1

 

It had been a long talk: one filled with many large, winding, and twisting words. The Cynosure had spoken with such vigor, and at such length, that the great pillar, the crowning jewel of the Extricating Church, no longer had any sunlight to give. Down here, it was dark. Through layer upon layer of rock, it had delivered the final farewell rays of the setting sun to this: the deepest reaches of the Extricating Church. Its inclusions and terminations, though dazzling by day, now reflected only the meager candlelight which filled the Hall of Convergence. And these candles, faced with the intensity of the ensuing words, wilted along the walls. Wax fell as the drip-drop drippings of a well-watered cave, and the intensifying darkness only emboldened the Cynosure to speak more. And his voice, though lashing throughout the ever-darkening hall as a bellowing wind, reached out to everyone with the delicate essence of compassion.

The Cynosure, laden with relic and obligation, filled all words with worth.

All understood the severity of this undertaking. Even the dullest amongst the group, those who could not truly see the splendor of the Church nor the importance of its ultimate mission, now knew: they were supposed to choose their fates for themselves; to sacrifice everything, or leave the Church without penalty. Simple, would be the task of forcing them to follow the Cynosure’s footsteps; he alone could make it so. But, as he had explained, only those willing to give themselves fully for this cause would be suitable in the struggles ahead. Since, without the fire of a true volition within themselves, the North would unravel them with ease; for this was the inherent power of a real curse.

“Indeed,” the Cynosure said, spreading his arms wide, “if you are uncertain of our success, if you have doubts about the reasons that I am seeking out the very heart of the North… Then you are as good as dead once you cross its boundary.” The Cynosure, content with having said what he had, finally sat down in his chair. As he looked over the nearly two thousand men and women gathered in the seats before him, he said, “It is no secret to me that all of you, even those who hide it behind second guesses, believe in the coming of the Fold. Your loyalty and usefulness thus far is unquestionable. And yet…

“This is where we must part ways. Your sputtering wills are no match for the curse of the North, and not even I can shield you from its effects. And, repeating myself for the last time, those who are unable to cross the boundary will swiftly become an unbearable burden. This is no mere expedition,” the Cynosure said, placing his hand upon his chest. “Make not that mistake, for this is an undertaking which will permeate our very being.” At those words the flames sputtered, and as people hurriedly traded candles to relight those that could not withstand the Cynosure’s voice, he continued, saying, “The curse will pullulate within us all, and there is no ameliorating it. Relying on the dulled and fraying wills of those who cannot shoulder this curse shall place additional strain upon ourselves.

“To the North’s curse, distance matters not. It cannot be reasoned with, and it certainly won’t be fooled. And so, I ask of you, those who have not the strength to resist this curse, the most basic of the North’s characteristics: leave the Church, and never return.” Shadows, slick with spirit, exuded from the Cynosure’s helm as he continued, saying, “From this point onward, lift not a single finger for our cause. Though this is a time of great need, you will be the workings to unravel our efforts.” And as the words tunneled through their ears, so too did the shadows penetrate their chests. Pointing at his followers, the Cynosure said, “And when they leave this place, so too must they be cast out of your so-called hearts. For those of you who have the wherewithal to maintain, they will no longer be your allies, and shall not be your friends. If you think of them as such, if you are unable to part with them, then you will be as weak as they in the eyes of this curse.”

Sensing apprehension along the interlinking shadows, the Cynosure stood up at once. His chair crashed upon the floor, but none could hear it over his booming voice as he shouted, “If you cannot heed these words, then I, Svoyoss, the Anamnestic Lord and Cynosure of the Extricating Church, shall personally end your life! Those who would stand between the truth of the Fold and I, those who would waste all of the lives spent to reach this moment, anyone deprived of the senses to comprehend their own place, will be reduced to ash!”

Hushed whispers swept over the gathering. Faces were hidden from the candlelight; prayers were repeated within thoughts. They leaned closer, pulled their chairs together, and spoke in voices low enough not to disgrace the Cynosure with their chatter. Though it was all unnecessary. With his relics, their intentions were within reach. The eventual end to their internal struggles, though uncertain and in-the-works to most, was already revealed to the Cynosure. Yes, he knew; despite their shortcomings, there was a yearning to partake, but his words would be heeded.

And yet, since it was the Cynosure who had spoken, they would do more than listen, go beyond mere ‘heeding’. Residing within their cores, that which was separate from the innate fears of annihilation, was acceptance.

For he had carved the Church himself; he had polished its every hall from nothing but dirt and stone; the great pillar was molded by his will, and the shadows themselves moved for him. And though he possessed within himself the strength to subjugate the darkness itself, despite the opportunity, the sheer power to topple every ruler and take this world for himself, he chose a different path. His purpose was of a higher calling. Without asking for anything, Svoyoss gave his all. And through his efforts, truths that had been lost were rediscovered.

By his command, with his guidance, via his sacrifices… 

Svoyoss forced an awareness of the Fold into each and every mind. And in this way, the Church and its ‘Cynosure’ were one and the same. There was little distinction, same as Svoyoss and his titles. Through each act, by and for each Fold, he removed the differences. And in this way, he maintained his essence through the unnumbered years. No matter the hardships. Despite losing it all, time and time again, he would continue. 

Even if he was forced to face the North alone.

Thinking on this, and reminding himself of what he could never truly forget besides, Svoyoss commanded the shadows to return. As they removed themselves from the gathering, slinked across the floor, and hid within the crevices and folds in his clothing, Svoyoss stepped forward. The clack of his boots echoed over the whispers, and each step he took reduced the murmuring.

Till there was nary a word left upon the airs.

Lifting his arms high, Svoyoss willed the illustrious Shard of Extrication to descend into view. Spurred by his will, a faint color, briefly, burned within his helm. The ethereal spark burst before it could be discerned in full, and its ghost, gusty and dim, drifted towards the shard hovering above. Those lingering wisps were spun into the shadows above and consumed; with this color which could not be placed, with a will that could not be erased, the Cynosure had spoken in terms that a shard could understand.

The shard had heard. And it spoke in turn. Softly, as to remind them, with manners, of its true force: 

‘With this light, your life too, can be extricated.’ 

With these words resonating within the great pillar, as the Extricating Church as a whole shook, the shard moved. As it floated towards the Cynosure, it parted the darkness and light alike. Its angled edges could not be fully described by such pitiful candlelight, and so, as it set itself in the air beside the Cynosure, it unraveled all flames.

In the dark, all waited. They could no longer hear each other breathing. The sounds were unraveled as the shard’s hum permeated the hall so much so that they felt its every vibration in their bones. They were made to respond without willing it, and as their voices were attuned to the shard, it cast its resplendent light across the hall.

“Your all,” Svoyoss said, cutting through their awe, “it shall remold.”

The gathering, in unison, said, “The truth, it will withhold.”

Joining their voices with the Cynosure, they shouted, “Fear the impending Fold!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Aside from the soft mutterings of a single, sleeping relic, all was silent in the Extricating Church. In the library, the constant noise of notes being scrawled, of pages being flipped, of books being closed, and the numerous, rowdy discussions of varying relevance… Well, none of it was ‘constant’ anymore; for there were no disciples present to delve into texts, and no librarians to sort through the mess that had been left in their wake. Books, stuffed with feathers, snake skins, and other oddities not approved for bookmarking, were left where they lay.

In the hallways and along twisting staircases, beside doorways and atop tables, each and every candle had its flame extinguished. Their supplemental light was no longer needed, even in these dark hours; since, of course, no one was here. The circulating current of messengers and supplies: flowed no more. Even the Beholders, they who were ever-present in the Church, had vacated.

Beyond the lack of bodies, the Church was similarly deprived of all manner of things. The storerooms were bare, and not even blankets occupied the beds; what had enough use to be taken, was. And the void was, futilely, filled with a holy incense. It lingered in the air, if only for a time. For all its potency, it would share the fate of the prayers paired with its initial lighting: to fade away into nothing; to be lost in the vastness of ‘empty’ space; and what replaced the incense’s aroma was a stale, stalling stench.

As that certain, stifling stillness crept in.

And beside the main door of the Church was a vast collection of notes and trinkets: the meager hopes of those who wished to return from their journey. A small skull was set upon a wreath of flowers, and a crude ring was left with a stick of incense. Inscribed upon that incense was a message for safe passage; the words crumbled to ash. Beside that stood a group of mishappen figures. Carved by the Beholders, simulacrums of Unnce watched over the entrance to the Church. The garbs of higher-ranking devotees too, were left here alongside clippings of hair. And what few coins some had possessed were offered up as well.

They left these and the Extricating Church behind, then marched.

Well, truly, all had done so, except for one. In the deafening dark of the Church was Svoyoss himself. Equipped with all manner of relic, and wearing a patchwork of armors that seemed to be more for the relics than himself, he was fully prepared to leave for the North. He had donned the ever-changing and adapting gear that had was unmistakably the Cynosure’s: the bane to all enemies of the Church. Beneath the unspeakable relics, plates, chainmail, and bizarre articles of clothing, was the Cynosure.

The will of the Church. And, perhaps, a human too.

Surrounded by a vast darkness, he alone waited in the farthest depths of the Church; for there was one more meeting to be had before challenging the North; there was one last conversation to be had.
             And so he waited. Whilst the dark… writhed. 

Despite the lack of movement, it had the appearance of breaking up; though it only became darker; it only gained yet another depth. Layer upon layer, the shadows stacked themselves, until the whole of Svoyoss’ chamber was swirling. Focusing on its details only exasperated its movements. The focus made it fuzzy, blurred its dimensions. But still, on the edges of one’s vision, it seemed that there were distinctions to be made; it appeared as though there was something to see. What had the appearance of being singular specks of dark, with slight borders from all the rest, was no more than another misapprehension.

The illusions crawled.
Yet… with a sight beyond vision, Svoyoss could see.

“My eye cannot discern your form, but this relic can,” Svoyoss said to the empty room. “Within the shadows, your illusion of ‘not being’ is surprisingly complete… But that is only on a surface level. Despite my sheer blindness to the threads, though I may find this relic lacking, and although the threads find all but the gods to be oh-so-severely lacking… The threads do not lie, and through them, you are made clear.” Svoyoss, now talking to a certain shadowed spot in his chamber, smiled, then said, “And I am certain that this point has not been lost on you.”

From nowhere, and hovering in the air, someone’s leg stepped out of something; the leg stuck out of a split in space: a crack in time. And that line, glowing and growing, split further as the figure brought itself further through the anomaly with successive steps. Like walking out from behind the scene of the world, it crossed the threshold; although, it had to do so whilst ducking, as it was unnaturally tall, even for this boundary. 

Svoyoss stifled a small laugh, as the figure hit its head on the wobbling boundary, before it brought itself even lower to get through.

The light from within the puzzling space followed the tall figure, as it emanated from a small candle it balanced upon its palm. And after it had exited the boundary fully, it stood tall, passed the candle off to something which engulfed its face, and turned towards the thin, near imperceptible line in front of itself. The thing upon its face held the candle close with its flesh, and the figure, already quite tall, stood taller.

Then, with both hands, the figure grabbed the line, and pulled it through its own boundary. The line itself screamed; it bellowed out like the storms of the World’s End, and the Cynosure’s eye watered at its horrendous voice. If there had been someone sleeping in the Church, then, surely, this would have woken them from even the deepest of dreams; for this line was not pleased with all of the pulling. But, as less and less of itself was left on the other side, it quieted. The screaming turned to a forceful groan, and, reluctantly, ended the last of its protests as a short, strained whisper. What had once been a line had doubled several times over. Released from the airs, it took on the shape of a shimmering sheet. Falling slowly, the figure twirled the sheet and pulled it around itself in a single motion. And wearing it around its shoulders, the sheet of shimmering fabric appeared to be a cloak.

Because, of course, that’s what it was.

Content with it safely secured, the figure spoke with a whistling, alien voice, saying, “I must say, Svoyoss, that I am quite surprised that you were able to take notice of me at such a distance. Hm, let’s see, if I were to give a conservative guess, we’re standing no more than thirty feet away from each other. But aside from that, we were completely in the dark as well. Oh, not that I didn’t expect you to notice me at all, but I did not believe that your parasite was so keen to the threads.

“What’s more, I was able to feel your notice. That is, by your parasite’s intense focus, I was able to sense you, in a way. I could feel your intent to seek me out, I could feel that you were seeing me at that moment. That, I think, is the most peculiar thing to take away from this experience. Ah, but this does bring up the prospect of more sophisticated sensory organs. For such a crude parasite, one that can sit right in your eye socket, it can do so much for such lowly, unattuned beings such as we. And if a more specialized organ, or some other manner of relic that functions similarly were to exist, well, I suppose that they could possibly sense without being sensed themselves. To peer through the threads without touching upon them, or, perhaps, adding one’s influence in such a way that it is undetectable to most, if not all.

Pacing, the figure continued, saying, “Hm, but what of the countermeasures one could take, and the costs of such a thing. Really, it’s all such a—”

“Enough,” Svoyoss said, walking over to the tall, word-spewing creature. “I am glad that you are happy to see me as well, Sen.”

Sen laughed, then bowed towards Svoyoss, saying, “Forgive me, the ideas came pouring forth, as they do. But yes, I am delighted to be of significant assistance to the Cynosure once more. Yet, tell me, were you not surprised at this?” He asked, pointing to his cloak. “I have finally gotten it to work, after all these years.”

“While it is remarkable,” Svoyoss said, “I think it more surprising that you who can manipulate the threads themselves would light your way with a candle.” Svoyoss stopped a few paces from Sen, and asked, “Surely, you, Sen the magnificent and wise, with all of your creations and tinkerings, don’t you already possess some truly enlightening ways of producing light? Isn’t it so, or am I mistaken?”

“Oh, no, not at all. On the contrary, I thought you’d ask me something like that,” Sen said, reaching into his cloak. “That is to say, I purposefully used this candle here to pique your interest so that I could get that response from you,” he said as his arm fell into the spaces between spaces: the boundary within the cloak. And, reaching what he sought, he paused, saying, “This may provoke a rather unsavory response from your shards, are you prepared for that possibility?”

The Cynosure held his arms wide-open, accepting of what was to come, and asked, “Are you?”

“Well then, since you’re so confident… let me show you a glimpse beyond the veil itself,” Sen said, laughing as he held the cloak closer: its very threads humming with anticipation, as its designs, the weavings woven upon weaves, moved; and another arm was thrust into its space. Then, with a delicate motion, Sen brought his arms out. The cloak fell away, and Sen was left standing there with something cupped between his hands. He brought it close to his face, whispered, and let his hands part, revealing—

A flash.

Atop Sen’s palm, flickering and flailing, was a petite flame; though its brilliance was not matched by its small stature. Not at all. For the entire chamber was immediately filled with its green, ghostly light; from every corner, to all crevices, there was light. One could easily miss that it was this flame which gave off such an overwhelming light, for its influence reached beyond the physical limits it possessed. It was not quite right. For what flame can sit in one’s own hand and not burn? How can such a small thing overwhelm the senses in such a senseless way? It confounded; it moved as a flame, but burned brighter: like a star.

But the Cynosure knew, had known. He was not misled.

The shards within his flesh grew wary as he basked in the ghostly light. The anticipation was rising to the surface. Projections of force, slowly, and ever-steadily, ramped up. The response was prepared inside the shards. This light was perverse; and it was not even light to begin with.

This was a relic of a familiar sort.

It had been too long since he had last encountered it. Yes, ever since that day, it had been lost to him. He had forgotten it, somewhere along the way; sometime along the whirring of uncounted years, it had been misplaced: the memories, erased. But the recollection came back as this flame imparted itself to him, through him. The emanations warmed his very core, and moved his heart. Though it could kill, though it certainly was not a flame of the ordinary sort, though the shard’s intuition was right in many ways… They were wrong in one way: it was no threat to anyone in this chamber.

That, the Cynosure knew. And now, so too did the shards.

Tensions, lessened. The coming flurry of forces: never came.

“I can’t believe it,” Svoyoss muttered, trying to find the words. “I thought it had been lost…”

“Ah, but you can believe it now, can’t you?” Sen asked. “And, mayhap, you will be able to understand that there is yet another purpose to this mere candle. Besides baiting you, of course. Although, perhaps I am to blame for its plain appearances, and your lowered expectations in that regard.” Motioning to the flesh engulfing his face, he said, “If you would, Viz…”

The flesh quivered in response, and Sen nodded. With its tendrils, the flesh carefully lowered the candle towards Sen’s hands. With one next to the other, it was difficult to even discern the banal flame. The hue of this relic was overpowering. And though this ‘fire’ was the namesake for many passions, many a murder, and love’s many facets… 

Here, it was nearly invisible. A faint wavering; softly burning.

But Sen saw.

With his empty hand, he pinched the candle’s wick, smothering its flame in turn before saying, “It may look rather unfitting to a relic such as yourself, but I painstakingly created that wax from processing the carapace of a Duvaac. You surely have no concept of such a frightening thing, or how lengthy the process of killing it was, nor how arduous it was to perfect the processing procedure to get a wax out of that damnable carapace at all… And yet, I know that you will find this final product to be most accommodating indeed.” 

The enchanted flame wobbled, then poured outward from its fiery confines. It snaked its way across the gap between Sen’s palm and the candle, navigating the airs with a few wiggles of its ever-changing form. Coming to rest upon the candle, it melded once more into the shape of a flame. It pulsed, convulsed, and revealed a repeating pattern of protrusions. 

And then it resumed its facade as before.

Burning bright, yet, innately, not quite right.

Content with its placement, Sen waved the fleshy tendrils away. And so, the flesh took the candle back, holding it above Sen’s head.

In this light, this reminiscent hue, Svoyoss saw Sen anew. Or, more accurately, he was faced once more with the reality that Sen was strange. But that was normal. Since, for Sen, strange was all he could be.

Sen was Sen.

Improbably tall, impossibly intelligent, and extraordinarily human… for something which was neither man nor beast. And it required but a singular glance to comprehend this potent contradiction. Atop the heights of his shoulders, wrapped up in bandages of his own making, was his long and flexible neck: a monstrous stature, a warped frame; yet he was dressed better than most, and possessed a wit that could put anyone to shame.

A towering, enigmatic figure which outclassed several relics. Ally to the Cynosure. Tinkerer of all things sacred and taboo: Sen.

“Yes,” Svoyoss said, “I should have given up on the notion that it was lost once I met you. You are you, after all. An anomaly maker, and an anomaly yourself. Thank you, Sen,” Svoyoss said, gazing up at that malignant flame once more. “More than you know, seeing this means much to me. So much. And so, once again…” Svoyoss said, trailing off with words of thanks.

The stoic pyres of Glen came back to him; here was a spark of that past: that vital art which had escaped his understanding. Reflected in the Cynosure’s eyes, the relic was more than the vortex of gleaming greens: it was a glimpse of home.

“If you would like to truly thank me,” Sen said, “then perhaps you could entertain a certain discussion, or, more accurately, you could allow me to ask you something. Ah, and I know what you’re thinking right now, or at least a good guess. You are likely thinking that we already talk at great lengths every time we meet, and that I do most of the talking anyhow, as the words come bursting forth from this thing you may call my face. So, you may be thinking that it’s more or less the same, but this is of a different sort.”

“And what would you ask of me?” Svoyoss asked. “Surely, there isn’t anything I could tell you that you haven’t already discerned yourself.”

“Well, you see, I have thought long about that. You called me an ‘anomaly’ not too long ago, and while I am an anomaly, aren’t you the greater one?”

Within Svoyoss’ helm, a hint of light flickered as he said, “I cannot manipulate the threads as you do, Sen. And what I am capable of is crude, inefficient, and akin to punching at flames to put them out. When that sort of method is successful, someone is burned. If not worse. Even then, that’s only possible with these relics,” Svoyoss said, gesturing to his varied gear and garb. “You, on the other hand, need not a single relic to do your work.”

Sen nodded, saying “Yes, and yet…” Sen craned his neck this way and that, taking in the sights of Svoyoss’ chambers. 

The pillars had taken on a ghostly sheen, and the polished stone floor, (that which upon his arrival had been a uniform plane of onyx), was now a churning, rippling reflection of the relic’s light; it brought out the true splendor of the architecture in a way that any other light could not.

Sen hummed, nodded once more, then continued, saying, “And yet, even with your current disadvantages given to you by the fates, the innate frailty of your flesh, and the harsh limits of being a singular being… you have gotten this far. Why, it’s almost as if you’re cheating.” Sen laughed. With a whistling fervor, he laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Then, as if his words and laughter were interchangeable, he switched from one to the other without hesitation, without delay, saying, “Without fail, you add to your collection of relics, each more useful than the last. Certainly, I understand that once you have built up enough of a repertoire, once you’ve gained enough skills, as more come to your cause, and so on and so forth… 

“Well, it’s obvious that you can do more with such wherewithal. But, even taking that into account, even giving you the benefit of the doubt in relation to your initial acquisition of whatever first relic you pulled up from a tomb or whatever else…” Sen shrugged, then said, “Simply, the numbers can’t explain it. All facts collected and ideas entertained tell me that this amount of progress is impossible via normal means. What you have done is beyond mere luck, wouldn’t you agree? But, before you respond, let me expand upon this. What feels like cheating, perhaps, is that it’s almost as if you’ve done this all before.”

Svoyoss pulled a company of shadows from within his garb and held the fumbling mass in front of himself. Gripping the shadows tightly, squeezing every last phantasmal drop from their ‘forms’, he said, “Sen, the way you put that gives me the impression that the ‘almost’ part isn’t so. Like these shadows, you have me in your grip. Though I am no shadow, and so, for me, there is no escaping your discernments.” And with that, the shadows slinked from Svoyoss’ fists, sliding between his fingers. “At least, that’s what I can infer,” he said, before hiding a slight smile beneath his helm.

But so too, did Sen infer.

And the both of them knew.

“Of course,” Sen said, nodding. “The way you built the Extricating Church, how you were able to manipulate those around you, and how you were able to gain entrance into places that were either unknown, inaccessible, or both. It’s strange, isn’t it? Well, not so strange to you, I would think. If I may be so untoward, not all of your discoveries were discovered, were they? No, since one does not all-too-suddenly discover themselves. The maker, after years of labor, won’t be surprised to have their own work in their hands; and when one reaps what they’ve sowed, there’s not a shred of shock, and so on and so forth.

“I have to say, after seeing the innards of this, your innermost chamber, any doubts I had about my assumption of you have entirely vanished.”

At those words, upon Sen’s face, and beneath the fleshy helm, was a roiling disturbance which gave pause to even the relic’s flame-facade. And the slender figure, towards Svoyoss, did plod.

As he moved, he reached into his cloak. As the bauble before, this object had been put away with care: for he retrieved it swiftly, and without err. From the dizzying, interlacing magics, a smaller sort of cloak emerged from his own; it was a perfectly downsized copy: his own cloak’s younger brother. The relic’s light gave its woven body a dazzling shimmer, hinting at its own unseen space within; each glint was a drop of water: a vast body, deep and knowing. Every flash: the impact of our world meeting an ethereal rain. And its arrival was celebrated, emanated, and permeated all air… as a petrichor rushed o’er Svoyoss.

And the shards, engulfed in this influence, prepared to oppose.

Since, however friendly, a terrible power had grown close.

Towering over Svoyoss with cloak in hand, Sen let out a deep and mollifying hum which put the shards at ease. And the grand figure, (rather meticulously), set himself upon his knees. Bringing his lanky form so close to the ground was a sight most bizarre, and yet, out of the two, he was taller still by far. With a flourish, he brought the smaller cloak over Svoyoss’ head, and, exhaling wafting, wailing words fit only for winds, shook. Motes of magic fell from the cloak, showering the Cynosure with their momentary glow as the cloak too, came down.

Deftly, Sen set it around Svoyoss’ neck, and, fastening its clasp, said, “I am convinced that you have survived a Fold. Ah, and if the fluttering of your heart is any indication, along with the surge of activity within your Perspicacious Confluence, I believe that you are telling me, without realizing it, that what I’ve said is true.”

These were the words that Svoyoss had anticipated. That Sen would discern this truth, though it had been shared with no one, was not surprising. Sen was Sen. And a secret is not the same sort of thing to him; certainly, as even the lost art of Glen had been recovered by the tinkerer. Having expressed his understanding of the relations, hinting at the labors required and intelligences spent to gather up the materials to introduce this topic, and so on and so forth, as sure as the World’s End endlessly churns…

Sen had known. For years upon years had this secret’s tomb, to him, been opened.

Perhaps, Svoyoss thought, he had known from the moment they had first met. When Svoyoss had held that alien hand in his own, at the first utterances of greetings, before all of these reasons and facts and logic-bound bundles of information had been trapped in his wordy, whirring head…

Svoyoss closed his eyes, recalling the moment. 

In that rotting and rank valley, atop the heaping piles of corpses, they exchanged words and shook each other’s hand. In that meeting, in those moments, Sen explained how he had reached the valley. How he had trekked over the dead. But, through his carefully curated and conscientiously crafted ramblings, as those words came pouring from the bindings about his face…

He never explained why he had come there. Despite all of his talking, he had left that part out, and, somehow, had steered the conversation away from that point.

Svoyoss, realizing his mistake, shook his head, thinking: perhaps he had known, by the threads alone. It was possible that, somehow, he had realized before they had even met. And by that reasoning, the anomaly maker himself came out of hiding, all the way out to that battlefield…
“To meet you, yes,” Sen said, reading into the Cynosure with more than intuition. “Although, it was less of a battlefield, and more of a massacrevalley, if I may be allowed to weigh in on the definition of such a thing whilst making up my own defining word besides. And if you think that I hadn’t heard about the other similar instances, that I was not keen to mass die-offs of questionable causes, you’d be wrong.”

Svoyoss lowered his head, saying, “So you knew, even before that day? I thought I had removed all traces of my involvement in those prior… events. Not even the bones were left afterwards. And their screams were—”

“All erased, indeed. And yet, using such a severe amount of magic invariably leaves some threads marked. The damages incurred by the world don’t just disappear, Svoyoss. And the determination behind your attacks, the desire with which you struck those humans down, no matter their pleas, no matter the number, and with no mind paid to the severity of the pains inflicted, even when they sent their very own children against you… 

“Well, I could sense that we had something in common.”

Sen traced an invisible boundary along his fleshy creation’s length with his hand. As he traced the unseen line, as he passed the places where a face ought to be, the flesh quivered and hummed. And its master responded in turn. By those vibrations, with these intentions, the flesh opened.

Like petals peeling, as if it were abloom…

As gracefully as it could, it displaced itself from Sen’s head with a visceral pop. Crawling towards its master’s shoulders, it carried the candle aloft tides of folding meat. Tendrils, unsure of their destination, were set correctly by the flesh’s own vibrations as it hissed out orders. And, softly, the curtain of delicate flesh threads fell away.

There, upon Sen’s face: was nothing.

Though Svoyoss had known this anomalous being for some time, this was the first instance that he had taken it upon himself to reveal his face. Seeing it now, the reasons ‘why’ were obvious to any, Cynosure or not. What had been hidden beneath a chaotic servant of flesh, that which had been left to the imaginations of men, what had been wrapped up and sealed away so often… was something that exceeded all expectations. Surely, the abomination around Sen’s shoulders was easier on the eyes. 

Or, at least, it was easier to comprehend.

Sunken recesses covered the surface of his warped face in clusters; and within each cavity was a horde of knowing, translucent eyes. Like nesting parasites, they huddled together, squirming to view the outside world without leaving the safety of their respective burrow. With maws readied, they devoured every last ray of light that strayed too close. And as their gaze turned from the chamber and fixated solely upon Svoyoss, the smells of rain intensified. The emanations doubled over, multiplying as the eyes reached out and stretched themselves towards the ends of the holes in Sen’s face.

They sought, and fought, till all eyes were at the cusp of emergence; whilst the airs were saturated with a petrichor most queer: a salty quality which was foreign to all rains. And as Sen’s eyes jostled, the sound of waves filled the spaces between Svoyoss and he.

And in this moment, it was as if the world had met with a boundary-breaching sea.

Sen, with his neck careening, brought his countenance down, saying “Face to face, I can tell that you can tell that there are less differences between us than you previously thought.” Sen smiled, revealing multiple sets of teeth. “These eyes of mine,” he said, pointing to his face, “much like your own, have witnessed that certain sort of end. That is to say, I too, have survived a Fold. My passion, and will besides, is no more than a facet of that survival.

“The threads relayed to me the existence of something that held that vital spark, the property of being that was more virulent than anything else I had chanced upon. At first, I shall not lie, I thought that perhaps I had picked up the trail of some sort of godly force. Yes, since an unassuming valley exuded, from within, the properties of a spire’s catalyst. The start of a momentous moment! And so, it took little effort to conclude that, perhaps, this peculiar disturbance had originated from the workings of a Tessect. The wavelengths, how it called out to me… It was all remarkably similar.

 “So, to say that I was surprised to see, at the end of my search, no more than a man and a few relics… It’s an understatement! Truly!”

Sen stood up, and as he returned to his familiar heights, he said, “But, not much sooner than that, you accomplished such a strange thing. To subjugate that shard, to pursue the rather stupid things that you did, rather than do what men do. Yes, instead of being reasonable, in human terms of course… Ah, well, you did what you did.” Sen glared at Svoyoss with such intensity that his shards quivered, making his flesh ache. Pointing at him, Sen said, nearly shouting, “You did what I could not! And so, the Extricating Church gained the Shard of Extrication. If there was any reason to explain away that interest I had in you, it died there. For that inexplicable spark was accompanied by an impossible feat.”

The words resounded.

While respect for this tinkerer, within Svoyoss, compounded.

 “Even though this flesh of mine is no mystery,” Svoyoss said, removing his helm and setting it upon a pedestal of shadows, “I shall reveal myself in turn.” Looking up at Sen, he could see the faintest, twisting tinkerings of his mind unfolding there: in his alien eyes.

As they both shared an exchange of bows, a laugh leapt from between Sen’s clattering teeth, and the stars woven into their boundary-infused cloaks wavered; no longer could he withhold his minacious smile. For this would be the point at which Sen would, usually, speak again; without waiting for a response.

And yet, he waited.

For he could see, within the Cynosure’s eye: something burning.

And as a shimmer of magic took hold within Svoyoss, he said, “It’s true, Sen. I have faced a Fold alone, and I am still here today… Though, saying that we survived? That’s simply incorrect, is it not?” Svoyoss asked, placing a hand upon his chest. “Yes, it’s correct that something emerged. Something that I may call myself, but I believe that I died. Just as all the others did. As the whole world succumbed to the Fold, I too…

“I died. What stands before you now are the faint yearnings which persisted beyond that death. And though there’s some sort of persistence, a common thread of want that has lasted thus far, I cannot say that this is my own. At least, not in the sense that it was me. That I am this, that I am who I think I am… Well, I’m sharp enough to know that there’s a clear distinction from what I was.

“Anything able to drag itself out of the Abyss…”

“Such a being would have to give up much,” Sen said. “Especially considering the compounding depths of the Abyss when a Fold is introduced. The underlying super-structure of its form is centralized, adding many virulent curses upon stacks and stacks of maligned threads which cannot support even the lightest of hopes. Well, of course that’s simplifying things quite a bit, assuming much, and yet… I understand what you mean. There’s likely no way to discern the truth in regards to what truly is, since, of course, what was, isn’t anymore.

“In regards to the Fold, we are likely mistakes in that process. The Abyss itself, even, might be an aberration. Allowing mistakes to propagate across the span of a single Fold, or, in your case?” Sen asked, extending an arm.

“How many have I endured?”

Sen nodded. “Thus far, yes.”

“I cannot recall how many,” Svoyoss said, slowly pacing. “Not that I haven’t tried. But that’s why I know that I am not who I was. Yes, who I was, myself…” Svoyoss stopped, and reached for the pendant around his neck. Grasping it beneath his layered armor with one hand, he said, “Sen, I couldn’t have forgotten that. What was innately me, only death could have sundered it from my being. I still remember…” Svoyoss said, trailing off, yet stepping towards Sen with a painful smile all the while. Gingerly, he navigated the pendant through his all-too-armored-and-concealing garb. With longing in his eyes, this Cynosure stared at the pendant, this relic… “This,” he said, “is a physical manifestation of such remembrance. Somehow, someway, I can yet recollect myself, regardless of what laid in-between. By chance, perhaps, by sheer luck alone… I remember.” Tucking the pendant away, he continued, saying, “And yet, there are gaps. There are omissions—”

“And there are contradictions,” Sen interjected. “I understand that much, and yet, you still possess the knowledge that you have lingered from beyond a Fold. It is by these relics of memory, through this transfigured being, that you are able to obtain such overwhelming advantages. One could say that simply knowing of the Fold is evidence of surviving a Fold, as long as hearsay and delusion are discounted, of course. And yet, that is not all…” Sen mouthed the rest of his words, half-realizing the need to stop talking, yet unable to do so at the same time.

After the unspoken words had passed, Sen’s neck lurched, and his head wobbled, sending his eyes moving in ways that even the Cynosure could not explain. Nor understand. And as Sen brought what he saw into focus, as his eyes, (moving in ways that defied definition), honed their sight upon what was, (to the Cynosure), nothing—

—Sen let out a whistling howl.

The reverberations battered the chamber to the tempo of a hundred tempest’s rains, forcing even the light of Glen to recede. With a crack of his neck, Sen forced a will into the stilled airs; hurtling through the Church, these winds ripped doors from their hinges, sent tables flying, and assaulted both Sen and Svoyoss alike. The shards ejected tendrils of force in turn, ripping apart an adjacent wall as the forces clashed; and the writhing shadows rushed forth to stop its inevitable fall.

The Extricating Church trembled. And the dark innards of Svoyoss continued to gush out. With his guidance, the clamor and crashing waned with the winds, and fragments of the ceiling rained intermittently.

As shadows grappled with the waning light, Sen smiled, as if to say: ‘that which is seemingly nothing, is, undoubtedly, something.’

Noticing the hint of confusion upon Svoyoss’ face, Sen said, “You thought yourself able to see a muddied, vague, and confounding glimpse of the true threads, but you have seen naught but illusions dancing along the edges of your comprehension. Through your recursions, you have exceeded much. But in this, you have failed utterly. 

“My recent manipulations are a fit example. That should have torn you, piece by piece, into a heap of shredded gore. Though, certainly, that was not the case. You have exceeded reason and survived. But you have missed a vital aspect. Your achievement here, unfortunately, is overshadowed by your ignorance. From whence did those manipulations come, Cynosure? I ask once more, for effect: can you, the Anamnestic Lord, tell me how I managed to impart such vigor into the air itself?”

Svoyoss shook his head. “I am no god. For me to explain how you were able to do something that I could not truly see, since you did it without even touching upon the threads—”

“No,” Sen said. “You are fundamentally incorrect.” He laughed, saying, “To think that your will would carry you so far, to command such respect without realizing such an integral truth…” Raising an arm high, Sen brushed up against the ceiling with a single finger. Cracks, laden with shadow, receded at his touch. Scabbing over the damages, bewitching clusters of minerals sprouted from the walls. And the displaced darkness fell back down to its master. “Though both of us struggled through the Abyss,” Sen said, letting the shadows run through his fingers, “despite us meeting similar sights, we see differently.

“Even if you had been granted eyes fit enough to see, you would view nothing more than another set of shadows. Illusions would gain definition. Errors would don reality’s attire. An overwhelming, overflowing, and overbearing myriad of details and textures and sights and sounds would crowd the chasms of unknown; and the picture assembled in your mind would be closer to completion, nearing what some would dare call ‘the truth’.”

And yet, no matter how complex the visions the Cynosure did see, illusions were all they could be. And Sen understood why. As that parasite probed the darkness for him, he had felt it: Svoyoss’ direction was awry.

“Mistakes such as we,” Sen continued, “are bound to compound mistakes as we continue to defy the order of things. There’s no relenting in our errors, for we are that which has persisted where we ought not persist. At least, not on our own. That is to say, I do not blame you for your error, and yet I cannot allow you to continue on in such ignorance. Lest I allow your failings to become my own.” His eyes twisted, as peculiar liquids welled up beside them. “Yes, remember, there is yet another way…”

Sen’s eyes opened wide. Their teeth, glinting through the air: did divide. Counterpointing all sights with his eyes, he revealed to Svoyoss a fraction of a single, stray thread: warping his sight inward.

Since, to see the threads is to take a glimpse at one’s true self.

Svoyoss wiped the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand. And his eye, same as his parasite, darted about, taking in the sights revealed by Sen. Though each turned every which way, though he swayed on unsteady feet, endlessly turning in a different direction, there was no relief in sight. No point of stability existed. Thinking aloud, he said, “The threads aren’t just connected to everything, they’re not just related to everything, they aren’t just everywhere, they’re—”

“Everything,” Sen said. “That’s exactly right. The threads of fate, as it were, do not bind us. We are not things to be linked. Since, fundamentally, we are not separate entities. The distinctions are our own failings.”

Svoyoss grabbed his helm, and fumbled whilst trying to hurriedly don it. His shadows, anticipating the mishap, caught it, and brought it back. And for that, he cursed to himself. Taking it once more in his shaking hands, Svoyoss forced it onto his head as if it was as vital as his next breath of air.

With the helm securely in place, he grabbed his face, groaned, and collapsed.

And no sooner than his head had bounced off the floor with a resounding whack, he was vying to stand once more. With labored breaths, he lifted his chest from the ground, and said, “But more than that, right? What I see, what you’re revealing here and now—” His words were bashed out of his mouth as his arms gave out and he was laid upon the floor once more. He convulsed and screamed: for the parasite required another piece of his life to relay the information to his brain; and so, it consumed, taking from Svoyoss the vital components of life, and tearing out the very threads which were the reason for all this anguish.

While gagging on his own fluids, he reached out for Sen.

“And not even this can stop you,” Sen said, grabbing onto Svoyoss’ outstretched arm. “It’s all so fascinating, and annoying. Kept prisoner in my own flesh, I cannot delve into the tantalizing complexities of your being. Why, the only alternative I have is dissection,” he said, lifting Svoyoss. As if he weighed nothing, he dangled the Cynosure in front of himself. Humming, he brought his head close to the Cynosure’s chest and listened to the irregularities within.

Assuredly, and as expected: he would survive.

Still, he was in no condition to be conversing. And this talk had not yet concluded. Sen let out a whistle, easing the parasite’s hunger. He observed its reactions, noticed the lessening of strains before saying, “But cutting you up, that’s out of the question. Certainly, that isn’t an option that I’m willing to explore. I am here to help you.

“And though I am not bound by honor, it would be a waste not to repay you adequately for all that you’ve done.” Saying so, Sen changed his grip on the ailing Cynosure. Holding him by the waist with both hands, Sen lowered him. Slowly, till his boots reached the floor once more.

Not that he could stand on his own.

Still shaking, yet voicing his pains no more, Svoyoss let out a wheezing fit. A laugh. A sad excuse for a laugh: something reminiscent of a last, futile attempt at breathing rather than a laugh; but, still: it was a laugh.

And so, hacking, and sputtering out blood, he laughed and laughed and laughed.

Sen felt every tremor of his flesh, and the wavering life that laid within. The mind-wracking pains were clearly visible, as sweat and blood and spit and all else trickled from behind the Cynosure’s helm: that Perspicuous Confluence; and yet, stirring deeper inside, Svoyoss’ mind was aflame with realizations. Despite the agony, his mind would not yield to these meager sufferings: for he had seen a true thread. Casting off the many misapprehensions, Svoyoss understood, once again, that Sen had been another step ahead.

“So,” Svoyoss said, pushing Sen’s support away. “This is what you saw.” On his own unsteady legs, he walked further into the chamber, saying all the while, “And so, you knew before I did, and without requiring such uncertainties that I myself had been forced to shoulder without choice…” He coughed, spitting up a thick, stringy mess of mucus and blood. Beckoning Sen, he continued walking. “You know, if you had told me earlier, I may have tried my hand at killing you.”

Walking beside the Cynosure, Sen nodded, saying, “Indeed. You were particularly keen on using that helm when I first discovered you. Yet, seeing how your form handled this singular sight, that course of action would have, undoubtedly, been your last. That is, if you could have managed to kill me.” Sen’s neck cracked a thousand times over, and he said, almost humming, “You rely all-too-heavily upon your relics, you know. Inheriting their strengths is one matter, but you are forgetting the issue of taking on their faults. Doing so whilst their foundation, your flesh, is so frail… It’s beyond suicidal. Assuredly, you are lucid enough to realize the risks related to that flesh. And yet, you’ll ensure more than your undoing. Beyond suicide, to repeat myself. Past death. For you, the understanding is out of sight, same as those threads.”

Svoyoss, passing up Sen, hobbled up a set of steps; wielding no shadows nor relic, he clawed at the supporting pillars, forcing his body to ascend whilst leaving all manner of weaknesses behind: to stain the floor. And all pains: he did ignore. But not only was he willing himself forward, he was suppressing the shards’ calamitous response: with a cost of equal severity. As he continued on, dispersing his waning life upon the floor, the shadows coiled and roiled, threatening to erupt. And the shards within, searing with hate, dared to speak.

Though they did not. For this Cynosure’s will outweighed his own life. Imbued with purpose which persisted past a Fold, he would not break so easily. And so, with Sen following behind, (striding up multiple steps at a time), Svoyoss choked out the relic’s protests with his thoughts alone.

With his gear clanging and lungs sputtering, the Cynosure arrived at the final step. Though this finality was no more than a plane of smoothed stone: polished and slick. And this platform led to nowhere but the chamber’s far wall. There were no doors. No piles of baubles. Nothing of apparent interest. And yet, Svoyoss had built this too; there was a purpose beyond appearances. He was not mistaken in dragging his worn body up this far. By the light of Glen, he could see it all the clearer: the potential hidden away. 

The reason for summoning Sen on this day.

 Softly, and in a language lost to the Folds, Svoyoss spoke to the wall ahead of him. Though the words were wanting, no matter how much was said. Cold and empty, these words were dead. As his lips met, the air within himself perished, and he uttered hexes. Each syllable: a curse. The expelled magics, wispy and warped, fell from his face as detritus. And a membrane of misfortune soon covered the chamber. Then, kneeling, Svoyoss placed a hand upon floor. Met with his reflection, he gazed into a thousand miseries interlaced. And, eyeing this entangled self, he whispered words which could not be placed.

Since these words, upon meeting hexes, were erased.

And yet, his wavering visage became the ghost of those lost whispers; rippling, the message echoed through the hexes, jostling curses and displacing hate into the stone itself. And he felt it in turn; the floor grew hot to the touch. Magics bubbled through the mirrored surface. The curses were boiled off, and intricacies shifted.

Beneath him, the slab hissed.

Hearing this, Svoyoss rose to his feet. He had set the workings into motion. The locks were unravelling. Soon, it would be revealed. But the price to do so would make him bleed. And as he turned to the waiting Sen, streams of vital scarlet poured from his helm. Spattering. Splattering. It ran down the steps, and quickly passed Sen as the scarlet erupted from every crack and crevice in his garb. Every pore was a faucet. Every orifice, a fountain.

Svoyoss, soaked in scarlet, spread his arms wide, and addressed Sen as if it were all nil, saying, “With this blood of mine, you breathed life into the Beholders. And irregardless of the trappings of time, you have brought the light of Glen back to me. Within us, you have seen traces of past Folds. You’ve revealed it. And through you, I see it too. Beyond that, as I align my sight with yours, though this body breaks, as your words ring truer with every passing moment…

“I see the suggestion of my knotted and convoluted relation to the Folds, despite you directing my sight towards a mere fraction of a fraction, the faintest sight of a thread…” Svoyoss paused, and links of chainmail fell from his chest. Spouts of scarlet scattered sections of the mail, adding glinting treasures to mark the flows of blood. Though Svoyoss would acknowledge these pains no longer, and resumed his talk, saying, “Sen, you are an accomplished anomaly. You’re wiser than I have the words to describe. Certainly, you are correct in many ways—” Chunks of flesh were blown from the Cynosure’s back, as a large piece of armor was ripped from his body. It rained reds, and the armor came crashing down, embedding itself into the opposite wall of the chamber. As the surge of blood passed, Svoyoss resumed his talk, saying, “Yes, you’ve been oh-so-right, but, even still, you have made one fatal mistake.”

“And what would that be?” Sen asked. He was all eyes, open to all prospects.

Waiting.

Svoyoss shook his head, saying, “There isn’t enough time for these strains to undo me.”

And at those words, the floor behind Svoyoss opened up. In an instant, there was nothing there. Nothing, except a hole. And from this blackened abyss came one last, piercing hiss, as the final lock was undone. Accompanying this terrible sound was the stench of ruin: the mark of a potent relic. Though the Cynosure’s shadows paid it no heed. They slithered into the dark, and retrieved the relic without delay.

Caressed by shadows, it glimmered with the texture of endless depths. And the magics of Sen’s cloaks dimmed in comparison. The light of Glen, too, was disturbed by this baffling orb. And it directed less of itself to contact this aberrant relic. 

Yet Sen was not deterred. He observed every turn of its form as the shadows carried it through the spurts of blood and Cynosure garb. Aware of Sen’s awareness, the relic returned that watchful gaze, and peered into Sen in turn.

And as it was brought into Svoyoss’ opened palm, he said, “All of this tinkering has gone to your head, Sen. Take this, and realize… that the Fold will soon be upon us.”

 

 

 

 

2

 

“Tell them to be prepared for an unreasonable amount of lishen,” Svoyoss said to the Beholder beside him. “And soon. As unlikely as it seems, this storm has yet to begin in full. I can sense their anticipation. All around us, and in numbers none of us can comprehend, they gather.” Svoyoss gestured to the clouds above: dark and swollen, swirling and dire. “It seems that after three weeks of rain, we’ll finally be graced with the equivalent of three weeks’ worth of lightning.”

Above, the black masses spun, pitched, and crackled; though faint, traces of the coming calamity escaped from the clutches of the storm: half-flashes, sparks.

“I predict,” Svoyoss said, admiring the sight all the while, “that before the sun sets, it will truly start. There will be casualties. But, perhaps less so if they listen to you, the Beholders. Heeding the pull of your blood will be decisive in sensing those initial, ruinous strikes. After that…” He paused, then laughed to himself. And yet, truly, he was laughing at himself. Continuing, he said, “Well, after that, it shall be a true test of their wills. The world will decide for itself if they are worthy of persisting. None of these relics, no amount of veril-bloods… Nothing we have will stand in the way of this storm. And those of worth will abide.”

The Beholder nodded, and braced herself against the ensuing winds. Raising her voice to be heard over the torrent of water cascading all around, she asked, “Anything else, Cynosure?” Though Svoyoss could not see her face through her obscuring wicker attire, he could sense that she was worried about that one. The Beholder held onto her mask, fearing that it would be ripped right from her face in these terrible winds, and said, “I won’t be able to make it back to you before sunset. So, if there is anything else you need…”

“Yes,” he said. “There is one more thing. Could you relay that I wish for Eiss to be sent over to me?”

“As you wish,” the Beholder said. She bowed her head, removed her mask and said, smiling, “A thousand thanks, Cynosure.” Then, quickly returning her mask to its rightful place, she rushed off into the storm. She leapt through the nigh-impassable terrain as only a veril-blood could, left barely any footprints in the knee-deep mud, and was soon lost in the sheets of rain.

Svoyoss watched her go, and whispered, “your thanks are misplaced.”

The firmament buckled, and another spurt of sparks raced across the fault. The brief, resulting lights revealed impenetrable sheets of rainfall coming to envelop the land. And as swiftly as the lights had come, they were swallowed up in these billowing curtains of precipitation. Extinguished. Even when the sun had climbed to the peak of its arc in the sky, as it expelled its blinding light, it could barely penetrate the depths of this storm. What had marked that point in time was no more than a soft and vague glow.

A sodden twilight.

In truth, it had appeared to most that, even during its most potent hours, the sun had already set. Only the Cynosure and a select few realized that it was, in fact, only receding right now. With the accursed blood as his compass, the Cynosure felt the movement of that holy body. Through great efforts, the displacements of its motions reached through the storm. Yet even these concentrations were left wanting: as the downpour threatened to wash away all thoughts.

Crashing. Washing away all semblance of self.

And drowning all wavering wills.

Despite the duration of this storm, the roar of the rain only intensified. The clouds swelled. From the moment they had started their march, it had rained. It rained and poured and flooded the landscape, washing away roads and blocking paths with ridiculous amounts of debris. What had started out as an unfortunate occurrence had steadily turned into an unmitigated disaster.

And still, it continued to rain. Turning roads to rivers, and reducing hills into piles of mud. There was nothing to smell besides the rain and the worldly aromas of mud and muck. Of dirt and worms, the smothering of pleasantries beneath the crushing weight of oh-so-many drops of rain.

“And to think that this is just the beginning,” Svoyoss said, looking up at the spreading vortex above. “A single instance…” He reached into his cloak, and pulled a relic through its sealed space. Donning it over his arms, he said, “Somehow, I have endured this and more, and yet, here I deviate. This would be the time to scurry back to the Abyss. Though it baffles me still, I can feel it. Yes, even these relics call to me, pleading for our return.” 

As the rain neared Svoyoss, it fizzled out of existence. Each droplet ceased to be. It could not reach him, since it met that bony relic’s influence first: that which had been brought forth from the cloak. And as the relic overcame the oversaturated space, the waters were made to dry. The Cynosure’s soaked garb was relieved of its wet burden. The puddles wobbled and warped, fading as the mud froze.

Svoyoss covered his eye, saying, “With my sight renewed, I see now that this rain is of a different sort. What has been soaking us to our very bones is magic. Though even that is not all. It keeps yet another truth hostage, hoping that my singular notice is all that I shall encounter.” He shook his head. “No, I’m afraid that it shan’t be. Though these rains vehemently struggle to distract and divert, as they, with an intelligence all their own, seek to have my senses lost in the maddening downpour, I see. Thanks to Sen, it is made clear. No matter the veracity of this chaos.” Svoyoss lifted his arms towards the storm, reaching out for what he could no longer touch. Recalling the potency residing within mere droplets, Svoyoss knew. “Indeed, this is no more than an extension of the Fold. This expulsion of energies is a harbinger of its coming.”

And yet, he thought, this calamitous storm was brought upon only by the very thought of its arrival. The workings had yet to turn. He had encountered Folds before, and though it was a dizzying affair to recall the moments, he had done so repeatedly. He was the Cynosure, of course. The price paid was negligible when it came to understanding the Fold. And so, with this understanding, however vague, he could feel it: nothing had started… yet.

But he wasn’t satisfied with remembering past reembraces. The visions of his mind had grown foggy. Overgrown with doubts. Gaps were filled in with sprouts of half-guesses. Uncertainties, though some certainly certain to be misapprehensions derived from a cautious conscious, multiplied.

‘Had it truly not started?’, Svoyoss thought.

Visions of a familiar sight came to him, as he found himself pulled back to another blackened sky. A horizon obscured by shadow. Clouds churning as they formed into veritable mountains. Rumbling o’er the world…

And still, he was not quite sure.

It gave Svoyoss a severe, pounding headache to think about it, but he did so anyway; with this storm assailing his senses and despoiling all concentration, he bit his tongue and recalled. He was the Anamnestic Lord. He would not fail. And so, his brain throbbed; by this Cynosure’s will, it vied against reason. Svoyoss would force the remembrance, even if his trembling mind could not take it. He would rather break, than back down from this charge. 

With a mouth full of blood, his heart stopped; and as his vision lapsed, consumed by the movements of his brain, his shadows died.

And, finally, he remembered.

Under the similar storm, through untold Folds… it started. Yet it was a start that announced itself to all. There was no mistaking the Fold. It consumed all. It was all. And it involved all gods. As they thought of its coming, before the motions had started to spin, the world recoiled. And Aveyas started to grin.

“The relic and I share the same conclusion,” Svoyoss said, lowering his arms. “There is time. Scant, and waning, yet time nonetheless.” He bent down and picked up a spent shadow. Feeling its faded form in his grip, he said, “Sol onset sectol.” Then, with the words well and truly lost to the clamor of the downpour, he ate. Shadow after shadow, he stuffed them into his helm. The inky residue of that which should remain intangible oozed from his face, staining his garb.

This was reminiscent to the Cynosure.

And the ensuing sorrow?

That too.

Basking in this sorrow, Svoyoss grabbed the last shadow and said, “Sol onset, as some may say. Nurren wyll enn, and so I pray…” Shoving the limp, sickly shadow into his helm, he remembered it. Whilst he chewed it into pieces, as he tasted its phantasmal blood, all memories relating to it were revealed. History: dissolved; yet not absolved. This wasn’t enough, since it did not end with this act. As sure as Svoyoss was the Cynosure. As certain as the Fold’s coming. Just as the raindrops, hurtling down, were sure to fall further! It continued, both ways, as it all came to be as all things were attuned to all threads. Yes, the distinction was his own failing, and Svoyoss would not let it go unnoticed.

He had thought on this singular shadow, yes. 

And its lost brothers? Indeed.

Yet, the memories of all the others?

Svoyoss could not repress.

And so, he thought on thoughts that weren’t pleasant. The more distressing, the better: the hurt urged him on; what had given him the deepest scars, whatever left his so-called ‘heart’ in more pieces, that which gave him the most despair… he relived it. Svoyoss dragged it out of his head, calling upon the relic about his face to assist in pulling out that which he did dread. The relic obeyed. And not a single suffering was mislaid. 

Svoyoss did not collapse.

He did not die.

Despite the self-inflicted torture, he would endure; and though relief was a thought away, he would not let it end so easily. ‘For I am the Anamnestic Lord,’ he thought, reminding himself without need. It was more than a title. The meaning surpassed words. ‘If I cannot endure it, if I falter in this, then all will be for naught,’ were the things that were thought. And so, he pressed on, recalling every last detail, expanding upon miseries, and taking in all sensory information related to that which hurt. The intricacies of past failures, the depths of every mistake. Moments were stretched out. Pulled and contorted. Within that hemorrhaging mind, by nurturing oh-so-much despair, this Cynosure created his own threads. And as they met this reality, they burned.

Bright and blue. 

Azure, and true.

As the ghostly magics wept from the Cynosure, it illuminated the stillness about himself: a patch of perished possibilities. Here, all rivers met their end. The waters were undone, and their sediments piled up, raising a barrier around the Cynosure. Watching the stillness spread, he said, “So too must I still the weakness within.” He looked past the storm, towards the North.

With all the potency of a true curse, it beckoned him.

And it threatened his end, dare he proceed as he was.

“Aveyas,” Svoyoss muttered, “does this not make you smile?”

The wind howled, and the lishen huddled together even tighter than before. But there was no response from the god. Still, Svoyoss listened. Intently. Without fear of the calamitous storm nor the accompanying gales to come. Between the gusting winds, past the skyward debris and falling trees…

“Cynosure,” a voice called out. Screaming, from somewhere. But their voice was too small, whilst the storm’s fury was too great. Even the Cynosure had trouble making it out, as the lishen, unseen and unsightly, were louder still than even this tangible thing: the maker of such a weak voice. “Cynosure,” it called out once more, but Svoyoss only heard a vague screaming.

And the roaring rains.

Svoyoss turned towards the voice, and saw Eiss struggling towards him. Stuck in the mud, and barraged by rain, it was exceedingly difficult to make out that small frame. Though without any grace, Eiss was making progress. The slightest form of it, perhaps. A sort that was mired in as many setbacks as one could possibly have when chest-deep in muck. The child was nearly submerged, and the winds did no favors in that regard.

And yet, Svoyoss thought, that cursed blood would not allow even this child to be swept up in this storm. Eiss was struggling. Surviving. Forging through the unforgiving swells, expending every last effort to persist… 

Though there was no need to.

Svoyoss stepped forward, expelled further azures from his helm, and began walking towards Eiss. But his eye was fixated solely skyward. In tandem with his parasite, he gazed upon the firmament and shouted out,

 

“Aveyas, the transcendental dreamer!

Aveyas, the indominable spirit!

Do you hear our meager prayers?

Are you listening to our woeful cries?

Have we not erred for being?

Then balance us, and cure us of our lopsided idiocy!

Impart our souls with your blossoming smile!

Make our skulls replete with teeth!

Nurren wyll enn, and so I pray!

To you, none can betray!

For we, with all our eyes, are blind!

For without a single eye adorning your unfolding form, you see all that there is!

And all that shall be!

Bless us with your blood! 

Allow all to coalesce, to become a burgeoning flood!

Ah, Aveyas! The Gate has yet to open, heince flan uryulle entol!

Somet nac en, sol onset sectol!”

 

Svoyoss’ voice too, was swallowed up in the raging storm, but not before making all lishen shudder. Aveyas’ name had been uttered with such conviction as to shake the very foundations of their being. Those words had been uttered with the exact recollections of their inception. The remembrance was not lost on this Anamnestic Lord. As the understanding spread from the lishen’s stilled voices, the storm, momentarily, sputtered. 

Unseen forces stirred, as unheard voices whirred.

Something had taken notice. And the Cynosure could feel the weight of that interest pressing down upon his back as he continued walking. A relic within his cloak popped, then was gone. Sparks flew from his armor. And the bones upon his arms, the diminishing relic, wavered. And yet, Svoyoss did not slow. On the contrary, this notice only steeled him further. The suffocating interest drove him to reveal all pains; and so, the threads of a Cynosure ceaselessly flowed. Streaks of blues burned across the airs as he brought himself closer to Eiss.

He would show this unseen observer the extent of his sacrifices, he thought, stopping before Eiss. The mud and muck that had been up to their chest was, now, frozen up to their chest. This close, the Cynosure could hear Eiss speak; that is, if they had the breath to speak at all. Their eyes struggled to stay open. Though they tried, they could not lift a finger, and all they uttered were voiceless words.

This uncaring relic reduced the falling magics and all else in its path, and it would not stop for a child. It reduced all equally. And the only reason the child persisted as long as they did, was on account of their blood.

“Another of my failings,” Svoyoss said, watching the color leave their face. “I am sorry, Eiss. This should not have come to pass. You should have been left to die, as Aveyas had ordained.”

Tears leaked from Eiss’ eyes as Svoyoss stared back, unflinching. But these tears were not meant to fall, and they were undone by the relic before they had a chance to run down that scarred face. But Svoyoss, in Eiss’ stead, wept; all the while, and with threads all his own. It flowed all the more, as he added this moment to all recollections. No pain would be overlooked, no failing left astray. Svoyoss himself had tended to those wounds, this life which was ceasing in front of him, he had nurtured it. And now, with his own eye, Svoyoss watched as it was undone.

And Eiss’ eyes, which stared back at him through pale, fluttering eyelids, were bleak windows to the Cynosure. Through these eyes, he recalled all deaths.

‘Each death, marked,’ Svoyoss thought to himself. 

But these recollections and remembrances were of no concern to the lishen. Though they had been disturbed, they soon found their voices. As they sensed the renewed vigor of the storm, they added their own voices. Softly, at first. Like the rustling of leaves, they spoke with the winds. But as the storm redoubled itself, the lishen too, raised their voices. The airs vibrated with their bellowing. Their throats shook the sky, and as they brought their voices together, nearly screaming, the Cynosure was forced to his knees.

They could sense it, could nearly taste the coming feast. Splitting and searing, and garishly gleaming, the lightning was nearly here. And the storm, in tandem with their timbre, rose, farther and further, attuning to their cries.

Sparks flew.

Over the chorus of lishen and wailing winds, Svoyoss continued, saying “I erred, in seeing her in that squirming lump of diseased flesh. And for that, you paid. Bearing that burden for so long, finding strength enough to harbor this blood and maintain… It must have been so painful. I understand if you hate me,” Svoyoss said, yet knowing all the while that it was the contrary. Reaching out with relic and shadow, the life which departed the flesh before him had not changed its mind. Despite it all, and perhaps foolishly: it loved him. Always, even as that malformed lump of failures.

Always.

Svoyoss cradled Eiss in his arms, but all he held was a corpse. They were gone. Finally, the relic had reduced their being till there was nothing left to take. Eiss was well and truly dead. Yet, there were scant remainders of what one might call ‘life’. With his shadows, this Cynosure could feel the faint traces of warmth travelling through this corpse. Spurred on by that barely beating heart, heat spread still, as that accursed blood refused to be acquainted with death.

Of course, Svoyoss thought, it would not be undone so easily. My mistakes cannot be wished away, he repeated to himself, readying his shards. By my will, by my hands… it must be done. He knew, of course, what must be done to undo this curse. The motions had played out within his mind a hundred times over.

And the shards quivered in anticipation.

Holding the corpse tighter, he whispered, “somet nac.” And the shards obeyed. There was a flash of light, and Eiss exploded in the Cynosure’s grip. And in the end, dripping with Eiss, he was left holding only himself.

The unseen observer, observing such efflorescent griefs, smiled.

And the storm split in half.

 

* * *

 

Suspended upon, (and within), the frozen airs, Sen sat. His every breath was crystalline and forced, cracking and fracturing the surrounding air as it penetrated the stillness which gripped the entirety of the Extricating Church. He inhaled jutting shards of air, pushed them down into his towering gullet, and melted them down with a smile. His continued exhales created a cascade of proliferating glinting, as the icy fragments jostled against one another. In waves, they crashed into the walls of the Church, sending everything churning as the ensuing echoes spread throughout the halls.

But not for long. For this cold would overcome even Sen’s strenuous breaths, putting an end to all movements without fail. Even as the fractured fragments of frozen time threatened to crest, and then crash, the motions were cut short. Inertia was made inept, as this stinging cold continuously crept.

So cold, it was, that even the light of the stars could not pass through the shattered windows of the Church. Wherever it met the exuding tendrils of this cold, it was entrapped. As the days passed by, ray by ray, the light accumulated. It thickened, and its resplendence dulled. And the Church was marked with an ethereal silt. The queer, softly glowing residue was oh-so-slowly worked into the innards of the Church by Sen’s breathing, and he now sat, surrounded, by several globules of the star-stuff. And as they came close, he set fire to them with the light of Glen.

Green and ghostly, that relic was not slowed by the cold. For its light was a perverse sort. And as the cold increased, as the stillness mounted, the relic only grew in potency. Till the Extricating Church was filled equally with this cold and the light of Glen alike. Between the stagnations and aberrations, the rank stench of ruin was made whole— As each respective wrongness attempted to smother the other, choking any semblance of ordinariness from the surrounding spaces.

And within the Extricating Church, no manner of life should have persisted. Even Sen, with all of his cunning, should have been reduced to no more than another object relieved of all potential. But Sen was not alone in this struggle; the Reticent Bell had spoken, and a spiraling spell of protection had been placed. A hex retraced. Sen was ensconced by twisting talk, and the words, wreathed with worth, were woven henceforth. Beyond that, the light of Glen had been spread about, and its vigil was an eyeless, restless sort.

So, the stillness could not take him, for now.

Sen considered this, and more, as he sat suspended; how many more days could he afford to wait? The processes required to be started, had been, and yet there were more unknowns to be dealt with. Not everything can be accounted for, and not even the combined thinking of both Svoyoss and himself could anticipate all the possible outcomes related to this process.

Of course, Sen thought, this was a simple reaffirmation of what he clearly understood. Already, by focusing on breathing, (though he had outgrown the need to exchange gases entirely), he was able to attain more catalysts for the light of Glen. Further than that, his concentrations had extended beyond this mere chamber, and he could quite easily feel the entirety of the building; although, it was a fuzzy feeling. His physical structure was not attuned to process such vast quantities of miniscule, intermittent, changes in the arrangement of fragmented pieces of air and all else. If it had been attuned in such a way, then surely, he thought, he could control many things in this space by breathing alone.

But, regrettably, it was not so. Sen’s form was not that impressive. Though he possessed enough wits to work around this particular shortcoming. By repurposing the fleshy creation which had been sitting around his neck, he could transcribe the raw information of motions unseen into something which was easier on his eyes. It required several attempts, the crest of a Vevviesell, (which he had already processed and placed into his cloak), and perhaps one too many vials of that accursed blood, but Sen made it so. The flesh was willed, and, shaking, it took shape.

But one was simply not enough.

And so, Sen donned more and more fleshy attendants. From the cloak, he pulled them as needed; and with a need this great, Sen had to reach deep. Each required his personal attention to understand the intricacies of working as one. But, eventually, Sen was enveloped in their embrace. Tendrils of flesh jutted from every inch of his body. 

Pulsating and pulling.

With this, he could begin to interact with additional, non-critical relics, despite the bothersome circumstances. Sen could now, without worry of retaliation, feel the surface of the Necromantic Mirror. Equally tantalizing was the prospect of releasing the Bewitching Eidolon from its seal to observe how it would react to this ruined space. Of course, though it was what he wished to do, his wishes often flew in the face of what was necessary. 

As Svoyoss had said, all that was required was this relic. All Sen had to do was break that seal, and release what had been locked away with great pains and tremendous efforts: that which had been pulled from beyond a Fold.

And Sen had done so.

This baneful mass, the perverse stillness which threatened to cease all the motions of his mind and all thoughts therewithin… it was proof enough that the seal had been undone. That seal, shattered and scrapped benight a bed of curses, soon dissolved as a terrible expulsion washed o’er everything. From that relic, it came. And it strengthened its stillness, garnered additional grips upon the motions which had been, nigh forever stilled.

Yet the waves of wrongness, however potent, were unable to penetrate the warm words of the Reticent Bell; for what it had spoken was full of warmth and truths unheard, yet felt all the same. Wrapped up in this spiraling spell, Sen went unmolested. And the Reticent Bell sang, praising its own words for their deeds, spinning spells upon spells, and turning its own work inside out to reveal further intricacies: the patterns nestled within patterns; a fractal charm.

It rang throughout the Church, and the volatile relic shuddered in turn.

Sen, holding the Reticent Bell with the utmost care, watched the writhing below. Where there once was a floor, there was now only a cursed body: that Writhing Morass. It was terrible. Even with his sights set solely on the threads themselves, he could not see past the depths of its horrors. It would not stop moving. It was a living, breathing, curse. And its breaths were the exuding cold, that distinct lack of warmth. And as it spread, as it took root here in the Extricating Church, it brought the Abyss closer to emerging.

This cursed relic beckoned additional curses.

Wrongness begot wrongness.

Rot, unto rot.

Sen, considering what property was most to blame for its repulsiveness, peered deeper into its form. Somewhere in there, through the twisting, revolting reasons, was the quality which granted it cursehood. Where was this curse’s heart? What made this relic a relic? 

Why does it exist?

Sen attuned his servants to reallocate all attentions towards the Writhing Morass. Certainly, though there were other things to delve into, even he could put aside his curiosities to allow for a greater understanding into this vital abnormality. There were more potent relics residing within the confines of the Extricating Church, but even the Shard of Extrication could not beckon the Abyss.

And an absolute dread assaulted his mind, no matter his actions.

No matter his thoughts.

And Sen, focusing in on this writhing fear with flesh and acuity alike, came to the sudden realization that, all too likely, the Writhing Morass, much like its own aftereffects of being, was just another layer to this relic. Surely, this massive relic of coiling curses was menacing and mesmerizing all the same, yet there was assuredly a—

The world shook.

“As he predicted,” Sen said, “the storm has gone critical. Although, he was off by quite a few days. That, and…”

Sen considered an additional presence. As it made contact with the Writhing Morass, it was unable to quell its fear response. Its defenses dropped; the veil was lifted. And even Sen’s eyes, beleaguered as they were, could notice that change rippling through the stillness. 

Unmistakably, there was another guest in the Extricating Church.

One which was distinctly uninvited.

“Certainly, this was beyond his assumptions and worse cases,” Sen said, shoving an arm down into his gullet. The words whistled forth, despite the blockage, as he said, “but I comprehend the unrelenting pull of relics. Svoyoss, what did you think would happen when you pooled together so many wonderful trinkets and left your Church unoccupied? Did you think that the beckoning of the Abyss would undo them?” Sen laughed, and pulled a book from his mouth. “You’re forgetting yourself, Cynosure…”

 

 

3

 

It pinned the screaming, struggling Beholder to the ground, and beset its fanged face upon armor and flesh alike. The Beholder clawed at the dirt, kicked at the beast, but only succeeded at adding some flair to this one-sided feast. Bones snapped, their skull popped, and the screaming suddenly stopped. Yet the crunching consumption was not at its end. Though the torso had been minced and swallowed, dismembered limbs and eviscerated droppings of tender innards had spilled across the ground. And so, the beast lowered its body, using its fanged neck to sweep everything up into its maw.

Its neck was its mouth: split and sore by its innate hunger. And it twisted and wormed its head atop this warped, towering neck, allowing no mere morsel to be wasted. It raked its teeth through the dirt, marked the mud, and, realizing that the entirety of its prey was now filling its stomach, brought itself to its former height.

A towering horror, it stood upon grotesque legs of bone; there was no sinew to hold up its bizarrely jointed legs, and yet, here it stood: supported by hunger alone. Bone joined with bone, stretching and strengthening where needed. And as it digested the Beholder, reducing all of that struggling flesh into nutrients, petals of bone sprouted from its belly. An existing projection of bone, fattened upon this meal, branched outward: towards the ground.

Wordlessly, it turned. There had been more food here, it thought. Yes, it knew, for it had seen the food, before it had been distracted. Yes, there had been much more food. Without eyes, it saw all of those meals that were, even now, running away.

But they were not running fast enough.

What once was bony armor propelled the beast forward as it willed it so. It changed, contorted, and became bone fit enough to launch the beast across the terrain with a thunderous crack. With this first stride, it landed atop a boulder, and, as the beast pushed off of it, yearning for greater speeds, the jutting stone was reduced to rubble. Its spine flattened, its armors turned inwards, and another leg erupted from its belly, joining the rhythm of its run.

It had not seen the food for an entire day, for that one had put up that much of a fight, but it did not matter. It felt their breaths. It tasted their fears, could hear their thoughts. Despite the distance, it would reach them now.

The impossibility of it was of no consequence. For this was a beast of the North, a child of the curse. And, like all the rest, it possessed within itself a hunger to match all of creation. And it would eat.

And so, it leapt.

Over the slower eaters.

Past all obstacles—

Straight to the feast.

 

* * *

 

It came crashing down in a blur, crushing several of our number beneath its weight. They didn’t even have time to scream, they didn’t even know it was coming, they didn’t even have time to realize that they were dead! Too fast, this thing was just far too fast! It had finished Nican off, and in such a short amount of time too…

And now it was here to continue its slaughter.

We had lagged too far behind the main force. The curse left us weak, and these beasts, this beast, knew it. Stuck in Drein, as they say. And we knew what came next. As it lapped up the crushed corpses of our comrades, there wasn’t anything left to say. The Cynosure hadn’t lied in the slightest. The North would be our undoing. Regardless of our numbers, in spite of all preparations, it was only a matter of time before it delivered us unto death.

Those of us still standing, well, we were dead already. We were losing our minds out here, losing feeling in our limbs, and collapsing and folding over as the North’s bite, this curse, ripped the life right out of us… We were finished. Even if Nican hadn’t been the last Beholder of our group, and we somehow slayed this beast… we wouldn’t last much longer.

The curse found our wills lacking.

But was there any greater death than this? To lay down your life for the Cynosure, to further his understanding of the Fold, to die so that others may live!

No, of course not.

I readied my spear, and, seeing that the others had prepared themselves, threw myself at the beast. I would deliver this weapon and myself straight into its maw!

“Onward, straight unto Unnce,” I screamed. “Sol onset!”

 

* * *

 

All who fought the beast were reduced to corpses. One after another, they had thrown themselves at it, hoping to wound it somewhere, somehow. With everything at their disposal, they vied: with spears, swords, stones, and even their fists; they exhausted every last ounce of strength left in their drained bodies.

They tried, and they failed. But not for a lack of trying; its flesh was bone; its vitals, abstract. It was born of the curse, molded by it, attuned to it. And, as anyone could have guessed—

This was a horror that no man could best.

But Svoyoss was not merely a man.

Before more of his disciples could find the strength to wield their weapons and join their brethren upon the fields of flesh, Svoyoss joined the fray. He rushed in, sprinting through the guts of the fallen. His armor was dulled, having been covered in dried blotches of blood and grime, yet the streaming trails of azure which poured forth from his helm were as bright as ever.

Though he was worn, his spirit was unbroken.

Still, he was too late to save them all. He knew it well. As always, Svoyoss was never quick enough. No matter how swiftly he moved, no matter how many steps ahead he was, there was always some failing.

Always more deaths.

All the same, he would reveal to them the splendor of his soul: the depths of his volition. Even if they were all destined to be undone by their own dithering wills, if perhaps they were ordained by Aveyas himself to be sundered, he would not abandon them. Because, though slight, there were vital glimmers within these spent disciples. In time, they could become his strength.

Mayhap, Svoyoss would mark their deaths as his own.

Splashing through pools of blood, Svoyoss made himself known, shouting, “Witness my will, and despair, accursed child of the North!”

His voice disturbed the beast’s eating, and it lifted itself off the ground, twisting its woeful neck to face the Cynosure. Its teeth jittered, and the petals of bone shook. And the mangled meal of meat, intertwined in its maw, was cast aside. Bone enmeshed with bone, and arms surged forth. But it did not move. It watched. It waited.

Within its brainless, brutish skull, was a feeling of wariness.

For Svoyoss repelled the curse. The beast could not feel him in the way that it did with the other morsels of food, and yet his very presence was searing. The beast was not reaching out to him, probing his very being through the implications of the curse itself. No… Svoyoss made himself known to all, imparting feelings which were as abstract to the beast as its organs were to any mere man. Svoyoss made its bones ache. To its baneful vision, his will was blindingly bright. 

He was close now. Too close.

The beast lashed out, gouging the world with its fury. It rose higher, offering up more and more of its legs and arms to smash and stab and reduce Svoyoss into something it could eat.

Anticipating such a base response, the shards within Svoyoss hummed. ‘This transgression’, they said, humming, ‘would not go unanswered.’ A gust of wind was realized as forces unseen were projected from the shards. And as the ensuing whirlwind tossed bodies like mere dolls, the beast’s offending limbs were ejected. With a single, concerted effort, the beast’s array of appendages was lessened. 

The shards hummed, content with the cacophony of oh-so-many raining limbs.

While the beast, now oh-so-many legs short, toppled over.

And Svoyoss was upon it.

It flailed at the Cynosure, putting what appendages it had left to use; arms unfolded from its bony plates, and legs burst forth from fresh wounds without pause. Still, none of it reached the Cynosure; each and every act of aggression the beast took was met with an overwhelming surge of force from the shards. Before it even completed its own thoughts, the shards anticipated its intentions. Unified, the Scintillating Myriad deflected the flurry of strikes. Again, and again, legs were blown clean off, and the stench of death was overtaken by the overwhelming odor of magic.

And yet, in regards to its life, this horror would not cede.

For it was brimming with hunger, and, simply, could not bleed.

It swung its swollen neck at the Cynosure, hoping to coil around his body and crush and carve and strangle him, to mince him into a pulp with the embrace of o’er a thousand teeth. And though the Cynosure was standing atop it, though he was physically close indeed… he was beyond its reach. The beast could not penetrate the Scintillating Myriad at the height of its strength, and it would fail doubly, lying here in the dirt.

Not that it wouldn’t try.

As its struggle continued, its body, splintering and shattering, was blown across the North. Its teeth were reduced to dust, and that which was yet too armored to be broken was instead embedded into the ground as the shards pelted it with ear-wracking blasts. Slowly, it was driven into the dirt: one forceful stroke at a time.

It crumpled, its bone wrought sinew crumbled, and the shards spoke of its end.

In these final moments, Svoyoss did append:

“You’re cursed,” Svoyoss said, bending down. With his hands about it, he threaded his fingers into the broken spaces in its face, saying, “Yes, you’re cursed. And so am I.” He tightened his grip, and the shards were willed to stay their wrath. Its face was fractured, and cracks spread, winding each way as Svoyoss leaned into the beast, squeezing all traces of resistance from it. It hissed as its insides were crushed. Flecks of its body leapt up, launching themselves away from the increasing pressures of the Cynosure’s grip. And as the creature’s face split in two, Svoyoss said, “Damnable beast, we’re brothers, you and I. But you can already feel that, can’t you?”

Svoyoss laughed.

And the creature wheezed… as an appendage burst from its damaged face. Barbs emerged along its length, and it hurtled straight at Svoyoss’ head. Obeying the Cynosure’s directive, though it would have been simple to stop it… the shards did nothing; and so, the limb impacted Svoyoss’ helm, striking him with all of the beast’s remaining strength.

There was a resounding blow, but Svoyoss was not moved.

There wasn’t even a mark. Not a single scratch.

And the terrible, horrible limb, with all its barbs and bone and base hatred, trembled.

“Is that all?” Svoyoss asked, taking a hand off the beast. He clenched his fist, and, raising it high, said, “Is that the extent of your will?”

He punched its face. Again.

And again.

“Strike me once more! Take up your arms! Reveal to me the depths of your hunger, show me how far this curse goes!” As bone was scattered, its barbed appendage went limp, clattering down the length of its body. “Have you realized, finally, the limits of your will? Is your existence so shallow? Can you not overcome me? Can you not bear the weight of a curse greater than your own?!”

The horror continued to move, broken as it was, but only to the rhythm of Svoyoss’ blows.

And when he noticed that particular smell, he stopped. It relinquished its life, and the unseen hunger within gushed from its corpse in thick, deep flows: invisible, though potent with portent. As Svoyoss stood, his shadows mopped up these unseen flows. Its strength would become his own. Though misguided, though lost in its hunger, there was worth in its blood…

Steeped in curses, the North’s true nature was obscured. Yet these aberrations were one piece of the puzzle. ‘Yes’, Svoyoss thought to himself, stepping down from the corpse, ‘these children of the curse are the reason that I now risk my everything.’

“No matter your forms, we are all brothers and sisters alike,” Svoyoss said, as the shadows returned to him with unseen aspects in tow. “I only regret that I hadn’t realized it sooner. Though that may have been as Aveyas saw fit. The heart of the North… what is it trying so desperately to hide?

“Well,” Svoyoss said, shrugging, “there’s no point in asking. It all comes back to the Fold, doesn’t it?”

All around, his disciples, intently listening in on him speaking his thoughts out loud, started to stand. Even those who weren’t long for this world, those who were about to die laying down in short order, stood. Leaning on their weapons, holding each other up, they paid respect to the Anamnestic Lord.

“Your all,” they said, “it shall remold.”

“The truth,” Svoyoss said, joining in, “it will withhold.”

“Fear the impending Fold.”

And shrieking horrors joined in too, adding their voices as an append to their adage. And the screams caused more and more of the terrors to take notice and add their own voices to this beckoning. The North was bursting with their screaming, teeming with howls.

A disgusting chorus, a cursed cacophony! 

There was eating to be had here, and something with enough life within itself to end one of their own was present. Something which was not of them. And it had stilled a great terror. It had killed, then consumed one which had eaten many itself. And so, they fought amongst themselves, tearing apart one another so that they could be the first to feast upon this succulent treat. They added to their own frenzy, spilling and pooling more of their unseen hunger from their accursed bellies as they ripped and tore.

Rushing forth to turn the Cynosure into gore.

“Ah, Aveyas,” Svoyoss said, looking skyward, “It’s an honor to be balanced once more. Ingrain within us all our due griefs, and, in respect to our being, amend.” Svoyoss placed his hands upon his pendant, saying, “Yes, reveal your smile, and dream of my end…”