[X]…And the Emperor of the Heavens spoke, and the world buckled before a voice like the thunder that was His birthright. "Sun and Moon, Sky and Star, they belong to Me; and none may occlude my vision." And so mighty Asuryan, whose plans are infinite, walked through the labyrinth that trapped Him, guided by the light of the ever bright sun and his wife's brilliant, milk-white moon, He forged a path through the realm of the mad god…(???)
Scheduled vote count started by Voikirium on May 14, 2023 at 4:00 PM, finished with 24 posts and 19 votes.
[X]…And the Emperor of the Heavens spoke, and the world buckled before a voice like the thunder that was His birthright. "Sun and Moon, Sky and Star, they belong to Me; and none may occlude my vision." And so mighty Asuryan, whose plans are infinite, walked through the labyrinth that trapped Him, guided by the light of the ever bright sun and his wife's brilliant, milk-white moon, He forged a path through the realm of the mad god…(???)
[X] …And hope returned like a phoenix. It blazed (Burned? Shone? The word has many synonyms, dependent on its exact position) and cast away the darkness, its fire its judgment. "I am not fallen," he said, as in the heavens above it was like the mortal world below. Phoenixes followed it even as it entered into being, the Creator. And He took a fine material, and He shaped it into a weapon; and where he wielded it Daemons (shall? Did? Both? As it was, so it shall be? You cannot even rely on Azyr to tell you, for all strands of magic were woven into these carvings, these writing) die. They fell, and His weapon was bright, and there was hope. And as there was hope, there shall be hope again…
[X] …And the Balance was Kept. The (Hunter-Killer-Scoundrel-Poacher, all of that conveyed in a term best translated to the mortal tongues as Andas Raymath, no point for guessing who) was cast out from the heaven we had made, stripped of all (Sovereignty? Authority? Wonder? …Permissions?) even as the wonder we had (convinced? Tricked? Failed? Promised?) bled out on the steps. But we did him last service; we ensured his children would have allies, safety, safe harbor, as a pack…
Compared to "Holy Fuck Dragons" or "Holy Shit Phoenixes" they're kind of mundane, and the Warhammer Fandom is the super-stimulus addict to end all super-stimulus addicts.
[X]…And the Emperor of the Heavens spoke, and the world buckled before a voice like the thunder that was His birthright. "Sun and Moon, Sky and Star, they belong to Me; and none may occlude my vision." And so mighty Asuryan, whose plans are infinite, walked through the labyrinth that trapped Him, guided by the light of the ever bright sun and his wife's brilliant, milk-white moon, He forged a path through the realm of the mad god…(???)
When you woke up today, the world was lit by the great burning sun. The sky was a soft, sweet blue like the shimmering spring. The clouds, sprinkled hither and thither and yon, were rolling, calm, mist like things that dimmed the sun without cutting it, making it pleasant. The song of birds unfurled across the valley like a soft tapping rain, and the smell of flowers, sweet honey suckle and rose and jasmine cultivated not by mortal hands but by the work of the gods. Kurnous' own land, to be sure, the land of a civilized outdoorsman rather than the savage of the Cytherai. Deer prance and roam over the rolling hills (unlike Saphery, none of them have moved—not a feature you miss) and the people play and farm and live in peace.
So of course, as you approach the temple, new walking stick in hand, it has begun not just raining but a true blue storm pounds the mountain slopes. Rain heavy and thick as arrows pounds down on your simple deer skin cloak and hood, wrapped tight around the plain blue and amber robes you wear, the only decoration on them intricately painted arcane symbols and invocations of the gods. You hold Cynathyal in the other hand; you can hold the thing in one hand, particularly so long as you hoist it over your shoulder to help keep track of the tip, but fighting with it means throwing away your walking stick.
Again.
Lightning scorches the earth, blue as sapphire and golden as the sun, Asuryan's arrows falling like a constant staccato beat as He wars against dark power. The Four of course, but Khaine as well, ever Khaine. The wind roars like the mightiest and most ancient, most powerful of the Star Dragons, howling its challenge to the world and ensuring you can barely hear yourself think. The sun is strangled, and the world is dark under bleakest, blackest cloud that roil and boil and shift with the vast energies released by the storm. Aqshy and Ulgu and Azyr in unequal measure drip from those clouds in a swirling, tri-colored array, lightning and mist and storm.
Naturally, of course, Indrion and Indrast are playing as the three of you walk towards the destined place, the thunder bearing, the world shaker. The two swipe at each other, prance around, sniff at the ground and wrestle, rolling in the mud and the dirt even as they continue to follow, begging that you shall rub their bellies or pet their heads. Graceful and masterful predators indeed.
Finally you see the Temple that you seek. The statues of Asuryan are as you left them, and you bow as you approach even as you feel…feel a presence settling on your shoulders. Like a fire, there is heat but it does not burn. The most minute, slightest, fraction of something peerless, an absolute, pays attention to you, turns some portion of its, His, gaze down onto the world below; and not as He watches all things, but he pays some special merit to you.
Why?
Many questions.
Only one answer.
And that lies through the door.
You leave behind merely mortal flesh and turn your soul's gaze on that which burned into the door. Even with your training it is hot and bright to look at, Azyr like flashing lightning carved into glimmering, amberous Ghur, forced by a will ancient when the Elves were young to exist.
A story you have never heard before about your god, written in a language that by rights should not exist itself. The first is understandable enough, the Kingdoms each have their own stories about the gods to reflect how that god and that kingdom are intertwined. There are ten-thousand stories of Asuryan the Creator in Caledor, where they love craftsmanship. In Saphery they know Him as Keeper of the Balance, and the Archmages believe He blesses the Loremasters and the Archmages alike who seek balance; either in themselves or in the magics they attempt to shape into Qhaysh or both. To those of the Shadowlands, Nagarythe, He is the Emperor of the Heavens, the one who will grant them vengeance, the one who will make them whole, the one who will judge the Druchii for their many sins: their blasphemy, aye, and their treachery of course, but most of all for their simple cruelty. Some hold even that the Sundering itself was His judgment, though that is a cruel judgment indeed. The Shrine—Eataine—they both try to ensure that His fullness is held in all respects, and of course none would gainsay that He is all of these and more aside. So some stories are told to all.
But that is not even a Chracian story. You would know—you checked. Extensively. So where in the world did it come from? It is either very old or very wrong or very metaphorical or something because there are claims in it that do not make sense. "Sun and Moon, Sky and Star, they belong to Me?" At least one of those is an insult, and not simply to some Cytherai either: the moon is Lileath's. By most Elven reckoning She made it, set it in the sky from Her own shorn locks, a trend Her Daughter would in turn pass along to Avelorn. And the married share their property aye, but by that same token if your mother decided to call the brush your grandfather whittled for him hers there would be words. It may simply be a reflection of the fact that as the Emperor of the Heavens all within it bears some portion of Him, even that which is not His by merely mortal reckoning; or it may reflect that His wife would not deny Him that simple thing, certainly not in the face of the Enemy; or it is an old story, carried along from before Lileath was married and before the gods were understood. Or it could simply be the nature of the infinite is hard to grasp.
You are stalling.
Enough.
You reach out and begin to unwind the locks. Not simply striking with brute force like some Druchii bearing ill-intent but properly. You are the key and it is the lock. There is, you believe, some slight forgiveness in it as you pull through the magic, rather than trying to force it too much. But you would still prefer not to learn exactly what defenses a god prepares for an interloper in His most sacred place. So you are very delicate as you weave through the Azyr, through the Ghur, the Aqshy.
And then with the crash of a door, it opens and—
Elsewhere
Elsewhen
Elsewise
Who…who are you?
You know…what you are. But who has evaded you seems to have slipped from your hands like water. You think, you meditate—
"Kill her!"
Some instinct guides you along the misty path, trees tall and leafy and shrouded in shadow and mist and darkness. Elthelu, Hell-Moon, hangs thick and fat in the night sky, but Elthelu alone does, putrid, mold green hanging in a night sky black as silk, even as it blazes with unholy power. The stars, where are the stars? Hidden, cloaked in a black sky. Lileath's own hidden, precious jewel hides in the blackness too, its silver light nowhere to be found; Elanith hides from this evil. Hides…or lies in wait.
You follow the clamoring sound of metal on metal, of soldiers jeering and arrive in a clearing, demarcated by branching, vicious, spiky trees, black and white and coated in moss and blood and no end of other, vile things. Bright fires rise up from behind the treelines and go somewhere, somewhere far, far away. At the center of the camp, a woman, a Dwarf, a Runelord lies bound in all manner of rope and chains and more, her head resting on a stump even as she glares at all of you. She wears powerful armor, covered in the scratch magic of the Haclad. Her ax is much the same. Her cloak. Her belt.
And all of them…
Her armor is made of dragon scale, dragon bone, dragon flesh, scales and plates and bone shaped and shaved and worked until it can stop just about any strike. And not the kind that can be donated without harm, either. The rich, vivid red tells you beyond any question that they were young, as well, young and full of potential, cut down as a youth. Her cloak is made from the scaled flesh of the naiads, who stood with you against their brutality and were slaughtered to the main for their trouble, so many dead and heaped up like trophies for these savages. Her ax's haft is made of the wood of dryads, a story so very similar but even more heartless, for once they were done slaying the defenders of them they then burned those forests. Her belt is of elven make…and not a gift, that is certain.
It is…is familiar, and yet not as though you lived it. As though you were told of it.
Soldiers, many soldiers, fill the clearing, the Anointed of Asuryan hefting his halberd overhead wreathed in blue flames. Phoenix Guard stand silent and idle, unreadable. The Handmaidens of Avelorn watch with grim satisfaction. The Dragon Princes will not even speak such is the extent of their fury, but only watch with grim satisfaction mounted atop their dragon companions. The White Lions joke and cavort, jeering at her for her arrogance. To try and face the Anointed herself in single combat, arrogantly believing herself his equal. He who fears no death? He who bears the touch of the god?
Yes. The very heights of your gods' champions are gathered here. The pinnacle of Ulthuan. They have decided she deserves—no, needs—to die.
Which makes it deeply unfortunate that you need to keep her alive. Hysh boils from her armor, from her ax, her belt, her cape, her everything. You know those Runes, you know not how but you do. The Master Rune of Kazrik Pleasurebane, of Morek Hopebearer, of Skalla Honestheart, of Hugrim Peacemaker. An enemy of Chaos; and not one that shall stand idle by either. And…and compared to that, what is the brief pleasure of revenge? Of violence?
You move your walking stick like a club even as you flow through the mist like some big cat, and though it is sheared through it is enough for it was strong oak, knocking the blow off course even as you once again lose your damn stick. A croaking voice emerges from the Anointed's throat, and you understand.
"You would face us all, for her?"
"I would face all to deny you, Quioriour." He smiles, a grim thing.
And then the world becomes fire again as he raises his hands.
No chance, not against such a being.
But the fight justifies itself, as you bring your sword up and meet him.
In a move he has you on your back on the ground, has planted his boot on your chest, has you controlled and so has control of your life.
In a second he manages to shatter your arm even as you strike up at him with Cyathyal,
In a third he raises his halberd and—
—
Ulthuan. Home.
But not as you would ever wish to see it.
The rebels have attacked. Chrace is caught on the front lines. You can hear metal on metal in the distance as skillful elves duel one another. Elthelu casts a grim green light, half full. Elanith is half empty, half shadowed, half constrained. The stars only flicker lightly; but that, that all is enough for you to see by, to know what comes to pass.
But worst of all…worst of all your own brother leads them. Your own House, Blackfang, risen up in service to this…this Witch King, this traitor, this servant of evil, the black lion rise up on the field in rebellion and kinstrife. They burn the forests; they burn the plains. They enslave the beasts. They turn fields to ash and cinder and dust. They make mounds of bodies, hundreds high, leaving them as a warning. Your own brother, your own flesh and blood, has fallen so far, has fallen so fast. It boggles the mind to believe, but it is so.
And so this you will not allow.
And they are coming.
You bear your fang, the white blade Cyanthyal, and head out, through the mansion doors. A band of the rebels, the rabble, surround you, armed in all manner of ways.
Your brother, armored in black and red and armed with a long, vicious looking spear dripping blue and pink venom stands at the front. "Brother!"
"Brother." You nod at the members of the Cult of Pleasure that have come with him. "It is nice to know you have made friends in your absence."
"Friends. Power. Wealth. A name for myself. A destiny. All that I ever wanted. Not that you would know, mage." He gestures at your sword. "Foolish of you to bring that. I always did win."
You enter your guard, a simple manticore tail, blade diagonal, right foot forward, waiting, passive, calm. "I let you win." He has reach.
He lashes out with a quick, poisonous, deadly strike. Artful, fast. Brutal. The wind whistles as it flows over the ithilmar. It is beautiful. It is flowing. It is swift like wind and strong like the lion and hard as the stone.
You block, knocking one blow to the side, flow around the half-feints, and then cut at his face. He catches the attack on his gauntlet and redirects the blow, but his eyes widen a tinge.
But you have balance. And in a dance that is the more important.
A rhythm quickly develops between the two of you, whirling around each other, cloaks dancing in the midnight air, pushed along by the breeze. Your weapon flashes again and again, but so does his, and the only thing quicker than your sword is your mind. This has to end. You told half-truth: you let him win, yes, but every time is taking quite a bit of stretch in the matter. You may be more balanced, but Anath Raema whispers in his ear. He may be more bloodthirsty, but you are better on the defense. This could go on a very long time.
A very, very long time. Unless someone finally chooses to stop it.
It is a bitter pill to swallow. For to kill your kin is a sin.
But to let him continue his path of destruction is a sin too.
So you make a choice.
You shift, and his spear bites into your armor and into your ribs and your lungs and you are dead, but not yet, not immediately. His eyes widen as you bring Cyanthyal up, and then he screams as you put it through his heart, all of it happening in the fraction of a fraction of a second. He falls.
You fall.
"Your own brother?"
"Rebellion…is crime." You can hardly breathe. Can hardly think. Can hardly feel. Blackness creeps in at the edges of your vision. "Kinslaying…is crime. Judgment is demanded. If not me, then who?" His eyes droop low, slowly and slowly coming together; until at last he breathes he breathes no more. "Rest."
You are tired yourself.
You close your eyes…
—
The sun is down, the sky is black. But yet still you see, and you see perhaps the brighter for it in this place of dark remnants and darker memories. For the bright stars overhead shine, even through the bleak cloud cast by Chaos' heart. Elanith is bright and beautiful and silver even as Enthlui flees in shame and dread and terror, Chaos' Harbinger on the mortal plane afraid. Magic burns as magic beyond magic duels against itself, is turned to wage against itself.
The boy—and make no mistake, he is a boy—stands before you in the darkness. He is lit in many hues of pink and blue as he unleashes bright fire against you, even as you reach out with your own senses, shift the Wind, unwind the matrices and turn it instead into Ghur, making it nothing more and nothing less than a flickering howl before it reaches you. You march forward, cloak billowing in the wind, hand outstretched and fingers splayed, chilled and dark, siphoning away what embers remain with the might of your mind and your prowess. Your blade glitters like diamond in the moonlight.
His face is scrunched in concentration, concern…fear. A patchy youth's beard erupts from his face, he can't be more than seventeen. Even for humans…even for humans, that is young. You idly bat aside another, sloppy burst of fire, even as sweat pours down his brow. His red hair is long and dirty, filthy even, from running. Running from many. Running from the Urithain, who insist on his skull presented to their lord on his throne as proof the deed is done. From the humans, who would burn him as a witch. From you. Is it any wonder, in such a situation, that he might decide to throw his hat in with somebody who promised, who lied with sweet words and saw treasures and knowledge stolen from his foe for their trouble?
"Why! Won't! You! Die!" He tosses ball after ball of fire, and you glide past them, grace and ease written in your body, in your stance, and in your walk.
"I am damnably stubborn." You wave your hand and crush the paltry remnants of Aqshy and Dhar he had forced under his control, advancing forward and grabbing him by the throat, lifting him with Ghur hardened muscles. His eyes widen.
A child. Or if not quite a child, close enough. Near enough.
On the one hand, allow a servant of the Quoriour to continue serving his bleak master. Allow that which is evil to endure. Allow that which is wrong to face no penance. On the other, end a life before it could truly begin. Slay a youth. Become a murderer, a killer, for this is certainly no battle.
The moonlight shines brightly down upon him, and you see the flickering light in his eyes. Some slight measure of youthful naivety, in spite of everything.
What you are about to do is deeply risky.
Dangerous.
Foolhardy, even.
It is also right.
Reaching out with the magic, you force Qhaysh, purest Qhaysh, into him, a rope braided around a core of Azyr.
For mercy is written in the stars.
It does not hurt. He does not scream. He does not cry, nor weep, nor perish. It is simply that you are scouring his soul of the marks of Tzeenth. And they roar, denied their feast of a future perverted by fear and ambition and envy, and your own soul burns as they unleash their rage at his denial. Now, with the Hell-Moon hidden, and Lileath's jewel strong. Now, as you are mighty and bold and merciful. It is enough. It is enough.
He falls in a heap to the floor as you let him go and stumble away yourself, exhausted for all it was a brief moment in the mortal realm. "What…what did you do? Why can I not feel him anymore? Hear him? Sense him?"
"I have given you a choice." You pocket the necklace from the Lizardmen, to return it later. That ought, at least, to give you some leverage over them. "It is up to you to decide which is right and which is wrong." You walk away.
You hear his footsteps a moment later, following behind you, even as the moon looks down upon you.
—
The first thing you see when you return to the mundane is Indrion, sniffing at your face. Further down below you can hear what you deeply hope is Indrast sniffing at your hands. "What, trying to decide if I'm good enough to eat you gluttonous creatures?" They back away as you sit up, grabbing your head in your hands. You scratch their back to reassure them even as you get up to your feet.
You are Vardanis of Chrace.
You are Vardanis of House Snowmane.
You are Vardanis the Mage.
You know what, who, you are. You plant your blade into the stone, and look around. You stand in the southernmost point of a vast cavern. On the walls, images of Asuryan's battle with Tzeentch are carved into the stone and then painted with shimmering paint, but not that alone. There are three other entrances—and exits—heading to the north, the west, and the east. Carved into the walls, where there is not art there are statues. Aenarion, of course, and the Phoenix Kings. But all head towards a champion you have not seen before, for all he wears the Dragon Armor.
Curious.
But not, you think, your concern. Rather your mind turns to the pyramid at the center. It is made of finest glass, utterly perfect and without flaws. Carved into it is more of the antediluvian tongue. Nestled inside, and you can see it, is an egg, multi-hued, prismatic, glorious and more glorious by the moment. Perhaps it is dead.
And perhaps it is not.
There can be only one way to check. You stretch out with your mind, opening your Windsight.
A natural sieve of Qhyash, not that which is merely shaped by mortal will but that natural flowing magic which does not linger and become Dhar but flows, ideally to the Vortex though given that you are looking at it and it sure isn't going to the Vortex clearly not necessarily, itself something that would anger a number of the Loremasters and Archmages of the White Tower.
If they were inclined to believe a mere Mage, anyway.
It suffuses your senses, not merely your Windsight where it is a prismatic, beautiful flow of colors and shades mere Eltharin does not have the words for in exactly the perfect proportion, shining, shimmering, splendid, a sign not of purity but of the balance which all Elves must seek or become mad. It is a chorus, bass and tenor and soprano and alto working together in purest harmony, sometimes hot and quick sometimes somber and dark and a thousand other tones aside. Your whole body feels it has been placed in a hot fire that does not burn, lightning and thunder booming overhead. The taste of fresh wine and good brandy made of ambrosial apples. Such is the entire cavern; but its truest, surest source, the jewel upon its crown, is that egg which rests, hidden, there.
You refuse to turn aside.
Your eyes remain open, your senses remain clear and focused, your mind sharp, as you Understand.
—
High Elf Culture Corner: Elthelu: Morrslieb. Derived from the Asun Elthrai and Elui.
Elanith: Mannslieb. Derived from the Asun Elui and Eanith. Sariour is also a term for this moon, one which places more connection to its natural state.
Quioriour: A name for Tzeentch. Derived from the Asun Quul and Sariour.
Urithain: Lizardmen, one of several terms. Derived from the Asun Urithair.
—
Full gains and effects will be listed with the Social Turn, but this felt like a more natural place to break it up.
[X]…And the Emperor of the Heavens spoke, and the world buckled before a voice like the thunder that was His birthright. "Sun and Moon, Sky and Star, they belong to Me; and none may occlude my vision." And so mighty Asuryan, whose plans are infinite, walked through the labyrinth that trapped Him, guided by the light of the ever bright sun and his wife's brilliant, milk-white moon, He forged a path through the realm of the mad god…(???)
When you woke up today, the world was lit by the great burning sun. The sky was a soft, sweet blue like the shimmering spring. The clouds, sprinkled hither and thither and yon, were rolling, calm, mist like things that dimmed the sun without cutting it, making it pleasant. The song of birds unfurled across the valley like a soft tapping rain, and the smell of flowers, sweet honey suckle and rose and jasmine cultivated not by mortal hands but by the work of the gods. Kurnous' own land, to be sure, the land of a civilized outdoorsman rather than the savage of the Cytherai. Deer prance and roam over the rolling hills (unlike Saphery, none of them have moved—not a feature you miss) and the people play and farm and live in peace.
So of course, as you approach the temple, new walking stick in hand, it has begun not just raining but a true blue storm pounds the mountain slopes. Rain heavy and thick as arrows pounds down on your simple deer skin cloak and hood, wrapped tight around the plain blue and amber robes you wear, the only decoration on them intricately painted arcane symbols and invocations of the gods. You hold Cynathyal in the other hand; you can hold the thing in one hand, particularly so long as you hoist it over your shoulder to help keep track of the tip, but fighting with it means throwing away your walking stick.
Again.
Lightning scorches the earth, blue as sapphire and golden as the sun, Asuryan's arrows falling like a constant staccato beat as He wars against dark power. The Four of course, but Khaine as well, ever Khaine. The wind roars like the mightiest and most ancient, most powerful of the Star Dragons, howling its challenge to the world and ensuring you can barely hear yourself think. The sun is strangled, and the world is dark under bleakest, blackest cloud that roil and boil and shift with the vast energies released by the storm. Aqshy and Ulgu and Azyr in unequal measure drip from those clouds in a swirling, tri-colored array, lightning and mist and storm.
Naturally, of course, Indrion and Indrast are playing as the three of you walk towards the destined place, the thunder bearing, the world shaker. The two swipe at each other, prance around, sniff at the ground and wrestle, rolling in the mud and the dirt even as they continue to follow, begging that you shall rub their bellies or pet their heads. Graceful and masterful predators indeed.
Finally you see the Temple that you seek. The statues of Asuryan are as you left them, and you bow as you approach even as you feel…feel a presence settling on your shoulders. Like a fire, there is heat but it does not burn. The most minute, slightest, fraction of something peerless, an absolute, pays attention to you, turns some portion of its, His, gaze down onto the world below; and not as He watches all things, but he pays some special merit to you.
Why?
Many questions.
Only one answer.
And that lies through the door.
You leave behind merely mortal flesh and turn your soul's gaze on that which burned into the door. Even with your training it is hot and bright to look at, Azyr like flashing lightning carved into glimmering, amberous Ghur, forced by a will ancient when the Elves were young to exist.
A story you have never heard before about your god, written in a language that by rights should not exist itself. The first is understandable enough, the Kingdoms each have their own stories about the gods to reflect how that god and that kingdom are intertwined. There are ten-thousand stories of Asuryan the Creator in Caledor, where they love craftsmanship. In Saphery they know Him as Keeper of the Balance, and the Archmages believe He blesses the Loremasters and the Archmages alike who seek balance; either in themselves or in the magics they attempt to shape into Qhaysh or both. To those of the Shadowlands, Nagarythe, He is the Emperor of the Heavens, the one who will grant them vengeance, the one who will make them whole, the one who will judge the Druchii for their many sins: their blasphemy, aye, and their treachery of course, but most of all for their simple cruelty. Some hold even that the Sundering itself was His judgment, though that is a cruel judgment indeed. The Shrine—Eataine—they both try to ensure that His fullness is held in all respects, and of course none would gainsay that He is all of these and more aside. So some stories are told to all.
But that is not even a Chracian story. You would know—you checked. Extensively. So where in the world did it come from? It is either very old or very wrong or very metaphorical or something because there are claims in it that do not make sense. "Sun and Moon, Sky and Star, they belong to Me?" At least one of those is an insult, and not simply to some Cytherai either: the moon is Lileath's. By most Elven reckoning She made it, set it in the sky from Her own shorn locks, a trend Her Daughter would in turn pass along to Avelorn. And the married share their property aye, but by that same token if your mother decided to call the brush your grandfather whittled for him hers there would be words. It may simply be a reflection of the fact that as the Emperor of the Heavens all within it bears some portion of Him, even that which is not His by merely mortal reckoning; or it may reflect that His wife would not deny Him that simple thing, certainly not in the face of the Enemy; or it is an old story, carried along from before Lileath was married and before the gods were understood. Or it could simply be the nature of the infinite is hard to grasp.
You are stalling.
Enough.
You reach out and begin to unwind the locks. Not simply striking with brute force like some Druchii bearing ill-intent but properly. You are the key and it is the lock. There is, you believe, some slight forgiveness in it as you pull through the magic, rather than trying to force it too much. But you would still prefer not to learn exactly what defenses a god prepares for an interloper in His most sacred place. So you are very delicate as you weave through the Azyr, through the Ghur, the Aqshy.
And then with the crash of a door, it opens and—
Elsewhere
Elsewhen
Elsewise
Who…who are you?
You know…what you are. But who has evaded you seems to have slipped from your hands like water. You think, you meditate—
"Kill her!"
Some instinct guides you along the misty path, trees tall and leafy and shrouded in shadow and mist and darkness. Elthelu, Hell-Moon, hangs thick and fat in the night sky, but Elthelu alone does, putrid, mold green hanging in a night sky black as silk, even as it blazes with unholy power. The stars, where are the stars? Hidden, cloaked in a black sky. Lileath's own hidden, precious jewel hides in the blackness too, its silver light nowhere to be found; Elanith hides from this evil. Hides…or lies in wait.
You follow the clamoring sound of metal on metal, of soldiers jeering and arrive in a clearing, demarcated by branching, vicious, spiky trees, black and white and coated in moss and blood and no end of other, vile things. Bright fires rise up from behind the treelines and go somewhere, somewhere far, far away. At the center of the camp, a woman, a Dwarf, a Runelord lies bound in all manner of rope and chains and more, her head resting on a stump even as she glares at all of you. She wears powerful armor, covered in the scratch magic of the Haclad. Her ax is much the same. Her cloak. Her belt.
And all of them…
Her armor is made of dragon scale, dragon bone, dragon flesh, scales and plates and bone shaped and shaved and worked until it can stop just about any strike. And not the kind that can be donated without harm, either. The rich, vivid red tells you beyond any question that they were young, as well, young and full of potential, cut down as a youth. Her cloak is made from the scaled flesh of the naiads, who stood with you against their brutality and were slaughtered to the main for their trouble, so many dead and heaped up like trophies for these savages. Her ax's haft is made of the wood of dryads, a story so very similar but even more heartless, for once they were done slaying the defenders of them they then burned those forests. Her belt is of elven make…and not a gift, that is certain.
It is…is familiar, and yet not as though you lived it. As though you were told of it.
Soldiers, many soldiers, fill the clearing, the Anointed of Asuryan hefting his halberd overhead wreathed in blue flames. Phoenix Guard stand silent and idle, unreadable. The Handmaidens of Avelorn watch with grim satisfaction. The Dragon Princes will not even speak such is the extent of their fury, but only watch with grim satisfaction mounted atop their dragon companions. The White Lions joke and cavort, jeering at her for her arrogance. To try and face the Anointed herself in single combat, arrogantly believing herself his equal. He who fears no death? He who bears the touch of the god?
Yes. The very heights of your gods' champions are gathered here. The pinnacle of Ulthuan. They have decided she deserves—no, needs—to die.
Which makes it deeply unfortunate that you need to keep her alive. Hysh boils from her armor, from her ax, her belt, her cape, her everything. You know those Runes, you know not how but you do. The Master Rune of Kazrik Pleasurebane, of Morek Hopebearer, of Skalla Honestheart, of Hugrim Peacemaker. An enemy of Chaos; and not one that shall stand idle by either. And…and compared to that, what is the brief pleasure of revenge? Of violence?
You move your walking stick like a club even as you flow through the mist like some big cat, and though it is sheared through it is enough for it was strong oak, knocking the blow off course even as you once again lose your damn stick. A croaking voice emerges from the Anointed's throat, and you understand.
"You would face us all, for her?"
"I would face all to deny you, Quioriour." He smiles, a grim thing.
And then the world becomes fire again as he raises his hands.
No chance, not against such a being.
But the fight justifies itself, as you bring your sword up and meet him.
In a move he has you on your back on the ground, has planted his boot on your chest, has you controlled and so has control of your life.
In a second he manages to shatter your arm even as you strike up at him with Cyathyal,
In a third he raises his halberd and—
—
Ulthuan. Home.
But not as you would ever wish to see it.
The rebels have attacked. Chrace is caught on the front lines. You can hear metal on metal in the distance as skillful elves duel one another. Elthelu casts a grim green light, half full. Elanith is half empty, half shadowed, half constrained. The stars only flicker lightly; but that, that all is enough for you to see by, to know what comes to pass.
But worst of all…worst of all your own brother leads them. Your own House, Blackfang, risen up in service to this…this Witch King, this traitor, this servant of evil, the black lion rise up on the field in rebellion and kinstrife. They burn the forests; they burn the plains. They enslave the beasts. They turn fields to ash and cinder and dust. They make mounds of bodies, hundreds high, leaving them as a warning. Your own brother, your own flesh and blood, has fallen so far, has fallen so fast. It boggles the mind to believe, but it is so.
And so this you will not allow.
And they are coming.
You bear your fang, the white blade Cyanthyal, and head out, through the mansion doors. A band of the rebels, the rabble, surround you, armed in all manner of ways.
Your brother, armored in black and red and armed with a long, vicious looking spear dripping blue and pink venom stands at the front. "Brother!"
"Brother." You nod at the members of the Cult of Pleasure that have come with him. "It is nice to know you have made friends in your absence."
"Friends. Power. Wealth. A name for myself. A destiny. All that I ever wanted. Not that you would know, mage." He gestures at your sword. "Foolish of you to bring that. I always did win."
You enter your guard, a simple manticore tail, blade diagonal, right foot forward, waiting, passive, calm. "I let you win." He has reach.
He lashes out with a quick, poisonous, deadly strike. Artful, fast. Brutal. The wind whistles as it flows over the ithilmar. It is beautiful. It is flowing. It is swift like wind and strong like the lion and hard as the stone.
You block, knocking one blow to the side, flow around the half-feints, and then cut at his face. He catches the attack on his gauntlet and redirects the blow, but his eyes widen a tinge.
But you have balance. And in a dance that is the more important.
A rhythm quickly develops between the two of you, whirling around each other, cloaks dancing in the midnight air, pushed along by the breeze. Your weapon flashes again and again, but so does his, and the only thing quicker than your sword is your mind. This has to end. You told half-truth: you let him win, yes, but every time is taking quite a bit of stretch in the matter. You may be more balanced, but Anath Raema whispers in his ear. He may be more bloodthirsty, but you are better on the defense. This could go on a very long time.
A very, very long time. Unless someone finally chooses to stop it.
It is a bitter pill to swallow. For to kill your kin is a sin.
But to let him continue his path of destruction is a sin too.
So you make a choice.
You shift, and his spear bites into your armor and into your ribs and your lungs and you are dead, but not yet, not immediately. His eyes widen as you bring Cyanthyal up, and then he screams as you put it through his heart, all of it happening in the fraction of a fraction of a second. He falls.
You fall.
"Your own brother?"
"Rebellion…is crime." You can hardly breathe. Can hardly think. Can hardly feel. Blackness creeps in at the edges of your vision. "Kinslaying…is crime. Judgment is demanded. If not me, then who?" His eyes droop low, slowly and slowly coming together; until at last he breathes he breathes no more. "Rest."
You are tired yourself.
You close your eyes…
—
The sun is down, the sky is black. But yet still you see, and you see perhaps the brighter for it in this place of dark remnants and darker memories. For the bright stars overhead shine, even through the bleak cloud cast by Chaos' heart. Elanith is bright and beautiful and silver even as Enthlui flees in shame and dread and terror, Chaos' Harbinger on the mortal plane afraid. Magic burns as magic beyond magic duels against itself, is turned to wage against itself.
The boy—and make no mistake, he is a boy—stands before you in the darkness. He is lit in many hues of pink and blue as he unleashes bright fire against you, even as you reach out with your own senses, shift the Wind, unwind the matrices and turn it instead into Ghur, making it nothing more and nothing less than a flickering howl before it reaches you. You march forward, cloak billowing in the wind, hand outstretched and fingers splayed, chilled and dark, siphoning away what embers remain with the might of your mind and your prowess. Your blade glitters like diamond in the moonlight.
His face is scrunched in concentration, concern…fear. A patchy youth's beard erupts from his face, he can't be more than seventeen. Even for humans…even for humans, that is young. You idly bat aside another, sloppy burst of fire, even as sweat pours down his brow. His red hair is long and dirty, filthy even, from running. Running from many. Running from the Urithain, who insist on his skull presented to their lord on his throne as proof the deed is done. From the humans, who would burn him as a witch. From you. Is it any wonder, in such a situation, that he might decide to throw his hat in with somebody who promised, who lied with sweet words and saw treasures and knowledge stolen from his foe for their trouble?
"Why! Won't! You! Die!" He tosses ball after ball of fire, and you glide past them, grace and ease written in your body, in your stance, and in your walk.
"I am damnably stubborn." You wave your hand and crush the paltry remnants of Aqshy and Dhar he had forced under his control, advancing forward and grabbing him by the throat, lifting him with Ghur hardened muscles. His eyes widen.
A child. Or if not quite a child, close enough. Near enough.
On the one hand, allow a servant of the Quoriour to continue serving his bleak master. Allow that which is evil to endure. Allow that which is wrong to face no penance. On the other, end a life before it could truly begin. Slay a youth. Become a murderer, a killer, for this is certainly no battle.
The moonlight shines brightly down upon him, and you see the flickering light in his eyes. Some slight measure of youthful naivety, in spite of everything.
What you are about to do is deeply risky.
Dangerous.
Foolhardy, even.
It is also right.
Reaching out with the magic, you force Qhaysh, purest Qhaysh, into him, a rope braided around a core of Azyr.
For mercy is written in the stars.
It does not hurt. He does not scream. He does not cry, nor weep, nor perish. It is simply that you are scouring his soul of the marks of Tzeenth. And they roar, denied their feast of a future perverted by fear and ambition and envy, and your own soul burns as they unleash their rage at his denial. Now, with the Hell-Moon hidden, and Lileath's jewel strong. Now, as you are mighty and bold and merciful. It is enough. It is enough.
He falls in a heap to the floor as you let him go and stumble away yourself, exhausted for all it was a brief moment in the mortal realm. "What…what did you do? Why can I not feel him anymore? Hear him? Sense him?"
"I have given you a choice." You pocket the necklace from the Lizardmen, to return it later. That ought, at least, to give you some leverage over them. "It is up to you to decide which is right and which is wrong." You walk away.
You hear his footsteps a moment later, following behind you, even as the moon looks down upon you.
—
The first thing you see when you return to the mundane is Indrion, sniffing at your face. Further down below you can hear what you deeply hope is Indrast sniffing at your hands. "What, trying to decide if I'm good enough to eat you gluttonous creatures?" They back away as you sit up, grabbing your head in your hands. You scratch their back to reassure them even as you get up to your feet.
You are Vardanis of Chrace.
You are Vardanis of House Snowmane.
You are Vardanis the Mage.
You know what, who, you are. You plant your blade into the stone, and look around. You stand in the southernmost point of a vast cavern. On the walls, images of Asuryan's battle with Tzeentch are carved into the stone and then painted with shimmering paint, but not that alone. There are three other entrances—and exits—heading to the north, the west, and the east. Carved into the walls, where there is not art there are statues. Aenarion, of course, and the Phoenix Kings. But all head towards a champion you have not seen before, for all he wears the Dragon Armor.
Curious.
But not, you think, your concern. Rather your mind turns to the pyramid at the center. It is made of finest glass, utterly perfect and without flaws. Carved into it is more of the antediluvian tongue. Nestled inside, and you can see it, is an egg, multi-hued, prismatic, glorious and more glorious by the moment. Perhaps it is dead.
And perhaps it is not.
There can be only one way to check. You stretch out with your mind, opening your Windsight.
A natural sieve of Qhyash, not that which is merely shaped by mortal will but that natural flowing magic which does not linger and become Dhar but flows, ideally to the Vortex though given that you are looking at it and it sure isn't going to the Vortex clearly not necessarily, itself something that would anger a number of the Loremasters and Archmages of the White Tower.
If they were inclined to believe a mere Mage, anyway.
It suffuses your senses, not merely your Windsight where it is a prismatic, beautiful flow of colors and shades mere Eltharin does not have the words for in exactly the perfect proportion, shining, shimmering, splendid, a sign not of purity but of the balance which all Elves must seek or become mad. It is a chorus, bass and tenor and soprano and alto working together in purest harmony, sometimes hot and quick sometimes somber and dark and a thousand other tones aside. Your whole body feels it has been placed in a hot fire that does not burn, lightning and thunder booming overhead. The taste of fresh wine and good brandy made of ambrosial apples. Such is the entire cavern; but its truest, surest source, the jewel upon its crown, is that egg which rests, hidden, there.
You refuse to turn aside.
Your eyes remain open, your senses remain clear and focused, your mind sharp, as you Understand.
—
High Elf Culture Corner: Elthelu: Morrslieb. Derived from the Asun Elthrai and Elui.
Elanith: Mannslieb. Derived from the Asun Elui and Eanith. Sariour is also a term for this moon, one which places more connection to its natural state.
Quioriour: A name for Tzeentch. Derived from the Asun Quul and Sariour.
Urithain: Lizardmen, one of several terms. Derived from the Asun Urithair.
—
Full gains and effects will be listed with the Social Turn, but this felt like a more natural place to break it up.
Ok. Wow. All those snippets and descriptions were honestly really interesting.
And I am as excited as anybody to find out what, exactly, we are going to get out of all these. And I am interested in knowing if we are outright getting the Egg, or would taking it out be another task in and of itself.
The choice for the mystery box option was worth it. We saw the story of Asuryan that no one else knows about, the fight with the Runelord, what is probably our ancestor killing his brother, and someone purging the influence of a Chaos God from a cultist and turning them to Order.
I am so hyped to see more of the Temple, the investment into the Temple and the 5 AP was so worth it.
The choice for the mystery box option was worth it. We saw the story of Asuryan that no one else knows about, the fight with the Runelord, what is probably our ancestor killing his brother, and someone purging the influence of a Chaos God from a cultist and turning them to Order.
I am so hyped to see more of the Temple, the investment into the Temple and the 5 AP was so worth it.
I interpreted it as mix of both. As in those were actual historical scenes, but interpreted through dreams, and Vardanis was being tested in those scenes. In the same way dreams pull on memories to fill themselves out.
[X] You write to Lady Ythil, for if anyone would understand your dread it is she
You walk through the halls, each of them covered with intricately carved and painted imagery of Asuryan journeying through Tzeentch's Labyrinth. A trap designed to bind the Emperor of the Heavens, but He was greater. Did He journey the same as you did, face the same tests? Wander those halls? But then, wither Lileath? Whither claim of the moon? Whither much? At the least, after that first, fateful journey through the tests—and they were tests, that much is damnably—the halls are relatively normal halls. The carvings sometimes seem to live, to swim through the time the same as you do.
Compared to an average day in Saphery, that is just about nothing.
You support yourself on the stone, walking hands on the rock, letting yourself trace the cold granite and the smooth paint.
The particular perturbations in the Aethyr that are the mark of the Archmage Ythil grow in your senses, expanding, unveiling, unrolling and unfurling. Like a flower in bloom they grow to dominate the Aethyr, the particular marks of magic that are the calling cards of the Archmages flowing from her like mist, like good, pure water from the finest spring. There is a babbling, of sorts, as the magic comes from in motes and waves.
You stumble as you walk, but catch yourself once again on the rock. You grit your teeth, slam your hand on your chest, and finally manage to step out standing ramrod straight, followed by your lions, at your right and left. You see Ythil for the first time in forty years, clad in robes black and gray. A staff in one hand, topped by the snarling visage of mighty Indraugnir, carved from a powerstone of Ulgu, resting in a staff of Starwood, itself embossed with gold shaped into the sacred writing of cunning Loec, the wood itself stained black.
You feel the rustling shadow and the slight wind as her Windsight stretches out. She walks slowly at first, tapping her staff on the green grass that grows on the slope. She quirks her eyebrows first and you feel it harder on you as she examines you even more deeply. Her face screws up as she looks to a level that one might consider invasive, but considering the likely state of your soul all things considered you can't be mad. Her placid steps become broader strides, devouring the distance between the two of you. Then her eyes go wide as saucers and she all but breaks out into a sprint, sword on her belt and bow on her shoulders jingling as she does.
"Hell-"
"What did you do to yourself?" She grabs you by the shoulders and begins poring over your soul, examining it from many angles.
"Many titles bears Asuryan. I believe I have passed through a test to learn the source of one of them."
"With all the magic pouring through you now, you're damn lucky you didn't give yourself an Arcane Mark," she says even as she grabs your jaw and shifts your head, before tracing it down along your arm and finding that the Phoenix, constellation of Asuryan, constellation of mercy, rebirth, has been burned into your flesh. Not the bright and fiery thing, but the constellation itself, lined in blue and white like delicate ink. "What happened? And not an ounce of damn mysticism now, as clear as you can, you impetuous blasted youth."
"Many years ago now as I was hunting the intruders, I discovered a temple, long abandoned, dedicated to Asuryan. It has taken time to open the door, but I have as was my duty. I entered and saw, well to be honest I am not quite sure what I saw. I am inclined to believe that Asuryan was attempting to translate His battle with Chaos, with the Underworld, into mortal terms. Afterwards I had this." You gesture with your hands. "And a new resource for all of us to wield. An older Anoqeyån for us to wield, to enrich our language, our speech, our strength."
"But that makes no sense," her face fades from its fury to angered confusion, "Anoqeyån already described all of magical reality. Why would it change like the mere displacing of air unless something changed the very nature of that reality?"
"Exactly."
She looks at you intently.
Very intently.
Extremely intently.
More intent than you could imagine.
And then she draws back, her eyes wide again. "Isha's Tears, you're serious!"
"I always am."
"But why you?" You lift an eyebrow. "Oh don't give me that, you're a skilled mage to be sure but I can name a dozen Archmages, a dozen Loremasters, all of them dedicated to Him, all of them skilled with magic. Some of them dating back to the War of the Beard."
"And perhaps that is it," you say before you can think, sighing as your mouth outruns your mind once again.
"Oh?" Her voice is more curious than arcy, but arcy it is to be sure.
Oh well, sacrifice the lamb, sacrifice the skin. "Perhaps He is tired of the ancients, who have driven us into war, failure, and bloodshed? A new era, a new people? A new tower of magic, a new Phoenix King, why not a new temple."
"Vardanis." Her voice is flat and cold. "I respect your work against the Druchii very well. But please, for the sake of every mage to walk the Kingdoms, never say that in public ever again. You hear me?"
You shrug, and roll your hand as though to dismiss the thought. "Until I am mighty enough to back myself in the matter, anyway."
"Very well. I cannot make you see sense, only hope you shall see reason in time." She looks at the temple, but seems to fade away from the challenge, as though she fears what she might see. "Do not go further into it until, and unless, you have grown stronger in your magic. More refined."
"That was the plan. Now then…shall we discuss that which I wrote to you about?"
"That we may." She breathes and stands straighter as that affair which ever lurks on the minds of the Nagarythians stands forward again:
War against Naggaroth.
"There are ways to find the truth. Ways to strike at them. Antheus is out of your reach, I think, but her retinue will not. If, indeed, they are the servants of Naggaroth, one way or another, they shall bear the mark of the Patron. Of the Unerring Arrow."
"And thou shall know the marks of the False King by the fire He leaves behind. Not merely Malekith then."
"Not merely Malekith, no. Khaine is not a subtle god. His marks can be hidden from the uninitiated…but we are initiated aren't we, Vardanis?"
"That we are."
"I will show you," she says, "and you will learn."
—
Results:
New Options unlocked!
Modified Hunting for Druchii Option!
Sky Servant becomes Heaven Servant (+25% chance for one extra AP to be invested into options involving the Heavens, in either sense (Cadai or the Skies))
1 Egg (Unknown)
Learn of Magical Comprehension: Emperor of the Heavens, Unlocked for Azyr and Ghur, others will be unlocked by Temple actions
