An Age of Mysterious Memories

*From within this jar of souls, I observe the fiery beast that rends and eats. It’s a fierce glow, a constantly lapping pyre with nearly no form, yet it will extend its tongues of flame as humanoid limbs in order to snatch soul after soul for devouring. It speaks aloud to no one near, yet its words haunt me, fill me with fear for whom it speaks of.

The voice of hate itself rages, “Seventy thousand souls! An entire damn nation! Insufferable worms. This power, now that you’ve shown it to me, and cost me seventy thousand souls, you’ll rue having used it. All you’ve done is make yourselves more valuable.”

The creature, being, beast, ruminates, the vaguely humanoid form reaches in a way that mimics stroking its chin as it grouses, “The other path continues to fail me. If my agents were more subtle, you’d have read them by now, and be mine to collect at my leisure! My patience wears thin, with this doomed little world, and its lack of sustenance.”

The entity that destroys, obliterates souls for its own pleasure, and fuel, reaches into our jar once more, seeking out those of us who’ve “pickled” the most, steeped in fear, regret, and all other negative emotions. Approximations of limbs bring another quivering sphere towards the top of its vaguely humanoid frame, and an approximation of a fanged maw tears open in the space where a face might be within the flames. The soul is tossed inside this gaping chasm of hate and horror, and whomever it was now ceases to exist.

I think it’s contemplating, wondering if it should invest another forty two souls over its cauldron, wondering if it should reach once again through some rift in the air to some fantasy land, risking a waste of souls, and whatever strange pain it experiences in its attempts to gather more. For the poor souls’ sakes in those realms, and for ours, I hope it finally chooses not to. I’ve a doubt we’re that lucky now, or ever will be. If only we could get out of here.

Curiously, absurdly, the beast’s tongues of flame that might be limbs, wave and flail about, as if swatting the air. Alongside the roar, the crackle of eternal flames of damnation, I hear something I’d never heard here before, buzzing. Simple buzzing, racing beyond the reach of the entity.

In frustration, the devourer of souls growls out, “My realm, my prison is beyond the reach of any physical plane, but not beyond the reach of this hell-forsaken fly!? Hold still that I may destroy you!”

Rushing, swishing, swooshing sounds fill the air, until–*Plap**

A voice beloved to me mumbles, “Oops.”

Awakening as I’m slapped in the face, or rather, a damp washcloth falls onto my face, I groan, announcing my return to the real world, from a realm of nightmare fears and unconsciousness. As I do, referencing the restriction of the featherfall enchantment on my Wyverium Chestplate, My Wings jokes, “Too bad you hyperventilate instead of holding your breath in your panic attacks. I might have been able to go after the lousy lame-nations, instead of having to dive down and scoop your arse up before you splattered babe. Though, with what Aunty Zool said, I was going to save you anyway, natch.”

Blinking groggily, I don’t have time to ask what Teuila meant before my eardrums feel like they’re blown out by a cheer going up around me. I definitely don’t feel cheerful enough for praise or congratulations. I can’t help thinking that I barely knew Orthral, and that I let the ones really behind his death get away. Laombigla was the lieutenant or whatever, captain, something-or-other of the Evil Claws. He’s the real reason for our losses and injuries this eve. Or she? I can’t remember. I’d rather not misgender anyone, not even an enemy, as silly as that might sound.

My legs feel a bit like limp noodles, and are sort of strewn out below me haphazardly against the cool stone floor of the feasting hall. I’m glad that my panic attack happened while I was unconscious, for once. More or less. I mean, obviously it was unfortuitous that it happened while I was in the air, flying. Plus, my internals are in agony, I’m apparently terribly low on dragonforce yet again. It’s a good thing there’s something like ten or eleven dragonforces worth of energy sitting on the aerie.

Grimacing, trying to hide a snarl, Teuila telepathically comments on my train of thought, “Uh, about that. Indy sorta snatched ‘em up babe.” Fighting her own growl, she sighs before continuing, “Air, I don’t know what he was thinking, but he says it was for his withdrawal, that it’ll hold off the cravings for a long time now. I smell a lot of dragon dung in his claim. Punk better be done flaking out for the rest of the gorram war.”

My face droops as my heart sinks into my stomach. I feel so betrayed. I used up so much dragonforce trying to make sure my attack didn’t strike down Induul. I could have had my cure. Or at least gotten to learn what it is, but maybe gotten my cure, and finally be done with endlessly marching towards my own death with every action. He–he’s suffering. I guess I forgive him? Or maybe I should try to be able to forgive myself for feeling upset with him. It makes me feel terrible and selfish, thinking about wanting my cure, and the dragonforces, for myself, if they can do something as helpful as almost curing Induul’s withdrawal symptoms.

My wife soothes me across our mental link, “No my love, it’s not selfish to wish to survive. Our beloved The-Green’s actions vex even me. I won’t control or punish those under my care, but I care not for being and feeling used in such a time as dire as this. He’s retired to his dorm, wishing to take part in neither mourning nor celebration.”

Pausing to close her eyes, the pain written across her telepathic avatar’s face, and even in the beating and clutching of her heart, Kinzul takes only a moment before continuing, “But you, my Schism, my love, our bond, your foresight, enchantments, everything won us this day, this bit of reprieve from our most fearsome foes. Are you well enough to accept the praise and adulation you deserve, that will ease the mourning for so many?”

That’s something I hadn’t thought to consider. Will people cheering me on really help them face, or pass the mourning, the grieving of Orthral? How are Gil, Fen, and Prinny taking it? Do they resent me for not ending the fight earlier? Not that I could have, but I don’t know if I could convince them if it came down to it.

A wonderful, deviant little old lady, our The-Copper smirks across our telepathic wavelength before commenting, “You’ve such an active imagination Schism my sweet. Really dearie, do you think I could ever resent my sweet Schism? Orthral would have perished on our first offensive, or I would have, and he’d have been weakened, unable to survive the second. You saved us then. Do you remember dear? You’re such a sweetie to have gotten so worked up, seeing me injured, this runt’s little old ticker swelled with joy being worried about so fiercely, swelled right up I tell you.”

Gulping back my emotions, squeezing my eyes shut tightly, I start, “Prinny, you’re alive–”

Of course, the little old lass that she is, Prinny interrupts, “Thanks to you again dearie. Seem’s you’ve a habit, a knack for the big dramatics, and for doing things that pulls this little old runt’s hide out of the fire, literally and metaphorically.”

When she looses a delightful little chuckle at her own joke, I can’t help a quarter laugh passing through my nose, almost a scoff, yet I smile towards Prinrin. I’m so glad I gifted her that Storm-Gryphon feather cloak. Tears flow freely, and my breathing is labored as I imagine having done otherwise. This has to be the prime timeline. I had to have made that choice. Right? I couldn’t bear losing Prinrin.

Glancing about the feasting hall, even the dim light of the glow-lichen seems blindingly bright at the moment, my eyes unwilling to adjust, my senses overloaded in general. My silent sonar feedback is just too much in addition to everything else right now. I should really divest my danger wraps. Thinking on Prinny’s comment though, yeah, those fire mages were rough on her, and the magma worm seemed to be an undefeatable foe for everyone else. Pulling her out of the fire indeed.

Grumbling, his normally booming, proud voice, more gravelly, evidence of his injuries, Gilmeshtu butts in, “Don’t remind me. Thirty seconds to do what I couldn’t in thirty minutes. I can’t say you don’t live up to the Vivant’s expectations Schism, despite your immaturity.”

Raising my brow, I’m not sure if I even want to ask if Gil simply meant my physical age, or if he thinks I’m socially immature, or emotionally immature, or what. Glancing around, I see the familiar orangey copperish tail of our grumpy librarian, Curator, Nala and the pert, verdant form of Littlebit packing away some things to return to our dimensional storage pouches and the like. The feasting hall is bustling with activity, and a torrent of soundwaves, the cascading, rising crescendo of conversations attempting to talk over one another. But where are Rend and Sunderer? Is the siege still going on? Shouldn’t we hasten down to help them?

Fenric interjects to calm me, “Relax Schism, the siege is driven back once more. Our Queens will be alternating resting near the aerie, or base of Solace. We’re in the thick of it now, and they’re being saved up, and kept well-rested, for the safety of all. Thank you by the way,” there’s a pause, then in case I was unsure why he expressed gratitude, Fen clarifies, “For avenging him.”

I nod mutely, a bit numb to it all as my brain struggles to process Fenric’s gratitude, my own grief, and everything else going on. Aymeshtu, Dimitriv, Johro, Lijhro, Heccinkethmorn, Shapuackurt, Lilmbrayur, and now Orthral. None of them lost to the war proper, but rather to the Damnations and their sub-faction of genocidal metallic-hatred. It won’t be long before we start losing loved ones to the war proper itself as well, either to the siege, or to assaults we launch.

I struggle up to a seated position, mostly so that I can prop my arms on my knees, and drop my head into my hands, the ridges of my horns from above my brow contacting my palms once again surprising me, as I forget that I have them, as usual. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to having reincarnated into this cold-Fel tiefling body.

How do we win this? How do we even have a chance, if our blasted Manxome Foe can interfere, and nullify the best I have to throw at our enemies? What’s the way through the war? Out the other side? How do we get out of such a tricky situation as not being able to defeat our foes? What is the secret? Are there any clues on how to bring about a victory without losing everyone and everything we love?

Speaking of clues, the cool of the stone against my back, and the warmth of Teuila’s arms on my skin clues me into the fact that I’m naked, except for bandages. I’d facepalm, but I don’t have the mental bandwidth to be embarrassed right now. Hm, seems my shapeshifting mental subroutine worked though, I’m back and forth between blue and a pinker hue.

Suddenly a worry strikes me, and I cast my gaze frantically about for Luni, Lil, and Lucky. I don’t see the Triple L Squad, and my heart begins to race. Cooing and shushing, Teuila comforts me, “Shhh, shh my Airhead, shh, it’s okay. The Triple L Squad headed down to Verdimenn to let Ixey, Zayzi, Leeza, Pidge, and Trixxie know that things went–erm, well–okay’ish. That they’re over for now at least. I know that reaching out to home, using those powers messes you up, and throws your emotions outta whack too. Take it easy babe. Just breathe Air, breathe.”

Taking her advice, I slowly deepen my breathing, focusing on it until I can gaze into those alluring windows, those captivating emerald-ringed portals to the depths of Teuila’s soul. I let myself get lost in them. I let myself smile at her pert little slightly upturned nose, at the light dusting of freckles on her face, at the whimsical flop of her high, long undercut, and its almost impossible ruby hue. Drinking her in, the softness, smoothness of the skin of her arms about me, the pleasant, hearty musk of her sweat, the myriad waves of her ocean of emotion in which I can submerge myself, I do truly get lost.

Staying like this, for long moments, I barely notice myself being passed from Teuila to Kinzul, as Te gets up to stretch. It’s around now that I notice my muscles are barely responding at all. It feels like a miracle that I was able to sit up. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, either from the battle, or the panic attack I had as I passed out, and now I can feel the mana corruption lacerations. Holy friggin’ hell. Tears of pain stream forth from my eyes, and I feel too weak and lethargic to even blink them away, leaving my eyes hang half-lidded with my face slack.

My wife, with her perfect form sculpted from pure onyx, holds me against the obsidian vessel that houses her compassionate soul, cradling me between her lap and bosom. I sense Prinrin approach, and feel her lay a hand upon my shoulder reassuringly, and one upon Kinzul’s as well. Miraina is sticking to her mother like glue, her arms wrapped about Prinny’s waist, determined to not let her mother out of her sight. I can sense Miraina still wants to have a talk, but she seems willing to put it off for tonight at least.

I’ve got a raging headache pulsing and pounding across my right rear occipital lobe, along my mandibular joint, and above my right temple. Between my near-fatal injuries, despite them rapidly closing up, and the headache, I’m in no state for much of anything yet. Kinzul does me a kindness and whispers to several nearby to pass word around that any celebrating will be done after we’ve all had a good night’s sleep.

I was really hoping to catch up with Littlebit and help her ‘Twixt portal research along ton–”Me too Tiger. First thing in the morning hun?”--ight. Nodding into our telepathic link, I agree to Littlebit’s request. The vivacious verdant cutie sends warmth and smiles back across our bond, and images of our shared love of Tiktik. I loose one tear out my left eye at the touching sentiment.

Still. I’m trying to process my grief over the losses we’ve already suffered. Why is there such hatred for metallics? Other than being king of dragons once, why was Bahamut targeted again and again each reincarnation? Unless, unless it wasn’t draconic hatred, but something our Manxome Foe feared or hated. Turning towards Kinzul, my raised brow makes the query I’m too pained to ask.

Startled, blinking wide-eyed in surprise, Kinzul surmises, “The Platinum, my love, could, and would ferry souls to a divine realm, celestial, within the stars in a fashion. Do you truly believe that it is your foe, this Emperor, this false divinity, that inspired whole generations of hatred and repeated slaughter?”

Sick to my stomach, I nod to my wife. His wife. Several times over. He controls them. I was almost positive already, before the battle, from combinations of clues over my lifetimes. This last battle clinched it for certain though. The bastard did something to protect the Damnations. He steals souls, maybe the Damnations can only even steal souls because of his empowerment and control.

He had Terrorzin order Astridus to destroy Noirdivinhoz, I’m almost positive. Which would make sense, with his desire for souls, and Noirdivinhoz’s ability to send souls to their final rest, outside the reach of any on Rayileklia. I wonder if I could construct a new Noirdivinhoz, to allow souls to get out of here, off of this planet, out of his reach. The Platinum had a power, a duty to ferry souls beyond such a reach. I stand in his shoes, taking his footsteps. Do I have the same?

I blush furiously as Prinrin and Miraina lean in to distract me from my thoughts by kissing my cheeks from opposite sides, especially because Prinrin presses her tight, pert body up against my chest, and lets her lips drift near mine, while Pawn presses her softscaled body up against my left side, her chest ridge, despite her tight top, firmly squishing against my left bicep. The mother-daughter duo once again passing glares at each other, grinning slightly wickedly.

Despite blushing, I let my lips linger along the corner of Prinny’s for a short while. I couldn’t imagine spurning my deviant little old lady at the best of times, much less when she’d come so close to death. Though, I suppose I had done exactly that while she was cursed with the necromantic blight. But that was back when her taboo was still in place, when, well, before she experienced a loss that she’s still working through. Still, the air about me heats rapidly from my collar and face, as I can feel the devious grins of Teuila, Pawn, Prinrin, and my wife Kinzul.

Throbbing, my headache nearly sends me into unconsciousness with pulses of agony. Between the layers of pain I’m experiencing, I almost black out each moment. With the emotional anguish, turmoil, about our losses, and the possibility of our new conclusions, I just can’t handle the layers of suffering. I can’t even check in with everyone that I’d like to while still conscious. Thankfully, my wife, and My Wings have me covered. I let loose my grip on the waking world once more.

I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the sight that I’m waking up to. Nala, curator, orangey copper Draconiac that she is, has a fiercely lovely smile, and is beaming it down at me from above. The heft of an object on my chest, square in shape, informs me that she placed a book on me. I suppose our shared love of books could be the reason for her bright smile. Blinking blearily, groggily, I slowly rouse my senses to try to ascertain what’s going on.

I’m in a cuddle pile, a truly massive one. Nala isn’t a part of it, standing over us like this, but still. It feels like home. In more ways than one. In the cool cavern air, we’re a mingled mix of body heats. We’re–other than me apparently, due to Kinzul’s protection in some ways–a tangle of limbs. It seems my wife kept me centered on her chest as she lay sleeping, apart from the others who snuggled and wrapped themselves around each other in the night. If there’s one thing my psyche needed after such a harrowing battle, it was this.

The silken rustling of Kinzul’s satin sheets and a multitude of bodies shifting about in it is the quietest cacophony. It’s honestly music to my ears. As is the gentle breathing, the sound and sensation of the rise and fall of chests of those beloved to me. The cutest, tiniest peep arises from the pouch about my neck that contains the dracorocnix egg, and Zorro. I can’t help a bit of a silly smile as I peek in on the tiny fox fire elemental. It’s so adorable, and quite distracting.

Thankfully, Nala, in her no-nonsense manner, regains my attention, and fills me in, “Schism, friend Reggie, as you know I nearly never sleep. Moreover, you’d gifted me these marvelous spectacles with their miraculous ghostly duplicate that allow me to curate nearly twice as expediently, or continue curating while accomplishing other tasks. The delightful phantasm informed me of things that have the absolutely highest relevancy score for you, such as that sash, and tome. I’ve rarely ever witnessed a relevancy score so high. I’d hazard even perhaps saying that they are perfect for you. Truly perfect.”

With such glowing endorsement from someone as practical as Nala, even in my groggy, still-pained state, even I’m excited to see what she’s brought me. I recognize these objects from Al’pa’ca’s hoard. There are runes of, let’s see, synergy in sorcery? They–no way–grant me massive boons to my style of spellcasting.

The tome can impart its spells as temporary muscle memory, after only an hour of study, well, one at a time, up to two in a day, but that’s still fascinating, amazing. Moreover, an hour of meditation over the tome can recover a hundred SP for the reader, owner, wielder, what have you, twice a day. The sash as well benefits me so much more than any other sorcerer. It reduces the SP cost of metamagicked spells by one quarter, or ten, whichever is lower.

Between the two, my pool of power in a given day has skyrocketed. I’d say I can accomplish about three hundred fifty to four hundred more SP worth of spells in a day, if I’ve got the two hours to put into meditating over the tome. That’s something like a fifty to sixty odd percent, nearly two thirds, power longevity increase, at its best. At least if the sash applies after my quickening metamagic, basically all my spells will be ten SP cheaper. I think that I can definitely situate it such that the sash applies after my quickening cost multiplier, since it triggers off of metamagic being used, but only once per spell, and my spells have both subtle spell metamagical rigor, as well as quickening. Well, when I need to quicken them.

Woah, it also makes my cantrips, the ones that I’d found out how to reduce to one SP in cost, entirely free, like other sorcerers such as Tiktik. I can blast all day long, and with my thermokinetic connection to the cold-Fel reinforcing my cold powers once more, that frosty ray spell should be massively more powerful. I can’t help the doofy grin that takes over my face. I’m back to nearly my peak potential!

Thwap, ow. Really, both at once? Luni and Teuila, grumbling sleepily from either side of me, where I apparently lay atop Kinzul’s chest, rolled such that their hands plopped over my mouth, slapping me in the face. I don’t even need the dim light of the glow lichen within Kinzul’s private cavern den, to know who slapped me, and why. Not that they did it entirely consciously, but it’d only ever be Lu and Te. Plus, the silky feeling of their hands, the shape and length of their dainty digits, are always recognizable to me.

Lu telepathically grumbles, “Sh’u’uuuup. So loud brain, so early morning.”

Stifling my chuckle, I revel in the impossibly smooth palms now lightly caressing my face after having slapped me. Kinzul’s body radiates warmth upwards into me, a heavenly, perfect embrace without even using her arms. The scents of everyone around me tells me that Luni liberally used the soapstone’s magic to make sure everyone was cleaned of sweat, grime, and blood, before retiring. They’re a bouquet of aromas that are subtle hints of adventure, zest for life, and honestly more than a little bit of lust.

Levitating myself upwards off of Kinzul, and her amazing, but raw, injured, chest, I’m surprised to find her awakening and gazing lovingly at me, awakened by my gentle departure. Kinzul rises, strokes and kisses the forehead of everyone who’d been asleep in her bed, or is still asleep in it.

We’ve got quite the gathering. I’m surprised Prinrin is here, only because I don’t see Miraina. Prinrin’s stepdaughter Farzhis I understand of course, still grieving, being surrounded by love, and her stepmother. Veril, I know he’s just Veril, and wants to be around Farzhis twenty four seven. Lu, Lil, Ixey, Zayzi, Teuila. Lucky is even shrunk down to his spheriform stage size and shape. It’s starting to feel like a real Shellcracker family snuggle pile once again.

I’m almost a tiny bit surprised I haven’t woken up with the goblin cutie Littlebit glommed onto my hips or torso. But, like Nala, she doesn’t sleep much, and when Littlebit does sleep, she just dozes off in her work, literally. I’ve seen her clamber out of a pile of inventions and spare parts, stretching and yawning. Nala looses a soft cluck, that I suppose, for her, passes for a chuckle.I don’t know how to thank her for getting these curated, and to me so swiftly.

Waving me off, Nala comments, “Think naught of it Schism, you’ve opened a world of possibilities to me, saved Solace from Damnations, gifted me magical artifacts, and even brought me clients, aids, and helpers, to take over my duties in the library.”

Ruefully smiling, rubbing the back of my head, I nod at Nala, attempting to accept the feeling of, equanimity I suppose, that she’s expressing in our relationship. I still ache, everywhere, especially my skull, and even find my nose bleeding a bit profusely. Nala and my wife glance my way in concern, but a new arrival demands all of our attention. Nietru Devalor, with a few scraps of parchment that she hurriedly, quietly passes off to Kinzul before rushing away.

Kinzul, shocked, glances my way, after receiving the communique. Raising my left brow while the other remains furrowed from the lingering pain of the headache, I’m about to ask when Kinzul explains, “Their corpses have been found. Devoid of hearts and dragonforce of course. Laombigla and Nonnam that is. Ka’thuul participated in a minor skirmish with the forces of the siege in order to claim the rest of their bodies as meat for her forces. She of course pulled her forces back nearly as swiftly as she entered the battle, after claiming the bodies, getting out of there with them.”

Jaw, floor, hit. My eyes wide, my jaw hanging low, I can barely comprehend or believe what Kinzul just told me. Two Damnations, dead? Sure, the injured two, the ones that I nearly took out already, but dead and drained? That’s amazing! Do we have an ally out there that I don’t know about? Or–more likely you can guess Reggie–did they cannibalize the weak ones? Ugh, probably. But still, why would… Because Laombigla without the Evil Claws, no longer served a purpose, and Nonnam was already nothing but a liability being basically a sky zombie.

Also, Ka’thuul actually helped out against the siege? Well, for purely selfish reasons, but our alliance is either public now, or she has a target on her back either way. I can’t say I’m not at least a bit shocked about that. I was sure, absolutely positive, that she would only amount to being a jealous, treacherous backstabber. I still get the genre sense feeling that she will somehow betray us before the end of it all.

Rattling my skull, I try to reorient on the here and now so I can query, “My love, may I make suggestions for assault assignments for the day? I believe Lil and Lucky, being Sun and Hound, almost alone would be enough. But it’d be safer with backup, the Dormir specifically.”

Stroking my temples, trying to rub away the pain, I press my palms into my eyesockets, causing a burst of stars behind my eyelids, streaks of color and swimming spots of light, before continuing, “The group could wipe out Hareslayer’s remaining forces, and split up to head off afterwards and take out both Crepuul’s domain, then Inishish’s. Lil splitting off with Induul and Iylynila towards Crepuul’s, along with Lucky splitting off with Veril and Farzhis towards Inishish’s domain, intentionally taking a bit of a longer route, in case the other three might be able to get done early and join them to help out. Or, actually, I know someone who’s itching for combat. Instead of a slow split, at least one Spellknight could go with them.”

I wonder if I should also test Pidge and Trixxie’s loyalty. Or would that be putting too much strain on Lucky, Veril, and Farzhis, if things went pear shaped? Ugh I wish this headache would go away so I could focus and concentrate. It’d be so much easier to think and sugg–.

My goggles suddenly shout, “A rupture, Pawn and blacksmiths are fighting… something. Insects, crustaceans maybe, from the ‘Neath. Pawn’s doing her best to protect them, but they’re so numerous. Schism, she, she can’t hold out much longer, she’s blowing through the abilities you granted her. The… the blacksmiths are now attacking Pawn!”

My eyes widen enough that several tears of pain flow forth. Fighting my own pain and injuries, I struggle to stand, landing from my telekinetic float. My wife, similarly aching, her chest and neck tender, raw, stands and spreads her wings. We’ve gotta get out of here, and reach Verdimenn swiftly, thankfully my wife is of like mind, winging us away back towards the Verdimenn project space. I reach up to drag my goggles down onto my face, trying to make sense of what I heard. I’m almost positive that I know what’s going on.

Crap, yes, I shout, “Get word to the blacksmiths to close their eyes! There’s some sort of natural confusion enchantment on the reflection of the carapaces of those creatures!”

Pawn, Miraina, oh gods, please be okay. No. No no no! That hammer might have broken her jaw, it sent her spinning, reeling through the air to land in a slumped heap near a pack of the creatures. Limply, she struggles with the pouch at her hip.