered open. She winced, the pain from her burns returning, before Saries bumped its nose against hers and a gentle warmth washed away all pain and erased all burns.
Bewildered, she looked at Jiva and his ankle, then at the Tormenta perched on his shoulder, and burst into tears, hugging one arm around Saries’ massive neck and the other around her brother, with the Tormenta spreading its wings to maintain balance as the two humans rocked.
Meanwhile, Saries looked at the cloud of cold air that it had taken out of Sirele and watched it slowly dissipate.
“How cold…” It whispered, and then it was gone.
Whatever its intention, the Patron of Cold had not only helped stop the fires, but had also saved the lives of the Twins and the Tormenta. It was a friend, yet it could not be marked, and so there was only one thing to do to honour it.
It was awkward – Its form had not been designed with it in mind, and doing so felt unnatural and, in truth, a little bit embarrassing, as if it was debasing itself.
It came from deep in its throat. A sound that reverberated in the Twins’ chests and almost made their jaws hit the floor.
“Thank you.”
Saries gathered all the Tormentas to stop the wildfire started by Sarhush, but the flames kept growing aided by the apocalypse. Jiva and Sirele tried to escape when the Patron of Wildfire appeared, and Jiva was badly injured. A gold‑tipped Tormenta sacrificed itself to protect them. Then the Patron of Cold arrived, froze Jiva and the dying Tormenta to save them, and filled Sirele with cold so she could absorb heat and put out the fire. Days later, Saries found Sirele hibernating in a nest of ice. It revived her, healed her burns, and reunited her with Jiva. The Patron of Cold had helped save many lives, and Saries honored it with its first ever spoken words.
Conviction Expenditures: None used. Saries performed many Lucid actions such as maintaining the Life of Tormentas and plants and animals, and commanding lesser beasts to fight back the fires.
"I am a god!" Bellowed the young man. Ages, with the world being what it was, were difficult to measure. "And only a god can defeat me!" He bellowed again as three wood-armed warriors of the Excelsium tribe lay before him. Each was bruised and submitted to him. The young man had the bright smile of pure hubris on his face. "Is there anyone else?"
Khathen watched the kid with Miras, Warden of Mortality, beside him from the sidelines. "He is growing cocky." Khathen said. Miras, the giant humanoid, did not respond. "At this rate he'll actually believe he's invincible." Miras still said nothing. "Then, when reality decides otherwise, he will be in for a nasty surprise."
"He is a Scion of Excelsium." Miras finally said. Khathen did not believe it was meant to protect the young man. It was a reminder to him. This kid was destined to lead Excelsium one day, by divine right. Khathen grit his teeth and moved.
"Is there no one else!?" Yelled the kid before he was hit from the side with a thrown piece of firewood. He stumbled as Khathen, equipped with nothing but a barely blunted wooden spear, approached. The kid slammed his club on the makeshift shield. "A challen-"
His taunt was interrupted by the sudden explosive attack of Khathen, who began his relentless assault. The kid stumbled back, immediately frightened. This was not how the other warriors fought. Khathen jabbed, moved aside to dodge, swept at his feet, and feinted attacks at his face. The kid tried to respond in kind. He lunged with his own club at Khathen, who gracefully dodged and weaved around the clumsy strikes.
Fear was overtaking the kid. Nothing he was doing was working on the seasoned ranger of the tribe. It was as if he were fighting a spirit. He moved too fast and struck too hard. Khathen, seeing the fear and crumbling of ego, decided to finish it. He feinted an attack at the shield. With the back of his spear, he hooked the kid's heel and dropped him to the ground. The point of the spear was at his throat in a second.
"You can't do that!" Hector, the kid, yelled. Then he turned to look at Miras on the side. "I am the Scion!" He yelled, then he felt a stinging pain on his cheek. Khathen had grazed him. It was just enough to make Hector bleed.
"And if I wanted right now, I could end that destiny with one move." Khathen hissed. "You are arrogant. The warriors do not fight you for real because of your status. They are afraid. I am not. One day very soon you will bear the weight of this tribe on your shoulders, and you are not ready."
~
"We knew this would happen." One of the elders in the council said. Miras stood in the middle of the half-circle. He had given his prophecy. Jealous of Excelsium's might and wealth in food other tribes would band together and attack. Soon.
The eyes turned towards Hector, standing on the side. He was no longer a kid. "We never fought a battle like this before." There had been skirmishes. Greedy families who, instead of joining the great tribe, tried to steal instead. Hector had not been merciful to most of them. This was different. Miras' prophecy spoke of several families united under some warlord. Excelsium had never fought anything like that.
"Well, can you win?" Asked one of the elders.
"I need more people." Hector replied. The council erupted into a heated debate. The matter would not be settled here. Hector sighed and left.
He joined Khathen outside the beautiful, if not somewhat overdesigned, wooden council chambers. The earth had gone more silent still and the stone monster on the horizon had finally, fully, gone to sleep. Still, Excelsium kept building in the old ways.
"Nothing?" Asked a much older Khathen.
"By the time the old men have made a decision, the battle will already have been won or lost." Hector said.
Khathen nodded. "Miras once told me that those blessed with greatness will someday be tested, to see if they're worthy of it."
"You think this is my test?" Asked Hector.
"It is not. It's more real. If you fail, Hector, then Excelsium is over. In truth, it might be over either way. After the battle, so many of us might be wounded that the other tribes around might pick us clean like vultures." Khathen looked over the horizon. The fields were stretching far out now. "One problem at a time, I suppose."
~
The time had come. They came from the woods. First, only a handful. Then tens of people. Then over a hundred. They were armed similarly to the warriors of Excelsium, with hides, slings, and sharpened spears.
Hector's heart was beating in his throat. He was nervous. Khathen had forged him into the best warrior he could be. Was it enough? The numbers weren't equal. The invaders were more numerous. Excelsium's men and women looked well fed and strong, but the enemy had a sort of hungry, feral sense to them. They hadn't eaten for a while, probably, and only a few hundred men stood between them and a full granary.
It all started with yelling. The invaders came charging from the woods up the hillside. "Stand your ground!" Hector bellowed. The fire-hardened spears were lowered. Hundreds of steps shook the earth like in the days of old. The slingers from behind loosed their first volley. A few of the enemy stumbled or fell. Others bled but kept going. They were almost enraged by the sense of blood.
The two sides did not gracefully come together. It was utter carnage. Every bit of planning was gone with the wind. Men yelled, pushed, clawed, and bit at each other. The whole front turned into a mire of skirmishes and duels in no time. Khathen was dragged into a fight against two of the invaders, while Hector was supporting three of his.
He jabbed with his spear, wounding the leg of an invader who dropped. He tapped his men on the shoulders. A sign he taught them, then left. They could handle the others. Hector pulled back and overlooked the skirmish. Some spots needed his help. He gritted his teeth. When he was back, he would throw himself onto the temple grounds and beg whatever god would listen to give him a blessing to be in more places than one.
Then he saw it. Like a moth saw a flame. A large figure. Not so inhumanily large as Meris, but still a massive man. He moved through his own men like a normal man moved through a wheatfield. He was kin to Hector, in a metaphysical sense. Within him burned the same little spark that Hector possessed. The world slowed down. Suddenly, he understood the battle. The little skirmishes didn't matter. This was the real battle. Fire against fire, to see which would engulf which.
Hector snapped out of the moment when he saw someone else standing in the way of the giant invader. Khathen. "No!" Hector yelled. With club and shield in hand he rushed over. Khathen would die. Hector knew it in his heart. The man was a formidable warrior, a great mentor, a wise advisor, and the best scout of the tribe. None of it would matter. Khathen would die if he fought the giant. Hector pushed through the skirmishes, dropping several enemies as he barreled through a shield-locked battle. His club swung wildly and claimed the life of an invader swiftly.
It didn't matter. Hector was just too late. Khathen was pierced by his own spear, which was stolen by the giant and slammed through him. The old man stumbled backwards and turned to see Hector. "I'm sorry kid. This... might... be yours." He managed to say and then fell backwards. Somewhere in the village, looking anxiously at the battle, Khathen's husband let out a harrowing cry.
The scion of Excelsium snapped, roared, and charged at the giant. He slammed into the large shape of the man. Their duel overshadowed the entire battle in an instant. Both roared at each other not like men but like feral lions locked in a battle for dominance. Hector tried to keep up the pressure, but the giant man was formidable. He swung a giant stone hammer around him. Hector dodged and weaved around him, until he was just a second too late. The hammer slammed into his shield, breaking half of it and sending a sharp jolt through Hector's arm.
This could not be a battle of pure brawn, Hector thought. The giant had an advantage. Hector kept moving. The world was slow again. His heart was beating faster. There was no easy way to fight this man. Panic began to set in. What could he do? What could he do!? The duel passed the fallen Khathen. The spear was still stuck within his body and stood upright.
Right then something happened that only divinity could sense. Hector's spark, his inner fire that separated him from everyone else, had been dimming ever since Khathen died. Then it sparked to life, engulfing his heart.
Hector dropped his shield, rolled away, put all the momentum he had into an upwards swing with his club. The brute grabbed the club in his hands. Hector let him, as he backed off for a second and took Khathen's spear. The duel turned into something else. Hector dipped and moved faster than ever. He knew how the lumbering man fought now. He waited, patiently but still as carefully as he could. With a few failed jabs, he kept the giant interested. Then it came. The brute stepped forward, Hector feinted. The brute tried to grab the spear like before. Hector moved the butt of his spear around the man's heel and pulled.
Sashen fell to the ground. That had happened since he was a kid. It was a surprise. The world stood almost still now. For the longest time, he could feel that heat in his chest but it never burst into a roaring flame like the wandering prophet had said it would. Now he was defeated. In a second or two he'd be dead. Resigned to his fate he dropped his head to the side. There he was. The wandering prophet. A man even bigger than himself. He was looking form the village, surrounded by the people there. "Snake!" He bellowed. "You promised us fo-"
His final words were silenced by a spear through the throat. Hector had won. The fire inside of him erupted into a victorious fire. The invaders watched their chief die. Some dropped their weapons. Others fought on, desperately. Others still fled. Miras, standing amid the cheering villagers, offered Hector nothing more than a small nod.
~
The remaining invaders were bound and corralled. The sun was setting. "What now, lord?" Asked one of Hector's fighters. The man had killed three. There was vengeance in the air. Many people who had lost their daughters, sons, husbands and wives to the battle wanted the invaders to die.
Hector approached the prisoners. "You came here seeking our food." He said. "Seeking our wealth. You didn't get it through force. Now you are here. Your fate is in my hand. How many families did you butcher and plunder from?" The prisoners averted their eyes. "How many are dead because of you?" Hector let the words hang in the air for a bit.
"Join us." He then continued. The prisoners looked up. They were confused. "You came here looking to survive and thought you would have to fight for it. Not so. This is Excelsium! Bow your head to its majesty, vow to uphold her and uplift her and you will never want for food again!"
That night a long and arduous process of conversion began. One by one the priests of Excelsis moved amid the prisoners. They heard their stories, heard their deeds, and moved on. Many willingly threw themselves on their knees and praised Excelsium and its patron god. Hector kept a close eye. There would be rotten apples amongst the converted. People who would want more than what their due was. Their punishment would be hard. Still, the majority would bring their own little fragment of greatness to Excelsium. Some already did as they herded their animals out of the woods. Cows and bulls lumbered out. A fair few of them were slaughtered for the feast.
There was one more grim job for Hector, Scion of Excelsium, to do. At midnight, a handful of invading warriors knelt down before him. He raised his club and smashed each of their head in one fell swoop. They preferred death over assimilation.
Pure Mortal Post We are introduced to Hector as a youngling, over confident. He is taught a lesson.
Years later he is in command of the armed forces of Excelsium. Another roving tribe is approaching, made up from many absorbed tribes of hungry people. They fight. The leaders end up fighting too, but only after Hector’s mentor is slain.
The barbarian warchief is killed by Hector, whose inner spark explodes into a fire.
We finish with Hector giving mercy and clemency to the attackers. They can join Excelsium and partake in its agricultural wealth.
The first man-made metal object wasn't a knife, or sword, or any kind of blade or weapon. It was a vessel, something between a large cup and a small bowl, just large enough to boil a single portion of soup, tea or herbal medicine.
It was made by taking the biggest chunk of copper Ma'otah's expedition had brought back and hammering it flat with the flat side of a large stone attached to a stick. The hammers they usually used weren't as crude, but they were also wooden, and much too soft to ever put a dent in the hard, cold metal.
Each strike rendered the metal a bit thinner and a bit harder. When it was nothing more than a thin, round, pockmarked sheet, it was carefully folded and stretched until a small bowl took form. That bowl saw much use: it did not burn like wooden ones, crack like clay ones, and boiled water much faster than soapstone ones. It was well-liked by cooks who used it to simmer small portions of easily digestible soup for the old, the ill and the pregnant. Firetenders used it to transport embers and small portions of fires, and medicine-men used to it dole out their remedies.
The leftover copper was fashioned into small knapping and carving tools, and protective amulets. It was while making these and experimenting that a craftswoman discovered that when the metal grew too hard under cold strikes and threatened to crack, that burying it under the village's biggest fire for a few hours, until it became hot and red, would soften it again, permitting further shaping.
Ma'otah was soon asked to plunge back into the Earth's depths to look for more of the material; she was the only one who had ever led a successful expedition so far.
She did so, over and over. Each time, she buried an offering, calling upon Khthon, asking for protection and permission. Each time, she brought different people with her, teaching them how to spot where the ceilings were at risk of collapsing, where toxic gases could emerge or where the ground could crumble and swallow your leg and not let go, for even when the Earth was not actively trying to kill them, it still remained a location hostile to most life (especially to those of the careless).
Each time, they emerged with new treasures. More copper, of course, but also a bit of silver, too soft for tools but much more easily shaped for ornaments. One time, they came back holding a handful of small shining jewels, so hard they could not be scratched with even their hardest tools. Another, with strange colorful rock, that when crushed and mixed with water, made brighter paint than anything else found beforehand. Most recently, the came back with a bag of black, crumbly, staining stones, even darker than their skin, their use still undetermined.
That very same night, Ma'otah received a dream. No, not a dream, a memory. She saw the center of the world, and she saw the Man-God piling up rocks. She saw how he built a cavity, with a hole at the top. She saw how he filled it with the same black stones they had found. She saw how they ignited, hotter than ever possible, melting even stone, even metal, the Earth itself shuddering under the strain.
She woke up in a cold sweat, shuddering. She barely took a second to breathe and calm down before rushing outside her home and to where the village kept their construction material for houses. She picked up as many adobe brick she could carry, and began building a small cavity, leaving a hole at the top, just like she had seen the Man-God do. She fetched the bag of coal, and poured it into the furnace's open maw, put a small stone bowl filled with a few silver nugget on top of the pile, and then threw a few burning ember in.
The fire burned slow at first, then faster and faster, until the heat made sweat drip down her face. It burned for hours, and she watched it without pause, unheeding of her fellow tribesmen's concern for her. When the fire finally extinguished, and the bowl stopped smoking from the heat, she picked it up through a few layers of cloth, and yelled in joy as she saw how the silver had melted and taken the shape of the bowl's bottom.
She rushed to the edge of town, where small mounds marked where the many necklaces, bangles and sculptures dedicated to the One That Lay Beneath were buried. She dug a small hole, forgoing any kind of tool, and put the bowl of silver inside. "Great Khthon, I am thankful for the wisdom you have given me. Here is the first of the fruits of that wisdom. It is not much, but soon, great works will emerge from it. That I am sure."
And she was right. Their tribe had already been more artistically inclined than others, decorating their abodes and bowls and tools with carving and paint, but now, with access to new materials, new paints, new tools, new techniques... their craft expanded beyond anything seen before. Carvings became larger and more elaborate, unfired clay pots and bricks could now be fired and even glazed in their new furnace, materials for stone spear heads were chosen as much for their beauty than for their workability, jewelry incorporated metal amulets, and gems were sometimes woven or fitted in. Beauty became not just an indulgence, but a necessity.
After all, the beauty of their craft is what gained them their God's favor. Ma'otah, the first to have returned and the only one to have spoken directly to Him, officially became their first priestess, although her role did not change much. Amulets first worn to ward off evil through unknown means now served as emergency offerings to Khthon, should the wearer ever need protection from danger. The occasional wanderer or peaceful nomad tribe that came around would trade supplies for their craft, leaving them more time to hone their skills now that immediate survival was assured. Some of these wanderers even admitted that they had made a detour in their journey specifically to visit them.
Life was changing quickly in their formerly sleepy village.
Ma'otah's village experiment with cold-working copper, creating a small bowl in the process. A craftswoman discovers how to warm-work it, by heating but not melting it. Ma'otah is sent to find more materials underground, as she's the only one to ever be successful. She does so, sending offerings to Khthon each time. Throughout the months, she finds more copper, some silver, different oxides that can be used as pigments, and coal. The same night she finds coal, Khthon sends her a vision of how Sarhush built a furnace when they created magma. Inspired by it, she builds her own small furnace, and using coal as a fuel source, manages to melt a small amount of silver. Having discovered the basics of how to smelt metal, she rushes to bury the silver and thank Khthon, promising that her tribe's craftsmanship will improve with his help. She is correct, and the tribe's artwork becomes more elaborate using the new tools and materials at their disposal. Beauty as important as usefulness, Ma'otah becomes Khthon's first priestess, and passing travelers and tribes are willing to trade supplies for their craft, which leaves them even more time for crafting. Some even go out of their way to visit and trade. The village gets more and more busy as trade, crafting and foot traffic increases.
Conviction spending - Khthon sends a vision to Ma'otah (Lucid, 0 conviction)
Not gradually, not gently, but with the violent certainty of a wound torn open in the firmament itself. Where before there had been only the distant, cold glitter of stars filtered through ash-choked atmosphere, now there burned a disc of impossible radiance. Light poured down in torrents, golden and merciless, burning through the volcanic haze as though the world's dark veil had been nothing more than cobwebs.
Mortals across Ashuru threw themselves to the ground. Some wept. Others screamed. Many simply stared, uncomprehending, at the thing that now dominated the sky, this new god-star that demanded to be seen. The ash clouds, which had strangled the world for weeks, began to fracture. The Sun's heat drove powerful updrafts, tearing holes in the gray blanket, revealing patches of blue that most mortals had never witnessed. The air itself seemed to exhale, as if Ashuru had been holding its breath since the Cataclysm and only now dared to draw in something clean.
But the world was not ready, and within hours the plants remembered.
Seeds that had lain dormant in ash-smothered soil cracked open with audible pops. Roots surged downward with desperate hunger while shoots thrust upward toward the light with the frantic energy of the drowning breaching surface. In scattered clearings across the world, mortals watched in awe as the ground erupted into carpets of wildflowers: purple, yellow, crimson, white, blooming so densely that the earth itself seemed to vanish beneath quilts of petals.
It was beautiful, but too fast.
By noon, the flowers were already wilting, their brief lives burning out as quickly as they'd begun. The soil, already depleted by volcanic ash, had given everything it had. Where moments before there had been riotous color, now there were only brown, curling husks. Entire generations of flora compressed their life-cycles into single mornings, and those who witnessed it could not tell whether to marvel or mourn.
In the forests that remained, those the fires had not yet devoured, the trees went to war.
Branches that had spent months dormant now lunged toward the Sun like starving hands reaching for bread. Canopies thickened in hours, leaves unfurling with such speed that the rustling sounded like applause. But there was no coordination, no harmony. Trees that had coexisted for decades now fought viciously for the light, their branches tangling, their roots strangling one another in the desperate scramble for resources.
The forest floor, once dappled with gentle starlight, plunged into deep shadow. Undergrowth that had thrived in the dim now withered and died, choking beneath the sudden darkness. Vines erupted from the earth with predatory hunger, wrapping around trunks, pulling trees down in slow-motion collapse. Some forests began to smell wrong, suffused with the sickly-sweet rot of plants dying from their own unchecked growth.
And everywhere, everywhere, the pollen.
Grasses that should have taken weeks to mature shot up waist-high overnight, their seed-heads exploding in clouds of yellow-white particulate that drifted on the wind like smoke. Toxic flowers, beautiful and deadly things with petals like shattered gems, spread their spores with abandon. Mortals who inhaled too deeply fell into fits of coughing, their eyes streaming, their lungs burning. Some tribes wrapped cloth around their faces. Others fled into caves, into the underground, seeking refuge from the world that had gone drunk on light.
The few agricultural settlements that had begun to form faced catastrophe. Crops planted carefully, tended with desperate hope, now grew with such violence that stalks snapped under their own weight. Grain ripened and rotted in a span of days. Fruit swelled, split, fermented on the branch. Farmers wept over harvests that had transformed from miraculous abundance into grotesque parody: too much, too fast, and none of it sustainable.
In the village that had begun forming around the canyon where the god-orb had appeared, the people gathered their ruined crops and whispered prayers. They touched fingers to foreheads and raised them skyward, a gesture of faith that had become second nature to them. The god had given them knowledge: agriculture, construction, the foundations of civilization itself. Surely the god would not abandon them now.
But the heavens offered no immediate answer. Only the relentless, burning light of the new Sun.
SUMMARY: Orranoth observes the ash-darkened world and decides permanent light is necessary. Standing where sky meets concept, he pricks his thumb with an illusory dagger and bleeds liquid radiance. Speaking a Word of intention, he transforms his divine blood into The Sun—a true celestial body that burns through ash clouds and provides daylight for the first time. Mortals worship or flee in awe. The sudden, intense sunlight triggers a massive Ecological Bloom: dormant seeds explode into growth, forests erupt in canopy wars, and plants evolved for starlight grow uncontrollably, consuming soil nutrients and spreading toxic pollen. Nature becomes drunk on light—beautiful, terrible, and catastrophically out of balance.
Toxic species spread pollen in choking clouds; vines and fast-growing plants choke out slower species
Nature drunk on light: beautiful, terrible, and utterly unbalanced
Ash clouds begin clearing due to Sun-driven updrafts, but climate regulation remains unstable
First true day-night cycle established, permanently altering mortal behavior, animal activity patterns, and agricultural possibilities
Conviction Cost: 4
In the canyon where survivors had fled from forest fires and earthquakes, something unprecedented was taking shape.
The settlement had grown rapidly, swelling from a handful of desperate families to a burgeoning community of refugees from a dozen different tribes. They came seeking safety, but what they found was purpose. The god-orb that had appeared to them weeks ago had granted gifts beyond measure: knowledge of agriculture, techniques for flexible wooden construction, and perhaps most importantly, a framework for understanding the divine that gave structure to their worship.
The buildings rose with startling efficiency. Wooden frames slotted together with geometric precision, their joints designed to flex during earthquakes rather than shatter. Foundations were dug according to principles that considered weight distribution and soil stability. It was knowledge that no mortal should have possessed, yet now dozens of builders worked with the confidence of master craftsmen.
The agricultural fields spread in concentric circles around the settlement. The first harvest had been catastrophic, with crops growing too fast in the new sunlight and spoiling before they could be properly stored. But the people did not despair. They gathered, they discussed, they applied the knowledge they'd been given. They learned to harvest earlier. To preserve more carefully. To plant species that might better tolerate the Sun's intensity.
Children ran through the streets with fingers perpetually stained by dirt and plant matter, already learning the techniques their parents had only just discovered. Elders who'd spent lifetimes as nomadic hunters now debated the proper depth for irrigation channels. The transformation was dizzying.
"We're becoming something new," an old woman said one evening, watching the sunset paint the sky in colors that had never existed before the Sun's arrival. "Not just a tribe anymore. Something... bigger."
"Excelsium," another voice added, speaking the name that had begun circulating among the people, whispered with a mix of hope and uncertainty. The god-orb's city. The place of eminence.
Whether they were ready for what that meant, none could say.
SUMMARY: Excelsis finds helps some humans in the wake of the cataclysm. He grants them instant knowledge of Agriculture, Flexible wooden construction, and Religion, establishing the foundation for the city of Excelsium. He then creates the avatar Meris to teach and guide the growing civilization. Afterwards, Excelsis and Khthon negotiate deep within a cavern: Khthon will calm the magma systems, and Excelsis will preserve the crystal roots while keeping the underground's secrets. Excelsis creates the avatar Anakalypso to tend crystals in silence.
Word spread quickly among the desperate: there was a valley where the chaos could not fully reach. Refugees who stumbled into Gamblerdise told wild tales of being lifted from a dying coastline while they slept, of waking in a place where the very laws of nature seemed negotiable.
The valley itself was still strange, still dangerous in its unpredictable way. The forest to the north shifted when you weren't looking. The fields to the south refused to grow the same crop twice in the same location. The lake was half calm water, half something that rippled wrong and reflected colors that shouldn't exist.
But at the center, ah, at the center, there stood a temple of white and gold that gleamed in the new sunlight like a promise.
The structure defied easy explanation. Three stories tall, circular, built around something ancient and inexplicable that pierced through its heart like the axis of creation itself. Those who entered found a space designed not for solemn worship but for noise, for laughter, for games, for the clattering of dice against stone and the triumphant shouts of winners and the good-natured groans of losers.
The people who lived there, the tribe that had been saved from the ocean's retreat, moved with a confidence that other refugees found almost unsettling. They walked paths that seemed safe one day and treacherous the next with the ease of those who'd learned to read patterns invisible to outsiders. They played their games with genuine joy, even as the world beyond the valley continued to tear itself apart.
"How do you survive here?" a newcomer asked one evening, watching two children chase each other through the temple's main chamber with knucklebone dice clutched in their small hands.
An older woman, one of the original tribe, smiled. "We don't just survive. We live. That's the whole point. You learn the signs. The way the grass grows. The color of the lake. When to step forward and when to step aside. It's like a game, see? And if you're clever enough to learn the rules..."
"You win?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes you lose. But either way, you're playing. And that's better than just waiting to die somewhere else."
The temple's doors remained open. Inside, the sounds of laughter and friendly competition echoed through chambers that seemed larger than they should be. And at the heart of it all, that ancient thing, the Anchor, hummed with quiet authority, keeping the worst of the chaos at bay. It wasn't paradise, but it was possibility.
SUMMARY: Sensing the psychic shockwave of the Cataclysm, Alechior flies to the endangered Changeling tribe on the coast and induces divine sleep to transport them safely. They are carried to Gamblerdise, a valley anchored by a primordial relic, where Alechior weaves a protective lattice that redirects natural disasters away from the center. A three-story golden temple manifests around the Anchor, establishing the valley as a sanctuary of controlled chaos where mortals can survive if they learn to read the patterns.
In the Valley of the Boulder, home to the Accord, eight tribes bound by ancient compact and shared reverence for a sacred stone, something miraculous and terrible had occurred.
The great God-Beast had fallen from the sky.
For three days and nights it convulsed at the base of the Sacred Boulder, its ichor spilling across the clearing in quantities that should have killed any mortal creature a hundred times over. The divine blood painted trees, grass, and stone in glittering patterns. Animals of all kinds kept vigil: birds, mammals, reptiles, even insects gathered to witness their creator's suffering.
And then, on the fourth day, the convulsions stopped. The God-Beast's wounds began to mend with supernatural speed. Broken bones realigned themselves. Torn flesh knitted together. What should have taken months of recovery completed itself in days.
But something else happened during those three days of bleeding.
The animals that had been touched by the spilled ichor began to change. A wolf's fur took on patterns that seemed to absorb shadow, allowing it to vanish into darkness even in broad daylight. A rabbit's eyes began to glow faintly, and when it fled from a predator, it left afterimages that confused pursuers. Birds developed feathers that crackled with tiny arcs of lightning. Snakes moved through earth as though it were water.
The changes spread. Not to every creature, only a minority, perhaps one in ten or twenty, but enough to transform the valley's ecosystem. Predators that had relied on simple strength now faced prey that could bend light or manipulate wind. Herbivores that should have been defenseless learned to command stone or shadow.
And in the deepest parts of the forest, where Saries's ichor had pooled most thickly, the changes were even more dramatic. Trees that swayed when there was no wind. Streams that flowed uphill for short stretches. Flowers that bloomed in response to thoughts rather than seasons.
The Accord's shamans consulted with growing urgency. Some called it blessing. Others called it curse. All agreed that their valley, and by extension the very essence of wildlife, had been transformed into something unprecedented: a place where the boundary between natural and supernatural had worn dangerously thin.
SUMMARY: Saries, overwhelmed by the psychic trauma of mass marine extinction, falls from the sky and crashes into the sacred Valley of the Boulder. For three days they convulse violently, spilling vast quantities of divine ichor across the landscape while local animals keep vigil. The Patron of Nature manifests and consumes the spilled blood, using it to broker a permanent blessing with other Patrons: a minority of all living creatures (excluding sapients) will be infused with permanent links to specific Ideals, granting them access to a "wild type of Witchcraft" that allows innate magical abilities related to their bonded Ideal.
DIVINE ACTION: Saries - Beastcraft Blessing
Action Type: Grant Divine Gift to non-sapient life (permanent magical evolution)
Tier: SURREAL - Extreme in-domain action affecting all fauna
Domain Alignment: In-Domain (Life/Nature)
Ripple: None Conviction Cost: 2
The underground held treasures, but it demanded payment.
Ma'otah's expedition had proven that beyond all doubt. Of the five who'd descended, only three returned, and they returned changed. Haunted. The copper ore they'd brought back was real, tangible proof that riches existed in the depths. But the two empty spaces around their campfire served as equally tangible reminders of the cost.
"The earth is alive," Ma'otah told the gathered elders, her voice quiet but firm. "There's something down there. Not just stone and darkness. Something that watches. That judges. That... trades."
She held up the chunk of copper ore, letting firelight play across its red-gold surface. "It wanted my necklace. The one my grandmother made. The protection charm. It looked at me with eyes like grinding stone and said it desired beautiful things." She swallowed. "And it kept its word. Showed us the copper vein. Led us back to the surface. But it also made it very clear: taking without asking means death. The caves themselves will kill you. Poison air. Falling stone. Fissures that open beneath your feet."
The elders deliberated long into the night. Some wanted to seal the cave entrance, to mark it as taboo and forbidden. Others saw opportunity, wealth beyond imagining, if only they could learn the rules of engagement. The copper Ma'otah brought back could be worked, shaped, turned into tools far superior to simple stone. What else might the depths contain? What other treasures might the god of the underground be willing to trade?
In the end, they reached a compromise born of equal parts greed and caution. They would leave offerings at the cave mouth: carved items, beautiful crafts, things of value that showed respect. They would call upon the name Ma'otah had been given: Khthon, the God Who Lay Beneath. They would ask before they took.
But they would not descend again. Not yet. Not until they'd learned more about the god who measured lives against jewelry and traded in both death and copper with equal indifference.
The first offering was buried at dawn: a small wooden carving of a rabbit, intricate and beautiful, wrapped in soft leather and placed in a shallow hole near the cave entrance. The woman who buried it, Ma'otah herself, whispered a prayer to Khthon, asking for safe passage, for fair trades, for the wisdom to know when taking was theft and when it was exchange.
The earth made no immediate reply.
But later that day, a young hunter exploring near the cave mouth found a single nugget of pure copper sitting on a stone, glinting in the new sunlight. It sat exactly where the offering had been buried.
SUMMARY: Ma'otah's group descends into caves seeking treasures after hearing tales from a wanderer. Two of five die—one crushed by cave-in, one by poisonous air. The survivors encounter Khthon, who offers a trade: copper ore in exchange for Ma'otah's necklace, plus safe passage out. Khthon identifies himself and instructs them to bury future offerings and call his name for trades. They return home, debate whether to attempt future expeditions, and decide to leave offerings and ask before taking. The first offering is buried at dawn.
NOTE: This is an NPC-driven event showcasing the consequences of Khthon's previous actions and establishing how mortals interact with the underground god.
In the realm of the dead, the Drowning Tide continued.
Spirits of marine life flooded in by the thousands: fish, mollusks, crustaceans, marine mammals, each one confused and disoriented by sudden death. The metaphysical architecture that the Goddess of Death had hastily constructed groaned under the weight. Anchors along the spiritual seafloor pulsed with steady light, drawing the dead toward organization and peace, but it was a near thing.
The initial chaos had subsided somewhat. The worst of the violence, when predator spirits tore into prey spirits out of instinctive habit, had been redirected by the careful placement of Anchors and the creation of spiritual currents that scattered incoming souls across a wider area. But new challenges emerged daily.
Terrestrial animals began arriving in greater numbers. Not drowned, but starved, burned, crushed. Herbivores that had relied on specific plants found their food sources either dead from too-rapid growth or transformed into something toxic. They arrived thin and desperate, their spirit-forms flickering with hunger that persisted even after death. Predators followed, equally confused by an afterlife that still seemed to demand hunting even when hunger no longer existed.
And mortals. Always more mortals.
Ur-humans killed by fire. By earthquake. By toxic pollen or collapsing trees. By infected wounds or simple exhaustion. Each one arrived at the black shore with questions the dead could not answer: Why had the world turned against them? Why had the gods allowed such suffering? When would it end?
The Afterlife expanded to accommodate them all, but expansion required constant divine attention. New Anchors. New pathways. New sections of the realm carved from raw death-stuff and shaped into something that could provide rest rather than merely store the deceased.
Some spirits adapted quickly to their new existence. They formed communities of the dead, gathering near Anchors that resonated with their nature. Fish-spirits schooled in bioluminescent formations. Plant-spirits grew spectral forests. Ur-human spirits built crude shelters from memory, trying to recreate the comfort of homes they'd lost.
Others struggled. Spirits that clung too tightly to life, those who couldn't accept they'd crossed over, began to fade at the edges, their essence fraying like old cloth. The Afterlife could offer peace, but only to those willing to accept it. For those who fought against death itself, the realm became less sanctuary and more prison.
Still, it held. The architecture remained stable. The Anchors pulsed with steady rhythm. And slowly, incrementally, the chaos began to resolve into something like order.
The dead, at least, had somewhere to rest. That would have to be enough.
SUMMARY: The draining of the oceans causes a mass extinction event that floods Moren's Afterlife with millions of confused, traumatized spirits within hours. Moren descends into her realm and works for weeks without rest to restructure its metaphysical architecture. She creates spiritual currents to redirect incoming spirits away from overcrowded spawning points and establishes permanent Anchors along the former seafloor where marine spirits can rest and organize. The work prevents the Afterlife from collapsing under the weight of sudden mass death.
The world had not ended, no. Against all probability, and despite divine excess and catastrophic transformation, Ashuru endured. Changed? Yes. Wounded? Most certainly. But alive and, in due time, thriving.
The Sun rose and set in its new rhythm, teaching mortals the meaning of day and night. Plants grew and died and grew again, their life-cycles gradually stabilizing as the initial shock of true daylight began to fade. Animals evolved and adapted, with Blessed beasts learning to wield their new powers while their mundane cousins learned to survive alongside them.
Mortals suffered. Mortals died. But mortals also built, and dreamed, and played, and found reasons to laugh even in the midst of catastrophe. In Gamblerdise, the temple rang with the sounds of dice and laughter. In Excelsium, wooden buildings rose in neat rows as refugees became citizens. In the Valley of the Boulder, the Accord watched their sacred valley transform into something unprecedented.
In caves across the world, brave and foolish explorers descended seeking treasure and finding death or divine trade in equal measure. In the Afterlife, the dead found rest. In the Dreamscape, shamans sought guidance from a god who offered riddles instead of answers. And in the forests, fires burned, but for the first time, the wilderness fought back.
The Age of First Light had begun, and no one, mortal or divine, could predict where it would lead.
Conviction Rewards (including anything gained in this post): +1 to all gods who posted at least 1 time (all except Ariander, Arstus, Yzechr) +1 to all gods who posted at least 3 times (Adria, Alechior) +1 to all gods who advanced plot/created major content (all except Ariander, Arstus, Yzechr) +1 to Alechior,Excelsis,Sarhush,Saries,Khthon for mortals worshipping their characters
Conviction Expenditure (Other): -1 to Khthon for Hazy Action, 1 conviction cost (attemtping to to calm, protect, strengthen, and just generally help the crystal veins as they adapt to the new Earth) -1 to Adria for Hazy Action, 1 conviction cost (Grant Divine Gift of Staff to Villagxor) -2 to Adria for Surreal Action, 2 conviction cost (Grant Divine Gift Eyesight to villagxor) -1 to Sirna for Hazy Action, 1 conviction cost (Create divine structure - Temple of Sirna - within planar realm) -1 to Moren for Hazy Action, 1 conviction cost (Create non-sentient creatures: Ethereal Flames/Will-o’-the-wisps)
Two weeks after the business with Fangs concluded, life returned to normal in Gamblerdise. Dice still rolled. Laughter echoed. Arguments ended in games instead of violence.
The disruption came with the sky. When the Sun first rose, panic followed fast. People gathered in front of the temple, shielding their eyes, convinced some great burning God had finally noticed them. That panic lasted right up until Alechior appeared, pointed dramatically at the blazing yellow thing, and explained to Villagxor that it was not in fact an angry god or a divine weapon but “just a really enthusiastic light.” They may have added that if it were dangerous, they would have said so, probably with fireworks. The explanation worked. Mostly. Villagxor repeated it with less flair and more authority, and the village settled, if not reassured, then at least functional.
The days that followed brought practical problems instead of fear. Gardens exploded into uncontrolled growth, crops stretching too fast and too tall. What once took weeks now took days, sometimes hours and not all of it was useful. Some plants bloomed beautifully and then died just as fast, leaving soil tired and thin. Ash that had long dulled the air began to clear, revealing skies that felt too wide, too honest. Gamblerdise adapted as it always did, by arguing, experimenting and turning every solution into a contest.
For now, the village held together. Schedules changed. Work shifted to mornings and evenings. Games were played at dusk under true shadows instead of starlight. Alechior, naturally, declared the day-night cycle a “feature, not a flaw,” and Villagxor began quietly planning how to keep people fed when the soil stopped cooperating. Gamblerdise was not in crisis yet. But the table had changed, the light was new, and everyone could feel that the next roll would matter.
Alechior drifted high above the valley again, arms folded, eyes narrowed, watching paths instead of fields. Trails. Gaps between rocks. The places where people would come from if they came at all. Cannibals, raiders, the desperate, the bored. Mortals with too much hunger and not enough imagination. “Plants grow,” they muttered, waving a hand dismissively. “That’s a tomorrow problem. People stabbing other people is a now problem.”
They dipped lower, gliding along the forest edge. “Alright,” Alechior said, ticking points off on their fingers. “Walls. Ugly, boring, too serious. Traps. Too lethal, too final and Villagxor would give me that look.” They shuddered dramatically. “Guards? No. Absolutely not. The whole point is that no one here knows how to stab properly.”
They stopped midair, spinning slowly as ideas piled up and immediately fell apart. “What I need is something that says ‘you can come in,’” they said, then tilted their head. “‘But you really, really shouldn’t.’” A grin tugged at their mouth. “Fear without blood. Risk without death. A bad hand that still looks tempting.”
Alechior hovered there, silent now, eyes tracing imagined movements, ambush lines, hesitation points. How someone like Fangs thought. The trick wasn’t to stop people from entering. That only made them curious. No, the trick was to make them choose not to.
Then it hit them.
They snapped their fingers, laughing aloud, light flickering around them in sharp, excited bursts. “Oh, that’s perfect,” Alechior said, already turning back toward Gamblerdise. “A game. A fair one.” They grinned wider. “Let’s see how many people are brave enough to roll the dice.”
Alechior settled in midair and drew their hands together, light folding inward instead of spilling out. The glow around them tightened, compressed, humming louder with every breath until it felt less like divinity and more like pressure. Then they pulled. Not violently, not painfully, just firmly, like drawing a thread from fabric that should not come loose. The light snapped outward in a soft burst and something small tumbled free.
The new figure hovered, wobbling for a second before righting itself. It was Alechior. Mostly. Shorter, dimmer, less gold and more warm amber, like someone had taken the idea of Alechior and turned the brightness down a few notches. The Avatar blinked, looked itself over, then squinted up at the original. “Wow,” it said flatly. “So this is what we look like to everyone else? No wonder mortals keep staring. Subtle is clearly not our brand.”
Alechior laughed, hands on their hips. “Please,” they shot back. “You’re just mad you didn’t inherit the good glow. Budget divinity suits you though. Very practical. Very approachable. Ten out of ten, would trust you with something incredibly dangerous.” The smaller Alechior snorted, folding its arms in a mirror of the gesture, light flickering in mild offense.
“Alright,” Alechior continued, tone shifting just enough to matter. “You get one job. One. You roam the valley. Edges, paths, clearings. Anywhere someone might wander in thinking this place looks easy.” They leaned closer, tapping the Avatar lightly on the forehead. “Anyone who isn’t from Gamblerdise, you stop them. You smile. You offer them a game.”
The Avatar’s eyes lit up immediately. “Oh, I like this already.” “Of course you do,” Alechior replied. “If they win, fair’s fair. Let them pass. No tricks, no punishments. But if they lose,” they continued, tone light but deliberate, “you ask them to leave. Politely. Calmly. Give them a chance to walk away with dignity intact.”
The Avatar tilted their head, considering that. “And if they don’t and decide to go on anyway?” Alechior grinned wider. “Then,” they said, tapping the air as if pressing an invisible switch, “you tune into the Anchor. You don’t strike them. You don’t chase them. You simply remind the valley that someone has overstayed their welcome.”
“So we give them an out,” the Avatar said slowly. “A fair loss. A clear warning.” “Yes,” Alechior replied. “Games only matter if people are allowed to quit. What happens after that is no longer about the game, it’s about consequences.”
The Avatar grinned and gave an exaggerated bow. “Got it. Wander. Wager. Ask nicely. Ruin their day if they refuse.” Alechior waved them off as they drifted away, already laughing. “Go,” they said. “Be charming. Be irritating. Be unforgettable. And remember, if anyone asks who you are, you’re not me.”
The smaller Alechior glanced back over their shoulder, hovering just above the ground. “Obviously,” they said. “I’m the polite one.”
Alechior turned towards the Avatar again, light flaring softly as if they had almost forgotten something important. “Oh and one more thing,” they called, finger raised. “Make sure the games are actually fair. Good ones. The kind people can enjoy even if they lose. No nonsense, no rigged misery. Chance is sacred, don’t cheapen it.” Their eyes narrowed playfully. “You’re not here to bully, you’re here to play and safeguard Gamberdise."
They tilted their head, smiling wider. “And adjust to your audience. If a child wants to pass through, give them a child’s game. Something simple. Something kind. Pebbles, riddles, counting stars, whatever makes them laugh. If an elder comes, give them something slower. Thoughtful. Everyone deserves a fair roll, no matter how small they are.” Alechior waved their hand dismissively. “Now go. Make me proud. And try not to traumatize anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”
With their usual flair, Alechior calms the mortals down when the Sun appears then, they consider the dangers and enemies that Gamberdise might face in the future and after running through some really cool but totally unpractical ideas, they get an idea. An Avatar! They make an Avatar that will pose a game to anyone trying to go into the valley, if they pass the game, they can go unopposed...other than the valley's inherent randomness, if they lose, then the valley turns against them.
Actions:
-1 Conviction - In Domain - Creation of an Avatar/Echo
The sun burst into being, and a new pair of eyes gazed down against the world from its surface. He could feel the heat in his bones, in his soul, and his flesh was as clay. He could feel it in runnels against the surface, feel it against the cold nothing of the void, feel it as heat rolled off from the sun. Legs of hydrogen sunk into the surface as he rose to stand, to feel nothing against his burning skin.
There was a world, down below, a plane adrift in that void of nothing. There was a world, and he could see that not all was right upon it. He could see the great clouds of ash, the explosion of green followed by sickly yellows and death, the great catastrophe. He could see the war against itself, the death of so many, and knew that it was because something there had changed, had altered the expected balance of the life upon that world. Something had come, and burned away much, and broken much, and he knew it was that which he stood upon.
A pause, then. A name came to mind, that name for the self, that name for the singular being. Liute. Was there meaning to the name? He wasn’t certain. It had meaning, though, because it was his, and he stood upon that sun. This was enough meaning for the god, enough meaning for those below. He was Liute, and that great fire was his. A pride swelled in the newborn god’s chest, a pride at that ownership, at that right, at that strength.
Were there others? The thought was easy enough to follow against. Surely there were others, others for the sky, others for the earth, others for those flesh-things which crooned upon the world. A sign was there, that others yet existed. A word echoed in Liute’s ears, distant enough to be unrecognizable yet of any description the god could provide against it would but be perfection. A taste lingered in Liute’s mouth, the taste of burning blood. It was not his own. Another had broken against the sky, to bleed and speak into being a sun against the world. This was. The other had to be like Liute, a god. This simply was.
He stared down at the world yet. What was there could not be sustained, could not continue, not if the flesh-things were to life, not for the green or blue to continue in their strife. No, these things would burn. Was there another state, before, that the people there could live in? Surely this was the case, yet if it were not, all would need correcting.
Liute would need to discover this. He looked down at his burning skin, and knew that this would be the first which would need correcting. And so, the newborn god went to work in crafting himself, to be among the others below, to ask them of the world and know it.
It didn’t know this at first. But it was there when there was still the White Bright Thing that occupied the White Above, and the next moment the New Bright Thing came to be. It was present in the “in-between” of these moments. And this, the First Cephalopod understands, was monumental.
The feeling of something bigger than itself, bigger than the black whales that inhabits the Darkness Beneath. And it felt awe and giddy at this transition, not of fear but surprise and curiosity. The warmth was still the same, but the light now punctured to a deeper part of the sea. Well, the remaining part of the sea.
The First Cephalopod rose to the surface, and felt the heat of the New Small Bright Thing. But unlike the sparse white blob that once occupied the White Above, the New Bright Thing was much more defined. It is round, with clear edge. Drastically smaller compared to its original size. Orange when it rose, yellow at the center, and returned to orange at fall.
But size, shape, and color is not the only significant thing about this New Bright Thing. Its mood has changed. Its light is no longer soothing, but burning with prolonged exposure. The First Cephalopod learned this when its skin burned and cracked under the enduring exposure of the New Bright Thing. It then quickly swam beneath the surface, letting the water to mend its skin and the darkness to sooth its burn.
The White Bright Thing has changed.
The First Cephalopod hated the New Bright Thing now.
And this it understands.
New Bright Thing = the Sun White Bright Thing = the shapeless white blob that used to provide heat and signaling day night cycle White Above = white sky
The First Cephalopod witnessed the birth of the new sun. It doesn’t like the new heat intensity so it sinks toward the darkness zone and continues swimming with the current. Reaction to @Thayr post
The Concerted Madness
As water continued to decrease and land rose from the dark water that once enveloped them, so did the crowdedness of the creatures beneath the waves.
Sharks swim along mackerels. Crabs scuttles along cephalopods. Predators and preys, side by side, willingly or unwillingly, pulled by the mysterious current toward their unknown destination.
But with such concentrations of living things, blood is bound to be spilled.
Perhaps the gods were stupid. Perhaps the gods are sadists. Perhaps they are both. Because as the water drains, the corruption that lingers on the surface sea concentrates. What was the usual level of corruption, now increased by the amount that disappeared. Fishes grew extra eyes or lost their eyes completely. Crabs with dorsal fins. Sea horses that swim gracefully instead of clumsily tying itself to some sea grass. Even the First Cephalopod is not spared from such rampant mutation, with its original ten limbs now drastically increasing to something of twenty. Not normal limbs either.
Arms split in the middle. Some tips deformed. Suckers with hooks outward instead of inward. Deformed hooks. Arms without suckers… And with more fights happening on a more regular basis, the more of this mutation gets out of control.
The cause for such mutation is simple to recognize but hard to understand for the First Cephalopod. It simply lost its limb in either hunting or being hunted. Usually, the limbs would be generated as normal. But, for some reason, ever since the First Cephalopod has begun this journey toward the unknown, its wound hasn’t healed like before.
But mutation was not the only problem.
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 water becomes clear. But there aren’t many bodies of waters left on the surface.
So instead, what little sea remains becomes clear. An entire sea becomes crystal blue, where the light from the New Bright Thing could reach into its deepest darkness and uncover its hidden mystery. But what treasure is there to display but the carcass of decomposing Black Whale, the torn limbs of cephalopods, or the crustaceans shells picked clean?
And then the corruption returned, more severe. More fervor at punishing its criminal inhabitants. It gave them rage. Pure carnage. Of mackerels feasting upon sharks. Of squids feasting on more than it could reasonably consume. Blood spilled for the punishment that originally designed to torture other intellectual inhabitants, felt only by those without it.
The draining seas clear.
The seas become corrupted again.
Pristine of blue.
Purest of red.
The First Cephalopod should learn something from this. Too bad, it is busy counting its appendages, now numbering at fifty-three, with fifteen tentacles, thirty eight arms. Twenty three of which suffered suckers mutations, split arms, or no suckers mutation. And as it is counting this, it…
The waters around it clears for the split of moments. Barely seconds. Barely enough for it to realize that the water cleared.
And then the corruption returns, and the number of split tentacles goes from ten to eleven.
Explaining what is happening in the sea. Less water = more corruption. As there are fewer seas and less water, the area where the seas become pristine clear (percentage wise) should increase. And as explained from a few previous post, this would correspond with an increase in corruption
Also, mutation is more biological and environmental based rather than some magical boons or blessing. I just attached the mutation to magic because of our setting. Here is how the actual octopus look like with split arms.@Thayr
Alechior drifted higher and higher, leaving Gamblerdise far below until the valley became a smear of green and brown. The air thinned, cooled and quieted. This was supposed to be the relaxing part. No mortals shouting, no desperate prayers, no odds to twist or anchors to poke. Just height, open sky and a moment to exist without anyone asking for favors. They stretched out midair like someone settling into a bath that was almost the right temperature.
Then the Sun got in the way.
Light stabbed straight into their eyes, insistently, no matter how they turned. Alechior squinted, rotating lazily, only for the glare to follow like it was doing it on purpose. “Oh come on,” they muttered, lifting a hand to shade their face. “You’ve been here, what, two weeks and you’re already acting like you own the place?” They angled themselves sideways then upside down. Still blinding. Of course it was.
They sighed dramatically and pointed at it. “I get it. You shine. Wonderful. Truly inspired work,” they said with a mock clap of their hands, voice carrying into the empty sky. “But let’s not pretend this isn’t derivative. I was glowing before it was fashionable.” The Sun, unsurprisingly, did not respond. It simply continued being offensively radiant, pouring light over everything like it had something to prove.
Alechior floated onto their back, arms spread, trying again to relax. The glare hit them straight in the face. They hissed and rolled onto their side. “Rude,” they said flatly. “I’m trying to vibe up here. Ever heard of ambience? Mood lighting?” They snapped their fingers near their own eyes, dimming their glow slightly out of spite, then immediately brightened again because dimming was beneath them.
Then, mercifully, a cloud drifted across the sky. Thick and slow, cutting the glare just enough to take the edge off. Alechior’s posture eased instantly. Their shoulders dropped. “There we go,” they said, approving. “See? Teamwork.” The light dulled into something tolerable, warm instead of blinding, and for a few precious seconds, the sky behaved.
The cloud, however, did not last. It thinned, stretched and began to unravel under the sun’s persistence. Alechior clicked their tongue. Relaxation, once again, was being cheated out of them. “All right,” they said, straightening midair, glow intensifying around their form. “If subtlety won’t work, we’ll negotiate properly. I can't be the only one that's having issues with you!”
They gathered their divine power slowly like stacking chips before a decisive bet. Light pooled around their hands, warm and sharp. With a lazy flick of the wrist and a grin that carried far too much confidence, they channeled that power upward, into the cloud itself. It swelled, thickened, brightened at the edges, becoming something more than just weather.
The cloud settled into place, wide and plush, blocking the sun with almost perfect timing and impeccable commitment. It shimmered faintly with Alechior’s glow, cheerful and unbothered by celestial politics. They looked up at their work and nodded, satisfied. “You,” they declared, pointing at it, “are The Happy Cloud.” And finally, above Gamblerdise, Alechior could chill in peace...at least until the cloud decided to move away.
Alechior is trying to relax somewhere high up in the sky but the newly created Sun is getting on their nerves as it keeps shining in their eyes. Annoyed, Alechior channels their power right into a cloud and it expanded, growing more than a cloud could normally be and also glowed with yellow energy.
@Thayr Liute is also mentioned, not by name but by what he is.
-2 Conviction - In Domain Action - Altering Existing Terrain (?) - Surreal Action The Happy Cloud of Alechior is a divine cloud imbued with Alechior’s essence. Any mortal, beast or lesser being who passes beneath it experiences an immediate sense of calm, joy and emotional clarity. Worries, fear and resentment fade into the background, replaced by contentment and an instinctive appreciation for the present moment. Under its influence, aggression and violent intent are rendered distant and unimportant, as happiness and peace temporarily outweigh all urges toward conflict.
“It’s started to rain, mother.” Tad said as he pushed the flap to the side and entered the warm, dry tent.
“Your sisters will not be so happy.” Ina chimed back as she worked sewing some furs together. “I imagine we will be seeing them very soon. Best to have some food ready for them, don’t you think?”
“I know I could eat.” Tad said, picking up the family's turtle shell and bringing it over to the fire. “Perhaps a soup?”
“You seem intent upon soup if you are bringing the pot to the fire. Heat up some stones then.” Ina said, not looking away from her work. Tad did as she asked, placing the shell next to the fire. He then stoked the red coals and placed some stones within.
They fell into comfortable silence as Tad prepared water and some herbs while his mother continued with the furs. As Tad threw in some roots and dried meat to the water he heard his mother say, “Will you speak to me, my son, of what saddens your heart?”
He hesitated to speak, his mind mulling over if he should be truthful or keep it to himself. But it would be far too late for any decision, he realized. For his mother was already eying him with suspicion.
He sighed and his shoulders slumped. “I asked Misha to come with us. I thought… Well… her duty to the tribe is more important than me.”
His mother remained silent and Tad felt as if he had to fill that silence. His mouth betrayed him. “I loved her, mother. She is sweet and strong and will make for a good chiefess but… Why does my heart ache?” he finished in a quiet whisper. He felt tears begin to roll down his cheeks as the reality of the situation came flooding out all at once. His mother rose and embraced him as she sat down beside her tearful child.
“It isn’t fair.” Tad said, as he let himself be held, His mother began to stroke his hair, the gesture soothing but his sadness gave way to a sudden burst of anger. “Why are we being sent away? Why not others? Why can’t we remain? This is our home mother! The outside world is choked with ash and terrible winds. They send us to our doom and we are supposed to just let it happen?”
He would have kept speaking if not for his mother gripping him tighter and she at last said, “Your heart aches because it has drunk deep from the spring of affection. With it bloomed tender shoots of warmth only another can give. It encompasses not just the heart, but the entire body.” here she let out a deep sigh and hugged him tighter. “When that spring dries, be it for any reason, the warmth turns cold and we are left with a parched soul that is not so easy to quench again.” She kissed his brow, a frequent gesture but one he could not compare with Misha’s own and Tad knew they could not be compared. For his mother’s was a deeper meaning. Something wet jostled him from his thoughts and he realized she was crying.
Tad pulled away to look at her and he felt his heart sadden further. “Mother…?” he said, unsure of what to do.
She gave him a soft smile and pulled him back to her chest. “I weep not for anything that you have done Tad but for the pain you endure. For it is an endurance that only time can overcome. But I know in my own heart that you will. You may not think so right now, but the thought of her will begin to fade, becoming less and less prevalent. Until there comes a day you are no longer saddened when you think of her name. It will be alright, my son.”
Tad knew not what to say to his mother’s words, so he kept quiet, mulling them over as she held him close. It was a comfort he sorely needed. Eventually they parted and with a reassuring head pat, Tad and his mother went back to their respective tasks. He came to the realization that his mother spoke from her own experience with his father. He could not even imagine how hard it had to have been. Much harder than his own hurting.
He let the monotony of stoking the fire keep him focused.
And then his sisters burst into the tent.
Both were soaked. Both looked terrible. Toffee was cut and bleeding. Teefee looked dazed. Tad stood, his own problems banished like smoke in the wind. Toffee’s voice was shaky as a string of words escaped her mouth, “We need to go. We need to go now. We don’t have time. We need to go.”
“Toffee, what’s wrong? What happened?” Ina said, as she rushed to them.
“Don’t touch me!’ Toffee snapped as Ina began to fuss over her wound. Taken aback, their mother’s brow furrowed.
“Toffee?” She tried in a soft voice.
“Why are we just standing here, we need to get moving!” Toffee said, the panic in her voice rising as she began going through her belongings.
“Toffeen!” Their mother shouted. “What is wrong with you!” Teefee flinched at their mother’s voice as Tad approached her with a dry fur. He draped it over his sister as the two watched their mother loom over their frantic sister.
She gripped Toffee’s wrist as the girl stuffed what she could in a pack. This finally seemed to snap whatever mantic state she had been in. All at once she stood and threw herself into their mother’s chest and began to wail. Ina’s own temperament changed and she began to soothe Toffee.
Tad could only look at the shivering Teefee, who seemed to be looking off into the distance, except it was just a dark wall.
“Teefee?” he asked in a soft voice. When he got no reply he decided to snap his fingers in front of her face. This had an immediate effect as Teefee, who blinked and looked at Tad. She tried to say something but became choked up as tears welled in her eyes. Before he knew it, Teefee had buried her face into his chest and was sobbing. Tad frowned as he pulled her close. He had never seen them act like this. What in the ancestor's names had happened?
It was only a little while later that their mother had calmed Toffee down enough to where she could speak. Teefee had become silent and was not speaking.
They all sat by the fire now, both girls leaned upon their mother as Toffee told them what had happened. What she had come across when searching for Teefee. Who she had found and what she had done.
Tad’s blood had begun to boil when Toffee had named the foe. Of course it had been Malac. Of course he would go after Teefee in revenge. But as quickly as his rage had come, it froze when Toffee had choked out she had killed him in an act of rage. Malac… he was dead? He had a burst of conflicting emotions at the thought but knew he would have to reflect on them later.
When Toffee had grown silent, Tad looked at their mother. She wore a mask of neutrality. When the silence stretched on, Tad felt the need to say something, anything.
“Mother…” He began but she silenced him with a a raise of her hand.
“Hush now my son and listen close.” She wrapped her arms around his sister’s shoulder. “Teefeen, Toffeen, you listen as well.” With their formal names spoken, the two nodded. “What has happened is a great sadness but it could not have been prevented. Malac chose this path long ago, when jealousy and hatred crept into his heart. Toffee, you protected your sister from hurt. It was only natural to feel such anger but now you must live with the act, daughter. I do not blame you. I do not hate you. You are both here and that is all a mother can ask for. Now Tad,” She looked to him with a stern gaze, “If the chiefess suspects what happened, Toffee’s heart will be skewered. A life for a life. I will not let that happen. Prepare our things, we are leaving.”
Tad nodded and began to take down the furs.
Meanwhile, he could still hear his mother speaking in hushed tones. “Teefee, my smile, be brave for me. Don fresh clothing and help your brother. And Toffee, my heart, let us look at your cut while we can. We have time yet before they begin to look for him.”
It was practiced work, tearing down the tent. He had done it ever since he was able to help his mother, for his people… Well, the people he had called his people, moved from one area of their home to the next as the stars passed overhead. With Teefee’s help and once Toffee’s cut was bandaged, the work went quicker. They were rained on, of course but by now it was a drizzle, breaking apart so that the stars could be seen. It would be over by the time they left.
Others came and asked what they were doing and their mother handled it with small lies. It was no secret everyone knew who would be cast out after all. So what if they decided to leave now?
When the work was done, they donned their skin packs in silence and put what little they could call their own upon their sled, two sticks held together by more furs. It would be Tad’s duty to pull it and his sister’s would take turns with him. His mother would lead the way and with little fanfare, they set off into the unknown, leaving the Hillgrass tribe behind forevermore. At least, they hoped so. They would head north, make for the river and have it lead the way.
They walked for a few hours in silence before they could be sure none had followed and that they were alone.
“Let us rest for a bit and eat. I do not wish to push you children but we must make distance while we can.” Their mother said, putting down her pack. In the ever twilight of the world, Tad could see her expression was downcast. It hurt her to leave everything she knew behind but she would do it time and time again if it meant keeping her children safe.
With a heavy sigh, Tad dropped the leather that pulled the sled and slumped to the ground. He was tired but he knew his time awake would still be for some time.
His mother passed out some dried jerky and the half finished, and now cold, soup. He ate and his mind began to linger on what had happened to his sisters. He was battered with guilt and anger. If he had just left well enough alone, this would not have happened. He could still see Misha smiling at him in that joyous grove. Just over her shoulder, Malac had paused, eyeing him with contempt. He scowled.
Teefee began to hum a small tune their mother often hummed. Hearing it, she joined in. Tad looked upon Toffee, who now held the same gaze that Teefee had when they first entered their tent. Distant and not entirely there. Tad knew he should say something to her but now was not the time. So he ate and rested and before long, they were off again.
Teefee kept pace with Tad as the two pulled the sled as the stars shone overhead. Usually she pulled with Toffee but her sister was up ahead, talking to their mother. Whatever they were talking about, she hoped it would help. She had never seen Toffee so distraught before and it was all because she herself had wandered like she always did. Would Malac have even found her if she had been closer to Toffee? Probably not and now…
“You’re dragging.” Tad’s voice pulled her back to the present. Indeed, she was falling behind, again.
“Sorry.” she sighed.
“Been a rough few days. Huh Teef?” he asked, turning to her with one of his smirks.
“How can you smirk at a time like this?” Teefee wondered, a bit of an edge to her voice.
“Because Teef, you smile and I smirk.” he said with a bit of gusto. Teefee just stared at her brother and before long, he deflated. “I don’t know what to say to make you smile. Every time you’re sad, I’ve gotten you to smile.”
“Oh.” she said, feeling as if she would cry again.
“It’s all my fault, Teefs. If I had just stayed away from Misha, Malac wouldn’t have gone after you and Toffee… Yeah. I’m sorry. I’m such an idiot.” The self loathing in his voice dripped and Teefee felt a keen sense of melancholy for her sibling that struck her heart.
“No Tad. Just no. Malac was a hateful soul. With or without you living your life how you chose, and there was nothing wrong with what you chose, he would have found a way to make you hurt. It was no secret he didn’t like any of us when we proved our worth was greater than his.” Teefee recalled the day the adolescents of the tribe were sent off into the surrounding lands to forage and hunt. Malac returned with little, while the triplets had returned with a doe and many berries. “And besides…” she continued, “If I had just stayed near to Toffee-”
“Oh I see.” Her brother cut her off, “We will all try to blame ourselves, won’t we?”
She felt her lips curl into a smile.
“There it is.” Tad smiled back. “Mother is right, you know, Toffee is not to blame and she would say the same about us.”
“I know… It’s just hard.” Teefee rubbed her arm.
“She reminded me of something today, actually.’ Tad said, looking forward.
“What’s that?” Teefee asked.
“The memories of this day will become less and less prevalent as we move on. We will think of it but it will no longer hold such a bite. Things will get better, Teefs.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” Teefee also looked forward, to where Toffee leaned upon their mother as they walked. “Let’s hope the worst is behind us.”
It was right then that the world erupted into light.
Mom and son talk. Teefee and Toffee return and the family leaves their home under pressing circumstances. Sister and brother talk. Uh oh, the sun says hello.
Another spoke. Yelled, really, as the sun searched to find the proper look for the world, and the mortals, below. An errant eye turned down to see another, a speck against the green really, acting out its frustrations. He heard the yelling from that little thing, though from that fact that they did not stand upon the earth…another godsblood? One errant eye turned into a stare, working to listen to the words properly, to see that godsblood properly.
The little shape hung against the ground, floated up towards him as it were, and danced about in its light little movements as though a part of the wind itself, and light cloaked about the little shape like cloth. It danced, here and there, shifting from stark, quick motions to slower ones, mimicking out laying against the earth before shifting up again. Then light pooled in their hands, and they pointed to a cloud. The words, all throughout, were fast and clipped, words in a tongue that Liute did not know the name of yet understood nonetheless. It was the tongue of gods, he understood, the tongue that…perhaps all gods spoke, or at least knew, and such was curious enough. The words were fast, sharp, accusatory here and emotional all throughout.
A longer stare as the godsblood hid from the sun’s light under a cloud, a motivated enough cloud as Liute could see it stand still while all the others continued their lazy motion. The touch of a god? Perhaps. What sort of beings were they then, with such confident words and confident motions, which such actions that they turned such a thing to their own uses with the merest desire. What was…’the happy cloud’? Why was it happy…and why did it glow yellow?
A longer stare indeed. That cloud stood over a spot on the world, a distinct enough spot on the world. Was this the land of that godsblood? Did they claim a dominion, even though they acted such against an errant cloud? Strangeness. Liute entertained the idea of going down to that place, to that godsblood. He wanted to know their name. Yet…was there a point to that? They seemed to be annoyed enough at it all. Perhaps it would be better to wait.
The god went back to preparing himself for the world.
III
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He walked against the land, but not as any great being of fire. The faces of those mortals which walked before would suit his needs far better, and this was the face which Liute had adopted for the travel. He remained heavyset, squat with great muscles and a heavy face. Thin, golden-strand hair slicked back against the hot wind, and he wore but a yellowed grass cloak.
In some ways then, the god supposed he would stand out among others, down below on that world. He supposed it would be the point. What was the point of the sun if not to shine, even if there was no point in blinding the mortals below. What mattered was that he would be among them, and that they would know him not as a force that kills, but as…well, him. At least, that was the hope in the great endeavor.
Liute knew that there had been crops before. He walked there, to the fields, where men here and there wept. Others worked among the crops that remained, worked to move soil from one plot to another. Water was poured onto them by some. A few older mortals gathered under shade, discussing that issue. Others looked on and upwards, shielding their eyes against the light. They talked among themselves, too. One noticed his approach, a younger with long hair and few wrinkles against his face, who narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
“Who are you?”
The god spoke, though he still could not name the tongue. “I am Liute.” A pause followed, painful enough. He supposed that there was something to be said for reciprocating that question, that the mortals too would have names and that those names would have some worth in knowing. “And you?”
“Kian. You…are not from here.”
“No.” He motioned a hand to the crops, withered as they were. “Why are they dying?”
“The light before that was calm. Gentle. Then it came. I do not think the plants love it. Some think it an omen.”
“Of?”
Kian shrugged. There was nothing more to be said in speculating what the omen could be, especially when it was the thought of others. Another pause followed. For some reason, the man felt he could admit something to the other. “Others have prayed to it. To wish that it would give us mercy. I have prayed to it. There could be no harm in such a thing.”
The god considered what might be said, and took some sense of it. Kian might be one to believe, to know that truth, to help him in some way. Was prayer…worth anything? Some base instinct in Liute said that it was. Some part of him knew that he had felt the prayers before, as scattered as they were, as aimless as they were in giving a name to the thing they prayed to.
“Then remember my name, Kian. You are seen. You are heard.” The man looked at him with a question. “The sun is mine. That which breaks your crops is no intent. Change comes.” He motioned, as Kian’s look changed from question to confusion. The briefest slip in that form came, as heat rolled off from Liute’s skin and steady glow began, visible even under the sun.
Another pause, as Kian stared, took a step back. Others stared too, noticing the strangeness. “What is my name?”
“Liute,” he choked out, mouth slack. “You are…that in the sky?”
“I am the sun. What follows is by my hand. Remember this.”
And in that instant, Liute disappeared, and Kian had the great urge to build an altar to the god. They had been visited by the sun, visited and were known. There was something to be done, and in some way Kian greatly hoped that what followed would be good to his village. There was much for the god to do, he knew.
IV
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The light before his creation had been…less. The plants had drunk in that light, and had thrived. With the creation of the sun, though, those plants were unused to the glory that was there before them, and withered away in their distaste. The concept seemed solid, all-told, and the mortal seemed to have been telling the truth. The whole of it…seemed to follow? Liute wasn’t entirely sure. Surely it would have done no good for the mortal to have lied. Besides that, he would have given the truth upon that revelation, of who he was speaking to. Surely the mortal would have. Surely.
There had to have been another godsblood, who worked to create those plants. There surely had to have been another who would care to create the plants anew, that they might live in the light of the sun, and grow from his greatness. Surely there was. Liute’s mask restored, his divinity hidden from bursting that about him, he had come to one of the forests of the world. This would be where that godsblood would dwell, it had to be. Such made only sense to the god, that a nature-thing would be among nature, or at the very least that nature would be where that godsblood would be most likely to speak back to him. Surely.
A pause. What was there to do? How does one garner the attention of another, from wherever they might be? The most direct way, perhaps? Liute spoke aloud, then.
“Who holds this, answer! This is work to be done.”
Actions:
☉ As Liute prepares himself for a journey to the world, he notices the antics of Alechior and the location of Gamblerdise. ☉ Create temple/shrine - Liute travels to a farming village, and in introducing himself inspires them to create a shrine to his worship. ☉ Liute manifests in a forest, to speak to Saries.
The Sun changed everything for Ganga’s tribe and it was not gentle. Where once they moved cautiously, conserving strength and avoiding needless risks, the sudden blaze of real daylight stirred something restless in them, predatory. The world felt louder, brighter, harder to ignore. Shadows no longer hid threats for long and hunger became an issue faster beneath the heat. The tribe began to hunt not just when they needed to but whenever something crossed their path, beasts, strays or unlucky travelers alike. Survival stopped being quiet and became bloody and immediate.
Plants exploded across the land, choking old paths and birthing new hiding places for prey. Game animals multiplied, then scattered, then grew aggressive themselves. Every hunt became a contest of speed and violence and the tribe adapted quickly. Spears flew faster. Knives were used more freely. The Sun burned overhead like a challenge, pushing them to take more, eat more, move more. Ganga noticed it first, how the people came back from hunts breathing hard, eyes bright, hands shaking with something close to excitement.
Others noticed too and they came. Stragglers, broken families, lone survivors drawn by smoke, noise and the promise of strength in numbers. Ganga did not turn them away. She watched them first, measured how quickly they learned and how eagerly they joined the hunts. Those who hesitated were eaten. Those who adapted stayed, growing the ranks and feeding the appetite that had taken hold of the group.
With more mouths came more pressure. The tribe hunted deeper, longer, stripping areas bare before moving on. Old taboos thinned. Where once there had been rules about restraint, now there were only priorities. Eat first. Rest later. Ganga led from the front, sharp-eyed and faster than most, making sure the violence stayed purposeful. She did not let it turn inward. Not yet. But she felt how close it hovered, waiting for a weaker hand to slip.
At night, beneath a sky now split between blazing days and colder darkness, Ganga listened to her people sleep. They muttered, dreamed, twitched as if still running. The Sun had made them strong, yes but it had also made them restless, hungry for motion and blood. She knew this could not last forever. Aggression was a tool, not a home. Still, as long as the world kept burning so brightly, she would ride the edge of it or be swallowed by it.
On one such night, Ganga called for a halt. The Sun had bled away into the horizon, leaving the land covered in long shadows as even the most restless among them were slowing. The tribe circled up in a shallow rise where the ground was dry and visibility wide, close enough to the treeline for cover but not so close that something could crawl into camp unseen. Fires were kept low, more embers than flame, enough to cook and see hands.
Sentries were placed without argument. Pairs at first, then singles as the night deepened, posted at measured distances around the camp. Those with the sharpest eyes took the outer ring, those with quick legs the inner paths between fires. Weapons stayed close. Sleep came in turns. The tribe did not push through the night. For once, they waited, breathing in the dark and listening to what might try to come for them.
II
Its usual form was too large, too bulky. And so it became smaller, leaner, and darker.
Its glow was never gone, just muted, and every time one of the tainted things came near, it grew.
But it could not let them know it was there, not during the day, not whilst its chosen were near.
And so Saries waited and stalked and watched whilst the Twins and their protector put distance between this ugly place and themselves.
Tonight, they had finally gotten far enough.
These tainted things were armed and kept watch throughout the night, this much Saries knew. They were unnatural even when it came to their sleeping patterns – Not that it would do them much good.
One of them passed by, walked along their dirt path, so Saries slipped into its shadow. The man heard and felt nothing and eventually he arrived at his destination, some sort of guard post on the outskirts of the things’ camp. Another man – who was sitting on a tree stump, drinking some kind of broth out of a bone bowl – perked up and stood up as soon as he saw the approaching man. They both exchanged strange noises, and then the man with the bowl left and the man who unknowingly carried Saries took the spot on the tree stump.
Minutes passed, and no one else came.
Saries could feel it emanating from the man’s beautiful fur coat. The shame and humiliation of its progeny – A mighty leopard, with its jaw broken and left unable to hunt its rightful prey, forced to debase herself just to feed her cubs. Only to be chased and murdered by demons wearing Sarhush’s skin.
The man had been alone one moment. The next, his fire went out. And then a great glow cast his shadow on the ground in front of him.
The realization came slowly – He wasn’t alone anymore.
There was no scream.
When dawn broke and the next shift’s guard appeared, she saw a a campfire painted in crimson. A broken hand was on the tree stump, a foot that had no toes lie half-burned in the now-cold campfire, and a trail of blood led deep into the treeline, marked with pawprints the size of a man’s torso.
She ran.
III
The news reached Ganga just after first light, carried by a runner whose eyes refused to settle on anything for long. Words stumbled over each other. A sentry gone. No struggle worth naming. Just pieces left behind. A hand on a stump. Blood dragged into the trees.
When she asked what did it, the answer came slower, quieter. Paw prints. Not tracks, prints. Each one as wide as a man’s torso, pressed deep enough into the dirt that water had already begun to pool in them.
Ganga went to see it herself. She crouched by the ruined fire, fingers brushing the darkened soil, the smell was wrong. This was not hunger. This was not a beast killing for food or territory. The marks told a different story, deliberate, patient, confident.
Whatever had walked here had not rushed. It had known it would not be challenged. Her gaze followed the trail until the trees swallowed it whole and for the first time in weeks she felt something cold coil in her gut that had nothing to do with fear of starvation.
She straightened slowly, mind already turning. Fangs had vanished in the valley. Now this. Ganga said nothing to the gathered tribe at first, just ordered the camp broken and the dead made food. But the paw print stayed with her.
A predator that didn’t fear a large group of people. It had to die. To be taught a lesson. No one messes with her tribe.
Ganga did not call it a hunt. She called it a precaution. Her voice stayed low as she gathered the elders and the quickest hands, pointing back toward the ruined fire and the crushed earth beyond. Something that large could not be chased, not with what they had and not without losing more people.
If it wanted to stalk them, then they would make the ground itself answer back. A beast that trusted its weight would trust the land beneath it. That trust will be broken.
She chose the place herself, a narrow stretch between trees where the undergrowth thinned and the soil stayed soft even after the sun climbed. The paw prints had passed close by there deeply.
They marked it with stones only she understood the meaning of, then set to work.
Digging began before the sun fully cleared the horizon, hands and crude tools tearing into the earth until sweat darkened skin. The pit had to be wide, wide enough that something massive could not simply step across it, deep enough that climbing out would be hard. Spears came next. Not hunting spears, not meant for throwing but sharpened stakes hardened in fire and hammered into the bottom of the pit at cruel angles. Dozens of them. Enough that weight alone would do the work.
Ganga watched every placement, correcting angles, ordering more when it did not look right. This was not about skill or bravery. It was about inevitability. Fall once and the fight would already be over. If it wasn’t, part two of the plan would commence When the pit was finished, they covered it carefully.
Thin branches laid first, then leaves, then soil brushed back over the top until it looked untouched. Too untouched. Ganga kicked dirt across it herself, scuffed footprints nearby, broke branches on purpose.
A trap that looked perfect was a trap that failed. It had to look like nothing at all. As the work ended, tension crept through the camp. Some sharpened tools that would do nothing against the owner of the paw prints that size. Ganga let it happen. Fear kept people sharp. False comfort got them killed.
She reminded them only of one thing. No fires near the trap. No wandering at night. If the creature came, it would come on its own terms.
That night, Ganga sat awake longer than most, eyes on the dark line of trees. She did not feel triumph. Only pressure. Whatever had torn a sentry apart without a sound was not some mindless animal blundering into death.
If it fell into the pit, good. If it did not, then this would have taught it something else instead. Either way, the ground had been set and the next move would the creature’s.
IV
Even in the midst of the hunt, there were still smaller – but not lesser – duties to attend to.
In the face of the unnatural, it fell upon Saries to make things right. Not by simply willing challenges away, no, that was not its style – but by physically comforting and helping those who needed it.
By carrying the orphaned to new parents or easier lands. By bringing food and water to the sick. By sharing warmth with the scared.
It had been carrying out such a duty – three malnourished cubs had been riding on its head – when it stepped onto hollow ground.
Like the sound of thunder, the ground gave way and Saries fell. Sharpened stakes stabbed into its flesh as it fell, and by the time it found itself on all four paws at the bottom of the pit, it had at least a dozen stakes stuck deep into its body. Some went entirely through its paws, others stabbed into its legs in awkward angles, and some were long enough to actually go into its gut and chest.
It burned. Not just because of the pain – poison had been smeared onto some of the stakes.
Saries flinched – A spark of sharp pain came from its right ear, where one of the cubs was biting onto its ear for dear life. The others bit onto fur or tougher skin, but this one must have seen it fit to grab onto the biggest thing around.
As uncomfortable as the stakes were, they were no issue. Saries’ bloodflow slowed until nothing leaked from its wounds, and then in a single motion it freed itself from the stakes by merely shaking. Flesh tore where it was meant to tear, and stakes broke when they were leveraged against bone. When it was free, Saries then broke and removed the stakes from a small corner of the pit and placed the three cubs on it, then stood itself between the cubs and the opening above.
It could hear them coming. A lot of feet, running, approaching.
A Tormenta flew overhead, and Saries called it with a bark that shattered the remaining stakes.
The bird was fast, and in a moment it had found its way into the pit and perched itself onto Saries’ snout where the two exchanged a look.
Then the Tormenta looked at the cubs and, after tensing its wings in a shrug-like manner, picked them up and flew out of the pit.
Normally, Tormentas like the one Saries had just called would prey on cubs like the ones it had just saved… But when fighting the unnatural, one had to become slightly unnatural as well.
The first 3 humans to arrive came at the right time to see Saries jumping out of the pit and landing only a meter from their faces. The ground shook such that the three of them fell onto their hands and knees and the beast, drenched in its own thick blood and with broken spears and stakes stuck into its body, looked at them.
Saries sniffed the air and growled – One of the humans dared mark this territory as his, in front of It?! Saries bit the man’s head off and spat it into the pit so fast that his body collapsed only after Saries had pinned the other two humans under its paws.
It was then that it lowered its head towards each of them and bit their skulls with its sharpest fangs, penetrating bone as if it was butter and finally stopping as soon as it felt their brains.
The first one to be cursed was the man – Young, with a parent’s scent about him, but also completely wicked in the tormented furs that he wore and the sickening flesh that melted in his stomach. He was cursed to become half-man half-beast. To forever be an outcast and a slave to his hunger and instincts. There was a brief flash of fire coming from inside the man’s skull as Saries withdrew his fangs, and then the screaming started. Flesh tore as bones grew and reconfigured themselves, and at one point the man had screamed so much that the only thing that came out of his mouth were hoarse gasps.
That was when Saries shifted its focus from the man, to the woman under his other paw. Now, it understood. They weren’t marking the territory – These creatures merely had weak bladders, prone to losing control. It huffed and did the same thing to the woman’s skull, penetrating it like nothing with its fangs.
This one was cursed in a different manner, though. Whilst the man was forced to be an outcast for the rest of eternity, the woman would be forced to remain with other humans, for her hunger would be one that no other creature would sate. She would feed off the blood, and the emotions, and the flesh of other humans and nothing else.
Fire filled the woman’s skull as soon as Saries removed its fangs, and she screamed also.
It only lasted a few seconds, but by the end of their transformation, the two were no longer humans. The man was a hideous mixture of a beast and a man – hunched over, with sharp claws on his fingers and toes, fur along his limbs and a misshapen snout filled with razor-sharp teeth. Where there once was a spark in his eyes now remained a dull, reactive glance.
And the woman. Her skin had become dark as coal, eyes white as snow, and her teeth had all been sharpened so that even touching her own lips to them drew blood. Her veins glowed a pulsing white that rearranged itself into strange shapes and sigils along her skin. Where there once was a spark in her eyes, there was now an unmistakable aloofness to them, as if she wasn’t entirely there anymore.
Saries would give them no names, because they did not deserve them. To it they were merely monsters, an example of what corrupted humans amounted to in Saries’ eyes.
And so, whilst the Cursed were looking over their new forms, a multitude of humans arrived.
V
The news reached Ganga in pieces, shouted, half-sobbed, tripping over itself as runners crashed into the camp. The trap, they said, worked. The ground had broken, the pit had taken something massive, something that bled thick and dark. Relief flickered through the tribe for a heartbeat, sharp and desperate. Then the rest followed. It climbed out. It did not die. It stood back up. And worse than that, two of their own no longer looked like people when they came screaming out of the trees.
Ganga did not wait for the panic to finish spreading. She pushed through bodies, shoved aside hands that tried to stop her, and moved toward the site with fury. When she saw it, her breath caught despite herself. The pit was ruined, shattered, stakes broken like twigs. And there it stood. Enormous, glowing faintly like a mockery of the stars, blood clotted through its fur, eyes too aware, too judging. Near it, things that had once been human twitched and screamed, wrong in ways her mind resisted naming.
The cursed were familiar enough that recognition hurt. One moved like a man dragged down by an animal’s frame, hunger written into every crooked line of him. The other stood too still, her eyes empty and sharp all at once, veins burning pale beneath darkened skin. Ganga felt something cold settle into her gut. This was not death. This was punishment. This was a future worse than being eaten, and whatever had done this had done it deliberately. This was not a simple predator. It was something worse
“Fire,” Ganga said, her voice cutting through the terror. “Burn them. Burn them ALL!.” Torches were already in hands, flames shaking as fear fed them. The first torch flew, then another, then a dozen, arcs of fire streaking through the dim light toward the glowing beast and the cursed shapes in front of it.
Smoke billowed as flames – having grown far too big and far too suddenly – caught fur, flesh, old blood. The air filled with near-human screams, and the tribe surged forward.
Ganga did not stay behind them. She tore a torch from another’s grip and ran with it, feet pounding, teeth bared in something between a snarl and a scream. She hurled the fire with all her strength, then followed it, grabbing a fallen spear and driving it forward into the flames with reckless intent. She did not care that the thing was massive, that it had shrugged off their trap. It had stepped into her people’s blood, and that was enough.
But the flames obscured the shapes of monsters, and when they cleared, Ganga saw her spear stuck not in the glowing beast, but in the gut of the man-turned-beast.
It snarled at her, skin smoking and melting off the bone in parts, burning the image into Ganga’s eyes. Its eyes were gone, but there was a glow to him, not unlike that of the glowing beast, and then the eyes grew back and stared at Ganga.
To her side, three warriors had struck into the equally stunned woman-turned-monster, but a similar thing was happening. Melted flesh was regrowing, blood returning to its vessel.
It was a sickening feeling – the reverberations that echoed down the shaft of her spear from bones and flesh moving around, the gurgling sounds of the man-beast’s drowned screams as they came from his exposed throat rather than his mouth.
All the while, the glowing beast behind them only watched, untouched by the flames.
Ganga drove her spear further in, then thrust her torch into the man-beast’s face. One of her tribesmen came to her aid by bringing his heavy adze down onto the man-beast’s shoulder, the sharp stone grinding and fracturing bone as it went.
And then the glow became more intense, and the monsters tensed, and the adze and the spear shattered as flesh and bone closed in around them, and the man-beast grabbed the torch and tore it from Ganga’s grasp and thrust it into her tribesman’s gasping mouth.
Ganga slipped on the melted flesh of the man-beast when she took a step back in retreat.
Then the fight dissolved into chaos.
The monsters moved like nothing the tribe had ever fought. They did not avoid pain and they seemed completely unable to die. The man-beast moved as fast as slingshot and gutted men with his claws and bit into their limbs and throats like a feral beast, completely unhindered by his mutated anatomy. And the woman-monster moved with an ethereal grace, almost as if she was dancing, as she avoided every single thrust and swing and slash from all the warriors.
And when they did get struck, the wound simply knit itself back together in front of their eyes.
Fire spread faster than fear ever could. The flames climbed dry brush and fallen hides, jumped bodies, turned the clearing into a choking, screaming cage. Ganga felt it then, not as panic but as certainty, death was no longer circling, it was standing right in front of her, waiting for her to make one more foolish step. One she feared she already took. The monsters did not slow. The glowing beast still watched. And the tribe was breaking, not routing yet, but cracking in a way she had seen before only in slaughter. This was not a battle that could be won.
She shouted the retreat until her throat burned raw, grabbing the nearest living bodies she could reach. Five. Then six. That was all who answered, eyes wide, skin scorched, weapons dropped or broken. As they ran, something tore into Ganga’s side, a bite from one of the creatures. Pain exploded through her flank, sharply and her leg buckled beneath her as she hit the monster with her torch but she did not fall, not fully, but the strength fled her in a rush, blood hot against her skin.
Hands caught her immediately. Not furred hands, not scaled, but bare, shaking ones. Two of them hauled her weight, one arm slung over each shoulder, and they dragged her as fire licked at their heels and monsters snarled. Ganga echoed the snarl through clenched teeth, forced her legs to move, but she was no longer running so much as being carried forward by stubborn loyalty. Every step sent agony through her side, breath coming short and wet, vision blurring at the edges.
They did not stop until the screams were distant and the glow was swallowed by smoke and trees. Six figures collapsed into the dark, coughing, bleeding, alive. Ganga sank to her knees at last, hands pressed hard to her wound, supported on both sides so she would not topple face-first into the dirt. Behind them, the fire roared. Ahead of them was only night, loss and the knowledge that something had followed their people into the world that would not be easily outrun.
VI
Alechior had been draped across the high air, limbs folded loosely as if the sky were a hammock made just for them. The Happy Cloud slid above like slow cards being shuffled, the world far below reduced to patterns and movement without meaning. They were half-asleep, drifting in that pleasant state where thought unraveled into idle amusement, when something tugged, sharp and rude, at their attention. Not a prayer but violence, loud enough to annoy them.
Their eyes opened and the sky seemed to pull itself tighter around them. Firelight flared far below, too sudden, too hungry, blooming near Gamberdise valley like a bad wager gone worse. Alechior sighed, the sound carrying no wind, only intent. A flick of will folded distance like paper, and they drifted downward, unseen, unannounced, invisible to mortal sight. The air thickened with smoke and heat as they drew closer, the noise resolving into screams and something else, something different. Godly.
They hovered just beyond the reach of flame, watching without being watched. Mortals ran. Mortals burned. And at the center of it all stood shapes that did not obey the usual rules, glowing wounds knitting shut as if pain were a suggestion rather than a fact. Alechior tilted their head, interest fully awake now. “Well,” they murmured to no one at all, “someone is cheating and getting some divine help.”
Then Alechior dipped into a slow, exaggerated bow in the air, one hand pressed to their chest and the other swept outward, a gesture of courtesy offered toward the great glowing wolf below, aware that the wolf could clearly see them.
The wolf merely glanced back for a split moment, before its narrowed eyes turned back to the slaughter unfolding in front of them.
Alechior watched the brief glance from the great wolf, then the immediate dismissal and audibly scoffed. Loudly. They pressed a hand to their chest in exaggerated offense, posture wounded. “Wow,” they muttered, floating in place, “no bow back, no acknowledgment, no nothing. Leave it to the big wolf to forget their manners.” They sighed, long and theatrical, then leaned back in the air as if settling into a seat.
It was clearly slowing down at this point and upon seeing this, the glow surrounding the two unnatural humans faded.
Alechior let the moment stretch. Flames crackled. Bodies fell. The glow dimmed and with it the certainty of victory.
By this point all the mortals, monsters included, were heaving and moving sluggishly. From the great band of warriors remained four, two of whom were clutching wounds with one hand and holding knives with the other, and other two who were glancing around them at the monsters and the fires.
The man-beast took a single step forward, arms slack to his sides and mouth dripping with blood.
One of the last warriors dropped his spear and turned around and ran.
The other three charged.
A club struck the man-beast’s raised arm. Bone shattered and at the same time his opposite arm sliced into the man’s gut and through his spine.
A knife stabbed into the man-beast’s side and in response he bit his attacker’s face and tore jaw from skull.
And then there was only one warrior remaining before him.
But the man-beast’s lungs burned. It coughed and blood sprayed, and its bones weren’t setting, not as fast as earlier.
He dropped to a knee, a growl turning into ragged panting as his one good hand grasped the knife lodged in between his ribs. Then he pulled the knife out and threw it at the remaining warrior’s feet.
“Nngh…” The man-beast groaned, now dropping onto his good hand as his other arm started to slowly, excruciatingly, set bone back into place.
The warrior did not miss his chance. He lunged, wielding both knives, and slashed at the man-beast’s throat – Only for the blades to be caught in the monster-woman’s claws, and shatter.
She chuckled, then she looked around and laughed.
And all of a sudden the laughter stopped and she grabbed the warrior by the throat, her claws digging far enough into the skin to draw blood.
“Ahh, the flesh of a great warrior,” She said, her voice as sweet as honey, but devoid of any warmth, and her veins pulsing with a violent rhythm of light. “I can already savour you, boy.”
Alechior’s expression shifted from mock offense to interest, head tilting as the man-beast slowed, as the woman’s laughter rang sharp through the smoke. They watched the final exchanges like a gambler watching dice roll across a table, already knowing the outcome but enjoying the tension anyway. “Ah,” they murmured, “there it is. Hubris. Always shows up late to the party.”
When the woman-beast seized the last warrior and bared her teeth, Alechior finally moved. There was no announcement, no thunderclap. One moment the air was empty, the next a hand was there, as they moved at an impossible speed. Alechior’s fingers closed around the woman-beast’s throat just as she leaned in to bite, stopping her. Not a strike, not a shove, just an iron grip that made the air itself seem heavier. Her claws scraped uselessly against their wrist as her eyes snapped wide in sudden, furious confusion.
At the same instant, the man-beast lunged. Alechior did not look at him. A second hand reached back, almost lazy, and caught him by the throat mid-charge. The impact lifted the man-beast clean off the ground, legs kicking as Alechior straightened in the air, holding one monster aloft and the other frozen in place. Flames flickered around them, reflected dimly in Alechior’s golden eyes. “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.” They clicked their tongue, shaking their head.
They finally looked at the man-beast, lifting him a little higher for emphasis. “Really? Charging headfirst?” Alechior said, voice light, almost amused. “I would have thought the one with claws for nails might understand the concept of reach.” Then they glanced to the woman-beast, tightening their grip just enough to make the point painfully clear. “And you,” they added, “biting mid-monologue? That is just sloppy villain work. I expect MORE!”
Alechior exhaled, the sound warm and dangerous and smiled. “You know,” they went on, still holding both creatures effortlessly, “I step away for one nap and suddenly everyone forgets basic etiquette. No biting guests, no killing the last fighter before the scene ends, and absolutely no ignoring a god who bothered to show up.” Their grin widened. “Honestly, I am hurt. And when I am hurt,” they added cheerfully, “I tend to get very hands-on.”
Alechior turned their head at last, still holding both monsters as if they weighed nothing, and inclined it slightly toward the great wolf. Not a bow this time, but a polite tilt of their head. “Well then,” they said lightly, voice carrying just enough to matter, “since we are apparently sharing a battlefield.” Their eyes gleamed as they looked Saries over, glow answering glow. “Alechior. A pleasure, I assume. God of odds, wagers and all the delightful messes that happen when chance is nudged or the fun of life!” adding the last part with a grin.
They gave the man-beast a small shake, then tightened their grip on the woman-beast’s throat for emphasis. “Now,” Alechior continued, tone curious rather than hostile, “what exactly is your intention with these two?” A brow arched. “Are they pets? Warnings? Art projects?” A faint grin followed. “Because they did just try to strike a god, which is usually grounds for very permanent consequences. I would hate to step on your toes, but if you plan to keep them, I would like to know before I decide how creative I am feeling.”
The wolf-god huffed. Along with the huff, came visions. A burly man-god repeating the name ‘Saries’, the smell of man-eating-man, and the purposeless suffering of predator and prey alike, killed not for food but for sport.
And then Saries’ stare softened just a bit, as if to say it didn’t care what happened to the two monsters.
Alechior laughed, brightly, the sound ringing against the smoke and death. “Oh, that?” they said, waving the vision away as if it were a bad card draw. “Yes, yes, I see it. Big man, big name, very serious about it. Cannibals too. Honestly, dreadful table manners.” Their grin sharpened then dulled. “Killing for killing’s sake though, that’s the real offense. No tension, no stakes, no wit. Just noise and waste. Completely joyless.”
They looked back at the two monsters hanging in their grasp, struggling, glowing faintly as their borrowed divinity sputtered. “You’re right,” Alechior went on, tone settling into something almost respectful. “What’s the point of ending them now? They tried to strike a god, yes, which is bold, stupid and usually fatal. But there was intent there, hunger twisted into something else. That makes it interesting. And interest deserves continuation.”
Alechior loosened their grip just enough to let the implication sink in. “So they live,” they said simply. “Not because they deserve mercy, but because existence itself will punish them far better than I ever could.” Their eyes flicked back to Saries. “As they are now, they won’t last long in this world. Hunted, feared, not understood. Life will grind them down slowly. Unpredictably,” Alechior added with a small, satisfied smile, “is far more my style. I'll be granting them a gift and let us see where the dice lands. If that's okay with you,” they continued with a wink ", wouldn't want to step on your paws."
Saries simply sat down with a tail flick.
Alechior snorted softly. “Ah. Of course,” they said, hands spreading in exaggerated understanding as two other hands appeared to hold the beasts by their necks. “The strong, stoic type. All presence, no commentary. Truly, the most intimidating form of conversation.” They tilted their head, peering at the wolf-god with mock seriousness. “You know, some of us use words. It’s a hobby. Very popular. Should totally try it!”
Saries tilted its head.
Alechior glanced between the silent god and the two creatures. “But no, no, I get it,” Alechior continued lightly. “Why waste breath when you can brood? Tail flicks are basically full sermons where you come from, right?” A grin tugged at their mouth, amused but not unkind. Saries gave nothing back but a huff and Alechior hummed. “Figures.”
Then the tone shifted, just a notch. The air around Alechior tightened, pressure building like a held breath. Gold light began to pool in their chest pulsing. It crawled upward along their throat, down their arms, gathering in their hands until their fingers glowed like molten coins. “Alright,” they said, voice steady now. “Silent approval accepted.”
The golden power flowed from Alechior’s palms and poured into the monsters, sinking beneath fur and flesh, threading itself into bone, blood, and curse alike. Both beasts convulsed as the light took hold, not burning, not healing but rewriting something fundamental, like dice being shaken before a throw.
When Alechior finally let go, the glow faded back into their skin, leaving the two creatures gasping in the dirt, momentarily stunned, changed in ways they could not yet understand. Alechior rolled their shoulders and looked down at them, smiling. “Congratulations,” they said pleasantly. “You’ve been cursed. Or blessed. Depends how well you play the hand you’ve just been dealt.”
Alechior straightened, the last traces of golden light fading from their hands as they turned fully toward Saries. A wide grin spread across their face, the kind that treated gods and beasts alike as equals at the same table. “Well,” they said lightly, gesturing back toward the valley, “if you, your offspring and any of your followers feel like stepping somewhere a little less on fire or dangerous for all but us, you’re welcome in Gamberdise.” Their tone carried warmth rather than command. “My temple’s open. No tricks, no wagers required to cross the threshold.”
They tilted their head, hands spreading in an exaggerated show of hospitality. “Rest, talk, argue philosophy, glare silently, whatever suits you. The people there know how to coexist with odd divinities and strange guests, and I make sure no one starts trouble they can’t finish.” A brief chuckle followed. “Consider it neutral ground. If you choose to come, you’ll be received with open hands, and if you don’t,” they added with a shrug, “no offense taken. Invitations, like games, only matter if you decide to play. Byeeeee!”
Rising to the air, Alechior looked at Saries's head and contemplated petting his head before thinking better of it.
Ganga’s tribe grows aggressive after the Sun changes the land, hunting constantly and abandoning old rules. When a sentry is killed and huge paw prints are found, Ganga sets a trap for the predator. The creature, Saries, escapes, kills guards, and curses two humans into monstrous forms (Therianthropes and Parasithropes). The tribe attacks but fails, suffering heavy losses before fleeing into the night.
Alechior arrives, stops the fight, and alters the Cursed further. Alechior then offers Saries an invitation to Gamblerdise.
Saries Conviction Expenditures: -2 - In Domain Action -2 - In Domain Action
Alechior Conviction Expenditures: -2 - In Domain Actions
Saries spent 2 Conviction creating the Curse of Therianthropy. This is an infectious divine disease that can be passed along via bodily fluids such as blood and saliva. Those who contract this disease will find themselves mutating into a Therianthrope within a few weeks, with the physical and mental changes gradually becoming more and more severe until remaining in Human settlements becomes impossible. Therianthropes are cursed to be in an eternal state of gnawing hunger which can only ever be temporarily sated by hunting and eating anything that moves.
They are blessed with enhanced regeneration (can regenerate a lost limb in a week and can heal from a stab wound in a day), enhanced durability (can survive a stab wound to the heart or severe brain damage, but will die at a certain threshold of damage depending on the individual), as well as enhanced general physicality, such as speed, reflexes, strength, etc. As an example, the first Therianthrope was a wolf-man who had claws for nails, a snout and sharp fangs.
Alechior spent 1 Conviction to Enhance the Curse of Therianthropy with a Gambler’s Mercy. This divine modification weaves chance directly into the existing curse, introducing an element of risk, hope and cruel irony. Every 30 full day-night cycles, those afflicted with Therianthropy are subjected to a cosmic roll of fate.
There is a 40% chance that the curse temporarily loosens its grip, allowing the afflicted to revert fully to their human form for the next 7 consecutive nights. During this time, all physical mutations are suppressed, hunger subsides to mortal levels, and regeneration and durability return to that of an ordinary human.
However, this reprieve is not without its bite. The afflicted have no control over when the gamble succeeds or fails, nor any forewarning of the outcome. When the 7 nights end, the curse reasserts itself violently, forcing the body back into its therianthropic state within moments. Memories of the human nights remain vivid and painful, often worsening the psychological torment of the curse.
Saries spent 2 Conviction creating the Curse of Parasithropy. This is an infectious divine disease that can be passed along via bodily fluids such as blood and saliva. Those who contract this disease will find themselves mutating into a Parasithrope within a few weeks, with the physical and mental changes gradually becoming more and more severe until it becomes impossible to move far from any human presence.
Parasithropes are cursed with only receiving sustenance from Humanoid blood, flesh, and emotion, hence their inability to isolate themselves for any meaningful length of time. Like Therianthropes, they have enhanced regeneration and enhanced durability, but whereas Therianthropes are supernatural powerhouses, Parasithropes merely have fast reflexes.
As an example, the first Parasithrope developed skin black as coal, veins that pulsed with light, white irises, claws for nails, and teeth so sharp she constantly sliced her lips open on them.
Alechior spent 1 Conviction to Enhance the Curse of Parasithropy with the Dealer’s Smile. This divine alteration bends perception and emotion around those afflicted, turning social interaction into a dangerous game of influence rather than brute survival. All Parasithropes now emanate an unnatural aura of calm, subtle but pervasive, that passively affects anyone within close proximity.
The presence of the afflicted induces feelings of ease and comfort as though nothing in the moment could possibly be wrong.
Those who meet a Parasithrope’s gaze for more than a few seconds experience the effect far more strongly. Prolonged eye contact causes the target to feel elated to be in the Parasithrope’s presence, lowering suspicion, dulling fear responses and weakening resistance to suggestion or persuasion. The afflicted do not gain direct mind control but their words carry unnatural weight and their requests feel reasonable, even desirable. Victims often rationalize their behavior afterward, unaware that their emotions were ever influenced.
This is a blessing that acts strong in the original but as more descendants are infected, the power will be reduced.
Alechior drifted back into Gamblerdise on a lazy arc, the valley rising to meet them in a wash of green gone slightly wrong. Too much growth, too fast, vines strangling what should have fed mouths instead of stealing from them. The problem they ignored prior. They touched down lightly, feet brushing soil that had been turned and re-turned, trampled by anxious feet. Down there was Villagxor, staff laid besides him, crouched over crude markings scratched into packed earth like the world’s least cooperative ledger.
He was counting. Seeds, stores, days. Little piles of stones moved from one side to another, then back again, the math refusing to land where he wanted it. The sun hung higher than it used to and it had burned half the early crops right out of the ground. The rest had shot up wild and useless, leaves big as shields and roots thin as excuses. Villagxor’s jaw was tight, eyes fixed, the posture of someone trying to force certainty out of chaos through sheer will.
Alechior leaned over his shoulder, hands clasped behind their back, reading the numbers upside down with exaggerated seriousness. “Ah,” they said, nodding. “Classic problem. Too much winning, not enough eating.” They squinted at a cluster of stones. “You’ve got three weeks if everyone behaves, two if they don’t, and about six days if someone decides to throw a festival.” A beat. “Which they will.”
Villagxor startled, then sighed, not even looking up. “The plants grew,” he said flatly. “Then they died. The ground’s tired already. I can’t make it add up.” He pushed a stone away like it had personally offended him. “I was supposed to keep them fed.” Alechior crouched beside him, plucked a pebble, and flicked it into the air, catching it again as it fell. “You are keeping them fed,” they said. “You’re just discovering that abundance can be a worse liar than scarcity.”
They rearranged the stones with quick movements, grouping them differently. “You’re counting food like it’s static. It’s not. It moves. It spoils. It gambles against time.”
They glanced at the ruined rows, then back at Villagxor, grin softening just a touch. “Good news, though. This is fixable. You’ve got people, you’ve got land, and now you’ve got daylight. You just need better odds.” Alechior tapped the ground twice, numbers settling into a new pattern. “Lucky for you,” they added, eyes bright, “odds are sort of my thing.”
Alechior settled in properly this time, tracing lines in the dirt with one finger as if drawing a game board. “Odds aren’t magic,” they said, tone easy but firm. “They’re just the truth, written small. You start by accepting that not everything survives. Plan for loss first, not success.” They marked a section off to one side. “This is spoilage. Heat, pests, rot. Assume a third of anything grown is already gone. If it survives, great, that’s a win. If not, you didn’t lie to yourself.”
They shifted to the next cluster of stones. “Next, mouths. Not just how many, but when. Children eat little now and more later. Workers eat more when the sun’s high. Injured eat less but need it longer. You don’t divide food evenly, you distribute it intelligently.” A quick glance at Villagxor. “Fair isn’t equal. Fair is everyone still standing tomorrow.” A small grin. “Games teach that fast.”
Then Alechior flicked a pebble into the marked ‘loss’ pile on purpose. “Now risk. You never spend everything. Ever. You keep a reserve you pretend doesn’t exist. Hidden grain, dried roots, whatever lasts. That’s your reroll. If the next harvest fails, you don’t panic, you cash in the safety net.” They tapped the pile twice. “If you never need it, you’re lucky. If you do, you’re alive.”
Finally, they leaned back on their hands, looking over the valley. “To make ends meet, you don’t chase big wins. You teach people when to stop eating like it’s a feast.” Alechior looked back at Villagxor, eyes encouraging. “Do this, and the odds don’t guarantee success. They just make failure less likely. And in the long run,” they added lightly, “that’s how the house stays standing.”
Villagxor stayed crouched for a long moment, staring at the lines and stones Alechior had left as if they might rearrange themselves into clearer meaning. His brow furrowed, jaw tight, fingers slowly turning a pebble over and over. Loss first, not last. That part sat heavy with him. He had always planned as if effort guaranteed reward, as if hard work bent the world into fairness. The sun had taught him otherwise.
He exhaled through his nose and began shifting stones himself, copying the shapes but changing the numbers. Fewer baskets here. More mouths there. He muttered under his breath, counting, recounting, stopping when the totals looked wrong instead of forcing them to look right. “So…if I assume it’s already gone,” he said slowly, more to himself than to Alechior, “then I stop promising what I don’t have.”
The idea of reserves clicked next. Not abundance, not comfort but survival set aside and treated as untouchable. Villagxor’s eyes lifted briefly to the people moving through the fields. He nodded once. “We eat less now,” he said, certainty forming at last. “Not starving. Just…not indulging. And what we save, we hide from ourselves.” A huff escaped him. “If we pretend it isn’t there, we won’t be tempted to spend it.”
Finally, the shape of the solution settled in his mind, not as a miracle but as a path forward. Smaller rations. Clear expectations. Loss accounted for before hope. He straightened, dirt clinging to his palms and looked up at Alechior with something close to relief. “This isn’t fixing the Sun,” he said. “It’s surviving it. Long enough for things to even out.” A pause, then a grim, grateful smile. “It’s not a good answer. But it’s the one that works.”
Alechior clapped slowly, the sound bright and just a little too loud for the moment. “There it is,” they said, grinning wide. “You didn’t chase comfort. That’s the trick.” They leaned closer, voice proud. “Most people want answers that feel good. You picked the one that works. And that’s why I chose you.” A pause then a wink. “Well. One of the reasons. You also don’t bore me, which helps, A LOT.”
They straightened, hands folding behind their head as they looked over Gamberdise. “You make a good Cleric, Villagxor. You listen, you doubt, and then you decide. Gods love that or...at least I do.” A softer note slipped in. “This place will stumble. It will bleed but it won’t starve blindly. Not with you counting the odds instead of praying, to me, they disappear.”
Then Alechior’s smile sharpened, playful danger creeping back in like a familiar card trick. “Now,” they said lightly, “about the price.” They raised a finger before Villagxor could speak. “Relax. No blood, no riddles, no dramatic sacrifices. Just a game.” Their eyes glittered. “You learned the lesson. That was the buy-in.”
Alechior returns to Gamberdise and finds Villagxor struggling to balance the tribe’s food after the Sun’s appearance destabilized local plant life. Through a lesson framed around gambling and odds, Alechior teaches Villagxor how to think in probabilities rather than certainties, using basic arithmetic to assess risk, loss, and sustainable outcomes.
Actions:
Lucid Action – Instructed Villagxor in probabilistic thinking and practical arithmetic, re-framing resource management as a game of odds rather than guesswork.
It was not long after Oxen and his folk disappeared into the smoke that Sarhush similarly passed on from those lands. There was nothing more to keep him there; the fire had done its work and the forest had been conquered. The crackling roar behind him had settled into something steadier now…a rhythmic breathing, the blackened treetrunks falling like slow drumbeats marking his going. Ash from the burning forest and from the nearby volcano alike muddled in the air and drifted down in lazy spirals, coating the ground where Oxen’s people had stood and lived an hour before. Footprints were already vanishing beneath it.
Sarhush turned his back on the burning valley and began to walk. His going was swift enough that he did not encounter Saries again, even as the God-Beast came with a flock of Tormentas to conjure rain and preserve what scraps of green It could salvage from the ruin.
Each step carried him farther from the place where the Me of Weaving had changed hands. He contemplated that with every step. He found himself suddenly beset by a sense of wrongness. There was an emptiness at his side where the Me had once tugged and writhed, where its weight and tension had asserted themselves. The Me of Fire still smoldered obediently from inside his newly woven sack, but the first cord was gone now, loose in mortal hands.
The Mes were not mere gifts to mortals, but divine levers to produce civilization. They were his tools and instruments, not trinkets to be lost. Moreover, each Me carried a fragment of his intention and mind; however, intent had a way of warping if abandoned. He had seen that by how Oxen and his kind had so quickly stumbled, forgetting or casting off his teachings. Had he not chanced upon that valley and reminded them of their place, those ur-humans might have devolved entirely back to beasts.
Sarhush snorted, a faint wisp of smoke escaping his nostrils. The course of his next labor became clear to him at that moment. But how would he be able to locate the scattered Mes?
“Glory,” he spoke, and the word carried. His mind conjured the memory of that cacophony of spirits, the bickering voices that had introduced themselves in that cave.
“Civilization!” he called out, louder. “Patrons!”
Some Patrons came to his call, but they did not arrive together or in harmony.
The air thickened. Heaps of white and gray ashes stirred from the ground, lifting in slow spirals that did not obey the wind. Heat bled from Sarhush’s skin into the world, and the world answered not with the usual flame but with attention. Shadows lengthened where there should have been none.
Glory manifested first, bleeding into the world through a pale shaft of moonlight as a bright distortion in the air, edges trembling as they struggled to maintain a single shape. Its presence was radiant, but thin.
Water followed, seeping damp and resentful from the roots of a blackened tree, pooling in sullied rivulets that hissed faintly where they touched the warm ash.
Last came Civilization. Spiraling symbols etched themselves into the ground at Sarhush’s feet, lines carving order into chaos, the glyphs and patterns forcing meaning into refuse. The ash rearranged itself to accommodate the pattern.
They did not greet Sarhush aloud, nor he them. Wordlessly, the god stomped toward the Patron of Water, ash cracking beneath his heels, one hand balled into a fist.
“You dare show yourself before me?” he demanded of that wretched one when he came to stand nearly atop it.
The pooled Water trembled, rippling outward in uneven rings. The Patron did not rise to meet Sarhush’s gaze, nor did it fully retreat. Instead it spread, thinning here and thickening there, always unsure of what shape to take.
“Show?” Water murmured, “I am always here. Under ash, under earth. In cracks and bones and blood. You burned the skin of the world and thought the veins would vanish with it. Thought I would perish in the dark when you drained, when you pulled and pulled and left only—”
Sarhush’s fist tightened so much that heat bled from between his knuckles.
“Your rambling makes me reconsider why I suffered even a drop of you to remain,” he snarled, “...so make yourself of use before I decide that it was an error.
“I summoned you Patrons to track my Mes. If you are as everywhere as you claim, then surely your mists, your raindrops, or your seepage have brushed against them. Tell me where they have gone.”
“I did not come to aid you,” Water replied, petulant and spiraling. “I came to warn, denounce, to counsel you away from madness and–”
The Patron was not permitted to finish; Sarhush lost his patience and struck with such speed that there was hardly even a blur. His fist slammed into the puddle with incandescent force. Heat roared outward from the impact as Water exploded into a bloom of ghostly steam, hissing and shrieking as it fled upward and outward, scattering into the wind. The god’s glowering gaze followed the halituous Patron as it fled. With rage, he sensed that the Patron was wounded but had survived because it only barely dwelled within the physical world.
Sarhush exhaled sharply. He wiped atomized droplets – or perhaps beads of his own sweat – from his brow, then looked to the other Patrons as though nothing had happened. The spiraling sigils at Sarhush’s feet shifted. Until now, Civilization had merely etched itself into the ash, patient and observant. But as Water fled in steam and the air rang with its wounded retreat, the patterns tightened and lines straightened. Symbols aligned into repeating motifs, glyphs into unreadable texts.
“Enough,” Civilization broke the silence. “Was this not to be an accounting, rather than a culling? Wrath is not the ideal method.”
Sarhush ignored such weak words. “You,” he said, turning to the evanescent ray of light that was the Patron of Glory. Glory brightened reflexively, golden light refracting through the ash like a broken halo. “You surely follow mortals closely,” Sarhush continued. “Given your domain, you must be near them always, that you are there to witness their triumphs and victories. I know that you will have seen, so tell me: what have they done with my Mes?” “They raise them and exalt them!” Glory proclaimed without a moment’s hesitation. “They boast of them. They shape themselves around them. Some are lifted up as rulers. Some are feared. Some cling to them most covetously, and are driven to madness by the power and memory of you that radiates from the glorious Mes! Some ur-humans worship those that hold what you made; others fear and spurn them and all your words and works.”
Now it was Sarhush who seemed to glow. “Yes, this is how it should be,” he decided and spoke at the same time. “But I would still witness what works they have accomplished with my teachings. And I must ensure that those who possess my Mes are worthy to bear them. You will show me the way to them.”
“No,” Glory’s answer came immediately.
“No?!” The god’s fist had barely loosened from striking Water, but now it was tighter than it had been even then.
“No,” the Patron insisted, “for there would be no Glory in denying you the pursuit and the search. Nor would there be Glory if you put and remove rulers as you say, rather than leaving them to win and fight for such stations by their own–”
Sarhush nearly struck, but he was distracted by Civilization as the sigils and patterns underfoot shifted sharply in a dizzying spin that flung up ash.
“This is precisely why structure is required,” the Patron of Civilization interjected, more tightly now. “Refusal without framework breeds instability. Sarhush, if Patrons may simply withhold cooperation, then precedent collapses.”
That quieted them all.
“What exactly is it that you propose?” Sarhush eventually asked, finally glancing downward.
Civilization hesitated.
Its symbols rearranged. No configuration seemed sufficient.
“I propose…” it began, but it stopped. For the first time, ponderous Civilization did not complete a sentence. “There are measures beyond preservation. They are not mine to initiate.” Even as the words came, Civilization’s glyphs began to overlap one another and render the text illegible; the symbols cracked and its patterns looped without harmony.
Sarhush was too incensed to notice any such details; he stomped, the ground cracked beneath his heel. He balled his fist so tightly that his nails dug into his palm and hurt.
A plume of settled ash and black soot erupted from the ground as if flung up by a buried geyser. But what rose was not vapor or smoke. Instead, a pillar of living flame erupted from the ground, orange and white and bruised with black. It did not consume the ash so much as inhabit it, tongues of flame licking along char and cinder, animating what had already died. The heat was immediate and intimate, pressing against Sarhush’s skin like a living thing testing boundaries.
“I am the Patron of Fire,” it proclaimed, voice crackling and splitting, a thousand ignitions speaking at once. “I answer your call, Sarhush.”
“You know me already?” the god asked, the smallest trace of a smile threatening to emerge at the side of his lips. Surely this one would not be so obstinate as the rest.
“I do, for your will burns hot! You have fed me well: you’ve slaked flame’s appetite on wood, forests, flesh, and even cold stone. I have watched you, and seen a worthy god! Perhaps you will even prove yourself worthy of my allegiance… in time!”
Sarhush met the flame’s roaring voice with a steady, unblinking stare. “I am God of Kingship; there are none more ‘worthy’ of fealty than I. I am already your lord, so tell me where the Mes have gone: you will have seen the ones who hold them by the campfires.”
The Patron of Fire crackled and cackled both, its laughter like the sound of a great bonfire’s timbers collapsing inward.
“You play with the Burning Aspect, but you do not fully understand it yet. Until you master it, I withhold allegiance. Worry not about these trifling Mes today; for now, let us concern ourselves with how much more there is yet to burn!”
The spiraling symbols etched in ash tightened their curves, straightened their angles. Lines that had merely described order now insisted upon it, carving channels that constrained the loose soot around them. Civilization spoke at last, its voice dry and precise, each word landing like a placed stone.
“Enough.”
Fire’s laughter guttered, though its flames did not diminish. Glory flickered, uncertain whether resistance or obedience would be better remembered. Even the drifting remnants of Water hesitated, steam thinning.
“This gathering is degrading into conflict without yield,” Civilization continued. “The Mes are not lost. They are distributed. That condition is neither unprecedented nor irrecoverable.”
Sarhush turned his head slightly, regarding the patterns beneath his feet.
“Then help me find them,” he said.
Civilization’s lines shifted again, new symbols overwriting old ones, tallying, comparing, arranging.
“Through the necessary searching process. Mortals are not subtle; every act leaves traces. Given time, the Mes can be found without force.”
“You mean without obedience.”
Civilization did not deny it.
“Compulsion destabilizes systems,” it said. “It accelerates fracture. Order is most durable when it is accepted.”
“Yes! Struggle, ascent, fall: these are remembered!” Glory cried, brightening and swelling.
Fire flared again, eager and unpredictable.
Sarhush’s patience, which never existed in great abundance, somehow thinned even further. “I did not call you here for lectures,” he spat. “I called you to tell me where the Mes are to be found!”
Civilization’s symbols hesitated, not faltering, but stalling, as though cycling through procedures that no longer applied. Its patterns barely held.
“There are forces beyond preservation,” Civilization said carefully. “They are not within my charge to initiate.”
It was imperceptible to the eye, but all of them felt it: a new pressure emerged, neither heat nor cold, but a weighty and insistent ordering. The assembled Patrons quieted, instinctively spreading apart, making room not through choice but through an unspoken command that could not be defied.
The ash underfoot compacted. Fine powder became solid, then rose into rigid tiers. Steps formed without a hand shaping them, assembling into a stark ladder of dominance. Each tier was perfectly even, perfectly spaced. Nothing was visible atop any of the formed levels, but the sense of elevation was absolute, as though something looked down upon the world from the only position that mattered.
“I am the Patron of Hierarchy,” the empty height announced. “God-Sarhush, you may address me as Lord Hierarchy.”
Civilization’s symbols froze, holding their shape with visible strain.
Sarhush did not acknowledge the newcomer or spare the risen steps more than a glance. Instead, he turned slowly, his gaze settling on the etched sigils at his feet. “Civilization, this presence follows your failure. You have summoned it.”
The lines of Civilization thickened, deepening their grooves in the ash.
“I attempted to preserve order without escalation,” it said. “Enforcement lies beyond my jurisdiction.”
The unseen presence above them shifted, a subtle realignment of pressure.
“I emerge where preservation proves insufficient, where systems require compliance rather than consent,” Lord Hierarchy explained. “Civilization reached that boundary but could not cross its threshold; I occupy that space.”
Sarhush finally raised his gaze to look over the newcomer. The corners of his mouth lifted, the threatened-smile emerging fully.
“Then you may be just what I require,” he concluded.
Glory dimmed, suddenly uncertain as to whether this was a portent of triumph or dismal defeat. Fire reared, insolent and untamed as ever. Civilization’s twitching symbols at last stilled in defeat.
“These Patrons know what I seek, but they have the insolence to withhold it. I will not be denied by this cacophony of impotent spirits!” Sarhush declared. “Tell me, Lord Hierarchy, what will it take to extract by force what they would not surrender willingly?”
The pressure in the air deepened, settling into something like inevitability.
“Authority,” was Lord Hierarchy’s answer. “Edict that is codified and enforced through overwhelming power, made inescapable and absolute. Persuasion is a concession and spoken threats are a negotiation. Simply remind these three of your rank, and make them obey.”
Sarhush smiled. Finally, he’d found somebody else that understood the way of things.
Perhaps Water had been fortunate to have already escaped as a vaporous cloud. Glory pulsed, unsure whether to try escaping by dimming away into invisibility or flaring blindingly bright to daze Sarhush. Fire attempted to launch itself up as hot ash and take to the wind after Water. Civilization remained twitching on the ground impotently. It didn’t matter; they were all stilled by the power of one word that Sarhush roared from the depths of his chest: “HALT!”
Stunned into utter stillness, they were powerless to resist. One by one, Sarhush grabbed Glory, Fire, and Civilization. He gripped with conviction, seizing them wholly; he grasped not only what stood before him, but what they were in the Realm of the Forms. They could not resist him. “OBEY!” he roared at each one in turn, and they were brought to heel.
One by one, they told him in great detail where the Mes had gone and whose hands had come to possess them.
Sarhush decides that he needs to track down the Mes that mortals have been running around with unsupervised, lest they end up in unworthy hands or his teachings be twisted. But he does not know where in Ashuru they’ve gone or how he can find them!
For lack of a better idea, he summons the Patrons to demand their help. Four answer: Glory, Water, Fire, and Civilization. Water and Sarhush despise one another so there is no compliance there; Fire, Glory, and Civilization each spurn his demands for their own reasons.
Eventually, a fifth Patron, that of Hierarchy, manifests because Civilization is going through some kind of crisis. This one goes by Lord Hierarchy, even.
Lord Hierarchy advises Sarhush to stop waffling about and just make these idiots tell him where the Mes are, so that is what Sarhush does through the power of his CONVICTION.
CONVICTION EXPENDITURES: 1 conviction spent to ‘scry’ via compelling the Patrons of Glory, Fire, and Civilization to reveal the locations of the Mes (Hazy action)
Alechior won the last throw of bone dice the way they always did, with a flick of the wrist and a grin that suggested the outcome had been decided long before the dice hit the table, it was all a mind’s game and Alechior’s mind proved, as always, sharper than Villagxor’s. The bones settled, wrong for Villagxor, perfect for Alechior. “Chance adores me,” they said lightly, scooping the dice back up, “and you keep insisting on flirting with probability like it owes you something.”
Villagxor sighed, long suffering and familiar with defeat by now. Still, once the groaning theatrics were out of the way, his posture straightened and his tone softened. Very politely, carefully, he asked whether Alechior could perhaps do something about the soil. The land was tired, the crops thin, the earth stubborn beneath the plow. It was not a demand, not even a plea, more a hopeful suggestion wrapped in manners.
Alechior listened, fingers rolling one of the bone dice across their knuckles. When they answered, it was honest. That was not within their domains. Gambling could bend paths, tilt outcomes, nudge hands at the right moment. Soil was patient work, slow cycles and gods far less entertaining than Alechior handled that sort of thing. “I could make a farmer stumble into better timing,” they added with a shrug, “but I cannot teach dirt to love you.”
With that, Alechior rose, already losing interest in the conversation and finding it elsewhere. They gave Villagxor a casual salute, half mockery, half affection and stepped away as if gravity was a negotiable rule. A moment later they were airborne.
They climbed higher and higher, letting the wind shove and spin them, refusing to choose a direction. Luck would decide, as it always did. Clouds parted and then the valley below shrank into a patchwork of greens and browns.
Eventually, they were carried east, toward the mountain that loomed over the valley like a watchful spine. It stood taller than the others, sharper, its peak biting into the sky. Alechior angled toward it, satisfied, as if the mountain had won a game it did not know it was playing.
They landed near a jagged opening halfway up the stone face, into a cave. The air inside was cool and still, heavy with silence. Alechior stepped into the darkness without hesitation, the natural light behind them thinning as their own golden glow lit up the cavern around.
Alechior moved through the cave with curiosity, feet touching lightly against stone as their glow painted the walls in warm gold. The cavern bore the marks of age, narrow veins of crystal caught the light, shadows stretched and recoiled as they passed. They hummed loudly, a tune with no real melody, fingers brushing against rock.
The tunnel sloped downward, then widened, branching veins of stone leading deeper into the mountain’s body. Alechior slowed, studying the place with interest. This was the sort of moment they adored, choice without consequence or perhaps consequence without warning. The cave split ahead, two paths diverging like a held breath finally released.
They reached into their pocket and produced the bone dice, rolling them once in their palm before casting them onto the stone. The bones clattered, spun and settled with quiet finality. Alechior glanced at the result, smiled and without another thought turned to the right, leaving the other path to whatever fate had lost the toss.
All the while, Khthon watched from within the wall, hiding his presence. He kept close attention to his God-Siblings when it came to his domain, and had felt the other God enter his realm. He kept silent, for now; Sarhush and the Patrons had stoked his irritation through their ruckus, and Excelsis his wrath through his meddling, but Alechior had yet to do anything but wander, and Khthon wished to know what he would do.
He could already tell that the other truly was a lucky one. Through pure chance, the path they’d chosen was the one that would drive him deeper within the mountain, towards larger caverns and further split paths. The other would have led to a dead end filled with fumes which, while unable to harm a God in any ways, would no doubt be unpleasant to one that kept themselves so close in form to fragile mortals.
This mountain was a strange one, riding the edge of a part of the land Khthon preferred to leave by itself. There, the Earth did not follow any rules but its own, every law of geology unravelling as they saw fit. There, granite crumbled like talc, feldspar bent like grass in the wind, and mudstone could shatter any mortal tool. A force more ancient than could be comprehended ruled this land, and so Khthon left it alone; he might not like it, but he could accept that some parts of his realm were beyond his ability to fully control. At the very least, he knew that the Earth would still not give what was its own without taking something in exchange.
This mountain, though, was thankfully exempt from such a strange phenomenon, though still a bit too close for his taste. Stone still obeyed him, and if push came to shove, Khthon knew he would not be at a disadvantage. Though looking at what his God-Sibling was doing, such thoughts of conflict were likely to be extraneous. They were still only wandering about, filling his caverns with light and song, which while a bit annoying, was completely harmless.
Alechior wandered deeper, steps echoing in ways that never quite repeated themselves. The cave shifted subtly as they moved, passages narrowing where moments ago they had been wide, stone textures changing under their fingertips like a deck being reshuffled. Pebbles rolled uphill, stalactites hummed faintly when brushed by their glow and once, for a heartbeat, gravity seemed to hesitate before remembering its job. Alechior laughed at that, delighted. Randomness always had a certain charm to it.
They followed no real logic, turning when it felt right, stopping when the cavern seemed to lean closer, as if listening. Light spilled from them in arcs, revealing walls that bore the scars of pressure, yet arranged in patterns that felt almost intentional. The Anchor’s influence was unmistakable here, probability tugged sideways, chance given too much room to breathe. Alechior rolled the dice once in their palm without casting them, just to see how they felt. Satisfied, they kept walking.
That was when the copper caught their eye. A thick vein ran through the stone, dull at first glance but unmistakably rich beneath the dust. Alechior stopped short, glow brightening as they stepped closer. “Well now,” they murmured, voice echoing, “that is a handsome surprise.”
They reached out and pressed their fingers into the stone, not prying so much as insisting. The rock yielded with a groan and a chunk of copper came free in their hand, still warm with the mountain’s patience. Alechior turned it over, brushing away grit with their thumb, watching how the light played across its surface. “No cards, no dice and still a winning hand!” they chuckled, weighing it like a coin too large to spend.
Holding it up, they admired it, grin bright. “Look at you,” they said to the metal, as if it might blush, “all tucked away in the dark, waiting for someone with terrible impulse control.” Alechior slipped the copper ore under one arm humming again as the cave subtly rearranged itself behind them, as though pretending it had always been this way.
The walls groaned, not with age or stress, but with Khthon’s displeasure. Of course, they were a thief. No one ever seemed to know that some things are best left untouched.
The Earth usually sorted mortals out by itself, but a God? That would require a more personal touch. Khthon swallowed his rage, and instead concentrated on the mountain itself. Alechior was lucky, but Khthon could bend the odds. He subtly closed the tunnels through which his God-Sibling passed, leaving no easy exit back to the surface, and bent the ones laying in their path, guiding him deeper in his domain. Walls swallowed exposed ore, hiding them from Alechior’s sight, and the caverns grew smaller and darker, with no crystal roots to illuminate them.
Khthon waited patiently, until Alechior entered one last cave. A dead end. With a thought, the entry crumbled, sealing the other God within. Finally, Khthon spoke, his voice echoing from the stone.
”Despicable thief,” he hissed, furious. The walls trembled, small pebbles falling from the ceiling. ”How dare you come within my home and take what is mine? Give back what you have stolen, and I might yet be willing to forgive you, God-Sibling.”
Alechior had noticed the change long before the mountain made its displeasure loud. The tunnels felt tighter with every step, not in a threatening way at first, but in the same way a table suddenly feels crowded once the stakes rise. Passages they had passed through moments earlier no longer carried their echo back, sound swallowed instead of returned. Alechior glanced over their shoulder once, then again, watching stone smooth itself where there had been space, odds quietly re-balancing without asking their consent.
When the final cave ended in bare rock and the way behind them collapsed into a curtain of dust and stone, Alechior did not reach for power or protest. They simply stopped, listening as the last fragments settled. The silence that followed was weighted, like a dealer pausing before revealing the final card. Alechior exhaled, slow and pleased, fingers still curled loosely around the copper they had taken.
Then the voice came, vibrating through the walls themselves, sharp with ownership and older than patience. Alechior laughed, openly and without restraint, the sound bright against the cavern’s anger. It echoed longer than it should have, rebounding in places the cave pretended did not exist. “Oh, this is excellent,” they said, amusement threading every word, as if they had just been caught cheating at a game they never claimed to play fair.
They turned toward the stone, toward the presence pressing in from every direction, and bowed deeply, one arm sweeping wide in an exaggerated flourish. Their glow dipped with the motion, respectful and mocking all at once. “My deepest apologies, dear God-Sibling,” Alechior said, straightening with a grin. “Truly. I didn’t realize the house was watching so closely tonight.”
Alechior lifted their hand and turned the metal slowly in their palm and only then did it become clear that it was no longer a jagged chunk of copper torn from the mountain’s vein. The ore had been turned into shape, edges smoothed, faces pressed flat, corners sharpened with idle precision. A die, clean and weighty, its pips shallow and almost perfect, catching their golden light as if it had always wanted to be this. Whether it had been shaped by unconscious habit or deliberate intent was impossible to tell, even from the way Alechior regarded it with mild surprise, as though noticing a trick they had performed without looking.
They stepped forward and extended their arm toward the voice in the stone, palm open in offering. The copper die rested there, gleaming warmly against their skin. “There,” Alechior said lightly, tone bright and almost cheerful. “A present for you, God-Sibling. I borrowed the copper, I return it with interest.” Their smile lingered, unapologetic, as if gifting a god a die in his own sealed cavern, from his own material, was the most natural resolution imaginable.
Khthon paused as he observed the die. The perfect geometric shape, each side equally balanced, and the way it glimmers in his God-Sibling’s golden light… It was beautiful. Did Alechior know what they were doing by provoking him? Khthon supposed it didn’t really matter; he would get his treasure back. Its new shape was, as Alechior said, interest, though he wasn’t fully sure what “interest” was.
An arm emerged from the stone wall and delicately plucked the copper die from Alechior’s hand, and brought it back within the stone. Soon, it would rest safely beside Sarhush’s gifted axe. Then, a head and torso emerged, armless and eyeless as ever. Khthon turned to face his God-Sibling, and spoke.
”I shall accept this apology.” He tilted his head, and his mouth clumsily twisted into a frown, as if the act of emoting did not come naturally. ”Do not repeat this mistake. The ‘house’, as you say, is always watching when it comes to fellow Gods. You have been warned.”
Khthon stayed silent for a long moment, simply observing Alechior. He had not seen them since shortly after their birth, and had never spoken to them before. Their presence puzzled him; their very essence seemed contrary to Khthon’s realm. ”Tell me. You, who is so bright and loud, what brings you here? This place is dark and silent. It does not suit you. You were not here to plunder from the start, that I know, so why?”
Alechior laughed, the sound echoing oddly against the stone. “Warned already?” they said, clearly amused. “That has to be some sort of record. I usually get at least a polite lecture first.” Their tone stayed friendly, almost fond, as if Khthon’s threat were less a rebuke and more a quirky house rule they had accidentally tripped over. “Still, I appreciate the hospitality. Sealed caves, dramatic entrances, ominous watching walls. Very memorable.”
As Khthon continued to observe, Alechior seemed to lean into it. They turned slowly in place, arms out for a moment, then clasped their hands behind their back, posture straight and theatrical. A half bow, then a flourish then standing on one foot briefly as if testing balance, before settling again. “Just making sure you get the full picture,” they added lightly. “Angles matter. First impressions too.”
They tilted their head, glow shifting softly as they considered the question. When they spoke again, the humor softened into something more honest, though the smile never fully left. “Truth is, I don’t really know why I’m here. I rarely do. I let luck pick the road, the cave, the bad decisions.” They glanced at the stone around them, unbothered. “Most of the time it works out. Sometimes it doesn’t. That’s the game.”
Their gaze lifted back toward Khthon, attentive now. “This time, luck shined. It led me here, to you, of all places. Which is funny, because my people just asked me for help with soil. Crops failing, ground turning stubborn, the Sun killing the plants...and burning the ground.” A small chuckle. “And I wandered straight into the domain of a god who actually decides what the earth does.”
Alechior spread their hands, palms up, in a casual shrug. “So no, I wasn’t here to plunder. I wasn’t even here with a plan. I followed chance and chance introduced me to someone perfectly suited to solve a problem I can’t.” Their eyes gleamed with open interest. “That feels like a win, even if I did step on a few toes getting here.”
After a brief pause, they inclined their head properly this time, respectful without losing their confidence. “Ah. Right. Manners.” A smile. “I’m Alechior. God of Gambling, Merriment and poor but enthusiastic decision making. A pleasure to meet you.”
”Ahhh, the Sun, that dreadful light. I have felt its influence, the way the plants have become drunk on its brilliance and siphoned the soil of its nourishment. But I do not see reason to worry. What they take in life, they give back in death, and the topsoil will reform in due time.” Khthon hummed, a sound reminiscent of rocks cracking and sand flowing. ”But perhaps such cycles are too slow for you or your people’s liking, for you to ask for help. Mortal lives are fragile, and end so quickly…”
Of course, Khthon could not fix the root of the problem, that is, plant life’s diseased growth. But enriching the soil on which they fed, and making sure that life could persist on the surface until things stabilize… that would be a trifle to him. And despite the God’s general disinterest in the surface, that did not mean he was hostile towards it. If one of his God-Siblings came to him with an honest request for help, for such a small thing, then he had no real reason to refuse. And he had recently gained an interest in keeping a certain group of mortals alive…
”I will help. I will not fix the problem, for Life lies outside my Domains, but I can give you time. Time to search for a real solution. Time to adapt. For as long as it takes, I will feed the soil, so that it feeds life.” And with a single thought, it was made so. The soil greedily began swallowing rotten plant matter to replenish itself, faster than should be possible, and new nutrients were created where there was nothing left to reclaim. Life would need to adapt still, but no longer would it starve.
Alechior nodded along as Khthon spoke, expression turning knowingly sympathetic at the mention of the Sun. “Oh, don’t get me started on that thing,” they said, rolling their shoulders as if shaking off remembered irritation. “Too bright, too insistent, always trying to be the center of attention! It even tried to shine brighter than me!” A laugh followed. “I’ve had my share of trouble with it myself, especially when I’m trying to nap or just exist in peace. That’s why I made the Happy Cloud. Big, slow, comfortable, blocks the worst of the glare. Best decision I’ve ever gambled on. It is like your stones but in the Sun’s way, in the sky.”
They watched the stone-god work its miracle, feeling the soil below the surface correcting itself with inevitability. Alechior’s glow dimmed slightly, out of respect, as if acknowledging a craft done properly. “This is more than enough,” they said plainly. “Time is exactly what they needed, even if mortals never realize how valuable it is until they’re nearly out of it.” Their smile turned warm. “You’ve given them breathing room. That counts.”
A grin crept back in as they folded their arms. “My Cleric, Villagxor, is going to be ecstatic. Truly. Possibly unbearably so. I suspect the prayers will stop being desperate and start becoming very thankful, which is its own kind of noise, but still an improvement.” They chuckled. “You may have just saved me from a lifetime of insistent midnight supplications about soil acidity.”
After a beat, Alechior tilted their head, curiosity clearly genuine. “So,” they said, “what do you want in return?” Their hands opened in an inviting gesture. “Something simple? Something fun? Or something worth a gamble? I do hate leaving a table without settling the stakes.”
Khthon froze. For once, he realized, he had not been thinking of a trade. He had been willing to do this for no gain of his own, and he found the feeling rather strange. But if Alechior themselves was offering… then he would not refuse.
”Tell me, Alechior. Your people, do they craft?” Khthon asked, curiosity in his voice. ”I have seen what mortal hands can make, and I must admit, I am rather enamoured by their tools and what they call ‘art’. There is this village, far away from here, where they know of me, and they create the most wonderful things out of stone and clay and metal. The search for beauty has become their way of life.”
”If your people can create similar things, then I believe I would like a sample.” A simple demand, but a fair one, in Khthon’s opinion. His own service had been far from complex, after all.
”Ah, and do warn them not to rob me of my buried treasures. Godly thieves, I personally handle, but mortal ones? The Earth usually takes care of them by itself, and it is not as merciful as I am,” Khthon added, not as a threat, but as an honest warning, and a kindness of sorts. The simple fact was that thieves and fools would perish underground, and Alechior’s followers would be no exception, something they could now at least try to prevent.
Alechior tilted their head, considering the question with visible curiosity. “When you say craft,” they began, tone thoughtful , “do you mean shaping usefulness or shaping chance?” A soft chuckle followed. “Because if it is dice, weighted perfectly or not at all, painted cards, marked bones, little objects meant to invite fortune or tempt it, then yes. My people do that. Quite well, actually. Beyond that?” They shrugged. “Not yet. They have not needed much else.”
They glanced around the cavern as if imagining workshops where there were none. “Tools for survival tend to come second when survival itself is still a wager,” Alechior added calmly. “They farm, they count, they adapt. Art, in the way you describe it, stone shaped for beauty alone, metal sung into form, that comes later. When there is time to breathe. When hunger is not rolling the dice every dawn.”
At Khthon’s warning, Alechior laughed openly, the sound bright against the stone. “I'm sure that wasn’t a threat,” they said, waving a hand dismissively, “that was the Earth being very honest about its opinions.” Their smile widened. “I appreciate the restraint, truly. Most would not bother clarifying the difference between mercy and inevitability.”
They grew a little more serious then, though the humor never fully left their eyes. “I can tell my people not to mine,” Alechior admitted, “and some will listen. Others will nod, agree wholeheartedly and then dig anyway the moment their luck runs thin.” A small sigh, amused rather than weary. “Eventually, mortals always reach for the ground. It is where answers tend to hide.”
Alechior’s fingers tapped together, thoughtful, already half-playing with an idea. “Unless,” they said slowly, “we give them somewhere else to dig. Something made for them. Something agreed upon.” Their gaze lifted back toward Khthon, inviting. “An exclusive vein, a shared creation. They mine, you receive craft, and no one loses fingers, lives or patience. Now that,” they finished, “sounds like a fair gamble to me.”
”So you propose a trade, then. I give them materials, and receive the fruit of their labour. Yes, that is a fair bargain,” Khthon said, nodding along. ”And for someone of your kind, what already lies in stone is too… mundane, perhaps. You would like something new, something closer to your essence as a God… that also could be arranged.”
”What do you desire? What mineral would best embody your aspects? Sturdy stone? Brilliant gold? Glittering gems?” With each enumerated possibility, a sample emerged from the wall, each showing off their unique attributes. ”Even bone is an option, should you desire it; the Earth has reclaimed many fallen beasts over time.”
Alechior clasped their hands together, pleased. “A trade, yes,” they said brightly. “Clean and fair.” They glanced at the samples with interest, like a gambler surveying a table. “You understand me well enough, Khthon. What already sleeps in stone is…serviceable. But serviceable rarely makes hearts race.”
They stepped closer, considering them in turn. “Sturdy stone?” A hum, unconvinced. “Reliable. Honest. Too honest. It promises what it gives and gives what it promises.” Their fingers passed over the gold next. “Brilliant gold is tempting but it shouts too loudly. Everyone will want it, which makes it predictable.” Gems earned a soft laugh. “Beautiful, yes but they invite hoarding, not playing.” Bone made them pause, head tilting. “Symbolic, reclaimed, full of stories…but those stories tend to end the same way.”
Alechior straightened, decision settling in their posture. “Stone,” they repeated, more firmly now. “But not dull stone. Not quiet stone.” Their eyes gleamed. “Something golden, something that catches the eye and whispers promises it might keep. Something light enough to carry, tempting enough to risk and dangerous after it was mined.”
Alechior smiled, the thought clicking into place. “Then here is my proposal,” they said. “A golden stone, warm to the eye and tempting to the hand, that reveals its nature only once it is taken. When mined, chance decides its fate, a clean fifty-fifty. Half the time, it stirs the mind and hands alike, pushing the bearer to create, to shape, to make art for art’s own sake. The other half, it does nothing so loud, instead settling into the soul, calming the heart, easing worry and quieting fear. No wealth promised, no power guaranteed, just creation or happiness, decided by luck.”
Khthon’s answer was to get to work. A pair of hands emerged from the wall on either side of his torso, grasping a piece of soapstone. ”Soft stone, easy to work, easy to carve,” he muttered, concentrating. The surface rippled, the dark color replaced with something lighter, something shining. A golden color bloomed on the surface, revealing a submetallic luster, duller than true gold, but brilliant all the same. The original stone’s subtle dappling remained as small patches of paler yellow and white, giving depth and texture. ”Beauty to ignite the heart,” he continued. Then he solidly grasped both ends of the rock, and pulled, impossibly stretching it out, lowering its density. ”As light as stone can be, light enough for mortals to take with them.”
With something approaching reverence, the arms handed the piece of stone to Alechior. ”The physical part is done. Now all that remains is your blessing. The stone knows it is unfinished, and is prepared to follow your will. Whatever you infuse, it will accept wholly,” he explained.
Alechior accepted the stone with both hands, their expression shifting into something uncharacteristically focused. Golden light gathered in their palms, sinking inward, coiling around it. When their hands pressed against the stone’s surface, the glow bled into it slowly, threading through its veins as if the stone itself were inhaling. Chance settled into the material, not as chaos but as a balanced tension, a promise that could fall either way and would never apologize for it.
The stone warmed beneath their touch. The dull-gold surface shimmered once, then steadied, as if satisfied, its nature finalized at last. Alechior exhaled, the light fading from their hands as they lifted them away, leaving the blessing sealed within. They turned their head toward Khthon, grinning. “That,” they said, voice light with approval, “is beautiful work. Solid, honest and just risky enough to be interesting. You’ve got a good hand for this.”
They tilted their head, gesturing vaguely upward, toward the distant world beyond stone and dark. “Once Gamblerdise begins shaping it, you’re welcome to see what comes of it. My temple’s doors stay open, always. No traps, no walls closing in, I promise,” they added, with a faint laugh. “If you ever feel like seeing what mortals make when luck and earth meet halfway.”
Kthon tilted his head in thought. ”I do not believe I would like that place very much,” he admitted candidly. ”I am most comfortable in silence and solitude, and it sounds like a loud and crowded place.” His arms took the newly created stone and sank back into the walls, already beginning to weave it in and around Gamblerdise for mortals to find. ”But I will surely visit one day, if only out of curiosity, and to honor your invitation.”
”Now, we only need a name for our creation. I must admit that I am uncharacteristically unsure of what to call it. ‘Fortunite’ comes to mind, in honor of your involvement in its making, yet I am not sure it is fitting…” With barely a glance, the cave’s crumbled entrance opened again, connecting it once again with the distant surface. ”Perhaps you have a better idea?”
Alechior laughed softly. “Oh, it would be loud, yes. No point pretending otherwise,” they said, spreading their hands in easy concession. “Dice clatter, voices argue, someone always cheering or cursing their luck. But if you ever do come, truly come, you won’t be left to endure it alone. Speak to Villagxor. He’s sensible, quiet when it matters and he knows how to make space for silence. If need be, the village can hush itself for a god who prefers stone over song.”
They glanced at the newly opened path, then back to Khthon, grin widening. “And Fortunite?” Alechior nodded approvingly. “It’s perfect. Simple, playful and just smug enough to tempt people into touching it. A name that invites a choice and doesn’t explain the consequences. I like it.”
”Then be on your way, God-Sibling. Your people are free to harvest the fortunite that fills the earth around their home, as long as they bury some of their work for me to collect." Khthon smiled, a rare touch of humour in his voice. ”Do tell them to not be careless, however. Caverns that do not actively try to kill them do not mean safe caverns. Accidents can always happen.”
Alechior took a few backward steps toward the light, offering a wave as if they were leaving a neighbor’s den rather than a god’s domain. “Well then,” they said cheerfully, “thank you for the stone, the patience, fixing the soil AND the whole not-crushing me into gravel thing. I’ll pretend not knowing your name is part of the mystique, makes it feel more exciting.” They paused, tapped their chin and added with a grin, “Next time we meet, I’ll try to guess it. If I get it wrong, feel free to bury me a little. Farewell, God-Sibling.”
Khthon stayed still for a moment, and then began to chuckle, the first real laugh to leave him rumbling the surrounding stone in mirth. He truly did forget to introduce himself, hadn’t he?
Alechior drifts into a mountain in Gamblerdise, accidentally steals a chunk of copper and gets sealed inside the cavern for it. There they meet Khthon. The two gods talk, trade apologies and end up forming a pact in which Khthon enriches the failing soil of Alechior’s people, as well as the rest of the surface world, while Alechior offers crafted works in return. The two of them co‑create a new golden stone called Fortunite that embodies chance.
Khthon enriches the depleted soil on the surface so that it can keep sustaining plant life until everything stabilizes (In-domain, widespread modification of existing terrain (topsoil), Hazy, 1 conviction) Khthon helps create Fortunite alongside Alechior, a golden stone, and creates veins and deposits of it around Gamblerdise (In-domain, unsure if Lucid or Hazy, 0-1 conviction)
Alechior spent 1 Conviction to enhance the Fortunite Stone. This golden stone forms within the earth at designated sites, its surface golden but less so than actual gold, faintly lustrous, easily mistaken for precious metal but far heavier with meaning than wealth. It can be mined by mortal hands easily and its true effect is only decided at the moment it is taken free from the ground.
Upon extraction, Fortunite Stone resolves its nature through chance alone. There is an even, fifty percent outcome determined per individual piece.
In one outcome, the stone awakens the Urge to Create. The bearer feels a persistent pull, as long as they're holding the stone, toward making something with the stone or inspired by it. Craft, carving, painting, engraving, architecture, tools, games, art, the exact expression varies by individual, but idleness becomes unbearable. The stone does not grant skill or talent, only drive, pushing mortals to attempt creation regardless of success or failure. Many such works are crude, some are beautiful.
In the other outcome, the stone bestows the Quiet Hand. Instead of inspiration, the bearer is overcome with calm. Worries dull, anxieties loosen their grip and emotional weight becomes easier to carry. The effect does not remove hardship or danger, but it grants resilience, patience and a steady mind. Those affected often become slower to anger, more deliberate in action and less prone to despair, as long as they carry the stone.
Orranoth The Sky god had done much already, merely by drawing the Ideal Patrons into the universe. He had unfortunately, felt embarrassed by the great chaos he had incurred into the world of Ashuruh by trying to nourish life. The Sun had caused much havoc. The village of Radanu, which he had blessed with the artificial sun, prospered, but even they were going to leave, just as Orranoth returned as his disguise as an old man. "I am the one who blessed your ancestors with the Little Sun. Turn to me, because I will bless your lives with relief and prosperity you've never seen before." "I brought the Sun here for the goodness of your lives all those years ago, and I will bless you again." Orranoth briefly transformed into a partially exalted form, with his body shining enough to awe the folk here, yet was supernaturally gentle on their eyes, at the same time. He merely waved he hands at the sky, bringing periodic gentleness of rains, coolness of winds, and he, with his power over the sky, regulated the harshness of the Sun over time, so that the climate of a large region over Ashuruh would be gentle enough to survive and even prosper in.
The townsfolk were in awe over Orranoth, worshiped him over the display of his power, and over time more worshipers came to Radanu, which may one day become a kingdom, not merely a village or two.
-3 (In Domain) Conviction for Orranoth to attempt to cover a large region of Ashuruh, where the settlement of Radanu is, with a magical cloak of clouds that regulate the harshness of the Sun, and cools the land with rain.
"I hate you! I hate all of you!" The old man, Aristel, yelled as he threw the various objects from this bench and out of his house. Round stones, bits of bark, carved bones, all of it was thrown out the doorway as garbage. He then collapsed in a crying fit upon his workbench. He was old. So old. He had witnessed the gods make this world into what it was. When he had seen it he knew: there was more to this world than met limited, mortal perceptions.
Ever since he made it his life's duty to uncover its secrets. And since then decades had passed. He had only recently found himself in Excelsium, and he had eagerly taken to the worship of Excelsis, hoping the god of Eminence would bless his study of the world.
But no, Aristel made no headway. He worked as a farmer during the day but ever since the Great Light ignited the sky, the world of life had gone into a frenzy. Tending the fields was impossible. For now, food was manageable. So he could devote more time to studying the greater world. Except none of it yielded any results. He never could figure out the esoteric essences of the material world no matter how hard he tried. And now, in his old age, he had grown beyond desperate and finally fell into despair. Was his entire life just a farce? A mistake born from young idealism or over-imagination?
Someone knocked on his door. Aristel did not respond. Still he heard his door open. "Who in the name of all that is holy would come in here now!?" yelled the old man as he looked up from his empty bench. Before him stood Meris, the giant avatar of Excelsis. Warden of Mortality. Aristel fell to his knees immediately. It was more a response to the divine aura than anything else.
"Rise, Spark-Given. We must talk." Said Meris, his voice was graven and severe. Moments later, two chairs appeared for Meris and Aristel to sit down upon. "You have suffered many defeats, mortal." The avatar continued. "And yet Excelsis himself has deemed you fit for a... nudge."
Aristel recovered from his momentary bout of zealotry. The overwhelming aura of divinity ebbed away. He got on the chair and looked at Meris. "You sound...disapproving of this?" He said. He had noticed the slight, almost mortal inflection in the avatar's words.
"You are a failure," Meris said. "Your greatness never manifested. Your spark never even encountered a catalyst. By the laws of eminence you should be allowed to waste away." Aristel swallowed deeply. Those were hard words to hear. Luckily, Meris continued: "However, my Lord has deemed it necessary for mortality to be... accelerated. Thus, certain enlightenments are deemed necessary." Meris didn't move but Aristel's entire vision was immediately consumed by light.
Not his sight but his mind was flooded with a thousand visions. He saw himself standing in a thousand locations at once, doing weird things with his arms, speaking strange words, gazing deep into fire, gathering feathers from weird birds. None of it made sense. The visions were too much. He screamed out in pain as he felt his mind breaking. Right at the edge of what a mortal man could endure the visions stopped as suddenly as they came.
"What... did you do?" Aristel asked.
"A push. You are blessed and cursed. Your Spark is forcefully ignited. If you remain here, it will consume you with no result. The answers you require lie beyond the horizon. Wander, Aristel of Excelsium. Return when you have encountered your catalyst, and you've been victorious. Or die."
~
Those had been some harsh words coming from an avatar. Aristel remembered them clearly. Even as he was trekking over some truly strange landscapes. All around him there was white. He had tasted it, and it was foul. The whole place was covered in white, crystalline sand that smelled horrible. It was hot and exhausting here.
He wasn't exactly sure why he was wandering through the white, stinking hellscape that was these sand plains. All he knew was that his Spark yearned for something hidden within it. So he wandered. His lips were chapped and dried out. A day ago he had drunk the last bit of his fresh water. As he walked, he realized that he was feeling unusually driven. Before Meris' visit he would never have thought of bearing starvation or wilting like a plant for lack of water. Now... somehow... some vague promise made it all seem worth it.
His eyes were getting dry. That was a strange sensation. Especially because they made noticing things far away difficult and just now he thought he was seeing the first thing rise out of the saltflats. "Hopefully I'm not hallucinating." He said to himself as he got closer.
The thing he had found was massive and made of various stones. His mind was racing as he got closer. What was it? He kept getting closer, then heard a rumbling coming from it. It wasn't a building. It was a creature! A living, yet somehow immobile creature! "Hail!" Aristel yelled as he ran over. "Hail! You live too! Something alive in these god-forsaken la-"
Light flashed from the stone creature, and again Aristel's mind was assaulted by visions.
~
The woodland madman they were calling him. They were the wandering tribes of the area. He was half-blind and spoke weirdly as he walked through the forests, gathering strange bits of the world. Some tribes visited him, believing he possessed divine wisdom to share. He had none. None of them were important. When he spoke, he spoke of things they couldn't understand. Perfect circles, the essences of the world, the hidden esoteric meanings of every shape and object in the world.
"So why a circle!?" He rambled on as he was drawing the circle around a tree trunk. Most of the tree lay a bit further. The trunk had broken because of a storm. "Because it moves around. it goes around. No angles to get caught in. Very important! If it gets caught, it concentrates. You don't want it to concentrate!" Aristel yelled as he pointed his stick at a curious little Imantail. "If it concentrates, it goes beyond control. Always circles!" He yelled, a she continued his work. He drew more circles at the edge of the main one around the trunk.
"Then you have to have the formula right. And the offering. I've got it... i think. I'm not sure what will happen if I don't. Maybe I explode." He stopped drawing the new circles for a minute and looked sideways. A deer had joined the Imantail, as if the natural world was coming in to check on him. "I'll be fine. I have to be fine. If I explode now, how on earth will they make figures of me? And they'll have to make figures of me." He mumbled to himself as he kept drawing. Then he put in each new circle an object. A bone, a piece of sinewy flesh, and bread.
"Oh great power of motion. I call upon you. Bless this tree. Give it your power. Make it move. I beseech you, oh powers of portations, bless-" He kept the chant up for thirty exhausting minutes. He didn't know how he knew the chant beyond that the golem of the saltflats had somehow... taught it. Or rather etched its knowledge in his mind.
It was a significant first attempt for mortalkind to call upon certain forces in a very organized manner. An admirable one too. Sadly, it was not a perfect one. The bread was wrong. The Ideal of Motion that was being called took one metaphysical look at the ritual and knew the mortal had screwed up. As Aristel finished the chant the Ideal decided to send its message.
"Bless this tree trunks with locomotion!" Aristel finished the chant and felt every muscle in his body stiffen. This wasn't the plan. With arms held up high he fell backwards into the ground. His body was paralyzed, as if his own locomotion was stolen. But how!?
~
Hector was brought before the crazed old man at Excelsium's edge. As Scion of War he was amongst the first and foremost Spark Gifted of the growing village. "They say you're either dangerous or a genius." He said to the old man. "I'm here to judge. Who are you?"
"Aristel! Name's Aristel. I'm not dangerous, I am a genius!" He spoke with infallible confidence but his ragged appearance made it difficult to believe. Luckily, Hector was known to be merciful.
"What are you a genius of?" Asked Hector.
"Weircraft!" Aristel said. "I am the first founder of esoterism! And the creator of Weircraft! Excelsium will find it very useful. Especially in this life-choked world now."
Someone leaned into to Hector and said something. He frowned and sighed, then looked at Aristel again. "What is this weircraft and please, be quick about it."
"Why, it's this!" He gestured behind him, towards the towering field of wild wheat that had grown twice the height of a man. Everyone frowned for a second. They mumbled about it being just the while plants. Until something groaned from inside the field. A large, lumbering shape appeared. It was a walking tree trunk. it was walking on its roots. People screamed and panicked. Hector shot upright and grabbed his spear. The walking tree trunk groaned as it reached the edge of the field and then settled down. A soft glow from the softer wooden "joints" of the roots vanished. The tree trunk returned to being just that.
"See!" Aristel proclaimed. He hadn't moved at all. The moving tree trunk was behind him. He had given it a simple motion command: wait about fifteen minutes and then move across the field. Stop at the edge of the field. It was all he wanted it to do, as a demonstration and it had worked flawlessly.
A lot of people in Excelsium were terrified of the sight. A lot of them but not Hector, who looked at the madman Aristel, who was balancing on a perilous knife's edge. "You can teach this?" Hector asked.
"Yes!" Aristel proclaimed proudly.
From higher up the hill, in the village, Meris watched with a passive expression. The mortal's mind was damaged by the intervention. He would live long enough to act as a founder of this 'Weircraft' but it would be his students who would bring prosperity with it to Excelsium.
Meris “blessing” - In-Domain Specific Target - Avatar Aristel’s spark was forced to burn. Due to a lack of a catalytic event in Aristel’s life, the flame would consume him if he didn’t go out to find such a catalyst. (-1 Conviction, Lucid action performed by an Avatar)
We find Aristel, an old man, getting angry because his research isn’t giving him any of the information he wants. Meris visits him and forcefully activates his spark, giving him the option. Either he goes out to find his catalyst, or he dies. Consumed by the flame.
Next we see Aristel traversing some salt flats. He reaches a stranded knowledge golem, who etches some information in his brain.
Then we find Aristel attempting the ritual for the first time. He is trying to animate a tree trunk through asking for the aid of the Ideal of Motion. It fails. Aristel used a wrong ingredient. He is paralyzed.
Finally he returns to Excelsis and shows a tree trunk moving. His ritual was a success. But he is old. He will teach Excelsis the foundation of ritual Magick.
