Apprentice-priestess Zahra left the girl at the high altar, recounting only briefly what the strange traveler had said. Tamar, still immersed within the altered senses of the incense, paid her no mind.
She searched for a sign, a glancing touch from their divine masters. The Kotharat were ancient gods, their names long forgotten. Many hundred years before—it was said—their influence had spread far and wide. They had bestowed their healing gifts generously, blessing the wretched and sick with skills and effects. But something had happened. Their connection to the world—to the System that bound all together—had weakened. One by one, their names were scrubbed from human memory, lost in the well of the past. Now they were simply the Kotharat, the ancient servants of Ninmah of the mountains, who convened tenuously upon the temple of Qadesh.
Tamar did not relent. She breathed in deeply, the smoke burning the hair of her nose until her eyes welled with tears. The smell of acacia, the sweet resin-like fragrance of tree and earth, billowed through the porous pockets of her skull. It was the smell of the world itself.
“To see the Beyond,” the old Mother-Priestess had told her long ago, “you must first see the physical world as it is—understand every part of it.”
The sensation was all-encompassing, familiar and yet still terrifying. Tamar’s perception swiveled like a spyglass. The pink membrane of her lungs prickled with goose pimples as the chambers filled with the suggestive smoke. Her liver churned, legume-like kidneys hummed softly in her abdomen. She felt her brain matter quiver with the sensory overload as the fluid of her nerves sputtered and steamed.
“Once you see everything, know everything,” the Mother-Priestess had continued, “only then does the Beyond reveal itself.”
Beyond her physical sensations, Tamar felt something else, some piece of her mind recessed in such a way that once she found it, it felt completely self-evident. An ancestral memory—no, far older than any memory—an instinct, a sense of the true reality that had been lost long ago. Her mind reeled as she reached deep within herself, grasping for the atavistic remnant. She seized it with the strength of her mental fortitude, and her mind’s eye flung open.
Blue flashed all around her. Incomprehensible glyphs crawled across surfaces, through the air, along the skin of her arms. The System, in all its complexities, revealed itself. The glyphs delineated every aspect of the world, from the movement of a speck of the dust to the migrations of beasts and the formations of storms. Ordinary men and women could not see this System. They did not know that they stood upon the shore of a bottomless ocean.
Tamar could see, but she needed to see more. Beyond the System. As the Mother-Priestess had taught her, she sought total control over her mind’s eye. For years she had studied the ancient techniques. Through concentrated searching she had found the intuition to feel that which was not felt, command that which did not exist. Tamar commanded her mind’s eye to open further. Carefully she dilated the pupil, blackness spreading like a storm cloud. Not too fast, lest she lose control and raze her mind of all reason.
Some said that the human mind was not meant to witness the divine. It was forbidden knowledge, hidden from the senses. Those who sensed it, whether from birth or by training, were abominations. Further, the knowledge of the seers was false. Look at the evidence, they said. The prophets were all madmen, hapless souls who gradually lost sight of the difference between real and make-believe. They saw nothing but falseness, and were punished by the gods for their transgressions.
Tamar did not believe them. The world was once whole, she thought. The divine commingled with the mortal, the spiritual with the physical. But then, there came a wrongness to the world. Something that tore it in two, stripped us from our creators. Some forgotten act of betrayal.
But the memory remained. And with that memory, Tamar could bridge the gap.
Her mind’s eye opened fully. She felt it. A black orb lifting its gaze into the Beyond.
She gasped as the sensation shook her. She was nothing and everything, nowhere and everywhere—the void, the world, and all that it encompassed. Her mind slipped from her grasp.
Tamar fell. Into a dark emptiness she settled. Her body was far, far away. She could not feel it, only the sound of her breathing echoed, slowed and stretched, lapping against her consciousness like waves upon sand.
She waited in the empty dark—what for, she wasn’t sure. A sign, perhaps? Time passed so slowly here, in this other place.
Her mind shivered. Tamar realized she had no means to leave. There was the method of the Mother-Priestess, but the knowledge proved inaccessible, locked away in some part of her she could not find. She was trapped
All sense of time crumbled. How long had it been? Tamar wondered. Was it still evening? Had she spent the night like this? Had Zahra found her, the girl screaming in horror as she shook her limp body? In the insensate black, Tamar began to forget who she was. Was she old or young? Was her hair long, short, gray or black? She tried imagining the familiar forms of her body, the sure muscles of her legs, the soft flesh of her belly. She thought of bringing her hand before her eyes, envisioning the way the skin folded and stretched across her knuckles.
What strange concepts, Tamar thought. Of what use is a hand, a leg? What does it mean to move, to breathe—to live—in a place like this?
And finally: I’m trapped for sure. As sure as Fate my mind has gone where none will find it.
And yet to Tamar, this was not the worst realization. Her gods—the Kotharat—were nowhere to be found. There was nothing in this place for her. She had come searching for a sign, and met only with silence. The Kotharat had disappeared.
She did not know whether the gods could die. Perhaps they were simply hiding. Where, or from what, Tamar could not say. But the fact remained that the Kotharat were gone.
And then, something burrowed out of the darkness, small and sleek and—tenderly it touched her mind, and Tamar lost all sense of herself. A thousand images rushed through her. She was the Earth, she flourished and died, bloomed and withered, again and again and—
She sank into the world’s underbelly. The air was damp and thick with sediment. The primordial liquid bubbled with life, tiny beings smaller than a flea swimming about, consuming with a ravenous hunger. They worked ceaselessly, their minute bodies radiating heat. Heat which stimulated new life which they ate again, for Life and Death were one and the same (Tamar realized), each begetting the other as the dust of the world formed and reformed around her. She found herself caught up within the great pattern of Nature, a universal truth that dictated the venations of leaves and dragonfly wings, the gradated barbs of feathers, the bundles of nerves, veins, muscles, tissues, secretions, organs, and unknowable systems that all pulsed with life.
With a start, she was fully conscious, back within the cut stone walls of the temple. Her heart beat feverishly inside her chest. She turned, brimming with an eagerness to share her revelation. She needed to speak with someone about what she had seen, to contemplate the meaning behind the vision. To think, the Kotharat (as it was surely them!) had saved her from oblivion, they had touched her mind, if only briefly—
No one was there. Well, not exactly nobody. Upon the altar in the center of the room, next to the sacrificial pool, lay a woman. Or a girl, Tamar couldn’t quite decide.
“Zahra?” she called out, directing her voice down the passageway that led to the lower levels of the temple. “What is the meaning of this?”
The Apprentice-Priestess didn’t answer. Most likely one of the Mothers had burdened her with errands and chores. So Tamar figured.
She regarded the girl on the altar. Black curls lined the soft outline of her face. Her frame was small, yet she was no wisp, with strong shoulders and worn hands—clearly used to toil. The sickly pallor of her arms stood starkly against the dark cloth of her dress. Looking closer, Tamar could see ghostly lines—like the memories of childhood scars—etched across the skin in spider web grids. Her mouth was small, dainty, taking labored breaths that sent shivers of pain through the girl’s body.
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She didn’t need Zahra to explain. Tamar understood. The girl was sick.
She looked past the physical form of the girl, and into the System.
Narina
[Seer-initiate] Level 1 Experience 0/10
HP 8/30 MP 11/22 SP 1/10
Strength 2 Stamina 2 Agility 3 Spirit 15
Tamar’s breath stopped in surprise. The girl was a seer, and a natural-born one at that. Her System revealed an incredible potential, a potential that for whatever reason had never been allowed to prosper. A kindle of hope lit in her chest. Once she healed the girl—if she could—Tamar would speak to her about serving the Kotharat. As an Apprentice at first, of course, it was only proper. But with base stats like these, Narina would quickly ascend the ranks of the priestly order. She no doubt could learn to see Beyond.
Tamar shuddered in awe. Perhaps she already has?
She brushed her childish daydreams aside—there yet was work to be done. She took Narina’s hand and gingerly pressed her thumbs against the sweaty palm. With her Superior Sight, Tamar could easily access the outer System screens of most living creatures. But to see the hidden layers of the ancient interface, special techniques were often required. Only the most gifted could see through the many layers of symbols through sheer willpower alone.
Tracing the creases of Narina’s palm, she found what she’d been searching for: a System node. Several such nodes existed on any person, but the most easily accessible were located just beneath the skin of the hands or forehead. With a small influx of mana, Tamar felt a shock of static current travel up her arm as the node opened. Screens of blue flooded her mind, and Tamar waded through the wealth of symbols and ciphers with practiced ease.
Status
The Curse of the Nephilim:
Having crossed lines no mortal should cross, you have incurred the wrath of God. Your HP will continuously decrease until the status is removed, or death.
Even absorbed as she was, eyes closed and breath carefully regulated, Tamar frowned in consternation. This—this was not what she expected. The wrath of a god? And one considered important enough by the System to not even specify its name or allegiance.
She muttered under her breath. “What in the Mother’s name did you do, Narina, for this to befall you?”
For now, the question would receive no answer. Tamar focused upon the node again, coaxing the blue veils to part. She needed to learn more. Only by finding the root of the divine curse could she hope to cure the girl from her condition.
She felt her mind’s will strengthen, and as it did, the status screen fell away. A new screen took its place.
The Curse of the Nephilim
Divinity Ē̶͚͍̖̗͇l̵͚͈̂̔ם̸̼͚̮̅̄h̴̨̧̝̒̒̅̈́ז̸̵̥̝͎͓͉̹͖̌̈́͋̇m̷̪͉͖̈́́̑͆, the [̴͙͗̊Ḩ̴̭̮̪͋́͝ה̷̸̧̜̼͇͔̘̖̳̲̩̈́͛̏͘͠a̸̭̒̓̉̈́̿ͅv̵͉̟̠͍͆ͅē̵̯̹̘̣̹̔ת̸̝̩̬̣̔̈́l̷͍̻͕͈̣̐̅ץ̵̢͖͈̉ ̶̬̬̜͓̪̀̍̔͠G̷̥̊̆̊̃ט̴̻̬̝̞̓כ̵͕̻̬̅̈́̌̂͝]̷̺̘̗̌̉̈́ͅ Host Narina, the [Seer-initiate] Aspect(s) [blood], [death] Effect(s) The Host shall incur -4 HP eveyr celestial cycle, until the curse is lifted. The Host’s MP shall be capped at 50%, until the curse is lifted. The Host shall not gain SP beyond 1, until the curse is lifted. The Host shall not gain experience, levels, or stats, until the curse is lifted.
Tamar’s mind pushed further, but as the words fell away, nothing new appeared. Only a slew of indecipherable symbols; arcane knowledge her eyes refused to understand.
Ě̸̩̫͝l̶̻͠ ǒ̶͍ḧ̵̯̬́ȋ̸͙̱ח̶͖̪̿̓…̵̰͑ ̶̪̭͠c̴̺̋̄ a̵̮̣̾ṡ̵̻ז̶͚̊…̴͚̿ͅ ̵̞̾ז̶̗͔̏h̸̙̦̀ě̵͖ ̷̡̙̒c̵̪̑u̷͎̐͌r̷̛͙͚̔
s̵̻͔̅̔e̵̖̞͊ ̴̤̈́ ų̴̥̅ p̷̼̚ö̷͓̜́̀א̴͈̆̉ ̴̣̀͝ ṫ̸̢ש̷̷̶ׁ̛̯͓͉̺̳̆̀̀̚è̶̤͛…̵̢͕̈́̕
̶͙̫̍c̵̮̣͛̕u̷͘ͅr̴̠̺̚͝s̶̰̾̕é̵̻̫̿כ̶̶ּ̺͈̌̎̃ͅ ̷̞̜̕ב̸̵̸ּ̱̠͉̗̩̎̑͠͝ĺ̵̝̪o̸̝̦̍̓o̸̢̔d̷̮͋ ̸̜͆…̴̤͊̚
ó̸͍ל̵̵͕̘̏̀̓ ̴͙̤́ך̴̬̠́̽ȟ̸̭̘̀ë̶͕͓́͝ ̸̛̫א̷̭̀ę̸̆̒p̴̨͑͝h̶̼͠i̸̲͔̋l̵̫̳͊ i̴͓͙͛͝m̸̠͑.̸͍͌͝.̷̢̟͌̓.̸̪̐͌
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose—as she often did when the simple solutions eluded her. The magic at work in Narina, was deep; an ancient curse no mere Healing Prayer could cleanse. She would have to call upon the Kotharat, the near-silent gods who seemed to flicker in and out of existence.
And yet, I swear I felt them only moments ago. Maybe they had come, for her? A curious thought.
Stepping away from the altar, she fetched a cloth from the water basin. She wiped the sweat from Narina’s feverish brow, letting the cool water run down the sides of her face. She inspected the girl’s features again, trying to find some answers hidden within the creases of her eyelids, the gentle curves of her chin and cheeks. Tamar recalled her own youth in that face. A youth she still had, but now hidden behind the weight of time, behind wrinkles marked by years of joy and grief. She felt her hand move to her midriff, pinch the well-worn skin hidden beneath the fabric of her dress.
Tamar shook her head. She stood up and squeezed the washcloth dry. Clearly the incense had meddled with her head—she wasn’t usually like this. Practical Tamar, no-nonsense Tamar. Tamar who doesn’t let life’s misfortune get to her head. See how she steeps herself in her work, her prayers, her devotion to her distant Kotharat. That is how one should live to make the most of a life.
The Nephilim’s Curse consisted of two aspects: [blood] and [death]. Though the System never offered clear answers, Tamar could guess at what it meant. The death-aspect carried the purpose of the curse, it was how it wrought its torturous pain. The blood-aspect, however, was not necessarily malignant. It may simply have been the means by which other mana aspect traveled and spread throughout the body. If Tamar proved correct in this assumption, then the Kotharat should easily be able to cure the girl. They were healers—afterall—caretakers of all things young and growing. Their mana glowed with [life] itself. And as Tamar herself had witnessed, Death begat Life as surely as Life led to Death. No, for the Kotharat, it would be a simple matter.
That is, if they answered her call.
Tamar sighed deeply, feeling her chest shiver in nervous anticipation. For a request like this—a request spoken directly to the gods—more than mere incense was needed. The gods listened to only one thing: the vital force that flowed through all, the breathing liquid which brought experience and levels and all the System’s power. The gods listened only to the drawing of living blood.
She stepped towards the door, a sense of new resolve in her every step. She went to fetch the sacrifice.