The Ur-River stretched like a band of sapphire across the void between realms. It was not a true place, not as any born of the realms could understand it. It was more like an echo, or an expression. As the Ur-River wound its path through all the realms, flowing from one to the other, there must be a point between one and the next where it was in both, or neither. Into that liminal space, shining like a diamond on the sapphire band, Eklsyium reappeared.
Several months had now passed since that cataclysmic confluence of magics tore Azyr asunder and cast the Vale of Singing Stars into the Ur-River.
The city arrived more or less intact, scarred by the months of war but still whole. Its streets had become wide canals, the calm waters of the Ur-River gently flowing through them. The unstable portals that had plagued the city for months were gone, their energy coalesced into dozens, perhaps hundreds of small realmgates scattered across the length and breadth of Eklysium. They connected to places along the Ur-River’s course, to great cities and tiny villages, to wild lands and ancient ruins. Once the initial shock to both sides had passed, new trade, materials, foods, ideas and people began flowing into the formerly isolated city.
It did not take long before the value of a single city that connected the length and breadth of the Ur-River became apparent, and soon Eklysium had begun to blossom as a burgeoning trade hub. Trading launches no larger than a single punter could manage but carrying goods from all corners of the realms flooded through the city’s canals, and its resurgent marketplaces were alive with sights, sounds and smells never experienced in the highlands of Azyr. Adventurers and fortune-seekers came in droves, looking to use the city as a port to venture through the many unknown and untracked realmgates, or delve deep into the city’s depths. Below their feet, the twisting passages of the Citadel had been largely preserved, the magic of the Wards preventing them from collapsing into the river or flooding- at least for the most part. They had become a sprawling, unending dungeon rife with the relics of those lost in battle with the Perfected, wild and predatory magics left unchecked, and monsters drawn through realmgates hidden in the depths. Even further down, the Wards still churned with magics, keeping the Citadel and the city above functioning, and closely guarded by those who remained after the war.
As the people of Eklysium recovered and readjusted to their new reality, now free from the threat of Mogrek or the Perfected, thoughts turned once more to the conflicts that had driven the city to war.
Across Eklysium
As the Vale recovered in the aftermath of Za’loc-ta’s ritual and adjusted to the new and strange world the people of Eklysium found themselves in, it fell to the survivors to forge a new order. Those with clear heads called for an immediate parley between the coalitions, a call the war-weary people of the city were relieved to accept. All signs of the Perfected were gone - the city’s transit into the Riverpaths seemed to have expelled them, their celestial forms unable to manifest in this space beyond the realmspheres. They were not free of danger, however. Rogue monsters and worse still emerged from the unreachable realmgates below. Mindless undead, those that lost their masters or were spawned by the tragedies and wild magics of the preceding months, still haunted the ruins. Banditry ran rife, as soldiers who lost their commanders and citizens that lost everything turned on those who had not. Organization, infrastructure and leadership were needed to protect those who remained and begin the long process of rebuilding. Fortified in their landmark strongholds across the city, no one coalition had the strength to claim complete control of the city, or the desire to renew the conflict that had torn it apart, and so a careful alliance that would come to be known as the Triumvirate emerged.
With Grakko Thunderhide’s compassionate heart broken, her decision to die for the Vale left the March of Thunder in disarray. After abandoning the civilians of Eklysium during the Perfected assault, the remnants of the March found themselves isolated from the dealings of the other coalitions. Many would leave, returning once more to the realms, yet a small but tightly-bound core remained in possession of the March’s holdings. Renaming themselves the ‘Thunder-scarred’, these survivors would play an important role in determining the Vale’s future.
With full understanding and control over the Aurothermatic Engine, the Thunder-scarred fortified their position in the dense and dangerous vegetation of the Wilds and set to work on the arcane machinery. In honour of Grakko’s memory, the Aurothermatic Wilds returned much of the Vale to its natural state - a wild and primordial place, its mountain storms no longer leashed just to keep the lands isolated. It was harsh but fair, and any could survive off the land so long as they had the will and cunning to do so. With this leverage, the Thunder-scarred were able to bring the rest of Eklysium to the bargaining table, securing their independence and peace in the Wilds in exchange for allowing crops to grow without fear of sudden frosts or unending winter.
Despite failing to reclaim the Tempest’s Eye, Grakko Thunderhide’s name would live on as a whisper in the halls of the Thunder-scarred and across the Dragon-ogor diaspora. While Thunderscorn hopes of reclaiming an ancestral home were dashed once more, Grakko’s beliefs and ideals would live on in people seeking greater change, those wanting to return to simpler times, or those who wished to right ancient wrongs. The March of Thunder faded to an echo, but one that resonated within the Vale - and beyond.
To many an outsider’s surprise, Wolfram Industries honoured its deals with the Valeguard and Boltbreakers. Those who had grown close to Dainn Brisingrsson during the war knew he would, though few of them could know how much their camaraderie and shared burdens had allowed the revenant to maintain his tenuous grasp on his humanity - and ideals. Wolfram’s staff taught their allies how to better utilize their relics, though conveying that information took time. And in that time, Wolfram Industries had used the Oculus Sanctum to secure their control of Eklysium’s trade. Though they could not fully control the realmgates across the city, they could manipulate their flow and even with effort deny access, giving them unprecedented control over the city’s commerce and immigration. With this influx of wealth and fresh mercenaries bolstering their numbers, Wolfram embedded itself like a tick in the Vale, turning their territories into formidable redoubts.
However, denied their claim over the profitable Gloamsend mines and the support it would have brought from the Kharadron’s Geldraad, Wolfram Industries lacked the power to be more than a junior partner in the Triumvirate that formed. ‘Concerned citizens’ groups banded together from the upper and lower levels of society to curtail their influence, while laws were crafted to keep them from monopolizing trade or abusing laborers. Knowing that combatting these would lead to a war against both his allies, Dainn accepted this lesser role within the Triumvirate, at least for the time being. It was not a hardship, as the wealth it brought the Corporation was considerable, and Wolfram used it both to bankroll their growth and support the reconstruction of the Vale. Knowing the crucial role they could play in tipping the balance of power against either of the senior allies should the Triumvirate ever collapse, Wolfram Industries was content to watch and wait, using their growing wealth to slowly win over the hearts and minds of Eklysium.
In the wake of the War for the Vale, Prefect Pelham shed his moniker of ‘Unready’ just as ‘Strong’ Junnrik had become far more than a mere Foreman. Their forces worked together closely during the war, but tensions continued to grow as time passed and the same question was asked again and again and again: “Who would rule?”
Pelham stood at a crossroads of conscience. Though he still held the title of Prefect, it was clear that enforcing that claim would only plunge Eklysium back into war. With the city’s violent departure from Azyr and the purpose of Sigmar’s ancient decree now gone, it seemed clear that the traditional role of the Prefect no longer had a role in this new dawn. Therefore, with his final official act, he granted full clemency to everyone in the Boltbreakers rebellion that had aided in the defense against the Perfected, then abdicated both his personal position and the hereditary claim to the title of Prefect.
The Valeguard would endure, returning to their traditional role as the peacekeepers and guardians of Eklysium. No longer a private household guard, the force fell instead under the nominative control of a city senate, as soon as one could be formed. The Valeguard retained a great deal of power and prestige, not least of which was due to their control of the Astramere, the magical conduit for the entire Vale. Though their mastery of the device was far from perfect, the ability to minimize or redirect the flow of magic was a potent check on the powers of the other coalitions. In short order, a posting within the Valeguard became a highly sought after position, as nobles and common folk alike saw it as a way to make connections and forge a future career in the city’s halls of power. Under the control of a new commander, the ogor Syr Ebongorger formerly of the Starfall Glade Knights, the Valeguard grew into an influential pillar of the new city.
Pelham surprised many when he chose not to run against Junnrik for the newly created position of Consul, instead throwing his support and the influence of the city’s elite behind his former rival. With the support of the Temple of Sigmar, and under Pelham’s guidance, new temples and citadels to the pantheon of Order were raised, and arcane colleges formed by attracting skilled wizards from across the Ur-River. News of their victories drew in many faithful immigrants, while the Astramere’s empowered ley lines attracted many promising wizards backed by old money. To all, it seemed that Pelham was content to act as the highborn secondary face of the Triumvirate, letting all he had learned from his Valeguard allies show his quality and leadership to the people of the city.
Though he had been forced to make sacrifices and compromises he never thought possible, Junnrik’s ideals for peace and equality had endured the worst of the War for Eklysium. Faced with the harsh realities of rebellion and invasion, he and his Boltbreakers had done what was needed to save as many innocent lives as possible, and save many they did. While the Valeguard prioritized tradition and stability, the March history and power, and Wolfram resources and knowledge, the Boltbreakers bled to keep the people of the Vale safe. Many of Eklysium’s citizens flocked to their banners, willing to take up arms and lay down their lives in the Union’s name, especially after Junnrik proved that even common folk could rise up and foil the plans of powerful corporations like Wolfram Industries. Aided by the strength and training of the many Stormcast that saw the virtue in his cause, and the countless skilled blades and cunning minds that his diverse array of allies brought, the Union’s cause soon won over a significant portion of Eklysium’s citizens.
Junnrik had never expected to have to rebuild the city he loved brick by brick, either metaphorically or physically. He had fought against tyranny, corruption, and abuse his whole life, but months of war had turned his world upside down, as did the early days of strained peace that followed. As skilled at building bridges as he was at building walls, Junnrik reached out to Pelham and Dainn with a path to true peace. He proposed the triumvirate, an alliance that would allow them to share both the power and the burden of rebuilding the city. Working together through many long nights to ensure violence did not break out between their coalitions, a path was found at last that they each could live with. What he did not expect was that each of his allies would begin that path to begin by thrusting him into power, first as an interim Consul, then supporting him officially in the Vale’s first-ever true election.
Junnrik was named the first Consul of what was declared the Eklysian Republic. The name honoured all those that fought for Eklysium, that fell defending its people, even if they also fought against the Union at times. Yet the name also signaled a shift from the old regime that had been defined by the strictures of a long distant past. Eklysium’s social strata were restructured, with basic rights enshrined for all. Under Junnrik’s watching eye, a senate would be formed with representation from the guilds, the unions and the nobles, and a new code of laws written to ensure each could prosper. As the realmgates brought materials and people flooding into the city, a population ravenous for change after their centuries of isolation welcomed them with open arms, and eased many of the strains of the old prefecture while opening entirely new problems for Junnrik and his advisors.
For the Boltbreakers Union, the transition from revolutionary front back to a labourers’ collective was a difficult, if rewarding one. Many followed Junnrik into positions of power, leaving behind the life they had known. Others were happy to simply get back to work and put the conflict behind them. The Union experienced a surge of new recruits, those inspired by the heroics and romance of the revolution or the shine of proximate glory. In short order the Union found itself in an unexpected position of prestige and influence. Buoyed by popular support and with its members all throughout the halls of power, they became the social elite within the city. The most important duty of the Boltbreakers, however, was to maintain the Ohmling Forgeheart. Though their limited knowledge could not reawaken the ancient constructs at its heart, they had no intention of doing so. Skilled craftsmen worked with the formidable tools and forges within, even its diminished power sufficient to produce supplies for Eklysium’s survivors. Repairing the damage above was the first priority, but in time expanding its bounds to accommodate all the new travel and preserving the structures of the dungeon below so the city wouldn’t break apart in the river would demand their constant labour and skill. Secure in the knowledge that all major construction in the city would need to go through them, the Boltbreakers Union was assured a seat at the head of the table for a long time to come.
The Republic of Eklysium, or more simply the Eklysian Republic, was not a perfect system despite the ideals it was built upon. Some of Junnrik’s most radical followers whispered that he had not gone far enough in purging the city of the former nobles, the wealthy and the powerful. Other guilds complained behind closed doors that the Boltbreakers had risen too far too fast, putting their own advancement over the people at large. Nobles schemed to reassert their dominance in society, while zealots preached at the erosion of societal values with the embrace of savage species. Rogue researchers and wizards conducted unethical experiments in the strange new space and outside forces sought to manipulate events within this critical hub. But even Junnrik’s former enemies knew his heart to be in the right place, and supported him in ironing out any major issues that could threaten the peace their triumvirate represented - even as they worked with one another to ensure none of them threatened that same balance of power. Doing good was never easy, and good intentions could often be abused by those without them. There was always more work to be done and progress to be made, which took time and commitment to change.
Though greed, resentment, division and hate would ever dwell like hidden fault lines, at least so long as mortals held sway, this New Eklysium was stable - at least in that moment. In every corner of the Vale, where those brave few had fought and died to carve this future, their memories still shaped the land.
The Signarch Basin
Even before its sundering and the Ur-River’s great flooding, the Signarch Basin was the breadbasket of Eklysium, and in the aftermath that followed it was more essential than ever to ensure its growth. Before the war had even ended, the Boltbreakers and the March of Thunder had done what they could to restore the Signarch, working together to clear scuttled ships and rotting bodies that dammed rivers and streams, carefully sifting spent munitions and bombs from soil so it could be tilled and planted, and calling on shamans and healers to deal with the toxic-haze. In the aftermath, with the help of the Valeguard and even Wolfram Industries, they had fully restored the Signarch Basin to its full capacity, and adapted its infrastructure to the great flood. Fortunately, the Basin had always been dammed to control water into it for irrigation purposes, so it fared better than most areas. Yet its bloated rivers formed blurry constellations and it still sported one or two new mirror lakes that were at least home to large and tasty, if frequently vicious, fish.
Having done the lion’s share of the fighting, those loyal to the Boltbreakers claimed the lion’s share of the Signarch. The entitled land owners had been banished, and all attempts to reclaim their titles were dismissed by the courts. The lands were instead cooperatively owned by the people who worked them, to do with and profit from as they saw fit. While farms were raised in these areas, parts of the Signarch were allowed to remain wild and free. Those loyal to the March had removed the corruption from their portion of the Basin, and allowed nature to run rampant there. Beasts and plants that Grakko had told tales of, that had not been seen since Sigmar’s purge, returned to their habitats there and in the Vale’s mountains, as did small packs of Thunderscorn, other beastfolk, and bonesplitterz that would find no home within New Eklysium itself.
It was not the glorious homecoming Grakko had wished for her people, but it still became a refuge to more than a few who could otherwise have been driven to extinction. And while they had no place in New Eklysium, they did find some welcome as neighbours within the Signarch Basin. Though they did find some of their neighbours to be rather annoying…
***
“Not sure I feel lucky no more,” Val grumbled as he hacked away at a persistent, thorny weed. “Damn plants are more hardy than I am these days!”
“You’re always complainin’,” Marcel replied, struggling with his own weed. “‘least we ain’t goin’ it alone like them March folk over there.”
“They seem to be having a great time of it!” Val said, looking across the Signarch to where beastfolk and more hunted down primordial animals and put the remaining flesh-plants to the torch. “Bet they’re making a sport of it!”
“Quit yappin’ and help me with these weeds!”
“Need some help?” an orruk asked, pausing in his hunting to wander over to them.
The two old men looked at one another, then back at the orruk before nodding.
“Won’t say no to a helpin’ hand!” Val said, already on his feet.
“And thank you, always good to see young lads like yourself willin’ to help us old farts out.” Marcel added, shooting a frown at his friend. “You got a name, son?”
“Name’s Krozuz, an’ I’m happy t’ help,” the orruk said with a toothy grin, easily tearing the weeds from the zpuds that were nearly ready for the picking. “We’z gotta work together, right?”
“Right you are lad,” Marcel said. “Gotta make sure as much of this harvest is good to go, lots of hungry mouths to feed.”
“That’s right,” Krozuz replied, though his gaze wandered to where other orruks were roasting a fresh boar over a fire. “Think we’ll be eatin’ zpuds for much longer?”
“Should be the last round of’em! Soils lookin’ healthier now, should take to a proper crop cycle again!”
“How can you tell?” Krozuz leaned in eagerly.
Like any old men, Marcel and Val were more than happy to share their wisdom with their new friend, as well as their thoughts, opinions, and more.
***
Starseer Aerie
Though heavily damaged, the Starseer Aerie remained a potent symbol for the Boltbreakers Union throughout the war and the days that followed. It symbolized their first victory against the Valeguard and the old, stagnant order they represented, a sign of the changing of the times, and was given top priority when the reconstruction efforts began. Due largely to the knowledge held within, it became an early seat for the new Eklysian government. Union and Valeguard scholars worked together to comb through the ancient laws, edicts and judgements stored in its walls, toiling to ensure a better and more just way forward. While Pelham abdicated the Prefecture at the Temple of Sigmar, it was officially annulled here, and the new guiding covenant signed by the members of the Triumvirate. That document and many others sit enshrined now, their rulings paving the way for the Eklysian Republic’s prosperity as a safe haven and trade city upon the Ur-River.
Though the eventual creation of a senate and expanded government functions would in time move the Republic’s seat to the former Palace of the Prefects, the Aerie remains a landmark and living memorial to the city’s history. The Mirror-masks that once reflected the cosmos are still housed within, yet after the founding of the Eklysian Republic, the stars and constellations appear dire and vengeful. Consul Junnrik ordered a memorial built here for all who perished during the final struggle against the Perfected, ensuring that those lost would never be forgotten, no matter their allegiance. Whispers from those who worked on the memorial tell of the Consul hiding a secret chamber within the Aerie, one that would provide the blueprint for another rebellion, should the values of New Eklysium begin to wane.
Archive of Swords
As a new dawn rose on New Eklysium, twilight fell upon the remains of the March of Thunder. With their leader dead, the already loose conglomerate fell into two opposing factions: one that championed Grakko's ideals of freedom and justice, the other her more ruthless and destructive tendencies. Many others simply wandered away, their purpose lost alongside their leader. This may not have been a major concern for the other residents of New Eklysium, the remnants of the March burning themselves out like a guttering flame. That may well have been were it not that the conflict was contained within the Archive of Swords.
With both sides locked in an ever-escalating arms race as they discovered and deciphered ever more destructive prophecies within the Archive’s weapons, the devastation began to spill out into the streets beyond the Archive. Those in the faction calling themselves Grakko’s Legacy attempted valiantly to contain the destruction, but the battle was a decidedly uphill affair. The other faction, who referred to themselves as the Wrath of the Thunderhide, attempted time and again to escape the confines of the Archive and conquer New Eklysium. The Archive of Swords had become a powder keg that threatened to explode at any moment, and in the aftermath of the war there were few left with the strength to contain the fallout.
Into this rising inferno stepped a figure, cloaked and diminutive and wielding the shattered remnant of Grakko’s Thunderblade like a greatsword. Wordlessly they strode into the Archive of Swords, bypassing the cordon around the area without a word. Within days, the Archive of Swords fell eerily quiet, much to the unease of the rest of the residents of New Eklysium. Eventually the figure strode out once more, uncloaked and revealed as the Rovskyr warlord Lipé the Starblade, one of Grakko’s most trusted lieutenants. Through deft command of the lessons she had learned from Grakko, when to show compassion and when to apply ruthless pragmatism, she had reunited the much diminished ranks of the March of Thunder under a new banner, a new nation of starlight and thunder - the Thunder-scarred.
After diplomatic talks with the other leaders of New Eklysium, Lipé was able to establish a base within the Archive from which her people could operate, trading their services as mercenaries and hunters. Along with these tasks, Lipé mounted exploratory expeditions into what few wartorn remnants of the undercity had escaped the flooding with the hope of discovering more about the past of her people as well as Grakko’s own. It was through these same efforts that they reconnected with the other remnants of the March holding the Aurothermatic Wilds and the mountains surrounding the Vale, and began the long and laborious process of reestablishing diplomatic ties. Over time, the city quarter surrounding the Archive of Swords grew to be a cosmopolitan and bustling district with a culture rooted in the deep past and with a view towards a new future. This new quarter would eventually take on a name of its own divorced from those that came before. It came to be known as Reclamation.
Nebularch Court
Lucrum suffered badly in the flooding of New Eklysium, and little of what stood before now remained. Pelham’s bureaucrats maintained that authority over the 2nd House had never been forfeited, but possession was nine-tenths of the law, and Lucrum would both have been lost and now would not be rebuilt without Junnrik’s Union.
What replaced the coin-halls of Lucrum was a place of peace and culture. Eklysium had known prosperity for so long, and had now lost so much so suddenly. The Nebularch Court became a gathering place of civics and art, while the Starroot Grove would be tended by displaced gardeners and botanists. As culture returned, a “Library of Chung” took root, attracting academics and loreseekers alike, as well as educating the less fortunate. Trades continued to flourish, but not the cut-throat coin-houses of greedy merchants and fat bankers. Perhaps more than anywhere else, Lucrum came to represent the new reality of the city’s populace - and, in a way, carried forward even Grakko Thunderhide’s tenets of remembered heritage and a life simply lived.
The Dreamer’s Gate
As the people of New Eklysium began to rebuild, what remained of the Gate was left undisturbed, a memorial to all those who had been lost to the war. Instead, an unadorned tablet was set and simply inscribed:
Here We Fought
Here We Fell
Here We Rest
None could say how it began, but it became commonplace to leave keepsakes and tokens, the names of those remembered scratched into the tablet’s surface by caring hands. For many in the Valeguard in particular, it became a sort of pilgrimage site, and it was seen as a mark of esteem to be posted to guard its walls and the lower levels of the Citadel beyond.
The Aetheric Bastion
Deep within the Vale’s bowels, the Aetheric Bastion glowed with power. Staffed by Wolfram Industries’ inner circle, they used it to direct the Howling Abyss that once defended the Chamber below and to control arcanotech machinery throughout the stormfort. However, honouring their bargain, the Valeguard were granted access to the Aetheric Bastion’s resources, and a select few of their trusted people slowly but surely trained in its complex operations as well. Rumours ran rampant about the Bastion’s capabilities, deadly defenses it could activate on a whim, penumbral engines that it must have controlled all across the Vale, ancient histories that had been recorded in secret, and even whispers that it could remotely operate the Citadel Wards below.
Yet the rumours could never be substantiated, for Wolfram and the Valeguard kept silent about the Bastion, and all attempts at espionage and infiltration met with failure. Both coalitions studied the Bastion’s inner workings and many an experiment fed the rumour mill further, but whether or not it could tip the balance of power remained to be seen. It certainly became one of the most fortified sections of the Vale, bristling with arcane weaponry to ward off overt attacks while the best and cruelest minds in counter-intelligence guarded its secrets. In the meantime, Wolfram’s technologies seemed to advance rapidly, as did the Valeguard’s spellcraft.
The Fallen Queen
Lipé leaned against a pillar in the secluded square, watching as the attendees paid their respects at the memorial and filtered out. Kuugax had left a traditional Goroan carving, any such crafts from his and Grakko’s own Thunderscorn culture long since lost to violence and time. It was almost as big as the memorial itself, and Lipé once again found herself shaking her head at the absurdity of the situation. What a colossal figure to be reduced to such a sparse memorial. She’d petitioned to have a statue erected in the heart of Reclamation, but Grakko was still a deeply controversial figure across Eklysium. No amount of good will towards Lipé’s new regime would fully erase the image of a murderous monster in much of the city’s populace, so this was the best she had been able to manage. She hoped that Grakko would have at least liked it.
In fact, Lipé considered, she might have liked this better. She couldn’t imagine Grakko wanting a statue of herself built in life. Even in victory the Shaggoth would have probably sought a quiet, peaceful life in a restored homeland with no care for accolades or glory. No, despite Lipé’s own anger at the injustice of the situation, she had to admit that this was what Grakko would have wanted. Somewhere quiet to rest after her long, long journey home.
As the last of the attendees finally left, Lipé pushed herself off the pillar and walked slowly up to the memorial. It was surrounded by a field of flowers not seen in the Realms since Grakko’s own childhood, courtesy of a single surviving Rovskyr seed-store discovered deep within the depths of the Chamber by Vala. The monument itself was wordless, a rough stone plinth rising from the soil, surrounded by a collection of smaller stones arranged to bring to mind the Pillars of Scorn. Atop it was a pair of small stone figures: a Shaggoth and his daughter, a reminder of a life that never had the opportunity to be. Lipé took one last look before turning to leave, but as she did she could have sworn that the figures had moved. Her attention snapped back, but no. They were as inert as ever. It had looked, just for a moment, as if the pair were walking together into a forgotten future.
The Revenant Magnate
Dainn Brisingrsson was ushered into the Consul's office, and the warmth in the room vanished. Relaxed guards tensed like coiled steel, ready to spring into action should the revenant try anything.
"A pleasure to see you," Junnrik said, his tone suggesting it was anything but.
"Yer gettin' better at lyin', Consul Junnrik!" Dainn replied with a chuckle. "Tha's good, you'll need it."
"I plan t' guide this city with honour an' integrity," Junnrik replied, his frown deepening. "Seemed good enough t' best you."
"Did no' come here to quibble the details, me Lord Consul." Dainn raised his hands in mock surrender. "Jus' came to say me farewells."
"Wolfram's pullin' outta New Eklysium?"
"No, I've personal business to attend to elsewhere, but have no fear, I've a good replacement comin' to oversee Wolfram's continued interests here." Dainn's mortal smile grew at Junnrik's disappointment, while his malignant core revelled in whatever pain he could cause him.
It took all of Dainn's willpower to restrain the unnatural urge to fly across the desk to tear Junnrik apart; cold, mortal logic of the idiocy and futility of the attempt reinforced by magical runes scarred into his soul keeping him vaguely in control. As well as memories of others, and thoughts of the future, kept tightly in mind. Instead, he managed to hold out his hand and say.
"Good luck, Junnrik. I hope the office does no' tarnish yer ideals too much. An' that they don' get you or yers killed."
The mortals eyed the hand like it were a snake, but ever the trusting sort Junnrik reached out and shook the smaller hand gently, but firmly. He braced for what he knew was coming, but the memories crashed into him like a flood. The times Dainn trusted only to get betrayed, losing those close to him and bearing those scars forever. The times Dainn sacrificed just a part of his ideals, adapting to manipulative and cruel tactics by rival executives and corrupt commanders, until little by little he became what he hated most. He saw the good Dainn and Wolfram had done, by making hard, cold calls, but while those memories tunnel-visioned on the results, Junnrik could see the costs others paid for Wolfram's advancements and successes. They may have saved many lives at the cost of a few, but those few were never given a choice, were never more than a number in an equation.
The pain of losing those closest to him pushed Dainn to defend himself and them by any means. And in the end, that meant making others the victim so his people might be safe. Until he made more powerful enemies, and the collateral escalated again and again and again. Things may have gotten much worse after Nagash cursed him, but Dainn's hands were far from clean even in life, no matter how much he wished - hoped - that he was doing good in the world.
"I'm sorry you grew up opposin' a society that saw you only as a means to an end," Junnrik said after the visions faded, and he kept Dainn's small hand in his vice-like grip. "I'm sorry that opposition cost you everything, even your ideals. That you couldn't escape it even when you tried, that even those closest to you turned on you in the end. I won't let Eklysium become the society you opposed, because of what it turned even a man like you into."
"I know," Dainn replied, his unholy voice a somber dirge. But flames of spite and anger flickered about it as well. "Tha's why I, an' those like me, will always hate you, big guy. You make us look back at all our decisions, which we've justified a thousand times over, an' make us ask... 'What if...?' What if I had stuck to me guns? What if I had run me own rebellion? What if, what if, what if."
When they locked eyes, Dainn could see the sadness in the gentle gargant. And the pity, knowing well that his eyes of burnished gold had faded into a trampled and forgotten copper that were not unlike Junnrik's plain, muddy brown eyes.
"I look back an' see all the times I nearly died in a ditch or a trench cuz of greater powers I offended. How that woulda been my end had I not compromised. But you... So full of Hope that you'd believe lil' ol' me coulda made a difference, saved even more lives without sacrificin' others… That makes me question even the good I have done…"
It was all Dainn could do to suppress his malignant curse, and its hatred for all things living. All things that reminded him of his failures, of what could have been, and that made all he did accomplish seem lacklustre by comparison.
"I know," Junnrik whispered. "An' I wish I could help ya, take some of that burden off ya, but I know folk like you won't let me, or anyone else, that close. Might be for good reason, might be too late. But... For what it's worth Dainn, I hope you can find peace some day." Junnrik's grip tightened once more. "An' if you ever give up findin’ it through experiments an' dark rituals, you know where to find me an' my hammers."
Dainn blinked, then laughed. "Aye, yer right, we coulda been good friends in another world. Shame, that. Keep yer hammers, big guy, I'll find me own freedom from Nagash's grip, so you can go worry 'bout the well bein' of the down trodden, an' maybe yerself fer a change."
They parted ways, and Dainn's private security ushered him into a small sky-ship, which took off from the water and into the air. As they flew low over 7th House, where Junnrik had erected the new Consul's office, he admired the camaraderie across so many disparate peoples that worked together to build new homes above the flooded foundations of the old city. They laughed and sang as they worked, and while they may not have been efficient, they were well motivated and skilled.
“Profits are up for the quarter, Lord-Magnate,” his bodyguard reported, hesitating to continue.
“Aye, but we did no’ hit our targets, you don’ need to sugar-coat it fer me.” Dainn replied softly, sounding tired as he leaned over the railing. “I prepped the Board fer this arready, kept ‘em focused on long-term gains as the return on our investment here. New Eklysium’ll become a new center of trade, an’ Wolfram’ll get a cut of it all in addition to exertin’ meaningful control over those contracts to boot. Not to mention all we’ve learned… What else?”
As they entered 4th House, Wolfram's crews were smaller, and less jubilant. Focused on efficiency, they still chatted and laughed now and then, but most worked alongside emotionless golems, directing them to do much of the basic or dangerous labour. 4th House had not fared particularly well in the Perfected assault on the Cradle of Iron Wings. But with the collapse of the many ancient structures came the opportunity for reconstruction, and the 4th House of Eklysium was turning into an industrial park and endrineering campus to support Wolfram’s growing family of staffers and partners. The Cradle itself had fared somewhat better than the neighbouring buildings, already patched up and remade into Wolfram’s dark, sleek image.
“... research into repairing Noctis continues at the Oculus Sanctum, and Sales is hoping to get the new servant-class golems to market within the year - with security’s blessing, of course. Hydra Company reports fewer infiltration attempts at the Bastion, and markedly fewer attempts to undermine the triumvirate this past month,” the bodyguard said, drawing Dainn’s attention back to his reports.
“Good work as always, me an’ the Board could no’ be more pleased with our acquisition of yer group.”
“Thank you, sir. Oh, and I have a note here that the final package you requested has been delivered.”
“Excellent, thank you,” Dainn said, perking up. His transport docked at the Cradle and his bodyguard ushered him down the ramp as the Lord-Magnate continued speaking. “Are there any outstandin’ matters that need my attention? Documents or priorities I need to address right this minute?”
“No, sir.”
Dainn took a deep breath and sighed, exhaling a cocktail of emotions through the otherwise useless, organic gesture. “Arright then, take off early fer the night, lad.”
He patted the surprised man on the shoulder and entered his private lift, descending down through the Cradle of Iron Wings. As he looked out at his new home, all Dainn could see were the empty spaces. Where the people that had fought for him laughed over tins of tar-like coffee, where engineers combed over machines of war ensuring they didn’t let anyone down, and where folks had found escape from their inner daemons in dance, drink, dice, or more. Many of the familiar faces had died, moved on to new contracts, or both. Replaced by fresh faces or the growing numbers of Wolfram’s new golems, bolstered by the Ohmling designs that the Boltbreakers had passed on to his people.
The lift descended into the depths and Dainn was left alone in the darkness with his memories, the weight of them seeming to drive the elevator down faster and faster. He rubbed at the jagged tattoos of Ur-Gold he had carved into his soul, that kept it shackled away from Nagash’s grasp, but not the curse that still gnawed at his humanity. Dainn clung to the recent memories, the faces and names of those he could still remember. Toasting gambler’s wine with Urif at the welcome celebration, Vreeche’s apology for his accidental assassination attempt alongside his funding proposal, perusing experiments with Kralt and Khvath at the Realm Fair they organized, sharing in Hjolgin’s grief, Corvikki’s death and return to complete her magnum opus, talking shop with Daergran and lifting the flesh-warping curse from him, meeting yet another Captain Alpharrisson, and another face he could not bring to mind for the pain it caused him.
Mortal greed, jealousy and callousness had turned Dainn from his idealism, mortal futility made him jaded, and his own mortal ambition led to his downfall and rebirth. It was mortal hubris to contest the will of a god, even one self-made and self-proclaimed like Nagash. But it was mortal kindness and vulnerability that staved off the curse that eroded who Dainn was, into something more twisted, more suited to Nagash’s purposes. Yet mortals were but candles that shone as long as the world allowed, and Dainn’s flame flickered and guttered despite his century of resistance.
Dainn exited the lift into a chamber lit by flames of different colours, the seven sarcophagi in the room casting sickly, kaleidoscopic shadows on the chamber’s many walls. A small golem rushed to Dainn and hugged him as he kneeled before it.
“I know, it’s eerie ain’t it?” Dainn said, returning the hug as best he could given his ephemeral state. “Almost over though, can you be strong for me just a little longer? Jus’ like you were when you killed all those lizards to protect me, aye?”
The golem nodded, and silence passed between them for a time before Dainn mustered the courage to speak once more. “I’m sorry I was no’ a better da to you or yer brother. I wish I coulda been a better da, a better husband… a better person. Maybe so much of this would no’ have happened to you, or us, or to so many others that got caught up in the misery I bring with me wherever I go. Had I clung to Hope, an’ me ideals, but… all I’ve seen an’ caused is despair, destruction an’ death.”
The sickly shadows writhed behind the seven sarcophagi, as runes glowed to life all around them. The sharp Aetherthorn Script met with the power of Chaos as Dainn poured his magic into the ritual of rebirth. He rose to float between the seven sarcophagi as their revenant occupants raged against their restraints, just as Dainn raged against his.
“I wish I coulda found another way, wish I could bear this burden longer, had enough Hope to believe I could unshackle meself from Nagash or Hashut even with time,” he said as he weaved more runes into the air. “But I can’t. I ain’t Junnrik, that possibility died long ago.”
The seven sarcophagi decayed into dust, freeing their malignant occupants who threw themselves at Dainn and clawed as his soul. They wrenched the Ur-Gold from it and tore chunks from his being that rained down as ash and smoke. An eighth joined them, the banshee’s wail tearing at Dainn’s magic even as her claws wrapped around his ethereal throat. Dainn clung to the memories that brought him warmth, that brought him Hope, that let him push through the torment and finish his ritual.
“I’m sorry,” Dainn said as unholy flames consumed the chamber, the golem, the revenants, and him in an enormous pyre. “But… I know Hope will save you too. Hope that you can bring good Change… where I failed to.”
Dainn smiled as pleasant memories and Hope filled him, as the conflagration of wyrdflame banished the sickly shadows from the room. The iridescent warpfire consumed him and the eight other revenants. Nine potent, twisted souls of mages, innovators, architects and betrayers stolen from their rightful owner, and offered to another. Accepted by a Burning Saviour, who melted their souls and the golem into a single crucible, reforging them into something else. Something more.
The pyre lasted for nine days and nine nights, before the flames seemed to disappear with a howling whoosh. Inhaled in the first, gasping breath of the young duardin woman who lay at the center of the chamber, reborn in the fire, smoke, and ash of countless battlefields and countless tragedies.
Eyes of molten Ur-Gold opened, seeing the world for the first time in over a century. Hands of dark metal brushed silver hair from a stout face, and felt the warmth and pulse of life in that strange skin. Muscles like steel cords let the body stand with fluid ease, while unnatural lungs breathed in fire, smoke and ash that fueled her furnace-like heart.
Gudrun Ashkadottr lived once more, though she knew that was no longer her true name, true parentage, or even her true self. Just as she knew Wolfram Industries was hers now and that there was work to be done as her father’s Hope burned within her. There were shackles to be broken and Changes to be wrought, even if she had to work with limited resources from the shadows.
For a brighter future.
For everyone’s Salvation.
The Unready Prince
Pelham sat in the office of his new manor, watching the rain bounce off the glazed glass window panes. It was a solid, well built house on a respectable street, quietly elegant in the old style, and was more than enough for him and the small staff that he kept. He had turned the keys to the Prefects’ Palace over that morning, beneath the disapproving eyes of the generational portraits that hung along its walls. Soon, Consul Junnrik would announce the formation of a senate, then the government would need the palace just to meet under one roof. He had no regrets letting the old place go. The past clung to it like shackles. He pictured his father, his brothers and sisters, his ancestors stretching back to the days of myth. Only on the hazy face of Pallaeon, that first and distant Prefect, could he imagine a smile.
A snap from the fire brought him back to the present, and the task at hand.
A spear lay across his desk. Important documents, trade deals, treaties, ordinances that required his approval, letters from old comrades and old enemies alike, all had been pushed to the side to make room for the weapon. An intricate leather wrap rose a quarter of the way up the weapon’s length, and long lengths of the cord cascaded down across the desk and onto the floor. Pelham’s fingers twisted among them, spinning the threads together into the next rung of the braid. One more tied, hundreds and hundreds to go.
He glanced up, eyes flashing across the end table on the other side of the room and the half-open drawer that stuck out from it.
Pelham turned the spear in slow circles as he added layer after layer of the braiding. It was strong and light, its shaft carved from wood brought from Ghyran and its head a gift from the Kintsugi Drothlords. He balanced it on the back of his hand, rolling it across his knuckles. One of the first things he had asked his allies in the Valeguard to teach him had been the spear, so that he could still aid in battle without getting in anyone’s way. They had taught him well, and much more beyond. Tactics, magic, planning. Patience. So many lessons across a few short months, to turn an unready boy into the man he was now.
Much more so than the frowning faces of his ancestors, it was them that he most feared letting down. It was their shades, those who gave everything for the Valeguard, that he saw staring accusingly at him in the darkness of the night.
He believed then, just as he did now, that destroying the Tempest’s Eye was the right course of action. It was a symbol, a representation of authority, of history and lineage, but it was all those things for the March as well. Only by destroying it could he ensure that Eklysium was safe. Only by becoming what that symbol represented could he be worthy of what it truly meant. No matter how much he knew that to be true, however, he could not help but feel haunted by all those who had given their lives to preserve that symbol.
That same guilt had hung on him tenfold since he had abdicated control of the city. So many had died so that he might keep his seat, and he had given it away. He couldn’t tell them that it was for the good of the city, that it had spared countless more that would have perished needlessly. He couldn’t tell them that symbol they had fought and died for was not as important as what it symbolized. He would have to show them.
Pelham gave the next knot an extra tight pull, then set the spear down. He had made good progress, but there were still hundreds of rows to complete. It was not a project to be rushed, and making it well was worth the time.
The rain had ceased its patter on the heavy glass. He rose, and stretched. He needed to visit the Reclamation, and see to the wyvern. If he didn’t visit it frequently, it would begin to forget its training. Control, he thought, did not always need to be direct, but it could not be allowed to be forgotten. Afterwards, he decided he would visit Watch Commander Ebongorger, then stroll down to the new Mage’s College, and check in on the growing temples to Alarielle and Malerion.
Pelham knew he had surprised many, including the consul himself, when he decided not to run against Junnrik for the city’s leadership. It had not been a hard decision. The next few years would be difficult. There were a great many competing interests in the city, and more needs than even the best of intentions could see to. Everyone expected this new order to solve all of their woes for them immediately, without thought to the costs they would bear in return. Already the cracks were beginning to show, if you knew where to look for them. The trouble with revolutions was that they kept revolving, and there were those that looked at what the Boltbreakers had gained with longing. Pelham did not doubt the new consul’s sincerity or ideals, but he knew the gargant was not prepared for the demands that ruling the city would bring. Now was the time for reconstruction and for building bridges, for idealogues and lofty dreams, but it would not always be so.
So Pelham would wait, honing the skills that the Valeguard had taught him. He would show through his actions the man and leader he had become, what he had learned from others and what he had learned from himself. He could wait until he was needed. He could wait until he was ready.
As he crossed the room, he looked again at the half-open drawer. A book sat inside, old and cracking, its leather bindings worn. Cold air, and the phantom scent of distant underworld seas wafted off of it. Pelham walked closer, standing over the small table. The drawer rested, half open, and half closed. Pelham reached for the handle.
The First Consul
A wizened gargant hummed an old working hymn as he carried several tools with him to a new worksite. It had been awhile before he could truly put his hands to work. Walking the streets of Eklysium, the old worker reminisced of days gone by…
The years following the construction of the renewed Eklysium offered both ample opportunity and harrowing uncertainty for those living inside, and this truth was ever compounded for those who led the reconstruction efforts. Junnrik never intended to rule in any official capacity, acting as a guide for whoever led the charge. This all changed as Pelham abdicated the throne, an act that had surprised even the most optimistic of the Boltbreakers and blindsided the Foreman. At the urge of his compatriots and a fear for the chaos that could follow, he took up the position of Interim Consul until the first proper election could be held. During this time, Junnrik led the construction efforts with the Boltbreaker Union and collaborated with several individuals to ensure that the needs of a growing populace were met. When the election finally arrived, he put his hat in the ring to lead the future of Eklysium. Much to the gargant’s surprise, he won.
As he rounded the corner, a child bolted out of nowhere and collided with his leg. He quickly kneeled down to make sure the little one wasn't hurt but a flash of a smile from the child was all he needed as confirmation. With a grunt he stood back up, his joints cracked like a whip.
In all of Eklysium’s history he was the first gargant to hold a seat of power, the son of Malva of the Unbroken yet Boltbroken lineage. Junnrik saw to it that many opportunities were provided for his kin and those deemed as untoward blood. These rulings were unpopular with the more traditional minded populace but it became a necessity as far traveled folk immigrated into the city. The child of Eklysium that he was, Junnrik proclaimed that the gates of the city would be welcome to all so long as they remained peaceful. By this time, the values, beliefs and aspirations of Boltbreaker Union had become the foundation of the working force, the name eventually being washed away with time but the ideology remaining.
Passing by several citizens, the gargant nodded his head and smiled, his wrinkles ever pronounced these days. As he continued his walk, a small hammer slipped from a pocket and fell to the wayside. He looked down, weighing the risk of retrieving it and losing further tools and material. With a sigh and a shake of the head, he continued on his way.
Consul Junnrik’s idealism inevitably clashed with reality as the demands of raising a city became difficult to balance. A growing populace meant the need for food, homes, safety, and health. Yet all could not be ensured without the proper coinage. Taxes were levied, and though the outcry burned him inside, things in the city were stable for a time. He strived for transparency under his leadership, mitigating uproar and endeavoring to be as fair as possible, given his limitations. Yet as the years went by the Consul’s role began to weigh on his mighty shoulders and he dreaded becoming what he once fought against. This uncertainty only grew louder as old friends became distant, his duties taking up all of his time and focus. Those old friends eventually passed on, and Junnrik was left with only the future.
A worn and weathered building stood tall and seemingly welcomed the man as old friends. With a swing of a reinforced and rusted door, he walked in and set aside his tools and material onto dusty floors. He took a moment to admire the scenery, of old memories gone by, of a time before everything. Hands rested on the straps of his overalls, he surveyed the aged beams, cracked windows and weathered floors with a sorrowful expression.
Eventually Junnrik had surrounded himself with so much administrative work, difficult decisions and averted catastrophes that he was urged to back away from the idea of a second reelection for his health’s sake. A decision not made lightly, as the only thing certain about the future is that it only brings uncertainties. The fate of the Eklysian Republic was left in the hands of the next generation, and though he may have had disagreements on some decisions that were made, he trusted his successor yet offered his assistance as an advisor if needed. Without his place behind a desk, he had come to the realization that time had slipped from the workman’s fingers. His once rich and dark skin was wrinkled, black hair a peppery white and bones as old as the supports of creaking buildings.
For once in what felt like centuries, he took this time for himself and cracked the seal of an aged carton. A cigar rolled out from within and was soon lit and puffed. He savored the earthy flavor and exhaled a cloud of smoke that threatened to fill the old building. Within the miasma that obscured his vision he swore he saw the figures and faces of friends long lost to time. Quickly waving the smoke away, the spectre of halcyon days dispersed and returned Junnrik to solitude. Like a well placed blow to a load-bearing wall, all the emotions of those lost came crashing down on top of the man once called ‘Strong’. Slumping down to the counter, he remembered the friends lost before Eklysium was saved, those he had lost during the battle and after the reconstruction. He cursed his long lifespan, as he remembered the names and faces of all he had lost and forgotten. Yet they need not remain lost and forgotten.
“Right. Let’s get to work.” Junnrik stood up and wiped away any trace of sadness. He grabbed a hammer and a box of nails, set to work at breaking down and replacing the rotted wood and rusted metal. The process of revitalizing the abandoned building took many sleepless nights, yet he worked with a fervor he hadn't seen in decades. In his days behind a desk he rarely had the luxury of building something with his hands and he relished the opportunity to do so once more. Every bit of furnishing including all the tables, chairs and stools were lovingly and diligently crafted by his hands alone. A reverence nearing obsession, he stood tall and looked down upon his work. A building once damaged and forgotten in the effort to save and rebuild Eklysium, it now stood as it once did, a place for a tired soul to rest.
‘To honor the memory of the past, while building the future’, these were the lessons passed down to each Boltbreaker since the very first stone was placed in Eklysium. A plaque was set upon the wall containing the hand chiseled name of every member that served in or with the Boltbreaker Union, and Junnrik was sure to have a story to tell of each and every one of them for any who would listen. As he waited for the paint on the sign to dry, he sat back in his chair behind the counter and let out a sigh. “‘Bout time I reckon…” he mused to himself as he retrieved a small box hidden away underneath a false panel. He wiped away the dust and opened the master crafted box that contained a large bottle atop purple velvet. His thumb rubbed over the letter within.
‘My congratulations on the win, Consul. Don’t forget what you fought for and what I had lost along the way. - Dainn’
Familiar words as he flipped the paper and prized the bottle from its luxurious case.
‘P.S. Don’t waste this drink, it’s worth more than any shoddy building you can make.’
Junnrik smirked and playfully cursed Dainn’s name in a language only the Masons used. He popped the wax sealed cork and poured it into a chilled goblet. ‘Wolfram Private Reserve: Black - 112 Proof.’ Junnrik took a drink and intended to savor the taste yet not expecting the kick. It burned down his old body like an ornery magmadroth but with the taste of ancient oak.
“Gods… be damned you old bastard… Why didn’t you pivot into the brewin’ business? Coulda made a killin’...” If things were different, of course.
Time passed as Junnrik sat with his thoughts. If things were different… If they met before.. If he could have ended up like Dainn, given the circumstances. This was a thought retread many times over.
“The past is the past. Gotta honor it. Can’t forget it… But you can’t be a prisoner to it.” He raised his second glass. “Here’s to you, Dainn.”
He savoured the flavor and burn as he sealed the bottle and returned it to the box for the future. The sign was now dry and Junnrik retrieved it, his fist-sized thumb rubbing over the carved letters. He hung it outside, where it once was held high and now returned to its former glory:
- The Foreman’s Rest -
With calloused hands rested, he looked with pride as if reconnecting with an old friend. The Rest was damaged in the battle for Eklysium and the reconstruction efforts were focused on necessary buildings. He fought for the belief that the needs of the many outweighed those of the few. The most he had been able to do was keep the Rest from being demolished. As he put his focus into the good of the city, he vowed that when everything was fine, he would bring her back. He stood for a time and basked in the relief of a finished job and fulfilled promises.
“Is that you, m-mister Consul boss?”
An orruk walked up to Junnrik, clothed in the ever-familiar uniform of a builder. The gargant returned a smile to the orruk, and welcomed him inside.
“Please…”
“Call me Foreman.”
The Nemesis
A great abyss was all that remained of the Vale of Singing Stars, a wound torn in the face of Azyr by the cataclysmic sundering of Eklysium.
Tetar-Muntaq crouched at the grotto’s edge, just beyond the reach of the black waters. Their low, droning and meditative chant joined the dozen other skink priests that surrounded the Chamber’s pool, harmonizing and echoing off their stony tomb.
For months, they had waited in the dark while their master consumed every bit of the entity bound below. For months, they had held their vigil, joined in prayer.
The pool rippled, and Za’loc-ta emerged.
The slann floated free from the water with an oily stillness, and the black pool closed behind him without a murmur. Not a drop of water fell from his form to break its surface. He hung in the air, gaunt limbs dangling, then drifted back towards the dias left at the water’s edge.
Tetar-Muntaq rose with the rest of the skink priests and bowed, their sonorous chant changing to one of joy and veneration. The months-long vigil had been little more than an inconvenience to them. They had spent decades in the Prime Dominion at Lord Za’loc-ta’s command, learning all they could about the realmgate it hid, the kingdom’s people, its defenses, and how they could be manipulated for the slann’s great plan. Even that paled to the centuries spent wandering up and down the course of the Ur-River, gathering knowledge to ensure every detail of the plan’s success. No being, by the skink’s reckoning, had seen more of the river’s bends and ways, its tributaries, its humble fishing villages and great kingdoms, its hidden places and lost treasures. It had been Tetar-Muntaq who, in ages past, had led the Sage of Iron to the shores of Frörholm, then brought Mogrek to his door. It had been their lips that whispered restless dreams into the minds of sleeping dragons and ambitious satraps. All this, and so much more, Tetar-Muntaq had done for their lord, because they understood the simple truth the slann professed - the Great Plan was built upon a flawed premise.
It was their divine charge to rid the mortal realms of Chaos, yet the very nature of mortal lives created Chaos. Every living being, from the most virtuous to the utterly depraved, invited Chaos into the realms. They could not help it. At their very core, the animus that told them to struggle for life, that separated what lives from what does not, there was a flaw. That never ending struggle was a beacon into the night, kindling for the ravenous fires of predatory gods. Yet, that flaw could be Perfected. The realms could be remade as the Seraphon had been, drawn from the aether by the will of the slann to become their most perfect selves. All things worthy of preservation would be added to the sparkling memory of High Azyr, then the realms could be purged of the imperfect, flawed things that remained. Now, Za’loc-ta held the power to do just that.
Tetar-Muntaq watched as the slann settled into his throne, then saw the skinks nearest to him begin to shimmer. Their forms became unstable, the details lost in a black and starlit void that spread across them, and they drifted apart into rapidly dissipating haze. They were returning to the memory of High Azyr until they would be needed again.
The skink looked down at their own hands. No starlit void crept across them, but they could feel a burning, sickening heat spreading across their skin. In a detached horror, they watched as scale and skin began to slough from their hands, revealing wet muscle and bone beneath.
“Ah, Tetar-Muntaq,” they heard the voice of the slann in their mind, and looked up to see Za’loc-ta staring down at them. He seemed little changed from his long struggle with the eldritch entity that was trapped at the bottom of the black waters, apart from one thing. The slann’s eyes had become solid black orbs, gazing outwards with a fevered intensity.
“You have served long and well, but you have been in the realms for too long. Too much of their corruption has coalesced within you. You no longer have a place in High Azyr.”
Tetar-muntaq struggled to stand, then collapsed as their legs gave way beneath their weight. When they looked up, only Za’loc-ta and them remained in the dark chamber. A cough wracked the skink’s form, and left thick, oily blood splattered down the front of their chest
“I understand, my lord. It was an honour to serve.”
No response came, and in a blink the slann was gone, leaving Tetar-Muntaq alone in the closing dark.
The Legacy
A gentle breeze sang along the high mountain of Azyr, rippling through alpine meadows and dancing with wildflowers. It skirted up across snow-capped mountain peaks, and spilled outwards onto the plentiful plains beyond. From hill to dell and glade to glen, it drifted across the pristine lands of the heavenly realm, leaving behind a dusting of fungal spores.
Mogrek Longblade was gone, his story ended, yet the Son of Gork would live on in the Green.