Kas̆dael had a bone to pick with her new follower. As she paced back and forth in her palace of silence, she couldn’t shake the little shiver of frustration that ran up and down her spine. With a rather dramatic sigh, she plopped back down on her throne, surveying the empty hall with a dissatisfied frown.
She never truly enjoyed the long periods of time she was forced to spend alone while the rest of the universe thrived. As long as she sat by the fire the isolation didn’t really bother her. It felt fitting - a lone traveler seeking shelter from the frozen wastes, secure in the knowledge that when the sun rose, they would rejoin civilization.
But the loneliness was much harder to ignore when she was forced to preside over the abandoned metropolis. The silent streets and shadowed halls were a perpetual reminder of the emptiness that filled her realm.
A city should not be silent.
Yes, she was annoyed with Jasper. The least her new Hand could do was visit her a little more frequently. Was that really too much to ask?
A faint prickle blossomed in her mind as one of her lesser followers entered the void to meditate. She moved to dismiss the notification reflexively. It was no one special, no one that demanded her personal, hands-on attention: the system could handle it.
But at the last moment, her hand paused. She was bored anyway - why not check this person out?
Flicking the notification open, Kas̆dael turned her attention to the new supplicant. A wealth of information flooded through her mind as, in a matter of seconds, her follower’s whole life was condensed into a few pithy sentences and a box of full stats. She scanned the profile absentmindedly: a mere level 9, 17-year old female; class: waterwitch; race: Gemlirian; stats:”
Kas̆dael froze as the last category finally sunk in. She reread it. Race: Gemlirian. Her interest in the random follower suddenly ratcheted up a notch. Since when do I have followers amongst the Gemlirians?
She decided to grace the little witch with a visit.
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Qas̆pahti really hated meditation.
And it wasn’t a mild sort of hate, like the loathing she felt for the disgusting, never-ending crops of tubers her people eked by on. No, this was the full-fledged, real-deal hatred.
After all, every time she meditated, she took her life in her hands.
Not only was there no one to watch over her while she meditated, she knew that if anyone happened to stumble upon her while she was meditating, they’d probably just slit her throat and be done with it. And thus, as usual, she found herself sneaking out of the cottage in the night and crawling beneath the foundation where she curled up in the small hole she’d dug for herself.
Then she began to meditate.
She was just starting to get the hang of the process. Peace was not really a feeling that Gemlirians were taught to value nor was it, as she had quickly discovered, an emotion that could be simply forced. The more she wanted to meditate, the harder it was for her to actually slip away. And, the longer it took for her to successfully sink into the meditative trance, the more she worried about being discovered.
It was a vicious cycle. More often than not, Qas̆pahti failed to break through to the other side. But after months of planning, she had successfully trapped and killed a ma’akkavish. The shiver of excitement that ran down her spine did little to help her meditation, but she indulged it anyways. If the books were right, killing a ma’akavish would unlock a special class. She wasn’t entirely clear what a waterwitch was - the description was sorely lacking - but it had to be better than farmer.
With a flicker of irritation, she pushed away her distracted thoughts and reached for the sacred nothingness. The book she’d found had suggested meditating on a peaceful field, a babbling brook, the stillness of a forest after the first frost. But none of those had worked for her.
The only thing she could connect to, the only image that was successful at banishing her constantly wandering thoughts - temporarily at least - was the endless void, the cold, still darkness that encompassed all.
The End.
She had yet to meet the presence that dwelt in that darkness, but she had sensed her the few times she had successfully crossed into the void. Enough, she chided herself, stilling her thoughts. Rather than reaching out for the void, she waited for it to come to her. A veil slipped over her mind as the sweet embrace of silence enfolded her.
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She opened her eyes, expecting to see the now familiar fire. It was always the same: a roaring wildfire engulfed the sandy dunes, the sparks flying high into the night sky only to be quenched as they plummeted into the frozen turf. Like the stars that fell from heaven. She spat into the sand at the mere thought of them.
A black, obsidian sea stretched along the shore as far as the eye could see; the water was calm, so placid that its unmarred surface could almost be mistaken for a mirror aside from the faintest tumble of waves that splashed against the icy sands. She glanced away from the sea quickly, struggling to suppress the intense feeling of nausea that surged up in her.
There was something about the sea that was deeply disturbing to her, an ineffable feeling that if she were to step foot into its shallow pools, her life would wither away. Perhaps it is where the River goes to die.
The fire raged as always, burning fronds of grass waving in the icy winds that howled from the dark interior of the void.
But she was not alone this time.
A figure stood at the top of the dune, the fires swirling around her form. The tongues of fire lapped harmlessly at the dark silhouette, burning but not consuming.
Qas̆pahti staggered back; tripping over herself, she sprawled across the sand mere feet from the silent waves. Terror overwhelmed her as the figure approached her. She could see no features in the dark, but the ribbons dancing in the blustering wind, backlit by the fire, suggested that it was a woman.
She tried to make herself move, torn between running away or throwing herself on her knees in worship, but her body would not obey her commands. The being loomed above her, her face hidden in the darkness save for the deep cobalt eyes which glowed ever so lightly.
“Come, child. Let us talk.”
She struggled to free herself from the hand that closed around hers, but the woman’s fingers wrapped around hers with an iron grip. She was unceremoniously yanked to her feet, away from the disconcerting sea.
“Petû.” The woman spoke the word with a casual flip of her hand. The darkness of the void was suddenly shattered; in a burst of light, the very air before them was sundered, as the being tore a hole in reality. And before Qas̆pahti could even protest, she found herself dragged through.
One minute she was in the icy void, the next she found herself in the heart of an ancient temple. Her mouth dropped open as she stared up at ceiling as high as the sky, the opulent pillars that rose to dizzying heights, the murals and paintings, statues and relics that met her every glance. But all paled compared to the vision that stood before her.
A woman in black, with skin as pale as bone, much of it covered in delicate, nigh invisible, silver tattoos stared back at her. A gauzy veil hid much of her face, although her ebony locks tumbled freely down her shoulders, but the veil did nothing to hide the piercing blue eyes that raked across her soul.
Qas̆pahti trembled at their touch and fell to her knees. Truly, this must be one of the enemies’ gods, she thought.
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Kas̆dael stared at the scrawny young troll with a rather bemused expression. Her supposed follower was clearly terrified and had yet to speak a word. She’s practically a child.
The troll stared up with wide eyes, the lips trembling. She had the typical grey, ashen skin of the Gemlirians. Well-adjusted to see in the dark, the pupils of her eyes had expanded so wide that the iris was all but hidden, just a sliver of a red halo surrounding the dark pupils like an eclipse of a dying star. Pale, lilac hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail.
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But the longer Kas̆dael stared at the young troll, the more fascinated she became. Her troll heritage was heavily diluted, with clear signs of recent Corsythian ancestors, and a shadow marred her aura - the mark no doubt of one of the accursed Sidhe.
But it was the scent of elves that clung to her, the strands of fate that spiraled of the young troll, connecting to some unknown band of her sister’s progeny, that troubled the goddess. What elves would be foolhardy enough to interact with a Gemlirian in the lands beyond the River?
Kas̆dael spoke softly, her words nonetheless causing her follower to tremble. “Tell me, child, how did you come to know of me?” She leaned forward, lifting the troll’s chin with one finger, forcing it to meet her eyes. “Tell me of the elves.”
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Qas̆pahti struggled to speak, the words dying unspoken on her lips as she was forced to stare into the depths of the goddess’ eyes. In a flash, she saw the entire world - nay, the universe - parade before her. The glory of all things that existed, the grandeur of what was and would be - everything came to its end at the feet of the dark goddess, consumed by the endless void. She shone in the void, the final star in the heavens, the final gasping breath of the Progenitor, the Mourner from whose tears the world was reborn.
She quailed, her mind overwhelmed by the vision. Who was she to stand before such divinity? But a sliver of her rejoiced. When she had first found the book, she had taken the chance of using it because, above all else, Qas̆pahti wanted - no, needed - power.
Determination flooded through her, fueled by desperation. She must have this power. Her tongue came unbound, as the words spilled out of her.
Qas̆pahti told the dark goddess that loomed over her of the large group that invaded their lands - the hated elves, who had aided the Corsythians in the destruction of their empire, and another group she did not know, green-skinned folk who dug their tents deep into the earth.
She told the goddess how the group had suddenly appeared, and driven her people out of their home - out of the ruined of their ancient city that they had begun to rebuild. Completely unable to resist the overwhelming force, her people had fled into the plains, the rain beating down on them endlessly.
But the elves, curiously enough, had not pursued them, instead settling in the ruined tell. For weeks her people had kept watch over the place, while they sent messengers to the lords across the plains, begging for troops with which to drive the enemies back.
But before the troops could come, the elves and their strange friends simply vanished. One day they were there, and the next all traces of them had disappeared, save for the new door her people found in the depths of the city, sealed by an emerald barrier that resisted all of her elders’ attempts to dissolve it.
And she told the goddess how she had found the book, abandoned in a portion of the ruins her people had not bothered to reclaim but the more populous elves had been forced to inhabit.
And though she tried to hide it, she confessed to the goddess the shameful truth, the weakness that drove her to such desperate measures.
In the heyday of Gemlir’s empire, descent from the Corsythians had been a mark of honor. The lords of Stryn and Yelkala had intermarried heavily with the Gemlirians, adopting the dark gods and Gemlir's rites of ascension as their own. But those days were long gone, forever burned to ash in the cleansing fires of the Desolyton. Ties still lingered with the Empire’s western provinces, but those descended from the enemy were scorned, not honored.
Qas̆pahti had never known her mother. She only knew what little the other villagers had told her. Her father had passed beyond the great River, serving as a mercenary in the armies of Strynn, and when he had returned he had brought back a small bundle, a halfbreed tainted by Corsythian blood.
Her.
He had eventually left again, seeking employment amongst the Gemlirian lords to the west, leaving her behind with his sister. Her aunt was kind enough, taking her in despite the shame she brought to the family, but Qas̆pahti knew she was weak. The gods of her people did not listen to her prayers the way they listened to the other villagers.
Unable to channel their power properly, she fell behind the rest. While the other children hunted the dangerous beasts that roamed the plains and skirmished with the Yelekki tribes, unlocking their classes well before they reached their maturity, her own power barely grew. By the time she was seventeen, Qas̆pahti had only hit level 4, the only class available to her the useless farmer. Even if she hadn’t been half-Corsythian, no one in the village would want to marry someone so weak.
And then she found the book. At first, she hadn’t realized what it was. Her father had taught her the basics of her mother’s tongue before he left for the West, but her speech was rusty, her comprehension lacking. But curiosity, mixed with a desperate hope, drove her forward. Slowly she had come to realize that it was a primer for children, its pages full of gods to be worshipped and classes to be unlocked. Most had requirements that were beyond her abilities, but one class seemed within her reach.
She just had to kill a ma’akkavish by herself.
It was easier said than done. The dreaded water spiders didn’t live particularly close to the tell, residing in the forest beyond the plains. Their levels outstripped hers, too, eliminating any chance of her defeating them in a fair fight. But she had not let that stop her. Day by day, she slipped away from the village, watching the ma’akkavish, observing their patterns, and slowly she had formulated a plan.
Digging the pits all by herself was hard work, her body not buoyed up by the unnatural stats that came with levels, but she had done it, and filled the bottoms with stakes. And then, she had played bait, luring one of them after her.
It almost killed her. Qas̆pahti had drastically underestimated how fast the beasts could strike when properly motivated, her clever ruse almost undone before it began. But somehow, she had escaped and led the beast right into the waiting pit. The spikes weren’t sufficient to kill it though, but the enraged beast was unable to scale the walls. And thus, Qas̆pahti was forced to pelt it with stones, raining one blow after another on its head until, finally, she felt the rush of strength she had so rarely known before - the creature had died and she had earned her class.
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Kas̆dael listened to the girl’s story quietly. It explained much, but was lacking. She was curious about the girl’s father - Gemlirians rarely sojourned in the Empire these days - but was far more interested in the child’s Corsythian heritage. If the Gemlirians’ gods, the Sidhe, were ignoring her, it suggested the girl’s heritage was more complicated than she realized.
But there was something else about the child that escaped her - a lingering, but familiar essence.
With her story finished, the girl once again bowed down on her knees. A flash of light caught Kas̆dael’s eye as something tumbled out of the young troll’s shirt. A simple necklace swayed back and forth, the dull metal caught in the light of a thousand candles.
Kas̆dael was transfixed, her eyes glued to the simple charm. It was one well known to her. The corrupted version of the rune was a popular symbol amongst the Gemlirian tribes, the divine sign of one of their so-called dark gods. But the rune dangling from Qas̆pahti neck was different - it was the original. It was a symbol once used by her talented pupil, the seal of an empress.
She burst into action. Grabbing the child by the hand, she practically dragged her down the empty corridors of S̆uhruru. Qas̆pahti stumbled after her, her eyes once again wide with fear, but Kas̆dael could not afford to be bothered by that right now. If what she suspected was true, then fate had intervened on her behalf, a fickle thread that must be seized before it disappeared.
She breached through the doors, leading her into the portal room. Kas̆dael was competent enough with blood magic, but it had never been her strength. She forced her essence through the runes, tearing a hole through the fabric of space as she concentrated on her destination. The child was in luck - today she would meet not one god, but two.
An acrid smell hit her nose as she stumbled through the portal, the child in tow behind her. She wrinkled her nose, disgusted. Kas̆dael loved each of her sister’s manifestations, of course - they were family, after all - but that didn’t mean she liked them all equally.
A sea rippled before them, colossal waves cresting and falling back into their graves. No sign of land could be seen, but it was no problem for the goddess. With a wave of her hand, she carted her new follower beside her as she strode across the waters.
Night blanketed the dark sea, broken only by the single great object that dominated the sky - a blood moon. Its red light suffused the world, the sea turned into frothing blood beneath her feet, but Kas̆dael ignored it, hiding away her distaste. She was here to ask for a favor, after all.
The Queen of Bloodshed sat on her throne, decked out for a war. A mighty spear was clutched in her hand, its shaft spattered with the blood of her foes, a shield lying at her feet. The goddess of the stryhtani couldn’t hide the surprise that blossomed across her face as Kas̆dael appeared before her. “How unusual to see you here, sister.” She paused, scrutinizing the mortal hiding behind her sister’s skirts. “Have you found something useful for our quest?”
Kas̆dael pushed the young troll forward. “Just examine her.”
With a sigh, the Blood Moon rose from her throne and approached the child. Seizing its hand, she slit open its grey skin with her iron fingernails, letting the blood pool in the palm of its hands. Channeling her essence into the precious lifespring, the faces of her ancestors appeared. A parade of trolls, Corsythians, even elves flashed across the scrying surface.
So, too, did the face Kas̆dael sought.
A young woman with raven hair, with lips as red as rubies, with the rune of power she had discovered dangling between her breasts.
A woman who had once been an empress and forsaken all in lust for power.
A woman who would call herself a god.
Matqa, Mēs̆ūta, Yas̆gah - she went by many names, but Kas̆dael recognized the greatest of her students immediately.
Selene’s search had yielded more questions than answers. A few of the lesser gods had disappeared and, despite their determined search, no sign of their fate could be detected. They had simply been removed from the webs spun by the Spectral Spiders. Kas̆dael still had no proof that Yas̆gah was behind it, that her long-forsaken follower now hid within her shadow, but her certainty in her hypothesis had only deepened.
And now, it seemed, fate itself had intervened, the Progenitor turning over in his slumber. A descendant of Mēs̆ūta had appeared before her, the child's blood quite possibly the key to tracking down the fallen empress.
As Kas̆dael led her younf follower back to her realm, she mulled over the possibilities. She wasn’t certain yet how to turn this to her advantage, but one thing was clear. The child could not remain in her current village. Her own people would no doubt kill her if they knew she had contracted with a Corsythian goddess, and that was nothing compared to the nightmarish fate that would befall her if the Sidhe or Mēs̆ūta learned of her existence.
Normally her hands would be all but tied, the child trapped deep within enemy territory. But a new path had opened up.
A door with an emerald barrier.