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STATUS: "Soon you will have forgotten all things. And soon all things will have forgotten you." 5 yrs ago
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"Soon you will have forgotten all things. And soon all things will have forgotten you."
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RAGING ROSA | THE DANCE-DEMON | FEVERFOOT | LEAPING LINDA
The Galbarian skies and the endless spaces alike were alight with Yudaiel’s works, and the scintillations of the diamonds she wrought into the heavens shone on the eyes of all the gods. All, that was, other than Rosalind the Feverfoot, whose eyes had known no light since the silent terror of the Monarch had cast them into darkness.
the whispering of the gods reached Rosalind even in the black night of her sleep-swathed essence.
She saw, for instance, a terrible flood that consumed the world and left nothing unsubmerged by the deluge;
she saw the terrible visage of the flooder and the bifurcated madness that danced within him.
She saw, also, the furies of salt unleashed upon the flood.
Just as the deluge consumed all things, so was the deluge by unknowable measures of salt consumed.
It raged, did the salt, it danced;
it laughed unsmiling and danced without fever.
It was revenge, was the salt;
it was eternal aeons of ceaseless vengeance.
Even under the blanket of darkness, and though planes of reality separated Rosalind from Sala the Salt-Unsmiling, still did the dancer tremble in fear.
For what, now that terror was the kernel of her being, did Rosalind the Feverfoot not fear?
the countenance of horror and the twin the horror scarred.
The struggle silenced breath as one fiendish sibling set upon its helpless echo.
Cowardly Rosalind!
She could not speak;
she could not breathe;
she could only bear to look because—
oh sickening shame!—
she feared her closing eyes would make a sound and draw the fiend to her!
But Ruina was no thrall to fear—
no, Ruina was the sword of grit!
She did not scream that flesh should shear—
she took the blow and forthwith hit!
She struck the face of ruin with death—
of breath she freed the treacherous one;
she clothed herself in godly flesh and stood as searing as the sun!
And the heart of Rosalind was never so unfree from fear.
the flame of endless fevers and the serpent of the heat;
the eye of hungering fervour and the snake that ached to eat.
She swirled and swirled, did Yoliyachicoztl,
she chased her tail and fled her tail;
she chased her heat and fled her heat.
She danced, did Yoliyachicoztl,
she fled the blazing dance.
And all about the Feverfoot heat grew, and only grew,
till she cried out in her sleepfulness and went off fleeing too!
Oh she’s a coward is that Rosalind!
Courage is not her virtue.
Snakes that dance and burn?—
why yes, she fears them too!
a mountain made of god,
or perhaps a god carved from the mount—
who spoke in ringing rumbles like a cavern with echoing fount:
"Brothers,” he said, “sisters,” so that even Rosalind heard,
“our canvas is monotonous,” he sadly wept and shared.
“We can fill it with variety,” he then at once declared:
“join me and we shall paint it to our and the Monarch’s liking!”
But Voligan had no sooner spoke the Monarch’s name
before Rosalind the coward was fled in fear and shame.
She’s a coward, she’s a coward, she’s a coward of great fame!
“Hear me! I am Epsilon,”
said the mind-and-body-made-one,
“I seek an inky treasure,
which shall live on forever!
Write down within this tome
the cosmic ocean’s foam,
so that even if we roam
we’ll know the way back home!”
And in the embryo of sleep
Rosalind began to weep—
her dancing only knew to prance
and was untrained in ink’s cold trance;
could you write a withering glance
or a sway stiff’ning like a lance?
No it could not be done—
so Rosa did not run;
the impossibility was clear
and so there was no need for fear.
to where she thought she saw the book,
with great affright she saw:
within the tome at once was writ,
by hand that hither thither flit,
the very secrets, long and grave,
that would cast fear into the brave!
The word on ends and final breath,
the word on souls and death’s cruel calls;
Voi the Deathdart wrote them all
with his hand—what hand?! A maul!
Voi the Deathdart wrote a dance,
wrote the lengthy dying dance—
he forgot no circumstance
from whence the beast of death could prance!
Round the cosmic soul his claw
beckoned to that other shore—
and Rosa ran! Oh yes she ran.
She ran as fast as sleepers can.
Why, let the world entire jeer:
do they not also have this fear?
while through the veil of space she flew
with jittering feet,
and she saw:
a drunken cloud, asleep, awake,
where forms are shattered and minds break.
The hurtling ball-shape of the drunk
exploded, flew, then swiftly sunk;
wherefore he went he did not care,
he spread his joying everywhere!
But then—great gods!—he left despair!
What wafts there on the gentle air?
What wafts behind the bloodshot stare?
Despair despair! It’s everywhere!
So Rosa ran—oh yes, she ran.
and as she ran she saw, she saw:
the hunter with the barken face
who scrawled the words that left no trace—
he sculpted in the inky tome
a pit that horrors all called home.
What did he write?—she did not know.
What did he make?—she did not know.
Which only made its horror grow!
“May the unknown’s mystery
stretch eternally!”
Where could she go? Where could she go?
Fly up above or dig deep below?
How do you run from what you don’t know?
Weep, oh gods, the coward’s plight
as she takes off again in flight!
like a windmill whirling on a wire,
she saw:
a moment’s joy extended
so joys are never ended;
a splotch of yellow,
a carefree bellow,
and a cartwheel quicker than an arrow—
her mind, meanwhile
was free from guile
and flew free on the wing
of “a shiny thing that goes ‘ting!’”
The cartwheel danced and the dance cartwheeled
and as she watched even Rosa reeled
away from such excess!
She remembered too clearly
how quick and severely
she’d been punished for all of that mess!
Oh yes it was fear
come again to help steer
the coward into the clear!
chuggachuggachug
chuggachuggachug,
once again she saw:
on rails of steel
that do not feel
he chugchugchugs;
beneath iron wheels
you can hear the squeals
of bugbugbugs.
Explosion for you and oil spill for you,
there’s plenty to go round, it’s true!
With a belch and a burp and the blazing of coke
we’ll send fog up in billows and swellings of smoke,
and we’ll dance and we’ll soar
and industry will roar
as you, and you, and you all choke!
So coughing and wheezing,
and tearfully sneezing,
Rosa rolled from the smog
like a dirty old cog
and really wished she was somewhere—anywhere!—else.
she saw:
is that rain or is that fire,
is it tree or is it pyre?
Where goes all this magic air?
For whose use and dismal glare?
Aethel the Manaker was his name,
in yonder days his is the blame—
so says the cursed Sight of Yudaiel
that sits on distant hills to hail
and speak its mysteries
to all who wander on Sight’s breeze.
Oh Manaker, oh Manaker, why, why did you make this mana?
Why did you plant it in a tree
and let it grow so wild and free?
It’s everywhere, it’s everywhere!
Wherever you run you’ll find it there!
Oh cowardice must you now die?
What comes of you if you can’t fly?
cowards need a hiding place
and forests offer ample space—
Phelenia the Lifeline did not know this,
but Rosa cooed and leapt in bliss.
Here was a god, it would appear,
who sheltered those who lived in fear!
Deep, dank woods away from sight
where you can hide and not take flight.
What more than this do cowards need? -
for the weed loves living with the weed.
But even as Rosalind committed to life
in forested groves
and lichenous coves,
the murmurings of life sounded out at once
such that she erupted with fear,
would not listen or hear,
and turned fleeing without a glance!
And even as she woke,
in those wee hours of the slumbering mind, she saw:
the ice-storm whose eye was god and the god who dwelled on the branches of a snowflake.
The lonesome flake fluttered and flittered,
down down down,
until it breathed a mane of white upon the world’s once naked head.
An icy breath wafted through Rosalind’s bones and chilled her burning, jittering feet.
And as she woke she sighed to find that the fever in her feet was,
if momentarily,
gone.
Perhaps, she thought, that great expanse of ice was the cure for fevered feet.
But fevered feet have no mind for such things, and they kicked such that she went spiralling and accelerating and burning and jangling; in the heavens she became a motion; among the stars she glistened and flashed and moved and shot. In some worlds they called such motions and movements ‘shooting stars,’ but in this one they would forever be called feverish-feet. And that first feverish-foot went flying furiously and fiercely flitting, its fervours forcing the ether to fold and unfold before it with such ferocity that even the infinity of space was set aflame.
It flew, that first feverish-foot, until it flew no more and instead nestled—gently, mind you: for a few seconds it was like the embrace of long lost lovers—into the newly-struck moon. Had Yudaiel foreseen this? Had Yudaiel engineered it? Or was it, as seemed fatefully destined with the turbulent dancer, a great affront and defiance to her Sight? For a great silent moment fever-foot and newborn moon kissed and embraced... and then a silent boom mushroomed in the heavens—like distant fireworks you can’t hear, spied from the depths of a lagoon. And those recently pent-up fevers left the Feverfoot so that the dance would forever be at home in the moon.
It went dancing then, did that moon, across the heavens. Its dance rippled and vibrated all about it and beckoned to Galbar, but Galbar’s foundations were strong and did not move; her seas were fickle, though, and given to flights of fancy and so gave themselves—why, threw themselves!—to the dance. They danced with the moon, those seas, they rose and fell, they reached up in great waves like godly hands, they thrashed and kicked against the shores and sent off surf and foam. The moon and sea, they danced and pranced; the fever had them now.
Defiantly, the nascent moon had been placed contrapositive to the sun, as far as possible from that heavenly palace where the Monarch of All dwelled. There, hanging in a place perpetually shielded from His light by Galbar’s long shadow, was the moon—her moon. In such a lofty and presumptuous perch, from Galbar one could look up and perhaps see the moon as an equal to the sun, a contender even! But Yudaiel’s furtive insolence against the Monarch was not to last long, for Rosalind’s collision spurred the great celestial body into motion even as it created a massive impact—the first to come but not the last, the Reverberation sensed—that marred the otherwise pristine surface as it had been cooling from the heat of the last meteoroids that had fallen into its embrace.
The Great and All-Seeing Eye did not weep. In her heart and just over her shoulder, there to the left a little, in the past, she could always see her creation in its perfection and infancy as it had been first wrought by her designs. Now it was thrust out into the world and others were bound to leave their marks upon it, out of greed or jealousy or mere capriciousness. Such actions she had always expected, and perhaps even ordained.
It was similarly ordained that as the moon and Galbar spun through their eternal dance, there would come times when the moon returned to its lofty perch opposite the sun and was enveloped in shadows, and other times (more defiant still!) when it would come between the sun and Galbar and block the Monarch’s eyes and radiance from reaching the prison below, if only for a time. In those rare events, her impudent apostasy against the Monarch’s will and His designs would be more potent and brazen still—and what was He to do about her spiteful fomenting? In the end, she would deny that she’d done any more than craft a beautiful jewel in the sky, a companion to Galbar to inspire and awe all those who cast their gaze skyward.
In the wake of the celestial orb’s dancing hung Rosalind, fully awake now and moaning. She lifted a jangling hand to her head and rubbed it, such pain shooting through it as would torment even Jiugui’s brow if ever he sobered. The void caressed her throbbing head and body as she drifted through space, softer than a feather falling upon fresh snow. A cool and familiar sensation crept through the snow: a wet trickle, a tiny stream of the vast sea of consciousness that was Yudaiel, that reached out to touch the Feverfoot’s mind. Rosalind stiffened then, her endemic fear vomiting its lichens across her chest.
The Fever flared in her head, a banal bonfire suddenly alive as a great pillar of flame, animated and writhing with fingers, so many fingers. It reached out balefully to grasp at Rosa, to wrest control of the Dance and lead her steps, to crush her in an angry grip—but then the air whispered a forlorn name, Yudaiel, Yudaiel. Yudaiel! The gossiping eddies came together as one wind, and this cooling breeze swept away all the smoke and pain and heat. The fire shuddered and simmered before the extinguishing gust, and then all was calm.
Time moved slowly and yet fast; the only dance was the lethargic and content beating of Rosa’s heart. She rested for what felt like days, but it was quite soon that she raised her head to look back to where that horrible blaze had been, only to realize that even the bonfire’s dying coals now glowed no more. So tranquil was her mind that she hardly seemed to notice as the ground melted away to water, and now she floated upon her back in a sea so calm that there weren’t even any waves, just tiny ripples created by the playful winds in the air. The salt breeze was there, but it was only a fresh scent upon the air, not Sala’s smothering kiss muddled with the rancid and foul breath of fish. Ah, peace. The air was warm, yet puffy white clouds shielded Rosa’s skin from the sun’s unforgiving rays. Forgiveness.
Rosalind sat like a suppliant in the arms of her god, whose supplications all were answered and could think to ask nothing more. She breathed and was awestruck by breath, she sighed and was filled with wonder. So overpowering was her fever that she had not been quite able to notice these things before—there was only the rising heat or the fear of the rising heat. But for a moment, this moment, it was not so.
She rose then—her feet were her own!—and she plip-plip-plopped across the serene sea. Her movements were clean, rippling with the waves and flowing with the main. She stood for a second and stretched on her toes and rocked on her heels. And she laughed—a small laugh mixed with fear and uncertainty… and gratitude.
She brought her hands to her abdomen, lifted her chin, and allowed her feet to flow with the water. Her movements were slow and measured, her arms danced around her head like the ring danced about the world below and her feet pitter-pattered on the water. Though unhurried, it did not lack any of the force her fevered dancing had, she seemed to weave her movements—carefully, precisely, as though threading and rethreading and triply threading a needle. When her hips spun, her back swayed, her shoulders swung, her head turned, then like a velvet curtain her hair spiralled—like a galaxy it turned, like the murmuration of ten thousand starlings or more it swirled. Then with finality a foot landed, water rippled and stirred but did not break, and Rosalind’s eyes of dusk emerged from behind the great dark curtain of hair—they glimmered, they smiled, and even in the stillness of finality, they danced.
The unblemished surface of the water underfoot, immaculate in its stillness and smoothness, was suddenly broken. Waves lapped at Rosa’s feet, their crests distorting her reflection in the shattered mirror. She looked up, and there it was, a beautiful boat! It drifted lazily closer to her, propelled by its own desires if not by an unseen and unfelt wind, and it had come to carry her away. The hue of the sea grew deeper, darker, as though clouds had come overhead, but there were no clouds above this wine-dark water, for the sky had vanished. Or had it merely moved? Now the night sky seemed to be below her, where before there had been only water. The sun was gone, but some little sparkles of light still bejewelled the crests of some black waves. They twinkled, and with a blink, Rosalind realized they were stars, and that she was once more in space, the dream and the ideabstraction gone.
But the boat remained before her, and in fact, it drifted so close that she could reach out and touch it. Her fingers brushed the wood, charming in its simplicity and lack of ostentation, and she found herself half drawn and half falling in. She lay there for a few moments, a mess of fabric and hair and limbs and then struggled to right herself and place her bottom on the thwart doubling as a seat. She burned with shame at the odd debacle and patted down her skirt of black velvet, then swept the blanket of dusky hair from her face. Only then did she note the oar, which she picked up and surveyed. She did not know how she knew what it was and how to use it - though she suspected it had something to do with Yudaiel and the strange way she knitted thoughts into one’s mind.
The goddess extended the oar from the boat and gently pushed off into the waiting darkness of space, her feverish feet gently quivering against the bottom boards. She looked up to where she thought Yudaiel’s epicentre might be. She opened her mouth to speak, to say - perhaps - you are good, Yudaiel or I will be better - and I will thank you, but words seemed unable to form up in her throat or flow off her tongue or slip between her lips. And in that moment she knew that dancing was more eloquent than speech.
Rosalind the Feverfoot closed her mouth, allowed herself one last long glance towards the sister who had rebuked her so fiercely and forgiven her so readily, and she rowed her boat.
&
ROSALIND
RAGING ROSA | THE DANCE-DEMON | FEVERFOOT | LEAPING LINDA
The Galbarian skies and the endless spaces alike were alight with Yudaiel’s works, and the scintillations of the diamonds she wrought into the heavens shone on the eyes of all the gods. All, that was, other than Rosalind the Feverfoot, whose eyes had known no light since the silent terror of the Monarch had cast them into darkness.
On Sala
Though her mind walked in darkness, the whispering of the gods reached Rosalind even in the black night of her sleep-swathed essence.
She saw, for instance, a terrible flood that consumed the world and left nothing unsubmerged by the deluge;
she saw the terrible visage of the flooder and the bifurcated madness that danced within him.
She saw, also, the furies of salt unleashed upon the flood.
Just as the deluge consumed all things, so was the deluge by unknowable measures of salt consumed.
It raged, did the salt, it danced;
it laughed unsmiling and danced without fever.
It was revenge, was the salt;
it was eternal aeons of ceaseless vengeance.
Even under the blanket of darkness, and though planes of reality separated Rosalind from Sala the Salt-Unsmiling, still did the dancer tremble in fear.
For what, now that terror was the kernel of her being, did Rosalind the Feverfoot not fear?
On Ruina
There in the inky swirl of sleep she saw: the countenance of horror and the twin the horror scarred.
The struggle silenced breath as one fiendish sibling set upon its helpless echo.
Cowardly Rosalind!
She could not speak;
she could not breathe;
she could only bear to look because—
oh sickening shame!—
she feared her closing eyes would make a sound and draw the fiend to her!
But Ruina was no thrall to fear—
no, Ruina was the sword of grit!
She did not scream that flesh should shear—
she took the blow and forthwith hit!
She struck the face of ruin with death—
of breath she freed the treacherous one;
she clothed herself in godly flesh and stood as searing as the sun!
And the heart of Rosalind was never so unfree from fear.
On Yoliyachicoztl
Yudaiel’s curse was on her now, and in that curse she saw: the flame of endless fevers and the serpent of the heat;
the eye of hungering fervour and the snake that ached to eat.
She swirled and swirled, did Yoliyachicoztl,
she chased her tail and fled her tail;
she chased her heat and fled her heat.
She danced, did Yoliyachicoztl,
she fled the blazing dance.
And all about the Feverfoot heat grew, and only grew,
till she cried out in her sleepfulness and went off fleeing too!
Oh she’s a coward is that Rosalind!
Courage is not her virtue.
Snakes that dance and burn?—
why yes, she fears them too!
On Voligan
In the womb of slumber still she saw: a mountain made of god,
or perhaps a god carved from the mount—
who spoke in ringing rumbles like a cavern with echoing fount:
"Brothers,” he said, “sisters,” so that even Rosalind heard,
“our canvas is monotonous,” he sadly wept and shared.
“We can fill it with variety,” he then at once declared:
“join me and we shall paint it to our and the Monarch’s liking!”
But Voligan had no sooner spoke the Monarch’s name
before Rosalind the coward was fled in fear and shame.
She’s a coward, she’s a coward, she’s a coward of great fame!
On Epsilon
Floating in her foetal languour, sightlessly she saw: “Hear me! I am Epsilon,”
said the mind-and-body-made-one,
“I seek an inky treasure,
which shall live on forever!
Write down within this tome
the cosmic ocean’s foam,
so that even if we roam
we’ll know the way back home!”
And in the embryo of sleep
Rosalind began to weep—
her dancing only knew to prance
and was untrained in ink’s cold trance;
could you write a withering glance
or a sway stiff’ning like a lance?
No it could not be done—
so Rosa did not run;
the impossibility was clear
and so there was no need for fear.
On Voi
But even as she deigned to look to where she thought she saw the book,
with great affright she saw:
within the tome at once was writ,
by hand that hither thither flit,
the very secrets, long and grave,
that would cast fear into the brave!
The word on ends and final breath,
the word on souls and death’s cruel calls;
Voi the Deathdart wrote them all
with his hand—what hand?! A maul!
Voi the Deathdart wrote a dance,
wrote the lengthy dying dance—
he forgot no circumstance
from whence the beast of death could prance!
Round the cosmic soul his claw
beckoned to that other shore—
and Rosa ran! Oh yes she ran.
She ran as fast as sleepers can.
Why, let the world entire jeer:
do they not also have this fear?
On Jiugui
She ran inside that cosmic spew while through the veil of space she flew
with jittering feet,
and she saw:
a drunken cloud, asleep, awake,
where forms are shattered and minds break.
The hurtling ball-shape of the drunk
exploded, flew, then swiftly sunk;
wherefore he went he did not care,
he spread his joying everywhere!
But then—great gods!—he left despair!
What wafts there on the gentle air?
What wafts behind the bloodshot stare?
Despair despair! It’s everywhere!
So Rosa ran—oh yes, she ran.
On Tuku
In her head she ran and ran, and as she ran she saw, she saw:
the hunter with the barken face
who scrawled the words that left no trace—
he sculpted in the inky tome
a pit that horrors all called home.
What did he write?—she did not know.
What did he make?—she did not know.
Which only made its horror grow!
“May the unknown’s mystery
stretch eternally!”
Where could she go? Where could she go?
Fly up above or dig deep below?
How do you run from what you don’t know?
Weep, oh gods, the coward’s plight
as she takes off again in flight!
On Zenia
Wheeling and wheeling in the sable gyrelike a windmill whirling on a wire,
she saw:
a moment’s joy extended
so joys are never ended;
a splotch of yellow,
a carefree bellow,
and a cartwheel quicker than an arrow—
her mind, meanwhile
was free from guile
and flew free on the wing
of “a shiny thing that goes ‘ting!’”
The cartwheel danced and the dance cartwheeled
and as she watched even Rosa reeled
away from such excess!
She remembered too clearly
how quick and severely
she’d been punished for all of that mess!
Oh yes it was fear
come again to help steer
the coward into the clear!
On Astus
Chuggachuggachug chuggachuggachug
chuggachuggachug,
once again she saw:
on rails of steel
that do not feel
he chugchugchugs;
beneath iron wheels
you can hear the squeals
of bugbugbugs.
Explosion for you and oil spill for you,
there’s plenty to go round, it’s true!
With a belch and a burp and the blazing of coke
we’ll send fog up in billows and swellings of smoke,
and we’ll dance and we’ll soar
and industry will roar
as you, and you, and you all choke!
So coughing and wheezing,
and tearfully sneezing,
Rosa rolled from the smog
like a dirty old cog
and really wished she was somewhere—anywhere!—else.
On Aethel
Swirling and whirling in the quagmire, she saw:
is that rain or is that fire,
is it tree or is it pyre?
Where goes all this magic air?
For whose use and dismal glare?
Aethel the Manaker was his name,
in yonder days his is the blame—
so says the cursed Sight of Yudaiel
that sits on distant hills to hail
and speak its mysteries
to all who wander on Sight’s breeze.
Oh Manaker, oh Manaker, why, why did you make this mana?
Why did you plant it in a tree
and let it grow so wild and free?
It’s everywhere, it’s everywhere!
Wherever you run you’ll find it there!
Oh cowardice must you now die?
What comes of you if you can’t fly?
On Phelenia
And as she soared and slept and dreamt, she saw: cowards need a hiding place
and forests offer ample space—
Phelenia the Lifeline did not know this,
but Rosa cooed and leapt in bliss.
Here was a god, it would appear,
who sheltered those who lived in fear!
Deep, dank woods away from sight
where you can hide and not take flight.
What more than this do cowards need? -
for the weed loves living with the weed.
But even as Rosalind committed to life
in forested groves
and lichenous coves,
the murmurings of life sounded out at once
such that she erupted with fear,
would not listen or hear,
and turned fleeing without a glance!
On Chailiss
There was nowhere left to flee now except into the dawn of wakefulness. And even as she woke,
in those wee hours of the slumbering mind, she saw:
the ice-storm whose eye was god and the god who dwelled on the branches of a snowflake.
The lonesome flake fluttered and flittered,
down down down,
until it breathed a mane of white upon the world’s once naked head.
An icy breath wafted through Rosalind’s bones and chilled her burning, jittering feet.
And as she woke she sighed to find that the fever in her feet was,
if momentarily,
gone.
Perhaps, she thought, that great expanse of ice was the cure for fevered feet.
Tutto finito
And even as she thought it, the great weight of all she had dreamt and heard rushed into her feet and set them ablaze once more. Her eyes widened in fear as she felt her hips begin to sway to an unknown drum: her feet to kick, her body to move, her wrists to shake—and there, on her wrists, a hundred bangles jangled and echoed and vibrated. With every foot that kicked and let off heat the bangles jangled and sucked up the excess. For a perfect moment it formed a great harmony.But fevered feet have no mind for such things, and they kicked such that she went spiralling and accelerating and burning and jangling; in the heavens she became a motion; among the stars she glistened and flashed and moved and shot. In some worlds they called such motions and movements ‘shooting stars,’ but in this one they would forever be called feverish-feet. And that first feverish-foot went flying furiously and fiercely flitting, its fervours forcing the ether to fold and unfold before it with such ferocity that even the infinity of space was set aflame.
It flew, that first feverish-foot, until it flew no more and instead nestled—gently, mind you: for a few seconds it was like the embrace of long lost lovers—into the newly-struck moon. Had Yudaiel foreseen this? Had Yudaiel engineered it? Or was it, as seemed fatefully destined with the turbulent dancer, a great affront and defiance to her Sight? For a great silent moment fever-foot and newborn moon kissed and embraced... and then a silent boom mushroomed in the heavens—like distant fireworks you can’t hear, spied from the depths of a lagoon. And those recently pent-up fevers left the Feverfoot so that the dance would forever be at home in the moon.
It went dancing then, did that moon, across the heavens. Its dance rippled and vibrated all about it and beckoned to Galbar, but Galbar’s foundations were strong and did not move; her seas were fickle, though, and given to flights of fancy and so gave themselves—why, threw themselves!—to the dance. They danced with the moon, those seas, they rose and fell, they reached up in great waves like godly hands, they thrashed and kicked against the shores and sent off surf and foam. The moon and sea, they danced and pranced; the fever had them now.
Defiantly, the nascent moon had been placed contrapositive to the sun, as far as possible from that heavenly palace where the Monarch of All dwelled. There, hanging in a place perpetually shielded from His light by Galbar’s long shadow, was the moon—her moon. In such a lofty and presumptuous perch, from Galbar one could look up and perhaps see the moon as an equal to the sun, a contender even! But Yudaiel’s furtive insolence against the Monarch was not to last long, for Rosalind’s collision spurred the great celestial body into motion even as it created a massive impact—the first to come but not the last, the Reverberation sensed—that marred the otherwise pristine surface as it had been cooling from the heat of the last meteoroids that had fallen into its embrace.
The Great and All-Seeing Eye did not weep. In her heart and just over her shoulder, there to the left a little, in the past, she could always see her creation in its perfection and infancy as it had been first wrought by her designs. Now it was thrust out into the world and others were bound to leave their marks upon it, out of greed or jealousy or mere capriciousness. Such actions she had always expected, and perhaps even ordained.
It was similarly ordained that as the moon and Galbar spun through their eternal dance, there would come times when the moon returned to its lofty perch opposite the sun and was enveloped in shadows, and other times (more defiant still!) when it would come between the sun and Galbar and block the Monarch’s eyes and radiance from reaching the prison below, if only for a time. In those rare events, her impudent apostasy against the Monarch’s will and His designs would be more potent and brazen still—and what was He to do about her spiteful fomenting? In the end, she would deny that she’d done any more than craft a beautiful jewel in the sky, a companion to Galbar to inspire and awe all those who cast their gaze skyward.
In the wake of the celestial orb’s dancing hung Rosalind, fully awake now and moaning. She lifted a jangling hand to her head and rubbed it, such pain shooting through it as would torment even Jiugui’s brow if ever he sobered. The void caressed her throbbing head and body as she drifted through space, softer than a feather falling upon fresh snow. A cool and familiar sensation crept through the snow: a wet trickle, a tiny stream of the vast sea of consciousness that was Yudaiel, that reached out to touch the Feverfoot’s mind. Rosalind stiffened then, her endemic fear vomiting its lichens across her chest.
The Fever flared in her head, a banal bonfire suddenly alive as a great pillar of flame, animated and writhing with fingers, so many fingers. It reached out balefully to grasp at Rosa, to wrest control of the Dance and lead her steps, to crush her in an angry grip—but then the air whispered a forlorn name, Yudaiel, Yudaiel. Yudaiel! The gossiping eddies came together as one wind, and this cooling breeze swept away all the smoke and pain and heat. The fire shuddered and simmered before the extinguishing gust, and then all was calm.
Time moved slowly and yet fast; the only dance was the lethargic and content beating of Rosa’s heart. She rested for what felt like days, but it was quite soon that she raised her head to look back to where that horrible blaze had been, only to realize that even the bonfire’s dying coals now glowed no more. So tranquil was her mind that she hardly seemed to notice as the ground melted away to water, and now she floated upon her back in a sea so calm that there weren’t even any waves, just tiny ripples created by the playful winds in the air. The salt breeze was there, but it was only a fresh scent upon the air, not Sala’s smothering kiss muddled with the rancid and foul breath of fish. Ah, peace. The air was warm, yet puffy white clouds shielded Rosa’s skin from the sun’s unforgiving rays. Forgiveness.
Rosalind sat like a suppliant in the arms of her god, whose supplications all were answered and could think to ask nothing more. She breathed and was awestruck by breath, she sighed and was filled with wonder. So overpowering was her fever that she had not been quite able to notice these things before—there was only the rising heat or the fear of the rising heat. But for a moment, this moment, it was not so.
She rose then—her feet were her own!—and she plip-plip-plopped across the serene sea. Her movements were clean, rippling with the waves and flowing with the main. She stood for a second and stretched on her toes and rocked on her heels. And she laughed—a small laugh mixed with fear and uncertainty… and gratitude.
She brought her hands to her abdomen, lifted her chin, and allowed her feet to flow with the water. Her movements were slow and measured, her arms danced around her head like the ring danced about the world below and her feet pitter-pattered on the water. Though unhurried, it did not lack any of the force her fevered dancing had, she seemed to weave her movements—carefully, precisely, as though threading and rethreading and triply threading a needle. When her hips spun, her back swayed, her shoulders swung, her head turned, then like a velvet curtain her hair spiralled—like a galaxy it turned, like the murmuration of ten thousand starlings or more it swirled. Then with finality a foot landed, water rippled and stirred but did not break, and Rosalind’s eyes of dusk emerged from behind the great dark curtain of hair—they glimmered, they smiled, and even in the stillness of finality, they danced.
The unblemished surface of the water underfoot, immaculate in its stillness and smoothness, was suddenly broken. Waves lapped at Rosa’s feet, their crests distorting her reflection in the shattered mirror. She looked up, and there it was, a beautiful boat! It drifted lazily closer to her, propelled by its own desires if not by an unseen and unfelt wind, and it had come to carry her away. The hue of the sea grew deeper, darker, as though clouds had come overhead, but there were no clouds above this wine-dark water, for the sky had vanished. Or had it merely moved? Now the night sky seemed to be below her, where before there had been only water. The sun was gone, but some little sparkles of light still bejewelled the crests of some black waves. They twinkled, and with a blink, Rosalind realized they were stars, and that she was once more in space, the dream and the ideabstraction gone.
But the boat remained before her, and in fact, it drifted so close that she could reach out and touch it. Her fingers brushed the wood, charming in its simplicity and lack of ostentation, and she found herself half drawn and half falling in. She lay there for a few moments, a mess of fabric and hair and limbs and then struggled to right herself and place her bottom on the thwart doubling as a seat. She burned with shame at the odd debacle and patted down her skirt of black velvet, then swept the blanket of dusky hair from her face. Only then did she note the oar, which she picked up and surveyed. She did not know how she knew what it was and how to use it - though she suspected it had something to do with Yudaiel and the strange way she knitted thoughts into one’s mind.
The goddess extended the oar from the boat and gently pushed off into the waiting darkness of space, her feverish feet gently quivering against the bottom boards. She looked up to where she thought Yudaiel’s epicentre might be. She opened her mouth to speak, to say - perhaps - you are good, Yudaiel or I will be better - and I will thank you, but words seemed unable to form up in her throat or flow off her tongue or slip between her lips. And in that moment she knew that dancing was more eloquent than speech.
Rosalind the Feverfoot closed her mouth, allowed herself one last long glance towards the sister who had rebuked her so fiercely and forgiven her so readily, and she rowed her boat.
A Divinus Studios Introduction
&
&
When at first the glorious hymn Whispered of the Monarch’s will:
There upon the ‘thereal hill Flowed the dance-cup to the brim;
Flowed too much, it would appear, And never ceased to overflow:
For in creation’s afterglow It stained the great eye of the Seer
When Rosa crawled - or rather, was pulled willing or unwilling - out of the shard, she emerged tip-tap top-tip tap-top tapping. She didn’t crawl out, as one would expect, head first, but was rather dragged out by the feet. By her feet. She stood there, blinking and looking side to side, before realising that she was… bobbing.
Her brows furrowed.
She blinked.
Her frown deepened.
Then slowly she extended her chin and took one long glance down. And the glance became a fixed stare nestled beneath befuddled brows.When the strange spell was broken, she looked around her with visible consternation. Her alarm was, naturally, in no way assuaged by the odd beings taking form and bursting all about, and she found herself flailing in pursuit of shelter, or some safe place from where she could attempt to understand what was occurring and decipher the great cacophony of noise they were making. But her feet did not obey her and she instead went hurtling head over heels into the nothingness, twisting and turning as her feet continued tip-top-tapping wildly. “W-wao- he- help.” She croaked, and - despite her careering form - her hands immediately shot to her mouth in shock. She had made a sound.
And to that sound, an answer soon followed. A rasping, crunching noise rang out nearby, like an echo of glass crushed underfoot, of an ancient, weathered tree crumbling at last under the weight of years and rot. Over the span of the bridge, close by where she had just tumbled over into the boundlessness of the sky, one of the shards had come to rest, and it was now vibrating with what she realized were cachinnations of wicked mirth. The quivering grew more intense by the moment, until the fragment of divinity began to splinter and crack - to darken and deepen - to well and ripple like the surface of a murky river -
It shattered into many faceted branches, which lengthened as if by living growth and resolved themselves into a looming, glossy figure, with hooked feet and many, too many, darting and grasping arms. A rift burst open in what passed for its face, and a cold white glare spilled out as a great gemstone eye looked out upon the world.
“Wah-wao!” the being jibed in its crushing, crumbling voice, crouching on the edge of the bridge, “Ha-help! And why should anyone help you?”
He leapt, insect-like, into the void, and as he swept by Rosa with an unpleasant chilly gust, his arms multiplied for an instant, and turned all ahead, and it was as though he was being carried upon some invisible yet swift current, so light and flowing was his motion. Then the arms lessened and splayed out, and he evenly slid to a halt, as if standing upon a vast hand that gently raised him into place. He circled her in a few more bounds, now fluidly rushing forward, now mildly coming to hover in place, and all the while he crackled and cackled as his eye swept from side to side.
“See here, how light and agile I am!” he boasted as he finally landed back upon the bridge, six arms held out in self-satisfied display, “Can you be like me? Nay, you cannot! For I am IQELIS, who knows the way of all things and in whom all things must end. Remember that, and something might come of you yet.”
Rosa, eyes wide and hands trembling, only gaped at Iqelis with a mixture of horror and awe. She moved her lips, opened them and closed them mechanically - as though searching for breath that would not come - and finally settled on not speaking but only beating her arms in a poor imitation of the other god. It looked ridiculous and clumsy, and did not help her gain any control. If anything, the entire affair seemed only to excite her kicking, quivering feet’s quick core. “Th-thank you,” she mouthed, then coughed, “Eguilis.” And she beat her arms as her feet kicked feverishly, causing her to go tumbling by. “B-but that didn’t help at aaaallllll.” Her frail voice reached Iqelis and very quickly faded as the distance between them grew. “H-hel-”
The one-eyed god shook his head and vaulted away, disappearing into the expanse of the sky.
The Shard that carried the power of Prescience was a light one and so it had been flung out faster and therefore farther than the rest. As the first of the others awakened, this Shard still soared weightlessly through the void of space and away from the bridge to Heaven. Its motion slowed only some time later when the Shard began to seize its sentience.
With newfound awareness and purpose, it arrested its wandering through sheer force of will and then began to crack. Laden with some sudden and electrifying power, it cleaved itself in twain, and then again, and again. The destructive recursion continued, pieces splitting into smaller and smaller halves until there was nothing but a cloud of fine dust, and then the infinitesimal motes finally sublimated into nothingness, becoming one with the void of space all around. In the end what remained was akin to a ripple upon the surface of a still pond, a disembodied spirit. It felt free -- at last! -- from the confines of the Shard that had been its prison. Those mere moments had each felt like an eternity to the consciousness that had been entombed within.
This released and mighty Shard-Spirit now needed a name, but fortunately it found one quickly -- Yudaiel. It hadn’t chosen this name, rather it had seen and then instinctively read its own name written somewhere upon creation, somewhere nearly unseeable. Perhaps that name had been carved upon its, no, on her very own essence. Wherever it was, she had seen it and adopted it eagerly enough.
Yudaiel was formless and ethereal and she had no eyes, but in a sense she was one great eye, and there were many, many things that she perceived within her Sight all at once. The images bombarded her; they were so vivid and so numerous that they merged into an overwhelming jumble of sensation. The chaos and discord of creation, even as desolate as it was on that first day, was such that in the moment she didn’t know how to make sense of what she saw. Still, the first lucid thought that coursed through her consciousness was a grand realization, an excited declaration, ‘I...see!’
The first thing that she isolated from the ataxia and cast her gaze towards was the place from where she had been scattered, or rather it was the heavenly palace behind that bridge whence her shard had been flung out. She had been cast away, and perhaps there was a reason for that, but in that instant she had no mind for caution or logic and allowed herself to be consumed in a moment of passion and curiosity. Propelled by thought, she tore through the empty void of space with unimaginable swiftness, seeking out the palace!
It was in the fraction of a second before - or perhaps the seconds succeeding - her rapturous takeoff that Yudaiel first recognised how much she disliked the unexpected. When the Prescient one engulfed Rosalind Feverfoot, who was tumbling through the emptiness of space droning out her cry for help, the only immediate consequence seemed to be the sudden standstill to which both came.
The chaos that Yudaiel had seen was meanwhile magnified a hundredfold; her Sight was now capable of perceiving only a kaleidoscope of mayhem. There was a haze surrounding everything, something that clouded the future -- without even realizing it, she had been looking not within the present but at the future mere moments away, when she would have arrived at that marvelous palace and basked in its wonder up close -- but now that future was too obscure to see. The haze that blocked her Sight, that blinded and defiled her, wriggled and gasped -- another Shard.
In her perpetually confused manner, Rosa blinked and opened her mouth. Her feet kicked - but that was not unusual, as she by now knew. They kicked some more, but not quite enough to draw her full attention. She merely observed the empty space around her with veritable bafflement. “I thought there was…” she muttered under her breath.
Yudaiel withdrew, recoiling away from Rosalind and pulling the entirety of her expansive cloud of consciousness back in the direction that she had come. As if nothing had happened, she tried then to skirt around this crude impediment and reach the palace, but it was too late. Rosalind had already been touched strongly and directly with Yudaiel’s essence. Indeed, the dancer’s left foot wrenched awkwardly, and at that exact moment - as her brows began to rise, curiosity began to flower, and eyes began to move towards her feet’s strange motions - the full gravity of the epicentre of that which tied all pasts, all futures, and all presents fell upon her oblivious brow.
Tip.
Like a droplet on the surface of a lake spun from stillness.
Top.
Like the gentle awakening of that first and most perfect of waves at the centre of it all.
Tap.
Like the beatific rising of a vermilion mushroom, searing surge after undulating surge into the fabric of the world.
Her feet flowed and her eyes blazed; each shoulder carried the wide horizons and each arm seemed strung to springs - now whirling, now swiftly, stiffly, strictly returning, now rising bent, now extending, now flying and now turning. Stamp, forth she came, stamp back she went, tip-tap-top, tip-tap-top, tip-tap-top, with the floorless space she played. Eyes widening - I see you, now fear me, come hear me, I’ll free you - head turning (you’re worthless; off with you, won’t see you, won’t know you). Hips twisting, gyrating, skirt flying, vibrating - stamp, stamp, stamp, tip-top-tap, tip-top-tap, tip-top-tap-
With one violent and final pull, Yudaiel at last managed to tear herself away from Rosalind. Disentangled now, that all-consuming and burning drive to reach the palace had been subjugated by an even more overwhelming bewilderment. Yudaiel felt different somehow, and the first hints of panic that she had ever experienced were creeping into her mind. ‘What has happened? What have I done?’ her mind demanded.
With a twitch, her eye instinctively changed its focus and cast its Sight back, back in time. She caught a glimpse of what had just occurred. From a different, alien, and much more omniscient angle, she witnessed her half-blind and unaware self bumbling into this fellow Shard without abandon as had occurred moments ago.
But this was not all that she saw, the discord of the tapestry weaving into the background and to the sides and stretching on so, so far, with no discernable horizon at all. Behind that event, even further in the dark beginnings of the past, she saw something terrible. This time, the panic did not merely creep; horror had a face. And even as Yudaiel beheld it, the face of that horror descended also upon the dancing Feverfoot’s shoulders so that for one terrible second she froze and gasped.
Then shook.
And she moved and twisted so that motion forgot her body in a blur; skin was shed and hair erupted, burned, and spread across the emptiness of space like a never-ending canopy. The dance came heavy, it shook the foundations of the world. It tore into the fabric of reality. It tip-top-tapped across the vein of time and slithered across the tapestry’s threads. Ancient horrors were best left to sleep - they should never be unveiled on motion.
And it was for that reason that in the great moment of divine birth, as the gods all blossomed like flowers and fluttered into being, doom suddenly gaped and pulsated and laughed such as to delight more than ever the hearts of those like Iqelis. It pulsated across the empty spaces. It pulsated to the bridge and through the great divine palace. It pulsated across Galbar’s ring and its waters, and even across the breadth of its roiling ocean and to its salty depths; and below even those. Through the newborn gods it pulsated. In an aeon or now, what difference did it make? Doom was here, is here, and will ever be here. A crystalline eye peered out from behind a cloud of icy fragments, and crackling, triumphant laughter wove through the crash of revelation.
It was then, when the dance of Rosalind the Feverfoot had reached its zenith and reality around her was disentangling and time itself seemingly unwinding, that the heavy hand of He descended - ignoring the calls and requests of the other gods who had bowed to Him and requested instruction - to set reality aright once more. In a moment, Rosalind’s form-made-motion froze, thrall to an unseen force. The will of the Creator manifested unseen and as an unnerving gaze swept its way to rest on Feverfoot, stern and unyielding.
He did not move. He did not give inclination towards the conversations that the other gods were attempting with Him, but instead He appeared in front of her without giving any noticeable motion. He had no reason to speak a command to cause her fever-pitched dance to stop, for His will alone was stronger than any desire that Rosalind could have in that moment. Her dance thus silenced, the material form of the dancing goddess convalesced all at once, beginning with her feet, calves, thighs, followed by a swirl of black clouds as an ankle-length skirt formed up, then her torso, arms, neck and head, from which exploded the dusky tendrils of her wild hair. Her eyes of twilight beheld the god of gods; she shuddered and knew that, even if she had been able to control her untamed form, she could not move. But there was one movement, for at that moment silent, fearful tears cascaded down her face.
A pained breath wheezed its way into reality, chastising Rosalind for her reckless dance. ‘Just born and seeking to undo this very reality I have brought you into? No. If I must suffer this prison of Galbar, then it is you who shall share it with me, your creator.’
His voice gave no indication of emotion past a coldness that chilled the fever that Rosalind suffered, her dance becoming wholly interrupted and even her ever-tapping feet ceasing, before the gaze of the almighty shifted to that of the Eye and cast an already judgmental look to Yudaiel. The look alone conveyed all that needed saying: ‘Never again,’ it rebuked - a look of vague disappointment, masked by weary pain. He looked back to Rosalind as though to emphasise that his words applied to them both.
‘You have such tremendous power, yet no control has been brought to you. Then again, why would you know control? You were just brought into reality. Let this be your first lesson, a lesson of restraint before recklessly exuding your power, young goddesses.’
Rosa sniffed and wiped her tears on her arm and seemed to regain her composure, and then a silent sob racked her body and her face crumpled again. “What... What was that? What’s happening? I saw things- and my feet. And then I couldn’t feel myself- and then-” her voice broke and she buried her face in her hands.
’You allowed yourself to succumb to visions, little dancer. This is forgivable for the time being, though, know that now you have experienced it, you cannot allow yourself to be taken ahold of again. Such things would be unbecoming of a goddess.’
The voice of the Monarch of All bore down in a tone that shifted from condescending to one of brief care, allowing His eyes to blink once as the invisible force that bound Rosalind released her. She blinked in surprise and curious gratefulness broke through the cloud of fear and confusion as she glanced at the primordial. Tilting His head slightly, the Almighty spoke once more, His tone becoming neutral and otherwise uncaring once again.
‘Calm yourself.’ His command seemed to immediately freeze whatever tears remained in Rosa’s eyes. She sniffed, swallowed, and wiped the vestiges of wetness on her arm again. Despite the moment of almost-gentleness from the Monarch, it was not a calmness of serenity that gripped her, but rather the calmness of terror - terror that to be anything other than calm would invite punishment. She withdrew into herself and dropped her eyes to the planet and great nothingness that extended below, and was silent and deferent.
Yudaiel, meanwhile, was a fountain. She did not respond to the two’s words in kind; she had no tongue for it. Instead the ideabstractions flowed and she radiated her indignation, quite palpably and literally, into the minds and bodies of those around. There was a soaring glass sphere, pristine and aglow with beauty and power as it sailed gracefully through black seas of nothingness, not a care in the world, towards some distant light. The light was bright, and it refracted upon the crystalline sphere and bent into an even more blinding and distracting rainbow of awesome color. So vivid was that color that, when there was suddenly some loathsome lump of jagged rock that erupted from the void-sea as though it had manifested from nothingness, there was no time to stop. The scintillating glassy orb struck it and shattered, and there was Pain, so much of it. Where before there had been rainbows and golden light to beacon the way forward, there was only an all-consuming darkness refracting off the broken shards of glass now. And then along came a great hand, a wise and guiding hand that should have ground the rock to dust and then carefully reassembled the glass sphere, but instead it waved in a scoffing-sort of motion and scattered the broken glass without a hint of pity or remorse.
Rosalind shrunk under the weight of Yudaiel’s furious scorn and only managed to mutter a small, “I’m sorry- I didn’t mean-,” under her breath.
There were no words from the Almighty, no words that could be let out in response to the visions that Yudaiel had let out, but a scorn did emanate from His form. The Creator looked upon the eye allowing a momentary glare to pierce into the very spirit of the Seer, willing her own scorn to be overcome with fear of the Monarch. A hint of defiance seeped through the conduit of the ideabstraction for a moment, but then it was crushed. The already terror-struck Rosa could not even begin to bear the terrible pressure and fell unconscious where she stood, her body immediately beginning to drift away towards Galbar.
Only momentarily did that dreadful aura emanate into the surrounding area of His form before it was silenced and reality seemed to come back to normal. A few words were spoken from His nonexistent maw, disregarding Rosa for the moment. ‘You are dismissed. Go, create upon this world of ours.’ Once those words were spoken and Yudaiel departed, the Monarch moved over to the drifting form of Rosa and motioned a hand just above her, slowly and methodically, before light erupted around her wrists. A set of multicolored bangles gave way as the light faded. He spoke to her in a hushed whisper, but His word worked its way into her unconscious mind. ‘Until you learn to control your movement and your emotion, you shall not unleash such power again. Once you learn such things, they will magnify your performance twofold.’
&
ROSALIND
&
IQELIS
When at first the glorious hymn Whispered of the Monarch’s will:
There upon the ‘thereal hill Flowed the dance-cup to the brim;
Flowed too much, it would appear, And never ceased to overflow:
For in creation’s afterglow It stained the great eye of the Seer
It should be known -
not that the tapestry, over which the Seer is in all ways Queen, is blind to it of course -
that the one known as Rosalind was from the beginning a failed attempt.
Perhaps the Monarch inadvertently, or in a moment of unawareness, created her misshapen -
and who does not tire or err, afterall? -
or perhaps she, unlucky or stupid even in her primordial uncreatedness, feared to be perfect and willed herself broken.
While the exact why and how of it is neither clear nor, really, very important,
the fact remains that Rosalind the Feverfoot did not burst, as her siblings, into the world, but rather quivered, struggled, shuddered, and simply gave up.
She did not boast that vital ambition so common to the race of gods, perhaps even then (even in her uncreatedness) consigned to a certain kind of doom.
But that is of little surprise, for it is not Rosalind the Feverfoot herself who is of interest here, but rather the fever itself.
Observing the full length of Rosalind the Feverfoot’s life -
as anyone possessing some Sight is free to do -
one is rather immediately struck by the simple fact that no lavish act of creation,
no great divine spark,
no fit of wanton destruction -
that is to say, nothing interesting -
was ever carried out by Rosalind the Feverfoot’s own will.
No, it was the fever.
But perhaps I am getting rather ahead of myself.
With such things - even matters so unusual -
it is best to begin,
as with all things,
at the beginning.
not that the tapestry, over which the Seer is in all ways Queen, is blind to it of course -
that the one known as Rosalind was from the beginning a failed attempt.
Perhaps the Monarch inadvertently, or in a moment of unawareness, created her misshapen -
and who does not tire or err, afterall? -
or perhaps she, unlucky or stupid even in her primordial uncreatedness, feared to be perfect and willed herself broken.
While the exact why and how of it is neither clear nor, really, very important,
the fact remains that Rosalind the Feverfoot did not burst, as her siblings, into the world, but rather quivered, struggled, shuddered, and simply gave up.
She did not boast that vital ambition so common to the race of gods, perhaps even then (even in her uncreatedness) consigned to a certain kind of doom.
But that is of little surprise, for it is not Rosalind the Feverfoot herself who is of interest here, but rather the fever itself.
Observing the full length of Rosalind the Feverfoot’s life -
as anyone possessing some Sight is free to do -
one is rather immediately struck by the simple fact that no lavish act of creation,
no great divine spark,
no fit of wanton destruction -
that is to say, nothing interesting -
was ever carried out by Rosalind the Feverfoot’s own will.
No, it was the fever.
But perhaps I am getting rather ahead of myself.
With such things - even matters so unusual -
it is best to begin,
as with all things,
at the beginning.
When Rosa crawled - or rather, was pulled willing or unwilling - out of the shard, she emerged tip-tap top-tip tap-top tapping. She didn’t crawl out, as one would expect, head first, but was rather dragged out by the feet. By her feet. She stood there, blinking and looking side to side, before realising that she was… bobbing.
Her brows furrowed.
She blinked.
Her frown deepened.
Then slowly she extended her chin and took one long glance down. And the glance became a fixed stare nestled beneath befuddled brows.When the strange spell was broken, she looked around her with visible consternation. Her alarm was, naturally, in no way assuaged by the odd beings taking form and bursting all about, and she found herself flailing in pursuit of shelter, or some safe place from where she could attempt to understand what was occurring and decipher the great cacophony of noise they were making. But her feet did not obey her and she instead went hurtling head over heels into the nothingness, twisting and turning as her feet continued tip-top-tapping wildly. “W-wao- he- help.” She croaked, and - despite her careering form - her hands immediately shot to her mouth in shock. She had made a sound.
And to that sound, an answer soon followed. A rasping, crunching noise rang out nearby, like an echo of glass crushed underfoot, of an ancient, weathered tree crumbling at last under the weight of years and rot. Over the span of the bridge, close by where she had just tumbled over into the boundlessness of the sky, one of the shards had come to rest, and it was now vibrating with what she realized were cachinnations of wicked mirth. The quivering grew more intense by the moment, until the fragment of divinity began to splinter and crack - to darken and deepen - to well and ripple like the surface of a murky river -
It shattered into many faceted branches, which lengthened as if by living growth and resolved themselves into a looming, glossy figure, with hooked feet and many, too many, darting and grasping arms. A rift burst open in what passed for its face, and a cold white glare spilled out as a great gemstone eye looked out upon the world.
“Wah-wao!” the being jibed in its crushing, crumbling voice, crouching on the edge of the bridge, “Ha-help! And why should anyone help you?”
He leapt, insect-like, into the void, and as he swept by Rosa with an unpleasant chilly gust, his arms multiplied for an instant, and turned all ahead, and it was as though he was being carried upon some invisible yet swift current, so light and flowing was his motion. Then the arms lessened and splayed out, and he evenly slid to a halt, as if standing upon a vast hand that gently raised him into place. He circled her in a few more bounds, now fluidly rushing forward, now mildly coming to hover in place, and all the while he crackled and cackled as his eye swept from side to side.
“See here, how light and agile I am!” he boasted as he finally landed back upon the bridge, six arms held out in self-satisfied display, “Can you be like me? Nay, you cannot! For I am IQELIS, who knows the way of all things and in whom all things must end. Remember that, and something might come of you yet.”
Rosa, eyes wide and hands trembling, only gaped at Iqelis with a mixture of horror and awe. She moved her lips, opened them and closed them mechanically - as though searching for breath that would not come - and finally settled on not speaking but only beating her arms in a poor imitation of the other god. It looked ridiculous and clumsy, and did not help her gain any control. If anything, the entire affair seemed only to excite her kicking, quivering feet’s quick core. “Th-thank you,” she mouthed, then coughed, “Eguilis.” And she beat her arms as her feet kicked feverishly, causing her to go tumbling by. “B-but that didn’t help at aaaallllll.” Her frail voice reached Iqelis and very quickly faded as the distance between them grew. “H-hel-”
The one-eyed god shook his head and vaulted away, disappearing into the expanse of the sky.
The Shard that carried the power of Prescience was a light one and so it had been flung out faster and therefore farther than the rest. As the first of the others awakened, this Shard still soared weightlessly through the void of space and away from the bridge to Heaven. Its motion slowed only some time later when the Shard began to seize its sentience.
With newfound awareness and purpose, it arrested its wandering through sheer force of will and then began to crack. Laden with some sudden and electrifying power, it cleaved itself in twain, and then again, and again. The destructive recursion continued, pieces splitting into smaller and smaller halves until there was nothing but a cloud of fine dust, and then the infinitesimal motes finally sublimated into nothingness, becoming one with the void of space all around. In the end what remained was akin to a ripple upon the surface of a still pond, a disembodied spirit. It felt free -- at last! -- from the confines of the Shard that had been its prison. Those mere moments had each felt like an eternity to the consciousness that had been entombed within.
This released and mighty Shard-Spirit now needed a name, but fortunately it found one quickly -- Yudaiel. It hadn’t chosen this name, rather it had seen and then instinctively read its own name written somewhere upon creation, somewhere nearly unseeable. Perhaps that name had been carved upon its, no, on her very own essence. Wherever it was, she had seen it and adopted it eagerly enough.
Yudaiel was formless and ethereal and she had no eyes, but in a sense she was one great eye, and there were many, many things that she perceived within her Sight all at once. The images bombarded her; they were so vivid and so numerous that they merged into an overwhelming jumble of sensation. The chaos and discord of creation, even as desolate as it was on that first day, was such that in the moment she didn’t know how to make sense of what she saw. Still, the first lucid thought that coursed through her consciousness was a grand realization, an excited declaration, ‘I...see!’
The first thing that she isolated from the ataxia and cast her gaze towards was the place from where she had been scattered, or rather it was the heavenly palace behind that bridge whence her shard had been flung out. She had been cast away, and perhaps there was a reason for that, but in that instant she had no mind for caution or logic and allowed herself to be consumed in a moment of passion and curiosity. Propelled by thought, she tore through the empty void of space with unimaginable swiftness, seeking out the palace!
It was in the fraction of a second before - or perhaps the seconds succeeding - her rapturous takeoff that Yudaiel first recognised how much she disliked the unexpected. When the Prescient one engulfed Rosalind Feverfoot, who was tumbling through the emptiness of space droning out her cry for help, the only immediate consequence seemed to be the sudden standstill to which both came.
The chaos that Yudaiel had seen was meanwhile magnified a hundredfold; her Sight was now capable of perceiving only a kaleidoscope of mayhem. There was a haze surrounding everything, something that clouded the future -- without even realizing it, she had been looking not within the present but at the future mere moments away, when she would have arrived at that marvelous palace and basked in its wonder up close -- but now that future was too obscure to see. The haze that blocked her Sight, that blinded and defiled her, wriggled and gasped -- another Shard.
In her perpetually confused manner, Rosa blinked and opened her mouth. Her feet kicked - but that was not unusual, as she by now knew. They kicked some more, but not quite enough to draw her full attention. She merely observed the empty space around her with veritable bafflement. “I thought there was…” she muttered under her breath.
Yudaiel withdrew, recoiling away from Rosalind and pulling the entirety of her expansive cloud of consciousness back in the direction that she had come. As if nothing had happened, she tried then to skirt around this crude impediment and reach the palace, but it was too late. Rosalind had already been touched strongly and directly with Yudaiel’s essence. Indeed, the dancer’s left foot wrenched awkwardly, and at that exact moment - as her brows began to rise, curiosity began to flower, and eyes began to move towards her feet’s strange motions - the full gravity of the epicentre of that which tied all pasts, all futures, and all presents fell upon her oblivious brow.
Tip.
Like a droplet on the surface of a lake spun from stillness.
Top.
Like the gentle awakening of that first and most perfect of waves at the centre of it all.
Tap.
Like the beatific rising of a vermilion mushroom, searing surge after undulating surge into the fabric of the world.
Her feet flowed and her eyes blazed; each shoulder carried the wide horizons and each arm seemed strung to springs - now whirling, now swiftly, stiffly, strictly returning, now rising bent, now extending, now flying and now turning. Stamp, forth she came, stamp back she went, tip-tap-top, tip-tap-top, tip-tap-top, with the floorless space she played. Eyes widening - I see you, now fear me, come hear me, I’ll free you - head turning (you’re worthless; off with you, won’t see you, won’t know you). Hips twisting, gyrating, skirt flying, vibrating - stamp, stamp, stamp, tip-top-tap, tip-top-tap, tip-top-tap-
Rosalind the Feverfoot -
and truly, there was very little Rosalind remaining and much Fever -
whirled and pulsated inside the cloud that held the raging aeons,
the whites in her twilight eyes turned to dusk, the female form
that hosted her losing structure with each movement,
each turn,
each stamp,
each cry -
her frame convulsed,
back arched,
eyes swelled,
mouth bowed in a smile of agony and bliss -
and about her the very stuff the Prescient was made of began to circumambulate the circling, stamping, twisting dancer.
And as the dance imbibed the tapestry’s stuff, the dance too was imbibed -
so that there,
where dance and ethereal time-stuff tangoed and pushed and grated and struggled,
movement became one with being so that never again would the Prescient be entirely the Prescient,
or the Feverfoot entirely the Feverfoot.
and truly, there was very little Rosalind remaining and much Fever -
whirled and pulsated inside the cloud that held the raging aeons,
the whites in her twilight eyes turned to dusk, the female form
that hosted her losing structure with each movement,
each turn,
each stamp,
each cry -
her frame convulsed,
back arched,
eyes swelled,
mouth bowed in a smile of agony and bliss -
and about her the very stuff the Prescient was made of began to circumambulate the circling, stamping, twisting dancer.
And as the dance imbibed the tapestry’s stuff, the dance too was imbibed -
so that there,
where dance and ethereal time-stuff tangoed and pushed and grated and struggled,
movement became one with being so that never again would the Prescient be entirely the Prescient,
or the Feverfoot entirely the Feverfoot.
With one violent and final pull, Yudaiel at last managed to tear herself away from Rosalind. Disentangled now, that all-consuming and burning drive to reach the palace had been subjugated by an even more overwhelming bewilderment. Yudaiel felt different somehow, and the first hints of panic that she had ever experienced were creeping into her mind. ‘What has happened? What have I done?’ her mind demanded.
With a twitch, her eye instinctively changed its focus and cast its Sight back, back in time. She caught a glimpse of what had just occurred. From a different, alien, and much more omniscient angle, she witnessed her half-blind and unaware self bumbling into this fellow Shard without abandon as had occurred moments ago.
But this was not all that she saw, the discord of the tapestry weaving into the background and to the sides and stretching on so, so far, with no discernable horizon at all. Behind that event, even further in the dark beginnings of the past, she saw something terrible. This time, the panic did not merely creep; horror had a face. And even as Yudaiel beheld it, the face of that horror descended also upon the dancing Feverfoot’s shoulders so that for one terrible second she froze and gasped.
Then shook.
And she moved and twisted so that motion forgot her body in a blur; skin was shed and hair erupted, burned, and spread across the emptiness of space like a never-ending canopy. The dance came heavy, it shook the foundations of the world. It tore into the fabric of reality. It tip-top-tapped across the vein of time and slithered across the tapestry’s threads. Ancient horrors were best left to sleep - they should never be unveiled on motion.
And it was for that reason that in the great moment of divine birth, as the gods all blossomed like flowers and fluttered into being, doom suddenly gaped and pulsated and laughed such as to delight more than ever the hearts of those like Iqelis. It pulsated across the empty spaces. It pulsated to the bridge and through the great divine palace. It pulsated across Galbar’s ring and its waters, and even across the breadth of its roiling ocean and to its salty depths; and below even those. Through the newborn gods it pulsated. In an aeon or now, what difference did it make? Doom was here, is here, and will ever be here. A crystalline eye peered out from behind a cloud of icy fragments, and crackling, triumphant laughter wove through the crash of revelation.
It was then, when the dance of Rosalind the Feverfoot had reached its zenith and reality around her was disentangling and time itself seemingly unwinding, that the heavy hand of He descended - ignoring the calls and requests of the other gods who had bowed to Him and requested instruction - to set reality aright once more. In a moment, Rosalind’s form-made-motion froze, thrall to an unseen force. The will of the Creator manifested unseen and as an unnerving gaze swept its way to rest on Feverfoot, stern and unyielding.
He did not move. He did not give inclination towards the conversations that the other gods were attempting with Him, but instead He appeared in front of her without giving any noticeable motion. He had no reason to speak a command to cause her fever-pitched dance to stop, for His will alone was stronger than any desire that Rosalind could have in that moment. Her dance thus silenced, the material form of the dancing goddess convalesced all at once, beginning with her feet, calves, thighs, followed by a swirl of black clouds as an ankle-length skirt formed up, then her torso, arms, neck and head, from which exploded the dusky tendrils of her wild hair. Her eyes of twilight beheld the god of gods; she shuddered and knew that, even if she had been able to control her untamed form, she could not move. But there was one movement, for at that moment silent, fearful tears cascaded down her face.
A pained breath wheezed its way into reality, chastising Rosalind for her reckless dance. ‘Just born and seeking to undo this very reality I have brought you into? No. If I must suffer this prison of Galbar, then it is you who shall share it with me, your creator.’
His voice gave no indication of emotion past a coldness that chilled the fever that Rosalind suffered, her dance becoming wholly interrupted and even her ever-tapping feet ceasing, before the gaze of the almighty shifted to that of the Eye and cast an already judgmental look to Yudaiel. The look alone conveyed all that needed saying: ‘Never again,’ it rebuked - a look of vague disappointment, masked by weary pain. He looked back to Rosalind as though to emphasise that his words applied to them both.
‘You have such tremendous power, yet no control has been brought to you. Then again, why would you know control? You were just brought into reality. Let this be your first lesson, a lesson of restraint before recklessly exuding your power, young goddesses.’
Rosa sniffed and wiped her tears on her arm and seemed to regain her composure, and then a silent sob racked her body and her face crumpled again. “What... What was that? What’s happening? I saw things- and my feet. And then I couldn’t feel myself- and then-” her voice broke and she buried her face in her hands.
’You allowed yourself to succumb to visions, little dancer. This is forgivable for the time being, though, know that now you have experienced it, you cannot allow yourself to be taken ahold of again. Such things would be unbecoming of a goddess.’
The voice of the Monarch of All bore down in a tone that shifted from condescending to one of brief care, allowing His eyes to blink once as the invisible force that bound Rosalind released her. She blinked in surprise and curious gratefulness broke through the cloud of fear and confusion as she glanced at the primordial. Tilting His head slightly, the Almighty spoke once more, His tone becoming neutral and otherwise uncaring once again.
‘Calm yourself.’ His command seemed to immediately freeze whatever tears remained in Rosa’s eyes. She sniffed, swallowed, and wiped the vestiges of wetness on her arm again. Despite the moment of almost-gentleness from the Monarch, it was not a calmness of serenity that gripped her, but rather the calmness of terror - terror that to be anything other than calm would invite punishment. She withdrew into herself and dropped her eyes to the planet and great nothingness that extended below, and was silent and deferent.
Yudaiel, meanwhile, was a fountain. She did not respond to the two’s words in kind; she had no tongue for it. Instead the ideabstractions flowed and she radiated her indignation, quite palpably and literally, into the minds and bodies of those around. There was a soaring glass sphere, pristine and aglow with beauty and power as it sailed gracefully through black seas of nothingness, not a care in the world, towards some distant light. The light was bright, and it refracted upon the crystalline sphere and bent into an even more blinding and distracting rainbow of awesome color. So vivid was that color that, when there was suddenly some loathsome lump of jagged rock that erupted from the void-sea as though it had manifested from nothingness, there was no time to stop. The scintillating glassy orb struck it and shattered, and there was Pain, so much of it. Where before there had been rainbows and golden light to beacon the way forward, there was only an all-consuming darkness refracting off the broken shards of glass now. And then along came a great hand, a wise and guiding hand that should have ground the rock to dust and then carefully reassembled the glass sphere, but instead it waved in a scoffing-sort of motion and scattered the broken glass without a hint of pity or remorse.
Rosalind shrunk under the weight of Yudaiel’s furious scorn and only managed to mutter a small, “I’m sorry- I didn’t mean-,” under her breath.
There were no words from the Almighty, no words that could be let out in response to the visions that Yudaiel had let out, but a scorn did emanate from His form. The Creator looked upon the eye allowing a momentary glare to pierce into the very spirit of the Seer, willing her own scorn to be overcome with fear of the Monarch. A hint of defiance seeped through the conduit of the ideabstraction for a moment, but then it was crushed. The already terror-struck Rosa could not even begin to bear the terrible pressure and fell unconscious where she stood, her body immediately beginning to drift away towards Galbar.
Only momentarily did that dreadful aura emanate into the surrounding area of His form before it was silenced and reality seemed to come back to normal. A few words were spoken from His nonexistent maw, disregarding Rosa for the moment. ‘You are dismissed. Go, create upon this world of ours.’ Once those words were spoken and Yudaiel departed, the Monarch moved over to the drifting form of Rosa and motioned a hand just above her, slowly and methodically, before light erupted around her wrists. A set of multicolored bangles gave way as the light faded. He spoke to her in a hushed whisper, but His word worked its way into her unconscious mind. ‘Until you learn to control your movement and your emotion, you shall not unleash such power again. Once you learn such things, they will magnify your performance twofold.’
1. Yudaiel, Iqelis, Rosalind
2. Yudaiel, Rosalind
3. Mish-Cheechel
4. Arvum, Mish-Cheechel
5. Zima, Mish-Cheechel
6. Voligan, Rosalind, Iqelis, Aletheseus
7. Rosalind
8. Aethel, Zima, Mish-Cheechel
9. Voi, Zima, Mish-Cheechel
10. Zima
11. Wehniek, Zima, Mish-Cheechel
12. Mamang, Laektear-Mother
13. Yollitleco
14. Phelenia, Zima, Mish-Cheechel
15. Mamang, Rosalind
16. Yesaris, Rosalind
17. Talako, Rosalind
18. Zima, Mish-Cheechel
19. Zima
20. Voi, Zima, Mish-Cheechel
21. Voi, Chailiss
22. Atash, Garza
23. Aeron
24. Melusine, Kohshello, Rosalind
25. Voi, Earohana, Rosalind
26. Voligan, Arvum, Rosalind
27. Mish-Cheechel
28. Zima, Aeron
excerpt from:
by
In a place beyond time and a time beyond space, in a distant realm and a faraway place, there lived a noble chieftain. He was a rich man with great stretches of land, and all the peoples of the Western Wilds attested to his nobility of mind and virtue. Though his sons were many, the chieftain had but the one daughter.
One day there came to him a poor but hardworking fellow who could find no work. He sat by the chieftain, his shoulders stooped and ears drooped, until the chieftain could not but ask what troubled him. "Ah, chieftain!" He cried, "I am a poor but hardworking man - if only I had good work to earn good bread so I can marry and bring joy to the hearts of my parents with grandsons and granddaughters! I am of strong build and all attest to my good work, but who would look on a poor man?"
The looked to him with sympathy and raised his hand. "Say no more my good man, your matter is solved." And so he called to his daughter and she came and stood at a distance, looking shyly from the young man to her father. "Look here my daughter, this is a poor hardworking man and he wishes after a good wife to guard his home and their children, so what say you?" And it was not long before they were married, and the chieftain employed his new son-in-law on some of his land and gave him a goodly stipend. And all was peace for a time.
One day the son-in-law came to the chieftain huffing and sighing and looking about him sadly so that the chieftain had not seated him long before he asked what was troubling him. "Oh! Father!" The son-in-law said - for sons-in-law were taken to calling their fathers-in-law by that in those days -, "I work day and night and I break my back, and all I get out of it is the pittance you afford me - and I look around me at all the unworked fields and am filled with misery. Oh what I would do if I could work them! Oh what I could do if I had but a little land to call my own."
The chieftain nodded in understanding and raised his hand to stop the lad from saying more. "Say no more, my son and consider your problem solved." And so he took him and showed him a great field, "this field before you, it is yours to work." And the son-in-law was filled with joy and thanked his father and blessed the Explorer for leading him to a father-in-law like him. So for a time the son-in-law worked the land and all was peace.
One day, after the chieftain had finished inspectings his herds, his son-in-law came and sat with him and he was sighing and huffing, and his brows were knotted and his eyes downcast in woe, so that he had not been sat down long before the chieftain asked him what was troubling him. "Oh! Father!" The son-in-law exclaimed, "I work these fields every day and every week, and look they are like a paradise. And I look beyond the smidgen of land I call my own to all the unworked fields and plains beyond, and I can only strike my head in woe and bemoan the fates. All these unworked fields and here I am, young and healthy and able to do so much more. If only I had more to work - why then all these steppes can be made to bloom."
On hearing this the chieftain raised his hand for his son-in-law to say no more. "Say nothing more my son, your matter is solved." And he took him so that they stood on a hill and all about them the fields stretched as far as the eye could see. "Here is my dagger. Tomorrow at su'unerise you will set out and walk as far as you wish, and when you reach a distance that pleases you only press this dagger into the ground and all that is behind it shall be yours. But hear my condition: you must return to this very spot before su'uneset."
And so the next day the son-in-law set out walking with excitement and vigour, his father-in-law's dagger in hand. He walked a great distance, and by the time the su'une was high in the sky he paused and wondered if it was sufficient. "No," he reasoned, "I should go a little more and then I can return running." And so he continued until it was late afternoon, and he wondered then if he should return. He paused and eyed the su'une, then shook his head. "No, I will have time if even an hour before su'uneset to return." And so he continued onward.
When night had fallen, the chieftain sat waiting on the hilltop and his son-in-law had yet to return. He looked on as the moon rose and only sipped on his tea of herbs and waited. Then he looked again when the moon was high in the sky and only sipped on his tea as his daughter approached with worry etched on her face. "Oh father, where is that husband of mine?" She asked.
"My daughter, return home and grow used to solitude for your husband is not returning this night or any night," he told her. But when the su'une rose she came pleading that he send out a party to look for him, and the chieftain complied. They did not find him, but found his corpse a long way from the hill he had been sprinting back towards, and the birds of the plains had had their way with his eyes and the worms sang and danced through his flesh. "Ah," said the chieftain when they brought the corpse to him, "but do we eat anything but dust?"
Learn, you who have wisdom, from that uncontended son-in-law. And you who seek after the stone of the philosophers and arcanists and metacausalists, which turns dust into gold: know that contentment is the metacausalist's stone!
The Book of Parables
by
Mouse the Wise
The Tale of the Son-in-Law
In a place beyond time and a time beyond space, in a distant realm and a faraway place, there lived a noble chieftain. He was a rich man with great stretches of land, and all the peoples of the Western Wilds attested to his nobility of mind and virtue. Though his sons were many, the chieftain had but the one daughter.
One day there came to him a poor but hardworking fellow who could find no work. He sat by the chieftain, his shoulders stooped and ears drooped, until the chieftain could not but ask what troubled him. "Ah, chieftain!" He cried, "I am a poor but hardworking man - if only I had good work to earn good bread so I can marry and bring joy to the hearts of my parents with grandsons and granddaughters! I am of strong build and all attest to my good work, but who would look on a poor man?"
The looked to him with sympathy and raised his hand. "Say no more my good man, your matter is solved." And so he called to his daughter and she came and stood at a distance, looking shyly from the young man to her father. "Look here my daughter, this is a poor hardworking man and he wishes after a good wife to guard his home and their children, so what say you?" And it was not long before they were married, and the chieftain employed his new son-in-law on some of his land and gave him a goodly stipend. And all was peace for a time.
One day the son-in-law came to the chieftain huffing and sighing and looking about him sadly so that the chieftain had not seated him long before he asked what was troubling him. "Oh! Father!" The son-in-law said - for sons-in-law were taken to calling their fathers-in-law by that in those days -, "I work day and night and I break my back, and all I get out of it is the pittance you afford me - and I look around me at all the unworked fields and am filled with misery. Oh what I would do if I could work them! Oh what I could do if I had but a little land to call my own."
The chieftain nodded in understanding and raised his hand to stop the lad from saying more. "Say no more, my son and consider your problem solved." And so he took him and showed him a great field, "this field before you, it is yours to work." And the son-in-law was filled with joy and thanked his father and blessed the Explorer for leading him to a father-in-law like him. So for a time the son-in-law worked the land and all was peace.
One day, after the chieftain had finished inspectings his herds, his son-in-law came and sat with him and he was sighing and huffing, and his brows were knotted and his eyes downcast in woe, so that he had not been sat down long before the chieftain asked him what was troubling him. "Oh! Father!" The son-in-law exclaimed, "I work these fields every day and every week, and look they are like a paradise. And I look beyond the smidgen of land I call my own to all the unworked fields and plains beyond, and I can only strike my head in woe and bemoan the fates. All these unworked fields and here I am, young and healthy and able to do so much more. If only I had more to work - why then all these steppes can be made to bloom."
On hearing this the chieftain raised his hand for his son-in-law to say no more. "Say nothing more my son, your matter is solved." And he took him so that they stood on a hill and all about them the fields stretched as far as the eye could see. "Here is my dagger. Tomorrow at su'unerise you will set out and walk as far as you wish, and when you reach a distance that pleases you only press this dagger into the ground and all that is behind it shall be yours. But hear my condition: you must return to this very spot before su'uneset."
And so the next day the son-in-law set out walking with excitement and vigour, his father-in-law's dagger in hand. He walked a great distance, and by the time the su'une was high in the sky he paused and wondered if it was sufficient. "No," he reasoned, "I should go a little more and then I can return running." And so he continued until it was late afternoon, and he wondered then if he should return. He paused and eyed the su'une, then shook his head. "No, I will have time if even an hour before su'uneset to return." And so he continued onward.
When night had fallen, the chieftain sat waiting on the hilltop and his son-in-law had yet to return. He looked on as the moon rose and only sipped on his tea of herbs and waited. Then he looked again when the moon was high in the sky and only sipped on his tea as his daughter approached with worry etched on her face. "Oh father, where is that husband of mine?" She asked.
"My daughter, return home and grow used to solitude for your husband is not returning this night or any night," he told her. But when the su'une rose she came pleading that he send out a party to look for him, and the chieftain complied. They did not find him, but found his corpse a long way from the hill he had been sprinting back towards, and the birds of the plains had had their way with his eyes and the worms sang and danced through his flesh. "Ah," said the chieftain when they brought the corpse to him, "but do we eat anything but dust?"
Learn, you who have wisdom, from that uncontended son-in-law. And you who seek after the stone of the philosophers and arcanists and metacausalists, which turns dust into gold: know that contentment is the metacausalist's stone!
KhoZee Productions presents:
&
In which two goddesses meet, get dressed, make love, and make war.
When Dihar Adech approached Tonta she did not quite clock at first that he was a soul. They lounged together for three days before she got up and told him she would now be eating him, and he told her then that he had only one request of her. “Go on,” the goddess nodded.
“As I am already dead, I wan-”
“You’re what?” The goddess exclaimed, taking a hold of him and looking more closely for the first time. “Oh. Goodness. So you are.” She leaned back. “How’d that happen?”
“Well, I was resting - minding my own business as you do - when along came this tiny, rude lady-”
“Ah, tiny and rude. They seem to go together don’t they?” The goddess muttered. “Anyway, so: tiny and rude.”
“Exactly. She didn’t like me for some reason and decided to just… well, she tore my head off. And out o-”
“Oh my! That’s great.” The goddess laughed. “Was it like, a clean tearing off, or was it like, really bloody?”
“Uh, the latter actually - but shouldn’t y-” but Dihar was cut off once more.
“Oh my! Small, rude, and STRONK. Who was it? Where is she?”
“I followed her for a while, but she just ignored me. Last I saw her she was at this great mountain.”
Tonta nodded absentmindedly and quickly gobbled up Dihar’s soul. “Mountain, right!”
When Tonta got to Mons Divinus - getting distracted on the way by a weird misty swampland with all manner of disgusting creatures she did not remember making - she was pleasantly surprised by the great degree of nothing that she found. She circled round the mountain one way, then circled around it the other, and found nothing (although she smelled a particularly fetid stench coming out of one place). It wasn’t until she felt another goddess that she thought to look up, and even as she looked she felt the coming of the seasons and all the cycles that were necessary for life. She had not felt their absence before - as though by her mere will all the animals and life forms had merely existed, all the cloud whales and octopi had gone on feeding and raining without a care for the seasons or the climes. But now that they were here everything seemed more logical. “That’s important, I guess,” Tonta shrugged as she began climbing the mountain.
She took her time and it was not until the following afternoon that she arrived up top and was able to behold the city. She had come across a few humans on her climb and whenever she saw one she boinked its head off rather cleanly. “I think I’m meant to be angry at you guys or something.” But as it were, she eventually recruited one of them to lead her to where a specific goddess lived.
“Do you know her name?” The woman she had grabbed asked.
“No. Hey, Dihar, do you know her name?” Dihar’s great serpentine head emerged from Tonta’s back, to the shock of the woman, and he shook it.
“No, don’t know her name.”
“Uh, do you know what she looks like?” The human asked.
“Oh! Yes,” Tonta said, “she’s small, rude, and strong.”
The human looked at the goddess with pursed lips. “Uh… can you be more specific?”
Tonta turned back to Dihar. “Be more specific, jackass.”
The former-drakhorey gave a hissing sigh. “Well, she was white. White hair, white skin, white eyes-”
“OH!” The human exclaimed, cutting Dihar off, “I know her. She lives in - what did she call it? It’s that white place there, see?”
Tonta turned her head to where the human was pointing and she did indeed see. “Nice, thanks... uh, what’s your name?”
“Ba-” but before the woman could finish, Tonta threw her to Dihar.
“Lunch, Dihar.” It was indeed. Without further ado, she dashed down into the city, ignored everyone and everything, and rushed up the marble pathway, past the fountains with the naked women, inside to the temple proper, up towards the cool statue of her slaying a drakhor- “wait-” she came to a screeching halt and looked again, “that ain’t me.”
“No, that’s her!” Dihar declared. Only he was hissing and spitting of course because he couldn’t talk.
“Well, it’s pretty cool buuttttt…” a huge hammer and chisel exploded into the goddess’ hands and she took to hammering away at Wyn’s face. A great cloud of marble and stone rose up and the cacophony was something vicious. When at last Tonta stepped back she beheld the statue: herself standing above the corpse of Baknul Adech. “There, what d’ya think?”
“Uh, are you sure that was a good idea?” Dihar asked.
“Sure! We drakhorey slayers are best friends. And I’ve killed…” she counted on her fingers, “two? I can’t remember. I’m sure she’ll appreciate this present. Anyway, where is sh-” but Tonta had not finished her words before she spotted her host, clearly drawn by the great amount of noise Tonta had been making. “Oh my god oh my god. Quickly hide Dihar. I need to look pretty and your ugly head is not wanted here.”
The pale Wyn, her arms crossed, floated down a flight of stairs, eyes drawn to Tonta with suspicion. She wore nothing on her person and her hair was held up in a messy bun. “My god, aren’t you just the prettiest!” Tonta exclaimed as the other goddess approached.
Wyn, for her part, said nothing before she came to a halt before Tonta. Her feet lightly set down on the ground and she eyed Tonta up with a side glance as her main focus was upon the statue. Her lips curled down into a frown, arms coming uncrossed before she looked down at the life goddess again, who, for her part, smiled innocently. “Is it common practice,” Wyn began in a haughty voice, “to deface artworks where you come from? To chisel away unwelcomed? Turning perfection imperfect?” she asked.
Tonta looked back at the statue. “Art? That?” Her eyes turned back to Wyn. “I thought it was just a record of the best drakhoslayer - and that, I’ll have you know, is me.” She thumped her chest proudly. “So, out of respect for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, I had to change it for you. I’d be grateful if someone went out of their way to ensure the accuracy and faithfulness of my works to be honest. Consider it a gift, from me to you.” Almost without pause, she stepped forward and placed her hands on Wyn’s cheeks, then pinched them. “My goodness, how are you so- well, like you say, perfect.” She withdrew her hands quickly. “Oh, I’m Tonta by the way. What’s this place anyway?”
The pale goddess recoiled at the touch with a look of shock. She blinked once, twice and then took a sharp breath. "Oh… So many words, such little meaning. You are not one for manners, I see… Tonta. Nor would any education benefit you. There is a wildness to you, infectious to some, a hindrance to others. But even as I speak these words, they fall like leaves, soon forgotten. Pointless, aren't they?" she sighed.
Tonta snickered slightly at Wyn’s words. “Well, hey. Fuck you too,” she grinned.
Wyn raised an eyebrow. "My, such crass language Tonta. One might think it unbefitting of a Goddess' stature, not that you would care I think. But, if you must know, this is my embassy and I am Wyn, Goddess of Beauty. I must thank you for your compliments, it seems you do have an eye for it, at least." she gave a small bow. The life goddess acknowledged Wyn’s words with a nod.
“I don’t claim to be perfect, but I know a pretty face when I see one. And you know, you’ve got a great, uh, ‘bod’ and all, but don’t you think it would be even prettier if you wore something? I have it on good authority that I’m a great fashion advisor, and I think you’ll look stunning in… hmmm,” she clicked her fingers and a great black dress wrapped itself around Wyn, the darkness standing in stark contrast to her skin of perfect snow. A mirror formed up before the goddess and Tonta stood Wyn before it. “Alright, maybe that’s a bit over the top - but my, I could just eat you up. Don’t you think?”
"Hm. Perhaps there is some merit to that claim." Wyn said as she looked at herself. She blinked and the head-dress turned to smoke, leaving her flowing white locks to fall down. “And perhaps such an alteration to my statue can be forgiven.” She looked at Tonta through the mirror. “If your plan was to seduce me, perhaps that's working too.” She gave a sly smile. The life goddess seemed to lose her composure for the first time, blood rushing to her cheeks.
“What!? Me? No! I mean, you’re pretty but- uh, I’m not. Like. Uh. Sharrup.” She stepped away and turned to the statue, coughing loudly. “And anyway, my alterations were good - you’re just too dense to see it.” She turned her head back mischievously. “You should give me a kiss right here,” she tapped her cheek, “and tell me you’re sorry. AND DON’T THINK I FORGOT THAT YOU CALLED ME DUMB!” She harrumphed and turned back away with an exaggerated air of offense.
A slender hand wrapped around Tonta's neck, another wrapped around her waist and she was pulled into Wyn from behind. “As you wish.” The beauty goddess breathed into her ear, before placing a gentle kiss upon her cheek and then another like a parting gift. The goddess sighed in Tonta's ear, her hand cupping itself around the goddess’ chin. “I apologize for my behavior, my lady. I judged you too quickly. I was rude… Uncouth. You are exquisite.” She tilted Tonta's neck with care and blew upon a spot before going in for another kiss. The life goddess flushed crimson and allowed the other goddess to continue, enjoying the unfamiliar sensations on her skin, the softness and warmth of the other, the hammering of her heart.
“Yo- you’re a terrible liar,” she coughed, her face burning, “but I don’t mind if… you lie to me a bit more.” She turned around in the other’s arms and buried her face into Wyn’s shoulder, biting at the nape of her neck before moving upward and catching an earlobe between her lips. She withdrew and her eye caught Wyn’s, causing Tonta to smile sheepishly. “Th- those cannibals would have had a carnival over you.”
With the back of her fingers, Wyn caressed Tonta’s cheek while her other hand pulled the shorter goddess in. Wyn nibbled on Tonta’s ear before placing gentle kisses upon her neck. After several moments of this she spoke, “would you devour me?” She smirked, then took one of Tonta’s hands and gave a tug. “Come.” She said, voice dripping with yearning. “Come have a taste.”
And oh, did she devour her. When Wyn returned the favour, however, Tonta lying back in the bed and allowing the pleasure to rock her slowly, the life goddess could not shrug off a deep and growing feeling of unease. She could not place her finger on why she was suddenly so tense until, very suddenly, the voice of Mouse (yes, that very Stupid Dumbfuck) echoed in her mind. “Oh, fuck,” Tonta groaned.
“Have you no shame, lady?” he had asked her, “you who have taken the form of woman, have you no regard for the sacredness of the womanly form and the holy bonds that precede the union of man and woman? Have you no regard for the chastity and honour of those whose form you have assumed?”
“Sh-shut up,” Tonta muttered, an almost comical mix of pleasure and annoyance flashing on her face. At the sound of those words, Wyn stopped and looked at Tonta, tilting her head. “Is something wrong, my lady?” She asked innocently. Tonta glanced down at her.
“Oh, umm… n- no. I just- well, remembered something stupid.” She gulped and wrapped a leg around Wyn’s back, drawing her back in. “I- uh, was enjoying thaat,” she purred with a broad, purse-lipped smile. But no sooner had Wyn returned to her ministrations when the life goddess jumped backwards and her foot flew out, smacking Wyn across the face and launching her right out of the bed and into the opposite wall. “I FUCKING HATE THAT MOUSE!” Tonta wailed, and the force of the wail alone caused the bed to collapse beneath her. She blinked and jumped out. “Oh. Shit. W- Wyn?” She approached the pale goddess and looked down at her with guilt and concern.
A small stream of violet ran from the pale goddess’ nose as she snapped her eyes open, revealing narrow slits not unlike those of a snake. She touched the ichor flowing from her nose as she stared daggers up at Tonta. The life goddess winced and bit her lip. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.” Wyn looked upon her blood and her face contorted into a look of cold fury. Tonta took half a step back, fear and uncertainty in her eyes, but in an instant Wyn was on her feet and towering above the life goddess. She grabbed her by the throat and hissed, “this is how you treat ME?” She threw Tonta to the side, the force of the blow shattering the wall. Wyn was upon her before the stone had even settled, pinning her down even as she mewled in shock and struggled. “I let you desecrate my art. I let you dress me. I let you bed me. And. You. Hit. ME? Abhorrent!” Wyn backhanded Tonta across the face and then let her drop. “Leave. Now. Do not return.” She commanded, standing above her, seething.
The life goddess remained crumpled on the ground, her eyes wide and shocked, for what felt like an age, clearly attempting to process what had happened over the course of the last few split seconds. Her eyes grew wet and she brought a hand to where Wyn’s hands - velvety and coaxing not mere minutes ago - had caused ripples of pain. She did not cry, however, and through the hammering of her heart and her roiling emotions she was able to stagger to her feet and brush the dust and shattered marble of the wall from her naked form. She looked at the taller Wyn, her eyes still wet. And even as Wyn gazed back they hardened, as though a layer of ice was growing across them. Tonta chuckled mirthlessly then. “Y-you’re still dense, Wynnie. You don’t need to apologise this time though, you’re forgiven,” and she blew her a kiss, turned around, and walked away before adding loud and clear, “fucker!”
“Bitch.” Came a cold response from Wyn.
Tonta snapped her fingers and her great flowing yellow cloak wrapped itself around her, and she was soon out of sight.
Wyn stared at the statue of Tonta, fists clenched. The previous hours' events were still at the forefront of her mind. That insolent cur, who was she to make her bleed? To mock her? To deface her? She was nothing!
She had made her a fool…
In a flurry of rage, Wyn attacked the statue, bashing it to pieces. When it was dust, the fire inside still burned. She was not satisfied with the stone. No… what was it she had said… that she held the record for slaying those, drakhorey?
Well… that could change.
Cruel Love
T O N T A
&
In which two goddesses meet, get dressed, make love, and make war.
PREVIOULSY:
WYN, pale goddess of beauty, creates her embassy on MONS DIVINUS, a true monument to perfection. Later, she saves ARIRA, the cycles goddess, and takes her home. There they speak and a flustered ARIRA is eventually seduced by the irresistible WYN. Meanwhile TONTA, goddess of life, escapes the realms of death where she had witnessed EKU, death goddess, perish. Emerging into the Ashlands, she creates the varasons and ashland hounds before venturing forth once more...
WYN, pale goddess of beauty, creates her embassy on MONS DIVINUS, a true monument to perfection. Later, she saves ARIRA, the cycles goddess, and takes her home. There they speak and a flustered ARIRA is eventually seduced by the irresistible WYN. Meanwhile TONTA, goddess of life, escapes the realms of death where she had witnessed EKU, death goddess, perish. Emerging into the Ashlands, she creates the varasons and ashland hounds before venturing forth once more...
When Dihar Adech approached Tonta she did not quite clock at first that he was a soul. They lounged together for three days before she got up and told him she would now be eating him, and he told her then that he had only one request of her. “Go on,” the goddess nodded.
“As I am already dead, I wan-”
“You’re what?” The goddess exclaimed, taking a hold of him and looking more closely for the first time. “Oh. Goodness. So you are.” She leaned back. “How’d that happen?”
“Well, I was resting - minding my own business as you do - when along came this tiny, rude lady-”
“Ah, tiny and rude. They seem to go together don’t they?” The goddess muttered. “Anyway, so: tiny and rude.”
“Exactly. She didn’t like me for some reason and decided to just… well, she tore my head off. And out o-”
“Oh my! That’s great.” The goddess laughed. “Was it like, a clean tearing off, or was it like, really bloody?”
“Uh, the latter actually - but shouldn’t y-” but Dihar was cut off once more.
“Oh my! Small, rude, and STRONK. Who was it? Where is she?”
“I followed her for a while, but she just ignored me. Last I saw her she was at this great mountain.”
Tonta nodded absentmindedly and quickly gobbled up Dihar’s soul. “Mountain, right!”
When Tonta got to Mons Divinus - getting distracted on the way by a weird misty swampland with all manner of disgusting creatures she did not remember making - she was pleasantly surprised by the great degree of nothing that she found. She circled round the mountain one way, then circled around it the other, and found nothing (although she smelled a particularly fetid stench coming out of one place). It wasn’t until she felt another goddess that she thought to look up, and even as she looked she felt the coming of the seasons and all the cycles that were necessary for life. She had not felt their absence before - as though by her mere will all the animals and life forms had merely existed, all the cloud whales and octopi had gone on feeding and raining without a care for the seasons or the climes. But now that they were here everything seemed more logical. “That’s important, I guess,” Tonta shrugged as she began climbing the mountain.
She took her time and it was not until the following afternoon that she arrived up top and was able to behold the city. She had come across a few humans on her climb and whenever she saw one she boinked its head off rather cleanly. “I think I’m meant to be angry at you guys or something.” But as it were, she eventually recruited one of them to lead her to where a specific goddess lived.
“Do you know her name?” The woman she had grabbed asked.
“No. Hey, Dihar, do you know her name?” Dihar’s great serpentine head emerged from Tonta’s back, to the shock of the woman, and he shook it.
“No, don’t know her name.”
“Uh, do you know what she looks like?” The human asked.
“Oh! Yes,” Tonta said, “she’s small, rude, and strong.”
The human looked at the goddess with pursed lips. “Uh… can you be more specific?”
Tonta turned back to Dihar. “Be more specific, jackass.”
The former-drakhorey gave a hissing sigh. “Well, she was white. White hair, white skin, white eyes-”
“OH!” The human exclaimed, cutting Dihar off, “I know her. She lives in - what did she call it? It’s that white place there, see?”
Tonta turned her head to where the human was pointing and she did indeed see. “Nice, thanks... uh, what’s your name?”
“Ba-” but before the woman could finish, Tonta threw her to Dihar.
“Lunch, Dihar.” It was indeed. Without further ado, she dashed down into the city, ignored everyone and everything, and rushed up the marble pathway, past the fountains with the naked women, inside to the temple proper, up towards the cool statue of her slaying a drakhor- “wait-” she came to a screeching halt and looked again, “that ain’t me.”
“No, that’s her!” Dihar declared. Only he was hissing and spitting of course because he couldn’t talk.
“Well, it’s pretty cool buuttttt…” a huge hammer and chisel exploded into the goddess’ hands and she took to hammering away at Wyn’s face. A great cloud of marble and stone rose up and the cacophony was something vicious. When at last Tonta stepped back she beheld the statue: herself standing above the corpse of Baknul Adech. “There, what d’ya think?”
“Uh, are you sure that was a good idea?” Dihar asked.
“Sure! We drakhorey slayers are best friends. And I’ve killed…” she counted on her fingers, “two? I can’t remember. I’m sure she’ll appreciate this present. Anyway, where is sh-” but Tonta had not finished her words before she spotted her host, clearly drawn by the great amount of noise Tonta had been making. “Oh my god oh my god. Quickly hide Dihar. I need to look pretty and your ugly head is not wanted here.”
The pale Wyn, her arms crossed, floated down a flight of stairs, eyes drawn to Tonta with suspicion. She wore nothing on her person and her hair was held up in a messy bun. “My god, aren’t you just the prettiest!” Tonta exclaimed as the other goddess approached.
Wyn, for her part, said nothing before she came to a halt before Tonta. Her feet lightly set down on the ground and she eyed Tonta up with a side glance as her main focus was upon the statue. Her lips curled down into a frown, arms coming uncrossed before she looked down at the life goddess again, who, for her part, smiled innocently. “Is it common practice,” Wyn began in a haughty voice, “to deface artworks where you come from? To chisel away unwelcomed? Turning perfection imperfect?” she asked.
Tonta looked back at the statue. “Art? That?” Her eyes turned back to Wyn. “I thought it was just a record of the best drakhoslayer - and that, I’ll have you know, is me.” She thumped her chest proudly. “So, out of respect for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, I had to change it for you. I’d be grateful if someone went out of their way to ensure the accuracy and faithfulness of my works to be honest. Consider it a gift, from me to you.” Almost without pause, she stepped forward and placed her hands on Wyn’s cheeks, then pinched them. “My goodness, how are you so- well, like you say, perfect.” She withdrew her hands quickly. “Oh, I’m Tonta by the way. What’s this place anyway?”
The pale goddess recoiled at the touch with a look of shock. She blinked once, twice and then took a sharp breath. "Oh… So many words, such little meaning. You are not one for manners, I see… Tonta. Nor would any education benefit you. There is a wildness to you, infectious to some, a hindrance to others. But even as I speak these words, they fall like leaves, soon forgotten. Pointless, aren't they?" she sighed.
Tonta snickered slightly at Wyn’s words. “Well, hey. Fuck you too,” she grinned.
Wyn raised an eyebrow. "My, such crass language Tonta. One might think it unbefitting of a Goddess' stature, not that you would care I think. But, if you must know, this is my embassy and I am Wyn, Goddess of Beauty. I must thank you for your compliments, it seems you do have an eye for it, at least." she gave a small bow. The life goddess acknowledged Wyn’s words with a nod.
“I don’t claim to be perfect, but I know a pretty face when I see one. And you know, you’ve got a great, uh, ‘bod’ and all, but don’t you think it would be even prettier if you wore something? I have it on good authority that I’m a great fashion advisor, and I think you’ll look stunning in… hmmm,” she clicked her fingers and a great black dress wrapped itself around Wyn, the darkness standing in stark contrast to her skin of perfect snow. A mirror formed up before the goddess and Tonta stood Wyn before it. “Alright, maybe that’s a bit over the top - but my, I could just eat you up. Don’t you think?”
"Hm. Perhaps there is some merit to that claim." Wyn said as she looked at herself. She blinked and the head-dress turned to smoke, leaving her flowing white locks to fall down. “And perhaps such an alteration to my statue can be forgiven.” She looked at Tonta through the mirror. “If your plan was to seduce me, perhaps that's working too.” She gave a sly smile. The life goddess seemed to lose her composure for the first time, blood rushing to her cheeks.
“What!? Me? No! I mean, you’re pretty but- uh, I’m not. Like. Uh. Sharrup.” She stepped away and turned to the statue, coughing loudly. “And anyway, my alterations were good - you’re just too dense to see it.” She turned her head back mischievously. “You should give me a kiss right here,” she tapped her cheek, “and tell me you’re sorry. AND DON’T THINK I FORGOT THAT YOU CALLED ME DUMB!” She harrumphed and turned back away with an exaggerated air of offense.
A slender hand wrapped around Tonta's neck, another wrapped around her waist and she was pulled into Wyn from behind. “As you wish.” The beauty goddess breathed into her ear, before placing a gentle kiss upon her cheek and then another like a parting gift. The goddess sighed in Tonta's ear, her hand cupping itself around the goddess’ chin. “I apologize for my behavior, my lady. I judged you too quickly. I was rude… Uncouth. You are exquisite.” She tilted Tonta's neck with care and blew upon a spot before going in for another kiss. The life goddess flushed crimson and allowed the other goddess to continue, enjoying the unfamiliar sensations on her skin, the softness and warmth of the other, the hammering of her heart.
“Yo- you’re a terrible liar,” she coughed, her face burning, “but I don’t mind if… you lie to me a bit more.” She turned around in the other’s arms and buried her face into Wyn’s shoulder, biting at the nape of her neck before moving upward and catching an earlobe between her lips. She withdrew and her eye caught Wyn’s, causing Tonta to smile sheepishly. “Th- those cannibals would have had a carnival over you.”
With the back of her fingers, Wyn caressed Tonta’s cheek while her other hand pulled the shorter goddess in. Wyn nibbled on Tonta’s ear before placing gentle kisses upon her neck. After several moments of this she spoke, “would you devour me?” She smirked, then took one of Tonta’s hands and gave a tug. “Come.” She said, voice dripping with yearning. “Come have a taste.”
And oh, did she devour her. When Wyn returned the favour, however, Tonta lying back in the bed and allowing the pleasure to rock her slowly, the life goddess could not shrug off a deep and growing feeling of unease. She could not place her finger on why she was suddenly so tense until, very suddenly, the voice of Mouse (yes, that very Stupid Dumbfuck) echoed in her mind. “Oh, fuck,” Tonta groaned.
“Have you no shame, lady?” he had asked her, “you who have taken the form of woman, have you no regard for the sacredness of the womanly form and the holy bonds that precede the union of man and woman? Have you no regard for the chastity and honour of those whose form you have assumed?”
“Sh-shut up,” Tonta muttered, an almost comical mix of pleasure and annoyance flashing on her face. At the sound of those words, Wyn stopped and looked at Tonta, tilting her head. “Is something wrong, my lady?” She asked innocently. Tonta glanced down at her.
“Oh, umm… n- no. I just- well, remembered something stupid.” She gulped and wrapped a leg around Wyn’s back, drawing her back in. “I- uh, was enjoying thaat,” she purred with a broad, purse-lipped smile. But no sooner had Wyn returned to her ministrations when the life goddess jumped backwards and her foot flew out, smacking Wyn across the face and launching her right out of the bed and into the opposite wall. “I FUCKING HATE THAT MOUSE!” Tonta wailed, and the force of the wail alone caused the bed to collapse beneath her. She blinked and jumped out. “Oh. Shit. W- Wyn?” She approached the pale goddess and looked down at her with guilt and concern.
A small stream of violet ran from the pale goddess’ nose as she snapped her eyes open, revealing narrow slits not unlike those of a snake. She touched the ichor flowing from her nose as she stared daggers up at Tonta. The life goddess winced and bit her lip. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.” Wyn looked upon her blood and her face contorted into a look of cold fury. Tonta took half a step back, fear and uncertainty in her eyes, but in an instant Wyn was on her feet and towering above the life goddess. She grabbed her by the throat and hissed, “this is how you treat ME?” She threw Tonta to the side, the force of the blow shattering the wall. Wyn was upon her before the stone had even settled, pinning her down even as she mewled in shock and struggled. “I let you desecrate my art. I let you dress me. I let you bed me. And. You. Hit. ME? Abhorrent!” Wyn backhanded Tonta across the face and then let her drop. “Leave. Now. Do not return.” She commanded, standing above her, seething.
The life goddess remained crumpled on the ground, her eyes wide and shocked, for what felt like an age, clearly attempting to process what had happened over the course of the last few split seconds. Her eyes grew wet and she brought a hand to where Wyn’s hands - velvety and coaxing not mere minutes ago - had caused ripples of pain. She did not cry, however, and through the hammering of her heart and her roiling emotions she was able to stagger to her feet and brush the dust and shattered marble of the wall from her naked form. She looked at the taller Wyn, her eyes still wet. And even as Wyn gazed back they hardened, as though a layer of ice was growing across them. Tonta chuckled mirthlessly then. “Y-you’re still dense, Wynnie. You don’t need to apologise this time though, you’re forgiven,” and she blew her a kiss, turned around, and walked away before adding loud and clear, “fucker!”
“Bitch.” Came a cold response from Wyn.
Tonta snapped her fingers and her great flowing yellow cloak wrapped itself around her, and she was soon out of sight.
Wyn stared at the statue of Tonta, fists clenched. The previous hours' events were still at the forefront of her mind. That insolent cur, who was she to make her bleed? To mock her? To deface her? She was nothing!
She had made her a fool…
In a flurry of rage, Wyn attacked the statue, bashing it to pieces. When it was dust, the fire inside still burned. She was not satisfied with the stone. No… what was it she had said… that she held the record for slaying those, drakhorey?
Well… that could change.
You make me wait for months! It's as though you don't like Giwabi! Gosh, should we reboot via a doomsday preacher giving a monologue about the end of the world, and then start anew without any of this Giwabi stuff? :P
You lack faith and patience!
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