Despite their attempted predictions to respond to the themes of the domain, they found themselves facing a single, overwhelming foe. He was even forbidden from using the very mechanic they had convened meetings over. He didn't seem to mind though, he wasn't even going to put on a shirt.
"Dragon fight, boys, get arranged," yelled Agnes as she marshaled the raiders. "House Garnet, I want you damaging and avoiding damage. No clue how aggro works with this guy… just start slow. "
A minute later she yelled, "Buff it! We pull in thirty seconds."
Harding felt a wave of magical effects go off. Layers of enchantments coated him. A few even downed potions or ate pills. The Brothers Blythe stepped forward and took a stance several yards before the stairs. None of this kind of prep had taken place before, at least not in front of Harding. He'd been too late to the first fight for buffs and the second one had been an ambush.
This feels familiar finally.
"Pull 'im," the Agnes’ raid voice boomed. It was surreal to Harding. This wasn't an unaware npc, Ghasatavaro knew what they were about and casually watched as they did it. He very well could have read each buff cast. A single, thin thread of magic lanced out from behind the tanks and landed on the stairs, leaving a dark spot on the polished stone. Runild. Literally landing a small spell on the base step of the stairs.
Ghasatavaro seemed to think it was funny, he laughed at least. He took his time standing and stretched a little. His muscles bulged as he contracted them all at once and suddenly he was bathed in a golden sheen. Then he raised his left hand straight forward and rapidly made hand signs. Between the distance and the quickness, Harding couldn't make out the specific articulations.
"What is that…"
"He's casting…"
"Yeah but what is with the hand…"
Ghasatavaro finished his cast then moved his hand in a circle, punching the palm forwards before pulling back to a specific, unheard beat. As he did so he moved his hand drawing a circle in the air.
"Fuck, is that…,"
"He's casting a ritual with his hand!"
"RANGED BURN," came Agnes' raid voice.
Over forty magical attacks shook the spirit around him. The visible ones streaked through air, crashing into Ghasatavaro. He didn't seem to notice, instead there was now a glowing nine-pointed star in front of his left palm. It hung in the air a moment before fading.
A half dozen slower acting spell effects dropped on him and smoke wisped from his body. Ghasatavaro bellowed a roar and extended his right hand out. Harding risked a look with spirit senses and was stunned. Spirit was a torrent in the chamber, churning at a hard boil. As the attacks streaked and splashed against the godling, he was awash in a violent vortex. The magics spun and twisted around the room before draining into a brilliant white point on Ghasatavaro’s hip that burned like the sun.
Harding could see this magic, it would not be denied, not even by his defective sight. In all the chaos it stood alone and seared his mind’s eye. Just as Harding turned his head away, a small explosion in the magic burst from Ghasatavaro's abdomen. Dropping the sense, Harding saw a longsword in the godling's right hand. He realized it was an item summons. The sword was probably a greatsword to a human, but in the giant’s hand it looked like a slightly too small longsword. Harding wasn’t going to open his senses again, he knew it had to be a powerful magical weapon.
Then again, maybe he doesn't even need that.
As a realization of what he had sensed formed in his mind, he said to no one, "Oh shit!" No one could have heard. Harding yelled to Vostek next to him, "Captain, the fetish on his hip, we gotta-"
Ghasatavaro came in a blur. He moved with unfathomable speed and plowed into the braced Brothers and then through them to the back of the raid. Precisely the back and no further. Bodies flew in his wake. At the back of them he pivoted on his foot and swung his left hand towards the duke. Whatever ritual he had brewed was released and no one needed enhanced senses to know it.
Harding had no idea what it was, but he heard a loud crack, shrill whistles and people near him exploded. Whatever scatter of projectiles he'd fired had gone through the whole crowd and hit the buildings behind. The walls burst in violent explosions of stone shards.
The duke staggered and fell. The head of whoever had been behind him became a jet of gore leaving a mangled stump as the body collapsed. A column of raiders all the way through the raid just dropped, left dead or maimed in an instant. Harding looked down. Jarred laid dead at his feet, his arm all but torn from him by a penetration that had opened his ribs too. His breastplate was curled in, the metal torn. It had gone through the front of the chest and out the side, taking the whole arm with it.
Jasika was alive. He didn't have to see her to know it, he could taste her magic. It tasted like blood in his mouth, felt like fuzz in his eyes. It kept going and going, a wind up that seemed far too long. The little noble was pulling in spirit at a dangerous rate. To be noticeable over the noise, to effect a low buzz in this cacophony of casting, she was crafting a response the likes of which he had yet to see.
As the raid rushed to even the score, Harding caught a glimpse of Ghasatavaro through the ritual's carved chasm of carnage. Hanging from his belt was a crude figure made of copper. A lumpy doll of metal twined in effigy. It was where the glow had been, now it was actually on fire. Waving his sword in a lazy circle, Ghasatavaro taunted them with his relaxed pose. Harding watched his left hand in fear, but he made no sinister motions. Having unleashed his opening salvo, the godling was not pressing his advantage.
Is he on a cooldown?
Harding yelled, "Get his fetish," but it wasn't loud enough, nor honestly, specific enough.
As the wall of melee raiders impacted and swarmed, Ghasatavaro's sword chopped down like he was cutting underbrush. Some swings cleaved though, others were halted under staggering impact. Occasionally, a block would throw the raider back into the press. Polished lance-like polearms flashed bright in between the attacking tanks to stab. The godling took wounds and bled but was unconcerned and uninhibited.
A solid pillar of lightning crashed down on Ghasatavaro, big enough to completely obscure him for a moment. The crack of it left Harding momentarily deafened. Raiders too close were thrown back, while others recoiled. Jasika. With ringing ears he watched the lights recede from his retinas, revealing a smoking and red-fleshed godling.
Ghasatavaro snapped an arc with his sword and it sparked to life, covered in crackling power. Either he had lightning powers too or he'd just stolen Jasika's thunder. One of the Brothers had regained his feet and charged at him, but he blasted a bolt of lightning from his sword tip at him. The tank erupted backwards through the air. Ghasatavaro did not relent and the discharge pushed the Blythe across the floor until the charred lump hit the foot of the stairs. There it remained, half slagged armor and some charred, smoking meat.
The raid tried to hack into him with weapons, but only the bristle of polearms had any real opportunity to find purchase. The frantic magical assault on Ghasatavaro made it dangerous enough to be too near him, nevermind the dangers of the godling himself. His blade darted and swept, keeping the front line on the defensive and bleeding. Ghasatavaro’s blade stayed low to guard the smaller humans’ attacks, using downward thrusts to attack though occasionally his blade would whirl into a high chop.
The godling bled from many wounds and yet none seemed grievous. The spells fell on him relentlessly, though he was largely unbothered by any but the most vicious. Slick with blood and red still with burns, he seemed preternaturally hale. Nimble and powerful, he moved with little concern in predatory aggression.
Unable to communicate what he'd seen effectively, Harding pushed forward towards Ghasatavaro to try himself. He took his spirit body and pulled nearly all of the left half over his right arm, wrapping and twisting it into an impromptu armor.
And then he waited.
Ghasatavaro's sword came down against Agnes' shield, again and again until she was driven to her knees. With the godling's focus in the other direction, Harding lunged forward to make a try for the fetish. The godlings' sword raised high and this time it came down cutting cleanly through Agnes' attempt to block, shearing her half open from shoulder to hip. Harding couldn't stop, his momentum driving him forward ending with the spirit glove extending into a lance attack. He did not aim for Ghasatavaro nor the fetish, but the ring on the strap that held the fetish to the belt.
It had no effect.
Harding wasn't deterred. He had suspected it might not work. Such attacks had been all but ineffective against inanimate objects. He bent the tip of the lance back into a hook and keyed while trying to pull it. It latched hold, seemingly more interactive with magical items than the mundane. Or, perhaps, it was the torrent of spirit flowing into it making it solidly of that realm. He yanked on the ring to pull it loose, but once more the attempt was unsuccessful.
With his spirit body extended and hooked around the godling's gear, Harding felt extremely endangered. He tried to key the ring itself, but it didn't care. Without any other ideas he and no time to rethink things he focused his intent.
Spirit guide my allies' spells.
It shouldn't have worked, but it did. A little. Some attacks curved hitting the ring, most flew straight. There was something here about the fundamental laws of magic. A form of channeling. But now wasn't the time. The spiritual heat of those spells he bent scorched his spirit. He wanted to let go in the great agony delivered to him, but he didn't have a chance. He felt Ghasatavaro's gaze fall on him, a crushing pressure of deadly intent. Harding knew he would die, so he let his spirit burn as he drew spells through it.
At least he could be helpful in death.
Two whipping tendrils of constant, snaking lightning wrapped around Ghasatavaro's arm, wrestling for control of his sword. They hissed and crackled with vicious energy. Harding's skin was burned from his nearness, Ghasatavaro's superheated flesh cracked. Jasika again. No one else handled lightning like that.
Ghasatavaro struggled, his arm both subject to the force of the spell and the disruption of the electrical current in it. The air filled with burning ozone and burnt flesh. Spells continued to ride Harding's spirit guide, consuming his spirit. He swore he could taste the colors and see the shades of lethal intent as they rode through him. He was a magical lightning rod. Ghasatavaro pivoted, turning his hip away from Harding. Harding had no idea what finally did it as he was distracted by his imminent death, but the ring broke. The fetish fell into his spirit hook and jiggled there.
Having the magic bauble, he ran.
He immediately went spilling forward as Ghasatavaro's free hand hit him with a balled fist. Harding spiked into the ground with a crunch and pop. His left arm immediately became both numb and a painful storm of fire. He tried to get up as fast as he could, his left hand still clutching the burning metal as it was branded into his flesh. It was still drawing some spells to it, though only a fraction. One hand down, he pushed to his knees and hopped to his feet. He was riding adrenaline and who knew what magic.
With his mission clear, he ran.
He bounded through the thinning crowd, lacking thought of what to do next. It didn't really matter though, he felt a tug in his chest and looked down. There was a two inch hole there. His brain disconnected and he fell as his legs turned elastic and unresponsive. He fell, smashing face first into the stone floor.
He lay there in agony, helpless as the sound of the fighting started to grow distant. His body was unresponsive, his spirit body slowly unhooking from his flesh. He looked at his spirit body and saw it pulling away. Not pulling he realized, it was failing to be connected. As his body gave up, whatever power that connected his spirit to his physical body weakened and the two were drifting apart.
As that distance grew, Harding realized he wasn't looking from his body to his spirit, but from his spirit to his body. His perspective felt like it had changed, though he wasn't sure. Instead, he spent what energy he had to control his spirit body. He reached out simultaneously for the fetish and for his body.
Touching the fetish was like intentionally electrocuting yourself. His spirit vibrated from the power with such force he thought he would come apart. Harding felt doom swallow him in a moment, but kept reaching for purchase on his body.
Ghasatavaro had activated something behind him. Things were going poorly for the raid. In desperation, Harding flailed his spirit about. He continued to slowly drift away. Wide, panicked sweeps of his spirit felt nothing.
It had been a good idea.
Harding accepted his death then. He would return. There was nothing to truly fear. This was an end, but not the end. In a detached, scholarly sort of mind he traced slowly down his spine. None of the gates were in the spine itself, but they were aligned with it. He might as well use this moment to learn.
A memory came to him of spirit-drilling those vampire carrots. That thicker "other" energy below the last gate that had broken his mind suggested there was more. Maybe it was the ambient, maybe something else. At least in those mobs, but maybe in everything. He tried to press what was left of his spirit to his Heart gate, then he tried to push lower through it. It had no effect. Clutching at his spirit, refusing to die before he learned, he dragged his awareness down his spine.
He probed; shifted, then probed again.
His spirit finally drifted free, merely aligned with his body, but his awareness remained exploring the corporeal. His corpse. He tried to not be distracted by his own death and continued his survey. He got to what he deemed to be too low on his body, and started again. Lower and lower he went once more, slowly feeling with pressing energy.
Come on spirit, flow to where you were.
When he found a slight divot, he hesitated. He wouldn't have even noticed if he didn't have the spirit equivalent of teeth-rattling power flowing through him from the crazy ambient energies. Even then he wondered if it was imagined. It was like holding a hose against a wall. If the seal was broken the water would spray out. Maybe he had just rocked the edge a bit. The fetish was still in his hand, its energy leakage racing from him in all directions. But while it burned into the flesh of his hand, while it dissipated in all directions, the majority pushed up his spirit channels. He followed it with his mind, swimming in the stream of energetic excess until he hit that wall. With great effort he pushed through.
And slammed into his body.
His former body's muscles contracted, spasming for a second as foreign spirit surged through him. The eyelids opened. Harding was seeing through the physical eyes which looked up at his disembodied self while simultaneously sensing down with his spirit. A confusion of sensory overlays writhed in the grasp of his thought. He looked into his own eyes which were looking back into him. It nearly broke his ability to think, cognitive capacity and the familiarity of what he considered reality both shattered hand in hand.
Attempting to ignore the jumbled mess of his mind, Harding pulled himself back into the dead body that had recently been him. Using the foreign spirit he patched into what had been, and perhaps still was, him. It felt like it took forever, slipping slowly into the decaying flesh sleeve. And even when he'd aligned the gates of spirit and body, the collective being wasn't as receptive as usual for things to naturally align.
Without a better idea, Harding connected to the fetish burned into his hand. The Throat gate casters often channeled through their hands, therefore it had to be a normal spirit body connection. He was unpracticed and going backwards, there was to be no grace to it. He just tapped into that torrent at the source, consuming all the emitted energies. He held on tight and let the pressure from the fetish do the work. It flooded in, so great even the damaged flesh of his arm swelled from the pressure.
It was in his spirit body and not the physical, yet it felt like it filled his throat and then saturated him. It was like trying to breathe water, but he didn't care since he was already dead. He was dead and didn't need to breathe.
I have control, I do not need control. I am.
BREATHE
He intended to sit up and he did. Normally, Harding would not claim to be graceful, but this was like a bad zombie movie. He demanded to be standing and his body obeyed, but without the finer learned skills that lent some semblance of grace.
Spirit, fix my body. I require it to be repaired.
Something happened, some unknown response triggered. But it was obtuse and he wasn't sure what was occurring other than that the stream of power from the fetish was vibrating differently. He reached for and fumbled with a green vial before realizing the bottom half of it was missing. Blown through with his lung most likely. He skipped a few vials down the bandolier and tried again. This one was full but his inability to move his left arm brought him to an impasse. Combat raged around him as he put it to his mouth and clenched down. Trying to not shatter his teeth, he began twisting until the top came off. A little of the potion spilled down his throat. Harding was thankful his senses weren't working right as the wretched liquid dribbled down his throat.
Small wins.
He took the vial and poured it into his chest wound. He was vaguely aware that he was just pouring some of it through him. The hole must pass through his body. It had taken out a part of his heart and lungs. Harding used another vial. It seemed, to his detached mind, that an exploded heart and ventilated lung was probably at least a two vial wound.
Pain rocked him suddenly, his senses surging to restoration as his brain turned on again. Coming out of his undead-like state, he fell forward without control. His left shoulder slammed into the ground and popped back into place. Harding thought to himself that it shouldn't fix his dislocation, but accepted it as blood filled his nose.
The more functional he became, the more the fetish's power burned through him. The restoration sped up as pathways were vitalized. He lifted himself to his feet again. Other than the intense pain and disconnected awareness that blood was leaking from him in many ways it shouldn't, he felt normal. More than normal. He felt like a balloon that was suddenly full, but the flow of spirit hadn't stopped and now the wholeness of him was starting to stretch.
He was sure when that fetish ran out, he would die again. He was limited in time. He needed to be near Ghasatavaro. Now.
And he was.
The break in reality would have had him puking, but he hadn't really become himself yet. It was just a facsimile of him, powered by some power greater than him. Be it a god's power, a godling’s or the tumultuous ambient pressure focused into him, he was. It was just another wave in the storm of chaos in his mind. Had he teleported or just blacked out during movement? He needed a weapon, where was his staff? Behind him on the ground, amid the dying and doomed. He needed it.
Harding raised a hand and the staff was in it. He brought the other hand down, burning the fetish into the staff. His melting soon bonded his hand to the weapon. He aimed for Ghasatavaro's neck and struck, but the godling dodged the blow even in this weird flow of time.
Is this the normal state of being for a godling?
The blow missed its target, but struck the godlings' inner forearm that gripped his sword. The grip went weak, the sword dangled but did not drop. A sudden rain of blows hit the sword, capitalizing on the momentary stun and the sword was knocked from his hand. Ghasatavaro's hand flashed out and closed around Harding's head, then squeezed. Harding was studying himself once more, watching his headless body slump.
All of that, for a single stun.
But it was enough, blades found purchase. Spells rent flesh, curses leached into body and mind. Ghasatavaro's seeming invulnerability had been broken for a moment and that was all the raid needed to tear him apart until he was naught but bone and tissue.
Harding was aware of events as he watched from above through a slightly fisheye lens of vision. Departed from his body, he hovered in an erratic flowstate of time and space. Some things and moments were hyper realistic, while the majority were just vague impressions.
At some point, he became aware of the spiders. Or, spider-like things at least. They were more blurry impressions than fully resolved entities. They were the size of cats and always at the corner of his perception, never where he looked. These weren't one of those mechanical things that had raised the alarm before, but some kind of apparitions.
Other things moved deeper in the dark, a shine of eyes, a blurry figure, even sounds of a busy market. A pale horse watched from top the steps. An old man, bent with age, eyes white with blindness stood beside it. But still, all the while, Yhavat glowed golden, always in detail, somehow connected through the weird blend of realities.
Reality? Layer? Subroutines?
He could not see the spirits of the others killed, but he saw and felt Ghasatavaro's spirit rise. The giant man was a torch in the gloom, burning with spiritual power and reverberating psychic waves of emotion. He screamed soundlessly, but the emotions crashed over Harding, drowning him in anger and frustration. Saturated with injustice and indignation, they felt animosity towards the gods and… towards something else. Some power, shadowy and hidden, undefined but present. Holding him back, making him fail for some scheme that disregarded him.
Betrayal?
Harding realized his very self was being overwhelmed by the strength of the thoughts coming off the spirit of the fallen godling. He was losing track of who he was and what was Ghasatavaro. The death of an immortal was a clarion in whatever transitory realm they shared.
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
Blinding light flashed.
Harding was laying on his back, staring up at the glowing crystal outgrowths on the ceiling. He blinked fresh, newly remade eyes. All those alien thoughts and emotions rapidly receded, draining his soggy mind of the ghosts of alien sentiments.
A face eclipsed his view, Runild curtained by her long sable hair hanging down. She looked amused or, perhaps, she'd eaten Ghasatavaro's heart raw. She was enigmatic that way. Maybe it was his inchoate rebirth, but her eyes seemed to sparkle with their own light. "You need to learn to run better, naught-monk."
Runild didn't help him up. She just watched him struggle, bemused. "You're wobbly," she commented. Harding noticed she was playing with Ghasatavaro's fetish in her hands, smoothing and stroking it. She looked up, suddenly aware he was watching her. "I'm going to put it in the pot, I just wanted to see it. It is so curious, an incredible example of conduction."
"Magic," he asked. A pain stabbed in his head and he listed sideways before it suddenly was gone and he was just fine again. He tried to blink away the feeling that his brain had been turned inside out.
Resurrection is rough.
"Yes it is," she told him in a congratulatory tone. Runild turned from him to walk back to the others. He couldn't tell if she was confirming his guess or mocking him. He followed.
Yhavat was in the middle of the raid and people were slowly rising in a ring around him. Rebirth of the dead crept out from him as he stood still and unresponsive, the progressive reunion of slowly mended flesh and detached spirit the only sign he was engaged at all.
Up close, Yhavat bothered Harding even more. The more he looked, the more alien and wrong Yhavat was. He had a body, but it just didn't seem as complete and structured as a normal being. Like he was a sketch or a half completed illusion. There was nothing that was definitively wrong, yet nothing seemed right either. Proportions, mechanics and materials defied common understanding of how things should be.
It's just a game, but still.
Harding switched to looking at him in the spirit realm and immediately wished he hadn't. Yhavat stared directly back, a locked gaze from that bleached goat skull. Those eyes, pits of emptiness, were a neverending descent into a void of nothing and everything. It created a sense of movement such that Harding felt like he was falling in. Symbol's flashed in Harding's mind, things he had never seen before. Or, perhaps, he just couldn't remember. A repeated pattern of four geometric shapes, a pause, and then repeated. Over and over, and yet as much as they burned in his mind, consumed his thoughts, he couldn't quite comprehend their wholeness even though they seemed simple.
Everything was warped and distorted, as though he was speeding up by falling through the darkness of those eyes until the very reality he perceived bent under the strain of his attempt to comprehend. Harding dropped the spirit vision. Yhavat hadn't moved, still staring off into the nothing, having continued to stand unmoving as he reknit reality by stitching the intangible to corporeality.
Howie walked up to Harding and smiled down at him. In his shadow, Harding realized he no longer felt some implicit threat from his size but genuine warmth. "Good to see you alive and well again. Hate seeing a friend dead." Howie told him. "Also, excellent call on that trinket of his."
Friend.
"I feel like I am going to get a snack for that," Harding teased.
"Nah. Something even better. I bet there's at least a half dozen that would, but I'm going to officially extend this offer to you," Howie announced with uncharacteristic seriousness. "When you finally stop being silly and accept fate, I'll sponsor your application with the guild."
Harding liked the Eights. He liked Howie. He just wasn't sure he wanted to join. But Howie hadn't said that he was sponsoring, only that he would sponsor. Harding took it as a sign of trust, of a willingness to put his name forward to vouch for him. And that, regardless of his choice of future, Harding could appreciate.
"Thank you. Should I apply, it would be an honor to have you be my sponsor," he smiled.
Howie nodded, signifying the end of the serious stuff. "Want some jerky," he asked and held out a familiar bag.
"Burn Ward?"
"Uh huh."
"Hell no, I just got finished being dead for a second time. No point making it three."
Howie laughed.
Runild joined them then, eyeing Howie's bag and asked, "What delicious treat do you have now?"
Howie looked at Harding in askance to which Harding nodded emphatically. Howie shook his head. Suppressing his smile, Harding explained, "It's a rare treat from the Eastrun. Only like ten bags have ever existed. I hooked Howie up with a trade contact using my duchal connections and that was part of the gifts. Howie loves them."
"Is this true," Runild asked Howie suspiciously.
"Yes Runild."
"And yet you hesitate in sharing with your, ah- herbal supplier?"
Howie extended the bag and she took a piece, sniffed it, blinked but took a bite. Howie watched in horror.
"It's tasty, a little mild, but should sell well. Thank you for sharing." Then, calmly, she took another bite and sauntered off like a cat who got her mouse.
"She scares me," Howie declared flatly.
"Me too, bud, me too."
They shared a look.
"Aspirant Hill," uttered a voice from behind Harding that sounded more like a snake pit than a human.
Harding jumped a foot and yelled, "Shit."
Howie wasn't moving at all. No one was.
"You are the nexus of these parties, please collect the decision makers and meet me in the throne room."
Time resumed, though for whom Harding was unsure.
"What is it," Howie asked with concern. Harding's face was probably still shocked.
"Did you… you didn't. Damn that thing creeps me out."
Howie just looked more concerned.
"That Yhavat thing told me to gather leadership, but he did it in my mind all jump scare like. Sick bastard."
"Oh," Howie offered. "I'm sorry."
"No rest for the wicked. Or, apparently, unpaid porters taken hostage and subjected to untold horrors."
Howie tilted the bag of jerky towards him.
Shrugging, Harding agreed, "Yeah. You're right." He reached in, took two pieces, and walked off in search for those Yhavat had requested.
Harding found the Garnets first, though he wasn't sure if that was by luck or intention. They were huddled together and Vostek was talking, "...I understand that at some point the Queen will know. I agree that you being the one to inform her is advantageous, but-” Vostek stopped talking when he saw Harding.
Taking the pause as an opportunity, Harding said, "Your Grace, I have been instructed by the Honored Servant Yhavat that the decision makers should gather in the throne room with him."
"Hmm, thank you," acknowledged Garnet. "Did he tell you where the throne room is?"
"I believe it is the building that Ghasatavaro exited from, the one central to this district," offered Harding. He knew, he just couldn't say how he knew. It was like foreign knowledge had been shoehorned into his head and thinly disguised as intuition. "I am to inform the Eights as well, but I came to you first."
"Yes, good." The duke paused and arched an eyebrow before asking, "Did he happen to give guidance on how many may attend."
"No, my lord. He just said I was the nexus of the factions and therefore it was my responsibility to gather them."
"Very well. Jarred, Jasika, you will attend. Vostek, please keep thinking about this situation. When we are done with this meeting I expect new negotiations with the Eights will be the next order of business."
Vostek saluted, which seemed odd, then turned and walked away with purpose.
"If Your Grace will excuse me," requested Harding, "I must complete my duty."
"Carry on."
Harding snuck in a smile at Jarred who nodded back. There would be time for stories later. When some multidimensional servant that a local deity both bowed to, and was constrained by, gives you a task you do it.
Harding found Aleister fairly quickly. Agnes was talking loudly, waving her shield around as she did, "I don't know, looks the same but it just feels different somehow?"
"You're nuts," judged one Blythe.
The other agreed, "I know what you mean. My armor feels a feather lighter. It's like when they repaired everything they got it wrong."
"Or used up some of the material," suggested Agnes in a concerned tone.
"Excuse me, Guildmaster Aleister. Honorable Servant Yhavat had requested that the decision makers attend him in the throne room."
"Why not just say Yhavat," scoffed Agnes.
"I don't know, all these honorifics and stuff, I know enough to know that I don't know and that I don't want to be the one that makes a mistake," Harding shrugged in explanation.
"Fair enough," responded Aleister with a sigh. Harding wasn't sure he was going to make it. Freshly resurrected, the man looked like he'd been days without sleep. Harding followed his gaze to the Garnets starting up the steps. "Agnes, with me. Harding, fetch and escort Runild please."
The two took off immediately, leaving Harding with the Brothers. Harding smiled and shrugged at them awkwardly before he ran off.
Runild was harder to find. She was buried in a huddle of mages. Presumably comparing notes, but he had no idea what mages got up to when allowed. How the Eights differentiated who was a mage from the rest of the magically powered raiders was entirely occult to Harding. Harding decided to live dangerously, "Runild, I am supposed to bring you to Yhavat."
"Yeah, sure, I guess. Where are we going?"
"Follow me, but up the stairs."
Harding walked with Runild through the crowd. Most of the raiders were socializing and resting, milling about with little order. The typical post boss and pre loot call pause. Regardless of his handicaps, they'd beaten a godling and it had been no sure thing. It was a great achievement and bragging right. But the tradition of post-fight raid social chaos was forever. Without further instructions, they reverted to their normal behavior.
I'm always glad they're not my cats to herd.
Harding tried to be cool, but he was climbing ungainly stairs to a temple that was being referred to as the throne room by a divine entity. It was exciting, even if he did have to concentrate on the stairs. He was determined to not trip in front of Runild, doing so would constitute a third death on the day. An ego death.
The massive double doors at the top were clad in steel both polished and pristine. They still hung ajar from Ghasatavaro's exit. Within was a simple hall, though wide and not so long. It felt a lot like a temple to Harding. The architecture was arched and subtly elegant while giving the impression of immense structure and strength. The ceiling consisted of a central, vaulted dome. The floor beneath the dome was recessed several steps in a circular step down. On the far side was an altar, simple and covered with charms, candles and offerings.
Yhavat stood in the back of the recessed circle, the other humans in front of him. The Garnets on one side and the Eights on the other. "Good luck," quipped Harding in a whisper, then turned to leave.
"You will attend." Yhavat made his will clear. Harding swore internally, turned and walked with Runild across the very temple-like throne room down into the circle. Harding realized it was an intricate portal circle of inlaid gold and bore a mass of script in some language he could not read.
"I remember," mused Yhavat. "Long ago, I was an Alph here, carving these very stone walls with the glyphs of the living structures of divinity."
Oddly personal.
"Gathered Mortals, you speak for the factions which, banded together, defeated the selected form of Ghasatavaro. As he no longer exists in this realm, he cannot handle your rewards with this glory. I shall continue in my role as the mediator."
"Behind me is the throne. When it comes time for you, you will understand its purpose. When you assume it, you will perceive its function. We stand upon the Fourth Pillar of Creation. With the Fourth Ideal in place, this too you will begin to understand." He informed them, "We shall go up."
There was a surge of spirit power and in the same instant reality changed. The effect had happened simultaneously with Harding's awareness of power. The speed of the working scared him a bit. He could not imagine a human brain competing. The group stood upon a large, flat shelf in the mountains. The chill in the wind cut to the bone, driving against them invisibly from the iridescent blue sky. Far beneath, fields of grain swayed like distant waves. Beyond and around were majestic mountains for as far as Harding could see. Their foothills cloaked black in pine forests up to their tree line.
"Behold, Kharsir, The Spine of the Divine Prism, the Fourth Spectrum, Realm of Hamidar, Chief among Agents of Phiris," introduced Yhavat with sweeping arms. Here he was animated, though it did not make him any more natural.
"Is this Heaven," awed Agnes.
"Way too cold for my heaven," murmured Runild, casual as always.
"This is not what you would call heaven. This is the inverse of Sleep. This is the Invigoration," Yhavat informed.
Harding was positive that the being would have smiled there and he was glad that the helm showed none.
"Honored Servant, why are we here," asked the duke, looking around in amazement.
"I thought it a more suitable setting. One which would convey the relative gravity of the occasion and not just the task at hand; rewards."
Loot.
Harding could feel the group smile.
"As per the Governance, you shall be given a number of rewards. As you cannot claim the throne, it will be adjusted in commemoration of this event," the servant explained. Harding watched the being. The robes did not stir in the wind. He suspected the thing was still not fully present.
Where is it from if not from here?
Yhavat laid out the manner of his reward structure, "As knowledge is not understanding, the number of choices I could offer you would only burden you with their weight. Instead, I will select for you by your given answer. Duke Elias Garnet, Lord of Eastrun, name your desired outcome."
The duke answered without pause, "To see my men become stronger."
"Hold out your hand," Yhavat instructed. A small potted tree, barely more than three inches tall appeared, planted in a thin, tall, tiny metal pot. Beside it was a threaded, metal tube.
"Ah, thank you," the duke's courtly instinct covered for his confused hesitation. While the duke was unsure what to make of it, Harding thought he knew.
"That's a spirit tree," he said, excitedly.
"Close, Aspirant. It is the dwarf variety. Feed it a drop of blood a week, mixed with ten drops of clean water. On that alone it will thrive, even when sealed away in that tube."
The duke smiled and bowed humbly, though Harding was pretty sure the duke didn't seem all that thrilled. Harding wondered at the implication of a miniature spirit tree.
How would it strengthen the blades?
"Aleister, Guildmaster of the Divine Eights, name your desired outcome."
Aleister looked at the duke, then back at Yhavat. Borrowing wisdom from the duke, he responded, "I wish to advance my guild's goals."
"Hold out your hand," Yhavat repeated.
Aleister quickly held out both hands. In his hands appeared an ornate seedcrypt made of stone. Aleister clearly knew what a crypt was and didn't question its value. When you're standing in an unknown world and what amounts to an archangel gives you an locked epic loot chest as a reward, you don't question it.
"Master Jarred Garnet, name your desired out-?"
Jarred had obviously thought about it because he answered before Yhavat had finished asking. "That my sister be granted what she needs to overcome her… troubles."
Jasika turned to him with an almost pained look. Whether it was embarrassment of publicly mentioning her issue or the weight of her brother's generosity was unclear. Harding, though, caught the duke's smile. The man was unrelenting in his pursuit of his children's growth.
"Hold out your hands."
She looked at Yhavat, confused, and for several moments did not act. Finally, she lifted her hands. In her hands, slightly larger than her petite palm, appeared a tome bound in metal with a locking clasp. The book panels looked to be of scribed gold. The spine and joints of polished silver. A silver chain hung from it and ended with a clasp. She looked up, questioning.
"Wear this upon your sinister, keeping it in the daylight whenever possible." Yhavat flicked the index finger of his left hand. "Your touch upon the lock will actuate the fastner."
She examined the dainty thing and touched the lock. It fell open in her hand, to overhang her palm. She began to flip the pages, the soft shush of paper against the wind. Harding saw that the script moved on the page.
"The Tome of Dying Knowledge," explained Yhavat. "A truly blessed creation of Magister Asrat, it is constantly changing as knowledge dies and is reborn. It can never be read in full, a beautiful piece illustrating truth. Within it is the power to understand your questions, but of course the right questions are much harder to come by."
Jasika was entranced. She began to read before she remembered her manners, "Thank you Honored Servant for your wisdom and graciousness."
Jasika curtsied. Harding nearly died, shocked by what he had witnessed.
Yhavat inclined his head, a silent conveyance of something more than mere acknowledgment of manners. Jasika watched him a moment before looking back at the open tome.
Mini-Tome? No, Travel-sized.
Harding couldn't imagine trying to read a book that was constantly editing itself. Surely it was a portal to madness. He wondered how it would help her with a physical disease. The idea that it contained everything currently falling out of being known was intriguing.
It's basically a wiki of edits?
Yhavat started again, "Agnes, Fierce Warrior Priestess of Kasagos, what is your desired outcome?"
"I'm a what?"
"Is that truly your desire?"
"Hell no, I want Ghasatavaro's sword."
Aleister stifled a laugh as Agnes thrust out her hands, palms up.
"It is not mine to give, nor have I the authority to replicate it," he apologized. "The closest I can offer is this from my private holdings." A short sword appeared in her hand sheathed in a darkly stained wood scabbard. Agnes, her face betraying her disappointment in its size, pulled the thin blade free. It had a fine guard and small pommel, both made of brass half green with corrosion. The blade itself was polished to an oddly warm tinted mirror.
"This athame was created by a Kasagosian godling through acts I will not speak. Though intended for ritual sacrifice it functions well as any physical weapon." Yhavat cocked his head sideways before sharing, "In fact, I gutted him with it on his own altar. Once I had carved out his tongue and melded his anguish with the blade, any living thing cut by it will taste the truth of the tarnish in their souls. Its edge is honed by its own hunger, do not test it. "
It wasn't what she had wanted, but Agnes' grin revealed her pleasure in such a gruesome and fearsome weapon.
Yhavat turned back to Jasika, "Maid Jasika, Daughter of the Rising Sun, name your desired outcome."
She looked up from her book at Jarred who empathically shook his head. There was not only no expectation of reciprocity, but a clear refusal. "Honored Servant, I wish I was a better person but my brother has already bested me. So I'll ask for an opportunity to be a better noble, to be of benefit to the people of Eastrun." She closed her book and locked it, then struggled with what to do with it. It had a belt clasp but she hadn't figured out it's working, her father though held out his hand and she handed it to him. Once empty handed, she put her hands out once more without instruction. The potted sapling that appeared in it was nearly dropped due to the sudden weight.
Yhavat chuckled, a skittering noise as agreeable as a hundred spiders climbing inside of your shirt. "They will accuse me of serving the mistress of fecundity with this, but it is the applicable answer. For your greenhouses only, it will not thrive in your weather."
Lost behind the leaves, she requested, "Honored Servant, ah, what is it?"
"Theobroma cacao. It is an opportunity to serve your people, but only an opportunity. None can make you what you are not. That power is yours alone."
Yhavat turned to Runild, paused as if listening, then turned back to Jasika once more. "Also, go with your brother for coffee." It felt so random, but Harding was beginning to get how things worked here. That had to be a divinely ordained quest.
To an NPC?
He turned to Runild. "Weaver Runild, name your desired outcome."
Runild looked over at Aleister, "Trade my lot for his fetish?"
"That's fair, I suppose. Yeah."
"Then whatever Aleister wants," she told Yhavat.
Aleister held out his hands and said, "I need to strengthen my guild further, I would like a set of one of the hidden godseeds."
In his hands appeared three godseeds, each banded in gold but entirely clear in color. Were they not clearly banded, Harding would have thought them voidseeds. "This set being released should appease her ire at the mass resurrection. It is best suited for an aggressive hunter, not a defender."
"Oh, I have someone in mind already. These will suit her well. Thank you, Honored Servant." While Aleister put them in his satchel, Harding realized that it rankled him a bit that they were given no explanation. He wanted to see stats or know the loot. It was an ingrained expectation.
Life didn't care.
Yhavat turned finally to Harding. "Aspirant Hill. You are as between mortal factions as you are between divine powers. As an Agent of Phiris, I cannot affect this balance." He paused. "However, commerce is the communion of society. If you wish to make a trade to mark this moment, I am amendable." Yhavat watched him with those black pools of nothingness, waiting for him to act.
Harding had nothing to trade. He looked down, he was still wearing his medic kit. His staff was in his seed storage. In his left hand, forgotten, his last piece of jerky.
"How about this," he asked incredulously. Harding had no clue what an immortal being with no evidence of a mouth would want with a dried piece of pork.
"I accept. It is a rare item. The only of its kind in this realm. I will trade you for this," he offered, holding up what appeared to be a voidseed he'd pulled from his head. He extended his hand towards Harding and explained, "I cannot help what you might infer from this trade offer, but it is all I carry on me besides the symbols of my office."
Harding looked at it. Voidseeds were much more valuable than a piece of jerky. For all the other rewards the item had appeared, yet this was being offered by Yhavat physically. There was more to this than he understood, the act was obviously significant. Perhaps others were watching.
"I accept this trade with respect for the spirit of its offering." Yhavat held open his left hand upon which Harding place the jerky. Mimicking the position, Harding held his left hand open and Yhavat deposited the voidseed. He noticed Yhavat's fingers were not skeletal as he had first thought, just slim with protruding joints. Harding had also thought the hands to be bone, but they were actually a grainy, matte metal.
He just gets stranger.
When the objects had been exchanged, Harding felt a slight slip of spiritual power. He paused to internally chase that feeling but lost it. Giving up the chase, Harding noticed Yhavat was still keenly watching him. "There is Glory in the first Ritual of Exchange between mortal and alphen upon this plane of existence. The Lady of Order smiles upon you, despite your fate."
Yhavat had indeed pulled some trick, but on who and to what end he didn't know. Not wanting to fail in meeting the exchange, Harding returned, "You should get robes with pockets, then you could carry more things."
Runild snorted.
Harding felt foolish, but he really was confused how a being who seemed to summon things at will was limited in what he carried. Yhavat did not respond to Harding and instead pronounced, "This realm now awaits those mortals who would break from the limitations of acceptance. But for now, I shall return you to your home."
Harding had a brief moment to once more scan the horizon of imposing peaks before everything was the throne room again. The raider leadership stood there in the circle alone. Yhavat was not there, or at least was not visible.
“Well, that was unexpected,” Aleister offhandedly offered. “Shall we divvy up the loot and head back to town?”
“I am ready to return home as well. I find the cots more uncomfortable than my pride is generally willing to admit," smiled Duke Garnet. "I will be leaving a small contingent here though, to guard and operate the upper chambers. I would like to control if, or at least know when, others come. When we learn to claim the throne and open that portal, I would be displeased to find someone else sitting there to greet us.”
Aleister raised his eyebrows and leaned his head, “Are you proposing a partnership in expanding our raid operations?”
“I think it is an excellent training tool for our men. A training yard doesn’t prepare you for this kind of thing. Perhaps joint training should be a topic of discussion."
“We shall discuss it further,” agreed Aleister, “I think there is a mutually beneficial arrangement to be forged.”
The men shook hands, then Jarred with Aliester. They left the throne room, which Harding still thought of more as a temple and returned to their people. Harding wandered the plaza as he examined his thoughts.
Yhavat was right, he was of neither world. He was stagnant, caught between the pull of multiple forces and desires. In order to change his situation, he needed to change his approach.
So Harding started planning.