Artorian pressed thumbs into his temples, then rubbed them in slow circles. “I’m… no… no, that doesn’t sound familiar. I thought it had to do with a story about the mountain being tossed from the moon, but of course that was preposterous.”
“It. Is. Not!” The cavern shuddered and violently shook as the intensity of the phantom’s words cracked stalactites, and the old man went diving for cover. Sharp sky rocks would certainly do some harm, and even though he was staving off infection and disease from all the dead via his Aura, it was too big a risk to take a hit.
The Blight fumed, roiling like an angry swarm; buzzing with the silenced screams of trapped minds trying to push free from its entrapping blubber. “My last fray with the first Aran was a battle of legend. We scoured the planet and fought on the three moons, back when there were three. How the balance twisted when the third was sent to the great unknown, merely to force me into underground entrapment and slumber. The brightest of the Golden Age destroyed their prosperity merely to buffet me like a wailing child.”
Cataphron scoffed, contained enough to talk locally again. “Human? Nay, I was never of such insignificant filth. I was Elven before my Apotheosis, as all the greats were. A true Elven, before the fracture. Before the fall. Before our race was shattered.”
The old man sat down on a large rock, watching Cataphron move wildly and talk more with his hands than even he did during an enthusiastic lecture. The Blight really loved talking about itself. Maybe he could do something with that… another nudge? Another nudge. “Here I thought you were from the great beyond all along, since nobody can figure out what you are.”
Cataphron faltered, a near weeping expression on his drooped face. “Oh, how the histories have muddled. The deepest knowledge is lost.”
The droop quickly flicked to a maddened ear-to-ear smile. “How I look forward to correcting such maladies. For I feel it. Claws hack at the outside of the mountain; they seek passage within. I need but one. But one… then my connection shall be powerful enough to resurge once more.”
Artorian once again had a cookie in his hand, though he looked at it disinterestedly. “So, just an Elf then. Odd body for an Elf. Very wispy, like a smoked pipe.”
The Blight snarled, swirling again as its irritation returned. “Do your ears serve only as repositories for wax? Was! I said I was an Elf! I have become more than Elven prowess. Even back then I was special. I survived the Ripping where others did not.”
The old man nibbled at the edge of the confection, repeating the words of note to make it sound like he was invested in the conversation. “The ripping, you say… but of course.”
Cataphron scoffed, as if such a young mortal could possibly understand the significance. He smiled, knowing that he could lord his knowledge over the old fool all he wanted. Like always, he would outlast any mortal. This tale calmed him and reminded him of that fact. He would win in the end. Victory would be all the sweeter when he watched this moth wink out against its dark flame.
“Oh yes… knowledge of Essence channels was so commonplace during the Golden Age that even peasants had their centers cleared of corruption. Yet I… I was special. My infernal channel, during an event of Ibis Ta—a gathering of power—went wild. The overabundant influx of the infernal ripped my channel open, forcibly closing all the others. They thought me dead, but I lived. I lived, and underwent apotheosis over the course of a scant few years. Why, it went by so swiftly that I barely remember the agony.”
Artorian no longer half-nibbled at his cookie. His eyes sternly locked on the hollow dark flames alight in Cataphron’s sockets. “You jest. You merely say this to deny me truth. If you had truly survived an affinity channel rip, which all sources say is fatal… you jest. There is no apotheosis, that means to become a divine.”
The dark, charismatic voice cut him off, “Or to become something else, beyond that which you were. Three years I suffered as the infernal took me. Replaced me. Yet as I changed, I learned things unimaginable. I tapped into power my peers could not reach and my tutors could neither grasp nor comprehend. I moved infernal in ways so natural that monks sought me out for guidance. My connection was so strong, Ascended sought me for answers. Do you truly not grasp what becomes of those who survive ripped Essence channels? We become something else.
“We become elementals.”
Chapter Five
“Tychus, did you have to kill another one of our retainers?” Grimaldus flipped a page in his book as he walked closely behind his brother. They had been evicted out of the ziggurat until they’d ‘regained enough honor’ to be seen by the Vizier once more.
In any other situation, this would have been a gift from the heavens themselves. They were out unsupervised, surrounded by thousands of refugees, and were far more powerful than the standard person they would encounter.
Grim looked down at the bone bracelet he was wearing, grimacing as he recalled the Vizier’s words: ‘While you wear these, you have my protection, and I will always be able to find you. There is nothing that will unintentionally break them, which means the moment it happens you will have proven that I can no longer trust you. Then, I will have no use for you. The Mistress, on the other hand, can always use more bodies.’
His brother *tsk’d* at the reminder. "I already told you, it is not my fault that their bodies are so frail!”
Tychus currently stood at six and a half feet tall, muscled so heavily that he nearly looked obese. "I gave him a supportive pat on his back when he was yelling at you, it is not my fault he died from a suggestive nudge!"
Grimaldus flatly accused his brother. "We both know that you have trouble controlling your body cultivation. We both also know that your control is not that bad. Just because someone is yelling at me does not mean they need to die. I know it is frustrating, and hard to understand, but it is better to serve the evil you know than an unknown."
Tychus rolled his massive shoulders and shoved yet another refugee-turned-raider out of his path. "Well, at least we get to enjoy some fresh air. I am certain that you are as sick of the pits as I am. Any thoughts on what we can do to get back in the good graces of the sublime Vizier?"
Grimaldus narrowed his eyes. Sometimes his brother truly did not know how to hold his tongue. "You must realize that your voice booms, and we are surrounded by literally thousands of people who would do anything to get in his favor?"
“I would love for someone to report me for calling him 'sublime'.” Tychus chuckled at the very thought. “What is going on over there? That seems promising."
Grimaldus followed his brother’s gesture, his eyes locking upon a massive sprawling arena that was currently under construction. On one of the completed arena rings, two people traded blows. “That must be the Vizier’s recent bid for the Mistress’s favor. He had recently mentioned a foolproof, unbeatable ranking system that he had designed."
"Unbeatable? Arena?” Tychus allowed a wide smile to break out across his rectangular-shaped face. "Perfect! We will become the champions of the arena, and by then not only will we have proven ourselves, brought honor, and given everyone plenty of time to cool off... but also gained a hefty sack of silver if I am reading that prize board correctly."
Grimaldus shook his head. "That may work for you, but all my cultivation allows me to do is kill. There is not very much I can do to someone beyond simply dissolving a chunk of their body, and I feel like that would not be taken very well."
Just then, the fight in the arena concluded in a spectacular fashion. The spear of the winner entered the front of the loser’s neck, exiting the back. The loser dropped to the ground, and the onlookers erupted into cheers. Tychus smirked over his shoulder at his smaller brother, “It appears that the matches can be to the death."
With a dark gleam in his eye, Grimaldus nodded along, now on board with the idea. “It appears I have found a way to progress my cultivation even while exiled from the pits, brother. Shall we register?"
Tychus just giggled.
Over t
he next few weeks, the brothers took on all challengers. The only time they refused to fight was when the arena matchmakers attempted to force them to fight each other. After the first two matchmakers were killed in lieu of one of the brothers, the others finally seemed to catch on.
After a month, the two were officially on the top one hundred list where they finally began to encounter dangerous foes. For the first time since they had begun, the duo were up against more than just simple F- or very low D-rank combatants. Still, they prevailed.
The reputation the two of them created for themselves was one of no mercy, no quarter, and that anything and everything would be used to win. After opening a position on the list for themselves by drenching the ground in blood, their next opponents and the ones after that simply bowed and forfeited.
During a match where Grimaldus’ opponent didn’t flake out, Tychus roared in appreciation as his brother’s opponent screamed when swarmed by skeletons. All opponents were given the opportunity to surrender, but after the initial refusal not a single one had ever been granted mercy. Grim was all smiles when a day later, he left the dais with another victory. "All of that reading is finally paying off! I saw no Essence loss today! Even better is that I do not need to burn yet another set of robes."
Grimaldus laughed along with Tychus as they stepped to the side and prepared for the next and final matches of the day. "Perhaps we will finally be taken seriously when we tell them we will only give them one chance to walk away without joining my growing horde."
A matchmaker walked up to the two of them, a cheeky smile brimming on his face. "It seems that the top fifty is as far as you go for now! I have just received orders from the Vizier: you are to present yourselves to him immediately."
The two brothers stood and turned as one, but the matchmaker had not finished, "Of course, since you are leaving right now, you will have to forfeit this match and the earnings from today's winning streak. Oh, abyss!"
The man dove to the ground as a boulder-sized fist lazily swept through the air where his head had been but a moment ago. "All I am doing is explaining! I get nothing out of this!"
The emerald-eyed brothers were already walking away, not sparing the man a second glance. When the Vizier gave you an order, you followed it on the spot if you wanted to remain alive. Grim chuckled at the memory of the pudgy matchmaker flinging himself away. “It appears we have gathered enough honor to regain our positions.”
"Sooner than expected, in my humble opinion," Tychus rumbled.
"You just wanted to continue spending your silver on the lovely camp followers," Grim teased his bulky companion. "And here I thought you would..."
He trailed off as he saw the expression on the quasi-giant's face.
Tychus had narrowed his emerald eyes at the sea of humanity around them. His voice lowered and quivered as it only ever did when they knew they had privacy. "What are we doing here, Grimaldus? Have we become irredeemable beasts? Look at me! Day by day I continue to grow, within a few years I will be a monster… what would Elder have-"
"Enough, Tychus!" Grimaldus demanded, his equally pained emerald eyes dangerously flashing. "You know we will do whatever we need to do in order to survive. It has been years since we came here, and it may be years before we can escape. We can only hope that when we do, we can forgive ourselves for doing what must be done."
"The fact of the matter, Tychus, is that we are the only ones that will need to find forgiveness. Well, perhaps Astrea is still out there, but the simple fact of that matter is that the Elder, just like everyone else we knew in the Fringe…"
"…died years ago."
Chapter Six
“Elementals.” Feeling very alive, Artorian cautiously repeated the word like he was tasting it in his mouth. He found it… encouraging. It served only to whet his appetite, though he held firm so as to not fall into another ruse. “The very basis of the Essence, given form, mind retained?”
Cataphron shouted in elation, pleased with the development. “Yes! See, even you can think if your betters spoon feed you the components like the little mortal baby you are…”
He paused as he saw the old man hold his chin, deep in thought. “Lost already? That’s not unex-”
“I’m counting.”
Cataphron gleefully allowed a partial smile as the left side of his lips curled upward. “Don’t hurt yourself too much for my sake. Actually…”
The Blight didn’t get a response from the hushed counting that was furiously happening on the old man’s fingers. He could make out a muddled mention of ‘two thousand’, see a head scratch, and then another attempt to start from the top. “Now you’re being worthlessly annoying again.”
Artorian looked up from his mathematics. “It just doesn’t add up. There’s no history dating back more than… maybe a few hundred years? Everything before that is just gone, or didn’t happen. This ‘golden age’ of yours. It never happened.”
The Blight’s mood soured, and it was visible on the possessed face of the undead infernal cultivator’s corpse. Artorian thought that was awfully expressive for a dead man. “Merely because you don’t know, doesn’t mean history didn’t happen, fool! Perhaps a lesson will make you see some stars.”
A malicious grin followed, and without waiting for a retort the Blight launched into a full ‘I know better than you’ tirade. Perhaps he could bore the codger to death with history. “Don’t worry: unlike mortals, I have done well to keep up with what you have so wastefully cast aside. If we say that the point we are at now is zero BC, Before Cataphron, then the years work as follows:
“Two thousand BC, the height of the golden age. The apex, the midpoint, the glorious spread of the Ever Empire. Knowledge of the Tower was at its zenith, and the Heavenly ascended near once a year, leaving this mortal coil for a greater purpose. My favorite of which was an old friend. He became the Heavenly of Order, keeper of vows and promises.
“It is through his magnanimous will that concepts such as land-laws, ownership contracts, and Mana-promises hold power. By your own might you make the vow, and by his oath, keeps you to yours. It is in this time that I transcend, and face unfair and unjust punishment for what I’ve become. It is here the third moon is sacrificed, and it is here we ring the bell of decline. For the age of plenty has ended.”
“Twelve hundred BC, the golden age comes to a screeching end. Gnomes go into seclusion due to persecution from the rise of the major Elven super nation. My nation. Currently they’re just called ‘Ancient Elves’, but we used to be so, so much more. Grand political struggles tore apart the accords of unison, and with their destruction… Essence knowledge is no longer shared; it is now hoarded, rather than kept as a cohesive whole. Species fracture amongst themselves, entire lineages and houses are lost in pursuit of safeguarding what little they can save.
“This was the last age where a Node was added to the Tower, and knowledge of the Heavenly made the rounds. No more have ascended to the heavens since this day, as no more iridescent borealis have graced the entirety of the sky.
“One thousand BC. One of my favorites… the Endless War. Due to horrendous strife, what becomes known as ‘the Endless War’ breaks out as attempts to secure the world’s best resource deposits come to a head. Gone are the days of politically agreeing to share basic needs. The strong survive, and the majority of higher end cultivators begin lineage feuds that will last for centuries.
“To the survivor… it’s nasty. It’s awful. Border slaughter runs rampant as the supernation starts to collapse. The call goes out, the last try for unity and peace. All remaining high-powered leadership gathers in the Socorro capital.
“Nine-fifty BC. The Meteor. After some serious infighting, a common cause is discovered when a space rock comes to say hello. It turns out that when you kick a moon out of orbit, it just comes back for revenge. It impacts the capital smack-center. The majority of the effects are mitigated at the cost of the lives of thousands of Mages and a grand majority of S-rankers and up.
“They saved the world as a whole, and I have my first taste of sweet vengeance. They lost their world, no matter that the world itself survived. The Elves shattered into splinter species. Ancient Elves become ‘Wild Elves’ since their entire civilization is gone. Only rubble and ruin remain, their ways of life split along with their self-aggrandized species.
“Knowledge of cultivation retreats into the recesses of the world, and those who have it become the new nobility as the Endless War comes to an end. There are none left to fight, and those who do remain are broken. It is time to consolidate, and plan anew!
“The old world is dead… long live the new world. A mere century afterwards, the new generation of mortals that have come and gone have no clue what came before. History is different. The old ways are taught no longer. It is taboo to do so, for those teachings brought only ruin. The powerful are reclusive, despising intervention into their personal affairs. Interlopers are silenced. Scholars are culled. Knowledge is scoured and stolen between ancient houses for scraps of a monument that no longer stands.
“New ways of life spring up, and the old world ignores them. New wars break out, and the old world lets them happen. Undead march the lands, and the old world lets it happen. Conflicts are waged between forces not their own, and those who survive remain of the opinion that the new world is not their concern. Hundreds and hundreds of years, and the old world remains passive; culled by their own hubris. Locked in their own torment. All who live from that age are mad, lost, broken… or me.” The Blight savored that last syllable with a succulent slurp.
How it had eaten, and eaten, and eaten the minds of eons of people. How each mind added to its intellect, even as it added to its propensity for distraction. The Blight remained distanced from madness, for there was always another passion in which to indulge. A passion of hunger, for existence was to feast, and all the world had been laid before it on a table.
Artorian's Archives Omnibus Page 81