The End of an Age

 

by Thul Deftpaw, of the Fog

 

--+--

 

“This shouldn’t be a surprise,” Reeree Starleaf said glumly as she stood alongside her fellows. “It was only once before Marilynth that He was awakened. Hundreds of years without a peep after that. And then we started waking Him every twenty or so.” The furrikin sighed. “Really, this was inevitable when I think about it.”

 

“The cities must be held accountable for this,” growled a loboshigaru at her side. “It is their meddling which has damaged the world so.”

 

Reeree considered that, and then shook her head. “We can’t blame the cities for everything. I mean, Hallifax and Gaudiguch broke the world a lot, admittedly. But Xynthin’s revenge didn’t help matters. Neither did Ackleberry or the reawakening of the Sun.” The dour fox-faced druid shrugged. “But at the end of all things, this world is too fragile. It’s been held together by spit and hope for so long, and I guess we finally just ran out of spit.”

 

“You’re awfully forgiving, Starleaf,” the loboshigaru snarled bitterly.

 

Reeree shrugged. “No reason not to be. I’m sure we’re all getting what’s coming to us.”

Through the green dome of protection surrounding the Serenwilde, she stared at the wound in the sky, where Kethuru’s tentacles flailed about, grasping and lashing at the First World. This time, though, there was no Avenger, no Ascension to drive Him back, for Avechna was dead.

 

--+--

 

The end of the world began like it had before. The Verses of Magnora appeared in the world once again, heralding in their roundabout way the rise of Illith. It wasn’t until the Leviathan was laid once again to rest in Her icy tomb that anyone realized that the prophecies had largely gone unfulfilled. By that point, there were larger concerns.

 

Once again, the Nine Seals fractured, and Avechna stirred… before crumbling to dust. One by one, the Seals shattered, and the mortals who had been preparing for the Trials of the Avenger paused in terror as Kethuru’s horrible laughter filled the realms, mixing with the frantic curses of the Creatrix Herself.

 

This was the first sign that something was horribly wrong. The second came with the sudden constriction of aetherspace. The first reports came from frantic gnomish refugees, who told of an encroaching blackness swarming through the spaces between. Soon after, the aetherbubbles vanished into the darkness, the constructs of the Basin’s nations relaying brief terror before being swallowed. Not long after, Astral was all but enveloped, and the tentacles appeared in the sky.

 

Frantic defenses kept the Almighty from spreading through the Cosmic, as He had before, but it took all the cities had to push back, and still He came through aetherspace. The Aetherplex had been hastily disconnected after one devastating attack that had claimed dozens of manses, the Starhopper, and Milla the Peppermint Kitten. Counterassaults from the nexus portals had proven disastrous, resulting only in the loss of ships. Even Glomdoring’s Dread Murder failed to have an effect on the Soulless God, the score of high-powered warships destroyed in mere moments. Shikari sacrificed Himself to give the forest long enough to seal its aetherways portal, and the other nations soon followed suit. But even as mortality barricaded itself in the known Planes, the tragedies continued to mount.

 

--+--

 

So it was that in the World Library, an unprecedented meeting took place. The leaders of the eight nations of the Basin stood in the same room, ready to discuss the future. Garthan Lakeheart, Patrician of the Ackleberry, put up an air of calm that many of the others did not share.

 

The Dark Regent of the Glomdoring and the Golden Emperor of Jojobo stood pointedly ignoring each other, their forests’ tumultuous relationship in a hostile phase. Really, the two communes were on the same page in terms of goals and ideals: one world, unquestioningly under the power of nature, and a path of conquest to make the dream happen. The only real argument between the two was over who would be in charge. Meanwhile, the Seneschal of the Serenwilde was staring daggers at her perpetual rival, the tension between the Prince of Celest and the Warlord of Magnagora was near tangible, and Grand Magistrate Hixil Goldfeather seemed impatient with the entire room. Only the High Magistrate of Gaudiguch shared Garthan’s calm, and there was good reason to believe that it was chemically-induced.

 

Still, Garthan considered it an achievement that blood hadn’t been spilt yet. “So, then,” the tae’dae began, breaking the tense silence. “Our individual efforts have come to naught. I believe we’re going to have to all work together to live through this.”

 

On cue, the indignation started. “What, all of us?” the elfen Seneschal of Serenwilde huffed disdainfully. “The Serenwilde does not work with impure filth.”

 

“Neither does New Celest! I refuse…”

 

“Please!” Garthan said hurriedly. “Spare me this, for just a moment. The fact that all of us are here at all speaks to the dread gravity of the situation. We need to consider what we have in common, rather than what sets us apart…”

 

“And what does Magnagora have in common with these weaklings?” The orclach Warlord glowered across at his merian counterpart, who snarled and made ready to reply, when Garthan interrupted again.

 

“We’re all mortal here,” the tae’dae growled. “We all know the danger of our situation. And every one of us has known loss. Shikari has fallen. Blooredi has fallen. Charune. Malik. Braun. Kalikai. Terentia and Morgfyre, who I will remind you all, perished doing battle alongside one another for the first time in millennia.” Garthan’s condemnation earned him a couple of dirty looks, but it quickly squelched the brewing anger. Many of the Elders had joined forces to fend off an encroaching tentacle of Kethuru. For one blessed moment, there had been hope, but then Kethuru absorbed the power of the sleeping half of Illith…

 

“We’re all one, man, don’t you know?” the dracnari ambassador from Gaudiguch slurred, tears in his eyes. “We’re all made of Yudhe. Us, the Elders, the Soulless… we’re all Yudhe. And when we die, we don’t die, you know? We just go back to Yudhe…”

 

After an awkward pause, the Prince of Celest shook his head. “I’m not ready to go back to Yudhe just yet,” he said firmly. The Warlord of Magnagora grunted and straightened, not wanting to agree directly.

 

“So, then,” growled the Golden Emperor. “Options. What do we do? What do we know?”

 

“It’s going to be up to us. Mortality, I mean,” the Dark Regent said softly, producing a black-bound tome which she placed on the table before them. “We’ve acquired and reviewed the relevant Verses of Magnora. All of the recent events have been accounted for… the death of Avechna, the fouling of aetherspace, and… the dissolution of the Elders.” She paused. “All of the Elders.”

 

“You’re certain?” Hixil Goldfeather said briskly. “The Verses are notoriously vague, and it has been speculated that their appearance is nothing more than the Fates attempting to interfere with the course of history.” The trill frowned. “The timing of any individual Verse’s appearance is… convenient, at best.”

 

“They might well be interfering, but our scholars are certain,” the Regent said. “As His tendrils gather, and His body grows swole, only as Almighty, shall Dynara’s works be whole. That’s the line. It’s fairly unambiguous, I feel.”

 

“So that’s it? I just need to go back and tell Lord Rahm that He’s doomed?” The Golden Emperor snorted harshly. “I don’t suppose you got anything useful out of the Verses, woman?”

 

The Regent shot the Emperor a glare, before turning to a particular page. “Here. This seems to suggest our only solution.” She scowls. “I disapprove, but if the Fates would force us…”

 

“As Dracnoris saw in dream sublime,” Hixil read, “future saved by power of nine. An edifice born of the Prime, should opposites unite in time.”

 

“Does all of Magnora’s writing suck this bad?” the Warlord muttered.

 

“Two opposites, and a point of synthesis,” the High Magistrate said airily. “That’s what the Dracnoris part means. It’s kind of a thing, about this world.”

 

“Power of nine and opposites. The Domoth Realms, then,” the Seneschal said, frowning. “But those have been sealed to us since Avechna’s death.”

 

“Perhaps… perhaps that is not what it means,” Hixil mused, looking about. “It specifically states that it’s born of the Prime. And I can think of no more meaningful opposites than the ones we have present.”

 

“That’s only eight, though,” growled the Golden Emperor. “It says the power of nine. What is the Nature to our domoths? What possible point of synthesis,” he spat, “can we have?”

 

“We’re standing in it,” Garthan said firmly. “Avechna’s Peak. Home to the Portal of Fate, from which we all emerged. Nature and technology, all in one. This is our point of commonality.” The aslaran leader from Jojobo rolled his eyes, but frowned thoughtfully.

 

“Here is where we do it, then,” the Dark Regent said grimly. “Lovely.”

 

“Do what, woman?”

 

After a short tsk at her aslaran counterpart, the Dark Regent continued. “If I’m correct, we’re to build an Edifice of Power. Here, on the mountain.” She hesitated. “And I believe we’re to link all of our nexii to it.”

 

“SILENCE!” Garthan bellowed, over the inevitable explosion of complaints. “Dark Regent, are you certain of this path of action?”

 

“After considerable counsel with the entirety of the Shadow Court, we agreed that this was the most likely interpretation of the prophecies,” she replied grimly.

 

“This is ridiculous,” the Seneschal of Serenwilde snapped. “Ignoring, for a moment, the sheer blasphemy of connecting the Mother Moonhart to any one of the tainted nations, how exactly do you plan to raise a new nexus? We haven’t had a new nexus since the Celestine Empire.”

 

The Warlord of Magnagora actually grinned at that, looking to the Prince of Celest. “That’s not exactly true, is it, fish face?”

 

“Explain?” the Golden Emperor demanded, as attention turned to the scowling merian.

 

“Oh, that,” Hixil said, looking up from the book of prophecies. “The Pool of Stars, the one detailed in the Taint Wars, was destroyed by Marilynth’s sacrifice. The current Pool in New Celest was actually constructed shortly after the Coming of Estarra.”

 

“It’s not something they like to advertise,” the orclach warlord growled, amused. “They do like to pretend to be the old Empire. They’re like the Ninjakari that way, stealing the faces of corpses…”

 

Garthan reached out automatically to catch the merian’s hand before he could draw steel. “Enough. Prince McCloud, does Celest have the records of the Pool’s construction?”

 

The Prince growled a curse at the Warlord, before managing to calm himself. “I can have my librarians search for any documents,” he said stiffly. “But the Pool of Stars is an edifice of Light. Purity. I do not think the designs will be useful for something meant to connect to something so twisted.”

 

“We can compare the documents with the records kept of the Matrix’s construction,” Hixil supplied. “I would imagine that construction records for Gaudiguch have survived as well.” He paused, narrowing his eyes at the dracnari across from him. “Assuming someone didn’t smoke them.”

 

“Can’t promise anything,” the High Magistrate replied blithely.

 

“Do you really believe this will work?” the Seneschal said, frowning thoughtfully. “A single edifice to shield us from Kethuru? Is that something that will work?”

 

“The principle’s sound,” the Golden Emperor said firmly. “A single edifice to shield the world from anything that comes at it. We’ve been trying to make it happen for a century now.”

 

“Yeah, we know, you slave-making jackass,” the High Magistrate muttered. Garthan pretended not to hear.

 

“I think… and it’s actually a bit depressing to admit this, in face of the current plight,” the tae’dae said, “that we will be able to build a new nexus faster than we will ever be able to decide on one nation to receive power from all the others.” He paused, in case anyone wanted to correct him. Nobody did. “So I would ask you all to gather your ritualists, your engineers, your lore and your resources. Let’s see if we can make this work.”

 

--+--

 

“Will it work, my Lord?”

 

Fain slouched upon His throne, mask locked in a scowl as He stared ahead. His chosen knelt before Him, trying to hide their trepidation. The Red Masque’s foul mood echoed through their very beings, a smoldering wrath in their souls, and worse, a sense of desperation.

 

“It can work,” Fain said finally. “Xyl left enough of His gewgaws on Mount Dynara to do something with it. Our engineers are turning the situation to Our advantage, of course?”

 

“As best they can, Lord. They’ve worked in some of the designs Lord Raezon left behind.”

 

Dravacu i’Xiia had expected utter fury at the news, but Fain just sighed, as if He had long expected this.

 

“So. Raezon fled, did He? Where did He go?” the Elder asked, wearily.

 

“His clergy reported that He’d built a craft to save Himself. It would get past Kethuru and launch him into the Void once more.”

 

“Oh. He’s dead, then. Lovely.” Fain rose, scowling.

 

“You… You think so, my Lord?”

 

“I know so, little one,” Fain hissed, rounding on the viscanti. “Because I know a setup when I see it! It’s all a Yudhe-damned SETUP!”

 

Fain’s chosen reeled from His poisonous aura of rage, though they’d long been expecting it and had drawn up shields in preparation. Still, their flesh bubbled painfully from their master’s wrath.

 

“My Lord, I don’t understand…” Dravacu said.

 

“It’s the Fates. The damned Fates… out to get Us all…” Fain hissed angrily. “They’ve doomed Our efforts to failure… I see it so clearly now in these prophecies. They intend to finish what they started so long ago. An end to the Elders…”

 

“But my Lord, are You not equal to the Fates? Better than the Fates?” Dravacu amended hastily, as Fain drew him bodily into the air by his collar.

 

“Oh, head on, I could kill every one of those foul hags with ease,” Fain growled, His mask a sour grimace. “But they plot. They weave. They scheme, in a way that even I have to envy… it’s too late now, I see. With Kethuru looming overhead, all I can do now is punish them for their insolence. But even then… I think their designs would still happen.” Fain let the viscanti drop to the floor, turning back to His throne to slump moodily once more.

 

Burnt, choked, and mildly terrified, Dravacu amazed himself by rising. “My Lord? What do You intend to do? Surely You will not let this insult go unpunished.”

 

Fain’s fiery gaze turned upon Dravacu once again, considering him for a long while. “I intend, my brazen little maggot, to endure,” the Elder intoned grimly, a cruel smirk across his exaggerated features. “Tell me, i’Xiia. Do you know what Elder’s spirit resides in your soul?”

 

Dravacu blinked at the question. Viscanti heritage was always rather difficult to trace, with all the mutations. “I believe the bulk of my family is descended from trill stock, Lord. So… Trillillial, most likely.”

 

“You’re wrong,” said Fain, grinning humorlessly at Dravacu.

 

“I am? Oh. Forgive me, Lord,” Dravacu said. He was unable to bite down the following question. “Whose spirit do I have then, Lord?”

 

Face unmoving, Fain began to laugh. The sound, dark and hollow, spread through the chamber and then the whole of the world. Dravacu felt the sound burrow into his head, shudder his very being with its bitterness and majesty, but even that feeling seemed distant as he watched Fain’s grinning mask begin to shatter, golden light shining through the cracks like a second sun…

 

--+--

 

Fain’s splintering into the viscanti people heralded the last days of the Elders. Seeing little other chance for survival, the remaining Elders either shattered Themselves, or fell to Kethuru in increasingly desperate measures, which all seemed doomed to failure. Zvoltz’s Induction Thurible was the final failure which drove Their doom home: the last communication from His ship was of an impossible glitch preventing detonation.

 

So it was that the sunei, the lunes, the rama, and a dozen other races came into being, under the shadow of Kethuru’s imminent breach. Eventru was the last Elder, finally shattering Himself on the plains of Celestia and granting the angelic beings there the permanence they had always lacked.

 

“So that’s it, then,” Reeree Starleaf said mildly, as she etched runes into a gleaming metal plate. “The Elders have all abandoned us.”

 

“You act like They had a choice,” Hixil huffed. “You saw how it was, with Lord Zvoltz. The odds are completely stacked against them. It’s dissolution or death.”

 

“It’s going to be death anyway, if this design doesn’t work out,” Reeree muttered, ears twitching. “And I’d definitely have liked two Elders instead of two thousand venturi and viscanti who can’t spend five minutes not fighting each other.”

 

“That is a bit irritating, admittedly. But for the rest of us, it’s at least driven home how desperately we need to get this thing done,” Hixil said grimly.

 

The nexus had taken shape, a twisting spike of shining steel. Its eight sides bore the imagery of the Basin’s nations: Gaudiguch opposite Hallifax, Magnagora opposite Celest, Glomdoring opposite Serenwilde, and Jojobo opposite Ackleberry, spiraling down in thinning ribbons until they came to a point in the very place where the Avenger once stood. Design specifications had been surprisingly easy for the diverse workforce to agree on. It was deciding on a name that was causing the most arguments, now. “The Point of Synthesis” was the frontrunner, but people were still pushing for “The Ninth Edifice,” “Desperation Spire,” and an abnormally long entry which everyone not from Hallifax was trying to ignore.

 

“We don’t have much longer, you know,” Reeree said glumly. “The attacks have gotten stronger.”

 

“It’s to be expected, after He absorbed Muud.” Hixil sighed. “It’d be worse if He’d gotten Zenos, too.”

 

“Yes, that’s great,” Reeree said bitterly. “I’m so glad Gaudiguch convinced Him to splinter. As if the illithoid weren’t bad enough to have around, now we’ve got vampiric mist-things wandering about. And trying to form families.”

 

“That’s a problem for another time, druid,” Hixil said. “Right now, we’ve…”

 

The trill cut off as a siren went off, causing cries of alarm throughout the work camp.

“…got to proceed in a calm and orderly fashion to our respective nexii,” Hixil finished. “Time is up.”

 

“He’s through?” Reeree’s eyes went wide. “We’re not done! The new nexus isn’t ready!”

 

“It’s as ready as it’s going to be. To your Tree, barbarian. No time.”

 

--+--

 

The steel edifice flared with power as it activated, radiating the essence of eight nations. Garthan stood in awe for a moment at the sight of it. For a long while, he’d thought it would never work, his dream of a unified effort from the Basin, but now the fruit of his labor shone like a beacon atop the highest mountain in the land…

 

…and Kethuru’s tendrils went straight for it, completely unhindered in any way.

 

“What the Nil is going on?” The Patriarch demanded, over the emergency aether.

 

“I told you that the Mags were going to sabotage the project,” the Prince snapped.

 

“We would do no such thing!”

 

“Actually, you did,” the High Minister replied. “We just undid it before activation. So no worries.”

 

“I’m worrying here,” the Seneschal said. “Why isn’t it working? It’s not doing anything.”

 

“Calm down. It’s doing exactly what it’s meant to,” Grand Minister Goldfeather said calmly. This elicited a brief silence over the aether.

 

“If I could reach you from here, I would throttle the answer out of you,” the Golden Emperor growled, “but since I can’t just now: what?”

 

“The edifice was never meant to be a shield,” the Dark Regent said grimly. “It was tried in the last Age. It didn’t work then, either.”

 

“That’s a viewpoint I can respect,” growled Garthan, “and I will be glad to discuss the merit of your viewpoint at some other time. But for right now WHAT DOES THIS THING ACTUALLY DO?”

 

“Oh, that. It’s like I said earlier, see?” the High Minister said airily. “We’re all Yudhe. Nothing’s actually ever created or destroyed… not the stuff we make, not the stuff the Elders made, not even the stuff Dynara made. It’s like when you make a cake, the eggs you put in don’t actually go away, they just become part of the cake…”

 

“Quit rambling and get to the point,” growled the Warlord. “If there is one.”

 

“Oh, gods. He’s entering the edifice,” the Seneschal groaned. “I can feel Him in our Tree.”

 

“He’s in the Matrix, too. Oh, good. We can begin. How to explain this next step…”

 

“Hold still,” the Prince said flatly. “We’re all going to die anyway, but I’m going to kill you personally before we go.”

 

“No, no, man. This is how it’s supposed to be,” the High Minister continued. “See, everything’s what it is until it becomes part of something else. Or until you break it down and it becomes a lot of something elses. No matter how big or how small it is.”

 

“That… almost made sense,” the Patriarch muttered. “Oh gods, He’s in the Honeysap.”

 

“Good,” the Grand Minister said. “He should be in each of the nexii by now. It’s time. Synchronize yourselves with the energies of your nexii, and initiate endothermic retrieval procedures.”

 

“What?”

 

“Grab hold of Him and pull as hard as you can. Metaphysically.”

 

“That’s what we burnt all that steel for?” the Warlord growled. “Our big plan is to play tug of war with the greatest of the Soulless Gods?”

 

“He’s divided through eight nexii with diametrically opposed philosophies,” said the Dark Seneschal. “We can pull from two points in the communes, three in the cities. It’s less tug of war than dragging Him into a meat grinder.”

 

There was a brief pause, and then a cackle from the leader of Magnagora. “Well, when you put it like that… hey, fish face. Bet we can pull harder.”

 

--+--

 

Kethuru screamed as He was dragged from the sky, shaking the world with not only the rage of a Soulless God, but His terror as well. His tentacles caught in the great edifice atop Avechna’s Peak and would not come out, instead dragging his amorphous body into its structure. From there, His energies were painfully divided to the eight edges of the Basin, where the forces of mortality stood waiting and vengeful.

 

The Almighty fought. He bit, He swung, He wore the faces of those He had consumed. As the days dragged on, and His body was slowly pulled to pieces, He even pleaded for mercy. But after millennia spent in fear of the Soulless, Lusternia had no mercy. Kethuru became less and less, His energies dispersing into the very lands He’d sought to consume.

 

At last, with a bellow of rage, a great ball of sharp-fanged mouths and writhing tendrils fell from on high, a great wind rushing upwards as the wound in the sky started to close. Kethuru roared all the louder, as this last part of Him stuck solidly at the mouth of the great edifice.

 

“What is that?” the Golden Emperor demanded. “Is that it? Is that the last of Him?”

 

“It’s not coming through the edifice,” the Grand Magistrate reported. “Completely incompatible energies with the very world.”

 

“YOU WILL NOT HAVE THE LAST OF ME, MORTALS!” Kethuru howled through a thousand hungry maws. “YOU CANNOT DESTROY MY VERY NATURE! I WILL RETURN, AND I WILL CONSUME YOU ALL!”

 

“Don’t let him break away now!” the Seneschal called across the aethers in alarm. “We’re almost free of Him forever!”

 

“We don’t have a lot left to pull on here. All that’s left of Him is Him,” the Prince replied. “Water’s saying that they’re losing their grip. Ideas, anyone?”

 

“Ah. Yes. Well done. I suppose I should do something, here,” an unfamiliar, female voice said

 

“Who’s that?” demanded the Dark Regent. “This channel is for the leaders of Lusternia only. Identify yourself.”

 

“Very well,” the voice replied, and the sky suddenly erupted in swirling rays of light and darkness. Time froze, and even Kethuru’s terrible voice fell silent as Estarra appeared over Avechna’s Peak. Her eyes fell thoughtfully on the trapped Soulless God, who seemed to tremble.

 

“ESTARRA. HERE TO BIND ME, ONCE AGAIN?”

 

“I think I’m done with that, Kethuru, dear,” the Creatrix replied coolly. “It’s time for You to go.”

 

“NO. YOU CANNOT DESTROY ME. I AM ONE WITH THIS WORLD,” Kethuru thundered.

 

“Not so much any longer. The mortals have seen to that,” the Creatrix said coolly. “I’ll admit, it will be a chore to clean up after You.”

 

“NO. PLEASE.” The Soulless God’s inhuman voice became strangely pleading. “WAS I NOT YOUR FAVORITE, ONCE?”

 

“A long time ago, dear.” The Creatrix smiled ruefully as She drifted forward. “But You just don’t play well with the others.”

 

Kethuru let out one last scream of terror as Estarra leaned forth to press a dainty kiss on His diminished form. The world trembled as cracks shot through his body and down the edifice of power.

 

In the Ackleberry, Garthan watched the scene in awe, before something brushed his shoulder. Looking up, he realized that the Elder Honeysap was shaking, too. “Oh, that bitch,” he muttered to himself, before calling frantically over the aethers. “Break links! Break links!”

 

--+--

 

“And thus, the Age of Ascension comes to a close,” Atropos declared, snipping eight last threads.

 

“It’s going to take forever to weave this into something plausible, you know,” Lachesis noted, looking over the bundle before her. “Sorting out some of the family lineages alone… some of these people are their own grandparents.”

 

“We have time enough. As we did before, as we will again,” Clotho said mildly. “But I’m far more interested in what comes next. We have so many more threads to play with, now.”

 

“And a thousand more loose ends to deal with,” Atropos muttered. “Like we didn’t have enough of those from the last Age.”

 

“Please, sister. Those are the things from which the new Age shall be made,” Clotho said, smiling. “As before, so again.”

 

“Lovely. So, then. What shall we make of this new Age?” Lachesis asked.

 

“A period of peace, and rebuilding after the destruction of the nexii,” Clotho said. “A desperate struggle to reclaim the lost power of the Planes.”

 

“I think we should keep them waiting on that,” Atropos said. “The nexii kept the design so… rigid.”

 

“Then a period of disappointment. A struggle to adapt,” Lachesis mused. “And then… yes. How about an Age of Conquest?”

 

And as the Fates planned their designs in far-off Shallamar, in Lusternia, mortality endured.