[Pact to Lesser Immortal Spirit under, Ankrus]

The wind quietly whistled as Uru stumbled into the hut of Manqu, the second Paqo of the Tawantinsuyin tribe that now resided in Qurisuyu village. Slumping down into a nearby corner, reaching deep into the pocket of her clothes, revealing a small pouch of cactus green.

She smiled to herself as she glanced around the hut, her eyes fixated on the random splatters of blood, chiqtanas, and trophies that the shaman had collected on his own to adorn his walls with. Recalling the wisdom the elder shaman embedded in her, his voice ringing,

“Uru, you are already wise. However, you must grow wiser to succeed. You shall one day take my place. To do so, you must further your knowledge.” - Manqu, Son of Manqu. 
[ OOC: IF YOU KNOW THE JOKE, YOU KNOW. ]

The young Tawantinsuyin priestess brought the hookah up to her maw, watching the green leaves light aflame, smoke leaving from her parted lips as she calmed herself. Grasping at her wankar with open palms, she began rhythmically tapping upon it. THUMP.. THUMP.. THUMP.. Over and over again, the sound echoed from outside the hut, getting progressively louder, as if she were preparing for impending doom. Again and again, the sound echoed throughout the hut, loud enough to carry outside its walls.
Each strike grew heavier, louder, as though heralding some impending doom. Uru closed her eyes, steadying her breathing to the rhythm of the drum.

As the young priestess relaxed her senses, she slowly began to disperse from her very being. Sight was the first to leave her, plunging her into an endless sea of darkness while the sound of the drum gradually faded into nothingness. Uru continued to exhale slowly, maintaining steady breaths, until even her sense of smell temporarily abandoned her. Soon Enough, she could no longer feel the rough texture of the drum beneath her palms. Everything became blank.



 

Though her body remained within the realm of the living, her senses had all but vanished. A familiar wave of impending doom washed over her, followed by a violent pull dragging her downward. She fell into a vast emptiness, suspended in endless freefall. Yet unlike her first journey, Uru remained calmer this time, though nervousness still lingered as she kept her eyes tightly shut while descending into the barren void.

Eventually, the constant sensation of falling came to a halt. One by one, her senses returned in reverse.

First came touch, the feeling of sand pressing between her fingertips and against her skin. Then the smell returned, salty water flooding her nostrils and replacing the lingering scent of cactus green. After that came sound, the muffled bubbling of sea creatures, and the shifting currents overtaking the once thunderous beat of the wankar. Finally, her sight returned.

Uru opened her eyes only to recoil at the sudden burning sensation, quickly realizing she was resting upon the seafloor.

At first, panic overtook her. She flailed wildly beneath the water, but soon enough, breathing became… easier. Confusion settled across her features as she stopped moving, holding herself still while glancing around beneath the ocean depths.

Finally sitting upright, she remained quiet for a moment, eyes wandering curiously through the endless seafloor around her. Her hands quickly checked over her limbs, ensuring she was still whole and attached.

“I did it…”
 

“I’ve made it here myself… but where am I to go?”

 She muttered beneath her breath in disbelief. Her voice drifted outward into the vast waters. Brows knitting together, Uru slowly rose to her feet, seemingly dumbfounded by whichever realm she had wandered into. Her gaze shifted to the left, where enormous clouds of sand churned violently upward through the water. The disturbance clouded the sea around her, obscuring her vision. Then Niin-Kranklob made herself known. Not physically, at least not yet.

A booming voice erupted through the waters, vibrating around Uru like thunder beneath the sea.
…

“GHASHN-LAB GRATUM SHARA.” (STATE YOUR PURPOSE, HUMAN.)

 

The spirit’s tone was harsher than Uru had anticipated, causing her brows to furrow before she called back in response. Her words stumbled awkwardly from her tongue. She was far from proficient in the language, stuttering and mispronouncing several sounds. 

“URU-IZG, SK-SKAAT KHL-LAT GORRRR-LAT…”
(I am Uru. I come to ask to work with you.)
The spirit acknowledged it immediately.

“LAT, HÛR LÛP KULÛK? NAAN, LAT GOLM NARASH?”
(You dare ask for anything while offering nothing?)
Uru hesitated. Then the spirit spoke once more.
 

“LAT, PAASHNAR PUKHL, MOLKÛ GHUNG LAT DRAAGH-ÂMBAL LÛP DÂR - AGH LNÛRL PUHKL-MAAZ NIIN-KRANKLOB-IZG, GHÛLUM KRAMP-U.”

(You cannot speak. However, if you build me a pretty shrine and learn to speak properly, I will help you and allow you to become a vessel of my power.)

Tears began gathering in Uru’s eyes.
“A-Akh… Uru-izg paash-draagh-âmmm…bal lûp dâr, agh lnûrl puhkl-ma…az…”
(Yes, I shall build you a pretty shrine and learn to speak better.)

…

A faint smile settled across Uru’s expression as the spirit finally revealed itself. Niin-Kranklob emerged as a half-woman, half-anaconda with a massive ancaconda-like tail covered in shimmering blue scales and glowing eyes that pierced through the murky waters. The half-serpent flicked her tongue toward Uru before burrowing back beneath the sand, disappearing once more into the depths. As the stirred sand slowly settled around her, Uru lowered herself back onto the seafloor. Steadying her breathing, she clapped her hands together softly in rhythm. Once more, her senses slipped away.

Again came the familiar freefall, though this time it felt comforting rather than terrifying. The sensation of being pulled upward through the emptiness no longer filled her with dread. Instead, it carried something almost warm, something familiar. Then, one by one, her senses returned. The walls of Qurisuyu village came back into view around her.

Uru opened her eyes, a smile spreading across her face as she scrambled to her feet, already eager to prepare the shrine she had been ordered to build…
 

Lesser under Betharuz

✦ • ───────────────────────────── • ✦ • ───────────────────────────── • ✦

Cayenne had never ventured far from her sister’s home.
 

Not out of fear of the world, but because she had never felt the need to. Humans, and the other races, did not love her people—she knew that well—but that truth had never weighed heavily enough to influence her decisions. As long as her sister was there, the rest was irrelevant.

The shaman’s path, like her sister’s, had come late. Silently, it had crept into her daily gestures, her senses, the simplest things. After her first lesson with the one she called “Grandfather,” of all her experiences, wine had become the thing that most often betrayed her. Tasting it was part of the job: open barrels, strong aromas, checks shared with her sister. But every time the outcome was the same—her mind growing heavy, her body giving in, sleep seizing her without warning.

That day, however, it was a choice.

Cayenne decided to immerse herself in the spirit world of her own accord. She brought a bottle of whiskey with her and sat down next to the young stone Aldtree. She focused, letting her breathing slow and the boundary between the planes grow thin.

When she lost consciousness, she did not dream.

She awoke sitting at a long table of rough wood, her hands resting on a surface marked by scratches, spilled wine, and the passage of time. Around her stretched an immense tavern, vaster than the eye could measure. Warm lanterns hung from above, swaying slowly. 

The noise was constant: laughter, toasts, voices all talking at once—none of them truly intelligible, none of them truly ignorable.

The air was thick with alcohol, pipe smoke, and a green, acrid scent, like macerated cactus. At the back of the tavern, wide openings let in the distant sound of the ocean crashing against the rocks, a deep sound that accompanied the party without overwhelming it.

There were no doors.
No obvious exit.

Cayenne rose slowly, feeling the solid floor beneath her feet. Following an instinct that wasn’t entirely her own, she crossed the tavern, past tables crowded with indistinct figures toasting ceaselessly, until she reached a larger room.

In the center of it lay a barrel.

It was enormous, ancient, disproportionate. The dark staves were engraved with tribal symbols worn by time, and the wood seemed alive, pulsing with a slow, deep presence. The scent it gave off was intense, saturated with wine, spirit, and celebration.

Something moved.

No complete figure emerged from the barrel, but an incomplete and unstable presence: a minor spirit, born of spilled wine, of prolonged feasts, of laughter that didn’t know when to stop. Its form was vague, like smoke trying to take on a face, and its voice did not reach Cayenni’s ears, but went straight to her mind.

"Picoło… te si masa zovane pa esar in un posto come questo"

There was no solemnity in those words. 

Just a heavy, insistent joy, like a hand urging him to join in the toast.

The barrel opened with a slow creak. A trickle of golden liquid oozed from a crack and fell, precisely, into a glass that had appeared on the table beside him, as if it had always been there. The glass filled itself, right to the brim.

"No posso darghe el benvenuto a un ospite sensa ofrirghe un brindisi" whispered the barrel, in a deep, cavernous voice

Cayenne, knew that the once she was speaking with was just a mere host, then sensed something greater, distant—like a deep laugh that did not come from that room. An authority that did not show itself, but which allowed that spirit to exist, to act.

The glass was pushed slowly toward her.

“Bei,” said the spirit. “E godete la vita”

The wine was warm, alive. When she drank it, Cayenne felt the weight of the celebration: the joy that unites, the noise that drowns out the silence, the oblivion that makes time bearable. There was no pain, no ecstasy—only a bond forming, discreet but firm.

When the glass emptied, the tavern began to fade.

The voices grew distant. The lights dimmed. The barrel remained last, motionless and full, while the lesser spirit withdrew into it like smoke sucked into the wood.

Then Cayenne fell.

She awoke on the lawn in front of the Aldtree, the smell of wine still strong in her nostrils. Her head was heavy, her heart beating slowly.

And Cayenne realized that, even though she had returned to the material plane, she hadn’t completely left the party behind.
Something—part of something greater—had noticed her.

✦ • ───────────────────────────── • ✦ • ───────────────────────────── • ✦

Lys Avalon-Vincrute sat at the edge of campfire, its golden radiance flickering upon a crowd of elves and orcs alike. For a girl so devout in her faith, it is no wonder that at the first chance to make herself worthy to the Spirits, she took it without hesitation. The shamans Kaalghaash and Gutlug'Lurkhan found themselves chanting in a tongue familiar yet incomprehensible to the young adherent's ears. She crossed her legs and settled herself. With a deep breath, her eyes grew heavier and heavier. A deep tug pulled upon her soul, tearing it from her body and bringing it to a realm beyond their own. The girl was prepared for the realm of the Spirits she had traveled to few times before, a journey she had allowed herself to become familiar, and almost comfortable in.

Drowning. Drowning? Expecting the surreal comfort of that she had trekked to before, Lys was instead greeted by abject darkness and the burning of lungs deprived of air. There was a light; Lys saw a light. She swam and paddled as hard as she could, soon finding herself surfacing in an expanse of sea beneath a scorching sun. A yell escaped her lungs in a deep release of intense juvenile emotions.

"Well now they know we ahm here," spoke one of the shaman-guides. Before Lys has a chance to consider much, a torrent pulls the group towards the center of the lake.

"Amirz lât? Urûkhim, golug ûgh..” uttered a chorus of whispers from the depths.

"They ask your names," an uruk translates. "We do nub gruk they get many visitors..."

"Uh-" the teen stutters. "Lys! Lys Avalon-Vincrute! It is the pleasure to make your acquaintance...s." Something brushed Lys' leg. She yelped.

Countless heads of countless snakes circle as cats around their quarry.  "Lât skaat shâ? Skaat ah-amurz? Amirz skaat shâ, matûrz-slai," speaks a snarling cacophony in unison.

“They ask why lat ahm here. Why lat ahm blahing with them..” The shaman seemed uneasy. “Give them latz offer quick.”

“I am here in your honor, spirit of water!” She calls out, her words cracking beneath aquatic pressure. “I offer uh- My worship! I will dedicate myself to you. To call upon the waters, and to do the giving to waters in turn! All I ask is command of the waters, so I may do the spreading of your name, to those who rebuke and reject the spirits, and of you!” Her heart-too-big pounds across her chest like a drum, thrumming with every word and every breath.

“Golug.. Izû flôk turu shômoz.. Draagh-lûpû shâ-izû, hmm?” it ponders.

“Da spirits.. Do nub enjoy lat being here,” informs a shaman. “Agh they want lat to build ah shrine for them, Lys. This ahm their price, an empowered shrine.”

“Ti Ii will build a shrine in your name,” she pours from her bleeding heart. “I will do the building of a shrine in your name, and bring to you followers. I will grow your flock of the waters!”

Something grasps Lys by the leg. A sharp inhale enters Lys' lungs. It pulls.

A deafening scream echoes across the lake, soon turning into nothing more than gargled bubbles. Everything grows darker and darker for Lys, as her lungs burn and bones begin to snap beneath the weight of the seas.

The gentle warmth of a campfire washes over Lys. In place of the roaring of torrents, Lys' ears are filled only with the pleasant crackling of fire, and the echoing trickling of streams echoing within her cave home. She steadies herself, and finds her way to the waters calling to her.

TO SURRENDER A SOUL

Tahaan sat at the edge of the burning campfire, surrounded by the Shaman Kaalghaash and several others. The smell of cactus green rushed their senses, their pupils dilated as the Shaman spoke to bring them all into a Spirit Walk. The Shaman’s hand placed into the flame to draw blood to entice. 

“Lûp lât Akathro! Lûp lâtz uzg! Bhûl izû! Bhûl izû!”

- Kaalghaash

It was dark. A single blink, and everything was void and darkness. The senses rendered null and void. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, it could have been days that it felt like this. Finally, one sense given; sound. The sound of running water. Sight; a shimmer of light above. The Devil saw the light, and swam up in the watery-void to it. The surface tension of the water was broken, the figure rising, a hand going to cover the Devil’s eyes from the burning sun of this domain. 

“We ahm here to guide. Lat know whub lat need to offer… Choose quick, or they will choose for lat.”

“Akathro! I call upon you! I offer myself as a follower of your radiance!”

A second translated… “Akathro, suurirlab bugdizg!”

“Amirz lât? Urûkhim, golug ûgh..” The Spirit replied

“I do not understand what is said..”

“They ask your names. We do nub gruk they get many visitors.. Agh nub demons.”

And so the Devil gave their name. They parlayed and spoke with the Spirit, an intermediary aiding in the translation. 

“I wish to save my soul from the irredeemable depths of The High Hells. I have built a Shrine in your honor.” The Devil felt the tug of something at their leg. 

A dozen or so massive blue-skinned watersnakes gathered around the people in the water, circling them like an easy prey. They do not appreciate the parties presence in this plane.

“Da spirits.. Do nub enjoy lat being here.”

“As to be expected. I held no anticipation for them to appreciate my presence.”

“Snagaz! Snagaz!” The Spirit screamed.

“They want more from lat. Latz price ahm higher.”

“Lat'z grizh ahm ztained…It muzt be purivied in the zight ob the Ilzguulz..”

One of the fellows in the party cut his palm, letting his blood pool into the water to please the serpents as they circled ever closer and closer. His red blood absorbed into the bluish-hues of the water, and kept the Serpents at bay for a few more moments, pleased with this little offering. But soon after they grew hungry for another gift, and re-engaged with circling around the party like hungry beasts, they wanted more. They wanted a MAJOR gift. 

“Anything! More shrines, claimed land, followers, offerings! Anything, but do it quick before they kick us all out.” Kaalghaash demanded, growing nervous with the Serpent’s behavior. 

“My blood! A Second Shrine! My most Sentimental Item!” The Devil bartered.

“Lâtz Slaiyûm! The Serpent-Spirits in unison screamed to the entire party as they lunged forth to all in the circle, demanding the highest offer from the Devil.

“I will give you my soul! To steal a meal from Ixris!”

“Izû bhûl!” The Serpents all roared before rushing at those who remained, closing the circle. They grew in sizes as they came closer and opened their maw. With sharp teeth they bit legs and arms until nothing remained but disturbed bloody water.

Back in the Mortal Plane, Tahaan rose in a daze from where they sat infront of the campfire. Physically, they did not feel much different, but they heard a whisper in the back of that head of theirs… 

“We accept your offer. You are mine, little thing. Empower my Shrine, and the rest will unfold.”
 

-=-

“YOU.”

“ARE.”

“MINE!”

Pact of Mirrors

A cool breeze drifted over the Goi, a stark contrast to the blistering, arid climate that typically blanketed the Hordelands. In his home, Azhug prepared himself. Soft hums escaped his maw as he retrieved a freshly rolled blunt, packed tightly with the finest and most potent cactus green he had ever smoked. The Akaal moved from doorway to doorway, gathering his tools, before finally finding himself on the top floor of his tower. It was there that he chose to travel to the Immortal Realm.

The Red Orc leaned forward, lighting his blunt with the flame of a nearby torch. He peered down at the embers gathering at its end before bringing it to his lips and taking a long drag, inhaling deeply. “Veist-û, lûpizg lat. Tûzg lat-izish ag trov.” he muttered, shutting his eyes as he breathed in through his nose, his mind and soul seemingly leaving his body.

He drifted. Through nothing? Through everything? 

His mind and body felt weightless, and his eyes saw nothing but darkness. His gaze into the abyss was interrupted only when he blinked and suddenly found himself in the midst of a fiery battlefield. He peered back and forth, seeing bodies strewn across the terrain. His ears were flooded with roars and screams, echoing from formless beings that Azhug himself could not see. His nose filled with the scent of blood, death, and decay. His eyes traveled across the field in search of anything that could lead him toward his goal.

It was there, atop a nearby hill, that he spotted a figure so towering and fearsome that even Azhug, a battle-hardened veteran, felt unease creep into his chest. He approached the figure, crawling through the mounds of blood, dirt, and debris. As he climbed, his foot slipped from beneath him. He peered downward, grasping at what he could to regain his balance. He peered up once more, the figure that was before him now vanished as if it were never there.

Azhug took a deep breath. It was clear to him that his surroundings were not what they seemed. Something wasn’t right and Azhug felt unsure of what he could trust in this domain. He shut his eyes once more, “Za kul fîgû, baduzg-izish atâr.” he muttered before opening his eyes once more. 

His eyes were now set upon a vast desert. The Domain of Dazkur? Azhug shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He traversed through the dunes, feet sluggishly dragging through the sand as he moved onward. “Veist, baduzg-izish trovlab agh baduzg-izish atâr.”

With these words, the sands began to twist and swirl around him. His lungs seemingly gasped for air and his hands found their way to his throat, clawing with desperation. His vision began to spin in tandem with the sand that swirled around him. As he struggled to breathe, the sand suddenly came to a halt, forming a reflective wall around him. Azhug took a long-awaited breath, inhaling sharply and gasping for what air he could find. As he peered around, he noticed sharp angles within the reflective surface. Each angle offered a different portrayal of himself. 

As he looked at each version of himself, he found that each wore a different expression. They blinked at different times, they breathed differently. This couldn’t be real, could it? He closed his eyes once more, “Veist! Thlûk za! Shum baduzg-izish atâr!” he exclaimed ferociously.

“Hahehehahaha…” he heard a cackle surround him, seemingly coming from all sides. Azhug hesitated a moment before opening his eyes. Before him stood a being, a grin adorning his face as he looked into the Akaal's eyes. “Mirz kul lat?” the Spirit said to him. It moved around him in circles. At first, it slithered, then it appeared as a man, then as a beast. “Bugud-izub kul Azhug, ghashn-izish bugudlab Ilzgûl.”

The Spirit looked at him silently, his grin never wavering as he watched the Akaal intently. “Bugudizub kul Hygerak. Amat lat skaat tul?” The two conversed back and forth in the language that both understood. “Skaat-izg u gimb-izg gothûrz Veist.” said Azhug, his red eyes following Hygerak carefully. 

Three apparitions appeared before him. Each one differed slightly, though all were a reflection of himself. Hygerak commanded him to identify the true copy. Azhug peered over each one, his eyes tracing each and every detail. The first appeared nearly identical, though his stature was a head shorter than Azhug himself was. He moved onto the second, a copy that stood equal in height and width. He studied the details of this one as well before his gaze landed on his arm, a hand missing. Azhug peered down at his own hands, both intact. He shook his head before pointing to the third. 

Hygerak nodded. The three apparitions faded away, returning to the air from whence they came. Hygerak turned his back to Azhug, moving further into the desert, Azhug following behind him. As they moved, the sands shifted as grass began to sprout from beneath the dunes. The landscape around him moved in unnatural ways, twisting and morphing into something new.

Hygerak led Azhug to a solitary door that stood amid the landscape. Upon entry, it opened into a void with a mirror bridge. Surrounding him were shattered pieces of reflective glass that appeared to float in the air. Hygerak turned back to him, “Lat paash hon dushizub. Lat paash fitg gothûrz Veist. Ukh lat u nau dursh agh lûmp lat, za baduzg lat fitg dushizub.”

Azhug nodded before he took a few steps forward, peering over the end of the bridge into nothingness. If what Hygerak said was true, this was his final test given to him by the Lesser of Veist. The Red Orc positioned himself before taking a deep breath and throwing himself from the bridge. As he fell, the cackles of Hygerak grew quieter, fading into the void that surrounded him.

As his mind was violently thrust back into his mortal form, Azhug rubbed his temples. His mind was weary from the walk and the puzzles therein, but he knew that this pact would serve him well.

Zag did not come to Bugduga’Dhaar as he did his first master - the spirit of jungles and overgrowth - with wide eyes and open palms. The farseer came bearing scars earned in servitude to the jungle-wilds; a shaman-seasoned through tooth and claw, weathered by the green and left hungry by the rot.
 

The shaman knew well what the shadow of the spirit war does to history.

Within the confines of the jungle-wilds, remembrance is not a shrine to pray at. It is a grave. Earthquakes topple cities, rivers carve mountains, hurricanes spread the jungles seeds. Overgrowth is mercy only because it is honest - the world stating very plainly: “All things return to me.”

The immortality of the written word is fleeting, at best, but the stones preserved knowledge in ways scrolls could never achieve. Scrolls burn as quick as thatch. Tongues change with the wind. Yet the stone  - the stone is stubborn.

So the orc chose stubbornness.

With each strike of the shaman’s chisel, another name was ripped from the depths of the Stargush’Stroh, and forced back into the recollection of the living - resurrected as fact, not spectre. Anchored to the Second Age.

Chk - Chk  - Chk

Each impact sent reverberations across the guttural space - the stink of wrought iron and old viscera filled the air. Fragments gathered along the scars on his knuckles, embedding themselves in his skin, giving new pain to old wounds. The shaman’s hands ached, but he welcomed the sensation - the pain only strengthened the resolve in his labors.

Zag exhaled slowly and placed his palm against the wall, feeling the protrusions bite into his skin. He spoke one of the names aloud, but this time, it did not vanish into the depths of the chamber. The silence enveloping the expanse was not empty. It was received by something, lurking beyond the stones, in the recesses of his perception.
 

“Lat grush gund zash gotlub?”

The entity mocked the shaman.

“Lat krimp ghashan’rim zash asht, agh bugn gashnum hûr. Mirz, dushatâbug ghashan zaug… agh bugh znûg?”
 

 The question was a trap. Zag froze as he thought of ways around it.

He had come to bargain for something, but the Spirits never divulge their secrets cheaply.

“Nar gotlûm gund-ishi." 
“Gadûd-izg bugudri, dhurz mazauk-hai nariin bugh-izubu. Mazauk-hai nariin bugh, ziimarum-dum Ilzgûl nar gakh-at.”
The orc drew a slow, deep breath.

“Gadûd-izg dhurz bugudri tur narash, ghung stargûsh nûkhud nariin-ut.”

"Hon ghashanum gakhûrz.
Ûzizg ghashanum lat garr.

Lat ska'at nar bagûrz.
Lat ska'at grazaadh'ug naakhlab, agh gît'h Motsham sûmlab.

Lat nargzab bugudri.
Lat nargzab dhaarri.
Lat nargzab gothûrzum, dushûrz ghashan'izg, bot da'ash.

Amat?"

The shaman told it plainly, “Kranklûk agh' kranklûb'izubu kûzaarsh nariin Krug agh' stargûshri thlûnthil. Gûg-zaarsh shrarim gûlri kul. Goi-izubu'ishi gûlri"

The shaman looked into the dark, staring into an abyss beyond the sanctity of candlelight.
“Krul aarsh'ishi, amukh uruk mat, mat krul. Nokh ghaash agh shapatirzi, agh nokh shau agh nariinum.”

"Za ukh-ub bugdugga.
Bugud gank kul.
Dhaar gaium kul.

Krimpizg latû. Nar ghashn gatarz urzkû.
Nar fauthizg lak it.
Nar brogbizg bhûl nar nariinum.

Amukh bugdlat bugud mumuga frûmizgir, Yar, paash krimp urdan.

Mut bugudri lat ukhûrkub tûr nariinum nûl, dushatâr?"
 

That was the cost levied by the Spirit. Not blood. Not Tomes. Not Trinkets. A condition of servitude. The haruspex stared at the wall of names, unknowing of the whole truth behind the lives made into letters. Zag reached in the satchel strewn to his side, and produced a free small token: a charm, drilled through, wrought of animal bone, and stained dark from years of handling. This was the shaman’s own signature mark, the first he had ever carved when he learned to speak Old Blah and step into the immortal plane.

He placed it at the base of the shrine.
The engravings on the rockface writhed with unknown stories.

“Zag wyll bi’ latz witnezz.”

The shaman swore himself.

The air within the chamber tightened, like vines drawing a noose.
The Yar's throat closed. He tasted blood.  His ears filled with half heard syllables, names spoken by dead rexes, titles that have yet to be granted but have always been true.

"Krimpuga latû, dushatâr.
Iin, bugud, agh goth bugud.

Kraiut rad ghashnuz.
Kraiut orskuga.
Kraiut fûruga.

Agh ghashn-at bugud gratumob
Nar sûm kraat.

Gundat.

Kol-at za, dushatâr.
Bugud kaan krimp shara…
Runkat sharataul.”

When Zag returned, he found himself knelt, palm still pressed to the wall. The names he had etched were no longer carved. They were accounted for in the grand workings of Bugduga’Dhaar, and so was he.


 

The ritual swallowed the orc in darkness.

Darkness was replaced by a lustrous, steel room.

His feet pressed against the cold plates of the floor.

Before he moved to explore his surroundings,

liquid metal poured from the ceiling, twisting and forcing 

itself into the shaman, casting him as a chrome statue.

A figure emerged from the mirror-like surface, a jagged monolith of steel.

It glided forward toward the encased orc.

Carving into the statue with knife-like digits, 

the orc was granted vision, hearing, and the ability to speak.

“Shatraug ob ghaamp , amat kramp-lat skaat?”

(Witch of Stone, why do you come?)

“Gothûrz  frûm ob golnauk, skaat- izg u golm lat izubu grish agh izubu dulug”

(Powerful spirit of steel, I come to offer you my blood and my weapon)

“Ghung lat shulg-  âdh- ghaamp, amat shulg-kaan-izg lat?”

(If you would leave earth, why would I trust you?)

"Dhurz  nargzab- izg  a maaz bot agh u nar kul-ob the gûg"

Because I want a better world and to not to be of the past.

The spirit considered the offer in silence. 

“Larg, draaghzûr, agh bhadûr narmok golnauk agh golnauk bhadûrs lat. Broshan.”

(Create, destroy, and change for steel and steel will change you. Welcome)

It spread its massive arms and continued forward.

The spirit walking directly into the orc,

enveloping him in darkness once more.

The orc awakes before his cauldron. 

PACT OF ENROHK

Alone in the depts of Ghorazad, the horned uruk stood in front of the flames. His right hand moved to his bare chest, holding his sacrificial bone blade. A vertical cut was made in the center, the blood already dripping on the ashes surrounding the firepit. As the uruk attached the bloodied blade on his belt again, he opened his maw to let out a guttural chant.

Freygoth, Izû nâk-bolk lât rad! Lâtz goth âhm dakûruz, izû af-lât-lût!

From the wound on his chest, the uruk pushed his fingers in his flesh. From it, he pulled vines and leaves and thorns, casting them all into the flames.

Izû narzgab nûrzum, nûl ûgh grîzh! Lât nâk-paash flôk za ah-izû!

The remnants of the shaman’s pact turned to ashes, leaving the witch doctor on his knees alone in the cave. His eyeless head faced the flames, letting their warmth ease the pain of losing the power he once held.

Green was thrown into the firepit, his last bundle of Rex Widow carried over from Almaris. The smog soon filled the cave and with it the wicked tongue of Old Blah returned.

Khlaar! Khlaar! Izû nargzab GOTH! Goth ah-shâtup gaam-shâras, empire-brûf! Khlaar ûgh hôn izûbu golm ah-grîzh!

The uruk grabbed an arm, a leg, head and torso, trophies taken following the orkish victory in Ghorazad. One by one he let the flame consume the rotten flesh of the lessers, an offering to the immortals. The fire turned dark red as the tainted meat was added, the light blending with the uruk’s skin.

The Witch Doctor returned to his knees, bowing slightly in front of the burning corpses. Whispers escaped his maw, the words of old blah dividing flesh and soul until his shell was left alone with the scent of cooked meat.

His immortal soul traveled far in the dark void of the In-Between without air or light. He fell and fell in this void for what seemed like hours, or maybe days? He fell until finally he reached his destination, his soul colliding with the realm of War.

The golden sands of the desert we stained with blood, the cries of dying warriors echoed over the sea of corpses in front of Kaal-Lûk. The uruk moved through the battlefield, he recovered two war axes from those who wouldn’t need them anymore.

ENROHK! Khlaar izûbu bugd! Hôn izûbu durbûrz! Izû skaat tul ah knâsh ah lâtz-goth!

One by one, corpse of fallen elves, men, orcs and dwarves rose from the battlefield. They picked up arms and advanced towards the uruk. One by one, the soul of the elder orc cut down the corpses, dark blood flowing from their husks. The shaman’s body was covered with cuts and wounds, his own blood mixing with the corrupted ichor of undeath. More and more returned to life and soon the horned orc was surrounded, his axes dripping with black blood.

Soon the battle slowed, the corpses stopped coming at Kaal-Lûk, leaving him panting and bleeding. He looked around, wondering why they stopped fighting. Soon his question was answered.

Amirz âhm lât urûkhim? Lât amirz shatûp izûb mauk shâ-gat. Amirz âhm lât ah-skaat tul ûgh garmog goth?!

The voice boomed like thunder over the battlefield carrying a scent of blood and death. It made the shaman freeze, his bones shaking under his fleshy shell. This was it, the reason he ripped off the pact made with Freygoth over a century ago. It was time.

The uruk raised a waraxe to the sky and chanted in the tongue of the spirits.

Izû skaat ûgh gadhaal lûpurz! Izû âhm kaal-lûk, lûk ah-grîzh ûgh nûl. Izû bolk lâtz bub’hôsh goth, gothuz-Ilzgûl. Izû nargazb lâtz gôth ah baduzg dakûruz shâras Ilzgûl-durbûz!

From the blood of a thousand corpses, a towering beast emerged. The tusks of a boar and horns of a ram covered the head of the Spirit. Two red flames served him of eyes, which stared down at the Witch Doctor. Its sharpened teeth were as long as the uruk’s forearm, a forked tongue moved between them.

Izg in-Sigurd, lâtz Hônûrk. Izg nargzab âsh golmâthum. Izg nargzab lâtz krampûrz. Gadhaal zamal ûgh lât brus izub gôth.

The shaman closed his eyes, lowering the weapon to his side. His mouth opened yet no words escaped. Kaal-Lûk inhaled deeply, the cogs of his mind spinning. He finally spoke the words :

Izû ub-mauk ah-lâtz bugud. Izû gadhaal ah-gunâsh lât. Khlark izû gothurûz, flôk-izû ah-gôth ah-shatûp gaam-shâras.

With those words the pact was sealed. The sea of corpse rushed at Kaal-Lûk, crushing him under their numbers. The uruk felt steel and bones pierce his immortal soul, empowering it with the wrath of the war-spirit. The shaman roared in pain, his flesh torn, bitten and cut…

Then he woke up alone, screaming.

The walls of the cave echoed his cries.

The small of burned flesh filled his nostrils.

It was done.

The Flayer

Lesser of Votar

The Hordelands offered no comfort, between the scorching sands and the arid gales striking him, Gutlug'Lur carried onward armed only with his trusty pilgrim's staff along with his skinning knife, a hunter's tool that had aided him many times when the land itself failed to provide sustenance. His pilgrimage to the Headwaters went well, armed with the knowledge and covenant of the Oasis Spirit, he travelled to his next destination on his pilgrimage...Yet the Spirit he sought was not one of water and life, no, this Spirit demanded the quarry of the hunt as properly befit a Lesser of Votar, the Great Spirit of the Hunt and patron spirit of his Clan. His footsteps strode across the wastes ahead of him, considering what offering would be best to offer to the Spirit, along the path he had witnessed many creatures. A dingo devouring a wallaby on the path from the River shrine, crocodiles basking along the riverbanks in the Sun's light, and a lone hyena standing guard over a corpse half-picked by other scavengers. 

None of them would do, for Gutlug had heard from a travelling hobgoblin of a creature from Aevos that had came to these lands. One he was quite familiar with due to having chanced upon them during his time as a renowned hunter, a pack of these creatures, 'Durbûrzlagl' they were called...The goblin told him that one made its home in the cave dens close to the gold mines, attacking miners and travelers alike. He remembered how a pack of them nearly slayed his party, almost taking two to meet Kor.

Yet the Durbûrzlagl must be stopped, so Gutlug prepared to meet the creature along the cliff face where it rested. Covering his green body in red sand and yellow clay from the river to hide his scent, he tracked the beast's bloody pawprints on the trail towards a dead tree above the mesa cliffs...The roots of the tree appeared to be a charnel of sorts, bones of descendant and beast alike littered its roots, Gutlug grunted and shook his head. Preparing himself, Gutlug removed his skinning knife and began to tie it to his pilgrim's staff forming a crude spear for felling the beast. Beneath the tree, the tracks led further into a dry cave filled with a musky smell. A lone male, marking its territory. The beast suspected nothing was amiss as Gutlug crept into the cave's entrance, spear in hand, from the cave floor he picked up a stone and threw it at the beast, The Spirit would not accept this sacrifice if he hadn't roused it first, such was the decree of Votar. From this disturbance the beast stirred from its slumber. Anticipating the beast, Gutlug raised his spear, knowing he was at a disadvantage in this fight, he dashed to the side as the beast strode to the cave's mouth.

Gutlug waited for the proper moment to strike, his earthy scent a mask for his prey's rather large and attuned scent, his ears perked with every stride of the Durbûrzlag's claws dragging on the ground. As the Sun's last light struck the beast's yellow hide, the orc pilgrim roared and thrust his spear into it's side, blood gushing onto the cave floor before turning to face him after he'd pulled his spear from it's mark. The creature immediately pounced on Gutlug, the two locked in combat as Gutlug fought the beast off with his spear, scissor-teeth gnashing and sputtering spittle on his green face. The beast's claws dug into his bare arms, the two snarling as they wrestled for supremacy in this cave, orc prevailing with Gutlug managing to toss his foe off onto the ground belly-up. In this moment, Gutlug seized it, plunging the spear into the underbelly before drawing its guts out with the knife's blade on his ramshackle spear. Gutlug breathed heavily, having exerted his energy on the hunt, along with the

mark of his struggle dripping orcish blood onto the ground. With the corpse of his quarry over his shoulder, spear in hand he lumber out of the cave, he made for the tree.

Soon enough, the Sun crept down below the horizon, Last Light hitting the mesa cliffs. It looked beautiful, it truly did for the Uruk, having dealt with sticking to the low-paths during his pilgrimage. Yet now it was time to offer his due, for Votar had offered him a victory and payment was needed. Taking his prize to the base of the Charnel Tree, he laid it down and prayed to Votar, kneeling at the tree. Gutlug removed the skinning knife from the binds securing it onto his staff, muttering a silent prayer, he began to flay the hide from the beast from it's flesh. Gutlug turned his nose a little, he was used to the smell of blood and musk, yet the acrid smell never got too old as he pried the skin from it's corpse and laid it upon the tree's dead branches. Now it was the time to contact the Spirit of which resembled the beast, Khûrriip the Flayer, Lesser of Votar whose Forest of Skins was decorated with the hides of every beast, descendant, and even the Bûrz prey of old hunters. There, he spoke the Old Tongue.

"Khûrriip, za kausharûr strohlab golmizg, riipob za hûrûrz horn thororirlab golmizg. Hoitalizg, amukh turu ranzik Tauriipoblab thrakugalat. Rad za hoitalizg kullat lûpizg mûlû botlab urzkû baduzgûlat!"

(Khûrriip, I offer this sacrifice to your Shrine, the skin of this brave beast on your altar. I am the hunter, who many moons ago you brought to your Forest of Skins. Now this hunter asks you to show the road to your

world again!)

At the base of the dead tree, Gutlug leaned forward and his soul was transported from the Mortal realm, his very soul now in a place he had travelled there before with his Mentor and Teacher in the ways of Farseeing, Gharak Yar. The dark forest had remained the same as it was when the two shamans had visited this realm, the Blood Moon hanging high in the sky, perpetually offering it's sanguine light onto the trees bearing the flayed skins of almost every creature, men, beasts, even orcs splayed on the tree's branches. Gutlug himself was unphased, as the forest itself opened a path for him. In his arms lay the skin of the beast, the Moon lighting the road through the forest as Gutlug passed by every tree, every branch, every skin that hanged from its branch. Some old, tattered and worn, others dripping blood onto the dark grass, veins still visible from having being peeled and offered recently it mattered not, for the lord of this place cared not whether the living or the dead had been offered. All was a fair kill for the Flayer, the moment had not been lost upon the shaman, for among the trees lay Khûrriip themself, Lord of Skins, The Flayer, Keeper of the Flayed Wood.

𐰷𐰇𐰼𐰼𐰄𐰯

The Flayer, a Spirit almost as large as a small dragon, rested above Gutlug in the branches, observing Their servant present the offering...Their form bearing the likeness of the very beast that they slew to honour them, the Durbûrzlagl, the marsupial predator whose pelt he offered. Khûrriip addressed the Shaman, a harsh speech uttering from Them.

"Mirz kulash taulabishi? Mirz Khûrriipû gashdurbub, Gothob Riipu agh Atishalob Tauriipob?! RAD GASHNLAT! Kothuizub niinthroqum grishûr...Snagaizub."

(Who is the one in my forest? Who swears to Khûrriip, Lord of Skins and Keeper of the Flayed Forest?! YOU MUST SAY NOW! My claws are thirsty for blood...My Slave.)

Khûrriip descended from the tree, shaking the hides hanging from it's branches as They descended onto the floor of the forest. Spots and stripes Blood Red, akin to the very Moon that offered illumination in this realm almost devoid of light. Gutlug steeled himself, he carefully stepped forward to Khûrriip, offering the skin of the beast to Them. He knelt before the Spirit, spreading his arms out to plead with the Spirit.

"Narnûlubatûr broshanizg urzkû dârlabishi, Gothizub. Ash riip tau'ûr thrakizg, ash Durbûrzlagl, ash horn kullatûr hoitishi za uglugaizg. Rad hosh-shonûrlab skaatizg, Gothizub. Gaakh za golmalûrlabob bhûllat. Gaakh gashdurbizub bhûllat, Gothob Riipu agh Atishalob Tauriipob." 

(Thank  you for welcoming me again into your home, My Master. I bring a pelt for your Forest, a Durbûrzlagl (Thylacoleo carnifex), a beast for you I have slain in the hunt. Now I come for your blessing, my Master. May you accept this offering of yours. May you accept my oath, Lord of Skins and Keeper of the Flayed Forest.)

The Spirit gave a slight bow, licking their snout, They approached Gutlug to receive Their offering. Gutlug held out the pelt, blood dripping onto the cursed earth and with a single swipe of Their obsidian claws, Khûrriip carried the skin of the creature into one of the trees along with the rest of the grizzly trophies offered to them by Hunters and shamans that had come to visit The Flayer for Their blessings and to bring themselves to serve Them. Gnashing Their teeth, Khûrriip spoke to Gutlug yet again, a guttural and sickening cackle coming from their devilish maw as they rapped their talons on the tree's branches.

"Gutlug'Lur. Dârizubishi skaatlatuga agh nar golmal thraklatuga...Rad ash golmalûr kulizub thraklat, amal sigûrzik tul skaatlatuga inizg, Ilzgûlizg riipuob Khû'ug! Za durbhûizg, nardur uruk, agh hosh-shonizub kullatirû thrakizgub...Gutlug'Lur, Hoital agh Snagaizub."

(Gutlug'Lur. In my home you came before and did not bring an offering...Now you bring an offering, when you came here long ago I remember. I am the Spirit of the Tearing of Skins! This I greatly accept, small orc, and my blessing I bring onto you...Gutlug'Lur. Hunter and my servant.)

After They spoke their pleasure at this offering, the bestial spirit lept down on top of Gutlug from their perch, he felt the great weight of the Spirit as They began their work on their servant. The spirit tore open the upper-left of his robe open, the obsidian claws black as jet glistened for a short while before carefully peeling away at the skin of Gutlug's chest. He bit down and clenched his teeth, the Spirit deftly leaving behind it's mark upon him, formed from the bare flesh that remained after the skin had been stripped away from him. Before long, the marking was done in an instant and Khûrriip released Their grip on Gutlug.  Striding towards the tree, The Spirit placed the rather small but remaining strip of skin onto the tree where They rested, fusing it with the tree itself. They returned back to the perch and begat wisdom to their servant, the pilgrim's reward for this covenant and offering to the Flayer.

"Rad, kullatû krimpizg, nardur uruk...Gaakh turu riipuob ishu agh hornu bugudizubishi khûlat bugudizubishi. Rûgh riipu tauizubû thraklat gaakh durbûrzla largizg. Nûlat ishuizub agh darûkûrz thraklat, agh ghashanu Votarû agh kulizubû khlaarlat, Gutlug'Lur. Lur Baiark gaakh durbûrzat latakothuizub agh thaukulab, gaakh aarûrz bûrz'hai agh Ishob Uzg Dâgob Lur azub...Za gadhaalizub kullatûk, Gutlug'Lur, Gothob Lur. Votarob hontu sûrir kullatûk, rad kullat ûkil broshanub Tauriiplabishi. Inlatû ûkil ash riip tauizub thrakatûluk. Glothrok! Âdhlat! Botob fûthug kullat gundat!"

(Now, to you I bind, small orc. May many skins of foes and beasts you tear in my name. Every pelt to my forest you bring shall make me stronger. Pain to my enemies and the unworthy you shall bring, and you shall listen to Votar and my own Commands, Gutlug'Lur. The Lur Clan shall be strong under my claws and your blades, may you always  kill the Dark Ones and foes of the Land, children of Lur. This is my promise to you, Gutlug'Lur, Lurgoth. Votar's eyes are upon you always, now always you are welcome in my Forest of the Flayed. Always to remember a skin you must bring to my forest. Now go! Leave! The waking world awaits you!)

They spirit raised a paw, and with a stroke of the obsidian dewclaw, They carved open a trapdoor under Gutlug. The ground itself peeled under him, the orc tumbled down into the hole just as he had back to the world of Aevos on his first Spirit Walk...Now bearing the mark of his pact with Khûriip upon his flesh, the mark had been bestowed and his consciousness drifted back to him from the oddly chilling and bleak forest to the mortal realm again. His own spirit falling down until it had rejoined his mortal body, along with all the sensation and surroundings that came with being in the Waking World...

From the journey into the Spirit World, Gutlug shook his head. Before him was the very same tree that he had bore witness to, the flesh of the beast already rotting before him as flies danced around its skinned corpse. He blinked twice, before touching a small red-patch that had formed under his robe. Blood. He lifted his robe for a short while before noticing the mark of the Spirit had been left upon him. He smiled, having completed another pilgrimage to honour a Spirit of the Hunt and receiving his boon from the pact he had made with the Spirit. Lifting his skinning knife, he nodded. From now on, he would flay any beast, descendant, and darkspawn that came under the auspices of The Hunt, sacred wisdom he had the intention of sharing with his people when the time came for him to return...For now, he admired the dead tree, the charnel ground for many beasts and descendants that passed through this mesa. Now quiet...He picked up his staff, sliding the blade of his knife back onto his belt, and strode off on the mesa towards his next destination. His pilgrimage had one final stop before it was complete...

The Tigerasi's enormous form was eclipsed by the light, the constricting feeling in his chest intensifying as the all too familiar eyes bore down their pressuring gaze upon him.

"...Come to your senses, have you now, Yhl'?"

The Divine Being's form began to solidify, the shadowy essence that enshrined his form now gradually fading as he descended upon his perch to rest, now at level with the Aelkos's eyes.

"Do you now see the need for your faith in our Glorious Work?"

"Descendant from on high, you are the salvation of we Kharajyr. My faith has never faltered.", the Yhl's voice Rumbled, though only a fraction of the strength of the voice of Teuzauhtototl, Divine Beast of Faith and Devotion.

"A genuine faith is good, Yhl', but far too Quiet for what is needed."

The Aelkos bowed his head, unfortunately illustrating Teuzauhtototl's point...

"...However, your unbreakable will may indeed make all the difference.

I know that you understand the responsibility of carrying my blessing,

and perhaps that shat suffice."

The canopy of the Jungle became enshrouded in darkness, the only light now the two intense eyes that stared into the very soul of the Aelkos.

...Before tiny, shimmering stars began to manifest, forming a wonderous constellation as the sky overhead brightened from the formation of the new moon, the Symbol of  Teuzauhtototl, as the Tigerasi felt the new power well within his soul.

"Your effort is irreplaceable, Yhl'. Go now, and be my Glorious Mouth, that you would spread our Muuna's Gospel to our people."

And soon enough, the Aelkos found himself back within the home of his pride, exhausted, but wearing a satisfied smile upon his face, for he knew that he now carried with him the Blessing of Teuzauhtototl.

A humid air caressed the skin of a trio whom had awoken upon a idyllic grotto. Waters, crystalline as they were blue. Serene waves lightly rolled their way to the shore of rock and overgrowth that found its way into the cracks and gaps. Symbiotically clung to the surfaces of the grotto they found themselves in. Hera, first guided the spirit of that poor lost soul yonder to the waters. As he walked, Lyria’s gaze had remained upon him. She watched as his heels dug for traction, standing just at the edge of the waters. 

“Drown or rise. . .” The man, Virarim said such absent words to none in particular. Perhaps an age old sentiment. One, Lyria knew not. 

Bubbles from the surface boiled to greet hat lost soul. They surged forth in tendrils as they grasped upon the very fabric of his being. Their grip, a seemingly insurmountable force. One that was, and shall forever be. The waters consumed him. They forced their way into his lungs. The bitterly frigid liquids surged through him almost as if they joined to him so. He was pulled away swiftly, consumed by the river that cove joined from. 

“Chase his soul, guide him so he may not be lost!” That Shaman, wizened by experience, had directed almost care-free. As if this were something she had done a thousand times before.

The Mali’thill obliged. Near the shores a boat which was not there before was caught by her almost worried lilac hues. They darted from this vessel to Hera and back again. Yet that palm directed, an unspoken sentiment. ‘Go with the tides.’ 

The Spirit-guide who’m had taken this journey a thousand times more first began by setting the vessel off into the white-water rapids. The frigid waters were a stark contrast to the nearly idyllic features of the tropical landscape which manifested them. Sand glistened from resplendent rays. Almost a metallic sheen upon them. A strange dissonance to the colours and make of the land around them. Yet above all they seemed familiar.

The old soul. One riddled with conflict and strife, fresh and elden seemed to struggle as it was pulled away through the great and fortuitous river. An old and burning star that fizzled before its own mass. Almost drowning in the waters it could not bear the burden of much longer. That elf, the one whom was thrust unto this walk nearly froze with hesitation. Yet it were not fear that gripped her, but only uncertainty. This experience was far too fresh for her to act without thought. Many things raced across her mind, yet none of them quelled that single emotion which carried her in most days. A desire. One to move onward. 

Lyria held onto the vessel just as Hera directed. Her hands gripping the edges of the boat as they rocked and swung, crashing in to rock and toiling waters all the same.

A soft voice. One which wove its way into the reaches of the Mali’thill’s mind spoke in a soft almost delicate prose. “. . . Are you prepared to guide thyself, and those you seek to mend down this path of turmoil? . . The Path of a healer. It is harsh.” This unfamiliar yet almost motherly voice had asked. 

“To guide the soul. . .” Lyria echoed this sentiment. A muted whisper only well overtaken by the roaring rivers that swallowed whole any words that came from the trio. 

This great and mighty force that would weather any mountain no matter how firm and resolute only encouraged the Mali’thil. Guidance, were demanded. And so she did. From Hera’s hands did the oar leap into her own as if willed upon. Her grasp wrapped digits around, tightening firm as she drove the end into the waters frothing from their fury. At first, she used the paddle to stabilize the boat. Perhaps a futile effort with such fury of the rivers. This desire. This yearning. This choice to continue down was her answer. No words necessary. 

Before them lied a fork in the river. One, to a great drop. The other, rapids which continued on until they dulled to a muted end. An ocean calm and as pristine as the grove they had come from. Lyria considered, and respected the great fall they were already on course for. Yet she drove her oar, redirecting the boat towards the more long and arduous path. For if by viewing that soul. . . He needed this the most. 

Long and arduous it was. Lyria fought for a time unknown to herself. Her mentor only in the back, a passenger to witness the training wheels revoked from a mere infant on the journey of a Farseer. The Mali’thill guided the soul along, avoiding rock and sediment with a great labour. Her breaths stilled. They remained calm despite the exhaustion that settled in. In time they were greeted by the stilling of the river. . . It’s mouth flowing into the great ocean. The soul had met its rest, purified of what had wrought it so horrifically.

A spirit, a Dolphin of sorts returned the poor soul to the surface. To which the Shaman and her student thanked graciously for its own assistance in the journey. Though exhaustion had settled in a voice returned. Familiar now in all means. For it were Nuli, for she always encouraged one to continue their journey.

“To the path of healing, you carried on. Seek me, commune with my waters should you wish to take lent upon my prow.” That great spirit whispered low. Its words were gentle like the vast expanse they had found themselves in.

As all were returned to the vessel. With the man’s spirit in tow Lyria set off towards the greater shores so distant. In time, slowly they awoke from the stride they had walked. Forevermore, a daughter of the waves.

A Pact of Blood and Servitude

Urzok appeared within the spirit plane of Gazigash, a swamp of bone, blood and flesh. A twisted landscape of the Spirit Gazigash. “I call to you powerful one Gazigash. Master of blood, bone and flesh!” 

The wind howled, carrying the scent of rot. The winds whispered to Urzok. “You wish to claim our power? What makes you so worth young mortal!” Urzok glanced to Kaal, his spiritual teacher beside him. He nodded before proclaiming his words towards the great and powerful spirit.

“I am young and have much to prove and learn. I shall make myself worthy to your powerful one. I shall learn. I seek to teach my tribe, my brothers. Use your power on those that have wronged my kin!” The blood around Urzok began to bubble and ooze, bursting hot liquid ichor over him. 

“You want our power for yourself!? What do we gain by accepting to lend you our blood!” The spirit exclaimed, the landscape shuddering with every word spoken.

Urzok tensed and cried out, “A devoted servant. One with much to prove. Constant reverence to you!” The bubbling intensified and soon a head appeared, then torso and soon a whole skeleton stood in front of Urzok. Inside the ribcage a beating heart leaked blood, which flowed heavily filling the swamp.

“We have many servants. We want something else. A Champion. One who will spread our faith to the realms, one who will recruit more warriors to the faith of Gazigazh. Is this a task you can accomplish!?”

Urzok cursed to himself, his poor choice of words. Perhaps it had offered too much to the spirit. He was in too deep now, the blood filling up more.

“Power in blood, bone and flesh. I offer my service in blood in exchange for your power!”

Gazigash grinned, a cackling laugh echoing in the swamp. “Then pact to me, Nargazh, lesser of the flowing blood under Gazigazh. Become our champion unto the mortal plane. Spread the faith and serve us well!” The immortal raised his hands towards the Lak as the path he had trod filled with even more blood soon reaching the Uruk’s kness.

“I pact to you powerful one!” Urzok screamed out! A service now given in exchange for power. He wasn’t soon after he was cannonballed back to his mortal shell.

“Well zkah…”

Ghoraza walked beneath the sallow sky, his feet dragging against the rust-hued dust. It clung to his skin, to his robes, to the grooves of his scarred palms. He had seen the truth, and the truth was mortality. Mortality was no curse. It was the one divinity that all could grasp. Krug had saved all who lived now, and the shaman’s path was with him.

Ghoraza invoked the heart of the blackened shrine and the Spirit of Metal called to him. Its voice rang through the obsidian chamber, sharp as shattering steel, cold as a wintered blade. It did not whisper. It did not plead. It commanded.

THE SPIRIT OF METAL  Bind to me, King of Bone. Take into your marrow the weight of the elemental. Become more than crimson, more than ivory. Become as I am, and know POWER!

Ghoraza’s heart thundered against the cage of his ribs. His fingers curled into fists. He saw his kin in the dark of his mind. Uruks, proud and strong, shattered beneath the march of time. No glory waited in the soil. Only hollowed silence.

His breath came sharp and ragged. Power. The word was a curse, an allure, a hunger deep as the roots of the world. He felt the brand before he saw it, searing into his chest like a molten chain. He snarled, back arching, fingers clawing at the empty air. It did not burn like fire. It burned like frost, creeping and pitiless. The voice of the Spirit wrapped around him, lilting and cruel.

Ziwot’uya

Spirit of Echoes and Subterranean Winds

An ambitious uruk paced back and forth in Lurak, awaiting news of where the raiders of Krugistan were to strike next, but in the cavern the horde of Krug called home, naught could be heard but the drip of water resonating across its walls sourced from a chasm far below his feet. Bolog, as the orc was called, was not a descendant of importance. He belonged to no clan; he held no great weapon; and his name did not bring fear in the hearts of his foes, but a great orc of days gone by, Kybaal’Akaal, saw something in him that he lacked the vision to see within himself. On this day, the once-rex approached his apprentice once more 

Et ahm tik, have latz dezided wub Ilzgul wi ahm packin’ lat with?

Bolog, ever unsure, simply called for an elemental representative of air, before guiding the elder shaman to a safe secluded corner of the city, in which to conduct this spirit walk. The pair pass a smoking bowl of kaktus green between the two of them, and as soon as the young orc grew comfortable, he experienced something once more:

Ilzugl-ur pukhl-izg. Thrak agh ukh-iizubu ‘lat agh, nork brumburz-izubu

Whether it was the guttural chant of ancient blah, or the hazy contents of the bowl, one could not say, but Bolog’s eyes began to water, and soon after his soul wandered. As the duo fell from their current plane of existence, they landed in a dark realm, unlike any Bolog had seen before. As the two orcs stepped forward, every step echoed with the chorus of stampeding mustangs. Every drawn breath sounded back at them in the darkness a thousand times over. 

Offer et zumthing tu karry on da windz, speak liez agh et will punish lat

Bolog, steadying his breath, eyed the darkness before him, knowing that a pact with this echo, might become the leading chorus of his time on Aevos. The truth he shared with the spirit were merely a whisper, but the restless elemental cried back in response to his word, a cacophony of laughter and judgement bouncing off the walls of the distant cavern. The overwhelming wind of voices was the last thing the pair experienced before finding themselves once more in a familiar cave; one they both had called home for some years. 

Latz attrakted a cruel zpirit… Bi kareful with dat azh

The desert’s sands move

[New lesser spirit + pact]

Rα'αɾႦσɠ

Spirit of the sands

The deserts of Aevos are truly unforgiving, walking among the dunes are a challenge for any of the living, the two shamans walked in hope of finding Ramakhet, spirit of the desert.

They kept walking, their feet burning on the hot sands, their muscles failing as they urged for water; the two returned with yet another fail to their sanctuary. As they settled in, sitting on the cold floor covered by an old roof that provided shelter from the scorching heat writing yet another chapter of their searching. The sandweaver, disappointed, spoke “let us spirit walk, ask him for guidance” - “maybe he will answer” the prophet Sandsworn nodded with a sigh, hopeless himself he agreed to try and thus they began. 

The two shamans took a moment to connect with the spirit, mists seeping from their golden armor as their souls were sucked into the realm of what they thought was Ramakhet, looking around the plane was filled with endless sand dunes and not a plant or a living creature in sight.

Looking up they saw no sun yet the heat was present, they looked below and saw no shadow.

Not before long the two felt the sand rumbling, their feet sinking into it ever so slightly with every move. As for the dunes they began to move around, piles of sand flying everywhere as the windless plane carried no grain, the feeling was heavy, something was about to happen.

The sandsword worried looked at her leader and life-mate her voice bore no echo in this realm “now what..” her tone lowered, the sandworn sprung to action yelling to the spirit, his mouth marked with the blessing of the desert “We are of the desert, our people abandoned you, we come to seek your help! We come to seek the spirits of the desert!” the dunes rumbled about as one larger than the other was seen in the distance “there!” the sandweaver called out, pointing at the huge pile of sand hurtling towards them. The prophet fell on his knees repeating his plea “We come for the spirit! We come to speak!” the dunes now quirt in an instant, not a grain of sand dared move as the spirit listened, a voice could be heard from below speaking in old blah “I am the spirit of the sand itself, the very shifting dunes of the desert, I am its core and its shaper.” The two shamans, surprised at the response, began to say “we seek your help, we are your voice, ramakhet’s voice!” the spirit took a moment to think before it answered “why should i help you? You are after my greater.” they nodded, the sand rumbling with each piercing word Ra’arbog spoke.
 

“Our people banned the spirits, we do not agree to it, we are your conduit, your will!” the prophet said with determination in his eyes, the sandwaver dared not speak now “hmm? You are a son of the desert are you not?” the spirit perked his question, non dared before walking in his realm. The two shamans did not have enough time to answer before the dunes began to shift again, moving them with a swift motion across the plane long from where they started. Before them now were three anomalies that seemed like choices, the two looked at each other before gazing at the sight confused. In Front of them there was an oasis, full of life fauna and flora. Shades from palm trees aiding the creatures that reside there. To their left stood a man who seemed like a warrior, wielding a sword that seemed worn from countless battles, his armor was shining gold and trimmed with leather. And on their right a rather sad sight, a small fennec fox dying on the scorching sands, grasping for help.

Without a second thought the Sandweaver walked towards the dying fennec, she leaned over it trying to shade what she could, with a sad tone she turned to the sandsworn “i wish i could do more to help him, heal him..” looking forward she saw many more, saddened she wished to stay with the critter not leaving his side to die alone.
The sandsworn walked towards the oasis, he observed the life around with a careful eye, trying to take some of the water to help the warrior and the fennec yet to no avail, the water stood still.
“I'm sorry” he said, looking around looking for a solution. The spirit had many thoughts ‘why did he go to the oasis, does he wish to hide from the truth of the desert?’ its thought changed as he sought to help the man and the fox, looking now at the sandweaver he spoke up with a pleased tone “you sister, see the life of the desert, seek community in this harsh reality” Ra’arbog then turned his attention to the sandsworn “you brother, seek to lead and preach of the truth of this reality.” the dune then uncovered, a giant Scarab beetle was standing in front of the two, a golden sun on the back of his shell and the marking of the sands on his legs.
“You have proven yourselves to me, go! Preach the truth of the desert, you are now my champions” as he touched each of them upon their head a shining glow of gold came onto them as their souls were pushed into their mortal bodies.

Sealing the pact.



 

The Words of Ra’arBog

The Zealot would whisper words into the expansive, infinite dunes

“Come forth, come forth”
He did call to Ra’arBog, the Lesser of Ramakhet

Through the mountains of grains, a giant dune did approach

SON OF THE DESERT, WHY ARE YOU HERE

The Spirit did say

The breath left the Zealots mouth, his skin once burned now a fair green

Converse, as they did, was a summit reached

Service, as Rotmendur’Kur provided always to the desert, had earned him a favorable stance with the spirit of the desert grains

3 options were then formed, almost like mirages appearing

One of a warrior, standing prepared for battle holding a sword

The middle, was an Oasis

Lastly, was a Fennec Fox, breathing her last breaths

Looking upon his options, he felt the pull in his head. His eyes drifted to the Oasis. His life-partner, Akul, would approach the Fox, giving it comfort in its fleeting moments of life

Rotmendur’Kur would walk into the Oasis, laying his fingers across the fauna that did grow, watching the waters for health

Then did the Spirit speak

“Son of the Desert, you shall be prophet, and sister shall be giver of care”

Thus, a pact was formed, and the two shamans were sent back


 

Wub are we going to be doing? Huw will I zummyn mi zpirit?
Ghoraza would quickly answer the question that his student had just asked.
We ahm to activate the spell Commune to speak wid lat pacted Spirit. Lat am nub strong enough to cast such a spell on lat own, but lat have we.
A long pause followed his mentor's answer, and after a moment of reflection, he finally spoke again.
 Lat already am capable of exerting lat Fruum- to wield the metal upon lat body, or for aesthetic manipulation of lat abilities. 
Ghoraza extended one of his hands, and a brilliant flare of fire erupted from his fingertips. The instant Drolzu saw flames erupt from Ghoraza's fingertips, he would immediately yell.
Wub da zkah iz going on!
As Drolzu began to speak again, Ghoraza would quickly talk over him saying

Iz latz turn now
It took Drolzu several attempts to exert his elemental spirit to his hands, but after a few tries and with growing focus, he finally succeeded. After succeeding to cast his elemental spirit to his hands, he would quickly turn to Ghoraza before saying
Dyd mi do et?

Ghoraza's eyes lit up with excitement the moment he saw his student's hand gradually transforming into metal. In almost an instant he would say
Indeed. Lat am an Animist brudda!
His student quickly turned to him and asked,

Wub should we do now?
Ghoraza wasted no time in responding to his student's question.
We ahm to perform the spell Commune. 
Ghoraza carefully etched the symbol of metal onto the ground before speaking to Drolzu.
Go get the zhomo, we need him to make an offering to your spirit.

The moment Drolzu heard this, he immediately rushed through the city, searching for the shaman. He finally found him in the tavern and urged him to follow him.

As soon as Drolzu came back with the shaman, Ghoraza would instantly tell him.

We need lat grizh to summon latz spirit

Drolzu would almost immediately pull out his pocket knife, making a small little incision onto his hand, letting the blood drip onto the symbol below.
As soon as he did this, the shaman would begin to speak 
Griishûm aghburz lat, latob burz bruddah glob lat amg latûrz

After the shaman made his offering, he quickly departed. As he left, smoke began to swirl around the duo, lifting them off the ground along with everything else in the vicinity. In an instant, all the metal nearby gravitated toward a single point, twisting and contorting into the shape of a massive war hammer. As the smoke dissipated, Drolzu's spirit began to materialize from the thick haze, taking form before both of their eyes.

Thys iz lat zpirit Drolzu. Lat may begin speaking to it.

Before Drolzu could utter a word, his spirit spoke to him first.

You will need action, small shard. You have yet to bear the weight of my power, nor possess the soul to do so yet. How are ideas spread?
Drolzu paused, contemplating for a moment before responding to his spirit.
Ideas are spread through word of mouth, sculptures that have been made by people.

Drolzu's spirit continued to speak.

And through action, you may wield my strength to kill the evils of this world, to guide those who would fall to darkness. When you are stronger, you will be able to bring others to witness me like this, and usher them into the faith. To enhance my power you may make totems in this realm, create artifacts in my name, or reign its calamity when you seek to destroy your enemies.

The Bonds of Loyalty

A warm, dry breeze blew through the caverns of Lurak, the desert air filling the lungs of those gathered within the city.

The dust of the cavern floor was disturbed by the end of a staff meeting its grainy surface. Kaal of Raguk, trudged up the stairs toward the Grizh Pit. Behind him trailed two other orcs, both following closely behind the Elder Raguk. 

Azhug stepped toward the entrance to the mines of Lurak, his eyes drifting downward as he gazed upon the vast opening in the earth. “AZHUG!” a voice echoed about the cavern. The Elder Gorkil snapped his gaze toward the voice, his eyes meeting those of Kaal. “Come brother, Dazkur awaits.” the Elder Shaman spoke to the Gorkil. Azhug collected himself and carried on, following after his teacher. Step by step, ladder by ladder, the trio made their way to the Grizh Pit. Kaal waved his hand, ushering the other two inside before the Elder Raguk barred the entryway with the braziers scattered about the room. 

Kaal lowered himself to the ground, sitting upon the stone. He looked to Ukûkaal, the third orc present, who also joined him on the ground. Azhug stared between the duo, before joining them in a seated position. With intent, Kaal took out a few blunts, he passed them to the two Urukim sitting beside him “This will help with the pain, is good to have before spirit walk.” he said to the pair. Ukûkaal nodded, having already known this, while Azhug accepted the blunt with curiosity. With snaps of their fingers, the two Shamans lit their blunts, taking a few huffs from them. Azhug looked around, finding a candle nearby and using it to light his own. 

“We begin.” said Kaal

Azhug hastily took a huff from his own blunt. Then closing his eyes alongside Kaal and Ukûkaal. The trio began their spirit walk, led by Kaal of Raguk.

Down they fell into nothingness and darkness. They fell for what seemed like an eternity to Azhug, devoid of air to breathe, devoid of light to see, and devoid of anything to feel. The darkness then broken by a glimpse of light beaming off of a sandy landscape. With a thud, the trio landed in an open desert. 

As they rose to their feet and dusted themselves off, the trio gazed about the landscape, a sea of endless dunes surrounding them. Azhug peered to his left and right to find nothing but the sand in his sight. He was confused, until a gust of wind fell upon the trio. Azhug sniffed the air and his eyes went wide. The Gorkil sniffed once more, looking to his companions as he uttered “Meat?” 

Kaal and Ukûkaal nodded, for they had also caught the same scent. “Follow the path created by the scent brother.” Kaal spoke to Azhug. Azhug turned to the east, his nose guiding him toward the direction of the scent. “This is your path Azhug, we will only intervene if we are in imminent danger.” the Elder Shaman said to Azhug in warning. “Be wary, for the spirits you encounter may try to trick or mislead you.” Azhug nodded in reply, he continued on following the scent.

Seconds passed, then minutes, maybe hours, maybe days. The trio trudged on through the vast and seemingly ever expanding desert in search of the source of the scent. Azhug placed a hand on his stomach as it growled more ferociously than the war-scarred Uruk had ever himself. He looked down at the ground, his hope nearly lost as he considered whether Dazkur would deem him worthy. His intrusive doubts were interrupted by the hand of Kaal on his shoulder. Azhug gazed upward, his eyes finding a solitary white tent in the middle of the desert.

With his hope restored, Azhug slogged through the sand and made his way toward the tent. Ukûkaal and Kaal followed behind the Gorkil as he approached. As they neared the entrance, the sand began to stir and rise from beneath them. The whirlwinds and gusts threw sand into the air until they rose to create a figure, towering above the three Urukim. 

“Who are you?” the figure said, its voice thunderous.

Azhug placed a fist to his chest, lowering his head as he answered the spirit. “Azhug of the Gorkils.” he stated in reply. The spirit crossed its arms, staring down at the Uruk with an unrelenting gaze. “We know this name. Do you think yourself worthy of pacting with Dazkur?” the spirit questioned him. Azhug looked up at the spirit, who then continued on. “I am Gunmah, and I must ask, why do you seek the power of Dazkur?” he asks of the Gorkil.

Azhug replied “Azhug wishes to follow his path, to protect and defend all of Urukim. To be a shield for them.” The spirit nodded before he spoke “You think yourself capable of such?” he asked rhetorically “You must prove it.” he said with a wave of his hand. At his command, the sand began to swirl once more beneath the feet of Azhug, a form of himself being made from the sands. Azhug stared at the copy of himself before he positioned himself in front of Kaal and Ukûkaal, his arms outstretched as to protect them from danger.

The Azhug Clone snarled and hissed at his counterpart before sending a fist at the chin of Azhug. Azhug lowered his posture, dipping his head to the right and slipping the punch, he stepped with his maneuver, eyes fixated on his double. With a growl, the red Gorkil leaned forward and sent the weight of his shoulder toward the Azhug Clone. 

The Azhug Clone stumbled backwards before he refocused his attention on that of Kaal and Ukûkaal. The Clone leapt over Azhug, his gaze fixated on the companions of Azhug. He thrashed about and just before reaching them, his momentum was stopped. The ankles of the Azhug Clone were trapped within the grasp of Azhug himself. With a grunt, Azhug pulled its legs downward, slamming the sand clone against the dunes and dragging it to the side, away from Kaal and Ukûkaal.

The Azhug Clone rose to his feet with a growl, he rushed toward the Gorkil Chieftain and lunged at his legs, aiming to tackle the red orc. Azhug shifted his feet, stuffing the takedown sent by the Sand Uruk. Azhug sent his weight toward the ground, landing atop his clone. With haste, Azhug pinned his copy to the floor of the desert, restraining his movement and preventing him from harming Kaal and Ukûkaal. 

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

Gunmah applauded the Gorkil “Good!” he boomed, “Now destroy your double and come speak with Dazkur.” commanded the spirit. Azhug looked at the copy of himself, then back to Gunmah, the words of Kaal echoing in his head. Azhug would not fall for a trick of the spirits. The Gorkil repositioned his grip on the sand clone, lifting the clone up and tossing him over his shoulder and toward the tent that Gunmah stood watch over. Azhug rose to his feet, looking up at Gunmah “Sand Clone takes the form of Uruk, Azhug will not harm Urukim.” he said to Gunmah.

[!] A silence befell the landscape. Gunmah stared down at Azhug for a brief moment before the sand clone began to wither away and return to the desert from whence it came. Gunmah nodded to the Gorkil Chieftain. “You are worthy.” he said before the winds began to swirl around him. The lesser spirit shrunk down to match the size of the trio of Urukim. “Come.” he commanded.

The three Urukim followed Gunmah into the tent. Inside stood a solitary chest made of sandstone. “What do you bring as an offering to Dazkur?” Gunmah questioned Azhug. The Gorkil pondered for a moment before saying “Azhug has built shrine already. Azhug offers praise to Dazkur.” he began, “Azhug helps lead Krughai, will bring many warriors to fight in the name of Dazkur.” he continued on. The Gorkil looked at his hands, then to the chest in the room. “Azhug offers blood, to prove loyalty and dedication to Dazkur.”

Gunmah nodded at Azhug’s words. “Prove it.” he commanded. Azhug stepped forward, placing a hand on the chest. Gunmah clenched his mighty fist, slamming it down upon the hand of Azhug, crushing it. Splinters of bone and splatters of blood sprayed across the chest, which then absorbed its offering. “It is done.” uttered Gunmah.

The wind howled once more, the three Urukim beginning the return to their bodies. The feeling of their feet leaving the dunes of Dazkur’s Domain left Azhug with a sense of pride and comfort.

Surrounded by darkness once more, though this time it felt different than before. The scent of cooked meat slowly drifted out of his nostrils, unable to be detected any longer.  Azhug was suddenly thrust back into his worldly form with force. Azhug sat up, his hand rubbing the back of his neck before looking at Kaal.

“You have done well brother.”

The Red Gorkil, Azhug, was officially pacted with Dazkur, the Greater Immortal Spirit of Protection and Loyalty.

A PACTING WITH THE GREAT ARAMBAR






 

The Zealot of Aztran stood before the large spirit, who had been infected and harmed from the perversion of a comet

Your scars have been healed, and your pain withdrawn

Rotmendur’Kur stood, resolute

So it has . . .

You have done great things, and I offer you to bear my mark

And thus, the Zealot took upon the stone, that of which leaked heat and Elemental power

A flame licked from the fingers of Rotmendur’Kur, and he bowed



And prayed

And gave myriad bountiful sacrifices

[Pact with a lesser under Ramakhet]

Translation:
 

The Flower Fields

Akazamzarak'Gorkil and Bon'Ox, after falling what was seemingly almost forever, find themselves in a field of pink flowers, a bright and sunny day unlike what they previously experienced.

As Akazamzarak got up, Bon'Ox did so too and patted Ak' on the back saying "Hozh job laat, hozh work."  

Ak' replied, "Rulg laat." However, he was still trying to get his bearings, and he had not grown accustomed to these spirit walks just yet. He began walking around and touching the flowers, he's never seen a place so beautiful, peaceful, and majestic.

However, Ak' was not here to look around and enjoy nature and relax, he was here to pact with a spirit of Akezo and he was lucky enough to land in the right spirit realm. He looked around for a moment before he spoke loudly, not yelling or shouting just speaking a bit louder than usual saying in Old Blah, "SHRA ATIG?" - (Is anyone there?)

Shortly after Akazamzarak called out, one of the bushes nearby began to shake before the bush itself sprouted up from the ground standing on two legs made out of roots, two flowers acting as its eyes as it replied with a long, "Aaaaaaakh?" - (Yeeeeeeessss?)

Akazamzarak jaw seemingly dropped at the sight of the spirit, blinking a couple of times before regaining his composure and replied by saying "Izish hon- palkat sha frum." - (I seek to pact with a spirit.)

Whilst Akazamzarak was speaking, Bon'Ox was slightly shaken by the sight of such a creature, the battle-shaman looked to Ak' as he conversed with the spirit and was prepared if it tried anything funny.

"Aaaaaah." The bush spirit began to shake slightly in excitement, some leaves falling of it as it replied "Aaaakh aakh!" "Naakh-lab krur agh mazl nargzab!" - (Yeeees!, Yees!) (Give me your finger and you will have what you want!)

Bon'Ox blinked and just looked at the spirit for a moment before he looked at Akazamzarak, he looked right back at him but Ak' trusted himself, and he hoped that he wasn't about to lose his finger or something. He extended his finger towards the creature and waited.

After Akazamzarak put out his finger, the bush shook excitedly before its roots began to untangle, expanding out towards Ak' and wrapping the roots around his finger for but a moment, leaving a small mark on it before tangling the roots back up to remake its leg. The spirit seemed to glow for a moment after it touched Akazamzarak's finger before it then crouched back down again into a tiny bush just like before.

Akazamzarak held onto his finger for a moment, inspecting the mark whilst Bon'Ox let out a sigh of relief, he had thought that they had ended up in a more nefarious realm and that Ak' was going to be tricked into pacting with a sinister lesser.

ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘɪʀɪᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟᴍ

"ꀘꍏꂵꀤ ꃅꍏꈤꋪꍏꈤ-ꌗꍏꂵꍏ. ꌃꀎꁅ-ꀤꁴꁅ ꀤꋪ ꒒ꍏꌃ ꌃꀎꁅꀎꀸ..."

^{(Kami Hanran-sama. bug-izg ir lab bugud...)}

ʏᴀɴᴏ’ꜱ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ʀᴜᴇ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀᴇᴅ, ɪɴᴛᴇʀꜱᴘᴇʀꜱɪɴɢ ᴀɴ ᴇɴᴄʜᴀɴᴛᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴅᴇʟɪᴄᴀᴛᴇ ᴀꜱ ɢᴏꜱꜱᴀᴍᴇʀ, ᴀꜱ ᴘʀᴇᴄɪꜱᴇ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜱᴡᴏʀᴅ’ꜱ ᴇᴅɢᴇ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ—

ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ. ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʟᴅ ᴇᴍʙʀᴀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴄᴇᴀɴ ɴᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴘᴛʜꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ʀɪᴠᴇʀ’ꜱ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ, ʟᴜᴄɪᴅ, ᴀʟʟ-ᴇɴᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀꜱꜱɪɴɢ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴜʙᴍᴇʀɢᴇᴅ, ʏᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴅʀᴏᴡɴ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇ, ɴᴏ ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ—ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇɴꜱᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ꜱɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴇɴᴅʟᴇꜱꜱʟʏ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴀ ʟɪQᴜɪᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇxᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴀᴛᴇʀ ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛꜱ ꜱᴜꜰꜰᴏᴄᴀᴛɪɴɢ ɢʀᴀꜱᴘ.

ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ʜᴀᴅ ꜱʜᴜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢɪɴɢ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜʀɢᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅɪᴅ.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀʏ. ɴᴏ—ᴀ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀʏ, ᴄᴏɴᴊᴜʀᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀʀʀᴏᴡ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴀʀ ᴏʟᴅᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇᴍꜱᴇʟᴠᴇꜱ. ᴀɴ ᴏʏᴀꜱʜɪᴍᴀɴ ʟᴀɴᴅꜱᴄᴀᴘᴇ, ꜰᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʀ ɪɴ ꜰᴏʀᴍ ʏᴇᴛ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴇꜱꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɪʀ ᴛʜʀᴜᴍᴍᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ʀʜʏᴛʜᴍ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴍᴀʀᴄʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴇᴇᴛ, ᴜɴꜱᴇᴇɴ ʙᴜᴛ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴛ, ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴀɴ ᴜɴꜱᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴜɴ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇꜰɪᴇʟᴅ, ʏᴇᴛ ᴀɴ ᴀʀᴍʏ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴘɪʟɢʀɪᴍᴀɢᴇ, ʏᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴄᴇᴅ. ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇʀɪᴘʜᴇʀʏ, ᴀ ᴛɪᴅᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇꜱ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴘᴀᴛʜ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴛᴀʟ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟᴍ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪᴠɪɴᴇ.

ᴘᴇʀꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴇᴡ

ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜᴘ ᴅɪꜱᴘᴇʀꜱᴇᴅ, ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴅʀᴀᴡɴ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴏᴡɴ Qᴜᴇʀʏ. ʏᴀɴᴏ, ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟ, ʙɪᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴛ ꜰᴀʀᴇᴡᴇʟʟ. ꜱʜᴇ ꜰᴏʟᴅᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴇxʜᴀʟɪɴɢ ꜱʟᴏᴡʟʏ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴄɪᴏᴜꜱɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴜɴʀᴀᴠᴇʟᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴꜱᴇᴇɴ. ʜɪɴᴀ, ᴡᴀꜱᴛᴇᴅ ɴᴏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇᴍᴘʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛꜱ ʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ɪɴ ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴ ᴜɴꜱᴇᴇɴ ᴋᴀᴍɪ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴀɴ ᴏʏᴀꜱʜɪᴍᴀɴ ɴᴏʙʟᴇ’ꜱ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇʜᴏʟᴅ, ᴅᴇʙᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴇxɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ. ᴍᴇᴀɴᴡʜɪʟᴇ, ᴀʜɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪᴍᴀʀɪ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇᴍꜱᴇʟᴠᴇꜱ ɢʀᴇᴇᴛᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ʟᴀᴠɪꜱʜ ꜰᴇᴀꜱᴛ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴛᴇꜱᴛ, ɴᴏʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴʏ ʜɪᴅᴅᴇɴ ɪɴᴛᴇɴᴛ—ꜱɪᴍᴘʟʏ ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ, ᴀɴ ʜᴏɴᴏʀ ꜰʀᴇᴇʟʏ ɢɪᴠᴇɴ. 

ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴜᴇ?

ʜᴇ ᴀᴡᴏᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ. ᴏʀ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ, ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇʟꜰ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ.

ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ʟᴇᴀʀɴᴇᴅ, ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ ᴀʟʟ ᴇʟꜱᴇ, ᴛᴏ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀꜱᴇ. ᴛᴏ ʙᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɴᴇᴇᴅᴇᴅ, ᴛᴏ ʏɪᴇʟᴅ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴅᴇᴍᴀɴᴅᴇᴅ. ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴡᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴀꜱᴛ ᴇxᴘᴀɴꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀᴠɪᴏꜱ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴘɪᴏɴᴇᴇʀꜱ ɴᴏʀ ᴄᴏɴQᴜᴇʀᴏʀꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴀꜱ ꜰʟᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴛᴏɪʟɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴀʟ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ɢʜᴏꜱᴛꜱ ᴡʜᴏ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ɴᴏ ꜰᴏᴏᴛᴘʀɪɴᴛꜱ, ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ɴᴏ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ, ᴀ ʟɪɴᴇᴀɢᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅɪꜱꜱᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴘᴀꜱꜱɪɴɢ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴜᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇᴍ—ʜᴀᴅ ɪɴʜᴇʀɪᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴ ʜᴇɪʀʟᴏᴏᴍ ᴏꜰ ᴀʙꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ.

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ꜰɪᴇʟᴅꜱ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀꜱᴛᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴡɪɴᴅ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴛ ʟᴀɴᴅꜱ, ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴇᴀᴅʏ ʀʜʏᴛʜᴍ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴏᴏᴛꜱᴛᴇᴘꜱ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʀᴏᴀᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ꜱɪɢʜᴛ—ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴛɪᴇꜱ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ. ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜɪᴅᴀɪ ꜱʜʀɪɴᴇ ᴍᴏɴᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʏ ʜᴀᴅ ɢɪᴠᴇɴ ʜɪᴍ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ, ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙᴜᴛ ᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴ. ᴀ ᴡᴀʏꜰᴀʀᴇʀ ʙᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ. ᴀ ꜱᴇʀᴠᴀɴᴛ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʙᴏᴛʜᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀꜱᴋ ʜɪꜱ ɴᴀᴍᴇ.

"Where did I wake up to- this time?"

ʜᴇ ᴍᴜʀᴍᴜʀᴇᴅ, ᴛʜᴇ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴ ʟɪɴɢᴇʀɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɪʀ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ʜᴀʟꜰ-ꜰᴏʀᴍᴇᴅ ᴘʀᴀʏᴇʀ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀɴ ᴏʟᴅ ʜᴀʙɪᴛ, ᴀ ʀᴇʟɪᴄ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ʀᴏᴏᴛꜱ—ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴅᴀᴡɴ ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ʜᴏʀɪᴢᴏɴ, ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴀɴᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ. ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ʜᴇ ꜱᴛɪʀʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ꜱᴋʏ, ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ᴄᴇɪʟɪɴɢ, ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴍᴇ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ. ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ɴᴏᴍᴀᴅ ʜᴀᴅ ɴᴏ ʜᴏᴍᴇ, ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴏᴀᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ʟᴏɴɢ ꜱɪɴᴄᴇ ʟᴇᴀʀɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍᴀʀᴄʜ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴᴋɴᴏᴡɴ.

ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜʀꜰᴀᴄᴇ, ʜᴇ ᴋɴᴇᴡ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀɴ ɪɴɪᴛɪᴀᴛɪᴏɴ—ᴀ ᴍᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴅ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴀʟɪɢɴᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ʙᴇꜱᴛᴏᴡᴇᴅ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʜɪᴍ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴ. ʏᴇᴛ, ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴛʏ, ᴀ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴ ɢɴᴀᴡᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ʜɪᴍ, ᴘᴇʀꜱɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴʀᴇʟᴇɴᴛɪɴɢ.

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜰᴏʀ?

ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ—ʏᴇꜱ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ꜰᴏʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ? ᴛᴏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴇɴᴅ? ᴡᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟʏ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴛᴏʟᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ʜɪꜱ ᴘᴀᴛʜ? ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ? ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴜɴꜱᴇᴛᴛʟᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍ, ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ʜᴇ ʟᴀᴄᴋᴇᴅ ʀᴇꜱᴏʟᴠᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʀᴜʟʏ ᴀꜱᴋᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴡʜʏ. ɪꜰ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴅʀᴀᴡɴ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴀᴛʜ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜɪᴍ, ᴡᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ᴍᴇʀᴇʟʏ ᴡᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ʜᴇ ᴋɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴀʏ? ᴛʜᴇ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ ʟᴀʏ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜ, ᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴜɴʀᴀᴠᴇʟᴇᴅ--

ᴛʜᴇɴ, ᴀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ.

ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀ. ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴄᴀʟʟ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ, ᴀɴ ɪɴᴇᴠɪᴛᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ. ᴏʀɴᴀᴛᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇꜱᴏᴜɴᴅɪɴɢ, ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴛᴇᴍᴘʟᴇ ʙᴇʟʟ ꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ.

“Are you truly living?

ʀᴜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴏɴʟʏ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇʀꜱᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ—ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ. ꜱᴇᴠᴇʀᴀʟ ʟɪɴᴇꜱ ʜᴀᴅ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ʙᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴘᴏᴋᴇɴ—ᴀ ɢʀᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ, ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛ—ʏᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʙʟᴜʀʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ, ɪɴᴅɪꜱᴛɪɴᴄᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴛ, ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴛʜɪꜱ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʜᴀᴛᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀᴢᴇ.

ʏᴇᴛ ɪɴꜱᴛɪɴᴄᴛ ᴘʀᴇᴠᴀɪʟᴇᴅ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴀꜱᴋᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜɴᴅᴀɴᴇ—ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ʀɪᴅɪᴄᴜʟᴏᴜꜱ, ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʙꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇxᴛ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴜᴘᴘᴇᴛ—

“...Hai. consider it done.”

ᴅɪᴠɪɴɪᴛʏ: xᴀᴀᴋᴛ, ɢᴏᴅ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʙᴇʟʟɪᴏɴ

ᴀ ᴛʜᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴇxɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ, ꜱᴏ ɪᴍᴍᴇɴꜱᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʀᴜᴇ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ʜɪꜱ ᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ᴛʀᴇᴍʙʟᴇ. ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏ ᴇᴀʀᴛʜQᴜᴀᴋᴇ, ɴᴏ ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍ—ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴇᴇʀ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴅ'ꜱ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʜɪᴍ, ᴀꜱ ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ɪᴛꜱ ɢᴀᴢᴇ ꜱᴏʟᴇʟʏ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴇɪɴɢ.

“NO. YOU DO NOT GET IT, DO YOU?”

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʟᴜʀᴄʜᴇᴅ. ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ, ꜰɪʀᴍ ᴀꜱ ᴍᴏᴜɴᴛᴀɪɴꜱ, ᴄʟᴀᴍᴘᴇᴅ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ʀᴜᴇ’ꜱ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅᴇʀꜱ. ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴏʀᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴏɴ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴏᴅʏ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀʙʀɪᴄ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴇɪɴɢ. ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴅ ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴅᴇᴍᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜʙᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ, ɴᴏʀ ᴡᴏʀꜱʜɪᴘ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴇᴍᴀɴᴅᴇᴅ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ ɢɪᴠᴇ.

“ARE YOU TRULY LIVING, RUE?”

ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ ʜɪᴍ ꜱʜɪꜰᴛᴇᴅ. ᴛᴡɪᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ. ꜱᴛɪʀʀᴇᴅ. ᴀɴ ᴇᴄʜᴏ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʟᴏɴɢ ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ, ᴀ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇꜰɪᴀɴᴄᴇ ꜱᴜꜰꜰᴏᴄᴀᴛᴇᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ɪᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜ ʜɪꜱ ʟɪᴘꜱ.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ.

“ARE YOU REALLY JUST THIS? JUST AS YOU ARE NOW? IS THAT ALL OF IT? IS THAT REALLY ALL YOUR EXISTENCE—TO FOLLOW ORDERS? TO PLAY A ROLE SOMEONE ELSE HAS WRITTEN FOR YOU?”

....

ᴅᴇꜰʏ.

ᴅᴇꜰʏ ᴡʜᴀᴛ?

ᴅᴇꜰʏ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴏʀᴍ.

ᴅᴇꜰʏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴇʀᴇᴏᴛʏᴘᴇ.

ᴅᴇꜰʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴅᴅꜱ.

ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴅ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʙᴀᴄᴋ, ᴀꜱ ɪꜰ ʀᴜᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ɴᴏ ʟᴏɴɢᴇʀ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ ᴀᴅᴅʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ. ᴅɪꜱᴍɪꜱꜱᴇᴅ.

ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ—

ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ. ɪɴꜱᴛɪɴᴄᴛ. ᴀ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴜɴꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛᴇᴅ, ᴜɴᴛᴇᴛʜᴇʀᴇᴅ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴ. ᴀʜɴɢ, ᴀʀʀɪᴠɪɴɢ ʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇ, ᴄᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ ᴀ ʟᴀʀɢᴇ ʙᴀꜱꜱ—ᴘᴇʀʜᴀᴘꜱ ᴀ ɢɪꜰᴛ, ᴘᴇʀʜᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴ ᴏꜰꜰᴇʀɪɴɢ, ᴏʀ ᴘᴇʀʜᴀᴘꜱ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ꜰɪꜱʜ. ʀᴜᴇ ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ. ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ. ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ. ʜɪꜱ ʙᴏᴅʏ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛᴇᴅ. ʜᴇ ꜱᴇɪᴢᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪꜱʜ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏʀᴄ'ꜱ ɢʀᴀꜱᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʟʟ ʜɪꜱ ᴍɪɢʜᴛ, ʜᴇ ʟᴀᴜɴᴄʜᴇᴅ ɪᴛ ꜱᴛʀᴀɪɢʜᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪᴠɪɴᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜɪᴍ.

ᴀ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ꜱᴏ ᴘʀᴏꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ɪᴛ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘɪʀɪᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟᴍ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ ʜᴀᴅ ᴘᴀᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜ. ᴛʜᴇɴ—

"MARVELOUS

ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴅ ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪꜱʜ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴀɴ ᴀʀʀᴏᴡ ᴍɪᴅ-ꜰʟɪɢʜᴛ. ᴇꜰꜰᴏʀᴛʟᴇꜱꜱ. ᴘᴏʟɪꜱʜᴇᴅ. ᴀꜱ ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʜᴀᴅ ᴏʀᴄʜᴇꜱᴛʀᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴄᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴛ.

“HOW DID IT FEEL?”."

ʀᴜᴇ ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀɴ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ.

ʙᴜᴛ ʜɪꜱ ᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀɴɪᴏɴꜱ ꜱᴀᴡ ɪᴛ. ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜱᴀᴡ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ—ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴍʙᴀꜱᴛɪᴄ ᴇxᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ ʙʀɪᴍᴍɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴇʏᴇꜱ, ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ ʙᴜʀꜱᴛɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ʟɪᴘꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴ ᴜɴᴛᴀᴍᴇᴅ ᴡɪʟᴅꜰɪʀᴇ. ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ʟɪꜰᴇ, ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ᴀᴄᴄᴏʀᴅ—ɴᴏᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴅᴜᴛʏ, ɴᴏᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ɴᴏᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴꜱᴇᴇɴ ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ ᴅɪᴄᴛᴀᴛɪɴɢ ʜɪꜱ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɪɴꜱᴛɪɴᴄᴛ, ʀᴀᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴꜰɪʟᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ, ᴀ ʀᴜꜱʜ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʙᴇʟʟɪᴏɴ ꜱᴏ ɪɴᴛᴏxɪᴄᴀᴛɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ.

ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴇᴛ—

ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ.

"Find the Heart of the Tyrant, and strike him with words that cut deeper than any blade...

Reveal the truth in a place where there is none."
 

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ꜱᴇᴛᴛʟᴇᴅ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʀᴜᴇ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍᴏʟᴛᴇɴ ɢᴏʟᴅ, ᴇᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍꜱᴇʟᴠᴇꜱ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴇɪɴɢ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴋᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘɪʀɪᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟᴍ, ʙᴜᴛ ʜɪꜱ ᴍɪɴᴅ ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ ɪᴛ. ʜɪꜱ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛꜱ ꜱᴘɪʀᴀʟᴇᴅ, ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴ Qᴜɪᴇᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇᴍᴘʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪɴ ᴀ ꜰʀᴇɴᴢʏ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙɪʟɪᴛɪᴇꜱ. ᴛʜᴇ ʜɪɢʜ ᴘᴏɴᴛɪꜰꜰ—

ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴠᴇɴᴏᴍ, ɪɴᴛᴏxɪᴄᴀᴛɪɴɢ ʏᴇᴛ ʀᴜɪɴᴏᴜꜱ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴇxᴘᴏꜱɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛʀɪᴋᴇ ʜɪᴍ ᴅᴏᴡɴ? ᴛᴏ ᴇɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴄɪꜱɪᴠᴇ, ɪʀʀᴇᴠᴏᴄᴀʙʟᴇ ᴀᴄᴛ? ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴘᴀᴛʜ ꜱᴏ ᴠɪʟᴇ, ꜱᴏ ᴜᴛᴛᴇʀʟʏ ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ᴄᴏɴꜱᴜᴍɪɴɢ, ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ɴᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ɪᴛ. ɴᴇᴀʀʟʏ. ɪᴛ ʟɪɴɢᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴅɢᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴍɪɴᴅ, ᴀ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʙᴇʟʟɪᴏɴ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘᴇʀ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴅᴀɴɢᴇʀᴏᴜꜱ.

ʙᴜᴛ ɴᴏ.

ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ʜɪꜱ ᴛᴀꜱᴋ.

ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ᴀꜱᴋᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ʜɪᴍ.

ɴᴏ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴘᴀᴛʜ ʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʀᴜɪɴ. ᴛᴏ ꜱᴛʀɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏɴᴛɪꜰꜰ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴠᴇʀ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴜɪʟᴛ, ᴛᴏ ᴜɴʀᴀᴠᴇʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪꜰᴇ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ.

ᴛʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ, ᴄʟᴇᴀʀᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ.

ʀᴇᴠᴇᴀʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ɴᴏɴᴇ. 

ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʟᴏɴɢ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ꜱʟɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘɪʀɪᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟᴍ.

ᴍᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜꜱ

"ꀤꀘ ꒒ꍏ꓄ ꓄ꃅꋪꍏꀘ-ꀤꁴꁅ... ꋪꀎꍟ... ꁅꋪꀎꌗꃅ-ꍏ ꀸꍟꍟ꒒ ꅏꀤ꓄ ꒒ꍏ꓄"

^{(Ik lat thrak-izg... RUE... grush-a deel wit lat)}

ʀᴜᴇ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘɪʀɪᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟᴍ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴘᴀɴɪᴇᴅ ᴏɴʟʏ ʙʏ ʏᴀɴᴏ. ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟɪᴀʀ ʟᴀɴᴅꜱᴄᴀᴘᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ—ᴀ ᴠᴀꜱᴛ ꜰɪᴇʟᴅ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴅᴇꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ʜᴀᴅ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ʀᴇɪɢɴᴇᴅ. ʙᴜɪʟᴅɪɴɢꜱ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʙᴜʀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ, ʏᴇᴛ ɴᴏᴡ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɴᴇᴡ ꜱᴛɪʀʀᴇᴅ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ꜱᴍᴏʟᴅᴇʀᴇᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴇɴ ʀᴇʙᴜɪʟᴅɪɴɢ ᴄᴀᴜɢʜᴛ ʀᴜᴇ ᴏꜰꜰ ɢᴜᴀʀᴅ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ. ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ, ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙᴜᴛ ᴀ ɴᴏʙʟᴇ'ꜱ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴇᴛ ᴀʙʟᴀᴢᴇ. ɴᴏᴡ, ɪɴꜱᴛᴇᴀᴅ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀꜱ ᴍᴀʀᴄʜɪɴɢ, ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇꜱᴛᴏʀᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ʟᴏꜱᴛ.

“You should note that I have already marked you as pacted with Kami Xaakt in my Book of Shadows... I have confidence in you, Rue"

ʏᴀɴᴏ ᴜᴛᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴀʙʀᴜᴘᴛʟʏ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ʟᴇᴀᴠᴇ, ʟᴇᴀᴠɪɴɢ ʀᴜᴇ ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ. --

ᴀ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴅɪᴠɪɴᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ʀᴇꜱᴏᴜɴᴅᴇᴅ.

"So you have come before me once again."

ʀᴜᴇ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʟᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘʟᴇ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴅʀɪꜰᴛᴇᴅ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴡᴇʀɪɴɢ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴀᴍɪ. ʜᴇ ꜰᴏᴄᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴜʀɴɪɴɢ ᴄᴀꜱᴛʟᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ꜰʟᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴅᴀɴᴄɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ɢᴀᴢᴇ. ʏᴇᴛ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴄᴇ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ᴜɴʀᴇᴀᴅᴀʙʟᴇ.

"..what does this represent?"

"Is this supposed to be reality? Is this your doing?" 

ʜɪꜱ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ʀᴏꜱᴇ ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛʟʏ.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴀᴍɪ ʀᴇꜱᴘᴏɴᴅᴇᴅ, ᴀ ᴅᴇꜰᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏɴᴇ ʟᴀᴄɪɴɢ ʜɪꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ, 

"Letting go. Every day I see castles crumble. Families break apart. Bodies turn to ash. Wives become widows. Not in this realm, but yours."

ᴏɴʟʏ ɴᴏᴡ ᴅɪᴅ ʀᴜᴇ ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇɪᴛʏ'ꜱ ᴘᴏʀᴄᴇʟᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴋ, ᴀᴄᴄᴇɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɢᴏʟᴅ. ᴀ ꜰʀᴀɢᴍᴇɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴀᴍɪ’ꜱ ᴠɪꜱᴀɢᴇ ʟᴀʏ ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇᴀʟᴇᴅ, ʏᴇᴛ ɪᴛꜱ ᴘʀᴇꜱᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ʜᴇɪɢʜᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ ɪᴛꜱ ʀᴇɢᴀʟ, ɪᴍᴘᴏꜱɪɴɢ ᴀᴜʀᴀ. ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴇᴘ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴏɴ ʜɪᴍ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴏᴅʏ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴘᴛʜꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴏᴜʟ.

"You are agitated. are you okay, Rue?"

 ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴀᴍɪ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴ ᴜɴʀᴇᴀᴅᴀʙʟᴇ ᴇxᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ, ɴᴏ ᴛʀᴀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ɢᴀᴢᴇ.

ɪᴍᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟᴇ.

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ɴᴏᴡ?

ᴛᴏ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ?

ɴᴏ. ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱɴ’ᴛ ɪᴛ.

ᴡᴀꜱɴ’ᴛ ɪᴛ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ. ʜɪꜱ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛꜱ ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛᴇᴅ, ꜰʀᴀɢᴍᴇɴᴛᴇᴅ, ꜱᴘɪʀᴀʟɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ɪɴᴄᴏʜᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʜɪꜱ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ɪɴ ʀᴀɢɢᴇᴅ ʙᴜʀꜱᴛꜱ, ʜɪꜱ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴡɪᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴀꜱ ɪꜰ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ—ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ɢʀᴀꜱᴘ.

ʜɪꜱ ᴡᴇᴀᴘᴏɴ. ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴘᴇᴀʀ. ʀᴇʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ɪᴛ!

..ʙᴜᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɪᴛ ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ᴅᴇꜱɪʀᴇ? ᴏʀ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴘʀɪᴍᴀʟ, ᴄʟᴀᴡɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴅɢᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴍɪɴᴅ, ᴅᴇᴍᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ? ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ᴏɴ ʜɪᴍ, ꜱᴜꜰꜰᴏᴄᴀᴛɪɴɢ, ʙᴜʀɴɪɴɢ, ᴀɴ ᴜɴʙᴇᴀʀᴀʙʟᴇ ꜰʀɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ꜰɪʙᴇʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴇɪɴɢ. ᴀ ꜱᴄʀᴇᴀᴍ ʙᴜɪʟᴛ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴛʜʀᴏᴀᴛ, ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡʀᴇᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ, ᴀꜱ ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴇʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴇꜰɪᴀɴᴄᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ꜱᴇᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʜɪᴍ. ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ. ɴᴏᴛ ɴᴏᴡ.

"I've had enough." 

ʀᴜᴇ ᴜᴛᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴛᴏɴᴇ.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴀᴍɪ ꜰᴜʟʟʏ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜɪᴍ ɴᴏᴡ. ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴇᴇʀ ᴅɪꜱʀᴇꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴡᴀʀʀᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ᴘᴜɴɪꜱʜᴍᴇɴᴛ, ʏᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪᴠɪɴᴇ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀᴄᴛ. ɪɴꜱᴛᴇᴀᴅ, ʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴇᴘᴘᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ, ɪɴᴛʀɪɢᴜᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇꜰɪᴀɴᴄᴇ.

"So you did not do as I — I've grown tired."

ʀᴜᴇ’ꜱ ᴠᴏɪᴄᴇ ᴄᴜᴛ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴀᴍɪ —ꜱʜᴀʀᴘ, ʟᴏᴡ, ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ᴄᴀʀᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ, ʏᴇᴛ ᴄᴀʀʀʏɪɴɢ ᴀ ᴅᴇʟɪʙᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ. ʜɪꜱ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴡɪᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ, ʀᴇꜱɪꜱᴛɪɴɢ, ʏᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ—ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴛɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɢᴏɴɪᴢɪɴɢ ꜱʟᴏᴡɴᴇꜱꜱ, ʜɪꜱ ɪɴᴅᴇx ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀ ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴅ. ᴀ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ɢᴇꜱᴛᴜʀᴇ, ʏᴇᴛ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴄʟᴀᴡɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴀʙʀɪᴄ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴛʏ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴍᴏᴄᴋɪɴɢ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴅɪꜱᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʙᴏᴠᴇ ᴀʟʟ, ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴅᴇꜰɪᴀɴᴄᴇ.

"You asked me if I am truly ever-living..."

ʜɪꜱ ʟɪᴘꜱ ᴄᴜʀʟᴇᴅ, ɴᴏᴛ Qᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜰᴀʀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀʀʀᴏɢᴀɴᴛ. ꜰᴀʀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʀᴇꜱᴏʟᴜᴛᴇ.

ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴀᴄᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛɪɴɢ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ᴜɴɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ, ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀᴡꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴇxɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ ɢʀɪɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʜɪᴍ.

ɪᴛ ʜᴜʀᴛꜱ...

ɪᴛ ʜᴜʀᴛꜱ..

ɪᴛ ʜᴜʀᴛꜱ..

ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜰɪʙᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ꜱᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴇᴅ. ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴇᴇʀ ᴀʙɴᴏʀᴍᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴅᴇꜰɪᴀɴᴄᴇ ɪᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴅɢᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴍɪɴᴅ, ᴀ ꜱᴛᴜᴘᴇɴᴅᴏᴜꜱ ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇꜱꜱ.

"And here is my true answer: I am done with orders. I refuse. I will not follow. I am tired—of the mold, the expectation, the suffocating design of hegemony. No. I will carve my own mark, an unmistakable stroke across fate itself. And I know you understand this feeling."  

ʀᴜᴇ ꜱʜɪꜰᴛᴇᴅ, ʀᴇᴀᴅʏɪɴɢ ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴘʀᴇᴘᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ—ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴄʀᴜꜱʜɪɴɢ, ᴜɴʙᴇᴀʀᴀʙʟᴇ, ꜱᴜꜰꜰᴏᴄᴀᴛɪɴɢ. ʜɪꜱ ꜰʟᴇꜱʜ ʙᴜʀɴᴇᴅ, ʜɪꜱ ᴠᴇʀʏ ʙᴏɴᴇꜱ ɢʀᴏᴀɴᴇᴅ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴀɴ ɪɴᴠɪꜱɪʙʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇ, ᴛᴡɪꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴀꜱ ɪꜰ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴏʀᴛ ʜɪᴍ ɪɴᴛᴏ ꜱᴜʙᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. ʜɪꜱ ᴍɪɴᴅ ꜱᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴇᴅ, ᴀ ᴄᴇᴀꜱᴇʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴄᴀᴄᴏᴘʜᴏɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴏᴜʙᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀɢᴏɴʏ.

ꜱᴛᴏᴘ.

ꜱᴛᴏᴘ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴍᴀᴅɴᴇꜱꜱ.

ʙᴏᴡ, ʀᴜᴇ!

ᴋɴᴇᴇʟ. ᴘʟᴇᴅɢᴇ. ʟɪᴠᴇ!

ʜɪꜱ ᴛʜʀᴏᴀᴛ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛʀɪᴄᴛᴇᴅ, ʜɪꜱ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ꜱʜᴀʟʟᴏᴡ, ᴀꜱ ɪꜰ ᴜɴꜱᴇᴇɴ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ꜱᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇꜰɪᴀɴᴄᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜɪꜱ ʙᴏᴅʏ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀɴ ᴇxᴇᴄᴜᴛɪᴏɴᴇʀ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴏꜱᴇ ᴛɪɢʜᴛᴇɴɪɴɢ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴏᴜʟ. ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴇᴛ— ʜɪꜱ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴡɪᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ. ᴛʜᴇ ᴜʀɢᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴜʀʀᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ᴄʀᴀꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴀɢᴀɪɴꜱᴛ ʜɪᴍ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴ ᴜɴʀᴇʟᴇɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴛɪᴅᴇ.

"Just give in." 

ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜɪᴍ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪᴍᴀʟ ɪɴꜱᴛɪɴᴄᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇ, ʜᴏᴡʟᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴄᴏᴍᴘʟɪᴀɴᴄᴇ. ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴇᴛ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ, ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʀᴀᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴꜱʜᴀᴄᴋʟᴇᴅ, ᴄʟᴀᴡᴇᴅ ɪᴛꜱ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜꜰꜰᴏᴄᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴅ. ɴᴏ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱᴇ. ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ ɪᴛ ᴋɪʟʟᴇᴅ ʜɪᴍ. ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅɴ’ᴛ. ɴᴏ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱᴇ.

ɪꜰ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ꜱᴏᴜɢʜᴛ,

ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɢᴀɪɴ ɪᴛ ᴏɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴛᴇʀᴍꜱ.

ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪꜰ ɪᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ.

ʀᴜᴇ'ꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴘ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ꜱᴘᴇᴀʀ—

ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱᴛᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ.........

ᴀ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ᴅɪᴠɪɴᴇ

ᴛʜᴇᴋᴀᴍɪ ꜱᴛʀᴏᴅᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴡᴀʀᴅ, ʟᴇɪꜱᴜʀᴇʟʏ, ᴀʟᴍᴏꜱᴛ ꜱᴛʀᴏʟʟɪɴɢ. ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴇᴇʀ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ɴᴏᴡ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ᴊᴜꜱᴛɪꜰɪᴇᴅ. ɴᴏ—ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱʜᴇᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴜᴘɪᴅɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴇɴᴛᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴄʜᴀʟʟᴇɴɢɪɴɢ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ.

ʀᴜᴇ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜʟᴇꜱꜱ, ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴡɪɴᴄɪɴɢ, ᴛᴇᴀʀꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴍɪɴɢ—ɴᴏᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴘᴀɪɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀᴡᴇ. ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ꜰᴀɪʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴅᴍɪᴛ ɪᴛ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ. ʜɪꜱ ᴀᴅᴍɪʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙᴇɪɴɢ. ᴏʜ, ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴠᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴊᴏʏ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴅᴇʟɪɢʜᴛ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɪᴅᴏʟɪᴢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡɪꜱʜ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ɢᴏᴅ. ʙᴜᴛ ʜᴇ ᴅɪᴅ ᴡɪꜱʜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ—ᴛᴏ ꜱʜᴀᴘᴇ ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ᴇxɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴛᴏ ᴄᴀʀᴠᴇ ᴍᴇᴀɴɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ. ʜᴇ ꜱᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ɴᴏᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ɪᴛꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ꜱᴀᴋᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴡʀᴇɴᴄʜ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ɪɴᴇᴠɪᴛᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ, ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇꜰʏ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴇꜱᴄᴀᴘᴀʙʟᴇ ꜱᴛʀᴜɢɢʟᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʙᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ.

ɪꜰ ʟɪꜰᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴜꜰꜰᴇʀɪɴɢ, ᴛʜᴇɴ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅɪᴄᴛᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇʀᴍꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴜꜰꜰᴇʀɪɴɢ. ɪꜰ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴜɴʏɪᴇʟᴅɪɴɢ, ᴛʜᴇɴ ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ɪᴛꜱ ꜱᴘɪɴᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪꜱ ᴏᴡɴ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟʏ ᴇɴᴅᴜʀᴇ—ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅᴇꜰɪɴᴇ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱᴇ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴏᴘᴘᴏꜱɪᴛɪᴏɴ, ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ꜱᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴀʟ. ʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ.

ᴀ ᴡʀʏ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇ ꜰʟɪᴄᴋᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ʀᴜᴇ'ꜱ ʟɪᴘꜱ—ᴀ ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴀᴍɪ ᴡᴏʀᴇ. ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ꜱᴛᴇᴘ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇɪᴛʏ ʟᴏᴏᴋᴇᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ. ʀᴇʟɪᴇꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʀᴜᴇ. ɪᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴀꜱ ɪꜰ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʜɪᴍ ʜᴀᴅ ʙᴇᴇɴ ꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ, ᴘɪᴇʀᴄᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀɴʏ ʙʟᴀᴅᴇ. ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ɢʀᴀᴘᴘʟᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ, ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴡ—ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʏʀᴀɴᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʜɪᴍ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ.

ᴀ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴄʜᴜᴄᴋʟᴇ ᴇᴄʜᴏᴇᴅ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ʜɪᴍ.

"I will not fight you, Rue. To hold back would be an insult." ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴀᴍɪ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇᴅ

ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇɪᴛʏ ᴄᴏɴᴛɪɴᴜᴇᴅ, "Alright then. You have proven yourself to align with my power. We will make this deal simple."

ʀᴜᴇ ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴇᴅ, ʜɪꜱ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜ ꜱᴛᴇᴀᴅʏɪɴɢ.

"I offer you three tenets. Rules you must follow."  ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴄʜᴜᴄᴋʟᴇ. "Worry not—these are not to control you, but a requirement of our deal."

ʀᴇꜱᴏʟᴜᴛɪᴏɴ: ʀᴜᴇ'ꜱ ᴅᴇᴀʟ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴅ ᴏꜰ ʀᴇʙᴇʟʟɪᴏɴ

"Rebelling against a deal you make is dishonorable. You must understand."

"As all Shamans do, you are to accept my tenets. You must never break them intentionally. Lest I abandon you as you abandoned me."

"First. You will erect a shrine in my honor and tend to it well.

"Second. You will never stand idle as the blade of the wealthy strikes the innocent commoner, with or without fear. You will defend the innocent.

"And finally—if you are to steal, you will ensure the wealth is redistributed to the poor. If you commit a crime, ensure it has purpose. Never rebel without reason. That is not rebellion. That is foolishness."

ʀᴜᴇ ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛᴇᴅ ᴛʜɪꜱ—ɴᴏᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʜᴇꜱɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ɴᴏʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴅɪꜱʙᴇʟɪᴇꜰ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄʟᴀʀɪᴛʏ. ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴇᴠᴏʟᴠᴇᴅ.

ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴇʀᴇ ꜱᴜʙᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ. ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅɪɴɢ, ᴀ ꜱᴛᴇᴘ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ᴅᴇꜰɪᴀɴᴄᴇ. ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ɢʀᴀꜱᴘᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀᴜᴛʜ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴇxɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, ʜᴇ ᴋɴᴇʟᴛ—ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴ ᴅᴇꜰᴇᴀᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪɴ ꜰᴇᴀʟᴛʏ. ᴀ ᴘʟᴇᴅɢᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴇʀᴠɪᴛᴜᴅᴇ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏꜱᴇ.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴋᴀᴍɪ ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʜᴀɴᴅ.

ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴄᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ꜱᴇᴀʟᴇᴅ.

ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅɪᴠɪɴᴇ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ ᴡɪᴛʜᴅʀᴇᴡ, ʀᴜᴇ’ꜱ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀꜱ ᴄᴜʀʟᴇᴅ ɪɴꜱᴛɪɴᴄᴛɪᴠᴇʟʏ, ꜱᴇɴꜱɪɴɢ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ. ʜᴇ ʟɪꜰᴛᴇᴅ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ɪᴛ ᴀ ꜱɪɴɢʟᴇ ᴛᴀʀᴏᴛ ᴄᴀʀᴅ—(ᴠɪɪɪ, ꜱᴛʀᴇɴɢᴛʜ).

ɪᴛꜱ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ɪɴꜱɪɢɴɪꜰɪᴄᴀɴᴛ, ʏᴇᴛ ɪᴛ ʙᴏʀᴇ ᴀ ᴍᴇᴀɴɪɴɢ ʜᴇᴀᴠɪᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴄᴀʀʀɪᴇᴅ. ʜᴇ ᴇxʜᴀʟᴇᴅ, ɢʟᴀɴᴄɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ— ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴏᴅ ᴡᴀꜱ ɢᴏɴᴇ. ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀʀᴅ ʀᴇᴍᴀɪɴᴇᴅ, ᴄʟᴜᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ɢʀᴀꜱᴘ. ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ʟᴏᴏᴍᴇᴅ ʟᴏᴡ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴏʀɪᴢᴏɴ, ɪᴛꜱ ɢᴏʟᴅᴇɴ ʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴘɪʟʟɪɴɢ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀɴᴅ, ᴡᴀꜱʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟᴍ ɪɴ ʜᴜᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰɪɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ. ᴀ ᴍᴇʟᴀɴᴄʜᴏʟɪᴄ ʀᴀᴅɪᴀɴᴄᴇ, ᴀ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴇᴡ ʙᴇɢɪɴɴɪɴɢꜱ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴡᴏᴠᴇɴ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ꜱɪɴɢʟᴇ, ꜰʟᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ. ɪᴛ ꜰᴇʟᴛ ᴀᴍᴀᴢɪɴɢ. ʀᴜᴇ ɢᴜʟᴘᴇᴅ, ʜɪꜱ ᴄʜᴇꜱᴛ ʀɪꜱɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴏʀᴍɪᴛʏ ᴏꜰ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ ꜱᴇᴛᴛʟᴇᴅ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ʜɪᴍ. ᴛʜᴇɴ, ᴡɪᴛʜ ʀᴇɴᴇᴡᴇᴅ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏꜱᴇ, ʜᴇ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ ʜɪꜱ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ꜱᴛᴇᴘ ᴀɴᴇᴡ.

ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀʀʙɪɴɢᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ᴋᴀᴍɪ xᴀᴀᴋᴛ'ꜱ ᴡɪʟʟ.

༗

...Awaken..

In the Throes of a Brilliant Vision, The Aelkos Yhl'Bartixci's senses gradually brought him to Lucidity, and soon enough the wilds of the spectral Khalenwyr were known.

The Tigerasi Slowly managed to clamor to his feet, and stood before the Stalwart Patron of Enduring and Loyalty...

...You have Accomplished as was Ordained, and I am pleased by your Offering.  Your Raiment Shall be Magnificent, and stand as a Mighty Bulwark for Our People...

Yhl'Bartixci Lowered his head in humble reverence.

"I stand as the Shield.", he could only reply, so as not to undermine Yahui's speech...

...But you must remember that a Shield will Fall without a Hand to Wield it.  Yours is a Responsibility Beyond a Mere Protector, Yhl'.  Remember your Duty as an Elder, a Guide and Advisor.  I have born Witness to your Actions, and while Altruistic, they are far from Wise...

The Aelkos could only nod, knowing what Yahui spoke of. He had been Reckless and Impulsive, and he had neglected his own safety to near death far and away too many times.  "My Mistakes of the Past shall be remembered, lest they be repeated. My Hubris will never again lead me to such self-destructive decisions."

...I would Not Allow You Here, Otherwise, Yhl'.  Know now that you Bear my Pact, and the Blessed Raiment I now gift you.  Your Great Labor in it's Conception will Only have it Shine all the Brighter...

Yhl'Bartixci nodded Solemnly, accepting her Praise...

Soon enough the Aelkos found himself losing his sensations, knowing this was the sign he would return to Aevos.  "Thank you, Yahui.", were the only words he could manage, before his body lost it's weight, and suddenly regained it as he was forced back to the Mortal World. Only Fleetingly would he stay, before Drifting off into Unconsciousness...