if y'all thought regular Jvan was weird.
- Last Seen: 2 yrs ago
- Old Guild Username: Antarctic Termite
- Joined: 12 yrs ago
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Vec,
Timemaster
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Recent Statuses
8 yrs ago
Current
( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
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8 yrs ago
If you're not trying to romance the Pokemon, what's the fucking point?
7
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8 yrs ago
Can't help but read 'woah' as a regular 'wuh', but 'whoa' as a deep, masculine 'HOO-AH!'
1
like
8 yrs ago
That's patently untrue. I planted some potassium the other day, and no matter how much I watered it, all I got was explosions.
2
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9 yrs ago
on holiday for five days. if you need me, toss a rock into the fuckin' desert and I'll whisper in your dreams
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Bio
According to the IRC, I'm a low-grade troll. They're probably not wrong.
Most Recent Posts
????
You promised me a flower.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothingness. Only the empty void beyond.
You promised me a flower, said the voice that defined its borders. No thought, no word here. Only one mind. Only one thought. Only one Word.
And in the beginning was that Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God, and that Word was Lust…
The Lust for All Things. The lust for a flower.
The lusting voice that defined the dark hovered on, travelling not through consecutive positions of space but consecutive planes of consciousness, altering its awareness as it moved and penetrating deeper into the stream of awareness threaded through space-time. I gave you a flower? the voice recalled, reshaping all the nothingness by observing it and so reshaping itself, the observer. I gave it to your sister. I gave so many flowers. I gave a whole garden to her.
A sudden halt to the motion. You never gave me a flower, it thought. The nothingness resolved. She gave me a flower. From the absolute void, the thinker thought blue, and the conscious void voiced blue, and the Word of God was blue. A deep dark blue. No light at all. Only the bones of the ancient leviathan, lying asleep on the ocean floor.
From one void to another, the Isonymph reached its hand. An abyssal crinoid crawled upon it.
She gave me a flower, it said, in thought. A lily. The feathered arms of the star-creature fanned slightly in the current, pulling miniscule specks of driftwater food into its maw. So slowly did it grow. So mindlessly did it breathe.
You gave me a flower, said the Isonymph, flowing out back into the great void that was. The crinoid followed suit, flicking its frail arms against the current of thoughtlessness. It could be at home here. Perhaps. If it could exist at all. Lily…
The being translated itself across the void, unobserved and yet observed, for observation was the only thing tethering it to its own, small speck of existent reality. Another speck just drifting on the current, waiting for the feather-arm in the dark to pull it into its maw.
But though that arm lurked in the distance, it would not pull. The walls of this vacuole were distant, not hostile. As distant as one is from zero. An infinite subdivision away. Jvan.
You wrought an endless cavern, the entity prayed to its old god. Clever. So, so clever you were. The older one, before all of this. Before Lust was a propulsive force. Before Tueda became Jvan.
The Isonymph slipped back out of nothingness to some other nothingness, trailed by its crinoid. It nestled on a darkened moon. Its crinoid froze instantly. The Isonymph unfroze it. Made it live. Even in the cold and the dark, and the airless space of Cogitare, she could make it live- she could raise the dead and animate the unliving. I hope you’ll live…
The entity disappeared again, through no void but its own, the grand Vacuole. It reached a Heartland.
In the Long Ago Time, there had been a great confuscation among the Mass, and the Congregation of Weight decided to undo itself; thus in the Now, there was much confusion, and many Weights and Scales were out of balance, and no one knew how to repair them at all.
The Pulleys of Mass drew one platform against another, and an Engineer inspected them, such that he could; the angle was bad and his own pulleys were quite fatigued. He winched his own observatory platform down on his neck, very slowly, so as not to strip the screws in his neck connectors, which had grown bent as of late. When he observed that a wild mechanism had established itself on the bottom of the platform, he spun his vocal chain, and let it unwind, driving two hammers against his low keys; the tapping sound was his sigh.
It was a long winch down to the bottom of the platform, where the Large Wheels connected to the Pulleys of Mass, and the engineer was very tired of it. In the Long Ago Time there had been grandeur, in the work of the Engineers, but that word had lost its proper capital now, though it was still written as such, and he was relegated to the role of maintaining and cleaning.
He screwed his clamps shut tightly on the opposing clamps of the mechanism, and applying his Long Lever, slowly screwed it open; it banged and tolled like a mad thing at his motion. It was buckling work, and tiring, and the engineer's main coils were almost unspun by the time he had screwed the mechanism from where it was parasitising the big Pulley, and hooked it into himself.
Late in the Rotation he would unwind it, and rewind his own coils with it, taking some gears to replace his own ground ones. He knew it was illegal; but at this point, he thought, even the laws were worn.
Horror. Horrorsome. Horror, some. Horrorsomy.
The Isonymph sat cross-criss-cross-legged on the top end of a winch, blossoming like the leafless flower it was. Fractal petals came and went in its sepalled bulb, every colour, every shape. Its crinoid imitated it in mindless simplicity.
They say it means 'of horror'. But Fate plays tricks. The First Tongue isn't first. In an older tongue, as old as Horror itself, 'soma' means 'body'.
The Engineer tired about his business, cabling himself to a long wire such as to wind him while all his gears untoothed, all but the one that would wake him when it was done.
'Horror-body'. Is she the engineer of monsters? Or is she herself the organelle that manufactures horror for the universe?
The lily watched the mechanist world winch on with its ailing gears, its ailing laws, its people. People that lived according to edicts that forbade etching, yet themselves were etched in metal.
She'd been given an edict of her own.
Heartland, homeland...
Isonymph flipped herself inside out several times, her pitch-black skin giving way to spectral flux. She flipped herself through void and vale, reaching into every dark and stagnant place on Galbar she could think of, and then she pulled.
Bits of reality tore into the mechanist realm from everywhere that was nowhere. Portals broke around her like shining holes in the roof of a cavern, orbiting in a piecemeal sphere.
...Leviathans, whales...
Flesh was produced. From where, it was quite impossible to say. It formed strips, long ribbons, curved platelets, components. Grey as a colourless dawn. Fins and feelers. Gills and gullets.
Inside, outside...
Isonymph took the portals, and extended her many hands, twisting them into foreign shapes. They glowed around her, rings and helices, supercoils and spheres. She was playing, nothing more. The shape she was looking for was already known: a degenerate toroidal vortex, a spherical ring spinning into itself. Of these self-consuming portals, she made many.
...Puppy dog's tails.
The creature sealed the toroidal portals in rings of grey flesh, joined at the seams with lines of cyan glow.
Masses of warpfisk swam through the mechanist world, swarms of them so vast they lit the planet blue. The mechanists, who had no sense of sight, nor any means of perceiving that which was not part of the mechanisms, were blind to the peril they were in. Had always been in. Beyond the mechanisms, silhouettes were marked by the light of the warpfisk, showing things that never touched, never cradled, yet had been here all along, outside the gears.
Currents of light spun from the toroids, first in rings echoing the shape of the enfleshed portals themselves, then in spindle-like beams running through the center of the warpfisk as the portal fields intersected themselves. The swarm flashed, and was gone.
Isonymph was alone.
It emerged into the scanning darkness of the Graveyard Worlds where Jvan had dumped dead Heartlands. There it saw the warpfisk, still glowing, restlessly dreaming, amidst a shattered chain of the Great Gear, and many thousands of mechanists besides, uncoupled from their world and flailing with excess momentum, coming apart, reduced to what they ultimately were: metal pieces in a particular shape.
The silhouettes flew into the nearest Graveyard World, and stayed there. Another invasive species.
At the Avatar's direction, the Warpfisk dispersed, flashing one by one into the Vacuole, and from there into the corners of the universe, everywhere there was quiet- quiet and shade and stagnation, and patterns without meaning, blank places waiting to be written on. Wherever the lines of the real strayed a little too close to the Vacuole.
Isonymph faded into the darkness, and returned to where she belonged. The lily came with her, silently swaying its slender tentacles.
The difference now is that while Might is VERY good at creating things, it is EXTREMELY bad at destroying, or creating for destructive ends.
That kind of defeats the point, doesn't it? We want people to create things to destructive ends.
Tiraposting! More incoming.
Kho's off to be the Busy, so there'll be a bit of a delay between this and Tira returning from Chronos. After that, she'll be available for all sorts of mortal affairs.
Kho's off to be the Busy, so there'll be a bit of a delay between this and Tira returning from Chronos. After that, she'll be available for all sorts of mortal affairs.
Termite & Kho present...
Through the Gate Unguarded there passed the echo of a thing that had once been and was no more. There passed a thing older than the Universe - nay, which had given rise to the Universe and all in it. It had been lusted after - was still desired and covetted - by those who well knew it was now forever out of their reach. It had, long ago, fallen into the hands of a god who wept at the cycle of misery the Codex promised all and was itself promised - and he had chosen to end it. For the defenceless Codex of Creation had been abused and desecrated by the immortals, torn at and used like some tool of no great import or sanctity; and the prideful had thought to see into its depth and become privy to knowledge that was, by right, that of the Codex alone. And so now it was the desecrator and ravager of gods.
The groaning Guardian of the Gate Unguarded stared sombrely as the little girl - whose childish form belied her true age - walked into the domain of the recrudescent god of Time. Beneath her feet ants stridulated and scampered away as though they sensed - somewhere in the depths of their Time-touched minds - that here marched a being, though mortal, which was to be feared by those - such as they - who were servants of the divines. The Gate parted before the Godkiller and its host, and before Tira their sprang and spread in all directions a great landscape which seemed to have been crafted from peace itself. Such things had no effect on her, however, and the divinely ordained peace that settled on all who walked into the dominion of the Lord of Time was veiled to Tira's eyes and heart. But that was not to say that she was not aware of it, and that was not to say that - if she willed it - she could not permit that peace entry. That she could not embrace it and play with it, and charm it and be charmed by it too, on her own terms. The Godkiller, in the hands of one who was unfamiliar with it, was indiscriminatory in its rejection of all things divine; but in the hands of one who knew it - even if that knowledge was buried in the depths of the subconscious - the will of the Godkiller was amenable to the will of the host.
There had once been (not that Tira would know) a great white slab serving as the Chronos-side of the Gate Unguarded. But that white, plain cuboid totem was long gone, and in its place - she would see if she glanced behind her - there stood a mighty obelisk of enormous size. Its head, like Old Bark-Skin did with the Galbarian stratosphere, seemed to disappear into the grey-red clouds of the Chronos aerosphere - was the Obelisk-Gate whispering? It seemed to her that there were hushed and gentle voices emanating from the shifting onyx stone and the shapes and faces in the immense facade.
There came, ascending the stairs forming the base of the great obelisk, two white-clad figures whose veiled and bandaged visages bore a strange symbol - a large red flower upon which was an ant, the flower was flanked by two ravens like wings and dotted around the central flower were three different, smaller, greenish ones. The white-clad duo were armed. Each had a long polesword - which, strangely enough, closely resembled the naginata the little girl gripped - and at their sides were swords of extraordinarily long and beautiful hilts whose blades were at rest in finely crafted sheaths. They had been notified of the stranger who sought access to New Chronos by their Guardian brother, had been notified also of the goddess who had accompanied this stranger until the final moment. Chronos itself prodded at and observed her, weighing her worthiness against some unknown and invisible transcendental criterion. It did not seem to find her defective, and the intangible tendrils of the plane withdrew as the Victors advanced and hailed the stranger.
And she said, 'Iya!'
With that word, all the hidden trepidation she carried with her melted into nothing, carried away on the sound of her voice. The world settled back into ground state, flowing into her, and past her, and around her, and found nothing- for all its wisdom- but Tira.
'You there who ventures forth from the wildlands of Galbar; we greet you in the name of the Celestial Above. I am Battle Brother Ignaetus, Thirty-Sixth of the Hallowed Hundred, and this here is Battle Sister Synja, Thirty-Seventh of the Hallowed Hundred. Chronos, and all in it, welcome you.'
'Tira,' she said, sticking out a hand.
'Here where Time reigns and where each Galbarian moment is taken and stretched into weeks on end, as its Lord wills and commands, you may roam freely and be witness to wonders. But pray tell - who are you? For though you have a small child's form, your eyes speak another story, and though you seem but a fragile thing, your grip on your weapon declares a differing tale. Who are you, old child, and what has brought you here?'
'...' The hand was slowly lowered. Tira's gaze settled on a rock for just a second, then went back to the Victors, their alertness naked. She spoke again, and this time permitted no inquest. 'Tira.'
The Victors stood motionless and silent at her response, as though expecting her to speak again. But there came nothing else. Tira she had said. The Victor's were proficient in more languages than could be counted, and that word meant many different things in many different languages. Arrow, to pull, to throw, an encampment awaiting battle.
'Brother,' Synja spoke, interrupting Ignaetus' thoughts, 'it's just her name.'
'Ah...' the Battle Brother said, 'but of course.' Even as they spoke to one another, their faces moved neither left nor right, but remained fixed in Tira's general direction. Some, unused to being unable to see the eyes of the speaker, found it disturbing or strange - for the face spoke what mere words and intonations did not. It was no issue for those, like the Victors, whose senses went beyond mere sight and hearing and touch, who could sense the expressions and were even privy to one another's thoughts. It was an issue for Tira. 'Do you speak, Tira?' Ignaetus asked the girl in the divine tongue, his tone not unkind, 'do you understand what I say?'
'Nn,' she said with a nod. 'I'm here from Ale'pria. Someone told me that...' She shuffled on her feet slightly, 'at the top of the world, there's a place to rest for a long time.' At the mention of Alefpria, the two Victors leaned back slightly and physically turned their heads one to the other.
'Alefpria, you say,' it was Synja who spoke, and as she did her bandages unravelled and her hood removed itself from her head, revealing a human face beneath.
Face Cold, Eyes Far
'Was it Our Master Belvast who sent you, Tira?' The Battle Sister asked, her incisive, cold grey eyes seemingly intent on poring over the little girl's soul.
'Nah,' she said. 'I ran. You stare, by the way,' she informed Synja, politely but firmly, and stretched. 'Is it, but?' Synja looked away from the girl, muttering a small apology. Her grey eyes and generally critical disposition had never aided her in social interactions. The veiled Ignaetus spoke.
'Well, whoever it was that told you this is a place of rest was not wrong. You can rest here for as long as you please - out there on the Galbarian wildlands Time is almost still while aeons pass in here. This is a refuge, a place of meditation, of exploration, of learning, of growth. It can be, also, a place to forget all things and simply be.' Something panged inside of Tira.
'But, if you feel prepared and are truly Worthy, you can challenge this place and wander into its depths - and if you are successful, Chronos will reward you. It rewards always the Worthy.' The Battle Brother turned away and started walking, and Synja gestured, somewhat stiffly, for Tira to follow- but she was already up ahead. Tira had a knack for accepting challenges before they were issued.
'Come,' Synja said, as Tira danced a small spider across her fingertips. 'I will show you around, and you can tell me about this mystery person who told you of Chronos.' She walked a few more steps past the preoccupied Tira before turning her head and adding, 'or if you prefer, you can go off and find your way on your own. I can't promise I'll be exciting company, as you might already have gathered.' She actually managed the shadow of a smile at this.
'Who's the biggest challenge?' her charge requested, looking up from the spider. It skittered to her hair, where she flicked it off and two birds promptly fought over it. Or, at least, two things pretending to be birds, one with great effort and the other not so much. After a few moments of this taunting and playfighting, the little white spider made its escape and the birdlike critters flew off to taunt something else. In Chronos, none died except the willing; the predator could not consume its prey until the prey itself decided - out of a great sense of pity, out of selflessness perhaps, out of a greater understanding of what would come of the predator if left starved and undying. And that little spider, still young and full of life, was not yet willing to give over its flesh that another may survive. These things took Time.
The water 'bird' was glad to be relieved of the charade of 'hunting' and 'feeding'. The other one, with four wings and no mouth, seemed only miffed.
Synja looked at Tira impassively for a few moments as they walked. 'The biggest challenge?' She turned her gaze away before continuing, 'the biggest challenge is ourselves. That is where the ultimate battleground lies; the greatest mystery, the deepest truth, and the key to understanding our perennial pain.'
'...Oh,' said Tira, appreciative, yet also disappointed. Synja seemed to notice her disappointment and quickly continued.
'Of course there are other things of a more... well, direct nature. We Victors pride ourselves on not only our mental prowess, but our physical prowess also. You will find us ever willing to accept challengers and disciples. Chronos itself is alive, and it will certainly throw difficulties in your path - small and large; the deeper you venture in, the greater the hardships it will throw your way. That is the greatest "challenge", if you will.' As if to prove this, the ground beneath Tira suddenly shifted ever so slightly as though to trip her up.
Tira, being unused to finding the earth itself as her enemy, promptly stumbled; she caught herself and stamped down the offending earth. 'Your spirits are rude!'
The Victor suddenly paused and glanced behind her at the great Obelisk-Gate. Her eyes were cool as they scanned the area, and then she spoke - but not to Tira. 'Yes Battle Brother, they are in tow. Would you like me to dispose of them?' A few moments of silence followed before the Battle Sister turned away from the Gate and regarded the girl again, 'Tira, were you aware that you are being followed?'
'...Uh. The birds?' She looked back and shrugged. 'Someone else?'
'Would you like me to get rid of them?' The Battle Sister asked.
'The... birds..?' Tira repeated. 'Why?' Synja frowned slightly. The girl clearly did not understand that those "birds" were more than that.
'They are marked by gods. All that you say and do, they see and report back. Are you comfortable with that?' But Tira, for her part, only blinked.
'Am I hiding?' She shrugged. 'Ba kajank-ho yiil-ne', she explained. 'Ne owt-as iujin karawan.' Anyone can see me. I am not anonymous. Synja eyed the girl for a few moments as she attempted to decipher her words. It seemed to be an admixture of the divine tongue and some mortal languages. She could not quite place it though. Shrugging slightly as she turned and continued moving, she gathered that the girl did not much care about being traced.
'We're going to have to work on understanding what you say, I think.' It was clear that the girl lived in the moment, and Synja really could not. 'How did you come by that weapon,' the Victor suddenly asked, gesturing to Tira's naginata, 'it looks a great deal like our poleswords,' and here she hefted the polesword and extended it carefully towards the girl, 'don't you think?'
'Yeah!' The comparison delighted Tira, who loved the weapon and was glad it now had friends. 'A pretty man left it in Ale'pria when he went looking for a lady,' she explained, 'so it's mine now. My friend fixed the metal, and made it better.' Synja nodded as she took the information in.
'Yes, it does look like a very fine weapon. That pretty man must have been a warrior of merit - or an exceptional craftsman. Have you ever used it? You hold it like one familiar with it.' Synja inspected the girl's youthful face, and she could not help but wonder what horrors she had witnessed that her apparent naivety belied.
Tira's raised eyebrow and half-cocked smile betrayed nothing. 'Did I walk here?' she asked, rhetorically. 'How far do you think it is from here to Alefpria? Took me four years. You think I didn't get any fights in on the way?' Synja shrugged.
'Walking a long distance over a long time does not mean many fights. Battle Brother Juras walked for many years - we only know of one fight he was embroiled in, and even that was brief.'
Tira had a strong intuition that he had cheated.
'But I only ask because I was not aware that the polesword is a popular weapon on Galbar - if you are skilled with it, then you either had a skilful teacher or taught yourself. Which of the two was it, I wonder? Would you, perhaps, wish to test this skill of yours against centuries spent refining the art of the polesword?' Even as Synja spoke, the sounds of metal clanging against metal reached them, and in the distance a white-clad Victor could be seen conducting the deadly dance with a smaller figure.
'...I'm gonna formally duel...' Tira raised her finger slowly then pointed it with a cocking motion- 'That one.' The Victor she had indicated was the one engaged with the younger boy. Her hand soon flew to Synja. 'You're next. I taught myself, by the way.' A lie, but it made herself feel proud. As they approached, the two sparring figures stopped and turned to them.
'The small boy is Our Master Zerabil. He is a son of gods but... well, he's different from others. Almost human. And the one next t-'
'I am Battle Sister Seihdhara,' came the the red-haired Victor's voice. 'And this must be Tira. Even Our Master the Bard has taken note of you! It's not always we get important people visiting,' she smiled easily, and Zerabil beside her looked curiously at the older girl.
Tira turned her pointing finger on herself. '...what'
'Oh! H-hey,' he said quickly, 'I'm Zerabil!' His hand shot out in a handshake. Tira absentmindedly crushed his metacarpals as she attempted to figure out what Seihdhara meant by important. 'YEOWCH!' He jumped and wrenched his hand from hers, prompting an eyebrow raised. 'W-why'd you... why'd you do that?' The boy's childish body was not the most resilient to physical force.
'You'll live,' she said, 'squeeze harder next time.' To the Victor, she asked: 'You been following me too, huh?'
Seihdhara raised an eyebrow and chuckled. 'Following? Oh no no, nothing of the sort. Not that I'm aware, anyway. Sister Synja is too young to remember, but the Celestial Above knew of you before you were a thought, Tira. And now that it is returned, it has been waiting on you.' Zerabil looked from Seihdhara to Tira, his curiosity growing.
'My Father knows you?' He asked Tira excitedly, his crushed hand already forgotten.
'No,' she said, with a shrug. 's'god things.' She turned to Seihdhara. 'Heaven wants to see Tira? Okay. But I'm fighting you after,' she reminded, 'and then you,' she said, pointing back to Synja in case she'd also forgotten.
'In your own time, ther-' Zerabil interuppted Synja, however.
'Wait! What? What about me? I want to fight too!'
Tira raised an eyebrow. 'I'll fight you right now,' she warned. He grinned.
'Okay!' He looked around and quickly spotted the polesword he had been dueling Seihdhara with. Seihdhara and Synja backed away as he hefted it, giving the two ample space.
'Be careful now, try not to-'
'Yeah yeah, I got it,' Zerabil said hurriedly. 'This is gonna be way more fun than trying to catch you, Seihdhara.' The woman sighed. She had always found it strange that his mental faculties also became more childish as he grew younger. Everyone had thought it odd that he did not simply stop aging when he became a fully-developed adult. He had continued aging, his hair becoming grey, then white, and his back curving until he had become senile and decrepit. They had taken him to the God in the Stone and called upon the Bard to help, but the divines showed no interest.
And then the aged Zerabil had begun to grow youthful once more, his back straightening and his mental faculties returning to him, until he was once again a fully developed and healthy young man. But it had not stopped there - his body shrunk and he began to act more and more child-like. And then, once he had gotten to such a tender age that he almost knew nothing of himself, he began to age normally again. And so on, back and forth for centuries, for the hundreds of thousands of years he had existed on Chronos. His body now resembled that of a nine- or ten-year-old. Though his grip on his polesword was confident, it was clear that the weapon was heavier than his form was comfortable with.
'Alright!' He declared, grinning from ear to ear, 'I'mma take you down, handmasher!' Coming from his small mouth, it was almost comedic.
Without having changed her expression once, Tira nodded. 'Nnn.' But her keen eyes recognised the familiarity of Zerabil's grip on his blade, and she awarded him the respect every serious combatant is due: a wary gaze, as she adopted a high reverse thrusting stance. Taking on a basic hanmi stance with a leading right-foot, and his polesword gripped right-hand over left, Zerabil shuffled forward swiftly and thrust testingly for Tira's torso.
Shuffling back on limber feet, Tira let the thrust pass but swiftly caught the flat of Zerabil's blade with the butt of her naginata. She forced it aside, the blade end of her weapon swinging down from above in the same movement, and wielded her voice in a stunning cry: 'KIA!'
Zerabil gasped and frantically shuffled forward and to the side as the blade swung by him and, turning his polesword so that its blade ran parallel to the ground, jumped away and swung swiftly at Tira in a side-long arc, releasing a forceful exhalation resulting in 'HA!'
Tira grounded her polearm and held it upright, cue-end to the dirt, guarding her side; Zerabil was just about close enough for an elbow and she gave him one upside the jaw, not viciously but with firmness. She immediately took the chance to withdraw, the two having wound much too close in their manoeuvres.
Zerabil opened and closed his jaw and shook his head slightly. He should have jumped even further away before swinging, stupid mistake. She could have easily done more damage, he knew. Getting back into his position, he struck forth once more, and Tira returned.
From there they spun back and forth, adopting more cautious stances and strikes between bursts of furious action. Tira was repeatedly taken aback by the depth of skill Zerabil displayed, and the honing of his reflexes; the development period for such ability was longer than his apparent life, and she had been wise not to take him lightly.
But Tira for her part was wise in other ways, and had stepped out of a much larger world. Zerabil had spent too long fighting the same style with the same Victors, and was unused to the sudden shift in his opponent's form. Moreover, his body had hard limits, even greater than that of most. They were of small matter in a fight with the naked blade, but of rather great import should the engagement become a contest of strength and reach, and Tira knew how to make it so.
All this winding and unwinding came to a head, several seconds later, when Tira's haft crossed Zerabil's, and she forced her way behind him to display a secret knowledge, a technique which no ten-year-old can ever withstand: she wrapped her arm around his neck and firmly knuckled his scalp.
'YEOWCH!' Zerabil squealed as he struggled to free himself, 'oi! Hey! What are you- oich! You evi- owww, lemme gooo. SEIHDHARA!! HALP!' But the red-haired Victor only giggled at the display.
'You're the one who wanted to fight - don't blame me when it all goes so, so wrong,' and the boy's squeals did not cease until Tira had had her fill.
'Shoulda yielded,' she said, pushing him to one side. Free at last, Zerabil rubbed his head and grinned at the girl.
'When I'm bigger, I'm gonna get you back for that! You watch, handmashing, head brutaliser you.' Then he leapt to his feet and pulled at her elbow in an attempt to get her to follow him, 'you need to see the city! And the citadel! And then we need to go introduce you to my Fa- oh, but you already know him right? Well, we'll see him too! And Morarom as well. He's a big crazy talking bear! Did you know that the Hallowed Hundred aren't actually one-hundred? It's stupid right? That's what I told him!'
'I don't know him,' she reaffirmed, waving away Zerabil as best she was able and addressing Synja. 'I should see him though, right? Let's go.' Synja nodded and gestured for her to follow.
'I'm going with them!' Zerabil announced to Seihdhara. The Victor nodded and raised her hand in goodbye. 'We'll come by the citadel when we're done with Father!'
'It's not a citadel,' Synja quickly said to Tira, 'it's a temple complex. You could call it our Order's base. But in any case, let us go see the God in the Stone.' Zerabil had caught up with them and looked from Synja to Tira.
'So, how do you know my Father? I don't think you mentioned it.' He said to Tira.
'...If you ask me one more time I'm gonna smack ya,' she warned. 'Who is he, anyway?' Zerabil rubbed his head sheepishly and shrugged.
'I dunno really. These lot call him the Celestial Above, and then they call him the God in the Stone, and a thousand other things,' and then he lowered his voice, 'they drone on and on about how great and perfect he is, but don't fall for all that. He actually killed my mum!' Synja gave the boy a disapproving look but said nothing. He spoke normally again, 'I was actually hoping you might know something about him. I've tried talking to him, but he's not always responsive you know? He has this look on his face like he's in pain or thinking deeply. I once told Morarom he might be constipated, but that crazy old fart kicked me when I said it!'
'Right, that's about enough of that!' Synja suddenly said irritably, 'say what you will, but at the very least have some respect for your Father.'
'I do have respect for my Father. You don't see me calling him dad or daddy do you? I just wish I knew more about him.'
'If he has not spoken with you, then there is a sage reason behind it. Be patient.' Zerabil rolled his eyes.
'Over a million years spent waiting in this place, and you still tell me to be patient.' Synja shook her head and sighed.
'You're much more reasonable when you're older. If only you stayed that way all the time.' Zerabil pursed his lips. They all said that.
Respect the constipated man, thought Tira. Gotcha.
Zerabil looked at Tira. 'Do you have a family Tira? Do you know your dad? Tell me.' He looked at her expectantly. She was the only normal person he had ever met. Was her family as... strange as his?
'My dad was a hunter,' she said, 'but I have a lot of mums.' She counted them off on her fingers. 'Savannah mum, guts mum, rock mum, dancer mum, paperwork mum, huntsmum. And Uncle Dabbles.' Zerabil laughed gleefully at this.
'Hey, that's like me! I have two Fathers! I want many mums too! That would be cool. If one of them couldn't talk to you, then you could just go talk to another one!'
'...' Tira looked off into the distance. '...Yeah. Sure.' The sudden melancholy in her tone caught Zerabil off guard and he looked at her carefully.
'What's the matter? Tell me what you're thinking, c'mon.'
'Parents don't last forever,' she said.
Zerabil frowned at this and clenched his fist. 'We- well. I mean, that's true, I know. But... they should! They should last forever,' he said it with a degree of frustration. 'Why don't they anyway? They do here. Why can't everywhere be same?'
'Dunno,' Tira said, and meant it. He said nothing after that, pondering on the sudden pensive turn the conversation had taken. Maybe one mum was better than many. But why had he been denied even one? And why was it that, though he had two living Fathers, he had been denied both? Yes, over a million years waiting with no response did make a person bitter.
They walked through dales of green grass where goat-like creatures wandered about and small spiders scurried hither and thither - 'they're much bigger when you cross the mountains,' Zerabil commented, 'you know the white armour Synja's wearing is actually made of spider-silk. They make it at the citadel,' - rivers ran wherever the eye could see, and trees sprang up all around. They eventually arrived at hills and climbed up into a rocky outcrop sheltered by thick trees.
And though the rocks looked treacherous, Chronos guided their path
There, in the midst of the undergrowth, rose a hillock upon which was a large boulder. Emerging from the boulder was a large human form. The God in the Stone opened his eyes - one of them was scarred and pure black - and surveyed his visitors. Zerabil gibbered excitedly - he had only ever seen his Father open his eyes a handful of times. 'Father! You're awake! Look, Tira's come to visit you. Seihdhara says you know her, but Tira says she doesn't know you.' Gadar surveyed Tira stoically.
'Visit me, do you? Know you, do I? Perhaps,' he spoke with clear difficulty. 'Why here, is Tira?' So saying, he closed his eyes.
'I... Wanted... To meet Zerabil's father,' she said, over the course of long seconds. Tira glanced at Synja, a brief but cold frown. 'We've never met.'
'Zerabil's father...' he frowned. 'We... have never met, Tira. B- but...' he strained as though there was a weight upon his shoulders which he kept in check, and his wounded eye opened, its darkness surveying her.
'But I d̶̥̋̊́ö̶͍͇́̅̽͛ know you. You were poor, ã̴̱̙͈̟̪̜̙̍n̶̹̺̈́̑d̷͎̰͑͜ ̸̡̣͕̞̰̫̭͒́̏̂͘Ì̸̲̫̣͕̭̠̏̄̀ ̵͍̥̺̰̑̆͒͋̀͑́ĕ̴̳͓̬̠͖̂n̴̦͔̗̹̊̾͂͌̈́ṙ̵̢̧̢̖͓̪̩̙̓̈́̈́͐̈́̕̕i̶̼̽̓̈́c̷̪͛̌̿̆h̶͖͍̭̱̹̋̉ḛ̸͔̳̝̅ḍ̶̹̱͆̇̓̎̋̂͗ ̸̘̣̳̮̦͆̓͗̑̐̕y̶̢̰̼͋͐̔͆͘̚̚͝ô̴͔͕͎̤̝͑̔̌ű̷̼̰̭͍̪̯̤̀. You were alone, å̸̟̍̑̋͑͌͝ͅǹ̴̯̹́͆̄͆͆d̸̳̟͈̫̓́͠ ̷̳̠̪̯̗͑̏̊̚I̶͕̞̜̭̗̼̙̗̍͑́ ̴̜͇́̈́͂̕͜ͅg̴̬̖̹̍̽̌͝a̴̬͚̤͎͑͂̈́̃͐͑͂̆v̷̗̟̆̄͒͒ê̴̫̪̼̇̄͐̚͝ ̶͉͔͉̩̯͍̆̀̆̀̃y̶͙͚̓̈͂͜͠ŏ̶̯̞̩̹̗̺̆̍̑̀̾͑͝ȗ̶̻̼̘̩̆͗̑̃̒̕. You were ill, a̶̺̓n̸̢̮̪̮̟̂d̵̯̪̞̊͝ ̶̛̭̳̱͔̑̐̏̄͝I̸̥͈̜̪̮̟͚̦͆ ̸͇̤͕̣̼̼̀c̷̛̫͙͍͒̽̉́̎͝ư̵̞̱̼̤̻̙̽̃̽r̸̡̰͓̻̥̞̠̓̇̃̕͝͝è̶͙̳͓̉̌́̀̓͛́ͅd̵̙̞͐͌͊̽͋ ̵̯̯̣̝̬̮́y̸̛̤̖͙̿͐o̴̟͌̍̔ǔ̶̳. You were confined, ǎ̷̢̖̲̺̦̥͈̩̀̐̐n̵͕͙̻̙͉̒̇̎͐̄̕͘d̵̹͖̑̋͒͒͛̉̓ ̶̭̹̗̣̯̳̑͊͘I̷̫̩̖̗̗̜̟̝̾́̚͝ ̷̧͕͕̖̥̻͓̅̀̕f̴̰̑̎̐̔̓̚r̸̲͓͔̘̺͈͓̽͐̍̍̕e̸͎̪̦̓͗̃͐e̶̲̫̋̿̑̅̇̄̂͒ͅd̶̼̰̱̫̭̤͔̪̍̇̌͠ ̴͍͐̽͐̾y̵̭͍̰̞̑̂͋̓̕͝ͅő̸̢̤̆ű̶̢͍̞̠͇͍̲͑̓̀̔̎. You are mortalkind's hope, their power, their strength, their protection against my siblings - w̸̢̙͉̼͖̗͌̽ͅh̶͎̺͍̓̓̓͛̿̊̊͜a̵̬̥͈̹͛̋̎̽͒̒̚̚t̷̝͇̚ ̸̛̣̪͔̖͚͑̍̏̀̃͝h̵̟͉̊͑͒ȁ̴̱͙͍̘̠͈̤͠͝v̸͈̞̣͎͙͖̤̔̏̈́̊̈́̀̕͜ḛ̶̛̱̠͑̌͑ ̵̛̬͚̹̰̀y̵̢͖̬̦̻̩̌͊̋̉͜͝ȯ̴̳͎͚͓̪͛͛͝ú̶̱͊̌̕͝ ̵̱̯̆́̈́̆d̵͍͍̞͕͙̥̱́͜ö̶̹̩̫̪̣͕͖͒͘ͅn̶̰̭͖̊͠e̴̤̳̖̥̲̔͒̄̆͗ ̴̛̻͈͖̱͓̯̝̐̈́̑w̴̧̞̰̹̓̏̅̒̌̿̚i̵̯̼̻͚̽́́̎̄̊͘̕ͅt̴̫̹̥͗́h̸̨̛̗̱̭̥̳̠̑̒̈́͒͒̅ ̸̛̫̦͖̬̭̯̻̰̆͐̔̓a̸̩̐͋̎̆͘͘l̸̢͍̫̼͕̺̔̀l̷̲͕̟͗́͗ ̵͍͎̙̾̏̓̈͊y̸̱̞̫̼͇͑̃̐̇̾͌̈́͜͠ō̵̙̥̎͋̍̾̚ư̷̬̲̰̹̼̒͛̏̅͗́͠ ̴̯̝̺̈́̈́͜w̵̡̯̦̹̜̯͙̉̉̂̓̾̽͝e̸͕͇͕̺̭̩͍̅r̸̨͇̼̈́́̈̽̒̆̌̕ę̷̲̝͍̠̂͑̃͘ ̶̬̬̱̩͚̯͚̋̊̿̈́̎̐̍g̶͚͔̘͗̅̅́̈́̆ī̶̟̱̤̹̈̏̉f̴͇̣̀̄̽̓̓͝t̵̨̒̆́͐e̵̱̭̣̘̓̄̏̅̄̓̈́̌d̴̡̟̬̼̑͘?'
The black eye closed forcefully, and what looked like sweat (but the gods did not sweat) ran down Gadar's face. 'He is... crazed. He does not speak of his own mind.' But the speaker continued.
'Why is it that even now Mafie is led to me? Ṯ̷̆h̴̩͝e̶͚̎y̷̢͝ ̸̬̿g̵͍̔r̵̨͐ọ̸̌å̵̳ǹ̵̦ ̷̰̉b̶̃͜ę̷̋n̸̮͝ë̷̬́ḁ̵̀t̸̛̻h̷̠͊ ̶̨̈́t̴̫̊ẖ̸̏ë̵͔́ ̴̛͚w̸̳̄ë̵̞́i̸̗̓g̸͉̈́h̴̙́t̸̖͠ ̴͖͐o̴̫͘f̸̗͌ ̷͇́t̸̖̿ḧ̶̦́e̴͔̽ ̴̘͐g̴͓̓o̶͙͒d̴̡͂ş̵̔. Where were you?' Gadar clenched his teeth together as Vowzra forcefully attempted to continue his tirade. that's enough. get back. you only cause us pain. Zerabil watched his Father wide-eyed. This was the most he had heard him speak in... well, ever.
The father's voice did not waver in pitch or volume. One god stood before them, and one god spoke. Zerabil was not fooled. There were two persons within the speaker- two very different, maybe opposing, persons. He looked to Synja's face, and realised that she had not understood this. He looked to Tira's, and...
'No,' she said. 'Stay.'
...There was nothing young in her at all.
Tira's hand held a small cup of paper mâché, fashioned from an old blueprint in the shape of a skull. She tilted it, and a trickle of dark fluid ran down onto the ground,
wh̀ich̶
s̡i̛m̛͟͞p҉l̡̢̢y
c̡҉̻̱̜̝͙̬̮̱̩̣̠͔̦͔̫e̸̛͔̫̖̥͈̪͕͝a̴̰̼̤̭̳͚̤̻͎͔͖̫̺͞s҉̡̛̯̦̺̞ͅe̸̵̢̛̹̖̠̖̘̯̩̗͍̗̩d̗͈͕͙̕͢
t͏̥͖̩͕̹̻̕͠͠ò̶̴̖̲̳̳̤̳͉̻̫̦͓͎͉̤̣̪͟͞ͅͅ
e̵̴̱̰̗̻̠̅͌̓͆̒̉͒̓͐͊̐̅x͍̝̘͈̝̠̼̥͎̮̪̣͔̘͈̮̰̊ͧ̃̽ͭ̓̎͋͡i̶̮̞̝͔̲̹̟̗͚̫͚̬̭͓̝̦͖̭̾͆ͮͨ̉̂̌͋́ͅs̶̥̜̖̝͔̜̭̘͈̻̼̹̃̇̉͌̐̒ͣͨ̌ͧ̏͌̈́͋͆̚t́ͫ̄͗ͮͧͬ̂҉͜͟҉̦͍̼̙͔̠̤͔̺̭̱͍͔
̓ͤͪ̂͒ͭ̆̅͊̾̊̓̽͐ͪ̈͑͘͠ ̵̧ͫ̽ͫ̒ͬ̆ͪ͋̔͗͆ͨ̀ ͫͨ̌ͤ̀ͭ̈́͞ ̵̢̉̓͛ͮͧ̉ͧ̔ͮ͋͊͜͢ ̧̨͒ͥ͊́̚̚̕͞ ̉̔̄͛̄̀ͯ̽ͫ͐͛͛ͥͨͩ͏́ ̢͋͊̿̔͠҉̧ ̵̢̧͌ͨ͑ͥ̐ͨͮ̆ͪ̊͒̐̚͘
.
'This is why I'm here.'
Tira tilted up the cup, but didn't pocket it again- if a pocket had ever been where she had drawn it from. It seemed to have never left her hand. She spoke with her free hand, in a language of palms, to supplement her plodding but perfect First Tongue. 'When Lifprasil drank this, he nearly died,' she said. 'He didn't even touch it.'
Her words cut through Gadar's mystery, though her lips barely moved. Her face was cold and neutral. She Saw all she needed to know. 'I've done nothing with this gift. When Mafie Snowhands died, I was chasing pigeons in the streets. But I was a child, Vowzra. A fatherless orphan.'
'That is why I ran here. I need time to find out. How to use this and why it's here. I don't care what it is. I've seen what it does.' She lifted it a little higher, held it a little further. Gadar's eyes saw the surface of the dark white fluid. It was ink. Maybe blood.
Tira asked: 'Did you make this?'
Gadar was for a few moments still, and then he drew back from the cup his already pained face contorting even further. But he bore it silently. Vowzra spoke.
'Mercy. Always Mercy. It is all you mortals have ever asked of me. And I told you - again and again I told you - you do not need mercy. But in my final moments, as I stared into the abyss and saw nothing sprawled before me, nothing but horror. but pain I thought... why not grant you what you do not need? You have asked for it so much, and I have nothing to lose by it. So I gave them you. You are a mercy. If I may be slightly prideful, pretentatious even, my mercy.' Gadar's hand moved to his face and mechanically rubbed the god's temple.
'And I return to find that my mercy has done... nothing. You suffer as you did before. You weep. You cry out to me - to all of us. Does mortalkind never pause to think that they to whom they call out are the very cause of their suffering? You are here for Time. You say you were a child - that is why their cries passed you by. You were fatherless, you say. Is it ingratitude that I detect? Is it an accusation YOU should have been more merciful! that lies hidden in the empty spaces between one word and the next?'
'No,' she said. 'I was an idiot.' Tira retracted the cup, sighed, and looked up to the sky. Somewhere up past that shrivelled bubble, the northern lights were shining.
A deep scowl showed itself on Zerabil's face, and he looked like he was about to say something. But a glance at Tira gave him pause. She spoke again. 'You should have been more merciful. So should we. So should all of us. So should everyone.' There seemed to be a sudden pensiveness to the human face of the God in the Stone, as though maybe he regretted. Tira looked back. 'But I'm not a child any more.'
The hands kept up their rhythmic dance from one word to another. 'I could use this. I don't want to. I should use this,' she said, 'but I might be wrong. Lakshmi taught me not to act before I know who I hurt. I'm glad she did. You should all be very glad she did.'
Tira flexed her hand and the air around her forearm flashed with that same dark white. 'Is Tira supposed to be the one to choose who deserves to live and die? She could be. I think she'd be good at it. Doesn't that make you scared? It scares me! Maybe I'm doing the wrong thing right now by not slaughtering you all! I don't know! But if I try hard enough, I know I'll figure it out! And that scares me! That frightens me, Vowzra! I'm scared!'
Tira's breath had grown shallow, her signs were heartfelt. 'Do you know how much good I could do for this world by murdering my old mother? Do you know how often I think about that? Jvan could die. You're the ones who sent us all her dreams, aren't you? After a thousand lives or more Jvan Tueda Nuul can finally die. Everyone would be happier. The world would be so much gentler. And they would never know- and I can't even imagine-' she wiped her leaking face with her sleeve. '-how much uglier it would be.'
Nothing made a noise, now, but the knot in Tira's weary throat.
'Are all gods like that?' she asked. 'Is all your family so hard to execute? I can't even kill one.'
The god's face had become impassive once more, the coldness, the deepened darkness of the one scarred eye, made that all too clear. 'If you have come to me for guidance, Tira, then you know well that you have come in vain. I am not your guide.'
Tira thought, ...Guess I'll just keep on doing nothing, then, and may have said so aloud.
The god paused, considering her and the distraught Zerabil beside her. The boy had been silently starting at the ground for the longest time, pain and fury mingling in his heterochromatic eyes. 'It is not out of cruelty, you understand. Mortals don't need mercy, but they don't need cruelty either. The nub of the matter is that, as far as you are concerned, I am compromised. Would you trust any "guidance" I give to you? You are able to See into the gods better than any mortal ever has and ever could, better even than the gods themselves. What can I tell you that you do not already, or cannot, know? I have given you all-' Vowzra seemed intent on continuing, but he was suddenly silenced, and the voice of Gadar came softer and more gentle. It came comforting and certain and flowing, like a pen dipped in ink taken to a white page by a hand that knew its tool and knew what it wished to write.
'Mercy does not come naturally to my brother, but I learned kindness and taught it. And I, who knew only suffering and loneliness, who was forgotten by all, have come to know that the lifting of Suffering is the only true end to the life of mortals and immortals alike. It requires unparalleled kindness, compassion. It requires mercy.'
The scarred black eye glistened wetly, and from it flowered a single stream of liquid onyx. Zerabil's mouth hung slightly open in shock, a single tear forming in his own dark eye. 'Tira, it is true that you have been given an unparalleled capacity for slaughter, but you are mercy. You are the truest altruism a divine has ever bid be. The singular mercy of a merciless god. It is for you to choose your path, Vowzra cannot be your guide - but I can show you to something, unveil a part of you that can, perhaps, help you on your way. If you want it, it waits for you beyond the mountains-'
'Niciel is too kind to-'
'-on the plain of Sertz.'
'...Oh.'
Tira sighed. She was very tired. 'Thank you,' she said, enunciating vocally, her forehead buried in her palms. 'I'll go.' She looked up again, picked up the black wood of her weapon. It would be supporting her weight a while longer, it seemed. Her gaze left Gadar and wandered back.
'You didn't deserve this, did you?' she asked. 'Yara. Bel.'
The ink-eyed goddess considered Tira for a few moments, and then Gadar's face broke out into a full, beaming, tearful smile. 'We have let into existence a world where rare indeed are those who get what they deserve. Suffering is an illness; where it is found, strive to remove it - whether in yourself or others. Where you find that you cannot remove your own suffering then there is but one option before you. Strange, but I saw this in Vowzra's mind long ago, and have only now come to truly understand it: we must strive to be worthy of our suffering. If our suffering breaks us, if it makes us cruel, selfish... surely then we have failed ourselves. In unavoidable suffering there are lessons to be learnt and opportunities we cannot perceive. Indeed, unavoidable suffering provides the chance to cultivate virtues that ease and the lap of luxury deny. The virtue cultivated during ease is that of moderation and self-restraint, that cultivated during suffering of fortitude, valour, forbearance. Ease can create good people, but it is out of suffering that heroes ultimately emerge.' It was a lot of words, many she did not truly understand, but Tira listened.
Mercy, She Wrote
Virtue, She Taught
The goddess paused for a few moments and frowned slightly, 'but please, don't think this has little bearing on our lived realities. I know it may seem that way - I know that people rarely think like this. I know I am physically trapped, I know my soul is bound - but my spirit is free. There are those who boast free forms and unbound souls, but whose spirits are imprisoned and bound. I am content in the knowledge that I have defied the trappings of my fate simply by cultivating my inner liberty.'
none can defy FATE. no one defies FATE. in your... our 'defiance' we only do the will of FATE.
Shut up, said Tira patiently.
The goddess wiped away the stain of ink from Gadar's face, only for it to be replaced by another stream. Then she continued. 'I once had a child brought to me. She had not long to live and I no mortal cure, but she told me that she remembered her grandfather and the way he had waited on death with bravery and dignity. She had thought her grandfather the greatest of heroes for meeting death so well. She said that now she had a similar chance. I do not think that I shall soon perish, but I would like to think that I too, in the face of my fate, can be both dignified and brave. Indeed, perhaps even grateful.' The goddess was quiet for a few moments and then the beaming smile returned and she looked from Zerabil to Tira.
'If you pity me, Tira, then that is good. I only ask one thing of you, the both of you - consider it a sad old witch's request: pity all.'
Tira nodded. That much was clear. 'Okay. I will.' She sighed, glanced away. 'I'll come back for you,' she promised also, 'when I can.' The goddess behind Gadar's scarred eye seemed to smile - a silent I will hold you to it -, and then she retreated and was gone. With that, Tira bowed to the stone and the godhead embedded upon it, picked up her blade and turned away to the horizon.
'Let's go,' she said, addressing Synja and Zerabil once more in simple speech. 'I'm gonna head to Sertz.' She spun to walk backwards for a moment, pointed two fingers at her own eyes and then the same two at Synja's, and added, 'But I'm still gonna fight you, too. Don't forget it.' Synja nodded impassively and looked to Zerabil, who was staring at the now silent and still God in the Stone. She did not quite catch the expression on his face, for he suddenly turned and ran after Tira.
'I guess... we're going,' the Battle Sister said platonically, and followed.
Tira was already eight steps ahead.
At the Beginning Once More
Through the Gate Unguarded there passed the echo of a thing that had once been and was no more. There passed a thing older than the Universe - nay, which had given rise to the Universe and all in it. It had been lusted after - was still desired and covetted - by those who well knew it was now forever out of their reach. It had, long ago, fallen into the hands of a god who wept at the cycle of misery the Codex promised all and was itself promised - and he had chosen to end it. For the defenceless Codex of Creation had been abused and desecrated by the immortals, torn at and used like some tool of no great import or sanctity; and the prideful had thought to see into its depth and become privy to knowledge that was, by right, that of the Codex alone. And so now it was the desecrator and ravager of gods.
The groaning Guardian of the Gate Unguarded stared sombrely as the little girl - whose childish form belied her true age - walked into the domain of the recrudescent god of Time. Beneath her feet ants stridulated and scampered away as though they sensed - somewhere in the depths of their Time-touched minds - that here marched a being, though mortal, which was to be feared by those - such as they - who were servants of the divines. The Gate parted before the Godkiller and its host, and before Tira their sprang and spread in all directions a great landscape which seemed to have been crafted from peace itself. Such things had no effect on her, however, and the divinely ordained peace that settled on all who walked into the dominion of the Lord of Time was veiled to Tira's eyes and heart. But that was not to say that she was not aware of it, and that was not to say that - if she willed it - she could not permit that peace entry. That she could not embrace it and play with it, and charm it and be charmed by it too, on her own terms. The Godkiller, in the hands of one who was unfamiliar with it, was indiscriminatory in its rejection of all things divine; but in the hands of one who knew it - even if that knowledge was buried in the depths of the subconscious - the will of the Godkiller was amenable to the will of the host.
There had once been (not that Tira would know) a great white slab serving as the Chronos-side of the Gate Unguarded. But that white, plain cuboid totem was long gone, and in its place - she would see if she glanced behind her - there stood a mighty obelisk of enormous size. Its head, like Old Bark-Skin did with the Galbarian stratosphere, seemed to disappear into the grey-red clouds of the Chronos aerosphere - was the Obelisk-Gate whispering? It seemed to her that there were hushed and gentle voices emanating from the shifting onyx stone and the shapes and faces in the immense facade.
There came, ascending the stairs forming the base of the great obelisk, two white-clad figures whose veiled and bandaged visages bore a strange symbol - a large red flower upon which was an ant, the flower was flanked by two ravens like wings and dotted around the central flower were three different, smaller, greenish ones. The white-clad duo were armed. Each had a long polesword - which, strangely enough, closely resembled the naginata the little girl gripped - and at their sides were swords of extraordinarily long and beautiful hilts whose blades were at rest in finely crafted sheaths. They had been notified of the stranger who sought access to New Chronos by their Guardian brother, had been notified also of the goddess who had accompanied this stranger until the final moment. Chronos itself prodded at and observed her, weighing her worthiness against some unknown and invisible transcendental criterion. It did not seem to find her defective, and the intangible tendrils of the plane withdrew as the Victors advanced and hailed the stranger.
And she said, 'Iya!'
With that word, all the hidden trepidation she carried with her melted into nothing, carried away on the sound of her voice. The world settled back into ground state, flowing into her, and past her, and around her, and found nothing- for all its wisdom- but Tira.
'You there who ventures forth from the wildlands of Galbar; we greet you in the name of the Celestial Above. I am Battle Brother Ignaetus, Thirty-Sixth of the Hallowed Hundred, and this here is Battle Sister Synja, Thirty-Seventh of the Hallowed Hundred. Chronos, and all in it, welcome you.'
'Tira,' she said, sticking out a hand.
'Here where Time reigns and where each Galbarian moment is taken and stretched into weeks on end, as its Lord wills and commands, you may roam freely and be witness to wonders. But pray tell - who are you? For though you have a small child's form, your eyes speak another story, and though you seem but a fragile thing, your grip on your weapon declares a differing tale. Who are you, old child, and what has brought you here?'
'...' The hand was slowly lowered. Tira's gaze settled on a rock for just a second, then went back to the Victors, their alertness naked. She spoke again, and this time permitted no inquest. 'Tira.'
The Victors stood motionless and silent at her response, as though expecting her to speak again. But there came nothing else. Tira she had said. The Victor's were proficient in more languages than could be counted, and that word meant many different things in many different languages. Arrow, to pull, to throw, an encampment awaiting battle.
'Brother,' Synja spoke, interrupting Ignaetus' thoughts, 'it's just her name.'
'Ah...' the Battle Brother said, 'but of course.' Even as they spoke to one another, their faces moved neither left nor right, but remained fixed in Tira's general direction. Some, unused to being unable to see the eyes of the speaker, found it disturbing or strange - for the face spoke what mere words and intonations did not. It was no issue for those, like the Victors, whose senses went beyond mere sight and hearing and touch, who could sense the expressions and were even privy to one another's thoughts. It was an issue for Tira. 'Do you speak, Tira?' Ignaetus asked the girl in the divine tongue, his tone not unkind, 'do you understand what I say?'
'Nn,' she said with a nod. 'I'm here from Ale'pria. Someone told me that...' She shuffled on her feet slightly, 'at the top of the world, there's a place to rest for a long time.' At the mention of Alefpria, the two Victors leaned back slightly and physically turned their heads one to the other.
'Alefpria, you say,' it was Synja who spoke, and as she did her bandages unravelled and her hood removed itself from her head, revealing a human face beneath.
Face Cold, Eyes Far
'Was it Our Master Belvast who sent you, Tira?' The Battle Sister asked, her incisive, cold grey eyes seemingly intent on poring over the little girl's soul.
'Nah,' she said. 'I ran. You stare, by the way,' she informed Synja, politely but firmly, and stretched. 'Is it, but?' Synja looked away from the girl, muttering a small apology. Her grey eyes and generally critical disposition had never aided her in social interactions. The veiled Ignaetus spoke.
'Well, whoever it was that told you this is a place of rest was not wrong. You can rest here for as long as you please - out there on the Galbarian wildlands Time is almost still while aeons pass in here. This is a refuge, a place of meditation, of exploration, of learning, of growth. It can be, also, a place to forget all things and simply be.' Something panged inside of Tira.
'But, if you feel prepared and are truly Worthy, you can challenge this place and wander into its depths - and if you are successful, Chronos will reward you. It rewards always the Worthy.' The Battle Brother turned away and started walking, and Synja gestured, somewhat stiffly, for Tira to follow- but she was already up ahead. Tira had a knack for accepting challenges before they were issued.
'Come,' Synja said, as Tira danced a small spider across her fingertips. 'I will show you around, and you can tell me about this mystery person who told you of Chronos.' She walked a few more steps past the preoccupied Tira before turning her head and adding, 'or if you prefer, you can go off and find your way on your own. I can't promise I'll be exciting company, as you might already have gathered.' She actually managed the shadow of a smile at this.
'Who's the biggest challenge?' her charge requested, looking up from the spider. It skittered to her hair, where she flicked it off and two birds promptly fought over it. Or, at least, two things pretending to be birds, one with great effort and the other not so much. After a few moments of this taunting and playfighting, the little white spider made its escape and the birdlike critters flew off to taunt something else. In Chronos, none died except the willing; the predator could not consume its prey until the prey itself decided - out of a great sense of pity, out of selflessness perhaps, out of a greater understanding of what would come of the predator if left starved and undying. And that little spider, still young and full of life, was not yet willing to give over its flesh that another may survive. These things took Time.
The water 'bird' was glad to be relieved of the charade of 'hunting' and 'feeding'. The other one, with four wings and no mouth, seemed only miffed.
Synja looked at Tira impassively for a few moments as they walked. 'The biggest challenge?' She turned her gaze away before continuing, 'the biggest challenge is ourselves. That is where the ultimate battleground lies; the greatest mystery, the deepest truth, and the key to understanding our perennial pain.'
'...Oh,' said Tira, appreciative, yet also disappointed. Synja seemed to notice her disappointment and quickly continued.
'Of course there are other things of a more... well, direct nature. We Victors pride ourselves on not only our mental prowess, but our physical prowess also. You will find us ever willing to accept challengers and disciples. Chronos itself is alive, and it will certainly throw difficulties in your path - small and large; the deeper you venture in, the greater the hardships it will throw your way. That is the greatest "challenge", if you will.' As if to prove this, the ground beneath Tira suddenly shifted ever so slightly as though to trip her up.
Tira, being unused to finding the earth itself as her enemy, promptly stumbled; she caught herself and stamped down the offending earth. 'Your spirits are rude!'
The Victor suddenly paused and glanced behind her at the great Obelisk-Gate. Her eyes were cool as they scanned the area, and then she spoke - but not to Tira. 'Yes Battle Brother, they are in tow. Would you like me to dispose of them?' A few moments of silence followed before the Battle Sister turned away from the Gate and regarded the girl again, 'Tira, were you aware that you are being followed?'
'...Uh. The birds?' She looked back and shrugged. 'Someone else?'
'Would you like me to get rid of them?' The Battle Sister asked.
'The... birds..?' Tira repeated. 'Why?' Synja frowned slightly. The girl clearly did not understand that those "birds" were more than that.
'They are marked by gods. All that you say and do, they see and report back. Are you comfortable with that?' But Tira, for her part, only blinked.
'Am I hiding?' She shrugged. 'Ba kajank-ho yiil-ne', she explained. 'Ne owt-as iujin karawan.' Anyone can see me. I am not anonymous. Synja eyed the girl for a few moments as she attempted to decipher her words. It seemed to be an admixture of the divine tongue and some mortal languages. She could not quite place it though. Shrugging slightly as she turned and continued moving, she gathered that the girl did not much care about being traced.
'We're going to have to work on understanding what you say, I think.' It was clear that the girl lived in the moment, and Synja really could not. 'How did you come by that weapon,' the Victor suddenly asked, gesturing to Tira's naginata, 'it looks a great deal like our poleswords,' and here she hefted the polesword and extended it carefully towards the girl, 'don't you think?'
'Yeah!' The comparison delighted Tira, who loved the weapon and was glad it now had friends. 'A pretty man left it in Ale'pria when he went looking for a lady,' she explained, 'so it's mine now. My friend fixed the metal, and made it better.' Synja nodded as she took the information in.
'Yes, it does look like a very fine weapon. That pretty man must have been a warrior of merit - or an exceptional craftsman. Have you ever used it? You hold it like one familiar with it.' Synja inspected the girl's youthful face, and she could not help but wonder what horrors she had witnessed that her apparent naivety belied.
Tira's raised eyebrow and half-cocked smile betrayed nothing. 'Did I walk here?' she asked, rhetorically. 'How far do you think it is from here to Alefpria? Took me four years. You think I didn't get any fights in on the way?' Synja shrugged.
'Walking a long distance over a long time does not mean many fights. Battle Brother Juras walked for many years - we only know of one fight he was embroiled in, and even that was brief.'
Tira had a strong intuition that he had cheated.
'But I only ask because I was not aware that the polesword is a popular weapon on Galbar - if you are skilled with it, then you either had a skilful teacher or taught yourself. Which of the two was it, I wonder? Would you, perhaps, wish to test this skill of yours against centuries spent refining the art of the polesword?' Even as Synja spoke, the sounds of metal clanging against metal reached them, and in the distance a white-clad Victor could be seen conducting the deadly dance with a smaller figure.
'...I'm gonna formally duel...' Tira raised her finger slowly then pointed it with a cocking motion- 'That one.' The Victor she had indicated was the one engaged with the younger boy. Her hand soon flew to Synja. 'You're next. I taught myself, by the way.' A lie, but it made herself feel proud. As they approached, the two sparring figures stopped and turned to them.
'The small boy is Our Master Zerabil. He is a son of gods but... well, he's different from others. Almost human. And the one next t-'
'I am Battle Sister Seihdhara,' came the the red-haired Victor's voice. 'And this must be Tira. Even Our Master the Bard has taken note of you! It's not always we get important people visiting,' she smiled easily, and Zerabil beside her looked curiously at the older girl.
Tira turned her pointing finger on herself. '...what'
'Oh! H-hey,' he said quickly, 'I'm Zerabil!' His hand shot out in a handshake. Tira absentmindedly crushed his metacarpals as she attempted to figure out what Seihdhara meant by important. 'YEOWCH!' He jumped and wrenched his hand from hers, prompting an eyebrow raised. 'W-why'd you... why'd you do that?' The boy's childish body was not the most resilient to physical force.
'You'll live,' she said, 'squeeze harder next time.' To the Victor, she asked: 'You been following me too, huh?'
Seihdhara raised an eyebrow and chuckled. 'Following? Oh no no, nothing of the sort. Not that I'm aware, anyway. Sister Synja is too young to remember, but the Celestial Above knew of you before you were a thought, Tira. And now that it is returned, it has been waiting on you.' Zerabil looked from Seihdhara to Tira, his curiosity growing.
'My Father knows you?' He asked Tira excitedly, his crushed hand already forgotten.
'No,' she said, with a shrug. 's'god things.' She turned to Seihdhara. 'Heaven wants to see Tira? Okay. But I'm fighting you after,' she reminded, 'and then you,' she said, pointing back to Synja in case she'd also forgotten.
'In your own time, ther-' Zerabil interuppted Synja, however.
'Wait! What? What about me? I want to fight too!'
Tira raised an eyebrow. 'I'll fight you right now,' she warned. He grinned.
'Okay!' He looked around and quickly spotted the polesword he had been dueling Seihdhara with. Seihdhara and Synja backed away as he hefted it, giving the two ample space.
'Be careful now, try not to-'
'Yeah yeah, I got it,' Zerabil said hurriedly. 'This is gonna be way more fun than trying to catch you, Seihdhara.' The woman sighed. She had always found it strange that his mental faculties also became more childish as he grew younger. Everyone had thought it odd that he did not simply stop aging when he became a fully-developed adult. He had continued aging, his hair becoming grey, then white, and his back curving until he had become senile and decrepit. They had taken him to the God in the Stone and called upon the Bard to help, but the divines showed no interest.
And then the aged Zerabil had begun to grow youthful once more, his back straightening and his mental faculties returning to him, until he was once again a fully developed and healthy young man. But it had not stopped there - his body shrunk and he began to act more and more child-like. And then, once he had gotten to such a tender age that he almost knew nothing of himself, he began to age normally again. And so on, back and forth for centuries, for the hundreds of thousands of years he had existed on Chronos. His body now resembled that of a nine- or ten-year-old. Though his grip on his polesword was confident, it was clear that the weapon was heavier than his form was comfortable with.
'Alright!' He declared, grinning from ear to ear, 'I'mma take you down, handmasher!' Coming from his small mouth, it was almost comedic.
Without having changed her expression once, Tira nodded. 'Nnn.' But her keen eyes recognised the familiarity of Zerabil's grip on his blade, and she awarded him the respect every serious combatant is due: a wary gaze, as she adopted a high reverse thrusting stance. Taking on a basic hanmi stance with a leading right-foot, and his polesword gripped right-hand over left, Zerabil shuffled forward swiftly and thrust testingly for Tira's torso.
Shuffling back on limber feet, Tira let the thrust pass but swiftly caught the flat of Zerabil's blade with the butt of her naginata. She forced it aside, the blade end of her weapon swinging down from above in the same movement, and wielded her voice in a stunning cry: 'KIA!'
Zerabil gasped and frantically shuffled forward and to the side as the blade swung by him and, turning his polesword so that its blade ran parallel to the ground, jumped away and swung swiftly at Tira in a side-long arc, releasing a forceful exhalation resulting in 'HA!'
Tira grounded her polearm and held it upright, cue-end to the dirt, guarding her side; Zerabil was just about close enough for an elbow and she gave him one upside the jaw, not viciously but with firmness. She immediately took the chance to withdraw, the two having wound much too close in their manoeuvres.
Zerabil opened and closed his jaw and shook his head slightly. He should have jumped even further away before swinging, stupid mistake. She could have easily done more damage, he knew. Getting back into his position, he struck forth once more, and Tira returned.
From there they spun back and forth, adopting more cautious stances and strikes between bursts of furious action. Tira was repeatedly taken aback by the depth of skill Zerabil displayed, and the honing of his reflexes; the development period for such ability was longer than his apparent life, and she had been wise not to take him lightly.
But Tira for her part was wise in other ways, and had stepped out of a much larger world. Zerabil had spent too long fighting the same style with the same Victors, and was unused to the sudden shift in his opponent's form. Moreover, his body had hard limits, even greater than that of most. They were of small matter in a fight with the naked blade, but of rather great import should the engagement become a contest of strength and reach, and Tira knew how to make it so.
All this winding and unwinding came to a head, several seconds later, when Tira's haft crossed Zerabil's, and she forced her way behind him to display a secret knowledge, a technique which no ten-year-old can ever withstand: she wrapped her arm around his neck and firmly knuckled his scalp.
'YEOWCH!' Zerabil squealed as he struggled to free himself, 'oi! Hey! What are you- oich! You evi- owww, lemme gooo. SEIHDHARA!! HALP!' But the red-haired Victor only giggled at the display.
'You're the one who wanted to fight - don't blame me when it all goes so, so wrong,' and the boy's squeals did not cease until Tira had had her fill.
'Shoulda yielded,' she said, pushing him to one side. Free at last, Zerabil rubbed his head and grinned at the girl.
'When I'm bigger, I'm gonna get you back for that! You watch, handmashing, head brutaliser you.' Then he leapt to his feet and pulled at her elbow in an attempt to get her to follow him, 'you need to see the city! And the citadel! And then we need to go introduce you to my Fa- oh, but you already know him right? Well, we'll see him too! And Morarom as well. He's a big crazy talking bear! Did you know that the Hallowed Hundred aren't actually one-hundred? It's stupid right? That's what I told him!'
'I don't know him,' she reaffirmed, waving away Zerabil as best she was able and addressing Synja. 'I should see him though, right? Let's go.' Synja nodded and gestured for her to follow.
'I'm going with them!' Zerabil announced to Seihdhara. The Victor nodded and raised her hand in goodbye. 'We'll come by the citadel when we're done with Father!'
'It's not a citadel,' Synja quickly said to Tira, 'it's a temple complex. You could call it our Order's base. But in any case, let us go see the God in the Stone.' Zerabil had caught up with them and looked from Synja to Tira.
'So, how do you know my Father? I don't think you mentioned it.' He said to Tira.
'...If you ask me one more time I'm gonna smack ya,' she warned. 'Who is he, anyway?' Zerabil rubbed his head sheepishly and shrugged.
'I dunno really. These lot call him the Celestial Above, and then they call him the God in the Stone, and a thousand other things,' and then he lowered his voice, 'they drone on and on about how great and perfect he is, but don't fall for all that. He actually killed my mum!' Synja gave the boy a disapproving look but said nothing. He spoke normally again, 'I was actually hoping you might know something about him. I've tried talking to him, but he's not always responsive you know? He has this look on his face like he's in pain or thinking deeply. I once told Morarom he might be constipated, but that crazy old fart kicked me when I said it!'
'Right, that's about enough of that!' Synja suddenly said irritably, 'say what you will, but at the very least have some respect for your Father.'
'I do have respect for my Father. You don't see me calling him dad or daddy do you? I just wish I knew more about him.'
'If he has not spoken with you, then there is a sage reason behind it. Be patient.' Zerabil rolled his eyes.
'Over a million years spent waiting in this place, and you still tell me to be patient.' Synja shook her head and sighed.
'You're much more reasonable when you're older. If only you stayed that way all the time.' Zerabil pursed his lips. They all said that.
Respect the constipated man, thought Tira. Gotcha.
Zerabil looked at Tira. 'Do you have a family Tira? Do you know your dad? Tell me.' He looked at her expectantly. She was the only normal person he had ever met. Was her family as... strange as his?
'My dad was a hunter,' she said, 'but I have a lot of mums.' She counted them off on her fingers. 'Savannah mum, guts mum, rock mum, dancer mum, paperwork mum, huntsmum. And Uncle Dabbles.' Zerabil laughed gleefully at this.
'Hey, that's like me! I have two Fathers! I want many mums too! That would be cool. If one of them couldn't talk to you, then you could just go talk to another one!'
'...' Tira looked off into the distance. '...Yeah. Sure.' The sudden melancholy in her tone caught Zerabil off guard and he looked at her carefully.
'What's the matter? Tell me what you're thinking, c'mon.'
'Parents don't last forever,' she said.
Zerabil frowned at this and clenched his fist. 'We- well. I mean, that's true, I know. But... they should! They should last forever,' he said it with a degree of frustration. 'Why don't they anyway? They do here. Why can't everywhere be same?'
'Dunno,' Tira said, and meant it. He said nothing after that, pondering on the sudden pensive turn the conversation had taken. Maybe one mum was better than many. But why had he been denied even one? And why was it that, though he had two living Fathers, he had been denied both? Yes, over a million years waiting with no response did make a person bitter.
They walked through dales of green grass where goat-like creatures wandered about and small spiders scurried hither and thither - 'they're much bigger when you cross the mountains,' Zerabil commented, 'you know the white armour Synja's wearing is actually made of spider-silk. They make it at the citadel,' - rivers ran wherever the eye could see, and trees sprang up all around. They eventually arrived at hills and climbed up into a rocky outcrop sheltered by thick trees.
And though the rocks looked treacherous, Chronos guided their path
There, in the midst of the undergrowth, rose a hillock upon which was a large boulder. Emerging from the boulder was a large human form. The God in the Stone opened his eyes - one of them was scarred and pure black - and surveyed his visitors. Zerabil gibbered excitedly - he had only ever seen his Father open his eyes a handful of times. 'Father! You're awake! Look, Tira's come to visit you. Seihdhara says you know her, but Tira says she doesn't know you.' Gadar surveyed Tira stoically.
'Visit me, do you? Know you, do I? Perhaps,' he spoke with clear difficulty. 'Why here, is Tira?' So saying, he closed his eyes.
'I... Wanted... To meet Zerabil's father,' she said, over the course of long seconds. Tira glanced at Synja, a brief but cold frown. 'We've never met.'
'Zerabil's father...' he frowned. 'We... have never met, Tira. B- but...' he strained as though there was a weight upon his shoulders which he kept in check, and his wounded eye opened, its darkness surveying her.
'But I d̶̥̋̊́ö̶͍͇́̅̽͛ know you. You were poor, ã̴̱̙͈̟̪̜̙̍n̶̹̺̈́̑d̷͎̰͑͜ ̸̡̣͕̞̰̫̭͒́̏̂͘Ì̸̲̫̣͕̭̠̏̄̀ ̵͍̥̺̰̑̆͒͋̀͑́ĕ̴̳͓̬̠͖̂n̴̦͔̗̹̊̾͂͌̈́ṙ̵̢̧̢̖͓̪̩̙̓̈́̈́͐̈́̕̕i̶̼̽̓̈́c̷̪͛̌̿̆h̶͖͍̭̱̹̋̉ḛ̸͔̳̝̅ḍ̶̹̱͆̇̓̎̋̂͗ ̸̘̣̳̮̦͆̓͗̑̐̕y̶̢̰̼͋͐̔͆͘̚̚͝ô̴͔͕͎̤̝͑̔̌ű̷̼̰̭͍̪̯̤̀. You were alone, å̸̟̍̑̋͑͌͝ͅǹ̴̯̹́͆̄͆͆d̸̳̟͈̫̓́͠ ̷̳̠̪̯̗͑̏̊̚I̶͕̞̜̭̗̼̙̗̍͑́ ̴̜͇́̈́͂̕͜ͅg̴̬̖̹̍̽̌͝a̴̬͚̤͎͑͂̈́̃͐͑͂̆v̷̗̟̆̄͒͒ê̴̫̪̼̇̄͐̚͝ ̶͉͔͉̩̯͍̆̀̆̀̃y̶͙͚̓̈͂͜͠ŏ̶̯̞̩̹̗̺̆̍̑̀̾͑͝ȗ̶̻̼̘̩̆͗̑̃̒̕. You were ill, a̶̺̓n̸̢̮̪̮̟̂d̵̯̪̞̊͝ ̶̛̭̳̱͔̑̐̏̄͝I̸̥͈̜̪̮̟͚̦͆ ̸͇̤͕̣̼̼̀c̷̛̫͙͍͒̽̉́̎͝ư̵̞̱̼̤̻̙̽̃̽r̸̡̰͓̻̥̞̠̓̇̃̕͝͝è̶͙̳͓̉̌́̀̓͛́ͅd̵̙̞͐͌͊̽͋ ̵̯̯̣̝̬̮́y̸̛̤̖͙̿͐o̴̟͌̍̔ǔ̶̳. You were confined, ǎ̷̢̖̲̺̦̥͈̩̀̐̐n̵͕͙̻̙͉̒̇̎͐̄̕͘d̵̹͖̑̋͒͒͛̉̓ ̶̭̹̗̣̯̳̑͊͘I̷̫̩̖̗̗̜̟̝̾́̚͝ ̷̧͕͕̖̥̻͓̅̀̕f̴̰̑̎̐̔̓̚r̸̲͓͔̘̺͈͓̽͐̍̍̕e̸͎̪̦̓͗̃͐e̶̲̫̋̿̑̅̇̄̂͒ͅd̶̼̰̱̫̭̤͔̪̍̇̌͠ ̴͍͐̽͐̾y̵̭͍̰̞̑̂͋̓̕͝ͅő̸̢̤̆ű̶̢͍̞̠͇͍̲͑̓̀̔̎. You are mortalkind's hope, their power, their strength, their protection against my siblings - w̸̢̙͉̼͖̗͌̽ͅh̶͎̺͍̓̓̓͛̿̊̊͜a̵̬̥͈̹͛̋̎̽͒̒̚̚t̷̝͇̚ ̸̛̣̪͔̖͚͑̍̏̀̃͝h̵̟͉̊͑͒ȁ̴̱͙͍̘̠͈̤͠͝v̸͈̞̣͎͙͖̤̔̏̈́̊̈́̀̕͜ḛ̶̛̱̠͑̌͑ ̵̛̬͚̹̰̀y̵̢͖̬̦̻̩̌͊̋̉͜͝ȯ̴̳͎͚͓̪͛͛͝ú̶̱͊̌̕͝ ̵̱̯̆́̈́̆d̵͍͍̞͕͙̥̱́͜ö̶̹̩̫̪̣͕͖͒͘ͅn̶̰̭͖̊͠e̴̤̳̖̥̲̔͒̄̆͗ ̴̛̻͈͖̱͓̯̝̐̈́̑w̴̧̞̰̹̓̏̅̒̌̿̚i̵̯̼̻͚̽́́̎̄̊͘̕ͅt̴̫̹̥͗́h̸̨̛̗̱̭̥̳̠̑̒̈́͒͒̅ ̸̛̫̦͖̬̭̯̻̰̆͐̔̓a̸̩̐͋̎̆͘͘l̸̢͍̫̼͕̺̔̀l̷̲͕̟͗́͗ ̵͍͎̙̾̏̓̈͊y̸̱̞̫̼͇͑̃̐̇̾͌̈́͜͠ō̵̙̥̎͋̍̾̚ư̷̬̲̰̹̼̒͛̏̅͗́͠ ̴̯̝̺̈́̈́͜w̵̡̯̦̹̜̯͙̉̉̂̓̾̽͝e̸͕͇͕̺̭̩͍̅r̸̨͇̼̈́́̈̽̒̆̌̕ę̷̲̝͍̠̂͑̃͘ ̶̬̬̱̩͚̯͚̋̊̿̈́̎̐̍g̶͚͔̘͗̅̅́̈́̆ī̶̟̱̤̹̈̏̉f̴͇̣̀̄̽̓̓͝t̵̨̒̆́͐e̵̱̭̣̘̓̄̏̅̄̓̈́̌d̴̡̟̬̼̑͘?'
The black eye closed forcefully, and what looked like sweat (but the gods did not sweat) ran down Gadar's face. 'He is... crazed. He does not speak of his own mind.' But the speaker continued.
'Why is it that even now Mafie is led to me? Ṯ̷̆h̴̩͝e̶͚̎y̷̢͝ ̸̬̿g̵͍̔r̵̨͐ọ̸̌å̵̳ǹ̵̦ ̷̰̉b̶̃͜ę̷̋n̸̮͝ë̷̬́ḁ̵̀t̸̛̻h̷̠͊ ̶̨̈́t̴̫̊ẖ̸̏ë̵͔́ ̴̛͚w̸̳̄ë̵̞́i̸̗̓g̸͉̈́h̴̙́t̸̖͠ ̴͖͐o̴̫͘f̸̗͌ ̷͇́t̸̖̿ḧ̶̦́e̴͔̽ ̴̘͐g̴͓̓o̶͙͒d̴̡͂ş̵̔. Where were you?' Gadar clenched his teeth together as Vowzra forcefully attempted to continue his tirade. that's enough. get back. you only cause us pain. Zerabil watched his Father wide-eyed. This was the most he had heard him speak in... well, ever.
The father's voice did not waver in pitch or volume. One god stood before them, and one god spoke. Zerabil was not fooled. There were two persons within the speaker- two very different, maybe opposing, persons. He looked to Synja's face, and realised that she had not understood this. He looked to Tira's, and...
'No,' she said. 'Stay.'
...There was nothing young in her at all.
Tira's hand held a small cup of paper mâché, fashioned from an old blueprint in the shape of a skull. She tilted it, and a trickle of dark fluid ran down onto the ground,
wh̀ich̶
s̡i̛m̛͟͞p҉l̡̢̢y
c̡҉̻̱̜̝͙̬̮̱̩̣̠͔̦͔̫e̸̛͔̫̖̥͈̪͕͝a̴̰̼̤̭̳͚̤̻͎͔͖̫̺͞s҉̡̛̯̦̺̞ͅe̸̵̢̛̹̖̠̖̘̯̩̗͍̗̩d̗͈͕͙̕͢
t͏̥͖̩͕̹̻̕͠͠ò̶̴̖̲̳̳̤̳͉̻̫̦͓͎͉̤̣̪͟͞ͅͅ
e̵̴̱̰̗̻̠̅͌̓͆̒̉͒̓͐͊̐̅x͍̝̘͈̝̠̼̥͎̮̪̣͔̘͈̮̰̊ͧ̃̽ͭ̓̎͋͡i̶̮̞̝͔̲̹̟̗͚̫͚̬̭͓̝̦͖̭̾͆ͮͨ̉̂̌͋́ͅs̶̥̜̖̝͔̜̭̘͈̻̼̹̃̇̉͌̐̒ͣͨ̌ͧ̏͌̈́͋͆̚t́ͫ̄͗ͮͧͬ̂҉͜͟҉̦͍̼̙͔̠̤͔̺̭̱͍͔
̓ͤͪ̂͒ͭ̆̅͊̾̊̓̽͐ͪ̈͑͘͠ ̵̧ͫ̽ͫ̒ͬ̆ͪ͋̔͗͆ͨ̀ ͫͨ̌ͤ̀ͭ̈́͞ ̵̢̉̓͛ͮͧ̉ͧ̔ͮ͋͊͜͢ ̧̨͒ͥ͊́̚̚̕͞ ̉̔̄͛̄̀ͯ̽ͫ͐͛͛ͥͨͩ͏́ ̢͋͊̿̔͠҉̧ ̵̢̧͌ͨ͑ͥ̐ͨͮ̆ͪ̊͒̐̚͘
.
'This is why I'm here.'
Tira tilted up the cup, but didn't pocket it again- if a pocket had ever been where she had drawn it from. It seemed to have never left her hand. She spoke with her free hand, in a language of palms, to supplement her plodding but perfect First Tongue. 'When Lifprasil drank this, he nearly died,' she said. 'He didn't even touch it.'
Her words cut through Gadar's mystery, though her lips barely moved. Her face was cold and neutral. She Saw all she needed to know. 'I've done nothing with this gift. When Mafie Snowhands died, I was chasing pigeons in the streets. But I was a child, Vowzra. A fatherless orphan.'
'That is why I ran here. I need time to find out. How to use this and why it's here. I don't care what it is. I've seen what it does.' She lifted it a little higher, held it a little further. Gadar's eyes saw the surface of the dark white fluid. It was ink. Maybe blood.
Tira asked: 'Did you make this?'
Gadar was for a few moments still, and then he drew back from the cup his already pained face contorting even further. But he bore it silently. Vowzra spoke.
'Mercy. Always Mercy. It is all you mortals have ever asked of me. And I told you - again and again I told you - you do not need mercy. But in my final moments, as I stared into the abyss and saw nothing sprawled before me, nothing but horror. but pain I thought... why not grant you what you do not need? You have asked for it so much, and I have nothing to lose by it. So I gave them you. You are a mercy. If I may be slightly prideful, pretentatious even, my mercy.' Gadar's hand moved to his face and mechanically rubbed the god's temple.
'And I return to find that my mercy has done... nothing. You suffer as you did before. You weep. You cry out to me - to all of us. Does mortalkind never pause to think that they to whom they call out are the very cause of their suffering? You are here for Time. You say you were a child - that is why their cries passed you by. You were fatherless, you say. Is it ingratitude that I detect? Is it an accusation YOU should have been more merciful! that lies hidden in the empty spaces between one word and the next?'
'No,' she said. 'I was an idiot.' Tira retracted the cup, sighed, and looked up to the sky. Somewhere up past that shrivelled bubble, the northern lights were shining.
A deep scowl showed itself on Zerabil's face, and he looked like he was about to say something. But a glance at Tira gave him pause. She spoke again. 'You should have been more merciful. So should we. So should all of us. So should everyone.' There seemed to be a sudden pensiveness to the human face of the God in the Stone, as though maybe he regretted. Tira looked back. 'But I'm not a child any more.'
The hands kept up their rhythmic dance from one word to another. 'I could use this. I don't want to. I should use this,' she said, 'but I might be wrong. Lakshmi taught me not to act before I know who I hurt. I'm glad she did. You should all be very glad she did.'
Tira flexed her hand and the air around her forearm flashed with that same dark white. 'Is Tira supposed to be the one to choose who deserves to live and die? She could be. I think she'd be good at it. Doesn't that make you scared? It scares me! Maybe I'm doing the wrong thing right now by not slaughtering you all! I don't know! But if I try hard enough, I know I'll figure it out! And that scares me! That frightens me, Vowzra! I'm scared!'
Tira's breath had grown shallow, her signs were heartfelt. 'Do you know how much good I could do for this world by murdering my old mother? Do you know how often I think about that? Jvan could die. You're the ones who sent us all her dreams, aren't you? After a thousand lives or more Jvan Tueda Nuul can finally die. Everyone would be happier. The world would be so much gentler. And they would never know- and I can't even imagine-' she wiped her leaking face with her sleeve. '-how much uglier it would be.'
Nothing made a noise, now, but the knot in Tira's weary throat.
'Are all gods like that?' she asked. 'Is all your family so hard to execute? I can't even kill one.'
The god's face had become impassive once more, the coldness, the deepened darkness of the one scarred eye, made that all too clear. 'If you have come to me for guidance, Tira, then you know well that you have come in vain. I am not your guide.'
Tira thought, ...Guess I'll just keep on doing nothing, then, and may have said so aloud.
The god paused, considering her and the distraught Zerabil beside her. The boy had been silently starting at the ground for the longest time, pain and fury mingling in his heterochromatic eyes. 'It is not out of cruelty, you understand. Mortals don't need mercy, but they don't need cruelty either. The nub of the matter is that, as far as you are concerned, I am compromised. Would you trust any "guidance" I give to you? You are able to See into the gods better than any mortal ever has and ever could, better even than the gods themselves. What can I tell you that you do not already, or cannot, know? I have given you all-' Vowzra seemed intent on continuing, but he was suddenly silenced, and the voice of Gadar came softer and more gentle. It came comforting and certain and flowing, like a pen dipped in ink taken to a white page by a hand that knew its tool and knew what it wished to write.
'Mercy does not come naturally to my brother, but I learned kindness and taught it. And I, who knew only suffering and loneliness, who was forgotten by all, have come to know that the lifting of Suffering is the only true end to the life of mortals and immortals alike. It requires unparalleled kindness, compassion. It requires mercy.'
The scarred black eye glistened wetly, and from it flowered a single stream of liquid onyx. Zerabil's mouth hung slightly open in shock, a single tear forming in his own dark eye. 'Tira, it is true that you have been given an unparalleled capacity for slaughter, but you are mercy. You are the truest altruism a divine has ever bid be. The singular mercy of a merciless god. It is for you to choose your path, Vowzra cannot be your guide - but I can show you to something, unveil a part of you that can, perhaps, help you on your way. If you want it, it waits for you beyond the mountains-'
'Niciel is too kind to-'
'-on the plain of Sertz.'
'...Oh.'
Tira sighed. She was very tired. 'Thank you,' she said, enunciating vocally, her forehead buried in her palms. 'I'll go.' She looked up again, picked up the black wood of her weapon. It would be supporting her weight a while longer, it seemed. Her gaze left Gadar and wandered back.
'You didn't deserve this, did you?' she asked. 'Yara. Bel.'
The ink-eyed goddess considered Tira for a few moments, and then Gadar's face broke out into a full, beaming, tearful smile. 'We have let into existence a world where rare indeed are those who get what they deserve. Suffering is an illness; where it is found, strive to remove it - whether in yourself or others. Where you find that you cannot remove your own suffering then there is but one option before you. Strange, but I saw this in Vowzra's mind long ago, and have only now come to truly understand it: we must strive to be worthy of our suffering. If our suffering breaks us, if it makes us cruel, selfish... surely then we have failed ourselves. In unavoidable suffering there are lessons to be learnt and opportunities we cannot perceive. Indeed, unavoidable suffering provides the chance to cultivate virtues that ease and the lap of luxury deny. The virtue cultivated during ease is that of moderation and self-restraint, that cultivated during suffering of fortitude, valour, forbearance. Ease can create good people, but it is out of suffering that heroes ultimately emerge.' It was a lot of words, many she did not truly understand, but Tira listened.
Mercy, She Wrote
Virtue, She Taught
The goddess paused for a few moments and frowned slightly, 'but please, don't think this has little bearing on our lived realities. I know it may seem that way - I know that people rarely think like this. I know I am physically trapped, I know my soul is bound - but my spirit is free. There are those who boast free forms and unbound souls, but whose spirits are imprisoned and bound. I am content in the knowledge that I have defied the trappings of my fate simply by cultivating my inner liberty.'
none can defy FATE. no one defies FATE. in your... our 'defiance' we only do the will of FATE.
Shut up, said Tira patiently.
The goddess wiped away the stain of ink from Gadar's face, only for it to be replaced by another stream. Then she continued. 'I once had a child brought to me. She had not long to live and I no mortal cure, but she told me that she remembered her grandfather and the way he had waited on death with bravery and dignity. She had thought her grandfather the greatest of heroes for meeting death so well. She said that now she had a similar chance. I do not think that I shall soon perish, but I would like to think that I too, in the face of my fate, can be both dignified and brave. Indeed, perhaps even grateful.' The goddess was quiet for a few moments and then the beaming smile returned and she looked from Zerabil to Tira.
'If you pity me, Tira, then that is good. I only ask one thing of you, the both of you - consider it a sad old witch's request: pity all.'
Tira nodded. That much was clear. 'Okay. I will.' She sighed, glanced away. 'I'll come back for you,' she promised also, 'when I can.' The goddess behind Gadar's scarred eye seemed to smile - a silent I will hold you to it -, and then she retreated and was gone. With that, Tira bowed to the stone and the godhead embedded upon it, picked up her blade and turned away to the horizon.
'Let's go,' she said, addressing Synja and Zerabil once more in simple speech. 'I'm gonna head to Sertz.' She spun to walk backwards for a moment, pointed two fingers at her own eyes and then the same two at Synja's, and added, 'But I'm still gonna fight you, too. Don't forget it.' Synja nodded impassively and looked to Zerabil, who was staring at the now silent and still God in the Stone. She did not quite catch the expression on his face, for he suddenly turned and ran after Tira.
'I guess... we're going,' the Battle Sister said platonically, and followed.
Tira was already eight steps ahead.
Been spending the last hour or so searching for a good picture of a war goddess who is also a goddess of love >.>
Someone other than me should update the WIP OP, many of the new mechanics are somewhat beyond me >-<
The Divinus-Lite opening post will be written entirely in Elvish. Truly I say to you.
Lambda finished her training there, and bowed to the impromptu dojo as she left. The paper screens forming its walls had been woven here by Remph, and were a shadow of the Remph temple further in the multicoloured tropical jungle of Julia. She was always welcome. All Pronobii were.
Recombinance was hanging from a weaponstand 'outside'. She stepped past it and did some more calisthenics, not yet exhausted- but then, no one was watching, so she could probably call it a day. Eventually the huge reptilian tyrant waiting under the canopy snapping at silky things bothered her with its crooning, and she went to comfort it with a cluck of the tongue.
Fighting had changed since her loss. With only one hand with which to strike, Lambda could no longer punch without also dropping her guard; she was unbalanced and side-heavy. The Remphs had taught her to make up for it with the use of her legs. With Jvan's blessing, she was gaining ground rapidly.
For reference, this excerpt is one thousand characters.
Enjoy your teaser.
@Kho If you'd like. I already have one half written out for the general interest checks forum, so I'll put something nicer there once we have worked on the details. I still haven't gone over the WIP, for one thing.
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