NDNESVI(Reboot): Myths, Legends, and Gods

OOC response to the below



here...

The cold has no friend, and will protect itself against the eye and its controller. The cold does not judge, it only acts.

New orders:

Minor Action: Walk across the tundra, through the small pass between the north and the large continent, and build a magnificent ice and rock bridge between the two. One that shrink in summer and grows ever larger in the winter.

Major Action:
Continue my walk straight to the Eye of Vash and with may bare hands crash it and anything that protects it. Allow giants to walk around me to reach and help in this fight if they wish.

Like fine strands of gossamer, it stretched across creation, weaving this way and that through the physical boundaries that met it. Pulsing with magical energy, its currents and streams could only be seen by especially talented mages or through the eyes of the divine. Even then, wise men would study its mysteries for decades, only to gain faint glimpses and whispers of its beauty, wholly unaware of how truly massive and sprawling it was.

Such was the majesty and all-encompassing nature of the ley-lines, another one of Vash’s triumphs.

Separate from, yet thoroughly intertwined with the physical plane, these currents served as both a means of channeling magical energy throughout the world, and as a way to shield the world from outside intrusions. A massive snare, radiating outward from the Eye of Vash toward every corner of creation. Even the whispers and echoes of Nital would become entangled in the ley-lines, manifesting as the screams of the damned and sulfuric smoke before dying away. Followers of Vash hailed this as evidence of the Lord of Change’s winning battle against the evils of blood magic. Astute mages began studying this complicated web of ley-lines, detecting nexuses of magic similar (although far smaller in scale) to the Eye of Vash. Rather than absorb the magic of the world, theses nexuses radiated excess energy from the Eye out into the world at large.

Yet the Lord of Change remained absent during the celebrations of this triumph. In the wondrous city of Vash’eth, Vash’s visage was seen by neither the basic mage nor the Lord Magister himself. The growing height of the spires or the depths into which researchers delved did little to ease the priests who grew ever more anxious during their lord’s absence. Yet the high priests and court dragons reassured their subjects; Vash simply had other matters to attend to, and that all transpired according to his divine will and prediction. The dragons of Vash’eth became the emissaries of Vash and his representatives on earth in his absence, although many suspected that no matter how high the dragons flew or for how many decades a high priest might contemplate the nature of divinity, Vash’s presence made itself no clearer to these rulers than to the throngs of slaves that labored under their direction.

Undeterred by Vash’s silence, the dragons carved out colonies in the surrounding jungles and mountains, both nature and mortals swept aside and brought under their dominion as they saw fit. The first colonies were primarily for gathering raw materials for grandiose constructions in Vash’eth, yet as they evolved the colonies became cities in their own right, albeit still adhering to the central authority of Vash’eth. Thus it was no longer Vash’eth alone in this corner of the world, but rather the magocracy of Vasheroth, a realm of dragons and pensive mages whose ambitions reflected those of their hidden Lord of Change.

From their observatories, these mages witnessed a strange phenomenon; a brilliant sphere hurtling towards creation through the night sky. Awesome in size and beauty yet terrifying in its rapid approach, the foreign object would have caused all in the region to flee had they not been transfixed on its shifting colors and leaping flames. Yet moments before crashing into the ground and no doubt wreaking untold destruction, its fall slowed to a gentle descent. Like a seed it burrowed its way into the ground, becoming nestled and immobile.The Dream Star of Achandasha had arrived, and with it came the mysteries of celestial magic and the establishment of the Celestial Citadel.

Possessing the blessings of both Tai and Achandrasha, the most devout and skilled followers of both heavenly deities were naturally drawn to the presence of the Dream Star. Upon reaching it, the followers discovered a strange pale sapling taking root near the metallic rock, and in time it grew to immense proportions. Bearing fruit of gems of all shapes, sizes, and colors, this tree became a symbol of unity between the two faiths and received veneration from Chromarchs and Achandaki alike. The Achandaki travelled throughout creation, dancing through the night and singing of the power of the Dream Star. They whispered of its ability to grant wishes, and many visions of the heavenly bodies visited mortals as they slept.

Achandrasha and Tai, through their respective emissaries, unveiled the secrets of smithing and imbuing metal crafts with celestial magic, and in time the Celestial Citadel was built around the Dream Star to serve as part school, part fortress, part temple. Pulling up from the heart of the earth a multitude of ores, as well as offering its own alien metals, the Dream Star became a blacksmith’s paradise. In these golden years of direct communion with the gods, smiths learned that the gems which grew upon the pale tree of the Citadel were actually living beings, capable of enchanting the works of the blacksmiths and imbuing metal with celestial magic. The gems could communicate with their owners and gather knowledge and power over time, granting boons to their owners if deemed worthy and capable of handling such power. It was revealed that the metal of the Dream Star appeared extremely resistant to the magic of other gods; a characteristic no doubt intentionally woven into its being by the two sky deities.

While the images of the Dream Star and its heavenly boons shimmered in the dreams of some mortals, many more experienced something new when they shut their eyes. Sleep had been one of the few places where the hardships and the horrors of the world could be escaped by mortals. No longer. The wailing of the dead, gnashing teeth, and all enveloping darkness intruded into the sleeping minds of mortal kind, and the panic was contagious. For it soon became clear that, no matter how far mortals had drifted from the Forest of Many Minds, Rula’s reach was now inescapable.

To claim it was entirely Rula’s doing would be technically erroneous. For it was Sorna, Rula’s base and gluttonous nature made manifest into its own being, that now invaded the dreams of mortals. For in Patron’s final moments, the God of Ambition’s terror grew so great that Rula’s hunger became neigh unbearable and tore itself free from its owner, racing towards the source of this feast of fear. Weaseling its way into the rift Patron was swallowed up in before it could close, Sorna found itself in a strange new realm. The physical husk of Patron had withered away in moments, no longer emanating succulent fears to be devoured. Yet Sorna found plenty in the realm Sorna called Multor.

For in Multor, Sorna found forsaken souls of worlds long dead, strange primordial terrors, and palpable darkness in which to conduct its foul work. With time, the counterpart to Rula found ways to return to the mortal world, albeit fleetingly and rarely beyond the dreams of mortals. The natural difficulty of returning to the physical plane was compounded by the ley-lines that now hissed and sputtered whenever Sorna treaded too clumsily. But small gaps could be found. Tiny cracks and holes in the minds of slumbering mortals. This was enough; for in the minds of mortals lay their greatest fears, and in their minds the restraints of reality hold no sway. Men could watch loved ones die a thousand times over, night after night. Soon the act of just falling asleep became a source of fear in itself. While the ley-lines of Vash kept these outbreaks of night terrors limited to a few forsaken communities, the raw terror experienced was like sweet nectar to Sorna and Rula alike, and the two halves waxed in power.

Somewhere between the terrors of Rula-Sorna and the fanciful imagery of Achandrasha rested yet another sort of dream. One that felt far more real to those having them. The experience was always similar in some ways; a massive structure with no windows, hallways and vaulted ceilings decorated with all manner of artifacts and parchment. And always a grey figure, wrapped in robes, whose face was impossible to see, save for a couple tiny lights that burned in place of eyes. The figure would wander hither and yon, sometimes undertaking a task of some importance, sorting the seemingly endless collections and artifacts before them. Other times the figure would take notice of the dreamer, unloading detail after detail of any given subject at hand. The dreamer would sometimes nod, sometimes question, but never fully understand the gravity of the situation. They were in the presence of the Curator, God of What Is Left When All Others Are Gone.

While the realm of dreams suddenly buzzed with activity, the waking world still commanded the attention of mortals. Namely, as populations swelled and civilization cropped up across creation, mortals wracked their brains on how to properly govern one another and how to settle disputes without resorting to…less peaceful means of conflict resolution.

Fuku, the old God of Curses, had also split himself in twain, although for far less sinister reasons than Rula-Sorna. Fuku had always demonstrated some sense of justice, albeit highly subjective and prone to significant collateral damage. With the growth of civilization, Fuku saw it fit to dedicate himself to the governance of justice and punishment within civilization, bringing down unbearable guilt upon the guilty when confronted with their crimes and granting the innocent peace of mind under even the most stressful of trials. His oaths grew more focused and potent; while the old curses could serve as a nuisance or cause a miserable life, swearing an oath to the “new” Fuku and then breaking it could result in hellish fevers, madness, and even death. But throughout all of these labors, Fuku yearned for companionship, and the outside world still contained mortals that did not yet fall under the boundaries of civilization.

Thus Fusta, The Wild One, emerged from a towering tree, fully formed and magnificent. She moved in a perpetual dance, and her movements enraptured Fuku, and he asked that they be married. As wedding gifts (as well as recognition of Fuku’s shifting role in the world), Fusta was given the Book of Secrets, as well as dominion over justice on the frontiers of mortals, where laws tend to hold little sway. The patronage of thieves also came to be her dominion, for she scorned the obsession over property that mortals were developing. Under her guidance, justice would be done, even if laws failed to provide justification or procedure.

Yet there was another being in the world whose entire existence revolved around the proper process of law. The proper process of punishment. The maintenance of balance and the enforcement of obligations. Statute had arrived to creation, promising balance and arbitration that no one could escape. Not mortals. Not even gods.

Proclaiming its intent boldly to both the earthly and the divine, Statute set out to create Amaranthinium, a massive prison capable of holding even gods that have been deemed deserving of a sentence behind its bars. An equally impressive city arose around the prison and its courts, intermingling until “Amaranthinium” came to describe the city and the prison all the same. Statute erected a ring of diamond walls to surround the city, compelling residents (including prisoners of course) to stay within the limits of the city, unless given leave by the court. Criminals of lesser crimes were allowed to reside within a spacious valley, although their actions were closely watched; many a petty thief found himself bounced off of a magical barrier or rebuffed by a sentinel as he approached the limits of the prison.

The timing of Statute’s arrival, combined with the changing of Fuku’s nature led to a syncretism that would have been inconceivable mere centuries earlier. Mortals suspected that Fuku had predicted the arrival of Statute, and that that was the motivation behind Fuku’s change, while others argued that it was simply the natural strengthening of justice in a harsh and wild world. For many, the worship of Fuku and Statute seemed natural. Fuku served as the spirit of justice, the evaluator of guilt, and the patron of one’s peers, while Statute was seen as the patron of the court itself, the one who made justice possible and wielded its implements. Fuku was the jury, while Statute was the judge, prison warden, and sometimes, executioner.

In the shadow of Aranthinium, mortals toiled and worked towards a greater good under the direction of Statute. Mortals with a strong sense of justice were drawn to Aranthinum in its early days, and their descendants developed a culture with a strong sense of respect for the code of law and morality. Following the blessed river Kyanite, these men traveled the pleasant shores of the southern sea and made the region their dominion. While not a cohesive realm, the states of the Amaranthine Empire paid homage and tribute to their lord Statute, who took on the mostly ceremonial title of Emperor. With conflict largely regulated to intense judicial debates, the realm prospered under Statute’s largely distant rule, content to let mortals handle their affairs for the most part. This allowed Statute to undertake journeys of great import, although many questioned why one would consider leaving such a bastion of order and prosperity.

In the far west, even the terrors of the Onoqui and the raiding of the Body of Balaphon appeared to have died down… at least in the region of Onoqu. This was of little consolation to the neighboring regions, as the bloodshed shifted northward. Nomads and humble herders managed to avoid the warbands of the Body, but the riverside cities and towns past the steppes did not have the luxury of simply picking up and moving out of the path of destruction. More prepared for single emissaries of Rula and spiritual warfare through wards and incantations, all the watchmen in the world could do little against the tide that was coming. The rivers ran red with blood as a warning to communities downstream, but it was oftentimes too late. The howls of men who had long forfeited their humanity boomed in the river valley, and seas of terrified migrants rushed to find sanctuary. Many fled across the mountains, or even southeastward towards Vasheroth, where the dragons could offer security in exchange for the migrants’ servitude. The vast majority settled upon the semitropical lands of the south, where the Achandaki and practitioners of celestial magic offered some form of protection. A handful in their madness sought out Rula in the Woods of Many Minds. None returned.

Back in the east, Yagna’s benevolence continued to be made abundantly clear as she continued to create paradise after paradise. Yagna wove a river through the arid sands of an eastern desert, a river so massive that those atop Nyubar’s Citadel could spy its verdant shores. Even distant traders from the Amarathine Empire came to witness this veritable bread basket, as skilled farmers and gardeners tilled the rich soil. Missionaries sang the praises of magic, of the sun, of dreams, and the futility of life without the guidance of law, but in the end, full granaries turned the region into another bulwark of Yagna’s worship.

The river of Yagna flowed towards a massive lake, whose glassy surface reflected the face of Tai every morning and the works of Achandrasha every night. It was here that Yagna placed a wellspring of enchanted water, capable of curing any known ailment when applied to the afflicted area or simply drank. Pilgrims traveled far and wide to receive this powerful blessing and drink deep from the waters of Yagna in order to be fully restored. Those that imbibed the holy water found themselves not only rejuvenated, but given a renewed sense of connection with their fellow man…or at least with those who had also drank from the wellspring. A strange notion gripped those that drank those waters; many chose to simply reside next to the spring, living in harmony and deeper understanding with one another. Forsaking old homes and families, these devotees of Yagna began living in communes that, while always open and peaceful, seemed somewhat unnerving and uncanny to the outside observer.

Further south, a different sort of uncanny people emerged, once again the product of Yagna’s influence. The Alari, mortals similar to humans but with a lither build and a deeper connection to nature, took up residence in dense rainforests. Not only did the Alari feel a deeper connection to nature, but they considered themselves rightful heirs of the forests, sometimes violently expelling outsiders. Adherents to the old ways of Fuku refused to be dislodged from their ancestral homes so easily, exposing the Alari to curses and the horrors of warfare against men that cannot be seen. Still, the Alari’s expertise in the sprawling forests made them dominant in regions they inhabited, though they whispered of deadly manfolk in the heart of the jungle and their foul God of Curses.

For a few centuries, these patterns played out. The struggles of mortals with one another mirrored the schemes of the divine powers of the world. When tragedy struck, it was at least predictable. The Krosswinds would wash over the world and cover it in snow before receding as they always had. The Body and Mind of Balaphon would cause turmoil, but to the average mortal, the two minions of Nital were indistinguishable from the average warlord or rabble rouser. Vash’eth and its sister cities swelled in splendor, with the rest of the world far behind in the world of magic, but not so much in the worlds of agriculture and architecture. Regular patterns had been established, much to the satisfaction of beings like Statute and Nyubar.

But it was not meant to last.

The heralds of this time, a time of intense apprehension, emerged in a manner similar to the arrival of man into creation. For out of all corners of the abyss came massive structures, contorted into intricate and alien shapes. They were seemingly immune to the laws of this world, hovering far overhead as a cloud would, yet as solid and daunting as a mountain. The shapes came under the inspection of Vasheroth’s dragons, the watchful eyes of Nyubar’s castellans, and the Achandaki dancing underneath the night sky. None could discern their origin or purpose, and for the most part they did little besides unnerve those under their shadows. When looking to the edges of the world, the remote abyss that still lingered on the fringes of creation, the intrepid mortal or prying eyes of the divine could catch faint shadows of the shapes. Faint yet clearly present, the shadowy forms would consolidate into a distinct mass and almost breach the abyss, before dissipating and reforming in other non-places.

The Yinshung, dwindling in number as fewer and fewer emerged with each generation, nearly vanished from all records. Fuku’s curse eluded them, and the ancient paths to their retreats were hidden from all but those few who had made the arduous journey to become a Yinshung. Stories would emerge of mortals awakening their chi and performing fantastic feats once every decade or so, but the accounts became foggy and unreliable. The Yinshung slipped out of bondage and into legend, larger than life figures who had been persecuted and forgotten by the gods of this world. Their disappearance caused many to lament; under great duress a man could hope to awaken his inner strength and fight against the tides of fate. It appeared that such defiance was now impossible. Isolated clans still practiced the mastery of chi, but without the draw of the Yinshung transformation, many likely recruits instead turned to other methods of obtaining power.

Men talked of a figure, a wheeling dealing gambler from parts unknown. His appearance always shifted from town to town, but his most defining feature always remained the same: his luck. People would feel compelled to take the man up on his bets, to call bluffs that they knew weren’t bluffs. Life savings, acres of land, and family heirlooms all found their way into the hands of this figure. When accused of swindling or cheating, he would drift on to the next town, unloading his earnings on the poor and downtrodden. While these altruistic gestures towards the needy endured the figure to many, the obviously enhanced form of wealth distribution caused chaos in his wake.

A race of strange beastfolk emerged in the northern seas, terrifying Typhans, Humans, and Giants alike with their bizarre appearance and behavior. While physically identical to the average penguin, these beings covered themselves in all manner of decoration, preferring pearls and other shiny objects to adorn their necks. They demonstrated telekinetic abilities similar to those of Chromarchs, moving most objects with their minds rather than their limbs. They spoke in squawks just like their primitive ancestors, but appeared to understand the spoken word well enough, if given the time to study it. Obviously a race favored by Rios, most societies shut out these now sentient arctic birds, using intimidation or violence to drive them off before they could spread the mischief of their creator.

Yet these curious creations of Rios found acceptance in unlikely places. Chromarchs, with their natural curiosity and tendency to drift throughout the world, eventually came into contact with these fellow mind-magic users. Many chromarchs would follow these birds for long distances, marveling at their travels and their unusual behavior. Giants found other uses for their new neighbors. Too clumsy to properly farms and provide food, and admittedly too intelligent to eat and have a sound conscience, giants began employing the birds as messengers, scouts, and explorers. The appearance of the penguins no longer just meant mischief was likely afoot; giants would be nearby if things escalated beyond that point.

The gift of sentience to mere beasts unnerved many, but a precedent had been set for new races emerging when a god wills it. The dead however, had always stayed dead. At least, before the meddling of Curator.

All across creation, tales and legends began filtering in: the newly dead walk once more! Or at least more than previously (see: not at all). Betrayed lovers, mighty heroes, and those with the willpower to cling to life would find their bodies reanimated, capable of handling unfinished business. Their souls were said to have still passed through the Gates of Nyubar, yet their memories and purpose in life remains firmly in their bodies. Husks of mortals, pantomiming their old lives with vacant expressions and grim determination. Some saw these ghastly figures as divine messengers from beyond the grave. Others formed mobs and tore their physical forms apart, only to be haunted further by ethereal figures tracing the same paths with their silent footsteps.

The veils between life and death, dream and reality, seemed so uncertain and thin. Was it all an affront to the gods? Or did they intend for these horrors to transpire? The gods gave no clear answers, for a far more important task than soothing mortal qualms would soon be in motion.

Altogether fitting and unlikely at the same time, it started with the meddling of a certain god. Rios placed a strange artifact in an extremely obvious place, knowing that the prying eyes of Vasheroth would find it in no time. Upon inspecting the artifact, it appeared to be a metal chest, fastened with a seemingly infinite numbers of interlocking chains of different sizes and shapes. Determined to unravel the secrets that no doubt lie within, some of the finest mages tried untold numbers of spells on the chest, to no avail. Just when the matter seemed hopeless, the chains fell off and the chest flew open. An unnatural laughter boomed throughout Vash’eth, and colorful strips of paper rained down from the ceiling. Some of the mages present gave a nervous chuckle in response, but most knew something was wrong.

This had not been the first omen sent to the people of Vasheroth. Heralds from Tai, Harika, and Cold North all possessed the same tone: Vash, God-killer, would pay for his crimes. Guilty by association were those who bathed in the strength of the Eye, and those who saw the destruction of Patron as a just action by Vash. Naturally, followers of Vash dismissed these threats. Their lord had given them a paradise on earth, where one’s mind could unlock secrets that even the lesser gods wished they were privy to. Their lord led the fight against the sinister influences of blood magic and the intrusion of nightmares into the world, so who greater a champion of mortals among the gods could there be? Vash had slain a pretender, and the rest of the so called “divine powers” of this world could do little else but make empty threats towards Vash’s servants. At its height, Vasheroth had over a hundred dragons to its name, each mightier than any king among mortals. What fools would dare challenge such a realm?

It started with faint rumblings.

Rios’s joke appeared to have done more than unnerve a few mages; old scrying techniques used to predict the currents of fate became unreliable. The ability to predict and adjust to future events had become somewhat of a specialty in Vash’eth, although a carefully guarded magic that rarely saw implementation outside of the capital. Especially effective at squashing slave rebellions before they even occurred, its dependability had never been called into question before. Now, rebellions sprung up in unforeseen places for the first time in centuries. Unexpected, but far from unstoppable. Horrific examples were made of these slaves, as hundreds were burned alive in public executions. Others found themselves impaled on the spires of Vash’eth, a warning to Tai above and the mortals below. Others simply vanished, locals entrusting that the dragon lords had dealt with them properly.

News trickled in of the Krossing; a massive bridge of ice and rock that linked the realm of Kross to the southern continents. Across this structure came Kross himself, bringing a retinue of giants that continued to swell as he traveled southward. With him came a bitter cold, and winter struck the south months in advance. Some areas, such as Vash’eth, the Celestial Citadel, and the Woods of Many Minds were shielded from this unexpected snowfall, but the overwhelming majority of the above-ground world was absolutely devastated. The Typhans managed to avoid the brunt of the harsh weather, although even they felt the ripples of Kross’s drastic action.

Once it became clear that Kross intended to follow through with his promise of assaulting the Eye, adherents of Vash began preparations in earnest. Worship of all other deities was forbidden, and all were expected to pledge their lives to the Lord of Change. Chromarchs were captured or destroyed on sight, as it became known that the Brightskin tribes of Tai and their chromarch allies intended on joining Kross’s march toward Vash’eth. Savage storms began to lick the coast of Vasheroth, and tales of hostile Typhans dragging away unsuspecting researches beneath the waves began trickling in. Harika had thrown in her lot with the other two usurpers, that much was certain. All rivers were to be thoroughly netted, and any captured and unauthorized Typhans to be executed on the spot.

As the might of the attackers and the brutality of the defenders trickled in, all manner of mortals began to flock to the banners of the Three. A few Yinshung, long thought to have taken their teachings and legendary might to the grave, emerged from hiding and joined to lead the Brightskin tribes into battle. The adventurer Takamu managed to return to the lands of Tai from the Celestial Citadel a few years before the conflict, keeping a trio of legendary blades at his side for the upcoming war. Daybreaker embodied the might of the sun, capable of bursting into searing radiance and cutting through any darkness. Daybreaker would find its way into the hands of a chromakin that took the form of a towering warrior. Taking in the radiance of Daybreaker, it grew even mightier, and stood shoulder to shoulder with the giants of Cold North. Nightbringer embodied the strength of night, granting its wielder exceptional stealth and an unimaginably sharp blade. Nightbringer was said to feast upon the death rattles and screams of its enemies, sucking the sound out of the air. It was gifted to an Alari who was made known about the recklessness of the dragons and the destruction they wrought upon their own jungles. Finally, Takamu would wield Terminator, the line that separates night from day. Possessing characteristics of both blades, it’s power was not in overwhelming strength, but the versatility that came with the blade.

The influx of enhanced arms and armor, coupled with the arrival of several champions boosted morale to new heights. The horrors encountered on the march to Vash’eth tempered this enthusiasm. War, especially on this scale, meant joy for no one.

Tai had decreed that mages not under the banner of Vash would not be persecuted, yet many overzealous followers had taken it upon themselves to enact justice upon spellcasters. The army encountered villages ravaged by violent struggles; mages hanging from trees, or mages surrounded by disfigured and warped bodies, disgusted by their neighbors’ bloodlust. Many fell by their own hand, realizing there was no going back to the way things were. Other villages had simply been wiped out, the dragons of Vash intent on removing anything useful that the invaders might find on their march.

The nearer to Vasheroth the army marched, the more horrific the obstacles became. As Kross and his army crossed the mountains into Vasheroth, they found the city of Rakotis emptied, its occupants standing in the countryside, motionless. No mages numbered among them, and they appeared to be simple commoners and slaves. When ordered to stand down, the commoners slowly drifted towards the invaders. No matter how many tongues the order was communicated in, the crowd moved with a quickened pace until finally the mass of bodies was sprinting towards the army. Archers and spearthrowers let loose their projectiles in a panic, and their targets screeched in an unholy cacophony. Twitching and contorting, their frames erupted into boiling ichor. Some troops on the frontlines were unfortunate enough to come into contact with the fluid; a maddening pain seized them, their flesh melting away at the point of contact. The remaining “civilians” were eradicated from a distance, but those afflicted could not continue on. They begged for death as they writhed on the ground, and their brothers in arms reluctantly obliged.

In Vash’eth, different reports were trickling in. The invaders had resorted to blood magic, and that they made grim mockeries of Vash’s humblest servants. The outer cities were instructed to move their forces to the capital, where the final battle would no doubt take place. Many mages, as well as a couple of their draconic overlords, saw fit to simply flee the oncoming destruction, unsure of Vasheroth’s might in the face of multiple gods. They were branded heretics and traitors, cowards to be dealt with after Vasheroth’s victory over the pretenders.

Reports of blood magic became more frequent, growing closer and closer to the capital as the army pressed onwards. The dreams of the mages in Vash’eth became plagued with visions of death and destruction, of a fate far worse than death. Many went insane as their minds were drawn into Multor and tormented by Sorna. Authorities cracked down on any who may have been responsible for the forbidden rituals, but more often than not the innocent were thrown in with the guilty. Entire districts of the city became ghost towns, the former occupants jailed, executed, or simply disappeared. Use of the Rios Gates were forbidden in order to prevent mass desertion; many destroyed outright by the dragons to make the order final. Outlying cities linked to Vasheroth only through the Rios Gates were cut off, now unaware of the true terror that gripped their homeland.

Finally, the titanic frame of Kross could be seen upon the horizon, the sky darkening with his approach. The army had been reduced from its original size; the enthusiastic adventurers and glory hounds had long since departed or perished. Common soldiers were running on low rations, and even Cold North himself appeared taxed by such a long journey through lands that were not his own. Yet the sight of Vash’eth’s towers rejuvenated the titan of ice and frost, and a fierce wind blew from the north. With a thunderous shout, Kross and his giants charged towards the First City. So began the Battle of Vash’eth.

The terrain proved difficult for the assaulting forces; while dragonfire and years of construction efforts had done away with large swaths of forest, plenty of jungle stood between the invaders and their target. Giants stomped and crushed their way through the overgrowth, while Chromatai had few qualms about burning a path to Vash’eth. The few Alari that accompanied the army begrudgingly accepted the tactics, justifying it as a means to spare their homelands similar treatment. The mountainous terrain could not be so easily navigated. Kross himself could scale mountains well enough with his giants, but they found themselves set upon by dragons. A few mighty giants managed to ensnare some of the overconfident and inexperienced dragons and subsequently eviscerate them once grounded, but more experienced ones could not be so easily overcome. Dizzying illusions made it hard to track their movements, and all around the invaders fire rained down from the sky.

The battle had not even reached the city walls, and the jungles were ablaze. The Alari panicked, subjected to the horrific destruction that they were trying so hard to prevent, while the giants waned and shrunk in the face of the raging inferno. An especially daring dragon charged headlong at Kross, screaming fire into the titan’s eyes. Roaring in pain, Kross snatched the dragon out of the air and hurled it into the ground, ending its centuries of reverent study and prideful soaring with an unceremonious thud. Suddenly reminded of their own mortality, the remainder of the raiding dragons withdrew to Vash’eth, satisfied with their handiwork. Surrounded on all sides by flames, Kross screamed to the sky in anger, while others looked towards it for salvation.

With Harika’s arrival, they found it.

A torrential downpour suddenly came down, announced by sudden thunder and lightning. The Goddess of Storms had brought a horrible tempest down upon Vash’eth, with massive waves quickly eroding the northern shoreline. Every minute the ocean stretched further across the continent, while the nearby rivers overflowed quite quickly. The pain in Kross’s eyes diminished, although his sight had been nearly extinguished. The invaders continued onward as the inferno shrank before Harika’s downpour. Meanwhile, Vash’eth’s defenders now contended with flooding of the lower levels of the city. Slaves and commoners tried in vain to escape the deluge, gasping for air as their overlords took flight and the mages took to the battlements.

Chromatai and dragons clashed in the air above Vash’eth, blasting each other with solar energy and dragonfire while the legions of Vasheroth finally met the invaders on the ground. Vasheroth forces decimated most that they encountered; the concentration of magic they brought to bear upon the invaders was simply overwhelming. Takamu and the other wielders of celestial weaponry were able to shield themselves from the city’s mages, but it was a drop in the bucket compared to the sea of combatants being torn apart by arcane energies. It was only by the direct intervention of the gods that the battle was not lost immediately; Kross continued to sweep aside opposition due to his sheer size, while Harika’s storms likewise hurled mortals about like playthings. Tai’s unbridled light shined down upon the battlefield, roasting men alive and boiling the waters that now rushed through the streets of Vash’eth.

Victory seemed at hand; despite unimaginable losses on both sides, the alliance of the three gods limped onwards, thanks in no small part to their direct presence on the battlefield. Winds howled at the onslaught continued, and many dragons began to look towards their own preservation. It appeared their lord had no plans for them beyond this point.

But their lord did have a plan.

The winds howled more. And more. Both Kross and Harika initially thought it was the other’s doing, until the light of Tai began to bend in an unnatural way… towards the Eye. The Eye’s pull began to grow exponentially; no longer just a byproduct of the battle between Patron and Vash. The Lord of Change had weaponized the Eye for just this occasion. The deities felt their strength being sapped with every passing moment. But the will of gods cannot be underestimated.

Still blinded by the battle and cursing the whole way through, Kross thundered towards the Eye of Vash, sensing its pull in lieu of actual sight. Kross grasped, expecting to find some sort of artifice, some construct. Anything. Anything to pulverize with his massive hands. Anything to finally strike back at Vash, who had remained absent and untouched while thousands had died in his stead. Anything.

The vortex grew more ravenous and its pull increasingly devastating, with all but the most experienced mages and dragons losing control of their magic in its presence. Those who could still use magic used the opportunity to flee the field. Kross continued to feel around blindly, until finally he felt it. Better that the Father of Giants had not possessed his sight at this moment; his arm had begun to vanish into the very Eye itself, almost lost to the nexus’ mindless hunger. With a great heave, he reeled backwards, bringing his arm back out of the rift. The force of this action tore the Eye asunder, for nothing had ever gone against the flow of the Eye. The conflicting energies swirling against one another caused the Eye to tear itself apart almost immediately.

With the Eye destroyed and only stragglers of Vasheroth’s forces remaining, Tai planned to put the First City out of its misery. The screaming of scalded slaves. The cries of dragons, their wings crumped under debris. The frantic chanting of the priests, praying for their lord to return to turn the tide, even as the raging waters tore down their temples. All would be silenced by Tai’s righteous gaze.

Yet another sound rang out, unwilling to be silenced so easily. A dull chant at first, barely audible above the previous clash of metals and the sounds of sorcery. But with the Eye removed and the battle winding down, the chanting grew louder and louder. It echoed among the dying, who twisted in renewed agony, and their blood flowed like water from their wounds. The chromarchs were filled with an instinctive panic, while Harika’s waters began to turn to a dark shade of red. The taste of iron filled the air as the chanting became deafening to all. Finally, Tai’s light was unleashed upon the city, cutting a destructive swath through its center. The blast was cut short, as the First Sun paused in shock.

Unveiled by this destruction was a vast underground network, filled with bloated bodies and pools of blood. Like blood flowing from a peeled back scab, the exposed gore spilled out into plain sight. The floodwaters grew sluggish and heavy, more akin to gravy than waters befitting the Goddess of the Seas, and an overwhelming stench filled the air. Amidst this horror stood a lone dragon, stained blood red by his foul labors. He alone stood against the Three, yet a foul energy surrounded him that turned the stomachs of the gods themselves.

The beast up righted itself, and in the sunlight the magnitude of his perversion became clear. The robes of cultists, the chains of slaves, and even the bones of fellow dragons littered the ground. There was now no mistaking the source of the missing slaves. The source of the terrors experienced on the road to Vash’eth.

“Tai, with your blood, I will baptize myself and join the ranks of the divine. Let your peers bear witness to my ascension, before sacrificing themselves to my eternal glory!”

Tai felt it. They all felt it. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of lives had been spent empowering this beast, it’s dark heart racing at the thought of tasting the blood of the divine. It had hidden itself, allowing its countrymen and brothers to fall in battle, drawing strength from the Three. Biding its time. Licking its lips. Such raw hunger for power and sheer bloodlust could be contained for only a few moments before the dragon took flight towards its prey. As it pushed itself off the ground and into the air, hellish flames leapt from the ground. Its red eyes remained transfixed on Tai, bloody tears streaming down its face in a mixture of agony and pleasure. In moments, it would taste Tai’s blood, and with it achieve true godhood. A worthy successor to Vash, who had abandoned his people. A worthy successor to Nital, who was powerless to escape his prison. A marriage of the two most powerful forces in the world; blood and magic.

Like a moth drawn to the flame, it raced towards Tai. All turned their faces to the sky, which grew dark with smoke and miasma. Tai, finally realizing the severity of the situation, cast his gaze upon the beast, it’s scales turning pitch black and hissing from the intense light. Wreathed in smoke and flames, the enormous missile continued its course, never once adjusting or yielding to the power of the First Sun. Tai poured forth even more effort, intent on incinerating the would-be god. Yet it never stopped. The dragon’s ambition would never die. With outstretched claws, the dragon grasped it.

It reached Tai, and embraced divinity with its final breath.

Disease ridden claws and rotten teeth sank into Tai’s body for a moment, before the dragon’s mortal frame could no longer endure Tai’s gaze and was reduced to noxious fumes and grey ash. But the damage had been done; Tai’s light began to dim as the First Sun experienced pain for the first time. Garish wounds expelled Tai’s blood all over the battlefield. Some strange magic still lingered in that accursed land, for nefarious forces drew that divine blood deep into the earth with haste, no doubt siphoning it to a new location. But in the moment, none could dwell on such a mystery with many dire tasks still ahead. Unable to muster the strength to destroy Vash’eth utterly, Tai left the task up to Harika, who gradually sank it beneath the waves. In the chaos, Takamu had been lost, although a body could not be found. Stragglers attempted to flee the wrath of the invaders through the Rios Gates that still stood in the countryside, but unstable energy crackled forth from the portals, striking down anyone in their vicinity before crumbling into the sea alongside the rest region. The invaders tried their best to flee destruction too. Ironically, in their moment of victory, the Three had to depart in haste with their followers, lest they be struck down by that which they had worked so hard to destroy.

Yet there was no other word for it but victory. Vash’eth and many of the cities of Vasheroth were destroyed in the war, a warning to those who would underestimate the gods’ thirst for justice. While an unforeseen threat, the would-be dragon-god had been struck down before it could feast any further on the corpse of Vash’eth and grow in strength. Finally, the Eye of Vash had been destroyed, its drain on the elemental deities halted. But the price had been dire. Tai’s wounds were grievous, and the First Sun sank low in the sky for years to come. Kross had nearly found himself completely drained by the Eye, and what remained of his retinue hauled the titan back home. Harika, alone among the Three, remained largely unscathed by the battle at Vash’eth, although who knows what horrors were washed into her domain in that violent clash.

Vash also remained untouched, to the dismay of many. The Lord of Change remained hidden, as he had for centuries, and his followers paid dearly for the Godkiller’s crimes. Many mages and dragons scorned his name, claiming to have been abandoned when Vash was needed most of all. Others, typically those who left before the fighting even started, sang the praises of Vash as a brilliant strategist. Had he not brought low three more arrogant gods who dares test their might against him? The Eye had outlived its usefulness, surely, and greater plans would be set into motion by their lord. Who else could have achieved so much in supposed defeat? Whatever their feelings on Vash, several dragons fled with their personal household guards to various corners of the world, intent on carving out their own kingdoms. One such dragon even found its place at Harika’s side, becoming Arash, the Sea Drake. Parts of old Vasheroth were left standing, although the absolute annihilation of the capital effectively gutted the old magocracy. Reduced to isolated research centers and loyalist strongholds, these cities became distrustful of strangers and violently persecuted any outside faiths. Ironically, the isolated community at Ataraka, originally anti-Vash, began begging their former lord for forgiveness and a return to Vash’eth, unaware that the legendary city had long since forgotten them and was subsequently destroyed.

Nyubar had gambled on the war and on the death of Vash. The gamble had not paid off as intended. Vash had chosen to stay in hiding and properly incorporate Patron’s power into his own, while Nyubar was left grasping at faint wisps of Patron’s old energy. Vash had not been destroyed or even scathed, and any hope for the preservation of Patron’s old strength had died. Not all hope was lost for Nyubar; the presence of Yinshung at the battle of Vash’eth proved that chi still lingered in the hearts of mortals, and the God of Life and Death poured his essence into rekindling the chi within mortal-kind. Lacking the flair and bombastic nature of Patron’s old boon, Nyubar’s influence still made chi far easier to access once more. Still, the Yinshung continued to be elusive, and the sought after masters of chi remained hidden even from the god who helped revive their strength.

The price of war for war among the divine was high, and the mortals of the world paid the lion’s share by far.

Common folk on both sides lost families, livelihoods, and entire regions were made inhospitable due to the clash. Dumbstruck and vengeful dead wandered the old battlefields, unaware that the war was over, terrorizing countrysides and adding casualties to a war decades after its conclusion. The blessings of Vash were now a curse in some regions, mages turned into outcasts and subjected to violence on sight. Yet worst of all was the cold.

Kross’s struggle with the Eye would have repercussions more far reaching than perhaps even the Lord of Change could have predicted. For when the Eye siphoned off the titan’s strength, it was quickly dispersed throughout the ley-lines…again and again. While it nearly killed Kross, the Eye and the ley-lines had achieved something Kross himself had wanted to see since his awakening: a world covered in cold. Kross’s essence was spread to every corner of the world without exception, and only through intense magic could the cold be held off. The nascent Alari waned in the face of this catastrophe, their bodies especially vulnerable to freezing temperatures. Mortals everywhere watched helplessly as blizzards buried their crops and bitter winds killed their livestock. With no signs of the world-wide winter stopping, mortals and gods alike ask themselves.

Was it worth it?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------



@Kaiser: I know you wanted a dragon egg, but the dragons of this world are simply elevated humans that have received further blessings from Vash.

@Everyone: Let me know if you have any comments, questions, or concerns about this update, the maps, or the stats. I will be working in the following days to update the front page with new information (I'm contemplating just making a wiki since more and more things pop up). There may have been things I missed or misspoke on, and I will try my best to correct what I can.

City and place names are hugely appreciated, as our little mortals are growing up... although depending on how the next update goes, maybe it won't be necessary... Anyway, shoutout to Jehoshua and Thlayli for giving me stuff to write for the city names!

Also, the following update will only be 100 years long. We need to start winding down the timescale as Stage II is approaching, and ideally we'd just be in the Bronze or Iron Age at that point (or some vague fantasy equivalent of them )

As I lie in my cold north, with my followers soothing my pain and my eyes, I sense it all around. I am not just here. I am not just in the north, or the south. I feel myself, the cold, the everlasting cold, everywhere. And with this feeling comes the answer. It was worth it, for finally all is cold. My sight may be gone forever, but I feel all through my eternal cold.

Yet. A thought does not leave my mind. Why do I feel... smaller?

_________/Iggy

Kross/erez87

Nyubar/thomas.berubeg

Rula/inthesomeday

Statute/Thlayli

Rios/AA

Vash/Jehosua

Curator/Seon

Yagna/Oruc

Harika/KaiserElectric

Nital/Dreadnaught

Tai/Terrance888

Fuku/jackelgull

Achandasha/SouthernKing

Hmm I assume the climate map doesn't include the fact that almost everything is technically in winter time? Doesn't really matter, I doubt this would last long

erez87 said:

Hmm I assume the climate map doesn't include the fact that almost everything is technically in winter time? Doesn't really matter, I doubt this would last long

Click to expand...

If you compare it with the old climate map, you'll notice there have been some significant shifts towards the cold. But yeah, some areas still retain their typical terrain while experiencing abnormal weather (the rain-forests of the Alari occasionally get pelted with sleet and hail, for instance, but manage to stay rain-forests).

Great update, will maybe be writing for this next one

An Oracle of Vash

-

The cold winter scoured the mortal world as its people suffered famine and the grip of nightmares. The God of Winter while grievously wounded, found solace in the end of summer and the waning of Tai's power. The teeming throngs sought sanctuary in the prison of the dread judge such was their despair, and even dragons wise with many years, lost faith with the turning of an age. For Vash'eth was laid waste, and the eye was shut, and with it the end of the magocracy and the earthly imperium of Vash the changer and through it all, the Lord of Fates was as ever, silent...

That was what a small child, golden eyed and holding an unremarkable stick in his hand mused as he sat in his place of solitude, tapping a strange rhythm in time with the harmony of the spheres, while noting to himself absentmindedly that he was not an earthly god anyway. While many of his erstwhile followers had forsaken him, they surely knew that they came unto Vash of their own accord? For, Vash, almost alone of the gods had never sought mortal followers nor required anything of those he gave his gifts. Even before his occultation he but rarely appeared before mortal eyes. He felt a vague sense of pity, a notion somewhat alien to the lord of change to whom all fates are clear. It was a pity that even dragons did not see the truth for what it was, as it was a pity that mortals suffered for their sins, and it was a pity that the flowers of Yagna withered away in the long winter that was the ordained punishment for the just and unjust alike, the penalty given for the mortals defiance of fate. So it was in his pity that he thought that perhaps he would do well to pay those who listened for his voice heed for once. And so he scryed, and raising aloft his stick (of which he was rather proud), he whispered words and cast them into the aetheric winds, to be heard by all who could comprehend.

-

Heed the voice of fate, gods and mortals

and know that you have sinned.

For where I brought order

and guarded all against the powers of chaos

You gods, caring not for the balance of the world

nor the plight of mortal men

sought to lay me low, and likewise all that which those who came unto me by their will alone,

had made by their own efforts,

So it was that in your pride you have brought doom on all the world


Mortals, in your ungratefulness

ye joined these erstwhile gods in their willfulness

taking arms against me and mine in defiance of the will of providence.

Not one race, not even Dragons are innocent of this sin.

For even those who by their own will alone pledged obedience to fate

Turned to hubris and turning against their brethren

partook of abominable magics

perversions of my gifts

blood from blood, bone from bone

Their empire crawling with creeping foulness

seeking to assail the very heavens.


And so you have been all without exception chastised.

Vash'eth, which the creeping foulness of Nital had overcome

was laid waste.

Mortalkind which had turned against us, and forsook our gifts and kindnesses

was granted the long winter and given over to nightmare.

Gods who in their pettiness sought ruin when they could have simply asked for the closing of the eye

lay stricken in heaven and in the farthest north.

Even the Queen of the Depths received what by providence was her due.

As was foretold.


Know then all who listen.

Hear and understand.

I am the Lord of Change, and for your sins I have changed the world.

Bringing winter through winters hand, where I had granted the joy of a long summer.

For your sins I have allowed for a time nightmare, which by my hand was kept at bay.

To run free amongst the mortal flock. For the shepherd has been scorned by the sheep

who have turned themselves over to the wolves.

This is the just reward that is given to them who turned to abomination and to war.

fitting according to the works of their hands.

For my judgement passes upon the wicked and the righteous alike

As the rain falls equally upon the wicked and the just.


But to them who are wise, and curse not my name for the sins of those gods who knew not what they wrought.

Who see and understand the truth before them, and know what the erstwhile lords of high and low have done.

Know that in penance, and in the proclamation of truth lies your salvation.

For all things end, and so too will this time of suffering and tribulation come to pass.

For all passes according to providence

and All who abide with me and in humility bend to the ordinance of providence shall not be forsaken.

Even ye gods, shall be forgiven if ye repent of your error and put aside your quarrel with me.

The eye is shut, not to open again while fate remains at peace

As was foretold by the sun of suns.

and by the penance of heaven and earth, and by acts of providence

It is written

That spring shall come again.

-

ooc: Summation:

Holy cow, great update! Lots of drama going on.

For, Vash, almost alone of the gods had never sought mortal followers nor required anything of those he gave his gifts.

Click to expand...

Yep, almost.

now WHO WANTS MORE PORTALS

I never asked for followers or for any gifts I just go on walks...

The story of a man inside a museum

The woman in grey hears a passing conversation in the dark corridors of the Museum. One of the voices she immediately recognized as being the Curator’s. Its voice did not pass through her ears to reach her mind. This fact surprised her when she first awoke in these halls with no memory of her past aside from her identity as a Yinshung, but no longer did. The other voice, she did not recognize. It could simply be a visitor to her halls.

“You don’t say, and did he?” the unknown voice said, amusement in his voice. “Oh yes, indeed,” the Curator said, its words forming itself in her mind. “Your father was a rather… interesting… man,” it said.

“I suppose you could call him that,” the man said, chuckling. “Although I’m sure my priest and the village elders will not approve of a career in banditry and theft to be ‘interesting.’ I have to thank you for telling me these though. I wish I knew more about the man before he disappeared from my life.”

“It is simply my duty, dearest one,” the Curator said softly. “And it is a duty that I am happy to perform. What use is a mouth that does not speak?”

“Eating?” the man’s voice offered.

“Stories and memories are my nourishment,” the Curator said. “And I hate to see others starve for them when I myself have so much. Fuku will tell you the same, but he was never quite as interested in spreading of knowledge. Ah, but that is of no consequence to you. Come, let me tell you about your grandfather…”

The woman in grey smiled to herself as she walked away. She was… different from the other visitors in the Museum. For one, she never woke up and disappeared as the other museumgoers had. She furthermore had no memories of herself. No stories to offer the Curator. Curator had offered her a place to stay, along with his blessings and knowledge, for as long as she wished. It was an honor that was almost too good to be true.

That was years ago.

She had not aged a single year since she had agreed to serve the Curator. It was as if her body was preserved in perpetuity.

But with the blessing of preservation, also came the memories.

Not her memories. Those still eluded her. Memories of others. There were countless artifacts that lined the halls, and she could remember the most intimate detail of these things with a simple glance. Looking down the hallway full of these items nearly drove her mad when she first utilized the Curator’s gift. Now she knew to keep her eyes closed if possible… and to sort out the cacophony of voices if she could not.

She did not need sight to navigate the halls, after all.

The Curator would not stand for harm to befall her. She traced her hand along the walls, feeling it shudder from her touch. The museum was carved out of the Curator’s bones, its floors tiled with its teeth. It was a part of the god as the formless grey figure that roamed its halls was. As long as the Curator was conscious, the Museum would not allow any harm to befall her… and its definition of harm included becoming lost in its dark halls. The floor beneath her shifted slightly and nudged her forwards. So, there was a place that required her attention. It was time to go.

She still did not fully know the layout of the Museum. It was possible that it changed daily based on the Curator’s mood and whims. It was possible that the Museum was literally endless, new wings and corridors forming out of the ether as she approached.


She felt something crunch beneath her foot. Dry bones. She did not look down or even open her eyes. It could be hers, for all she knew. Eventually, the Museum’s nudges lead her towards the end of the corridor with a hatch and ladder. She frowned. She remembered this hatch and the ladder. This led to the hoard of tragic, horrible tales that the Curator collated over the years… the same memories that nearly drove her mad with grief when she first opened her eyes with her newfound gifts in the hallways of the Museum. The Curator told her that it was sorry, and removed all the offending artifacts from the Museum very same day, shoving them all into this dark pit.

She opened one of her eyes and stared at the hatch and the ladder. She could see the faint outline of the story repeating itself—the Curator’s grey robes climbing out of the pit with an empty sack trailing behind it. “All shall be well now,” the memory of the Curator said. She blinked, at the memory vanished.

A message carved itself into the walls in front of her. “There is a visitor who wandered inside there, and is now touching the exhibits. He plans on stealing them. I await your decision on this matter.”

She sighed. Ah, so this was the reason why her services were needed. There was none other than the Curator who knew about the humans so much, but it could not understand them. Humanity’s motivations and morality still eluded it mostly, and it had confided in her that it did not deem itself worthy of being able to judge humans. Ergo, it required her services in judging what must be done when its interests and the humans’ interest conflicted.

And today, it required her services inside the pit. Further messages carved itself into the walls. “Fear not. I shall not allow harm to befall you.”

The woman in gray sighed. Easy for it to say. She closed her eyes once more, felt her ways to the hatch, opened it and began clambering down.



It did not take a long time for her to find the intruder with the Museum’s guidance. “Oh!” a startled man’s voice called her. “I didn’t think there was anyone here… what is this place?”

“Enjoying the exhibits?” the woman in grey said, ignoring his question.

“Oh, err, yes,” the man replied. “I found this broach. It’s quite a nice and beautiful gem. Where did you find all this stuff?”

The woman in grey sighed. The man had actually touched some of the exhibits. The Curator would be so displeased. She opened one of her eye to see the offending object, and nearly recoiled in horror from the memories that came flooding in.

“This broach, it’s real nice… Real pretty… I swear I’ve seen it somewhere…” the man continued to mutter.

“Ah, but not as nice and pretty as she was, am I right?” the woman in grey snarled, hatred flashing in her two open eyes.

The man blinked, nearly dropping the broach from the sudden change in the woman in greys tone. “Wha… What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t act so coy, we both know what you did. We both know why you were called to that broach. Or did you forget already? After all, it was just another job for you. Another face lost in that horrible war.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about, woman,” the man snapped back. “You are making no sense.”

“SO YOU DID FORGET!” The woman cried out, laughing. It was so funny that tears started dripping down her face. “I don’t know what I expected. It wasn’t important to you… even if you relish the other part of the memory still… Oh yes, you think about it every time you go to sleep…” her eyes began shining brightly with light, tears still dripping down her face.

“Sh… shut up!” the man said. “You don’t know anything about me!”

“Oh, but I do,” the woman said. “I am the Eye of the Curator. I have seen you do it. I have seen your face as you boasted your actions to the others. I have seen how the memories inside that broach lured you here to stand before me in the Museum. I am the Eye, Mr. Tamas. There is nothing in this world that is hidden from me.”

“How… How do you know my name?!”

“You laughed when you did it,” the Eye accused. “She screamed and looked at you in horror as you did it, and that made you enjoy it even more. You took a trophy from her lifeless hair when you were done and sold it onto a passing traveling merchant for some rare treats from far distant lands. When you told the priest that you regretted your actions and sought forgiveness from your crimes in Nyubar’s light, you lied. You would do this again if given the chance. That is irrelevant now. You are never leaving this museum alive. The light and forgiveness of Nyubar is too good for you. That is my judgment.” She began laughing hysterically.

The man swung his fist at the Eye. The floors exploded upwards, the tiles of teeth forming a wall around the woman in grey. The man yelped in pain as he struck the enamel tiles instead of the Eye’s flesh, and let out a squeal as he felt himself lose his footing.

The floor beneath him opened up into the approximation of a mouth, floor tiles forming sharp, snapping teeth as shadows wrapped around the man’s waist and raised him dangling above the snapping mouth. The Eye giggled. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We aren’t going to kill you… but you are never leaving this place again… We won’t let you go back…”

The Eye’s face stretched into the widest grin imaginable. “Goodbye. I’ll see you again in a hundred years…”

The man screamed as he fell into the inky black void beneath the floor tiles, the mouth closing behind him, before returning to its normal state. A shadow picked up a broach on the floor and placed it gingerly on the pedestal from where it was removed. The woman in grey fell to her knees, closed her eyes, and began to cry. The figure in grey watching from afar approached.

The Curator was silent.

“You don’t approve of my judgement?” the woman said quietly.

“No, but I shall abide by it, as promised,” the Curator responded. “I firmly believe that even the worst people can change.”

“What a nice attitude,” the woman said weakly. “Who told you that?”

“You did, long ago, before you woke up here,” the Curator said. The woman raised one of her eyebrow. “You remember me… from before?”

“Yes.”

There is a moment of silence. “Why didn’t you tell me?” the woman asked.

“You asked me not to, before you lost your memories,” the Curator responded. “I agreed. Whatever Nyubar say about the soul being the culmination of a human being, I firmly believe that it is their memories and experience that makes a human what they are in life. Giving you her memories would be to deny the chance of your existence. Those memories would have overwritten your own nascent sentience and shaped your mind into a copy of what once was. I do not seek a copy of what once was. Despite my obsession with the artifacts of the past, I understand that no man or being can live in the past. I have moved on and… I believe that you should move on too. Please, do not ask me to tell you. I do not want to lose you all over again.”

There is another silence. “I died before, haven’t I?” the woman in grey asked.

The Curator does not respond. “I crossed Nyubar’s gate, haven’t I?” the woman in grey accused. “But you couldn’t accept such an outcome, even though it was beyond your control. You molded the corpse that was left behind into your servant in the museum to keep. At some point, you realized that I was different… imperfect, without my soul to guide me.”

“No,” the Curator said. “You… no… she realized that first,” the Curator said. “I do not understand human mannerism, unfortunately. It was she who first came to me and asked for her memories to be destroyed.”

“How do I trust you?” the woman in grey snapped.

“You can’t,” the Curator replied simply. “I just tell stories. If I am the only one who remembers… it’s just a story…” it said darkly. “I begged her to reconsider, but she told me that the circumstances behind her death and the lack of her soul changed her fundamentally. She identified her memories as being the cause of something that prevented her from acting as she wished. She willed it gone, even if it meant total erasure of her existence. She didn’t feel it fair that she was holding herself… you, back from exploring the extent of your new existence.”

The woman in grey listened silently. “I sounded like a pathetic fool,” she said. Curator chuckled. “Perhaps she was,” it said. “It is what I called her in her last moments, after all. But she’s the pathetic fool who made me the god I am today. I would not be here if not for her. I have always been so grateful to her. So much so that I gave her a part of my soul to make her move once more.”

“You did what?” the woman in grey shouted out. Curator laughed. “What, do you think that your powers were normal to the members of the undead? No, it’s part of the soul that I shared with you. “

“I thought it was your blessing!” the woman in grey complained.

“It is my blessing, no? What does it matter that you already had it before I reminded you of its existence?” the Curator responded matter-of-factly.

“Wow,” the woman in grey said. “I didn’t think you were even capable of… deception…”

“Technically it was…”

“It doesn’t matter,” the woman in grey sighed. “Could you tell me more about… myself…?”

Curator hesitated. “I am afraid,” it said. “I am afraid that you may attempt to emulate her, if you knew about her more. Why dwell in the past? You are you, and you are perfect as you are already.”


“Please,” the woman in grey said. “I just want to know.”

The Curator sighed. “I will tell you bit by bit… it’s the only way you will remain yourself. Perhaps one day, you’ll be able to regain your memories and find a comfortable balance between your two identities. That day is not now, however. For starters, your former self would have no doubt chosen to unconditionally forgive that man.”

“I was an even worse fool than I thought.”

“She was indeed,” the Curator chortled. “But there was strength in that foolishness. It brought me out of apathy. Made me believe that there was worth in what I did. I believe this is where we put the discussion of what happened in your past on hold, because we still need to decide upon the fate of that awful man in the void. I doubt Nyubar will be pleased when they discover that I have decided to withhold a soul from the Gate indefinitely for his crimes.”

“I do not give a damn about Nyubar and their gates,” the woman in grey snapped. “The man does not deserve it. I have judged him so.”

“And I shall abide by the judgment,” but the question remains on what to do about the man’s body once it wakes up. As the soul is trapped here with me, it shall not return. Its body is now under my domain. Shall I have it destroyed?”

The woman in grey blinked, shocked at the casual way the Curator talked of annihilating another human being permanently. “Maybe later,” she managed to stammer out. “Maybe fill the body with positive memories and guilt of what it did, and have it do some good before it is destroyed.”

The Curator chuckled darkly. “Your wish is my command,” it said, and vanished, leaving the woman along in the dark pit of bad memories.

…………………………………………………………

There was a man who lived in a tiny village. He had fought for the sake of the Gods against the demon, Vash, and told many tales of bravery to all who would listen. It was clear to the villagers, however, that this man was a petty, evil man. He beat others when he got drunk and angrily berated those who were skeptical of his claims (aka everyone in the village). He hated the womenfolk and attempted to force himself upon a local maiden on one occasion.

This changed almost overnight one faithful day, when villagers saw him wander into the village center with vacant eyes, tearfully muttering out apologies for all the sins that he have committed in his life. He went to every villager that he had wronged in the past and begged for forgiveness from each and every one of them. The villagers were shocked. What could have happened to the man to change him so? Still, it was a good change, and people began to accept him back.

Not too long afterwards, there was a fire in one of the houses in the village. A young girl was trapped inside; her screams audible even over that of the raging storm of fire. The man who was most certainly never a hero wasted no time at all. Even as the terrified parents of the girl watched from the sideline, the man rushed forward. He did not seem to notice the heat at all as he kicked down the flaming door and entered the house. He emerged minutes later, carrying the unconscious girl in his arms, heavily burned. He had shielded the girl from the heat and the falling timber, he said.

Nobody doubted him this time.

When he died hours after from his wounds, all agreed that, whatever that man had been in life, he was most certainly a hero in death.

Nyubar did not come to collect a soul that night. There was nothing to collect.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………….

The husk of the man knew that its purpose in its life was complete, and that its bindings were falling apart in its seams. The Curator knelt before the man, cradling its memories in its arms. “Your story comes to an end,” it said simply.

“There was so much guilt…” the husk rasped out. “There is still so much that I have left to do.”

“You have done enough, methinks,” the Curator said. “To absolve a tenth of your crimes. The rest will be extracted from your soul in time. For now you may rest.”

“Ha ha ha…. To die knowing that your soul will fail to seek the needed absolution from those who I have wronged in the past… is this my punishment?”

“Yes,” the Curator said. “That is what the Eye have judged you with. I am sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, I agree with the decision,” the husk of the man said. “It is what I deserve.”

The Curator smiled. “Souls,” the god said bitterly. “I despise them,” it admitted. “It is never left behind, for whatever reason. Despite the fact that humans are the culmination of its memories and stories, and its will, they leave all these things behind when they ascend through the gates,” the Curator chuckled. “It could be said that they are leaving the most important parts of themselves behind.”

The husk sat dying, confused.

“I’ll tell you the truth, I despise many things in this world,” the god continued. “Gods, mostly. In their singleminded blindness, they seek to destroy all that I have sought to preserve. Just look at the horrid war with Vash. Vash,” it said the name again with the harshness it lacked before. “Fate. The most horrid enemy of mankind and stories.” The Curator chuckled darkly. “I long to see them all destroyed. Mankind should be the author of their own fates.”

The husk was dead. The Curator sighed. “Thank you for listening,” it said. It collected the husk’s memories and walked away.

It's funny that Tai brings up fate dictating Vash's actions, considering I've basically destroyed the concept.

Have fun, mortals!