Children of the Thyme (v.1.0)

A year has passed since the fall of the Sphere.

The land of Locaa is, slowly but surely, recovering from the scars of that crisis.

But some issues remain unresolved, and some scars refuse to heal.





A project by Wareheir Studios.





After the old Chairheir’s disappearance, most Iti across Locaa began to turn grey.

Rather than pursuing a single-minded course of Chairian annihilation, they reverted back to the diverse instincts the Chairheir had implanted in them.

For most, of course, this meant behaving like bizarre wild animals.





An expansion to the award-winning DTG: Chaos: Project Thymium.





Some few Iti managed to integrate into Chairian society.

Others left for the distant lands of the Echo Collective.

The vast majority, however, were hunted down by vengeful and fearful Chairians whenever they ventured too close to settlements.

The species that had once come close to annihilating Chairkind entirely now found itself on the brink of annihilation, and Locaa prepared to close the book on the tale of the Iti.

Another crop of strange entities, created by a Descendant to die for a Descendant. Few would mourn them.





The end is never the end.





And then a message came out of the north.


PROJECT THYMIUM: CHILDREN OF THE THYME
> [S] PLAY.

REFLECTOR

Symphony no. 6 was performed live on the #DTG memo. Click to read a transcript.

METALLURGIST

[Leaving dead space. Begin recording.]

THAUMATURGE

The curved spire rose two stories above the horizon of the desert, twisting and bending in geometries perplexing and alien. Indeed, were it not for his own occasional residence in Kolansor and his knowledge of Azath Houses, Sokhil Filas might have assumed the building was one constructed by some starbound race. Although he still could not fathom the true origin of the mysterious edifices, Sokhil had long eliminated that particular possibility from his mind. The things just grew from the earth, appearing to contain whatever threat or power attracted them. Perhaps the Keeper of Hold Azath should have known more about their position in the Hold, Sokhil reflected, but the whims of the Tiles were not his to question.

As Sokhil followed the winding desert trail towards Kolansor House, he slung the unconscious body of the Forkrul Assail he carried over his shoulder to readjust the weight. The white-skinned bastard had been hard to fight and even harder to take down, but it was one of the duties of Keeper of Hold Azath to maintain the Houses and imprison dangers within them. Sokhil threw the Forkrul Assail onto the sands, bleached nearly as white as the unconscious prisoner's skin. About ten seconds passed without incidence, and then the sands underneath the Forkrul Assail began to shift. They first swirled around the body, and then sucked downwards in a whirlpool fashion, carrying the prisoner with them. The upper layer of sand filled in as if nothing had happened.

Sokhil Filas rubbed his hands together to dispose of the grit and sand coating them. Something was off about this day, he knew. The deserts of Kolanse were usually overwhelmed by searing heat, but today a subtle chill coated the air, making his hair stand on end slightly. It was a welcome relief from the heat, but the cause of it -- and the news he delivered -- was rather less welcome. He could only hope the recipient would take it calmly and rationally. They would certainly appear to -- the resident of Kolansor in question was a master of maintaining composure -- but their true emotions were still hard to gauge even considering their history together.

The door to Kolansor House, made of a peculiar black stone with the texture of polished metal, swung open at Sokhil's push. The doors of the Azath would let outsiders, especially members of the Hold such as himself, come and go as they pleased, but those imprisoned were another story. Most were left unconscious or in some form of stasis, while one was often appointed custodian of that House, granted the privilege and curse of consciousness and awareness. Sokhil had not determined how this custodian was appointed or how the Azath truly thought or reasoned, and he suspected no one would for the foreseeable future. Of course, it so happened that the individual he desired to speak with was the custodian of this very Azath House. Convenient, that.

The front hallway of Kolansor House was carved of a similar black stone. At the end of the hallway was a spiral staircase constructed of marble leading up the height of the tower. Paths led off in various directions from the staircase at multiple points, each adorned with the image of a Tile of the Holds. Sokhil could feel the magic of each of the Holds emanating from each direction as he climbed, his green robe trailing behind him ever-so-slightly. They felt of raw power and primordial magic waiting to be unleashed. We are but as children in the face of the Holds.

As Sokhil Filas continued to climb, he began to pass unmarked passageways. A different sort of energy emanated from each of these. Just as powerful, perhaps, if not more so, but more controlled and more pure. If the Holds had felt powerful and unrefined, these were something utterly beyond his comprehension in its current state. And if we are but as children to adults, what are these, then? These Elder Warrens? Perhaps we know less of the world than we know. I dread to find out.

The Keeper continued along the unceasing staircase, passing by the gates to K'rul's latest creations, brimming with elegance and control, if not the same raw power. We are indeed children, but eventually we will grow, and perhaps this is our answer. A way for the old to supplant the new. It would take time for their effects to be fully felt on Lether, of course, but they were still useful tools.

Sokhil Filas ceased contemplating these things as he stepped off the top of the staircase, far more than two stories above the ground, standing firmly on the landing rug. The time would arise for contemplation later, provided his conversation went well. And if it didn't, such thoughts would hardly matter in the end.

The Jaghut, Velyr, was seated at a burnished wooden table, a fraying black tome atop it. The silver text inscribed on the book's spine was in archaic Old Jaghut, but Sokhil Filas knew his friend well enough to recognize it by sight -- Gothos's Folly. Velyr's dark green fingers tapped incessantly on the cover, his ice-blue eyes focused on the floor in deep thought. He appeared not to notice the Keeper, but Sokhil knew better. Jaghut would speak for hours on end when they wished, but coercing one into unwanted conversation was an exercise in futility. For now, all he could do was wait, regardless of the urgency of the news he brought.

After several minutes, Velyr's fingers stopped tapping. Without looking up, he began to speak in a slightly rasping voice.

"Sokhil. Tell me. Why do humanity and all the other races value tradition?"

Sokhil was slightly taken aback by the question at first, but quickly gathered his wits. "We value tradition because we seek to hold on to our legacies. Without our pasts, our present and future have no meaning. They are mere moments in the void without context. Tradition serves as an anchor to that past."

Velyr slowly rose out of his chair and turned towards Sokhil, his tusks gleaming. "A well-argued point for its brevity, but a wholly incorrect one. Traditions do not serve as a link to the past in any meaningful sense. They are nostalgic grasps at antiquity, true, but they are as flawed as their creators. The intent behind our actions is not to set some pattern for every generation after us to attempt to imitate as a pathetic attempt at respect, but to handle the circumstances we encounter in the moment. No, the reason we value tradition is because we are afraid of change. Change takes everything we know and alters it, introduces new and foreign concepts that we do not yet know how to handle. Of course, this is a foolish idea. Change is what separates the nonexistence of the void from the universe. Change is reality, Sokhil."

"Very well put. I can't help but be convinced. May I ask what the point of this... conversation was?"

"I'm afraid I don't have one. This was merely a mental exercise in philosophy -- and an enlightening one, I'd say. Though I'd prefer a party that bothered to disagree with me than one that expressed agreement at every turn to avoid giving offense."

Sokhil smiled. "Guilty, I suppose." He inclined his head towards the book. "What says Gothos of this matter -- tradition and change, or what have you?"

Velyr grimaced. "I'll admit, I've been trying to wrangle that answer out of him for the past couple hours. The madman's hatred for civilization would suggest he despises progress and change as well, but then, traditions are a product of civilization as well, aren't they? Perhaps he wishes some state of nonexistence where we cannot possibly associate. Puts an end to both of the aspects of the self-destructive path of civilization, as he would put it."

"And you disagree?"

"I've been trying to all my life, and still the true argument of the Folly evades me. Some parts might as well be mad scribblings and others are unequivocal genius. The trouble comes in distinguishing the two."

"I recall the book being referred to by many as... what was it? A multi-thousand-page suicide note?"

Velyr narrowed his eyes in frustration. "Yes, yes, I am well aware of the consensual opinion. Gothos certainly intended for us to think that, but it can hardly be called a suicide note if the author still lives thousands of years later, can it? That is, if he still does live. Perhaps you have knowledge of his death, and this conversation is all an elaborate ruse in order to mock me in my imprisonment."

"You know I wouldn't do that to you."

"Yes. I do."

Sokhil sighed. "I do have news that concerns Gothos, in fact. Though I will have to start at the beginning to properly illustrate the events."

Velyr did not respond, but his eyes were focused on Sokhil, and the Keeper knew he was listening.

Sokhil continued, choosing his words carefully. "The K'Chain Che'Malle were defeated in their war against the Tiste invaders. The Edur outnumbered the Andii, but Silchas Ruin put just as much of a contribution in as Scabandari did."

Velyr remained silent, eyes fixated on Sokhil's own.

"Just as Silchas was sembling, Scabandari stabbed him in the back. The Tiste Edur slaughtered the Andii in the fields."

Velyr's hand gripped a table leg and a small coat of frost began to form around it. "Silchas Ruin is dead."

"No. Scabandari knew he wouldn't be able to finish him off without awakening his Soletaken form, I suspect, or perhaps he wanted to atone for his actions in some tiny way. He sealed Silchas in an Azath in the west."

"And why didn't you -- I don't know, break him out? Stop Bloodeye's mad schemes of Edur domination of the continent, or whatever he wants?"

Sokhil frowned. "You know as well as I do that I can't do that. My title doesn't grant me any authority over the Azath. Just duty."

"Very well. I assume Anomander came looking for vengeance."

"Indeed, though he'd likely call it justice, and I can't say he'd be wrong. Not only that, he brought Kilmandaros and Mael along with him."

"Better safe than sorry, I suppose. So that’s it? Ruin locked away, Bloodeye murdered at the hands of his victim’s brother?"

Sokhil Filas pulled out a chair and took a seat. He wondered briefly if Velyr had noticed the lack of sweat coating his bare arms and head. The thought didn’t last long. As Sokhil’s eyes turned upwards, the prisoner’s own icy-blue gaze met him with an analytical intensity that seemed to bore through the very core of his being. Velyr knew something more was wrong. He simply wanted to hear the words out of Sokhil’s own mouth.

“Your old friend--”

“Not friend,” Velyr rasped mid-cough. “Colleague, at best.”

“Your colleague. Gothos. He did something to Lether, after Anomander’s business was finished. There’s a chill in the air out there. I’m sure even you can feel it.”

“Of course I can feel it, Sokhil. Omtose Phellack has been unveiled. I knew it from the moment it occurred, far before you stepped back into Kolansor. I thought it some foolish Jaghut fighting for their life against the T’lan Imass, not… you are sure it was Gothos?” Velyr’s stony mask of a face had not broken its impassivity, but lines of tension ran down it now, lines belying age and experience surpassing anything Sokhil could fathom.

“All of my sources confirmed it was him. It was whispered in the walls of Azath Houses across the continent. Gothos… all I still don’t understand is why.”

Velyr laughed mirthlessly. The prisoner’s eyes were unfocused, almost delirious, and Sokhil Filas felt a chill run down his spine, one independent of the cold that now suffused all of Lether. Whatever their relationship as warden and inmate, or even as friends, the Keeper knew he was dealing with a dangerous and unpredictable individual. “Trying to understand the motivations of the Lord of Hate as if he were rational, are you? Gothos is mad. He’d drag us all kicking and screaming back to our roots if he could, or perhaps to the grave. I had hoped my agonizing hours poring over Folly had taught you [/i]something[/i].”

“Still, from what you’ve told me of the man, Gothos is no fool. To freeze the entire continent would surely draw the gods’ ire. Perhaps… Perhaps Mael ordered him to do it. Or Anomander, or Kilmandaros--”

Filas’s words were interrupted by the grinding sound of wood against rock as Velyr rose to his feet, his chair toppling backward. The Jaghut took a step toward Sokhil, and then another. “I don’t care why Lether is covered in ice. All I care about is that it happened. The Che’Malle, our best hope of leaving this miserable cycle, are dead. The Lord of Hate has unleashed Omtose Phellack, and now forward motion is impossible. This world is doomed to die in the clutches of fools afraid of progress.”

Sokhil raised his wooden staff, his feet spreading into a defensive stance, barring the path to the stairs. “Velyr, please. Do not do anything you will come to regret.”

Velyr extended his hand, frost forming on his claw-like fingertips. “I refuse to be contained any longer, Sokhil. I will not wither and die here while Gothos lords his victory over all of civilization. Release me!”

The Keeper of the Azath Hold shook his head sadly. “You know I can’t do that, old friend. The Azath do not make exceptions for prisoners, and neither may I.”

“Then stand aside.”

The Jaghut leapt at Sokhil Filas, an icy spear forming in his hand. Sokhil calmly pivoted backwards and, focusing, reached out to the power of Telas--

Suddenly, Sokhil found himself lying against the floor, head ringing with powerful vibrations. He scrambled to his feet, just in time to find a wall of ice blocking his path to the staircase. But why hadn’t he been able to access Telas? The Warrens were new in the grand scheme of things, yes, but Sokhil had been able to tap into the Path of Fire since he was an adolescent. Unless… had this been what Velyr meant? The unnatural ice sheets that had swept across Lether had perhaps done more than freeze its terrain.

Not wanting to waste time in experimentation, Sokhil called upon the Holds, their unrefined and wild power stirring within him. To call upon one Hold alone was tantamount to suicide, but with a proper combination, their power could be modulated, focused into a single task. The Azath Hold naturally played center stage here, but the Beast Hold and Dragon Hold were also manifest in his magic, giving it the strength it needed to push back Velyr’s ice.

As the wall of ice shattered before the wave of pulsating magic, Sokhil stopped for a moment to catch his breath before pursuing up the stairs. Velyr knew he had no hope of escaping out the front door; only the Keeper and certain powerful Ascendants had free access in and out of an Azath House. No, the Jaghut was likely hoping to try his luck in the House’s mysterious upper passageways and corridors that allowed access to the Warrens. The chances of finding safe passage instead of being hurled to a grisly death in the maw of Chaos, however… He must truly be desperate.

It was as the Keeper feared. Velyr stood at the edge of a precipice, the fragmented edge of Kolansor as it bled into the Warrens, overlooking the infinite miasma of Chaos below. Perhaps the custodian had tried to cross over into Omtose Phellack, but there was no way to navigate the passageways of the Azath without Ascendancy, or else intricate knowledge of all the Warrens.

As soon as Sokhil took his first step toward Velyr, a blast of frost overtook him, knocking him back. Sokhil reached out to Telas once more, and mentally sighed in relief as its warm fires burned away the blizzard barring his progress.

“Velyr, please. Come back inside. There’s nowhere for you to run. Jump into that abyss and you’ll either go mad or die. And if we keep this little duel up, our magic will attract elder gods know what sorts of horrors.”

Velyr turned his head toward Sokhil, and his expression was one the Keeper had never seen his friend wear before: fear. Not fear of the forces of Chaos below, but of something much greater.

“Then shall we resolve this the old-fashioned way?” Velyr asked. “I’ll admit you have the upper hand in a duel of Warrens, but I’ll be happy to sit quietly if you manage to wrestle me back to my cell.” The remark was delivered with the cadence of a sarcastic quip, but Velyr’s voice was unsteady and insincere, and neither party so much as giggled in response.

Velyr was right, of course; Sokhil could not defeat him in a hand-to-hand brawl. That being said, the assault of Omtose Phellack had stopped, indicating that the scholar had taken Sokhil’s warning seriously enough to rethink his strategy. So he’s not suicidal, Sokhil thought. Then what’s his plan, now? Talk me away from him and then make a break for another route? Lure me in and knock me out?

“There’s no point in continuing,” Sokhil said, taking a few steps back into the Azath just to be surer of himself. “Just come back inside with me. And no tricks, or I’ll be forced to bind you.”

“Do you ever wonder, Sokhil, what lies beyond our world? What great lands and civilizations might be just out of our reach, separated from us by a thin layer of sky?”

“You’re talking nonsense, Velyr. Stand down."

“Did you really think I was idle here all this time, Sokhil? Just content to read the same texts over and over for centuries? I couldn’t travel the Warrens, of course. Not without plunging into Chaos, as you seem to be pushing me toward as we speak. But there are things beyond our world, beyond our Warrens and Holds and cities. I have heard ancient stories of them, stories from far before your time, and more importantly, I have seen them. And I know how to access them.”

Sokhil shook his head. Nothing Velyr was saying made sense to him. Other worlds? And if Velyr knew how to reach them, why hadn’t he simply already left to them? “That’s ridiculous. By the Abyss, Velyr… You can’t have known that.”

“I really do appreciate the company you’ve given me, old friend, but there’s nothing left for me here. Gothos proved his point. It’s time for me to move on. I advise you to do the same.” The Jaghut’s eyes glinted with icy-blue determination, his mouth set firmly with the same amount of both trepidation and confidence.

“So, what? You’re going to try your luck in Chaos and hope it spits you out in another world, instead of in Starvald Demelain, or in fifty pieces?”

Velyr chuckled. “Not quite. I have a prospective colleague who will do that part. I just needed to buy enough time for them to prepare.”

And with that, the scholar threw himself off the edge.

Sokhil Filas rushed to the side of the precipice, miserably hoping that it was some sort of trick, even a trap set for him. When he peered over the side, however, all he saw was the vortex of Chaos still churning about… that, and the faint stench of Meanas.

Shadow. Had the Velyr he had confronted been an illusion all along? Or had he simply disappeared like one? Whatever the case, a third party was responsible. There was simply no trace of Velyr remaining, aside from a distinct ringing in Sokhil's ears. The sound of breaking ice, or shattering glass.

The upper floors of Kolansor were to be sealed off, the Keeper decided. With the Jaghut as its guardian, Sokhil had felt comfortable knowing that intrusion into the Azath was unlikely, and escape from it was impossible for all but said guardian -- who had never before showed a serious desire to leave. Now, however, a glaring weakness had been exposed. It would take some negotiation, but with use of the Azath Hold, Sokhil was sure he could restrict access for good.

The dusty, old copy of Gothos’s Folly lay abandoned on the cracked floor, pages covered in thin lines of frost. As Sokhil descended back into the study, he gazed at the book with a mixture of intrigue and contempt. What sort of book would lead a man to decry the entire world as doomed to stagnation? What sort of author would consider that righteous?

Sokhil Filas heard a crash from below. Wearily, he rose and placed a hand on the banister. The Forkrul Assail was awake. Perhaps this one would be good company.

Or perhaps they were doomed to stasis, like the rest of them. It did not much matter. After all, if the Keeper of Hold Azath had anything on his hands, it was time.

SCION

Patient: Aegra Luesi
Age: 15
Gender: F
Symptoms: Splitting headache, nasal discharge, congestion, cough, faintness, fatigue, fever, joint pain, arm pain, leg pain, nausea, sore throat, vomiting, abdominal pain, chest pain, breathing difficulty, sweating, body aches, cysts, rashes, chills, muscle weakness, confusion, anxiety, insomnia, irritability, mania, hallucinations.
Diagnosis: Patient should have expired by now. She possesses nearly every known plague endemic to Verthall.
Treatment: Send the girl to the southern front to sunder the enemy ranks, then dispose of the corpse.

Addendum: You’re not throwing such a valuable specimen away into your meat grinder of a war, gentlemen. Send the girl to me today.
-- Daemos