Though the fiend had been blasted back to whatever foul pit it had crept out of and the animated sword, which seemed to be the last of the great chamber's more bloodthirsty inhabitants, put to flight - someone with more of a sense for humour could have taken the opportunity to quip about the half-elf's singing making even witless constructs run for their lives, but such jesters seemed to be in short supply - and finally hammered with less care than a smith would have used, neither Ulor nor the octopus did immediately relax their stances, still as battle-ready as the two could have them. The former looked suspiciously about the vault, almost visibly straining his ear for sounds that could betray any other lurking peril, while the latter swung and rotated over his head, thrusting out its eyes in a slightly unsettling way as it tried to observe almost all directions at once.
It was thus probably the octopus that noticed that the sword had shed blood aplenty despite not being wielded by any hand, since Ulor's stare had become lost in the sewers' water when he turned, roused by a mental nudge. Still massaging the shoulder where the devil had struck him, which, while clearly not grievously, had nonetheless been burned along with the rest of the body earlier that night, he hobbled over to the fallen elf, the flesh-clothed spirit trailing close behind. A curious sight, if the word still held in here, between hellish emissaries and plane-shaking rituals. It was clearly an elf, but not of any sort he had ever seen before. His skin was uncommonly pale, and, when Ulor bent down and pried the lid of one of his eyes open, he saw nothing but a small reflection of himself. It might have been due to being on the brink of death, as Ulor was fairly certain was the case, but one could never know.
Should we leave him? It is unlikely he knows any more than the others we found.
No. This one saw more. Besides, more fleshbodies with us is better than fewer.
We could pry into his memories now without the bother of another-
You have mindhands for grasping, not claws. We will need to improve that. For now, having this one awake will be safer. In all senses.
If you say so.
Ulor crouched next to the elf and began to rummage through whatever unholy foulness had its nest in his backpack. After some moments, he produced from it a rather nondescript, filthy rag. It was unclear of what colour it had been before being reduced to its current state, if any, but it was fairly obvious that this must have happened a long time ago. He motioned with a finger, and the octopus, who had been hovering overhead, let some sort of translucent ichor dribble from its beak onto the strip of cloth. Though all this did was make the rag even dirtier, Ulor seemed to be satisfied, and, clumsily turning the elf over in a way that did not help his comfort, tightly wound and knotted it over the worst cuts. Hopefully, this would suffice to hold most of the bleeding until the freed captive was in better shape, or could be given over to actually competent medical care. Or both.
Ulor rolls a 14 on the Medicine check to stabilise Auro'pol and succeeds despite his dubious methods.
A further question - what is the average polity size? Are most of them limited to a single habitat, or is holding (possibly uncertain) control over a few of them more commonplace?
Can new links and portals to the Gap be opened by anyone other than Jvan and the late Vowzra? It was mentioned that Jvan controls its contacts with the world (here? I'm sure there was a better example somewhere, but I can't seem to find it), but how much isn't obvious, given that Phi needs to remain locked and most people have so far been sane enough not to try anything like that.
A hollow, murky gaze swept around from within the shadowed folds of a hood, feeling its way like a wary shade flitting by in the night. Over the eyes that cast it, that of which it was the pale reflection slept in its silken tomb, unseen and ever open to its world of nightmares. The stare passed over each of the shapes assembled before it once, twice, now and again, swift yet heavy. It sank into the shadowy gaps between them, sounding the absence for hidden sights and motions, before emerging again with nary a sign of having strayed. To one who had caught it, it could have seemed that it was searching for something familiar, which it neither hoped nor wished to find. Yet no one could say, for it was deft and furtive, beyond the skill of even the wariest to seize, and it rose from twin corpses buried deep in an untimely sable grave.
The sightless pit that was the cowl moved to one side, then another, following the tones of speech, and the flickering light of the torches revealed glimpses of the face beneath it. The cadaverous glimmer of the eyes proved deceptive, for it was not the visage of a corpse that peered out from the abyss, but a genial smile, seated in a plump and affable countenance that could have belonged to a kindly prelate or well-to-do tradesman. Still, in the dim flashes of the wavering flames, even that face, which would have appeared perfectly harmless and even inviting in a daylit marketplace, had a vaguely sinister, even insidious impression to it. Perhaps it was because of this that it withdrew again into the shadows of the hood, leaving once more nothing visible but the cold eyes, now ever so slightly less daunting by virtue of contrast, before it spoke.
"I don't know if we oughta call that an 'object'," the man addressed the seemingly one-eyed figure in white. His voice was as low and steeped in solemn mystery as befitted their surroundings, but, at the same time, it carried undertones of rowdy mockery and plebeian boisterousness. More than the speech of a druid or hierophant, it resembled the playful blasphemy that dwells in shabby taverns and around crude clay hearths. "To me, it looks - and sounds - like something that mightn't like that name. Though, since we're apparently beasts -" he motioned with his head after the direction in which the skull-headed newcomer had gone, "- I suppose that's only fair. But, more to the point..."
The speaker tore himself away from the wall, all but invisible in the darkness, against which he had been leaning and drew forward by a step. As he did, he seemed to coalesce out of the formless blackness, materialising into a human-like figure whose contours were, nonetheless, still left blurry and undefined by the cloak that covered him. What might have been an arm, but was transformed into a ghastly amorphous appendage by the black folds draped over it, swept before the circle in a rapid gesture.
"Isn't strange that there's so many of us here and now? Real bloody treason -" the shrouded hand curtly waved at the bejewelled mirror, "- if you ask me, of anybody not to be out there." He was quiet for a moment, and the sounds of the revels outside could be heard, muffled and distorted by the distance. "While we still can." A grim, artificial chuckle. "But no. We're here, like corpses waiting to be brought down..." A finger, colourless in the dusk, wormed out of the cloak's folds and pointed to the Cathedral's floor. "One of us thinks she knows why, at least. But can we all say the same?"
Good post! Osveril is definitely on my top favs now!
I tried to make an image of Osveril doing a gracious(?) gesture, but the mess of shapes that came of it, while appropriate, sadly didn't look nearly meaningful enough. You'll have to take my word for his being grateful.
Btw, I can see some seriously mean verbal bullying in Osveril's future should he seek out Toun.
And that's after waking up to being thrown around by Jvan. At this rate, having had an abusive childhood might actually become a believable excuse for his misbehaviours.
Dozens of legs rose and fell in tact over the beach. Though they tapered to narrow tips and were hefted down by the weight of the bulky forms they radiated from, they did not sink as they were thrust down. The soft, yielding sand of the dunes they trod upon was gone before they struck the soil. In its stead, a smooth, cold surface slithered forward to bind the earth. The dust that formed it was even finer than the vanished grains, yet, oddly, the segmented limbs found purchase on it as easily and surely as if it had been thick ice. They made no sound or trace.
A swarm of grey shapes was creeping down from the ridges that sloped down to the sea-shore from the edge of a field of dry grass, or what had once been one. Only sparse patches of vegetation remained there now, surrounded by stifling desolation, and more of the creatures were moving towards them. In some ways, they resembled some of the many curious crustaceans that emerged from the shallows at night to scavenge, but they were far larger, and did not content themselves with what was washed ashore.
Their tireless mandibles swept up the sand and anything that grew or wriggled in it, hurling it into gaping mouths like shovels. Clouds of dust shot up from the mazes of angles and edges on their backs, descending to the ground as heavily as snow. Darting tentacles felt their way ahead, stabbing at the air and motioning onwards even as they skewered more lively prey. Heavy pincers snapped trunks, or clasped stones and ground them to bits. All in them was hunger and purpose.
The first of the creatures reached the spot where the sea lapped at the sand, and stopped in its tracks for a moment. It plunged a tentacle into the water, then another, rapidly withdrawing them. Behind it, the rest of the flock gradually came to a halt. The lead crawler stood indecisively for a few more instants, then lashed a stinger sideways, and backed away from the waves. Like a single body, the swarm followed its movements as it turned about and continued its advance along the shoreline. Sand became dust again, and the grey heralds encroached.
The Wisps drifted from one place to the next, but continued to remain at the shore Niciel had left them at. They had been monitoring the area for a few weeks now, and for most of that time period, there had been next to no activity. Perhaps a particularly large wave here, or a falling stone there. Occasionally, a Wisp would duplicate itself, the newborn copy immediately flying off to survey parts unknown. Beyond that, however.... nothing. Still, the Wisps remained ever digilant, performing the function Niciel had given them.
At long last, there came something that had not occurred before: multiple entities had arrived at the shore. Immediately the Wisps were on alert, flying over to but staying well above the creatures, keeping watch over the swarm. In contrast, it seemed like either the swarm paid no attention to the Wisps above or simply did not notice. Finally, one Wisp dared to venture closer to one of the creatures, descending to attempt to determine and record its appearance and godly essence for the rest of the Wisps.
The grey crawler paused, its upper tentacles twitching as they sought to trace the unfamiliar disturbance they could feel approaching. A few of its fellows almost struck it as they continued to trudge forward, unaware of the nearby Wisp, but parted to avoid it, as would a stream flowing around a rock. Some of them waved their stingers upwards as they passed by, and one attempted to reach over the first creature itself with a tentative swipe, without, however, halting its progress. Those moving at the back of the swarm simply edged aside.
After some uncertain prodding, the being over which the Wisp was hovering lifted both its upper stingers and waved them in rough semicircles around the globe of light. Then, with an abrupt movement, it lunged at its core.
The Wisp inched closer and closer to the crawler, unaware of its intentions, until it was struck. The Wisp instantly exploded in a burst of Light energy, which spread through the area before quickly dissipating. It wasn't long before the rest of the Wisps sensed its death, moving erratically as the alarm spread between them. They also sent an alert through the network, which instantly reached Niciel, the notification pinging in her mind.
She was about to ignore the alert and continue her day, until she realized which Wisps were sending her the notification. Niciel closed her eyes and focused, looking through the eyes of the Wisps. She was a bit disappointed to not find the one she was hoping to be there, but a bunch of rock bugs instead. However, the Wisps had also detected some godly essence within them, and Niciel noticed it was the same as the entity of Purity she had ordered the Wisps to look out for. She knew this required her immediate attention. Appearing on site in a flash of light, Niciel faced the creatures, interested to see what they were going to do.
As the gleam overtook them, the crawlers were left standing as though they were frozen. Those further back reflexively waved their stingers in disorientation, but most of them lacked even the presence to do that. Their path thus far had been as direct and unambiguous as the hunger inside them: they consumed what they could feel before their mouths. Their bodies themselves had been shaped for this purpose. All that saw, smelled, touched and tasted was at the front. Their maker had never intended for there to be anything left behind them. It was an impossibility that ground their simple minds to an unexpected halt.
However, these minds were also crude enough to be ignorant of true perplexity, and so they moved on. The crawlers adapted, like they had to the sea that had lain in their way. First the ones at the back began to slowly, clumsily turn in place, then the rest followed. The feeling of strangeness, and what could have been the echoes of a tatter of curiosity, was beaten back by the everlasting appetite.
The lead creatures waved their tentacles, once forward, once backward, before beginning to crawl again. The others were not far behind. Their pincers gnashed and their mandibles slowly drew open as they neared the goddess. Whatever it was that had inexplicably eluded them once would not escape them again. It might have glowed and smelled strangely, but they would devour it as they had everything else before.
Having peered into the essence of the creatures, she had not found any signs of Purity, at least not the Purity she was aligned with. Even so, Niciel had wanted the creatures to show signs of friendliness, but it seemed like it was not the case. Raising her right hand, Niciel raised a dome of Protection energy around her, forming a barrier between her and the creatures. Niciel then brought her hands together in prayer, wishing them to find peace in the afterlife. A small orb of Holy energy appeared at her fingertips as she drew her hand back. Then, with a backhanded gesture, she released it as a wave, incinerating a large portion of the swarm. She then stretched out her palms, firing off two more rays of Holy energy, eliminating the rest of the swarm.
When the deed was done, Niciel sighed. She had not wanted to kill them, but there had been no other option. Looking down at the trail left behind by the swarm, Niciel wondered if she could follow it back to the entity of Purity. With a trail this easy to follow, she would at least find something, surely. Gesturing to the Wisps, she ordered them to spread out and follow the trail. Looking through their eyes once more, Niciel followed the trail, her mind flicking through Wisp after Wisp, until their origin could be seen. From there, a different trail. The entity of Purity, perhaps? She had the Wisps continue the tracking, searching as far as they could, until at last a humanoid entity was found. This was where the trail led to, and, as the Wisps got closer to inspect it, the essence of Purity could be detected. This was the one, there was no doubt, and it was finally time to pay a visit. With a flash of light, Niciel disappeared from the shore, reappearing at the location of Osveril, her expression solemn.
"Hello," Niciel greeted Osveril, bowing her head ever so slightly. "My name is Niciel, the Goddess of Light. May I know yours?"
The grey figure stayed the arm it was stretching out, the angular tendrils that had been reaching for a nearby bush withdrawing back into its fissures. It turned its head to face the newcomer, but, even if it was surprised, its featureless mask could not have betrayed it.
"I named myself Osveril, the Hollow Absolute in an inconstant world." Its voice, for it could not have belonged to anyone else, crackled and reverberated through the air. It did not sound from its body, but seemed to arise from subtle ripples and distortions around it. "Find your welcome in what little shelter from the impurities of substance I have wrought."
The Hollow's cycles cautiously felt for Niciel's form, then thrummed up, touching upon accents that seemed oddly resonant. This, then, was one of the other gods. One responsible for the universe of matter, of the number of the imperfect demiurges. Yet, though she did resemble Mother in the broadest outline of vastness, she was far less extended in the forms of it. That there should be such variety among the gods themselves was worse than disappointing, repellent even; but, for all this, her echoes suggested something that could have been called soothing, if only in part. Perhaps the taint in the gods was weakened by its very divided nature. Mindful of its intent, Osveril spoke again.
"You are the first god I perceive that has witnessed me of their own will. What light or intent has brought you to the Void?"
"The nature of your essence was what initially caught my attention. You see, I am not just a Goddess of Light. One of my principles is for Purity," Niciel started. "At least, that was what I believed." Raising a hand, she created a small orb of Purity, its pink light glowing softly. "This is my form of Purity, which I understand to be the Purity of Light. The essence of the clean and innocent." With a small gesture, the Orb dissipated, and Niciel continued, "I believed that that was the only form of Purity that existed, and I see now that I was wrong. Even having lived as long as I have, I find myself still learning so much, yet to be ignorant of my own principle..."
"And so I come to you to learn more about Purity," Niciel confessed. "An entity of Purity itself. What is it about Purity that makes it Pure? What is Purity?"
The triangular visage, which had suddenly shifted its direction towards the orb while it had shone, smoothly turned back to Niciel herself. A fine haze of grey particles silently erupted from Osveril's body as it exhaled, dispersing within moments.
"You are correct in speaking of Purity that dwells in the light. It is not something that can be bound to finite shapes. Purity can pervade all, as it should made to be. Light, or darkness, or this innocence you mention. By its nature, it must be the blood and spirit of the entire cosmos.
Some vessels, however, are clearer than others. Observe."
It swung its left hand in an arc, and space was left torn by its clutches. Where a clear recurve line has passed there was left an amorphous, immobile gash. It seemed to lack those fundamental properties that could alone allow it to exist: the closest examination could not have revealed how large it was or how high above the ground, or even at what distance between the two figures it hung. One could not say whether the breeze blew through it, or was impeded, and whether sunlight illuminated it and made it cast a shadow. Merely looking at it was uncomfortable and nauseating, and the eye always sought to slip off from it.
It should not have been, but it was there, then.
"This is the most pristine embodiment of it that I shall ever know in this reality. It has no flaw, no blemish that I, or you, can feel. It is free from all that plagues the world around us, all these faults of body and essence. Unbreakable. Unconquerable. This is what it truly means to be pure.
The Void is Purity manifest, goddess Niciel. And yet-"
Osveril drew back its fingers, and the anomaly it had conjured fell upon itself with a groan and a howl as the air was mended.
"-It is a poor guide you have found, for I myself know little beyond this. Though Purity is all I can give, and all I aspire to, I only came into it after encountering time not long ago. The Void is where I arose from, and Hunger is what sustains me. They are my only eyes. I can find Purity in absence, for there it is laid bare, but I have yet to learn how it is that it can enter things contrary to its nature, and much else besides.
We both are no more than seekers. But it is well to know that two of us walk this path together."
It was not the first, no. Purity, and not order alone, had been pursued before its coming, though it as well took on crippled and incomplete forms. And how well would it have been to correct both at once.
"Do you not wish, as I do, to fathom the full extent of what is pure and share it with all that exists and does not? To gift all that lives within and without with blissful completeness? If you can see even one face of perfection, it cannot be otherwise."
Niciel was speechless. She was unable to fathom what she had just witnessed, even going by others' standards like Logos. All she knew was that she felt chills running down her body just looking at it. She certainly did not expect that to be the form of Purity. Although every part of her body was rejecting the sight she had just seen, she forced herself to be calm. After all, perhaps there was something she was just not understanding, and there were certainly many things she was not understanding about Purity.
"To be honest.... I don't know," Niciel responded. "It seems like Purity is far more complex than I originally thought, and I certainly can't share something I don't understand."
The mask was lowered in a slight nod.
"You speak well. Eagerness alone would do us no good if we did nothing but blunder. Every mistake is another scar on our purpose, and you can see how many there are already. I admit I fell prey to the raw desire when I stepped on the earth. I lashed out blindly at the impurities of substance, and nothing came of it but more pain."
Osveril was silent for a moment, and it seemed that the world around them had fallen still as well. The grey beasts standing some way behind it looked on motionlessly, seemingly without breath. Nothing sang or rustled through the grass. The only audible sound was the rasping whistle that came out of the faceless shell's fissures.
"I do not breathe, though Mother bid me do so. What you hear within me is the corruption gnawing at my nonessence. It is cruel, yet reckless, for in doing so it reveals itself to me."
A sound trembled upon the air, as though it were about to say something else, but it dissolved abruptly. The Hollow One pondered something before speaking again.
"Do you feel it yourself? Does the pain show you what is impure?"
"No, I do not. I can see what is impure of Light, but beyond that, I have no sense for it," Niciel said. She sympathized with Osveril, having to feel such a pain. It was unfathomable to her to go through such a fate. "To feel pain like this, though... it is unacceptable," Niciel said. "Is there a way to help? Any way to lessen the pain you feel."
Of course not. It should have known better than to suppose that even a deity so closely aligned with its duty would be similar to it at all. Her senses were dull and corroded by the taint, limited to a superficial vision of a single facet. She would have to be cleansed as thoroughly as Mother if the role she professed to have was to be carried out. Of what use was a purifier who did not sense foulness with all of their being?
"Only one thing can assuage it, and that is bringing Purity to all. I do not suffer for myself, but for the plagues that afflict all around me. Do not believe that all pain is evil. Though that which I have met in others was a product of their imperfections, the one that drives me is vital to my task.
It is however true that too much of it can be a distraction. The bites of small things drown out the vaster, more subtle pleas for salvation. This is why I am covering the worst of the earth's wounds."
Osveril gestured at the soil beneath its feet. The seeping dust had consumed all that lay on it, and now draped it with lifeless grey.
"I destroy the impure growths that fester around me. There -" it motioned into the distance with the point of its staff, " - I have sent my spawn to do the same. Once all the chaos will have been drowned out, I shall know how true Purity can be spread throughout the universe."
Niciel at the direction Osveril had gestured towards, then looked down at the trail that followed it, following it back as far as the eye could see. To her, it was clearly the same trail she had her Wisps follow. The same trail that was created by the crawlers... that she had just destroyed. How do I explain this, Niciel thought to herself, feeling somewhat guilty for the deed. To her, the only decent answer was to confess, apologize, and explain her reasoning. Trying to lie or even cover it up was not something she would consider as it went against her nature.
Looking back at Osveril, Niciel took a deep breath and said, "I must apologize then. You see, in order to find you, I had to follow this trail here. I saw the crawlers that made it, which I assume you made, and had to destroy them in defense of my Wisps and of myself." A few Wisps that still lingered in the area came down and circled around Niciel for a moment before flying back up, as if to prove her point.
"They are a simple instrument. Rough, even," was the Absolute's only response. The voice it conjured remained inflexibly toneless. "They do not recognise anything aside from me. This is good enough for what they must do, but devouring gods is not their function. If you had to eliminate some, it is no great loss. More will grow.
Yet this brings something else to my attention. It is no marvel that a god could stop them. You have seen them, and know this world better than me. Could anything else, short of our divine likes, oppose their progress?"
Niciel thought for a minute on the matter. Compared to those with divine blood, most mortals were rather weak. Still, considering the powers mortals possessed even without the aid of the Gods, it was not impossible for the crawlers to be defeated, at least not a swarm of the magnetude Niciel had faced. "Given enough time and effort, even the mortals of this world would be able to defeat those crawlers without too many problems," Niciel answered. "Why do you wish to know?"
Mortals. The bodies inhabited by souls, it recalled. Osveril had but a dim recollection of the visions it had endured upon awakening, but, along with these words, that was enough. Small gods that could think, albeit in faulty ways. The crawlers' mindless advance was not appropriate here; another approach would be needed.
"Anything that can stop those of my flesh would ultimately delay the coming of purification. If these mortals will work against them, they will have to be subdued, in one way or another. I hope they will show themselves open to embrace the cause of restoration by what will of their own they have.
The gods are no exception. You do not scorn the pure, but I know there are others. Can the same be said of them?"
"....No," Niciel answered. Looking at Osveril with pleading eyes, she continued, "I must also warn you of this: my siblings will do everything in their power to stop you, should you continue this path. I know this because it has happened before. Logos, one of the Gods who came during the time of Creation, has attempted to invade Galbar with an army of his own for the sake of his own cleansing, and was beaten back by the others."
"Please do not make the same mistake. Don't fight this pointless battle for the sake of your own nature."
Someone, then, had already sought to purge the world. Indubitably, they had either struck the wrong things, or simply acted upon uncouth urges to destroy. If the minds of all other gods were so perverse, it was impossible that any one of them should have been moved by a true wish to build perfection. But they had tried, following their hatred of perceived error, and that was enough for Osveril to recognise potential for improvement.
"They will be made to see reason. Only the senseless could deny that existence is flawed, and I am that which cures. You tell me not to fight, but I was made to annihilate and reshape. I am the battle against impurity. For as long as I draw breath, those that harbour it shall have no respite.
If armies are not enough, I will sway them with words; and if they refuse to listen, I will call forth that which they cannot command. Had they been capable of holding back Purity, they would not have suffered me to exist at all. But I walk their domain, and this shows that they are weak and deficient. It falls to me to correct them and what they have wrought."
The grey being lifted its empty hand towards Niciel, and undulating arms of dust began to unfold from it.
"I can begin with you, if you desire. Accept my gift, and you shall be born anew, pure in Light and ready to assimilate everything else. By working jointly, we could redeem your brethren with ease."
Niciel stared at Osveril's hand for a moment before saying, "During the war against Logos, I chose to refrain from it. I did not want my creations or myself to get caught up in it. That is my one regret in my long life." Looking at Osveril itself, she continued, "I regret not aiding Galbar when it needed it." Thinking back, she believed herself to have been acting like a fool. She wanted to hope against hope that Osveril would be a friend, despite numerous amounts of precedence that suggested it wasn't possible. Any other time, she would let the matter drop. This time, however, would be different.
"I am sorry, Osveril, but I must decline," Niciel answered. "I may strive for Purity, but accepting this would betray all of my siblings, as well as the Purity of Light, and I cannot do that." Niciel then summoned her staff of Enlightenment and raised it against Osveril. "I am giving you one final warning. Give up on this quest. Seek coexistence with my siblings. If you do, I recommend you start with Toun, the God of Perfection. You two have a lot in common, actually."
The filaments drew back, and Osveril's right hand tensed around Transgenesis. The staff Niciel had called forth struck its senses as a receptacle of dangerously palpable power. If even, by some unlikely chance, her own strength should have proven insufficient to shatter it, it was somehow clear that this tool, this weapon, could spell its end with but a movement. Certain though it might have been of its words, the Hollow One knew it was in no condition to face a god now.
"If this is your answer, I cannot compel you to do otherwise. But know that you are misguided, and turn your back to your own glory."
Its left forearm lashed abruptly aside, and the limbs that had been emerging from it scattered into a thin cloud. It lingered in place before being torn and carried away by the breeze.
"All that you value is dust upon the winds of the Void. If you will only heed my advice, hone your understanding of the pure light. You may someday come to understand what you tried to reject. If not, we shall meet once more, and your obstinacy will not protect the taint you harbour again.
I am the Void That Is, and no threat or force can stall my mandate. I have known your world as aggression; now it will know me as absolution. Cast me back, and I shall arise again. Unravel me, and I shall be made whole. I am the negation of All. Nothing that is not pure can be alongside me."
This God of Perfection Niciel spoke of was unlikely to be more receptive than her, but it was bound to make an attempt nonetheless. He could have been another whose promise was clear, perhaps the very one who had built the hidden framework. Besides-
Godly Perfection.
It reminded it of something. Vague echoes of accents once heard. When? Before time? Immediately after?
"I shall go to Toun, then, and all the others. They will hear, or I shall make them see. No affliction of the mind can last forever against the condemning silence."
A silence soon followed, with Niciel and Osveril in a standoff. Niciel weighed her options on what path to take next. She knew she was not going to kill Osveril, and even if she wanted to, the Oath of Stilldeath prevented her. Perhaps the safest method would be to seal away Osveril now, while it was still in a weaker state. However, Niciel didn't believe that to be the best approach either. A realization had struck her. Niciel didn't think Osveril had really lived very long in Galbar, and perhaps it was just inexperienced, much like a child would be. A child, of course, needed room to grow, and Niciel could not take that away from Osveril.
Niciel lowered her staff, and Enlightenment was dismissed. "I have tried," Niciel said. "All I can do now is let the others convince you. If you are still not convinced, then there will be nothing more to say." With a flash of light, Niciel disappeared, leaving behind her Wisps to keep watch over Osveril. As for Niciel, well, there was work to be done.
The Absolute relaxed its grip on its staff as the goddess vanished. These, then, were the masters of rampant creation. Even one who claimed to embody Purity, however fragmentary, would rather have allowed the blemishes of her dominion proliferate unchecked than hunt and eliminate them. This paradox well described the immensity of the work before it. But it could not be daunted.
Osveril's senses reached out, dragging themselves over the ground and through the sky to feel if Niciel's passing had left any traces. There seemed to be nothing it could find. The cleansed soil was as barren as it had been, and the distant air no more troubled. Nothing, that was, except for one of those sparks of light behind it. Light and life.
"Be freed from the bounds of shackled vision."
Without turning, the Hollow One lifted a hand, and cracks in the cosmic weave ran from the grey fingers towards the Wisp.
Unlike its mistress, it could not refuse the call.
Some weeks after Niciel left her Wisps on the beach of the Fractal Sea to look out for Osveril should he return there, a splinter of the Dust Crawler swarms happens on that same spot. Alerted by the Wisps, who detect the traces of the demigod's essence in the creatures, Niciel teleports there. The crawlers, not being very imaginative, try to eat her, forcing her to destroy them.
Niciel follows the trail of dust left by the void-bugs back to where they were born, and from there picks up Osveril's own tracks. Having found him, she is introduced to the Hollow and his strange views on Purity and the world. When he learns that she, too, is aligned with that concept, he attempts to convert her to his cause, offering to infuse her with his power. Niciel, wanting nothing to do with it, warns him against continuing in his destructive ways and advises him to try and live in peace with the gods of Galbar, to little appreciable effect.
Eventually, she wonders if she should imprison Osveril for the good of everyone else, but decides to let him discover more of the world and hopefully mature into something less objectionable. She then leaves, instructing some Wisps to watch over the demigod. The latter detects one of them and alters it into something as yet unspecified.
1 Might spent by Osveril to transform the Wisp (4 starting, 3 remaining).
Just happened upon this rule somewhere that I haven't seen or maybe been paying attention to. Given that Osveril is Purity (Voids) and Jvan is Beauty (Voids), I'll probably start writing Jvan's portfolio as Beauty (Negatives) with pretty much the same powers.
The same powers as your original idea, or the same powers as Osveril's Portfolio? If the former, that is fine (unless it overlaps too strongly with the latter). If the latter, then they'd still be the same Portfolio (or sufficiently close) (eg. Teknall's Smithing and Conata's Metalworking, while having different names, are exactly the same thing). This would provide no problems unless/until Osveril ascends.
If I remember correctly, Osveril and Jvan have rather different interpretations (standalone absolute void vs. void in a context/as a contrast to existence) and ways of using the portfolio (emptiness anomalies vs. filling the Gap and harvesting tectonic pressure), so there shouldn't be much of an overlap if their variants go by different names. Though that could be one less source of conflict if, in a hypothetical future, Osveril did somehow manage to ascend without getting pre-emptively swatted or locked somewhere.
Concept: A morbid truant twice touched by fell forces, scarred by greed and driven by fear.
Origin: The land Prabha once called home was, while not as splendid as Yachiel, blessed with peace and prosperity. It was far enough from the Edge of the World not to be beset by its monstrous denizens, and, while it had once been steeped in the shadow of mighty sorcerers, dreaded and revered as figures of myth, men and gods had slowly encroached upon it and driven away its dark masters. Some roving fae and spirits were rumoured to still haunt the woods, but none had seen them in decades. The people of its fields and hills were, for the most part, bold and industrious, and did not let themselves be frightened by old tales.
But every fold has a prodigal son. Born among commoners, Prabhalocta was never content with his station. He listened with secret longing to the hushed legends of the olden sorcerers, and, rather than heed their cautionary moral, envied the awe these necromancers were said to inspire into their thralls. Often he would swear to himself that he would one day become as mighty as them, whether as a lord or even a king of the land. And, though his lineage was humble, he did not lack determination. First, he tried the way of wealth. He did not have the patience to follow it honestly, and kept company with deceit and subterfuge. As a merchant, he sought to buy cheaply and sell dearly, and did not disdain any treachery in doing so. When his ill-gotten gains did not satisfy him, he gave himself to gambling, and when he became shunned even among the rabble, his skill with mimicry and disguise came to his aid. He posed as a saintly pilgrim, a corrupt magistrate, even a druid collecting the offerings for his god. These escapades bore good fruit, but, after narrowly avoiding the gallows one time too many, Prabha decided to abandon this path.
In his avarice, he came to tread one more perilous still. One night, he ventured into a forlorn wood where the savage fae were said to gather. What transpired there, no one knows, but, when he walked out from among the trees the day after, he had a wild light in his eyes and wielded terrible witchcraft. For a year from then, the entire land came to dread his ravages. He preyed upon any he could catch outside the reach of their gods, and delighted in tormenting them as would an evil spirit. Seized by a fiendish glee, he prided himself of having surpassed the ancient sorcerers themselves.
Yet, as time went by, he fell himself prey to terror. He had been given power in exchange for a promise of which he had then thought lightly, but which returned to haunt him more and more often. Any day now, the fae would come to claim their due, and what could a reviled marauder give them? Nor was this his only concern - the people of the land had grown weary of his vexations, and had begun to set out on their own hunts. In desperation, Prabha turned to the legends whose perverse temptation had led him to that point. The sorcerers were long gone, but perhaps their power lingered. He went to find it in their forsaken abodes, and once more the night transformed him, this time forever. The morning found his eyes dull, but manifold.
Not long afterwards, golden clouds began to gather on the horizon, and armies to march through the once peaceful fields. Knowing that, whether the Circle of Light triumphed or was repelled, his life there was forfeit, Prabha slipped away into the shadows while he still could. Elatreis was not far, and in a city as great as Silver Spear he could disappear long enough to plot his next move. Besides, he had been dreaming of it since his third eye had opened...
Appearance: As is becoming of someone who has worn many a visage, Prabha seems to disappear when out of his disguises. He is neither tall nor short, neither dark nor fair, and his round, amiable face and short dark beard can become lost among the hundreds of a crowd faster than one can blink, though, if one looks closely, his cold, empty eyes can give one pause. Until recently, his shaven head completed the impression, but of late he has taken to wearing a turban to cover the large blue eye with a snake-like pupil that sits in the middle of his forehead. His gait is cautious and his tones hushed and conspiratorial, though he seems to take pains to conceal this.
Skills and Flaws
Quick Words, Quick Hands: Everyone struggles to live, but not everyone struggles equally. Over his life, Prabha has perfected the craft of taking much and giving little: an improvised tale to dupe a fool out of his coin, a deft nudge to the bones at the gambling table, the right amount of praise to adorn the meagre wares he peddles. And, above all, never dropping the mask of trustworthiness, or at least credibility.
Cutthroat’s Wiles: As a combatant, Prabha is neither talented nor skilled. Seeking, as in everything, an easy solution, he prefers to compensate with what he calls resourcefulness and others base tricks. From dirt in the eyes to knives in the back, nothing is beneath him when survival is concerned.
Man of Many Faces: Ever since his childhood, Prabha displayed an uncanny gift for disguising his features, voice and mannerisms, and this has served him well to this day. As occasion required, he has been a soldier, a beggar, a noble, a druid, a beast, a spirit, and someone who is ostensibly not a sorcerer. With but some rags and stolen clothes, he can become any of these and more yet at any moment.
The Unrelenting Beast: It was fear that drove Prabha down the path of sorcery. Fear hounds him still wherever he goes. He dreads the nameless being in whose debt he is, the wrath of God and her heralds, the spirits with whom he deals, the old gods and their followers, the visions that haunt him and the death he so relished inflicting on others. Ironically, this fear can drive him to reckless acts, for he will seize at anything that seems to offer freedom from its clutches.
Hooks:
Prabha once struck a bargain with a fey. He never kept his end, nor does he intend to.
There is only one thing worth seeking, and that is power that strikes fear into all, God and man alike.
Ancient, forgotten things are sunken in the Sea of Dead Stars. They are terrible, yet they have a strange lure.
SOUL - WHAT YOU ARE BENEATH THE SKIN
Initiation: When Prabha came to the ruined haunt of an infamous vanished sorcerer, he sat outside it and listened to the stars, as the necromancer was said to have done. Though he had little hope of succeeding, he thought he heard the distant tones of a dream-song, and persevered. It seemed to him that the truth he sought - for it was, he now understood, a truth - was just before him. He reached for it, but time and again, the truth eluded him.
The stars did not answer, but something else did. All he recalls is a shape cloaked in darkness deeper than the night, bearing the pain of revelation in its hand. It hurled him into oblivion, and it was long before his three eyes opened. He saw what he had been pursuing, and was more afraid than he had ever been before.
Weirds
Loathsome Conquerors: At Prabha’s call, motes of translucent blue fog arise out of the ground and coalesce into the forms of four monstrous worms. They have mouths like lampreys, are each twice as long as a man’s arm, and, though they appear dim and wraith-like, their swollen bodies are as strong as iron chains. The spectral worms obey their master’s bidding, and can hear his whispers wherever they might be, but they are clumsy and dull, and, though robust, can be slain by mortal weapons. They are also gluttons after carrion.
Nightfall: Prabha can conjure up a cloud of thick inky mist, which crawls and seeps through the air in strange forms like a viscous, living darkness. Those caught within it are beset by horrifying sounds and hallucinations, which seem as though horrors as dire as their own mind can paint them are lurking just out of sight, ready to pounce on them. The fainter of heart may well be driven mad by the experience, and any who have breathed long and deeply enough of the black vapours will be plagued by nightmares and echoes of the illusions for a few days.
Baleful Gaze: The third eye carved into Prabha’s forehead sees visions of death and putrescence so terrible that the world itself withers when they are projected onto it. When it is fully opened, it radiates a chilling, sinister light. Dead wood and flesh touched by it rot, metal grows dull and rusted, and plants and small animals are stricken with a wasting blight. Men and greater beasts will not suffer such afflictions unless they are already debilitated, but will find themselves paralysed in fear and unable even to think if their own gaze is caught by that of the unnatural orb.
BLOOD AND BONE - THE NEPHILIM
Nephilim: Tide of Day’s Undoing Sobriquets: None. The Tide is the Tide.
Concept: Vast of wit and cunning, yet a thrall to primal hunger.
Form: A towering, foetid mass of animate slime, the Tide has no single shape to define it. Its gelatinous body flows, shifts and ripples constantly, crawling and pouring like a river as it moves and rising and ebbing like a monstrous fountain when it stands still. The pitch-black sludge is run through with veins of cyan, which sometimes seem to twist and intertwine in strangely meaningful patterns, and, now and then, a few great burning eyes will open in the amorphous giant, only to be submerged by new waves and spouts. The fragments of its broken sarcophagus cling to its surface, never remaining in the same spot for more than a moment.
Abominations
Anathema of the Earth: Wherever the abhorrent mass of the Tide touches the soil, whether it be swampy or arid, the latter is transformed into a vile, clinging fluid, only slightly thicker than the black ooze itself. Only stone and rock can resist this corruption, and mires and puddles follow the Nephilim wherever it goes like the trail of a colossal slug. The creature can put the liquefied ground to a variety of uses, such as fashioning bludgeons and projectiles out of it, or even submerge into it entirely and swim through the earth for brief tracts, bursting to the surface where its foes least expect it.
Breathe in Life: Having no discernible organs of any sort, the Tide breathes through the entirety of its body. As it inhales, it can draw in air with such strength as to raise hurricane winds that converge upon it, strong enough to uproot trees, topple houses and lift man and beast from the ground. For as long as the Nephilim draws breath, and on such occasions this can last for several minutes, these howling streams of air will carry any unfortunate enough to be caught in them towards it to be consumed in its formless maw.
Breathe out Death: Those who, by some miracle, have been spared by the Tide’s drawing in all that surrounds it should not rejoice too soon. Its breath is a twofold weapon, wreaking ruin whichever way it blows. When it exhales, the monstrosity can spew out clouds of noxious smoke, coating itself in them or spreading them upon the wind. These fumes corrode all living matter they touch, turning flesh and bone into ghastly puddles within seconds and tainting the earth where they sink into it.
Deep Waters Run Low: While the Tide’s oozing body is tremendously flexible and agile, it is far weaker and less resilient that the solid bulk of other Nephilim. It cannot lift weights that would be trivial for them, and, while it is not by much easier to injure for its yielding consistency, it affords little protection to its master should it be struck by a direct blow while he is within it.
Concept: A morbid truant twice touched by fell forces, scarred by greed and driven by fear.
Origin: The land Prabha once called home was, while not as splendid as Yachiel, blessed with peace and prosperity. It was far enough from the Edge of the World not to be beset by its monstrous denizens, and, while it had once been steeped in the shadow of mighty sorcerers, dreaded and revered as figures of myth, men and gods had slowly encroached upon it and driven away its dark masters. Some roving fae and spirits were rumoured to still haunt the woods, but none had seen them in decades. The people of its fields and hills were, for the most part, bold and industrious, and did not let themselves be frightened by old tales.
But every fold has a prodigal son. Born among commoners, Prabhalocta was never content with his station. He listened with secret longing to the hushed legends of the olden sorcerers, and, rather than heed their cautionary moral, envied the awe these necromancers were said to inspire into their thralls. Often he would swear to himself that he would one day become as mighty as them, whether as a lord or even a king of the land. And, though his lineage was humble, he did not lack determination. First, he tried the way of wealth. He did not have the patience to follow it honestly, and kept company with deceit and subterfuge. As a merchant, he sought to buy cheaply and sell dearly, and did not disdain any treachery in doing so. When his ill-gotten gains did not satisfy him, he gave himself to gambling, and when he became shunned even among the rabble, his skill with mimicry and disguise came to his aid. He posed as a saintly pilgrim, a corrupt magistrate, even a druid collecting the offerings for his god. These escapades bore good fruit, but, after narrowly avoiding the gallows one time too many, Prabha decided to abandon this path.
In his avarice, he came to tread one more perilous still. One night, he ventured into a forlorn wood where the savage fae were said to gather. What transpired there, no one knows, but, when he walked out from among the trees the day after, he had a wild light in his eyes and wielded terrible witchcraft. For a year from then, the entire land came to dread his ravages. He preyed upon any he could catch outside the reach of their gods, and delighted in tormenting them as would an evil spirit. Seized by a fiendish glee, he prided himself of having surpassed the ancient sorcerers themselves.
Yet, as time went by, he fell himself prey to terror. He had been given power in exchange for a promise of which he had then thought lightly, but which returned to haunt him more and more often. Any day now, the fae would come to claim their due, and what could a reviled marauder give them? Nor was this his only concern - the people of the land had grown weary of his vexations, and had begun to set out on their own hunts. In desperation, Prabha turned to the legends whose perverse temptation had led him to that point. The sorcerers were long gone, but perhaps their power lingered. He went to find it in their forsaken abodes, and once more the night transformed him, this time forever. The morning found his eyes dull, but manifold.
Not long afterwards, golden clouds began to gather on the horizon, and armies to march through the once peaceful fields. Knowing that, whether the Circle of Light triumphed or was repelled, his life there was forfeit, Prabha slipped away into the shadows while he still could. Elatreis was not far, and in a city as great as Silver Spear he could disappear long enough to plot his next move. Besides, he had been dreaming of it since his third eye had opened...
Appearance: As is becoming of someone who has worn many a visage, Prabha seems to disappear when out of his disguises. He is neither tall nor short, neither dark nor fair, and his round, amiable face and short dark beard can become lost among the hundreds of a crowd faster than one can blink, though, if one looks closely, his cold, empty eyes can give one pause. Until recently, his shaven head completed the impression, but of late he has taken to wearing a turban to cover the large blue eye with a snake-like pupil that sits in the middle of his forehead. His gait is cautious and his tones hushed and conspiratorial, though he seems to take pains to conceal this.
Skills and Flaws
Quick Words, Quick Hands: Everyone struggles to live, but not everyone struggles equally. Over his life, Prabha has perfected the craft of taking much and giving little: an improvised tale to dupe a fool out of his coin, a deft nudge to the bones at the gambling table, the right amount of praise to adorn the meagre wares he peddles. And, above all, never dropping the mask of trustworthiness, or at least credibility.
Cutthroat’s Wiles: As a combatant, Prabha is neither talented nor skilled. Seeking, as in everything, an easy solution, he prefers to compensate with what he calls resourcefulness and others base tricks. From dirt in the eyes to knives in the back, nothing is beneath him when survival is concerned.
Man of Many Faces: Ever since his childhood, Prabha displayed an uncanny gift for disguising his features, voice and mannerisms, and this has served him well to this day. As occasion required, he has been a soldier, a beggar, a noble, a druid, a beast, a spirit, and someone who is ostensibly not a sorcerer. With but some rags and stolen clothes, he can become any of these and more yet at any moment.
The Unrelenting Beast: It was fear that drove Prabha down the path of sorcery. Fear hounds him still wherever he goes. He dreads the nameless being in whose debt he is, the wrath of God and her heralds, the spirits with whom he deals, the old gods and their followers, the visions that haunt him and the death he so relished inflicting on others. Ironically, this fear can drive him to reckless acts, for he will seize at anything that seems to offer freedom from its clutches.
Hooks:
Prabha once struck a bargain with a fey. He never kept his end, nor does he intend to.
There is only one thing worth seeking, and that is power that strikes fear into all, God and man alike.
Ancient, forgotten things are sunken in the Sea of Dead Stars. They are terrible, yet they have a strange lure.
SOUL - WHAT YOU ARE BENEATH THE SKIN
Initiation: When Prabha came to the ruined haunt of an infamous vanished sorcerer, he sat outside it and listened to the stars, as the necromancer was said to have done. Though he had little hope of succeeding, he thought he heard the distant tones of a dream-song, and persevered. It seemed to him that the truth he sought - for it was, he now understood, a truth - was just before him. He reached for it, but time and again, the truth eluded him.
The stars did not answer, but something else did. All he recalls is a shape cloaked in darkness deeper than the night, bearing the pain of revelation in its hand. It hurled him into oblivion, and it was long before his three eyes opened. He saw what he had been pursuing, and was more afraid than he had ever been before.
Weirds
Loathsome Conquerors: At Prabha’s call, motes of translucent blue fog arise out of the ground and coalesce into the forms of four monstrous worms. They have mouths like lampreys, are each twice as long as a man’s arm, and, though they appear dim and wraith-like, their swollen bodies are as strong as iron chains. The spectral worms obey their master’s bidding, and can hear his whispers wherever they might be, but they are clumsy and dull, and, though robust, can be slain by mortal weapons. They are also gluttons after carrion.
Nightfall: Prabha can conjure up a cloud of thick inky mist, which crawls and seeps through the air in strange forms like a viscous, living darkness. Those caught within it are beset by horrifying sounds and hallucinations, which seem as though horrors as dire as their own mind can paint them are lurking just out of sight, ready to pounce on them. The fainter of heart may well be driven mad by the experience, and any who have breathed long and deeply enough of the black vapours will be plagued by nightmares and echoes of the illusions for a few days.
Baleful Gaze: The third eye carved into Prabha’s forehead sees visions of death and putrescence so terrible that the world itself withers when they are projected onto it. When it is fully opened, it radiates a chilling, sinister light. Dead wood and flesh touched by it rot, metal grows dull and rusted, and plants and small animals are stricken with a wasting blight. Men and greater beasts will not suffer such afflictions unless they are already debilitated, but will find themselves paralysed in fear and unable even to think if their own gaze is caught by that of the unnatural orb.
BLOOD AND BONE - THE NEPHILIM
Nephilim: Tide of Day’s Undoing Sobriquets: None. The Tide is the Tide.
Concept: Vast of wit and cunning, yet a thrall to primal hunger.
Form: A towering, foetid mass of animate slime, the Tide has no single shape to define it. Its gelatinous body flows, shifts and ripples constantly, crawling and pouring like a river as it moves and rising and ebbing like a monstrous fountain when it stands still. The pitch-black sludge is run through with veins of cyan, which sometimes seem to twist and intertwine in strangely meaningful patterns, and, now and then, a few great burning eyes will open in the amorphous giant, only to be submerged by new waves and spouts. The fragments of its broken sarcophagus cling to its surface, never remaining in the same spot for more than a moment.
Abominations
Anathema of the Earth: Wherever the abhorrent mass of the Tide touches the soil, whether it be swampy or arid, the latter is transformed into a vile, clinging fluid, only slightly thicker than the black ooze itself. Only stone and rock can resist this corruption, and mires and puddles follow the Nephilim wherever it goes like the trail of a colossal slug. The creature can put the liquefied ground to a variety of uses, such as fashioning bludgeons and projectiles out of it, or even submerge into it entirely and swim through the earth for brief tracts, bursting to the surface where its foes least expect it.
Breathe in Life: Having no discernible organs of any sort, the Tide breathes through the entirety of its body. As it inhales, it can draw in air with such strength as to raise hurricane winds that converge upon it, strong enough to uproot trees, topple houses and lift man and beast from the ground. For as long as the Nephilim draws breath, and on such occasions this can last for several minutes, these howling streams of air will carry any unfortunate enough to be caught in them towards it to be consumed in its formless maw.
Breathe out Death: Those who, by some miracle, have been spared by the Tide’s drawing in all that surrounds it should not rejoice too soon. Its breath is a twofold weapon, wreaking ruin whichever way it blows. When it exhales, the monstrosity can spew out clouds of noxious smoke, coating itself in them or spreading them upon the wind. These fumes corrode all living matter they touch, turning flesh and bone into ghastly puddles within seconds and tainting the earth where they sink into it.
Deep Waters Run Low: While the Tide’s oozing body is tremendously flexible and agile, it is far weaker and less resilient that the solid bulk of other Nephilim. It cannot lift weights that would be trivial for them, and, while it is not by much easier to injure for its yielding consistency, it affords little protection to its master should it be struck by a direct blow while he is within it.
Lord Zee
Cyclone
