Year Null. Brass Tower - Heaven

JIRA ne’JIRAL

The Heartforge was everything that its name implied. It was a massive, heart-shaped structure encompassing much of the dome-shaped chamber it was set in. Its flames were blood red, pumping out of vents and arteries in gouts before dissipating into cells of smoke and steam. Runes were etched on the black-red stonework, glowing faintly with each pump of fire from within. Containment seals? Protection? Empowerment? Jira could not say. All of her understanding of mystharin was nothing in this place. Perhaps she could have come to some understanding of the creatures that inhabited the spire, maybe even surmised what the things outside were given enough time and sanity. Yet, this place, this Forge, eluded her understanding. It prevented her comprehension.

“Four humans. A Nujant Chhank. And a beast. Who are you?” the diminutive figure asked, voice carrying in three echoes across the expanse of the room. “New chosen for the Forge, Kar'ult? New worshippers?”

Jira could not answer that question. Neither could her companions, who struggled to understand what they were looking at beyond the machine. A small, impish thing with ironbark skin stood at the head of the Heartforge, its hands wielding a hammer and pair of tongs. Its eyes, the color of amber with waves of fire just beneath the surface of its corneas, stared at the newcomers in confusion.

“Answer me: who are you?” it asked again, its voice like the basins of the sea.

No one answered, prompting the figure to sigh in discontent and turn back to the Forge, where it tended to the body of a blue-skinned giant on a slab just below its belly. Flames crackled around it. Blood-fire engulfing the flesh of one who would have felt at home in the darkness of a moonlit glade — Jira shuddered at the sight, backstepping as some indescribable feeling invaded her senses and desecrated her resolve. Silof, the stalwart guide thus far, stepped back amidst incomprehensible mutterings falling from his lips. Prokos lay on the ground, twitching as the Bear Maiden attempted to tend to him and help Orlantha regain her faculties in the face of this unknown sensation.

It was a perverse feeling, Jira noted after some frantic attempt at insight. It was something she wanted to be removed immediately. It wouldn’t leave, no matter how hard she tried to force it out. She closed her eyes, clenching them shut like she did as a child in the darkness of her camps back home.

It stuck to her like a barbed arrow in muscle. She understood then that pulling it out would worsen the bleeding. Jira opened her eyes and stared at the figure working on the body. Its face, some combined mimicry of an Orcin and wolf, was twisted in irritation and perplexity.

“Who are you?” she reversed the question.

The face twisted more. “Who am I? You enter my domain and have no knowledge of who I am?”

“We-”

“You are not worshippers.”

Sudden, searing pain encompassed Jira’s entire being. Vomit flooded her mouth, her vision blurring as she stumbled down onto her backside. All that she was began to unravel. Orlantha screeched in a way Jira begged that she would never hear again. Gíla roared, resisting the effects of this power radiating from the figure far more than her human companions. Silof had fallen to a knee, and the sounds of his bones cracking to resist this awesome might struck Jira’s ears. She panicked. Nothing from her training in the Black Glass prepared her for this. Nothing taught to her by her parents, teachers, the scholars of her people could have readied her to face this entity. Hell below, nothing could have prepared her to be in this Tower in the first place.

“How did you enter this place?” the figure demanded in a voice that resonated throughout her skull.

Everyone tried to answer simultaneously, but not a soul could form the words.

“Answer me now. How did you enter this place?”

"It appe-" Orlantha strained in a guttural tone.

“-appeared to us!” Gíla completed the reveal. “It appeared to us!”

The strain ended, and Jira felt her head slowly loosen the tension that had been building to crack her skull apart. Vomit and traces of blood were spat from her mouth as she struggled to her feet, and a grunt from Silof replaced the ringing in her ears. Jira looked at him and saw his face as twisted as the figure’s but with astonishment.

“It appeared to you, but you are not worshippers?” the figure asked.

“We are not worshippers, no,” Jira quickly answered. “We-”

The figure struck the blue-skinned giant’s chest five times with the hammer, each hit ringing out with a burst of fire from the Forge and dropping all but Silof back down to prostration. Jira forced her eyes up. The chest had dented from the fourth blow as muscle split, the last strike being nothing more than good measure. He removed the cracked flesh with the tongs and tossed the chips into the heart of the fire.

“We did not mean to offend,” Jira began to say in a hoarse whisper.

“Offense was taken the moment you interrupted my work,” he said, moving to a nearby table that was somehow barely etched in the light of the Forge’s flames. “Offense was further given when you did not even know who it was that you interrupted.”

“How are you alive?” Silof asked upon finally regaining his voice. “You should be dead.”

“Kar'ult...that which is dead may always return, you idiot,” the figure retorted, fixing his glare as if finally just noticing Silof. “If those that dream so wish it, as you know.”

Silof stepped forward. It was a hard, forceful step. “Did they? Or did you find yourself on the right end of a spell by one of the pricks seeking to gain control over things they should not?”

The figure pulled something out from the chest of the giant. It was an organ, but none that Jira had ever seen before. He tossed it into the flames. A groan of pain emanated from the center of the Forge’s machinery—more of the barbed arrow’s tip sunk into Jira’s muscle. “I shall not be questioned by mortals who have invaded my territory. Especially the ignorant.”

“Ignorant only because you are supposed to be dead!” Silof said again, stepping forward until he was nearly five paces from the figure. There was a blinding screech of light when Silof was thrown onto his back and slid across the burning stone floor. Orlantha had recovered at once with Jira, yet she had knocked an arrow on her newly acquired weapon and drawn it before Jira could tell her to stop.

Orlantha held her ground in the face of the unknown, though her expression was one of clear agony as the sickening feeling this strange figure produced perverted her mind. Jira felt a piece of admiration form for the giantess to stand so firm against this tidal wave.

Gíla spoke through the silence. “We are here to revive a man. One of our soldiers. He died outside the Tower. Pro-Prokos too. He needs help.”

The figure laughed and pulled another organ from the blue-skinned giant. Another toss into the flames, another groan of misery. “Ah. Not worshippers, but seeking to use its power all the same. I shall...entertain your request, if only because it has been so long. Why? For what reason is he so special?”

Gíla rose to her feet in spite of the evident pain she was suffering as she looked upon the figure, lips curled into a grieving snarl as her eyes reflected all light. “He is just a boy. He does not deserve to die here. He did deserve to die at the hands of those things. Neither does Prokos!”

The figure scoffed and ripped a long, coiled organ from the chest. The body on the slab twitched, and its mouth opened in a silent scream of pain. Jira jumped back. Orlantha bore her teeth and gnashed them in growing madness. Jira hoped it was temporary. “None of those that die here deserve such fate,” the figure yapped. “This Tower of Brass is but a reminder of that. A reminder that some things should not be meddled with. Namely: what the dreams intended.”

“The dreams,” Silof spat. He had risen to his feet and removed his coat. His body was bestial and scarred, muscles and bones protruding in places they should not. “Don’t prattle about the dreams, dead one. Not when you stand in defiance of them.”

The figure laughed. “In defiance? From you? Was it my choice to die in the first place? Was it my choice to come back? In this bloody prison of all places? Hiding my domain, reduced to this little room, from that freak who caused all these problems? Who killed us all because of the whispers of the mad Blackstone?”

Silof shook his head and stood next to the others, nudging Jira and Orlantha. Jira had no idea what he planned for her to do if he decided to attack, which she fully believed was his intent. “You should not be alive. You should not be here. Your death was remedied, fixed, mended, whatever word you want to use, it was done. Your returning upsets that mend. Who brought you back, you tiny bastard?”

“The dreams, you swine!” the figure roared, slamming his hammer down on the giant’s head, crushing its face inward. “The dreams. You prattle on about me being brought back by someone else. Who else of your time could bring back a God?”

“There are those in our world who possess such power,” Jira cut in front of the group and the figure, standing between them and sending a pleading look to the Bear Maiden.

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Gíla grimaced, deflated, and moved to join, facing the figure while Jira faced Silof and Orlantha. She hopefully understood the stakes involved here. Enough conversation had to be made to at least allow the group to escape. “There is a plan in place to ensure they will gain it if they do not already,” she explained. “God...Ae-Aedol is the key to that plan. According to Silof, they have mutated fate, changed the destinies of all mortal life in Khirn and Aqella, and seek to gain enough power for Aedol to resurrect all Gods. By symbiotic connection, they will be Gods themselves. The more Gods there are, the more powerful they will be. But...they fail to account for the apparent fact that bringing back Gods from the dead causes more harm than good.”

The figure had begun pulling more organs from the corpse, tossing them into the flames. “So, the old power returns.”

“Perhaps because you are here,” Silof suggested.

The figure breathed in a puff of smoke from the Forge. “If they succeed, it will bring more harm than good, mortal. It results in a nightmare in place of dreams. Where all intentions of the universe are left in squalor, and only death will be known. This has been the fact since the advent of my kind epochs ago. When the first of us were dreamed into existence. Gods die, and unless it is willed by those who dream, they cannot return. As my return has not caused such lasting, permanent damage that I am aware of, I can only surmise that I was dreamed back. Not brought back by the ramblings of some halfwit mage.”

“Who are you to have been so returned?” Gíla asked. “Tell us your know so that we might better address you?”

“I am Nn’reo,” the God thundered.

“Nn’reo. The Orcin God of Rebirth.”

The God of Rebirth snorted and lifted the giant’s corpse off the slab, carrying the body twice his size to a basin of black oil on the right of the Forge. He dropped it in and turned away as it sank beneath the bubbling surface. “Orcin? Bah. Pompous, overblown posers of intellect and industry. I hated being assigned that pathetic race. Despite my efforts, they took nothing I taught them and learned all they could instead from you, the Nujant Chhank. Your Gods haven’t lived since before my first go around, yet you are looked to for everything in the world.”

Gíla said nothing, but Jira could see the frazzled state those words had put her in.

“Nn’reo,” Silof growled. “You must see how it looks. You being alive while there is a plot in place for mortals to become Gods. To resurrect those that Aedol killed. It creates a bad image.”

Nn’reo shook his head. “To the unenlightened. I will not take the blame for my life existing once more. I will not suffer your judgment of it either. I live, and I live without damaging the world. This speaks to who brought me back.”

“If they did, why are they not stopping the plot? Why are they not aware of it?”

“Those that dream do as they will, Kar'ult. We have no sway over them. Never have.”

“But if they brought you back, they can stop this madness. It threatens to unravel everything. All things. If it happens, not even those who dream can stop it. Why bring you back and do nothing else?”

“It is not for us to know.”

Orlantha, who had relaxed the arrow in her bow yet had not stowed it, exhaled sharply. “Is it possible that ‘those that dream’ want the Vasiles and the others to succeed?”

Silof chewed his lip. “I cannot fathom why they would.”

Orlantha cleared her throat. “He’s uncertain why he’s alive, you’re uncertain, and allegedly it’s not your place to know what their intentions are. Also, Kar'ult? Is that your first name?”

“No,” Silof said.

Nn’reo coughed. “Mortals, as much as I enjoy conversations on this subject matter, I must ask for the real reason why you are here. Beyond the request to revive two dead men.”

“Remake us,” Orlantha bluntly said.

Nn’reo crooked his brow. “Remake you? That is an act for the Chosen of the Forge. Not mere mortals.”

“It must be done for them to take the fight to the bastards, Nn’reo,” Silof said. “If they return to their world, they will be locked into their fates. And we will fail before we start.”

“Perhaps, but even then, the process is fatal without a trained mancer to accompany me.”

“I can do it.”

“Can you? It has been some time since I last saw you practice, Kar'ult.”

“Do we have a better plan?” Gíla asked. “Genuinely? Is there anything else we can do besides wander this Tower and look for a way out normally? Or kill Aedol without it?”

“No,” Silof answered.

Gíla nodded. “Thought not. Before we do this, I am going to say something. Everything we have encountered in this Tower has driven me to the brink. All of these revelations, truths, lies, what have you have driven me nearly insane. There are many questions I still have, many answers you will still give me once we have things settled. Namely, a timeline of things. With that said, I volunteer to be first for the remaking. I am Nujant Chhank. We are built strong. If it fails, I have a better chance to live than you, no matter how small it is.”

No one argued.

Gíla was the first to escape her fate.

Placed on the stone slab at the head of the Forge, Nn’reo struck her ten times with his hammer, each blow increasing in ferocity and speed, resulting in an outpouring of energy throughout the Forge. Silof grappled with that energy, weaving it into javelins designed to pierce and empower. Gíla’s body was ruined, reduced to a pulp of fur and bone, when Silof shunted the javelins one by one — ten in total — into her. Jira closed her eyes and attempted with all her might to ignore the screeches of horror escaping the puddle of gore that was the Bear Maiden as her body was reshaped with meticulous slowness. What was once shattered femurs, ribs, spine, shoulder blades, and pelvis was now a forming conduit of power.

Screaming power that threatened to blind and deafen, filling every inch of the chamber.

“Is it working?” Orlantha called out.

“I have no idea!”

Then it was over. A burst of blue light imploded on the conduit, fluttering into soft wisps before settling into the visage of Gíla Senghu. She was larger, bulging with newly defined muscles under black fur traced with red and gray. Jira rushed up to her as she adjusted to her new form.

“Gíla, are you alright?”

“I-I think so,” Gíla muttered before bending over and expelling a stream of blue-tinted liquid.

“Side effects,” Silof explained. “Give her some time. Who’s next?”

Jira elected herself and took her place on the slab.

What became of her would go down in the history of the world to come as a tragedy.

Jira was in a void the moment the hammer struck her for the first time. It had killed her instantly, and she was in an absence of light and darkness. Of utter nothing. Parts of her mind were shattered for that moment, unable to comprehend the entropy she saw. Her words were babblings of insanity, her eyes bled to mulch, and her hands bent impossibly for sensation that would never come to be. But her hearing was perfect. Her awareness of what she heard was perfect. Left untouched by design.

A voice that was everything in the expanse of nothing called out to her.

One life.

The Knight of Secrets shall become the truth to serve as a conduit of magnetism. So shall she order the death of all these rotten youth and ensure the rise of the great cataclysm.

Guile Eclipse, born of the Black Glass, thrown into the pyre and expected to make her lies last.

She now sees the end of all things and the beginning of new days—the shattering of the eternal rings and the ascension of lives born from the blaze.

Jira ne’Jiral, the Silver Knight of Belanore, cursed to wander with this knowledge forevermore.

Two lives.

Within the Runemaster does your enemy lie, for it is he who stands with honor and mercy bone-dry.

The Child of Blackstone, a creature of war whose actions across epochs we rightly abhor.

In this life, it is the man of carnage who must die, a monster of heritage that we can no longer justify.

The Child of Blackstone, chosen for a single purpose: to destroy the realms of those who refused to hurt us.

The Child of Blackstone, an evil incarnate, born from the endless lust to dominate.

The Child of Blackstone. A thing of our deepest Hells. Kill him, Jira. It is this quest for which you are compelled.

The Child of Blackstone. Kill him—the Child of Blackstone. Kill him. Kill him. Kill the Child of Blackstone.

Kill the Runemaster Erik Apa.

Jira ne’Jiral opened her eyes to see the night sky of Khirn and the vast, joyful eyes of the Bear Maiden, who looked down at her with a child’s grin.

“Jira! Are you okay?” she asked.

“Wha-what?” she asked in return. “What happened?”

Gíla took Jira’s hand and lifted her onto her feet with far more ease than she had before. Jira shuddered. Gíla had always been strong, the strongest creature she had ever known, and could have certainly won most of this war had she not held back out of fear of herself. But now she was different. There was a new might inside her, and Jira wondered what would happen when she stopped holding back. “It was a success!” Gíla exclaimed. “I think. In any case, Nn’reo sent us down here to finish the fight against the Runemaster.”

“That easy?”

“Probably not. But we’re here now, and we will focus on that.”

Jira looked nearby and could not see Orlantha, Silof, Prokos, or Sodon. “Where are the others?”

“Orlantha took Prokos and Sodon back to the river where our camp was. To see if any of our guild remains there. It does not look like much time has passed since we were...transported.”

“And us? Do we take the fight to the Runemaster? You and me alone?”

“Essentially. Save the Belanorians, kill Runemaster, and then start looking.”

Jira turned her gaze to the nearby village of Acocaea. It was burning and swarming with souls dooming themselves to an afterlife of misery if there even was one. “Well, let’s not keep them waiting.”