Dark Above, Rising Below
Tok-tal’a and Om’Borla were called “the broken bow” because of their cartographic nature. Island chains went out from the northwest of Om’Borla and from the southwest of the Tok-tal’an peninsula. This particular portion of Zuhetta was also among the greater distances from the Asheya activation.
Y’neros had sent for the Demanian bladedancer a couple days ago, expecting the man to come quickly and with understandable hostility. The former necromancer could track the sounding roar of a rapidly approaching bike, listening as it grew louder at each turn and counting the brief squeals.
Eventually, the tires came to a hard stop outside the establishment where Y’neros and others were staying. Y’neros chugged a medicinal syrup. “Just stay seated, girl,” he burped. Miri’el ran past the two towards the door, and much to the establishment keeper’s dislike and confusion was too late to stop Trova from kicking it down.
“Trova!” Miri’el shouted as she planted herself in front of him. The bladedancer unholstered a pistol, held it next to the angel’s head, and aimed downrange at Y’neros. Not wavering in her protective demeanor, Miri’el looked into Trova’s eyes. “I have a feeling you wouldn’t go deaf if I fired,” the bladedancer remarked. “That would be beyond stupid to do, and you damn well know it,” the angel politely scolded.
Trova lowered his gun and holstered it. “You walk around using guns and yet still go by the title ‘bladedancer?”’ Y’neros mocked. “I got bored. I like to keep things fresh,” Trova replied in kind, “and, quite frankly, sometimes I just feel lazy.” Y’neros leaned forward in his chair. “So, I guess you’ll help us?” he asked.
“Is the girl aware of her place in this?” Trova inquired. “She is,” Miri’el replied. “Are you?” “First things first,” Trova replied, ever glancing at the girl for a second. If he were honest, it’s because he didn’t want to…
The point is: Stella (that’s the girl’s name, by the way) is 25 but looks less than that. But everyone’s been calling her “girl,” so I just kept the ball rolling. I’ll keep it brief for now and say that her father did well to instill a resilient intellect and pure spirit in her. She’s shapeable to truth and wise to power.
She was raised in a way to observe and study reality from a perspective of the original truth and the wisdom therein. She was sheltered but was also taken to the edges of battlefields with scribes and commanders. Although a proper speaker, she doesn’t do much of it. She watched her family and bodyguards die like cattle the day that Y’neros picked her out of that sullied surviving mess. His initial intentions lacked any nobility, but he certainly was correct in recognizing a strong and shapeable soul.
With such an unprecedented interaction with the higher powers, she found herself “hanging around.” Stella became a model student for her teachers. She had indeed been instructed about this ritual and was doing her best to mentally prepare for such an ordeal, yet she was smart enough to know that most of this preparation could go out the door when this reality became real.
When the girl saw Trova’s eyes for those couple of moments, she was struck by a dreadful feeling. She’d seen that sort of calm lethality before but couldn’t recall exactly when or where. “The boy here could still fuck it up anyway,” Y’neros commented. “Is it really necessary for you to speak?” Trova replied. The former necromancer scoffed. “You better warm up to the idea of my participation, boy. You need a specific type of blood composition, and guess who has the best cocktail in town?” he added, motioning to himself.
The bladedancer looked at Miri’el, praying it was a sick joke. He received no such affirmation. “Bol’rel himself exorcised this body. I’m sure there’s all sorts of interesting residues in there. My veins are probably the purest sample for darkdancer transformations in 1600 years,” Y’neros stated correctly. “You so readily boast about your tormented soul,” Miri’el replied in disbelief.
“They’re saying that the darkdancers are gone,” the girl interjected quietly. “You would be the first of the last chapter house.” Miri’el placed her hand on Trova’s shoulder. “The time is coming when these ghastly decisions won’t have to be made. The ritual only allows for seven transformations and six after you,” she explained softly.
“You know the value of a single shadow against any lightless army,” Y’neros rhetorically stated. “A single chapter would be a gift to Harth as a whole.” Trova rushed over and took the former necromancer by the collar. “ARMIES THAT SHIT LIKE YOU HELP FOSTER . . .” he shouted. “You don’t have a choice, Trova,” Y’neros replied calmly.
“I know I don’t have a fucking choice,” Trova exclaimed, forcefully releasing Y’neros. “There’s a compound on an isle to the south, which is not a terrible trek. I’d think it’s still in working order,” the former necromancer said plainly. Trova put a skunkweed cigarette between his lips as he calmly walked towards the doorway, stepping over the cheap door he’d kicked in.
Miri’el followed him out, using one of her large azure wings to shield him from the sprinkling raindrops. “Forgive my temper, ma’am,” Trova sighed. “We’re acclimated to you shadows. You’ve always been a lively bunch,” Miri’el replied with a chuckle. “Lively?” Trova answered with a smile. “I figured darkdancers, especially like you, were just a headache for most angels anymore.”
“Darkdancers are shadows that bend to the will of the Light,” Miri’el stated. “I don’t agree with portions of their history, but they’ve done more than their fair share in maintaining a balance on Harth. They were never meant to last forever.” Trova agreed. “You know what’s funny?” Miri’el asked. Trova glanced at the angel curiously, honestly not knowing what her punchline could be. “Your best friend growing up was a talking tree,” Miri’el answered playfully.
The preparations had been made that night inside an open-air complex on the small southern island. This complex remained the only structure to be found without crossing miles of water in any direction. Trova sat down in a reinforced chair while several restraints were fastened. The chair was tilted back; the IV introduced the twisted blood; and the reaction began.
Trova found himself struggling against a sandstorm of ember and dust, barely able to make out the ruins of distant cities in every horizon. All he could hear was the wind and crackling particles, using his coat to block his face from the sharp gusts. He picked a direction and began running, dodging debris that seemed to be growing larger and more frequent. It was becoming clear that something would still be acting against the bladedancer’s progress.
The strange realm became darker, and the strange storm became even fiercer. Dead bodies and limbs joined in with the growing arsenal of city debris while the same sand and embers continued to pelt Trova like hail. Even the boy’s impressive agility and acrobatics were falling short against the nightmarish wind tunnel.
He fell to the ground, promptly gripping the soil and continuing forward. His heroic strength was truly being tested to not be inched back. “I’ve never heard of an experience like this,” Trova thought to himself. “This doesn’t even make sense.”
He hadn’t thought to even look back, and once he did, he regretted doing so. Just the sight of billions of arms acting as the teeth of a living portal bathed in blood and fire was overwhelming. Trova’s eyes displayed enough fear for me to mention, yet he did much better than most would at the sight of that thing. HAH!
“Good luck, don’t die, huh,” he nervously smirked, “and here I’ve been studying for a temptation exam.” Just then, a heavy wrench smashed against Trova’s right hand. His left hand remained grasped into the ground, allowing him to shout his expletives and recover. Standing was far too risky at this point. At the very least, he was a smaller target to the torrent of debris.
Trova continued forward, catching the occasional bloody spray of a corpse flying by. All he could do was go forward, praying more than he had in quite a while. “I ca
n’t even see the fucking city anymore,” he said to himself, as a tank flipped over him. With every yard gained, Trova could tell his strength wouldn’t be reliable much longer.
Indeed, the bladedancer was taking on quite a beating from the wind and projectiles. “I can’t be alone here; there’s no way,” he thought. Two brutal minutes went by when the last of Trova’s strength gave way. He looked at the horrific hungering anomaly as he released his grip, but his hand was grasped by another pair. He looked forward through the parted winds, seeing a young lady, Mirym. She smiled and helped Trova to his knees. The hellish apocalypse continued around the two.
“Who are you?” Trova panted. Mirym turned and motioned to the tiny black wings on her back, each about the size of a man’s hand. “I’m quite familiar with angels. You’re not there yet,” Trova remarked plainly. “UGH!” Mirym scoffed. “Not even a thank you? You have to be a dick first? You’re just like Perga,” she exclaimed, folding her arms.
Trova watched as the endless debris continued to fly past them. “You couldn’t have helped me a little sooner?” he asked. “I didn’t know where you were until you finally called out from your heart--like three seconds before you let go. Stubborn punk,” Mirym replied combatively. “What is this?” Trova asked quietly, staring into the wailing anomaly. “A final gasp of life,” Mirym replied. “When?” he asked. Mirym shrugged.
“This is how it ends?” Trova asked. “Not exactly, but it is part of the end,” Mirym replied. “I wasn’t expecting to be a leader,” Trova remarked, “or, at least I was trying not to be.” “Onyx thinks you have it,” Mirym replied. “By the way, he’s a really cool guy.” Trova looked back at “the hunger,” plainly asking, “Any helpful hints?” Mirym smiled and took the bladedancer by the collar. “When you see Yana, tell her I said ‘hi,’” she replied, throwing the man into the shearing wind.
Trova, breathing heavily and shaking, returned to himself. Miri’el placed her hand on his head, easing his body instantly. His eyes opened, revealing the faint red glow of a darkdancer’s irises. “Who is Yana?” Trova asked wearily. The angel seemed amused by the darkdancer’s first question. “The summoner in Malene,” she answered kindly. Even Y’neros hadn’t heard details of a summoner being on Harth and was simply sitting back, watching everything unfold.
“What did you learn?” Y’neros exclaimed, expecting something earthshattering. Trova shrugged. “She said to tell Yana ‘hi,’” he replied casually. Trova felt well enough to stand but still wobbled a bit. “So, we need void energy to get to Malene,” the girl stated masterfully. “If the ritual can be performed now, I’d rather get it over with.” Miri’el looked at Stell with a subtle expression of hesitation. For Stella to say that, it meant this was the best time to do it.
The darkdancer glanced at the girl and then at the angel, as if awaiting her “approval.” Miri’el removed an onyx orb from her necklace, cupping it in one hand and covering it with the other. Then the angel slowly moved her hands apart, forming a jetshard whip. In all honesty, it was a rather menacing looking thing, but still the sort of beauty you don’t normally see from day-to-day. “You have the faculties of your being to proceed?” she asked the darkdancer. “Yes, ma’am,” Trova replied, truly having eased into his transformation.
Clearly saddened to do so, Miri’el laid the pearlescent-onyx whip on a table. Y’neros started to leave the area. “Let’s go, angel,” he said, motioning for Miri’el to come with him. Miri’el kissed the girl on her forehead and then walked after the former necromancer. Trova turned to look at the girl. His own sort of hesitancy was easy to read.
The girl had been studying the facility, making her way to the area that seemed appropriate for what had been described to her. Neither of them knew what to say right now. She stood in the center of a glyph with shackles and chains clanking above her. She began to undo her robes and attire, pushing the pile of clothes aside with her foot as the darkdancer approached.
Trova fastened the shackles on the girl’s wrist, causing a faint whimper to escape her. He did the same to her feet and then went to the lift control. She was raised just barely off the ground, losing a bit of her composure by the time she was in place. “Tr, Trova?” the girl stuttered.
At this point he was turned away, quickly learning the edges of the whip. “Hm?” he mumbled back. “N, never mind,” the girl retracted. The darkdancer then stood behind her and readied the onyx whip. The sounds of the surrounding island provided a relatively peaceful ambiance. The weapon barely made a sound as it broke through the air, landing a gash that practically ran the length of the girl’s spine.
Stella’s body failed to even vocalize the pain it felt in that first strike, but the air found it easier to escape as the second and third strikes came. Each of the thirty strikes was made with swift precision. The marks were deep and proportional in every manner. Certain lashes required very specific and impressively entertaining martial form.
Some ran the length of her body while others were only an inch across her cheek. The girl heard Trova set the whip down; but before she could begin to think to say anything, it felt like the fabric of her body was paralyzed in pain. “I don’t know what Miri’el explained to you thus far, but anything she mentioned about this part has probably been understated,” Trova remarked plainly.
The wounds were mending together slowly, but the scarred flesh was being replaced by what resembled black glass. A pinkish hue came to the color of the girl’s pain-filled eyes as the agonizing paralysis continued another 30 seconds or so.
Like a wave, everything seemed to pass. The girl couldn’t even feel her body by the end of the ritual, but she was trying to just keep her grip on reality. “Just breathe,” the darkdancer said calmly, undoing the bloody restraints at her feet. “Just listen to me and breathe,” he repeated as he continued to help her down. He grabbed one of her robes and draped it over her, himself staying on the blood-spattered ground so that she could rest against him.
A time when the bloody rituals will be satisfied with the blood of only One other. – R:So:07
In Asheya, Kush’hera had summoned for Swae. The archangel wasted no time appearing before the Celestial of Storms, bowing low when she came through her portal. “I hear among the nether that you’ve had an audience with Tal’Traxxi?” the feathered dragon asked with curiosity. “This is concerning the snake?” Swae answered.
“Something like that. Might you ask him to meet me at my lonely perch?” Kush’hera asked happily. Swae grinned. “I certainly can, ma’am.” “It appears as if these forms of ours are quickly becoming temporary. The least some of us can do is to fight together,” Kush’hera added confidently.
“How is Genri?” Swae inquired. “I’m sure they’re fine,” Kush’hera replied casually. “Azal’el will love to hear that you asked about him,” she added jokingly. The archangel gave a sly look at the Celestial. “What?” Kush’hera shrugged. “Say you’re sorry for killing all those people,” Sheth’rel stated.
“What?” Kush’hera gasped. “How many people did Deth kill? Did HE apologize?” “Kushiiiiii,” Swae said playfully. “You’ll be able to meet at least a handful of the folk you vaporized down there,” she added in kind. The Celestial grumbled a bit at the request but always honored a unique quality of Swae’s.
Sheth’rel chose to tether herself to humanity in a way that often is to her own detriment. In her words at the time of the decision--ahem: “So that some of us cheeky fuckers would remember to give a shit,” end quote. Because of that decision, an event like Deth killing off roughly a billion people in a few hours gave the sister a heart attack.
The Highest One intervened to heal her on that occasion.
“It’s the nature of the course that we’re on, archangel,” Kush’hera said stoically. “I understand why you did what you did. Perhaps you will find freedom from such a bond in the times to come,” she added. Swae grinned and gave a casual, yet res
pectful, bow as a portal opened behind her.
“You’re still my favorite angel,” Kush’hera remarked playfully. “And the only prettier dragon is Raey,” Swae replied in kind, just before the portal closed around her. “OH, COME ON!” the Celestial shouted, sitting on her hind legs. “The dude shows up ONCE and everyone’s all googly-eyed and taking notes,” she pouted to herself.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Bonfire City
After several days, Dema’s capital fortress was declared ready for destruction. Kitz stood quiet and dark on this night. The masses, dispersed among the encircling country, watched with anticipation, some even making a celebration out of the occasion. While it was a very fluid situation, the surviving population took pride in rumors of a new city literally being built around the clearing.
When the time came, the spectators heard some pops that were immediately followed with heavy booms and fiery explosions. Dust shown in the night sky from the light of the blasts as buildings crumbled, and the chain reaction continued throughout nearly 300 square miles. WHO’S READY FOR SOME FIREWORKS, LADIES AND GENTS? Hah!
“Dat be cool,” Kosho remarked as he watched in relaxation. “Trova neva’ did like dat place.” “Hopefully we won’t need artillery for a while,” Roju added. “This middle finger of his probably dried us out.” Kosho leaned to the side a bit and farted. “How’s dat for artillery?” he joked. Roju tossed a pebble at the troll’s forehead; then he stood and went elsewhere.
“It’s eerie thinking about all of the people on the other side of that pyre,” Enysa remarked in awe, “and on the other side of their little powwow.” “They’re really serious about building a new city?” “Aye!” Kosho shouted happily. “Me buddy wit da engineering department already say deh have its prototype drawn up. Da land where Kitz was will regrow while da city grows around it!”
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