A winding crossroads, pale lamps, unnerving fog. A choice, rarely given. A choice rarely refused. Life, Death, Rebirth, Reemergence. Folly in the face of fear. Intelligence in spite of bravery.
* Tides of the cosmos, Chapter one - forenote.
Roul'thuni, or Roul as he liked to imagine his imaginary friends would call him, was late. So, so, so very late. So late in fact that he was sure that the chosen of his cult would excommunicate him if they found out. When they found out he thought, correcting himself. Because they would, the moment he walked into the central deliberation hall. He wasn’t even in the Ivory Tower yet, although he could see its white and silver ornamentation from here, and the miles tall tree that sat atop it, he was only just coming up to the streets that led there. The worst part was, this time, it wasn’t even his fault. He had been up and ready hours before the meeting was set to start. But he had underestimated the bustle and rudeness of the citizens of his fair city, apparently. Despite the station his position as the current ‘face’ of the cult should grant him, the porters guild representative of his neighbourhood had told him he was ‘too busy’. Horwayfef take that wretched little pot bellied man. Roul had thought. He had been forced to run, in very, very, heavy ornamental robes, nearly a mile. The bottom of these prestigious robes had been ruined, almost completely. He’d have to hide it somehow. The thought of it, the stress, the ire, the ridicule, filled Roul’s stomach with ice. But he was close now. He had finally made it to the Architect's Square, and for a second he let himself bask in its majesty. Up until recently, this entire square had been more than defunct. It was only when the still mysterious figure, known now only as The Grand Architect, appeared, that it finally received the renovations that it so desperately needed. Walking through it was truly Roul’s favourite part of the day. Each bush was properly kept, each fountain ran perfectly, and each stone was set with an unparalleled precision. The entire forum was a masterwork, an ingenious art piece. The combined members of each cult loved it so much that they had named the Square after her. That is where their love ended, however. Roul thought himself to be slightly biassed, however. He was a part of a Lesser Cult– the only Lesser Cult under the watch of the Architect and her ilk. The Oisnirm. Technically, if she decided to show up to today's meeting, he would serve as her temporary advisor. But out of all of the Greater Cults leaders, she was the most… free spirited. She rarely showed up to anything. He had never actually had the pleasure of seeing her before.
As he approached the Nonogonal tower at the heart of the square, he offered a silent prayer to his Oisprotu, his religious idol, that the chosen already there hadn’t been too scornfully torn into. That they had merely shrugged off his lateness as enigmatic behaviour, and that through some miracle, she hadn’t shown up. It was embarrassing enough to be late, nevermind in front of their grandest benefactor. Roul could feel anxiety settling in his mind. So he did what he did best, and reorganised the docket.
The nine Greater Cults had called what was essentially an emergency meeting to discuss matters outside of the city. He had heard whispers and hearsay that past the veil that lay just off their shores, other continents around the world had begun to descend into mad, frivolous war. The like that hadn’t been seen since the dawn of creation. A war, in general, was bad news for everyone involved. The scale of these new wars was apparently… greater, somehow. Nobody could figure it out, and those among the Greater Cults that did know, refused to share. At least, they had refused to share until today. Roul had his own theories about why they had kept the information to themselves. None of them were any more than rabid speculations but he thought some of them had merit. The one he believed most of all, is that somehow, this ‘war’ had somehow already ended up on their shores in a way that would soon directly affect them. Or somehow already did, directly affect them.
By this point Roul had already entered the foyer, an elegant three story chamber in the very centre of the tower. Opulent by design, but truly stunningly beautiful. Thinking helped him walk faster it seemed. It was mostly barren, all the personnel that would have usually manned this part of the building would be in the central deliberation hall. On the other side of the tower. And up nearly twenty stories. Horwayfef’s heart he was a dead man.
Roul hefted the large dragging end of his robe into his hands, and broke out into an all out sprint across the foyer. The thin slipper-like shoes he was forced to wear to these events had already become worn, useless, in his half speed-walk half sprint across the city. He could feel holes forming, his bare skin colliding with cold marbled floors. He was aiming for the stairs. He would have to take the stairs, there wouldn’t be a porter there to ferry him because they’d all be sitting outside the deliberation hall like the vultures and rodents they were. The Oisprotu one and all could damn that entire guild to the pits of the firey rings. Roul truly hated this city's transportation services. But it was that thought that forced him to look at the porters pad, the teleportation circle engraved into the floor in a nook of the foyer. It was that thought that gave him the opportunity to catch a party of maybe two dozen, walking up to it. Walking with a porter.
Roul immediately swivelled on his heel. Barrelling full pelt towards the group. He waved his hands in the air as they stood on the pad, calling to them.
‘WAIT! WAIT! HOLD THAT DAMN PORTER!’ He screamed.
He watched a pale white hand huddled within the group reach outwards, and shove the porter with enough force that he fell off balance. More importantly, he fell off the pad, interrupting the winding charge up of the teleportation circle. Praise that little hand, he thought, praise it forever and ever.
Roul was moving so fast that he almost slammed into the group. But a pair of strong arms slammed onto his shoulders in time for him to stop. They patted him gently when he doubled over, heaving, trying to choke out a weak thank you between his breaths. When he looked up, he saw a Pursh. A combination between a man, and some bovine creature. Large horns stuck out of either side of his mostly human head, his nose was like that of a cows, his ears flopped. He was large, a trait of his species it seemed. His eyes were both brown, although the shades differed. One was whiskey, the other honey.
Roul caught his breath, ‘You have no idea how much I am within your debt.’ He heaved again, ‘Please, what floor are you going to? Let me cover it.’ 7
The Pursh snorted, ‘We are headed to…’ He looked backwards over his shoulder, and then back towards Roul, ‘The Councilman's floor.’ He said. His command over Asyeren, the common language, was fairly remarkable– although still slightly broken.
The same floor he was headed to. Roul’s eyes lit up, ‘Then please– let me get this, I’m also heading in that direction.’
The Pursh man nodded, and then offered out his hand. ‘Meurttrood’Jeetatalsvucht.’ He said, ‘Meurttrood is fine.’
Roul blinked, he wasn’t fluent in… he thought that he might have said his name in Poug? He’d never studied the language because it was thought to be dying, but he had heard that certain tribes of Pursh had picked it up, so it made sense.
‘Nice to meet you Meurttrood.’ He shook that man's hand, ‘Roul'thuni Cudigausny.’ He turned to the porter, and handed him the fair for teleportation. Which was really just a cover for the components of the spell. Nine Izere. Gold. He turned back to Meurttrood. ‘But Roul’s fine.’
Meurttrood nodded, ‘Your people choose things of purpose for names, no?’ He asked.
Roul found the question to be odd, random, but nodded all the same, ‘Yes, I am from ash, unto life. Bring brighter days. It tells the story of where I am from, and then asks something of me.’ He waved his hand idly, ‘It’s an old tradition.’
The porter wounded his hands contorting them around one another as spell energy, Aether, was grabbed from the air around them, and suffused into his hands. He watched several little stones all around the circle jump to life, mimicking the colour of the man's magic. The lovely part about spell circles is that most of the work is already done. When the porter touched his hands to the outermost inlay of the circle, a silver and brass composite ring, the entire circle burst to a vibrant combination of red and blue. Roul made a mental note that the porter's eyes would follow a similar colour pattern. His mind fizzled, as in a matter of seconds, they were all wisped away.
Teleportation always left Roul feeling funny. Whenever he used teleportation circles, or paid for a stronger porter to use a more advanced transportation spell, he always swore that he experienced the move. It was as if his body was broken down and rebuilt. Everyone that he had spoken to about it had said he was crazy. This teleportation was no different.
When they landed on the Councilman's floor, Roul immediately sped off, turning and waving in thanks to the Pursh man. He felt reinvigorated, by the bovine man's kindness, and found that his feet were much more even in their gate as he sped through hallway upon hallway. Turn after turn, he moved with a redefined purpose. Even if he was late, he was sure it would be okay. He would be okay. The Oisprotu would safeguard him, and hopefully his job, always.
Roul found his feet slowing as he came closer and closer to the doors to the hall. Not out of any sort of anxiety, he was simply out of breath. He was unused to any form of physical movement really. Perhaps it was a part of his new found blessing that he slowed, because if he had kept running to the door like he had wanted, he would have smashed into the figure standing before them.
He moved up to them slowly, although with a deliberate noise to his gate. He didn’t want to spook them. They turned as he approached, slight surprise evident in their posture, and Roul got a better look at them. Standing before the doors was a slender, feminine form. They were clad in long draping swaths of material that were thin, almost sheer in places, opening up just above her knees to trail behind her in waves that resembled roiling flames. They held their hands clasped before them. They were mostly covered under the sleeves of their robe, a metal hoop pulled the fabric into a vee shape just below their middle finger. The sleeves pulled back into draping swaths of sheer material that moved towards the floor. Her hair, silver and gold, pooled across her shoulders and back, across her chest and towards her stomach. Her face was covered by a veil, made of intricate silver chainlinks. The holes were obscured by some form of magic, making his eyes water every time he tried to peer through them. Across her head, holding the chainlink veil up, was a series of intricate bands of silver and brass, gold and copper, which were wound together in a ring that spun and moved off in places, giving the visage of a two dimensional sun, sat at a forward angle atop their head.
They stood there, unmoving, unspeaking. Roul knew somehow that their eyes had locked. He didn’t recognise the figure. He took a few more shaky steps towards them before finding his feet, and striding fully to their side.
‘The door isn’t stuck is it?’ He asked. His voice came out more nervous than he had anticipated. Shaky, irresolute.
The figure raised their hands and moved them rapidly, forming shapes and letters. Roul panicked briefly– he didn’t actually know Sign language, but the meanings behind her movements… somehow found a way into his head. Words were left on the edge of his mind for him to interpret on his own. They came to him in his mother tongue, rather than the language he spoke here in the city.
No, not stuck. I just don’t know if I’m going to go in. They signed. Well, I probably will. But I don’t know if I want to.
Roul frowned, ‘And why is that?’ He asked.
I try to avoid these sorts of larger gatherings. They signed. Crowds make me nervous. Their form shrunk slightly, their hands moving anxiously. Plus I hate the way they make me act. It feels like I’m performing a role. Really I just hate politics.
Roul tried to rack his brain for who this person might be, but came up empty. He felt as though the sun motif atop their head was familiar, but it struck no bells. He was already late… a little kindness wouldn’t kill him.
‘Well, I don’t know which cult you belong to, but I wouldn’t mind going in with you, if you want?’ He said with a slight sigh. ‘I’m already pretty late to this meeting.’ He confided. ‘So I’ll get in some kind of fuss regardless of what I do.’
He saw the veil shift as the figure huffed air, perhaps their approximation of a laugh.
I would be very thankful to you if you came in with me. I can vouch for you if you need, tell whoever it is you’re with that I held you up.
Roul nodded, and placed a hand on the door, pushing it open ever so slightly to the sounds of shouting and debate.
‘Come then, let us throw ourselves to the wolves.’ He said, gently taking their arm and slipping into the ajar door, before closing it behind them.
It took his eyes a second to focus on the darkened interior of the central deliberation hall. It was a Semi-oblong shaped hall that rounded off towards its back, and flat along the front. Its ceiling sat some fifty feet above the floor, glass lamps hung along it each one more intricate than the last, nine in total. There was a central pathway that led up to a raised dais, of which was covered by railings. When a Cult had a point to make, they would make it there, speaking out to all of those assembled before them. Rows upon rows of seats lined its walls, stopping twenty feet from the ceiling. The seats were sectioned again into nines, with one larger seat in each section. These seats were occupied by the leaders, or frontpeople, of the greater cults. Most of the sections were packed to a reasonable degree– however the three at the back, sitting within the curve, were filled most of all. Five of the Greater Cults, including The Architects, only had one or two subsidised parties to themselves. The three at the back, had three, four, and five, each one growing more powerful with the greater amount of cults they controlled. They were the most important players in the city, barring of course the Architect. She ran the city as a whole, serving as its go to leader in times of crisis, and the final say in matters of state. It was said that the stones responded to her with glee, and the others with contempt. If that was true, Roul didn’t know. When he scanned her section of the seats, he found her missing. A smattering of his own cult sat within her section, enraptured by the source of the noise they had heard before.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
They entered into what seemed to be a passionate argument between the most powerful of the Greater Cults, The Desmortru, and the weakest, The Resuct’yert. An odd pairing to be going at one another, the Desmortru typically dealt in matters of warfare, home defence and wars far away– they were considered the most powerful Cult for no reason other than they were frightening, and that they had almost completely strongarmed the rest of the cults into letting them have complete control over all military matters, instead of serving as advisors as they were meant to. The Resuct’yert were glorified librarians really, typically dealing in matters of exploration, cataloguing, and the preservation of scripture. As far as Roul was aware, they rarely entered into debate.
But that was definitely one of them, clad in their signature colours of blue and indigo, pointing an accusatory finger towards the entire assembled Desmortru section, of whom wore an opposing red and violet.
The figure grabbed his robe inches away from a thin line that marked the end of the entrance, stopping him dead. The line was affectionately called the announced boundary. Crossing it would have announced their presence, ironically enough.
But they had stopped him.
I wish to hear this without interrupting them. She signed quickly, efficiently. It is not often that a scroll-worm takes the dais at all, nevermind in a debate.
Roul simply nodded, he had never been to these meetings before but this did seem a curious situation.
The Resuct representative, who he now recognised by their voice as Trymic'kedunik, a middling member of the Resuctyer, flung her arms out, her voice magically amplified by the glowing dais beneath her. ‘We in the Resuct think that this course of action would be absolutely, and irreprehensibly, foolish.’ She said, her chest heaving. ‘The idea that this continent would be able to survive after a prolonged war of conglomeration is not only foolish, but incredibly naive. The notion that you would be able to unite the continent under the banner of the cults is not only incredibly rash, but it also goes to show that you are undeserving of the power that you so carelessly wield. You have allowed your position as the Cult of War to go to your head!’ She finished.
The Desmortu leader, sitting in an ornate chair of winding wood, carved in the shapes of different weapons and armaments, was a tall slender elven man with fine features and a pleasant smile. He stood, and raised a calming hand to the women on the dais.
‘If you are incapable of seeing the true measure of the threats that lay ahead of us, perhaps you are the naive one.’ He said, turning to the room at large. ‘On shores far from ours, whispers reach my ears that a war in heaven is not only brewing, but breaking out!’ He raised a closed fist for emphasis, ‘If we don’t present a united front not just here at home, but across the entire continent we will be doomed to destruction when those pitiful God’s turn their attention towards this still untamed land.’
The members assembled murmured to one another, Roul couldn’t particularly tell if they agreed with him or Trymic. The elven man spoke again before he had the chance to figure it out.
‘We would not make such claims if we didn’t think it was the best course of action. We agree that a prolonged war across our land will do nought but provide our enemies a weakened target. That is why we are suggesting quick and decisive strikes. We must bring the continent together.’
Trymic'kedunik’s body heaved with barely contained anger. She raised her hand, pointing it towards him accusatorily. ‘We all see this for what it is! It is nothing more than a pathetic power grab, another attempt to raise your station above the rest of us. It was the same when we were first united, and it’ll be the same whenever you try this again.’ She slammed her hands down on the railing, turning to the room herself. ‘We are one less in our number, with the Architect deciding not to show up again today. But I can guarantee that she would absolutely disagree with this course of action. I demand that we disregard this fanciful elves' ideas, and stop him from bringing nothing but strife to an already burning land.’
People in the hall began to murmur once more, whispering to each other, their words safe from prying eyes in the dim light of the chamber.
Roul noticed the figure beside him winding their hands, a certain nervousness returning.
The elf rolled his eyes, ‘You idolise that woman far too much. You would all proclaim me a war monger, yet stand behind that woman despite all she has done.’ He seemed uncomfortable, apprehensive. But he pressed on. ‘I grow weary of all of the superstitions placed upon her shoulders. You all sound like northerners talking of their moving mountains and roaming forests whenever you speak of her.
The figure went wholly still, and Roul swore he could see faint trails of steam rising off of them, but it was gone so fast he couldn’t tell if it was real or if his eyes were playing tricks on him. He could see them looking around the room, and he assumed they were trying to gauge the reactions to what the elf had said. Roul felt a heat inside of him begin to grow. An urge to act, move, scream.
They turned to him, hands moving angrily. I am going to do something and you’re just going to have to wing it, can you do that? They signed.
Roul blinked, ‘Wing it…?’ Something about this person made him jittery. It was like every breath was the fullest he had ever taken, so long as he had them near him. Roul could feel a little fire blaze to life in the very centre of his being. ‘Yeah. Yeah I can wing it.’
He absolutely could not wing it.
You promise you won’t freeze? They signed.
Roul placed a gentle hand on their shoulder, ‘I promise.’
The figure nodded, and adopted a more relaxed posture, hands clasped before them. It looked like what he imagined a performer might do before taking the stage. Their back straightened, their head was held much higher. Any trace of that anxiety that had been evident before vanished.
They looked to him, silently asking for confirmation, and he nodded. He was ready.
The figure stepped across the boundary, and a monotone voice filled the space, lifeless and dull.
‘Announcing the arrival of her Eminence The Grand Architect, Stroshekel, binder of cults, High lord protector of the city of Unyielding Flame, and leader of the Oisnirm.’ It said.
Roul’s mouth hung agape, his body incapable of moving more than the single inch he had gained following… the Grand Architect herself. Part of him rejoiced at the fact he had finally met her, the other died, rotted away, at the fact he had addressed his benefactor, the High Lady of his subsect, with such… a casual nature.
She looked back towards him, her hands clasped together so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She was waiting. Waiting for him to follow her like he promised he would.
Roul stepped out following her. He did his best to adopt an air of indifference, looking around the hall with casual, bored eyes. He could see The Architect doing something similar as her head turned about the hall slowly. They both fell upon the elf at once. The Architect turned to him, and signed clearly enough that the entire room must have heard her words.
Thank you for escorting me this far my advisor, She signed, please, take the seat beside mine while I address the room.
Roul bowed deeply from the hip, and walked off to do as she had told him. As he climbed the stairs into her section, he passed by the members of his sect, staring at him with a look of awe. He read anger in some of their faces. Although it was the pride that he saw in some, that really put a pep back into his step.
The room had grown quiet. Trymic’s anger had all but subsided, replaced by what Roul could have sworn was a mild embarrassment. She gingerly stepped down from the glowing central dais, bowing at the waste to the Architect as she stepped up. The Architect offered her a stiff nod in return, and took her place. The dais hummed to joyous life beneath her, glowing so bright that Roul could barely keep his eyes on it.
The Architect calmly raised her hands, and began to sign. The words that reached them were disappointed, saddened, perhaps.
Her hands wound as she signed, and the words reached all of their minds at once, each one angry, disappointed.
I must start by apologising for my tardiness at this morning's emergency meeting. You will understand that running this city is a full time job, and I do not usually have enough wiggle room to drop what I am doing to attend these usually more than frivolous gatherings. She stopped, before picking back up, her hands moving more quickly. However, the nature of today’s meeting caught my eye, and as my friend, She waved to Roul, advised me, it would have been best for me to show up, lest my absence be twisted into a backing for someone's argument. She offered a very tight head turn towards Trymic, and the elf.
She stopped signing a moment, letting her words settle in the room before she picked back up.
I must say that your words are hurtful, Uransc. You cry about the way others in this hall view you, but tell me, when I arrived in this city all those decades ago, were you not attempting to do this exact thing? Wage war on the other cults within the city in order to consolidate power under your thumb? I see that your goals have not changed at all, they have only grown. She stopped signing as the elf, Uransc, stood, hands clasped and eyes white with rage.
‘Architect, how was it that you united the cults?’ He said simply.
Through careful planning and clever politics. She responded.
‘I see,’ he said, ‘then it was clever politics and careful planning that caused those cult leaders opposed to your original idea of consolidation to… disappear, yes?’
I have no idea what you mean, those leaders left of their own accord, after embarrassing themselves trying to kill me. They fought a battle they never stood a chance of winning.
The chamber went silent at her last proclamation.
But Uransc seemed undeterred.
‘Architect it would serve you well to remember that I was there.’ He said.
It would serve you well. She signed, To remember that I won.
Uransc seemed lost in himself for a moment, his eyes suddenly unfocused, but full of anger. ‘You are no more than a common criminal.’
The Architect turned to the hall. Arms in the air. Great members of this council you see before you another example of why, even if his preposterous ideas were valid, he would not be someone to stand behind. Uransc has never been afraid to blatantly lie to the council in order to get his way.
The hall burst into whispers for a third time, each one more vicious than the last. Roul could only faintly hear the ones closest to him, members of his sect speculating as to what it was that Uransc meant. It had been nearly thirty years since The Architect had arrived at the city, and of them, only the last ten had the Council of cults been an established body. Very few seemed to remember her arrival, even fewer seemed to remember her rise to power. Outside of the leaders of the Greater Cults, nobody within the governing body had been in a position to know about it at the time. Most of these subsects only arose within the last five years. Roul hadn’t even been born yet, her arrival predated his birth by at least a decade.
Across the hall a larger portly man of darker skin, dressed in fine clothes leaned forward, one hand braced on the armrest of his greater chair. He was a half-giant, Roul assumed, by his massive size. He wore an oldly wide brimmed hat on his head, and his face was covered by a large beard. He bore the colours of the Twing, gold and brass. His name was Gorlo, if Roul remembered correctly.
Gorlos' voice cut through the crowd with ease. His thickly accented and gravely words hung in the air like great boulders.
‘I must say little elf man. The Architect rarely speaks wrong when she deigns grace us with her presence.’ He said, the jab seemingly good natured by the Architects flamboyant wave. ‘Although. I would like to reiterate what has already been said, for she was not here to hear it.’ He looked at both of them, ‘I would request the floor, although I will not move. It is so very far away.’
The Architect nodded, leaning on the railing that lined the dais. Uransc stood silently, waiting.
Gorlo sat forward. ‘As we had discussed before my little firefly,’ he waved to the Architect, ‘showed up. We have all been receiving an increasing amount of reports of war brewing on lands far away from our own– on many of our home continents, the gods of which sillier men than me prayed to, have become irate with one another. Entire pantheons have begun to mobilise civilisations for war. These words reach us, most notably from the land of the elves. Stent’ca. Who's previously two separated pantheons have become one, after what can only be assumed to be a localised war in heaven took place. We have heard similar stories from other lands.’ He looked to the Architect, who nodded her own confirmation. She too had received these reports.
‘That is not our only issue.’ He said, turning to the Resuct, ‘Would you?’
Trymic sat forward, speaking for their leader, ‘We have reached out to many of the other countries across Qik’alyn. All have told us the same thing. Coinciding with the ramping up of celestial war, the Rotless death has become far more deadly. We have been studying it for years, and whatever correlation between the two that does exist, eludes us completely.’ She wound her hands. ‘On top of that, other more ancient entities have become active once more. Most of which were previously thought to have been slain during the settling. Even the more friendly old ones have become easily agitated.’ She seemed to pause, holding something back, before continuing on. ‘Aether deposits have become more active, also. Nexuses of power are becoming more frequent. We are again, unsure of how they correlate, but we are sure that they do. Along side all of this...’ The woman held her breath a moment, before letting out a defeated sigh. 'Recent surveys of our population tell us that magically innate children are becoming less and less frequent.' He watched her eyes dart down to something in front of her, 'Their birth rate has dropped by at least forty seven percent in the last five years. We reached out to our neighbours to see if they can corroborate this - to determine whether or not it was a localised issue - but we've received no word as of yet.'
Gorlo nodded, taking over once more. ‘Trade to the home continents has become sparse. As the veil seems to have thickened. If I remember correctly,’ He said, flicking through a stack of papers that Roul hadn’t seen in his hands. ‘It was you that warned me of a newer veil forming within the old, wasn’t it?’
Trymic nodded, although remained silent.
The Architect had moved during their talking, reclaiming her own ornate chair beside Roul’s. She leaned into him, signing.
Make sure you draw up annotated notes of this meeting, I will wish to discuss them later.
Roul nodded to her, fishing into his side satchel and pulling out a soft, pliable slate, and a long thin piece of metal, finely shaped, it was engraved with the same stone that Lodestones were made of. He fed it a little of his own natural reserves of Aether, and watched the stone glow a dusky yellow, tinged with green. Taking notes, now that was something Roul was good at.
The Architect seemed to sense his enthusiasm, turning back to the room with wide arms.
Come then, she signed, let us discuss what it is we wish to do.