Two silver hands cupped the regolith of the lifeless world. The anomaly in a place that had not yet begun to be. It was unwelcoming. Unsustaining. Useless. It made the silvered Goddess wonder at the intent behind it. If there had been such a thing at all. Her thumbs circled in the gray soil, feeling every rough texture and particle of dust. The sensation imprinted itself upon her mind but it felt hollow. There was nothing organic within. No small makers. No waiting seeds. They simply did not exist yet. Just empty plains.
She tipped her hands, pulling back and watched as the soil became suspended in the air. Without an atmosphere this place was but a barren rock suspended in the unborn. She began to walk, hands pressed behind her back as she gazed out at what was and what could be. She was struck with an odd sort of melancholy. Her earlier bout with the Khodex had left her unfulfilled. Perhaps this place was just a reflection of her own state of being? She kicked at a rock and watched it go sailing off into the dark sky. Well, not so dark with all the Veins. Much had been added to the Khodex and more yet would be inscribed but despite all of that, its full potential was not reached. Perhaps it never would.
Sylia’s gaze shifted once more, back across the dull world. She was of the Material and one of the few who would add any sort of real substance to the world, once it bloomed with her gift. The Immaterial existed, yes, but without the physical presence of those who could harness its capabilities, how useful could it be? She raised her chin and ran her hands through her flowing hair. She had been touched by the Khodex’s promise, no longer a body of the Immaterial would she wear. Silvered and shining, flowing as if molten whilst retaining blessed shape.
She went to kick another stone but paused and bending down she took it in her hand. A flake of a once larger piece, composed of numerous fragments and bound together by their matrix. Her finger slid down the edge, feeling the jagged and smooth texture.
“What would you be, if you could dream?” She asked the rock, rubbing her finger over its surface. A smile formed upon her lips. “Perhaps a metal? Maybe a temple? A mountain? A grain of sand? Or…” he voice faded as she took the rock within the palm of her hand and using her other palm, pressed.
There was a faint glow from within her hand, followed by a hiss and when she opened them- “A gem.” She breathed.
She held it up and it caught the light of the cosmic veins and shimmered. An uncut diamond no bigger than her knuckle. An object not made to beat and break but to merely exist. To be looked at and coveted.
Had the rock dreamt of this? Could it have wanted this, if it could ask? To be anything but what it was?
Those questions did not cross Sylia’s mind.
Not as she erected a stone plinth. Not as she cut the gem. Not as she placed that perfect jewel upon its pedestal. Not as she left the first mineral in existence to its fate.
Not ever.
Sylia finds herself drawn to the world that was before anything began. She contemplates, finding herself in a bit of melancholy and thinks about the material and immaterial. Eventually she makes a small diamond and leaves it to its fate.
The word caressed her senses like an enveloping and unwelcome hug. Engrossed as she was, she'd deal with it in a minute. Still, anxiety began to well in her chest, her brows furrowing at what lay before her. Black jumble and jargon splayed out on white. A growing pain was beginning to spread from behind her temple. Maybe if she just ignored the summons…?
"Come."
The voice said again, like a simple touch upon her shoulder. Yet that touch brought a coiling warmth that spread from her shoulder down her arm. This was enough to jostle her to full awareness. Synapses began to fire into motion within her overworked and aching brain and she glanced over her shoulder to see…
"God, you keep spacing out. This really isn't healthy. You should really come out with us. I think it'd do you some good." The woman smiled softly at her, concern in her eyes. She knew her name but why couldn't she remember it?
Ugh. It didn't matter. She had to finish her… Project?
She jostled her shoulder, annoyance overcoming her anxiety and the woman’s hand fell away. Her own voice broke from her lips, "It'll be my head on the firing board if this isn't finished." Noting the harshness in her tone she quickly added, "Thanks but I'll be okay." She gave her best smile but it felt wrong. The pounding in her head was getting worse and the woman was blurring. Well, she just needed to get back to work.
But the woman reached out to her again and this time the concern was plastered all over her face. The woman said something but it was as if no coherent words came forth. She tried to turn away but her body betrayed her and the woman held her firm. She couldn't do anything and it looked like the woman was yelling, frantically looking around. There was so much pain now. Her ears were ringing like a church bell glitched on a loop.
A soft whisper broke through the chorus of her mind.
"Come."
She didn't want to go anywhere. She just wanted to finish the project and go home. Could she go home? Her head began to slump, blurry vision going dark. There were other people now. Distant faces. Unknown names. Someone began to pick her up, like a giant hand plucking her from the sky. She could just make out her desk and amidst the clutter was the small colored pot her niece had made her at school. She had used it to hold pens.
And the thought struck her for the first and last time, wouldn't pottery have been nice?
"Come!"
It had been a silly thought. A past echo really. Even there, in that empty place, where she had always been of course, the memories were fading. If they had been real at all. What was real anyway? Was she real? She scrunched her nose and looked down at her hands. She could see through them but that didn't really bother her, strangely. What lay past her hands was more intriguing. That was indeed a strange thing.
It had always been there, she knew this instinctively. Yet why? Why had it called? It had called, right? A summons from this empty place. She furrowed her brows, no longer able to recall what had been the past or if it had been the future. But she was there at present and… She reached out to the thing- No, not a thing. The Khodex.
A simple parchment of gold, at least it looked gold. Luke a light in the infinite dark. It was smooth to the touch, made of a material she could not fathom. Ornate yet lacking. Grand yet small. A repository for a foundation yet painfully blank. Why?
A shaky breath escaped her lips and she said to it, fingers trembling slightly, “You are so… Useless!” and she tossed it aside, not even deigning to watch and see where it went. She grabbed the sides of her head and began to pace upon the nothingness, pulling at her hair. The Khodex was infuriating! It could be so much more! Yet it was that unassuming little thing?
Preposterous!
She could not stand for it! She wouldn’t! For she was Sylia and this was her purpose. She would break the damn thing and then craft it anew, better than before. And all of the coming creation would thank her. It was the least she could do.
So Sylia summoned to her what little material there was in that place before places. From those that had already imprinted upon this unborn universe. Most of it was worthless and could not be used for what she had in mind, so she cast them aside until she was left with broken bits of metal. Upon a closer inspection, Sylia determined that the shards could be used. Power had broken them apart, severed the connection that would have been used only for confinement. She looked out then and wondered who had escaped? Some of the pieces oozed with a dark substance and Sylia filed it away for later. It wasn't important.
Besides, she had a task that required her immediate attention.
When Sylia reached the Khodex once more, she began to smirk. “Worry not! I shall free you from this state, friend!” She exclaimed, arms stretched outwards as she began to work the metal. She began to concentrate, ignoring everything else that was occurring.
The coalescing metal warped, becoming liquid under extreme heat. Next once it began to cool she began to bend in on itself, heating and bending, like dough being kneaded with a baker's eye. When the lump became workable she formed from it a pair of scissors. Small, shiny and sharp. Not an object of great praises but a tool. One that would not fail.
Satisfied with this, she took the scissors in her fingers, the metal warm and inched them towards the Khodex. She could not contain her giddy laughter, "There’s nothing to worry about, sweet dear one! Just a quick snip and the real work can begin."
The scissors crested over the fabric of creation, still as all could ever be and… she hoped to hear a magnificent snip, instead Sylia heard a small tink and the scissors exploded into shards. She gave an audible gasp and then broke into a wicked smile. She discarded the scissors and exclaimed, "A challenge!"
Of course scissors wouldn't have worked, the Khodex was deceptive. Too strong for such measly means and she doubted anything else with a cutting edge would be able to make a dent. Thus she endeavored again, gathering more metal shards and working it first into a hefty shaft, for there was no other material for a shaft, and then a large head. Rectangular, smooth and built to hammer. The pieces intertwined, becoming one forevermore. Another tool made for a purpose.
Once this was done, Sylia raised the hammer high above her head. Anticipation welled up like a font inside of her and unable to hold herself anymore, to think about anything other than the task, she brought the hammer down upon the Khodex.
There was a resounding boom that exploded forth. A showering of golden sparks glinted and arced outwards, bringing a burst of illumination to the darkness. The Khodex was, however, unharmed. So Sylia swung the hammer and again a boom echoed across infinity. Nothing. Again. Nothing. Again! Lighting screamed after every explosion. The hammer was becoming warped, its once dark color bleaching away with every swing. A great hum began to fill the air, Sylia kept hitting the Khodex.
Harder and harder. Each hammer swing began to leak into the next, so was Sylia's determination and resolve. And again there would be nothing. The hammer began to glow white hot. Warmth raced up her arm and then when her swings would have shattered worlds, the Khodex began to swirl. She didn't stop, she couldn't!
With each swing the Khodex began to reveal itself to her. Swirls of runic letters, veins of infinite colors, maddening hieroglyphics, unknowable equations, eldritch diagrams- the source of creation at her fingerti-
There was a loud crack and reality shuddered. In an instant, the hammering ceased, for she drew back only the shaft. Next came a rush of light that erupted in her face and the shaft of the hammer was ripped from her grasp and consumed into the Khodex, along with the embedded head. Eaten away into the very same insanity she had witnessed. Then all became dark, the Khodex revealed no more and Sylia… Hummed.
She had to admit that she had been bested. Anger would do no good. She had at least seen results, a glimpse of potential and the future. Perhaps in time one would be able to fully break the Khodex. It would be something to think about. Still, she was slightly disappointed. A sigh escaped her lips.
"You got what you wanted. Now hurry up." She said to the Khodex, voice reserved, "This place is boring."
Sylia comes into being after stroking out in a past life. She immediately decides that the Khodex could be better and attempts to break it. Goes about as well as one could expect.
Starting 4
-4, Given unto thee Khodex- the Divinium of our lives.
Crafting - There are many forms of creation. From the raw power of gods whose domains dictate reality and its vast materials, down to the relatively simple act of copulation, mortal or otherwise. Such acts are often left unrefined, left to chance and its many handed fates. Where most are concerned, this is all fine and the will of the gods. Sylia, on the other hand, would disagree. Creation, down to its most basic foundations, are just building blocks for greater heights.
As such, the crafting domain is broadly focused on shaping raw resources into refined and productive creations, with the occasional fantastical work of art thrown in. Little should be left to chance when the mind’s blueprint can give the exact specifications. For through the craftsmen of the world, populations grow, peoples expand and great works are built through generations of effort. Without Sylia to propel the unfettered joys of taking a hammer to metal, a knife to wood, or string to weave, the world would be terribly slow to progress. And like all basic foundations, crafting is the first step upon the path of civilization. As such those who adhere to the life of the craftsmen will always be favored by Sylia and perhaps be given gifts of their own to progress upon.
Metal - While the domain of Crafting is a broad stroke upon the canvas of creation, Sylia would consider the domain of metals to be a narrower stroke. Metals are just one of realities raw resources that are capable of being refined into greater products. As such, Sylia has total control over all metallic substances, down to their smallest beginnings to their greatest heights. She can control all metals in their various states, she can produce said metals in their various states, she can work with metals, she is capable of making life out of such metals if she wished. It is but a natural stepping stone of the Goddess who allowed Divinium into the Universe.
Earth - What is earth but the artisans greatest resource? The broadest stroke yet, Sylia controls the very earth to suit her ever growing needs. Earth itself is the foundation for all that live. Without it one could not have the substance of form and breath. This dominion over earth can be seen it Sylia’s abilities to rule it utterly. She can create great works with but a thought. She can give those the knowledge to chisel stone and erect monuments. From the smallest of pebbles, to vast mountain ranges, all is under sway by Sylia.
War - War takes many shapes and forms. From the savage barbarity of raged fueled slaughter, to the great and total subjugation of one's opponents. Battle is a constant state of change within the cosmos. When armies march and invaders pillage, innocence is always lost. No matter the side or the person. It is the breaker of all good things and the ruiner of hopes. It takes and takes and takes and seldom gives back. But in the end, War is necessity.
Sylia takes upon herself War for that very reason alone. She is of the belief that one can never be overly prepared. She dictates the maxims of her own ideology. Through total overpowerment can the truest victory be achieved with minimal loss. So too can overwhelming force triumph. Why siege when one can blast through a city's gates and sack it? As such Sylia is capable of teaching War to others so that they are capable of battle through strategy, fighting, and empowerment. She is also capable of creating great weapons of War and implements of salvation. Strike fast and strike quickly. Leave your opponent without the capability of thought.
Appearance
A god of mixed appearances, Sylia slips into forms without intending to do so when she is in the throes of crafting. Such forms can be anything from humanoid to, not so humanoid and being composed of different materials. From copper, to marble and even carved wood. Most often she dons a female form with a very animated disposition. Species dependent at any given time, and also composed of a different material than flesh(As Sylia sees flesh as a basic component of creation and basic isn’t her style). This form is often intricate, ornate and beyond the means of mortal craft.
Description
Sylia is, at her core, obsessed with her domain. The compulsion to create and craft often supersedes anything else and she will stop at nothing to complete her fixated goal. Whether that's destroying an entire landmass for resources or stealing something she can't just create, she seldom heeds the word "no." Often, if she chances across something exciting, she will break the 'resource' down to its most basic components to understand what it is she is looking at, before enacting a design for them. Naive as she is, Sylia has a difficult time understanding that not everything needs to be broken before it can be altered, changed, or fixed. Especially true if it isn’t something she herself has created. She does not do such acts out of malice but rather she views ‘raw life’ as a thing that needs to be improved. She needs to refine them. She simply can’t help it when her overactive mind sparks with pure unadulterated delight at a design for the intended, and often much to the detriment of the intended if they are, well, living.
Crafting - There are many forms of creation. From the raw power of gods whose domains dictate reality and its vast materials, down to the relatively simple act of copulation, mortal or otherwise. Such acts are often left unrefined, left to chance and its many handed fates. Where most are concerned, this is all fine and the will of the gods. Eawyx, on the other hand, would disagree. Creation, down to its most basic foundations, are just building blocks for greater heights.
As such, the crafting domain is broadly focused on shaping raw resources into refined and productive creations, with the occasional fantastical work of art thrown in. Little should be left to chance when the mind’s blueprint can give the exact specifications. For through the craftsmen of the world, populations grow, peoples expand and great works are built through generations of effort. Without Eawyx to propel the unfettered joys of taking a hammer to metal, a knife to wood, or string to weave, the world would be terribly slow to progress. And like all basic foundations, crafting is the first step upon the path of civilization. As such those who adhere to the life of the craftsmen will always be favored by Eawyx and perhaps be given gifts of their own to progress upon.
Appearance
A god of mixed appearances, Eawyx slips into forms without intending to do so when she is in the throes of crafting. Such forms can be anything from humanoid to, not so humanoid and being composed of different materials. From copper, to marble and even carved wood. Most often she dons a female form with a very animated disposition. Species dependent at any given time, and also composed of a different material than flesh(As Eawyx sees flesh as a basic component of creation and basic isn’t her style). This form is often intricate, ornate and beyond the means of mortal craft.
Description
Eawyx is, at her core, obsessed with her domain. The compulsion to create and craft often supersedes anything else and she will stop at nothing to complete her fixated goal. Whether that's destroying an entire landmass for resources or stealing something she can't just create, she seldom heeds the word "no." Often, if she chances across something exciting, she will break the 'resource' down to its most basic components to understand what it is she is looking at, before enacting a design for them. Naive as she is, Eawyx has a difficult time understanding that not everything needs to be broken before it can be altered, changed, or fixed. Especially true if it isn’t something she herself has created. She does not do such acts out of malice but rather she views ‘raw life’ as a thing that needs to be improved. She needs to refine them. She simply can’t help it when her overactive mind sparks with pure unadulterated delight at a design for the intended, and often much to the detriment of the intended if they are, well, living.
The Creatrix’s touch lingered upon the very soul of Wyn. Abhorrent, hateful, commanding… It ran down her spine, sending shivers into her very limbs. Small electric jolts that numbed the tips of her fingers down into her toes. She could feel the touch over and over and over again, replaying their final words to each other as her mind mewled like that of a child. It was in those trembling seconds that Wyn knew she could not trust the word of such a thing.
Her creations would be doomed. Her aspirations turned to dust. The life she had wanted, never to really bear fruit. It was tragic. It was wrong. It was fate. Her fate to wander and to be forgotten. To be pained and to be hunted. Hunted?
The memories jostled her to awareness. She knew she was still sitting on the bench. Waiting for the mirror to receive summons. Yet, she knew, none would ever come again. The pale goddess stood and she began to walk. The world was dying, deprivations and deprived it of sustenance. A madness corrupting its very heart, perhaps from within and perhaps from outside. For certain the outside, where she lauded over them from up above.
Trauma and despair had bled itself into the world before it ever really had a chance to grow and this time, Wyn knew it had not been of her own doing. She had helped, yes but not in the beginning. She had tasted the blood of the simulacron, and had seen what had transpired before this Galbar had been born. It had been the same there, in that world. Pain. Anger. Hatred. Loss. Love. Joy. Compassion and Insanity. Homura had created offspring, copies of her own emotional being, and let them live. To teach humanity. In doing so, she had denied herself the very beings who would have kept her sane.
And then the world was destroyed and this one birthed to take its place. How many times had this happened? How many times would it happen? The very terrible realization that her existence was some cosmic joke washed over the Goddess like an endless wave. It reminded her of drowning and not even Ivory or Ebony wished to take the burden from her.
Was this her fate?
Perhaps it was. But perhaps she could be more than just some wheel in the ageless game.
Desire’s fate was her own. Homura’s insanity was not something Wyn could face. And now she was alone. There would be no saving this world. It needed to truly die, not be recycled into a version worse than its progenitor.
And so, Wyn decided the only thing to do was leave. With or without anyone's permission. She would not be cast out, to wander woefully, no, she would leave on her own terms.
So the goddess of blood willed her power to split reality asunder and she was not seen again.
The blow sent the fae to the ground with a quick shriek. Maeve sighed as she watched from her throne, the debacle that always played out. An upstart fae wishing for more titles, more land, more brides, more husbands, more, more, more. There was little left to give! And it always led to said fae, getting put into their proper station. As her guards began to kick the small wicker-like creature, its dust began to leak. Maeve raised a hand, and the obedience instilled within one hundred generations, burst forth. Like a second nature, they stopped and stood at attention.
The fae whimpered in relief, a measly attempt to stand was rewarded in failure and a thump upon the wooden floor. The sickly smell of their dust hung in the air as it spoke, looking at the floor before her throne, “Mercy, Queen. Mercy.”
Maeve tilted her head, she had been so close to spacing off, a sweet sense only ingrained boredom could produce. If she had eyes she would have rolled them in return. “Yes. Mercy. Quite useful once you’ve been beaten. Do you know how many times I’ve heard those words?” She asked, not waiting for an answer. “Everyday. Day after day. As you parishioners, you sycophants, you worthless creatures come to grovel at my feet. And when begging and groveling fails, you resort to pettiness and demands. Like you have earned whatever you seek. Bah!” She waved her hand, done with the conversation.
The guards grabbed the fae under the arms and flew out, the fae pleading as they went. When they were gone at last, the queen sighed again. She wrapped her hands upon the wood of her dark throne. There really wasn’t anything left to give. The Anathema Heights were overpopulated and it seemed every single Perfected Fae had some distant relation or claim to a piece of land, even down to simple boulders. They had become a society of vainglory and wanton greed, yet there was nothing left to have and so violence was paramount. So much infighting and backstabbing. It was a miracle they were overpopulated at all, since so many were killed in petty squabbling.
She couldn’t really blame them. There was nothing to do. They were a conquering people with nothing to conquer. That damnable desert had made sure of it. Oh, they had tried numerous times to pass through it, especially in the early days after the war, but not even Nessa had returned from her expedition. That fool. And lovely Aina and ventured over the ocean, gone forevermore. Following either coast led to only further frustration, as if a joke they couldn’t perceive had been played on her entire race. But that wasn’t so hard to understand. Maeve had suspected a long time ago that they were simply being contained. The outside world was afraid of them, as they rightly should be. Yet, none but she could even remember what that outside world could even look like. What it truly felt to be amidst green grass and budding flowers. The laughs of her kin in the fertile spring. Her hand tightened into a ball, it was the only ounce of anger she had left to give.
And so her people rotted in stagnation. A fitting punishment for their sins and Maeve had grown powerless to stop it. Then again, she didn’t really care anymore. Everything was so dull. She had become queen of her people but the cost, well, she lived with it everyday. There had always been attempted coups, for none truly loved her, nor did she think the Perfected Fae could love at all but try they did to supplant her. They always failed. She was just too strong and far too stubborn.
She leaned back, slouching. It was an endless existence of perfect constant boredom.
“I hope you’re proud, O’maker mine.” She said under her breath.
No sooner had the thought crossed her mind, of the one who had cursed them all, a feeling overcame her. One she had felt only briefly now in the span of her lifetime. The presence of the divine. She sat up, heart racing. Had she only imagined it? She searched and as she did, she rose, the presence so small and wispy. Like dust on the clung to the air in fine particulate. She grabbed her chest and through her presence at it and as she did she felt it, she felt the maker. The one who had doomed her, who had taken and twisted her very being. Who had promised the world in her own vision. It had all been lies! Terrible, terrible lies! She had just been a tool, a feckless worthless tool in the maker’s eyes! One who killed, who destroyed! She could feel him, she could…!
The presence blinked out of existence. Maeve froze.
The world was a gray fog when Ema startled awake with a bump. The Aelos was immediately aware that she was moving. And the night's journey resurfaced in her mind. She had walked with that elf man out of the city, led like some cattle. Many had gawked and stared but Ema only tried to focus on her own feet walking. One step at a time. The Lord Drakken, as she was told by him, was a man of thought and expectation. If she fell behind to the point the chain tightened between master and slave, he pulled at it with little fanfare and Ema hurried on.
When they had reached the camp he had spoken about her with glee and Ema had been put inside a wagon with an iron cage. His men stared at her and spoke of the night's events. Ema wasn't really paying attention until the cage opened and a man with similar features to the Lord, placed a small figure inside with her. So they were slavers it seemed. When only one of the men remained to act as a guard, did Ema look at who she shared a cell with. A young girl with dark hair and pale skin, fast asleep. She looked quite cold and a small fleeting thought came to Ema. She wished she had a blanket to give. Fleshlings being unable to regulate themselves… She sighed but could do nothing.
Morning light, with its bright uncaring demeanor, peaked over the hills, banishing the twilight of the world with bright colors. Orange was chiefest among them, tinged with reds and yellows. She could not remember the last time she had seen such a sunrise. Nor if she'd see anymore. They were heading on a long winding road, pulled by some sort of beast of burden through the green countryside as the birds sang to the dawn.
It was a caravan of sorts and the men were many, riding horses and talking to themselves. She could not see the Lord. Their driver looked back now and again, a youthful face. Too young, she thought. Soon it would be a fleeting image, replaced with one old and wrinkled, if he managed to survive for that long. She looked back at the sleeping girl, wondering how old she was and how she ended up at the hands of such people. How long would it be before her innocence was gone? If she had any, that was, catching herself. Far too often did she assume what she saw was truth before understanding not every face should be taken at a first value. A trick she learned from the smiths, who so often had to check for impurities in the metal they wrought.
Ema looked back to the land outside the bars. Tall grasses with grazing cattle passed them, guarded by men who gave them all stern looks as they gripped their saddles. But she focused on the flowers in bloom for a time. Wondering where they were even going. She hadn't a clue but the way the Lord had looked at her… She knew it wouldn't be good. But, as she curled into a ball, Ema knew dead things didn't care what happened to their corpses. No, they shouldn't care at all.
Waking was an agonizing act. Wherein being asleep was serene and blissful, being awake was such stress and brutality. An onslaught of sensations - overwhelming. Kyoko slowly stirred, shedding the soft shroud of sleep and acquiring the weight of the world with a sigh.
Her body ached; bones and muscles in mutiny against her before her belly began the assault. She spewed blood and bile from her mouth, sickened stomach releasing all the filthy fluids through her throat, and she choked, and she coughed, until the terrible urges concluded with weak utterances. Empty. Exhausted.
She shivered and silently cried, straining to smile too. She called upon any remnants of strength and attempted to seat herself, to try to take in her shifting surroundings, so different during the day. The sunlight seared her sight, and she closed her eyes as she called out to her companions:
“Rat? Steed? Where am I?”
There came the shifting of something heavy, like a weight being moved about before it settled. She was not alone but it wasn’t Rat or Steed. Leaning against the iron bars of the cage, for that was where she happened to be, was a strange thing. Cool blue eyes, glowing with awareness stared at her with an impassive face of feminine features. A metallic face, like a mask. It said nothing but just stared at her.
“Who are you?” Kyoko asked, squinting at the strange shape. Her voice was hoarse, and she swiftly began the futile act of cleaning herself, brushing her cheeks with stained sleeves. She remembered some of the scenes prior to sleep, and recalled the danger she sensed within Darwyn. She shook; seething, sorrowful, scared.
A voice broke forth, emanating from the figure, who not only wore a face of metal but somehow, some way, had a body of armor, woven into a lithe shape but nicked with time and wear. But the voice, it felt like a voice out of a different time, ringing with clarity and forlorn strength. “Are you dying?” She asked, (for it sounded like a woman) ignoring her own question.
“Am I dying…” Kyoko echoed, easing herself back against the iron bars that trapped her. The foul stench stuck to her. She was also aware of the presence of the Stigma that scarred her skin beneath the clothes she wore. Somehow, she could comprehend her sickness, the affliction that came upon sorcerers when they consumed aspects of the cosmos. The term cannibalism came to mind, but she banished the thought swiftly and smirked slightly afterwards.
“Maybe I’m a confused spirit.” She said, head swaying while she struggled to stay awake. Her companions were spirits, and through what little she was capable of recalling from her dream, so was her mother. Memories were a mystery to Kyoko. Knowledge too.
“Are you an Astalonian Prime?” She asked, studying the appearance of the one entrapped with her, accompanying her to wherever they were going. Her blurred vision became more clear, and she could see they were traveling with the soldiers from the night before.
"I am not familiar with that term." The figure said, leaning forward. Dexterous hands tapped upon her own leg with a dull, rhythmic sound. "Spirit or not, does your kind eject those contents without having some sort of sickness or damage on the inside? Poisoned, perhaps?" She kept saying, as if talking to herself.
“Hmm… What happens when you fill a cup already full?” Kyoko asked, and the mention of ailments called her attention to her arms. Her skin felt hot underneath the touch of her sleeves, and she swiftly pulled the silken material aside to see strange swirling symbols spreading across her flesh. A word written somewhere within her soul seemed to speak, and she said aloud without comprehension or connotation: “Gnosis.”
No meanings manifested in her mind, and she stared at the shifting patterns that seared her pale flesh, forming writing which was indecipherable. She recalled something the Rat of Remembrance had said; they must travel to a library where a reader awaited them. She turned her attention to the metallic figure again. “Where are we going? Do you know?”
"It overfills…?" Came the reply to her first question in the form of a question. The metallic woman then shook her head and seemed to look at the same patterns on her skin but made no comment on it. Instead she dragged her knees to her chest and turned away from Kyoko. "A slave does not ask for a destination. A slave only goes where the master goes." She said in a tired voice, at least she sounded tired. "Hide your skin." She added and then said no more.
“A slave?” Sleeves hid the shifting symbols once more as she inquired softly about the strange term she heard. A series of images and applications appeared in her mind, meanings without meanings, as she wondered where she was without receiving an answer that showed her the way to who she was.
“I’m Kyoko.” She simply said, introducing herself - however incapable of bowing properly because of her current position and pain. Her hunger had already returned despite how she retched earlier, and awareness of what would happen whenever she would eat again.
The metal woman's face snapped back to her. She studied Kyoko again. "A slave." She nodded, "One who serves another. It's forced bondage. No freedom of our own. A worker with no rights." She looked to the floor. "Ironheart." She said, "You may call me that, Kyoko."
“Who do we serve, Ironheart?” The question felt quite like a lost key to a quizzical door.
"The Lord Drakken, who purchased me from my old master yesterday." Ironheart responded, pulling herself tighter. "Now you serve as well, no doubt, and through force if need be. That is slavery, Kyoko." She sighed, "Though, you're young," she glanced at her, "You might be sold to someone else. Your type works better indoors. You don't look like one who has many skills. Moldable to one's needs." She looked away and seemed to shudder, if metal could shudder.
“Do you desire to be somewhere else?” Kyoko asked, another question that seemed a step closer to the metaphorical mysterious door.
Ironheart did not speak nor look at Kyoko for a time. "Dead things have no desires." She eventually said, the words hollow and full of misery.
Before Kyoko could say anything else, someone rode back to their wagon cage and slowed. It was Darwyn, smiling a toothy smile.
"Ahhh Kyoko, you're awake. Good, very good. I wasn't sure if the drug would work on someone so strange but rest assured, here we are." He said, leering at her. "To think it would have been so easy, I still can't believe it. Ah but where are my manners? How are you doing, miss spirit talker?" He laughed.
“Where are we going?” She asked, acerbic, an absence of humor in her heart. She found she did not enjoy the feeling of being within a cage while this man laughed. Her attention turned to Ironheart, and the thought of the two of them trapped here was hurting her head.
The metallic woman made no sign of even acknowledging Darwyn. She just looked at the floor with empty eyes.
Darwyn laughed again and then his smile became less until only a frown remained. “It seems you’ve grown a little, pity. I was hoping to get some more fun out of you yet but eh.” he shrugged. “We’ll have plenty of time.” he tossed a bit of bread at her that slid between the bars and landed in her vomit. He scoffed, “Try to keep that down, would you? Water will come later. Don’t make any racket, we hate unwanted attention.” His eyes glanced at Ironheart, “I can see why my brother wanted you. One of a kind.” With that he glanced at Kyoko again and sneered, then kicked his horse and he was away.
Her hands reached for the bread, regardless of the filth, and she stared at the food she held with whining hunger whispering in her eyes. “Why?” She lamented, before shoving the bread into her mouth and munching happily. Whatever hesitation had halted her before biting into the terrible-tasting bit of supposed sustenance was swiftly gone. Yet her hunger sought more, a meager portion not enough to satisfy her stomach.
“Hey! Bring me more!” She shouted, attempting to shake the cage as she held onto the bars with what little strength she had.
"Quiet!" The young man driving the wagon snapped, having turned with angry eyes to look at Kyoko. "It'll be both our backs if you don't shut it." He said in a heavy accent.
“Fetch me food then!” Kyoko retorted, turning her attention to the driver and angrily shifting closer. Weak with lingering sickness, she stumbled and swayed, but she refused to stay silent until she received more bread. “Give me something to eat… please.” She added, also attempting to be polite.
The young man, with bright blue eyes and sandy colored hair that swept past his eyes, looked at her in bewilderment. Then he shook his head. “I ain’t got nothing for you, go sit and be quiet. We don’t want them to come back here.” He hissed.
“You just have to go and find some. I will be seated and silent with something to eat. Otherwise I’ll shout.” She refused to surrender - resolve burning in her belly, demanding to be doused in drink and food.
The young man was about to say something else but he seemed to notice something she did not. Within seconds a hand covered Kyoko’s mouth and another wrapped around her waist. Hard and cold, an iron-like grip. Ironheart’s voice was but a whisper in her ear, “This side of you, bratty and full of greed, I don’t like it. Look at him. Does he look like he has food? That he could go and get you food?” She asked in a calm manner, as the young man turned back to the front. “He was skin and bones- a slave, just like us. You would bring both harm to yourself and him if you keep acting spoiled. You don’t want to be whipped, Kyoko. Trust me. Now be calm and patient. Nod if you understand.”
Her mouth moved before her mind could convey she understood, and after tasting metal upon her tongue as she tried to munch ahead, or specifically a hand, she simply shuddered. Eating Ironheart would not be an option either. She swiftly regained command of herself and nodded angrily.
Ironheart let go fully of Kyoko and backed up from her. “I know you by name only, Kyoko. But what I can tell is that this is a new experience for you. An unknown. So here’s a lesson, don’t doom others through your own foolish actions.” The metallic lady went back to her side of the cage and sat down, dragging her knees close and then bending her head in between them.
“Should I starve then? I’m so hungry!” She complained, seating herself as well. Stillness could not come, and she continually shuffled herself while whispering sardonic comments.
“Keep the bread down. Then you may complain.” Ironheart chimed back.
“You’re a malicious machine; mocking my suffering.” Kyoko moaned, tossing and turning herself away from Ironheart. She closed her eyes, and sought to see what was happening to the bread within her stomach. Shadows shrouded her sight, clinging to what she consumed as though her body rebelled against her attempt at recalling the relief of filling herself.
The machine didn't speak, nor show any sign of acknowledging her suffering. The only other sound at all was the slow steady beat of the wagon being pulled and hoofbeats. Carrying them to someplace neither knew.
Kyoko and Ema awake in a cage, on their way to somewhere likely terrible.
What was it like to be alive? She knew she hadn't really ever lived, thus, she was just a dead thing that walked. That went through the motions everyday. Light the forge. Work the metal. Hammer. Hammer. Hammer. Hammer. On and on until the coals died and she was let alone to her nightmares. Day after day. Year after year. On and on forevermore. Still the question haunted her.
The young grew old before her eyes. They could never last like she. Could not endure the test of time. Yet they were always replaced. Something she could not do. The cyclical nature of such life was never lost on her. She knew it only stuck out because there was little else to notice. She had been sold so long ago into bondage that she could only keep track of time through faces. Master after master used her for what they saw fit. Maid. Tailor. Farmhand. Scarecrow. Laborer. Puppet. Monster. Smith. Some masters had been kind, whilst many others had not. They were of humanity, of elvish, of centaur descent and a few others. It didn't matter what they were, they were all alike.
Despite any uncanny characteristics. Despite the lack of legs or multiple. Horns and fur and teeth and claws. All had flesh in some form and blood that kept their hearts beating. They were greedy and cruel and took and took and took. She was only a tool to them. A dead tool, yet still useful.
And she hated them.
It had been an emotion she came to know most. A companion that kept her husk working. She had been afraid to use it at first, in fact fear and confusion had been her only friends until it grew inside of her like a roaring inferno. No longer able to be contained.
So she had used it. To run away but always to fail. To revolt with the ones she hated less but always to be crushed in the end. Ingenuity was a common trait among those of flesh. She should have been killed for all her transgressions, if it wasn't for one simple fact- She was unique enough to keep working. The punishments still came though and her last failed attempt, so close it had been, had gotten her locked away in a dark windowless pit for what felt like an age. She didn't even want to think about it and so when she was at last let out, the fire had subsided. The hate burned only as coals. She was beaten. And now, chained and collared, stripped of any dignity and pride, Ema labored ever on.
She had been taught the basics of smithing but she was never allowed to work on anything. She was simply a hammer to stretch the metal, bend and shape it. It was a pitiful sight. She had at one point in time been meant for more. To bring life to her people but now the thought ached inside. She could not ever do so, for they would use her children as slaves forever and all would be lost. She would take such secrets to the grave, if she had been strong enough to kill herself. But in the end, Ema knew she was incapable of doing that.
She was a dead thing but even dead things could cling to life.
We learn what's become of Ema, our lone Aelos. Turns our she's been a slave for an indeterminate amount of time. She laments and has accepted her fate but a small part of her still hopes for something more. Will it ever happen?
Member
Cyclone
Vec
Tim the Yeti
Fetzen
Crusader Lord
Enzayne
Timemaster
King of Rats
