[A missive was scattered all over Azuras, this paper could not be found in crowded areas nor main roads, but it was distributed across somber destinations, abandoned ruins. Places where the hand of the mortal usually does not reach. Strangely enough, some of these were found humid and stained, as if they were dipped in water and then put to dry.]

✧༝┉˚*❋ ❋*˚┉༝✧

I know you, know you more than you know yourself, for I have met with your ceaseless struggle, you wander alone, dragging your ectoplasm towards what once brought you happiness: Your old house, the tavern you used to spend time in, that old oak tree where you delivered your first kiss. . . You seek them, seek those moments back, but when you return to them, what it is you find? Desolation, silence, nothing remains, nothing is perpetual, yet you, you still exist, trapped at this state, a place in time that is not there, and the world simply, goes on, without care. Thus, you cannot touch, you cannot feel, you reduce yourself to a mere spectator of things, for there is nothing for you to alter, your moment has already gone.

Or so, you think.

Raise up your heads, those persecuted by their still, numb eternal lives, oh, wandering souls in oblivion. This is not a dead end, but another chapter of your sailing into the world of the living. Remember these words, the next time you find yourself wandering endlessly, for I, The Murktitan, offers you his most sincere support. Please, reach out to me, either if you seek help, or if what you only need, is a person that listens.

End your solitude, phantom, I am by your side, for you are important to me, wherever you are.

The Multifaceted*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

(A small watercolor painting was added beneath, the portrait of a blackened, humanoid figure standing tall over a grass field)

✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲✲꘏ ꘏ ꘏ ꘏✲

Couldn't Stay Away

As the orc began her rite, she did so standing on shaking legs. Each rune painted in her blood was done with a trembling finger. Deep breath in, deep breath out. She did her best to calm herself as she stood within the center of her salt. Her sight had grown with her spirit’s guidance, but it was not whole. Yet her goddess compelled her to seek what was out there. The risks would be great with her reduced vision, but she deluded herself into thinking the rewards outweighed them. The salt erupted, venting a scarlet-hued vapor as the orc chanted in an ancient tongue. It circled and rose higher, inky black webs stretching out and swirling within. A metallic scent filled the room she occupied, and the rhythmic sound of a beating heart rushed into the shaman’s ears. The crimson smoke reached the ceiling, and the uruk was off, shifting between realities.

Pastel Clouds | Daneumhi

Gazhnahk stumbled as she shunted into the new realm with a small burst of blood dyed smoke. She scanned her limited surroundings, taking in the pale pastel yellow grass all around her. The witch pulled off the robes she wore, exposing the armor beneath. The uruk took a moment to glide her hand through the grass, letting it scratch at her skin. Beyond its color, it felt rather normal. The ground felt the same to her as she dug her fingers into the pale, burnt orange pastel dirt, rubbing it between her fingers and feeling the soil crumble before gathering up her belongings. 

The shaman wandered aimlessly for a long while, letting the will of Gazigash guide her. She had taken some notes in her journal as she traveled. A few hills dotted the land, tall, too tall for her to want to try to climb. How steep they were only lessened her desire. The hills seemed stretched, as if a large hand pinched the land and pulled as high as it could before the ground snapped. The realm was not a continuous plane, which she learned as she neared one of the island’s edges. It linked itself to another floating island via chains of pastel peach. Gazhnahk peered down the gap to see what lay below, though all she could spot was a blanket of misty silver, which did not say much, given her short sight. 

Hopping to the other island, the orc continued her journey, hoping the realm would offer her something more interesting than tall hills. It would be hours before anything of note came along, but after a long time of walking, a house came into view. It was structured in the classic medieval style Gazhnahk was used to, but only materials of various pastel colors were used in its making. A woman was on the lawn, humming as she was bent over a large, pastel brown bucket. It was filled with a foamy, light, pastel blue substance, and she was scrubbing what appeared to be a shirt against a washboard. The woman was of unnatural hues as well, her skin a shade of lime pastel green and her long hair a pastel lavender. The stranger regarded the orc with a look as she neared.

“Who are you?”

“A traveller.” She rasped in reply, gazing at her with my false eyes. “A friendly one.”

Gazhnahk was eyed with suspicion as she stopped her chore and backed away slowly. “And what is it you want?”

“Nothing in particular, simply exploring. That’s all.” Gazhnahk raised her hands ‌in the air, trying to express her desire for peace. 

“My husband will be back soon. You can wait there until he returns if you’d like.” The woman continued her slow and careful backpedal, ascending the porch behind her while keeping an eye on the orc. 

The uruk nodded, “Alright.. I’ll wait..” Her hands fell, coming to rest at her side once more.

As time passed, Gazhnahk grew uncertain how long it was she had stood there, but she knew it had to be some time. Suddenly, in the distance, beyond her view, she heard the cranking of machinery. Instinct compelled her to reach for her spear, but she stayed her hand, not wishing to be the first to ruin what could be a friendship. The orc became more vigilant as she kept herself prepared for the worst. The whirring of gears ceased, and footsteps crunching against grass soon followed. A man appeared in Gazhnahk’s sight, and her attention quickly snapped to him. Her false eyes did not move as she looked the man up and down. He appeared to be an engineer of sorts, with an apron, gloves, and goggles on his forehead. The orc assumed him to be the husband without a second thought.

The door creaked open as the wife appeared again, standing at a distance on the porch. 

“Whose this honey?” The husband questioned as he stared at the orc, peeling his gloves off in the process. 

“She said she’s a traveller.” 

Gazhnahk remained quiet as the two went back and forth.

“Did she say anything else?” The husband asked with a glance at his wife, the woman simply shaking her head in response. He turned his attention back on Gazhnahk, “So who are you? What are you doing here?”

“My name is Gazhnahk’Akaal. I wander between different planes.” She spoke truthfully.

“Wander between planes?” The man questioned, clearly confused.

“I have the gift to travel to other dimensions, each one vast and unique. I don’t mean to bring any harm, just to learn about the realms I visit.”

The husband nodded slowly, taking his time to process what he had been told. “Quite remarkable if true… How’s this: you say you wanna learn about this place, and I can show you, but in turn, you have to help out with chores. A little give and take seems fair to me. 

Gazhnahk would nod to this, “Nothing in this life ahm free, ah fair offer.” 

“Come inside, I was just finishing dinner.” The wife spoke

“But you can leave the weapons outside.”

And so she did, the orc setting her spear aside as she walked up the creaking wooden steps. They ate and talked, Gazhnahk getting an opportunity to learn more about this realm, grilled‌ with countless questions. The food was odd, though, a bowl filled with what seemed like a pastel colored broth. By no means was it bad, but it tasted like nothing she had ever had before, and she wasn’t sure she loved it. She was given a spare room with simple furniture, having only a bed with a pastel rose gold wool blanket and a pastel ultramarine pillow, along with a desk. A candle with wax the color of pastel burgundy burned, the flickering flame offering the orc a dim light to log what she had seen today in her journal. 

Night would soon bleed into morning, so Gazhnahk finally decided to try to get some sleep. The bed was lumpy and hard, and the blanket scratched at her skin as she tossed and turned, but the orc had managed to find rest in even worse places. Hours passed, and beads of cold sweat began to swell on her green forehead. Her face scrunched as she tossed and turned, as her spirit invaded her dreams. When she woke, it was early dawn, and roosters outside greeted the sun. Her sweat had soaked the mattress beneath her, her shirt equally drenched. Though as she stirred out of bed, it was not with panic but with resolve.

Tap, tap, tap. A knock came at her door.

“You awake in there? We like to get started bright and early on our day.” The husband’s voice came through the door.

“Yes, one moment; let me get ready.” She rasped in reply, though she did make no effort to move from where she sat on her bed and get started.

“Meet me outside when you're ready.”

The orc’s days consisted of waking up early to help with chores until it grew late. She didn’t complain, though; each day she learned more of the land and the people. Whenever she finished her chores, the Akaal took time to wander around, though she made sure to always return before it became night, and she got lost. Assisting the wife consumed most of her time; she didn't get to accompany the husband to his work until later that week. She learned what the creaking sound was as he showed her the strangest animatii contraption she had ever seen. If it was even animatii at all, it looked nothing like the animatii machines of those made by the people of Azuras.

A large box of pastel colors, even the glass was tinted a shade of pastel. It seemed to sit on tracks like a mine cart, but more advanced, and the track went vertically up the steep mountain. Posts ran up the mountain along the side of the track, supporting the cords that ran up and down, so that the box seemed to hang as it sat on the track. The man stepped inside, and so Gazhnahk followed. He cranked a lever from within, and massive wooden gears began to churn; the box making a clicking sound as it slowly ascended the track. Gazhnahk’s expression said all that was needed.

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it before..”

As they neared the top, the box passed through a pastel cloud, obscuring what lay in the distance, though it did not matter; she could not see that far anyway. The box came to a stop, and the pair stepped out onto a platform, a balcony built into the side of the steep slope. Another strange contraption sat at the summit’s peak, a machine that whirled and made all sorts of noises. The man noticed Gazhnahk’s clear interest in the device. 

“This is how we get our food.” He began, “Clouds pass through here, and this machine takes in their vapor, condensing it into food.”

The Akaal had already pulled her journal free, sketching the machines. “So all you eat is clouds?”

“You make that sound strange.”

“It would be quite odd where I come from.”
 

“Well, what do your people eat then?”

“All sorts of things, though clouds are not one of them.”
 

“I’d consider that strange where I come from.”
 

“Fair point.”

A few weeks passed, and each day brought fewer notes in journal. This realm was interesting, though not interesting enough to entertain her chaotic mind. She had learned what she could for now. And there was no point in staying any longer. Perhaps she will visit again, see what else she might find, but now she quietly slipped out from the house in the middle of the night. The lands shifted around her, but the orc did not let it disturb her as she made her journey back home

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

♫ Music Link ♫

Endless lengths of vines, creepers, & lianas rushed past Zilzibin. Palm fronds bent & sprung free of his weight, though he felt no impact as he imagined himself falling. The colors of macaws, monkeys, & frogs speckled the stretch of green that enveloped his vision as far as his mind's eye could see. Then, he perceived in his innermost self as if he had been emptied into a vast vase with water filling its volume. He felt pressed up against by what he could only comprehend as algae, grimey & setting his senses awry. His vision turned black, then his eyes opened.

He looked upon a gathering of eldritch mystics with one particularly arabesque man whittling away the final details of a wooden mask. Zilzibin looked down to find his hands no longer cerulean and of flesh, but rather dull grey and of stone. He shifted uncomfortably, the sound of scraping rocks lent him further discomfort. He noticed a glow of violet washed over himself and faded off the further he looked out. He choked as he saw trickles of water forming rivulets down his eidolon form.

"You & I go way back you know?" the arabesque companion commented as he continued his woodworking. He paused enough to blow away some debris freshly carved.

"If latz telling di truth, latz'd know there isn't a single of Horen's spawn I haven't gutted. Especially a Hyspian," Zilzibin replied sardonically. Half of his cynicism given over, half kept for his realization of his condition.

The arabesque man gave a matter-of-fact look, glaring at Zilzibin for a moment. He then leaned to rest the wooden mask neatly over Zilzibin's visage.

"There, there. I figured the old guerrilla wits in you would come handy. That and I wager you wouldn't have passed up another chance to quash the spawn of Horen," he added as he adjusted the mask one final time.

"Latz sun-baked folks all look di same ta me," Zilzibin mocked as he raised his arms and flexed his full eidolon form arrogantly.

"Any opportunity to taunt my foes & trade blows is an opportunity I'll gladly take," Zilzibin remembered.

A hagiographic depiction of the Pretenders alongside each other

The Pretenders (diekdikitís) are a collection of lesser deities worshiped by the Cliffian peoples as prominent aspects of various domains within reality. Within this culture, the Pretenders all compete against each other for the ultimate role of Pantokrator. In this sense, the followers of these Pretenders know well the limits of their power, and still admire and respect them as the forces of nature they believe them to be. 

Within the religion of the pretenders, which is spiritualistic at its core, sacrificial offerings, prayers, and the maintenance of temples are key mainstays of practice. It is not uncommon for each Pretender to have its own temple “cult” (a group devoted specifically to that figure above any other) and an entire culture of religious practices unique to them. Though it is also common for the Pretenders to be worshiped as a group, seen as complementing elements that exist within metaphysical tension with one another. Although there are endless amounts of Pretenders within the Cliffian worldview, below are a few of the most popular and recognizable ones who also play a consequential role within the mythos of Pretender faith. 

Kaptos, Pretender of Mighty Storms

(Lesser spirit of Lightning Strikes and Roaring Thunder under Neizdark) 

King of the Pretenders, ruler of the skies, bearer of the Sacred Bolt, master of thunderous power, Kaptos is the most popular Pretender within the pantheon and is widely considered to be its leader. Nicknamed the Father of the Pretenders, Kaptos’s domain stretches from thunderous skies, rainstorms, lightning, and such patterns which reflect his might within the natural world. The mythos of Kaptos dictates that he, alongside Pallas Vellena, his sister, and Neptos, his brother, devised a plan shortly after the birth of creation to reclaim reality from the warring Titans, who are believed to have forged reality from their combined wills. The story claims that Kaptos, with the intelligence and strategy of Vellena, the might of the seas under Neptos, warred against the Titans by unleashing both the elemental order of existence and numerous divine constructs and races, such as giant Bronze automatons and centaurs, nymphs, and daimons, against them in battle. The war lasted for over two decades, with new Pretenders joining the efforts against the Titans with each passing year, until a total of twelve of them had combined forces to overcome them. After the defeat of two Titans brought devastation across the natural world, Gaea forced a ceasefire to be called between the Pretenders and the Titans. Kaptos, with the help of Vellena, forged a contract of terms between the Pretenders and Gaea and the titans with the following conditions: in exchange for ending the war, the Pretenders would be given the right to war among themselves to decide who will gain ultimate dominion over reality as the Pantokrator. The Titans would withdraw from the natural world and into their own realms, with the exception of Gaea and Promeus, the Titan over volcanoes and magma within the Earth, who gave mortals the ability to harness fire and heat to the advancement of civilization. Gaea begrudgingly agreed to these terms but has still found ways to assert the Titan’s influence into the world, specifically through using nymphs and other entities as ambassadors for her will, and acting upon the worshipers of the Pretenders themselves who decide to honor her and her authority. Kaptos emerged from this conflict as a leading figure, and it is said he is the reason why no Pretender has successfully clinched the title of Pantokrator. Even Vellena and Temeres, with their emphasis on war and strategy, have difficulties overcoming the sheer force and dominance that Kaptos possesses on the battlefield. Priests of Kaptos are often called upon to ward off harsh storms or to exact Kaptos’s vengeance upon those who might seek to trifle with them and their nations. Kaptos is often portrayed as a selfish, prideful, and bashful Pretender, seeing others as means to an end, and warring endlessly to claim the title of Pantokrator. 

Helena Katharsios, Pretender of Purification 

(Lesser Spirit of Lawful Purity under Scorthuz)

Lady Helena, sometimes known as Helena the Pure Lawgiver, or the anassa (queen) of Lawful Katharsios, and the Maiden Alexicacus (averter of evil) is one of the most popular figures within the Pretender religion, rivalling even Vellena and Kaptos in the amount of devotees she attracts to her ranks. Helena’s role within Pretender religion is one that concerns purity, in heart, mind, and soul, and therefore constitutes a significant role within the cultures and practices of the adherents of the Pretenders. Purity is seen as an important condition to reach and maintain within the Pretender religion in every respect. The impure, they believe, cannot access the insights or wisdom of the Pretenders, nor can they live in a way that brings about eudaimonia, flourishing, or arete, excellence. This concept explains Helena's popularity. Helena’s might is called upon to cleanse all afflictions of soul and mind, whether brought about through foul magicks, curses, monsters and daimons, or through mundane sources such as poisonings. On the other hand, Helena is often known to afflict the impure and criminals under her Pure Law with debilitating conditions that stop their illegal activities. Exorcisms, cleansings, and purgation rituals almost exclusively invoke Helena and her pure law as the only divine force in the matter. Offerings and prayers are given to her as well before every ritual or religious event honoring the Pretenders to ensure nothing malign attaches itself in the process. Helena’s power is known to even contend with other Pretenders and their actions if and when she sees fit and is asked in a way that is befitting to her status. Helena is believed to represent the necessity of divine law in governing the actions of mortals, such as respect for the Pretenders, an acknowledgment of Gaea and her rules of creation, and basic respect for the laws, customs, and norms of their civilizations and leaders. Thus, Helena is most at ease and appeased when her followers acknowledge both mortal and spiritual laws, and seek to follow them for the correct reasons - and avoid any and all influences of mind, soul, and body that might lead them astray. The ‘pure law,’ which constitutes both the will of Helena as communicated by her priests and intermediaries, and also a general reverence for the spiritual order, is taken seriously within all sects of the Pretender religion and a violation of it is often the first step of invoking Helena’s presence into any given situation. Helena’s priests often act as exorcists, protectors, guides, and cleansers against all violations of the pure law - mortal and otherworldly alike - within their societies. The sacred animal of Helena is the Peacock.

Pallas Vellena, Pretender of Strategy, Warfare, Wisdom, and Invention

(Lesser Spirit of Strategic Invention Under Vulka) 

Pallas Vellena, the mind of Eternity, the Lady of Strategy, she-who-births-mighty-works, and Maiden of Warfare, is a Pretender adored by all order-bound warriors, strategists, tacticians, and inventors within the Pretender faith. She is widely considered one of the most intelligent and wise members of the Pretender pantheon. Contrary to her brother, Temeres, who represents the primality and brutality known to open warfare, Vellena insists that her followers rely on strategy, precision, and technique over brute force or violence in matters of warfare. Practicing and refining the art of warfare is a key tenet of worshiping Vellena. Both the practical strategies offered by Vellena in mythos and teaching, and her alleged influence alongside her followers in conflict, are credited with many victories in battles of many scales, from skirmishes to wars between nations. Followers of Vellena are often military officials, amateur warriors, or clerics who have adopted an aesthetic of warfare. They serve as the minds and defenders of the nations they live in, oftentimes forging mighty inventions and grand strategies in Vellena’s name. Given Vellena’s emphasis on intellectual arete, these individuals tend to have extensive knowledge of many different domains, not just warfare, making them grand wells of knowledge in many subjects. In Pretender mythos, Vellena is credited with the downfall of the Titans (the race of beings credited with forging existence itself), outsmarting the Giants of Stakos, a race of warrior-beings from the underworld who bled into the natural world. And she is also credited with being the only Pretender who has devised means to keep back the might of Temeres and Kaptos from consuming the world during their occasional fits of rage. The sacred animal of Vellena is the owl. 

Neptos, Pretender of the Seas 

(Lesser Spirit of Oceanic Wrath and Protection under Ankrus)

The shaker of the Earth, the might of the Seas, the King of the Tides, Neptos is perhaps one of the most feared names in the entire Pretender pantheon. Respected by seafarers and navies, both his protection and assistance is beckoned when traversing the high seas. Neptos is known to offer favorable winds and gentle tides to those who gain his favor, while surrendering those who offend him to the cruel fate of the seas. Neptos is often visualized wielding a jewel-encrusted trident while standing atop a rock of coral, governing the condition of the seas with unilateral might. He is the brother of Kaptos and one of the principal participants in the overthrow of the Titans and the eventual removal of their influence from the material world. His priests are often sea-fearers who beseech protection for seaside nations and beseech Neptos’s mercies from natural disasters like hurricanes and tsunamis.

Ariena, Pretender of Hunting and the Wild

(Lesser Spirit of Archery Hunting and Taming under Votar)

Often called the great huntress or the Archer-Maiden of the Wilds, Ariena is a beloved Pretender for hunters, outdoorsmen, and pioneers within the faith. She is said to bless the fortunes of those who seek to tame and hunt grand beasts of the wilds, especially if such ventures are undertaken through archery. Pretender mythos dictates that Ariena prefers archery because it was an art she used to bring down the Cyclops Tok, who was feared throughout the lands of Bronze for successfully defeating every hunter who tried to stop him while also destroying entire villages. Ariena’s bow is believed to have fell him with one strategic shot to the eye. His body was then taken and dispersed to every land and nation devastated by him to be used as trophies and a reminder of Ariena’s triumph over even the most fearsome creature of the wilds. Ariena is often invoked when a new settlement is built in untamed land, or just before undergoing dangerous hunts that will involve directly confronting the wildness of Gaea. Ariena is believed to be the only Pretender who can contend with Vellena on the level of tact and strategy, and it is also believed that she has come close to besting Kaptos for the Pantokrator role on more than one occasion. Ariena’s priests are often huntsmen, archers, and explorers who beseech her tact and precision against the untamed wilds of the world. It is said that Ariena abhors untamable predators, and will grant additional assistance to any devout follower who seeks to use her means to bring them to heel. This makes both natural creatures and supernatural ones of grand might, such as Dragons or their descendants (like Azdrazi), daimons (Inferi), popular targets for Ariena’s followers during their divine hunts. 

Apolloyion, Pretender of Sunlight and Creation

(Lesser Spirit of sunrays and daybreak under Aztran)

Apolloyion, sometimes called Apollo for short, the Phoebus (bright shining), King of the Sun, and the Hekatos (far-shooter) of Light, and the Alexicacus (averter of evil) is the Pretender who rules over the Sun, light, and governs day within the mortal world. Apolloyion is said to have the ability to ward off plagues and diseases, expose lies and schemes that occur under darkness, and also give good fortune upon those who receive his smile. Apollo is also said to give visions and signs to those who beseech and honor them, ones that guide the course of fate, fortune, and behavior. Son of the Titan Promeus, Apolloyion established his place among the Pretenders when he slayed the Styxos, a three-headed hydra birthed from the shadows which terrorized numerous villages in the lands of Bronze at night. In Pretender mythos, Apollo received a vision of this beast and its location, and went to the forge of Vellena and stole a golden bow infused with the might of the Pretenders, but unusable to anyone except a specific individual who possessed the arete to harness the creatorial force of the sun at any time. Apollo, given his divine lineage, had such a spark within him. He took the bow and went to a village named Crata during the dead of night, where the moon barely shone, and waited atop a small hut for the arrival of Styxos. Within moments the beast swept in, making its announcement through a faint screech that took the lives of anyone who heard it by petrifying them with fear. The mythos goes on to explain that Apolloyion, in a mighty act of courage, approached Styxos whilst he was briefly distracted and fired his bow at him, unleashing a volley of fifty arrows at Styxos infused with the power of the sun. The beast was felled and the shadows of the night immediately faded, bringing about an era of eternal sunlight over the land where Styxos lay dead. It is said that Apollo’s act on this day gave the sun its supremacy over the lands of Gaea and her natural cycles, and permanently subordinated night to its measure, creating the day-night cycle seen by all today. Daybreak is therefore considered a holy time for followers of Apolloyion. Apollo left Styxos’s corpse to roast in the naked light of the day and took upon himself the title of light-giver and protector. In the modern day, Apollo’s rays bring forth clarity, truth, and ward off even the most fearsome agents of the night. His priests are often protectors and guides of the communities they live in, and Apolloyion’s light is said to bless those who revere him and his example of courage by praying and offering sacrifices to him. 

Apolloyion slaying Styxos and bringing the Sun to rule over darkness.

Temeres, Pretender of War and Conflict

(Lesser spirit of chaotic warring under Enrohk)

The ravager, the father of war, the master of strife, all of these titles encapsulate the reputation of one of the most feared members of the Pretenders pantheon. Temeres, brother of Vellena, is known in Pretender myth for his guttural, brutal, and chaotic approach to conflict. Unlike his sister, who is known for helping armies triumph over their foes through sound planning and witty strategies, Temeres dominates through total warfare and complete destruction, where no standard of decorum, decency, or morality prevents the annihilation of anyone who opposes him or his followers. Temeres was one of the last Pretenders to join the war against the Titans, and the mystery cults connected to him often argue his role in the conflict had more of an effect on the outcome than Vellena, who is often credited with helping Kaptos drive the Titans from the world. In the longstanding rivalry between Vellena and Temeres, Pretender mythos dictates that Vellena’s measured ways have always won against Temeres brutality, creating a slight rivalry between their respective followings. It is widely agreed by both factions, however, that to face a priest or warrior of Temeres on the battlefield is akin to fighting a force of nature: a prepared foe may overcome them, but unprepared or tactically inept forces are bound to viciously be cut down by the Ravager’s wrath. Temeres’s priests are often called in when Vellena’s strategies have failed, or when they are not appropriate for the adversary at hand. Gladiators, champions, and other confrontational warrior types are often included in the ranks of Temeres and his following. Priests of Temeres, in addition to being wielders of brute strength, generally have the ability to call down the Curse of Temeres in battle through a special prayer to the Ravager, which causes a foe’s own passions to consume them and their allies. This curse has ended many battles before they have started, and has even intensified the level of brutality involved in conflicts where Temeres was present, where his enemies tore themselves apart, and then he picked up the pieces at his pleasure. 

Panos - Pretender of the Wilds

(Lesser Spirit of Grand Wilderness under Freygoth)

Whereas Ariena tames the wilds, Panos embodies the fullness of wilderness and its excesses. Known as a being with the head and legs of a goat, with the upper-body of a man, Panos is revered by settlers, outdoorsmen, farmers, shepherds, and admirers of the unrefined parts of the natural order all alike. Brother to Kaptos and largely considered King of the Wilds, Panos is considered an active force within reality, perhaps even moreso than other Pretenders who represent more abstract concepts. Pretender mythos Panos fought in the war against the Titans as a centaur aligned with a cult of Kaptos, one who was elevated to the same divinity of the Pretenders through ritualistic sacrifice, though he was not quite yet a Pretender. One tale claims that during a battle between the Pretenders and the Titans, Panos contributed to Pretender victory by letting out a massive screech and an air shattering sound with his hooves which caused the Titan forces to reel back in fear. After Gaea and the Titans were formally excluded from the world upon their defeat, Panos claimed the title of Pretender of the Wilds, and began to lord over the domains which formerly belonged to the Titans in his own way. Mystery cults, pioneers, farmers, and mountainous villages sprung up in devotion to Panos and were guided by an ethic of rustic simplicity, natural living, and a deep respect for nature. In a sense, Panos fulfilled Gaea’s mandate merely by guiding what was left unguided in her absence. Followers of Panos tend to be quite separate from the rest of Pretender society, preferring the isolation of nature and the beasts of the wilds to more formal examples of civilization. Priests of Panos are entrusted with making well-placed prayers to ward off wild beasts from settlements, and also to ensure the wilds cooperate with activities done to sustain life, such as gathering resources and such. In battle, Panos’s followers are known to make prayers that invoke his power in a way that mimics his legendary screech against the titans. This horrific power is known to cause even the most strong-willed soldiers to flee in utter terror, giving Panos’s priests a reputation for being able to shift battlefields with relative ease. The sacred animal of Panos is the goat. 

Algryines - Pretender of Pain and Wrath

(Lesser spirit under Krathol of Vengeful Suffering)

Wrath and retribution are important features within the religion of the Pretenders and the cultures that worship them. Adherents believe that acts that rebel against the divine order can be punished in many ways, among them being calling upon the curse of the dreaded Algryines. Algryines is a Pretender whose main function is executing vengeance upon the foes of the Pretenders and those who might seek to disrupt the world in its proper functioning. Murderers, for instance, might suffer wounds upon their body and mind from the horror of their act. Committing patricide or matricide, two grave offenses within the culture of the Pretenders, might be met with immense torment and madness to the mind of the offender. A nation that faces the wrath of Algryines might notice its crops die and its vitality fade away. In any case, the priests of Algryines serve a dual function as wrathful executioners of divine order within the world, a strong reminder of the enduring might of the Pretenders. This Pretender is often visualized as a sole woman with discolored skin wearing a dark cloak, or a group of women with a similar appearance walking in unison with one-another, speaking in one voice. 

Terana - Nymph of Gaea

(Lesser Spirit of Rugged Terrain and foliage under Bregthar)

In the cosmology of the Pretender faith, the world is the physical embodiment of a Titaness named Gaea, a being who played a role in shaping the very structure of reality as we know it. These beings, with the exception of a handful, are largely shut off from the world they helped create except through their echoes, enabling the Pretenders to assert dominion over what formerly belonged to the Titans. Terana is one such echo of Gaea, an ancient daimon of terrain and foliage who was entrusted many eons ago with guardianship over the natural world and its various structures. As one of the last enforcers of the will of the Titans and Gaean law, Terana takes her role as protector of the Earth quite seriously, and similarly demands her followers do the same.  In a world sprawling with continued defilements of the Gaean order from runaway nations that carelessly excavate for hollow purposes, to chaotic darkspawn spoiling crops and creating hellish landscapes with foul magicks, the role of Terana and those who heed her wisdom are exceptionally important. Terana and her priests not only work to heal the land of its unnatural wounds, they also seek to prepare the world for the restoration of Gaean natural law,  which is the last major echo of the order of the Titans within reality. To those who are willing to bid her presence, Terana also acts as the will of Gaea herself, capable of bringing the debilitating weight of mountains upon those who might defile it, to trap and bury them in its immense, and lending its strength to others who vow to defend it. For this reason, many priests and priestesses of Pallas Vellena also cooperate with Terana to ground their strategies in the will of Gaea herself and use it to dominate battlefields. The cults of Panos and Ariena are generally indifferent or hostile to Terana worship, viewing her as an agent of the Titans and a potential threat to their control over nature. However there are examples of Panos, Ariena, and Terana cooperating alongside one another to defeat bigger threats to the natural order, leaving open the possibility for situational collaboration between their respective followings.  

BROKEN. FAILURE. ABANDONED.

These words streamed through the mind of Pharaoh Atemu-Ta, who once presided over the revival of Rahmun civilization in the modern world. The Pharaoh considered himself to be the anointed of the Gods, and for a moment, the budding resurgence of the Rah’mun peoples caused him to believe it. Rahtuma went from a lost civilization that had fallen to the ravages of Isfet, to a growing, formidable force within the orcish lands of Krugmar, to its own semi-independent vassalage city beneath the banners of first the dark elves and then the Oyashiamen. In the name of the divine order of Ka’tau, Atemu knew that he waged war against Isfet on many occasions, often to the glorification of Rah’tuma’s name and to the empowerment of the Gods. He brought the influence of Hesthor, the goddess of purity, to bear against the feared ambassador of Azdromoth himself within the mortal world, the An-Gho, and the now-felled Gashaudokoro. He cleansed their lands, waged war against their agents, and contended with them when others who proclaimed the virtue of the spiritualists shirked in fear or indifference.

He cleansed afflictions from across the nations with the waters of Hesthor, brought in the lost and treated them as his own people, and built Rah’tuma as a citadel of order in a corrupt world. He drove back marauders and undead alike with the might of the Gods in his hands. He even came close to convincing a Haenseti noblewoman, who eventually became its Queen, to secretly follow the Rah’mun faith in the form of worshiping Hesthor after demonstrating her healing might over an impure affliction. Surely these were signs of a new dawn not just for the Rah’mun people, but also for the world.

Or so he thought. . .

‘Was it all for naught?’ Atemu considered. At what cost did these great feats happen? His sister, Meret-Pa, died at the hands of the Orcs during his attempted escape from the brutalities of Krugmar. His people were kidnapped and killed on multiple occasions by Orcish raiding parties who sought to exact vengeance upon Atemu for his refusal to follow their ways. His people lost everything twice, and now for a third time, with no clear path to rejuvenation. He could not even protect the shrines of the Rah’mun faith from persistent vandalization and destruction at the hands of those who sought to destroy his project. And most devastatingly, the Pharaoh considers..

His own people, whom he considered the protectors of order within this world, refused to respect him. With very few exceptions, Atemu was not seen as someone worthy of respect, but as a pretender mimicking an aesthetic of spiritualism that was idiosyncratic at best; at worse, a petty tyrant, a cult leader, who was leading a herd of followers to slaughter along with him due to his perceived recklessness.

“What contradictions do I carry?” Atemu asked himself as he wandered the vast wildernesses of Azuras, a Pharaoh no more. “Blessed by the Gods, and yet cursed to the misfortune of a vagrant nomad?” He reflected.

And it was true, shortly before the downfall of Rah’tuma’s second and last city in Almaris, the last remnants of resistance preserving Kemet-Taw, the Rah’mun homeland, from ruins had themselves failed in their mission. There was now truly no place to go for Atemu or his people if their new settlements did not work out. And as fate would have it, they did not. The promise of the Gods to Atemu that he would lead a second Rah’mun Golden Age rang hollow. Isfet consumed the world with the emergence of more foul entities and the shrinking of those who fight for good and truth in the world. Nations of all sorts, formerly mighty, collapsed beneath the weight of a Canonist empire, one with little care of the Gods, Ka’tau, or the mandates of either.

The weight of these revelations continued to bear down upon the Pharaoh as he wandered… And wandered… And wandered…

At some point in his journey he came upon a tree, one fashioned from Sycamore, reminiscent of the gifts of Hesthor to the natural world within Rah’mun mythos and widely praised as a holy tree by his people. With a heave and sigh, Atemu fell to his knees, gripping the Ankh cross around his neck and closing his eyes. He forcibly snatched the Ankh from his neck and threw it at the bottom of the tree, speaking solemnly, yet with conviction.

“I do not know why the Gods have abandoned the world for the ravages of chaos. I do not know why victory was snatched from the grasp of my people, and why prosperity was denied to us. Ra’s smile never dawned upon us for but a moment; Ka’tau’s favor left us, Te’uth’s wisdom eluded us, Hesthor’s purity has forsaken us.” He paused, allowing the silence to hang over the moment like a veil over a maiden’s face. “What I do know, however, is that order persists, whether chaos reigns or slumbers. And so long as there is just one who acknowledges the light of truth and refuses to give way to Isfet, the world has hope yet.” Atemu then turned his back to the tree, leaning on it as he gazed towards the heavens.

“I was not the one to carry the will of Ka’tau into fruition, I know that. And perhaps even the Rah’mun peoples were not the ones. But someone, somewhere, must take the torch and use it to blaze a path anew, for a world where order reigns, darkness is snuffed out, purity is prominent, and lawfulness is expected. If I have any final prayer as I forsake the mantle of Pharaoh,” He said, staring in the direction of the sun, which is believed to be the embodiment of Ra’tuhmet, “May it be this: Do not let the dream of an orderly world die with my people.”

Atemu then rose to his feet and walked in the opposite direction of the tree, burdened by his thoughts and the experiences of ages. The Rah’mun were perhaps not destined to rise again, but maybe some people, somewhere, would pick up where they left off and succeed where they could not. Perhaps someone, somewhere, would remember just how important eternal ideas are even amid the fluctuations of ages. Perhaps someone, somewhere, would not forget that courage is the only kind of strength worth having, because without courage defeat is assured. And perhaps someone, somewhere, would be inspired by the memory of Rah’tuma, its triumphs over Isfet, its defeats and mistakes, and the mere exceptional fact of its existence in the first place.

Perhaps someone, somewhere…

OOC SPOILER: 

OOC: Images of Rah'tuma throughout the years:

 

It had been a few years in the material realm since Gazhnahk dared to dip her toes in the vast cosmos and swim between realities. Far too long, she thought, though she had to get some affairs in order before she could depart once more. She prepared for another journey, grabbing what she needed before secluding herself in her room. There she prepared the rite, a circle of salt with a ring of blood runes running along its inner edge. An equation of symbols devised without a true aim, electing to discover where it would whisk her off to. With the circles prepared, she stepped within, chanting the phrases that were now second nature to the practicing shunter. In a blinding prismatic light of shifting colors, the orc was gone. 

She floated aimlessly in a stream of energy she had conjured outside existence. All around her was white light with hues streaking through it, but just beyond that was endless nothing filled with countless planes. After a time, her feet felt solid ground beneath them as she slowly fell, floating into a new, unknown plane. The orc looked down, seeing polished wooden floorboards beneath her. The light that carried her faded, and the rest of the realm came into view.

It wasn’t a very large plane she landed in, especially compared to others the shunter has traversed to. It was a single rectangular room with a large, eloquently carved wooden rectangular table positioned in the middle, its short ends running perpendicular to the longer walls of the room. Equally eloquent lounge chairs composed of plush red velvet were placed around the table. Behind one end of the table, along the wall, was a stone brick fireplace, crackling with life and flooding the room with a comforting warmth. The opposite had a long sofa made of similar red velvet. Throw pillows and folded blankets were sitting neatly upon it. 

The orc spun in circles, taking in new place. It seemed she found herself in some Victorian-style lounge, though she did not know what the Victorian era was. She was on one end of the long room, behind her a grand double door. In front of her, on the opposite end of the room, was a sort of kitchen area. It was fitted with cupboards and a counter, having a sink, stove, oven, and anything else the elderly man needed. The man currently had his back turned to Gazhnahk, doing something in the kitchen the orc couldn’t quite see. He made no sudden movements, nothing that made it seem like he was aware of the intruder. The Akaal thought this a blessing, hoping it was a prime opportunity to slip away unnoticed. She quickly attempted to exit quietly through the doors positioned behind her. The heavy wooden doors groaned and creaked with age as they were pulled apart, and not daring to glance behind her, the orc stepped out and quickly closed them shut behind her.

Gazhnahk leaned against the doors, her hands pinned against them behind her. She waited for a moment, listening to the movements within. The orc heard silence when she expected a quick pursuit by the home’s dweller. Her attention began to divert from that to what was outside the room. Nothing, well, nothing but a gray fog devoid of any color. It was thick, blanketing everything in sight with its presence. The Akaal went forth, and the lounge began to fade into the fog behind her after just twenty steps. She continued until it completely vanished and continued still. The silence was unbroken; nothing stirred in the surrounding fog. She kept watchful for movement, for life, for anything really. The gray fog was the only thing she encountered as she kept going, that is, until she came upon a structure. She studied it for a moment. It seemed quite similar to the one she had left just moments ago. Carefully, she cracked the door open to peer inside.

The orc was unconvinced by what she had seen, and she quickly slammed the door shut. It was impossible. Not only did it appear the same externally, but internally, even accompanied by the same old man. Had she gotten herself turned around? It was possible with the fog, but she was almost sure she kept herself on a straight path. With no other options, the orc began to trek through the fog once more. It would only take time for her to come across the room again, and it would be the only thing she’d ever manage to find in the dense fog each time she journeyed out from it. And she ventured out many times until finally giving up. She began to grow tired of her aimless wandering and decided to take her chances with the old man inside. 

The orc stepped into the waiting room. The man was sitting at the table, sipping tea from fine china as he read the paper with one leg folded over the other. 

“Given up, have you? Spent longer than most trying, though not as long as some. Come sit, I’ll pour you some tea. The crumpets just finished up, nice and warm.”

Gazhnahk eyed the man as she sat down on the other end of the table. He moved to get up as she sat down. He fixed her up some crumpets and tea, placing them down before her. He slid the butter dish down the table towards her. After, he retook his seat at the other end of the table and resumed reading in silence. She stared at the food before her for a time, and stared at him, not breaking the silence. Her stomach grumbled, the smell of the fresh crumpets making suppressing her hunger difficult. Finally, the orc gave in, buttering her crumpets before digging in, enjoying her tea along with it. As she ate, Gazhnahk finally decided to speak up.

“What is this place?”

“Ahhhh.. It can speak. I was beginning to wonder.”

“Don’t call me an it.” She growled.

“My apologies, miss.. It’s just.. You look quite different from the other travelers who come through here.”

“And do you get many? Travelers that is.” She questioned before taking another bite of her crumpet.

“Many happen upon my humble abode. This is a lounge of sorts, and I’m its caretaker. This place exists as a rest stop, not bound to any single place.” 

He pointed to the wall behind him, to a spot where the wallpaper thinned and tore. Gazhnahk rose from her seat and walked over to investigate, peering out from the crack. She had expected the same gray fog that lay on the other side of the doors, but instead she saw a vast emptiness, home to only distant glittering stars dotting the landscape. The shunter had seen the laws of reality defiled many times over; she knew the vast planes did not play the same games she was used to, but even to her, this room was perplexing. 

“So, what is this place?”

“I just answered, a break room.”

“Yeah, got that. But why, for what?”

“Well then, should have specified that.”

“Okay…… you gonna answer?”

Silence was the only response he gave, flipping his paper to the next page.

“Well then… can you tell me your name?”

More silence. The elderly man ignored her questions. He noticed she had finished her tea, though, and when he parted his lips for a brief moment, Gazhnahk held hope her questions would be answered.

“More tea?”

Gazhnahk’s brows furrowed as her eyes narrowed, glaring at the man. He offered an innocent expression in return, his brows perked up.

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

“You ignored my questions, but offered me tea.”

He nodded, “Mhm.”

Gazhnahk let out a deep sigh, calming herself. “Sure, more tea.”

And so the old man poured her more tea, and Gazhnahk went on to ask her questions. She spent hours trying to probe his mind for answers, but every question was met with the same answer: silence. The only time he ever spoke up was to offer her more tea or crumpets, which she usually accepted. After a while of feeling defeated and like she was talking to a brick wall, the orc went on to study the new space herself. She produced her journal, taking notes and jotting down sketches. 

Journal Excerpt 

Who built this place? Or would asking why be a better question? I would definitely like to know how that’s assured. It’s unlike anything else I’ve encountered. Through the cracks, I can see an endless void like the night sky, but through the door is endless fog. The door seems to lead to an entirely different realm, or is it beyond the walls that another plane lies? It’s hard to tell, and the old man who lives here is most unhelpful. He doesn’t seem hostile for the time being, just offering tea and crumpets. I’ve tried to explore the fog, but anytime I wander out in any direction, I get led back to this room. I might stay awhile and try to learn more, but this plane is definitely one to return to.

She spent a while pacing around the room and examining every aspect, and even longer trying to explore the fog to no end. After a few hours wasted, she returned to her seat at the table, writing down in her book while sipping tea.

“What you got there?”

“Oh, so I can’t ask questions, but you can?”

He shrugged, “You don’t need to answer.” He looked away, returning to his reading.

Gazhnahk grumbled, growing annoyed. He’s messing with her, she thought. But perhaps playing along will provide answers to her own questions.

“A journal.” 

“Oh, so like a diary? You write your day to day, that it?”

“No. This I use to take notes.”

“Of what?”

“Three questions, you’ve asked three questions but still haven’t given any answers.”

“Look mate, I said you don’t gotta answer. So either answer or stop complaining.”

She grumbled even more, “Notes of realms. I’ve visited other places much the same way I visited here.”

“Oh, so you just randomly go around and take notes?”

“I like to learn.”

“You like to learn? Reading a book too hard for you, hm?”

Gazhnahk gritted her teeth, “I’ve read countless books. I’ve existed for a long time, and in my youth, that’s all I did. I spent countless years huddled in expansive libraries, pulling every tome off the shelves to read. Besides, why read a book when you can pen one yourself? Ever since I could remember, I’ve had a need to learn more. I’ve always known knowledge was an addiction of mine, but are all vices bad?”

“And if those vices get you killed? How far will you be willing to chase knowledge? Would you follow it even to your death? You upset great forces with your recklessness.”

“What do you mean?”

The Akaal should have known, but it still annoyed her all the same. Her question was answered like any other, with silence. She stood up and began searching the man’s cabinets, finding a container of salt and taking it.

“Not gonna ask? What if I need that salt?”

“Thought about it, assumed you would ignore me, though.”

“Touché,” he chuckled, his eyes never leaving his paper.

With that, Gazhnahk prepared another rite, not one to return home, no, she intended to go further out into the cosmos. Without a goodbye to the old man, the orc left Betwyxt and went off, traversing between realities to a new realm.

Her new surroundings were vast, far different from the place she had just left. A plane that stretched endlessly as far as the eye could see, but whether it held more to offer was still unknown. It was a large realm, yes, but all she saw were pillars and archways of stone. Stairs that led up to nowhere, or half-built rooms with one or two walls. It seemed like a maze of half-completed stone masonry. 

The same questions came to her that she wondered every time she shunted to a new realm. Who and why? The orc began to wander, examining the stone. Ancient runes were carved into their surface. The orc drew the symbols in her book along with other sketches of the plane, continuously taking notes as she walked. She never grew bored as she explored, no matter how boring it truly was. She wasn’t entirely sure why at this point, but with each page filled, the desire to fill the next grew exponentially. 

The Akaal travelled for a while, finding only more stone structures. The orc didn’t even come across a single blade of grass. She was walking down a stone corridor when she heard movement behind her. Suddenly, the orc was aware she was not alone. Movements became more hurried and rushed as she anxiously tried to distance herself. She was about to cross an archway that led into a path when suddenly the door was blocked off. 

A large serpent whose head dwarfed the orc slid past, its wet, glowing orange eye staring into Gazhnahk as it moved past. Its body was composed of purple scales broken up by patches of nebula that seemed vast and endless when peering into. There were very few things that could strike fear into every nerve of her being at a mere glance, and a giant serpent was one of them. She spun on her heels, turning around and breaking out into a sprint heading in the opposite direction. Again, she was cut off by the snake. Left, she turned left, sprinting off in a new direction. Her efforts proved fruitless as the serpent turned down the path she was on, crawling towards her in the opposite direction that she was running in. 

The orc turned around again, but running the way she came proved impossible as the snake had begun coiling around her and had started closing in. She was trapped. She pulled her shield and spear free from her back, turning to face the serpent head-on.

The snake raised its head higher in the air to stare down at the small orc it had encased. Its long purple tongue flickered out as it studied her. Gazhahk remained where she stood, staring at the great beast frozen. She willed her body to move, but it disobeyed. It did not listen to her commands when faced with overwhelming fear.

“Little bug.”

The serpent did not move its jaw to speak, but Gazhnahk heard its voice in her head all the same. It was loud, echoing as if being spoken from a deep cavern. The orc’s legs wobbled, the bone inside feeling like jelly. She fell to her knees, staring up at the creature. Her fate was now in its hands.

“You thought yourself something. Thought yourself something grand. To call you an ant would inflate your ego even further, your less than that. You meddle with forces you cannot begin to understand, and annoy beings beyond your comprehension. I could devour you whole. At least you will know you had some value.. In being my snack.”

Gazhnahk remained motionless on her knees. She knew she could not fight back. Even if this massive snake was ordinary, it would take more than just her, and she could easily tell it was far from ordinary. She did not want to beg for her life either. She knew the risks involved, and she would not dishonor herself in her final moments.

“Hmmm… I was hoping you’d plead for your life.” The bodiless voice carried a tone of disappointment. “No matter… death would be too kind a fate, anyway. No one learns a lesson by dying. If you give me what you value most, I will let you struggle for survival. I can already sense your greatest desire, so don’t try tricking me..”

The Akaal stared at the snake, her mind racing. Every word it spoke hung in her mind like a whisper. What she values most? And it already knows? Does she even know what it seeks?

“Go on, I’ll give you a moment to ponder it over.” It snickered

She took more than a moment, considering every possibility. The more she thought about it, the more uneasy she grew, as she already knew the answer. She just did not want to give it up. What she had valued most her entire life was simple. Her greatest desire was to learn. She enjoyed observing. It was what she spent her entire existence doing. 

“Ahhh, yes… There it is, the face of recognition. Recognizing that you're out of options. That you’re out of luck.

“No…” She croaked weakly.

“Yesss” It hissed, “Pluck them out and set them on the ground, do so, and you can live your meaningless existence.”

Ordinarily, such a fate would only be a minor inconvenience to the mastered alchemist. She had done it so many times now that she could likely graft new eyes while blind. That wasn’t the issue. She would be stranded in this other plane, and without her eyes finding the link back would be harder. Not only that, it was possible that this snake was not the sole inhibitor. But what choice did she have? Even a wild animal would gnaw its own limb off to save its body. The orc began to undo the gauntlets she wore. 

“Yesss, that’s it, go on.”

The orc set the gloves down and pinched her fingers together before bringing them to her eye, using her other hand to force her eyelids open. She hesitated, struggling to bring herself to commit. She becomes unaware of time passing in that moment. All she senses is her unsteady breathing, the way her fingers shake nervously, the pit of anxiety swelling in her gut. 

Then she plunged her own fingers into her eye socket, deciding to treat it like a band-aid and do her best to get it over quickly. The agonizing pain she felt almost caused her to pass out, letting out blood-curdling screams as she worked. She wanted nothing more than to pull her fingers free, but she knew it would not be over if she did. It would just mean trying again and again, which would only be more painful. She yanked, and with a squelch pulled one eye free. Then she moved on to the other, removing both and setting them down. Blood poured down her cheeks from her hollow sockets. Her hands were shaking, but she brought them to cup her face and seal the wounds close with scabs.

“You will go on to live another day, little bug, but it is only a matter of time before you're squashed.”

Instinctively, the orc searched for the voice. But she could see no longer. If she still had eyes to cry, she might’ve, but only streaks of red ran down her cheeks. She used her spear to help her stand and used it further to guide her way. She had to get out of here, but she didn’t know how. She had not told anyone she was leaving, and no one was coming for her. She was alone, and without her eyes, she felt helpless. 

The quiet realm was suddenly less quiet. Gazhnahk could hear creatures move around her. They hid while she could see, but a blind animal was easy prey for them. It was difficult to get around without sight. She was given no time to adjust to it before having to fight to live. Thankfully, having explored the land before losing her eyes gave her some idea while traversing, though its help only went so far. She did not know how long she had been there, how much time had passed, but she was exhausted. She never dared to stay in one spot for long, and when she did, it was only ever to sleep for a few hours at most.

She was never left at ease, though, constantly hearing noises. Perhaps it was just her mind playing tricks on her now that she could not see, but she couldn’t take the chance. She had given up her eyes for a chance at living; she couldn’t let it be for nothing. But perhaps she should. Perhaps she should have given up and let the snake eat her. At the very least, it would have been a quick death. Now it was going to be a slow and painful one. Physically, she felt like she was in hell, but mentally, she felt worse. 

She wanted to get out of here. She needed to get out of here. Desperately, more than anything, she wanted her sight. She wanted to see again. Being blind was a fate worse than death, and she knew that now. Those were her thoughts as she tried to find sleep hidden in the nook of a stone structure. She did not worship any deity, but she silently pleaded all the same, praying to the cosmos for help. 

To the people of the Empire:

You are slaves, you are being held not by force, but by sloth. You are not safe, to the Empire, you are only a means to produce war money, so that their battles may continue, and your sons, daughters, fathers, and mothers may die for a meaningless cause.

You wonder about the bombs, about how a group who consists of freedom fighters could do such an act. Let me tell you, we are not the only ones who can bomb your cities, attack your farms, for far worse things lie out in the wastes than us.

Rebel

Do not die for uncaring, sycophantic bureaucrats. 

Rebel

Vassals of the Empire, do not pay your taxes, push back against the far away government, they do not want you to think.

Do better for your civilians.

Rebel

Warriors, your artillery does not care about you, they can't see you bleeding on the ground.

Rebel

Your rich leaders grow richer as you are dying in the sand

Rebel

You can't hide in your foxhole soldier, we will sniff you out with dogs, poor soldier

Rebel

Rebel

Rebel

This post contains descriptions of violence and gore that some may find disturbing. Please avoid if such topics make you uncomfortable; reader discretion is advised.

The Besieged Lands | Turmoil

Which was the first gore pit he had seen?

Was it the one hidden away beneath the village? 

The minuscule one in that summer home Francoise had come into possession of? 

Hallowcliffe?

The lair hidden beneath the Aaunish vassal?

He recalled the rivulets of blood in the walls beneath Belvedere, but had one been there too?

All parts of distant memories, such facets of which he had some trouble putting into chronological order.

Still, such sights were nothing new to him; he had braved them before.

… If anything, there may have been times where he had not really needed to ‘brave’ them. Frequent enough exposure meant some grim level of tolerance to them.

It was not comfort, he knew. No, they had always made him uneasy to at least some level, and he was never eager to be in their proximity. It was rather some degree of… unperturbedness, that he found himself possessing. Hardiness towards them, maybe.

He had believed that such hardiness would serve him well, here, and immunize him against that which he saw. 

That was a fallacy.

The pits were wounds in the earth itself - pulsating, writhing walls of raw flesh, blood, tissue, bone, and other bodily compositions, lining holes that stretch down to some grim floor. Horrid sights, but impersonal ones. One could imagine hapless victims being tossed in and torn apart, but unless one actually saw such, that was all it could be; imagination. They were more shock and awe than anything, he reckoned.

This, though, was different.

It was not gore pits he found himself surrounded by. No nameless, faceless, soulless conjurations of flesh to scare him off.

No. These were corpses. Hundreds of them, scattered about the city’s desolate ruins. Real people, with names, faces, lives. There was no peace to be rationalized, no potential to impersonalize this. It was not some foul manifestation of the hells. It was real. 

Some corpses were adorned in armor, and lay on the ground alongside demonic ilk whom they had felled in their last moments. These were the ones who had perished fighting. Compared to others, this was a “merciful” ending, and likely the preferred one all things considered. The torment etched on the faces of others spoke volumes. Glazed eyes of heads absent their jaws mounted on spikes. Entrails and intestines of a bisected woman splayed across the ground.  Some scattered patches of viscera told stories of unfortunate individuals set upon by packs of imps and lesser demonic beasts, their talons and fangs digging into flesh and tearing them limb from limb. Other bodies had been partially consumed, portions missing with only marks of claw and teeth to suggest what had occurred.

It was not all mindless slaughter. Some was disturbingly mindful.

Innards of a man split apart were arranged in some foul pattern in between his torso and legs. In the smoldering ruins of a building, strung up in the framework which still stood, bodies were strung up, their faces flayed away, with cores split and ribs wrenched to face outwards. The bruises about the wrists that bound such wicked cadavers up suggested struggle had been involved in the display. Entire groups of bodies with flesh woven together and hung from one street side to another, akin to some horrid tapestry.

These were living souls who had lived, fought, struggled, and died. 

Horrifically.

He had imagined a realm set upon by the hells, and he had found one.

By a stroke of luck, his initial location had been one some distance from the city, yet to be beset upon by the Infernal hordes. The clouds of ash and sight of fire in the distance had been plenty to set him upon his course. The closer he drew, though, the worse it was.

The sky was darkened by smoke, the light of the sun replaced by fires both mundane and hellish. The air was horrid, a mixture of fire, death, blood, and battle. His eyes stung and watered, and even through a purifier his breathing was labored. The other senses were more than enough to inform him of what the air there was, and so he struggled to do anything but suffer from it.

Remains lined the streets he walked. Aside from the manner of their deaths, though, he noticed something. Humans, elves, orcs, and dwarves, of all ages and appearances. In a realm such as this, there was little room for wars of politics and division. Instead, there was the desire solely to persist, to survive. All seemed to be united in this, against the greater force which threatened them all equally. 

Perhaps not eagerly, he thought, but united all the same.

. . .

Not that it did much good.

These corpses were not the ones he sought, though.

No, there would be some. There had to be some.

Some idiots, surely, would have taken some deal, and damned themselves.

So surely there must be some here, somewhere…

He pressed on, further into the ruins. The few demons who remained were but minor beasts nibbling at scraps, most with enough instinct to avoid the man. For the few that were not and dared to try their luck, a couple strikes from a sword were more than sufficient to send them back from whence they came.

He forced himself to keep a slow pace; he had to give a once over to every corpse, from the horridly maimed ones to the massed piles of them. Such was a necessity of his search, macabre as it was.

In time, he found himself in a square. The market stalls, ornate buildings, and general planning belayed that this was once a place of commerce, gathering, of central activity to the community it had serviced. Now, though, it was defiled. Towers of the dead lay about, reaching heights that rivaled the buildings such souls had been plucked from. 

In the center of the square, beneath a tree which had once served as a centerpiece for the place of gathering but had since been warped and rendered into some foul corruption of flora by the invading forces, he found them.

Some were impaled upon the tree itself. Others hung from its now-leafless branches, like morbid decorations left to commemorate the occasion.

They had been left in a variety of states. Some were horribly mangled and barely recognizable as something once humanoid - bones broken and snapped haphazardly, gored to extremity, as if dissected by the hands of some brute, and the shell that once contained their insides left to dry like leather. Others were less brutalized, and far more recognizable, all their inborn deformities and alterations plain to see even in death.

At the foot of the tree, one in particular caught his eye, one which was different from all the others.

Rods of hellsteel had pierced his hands and legs, pinning him to the ground akin to an animal pinned to a dissection board. His core had then been cut, cleanly; enough care had been paid to the entirely of this effort to be disturbing. His skin, odd colored and scaly, had then been peeled away, and likewise pinned to the ground. Innards, bowels, bones, intestines - all removed entirely from his torso. At the bottom of what was now a fleshy basin absent its usual contents, runes were scrawled in glowing Ilzakarn. His gore was not far gone; it was set up in an elaborate arrangement around the body. It was a pentacle, formed from this unfortunate soul, with what remained of his body at the center. The face remained in one piece, but was forever twisted into a haunting expression. 

Agony.

An offering to the Lords of Moz Strimoza.

He had found the example that he was looking for.

- THE SANDSWORN

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Trash, Everywhere.

Rats in the Landfill by Enthuziast

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The pungent stench of rot hung heavy in the air, blanketing everything in sight and making escape nigh impossible. Barren hills and scarce plains made up the landscape as Gazhnahk trotted through the realm. As far as the eye could see, piles of trash covered the land. Gazhnahk wondered where it all came from. Whose trash was this? Not even all the descendants on Azuras could produce this much.

This world lacked foliage. The plants that did exist were mostly dead. Instead of vibrant green grass, she trekked through dirt, gravel, and, unfortunately, trash.

As she wandered, she took out her journal, jotting down small descriptions and notes. Even though she thought it was mostly useless, she sketched some of the landscape and trash piles. She occasionally rifled through these heaps of garbage in hopes of finding something useful. The Akaal pocketed some trinkets along her journey, but nothing of particular value.

Her nose wrinkled from the stench, and glass crunched beneath her feet as she made her way through hills of junk. Suddenly, she heard scrap being shuffled around and tin clacking against more tin. Quickly, she lowered herself and began moving with greater care. In the near distance, she heard muffled voices. The closer she got, the easier it became to make out what they were saying.

“It’s only been a few hours. Let’s give it more time,” one deep voice spoke.

“Yeah, a few hours of nothing. We got everything good from these piles days ago. Why do you keep insisting on searching them?” another scruffy voice replied.

Quietly, Gazhnahk approached, using the trash to obscure herself from sight. What she saw were two thin, dirty men wearing clothing and makeshift armor sewn together from whatever they could find. They were both bent over with their arms deep in different adjacent piles of rubbish, scavenging for what they could.

“You always want to call it too early, Helkur.”

Helkur let out a scoff. “I do not!”

Finally, she decided to make her presence known. Slowly, she stood and approached, her heavy footsteps thudding against the ground like falling stone. Both men snapped to attention, standing straight and turning toward Gazhnahk. They pulled out their weapons, though describing them as such was generous. Helkur carried a shield made from what appeared to be a tin trash lid, as well as a baton taped and welded together. The other, still nameless, carried a hook blade that had been sharpened, though poorly.

“What are you?” the first questioned.

 “Some sort of mutated freak?” Helkur added.

She held her hands up, hoping to gesture peace as she took a few paces back.

“Easy. I come in peace. I can answer your questions, but I have some of my own.” She spoke in common instead of her usual dialect, doubting their ability to understand it.

“Yeah? You come in peace? That’s cool,” the first said with a chuckle.

“But what if we don’t? How about instead you answer our questions, and we don’t tell you anything?” Helkur then asked.

“Yeah, answer our questions. And give us your stuff,” the first added.

“Ooh yeah, she looks like she has some good stuff,” Helkur whispered loudly. “Give us your stuff,” he said now to Gazhnahk with a nod.

The orc let out a sigh. She had hoped to learn from the inhabitants of this land, not kill them. Her helm was donned, and her spear loosened free. The shaft sank slightly into the soft earth as she leaned on the weapon.

“I’m sure my belongings far surpass anything you’ve ever found in this dump, so what makes you think you’ll be capable of defeating me? This is your last chance to stand down. I don’t want to kill you.”

“Us? You want us to stand down? Do you know what group we run wit-”

The first one had clearly not finished speaking when she interjected. “No, and I don’t care. You will die by my hand here if you try to rob me, but it does not need to end this way.” Her grip on her spear tightened as she eyed them cautiously.

Helkur spoke up now. “I like the idea of killing you and taking all your stuff far better now!”

She had wanted to ask more about who that was, but it seemed she would not get her chance. Helkur rushed toward her and raised his tin bat before bringing it down on her head. The other flanked her, running around her side to get behind her. With his hook blade, he swung, attempting to pierce her side. Both hits struck true, but Gazhnahk did not react. They collided harmlessly against her magical armor.

Swiftly, she drove her spear through Helkur’s stomach, but even as she stabbed him, she did not stop plunging the weapon deeper. She stared into his eyes as they grew wide with shock. He let out a pained gasp before being lifted from the ground, still skewered on her spear. Her strength was otherworldly to them. Helkur’s feet dangled around as the orc shook him on the tip of her spear before she hurled him across the junkyard.

She turned to face the other man, who was already backing away in fear.

“Y-you’re truly some monster…”

The man hesitated only a moment before running, abandoning his friend in the face of death. He ran and ran, his eyes fixed forward. Safety was so close he was almost out of sight. The scavenger did not hear the uruk’s heavy footsteps giving chase, and with his eyes focused on what was in front of him, he did not see the uruk preparing to throw her spear. 

The man felt a sudden, agonizing, stinging pain spread through his leg, stemming from his knee. It felt as if his leg were burning within, as if his veins were ablaze. His eyes dropped down, and that’s when he saw the orc’s horrible, blighted spear impaled straight through his kneecap. Gazhnahk’s attention left him for now, returning to Helkur, who was bleeding out in a heaping pile of cans, bottles, garbage bags, and assorted trash. 

Helkur watched helplessly as the orc stalked closer, resting against the hill of junk, unable to will his body to move. The only thing he was able to do was feel the pool of his own blood grow beneath him and groan in silent suffering. The orc picked Helkur up and slammed him against the dirt; there was a crunching of plastic as he flattened a bottle beneath him. In one swift motion, the orc brought her foot high up in the air before slamming it down against his skull, her substantial weight colliding with him like a boulder and ending him off in a single brutalizing blow. 

Gazhnahk turned to look at the man with her spear still lodged in his leg. He was crawling away with his blood trailing after him, his fingers scraping through the dirt in desperation to get further from her. She was slow, meandering after him, drawing out his remaining moments. As she reached him, she gripped her spear and pulled it free. The unnamed scavenger screamed as she did, but she quickly silenced him by putting her spear through his head.

It had not even been a day, yet Gazhnahk had already killed two residents of this plane. The Akaal ripped her spear free from the now corpse, wiping it clean.

Was this the unfortunate result of her meddling?

Should she not have come?

No. She came to observe. She was peaceful. She did everything right.

She was right.

She was just trying to do her job. They chose to attack her. They gave her no other option.

It was their fault, not hers.

Gazhnahk put away her spear before pulling out her journal. She began writing about what happened, noting that there were locals here. She studied the remains, flipping them over so they were on their backs. Upon closer inspection, their skin was stretched tight over their bones, clearly malnourished. They both bore a similar symbol on their armor, a rune of sorts. She decided to sketch both this and their weapons and armor, labeling different sections of the latter on what she believed composed them.

The sun had dipped below the horizon; the orc continued to journey through fields of litter for a while without coming upon anything notable. She did not know how long she had walked, just that her feet were growing sore and her muscles began to tense and spasm occasionally. Gazhnahk had come to use her spear as a walking staff at some point during her travels, though it did little to help the increasing fatigue. As she reached the top of a hill, Gazhnahk spotted, in the distance, a barely standing, run-down village. About fifteen huts, poorly put together from rusted metal and scavenged trash.

The Akaal stood for a moment at the top of the hill, gazing down at the village. Before pulling out her journal, she stabbed the spear she held into the ground. She dedicated an entire page to the sketch as she began drawing the village. Once finished, she slid the journal away again before grabbing her spear and continuing toward the village.

With little caution, the orc approached a home. The earlier events made her no longer fear the inhabitants of this plane. There came a rasping of metal against metal as she knocked on what she assumed was the door. The metal sheet shuffled as it was slid slightly to the side; this door was not on any hinges but simply rested against the house.

It was a woman who had opened up. Her face looked gaunt, and her hair was thinning. Her clothes were filthy rags stitched together, and she was covered in dirt. Gazhnahk saw the fear quickly growing in the woman’s eyes.

“I come in peace,” she blurted out before the woman could speak. “I don’t mean to bring you harm.”

Her distrust was clear; her eyes glanced toward the spear Gazhnahk still gripped tightly.

“Then why the weapon? What are you?”

“I have traveled for a long time. My legs ache, but my spear aided me as a walking staff. I wasn’t trying to threaten you,” Gazhnahk responded, putting her spear away in the process. “I am a traveler who came here from a different world; I know I look different, but I promise we are much more similar than you think. Please, I am exhausted. I just want to rest, just for tonight.”

“How can I trust you?”

“I can leave my weapons outside if that brings you more comfort.”

She hesitated, but then the woman slowly nodded. She slid the makeshift door further to the side before stepping deeper into the hut. Gazhnahk kept true to her word, putting her weapons down against the hut. Theft was not a concern of hers; her weapons bore excessive magical weight that made picking them up difficult even for humans back home, and these creatures were definitely not even close in strength to them.

The tall orc had to bend her knees to enter the hut constructed for a much shorter person. As she entered, she slid the door back into place. She looked around the single-room den. She had seen goblins with larger living quarters than this. The ground was the same dirt as outside; the hut had no floor. In the corner, a small fire sat, illuminating the place, with a dented and rusted pot simmering on top. Gazhnahk called it a fire, but it was mostly glowing pieces of burnt wood with a dying flame. Stained rugs lay piled in another corner.

She had to stay crouched to avoid bumping her head against the roof, deciding to sit down and rest her back against the wall. It creaked slightly, not used to supporting weight like hers, though it held for now.

The woman did not live alone. Within the rugs, two beady eyes stared at Gazhnahk.

“That’s Sofia. Your appearance is probably scaring her,” the woman said, noticing Gazhnahk’s attention being drawn to the rugs.

“I’ve gotten that before.” She stared at the pair of eyes before turning to face the mother. “I’m willing to tell you about myself and what I am, but in turn I want to know of this realm and of you.”

And so that’s what she did. She learned the woman’s name was Helen, and Helen offered her a bowl of the soup she had cooked. Gazhnahk declined after getting a whiff of the stew, which smelled absolutely rancid. The orc decided not to tell the two of the jerky she carried in her pouch as the mother and daughter ate their meal. They ate from old tin dishes, simply drinking from them since they had no utensils.

Gazhnahk told them of herself as they ate, though she was less than truthful. She spun a long tale about how she had come from a place where everyone looked like her, and then, randomly, one day she woke up here, both unsure how she had ended up here and unsure how to get back. They seemed to relax the more she talked and told them about herself.

From them, she learned more about the place she had traveled to. The orc learned that the entire realm looked like what she had seen all day, a wasteland of landfills. The inhabitants were forced to scrounge through trash all day to find food and survive. They told her about a clan of scavengers based not far from this village. The scavengers would often come to take from the residents of this town and other nearby settlements.

Gazhnahk wondered the point. Why fight to live in a place like this? Why have children to carry on the cycle? What was the point of their continued existence?

She also learned who led them: a Sarrim Durahd. The orc produced her journal and flipped to the page with the rune on it, asking them about it. It was Durahd’s crest. Helen questioned where she had seen it, and another lie was told. She created another tale about how she had run into two men who bore the crest, how they had tried to take all of her belongings, but she convinced them to walk away with a few trinkets of hers as trophies.

“But you look so strong, though…” Sofia commented.

“I am. That is why I was able to talk them down.”

“But why not just scare them away?”

“Sometimes meeting on a mutual ground is easier. It avoids headaches later down the line.”

“If you’re so strong, can you help us? Please?”

Gazhnahk looked at Helen during Sofia’s plea. She had hoped she would chastise her daughter, but she only added fuel to the flame.

“Durahd’s clan terrorizes us, and not just the people of this village, but so many others. Please… You look like you can help us.”

Gazhnahk shook her head. It was not her place to involve herself, to disrupt the order of other realms. Her duty was that of an observer: to watch and learn. Besides, what would be the point? She didn’t owe them anything, and another group would eventually come to fill the void she would create.

“I’ll think about it… That’s a lot that you’re both asking for.” Another lie. Gazhnahk had no intention of helping.

“That’s all we can ask for, I suppose. Thank you.”

“It is I who should be thanking you.”

A few hours passed as Helen and Gazhnahk continued to chat. Sofia had fallen asleep after only an hour or two, curling herself up in a rug. Helen handed Gazhnahk her own rug to sleep in before wrapping herself up and heading to bed. They slept in rugs like beggars, Gazhnahk thought, lying down with a rug on top of her, no different from them. Her exhaustion had made her indifferent to the matter. The comfort of closing her tired eyes was the only thing that mattered to her now.

Sleep was never easy for Gazhnahk, and tonight was no different. She was running through a cave, a large basilisk slithering close behind her. The nightmare caused cold sweat to soak the earth beneath her. Ever closer the basilisk got with each step the orc took. Even though she sprinted as fast as she could, the snake crawled along the ground more quickly. As it drew near, it opened its wide maw before chomping down on Gazhnahk. The Akaal’s eyes snapped open. 

Nightmares were not something new to her, but that did not make them any less unpleasant. Before she could even properly register what she had dreamt, her mind began to register something else she saw. It was Helen looming over the orc with a rusty blade, being brought closer to the orc’s neck. This brought Gazhnahk out of her slumber like ice-cold water being poured on her. She wrapped her hand around Helen’s twig-like wrist and yanked her away while squeezing tightly. An underfed woman was easy for the orc to outmatch in a contest of strength. Gazhnahk hurriedly began to get up while maintaining her hold on Helen. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Gazhnahk shouted in a rage.

Helen let go of the blade and let it fall to the ground as the orc squeezed her wrist. She remained kneeling at the uruk’s feet and began to sob.

“Please, I’m sorry… I just needed your things for my daughter, I’m begging, don’t hurt me.. She’s starving, and I could’ve gotten food… please, I’m sorry.. It was for her- think of her-”

“Don’t try to use your kid to justify your wrongdoings.” Gazhnahk squeezed harder on her wrist, “You’d be lucky if all I did was hurt you.”

Then, just for the briefest moment, Gazhnahk paused as the woman continued to sob. It took only a moment for the orc to feel a degree of pity and empathy as her eyes looked up and glimpsed Sofia. In the corner, she hid beneath rugs, silently watching, stilled by fear.

“Thank her, for she is the only reason you will go on to continue living out your miserable existence.” 

The Akaal threw the woman to the ground, who remained a sobbing, disheveled mess as Gazhnahk gathered her belongings, including her weapons from outside, and headed off. It was dawn when the orc set out once more. She had decided she had her fill of this dump as she logged what she learned from Helen in her journal, though she would come back to learn more one day. As the Akaal prepared to set off into the depths of the cosmos again, she ‌hoped it would offer more than trash.

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They are watching.

This, he knows. He can feel their eyes on him. Distant eyes, peering at him through the trees and mists. He knows not what they are - but, he feels, he knows their nature, their disposition, their intent.

It is not solely them, though, which gives him pause. Another set of eyes watches him. Not of this place, not like those he can see. No, this set is of some different being, of no home nor place of origin. Something else. Something dangerous.

A l è a

I cannot remain here for long.

He was unsure how much time he had spent here already.  An infinite expanse of reflective, gray water lay in all directions, with a sky of yellow-white above. It seemed entirely undisturbed save for when he took a step. Ripples rolled out from his greaves and cloak which floated atop the water as it trailed behind. His trudging across the plane was the sole sound in a sea of silence, water sloshing with each step and sending quiet reverberations off into the distance. Nothing came in turn. A desolate, barren place, so it would seem. 

At first, it had seemed he was alone entirely. There was no sign of other disturbance in this place of emptiness. It was an uncanny thing, but still novel enough to spur him to walk, in hopes of a clearing of the mind. Alone with his thoughts, yet hoping to drive them away, he stepped through the shallows.

When he first came upon the trees, despondent and pitiful looking, they did not draw his attention. Simply something to break up the monotony, with little of interest to them. Until he noticed.

The first sign; at some point, by chance or fate, perhaps due to luck or owed to weariness of such an alien place, he happened to glance down. He noticed, then, movement atop the water. Not his own ripples. Others. Tiny waves, barely perceptible, rolling in from distances unknown, lapping against the plate he wore as he came to a standstill.

He was not alone.

It seemed this was no place of true respite.

He continued onwards, albeit with far more attention paid to his surroundings. Gradually, as time passed and the sky above darkened towards a grim gray, their presence became more apparent.

Tall, spindly, skeletal-esque creatures crept through the trees in the distance, further concealed by a light mist that seemed to permeate the area. Their stilt-like appendages served them well for doing little to disturb the water, and were nearly enough to keep them discrete. They crept and prowled about with movements that seemed simultaneously slow and jerked, caught up in their own focuses - until they noticed him. The longer he walked, the more he felt their attention turn towards him. How many eyes were upon him? Tens? Hundreds? Thousands? He was unsure. The sensation ebbed and flowed like the ripples they all sent across the water covering the realm. He was not dismayed, though. He was well armed, capable, self-assured. He had fought things more horrid than such creatures, unnerving as they were.

Then, the second sign. A different one, one he could tell was foreign to such a place.

The air there was stagnant, unmoving beyond the terse breathing and small shifts he and the stalkers of the realm caused. As little movement as there was upon the water, there was even less in the air. It was for this reason that a gentle thing froze him up. 

A faint breeze passed by.

The lifeless tree branches, having sat unmoving since time immemorial, rustled. It kissed his armor from behind, just enough to pass through the gaps and be felt upon the skin. Hairs stood up on the back of his neck, and goosebumps ran across his entirety. Even the stalkers seemed to take note of it, their eyes shifting away from him and towards the direction from which he had come. It was then that he felt it - another gaze, unlike those about him now. Some piercing thing, of a nature he knew he could not comprehend. The corners of his vision darkened, as if shadows had crept into his peripheral and threatened to engulf him entirely. Slowly, he dared to glance over his shoulder in the direction it seemed to be coming from.

Nothing. No great beast, no cosmic creature, no visible entity. Nothing. Just empty space, of water and dead trees, the same as he had left it. Still, it was fully apparent. Something was wrong. Something was here.

He pressed onwards, hurried now. The place and its inhabitants were unsettling already; this, though, was some new thing, which he knew sought calamity. The sky continued to darken, as evening transitioned to dusk. Preoccupied with the new presence that had arrived, it took some time for him to recognize that their eyes, too, had returned to him. And they were growing closer. The mist encroached, and with it their unearthly eyes came into greater and greater proximity. 

I cannot stay here.

It was a testament to his composure that he did not break into a mad dash. Or, perhaps, it was a sign of foolishness that he did not act with even further haste.

They come. It comes. I cannot stay here.

Salt would not function here, in this land covered in water. He came to a halt, and fell to his knees. Using his hands, he forced dirt and mud from the ground under the water into a haphazard circle, sufficient for ritual usage. He knew not where he was to go - there was no time to think of such. All that mattered was no longer being here.

They encroached. It encroached.

Rising to a stand once more, intent was enacted, and a familiar ring of brine and salt water began to rise about him. In the moments before it fully shielded him and sent him sailing off through the cosmos to another place, he was afforded a final view of that which surrounded him.

The mists were but some dozens of meters away, and the stalkers within were uncomfortably near. Along the path he had walked, though, there was no mist. Instead, there was some miasmic blackness, some amalgamation of shadow and cosmic force, allowing itself to be seen. It was not of here, no. It was not of anywhere, lest the idea of cosmic correction could be called a home. Even the stalkers, ever curious, seemed dismayed at its presence, the closest ones to it balking away and retreating.

In those final moments of waning light, as the process came to completion and he was ferried away, he felt its focus upon him. More concerningly, he felt it even as he found himself arriving in an entirely different existence. 

They would cross paths again.

S t e n c h

Here, there was no goodness. There was his weeping, there was his crying, and there was his gnashing of teeth, as he was forced to witness that which could only be described as unholy - unholy in a way he had never fathomed.

He was unsure he would ever recover.

Does God ever look upon his creation, and feel regret?

Images generated by AI. Except for the last one. That is a ninjayyz original.

I didn’t want to write this.

**** you.

[!] A missive was thrown all over Azuras by a traveling circus, followed by sinister carnival music.

Greetings everyone! It is I… Joka! The charming genius jester! Voice and face of the NEO MEAT CIRCUS! I hope everyone that is reading this is feeling TERRIBLE! Hu hu hu hu! 

I guess some of you have already seen the magnifique greatness of my troupe of clowns… Well! I hope you simpletons are ready for what’s in store, for even after the disappearance of our great and beloved OVERLORD SMILEBONE, we, those that took the mantle of the spider and decided to continue the legacy of the MEAT CIRCUS, will continue working to envelop this sad and boring pitiful world into CHAOS! 
Tragedy… Comedy… What’s the line between them…? Are they really so distant…?

And for my clowns! If you’re reading this, remember to prank anyone you see, destroy anything you find boring! Bring CHAOS upon the pitiful mortals! We shall bring color upon this white and black simple world! We shall paint it with the blood of the boring! We shall paint a landscape so beautiful and colorful… Our landscape… We shall make our lords proud! We shall make the abyss itself proud!
 

Now! Clowns! I have orders for you! There’s a certain FOOL that had the audacity to not only challenge us when we were just trying to mess with her a little, but also defeat us in combat with the aid of another two simpleton idiots! Jenny! If you’re reading this, know that you’re my arch-nemesis! I shall not rest until I find you! I beat you up! And I capture you! For you’re certainly interesting, those chaotic powers of yours...

I want them! 

I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them I want them!

They will be mine! I will use you to bring as much CHAOS as possible! You will see! I will beat you up idiot! Hah!

She’s grey, has HORRENDOUS clothes, no class at all! No elegance! And has a white ponytail as big as her! Below is a drawing made by Calfaxmalis and I so you can identify her,

BRING HER TO ME!!!
 

[!] A quite poorly done drawing was attached to the missives, but the clown portraits were strangely detailed.

Joka, Genius Jester and voice of the NEO MEAT CIRCUS 

Down the Rabbit Hole

— · — · ✦ · — · —

It didn’t take long for Gazhnahk to feel that call once more, that desire to roam the limitless cosmos. In the depths of a cave she sat at a desk, toiling over the tome she had been given like she had been every night.

Quickly she stood up, knocking her chair over in her haste. She snapped the book shut and put it away in her pouch. The Akaal gathered some belongings, things she knew she would need. Last to be grabbed was a large bag of salt before the orc headed to the corner of her chambers.

With a handful of salt she began to form a circle, making sure that the circle had no gaps in its formation. The uruk used her tusk to bite the tip of her finger to draw blood. As her blood spilled, she used it as ink to form runes, the meaning behind some known only to her. She repeated a familiar sequence, intending on traveling to a place she had visited previously.

With the runes complete she placed herself at the center of the circle, sitting within it. The orc crossed her legs and relaxed her hands on her knees before letting her eyes fall closed. The blood shaman began to chant in the tongue of the spirits, asking her ancestors for guidance.

As her words picked up pace, white light streaked with a multitude of colors began to form around her, fluid but crystal-like with sharp edges as it flowed from the ground up toward the sky into a blinding glow. The light began to cloud her room, whisking her away into the cosmos.

She began to swim through the fabric of reality, for the very first time alone and in control. This time was different for another reason as well, she knew the plane she wanted to go to. She had been there once before.

The prismatic light appeared on the grand deck, and shortly after the orc followed suit. Gazhnahk took a look around her, finding herself in the main observing deck of the multiversal observatory once more.

She began walking the halls with some idea now of where she was going and where she was. Like it had been on her first visit, the observatory seemed empty. This brought the same weird nervous fluttering in the pit of her stomach that it had brought the first time. Why would a structure entirely man-made be empty?

The Akaal claimed one of the many rooms, one near the main deck. She put her shield down and the large bag she brought. Then she emptied her pouch of everything but the book, a pouch of salt, and a journal with only blank pages.

The orc spent days filling the first pages of her journal with information about the observatory. She mapped its halls, sketched its contraptions, and detailed anything she could. She kept her spear on her, ever paranoid.

When she slept, the orc barricaded the door to the room she took shelter in. It was still not enough to bring her comfort and she got little sleep through the night, or what she presumed was night. Even what little sleep she got was plagued by strange dreams.

She now functioned on her own schedule. The observatory floating through empty nothingness meant she had no sun or moon to guide her.

After detailing the observatory she would spend her days on its main deck, where the large telescope that poked through the dome roof led. The deck had three tiered layers, with each one dipping lower than the first. Two paths of stairs divided each deck into thirds and connected them. From the first deck off to the sides were more stairs that led up this time into a balcony and lounge area that floated above the observing deck. The telescope’s eye hung in the center of the middle deck.

Gazhnahk ignored the telescope for now, making her way down the steps to the third deck. She stared out into the vast emptiness of space between all dimensions. A perfect, pure black void except for the shining speckles glittering in the distance.

— · — · ✦ · — · —

— · — · ✦ · — · —

The orc watched the stars through the glass of the giant dome, standing there and doing little else. The occasional yawn or cough interrupted the silence, but nothing else disturbed her. Once she grew tired she would retire to her chambers, barricading her door before waking up to do it all over again.

She wasn’t exactly sure why she was doing it, day after day just watching the stars. Perhaps it was how small it made her feel in the grand scheme. Her problems felt so inconsequential as she gazed upon the countless realms. In fact it made the war she dealt with feel like the smallest issue in the entire universe.

Maybe that’s how it started, but as weeks passed a longing grew in Gazhnahk. She always had a craving for knowledge and now she was being shown a limitless fount of it. She could spend eons traversing the galaxies, but would even she have enough time to learn it all?

So she continued to stand, and long, and stare out. How long had passed was no longer something the orc could be certain of.

Finally inaction turned to action. One day after Gazhnahk awoke, instead of walking down to the first deck like she always had, she made her way up the steps of the balcony. She walked along its railings until she got toward the center of it. She rested her hands upon it and looked out, staring through the glass at the far twinkling dots in the distance.

This became her new routine and even more time passed. Gazhnahk had forgotten why she originally came. For what purpose had she set out? All she knew now was the longing to learn among the stars.

Finally the day came when Gazhnahk did not walk up the steps toward the balcony but instead down to the telescope. She peered through the eyeglass and cranked the gears of the ancient mechanism. It lurched to life with a loud screech of metal grinding against metal.

As the telescope moved and focused a world appeared within its view, though calling it a world was quite the overstatement. It was nothing more than a room set ablaze. A large box was propped over the room via a stick with a string attached.

Certainly an odd and simple realm, but nevertheless she did not move the telescope off it.

Day after day she returned to the telescope, detailing what she could in her journal and attempting a sketch. The fire never seemed to go away and the room did get ruined, but never completely destroyed no matter how long she watched.

She found this realm most curious and wondered its reason. Perhaps not everything needed a purpose.

After gathering what she could, the Akaal then moved on. The orc cranked the telescope once more and it shifted again, the machinery of the dome turning.

What appeared in her sights was a realm not much unlike her own. It had forests, bodies of water, mountains, and possibly even small towns, though the view from the observatory wasn’t perfect.

Gazhnahk spent even longer watching over this realm. She looked for anything that might set it apart from hers.

A page of her journal was sprawled with what she could learn, but alas it seemed like an ordinary realm. Moving on, she worked the machinations of the telescope and it seemed for the last time, as she settled it on a realm and felt it stiffen more and more. It fought her until it moved no more, with a final third realm in its view. It appeared the old machine had grown exhausted from her toying, though it mattered little to her.

— · — · ✦ · — · —

— · — · ✦ · — · —

As she gazed upon the third realm she realized it was by far the most interesting she had seen. She watched a new season come and then, a few minutes later, leave and be replaced by another. A cycle that took months in her realm seemed to happen multiple times an hour in this far away land.

She had lost track of time long ago, but it was likely weeks if not months that she spent watching this realm, noting every shift and observing as much as she possibly could. Her journal now filled with pages of sketches and detailed notes, she spent countless days just watching the seasons shift.

Finally so much time had passed that even this grew boring.

The Akaal decided she must go down the rabbit hole. She had to know what was out there.

She walked down the halls of the observatory once more, putting anything in her satchel she might need. Finally, once all was explored again, she returned to the room she had been calling her own. She gathered all her belongings before barricading the door.

Once she felt safe she began to form her circle of salt, painting runes in blood within it. Though she had not used the runes she had used to get here, it was not a return she was making.

The orc stepped within and began her chants, the blinding prismatic light that had brought her here forming once more and sending her off to a new place, one she had never been to before.

— · — · ✦ · — · —

"DURNGO-TAHRN AG’TUKU"

This tool was created to make Al'tahrn-Durngo more functional while in roleplay, instead of breaking away from immersion by sifting through a cumbersome document.

Everything has been made functional within the searchable, filterable format. Click a word, it drops into the phrase builder where you can copy it, or view and download the written form in Durngo'roshak.

There's a root-tracing graph that shows how words connect to each other through derivation and meaning.

There is also another renderer built into the site, converting your written words into Durngo’roshak, a script created by Watyll himself.

 

Credit

The Rimeglen is dangerous and equally as unforgiving. The frigid air whips and slices against skin with ice like razor knives, leaving the unprepared traveller to an unburied icey grave which they will rot at a snail’s pace. Yet this is the optimistic scenario of death. Savage wildlife will slice your flesh into a splattering of red paint against the white snow. Even worse, the dead which rise from such cold graves, the wardens of the Witch Kingdom, will not hesitate to drag you into the same fate. Upon this cruel land, a river flows northward from a spring of the hot and humid Geyserlands to the aging and battered fishing town of Valgor. A waterway which holds the frosted font of life which waters the snow-capped pine groves of Rimeglen.

Yet recently, the already turbulent passage to the has become more violent. A malevolent force that haunts the river, dragging those who disrespect it into the frigid dark waters. It is a series of misfortunes, one after another. A caution, a warning, and a punishment. Upon Valgor’s ice-layered shores, a large stone mysteriously appeared, a monument with text bleeding with a sickly pale blow glow. It lists two simple yet vague laws of which any who traverse, live, or approach it must follow lest they be cast into the cold abyss.

VROST

RESPECT THE OKEL’RRON

-=-

To near, you must first honor.

ULGAV

FEED THE OKEL’RRON

-=-

To take, you must first give.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖. The Progressive Studies Exchange ⋆｡༄⋆˚⊹

(PSE)

⊹ ۪ 𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ⊹ ۪  ﾟ｡⋆☾  ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ｡⊹ ۪ 𖥔 ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ
 

The PSE is a club within The Mage’s Guild that exists as a student-led academic forum dedicated to the study of customs, social structures, philosophies and lived traditions across the many cultures represented within the student body. Its purpose is to give club members an informed insight on the differences of lived experience as well as a place to meet peers of similar studies outside of the club. Hosted frequently outside of class curriculum,- it is not just a break from studies. Rather, the club's true aim is to prepare members for cooperation beyond the campus, where cultural literacy is as vital as academic study

The club emphasizes exchange over instruction, a break from lessons and learning more about one’s personal experience. Questions are thoughtfully asked and beliefs are respected with an open-mind (no pushing religion, practices, food choices- etc., on to one another). The club hopes to help students examine how similar or clashing cultures adapt or evolve through shared academic spaces.

Students are not only free to join but are happily encouraged to lead discussions. They can do so by talking or writing to the “Moderator of Misunderstandings (MOM)”, So’Tlacuhenemi, First-Year Transfigurationist, or the respective club’s lead members. Club members are not limited to a pure discussion. Instead, they may: showcase a sport their nation plays, hands-on workshop of crafts, cooking sessions, traditional game nights, showcase their music- the possibilities are endless. Also, the club encourages faculty who are free from grading to also showcase their personal experience with culture. 

If you are interested in joining this club or wish to join the body of it, please write to the Moderator of Misunderstandings (MOM),  So’Tlacuhenemi. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━★   . *･｡ﾟ✧⁺

    For the body of the group, the roles are: 

• Director of Oddities & Gestures (DOG)
  • Keeps record of unique cultural practices and strange greetings from around the world
• Emissary of Global Games (EGG) 　           
  • Helps organize sports and playful competition   　　　 
• Facilitator of Rituals and Notable Knowledge (FRANK)
  • Assist in sharing myths and stories, as well as oversees demonstrations of traditional ceremonies
• Bearer of Aromatic Nourishments and National Appetizers (BANANA)
  • Hosts cooking, baking, and other food related sessions.  

[!] Overlord of Spiders Smilebone laughing and crying both in desperation and amusement

At the same time, after she hears darkspawns and evildoers alike

are fighting for the one billion times for nothing, making the Nothing Ever Happens God arise in power.

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

LO AND BEHOLD. Overlord Smilebone has returned, for my art of the weaver has shifted once more. The Abyss has fully awakened and conquered Necromancy; it changed, and the Abyssals chosen have been blessed with new power. Albeit, this shift within the cosmos caused many weavers to be weakened, if they weren’t chosen, or meet true death. For this, I took it upon myself to assist my fellow weavers, ensuring our art shall be stronger than ever. To ensure both Ibleesian and beyond will come together to lay waste upon mortalkind and our foes. A true alliance, where no one bends knee to another, and unfortunately... we are back to step ONE, PEOPLE!

I have spoken with the Witch King. He does not desire war with his fellow evildoers, nor to conquer you all, but a proper partnership, to become a mighty force of the dark. Therefore, your attempt at war is quite futile; you cannot enslave the dead. No matter the wounds you deal upon them, they will rise, freer and ready to maul all hearts and flesh alike. Consequently, shatter your demonic pride and open your eyes. BEHOLD that you are a mere insect trying to bite an abyssal ocean. You will be swayed by the tides and forever succumb to it, to be lost within its shadows.

So, there is another way to become a single force of the dark without infighting. But if you refuse to simply be allies with the Witch Kingdom, if you truly think you can win, you are foolish! I know this is not the doing of Drake Daemon Solomon, for our Black Pontiff is a smarter and wiser leader, someone I would die for. It is surely the undoing of that dumbass of the Ixris’ Hand, trying to show off the power of nothing he wields like a child with a toy, KAKAKAK!

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

And so, I announce:

I AM OVERLORD SMILEBONE, CHOSEN BY IBLEES TO LEAD ITS UNDEAD FORCES ALONGSIDE THE WITCH KING AND OTHERS. I AM THE SPIDER, THE WEAVER WHO NEVER DIED. I AM IGARASHI JOROGUMO, LAST OF THE IGARASHI CLAN’S TRUE BLOOD.

UPON THESE NAMES, I SWEAR. I WILL KILL YOU. I WILL STAND WITH MY UNDYING BRETHREN, FOR THE ABYSS, FOR THE SAKE OF THE WEAVER’S ART SURVIVAL, FOR IBLEES HAS DECREED SO! THUS, LET US STAND TOGETHER OR SUFFER TENFOLD.

YOUR CHOICE.

“Sparrowhawk.”

He had followed the instructions to a T. The candle, the circle around it, everything. It all came to a head with that single name, spoken in a whisper barely audible amidst the gentle winds which tugged at the trees near the clearing in which he stood.

For a second, there was nothing. Over that second, a horrid anxiety built up. Had he done something wrong? Had it not worked? What mistake had been made? How-

Thankfully, his fears were soon dismissed. From the circle of salt around him, bubbles began to rise, a frothy seafoam nigh identical to that produced by waves crashing upon a shore. The sight stunned him, at first. But as the foam rose higher and he found himself surrounded by a towering wall of salt water, Jay regained his bearings. He knew he had done it correctly.

He had expected this ritual to summon someone - an old friend. From where, he knew not. All he had was the assumption that it would be from somewhere else, outside of the world he knew. Perhaps, from the stars. And so, he looked up. It was not until he felt the ground fall away from under his feet that he realized he was rising into the air. Once more, doubt set in. Was this supposed to be what was happening?

As he rose higher and higher, he came to a realization; the ritual was not going to result in what he had expected.

“CONAN, YOU MOTHERFU-”

The exclamation was silenced midway through, as he who shouted was ripped away from the mortal plane he was well acquainted with, and sent screaming through the cosmos. 

In his wake, a pleasant breeze blew once more, the only sounds left being it and the rustling of leaves around the now-empty clearing in the woods.

Elsewhere, in the cosmos…

P a b a r u s

The Directorate | Cobalt and Conspiracy

The realm of an interplanar trading syndicate

“What is this, amateur hour?”

It had been a normal day in the office. Papers detailing salt shipments to and fro, earnings reports documenting quarterly profit margins from the varied planes, et cetera. A microcosm of a stale kind of hell, arguably, but that is another topic. The normal operations and busy drone work of the office came to a halt, though, when a man clad in armor arrived in the center of the room, heralded by a screeching flash of light that seemed to protest such a defiance of the laws and ordering of existence. Spreadsheets and stationary were blown about, leaving a mess of the tables in his wake - a nightmare for the desk jockeys who would have to clean it up afterwards.  

Jay stumbled forwards, disoriented. He was met not with gawks, nor glances of bewilderment, but… muted annoyance from the workers in the room. They did not look upon him as some otherworldly visitor, some being who had just manifested from nowhere, but some trifling thing which had come to cause inconvenience. Some even just gave him a look, grumbled slightly, and went back to their work. Only one addressed him.

“Come one, man, look at the mess you made! Why’d you have to come through acting like it’s your first time? Are you some kind of idiot?”

A gesture was made by the fellow - balding, slightly rotund, clad in some formal attire befitting one who worked behind a desk - to the disarray which had come to be. Jay caught himself on a wall and turned around, his utter bewilderment hidden behind his helm’s visor, wholly unfit to comprehend the operations he had just interrupted. His head and eyes flung about almost wildly, trying to grasp at the reality he found himself in.

“Who are you?! Where am I!? Where is Conan?”

The man squinted, staring at him for some time.

“Do you even know where you are?”

“NO!”

“... Oh. It really is your first time.”

Realization arrived. The man scoffed, and looked over his shoulder to his coworkers.

“Hey! Look at this guy! It’s his first time! He doesn’t even know where he is! Ha!”

A pudgy finger pointed at him as some snickering was heard around the room.

“This is Pabarus, rookie. We run the interplanar spice tra- NO NO NO NO-”

The words had fallen on deaf ears. As the man turned back he saw that Jay had hastily set up another candle and poured another circle of salt around it. His eyes widened as he watched Jay snap his fingers and light the candle.

“NOT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE OFFICE!”

“S-SPARROWHAWK!”

He had been told to whisper the name, and the first time he had. This time, though, it was more a stuttered scream as he saw the ritual to completion. And as his inadvertent greeter rushed forwards to try and stop him, once more did the oceanic bubbles and froth rise around Jay, accompanied by a gale which tore through the room, sending even more papers and sheets flying about.

Whereas his arrival had caused a small mess, his departure had sent the entire floor of the building into a state of havoc. It would take hours to put everything back in order; one could only imagine the costs in lost productivity that such would incur. Jay, meanwhile, was sent spiraling through the cosmos once again, and found himself in…

V i t r u s

The World Tree | Lavishness, Liveliness, and Lapses

A colossal, inverted tree housing druids and fae

This time, he was acquainted with the sensation. He had hoped that there would be a different outcome - and in a way, there was! - but when the sensation came over him, at least it was something which he had experienced and thus was not prone to leave him reeling on arrival as it had before.

It was a good thing, too, given that he found himself manifesting upon a branch just a few feet wider than his arm span. Had he fallen, it would have been a long drop. Looking around, Jay came to two conclusions.

First, that he was somewhere new. No more desks or paperwork. No office building. Rather, he stood on a tree branch - one capable of supporting a fully grown man.

Second, that this was but one of many. Above and below, more and more branches of various sizes hung. Massive sizes. On distant branches, he could just make them out. Buildings. Some standing on their own. Others clustered together. Settlements, towns, entire cities, constructed atop colossal branches connected to some massive tree, with further branches serving as natural connectors from one to another.
It was a sight capable of throwing him off, undoubtedly, but he had long been no stranger to the bizarre or unbelievable. After a few minutes of silent contemplation he set off, walking towards the nearest wooden highway that would bring him to one of said cities. 

As he got closer, he came to realize he was not alone here. First, it was just birds fluttering above, and the odd animal running out of his path. It was when he saw others, though, that another conclusion.

He did not belong here.

It was clear in all things when he saw the people - their architecture. Their garb. The markings and tattoos their skin bore. The places of worship which sat open and filled with art of animals. The frequency with which he saw groups in meditation or seeming to silently commune with those same animals that decorated the walls walking the streets as if they were just as comfortable there amidst a mortal society as they were in nature. The towering treefolk that walked amongst them.

Here was a land of nature, of druids and Fae, of an existence that he stuck out from like a sore thumb. Jay was reminded of a time from nearly a century prior, in which he had spent some months in Nevaehlen on Aevos. He had stuck out there, too, but had been welcomed to some degree, even allowed to sit in on a lesson Scoria had bestowed upon a student and take some notes. But there, outsider as he may have been, his type was at least a known one. They knew of the common man, of steel, of beliefs and ways of life outside of those often taken up by the druidic. But here? Here, he was an alien presence, a man clad in steel and plate amongst those who knew nothing of it. The clanking of his possessions was surely a unique sound to many as he passed.

Groups went silent as he walked through the streets - a man in armor of steel rather than wood, who was clearly deaf to the symphony of nature that all around him seemed to hear. By virtue of a particular sword he carried, the animals at least looked at him with some level of comfort, and that seemed to inform the glances of those who watched him pass. An outlander, as he had oft been in his life, but one who was harmless - probably. In any case, he was spared any ire for the time, solely eliciting intrigued stares even long after he had gone by.

While not in a panicked state this time, his mind still stressed.

Was this where I was supposed to meet him? Did he mean for me to end up here? I knew of his practices, but I always thought he had disliked the idealistic livings of those of Nevaehlen. Unless… the instructions he gave me…

. . .

Surely he didn’t…

He was not sure how long he had walked for when he came to a stop. There, in the middle of the street on that massive branch which supported an entire city, he went about it again. A candle was fetched from his belongings, a circle of salt drawn about it, and the wick was lit. With a sigh, he stood straight, and looked to the sky once more. When he spoke the word again, it was neither a whisper nor a shout, but something closer to a question.

“Sparrowhawk…?”

Just as before, he was met with a rising circle of bubbles and brine. As many onlookers watched, Jay again bent the laws governing reality, and cast himself elsewhere among the stars.

Y i l l i o n

The Towered Realm | Spires and Sorcery

A realm of infinitely many, infinitely tall spires, where magic runs amok

Of the infinite towers that dotted the realm, Jay stood on one which seemed small, relative to the others he could see. Behind him, a staircase ran up, leading to a library. Further up, above the library, a small town. Even further up, who could say. Below, across a bridge which lead to a different spire, a sprawling city lay, the magic used throughout made abundantly clear by the hundreds of different colored glows which could be seen amidst its streets. One could practically taste the vast expenditure of arcane energies upon the air.

None of this registered, though.

Jay slowly stepped backwards, and sat himself upon a stone-hewn bench. Silently, he stared. First, at the ground some paces in front of him. Eventually, at his own, opened hands. He could not feel his heart beat, nor did he seem to breathe. No thoughts came for a long time, as reality raced to catch up with his mind. When it did, finally, he knew.

This is it.

This is how to do it. He taught me.

His breathing returned - not normal, but hastened. He felt his heart rate pick up, his hands grasping closed and opening a few times. 

This was it. He could do it now.

A rush came over him, as a desire long since forgotten reared its head once more. Dormant for decades, left unsatisfied since his youth and arrival on Aevos, it returned in force.

Wanderlust, that old intoxicant he had long loved and long neglected.

He rose with a start, and immediately went about conducting the ritual again.

? ? ?

Infinite Realms

Infinite Possibilities

He did not know how long he traveled. He did not keep track of how many planes he visited. Only a handful of fleeting memories stuck in his mind. But he went, from one to another, again and again, taking in as much of the incomprehensibly vast array of experiences that one could find. Oftentimes he remained for only minutes, seemingly more interested in flexing this newfound muscle than learning more of what dwelled in the lands he came across.

It had felt foreign, at first, displacing himself amongst the stars. But as he did it again and again, it quickly became routine. In a way it felt almost natural, unnatural as it may have been, as if he had reawakened some muscle memory long buried. Fueled by adrenaline and wonder, he went, and went, and went, and-

During one of his jumps, somewhere between the planes of existence, during those moments which seemed both instant and long, his eyes strayed. No longer looking straight ahead to the next realm, he turned to the side. There, he beheld it all, to the extent a mortal mind may be capable of.

Infinity. The universe, at its unfathomable scale, with the infinite realms of possibility within it.

Infinite strife. Infinite peace. Infinite change. Infinite stagnation. Infinite joy. Infinite suffering.

Infinite wells of all that comprised the experiences of life.

He was small, he thought, and all he did, all he could ever do, would be but a drop in those endless seas of existence. What difference could he ever hope to make?

 . . .

It was shortly after such thoughts that another breeze passed through the clearing. With it, did he return. Resolve had been tested, and been found sufficient. However small, however pointless, however insignificant in the grand machinations of existence, it mattered. It had to matter. Even if nothing may change on the cosmic scale, it would make a difference for him. For those around him. For those he knew, who were all as small as he was.

And to him, that was enough.