EmperorWhenua

IC Stannis | The Far Shore

Stanza 2.2 — Seer

There was little to see in the obfuscating recess between the crumbling buildings and the dark voids they cast, but Stannis delved in boldly regardless. He wore his cloak as normal now, the moisture from the ocean by then thoroughly dried up in the arid biome, and it billowed and whipped frenetically around him as he ventured into the darkness. There was a low howl of wind as it churned through the confines between the buildings, but beside the wind there was only the click of his spear’s pommel striking the ground as he walked… and the distant, faint clicking of the mysterious stranger’s stick doing the same up ahead which acted an unseen beacon for the wizard to follow after.

Everything about the landscape looked at once alien and familiar to the wizard, a conflicting battle of the senses that left him both unsettled and comforted. There was no way to know if where he was going was the right direction but Stannis’ attunement to Fate’s meanders assured him that he was in the right path so long as he continued forward. Forward was the right direction, regardless of whether it deviated left or right; Progress was life; apathy was death. It was a philosophy which governed the spirit’s existence from the start, a constant yearning for more in a quest to attain a perfect understanding of Destiny. Content in the darkness as if it were his own home he walked without hesitation or trepidation. There was no need for magical light to reveal the unseen, not when the isolating shadows felt like a guiding embrace.

The sun had entirely set by the time Stannis felt he was close to his quarry, and far above him the faint rumbles of a storm murmured. The telltale signs of the other beings’ amble, the rhythmic and distant clicking of his cane upon the asphalt streets and alleys, had come to a stop but not by a gradual fading away, indicating that pursued being had either found his place of refuge or vanished entirely, and while Stannis was not quick to write off the latter he found it vastly more likely to be the former. He rounded a corner, then came to a halt. He was being watched. His eyes fell on a cluster of dim lights at the far end of a hallway, deep within the bowels of the nearest building—another shattered shell of a former residential centre—and casting a slight silhouette against the shimmering luminescence was the stooped being, with those amethyst eyes blinking back at him. Come, they seemed to say, and who was Stannis to decline?

The Wanderer stride forward with renewed purpose to the waiting being and upon closer inspections he could discern only the vaguest things about them. The one who waited carried themselves with the honor of a turaga, wearing the elaborate vestments of an elder and holding a stick very similar to the one Turaga Yamdra wielded, and much like the Wanderer’s dark visage this turaga’s eyes were all that peeked out from beneath their cloak’s hood. They were leaning their back against a short stele, and behind them was a wall of glass tubes in which dimly glowing blue liquid played silently.  “Who are you? Tell me of yourself,” Stannis demanded as they came closer, his curiosity getting the better of his tact, “and then tell me of this place.”

“You ask me for knowledge, Stennis,” the old man said as he clutched his staff wizenly and rested his weight upon it. He pulled a flask from a sleeve and indulged in a sip before handing it to the toa. “But what use is that to you if you will not use it?”

"Knowledge is a tool that can be used or discarded as I see fit,” the wizard said as he reached out and accepted the offered drink, but hesitated before he took a sip. “You know my name… but only almost said it right.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, that’s what I do, see: I drink and I have approximate knowledge of many things. You are a wanderer. I am a seer, and while my name is meaningless to you there are some who call me Atramentous.”

There is that name again, Stannis thought in amazement as he realized that the yawl he had captained to its destruction had been named identically.

“You want to know about this place? You want to know of whom I speak of when I say ‘there are some.’ I know you are not of here, so will tell you as you have asked of me, and then, after I have given you answers to your mind’s content, I will give you your fortune. Is good?”

Stannis was not in a position to argue so he simply settled himself upon the ground with folded legs an arm’s length away from the turaga, who spent a moment struggling with his ancient knees before finally coming to sit with his back pressed against the stele. He listened with open ears and mind, fascinated in learning something new that could perhaps align what he already knew with the realities he was observing.

“We are on Terros Nui, Stennis; this is a plane of so much history and still woefully few memories of the past. Of those who keep the knowledge alive among the denizens there is only me.”

“Are you alone in this place?”

“I am lonely but I am not alone,” Atramentous replied. “No. This world may be dying, but there are people who still live here, Stennis. They are diverse as the clouds in the sky and abundant as the fish in the sea. Many of them live below ground in the network of catacombs that lace the city’s foundations and venture out when they require sustenance. They are mostly peaceful, but they are ravaged by the world they live in and in their trauma they have chosen to hold a a singleminded drive to survive above all other desires. Lore is only important so long as it helps them live until tomorrow; next week is as distant a concept as last week’s memory.”

“These people… do not learn?” Stannis asked in bewilderment. “Or do they simply not care to learn?” This cultural trait ran counter to what he held so close: The acquisition and preservation of knowledge was essential to his goal of creating a world of progress. Ever forward—ever onward—only worked if the lessons from the past were learned and disseminated. There were clear signs of social progress with feats of architecture and technological application comparative to Metru-Nui or Xia’s development, but it appeared to him that all that progress had been rendered dystopian by the lack of retaining those skills.

“They do not need to,” the turaga said with a shrug. “All that ever needed to be learned already was. Over time, the lessons of old were stowed away, all the knowledge of the world in safekeeping. They chose to do as they willed out of complacency, and that’s how the world came to be quiet the way it is now, Stennis.”

“My name is Stannis—”

“No it’s not. Fake news! Fake identity! It makes not a lick of difference whether I trade one vowel for another if it's not real. I know who you are and I know what you are. You’re not the first one to walk these shores. You are not Stannis, but you have fooled yourself into thinking you’ve become him, haven’t you, hmm? Huhu,” the turaga said.

“Darkness exists where light is not, but light exists whether there is darkness or not. One banishes the other, but the other lets it in. Look at you as an example of the hypothesis’ efficacy. Stannis and Caedast were once distinct souls until he let you into his body. Little by little Stannis eroded his self to you, he let your shadows in, until he is no more and that cannot be undone. He let you in, Caedast, even though you were once equals in will, once.” Atramentous took a swig of his flask. “So you see... I think you better than you know.”

Stannis sat in stunned silence for a long moment, unsure what to say or think in the face of this Atramentous saying the truth so plainly. In the end, after a moment that seemed like forever in absolute stillness, his lips stirred. “Tell me my fortune, if you know me so well. Tell me… what I will make of me.”

“Let me see your palm,” the turaga said nonchalantly with yet another toss back of a swallow of the flask; Stannis offered his hand, which the man gently took in his old claws. His eyes rolled to the back of his skull before he closed his eyelids in sacramental focus, and upon Stannis' hand he traced the lines of his palm like a map's contours. Stannis studiously watched him work with critical eyes, seeking out any indications it was a ploy despite being impressed by the turaga's knowledge of him before. Stannis was eager to know his destiny; it was ironic how much he could tell others about their fates but never could see his own pathways ahead.

"Mmmmmmmmm. You... Caedast... will wiiiinnnn! Indeed, you already have won. Your quest, your Wish, will be successful. But it will come at a cost. You will have everything, but you will lose everything more. You are not welcome here on Terros-Nui." Atramentous backed away, his amethyst eyes bursting back to existence in the dark recess of his cowl. 

"Is there anything else you can say?" Stannis pressed, delighted to hear the good news of victory and chomping at the proverbial bit for something more than false prophesies of grandeur but bewildered by the sudden change from the welcoming tone. "Anything more about what Fates await me?"

"There is nothing; I am sorry but I have said all that I can risk. Your Destiny is always in a sort of... flux, if you will, and as easily made as unmade. Now go away. There is trouble brewing under our feet and it's coming for you, and I will not be drawn into your battles."

"Trouble?" Stannis balked, then he felt with his Stone-senses in the foundations of the buildings. He could feel the rumbles of footfalls and clamber of tools. His eyes narrowed at Atramentous. "You said the people who live on Terros-Nui are peaceful. Why are they coming for me with tools of war?"

"I told you what you needed to hear, Stennis," Atramentous chided. "I said they are mostly peaceful... and that they are traumatized. You are the grain of sand grinding against their sores, and their phase of passive response are long over. Look around you, Stennis—does this landscape look like the people here would choose flight or freeze? They have chosen to fight, to eject the irritant upon their skin that threatens to tear the world asunder." And with that, Turaga Atramentous' crumbled to his knees, his eyes dimmed to darkness, and then he slumped to the side like a pile of stones cast down. 

Stannis suddenly stood up and gathered his weapon as he realized the severity of his situation and the threats that were coming for him. There had been a deception, he was sure, but of what and to what end he hadn't the faintest idea. Whatever he came to find out in the Far Shore was still eluding his grasp, and would continue to do so if he did not survive. He traced his steps in the darkness, striving to returning from whence he came, winding this way and that, all while beneath him—and around him—he could discern the clanking of footfalls of a different sort this time. They grew louder and more assured the closer he got to the main road where he had seen the purple-eyed seer before, and he sought that area because it was an open space he hoped would lend well to his defense, but every step he took was tormented by the echoes of the native people's marches which resounded angrily off the confines of the unseen walls looming all above and beside Stannis. 

When he got to the space he found it bathed in moonlight and filled with the closing ranks of beings much like Atramentous, all leering at him with violet eyes from the corners of the area and held their wicked weapons close to their chests. The Wanderer slowed his pace as he came near and then slowly walked into the open, showing himself in the brilliant glow of the lunar light. He hafted his spear lazily at his side. "People of Terros-Nui," he shouted out, his voice calm and powerful though still dwarfed in the massive scale of the area, "I am not your enemy. I am not here to threaten, only to wander through. Let me pass unharmed and I will cause no trouble to you."

There was no verbal answer from the beings, but they slowly encroached upon him, a living iris closing in. 

His voice became pleading. He did not wish for violence—he came for answers, not combat; solved mysteries, not certain death—and he cried out yet again with pacifistic diplomacy. Surely, he thought, these people were not devoid of reason and compassion. It was true that he did not belong there, but to have the Far Shore react so viscerally to his presence so suddenly surprised him incredibly. "My name is Stannis! I am a Toa from Maru-Nui, from a place far away, and I do not want to fight you!" 

Still they came near, showing no signs of abatement or swaying from his words. Below the sound of their short steps, rattling weapons, and shuffling bodies, was a low hiss of words Stannis could not quite discern yet. And then they broke their hesitation and came at him, all in a rush and from every side. Stannis' spear instinctively went up to a defensive stance to meet their charge; the war wizard was not there to fight, this was not supposed to be his war to win at the cost of needless loss of life. Atramentous' prophesy rang in his mind, though: You... will be successful. But it will come at a cost. What cost was he willing to pay for an achieved Grand Wish? He was nearly frightened to find out. 

Stannis was a paramount fighter, and though it was easy to forget that after all his unassuming presence his lectures for peace there were occasions where it was made abundantly clear the rumors of the old man's prowess were not simple legends but rather truly demonstrable fact. He preferred not to be pressed to service, oftentimes working with others to raise them to the occasion and fight for themselves, as he did on Metru Nui while supporting the Taku crew, but over the course of the war there had been many points where Stannis found himself alone, behind enemy lines, and forced to fight for himself. It was testament to his skill and power that he had been able to survive and escape each and every time, but noteworthy were the lack of witnesses to speak plainly of the fights afterward. It was a very similar situation he found himself in on the Far Shore—alone, outnumbered, behind enemy lines. But he still did not desire death.

At the last second, he switched his hold on the spear and turned the lethal end away from the rushing denizens and elected to use his spear as a staff instead, and once he moved the weapon it became like a force of nature in his hand. He swung it to one side and then turned it to the other, and wherever the weapon's haft swept the assailants were brushed aside like stalks of wheat. He deftly parried swords and daggers by turning them away with their own momentum, pushing assailants into each other with well-timed footwork and shoves, and cleverly wound his way in a circle as he strove to constantly keep fighting unerringly forward through the crowd and maintained a single front to fight on. Those who did not stagger away from him or got thoroughly rebuffed were struck non lethally by the brunt of his spear's shaft, hammered to their knees with the forcefulness of a tree. But still they poured themselves against him, and through it all their low chant grew louder with their angry breaths and unified opposition. Asa, Nisi, Masa. 

The Warmage kept his defense up, striking what he could not unseat and unseating what he could not press aside, sweeping his spear's blunt haft this way and that with the force to cave a house asunder, but the battle did not turn in his favor. The assailants still churned against him like the ocean's frothy waves rife with seafoam that rendered his footfalls murky and kelp that threatened to tangle his legs, a never-ending current against which he could only paddle against with a self-righteous notion of hopeful indignation. Everywhere he looked he only saw amethyst eyes in darkened shapes and gnashes teeth seething in rage at his interloping, and above all the commotion of fighting those surreal words chanted like a prayer, or a curse. Asa, Nisi, Masa. Asa, Nisi, Masa.

For all his strength he could not keep the fight up at its current pace. He was still holding himself back, but while he aimed to cut through the throng to the corners of the plaza and then vanish into the shadows for refuge it seemed he could not attain that goal by simply beating the enemy back with blunt force alone, and it was in a moment of flagging senses that he started to sputter. An assailant managed to evade his staff and cut past his defenses, managing to shove a short sword into Stannis' thigh. He cried out in pain and surprise and fell to the ground; instantly, the others jumped at the opportunity of weakness and piled upon the Wanderer. The schick of blades upon Stannis' flesh were followed by triumphant shouts. Stannis, under the weight of their pressing bodies, howled back in pain as he was stabbed once and a dozen and two dozen times more. Their words were muffled by their own bodies, but those closest to Stannis—the ones who stabbed at him—could be heard clearly. Asa, Nisi, Masa.

His grey cloak was weighed down by his own blood, sodden anew with fluids of a different sort, and Stannis felt himself being pressed into the asphalt with his cheek crushed on the road. If he was said to be a grain of sand in their oyster shell of a world, a malignant speck to be encased and ejected, he certainly felt like it was a truism. What the assassins did not see, obscured by the nighttime darkness, the cloak, and their own bodies, was that each of their stabs were healed over as soon as their weapons retracted from the toa's body; while before it would have taken several seconds to seal the wounds, Stannis had grown in power from when he had been stabbed before and healed faster than ever. He ceased to move, but he remained very much alive, and then finally the assailants stopped their attack and stepped back to witness their deed's making. Asa, Nisi, Masa. 

Stannis remained on the ground as an unmoving mound of flesh and cloth and the blood-soaked cloak shimmered in the moonlight. Peace, it seemed, would not be his path to victory in the Far Shore; if he was to see the light of day again he would need to be prepared to take lives to do it. Death, it seemed, had indeed followed him there. He strained his lips to move and then quietly said a single word that activated his Haonga to process a pre-written power. " ...Taiari."*

Asa. Nisi. Masa. 

Processing... Input: Accepted. †

He gently tapped the ground once with a finger and instantly a burst of kinetic energy shuddered the air around him with a crack of thunder. Terros-Nuians were thrown back by the sheer force of the rebuff and shrieked in shock and surprise, and those who were closest to Stannis had been pummeled to grotesque forms of flesh and armor from the sheer power they were hit by. To the other's utter amazement, the man they had thought killed languidly picked himself up from the ground, first with one leg, then with the other, and then heaved himself up with his spear like a staff. His cloak, already ragged from too many adventures without mending, was pockmarked with a multitude of holes that sagged from the blood that soaked its threadbare cloth, revealing the gaping gashes all over, but Stannis himself seemed perplexingly unharmed. At first they all stood in awe, unmoving yet unflinching, until Stannis decided the game was over, and with a mighty heave he hammered his weapon against the ground. 

The asphalt fractured around him, shattering in a fractal array of and concrete and stonework, and then it shifted yet again to make the terrain uneven and fragile. Stannis moved forward, and this time he would engage the denizens with wrath of his own. This time he spear was employed business-side forward, and those he could not move aside were skewered mercilessly. Still they chanted those words—Asa, Nisi, Masa—but now they added another indiscernible word which, between the cries of pain and the shouts of rage, Stannis could not understand. His weapon found blood with every swing, killed with every stroke, and supplanted with every brush, and those he could not slay with his tool were thrown aside with his Kanohi like chaff in the wind. He had to fight his way up the street and into a building where he could conceivably hide, but for every being he killed another came to take their place. Even then, he was fighting an uphill battle. Asa, Nisi, Masa. [Carthage?]

The ground still shook with every step he took and rumbled as he cast his weapon upon the concrete. Distant cracks of thunder reverberated through the earth and sky, echoing through the battlefield as a continuous cry of the chant kept building up. It looked for all the world as if Stannis' continued presence truly did seem to be tearing the city apart, a grain of sand that rubbed the oyster raw until it bled. Asa, Nisi, Masa. [Cashing?]

He moved the battle towards a nearly fortress skyscraper, running when he could to keep from getting trapped again, but occasionally requiring to slow and fight at a walking pace. Behind him was a river of blood and corpses, and still the Terros-Nuians poured out from the underworld to fight him. Stannis could not understand their ideology or intentions. Was it to die? Did they not see what he was capable of doing? Did they possess any sense of fear or comprehension that to fight was to die? They did not learn from the deaths of their fellows, and it seemed for all that they were doing they could not adapt to a different perspective. The foundations beneath continued to shatter, and he could see ground that was once level and even had been caving into itself, rendered wasted and uneven. Asa, Nisi, Masa. [Carding?]

Finally, Stannis reached the citadel. Its gates were wide open as if someone had been awaiting his arrival, and he covered the last few steps from the great highway to the fortresses' foyer with haste, eager to leave the battle behind as soon as possible. As soon as he was beyond the veil of the redoubts gate he sent one final rebuffing wave of energy out and mentally reached out to the great stone gates to shut behind him, until finally, with one final long moan and deep shudder, they closed at last and separated the Wanderer from the mob without. Above it all, however, he could hear one final word triumphantly being chanted by the whole of the throng, that one word which had escaped his attention until then. It was said hauntingly and with unknowable intent, almost as a curse; it was the Aspect's very own name. 

Caedast. 

Asa, Nisi, Masa, they chanted, Caedast. 

Caedast.

Stannis stood in silent shock, gasping for breath to restore his deprived constitution before he would have to move on, ever forward, again, but he shook his head in utter befuddlement. Everyone, it seemed, knew who he was in the Far Shore, all eyes had been only ever locked at his visage, and for all the answers he had found he had been left with even more questions than before. Mysteries only begot mysteries; confusion was all that awaited him. 

Finding nothing more to do and urging himself to delve deeper into the nightmarish realm to what he hoped would reveal the plane's nature to him, he marched on, deep into the bowels of the cathedralesque, tenebrous citadel which he had all to himself.

 On the first day, God created everything that ever was. 

 On the second day, God came to take it all back—piece by piece. 

OOC | * Maori for "repel;" this spellword activates the Haonga to act in many ways similar to a Cast, creating a sphere of kinetic energy that shoves anything inside it away with incredible force, minus the user. The closer to the vortex, the more powerful the effect. 

† Rolled a 12 out of 20 for success of the Haonga programming—failure is anything less than a 5.

IC Stannis | The Far Shore

Stanza 2.1 — Wanderer

Stannis the Wanderer came to for a second time in his Far Shore pilgrimage, this time face down in a soft surface that stifled his senses. He could hear a muddled rumble but he could not see anything, he could not smell, and he could not even breathe—a realization that at once made him heave his head back in pure reflex. Stannis gasped for air hungrily only to be washed over by a wave of frothy seawater, and slowly, breath by breath, he grew more aware of his surroundings and the new predicament landfall had given him.

The shipwreck was total, with flotsam and debris of the boat Atramentous scattered on the beach all around Stannis in either direction. It looked as though the whole of the yawl had been torn to shreds on the rocks and Stannis praised his Destiny (or what there was of it in the Far Shore) that he had not been among those things sliced to bits by the reef. With shaky legs he trudged up the beach and on to the dry land, and he removed his sodden and battered cloak to wring it while doing so, finally laying it across his neck like a towel. He stopped at a realization that he was not alone—already imprinted into the soft earth was a set of smaller, diminutive footprints belonging to a matoran or turaga that wound up towards a dune that separated the shoreline from the rest of the landmass. Stannis could vaguely ascertain the being, whoever it was, remained nearby, but there was no danger being felt and the Wanderer instead considered it more an omen. For the first time in his adventure he was reassured that he was not the only living being in this plane.

The high dune was strewn with thick sedges that served as the final blockade between the ocean and the rest of the island, a challenge which he overcame by materializing stone stairs to meet his every step up. On the penultimate step, however, he ventured a look around and behind him, choosing to relish in the evening light and the views all about this strange reality he’d found himself in. The familiar sight of the ocean stretched out far beyond the horizon with only the dangerous rocky outcroppings and shoals that were nigh-invisible in the dimming evening light blocking the visage. The beach, a soft ochre color now, meandered in both directions like the back of a winding rattlesnake, dotted here and there by debris and clumps of seaweed that looked almost intentional in positioning, and then the thin line vanished around the curvature of the island. The sun was slowly setting off to his right, and strangely it was the only thing about this realm that seemed not to be amiss. This world, Stannis thought, was unsettlingly vivid and surreal. He turned to finally summit the dune to see what awaited, and what he saw astounded him even so.

Once, not so long before, Stannis had witnessed the ravages war had tolled on a universe; it was a sight made intimately familiar to him and the nightmares of bloodshed and ruin still plagued his waking memories. The world he found himself in, however, was a picture of what he worked hard to prevent. It was an urban wasteland that sprawled out ahead with row upon row of devastated city blocks and shattered monoliths of civilization. The phalanxes of high-rises could barely be believed to once have been habitable havens for orderly folk, but now they were skeletal remains stripped of their facades and baring their stories to the elements. Even in the amber evening sunlight they looked starched blanche.

Nestled within the crumbling cityscape were fortress skyscrapers that rose up to pierce the sky like spears and tridents with their towers that wound and narrowed to dangerous points scattered through the metropolitan region like abandoned swords stuck in the ground of a forgotten battlefield. They were no less demolished than the buildings the citadels were surrounded by but they looked starkly militaristic in nature and weathered the circumstances better than the residential edifices. The Warmage recognized the core architectural styles with cursory inspection—Skakdi spires meshed seamlessly with brutalist Steltian keeps, an unlikely pairing somehow unified here in the Far Shore realm. The whole of the setting was hauntingly inconsistent with the reality Stannis knew in the grounded world, but it retained so many traits, as though this were a realm of Limbo were all aspects of reality coincided with an unholy, incongruous harmony. The hypothesis certainly made sense with what he had heard of the Far Shore.

Far off, Stannis caught sight of the diminutive being. Whoever it was seemed to beckon for him, and then vanished from view. The Wanderer followed anew, pushing himself deeper into the shattered cityscape and venturing up the wide causeways that established the patchwork grid pattern in the methodical pursuit of the mysterious other soul. The city was rife with paradoxes, and once walking among the buildings the true dazzling nature of the place truly began to sink in. Great highways seemed to stop at a dead end and resume their passage straight down from him without a connection; passageways that looked straight and linear bent upon taking them and placed Stannis elsewhere than he expected; whole apartments were arranged upside down, their broken furniture perched on the ceilings rather than on the floors and decorations adorning the walls where they should have been on the ground; and, most disturbing for the aged wizard’s controlling personality, were stairways that looped in an infinite Penrose paradox until somehow they suddenly no longer imprisoned him any longer and he was free to move on again.

The longer Stannis ventured the more he felt the city caving in on him, growing infinitesimally smaller with each step he took and closing in around him like bars in a shrinking jail cell, yet likewise Stannis felt smaller, too, increasingly powerless against an oppressive world he had no means to even fathom. The buildings rose to towering heights war over his head and cast dense shadows in the evening sun that consumed whole quadrants of buildings and kios of the streets into their murky, angular shades, and as they elevated themselves it came at the cost of all other senses of scale and dimension. The greater the edifices became the less anything below them seemed to matter; it was all a confounding maze of stochasticity and obfuscation where direction became meaningless and reality was just a concept to theorize about. Stannis hated it… and yet he had never felt more at home. The Far Shore seemed to simultaneously be swallowing Caedast whole into its vast gullet and setting up a feast in their honor.

On ground zero, all around were the telltale signs of a war—ashen waste littered the dead streets, rubble of brick and steel littered the streets, soot from energy weapons spattered the remaining standing walls like growing patches black mold while lifeless edifices were speckled with gaping holes from projectiles. In every corner and pocket were obvious signs of conflict, but it was merely the detritus; nary a weapon could be found, only the effects were visible. The Wanderer had crouched down to inspect a scorch mark when a flurry of motion caught his eye and he perked his eyes in the direction of his suspicion. All he could see was two amethyst eyes staring back at him from a space of emptiness, beckoned for him with a wordless nod, and then they vanished leaving only the shuffle of feet to be discerned.

Stannis stood up, no longer as fascinated by the marking on the ground as he was entranced by the being’s apparition, and followed them into the darkness the being had vanished into.

38 minutes ago, Void Emissary said:

IC: Parnassus | The Ambling Alp

"The name's Parnassus," the Aspect said, looking back towards the man Leklo. "We have a mutual friend in Ca-- in Stannis," Parnassus continued. "He told me that I could count on you as a guide in this place. Is this true?"

IC Leklo | Kini-Koro, the Ambling Alp

The slip of the tongue did not go by unnoticed by Leklo's quick mind, which was discreetly held close to his chest while he portrayed the outward appearance of a slow and incredibly calculated climber. Though he was not quick in most actions, his senses were trained to detect even the slightest of differences and flaws, and a verbal mistake no matter how smoothly brushed off, was no exception. He did not press the matter, however, instead choosing to bide his time and address it later, if and when it became something worth checking on, and instead added "Ca" to the back of his mind as a footnote pertinent to the enigmatic Wanderer's identity. 

He assumed, however, that Parnassus had come with Stannis on the airship, an easy conclusion to reach since he had not seen this traveler ever before and he had indeed come from Stannis' airship's hold, and with that erroneous narrative in mind he concluded to offer Parnassus aid just as he would to Stannis. In terms of appearance, Parnassus looked very much alike to the Wanderer's visage, weather-worn and wind-ravaged clothes and armor being the trappings of vagrants it seemed. "I can offer assistance, yes. You are new to the settlement. Where do you come from?" he asked, curious. "And what do you want to do here?"

IC Stannis | The Far Shore

Stanza 1 — Atramentous

The Wanderer came to on a blistering hot surface. At first he thought it was a desert with the open pale-blue sky over his head and the sizzle of the hard surface that cooked his flesh whenever he moved, but the gentle rocking of the surface told him it was, in fact a boat. He sat up and looked around, astonished by the scene, and he quickly clambered to his feet. 

It was a boat alright, a small yawl by the looks of it, and there was no company for Stannis but the hungry cawing of cormorants far-off to the starboard side. The sails were not unfurled and the booms lazily hung off the mast without so much as an inkling of the wind’s tension. By all appearances it seemed as though it had remained where it was for quite some time, and upon some brief inspection Stannis discovered several other facts that led to no discernible conclusions. He checked in the small cabin at the stern end of the craft for a boat’s log, and while there was indeed a log it contained very little information. The boat was called the Atramentous, built in Stelt and being sold to an unknown benefactor. Stannis determined that it must not have been delivered yet since there had not been an entry by a proper captain yet, just the scribbles of a shipyard foreman, but the boat showed some small evidences of use: The sails had been folded away haphazardly, the ropes strewn about the deck had been coiled by an unskilled hand, and perhaps most perplexing of all was the lowered anchor that kept the craft mostly in place.

Clearly the yawl had been occupied by someone. The Wanderer scratched his head in confusion; was he the one to have used the boat? He wondered how long he had been lying on the deck under the merciless beating of the sun. His cloak, once a dark charcoal, had been bleached to a pale complexion on the whole front side, and he compared the back of it to the front several times in aghast fascination at the contrast between the rich color on one side and the blanched on the other. By the looks of the evidence he could have been lying there for weeks. But that couldn’t be right—... could it? 

Stannis looked around the boat some more and found few other implements. In the cabin there was a table neatly set with navigational equipment: A chart of the sea was laid out, recently unfurled such that the corners curved up sharply and needed to be weighted with stones and a candelabra, and a sextant so new it was still stored in it's manufacturer’s box. Upon some analysis of the map he realized, with increasing despair, that he could still be anywhere in the world. The map was clearly only part of a larger whole, but it only revealed an expanse of ocean on three fourths of its area and a sliver of land at a far section. The Wanderer did not know what island it was supposed to be, he only knew it existed somewhere to the west end of the map. 

That was the question he kept in his mind as night fell upon the Atramentous. Stars popped into the dusk sky like flitting embers from a fire coming to rest on a slab of slate, and one by one Stannis counted them, cataloguing them in his mind and comparing what he saw to the skies he admitted to memory. The Wanderer was not limited to vocations of chronicling sagas or archiving possessions, serving instead as a recorder of events and fates, and in his eons sojourning the Matoran Universe he had observed countless starry skies and while his skill was not the same as an astrologer—Nixie still remained the foremost among those scholars—he nevertheless possessed sufficient knowledge for the purposes of understanding the patterns and movements of the celestial bodies. What surprised him, however, was that the stars were not aligning with any period of history he had recorded even though they were recognizable formations of constellations he knew. 

Pulling the sextant out in the middle of the nautical twilight he pointed it at the horizon, found his celestial beacon of choice, and calibrated his device accordingly. He did this several times, using several stars while he still could do so in the fading light, and logged the resulting coordinates he received after each use in a desperate, if methodical, attempt at answering two important questions: Where was he, and when was he? By the time the horizon was no longer demarcated visibly he had taken over a dozen measurements with the device and then turned to mark them on the chart as best he could. As best he could tell from what the the sextant was telling him he was somewhere to the southeast of the island’s coordinates.

After dark he meditated on the idea and tried to rest easy with the knowledge that he needed to cast off northwest to reach land and hopefully further unravel the mystery of his situation and the Far Shore's mythos. He was eager to get to the bottom of things, and the line he told to Parnassus and others ringed in his head like a focusing mantra, Time is infinite but in insufficient supply. Whatever was the true nature of the Far Shore was both the reason he had come through the portal and what he hoped to solve sooner rather than later, regardless that haste meant little in a dimension of shifting realities and timelines. But one thing troubled him as he tried to rest and niggled at the back of his mind as he did so: If the stars and sextant told him the landmass was to the northwest then why were the bird calls invariably coming what he determined was the south? In the morning, he doubled his research and concluded that the birds were truly to the south and the sextant indeed told him the island should be to the north, both great pieces of evidence that conflicted with each other.

Should he trust the sextant and the stars? Or should he trust in his intuition and self-reliance? He had all the knowledge he needed already, there was no more to garner and glean, and his taboos and magicks were of no use to him where he was, leaving him to decide with only what he already possessed. He held the sextant in his hand as he weighed its worth, as though his hand were some arcane scale that could measure the truth of the device, and then, finally, he made up his mind. 

While Stannis had failed somewhat as an airship pilot, he had in fact garnered a significant skill in sailing, and so it was not with his usual sluggishness or hesitation that he began to ready the Atramentous for movement. His hands moved deftly through the coils of rope, yanking the anchor up took almost no effort at all, and his footing on the rigging nets was remarkably sure as he climbed up to unfurl the sails and catch what little wind they could seize. At first they were empty as a prospector's goldpan, but yet again the old Wanderer maneuvered the boom with expert guidance to snatch the breeze just so, and soon afterwards the craft was moving. 

South, he had determined. The sextant was thrust to the wayside, a useless bauble that had only confounded him before. There was no function to it anymore as Stannis had decided its findings were unimportant; the Wanderer, the Prophet, would follow the advice of none other but himself. He knew best, after all—he knew the realities of life without the rose-tinted lenses of theoreticals, and his gut and mind alike had told him to put the sextant away. Stannis knew better than the device, that was a hunch he was willing to bet on. Sure enough, the sound of birds across the horizon became more pronounced over the day, lending credibility to his self-confidence.

What his skills consistently mirrored, however, was that while Stannis was a capable enough pilot the practice of landing still eluded him on sea just as it did in the air. He found land on the eve of the second day of cruising. Indeed, he'd unceremoniously crashed into it.

1 hour ago, Unreliable Narrator said:

"I see you are as much a scholar as a warrior. When you return, perhaps we should compare research. But now the time for conversation is over," Nuju said. The rift seemed to beckon. Strangely, it reminded Caedast of somewhere else, but he couldn't quite place it.

IC Stannis | Kini-Nui

The old being stared into the shimmering event horizon for a moment, as if considering the possibility of a choice, as if he was not already wholeheartedly embracing ultimately entering the Far Shore, and then he cocked his head back to Nuju with a sharp snap. "Yes. I suppose it is."

Once by one, he reached out to his desecrated family, one by one. He sounded earnest and, shockingly, concerned. He knew not what he was going to witness and deal with, but he knew he would never be the same. He hoped when he returned, if he returned, that he'd be able to deliver the promises he gave to each of his companions. 

{Once-Brother, I'll see you soon. Watch over Leklo, he is what I should have been and deeply seeks to be true.}

{Drukarus, beware that sometimes a rolling cannon is more dangerous than a firing cannon.}

{Cousin, watch over yourself. The Builders are as innocent as they are full of guilt.}

{Whisper, seek out your answers and the secrets will follow. You'll see me soon.}

{Once-Friend, I hope you won't need me before I can answer. All history is cyclical; all harvests had been sown first}

...

{For now I step into the abyss.}

He stepped into the abyss.

Listen.

Of all the things you're about to lose...

This will be the most painful.

1 hour ago, Void Emissary said:

"You're Leklo, yes?" they said to the newcomer, the one who had miraculously appeared just as Caedast had departed. "Come with me. I must get to the horizon," Parnassus said. "I must speak with this storm!"

IC Leklo | Kini-Koro

"Sorry, who are you?"

1 hour ago, Unreliable Narrator said:

"To be as it once was, and as it should be," Nuju said with a nod toward the rift. "And all worlds, no matter how small, deserve saving. Don't you think so, Toa Stannis?"

IC Stannis | Kini-Nui

"In a manner of speaking... All lives, no matter how small, deserve to have control over their Destinies. Whether they decide to save or ruin themselves is a choice placed on their shoulders."

IC Stannis | Kini-Nui

Nuju's smile was awkward and cubistic, the smile of a man who rarely expressed joy and had been so out of practice that the best he could do was replicate an image he'd thought he'd seen once in a faded and trampled magazine cover. He grimaced his lips and grinned mirthlessly, though there was certainly genuine sentiment behind the gesture detectable behind the pretense of a smile. Stannis flared his lips and bared his teeth back at Nuju in an act of sympathetic synchrony, mimicking Nuju’s errant smile.

"It might be, but it's not my insight I intend to uplift. Everyone can make their own best choices, if they know enough to be educated in choosing. The issue wrestled with is becomes one of how much... is enough?" He let the rhetorical thought linger.

"But why should anyone restore the path to Tren Krom? Why does the primordial Unmaker have to break the wheel?" he asked, cautiously, careful not to ask Nuju his truths. 

@Unreliable Narrator

35 minutes ago, Unreliable Narrator said:

At last Nuju answered, "Perhaps you'll be back before the rain stops. Maybe you'll find what I'm looking for: A makoki stone that will reveal the path to Tren Krom. It wasn't always a cycle, you know."

IC Stannis | Kini-Nui

"There are many maybes in life, Nuju," Stannis intoned solemnly. He crossed his arms and stood at rest a couple paces from the shimmering portal's horizon and looked at Nuju carefully. "You know that better than anyone, don't you? Destiny's myriad of pathways, the esoteric material that keeps scholars and seers like you poring at the skies day and night... I step into this portal and go to who-knows-where and when, and if I come back, nothing will be quite the same as when I left it—similar, sure, but touched by entropy that flows differently than in the Far Shore. I'd ask you for advice before I sojourn through, but I rather think better of the idea. Anyone who thinks they know as much as you do would keep your secrets close and your truths even closer. Seers and Wanderers are alike. We are charlatans—we are liars—because we have to be.

"Am I mistaken?"

IC Stannis | Kini-Nui

"As a matter of fact, I do. What is there to say? I'm the Wanderer and I go where the story takes me... and when the story takes me." 

@Unreliable Narrator

IC Stannis | Kini-Nui

The sky darkened, heralding the tahtorak of loss and sadness. Stannis knew the feeling, in a way—he knew the grief, the aimlessness and suffering Nektann felt in his soul at an anointed bond shattered. Trauma was excruciating and it caused people to do unfathomable things, and bonds born of trauma were devastating when they were broken at last. Stannis hoped the kraata Parnassus had made was not detectable by the wandering monster, but he would not stay to test the theory in either case. There was no reason to linger, Stannis—powerful and vast though he was—would have little effect on the riteborn kaiju. The NUVA and the Kaita existed for that reason, after all. His mission was against the spirits of destruction and rebirth, his qualifications and powers were specialized for the esoteric and arcane. Some fish were too big for one Aspect to fry.

He walked for the portal. Vulimai was already there, speaking with Nuju. "Nuju...What do you know about the Krom Sphere?" And the little matoran seer was there in his strange way, standing on the other side of the portal and flickering like a reflection in a pond's surface. 

"Vulimai, a tahtorak is approaching your village," Stannis announced as he walked up without fanfare. "You'd best rally your forces and organize your NUVA warriors. You'll need their powers if Kini-Koro is to survive. I wish you the best. 

Without pause, he addressed the seer. "Nuju, I presume? Toa Korruhn sends his regards."

@Eyru @Unreliable Narrator @Sparticus147

IC Stannis | The Ambling Alp

{Once-Brother.}

{Parnassus is like me.}

{But I am not like Parnassus.}

{He is not cruel, but he is vainglorious. He is not kind, but he is generous. Watch him and be watched in turn. He can read minds, so mind your mind.}

{Trust him as you would trust me...}

"I wouldn't dream of it," he said with a grin to their cousin. He prepared to disembark from the airship, lowering the ramp and shrouding his face with his ashen sack-cloth cloak once more, and waved an au revoir to his two companions as though he was merely going to stretch his legs landside rather than venture into another realm of existence entirely.

{... Don't.}

He made his way down the hill to the temple and the portal at its center.

IC Leklo | The Ambling Alp

The affably dedicated but increasingly confounded Nuva Proxima appeared as if by magic, watching the sage traveler amble away from his craft. Leklo lingered agog and aghast as he observed the countless ghosts of those slain by the pacifist wizard's hand swarm like a tidal wave in his wake. 

On 2/26/2021 at 10:19 AM, Void Emissary said:

IC: Parnassus | The Ambling Alp

"You'll go undesecrated by me for now, cousin," they said, grinning like a warskak. "But I hold the key to what you desire, nonetheless."  For they held in their hand a thing of beauty, born of the King of Fort Nektann and the Aspect of Boundless Horizons. A Kraata. 

"You're an uncle, Caedast."

IC Stannis | The Ambling Alp

An uncle? Caedast thought, standing in the hold of the ship with a blank look on her face. Or was it 'his?' Gender had always seemed to be a thing Caedast referred to as an outside element, something used to describe people and things around her—brother, sister, 'there she goes,' 'clever girl,' 'he's an cool dude'—and not really something prescribed to herself. Other Aspects were amorphous and agendered—cousin, sibling, other, spirit—and consequently there was hardly any introspection on whether Caedast possessed a gendered identity. Caedast was a wish, a primal desire, who's existence defied natural laws and physical presence. Over the eons Caedast had picked up on some small measure of discourse made by philosophers and scientists in Ga-Metru who argued that gender was as much a construct as appearance and currency, and the value was intrinsic to the person. Whereas this could have been a good point for Caedast to define themself as male, as the spirit was in possession of Stannis' body and was observed as a male being, it became somewhat muddled by the fact that Caedast was a nurturing entity, an observable trait oftentimes gender-coded as 'feminine,' and the spirit had simply let that idea roll whether it was a valid argument or not. 

For the most part, Caedast didn't care what people referred to them as. They knew what they were, and they transcended the gender construct. Though if hard pressed to provide an answer in a polarizing world Caedast would say they were more feminine, despite possessing a man's body and being called a 'brother' for eons. She considered it a price associated with the ownership of the illustrious hero's mortal coil, but it never really sat quite right for the spirit. It was almost as alien as the concept of a real familiar bond with another being, let alone their kraata. 

"If we are cousins and this is your progeny, why... that makes it also my cousin," Stannis remarked candidly in jest, sounding affable but flat in tone. He was bemused by the antic, at least. "Our bargain still remains, but now you have a downpayment. Use this resource wisely and well, Parnassus. 

"I have a quest to embark upon." He then spoke, open and freely in the presence of Pain and Oreius, of his mission to the Far Shore. He expressed his intention to discern the nature of the other realm of existence, his oath to Leklo, and his dedication to figuring out what Korruhn's fate and abilities were. The last part—Korruhn—would particularly have piqued Parnassus' attention. "He is no Aspect of Makuta, but he is what is called void-touched. If Miserix is now in possession of someone like that, I must come to understand what the affliction's nature is. Knowledge is a weapon, but only if I have it.

"While I am gone, you may find some company in this village. They are Builders, Matoran, and they have come from the Ark with me. They are skittish and war-ravaged, but honest and eager. You will be safe here among them, so long as they do not see you as a threat. My castellan, if you will, is Korrun's friend, the toa Leklo. He is an honest and true warrior but he does not know what I truly am. Not yet.

"If you have anything more to speak with me before I go, now is the time. Miserix does not wait for anyone, nor does Spiriah, and while there is infinite time we have little of it."

That day, he was amazed to discover that when he was saying "As you wish," what he meant was, "I love you."

On 2/21/2021 at 7:43 PM, Conway said:

IC: Parnassus | The Ambling Alp

"Oreius, a pleasure to make your acquaintance and-- Is that Energized Protodermis?!"

IC Stannis | The Ambling Alp

"It is," the old being said to Parnassus with a nod as he he closed the airship's door in an abundance of caution, not wishing anyone to intercede in his hallowed sanctum on his airship (still tripping over that sentiment, inwardly). "A keg of it, harvested only a short while ago from a bunker nearby in the wake of a NUVA taking their Kaita mech." He paused then, thinking not about the number of things to divulge to his cousin but of the sheer multitude of mysteries the younger spirit was blissfully ignorant about still. He had 

"There are incredible things you do not yet know, Parnassus," he said, honestly, and earnestly. "Xa-Kas is a plane of paradox and confusion, a shifting eye in the midst of a maelstrom of realities. It should come as no surprise that it is dark, dangerous, and confounding possibilities, but I have looked into the heart of this island, and what I saw... was beautiful, and it is my role to show it. To you. To everyone. For now, use this protodermis, make with it what you will"—he gestured again with the upside down triangle—"and you will find that you can do so much more than you previously thought possible. Feel that knowledge course through you, let it consume your mind with possible threads of Fate. In this land... wishes come true."

He let that sentiment reign for a while, and he donned his great grey cloak again, seemingly giving up on getting it mended at the time after all. "But chop chop, my cousin. Time is as everlasting as it is short."

@Conway @Eyru

That situation's kraata was made from a Rahi heartlight, so it started at level 1 by default. Barius was a PC so we're in relatively untrod territory now. 

47 minutes ago, Kal the Guardian said:

If we go with EW's interpretation, instead of being at Stage 5, the resulting Desecrated Kraata should instead be at Stage 1 and only ever get up to Stage 3.

No, it would start at Level 3 (if made from a PC's heartlight) and ascend as the creator does as well and have the same usual ceiling. 

And for the record, my interpretation is based on seeing them as two different rites that work together in tandem: Infectious Kraata and Desecration. To desecrate you need a heartlight to turn into a kraata, which would be based on your Aspect’s power level. The IK taboo bolsters the ability to make kraata, however, and as that taboo reads the kraata “may be used as a replacement for heartlights in the Rites of Desecration” it can be inferred that the kraata used to desecrate that that point maintains its power but can be changed in variation. 

Basically, the power is already set by the IK taboo, which effectively boosts the kraata-making abilities of an Aspect. Since the Desecration rite is functionally distinct from the IK taboo, a kraata from an IK rite does not change when used to desecrate. That’s my take. 

8 hours ago, Conway said:

Caedast was right. There was no time for argument now; not while Barius' blood splattered onto the scorching sands from a hard-won heartlight. And so, putting aside their anger, and their fear, and their doubt--

--Parnassus let the shadows of the world come to them."Goodbye," they said. "Hello--"

IC Stannis | Beyond, ft. Neck Tan

"Stop."

It was a jarring command at first, but unlike the harsh rebukes of earlier it was genteel, educative even. "There is a better way to use your knowledge."

* * *

In Kini-Koro, Oreius felt the familiar and dreaded invisible tendrils of shadowy willpower curl around his, ensnaring his limbs and binding his body to his patron's desires. Oreius the Indomitable had no recourse or say in the matter, having unknowingly given those liberties up long ago, and he suddenly realized he was no longer in control of his muscles any longer. Stannis the Wanderer was wandering through him. Like a puppet on marionette strings, he walked away from where he was and began to walk up the hill, marching like a soldier as he was known to do. Bullish in his stride but unassuming in his countenance, nobody thought it was out of place to witness him go wherever he wished.

Only he didn't wish this.

{Once-brother.}

{Hate me, fear me, mistrust me. My apologies to you are meaningless to your ears now, but that does not diminish my sentiments.}

{You owe me no loyalty and I ask for none. I owe you no answers and you ask for none. Nut we are bound together. And one day--one inevitable day--there will be a world that cannot have me. I work for that day. One day, you will be rid of me, my lies, my tricks, and all our debts will be annulled.}

He felt himself walked right to the Ambling Alp, marched right into its hold, and that was when he felt the insidious puppetry end. 

{Once-brother: Thank you.}

And then a certain someone stepped out of his shadow.

* * *

Stannis stepped across the island and into the hold of his airship (the notion of him owning an airship was still hilarious, even to Stannis) from the wastes of the far north in a single stride. He gave Oreius a polite bow of his head and then quickly pulled Parnassus into his own shadow. in no time, three powerful beings existed in the small cabin of the airship, feeling almost constrained in the confines of the hallway as they were not quite in the lounge or any room in particular. 

"Parnassus, this is Oreius," he said in introduction. He was not sure what to refer to Oreo as anymore--not a friend, not a brother, not even an ally per se anymore, he was simply Oreius and he had no definitions. "And that... is a keg of precious liquid." Stannis gestured with his finger in the air, creating an upside-down triangle, a symbol Parnassus would instantly grasp the intent of. 

@Eyru sorry, lol

10 hours ago, Conway said:

"Barius is dead," [Parnassus] said. "The final blow was struck by my hand, but the reins of his army are now grasped by Drukarus'. The old goat has proven himself more cunning and more underhanded than I could have anticipated, and I don't think he trusts me. I do not believe that Fort Nektann is safe for me anymore."

The Aspect of Makuta felt the weight of the warlord's heartlight in their hand and, looking their cousin in the eye, they held it out to him gently.

"I wish to come with you to the temple," Parnassus said. "I wish to meet with your Builders."

IC Stannis | Beyond Fort Nektann

Stannis clenched his jaw as he is eyes bored into the younger Aspect's soul. He was angry and disappointed, feelings he made no attempt at concealing in honor of the promise to be honest and clear as an equal with Parnassus, patron or not, and the gaunt masker of knowledge seemed to stand ever taller than the cowering cousin in the wake of Stannis' dark frustrations. Stannis silently judged his cousin, and he was not kind. 

His eyes splayed over the weathered armor that had gleamed golds and reds but had since fallen to sunbaked entropy, and even Parnassus' face looked tired and starved as though he had never slept for fear or anxiety. Stannis wondered if it was truly a response to things that transpired around Parnassus, though he quickly revised his assessment after a study of his sunken eyes; these were not the symptoms of anxiety from events whirling around him, but instead they were the scars of guilt and a weighed conscience. Stannis had given him the ability to sense emotions, and that came at a cost steeper than Parn could afford. He could see it then. 

He shook his head. "You imbeciles," he chided like a grandfather who caught children playing with a fired gun. "Do you realize what has been done? This heartlight and the brain it once sustained was the only true leash that bound Nektann's Legacy to anyone's will. A Tahtorak is now roaming unchecked upon Xa-Kas and fighting him will cost both lives and land nobody wishes to sacrifice. The scales of power are tipped towards chaos now. Barius was a petty prince who spent all his life yearning for the throne and didn't know what to do once he had it, he could have been controlled, guided, and constrained, but Drukarus... he is no such slouch." The fallen war chief was single-minded and used power like a clumsy cudgel, but the old warlord Drukarus had the aspiration and cunning to apply his skills with the finesse of a rapier, and his experience and competence made him dangerous. Together, Parnassus and Drukarus had the potential to be powerful regents for Barius, but if they played against each other... the conniving ones always win; Parn was right to fear the other. 

Perhaps... it was better that way, Stannis concluded. Drukarus was a vastly different leader, but he could be reasoned with—and, further, Stannis still maintained a hold on him, should such a safety be required. Drukarus would not be swayed by petty baubles and dreams of making a legacy because he had done that many times before. This was nothing new to him. 

Stannis looked at the offered heartlight that had been taken at such a high cost, and not at just Barius' expense. "There is not much life left in that anymore," he said slowly, his tone even and smooth as the dunes again. "If you wish to seal our fates together you will have to hurry. I have no intention to leave our bargain unsettled still."

23 hours ago, Conway said:

They tossed a small object over to Caedast. Specks of blood flew from it and its arc, speckling the golden sand. "Did you find your temple?"

IC Stannis | Far North Wastes

The object flipped through the air and Stannis reached up to catch it. He failed and fumbled, however; while his eyes were good his reflexes were not fast, a cost he had paid for his age. He studied the yellowish object as it spashed into the sand at his feet and writhed in postmortem pulsation and realized immediately what had happened. He gently picked it up, caking care not to traumatize the flesh further, and paced sluggishly from where he stood towards the awaiting figure of Parnassus.

His gaze lifted at the younger Aspect. What had transpired was coming into view then. He saw the bloodied hand, the trembling fingers that still grasped at a ghostly knife that surely had carved the heart from its owner's chest. From Barius' chest. It was the second time Stannis held a king's heartlight in his hand, and it was no less impactful than the first, though this time... it wasn't as expected. Parnassus and Drukarus were meant to be camerlengos to the Warskaks, checks and balances to Barius' warlust and Nektann's legacy, not usurpers to the bloody clan. And yet, wasn't it exactly what was bound to happen anyway? People—of djinn and flesh alike—were bound to explore the boundaries of what was possible as their desires ached and grew. It was only a matter of time until someone decided it would suit them best to take action. Only for that to happen it would take both Drukarus and Parnassus to work in tandem, and this came at a cost of their sanity. They, after all, could feel what others thought. They, after all, could feel pain more profoundly than anyone. And still, they had killed Barius. 

It was their choice, he supposed. It was within their abilities. And Fate would have its way with them. 

"Parnassus, cousin," Stannis said, shedding the illusions of clarity and light and charging his tone to more closely reflect the djinn spirit just beneath his skin, "the means by which I will reach the temple is already en route." He handed the heartlight back to the other. "This is meant to be offered to me in ceremony, not thrown with spite. You are angry; you are frightened. What exactly transpired?"

@Conway

11 minutes ago, Conway said:

IC: Parnassus | Fort Nektann

It didn't take long for Parnassus to stumble their way out of the fortress ... out into the desert ... to the place where they and Corrivalis--

{Cousin, I am here.}

{I am in the deserts beyond the sight of Fort Nektann.}

{What are you planning here?}

IC Stannis | Kini-Koro, the Ambling Alp

The old man had just finished placing his precious cargo in the science bay of his airship when he heard Parnassus' call again. Though they were mio apart from from each other, the broadcast was clear as if they were standing beside one another, and there was even a certain richness to the mental tones lost in the soundwaves of spoken speech. Stannis could feel the harsh, bitter sadness in Parnassus' mind that tainted his emotive psionic link. Something had happened, something that shook the younger cousin. Had he done something, or had something been done to him? Had he discovered some truth that he was unprepared to fathom? Knowledge always came at a cost. 

These were not the wonderings of a detached god, but a concerned patron. Parnassus had consciously not chosen to be part of Caedast's "flock," but in joining together he nevertheless became a beneficiary to the elder's power. And what use was power if it was not wielded properly? He closed his eyes and felt through the shadows, touching the shadow trailing behind Parnassus like a long dark tail across the wasteland desert's sands. The younger one was alone, out of sight of the oasis fortress, with only the shifting dunes for his company. Stannis grabbed hold of that tail and pulled himself to it like a climber heaving up a length of rope, hoisting his body along the mountains and rivers and sands that spanned between he and his ward.

{Cousin, when I am called I will answer.}

{And when I am asked for, I}

{will}

"appear."

The sagacious Aspect of Makuta in the wizened toa's body stood a few bio from Parnassus, just at the far end of the latter's long afternoon shadow, his grey cloak folded and slung over his shoulder like a beach towel and thusly revealing his noble visage to the other. He'd arrived noiselessly; only his last word, heard but not felt, heralded his appearance. 

@Conway

On 2/8/2021 at 5:29 PM, Nato the Traveler said:

IC: Marrow (and minions) – Irnakk’s Tooth

They were so close now. Too close to allow any sound, no matter how intrusive or excruciating, to stop them. Too close to let these simpering sunspawn stand against them. The tunnels had been uncomfortably hot when the Mesi had first entered, and the temperature had only continued to rise with the release of the lava into the passageway. Even the Ta-Skakdi Hakkzan had sweat beading his brow, and he was further from the lava than those he was using it against. The attacking warskaks, used to fresh breeze and open skies, surely had to be suffering in the horrific heat of the tunnel. How much longer could they last?

IC Yumiwak + MC Zai | Irnakk's Tooth

Under the rules of war of attrition, we were losing, and every inch we gained towards the Pit ahead took more effort out of us than the Mesi expended in keeping their ground. They'd planned it this way, I realized, taking the time afforded by my crew's delays in Nightmare land to quickly make their fortifications. It passed my mind to wonder why they were digging their heels in—and why the Mesi were here at all—but those were the questions to ask their corpses when we were through. 

And if we died instead? Well then it wouldn't have made any difference anyway, would it? I gnashed my teeth at that idea, though, scowling at the pessimistic suggestion that this tunnel would be my grave and lava flows would be my tombstone. My family's story, and my story, would not be finished so close to its completion. There had to be a way to come out of this on top. If we just fought a little harder, a little bolder, and breached their perimeter to lay waste to them up close without the burdens of barriers we could end this in an instant. My psionic senses pinged the minds of Ys and Kor up ahead, but they were not together anymore. I gritted my teeth; they were most powerful together, and without their shared abilities they were individually at a disadvantage. By the feel of it, Ys was trying a direct attack on the Mesi. That could either go surprisingly well, or terribly wrong. 

I wasn't going to let her soak up the brunt of the melee, though, not when we had a veritable tank with us. 

{Zataka!}

{Move up!}

I could feel my anger rising. This was taking too long, we were scattering too much, and the currents were still against us. The heat was becoming increasingly unbearable and my position near the lava untenable. Our best bet was in catching up to Ys as fast as possible. While Zai got to work mitigating the heat of the chamber and freeze the lava flow in place as cords of stone, I began to focus on my own powers on clearing the ways ahead. 

I reached out with my psionic abilities like hands brushing foliage from my face, forcing debris and impediments away from my path by sheer force of will. Step by arduous step I moved forward, Zai still clutching my hand tightly, and I pressed my powers to force the barriers away. Lava cooled to ropes of brittle igneous rock fragmented and then crumbled away, while roots and stems placed as barbed fences were twisted aside like brambles shoved by a tractor. My telekinetic powers whipped in front of me as an extension of my will and presence, heralding my arduous steps and turning the opposition aside. But it came at a toll. With every obstacle I mentally touched came a further drain to my reserves, and the more stubborn the obstacle the more I had to exert myself. 

We had to press on and I would do everything I could to lead by example, but I knew my powers alone would not be enough... so in my other hand I held the cordak gun in reserve to blast anything else in my way. I would not risk shooting it until after we passed Korio, however.

{Korio!}

{Status report?}

OOC TL;DR | Zai used her fire powers to drain the heat from the area around them, but it's not a very large bubble she's countering in so Korio (and possibly Zataka) are still affected. Yumi calls for Zataka's backup, checks on Korio, and is using her psionic powers to push aside the obstacles in front of her but is getting tired in doing so. She's primed her launcher for extra explosive damage when it's called for.

@Vezok's Friend @Tarn @pokemonlover360 @Nato the Traveler

IC Stannis | Kini-Nui

Energized Protodermis—the "Light of Krom"—was both an antithesis to Caedast as it was a necessary accessory in a multitude of the shadow-borne powers the Wanderer possessed. In times previous there had been little use for it before but the game was different now and the stakes were so much higher than before, and it was realized it would be foolish to discount the. feasibility of the magical substance in the days to come. With a quick nod to Whisper it was decided to harvest a portion of the liquid for personal, scientific, use. With a wave of his hand he materialized a bowl of granite in the path of the runoff that scooped it up, and then moulded the rock into a capsule that enveloped the energized protodermis into a rocky keg much like Knichou's zamors were meant to. With another gesture, the keg rolled to the side to be picked up momentarily. 

"Ostrox," the Warmage pointedly addressed the former League lieutenant, "there are things at work beyond your perception or indeed the faculties of anyone present. There cannot be any suggestions made yet because not all the pieces are known yet, but believe you me, there is no love lost for Mata-Nui among the Matoran, and while my word may mean little to you with the historical antagonism I once represented to your faction, it is in fact my mission to stop Mata-Nui—or any such god—from drawing the worlds asunder. Should there be a path you and the others can join in, I will indeed share it. For now, there is only speculation. In order to kill a god we must first find him. I will find him. It is, after all, my role to fight the supernatural."

"Until such a time as is doubtlessly prudent to take action, there is nothing more to discuss aside from philosophy. Until the time to fight comes, live as best anyone can—but live."

On 2/12/2021 at 11:04 AM, Conway said:

(Cousin Caedast. It is done. We must meet -- but not here.)

In a darkened corner of Fort Nektann, Parnassus sat huddled and shivering, with blood running through their fingers.

(There are walls that listen here. Where can I find you?)

The Wanderer surveyed the beings present—Kilo, Whisper, Vulimai, Sidra, Sorilax, and the others—and then quickly dismissed himself. He said something about mending his cloak as he moved to foist his granite canister over his venerable shoulder and carried the heavy container to his own airship with seeming ease after struggling only somewhat to initially lift it up. While he hiked back to the Ambling Alp he responded to the telepathic hailing Parnassus had made with a fraction of his mental fortitude. 

{Cousin, I hear you.}

{Cousin, I can come to you.}

{Find somewhere safe, and beckon for me again.}

@Conway

IC Stannis | Kini-Nui

Right question, wrong time.

The Wanderer, ever the guarded keeper of lore, was silent a moment as he considered the request to declassify the subject they'd spoken about. While Caedast knew in her spirit that the Sorilax she tried to remember was amicable and wise enough to be trusted with the most secret of lore the question was whether this was the same Sorilax Caedast once knew and befriended. Was it? The Wanderer wanted to think so, though there was little rational reason to lean on that presumption. The Sorilax she knew was a gentle and nonviolent being who strove to help others, selfishly as any other Aspect of Makuta was apt to do but still dedicated to overall betterment. Was his wish still the same? What was his wish at all? 

Knichou had asked a specific question. Stannis had his reservations that the Builder was linguistically selective because of conscious finesse though the selection of words was nevertheless noteworthy. It wasn't about whether Sorilax could be trusted, or whether Sorilax could be relied on as an ally, but whether it would be beneficial. "Yes," he finally said, answering Knichou's question in its exact sense, "it would behoove us to elucidate to Sorilax."

Without waiting on anyone else to jump in, Stannis then shared what they'd been speaking of. He summarized their conversation to Sorilax with calculating lexicality and impeccable command of diction, precisely laying out the arguments and perspectives of each person who had contributed—he shared that Mata-Nui was an Aspect of Makuta who was nourished by death, that he was a creation of the Matoran who worshipped him, and that the Untethered were his thralls. Stannis spoke of the matters of faith, death, and of war, of the mortality of gods and the immortality of Faith, and when he was finished Sorilax was briefed on the discourse up until that point as a whole. 

IC Stannis | Kini-Nui

"That's not quite the term for it," the Wanderer said. "And even if it was, it was so long ago I do not remember. Xa-Kas is a land rife with fading—memories, places, time—it is not inconceivable that we have both forgotten what was not written down. And indeed, if the island itself is deleting, then even that is not safe."

IC Stannis | Kini-Koro

"There are, indeed."