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The clouds were a closing curtain that had called the end of the stars' show. A curtain that would never be drawn back. They churned in a chaotic assembly, twisting and colliding in a violent ballet of natural combustion. White columns of vapour were torn apart by rapturous winds of hostile air, vortices of swirling nebulas syphoned out any moisture from the skies into targeted geysers of torrential rains.
It was a constant, violent intermingling of relentless currents. A boiling pot of indecision as no cloud could unanimously decide where they wanted to travel; the air currents were imploding, collapsing and rupturing, never committing, portraying a dynamic and rapidly morphing skyline of oppressive haze. The dark billowing masses were an ever-present dense pressure, submitting the land below them to eternal gloom.
Destructive cracks of lightning were the only thing to illuminate the voided nightmare of the sky. Those angry clouds above showered down an incessant and dense rain of electrical demolition. Thunderous javelins struck down so inordinately in scale that they sheared the terrain below. Each collision of electricity and land sparked a cratering bomb followed by an ear-wrenching explosion. Only through this monstrous light source could the rest of the land be observed.
Like a sentient animosity, the clouds stretched their elemental limbs to torment the lands below. Twisting, spiralling cyclones the size of entire cities scouring the land in their relentless fury. The crushing grinders of those tornadoes had been so expedient and unrelenting that the weakened wood within them was set ablaze. These monstrous and sprawling infernos rose into colossal towers of toxic combustion. Together, they birthed a grotesque metropolis of natural calamity—its skyscrapers whirling cyclones, its lanterns crackling lightning, and its streets yawning chasms carved deep into the planet's core.
The surface of this land was a living, shifting mass of ice. A lumbering bind of quarrelling glaciers that ground together in fits of tearing fissures and jutting spires. Cracks would spontaneously sprout open without warning, exposing unfathomable depths where primal magma surged upward, spitting forth like the venom of an embittered world. When molten fire met the frigid snow, they clashed in a volatile dance, spewing plumes of caustic vapour that hung heavy in the air. The concoction of death eventually cooled, and black ash, poisonous and malevolent, would rain back down.
The entire ecosystem trembled with fervent malice, its wrath unrelenting. The last remaining mountains wept torrents of destruction, casting rivers of tumbling landslides in an endless deluge of stone, snow, and ice.
Forsaken by the day star, this land lay imprisoned in a merciless cold. A ceaseless blizzard raged, its icy winds concealing razor-sharp hail that struck like invisible projectiles. The storm was so dense, so all-encompassing, that even the act of walking through it felt like wading through a viscous barrier, every step an arduous struggle against its oppressive shroud.
Each of the five senses was consumed in its own excessive torments. The ever-energized pyres exhaled a choking smog, saturating the air with a stench of ruin so vile its fetid memory of poisonous death clung to the tongue. The echoes of defiled life seemed to resonate through the haze, hauntingly vivid and inescapable. Nature's fury orchestrated an overwhelming symphony of booming, discordant roars—sounds so powerful they struck with a physical force, reverberating across the landscape with an oppressive, deafening anthem of destruction.
It was beautiful.
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He sat cross-legged at the mouth of a crafted cave, his body unadorned save for the ethereal shroud of a soft cloud that clung to him like a wispy cloak. Tiny arcs of lightning flickered across its surface, briefly illuminating the cave's rugged interior. His gaze was fixed on the world beyond—a stunning, untamed vista that held him captive. It was beautiful, undeniably so—a raw, unyielding testament to the planet's indomitable tenacity. Its ferocity, palpable and awe-inspiring, resonated with an almost primal rhythm.
He recalled the time when humans still dominated this land, and he trembled beneath their heedless footsteps. He remembered they often talked about preserving the natural environment. They incentivized conservation and care for the greenery around them. They would often mention how these natural 'disasters' were proof of the planet's growing sickness, proof that their changes had meaning and that humans should take responsibility. The general idea was that the environment was healthy when it best housed them: they were wrong.
The sight before him was the image of a truly healthy planet—one that cared nothing for life, nor for anything else. It was, at its core, merely a vast collection of minerals bound by immutable laws of interaction. The 'healthiest' planet was one that would play and utilize all its capabilities, unrestrained by the concerns of its inhabitants. This was a world indulging in its own chaotic symphony, a self-destruction performed for the universe, a fleeting brilliance etching its legacy into the cosmos.
The humans had feigned concern for him, but their actions betrayed their true intentions. They kept him caged, twisting his powers to serve their own ends, offering kindness only when it suited their needs. But those days were over. This was his land now, and he was free to command it as he pleased. He could make the skies smile however he liked.
He did like the smile the sky gave him on this summer morning. He loved it. The planet's playful energy reminded him of a child revelling in the freshness of a rainy day, carefree and exuberant. It was a rare and precious moment of harmony—a world alive, untamed, unburdened.
He rose to his feet and ventured deeper into the cave.
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The ice tunnel stretched before him, a perfect cylindrical passage carved with meticulous precision, sloping gently downward at an inviting incline. He had crafted it himself, initially driven by a fleeting artistic whim. Yet, as his work progressed, he felt it—a rhythmic tremor, faint but deliberate, reverberating through the frozen ground. These vibrations were not his own; they did not have the same unruly excitation of freed chaos. It was a regular tremor, a stable beat of activity pulsing beneath the ground in a hollow pocket deep below.
With that discovery, his purpose sharpened. What began as idle creativity transformed into a focused pursuit. Perhaps, in that forgotten chamber beneath the desolate soil, some of this land's original denizens still clung to existence.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The ice cave walls were flawless, composed of perfectly frozen water untouched by even the slightest speck of dust. This immaculate, crystalline barrier formed a telescopic window to the chaos outside, its view only interrupted by the occasional air bubble suspended within.
With each step he took deeper into the tunnel, the sound of his movement echoed outward, rebounding off the icy walls and floor. The reflections of sound were amplified by the frosty surfaces, producing an otherworldly melody—a soft, resonant chime like the ringing of a water bell.
The echoes ran down the tunnel, each consecutive bounce creating a hollower, more bass-like tune until, at the tunnel's farthest depths, the sound transformed, sharpening into an eerie, twining whistle. The ethereal note shot out of the tunnel like a blistering cannon before dissolving into the icy stillness beyond.
He smiled as the musical rhythm caressed his ears, yet he felt a piece of the song was missing. The melody longed for lyrics, for a voice to give it shape. Gently, he placed his hand against the smooth wall of the tunnel, letting his fingers trail softly as he walked.
In response to his touch, the ice shifted and sheared against itself, creating a subtle, crystalline groan. The tunnel became a throat and amplified the simple sound until the cave began to sing—a melancholic choir of tinkling glass, fragile and distant. He closed his eyes, softening his senses and allowing the symphony of sound to fully envelop him.
Even with the musical distraction, it was still a long walk. The ice he descended was immense, its depth unfathomable, but time was a concept that held little sway over him. Eventually, he reached a wall—one not of ice but of clay. Of course, it was frozen solid, but regardless, this wall represented the world that once existed. The wall stood as a divider, obscuring him from the presence of his contemptible foes. Behind it lay the remnants of a forgotten age—perhaps the final survivors of a shattered civilization.
He placed his hand upon the clay, and in response to his thoughts, the wall answered. The clay shuddered and collapsed inward, folding back and relinquishing space to him. The clay burrowed into itself, twisting and drilling down, carving a path to the underground clearing below.
He followed the inclined route to its terminus, the tunnel getting so deep his cloak of clouds had to lift him down the final stretch. At last, the tunnel opened into a claustrophobic chamber, where the remnants of a small encampment lay scattered. Once, this place had been the refuge of a handful of some last persistent few. The encampment was now home to no such people. It was a grave silently watching over those who had succumbed to the meagre challenges of their secret haven.
At the heart of the small encampment lay a dead furnace, its mouth muffled with wet coal. A towering chimney, once threading through the cave's roof, had collapsed into rubble, its broken remains allowing for a waterfall of melted ice to wash down into the furnace.
Encircling the dead furnace was a chaotic cluster of makeshift homes—huts cobbled together from mud and ice, stacked precariously atop one another. The haphazard construction, assembled without proper tools or materials, gave the structure an unsettling appearance like it was an abstract facsimile of the homes it aspired to be. Rooms leaned and sagged, stairwells ended abruptly in midair, leading to no entrances, and neighbouring houses toppled into one another and merged into fractured expansions of each other. He couldn't even tell whether most of this collapse had occurred during the settlement's life or after its demise, it all seemed to blur into the same desolate fate.
There were a hundred or so bodies scattered about the place, huddled into collected groups clambering together in a final throe for warmth. They were now frozen, petrified mockeries to their failings, ever more echoing their last distortions of agonies. He noticed there were far more corpses than there were houses and the bitterness he felt against these people for defiling his utopia by hiding here was alleviated slightly by the image of their suffering—all the sick and freezing, crammed together in these hastily assembled, fragile shelters.
Many of the corpses were still properly identifiable, brittle corpses highlighted in a thick frost, the skin seen below wrinkled and torn.
Only one part of the cave was not crammed with the dead—a small clearing where a pile of emaciated livestock lay in a pitiful heap. The sight offered a grim glimpse into how these humans tried to nourish themselves. The tragic cattle forced to satiate themselves off a gruesome gruel, left them sickly and feeble even before they died.
Speaking of cattle, this haven had gathered a surprisingly diverse collection of people. He was never particularly skilled at distinguishing the various types of humans, but even he could pick out the soldiers, the nobles, and the families among the frozen remains. They showed a level of communal solidarity that he had never seen when they ruled the lands above. Yet, even with them all singularly allied, there was no need for fear—not anymore. They were all dead now. None of them could hurt him again.
Having seen what he needed, he was ready to put this tragic abomination behind him. He extended his arm, palm upturned, and he thought about the space above that palm; he thought of a particular mixture, of an interaction of volatile chemicals. As if his thoughts were law, the elements coalesced from the atmosphere and collided. In an instant, the strange concoction reacted with the surrounding air, igniting into a small, flickering purple flame.
The flame was ravenous, quickly expanding as it devoured the limited oxygen in the confined space. Soon, the fire demanded more; it craved more oxygen to feed itself, to grow, to consume, to destroy. Depleting the cave's supply of air, it began calling to the outside. Its demand echoed out as a piercing howl that reverberated from the cave's entrance.
The pressure reduction caused the cave to transform into a living, breathing beast. Like a gaping maw, it drew in the passing air from outside with powerful, unrelenting suction, funnelling all air down into the pocket of no-longer-civilization. The influx fed the purple flame, sustaining its endless hunger and ensuring it could burn indefinitely.
He ignored the hurricane-force winds and ravaging flames clashing all about him and peacefully returned up the ice cave. Once he reached its entrance, he turned around and looked through that transparent ice, its surface so pristine that he could see that purple flame rage below. He managed to create another neat little exposition for his nature park.
Another interesting interaction of chemistry and physics, a fun show that would surely entertain any hypothetical tourist. Who wouldn't love a screeching cave that travelled impossibly deep, leading to an eternal purple flame?
He returned to his casual stroll through his wonderful home when he was interrupted by the chime of a bell. In front of him, there was a pink rhombus, or it was a rhombus, but its body would reject any stable state. It would shift and transform, shrink and grow, continuously morphing into other forms. The pink shape finally locked into a form resembling that of a featureless human with only one limb. The arm was outstretched towards him holding a glowing parchment: it read.
You have been invited to The Tournament You are The Nimbus