Terrianis’s bust swell and compressed slow and steady. The last vestiges of the creeping chill surging across his ridged spine, poking needless into his stomach vanished. Serenity returned upon his mind, slow and steady. He drawn in one last mouthful of the lukewarm air lingering within the throne room, and exhaled it at once. He raised his arms gripping his thigh like a sailor grips the mast in the eye of the storm, hoping the winds won’t take him to the chaotic sea. He turned his palms up, colorful sparks flittered out from the soft pads, exploded into dust of a calming, thick scent.
Strangely, trailing the veins beneath his padded palm, brought an eerie sense of calm upon Terrianis’s soul and body. All the fears that forced him to the horrid experience of terror faded, and once more he shut his eyes, hoping to peer the streets from above like their primordial forefathers, soar between the edifices, and bring down his calm wrath upon the rebels colluding with Night itself.
For a moment, he felt the weightlessness of flight, his mind departing, free from the weight of flesh and bone as it soared above the city draped by darkness and chaos. He dove to the streets of the upper districts, where peace still somewhat existed. A few of the nobles lingered on the streets, in the company of well-kitted legionaries, custodians. Still, fear reigned over their hearts, reflected in their eyes, the way they carried themselves with a false sense of quietude.
Their behavior vexed him greatly, so he showered his own crafted peace, and continued, diving betwixt the bridges witnessing false peace on each level passing by. Here and there, he noticed robed folk trailing the custodians patrolling the streets in tight throngs. Daggers, swords and maces glinted under the cascading folds, fastened onto belts. Weapons their hands neared towards as their own numbers grew in the shadows of alleys, of narrowing streets where the poorest lived.
The custodians sensed the danger surrounding them, their assigned magus in their midst began funneling his mana. Though no spell came as they reached the end in peace, as the gathering rebels, those tainted by Night fell dead in the shadows. At once they all froze, incapable of moving their arms, then their bodies twisted and swirled, flesh and bone tore itself apart, until naught remain of them. A peaceful and painless death they thought, decreed as they knew of their blindness was born of the darkest veil, cast over their eyes because they were weak. Unworthy to be their citizens in an empire that was promised to last an eternity. That was the deal. A deal made in realms bygone. But by whom, Terrianis pondered.
The more his mind lingered on this abrupt thought, he heard a droning or a humming. A distant sound, irresistible as he flew into the valley, and dove towards the river. Halfway down, the brilliant city crumbled, from the white marbles, swirling, inky darkness tore into reality. Chunks of the edifices, the plateaus, the bridges flew to crush him, before they themselves broken and joined the nothingness. Then one naught remained, a storm raged and pulled him into itself, hurling him across the astral gulfs, into the raging streams of time, until he found himself rolling upon soil.
Though the jutting stone, the dust and blood laden blades resting upon the ground brought no harm upon his naked form. He was still free from the weight of flesh and bone. But instead of being in the brilliant city raised by his father, Primuinis, he found himself in a quarry where old machines hummed and droned in deep tones. The same sound which beckoned him to the bottommost point of Luth-Astaril. Terrianis laid there half risen, eyes fixated on the old machines he heard myriad tales, each one contradicting the other.
Augermil told about old stone golems, of tubular or cubicle silhouettes, hidden beneath the earth, from the eyes to maintain the pride of architects. Each one serving a different purpose. Some functioned like the sewage systems of Luth-Astaril, cleansing and repurposing waste water; others turned the cold air warm during harsh winters, unpleasantly warm air to soothing cold during the harshest summer days. Or filled homesteads with a scent evoked from the sweetest memories of the occupants.
Their father told of the machines that now manifested before his own eyes. Machines made of steel sculpted into myriad streamlined forms, quite similar in function to scrolls. Thin panels carven with swirling patterns, which at a further glance were of shifting inscriptions. In this case, spells relating to levitation and off a constant maintenance forcing the spell into an eternal loop. And others even he could not decipher. After all, they lost not just their old holdings, but concepts and knowledge withered with their old realms.
Still, he felt pride at how his own children succeeded in recreating effects similar to these old machines. Though the art of imprinting these controlled, ceaseless loops they could not yet create, golems proved as sufficient in mass production, whilst more menial works grew easier once the lesser kindred received enchanted accessories to mend their sore muscles, and some were even allowed to learn elementary spells. A system with its own faults as he recognized looking at the other forms of these strange machineries. Spheres embedded into structures, carts moving by themselves, hauling nothing but air at first.
Terrianis’s primal urge of draconic domination stirred, the sight of gnarled corpses freighted away aroused him. Then his gaze moved onto the silhouettes birthed into the vision, first lacking any distinct feature. First amongst the features were strangely the clothes. Coats of fine cloth, bearing a dark shade, with high collars of dramatical in size and reach, as they folded down, resembling dragon wings. Intricate frogging lined the trims, the pureblooded avian dragons of Dawn and Order rested upon boards sewn or welted upon their austere shoulders. Along the long sleeves, tiered plates snaked along, spells of flame and ice bounced off their enameled surface of a great, glassy patina.
Taut breeches hugged their legs, whilst the tail of their coats flung back and forth, against their legs. Fine leathery boots reached up to their knees, dirt and blood sprayed and dribbled down, back to the soil tainted by death. Hoods quite voluminous rose over some of their heads, their faces hidden behind masks of gold, sculpted into the stoic visage of the Dawnfather for men, the Magnificent Weaver, Bestower of Maghia for women. Some flung spell from the draconic heads of staffs, others held long and sturdy tubes framed by wood, from their hollowed out ends, pure sorcerous spheres and bolts discharged towards the enemy that formed under the gaping maw of the quarry.
There, the well panoplied praetors and custodians clashed with whom he could conclude as crazed cultists of some Outer Intelligence. Their garments evoked nostalgia, from the long days he spent marching under the sweltering Illius in the south.
Garbs dark, so much so the fabrics swallowed voraciously the waning light falling upon them. Clothing quite similar to what the obsessed children of the Black Pharaoh worn, wear to this day as they haunt his southern provinces. Shoulders stiff and curving up like the old crescent moons, fronts lapping diagonally upon closure, frustratingly uneven hem dangling, resembling the ends of a tattered robe more than a well-tailored one. And voluminous hoods of several, neatly overlapping layers, casting heavy shadows over the masked faces.
Though unlike the Black Pharaoh’s children, these masks bore an embossed headless and tailless serpent spiraling into the center. From the mask covering majority of their heads, veils draped out from under, embroidered with sinister symbols that he influenced him too, as it did the people of the past who fought them. Furtive cold hands or feelers slinked along his arms, his legs and his ridged spine, spreading a debilitating wave which kept him standing in the same spot, whilst the warriors struggled executing their ingrained moves.
Several of them fell, with arms stopped mid motion, quivering in place, whilst under their closed helmets, they shrieked their last.
“Brother! Behind!” A voice pleasant to his hears sounded from his right, though the owner stood far ahead of him.
Though near the one on his eyes stopped on. It took him only a little to recognize him from the patterns in which his grown on the face chiseled by the Magnificent Weaver to perfection. Scales that contrary to what he expected to be prismatic, instead they bore the indigo shade of blue. Yet they grew where the tales of his father mentioned them, where the sculptors depicted them on their masterworks. On the edges of his long, tapering ears, creeping into the crater of his sockets, towards the angular, almond-framed eyes of the same indigo, on all his dragonesque fingers they lengthened in intersecting plates. Most prominently though, on his forehead where they formed the vertically standing and elliptical frame of a third eye.
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Despite the color of his scales, Terrianis had no doubt it was Anessarion, the First Elhyrissiar, Uniter of the Dawn’s Kindred. Anessarion turned at the words of his sister, smiled roguishly whilst a spell of flame and smoke approached him with a dangerous velocity. He caught it with one hand, turned the flame the loftiest golden one could imagine, the smoke white as snow and voluminous, as he threw it back against the cultist.
A blinding radiance forced his eyes shut, the heat he could feel upon his whole body. When he opened his eyes, the scenery changed. Anessarion stood exultant over the over the charred remains, their smell foul and pleasant at the same time. “Could have left a few alive.” Steps made him turn. For a moment, Oyotarimel’s name formed on Terrianis’s lips, but quickly realized it was the elder sister of Anessarion, seeing the flowery formation of pinkish and red scales about her sunken eyes. Her hair though, bore the same rich shade of red, bound into a high striding tail, tumbling down sleek and smooth.
Though she meant to chide, the mirthful curl of her lips told otherwise. Her slit nostrils flared at the odor of burned flesh and cloth, she gazed with contempt.
“Doubt they would have spoken. And I acted as father would have.” Anessarion answered. Mercy upon the zealous followers of night was wasted, that much even Terrianis understood. They themselves often chose death over parting with their knowledge. And as any sorcerer worth their salt, they knew too the remaining chunks of anime held the secrets of the departed who shall need them no more.
Though Anessarion had utter conviction, no memory shall be extracted from these. His strange power ensured; naught a speck would remain. Not once, he disappointed him since their first meeting centuries ago.
He turned, for a moment Terrianis quivered, felt the focus of past upon himself, yet Anessarion addressed not him, but the one as beautiful as valiant in stance and manner as Oyotarimel and Umbrenial were in his impeccable memories. “Remain here. I’ll make sure the shafts are clear.”
“I shall come with you brother.” She moved, but he held up his palm in refusal.
“It is my duty, as the first son.” She looked conflicted at the words, though the way her brows furrowed told not of familial worry, distrust drawn together her lush, arched brows. Which ached his heart, but with time, she shall understand. For eternity, the death of their people, the warriors who shed their blood to reclaim the quarry of their sprawling demesne was but a small sacrifice.
She will never understand. She shall perish, the day he ascends upon the cadaverous cradle of an Empire built to last until the final dawn. Terrianis turned, looked about himself feeling a breath lacking in temperature caressing his ears.
By just a mere glance, a terror of the deepest marrow anchored Terrianis in place. Until in the glint of a faux sun, he seen the threads tearing into his flesh. He groaned and whimpered, but could not resist following after the phantasmal image of his grandfather, walking in a steady, calm pace down the lane of metal and wood. Above, beams soared across the blackness hiding the earthly roof, with chains and filigreed frames holding egg-shaped glass, beaming a bright whiteness. A whiteness washing over their faces, yet feeble against the surrounding darkness.
Long they walked without rest, on a path where he could merely sense the winding, the rising angles of the road, and noticed only too late, the tracks of the cart came to an end. They now threaded on soil, feeling like the rubbery stomach of the worm that once devoured him alongside his cohort in the emerald desert of the south. Silence accompanied them, him. Not even the sound of their steps echoed, or the falling of pale forms.
People. Kindred. Elevated-Kindred of all kinds fell from the impenetrable walls of murkiness, their eyes withered, carven out by the talons of a greater decay, their skin drained of warmth and tones, unified in a bizarre, unnerving colorlessness. And their mouth lipless, teeth grown together with slim crevasses between each columns emanating the languid humming, the sepulchral chiming and fluting, the raucous droning. And the strangest of them all. Rhythmic pair of beating notes, slow and weak, yet at the same time, powerful, sending shockwaves, stirring the scaled soil beneath his feet.
It still lacked the necessary component…the key… the droplet of water that shall blossom it into a proper segment in the great hymn of aeons.
Terrianis continued, fearful as a child lost in the dark wilds. With each step forward, his heart beaten stronger, he felt the force of each strike send ripples across his ribcage, felt the sweat pour forth his pores, combat the blazing heat of his body. The ground under his soles, the path of grays and browns mingled into one shifted. Blackened with each step, cracks and fissures opened, emanating a color he seen only a few times, in the visions, in the nightmares meant to break his mind. A color of primordial dread.
His legs still moved by the will of another, in his desperation, Terrianis shut his eyes, whispered old ritual verses to call upon the Fateweaver, Monarch of Dreams and Visions. He mumbled into deaf ears, so after the hundredth repeat, called for older beings.
First to the Titan guarding the gates of Oneiron, to land of dreams and visions, to open the gates, stir the flood hauling him back to reality. Naught came of these prayers to the Higher Being.
Then in a dismal choice, shifted into a raucous prayer to the Fae of Oneiron, those who alter dreams in queer ways. A hundred different tones, childish and bizarre he emitted from his lips, but none reached the ear of the impish servitors.
So, he called upon the true master of Oneiron, the Augur of Dreams, the great Elder of Dreams, the first who began weaving the tapestry of fates. But this proved a futile endeavour too, and made him question if he was in a dream, a vision. What if all this was reality, what if all was already lost? What all things now lived in the tenebrous kingdom of the Shadow.
There are no such things. I reign over Nothing. Terrianis recoiled, fingers snaked on his face, towards his shut lids they pried open. It was Anessarion’s, once again his scales shimmered prismatic.
Yet what he was once before the Contract, before the Promise for Eternity, stood ahead of him, near the precipice of the end of the road. Terrianis’s legs moved, then as he stopped on his right, the threads dislodged and swiveled up into the tenebrous firmament.
Thither they stood, bewitched by the truths that shall never be. His boiling anger melted the icy hands of terror, and once freed, Terrianis swept away the vision. Or at least wanted to. The colorless bodies stirred. He could not call it movement in good taste. All happened in a chaotic tandem. Their bodies folded up and down, into themselves and out, until they shifted into a standing position, until they marched without steps, until they dove towards what he felt to be the east in nothingness.
There they landed upon the cadaver of Luth-Astaril, arcuated above and below, on the east and west of nothingness. There their strange, queer movements continued, alongside their distinctions further dissolving, until the thousand colorless forms, became blackened, featureless silhouettes in the pale streets, lanes, atop the myriad structures. He followed with his eyes, until they stopped around the cradle, the cadaver of the great cathedral, where the strange cacophony bled his ears now.
“What do you want from me?” He shrieked. Silence came.
The shadowy silhouettes laid down upon the stones, their blackness, sprawled and encompassed every segment, every corner of Luth-Astaril. The corpse of the once mighty city began its motion, its circling and folding, its breaking apart into cancerous chunks, flung across the gravid heavens swelling until ready to burst open, release a deluge of nightmares and frightful and glittering wounds gazing with a strange blend of mockery and hollow empathy, as if they knew of his dead dreams. Dreams of halcyon days, dreams simple that even a farm boy could hold whilst lazing in the shade of a canopy.
All snuffed out as he cast his own shadow over Primuinis, laying there prone before his feet. A wicked grin frozen eternal upon his robust countenance. He laid there, his whole cadaver swelling soundless, flesh undulating as they poked and touched, before reaching towards him frozen in horror. The skin torn like velvet, a strange and bright color broke forth in the same time his head lurched up towards the brewing vortex. Their arms bore into him, but he cared not for them, as they burrowed deep into his being.
These…. came forth, grappled onto the air with their… he knelt in their growing shadow, a feverish howl bellowed from his agape mouth stretched as far as it naturally could as the primeval horror flooded his being.
Terrianis plunged from his throne, sprawled onto the platform, the cold marble bringing soothe upon his body assailed by new and startling sensations. He folded his arms and clawed at his skin until blood streamed the alabaster marble. He laid there blemishing his own form for hours, too afraid to move, believing in his delirious state, playing dead could fool it…
He watched still from above, from below, from nowhere and everywhere. It whispered and sniggered endless and hollow.
He laid there for days, joyous at the rising hunger sapping his strength, ensuring his stay upon the marble now warmed by his body and drying blood. He looked at the water, attempted funneling his power into it, to peer at the city, but halted the effort, laughed in triumph. Nigh he came close towards its trap. He knew, there was no pond. It was him surrounding the platform, bidding its time until Terrianis either could no longer resist thirst, or the urge to peer at their city. The former he quenched with his own blood about him in the months to come.
One more month passed, then another, and another before he learned to live with this terror infecting his flesh with an unceasing tremulousness, rattling his bones without end. Deep in his soul, Terrianis grew desiderate of a fate more definite than death.
And another one. A longer and expanded nightmare and memory ride for Terrianis.
One involving Anessarion this time around and the realms that were before the Sibling's War. Mostly just some early explorations, proper ones will come in short story form. Maybe even as a separate fiction of sorts as the title is a bit restrictive and not sure how cohesive I want it to be.
Besides that, it also helped me grasp better the technological level of the world. No machines, tubes and metallic wheels in Elhyrissian [yet], but they do managed recreating some of these [like the sewers in Luth-Astaril and Phyrgos, tailors recreated the arts of transmutation, alteration of textiles, fabrics to achieve varying effects, same to some extent with the blacksmiths and armor, but there are more too]. But the part with Anessarion also shown some ideas I had regarding certain weapons. But more on that another, later day.
I'll end the rambling here, as there is still quite a few chapters left. And next week, I hold a break on uploads like before. So, thank you all for reading this, hope you enjoyed this week's chunky chapters. Hope you all enjoyed both, and till the 12th of February, take care and have a pleasant evening or day, and weekend!
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