“...Where am I?” Tyr felt no pain. He'd always wished for strength or power. He had to admit that the ability to heal from near every wound was pretty convenient, even if it wasn't anything he'd ever asked for. Burnt to a crisp, he'd been, and now his skin was baby soft and new. Pale and white as always, as if no wound had marred its surface. The problem was the place. It was bright, too bright. Bright enough to scratch at the eyes, with a pillar of luminous light streaking through the place and painting the smooth rounded walls of the structure a blue-white.
“A class five ark generator. My home and sanctum. Prison, by another name.” Someone replied. A feminine voice, strong and confident. Tyr turned. He had no idea how long he'd been out, but it must've been a while, his mouth was thick with the taste of an overlong sleep. He observed her, the mystery woman who had answered his question. 'She' was sitting cross-legged in observation of him, ten meters of so away. The place was intricate, whatever it was. Impossibly complex machinery lined every wall, set with blinking lights and whirring mechanisms that he'd never understand even in multiple lifetimes.
“Who are you?” He asked. “A god?”
It seemed like the obvious question. He'd met one, in a similarly impossible place. The woman, if that's that she was, laughed. A dull and dry chuckle with little emotion to it. “Jurak they called me, many cycles ago. But a god? I wouldn't be so sure. An artificial class four nature spirit. A deity, perhaps, but we never really understood what separates a god from the natural. I certainly do not feel like one these days.”
“Not sure I understood a single word of that.” Tyr tilted his head, feeling no threat from her and opting to seat himself in a similar fashion. As naked as the day he was born, he'd never been one for shame. Letting it all 'hang out'.
“Not surprising. You little apes have become incredibly primitive over time. All of this time between us, and yet you've only devolved, so far below the achievements of your past. Weaker, too, it seems.”
“Why am I here?” Tyr asked.
“Because I am dying. You've given me a great gift, killed the last of my believers in this place. Soon, I shall be gone, I think. Those above only have eyes for my brothers.” Jurak chuckled again, seemingly unconcerned with her own mortality such as it was. A 'great gift', she called it.
“I'm sorry.” Tyr said this, but he felt no pity for her whatsoever.
“Why? A nim, even a nephilim, could never comprehend the passing of the ages in the way that I do. Your kind with your immortal souls and your gods who protect them. We killed our gods, and what a mistake that was. Turns out that immortality isn't all it was chalked up to be. You've given me a gift, and I thank you for it. Oblivion, and what rest it can provide after so many cycles spent here in solitude.”
A pause. Tyr had no idea how to respond, only considering the fact that he'd be laying a 'deity' to rest – surely that was impossible? Not even his legendary father would claim to be a godslayer, no primus could. If it was possible, he felt more amusement than anything. But empathy, too, if millennia had truly passed, it must've been incredibly boring spending it in this place.
“What is a nephilim?” He asked. He'd heard that word before, somewhere. From Thanatos? He couldn't quite remember. It was hazy, the meaning of it just on the tip of his tongue. “Is this another word for primus?”
“Hmm...” Jurak pondered the question. She looked as the statues did, with her ovoid skull bereft of hair, though a bit more rounded and build in the shoulders. Beautiful, in an inhuman sort of way. With silver eyes streaked with flecks of emerald green and none of the wrinkles captured on those beings in the stone. “Maybe. One of the old blood. Higher nim. I've little experience with your kind, most of mine were cast in the stone long before your arrival during the black sun. All I know is that you are nephilim, what words your race choose to call yourselves are not of interest to me.”
“Ah...” Tyr coughed awkwardly. He rose and paced about the place, confused about its purpose, but he could feel the mana. It was thick here. Dense enough to become solid, an impossible feat that astounded him, the idea that they could solidify and condense mana artificially... It still didn't explain why he was here, though this 'Jurak' seemed well in tune with his inner thoughts.
“You're here because I could feel our ways in you. Taught the blade song, though a primitive interpretation of it. You've given me a chance at rest, so I'll give you a chance at life. A bargain. You are dying, do you know that?”
“Sure do.” Tyr nodded.
Was this why he sent me here? No. I doubt that. Thomas is human and this... Whatever she is – she said she had little experience with nim. Man. Another word for man in some ancient language, though she seemed to speak common with perfect grammar.
“The blade dance is of your... Your people?” Tyr asked. That was a question that interested him. He'd always heard that the arts practiced by the blade masters was a technique from the western continent, lost to time. The fragments of a technique, no less impressive in the modern era. As Thomas had explained, one of the only techniques in existence that would passively teach one to harness world energy, though it seemed to be hidden behind superstition. Little science to it.
“Yes. My people, the Orik. Ancient when yours were young. You foreigners who came here to bring war to our world, though we surely needed it. With you came the mana, and other races beyond counting. An unparalleled energy source that we desperately sought to harness, as we could not use it ourselves. Once, we were few, and just before the black sun – many strangers arrived in this land. We warred with them for a time, ignorance and a costly mistake. Ended up defeating ourselves instead.”
“Defeated yourselves?”
“Yes. We sought to possess the immortal souls that define the races capable of wielding magic and in exchange, our civilization fell. Shortly thereafter...”
Jurak's words were confusing, but the lesson was fairly easy to understand. Long ago, there had only been two common races in this part of the world – the Orik and Altan. Others existed elsewhere, the Anu for example were known to Jurak. The entire world had been open to them, eight continents filled with a variety of races. Most of the Orik came from the east, beyond what was now only misty wasteland, the taboo lands.
Orik still existed, technically, in the form of the tuskers and other varieties. Defective genetic experiments to improve on the perceived faults of their race. There were many iterations, actually successful attempts to create both mages and genetically altered soldiers. Separated into castes, with the mana sensitive ruling over the lesser classes. Apparently it worked, at first, and they very nearly exterminated the Altan.
She called these experiments 'forsaken', soulless husks of flesh that would wither and die far before the natural born, but they were effective. Incredibly so. Effective enough to rebel against the others and set their race on a long path of destruction while several wars raged around them. Eventually, one of their more conscientious leaders turned their own weapons against them before everything ran out of control. It worked, sort of. Jurak said the Orik in the stone were still very much alive, but nobody knew how to free them from it. Frozen in time forever more.
They had their own names for the other races. Nim, celezan, toran... He couldn't draw a conclusion, not from that – but it was known that men and Orik had never warred directly. In fact, by the time man arrived, the indigenous races were more than happy to accept aid. Orik civilization was at the apex of its fall before the first man had arrived on the shores of this continent on 'floating pillars' and began to systematically purge the other races. The arks, they were called. Tyr recognized them by description alone. There were dozens scattered throughout the various kingdoms and four in the empire alone. Places of religious significance, he'd always thought they were just towers though.
Orik aside, Jurak posited that humankind was responsible for the culling of at least twenty three different races in the greatest genocide ever known. But she claimed it was 'necessary' and saying that they would have done the same, leaving Tyr wondering how such a thing could be considered necessary. Her 'followers' declined in population vastly over time and in the process took her 'sight' from her. It was hard to follow. All of it. Then again, she was not nearly as confusing and prone to riddles as Thanatos and Thomas. There was a great war, and while the Orik 'won' by extension of relying on the other races to finish the job – too much damage had been done. Actually, multiple wars. First against the Altan, who Jurak insisted were irredeemable, and then against something else. Something that arrived shortly before men did, resulting in a calamity that nearly destroyed the planet.
In a last bid for survival, those that remained, avoiding the 'stone', harnessed the incredible power of their great machines to evolve their race. In the process, they'd done the opposite. Doomed them to an eternity of darkness. Mana, as if it had a will of its own, had rejected them. All of their original race were wiped out or frozen in stone, sans their 'artificial gods' and those experiments where a successful core implantation had taken place.
“I appreciate the history lesson.” Tyr sighed, not quite understanding most of what she was saying. She used jargon far beyond his understanding, almost as if it were a wholly foreign language at times. “But what does that have to do with me being here? Can I go home?”
He felt some pity now regarding her state of existence, but why was that his problem? If she was a god, she could've done all of this herself. Expanded her influence. Tyr didn't really care. He wanted to sleep, and not much else.
“As I've said, I owe you a turn for the service you've done me. Done our people. Those things you killed, my faithful, were no Orik. Twisted monstrosities guided by one of the last remaining members of our original race that toiled in vain to free them from their madness. Failures. I would've done the same, if I had not been trapped in this place. Only after their deaths did the anchor sustaining me fade enough to allow for a rest, a few years at most and I will pass. You are here because...”
She paused, sighing. There was a sorrow in her, despite the claim she was happy to disappear from this world. Tyr didn't blame her for that last part, just the idea of existing in solitude for a century was a source of existential nightmare. Four millennia? Or however long it had been. That was beyond terror. His life had only lasted seventeen, and it had felt so long at times even in that small blip of existence.
“We sought first the mana, and failed. We sought the soul, and failed. Everything you had, we wanted. We cursed our gods, and killed them for refusing to bestow what we considered a gift on us. Then, we were empty. Centuries passed and our civilization withered without their protection – so we made out own. My clan was so proud of me for ascending. Vengeance god, god of killing they called me. I was a great warrior once, as was my brother. We became dual aspects of war and ascended via the power of our machines – and what a mistake that was. I am a slave, locked in this place and my own flesh. Forced to dance at the strings of our great leaders fingertips during the black sun only to be locked away once again and forced to watch my power wither after our race fell. Left here, a prisoner. I know not the rest of sleeping, the joy of eating, the pleasures of carnal love. I feel nothing that belief would not allow me to, such is my 'divinity'. I spit on their ignorance, and I've wailed for centuries at my own. Yet, in my vanity... I...”
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“You don't want to disappear without leaving something behind?” Tyr guessed. He could understand that. This, above all things, was the was something he could easily empathize with. According to his father, Ragnar of Oresund should have departed from his position centuries ago, though his obsession with finishing his grandfathers legacy kept him chained to his throne while his son and grandson grew old. Three primus' by blood existed in Oresund, all for the five century old high kings vanity. Astrid's father and Sigi's adoptive father. Ragnar had sired three sons in his lifetime, the eldest of the two departing without children of their own. Vidarr, the youngest, was the last remaining. All of them taking their turns, never to meet. One at a time.
She nodded. “That is not too far from the truth. You have learned our ways, stolen and incomplete though they might be, so I offer you a choice. I can train you in the art of the true blade dance and I can help alleviate your suffering by relaxing the strain on your mana core. Or, and you should consider this carefully, I can give you my seed, that which makes me a 'god' as you might call it. It must be passed, otherwise I would have seen to my own death millennia ago. This is a thing that must be taken, it cannot be destroyed.”
“You can make me a god?” Tyr raised his eyebrow at that ridiculous notion. To be deified had never been a goal of his, but this was something else. It was the curiosity. Jurak clearly wanted him to choose the second option after spending so much time warning him against it.
“Not quite.” Jurak shook her head, the light illuminating her high features radiant and blinding. “To take my divine seed would give you all of the knowledge I've ever had, and prevent this power from being given to one of my kind on the surface at random. They do exist. Devolved and imperfect. As you understand things, this would create a primus of sorts among Orik. A nascent god capable of great harm to the living world. I will not force this on you, but I beg you to consider taking on this responsibility less you damn the higher world to a terrible fate. I can feel the presence of your higher nim on the surface, and they are too weak to stand against the monstrosity born by my passing.”
Teach me to fight and help with my mana core. Versus fixing literally all of my problems and requiring no effort on my behalf? Who would choose the first option...? No... There had to be a catch. Memories...
Memories and experience made the man. If the memories of another individual, for example a millennia old deity were implanted in him... It would be akin to dying. Magic like this existed, not like this – specifically, but it was part of arcane theory and why memory inception was regarded as a forbidden art. Change enough of a person and they simply ceased to be as they were. As true a death as taking an axe to the skull. Added on to the fact that Tyr had no interest whatsoever in experiencing her 'damnation' – it was an easy choice. One he was pleased at himself for choosing, confident others would have fallen into the obvious trap. 'Cannot feel the pleasures of the carnal' or some such. Tyr didn't want to die a virgin, he'd do anything to avoid it – within the restrictions ingrained into him by his father. It just hadn't been the right time yet, but he he would eventually need to get it over with. It was his duty, the only one he would ever readily agree to with no argument.
She sighed again, more tired this time – though she accepted the result after no less than three attempts to rebuttal him. “Then go with my knowledge such that I've given you. Fragmented as it is, and another year or so toward your lifespan. I hope you find the answers you're looking for, nim – and I hope you're ready for the doom you may have unleashed upon the world.”
“Wait... That's it?” Tyr looked around. “Aren't we going to train?”
“I've given you a cursory understanding of the basics. I could do more, but I find myself sickened by your selfishness. So common among nim, you 'individuals'. Begone, a bargain has been fulfilled.”
“Wait, please!” Tyr cried out as she raised her hand toward him. Jurak froze, raising an eyebrow at him. “I... Uh... I lost my sword in the city, can you help me find it?”
“This?” She asked, waving his sword in front of her face as if she'd held it all along. Powerful magic. Tyr felt a shiver run down his spine, nodding in the affirmative. She chuckled before shattering his families most prized possession with the clenching of a fist. “A shoddy thing, and a fake. Your artifice is so poor. I'll give you another.”
And so he did. He 'went'. How it had happened or what exactly was happening were beyond his ken. One moment, he'd been standing with eyes squinted against the harsh light in the place. In the next... He was soaring. Falling through the air at breakneck speed.
–
Of course Thomas was there to watch him crash into the ground. His force had been arrested by an unseen hand, yet more magic perhaps, but it was not gentle. Tyr's body collapsed under it, and his spine was crooked in places it shouldn't be. He groaned, staring up at the old man staring placidly off into the distance, obviously expecting his 'arrival'.
“Hello, young man. How was your trip?”
“How was my trip...!?” Tyr couldn't rise, plastered to the mountainside as he was. Near the village, he recognized the place, gone from the Orik city by a distance of hundreds of miles in the blink of an eye. Dimensional magic existed. Portals and the like, but not even the greatest archmages of the college could send one across the countryside like this. Not in Haran, there were no gates permitted in the empire. He went on a tear, ripping into the man without a care in the world at the repercussions of his disrespect. On and on he waxed about the troubles he'd been caught up in. The kobolds, and tuskers, and a god. Thomas listened on, patiently, nodding when he needed to. And then... Tyr was finished, heaving and breathless, flat against the ground and slowly healing from his fall.
“You blame me, yet I had no idea what would happen. I was merely curious if you'd be able to access that which I could not. I'd tried answering the question posited by the door for months on end, sitting in solemn meditation. To think that it would allow you inside with such a ridiculous answer. Your master was truly foolish, and you've humbled him, even if by your own simplicity.” The man laughed as Tyr hissed up at him angrily.
“No.” Thomas continued. “It wasn't pointless. You've felt something, yes? That was what I sent you to find.”
“Killing.” Tyr replied. It was self evident. The more he killed, the stronger he became. Little by little, and what with the vast swath of death he'd carved from the place, it was only in such a situation that he'd be able to sense the phenomena clearly. So much death that it was beyond obvious. “Am I the primus of... Of killing, then? Of committing death on others?”
Thomas shrugged. “No. Most living things possess this ability. My master felt it, and so did I – once. The more world energy or mana possessed by the opponent, the more we absorb with our spirit. Almost vampiric in nature. I understand it less than you might. It simply is. Our inner selves are always ready for more, mankind most of all, and killing is a way to push forward. It is what we were created to do, some say.”
Not unique to me, then. “Then why--”
“It's best not to ask that question, boy. Some know, as I do. The so called elder races know, of that I am confident. Not unique to you, not unique to man. We seem to be more intimately attuned with it is all. It is how we, such an inherently unremarkable people became the most dominant race in the land.”
“Ah.” Tyr pondered on this as well. Men, inherently, were weak. They didn't possess the hardiness or intelligence of dwarves. Elves, beastkin, kijin, ashkaari, shuukan, Anu, or the Orik. All of these races, and more besides, they all had their quirks and specializations. There were over forty sapient races indigenous to the eastern continent. Humanity were among the weaker on the average, with great champions rising among them to take their place at the fore of history. As Thomas said, how else could they explain the phenomena of such a mediocre race becoming masters of the world when those far superior to them could be found with a fair frequency all over the place.
“Still, it's quite a tale to tell. You should write a book.” Thomas mused.
“I've none of the talent for literature.” Tyr laughed at the absurdity of that. He might not know what his aspect was, but it certainly wasn't writing. What with his near illegible handwriting and lack of creativity. Too blunt, too rough around the edges in his reflection. “I'd feel sorry for an editor that had to sort through the drek of my thoughts.”
“Mmm... A great adventure, nonetheless. One for the bards.” Thomas chuckled. The air was still here. Cold and frigid, but calm. A contentment had settled into the demeanor of both men as they stared over that mountain at the land below, washed in the white of winter. Tyr didn't want to strike Thomas anymore, satisfying himself with his slowly healing body. “A man who became a chieftain of kobolds. Even if everything else were a lie, that part would be worth telling. You shouldn't, though, keep this tale close to breast.”
“It all happened so fast. Too fast. One moment I was there...” Tyr sighed. “And now I'm here, wondering what the point of it was.”
“The point was discovery, though as I've said...” Thomas cleared his throat, a note of steel added to his words. “Share this information with no man. Ever. And I'd like your oath on that.”
The prince could understand the necessity. Such knowledge was dangerous. A forbidden secret to the world that must be kept as such, lest that world fall into chaos. It seemed so 'obvious', something anyone with a mind for study should've been able to draw a conclusion toward. Only one explanation for how and why this information wasn't widespread came to mind. Someone, or something, was protecting it. “And if I don't?” Tyr joked. “You'll kill me?”
“Not me.” Thomas shook his head. “My master was strong. Stronger than I am. Perhaps... But even he... No, never mind that. You get the point. Your oath?”
“I'll give it.” Tyr nodded, clasping the mans wrist as warriors did. An old greeting and custom of a time when men would communicate equity while checking for knives in the cuffs of another.
“Thank you, Tyr.” Thomas nodded in contentment. Satisfied with the verbal contract. Tyr, on his part, didn't know who he'd tell – certainly nobody would believe him. There was no point, no point at all in making other people stronger when he was so lacking. “And now, I wonder, what will you do now? Where will the winds take my dear disciple?”
“I think...” What else was there to do? He'd find nothing wandering further, though it was unclear if Jartor would consider this enough reason to allow for a return. “I think I'll go home now.” He'd give it a shot, at least. If he wasn't permitted to enter the palace, he'd leave again and go elsewhere. Farther this time, far enough where he'd never be found. Perhaps a farm or a lumberyard of his own. Somewhere peaceful and free from his duties, just to spite his asshole of a father.
“Thank you Thomas.” Tyr rarely, if ever, referred to him by name. It was always elder, master, or teacher. Sometimes less kind things. Thomas laughed at that, his eyes twinkling in the overly bright atmosphere of light reflected off winter snow.
“Varinn.” Thomas spoke softly. “My real name is Varinn, though you should use your honorifics if you've a mind. I'll always be your master, and it's important to remember the foundation by which your house was built. Goodbye, Tyr.” He winked, and Tyr turned to leave. Not five steps from the man and the prince turned to say one last thing. Searching for some sort of closure with a man he wasn't like to see again.
“...”
Thomas... Or Varinn, was gone. Tyr was alone on the mountaintop. Nothing but the still air and wispy breaths to keep him company. Lonely. For some reason, he'd never felt so lonely in his life.