"Another side, another story."

Part 1: Seventh of Rise. Temple of the Beginning.

A storm had come.

Torrential waves of thought-rain lashed at the gray-green temple walls, carried up and over the treeline by the howling wind. Flames in mounted braziers hissed as the strands of liquid slid right through them, like phantasms through solid earth.

As the thought-storm raged outside, Velyr set his glass down on the stone table with a clink. The light shed from a nearby hearth illuminated only the Jaghut’s tusked mouth, the upper elements of his face cloaked in dancing shadows. Nearer to the fireplace, his host held her immaculately groomed hand under a dripping receptacle, strands of thought-water hissing as they sunk into her skin.

“Maros is hungry tonight,” Sashthaha remarked, her striking green eyes staring at Velyr. “Will you not feed him?” Her fingernails tapped impatiently on the collecting receptacle as if expecting an answer.

Velyr gave no verbal response, simply tilting his head to the side slightly. The low lighting made it hard to tell, but an outside observer might reckon that he was purposefully ignoring her.

“I am speaking to you, cryomancer,” Sashthaha said, her nails scraping against the goblet with palpable irritation. “Has nothing I have taught you this past month sunk in?”

Velyr merely chuckled before turning his attention back to his nearly empty glass. The light green liquid inside bubbled slightly in the firelight, casting strange miniature shadows on the table. Sashthaha hissed angrily, her nails clawing at the golden-brown skin of her palms.

“If you do not answer me at once, I swear I will throw you out into the thought-storm and see you torn limb from limb by the winds.” At this, Velyr finally turned his eyes up at Sashthaha, his tusked mouth displaying a small smile. He slowly stood up.

“Don’t be so impatient, my dear,” the jaghut rasped. To hear him speak was as if to hear an ancient scroll, one that no being had laid eyes on for millenia -- a voice unaccustomed to speaking, yet bearing wisdom. “We have all the time this world has to offer us. And I’m sure your god will not mind if I choose not to feed him just this once.”

“I would not be so sure,” Sashthaha muttered through her teeth. At this, Velyr took a step forward.

“Not be so sure? You mean to say you aren’t sure? Since when is a herald permitted to be unsure of her god’s will? Is that not what gives you the right to your position?” he said, his voice rising slightly. “I hope I wasn’t foolish enough to throw my lot in with a mere girl who plays with forces beyond her comprehension. I have had enough of that type in the past year for a lifetime.”

Sashthaha’s hands were immediately flourishing a scimitar, holding it in Velyr’s direction. “Say that again, old man, and your guts will feed the temple hatchlings. I have reached heights you could not even dream of, and I have had enough of your silence and disrespect.”

Velyr’s chuckle was the sound of sandpaper scraping on stone. “Care to test your prediction?”

Sashthaha rushed at the jaghut, cutting a brutal arc through the air with her scimitar. Velyr’s hand caught the blade, his palm beginning to run blue with blood as the two connected. His fingertips grasped the sides of the blade. Sashthaha continued to press the blade down on Velyr’s hand with incredible force, but instead of moving, the hilt of the scimitar instead began to crack. Lines of frost ran from Velyr’s fingertips across the scimitar, and as Sashthaha released her grip, it fell from Velyr’s hand and shattered on the stone floor.

Velyr inclined an eyebrow. Sashthaha merely smiled and angled her eyes down at Velyr’s torso. A dagger with a jeweled hilt protruded from it, sticking straight into Velyr’s heart. Sashthaha grabbed the hilt and pulled it out, leaving Velyr to stumble onto his knees.

“I told you what would happen if you crossed me,” Sashthaha hissed, her slit-shaped pupils constricting.

Velyr smiled weakly, coughing up a little blood as he spoke. “I’m afraid it will take more than that to kill me. But I am impressed, I must admit. That trick with… Perhaps you are the one we’ve been looking for.” He clutched his chest, icy lines spreading across the wound.

“Perhaps? You know I am the one, old man. After I have shown you everything my people have accomplished, the only reason you could still possibly have to doubt me is your own stubbornness,” Sashthaha replied. She curled her tail around Velyr, lifting him into an upright position, before releasing him. “If I am to ‘earn’ your favor, you will tell me how to do so.”

Velyr picked up one of his host’s golden scales, chipped and frost-covered, from where it lay on the ground. He stared at it for a moment, then lightly tossed it into the fire. Then, once again, he fell silent.

After several moments, Sashthaha’s eyes began to twitch again. “So that’s it? I give you a demonstration, ask you a simple question, and you stop speaking to me again?”

Velyr slowly raised his arm and pointed at the thought-water still collecting in the bowl. “I was never here to judge your worth myself,” he rasped. “Let us see what your god really thinks.” He inclined his head to one side patiently.

Sashatha smiled, suddenly confident. She dipped her fingers in the bowl and sprinkled strands of thought-water toward the fire. With a hiss and a strange warping noise, the flames rose and flickered neon pink. And dancing among the flames, something stirred.

The Herald of the Beginning reached out and grabbed.

"…Cross not these stolid menhirs,
ever loyal to the earth.'
Thelomen Tartheno Toblakai…
Still standing, these towering pillars
mar the gelid scape
of my mind…"

Part 2: Eighth of Rise. Cormar Plains.

On the field of the dead, silence echoed.

To the untrained observer, there was nothing to hear at all on the scarred stone mesa. What was noteworthy were the spears, scimitars, and corpses, most of them rodent-like humanoids, that littered the battlefield. The blood staining the otherwise crystal-clear spine-grass might have also caught one’s eye. Of particular notice would have been the lone Dedomeni warrior, skin bronzed under the sun and scales a rusty iron, who alone stood upright among the dead. But to anyone who really listened -- Nevhe most of all -- the silence stood at the very forefront.

Some silences are empty. They denote a lack of relevance, of meaning, and are quickly ignored. Other silences are so loud that they fill one’s very soul. This was that sort of silence. It pushed at the corners of Nevhe’s mind, deafening and uproarious. For this moment was truly silent. No animals chirped or croaked, no wind blew, not even a pebble fell. And in that silence, Nevhe understood what had really been done here, and more importantly, what was to come.

At long last, the silence broke. The sound of scraping metal grated against his ears as Nevhe pulled a javelin out of the nearest Corvere corpse, the blade coated in greenish blood. The Corvere had never stood a chance, of course. They could delay Asekhi Las with their hit-and-run tactics, but in open battle, Las’s forces had crushed them with ease. It was, as always, only a matter of time. Soon all of the continent would belong to Las and his Heralds. And then what?

Nevhe rolled the javelin in his hand, up and down the tattoo of a fang that adorned his palm. Something was coming; that he knew for certain. The Autarch hadn’t conquered across two continents to rest on his laurels afterward. To be satisfied with one’s status was antithetical to all Maros stood for. Perhaps they would sail across the great seas and see what fortunes awaited them there. The Dedomeni were not a seafaring people, but the creation of a temporary navy had been necessary to make the journey to Brindalos. It wasn’t inconceivable that the next step would be more of the same. Then why burn our old ships?

The dead Corvere unsettled Nevhe more than he liked to admit. After the Black Fang had killed the enemy’s leader the night before the battle, many of the guerillas had eagerly surrendered. Yet, instead of taking them as slaves, Las had ordered them executed. Something was different about this war.

Nevhe tried to purge the doubt from his mind. Unlike many of his compatriots, he had never hungered for status or wealth. Simply knowing he had a place in Asekhi Las’s army was enough for him. The eyes called him a “good soldier,” but his fellow fangs liked to whisper behind his back -- “knife-licker,” or “soft-belly.” Nevhe hadn’t ever cared much, but now, stricken with doubt, he began to wonder if he should have climbed a little higher. Maybe then, he’d understand.

Nevhe pushed the corpses out of his way as he made his way down the plateau. The army would be moving out soon. It would be bad form to be late. Besides, this land didn’t belong to the Dedomeni any more than it belonged to the Corvere. Not anymore.

And so the silence returned to claim its dominion once again, and darkness fell.

"Those who are evil are called so because they destroy. Those who are good are called so for no different reason."

Part 3: Tenth of Rise. City of Khasilar.

“Tremble in awe, Dedomeni, and know that a righteous moment has arrived!”

It wasn’t even third maw, but the blue-skinned priest, his glimmering, silver scales flashing in the sunlight, had already gathered a crowd. Nearly a hundred slithers of almost every caste had assembled in the plaza, eyes shining with rapt attention. As the priest gestured, the eyes on his palms seemed to open and shut, watching the crowd. A more superstitious man than Velyr might have thought that Maros himself watched them from within this priest’s hands, but the jaghut knew better. It was not the tattoos the eyes bore that made slithers fall in line, but the power they represented.

“On this day, the Autarch Asehki Las’s mighty conquest of the northern reaches has finally come to an end! At long last, we are masters of the known world, just as Maros promised us! Are you not grateful, Dedomeni?” the priest railed. Velyr carefully scanned the crowd. Normally, he would present as an obvious outsider, but these Dedomeni seemed too wrapped up in the priest’s rather mediocre speech to take notice. At his question, the slithers shook their heads and booed, and the priest smiled.

“Good. Only cravens and doves would be meek and grateful. Asekhi Las does not want you to be grateful. He wants you to be hungry. For if we stop after conquering some savages on a remote continent, what have we accomplished?”

“Nothing!” cried a voice in the crowd.

“Exactly,” crowed the eye. “Nothing. For Maros did not put us on this earth to merely slay the savage races he himself created. No. Maros has blessed the Autarch with a greater power, one that we will partake in soon enough.”

The crowd perked up expectantly at these words. Near the back, Velyr shook his head slowly. He had heard these promises made to civilization after civilization countless times over the millennia. Perhaps Gothos was right after all. Velyr had never met this Asekhi Las, but from the eye’s description, he sounded ominously similar to Raest.

“Yes, I spoke the truth. I am told the Autarch and his victorious legion are coming to Khasilar with the spoils of war. There, we will share in his glory!” the eye proclaimed triumphantly. “I want every citizen and slave to gather their finest tribute for the Autarch by sundown. Any who come to me empty-handed will find themselves in the feeding pits. Am I understood--”

“Your wisdom.”

Velyr spoke softly in his characteristic, raspy voice, almost too softly to be heard. And even so, every pair of eyes in the plaza turned to focus on the jaghut. Velyr’s unadorned brown cloak fluttered in the soft breeze around him. All of a sudden, the Dedomeni were acutely aware of an outsider’s presence in their midst. The priest’s fierce orange eyes met Velyr’s dispassionate, icy blue ones, challenging him to speak. Velyr obliged.

“Your wisdom. I had hoped to meet Asekhi Las in private. Would you please inform him that I will require a maw of his time?”

The priest laughed a sardonic, mocking laugh.

“And who are you, exactly, demanding an entire maw of the Autarch’s time? No, your request is simply not possible, outlander.”

“A shame. Sashthaha will be disappointed,” Velyr spoke with the same measured softness. He turned his gaze away from the pulpit as if he hadn’t spared the matter a thought.

“I-- the Herald of the Beginning?” the eye sputtered. “What-- how did a creature like you come into her good graces? I…”

“Oh, don’t work yourself up about it. It was only a passing curiosity,” Velyr rasped off-handedly. “I was curious to see if your Autarch really was the unifier of civilizations Sashthaha told me of. You see, I’m trying to prove a dead colleague wrong about an obsolete political theory. But I suppose Las doesn’t have time for that.”

The priest bowed frantically. “No, of course not! I’m sure the Autarch would love to speak with you! It’s just that he’s an extremely important Dedomen, and I don’t know if my influence alone would persuade him to speak with an unproven outlander like you, especially considering you can’t prove that you ever--”

“Unproven. Of course.” Velyr smiled slowly. “How could I be so foolish? Your mighty leader no doubt wishes for me to prove my ambition and worth in order to speak with him. Isn’t that right?”

“Well, yes, that would do. As a champion of great Maros, the Autarch no doubt--”

It was over in the blink of an eye. Said eye’s blink was cut off for the last time as an icy wave enveloped him and every other Dedomen in the plaza, turning the slithers into ice sculptures. The manifestation of Omtose Phellack coated the street, filling the air with a tingling sensation that an experienced mage would recognize. It belonged to a realm far older than this one, frozen in place as it were for all eternity.
Velyr brushed the frost off of his fingers and walked off, the chill following him like a hound to its master. By the pulpit, the eye’s palm tattoos stared off sightlessly into eternity, and for this, they were blessed.

“ovfbfqrlonmrzmqoaopixbnmqtggszlrnpexekzrlr”

Part 4: The Underforge.

Magenta torchlight. Utter darkness.

Laboring in the dark. Flame-labor. All for the Autarch. All for Las.

The Herald of the Beginning. Sashthaha. Here. Her project. Her scales. Her limbs.

Dedomenos would rise. Rise past the stars. Rise beyond the Great Enemy. Keep working. Keep going. Soon.

Only a matter of time now. A matter of time. We avenge the betrayal.

You die for Dedomenos. You die for Las. You die for Maros. Turn the Enemy’s weapons against them.

Forge the weapons. Forge the tools. Bask in the light. The magenta light.

Stoke the flames. Stoke the flames. Stoke the flames.

“Words are pale shadows of forgotten names. As names have power, words have power. Words can light fires in the minds of men. Words can wring tears from the hardest hearts.”

Part 5: Sixteenth of Rise. Throne of Maros.

The jet-black throne was cold and empty, and so it would remain.

None dared sit atop the throne of Maros, for although the god had never walked the land in mortal form, all Dedomeni knew that one day, Maros would come to rule this realm personally, and he would do so from his throne of jet. Such was the word of the Heralds. Until then, the Autarch would keep watch in his place, as Asekhi Las was doing right now.

Las sat at the throne’s right hand, one of his fang-tattooed palms clutching a ceremonial scimitar. An iron ring encircled his long, black hair while his purple eyes gazed imperiously from a blue-skinned face across the throne room. Las’s scales, the same regal purple as his eyes, seemed to shine and glimmer in the torchlight. As Las stood, everyone else in the room bowed respectfully, with the exception of the two Heralds at the bottom of the staircase.

The Autarch’s voice, deep and commanding, rang out to fill the chamber. “Eyes and fangs. Your contributions to our war effort are appreciated. Rise.”

All eight bowed figures rose upright, lifting the weight off of their multihued coils. The Heralds, Sashthaha a resplendent gold and Isu a decaying white, slithered up the steps as Las lifted his hand.

“Now, as to the administration of Cor--”

“My lord.” Sashthaha’s voice cut through Las’s words, deferential and yet insistent. The Herald of the Beginning bowed her head in apology, but her eyes maintained a steady contact with Asekhi Las’s, unflinching.

Las turned, caught off-guard by the interruption. “Yes, Herald? I hope this is important.”

“I have a guest. From another world, or so he claims. He wishes to see the Underforge.”

Isu laughed a slow, harsh laugh in a voice like metal scraping against stone. “The Underforge? Your guest is a learned man, then? I wonder if he wouldn’t be better suited to the position than you, little one.”

Sashthaha scowled, but ignored Isu. “Autarch. An audience is all I ask. I think you will be most… interested in what he has to say.”

Las lifted an eyebrow. “Very well. Where is your guest, Herald? When can I expect his arrival?”

At the foot of the stairs, an icy chill rippled outward and ran through the room. Frost began to form on the surface of the steps. Isu’s hands flickered with radiant green power and the fangs nervously drew spears. Sashthaha smiled and raised her arm in front of them.

“Right about now.”

”Don’t expect your attacks to actually work.”

Part 6: Eighteenth of Rise. Khasilar Warpits.

For the first time in her life, Janiska felt afraid.

The tongue had not felt fear when she was forced to take up arms against renegade limbs in the latest Forge Revolt. She had not been afraid when caught in a torporwurm’s burrow during a thought-storm. She had not even feared for her own life when imprisoned for stealing mana crystals, the current predicament she found herself in. A trial by combat was expected; there was no warrior in her eye’s jurisdiction that Janiska knew she could not defeat.

But a visit from the Herald of the Beginning and the selection of a new champion?

They were planning to make an example out of her.

The thought had not crossed her mind when Janiska stole the crystals. She knew the punishment for such a crime should she be caught, but she also knew that the odds of a trial by combat were in her favor. Time and time again, the fangs had learned that just because she was a tongue, it did not mean the great hunger did not rest within her, too.

The personal champion of the Herald, however, was another matter entirely.

Janiska scraped her nails against the walls of the cell, her hands dripping crimson as the rough stone ground into the bases of her fingernails. The pain was a welcome respite from the crushing boredom of her cell. It was important not to injure her hands too badly, however. She would need them in the battle to come. That, and her secret weapon.

The knock was hollow, bereft of energy or authority. It jolted Janiska out of her reverie. How long had she been in her daze? Hours? Days? She was sure she felt a gnawing, insatiable hunger building in her, and she licked her lips in anticipation.

“Come with us.”

The limbs at the door were not armed or armored, but Janiska offered no resistance as they took her toward the coliseum. If the Herald had taken an interest in her, escape was futile. Slavering fangs would surely be present at every exit and in every station within the prison. The only way out was now through Sashthaha’s game. Janiska hoped the low torchlight masked her coils’ slight shaking to the limbs before her, but she knew that it was unlikely they cared.

The blade of the scimitar Janiska selected gleamed brightly as the pink runes inscribed upon it glowed slightly. She frowned down at it as she slipped it from her tail into her hand.

“Is this for me?”

“The Herald ordered the very best opportunities be made available to you,” said a grinning, orange-skinned fang. His cruel, yellow eyes reflected a venom that seeped from his words. “Never seen an Underforge blade, girl? Need me to tell you how it works? Or do you need basic weapon lessons, too? Never seen a slither use their tail to use a sword, but you do seem the type.”

“I know what it does,” Janiska replied through gritted teeth. The fang’s arrogance did not surprise her, but the Herald’s did. Offering an Underforge blade to a prisoner in a trial by combat was an unnecessary evening of the game; offering one to a combatant as skilled as Janiska was suicide for the state. But of course, the Heralds were no fools... “This is a trap.”

The fang attendant’s grin widened. “Try not to get carried away with your new toy out there.”

The crowd cheered raucously as Janiska slithered out of her lift into the coliseum proper. The braziers placed across the stands illuminated their jeering faces, their chants echoing through the night air. Her opponent, face shrouded in the uneven shadows, was smaller than she expected, although their lean muscle was still evident under their cloak. Their hands clutched a seemingly ordinary quarterstaff. Perhaps the champion preferred to end matters with their fangs rather than a manufactured weapon.

Seated above it all was the Herald herself. Sashthaha’s beautiful bronze coils spread across her ceremonial throne, her emerald eyes studying the arena impassively. A golden hand reached for a chalice and raised it to her mouth. Janiska felt a deep pang of envy and hunger rise within her, but she forced it down. The task at hand demanded all of her focus.

From somewhere in the stands, a horn sounded. Janiska brandished her scimitar, the champion raised their quarterstaff, and the two flew at each other with the fury of starving beasts.

The champion was fast. The wood collided with the back of Janiska’s head with a solid thunk as she reached them, bruising her and knocking her to the floor. She just barely dodged the next swing, rolling out of the way, and stumbled to rise above her coils again. As the champion prepared to send the staff whistling through the air for a third time, Janiska frantically muttered the scimitar’s rune-keys under her breath. The blade ignited with neon pink flame, the metal sparking and warping into and out of place. With one hand, Janiska grabbed the edge of the oncoming staff out of the air, lightly bruising her palm in the process. With the other, she swung the scimitar, cutting through the staff like a knife through mud and igniting the champion’s fragile body…

But the staff, impossibly, held.

As the blazing scimitar made contact, the champion’s staff gave slightly… and then pushed back. Flickering across it, a series of runes unlike those Janiska had ever seen lit up, glowing with a golden light. Runes she swore hadn’t been there before.

The champion’s tail lashed out, coiling around Janiska’s arm and pulling. Her scimitar clattered to the ground, sputtering into lifelessness. Janiska staggered back, deflecting one swing with her arm but taking the second straight to her chest. She fell to her arms and coils, breathing heavily, while her opponent stood over her.

“End it,” she spat. The crowd began to boo, but as the Herald raised her hand, they quickly went silent.

“No.” The champion’s voice was calm and fluid. With a sweep of their tail, Janiska’s inert scimitar skittered across the ground toward her. “I haven’t seen the hunger in you yet. Show me.”


With a high-pitched snarl of rage, Janiska lunged for the scimitar and swung at the champion with ferocious strength she had not yet displayed. One, two, three strikes the champion unevenly parried, but the fourth opened a wound on their hand, and the fifth, a red streak down their cheek.

As Janiska lunged in for the kill, the champion brought up their palm, catching the blade in their hand. The blade made no mark whatsoever; indeed, the champion did not show an ounce of discomfort. Janiska scowled and tried to pry the blade free, but it didn’t budge. Silver runes lit up across the champion’s skin.

“That won’t work again.”

Janiska desperately wrapped her fangs around the champion’s wrist and bit with all her strength. Whatever strange magic had protected them from the blade wasn’t enough to stop Janiska’s teeth from sinking in. The champion hissed and let go of the scimitar, freeing Janiska’s hand. They recoiled and raised their staff once more, going in for the kill.

The scimitar’s fire-magic was used up; although supposedly unstoppable while they were ignited, Janiska knew well that the Underforge blades were no better than iron once they sputtered out. Despite that, the tongue also knew she stood no chance against the Herald’s champion and their mysterious runes without it. If she could just find an opening, then… but without the fire-blade, what good was an opening? Taking the brunt of swing after swing with her battered arms, Janiska decided to call upon the last of her hunger. Muttering a fervent prayer to Maros, she slipped the scimitar into the wrap of her tail and raised her hands, bracing herself for the onslaught of wood against head.

This time, the blow was accompanied by a crack. Janiska’s head spun, and blackness started to intrude on the edge of her vision. She felt weak and dizzy. But she was almost there. As the champion slithered forward, ready to deliver the final blow, Janiska’s unusually prehensile tail stabbed the scimitar into her enemy’s side.

Nothing happened.

And then, with a roar, pink flame engulfed the champion.

A few moments passed. Janiska paused nervously, her vision still blurry, and then laughed triumphantly, unhinging her jaw as she slithered forward toward the burnt corpse. Maros had granted her his favor. Her jaws clamped down... around the familiar wood of the staff.

Splinters sprayed outward, embedding themselves in her mouth. Sashthaha’s champion rose up, their skin horribly scarred but still very much alive.

“You are blessed. But it is no matter. I poisoned the blade before the match. Your strength has been slowly sapping all this time.”

Impossible. Janiska was a master at detecting poisons; all tongues were trained in such matters. To poison the hilt of the blade without her noticing… but as the champion said it, Janiska noticed the weakness in her limbs and the growing pain in her body. “How… how are you still alive?” she coughed.

The champion laughed. “You almost killed me, but you didn’t count on my cloak shielding me from your flames. It’s fireproof, you see.” Janiska had never heard of a fireproof cloak, but the champion was clearly alive and well, and somehow seemingly healthier than they had appeared when Janiska had tried to strike.

“You flew a little close to the flame when you pulled that little trick with the blade; one of your lungs was burned up, leaving some nasty scar tissue on your torso. You’re having trouble breathing; it’s a wonder you haven’t collapsed.”

If her lung had been burnt, surely she would have… but it was true. Janiska’s breaths were painstakingly shallow, and the pain in her chest felt like it would drown her. She felt her vision going dark. All that was left in her field of vision was the champion’s blue-skinned face and indigo eyes, watching pitilessly as the life left her body.

“You never stood a chance against us, prisoner. But we thank you for the demonstration.”

Serkizs, champion of Khasilar, turned their gaze to their Herald, watching from the stands. Sashthaha nodded, her eyes glittering with a cold light. It was the last thing Janiska ever saw.

”Thank you, I'll say goodbye soon
Though it's the end of the world,
Don't blame yourself now
And if it’s true,
I will surround you and give life to a world
That's our own”

Part 7: Seventh of Fall.

Somewhere out there, beyond the light of Dedomenos’s sun, there is a dark cloud.

No light can enter that cloud. It is impenetrable as the deepest black hole and as inscrutable.

Some living beings say they know what is in that cloud. The eyes of Dedomenos claim their vision can pierce even the darkest mysteries and reveal what is beyond. Most eyes truly believe this claim.

They are wrong.

What the eyes see is merely a small piece of the truth. A corner of a painting, illuminated by a lamp, the rest covered in a tarp. No, not quite. Perhaps a finger dipped into a pond, and the observers, fish, believing it whole.

What they see are fangs. Fangs in the dark. Gnawing, gnashing, tearing apart worlds.

Those who see with eyes can never know the full truth. But even those who see without eyes, the hermits and sages exiled for speaking their prophecies and heresies, cannot comprehend what truly lies beyond.

A serpent has two heads. Maros, the Great Hunger, stirs in the depths of the Furthest Ring.

Fangs in the dark. Fangs in the dreaming dark.

Epilogue I: Outside of Time.

At the peak of the Aeon Cliffs, in a universe as small as a geographical area once called New Hampshire, a dragon awaited the audience of a guardian.

The dragon in question was nearly sixty feet long, with shimmering, iridescent scales that reflected the many colors of the cliffs around it. Its two pairs of crystalline horns jutted upward into the air, where they refracted the eerie starlight that shone down from the dark sky. Its eyes, enormous orbs of swirled colors, scanned the horizon, awaiting the conversation’s other party.

Said party, swooping down from above, was a gaunt humanoid a little more than eight feet tall. His face, long and angular, was one of a mutated bird -- a crow, perhaps -- with a dark beak, eerily human green eyes, and a crown of ragged feathers atop his head. His six-fingered hands were those of a dark-gray humanoid, while his feathered legs ended in a bird’s talons. The guardian’s torso and upper arms were also feathered, but bereft of any other distinguishing features. In his hands rested a length of black iron chain that wrapped around his arms and legs and trailed for some distance behind him. As anyone in the Black Reaches with a degree of multiversal cognizance knew, this guardian was the Harbinger, a symbol of judgement and doom across--

Don’t bother with the pretentious titles. The reader and I both know where this is going. You can call me Raven.

Raven landed on the edge of the cliff, his talons scraping against the edge. The dragon raised its head and regarded him with expectancy, but some degree of mistrust.

“You came all this way to see me, Harbinger?” the dragon spoke in a rippling, beautiful voice. “Out here, in my little corner of Fiction?”

Gerald now, actually. Or the Encapsulverse. Some Descendants had a little argument about imprecise terminology.

The dragon blinked, visibly perplexed. “I’m sorry, I No, I’m not going to explain. The reality warpers can have their fun for the time being. It won’t matter in the end. What matters is what I’m about to tell you.,” the dragon said.

Realizing that he had interrupted the dragon mid-sentence, Raven decided to allow it some time to That terminal’s going to be obnoxious. Let me spare you the overly descriptive prose. Assuming direct control, if you would.

Epilogue II: Grave Tidings.

Much better.

Go ahead. Gasp for dramatic effect. I’m sure you’re in absolute shock that a First Guardian assumed control of an update terminal. You’re probably even coming up with inane comparisons to one or more individuals with the initials “D.S.” as I speak. You’d be wrong; this is not a narrative takeover. But we have more important things to discuss than this useless navel-gazing.

The dragon before me is Ceiphu, the only sapient denizen of the Tenth Aeon. The Aeons are artificial microuniverses at the fringes of the Black Reaches, home to all manner of beings powerful enough to carve out dimensions and planes for themselves. Ceiphu is one such being. She’s summoned me here for a progress report, of sorts. We’re not coworkers, or even friends, but allies of the Narrative must maintain some manner of solidarity.

“Raven. Your report.”

Time continues to flow while I transmit this information to you, of course. I am a very fast narrator, but nearly any being would begin to grow impatient in the middle of a monologue like this one. I should get back to the conversation.

A world called Dedomenos. I’ve been observing it for some time. The place is rotten to the core, worse than nearly any world I’ve seen. Something horribly wrong is going to occur if we don’t act swiftly to remove the infestation.

A simplified explanation. There are many different actors with interests in Dedomenos apart from its residents and I, including one particularly annoying group of universe-hoppers. But those actors are a personal matter; something I can deal with on my own. It’s the planet I need help with.

Ceiphu chuckles smoothly, her voice warping the colors of the mist around us. “I’ve never known you to hesitate, Raven. If this planet is so much of an issue, why not reduce it to rubble like you have so many others?”

The question is an irritating one. Layered with judgement and distrust in my methods. Ceiphu knows that she can’t convince me to end my purges, and though she’s one of the few beings in the Black Reaches who would stand even a slight chance at killing me, the consequences of my death would be far too great for her to abide. The Reaches need me, just as so many other areas of Narrative importance need their own allied guardians. But she doesn’t have to like it.

The snakes’ world is protected by a god of sorts. Maros, it calls itself. It has the belief of its worshipers fueling it, and they are both numerous and fervent. I don’t possess the strength to defeat such an entity on my own.

“How humble of you! And here I thought you were going to refuse my assistance, like always. So you want help in taking out some sapients and their god after they offended you, is that it? Have you brought an offering, or do you expect to win me over through compliments alone?”


I had nearly forgotten how much I hated dragons. Arrogant and vain creatures to the last. However, many -- the good ones, specifically -- are exceptionally useful allies of the Narrative. Wiping them out would be as ill-advised as it is impossible. As for the Dedomeni, I have no such qualms.

The creatures are very close to unlocking some very dangerous secrets. Secrets that could threaten the safety of Fiction as a whole. And I fear the Narrative’s usual defense mechanisms are too badly damaged and too far stretched to mount an appropriate response.

“Dangerous secrets? You don’t mean…”


I’ll spare you the pointless suspense. She’s talking about godmodding.

Only a few individuals so far, but their leaders are actively encouraging its development. Even, say, twenty godmodders on the same world could become a federal fucking issue like we haven’t seen in millions of Voidic years.

And yes, one version of the planet you call Earth had a similarly high concentration. There’s a reason the Narrative tended to push human godmodders toward using their powers in Minecraftia, an easy universe to stage a godmodding war in. There’s also a reason many versions of Earth no longer exist.

“So, what, Harbinger? You want me to duel this god for you? Strike him down with my mighty breath and claws?”

No.

“No?”

The god of the Dedomeni is more dangerous than expected. Besides, I need to take some of the aforementioned third parties out of the picture first.

No. The two of us are going to start a godmodding war.

Epilogue III: See You Soon.

The Chains Inexorable wrap around my arms and legs. They anchor me to a certain, comforting future. I am not omniscient, and neither are my chains. But all the same, it is good to know that I am not aimless. Whatever the future may be, it is written, and the forces that guide me will not allow Conflict to somehow write an ending for this multiverse.

I am chained to many universes across the Void. Dedomenos is not one of them. To reach there, I must use certain pathways the Void opens up for us. But even here, my chains guide me, opening pathways and tearing down barriers.

The chains are not sentient, of course. They are simply a tool. But their fates are bound more tightly than most, and so, therefore, is mine.

The god does not like my presence. It tries to eject me. It is more powerful than me, but I am fast and experienced. It will not catch me. It is not so powerful. Not yet.

I do not yet know what form the war will take. I do not know if it will be one war, many wars, many battles, or one battle. But I do know it is coming.

Nor do I know when the war will occur. Months, years, or millennia from now -- the distinction is irrelevant. You will still be here when it comes. And so will I.

It's gonna be a fucking disaster.

See you soon.
-- R.