home

search

Tales of Elhyrissian: Tune of Madness

  The fifth day of Almdiorh, 127th of the First Age…

  Amber sparks sputtered on the white, slanting walls reaching towards the hole, the forge blazed with the golden flames of Dawn. In its center, bright smoke and flames mingled, swirled wildly, from their top Demiphos’s vague silhouette formed, hurling curses at the two figures sweating profusely under their holy garments, sewn from the finest of silk and velvet, showing not a single blemish upon their smooth, gloomily lustrous textures, surfaces. Their hoods drawn over, offered soothing, cold respite whilst their white, porcelain masks fashioned after her ethereal visage with a veil draping over the eyes, protected them from the battering heated winds whilst their whispery chanting echoed in the small forge.

  The tallest, behind his master and elder, Gelasimir grasped his staff of blackwood, the violet veins strengthened, swallowed in the conjured flames of the tortured spirit, whilst Eiboth fastened his gloved palms, ignored the agonies whilst sweat and his blackened blood poured forth the exposed right half of his skull, mingling on the cadaverous, living tissue grown over his shoulder. Neither relented as they called upon the Queen of Winter through the ancient verse of Mortueren Lenithaem, an ancient rite devised by the Teneavhei bring respite upon the dead animated by the Light of Dawn.

  Their robes began to flow, more and more of the heat stole into their voluminous dark robes, the stolas circling around the base of their hoods flittered, and their necklaces, its chains shaped like tears, holding large medallions with a shepherd’s staff slicing across its center, sculpted from an ivory metal, contrasting the onyx medallion itself ornated with pallid white gems around the brims. Shadows crept in from under the burning door at last, snuffing the flames consuming it before lengthening over the slanting white walls. The spirit of Demiphos shrieked, cursing the two for calling upon Winter and Dusk, but with each repeated chant of the verse, each passing second its continuous screaming lost its emotions, the hateful eyes became listless.

  A dark silhouette pronounced itself in the dim shadows, slender and divine, tall, imposing and humble at the same time. Slim hands wrapped around the burning, bulky spirit until only smoke formed its frame, and with a moan it ceased too, leaving Eiboth and Gelasimir kneeling in the dark, before the silvery ray shone through the hole, gracing the two, rewarding them with the alleviation of their previous agonies. They uttered their thanks in unison, before hunching down their hands, sensing their lugubrious Mistress standing before them, unseen in the Fold of Reality where the Divine and the Outer Intelligences dwelt.

  Gelasimir felt elated taking a share of Her sorrows before she carried the last remnants of Demiphos to be judged by her brother, husband in the gray walled city of Asphodai, along with their servitors. Being young, born on the promised lands of Elhyrissian, he longed to stand in the presence of a Deos, never felt more content in his short life yet and silently he strengthened his vow to Dhaekenia. Though numbness began to spread along his legs, imposed by the hours spent upon the cold, hard stone floor in the smithy on the western bank of the Flaurdrenn River. Nonetheless, he endured, feeling her steps, her ethereal dress drawing shadows and silver along the floor.

  Eiboth, older than him by many centuries, felt nostalgic, smiled at feeling her cold presence, the blackness in his right socket stirred when he felt cold palms touching where her Father took his beauty, the grace he once gifted to his pale kindred. A little of the otherworldly heat curled up in his shoulder, slithered between the blackened tendon and skull, but he too endured his great agonies, greater than his pupils before the tender palms pressed against his robes, his pale white complexion with hints of hallowed purple of wisterias. Like his pupil, he endured in silence, though he wished to greet and voice his gratitude to Dhaekenia. But she vanished.

  “You have done well, Gelasimir!” With soft creaks emanated from his tired joints, Eiboth arose dusting off his robes.

  Gelasimir bowed courteously before speaking what rested on his heart. “It was just as you said, master! It felt greater than purified outer mana.”

  Eiboth chuckled softly, then coughed a little, lifting his mask partially to reveal his half-grinning, half-lipless mouth. Then hid it with haste. “I hope you are content with this much. Our Lady, Our Solemn Shepherd’s presence may be soothing, gracious but it has also tempted many into madness.”

  “I am master. Though, I must admit, it stoked the flames of my devotion for Her!” Gelasimir’s ever-calm, listless eyes burned with fervor, excitement for the future.

  Eiboth smiled truly as another true Shepherd joined Her flock. Not many wished to learn less violent ways of vanishing remnants of the dead, most folk within the Empire and its predecessor – as far he heard from his own father – were tempted by the possible glories, the tales to be told. Gelasimir was nearly tempted to switch to Mineirvia’s Circle, a possibility which saddened him, as the young aevhe proved kind, uncaring for his accursed hideousness. “Come, let us relieve the family, and dine before the hour of Midnight.” The two left, but for a moment, Eiboth steps ceased in the arched frame, a faint sound shackled his ankles. A distant fluting, beckoning.

  *****

  In the Wintry Season of Almdiorh, in the 197th

  year of the First Age…

  A warm glow of the Illius stirred the two from their near catatonic state of scribing the contents of ancient tomes, grimoires upon scrolls for the neonates of their Circle. Eiboth hunched over his desk, the light falling upon his blackened skull turned back inches away, before swallowed by the dark marrow. Whilst his blackened skull drenched its thirst, his pale skin glistened, revealed hints of regal wisteria. His bald head arose, and his left eye closed, the other stared blindly towards the sprawling city cloaked in retreating shadows, the marching light of dawn. His long, ghastly fingers wrapped around each, and cracked loudly in the spacious, nonagonal office before he continued scribing down the words of power.

  Gelasimir rose from behind, with a loud yawn, his arms arising above his long dark mane, the four braids of his thick, dark beard upon his pale, tapering visage dangled as his body trembled as his muscles relaxed. He arose from his mahogany chair, soft thuds, the bony tunes of his ivory white earrings and creaks signaled his trail across their office, then stopped, carefully placing his hand upon his master’s shoulders. His indigo eyes surveyed the desk below, and hummed with a bit of envy how the feeble, beloved teacher of his reached his fourth towering stack, whilst he only finished the second.

  “The rare warm glow. Thought it would be in three more years.” He said, basking his fair golden visage whilst watching the demesne of light expand over the darkness. Soothing, yet also weighing down his tired dim indigo eyes.

  Eiboth hummed his agreement as he watched the shadows of Dusk retreating, reminiscing him of the ancient battles he fought in the old realms, the old provinces of the Empire. Still with pain he thought back of the lost friends, the comrades, the loved ones who he often had to cut down as they rose from the tainted lands. And of his own beauty, tarnished by the Grimm Sovereign who granted his people their form, who chose the Pale Dragons of Dusk along boars, simians, worms and others. Yet in his heart, he felt no malice towards him, his daughter, Dhaekenia saved him and made him see, the horrors were born from the illness of his mind incomprehensible for mortals. And Gelasimir’s kindness gave him hope, that one day, he shall no longer be shunned, forced to hide under a mask.

  “What is it master?” Gelasimir asked, whilst placing back a few of the tomes wasting space upon his desk, back to their place upon the shelves lining the angled walls. Yet he expected no immediate answer, recognizing the lost expression upon the tarnished countenance of Eiboth.

  Memories flown still into his mind, clouding his vision of the day of what he became in the Battle of Chautor Feoldek, where his screams of agony were drowned out by the bellows of beast, the shrieks of the dying and the arising, and where he first gazed upon the Pale King, whose cheeks strewn with strings emanated a strange sound calling back the dead, bewitching them into the folds of his legions. How the Chosen of his Siblings, fell and arose, turning their blades, spears and spells against those whom they filled with the hope of victory, of promise their liege, the Dawnfather arrive, heralding their victory against the hordes of Twilight.

  How he looked so dreadful and magnificent in his regal robes of Twilight, their uneven, tattered hem and cloak flittering in the suffocating wind of rotting, burning flesh, his bony crown thrusted into the reddened skies, bleeding dark clouds. The cold listless face, adorned with sunken, dark eyes sweeping across the field. The earth beneath their soles blackened, the insects, the flattened grass, trampled flowers, and many of those – but not all – who fought in the name of Light crumbled, fell and arose reinforcing the enemy. Eiboth taught not of death, but of sorrow as he felt Dhaekenia’s touch, saw her divine face under her black veil, weeping at the madness of her father. That day, he was tarnished, and he found purpose in his life, in his new found devotion to Dhaekenia, who accepted the horrid reality.

  “Nothing. nothing at all.” He answered in a low whisper, grinning on one side, smiling softly on the other. “Just the old days, the battle in which I lost and gained.”

  Not long after, he took the black robes of Dhaekenia, kneeled in her soothing shadow and vowed eternal service, whilst friends, comrades, family and strangers glared at him with the same suspicion they had given to the daughter of a mad divine. He fought, carried her Will in his heart, listening to the dying after each battle along with her, and wept when like the others, she lost her form. And all throughout the long centuries, the question festered in his mind. The question of what could drive a Deos, a higher being to cause so much wanton destruction and death. Yet he never attempted to find answer, just accepted it was born his lugubrious fate, to bring end to all.

  As the question planted itself into the fore of his mind once more, it sprouted a hundred branches and a sour feeling took him over in regards of the monotone task awaiting him still as he peeked sideways towards the counting the seventeen tomes resting still on the shelves lined along the walls. Why whistle a melody in a battle where victory was certain? Why wage an existential war against your own who you cared for untold eons? What was the source of the madness which doomed Him, his Servitors and children he elevated into their prime forms?

  All these questions and a hundred other drummed in his head, sprouting surreptitious lips beckoning him onto the path of answers. Though his body was cursed to be as feeble as a human’s or orkhin’s, his soul burned with the curiosity and the thirst of adventure he locked away after the Banishment of the Twilight. Now he saw the banality of his every single day, and like the servants of Septurrion, he thirsted for more. He thirsted for the truth and the answer, believing even it may bring soothe upon Dhaekenia and the Gray Monarch, as their true woes he thought lie in the fact, they may carry the same seeds, which shall sprout one day upon Elhyrissian.

  Elated by his resolve, he realized dawn neared its end, day began in earnest when the bells rang near the precipice of the walls. Eiboth hunched down, his hands moved even quicker to the surprise of Gelasimir, who feeling a bit contentious, headed back to his chair. Two more hours, they needed to erect each four more stacks, enough for all the neonates. Eiboth looked at the stacks and pondered, whether he could recruit Gelasimir and the neonates still unsure which Circle to choose, which Deos to pledge unwavering loyalty to.

  He turned towards Gelasimir followed by six stacks of parchments. “Tell me, have you ever thought what could drive a Divine Intelligence to madness?” The quiet fluting began anew with the day.

  *****

  247th of the First Age…

  Eiboth nearly broke his finger whilst packing away his alchemical supplies into the large case. Excitement stirred his blood as he got his desired reply to set out to the wider world of Vhalleryon for an expedition. A new excavation awaited him deep in the heart of the continent they aptly named Cordivil, in its northern regions, hidden in the dense forest acting as a natural border with the neighboring province. Eiboth whose life stretched beyond the War of the Siblings, to the time when the aevhen dominions stretched far across worlds, was tasked to investigate the ruins built by his darker cousins, the Teneavhei in hopes of locating them. Though he was sure but the Elhyrissiar and his brother Augermil knew where they hid.

  Eiboth was so preoccupied with packing, preparing a few tomes detailing the history of their Empire and what came before he forgot about Gelasimir who went out to deal with an upstart nekromancer who holed up in the recently finished canal system of Luth-Astaril. A fact which surprised not his student, friend who simply sighed and remonstrated the old niuvhe when he noticed him once more nearly breaking one of his feeble, long, bony fingers. Swallowing his exhaustion, he helped Eiboth, too excited for the journey ahead after holed up for two centuries in the capital. With his hood up, mask veiling his tarnished visage, the two descended down to the harbor, and after a heart felt goodbye, Eiboth turned his back to the city, and gazed towards east.

  The seasons passed as Eiboth sailed on the pristine azure and cerulean waves, on the mighty galley amongst the flock of thirsty scholars, magusos of Septurrion’s Circle mingling with two of his own. At the ceasing days of Maerhia’s vernal season, they arrived to the small town of Stagara built in the northern bank of the Gurgilion River on the hill itself, cutting across the Province of Cordivil. Amongst its primitive walls, Eiboth spent the week they spent to rest, to enjoy rigid stillness beneath their soles, in the meager library of the local chapter of the Order’s Spire. Expecting not much, he felt fortune’s smile upon his tarnished form, finding accounts of the teneavhei of the southern lands heading northwards.

  The first few pages offered little new information their tomes held already. Their peculiar garments, lustrous yet when light fallen upon them, the fabric voraciously drank it up, feeding the smoothness of its texture and the luster of its sheen, and how unblemished they all looked even though they have been marching for decades. Yet the last few stirred Eiboth, an envious smile under the mask as he read them in the dimly lit library, as Scribe Sulpicio prone deeper, and penned down one of the Teneavhei mentioning a soft, rhythmic chiming they all heard. A whisper which reached them from across time and space, compelling them to migrate beyond Dhaugruz.

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  Right before the weekend passed, their galley set sail, continuing up the river. Three weeks it took for them to stop in Myudesos, a former city-state Stagara belonged to a century before. Its proud walls battered by the spells of the rebels, filled Eiboth with unease as they sailed under the half-crumbled arch, followed by frustration as their supplies were stolen. Knowing not much he could do about it, decided to enjoy the city whilst waiting. On the second day in the market, a lone kiosk in the shadow of a tall, maroon edifice caught his attention.

  Opulent wine-red sheets formed a roof, held by black, curving columns, their tops resembling bulky hands. Under the colored shade, a corpulent dwarf towered over in a lavish, jade vest of thick, lustrous woolen, an elegant shirt with a round neck straining around his bulging, fat neck whilst his loose breeches remained in place by an oaken brown leather belt with golden fastenings, ornamented with embossed, gilded rabbits hopping around with sacks tied around their necks. His skin dull, wrinkles billowed like the clouds high above the filament, following the trail of the breeze, his movements elegant and measured as he beckoned Eiboth once he noticed the interest gleaming in his eyes nested in the mask’s holes.

  “Come, solemn child of Dhaekenia.” He beckoned him with a jovial expression, waving his arms. His voice gravelly, deep full of excitement at a potential buyer.

  “How do you know?” Eiboth asked meekly, still his gaze remained on the baubles. A necklace like his own, but in the center of a medallion, an hourglass engraved instead. A short, black wand with dark violet veins, a bony structure. A mask he saw a hundred or thousand times in the battles of the great war. A skeletal visage, with cheeks cut out, decorated with silken or velvet strings of black and violet. Like the visage of the Grimm Sovereign.

  “These eyes have been watching for centuries.” The dwarf said, leaning forward in a whisper. Then chuckled like a child. “Truthfully, I recognize the garments of the Solemn Mistress, and your hands are as pale as hers.”

  Eiboth’s gaze halted upon a heavy tome, bound in blackened leather, ornated with amethysts, cyan dyed sapphires and onyx brimming with a deep red glow in its heart. “May I ask, where these baubles, these treasures fallen upon your hands?” He turned his gaze to meet the dwarves – brimming with suspicion.

  Though the dwarf recognized it was out of curiosity. “Dhaugruz is rich in them. Many of His servants fled there from the judgement of the Deossos, and the owner of these, probably met his doom by one of Its horrors.”

  Eiboth sensed the truth in his words. The fluting began, soft and rhythmic. “How much for this?” He asked and the dwarf revealed his rotten teeth.

  Hidden in his locked stash in his quarters at the aft, Eiboth surged with unease and excitement at the contents. He was sure it held forbidden knowledge, and knew if it was discovered, he would face death by the blade of the Executioner. But he knew it was needed, to find his answers one day. For now, he slept and dreamt of Pale Figure in flowing, tattered robes of a king, kneeling upon waters of devoid of ripples, waves as he prayed towards the nothingness all around them. When he opened his mouth, arrayed by seventy teeth down and above, a fluting emanated forth the lineless lips, and the Nothingness stirred along with Eiboth who felt sweat trickle down his exposed, blackened skull for the first time in centuries. Beyond his window, light stretched across slowly, the pale green meadows.

  ******

  257th of the First Age…

  Three years, he spent excavating the ruins in northern Cordivil. What his colleagues and the upper echelons of the Order believed as an erection of the Teneavhei proved false in a positive manner – to Eiboth. The others tried to dissuade him at first to continue instead of destroying the Abode of Twilight itself, his thirst for answers, to hear the soothing tones of the fluting, infected the others, and one by one they fell, the Abode becoming their tomb. Undead, horrors from beyond puppeteering cadavers, and the children of the Grimm Sovereign lurked still in the deepest levels, where his Pallid Figure was carven into marble and stalactite. Only he returned alive, thanks to the Black Grimoire of a teneavhe nekromancer. Returned even though he very much wanted to remain, hoping to find the chamber in his dreams. And as he sailed home, the fluting mingling with the billowing waves sought his patience, soothed his worn soul.

  Arriving home, at Luth-Astaril which appeared dimmer, Gelasimir greeted him only with a smile. A smile forced, as he heard of the consequences born from being the sole survivor and his tarnished appearance they wished to hide from the others. First, he expected death or exile to the continent, a prospect which excited him at the time as the fluting ceased. Instead, exile awaited below the city, below the earth where an extensive prison, an Obituary built by Pandoriniath head of the Order, last living kin of Aeneiath, the First Elhyrissiar. A prison not for mortal sinners, but the invaders who broke the Law of The Almodo, forbidding them from bringing further harm to the mortals whose numbers dwindled greatly.

  There he served as the warden of Aydvroeghs, Umvraoths, Incarnates of the Wild Elements, the Infaerni who taint the virtuous, and even some minor deossos whose loyalty towards Dusk, Twilight ceased not. Though as he felt and understood, not wholly, only a small parcel of their being, locked in opulent boxes bound by layers of inscriptions he and many others had to replenish, strengthen every so often. There he remained, serving dutifully for five excruciatingly long, silent years, unfrequented and doleful with each passing week. Darkness was his home as it was for the ancestors of the Atoning, and the Teneavhei, as even when he was allowed leaving to rest at his meager home in the district of the slaves, it was the hour of Lunarius that greeted him with its soothing, chilly winds and silvery, pale brilliance.

  When he sunk deepest into the silently oppressing pit of his, a faint whisper brushed against his ears whilst reconstructing the waning runes, inscriptions binding unseen a small, golden box, a seal sculpted after the avian like visage of the Heavenly Host’s dragons. Hollow and sweet, were the words of the essence inside, calling not for his freedom, but for the sorrow of one of His children. Decades, a century before Eiboth would have corrected the being inside, now he just listened, as he heard the fluting, faintly. It wanted him to listen, to follow the guidance, putting his proverbial soles upon the path Fate willed for him. “” The voice faded and that night, instead of resting in his bed, he grabbed the precious black tome and with little food, followed the fluting guiding his steps out from the capital.

  For a month, he wandered through the bright meadows, the vibrant, lush forests brimming in the brilliant shades of Dawn, seen only by a few roaming villagers, children playing in the wilds, scared of him, even when his tarnished visage remained under cloak and mask he kept. Eiboth’s heart remained loyal to Dhaekenia, even as he stood on trampled, dying grass of pallid yellow and red, bones of the dead crunched and moaned, rusted blades and armor littered the yawning maw before him, where dread ceased his steps, whilst the Fluting beckoned him to enter into the throat where Dusk sheltered. It gave him strength to continue, heading down the long, damp path, hearing nothing but his steps, his breathing and the dripping water from the teeth of the cave bearing down above his head.

  “Welcome, beloved child of Twilight! Have you come to join my sermon to our Father and Savior?

  A strange sensation filled him with confidence as he parted his lips. “I came to seek the Way which opened His eyes? Do you know the way where Night dreams the truths of this world and those of beyond?”

  In the light of Lunarius, seeping from the hole above, the Scion looked regal, almost divine with the same flesh which grown over his shoulder and forearm. The crescent shaped horns rose like the crowns of dragons, the dark veins upon them drinking in the silvery light, satiating their voracious thirst. “Tell me first feeble child of Night, do you wish to call him back, reach out to him where Chaos rules, where The Almodo rests upon the eons? Or do you wish to cease the thirst of your mind like the children of Fate, Wisdom and Dreams?

  He remained wordless, staring into the black, sunken holes focusing upon the dim violet pearls. Then he remembered the divine tears trickling down those pale cheeks. He never questioned ever since, why he was shown mercy when all others were left to perish. Eiboth like many a mortal, just accepted divine kindness, mercy whilst falling in love with the pale beauty which he could not put into words, even then or present. Yet now, he knew what he desired, hope the Fluting would bring, what the answers to divine madness and its source would bring. And what terror may have lurked in the eternal heart of Dhaekenia and her brother, husband. “I wish to cease the suffering of my savior, my Mistress of the Dead Dhaekenia herself!”

  “A task impossible. Her sorrow is the making of her own, for turning against our Father whose return shall not expunge her sin, her sorrow.And she is no savior of yours. It was he who showed mercy, who saw worth in you, I am sure. I feel his touch, his will, his blessing upon your soul and its vessel.

  “No, it was her, Dhaekenia who saved me. I remember.” But Eiboth was unsure, the memory grew hazy for a moment, seeing her solemn visage and Him looming over.

  The Scion’s wide, lipless mouth contorted at the corners, filled with joy as another joined his flock. “Go to Dhaugruz. There you shall understand, in the Heart of Dusk, where Our Father’s eyes opened to…

  *****

  ??7 of the First Age, The Season of Dreams, of Almdiorh…

  Decades passed since his departure from the Luth-Astaril, and another decade he spent jaunting towards the dreaded peaks looming over the frigid north. Eiboth slipped from one city to another, offering boldly his services, leaving trails to the pursuers. Yet each time listening to and guiding the dying, Dhaekenia parted onto him knowledge of the path and power. Many of his pursuers died, assured of his feebleness, perplexed by the ferocity of his days spent in battles they heard in tales from their elders. Then they ceased too, as the Atoning arose against their avaricious masters across the continent, aided by the Nightscale and his myriad servitors, whom he encountered heading northwards.

  Like with the Scion at first, he feared them, but each welcomed him in their strange ways, offering him worriless, temporary rest, food to fill his belly even in the gloomy, frigid north. Amongst a group consisting of the atoning orkhin, pale man and nekrossos, there he met one of the strange and enigmatic Aetherkiin, draped in ceremonial robes almost like his, dim as the starless night they met, with a red stola circling around his voluminous hood, tumbling down upon the dark robes. His ethereal silhouette lacking any striking features besides the seven and nine fingers upon his ghastly hands, appeared even darker as if the garments held a wound carven into reality itself. Eiboth could not take his eyes off of him, sitting silent, feeling the gaze, hearing the Fluting, yet he could not scribe the meaning this time.

  “Are you heading to Dhaugruz?” The Aetherkiin inquired in the innocent voice of a curious child. Eiboth felt a cold breeze passing through his body, but he remained calm, knowing the Aetherkiin’s tended to mimic the voices of others.

  “I am. How do you know that, if I may enquire?” He spoke with reverence, feeling lucky for the first time in decades. Not many could encounter the elusive race shackled not to this realm like all others.

  “She told me.” A lively man’s voice echoed from the darkness occupying the hood. “I shall come, guide you.” A firmer, gravelly voice fitting a general or an austere, veteran legionary added.

  “I feel honored to be accompanied by one of you.” He said, staring into the flames whilst all the others slept without fear under the black foliage of the trees melding into one with the dark filament. “Truth be told, my hesitancy took the better of me for the past few years, fearing what lurks in the deeper paths of Dhaugruz.”

  “Fear not, Eiboth.” The third time, the soothing voice of an amorous maiden graced his ears, his mind. “As long as you stay by my side, they shall not bother, tempt or claim you.”

  They tracked across Vesgeriath, hovered across the chasm betwixt the woodland and the foot of the mountain, down into the Yawning Maw. Down in the Veinways, Eiboth slowed his pace, enamored by the glowing dim stalactite, shimmering in the regal shades of Night. Indigos and deep, bloody reds lined and glimmered upon the walls surrounding them, the rugged path beneath their soles black with a hint of pale white and silver, whilst above the fangs running along the ceiling emanated deep and pallid violets, glowing to some silent rhythm like the wisps of the sea guiding galleys, vessels, these led them onto a long path branching and twisting to the point Eiboth had no sense how deep they descended for months.

  All Eiboth sensed, knew that the paths were built with the deliberation of Higher Beings. Akin to the mountains of the old realms, where he hid in wait with his comrades in arms, where they tracked through to break the siege of verdant Selymbria, carven by Selvinia and her Servitors of Nature and the Elements. Except here, these tunnels, paths were made by dark entities as he learnt whilst travelling with the Aetherkiin, who guided him safely across the Den of the White Worm and his cult of withered children, where they feasted together, and proved fortunate enough to bear witness to the Offering Ritual, where an infant reborn in the belly of the worm, as one of his faceless servitors, with rubbery skin white as the snow, small, four beady eyes insidious and deep red as the creature’s. Then they departed, Eiboth looking back one last time as the children waved with weak smiles.

  Along they jaunted the lavish temple of the Sleeper of N’Kai, who dreamt open a great stalactite bed. His large flame bulbous and covered in black fur, sallow skin, a face Eiboth could not decide if it belonged to a tarnished bat or a sloth. His snores like the howls of winds, the growls of beasts mingled into one, whilst protoplasmic slimes slithered around the bed, cleansing off the body of their master, whose belly arose, glowed revealing unfortunate travelers toiling within. Beyond it, they passed a dilapidated sanctuary, its master long gone, Eiboth pondering whether his black tome rested upon one of the ivory pedestals; a straight path ahead, where no light existed, only interminable blackness, yet he could see the back of his silent companion; a cavernous vista, where a hideous jungle of fleshy foliage stretched far and wide, the trees soft and fungoid, with humanoid and bestial excrescences along their grayish trunks. Their curses whispering all around Eiboth, frustrated as the greatest arising like a guiding pillar at the center forbidden them from the meager feast.

  “We have arrived.” Eiboth knew not how long they walked, but had the same conviction spoken by the voice of a calm, elderly servitor.

  The two stood before a titanic aperture, no wind blowing, a ring of violet light bathing him, whilst the Aetherkiin’s dark form swallowed it. A thousand feelings, sensation he experienced during their journey, yet now he felt nothing, but closed his eyes and listened to the Fluting, shifting into myriad whispers. His legs moved and he walked forth, into the darkness which swallowed his form until he felt wet stone beneath, gentle waters billowing around him. Ahead a long, wide path stretched, waters black yet he could see them through their exquisite luster. And behind, the Aetherkiin stood watching, waiting as Eiboth began anew his walk, ecstatic like the first time he obliterated a servant of Chaos, morose as the journey neared its end. Slowly, in respect to the place, he pulled off his hood, threw off his mask, and kneeled right at the precipice, feeling a firm, gentle and cold grip upon his shoulders that ached no more.

  The luster of the black water faded as Eiboth stared down into the abyss, now appeared to be just as much a wound in the fabric of reality as the Aetherkiin’s form under his layers of garments. Afflicted with the sorrow of his divine Mistress, Eiboth watched the awakening of the Deossos, their eons long history preceding the mortals whom they gifted with perfect form and intelligence, watched their wars, their love weeping, and watched the toiling of the Monarch of Twilight, Her father, his father before he was cut down, thrown across the veil he watched for thousands of years searching for answer which His own father could not give. He laughed, screamed, wept all at the same time, as he saw the answer, that opened those empty eyes…

Recommended Popular Novels