Threads Of Destiny(Eastern Fantasy, Sequel to Forge of Destiny)
- Thread starter yrsillar
- Start date
- Original Users' Choice!
Voted best in category in the Users' Choice awards.
- Location
- USA
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] She would approach Jia Hong, simply, and boldly, taking what initiative she could.
- Location
- United States
[X] She would approach Jia Hong, simply, and boldly, taking what initiative she could.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] She would approach Jia Hong, simply, and boldly, taking what initiative she could.
More like a seance...
- Location
- United States of America, Michigan
Whichever Prince (or Princess) CRX is engaged with needs to bring their Ouija Board!
- Location
- Finland
Seance is a form of necromancy.
Should we, ummm...Should we not be exercising some circumspection with regards to our heretical teacher and his association with this active high-ranking political figure? Have I misinterpreted Skeluncle's history?
[X] She would allow him to approach her, to suss out how much he could see.
[X] She would allow him to approach her, to suss out how much he could see.
There is a funny divide between the readers reactions to Shenhua's revolutions and the in universe characters.
Shenhua: "Gay marriage is now a thing!"
Society: Angry muttering
Reader: "Kay."
Shenhua: "Two people of the same gender can now have offspring."
Society: More angry muttering
Reader: "Cool."
Shenhua: "I have bypassed the sacred laws dividing life and death!"
Society: Contemptible angry muttering
Reader: "Necromancy is badass."
It's going to be funny if Shenhua is spiraling into ceaseless revolutionary madness while Ling Qi's brain gremlins are having her tell Renxiang to let her mom cook a little longer.
[X] She would approach Jia Hong, simply, and boldly, taking what initiative she could.
Shenhua: "Gay marriage is now a thing!"
Society: Angry muttering
Reader: "Kay."
Shenhua: "Two people of the same gender can now have offspring."
Society: More angry muttering
Reader: "Cool."
Shenhua: "I have bypassed the sacred laws dividing life and death!"
Society: Contemptible angry muttering
Reader: "Necromancy is badass."
It's going to be funny if Shenhua is spiraling into ceaseless revolutionary madness while Ling Qi's brain gremlins are having her tell Renxiang to let her mom cook a little longer.
[X] She would approach Jia Hong, simply, and boldly, taking what initiative she could.
- Location
- Washington
This is stolen Mu Dynasty valor
We actually have society shrugging.
The primary stigma against homosexuality here is that it can't produce offspring, so Shenhua fixing that is mostly recieved favorably outside of the guardians of tradition who...to be honest approves of very little that Shenhua does, since she endeavors to break new ground all the time
- Location
- Canada
Funnily enough, a lot of the old clans who you'd stereotypically expect to get up in arms about gay marriage and same sex couples being able to have children are actually pretty ambivalent on the matter
A significant reaction has been "cool, now there's more open possibilities for us to arrange viable marriages with"
Deadly Snark
Tryhard As Fuck
Well for one, his Heresy was against the Hui, and nobody liked them.
For two, it'd be extremely uncouth for someone to try and peak into a Sovereign and Ducal Heir's private discussion. And by uncouth I mean its actively a political crisis that could turn into a war, and even people who hate us would probably have to rally because that's such a huge shattering of the norms.
- Pronouns
- He
No? It was against the Weilu.
- Location
- CA
Good thing that all the people who'd be really mad about that just got super dead! What a fortunate turn of events.
Twelve Stars 3
Ash Storm.
A phrase that had sounded absurd to Oktai's ears when he had first heard it. He knew what ash was. The remnants of cookfires or at most the distant tales of mountains where the Mother's wrath boiled from smoking peaks.
There were so many of those peaks here, but the lung-searing breath-killing clouds they belched forth were nothing compared to the horizon-reaching expanse of black and grey that were the lowlands below.
"Journey north three days. There you will find the edge of the mountains. The peaks there are those which bore the greatest brunt of the dying sun. The northmost peaks are Dead. Do not approach them."
"The peaks are dead?" he had asked baffled. Invited into the Ghost Arrow Khan's ger, at his camp accessible only by air. He had told the tall, thin man his story, and begged his aid. Erzhan's father seemed withered to his eyes; he was a man composed of bone and sinew and not much else. But despite the emaciation of his body, his spirit loomed large. "I do not understand.
"Windkiller did not kill the greater earth, nor the mountains in his march, though he tried. His death and the firebird's last eruption did what his fangs could not. You will know them when your eyes fall on their cursed slopes. Do not approach them. Your destination will lie instead in the second ring where the mountain fire roars in defiance against the grave."
Khan Mete had been right. The air was choked black with scouring grit and smothering ash, lit only by the dull glow of burning mountains and flashes of snarling crimson lightning that felt somehow tainted to his senses. The jagged arcs made his soul recoil in revulsion from, the way Father's breath never had even as an uninitiated boy.
All of that, and he could feel them. The Dead peaks. They were voids of consuming white on the edge of his senses, a week or more's flight away and yet painfully present. They were Dead. There was no other word to describe them. Yet they teemed.
Motion without will or animation, bones beyond counting skulls beyond counting, eye sockets and fleshless jaws alight with deathly green fires. They writhed across every inch of the Dead Peaks, they wriggled like worms all the way down to their core, like a hive of insects.
He followed the khan's advice closely and stayed in the glow of the burning mountain fire. Even this might not have been enough to save him from the cursed winds, and the khan had told him so.
The star on his brow shone bright, the rippling seven-colored light of ruin parting the ash around him
But he had known the starsong would not lead him to a hopeless death. He had been right. Just as he had known Khan Mete's words sincere.
"Your guidance is kind, despite my insult."
"My guidance is your death, boy. A man who has not even written their name in the wind will die in that place, even following my words."
"I hear the star song, and it sings to me to follow your words. But… why do you know this? You have not said. Where did you hear whispers of the Liberation Star?"
There, he saw the shadow of it, outlined in the ruddy light of the mountains that wept fire down into the glowing canyon that wound across their feet. Where dead things marched and burned without end, trying fruitlessly to pave over the molten rock with endless bodies. Because it wasn't just mountain stone that bled. Through baleful orange and bloody red wove threads of molten starlight, and where the Dead neared it they ceased to be. He saw above that a great mountain, tall as any in the deeper parts of the Mother mountains, caved in deeply along one side. It roared defiance in a voice that felt like it would rattle his bones apart, belching forth smoke and ash, and spilling a vast waterfall of magma from its cratered side. It was from there that the threads of liquid starlight flowed.
"When the dragons were gelded for their arrogance, and the world was reduced, Father sent our stars, his wayward children to slumber, lest their light corrode the weakened pillar in the sea of trees. From that time on we have not known them save in small gifts."
"Each tribe tells it differently, but this much most agree on," Oktai had replied, carefully.
Khan Mete had stared hard at him, or rather he had stared into the shard of starstone on the brow of the mask set respectfully on his lap.
"We of the east pass down a younger tale. On the last day, when the Sun went black, grappling with his enemy, a great radiance bloomed, and for just a day, we all heard the song in our blood. The sun's daughter fell soon after and the light remained until her death shriek ceased."
"There is a place there where a star still shines on the earth."
Even cloaked in Ruin's light, her voice loud in his ears, it was a painful thing descending to the burning mountain. He could feel his ears bleed, feel his skin blistering and peeling from the heat, but he descended still, into its molten heart.
Pale Night. Liberation Night
Burning Bright
Forever young, forever old
Standing tall, bathed in gold.
Brother. Brother, where art thou?
Blazing Night. Ruin Night
Tyrants Fright
Forever Young, Forever Old
Blade bared, 'gainst fates told.
Sister, sister, I am here.
A second voice, a second song, and Oktai felt as if his head could split, for all that he could understand only the least of its words. His beast self's wings thundered beating against the rising heat, and he drove himself on, even as the trailing edges of his pinions caught fire, smoldering among the ash.
For there, entombed in what seemed almost a throne of half-molten rock, lay a cracked and bleeding star. It was a titanic man who could crush Oktai in his palm, flush in the prime of youth. It was a slender child, eyes bright with the fierce zeal of youth, it was an ancient elder, withered but unbreakable. It was a glowing shard of radiant starstone the size of a lesser mountain. It was a bared blade to strike down gods. And so many more things than that. But he had to close his eyes, lest they burn out.
It was, without a doubt, one of the twelve great stars, not merely one of the lesser children, like those which the cave demons had offered them. Like Ruin, who slept in the Starsons tomb, and had budded a new self to bond with Great Khan Galidan.
The time has come, the time is right.
Heaven stands. Father sleeps still.
New dragons rise, yet soft and small.
Totality yearns. It claws and gnaws.
From dragon's womb, came Twilight's call.
Ache. The cracks run deep.
R̵̢̦̘̭̘̘̠͕͓̐̈́̄̏̐̏̾̈́͒̽͛͝a̸̛͕̗̱̜̟̥͝l̷̢̛̥͚̭̺͎̞͉͗̈̈́̄̑́̔̓͝͝ͅļ̴̧͔͕̝͕͙̖̤̼̞̖͚̬͑̊̿̾̍̊͒̋ͅy̸̲̜̓̔̍̌̍̀̊͒̌̎̓͝,̷͙̰̮̟̟̤̲͖͛̿̿ ̵̪͉͌̅̍̄̈́̂ŗ̵̛͖͕̯̳̮͕̮̠̠̌́̂̀̄͋͌̊̈́̒̀̽̀̑͝͠ͅą̶̪͕̜̱́̑͌̊̉̋͛̊l̷̨̛̤͉͕̼̈̇̈́̇̐̑̅̾̆͆̃̎̍̆͗l̴͙͉͍͇͕̺̹͕̎̅͑͆͛̄̍͛͂́͋̚̕͘ẙ̵̼̙̼̘̈́̇̄͘,̵̺̱͇̜̥̣͙̞͖̩͓̒̑̓͆̉͋̿́̀̃̾̅͗̔̏͠ͅͅ ̵̬̲̺̘̙͍̖͓̜̊̌̓͋͐̅̕͜͜͜͝͠L̵̡̨̠̹̥̪̤͓̩̾̓͋͆͗̑̚̕͝i̷̛͚̦͌̆̽͛͛̃̈͒̈́̽̒̌̊͐̒̚b̸̠̣̺̳̖͇͔̓̀̈́̐̋̀e̵̡̤͓̤̰͗̋̐̅͑ṙ̸͙̖͖̣̂̈́̑͛͘̚͝a̵̛̺͎̹̪͕̬͐̆̓̌̉̃͑̎͋̽͐̓͘͝t̴̙̹̪̦̲̯̘̠̰̹͖͓͎͓̺͐̔̇̀͘i̸̡̲̼̱̟͔̐̿̇͒͗̂̓̓͜͜͝o̵̢̺͉̙͉͖̟̖̘͍͉͕̦͆̌̐̀̏̓̒ͅͅn̴̡̢̦̺̼̦͊͂͝ ̴̧̡̮͈͈̤̯̤̳͕̜̩͔̙̖̆̀͑̎̍͌͜S̷̨̹̖͍̝̤͙͚̟̝̀̇̏̾̀̆̄̕͝ṯ̷̨͔̩̠͙̝̹̝̻͙̯̬̖̩̓́́̅̈́̀͝ǎ̴̢͈͍̫̣̞̟̀͑̄͒̓̀͠r̶̨͔̱͔̺̻̗̼̳̜̝͊́͋̓̓͒̈̍͌́̈͑̏̑͂́͝.̶̱̣̩͈͙̼͕̖͙̈̐́̈́͒͊̈́̔̑͊̓͋͆̚͝͝
̸̨̧̠͇̪̞̞̲̭̯͎̠͉̮͓̩̟̏͑̔̔̌̉̈́̋̌͠͝
̸̝̦̯̱̏͋̎͝W̷̖̭̩̮͓̜̯͈͖̜͎̪͖̯͑̈́̀͋͘ẖ̶̢̫͎̤̙̗̩̃̀̅̒̈͝e̵̺̜̠̰̭̱̖̍̂̀͆̕͘͝ŗ̶̛̝̟̣͙͚̫̟̳̭̯͚͇̐́̏̄̓̀̈͆̅͑̋̕͠ḙ̵̛͋̓̈̈́̿̊̒̾̈́̑͒̈́͑ ̴̼̬͒̈̔̍̇̆͌́o̵̡͉̦̯͓̿͛́̀ņ̷̪͕͚̦͉̗̬͉͌̇͒̓̔̉̽̽̐̊̓̒̀̎͗͘͜͠ͅĉ̸̖̐̽é̸̡̱̠̱̜̤̜̩̰̜̲͋́͗͆͌̈́̃̿͐͘͜͝͠ ̸̤̱̝̲̱̠̳̅́̾̎̈́̽w̸̳͚̖͙̫͍̭͂̆͛̈ȩ̶͇̼̺͓̻͙̦̝͚͍̮͊̽͜ͅŗ̶̙͖̻̞̞͓͎̳̌̉̚e̶̦͉̮̹͒̄̑̏͛̔̈́̑̈́̅̑̎̕͠͠ ̸̙̳̖͍̬̭͉͍̻̹̱̦̝̰̠̘̊͊̄̽̓̽̃̀̇͋̓̂͌̏͠͠͝t̷̨̢̨̤̺̩̙̘̺͚̝̤͚͚͐̓̒̎̓̾̓̃̽̊͆̈́͠ẁ̷̧̨͍̺͇̳̞̘̺͍̻͕͍̝̰͙̆̋̄̀̀̊̽͛́͐̈́͊͠ͅȩ̶̣͉̹̞̭͍̘̺̤̀̋̆̌̆̏̈́̌̒̓̌̄̕͜l̴̛̺̩̇̓͛͌̉́̔͊̃͘͘̚v̶̧̺͚̙̖̜͖̭͎̳̥̻̩͗̒̀̋́̿͒̀̃͝͠͝e̵͔͖̠̗̫͕͑͆̀̂́̈́́͐̅̐̆,̴͇̮̻̞͖͈̰̘̞͖̾͑̈́̄͒͑͠ ̴̰̯͔͒̑̔ḛ̴̤͙͔͊͋̍̍̇̀̃̽̊̂l̶̻̣͕̠̰̯̼̂̇̈́̍͊̄͜ë̸͍͇̙͖̬͍̪̫̟̺̺̪̖͔́̆̔̎̊̿̓̐̄͆̈͊̕̚͝͝ͅv̸̢̮͙̱͎̺̪́̈́̈̀́͛͂̚e̷̜͈̼̖̟̗̟̙̦̲̠̬̘͑̚n̸̨̝̰̘̰͚̯͔̥̳͚͔̈̐͑͑͑̚ ̷̡̻̥̠̗̮͉͎̺̟̯̹͎̕ṡ̵̳̞͉̘̥͔̮̙͓̏́̏͒͂͌̿̑̈̃̓͝͠ẗ̸̝́̀̅͆̚ä̴͚̥̣̰̦́̓̓̾̉́̊̀̇̓̄͒̂̈́͝n̸̛͖̫̖͕̦̝̍̋͂d̶͔̫͔̻̼͆̈́́
̴̗͋̓͒̅͂̕
̴̢͍̜̬̮̭͌̂̓̈́̂͑͑͊͒͛̕͠Ņ̶̨̡̹͉̮͙̦̺͖̌͜͜ͅo̷̧̧̗̭̥͓͈̭͉͎̽̑̒̀͋́̓̇̉̂̊͘ ̷͔͕̘̥̱̥͇͎͖̬̜͕̀m̴̡̜͚̟̀̋̒o̴̢̱͇̱͇̯͇͈͈͎̭̦͒̊̓̉̀̈́͊̕͝ŗ̷̛̠̖̙͔̝͖͕͓̄̽̊̋̑̈̒̿̿͘͘͘͝͝͝e̴͖̺̭̩̻̯̦͈̘̼̟̰̖̚͜ ̵̡̛̤̼̙͇̺̦͈̳̳̠̰̤̇̀̐͋̿̒̋̈̀s̴̘̺̦͍̺̺̭̭̰̘͑̈́͗̌͗̐͜͝ͅͅí̵̧̢̧̮͙̹̘̻̪̱̥̩̰̄̑͌͗̒̈́̃̄̌̋͌̄̃̕͘̕ņ̷̧͎͍̱̙͓̲̤̪͔̣̳͂͒̈́̆̓̀̈̅͆̎͘̕ģ̴̝̟͙̱̭̫̑̇̈̾̿͛̾̏̀̕͘͝s̷̡͗͋̇͆̏ ̴̨̯̤̺̮̠̪̮͇͍͉̤̠̱̦͇̼̃͠t̸͇̤̣͚͊̕ḣ̴̟̟̙̬̋͒̈̈́͋͑̊̊̇́̄̎́͝ë̸̡̧̟̼̠͎́́̈̆̐̏̀̓̐̈́͑͂̈̔̀̚͝ ̷̢̳͎̠̱͇͓̖͇͉̌͜y̴̛̯͈̠̿̃̅̈̒͆́̽̑͗͆͝õ̵̻̹͖̞̤̉̈́͗̑͗̈́͒̽̋͝u̵̹͈̱̓̇̃́͗̃̃͋̂̏̃̕͠ǹ̷̥̣̖̎̾̀̃̒̄͌̽͝g̵̭͉̹̏̃̐e̵̖̺̣̮̫̜͇̪͖̥̖͓̳̝̜̐s̴̨̢̡̮̻̟̪͚͙̩̜̤̪̓̎̇͆̓̏͂̇͒͘ẗ̵̡̺͓̟̦̖͚̯͔̦̱͜ͅ.̵͉͚̖̬̱̝̗͙̱͚͕̆̉̚
̸̧̜̜̙͙͇̣̻̞̰̞͇͕̤̽́͛͐̔̔̊̓͊̄̓̈́̈́̈́͐͝͝ͅͅ
̶̹̬̰̓̈́͆̋̆̿̒̒͘Ś̶̢̲̬͈̘̞̮̭̮͙̯̗͇͈͜͜l̸̨̡̨͎͖̻̞̗͇̭͓̱̹̉̇̉́̐̈́͗̀̂̓̈̍̐̒ͅȁ̵̧͙̪̰̗̭̅̔̔͒̈̈̎̔͝ĭ̸̧̡̬̣̻͎̣͍̣͕͔̜̪̲͠n̵̨̧̡̘̟̩̜̩̰͖̞͎̖̳̣̔̊̑̚ ̶̯̫̹͒́͝͠͠ͅb̷̙̞̲̑̌̾̂̽͆͑̔̅̌̌͋̊̎͆̂̿y̸͕̹̦̌́̃̾́͠ ̶̱̟̭̫̲͚̹̳̻̫͚̤̭͙͈̜͉̇̀͑͛͒̏̏̏͂̽͛̈́͝͠d̷̺͇͇͙̈͛̔͌̀͒͆͗̑͋̌̈̕͠͝r̶̡̡̥̳̠̫͍͎̝̹̮̆̎̑͆̑́̆̐̋̑͘͠͝͝ͅá̵̯̪̲͎͉̪͙̜̱̎̄͌̐͌͝ḡ̸̨̲̣̠̻̗̼͔̌̿͂̆̑͋̂̏͌̾̈͠͝ȏ̸̠̬͖͇̭̱̐̄n̸͖̤͕̳͇̭̱̖͓͓̤̜͎̰̫͌́́̓̌̈́̔̄̆̏͠'̶̢̢̨̺̫̙̦̤̄͛́̐̍̏͊̃̊͗̎͌̆̎͝͝s̶̨̻̹͈͓̳̮̉̉̓̔̓̌̀́̈́̓̐͛̊̚̕̚ ̵̨̧͍̗̜͉͈̖̺̺̲̦̲̟͔͙͌̎̏̅͂̐́̈́̈̕͝h̷̩̲͍̅͋͂́͑̓̓̂͋̌̀̎͑͝ả̴̧̱̼͓͑̒̔̎̃̕n̷̡̧̧̥͉̣̳̫͖͓̖̒́̃̋d̶͍̎̉̆̇͌̾̐̽̽̈̾̒̉̀̇.̵͇͕̘̪͙̞̘̝̝̳̲͋͜
Okatai circled as the song grew further, in volume in incomprehensibility. Images curled and slithered in his mind, of empty vaults, black and void of light, of blood and fire and a seven-colored dawn, of a blade of liquid gold and clashing sparks.
The entire mountain shook, and ten million tons of stone roared as they were shaken free., spilling down into the vast lake of magma below. The star… the star shook as well, and the air keened and distorted.
Only the ruinous light that forbid the laws of the earth from passing kept him from shaking apart. More songs, he could no longer understand at all.
Extend thy hand.
Until he could. Simple sharp and direct. He obeyed without a thought. Liquid starlight bloomed, above his hand, snaking and streaming from the bleeding crack in the titan. A sphere of blazing radiance cooled and solidified, a sphere as large as two fists together, covered in whorls of shifting gold.
A budding of the Liberation Star.
Without resistance the boiling heat he had resisted rocketed his burning wings aloft, and he cradled the stone close to his chest, even as filaments of starlight threaded through his skin and boiled away his cloak.
He had done it. Their people might yet survive.
A phrase that had sounded absurd to Oktai's ears when he had first heard it. He knew what ash was. The remnants of cookfires or at most the distant tales of mountains where the Mother's wrath boiled from smoking peaks.
There were so many of those peaks here, but the lung-searing breath-killing clouds they belched forth were nothing compared to the horizon-reaching expanse of black and grey that were the lowlands below.
"Journey north three days. There you will find the edge of the mountains. The peaks there are those which bore the greatest brunt of the dying sun. The northmost peaks are Dead. Do not approach them."
"The peaks are dead?" he had asked baffled. Invited into the Ghost Arrow Khan's ger, at his camp accessible only by air. He had told the tall, thin man his story, and begged his aid. Erzhan's father seemed withered to his eyes; he was a man composed of bone and sinew and not much else. But despite the emaciation of his body, his spirit loomed large. "I do not understand.
"Windkiller did not kill the greater earth, nor the mountains in his march, though he tried. His death and the firebird's last eruption did what his fangs could not. You will know them when your eyes fall on their cursed slopes. Do not approach them. Your destination will lie instead in the second ring where the mountain fire roars in defiance against the grave."
Khan Mete had been right. The air was choked black with scouring grit and smothering ash, lit only by the dull glow of burning mountains and flashes of snarling crimson lightning that felt somehow tainted to his senses. The jagged arcs made his soul recoil in revulsion from, the way Father's breath never had even as an uninitiated boy.
All of that, and he could feel them. The Dead peaks. They were voids of consuming white on the edge of his senses, a week or more's flight away and yet painfully present. They were Dead. There was no other word to describe them. Yet they teemed.
Motion without will or animation, bones beyond counting skulls beyond counting, eye sockets and fleshless jaws alight with deathly green fires. They writhed across every inch of the Dead Peaks, they wriggled like worms all the way down to their core, like a hive of insects.
He followed the khan's advice closely and stayed in the glow of the burning mountain fire. Even this might not have been enough to save him from the cursed winds, and the khan had told him so.
The star on his brow shone bright, the rippling seven-colored light of ruin parting the ash around him
But he had known the starsong would not lead him to a hopeless death. He had been right. Just as he had known Khan Mete's words sincere.
"Your guidance is kind, despite my insult."
"My guidance is your death, boy. A man who has not even written their name in the wind will die in that place, even following my words."
"I hear the star song, and it sings to me to follow your words. But… why do you know this? You have not said. Where did you hear whispers of the Liberation Star?"
There, he saw the shadow of it, outlined in the ruddy light of the mountains that wept fire down into the glowing canyon that wound across their feet. Where dead things marched and burned without end, trying fruitlessly to pave over the molten rock with endless bodies. Because it wasn't just mountain stone that bled. Through baleful orange and bloody red wove threads of molten starlight, and where the Dead neared it they ceased to be. He saw above that a great mountain, tall as any in the deeper parts of the Mother mountains, caved in deeply along one side. It roared defiance in a voice that felt like it would rattle his bones apart, belching forth smoke and ash, and spilling a vast waterfall of magma from its cratered side. It was from there that the threads of liquid starlight flowed.
"When the dragons were gelded for their arrogance, and the world was reduced, Father sent our stars, his wayward children to slumber, lest their light corrode the weakened pillar in the sea of trees. From that time on we have not known them save in small gifts."
"Each tribe tells it differently, but this much most agree on," Oktai had replied, carefully.
Khan Mete had stared hard at him, or rather he had stared into the shard of starstone on the brow of the mask set respectfully on his lap.
"We of the east pass down a younger tale. On the last day, when the Sun went black, grappling with his enemy, a great radiance bloomed, and for just a day, we all heard the song in our blood. The sun's daughter fell soon after and the light remained until her death shriek ceased."
"There is a place there where a star still shines on the earth."
Even cloaked in Ruin's light, her voice loud in his ears, it was a painful thing descending to the burning mountain. He could feel his ears bleed, feel his skin blistering and peeling from the heat, but he descended still, into its molten heart.
Pale Night. Liberation Night
Burning Bright
Forever young, forever old
Standing tall, bathed in gold.
Brother. Brother, where art thou?
Blazing Night. Ruin Night
Tyrants Fright
Forever Young, Forever Old
Blade bared, 'gainst fates told.
Sister, sister, I am here.
A second voice, a second song, and Oktai felt as if his head could split, for all that he could understand only the least of its words. His beast self's wings thundered beating against the rising heat, and he drove himself on, even as the trailing edges of his pinions caught fire, smoldering among the ash.
For there, entombed in what seemed almost a throne of half-molten rock, lay a cracked and bleeding star. It was a titanic man who could crush Oktai in his palm, flush in the prime of youth. It was a slender child, eyes bright with the fierce zeal of youth, it was an ancient elder, withered but unbreakable. It was a glowing shard of radiant starstone the size of a lesser mountain. It was a bared blade to strike down gods. And so many more things than that. But he had to close his eyes, lest they burn out.
It was, without a doubt, one of the twelve great stars, not merely one of the lesser children, like those which the cave demons had offered them. Like Ruin, who slept in the Starsons tomb, and had budded a new self to bond with Great Khan Galidan.
The time has come, the time is right.
Heaven stands. Father sleeps still.
New dragons rise, yet soft and small.
Totality yearns. It claws and gnaws.
From dragon's womb, came Twilight's call.
Ache. The cracks run deep.
R̵̢̦̘̭̘̘̠͕͓̐̈́̄̏̐̏̾̈́͒̽͛͝a̸̛͕̗̱̜̟̥͝l̷̢̛̥͚̭̺͎̞͉͗̈̈́̄̑́̔̓͝͝ͅļ̴̧͔͕̝͕͙̖̤̼̞̖͚̬͑̊̿̾̍̊͒̋ͅy̸̲̜̓̔̍̌̍̀̊͒̌̎̓͝,̷͙̰̮̟̟̤̲͖͛̿̿ ̵̪͉͌̅̍̄̈́̂ŗ̵̛͖͕̯̳̮͕̮̠̠̌́̂̀̄͋͌̊̈́̒̀̽̀̑͝͠ͅą̶̪͕̜̱́̑͌̊̉̋͛̊l̷̨̛̤͉͕̼̈̇̈́̇̐̑̅̾̆͆̃̎̍̆͗l̴͙͉͍͇͕̺̹͕̎̅͑͆͛̄̍͛͂́͋̚̕͘ẙ̵̼̙̼̘̈́̇̄͘,̵̺̱͇̜̥̣͙̞͖̩͓̒̑̓͆̉͋̿́̀̃̾̅͗̔̏͠ͅͅ ̵̬̲̺̘̙͍̖͓̜̊̌̓͋͐̅̕͜͜͜͝͠L̵̡̨̠̹̥̪̤͓̩̾̓͋͆͗̑̚̕͝i̷̛͚̦͌̆̽͛͛̃̈͒̈́̽̒̌̊͐̒̚b̸̠̣̺̳̖͇͔̓̀̈́̐̋̀e̵̡̤͓̤̰͗̋̐̅͑ṙ̸͙̖͖̣̂̈́̑͛͘̚͝a̵̛̺͎̹̪͕̬͐̆̓̌̉̃͑̎͋̽͐̓͘͝t̴̙̹̪̦̲̯̘̠̰̹͖͓͎͓̺͐̔̇̀͘i̸̡̲̼̱̟͔̐̿̇͒͗̂̓̓͜͜͝o̵̢̺͉̙͉͖̟̖̘͍͉͕̦͆̌̐̀̏̓̒ͅͅn̴̡̢̦̺̼̦͊͂͝ ̴̧̡̮͈͈̤̯̤̳͕̜̩͔̙̖̆̀͑̎̍͌͜S̷̨̹̖͍̝̤͙͚̟̝̀̇̏̾̀̆̄̕͝ṯ̷̨͔̩̠͙̝̹̝̻͙̯̬̖̩̓́́̅̈́̀͝ǎ̴̢͈͍̫̣̞̟̀͑̄͒̓̀͠r̶̨͔̱͔̺̻̗̼̳̜̝͊́͋̓̓͒̈̍͌́̈͑̏̑͂́͝.̶̱̣̩͈͙̼͕̖͙̈̐́̈́͒͊̈́̔̑͊̓͋͆̚͝͝
̸̨̧̠͇̪̞̞̲̭̯͎̠͉̮͓̩̟̏͑̔̔̌̉̈́̋̌͠͝
̸̝̦̯̱̏͋̎͝W̷̖̭̩̮͓̜̯͈͖̜͎̪͖̯͑̈́̀͋͘ẖ̶̢̫͎̤̙̗̩̃̀̅̒̈͝e̵̺̜̠̰̭̱̖̍̂̀͆̕͘͝ŗ̶̛̝̟̣͙͚̫̟̳̭̯͚͇̐́̏̄̓̀̈͆̅͑̋̕͠ḙ̵̛͋̓̈̈́̿̊̒̾̈́̑͒̈́͑ ̴̼̬͒̈̔̍̇̆͌́o̵̡͉̦̯͓̿͛́̀ņ̷̪͕͚̦͉̗̬͉͌̇͒̓̔̉̽̽̐̊̓̒̀̎͗͘͜͠ͅĉ̸̖̐̽é̸̡̱̠̱̜̤̜̩̰̜̲͋́͗͆͌̈́̃̿͐͘͜͝͠ ̸̤̱̝̲̱̠̳̅́̾̎̈́̽w̸̳͚̖͙̫͍̭͂̆͛̈ȩ̶͇̼̺͓̻͙̦̝͚͍̮͊̽͜ͅŗ̶̙͖̻̞̞͓͎̳̌̉̚e̶̦͉̮̹͒̄̑̏͛̔̈́̑̈́̅̑̎̕͠͠ ̸̙̳̖͍̬̭͉͍̻̹̱̦̝̰̠̘̊͊̄̽̓̽̃̀̇͋̓̂͌̏͠͠͝t̷̨̢̨̤̺̩̙̘̺͚̝̤͚͚͐̓̒̎̓̾̓̃̽̊͆̈́͠ẁ̷̧̨͍̺͇̳̞̘̺͍̻͕͍̝̰͙̆̋̄̀̀̊̽͛́͐̈́͊͠ͅȩ̶̣͉̹̞̭͍̘̺̤̀̋̆̌̆̏̈́̌̒̓̌̄̕͜l̴̛̺̩̇̓͛͌̉́̔͊̃͘͘̚v̶̧̺͚̙̖̜͖̭͎̳̥̻̩͗̒̀̋́̿͒̀̃͝͠͝e̵͔͖̠̗̫͕͑͆̀̂́̈́́͐̅̐̆,̴͇̮̻̞͖͈̰̘̞͖̾͑̈́̄͒͑͠ ̴̰̯͔͒̑̔ḛ̴̤͙͔͊͋̍̍̇̀̃̽̊̂l̶̻̣͕̠̰̯̼̂̇̈́̍͊̄͜ë̸͍͇̙͖̬͍̪̫̟̺̺̪̖͔́̆̔̎̊̿̓̐̄͆̈͊̕̚͝͝ͅv̸̢̮͙̱͎̺̪́̈́̈̀́͛͂̚e̷̜͈̼̖̟̗̟̙̦̲̠̬̘͑̚n̸̨̝̰̘̰͚̯͔̥̳͚͔̈̐͑͑͑̚ ̷̡̻̥̠̗̮͉͎̺̟̯̹͎̕ṡ̵̳̞͉̘̥͔̮̙͓̏́̏͒͂͌̿̑̈̃̓͝͠ẗ̸̝́̀̅͆̚ä̴͚̥̣̰̦́̓̓̾̉́̊̀̇̓̄͒̂̈́͝n̸̛͖̫̖͕̦̝̍̋͂d̶͔̫͔̻̼͆̈́́
̴̗͋̓͒̅͂̕
̴̢͍̜̬̮̭͌̂̓̈́̂͑͑͊͒͛̕͠Ņ̶̨̡̹͉̮͙̦̺͖̌͜͜ͅo̷̧̧̗̭̥͓͈̭͉͎̽̑̒̀͋́̓̇̉̂̊͘ ̷͔͕̘̥̱̥͇͎͖̬̜͕̀m̴̡̜͚̟̀̋̒o̴̢̱͇̱͇̯͇͈͈͎̭̦͒̊̓̉̀̈́͊̕͝ŗ̷̛̠̖̙͔̝͖͕͓̄̽̊̋̑̈̒̿̿͘͘͘͝͝͝e̴͖̺̭̩̻̯̦͈̘̼̟̰̖̚͜ ̵̡̛̤̼̙͇̺̦͈̳̳̠̰̤̇̀̐͋̿̒̋̈̀s̴̘̺̦͍̺̺̭̭̰̘͑̈́͗̌͗̐͜͝ͅͅí̵̧̢̧̮͙̹̘̻̪̱̥̩̰̄̑͌͗̒̈́̃̄̌̋͌̄̃̕͘̕ņ̷̧͎͍̱̙͓̲̤̪͔̣̳͂͒̈́̆̓̀̈̅͆̎͘̕ģ̴̝̟͙̱̭̫̑̇̈̾̿͛̾̏̀̕͘͝s̷̡͗͋̇͆̏ ̴̨̯̤̺̮̠̪̮͇͍͉̤̠̱̦͇̼̃͠t̸͇̤̣͚͊̕ḣ̴̟̟̙̬̋͒̈̈́͋͑̊̊̇́̄̎́͝ë̸̡̧̟̼̠͎́́̈̆̐̏̀̓̐̈́͑͂̈̔̀̚͝ ̷̢̳͎̠̱͇͓̖͇͉̌͜y̴̛̯͈̠̿̃̅̈̒͆́̽̑͗͆͝õ̵̻̹͖̞̤̉̈́͗̑͗̈́͒̽̋͝u̵̹͈̱̓̇̃́͗̃̃͋̂̏̃̕͠ǹ̷̥̣̖̎̾̀̃̒̄͌̽͝g̵̭͉̹̏̃̐e̵̖̺̣̮̫̜͇̪͖̥̖͓̳̝̜̐s̴̨̢̡̮̻̟̪͚͙̩̜̤̪̓̎̇͆̓̏͂̇͒͘ẗ̵̡̺͓̟̦̖͚̯͔̦̱͜ͅ.̵͉͚̖̬̱̝̗͙̱͚͕̆̉̚
̸̧̜̜̙͙͇̣̻̞̰̞͇͕̤̽́͛͐̔̔̊̓͊̄̓̈́̈́̈́͐͝͝ͅͅ
̶̹̬̰̓̈́͆̋̆̿̒̒͘Ś̶̢̲̬͈̘̞̮̭̮͙̯̗͇͈͜͜l̸̨̡̨͎͖̻̞̗͇̭͓̱̹̉̇̉́̐̈́͗̀̂̓̈̍̐̒ͅȁ̵̧͙̪̰̗̭̅̔̔͒̈̈̎̔͝ĭ̸̧̡̬̣̻͎̣͍̣͕͔̜̪̲͠n̵̨̧̡̘̟̩̜̩̰͖̞͎̖̳̣̔̊̑̚ ̶̯̫̹͒́͝͠͠ͅb̷̙̞̲̑̌̾̂̽͆͑̔̅̌̌͋̊̎͆̂̿y̸͕̹̦̌́̃̾́͠ ̶̱̟̭̫̲͚̹̳̻̫͚̤̭͙͈̜͉̇̀͑͛͒̏̏̏͂̽͛̈́͝͠d̷̺͇͇͙̈͛̔͌̀͒͆͗̑͋̌̈̕͠͝r̶̡̡̥̳̠̫͍͎̝̹̮̆̎̑͆̑́̆̐̋̑͘͠͝͝ͅá̵̯̪̲͎͉̪͙̜̱̎̄͌̐͌͝ḡ̸̨̲̣̠̻̗̼͔̌̿͂̆̑͋̂̏͌̾̈͠͝ȏ̸̠̬͖͇̭̱̐̄n̸͖̤͕̳͇̭̱̖͓͓̤̜͎̰̫͌́́̓̌̈́̔̄̆̏͠'̶̢̢̨̺̫̙̦̤̄͛́̐̍̏͊̃̊͗̎͌̆̎͝͝s̶̨̻̹͈͓̳̮̉̉̓̔̓̌̀́̈́̓̐͛̊̚̕̚ ̵̨̧͍̗̜͉͈̖̺̺̲̦̲̟͔͙͌̎̏̅͂̐́̈́̈̕͝h̷̩̲͍̅͋͂́͑̓̓̂͋̌̀̎͑͝ả̴̧̱̼͓͑̒̔̎̃̕n̷̡̧̧̥͉̣̳̫͖͓̖̒́̃̋d̶͍̎̉̆̇͌̾̐̽̽̈̾̒̉̀̇.̵͇͕̘̪͙̞̘̝̝̳̲͋͜
Okatai circled as the song grew further, in volume in incomprehensibility. Images curled and slithered in his mind, of empty vaults, black and void of light, of blood and fire and a seven-colored dawn, of a blade of liquid gold and clashing sparks.
The entire mountain shook, and ten million tons of stone roared as they were shaken free., spilling down into the vast lake of magma below. The star… the star shook as well, and the air keened and distorted.
Only the ruinous light that forbid the laws of the earth from passing kept him from shaking apart. More songs, he could no longer understand at all.
Extend thy hand.
Until he could. Simple sharp and direct. He obeyed without a thought. Liquid starlight bloomed, above his hand, snaking and streaming from the bleeding crack in the titan. A sphere of blazing radiance cooled and solidified, a sphere as large as two fists together, covered in whorls of shifting gold.
A budding of the Liberation Star.
Without resistance the boiling heat he had resisted rocketed his burning wings aloft, and he cradled the stone close to his chest, even as filaments of starlight threaded through his skin and boiled away his cloak.
He had done it. Their people might yet survive.
Ruination Star: "Bro we need your help."
Liberation Star: "As you can see I'm busy dealing with Dead nonsense."
Ruination Star: "Here's a long list of reasons why everything, including the Dead, is the fault of the dragons. Oh, and they murdered our sibling."
Liberation Star:
Liberation Star: "As you can see I'm busy dealing with Dead nonsense."
Ruination Star: "Here's a long list of reasons why everything, including the Dead, is the fault of the dragons. Oh, and they murdered our sibling."
Liberation Star:
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My translation attempt:
Ache. The cracks run deep.
Rally, rally. Liberation star.
Where once were twelve eleven stand-
No more sings the youngest-
Slain by dragon's hand.
That's a monkey's pawing thought if there ever was one
Wait, so one of these twelve stars is hunkered down in a volcano, bleeding starlight to stop a zombie incursion dead south of the suns grave and cold stops all that nonsense from spilling southward?
Geez, ive really been low balling how dangerous those things are.
Geez, ive really been low balling how dangerous those things are.