Jonas looks at the mallet he'd used to end the human's life, watching as it glints in the sunlight. He puts it away in the spider-silk sheathe Gaem'a gifted him, and walks across the ritual area, around the massive bowl once filled with superheated liquid gold, and into a newly constructed fourth building.

He produces a key; opening the first, wooden, door. A few steps later, he opens the second, steel — then the third, golden-steel.

Two As’tiki with thick masks step forward — and remove all of his clothing, placing it neatly into a nearby storage bin. Then they produce two large sacks attached to their bodies, and he closes his eyes as he’s sprayed with a substance he can only describe as ’tingly’.

It aggravates his already-red skin just a little more, but the result is worth it. He passes through the next door, slick with the same substance, and is handed a silk gown, which he dons. The room inside is an uncharacteristic white, and ridiculously clean. It’s at least ten meters tall, and in the centre, locked with golden-steel chains onto a large slab of stone held at an angle, is Grug.

The As’tiki ’Healers’ — Elders advanced in medicine and the application of such — hover around the troll, barely taking an eye from him all the while. No less than four stand above, spraying a mist of their juices over Grug’s body. Sixteen As’tiki stand at the sides of the room, with long pikes and sheathes of paralysing poison at the ready.

Other than a couple glances directed at Jonas, they keep their eyes unblinking on Grug’s sleeping form. For the last two weeks, they have rotated shifts — but always remained at the ready to see if the troll will wake. A tube is placed into Grug’s gut, which they apparently feed food through at regular intervals… yet Damien has, more than once, had to remind them of this obligation.

More and more, it seems in the As’tiki’s very base instinct not to aid a troll, even if it saved them. He looks away from them. Damien sits a few meters away from Grug, eyes half-closed. Jonas puts a hand on his shoulder, and he snaps to him with a concerned face… before it softens and he blinks a few times, hard.

“Oh, that time already?” he asks, knowing full well the answer. “Oooh, me old bones aren’t used to this anymore. Ever since I got the Vessel I’ve not had to sleep in shifts.”

Jonas takes the chair next to him, looking up at Grug. “Still asleep. What did the human do to him?”

Damien shakes his head. “This one isn’t on the human — at least not directly. We weren’t to know, but the skin of duskwraiths have a toxin that, when ingested or absorbed through the skin, can be ’abundantly fatal,’ according to the Eldest Healer. Only just managed to coax that out of her.”

“Do they have any medicine to fix that?” he asks, quickly. “Have they already used it?”

Damien nods. “They didn’t. I gave them permission, some five hours ago, to attempt to synthesise some sort of medicine from Grug’s blood itself. Gaem’a went to bat — and he gave an explanation for it that I barely understand. Something to do with taking the things that connect with the other things and making more of those things… I don’t know. Ask him yourself if you’re interested, he waffled on till I—“ he looks around. “—actually, I think that’s the thing that made me fall asleep, you know.”

Jonas smiles. “Hopefully… whatever that is will work.” He says, but then the smile fades. “I don’t want Grug to never wake up.”

Damien puts a hand across, gripping Jonas’ and letting out a little laugh. “He’ll wake, Jonas. If the As’tiki can’t do it, nobody can. If it helps, he’s not in any pain. They’re rubbing ointment into his skin every other hour, and he hasn’t moved an inch since they started. We upheld our end of the bargain. We helped him. All we can do now… is wait.”

Shouts.

Jonas jumps up immediately; looking towards the guards. Immediately his mind is suspicion, rejection, and worry. They’ve finally snapped — they’re going to kill Grug! His mind floods with the same feelings as before — the anger boils up, his eyes go to one of the pikes… he needs a weapon.

But the shouts are outside. Damien puts a hand up and Jonas grabs it, lifting him out of the low seat made for As’tiki asses. Or lack thereof. He grumbles the entire time, but he watches Jonas, watches where his eyes go.

“Jonas. I ask that you trust the As’tiki. I’ve known them longer than you, and I know when—“ he blinks, then takes a deep breath. When he speaks again, its just ever-so-slightly slower. “They know they’ve fucked up, and they’re trying to fix it. Let them.”

Jonas’ shoulders lower… he didn’t even realise they were raised — that they were ready for combat.

Is that how quickly one can go from never having experienced a life or death situation… to being ready for it at any moment?

Has it truly affected him that much?

He steps forward, going for the door — only to be blocked by one of the guards, shoving their pike in his way.

“Wait, Fruit of Damien. There may be… an intruder.”

Jonas grabs the pike of the guard and shoves it back at him, then walks through the door. He might be able to trust the As’tiki to heal Grug, maybe not to attempt to hurt him again — but he will not trust them implicitly. If there is an intruder; he will get his own make of them…

And he’s glad he did — for hovering in front of the bowl is perhaps one of the most beautiful forms he has ever seen, coated in flowers and vines. Yet it is the flower besides her that he locks onto. A ripple comes from it — a strange almost glowing aftereffect.

It is so similar to Damien’s phantom instruments… but distinctly different. It… tastes different, it feels different, it looks different — it sounds different. He blinks; but he can see it through his eyelids. It’s… so strange.

Then his eyes snap to her mouth as she speaks. It is understandable beyond understanding — it is the same as when Grug speaks his ’freend’ — a piece of Absolute. Yet that’s not what startles him. No, it is the word she speaks.

“Grug!? Grug, are you here!?”

Damien follows behind and he, too, stops to look after he hears it. A tear rolls down Jonas’ cheek… and he lets it roll onto his finger. He’s… sad? Why?

He’s sad… and he feels lost… and confused. He looks around — the As’tiki act strangely, looking at one another or the ground — or stare at the hovering girl. Damien takes a step forward. “You are… a Natural? A… Grovetender or-or something similar?”

She looks at Damien, as though seeing him for the first time. “I am.” She confirms; looking at her flower. “I am hoping… this is leading me to my friend.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Now her eyes turn to Jonas. “Have you seen him?” She asks, then seems to think for a second. “He’s… pretty hard to miss.”

Then she lets out a little laugh. It is the most beautiful sound Jonas has ever to hear; but the sadness quickly comes back.

“Freend?” he asks, almond eyes sharpen on him, a smile opens up on her face.

“Yes, that’s the one. My Freend.”

—

Me is… floatin’ more. Me be floatin’ before. Dat was? When me… hurty?

Is me hurty?

No… me no hurty. Dat good. Is peaceful.

Dat like… wait… dat be?

Me smells it. Da colour-discs. Dey smelly-good. Lots-smelly-good.

“Grug… the fire… I’m so glad you got treatment more than what I could do. Your skin… it’s mostly black now; and scarred beyond belief. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it better. At least, you shouldn’t hurt after this.”

Is it? Me smartest troll, it not-annoying-buzzy. Me know. But me no see.

“One second, Grug.”

Da colour-discs go bye-bye in da breezy-breath… only dey’s not go far because dey’s no breezy-breath. Dey’s go on da white-ground. Dey be lots little-thingys… an’ den me see Jonas-thingy an’ Damien-thingy! Dat good! Dey friends!

But den… me see not-annoying-buzzy. It go big, but it still not-annoying-buzzy. Me smart, me know!

“Hi, Grug. It’s been a—“

Me do a little dance… but den it make weird sound an’ me no move…? Me look. Dey’s weird thingys on me, an’ dey’s make me skin go bumpy. It ok… me no need move, me see all friends. It good!

“Little-thingy scared, you be big-troll. Dey noggin-think you hurty dem, so dey make you no move. You no hurty dem, Grug?”

Me no hurty. Why me hurty dem?

“Don’t worry, Grug.” Say not-annoying-buzzy, an’ den she her hand on da carved-sticks. Weird twisty-stick come an’ it go on da weird thingys an’ dey go pop! “I’m stronger now. I’m not about to let something bad happen to you again. It’s happened enough.”

Me go, an’ me step on carved-sticks. Little-thingys looky at me an’ make mouth-sounds. “…kill us… sworn… danger…”

Me shrug — and den me S T R E T C H good, big, an’ me let out little… big mouthsound. Den me look at Jonas-thingy, den damien-thingy, den not-annoying-buzzy, and me smile.

Den me do a little dance.

It good to be friends.

“Wait… Grug… you have antlers. But… they got burnt off. I remember it.”

Me shrug. Me got antlers. Me is happy.

[ Social Intelligence +8% ]

( Protecting Friends, Protecting Others, Communication. )

[ Cognitive Intelligence +7% ]

( Understanding, Application of Learnt Information. )

[ Motricity +5% ]

( Use of environment, Use of Connection )

[ Memory +3% ]

( Remembered friend )

[ You have unlocked the Legend Display ]

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Saviour of Amorhai: +++ [ Fresh Event ]

Progress to First Title: 10%

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First Title Known:

‘The Burnt Sworn.’

Powers or Effects:

Unknown

—

DAGHORN

A flash; a cut; a death. Blood soaks the dry grasses, catching the smallest bits of sand from the wind that carries it in, even so far from the desert. Daghorn nods, then lowers himself and touches the fresh corpse. Essence rises from it — and begins to float off. Soon, it will dissipate throughout the world and join the cycle of energy flow between the realms.

Daghorn is one of the only people who can see this essence, for his Legend allows him that.

Before it can leave, he holds out a hand and grabs it in an iron fist. He brings it to heel; like so many loyal hounds, and fights the spirit directly. They trade blows of intent, of malice, of revenge, of hatred — until he turns the blades aside and comes to look upon the core emotion. This one was… frightened.

He had felt pressured to take up the Iron Band, rather than join for pride or fellowship. He was many, many things at his core. Afraid, inadequate, angry… wanting.

That is what brought him to blows with Daghorn. A need to prove himself. A want to escape from this.

Daghorn weeps a thousand tears for the departure of life. The onlookers — the Iron Band — watch in respectful silence. Daghorn weeps for all the moments he had seen the youth and not known. It is a mistake he will bare, and one he will seek to never repeat.

Only those who have the strongest of hearts can join the Iron Band, but there are no requirements for entry. Only the ability to show up. It does not matter who; it only matters how. If they are weak, they will be taught strength. If they are afraid, they will be taught courage. If they are lonely, they will find company.

Daghorn holds all in the Iron Band as true family. To have slain a brother… there is no greater sorrow. Yet he does not relinquish the soul. Instead, he brings the essence into a ball — and places among the myriad others screaming in his soul. Another voice to the pile; another song to the chained chorus that brings about his strength.

Another sin to bare.

The Iron Band around the youth’s neck snaps, never to be reconnected… and the Band around Daghorn’s neck grows ever-heavier for it. His hand balls into a fist, and he raises a leg just to bring it down upon the grass. It sinks in; burying his foot, then leg. He does the same for the other side, then shoves his face into the ground.

Any less deep, and he would destroy the eardrums of his brothers.

He BELLOWS into the ground, enough that the ground rumbles, the grass sways; his brothers and sisters cover their ears. Incoherent ramblings of vitriolic rage, unknown even to himself, leave his mouth in waves, turning the soil to liquid as the ground vibrates. He sinks lower, as though in quicksand and desperately fighting to escape.

Only when is he completely submerged does he begin to recite the Oath of the Iron Band.

“I, Brother of the Iron Band, shall seek to always destroy those that have cursed us.

Until the day my Band is snapped or we are freed from our servitude.

I shall never falter in pursuit of strength; never halt in pursuit of courage.

My needs will become wants; my wants will cease to exist.

I may never have a life beyond death whilst the band remains on a single of my kin.

I shall forge a new name of the blood of my enemies; or be granted one in agreeance with my Brothers and Sisters.

I will spit upon the name of the Arch-tyrant, and I will curse any who are kin to him, or friend to him, or acquaintance of him. I shall salt the earth of his name, and that will be nothing.

Death to the Tyrant and his kin, glory to the Heart, glory to passion!

Death to Supremious! Glory to Huu!”

Something… happens. The ground shakes a thousand-fold, putting his voice to shame. His heart begins to pound in his chest; yet a slice of primal fear spreads through him.

He’s out of the ground in a second. Instinct takes over and forces his head to the sky. Breath catches in his throat. The once serene sky is torn asunder; a monstrous crack rends the fabric of reality itself. Unfathomable terror claws at his soul as an unending torrent of scorching heat spills forth from the rift, searing the world with its malevolence.

A monstrous, incomprehensible presence materialises from the depths of the crack. All know it. For it is Legend above Legend above Legend. It is desolation made manifest. A God comes to the Living Realm.

Behold, all, the God of the Solar Realm; of the Aspect of Desolation. Carra’ghous, the Great Worm slivers from the rift; nightmare made flesh. A colossal, writhing mass of insatiable hunger, a churning maw of teeth beyond counting. Each tooth is a new mouth; a new set of teeth, each a grotesque, jagged spike of annihilation.

His body, if it can be called such, is a segmented, serpentine mass of titanic proportion, extending into the horizon as far as the eye can see. It twists; it writhes, a mix of ashen skin and hard obsidian scales that stab out into the sky; each the size of a castle.

Yet an elation rises to match the terror. For not one god, but two, have come to the Living Realm. Huu, the Eternally Beating Heart, resides within Carra’ghous’ stomach, eternally digested — but far from defeated.

Daghorn drops to his knees, and he reaches for the sky. And he begs. He asks of Huu what he should do.

The only answer comes from his own heart. It beats with heavy, massive thuds — and the all the fear in the world could not touch him for he is neither wrong nor right.

There is no rationale, or intellect, nor strength nor weakness. There is only will.

Daghorn had been conflicted. No longer.

Now, he will take the fight to the northern mountains. He will destroy the fiscal heart of the empire — the Gold Barons.

Without them, the sons of Supremious will never retake the world. It will be free of tyranny; and when he has hunted them all down, when their corpses rot in shallow graves, when every ounce of blood has been exsanguinated, when the fire in their hearts has been extinguished, the Curse of the Iron Band will be gone!

Their collars will be unleashed… they will finally be free.