Plans of the Fallen
15th Day of Afefe in the Fourth Month of Wind’s Sway
4380 A.G.G. (253 Years Ago)
The Tower of Foresight, Raröԋӕnga
The Eighth Territory of the Dæmönic Plains of Brŭmal
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It should be understood that some of the following passages may not be entirely accurate as they weren’t transcribed as they were spoken. They’ve been translated here for ease of reading. Because of this, unfortunately, some things may be lost in the translation from the original dæmönic to common.
Translated passages will be indicated by the use of bold print.
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Tįlåtħ
The location for the meeting was second to none within the realm; the Tower of Foresight, which also housed Lumå’įl’s war salon. It was a structure completely separate of the Lord’s citadel which jutted defiantly from the eastern cliff face of the valley’s western mountains. Once part of what would have been a massive citadel and adjoining town, the majority of the structure that the tower once belonged to, sat now in utter ruins and wasn’t approachable from the outside.
It hadn’t been such since the keep had fallen to Drågon’s fire during the War of the Drågons.
The town itself however wasn’t in as roughshod of a state and was still habitable. In point-of-fact, it was populated mostly by Fallen and greater dæmöns of status; insofar as what status Lumå’įl allowed non-Fallen dæmönics to have.
Despite all appearances to the contrary, the tower and its immediate surrounding area were still very structurally sound. And once you passed under the mountain town to get to the structure’s sub levels and dungeons, it became immediately apparent that it was one of the only places in all of the Dæmönic Realm, aside from the Lord and Lady’s citadel itself, that was earnestly warm and in something akin to moderate repair.
The tower’s highest reaches poked above the low hanging, snow spewing clouds. And during the moments when the skies were clear, one could see far into the distance in all directions; from the imposing Dark Gates to the south, to the snowcapped Northern Gateway.
Once the quartet made their way past the seemingly endless war-trophy laden passages, countless stairways, meeting venues, meal halls and miscellaneous spaces, they came upon a small labyrinth of passages just below the amphitheater at the structure’s summit. It was here that Dåÿvįåd and Tįlåtħ would find themselves alongside their four equals in status and authority. Their brothers and sisters in arms, even if they didn’t always see eye-to-eye on things. Together, they comprised Lumå’įl’s six commanding Drågoon generals and the eight Fallen Princes of the Plaines. Each of them having earned their dominion over one of six principal domains due to the depth of their gifts, the breadth of their ethereal influence and, sadly, how many others had already died during the war who’d held the position prior.
The first person Tįlåtħ’s eyes rested upon in the airy space was a dark skinned dwarf who stood off to herself near on of the pillars closest to where the crowd of attendees were gathered. Brÿnsëllë was the name their Dįvįnë Mother had given her when She made her, and here today, she stood among the Fallen as Lumå’įl’s personal scribe to record the proceedings just as she always had. It was a task she’d always taken well to as she was a muse in better days before the war. Tįlåtħ watched her for a moment as Brÿnsëllë’s black eyes took in everything around her as she lightly bounced the back of her head against the stone structure she leaned her back against; her billowy raven hair absorbing each impact in a seemingly self-soothing fashion.
Shifting her gaze to the Fallen who held authority over Lumå’įl’s domain, the lowest of them Tįlåtħ noted in attendance was Sa’Cëlëstë, prince of the lowest level of the Planes; Jaԋannam, and its province of Ŝԋӕöl. Gold tinted of skin with oversized gray elven irises. Hers were eyes that she never failed to get at least one complement on whenever she walked among mortals in the living world, so vibrant they were. Considered dazzling, even by other sunrise elves. Then again, what else would one expect of a former Ǻngël? Her queendom of Jaԋannam was a place that saw the worst cold that Brŭmal has to offer and whose land was the harshest and most desiccated in dæmönic existence. Ice and ruins it was. The standing snow there stood in excess of four feet at any given time. And its sky was full of dark clouds that the sun’s light rarely pierced.
Ådån followed. Prince of Anima Ŝöla; a territory that was seemingly once an enormous rainforest. Yet the only rain it saw was that of a freezing nature and sleet. Its ancient trees were frosted over and half dead while younger ones were misshapen and bent over oddly from the weight of the ice and snow. There the air was ever filled with the sound of the cracking and collapsing of their massive limbs which ever came crashing to the ground with thunderous icy applause.
Then there was Mårquįs, prince of Austerity. Much like Ådån, Prince Mårquįs looked human. Slatani to be exact. Both shared hooded eyes, an onyx coloured gaze, fair skin and straight black hair. But very much unlike Anima Ŝöla, Mårquįs’ lands of Austerity were little more than a barren white tundra; a vast desert of snow, ice and biting winds to which no life clung.
Next was the duo of Solomon and Ålįstår. Princes of Ɣyrai and Ŭranga Ötӕra respectively. Solomon was a gnome with strikingly dark skin and dark brown eyes, who favoured keeping his hair loc’ed up in a hung-over high-top dreadlocked fashion. Prince Solomon’s territory, which also included the province of Ɣyriy consisted of frigid places were a mix of snow-covered mountainous landscapes and jagged rocky flatlands were married together by dead forests and an interconnected grouping of five immense lakes known as the Prodigious Meres; upon which floated countless ice drifts. A place that, while it boasted the largest concentration of water in the Plains, there was still not a drop of it to drink as the lakes were altogether full of salt.
Ŭranga Ötӕra on the other hand laid claim to the Great Canyon of Brŭmal; of which the equally dark skinned and black eyed dwalli, Ålįstår was surprisingly proud. Grand crevasses with walls of layered bands of coloured stone, impressive dried riverbeds, U-shaped troughs of limestone and massive buttes sitting atop vast mesas comprised its features. It could have made for quite an awe-inspiring locale if not for the extreme cold, stabbing wind and unceasing snowfall.
Two brown skinned Fallen followed in succession. Their lands being more akin to the plane which housed Lumå’įl’s citadel; having a more agreeable, if not still cold clime, and their snowfall not being nearly as oppressive as the lesser of Brŭmal’s landscapes. It’s here between Ƕaŵaiki, ruled by Prince Fa’Mÿron, and Röԋӕ, governed by Prince Josįåh, that the lion’s share of Fallen and greater dæmöns made their homes. Lands of comfortable valleys, gently sloping hills and beautiful mountain ranges with rivers that weren’t completely frozen to their beds. The snows often gave way to sunny days and the clouds weren’t nearly as gray and depressing.
Though, like everywhere else, the snow never completely thawed nor did its fall stop for any period that could be considered long. But opulent homes and abodes were in abundance, if not in various states of eternal disrepair, and it was easy to keep fires going in hearths and fireplaces.
Fa’Mÿron was one of only two of the Fallen in attendance who had a principal leniency. Water to be precise. Announced boldly via the dark furred, raven haired ma’jong’s glowing aqua pupils, encased within otherwise racially large brown irises which resembled solid stones. Master dwarf Josįåh’s eyes however were a more natural brown; human sized and utterly ordinary, which was a very common colour among the subterranean people he was fond of resembling. And they melded beautifully with his brown hair and beard.
Lastly, was the only naturally born Ǻngëlįc in attendance, the sunset Prince Kå’Såbåstįånnë who stood in authority over the lands of Raröԋӕnga itself and its rather majestic province of Kaniŝŭrra. Home of the Dark Drågoons. The land of milk and honey insofar as the Dæmönic Plains were concerned. But, what else was to be expected of the plane that housed the seats of Lumå’įl and Sin’s power? Boasting the lightest snowfall and most vigorous amounts of sunshine, it nourished robust forests, icy waterfalls feeding into frigid yet still raging rivers, hearty snow-covered valleys and even coastal-like tracts. The sunset elven woman was the second of the Fallen to have had a principal gift tied to their being. The luminescing red marbles that sat in the center of her beautifully black irises told all that fire was her domain.
Of those who held unbridled and unchallenged status in the Dark Domain alongside of Tįlåtħ and Dåÿvįåd, first stood Drågoon Ćä’Iäleth Agloñēth, the Mistress of the Mind, who was a world born lunar elf. She stood present in the grandest possible of eluvian garments; a fully covering gown emblazoned with all manner of nature-esque embroidery. Her large elven eyes were a living smoke of brown with vibrant green flakes. And the dark skin that covered her thin frame held the slightly blue tell-tale tint that’s indicative of all of her kind.
Oddly enough, Agloñēth had been a Mother of the Oratory during her mortal existence as not many of the eluvian follow monotheistic teachings in the grand scheme of things. Over the course of her long life, Ćä’Iäleth proved herself a very devout follower of the Path of Illumination. Devout enough it would seem that now, in the underworld eternal, she served at the right hand of He whom she worshiped in life.
Next was Christopher Abrecan, the Master of the Spirit. A human sadist with an unquenchable appetite for death which rivaled that of even the most bloodthirsty of Lumå’įl’s sanguine legions. Tįlåtħ cared very little for him, in all truth. Bloodletting for bloodletting’s sake should’ve been beneath any who found themselves raised to these heights. Yet here he stood by Lumå’įl’s decree.
We’re so much less than what we started as. Tįlåtħ thought as she gazed upon him. In better times, he’d have never been allowed to sit at our table. If only we hadn’t lost Sëråpħįnå and Jopħįël…
How Abrecan came to be as violent as he was, was a mystery in wide circulation among the lesser dæmönics. But few were those who would dare ask him in person for fear of becoming the next object of his enjoyment. It was believed however that his indulgences had claimed a great many souls when he lived due to the simple fact that there was nothing about him that stood out.
He didn’t appear outwardly threatening or dangerous. He was average height for a human man. Slim. Just over twelve and one-half stone. And he was utterly plain. Were he darker complected, he would have resembled what some of the locals of Kazakoto or Alphava on Mundus would have called a “child of the flowers” or a “free spirit”. As it stood, he was more often referred to as boy or gump in the worldly realm because of his lightly tanned skin, which was otherwise normally fair, and his sandy blond hair. All of which were easily forgettable to a surprising degree to mortals regardless of the fact that he kept his curly mane loosely loc’ed up in a faux Hesijuan style.
His was a face that easily blended in with a crowd of slaves or freedmen; especially since, to most dwellers of Mundus, they all resembled each other anyway. A group of people that was rarely given much attention or thought.
Tįlåtħ oft wondered what he was like when he was still mortal with his once sea green eyes. A fly trap in human form no doubt. Luring in those who thought him owned, or thought of him as a simple nobody. Now however, he was much easier to spot, and his eyes were a great deal more foreboding; the smoke forming his green irises betraying flakes which were a very lively shade of orange. Now, as a Drågoon, he was wholly unforgettable.
Then there was Aasimar Chakresh. The Drågoon known as the Master of Earth. Like Ćä’Iäleth, he was world born. A mahogany skinned dwarf of a quiet and somber nature. A watcher and examiner of people. Very much the opposite of what most dwarves were; which was loud and boisterous. Plate cuffs of precious minerals decorated the full black beard that he often stroked with care in thought. Heavy rings adorned with large precious stones sat prominently on his thick fingers which made for a surprisingly good companion to his heavy Dwarven garments which were likewise decorated with weighty metals. The globes of brown mist which were his eyes, studded with slivers of jade, studied Dåÿvįåd and Tįlåtħ closely as they entered alongside their God.
Then there stood the lightly golden complected visage of the Drågoon Sa’Iŧwan Gwaœwøn; the Master of Swiftness. A former sunrise prince of The Garden Lands that once existed in the days before the Ten and Five Year Wars south of Assami, whose gilded tint, much like Sa’Cëlëstë’s, made him look akin to a bronze statue that was darkened by weather and years.
Tįlåtħ still remembered the days when she, Dåÿvįåd and their ilk sunk those lands beneath the sea…the cursed half-saber sadly driving their actions. She mostly remembered the silence that was accompanied by the killing during the woodland’s razing prior to its destruction. It was almost unnerving, it was so quiet and still. Sunrise elves didn’t die the way other mortals did…not even among others of eluvian-kind. They almost never made a sound. Silence in battle. Silence in death. She oft wondered if Sa’Iŧwan held it against them. It definitely wasn’t the elf’s desire to see his homelands razed after the fall of Athel. Still, it happened…
Silence in all things. Tįlåtħ thought.
Tįlåtħ wished that more of the sunrise elves had been willing to join them in the war. She hadn’t necessarily wanted The Garden Lands to follow in the footsteps of western Athel. But she was more prone to highly destructive acts when her ire was struck in the days when she wielded the half-saber. Alas, due to the sunrise elves’ shortsightedness, Sa’Iŧwan now regrettably stood as a dead king of a dead kingdom.
If only all of them had seen the light of wisdom as Sa’Iŧwan had to follow our Lord.
Sa’Iŧwan’s clothing was less imposing than Ćä’Iäleth’s; as unlike lunar and sunset elves, his people tended to believe that through the simplicity of life comes wisdom. But the simple robes he wore which dragged the ground were still unmistakably eluvian. Undeniably kingly in the grace of their complementing lines and beautiful in their earth-toned colours. His hair was long and golden and it complemented the yellow fragments of his green smoke-like elven eyes.
Among their peers, Tįlåtħ was known as the Mistress of the Light and Dåÿvįåd was the Master of the Physical.
All together, these beings made up Lumå’įl’s advisory council; the mighty Choruses of the Fallen.
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The cavernous space fell silent, and all eyes turned to Tįlåtħ and Dåÿvįåd in a wave-like way as the power of their spirits floated through the crowd and touched everyone.
“Ah! Welcome Ëszërį!” Kå’Såbåstįånnë greeted earnestly as she invoked Tįlåtħ’s Drågon name; an intimate form of greeting that’s only used among Dįvonësë between the closest of friends.
Or the dearest of enemies.
Tįlåtħ, who’d positioned herself by one of the closest possible braziers in the arena as soon as she’d emerged from the vomitorium that stood behind one of the amphitheater’s two open portcullis, opened her arms to the prince who was practically running in her direction and allowed the sunset elf to embrace her.
Kå’Såbåstįånnë had always been a sweet one; and more than a bit overprotective of Tįlåtħ. Unnecessarily so. Long had the two been close. And it was fair to say that Tįlåtħ enjoyed her company. Fancied her even. It’s not a stretch to believe that had she and Dåÿvįåd not bonded as they had, it could very well have been she that Tįlåtħ shared her life and her bed with.
“Hello Kå’Såbåstįånnë. How are you this evening?”
The prince lifted her head from Tįlåtħ’s shoulder, purposefully allowing her horn to gently rub across the Drågoon’s cheek as she brushed some of her metallic gray crochet braids out of her face.
A sly move that didn’t escape Tįlåtħ’s notice; and yet another show of affection that she allowed.
“I’m well friend. And you?”
“Well.” She answered with a smile.
“I love what you did with your hair.” Tįlåtħ complemented as she ran her hand gently through the waterfall of gray.
It was her turn to be affectionate.
“You’ve been saying for weeks that you wanted a change from your cornrow braids.”
“Thank you Tįlåtħ! It pleases me that you like them.”
“Greetings Įl’įånå.” the prince greeted as Dåÿvįåd came into view behind his partner.
“Kå’Såbåstįånnë.” He acknowledged with a kurt but friendly nod.
Dåÿvįåd and Tįlåtħ both felt at home here, among brothers and sisters in love and loyalty to one another. Mostly. While they had more than their share of disagreements, understanding still flowed as a river between them all. Although, in all honesty, Tįlåtħ could do happily without seeing Christopher. But what family was perfect?
All of them had defied the Goddess together. They had fought and bled together. And although all of them had not actually fallen directly beside Lumå’įl and Så’Ħdënåħ after the Great Rebellion, they’d all faced the vengeance of the heavens together. And all of them who’d before known the glory of Ëmpÿrë longed together to see home again. All had earned their place at their Lord’s side with their strategic prowess, and had won the respect of the masses that followed them.
And then there was the commitment of the Dark Drågoons.
Not every dæmön has faced an Ǻngël in their existence. And not every Fallen Ǻngël knows what it is to engage in battle with the Goddess’ protectors; the mighty Drågons. Only a small fraction, indeed, have and do. And of those, even fewer have succeeded in retaining their immortal coil.
What remains of the confused souls of those who failed at such a grandiose task now wander the Dæmönic Plains; wingless. Forever lost to all, and lost to themselves. But the five Drågoons who stood in this room with Tįlåtħ now to include her lover; these Lords and Ladies, were different.
Each of them knew what it was to do battle with their peers. Each of them knew what it was to fell a Drågon and rip them asunder; to tear their souls from their bodies and become one with it.
Their combined power was legendary and their might was legion. They were the might of Brŭmal; the power that Lumå’įl needed not His rings to command. The most powerful of the numerous Dark Drågoons Lumå’įl and Sin had under Their sway.
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On the Subject of Transubstantiation
Here is a sometimes complicated bit of knowledge…while Ǻngëls, Fallen and otherwise can’t die in the mortal sense of the word, they can lose their “Dįvįvįty” and become a soul. Most of the time.
A point that we’ll get to in a moment.
Regardless of what anyone believes, a soul that ascends to Ëmpÿrë doesn’t just become an Ǻngël. Nor does a soul that descends to Brŭmal join the ranks of the Fallen. Somewhere along the way in Mundus’ history, the terms Fallen and dæmön became interchangeable just as benevolent spirit and Ǻngël. People started to say them as if they were one in the same. But this is a misnomer.
And Goddess help you if you should ever find yourself standing in the presence of one of the mighty Fallen, and you refer to them as anything less.
Never were Old Ǻngëls or the Fallen ever born, though there are some, like Kå’Såbåstįånnë, who are different. They were created from the Goddess’ sheer force of will. Literally thought into being from nothingness. That being said, their bodies aren’t empty vessels created from the Tree’s fruits, with a soul that was breathed into them by Åmbrosįå. Their physical forms, their true forms that is, are…for lack of a better explanation, creations that defy description insofar as the living world is concerned. And they tend to take on the form of the race they feel the closest kinship with, for better or worse when it comes to walking the face of Mundus. They’re Dįvįnë power made manifest.
But, once an Ǻngëlic or a Fallen undergoes the process of transubstantiation, they lose their Dįvonësë heritage. The life and the gifts that were bestowed upon them by Her will are literally undone at their most fundamental level and the form they were last residing in during the loss, becomes the last form that they ever know. With the loss of their wings, the link to their Dįvįnë Mother is cut in a way that it can never be remade. And such a violent separation is devastating.
Beyond this trauma, when they eventually “die”, they return to whence they came. As all mortal beings do. However, now, they’re as any other soul. No longer privy to the station they were once granted by birthright. But even more than that, without guidance, they can become lost. Their minds shrouded in a confusion between what they should be and what they now are. Their hearts heavy with guilt and anguish for reasons they themselves cannot fathom.
They oft desire to die a final death. Mainly those who fall to the cold loneness of the Dæmönic Plains. But alas; death cannot easily come to the dead.
Now, notice that earlier I said that such a thing was the case most of the time. During The War of the Drågons, blood hekas came into existence among the Fallen. A spell weave that allowed them to utterly destroy a soul; to refuse it the ability to return to or enter either the Dæmönic Plains or the Ǻngëlic Realms.
A truly revolting and unnatural work of taboo in the midst of an already forbidden practice. But an even more frightening thought was that during the war, it was completely unknown to any in Ëmpÿrë exactly who controlled this unholy ability let alone when it may be invoked.
Or how it was even devised in the first place...
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Tįlåtħ watched as Dåÿvįåd breathed deeply of the fresh air breezing gently through the open tower as he continued on in and moved to stand beside their brothers and sisters; nodding to each of the territorial rulers as he passed them.
Gazing about the area thoughtfully as her lover found his place, Tįlåtħ couldn’t help but allow a smile to escape her lips as she took in the fresh air just as he had. There was no question that the coliseum-like cavity was one of her favorite places in the Plains. And never did she not allow herself to enjoy it at least a bit whenever she had occasion to come here.
To say that the circular chamber they moved through was large in scope was a practice in the art of understatement. Far above and centered on the area was a stunning iron chandelier, covered in wax stalactites formed from the dozens upon dozens of dripping candles it held.
There were twenty and four gargantuan carved pillars that supported the frescoed ceiling which encompassed the room in its entirety. Near each of them were torches and braziers of stone and wrought iron that were ablaze with ever-burning flame. Not unlike the one Tįlåtħ stood near. The radiance of the torches, braziers and the chandelier was so complete that scarcely a single shadow could be found.
An Unbroken stood before each of these pillars. All of varying skin tones, hair and eye colours, seemingly guarding against a never seen threat; resting their hands on their gargantuan Dæmönic claymores which stood upright before them. Their collective ever-sharp blades piercing the ground; holding them fast and upright. Near half of which could’ve been considered female; the only difference between their clothing, or lack of it, and their male counterparts being a near backless chest plate connected to a high necked gorget. The entirety of it reaching down no further than the bottom of the breasts.
Lest we forget, it simply would not do to over-cover the glory bestowed to them by their Lord.
Beyond these imposing creatures, there were no walls separating the room from the outside. The view of Dæmönic existence below from atop the stands above the clouds was-
It was humbling.
As Lumå’įl and Sin entered emerged in the arena-like space, Tįlåtħ ran her dark fingers over the brazier she stood near; playing with the flames within while she waited for the inevitable. And it wasn’t long before the inevitable happened.
The glow from all the fires, large and small, shifted in nature from the comfortable bright orange that one would expect from the element and melted away into an otherworldly hue of the deepest purple. The Fire Untameable. The Dįvįnë Flame. Such was the nature of Lumå’įl’s being. Such was the power of his spirit; that he affected the natural laws of existence unconsciously with just his presence; forcing the Goddess’ fire into being without the need to call upon it. It was a change in The Flow that was perceptible. Palatable and tactile. And Tįlåtħ delighted in the feel of the fire as a coolness not unlike that of cold water washed through the flames as they shifted in colour before becoming hot once again.
The change never ceased to mystify her.
All took a knee once Lumå’įl and Så’Ħdënåħ fully entered the space; to include Dåÿvįåd and Tįlåtħ herself regardless of the fact that they’d basically arrived with them.
“All glory be to our Lord and Lady.” they all said in some off form of unison.
“Rise.” The duo commanded together.
Tįlåtħ looked about at the vast stone cavea that rose up all around from the arena’s center. Up and out. The face of each row of seats adorned with carvings that depicted the history of the Ten and Five Year Wars; every battle won and every Drågon killed. Normally, hundreds of Dæmöns and Fallen from all the lands of Brŭmal filled these stands, waiting to be heard during all manner of miscellaneous meeting. But today, there was little more than silence surrounding the Dark Drågoons, the princes and their Lord and Lady.
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The Dark Drågoons promptly took their places at the nearest end of The Mosaic, which comprised almost the entire arena floor and was surrounded by an immovable and immaculately carved oval shaped stone table which seemed to rise from the ground itself, as if it were a part of it. Very dwarven.
The Mosaic was a magickal reconstruction of all of Mundus. This was much more than some illusion or phantom image however. It was real, or at least it seemed as though it was. It seemed…living. As solid as the room it sat in. Neither Tįlåtħ nor Dåÿvįåd understood the techniques used to create it in the least. They, just as everyone else present, knew only that it existed at the whim of their Lord and that He and Så’Ħdënåħ alone could manipulate it. It reflected the mortal world as it existed. If it was happening, it could be seen. And if it wanted to find you, you were found. None could hide from the one who looked upon it…
Unless you had protection.
Every mountain and running stream. Every swaying tree and drifting cloud. The Choruses could see the golden light that washed over the lands under the suns as well as the shadows of the lands under the nighttime sky and under the cover of Audaux.
Tįlåtħ watched with interest as a substantial storm slowly moved in over The Western Chain. A serious grouping of heavy clouds had formed and it seemed that snow or freezing rain would be laid on fairly thick there with the falling darkness. Likewise tall, dark clouds in the rough likeness of anvils had already found a home over the northern Outer Crest and Kazakoto. Thunder and lightning would soon be clashing there.
Christopher was already moving around the table to lazily examine the thunderstorms and the rain they’d soon be producing in more detail.
“You did check this information three times over, correct?” Lumå’įl asked once He was sure that all were in attendance.
“Yes My Lord. Three times over.” Ålįstår said in response. “My watchers have confirmed it along with Ådån and Josįåh’s people.” The two men nodded their concurrence.
“I see then. Show me what you have.”
Lumå’įl breezed His hand, palm side up, over the section of table before Him as if to say “Place it here before me”. And that’s exactly what happened. A weighty scroll and several pages of parchment were laid there before his eyes. And as He gazed upon the information, Så’Ħdënåħ was already hard at work behind Him. Reaching into the Flow with a grace and ease that only a child of Dįvįnįtÿ could ever hope to attain; her dark arms moving this way and that about her as she swayed back and forth. Closing her eyes, it was almost as if she were allowing herself to feel the threads of reality as she became one with her gifts of manipulation.
She was seeing through The Flow.
“Hmm.” Lumå’įl grunted in thought. “Do you see this, my dearest?”
“Yes Father.”
I can’t be for sure. After all, who could possibly know the mind of a goddess? But Så’Ħdënåħ answered her Father with a certainty that eluded to her using The Flow in that moment to look upon the documents through His eyes. For without him saying a single word further to clarify his request, she assured him that-
“I’m feeling my way to it now.”
“I take it the half-saber has been found.” Sa’Iŧwan ventured to guess.
“No. Not yet. However it would seem that the time is nearly upon us regardless. It’s time to go home.” Weather out of shock, misunderstanding or just a desire to hear more, none responded with visible excitement to Lumå’įl’s proclamation. “I want us to begin preparations to take hold of the lands of Hesijua.”
“Hesijua? For what purpose?” Christopher asked boldly. “We decided early on that we’d only push against them if they posed a real problem. Too many ties to the dwarves and their isiliverie. Too many of their infernal machines. Too organized. Not that I’d not love to raze every one of its cities to the ground in reprisal for the blows they struck against us in the Ten and Five Year Wars, but it’s not exactly the most accessible place in the world.”
“Because it’s where She moved the Tree.” Så’Ħdënåħ answered suddenly; confirming the scroll’s contents. “The Tree is there. Your watchers may be right Father. I think I can sense it if I focus hard enough…but it’s hard to tell for certain.” Refocusing her efforts, Så’Ħdënåħ intensified her movements.
With a slight moan-like grunt that inadvertently sent sexually charged shivers through the crowd, Så’Ħdënåħ dug her way deeper into what she was feeling. Tįlåtħ watched the movements of her fingers as they strained ever so lightly within her dance-like movements against the threads of existence; her horn decorations jingling lightly as she moved about. “If this is in fact its resting place, then it’s very well masked.”
“Are we certain it’s actually where you believe this time? Are we sure Ålįstår’s right?” Christopher probed further; tempting fate once again with his continued audacity as he reached out to run his fingers under the newly falling rain. He always seemed so much more captivated by The Mosaic than the others; the heka of it, no matter how many times he saw it. “It wouldn’t be the first time illusionary Heka has been used to mislead us.”
Lumå’įl looked deep into the eyes of the Fallen who had assembled the mountain of information, seemingly weighing Christopher’s words. He looked to His daughter, who gave Him a reassuring nod. And after giving the Chorus members who presented Him with the material a final examination and conferring with his thoughts, He shifted His gaze back to Christopher himself.
“We’d bet their lives on it.” His already booming voice deepened further. “You believe I’d convene us if your brethren weren’t certain Christopher? Do you think my…trust is misplaced? Or do you question my judgment?”
“Of course not My Lord. In either case. And none would suggest otherwise.” Ćä’Iäleth said, apparently attempting to spare Christopher some pain and embarrassment as he was obviously so sidetracked by the living map that he’d apparently forgotten himself. “I think that the question our brother is failing at trying to ask is how we’re to do it. Hesijua isn’t exactly weak as Christopher explained. Of course, we could sack the continent. It’s not beyond us. But not without heavy losses and not without consuming a great deal of time. Not to mention that the overwhelming Swalii population and government are still allied with their not-so-distant cousins, the Dwalli, to the south, regardless of their estrangement. And the Dwalli, in turn, have a solid alliance with more than one of the eluvian races.”
“Ćä’Iäleth is right my Lord.” Tįlåtħ chimed in. “This isn’t four hundred years ago. The technologies they cling to so flagrantly which aided in our repulsion from the world before have progressed forward at a rate that’s, in no small way, astounding. The Swalli aren’t an easily predictable element in my opinion.”
“Nor in mine.” Lumå’įl agreed surprisingly. “A direct assault isn’t my intent. Our position in the world as a whole is strengthening day by day. Internal friction, political instability, slumping economies, et cetera. Not to mention that Her Ǻngëls, Drågons and Drågoons haven’t stalked Mundus in an age.”
“What of Her benevolent souls?” Kå’Såbåstįånnë asked. “We’re all well aware, of course, that our dæmöns have been hounding them and mortal kind for an age, but even a smattering of dæmöns can only incite so much instability at any given time. Any serious movement made by us, especially insofar as it concerns the Tree, is bound to eventually draw their attention. And benevolent souls outnumber dæmöns ten to one. The odds simply aren’t in our favour.”
Lumå’įl shook His head after a brief moment of contemplation. “They’re of no real concern. In the years upon years that they’ve been part of the world maintaining the supposed balance between us and them they’ve done very little indeed to stop us from gaining ground where I desired for us to gain ground, or from taking a soul where I desired for us to take a soul. The truth of the matter is that without the Ǻngëls behind them they’re little more than influences or muses. Same as any dæmön. Wouldn’t you say Kå’Såbåstįånnë?”
She nodded. “True my Lord.”
“However, with all due respect, I think that the Drågons may still be more of a problem than we think.” Solomon suggested as he ran his dark skinned hands over his hair. “While it’s true that Drågons have long been absent from Mundus, we’d be remiss to forget the one still in hiding. The only Drågon that eluded us in the war. That’s unfinished business that could end up being a problem.”
“One issue at a time. Assuming he’s still there at all and that he didn’t return to Ëmpÿrë long ago, I have plans for him. He’s not to die. We’ll need him.” Lumå’įl said.
Tįlåtħ wasn’t too sure about that. The Great Drågon was a major risk. And it was likely best that he die. It was dangerous to underestimate the creatures when it came to conflict. Especially when it came to the oldest of them. However, while she was the apex of the leadership in this room, the general of generals, the rudder for the dæmönic army, it was still Lumå’įl’s ship to sail. His war to wage. And Tįlåtħ wasn’t feeling suicidal enough to confront Him on the issue.
Not right now.
She instead decided that she should inquire about another blatant problem that she foresaw. The revocation of His Dįvįnë authority by Åmbrosįå after The Fall.
“Forgive me my Lord, but I must ask. Does our former goddess still…hold sway over you? Are your gifts still-”
“Yes Tįlåtħ.” He interrupted. “Åmbrosįå’s ‘natural laws’ prevent me from personally imposing my will on Mundus still. Neither I nor Så’Ħdënåħ can involve ourselves in any conflict of men and mer regardless of the situation. Not directly, anyhow.”
Tįlåtħ shook her head amongst the malcontented murmurs of the others.
“However” Lumå’įl continued, “neither can She. Nor can her…companion, Sånįgron.”
His face turned sour when Sånįgron’s name crossed his lips. As much as He’d turned his back to her when He declared war on the Cathedra of Creation, Tįlåtħ understood more than anyone that there was more behind it than a desire to rule.
At least, it was in the beginning.
And even though He’d…moved on from Her before the onset of The Great Rebellion, an intimate bond with a Goddess isn’t something that’s easily broken. It’s never fully severed. And it probably still pained Him that She shared Her throne with another. Even if Sånįgron’s ascension to the throne in Lumå’įl’s place was over eight millennia past.
In this, the balance still endures. The field of war will remain even and we can still gain the upper hand. Besides, what good is the Tree to us if it’s inadvertently destroyed by the destructive power of our rage or their retribution?” He looked down momentarily, as if in a moment of contemplation…or regret. He then shifted His gaze back to Dåÿvįåd and Tįlåtħ; the Lord's starburst eyes appearing gray under the weight of the amphitheater’s purple light. “Listen and understand me well, to this extent, Hesijua can’t be allowed to become another Assami, or another Sunken Garden. Do what you must, if you must, within reason when the time comes. But leave the land intact and above the sea!”
It wasn’t hard for Tįlåtħ to see why He felt that He'd allowed them too much leniency before. Weather out of grief, anger or cold indifference I don’t think anybody knew. But it was obvious to all that His thoughts on the world had evolved since The Ten and Five Year Wars. At the very least He was concerned for the wellbeing of the Tree.
Whatever indignity He might have felt over the loss of Assami, Tįlåtħ felt it too. She anguished over the decisions of her past; that she’d allowed herself to listen to the voices and be pushed to asking Dåÿvįåd to help her kill so many out of grief and anger. She could feel the shame of it exposed on her face and she lowered her head at the accusation to hide her disgrace from the others.
The sudden depression she exuded was almost palpable. But it wasn’t right to her that she should be held to task alone. She wasn’t the only one of them who’d made rash decisions in the heat of anger.
“Not another Assami. But not another downing either.” She whispered, not daring to want to appear militant towards their Lord.
Så’Ħdënåħ stepped forward a bit in all of her svelte eluvian grace; her arms held wide, frozen in the midst of her weave, as if she were holding open an invisible curtain. “It’s all of little consequence either way. The longer Åmbrosįå decides to sit on Her throne and remain faceless to Her children, the more strength She’ll inadvertently lend to our followers who are actively working towards our ends. And we shall, in turn, reward them all by covering the world in suffering like a plague and making it more malleable for our arrival.” As Så’Ħdënåħ spoke her piece, Tįlåtħ couldn’t help but notice the smile which creeped across her full lips. She seemed to be full of more venom and hate than even her Father was.
Not that this type of darkness was new for her. Both Tįlåtħ and Dåÿvįåd always thought her to be quite a volatile child. Though they never could figure why. Maybe it had something to do with her nature as the child of a God and a Goddess.
Dealing with Sin on a near daily basis often led she and Dåÿvįåd to confide in each other of their fears if they were to have a daughter together. Would her disposition mirror Sin’s or Kå’Såbåstįånnë’s? They feared having to raise a little one like Så’Ħdënåħ, in this situation, away from their real home and with this type of…bitterness.
Maybe it’s why Dįvonësë births were so rare. There were far too few of them to know.
Even if a child between them didn’t, as they say on Mundus, “run both hot and cold”, a child wouldn’t understand the things that are being done now. Even one of Dįvįnë blood. A child wouldn’t understand why they’re fighting. That lack of understanding could very easily turn to familial resentment. And to run the risk of a child growing up to foster nothing but loathing for them and the things they do was undesirable. For their child to rebel against them as they themselves rebelled against the All-Mother…
Although putting those fears aside, in this particular instance, Så’Ħdënåħ’s anger was understandable for once.
Aasimar stepped forward; the brown mist that the dwarven Drågoon had for eyes cutting across The Mosaic and through his peers to arrest the attention of the Lord of the Fallen. His heavy black beard clanking with the sound of a dozen metal clamps.
“So what would you have us do My Lord?” he probed.
“It’s time that we became more…visible in the world. And of course, by ‘we’, I mean ‘you’. Dearest, if you would.”
At His command, Så’Ħdënåħ re-focused her thoughts and began to quietly sing; her long ears moving ever so slightly in a way that almost seemed giddy.
She loved to sing. And there was no voice in existence more beauteous than hers, save for the Goddess.
Her incantations filled the very air with a tangible energy as she plunged her dark hands one at a time into the invisible currents of The Flow. Sliding them in between the strands that she was “holding open” with a quickness and precision only obtainable by the Daughter of the Dįvįnë.
As if doing some strange version of spritish handspeak, she began manipulating the heka that composed The Mosaic. It was a beautiful dance where her fingers tugged this way and that at the strands of the universe. She truly had the gifts of the Dįvįnësë who bore her.
Especially those of her Mother. Most notably in her grace.
Suddenly the sensation of flying, or more appropriately falling, overtook Tįlåtħ as the view of The Mosaic shifted and everything collapsed inward. The whole ordeal of visual travel via The Mosaic was always a little disquieting to the equilibrium of all in the room. You felt as if you could actually fall over the edge of the table if you leaned forward too far into the image and plummet to the ground miles below.
As the earth continued to come screaming at them, Lumå’įl began addressing His generals.
“Christopher, Aasimar, Sa’Iŧwan, I want you to spirit yourselves to the corners of this world. Utilize however many dæmöns you must and get me a true feeling for the pulse of the people’s minds. I must know if we’re in as good of a position as I believe if we’re to do what we must. Move as cautiously as you may deem necessary, but endeavor to report to me as quickly as possible. Time is a factor with these first steps.
“Remember Christopher” the Dark Lord emphasized as he focused his attention squarely on the sadist, “don’t involve yourself with the mortals and avoid confrontations at all costs. This is not a task I’m setting forth for the purpose of bloodying anyone.”
“Yes my Lord.” Aasimar and Sa’Iŧwan responded in unison. Christopher on the other hand simply bowed his head slightly; unable to hide his apparent displeasure with either the assignment or the way he was singled out by Lumå’įl. It was a dissatisfaction that plastered itself all across his aspect. He was practically glowering.
Unbelievable. Tįlåtħ thought to herself as she pushed her shame over the past to the side to focus on the present. Childish. The absolute worst of us. If he’s not allowed to indulge himself, he’s not satisfied. She looked into his face and scoffed; unable to allow the slight to stand. “You’re a Drågoon, Abrecan. For Lumå’įl’s sake, act like it.”
Christopher’s face turned from surprise, to embarrassment to anger all in the span of seconds. And deep in her heart, Tįlåtħ quietly hoped that he’d be bold enough to move against her. But sadly for her, he wasn’t that daft. Instead, he seemed to struggle to calm himself and he stayed still.
“As you say Lady Tįlåtħ.” he responded.
“You may have obtained the gift of that spirit through your own strength, but you’ve subsequently been given responsibilities far above your station through cruel twists of Fate and no small amount of circumstance.
“And it’s a position that can be easily be filled by another.”
The threat was as thinly veiled as her distaste for the Drågoon she addressed.
“Listen to Lumå’įl, do the job you’ve been tasked with, be satisfied and don’t fail us.”
Christopher looked at Tįlåtħ, then around to all of the princes and Drågoons in attendance. It’s not hard to gauge by the silence of all around him and the looks on the faces in the crowd that the room supported his chastising.
“I won’t fail our Lord…or you, Lady Tįlåtħ.” He promised hesitantly with a low bow. It was the only right course of action.
Seeming to be unwilling to address Christopher’s malcontentment further, or possibly believing that Tįlåtħ had handled the matter sufficiently, Lumå’įl and Sin continued on.
The view of the Mosaic slowed its descent and soared through the reaches of the atmosphere as it settled briefly over the landmass of Hesijua. As it was nighttime in this part of the world, the continent seemed bathed in specks of artificial white light produced by any number of homes and structures concentrated within the major cities. The specks sporadically scattered and became thin lines which connected every major city with every other minor town and back again. It was a spider’s web of life that sparkled like dew drops on the grass after a mid-day shower.
The technological progress of mortals unhindered by religious law.
“Dåÿvįåd, I’d have you go to Hesijua directly under Så’Ħdënåħ’s guidance to verify what Ålįstår’s watchmen have reported.”
Ålįstår’s bushy brows raised in shock and he moved to protest, but was halted in his advance by Lumå’įl as he raised one of his ring covered hands. “I trust you Ålįstår. Your competence is not in question. I trust the watchers. I trust my daughter. But I will leave nothing to chance. Christopher is overly brash. Sometimes to his detriment. But he has spoken true in that The White Tree has been moved before to keep us from locating it. And the Ǻngëls’ illusionary spell craft has become increasingly troublesome. It’s becoming harder for my daughter to see through their veils. I need Dåÿvįåd to get closer.”
Ålįstår bowed to his master’s whim as Lumå’įl turned his attention back to the Drågoon.
“Report on the White Tree’s existence and what protections it has to the best of your ability. Whatever you find comes directly to Så’Ħdënåħ.”
“If it’s indeed there, it will no doubt be fortified in the most extreme nature. Of that you can be certain. But I shall bring Lady Så’Ħdënåħ what news I can.”
“Good.” Sin answered for her Father. “See that you do.” She ceased her singing and paused her movements yet again. This time, in a rather graceful dancer’s position which held fast the weave of heka that comprised the vista within The Mosaic. “Look to the fortified mountains of the snow covered north.”
As the directions passed her lips, she tugged this way and that, sung a phrase or two and caused the view to fall towards a trio of volcanos which sat center within the vast northern mountain range that the dwarven natives of the area referred to as Dwalow. Large stone buildings, which for all intents and purposes seemed deserted, protruded from the mountain side as if they were a part of it; because they were. The lightless surface structures were hewn from the very same stone in fact. Massive stone guard towers connected with battlements that curved to completely encircle and protect the mountain’s southern approach made for a rather formidable sight. It was a fortification that was massive in scope and scale. Yet it seemed that not a single soul patrolled them.
“It’s there that you should find what we’re looking for. The mountain may look abandoned and forgotten, but walk there with caution and don’t walk there alone.” Sin cautioned.
“As you wish My Lady.”
Nodding, Så’Ħdënåħ continued her song and dance in full. And as the Mosaic’s view flew across the surface of the world and shifted across The Open Sea to the east, the Choruses eventually found themselves over the continent of Kazakoto and the mega city of Hisra. The golden light of the suns played off its miles and miles of steam pipes which snaked both monstrously and somehow elegantly around the sea of tall brick buildings, which ran along the flatlands and scaled the western tip of the colossal Yavan Mountains like a great wave of red and brown concrete and steel. Its mighty and somewhat infamous docks and ports reached deep into sea to the south like the limbs of some ugly beached sea creature. Mass amounts of black smoke and white steam were belched into the sky from its many industrial centers, blocking the view from above for miles depending on which way the wind was blowing. Kazakoto was a continent that was frozen in technological time.
The polar opposite of the far more advanced lands of Hesijua.
Here Hisra stood as a glorious representation of the continent’s mechanical stagnation at its most extreme and the world’s stagnation outside of Hesijua as a whole. Thanks in large part to the decrees of the Oratory.
As the view settled into a circular pattern around the mega city, Lumå’įl spoke again.
“Tįlåtħ, for you I have a task of a most…delicate nature.”
She acknowledged her Lord with eye contact.
“There’s a situation festering in this city I need you to deal with. A human that could become a major hurtle for us if we don’t insert ourselves in his path. It’s too delicate for me to entrust to anyone but you; the most skilled of my generals.”
“Could I help My Lord?” Every eye turned to face Kå’Såbåstįånnë as she suddenly offered herself up on Tįlåtħ’s behalf; her face full of concern.
“To what end?” the Fallen king asked. “This isn’t the sort of work I ask of my princes. Such is the burden to bear of my Drågoons. Besides, you don’t know what I’m going to ask of her yet.”
“I know My Lord. And I don’t mean to be impertinent. It’s just that, I don’t think…I mean, I don’t want…well-”
“I think our sister is concerned about Tįlåtħ’s wellbeing Sire.” Ålįstår stated as he ran his hands through the tiny raven coloured twists on his head.
Kå’Såbåstįånnë nodded her agreement.
“Nothing new there.” Ålįstår whispered to Fa’Mÿron in a gossipy manner.
A mix of embarrassment and nervousness washed across her face as her red pupiled eyes darted this way and that about the room; searching the faces of everyone around her while periodically reuniting with Lumå’įl’s gaze before falling to the floor shyly and rebounding to the next Fallen or dæmön. No doubt wondering haw many of her peers were sharing Ålįstår’s judgment over her outburst.
She obviously hadn’t thought about how her desire to support Tįlåtħ would look.
Regardless of what was in everyone else’s heads, Lumå’įl held no judgement. He rarely did. And as she looked to Tįlåtħ, the Drågoon made sure that the only thig she saw in her face was gratitude and a smile. But she also gently shook her head. Tįlåtħ didn’t want her friend putting her neck on the chopping block for her.
“I simply thought that, if this quarry is that dangerous, that maybe Tįlåtħ could use a second. Given that Dåÿvįåd will be indisposed.” Kå’Såbåstįånnë explained.
“There’s no need for your concern prince.” Sin comforted. “A second won’t be needed. Neither will a third. She’ll be quite safe.”
“Så’Ħdënåħ speaks true.” Lumå’įl confirmed. “As long as Tįlåtħ remains cordial, there’s little cause for concern indeed. Besides, this isn’t someone I’d risk sending a single Fallen after if I wanted him dead. I don’t want him killed. Or even injured for that matter. This mortal is important in the same way that you’re all important. Even more so.
“I mean for him to join your number. His voice shall join yours in the Chorus.”
This visibly didn’t sit well with any of the Drågoons. To include Tįlåtħ.
This is too familiar. she thought to herself. We don’t need another Christopher.
The princes on the other hand all seemed to simply stand frozen in shock.
“But…we don’t even know this person Lord Lumå’įl. Who’s he to be of such import?” Ćä’Iäleth demanded.
“To put it simply, he’s something that we’ll desperately need in the fight to come just as we I’ve needed all of you in the past. He has a gift for heka that’s unparalleled. Even he doesn’t realize how much so. He’s a man who’s born to it. It comes as naturally to him as breathing.”
Lumå’įl’s profession was confounding. Magi were in no short supply and more than a few Magi of note were already followers of the Oratory and its temples. Could this one man have honestly been so grand? Or was there more to it?
“If the ‘simple’ of it’s that this mortal can conjure a given principal better than most, then what’s the complicated bit?” Josįåh questioned insightfully. “There must be a complicated bit. Otherwise why send Tįlåtħ?”
“The complicated bit is that Magi tend to travel in packs. Especially those who are native to the Link.” Tįlåtħ answered.
“That they do Tįlåtħ.” the former God responded. “However, the Magisterium won’t be a foreseeable factor. He’s irrevocably estranged from his people. Both of them.” He then focused squarely on Ćä’Iäleth. “This brings me to your task in all of this Drågoon Agloneth. I want you to find the last worldly Drågon. Where he hides himself is currently beyond my knowledge. So I’ll utilize you to this end.”
Ćä’Iäleth’s eyes widened with anger as she realized almost immediately why He wanted the Drågon. “I was unaware that there was a mortal yet living in the world who you held in such esteem.” She bowed her head humbly as she continued to forcefully address Him. “I mean you no disrespect. But please, tell me My Lord, how long has this mortal worshiped at your shrines? How many chants has he sung in your honour within the halls of your temples? How many wayward souls has he guided down the Path of Illumination? How many statues has he raised in your name and the name of your daughter?”
“None.” Lumå’įl replied calmly. The Dæmönic Lord was always calm.
Ćä’Iäleth’s head snapped up and her brown and green eyes blinked rapidly in amazement as shock laden awe gripped the rest of the crowd.
“He believes in nothing. In fact, despite the fact that he studied among other Magi in the Link and adhered to their practices, I believe him to be quite the skeptic. A man who calls upon the Goddess’ name for power, but not for prayer.
“This is why we have to get to him first. It’s imperative that he believes in us before he believes in them.”
Looking about the room at her constituents as if to seek verification of what she just heard, the Dark Drågoon was compelled to confront the illogic of the order. “Please forgive me Lord, but I fail to understand.”
“Your understanding isn’t a requisite for your obedience Ćä’Iäleth.”
“But my Lord, you mean to have this non-believer, this seemingly unworthy mortal, take the High Drågon? Such an honour? I-”
“-It’s not your place to question me.” Lumå’įl warned as He suddenly cut her off. “Your place is simply to do as is commanded of you.”
There was no need for Him to raise His voice. The implied anger was there. Who was Ćä’Iäleth to question Him? Who were any of them to question Him? Does the hungry man question nourishment? Does the thirsty man question refreshment? Do the dying question salvation? Who dares question providence?
The stillness of Lumå’įl’s order seemed to fill the room and quiet nervousness overtook everyone. Ćä’Iäleth’s brown eyes seemed to flash solid with fear.
And she was right to be afraid.
Running her dark, blue tinted hands nervously through her metallic gray hair, the lunar elf simply responded in the affirmative and then remained silent.
“Besides, I believe he’ll eventually find his way into it with or without our aid.” Lumå’įl kindly justified further. “I’d rather these…gifts, be given to him by us rather than by receiving them from the Drågon himself. It will serve to indebt him to us.”
If Tįlåtħ were to openly bear the truth, she felt the same as Ćä’Iäleth. To her, such a gift should not be freely granted to one who was so seemingly undeserving; so…impetuous. But she kept that counsel to herself.
After clearing her throat in order to alleviate the awkwardness of the moment, Tįlåtħ addressed her Lord. “Sire, if you’re this interested in this man-”
“Yes Tįlåtħ, you assume correctly.” Så’Ħdënåħ preemptively answered Tįlåtħ’s unfinished question on her Father’s behalf.
She ceased her singing for the last time and, with an exhaled breath, pulled her hands from the Flow; relinquishing her control of it. Allowing the view of the Mosaic to slowly pull back from Mundus’ surface and return to an all-encompassing view of the living world.
And she continued to address Tįlåtħ’s concerns as it did so.
“The Goddess may have Her eyes turned toward him already. He’s being protected. His spirit hidden. You must move swiftly and find him.”
“Hidden, My Lady?”
“Masked. In the same manner that my Father masked us from Åmbrosįå during our rebellion, however, not with hekas of the blood. As my Father made mention, the Ǻngëls’ gifts of illusion have become increasingly problematic. And while you may not feel him, we have always felt him ever so slightly until recently. But there’s nothing that can be hidden easily from us. Or, at least, not hidden for long.”
Tįlåtħ bowed her head to Så’Ħdënåħ’s information, and purposefully re-directed her next question directly towards Lumå’įl. “And if he…denies our invitation?”
Lumå’įl seemed to weigh this question with the upmost thought. “I told you, he’s not to come to harm. Simply report the situation to me.”
It was so unusual for Lumå’įl to pique such an interest in someone who was not one of the Fallen. Even when it came to the non-Ǻngëlįcs who were among the Choruses now.
This human had to be very powerful indeed.
Or maybe a more fitting question would be how long have they been following this man without so much as a word? Tįlåtħ thought to herself. It’s always been His prerogative to watch and do as He pleases…but to keep something of such import to Himself and away from us-
“As you wish my lord.” Tįlåtħ replied aloud. “You said that he was separated from both of his people. The Magi and who else?”
I’m certain the look on Tįlåtħ’s face tickled Lumå’įl to no end when he said- “He’s Swalii.”
“He’s what?!” A cynical laugh burst from Drågoon Aasimar’s gut despite himself; the silent watcher being moved to speak for the first time since the meeting began. “I’m sorry My Lord, but I must’ve heard you wrong. I thought that you just said that this man was a Swalii Magister.”
“I did.”
Chakresh’s laughter was extinguished just as quickly and surely as a flame if someone were to douse it with water.
“Be that the case, I can see why you’d want me to be the one to reach out to him, and why you favour him.” Tįlåtħ curtsied in acceptance of her assignment. “This will be…interesting I think.”
Så’Ħdënåħ nodded as if for her Father. “Indeed it should.” she said.
“And by what name should I ask after this man Sire?”
Lumå’įl gazed down upon the Mosaic. Drank it in deeply. No doubt envisioning the day when He’d walk upon it freely again.
After a moment, He turned back to Tįlåtħ. “He goes by the surname of Astaroth. Samahdemn Astaroth.”