The Void, a familiar friend, for he had been here many times before. That much he could recall with clarity, while the rest began to slip away. He also knew he had died again, and the emptiness was stretching on longer than normal. He was falling, even without a body, he experienced the sensation, the illusion of wind against him. Down he went, deeper and deeper, worry rushing through him. It hadn’t been like this before, there had always been a descent, but never this far, nor with this growing sense of wrongness, this feeling of being out of place.

It continually grew worse even when he noticed his surroundings changed. The darkness around him shifted, the abyss existing due to a lack of light, rather than nothingness. Then there was the unpleasant and abrupt transition into a weak and struggling body.

A tug, a pull, and he braced himself for the coming discomforts. Hands enveloped his head as he was slowly pushed out, joined with the crisp air that assaulted his cheeks. Foreign voices rang in his ears, another language he would be forced to learn. He prayed it would be an easy one, same for the life. Comfort, a break, that is what he needed, a life filled with luxury, and carefree days.

Unease touched his mind, he’d thought that before, many times in fact, the truth of it causing memories to surface within him. Snippets of lives, of people that he had been, blossomed in his mind; most weren’t ideal.

'It hadn’t always been like this,' he thought, as he forced himself to remember older lives. What came to him were more of impressions, and half formed images, but he could still feel it, catch distant reflections of what he felt. There had been happier times, where fate gave him a chance. Lives of comfort, and prestige, lives where his needs were easily met, and taken care of by other people.

Then things changed. They became difficult, and didn’t have the same flow to them. Everything seemed to be against him, always a struggle, always hardship, and him stuck within the bowels of low society.

‘When did it change? When did it all go wrong when, when wh—

One last powerful push, someone yanking on his head, and the cold meeting him in full, all came together to break his chain of thought. Frustrated, and assaulted by pain, he acted as any infant would; he screamed at the top of his tiny lungs. Which he performed enthusiastically, really letting the realm know his displeasure. A few lives had been cut short when he hadn’t, deemed too weak to live, for not showing the strength to cry out.

Many similar screams met his own, over stimulating his ears, and forming the beginnings of a headache. He was tempted to cease his cries for attention, given it was only making the building pressure in his skull worse. Plus, a sheet of cloth was being wrapped around him as someone carried him away. He was already receiving the care he needed, but for safeties sake, he continued his antics, with the only change of him lowering his voice.

Freed from the cold, thanks to the warm blanket, and the embrace of someone with soft fur. He took the moment reprieve to focus on his body.

Moving what he could, he felt the sensation of two arms and legs, both with five digits. He tried feeling for an equally important appendage, but it appeared the breed he’d been born into didn’t come with a tail. Disappointing, as it often helped with balance, but he would have to live without.

Focusing on his other senses, mainly the eyes, he tried opening them, only to find them unresponsive. So, he was left blind to the scene taking place as screams filled his ears from all directions, indicating that he was part of some sort of mass childbirth.

Given the circumstances of that, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that his moment of care was swiftly ended, as he was lowered onto a hard surface. Based off the noise, and pressing touches, he found himself surrounded by other bundled forms, crying as if they were about to die any moment. Their proximity made his skull pulse, the making of a headache now fully manifested.

Thankfully, by the gods will, he didn’t suffer through that torment long. All at once the foreign voices that had been mingling with the cries, ceased.

His brows creased in confusion as the voices came back as one, and in the musical note of a chorus. Humming echoed in the room, filling it with soothing hymns that had him picturing the interior of a chapel.

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The subtle touches of cold, that he’d been feeling from his uncovered face, were replaced with a soothing warmth.

His body relaxed, and the headache beginning to plague him vanished as he was lulled into a stupor. The ruckus fell away as well, since the infants around him were equally affected, freeing everyone from the torment of wailing lungs, and replacing it with soft snores.

The hymn intensified, and he felt his awareness fading, the warmth numbing his body and making him feel so very tired.

‘A short nap,’ he told himself. ‘Then I’ll find out what’s wrong, why I feel so out of place.’ For even with the touch of sleep, he could not shake the feeling of wrongness.

***

‘Fifty-four, only fifty-four, oh Giver please lend us aid.’ Vernac thought as slight tremors started in his hands.

‘You’re going to die down here in the Depths.’ Fear whispered as it encroached upon his mind, already starting to gain strength. ‘My wisdom can only do so much Vernac. I need control if you are to survive.’

He mentally pushed it away, and would have fallen into deeper offerings to the Giver, if the chance had presented itself. But other thoughts had his attention.

‘What are we going to do?’ He kept thinking. ‘To use our resources on ascension for so few. Surely there are other Worthy close to giving birth. Perhaps we could wait?’ Looking over the Newborns, he contemplated the details. ‘It shouldn’t be too troublesome, keeping them as they are while we gather more.’

"Are there any others?” He asked. “It doesn’t matter if they’re a few Tempos out, we can hold on for a bit longer."

“You know, or should, that this is it. The last batch of Worthy, at least for a while,” Zenjel answered. “Not unless you want to wait a handful of Arcs. Though I doubt your fellow Anointed would agree to such a thing.”

He glared at her. She was the last person he wanted to hear a response from. Both Anger, and now Annoyance, worsened when he noticed Zenjel was not looking at him. Instead, she was busying herself tending to the Newborns. The sight of which had him scowling. ‘How dare she, brazenly speaking to me without a thimble of offered respect.’

‘Just kill her.’ Anger whispered hotly. ‘Her loss won’t make a difference, and it will set an example.’

‘Don’t.’ Fear responded in turn, the two Curses fighting each other over his attention. ‘She handles unwanted tasks.’ It added as Vernac felt the sensation of something caressing his face. ‘Free’s up your time to handle higher matters.’ A haunted laugh echoed in his mind. ‘Unless you want to venture further out into the settlement, maybe even deal with the Soulless.’

‘Giver preserve me,’ Vernac recited in his mind as he pushed the two Cursed whispers away.

He paced across the room counting the Newborns again, maybe he’d missed one or two; ten. After the fifth time recounting, he gave up.

The other Anointed would be crossed with him, wasting resources like this. But they would be even more aligned with Anger if they received no Chanters at all.

Looking around, he found he wasn’t the only one pacing. Nearly everyone was, save for a few Maids hugging each other as they stared at the floor. They were clearly in need of his attention, and the reminder that Worthy were amongst them, that they should be gazing at him for direction in this time of trials.

Instead, Zenjel was going about consoling them while she clothed Newborns.

‘There she goes again,’ Anger whispered, its voice rising. ‘Trying to take the lead, trying to replace you.’ The thought had the opposite outcome the Curse wanted, since it had him align with Mirth rather than itself.

It was a humorous thought, he with Channels, which allowed him to stay within the third tier of a Sanctum, replace by a Maid that was near that of a Soulless.

Preposterous. Yet he readied himself to give encouraging words anyways, solely to undermine the woman and her attempts to cultivate a following. Yet as he was about to do so, he noticed one of the Maids looking at him.

“What are we going to do?” She asked. “This isn’t nearly enough to help hold the tunnels.”

He concentrated on this one, her image going sharp as he studied her face, putting it to memory, same with her voice. She was a smart one, understood who it was they were to turn to, during cursed times. He would make sure she was given safe tasks.

Removing as many curst ailments that Fear had afflicted him with, he spoke: “We’ll have to block them then. Maybe even sacrifice a few tunnels for a time.” Which would only make their lack of living space worse.

‘No matter,’ he thought. ‘We’ll just throw out some of the Soulless, Giver knows how quick they’ve been breeding.’

Stepping towards her, his mind mostly elsewhere, he wrapped the Lowly Maid in a comforting hug. Rewarding her loyalty with his attention and affection, while he thought of how many Soulless needed to be sacrificed for the adolescent settlement.