The Backways Bar [RP]

~80k characters.

 

In preparation for the events to come, (ominous foreshadowing) here is the first of two interludes. The next will come shortly.

Spoiler: PART 1

VADIM


For the first time in what seemed to be an eternity, the lighthouse had visitors at last.
From the top of his lighthouse, Vadim watches, his gaze distant, as the sky slowly fades to black, the veil of the stars creeping slowly over the sky. Lifting his gaze, he stares upwards, clasping his palms together in silent prayer. The stars-Vallenia’s home. A realm of magic above the mortal world, where the spirits of the dead were judged and sent to her brothers’ domains. If a ship passed nearby, even choosing to brave the dangers of the Thrice-Cursed’s armies and the frigid Skjaldan waters, they would most likely believe-reasonably, that he was praying to the gods for solace.

Yet Vadim did not wait for Vallenia-nor Daekkan Nightbrother, not even Regalios Sunfather with his chariot of light and horses of flame. No-he waited for something different; something that had been foretold for countless generations.
For longer than his memory, Vadim and his predecessors had kept the lighthouse, a lonely tower at the very edge of the Skjaldan isles. Far upper north than any town in the Empire, they had maintained the beacon across the span of countless lifetimes, watching for ships that would never sail. Although many had called them mad for doing so, they simply didn’t realize what they did-they kept watch-for the sake of the world itself.
Once more, Vadim watches the sea, looking across the indigo expanse. The waters crash against moonlit icebergs, the larger ones covered by colonies of sleeping walruses. Fortunately, the creatures were not liches-despite the Dread Lich’s reawakening, it seemed that the Beastmaster had not joined the force just yet.
For a moment, Vadim recounts words spoken to him years ago. Twenty? No-thirty, when he was just a boy.

They will come. Fallen from the skies undone.

From the sky. Glittering with a multitude of stars, shimmering with possibility. The visitors were close. He could feel it himself-he senses the coming storm in his very bones.
His gaze falls upon one star in particular. No, upon second thought, that was no star; it was too close, its light flashing rapidly rather than remaining constant.
He tenses in anticipation. It was just as they all had said. Tonight, the visitors had arrived at last.

They are close. Masters of thunder and fire most.

Vadim quickly dons his cloak, fetching his lantern and lighting it. From the lighthouse’s roof, he feeds the flame, the age-old beacon lighting up for the first time in so long. In the distance, the star seems to grow ever nearer, making its way down the sky at almost impossible speeds.

They are here. Heralds of the age so near.

With an arc of brilliant light, the star-the orb of smoothly cut steel, as large as an iceberg, arcs down across the sky in a streak of flame, crashing into the waters and sinking far below. As he watches, the heavens seem to glow with a newfound radiance, lighting up with countless other specks as they descend from the cosmic tapestry. Vadim almost loses himself in the sight before the urgency of the situation hits him again.
Remembering a final word of advice, Vadim reaches into the shelf nearby and unrolls a large sheet of worn and thin paper, completely blank apart from a single large symbol-a fading red circle crossed by a waving line.
Wrapping the paper around the beacon’s glass exterior, he covers part of it in a sheet of heavy cloth, feeding the stream of light through the thin paper. It floods outwards, forming a beam of radiance that lands upon the seas. In the light, the symbol is visible as clear as day-a guide for the visitors, a trail for them to follow.

As the sky abruptly explodes with radiance, orbs falling down into the sea around him, Vadim smiles, watching the seas churn as something far below rises upwards.
He had done his part. Now, the visitors were here at last.

 

Interlude 2!

Spoiler: PART 2

DUR


At least for Dur, today was a great day for mining.

In a way, it was always a great day for mining. Mining didn’t require cool weather or warm temperatures-all you needed was a pickaxe, a helmet, a couple sticks of dynamite, and a bit of chance on your side. As usual, Dur had all four-and besides, what else was there to do anyways?
Dur never understood the other miners. Who didn’t enjoy mining? It was just simply relaxing to drill away at veins of ore, uncovering flecks of crystal and shards of gemstones. He was searching for treasures deep within ancient caverns, like the adventurers within the stories.
What was there to dislike? Was it cramped? No, simply cozy. Cold? Dur would prefer the word cool. And silent? Well, having some more quietness in his life would certainly be preferable to noise.
Even the dangers were few-well at least compared to fighting in battles like some of the other miners talked about. Cave-ins? Not much of an issue when you could feel the vibrations. Gas leaks? He could simply breathe those in as well.

Then again, perhaps his love of mining was just ever so slightly due to the fact that Dur was a dwarf.


Dur strolls calmly down through the outpost’s streets, passing below the gold-and-brown banner that signified the town’s recognition of the Ferrous Merchants’ Guild’s authority. With banners hung from the city’s walls and its central square, the small Jossic town had been long abandoned by its provincial governor, Kavellan-who had been found dead in an alley, supposedly murdered by Hernandese assassins three weeks ago. The Guild had soon swooped in to take control, and the mine’s coal outputs now fed the ongoing trade war against the C3, their rival organization. Not that Dur minded the change-he didn’t mine for any authority; simply only for his own well-being.
Although it was a rest day, on which the town’s miners usually stayed in the outpost’s few saloons, Dur thought it to be dreadfully boring. Who needed drinks when you could smell the dust and see the sights of the lower world? Mining was all he would ever need to relax.
Dur makes his way down the terraced steps of the largest quarry, which, today, is calmingly quiet. The overseer, who sits smoking a pipe under the shade of a small tree, ignores him-they’ve gotten almost used to him within the last few days. He passes the man and makes his way even further down, descending a series of roughly carved steps as he heads in the direction of the mine’s lower terraces.
Eventually, Dur stops at the entrance to a shadowy tunnel, which he strides towards. His footsteps echo against the cave walls as he, pulling out his pickaxe, sets down the passage, the light eventually fading away as the doorway grows more and more distant. He smiles, his eyes readjusting to the darkness as he feels at the edge of his pickaxe. It was time to work.


Setting his pickaxe against the cavern wall, Dur abruptly flies into a flurry of movement, his pickaxe a blur as it crashes against the stone. Dur’s pickaxe hits the rock, is raised upwards, and hits again, falling into an almost rhythmic pattern.

Lift. Smash. Lift. Smash. Lift. Smash. Lift. Smash. Lift. Smash. Lift. Smash.

And then, Dur raises his pickaxe a final time. In the distance, the light has grown much dimmer-evident that hours have passed. Although to Dur, it feels like it’s only been a few minutes, the ringing of bells echoes from the outside-night is almost here.
Dur sighs, his mind clearing, as he looks at the swathe of rock he’s carved through. To most-it would be a nigh-impossible feat-but his eyes, it’s simply an average day’s worth of work.
Making his way back along the tunnel, he studies the rock for traces of precious gemstones, tapping at the rock periodically in search of hollowed veins.
To his mild disappointment, he finds none-not even a single, tiny vein of coal. While it’s not profit-far from it, in fact, Dur doesn’t truly mind. Mining is mining-and even a day of loss is a productive one nonetheless.
Lifting his pickaxe and setting it over his shoulder a final time, Dur prepares to leave, ignoring the pain of his aching joints. Although dwarves had an increased sense of tolerance, mining for hours upon end would still be wearing. Dur simply chose to not pay attention to it-like the way a human would ignore a buzzing fly.
Dur’s boots crunch against the ground sharply as he walks back along the tunnel, his pickaxe on his shoulder. His sensations are suddenly overwhelmed by warmth and he turns in surprise, kneeling down to find the source of the feeling.
Crushed into pieces are the tiny splintered fragments of a strange crystal shard, seemingly just haven fallen from the ceiling. Dur looks at his boots in surprise-which are coated in a thin layer of singed leather, still hot to the touch.
Dur steps around the crystal and gazes up towards the ceiling. Hidden just beyond his view is a thin crevice in the rock with a small hollow behind it. Dur slowly makes his way towards it and inspects the stone, taking his pickaxe and snapping the gap further open.
Within the hollow grow a mass of the crystals, jutting out of the rocks in blooms of color. Dur, unbelieving of the sight, feels at the surface of the strange material, feeling power somehow surge from the rock into the tips of his fingers. Although white at first glance, it glows with a shifting mass of colors-black, gray, green, blue- an almost unearthly prismatic myriad.
Dur feels a tear drop from his eye as he stares into the depths of the crystal.

This-this was no ordinary ore. No-this was simply a masterpiece.

“You’re quite the lucky man.”

Startled, Dur turns abruptly in his tracks. Where there formerly had been none, a man stands behind him, a tall and looming figure with a face partially obscured by a hard cap. They slowly step forwards and turn to the growth, looking it up and down.

“It’s quite fitting, you know, that the infamous mining fanatic-even for a dwarf- would be the first to find lodestone in all of Jossinar. Sadly, you won’t be able to relish in your achievements-or relish at all, in fact.”

“Who are you?” Dur asks nervously. “You’re not from the Guild, are you?”
“Far from it, in fact,” the man answers. “But unfortunately for you, if they found out that the Cooperative had spies stationed in one of their camps, mining their very lodestone, then all hell would break loose, wouldn’t it? Now, we don’t want that, do we?”
Dur’s voice comes out a squeak and he nods. “I did nothing, sir. Please..please.."

“That’s no longer much of an option,” they say calmly. “I’d suggest you close your eyes now-I don’t think it’ll be too painful for you if you brace for it.”

Before Dur even has a chance to respond, the man drives a dagger through his chest, causing the dwarf to abruptly gasp in pain. Dur’s nerves fill with flames as the man stabs him once more, ramming the blade up his stomach. As the dwarf loses consciousness and his vision fades, he crawls towards the crystals desperately, grasping for a handhold.
The man snorts and kicks him aside forcefully, taking his pickaxe from the ground. In the course of a painfully prolonged moment, steel flashes through the air as the tool arcs downwards, his vision finally giving under the pressure.
In the distance, the man sighs, a soft sound that echoes across the cavern walls. "I am truly sorry. I only do what I must."

 

With little else occurring, Permafrost orders another carbonated drink (blue this time) and leaves.
"Goodbye, but perhaps not forever; I would not doubt that I might happen across this place again."
Nobody can see his face as he exits.

 

{OOC:
WELCOME, ONE AND ALL, TO THEDRA'S FINALE IN THE BACKWAYS BAR!
This is the result of a month's worth of procrastination.
Hopefully it turns out well.}



It was something about their face.
Thedra, for as long as Callenius had been in the Bar, had been wondering where she knew them from.
She was looking at him, staring, trying to steal back the memories she seemed to have lost.
It was then she noticed the badge once more.

A fragment of a glimpse of a flash of motion. A moment of a vision of a shadow of the past. Thedra’s eyes, the metallic spheres implanted in the metallic face, are caught by the red of the badge, and widen to sizes so large that they appear as heads of their own.
Thedrra lets out an audible gasp - a shaky intake of air. She begins to tremble as she begins to remember.

Spoiler: Thedra’s Past (and also someone else’s past but I think you can figure that out by reading the contents of the flashback)

They were inseparable.
Where they came from, the joke had been made (far too many times) that, instead of saying two things went together “akin to butter and bread”, one might say “akin to Mardek and Thedra”.
The two had known each other since as long as anyone cared to remember - and longer than most could.
If you wanted to hire one, you had to hire both.
Because, like any able-bodied, spell-slinging, fool-hardy people nowadays, the two were mercenaries for hire.

On this particular day, the sky was dark - darker than the shadows the sun would cast (if it were not shrouded by malicious-looking clouds), even darker than a clear sky at night.
On this particular day, if one knew where exactly to look (behind the empty prison, amid the willow trees, underneath the statue of someone who died too many years ago to count), they would find a crimson envelope, with ornate floral patterns on it, locked by a golden seal - a seal with two concentric circles on it, crossed by a single, crooked line.
This particular day, however, did not happen to be a special day.
There was nothing unique about it.
The sun never shone on this lonely planet.
The letter appeared every day.

The letter, of course, was addressed to the two mercenaries.
It was always addressed to the two mercenaries.
It told them who to kill, and how to get paid.
That’s all life was for the two mercenaries.
What else were they good for?

One perk of monotony is the impact of difference. The old adage went something like “The more you bleed, the happier you are when you don’t” - if every day is the same, any change will be viewed as outstanding.
So, the day that the letter was violet, Thedra found it exciting. That merely a different colour of letter excited her so articulated beautifully how monotonous her days had become.
The colour of the letter, however, was not the letter’s only abnormal quality.
For one, it carried no assignment.
No one to kill, no money to be earned.
More importantly, it told them from whom the crimson letters had been coming.
That, of course, was the Cult of the Ascendant Sovereign.
Neither Mardek nor Thedra had ever heard of the Cult.
____________________________________________________________________________

After some months of working more directly for the cult - assignments came from people rather than letters - Mardek and Thedra were well-known.
Well-known, well-respected, and certainly well-feared.
If they were looking for you, you’d be dead before the sun rose from the darkness of the night to the darkness of the day.
It happened directly after one of these assignments - in this case, killing a butcher who was supplying Irivex (a lich, and the Cult’s greatest enemy) with the bones needed for some evil ritual to summon some spirits.
Mardek found humour in how awfully stereotypical of a necromancer Irivex was.
Few things were black and white in this world, but Irivex was definitely wicked.
After all, when would a “good guy” need bones for a spirit-summoning ritual?
Regardless, directly after this killing, Thedra found a letter.
She still checked the statue every day - letters had stopped showing up there, because their assignments were now delivered verbally, but she blamed her checking of the statue on “force of habit”.
Truth be told, she wanted to remember the old days.
Times were simpler before they knew who was giving them orders.
She preferred it that way.
On this particular day, Thedra checked the statue. Instead of the normal hollowness, the emptiness, the nothing she expected to find there, she found a letter.
This letter was blue.
She opened, very carefully, the letter, so as to preserve its form, and in it, found a small box. It was a metal box, with so few qualities that it is hard to describe.
Under the box was a note. A note written in blue - the same blue, in fact, as the letter.
The note explained how to use the box.
The box was, in fact, a planar key. It could be used, said the note, to teleport Thedra and Mardek to a different world - a world in which the Interpreter awaited them.
The Interpreter, said the note, was the leader of the Cult.
He wanted to exchange information with them. He knew things they wanted to know.
At least, that’s what the note said.

--Thedra--
It took Thedra all of three seconds to decide that she was going to talk to the Interpreter without Mardek. She was able enough to talk to the Interpreter! More importantly, she had goals. Mardek didn’t have any of those - they were content to just live their life. In order to “exchange information”, there has to be some information that you want, and Mardek didn’t want anything! Not only was she able to talk to the Interpreter, it was better that she do so alone - Mardek wasn’t incompetent, they were just . . . uninspired!
At least, that’s what she told herself.
That’s what she told herself as she turned over the idea of going by herself in her mind.
That’s what she told herself as she took out the box, and activated it.
That’s what she told herself as she found herself sitting in front of a desk.
Across the desk, of course, was the Interpreter.
____________________________________________________________________________

--Mardek--
Not all was right. Mardek stood, with posture that brings to mind the image of a wooden board, at the back of the tavern. The tavern was a small, homely, wooden little thing. It was irrelevant, as were all of its patrons. Mardek spared them not a glance nor a thought; they had more pressing issues on their mind.
Today, they had received no assignment. Today, Thedra was missing. Today, things were different.
Mardek was not a huge fan of change. Change meant tribulation, and tribulation invariably meant suffering.
Mardek’s pouty internal dialogue was disrupted by the appearance of three Cult agents. Of course, this tavern was in the midst of a Cult-controlled city, however most folks herein refrained from parading around in full Cultist attire. These agents, wearing their absurd rose-coloured robes, which billowed behind them comically (Mardek always thought of the robes as “dresses”, for that is what they gave the appearance of most), approached Mardek.
One of the Cultists explained to them, in a gruff voice that sounded similar to the process of applying sandpaper to a stone, that there had been a mishap and Mardek was to activate some “interdimensional magic cube” in order to “talk to the big guy”.
Mardek found the dialect of this particular Cultist irritating, but said nothing of it.

Mardek was handed a dull grey cube (everything was “dull” in the eyes of Mardek), and given instructions on its activation.
They absentmindedly ran through the steps required to activate the key. This led them to finding themselves sitting in front of a desk.

The desk was long. Long enough, in fact, to reach from one side of the room to the other. This room was made of a similar material to the cubes; a silvery, reflective metal - similar, in at least appearance, to iron. Other than the desk and three chairs (two on one side, currently occupied by one Mardek and one Thedra, and one on the other, occupied by, presumably, the Interpreter), the room was completely bare.
The desk had on it an assortment of objects. Books, paper, strange quill-like writing implements - nothing too strange for a desk.
There was not much to say about the room. Mardek was content with that. Speech was not their strong suit.

The same was not true about the figure sitting across from the two mercenaries. This figure was tall - sitting, it was taller than most when standing. This was due to the strangely stretched proportions of this character; their limbs, torso, and even head were seemingly elongated.
The Interpreter was wearing one of the Cult’s typical robes, albeit a sickly green instead of a rose, and was currently engaged in conversation with Thedra.

--Thedra--
The two spoke of many things before Mardek arrived. They spoke, first, of politics - the current state of affairs down on the world from which Thedra hailed. They then turned to the topic of conversation for which Thedra had arrived - her own quest for immortality.
Mardek entered the room silently. They appeared in the chair next to Thedra. Thedra and the Interpreter continued on, with no input from Mardek.
Mardek had no input to give - after all, the subject conversation had no effect on them.
They sat in silence, while the two spoke. Eventually, the Interpreter told Thedra of the Wells, and how she might open one.
Thedra thanked the Interpreter for their time, and arose from her chair.
It was only then that she noticed Mardek, sitting there, an intrigued expression on their face.
The Wells were the only bit of that conversation that they paid any mind to.
She looked back to the Interpreter, a question on her lips, however, they were gone - vanished, seemingly, into nothingness.
In a whirl of motion in colour - not unlike what one sees while rotating rapidly - Thedra found herself back at the statue amid the willow trees behind the empty prison.
She now had a mission - a greater one than had ever come her way.

--Mardek--
After Thedra left, after the Interpreter vanished, Mardek remained as the only inhabitant of the dull room.
They stayed because they had noticed something.
They considered themself rather perceptive of a person - few people went through life noticing things (Thedra, sadly, was one of the many who did not), and Mardek thought highly of themself for their perception.
This “something” was, in fact, a person.
A person standing in the corner of the room.
Of course, Mardek couldn’t see this person - none of the previous inhabitants of the room could. They were most likely harnessing whatever magic they had to hide. How the Interpreter, a being of most likely high magical power, did not detect this person, escaped Mardek, but nonetheless, this person was standing there, in the corner of the room.
Mardek only noticed their existence by virtue of an occasional near-silent sound from this person’s direction, or some dust being kicked up. Mardek called out to them.

“The others, as I presume you can see, have left. If you wished to speak with one of them, the time has passed. Of course, I remain here, out of mere curiosity. Why are you here, and what have you to hide?”

The figure appeared in earnest - a head with a sharp nose, below violet-blue eyes and short black hair, sat atop a slim body; not unlike the body of the Interpreter, however with perhaps more human proportions.
This figure was grinning. Evidently, they had expected not to be detected - certainly not by Mardek.

“I don’t have much time here, so excuse my hasty introduction. I go by Callenius, although you can call me simply Cal. I am here to deliver a rather important message to you. The conversation you just heard was a very dangerous one. Your friend, I believe they call her Thedra, seems a rather . . . impulsive creature. She may very well (if you would excuse the pun) be off creating an Aspect Well as we speak - those Wells discussed by herself and the Interpreter. I presume I don’t need to explain to you how those work; you just heard it yourself.”
Callenius paused, waiting for some confirmation from Mardek.
They nodded, intrigued with the direction in which Callenius’s speech was headed.

Spoiler: A brief aside on Aspect Wells

Aspect Wells - the source of so many plot points. These little guys are responsible for . . . quite a bit. What they are, technically speaking, are holes between realities.
@Etherweaver thanks for this one

Concept and Physicality
The Greater Plane, and in extension, the Realm of Uz, are effectively made from two overlapping dimensional layers-Physicality and Concept. Concept is an inaccessible, incomprehensible realm made of ideas and commands, where the fabric of reality is designed. You could consider it almost like the code of a complex computer program-thousands of tiny interlocking pieces that when ran under a collective, unifying command, are able to create something far greater. Physicality is the manifestation of Concept-it’s where elements such as spatiality and antimatter manifest in material form. Physicality is the world that mortals know and live in, a realm of matter formed from Conceptual commands. However, the Greater Plane is not entirely perfect. Due to the actions of planeshifters, who exploited small flaws in its fabric, Concept has begun to leak into Physicality in the form of Aspect Wells, fundamental elements of the material world manifest in the form of raw power.

Aspects of Concept and Aspect Wells
As the fabric of the Greater Plane stretched thinner and yet thinner, gaps in Physicality began to form. These flaws in the Plane allowed exploiters to travel instantaneously between points on the Plane, a technique known as Planeshifting. However, unbeknownst to the planeshifters, the practice had an unforeseen drawback. It tore holes in reality, causing elements of Concept to leak into the mortal world. These bores in reality became known as Aspect Wells, where Aspects of Concept such as entropy, heat, and motion take physical form. Aspect Wells can be drawn upon by willing hosts, giving their bearers great power in exchange for consuming part of their identity and replacing it with their own will.

“These Wells, unbeknownst to Thedra, are highly dangerous. When enough of them have been created, this world will fall apart. I have made it my mission to stop this from happening - it seems, however, that the Cult is not on my side for this one. I know not their motives, but it appears that they want to make these Wells.
Suffice it to say, this is a bad thing. I would suggest you follow your friend with the utmost haste, before she creates one of these Wells and weakens the barrier between realms further.
Unless you happen to have your own private demiplane in which there are no problems to escape to, I believe that these Wells may impact you negatively - I will send you back to your world now; make haste!”
Callenius then called upon the Spirits of Transportation, and Mardek found themself back on their home world.
Something Callenius had said stuck with them. Other, of course, than the part about reality falling apart.
____________________________________________________________________________

Callenius’s shrewd face, finally alone in the room, broke into a wide grin.
Their plan had been set in motion.
____________________________________________________________________________

--Mardek--
Mardek ran.
They ran because there was nothing else to do. Mardek knew exactly where Thedra was - they always knew where she was - and running was, of course, the fastest way to get there.
The fastest way to do things was always the most tedious.
They ran through the city, past the buildings, past the abandoned prison, between the willow trees, and found the statue.
Next to the statue was Thedra.
She was chanting. Chanting in eight different voices. Her face was being consumed by a strange light, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

Mardek found that a tad worrying.

“Thedra! What, by the gods above and below, do you think you’re doing?! I have gleaned further insight into the nature of these ‘Wells’, and their danger is far greater than-”

Mardek’s voice was cut off by Thedra’s.
“Please, will you shut up for a minute? I’m currently achieving my life’s goals, and it would be kind of you to not quash my dreams.”

“THEDRA! This is insanity! Can you not see the blatant destruction?!”
Mardek gestured grandly, at the ground that was being torn up - a wound forming within the Earth itself.

“You win some, you lose some. So what if the Earth gets a bit torn up? I will FINALLY be immortal! My clock will stop! Do you not realize how fantastic this is?! I can live as long as I damn well please!”
Mardek began responding, but their response was drowned out by Thedra’s voices beginning a crescendo.

Then it began. The tears opened, stretching farther and farther, the very seams of all things splitting apart and cracking to reveal the primordial multitudes between. Light filled their vision, blinding and consuming, an invisible, impossible power stirring and now feeling at the gaping wound that now has opened. And from the metaphysical cosmic pool, it at last emerged, its tendrils feeling tentatively at the world beyond its prison and preparing to emerge for the first time in eternity.

Thedra’s body rose into the air, with Thedra clearly having lost all control of it. Mardek reached out to try and stop her, but to no avail. The indescribable cosmic tendrils wrapped themselves around Mardek, and pulled them into the warm embrace of the void.

That simply wouldn’t do.
Mardek had things to do.
They harnessed the power of Defiance, to break free from the bizarre tendrils wrapping around them.
Defiance did nothing.
The tendrils started to burn Mardek. Their searing imprinted both a feeling of intense agony and an acute sense of loss - it was as though the tendrils were taking fragments of Mardek’s very soul.

Thedra, back on the ground, was writhing on the ground, her face in her hands.
She saw, for a split second, Mardek being drawn into the Well, and then her vision was obscured by a distinct lack of eyes.

Mardek fought against the tendrils with every ounce of strength they had. They looked down at themself - their skin was disintegrating before their very eyes; no, it wasn’t disintegrating, it was just burning, and the pain took them over and they felt nothing but the tendrils and the flames and they knew nothing but the overwhelming sensation of their flesh burning and soon their world would burn too but that meant nothing to them anymore because they were dying, they must be dying, they knew they were dying.

The whirl of pain stopped abruptly, leaving Mardek completely breathless. Their vision was going dark. Dimly, they saw Thedra, her face mangled beyond recognition, holding up a metal plate.

The darkness overcame their vision.

--Thedra--
Thedra held the metal plate. It had once been a shield in a worn statue, defending a man too dead to use it. She gripped the edges of it, held on to them as a drowning man would a rope, as the cosmic tendrils grasped at it, blindly whipping at it. They burned it, burned away the rust of decades, melded it into a new shape. The molten iron dripping down Thedra’s hands caused her more pain than she had ever felt in her life, but she held fast. She would survive, she would save Mardek, and she would confront that bastard who told her to make this damned Well and tear out his heart. The tendrils continued to shape and reshape the shield, which was now barely offering Thedra more defence then her bare hands would.
Thedra, had she not been blinded by the Well, may have noticed it getting smaller. She may have noticed the tendrils, too, shrinking in both size and power.
She, however, saw nothing.

All she knew was that one moment, she was being seared by the metal of the shield, and the next moment, she wasn’t.
She felt the reshaped shield, for a shield it was no longer.
It seemed to have a face engraved on it - she guessed, correctly, that it was now a mask of some sort.
She held it up to her face, and could see once more.
She also noted that she seemed to have two new arms.
Dimly, she wondered where they came from.

Thedra, too, collapsed to the ground, drained by the pain and the creation of the Well.

There they laid, minds full of darkness, for hours on end.

Eventually, they both got up, and, without saying a word to each other, parted ways.
____________________________________________________________________________

Mardek and Thedra spent the next dozen years attempting to achieve their respective goals; Mardek, to create a demiplane (Callenius’s little trick had worked entirely on them), and Thedra, to attain immortality. Callenius occasionally aided them in their various efforts, and the two, eventually, came to terms, as any reasonable people would.
Mardek found a like-minded individual (known as Range), and together the two worked toward creating their own private demiplane; their own realm. Along the way, they started a giant criminal enterprise, but that’s run-of-the-mill stuff.
Thedra continued by her lonesome (wherever she went, she attracted a cohort of allies; she had a natural charisma to her). She made all sorts of progress - her biggest achievement, a story unto itself, was the time she stole one of Irivex’s lifespan-increasing relics (he called it Vitality).
But that’s run-of-the-mill stuff.

The two found their paths entwined once more, by Irivex’s hand.
He had begun a conquest, and was intent on taking their homeland. This, of course, would not stand.
The two made it their mission to defeat him, and set out to do just that.
____________________________________________________________________________

The ground was dead.
The earth itself, one might think, cannot die, for it does not live.
One’s mind would be changed upon seeing the battlefield at the Twelfth Legion’s Battle (of course, this name was given to it by the history books - to the soldiers fighting, the soldiers dying, the soldiers killing, it was just “a battle”).
It was as though someone, some colossal, sadistic god, had hit the battlefield with their giant fists, pounding it over and over and over again into nothingness. The ground was torn, shredded, split open with cracks running for hundreds of feet; there were sinkholes, magically ripped open, with too many corpses to count lining their bottoms, and still, the fighting continued. Soldiers, thinking they finally had some purpose in their lives, threw themselves at each other. Planeshifters, wielding inhuman amounts of magical power, tore holes in the fabric of reality, and fought each other there, in the space between realities.
Amidst the chaos, one warrior stood out as being more evil, more powerful, and more destructive, even than the Terror Generals he commanded.
Irivex stood, seven feet at the shoulder, a hulking abomination of metal and flesh. He wore no clothes (except for a tattered robe, which provided no practical use), however, he was considerably more metal than man, and appeared not indecent. He could kill ordinary men with his stare, and could summon down fire and ice from the heavens to strike down any who he called enemy. He had killed more men than the rest of his army put together (save, perhaps, the strongest of his Terror Generals), and none dared approach him - none even dared look at him, for fear that his presence alone would fell them.
None, except two foolhardy heroes. They seemed but children in Irivex’s shadow - one of them stood barely taller than his waist. These two heroes, these two fools, these two children stood, facing Irivex on the battlefield. He would have ignored them entirely, thought them merely soldiers who knew not his true power, had he not recognized one of them.

Facing him was the bastard who took his Vitality, and some other, most likely insignificant, warrior.

--Thedra--
Thedra was a dramatic person. She enjoyed flashy battles, and, when approaching Irivex, she called out his name, to warn of her approach. After all, she had to give him a fair fight.

Mardek did no such thing.
As Irivex whirled around to face the two, Mardek compelled Shadow. They did this, however, too late, and Irivex watched as Mardek faded into invisibility.
He did not care in the slightest.
Irivex decided to humour Thedra. After all, why not inject as much fun as possible into such a gruesome and awful endeavour as killing? Irivex, himself, was rather a fan of flashy battles as well.
He called out, into the minds of Thedra and Mardek, for he would not speak aloud. None knew what his true voice sounded like.

“And what, pray tell, may be the names of my assailants?”

Thedra spoke first, for she knew what her answer would be. Thedra knew she would not die on this day; she had made arrangements to prevent her fall. If Irivex knew her true name, however, he could send his agents after her, post-battle. This would not do.
She spoke in a new voice. Her characteristic southern accent would not serve her for these purposes. She instead let out a deep, vibrant voice, which fell pleasantly on the ears of any listener.
“I am the great warrior Devarien! Legend of the white seas, Hero of the deep, conqueror of a thousand worlds!”
Irivex chuckled. He knew she was lying, but he didn’t care, as one doesn’t care when a child lies. The lies of the man (for that is what he believed Thedra to be) facing him would be irrelevant, anyway, soon enough.
Mardek, who had snuck behind Irivex, compelled Harm, and Irivex winced. Mardek’s sword passed straight through him, so the blade was visible from the front end. No blood was spilled, for Irivex had none.

“That was a low blow. When did chivalry die?”

Irivex picked Mardek up, with a single hand, and threw them on the ground.

“You have not provided me with a name, so that is what I shall call you. Low, utter your final words.”

Thedra leapt at him, and all hell broke loose.
____________________________________________________________________________

The fighting continued after the battle stopped. The soldiers were all dead or gone, but Irivex continued to battle the two warriors who attacked him. Eventually, Irivex spoke.
Thedra and Mardek were standing, poised to strike Irivex, waiting for something to happen. No one had made a move, and Irivex projected his deep growl of a “voice” into the minds of the two once more.

“I was ill-equipped to deal with warriors of your strength. Shall this fight continue on much longer, I may find myself too exhausted to continue, and you would claim victory. I, however, would propose a solution more beneficial to all involved. I will make an offer to both of you. Should you both choose to accept, you would lay down your arms, and join me in my conquest. Should one of you choose to accept, I would have the two of you do battle, the one who accepts in my stead. Should neither of you choose to accept, I would flee, and you would be pursued by my Generals to the end of your days.”

He then spoke to each one of them, in turn. He began with Mardek.

“I have probed your mind, and it is dark. You care not for the suffering of this mortal coil. If you were to accept my offer, you would join me, along with your cohort of ‘friends’, and I would grant you your own domain. You would live the rest of your days in freedom, save an occasional assignment I would command of you.”

Mardek made a vulgar hand gesture at him.
“I don’t care for you and your false promises of hope. I would much prefer my own path - a path which calls me to exterminate those as awful, as wretched as yourself.”

Irivex grinned, and turned to Thedra.

“You have but one want in this world. You seek to never fall, to never perish, to never end. I can grant you this power. I myself know the secret for which you search, and I can teach it to you. You could, in truth, live . . . forever.”

Thedra closed her metallic eyes, and something strange happened.
A single tear rolled down her mask.
A silent, salty raindrop.
“I’m sorry, Mardek,” she whispered.
Irivex began to laugh.
Not a mental laugh, not just one heard in the minds of Mardek and Thedra, but a true laugh. A terrible, screeching laugh.

At that moment, with their greatest friend having betrayed them and now attacking them, with everything they had worked for fallen to pieces because of Thedra’s betrayal, Mardek’s mind broke.
They ran.
____________________________________________________________________________

They ran away from the battlefield, away from the death, away from the darkness.
Someone won the battle, but they did not care.
It was probably Irivex, anyway.

--Thedra--
Mardek was an annoying person to hunt down. They covered their tracks well, they went by a thousand different names; people much better at hunting than Thedra had failed to find them.
Thedra, of course, had connections - connections she was now being forced to utilize.

The bouncer let her in at a glance - Thedra wasn’t an easy person to forget, and she happened to be a well-known figure in this particular inn.
This inn was a front - of course it was a front, half the shops in this town were a front - a front for the Order of the Blade.
The government knew the Order as a “corporation”. The people knew the Order as a “mafia”. In reality, it was somewhere in between the two. Certainly, it had its roots in criminal enterprises, but it ran a couple legitimate businesses. This inn happened to be one of them. It also happened to be a meeting place for the Order.
The inn went quiet when Thedra walked in. This legendary character - some of the folks in the inn happened to be talking about her just as she walked in - just showed up, at this inn, without warning.
The inn happened to be named “The Welcome Surprise”.
Some of the patrons found that ironic, now.
Without saying a word, Thedra walked (faster than any man could run, of course, but for her, it was still a walk) past the stunned patrons, past the silent bartender, past the quiet tables and empty chairs, and opened the door on the other side of the inn.
She did this with her mechanical arms - people were more intimidated by those, and Thedra didn’t need to be surrounded by tranquillity right now. The sharper the eggshells people were walking on around her, the better.
People got things done faster when they were scared.

The man sitting across from Thedra was a stereotype. Short (barely taller than Thedra herself), plump, and accented, he resembled exactly the image one conjures when they think of “mafia boss”. Of course, this fellow wasn’t the real leader - just a “regional manager”.
Pleasantries were exchanged, and then business was. Thedra had been a client of the Order before - hell, she had worked for the Order before, so the mandatory bartering that comes with any business deal ended quickly. Everyone in the Order - every bagman, every high mage, was now looking for Mardek.
Money can get you quite far in this world.
____________________________________________________________________________

After the terrifying demi-human left the room, the plump man smiled to himself.
He wasn’t going to be sending any orders.
The Order wasn’t going to be sending men after its own leader.
____________________________________________________________________________

It took Thedra three years to realize that she’d been conned.
____________________________________________________________________________

--Mardek--
Having a private mafia certainly comes in handy sometimes.
Especially if that mafia has as many resources as the Order of the Blade does.

Mardek gazed at their throne. It was cut from solid greenstone. It had designs of various weaponry carved all up and down the seat - a perfect representation of the Order. Not because of the weapons, but because of the impracticality and unnecessary garnishes. This was a throne that a thousand men would each have to labour for a thousand years to afford, and it was uncomfortable as all hell.
Men would kill for a single sliver of this throne, and yet Mardek avoided sitting on it, because it was poorly-built and could collapse.

“God, the incompetence of the rich is astounding.”

Mardek spoke to no one, and no one heard them.
They liked it that way.
People, after all, were pretty rotten.

After some time, Mardek decided that staring at the wall had gotten boring. There was work to be done (today was, after all, the big day), and, while people were awful, they could be useful, sometimes.
Mardek sighed.
Even having near-infinite wealth, they still had to deal with people. They put that on their mental checklist of things to fix.

Mardek pushed the doors to their chambers open with strange ease (they were, after all, made of greenstone - everything here was. What an ugly colour, green. Lacking any and all creativity - the greenstone really did look like copper after it was left out for too long), and strode gallantly out of their chambers, purple robe billowing behind them.
They did everything “gallantly”. They had to - it was expected of them, the leader of the Order. It conveyed charisma, this “gallantness”. People needed someone charismatic to follow - just another failing of theirs. If it were up to Mardek, everyone would just follow whoever was the smartest, and then everything would be so much better than it was now.

They walked down the stairs gallantly, greeted the guards outside of their laboratory gallantly, and only when the door was firmly shut behind them and they were alone once more could they cease their ridiculous façade.

They began to prepare. In four hours’ time, the Realm would finally be a reality. They had sent messengers out to Range - unlike everything else in this god-forsaken mafia, at least the messengers were competent. They would get their job done. Mardek had also sent a messenger out to Thedra, but she was probably beyond saving.
In four hours’ time, Mardek would finally be free of the shackles of this awful world.
____________________________________________________________________________

Mardek stood, along with their eleven most powerful mages, around the circle. Only one-twelfth of the people there knew the true purpose of this ritual, but the other eleven knew better than to ask. Mardek had set up numerous decorations - candles, animal hides, the like - but the ritual itself was, in fact, quite simple. It required about fifteen people worth of magical power, however, and Mardek hadn’t been able to find eleven others until taking over the Order (they themselves were worth about four, and not just according to their own ego).

Mardek felt a stir of excitement in their chest - a rare emotion (other than disappointment). Finally, the years of pain would be worth it. Mardek would escape into their Realm, the others would show up (maybe Thedra would, one day, too), and Mardek would be able to live out the rest of their days happily, unaffected by the treachery of the Greater Plane.

The sun reached its highest point in the sky, and the twelve started chanting.
The chanting was unnecessary, but so was pretty much everything else in this pointless organization. Plus, Mardek found it funny.
Mardek stepped into the middle of the red-dust circle. The ground below them began to glow, and
everything exploded.
____________________________________________________________________________

The voices went off in Mardek’s head again. They had grown accustomed - as accustomed as one can grow - to living with the constant torment, the constant suggestions and threats and vile insults that they now heard in their mind - the unbroken, the unbreakable stream of hatred, of indifference, of loss.
As Mardek lay on the ground, unmoving but not unconscious, the voices reminded them of every one of their failures, every time anything bad happened (because it was all their fault) and how they drove off Thedra with their indifference and their apathy and they were now trying to escape all of it because they were too cowardly to do anything else (and, frankly, too weak) and now some Cultists were taking them away and Mardek dimly remembered a time when the Cultists would bow in their wake but they had driven those times off just like they drove off everyone who ever cared about them and everyone they had ever cared about.

It was enough to make one go insane.
____________________________________________________________________________

The Cult had taken everything from Mardek. Again. At this point, they were pretty much used to it. They knew they could just go back - break out of this dingy basement of a dungeon and return to the Order, where they would be worshipped as the legend who escaped from the Cult (something they’d already done too many times to count), and they could live the rest of their life gallantly - or, even, attempt the ritual again at the Order’s headquarters, hopefully with more success this time.

Something, however, stopped them.
When conducting the ritual, they had noticed something strange. Their Enigma wasn’t being depleted . . . at all. Almost as though the magic of the eleven mages was enough. So they had probed further. They had read the auras of the mages in the room, and seen exactly how many mages really were needed to create this realm.
The answer, it seemed, was seven. Of course - seven, the lucky number, no? Well, this gave Mardek an idea. Seven mages worth of power . . . well, Mardek and their compatriot could easily provide that much.
Mardek chuckled softly at the thought of “mages” as a unit of magical power.
Mardek harnessed the power of Self, and appeared on the other side of the locked door. It took more out of them than they cared to admit - Self was not their strong suit. This basement really was an awful holding cell - the Cult members who had taken them must’ve been as incompetent as their own men (well, not quite as incompetent; after all, they managed to destroy a solid chunk of the Order’s base, and fend off several of Mardek’s men as they dragged Mardek’s unconscious body down to . . . wherever they were right now).

Mardek walked out from the basement, quickly killing the four guards in their path, and stepped out onto the cobbled street of some city or other.

All that was left now was to find Range.

--Thedra--
A castle on a hill.
It would be poetic, were it not a cliché.
Irivex had chosen to grant Thedra the most boring several square miles for her domain. There were hills and trees, and that was about it. There were no dragon’s lairs, no villages to conquer, not even any mountains! It was as though he saved the least interesting section of his vast swaths of land just for her.
Thedra was bored.
She had finally found where Mardek was hiding - the game of cat-and-mouse that they had been playing with her might finally come to an end. Of course, Mardek knew when she was near (they ALWAYS knew when she was near. How did they know? She had tried illusion magic, she had even tried planeshifting, but Mardek seemed to have some sort of intuition regarding her presence.), so she had to send some lackeys after them. Technically speaking, they were Irivex’s lackeys, but Irivex said that they were “partners” now, so his lackeys were hers.
And now those lackeys got to go and look for Mardek, while she had to sit here, on this damn castle, on this damn hill, working with this damn lich.
____________________________________________________________________________

Someone was knocking at the door. Thedra, in lieu of getting up from her bed (it was quite comfortable, really - her domain might be boring, but she spared no expense on her castle, and regretted none of it), reached one of her metallic arms out toward the door. It stretched all twenty feet, past the pink walls, the bright and colourful paintings, past the suit of armour painted with a thousand different shades of purple, and ripped the door off its hinges. She shrugged internally - doors came cheap; cheaper than flesh, and certainly cheaper than the energy it took to stand up and walk across the room.
Three men (the Terror Generals were almost all men; the damn patriarchy’s fault) wearing suits of dark armour (not as pretty as the one Thedra drenched in purple paint) stood at the doorframe. Thedra, looking in their direction, noticed a distinct lack of Mardek.
One of them spoke in the same, deep, generic voice that all of them seemed to have. Thedra hoped that this voice was a result of the helmets they all wore - that, or Irivex chose Generals based on voice alone.

“Commander, we have some unfortunate news.”

Of course the news was bad. When was there ever good news coming from these morons who called themselves Generals? Thedra collapsed back onto her bed - it looked like Mardek slipped through her fingers once more. Their capacity to escape sticky situations would be commendable, were it not so damn irritating.
The General continued, seemingly oblivious to Thedra’s state of annoyance at the situation.

“We arrived at the destination you indicated, however, we were there met by agents from the Cult of the Ascendant Sovereign. They fled faster than we could follow. The insurgent is currently housed in one of the cities controlled by the Cult, and there we cannot enter; the Cult has impeccable defence systems in place.”

Thedra decided that the situation did not call for urgency. She would find Mardek, given time - she knew where they were, now, and some Cultists couldn’t stop her.
Given the lack of urgency, Thedra decided to use her false voice. She really did love the southern accent.
A soft, high-pitched, definitively southern voice cut through the air. It didn’t sound angry, merely disappointed. Disappointed and exasperated.

“So you’re telling me that not only did you not capture them, you left Mardek to some Cultists? You folks, the Terror Generals! You’re, like, the greatest of the great! People fear you from all around!”

She let on an overly dramatic and exasperated sigh, but internally smiled - the Generals looked abashed at her disappointment, and she did like how high of opinions they held of her. Power is one thing, but respect is entirely another.

A different General spoke up this time; Thedra wouldn’t have been able to notice the difference in voice, were it not for a slight lisp this one had. Anything to break up the monotony of the Generals’ voices.

“Commander, these were no ordinary Cultists. The Cult had sent planeshifters after the rebel. They are of considerably . . . more . . . strength . . . than-”
The General slowed his speech to a halt as he saw Thedra massaging her temple.

“Planeshifters? You were stopped by planeshifters? They’re run-of-the-mill Cultists! Everyone’s a planeshifter! If you can’t deal with them, lord knows you won’t be able to deal with Mardek!”

The Generals looked uncertainly at each other, not entirely sure how to respond. Planeshifters were highly skilled and powerful - three or four of them working together might even be able to take down a General. Perhaps Thedra was powerful enough to swat them like flies, but the Generals were nowhere near as strong as she.

Thedra rolled her eyes, an action barely visible, since the metal spheres where her eyes should be were identical on all sides.

“I guess I’ll have to get them myself. Why does Irivex even hire you people?”

Without giving the Generals a chance to respond, Thedra bolted over to the other side of the room at her uncanny speed, kicked the door (lying on the ground) out of the way, and shoved her way past the Generals. She was out of the castle within seconds.

The Generals stood there, in the doorframe, looking at Thedra’s extravagant, ridiculous room, with the door lying, in pieces, on the ground.

“I would not like to be ‘Mardek’ right about now,” one of them said.
The rest nodded in agreement.
They were all terrified of Devarian.

--Mardek--
The alleyway was cold. Cold and damp and slimy. A cave with no roof, a cave with no hope, a cave with no life.
The door was comically ornate. A door in an alley adorned with copper and silver, a wealthy oasis in a city-wide desert of poverty.
This was the end of the journey. This door hid the end of three dozen years of frantic running, desperate fighting, and cowardly hiding. Every life ended or ruined because of this god-forsaken quest would, finally, serve its purpose.
Mardek would enter the tavern and find Range. He had to be there - there was nowhere else for him to be. Irivex had sent a thousand men after both of them (and Thedra after Mardek - she was worth at least three thousand by her lonesome), and this was the only place left to hide.
There, the two would create the Realm. An ideal world, free of the violence and ruin that the Greater Plane contained. Finally, an end to all problems. Pity that Thedra couldn’t - no, wouldn’t see the light.
There was nothing left to do. No loose ends to tie up (none that Mardek cared about - the Order could sort itself out), no final goodbyes to pronounce (they were all dead, anyway - Mardek had enough enemies for that to be a given); nothing left to do but to approach the door.
To approach it and place a hand on the brass knocker, so intricately carved that it seemed fit for a king’s chambers, not some moldy alleyway.
To hit the knocker three times against the door. The crack of the brass reminded Mardek of the crack of bone - that crack Mardek knew all too well.
To harness Thought, and disguise themself as an elf.

To step into the Bar, and take a look around, looking at the automations and bouncer.
If they’re surprised, they don’t show it.

Thedra’s eyes flash with dozens of years worth of memories. She lifts a finger, and rests it on Callenius’s chest.
“You . . . you did this.”
Her rasp is . . . different, this time. It’s a much deeper, darker rasp; more of a growling sound than a scratching one.
“This,” she says, throwing her hands about here in an all-encompassing gesture, as though she was referring to an entire world and its troubles, “this is ALL YOUR FAULT! And for WHAT?! For an OUNCE OF POWER?! For CONTROL?! FOR A MOMENT IN THE SPOTLIGHT?! Did you SEE what you did to Mardek? THEY’RE GOING INSANE! DO OUR LIVES MEAN NOTHING TO YOU?!”
The piranha guard, ever-attentive, is watching Thedra’s tirade intensely, pike at the ready.
Thedra takes a deep, shaky breath. She twitches violently for several seconds, and eventually takes another breath, steadying herself.
Thedra reaches to her face, and removes her mask. Upon doing this, her metallic arms retract into her back.
The front of her head, where her face should be, is covered in scars. So mangled and torn that it isn’t even recognizable as a human face.
Despite this, a set of pearly white teeth are visible, amongst the sea of dark red gashes. This set of teeth opens, and begins to speak in Thedra’s false voice - a higher, southern voice. In lieu of this voice’s typical softness, there is a cold, sharp anger to it.

“You’re no better than that bastard Irivex. He, too, wanted to become all-powerful. He, too, wanted to beat death.”

As Thedra speaks these words, an eye opens behind her - opens as though the air itself was flesh, in which the eye was embedded. She seems not to notice it, continuing with her speech despite its presence.

Perhaps she just doesn’t care.

The eye was green (not entirely, just the iris), and completely bloodshot. Red lines ran through it like rivers - tiny rivers, rivers of blood. It was around the size and shape of what you and I might call a football*, and it was hovering several feet behind and above Thedra, looking directly at her.
It failed to notice, however, the human, standing in the corner. The human with the robe with the Cult’s symbol on it. The human with the robe and the gun. This human began to load this gun.
*you know which kind I’m talking about; I’m from America.

She continues.

“I came to this place because I wanted allies. I don’t care ‘bout some mission to kill my closest friend. Irivex won’t lift a finger against the Cult - he’s too goddamn scared for his own life - and I needed some capable people behind me if I was gonna try to take that organization down myself. ‘Course, I’d have to kill Irivex first.”

A door materializes behind her - if anyone remembered what Thedra’s door looked like, they would recognize this one.
There was no one left to remember her door.
The door begins to open - slowly, even comically, as the lights begin to dim, just a little.

She continues.

“I’m not a huge fan of power, myself. As long as I can control my own life, I don’t need to control anyone else’s. Scum like Irivex and the Cult seem to have some idea in their minds that they have the right to control everyone else. I disagree.”

The door, halfway through its comically slow opening, slams itself open. Beyond the door is nothing but darkness. Xownfos’ truesight barely manages to glimpse a shadow beyond the door - whatever this magic is, preventing sight, is a magic too strong to overcome.
A hand shoots out from this door. It looks more akin to one of Thedra’s artificial hands than a true hand. Where Thedra has plant and metal making up her arm, however, this arm has darkness and flesh.

This arm - ten feet from elbow to hand - reaches out toward Thedra. She whirls around to face it, and

 

Calennius finally steps forth to act.

Calennius reaches into their cloak and pulls out a compass-a small, rounded artifact studded with jewels. The stones shine a bright crimson and Calennius invokes Temporality, feeling the power abruptly surge through their body. Time stops and halts to a momentary standstill as Calennius harnesses Gravitation, the jewels glowing violet. Ignoring the temptations that follow, Calennius pulls Permafrost’s spider towards them. With the spider’s inner workings broken, they bind it to themselves with Structure, channeling their will through the object.

Calennius drops the power and aims the gun. They fire it at the floorboards beneath where Thedra stands, causing the bullet-the planar key-to embed into the wood’s surface. As the hand’s grasp tightens and closes in, the halflife falls through the newly made rift, which Calennius, using the spider, binds to the Shattered Realms.

Unable to meet its target, the spell collapses with a blast of magic, fading away like smoke-and Calennius, before anyone can react, stuffs the compass back into their pocket.

As the bargoers stare in awe, Calennius-the pistol still in their hands, nods to the newly mended floor where the rift had been.

“Consider that an apology,” they say softly. Turning to the bartender, they drop a handful of gold coins on the counter, raising the gun above their head to reload it.

“You all have made lovely company,” they say, “but all things come to an end, and I still have unfinished business to attend to.”

They look at Luthan. “We are not done just yet, planeshifter. I will see you soon.”

Calennius fires the bullet directly below themselves, causing another rift to open. They step forwards and vanish as the floorboards mend a final time, disappearing without a single trace.

All that remains, now, of the two that had formerly once stood there only moments ago, is a single dead squirrel, still pooling blood.

 

(. . . and yes, Thedra retired.)

 

EPILOGUES: UNFINISHED BUSINESS

Spoiler: PART 1: THE KING

THE KING
Darius Vaexattor had won the game.

Around him, cries and groans pierced the air as lines of noblemen, driven at spearpoint, were herded into cramped cells and locked inside. Darius counted the sigils as he makes his way forwards-Valagen, Rennain, Carador. The most powerful men in the Empire, now reduced to whimpering dogs in a single night.

He passes by lines of guards in Vaexattor gold, smiling softly. They salute him, slamming their spears into the floor and bowing low.

His gambit had truly paid off-with the capital in riots, the Sovereign’s men had quickly managed to take the city. He had sealed off the Imperial palace with his men-and now, the Empress herself and her court were safely in his grasp.

He reaches upwards and takes his crown off his head, feeling at the smooth band of ornately carved gold. It’s marked with a ruby carved into the shape of a flame-the emblem of his House-and soon, his new dynasty.

For Darius was King Vaexattor now.

Finally, Darius stops at the far end of the hallway, where a figure sits gloomily in a solitary cell. It’s pitch-black, shrouding the woman within a mantle of shadow.

She looks up as Darius approaches, locking the door behind him. Still smiling, he sits down beside her, meeting her eyes.

“Alexandra,” he greets mockingly. “I see you’ve made yourself comfortable. Feeling accustomed to your new home?”

The woman-the girl glares at him coldly, her palms clenched into fists. Seemingly barely seventeen, her expression is ghostly pale.

“Damn you,” she whispers. “I trusted you.”

Darius chuckles. “And you were warned against it-so many times. You should have listened to your advisors in the first place.”

“You were an honorable man,” she says. “They all said you were. Your house had a legacy of it.”

Darius leers at her. “And who were they?” He notices her expression, eyes lighting up. “Who spread those tales in the first place?”

Darius sits down, causing her to spit in his direction. He brushes it from his cloak, ignoring her.

“Politics, Empress, is a game of lies. Spies are the most powerful piece on the board-they start wars, dethrone kings, change nations. And the most honorable of them are always the first to fail-it’s your first warning that something is wrong.”
He turns to stand.
“Here’s a final word of advice before I leave you to enjoy the rest of your life. Trust, my friend, is the very first sign of iminent betrayal.”

Leaving the cell behind, Darius sets down the hallway. Striding down the passage, he stops at the farmost door and twists the knob, preparing to leave. Instead, the knob refuses to budge- to his surprise, it’s seemingly locked from the outside.

Darius pounds on the door furiously, slamming his fists against the oaken wood. “Guards?” he yells. “Open the door at once!”

“There is no way out.”
As if made from the shadows themselves, a figure materializes from the darkness behind him, shrouded in blackness. Their clarity resolves as they approach-a thin man with silvery-black hair and a pale countenance. They wear a tattered uniform, covered in scratches and rips-and they hold a strange device in their hands-a cylindrical tube that they hold with a handle, pointed directly at him.

“Who are you?” Darius asks, fear rising in his stomach. “This place is restricted to soldiers. Leave at once before I call my guards on you. Leave, did you hear me?”

“Your men cannot help you now,” he says gravely. “You have locked yourself in.”

Darius stumbles backwards, his pitch rising in panic. “You do not know who you threaten. Get out!”

The man ignores him, circling him with the tube still drawn. “But I do know, Darius Vaexattor. Priest of the Sovereign.” He nods, reaching into the folds of his uniform. As the man watches in horror, he pulls out a conical metal object, streaked with soft crystal indentations. It’s marked with a familiar symbol- two concentric crimson circles crossed by a waving line.

“No…” Darius stammers. “Y-you couldn’t have..You were gone…Dead..”

“What is my name? An interesting question. I have no name now, of course. I haven’t for a long time.”

He lifts the device into the air, causing it to click softly. Once more, he raises it towards Darius’ head, stepping closer and ever closer to him.

“Once, though, that was different. My name, then, you ask?”

His tone softens and he taps the hilt of the device again. Darius’ eyes grow wide as something whizzes through the air at impossible speeds towards him.

“Once, I was called Aurelion Darax.”
All fades to black.

Spoiler: PART 2: THE ALCHEMIST

THE ALCHEMIST


A god spoke in Irivex’s mind.

The commands wash through his thoughts, beating and surging with power. He shakes, his metal frame trembling, as they resound once and once again, filling his body with Vitality anew.

Survive. Spread. Spread. Spread. Spread. Survive.

His head pounds-not only just due to the fury of the god, but with agony-the last few side effects of the spell he had performed. Even filled with power, he nearly crumples under the sheer force of the incantation-that damnable bar’s defenses had somehow reversed his own strength against him.

Yet even now, the lich’s thoughts are still not clear. His mind wells up with hatred as they drift back to the moment. Back to her.


He had been betrayed.

Betrayed by his own kin.


Ignoring the commands, ignoring everything, Irivex flexes his hand slowly, testing the strength of the metal claw. It moves smoothly, powerfully, with both the strength of steel and the flexibility of true flesh. He’s pleased by the form-as it was said, the Fleshsmith’s craft truly did improve each time he was revived.

It had only been a month since he had been resurrected. He had not yet fully recovered-form was something almost foreign after centuries spent trapped in Concept, only a tiny fragment of his god.

But now, he had a form once again. He had control-only for everything to be taken away so quickly again.

The god speaks once again, the power washing through his body and surging up his veins.

It energizes him, fills him with newfound strength. In a way, it’s almost akin to the beating of a true heart; but so wrong all the same.

The lich slowly swivels his head to inspect the room. The room had formerly been a temple-a shrine to that Hernandese God-King, Thailaik. Its windows shattered and walls coated with ash and thick layers of ice, it now barely resembled a manmade structure at all.

Only one piece of furniture is still intact-the chairs that once lined the aisles are strewn over and shattered, and the grand organ is split into three pieces, its edges charred.


He makes his way towards the desk, his iron joints creaking as he moves. The table only held two things-a tattered map of the Sjkaldan and a tiny cage. He grips the latter in his hand, holding it up towards him.

Inside the cage is a rat, a tiny brown mouse curled in a heap and shivering from the cold. With a hand, he feels the rat’s heartbeat-fast but slowing in the frigid gusts.

With an almost gentle touch, the lich takes the mouse in his palm, feeling at its coat of fur. It cowers away in response, trying to stray away from his hand.

Irivex smiles, and pets the creature’s fur once more. As the mouse, its nose twitching, feels at the metal, he clenches his fist into a sudden ball, forcefully crushing the rat in his grip.

The god screams in his mind as he compresses his fist. He feels the mouse’s Vitality being drained away, suffocated within his grasp. Pain streaks his mind as the Aspect within him fights against his will, trying to force him to open his palm.

Irivex, laughing madly, crushes the mouse even further. He feels it struggle as it dies, feels the god lash at his mind with whips of power. He infuses the mouse with Vitality as it breathes its last breath-just enough that it wouldn’t die immediately.

Several moments later, Irivex finally opens his palm, dropping what’s left of the mouse on the floor. His claws are stained a deep crimson.

He breathes deeply in exultation, feeling the pain spread through his body. It was a truly refreshing feeling-to be able to defy the very gods themselves. A cry of rebellion against the world-a momentary respite from his failures.


Aur enters the ruined church as he crushes the corpse beneath his boot.

As usual, the lich’s form is that of a man, tall and even handsome, with bright violet eyes and a sturdy frame. At first glance, they seem almost human-an almost perfect replica of one, like a statue carved to exquisite detail. Yet their gaze lacks life, their facade is almost too chiseled, and their body movements mechanical.

Alongside the badge on their chest, displaying the image of a winged golden shield, and the metal cone in their hand that softly pulsates with light, the details come together to make clear a single, terrifying truth.

For Irivex had planeshifters of his own.


Aur’s eyes glitter as he steps around the corpse, which is now pooling blood. “An eagle flew to me from Zakkor today. The Beastmaster has quite the news to report. Our old friend has escaped us.”

Irivex turns and faces him.


“How?” The word is pointed, a grinding and rumbling growl.

“You know of the halflife’s betrayal.” Aur says, his tone soft as ever. “She is gone, beyond our grasp-and so is the one she sought.”

For the first time in so long, Irivex feels truly surprised. “She could not have,” he hisses. “She must still be findable.”

Aur’s face takes on a faint smile.
“There are places where even you cannot reach.”


The room is deathly silent as Irivex searches his spiritual bonds of Vitality. He finds the halflife’s link and probes at it with his mind. There is no connection.

He has been tricked. He has been tricked.

Irivex lifts up his masked head and howls into the winds, a guttural, desperate cry of unfiltered rage that resounds through the air and into the sky above. He slams his metal fists into the ground, ripping through wooden boards and burying claws into the dirt beneath.

Aur steps back as the lich rips the floorboards off their hinges, slamming it into the wall with a spray of wood splinters.

Finally, he stops, his anger sated.

“Issue orders to find her,” he growls, pointing into the distance. “Search everywhere. Use your contacts with the Warden. Scour this world, if you must.”
“At once,” Aur replies. “But if I may, Lord..”

Irivex turns his gaze on the lich. Even despite his seemingly calm countenance, Aur flinches in response.

“What is it?”

“The one we seek,” they reply. “If the halflife is gone, then who does the pursuit fall upon? You know, Lord, that I have much to settle with that one.”

Irivex hisses, gripping Aur and hoisting him into the air. His eyes meet Aur’s gaze, and the other lich cowers back, violet eyes suddenly aglow with terror.

He almost smiles at the sight. Fear was always a good sign.

Irivex drops him.

“You will do what I tell you to,” Irivex commands. “Now let me be. There is still much to do.”

Aur nods and turns swiftly around without a word, making his way into the distance. Irivex watches as he disappears, snowflakes swirling in the air and falling upon his armor.


Moments pass as he stands in silence, left alone in the freezing gusts.

It was an impossibility, escaping beyond the very gods’ own reach. The power saturated everything-it was simply inescapable-a primal force that could not be defied. The god agrees, once again surging through his body.

No. She could not have known herself. Someone simply must have helped her.

Irivex recounts an encounter years ago as he ponders. A man-no, a being, who had walked, unaccosted, into the heart of his fortress, striding to confront him without a single worry.

And he, most of all, remembers pain. A pounding, searing pain, that charred his flesh and made molten his armor.

Something was wrong. Something was so, terribly, wrong.

“Aur?” he asks, his frame tensing. “Where are you? Come back at once, do you hear me? Come back!”

“I am truly sorry.”

Irivex turns sharply around, stopping to face a thin, dark-haired human. They step towards him, their eyes flashing with a myriad of colors.

“You.” Irivex says, at a loss for words. “How..how did you get here?”

“It does not matter. All that does, my friend, is what you will do next.”


Irivex breathes deeply, his body filling with power. The god inside him surges, filling him with strength and lashing at his form. It wants to crush the newcomer, to snap their spine and break their neck, to consume them whole and turn them to rubble.

It was a hate almost unnatural even for the god. No-it was a hate formed of recognition.

“You helped her, didn’t you??” Irivex growls. “I should have seen it. Ever scheming against me, running beneath my boots like ants.”
“I had a debt to be paid,” they respond.

“What did you do to her?” the lich hisses. “Where is she?”

“Beyond your reach, I’m afraid,” they answer. “The reach of your god, even. Your puppet Aur spoke true, after all. She has lost her ties with the power you hold-and as long as she remains there, you’ll have little hope of regaining them.”

Irivex howls in rage, gripping the human tightly with a stranglehold of power. The god screams-a cry of both anger and exultment as his grasp tightens, crushing the newcomer with the force to crumple steel like paper.

When Irivex finally lets go, the human fades to smoke, vanishing with a puff. Irivex looks around, surprised, as Calennius appears behind him, almost as if materialized from the air itself.

They sigh softly and look the lich in the eyes, meeting his gaze.

“It is time to let go, my friend. Our age has ended-and now a new one begins.”

Irivex fires a bolt of magic in their direction, which detonates immediately upon hitting the ground. The image of Calennius fades to smoke again, and the lich turns rapidly in a circle.

Three more projections approach him, dropping down from the roof to face him.


“This is pointless,” they say, speaking in unison. “You must rest.”

Irivex searches his Spiritual ties again, calling forth his bodies frantically. Strangely, he feels nothing-it was if the ties had been severed-either that, or he was simply too far away. Panic rises in his mind-and he fires the blasts more frantically, carving through all three at once.


As if noticing his plight, Calennius begins to approach him slowly, tens and hundreds of images appearing from the air to surround him. Although Irivex blasts them away with bolts, leaving drifting clouds of smoke in their wake, simply more appear in their place, an unceasing, unstoppable tide of projections.

Howling in rage, Irivex retreats backwards, his steps almost unsteady. The figures close in around him as he steps away, an almost unearthly smile on their faces.

“Where are you, planeshifter?” Irivex growls. “Fight me, craven.”

One of the foremost images tilts their head in reply.

“Is that what you want? Then I invite you to try.”
In an instant, the images collapse back into the central figure, who steps forwards. They draw a small jewel-studded compass from their cloak, which they hold upon towards him.

Irivex smiles, feeling his body course with godly power. Tensing, he incants another barrage of spells, the magic welling up within his palms and leaving traces in the very air. He lifts his claw and begins to cast, preparing to crush the flimsy human once and for all with the might of the god’s strength.

And then he feels nothing.

Irivex cries out in surprise as the very cathedral fades away before his sight, the walls vanishing and becoming massive quartz pillars that rise into a distant, starless night sky. The ground; or rather, the illusion of it, turns to mist-which stretches into eternity-an endless sea of rippling fog.


“I’d thought you’d see past the illusion sooner.” Calennius says, pacing in a circle around him. “But I suppose nothing, old friend, that nothing is truly as it seems.”

Irivex struggles against the bonds of the invisible prison that holds him, drained of all power. He roars, a cry of vehement fury, as he strains to move.

Calennius holds the compass up once again, which has begun to glow with a soft golden light.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t even try to break free-I imagine even I couldn’t, myself. This place is a demiplane-my own, which you entered through the rift you quite unknowingly stepped through a few moments ago.

You stand in an Aspect Well-a jail for a god. I’m sure you’re familiar with them, having gained your legendary capabilities from one.

It’s of Enderian make-as was with a surprising amount of our “advanced” technology. But it’s not exactly a normal one-I made some slight modifications, just for your case.”

Calennius looks him in the eyes, their expression almost pitiful as the compass’ jewels fade to white.

“I’m sure you already know that you can take power from them. But what’s truly interesting is that some, with just the right conditions, can do the opposite as well.”

Before the lich can react, the human holds the compass towards his body. The god screams once more as it’s pulled from the lich’s form, assimilated into the device and captured within. As the power floods away from his body, Irivex screams uncontrollably, his voice torn to shreds by the bitter winds. When the last breath of life finally leaves and the cold closes in, swooping in for the kill for the first time in so long, Irivex falls silent, unwilling-and unable to even speak.

And then, finally, after eons of prolonged life, Death finds him at last.

Spoiler: PART 3: THE FOUNDER

THE FOUNDER


Uz watched the world end.

The night sky was aglow with light; comets, streaking down the sides of the heavens and crashing into the ground below. The normally dark landscape was lit by patches of flames, made radiant in the consuming glow of the raging inferno.

Uz stares into the flames, unable to take his gaze away from the devastation. In the glow, he almost sees the silhouette of his own home-left behind long ago but still so vivid in his memories nonetheless.

He blinks and the image disappears-yet still leaving an imprint in his mind. He tries to forget the troubling thoughts as he inspects his surroundings, searching for the one who brought him here.

Where were they? And why had they called him here?
The first of his questions is answered as the air crackles loudly nearby, splitting apart before his eyes with a soft hiss. Uz steps backwards as Calennius leaves the rift, setting the gun that they used as a planar key into their holster once again.

“It is the first of many.” Calennius begins, striding forwards to face him. “Truly the beginning of a new era, isn’t it? Where the gods are free, left to run rampant in the Plane?”

“Power and Gravitation,” he muses, his eyes fixated on the devastation below. In the distance, a grove was crushed beneath a volley of falling meteors, the trees turned to kindling in an instant. “A war between Aspects. To think that we unleashed this on the world. On all worlds.”

“The fools worshiping their Sovereign are close to a breakthrough,” the other planeshifter states. “If they truly succeed…”

Uz nods. “How do they still believe? How can they trust in a god that only brings destruction?”

“Faith is a strange thing,” Calennius states. “Perhaps they believe the Aspects will grant them salvation. Rest for the weary at last.”

Uz looks upon the landscape and finally turns to Calennius, the blazing flames reflected in their eyes.

“Can you stop it? You bear both of them- could you not bring an end to this madness?”


Calennius’ expression is distant. “If only I could. Channel the power and fix everything. What a simple solution, hm?” Their eyes clear.

“But it is impossible. What I hold is only a fraction of their true strength-you cannot channel a raging tide with a droplet of water. And even if I could, they would surely consume me after moments. What I bear is restrained-and even that still pays a heavy toll on my mind.”


“So you will let this go on?” Uz asks. His hands close around his planar key-a device in the shape of a small metal cube. They tighten as he stares at the chaos, watching as a row of trees toppled into the flames.

“I’m afraid I do not have much of a choice.”

Uz bows his head. “This is the end, then? For all of us? We’re left to die, haunted by our mistakes? It’s truly unfixable?”

Calennius’ eyes glow a molten crimson.

“For the Plane? Perhaps it is. But I have not come to you with only words of gloom.”

Uz almost laughs. “Do you truly have another solution?”

The faintest wisp of a smile makes its way across the planeshifter’s expression.

“What if I told you there was?”

“Then I would call you mad,” he responds. “But I suppose we all are in the first place.”

Calennius chuckles and reaches into the folds of their cloak, drawing out an object wrapped in a thick layer of cloth.

“This world may have fallen-but there are still countless more untouched. Those that have will be abandoned, yes-and I will weep endlessly for their sake. But those that still remain; perhaps there is still hope.”

“What do you intend to do?”

Calennius unwraps the package, reaching inside. Uz watches him, intrigued, as they do so. “Three have borne this mantle. The lords of the End, who sealed their god within to be worn by their king. An alchemist, who sought to be freed from death and sacrificed all he had to attain it. And me.”

They take out a crown of delicately molded gold, wrapped into a band of coiling strands and bearing a gemstone atop it.

Uz’s eyes widen, incredulous. “You couldn’t have killed…him, could you?”

“I once believed you could never alter the Plane,” Calennius continues. “That the fabric could not be broken. I suppose we all did.

Then I began to hear tales. Rumors of a place beyond the Plane, of it but not truly in it. A demiplane of sorts, molded to the shape of a bar. In my time masquerading as a servant of the Cult, I took the opportunity to visit it myself, in the guise of the search for the man Luthan, that pawn of their rival.

And miraculously, it was true-just as they had said it was. How, I wondered, could such a shape have been created? How indeed?”

The planeshifter runs their hands along the side of the crown.

“The answer took me far too long to find. Antithesis. The Aspect of antimatter. All actions have an equal and opposite reaction-including matter itself.”

Uz’s eyes widen. “You do not truly mean to…”

“We may have given up on this world, but do we have to do the same elsewhere? If we sever the boundaries, stabilize the fabric and then make the product ever constant, what, I wonder, could we achieve? A place free of all this? Where we can begin anew?”

Uz smiles almost unbelievingly. “And you have this Aspect of yours? I should have never doubted you in the first place.”

Calennius nods. “So, tell me now, how would you like to save the Plane? To forge a clean slate, a new world to govern…a Realm of Uz, if you will?
Know that your dream is only a single step away.”

 

Not Made in Sync with Prior Posts

Spoiler: Many, Many Years Later

Lava rose in the new plane.
Not everywhere, of course; just this one bit.
It understood, already, what had happened; it could create coherent thoughts. It had memories already. Strange. It didn't quite feel... expected that they would already know language, so soon after entering reality.

They felt... strained. Between acting now, and acting gradually. They felt magic flowing within them. Power and Entropy. Two Aspects in one being.
They knew already what it meant to have Power and Entropy inside themselves.

They couldn't be destroyed.

Entropy would grant them persistence; Power would let them use that persistence. Even if turned to stone, he would be able to move, and eventually would recover.

Unfortunately, he knew nothing of the world, only how to move, and a reasonable amount of grammar and vocabulary, and the concepts attached to the words. Concepts... there was something about that. That word seemed important. Perhaps, though, not relevant.

He needed to know the state of the world, for he wanted to improve it. How could he have desire already? So quickly, he found himself wishing to do something other than simply exist. A want to enhance, to improve... things.

So he went off to find somebody to help, and to learn from.

.........

Another Many Years Later

Desol walked towards the war table. The others moved aside uncomfortably; he was considered very young, and the tacticians doubted his skill and maturity.
He looked at the plan.
"Awful. Really? And if they have catapults on the eastern side, what then?"
The "brilliant" tacticians, the best they'd managed to find, looked down. Dzirouk, at least, spoke up.
"There doesn't seem to be a better solution, Desol. We're far outnumbered against a better-equipped force with specialized artillery. There's nowhere left to retreat. Our troops and magic are strong, but none of us know what we're doing. Not really. There's just... not really a way to win."

Melancholy pervaded the room.
"Then we have to find one, don't we?"
Everyone else looked away.
"If we could get one Aspect Bearer, just one, to fight with us... we could win. It would work. At least this battle."
Dzirouk spoke up once more.
"But the only Aspect we have access to is Temporality. The Oracle goes mad, regardless of who it is. Aspects corrupt the soul."

It was once again Desol's turn to speak.
"Good thing I don't have one, then."
He left, leaving the tacticians in what he hoped was shock. Or awe, maybe. Perhaps he wasn't so mature yet after all, if he cared for theatrics still.

...

Desol watched the crystal sphere. It was nearly time. Time for things to go wrong, for every Aspect Bearer. For time to break, for don't let them know yet to begin. It was nearly the time when true chance would determine the fate of reality itself.
He was nearly overflowing with anticipation.

 

A door appears. It is made of a strange grey material, with a red bar on it, with the words "PUSH TO OPEN" on it.
Through this door steps a caucasian man, standing at 5'10, balding but not yet bald, in a black suit with a red tie.
"Hello," he says, "my name is Bill Jones, and I work with Castle Insurance. Does anyone know where I am right now? I must have walked through the wrong door."

 

Another door appears a moment later, a sealed, sturdy but clearly overused door of wooden planks. Out steps an extremely strong-seeming man with a loose green shirt and a pair of jeans, who then says something in a very unfamiliar language with many vowels.
He looks at the many various confused, unfamiliar faces, and speaks in a clear, smooth accent.
"Maybe you speak common, yes? I do not speak many common. Sad language, it is hard to get... teacher. Where is here place?"

 

Welcome to Phase 3! As usual, here’s another unofficial Greatboard update (please update it hmtn the poor new players are going to be so confused)

The Lich’s grasp is gone at last. Betrayed by his former Terror General Devarien, Irivex, the thrice-cursed king of the undead, has been ripped of the power that granted him immortality-the Aspect of Entropy, a primeval force of raw power. Now, without a will to bind them together, his armies run rampant across the Continent, left to plunge the continent into chaos.

The world comes to an end, and some still seek to gain from it. As the Greater Plane is torn apart by the doings of planeshifters, the Cult of the Ascendant Sovereign seeks to fully break apart the fabric separating the mortal realm from that of the gods-to free the Aspects they worship in the hope of granting themselves salvation. With a stranglehold on numerous different worlds, the organization is ever closer to achieving their goal.

The Empire of Vylmar has been torn apart. With the Empress vanished and its new leader, the consul Darius Vaexattor, mysteriously assassinated, the lords of the Great Houses wage civil war upon each other, each vying to take the throne for themselves. As war breaks out between the Empire and its neighboring powers, the Holy Kingdom of Hernan and the Jossic Federation, the already fading dream of global stability becomes ever more distant.

The Ferrous Merchant's Guild and the Continental Commercial Cooperative (C3) are the two largest merchant guilds on the continent. Engaged in a trade war, the two already have butted heads-sometimes quite violently; and some fear the already thinning string of balance will only stretch further.

 

A woman walks into the bar.
Emerging from a door of polished white wood, the woman halts to a start upon entering. Auburn-haired and broad-shouldered with a vaguely worn countenance, she, seemingly around the age of thirty, glances around the room nervously and blinks in rapid succession. Her tricorn hat almost falls of her head as she paces around.
“There’s a bar inside the Dome-“ she starts, her tone unsure. After a few moments, she finally seems to calm down, adjusting her posture.
“This..this isn’t Argapolis, isn’t it? Where in Jossinar am I?”

 

(ooc: guys should i create a new character or stay with enderae)

 

The man seems a bit confused.
"I see no bar. Only koei'o. I also do not know here."
[ooc: yes I am going to be randomly making words up periodically. They also have never heard "bar" used to describe a structure, only the other definition.]

 

Enderae, having put down his pen and paper long ago, watches the events between Thedra, Callenius, and the like with curiosity. A few minutes after they vanish, he stands up, puts his pen and paper in his pouch, and says his farewells to Endistic. Downing the rest of his chorus juice, he walks over to the counter, and hands it to one of the automatons, who immediately starts cleaning it. Waving goodbye to Endistic, he walks through a purple door made of chorus wood, which materializes in front of him, and vanishes.

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

Almost immediately after, a black door, oozing black slime, materializes in one of the walls. It is featureless, with no knob or texture in the material that it is made up of, only a black, solid, flat plane of oblivion. Around its edges, a stinking black sludge drips out. But in the middle, a pure orb of glowing crystal is embedded, slowly spreading across the door, turning it from abyssal black into a glittering, happy color. Yet the color is... odd. Looking directly into the crystal, one can make out a blurry landscape, with white crystal towers and a sky carved into multicolored fractals, golden sunlight pouring over it all. And yet the color spreading across the black door... one cannot tell what color it even is. It is bright, dazzling, even, but no one in the room could have remembered what it looked like afterwards.

The door swings open, and several drops of inky sludge fly across the room, splattering onto the walls and floor. Several bargoers shrink from it, wrinkling their noses in disgust. A boy steps through, in ragged clothing. He has brown, nearly black hair, and dirt is smudged on his cheeks. A satchel hangs about his shoulder, and a belt circles his waist, the latter holding many pouches and a sheath for what looks to be a knife. Around his neck hangs a polished wooden necklace, and a wooden ring, set paradoxically with a gleaming pink beryl encircles his finger.

He looks about him with a mix of confusion, expectation, and excitement, and says quietly to himself, "I-I've read about this place... I've searched for it... but I didn't think I would find it There, of all places..."

 

One drop of sludge lands on the (again, very strong) man. He approaches ominously.
"Little man, say to me, what is this... tar? I desire it removed off me."
He pauses, and his tone becomes more positive.
"Ah, I did not remember this language's manners! There is want of me to speak 'please', yes?"

 

“No you haven’t,” says Bill. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

@Etherweaver are you proud of me

 

Alenna frowns, inspecting the room with wide eyes.
“That accent..” she observes. “That’s from the Emerald Crescent, isn’t it? No…it’s too deep. Perhaps a regional Hernandese dialect? I doubt it.”
She turns to the boy and frowns. “Again, what is this place?”

 

Bill interjects: "Sounds like plain old English to me."