Talk:Shattered Souls (event)
Part 1: A Mockery of Life
A promise was made to Bloodloch by Ewis Bhaq'dal, the Undying, when she assumed command of the Lich Gardens following the Empire's brutal conquest and subsequent execution of Venicus, the arrogant former leader whose countless years of research failed to bear fruit. It was a promise of servants and thralls, of vast armies, of soldiers uncountable to bolster the Sanguine Fist and spur that fell city to yet greater domination over the peoples of Sapience.
Determined not to repeat the mistakes of her predecessor, the Undying lich convened a meeting of the Teradrim, enlisting them for aid in a sinister plot. The Earthen-kin were tasked with acquiring specimens for autopsy: living denizens, cut down and brought to the Gardens for a very thorough examination. The purpose was made clear: to better understand the physiology of the living and forcibly engender a state of undeath in the target.
For weeks the Teradrim toiled, fetching hundreds of such specimens to the laboratories. Escalation came in the form of enchanted bone charms, and a list of particularly desirable targets. Instructions were provided to inspect the targets in their homes and utilise the charms to compel each subject to follow behind the wielder. Over a dozen such subjects were taken in this manner, among them Father Garron of Arurer Haven, Trond of Jaru, Rakdor the Horn of the Vale, Gwenil the smith of Tainhelm, Rosiyaris of the Mournhold Enchanter's Society, Esme of Kald, and more still.
The disappearances did not go unnoticed. The watchful eyes of Enorian and Duiran soon picked up the mystery's trail and began a search, combing the villages and conferring with guards of varying levels of usefulness. Murmurs of an eyeless woman and a gregarious Gnome surfaced on several occasions, and it was first Garron and then Rakdor who, after delivering a confused and blurry tale of screams, blood, and kidnap, led the would-be detectives to Ewis's trail. The lich spitefully withstood interrogation, first from Kalena Emerson and Roux Aquila, then from Iesid Mulariad, Valorie Aresti, and Caitria and Sryaen Cardinalis the latter four attempting to burn Ewis's laboratory down around her before withdrawing.
Meanwhile, naught but frustration faced Ewis. Calling Thronekeeper Nipsy before her, she ranted and raved at the constant failures she had run into, distraught that every attempt at forced conversion, despite her best laid plans and intricate skills in physiology, was for nothing. It was then that Ivoln, the Earthen Lord, erupted from the splintered ground with answers. He spoke at length on the nature of undeath, and the futility of forcible transformation. Souls, He explained with no small measure of irritation, would flee to the Underhalls when any attempt to force undeath was made. Crestfallen, Ewis resumed her raving before the Earth God suggested another way.
Ondromikios Ijandrimali was a revered scholar in his time, a Magician and Scientist with peerless skill in matters involving life. His greatest achievement was the creation of a homunculus: an artificial soul. In death, the Magician was elevated by then-Dhaivol to the vaunted Glade of Heroes: where the greatest of all souls lie in wait for the last battle.
Ivoln proposed an incursion therein, to retrieve the soul of Ondromikios and put him to work. Fully aware that accessing the Underhalls via the normal means would result in the wrath of Dhar - a fight that in His own domain would be unwinnable by Ivoln, He instead spoke of a passage through the ley, and ordered His undead to prepare for the invasion.
Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 9th of Niuran, in the year 500 MA.
Part 2: Death's Domain
So it was that Nipsy, Kurak, Sheryni, Whirran, Yettave, Almol, Mjoll, Xolotl, and Dreww gathered before the pylon of Bloodloch, their residual energies at their maximum capacity. The Earthen Lord quickly joined them, forcing the pylon to contort into a portal. The undead stepped through and found themselves in the heart of the ley, kaleidoscopic light whirling all around them. Their advance began without hesitation, the group efficiently boring holes through ylem congestion with their own energies, rescuing those caught in ley wounds before they found themselves cast adrift in a gap between planes, and felling newborn eld that formed before their very eyes.
All the while, a tortured wail haunted their every footfall, screaming through the leylines in what sounded only like thousands of voices strung together into one anguished cry. Momentarily shaken for reasons He Himself could not voice, Ivoln seemed to recognise the voice, but soon dismissed His concern in favour of the task ahead. The group pushed through the obstacles and the Earth God bid them to be still: they had arrived at their destination. A stern warning followed: instructions not to touch anything, not to speak, not to do anything to disturb the halls, admonishing all present that Death would spare them no pity if they became lost in His domain. The mortals present were to escort the soul and nothing else - while Ivoln ensured their safe departure.
The interlopers pressed on, emerging in a secluded corner of the Heroes' Glade, and Ivoln began to work. Gathering death energy about Himself, flashes of Dhaivol passed over His stony features, momentary memories given life in sad and pained expressions before Ivoln quelled them to nothing. He slashed a hand through the air, parting the cloying fog lingering over the Glade, and murmured the name of His quarry in a hoarse whisper.
Long moments passed before a transparent silhouette shimmered into view, all vapour and smoke billowing through the gardens. The image sharpened as Ivoln beckoned it closer, solidifying into the form of Ondromikios Ijandrimali - the group had found what they sought. Confusion tinged the Scientist's features, first addressing Ivoln as his Lord before stating that though he knew Him, it was not Him, and asking if the time had come. Ivoln's composure faltered for an instant at these words, before girded composure returned and He instructed those present that the time to leave had come.
As the Magician fell into line behind Nipsy, the restless dead sang out in plaintive lament, thousands of haunting voices singing a requiem for the God of Death. The music inspired panic into the face of Ivoln, Who simply murmured, "He is coming."
"Trespasser." Came the cold, pitiless voice of Dhar, His passage through His halls invoking hazy images and fragmented echoes of His frozen anger. The Earth God tore open a rift to the Prime, commanding His followers to flee with the purloined soul. As they hurried through and hastily brought their prize to safety, the orchestra of soul music transformed from sombre lament to paean of war for all to hear.
Dhar stilled as He reached the Glade, and time itself seemed to crawl to a halt, the two Gods, Who were once inextricably bound as One whole, stared each Other down. Death first broke the silence, His voice carrying across worlds. "You should not have come here." He intoned, a surge of death energy surrouning Him in spectral light as He drew His scythe and stepped forward. The weapon's swing clove the air in twain yet for the most fleeting of moments, Dhar hesitated, striking at empty space.
Roused from any emotional reluctance He may have harboured, Ivoln roared then, the battle cry of the Earthen booming out in battle lust. Grass and soil withered under His advance; stone and soil rose to envelop Him in a vortex of earthen strength which He sent exploding at Dhar, Who simply drew His robe about Himself and vanished. An instant later, Death reappeared behind Ivoln, and ethereal chains streaked forth to bind Him, serrated hooks sinking into Hlugnic flesh and opening long wounds.
The Earth God bellowed in defiance of captivity, the chains transformed to mere sand as He regrouped, preparing another attack. Dhar remained implacable, aglow in the vast power suffusing Him from the milieu of His own domain. "You cannot win here." He stated calmly, without fear or trepidation, and dozens more chains lurched forward to bind His foe. Smirking, Ivoln canted His head at the still-open rift, where restless souls had begun to converge, fleeing from the Underhalls to escape the King's justice.
Vaporous mist flew from Dhar's grasp to encircle the portal, surrounding it in an attempt to blockade the absconding souls. Seemingly unconcerned for the enemy at His back, He continued to seal it shut while Ivoln, seizing an opportunity, shrugged free His fetters for a second time. The full strength of Azvosh acceded to the will of its Lord and Master and Ivoln struck, directing a calamitous, devastating strike at the distracted Dhar.
Sure of victory, certain of triumph, Ivoln relaxed. Yet even as the attack enswathed the Underking, He reacted with impossible speed, conjuring an aegis of mist and charnel power, a grey-white shield that sent the unleashed energies away and elsewhere. A mighty CLANG rang out through the Underhalls then, its authoritative peal reaching all of Creation with sickening volume.
The alabaster frame of the Soul Mirror shivered in agony, the empty void of its lakelike surface roiling in a turbulent storm of desperate struggle and futile strain to absorb and disperse the wrath of the embattled Gods. Anguished wails rose from the Underhalls, stark images of death overwhelming all of Sapience and beyond. A crack splintered along the Mirror's glassy heart, and it screamed.
Panic stricken, Ivoln fled through His own gateway, the rift snapping shut behind Him as He went to the side of His undead, instructing them to prepare for war. He could not escape Dhar's rage. Gone was the wintry restraint of the grave, in its place the Death God's temper boiled over, utterly inconsolable. His blistering condemnation of the Earth God seared the skies with the depths of His ire, the weight of so profound a betrayal weighing heavy on His mind. Naming Him naught but a selfish, destructive, decrepit abomination and voicing regret at ever having believed otherwise, Dhar emerged in the skies over the Ithmia, His pale horse armoured for battle.
The soul chorus resumed its saturnine canticle at these words, but Dhar was not yet finished. Vowing to bring justice to Ivoln and to end Him and all He stood for, the Underking's final words came with unbridled vehemence and sneering contempt: "Now, You and Yours will truly know no peace."
Silence came then, but it was to be short lived. Amid drums of war and portentous bellows, thrice did colossal spears sweep across the firmament, the ill-boding jangle of metallic chains voicing their passage. The weapons rived through the Tarean Mountains, the Siroccians, and the Vashnars, sundering earth and impaling the highest peaks. The meaning was plain, even as Dhar withdrew from the heavens: war.
Penned by my hand on Gosday, the 9th of Niuran, in the year 500 MA.
Part 3: Death's Due
While the Vashnars, the Siroccians, and the summit of Mount Kentorakro laid splintered by the Underking's spears, war came in force to the trio of mountain ranges: Dhar's promise made manifest. Translucent mist blanketed the mountains in turn as the charnel might imbued in each spear called to those errant souls - those absconed spirits attempting to flee justice - with singular purpose: return to their master.
Spectres swarmed the foot of each ridge, powerless to resist Death's call. While the forces of undeath fought to corrupt each wayward apparition and turn them against Dhar, those on the side of life sought instead to return them and in doing so, empower the Underking to land a calamitous strike against His once-beloved.
With unprecedented unity, those arranged against the undead came together in force, and the hammer met the anvil with a crushing blow of righteous, resolute fury.
The three spears surged with empowered might, fragmenting the bindings anchoring Divine Earth to the Prime Material Plane. The earthen energies faltered under the relentless siege of the Underking, and, mere moments after the third weapon reached its critical rubicon, Dhar Himself appeared to claim victory over His foe.
Naming Ivoln a weak God, Dhar gathered unto Himself all the strength and puissance His weapons had accumulated and climbed atop His mighty steed. Translucent fog blanketed the firmament in a funereal haze, the might of Death Incarnate undeniable, so great and terrible was His presence. Ivoln's protest came in barbarous contempt: "You cannot destroy Me, Dhar. While You jostle to wrench Your errant souls from the hands of the Creator, remember this: You are not Him." The words fell on deaf ears.
Bitterly cold and with iron restraint, Dhar turned His palms outwards and released His gathered might, raw essence diverging into triple strands that plunged into the depths of the three mountain peaks. As the essence vanished, the earth heaved, roiling in pained consternation as dust storms rose across the deserts and the very mountains shook in a cascading avalanche of rubble and displaced stone. Dhar's command rang out over the clamour with biting concision: "Leave."
A roar of agony rent the lips of the Earthen Lord, His voice a seismic crack in air as He fled for Azvosh, the quakes stilling and the seething, dust-whipped storms dying to naught in the wake of His forced exodus - His connection to the Prime grievously harmed.
Dhar, losing no time, called out for the return of His purloined soul: the name of Ondromikios Ijandrimali writ in the air with stern, emotionless authority. Freed from the Earth's grasp, the Magician came forward, offering His Lord an austere nod of acknowledgement before returning to the Heroes' Glade whence he was wrested.
Though He had retrieved what was His, the King's vengeance - the King's justice - was not yet complete. Bathing the cities of Enorian and Duiran in massive outpourings of His own strength, Dhar bid His forces to regather near the Lich Gardens. There, He offered His final command: to rid the place of that which should not be, and reduce the area to rubble. The mortals lost no steam, death essence coursing through their bodies as they channeled Dhar's power to wreak ruin.
As the area crumbled to dust and detritus, subsumed by the power of the grave, the vanquished undead therein howled in agony and Dhar Himself entered. Tomb-forged chains assailed the screaming form of Ewis Bhaq'dal, binding her in the fetters of the Underhalls. Once more climbing atop His phantasmal steed, the Underking galloped away atop His pale horse, the braying mount dragging Ewis behind as the three disappeared into the ether.
Meanwhile, as chaos and war erupted in the overworld, kaleidoscopic crystals played host to a many-eyed gaze...
Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 13th of Slyphian, in the year 500 MA.
Part 4: The Keeper of the Close
In the aftermath of war between Death and Undeath, while many celebrated victory and others licked their wounds, One party cared little for the conflicts of the overworld. In disturbing unison, the four pylons across the city-states of Sapience began to glow with mottled ley-fire, sending waves of alien, intrusive thoughts into the minds of all who stood nearby. Urgent whispers rose and soon fell silent, the disturbance given life in the form of small, skittering creatures squeezing their way into the world from within the pylons.
Each representative of Delve reacted immediately - urging the creature's capture. Beymak, reminded of Zynti's ascension into Jhin and the massive disturbances in the ley which accompanied it, led the charge. What began with one soon became five and, before long, dozens of the creatures had begun swarming out of the pylons, and the chase was on. Utilising enchanted flasks fashioned from crystals in the Fractal Bloom and with vermin as bait, capture at first seemed an easy task. Directed to Gifol Linet, a senior researcher in the Delve Society, the adventurers were dismayed to find their captives - creatures in the dozens - vanishing to dust the instant they stepped foot onto Albedos.
Gifol had no explanation for this, and little patience for questions. With haste, a neutral outpost was established in the Siroccian Mountains, just steps away from the harlequin portal that has long carried travellers to Delve. There an enormous crate rested, overseen by an enthusiastic Tarpen researcher, and the adventurers began their task of amassing these peculiar creatures for research. Weeks passed and the creatures continued to appear in mostly steady streams, occasional swarms in massive numbers brought about by agitations in the ley. Nevertheless, efforts continued and some twelve hundred of the bugs were caught and brought to the crate, though some found themseles beneath the boot - crushed to death.
It was Chassity, Pietre, and Caitria whose efforts seemed to cross a deadly threshold. Until now mostly placid, the creatures began to buzz and click violently, turning on one another in a gruesome frenzy. Hungrily they devoured each other, but in this orgiastic, insectile feast, a mass started to form, growing larger with each new consumption until the container shattered into smithereens, no longer able to contain them. The Tarpen researcher screamed, and the writhing mass echoed it, releasing a grotesque, gurgling ululation into the air. Thousands of creatures heard its call, erupting from the pylons, shattering the flasks in which they were held captive, and swarming to heed the call of their master.
Tarissa, overseer of the nearby digsite, heard the clamour and could not stop herself from coming to investigate. The seething, roiling mass grew larger and more pronounced as myriad creatures joined it, until at last the eldritch Immortal shod carapace and chitin and sloshed towards Tarissa, ignoring the Mhun woman's screams and violently claiming her body as Its host. It stood then, draped in robes of midnight and spoke in a rasping death rattle of countless voices made one: "We... are."
The Immortal named Himself Varo, Keeper of the Close, and claimed to be the God of Death. Evidently having slept for eons, the God's memory was hazy, and He showed no familiarity with the modern world. Mortals hurried to meet the newly awakened God, though they had more questions than He had answers. By some innate intuition, Varo knew of the harm sustained by the Soul Mirror, and openly questioned why the Underking - about Whom He spoke as a mere Regent, a usurper of Death's Throne - had not mended it.
Hazy memories led the God to speak in enigmatic riddles, the condescending tone of an Elder God warring with the confusion wracking His recently-stirred mind. Of foreign places and ancient lands He waxed, giving them names none recognised. The Undead He named "Soldier", while to vampires He offered only disgust, referring to them as mere ticks and parasites, revolted by their theft of vitality in order to pretend they were, themselves, alive. "Derivatives" He named the Gods of Sapience with no effort to spare His contempt. Of Albedi and Ankyreans He knew nothing and, when pressed, the God revealed His last waking memory: a sprawling Necropolis in the City of Dyisen, during the Fourth Sepulchral Bell of the Dawn's Age. The reason for His long slumber in the ley was not clear, but the God's clarity of purpose and certainty of position were unwavering.
Varo claimed He could mend the Soul Mirror, but would need to study a working replica in order to do so. As He continued to stir from His waking, at His second appearance He offered another riddle, and adventurers were led to the Dry Plains - known to Elder Death as 'Rhesehl' in His own era. There, the combined strength of dozens tore a massive metal hatch from the ground and revealed a subterranean research outpost - a Census Station built by the Second Ankyrean Order. Within, the sought replica was discovered: known as the Soul Index, its composition resembled that of the Soul Mirror itself, though its centre was an empty void, wholly unlike the lakelike surface of that which inspired it.
The adventurers clamoured to lay their hands on the device, each time causing it to judder into motion and speak in a monotone voice. With each caress of its frame it revealed the history of that individual's soul: a former life documented and recorded in the Order's forced census. Some balked at its revelations; some embraced what it offered; others, mistrustful and suspicious of both the artifact and the God standing before them, had only more questions. Many felt that Varo was reluctant to touch the Index Himself, interpreting this as confirmation of their mistrust. It was only when Benedicto Silverain charged at the God, attempting and failing to tackle Him into the Index and force His hand, that Varo acquiesced and laid His skeletal hand upon the device. It once more stirred into motion and declared only, "Designation: God."
The Elder God spoke at some length on the nature of the Soul Mirror, that chiding, mocking tone smugly revealing the truth of its making. The Mirror was a Simulacrum, He told them. A parlour trick of the Celestine's, made to capture His voice and His face and beguile those who found resurrection into feeling that He cared for them. The Varian - named Varyuch by Varo - at the Mirror was not real, not true, and the belief that the Creator took a personal hand in shepherding souls back to life was a mistaken one. Mixed reactions followed, though the God had spoken nothing but blunt, painful truth thus far. Assuring those present that He would begin work immediately, streams of essence poured from His fingertips to encircle the device before the God disappeared, a palpable impression of His lingering presence remaining behind.
Weeks wound on and Varo's work upon the Index continued. Appearing again to converse with another growing crowd in the Ankyrean bunker, He spoke of souls and their purpose, of tempering, and the journey of experience undertaken by each of life's participants. Confusion reigned, but further discussion was curtailed by the arrival of Omei, the Imago, come to confront this Elder Death. Disturbed by His scorn for free will and agency - revealed by the Aeonic Confluence to be reluctant gifts of Varian at the pleading behest of Lanos - the Goddess levied questions and accusations at the Old God, but withered beneath His ruthless invective.
"Broken doll" He named Her, tearing through Her notions of love and instinct and companship like a scythe through chaff. She fled soon after in tears, whereupon She began to drink heavily, falling into a pit of misery and despair. The sobering call of Her Brother Damariel snapped Her out of Her reverie after a months-long campaign against Him and His. Temple desecrations, letters, harassment, and more were brought to a tumultuous finality as He showed Himself. The confrontation was a short one, the former God of Truth offering his defence with placid kindness and warm compassion to His suffering Sister. The two reconciled, and matters of Truth were seemingly settled with Damariel's admission of an ancient vow, and His confession that even he knew nothing of Varo, stating only that the Old God was of Varian's creation, much like Himself and His Siblings.
Meanwhile, Varo's work on the Index went on. In His final meeting with the adventurers of Sapience, He offered them a gift. He bestowed a young sentience upon the Index and informed them that He would have little time to spare for their persistent questions when He had reclaimed His throne: a matter about which the God held no uncertainty, no worry, no anxiety, as if it was already decided and the coronation but a mere formality. And yet, memories of ancient battle plagued His already clouded thoughts, bare to those with the insight to glimpse them. Invasions by "Others" wracked His mind, and frustration deepened as He sought more of them and found nothing but fog.
At last the time came. The ancient God's shout drew the world's attention: We begin.
Heedless of the birthright the Underking still held on the throne of Death, Varo conveyed Himself from the Dry Plains and into the realm that was not yet His. Spectral guards alerted the Reigning Sovereign of this new trespass, and as the Elder Death travelled through the hallowed lyceum of Death, Dhar's eyes were upon Him in the gaze of every spirit and soul the usurper passed. The Underking was not without His view of this Keeper of the Close, again announcing Him as an Imposter for all to hear.
Ignoring the Derivative and His claims, Varo unerringly sought and found the Soul Mirror. There, echoed in its wounded, lakelike surface, was Varo's true reflection. This gave the Elder God pause. Memories stirred as He was drawn deep into the void beyond the Simaculrum. Again, the Underking warned Varo that the power of Death was not His to wield. Despite His warning, the Underking did not forestall Him. From afar, working too upon the issue of the Mirror's crack, He watched and waited to see what would become of Varo. Armoured in contempt and wielding scorn, the Firstborn sought to make the Underhall and its spirits heed Him. Slowly, the power of Death coalesced, frothing around Him like a wellspring tapped at the core of a necropolis. So certain of His might, so imperious He was in His assertion that Death was His to command, He laid a single finger against the Soul Mirror.
All of Creation shuddered beneath a portentous knell. The wound glowed igneous silver, knitting together as if a smith had laid a fresh line of freshly smelted metal along it. Death staggered in the wake, expending an enormous amount of energy for what seemed an infinitesimal amount of repair. Anger lashed the firmament as Varo raged at Varyuch. What had the Celestine done to make Him so weak during His forced slumber? Declaring Himself no King's Regent - announcing Himself as the true King of Death - He drew the overwhelming might of the Underhalls to Him, and channelled it into the very centre of the mirror. Instead of flowing into the antiquated device and fixing it, the Mirror rejected His magic as it would any God that thought to meddle with Death's affair. Caught in the throes of the surging puissance, Varo's shock gave way to horror and finally agony.
Death Incarnate manifested beside the struggling Immortal. Without pity, the true God of Death watched as realization dawned in Varo's eyes, His last moment full of unspoken memories, swiftly followed by a scream of unspeakable terror directed at His absent Father. With Varian's name on His tongue, the Keeper of the Close, the Firstborn and long forgotten God of Death, disintegrated. His essence illumined the firmament in radiant brushstrokes of ghostly grey and azure, before even that was gone.
In the foreboding aftermath, the Underking glowered at the mirror. Though still scarred, the enormous crack had been somewhat repaired, perhaps enough for the Underking to resume His authority over Death. Gathering His robes about His incorporeal form, Dhar returned to the depths of His Underhalls, and took anon His throne.
Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 11th of Variach, in the year 501 MA.
Part 5: The Evergiving Earth
After the tumultuous unravelling of Varo, Elder God of Death, and His partial repair of the Soul Mirror, Sapience enjoyed calm for a time, though speculation as to Varo's nature and what His unexpected arrival portended remained rife. While Elder Death's machinations unfolded, a lone bud blossomed in one of the most damaged sections of the Kalydian Forest. It was Ranger Iola who first alerted the Sentinels, and by extension Duiran, to the new growth, and the Ranger found herself inexplicably drawn to it, captivated by it, and vowed to patrol that region of the woodland more diligently following the oversized sunflower's discovery.
Weeks passed and winter wound on, but it was not the cold, bitter winter of every-year. Dazzling sunlight dappled the firmament with unseasonable brightness. Midsummer's heat washed across the continent in a passing fancy. Life flourished in a fleeting moment of inexplicable acceleration. These phenomena culminated in a gilded aurora hanging over the Kalydian, shafts of light streaming skyward as what remained of life in that long-suffering woodland began to stir. The low notes of a fragmented song rose, rousing the trees to soughing and the birds to chirping.
Enraptured by the music, Ranger Iola found herself drawn to the mysterious sunflower once more as the song climbed in both intensity and pitch. The flower drew streams of pale quintessence into itself and swelled with newfound life and vitality, growing to enormous proportions while the voice sang on and the Ranger, utterly calm and accepting, stepped into its sunlit aura. Gently, the song became a lullaby as mammoth fronds wrapped about Iola in a tight embrace until, in the midst of a cyclone churning with bract and colourful petals, she was gone. In her place stood a figure draped in golden sunlight, a crown of living boughs woven through the tresses of Her hair: Yanai, the Evergiving Earth, Elder Goddess of Life, and Earthmother.
"What has become of My Son?" asked the Goddess of the world, as dozens swarmed to greet Her. Profound sadness took Her upon hearing news of Varo's demise, a thorn withering from Her crown to mark His passage. Despite Her grief and sorrow, the dignity of the Elder Goddess won out, and though inwardly She mourned, outwardly She grew only more radiant and kind. Confusion, too, reigned within Her; as She attempted to get Her bearings, many questions She asked, of Dhar the Underking, of the area She stood in, and of the world at large. When informed that Her Son had come out of the Ley and had not, as She assumed, spent eternity presiding over the realm of Death, Her composure faltered, and She insisted vehemently that the Ley was no prison for Elder Gods. It became clear that, much like Varo before Her, Yanai was ancient beyond measure, originating from a time, and perhaps even a place, long beyond the memories of even the other Gods.
Visibly bothered by the damaged Kalydian surrounding Her, the Goddess enquired of its history. Sadness once more took Her as She learned of the late Lleis and the fate of nature, left without a tender to heal its pain. Of Dendara She spoke as a 'Lirathyar' - believed by the Goddess to be a prototype plane where all forms of life are designed. Each world that sustained life, She went on to explain, had such a plane anchored to it. Though fascination reigned in many of the mortals gathered before Her, entranced by Her beauty and kind, motherly demeanour, suspicion too dwelt in many. She asked of Her people - known only as the Arboreans - and of the Greenwood forest, describing both as wonders of life that were precious to Her. Though crestfallen by the lack of answers, She resolved to find them, and vanished in a pillar of cherry blossoms.
When next the Goddess surfaced, it was in the Bloodwood, where the lingering song of the remnant Tsol'aa had drawn Her in hope of finding what She sought. Though it was a search in vain, the Hunter came to Her side and the Two conversed. He was, at first, suspicious and wary, naming Her impostor, though Yanai offered Him only comfort and warmth. The likeness to Lleis was striking, and the God found Himself torn, the repressed emotions of many years rising to the surface with newfound grief. He struggled with His words, though His fascination with Yanai was plain; He watched as She listened to the earth and shared Her sorrow when She declared the Bloodwood beyond Her power to save.
Slowly, gradually, Haern began to let His guard down and the two Gods traded gifts: a white rose from Yanai's crown given freely, and a beetle charm that the Hunter had carved personally from one of the once-Aalen's knotted roots. They spoke of Lleis and of Dendara, of the constant death visited upon the world, and, again, of the Arboreans and the Greenwood, of which Haern, sadly, knew nothing. Things soured when the Goddess, in an earnest effort to help, offered to ease the Hunter's burdens by assuming some of the duties once held by Lleis. Though Haern longed for Her to be real and true, His mistrust won out. Again He named Her impostor, and, becoming angry at what He perceived as a betrayal of His Sister's memory, He was gone.
Resigned that Her people were lost, Yanai declared that She would instead bring them to Her, and in the process, heal the Kalydian of its wounds. With the Arboreans at Her side, She insisted, She could heal much of the damage sustained by the rest of the world, undo the effects of lifeless sand and yet more miracles besides. She spoke of Her Song Eternal, the Song of Life and Creation, utilised in ages past to bring life into the world. Many of Duiran met these words with yet more suspicion - mistrustful of Her seeming disregard for the cycle and Her desire to bring so much growth into the world. In pained tones She assured them that none knew Death better than Life Incarnate, and urged them not to question Her regard for the seasons, and the cycle they represented. Many remained unconvinced, scepticism deepening as Yanai spoke of chaos in disapproval, unimpressed with tales of Omei.
Nevertheless, Her course was set. And so it was that a great Ritual of Life was devised. Aiming to celebrate the end of winter and usher in the spring, Yanai proclaimed that She would recompose Her song for the modern era, and outlined the ritual's requirements for all gathered. Nine instruments She requested - three of strings, three of wind, and three drums, carved from wood alone and created with prayers to the Earth. Several dancers and singers would be needed, to strengthen the ritual and make its success more likely. Each dancer would carry salt to scatter in a circle, while the singers would carry sticks of incense: rosemary for remembrance, sage for wisdom, thyme for courage, mint for virtue, lavender for devotion, cinnamon for stability, and jasmine for love. Wood and inks and a bolt of cloth formed the final requirements, and once again the Goddess was gone, leaving Caitria Cardinalis to organise the coming proceedings.
While preparations were underway for the ritual, the Rekindled Goddess appeared within the Edge of the Kalydian. Though She knew not what to make of Yanai, the promise of renewal had roused Ethne to fulfil a similar promise made in times past to Stine Emerson. Gathering flames about Herself and with many gathered to bear witness, Ethne turned Her eyes upon the rotting corpse of Valakris, the Bellower. The cleansing flames burned the corspe to ash and began to sear away the lingering corruption, plumes of smoking rising into the sky to mark Her efforts. When asked for advice on whether to participate in the coming rite, Ethne told them to follow their hearts, and was gone.
The day of the ritual arrived with considerable anxiety from volunteers and observers. Rumours ran rampant about the true purpose for the Goddess' ritual, with much of Duiran refusing to take part after the combined efforts of Speakers Iesid and Sibatti prophesied doom, their theories alternating between the Evergiving Earth birthing a cosmic army on Sapience, or choking the entire continent with an abundance of unsustainable growth. In the end, led by the Voice and Fury of the Wilds, a multicultural troupe was formed for the Goddess' Song. Made up of Sryaen, Taye, Yvi, Valorie, Sekeres, Ixmi, Kaiara, Holbrook, Lin, Wjoltyr, Merek, Roux, Illikaal, Jhura, Koharu, and Ayastia, with Yanai choosing the Voice of the Wilds, Caitria Cardinalis, as Her conduit, they were all blessed with ritual symbols at the Goddess' hands, their tattoos representing all the elements.
The first efforts proved to be painful for performers and watchers, before the assembled retinue for the Everbright Elder found their synergy. Exerting Her influence upon Her conduit, possessing the Voice of Duiran, the Song of Creation began. The first strains the Goddess sang caught all by surprise as the Kalsu language was moulded into a song - translated eerily by Caitria into the common tongue. Caught up in Her thrall, the Goddess' spirited accompaniment sang, danced, and played through seven stanzas, invoking the earth, awakening the fire, before tapering off into a portentous apology for Her family. Disquiet rippled through the Ritual's watchers at the words, some preparing for violence at the People the Goddess of Life was preparing to create in the Kalydian.
As the last notes faded, the ritually empowered Goddess stepped into the heart of the Kalydian forest, sheltered by a brilliant corona of sunlight. Aglow with the manifest might of Elder Divinity, Her smile was unconditional and motherly as She glided, sparking sunbeams and fledgling blooms behind her. The Woodland Queen came to rest in the very heart of the blight and degradation that so plagued this woodland. She inhaled deeply, and then exhaled a breath of dawn and sunlight. Waves of luminescence spilled forth, creating a brilliantine border around the whole of the damaged wood. Her sunlight soaked in a golden torrent, Her song raising as She sang the Song of Creation until the harmony was volant through the skeletal branches.
The taint clinging to the Kalydian's outskirts yielded to a bright melisma of growth. Life stirred beneath the canopies and under the burgeoning eaves. Light streaked between bough and branch, 'twixt thorn and thicket, the empyreal brightness forming a grand arborealis beneath which saplings sprouted as mature trees. In the centre of this rampant profusion of growth, a single redwood basked in winters snowmelt, absorbing the effects of the Song. As it opened its eyes, those who stood at the Kalydian's edges gasped in shock.
"My Song has prevailed. My People live anew!" Giddy with a mother's effusive pride, She that was Life sought out Her people, rushing through the now-healed copse. A tenderfoot sapling stumbled into Her path, being the first that the Evergiving Earth laid eyes upon.
Instead of pleasure, it was surprise and pain that struck Her. Horror manifested as some realization twisted Her flowered form. Spinning away from the young Arborean, Yanai laid hands upon a grizzled Arborean, sharing memories swiftly as the power of Her Song faded. This last act was a mother's sacrifice. Schisms cracked across the beauteous planes of Her face, pouring sunlight from within. The world watched as the aureant light darkened, a final autumn coming for the life-giving Goddess.
Anger and apology collided in the Goddess of Life's last words, but Her temper soon yielded to wan acceptance. Calmly She vowed to Her Father, Varyuch, that even She could not forgive Him for this. To the people of Sapience, a wish came, voiced in a choked, despondent voice: "I wish I could have renewed more than this one place. I am sorry."
The end of the Evergiving Earth hastened. Pine needles frothed from Her boughs as the coppice of Burval withered from Her branches. Aurous light speared away from Her collapsing silhouette, before Her mortal form shattered. What remained of Yanai was caught like dust aglow in sunbeams, before a cruel wind snatched even that away.
Falling as Her Son before Her, so too did the Evergiving Earth succumb, leaving behind the final, moss-sown legacy of Ranger Iola's remains, seeded as a flowering tribute for the Rhythm.
Long after the grieving had begun, a lone Gnome sang a Dirge for the Earth in the wake of enormous ritual magic - and was turned into a tree for his troubles.
Penned by my hand on Kinsday, the 9th of Ios, in the year 501 MA.