57 Fall, 513 AV
In the quiet serenity of All gods temple, a stranger appeared at the doors. This was not uncommon. Even in the wake of the Valterrian, travel was still quite common across some of the greater cities. The temple had seen many pass beneath its arches before…holy men, knights, villains, and thieves but few times had it the opportunity to welcome a non-human such as he to the solemnity of worship. The man stepped in, pausing at the threshold as if a balancer swaying on a high rope. There was some risk in him coming here, some risk in him being away from his bonded. Leth’s half grin split the sky above him, casting silver luminescence across the cobblestone and heavy hewn stones that made up the entryway.
Taking a deep breath, Zan stepped into the temple and strode down the aisle. There was reverence in everything he did, a deep unsettling fear, and a small sense of gratification. Since he’d entered Mizahar more than a score of seasons ago, the familiar had learned much of the land and its people. They bickered and battled much like his brethren on Fyrden, but Mizahar was…nicer in a different sort of way. Half the planet wasn’t inaccessible. When he first came, he’d told Wren that the planet was a shyke-hole that barely passed as a world. But…in a way, that wasn’t fully true. His long time away had left him time to consider his own planet, and in his nostalgia, he could find beauty there. The hosts of Sarawanki, blazing glorious light as they ascended through the atmosphere, the ever colorful clouds of Avavali chattering, much like the sound of rainfall. The ground crawled with the quicksilver Pascids and overall, he had come from a place of almost unimaginable light.
And there was so much darkness in this world.
Before Mizahar, Zan never considered himself to have a gender. It wasn’t built into his species at all, and they lacked the differentiation in reproductive organs to even consider that a division. They were all Sarawanki, or all Pascid. But Wren called him a ‘he’. Perhaps it was the timbre of his voice, or maybe it was Wren looking for the strength of a brother or best friend. Certainly the petcher needed one. But…then, much had changed since he’d bonded to the young man beneath the streets of Alvadas. There was Vayt, Sagallius, Laviku, and Rhysol between them now…a staggering amount of life lost, and countless arguments. Even as they had grown closer, Wren had folded into himself, grown more distant. Sometimes Zan couldn’t hear his thoughts and sometimes Wren might not hear his. It was as though their bond was unraveling bit by bit. Certainly a sense of depression had stayed Zan’s interventions till now. He remembered the faces of every life Wren had taken…every life he might have taken. That was another thing about this place…everyone was different. To a Sarawanki, identity was malleable, every shifting, ever changing…but most of these fleshlings had only one shape, or a small collection of them. In a way, each was sculpted in the most unique way…and it was all they had. When those eyes turned the color of dull stone, they were gone forever.
Forever.
Zan couldn’t really put a weight on that word.
He found himself near the front of the church, sitting with almost mechanical awkwardness. Legs, arms, this was all new territory for him and no matter how many times he wore Wren’s shape, changed it with his morphing, it always felt wrong.
But this, like many traditions on Mizahar, allowed him to move as though he was one of them…part of a society for the first time since he left his homeworld. Glancing briefly behind him, Zan confirmed there was no one else. No silhouette bowing in wordless benediction behind the rows of pews, no skulking figure at the entrance. He was alone…completely.
And so he spoke, his voice echoing along the cavernous space and monolithic columns.
“Priskil? Um, hey…I don’t want to be a bother, but I came to ask your forgiveness.” His voice filled the empty, repeating itself along the alcoves. “I couldn’t save him,” he continued, eyes downcast, “Him or Imass. I think they’re both lost now…and here we are, at the city wren promised to never return to. Why is he here? What does he want? I just…gods, just, I want things to slow down a little. I always feel like we’re moving too fast, you know? Always barely surviving between cities, barely scraping ourselves together from misadventure to misadventure…but it isn’t about the daring of it anymore. It isn’t about the exploration. My friend is a stranger to me, now more than ever. I fear…” He choked back a hitch of his voice and his eyes began leaking. For a moment, Zan freaked out. Was he coming apart? What was happening? Could he be dying?
No. They were…tears. Human sadness. It was so remarkable he was silent for a few moments, simply staring at the droplets in his palm. They were so little, cast aside from the eyes as if the mind was forcing sadness out. Was that why Wren was so sad? He didn’t cry…maybe all the sadness was too thick in his head.
He cleared his throat. “I need your help, your guidance. What’s right anymore? What do I do? All these steel-skin knight-fleshling seem so, I dunno, self-assured? Is happiness really so easy? Do you just pop on a metal shell and call it a day? Is that what made Imass what he was, the armor? I…” Cocking his head, he itched the top of his skull, as if poking his brain, “I guess not. He was the same without the armor too…big, purple, strong, and kinda dumb…but gods did he believe.”
The echoes of his voice fell silent, Zan stood held out his hands, as if in supplication. “What do I do now, Priskil? What is left for me? There are no answers written down in a writey thing…erm…book…so I have to ask you for them here. I know you don’t often…stop by, but I wondered if you wouldn’t mind showing me a way out…or a way forward.”
In the quiet serenity of All gods temple, a stranger appeared at the doors. This was not uncommon. Even in the wake of the Valterrian, travel was still quite common across some of the greater cities. The temple had seen many pass beneath its arches before…holy men, knights, villains, and thieves but few times had it the opportunity to welcome a non-human such as he to the solemnity of worship. The man stepped in, pausing at the threshold as if a balancer swaying on a high rope. There was some risk in him coming here, some risk in him being away from his bonded. Leth’s half grin split the sky above him, casting silver luminescence across the cobblestone and heavy hewn stones that made up the entryway.
Taking a deep breath, Zan stepped into the temple and strode down the aisle. There was reverence in everything he did, a deep unsettling fear, and a small sense of gratification. Since he’d entered Mizahar more than a score of seasons ago, the familiar had learned much of the land and its people. They bickered and battled much like his brethren on Fyrden, but Mizahar was…nicer in a different sort of way. Half the planet wasn’t inaccessible. When he first came, he’d told Wren that the planet was a shyke-hole that barely passed as a world. But…in a way, that wasn’t fully true. His long time away had left him time to consider his own planet, and in his nostalgia, he could find beauty there. The hosts of Sarawanki, blazing glorious light as they ascended through the atmosphere, the ever colorful clouds of Avavali chattering, much like the sound of rainfall. The ground crawled with the quicksilver Pascids and overall, he had come from a place of almost unimaginable light.
And there was so much darkness in this world.
Before Mizahar, Zan never considered himself to have a gender. It wasn’t built into his species at all, and they lacked the differentiation in reproductive organs to even consider that a division. They were all Sarawanki, or all Pascid. But Wren called him a ‘he’. Perhaps it was the timbre of his voice, or maybe it was Wren looking for the strength of a brother or best friend. Certainly the petcher needed one. But…then, much had changed since he’d bonded to the young man beneath the streets of Alvadas. There was Vayt, Sagallius, Laviku, and Rhysol between them now…a staggering amount of life lost, and countless arguments. Even as they had grown closer, Wren had folded into himself, grown more distant. Sometimes Zan couldn’t hear his thoughts and sometimes Wren might not hear his. It was as though their bond was unraveling bit by bit. Certainly a sense of depression had stayed Zan’s interventions till now. He remembered the faces of every life Wren had taken…every life he might have taken. That was another thing about this place…everyone was different. To a Sarawanki, identity was malleable, every shifting, ever changing…but most of these fleshlings had only one shape, or a small collection of them. In a way, each was sculpted in the most unique way…and it was all they had. When those eyes turned the color of dull stone, they were gone forever.
Forever.
Zan couldn’t really put a weight on that word.
He found himself near the front of the church, sitting with almost mechanical awkwardness. Legs, arms, this was all new territory for him and no matter how many times he wore Wren’s shape, changed it with his morphing, it always felt wrong.
But this, like many traditions on Mizahar, allowed him to move as though he was one of them…part of a society for the first time since he left his homeworld. Glancing briefly behind him, Zan confirmed there was no one else. No silhouette bowing in wordless benediction behind the rows of pews, no skulking figure at the entrance. He was alone…completely.
And so he spoke, his voice echoing along the cavernous space and monolithic columns.
“Priskil? Um, hey…I don’t want to be a bother, but I came to ask your forgiveness.” His voice filled the empty, repeating itself along the alcoves. “I couldn’t save him,” he continued, eyes downcast, “Him or Imass. I think they’re both lost now…and here we are, at the city wren promised to never return to. Why is he here? What does he want? I just…gods, just, I want things to slow down a little. I always feel like we’re moving too fast, you know? Always barely surviving between cities, barely scraping ourselves together from misadventure to misadventure…but it isn’t about the daring of it anymore. It isn’t about the exploration. My friend is a stranger to me, now more than ever. I fear…” He choked back a hitch of his voice and his eyes began leaking. For a moment, Zan freaked out. Was he coming apart? What was happening? Could he be dying?
No. They were…tears. Human sadness. It was so remarkable he was silent for a few moments, simply staring at the droplets in his palm. They were so little, cast aside from the eyes as if the mind was forcing sadness out. Was that why Wren was so sad? He didn’t cry…maybe all the sadness was too thick in his head.
He cleared his throat. “I need your help, your guidance. What’s right anymore? What do I do? All these steel-skin knight-fleshling seem so, I dunno, self-assured? Is happiness really so easy? Do you just pop on a metal shell and call it a day? Is that what made Imass what he was, the armor? I…” Cocking his head, he itched the top of his skull, as if poking his brain, “I guess not. He was the same without the armor too…big, purple, strong, and kinda dumb…but gods did he believe.”
The echoes of his voice fell silent, Zan stood held out his hands, as if in supplication. “What do I do now, Priskil? What is left for me? There are no answers written down in a writey thing…erm…book…so I have to ask you for them here. I know you don’t often…stop by, but I wondered if you wouldn’t mind showing me a way out…or a way forward.”
