I nod to the older man and kneel partially, letting my body lower enough so that I can grasp onto my amputated hand. Then, I take that multicolored light. Yet, as I hold onto it, a question comes to mind.
Before I can ask it, however, a voice resounds, answering it. I glance at Maddox warily, but he doesn't show any hint of jesting.
"Eat it. Or push it under your skin. Anything to get it within you."
My fingers clench as I tighten my grasp on the light. The colors call to me, but I ignore it for the moment, shoving the radiance into my flesh. There is resistance at first, but the instant that a piece of the glow enters my skin, it all quickly joins, funneling within.
All that I see shatters for a second until I realize I'm lying face down on broken and splintered wood. The shards dig into my skin as I push myself from the floor, feeling a deep-seated sense of wrongness. It's a feeling that burrows into my core, one that is profoundly nestled within the furthest section of my brain.
Something seriously isn't right here.
The Cabin isn't normal.
Standing, I shift my eyes over the usual dark calm that rests within this Lighthouse made for man, but it is ruined. Broken. Ravaged. The minor bits and baubles like the desks and chairs are shattered, left all over the floor in innumerable pieces.
It is utterly opposite all the other times I have been here, which arguably is only a half-dozen or so. Staring forward, I even find that the table where the tome used to be is gone. Both the book that once delivered knowledge and the purple wood that supported it have vanished.
Instead, there is a hole in the wall of The Cabin behind where the table would typically be—purple light slinks in from the outside, shedding an unusual glow on the floor by my boots. Wiping my eyes from the dust in the air, I step forward, crouching to fit through the hole.
Crawling through the minuscule hole that hardly fits me, I feel scrapes and cuts bite into my skin, but no blood exits the open wounds. The redness below simply pulsates and moves like that of a river. Despite my confusion, I quickly emerge into an otherworldly expanse bathed in an ethereal purplish glow. The tiny opening serves as transportation to a long, seemingly boundless walkway suspended in the void, crafted from the very essence of the purple radiance. The light is solidified as I tap my foot onto it, judging it to be quite abnormal.
This is all so odd. A path of light? Was this always behind The Cabin?
As my senses adjust to the sudden light, I quickly realize there is no semblance of life or markers of existence beyond this causeway. Above, below, and on either side, only an impenetrable darkness looms, rendering the purple bridge the sole object in this void.
I turn back to see The Cabin sitting there, just as lonely as the bridge. But I don't have a choice other than to follow it. The tome wasn't in it, after all. That is the only way to escape.
With a resigned sigh, I place one foot in front of the other and continue along the bridge. Each step upon the radiant path echoes in the emptiness, rhythmic isolation. Every time my boots hit the light, it heightens in luminosity for a split second before sinking back to the typical glow.
My steps feel inevitable yet useless as gradually, The Cabin, too, fades into the void behind me. The time when I stop even looking back comes faster than I could ever think it would.
But as per usual, I continue onward. The oddness and bizarreness of my situation don't force me to falter; they only raise my curiosity. What is happening here?
What did the Mother Below do to this place? Is Gluskab still alive? He has to be, right?
I don't know, but I have nothing else to do but question myself as I walk. It is all very frustrating.
Walking along the luminous bridge, the emptiness of the void surrounds me. And as the quiet expanse deepens while driving me mad with boredom, faint whispers begin to tickle my ears. Initially indiscernible, these ethereal voices steadily amplify, transforming from elusive murmurs into a symphony of conflicting ideas.
They speak of joining the Tide, abandoning the brilliance of the light to embrace the obscurity of the dark. Paradoxical and contrary, yet oddly tranquil, the voices also weave a story of igniting light to push away the darkness to enjoy the brilliance.
The words insinuate a balance between light and dark, a duality that hints at a profound serenity of twilight that nearly stops me in my tracks. I shift my head around, seeking the thing that is making these noises, but I find nothing.
There is nothing to find, after all. These murmurs are coming from a God—the Mother Below's Dominion. Just as Vincent Harvey's Dominion was powerful enough to wage wars with sand alone, the Mother Below can manipulate a seemingly endless number of puppets to do her bidding. These Dominions... I wonder exactly what they are. Hmm... Perhaps they are simply the greater versions of Powers, or maybe they are something utterly alternate.
I try to block out the noises by holding my hands over my ears, but it does nothing at all to stop the stem of Darklight. It isn't physical, but I know what it's leading to.
The whispers seep into the recesses of my mind, subtly altering my thoughts. Despite my resistance, I feel the subtle tugs of influence, like tendrils encroaching upon my will. The notion of becoming a servant to the unseen deity unsettles me to no end.
The teeth in my jaw remain locked as I take every step, the up and down motion of the bridge's light, a forgone detail to my focus. My focus, however, is not absolute.
For, as the bridge stretches endlessly before me, doubt creeps in. Can I genuinely reach the end of this path? Well, I have to, don't I? And others did, too, even among the awful inhabitants of Kingstown. They were few, but amongst the rumors of death, there were a few of survival. Not that the people weren't traumatized, though.
Regardless, I move onward, relentless in my pursuit of the end of this path—a pursuit that grows increasingly arduous, the whispers growing stronger in their influence. As I tread farther into the unknown, the light below is my only guide through the void. The anomalous grayish-black light that is the Darklight of the Mother Below envelops my limbs along my steps, leaching away the natural hues. It's not a painful process, but an ominous sign that unsettles me deeply.
The Mother below is gaining on me. I don't really know how, but I can't resist this forever. But my hate for the God carries me forward. The rage bestows a kind of vibrance in each of my steps that cannot be outdone by the bridge's radiance. And something else does.
As my feet lead me onward, the visions recited to me by my Sigil replay in my mind, dashing away the outermost influences. Like cleansing forces, they wash away the tide of Darklight, promising freedom. I feel rejuvenated and stride faster, seeking the end of the road. Still, time continues, and even those visions begin to falter.
I press on for what feels like an eternity, my once-animated limbs succumbing to the encroaching grayscale. I worry about what is happening to my natural body, but I can't honestly spare the effort. It takes everything I have to simply step forward.
It's not that it's difficult; it's that every effort is beset with a thousand screaming whispers that order me to do one thing or another. Time becomes elusive in this expanse, and I lose track of its passage. Days, weeks, perhaps even a year could have passed, and I wouldn't honestly be able to tell.
My body doesn't age, however, so that has to be a good sign. Nevertheless, onward is the only path forward, even as my whole body begins to gray. But just when the desolation seems endless, a peculiar sight emerges in the distance.
A small pedestal, barely knee height, materializes at the edge of the luminous walkway from beyond my vision, entering from the unknown. Atop the pedestal rests a book, the one I've been searching for.
I can't help but smile at it, yet the joy falls like a meteor as I notice what's far more critical. Above the tome hovers a grand figure, reminiscent of Death, as I would conceive her were it not for the revelation of her true form. Towering hundreds of feet above, shrouded in tattered clothing that billows despite the absence of wind, the colossal entity gazes down at me without desire, caution, or even apathy.
There is simply nothing. All there is to return my stare is a gaze of red that peeks out from beyond the hood it wears.
"Hello?"
My voice echoes into the darkness that surrounds me, but my voice never returns. It is utterly quiet. So quiet that I can't even hear my heartbeat. It's gone. I suppose that makes sense. Here, I don't have my right arm. So, I won't have my heart either. The lack of echo or rumbling from a word released into the air, however, gives me an instinctual shudder. The same kind that happens when you are cold and shiver.
I wonder if it will return if Blodwyn moves back to his usual spot.
I have other things to focus on right now that are far more important, however.
The light beckons me forward as the book rests eternally on its own, and I cautiously approach without much else to do. The grand being doesn't react to my movement, yet I slow to a miniature crawl as I get nearer and nearer to the tome. No matter how close I approach to the being, though, no fetters appear upon its form. It either has no Sigil, which is impossible, or is beyond the capability of my eyes to survey.
Still, even as I am only an arm's length away, the murmurs evolve into deafening roars in my ears, and the creature remains unfazed. Shrugging, I tap my hand onto the tome, and the pages quickly turn on their own to my page.
Movement shifts above me, but I cannot look away. Unlike all other times, my eyes glue themselves to the page, and the information pries its way into my mind. It will not slow or take no for an answer.
The ponderer and observer of reality.
The dreamer of what could be.
The struggler against the world that holds all down.
The captive to rail against its chains.
The escapist to hide their mind from their captors' onslaught.
The departer of the prison that maintains them to a lesser form.
Your seventh Sigil toward Limitlessness. You are no longer Wondrous. You are no longer a feeble creature. Wings have grown to send the Angel into the skies above. The Sigil and the man have begun their fusion. You have taken a leap beyond your race. Humans hold nothing in common with one such as you other than birth, and even that is suspect to many.
The Warden, the Intrepid Strife
The manipulator of chains among those who know not what fetter holds them down. Able to grasp onto the fetters of others beyond yourself. Able to extend your own chains to ward others. These chains hold no cause other than the one you bestow, no power other than the one you give, no substance other than the one you hold, and no right other than the one you find. The journey of a Warden has only begun. Manipulating bounds and limits is a farcy from Limitless. Your limit of channeled Ether has catapulted yet more, for the Warden can only free others should he be capable himself.
You have achieved a Metamorphosis of being. No longer are you a weak creature to be stampeded over by the lording. You have become a vast complex of feats within a tiny form, unknowing of the potential lost or yet to be uncovered. You once made a choice. All choices are essential. They all possess reverberating effects—your eyes. Imagination and reality are but two sides of a coin to a Philosopher. What is not real is imagined, yet what is real is not. That must not always be the case. What is real to some is false to others. And lies can be seen as truth. A vast, imperceptible world hinges on your life. With those eyes, you can pull out the imagination, forming spectacles that may one day become so much more.
I congratulate you, my dear Warden. You are the first—the only—a feat that has never been achieved before, to my knowledge. My warning is simple, yet it is not directed upon your form.
The walls are soon to fall, and with them will come shambling aberrations and monstrosities. Death and decay only begets more.
One absolute boon yet exists for my dear Intrepid Strife. It has been reached—the point of no return. Your breaths were never made to be singular or alone. None are. A single breath is only the beginning of life. Defiance is to be shared. Freedom is lonely without those to share it with. The pinnacle is born of solitude. Those you decree may join you in your momentary freedom, or you may inhale rapidly, taking the pain unto no one but yourself. The road of a Warden has many choices, each as vital as the first.
May your journey, filled with tyranny, be glorious, long, and worthy of my aid.
My neck shoots up out of nowhere, and I fall to my knees, gasping for breath as the tome allows me to leave beyond the first page. There is so much on the page that it flips on its own, simply allowing me to finish reading it.
I glance up, worried that the creature has moved or reactive due to what I sensed earlier, but no. Nothing has changed. Suspicious, I stare at it for many moments, only for the whispers to return.
It's better to push further with this than become a Motherbound. So, I flip the page, focusing on the remaining parts as I find my Sigil embedded into the page.
Before, it was always two-dimensional, without color or true substance. But not anymore. Multicolored changes drip feed down from the center of the book's pages, stabbing into thousands of burgeoning eyes. The eyes practically leap off the pain, gaining a third dimension as they yearn for liberation, the desire palpable in their pupils.
I rip my gaze away from it, stunned in awe, and view what I must do next.
A Warden has gone back for those they left behind, guiding them to a similar freedom, knowing that power, in the end, comes in digits. A mighty single will crumble. A pair may endure, but a deck? Its combinations and potential will be eternal. But for a Warden to free others, they must prove themselves capable of doing so.
All proofs of oneself are unique, just as the beings that do them are.
You must return to the weakness of your flesh and bring one to follow you into the next stage of your soul. Your gaze holds your own self at a standard beyond any mortal or God.
To continue, my Intrepid Strife, place your mind within the Sigil and return to whence you came.
I step back after sighing from the overload of information and quickly run through the topics in my mind, even through the whispers.
First, I can now control chains. Based on what I saw in that vision, it's a literal and metaphorical thing. I can both physically hold someone down and weaken them at once. The opposite would also seem to be true, however, letting me enhance others.
Next, my Metamorphosis has evolved even further, changing my eyes even more so. It would appear I have one figment for each Sigil that has been condensed into the three-part section that forms at the 4th, 7th, and presumably, 10th Sigils. According to the vision, the figments can be even more detailed and extensive, but from these words, I wonder if that is the limit.
And finally, there is my Power. A long time ago... nearly a year ago, I almost died fighting three Hunters. And it was that night, or early morning, I don't quite remember, that I obtained my first Absolution.
And finally, finally, it has bloomed.
One gasp of defiance is not the end, and now I can share it. At this point, with all the enhancements to it, it deserves a new name.
Freedom. It just feels right.
I abruptly pull myself out of my thoughts as a rumbling tone enters my ears, unlike the whispers that have beset me for who knows how long. I step back, raising my hands up to the God in alarm above as it shifts slightly, the eyes following me.
"I wish you luck, child. This may be the last time we meet... or that whatever is left of me meets you. Never allow anyone to convince you that you are not special. All Angels are, for their wings do not come without blood and gore. But amongst the Angels I've seen throughout the millennias, you stand amongst the rare few that I'd call... auspicious. Goodbye, my young Philosopher. May you never have to return here."
The voice ends abruptly as the eyes lose focus and leave me again. I wave my arms and call out to the being that could only possibly be the God of knowledge, Gluskab. Gluskab, The Watchful Eye, The Guiding Hand. He is one of the rare few whose true name collides with his title.
"Gluskab! Are you still there?!"
No reply meets my question, only silence. I'm left with only the information he's provided me through the book, as so little came from his voice.
Sighing, I reach forward toward the tome. I never imagined he'd look like this. Decrepit, dark, brooding, and dangerous. Yet, few Gods, I'm sure, appear as they should. Hell, a monster such as Vincent Harvey looks like an ordinary man despite his divine might.
It doesn't really matter, though. In the end, the weaker Gods will all die to Desolation, and those that don't will be able to join the Mother Below when she awakens.
In fact... does waking up the Gods like Desolation is doing cause her to rouse faster?
I'm sure it does.
That means time is ticking faster than it should.
My finger taps the edge of the page before I see a familiar corpse beyond my feet. I give Ryder a nod before stepping to Maddox.
"What was that the favor you wanted?"
Maddox laughs and pats me on the shoulder.
"Don't know yet. We'll find out soon; I'm sure it'll be within two months or so. For now, accommodate yourself with your new flesh."
I glance at my bony arm while he shakes his wrist, water spasiming all over to cover him. In the next instant, he's gone, and so is Ryder's body. I'm left alone in the bowls of the Rising Tide.
"Great, Blodwyn. Do you have any idea how to leave? I don't feel like climbing right now. I'm... pretty tired."
My partner replies, but his words are quickly garbled and hard to understand. I ask him again to repeat himself, thinking it's his lack of communication skills, but I fail to even hear myself speak.
Out of nowhere, a piercing pain digs into my brain as my knees give out and I...
Where am I?
I nod to the older man and kneel partially, letting my body lower enough so that I can grasp onto my amputated hand. Then, I take that multicolored light. Yet, as I hold onto it, a question comes to mind.
Before I can ask it, however, a voice resounds, answering it. I glance at Maddox warily, but he doesn't show any hint of jesting.
"Eat it. Or push it under your skin. Anything to get it within you."
My fingers clench as I tighten my grasp on the light. The colors call to me, but I ignore it for the moment, shoving the radiance into my flesh. There is resistance at first, but the instant that a piece of the glow enters my skin, it all quickly joins, funneling within.
All that I see shatters for a second until I realize I'm lying face down on broken and splintered wood. The shards dig into my skin as I push myself from the floor, feeling a deep-seated sense of wrongness. It's a feeling that burrows into my core, one that is profoundly nestled within the furthest section of my brain.
Something seriously isn't right here.
The Cabin isn't normal.
Standing, I shift my eyes over the usual dark calm that rests within this Lighthouse made for man, but it is ruined. Broken. Ravaged. The minor bits and baubles like the desks and chairs are shattered, left all over the floor in innumerable pieces.
It is utterly opposite all the other times I have been here, which arguably is only a half-dozen or so. Staring forward, I even find that the table where the tome used to be is gone. Both the book that once delivered knowledge and the purple wood that supported it have vanished.
Instead, there is a hole in the wall of The Cabin behind where the table would typically be—purple light slinks in from the outside, shedding an unusual glow on the floor by my boots. Wiping my eyes from the dust in the air, I step forward, crouching to fit through the hole.
Crawling through the minuscule hole that hardly fits me, I feel scrapes and cuts bite into my skin, but no blood exits the open wounds. The redness below simply pulsates and moves like that of a river. Despite my confusion, I quickly emerge into an otherworldly expanse bathed in an ethereal purplish glow. The tiny opening serves as transportation to a long, seemingly boundless walkway suspended in the void, crafted from the very essence of the purple radiance. The light is solidified as I tap my foot onto it, judging it to be quite abnormal.
This is all so odd. A path of light? Was this always behind The Cabin?
As my senses adjust to the sudden light, I quickly realize there is no semblance of life or markers of existence beyond this causeway. Above, below, and on either side, only an impenetrable darkness looms, rendering the purple bridge the sole object in this void.
I turn back to see The Cabin sitting there, just as lonely as the bridge. But I don't have a choice other than to follow it. The tome wasn't in it, after all. That is the only way to escape.
With a resigned sigh, I place one foot in front of the other and continue along the bridge. Each step upon the radiant path echoes in the emptiness, rhythmic isolation. Every time my boots hit the light, it heightens in luminosity for a split second before sinking back to the typical glow.
My steps feel inevitable yet useless as gradually, The Cabin, too, fades into the void behind me. The time when I stop even looking back comes faster than I could ever think it would.
But as per usual, I continue onward. The oddness and bizarreness of my situation don't force me to falter; they only raise my curiosity. What is happening here?
What did the Mother Below do to this place? Is Gluskab still alive? He has to be, right?
I don't know, but I have nothing else to do but question myself as I walk. It is all very frustrating.
Walking along the luminous bridge, the emptiness of the void surrounds me. And as the quiet expanse deepens while driving me mad with boredom, faint whispers begin to tickle my ears. Initially indiscernible, these ethereal voices steadily amplify, transforming from elusive murmurs into a symphony of conflicting ideas.
They speak of joining the Tide, abandoning the brilliance of the light to embrace the obscurity of the dark. Paradoxical and contrary, yet oddly tranquil, the voices also weave a story of igniting light to push away the darkness to enjoy the brilliance.
The words insinuate a balance between light and dark, a duality that hints at a profound serenity of twilight that nearly stops me in my tracks. I shift my head around, seeking the thing that is making these noises, but I find nothing.
There is nothing to find, after all. These murmurs are coming from a God—the Mother Below's Dominion. Just as Vincent Harvey's Dominion was powerful enough to wage wars with sand alone, the Mother Below can manipulate a seemingly endless number of puppets to do her bidding. These Dominions... I wonder exactly what they are. Hmm... Perhaps they are simply the greater versions of Powers, or maybe they are something utterly alternate.
I try to block out the noises by holding my hands over my ears, but it does nothing at all to stop the stem of Darklight. It isn't physical, but I know what it's leading to.
The whispers seep into the recesses of my mind, subtly altering my thoughts. Despite my resistance, I feel the subtle tugs of influence, like tendrils encroaching upon my will. The notion of becoming a servant to the unseen deity unsettles me to no end.
The teeth in my jaw remain locked as I take every step, the up and down motion of the bridge's light, a forgone detail to my focus. My focus, however, is not absolute.
For, as the bridge stretches endlessly before me, doubt creeps in. Can I genuinely reach the end of this path? Well, I have to, don't I? And others did, too, even among the awful inhabitants of Kingstown. They were few, but amongst the rumors of death, there were a few of survival. Not that the people weren't traumatized, though.
Regardless, I move onward, relentless in my pursuit of the end of this path—a pursuit that grows increasingly arduous, the whispers growing stronger in their influence. As I tread farther into the unknown, the light below is my only guide through the void. The anomalous grayish-black light that is the Darklight of the Mother Below envelops my limbs along my steps, leaching away the natural hues. It's not a painful process, but an ominous sign that unsettles me deeply.
The Mother below is gaining on me. I don't really know how, but I can't resist this forever. But my hate for the God carries me forward. The rage bestows a kind of vibrance in each of my steps that cannot be outdone by the bridge's radiance. And something else does.
As my feet lead me onward, the visions recited to me by my Sigil replay in my mind, dashing away the outermost influences. Like cleansing forces, they wash away the tide of Darklight, promising freedom. I feel rejuvenated and stride faster, seeking the end of the road. Still, time continues, and even those visions begin to falter.
I press on for what feels like an eternity, my once-animated limbs succumbing to the encroaching grayscale. I worry about what is happening to my natural body, but I can't honestly spare the effort. It takes everything I have to simply step forward.
It's not that it's difficult; it's that every effort is beset with a thousand screaming whispers that order me to do one thing or another. Time becomes elusive in this expanse, and I lose track of its passage. Days, weeks, perhaps even a year could have passed, and I wouldn't honestly be able to tell.
My body doesn't age, however, so that has to be a good sign. Nevertheless, onward is the only path forward, even as my whole body begins to gray. But just when the desolation seems endless, a peculiar sight emerges in the distance.
A small pedestal, barely knee height, materializes at the edge of the luminous walkway from beyond my vision, entering from the unknown. Atop the pedestal rests a book, the one I've been searching for.
I can't help but smile at it, yet the joy falls like a meteor as I notice what's far more critical. Above the tome hovers a grand figure, reminiscent of Death, as I would conceive her were it not for the revelation of her true form. Towering hundreds of feet above, shrouded in tattered clothing that billows despite the absence of wind, the colossal entity gazes down at me without desire, caution, or even apathy.
There is simply nothing. All there is to return my stare is a gaze of red that peeks out from beyond the hood it wears.
"Hello?"
My voice echoes into the darkness that surrounds me, but my voice never returns. It is utterly quiet. So quiet that I can't even hear my heartbeat. It's gone. I suppose that makes sense. Here, I don't have my right arm. So, I won't have my heart either. The lack of echo or rumbling from a word released into the air, however, gives me an instinctual shudder. The same kind that happens when you are cold and shiver.
I wonder if it will return if Blodwyn moves back to his usual spot.
I have other things to focus on right now that are far more important, however.
The light beckons me forward as the book rests eternally on its own, and I cautiously approach without much else to do. The grand being doesn't react to my movement, yet I slow to a miniature crawl as I get nearer and nearer to the tome. No matter how close I approach to the being, though, no fetters appear upon its form. It either has no Sigil, which is impossible, or is beyond the capability of my eyes to survey.
Still, even as I am only an arm's length away, the murmurs evolve into deafening roars in my ears, and the creature remains unfazed. Shrugging, I tap my hand onto the tome, and the pages quickly turn on their own to my page.
Movement shifts above me, but I cannot look away. Unlike all other times, my eyes glue themselves to the page, and the information pries its way into my mind. It will not slow or take no for an answer.
The ponderer and observer of reality.
The dreamer of what could be.
The struggler against the world that holds all down.
The captive to rail against its chains.
The escapist to hide their mind from their captors' onslaught.
The departer of the prison that maintains them to a lesser form.
Your seventh Sigil toward Limitlessness. You are no longer Wondrous. You are no longer a feeble creature. Wings have grown to send the Angel into the skies above. The Sigil and the man have begun their fusion. You have taken a leap beyond your race. Humans hold nothing in common with one such as you other than birth, and even that is suspect to many.
The Warden, the Intrepid Strife
The manipulator of chains among those who know not what fetter holds them down. Able to grasp onto the fetters of others beyond yourself. Able to extend your own chains to ward others. These chains hold no cause other than the one you bestow, no power other than the one you give, no substance other than the one you hold, and no right other than the one you find. The journey of a Warden has only begun. Manipulating bounds and limits is a farcy from Limitless. Your limit of channeled Ether has catapulted yet more, for the Warden can only free others should he be capable himself.
You have achieved a Metamorphosis of being. No longer are you a weak creature to be stampeded over by the lording. You have become a vast complex of feats within a tiny form, unknowing of the potential lost or yet to be uncovered. You once made a choice. All choices are essential. They all possess reverberating effects—your eyes. Imagination and reality are but two sides of a coin to a Philosopher. What is not real is imagined, yet what is real is not. That must not always be the case. What is real to some is false to others. And lies can be seen as truth. A vast, imperceptible world hinges on your life. With those eyes, you can pull out the imagination, forming spectacles that may one day become so much more.
I congratulate you, my dear Warden. You are the first—the only—a feat that has never been achieved before, to my knowledge. My warning is simple, yet it is not directed upon your form.
The walls are soon to fall, and with them will come shambling aberrations and monstrosities. Death and decay only begets more.
One absolute boon yet exists for my dear Intrepid Strife. It has been reached—the point of no return. Your breaths were never made to be singular or alone. None are. A single breath is only the beginning of life. Defiance is to be shared. Freedom is lonely without those to share it with. The pinnacle is born of solitude. Those you decree may join you in your momentary freedom, or you may inhale rapidly, taking the pain unto no one but yourself. The road of a Warden has many choices, each as vital as the first.
May your journey, filled with tyranny, be glorious, long, and worthy of my aid.
My neck shoots up out of nowhere, and I fall to my knees, gasping for breath as the tome allows me to leave beyond the first page. There is so much on the page that it flips on its own, simply allowing me to finish reading it.
I glance up, worried that the creature has moved or reactive due to what I sensed earlier, but no. Nothing has changed. Suspicious, I stare at it for many moments, only for the whispers to return.
It's better to push further with this than become a Motherbound. So, I flip the page, focusing on the remaining parts as I find my Sigil embedded into the page.
Before, it was always two-dimensional, without color or true substance. But not anymore. Multicolored changes drip feed down from the center of the book's pages, stabbing into thousands of burgeoning eyes. The eyes practically leap off the pain, gaining a third dimension as they yearn for liberation, the desire palpable in their pupils.
I rip my gaze away from it, stunned in awe, and view what I must do next.
A Warden has gone back for those they left behind, guiding them to a similar freedom, knowing that power, in the end, comes in digits. A mighty single will crumble. A pair may endure, but a deck? Its combinations and potential will be eternal. But for a Warden to free others, they must prove themselves capable of doing so.
All proofs of oneself are unique, just as the beings that do them are.
You must return to the weakness of your flesh and bring one to follow you into the next stage of your soul. Your gaze holds your own self at a standard beyond any mortal or God.
To continue, my Intrepid Strife, place your mind within the Sigil and return to whence you came.
I step back after sighing from the overload of information and quickly run through the topics in my mind, even through the whispers.
First, I can now control chains. Based on what I saw in that vision, it's a literal and metaphorical thing. I can both physically hold someone down and weaken them at once. The opposite would also seem to be true, however, letting me enhance others.
Next, my Metamorphosis has evolved even further, changing my eyes even more so. It would appear I have one figment for each Sigil that has been condensed into the three-part section that forms at the 4th, 7th, and presumably, 10th Sigils. According to the vision, the figments can be even more detailed and extensive, but from these words, I wonder if that is the limit.
And finally, there is my Power. A long time ago... nearly a year ago, I almost died fighting three Hunters. And it was that night, or early morning, I don't quite remember, that I obtained my first Absolution.
And finally, finally, it has bloomed.
One gasp of defiance is not the end, and now I can share it. At this point, with all the enhancements to it, it deserves a new name.
Freedom. It just feels right.
I abruptly pull myself out of my thoughts as a rumbling tone enters my ears, unlike the whispers that have beset me for who knows how long. I step back, raising my hands up to the God in alarm above as it shifts slightly, the eyes following me.
"I wish you luck, child. This may be the last time we meet... or that whatever is left of me meets you. Never allow anyone to convince you that you are not special. All Angels are, for their wings do not come without blood and gore. But amongst the Angels I've seen throughout the millennias, you stand amongst the rare few that I'd call... auspicious. Goodbye, my young Philosopher. May you never have to return here."
The voice ends abruptly as the eyes lose focus and leave me again. I wave my arms and call out to the being that could only possibly be the God of knowledge, Gluskab. Gluskab, The Watchful Eye, The Guiding Hand. He is one of the rare few whose true name collides with his title.
"Gluskab! Are you still there?!"
No reply meets my question, only silence. I'm left with only the information he's provided me through the book, as so little came from his voice.
Sighing, I reach forward toward the tome. I never imagined he'd look like this. Decrepit, dark, brooding, and dangerous. Yet, few Gods, I'm sure, appear as they should. Hell, a monster such as Vincent Harvey looks like an ordinary man despite his divine might.
It doesn't really matter, though. In the end, the weaker Gods will all die to Desolation, and those that don't will be able to join the Mother Below when she awakens.
In fact... does waking up the Gods like Desolation is doing cause her to rouse faster?
I'm sure it does.
That means time is ticking faster than it should.
My finger taps the edge of the page before I see a familiar corpse beyond my feet. I give Ryder a nod before stepping to Maddox.
"What was that the favor you wanted?"
Maddox laughs and pats me on the shoulder.
"Don't know yet. We'll find out soon; I'm sure it'll be within two months or so. For now, accommodate yourself with your new flesh."
I glance at my bony arm while he shakes his wrist, water spasiming all over to cover him. In the next instant, he's gone, and so is Ryder's body. I'm left alone in the bowls of the Rising Tide.
"Great, Blodwyn. Do you have any idea how to leave? I don't feel like climbing right now. I'm... pretty tired."
My partner replies, but his words are quickly garbled and hard to understand. I ask him again to repeat himself, thinking it's his lack of communication skills, but I fail to even hear myself speak.
Out of nowhere, a piercing pain digs into my brain as my knees give out and I...
Where am I?
