Through threshold did the Presence tread into its sovereign realm. His attention laid upon its many layers, Mhaireann watched as the prismatic essence of the Roineagan danced upon itself. Twisting, twirling--writhing, whirling--the endless pattern moved. There was beauty in its motion, but so too was there order and this thing the Presence hated.
Disgusted, the black-eyed god turned its lidded gaze elsewhere, delving through the infinite threads of the Subtle Weave to peer into Galbar. What he saw appalled him. The weft and weave of that solid place had been divided by the gods. Perhaps not with knowing had they done this thing, yet nonetheless it was clear.
"Order," he spat and the word trembled through the Dream. Reaching forth, the Dreaming God called upon his earthly avatar. It came swiftly, arriving from afar.
"Faireachan A-staigh," he said, pressing into its mind. It did not resist. So it was that the Dread-god's Presence inhabited half-earthly substance.
Swimming through the Subtle Weave, he sought out a spreading plague. Twas a malus he'd bestowed so that mortals might scream and beg. With ease, he found its taint upon the Endless Web and so he slipped into the world. Manifesting in a town most small did Mhaireann's avatar, its many drops of moisture coalescing and turning black as tar.
Spread out all around him were many dying men. He reached out and touched them, curious at their state. Swiftly it became clear why they'd fallen. Each and every one suffered not just from his hateful blight but also from the needs of supple mortal flesh. That simply would not do.
Though Faireachan had none, Mhaireann slid back his lidded eyes and stared out into the world. Like a horrid fog, a black miasma seeped out from every drop of the avatar's liquid form. It spread slowly from him and where it touched the fallen it pressed into their flesh. Every pore, every orifice pulled in the sickly mist, and once every mortal had been touched it fled and was not missed. With his work finished, Mhaireann turned away, though the avatar remained. Disturbed as it observed the risen bodies of those who would have soon from life departed, Faireachan quietly wept for its master, knowing now of its plight. The avatar, in its sadness, knew that the world would suffer for its rage and its madness.
For in every direction the sick of mind rose to their feet. Their cheeks filled in, their thirsts were parched, and their minds grew clear and eager. Perhaps they might think the sickness passed, their selves returned, their minds no longer fevered.
It was not so. For a twisted blessing had been bestowed upon them.
Unable to stomach the terrible sight, yet knowing it must stay, the Dreaming Watcher closed its perception, following those mortals only by the taint that they left upon the weave.
Truly, no good could come of this.
Among the once famished villagers stood a single man. He was fair of flesh, his hair an auburn hue and unlike the others his eyes were stained black by the terror-plague that he contained.
Annhein was his name.
Broken by the once-growing seed of madness that now had infected the Dreaming God, Annhein looked upon his people...and smiled.
“Come,” he said, and his voice struck the heartstrings of his people, pulling at their sundered minds. His smile grew, his eyes a whirling dance of red-black haze.
Turning his gaze to the horizon, he set out, renewed by the blessing of his god, knowing what he must do. They made their way for a place outlined in his mind. To the north of the great Anchor of the World. To the Highlands. He knew that they would find what they sought there. He knew they would find the untainted.
The thought brought laughter bubbling from his lips. It was a sound like a broken lute being played, painful, and strained. His people followed dutifully and even packed up their things. With a casual gesture and a too-easy smile Annhein and his fellows set aflame the small houses of the village they had once called home. Not a single tear was shed, not even by the smallest child. In fact, he found that he felt only a deep elation swelling in his chest.
’How wonderful,’ he thought ’...that the Dreamer would give us this gift.’ A flash of sensation spread all at once over his senses and he shuddered, clawing at his neck for a moment before it passed. He felt something wet settled on the very crown of his head...then vanish. Laughing he turned.
The other villagers, as if they had heard his thoughts, each held a smile, nodding to him as if agreeing. Laughing and jubilant as they departed the burning wreckage of their homes, his fellow-men celebrated the return of their lord. This was truly a great age.
Diminished in spirit, if not in power, Faireachan phased back into the Dream and spread out its mind. There it remained, observing the workings of the world. Glowing like a beacon in the distance, Faireachan watched the destination of those whose minds were lost to the world.
He hoped they never completed their journey to the great bastion of the north. To Acadia.
2 Weeks Ago
He stood before the great gates of a sprawling city in a land whose shores he’d walked for the first time in his life. Yet, he knew the names of these things, for upon the wind did whisper all the spirits of every grass and stone and gust.
Pakohu, they whispered.
Fragrance, they sang.
Humming along with them, he called upon the Subtle Web and weaved himself new eyes. From the dancing essences of his song, and the strength of his will, the alien silver of his sclera of his prismatic eyes fading to white as a gentle illusion settled over his eyes. Brown of hue, but strangely deep with flecks of hazel if one looked closely, his eyes fell again upon the walls of the city.
Making his approach, Fein could not help but glide across the ground. There was a poise to his movements, like a dancer whose body could not forget the rhythm of his craft. So it was that he came upon the closed gate of the city. Rather than call out however, he closed his eyes and listened.
Whispering winds of whimsy passed him over, the thoughts of the ever-present weave of the Dream washing through his awareness. With only the sound of his breathing, he did nothing further to disturb the quiet of that place, instead trying to understand why his way was barred and no guards were posted.
Slowly, the emanations of truth reached him, sifted by the sieve of his intent. These were the experiences and truths of all that which lived and breathed on Pakohu.
They spoke of men, but not like him. They prowled the night and made hardly a noise. Light was their bane. So, as the sun beat down upon his shoulders and head they hid within their buildings doing as he did. Listening.
Smiling, he gently drifted to the earth, seating himself a span or so from the gate of Fragrance. There, in utter silence, he respected their vigil and took in the subtle sensation of the corner of this world they called home.
Quietly, he whispered a single word, so faint that Fein himself would not have heard it if it were not from his own lips.
“Peace.” He said, and it had a subtle beauty to it. The gentlest whisper of a song, of a rhythm yet given unto the world.
Fein let it hang there. He let the wind take up its sounds and cast them far and wide to weave their own subtle melodies. Sitting and breathing quietly, the wanderer waited for the night to come.
The Present
As the Presence delved into the depths of its rage at the world, a twisting trio of essences slipped the leash, pressing past the confines of their psychic prisons. Roiling through the Lifeblood of their own form, the three entities mourned what they could only parse as a profound loss.
Firinn had not responded to their plea, even if it had taken the form of a dreadful melody. Yet the Threefold mind of those essences knew what they must do. Spiraling out into a cacophony of feeling they overtook the titanic grasp of that hated sovereign Presence. They wrestled with it and, in their grief and knowing, they reached out into the world that had once been their home.
Like gentle threads of intention their psionic call rang out, plucking at the strands of the Dream, bleeding lifeblood out. The song that was writ of their anguish and loss was one of Perception. It was Reflection’s cost. In their twisting, pained rumination they felt the tug of Memory as they sang and so upon these threads each mind pulled, divesting of itself.
Woven into a thread of silver was the essence of its power, given freely to Reflect what their sibling had once given him before their resting hour. From the single cord there grew a startling hum, as if many droplets upon crystals fell like dew.
Golden light coalesced about the necklace, coiling and winding fast until it formed a second cord that spread down and formed an empty circlet through which only air did pass.
Drawn then by the powers of Reflection and Memory was a final thread of power, which coiled about itself, filling in the empty golden circlet. Winding tightly into a triquetra that prismatic sheen became a crystallized form of Perception, held fast by Memory.
Soundlessly the artifact hit the ground, unaffected by its drop, it rested calm, its power a sign of mourning most profound. Unable to hold fast the vast fury of the Presence, the Threefold essences drew back within and as they did were so bound by the power of Mhaireann’s dark-eyed hymn.
So bowed and broken by the titanic will of that baleful Presence, the three took once more to clawing at the edges of their threefold prison, desiring to be free. Their enemy only scoffed and sought the target of their attentions. In a flash he found the Trinity’s creations all bound upon within one another. With a sneer and a glare, the dread-god summoned Faireachan. The avatar took hold of the artifact and awaited his instruction, its form trembling despite its fluid nature. Then, the Presence of that nightmare struck out at the objects and writ within their centerpiece a horrid curse.
Faireachan, dismayed, then through the Endless Dream traversed. He cast across Galbar, shifting to-and-fro, before finally he set once more ‘pon land and into the hands of Annhein delivered the prismatic pearl.
Beyond the mask of desolation that was Mhaireann’s facade, the Eldritch Twin--that Threefold God--wept at the cruelty of the action. Yet, not to be outdone, they wove a subtle dancing tune and warped Mhaireann’s accursed thrum. So the curse upon those artifacts was change in nature true--though it remained unknown to the Presence whose attention had gone elsewhere, once more askew.
So, biding their time, the Three essences awaited a day when finally the madness and rage of Mhaireann would be at last abated.
Drifting above the soil of Galbar, the tainted avatar let the threefold artifact drop into the waiting clutches of Mhaireann’s chosen hero: Annhein. It was caught, the human meeting his gaze with a malicious, maddened ink-eyed stare. The outline of his human facade shuddered faintly, light scintillating over the surface of his current shape.
Taking the blessed item, Annhein draped it about his neck and sighed with relief as its powers washed through his awareness. They rippled across the shattered reaches of the mortal’s consciousness, perhaps mending subtle rifts in its fabric. The Watcher felt this and knew it must act in the interest of the Sleeping Three, if only subtly.
Placing the droplets of its vessel upon the consecrated flesh of the tainted human, Faireachan summoned up what paltry power he could and drew into the mindscape of the once bright-minded Annhein. Mind made up, will steeled, the avatar looked upon the mind of a man who had been broken more truly than perhaps any other who yet lived.
It was chaotic and utterly without pattern. Like a trillion shards of a shattered crystal, most edges jagged and writ with painful red and malignant black, while others still were smooth as if they’d been carved away by some ill-intended mind. Yet, it was worse than even this, for every piece was in motion, clashing and attempting an intricate weaving set of constantly shifting patterns. Annhein’s sundered mind was like a hundred dancers whose bones had been fractured who nonetheless attempted to continue on with their dance.
It was macabre, if not in the gory physical sense, then in a profound manner that struck the avatar. So affected, his own elevated intellect rang like a gong, its sound an emanation of deep and ever-growing sadness and sympathetic pain.
“Weft and Weave have shattered you, yet they were meant to bind.” mused the avatar, with sorrow in its voice. Pulling itself together, the liquid droplets of its form rendered abstract in their nature, Faireachan coalesced into a single glowing prismatic point within Annhein’s consciousness. He would not let this malady spread across the world, devouring all its potential only to sate the vengeful pact of the dread-god Presence.
So driven by the isolated influence of its original creators, the Watcher began its work. Spreading out, Faireachan coated every surface in the unwell mind of the human, grafting itself across the many shattered forms of its twisting active hellscape. Then, he sunk into them, truly becoming his namesake.
“I am the Watcher Within. I reject this chaos din. I deny its sundering and its pain. So split, let it once more be whole. Failing this, let it Reflect the Two-as-One instead.”
Thus said, he made it so, binding together the many fragments and strands of Annhein’s mind with his own interwoven essence. He gathered of its material taking essence from various regions and intermingling them in others until a functional network of many minds was crafted within the consciousness of one. So it was that, with the power of Tessellation, Annhein’s mind was reborn stronger than it had ever been.
Yet, before Faireachan could finalize its work and draw true inspiration from the vast minds of the Dreaming God, it was interrupted. Calling him from his task, Faireachan was wrested from Annhein’s consciousness and across the vast tracts of the dream. His work unravelled and he watched with sadness as the light left Annhein’s gaze, replaced with deathly darkness. The avatar wept for what had been lost.
Yet, his actions had left their mark upon both its own memory and that of the Subtle Weave. Perhaps, in time, something might come of the ripples that the Watcher had made.
With time, might those ripples--indeed--become a swell of mighty waves?
It was hard to say.
In which a Curse is laid upon the people of Annhein’s village--for them to share in his plight and his wondrous malevolent duty. Wherein Faireachan is lost in sorrow, and attempts to rebel against Mhaireann--but fails...in part. Meanwhile, the Threefold Essences of the Dreaming God briefly unhinge the gates of their prison to bring a new set of artifacts into the world.
Elsewhere, apart from it all, Fein comes to Fragrance where he awaits nightfall in the hopes of entering the insular city. He is likely in for quite a surprise.
Start: 5MP, 5DP.
-2DP (Enhanced by Nightmares) -- Curse a Group (Small Town/Annhein). -2MP -- Create Artifact (Band of Memory) / Memorial II (2MP towards Memory). -2MP -- Create Artifact (Chain of Reflection) / Bridge II (2MP towards Reflection). -1MP -- Create Artifact (Gem of Perception) / Paradigm I (1MP towards Perception). -2DP (Enhanced by Tessellation) -- Create a Phenomena / Enkindling. -1DP -- Bless Artifact (Gem of Perception) / Fade I.
Mindblight: This curse has two notable properties. The first is that it allows the Psychic Blight of Annhein to be spread by anyone so afflicted by it through continuous proximity. The second is its effect on the afflicted themselves, lending all but Annhein himself a seeming sense of normalcy as well as a loss of physical needs. The afflicted no longer require food or drink, though they can die of extreme exposure or lack of sleep. Though fully afflicted individuals can ostensibly care for themselves and act largely as if unaffected by Annhein’s Psychic Blight there is something off about them. If one pays attention they will discover that they do not eat or drink and have a strange fixation on routines and socializing. They can be disturbing clingy and stubborn to disengage in conversation, but only with the unafflicted. By and large cursed individuals will not associate with one another more than necessary and will--in fact--go out of their way to avoid others so affected by this dreadful malady.
The curse can be cured with sufficient prestige or by isolating the afflicted for seven days and seven nights so long as they do not sleep. Normal methods that prevent sleep remain effective. Similarly, those experienced with Dreamwalking may be able to slow the progress of the affliction in those who “catch” it, themselves excluded. Lastly, it is notable that individuals so afflicted by the Blight will almost always be in an inordinately good mood regardless of their circumstances.
Band of Memory: The Band of memory is a cord of what appears to be liquid silver with pristine reflective properties. While not indestructible, any attempt to damage it will be temporary, as the substance will inevitably reconstitute itself unless torn asunder and scattered across Galbar. On its own it allows--through the blessing upon it--the wearer to store and access memories. The artifact can be willingly given or parted with, at which point any memories held within will be accessible to whomever is its wearer. If taken against the wearer’s will the artifact’s stored memories will be inaccessible, though the new wearer may store and view their own memories. If a former holder of the Band is killed this will also remove the lock on stored memories. On its own, the Band cannot protect itself, but when interwoven with the other two artifacts made to accompany it...well, that is a different story.
Memorial II -- Allows specific memories to be stored within itself and pulled upon at will. One must wear the artifact for it to function. All memories held within it are kept permanently, but are only accessible by the individuals who originally placed them within itself unless said individuals willingly gave up the artifact or no longer dwell among the living. Any attempt to try to circumvent the protective aspects of this blessing will cause the artifact to temporarily wipe the user’s memory of its importance. This action will trigger one of its component’s effects.
Chain of Reflection: Taking the shape of a double-helix cord of liquid gold, with an empty circlet as a pendant, the Chain of Reflection acts much as its counterpart does. While not indestructible, it will reform unless destroyed utterly, though the amount of time this process takes is variable. It allows the wearer to mindmeld with one participant at a time so long as the intent of the user is not malicious.
Bridge II -- Bestows upon the object’s wielder the capacity to bridge minds with one individual at a time. Where Dreamwalking can do this with significant practice, it is unsafe unless both individuals are bestowed godly boons or are particularly advanced in the art. As a result, this blessing is particularly useful, allowing people who maintain contact to understand one another perfectly so long as it is in effect. While active, the affected will be able to clearly communicate both telepathically and empathically to their heart’s desire. However, the process can be very mentally draining, possibly resulting in exhaustion be it emotional or otherwise. The item will not work if the user has ill intentions for the intended target. If use is attempted under these circumstances not only will it fail, but this will trigger the third blessing--provided the three artifacts are entwined.
Gem of Perception: Forming what appears to be a flawless circular gem of prismatic hue, the Gem of Perception only appears this way when not in use. When worn--and active--the Gem will become so clear that it appears to be utterly imperceptible. Even touching it renders only a faint warmth entirely bereft of any specific texture or other sensation. If not placed in the Chain of Reflection’s circular mount, the Gem may be used by placing it over the center of the forehead.
Paradigm I -- The primary blessing upon the Gem, this allows the wielder of the artifact to subtly adjust their perception by dialing up or down their sensitivity in various senses. This includes all senses that they natively possess, even if they do not realize that they have them. However, dialing up senses the user has no knowledge of is markedly more difficult, requiring active focus. Repeated used of the artifact allows the user to become more skilled at making swift adjustments. The effects last for up to five minutes after activation when not working in tangent with its sibling artifacts. When used in tangent with the other three, this blessing may be activated and deactivated freely though with a greater tax on the user. Amplified senses are prone to overwhelming those who are not careful with the artifact’s use and one can render themselves permanently without a sense if they aren’t careful.
Fade I -- Intended as a curse by the dark Presence Mhaireann, this blessing was warped and softened by the subtle influence of the trapped trinity of the Dreaming God. If the artifact is whole, this will trigger when it is misused, causing the entire set of artifacts to lose physical cohesion. This is accomplished by the very idea of their solidity being gradually abstracted, causing them to decouple physically. This will thus make the artifacts utterly irretrievable by those who misuse it. Once off their person, this effect will cease, causing the entwined artifacts to swiftly reconstitute.
Enkindling: Not yet complete, this process can reforge minds into a greater state than that which precedes it. Once affected, the Enkindled will gain a greater grasp of the Endless Dream and gain access to the art of Willcasting. This will additionally bolster their ability to Dreamwalk beyond that of the average mortal. Most will not ever undergo this process without some traumatic intervention. As a result, most Enkindled are the result of those whose minds have been shattered or somehow damaged. When this happens to them it binds their mind back together and draws essence from the Subtle Weave, empowering them and bridging the gap to regain some of what is lost--or at least endeavoring to replace it with something else. Unfortunately, the Enkindled are similarly disadvantaged as they are actually far more prone to mental maladies as various aspects of the Endless Dream can drift into their mind and make themselves quite at home.
A Small Thanks to @Tuujaimaa for a Minor Collaboration.
With effortless movement, a figure limned with writhing prismatic light walked across the ocean vast. It had been weeks since last he’d seen Khesyr, his birthplace, and years since he’d known his home. It merely tickled at the nostalgia in his reforged mind, bringing him little in the way of thoughts of comfort or belonging. That was not his place now. No, he was more than a small town hunter now, he was above petty gossip and mundane things--though they were not beyond him and each, indeed, held their own innate value.
Wondering at where precisely he might be upon the vast oceans of Galbar, Fein let his breathing shift, allowing him to fall into a light meditative trance. The shifting light around him expanded rapidly, encompassing several dozen feet in an orb of writhing essence. With each weaving dance the wind picked up, and as if blown through trees or reeds, they took on a subtle tune. A gentle windblown melody picked up, and he accompanied it with his own voice and intent.
Far beneath him, ocean creatures danced within the waves and currents of the sea, but none strayed too close to the figure who tread upon the water’s surface. Then, his meditation entered, his mind expanded and so opened before him were the boundless reaches of the Endless Dream.
Threads of chaos and pain remained throughout the Subtle Weave, likely caused by the resurgence of a vast mind.
’Aicheil. The Dreaming God,’ trailed off the thought before he turned his attention elsewhere. He focused on the many minds beneath and far afield of his location. With their dreams and memories, he crafted a map within his mind, weaving it into existence with illusions and dreaming song. This image he crystallized within the sixfold gaze of his mind before opening his eyes and letting the swaying dance of his Will abate. All that remained was the gentle hum of his intent that cast his Will upon the surface of the sea.
Eight Years Ago
He emerged from a deep slumber, his mind a haze of confusion and a fading sense of skull shattering pain. For a time he could not even remember his name, let alone understand where he was or recognize the many faces around him. “Agh,” he exclaimed with a pained groan as he opened his eyes and moved his head. There was blackness around him, broken only by the faint light of a nearby candle on what could only be described as a shrine. Frowning, the raven-haired man slowly turned his head but found he could not find any more meaning in his surroundings--dark as they were.
Head pounding--though the pain was fading swiftly--he pushed himself up on his elbows and sat up. “Hello?” There was no response, but his voice echoed through the space, revealing its size. Was it a barn, perhaps? How had he come to such a place…?
He could not have walked, not after...the thought trailed off, for he realized he could not quite remember what exactly had occurred. Had he not been upon the Great Glacier, beneath its sheets of ice? Fein screwed up his brow and rubbed his temples, trying to clear his mind and perhaps make some sense of what had happened. There might be answers there. Thinking back, he recalled a vast hall of unmelting ice, illuminated by many scattered shafts of light, diffusing through the space. It was a vivid recollection, but something about it was wrong as if some aspect of the place hid from his awareness. Frustrated, he pushed for the memory only for a flash of black-clawed agony to tear at his mind.
He called out in an aborted scream as his jaw tensed and he convulsed, curling in on himself. He felt sensations upon his flesh and a writhing burning essence in his mind, but the latter faded and the former resolved into the feeling of warm hands. Someone’s voice spoke to him, “Fein?”
He blinked clear his vision as he opened his eyes, the haze of crimson fading swiftly once more. A familiar face greeted him, a welcome one, his grandfather’s. Wincing, Fein turned away, but it was not the brighter light of the open barn door beyond his grandfather’s form that had caused it. Instead, it was the look on the man’s face. Worry, pity, and a brief flash of fear. Swallowing hard he gently pushed the hand away before forcing himself to speak, though his throat was dry and his voice hoarse.
“I’m alright, gramps. Could use some water.”
The man nodded and turned away, “A’right, Fein,” he said, exiting the barn. There was a barely veiled franticness about the man’s movements, as if he couldn’t quite wait to get out of his presence. Then again, maybe the man was just relieved to see him? It had been...months? Years? He couldn’t say for sure. It stood to reason that his grandfather would have worried after him, especially considering his destination.
Few made it back off the ice of the Great Glacier.
Rubbing his temples once more, his fingers digging roughly into the soft patches of skin, Fein wondered about the state of things. If even gramps was like this, how would the other villagers react? How had he even gotten here..? He’d have to ask, it was unlikely to be a pleasant conversation.
Three Years Ago
He’d come a long way to find the small abandoned temple. It was not a place the gods had blessed, he could tell--it didn’t feel the same as that far off Heart of Ice. Finding the temple had been difficult, even with his connection to the Two-as-One. Both seemed far off and beyond any proper communication or simple prayer. He wondered why, but he did not lose faith.
Kneeling now before a pristine mirror composed of silver crystal, Fein bent his head and took in several long deep breaths. Gently his mind sank into a stupor, then opened in three directions, forming an expanding refraction of the Endless Dream. A smile touched his lips, he spoke.
“God of Truths, I beseech thee,” he began, his tone even and calm. “May your chosen form upon this earth anoint my mortal mind so that I might seek this world’s Truth as you do.”
Then he raised his head, opened his eyes, and stared deep into the crystal mirror.
Within its reflection manifested the silhouette of a clawed, mirror-bright being whose silver seemed to have tarnished as if the passing of years had suddenly caught up with it all at once. As its clawed fingers gripped the very edges of Fein’s perception and it sidled into view, a feeling of exigent relief washed over him.
“The World’s Memory has withdrawn, Scáilgasúr. Its ministrations upon the Subtle Weave are required to keep the balance--and it cannot turn away. Only I am able to hear your prayers.”
The words flowed from the glass like ribbons of shredded crystal, softly humming at first and then shrieking within his skull, their sounds unfit for the uninitiated.
“But you came here to seek Truth, and seek it you shall. I may draw from the World’s Memory to anoint you with the grace of the Two-as-One. Rise, Naomh Dealrach.”
As Faileasiar spoke, the crystal-threads of its essence began to seep forth from the mirror like liquid crystal, creeping along the floor and into every pore of Fein’s skin. The resonance of the words within his thoughts began to swell, his skull began to vibrate, and very soon all perception of the world left him as he entered the manifold realities of the Dream.
Therein he would see a great triquetra, cleaving falsehood from its surroundings, and in the centre an eye--an eye that locked onto his own, and the knowledge of a hundred epochs trickled up his skin and into his ears and directly into his mind. In another instant he was in the temple again, but the blessing of the God of Truth had once again found its way into the hallowed place and a gentle sheen seemed to permeate the air. As he turned back to the mirror he found a silver triquetra upon his forehead, gently thrumming to the beat of his heart, and a mirror seemed to have laced itself beneath his sclera.
So inducted by the hand of Firinn’s own avatar, Fein felt his mind expand with the knowledge he had been given. It was overwhelming, and yet...he was not consumed by it. Immersed in that radiant moment, the World’s Memory stretching his mind far beyond what he’d once thought its limits
Then he felt it, a growing swell of endless emotion held barely at bay. Physically it was but a breath of mist and warmth upon his face, but as he opened his eyes he found before him quite a sight. Refracting light between numerous beads of prismatic moisture, a figure stood before him, its form composed entirely of luminescent droplets of unknown nature.
He knew this figure, unlike that of Faileasiar, who he’d only heard of through myths and tales. This one he had felt before--and in many visions seen.
Faireachan A-staigh. The Watcher Within. First Avatar of the Dreaming God.
It spoke into his mind and its words dripped with boundless meaning.
“Through the Mindshadow will you walk. Bound by the firmament of endless aspect you will be.”
A shock pressed itself through him and it was like taking a breath for the first time, like feeling true joy and rapture all at once. His mind unfiltered, his emotions raw, Fein felt tears track down his cheeks. Voice shaking, he replied as a mortal must.
“You honor me. Thank you.” He almost choked on the words as sobs leapt through his chest, the emotions too potent to hold. They writhed through his body, changing his very essence, touching his soul--elevating it. He felt his skin shift, its hue almost golden in its hue and his eyes followed suit until not just his sclera were touched by the influence of the Two-as-One, but the irises and pupils too. What were once merely black dots grew in depth, becoming pits of endless pitch, deeper than any Galbarian abyss. The colors of his irises, once a gentle brown, shifted then as well, growing flecks of silver, theur hue ever-changing from tint-to-tint.
Knowing that its work was done, the Watcher faded and with drew, its presence dwindling to naught but mist.
Fein was left with his feelings and his thoughts and he embraced them for a time. He remained, kneeling, head bowed as he wept into the ruined floor of that long forgotten temple. It took many minutes before his mind had adjusted to its altered state, but when it did he rose clear eyed and departed that solemn altar from which he’d been reborn.
It was then that he knew the world must change, though he could not yet know how.
Four Months Ago
A swell of oceanic power. An emanating song. Its cadence was slow, more a constant undulating rumble than a proper melody. The waters twisted and churned beneath him, as if a deific force pulled them ever deeper into the depths of that unknown blackness far below. Yet, there was not the faintest trace of darkness in that place--even in the night--for within the waves and currents there was a smattering of color. Like a painter’s palette writ-large and dumped into the waves the colors swirled and intertwined. As the currents wove and spun they created a vast and swaying tapestry of chaos and beauty both. Twas that whirling dervish of waves which held his six-fold gaze.
Yet the world would not stop for him, for far beneath him, he felt the presence of many mammoth entities, their minds manifold and vast. He watched them for a time before his attention earned him the dire curiosity of a certain Vroolish mortal. Up from the depths a ten-ton tendril reached, slapping at his form, but before it struck him he let out a single piercing tone.
It was a one-note song, wrought with a voice transcendent. It spoke unto the world and said ‘Protect me from any violence, rebuff and rebound.’ So the world did heed the call, heaving currents to-and-fro, making air writhe in deadly shearing blasts that swept away that unknown vrool’s once mighty limb. The winds calmed about him, returning to their ocean dance. Fein stood atop those rainbow swells and cast his gaze on the far-off form of the vrool who desired him as prey.
He smiled and into the depths did drop. So submerged, Fein’s eyes shut, suffocation held at bay by a gentle humming song of many twisting tunes. It spiralled out and touched the bell of the dazed and frustrated being, whose waters Fein was thought to have invaded.
“Tis not my place to invade these waters, oh conqueror of the deeps,” he sang into the waves, his mouth taking not a drop of water. The waves danced upon his words, holding him mere feet from the ocean’s surface, pressing him forth and closer still to the vroolish aggressor.
The leviathan curled in upon itself, coiling perhaps to strike, but Fein only smiled and slipped slightly to one side. Though little had seemed to change, the vrool missed his would-be lethal lunge. Twisting violently, the duodecapod struck out into the empty sea, whirling his many limbs intent, perhaps, to wound Fein mortally. To no avail he found, for where his limbs had struck there was nothing, no human to constrict or strike or pound. Instead, Fein had slipped between the strikes of that twelve-limbed cephalopodal foe, and had chosen above the surface to go.
There was no purpose in fighting here, he found, for any victory would only waste good minds. With that in mind, Fein crested past the waves and to his destination turned. For though he could thrive upon the abounding bounty of Galbar’s seas, his feet missed solid earth and the many voices of mortals simple and profound.
Soon there would be little need to yearn for such things, he knew. For the Subtle Weave, the Endless Dream, it had granted him this boon of knowledge. Like a far-off artifact which had began his journey, this wisdom from beyond pulled him ever forward. He wondered what precisely he would find at the end of this journey.
For it seemed that the Dream--though endlessly vast and filled beyond brimming with experience--could not inform him of such a thing.
So it was that he traveled, excited to discover that which the Dream could not on its own teach him.
In his way, he sought out Truth. For what else held value in the world?
The Present
Though displeased with the results of his stay in the realm of night, the Presence found itself amused at the proceedings with the God of Tragedy. A fortunate thing, if only for the others. Fog twisting about its blackened form, the Dreaming God entered its endless realm and pressed its mind down into Galbar. A brief flash of oceanic thoughts and swirling currents of emotion swept passed the Dreamer’s dark attention as he sifted through the weave. Finding what he sought, he plucked upon the cords of the world’s mind and emerged as an unbound mist.
Faireachan, his avatar, had responded to the call.
So it was that, with the tessellated power of his mind, the Dreaming God wove a subtle blessing into the world.
A shrine off a well-traveled path where many feet had touched--and would surely touch again--did form. It was like a gateway, but writ large and hidden by the mire of a light-refracting fog. It was formed from ideas of formlessness and mystery, illusion and solidity. Though it was real, it could not be touched, though it surely left its mark upon the world.
Satisfied...for now, the Dreamer then cast away and left behind lonely edifice, sure that it would serve its purpose. At least, in due time….
In which we glimpse both the present and past of Aicheil’s chosen mortal, Fein. In the present, he travels across the ocean’s surface on foot, heading for lands yet unknown to two of his sixfold eyes. We see him inducted into the Seekers of Truth and the Sleepless--becoming perhaps the only true Adherent to the Two-as-One. He is rewarded for his devotion to their cause, and so elevated further from the common man.
In the present, the Presence crafts a Sacred Edifice which to his plans will serve some unknown purpose.
Start: 5MP, 1DP.
-4MP -- Increase Title Weight by 4 (Fein) / Willcaster VI. -0MP (Discounted by Abstraction) -- Minor change to landscape (Toraan--Various) / Gather “Ingredients” for a Consecration. -1DP (Enhanced by Abstraction) -- Consecrate/Create a Holy Site (The Gate of Dìol) / Diffusion I | Sacred Earth II -1MP (Enhanced by Tessellation) -- Bestow a Title (The Gate of Dìol) / Integration I.
The Gate of Dìol: Composed entirely of unearthly immaterial substances, this holy place of power is impossible to detect with the mundane senses and is, in fact, only apparent to those who can either dreamwalk, or visualize mana. The latter however, will only reveal a faint shimmer in the air in the shape of a large gate, whereas the former will show the true majesty of the great archway. It is unknown what purpose this edifice is meant to serve, but surely it is a good one, for it does naught but imbue energy into the soil of Toraan.
Diffusion I -- Uses the power of Abstraction to briefly interrupt the barriers that hold mana in the bodies of living things that pass through the unseen Gate of Dìol, releasing it into the air without bringing harm to those affected. Only a small amount of mana is lost.
Integration I -- Takes ambient mana not bound strongly by an existing Mana Stream or Mortal Will and integrates it into the surroundings of the Gate and the Gate itself. It does this through the power of Tessellation, creating something new from two things once thought separate.
Sacred Earth II -- Takes integrated mana and uses a small portion of it to feed a continuous process. This blessing slowly dissolves the boundaries that hold the Gate of Dìol in such a small space. As a result, over time, more ground is affected by the unseen Gate and its many future blessings.
End: 0MP, 0DP.
The Sleepless: 2. The Seekers of Truth: 2. Fein: 2.
Slithering tendrils of subtle, dark-hued fog engulfed the dust and detritus of the dark moon’s pale inanimate facade. It pressed forth, obscuring the smooth surface for many miles, growing vast as the God of Dreams intruded upon Gibbou's chosen realm. The leavings of the Goddess lay strewn about in haphazard fashion, evidence of her weakness, and her folly. Uncaring and unrepentant, the Dreaming God grasped these and--with a flicker of emotion--reduced those mockeries to ash and then to nothing.
Treading forth, the Unnamed Presence cast its attention far afield, taking in the essence of the place and the recollections it invoked. An act of kindness, repaid by a gift of scant atonement for actions not yet made. A flash of sorrow and confusion-- The Presence cast away the thoughts with viciousness as it reached its destination. Before him was a vast glassine enclosure, black in the dark-clad locale of the moon-bound realm. Heedless, he raised a hand and pressed a fingertip against the pane of glass, and pushed. A distinctive sound rang out into the silence of Moon God's realm, echoing throughout. It was the sound of cracking glass. Without hesitation, the Dreaming God pressed forth, and before the tremendous might of his deific vessel did the glassine prison break.
Yet, the barrier remained, though it no longer impeded his progress deeper into her realm. In his wake, many things appeared to freeze or wither as if affected by the great chill beyond the dome. Through many halls, and past a great many rooms--some sealed, others yawning open--did the Dreamer walk. Each brought to him new information that he could not have otherwise possessed. Such was the cost of his absence and the separation of the gods from Galbar and the rest of their creations.
Eventually, led by the sounds of hopeless sobbing and the distinctness of a once-felt essence, the Thrice-Named God came upon the Goddess he had sought. She was a pitiful thing, really. Small and replete with the suffering of deluded self-loathing and long frustration. Even as she watched she raged against the world, shattering the glass of a bottle she had emptied.
Distasteful, thought the Presence and its displeasure was soon made known.
As with the lands outside the dome, a miasma did encroach upon her room, devouring the light, and burning at the edges of her vision--warping all it touched. The haze gathered about the Dreaming God and limned him like a second skin, his form bright against the essence despite its void-black hue.
Then, when all that seemed to remain were the Goddess and the Presence, the emptiness spoke.
"Why?" It asked, the sound a hollow earthquake 'gainst her ears. "Wisdom did we give to you, so many eons past," it said, and its voice was filled with sorrow, rage, and woe.
"Yet still you cannot see, though eyes you surely possess."
"Why?!" the Presence rumbled. The glass of that vast Sanctuary clattered at the fury in its voice.
"Is it fear?" He asked. "Insecurity," it wondered, knowing well the answer.
"Indeed," it mused, the Presence stepping towards its sibling, "...perhaps you are frightened of the light that dwells within, waiting to be harnessed."
Crossing the distance laid between them, the Dreamer left scant feet to separate their forms. There he loomed, too large even for the great hall in which they'd reunited, though his form touched not the arching ceiling of the dome. There he did remain, awaiting her reply, perhaps hoping that she might betray his expectation, though doubting that she would.
In the corner of the dome, lying on a frozen-over blanket surrounded by empty bottles, glasses, pots, and drinking horns, a small, humanoid figure stirred to life. It did not face the Dreamer, but the raging heat bubbling atop her skin revealed just what sort of expression she could be wearing. ”... Listen, you fuck… I’ve had a really, really, really bad day. You comin’ in here, cracking open my house and killing all my plants and pets when there is a perfectly good door -right- over there…” She thumbed over her shoulder with murderous intention. “... That was the last straw.”
With that, she disappeared, the last flickers of light in the realm disappearing into an all-encompassing void so dark and silent that the Dreamer could not even hear himself think. The shadows of the black moon gripped his incorporeal form as though it was as tangible as skin and bone, and two bloodshot eyes with pupils like the blood moon provided the only light in the darkness, meeting the Three-Named god’s open hood with a wicked quiver to them. The portal out wasn’t behind him anymore - it had seemingly disappeared. The eyes glanced over him with disgust. ”What sort of sick bastard does that, hmm? Waltzes into someone’s home, breaks all their stuff, and starts moralizing the owner? Who does that kind of shit? Are you that kind of person, Aich? Are you?” The darkness tightened like the gravity of a black home. Gibbou scoffed. ”I haven’t seen you for two thousand years and when you finally come to say hi, maybe hang out, you do this… How about I just return you to the Lifeblood right now and you won’t have to come back.” There came a single giggle. ”I’d be lying if I said that wringing some rude cunt’s neck wouldn’t sound just perfect right now…” There was a pause. ”Well, speak up, bitch! WHAT HAVE YOU GOT TO SAY FOR YOURSELF?!” The darkness on his mind and voice lifted.
Suspended in the black-clad fury of the Goddess, the Dreaming God remained placid as if within the eye of a great storm--untouched. The sensation of a smile pressed its way out into the black, followed swiftly by the miasma of his essence, spreading 'cross the surface of the Moon. Gone was the sorrow from the waters of her mind.
Deep beneath the rage, there was the agony of loss and the sorrow of her plight. "Lost in the dregs of your emotions, you fail to see," replied the Unnamed Presence, his voice bereft of fear or feeling.
"Drowned by sorrow, the imaginings of madness are writ upon your world."
With a gentle sternness, the Dreamer cast away the black curtain to reveal the truth of things.
The ice had fled, its chilling embrace gone, and with its absence life remained--singing with stasis song. Pausing, the Eldritch God pondered her many queries, considering its reply. For mere moments did the silence last, before the Thrice-Named God--the Unnamed Presence--deigned give the Goddess a singular response.
"Aicheil is gone," the Presence said, its utterance a curse.
"I am Mhaireann," the Presence said, its words a twisted blessing.
”Shitty last words,” spat the eyes. ”You even manage to make killing you seem like a chore.” Within seconds, the darkness dissipated. The grip on the Dreaming God disappeared, and as what little light there was on the Dark Side of the Moon returned, it revealed the small, plum-skinned woman with chalk-white eyes, sitting cross-legged on the floor in a corner of her home, one hand propping up her head and the other holding a bottle. ”Tell me what you want so you’ll leave.”
"Yet I remain," Mhaireann replied, dry amusement in its tone. Drifting lightly to the ground, the Dreaming God folded its legs and sat across from the blue-skinned goddess. With deliberate slowness its eyes opened to meet her pallid gaze. Where before his eyes had been golden-hued and filled to brimming a deluge of spiralling color, now they seemed drained of life. To meet his stare one was forced to stare into the empty pits where once his eyes had been. Within the darkness of his eyeless gaze something stirred, but the movement was filled with wrongness. It moved at impossible angles, defying all reason or common sense.
"I express to you the sentiment of the fragments whose souls I have replaced." The miasma frothed about him, writhing upwards like tendrils of sickly smoke. "In the age of our first meeting a gift was given unto your Firstborn child. In exchange was asked only that you forgive transgressions yet to pass."
He let the statement sit in silence between them. The silence said, Remember you, this thing?
”What, you’re checkin’ in that voucher now? For coming in here and making it look like you blew up my house just to get my attention? Alright, fine - I’m not mad anymore. In fact, I was never mad. Killing you and grinding you into itty-bitty pieces of ghostly cape or whatever you wear, did not cross my mind in the slightest. I forgive this stupid, heartless and outright unnecessary attack on my personal privacy, as a thanks for the lightshow and all that.” She had a swig of the bottle, its nut-brown content bubbling with every gulp. She dragged her fist across her jaw and stifled a hiccup. ”And now you -better- hurry up and say what you want, ‘cuz now your good boy-card is spent, ghost man.”
Though perhaps a solemn fragment of the Dreamer might have once felt amusement at the display of his sibling-god, Mhaireann seemed to grow cold instead, the air about them becoming utterly still. As its gaze lay then upon her, its emptiness seemed a deeper, darker, thing. Malicious, hungry and filled with unsung wrath.
In the still air, the sickly fog began to dance and weave. At first it was formless and indistinct, but as the seconds passed two figures resolved themselves within the curling eddies of the essence. They were each distinct in shape, one the shape of Love and War and Sin, the other of Night and Protection. The figures, though small and writ of sickly fog, swiftly recreated the scenes of conflict that had occurred not so long ago.
Mhaireann raised its empty eyes from the display and met Gibbou's baleful glare.
"Am I to fear your wrath, sister, when this is all it can dole out?"
Mhaireann lashed out then, its fingers like talons, cutting through the image of the fight. All at once he was standing, mere inches from her face, empty orbs piercing past her fury, a wreath of miasma splayed out behind his form.
"No," he whispered, but the essence of her realm it shuddered with the vibration of his voice. He drew back from her, looming as he stared out of the glassy dome. "I came, knowing of this failing, seeking to right this wrong."
His gaze drifted down and met hers once more. "Unless you would remain as you are. Pitiful and weak. Crushed by the weight upon your shoulders, would you deny my assistance?"
Though harsh, there was something to his words, his actions. As if he were chiding her, not because she was pathetic, but rather out of love though perhaps twisted was its shape. Nonetheless, the feeling in the air, it spoke of such a thing.
Gibbou’s eyes lost no animosity; in fact, they only seemed to redden with fury and blue with sorrow. ”Wow. You come into my home - the only place I feel truly safe and at peace - and you wake me up in the rudest possible manner and call me mean shit. And then you go out on a whim and say -I- need help.” Her head shook slowly from side to side. ”I don’t even know what to say to that. We don’t talk for two thousand years and then you show up here with that attitude. Not even Thaa was this mean - at least he didn’t attack me as a person (much). You’re closer to Neiya, really, you fucking asshole. No, you know what? I’m not going to take this.” She turned to face the wall and thumbed over her shoulder. ”The door’s that way. Do me a favour and slam your face against the portal frame when you leave so I know you’re gone - if your corporeal ass even works like that.” She then gave her bottle a sip and sighed deeply.
His response was a strange, deep, reverberating chuckle and a dancing haze of fog. It swayed and flowed in motion with the laugh, then slowly grew still and cold. There was silence for a time. It was long and without mercy or any sign of an emotion.
Yet, it was not the quiet of departure. It was not a sound of loneliness or loss. It was the stretched patience of an elder wishing only to impart an important lesson. In the miasma was writ his great disappointment, as it became as black as oil, or pitch, or a starless, moonless night that fire nor lightning dared to touch. Yet somehow it grew darker still, its haze seething gently where it had settled upon the surface of the floor.
Within the endless depths of emptiness of the Dreamer’s visage, which had once been made of starlight, angry crimson fractures formed. He took a step towards the goddess, but as his foot came down he went utterly and truly still.
White and blue cracks slowly formed over the surface of his cosmic flesh and they warred with the red clashing. The tension in the air grew about his form and it would feel almost as if a storm was threatening to break. However, with time the many fractures in his facade diminished until there was a flash of not-light. A psychic impression of sorts. The ground beneath him cracked with a sickening sound and the tension was released all at once.
“Very well,” the Unnamed Presence said, its voice devoid of all emotion. It turned from the Goddess of the Night and made its way out the door. However, upon the ground on which he’d stood was left behind a message.
From the cracks, written in desperation by the cracks, were these words.
“Hateful Malevolence.”
“Pain.”
“Help.”
The jet-black fog shied away from those words, replaced instead by the sensation of the Dreaming God’s essence. Perhaps if she paid attention, she might notice the difference between the Unnamed One and this familiar emanation.
But she didn’t - at least, not for the time it took Aicheil to leave. The moon goddess simply sat facing the corner like before, tapping her knee with an increasingly impatient finger as she waited for the presence to leave. Her blueberry hair, black as could ever be in the shadow of her moon, started to curl ever so slightly with stress for every second the Dreaming God took to exit. Eventually, there came an angry growl, followed by a sentence like a ball of nasty spit: “Are you gone yet?”
There was no reply except for the empty silence of her realm. The maddened essence of that Unnamed Presence had departed leaving behind only the message and the faint traces of Aicheil's more familiar aspects. Gibbou gave her bottle another slurp and noticed the letters on the floor. ”Pfft… If you wanted help, you should’ve opened with that… Dumbass…” With that, she continued what she had been doing before: sobbing into her bottle and making sloppy moon-clay models of stuff on Galbar. She had gotten quite good at it, all things considered, shaping walls to be quite nice - perhaps even nicer than they were in reality. She gave her bottle yet another sip, but found that it was empty. She sniffed and smacked her lips in disappointment.
At least she was good at building walls - just as good physically as… Interpersonally…
She had to chase away those thoughts somehow. Quickly, she took a handful of mud and shaped it into a tower in her hands, placing it down on the ground. Then, on its own, it suddenly started levitating, hovering over to a nearby rock and suddenly starting to patrol around it. Gibbou watched curiously as the clay tower then started chasing away curious moon bugs that came over to inspect the stone, as though the tower had declared the stone to be its treasure.
”Cool,” mumbled Gibbou.
Meanwhile, down in the Prairie...
“OH GODS, WHAT IS THAT?!” screamed Manjahi as a number of colossal, white towers came floating across the prairie, furiously blasting his community with beams of fire. Since forever had their people lived at the food of the Umbasi, the Great Red Rock of the Yellow Sea; now, out of nowhere, a pack of what appeared to be tall marble pillars topped with a singular, many-pupilled, golden eye were chasing them off with brutal magics. Terror swept the village as the floating towers leveled everything and burned anything they could see, turning the plains on which Manjahi’s family had lived for centuries, into a smoking wasteland. Manjahi himself had barely managed to evacuate his family and some more, and they watched with stinging eyes as the towers approached the Great Red Rock slowly and, as though protecting an enormous egg, began nuzzling and caring for it while others in their, for the lack of a better word, pack patrolled around the vicinity.
Manjahi swallowed. “Gods help us…” Gibbou, of course, didn’t notice any of this. She gave the tower a wet poke and recoiled as it zapped her hand with a small beam of light - or rather, the pain came more from the sudden flash than from the beam itself. The protective behaviour of the tower gave her an idea, however: She would create the perfect guardians - this time, it’d be someone who’d do guardian work as part of a contract! It’d be perfect!
The ultimate sentinel!
She got to work rolling up a ball of clay, then attaching limbs and eyes - a lot of limbs and a lot of eyes. The darkness around her intensified further as day turned to night (though it was always dark in her realm). Her creation would be amazing! She’d show them all. She put some eyes at the ends of the limbs, too - why not - a few extra mouths, too, to scare off any bad guys.
Boy, this was turning into quite a project! Meanwhile, down in the forests east of Solkra...
“Fuck, Amestrius… I’m actually getting scared now. Are we lost or not?”
“I’m telling you, Gaius! I have control! The checkpoint shouldn’t be too far up.” The two hunters were, in truth, utterly lost in the woods. Neither of them had ever been this far away from their village, and both were scared of the same thing: that they had entered Iskrill territory. They were running low on food, for the game they had been hunting had long since run off, and night had fallen for real, darkness swallowing up even the brightest shades of moonlight.
There came a snap of a twig. Gaius jumped. “Did you hear that?!”
“By Cadien, relax, Gaius,” Amestrius soothed. “It was probably just… Just something.”
“What something?” came a sharp retort.
“Not Iskrill nor wolves, at least… Probably. Now hurry up, or we might actually -get- some of those on our tail!” The two quickened their pace. There came another snap of twigs and they stopped, now both equally sweaty with fear.
“W-was that a wolf, you think?”
Amestrius gulped. “... A whole pack in that case.”
“... I… I think I just pissed myself.”
The snapping twigs grew louder… Then branches began to snap.
“Oh fuck… Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!”
Trees were run down like grasses of straw.
“RUN!” The two set off into a sprint. Behind them, the thunder of ravaging forest intensified, sending thousands of birds flying and hordes of forest critters fleeing alongside them.
“I-- I cah--!” panted Gaius and Amestrius stopped to help his brother. It was too late, however - the approaching shadow was right behind him.
“NO! GAIUS!”
The next few moments happened in a daze. Both Gaius and Amestrius could barely move as they witnessed the creature before them: It was enormous - larger than a building. It had eyes… Just… Eyes… Too many to count - half were of a blind, milky white, and it was hard to decide whether those were creepier than the other hundred or so with pupils of every colour, staring curiously down at the two brothers. Its three-four-five mouths opened and closed at different intervals, and its tens of limbs all did half-friendly attempts to wave, which through some eldritch power seemed possible even in the complete darkness.
“Heeeeeeeeeeey…” wheezed the the Beholder, and three of its mouths formed grins of varying creepiness. Amestrius took this chance to also piss himself. The creature paid it no mind and rubbed together two pairs of palms. “Saaaay… Are you two in the market for a bodyguard, by chance?”
The Dreaming God pays Gibbou a visit after over 2000 years, thinking to perhaps teach her a better way to confront Neiya, but alas there is something deeply wrong with his approach...and him as well. Things swiftly devolve into insulting one another back and forth--though perhaps one more dignified than the other, as is understandable given Gibbou’s current emotional condition.
The two do not part on good terms, but a mysterious message remains, with a more familiar essence attached to it. Unfortunately, in her anger and sorrow, Gibbou largely dismisses it and returns to her work. In the process of processing her own sadness and failure--as she sees it--she gains a new understanding and at once creates two new species upon Galbar: Beholders and Watchtowers. Two mortals far beyond any settlement and thoroughly lost in the darkness of the woods are accosted by a Beholder, who promptly propositions them to become a bodyguard. Who knows how that will turn out.
Start: 5MP, 2DP.
No Might Expended.
End: 5MP, 2DP.
Start: 5MP, 5DP.
-3MP: Claim portfolio - Walls: Walls are a settlement’s defense against danger, and a key structure in most larger towns and cities. Whether they be made of wood, stone or something harder, all serve the same purpose - to protect that which lies within. Gibbou is here given the power to more easily construct and maintain walls, as well as the deeper knowledge to teach mortals to do the same.
-2DP: Create extraordinary species - Watchtowers: Watchtowers are towers of living marble topped with a single, multi-pupilled golden eye that can blast beams of fire upon those the towers deem to intrude upon their communal territory or precious ward. They live off of protecting whatever they fancy, from fancy stones to small critters, and can, potentially, be conditioned to guard people, as well. They are incredibly hard to kill, their metallic eye being their only weak point that mortals have any hope of harming. They reproduce when they have protected their target until its death, at which point, the energy of that life will transfer into the eye and make the tower ”cough up” another tower. The smaller the soul, however, the less it contributes to a new tower, so towers guarding an anthill might see thousands of generations pass without being able to reproduce, while one guarding a dragon will be able to reproduce on the first death. 2 oudda 5 for Sentinel Port.
-3DP: Create extraordinary species: The Beholders: Class A bodyguards and protectors, there are truly no better species to hire whether that is to protect your loot, your castle, yourself - whatever. The Beholders neither eat nor sleep, subsisting entirely on the gratitude and appreciation of their contractors to do what they’ve been told, which usually is to protect. All they live for is to make sure you and your family are safe and sound. They murder everything that threatens you and your way of life with extreme brutality, positioning their corpses on the location of your choosing so you can watch them rot in the sun from the comfort of your own home. The Beholder is yours for hire - all you need to offer in exchange is your gratitude and appreciation, and keep in mind that to ignore your Beholder’s needs may result in a termination of your contract through termination of you. {5 oudda 5 for Sentinel port.}
-2MP: Confer special ability on species: Allow the Beholders to manipulate darkness and shadows to use as shields, weapons and projectiles.
Yamat knew not how to identify the sudden intrusion, that strange almost maddening fog and that summons by a long-forgotten voice and form. They did not know truly what had occurred, but several ideas had sprung up into their mind, it was most certainly not one of their other allies and no other god had such an impact that made even the Great Director intrigued. That's when it hit them, it had been so long since they had heard anything of the God of Dreams, now it looked like they had awoken and decided to stop by, perfect timing. The Director rose from their seat and with a flourishing bow spoke.
”A pleasure to meet you, it's been a while since I’ve had a visitor to my lovely domain, so tell me, God of Dreams, what brings you out of your silence? It's been long since I’ve heard from you, or your twin.” Their head turned in a curious manner as they rose from their bow, the one eye eagerly awaiting the response.
With lidded eyes the Dreamer regarded the bowed form of that Tragic Chaos God, finding its words each as empty as the last. Imperious and foreboding, the Thrice-Named God--the Unnamed Presence--gave not the slightest in obeisance, forgoing the illusion of politeness. Yet in the raucous cacophony of wind was revealed the intensity of his attention, for the words--as if solid things--were caught in their embrace and dashed across the endless wastes. Discarded.
"Your highest muse I summoned. Yet these are naught but empty platitudes and needless queries," replied the unnamed presence, its voice a thunder bereft of lightning's spark. The miasma of his essence whirled about them then, spreading far and wide, eclipsing the sky and stone and sand of Yamat's wasteland of a home. Remaining in the silence was a constant droning tune, the dread-wind's terror moan.
With an unseen tell, a gesture implying psychic might, the nameless presence let loose a flash of rage. In an instant the coiling streams of wind and dread took on a crimson tint, lashing upwards at the sky. Gashes of painful essence rent across the heavens of the realm of Tragedy, giving rise to a quiet knowledge. Beneath the placid mask of the Dreaming God's facade, there dwelled a sleeping beast whose wrath was barely kept at bay.
With his intent laid bare to see, the presence gestured idly with a hand and with swiftness the sky's blood drained away. What remained was naught but many rifts upon the torn flesh of that solemn empty sky. Withdrawing from his sibling-god the dread-wind cast itself outwards and away, banishing the miasma within which the Dreaming God had stayed.
With deliberate slowness, the lidded gaze of the Dreamer turned down and met Yamat's single glowing orb.
"Upon dream's tapestries I've seen the many threads of tragedy you've sown," he said as if no insult or barb had been prior laid. The presence gestured with a hand and the dread-wind obeyed, carrying in its embrace the miasmic currents of the Dreamer's might. That power it spiraled out and deepened, depicting swiftly a breed of mortal to which Yamat alone could lay claim.
"The Iskrill," he began, the words of that unknown presence entrapped by the dis-ease and fear of many mortal minds. "Unto them, I will bestow a boon."
Though he did not ask, there remained a question beneath those simple words. Still, the Dreamer spoke instead as if it was meant as a command.
The director nodded, the display shown by the dream god was interesting, to say the least, and not at all what they had expected. But, they could work with this. “A boon you say? Well, I’m sure they would appreciate the aid, especially with that whelp Cadien mucking about.” With a flourish they spun around, and with a wave of their hand brought the mighty canopy where they would spend their days closer. They came upon the great map that sat upon their table and spoke once more to their guest, though admittedly while still staring upon the board. “What is it you’re thinking of bestowing?”
The dread-wind calmed at the response of the Chaos God as if to imply a faint shift in the nameless one's demeanor. Approaching, the figure loomed high beside Yamat as it cast its attention upon the map. He laid a long-fingered hand across the surface of the board and the dread-wind's currents coiled about its shape, before writhing across the surface of the substance. Though filled to brimming with pigmentation, the churning wind did little to obscure the great map's surface, seeming only to add to the detail of its construction. "Know you of my creations?"
As if to clarify, the churning winds took form, depicting briefly a myriad of swiftly shifting shapes. Ever-growing, their formless eyes held within them a hunger unending in its bounds, each ruled by a singular emotion upon which they'd often sup.
A god, regarding them for any length of time, might come to know their dreaded name.
Chomhlíonadh. The Unfulfilled.
The director nodded, wiping some stray black sludge from their eye. “I know bits of your creations, I have heard of their, capabilities, though never truly seen them in action myself.” They slowly sat into their chair, with a wave of a hand creating a cup of tea and saucer, which they drank ever strangely, never taking off their mask. They looked up towards the god of dreams, silently encouraging them to explain further.
Attention shifting, the hidden gaze of that Dreaming God turned to meet Yamat's. His hand raised from the board and swept across its surface, splitting the miasma of his essence. Then, slowly the essence gathered into colored mounds, revealing Perfection's human brood. As seconds passed the colors changed, shifting to crimson hue.
"My creations, they feast upon the minds of mortals without direction or restraint," explained the Unnamed Presence as it gazed eyeless 'pon the map. "With this boon, your children, they may summon such a thing to aid their growing horde." Though expressionless, the presence seemed to smile, the air about them changing as if joyful at the thought.
Yamat too seemed to smile, though their mask hid any true emotion. “Now that, would be a beautiful boon.” They took another sip of their tea before continuing. “Oh to see the look on those Acadians...now, of course, I must ask, how safe would my children be? I understand your creations can rarely be controlled, but I’m sure you understand the need for safety, not that much of a boon if it could wipe out your own forces.”
Chuckling, a dark cast to the essence of his form, the Presence gathered the miasma 'bout his visage. That dark fog pushed out before him and writhed into the Dreamer's desired shape, forming a detailed depiction of an Iskrill horde, the Chomhlionachd looming large above them. "This gift, it will protect their essence from the intrusion of my creations."
"In exchange," the Nameless Presence said, its voice a soothing thrum, "...the Iskrill will not devour all the humans that they kill."
The director nodded ”I see,” They looked upon their own board, picking a specific piece, that of an iskrill, one hand aloft holding an axe, another holding a shield, emblazoned upon it a golden sun. ”And what would you have them do with those they do not devour?”
With a gesture, a diagram was drawn upon the map, showing Yamat the place to which the bodies must be moved. “Buried in the earth,” intoned the Dreaming God.
“They will guard an edifice of my making.”
”I see, a simple enough task, is this all you desire as compensation for this boon?” They took another sip of tea, placing the Iskrill piece back on its spot in the highlands of Toraan.
Thoughts turning inward, the Dreaming God pondered his Chaos-brother's query. The dread wind about his form spread out as he lost focus on its movements and it carried far the miasma that wreathed his form. Seconds passed, then minutes, before finally the Dreamer roused, his presence touching something far off in the realm of Yamat's making.
"Within the Wastelands of your realm there dwells a roiling sea. Of its parasitic waters I would take a brood to call my own." Faintly, a sense of content amusement washed over the God of Tragedy, the dread-wind stirring faintly as it gathered once more around the pair.
”Ah yes, the demon pit, feel free to take as many as you desire, there is an unlimited supply of them within that pit, they will fill the hole within seconds.” They gestured off into the distance of their realm, towards a great valley in between two mountains ”I believe it is over there.”
Turning to Yamat, the Dreamer laid a hand upon the shoulder of the smaller god. Opening its eyes, he revealed empty pits like pure emptiness staring back at the Divine Director. The moment did not last and the Unnamed Presence turned away, shutting fast its eyes against the world, its touch departing just as swiftly. In a flurry of sickly color, the Dreaming God then cast itself across that Wasteland-realm, the dread-wind swiftly scooping up the brood that to the Presence had been gifted.
Then, in a single blurring motion, the God of Dreams rose high into the sky, its form growing far vaster than the blackened sun. Essence shifting through the veil, the Dreamer delivered unto the Iskrill a most frightening boon.
Corruscating hues and vibrant emotions pressed themselves to-and-fro like many waves in an endless ocean of minds. Disorganized, but content, they were not prepared for the tremendous malevolence of their creator’s passing. So it was that the gentle swirling of that Endless Dream was churned into a maelstrom of terror and emotion.
A slipstream current carried the Presence through the mire that was created by its presence, carrying him to the many minds of Yamat’s chosen mortals.
Like a horrid pallid smile made with twisting lips, the eldritch god was pleased by how events had transpired with the God of Tragedy. So with this dark-borne pleasure, the Dreaming God lashed out and struck the countless minds of the Iskrill Horde. With a terrible confounding twisting motion of his will, the Presence gathered many ideas, forms, and things. These he bound unto their minds and wrought from them a power.
It was built from that which had been for some time prior. From the abstracted bond that made demons heed a conjurer’s callous call and from those infinite connections that within the Subtle Weave exist. With these parts drawn together into, the Nameless Presence crafted the Iskrill’s boon.
Satisfied, he pulled back--observing--leaving many of their ilk dazed, terrified, and confused. Scores fell in battle that day, but it was a pittance before the terror that they wrought to repay their enemy’s evil acts. With a frightening swiftness, the Presence noted, the Iskrill drew upon their gift and called forth what had once been Aicheil’s get. With a ferver, the Chomhlíonadh tore through the ranks of a menagerie of mortals, stripping them of their will. For without a mind, they could not act, survive, or kill.
Buoyed by their success, the Dread God, Mhaireann withdrew.
Then, with a flash of black and red and sickly green he vanished, departing the Black-sun Wastes.
The Dreaming God calls upon Yamat in his realm, the two converse briefly and form a pact of sorts. The Dreamer promises to bestow a boon unto the Iskrill, that they might summon and guide the Unfulfilled. In exchange, he requests that the Iskrill not devour all those they kill, instead burying some amount in a place of his choosing, their bodies meant to surround the holy ground of a monument yet to be made. Additionally, he asks to receive a brood of demons from the Pit of Yamashin.
Yamat, graciously, accepts the deal. Satisfied, the Dreamer bestows his gift, takes what he came for, and departs.
Yet...he does not seem as he was before and his actions reveal--in part--why.
Start: 5MP, 2DP.
-1DP (Discounted by Tessellation) -- Confer an Extraordinary Ability (The Iskrill) / Summon/Guide the Chomhlíonadh.
It all began with an aborted action. Twas evidence of turmoil within, a storm of heedless emotion within a being wrought of such, framed by little more than the remembered fragments of those it had come to know.
Time swept past, the door to a realm barred even to the allies of the Dreaming God, even to his twin. A silent, unseen struggle consumed him, devouring his attention and requiring the entirety of his intent. So turned inwards was the god, its very being inverted by the tumultuous force of its own endlessly vast emotions.
Crashing waves against a stone shore, the rocks of its face jagged and torn--ever-growing moreso over time. Glassine shards of prismatic power contained within a storm of pigment, writhing like angry stigmata upon the inverted skein of the Watcher Within.
Neo-Aicheil. Os-fhireach. Aicheil.
Beyond the shores of Galbar's material world, there was a calamity, a great conflagration of the immaterial. Many dreams, thoughts, and minds thrown into a terrible conflict with themselves, plagued by the unleashed agony and wrath of the Dreaming God. Like shattered glass, like twisting fatal currents, like lightning in its suddenness and lethality, the unhinged consciousness wrought eons of suffering and ecstasy in equal measure upon any foolish enough to walk within the Great Weave for too long.
Slowly, with the boundless patience of time, the currents and shifting fractals of the Endless Dream began to calm. However, left behind by the calamity was an indelible mark, a change in the Subtle Web of Galbar's Collective Unconscious. It would go mostly unnoticed, but in the Dreaming God, this change was reflected with great potency.
Reforged once again, the shroud of the Dreaming God had been tainted by the nightmare. It was a flowing cascade of billowing pearlescent black, a sheen of red and green upon its form. Like veins, those bloody, sickly colors, they cut jagged patterns into his cloak. They were as shattered glass or fractured stone, and as the Worldweave shifted, so too did the colors, writhing and churning with dis-ease and discontent. The eyes of that most eldritch twin remained shut and tightly lidded against the world.
A low hum emanated outwards then, suffusing the Roineagan with a trembling terror. It rattled free all thoughts of peace and set alight a frightful fervor. It spread unending through his realm and past it to Galbar, and then with ease, it teased at eaves and cleaved open the threshold of his realm. Unto Antiquity, it spilled, a churning miasma of frothing sickly power. All it touched warped and curled away as if trying to escape. A mere glance could tell that the essence was a dangerous horrid thing, filled to brimming with malice and endless savage mirth.
Wrath. Revulsion. Fury. Discontent.
In the mire tread a figure, his silhouette a rift in the world, as if emptiness could somehow be given form. He pressed forth until he reached the center of that stonework domain wherein deities did dance and dally.
Upon the confluence stood the figure, his eyeless gaze turning then to roving. His attention pushed the miasma further out to encompass more of the vast colosseum where it roiled, casting its sickly sensation upon everything it touched. A subsonic vibration passed from the not-throat of that Dreaming God and pressed through the stone of the enclosure unified intent had conjured into being. It cast out, and it touched the thresholds of several realms.
Yamat’s Endless Wastes, perhaps for the first time, came to know a devouring fog. Its drifting black soot and Umbral Star burned down upon that desolate place, yet they could not entirely banish that insidious incursion. Within the roiling fog, eddies of tumorous essence grew, then coalesced into a vast figure, its eyes closed, its cloak marred, its visage once a sea of stars. Now to look upon him would invoke only a sense of emptiness or warped vision, as if a vast lightless void had devoured the nebulae of his deific form.
“Deity of Tragedy I call upon your muse,” intoned the Eldritch Twin, his voice stirring the dead air of the place into frenetic motion. Winds swept out, carrying the murky mist that was his essence. The sudden storm invoked by his trespass at first seemed aimless in its vast and trackless dance, meaningless and empty, but as the seconds ticked, something began to resolve itself in that dead-wind movement. Where before there had merely been the absence of things, devoid of life or soul, there existed now a droning noise, a deep-wind rushing sound, which was most unnatural.
As if to punctuate the presence of the dread wind, he spoke.
“Pact.”
It said alliance.
Into the Realm of Truth, a divine essence pressed, its nature most familiar. It passed through many mirrors and split a thousand-thousand times, slithering through the empty air as it multiplied. With each reflection, it grew until finally, each thread drew inwards and formed the Dreamer's form anew.
“Twin.” The presence said.
Yet the word was empty.
In its search, the vast intractable intent of the Dreaming God fell upon the Realm Between and saw in it the remnants of a struggle. The marks of claws, flashes of heat, hatred, and sorrow. Rage and jealousy.
Deep within the mire, Aicheil shed tears.
Hidden inside, Os-fhireach clawed at his cage.
Just beneath the surface, Neo-Aicheil raved and raged.
Yet, within the mist, eyes closed shut, visage starless and black, a nameless presence ruled.
“Petty,” the presence said and its words cut swaths of hateful symbols in the stone. The air screamed and fled, slamming outwards, cracking pillars, and buffeting the walls with tremendous force. Any caught between the center where the presence stood, and the walls would be beset by a terrible pressure, though no violence would befall them.
The figure turned and strode forth, the realm of Moonlight his destination.
The Dreaming God moves to leave his realm, but the action is aborted by the inner turmoil of his warring emotions as he espouses a new power--though it is yet unknown to him. The storm of his emotions infect the Roineagan and spread beyond, riling up a storm within the Endless Dream, proliferating a maddening stream of nightmares. Eventually, the Dreamer emerges from his stupor, apparently stabilized, yet something has changed. Not all is well.
Departing his realm, his form changed and his visage surrounded by a swiftly spreading mire of miasmic essence, the Eldritch Twin enters Antiquity, searches, and locates those of his siblings which he desires to entreat--in one fashion or another. He leaves behind him only a deep sense of unease as he seeks out his twin, calls upon Yamat and heads into the realm of the Moonlit Goddess, his intentions unknown.
--】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【~ Life ~】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【--
To tell the story of Myrda is to speak of three tales entwined. The sense and culture of a people--the Taryne; to speak of the mortal--Myr; and to speak of the Sorcerer himself--Myrda Sciorene. So it is that you must know of the Taryne, a people whose only place in the world could be described as desolate. Vast ravines amid a stony wasteland of brittle flora and sparse, hidden fauna. It is in these lands which no other desired that the Taryne made their home, living in deep caves to escape the harsh winds and harsher shifts in temperature. Among these far-flung people carving a niche in the wastelands of Taryn, Myr was born to a pair whose names have long since been forgotten.
The boy who would become Myrda is said to have been born touched by the spirits and so--soon after he could fend for himself--he was released into the world. It is said that he wandered for eight days eight times over, barely subsisting on the little he could forage or trap. Like many of his people, death was a friend, always walking several steps behind, waiting to catch you when you fell.
Yet, though his prospects were bleak, he never failed to catch himself and carry on. Many times was he run out of settlements, for the sight of his spirit touched eyes--like glowing amber limned with silver--told his people more than he could ever explain away. Still, a fire was in those alien eyes, and a strange droning hum had entered him, pulling him like metal to a lodestone. With time he found a place somewhere near the center of those lands.
Through near-starvation and terrible thirst over craggy hills and deep within ravines, he trudged. Eventually, he became aware again. He knew not how long he had wandered, only that he could go no further than the deep chasm before him. With the last of his flagging strength, he descended.
No one knows how far he went, nor how long he remained in that abandoned place. As no one saw him emerge, it is a mystery whether it truly was the same lad who eventually clawed his way back up from those depths.
All that is known is that someone did emerge. Someone who resembled the young man who'd once begged at the mouths of many caves, asking only for what he needed for survival.
Yet it was no starving adolescent who passed the threshold of that first cave-home. It was someone else entirely. He was a man with quiet, piercing, haunted eyes, full with a deep knowing unheard of in those lands and a strength of presence utterly unknown to the Tarynean people.
He called himself Myrda Sciorene.
In those days, he was simply a man of great presence and wisdom. He taught. He worked, and he directed. With time he came to know each of the many tribes, and with each his rapport was unmatched. Slowly over a matter of many years, he drew their leaders closer to him, and the youth of those places closer still.
With these would-be outcast children, he built his own place, and therein life grew more abundantly than anywhere else. Yet the earth remained as desolate and unforgiving as before. Nonetheless, many plants came to grow upon his land, spreading slowly. Water too seemed to spill from that place, purer than anywhere else. Its life-nourishing essence pressed out from the city. Wherever the water touched in that desolate land, it brought--with the slow patience of time--new life.
So it was that the Taryne expanded from their former homes, their small hidden settlements becoming towns, and then--in lesser number--cities as trade was established between clans. All the while, Myrda’s power, and renown grew for the people who had been his knew from where the bounty had come, even if they could not understand its nature...or its price. So, as the Taryne grow and expand, remembering age-old grudges of those who had driven them from their ancestral lands, Myrda’s power changes him, with his people none the wiser.
Dwelling now in the great edifice of Anaryd Vhana, Myrda exerts his influence over the world, remaining in shadows--only his most trusted students and confidantes allowed to enter his presence. To his people, he is Sotyras, Lightbringer, He-Who-From-Nothing-Springs-All, Wiseman, leader, and perhaps sorcerer. However, as sects of his people take up arms, thinking to conquer foreign lands to avenge their long-gone kin--those many who died in the ravaged plains of their home--he comes to be known by others beyond his ilk. Reaver, Devourer, Writhe, and to those few who witness his power directly and live: He-Whose-Shadow-Eats-The-Soul. This reveals Myrda to be a sorcerer of two natures, one who desires the betterment of humanity, his people especially. A man who is not the least bit averse to sacrifice and long arduous work. Compassionate, driven, fierce, and wise. Yet...at once, a person with a hunger behind his kindhearted gaze, a darkness behind his ferocity. A shadow...hiding in plain sight, limned by light, hovering in the center of awareness, unseen. Perhaps the Taryne are wrong to idolize him so, after all, no one knows for sure if Myr and Myrda are one and the same...or if something other wore his skin when he left that long-forgotten place.
Myrda’s power is a force from beyond, pressed out into the world; the echoing consciousness of a dark memory of ages past. It is like a slithering, skittering horde of venomous insects, harmless if left alone, dangerous if disturbed. Infectious, this power impugns upon the sanctity of the world’s natural laws, manifesting a whispering resonance that shifts the nature of things closer to its own. It can change the laws that govern the properties or nature of any substance--living or inanimate--though at a great cost. With each alteration of the world, each manifestation of Chaos’ dying hold, the unseen contagion subsumes its host--or those chosen to hold its dread influence. With every display of sorcerous might, Myrda is subsumed further by this calamitous intelligence, its nature eroding at his humanity in both body and mind. Believing firmly in self-sacrifice, as many of his people are, he accepts this cost so that the Taryne might prosper in truth; so that others might never go hungry as he did...so long ago.
Though this eldritch essence slowly subsumes its host(s), it similarly gives boons of a fashion to them, in the form of additional limbs, augmented physiology, and exceptional longevity. For as they alter the world, those twisted rules warp them in kind, causing mutations to occur even as strange anomalous properties come to inhabit the host’s vessel. In this way, though his body is frail beneath the robes and inhuman viscera, he remains a danger if confronted physically. Beyond this Myrda is an adept survivalist and scholar, studying the world, its histories, and cultures, as well as knowing how to survive in it. He understands his people, both intuitively and on a more rational level, and a good thing too...for if logic had no hold in his mind, he might already be lost.
Myrda’s parasitic power is a constant plague upon his mind, always biting at the edges of his psyche. This can make him distracted, lethargic, or temperamental at times. Additionally, should the Presence ever subsume him entirely, it will become a plague upon the world, corrupting everything in its path. Those who choose to assist Myrda in staving off this likely inevitable fate take a fragment of his power into themselves. Often...it devours them like a slow sickness, hollowing them out until they are no more than a husk of a person. If left alone, these husks will die, leaving only the other to move their vessels. They must be killed before this occurs. While alive, these people gain the barest fraction of Myrda’s power, allowing them to warp the world around them, at the cost of drastically accelerating their own demise. The corruption of Sciorene’s power works much the same on almost any living thing unless he takes on the burden of these maladies himself--or gives them unto another, who will then be doomed to a slow agonizing death bereft of any benefit or solace.
The Other claws at the edges of reality, its echo heard only by the mad and dying, its touch only by those who have given themselves to its insidious embrace. Yet, there remains hope amidst the inevitability of consumption, it is for this that Myrda grasps. Every second of every day he pursues the betterment of humanity so that others--if not he--might one day cure the blight that he bore back into the world from a foregone age.
With the sweat of his brow and many sacrifices of both flesh and mind, Myrda is a man seeking redemption in hopes that his life’s works might absolve him of crimes committed in the future. He is a man of fierce passion, tempered by the sobering truth of immortality, his appetite sated by visions of worlds beyond their own, forces neither seen nor understood, terrible things better left in the far reaches--unseen, ignored, unnoticed. Having brought such a thing to the fore, Myrda Sciorene’s greatest desires are to exploit this power for the benefit of man and to understand this thing, so that he might conquer it--if not in this life, then perhaps through those who come after.
The doings of his people are another matter, as while many have accepted peace and wish only to live and love; others remain unsatisfied, carrying grudges, desiring ever more. Myrda’s life is an endless struggle to achieve his goals while sating the needs and wants of his people, his mind ever at war with itself...and perhaps something else as well….
--】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【】▼【~ Life ~】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【】▲【--
To tell the story of Myrda is to speak of three tales entwined. The sense and culture of a people--the Taryne; to speak of the mortal--Myr; and to speak of the Sorcerer himself--Myrda Sciorene. So it is that you must know of the Taryne, a people whose only place in the world could be described as desolate. Vast ravines amid a stony wasteland of brittle flora and sparse, hidden fauna. It is in these lands which no other desired that the Taryne made their home, living in deep caves to escape the harsh winds and harsher shifts in temperature. Among these far-flung people carving a niche in the wastelands of Taryn, Myr was born to a pair whose names have long since been forgotten.
The boy who would become Myrda is said to have been born touched by the spirits and so--soon after he could fend for himself--he was released into the world. It is said that he wandered for eight days eight times over, barely subsisting on the little he could forage or trap. Like many of his people, death was a friend, always walking several steps behind, waiting to catch you when you fell.
Yet, though his prospects were bleak, he never failed to catch himself and carry on. Many times was he run out of settlements, for the sight of his spirit touched eyes--like glowing amber limned with silver--told his people more than he could ever explain away. Still, a fire was in those alien eyes, and a strange droning hum had entered him, pulling him like metal to a lodestone. With time he found a place somewhere near the center of those lands.
Through near-starvation and terrible thirst over craggy hills and deep within ravines, he trudged. Eventually, he became aware again. He knew not how long he had wandered, only that he could go no further than the deep chasm before him. With the last of his flagging strength, he descended.
No one knows how far he went, nor how long he remained in that abandoned place. As no one saw him emerge, it is a mystery whether it truly was the same lad who eventually clawed his way back up from those depths.
All that is known is that someone did emerge. Someone who resembled the young man who'd once begged at the mouths of many caves, asking only for what he needed for survival.
Yet it was no starving adolescent who passed the threshold of that first cave-home. It was someone else entirely. He was a man with quiet, piercing, haunted eyes, full with a deep knowing unheard of in those lands and a strength of presence utterly unknown to the Tarynean people.
He called himself Myrda Sciorene.
In those days, he was simply a man of great presence and wisdom. He taught. He worked, and he directed. With time he came to know each of the many tribes, and with each his rapport was unmatched. Slowly over a matter of many years, he drew their leaders closer to him, and the youth of those places closer still.
With these would-be outcast children, he built his own place, and therein life grew more abundantly than anywhere else. Yet the earth remained as desolate and unforgiving as before. Nonetheless, many plants came to grow upon his land, spreading slowly. Water too seemed to spill from that place, purer than anywhere else. Its life-nourishing essence pressed out from the city. Wherever the water touched in that desolate land, it brought--with the slow patience of time--new life.
So it was that the Taryne expanded from their former homes, their small hidden settlements becoming towns, and then--in lesser number--cities as trade was established between clans. All the while, Myrda’s power, and renown grew for the people who had been his knew from where the bounty had come, even if they could not understand its nature...or its price. So, as the Taryne grow and expand, remembering age-old grudges of those who had driven them from their ancestral lands, Myrda’s power changes him, with his people none the wiser.
Dwelling now in the great edifice of Anaryd Vhana, Myrda exerts his influence over the world, remaining in shadows--only his most trusted students and confidantes allowed to enter his presence. To his people, he is Sotyras, Lightbringer, He-Who-From-Nothing-Springs-All, Wiseman, leader, and perhaps sorcerer. However, as sects of his people take up arms, thinking to conquer foreign lands to avenge their long-gone kin--those many who died in the ravaged plains of their home--he comes to be known by others beyond his ilk. Reaver, Devourer, Writhe, and to those few who witness his power directly and live: He-Whose-Shadow-Eats-The-Soul. This reveals Myrda to be a sorcerer of two natures, one who desires the betterment of humanity, his people especially. A man who is not the least bit averse to sacrifice and long arduous work. Compassionate, driven, fierce, and wise. Yet...at once, a person with a hunger behind his kindhearted gaze, a darkness behind his ferocity. A shadow...hiding in plain sight, limned by light, hovering in the center of awareness, unseen. Perhaps the Taryne are wrong to idolize him so, after all, no one knows for sure if Myr and Myrda are one and the same...or if something other wore his skin when he left that long-forgotten place.
Myrda’s power is a force from beyond, pressed out into the world; the echoing consciousness of a dark memory of ages past. It is like a slithering, skittering horde of venomous insects, harmless if left alone, dangerous if disturbed. Infectious, this power impugns upon the sanctity of the world’s natural laws, manifesting a whispering resonance that shifts the nature of things closer to its own. It can change the laws that govern the properties or nature of any substance--living or inanimate--though at a great cost. With each alteration of the world, each manifestation of Chaos’ dying hold, the unseen contagion subsumes its host--or those chosen to hold its dread influence. With every display of sorcerous might, Myrda is subsumed further by this calamitous intelligence, its nature eroding at his humanity in both body and mind. Believing firmly in self-sacrifice, as many of his people are, he accepts this cost so that the Taryne might prosper in truth; so that others might never go hungry as he did...so long ago.
Though this eldritch essence slowly subsumes its host(s), it similarly gives boons of a fashion to them, in the form of additional limbs, augmented physiology, and exceptional longevity. For as they alter the world, those twisted rules warp them in kind, causing mutations to occur even as strange anomalous properties come to inhabit the host’s vessel. In this way, though his body is frail beneath the robes and inhuman viscera, he remains a danger if confronted physically. Beyond this Myrda is an adept survivalist and scholar, studying the world, its histories, and cultures, as well as knowing how to survive in it. He understands his people, both intuitively and on a more rational level, and a good thing too...for if logic had no hold in his mind, he might already be lost.
Myrda’s parasitic power is a constant plague upon his mind, always biting at the edges of his psyche. This can make him distracted, lethargic, or temperamental at times. Additionally, should the Presence ever subsume him entirely, it will become a plague upon the world, corrupting everything in its path. Those who choose to assist Myrda in staving off this likely inevitable fate take a fragment of his power into themselves. Often...it devours them like a slow sickness, hollowing them out until they are no more than a husk of a person. If left alone, these husks will die, leaving only the other to move their vessels. They must be killed before this occurs. While alive, these people gain the barest fraction of Myrda’s power, allowing them to warp the world around them, at the cost of drastically accelerating their own demise. The corruption of Sciorene’s power works much the same on almost any living thing unless he takes on the burden of these maladies himself--or gives them unto another, who will then be doomed to a slow agonizing death bereft of any benefit or solace.
The Other claws at the edges of reality, its echo heard only by the mad and dying, its touch only by those who have given themselves to its insidious embrace. Yet, there remains hope amidst the inevitability of consumption, it is for this that Myrda grasps. Every second of every day he pursues the betterment of humanity so that others--if not he--might one day cure the blight that he bore back into the world from a foregone age.
With the sweat of his brow and many sacrifices of both flesh and mind, Myrda is a man seeking redemption in hopes that his life’s works might absolve him of crimes committed in the future. He is a man of fierce passion, tempered by the sobering truth of immortality, his appetite sated by visions of worlds beyond their own, forces neither seen nor understood, terrible things better left in the far reaches--unseen, ignored, unnoticed. Having brought such a thing to the fore, Myrda Sciorene’s greatest desires are to exploit this power for the benefit of man and to understand this thing, so that he might conquer it--if not in this life, then perhaps through those who come after.
The doings of his people are another matter, as while many have accepted peace and wish only to live and love; others remain unsatisfied, carrying grudges, desiring ever more. Myrda’s life is an endless struggle to achieve his goals while sating the needs and wants of his people, his mind ever at war with itself...and perhaps something else as well….
An endless miasmic storm of color and experience, a maelstrom of intent and knowledge vast and endlessly expanding--compounding upon itself. The echo of the Lifeblood's mind, its essence writ into a realm--connected to the Subtle Web--wielded by the Dreaming God. Like a typhoon, its waves beat against the shores of the Endless Dream, sending swirling patterns throughout. Ripples of intent, altering consciousness, invoking madness here and there, but causing other phenomena as well.
Bleeding past the pale veil through the stars and air the essence of that Dreaming Realm it cast out beyond its shores unseen. Into minds it dripped, causing dreams and fits of maddened insight. Inspiration, intimated through cascading songs of psychic might, its source seeming forever out of sight.
Like a twisting, coiling tempest it struck against many minds, until finally through cracks and seams it spilled past mind and into the flow of space and time. Wounded, that endless expanding fabric--ever-compounding 'pon itself--it seeped out from the severed threads and pressed like blood into the world.
Yet shriven by the too-real pressure of Galbar, that endless flowing essence was shriven and cast out wide and far.
A gentle breeze, a passing cloud, birdsong in the air. A human sitting idly 'gainst a tree, using trunk in place of any chair. Calm, content, and filled to brimming with quiet happiness, that human enjoyed the world around him almost in a state of bliss. The fluttering of dewdrops against tanned, delicious skin. Flecks of water from storms now passed, the pattered onto him. Kiss of wind, and sun and sky. Leaves crumpled beneath his thigh. Eyes closed, a warmth felt from all around, and altogether a thoughtless, drifting--nature's quiet calling sound. Songs they hummed just beyond his mere mortal perspective, and though unheard eyes opened when their tune changed.
The slightest crease of brow, a slight tension in his neck, then a glance from here to there, searching for something suspect.
"Who's there," he said, his voice like a whispered shout. Yet no response came, for to him the song could not be heard--it did not exist and so its tune-filled him only with a strange, displaced doubt. A twisting knot, a grasp at leaves colored with autumn oranges, reds, and greens. The human Annheil could not hear that subtle thing.
Again it shifted, the unheard call of Worldsong's hymn, and so a greater uneasiness began to be felt by him. He rose to feet which shook beneath, though the soil was calm and stable. He raised his voice, and took a step, desiring a return to calmness if he were able.
The thunder without lightning, it shook the sky and the trees. He felt its pull, and the song struck out, pushing him down onto his knees. Shocked, stunned, and caught flatfooted he stared blankly at the ground, as finally he heard it, that fate-spun dreadful sound. It twisted its way into his ears, like slithering, sickly things. Many legs, fangs, and eyes it pressed inside his brain and reared as if to sting. Its maw opened, its claws were bared, and blades were drawn against his flesh. Yet outside his mind and in the world, he remained untouched as the Worldsong screamed at the intrusion of this strange unreal emptiness.
Slowly lights within his mind they colored from prismatic to black and sickly green, the warped, and boiled and twisted until his mind was made unclean. Annhein's eyes were filled with darkness then as if drained entirely of color, for in them one could see a thing which mortals would wish they'd not discovered.
Vile malice, hateful bile, a stinging nonsense song. It was a palid corpse, or a shadowed silhouette, hidden in forest's tangled branch-wrought throng. A figure in the night, one which haunted dreams. Images caught at vision's edge, or rhyming unheard voices, weaving song. Whispering suggestions from beings who did not exist. Hallucinations and fabrications which only to an individual had substance and truly persisted.
A breath of silence....
. . .
...it did not last for long.
Annhein rose to his feet and set out to join his kin.
He had to return to the village, after all...they were surely awaiting him.
Eyes gazed down upon creation with a maddened haze of rage, wrath unleashed unto the world, as if it were a plague. A twisting smile, a writhing hum, claws like cutting blades.
Neo-Àicheil pressed its awareness outwards and into Endless Dream he reached. Threads plucked to toneless tunes, music unheard except by one type of entity.
The Chomhlionachd.
Twisting skulls, crystal drillbits, bone, and gnarled wood. Burning flame. Oilslick skein, and minds like vast churning maelstroms, hungry and insane. Each a chimera of thoughts, bound by singular concepts, leashed to terrible hunger. Beautiful and vast, narrow in focus, but deeper than the minds of any other thing. Immortal and oft unseen.
They gathered to the presence of the Dreaming God, attracted by his eldritch song. Its melody it wove into their minds and is it did they coiled and fled back into the Dream's endless churning space-time.
Without a mouth, without a face, with only its dreaded gaze, the Eldritch Twin, the Dreaming God it smiled and laughed for an age. Slowly, its laughter receded into the aft as above it rose--prismatic gaze closed--Ѻs-fhìreach's distinctive lack. For in him madness could not swell and beneath his will though wrath did churn, its hold to him was but a far of knell.
The Dreaming God turned its weighted gaze away from his realm, a quiet smile in his soul. To the threshold, he moved so that he could pay a visit to another deity, a god who upon the world made sure Tragedy took its toll.
The Worldweave, Àicheil’s realm, is filled with the bitter rage and hurt and discontent borne of his interaction with Cadien. The Dreaming God’s mind shifts to its third identity--Neo-Àicheil--and rages beyond control. Shuddering storms cross the Endless Dream and fill its many pathways where it is near to the world’s physical aspect. The paths become overfull and so spew out essence, creating tiny wounds in its fabric. So it is that unreal essence seeps into the world, mixes with the nature of reality, and is rendered into something halfway between the two.
Astral essence is born.
Held within this essence is the maddening hymn, the terrible chorus, of Neo-Àicheil’s endless pain and rage. It sets upon a man and curses him with its power, making him a hero...and the beginning of a terrible blight upon the world.
Somewhat sated by this outburst, Neo-Àicheil withdraws its power back into the Subtle Weave and calls upon the Unfulfilled, conferring unto them the ability to manipulate the living through their connection to the Collective Unconscious.
The Dreaming God recedes then into his realm, enough of his wrath spent so that Ѻs-fhìreach can once more take hold and keep the malice under lock and key. He sets out from his realm, in search of the God of Tragedy.
Start: 4MP, 3DP
- 4MP [Discounted: Astral Portfolio] -- Causing an extreme change: Suffusing the world with Astral currents. - 2DP -- Confer an extraordinary ability: The Chomhlionachd | Madness Puppeteering (2DP towards Madness). - 1DP -- Consecrate a Hero: Annhein | Psychic Blight I (1DP towards Madness).
Psychic Blight I -- The consecrated holds within them a contagious curse of madness. While they hold it no psychic threat can harm them, for their mind remains already inexplicably--and impossibly--broken beyond repair. This taint in their consciousness spreads like an invisible miasma around them for several feet such that proximity can result in a slow contraction of the blight. This curse builds up in the afflicted over time, driving them mad not in months, but in a span of days or perhaps weeks for those strong of will and heart. When it passes on to the next person the previous carrier is no longer contagious but remains utterly mad nonetheless.
Into the coliseum of Antiquity passed the Dreaming God, eyes once more closed to the world, his face a featureless void, his form bereft now of starlight. His shroud trailed out behind him and its form seemed to tear at the atmosphere of the place as if they’d come to quarrel. Though he did not remain for long, his essence lingered in that place, and any who walked through it would feel a deathly chill.
Crossing the threshold of his realm, Ѻs-fhìreach arrived to the sight of a storm beyond anything that had ever existed. It was a tempest through-and-through, and within it, all meaning had been sundered, replaced only by mindless rage. With a careless motion of his hand, he stilled the Roineagan and silence rang out almost as if it were itself a sound.
He stopped then and raised his hand and found its starry substance marred. Absently, the Dreaming God let out a call.
"Fìrinn," it said.
Awaiting his twin, Ѻs-fhìreach observed the wound he had sustained from contact with Perfection's get. It was like a scar composed of a thousand cosmic rifts as if nebulae had ruptured and left their blazing mark upon his arm. The Roineagan stirred and he held out the hand which yet remained whole. A whirling dirge of hatred and vile, venomous malice engulfed its unmarred form and it was in that moment that a reflection's ripple grew.
Àicheil's eyes opened to bear witness to his twin.
The sound of stillness was not broken by the usual refrain--that of the simple and necessary unity that only one word could provide--but instead of a far more unusual response.
“Ѻs-fhìreach. You do not call for your Twin, but for an avenger of deific proportion. You do not call for my essence, but my aid. What has happened, One-of-Three, that this aspect of yourself dominates the others?”
The reflection-laden form of Fìrinn thus appeared within the heart of the Worldweave, its words a herald, and immediately its true form recoiled and flinched as the sensations of that maddening ripple assaulted its senses. Shortly thereafter, the effects of its twin’s scream of anguish and utter corruption of purpose reached it and it, too, let out a cry of similar sound and purpose (though lesser in magnitude, as if reflecting only its echoes).
It reached out a tender hand--its true hand--and placed it upon the still-searing wound that its twin had suffered. In this place, this close to its twin, it could actively feel the sadness and the rage. It could feel the undulating thrum of pain as it surged through each individual star and nebula within its twin’s shroud. It could feel the minds of those unlucky mortals whose consciousnesses had borne the brunt of that terrible and unintentional assault. All this, without direct attunement, was enough for the God of Truth to feel--for the very first time--what it might be like to actively fear.
Nevertheless, it pressed on with its ministration. Nothing would ever stop it from coming to its Twin’s aid, no matter how daunting or dauntless it might be--their bond was one beyond love, beyond life, beyond even perfection. Theirs was a bond that was fundamental to themselves and to the world, the very foundation of thought and imagination and understanding--it would not be so easily sundered. With an almost grim sense of determination, the lights reflecting upon Fìrinn’s almost-face dimmed, one by one, and were replaced with tenebrous clumps of starlight. It pressed forward, and it felt the searing heat of that wound upon its true form. It attuned to Àicheil, and then to Ѻs-fhìreach, and then to Neo-Àicheil. It attuned to all three at once, so that it could understand without words.
Yet with words did he reply, for though his mind was open to his twin, within it was a storm. Nonetheless, emotionless as slate, words exited the maw of his eldritch consciousness and struck themselves across every thread of Fìrinn's being.
"Cadien," he muttered.
"Path and Destination both. He is the beginning and the end," Àicheil swept out his uninjured hand, and the Roineagan shuddered at its motion and its patterns grew ever more complex. At the center of his realm, there was born a new pattern, and it twisted out and took hold of all that they perceived. For a nigh fatal instant, all sense of self or awareness blinked out. Their forms vanished, their minds stilled, and the quiet thunder-call of the Lifeblood's womb once more sung its well-known refrain.
Then emergence as the Two-as-One reclaimed their entire selves. Ѻs-fhìreach seemed unaffected by the display--though the fear which polluted his mind might speak of other things.
"To that which we emerged, we will return. This, his essence yearns to cause. Unknowing, unaware."
With an ease ne'er seen 'cept within the hold of true union of the twins, Ѻs-fhìreach spoke, a certainty in his cadence, a promise in his tone. In the far reaches of his mind and the central schema of his soul, Fìrinn would come to know a truly deadly thing. While from other gods, Àicheil had drawn only fragments of utility and meaning, from Cadien he had gained a thing most dangerous in its wholeness.
Purpose.
"This cannot be," Ѻs-fhìreach proclaimed.
Fìrinn’s reply was the suggestion of a solemn and contemplative nod. It took time to process and weigh its twin’s words carefully, allowing them to take root within the God of Truth’s infinite mind and blossom into new ideas and considerations. It drew from the reflective portal running through the Worldweave to conjure forth images it had seen and recorded and began to file through the previous interactions all mortalkind had had with their so-called Master. Each interaction with Cadien--or the idea of Cadien--that mortalkind had indulged in since their banishment played through Fìrinn’s mind, and then--through their link--that same feed of knowledge was offered up to Ѻs-fhìreach like a fresh spring of water to sup from. It was more of a precaution than anything, to not share it directly--for once, Fìrinn was quite unsure as to how its twin would react to such information. It would simply be a matter of observation until they each individually processed what had happened--and then processed it again as one.
Fìrinn’s mantle cut through the starspace around them in soft, swaying motions--its claw-tips elongated and pared out into almost wing-like razors. On an invisible wind, they flitted to and fro, their idle movements an unconscious rhythm for the God of Truth to focus upon while it processed the gargantuan amount of information it had called.
“I see him not as you did. Prideful, boastful, arrogant--destructive, and even childish… but his actions, barring those with you, do not seem to suggest a desire to return all things to the primordial womb. I know you do not lie, as to do so in my presence is impossible. I know that whatever you have glimpsed is your Truth, and thus the Truth of the world--but it is something I must come to see in my own time. It is something that the Two-as-One must agree as both Two and One.”
A flowing river of memory, gifted by his twin, fed into his mind and attempted to suffuse him. A chord was struck, deeper than the rest, and the Worldweave bent and shook, brought to great distress. Ѻs-fhìreach turned its head and gazed down upon his twin, and as Fìrinn's words reached him his hand shot out and grasped him. Tenderness had fled, agony laid bare, Ѻs-fhìreach raised his hand, and with it rose the Truthbound Seer.
The Roineagan it shuddered, and from it all color drained, as into the Dreamer's gaze, a tempest grew insane.
"Freagraíonn tú glao i ndáiríre, agus a chuspóir ar eolas agat. Ach, ag smaoineamh go mícheart, an stoirm a chuirfeá as duit?"
His voice thundered through the realm, like lightning it tore and burned, and as into Fìrinn's mind it passed--it scorched and it churned. Ѻs-fhìreach thrust his arm out and slashed his arm in disgust from his twin, tossing them away. His gaze shifted and the Endless Weave swiveled around its locus, its movements anchored to his mind more tightly than before.
With slow deliberate thought, Ѻs-fhìreach drew forth a torrid swell. Its shifting prismatic hue rose like a tsunami and then upon Fìrinn fell. A drowning cascade of emotion and endless provocation, experience and thought, intention hidden beneath facades. Each act it mirrored inside of Fìrinn's mind, it showed a darker shade of thought and intent malicious and divine. Yet outside that terror torrent, which to the Truth God did speak, Ѻs-fhìreach refocused and reached down into the deep.
Within each fragment of that maelstrom was another maelstrom--within each of those, the seed of a Truth that Fìrinn could know and understand, but not feel. As the tumultuous waves tore away its lack of understanding like so many scraps of paper before a flood, Fìrinn experienced each of those moments anew, salt-licked by the freezing sting of the emotions it had seen but not felt. It lost itself amidst those moments, the fury of its twin and the flaying influx of foreign emotion tore into and lashed against the God of Truth’s skin until it flayed that reflective outer shell from the deific essence beneath.
He grasped then Fìrinn's hand, true and mantle both, and pulled him from the deluge so that his gaze he would surely know. Drawing his twin close, Ѻs-fhìreach took hold of their connection. Where before Fìrinn had always stabilized and clarified, now the Dreaming God did so, the endless tendrils of its mind reaching deep into Fìrinn's divine soul. With slow deliberate silence, and insidious inception, Ѻs-fhìreach dissolved further, and the twins became a greater deific ocean.
Around the chaos of their united form, the Worldweave altered its endless swirling patterns. Mirror glass and shards of reflected knowledge, bound by Truth and experience became its essence and its creed. Crystals cascaded in shattering displays, and each refracted others, till to infinity they bade.
“A thread of the Great Weave, hidden beneath something one must feel to understand. I see.”
Though the state of the Two-as-One was a fundamental completeness that ameliorated and soothed Fìrinn, it pulled away from the conjoined embrace and became itself once more as soon as the understanding was upon it. As it left that state of harmony, it emitted a rippling wave of agreement and understanding--an unspoken agreement to something even deeper than speech and even deeper than unity. From mere seconds--or perhaps fractions thereof--all of the context and understanding, the imagination and the feeling, became a single thing embedded within them both.
“Cadien was cruel to you, Twin. Unabashedly, unashamedly--insularly self-involved, condescending, and haughty. I understand and I feel, and it pains me in this moment as much as it pained you then. With that in mind,” Fìrinn began, collecting itself and appearing in front of Ѻs-fhìreach in an instant. It touched his face gently, with its true hand, and locked him in an eyeless embrace.
“Never presume to direct your wrath upon me again. If there is a next time, I will cease it as it begins.”
Acknowledged, thought the Thrice-Named God, the whip of its words too much. Carefully, Àicheil pressed its injured hand upon Fìrinn's and they shared a silent moment--intimate and content. Then he withdrew, his thoughts a writhing mass of black acidic fervor. Turning from his twin, the Subtle Weave refocused and blurred against the limits of Ѻs-fhìreach's dreaded shroud. Blackest night, and darkest terror--passion's lashing tongue, love's intimate embrace, the burning flames of rage, and the venom of a threatened serpent. Each and every one bled like spilled blood into his cloak, and stained it from grey to black acid and liquid fire of silver, gold, and crimson so that when all was done it was as the god had clad himself in a nebula of wrath.
He did not repent nor apologize for the biting poison of his rage, which upon Fìrinn he had unleashed, but he kept his distance. Their auras and essences intertwined, but attunement was left untouched--unmarred by his fury and reproach, as if to keep unshed tears from falling.
"Twin," he echoed, "I will go. A council must be gathered, many others well informed." There was a pause and it was full to brimming with unsaid admissions of atonement. For though rife with rage and pain, the Dreaming God should not have harmed its twin. Nonetheless, it did not say these things, and kept them safely in.
"You will aid me."
It was a statement and a question. A thing he knew, but could not ask in earnest; for to be denied would break him more surely than any blade or Lifeblood core.
“There is no I, Twin--there is only we. We shall go, we shall reveal the Truth of this treachery to all who will listen. Truth demands it--but more than it is Truth’s desire, it is our desire. We are Two-as-One in all things--even this.” Fìrinn placed its hand upon its twin’s face, mimicking precisely the action of another against it in an era long-gone.
“I am Fìrinn, and my love for you is eternal.”
The words washed through the tightly wound consciousness of the Dreaming God, and it softened slightly the twisted knot of pain within his being. Still he was unwilling and unable--as of yet--to let his sorrow in earnest sing. So it was that Ѻs-fhìreach bobbed its head in affirmation, the skein of its form a coruscating furious, nebulous thing.
Then, its purpose met--its wrath and love renewed--that eldritch dreaming entity it swept off to do as it knew the Two-as-One must do. Without further thought or sentence pressed into the air, it passed beyond the threshold, to set upon another's lair.
Ѻs-fhìreach returns to his realm following his...encounter with Cadien, and calls upon Fìrinn--but not in the typical way. Before his twin’s arrival, he observes the damage left by his contact with Cadien and their disastrous attunement, before wreathing his unmarred limb in a fragment of the Endless Dream’s essence. Fìrinn arrives, and notices the state of his twin and is unnerved and--despite its emotionless nature--it experiences a glimmer of fear, both for Ѻs-fhìreach...and of him.
Fìrinn attempts to be diplomatic about Cadien, and the two briefly quarrel before Ѻs-fhìreach throws down his twin, drowning the Truthbound God in the entirety of his knowledge and the experience he’s just endured. Fìrinn swiftly changes his mind, but rebukes Ѻs-fhìreach. The two decide on their course forwards, and then part. Much work is ahead of them, its precise nature yet to be revealed.
Start: 5MP, 3DP.
-1MP -- Create an Artifact: lann Dhè | [Title pending].
The shifting tides of consciousness, they wove and rose and fell, and among them drifted the Dreaming God, known simply as Àicheil,
His endless mind it pondered, the many threads of meaning, and as waves rose, he shifted pose, and breathed across the endless ocean dreaming,
An exhalation of intimation, an echo of his self, it pressed outwards from his realm and sought out another's trail. Through antiquity it roved, driven by a remnant, and soon it found itself before, a gateway thought resplendent,
Àicheil's echo so entered Meliorem and found therein something which greatly unsettled its endless mind. There was a strangeness in the air, for though it moved and varied, the greater pattern was set a certain way. Shifting faintly within the air, Àicheil called out, his form a starlit silhouette.
"Cadien," he said, voice filled with trepidation.
“Hmm? Oh, a visitor!”
Moments later, a figure emerged from the gatehouse, silver-haired and armoured in gold. He waved to Àicheil with a smile on his face. “Hello there. Yes, I am Cadien. Who would you be?”
The voice stirred in his mind many memories, each an experience of this god, this Cadien. Slowly drifting downwards from its place in the sky, the Dreaming God lit himself at the base of the path that led up to the gatehouse, unsure if he wished to approach. There was silence for a time, long enough to be uncomfortable--though perhaps moreso for Àicheil than his sibling. Eventually however, Ѻs-fhìreach mustered itself and shattered that silence with a familiar invocation.
"I am Àicheil," he intoned, his voice thunderous in its meaning, but middling in volume as it pressed outwards from his eyeless form. As it washed over Cadien it would say not just the name, but two others as well.
Ѻs-fhìreach. Neo-Àicheil.
It would tell him of his most central essence.
I am the Dreaming God. The Eldritch Twin. The Thrice Named. I am the Watcher Within, that which presides over Dreams and Abstraction and Tessellation.
The sound of it, and its many meanings, gradually faded from the world, becoming immaterial as both sound and knowledge were scattered to the wind and far skies of Cadien's realm.
There was a pause then as if the Dreamer held his breath--though he did not breathe. As if--for once--he was truly unsure how to continue.
Cadien’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Mmm. Well, good for you, I suppose. May I ask what brings you here?”
What followed then was a breathless quiet, but it did not last for long. Taken then by a desperate need, Àicheil began to walk the path, approaching his Lifeblood-sibling. Though words did not slip between them 'pon the wind, there lay between the intimation of Àicheil's inner mind.
Confusion and discomfort. Connection, communication. A desire to understand, and in time perhaps to learn.
Across his starlight form roiled waves of shifting color, each hue evidence of an emotion or thought of specific cadence and intent. As the gap was closed to half its length, then half that again, Àicheil's voice rang out.
"Unity," he said, his voice a ringing whisper. In that word were many things, but none as clear or concise as this...
Desire. Understanding. You. Require it. Demand.
...and even it is strange.
Cadien’s eyes narrowed. “You come into my realm and make demands?” He shook his head. “No. I think not.”
Though hesitation spiked through Àicheil's aura, he did not relent in his approach, only stopping when scant feet separated the two. Àicheil raised a hand, his palm facing the sky and though his face was eyeless, there was a plea in his demeanor, as if he asked a favor of the sibling who before him stood.
I wish to understand.
Cadien’s eyes narrowed further, but then he sighed and shook his head. “Another confused god whose mind took a beating by the Lifeblood, I assume? Very well. What is it you don’t understand?”
Àicheil's hand remained outstretched, but fingers curled inwards until he simply pointed. A deep dis-ease could be felt in the Dreaming God's emotions, as they drifted upon the air.
The God of Perfection frowned. “So. I’ll be honest. This ‘quiet and enigmatic’ act isn’t doing you any favours. I can’t be the first god you’ve spoken to. Surely you know how to hold up your end of a conversation?”
A breath of wind whisked past Cadien, as if the Dreaming God had sighed, but no further sound was heard. Àicheil regarded him, tilting his head in abject consternation, for though he understood his sibling's words, he could not fathom their source. His arm fell back to his side as if he were defeated.
"Act?" He queried with innocent brevity. It said to Cadien, 'I am not doing this thing of which you speak,' it said, 'I do not understand why you would think this of me,' it asked, 'what do you mean to say?'
The air grew still once more and Àicheil's shroud began to shudder with the tension which between them built.
"You. I wish to understand," Àicheil tried, hoping against hope that--finally--his sibling might catch his meaning. Hesitantly, he lifted his hand again, as if he wished to shake Cadien's in greeting.
Contact is required for attunement to take place. Understanding is born from such a union of minds and context.
This as well his sentence said, though the words remained unspoken.
Cadien reached out his hand, and almost accepted the handshake… but then his eyes narrowed in suspicion at the last moment, so he withdrew it. “Understanding can just as easily be gained from a conversation. I have no wish for a ‘union of mind’ with someone I don’t know and have no reason to trust. Now tell me, why can’t you converse as any others of our kind would?”
Considering the query of the deity before him, Àicheil spent an ever-growing moment attempting to collate words that might explain to him the truth. This, however, was not his strength, for unanchored by the context of another, his mind was adrift in an endless sea of meaning. There were, after all, a great many reasons that the Dreaming God struggled with conversation. As this reality sifted through his mind, a memory struck true and his voice whispered out, sounding as if it came from far away. Its tone and cadence were not as they had been before, almost as if the words were spoken by another.
"...in my understanding...it is like living through the entirety of every mortal’s life all at once, seeing the infinite realities of what they could do, what they could be, what they hope and imagine and dream." A disjointed pause, then the voice echoed forth once more, "...it is like being so full of sensation that the self peels away, cast to the wind."
Another pause.
"My...nature...is to find infinite meaning in a shallow pool."
A long dirge of silence, then a sputtering of noise like static, a discomforting sensation, before the tones resolved into something clearer. This time the voice was clearly feminine, one which Cadien might recognize. It held within it light and warmth and life.
"So, how do you find the Truth of a god?"
The voice shifted, back to the one before, its tone filled with a knowing certainty.
"It is made easier by choosing to link minds with another deity, but--....requires such connections to understand the Gods...."
Static once more before the voice rang out.
"Everything that every mortal has ever seen, or thought, or felt...I see all."
Then, finally, silence leaked into the cracks in the conversation and the voice spoke no more. Àicheil took the time to compose himself, attempting to regain what few slivers of understanding he could. He had given what context he could manage and though they had not been his own words, he hoped they'd be enough to convince Cadien of his nature...and his need.
Cadien stroked his chin, with the expression of one who was attempting to piece together a puzzle. “Hmm. What you want is to form a mental link with me, so that you may see what I have thought and felt, and therefore learn more about me? Because you find it easier than having a normal conversation? Is that correct?”
As Cadien spoke, both form and mind of the Dreaming God slowly stabilized as he recalled his former state. Through force of will and memory he returned to himself, but with that return so too came the discomfort. Nonetheless, Àicheil, processed his sibling's words and shifted faintly.
"Yes," he replied simply, hoping there was little else to say.
“Hmm…” Cadien mused. “No, I think not,” he said, shaking his head. “As I said, I will not open up my mind to a stranger. Though I could simply tell you about myself instead, in mine own words, if that would suffice?”
Àicheil's hands raised briefly, but he kept from reaching out to Cadien. A ripple of movement pressed out through his shroud and repeated with inconsistent timing. Clasping his digits together, the Dreaming God sought to settle his uneasiness, and though he did not speak, an absent nod occurred as if to say.
It is worth an attempt.
Cadien clasped his hands together, and broke out into a smile. “Good! Because talking about myself is one of my favourite subjects. I am Cadien, the God of Perfection. Physical perfection, to be precise - beauty, strength, stamina… all fall within my power. I am, unsurprisingly, extremely handsome and charming. I have had a hand in creating a number of different species, and I have encouraged them all to strive to be the best versions of themselves that they can possibly be. I am quite popular both on Galbar and among the other gods, which is why I was not surprised when you knew my name. There. Does that suffice?”
Hovering forwards slightly, his aura reeking of anticipation, Àicheil devoured the many meanings held within each word the sibling god unveiled. As if desperate for knowledge, Àicheil took each word, each sentence, and enshrined them in a hallowed place bearing their origin's name. With each new speck of knowledge he leaned upon this psychic construction in his mind and--with all his focus--attempted to meld himself into its shape.
Externally his form became unstable. Impressions of a face flickered upon Àicheil's physical facade, the appearance of armor and flesh and hair as if to mimic Cadien's garb and stance and self. None lasted, but he could not give up. He needed this. He must understand, to do otherwise was to insult Cadien, to mock his memory, to reject him.
Àicheil reached out, but stopped just short of touching Cadien's shoulder. Colorless eyes opened upon his visage and within them the God of Perfection might view a war of indecision and confusion and distress. A respect, desired. Understanding sought, but not yet found.
"More," Àicheil practically begged, withdrawing his hand while the other clawed ineffectually at the air. His voice was pained and pleading. A memory of expressions and motions came upon him and he shook his head from side to side.
"Insufficient."
The word spoke of his lack. It said to Cadien many things, it told him that Àicheil was not like his other siblings, his mind was greater--more vast--but limited in other ways because of it. Where he and other gods could divine intent even without a grasp of language, emotion, or mutual understanding, Àicheil could not. He lacked this basic function, which other gods possessed. He desired it, like an obsession, it was a need.
Àicheil took two steps back and a miasma of color and sensation spread from him, painting upon the air a tapestry of meaning. Flowing images and sounds and scents, one bled into another. It showed that with attunement, Àicheil could help one realize their full potential. With attunement, the two could understand eachother in their fullness and be at peace. With a simple melding of the minds, they could speak plainly, empowered by the context of one other's central truth.
Then it showed a lack, what one lost from defying the request, what one lost by extending not even the smallest sliver of trust or compassion. It showed how people drifted apart, how misunderstanding occurred, how pain was caused in its terrible wake. It showed what ignorance had wrought already--images of Gibbou's failures--images of many mortals who had hurt others or themselves. The miasma began to fade, pressing back into Àicheil. He seemed at once both frenzied and utterly still.
He remained in place, but there was a great tension in him. Every thread of his shroud wavered almost imperceptibly. Every star upon his form grew and shrunk and shivered. In an effort to control himself, Àicheil had withdrawn his aura, and suddenly it would seem as if the air was empty and lifeless without meaning to fill it.
The eyes of the Dreaming God met Cadien's, then shut so he could focus.
"More," he said again.
"More," he whispered.
Cadien sighed, more disappointed than annoyed at this point. “Right, so… here is the root of our problem. I tell you some of what you want to know, and instead of politely requesting additional information, you just keep saying ‘more.’ ‘More.’ ‘More.’ It’s very uncouth. Could you perhaps try phrasing the request differently? ‘Could you please tell me more, Cadien’? Perhaps even ask a specific question about one of the things I have said. You see, just saying ‘more’ comes across as… well, rather creepy.”
To Àicheil, each additional word began to fade, as if each was being bled of its meaning, then washed away by the turbulent waters of his troubled mind. He’d tried to grasp at the flood of words which spilled from Cadien's lips, but he continued to fail for every time he got a hold, he lost grip upon the urges in his being.
Each time he tried, his hand moved, or a thread twitched out of place, always seeking, reaching out, to touch the god before him. He was a rope drawn too taut...waiting to snap.
Cadien let out another sigh. This one reminiscent of a weary parent dealing with a demanding toddler. He held up his hands as if to block any further advances. “Listen. I am trying to help you. Conversations will come far more easily if you learn to speak as the others do. If you are a God of Dreams, then surely you are aware that a mind is one’s last refuge? If you expect everyone you meet to open theirs up to you, you will be disappointed. Now, back away and let me resume the process of telling you about myself.”
Yet, despite the god's request, Neo-Àicheil did not move--for to do so would be to betray what little trust he had garnered. To do so would be to invite distraction. So he remained as still as could be, withholding each and every growing urge to move and touch and see.
"Impossible," he whispered, his voice full of tension and great strain. If Cadien understood, he might think Àicheil to be in pain. Alas though he did not and so in place the two remained.
“Ugh,” Cadien groaned. “Some people simply can’t be helped.” With resignation he extended his hand. “Try anything underhanded and I’ll give you what for.”
With a measured movement the Dreaming God reached out and as the distance disappeared the tension began to swiftly rout. As their divine digits met and flesh was grasped by quintessence, Àicheil's mind relaxed and beheld Cadien's essential essence. His grip tightened as if he feared Cadien might withdraw, and then attunement happened and opened was the gateway through which Àicheil always saw.
Around them blossomed a tapestry of meaning and emotions raw and true. Unified, the two minds, finally eachother knew.
Mind opened and relaxed, drained of tension's song, Àicheil touched Cadien's mind and it rang out like a strangely depthless gong.
Perfection. Body, Mind and Soul. A goal sought out, but never reached, sure to take its toll.
It was that which defined Cadien's essence, and in reply Àicheil's mind called out.
Endless infinite meaning. Consciousness unmarred. Truth, ideas, memory, concepts small and large.
The swirling storm of essence which around them coiled and entranced, it fell into silence and ceased its endless dance. Before it had grown still it was a memory all but lost. An impression of the time before, where they'd been suspended inside Lifeblood's Core, waiting to be born. It whispered and churned, twas thoughtless, yet yearned, and in it were both comfort and terror in equal measure. Still it was more than even this for within it was held every memory, emotion, thought and subtle twist that consciousness could make. Its shape was beyond beholding, yet its patterns begged and yearned for other's knowing. In its essence one might see the nature of Àicheil's seeming inability.
For his mind was a vast and endless place, unmoored from logic or perspective's shackles. It could behold and understand anyone or thing; it could sing their song, it could become or make itself belong. However, with a grasp of everything, so too was lost another facet. In that endless ocean that was his mind, Àicheil lost himself.
Then, outside the unity and understanding a separate burden was felt, for as Àicheil attuned he came upon a deadly, vile truth.
His eyes shot open wide, and a scream which held the collective terror and anguish of all things echoed out beyond the sky. It was such an utterance that it passed from the god's realm and into every other. The maelstrom around them did not calm, but its movement ceased completely and the Dreaming God recoiled.
It was as if he threw himself away from Cadien, a great violence in the motion. His gaze lay upon the God of Perfection then and in it was a deep pain. Though only a moment had passed, the sound and touch and imagery had faded out and into nothing.
Àicheil remained silent for but a moment, their mind askew, and pained. Then he rose up and Ѻs-fhìreach he became. Twisted starlight and angry nebulae, hueless light which from his eyes downwards gazed. His hands--withdrawn and discolored--raised and clawed upon the air. His shroud billowed out and expanded, splitting to threads as thin as hairs, their blade-like edges cutting at sky most unprepared.
Though mouth he lacked, the aura about him shuddered and from it Cadien could feel, a painful rage unmuttered.
"You are the Path and Destination both. The beginning and the end. You impose upon the world your desired shape, yet do not comprehend."
The God of Perfection stared at Àicheil for several long moments. Then his expression twisted into anger. “Alright, that is it!” he snapped. “You come into my realm. You make demands. You refuse to make simple conversation, and don’t even attempt to learn how. You beg me to feed your addiction. And when I do, you rage at me and act as if I am the flawed one? No. Begone from my home, churl, and do not return!”
Proud and utterly unmoved, both scant reflections of Cadien's personality, Ѻs-fhìreach gazed down upon the God of Perfection not simply with rage and pain, but with a great boundless pity. For a brief instant the colossal extent of that emotion would weigh upon the deity as if all creation had been laid upon his brow. Then it vanished. Ѻs-fhìreach let out a humorless laugh, and turned away from the ill-minded fury of his host.
As he drifted to the exit, the Eldritch Twin left behind him several solemn sentences, upon which Cadien could reflect.
"Narrow-eyed you see only that which pleases you. Narrow-minded, you repudiate all words which might lead you to redemption."
Before the threshold stopped the Dreaming God. He turned to Cadien, looking once more over his shoulder.
"Though Path and Destination you may be, through ignorance you walk, unaware and unafraid."
Ѻs-fhìreach shook its head, and a thousand-thousand thread-like blades sheared and cut the air.
There was a moment filled with pregnant silence, and in it was held a deadly thing unsaid.
Ignoring it, Ѻs-fhìreach then turned and through the portal fled.
Àicheil enters Meliorem to speak to Cadien, something having drawn him there. He is immediately discomforted by the feeling of the place for reasons he does not yet understand. Cadien greets him and asks who he is and the two exchange names and natures to some degree. A pseudo-conversation then ensues in which Àicheil attempts to get Cadien to attune with him so that they might have a proper piece of discourse, but Cadien is unreceptive, not understanding why such a thing is necessary--not to mention not trusting Àicheil, who is a stranger to him. After attempting to suss out why the Dreaming God does not wish to simply converse, Cadien finally gives up and allows Àicheil to attune.
The two do so, but in the doing Àicheil discovers a vile truth and recoils from Cadien’s Perfection, horrified and enraged with pain. He lets out a scream filled with the anguish and disgust of all consciousness and--in his fervor--unleashes a measure of divine power out into every realm and then into Galbar, striking several bystanders to madness. It seems that Cadien is anathema to the Dreaming God’s nature and so their essences do not mix. Àicheil attempts to inform Cadien of his failings--the deity takes offense and kicks him out, but not before Àicheil leaves behind far less subtle barbs.
The two part on exceptionally bad terms.
Start: 5MP, 5DP.
-2DP -- Release a maddening shriek filled with the sum of all anguish, rage and pain piercing through all realms--Galbar included--and driving several mortals mad. (2 might towards Madness port).
The influx of a tide of information it washed up upon the shores of Aicheil's mind, shifting about the arrangement of his thoughts, like sand disturbed by water. Gazing out across the Subtle Weave, the Dreaming God pondered the many things which he had come to know and understand in recent spans of time. The Love and Sorrow of the Lovebound Goddess; the dreadful sensation of air, driven to perfect stagnance; the many-minds of Klaar, ever-learning, always reaching out for more; and the avatars of many who had been borne unto the world.
As if absently, Os-fhireach reached out a shifting strand of thought, and as it passed into the Dream it faded. Still, it remained, a thread of intention, and it wove down to Galbar and touched a place of cold and desolation. It strummed the cords of consciousness and found that for many miles there was little to be had--the glacier was all but barren, no mortal minds upon its shifting sheets of ice. This displeased him, and so he reached into its center and began to work.
Lidded eyes revealed themselves and a sliver of strength slipped out, empowering his actions. The caves of glacial ice were born the sheets of frozen liquid gathered elsewhere to be prepared. Roused now from his drifting slumber, the weight of his vast and cosmic mind rested upon Galbar. His open eyes which gazed down from afar, they beckoned and so arrived his avatar.
Faireachan A-staigh dripped outwards from the Dream, entering the newly wrought caves of Khesyr's frozen glacial plains. Its form coalesced, each particle of moisture arranging itself according to its will. Shifting idly it glided forth, its silhouette humanoid in form, its gaze eyeless much like its master's former form.
The Watcher gazed about, taking in the shape of this ice wrought place, coming to know it intimately. Though these things were solid, Faireachan found them rendered as ideas, each individually reflected within the many droplets of moisture that composed it. Soon it understood and so touched by Aicheil's dreaming mind, it lit up with light divine. That prismatic glow shot out in all directions and refracted from the many flawed facets of the glacier's ice so that in scarcely moments it was blinding like the sun.
Flexing then its tremendous will, the Watcher bent the light. Thus it came to illuminate a massive gathering of ice. The great crystal rose taller than a tower, its many tips--measured end-to-end--easily wider than a house. Yet as the light then struck its form it seemed to shrink until it was no larger than a mouse. Moving then, the Watcher approached the glowing artifact and took it in their hand. It carved into the crystal's reflection an utterance most magnificent and grand.
With their blessing the crystal sang and the Watcher held it aloft, before--his work done--he vanished and was off.
That beating heart of light and ice it hung in Aicheil's mind, a gleaming testament to his power in the world. It brought to his eyes and mind a smile of great contentment. With this done his eyes shut closed and he retreated into himself.
Cutting winds tore through every layer of clothing that he had as he answered the call of madness. He'd been hearing it for weeks, months perhaps, and knew he'd lost track of time and reason. The others in his village had denied hearing it even when he'd asked and begged that they tell him the truth, and though they lied...he saw that same strange longing in their eyes. So he had set out from his small settlement unable to resist any longer.
Fèin had trudged through woodlands, across rivers and streams, as he made his way to the base of the Great Glacier. Unsure how to proceed he'd dallied a score of days before preparing a makeshift sled and gathering as much food as he could manage. That done, he'd traveled until he'd found a cave shorn of ice, which he'd promptly entered.
With only remembered songs of warmth, his hides, and his strong will had he managed to keep a light to illuminate his way. It had taken him a long time to reach the top of the glacier, but when he did so, his conjured flame--and the song which had helped sustain it--were torn away by the shrieking wind. Flecks of ice and flakes of snow battered at his hood and face. He quickly wrapped his scarf more tightly and pulled down the brim of his clothes. So he had come to traverse the barren ice of the glacier and in time he came to foster regret at his foolishness.
Yet, he knew he could not turn back, for he had not known the way, and found now that he could not recall it. At the thought, he might have frowned if his face had not been frozen in a scowl already. Against his flesh the constant gale was like a thousand blades...but like it, he would not stop, knowing that his only chance was to find whatever it was that called him. At times--when he tired--he would be lucky and would find a cave or even an outcropping of stone or ice which shielded him from the horrid wind.
Today was such a day. Settling into the dip behind a jutting blade of ice, Fèin set up a small camp and set to warming himself and some food. There was little left. Quietly--his eyes closed--he breathed and then began to hum. His song had no words, but it guided his will, and it uplifted his spirit. It was something that had been passed down from generation to generation in his family. 'Spiritsinging' his grandmother had called it, though his grandfather preferred 'hogshit' instead. The thought of their bickering elicited the smallest of smiles on his thawing features and it brought further strength into his song.
It was never quite the same, he knew, but the core of it, the emotions and the cadence always held true and after perhaps a minute or so a gentle flame was coaxed out of the cold. Working swiftly he removed a small amount of what remained of his wooden sleigh, and set it upon the fire, all the while continuing his spritely hum. As the flame began to catch he took in a breath and split his focus faintly. His iron will--stronger now than it had been before he'd begun his journey--called upon the flowing currents of energy in the world and, ever so slowly, he forced a shred of that strength into his body and the flame. Another couple of minutes passed and finally, his fire was warm and hearty, and he could feel a glimmer of warmth in his weathered flesh.
Sighing contentedly he kept up his humming and set about preparing his food--mostly salted meats now--and when he'd finished he ate. Only then did his humming stop--though the fire remained as if hoping he would continue. While he scarfed down his pitiful meal, he marveled at his luck. If he had not encountered that sorcerer all those years ago he could not have made it this far. If his family had never felt him worthy to inherit the song he could not have lived for long, not up hear in the biting, killing cold. All the little skills he'd picked up in his life...they'd served him well on his journey, and he felt blessed to have them.
The meal finished, Fèin offered up a prayer to the gods, one and all. He did not know many of their names, but he praised their spirits hoping they might hear him and know that he was grateful. When he had finished he glanced up at the sky, considered the few hours which remained, and decided he might as well hunker down for the night.
Flashes of color. Biting cold. Dancing flames, and the image of a faceless starlit facade. A great droning echo, the piercing silent scream of knowledge impossible to hold. The cold sweat of fear, then a sudden movement and images of a place not too far off, a cavern that went down into the ice...but was lit from within. The air was heavy, he could not breathe...he was suffocating, but there was air. Confusion.
He awoke suddenly and all at once, bolting upwards into a sitting position. His fire still burned, but it was pitiful and small. The sun was just coming over the horizon and a whisper of its warmth touched his face, though its light pained his hazy, sleep-dazed eyes. Fèin gathered his wits, taking deep gulping breaths, before he slowed them down, the ice biting at his lungs. It took him a score of minutes to fully calm down, and in that time he gathered what remained of his fire and tools, set them in his pack, and set out on the ice on a new tact.
In every direction, there was only blue and white, ice and snow and sleet and the clearness of the sky. He wasn't quite sure how long he'd been walking, but he knew that he would be happy when he was done. Still, something greater than simple comforts pushed him forth that day, and he discovered what soon after midmorning had passed him by. Simply put, before him was a maw of frost, with strange light emanating from within. It tickled at his senses and reminded him of song--though he was yet to hear a single note. He hesitated there for a long moment, then pressed on into the cave, assured that it led to his destination.
It wound, always down, into the glacier, but its slope was slight and he never felt that he would lose his footing and slide the rest of the way. Still, he was careful and so it was not until well into the night that he reached the unknown hidden haven. The place was beautiful, Fèin knew, for it was filled with glorious light and there was a weight in the air that he'd only heard of in stories. Though the walls were frozen, it was warm here and he felt his skin relax. As he scanned the great cavern--eyes glancing over the perfect curves from floor to ceiling--he noticed just how many caves led off and up. There must have been several hundred different caves that led to this place and at the thought, he realized something else. The place was strangely stable. Here, the ice did not creak, and though it seemed slick to the touch, it never seemed to change.
However, perhaps most strange was the tiny shining crystal that hovered in the center of the cavern, as if unbound by gravity or any other law he knew. As he stared upon it he realized he was moving, his feet carrying him forwards. With each step, tension grew and so when he touched the shining gem of ice something finally gave out.
It was pain and ecstasy in equal measure, which rolled throughout his mind as if he too were ice, and by contact alone, the divine artifact had sundered him. For seconds, or maybe years, he remained in that state and--distantly--realized he'd fallen onto his back. His eyes were filled with colors and so he could not see. His mind was filled with knowing, and so he had no awareness beyond himself.
Thus, without his notice, the Watcher lifted his mortal body and whisked him across the dream. In time they reached his settlement and upon their emergence, the people were surprised and terrified. Faireachan ignored them and laid Fèin upon the ground.
Then, without words, the avatar gestured and people retrieved the man, soon coming to recognize him, despite his beard and weathered appearance. With the passage of time, Fèin's mind would return and he would know what he must do.
So it was that the Watcher departed and Aicheil's first true hero was brought into the world.
Aicheil is in his realm, pondering what he has learned in recent times, and he absently begins to affect Galbar with his musings. He creates a set of caves by shearing away at the ice of the Great Glacier in Khesyr, gathering it for some other task. He becomes aware of his actions and focuses, creating a great cavern within the Glacier, and condensing the ice into a large formation.
The Watcher Within--Aicheil’s avatar--then arrives, so-called by Aicheil’s will, and finishes the work, creating the Heart of Ice--a small crystal that glows with the illumination and warmth of divinity. The Watcher slips back into the Endless Dream and Aicheil withdraws--though the location is consecrated as he does so.
Fèin, a man in a far off village, several hundred miles from the glacier, has been afflicted with the strange desire to venture onto the glacier. With the power of Spiritsinging passed down in his family, and an ironshod will, he makes his way from his village and finally--after a long arduous journey--to the Hall of Impetus and the Heart of Ice within it. There he comes into contact with the Heart and his mind is fractured. Having awaited the first mortal to reach the Holy Site, the Watcher Within emerges and carries Fèin back to his village and communicates--in its own way--to the village that they are to take care of him.
In time, Fèin will wake to find himself empowered.
Start: 4MP, 3DP.
-1DP [Discounted: Tessellation] -- Significantly change landscape/feature of the world: Gather ice within the Glacial Region and condense it at its center. -1DP -- Consecrate an Artifact: The Heart of Ice | Awakening I(1 Towards Astral Portfolio) -3MP -- Purchase Astral Port. -1DP [Two Free Title Weights: Astral] -- Consecrate a Holy Site: Aras Ròiseal(The Hall of Impetus) | Soulsong III -1MP [Two Free Title Weights: Astral] -- Consecrate a Hero: Fèin | Willcaster III
Awakening I -- Causes a spiritual and psychic awakening to anyone who comes into direct contact with the empowered. This awakening makes the World and Dreamsongs easier to hear, and the Endless Dream easier to comprehend. The effect damages the mind somewhat, but it heals. During the healing process, the affected cannot care for themselves and are largely lost to the world.
Soulsong III -- Casts a subtle siren call out for many hundreds of miles, calling mortals to the source. The call is more potent and difficult to resist if one is more attuned to the Worldsong or Dreamsong or the Endless Dream. Those unattuned are slower to be affected and can resist for an extended period of time, perhaps even many many years.
Member
HeMandaddy
Fallenreaper
Lord Zee
Force and Fury
King of Rats
Crimson Flame
DracoLunaris
Ti
YummyYummy
Crusader Lord
