“Father!” Gregor flailed to no avail against the translucent shield of energy.
It can’t be?! Why him— Why was it his generation?!
His father grit his teeth, tears flowing uncontrollably as the ritual circle flared with more Thame and Life. The wrinkles progressed, the years passed upon him.
“Etarian! Please! Stop!” Gregor croaked, tears pouring down his own face. Pleading to the family’s guardian.
The man sized puppet still stood tall, with eight arms and four legs. Just covered in a patch work of torn paintings, woven in cloth— of far away lands, monsters, myth, and men. All its arms dedicated to the strings of light weaving themselves within its grasp as they danced around the ritual.
It bore no expressions, only a blank face. But he saw, he felt— Gregor knew as he watched the breaking. The cracks growing all over the body, the shaking, but pushing forward, with not one desire, but two willing themselves and the ritual beyond limits.
It's said that it was impossible to truly destroy an Avatar without breaking their Hearthstone… unless the being willed it so.
His friend faltered in step, as a leg fell— shattering to glass then to dust of energy.
“Please.” His own legs gave out to him kneeling, looking upon his family. “Don’t leave me.”
The old man, well past his prime, holding on by the barest dregs of his life force— gave a smile.
“You’ll make us proud.” His father's raspy voice pierced through. Etarian simply nodded, losing parts of their head for it. “My son… Gregor… Live to reach the stars…”
The ritual circle flared. Strings pierced the barrier taking hold of his limbs, wrapping him until only his head was left.
“We love you, now and forever…” He heard his father’s last words before the strings took everything, and the world became dark.
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Years pass. In a blink of an eye, his life began with a grave. He kneeled before his father, without taking part of the ritual, without Etarian. Life would seem as it was, just without the puppet’s existence.
So his father never became a Seeker, never held to more than the bare man he pretended to be. Real, in this dream.
Gregor watched. Feeling the moment, but he couldn’t act, as the dream went on fragmenting in different directions. Pushing him forward to the possibilities of what he could be.
Alone in the world Gregor would wander without an Avatar, traveling to different villages. Sometimes he would stay, other times he wouldn’t make it past the night. Dying before the jump to another direction.
He kept on for months, weeks repeating themselves into motion. Clipping past the recurring bits after a while. Until the journey took him far, further than thought in his travels.
Loneliness burdening passage to adulthood, wondering where it would all lead. Where would he go, until he found a kind soul.
He called himself Theodore; an old wounded mercenary, carrying the legacy of his own. His very life, with no hope to have children or breaking through his decade long wall. In the end, he sought to impart everything before departing this world.
Unfortunately he could not be his Master, true in part. They were different; of different Thames. But he begged, and he pestered the old man until luck would shine down upon him with his chance.
A Rift within the world; a new crack in reality, pulsed in a white aura.
He didn’t wait, and dove for his chance.
The result was unclear, unknown of what kind of Avatar would come. It always changed, shrouded in different forms. But he had became what he desired, with a teacher waiting to help his new apprentice.
So it be, the days became longer and chaos came upon the land. Whispers of great Trials and treasures tore peace from which he knew. His mind filled with grit and sadness, till it ended with another tombstone. He cried that day, for he lost another whom he called family.
His master; Theodore Heshfing passed at end of his second year. Running away from the hoards of spears and bows that covered the sky. In his rage he saved Gregor and desecrated the army, but he failed himself. Failing to rise to the Pillar Realm.
He had lead another to make a sacrifice for him. Because he was weak on this chosen path.
Their was a moment of respite, recalling where he was. A pulse in the dream, that anchored the moment. From their, Gregor felt new paths open.
He remembered what was happening. What was really true—
Gregor tore the feelings away and welcoming the strings of fate. If he did nothing, if he didn’t recall this gift… then, what was it all for?! What did his father’s death mean?! What did his family’s legacy mean?!
Nothing! If he let it be so.
He steeled himself, keeping hold of reality. As the next strings came..
Years of possibilities, turned. For once they were crisp, now fuzzy, emotions dampen on their own, and knowledge fleeting if he let go even a second of focus.
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His spirit broke their chains. Bonds expanded. Companions came and went. Foes fell. All as he pushed forward on his own, trying as he might to reach the legends to eclipse the stars.
But the insights were becoming unknowable, left with just their general way or simple knowledge of existence. As his vision was near lost, it happened. The world went blank— to nothing, gone dark.
Gregor panicked, but his life didn’t end. He felt his heart beat furiously, even for a moment thinking that he reached the stars. Yet his instincts almost scoff it being untrue.
It wasn’t any kind of end, he was sure of this!
His heart beat even faster. A spark of light came, burning in unending fire. Trying as he might to understand what this was, what was here. But he couldn’t understand, even with the full potential of himself their was no hint. No possibility of going further, only the smell of something crisp and burning.
There dawned his true memory, a teaching from his father; his real father, of why by their ancestor and most powerful diviner counted the generations.
“…For the last child of our blood shall be gifted the sight of Etarian’s futures. To see their fulfilled self, and carry on past the unknown… For what it is, we do not know. Our descendants shall live on, well past those who try to fell us. And we will have our victory at the End of the World.”
There the emptiness flashed, and ended his fortunes.
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The Rift laid bare in its Rose-Gold hue, the three armies tensed in inaction for no footman wanted to start a new battle. Alone he stood before his small camp left to his command. Faus scoped the ashen field, their Kings, Queens, and Generals. Their hunger for a chance upon the Trial was evident.
What was their people’s dream of independence against their overlords. Turned its head when their sensors picked up the change in space, and now— with the promise of a great Trial within their succeeded territory there was no hope for parlay.
The battle will consume the revolution and the nations signed to keep order.
He looked on, dearly wishing to see the end, where they could—
A torrent of Thame shot his senses!
Everyone on the field was instantly struck. Faus’s head whipped up as something broke through the clouds, riding on a great bird that nearly shadowed an army.
He was stunned until the sounds of the field reached him. Faus could almost hear Lucia; their leader and heir of a new throne if she wished, screamed her orders in a flurry. His superiors; Generals, all bore the same expression.
Elites summon their Avatars to the field in a flurry of colored symbols.
Faus peered back his scope to their overlords, horror, panic struck them more than everything they faced before.
Their leaders called upon their own legacies, Avatars fueled upon power of the Fourth-Pillar. Heirlooms were immediately used, by all, even their own, regardless of scarcity. Energy shields enveloped the armies, the giant bird of black and blue held a breath of white, within held enough Thame to wipe the field of everything. It’s Seeker, merged their own power, transforming it to something Faus couldn’t understand.
As one, the ball turned to a spear, and colored hues of purple. Shot, and pierced the rift.
It was slow. He felt his eyes go wide, upon the whispers of the subtle wind as the great bird ran, blasting itself high into the air.
The rift collapsed on itself, leaving a black speck… Until it bloomed.
Pressure— unlike anything he felt, grew, and took everything in white.
Faus knew in the moment it would reach the camp, and he would not surely not survive.
His Thame and will took to his three Avatars and sundered their bonds. A hollow feeling tried to take hold, but their was no time— he flooded the amulet upon his arm with all his power.
A faulty Defensive Heirloom, held together by the barest of mysteries. Left to him only because it was.
The blue gems shattered across its surface grew bold.
By some miracle a shield formed around— destruction touched upon it.
Faus felt the strain, he gave it everything and more. The few years left of his life drained furiously, but the shield began to crack.
It strained, his arm burned as some of the power leaked through. Even if he gave everything, it wouldn’t be enough… he was too old when he became a Seeker. Too late to give anything more.
A touch ghosted over his wrinkled hands, his eyes whipped to see the familiar rusted armor filled with straw. Translucent; not taking in full form, as they weren’t given any direct power. Only what trickled off his fading life flued their appearance.
The broken ensemble of a wooden mask turned to show it’s crooked smile. There he noticed, beyond the sounds of glass shattering, he still had a bond. Scarkir refused his sunder.
His heart pained. Before he could force it, the happy form of armor and scarecrow touched the decaying Heirloom with it’s stiff gauntlets.
Faus felt his oldest companion flak; pieces of straw shed his cracks, carried off into the wind and destruction. He could feel it— the ending of Scarkir.
He wanted to protest, to not let him end for something impossible. The bond pulsed in an unknown touch, as he looked to one of his eye buttons falling.
“Life time. Best Friend. Good Bye.”
Tears wouldn’t fall before the world went far, the deep black became a speck, the lands and waters flashing by before everything faded away to nothing.
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There was nothing at the end of eternity, falling ever more into constant wash upon itself in the torrents of white.
A year had gone by… had it? He lost just as much within his memories. At least he thought, Henry couldn’t recall the last year of his life. Finding himself drifting in the milky void of stars around himself. With not a body, but a wisp; a spirit; or a ball of light if he was certain.
Panic set as he had trouble wrapping his head around it. Thoughts came and went with the fog. It was if his own existence fought against any new ideas coming to mind, and if their was nothing new, then it would chip away his own memories.
Henry couldn’t remember when he knew this truth, only that it was kept with him. Spurring him forward, in fear, and constant reflection upon his life.
Shallow as it was. Cold as it felt. Regretful as it burned.
It was his life, and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t let go, wasting an existence and then this.
He couldn’t. Not again!
Henry flooded his imagination. Of wishes, calculations, nightmares— anything. And on occasion, screaming into the chaos to keep himself steady.
It worked for as long as he thought, as long as he didn’t relent a second. Until something shot through him. Like a fish hook into a finger, it pulled as if it had its own line.
Henry screamed; a mix of fear and terror before he began to slip away. Yet it called, in a melody. He found himself slowly becoming lost, his senses dwindling to nothing, while his very will released its grip.
The choir of chimes lifted danced away the weight of eternity, and Henry felt the erosion end. Finally knowing peace as everything faded to black.