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Rigorian: "Admit it, these mass-neutral vibroblades were a good idea."

He hacks through some dense foliage with ease, for emphasis.

Whippen Kur: "They suit our purpose now very well, yes. That does not mean it was a good idea to requisition them so that advanced Aeon students could practice dueling before they could summon their ruhands."

The two depowered Aeon Lords are traversing the forests of Tangris. The witch-warden Templar Yurk is several paces ahead of them, his sharp senses and top-notch equipment far better at pathfinding than two Aeon Lords who no longer have any powers.

Templar Yurk: "You two squabble like an old married couple."

Rigorian snorts in amusement, the fins on his cheeks quivering, while Whippen Kur chuckles softly. The two Aeon Lords are old friends despite their frequently differing views, and are - or were - senior Aeon Lords. Both wear the traditional robes of the Aeon. Rigorian is just under six feet tall and has a stocky build that belies his nimbleness. In addition to small fins on his cheeks that are used during his facial expressions, he possesses a nose with only one nostril. His head is topped with slicked-back black down, though parts of it are sticking up at random now thanks to the days he's spent as a fugitive in the forest of his own world.

Whippen Kur is 8 feet tall, a great height that makes him appear willowy and slender, but in truth he's as broad as a fit adult human male. He wears a squat hat with a brim twice as wide as he is, and wears spectacles. In contrast to Rigorian, his nose has three nostrils.

Their current companion is Yurk, a Templar of the witch-wardens. He's a Lorek, meaning he's just as tall as Whippen Kur. He actually IS slender, and appears almost like a stick next to Whippen Kur, though he possesses plenty of lean muscle. His leathery skin has an ultraviolet hue that appears as different colors based on the perceptory senses of whoever is looking at him, and he has no eyes or hair. Lorekii have extremely fine-tuned senses of taste, hearing, and touch, and their tacticle awareness is great enough that an average Lorek can be aware of anything within a half-mile or so, based on subtle shifts of air, scent, and sound. He wears the standard matte-black uniform of a witch-warden, with a variety of specialty weapons strapped to it in bandoliers and holsters. Though most witch-wardens wear a green scanner over one eye - a device that assists in detection and accuracy - Yurk wears a green plug in one nostril, which serves the same function but adapted to his physiology.

Templar Yurk: "You could at least argue about things relevant to our situation now. I don't want to listen to your supernatural issues. They don't even apply to you anymore."

Rigorian: "I am an Aeon. Losing my powers doesn't change that."

Yurk sighs. As a witch-warden, he specializes in countering the supernatural in all forms, and thus isn't a fan of Aeon Knights in general, despite working with two (former) Aeon now.

Whippen Kur: "And as you've surely noticed, Templar, our sword-fighting skills remain top-notch due to our extensive training and experience, even without soul-boosted feats and reflexes."

The trio had recently raided one of the old Aeon outposts that was occupied by Greyarchy soldiers. Most Aeon apprentices practiced using ultra-light foils that dealt no damage, so they would be proficient in melee combat even before they were able to manifest their ruhands - a lightsaber-like projection of soul energy from their hands. Rigorian, however, had brought some deadly vibroblades to Tangris several months ago, with special grav-canceling emitters that essentially made the blades weigh nothing (thus simulating the weightlessness of ruhands), something that Whippen Kur considered too dangerous for Aeon apprentices to use.

Templar Yurk: "Hold. There is a pair of animals up ahead. Not a kind I recognize. Lots of claws and teeth."

Whippen Kur: "Five legs each, thick blue fur?"

Templar Yurk: "Aye. Anything I should know before I take them out?"

Rigorian: "Yes. Don't take them out, idiot. They're just yaakins. They only fight if provoked."

Whippen Kur: "And several even like to be petted."

Templar Yurk: "You cannot be serious. Fine, we'll keep going, but I've got my eye on them."

He suppresses a resigned sigh as Whippen Kur pauses to scritch the yaakins' ears as they pass by. The creatures make guttural noises that sound a bit like purring, and lick his hand in response.

Rigorian: "I'm surprised we've not run into any Grey patrols in the last day."

As if on cue, they see several Greyarchy vessels zooming into the sky far aware.

Templar Yurk: "They're leaving?"

Rigorian: "It's not as if the planet holds any real value to them now that it's evacuated of Aeon."

Whippen Kur: "Yet it's not like the Greyarchy to let anything slip their grasp. Not all of them will leave. But those who are... They must be planning some major offensive, and are siphoning garrisons to reinforce themselves."

Rigorian: "Since when are you the one who predicts doom and gloom?"

Whippen Kur: "I merely state the most likely scenario."

Templar Yurk: "Hope they haven't discovered Earth. That would make this war radically more dangerous for us."

Rigorian: "Perhaps, with a lighter garrison, we'll be able to nick a shuttle and escape."

Whippen Kur: "Look. More shuttles lifting off over there. It's nearing sunset, perhaps we should find a place to make camp, and in the morning we can scout out a garrison."

Templar Yurk: "There's a clearing a hundred paces to our left. I'll keep watch."

The Aeon Lords exchange glances.

Rigorian: "You've kept watch all night, every night, for the past two and a half weeks. You've got to sleep sometime."

Templar Yurk: "We've been over this. I've got an alchemic circulator running."

He gestures to the small tubes along the spine of his armor, which circulate slightly glowing blue liquid into and out of his veins repeatedly.

Rigorian: "But it can't be healthy to overuse it."

Templar Yurk: "It has been rigorously developed and tested, and in use by witch-wardens for centuries. There are absolutely zero side effects or health issues if one has the appropriate physiology, for up to a long period of time. As a Lorek, I rate over 20,000 hours of nonstop use before I risk any issues."

Whippen Kur: "Quote your science all you like, but it is not balanced for anyone to go without sleep that long. Our minds work better if given natural rest. Please. Let us keep watch tonight."

The witch-warden templar sighs long-sufferingly.

Templar Yurk: "Very well. I will reduce the circulatory draw to 30%. That will keep me alert enough that I can jolt out of sleep the instant danger presents itself."

Rigorian: "Don't trust us to keep watch, eh?"

Templar Yurk: "You have no particular ability to detect things anymore, so no, I do not trust you to identify potential danger, in time, 100% of the time."

Whippen Kur: "30%, hmm? Better than 100%, at least. Does this extend your 20,000 hours of safe-use time?"

Templar Yurk: "It does, though if we're stuck on this planet for two years, we'll have bigger problems."

Rigorian: "I'll take first watch. Go hit the sacks."

Whippen Kur: "Very well. Wake me for second watch."

Rigorian nods curtly, as Whippen Kur sits in a meditative cross-legged positions and leans back against a tree trunks. In moments he is dozing, breathing evenly. Yurk shakes his head; the two Aeons, Whippen Kur especially, still use their meditative techniques, claiming they boost concentration and rest even with their souls blunted by the Zero Sanction. Whippen Kur seems to hold no malice against Yurk or the witch-wardens for having deployed it, but Rigorian clearly very much dislikes Yurk for it.

The Lorek opens a panel on his wrist gauntlet and rotates a touch-dial to set his alchemic circulation to 30%. Then he lies on the ground. For several moments he wonders if he can really get to sleep.

Another moment after that, he is snoring.

Rigorian: "What a freight train. Maybe we should've let him keep his damned alchemic circulation at 100%. If I'd been lucky it would've killed him from overuse."

Despite his words, Rigorian knows that Templar Yurk is too valuable an ally to lose, given his own and Whippen Kur's current vulnerability. Once they've safely off Tangris, however, all bets are off. The Aeon settles on a fallen tree trunk, and starts an Aeon breathing exercise for alertness and calmness, as he maintains watch. All his senses seem dulled without his soul powers, but he strains his ears and eyes, training himself to notice as much as possible given these new conditions.

Hours pass, and in the deep of the night Rigorian wakes Whippen Kur for second watch, and takes his place leaning against the tree. Whippen Kur chooses to stand for his watch, and chooses a form of meditation different from what Rigorian used but which serves essentially the same purpose.

A half-hour into his watch, a shadowy shape comes closer. Whippen Kur tenses slightly, then forces himself to relax, peering into the darkness. He forces himself to exhale normally even after seeing what it is. An ugrit - a dangerous predator whose fight or flight instinct doesn't have the flight half. It's slowly approaching them, and Whippen Kur knows that it's gauging whether or not they'll make tasty meals. He dares not cry out or make sudden movements, for this will provoke the beast into attacking.

Instead, he slowly and gingerly pulls the heavy laser pistol from his belt, keeping his motions smooth and gradual so as not to spook the ugrit. Most laser pistols wouldn't be nearly enough to take down such a beast, but this is a Greyarchy piece, looted from one of the Grey soldiers, and is thus designed to be deadly and destructive to the extreme.

He aims carefully, forcing himself to take his time. He'll only get one shot, and he doesn't have his soul boosting his senses anymore. The ugrit slowly approaches Rigorian, and at twenty paces away, Whippen Kur makes his move.

Whippen Kur: "I'm sorry."

He pulls the trigger, and a bright orange beam as thick around as his wrist screeches out from the pistol to blast into the ugrit. The predator is blown back by the force of the beam, and only half its corpse remains.

Rigorian: "What the devil?"

Templar Yurk: "Report!"

Whippen Kur forces himself to exhale. He doesn't like killing, but there wasn't a choice. He turns towards his two companions, who have awakened from the sound of the pistol being fired, and raises his eyebrow in surprise at Templar Yurk, who is scanning the woods rapidly, after casting a look at the ugrit corpse.

Whippen Kur: "Interesting. I suppose your Zero Sanction warhead only affected everything outside your delivery torpedo. Maybe it even caused some kind of spiritual backflow to awaken you. Or perhaps you had the potential all along and never knew it."

Rigorian: "What are you-"

He breaks off as he sees Templar Yurk as well. It takes Yurk another moment to realize they're staring at him, and he returns their gaze in confusion, before looking down at his hand.

A pure white ruhand is projected from his hand.

Templar Yurk: "What? How! No! I'm not-!"

He appears both horrified and repulsed, and the ruhand flickers out. Rigorian smirks in wicked glee.

Rigorian: "You're not what? One of us?"

Mantle and Imhoptah float in the void of space. It's impossible that they should survive in a vacuum, or be able to breathe, or speak, but that simply means that, thanks to the impossible smith, they can. Mantle could weave threads together to create an atmosphere around himself, but to essentially conjure atmosphere from void is a complex process, and it'd be even more difficult to keep it together, rather than dissipating into the void.

He could theoretically alter his own threads so that he could natively survive in a vacuum, but this is a monumental thing to achieve, and one he has to be very careful about lest he screw up his own physiology. His work on that has essentially progressed not at all, due to always being busy helping others instead. So he simply relies on Imhoptah for surviving in this vacuum.

Stretched out before their gaze are the remains of a dead world. It's not merely desolate and uninhabited, it's literally broken up into chunks of rock and asteroid and space dust. The threads here are broken and gnarled and twisted. It's more horrifying than any other death or destruction he's ever seen, and not just due to the scale of it. Something is wrong. Something is missing and yet nothing is missing.

Mantle: "What is this place?"

Imhoptah: "This was a peaceful and beautiful world, once. Its inhabitants called it Indra. They were shepherded by a multitude of local deities."

Mantle: "Deities?"

He frowns, searching through the endless tangle of threads all over again. But there is nothing divine there. No matter how purged something was, there should still be threads that indicate it used to be there.

Mantle: "There have never been deities here. Not according to the threads."

Imhoptah: "They were annihilated by the God-Killer Machine. A conceptual anti-divine force of such anti-power that it could effectively erase deities from time and space altogether."

A chill runs through Mantle.

Mantle: "And it's powerful enough--"

Imhoptah: "Anti-powerful enough."

Mantle: "That it obliterated even the threads? How can that be possible? The threads are everything!"

Imhoptah: "Yes, and thanks to the God-Killer Machine, Indra's deities became less than nothing."

Mantle: "That sounds like total BS."

Imhoptah: "I'm an impossible smith. Total BS is what I do."

Mantle thinks for a few moments, then looks at Imhoptah.

Mantle: "You could bring them back. Couldn't you."

Imhoptah: "I could bring the world back, and its people, yes. Though they would only persist for so long as I remained here. But the gods? No, even I cannot bring them back. As BS as my impossible crafts are, the God-Killer Machine was even more BS."

Mantle: "Was. So it's destroyed now?"

Imhoptah: "Yes."

Mantle: "Thank Emp."

Imhoptah: "A second was built."

Mantle: "Bloody Tartarus!"

Imhoptah: "It was destroyed too."

Mantle: "Whew."

He pauses a hair.

Mantle: "What, aren't you going to tell me a third was built?"

Imhoptah: "Nope. Also, you're far away from the Remnant of a dead man's empire, why do you still say things like thank Emp?"

Mantle: "Force of habit. Also, saying things like that reminds me of home."

Imhoptah: "Miss it, do you?"

Mantle: "Yes. But as much as I miss it, I love seeing new places just as much. And there are so many that need my help."

He looks sadly at the remains of Indra.

Mantle: "Even if there are some that I cannot help."

Imhoptah: "The threads are everything, even worlds. You could reweave this world into being once more, sans its gods."

Mantle: "The complexity and difficulty of that task make it, well, impossible. These threads are at such long range from each other I couldn't reach them all from one spot, and I'd need to weave most of them at once. Even if I could, it'd be like trying to piece together a broken window from shards of glass into a seamless whole again. And trying to figure out the original pattern of the threads to restore it, instead of borking it up and creating some nightmarish mirror version instead? I haven't the faintest clue how I'd do that. Not to mention make it sustainable. My thread weaving may not simply collapse at a distance like your impossible crafts do, but the more drastic a change I make, the harder the threads are to pull, and the more the universe pushes back. The pushback against an entire world where there is none would be... I don't know. Tremendous."

Imhoptah: "Perhaps such a feat won't forever be beyond you."

Mantle: "If that's true, there's so many more I could help in the future."

He sighs.

Mantle: "Though that still wouldn't bring back these less-than-nothing gods. Perhaps if I could study the remains of the God-Killer Machine, I'd get some insight."

Imhoptah: "Shall I take you there then?"

Mantle thinks for a minute.

Mantle: "No."

Imhoptah: "You're going to take us there this time then?"

Mantle has gained a knack for teleportation via "snapping" threads and releasing them, to instantly propel him through time and space, but this is only reliable at short distances. Teleporting more than a few blocks makes it progessively harder to aim at a destination he wants, assuming he even knows where it is.

Mantle: "You know I'm not capable of that. At least not yet. And nor am I capable of understanding the mysteries of these vanished threads just yet either, if I can't do the comparatively simpler task of rebuilding a world that has only been physically destroyed."

Imhoptah: "Then what is your plan?"

Mantle: "It's been bothering me lately that I can only help a few people at a time. And once I leave, I can no longer help them. And that's aside from the fact that it's difficult to weave lasting changes if they're too drastic, due to the universe's pushback. How many times did I have to go back to Zeebat Eight to undo the fayries' sterility all over again?"

Imhoptah: "Thirty-three. To be fair, that was your first major attempt at weaving. You've significantly improved since then, and haven't had to go back anywhere else nearly as often."

Mantle: "The fact remains though, that I'm only as useful as how many places I can be at once. But I've been pondering an idea... Take me home, Imhoptah. Take me to Wits' End Skulk."

Imhoptah: "I'm intrigued. Turn around then."

Mantle obeys, and finds themselves in a side street on the Coaleashion planetoid he grew up on. He breathes in the familiar air, and smiles broadly.

Imhoptah: "That good to be back, huh?"

Mantle: "Yes! Let me get my bearings... right then. Home is this way."

He leads the impossible smith through the thronging streets, clearly reveling in the familiar sights and sounds, before arriving the three-story build that Uncle Eq's apartment is at the top of.

Superintendent: "Mantle!"

Mantle grins as a portly middle-aged Fiolxon woman bustles out of one of the storefronts on the first floor. She enfolds him in a hug.

Mantle: "I'm back, Ms. Wo!"

Ms. Wo, Superintendent: "How long do you plan to stay? Oh, don't give me that look, I know you young and dashing types. Can't stay still for too long."

Mantle: "I'm not sure. Is Uncle Eq around?"

Ms. Wo: "No, actually. He split shortly after you did."

Mantle's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

Ms. Wo: "Said his work was finished, or something like that. Some pride baron bought the entire building after that! Stipulated that the upstairs apartment be left free for you though."

Mantle: "Baron Gaknisard Go?"

Ms. Wo: "That's him! Did you meet him on your travels?"

Mantle did briefly meet the extraordinarily lucky rascal of a baron, on his 21st birthday, which was quite a while ago now. Uncle Eq must have prevailed on him to purchase the place and leave Mantle's home to him.

Mantle: "I did. He's a good sort, not like a lot of the nobles. Does the key still work?"

Ms. Wo: "No, honey, it's been broken into twice, so I've had to change the locks. Here, let me get you a copy of the new key."

Shortly Mantle and Imhoptah are back in his home, which is fairly spare as it always was, but otherwise unchanged. Only a couple of things are missing, no doubt from the thieves, but most is untouched, as there was little of value here. It feels even emptier though, now that Uncle Eq doesn't live here. The threads here are still, rustling as he enters them, and have been still for a long time without any occupants.

Imhoptah: "What now? Don't tell me you're going to get 'wasted' like your 'uncle' wanted you to."

Mantle laughs.

Mantle: "No, I..."

He pauses, considering, looking around at the threads, before sitting cross-legged on the floor and concentrating.

Mantle: "I'm going to try to weave a pattern of threads that can sustain itself. A pattern than pulls certain threads in response to certain triggers. A mantle, if you will."

Imhoptah: "Well, that would be confusing as all-get-out."

Mantle: "I'm not really concerned with the name, just the results."

Imhoptah: "And can you do it?"

Mantle: "You of all people are asking me if something is possible?"

Imhoptah: "No, I just want to know if you believe you can do it."

Mantle: "Yes. It will take a while. Lots of failed attempts. But I think I can do it. I'm going to start with a mantle over this apartment. Attach just one trigger effect to it. Let's say the door opening and closing whenever someone snaps their fingers."

Imhoptah: "That is a simple effect."

Mantle: "Just to start with, I hope."

He concentrates, and threads being unraveling and lashing together as he tests out his ideas, refining and discarding elements as things work or don't. Imhoptah can already tell he won't move for hours as he attempts just to make the barest of foundations for his ambitious magnum opus.

Imhoptah: "Threads that weave themselves. A mythal. He doesn't think small. But then, considering his parentage, I shouldn't expect him to..."

The last thread loops into place, and Mantle sighs as the tension of prolonged concentration leaves him.

Mantle: "Aaaahhh..."

He stretches his back, only now feeling the cricks and creaks of his body, from having stayed in the same position for... how long has it been this time? Days?

He smells something pleasant, so he goes to the kitchen and sees that Miss Wo - his current superintendent and granddaughter of the former superintendent from 100 years ago - had come in at some point and left him a meal, along with a note.

Miss Wo's Note: "Made something to tide you over, honey. You really should eat more, you're skin and bones!"

Mantle: "I am not."

It's pointless to retort to a note, but that doesn't stop him. He has longevity presumably inherited from his parents, which also allows him to go for significant periods without food or rest. Part of that is due to having tied his lifespan thread into a knot. A sloppy, inelegant solution to keep it from unraveling naturally - it won't last forever, and it will have side effects on the other threads that make up his self if left too long, but he is far too focused on his mantle - or his mythal, as Imhoptah calls it - to pursue immortality at the moment.

He does feel the pangs of hunger now though, and devours Miss Wo's meal.

Mantle: "Thanks, Miss Wo. ...I should probably go downstairs and thank her in person."

Feeling refreshed from the meal, he takes a shower afterwards, working the kinks out of his joints. He could cleanse himself by pulling on a few of his threads, but he prefers a shower, as all he has to do is enjoy it, instead of just doing more work with threads.

Mantle: "Alright, let's take one last look at this anchor, make sure I did it right."

To his eyes, there is a bright tapestry of threads hanging in the air in the middle of the living room of his apartment, from which unfurl multiple bright threads of many colors, stretching over the building and its neighbors. His mythal. After a hundred or so years, he's figured out the basic principles, and has worked in a few effects. For instance, Miss Wo's bread oven downstairs produces baked bread that is supernaturally nourishing, with minor healing properties, though it loses the supernatural effects if taken out of the mythal's range. There is also an anti-thief measure worked into the mythal, so that any would-be thief seeking to break into Miss Wo's shop would suddenly change his mind. That latter effect could be resisted by those with strong willpower, of course, and probably wouldn't be very effective on anyone whose way of thinking is too different from a fiolxon's. But it's a start.

Beneath the tapestry of the mythal is a complex tangle of threads that resembles a large complicated knot, and it is this that Mantle inspects.

Mantle: "Okay, okay, looks good, let me tighten that thread, and it's good to go."

He snaps his fingers, and the front door to his apartment opens - the very first effect he successfully implemented into his mythal, a century ago. He hooks one of his threads to the knot, so that it trails behind him, invisible and intangible to everyone but him, as he leaves. Another snap of his fingers closes and locks the door. Going down the exterior staircase on the side of the building, he stops in the shop on the first floor.

Miss Wo: "Mantle! You look dreadful. You really need to get out more."

She proffers him a biscuit, and he knows she'll be disappointed if he refuses, so he accepts.

Mantle: "Thanks for the meal, Miss Wo, I really appreciate it. And a tan isn't high on my list of priorities right now."

There are a few others in the shops, and they look strangely at Mantle. He is a human in a world primarily consisting of fiolxon of course, but he can tell they're wondering if he's the reclusive hermit that lives on the third floor over Miss Wo's shop; apparently a number of minor urban legends have been spun about him in the last several decades.

Miss Wo: "You should still get out more. A man cut off from his neighbors is living half a life."

Mantle: "You'll be happy to know that I'm out to run an errand then."

Miss Wo: "Oh? Where are you headed?"

Mantle: "You don't want to know."

Miss Wo raises an eyebrow, then sighs.

Miss Wo: "At least be careful."

Mantle: "Don't worry, Miss Wo, I will be."

He leaves the shop and strides through the streets. Everything is so familiar, and yet so different. He's only been out and about very rarely in the last century, after all. There are some new buildings - in most cases probably only built because their rickety predecessors finally collapsed - and new slang being bandied about. Yet so many of the structures and customs are the same as well. It's an intriguing dichotomy that makes him feel a touch disconnected from it all.

Raxo non-O: "Baron Go sends his regards."

Mantle almost jumps as a young Fiolxon male in his 20s falls in step beside him. He was too distracted by the strange familiarities of his surroundings, not to mention out of the habit of paying close attention to threads around him, due to primarily staying in his flat working on the mythal. So much for his promise to Miss Wo to be careful; he'd have to remember to pay attention, lest someone with ill intent towards him surprise him.

A glance at his new companion reveals his name - his surname showing that he's an orphan of unknown lineage - and that he is in fact working for Baron Gaknisard Go as he claims. One of the few nobles in Coaleashion who isn't corrupt, Go is also famous for his extraordinary luck. Due to his access to the crystal magitech of the High Empire, he is immortal of course, which is why he's also still alive after a hundred years.

Mantle: "Send him mine as well. So he's having me watched?"

Raxo non-O: "He's noticed how independent-minded you are, but wants to make sure that if you ever do need help, he can offer it."

Mantle: "And since I'm actually going out now, you want to see if there's anything I need?"

Raxo non-O: "Right you are. And?"

Mantle: "No, but thank you. Tell him he may want to keep an eye on Count Ter'Ro's estate after today."

Raxo raises an eyebrow.

Raxo non-O: "A viper, that one. Are you sure you don't need any help?"

Mantle throws him a cocky grin.

Mantle: "With all due respect, I don't think you could keep up with me."

Unable to resist a bit of fun, Mantle bends the threads of visible light around him, effectively becoming invisible. Raxo's shocked gasp, followed by rueful chuckling, betrays some annoyance but also respect and amusement. Then Mantle is off, sprinting through the crowds. He hadn't planned to go invisible till he was a few blocks closer to Ter'Ro's estate, and the longer the the light threads are bent around him, the more likely they are to come loose without his concentration, so he hurries now.

Ter'Ro's estate is fenced by a high stone wall with three gates around it. A crystal tower spears the sky within the compound, though a number of wooden and stone buildings are clustered around it inside the wall. Two of the gates are closed, flanked by bored-looking Fiolxon guards in High Imperial uniforms, while the third is open for the estate's various business dealings, people and carts going in and out at irregular intervals. The guards here are bored as well, but a bit more attentive. He surveys the threads, checking for any serious security that his invisibility won't hide him from, finds nothing, and ducks through the open gate.

One of the guards frowns, apparently hearing something, but Mantle moves inside the compound quickly, and the guard shrugs and looks away after a moment. Mantle can make himself inaudible too, but he doesn't want to overtax himself with too many thread arrays at once if he can help it.

Mantle: "This will be a tougher nut to crack."

This muttered under his breath as he surveys the crystal tower. He can see the glittering threads of High Imperial magitech woven through it, and a simple trick like invisibility won't hide him from such advanced security. He can weave and unweave the threads sufficiently to allow himself secret access, but that is a complicated affair, and one misstep will expose him. So he elects another option.

He doesn't need to get inside the tower after all: just the knot of threads trailing behind him. It has no tangible presence, being threads, and can't be detected by anyone or anything save himself. Unhooking it from himself, he pushes it through the crystal wall, and concentrates. It's easiest for him to affect threads immediately around himself, but he can affect a slightly longer range if he focuses. The knot is a single thing, and intangible, so it's relatively easy to maneuver it at this short distance. It doesn't particularly matter where in the tower it goes, so he merely pushes it into the center of the tower's first floor, then pulls a certain thread in the knot to activate it. Several threads unfurl from the knot to hook into nearby threads.

Mantle: "Perfect."

He could "slingshot" himself out of the estate with a teleport by pulling on a distant thread, but it really has been too long since he stretched his legs, so he sneaks back through the open gate again. A few blocks away from Ter'Ro's estate he drops his invisibility within the anonymity of the crowds, and ambles back to his flat, enjoying the night air.

Baron Gaknisard Go: "Hello, Mantle."

He's surprised to see the baron waiting for him inside his flat, sipping from a wooden tankard - something unheard of for most Coaleashion nobles, who wouldn't be caught dead using anything but crystal goblets - and dressed in peasant clothing.

Mantle: "Hello, Baron. I appreciate you being discreet."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "Haven't we known each other long enough to drop the titles? And of course. I realize my presence here becoming public knowledge would bring unwelcome scrutiny."

Mantle: "I assume you're here because of my disappearing act."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "That, and the fact that you rarely go out at all. As Raxo probably told you. Can I ask just what you did to Count Ter'Ro?"

Mantle: "Nothing. But I dropped off my mythal anchor inside his tower."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "You broke into a noble's tower? Of course you did."

Mantle: "Didn't need to, as it turns out."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "Well, you needn't justify your bullshit powers to me. I'm familiar with having bullshit abilities."

A reference to his famous luck.

Baron Gaknisard Go: "But what is a mythal anchor, and what does it do? Related to your mythal, I assume. Are you expanding it?"

Mantle: "I have to be somewhere to create a mythal there. I can gradually spin out a mythal tapestry from one location, encompassing a wider and wider area, but this growth rate slows down nearly exponentially the farther out from me it gets. So I created an anchor that will link to my mythal, allowing me to affect the area around the anchor with this mythal as well, while remaining here."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "Why Count Ter'Ro then? It's hardly as if he needs more blessings."

Mantle: "I want to try weaving in effects that will discourage corruption."

Baron Go eyes him askance.

Baron Gaknisard Go: "I can't deny a lot of people would be better off if Ter'Ro were more principled, but I'm not sure how I feel about mind control."

Mantle: "Neither am I, honestly. For now I want to focus on other methods."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "Like?"

Mantle: "Negative things happening in response to immoral things within the tower, and positive things in response to moral actions. Psychological reinforcement."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "And you're sure these threads of yours can't be detected? Within this out-of-the-way shop is one thing, but in a crystal tower secured by the most advanced magitech in the universe?"

Mantle: "Threads already exist everywhere, I've told you. But no one can sense or interact with them except me apparently. Certainly no alarms went off when I pushed the anchor inside."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "I'll definitely be keeping a watch on him then. The results should hopefully be interesting."

Mantle: "Not for a while. The anchor doesn't do anything except allow me to weave threads around it from here. I still have to actually weave in those reinforcement responses, which will take a good deal of time."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "Noted. I assume distance makes a difference? There are far worse nobles in Coaleashion than the likes of Count Ter'Ro. For instance on the Ivory Pride."

Mantle: "My ability to affect threads at range is still limited, even when using an anchor. So I don't think I could link to an anchor from here if it's on another planetoid, much less beyond the Gnarled Leash."

Baron Go taps his chin.

Baron Gaknisard Go: "Could you make some kind of network of anchors, acting as relays to give you longer and longer range?"

Mantle: "Theoretically. It's something I'd like to do eventually, but creating an anchor is time-consuming. I've been working on this one for 20 years off and on. Now that I've made one, it should be quicker to create another, but a relay network is a long way off still."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "Mantle, if I'm being honest... the potential of your power scares me sometimes."

Mantle cocks his head in some confusion.

Mantle: "What do you mean?"

Baron Gaknisard Go: "There seems no limit to the kind of effects you can pull off if you put your mind to it. Maybe no range limit, eventually. And no one has any defense against it, nor any way of knowing your threads are even there."

Mantle: "You don't need to worry, Gaknisard. I'm a good guy."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "Power corrupts, and the space lane to Mega Jonestown Prime is paved with good intentions."

Mantle: "I admit sometimes the moral quandaries give me pause. I hope you'll voice it if you ever think I'm going off the straight and narrow."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "I certainly will. But if you ever set your mind to something, there might not be anything I could do to stop you, and that worries me most."

Mantle: "Gaknisard..."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "Ah, listen to me bringing down the mood. You're doing good things, Mantle. Just... keep doing good things, okay?"

Mantle: "I will. Now, are you going to tell me what the crystal device is that you've been hiding?"

The baron grimaces.

Baron Gaknisard Go: "It's that obvious, huh?"

Mantle: "The threads for High Imperial magitech glitter very clearly compared to everything else around them, especially on this skulk."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "Fair enough. This links to the medical console in my estate."

He looks Mantle in the eye.

Baron Gaknisard Go: "I want to make you immortal."

Mantle starts.

Mantle: "What?!"

Baron Gaknisard Go: "Look, I know you have some longevity, but you're starting to visibly age a bit. Maybe you can come up with some way to make yourself immortal via the threads, but you're obviously way too focused on your projects for that."

Mantle: "That's true..."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "This solves that. It has to be renewed every so often, it's not a one-and-done. And it doesn't make you invulnerable or anything."

Mantle: "That's more than I expected. Gaknisard... thank you."

Baron Gaknisard Go: "Don't thank me, Mantle. You're doing everyone a service with your work. And you're a friend."

What the baron doesn't voice is that, in a way, this is a form of insurance. If Mantle becomes reliant on him for continued immortality, then in the event that Mantle goes down a dark path that he cannot be swayed from, he can pull the plug, so to speak. Not pleasant thoughts, but he has responsibilities...

Whippen Kur: “I think it is safe to say that it is deserted.”
 
Rigorian stroked his gills in thought.
 
Rigorian: “I wonder where our would-be conquerors got off to in a hurry? Earth?”
 
Whippen Kur: “Presumably, though one would think they would at least secure the planet before they departed. I was under the impression they controlled worlds.”
 
Rigorian: “Maybe they were hit harder by his bomb than we suspected?”
 
Templar Yurk: “Then it worked.”
 
Rigorian narrowed his eyes at the Witch-Warden.
 
Rigorian: “And you suppose that vindicates you, does it? You and yours are nothing short of murderers.”
 
Templar Yurk: “You’re alive, aren’t you? I think even killing you all, we would have been vindicated in saving the universe from the Greyarchy. But we didn’t. We went for non-lethal.”
 
Rigorian: “You arrogant little--!”
 
Templar Yurk: “I’m arrogant? That’s rich.”
 
Whippen Kur: “My, my. Such drama. Should I fetch a bag of popcorn?”
 
Templar Yurk: “We should just—Uh…”
 
Even as Yurk had stood up to start his march towards the spaceport, there was a stirring of reality above them. The sky was lightly overcast, with clouds rolling on the high winds above, but they now warped and twisted as the fabric of reality was bent. It lasted a mere second before a large capital ship popped into existence in the sky.
 
Templar Yurk: “They warped into atmosphere? Risky! That’s not a ship of the Greyarchy.”
 
Whippen Kur: “Indeed it is not. It seems news of your stunt, templar, has reached the ears of our enemies…”
 
Templar Yurk: “Who?”
 
Rigorian: “I would take a good guess at who. That ship is centuries old. That red and black colour scheme and that insignia; that’s an old ship of the Dread Masters.”
 
Templar Yurk poked into his memories.
 
Templar Yurk: “I think that was an old sect. They were defeated by the Old Republic.”
 
Rigorian: “But their ships weren’t decommissioned and they became valuable to those who… well, those who thought the Dread Masters were right all along. Not many left, but there’s at least one who would be brazen enough to warp into the atmosphere like that.”
 
Whippen Kur: “It’s firing!”
 
The three of them jumped to the ground for cover as the ship’s turbolasers screamed their bolts of green plasma onto the space port and reduced the unprotected station to rubble and flame in a mere minute.
 
Whippen Kur: “Well… there goes our escape plan. What’s the next nearest spaceport, Rigorian?”
 
Rigorian groaned, thinking of even more distance to be travelled with these two.
 
The ship above started to move on.
 
Templar Yurk: “I suspect they’re systematically going to go port-to-port to destroy them all. Trapping the populace…”
 
Rigorian: “So they can then drop and take their time slaughtering everyone.”
 
He glared at Yurk.
 
Rigorian: “Non-lethal option, you said?”
 
Whippen Kur: “We had best go in the direction opposite to The Demon Hand, eh?”
 
Templar Yurk: “That’s it’s name? They’re not subtle are they?”
 
Rigorian: “Aos Sí rarely are. Sith like to make a statement. Dread Masters wasn’t a pet name, you know?”
 
Templar Yurk: “So is there a group of Aos Sí on there?”
 
Rigorian: “Those that deviate from the path of neutrality rarely work together well. Sith or Jedi. They’re too narrow-minded in their convictions. One Sith who has hired a skeleton crew. Just enough to run the ship. He could probably fly that thing without them.”
 
Templar Yurk: “So you do know who it is?”
 
Whippen Kur: “Most likely it’s Darth Sabbath, as he’s known now. A former Galactitron Warrior who was caught the ways of the force. Rare for a machine, but proof that these robotic lifeforms have souls. At least some semblance of one anyway.”
 
Templar Yurk: “Disturbing.”
 
Whippen Kur: “Is it? That a human-like, sentient and sapient thing should have a soul? Whatever its shell is comprised of is immaterial. Or, rather, is only material and we deal in the immaterial!”
 
Rigorian rolled his eyes.
 
Rigorian: “Do not ever try to make a joke again, Kur. That was not even groan-funny.”

1249BC
 
The ancient, mummified pharaoh named Djer watched the weird people that came looking for the Book of Thoth as they left.
 
Djer: “Kids these days.”
 
From over in her sarcophagus, Djer’s wife, Nahktneith, threw an object at his head. After so many centuries of dodging such projectiles, the old pharaoh deftly avoided being rendered concussed. He looked down to see she had thrown her own arm at him.
 
Djer: “Really, Nahktneith.”
 
He lent over and picked up the arm. His eyes trailed up to the fingers, which moved and formed a middle finger at him. He rolled his eyes – or at least he would have, if he still had them – and turned, just in time to see a cow run by.
 
Cow: “Outta my way!”
 
Djer watched it go.
 
Djer: “Riiiiiiiiight…”
 
He went back to his wife and leaned over her prone, mummified form. He waggled the arm at her.
 
Djer: “Please don’t throw your arms around, dear. You might lose it next time…”
 
Voice: “Don’t worry, brother.”
 
The king looked up in surprise. He hadn’t been called brother for a very, very long time. Even Nahktneith sat up – for the first time in decades, so her head fell off.
 
Stood in the doorway was Djer’s long absent brother, Neferkaptah. Young as he was all those centuries ago, and just as pissy. In his hand was a ball of fire.
 
Neferkaptah: “She won’t need it ever again.”
 
Djer: “Oh bugger.”
 
Just before the flames consumed him, Djer forced his mind to retreat into memories. Positive memories of his life when he was still alive. Days when even his wife managed to get out of bed. His old, withered hands clutched the hand of his wife, easily done when it’s not attached, which clutched back.
 

---

 
3190BC
 
Djer: “Oooooh! What’s this!?”
 
Diplomat: “A wall.”
 
Djer: “And this!?”
 
Diplomat: “A path…”
 
Djer: “How exciting!”
 
Nahktneith: “We have walls and paths in Egypt, Djer…”
 
Djer: “Yes, but—they’re so—foreign!”
 
Nahktneith was being carried upon a palanquin, where she was lounging lazily with one leg hanging from her cushioned seat and swinging as she was transported along. Though she was well into middle age now, she was still a very beautiful, and well groomed, woman, so the provocative visage of this exotic queen was garnering attention from the locals. Rarely did foreign rulers travel so far to the prosperous city of Uruk, certainly not all the way from the distant lands of Egypt.
 
Nahktneith’s skin was very dark with a blue tint, forcing her to stand out amongst the much lighter coloured people of Uruk. Their own skin was brown, similar to those of northern Africa, but they had never seen the black skinned sub-Saharan Africans before. Her robes were loose and cut to expose her bare legs, and hung loosely across her chest. Her hair was tightly wrapped in a highly ornamental fashion with lacquer and leather bindings.
 
Though her lazy behaviour maintained itself, Djer could tell she was enjoying the attention, positive or negative.
 
Djer was much older than his wife, but he was as lively as he had ever been and the trip was quite a thrill for him. He had visited some other African kingdoms, but he had never personally journeyed so far east.
 
They were led through the city, where they saw new walls being erected. The diplomat explained that the prosperity of Uruk was attracting banditry from the roaming peoples of Arabia, so their young king had ordered the construction of defences. Djer was impressed, thinking the walls rivalled his own in size and proficiency, though his kingdom was a few centuries old already. Uruk was just three generations in, by contrast.
 
Eventually their small procession reached the central district, where the buildings were tall and well built. Djer noticed that some of them were far older the than others, alluding the to the history of the region prior to Uruk’s recent formation. At the dead centre of the area were two large and very old temples. He could see that modern additions had been made to either maintain them, or expand upon what was already there. The main path stretched straight along between the two buildings and a great market was set up there. However, this was no ordinary market for consumers. It was a market exclusively for the city’s foreign guests to partake in the local offerings, with the king of Uruk himself waiting for them.
 
Djer: “Greetings, King Gilgamesh!”
 
Gilgabro: “Bah! Only my mother calls me that! Call me Gilgabro! Just between us bros! Am I right!?”
 
The massive man grabbed Djer in a tight bear hug and the Egyptian thought he was about to suffocate between this strange man’s pecs. His huge, muscular arms were like tree trunks. Hugging tree trunks.
 
Djer: “Well met then, Gilga, uh, bro. I’m Djer. Just Djer.”
 
Gilgabro: “Good to finally meet you, Just Djer! HAHAHAHA!”
 
His laugh boomed forth as though it had emanated from the very earth itself, like an earthquake. Djer couldn’t help but smirk like an idiot, infected by this boisterous joviality.
 
Gilgabro: “Hey, hey! Is this your girl!? You got yourself a hottie there, ain’t ya, bro!? Eh? Am I right!?”
 
The king nudged Djer with a friendly elbow, which almost knocked Djer unconscious.
 
Nahktneith remained prone and picked at a bunch of grapes.
 
Nahktneith: “I am Nahktneith, Queen of Egypt.”
 
Gilgabro jumped forward eagerly.
 
Gilgabro: “Hey there, queenie! Nice to meet ya! I don’t suppose you have any single sisters I could meet, eh?”
 
His grin was wide and his teeth bright and white. The queen smirked.
 
Nahktneith: “I do.”
 
The king paused, but his eyes roved around in search.
 
Gilgabro: “Aaaaaaaaand did they come with you?”
 
Nahktneith: “No.”
 
Gilgabro: “Feck.”
 
Nahktneith: “Next visit, I’ll be sure to invite them along…”
 
The king instantly cheered up and pumped his bare arms.
 
Gilgabro: “YEAH! Right on! Naturally my best buds are welcome to Uruk any day of the week!”
 
He, again, grabbed Djer with his beefy arm and pulled him in close, arm around Djer’s shoulders. Despite Gilgamesh being so many decades younger than Djer, the man towered over the pharaoh. His dark hair was permed into tight curls, as was his beard. It was clear Gilgamesh valued his appearance and worked hard to sculpt himself. He wore blue robes with a yellow sash and sandals on his feet. The fabric was delicate and soft, but thin enough to keep out the heat of the hot summer weather.
 
Gilgabro: “How about you, bro? Wanna meet one of my sisters? The youngest, even I can’t help but notice, has a rack the size of a cow’s udders! You’ll love her! Yo! Flunky, fetch my youngest sister!”
 
Djer: “Thank you, I’m sure she’s lovely. But I think I’m too old for all that these days.”
 
Nahktneith: “He’s also got a jealous wife.”
 
Gilgamesh gave her a thumbs up.
 
Gilgabro: “I bet! Don’t worry, my sister’s a push over. So if you get into a cat fight, my money’s on you!”
 
Nahktneith tutted. Gilgamesh leaned into Djer conspiratorially.
 
Gilgabro: “In fact, we’ve got a great mud wrestling pit in the city. A good few naked women wrestling down there we can watch. If your girl does start getting uppity, we can have them thrown in there if you want?”
 
Djer: “Uh… no thanks. I prefer my wife where she is, if I’m honest.”
 
Gilgabro: “Half naked and on her back? I don’t blame you, brother. Man, you are a lucky old fox. Okay, wanna see all the random crap I have for you to look at? Lots of weird stuff, but the advisors tell me it’s stuff foreign people would be interested in looking at.”
 
Djer: “Sure thing! Uh, bro!”
 
Gilgabro: “That’s the spirit! Don’t worry, we’ll get down the whorehouse afterwards!”
 
Nahktneith: “Oi!”
 
Gilgabro: “Whoops! I meant the… warehouse! Lots of old crap in there to look at.”
 
He leaned in again and gave Djer another solid, rib-breaking nudge.
 
Gilgabro: “Don’t worry, bro! I got you covered! Pussy galore awaits!”
 

---

 
One of the two temples overlooking the market belonged to the exalted deity named Inanna – or Ishtar, as she was more commonly known beyond the realm of Uruk. Even as Gilgamesh and Djer were being paraded between the stalls of wares and foods, from within the temple watched the god herself. She leaned on the window cill and gazed at the bastion of manly perfection.
 
Unsurprisingly, it wasn’t Djer.
 
Ninshubur: “My lady, why do you pine for this silly mortal?”
 
Ishtar sighed.
 
Ishtar: “How can you not pine for him, Ninshubur? I mean… just… look at him!”
 
Ninshubur rolled her eyes.
 
Ninshubur: “He has the brain of a vegetable. You’d be better off with the old one. He seems kind and smart.”
 
Ishtar: “And he’s wrinkly. And short. And skinny. And boring. No thanks!”
 
Ninshubur: “For such an old deity, you act like a teenager, you know that?”
 
Ishtar spun on her heels and brandished a carrot at her vizier.
 
Ishtar: “I am armed and dangerous, Ninshubur! Don’t test me!”
 
Ninshubur fell silent. There was nothing worse than being beaten with random objects that were normally considered very unoffensive. Pillows, food, clothing, toys. Even if such an object wasn’t to hand, it soon would be. Having a random peach thrown at her head was always a humiliating experience, though being slapped with a fish was the worst, with the slice of bacon a close second.
 
Ninshubur: “Well, my lady, why don’t you just… have him? If you want him, have him.”
 
Ishtar: “I—I don’t know how!”
 
The vizier frowned.
 
Ninshubur: “What do you mean? You’re not telling me you’re a…”
 
Ninshubur couldn’t help it, a giggle escaped her lips.
 
Ishtar: “Urgh!”
 
The carrot was smashed against Ninshubur’s skull with such force that the yellow vegetable snapped in twain.
 
Ninshubur: “Ouch.”
 
Ishtar: “There’s more where that came from!”
 
Ninshubur: “I know.”
 
The vizier rubbed her head and dusted off the remains of the deceased root vegetable from her hair. Ninshubur was modest in her appearance, being a vizier and a minor god. Mostly she appeared human, akin to those of Uruk itself, with brown skin, dark eyes and a simple robe of red, though it hugged her figure well. It was cut to expose one shoulder and fastened above the other with a silver clasp. Her hair was shorn at the nape of her neck and lacquered down to appear like a skull cap covering her scalp and tapered around towards the front of her neck, where it came underneath her ears. Her ears harboured the most decorative feature, two large orbs of opal that hung from either lobe.
 
Her voice was deep and rasping – exactly the kind of voice you expect from any good, conniving vizier. Yet, she was exceptionally loyal and devoted in her services, which extended to the entire pantheon of Uruk and the neighbouring cities. That, unfortunately, included the contrary Ishtar.
 
Ninshubur: “I’m sorry, my lady. I am just… surprised. Can I ask… why? Why have you never taken a lover before?”
 
Ishtar made a little sulky face.
 
Ishtar: “Well I just… don’t know… how… I’m not good at this love stuff!”
 
Ninshubur: “What you’re feeling is lust, not love.”
 
Ishtar: “Huh?”
 
Ninshubur: “Nevermind. I advise, if you really want him, just ask him. If there’s one thing I cannot fault him on, he is certainly well versed in the art of… love-making. Very well versed. He’ll teach you everything you need to know.”
 
Ishtar: “Oh… but… how do I… ask?”
 
Ninshubur blinked a few times as she processed that.
 
Ninshubur: “Ishtar, seriously now? Just ask. Just say, ‘Hey, dumbass, please shag me like there’s no tomorrow’ and boom, you’ll get what you want.”
 
Ishtar gasped.
 
Ishtar: “So crass!”
 
Ninshubur: “You don’t have to use those words! Just ask him to lay with you. Better yet, ask him to be your lover, that way you get it more than once.”
 
Ishtar: “But… I don’t know if I can ask! I… I’m too nervous!”
 
Ninshubur: “I have seen you crush the skulls of men, burn them alive, gouge out their eyeballs and feed them to ravens. I’m pretty sure you’ve handled your fair share of male genitalia, in fact. Albeit sliced off and sacrificed to you.”
 
Ishtar: “That’s different!”
 
Ishtar was an unusual vision. If she were naked, it would appear to be a very young, short girl with an adorable complexion and even dimples. But she wore a suit of armour that would get a space marine excited and increased her height to seven feet. Two large horns on her head also increased her height and the large, bird-like wings on her back increased her presence further still. On her back were strapped six blades, three hilts on either side of her. Looking like the greatest badass in the universe – with a face, and adorably big eyes, that could melt the coldest of hearts. Even her voice was so small and squeaky that she’d been mistaken for a Pikachu.
 
Ninshubur: “Just think of sex as war and every climax, a victory. You’ll do fine.”
 
Ishtar: “You’re not helping.”
 
Ninshubur: “Okay. How about I summon Gilgamesh to the temple for you and you can just ask him, ‘Hello, King of Uruk. I would like to ask you to my bedchamber.’ That’s it. He will say yes and you’ll get what you want.”
 
She paused.
 
Ninshubur: “What you need. I think will work out well for all of us, in fact. A healthier way to vent your frustrations.”
 
Ishtar’s bright eyes stared at Ninshubur with panic.
 
Ninshubur: “You have nothing to worry about. If we get you out of that armour and into something more… casual. You’ll be like an offering of cake. A man like Gilgamesh will jump at the chance.”
 
Ishtar breathed deeply and hurriedly.
 

---

 
Gilgabro: “Yeah, this thing is a whatsit. This is a thingymajig. This is a whogivesaflyingfu—oh wait, this is beer. BEER! Here! Have a try!”
 
Gilgamesh thrust a flagon of booze into the hands of Djer. Djer looked at the frothing ale. He smiled. Finally. This was something he and Gilgamesh could certainly agree upon.
 
He chugged the beer.
 
Gilgabro: “Down it! Down it! Down it!”
 
Once finished, Gilgamesh cheered for Djer like he had just won a fight for his life. The folks around them gave little dignified golf claps.
 
Djer: “That was good stuff!”
 
Gilgabro: “More!”
 
Djer: “More!”
 
Nun: “Excuse me, my king. Your esteemed presence is required.”
 
The two kings turned, but Djer realised this wasn’t going to be for him this time. Gilgamesh frowned.
 
Gilgabro: “Nobody demands my presence.”
 
Nun: “It is Inanna.”
 
Gilgabro: “Feck.”
 
Djer: “Who is Inanna?”
 
Gilgabro: “One of the two local gods – the prime deities, that is. Basically, the city is more hers than mine.”
 
Djer: “How interesting! Is there going to be a sacrifice or something?”
 
The nun gave a sly smirk.
 
Nun: “In a manner of speaking. Please follow me, your majesty.”
 
Gilgamesh grabbed Djer by his shirt collar with one hand.
 
Gilgabro: “He’s coming with me!”
 
Nun: “Uh…”
 
Gilgabro: “Moral support!”
 
Djer: “Is this appropriate?”
 
Gilgamesh leaned in again.
 
Gilgabro: “Do me a solid, bro! I need you as my wingman! You don’t know this chick! She’s fecking off her rocker! I’m genuinely in fear for my balls, man!”
 
Djer: “Oh! Oh… okay. Lead on.”
 
Djer looked back at his wife, who was still on her bed of pillows and watching him with mild curiosity. She gave him a small, gentle wave and he managed a concerned smile in response.
 
Djer then glanced over at the second temple further down the road, wondering why there were two so close. But they were led up the steps to the closest temple and the two kings passed within. Inside was warm as torches were burning brightly. Windows allowed natural light to also bathe the stone chamber. The walls were adorned with weapons of all sorts, many totally alien to him. He ventured to pick one up and frowned at it.
 
Djer: “What manner of weapon is this?”
 
Nun: “The lady Ishtar calls it an AK-47.”
 
Djer: “How odd. And this?”
 
Nun: “Laptop gun.”
 
Djer: “Such odd names. And this?”
 
Nun: “Lightsabre. Don’t push that button.”
 
Too late.
 
The beam of light burst out and murdered a random shield on the wall.
 
Djer: “Holy crap on a stick!”
 
Nun: “Godly weapons. Best not to touch any more. I don’t want to have to clean up any corpses today.”
 
The nun delicately took the lightsabre from him and put it back. She then ushered them to continue to follow her. They came to a prayer room where the walls were coated in carvings of deities, especially one who appeared to be well armoured, yet clearly feminine. The woman at the far end, Djer had to assume to be said deity. Yet, she appeared to be a very young, harmless girl.
 
Though she shared the same brown skin as the people of Arabia, her hair was yellow and had an unusual curl to it that wasn’t of the same unnatural perm that Gilgamesh did with his own hair. Her eyes were blue, which Djer remembered being from the northern lands far off. She was very short, barely even five feet. She wore a dress that glittered a shined as she moved and the torch light flickered upon its surface. Djer found it especially mesmerising and wondered if he could get one for his wife, knowing she’d fall in love with it.
 
Like his wife’s style, the dress was cut to reveal the leg, though Inanna wore stockings on her leg. Djer noticed that she was sat in an unusual fashion. He thought it was almost alluring, but it was very awkward and she seemed unable to sit still. Her eyes were transfixed by Gilgamesh.
 
Gilgabro: “Yo!”
 
He caught himself.
 
Gilgabro: “I mean, hey, your, uh, godliness. Nice to see you out of your armour. Suits you!”
 
Inanna’s eyes lit up and she flicked her hair to show her naked neck.
 
Ishtar: “Th-thank you!”
 
There was a long, uncomfortable pause.
 
Gilgabro: “So… what can I do for you?”
 
The goddess opened her mouth… but no words came out. Djer was getting the impression she was nervous and had stalled. He found it hard to imagine that a god might become nervous.
 
Another woman stepped forward and spoke for Inanna.
 
Ninshubur: “The lady Inanna would like to ask you for a personal favour, King Gilgamesh.”
 
Gilgabro: “Always happy to help! Just ask!”
 
He then quickly added.
 
Gilgabro: “If I can! I’ll help if I can! Haha..ha…”
 
Inanna swallowed and finally found her voice.
 
Ishtar: “Gilgamesh. I have admired you from afar—”
 
Djer thought this sounded very rehearsed.
 
Ishtar: “—and I have chosen you to be my consort. Will you, Gilgamesh, be my… you know… lover.”
 
She practically whispered the last word.
 
The smile on Gilgamesh’s face was thin and barely traced, but his eyes were wide with horror. Djer found this very odd. A moment ago he had been talking of nothing but women and now that one wanted him, a goddess no less, the king had clamped up.
 
Gilgabro: “No fecking way.”
 
Inanna blinked in confusion and Gilgamesh caught himself.
 
Gilgabro: “I mean, uh, thank you! Your most godly of gods! I am humbled beyond words by your generous offer. But I am… unable to… comply.”
 
Djer felt very bad for the poor, little goddess. Her face was frozen as though the world was swallowing her. The vizier stepped forward again, a deep and aggressive frown on her face.
 
Ninshubur: “You owe an explanation, Gilgamesh. You have just refused an incredibly powerful deity.”
 
Gilgabro: “Well… look, you’re a hottie and all, I can see that! But you’re absolutely off the rails! I value my life! I value my balls! You’ll find a million ways to feck up my shit!”
 
Another long, awkward silence. Djer felt his butt cheeks clench as he noticed the face of Inanna beginning to slowly shift.
 
Ninshubur: “Huh!”
 
The vizier appeared genuinely surprised.
 
Ninshubur: “You really are smarter than I ever gave you credit for. Well done you.”
 
Gilgabro: “Hey, thanks!”
 
He gave the vizier a thumbs up, then remembered what was going on and quickly dropped it.
 
Gilgabro: “I mean, uh, sorry. No hard feelings, am I right?”
 
Djer noticed that the nuns were very swiftly removing everything from the vicinity of Inanna; fruit bowls, salads, pillows and, especially, weapons. Ninshubur even tossed her staff away.
 
Ninshubur: “I suggest you make a hasty retreat, Gilgamesh.”
 
Gilgamesh nodded and jerked his thumb at the door behind him, with a determined, yet fearful, look to Djer. As the two men started to walk backwards, the walls on either side of them started to wobble as the fabric of reality started to fail and break.
 
Gilgabro: “Leg it!”
 
The two of them started to run away and from behind them they heard a long, terrible roar of a spoilt child who was told no ice cream. Only this child had things like AK-47s and lightsabres and laptop guns to get her own way.
 

---

 
Nahktneith: “Are these nuts?”
 
The seller nodded after her words were translated. She peeled the nut that was lifted up to her and tasted it. She gave an approving nod. Another dish was handed up to her for sampling.
 
Then there was a sudden commotion. Nuns came running, screaming, from the temple. The guards also ran, dropping their spears and screaming louder than the nuns. Nahktneith rose a curious eyebrow as the scene unfolded.
 
From inside came running Gilgamesh and her husband. The queen admired that Djer was still capable of running so fast. They came dashing down the steps like their lives depended on it.
 
Behind them, from the temple door, suddenly burst – a gigantic peach. It was rolling along like a boulder. A few nuns, not fast enough, wound up crushed by the squishy oppressor and left pasted to the floor, covered in peach juice and an embarrassing story to tell the kids. The two kings leapt either side as the giant peach rolled on.
 
Nahktneith: “Move me.”
 
She wafted her hand to the right and her carriers quickly moved aside, just in time for the peach to bounce on by, smashing into stalls and crushing a whole lot of its own, far smaller, brothers of peach kind. It went on and on, down the streets, where the people were far less suspecting of sudden, oversized fruit-based offences and became victims to the mighty peach.
 
Nahktneith: “How odd…”
 
She licked her lips and looked down at the stunned sellers around her.
 
Nahktneith: “Is this a kind of dessert?”

483 B.C. Caledonia. Galain Town. The Forky Bard Inn.

Thrass: "Once upon a time these would make us tear up."

He is slicing the Caledonian equivalent of an onion. Eschewing the cutting board, he is deftly and surely cutting it up in his hands, practice from hundreds of lifetimes ensuring he doesn't cut himself.

Evea: "If you want to tear up that badly, feel free to leave town and go cut it up in the mountains."

Thrass: "I'm tempted."

Evie rolls her eyes. At middle age in this lifetime, she's acting innkeeper of the Forky Bard at the moment, and supervising the kitchen, where numerous young drow men in aprons, including Thrass, are busy preparing food for the clientele. Drow inheritance is a funny thing, since deceased owners of an establishment may always come back in a later lifetime (if they're ever reincarnated close by), and doubly so in the case of someone like Evie, who almost always reincarnates in Galain Town. So instead of a singular owner, most drow businesses have a joint ownership, something akin to a board of directors, with one among them chosen to be the acting head for a while.

Evea: "You would say that. Just because we disagree with Mantle doesn't mean we can't enjoy some of the nice quality-of-life bonuses."

Thrass merely grunts in response. The ears of the other drow men in the kitchen have pricked eagerly at the mention of Mantle, hoping to hear more about the man who is, to most of them (who reincarnated in Galain Town from elsewhere on Caledonia), an urban legend.

Thrass had been right, six centuries ago. When Evie had awakened to her past memories and remembered herself, she'd been the perfect person to debate Mantle on his extensive use of his strange magic, or whatever it was, to safety-proof everything for Galain Town's citizens. Sometimes Mantle's replies were instant, sometimes he pondered thoughtfully for a while (even whole days or months at times), but always his responses were measured, calm, and unbudging from his stance.

Evie had also been as good as her word and attempted to seduce Mantle, even going so far as to parade her naked body in front of him. He'd politely complimented her beauty and then continued to treat her as though she were clothed. Evie's inability to refuse a challenge had only been contained then, by transferring her ambition to the far greater challenge of bringing him around to the philosophy she and Thrass shared.

Evie had been a shamaness apprentice then, her service as shamaness in her prior life recommending her highly, but herbal potions and remedies had never been her strong suit, and the contemporaneous shamaness had refused to teach her, deeming such knowledge unnecessary, given that serious injury and illness were apparently impossible in Galain Town.

Evie's heated insistence that she should be taught eventually saw her dismissed, and she'd gone to work for the Forky Bard. She'd taken up with the owner (a woman of course)'s son, and gotten hitched, which had wound up making her owner of the Forky Bard when her mother-in-law had died without any surviving daughters. Hence she'd been part of the joint ownership ever since.

She was more involved in cooking than was generally considered seemly for a drow woman, mostly because she was attempting to teach herself potion brewing by trial and error, to mixed results. Of course, her debates with Mantle had never stopped.

And Mantle had apparently had enough, because 200 years ago he'd abruptly left Galain Town for parts unknown. While he'd never taken credit for the miracles that surrounded the city - which was now large and prosperous, and a bustling hub for trade and even tourism - most townsfolk had cottoned on to the fact that Mantle was somehow related to them - they had started when he'd arrived in the town after all.

At the very least, most saw him as a kind of good-luck charm or mascot for the town. When he'd left, Evie and Thrass had been blamed for it, due to always challenging his views. While their ostracizing is more or less over with at this point, no one ever forgot. But at least they didn't get much guff about it once it became clear that the miracles of Galain Town weren't faltering with Mantle's departure.

Thrass: "Best not to get too soft, is all I'm saying."

He casts an aspersive look at his fellow kitchen workers, as though they embody everything that was soft about Galain Town's residents. The city has become a flourishing center for the arts, as work became less and less necessary, due to miraculous provisions. Thrass and Evie both stubbornly continue to work, and Thrass especially does not often miss an opportunity to deride his fellow citizens for losing skills that were once deemed essential to survival.

This is another reason why he isn't part of the town guard anymore. The force had been slashed into a fraction of its former womanpower due to the lack of necessity for it, and of course the men were first to go - and Thrass was the first of them to be cut, given his reputation as a troublemaker.

Thrass considers most of his townsfolk to be a lost cause at this point, though that doesn't stop him from grumbling at them. He wishes more than ever that Raina - his first and only love - could be found again, missing her even more acutely these days. She's still never reincarnated again in Galain Town, and despite questioning all visitors and newly-awakened-to-their-old-memories drow, none have ever heard of her.

He finishes slicing the onion and reaches for another, when a hubbub comes from outside.

Thrass: "Someone shut the damn window."

Drow Kitchen Helper #1: "It is shut."

Evea: "That's quite a racket then."

She goes to the window and peers through it.

Thrass: "Another bard whose idea of good music is to make it as loud as possible, I bet."

Evea: "Thrass."

He freezes. Something about the tone of her voice, soft though it is. He turns his head to look at her, though she does not look away from the window.

Evea: "It's Mantle."

Now everyone in the kitchen freezes. Thrass is the first to move, dropping his knife on the counter and dashing outside. The other kitchen helpers are hot on his heels it seems, but Evie barks at them to stay put and not slack off.

Thrass quickly finds Mantle. Driving a cart of all things, down the lane, apparently directly to the inn, or at least right past it. His going is slow, being surrounded by a throng of drow - those who remember him from previous lifetimes and are glad to welcome him back, and those who don't but see his non-drow nature as an exciting novelty.

Thrass: "Mantle!"

He pushes through the crowd, earning several sharp looks from the women, and pulls up beside the cart. He has to slow his stride now, given the cart's sedate pace, but Mantle pulls back on the reins.

Mantle: "Whoa there! Thrass!"

He is beaming at him, but there is an intensity in his gaze that Thrass has only seen once before: just before Mantle left the city 200 years ago, he'd come to Thrass and stared at him for long moments with the same intense gaze, before bidding him good fortune.

Thrass: "Mantle! It's... it is good to see you."

And it is. Despite his misgivings about Mantle's philosophy, he has never disliked Mantle himself.

Mantle: "Likewise, my friend!"

Thrass: "But where have you been? Why did you go? Why are you back now?"

Mantle: "I was looking for something. And I found it."

Heedless of all the eyes on him, he stands and pulls the tarp off the back of the cart. At the clear invitation, Thrass climbs up the side of the cart to peer inside, and his breath catches in his throat.

Inside the cart, nested comfortably and gently in pillows and blankets, is a sleeping woman. Her hands are folded gently on her chest, which rises and falls in steady breathing. But though the face she wears this lifetime is different, there is no mistaking her. Thrass knows who she is.

Thrass: "Raina!"

He clears his threat to dislodge the lump in it, unable to tear his gaze away from her, yet unable to move.

Mantle: "I found her by following your connection to her. She was in an abandoned tower, sleeping like this. From what I've been able to piece together, millennia ago - probably only one or two lifetimes after she'd first met you - she ran afoul of a sorceress who wanted her and wouldn't take no for an answer. Raina refused of course, her heart belonging only to you, and so the sorceress angrily put her in an enchanted slumber. The sorceress is long gone, but there were traps and monsters in her ancient tower, which is why no one has found Raina before."

Thrass: "Enchanted? How... How do we wake her?"

Mantle: "We don't. You do."

Thrass looks away from Raina for the first time, glancing sharply at his old friend.

Thrass: "You're not telling me..."

Mantle: "True Love's Kiss."

In any other situation, the cynical Thrass would have bemoaned this altogether ridiculous cure. But not if it gives him Raina back. Carefully, he climbs into the cart and presses his lips to Raina's.

Her breath catches, her eyelids flutter open - and the joy in her eyes mirrors his own as she sees who is looking at her.

In that moment, Thrass decides he no longer cares what Mantle's philosophy is - because he has brought him Raina back.

342 B.C. Caledonia. New Raccach Village, just outside Galain Town. The home of Raina and Thrass.

Raina slams the door open, and stalks into the house with weary irritation.

Raina: "Fricking nutters, the lot of them. We did not move out here just so we could argue over whether a tree is on one person's property or the other--"

She draws up short as she steps into the kitchen doorway. Her husband Thrass is there, wearing an apron, and has struck up a pose in front of his cooking pot. He addresses her in a servile tone.

Thrass: "Good evening, dear wife! What would you like tonight? Dinner, a bath... or me?"

His pose becomes more seductive, and Raina just stares at him for long moments. The corner of Thrass' mouth twitches.

Then wife and husband double over laughing.

Most drow women would love their househusbands to act just as Thrass was pretending to just now. Raina likes her man to have a bit of a fight in him though, and while both are solidly matriarchal in their mindset, they're also just fine with Thrass' preferences for branching out of the normal male role some. 

They're deeply in love even now. Oh, they still bicker quite often, as many couples do - if they didn't, and had some kind of fairy-tale existence where they were always in perfect harmony and agreement, the pair of them would probably throw up from the sugary sweetness of it - but their bond is unbreakable.

After a few minutes, Raina manages to stop laughing, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, stifling her final giggles. Thrass chuckles and smirks at her, then hugs her and gives her a kiss.

Raina: "Gods, Thrass, I needed that."

Thrass: "I figured you did, after your meeting ran so long."

Raina, while appreciative of the vastly improved quality of life Galain Town has thanks to Mantle, shares her husband's misgivings about the extent to which Mantle was going. And like her husband, she felt more and more useless, as everything they needed in life was handed to them on a silver platter. So they moved out to beyond Galain Town's boundary, building a cabin for themselves and enjoying a life of hard work but also of personal meaning, where they were responsible for themselves.

They lived incredibly long lives, due to having lived together a few decades in Galain Town before moving, when they'd started noticing that people seemed to stop aging after reaching adulthood, and when they passed together in their cabin - once again within a few weeks of each other - both were reborn in Galain Town, and as soon as they recovered their old lives' memories, got hitched and ran back to their old cabin again.

They were gradually joined over the years by other like-minded people from Galain Town, and presently the village of New Raccach was officially established, though it remains small, as most people have no qualms with the miraculous provisioning and protection in Galain Town. Due to the drow having a matriarchal society, and Raina and Thrass essentially being the village's founding couple, Raina has a leadership role over the various house-owning women of the village, and is frequently driven to distraction by their squabbles. Thrass is happy to be well out of it, and indulges his love of hunting more than he was able to before, bringing home fresh game and making excellent meals out of it for the pair of them. He hasn't felt so alive in millennia, as he has since moving to New Raccach with his newly found wife.

Raina: "Hmph. Small consolation, knowing you got to have fun hunting instead."

Thrass: "And skinning my catch, and cooking it."

Raina grimaces.

Raina: "I'd still take that over those squabbling hags."

Thrass grins at her. They're startled by a brisk knock at their front door.

Thrass: "I'll get it, you go sit down."

Raina slumps into a chair with relief, and Thrass opens the front door.

Thrass: "Mantle! Come in!"

Mantle: "Good fortune to you, Thrass, Raina. I hope I'm not intruding."

Raina: "You saved me, Mantle. You know our door is always open to you."

The couple might vehemently disagree with how far Mantle has gone in the pursuit of helping others, but they nevertheless like Mantle himself, and have never stopped being grateful for how he had reunited them after thousands of years apart.

Mantle: "Nonetheless, I'm always thankful for your hospitality. I brought you something."

He sets the basket he is carrying on a table, pulls out a bundle of cloth, and shakes it loose, revealing a blanket. There are colorful patterns woven across it, though the work seems a bit amateurish.

Thrass: "You made this yourself?"

His voice is surprised but appreciative. Raina oohs and aahs upon hearing this. Mantle laughs.

Mantle: "Yeah. You said you didn't want anything from Galain Town created by magic or whatever, so I tried to make something with a craft. I wanted to make a picture of the two of you on this, but turns out I'm not very good at sewing - which is pretty ironic, now that I think about it." He trails off, then turns back to them, his smile renewed. "So I just settled for what I hope are some pretty patterns."

Thrass: "Well I think it's lovely, thank you, Mantle."

Raina: "Why is that ironic?"

Mantle: "Hmm?"

Raina: "Why is it ironic that you're not very good at sewing?"

Mantle's face droops a bit, as if realizing he's said too much. He scratches the back of his head awkwardly.

Mantle: "Uh, I didn't realize I'd said that out loud."

Thrass: "I'll wager it has something to do with how your magic works. Or whatever it is."

Mantle looks at him in surprise, and Thrass knows he's hit home.

Thrass: "Well, you did give me an analogy about tapestries and threads when we met for the first time. Guess it wasn't as much of a metaphor as I thought, huh?"

At Mantle's awkward expression, Raina cuts in.

Raina: "Leave it, Thrass, he's clearly uncomfortable talking about it."

Thrass: "You got it, boss."

He smirks at her. She rolls her eyes fondly.

Raina: "Anyway, thank for the lovely gift, Mantle. You'll stay for dinner."

It's not really a question. But Mantle rarely refuses an invitation to eat. As Thrass has observed, he seems to have long ago resigned himself to the fact that people see a hard-working man and want to make sure he's well-fed.

Mantle: "Thank you for your invitation. Can I help you in the kitchen, Thrass?"

Thrass throws him a long-suffering look.

Thrass: "You know you don't have to, as a guest in our home. Why do you keep asking?"

Raina: "The man doesn't know how not to help. Mantle, sit in the front room with me and catch me up on the folk in Galain Town..."

Mantle: "They're all fine, of course. Some do ask about you. Mostly the gossip is people being spooked by the strange noises at night. Evea swears she hears buzzing overhead at night sometimes."

Raina: "We have the same rumors flying here. I'm worried it might be related to the talk there's been of a strange new sorcerer in the land. Not a drow, but maybe some kind of demon? Or perhaps he's from whatever plane of existence you hail from."

She studies Mantle. There's something in his gaze.

Raina: "You know anything about that?"

Mantle: "No, not at all. We get even more rumors about this strange sorcerer, but they're all different, and usually contradictory."

Raina: "The strange noises at night then."

Aha. Paydirt. Mantle's eyes tighten. Raina chuckles.

Raina: "You really wear your emotions on your sleeve, you know."

Mantle blushes.

Mantle: "Well, I... I don't know that I should--"

Raina's tone sharpens.

Raina: "You might treat everyone in Galain Town like children, Mantle, but we moved away from there precisely because we don't want to be treated that way. Tell me what you know."

Mantle flinches.

Mantle: "I don't treat anyone like children!"

Raina: "You protect them from everything, do everything for them. Hells, that's worse than treating them like children, at least children you eventually teach how to fend for themselves. No, it's more like they're pets. Safe, loved, cared for, but pets all the same."

Mantle has never outright admitted that he's behind the miraculous prosperity of Galain Town, but Thrass, Raina, and Evea can tell, and he's stopped trying to deny it, to them at least. At Raina's words, he looks down at his hands, curling and uncurling his fingers as though to distract himself. Finally he looks back up at Raina.

Mantle: "A spaceship."

Raina: "A what?"

Mantle: "A... flying sky vessel. From another planet."

Raina leans forward, eyebrows raised high.

Raina: "What do you mean? What's a planet?"

Mantle: "You're standing on one. Your whole world is a planet. I've listened to Evea, your people know that the stars are not actually tiny, but just extremely far away. Each one is the size of your sun, many are even bigger. And some of them illuminate planets just like yours."

Raina knows the concept of the stars being very distant celestial bodies, but the idea of planets is new to her, and her eyes are wide as saucers. Then they narrow shrewdly.

Raina: "You're from one of these other planets."

A nod.

Mantle: "There is vast empty space between suns and planets. Spaceships are capable of traversing it."

Raina: "So is this... spaceship, how you got here?"

Mantle: "No. I don't know whose spaceship it is, or why they're here. I just...sensed them when they flew overhead. They sent ripples along the... along the threads. So to speak."

Raina: "So to speak."

Her voice is deadpan.

Mantle: "But they're apparently trying to be at least somewhat inconspicuous, or else everyone would have seen it, instead of just hearing the noise of overhead flight sometimes."

Thrass bangs open the kitchen door.

Thrass: "Dinner's ready!"

He looks at the pair.

Thrass: "What did I miss?"

It's very late when Mantle finally leaves, having been grilled by Thrass and Raina during and after dinner, though past a certain point he was very reticent to say more. Eventually the couple let the subject drop, and moved on to lighter topics, including jokes and tall tales that had them all laughing.

So it's only a few hours before dawn in fact, when Thrass finishes cleaning up the kitchen and enters the front room to see Raina half-dozing on the chair. He smiles, and figures he'll gently carry her to bed - she's had a long day after all - when suddenly a sharp knock startles her awake.

Raina: "Bluh?! If that's Mantle again, I'm going to kill him."

Thrass chuckles, and goes to the door. It's not Mantle however. It's not anyone he's ever seen before.

A tall man, if man he can be called, stands there. He has purple skin, three eyes (each a different color), no hair, and a ridged brow. One of the eyes has a strange green lens over it. He is dressed in a strange sort of outfit Thrass has never seen the like of before. It almost resembles leather armor, yet is very different from that, and cut in a style utterly unique to the drow's eyes.

Thrass: "Who are you?"

???: "I am Gurlik, Templar of the Witch-Wardens."

Raina snorts despite herself.

Raina: "Sorry, did you say your name is garlic?"

Thrass is unable to fully repress his own snort. The odd stranger frowns very slightly.

Templar Gurlik: "Gurlik. But that is not important. I am here because I understand you are familiar with Galain Town."

The two drow narrow their eyes at him.

Raina: "Just what is your interest? And just who - and what - are you? You look like some demon from the pit, or a blighted monster. Or perhaps a curse victim."

Templar Gurlik: "Primitives. Ahem. I am from very far away, and I am neither demon nor monster nor cursed. My people all look like this. We are known as for'dentride."

Raina: "That spaceship we've been hearing. It's yours, isn't it?"

Gurlik looks shocked.

Templar Gurlik: "How do you know about- You've met another offworlder before, haven't you? And he's the one who has made Galain Town what it is."

Raina: "I repeat: what is your interest?"

Templar Gurlik seems to look off to the side for a moment, before straightening.

Templar Gurlik: "Very well. If you'll allow me to come inside, I will explain. I swear I mean you and yours no harm. But unless all your townsfolk are privy to the nature of offworlders, I would rather not explain myself in their hearing."

Raina considers, then exchanges a meaningful glance with her husband.

Raina: "Alright then."

Soon they're sitting in the front room. Well, Raina and Thrass are. Gurlik chooses to remain standing, as though at parade rest. Thrass can't help but imagine Evie making a snide comment that the Galain Town guard should be so disciplined.

Templar Gurlik: "Witch-wardens are an order of those dedicated to fighting hostile magic, and those who employ it to wicked ends."

Raina and Thrass exchange glances again. While they disapprove of what Mantle is doing, they wouldn't call it hostile - and they're certainly not about to throw Mantle to the wolves on some stranger's say-so.

Raina: "A noble profession. I could have used you when I was a sorceress's captive for millennia."

Templar Gurlik: "You have my sincere condolences for what you had to go through, and my sincere gladness that you are free."

There is no mistaking the sincerity in his voice. No one is good enough at acting to sound that genuine, Raina decides, and it fits with what he says about his order of witch-wardens.

Raina: "Thank you."

Templar Gurlik: "A fellow templar in my order has chased an offworld sorcerer to your world. He is possesses no small skill in magic, and is wicked and clever to boot."

Thrass: "This demonic sorcerer we've heard rumors of."

Templar Gurlik: "Most likely, yes. My compatriot sensed the anomalous nature nearby this area shortly after arriving in orbit. As his priority is capturing the sorcerer, he continued his pursuit, but alerted our superiors about the anomaly, and they sent me."

Raina: "Anomaly? You mean Galain Town?"

Templar Gurlik: "Precisely, ma'am, though I did not at first know that is what it was called."

Thrass: "Just what is so anomalous about it?"

The answer is obvious to them, but Raina approves of the question. After all, what they consider anomalous might be very different from what this alien considers anomalous.

Templar Gurlik: "My scans have picked up extreme levels of apparently magical ability from within, all of which seems automated somehow. Rapid healing, defensive protections, slowed aging, animated objects, and so on."

That is a very simplistic overview of the miracles that are an everyday occurrence in Galain Town now, but it s accurate as far as it goes.

Thrass: "Well, why do you care? Nothing wicked about that, is it?"

Templar Gurlik: "No, at least not on the surface, though I've seen enough swindlers in my time to suspect anything that looks too good to be true. No, what disturbs me is that we can't sense any magic from it."

The wife and husband exchange glances again. Mantle has inadvertently hinted now and again that he doesn't consider his abilities to be magical, but to be something... other.

Raina: "So it's a type of magic you're unfamiliar with then."

Templar Gurlik: "So it seems, yet our knowledge of magic within the galaxy, and beyond it, is extensive. Not just of magic, but of all manner of supernatural phenomena. To come across something that we can detect no technological nor supernatural hand in, when something extraordinary is clearly happening, is, well, let's just say it's disconcerting."

Raina: "So you're upset that you can't neatly label it in one of your categories. Why should we care?"

Templar Gurlik: "It is the witch-warden's mandate to study and understand all supernatural phenomena, even those that seem beneficial. Even if the source of Galain Town's miracles is entirely beneficial, that does not mean that it may not be used elsewhere, by another, for sinister purposes. Thus, it is vital to gain an understanding of it, just in case, so that we may be ready."

He pauses.

Templar Gurlik: "I am heading into Galain Town myself shortly. I have discovered all I can with my ranged scans. But I wanted a native perspective first, before I go into what is, for me, an unknown and potentially dangerous situation. Your village is near Galain Town, and my information says that you are the closest thing this village has to a leader."

Raina: "So you came to me."

Templar Gurlik: "Yes. Now. I have explained myself. I understand if you have friends in Galain Town, but believe me when I say I do not mean them any harm. It is my sincere hope that everything is well there, and that I can leave it with a richer understanding of the phenomena therein. But I would appreciate any information you have to share on it."

Raina looks at her husband again. His expression changes fractionally, indicating to her that he believes this alien witch-warden is being sincere.

Raina: "The miracles, or phenomena as you call them, began over eight centuries ago. There has never been a clear cause for them, but they have increased in power and beneficence over time. It is a blessing, of course, but to some of us, it is too much of a good thing. We like earning our keep for ourselves, and so we moved away, to stand or fall on our own."

Gurlik nods gravely.

Templar Gurlik: "Your perspective is not uncommon among my order."

Raina and Thrass' estimates of this mysterious order as a whole go up.

Templar Gurlik: "You say no clear cause. Were there any unclear causes? Any possibilities? Anything that seemed strange or out of place?"

The couple hesitates. Seeing it, Gurlik adds quickly.

Templar Gurlik: "This offworlder you already know, I presume. There is of course no way to know that he is related to it, but it seems too large a coincidence to leave uninvestigated, yes?"

Raina sighs.

Raina: "He was absent for two centuries, and the miracles did not stop, or even ebb in effectiveness."

Templar Gurlik's hairless brow-ridges raise sharply in alarm.

Thrass: "What? What's so alarming about that?"

Templar Gurlik: "Hopefully, nothing. But if this offworlder is in fact responsible for the phenomena, the fact that he was able to make such powerful, complex, and mysterious phenomena into a self-sustaining effect of some kind, that is potentially concerning. Few are the mages able to do such things."

Thrass: "Okay, look. His name is Mantle. You're going to hear about it from others, so you might as well hear about it from us first. We don't actually know he's responsible for it, but most people do see him as a sort of good-luck charm or city mascot. He's also the friendliest, nicest, most helpful person you'll ever meet. If you hurt him... Well, I don't know what sorts of magic or weapons your people possess, but you will make an enemy of everyone in Galain Town if you even try to hurt him."

Gurlik inclines his head, gravely as ever.

Templar Gurlik: "I understand. I am trained to ask questions first and not jump to conclusions, so you need not fear for your friend."

The drow look at each other, half-smirks on their faces. Though Gurlik seems like he might share the same philosophy they do, that finds misgivings with Mantle's approach, Mantle is nonetheless their friend... and for hundreds of years nothing has been able to harm anyone in Galain Town, despite occasional attacks from ambitious warlords or sorcerers. They doubt this alien witch-warden would fare much better if he does try and attack Mantle.

The witch-warden leaves shortly after that, thanking them for their time.

Raina: "I'm going to find it hard to sleep after all that."

Thrass snorts.

Thrass: "After the day you've had? I guarantee you it'll be lights out as soon as your head hits the pillow."

Raina: "You're probably right. Is it silly that I'm a little worried about Mantle?"

Thrass: "Probably. But in that case I'm silly too. He just gives off this impression of being too nice to take care of himself, but we know that isn't true. Now come to bed. Your lunch meeting with the other women will be here before you know it."

Raina: "Why did you have to remind me?"

Thrass just chuckles.

It seems only moments after he closes his eyes that the late-morning sun is streaming in. Raina, surprisingly, isn't at his side, so after dressing he finds her out front, chopping wood.

Thrass: "Couldn't sleep?"

Raina: "I got a solid few hours in. But woke up after that and was too restless to stay in bed."

Thrass: "Worried about Mantle and Templar Garlic?"

Raina chuckles, then her tone turns serious.

Raina: "It feels like everything might be changing very soon. Maybe it's just my imagination, but... I've only ever felt like this twice before."

Thrass: "When?"

He is very curious. She's never told him about this before.

Raina: "The first time was the day we met. That morning when I woke up, I had the same feeling."

She smiles radiantly at him, and he returns it. She sobers then.

Raina: "The second time was when I woke up the morning of the day I first met that sorceress who kept me captive for millennia."

Thrass's throat tightens with worry, and he clutches her hand.

Raina: "But it's nothing. I'm sure of it. Right?"

She seems to be trying to reassure herself more than him.

His response is lost as acrid smoke erupts around them. Multiple figures in sinister cloaks, clad with dark talismans, arise from it to surround them. As the smoke clears, Raina and Thrass see that all but one are drow, and they recognize a couple as evil mages who tried attacking Galain Town in the past, only to be completely stymied by its miraculous protections.

The one non-drow mage can only be the strange offworld sorcerer of the rumor mill. He has giant rat ears and hair like stalks of dry grass, and he exudes a presence of extreme magical power and darkness.

Alien Sorcerer: "So, here is the weakness of the Miracle Architect."

His voice is overlaid with a hollow echo, which makes it scarier and more impressive.

Raina: "Who are you? What do you want?"

She moves protectively in front of her husband, who quickly pushes her to the side, standing beside her. The alien sorcerer seems to pay them no mind in his next words.

Alien Sorcerer: "To think, I came to Caledonia seeking the deepest mysteries that drow magic had to offer, and I stumble on something truly grand. An unassailable mystery."

His smile stretches far wider than should be possible.

Alien Sorcerer: "Almost unassailable."

Thrass thinks fast. This offworld sorcerer must have been informed of Galain Town and the rumors about Mantle, by some of these drow mages, whose secrets he came to plunder, and been intrigued by them. And he is right: Mantle does have a weakness so to speak: his friendship for the two of them. Who had left Galain Town and aren't protected by its miracles.

Raina: "What do you want?"

Thrass's heart thrills at its wife's unflinching tone, her staunch bravery, and yet it shrivels in fear that he's might lose her all over again. Death, while not a small thing, is nonetheless not the end, but a sorcerer can do far worse than kill, as Raina's millennia-long captivity had shown so clearly.

Alien Sorcerer: "I want to lure this Mantle out. I want to hurt him. And I want to plunder his secrets."

The drow mages chant a spell. Raina and Thrass move like lightning, but the mages came prepared, and there are too many of them. Almost instantly the couple are frozen, bound by invisible chains that they struggle ineffectually against.

For the first time Thrass can fully appreciate the dedication with which the alien witch-warden approaches his calling.

Alien Sorcerer: "Ro sor, mum bor, nah sor, lor!"

Each word the strange creature chants is louder than the previous, until the final syllable cracks like thunder. Raina screams, as sickly green mist steams away from her body. Just being near it makes Thrass recoil in horror. Instinctively he knows what it is. It is the sort of thing spoken of only in the darkest legends of the drow, the curse performed only by the most depraved mages ever to exist.

A curse that destroys the very soul, wiping it from existence, killing someone beyond even reincarnation.

Thrass: "NO! RAINA!"

But it's too late. The green mist leaves her body and dissipates with a terrible ripping sound, and Raina slumps, her body empty. Thrass stumbles to his knees, his mind blank with disbelief and grief.

He doesn't look up when a great buzzing sound grows ever louder, or when a shadow falls over them. The alien sorcerer looks up with an evil grin.

Alien Sorcerer: "So there is a second witch-warden then? I had fun killing the first one, and I don't mind going two for two!"

The spaceship's side hatch opens, and Witch-Warden Gurlik leaps out, followed by Mantle. Mantle's face is stricken as he looks at Raina's still form, grasping her fate immediately.

Alien Sorcerer: "You! You're the Miracle Architect!"

He seems to forget the witch-warden entirely, who has drawn a pistol and fires. The alien sorcerer deflects the laser blast with contemptuous ease, barely seeming to even acknowledge the witch-warden's presence, his eyes fixed on Mantle. The deflected bolt pierces a drow mage standing next to the alien sorcerer instead.

Templar Gurlik: "Worry about me instead, mage."

He tosses a small blinking blue cylinder at them. One of the drow mages raises a hand and conjures a magical shield to block it, but the cylinder erupts into blinding blue light the instant it hits the shield. When it clears, the mystic shield is gone, and the drow mage, as well as the mages right next to him, are unconscious.

Templar Gurlik: "No, Mantle! Out of the way!"

Mantle is walking towards the alien sorcerer, who sneers at him in glee, unperturbed by the injuries of his erstwhile allies. The remaining drow mages are backing up, looking uncertainly at each other. Mantle nears the alien sorcerer before stopping and peering at him with intensity.

Mantle: "You're so twisted."

His tone is sickened.

Alien Sorcerer: "Let's see how well your miracles work outside your place of power! Tell me your secrets!"

This last line is punctuated by an echo, and a brilliant red flash from all three of his eyes. Mantle blinks, looking at him in mild confusion.

Mantle: "My place of power? Oh."

Half of his mouth quirks into a small smile.

Mantle: "You think Galain Town is miraculous because it is my place of power? No, it is miraculous because I wanted it to be."

The alien sorcerer is looking uncertain for the first time. Mantle's indifference to his evident attempt at mental coercion is altogether unexpected.

Mantle: "How do you function like that? I've pulled on your thread for sleep, but it does nothing to you. Like you don't sleep the way your people are normally designed to."

The alien sorcerer cackles in glee, thinking he has an advantage again.

Alien Sorcerer: "So, your miracles are powerless against me! Perfect!"

A half dozen darts fly through the air, curving intelligently around Mantle. The sorcerer bats them away with a flick of his hand, but they curve back around.

Mantle: "No, not powerless. I am just having difficulty understanding your twisted skein. I'd prefer not to simply yank on it and kill you, you see."

The alien sorcerer freezes for an instant at the casual confidence in Mantle's tone.

Templar Gurlik: "If you can kill him, do it! On the authority of the witch-wardens, a kill order for this bastard is approved!"

Mantle looks at the witch-warden sadly.

Mantle: "Death is not the answer to death. It is only a compromise. And not one to make if there is a suitable alternative. Stop."

The alien sorcerer has raised his hands, one to bat away the darts again, and the other to fire some bolts at the witch-warden, but Mantle seems to finally have analyzed the alien sorcerer's threads enough for this, because the creature freezes in place, the spells dying on his lips. All six darts puncture the creature's robes and skin, and it topples over, unconscious.

The remaining drow mages try to flee, but their teleportation magic doesn't seem to be working, and three quick shots from the templar's pistol take them out. The witch-warden steps carefully towards the alien sorcerer then, keeping his pistol trained on him, but the evil rat-eared creature doesn't stir.

Mantle: "I can heal his mind. Make him a good person."

Gurlik looks at Mantle with narrowed eyes.

Templar Gurlik: "Can you?"

His voice is flat.

Mantle: "Given time."

Templar Gurlik: "Would that not simply be another form of death?"

Mantle: "I don't know."

The witch-warden shrugs, adjusts a setting on his pistol, and fires point-blank at the alien sorcerer's body. A wide beam of blue-white light cascades onto it, and the body disintegrates. Mantle looks away, his jaw tight.

Thrass: "Raina..."

The invisible magic chains binding him have dissipated of course, but he can't bring himself to move, staring numbly at his wife's soulless body.

Mantle: "Thrass..."

He walks over towards the husband and wife. This breaks Thrass out of his stupor.

Thrass: "You! They came here because of YOU! They annihilated her because of you!"

There is raw fury and anguish in his voice, and his hands curl as he stalks towards his friend, as though ready to choke the life out of him.

Mantle: "I can bring her back, Thrass."

Thrass stops dead in his tracks, as does the witch-warden.

Thrass: "You... You can?"

Mantle: "I think. No, I am sure of it. I have never attempted this before, but I am confident."

Grasping at even the sliver of hope offered, all strength leaves Thrass' limbs, and he slumps back to the ground again next to his wife's body. Mantle kneels on Raina's other side, almost reverently, and his intense gaze is fixed on her, and yet unfocused, fixed on nothing. The witch-warden stamps up behind him, watching closely, but making no other move.

Thrass can't bear to look at him, and stares at Raina. He can't bear to look at her either, but cannot bear to look away. He remains unmoving, as do Mantle and Gurlik. Minutes turn to hours, as the sun rises high in the sky, and then dips down towards the other horizon, the shadows gradually lengthening.

And finally there is movement. Not from Thrass, or Mantle, or the witch-warden.

From Raina. She gasps awake, her eyes flaring briefly green as her soul is miraculously restored and then returned to her body. Thrass holds her tightly, never wanting to let go, and she clutches him just as tightly.

Templar Gurlik grips Mantle's shoulder hard as he stands up.

Templar Gurlik: "We need to talk."

His voice is graver than ever as he stares at Mantle.

Mantle: "Um, okay."

He looks at the relieved drow couple.

Mantle: "At least all's well that ends well."

Raina: "No, Mantle. It's not."

She is climbing unsteadily to her feet, supported by her husband, and are both are wearing identical expressions of... disappointment? Anger?

Thrass: "You can't keep doing this, Mantle. You have to stop."

Mantle looks bewildered.

Mantle: "But, but I brought her back!"

Raina: "That's not the point. New enemies will always come, as they always do to those with power. They will always seek your weak points."

Mantle: "I will just have to be better then. Make the protections stronger. I'm already working on extending them. I've bypassed New Raccach on that front, because of what you would want, but-"

Thrass: "But what? Are you now just going to disregard our wishes?"

Mantle: "No, but - I can at least put soul protections on the place, can't I?"

Templar Gurlik: "You're not getting it, son. They're right. If you continue, your enemies will escalate. You will have to escalate to meet them, and new enemies after them will escalate still further. Where does it end?"

Mantle looks at his hands.

Mantle: "I, I..."

Thrass: "Tell me it ends now, Mantle. Tell me it ends here, today."

Mantle looks at him, his eyes glimmering, pleading with his old friend to agree with him, to understand.

Mantle: "I can't."

Raina: "Then you'll have to keep going until you have the whole universe covered!"

Mantle takes a deep shuddering breath.

Mantle: "If I have to."

Raina and Thrass look at him in outraged shock. The witch-warden merely looks resigned.

Thrass: "You can't possibly mean that, Mantle! This is madness! Too much safety, it stifles people! We don't want to be rendered completely useless and worthless, doing nothing but being waited on hand and foot without a care in the world!"

Mantle: "Usefulness does not necessarily equate worth!"

Raina: "I want to be useful. I'm not happy unless I'm useful!"

Mantle: "I can fix that!"

His voice is earnest, eager to help. The drow recoil.

Raina: "What?!"

Mantle: "If you want, I change it so you can be happy without that!"

Raina and Thrass stare at him for a long moment. Then there is a loud ringing smack as Raina slaps him. Mantle lurches back, looking at her utter shock.

Raina: "How dare you."

Her face is white with rage, her voice quivering.

Raina: "You want to heal me the way you would've healed that mad sorcerer?!"

Mantle: "No, but, I mean..."

He casts about helplessly. Templar Gurlik squeezes his shoulder steadyingly.

Templar Gurlik: "You mean well, son. But power must be tempered with wisdom. Let me--"

Mantle shoves Gurlik away, his eyes wild with disbelief.

Mantle: "You-- You-- You were going to stun me! All those friendly words, and you were going to pump one of those darts in me, right now!"

Templar Gurlik: "I--"

Mantle: "I saw you! I saw your thread twist! I see your threads now!"

The witch-warden sighs.

Templar Gurlik: "I'm trying to calm you down, son. You're in a dangerous mental state right now. If you come with me, we can teach you--"

Mantle: "No!"

He backs away some more.

Mantle: "I can see your threads! You think... you think... I'm not like that sorcerer! I'm nothing like him!"

He looks at Raina and Thrass, and recoils at their expressions.

Mantle: "You... You can't... Not you..."

His face is stricken as he glances wildly between the three of them, who tense, as though expecting something horrible. Then he buries his face in his hands, for a moment, before glancing back out to look at Thrass.

Mantle: "I'm sorry."

Then he vanishes.

Thrass jerks in startlement. He has never seen Mantle pull off something like that. His friend - was he a friend anymore? - had always been subtle, understated, or at least tried to be.

Templar Gurlik: "Damn it!"

He looks back and forth, as though his green lens might be able to espy the disappeared man. Then he looks at the drow.

Templar Gurlik: "You know him best. Was his apology sincere?"

Thrass considers. Raina answers first.

Raina: "Yes, but also no."

Thrass: "He's sincerely sorry for all the pain, the anger, everything he inadvertently caused. But I don't think he's going to stop. He's determined to help everyone, whether they want it or not."

Templar Gurlik: "Well, the silver lining is that means he'll be back in Galain Town. I can recommend my superiors keep watch on him, if we know where he is."

Raina looks into the horizon towards Galain Town thoughtfully.

Raina: "No, I don't think he'll be back. Not here."

The witch-warden turns to her, a querying gaze on his face.

Raina: "We're his-- we were his friends. The mad offworld sorcerer was right. We are his weakness. We've shamed him, and I don't think he can face us again. Not now. Not for a long time. Maybe not ever."

Thrass: "Take us with you."

The witch-warden raises his eyebrow.

Raina: "He's right. Please, take us with you, to your order in the sky. Teach us how to fight people like the mad sorcerer who just want to burn everything, and like Mantle, who want to help too much."

The witch-warden studies them for a moment, then nods.

Templar Gurlik: "Very well. I cannot guarantee that you'll pass muster, for the training of initiates is not up to me, but you deserve the chance to try."

Shortly, the spaceship lifts off into the sky, bearing two more people than it did on the way in.

342 B.C. The bustling planet of Indra, primitive but lively and prosperous.

A young man with a blonde mane of hair sits atop a cliff, staring disconsolately into the distance. His gaze is unfocused, not really seeing the busy town below.

Mantle: "Everything turned upside down. So fast too."

He mutters to himself, turning the same words over and over in his head, the same images.

The friendly witch-warden suddenly thinking he was dangerous. Preparing to stun him.

Raina and Thrass. His friends. Staring at him with anger and judgment.

They'd always had their philosophical differences, but it had never before caused a rift in their friendship. How did it all go so wrong?

By all rights they should be overjoyed. Galain Town is miraculously prosperous, they still have independence in New Raccach village, the mad alien sorcerer has been defeated, and Raina is restored. Instead Raina had slapped him and regarded him with such a cold look.

Is it all so hopeless? Trying to help, only to be hated? Or worse, to fail? Indra's fate mirrors his thoughts, for he has been here once before - in the future, when it will have been devastated by the God-Killer Machine, beyond even his own ability to restore.

HorseGod: "Credit for your thoughts."

Mantle starts in shock as a horse-headed man appears out of thin air. He hadn't been paying attention to the threads around him, too lost in his own head, or he'd have seen the imminent teleportation.

Mantle: "Uncle Eq?!"

The strange, wonderful, loving, wild man who had raised him on the Wit's End skulk, who had hinted at Mantle's parentage but never told him much, and left the skulk behind after Mantle had set out on his own journey across the universe.

HorseGod: "Where?!"

He whips his horse head about rapidly.

HorseGod: "That bastard owes me money!"

Despite himself, Mantle laughs at his adoptive uncle's antics, but soon it becomes manic laughter, before devolving into heaving sobs. Eq says nothing, merely sits next to his adoptive nephew and puts an arm around him, just being there.

A bottle appears in his free hand, and he starts taking swigs from it as he watches the slowly setting sun. The sheer familiarity of it - of the man drinking and partying at all times - acts like an anchor for Mantle, and slowly, over a few minutes, he calms down.

They sit there in silence for another few minutes, and finally Eq breaks it, proffering the bottle to him.

HorseGod: "Sure you don't want a drink?"

Mantle smiles wryly.

Mantle: "Leave it to you to always angle for that."

HorseGod: "I have my priorities straight."

Mantle: "What are you doing here?"

HorseGod: "Drinking. Obviously. Visiting my nephew too."

He squints at Mantle.

HorseGod: "Can't you see my threads? Should tell you what I'm up to. Don't everyone else's?"

Mantle blinks.

Mantle: "I've never seen anything but the surface of your thoughts and actions in the threads. And never even thought that was odd."

He turns an intense gaze to his uncle.

Mantle: "How did you do that?!"

HorseGod: "I didn't. You did."

Mantle: "What?"

HorseGod: "Future you. Visited me when you were still a baby and wove threads around me so I wouldn't ping as strange to you. Said future me had asked you to, so that while growing up you wouldn't be deluged with more information than you were ready for."

Mantle inhales a breath and slowly releases it.

Mantle: "And now that you've mentioned it, the way it affects my mind has been broken. Just what have you been hiding all this time?"

HorseGod: "I mean, you can see that tapestry or whatever you wove over me now, right? So you can just peel it back and see for yourself?"

Mantle hesitates.

Mantle: "I... It's there for a reason, right? I don't want to pry if you don't want me to."

HorseGod: "What your drow friends said really hit you hard, huh?"

Mantle opens his mouth to ask how Eq knows that, then closes it. That's not important at the moment.

Mantle: "Yeah. I don't, I don't know how to move forward. I know what I want to do, but I never expected it to be so indignantly received, by two of my closest friends no less."

Eq sighs and takes another long pull from the bottle.

HorseGod: "Screw them."

Mantle: "What?"

HorseGod: "Look, I probably should tell you that this is a wakeup call for you to use your gifts responsibly and ethically, especially given who your parents are, but at this point I don't give a damn. I raised you because someone needed to, but after all that time you're like my son. You're a good man, Mantle. You've always been open to philosophical discussion, but being emotionally battered and drained is not a good mindset to reconsider things in."

Mantle: "Then... You think I should..."

HorseGod: "I think you should make your own damn decisions, regardless of what I, your drow buddies, or anyone else might say. Just make sure not to get tunnel vision."

Mantle looks down at his hands, resting gently in his lap.

Mantle: "I think I had tunnel vision back on Caledonia. I didn't see how my offer to fix things would affect them. I was so focused on helping."

HorseGod: "Just because you had tunnel vision doesn't mean you have to stop helping now that your blinders are off. Just keep an open mind and healthy awareness."

Mantle considers, and a comfortable silence stretches between them for a few minutes.

HorseGod: "What were you doing on Caledonia anyway?"

Mantle: "I wanted to develop my mythal creation abilities. In a place that was populated, but which could withstand scrutiny and suspicion in a way that a place like Coaleshion, with the ever-present High Imperial magitech watching, could not. And, I figured that if something went horribly wrong, then drow at least reincarnate."

HorseGod: "Solid thinking. So did it work?"

Mantle: "I... Yes. I suppose that it did, even if it didn't end like... Like I expected."

HorseGod: "What's your next step then?"

Mantle closes his eyes and breathes in and out again.

Mantle: "I was the weak point. Because I was the strange element present in the town, everyone knew, or could guess, that I was related to the so-called miracles. People could be irrationally angry at someone helping them, or could target anyone I befriended."

HorseGod: "Gonna employ your invisibility trick more often then?"

Mantle: "Something like that. No, more than that. Invisibility alone isn't enough, especially since right now I can only maintain it for a short while. I need to be completely undetected. And self-sufficient, not relying on food or supplies from others. And - really I just have a bag or tricks right now. I've focused so much on developing my mythals that I haven't expanded my repertoire of abilities that I can use, well, quicker. And I need to always be aware of the threads around me, getting caught by surprise won't always end well."

HorseGod: "A training montage! Good plan."

Mantle: "If only it were that easy."

HorseGod: "Trust me, it is."

Mantle: "What do you mean?"

HorseGod: "Ah, nothing. Well it's not nothing, but, well. You can peel back the curtain you wove over me if you like, but only if you're ready for a ton of revelations."

Mantle: "About what?"

HorseGod: "The multiverse. Your parents. You."

Mantle bites his lip before replying.

Mantle: "No, I don't think I'm ready. Not now. Maybe after my 'training montage'."

He throws his uncle a wry grin, who laughs and claps him on the back.

HorseGod: "That's the spirit!"

----

Present-day. The Teknis Circle, the star system that serves as the home base of the witch-wardens in the Myst Sector of the Milky Way. Scene continued from this post.

Thrass, now a general in the witch-wardens, pilots a shuttle away from the Loft where he's just met with Grand Inquisitor Alpha to discuss Mantle. He'd acted as though he didn't once know Mantle personally - that's information Alpha doesn't need. The Jovian prisoner would only use the information to needle him.

His shuttle's communicator beeps.

Thrass: "Hey hot stuff."

His wife's voice crackles through.

Raina: "That doesn't get any funnier the millionth time you've said it."

Thrass: "But I've not said it a million times!"

Raina: "..."

Thrass: "This century."

There's a chuckle on the other end.

Raina: "You're insufferable. Fortunately, I like my men that way."

Thrass: "Men plural, huh? Am I just your side piece then?"

Raina: "Yep. There's this Jovian prisoner we have, can shapeshift into you but better looking."

Thrass: "Now that's just hurtful."

Raina: "Suck it up, champ. I had to get used to the weird patriarchal systems most of the galaxy uses after we left Caledonia, you can get used to some good-natured ribbing. You know you're the only one for me."

Thrass: "That's good, since I outrank you and could throw you in the brig otherwise!"

Raina: "One, you're over a different department than me. Two, that's an easily reportable abuse of power. And three, I dare you to try."

Thrass is usually stern and taciturn around other people, every inch the battle-hardened witch-warden general. But he lets his hair down, so to speak, when it's just him and his wife. Raina is stationed on the Teknis Circle planet known as the Hot Room, a barren desert world where witch-wardens incarcerate prisoners, run experiments, and train initiates in live-fire exercises. The latter is what takes up Raina's duties most of the time.

Thrass: "Challenge accepted! Tonight, my place."

Raina: "Your place is my place, sweetie. Better bring your A-game."

Thrass: "Don't I always? Wait, don't answer that."

They share more chuckles, then Raina sobers and gets around to the real reason for her call.

Raina: "So did our favorite inquisitor have anything to say about Mantle?"

Thrass: "Thinks he's not a threat because of his pacifism. You know Alpha's background, a little thing like freedom of choice doesn't mean anything to him. He'll still work on counters though, he can't help himself. And..."

He hesitates.

Raina: "Thrass. What is it? It's not like you to hesitate."

24/7 surveillance is maintained on every aspect of Grand Inquisitor Alpha's luxurious, well-equipped prison. Thrass is on the short list of witch-wardens given full access to surveillance records, and that's how he knows what Alpha did with the information packet they gave him about Mantle.

Thrass: "He put the file into one of his worst-case scenario folders."

Raina: "I'm not sure if that's meaningless given his levels of paranoia, or troubling given his competence."

Thrass: "It's troubling because of which worst-case scenario it is. About a theoretical son of an old tyrant or two."

Raina: "Must be some tyrants. Which ones?"

He tells her.

Silence follows for a long handful of seconds.

Raina: "Bloody hell."

She continues with a stream of increasingly creative invective, impressing Thrass despite how often (relatively speaking, over the millennia) he's heard her invent unique new swears. Finally she settles down, and he can hear her panting.

Raina: "What are the chances Alpha just put that folder in there to fuck with us? He knows you watch him."

Thrass: "Non-zero, but he's professional when it comes to the really important stuff. And comparing what we know, or can deduce, of Mantle with Worst-Case Scenario #66,625--"

He barely makes out Raina's surprised mutter.

Raina: "Just how many worst-case scenarios does that nutjob have?"

Thrass: "--seems to demonstrate a surprising amount of potential correlation. We have to take it seriously."

He hears her scoff.

Raina: "Right, because us taking it seriously would make so much difference, if it's true."

Thrass: "It's our job to try and deal with any supernatural threats, no matter how impossible."

Raina: "You don't have to tell me that, Thrass. I'm in this to the end, we both are. But I'm just being a realist."

Thrass: "If there's anyone capable of developing contingencies for this, it's Alpha."

Raina: "We're still gonna brainstorm some ourselves."

Thrass smiles. That's his wife, tough as nails and full of grit.

Thrass: "Looking forward to it, hot stuff."

Raina: "That's still not funny."

Thrass: "You know, because you're on the Hot Room."

Raina: "Explaining it makes it even less funny."

Thrass: "That's exactly why I do it--"

Raina: "Call me hot stuff again and you're on the couch tonight."

Thrass: "--honey."

Raina: "Smart man."

Signing yet another packet of orders, Pfaxarxis slides the stack of papers into the delivery tray (where it promptly dematerializes for transport) and pinches the bridge of what passes for his nose (it's hard to pinpoint exactly for most, as his species appears to be something like a cross between a horse and an orangutan) with a sigh. He reaches for his steaming mug of tea when a certain light on his console gleams blue with a singsong tone. Frowning slightly, he changes the arc of his hand to flick the switch next to that blue light.

A holographic representation appears over the desk, that of a strange cube. Twice the size of a human fist, it is etched with strange carvings, and were it not for the noise-canceling algorithms of the holographic projectors, Pfaxarxis knows he would be hearing a low but constant hum emanating from it.

Gul Moff Ichron: Greetings.Gul.Moff.Pfaxarxis...I.must.make.you.aware.of.an.anomaly.

Pfaxarxis and the Ichron are both Gul Moffs, on the council of those directors who co-rule and operate the Pan Cosmic Command, a multiversal peacekeeping force. But while Pfaxarxis is still a ship captain at heart despite his old injuries requiring cybernetic replacements and his long millennia of service as a Gul Moff, the Ichron is a living computer, a repository of all knowledge transported back from the very end of the Deep Void, at the terminus of the far, far, far future right before entropy devoured the last remaining inkling of existence.

Ichron is dispassionate and efficient, but is a highly cooperative entity. He acts as the Pan Cosmic Command's primary intelligence director, due to both his seemingly limitless database from the future and the incalculably massive processing power produced by the culmination of all future technology.

Gul Moff Pfaxarxis: "An anomaly worth bringing to my attention, but which doesn't require an immediate red alert?"

Gul Moff Ichron: Precisely...As.ever.you.quickly.grasp.my.meaning...An.exemplary.Gul.Moff.

Pfaxarxis stifles a groan. Ever since the Ichron caught wind of the fact that he occasionally feels inadequate or antiquated in his role, the Ichron has attempted to encourage him at every opportunity. He'd grumble about it if he didn't secretly appreciate it.

Gul Moff Ichron: A.number.of.XS.order.anomalies.have.begun.appearing.throughout.time.and.space...They.appear.benign.in.the.extreme.but.we.should.take.no.chances.

Pfaxarxis pales. An XS-order anomaly is one that presents no clear cause even to the most stringent investigations, and there have been very, very few things capable of causing such phenomena.

Things with names like Highemperor, Imeryn, Chimaat.

The very designation XS comes from the fact that it causes an excessive headache for the Gul Moffs.

Gul Moff Pfaxarxis: "Agreed. We're certain that the time lock is intact?"

It's a pointless question, because the Ichron always does its due diligence, but he still has to ask.

Gul Moff Ichron: My.real.time.monitoring.remains.uncompromised...As.does.the.time.lock.

No need to ask which time lock. There's many throughout the multiverse, but there's only one that matters - the time lock that is the biggest and most indestructible of them all, the one that trapped Highemperor and his one-time lovers-cum-enemies, who had been among the top-tier of power in the entire Deep Void.

Gul Moff Pfaxarxis: "Good. But these anomalies are benign? Extremely benign? What does that even mean?"

Gul Moff Ichron: They.are.miraculously.helpful.to.all...Some.contend.to.the.point.of.excess.

Gul Moff Pfaxarxis: "I've seen too many things that sound too good to be true to think there's not a hidden caveat or drawback."

Gul Moff Ichron: "None.detected.thus.far...Personal.realtime.monitoring.was.instated.when.they.began.populating.en.masse...Confidence.of.observations.high...Threat.level.uncertain.but.currently.low...Investigations.ongoing...Current.projections.of.adequate.intervention.present.no.alternatives.

Gul Moff Pfaxarxis: "If they've been populating for a while, and you haven't told me until now, something must have changed."

Gul Moff Ichron: A.lead.in.Universe.Designate.NeSiverse...A.local.peacekeeping.force.is.familiar.with.one.such.anomaly.and.are.aware.of.its.purported.creator.

A chill goes up Pfaxarxis's spine. Any time something in the NeSiverse happens that's big enough to reach his ears, it's never good. Granted, that could be said about any universe, but especially so for the NeSiverse, the home universe of Highemperor and the former location of Imeryn's Mega Jonestown Prime.

A soft ding from his console indicates a file upload sent by the Ichron, and Pfaxarxis opens it, scanning the document rapidly.

Gul Moff Pfaxarxis: "Who is this Mantle?"

Gul Moff Ichron: Unknown...Posited.familial.connections.at.bottom.with.corroborating.albeit.circumstantial.evidence.

Pfaxarxis skips down to the bottom, and his eyes widen as the rest of him freezes.

Gul Moff Pfaxarxis: "***************!"

He utters a swear so vile that the CensorGod only barely manages to cover it up before fainting in horror.

Gul Moff Ichron: Modulate.your.reaction...Currently.low.threat.assessment...Uncertain.verity.of.hypothesis.

Pfaxarxis's cybernetics are already calming him to levels less dangerous for his ancient body, having determined he is not in immediate danger before doing so, but the Gul Moff still forces himself to use breathing exercises. They make him feel more, well, not human, because he's not human to begin, but more normal and down-to-earth.

Gul Moff Pfaxarxis: "Right. Thanks for bringing this to my attention. The NeSiverse is largely my jurisdiction--"

Gul Moffs can go anywhere, but they frequently concentrate on specific spheres they call jurisdictions (colloquially albeit not officially), and Pfaxarxis doesn't trust anyone but himself, except maybe the Ichron, to handle the absurd chaos that is the NeSiverse.

Gul Moff Pfaxarxis: "--so I'll get in touch with these witch-wardens, but you're the one with the intel. What do you suggest our play be?"

Gul Moff Ichron: Observe...Investigate...Collect.data...I.am.already.rearranging.assets.for.rapid.deployment.if.needed.

Gul Moff Pfaxarxis: "For all the good that will do if Mantle is related to those psychos..."

Asteroids drift, occasionally colliding, fragments of a dead world lumbering aimlessly through the void. To the one with eyes to see them, threads gnarl, twist, and tangle even more than the leashes of his home world, and many end in frays.

Mantle: "And still nothing."

For Mantle, it has been a very, very, very long time since Caledonia. He undertook the training montage that Uncle Eq recommended, and then set about creating mythals - networks or mantles of thread-patterns set to do specific things on specific triggers - throughout the Deep Void, but always while hidden and invisible, lest controversy or danger target him, or more importantly, those he cares about. As it did on Caledonia.

And despite his far greater proficiency with the threads, he still cannot see the threads of Indra's annihilated gods. There should be threads there, no matter how destroyed something was, to indicate its once-presence. Mantle had thought, hoped, that one he got sufficiently better at reading and manipulating the threads, he would see the missing god-threads of Indra.

Although - if he twists his perspective and tugs aside the threads just so, it seems like there might be a ghost of an echo of a thread? Like a desert mirage that vanishes when you get too close to it. He doesn't think it's his imagination, but he has no way to tell. He must become even more proficient with the threads, it seems.

Nahda: "Nothing cannot be escaped, cannot be seen, cannot be known."

One of the skills Mantle picked up during his training montage was a much greater awareness of his surroundings. So unlike how he might've been in the past, he is not surprised by the arrival of a strange bald man, with holes in his hands and chest, in the void beside him. A quick glance at his threads to assess him turns into a double-take as Mantle furrows his brow in concentration.

Mantle: "You are gentle, but you are dangerous. There are... echoes of great feats behind you, yet there is nothing that would explain how you performed them."

Nahda: "Precisely."

Mantle's lips turn up slightly. Nahda's threads indicate his love of understated puns about his religion of Nothing, practitioners of which Mantle has come across here and there during his wanderings.

Nahda: "After all, if we saw everything, faith would lose its value."

Mantle: "I am not a man of faith."

Faith as a concept - the idea of believing in something you cannot see or prove - is foreign to Mantle, who has always seen the world revealed to his vision in the threads that permeate and make up everything.

Nahda: "You are. After all, how do you know there were once gods here, if your vision cannot tell you so?"

Mantle: "There is historical record, living witnesses. I even visited it in the past, before its destruction."

Nahda: "And yet, did you doubt what you were told, before confirming it?"

Mantle: "...I see your point."

Nahda: "I don't think you do, but that is alright. We should all aspire to see Nothing."

Mantle groans, but hides his smile. Uncle Eq was fond of puns as well, even if they were typically far bawdier.

Nahda: "You know, you remind me of someone I once knew."

Mantle looks at him curiously. Before Nahda speaks, Mantle sees the threads of a memory in the man's mind: a woman upon a rooftop in a large sprawling metropolis, gazing down below.

Nahda: "She also watched from afar, wringing her hands that she could do nothing."

Mantle: "I don't do nothing. I have acted, more than most I'd wager."

Nahda: "Perhaps you should do nothing."

Mantle: "There's a story there. What did this woman do when she stopped doing nothing?"

A faint sadness passed over the man's placid face.

Nahda: "She twisted Nothing, and made it Nothing like it should be."

He pauses.

Nahda: "Yet this too, is Nothing that we do not know."

Mantle figures he can follow Nahda's puns much better than most, given his experience following the inside-out logic of his old friend, the impossible smith Imhoptah.

Mantle: "I've met other gajes before."

He has sought out the wisdom of many during his wanderings, grappling with ethical quandaries even as he continues to slowly populate the Deep Void with what the PCC refers to as XS-order anomalies - his mythals. Some of those he talked with were gajes of Nothing, akin to bishops or priests.

Mantle: "You worship what most call the Nameless, right? As Nothing that cannot be defined."

He already knows this is true, and has no need to make himself sound a bit hesitant. But he has found it far better to downplay his knowledge when speaking to others, as no one likes a know-it-all, much less someone who seems to magically pull knowledge from thin air as far as they can tell.

Nahda: "That is accurate, so far as it goes. But it is barely scraping the surface of the philosophy."

Mantle: "I'd wager you've a more accurate view of the Nameless than anyone else, because there is absolutely Nothing in all my sight that gives the barest hint of any such being."

Nahda: "Such faith you have in your own sight."

Though his tone is gentle and noncombative, Mantle understands it for the rebuke that it is. He glances back at the tangled, frayed threads of dead Indra for a moment.

Mantle: "I only need to improve my vision."

Nahda: "If you seek to see Nothing, there are ways."

Mantle is practically blinded by the weight and enormity of the memory that Nahda calls to mind, its import weighing down the man's threads.

Nahda: "Or so it is said. I would not know, being a man of faith and not of sight."

Mantle: "The only thing that I know, is that I know Nothing?"

Nahda merely smiles.

Mantle: "What is this... way, you speak of?"

Nahda's tone becomes grave, far graver than when he spoke of a young woman who lost her way.

Nahda: "Seven artifacts from the dawn of Forever. They have been used to power weapons of war and destruction over the ages, yet they have also been used to acquire knowledge and wisdom. It is said that one allows communion with what others call the Nameless, and the more of these relics one has, the deeper the communion."

Mantle has heard of many "all-powerful artifacts" and "omniscient relics" throughout his wanderings, and they are always extreme exaggerations. Not deliberately so, just due to misguided belief in the ones who told him of them. Yet the pressure on Nahda's threads as he discusses this leads Mantle to believe that Nahda might be onto something here.

Mantle: "Would I have heard of any of these weapons?"

Nahda: "The Omega Reich had six of them, and fueled their most terrible weapons and rituals with their power."

Mantle blanches. He has traveled through time and walked among the Omega Reich before, and seen its stark horror. He helped as much as he could, before fleeing, unable to continue facing such horrid atrocities, but vowing to return one day when he could create mythals powerful and large enough to set everything right.

And he has seen the feats performed by Nahda. Even if he cannot see what empowers him (because there is Nothing there), the magnitude of these feats cannot be denied. This man, who affects the guise of a simple gaje, is Sinheartha Gho'bi Nahda, a giant astride the Deep Void in personal power alone, never mind the influence and reverence given him by countless people as Mayamanu of a multiversal civilization known as the Coordination. If Nahda is so impressed with these relics, that is quite the confirmation of their power.

Mantle: "It is true that I cannot see your Nothing. If these relics would expand my sight, perhaps I could. Perhaps then I could see the vanished echoes of Indra's gods."

He looks shrewdly at Nahda.

Mantle: "Why tell me this?"

Nahda: "Because you looked lost, and if I cannot be a guide myself, then I will offer a map."

Mantle: "Even though you know nothing about me?"

Nahda: "I know that you seek knowledge and understanding. That is enough."

Mantle: "Then - what are these seven relics? Where are they?"

Nahda: "Where they are, I cannot say, for they passed into legend with Jagisk Ttocks' fall, but they must surely exist somewhere still, for they are indestructible. They are called..."

The threads around them shiver very slightly, which raises Mantle's hackles and further confirms the import of these relics.

Nahda: "...The Seven Seals."