Someone once explained philosophy to me in these terms. Imagine a troglodyte man, a cave-dweller, more beast than human, and imagine him passing out and waking up someplace else with no recollection of what happened. Imagine this smelly brute wondering, in between grunts, where he is and how he got there. And that would be the birth of philosophy. Speaking of philosophy, it is quite the miraculous subject: in fact, while everyone follows one, if you only ask ten people you'll hear at least fifteen or twenty philosophies being tossed around. You will be hard-pressed to find two in any sort of agreement with each other.
Can you hear them, poor things? The gods brought us here. No, it must have been a wizard. There are no gods anyways. It's because of the past. No, it's for the future, not to speak of the present. We gotta do something. No, we better wait and everything will be revealed. Why am I surrounded by frothing idiots?
Don't blame these people, dear reader. What would you do in their place? If I may just offer a suggestion, you would likely panic. You would have no philosophy to offer but the chatter of teeth. And if not panic, then paranoia making you useless and dangerous to yourself and others. How long would you be able to keep cool and rational enough to at least be functional? Steel is a material for only a few blessed souls. This gathering was no exception, and for every one soul of steel, three could be counted that were made of wood or glass.
While these heroes exchanged their views, others were crying quietly in a corner (figuratively speaking - discs had a shortage of corners.) Others were praying themselves into stupor, or cursing beings above and below. A few arguments were starting to break out: to a cornered man, a hug is an excuse to cut your purse.
Talen had a very sensible idea: looking at the floor. Unfortunately, it would take some effort to make any sense of the symbols. They did not seem to be true writing the way people knew it: they were perhaps older than that. Halfway between symbol and drawing, they were full of rods and circles and dashed lines connecting them. Could this be a Summoning circle? Maybe, but if it was, it bore only marginal resemblance to what mages used nowadays. Talen did have the impression his token of devotion to Priskil had begun to glow just a little when he invoked the goddess, but it could have been his imagination.
Other information was available to them if they gave it enough thought. For example, none of the Ethaefal had switched forms. Night was still night. Nor was this likely to be a dream, for recognizing it at such did not change anything or empower them with the ability to bend its rules.
Annassena commanded the shadows to speak for her ears only. They couldn't stretch past the edge of the disc, for the strange weave of light trapped them inside. Not that they tried to. In fact, they went nowhere at all. One of them answered Anna sagely, like an adult putting up with a child's antics. "But we already know, Stalker." And a second shadow: "And it's a big secret we have known for a long time." And the first shadow: "And it wouldn't be secret anymore if we told you." And the second shadow: "And that would be a shame." And the first shadow: "And we'd rather avoid that." And the second shadow: "And you won't hate us for that, right?"
When Kamalia flashed onto the scene, staff in hand, she could immediately feel remnants of past emotions with her special sensitivity. Hope had long moved away, replaced by loneliness - and hunger. Hunger want need crave. The disembodied feeling was everywhere. Pathfinder the staff twisted ever so little in her hand, as it sometimes did. It seemed as if it wanted to take a better look at the Mizahar globe far below.
Ariel called out to Harameus, the only god without a persona or a direct manifestation. That was not to say he never heard, or acted upon what he heard. But it was always in strange ways. Her cat meowed. That may or may not be Harameus' doing. Darik gave up on attacking them for now. That may or may not be Harameus' doing.
As she stood silently, Malia felt both her gnosis marks call out to her in their different ways. Tanroa's simply tingled with possibilities. Uldr's was far more explicit. She could almost hear the boy's mellifluous voice saying: 'Call upon me any time, Miss Malia, Azola that was! Call me and I shall come. Just be warned that I would be very upset if I had to walk out of there without the three worthy followers you have promised me...'
As for Cassandra, Krysus wanted her due too. The goddess' gaze was turned her way, or so the girl felt. If nothing else because Krysus was a whimsical being who loved to torment her marked just when they could have done without it.
Of Satu, we could speak for many a page. And they would be filled with her watching HeartColors ruled by fear, paranoia, ignorance, a little goodness and more than a little malice. And attaching Cordas threads on that poor waif Cassandra. Suffice to say, Kamalia's HeartColors were not the only thing that drew her attention. Her staff also felt intimately familiar, and perhaps she would realize it was that way because of Sagallius. While the god's colors had been beyond her understanding during their encounter, looking at this staff was like knowing a man and looking at his painting as a small child. The resemblance was there.
Others were joining, as well. Could you believe me, dear reader, if I told you my quill is struggling to keep up! I might even run out of ink. Well, maybe not ink. Definitely not in this tale.
We shall learn more of the bond between Aidara and Sira later on. For now, let us just write that neither was quite normal or average in any way. They saw things, heard things, thought things and were overall quite weird. Plus, the latter was pregnant. Keep all that in mind, for it may just become important later on.
Miro sensed something no-one else did. It was a small but crucial detail: namely, that it was really cold out there, outside the barrier. Morwen's gift did not lie. Without the protection it'd quickly become cold in there, too. It was a strange kind of cold, too. Was there even air out there? Kinneas, on the other hand, simply sensed that a battle was imminent. He did not exactly know where, or why, or who would bring it, but it felt inevitable all the same.
And just like that, Nil'kayn blew his horn. Whoever had crafted it had made a good job of it, but had never considered the event of it being used in an environment like a big snow globe. The sound was unable to spread beyond the borders of the barrier, and instead the vibration echoed back, over and over again. It was a cacophony. Notes piled up on notes reverberating on deeper note. The vibrations were hideous. The Pycons were especially sensitive, and they got all buttery and soft for a few moments. It was all rather comical to watch, except if you were a Pycon, that is.
The Pycons were also the only ones to notice that the floor kept throbbing a little even after the horn's sound had faded out. In fact, rather than subsiding as it should have, the vibration seemed to be increasing. The bigger folk couldn't feel it, not yet at least.
And then, Nil'kayn found out that you shouldn't ask a question when you don't want to hear the answer. Especially if the question is open to anyone. As it was, not everyone here had souls of steel, wood or glass. There were some who had souls of far viler materials, and they had kept to themselves until now. Until now. A hardened boot kicked a poor beggar who happened to be in the way. He landed next to Hadrian, who was brushed aside by a broad-shouldered man as if he'd been a feather.
Four warriors - three men and a woman - easily made their way through the crowd towards the man who had blown the horn. They looked armed, armored and dangerous. These weren't Syliran Knights. In fact, one of them loosened a black bandanna, revealing a sun-shaped crimson scar on his forehead whose malevolence made it pretty clear whose mark it was. Cassandra didn't even need to see the mark. She just recognized the look in their eyes.
Black Sun. Patrol. Party of four. The man with the bandanna appeared to be the leader. To his left the man who'd pushed Hadrian away, with a thin moustache and a nose that'd been broken too many times. To the right, a stout, mean-looking woman who might have been a man if not for her longer eyelashes. Behind, an older man with a ragged appearance, thin as a rail and with deep bags under his eyes.
"Well, well, well," said the leader, unsheathing his longsword, "thanks for calling everyone's attention to yourself. Surely you agree that this gathering needs a leader, yes? That would be me. And a victim to make the election process run smoothly. That would be you."
A woman let out a scream at the sight of the blade, but the boy kneeling next to her covered her mouth, shaking his head.
And meanwhile, the Pycons felt the ground shake a little more. Still not strong enough for those insensitive giants. |
