Drishtee wasn’t quite sure if he had died yet. Sooner or later, it was bound to happen.
The light from his Mark had ceased to be. As if all Drishtee had ever known was light, and he was dragged into the deepest cove of some bottomless pit, all light vanquished in place of a definitive dark. The Speed Clan had been in shambles, he recalled, amidst the visions spinning through his mind. Once their Marks had shunned them from the source of their power — or perhaps that source had been put to rest entirely — one of Descent’s most powerful clans had been reduced to the condition of a Death-Marked. Not even a Warlord can do much, without the power of their god sifting through them.
For the most unreal two days he could imagine, Drishtee had witnessed the Speed Clan fall into hysterics. Infighting began, people fell into utter despair, and more times that Dishtree could count, he had witnessed sobbing clansmen falling to their knees, hands clamped together in prayer, as they called out for their god, Java.
But then white light had blazed from their Marks anew, albeit deviating from their past crimson glow. It seemed as if their prayers had been answered.
Then, the visions began. Like phantoms from the future, descending upon them like wolves to a feast; like an attack orchestrated by fate itself.
Drishtee could hardly feel his body of flesh and blood, his consciousness only extending to the circus of light and explosions, rattling his brain inside his skull. He tried to fight, to shake his real head so hard that the prophecies would go away all together.
But they would not.
Exploding planets sent ash billowing through the cosmos. Light, divine and ubiquitous, washed over his mind’s eye with enough force to fry it. Unbounded everywhere, a disease on the heavens, rampaged, grew, mutated, spread to every crevice, corner, and unchecked place the universe had to offer.
They were everywhere. An infinite army fit for Infinity.
Dishtree watched, a helpless spectator chained to his seat, as his focus turned to one lone planet. He recognised the solid, one-piece landmass without fail: Descent, birthplace of the gods, and home to their bravest warriors.
And Unbounded surrounded the place. Anywhere he looked, in the droves, and so closely huddled together, he couldn’t even see the coal black of drifting space. He saw this image through several frames, which something told him were different points in time. In each instance, the numbers of the Unbounded grew, drawing closer and closer to Descent’s crust. The gods' offensive was failing to draw them back.
Dishtree imagined, whether he liked it or not, being a clansman at that time. Looking up to the sky, and like the smiling face of death peering down, seeing a wall of Unbounded, soon to topple everything you knew and love.
The front lines as a distinguished Mark on a map was a laughable prospect. Everywhere would be the warfront then. Divine Ground would offer safety only in name.
He imagined himself to be screaming, for Dishtree at least managed to feel his vocal cords straining in his throat, the connection to his real body, if a feeling of pain, a blessing nevertheless. Sometimes, he was scared he would never be back to normal life. Whenever the vision took hold, it was a gamble if he would live to see through it.
Believe it or not, tearing back the wallpaper of reality, to peer at the future, was quite rough on the body.
Another vision. It was like swimming through one headache, into another. It was difficult to compare different degrees of pain, but Dishtree hoped this next one wouldn’t be as horrific.
He saw First Rite, a city close to the heart of many a clansmen. He’d done work in that city personally, carriage riding for even sect leaders, more times than he could count. He didn’t live in any city, carrying a nomadic business sort of lifestyle, but if any city had a claim on his own heart, this would be it.
Pity he would now have to see it burnt to the ground.
Not literally, of course, but Dishtreee didn’t think it made much of a difference. The outcome of the events unfolding before his eyes were much the same.
A bloodbath in the streets, staining the avenues with the sickly sweet amber of Ichor. At every turn, Wealth Clansmen drenched in blood strolled around, like executioners accustomed to their job. Dishtree didn’t know what was the scariest: the bloody truncheons they carried, alongside their tattered clothes, or the casual, bored grace they operated with. As if killing in the masses was a trivial thing; mundane beyond belief.
Divine Ground was finally undone, and armies descended on First Rite. The city was flooded with bodies: flesh both dead and alive. Both bloodthirsty and fleeing for their lives.
It was pandemonium, in the purest sense of the word. Light dazzled Dishtree’s eyes, the world seemed to tremble as Mark after Mark unleashed their patron god’s power. Buildings trembled, a man-made disaster shattering foundations and sending the work of the Carpentry Clan tumbling down.
Above it all, a hysterical King looked around his fallen empire. Eyes wide, like pure opium was being flooded into his bloodstream.
Dishtree’s body seemed to spasm, and though he could hardly raise his eyelids, a woman’s face bore down on him.
Bright crimson eyes, like concentrated magma, stared into his. Light sizzled at the edges of Dishtree’s peripherals, like another vision was crawling into the fray, intent on dragging him in.
He fought to keep afloat. If he was to submerge into the future once more, he wasn’t sure if he could make it.
Dishtree wouldn’t be the first from his clan to die at the hands of such power: power he was sure even God-Graced would be damned to handle. It would be a miracle if half their clan saw it to the end of the Rebirth — they were dropping like flies.
The woman was speaking to him. Maybe shouting, judging off the desperation with which they were calling. But it was like trying to call out to someone countries away. Dishtree was too concerned with keeping his mind in one piece to focus.
But all credit to her, the woman was stubborn. Or perhaps girl. She did appear to be fairly young. He thought he recognised her; perhaps from in the newspapers somewhere? Dishtree’s brain lurched in the crumbling abode of his skull, and he swiftly redirected the mental effort of that thought to generally trying to stay alive.
“What do you see?” He finally heard.
Dishtree tried to open his lips. It was the greatest trial of his life. Like each quiver of his mouth was the equivalent of pushing a boulder up a hill.
“First Rite. Destroyed. Armies in the streets. Unbounded surrounding all of-”
A migraine stabbed into his brain matter. It was jarring, but something about recounting what he saw seemed to keep Dishtree grounded. The light at the edge of his vision was pushed back, the invisible rope pulling him deeper and deeper into future’s consequence growing taunt.
“Unbounded surrounding all of Descent.” He finished. “Bad things. Very bad.”
Violet frowned, but how he suddenly knew this woman’s name, Dishtree was left blindsided. She had definitely been in the papers, but his overworked mind was too busy tearing into a million pieces to recall why.
She gripped onto his shoulders, as if trying to pull him back into the present moment. If it wasn’t so god awful, Dishtree may have laughed. Something told him he wasn’t getting back from this.
Another vision swallowed him whole. Pain seized his body, like millions of body cells were terminating with every passing second of the future he was graced with. Or perhaps burdened by, was more accurate.
It was less a focused scene and more a collection of frenzied moments, strewn together as if by string.
Like frames immortalised in his aching brain, Dishtree watched every corner of Descent become flooded with Unbounded. Land and space alike, the entire universe was their domain now. Perhaps it always was.
This seemed to be a common vision amongst the Speed Clansmen. Or whatever power was flowing through their Marks now. The newfounded oracular sight they bore was certainly not of Java, or any Speed god they had known, at least.
Dishtree saw amongst the billowing smoke, the flying blood, and slicing silver, a central silhouette. A messiah-like figure, floating above the raging armies like they were untouchable. Like they were above anyone and anything.
A villain in green. Their cloak covered their face, but something told Dishtree they were the puppetmaster of all of this. Man or woman, child or adult, he couldn’t tell. Up in the sky, casting grand shadows that immersed everything in sight, were asteroids rushing down. Rocky giants of space dust and thick ice, ready to annihilate the ancient crust of Descent.
“An apocalypse.” Dishtree gritted his teeth, the hope he had for the future becoming more and more challenging to grab ahold of. “Some kind of cloaked man. Leading . . .” white light consumed everything now, and even Dishtree’s thoughts became distant notions. He was becoming increasingly more separated from everything, until there would be nothing left to signify he lived. “A cloaked man leading our downfall.”
The woman screamed out to Dishtree, and it was her words alone, he believed, that delayed the inevitable. His body tremored in sporadic fits, but even that became a distant sensation.
Another vision immersed him in its icy depths. Dishtree was hardly conscious of what he saw, but like a man strapped down and forced to watch, he observed a scene unlike anything he’d suffered thus far.
Yet again, a cosmic visage consumed his attention. He’d seen enough of space to leave an astrologer content for life, but it seemed for the little time Dishtree had left of his own, this would be his stage.
Two central figures tousled it out in a duel that defied perception. One or two seconds transpired, and already, enough force had been produced to split the entirety of Descent into two. No wonder the gods put so many protections on the place. It was a miracle the planet had survived through the Celestial War, or any planet at all for that matter.
Space was a floating graveyard.
Only when the larger of the two figures — unmistakably an Unbounded, and a powerful one at that — had grasped the other in a handhold, was Dishtree given enough time to breathe, and more importantly, to recognise what this scene really was.
The demise of his clan’s god. Java, at the cusp of death, struggling like a bullied pup in the hands of Enos.
At this sight alone, Dishtree’s entire system threatened to shut down.
“Enos killed Java.” He spoke those words, hoping Violet, or anyone at all, was still listening. Dishtree may have been biased, but he couldn't help but see this as the dawn of another dark age. The trumpet blow that heralded disastrous things to come.
By the time Dishtree next blinked, Enos had vanished. He expected a squadron of gods to flood into the scene, quick as a flash. But a few seconds dragged on, startlingly long for deities, and still . . . nothing.
Java's body floated in a river of his own Ichor, and the heavens knew Dishtree was helpless to stop it. Dishtree wondered, what was it to die alone? At least he was in one of his clan’s huts, with Violet at his side. If the girl was still there — he had a hunch these last few minutes would be his last, with her listening to his frenzied explanations, or not.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
Finally, a white light appeared. It illuminated through the shallow dark of the scene, focused on Java’s body. It seemed to neaten up his corpse, as if it was being prepared for burial. That was when the man appeared.
Another god, one almost identical to Java. In fact, physically, Dishtree’s disturbed mind could not name a single difference. But it was absolutely certain to him that this was another man. Their aura gave it away; it was distinct.
Now that he cared to notice, Dishtree realised that he recognised that aura. It was the strange, unfounded energy that radiated off his own Mark. And all the Marks of the Speed Clan, after they had rekindled.
“I’m sorry, brother.” An ancient voice spoke, as if stones one day decided to speak. “I did you a disservice. But I will not leave your people godless.”
Java’s twin raised their hands, light pouring all across the scene. It was the same sneaking white that now tunnel-visioned him. Slowly closing and closing inwards, until there was nothing left.
Dishtree thought, seconds away from joining his deity in the afterlife, that he had been wrong to call his clan the Speed Sect.
They were of the Time god now.
All thoughts perished in Dishtree’s mind, the final imprints of his mind vanishing, like mud tracks undone by a rainy day. Gone, like they had never existed in the first place.
“What do you see?” Violet called out, but it was pissing in the wind. A deaf echo, pervading through the tomb of Drishtree’s corpse. “Where is Nova?” The sound reverberated throughout Dishtree’s hollow skull. “Where is Enos?”
No matter how loudly Violet pleaded, she would receive no answer.
----------------------------------------
Remus sat perched, a giant link of chain beneath his feet. This location was one of the highest points in all of Eclipse, and with sheets of rain slipping down from the sky, Remus could see almost the entirety of the city, drenched. Flying up here had been well worth the effort.
His hair, and even his guard’s uniform, were thoroughly soaked. The giant statues that connected the chains were fine works of masonry, standing hundreds of metres tall in a daunting sight. He admired them idly. Remus wondered who had created them, but his mind was absorbed by other matters entirely.
How was he to rally a force large enough to topple Damosh? An invincible, God-Graced King. Remus felt the urge to laugh, to cackle out at the absurdity of it all, but suppressed it. This wasn’t a laughing matter.
As far as Remus was concerned, this was life or death.
How many more people would Damosh get away with killing? The possibilities shook him to his core. The faster he acted, the more lives he could save.
But he needed a starting point. He needed reliable men and women with the agency to get things done. Remus pondered on this for a few minutes more.
Everything that came to mind was not something that could be done swiftly. Of course, he would gather the most people to his cause by visiting major cities, especially First Rite itself. Alas, Remus wasn’t quite ready for that endeavour, and was well aware that currently, without a single man behind him, he didn’t have a leg to stand on. The hardest part would be to get the initial few to join his course.
He wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. Rocking up to someone, and shouting, “hey! Wanna join me on a crusade against a tyrannical King?”, didn’t sound too appealing, even to himself. So he would need somebody already with trust in him. Someone with faith in his abilities.
Like the devil whispering into his ear, he heard a tiny thought urge him: ask the watchmen. His initial reaction was to disregard the idea, scrunch it up, and toss it into the nearest incinerator. But was it really that bad of a notion? He had heard the guards trashing-talking Damosh with a passion, on countless occasions.
But that had all been words. Not actions. Nothing physically done to invoke a change. Saying that you wanted to dethrone Damosh, and actually rallying together to put a stop to his slaughter, were two very different things indeed.
Remus sighed. Aw, to hell with it. He thought. What’s the worst that could happen?
Remus inhaled, set his Mark ablaze, and shivered in the sudden rise in temperature. It was getting quite cool outside now, chilly even, and a small touch of internal fire was perfect to warm Remus up.
He leaped off the giant chain, earning himself a wry smile at the memory of his own gifted present, and flew around the city.
Remus could be a swift beast when he wanted to be. In battle, it was hard to coordinate his attacks and reactions at such a speed, but for simple traversal through an area as wide as this, it was proficient enough. Remus weaved and drifted through and past many of Eclipse’s scattered islands, knowing his way through the city better than the back of his hand.
He landed on the fortress lining the outskirts of Eclipse, launched himself down a deep stairway, and hoped he would catch the watchmen. He didn’t have his key to the inner chambers anymore — Kirian had taken it once his duty had ended. Nevertheless, Remus found the door conveniently left open, a trickle of light bleeding out.
Remus stopped at the doorway, and took a deep breath. Catching a bunch of trained professionals off-guard was not the best of ideas. He made loud footsteps to make his presence known, and opened the door.
Ten or so guards all turned to him, intrigued expressions plastered on their faces. Remus composed himself, and before anyone could say another word, spoke: “I have a proposal.”
He explained, without leaving any detail untouched, precisely what he intended on doing. How he was going to take down Damosh if it killed him. He lingered for a long time on the extent of Damosh’s misdoings, his violations of divine power. Every graphic detail of the mad King’s campaign deepened the scowls on their faces; made the men shift a tad more uncomfortably.
“That’s why I’m calling for your support. Relying on it, even.” Remus felt his confidence wan at their lack of enthusiasm. He pressed on anyway. “I know I’m asking for a lot, but if no-one does anything, who knows what will happen?”
There was one pause, like all noise had been sucked out of the world, before anyone dared to utter a sound.
“Look Remus, none of us could agree with you more than we already do. Damosh needs to be killed, quite frankly, and I would take immense pleasure in being the one to do it.” It was Aelius speaking. Not too close of a friend to Remus, but they were friendly enough. Though clearly not to the extent that he would be willing to leave his post. “But you’re asking for too much.”
“Agreed.” Another man muttered, to much murmurous assent. “We have families. Mouths to feed. I don’t think the missus will be too happy if I abandon the kids to go on some heroic stint.”
Remus muttered nothing in response. He waited briefly, to see if anyone would take him up on his offer.
Nothing.
He feigned a smile. Despite his annoyance, he couldn’t blame the men. This far from First Rite; it wouldn’t make sense for them to put so much effort in dealing with an issue that quite frankly, had next to nothing to do with them. Maybe their clans had outposts in First Rite, but it would be a small group at best. It was more than likely that such groups had already departed from the city, fleeing at the first opportunity.
Remus said his most cordial farewell, and flew out of the building as fast as he could. He was more than just a little embarrassed, to be honest.
Soaring higher and higher, Remus couldn’t help but wonder: had this been stupid from the start? Was he latching onto matters that had nothing to do with him anymore? Clinging onto the past like an old man, cursed to forever relive their glory days.
He shook his head, was about to fly a few laps to clear his mind, and give the blood some time to stop rushing to his cheeks, when a figure waved up at him. Remus blinked, the waving dot in his vision snapping into focus.
The Feast Clansman. The man who had weeped upon arriving at Eclipse. Remus promptly flew down to him, descending like a bird of prey, only without the wings.
“It’s good to see you.” Remus smiled. “Mr-”
“Call me Barley.” The man insisted, matching Remus’ grin. But it was hardly noticeable. More like a faint curve. An etching of dust the wind could drag away just as easily as it came. “It’s your final day, correct? Or yesterday was. You’re leaving.”
It wasn’t a question, but Remus answered it anyway. “Indeed, I am.”
“I wanted to say goodbye, and thank you, Remus . . . but you appear so glum. What is the matter?”
Remus sighed. Was he really that bad at hiding his emotions from his face? “Don’t worry. I’m just thinking of how to proceed.”
“Debating what to do about Damosh, eh?”
“Yeah, something like that. I had a plan to try and raise a- it’s stupid. Foolish. But still . . . it pains me to see what a mess he’s making of our home.”
“Raising an army?” Barley raised an eyebrow.
Shoot. Remus hadn’t intended to let that slip. No disease spread quicker than rumours. If word got out that he was contemplating something so bold, when Remus was still debating whether to actually go ahead with it . . . Remus would be putting himself into a corner. Oh well, he had already told an entire room about his plans. One more person wouldn’t hurt.
“I tried to talk the guards into it.”
“Didn’t go well?”
“No. It didn’t.”
The wind billowed past, the air felt cold, dragging a lingering chill, and Remus felt just how dry his throat was. Why did everything have to be so complex? There was never a simple solution to anything, ever. Remus was trapped between a rock and a hard place, and the worst part was, he didn’t even know what options he had. What could he do?
“That’s a shame.” Barley swept him out of his reverie. “You know . . . I’ve been looking for some work since coming to Eclipse-”
“No. I can’t ask you to do that. I’m not even paying.”
“Well, money isn’t a problem. I can produce my own food, but I feel so . . . helpless here. I have no purpose. This is something I can do, something to fight for-”
“Exploiting desperate people isn’t my intention. Look, it just wouldn’t sit right with me if-”
Barley grasped his shoulder in a frankly aggressive motion. Remus had to stop himself from reacting. “Look. This is what I want. You’re not forcing me into anything. First Rite is my home too. I have a right to fight for it. I’m going to whether you like it or not. It’s not your decision to make. And besides, let’s face it, you need the men. Who else did you expect to rally under this cause then the very men Damosh exploits?”
Remus opened his mouth, but no words came out. He couldn’t win here. Their argument was flawless. “Okay. Okay. Barley, right? Congratulations on being the first man to join the cause.”
They clasped hands. The resulting smack resounded all around, and Remus couldn’t imagine a more satisfying sound.
“The other clansmen that came with me, they’d love nothing more than to help out too. Besides, Eclipse doesn’t seem to be the nicest to immigrants.”
Remus raised an eyebrow at that, but it made sense. Most cities were structured around the central sects that inhabited them. Outsiders had trouble finding a place to stay, or merely somewhere to work. Remus didn’t agree with it, but travellers were often seen as nuisances as a result.
Due to being a guard, and his ‘living legend’ status, Remus had it easy in this regard. The only anguish he’d faced in Eclipse had been from his own doing. The imagination was an ample torture device, if you didn’t get a hold over it.
“Alright.” Remus felt his damaged ego slowly morph back whole. “Yeah, maybe we can do this.”
Remus wasn’t a fan of how Barley seemed more confident about this than he did. That wasn’t the infallible leader impression he wanted to give to his followers. Whatever the case, this was a better start than nothing. Remus followed Barley to a stretch of grey, cement buildings, walking across one of the actual bridges between islands. The ancient things didn’t seem to get much use, each step unearthing dust from who knows how long ago, sweeping down like sand waterfalls into oblivion.
“This is where you live?” Remus looked at the lack of decor, the depressing monochrome of the place, and felt his heart go out for Barely. This reminded him very sharply of his time in prison.
“It’s where they let you go if you haven't found housing yet, or if you're homeless, or . . . yeah it’s a prison.” Barley admitted with a sigh. “But it’s more generous than some cities. I would have hated fleeing to somewhere like Hell’s Floor.”
“Agreed.”
Remus waited in the rain as the rest of the group he’d witnessed entering Eclise gathered. He let Barley do the talking mostly, whose passionate enthusiasm for the rebellion almost made him tense. Again, Barley had so much faith in this operation. To him, this was like one last divine miracle. A chance to bring glory back to First Rite, to make the city of his birth a place that would treat the Talents of the Realm with due respect.
As Barely had promised, each of the group looked to Remus with excitement. The sight made his heart skink. He was too far in now, he really had to go ahead with this. It was real, not just a vague, distant prospect in his mind that brought vicarious pleasure to him.
They were going to dethrone Damosh.
Remus inhaled. Who would replace him? He had no idea, he’d never thought that far into the future. Some kind of voting system sounded appealing, but nothing like that had ever been attempted. Even since the Barbaric Ages, the ruler of places had been decided by who could throw the hardest punch, or had the most power to toss around. Even Hybrid’s yearly cycle of monarchs was dysfunctional — it just made the bloodbaths for the throne a little more organised.
Though, if Remus knew anything for certain, it was that the future was cloudy; unlike anything the world had ever known or seen before. Who knew what the possibilities were?
Remus inhaled, looking into the eyes of everyone in his new squadron, one by one, taking ample time with each. He wasn’t sure what he saw there, peering into the inner temple of the mind, but in any case, it was clear to him that above all else, he had to protect these people.
Damosh had his work set out for him. He wouldn’t let the deranged King put a scratch on any one of them. Remus vowed that on his very soul.