“In an eternal conflict, who keeps score? Not the ones who started it all.”

-The balance

A month had passed since Moronatbeluthe's timid knocking. But it was like a blink of an eye for a centuries old sorcerer. During the meeting his PA had been so worried about, Lyeasrakardsul had found soothing the council easier than he remembered. Mostly, because the worry of a few missing sorcerers couldn't compare to his nightmares. Besides it was ever a real priority, fewer sorcerers meant less competition for everyone.

Not sleeping while isolating himself in the penthouse was giving him tension-aches. Considering he was skin and bones, his absence of muscles shouldn't ache this much. His self-medicating gave the purple draped penthouse a familiar musk of sweet smoke and liniment.

Why even bother with all this metaphorical weight of knowledge, his misery pulled him into its company. We still can't prove what's causing your nightmares.

Even now, all he had was hunches. Still, while sifting through Empris' history, he had started to suspect that the Darkness from his dreams could mean the end of magick. His insomnia, and the unfamiliar weight of taking responsibility, made him tired to the bone. Sitting up on the bed, he put on his bunny slippers, limped to his rocking-chair, lit his pipe, and hoped for an end. Any end. Unless he could find a way to blame someone else for his troubles, he really couldn't see the point of going on.

If only he could divine the future. That would prove him right. But no Dalmicir sorcerer had ever been strong enough to see the inverse shadows of what was to come. Even so, he had recurring daydreams about being right, and rubbing in the council's face. While being just smug enough to be inappropriate. But seeing the future required a p-wyrd.

"A prophecy," he spat out the word, like he had bitten into something foul. "The so-called gods think it such a privilege to have them talk at you."

In the Darkness, he imagined he could sense the vague multi-edged future. But he hoped it was paranoia. Otherwise, the divine were involved, cackling maniacally, and pulling strings soaked in the blood of mortals.

"Well, they do say to err is divine," he yawned out the sorcerer saying and stretched much like a sleepy cat.

Like everyone who thought their success was self-made, gods and sorcerers both worshipped at the altar to themselves. That was why their attitude towards to the divine was one of reverse-agnosticism. Of all the peoples on Sojurut, only the sorcerers knew for sure that gods existed. Nonetheless, they actively refused to believe. Especially not believing in the nameless god of reverse-agnosticism. Because whether it was knowledge or power, they were not good at sharing. Just like gods.

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Prayer was forbidden in Empris. So, he could only hope his nightmares were some new magick. Hope was still allowed, if you kept it to yourself, and discovering new magick could be draining.

But this can't go on, his despair thought, how long has it been since we slept? He forced his eyes open. Afraid to blink in case he fell asleep, and a tear ran down his wrinkled cheek.

All of a sudden, he found himself standing in front of the windowless Pedran tower. There was a round patch in the delicate stonework. A childlike Troll-face, and it was laughing at him. At first it seemed natural, and he was about to give the Troll a slap for its cheek.

"Wait, are stone-walls supposed to laugh?" He pulled his hand back as the Darkness hit him like a crashing wave.

Jerking awake in a state of panic, his heart was pounding and the sudden motion had wrenched his back again. The stabbing pain was agony, but nothing compared to the nightmare. The Darkness was worse than ever. It had the cold weight he would imagine at the bottom of an ocean, as deep as the universe was wide.

The pressure wasn't even the worst part, that was the overwhelming sense of isolation. Lyeasrakardsul could go months without interacting with another living being. A casual nod from a distance was more than enough to keep him socially fulfilled. In Pentakl, he was forced to interact and resented every minute. In the Darkness it was different. The anxiety of being lonely wasn't something he had ever known, but this was nothing less than the pain of being the last living thing in creation.

The jerk had slid him right out of his rocking chair and onto the cold stone floor. Trying to force his anxiety away, he took a deep breath and a memory flashed into his conscious mind. This time there had been little points of flickering light. One by one they were being snuffed out.

"Stars," he groaned like a knee had hit him in the nether region.

Rolling over on his side he curled up in a foetal position. Before crawling over to the balcony doors and pushing them open with a bang. Showing none of his usual consideration for the stacks of books. Hunched forward, with one hand on his aching back, he strained to look up at the sky. As far as he could tell, it looked the same as always.

"Someone is going to have to do something about this, but why does it have to be me," he whined into the night.

During his time as the head of Dalmicir magick, he had always been a strong supporter of their official ideology. Observe, chronicle, and preserve. Which in a more practical sense it meant, 'if there's a problem, ignore it until it goes away. Someone else can fix it!'

Or... could we do the unthinkable, the toes of his desperation was touching rock bottom. Could we ask the Knomes for help?