"The past is not to be spoken of," intoned a white-haired elf for the thousandth time.

"Oh, come on!" complained Damien. "Three of the Five are apparently dead. We have the Other itself knocking on our door, supposedly invited by Grungle. Another source-light was destroyed. The bowl is hanging on by a thread. We need to know what we're dealing with!"

"The past is not to be spoken of."

"Calm down, boy," said Shigeo, placing a hand on Damien's shoulder with enough force that his feet left impressions in the wooden floor.

"As much as I hate to admit it, you saw the elves outside. They are stubborn to the point of self destruction. If they say they won't tell us about the past, they won't."

"I don't suppose you have a potion of truth in your repertoire?" Damien asked Greenhair.

"I do, but it would not help in this situation. It prevents the consumer from lying, but does nothing to force them to speak."

"Potions?" asked one of the elders, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Yes, potions. I remember you. You were banished from our forests, yet you dare to return? You are no elf. You are a cuckoo returning to the nest it parasitised."

Greenhair flinched. Succeeding where the earlier barrage of spells and violence had failed, the elder actually managed to hurt him.

"From what I've seen of elves, not being an elf is an improvement," said Lana.

Damien, remembering how quickly Lana's father had turned on her, didn't think humans were any better. They were messed up in different ways, but were still just as messed up. Nevertheless, if Lana had put her past behind her, that was good for her.

The elvish elders hissed, glaring at Lana with the same disbelieving expression as if she'd claimed the sky was blue.

"Don't you dare swear at my friend," said Damien, having long since asked Greenhair the meaning of the hissing noise he occasionally made.

He took a step forward, but this time it was Lana who put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.

"It's fine. I've got this."

Sprouting the same mad smile as when she'd realised she could liquefy a high-level elf just by squeezing them, she darted forward. Damien had no trouble tracking her, unlike Fleta's movements, but the elvish elders had no hope. But despite her ability, she didn't make any attempt at harming them. Instead, she used her knife to messily shave their hair, leaving it in a pile in the centre of the room.

Greenhair gasped. The elders stared at each other in shock and horror. One fainted.

"You are pathetic. Your roots are as shallow as grass, and your fruits withered and dry. Not worth killing. Not even worth acknowledging."

Two more elves fainted. Greenhair made an odd bubbling noise.

"Come on. This was a wasted trip. Let's go home," declared Lana, turning her back on the stunned elvish audience and marching out of their chamber.

"What happened to the shy, reserved girl who camped out on our doorstep not all that long ago?" muttered Damien, observing Greenhair's strange reaction. "But I have to ask. I know that elves value their long hair, but what was that about roots and fruits?"

"Don't look at me," shrugged Shigeo.

"I've heard the fruits one before. She basically told them they had no balls," said Fleta.

Damien glanced at Lana, her mouth a thin, angry line as she stalked down the spiral staircase inside the tree with elbows barely bending. "I dunno. Telling us 'no' despite knowing what we could do seemed rather ballsy to me."

"As if," muttered Lana. "They were terrified, but not of us. Of the Five. They don't believe any of them are dead, or that the bowl is in any danger. The only reason they won't share their history was because they're too scared to."

"Wait, what? Where did you get that from?"

"It was obvious from their body language."

Damien looked around, but found Fleta, Shigeo and Grace every bit as confused as he was. "Was it?" he asked Greenhair.

"Yes, I was also given that impression."

Damien continued walking in silence, wondering when Lana had picked up all that information about elvish body language. Not to mention crude insults about their manhoods. Maybe the roots thing was an insult about their womenhoods, given that half the elders were female?

Come to think of it, back in Thale, Lana and Greenhair's rooms had been next door to each other, and well removed from everyone else. And they had tended to turn up to meals together. And the moment things had started to relax in the Thief's Wastes, they'd started going on walks together. Quite long walks, sometimes. And they both always looked very happy on their return...

Damien shook the thoughts from his head. If they'd started a relationship, or were just having casual sex, it wasn't his business. Besides, however much Greenhair had bulked up, he still looked ten. Some things were best left not even imagined.

"What do we do now, then? Try to find some of the other dragons?"

"Why not visit Jurelli? Knock the heads of a few cardinals together?" asked Shigeo.

"Because they won't be in on the conspiracy," answered Fleta. "It would be much the same as here, but instead of fear, we'd find zealotry."

"I think... it's a moot point," said Damien, having stepped out of the tree and seen the sky.

"Well, damn..." said Shigeo, staring to the west, where no source-light shone despite the time still being mid-afternoon.

The group jumped to the tops of trees, trying to get a good view of what was happening. The light to the south was still shining, but the western one had indeed been extinguished. Not a single member of the group looked in those directions, though, instead staring north.

The sky had cracked. Running from the position of the long-missing source light high up into the sky was a black, eye-sucking rift, lined by a shimmering violet. The darkness rippled, a hint of movement towards the top of the rift. A semicircle of red, moving sideways, growing as more of some object behind the rift shifted and brought itself into view.

An eye. Given the distances involved, one that was miles across. Blood red, with a slitted pupil. It moved slowly, looking at each of the islands of the bowl in turn. Then it stared down at Damien.

"Í̷̡̻̹͈̔ ̶͂͂͜͠ḥ̶͓͒͑å̴͕̏͗̕v̴͈̈ẹ̸͙͉̃͝ ̴͕̲̭͚̊͂ċ̸̬̟̦͑̀ȯ̵̢͓͒̚m̶̧̫͒̍̓͠e̴̖͑̏́͌.̸̛͍͖͒"

Damien barely winced, being used to the voice of the Other, but this time it wasn't speaking to him. It spoke to the world. The rest of the group, wearing their heavily enchanted clothing with boosted vitality and endurance, pulled pained expressions and looked away from the eye. The elves and, presumably, the rest of the population of the bowl, fared much worse.

Nevertheless, Arach-achanol paid no heed to the effects of its voice. The rift pulsed and ripples spread out, circumnavigating the bowl and leaving smaller cracks in their wake. They converged on the southern source-light, where more rifts opened, and from them emerged tentacles thick enough for Damien to see from half the world away. They wrapped themselves around the source-light and crushed.

Day—such little of it remained with only a single source-light—turned to night.

The dull violet glows remained. The eye faded into invisibility, the glow of the rifts insufficient to light it, but there was not a single soul in the bowl that believed for a second that it had gone.

Parts of the violet glow vanished and reappeared, and it took Damien a few seconds to work out they were being eclipsed. Something was moving around in front of them. More than one something. And either they were very close, or very big. Damien was prepared to bet on big.

Jurelli flashed, and for a brief second Damien could see the silhouettes of a dozen tentacles, each a mile wide, writhing over the top of the island. Then one tentacle plunged downwards in complete silence, striking the north-east of the island, and the light went away. Not that a chunk of an island being crushed made no noise; despite the two islands being fairly close, comparatively speaking, it was still a quarter hour journey for sound, at the least. The scale of the thing messed with perceptions.

"T̴͙͔̏̃̒̒h̵̘̹̀̋e̷̮̾͝ ̶̬̠̄͒ͅt̵͇͉̞̊͜r̷̲̺̅̑̈́̅ͅa̷̩̥̅̽͂͠ḭ̷̺͒ṫ̶̪̜̺̠͝͠o̸̲̤͊ͅr̸̡̰̪͊̅ș̸̻̋́́͝ ̸͖͔̰̰͗̅a̷͙̜͐͝͝ṙ̸̢̙͕́ë̷̗͓̬̚ ̴̼̫̆̽͘ď̴̛̫͚̪̱e̶̤͂̓̊̌f̵̥͒̈͊̓e̴̱̞̒͊͑ạ̶̧̛̞̈́̐t̷̫͉̆͘ͅĕ̷̜̫̳d̷͓͈͆̔̀͒.̵͕͉̇̓̇̀ ̵̉ͅĚ̶̼͍̗̗͌n̵̟̭̫̆d̴̘̈̽̓͜ḙ̸̢͔̱̈́̈̈́̚d̴̝̯̬̔.̵̛̭́̎͝ ̶̧͙̙̿͘D̸̛͎͍͎̅͑̀ͅĕ̶̦͔̘̤̂a̴̪͇͕̘̿̕d̸͈̚.̵̲͂ ̴̠̟̉͘I̸̜̦̩̎̀̑ ̸͓̩̫͖́̈̈͑h̸͍̄̀̎̾á̶̱̻̊v̸͙͉̄̆̍̍e̴͉̹͔̼͗͒̍́ ̴̩̗̲̝̔c̵̳͑̄o̴̧͎͈̐̚͠m̴̡̗̍̒͂͜è̶͚̮̙.̷̛̻̺̖̪͛̈́̈ ̵͕͙͓̇̐̃T̷͚̥͂̇͌̈h̴̬̣̽e̴̫͂̚ȋ̸̩̿r̷̥͌̉̕ ̷͖̩̩̈͑s̶̝̪͊͛c̶̨̫̀́̾̐h̷̯͚̽͆͌͝ȩ̴̭͆͘ͅm̸͔̺̪̩͂̊e̶̡̺̻̲̅̑̈͐s̵̺̺͈͋ ̴̦̳̭̤̒̈́̒͠a̵͉̞̹̥̒̿r̸̡͇̖̀ȩ̵̦͎͍̒͊ ̴̘̳͓͗̂͜d̵̪̜͊͛ḙ̵̙͝ͅs̸͕̑ͅt̷̨̪͕̀̃̓͐r̸̖̲͍͒̌ǫ̸͋̒̉ỵ̵͉̹̯̚ê̴̡d̸̖̩̘͎̈́͝.̸̘̳̝̜͊̊ ̷̺̍̿͑͆͜F̵͙̻͊̏̽͑ò̶̬̓̐͘i̷̙̺̫͂̀l̸̡͚̻̍͝ͅę̴̛̪̬̯̐͌͘d̵̘͓̗͖͐.̵̺̆̀ ̷͖̘͔͐̑͜P̸̯̩͈̻͌̅̚ȗ̵̧̠̳͎̾̈́͘r̷̥̝̄̾̓g̷͖͔͆̒͌ͅe̴͈̗̐͆̂̋ḍ̴̯̅͂͝.̵͈̾͋ ̴̯͇̲̋̈́̆͝I̴̠͓͉̍̂̐̓ ̸̦̍̃ḥ̷̠̩̙̑a̷͇͂͆͑͠v̵̳͝e̸̪̤̱̚ ̸̨̯͗̈c̷̞̳̿̊o̶̬̓m̶̗͍͈̈́͛̍̚͜ę̸̬̩̅́.̴̿ͅ ̴̬̪͋̚͝Ṫ̶͓h̷̦̻̱̹͑̋̽ë̷̥̞͙́͋͜ì̵̺̰̝͈r̵̩͉͌͝ ̸̢̼̳͉̐̏ṕ̴̙͍̻ù̵̗̳͔͂͂p̵̮̂͂̅̕͜p̸̰͍̥̆͒̌e̷͓̥̓̃̓̅t̵͍̝̕͜s̵̛͇̲̬̊͛̅ ̸̧͓͍́i̸͓͎̐ͅm̷̛̙̀͘p̶͈͍͕͂̈͋̚o̶̩̪̲͗͘t̷͖͉̹̄̄e̴̯̤͊̚n̸̪̪͝t̸̢̪̜̉̊.̴̜̞́̐͂̚ ̶̯̳͂ͅH̸̛̳̺̺͊̀̓ẻ̷̙͝͝l̷͍̼̪̓̄̕p̴̹̺̞͉̋̍̅͆l̴̠̬̹̆̒ė̶̡͇́̊̇ṡ̵̤͖̱͝ș̸̺̬͛̍̕͝.̵̝̩͚͓̋ ̷̧̽W̷͂͌̿͜͝e̷̠͖͖̐͝a̸̬̍k̵͓̖̘̘̄̅.̷̢̳͉̟́͠ ̶̺̊̑͝I̷̮͆̓͋̕ ̴̰̱̭̆̈́̅͌͜h̷̨͔͊̂͜a̸̢̤̠͆̃v̷̟̄͜e̶̖͆͊̕ ̵͓͙̥͛͐̕ͅc̵̙̤͛̕o̸̲̦͂͜͝m̷͖͕͔̫̆̊͠e̷͓̽̒.̷̖̺̈́́̚͝ ̷͓̗̌̾͌̀I̷̻͍̜̖̓̊̍͝ ̷͙͆́a̷̼͑̋ṁ̸̼̰ ̷̥̤͛͒̄Ḁ̵̯̇͒̂͠r̵̠͇͒ǎ̶͕͇č̶̮͚ȟ̸̢̙͕̗̏̇͝-̶͖͂ą̸̭̒͠͝͠c̵̙̼̥̈́̿̊h̵͚͚͊̒̍̚a̸̬̼̽̒̚͠n̴̘̘̜̕o̴̢͚̲̺͐l̶̹̜̈̓͝.̵̫̫͗ ̸̛̠͍̪̪͘I̴̮̙̹̔̋̋ ̶̫͈̓͌̀h̵̛̙̮͉̊̚ă̴̖̣̱̺v̶̧͓̤̇è̶̖̀͝ ̷̨̘̯̰̉͊̽c̸̮̯̀̃ớ̴̠͠͝m̶̲͗̈̑̚e̴͉͍͆͝.̸̢̂̀͌͐"

That one stung even Damien, and left the elves in the surroundings screaming at best or insensate at worst.

Damien almost wished he was insensate himself as he watched the violet glows be utterly eclipsed by the thousands of tentacles that descended. He felt the ground shudder as they pierced the sea around each island, the shaking intensifying as they burrowed beneath them.

The bowl lit up with the light of magic and skills as whatever soldiers, guards and adventurers that had retained their consciousness after hearing the voice of Arach-achanol launched everything they had at the descending god. It had no more effect than dropping a match into the ocean.

The ground shuddered again, and then lurched as Arach-achanol plucked every island in the bowl clean from the surface. Lifting them up into the air, as space itself continued to fracture around them. Points of white light shone through the new rifts. No-one born in the bowl had ever seen a star before, but now the stars looked down on them, for the first time in five centuries.

Damien clung to the tree as the ground tilted, Arach-achanol not making any great effort to keep the islands flat. That gave him a perfect view of the ocean, the waters rushing in to fill the holes left by the taken islands, as the god grasped and twisted, somehow, impossibly, turning the bowl inside out. No longer a concave bowl, but a dome.

One half of a whole, Damien realised. One side of a sphere, with the other being right beneath their feet the entire time. Just like the dream caused by [Mindscape].

The tentacles of the god flexed and waved, rearranging the islands back into the continent they were torn from, dropping them back into place on the restored planet. The ground lurched for one last time, accompanied by one last almighty boom, and then the world was still.

"R̶̝̈̾̚e̵̫̩̲̺͛̄̀͐j̶̛̖͐ô̸̭̙̈́̇̐i̴͇̘͌̉ċ̸̮̘̓͆͝ȅ̷̪͍̫̀͒͠.̷̞̓͜ ̸̰̖̀͠͝W̶̭̘̾́̐́h̷̠̻̓͘a̸͕̘͝t̵̢̰͑̅̅̈ ̸̧̙̜͍̐̏͆́ẃ̶͈͐́͠a̸̯͖̭͋̏̍͝s̵̨̟͐̐͠ ̵̣̥̕͜s̷̙̙̍̈́͗͗t̷̲̦̼̩̐o̴̼͍͕̾̓l̷̮̤̀̀͋͗e̴̛̦͍̋͘n̴̳͎̺͂̌̀̾ ̶̲͚́̉̋͝i̶̟̓̀̚͠s̵̫̅̀̇͘ ̴̧͌̾͐̐ȓ̵͇̈ḙ̵̛̝̬͉͆̚t̵͕̾̇͠r̴̢̟͓̠̈́͛̉î̴͇̬̀ȩ̸̢̫͓̉̃̀̅v̴̢̀̓e̵̳̦͑̐̾ḑ̶̞̰̍͋̔̈́.̴̮̫̮̏̌͜ ̴̜̻͖͈͊̽̈́̕Ȓ̷̰̣̈́̇̚e̴̞̖̝͉̾͛̈́̕s̴̬̩̎̚ͅt̴̢͊ǫ̵̮̥̿r̵̻̦̘͒e̶̻̱̭̒̈́̐̾ͅd̷̪̃́̊͑.̷̻̑̽̈ ̸̮̲̮̻̿R̸̨͕͍̟̂e̵̲̍̕͠t̵̳͔̲͖͐͛͆̕ù̵̫͎̠͓͘r̶̖̻̈n̵̘̗͊̅e̵͙̓͌d̶̡͖̯̳̈́͐̕͠.̷̧̳̥̏̀͗ ̷̡͍̓̕Ȓ̸̳̥̆͠ë̶͍̐j̵̫͖͉͊͊̊͠o̸̧̢̩̟͑̃̎͂i̴̘̼̾c̶̨̦̟͛̈́͛͜ë̶̟̗́̃̑͜.̴̖̱͉̰͛̒͝ ̵͕̤͍̈͋̚͜Ẃ̷͉̱̰̂̒͝h̵͈̜̉̌͌̎a̵̤̲̍̈́ţ̶̙͚͑̇̑͝ ̷̲̇̀̈́̌ẅ̵͙͓̆a̴͍̾̽s̵̛̮̣͈̈͆̒ ̸̙́̚b̸̢̺͎̒͂̕r̷̬̪̆͝o̶̧̅͒͑k̶̡̲̘̜̈́͛͐͐ê̵̻͓̦̫͗͠n̶̡̟̘̆͐̅͝ ̵͎͖̺͆̊͛i̵̟̹̓s̵͍͍̼̑͑́͘ ̵̨̛͈̹̳̂͒r̴̡̺͕̅̾͝ẻ̶̜̾̔͝p̶̖͇̥̣̊ä̶͚̜̘́ĭ̴̲͝͠ͅr̴̭̹̾̑ḛ̵̛̎̈d̸̝̬̣͑̂́̚.̷̖̣͕͌ ̸̟̣̾͗R̴͉̖̃͜ę̷̒̐̓͘j̷̡̮̲́͋o̶͉͌͠ȉ̴̢̨̧̈n̴͔̰͈͂͝e̵̡͈̲͓̊d̸̡͍͊̍.̶̼̞͚̄͑̅̽ ̷̜͍̋̂̊Ẇ̸̡̛̛͇̺h̶̯̚ȍ̷͙̹̅l̸͎̓ë̸̬̹.̶̛̱̙̺̐ ̸̖̩̠̃Ṟ̵̗́́͌͘e̷̩̝̻̖̔̐͠j̵͔̫̃̉o̷̠͗͒̀͌i̸̲͉͖̭̎̒̊c̴̭̞̦͌ĕ̵͇̏.̸̀̅́͜͜"

Damien wondered how many people had fallen from the islands. How many were killed by the fall? How many treading water, now far from any landmass? How many crushed under the weight of the islands as they were dropped? And what happened to any ships sailing at the time? What had that voice done to the classless?

Under the light of the stars, he watched the tentacles of Arach-achanol withdraw, its work complete and the world restored. Except this time, he could see where they were withdrawing to. Occupying a full third of the sky was an impossibly large mass of disjointed flesh and eyes. Damien stared, unable to look away. Several of the red, slitted eyes turned to look back at him.

Thoughts flickered through his mind about who had destroyed the western source-light, and how. What was the state of Hrellflan? Sanctuary? His small group was fine, and the elves seemed to slowly be picking themselves back up, utterly ignoring the humans in their midst as they stared into the sky.

Not until the sun came up, turning the sky an unnatural blue and hiding the creature of nightmares that lived beyond it, did Damien utter a single word. Two words, in fact.

"Bloody hell."