| The shape of prayer. When offering one’s thoughts, hopes, and essence to the heavens, it is considered important to hold a specific physical stance, a pose, a so-called ‘prayer stance’. It has commonly been debated amongst religious scholars, which stance is the most acceptable to use, while offering oneself up for divine inspection. Should one clasp their hands, or fold them? Should they be spread out wide, flat on the ground, as one bows in deep reverence? Or should the praying person assume a kneeling position? Perhaps they should cross their legs in a meditative pose? Is just the body enough, or should the person praying have some form of talisman, such as beads? Can the prayer be done anywhere, or only in specific locations, shrines, and temples? We do not know which form of this practice the gods prefer for us to have, as the knowledge of their particular preferences, if any, has been lost to us over time. What this has resulted in is that each branching collection of faith follows its own specific series of rules for the act of praying itself. However, in common teaching for the class of aspiring ‘priest/esses’ at most Holy-Church institutions, the particular shape of prayer is left up for the individual caster to decide, as it would be wrong to impose an outside human preference on a personal connection between a man and his god. This is the official doctrine; however, it seems that the social nature of the classes held there has led to a homogenization of the form of prayer, so that most priests unofficially adopt a common stance. Exceptions are often found for religious travelers from abroad. |
~ How do I pray? From Sister Selma’s guide to priesthood
“So what is it like?” asks Isaiah. “Being a spirit?”
Black, sitting on a branch of the very-big-tree, shrugs. “Oh, you know. It’s fine.” He shrugs. “It’s a lot of moving, with the humans always destroying the new dungeons. If you’re lucky, you get to work in one of the really old dungeons of the world.” Black shakes his head. “There’s this place in the ocean that humans can’t really get to. If you land there, you’re basically retired. But it doesn’t pull many new workers anymore these days.”
Isaiah tilts its head, looking at the uthra. “Have you taken on many other forms until now?”
“Not as much as the others have,” explains Black, dangling his legs. “I’m still young. Red and Crystal are the oldest. Crystal’s still fine, but I hear that Red got really mean.” He leans in, holding his hand by his mouth. “I hear she used to be a big softie, until after the whole Emerald thing happened.” Isaiah nods, and Black leans back. “But those two have been around the block. I only did a couple of dungeons and managed to get away every time,” says Black, looking up towards the sky. “Last time I was a gnome instead of an uthra,” he says. “That was a nice place. Too nice.” Black sighs. “– The gnome guy didn’t last.” Black thinks for a moment, staring at the tree. “He was on the other continent. They’re super weird there, you know? Across the ocean.” asks Black. He holds his hands on top of his head. “They’re like… animal-people. Rabbit ears and fox tails and junk.” He shrugs, looking back. “Those guys aren’t allowed over here though. The humans and them have a whole thing going on. Don’t ask me.”
“I see,” replies Isaiah. “I am trying to better understand your nature.” It looks the uthra over. “So, when you are not a dungeon-worker, you exist as something else?”
Black nods. He holds his hands together, jumbling his fingers around. “Yeah, we’re sort of cosmic balls of energy. It’s weird. But that sums it up, really.” He shrugs, looking back at Isaiah. “We live in the other place, until it’s time for us to go down and help out in a dungeon again.” He spins a finger. “If we die, we die like anyone else. But if the dungeon dies without us, we go back to the big-empty until we get called down again to start a new job.”
“And this ‘other place’,” begins Isaiah. “Where is it?” The creature tilts its head. “Who gives you your marching orders? Is it the gods?”
Black shakes his head. “No… well, maybe. I don’t know where it is.” He rubs the back of his head. “You’re kind of asking a fish if it knows where the ocean is or what the tide does.”
Isaiah thinks for a moment and then nods. “I understand. Thank you, Black.”
“Sure,” replies Black. “Anyway, should I get the graveyard running again?” he asks. “I know you want us to look for the witch, but I can’t help but feel like we’re going to need it soon.”
“Do you tire of your regular landscaping work in the south?” asks Isaiah.
“No, I like dirty jobs,” says Black. “But I don’t disagree with Red that much, though, on some things.” Black looks Isaiah’s way. “I also think that you really are too soft on the humans. We’re really going out of our way with all of this stuff instead of focusing on what we should be doing, which is pure, hard, cold survival. All of this trying to fit into both worlds as some kind of middleman – it’s going to bite you in the butt one day,” says the uthra, pointing at Isaiah. “I’ve seen how this song and dance play out.” He gets up, standing on the branch.
“Perhaps,” says Isaiah. “Or perhaps, because I made the effort, we will all be able to move towards a better world, instead of just some of us.”
“Maybe,” replies Black. “Or maybe we’ll all just die before we get there, like Green.”
Isaiah stares at the uthra for a time. The air between them is quiet for a time. Isaiah then simply nods. “Thank you for your honesty, Black. I will keep what you said in mind.”
“And about the graveyard?” asks the uthra.
Isaiah plays with the pearl in its hands, staring back out over the landscape, towards the human city and the camps between here and there. “Very well. Begin expanding the underground tombs. Perhaps we will have some need of them, against my heart's wishes.”
| ~ [Salvator] ~ |
| Human, Male, Wizard (Wind) |
| Location: Floor twenty-five of the Tower of Isaiah |
The howling winds of his magic flow all around him, his robe and hat both billowing wildly in the frosty gale that reaches, creeping towards him with fingers that never seem to stop crawling up his skin. The cold bite pierces through his robes and scarves as the monstrous entity before him lowers its head to glare at him – one of the two last people standing. Large, jagged teeth made out of solid ice crackle as it readies itself for another attack.
– The monster, a long, snakelike worm with a dragon’s head, retreats back. Its elongated neck, made entirely out of solid, sharp, jagged ice, pulls itself into the wall that it came out of.
It vanishes.
Salvator looks around them at the room. It looks much like a cathedral, made entirely out of ice. The floor, the pews, the statues and ornaments, and even the windows, high up above them – everything is made out of ice. Stained glass depictions of saints and entities, carved out of colorful ice, show a story that he can’t quite piece together. But he’s not watching for that.
The monster here hides in plain sight.
It’s some sort of golem-like entity. It springs out of the stained glass, as if they were pools of water for it to lash out from. It hides in the ice, only to later break free from the statues of heavenly patrons. The room is covered in beautiful, intricate pieces of artwork. Some of them are real; some of them are it, but it’s impossible to say what’s what.
– He and his party member stand back to back.
“Ready?” asks Salvator, over the howling winds that fill the cathedral, whistling as they stream over the sharp corners of ice-hewn constructions.
“Ready,” replies the woman next to him, lifting her staff. A red, burning glow grows around it.
| (Consumeris) has used: [Major Inferno] |
If you can’t tell which piece of the room is safe to be near and which one isn’t, well, why not just get rid of it all then?
— Something hisses, clicking off to the side with loud, chattering, razor sharp teeth.
| (Salvator) has used: [Heavy Gale] |
Both of them cast at the same time, their spells mixing. Heavy, hot flames lash out around the frozen room, filling it to the brim with fire as the stormwinds pull it over the sculptures and past the windows and the altars, melting all of it at once.
| (Consumeris) and (Salvator) have used WIND + FIRE combination spell: [HEAVY FIRESTORM] |
The room around them lights up, hissing as something long and serpentine violently lashes out in the flames.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
The spring air, calling with the voice of longing winds that sing as they move along the body of the island, is full of a sweet and pleasant aroma of blossoming flowers. The season is coming to its cusp; the end of it is now just before them all. Summer will soon be here, and in their last attempt at pressing themselves forward unto life, the blossoms of many thousands of spring flowers all bloom to auspicious glory one last final time before they must make way for the new colors of the seasons to come.
Bright morning light cascades down around Isaiah.
Isaiah stands on the crown of a proud tree, gazing down off the edge of the island, towards the blobs that move below, down at the end of the staircase. With its hands behind its back, it observes the creatures — the humans. A small, warm, cream-colored pearl is held in its grasp – A jewel from the ocean that Black and the others had brought it once.
What are they? The humans.
Why are they?
Humans may claim to be rational, calm, sophisticated creatures. But it was one of them and had experienced their ways from an inside perspective. Now that it is separate from them, it views them from a new, outward perspective. In both visions of life, it has seen many things joyful, good and full of the breadths of brotherhood amongst the covenant of all living beings.
It tilts its head.
Yet, it has also seen what stirs just below this upper layer. Fear. Humans, despite all of their warmth and loving devotions, are guided by simple animal drives. They’re akin to a fox wearing a mask. It may be clever, but at the end of the day, it will act as a fox acts and chase a chicken.
The soldiers below have split into factions. Exactly as expected, a significant chunk of them had split off and resigned themselves to whatever fate awaits them for rejecting any future orders to attack the tower.
| ~ [Grand Icon] ~ |
| The name of Isaiah has been uttered nearby. |
| +300 EXP |
| EXP: 4000/4000 |
| Level Up! | |
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ | |
| You are now a level {17} dungeon-core! | |
| Level: 17↗ | Experience: 02/6500 |
| Attribute: HOLY | |
| Soul-Points: 52/52↗ | |
| Presence: 6.452 km↗ | Obols: 347 |
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
| [+1 Ability points] |
| You may choose {1} new ability. |
Ah. How pertinent.
The island rumbles as more land rises up to its edge. This ought to be a terrifying sight for the humans below, camped not far from the staircase that is currently breaking apart some more. The ‘Grand Icon’ ability has been firing off a lot now, although pilgrims can no longer deliver experience-points, given that the way up is... difficult. As for the people on the island itself, many have come to realize that they are trapped.
They can get down again, using their tokens of pilgrimage, but getting up a second time will be a problem, and so many simply refuse to leave, as they worry that they will never be able to ascend up here again to this place that brings them wealth, strength, and comfort.
— As for the soldiers below. Many have, as predicted, refused new orders from their command to attack the tower. Many others have found themselves unimpressed by the theatrics presented, and many remain firmly in the middle, in the mires of uncertainty. However, uncertain people steer toward the side of caution. An immediate beheading now is a much more convincing argument than the prospect of damnation in the future.
So, a small nudge will be needed to seal the deal. The stairs. The omen. Red’s speech. This will be the last action needed. Isaiah is fairly confident in that.
“Here it is, chief,” says a voice from the side. Red. “Straight from floor thirteen,” says the uthra. Isaiah looks her way. She’s casting a shielding spell in front of herself, inside of which is trapped the ghostly, ethereal presence of some foggy creature – The incense-elemental from floor thirteen.
| ~ [Incense-Elemental {Passive}] ~ | |
| Class: Monster | Element: FIRE |
| Type: Illusionist | Category: Elemental* |
| Rank: C | |
| Level: 12 | |
| A whispering cloud of fragrant incense. It takes the rough form of something akin to a human, but its body is insubstantial and gaps appear inside it at random places, shaped like eyes. | |
| HP: 00/00 | SOUL: 33/33 |
| *Elementals do not have health-points. Instead, their soul-points act as health. | |
| [Whispers of Doubt]: Whispers to any passing person, smelling of a familiar smell from a fond memory.
They will attempt to dissuade them from whatever cause they currently pursue and allow them to consider the faith instead. |
Isaiah lifts its gaze, staring up towards the wind that carries a sweet, floral pollen, carrying it off of the island. “Thank you, Red. Do you have the bottle too?” Red turns her hip to the side. A bottle of mushroom-brew dangles from a cord.
“Straight from the head-cultist herself,” replies the uthra, nodding.
“We are not a cult, Red,” explains Isaiah, dryly, pulling the bottle free from her hip. “We are a gathering of individuals, tied together by the many strings of fate.”
“Yup. We’re a cult all right,” remarks Red, shaking her head. “Whatever. Could be worse.” She shrugs. “My feet are getting big enough that I could go for a massage. So it’ll be good for us to recruit some desperate servants.”
“They are not servants,” corrects Isaiah. “They are worshipers.”
“— Mhm,” replies Red, rolling her eyes. “’Love ya, chief. But you’re pretty far out there, you know?” she asks, tapping her head.
Isaiah lifts the pearl in its hands, looking at it and then at the wobbly spirit of the monster contained inside the shield that Red has brought.
It is time.
“That is sweet, Red,” replies Isaiah, warmly placing a hand on Red’s shoulder as it looks at her with the eyes of a matriarch. “I have love for you too.”
“Yeah, like a freaky, tree prancing, chirp-chirp bird monster would,” replies the uthra, looking at it and rolling her eyes. “It’s like you think I actually came from one of your eggs.”
Isaiah crushes the pearl and drops it into the glass bottle, which it then swirls around, mixing the concoction together. Red opens the shield that she's holding a crack and Isaiah pours in the mixture, in and over the incense-elemental. “No,” replies Isaiah. “But I would have been overjoyed if you had.”
A shine begins to form inside of the bubble, warm and bright, like the vivid dayglow falling down from the heavy sun.
“Ugh… Can I go now?” asks Red. “It’s bad enough you’re stopping the whole mass-execution thing. But this is going way too far.”
“Faith comes from here,” replies Isaiah, planting the tip of its talon against Red's heart. “As do many other things.”
“Yeah, like heartworms.”
Isaiah smirks, spinning a finger to gesture for her to open the shield now that the potion has been absorbed. “You are a gift, Red.”
“No refunds,” replies the uthra as the shield cracks open and the monster that was trapped inside floats out, changed.
| ~ [Fungal-Incense-Elemental {Passive}] ~ | |
| Class: Monster | Element: FIRE |
| Type: Illusionist | Category: Elemental* |
| Rank: B- | |
| Level: 47 | |
| A whispering, pearl-white cloud of fragrant incense. It has a form of many bodies and wings and arms, clasped together in a unified effort to hold its shape coherent. Radiant lights of many colors emit out from it, casting visions of distant days into the eyes of those who look its way. | |
| HP: 00/00 | SOUL: 99/99 |
| *Elementals do not have health-points. Instead, their soul-points act as health. | |
| [Whispers of Hope]: Whispers to any presentperson, smelling of a familiar smell from a fond memory, together with an oddly earthy scent of wet soil.
They will attempt to dissuade them from whatever cause they currently pursue and allow them to consider the faith instead. |
“Bring the treasure of your presence to the people, Red,” orders Isaiah. “They have need of it.”
Red captures the monster in a new bubble and then flies off, down towards the humans.
| ~ [Gadrian] ~ |
| Human, Male, Swordsman |
| Location: The Soldier's Camp |
Honestly, what’s the alternative?
He’s not a man of faith, but even he knows a sign when he sees one. Some people might claim to see a message from the heavens in a strangely shaped cloud or in a chirping bird that lands on their window sills as a representation of their long-since departed mother’s spirit, or whatever. That’s all fine and good. It’s not for him, but it’s fine if that helps people.
But… how can anyone even deny this? This is just absurd.
He stands there on the sidelines, as one of the bystanders. The trees all around them are dead. People are still dragging statues out of their collapsed tents and piling them up in a heap that seems to symbolize the ready-made graveyard for those about to be executed for desertion.
The creature… the ruby messenger from the heavens, was a real, tangible entity, as real as the trees and the statues. It spoke to them. She… spoke to them in words so simple and human that they reached even the uneducated bunch of goons that make up half of this outfit. That’s what struck him the most, that she spoke just like they do, as if she had been among them all along. The godly spirit wasn't some strange, obscure thing of posh nobility. It's them. It's like them. It's a part of them.
And yet, despite these things that are impossible to deny, the orders from command continue to storm the tower.
He doesn’t want to, not after what he’s seen. But he also doesn’t want to wake up without his head tomorrow, so… what’s the alternative?
There isn’t one.
In a way, he admires the poor fools who are about to lose their lives. They’re true creatures of conviction and faith. He isn’t anything like that.
The men are lined up, strung together by their limbs in long chains that have been specifically made to amplify lightning-magic. In the city, executions are often more ornate and ceremonial, as they are a display of political power or some noble-bloodline related nonsense. But out here in the field, they do things more pragmatically.
On one end of the column of men stands the lightning-caster.
The luckiest man is the one on the front, closest to the executioner. He’ll take the full blast right away. The lightning magic loses potency the further it goes, so the further back you are, the longer it takes to die.
Grim stuff.
But really, what’s the alternative here? He doesn’t know.
Gadrian lifts his eyes, not wanting to watch.
Instead, his vision is filled with radiant crimson, not from the glowing sun but from the light that descends from the heavens above. His mouth opens, agape, as the familiar entity reveals herself to them once more. He feels his heart beating in his chest. The camp roars, people running around and collecting, the junior officers who had given the orders, passed down to them from their officers, fidgeting very nervously
— She doesn't speak. Rather, a fog creeps down from her and into his mouth and into the mouth and eyes of every person present here. Every soldier, every officer and low ranking noble stares with wide, doe-like eyes at the world that changes all around them, melting.
Gadrian looks down at his hands.
They’re melting.
He feels his body grow heavy, and he falls to the ground, watching as hundreds of others fall down all around him at the same time, their bodies dripping and leaking like so much ooze, as they all come apart and return to the soil that he can taste in his mouth.
Gadrian hears a distant voice, speaking to him from the dirt and the grass of the world, just before his eyes view into a place that is beyond concepts such as color and darkness.
| Status Applied: [Major Fungal Intoxication] |
| The shape of prayer. When offering one’s thoughts, hopes, and essence to the heavens, it is considered important to hold a specific physical stance, a pose, a so-called ‘prayer stance’. It has commonly been debated amongst religious scholars, which stance is the most acceptable to use, while offering oneself up for divine inspection. Should one clasp their hands, or fold them? Should they be spread out wide, flat on the ground, as one bows in deep reverence? Or should the praying person assume a kneeling position? Perhaps they should cross their legs in a meditative pose? Is just the body enough, or should the person praying have some form of talisman, such as beads? Can the prayer be done anywhere, or only in specific locations, shrines, and temples? We do not know which form of this practice the gods prefer for us to have, as the knowledge of their particular preferences, if any, has been lost to us over time. What this has resulted in is that each branching collection of faith follows its own specific series of rules for the act of praying itself. However, in common teaching for the class of aspiring ‘priest/esses’ at most Holy-Church institutions, the particular shape of prayer is left up for the individual caster to decide, as it would be wrong to impose an outside human preference on a personal connection between a man and his god. This is the official doctrine; however, it seems that the social nature of the classes held there has led to a homogenization of the form of prayer, so that most priests unofficially adopt a common stance. Exceptions are often found for religious travelers from abroad. |
~ How do I pray? From Sister Selma’s guide to priesthood
“So what is it like?” asks Isaiah. “Being a spirit?”
Black, sitting on a branch of the very-big-tree, shrugs. “Oh, you know. It’s fine.” He shrugs. “It’s a lot of moving, with the humans always destroying the new dungeons. If you’re lucky, you get to work in one of the really old dungeons of the world.” Black shakes his head. “There’s this place in the ocean that humans can’t really get to. If you land there, you’re basically retired. But it doesn’t pull many new workers anymore these days.”
Isaiah tilts its head, looking at the uthra. “Have you taken on many other forms until now?”
“Not as much as the others have,” explains Black, dangling his legs. “I’m still young. Red and Crystal are the oldest. Crystal’s still fine, but I hear that Red got really mean.” He leans in, holding his hand by his mouth. “I hear she used to be a big softie, until after the whole Emerald thing happened.” Isaiah nods, and Black leans back. “But those two have been around the block. I only did a couple of dungeons and managed to get away every time,” says Black, looking up towards the sky. “Last time I was a gnome instead of an uthra,” he says. “That was a nice place. Too nice.” Black sighs. “– The gnome guy didn’t last.” Black thinks for a moment, staring at the tree. “He was on the other continent. They’re super weird there, you know? Across the ocean.” asks Black. He holds his hands on top of his head. “They’re like… animal-people. Rabbit ears and fox tails and junk.” He shrugs, looking back. “Those guys aren’t allowed over here though. The humans and them have a whole thing going on. Don’t ask me.”
“I see,” replies Isaiah. “I am trying to better understand your nature.” It looks the uthra over. “So, when you are not a dungeon-worker, you exist as something else?”
Black nods. He holds his hands together, jumbling his fingers around. “Yeah, we’re sort of cosmic balls of energy. It’s weird. But that sums it up, really.” He shrugs, looking back at Isaiah. “We live in the other place, until it’s time for us to go down and help out in a dungeon again.” He spins a finger. “If we die, we die like anyone else. But if the dungeon dies without us, we go back to the big-empty until we get called down again to start a new job.”
“And this ‘other place’,” begins Isaiah. “Where is it?” The creature tilts its head. “Who gives you your marching orders? Is it the gods?”
Black shakes his head. “No… well, maybe. I don’t know where it is.” He rubs the back of his head. “You’re kind of asking a fish if it knows where the ocean is or what the tide does.”
Isaiah thinks for a moment and then nods. “I understand. Thank you, Black.”
“Sure,” replies Black. “Anyway, should I get the graveyard running again?” he asks. “I know you want us to look for the witch, but I can’t help but feel like we’re going to need it soon.”
“Do you tire of your regular landscaping work in the south?” asks Isaiah.
“No, I like dirty jobs,” says Black. “But I don’t disagree with Red that much, though, on some things.” Black looks Isaiah’s way. “I also think that you really are too soft on the humans. We’re really going out of our way with all of this stuff instead of focusing on what we should be doing, which is pure, hard, cold survival. All of this trying to fit into both worlds as some kind of middleman – it’s going to bite you in the butt one day,” says the uthra, pointing at Isaiah. “I’ve seen how this song and dance play out.” He gets up, standing on the branch.
“Perhaps,” says Isaiah. “Or perhaps, because I made the effort, we will all be able to move towards a better world, instead of just some of us.”
“Maybe,” replies Black. “Or maybe we’ll all just die before we get there, like Green.”
Isaiah stares at the uthra for a time. The air between them is quiet for a time. Isaiah then simply nods. “Thank you for your honesty, Black. I will keep what you said in mind.”
“And about the graveyard?” asks the uthra.
Isaiah plays with the pearl in its hands, staring back out over the landscape, towards the human city and the camps between here and there. “Very well. Begin expanding the underground tombs. Perhaps we will have some need of them, against my heart's wishes.”
| ~ [Salvator] ~ |
| Human, Male, Wizard (Wind) |
| Location: Floor twenty-five of the Tower of Isaiah |
The howling winds of his magic flow all around him, his robe and hat both billowing wildly in the frosty gale that reaches, creeping towards him with fingers that never seem to stop crawling up his skin. The cold bite pierces through his robes and scarves as the monstrous entity before him lowers its head to glare at him – one of the two last people standing. Large, jagged teeth made out of solid ice crackle as it readies itself for another attack.
– The monster, a long, snakelike worm with a dragon’s head, retreats back. Its elongated neck, made entirely out of solid, sharp, jagged ice, pulls itself into the wall that it came out of.
It vanishes.
Salvator looks around them at the room. It looks much like a cathedral, made entirely out of ice. The floor, the pews, the statues and ornaments, and even the windows, high up above them – everything is made out of ice. Stained glass depictions of saints and entities, carved out of colorful ice, show a story that he can’t quite piece together. But he’s not watching for that.
The monster here hides in plain sight.
It’s some sort of golem-like entity. It springs out of the stained glass, as if they were pools of water for it to lash out from. It hides in the ice, only to later break free from the statues of heavenly patrons. The room is covered in beautiful, intricate pieces of artwork. Some of them are real; some of them are it, but it’s impossible to say what’s what.
– He and his party member stand back to back.
“Ready?” asks Salvator, over the howling winds that fill the cathedral, whistling as they stream over the sharp corners of ice-hewn constructions.
“Ready,” replies the woman next to him, lifting her staff. A red, burning glow grows around it.
| (Consumeris) has used: [Major Inferno] |
If you can’t tell which piece of the room is safe to be near and which one isn’t, well, why not just get rid of it all then?
— Something hisses, clicking off to the side with loud, chattering, razor sharp teeth.
| (Salvator) has used: [Heavy Gale] |
Both of them cast at the same time, their spells mixing. Heavy, hot flames lash out around the frozen room, filling it to the brim with fire as the stormwinds pull it over the sculptures and past the windows and the altars, melting all of it at once.
| (Consumeris) and (Salvator) have used WIND + FIRE combination spell: [HEAVY FIRESTORM] |
The room around them lights up, hissing as something long and serpentine violently lashes out in the flames.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
The spring air, calling with the voice of longing winds that sing as they move along the body of the island, is full of a sweet and pleasant aroma of blossoming flowers. The season is coming to its cusp; the end of it is now just before them all. Summer will soon be here, and in their last attempt at pressing themselves forward unto life, the blossoms of many thousands of spring flowers all bloom to auspicious glory one last final time before they must make way for the new colors of the seasons to come.
Bright morning light cascades down around Isaiah.
Isaiah stands on the crown of a proud tree, gazing down off the edge of the island, towards the blobs that move below, down at the end of the staircase. With its hands behind its back, it observes the creatures — the humans. A small, warm, cream-colored pearl is held in its grasp – A jewel from the ocean that Black and the others had brought it once.
What are they? The humans.
Why are they?
Humans may claim to be rational, calm, sophisticated creatures. But it was one of them and had experienced their ways from an inside perspective. Now that it is separate from them, it views them from a new, outward perspective. In both visions of life, it has seen many things joyful, good and full of the breadths of brotherhood amongst the covenant of all living beings.
It tilts its head.
Yet, it has also seen what stirs just below this upper layer. Fear. Humans, despite all of their warmth and loving devotions, are guided by simple animal drives. They’re akin to a fox wearing a mask. It may be clever, but at the end of the day, it will act as a fox acts and chase a chicken.
The soldiers below have split into factions. Exactly as expected, a significant chunk of them had split off and resigned themselves to whatever fate awaits them for rejecting any future orders to attack the tower.
| ~ [Grand Icon] ~ |
| The name of Isaiah has been uttered nearby. |
| +300 EXP |
| EXP: 4000/4000 |
| Level Up! | |
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ | |
| You are now a level {17} dungeon-core! | |
| Level: 17↗ | Experience: 02/6500 |
| Attribute: HOLY | |
| Soul-Points: 52/52↗ | |
| Presence: 6.452 km↗ | Obols: 347 |
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
| [+1 Ability points] |
| You may choose {1} new ability. |
Ah. How pertinent.
The island rumbles as more land rises up to its edge. This ought to be a terrifying sight for the humans below, camped not far from the staircase that is currently breaking apart some more. The ‘Grand Icon’ ability has been firing off a lot now, although pilgrims can no longer deliver experience-points, given that the way up is... difficult. As for the people on the island itself, many have come to realize that they are trapped.
They can get down again, using their tokens of pilgrimage, but getting up a second time will be a problem, and so many simply refuse to leave, as they worry that they will never be able to ascend up here again to this place that brings them wealth, strength, and comfort.
— As for the soldiers below. Many have, as predicted, refused new orders from their command to attack the tower. Many others have found themselves unimpressed by the theatrics presented, and many remain firmly in the middle, in the mires of uncertainty. However, uncertain people steer toward the side of caution. An immediate beheading now is a much more convincing argument than the prospect of damnation in the future.
So, a small nudge will be needed to seal the deal. The stairs. The omen. Red’s speech. This will be the last action needed. Isaiah is fairly confident in that.
“Here it is, chief,” says a voice from the side. Red. “Straight from floor thirteen,” says the uthra. Isaiah looks her way. She’s casting a shielding spell in front of herself, inside of which is trapped the ghostly, ethereal presence of some foggy creature – The incense-elemental from floor thirteen.
| ~ [Incense-Elemental {Passive}] ~ | |
| Class: Monster | Element: FIRE |
| Type: Illusionist | Category: Elemental* |
| Rank: C | |
| Level: 12 | |
| A whispering cloud of fragrant incense. It takes the rough form of something akin to a human, but its body is insubstantial and gaps appear inside it at random places, shaped like eyes. | |
| HP: 00/00 | SOUL: 33/33 |
| *Elementals do not have health-points. Instead, their soul-points act as health. | |
| [Whispers of Doubt]: Whispers to any passing person, smelling of a familiar smell from a fond memory.
They will attempt to dissuade them from whatever cause they currently pursue and allow them to consider the faith instead. |
Isaiah lifts its gaze, staring up towards the wind that carries a sweet, floral pollen, carrying it off of the island. “Thank you, Red. Do you have the bottle too?” Red turns her hip to the side. A bottle of mushroom-brew dangles from a cord.
“Straight from the head-cultist herself,” replies the uthra, nodding.
“We are not a cult, Red,” explains Isaiah, dryly, pulling the bottle free from her hip. “We are a gathering of individuals, tied together by the many strings of fate.”
“Yup. We’re a cult all right,” remarks Red, shaking her head. “Whatever. Could be worse.” She shrugs. “My feet are getting big enough that I could go for a massage. So it’ll be good for us to recruit some desperate servants.”
“They are not servants,” corrects Isaiah. “They are worshipers.”
“— Mhm,” replies Red, rolling her eyes. “’Love ya, chief. But you’re pretty far out there, you know?” she asks, tapping her head.
Isaiah lifts the pearl in its hands, looking at it and then at the wobbly spirit of the monster contained inside the shield that Red has brought.
It is time.
“That is sweet, Red,” replies Isaiah, warmly placing a hand on Red’s shoulder as it looks at her with the eyes of a matriarch. “I have love for you too.”
“Yeah, like a freaky, tree prancing, chirp-chirp bird monster would,” replies the uthra, looking at it and rolling her eyes. “It’s like you think I actually came from one of your eggs.”
Isaiah crushes the pearl and drops it into the glass bottle, which it then swirls around, mixing the concoction together. Red opens the shield that she's holding a crack and Isaiah pours in the mixture, in and over the incense-elemental. “No,” replies Isaiah. “But I would have been overjoyed if you had.”
A shine begins to form inside of the bubble, warm and bright, like the vivid dayglow falling down from the heavy sun.
“Ugh… Can I go now?” asks Red. “It’s bad enough you’re stopping the whole mass-execution thing. But this is going way too far.”
“Faith comes from here,” replies Isaiah, planting the tip of its talon against Red's heart. “As do many other things.”
“Yeah, like heartworms.”
Isaiah smirks, spinning a finger to gesture for her to open the shield now that the potion has been absorbed. “You are a gift, Red.”
“No refunds,” replies the uthra as the shield cracks open and the monster that was trapped inside floats out, changed.
| ~ [Fungal-Incense-Elemental {Passive}] ~ | |
| Class: Monster | Element: FIRE |
| Type: Illusionist | Category: Elemental* |
| Rank: B- | |
| Level: 47 | |
| A whispering, pearl-white cloud of fragrant incense. It has a form of many bodies and wings and arms, clasped together in a unified effort to hold its shape coherent. Radiant lights of many colors emit out from it, casting visions of distant days into the eyes of those who look its way. | |
| HP: 00/00 | SOUL: 99/99 |
| *Elementals do not have health-points. Instead, their soul-points act as health. | |
| [Whispers of Hope]: Whispers to any presentperson, smelling of a familiar smell from a fond memory, together with an oddly earthy scent of wet soil.
They will attempt to dissuade them from whatever cause they currently pursue and allow them to consider the faith instead. |
“Bring the treasure of your presence to the people, Red,” orders Isaiah. “They have need of it.”
Red captures the monster in a new bubble and then flies off, down towards the humans.
| ~ [Gadrian] ~ |
| Human, Male, Swordsman |
| Location: The Soldier's Camp |
Honestly, what’s the alternative?
He’s not a man of faith, but even he knows a sign when he sees one. Some people might claim to see a message from the heavens in a strangely shaped cloud or in a chirping bird that lands on their window sills as a representation of their long-since departed mother’s spirit, or whatever. That’s all fine and good. It’s not for him, but it’s fine if that helps people.
But… how can anyone even deny this? This is just absurd.
He stands there on the sidelines, as one of the bystanders. The trees all around them are dead. People are still dragging statues out of their collapsed tents and piling them up in a heap that seems to symbolize the ready-made graveyard for those about to be executed for desertion.
The creature… the ruby messenger from the heavens, was a real, tangible entity, as real as the trees and the statues. It spoke to them. She… spoke to them in words so simple and human that they reached even the uneducated bunch of goons that make up half of this outfit. That’s what struck him the most, that she spoke just like they do, as if she had been among them all along. The godly spirit wasn't some strange, obscure thing of posh nobility. It's them. It's like them. It's a part of them.
And yet, despite these things that are impossible to deny, the orders from command continue to storm the tower.
He doesn’t want to, not after what he’s seen. But he also doesn’t want to wake up without his head tomorrow, so… what’s the alternative?
There isn’t one.
In a way, he admires the poor fools who are about to lose their lives. They’re true creatures of conviction and faith. He isn’t anything like that.
The men are lined up, strung together by their limbs in long chains that have been specifically made to amplify lightning-magic. In the city, executions are often more ornate and ceremonial, as they are a display of political power or some noble-bloodline related nonsense. But out here in the field, they do things more pragmatically.
On one end of the column of men stands the lightning-caster.
The luckiest man is the one on the front, closest to the executioner. He’ll take the full blast right away. The lightning magic loses potency the further it goes, so the further back you are, the longer it takes to die.
Grim stuff.
But really, what’s the alternative here? He doesn’t know.
Gadrian lifts his eyes, not wanting to watch.
Instead, his vision is filled with radiant crimson, not from the glowing sun but from the light that descends from the heavens above. His mouth opens, agape, as the familiar entity reveals herself to them once more. He feels his heart beating in his chest. The camp roars, people running around and collecting, the junior officers who had given the orders, passed down to them from their officers, fidgeting very nervously
— She doesn't speak. Rather, a fog creeps down from her and into his mouth and into the mouth and eyes of every person present here. Every soldier, every officer and low ranking noble stares with wide, doe-like eyes at the world that changes all around them, melting.
Gadrian looks down at his hands.
They’re melting.
He feels his body grow heavy, and he falls to the ground, watching as hundreds of others fall down all around him at the same time, their bodies dripping and leaking like so much ooze, as they all come apart and return to the soil that he can taste in his mouth.
Gadrian hears a distant voice, speaking to him from the dirt and the grass of the world, just before his eyes view into a place that is beyond concepts such as color and darkness.
| Status Applied: [Major Fungal Intoxication] |
