The Form of the Enemy
"Okay, what's this?"
"It'll be your only meal for this year," the Educator answered eloquently, standing prim and straight without any signs of shame or uncertainty, as if presenting a solid, inalienable fact of reality. His eyes couldn't be discerned underneath the Thematic muck, but Solomon believed they were staring into him as if daring him to object.
His only meal, it seemed, was a small croissant, with chocolate stuffing. His Magician's eyes analyzed the dessert pastry with slight disdain, picking apart the enzymes and butter proteins, chains of saccharides spooling out into straight parallels to make observation easier. Grains composing the croissant were divided and each rendered as minute elements of a vast cloud, a network of sandlike finery. Each grain was thoroughly scrutinized with the same level of contemptuous attention that a master hitman would've paid to a single one of his tools. Then, the entire croissant was analyzed on a holistic level, in search of macroscale interactions that might've altered its functionality.
None were found.
Solomon's searches came up empty; detecting nothing that'd imply it could sustain a human-sized organism on its for an entire year.
He nodded to himself.
"Of course... Except I can't subsist on this alone," said Solomon, with all the dry zest of a desert, as if the fact were so obvious it went without saying. It really should've, all things considered, but maybe it didn't occur to the Educator that normal people needed more than half a thousand calories a year.
"You're the Magician, Solomon," the Educator merely said, "You'll figure something out."
After nearly a year of knowing the man, becoming familiar with his toolset of strange tricks and oblique eccentricities, it seemed natural - or even predictable - that'd be the man's response to a simple request to move onto a more advanced curriculum. How else could the Educator satisfy his need to seem completely mad to onlookers?
"Can I ask why consuming only a croissant throughout a year is vital to my Architectural studies?"
"Your existence, Mr. Lancaster, has always been based upon a schedule of trivial pleasures and pointless relaxation," the Educator said, tapping a cane on the desk, as if demonstrating the croissant once more. "Already, you've excised sloth. Gluttony is your foremost remaining vice. Abolishment! Temperance! Absolute control over your habits is the only path to enlightenment, ultimately leading to detachment from your mortal ties. Only then can you step forth and become a true architect."
"That's, like, Nietzsche and Buddha at the same time."
"Mr. Lancaster, leave the philosophizing for the Philosophers," the Educator said, gently pushing the croissant across the table with the cane's head. With a final sigh, Solomon accepted it. "Focus, instead, on becoming a master of your fate."
He nodded and left.
A dietary limitation of a single croissant a year almost certainly would've spelled doom for most. For someone like the Magician, it posed more of a riddle. How to resolve the fairly straightforward assignment in a manner that didn't occupy entire weeks?
Carrying eldritch blessings, the needs of his form were already minimal. If deprived of a survivable stream of nourishment, his body would start to autocannibalize the superfluous mass within the symbiote, a sadly inefficient process that'd devour virtually the entire colony inside a fortnight. Generation alone wasn't an answer, as it constituted cheating, even if it was a simple answer. Instead, energy consumption was the core issue. In order to successfully draw on sustenance from a single croissant, the needs of his form had to face utter minimalization. He addressed modern textbooks on biology, reading about adenosine triphosphate and molecular processes.
Then, a Rite of Transmutation. Inside a vat filled with clear water, Solomon's lips moved to form incantations. Underneath the onslaught of magic, his body shifted and changed, becoming divorced from its base needs. Figuring if he was already going this far, he may as well go the extra mile, he minimized reliance on water and sleep as well. The Rite had to be repeated several times across a week, consuming much of his time, but eventually, his divinations started to indicate satisfactory levels of metamorphosis.
With a dark tendril, he squirreled away the croissant inside an enlarged pouch. He'd consume it piecemeal throughout the year, as hunger reared its head.
Then came what Solomon determined was the second most pressing matter on the docket: threat analysis of the encroaching apocalypse.
It'd be downright idiotic to press on with further divinations without a new method. It already failed to yield appreciable dividends once, twice, and thrice. Insanity was in pushing against the tide, paddling against the river. Instead, if a storm was blowing you downstream, you needed to step off the boat and walk on land. If fate itself defied the Magician his answers, he'd step around fate's barriers and find a way. Unlike before, however, Solomon wasn't reliant on Architecture and simple magical divination. Instead, he consulted with an ally specially suited to handling the task.
His own wife.
They sat in a sparsely decorated private parlor inside the Magician's Tower - dark lavender curtains with a lacquered floor and fuzzy violet carpets - sipping tea and feasting on snacks delivered by spiritual constructs, as Solomon elucidated on the issue. Mona's face shifted from curiosity to worry throughout the conversation. She was dressed in a casual dress, ink-black folds and fringes like a dark waterfall; out of her silver queen's regalia, which she customarily bore in court. The nature of this meeting was confidential.
"I see," she answered. "And you don't know why this is happening?"
He nodded gravely. "Yes. I only know it'll happen as the Educator's new year starts and in Columbus."
"That may well be a diversion, dear husband," she said, mauve-painted lips pursed in contemplation. "I'll ask for a convention of the oracles. However, I do believe if the threat is as serious as you believe, we should call on every available resource and ally. I do remember you have friends in your Class, one even bearing my own Arcana. If you have something to pull them in with, do so immediately. Have you considered the source of the danger may be the Class below you?"
His eyes widened a millimeter.
It'd make sense. Education was naturally unpredictable, scrambling divinations and deftly avoiding the waves of foreknowledge that skilled magi cast out with. And yet, if the nature of the danger were that simple, how did the Metaphysicist's warning make sense?
"That's not it," he said. "Not by itself, at least."
"You're right. It's too early to draw definitive conclusions," she agreed. "Call on your friends. I'll call on our kingdom. We'll solve this together." She touched him on the arm briefly. He contemplated that, and nodded.
"Thanks, Mona."
She rolled her eyes.
He, meanwhile, considered whose assistance was most useful and needed here. Ava, naturally, as the High Priestess. He'd not properly spoken with Ava in what felt like a couple of months. He didn't have anything against her, it was simply that they weren't really close friends. They exchanged pleasantries when seeing each other, of course, but that was different from making proper conversation. Last time, they spoke on Christmas; she expressed admiration for his swift growth, and he'd more or less equivocated and wished her luck in all future endeavors. Still, if informed of the gravity of the issue, he was confident she'd agree.
Penelope, too. She'd help as a matter of course, already dedicated to their mission. She had an entire assembly of miracles for acquisition of knowledge, although few of them were helpful before. Even if they alone were insufficient to pierce the obscurity at the heart of the matter, one voice to add to the chorus was never unwelcome.
There were others, too. Death, or Sandra, was an obvious candidate, as the individual who'd originally exposed this affair. And while Ethan was a complete moron and being Enrolled hadn't done much to fix that, his Role's own form of sympathetic magic could synergize well with Solomon's power over connections.
The preparations to conduct the oracular ritual consumed most of the month of July. Glories were funneled into the Magician's Tower as an entire civilization braced itself for a massive undertaking, an event that solidified the community rather than dividing it, driven by the common purpose of excising evil. The diaphanous twirls of twilight seemed to sparkle, as if emoting and sharing in the zeal of the peoples under its auspices. No expense was spared, no artifact or reagent left unused or lying down; in fractally arrayed chambers, magi performed their own rituals; legions of channelers and incantators siphoning the informational density across the Tower's levels.
Eventually, at the center of the ritual, the desired enlightenment was attained.
It was like a single note so deep and austere it caused every hair on his back to stand. Foreboding. Inside of Solomon, the symbiote roused and recoiled, an eldritch creature recognizing a predator inconceivably higher on the chain; like an ant recognizing the existence of the elephant. It screeched, almost, rebelling and ordering him to depart.
Then Solomon saw the form of the Enemy.
And to behold Him was to stand beside Him.
There was no chance of conducting dialogue, no attempt at communication. Only suffering: meaningless and directionless, an emanation set to pacify and stun, rather than utterly ruin. The magi around the chamber clattered down, wracked with violent seizures. The Magician dropped to one knee, developing a nosebleed.
In front of Solomon was a vast being, its size eclipsing continents, exceeding moons and planets; dark stone and metal composed its outermost form, corrugated and hewn unevenly like a mountainous carapace, with deep cracks that ran lambently crimson. Inside the cracks were constellations of worlds, each one a sponge that steadily bled a stream of sacrificial potentiality and vigor; each universe within its depths as a diamond on a king's regal vestment. A scepter made of shattered diamond fragments was firmly held in one hand, while the other made a constant mystic sign, a sign that read hezhim, and which meant 'dominion.'
A roasting flame emanated from within the abyss of the crevices of the entity's form, and helical chains made of black fire and red fire ran out, ensnaring scarlet orbs that reminded Solomon of stars, if stars could be hateful. Each of them screeched out a signal of torment. Anger and wrath were rich within them; anger that long since surpassed any semblance of sanity, forced out by their cruel master. He'd made them bend in thrall, to a tyranny that likewise surpassed any semblance of reason. For even those distant alien stars were subject to his dominion, as no more than slaves in bondage, all in service of his greater designs.
A single world defied it, a bright shining pearl of white, standing lone against the monstrosity. It hovered between them and it, a shield and a buffer, defiantly repelling the entity's chains. Abraham's world.
As if noticing Solomon - and what a terrifying idea that was - a fraction's fraction of the entity created an eye on its surface, an eye the size of an Earth: its workings were a complex machinery of magic and enlightened biology, abnormal mechanisms beyond even the Magician's hubristic comprehension; even a hundredth of that eyeball was something that Solomon could've spent a lifetime studying, and never succeeded in replicating.
It assessed him, a beam of sickly orange light within a void of meaning; dissected him with its glare, and deemed him worthy of communicating with.
It extruded a form to meet them, a small and innocent lamb, covered in smooth black fur, its eyes naively red like ruby gemstones.
"Ave, Solomon Lancaster," it said, voice soft and mellow, like a child's.
He shuddered. It knew his name, and that alone caused him to feel jubilation and fear in equal measure. Solomon felt sick, diseased, as if feverish worms had spawned a colony inside his guts, and were spreading out, carrying that disgusting warmth to the rest of him.
"H-Hail," he choked out, unable to finish.
"It's unusual. You are enlightened," it said, still innocent. "Make a contract with me, Solomon Lancaster. You needn't be a mere worshipper. I see a path for you beyond that, charted long ago. Together, we could save countless lives. Indeed, we could save this and every world."
Obedience. A deep crimson light shone from the mark on the lamb's forehead, a mark that meant 'invasion.'
For the duration of a moment, disobedience became impossible. He needed to accept the savior's offer.
"Yes, of course, I'll make a contract with you," he answered, voice eerily calm and level. And without hesitation, Solomon held out a hand, so it could partake of his blood. To know of him, and to own him, body and soul; as a master owned a slave.
Instantly, contingencies went off by the dozen, triggered by the submission. Like a set of bungee cords, the mind of Solomon was drawn back, observing the scene from an almost third-person perspective, like a player behind a screen, or an author behind a character.
Embody what you are meant to be.
Originally, everything started as one. And multiplicity was a trick of perspective. Above and below, accomplishing the miracle of one.
Lidless and restless, Solomon's eyes foresaw visions - not of the future, but of the Architecture itself, clear and devoid of obfuscation. His eyes started to crystallize into diamonds, irises becoming stained with sky-blue radiance and glossy sharp lines of clear white, spreading outwards from the core of the pupil.
This Antichrist had painstakingly battled the Metaphysicist, lost worlds and forces, and was now mobilizing to conquer the annoyance's homeworld. His chosen servants, Conquest, War, Famine, and Death were sent forth, riders and heralds disguised as mortals, and meant to infiltrate their own Academy and slay the Educator. Columbus, Ohio, was the location of the next Enrollment. That was how the apocalypse started. It could still be prevented if Solomon acted wisely and swiftly on the information.
He chuckled and understood the meaning of the croissant.
"A last supper is shared," he muttered, drawing the croissant out.
Against the ironclad Laws of cosmos and time, half a croissant - an assembly of flaky pastry dough and chocolate paste stuffing - was flung and crossed incalculable light-years without materially discorporating, breaching the barriers of worlds and individual metaphysics, and struck the King of Apocalypse: not the lamb, but its true form, in the face. Across worlds, the actions of a single mortal reverberated with Architectural meaning, and for a moment, the damned souls of trillions felt contentment and freedom, and lives already destroyed rose briefly from the grave to rebel against the demons: for a moment, the courses of rivers changed, as trends of heartbreak reversed.
For a moment, in worlds without kindness, only kindness ruled.
Stood inside a chamber on a border world citadel, researching methods of distilling pure humanity, the Metaphysicist smiled as the arrow of entropic time dulled ever so slightly, the inherent unfairness of the universe diminished, and the arc of the universe began to bend towards justice.
It all lasted a moment. Then, enraged, the King asserted his dominion, and made the mystic sign against Solomon. Like spears of wrath, his pronouncements hurled themselves at Solomon, but they were glacial, compared to his understanding of the world.
"There's my contract with you," Solomon answered the entity's demand, and cut the connection before anything else could happen, eyes returning to mortal coloration as the shards of diamond truth drained out of them.
---
Will: 100
Credit: 6.4
XP: 1,300
Through ceaseless study, you've broken past your limits and unlocked [True Architect]. You're no longer reliant on the Educator's safety blockers to securely utilize the Architecture; you can freely and fully study it without fear of ramifications. Your skill can still increase, but you'll not suffer any maluses from the Architecture ever again.
[ ] True Architect - As a True Architect, you've become a master of perceiving the secret structure of the world. Yours is a capability beyond simple precognition; your mind itself is attuned to the fundamental fabric of everything. Prediction of the future is second-nature, and with prediction comes manipulation. The secrets of mundane matter are betrayed to you, and even abnormalities that most would label as anomalous are rendered simplicities which you can replicate readily. It won't be long, before you've started to build worlds of your own...
[ ] Architect of Silver [25 Credit] - There are as many metaphors for the universe as you'd care to invent. However, a glance reveals that one your predecessors often used was that of an alchemical process. The world is undergoing a constant refinement; as one so integrally connected with its destiny, why shouldn't you?
The Architecture suffuses you; rather than a single enlightened cog, you become a core mechanism. You're gracefully bestowed with a frankly absurd level of durability; almost no amount of physical force could exert sufficient pressure to harm you, requiring esoteric or conceptual harms to affect you on any meaningful level. This durability is discerning and smart; it'd allow a life-saving surgery to extract a parasite from within you but it'd effortlessly block a traitor's blade.
Alongside durability comes restoration from harm that has already occurred: your blueprint is saved within the Architecture, and so long as it persists unharmed, so shall you. This is a comprehensive and total physical, mental, and spiritual form of renewal, although occurring on a timescale of days rather than moments. It shouldn't be compared to healing: even a cursed wound that nominally disallows mitigation would be overwritten in time. The Architecture simply refuses to recognize any form of you other than what you, yourself, consider a complete and unhurt version. Sufficiently persuasive psychological vectors may overcome this, if you suffer such vulnerabilities.
Fortunately, the Educator did well to excise most of them from you.
[ ] Architect of Diamond [100 Credit] - For a moment, you could see everything. The memory is fleeting, even now, and perhaps beyond you. To so integrally comprehend everything is to seize the reins. Not merely an element of the Architecture, but a true constructor of its narrative.
You'll surely have more than one opportunity in the future. Do not weep over a gift out of reach; celebrate, instead, that long road between now and then.
Now, choose your remaining two actions:
[ ] Curiosity
Choose the location of your next adventure:
- [ ] The Bridge At World's End - A mysterious bridge of rounded stone on the land's easternmost cliffsides, its causeway as wide as five highways side-by-side, and arrayed with strange sculptures and ticking clockwork marvels. Stories say the further you venture, the stranger the wonders at its side. The further you venture as well, the thicker becomes the mist that shrouds the bridge's foundation, until the waters cannot be perceived. No traveler is yet to return from beyond a certain demarcated distance, at the point of sixteen kilometers, where Fortuna's maps end, and where the world's border is said to lie.
- [ ] Londinium - Even having avoided an introduction at court save a couple of brief appearances over the last couple of months, you can still explore the city over the river - a shining metropolis, not unlike its Earth correspondent, although absent the hand of the Once and Future King. Of Fortuna's cities, it's easily the most well-developed and modern, entering the early age of industrialization and application of the steam engine in daily endeavors. A serial killer strides on its streets, as well: some yet-nameless reflection of what you suspect is Jack the Ripper, likely channeling a fateful archetype. Whether to stop him or shop at the markets, Londinium is a great spot.
- [ ] The Court of Miracles - Or what you'd call, 'Paris, France,' from Earth, if we're being pedantic. The City of Lights virtually worships the Tarot, especially those of its elements that are associated with positive connection: The Lovers, The High Priestess, and the Emperor are held in high regard here, both as those who channel them, and the Enrolled who bear these names. Although not your cup of tea, some of the Court's miracles are transmissible, and you may study them to improve your Arcanum Aspect!
[ ] Kingdom
Be a Philosopher-King.
- [ ] Arcanization - The Witches subscribe to a rather primitive paradigm of magic, and yet even primitive methods betray a harvest of information if correctly studied, dissected, and understood. Check their records and study their arts; exhaust every mote of knowledge, and then invent a better way. This is your birthright as the Magician. Once you're done, proliferate the new improved art. Take on students of your own. Set start to a new golden age of magic.
*Retroactively improves information gathering about the Apocalypse, and nets you an extra morsel of data (which, depending on a random check, may or may not be especially relevant or useful.)
- [ ] Militarization - The world's in danger: your Earth, and most likely Fortuna as well. Once it comes, you shouldn't be found wanting; your walls shall not crumble, your warriors shall not yield. Focus developments of your arts and kingdom on readying yourself for the destruction to come. Enhance lawkeepers, teach the most immediately learnable offensive arts; take on apprentices, and make them into knights. Let the end come; it'll face a thousand blades once it does.
- [ ] Economization - Improve your capacity to act, and directly escalate the welfare of your citizens. Every endeavor begins with value; if your kingdom is to rise above the others, it must be prosperous. You have no idea how to rule; acquire advisors and learn the art of statesmanship and policy-drafting. Establish diplomatic ties and trade with the other nations of Fortuna, and become acknowledged as the superpower you are meant to be.
Alternatively, if you've decided it takes precedence...
[ ] Address the Apocalypse Now [1 Credit, 100 Will] - Sacrifice one of your other actions. Instead, make a second resolution on addressing the encroaching apocalypse, if you've decided to strike while the iron is hot.
(Before anyone puts it in a plan, you'll naturally warn the Educator about the very literal plan to assassinate him. Don't worry about the minutiae.)
