An Ending

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The Wasteland – The Vedt

Eidos opens her eyes to find she is trudging through the burning sands of the northern Wastes. How she arrived here, she cannot recall. Grasped tightly in either hand are the personal effects that spilled out from her victim’s rags, the small wooden tube and the obsidian dagger. I killed her.

She had slain several inhuman Neverborn up to this point, but never before had she taken a human’s life. Her total loss of control to the forces inside her shook Eidos to the core. But even despite the constant tragedies and perpetual failures that befall her, she moves forward. Gone forever.

The terrain evens out into a flat plateau. Yet, while Eidos is now spared the exertion of steep ascents, the unrelenting wind is likewise free of impediment. Soon, a deadly mixture of fine particles and razor-sharp sand is conjured up from the ground, spiraling all about her. Eidos is forced to shield her unprotected eyes against the stinging cyclones of glassy assailants. And I did it.

Up ahead, through the whirling veil of dust and sand, she can make out a forest of white pillars, salty giants rising up from the desert wastes with a regularity belying their artificial nature. And yet the forest is vast, utterly beyond the reach of man. My body tried to stop it.

Several hundred rhythmic thuds of her feet against the sand carry her closer to the sleeping giants. Nearby, a quick flash catches Eidos' eye. Between her and the salt pillars, a massive mound half-buried in a dune of silt and sand enters her awareness. It appears to be a calcified mound with hints of cobalt blue beneath, shimmering in the midday sun. I’m the murderer.

Drawing nearer, she realizes the mound is no natural feature of the land. It looks to be the desiccated remains of a long-dead creature. Walking around it some twenty paces, Eidos sees only part of its head and spine clawing through a sandy outer crust, like the fleeing bones of a man unaware of his own death. The sight sparks a memory. The memory of a beast named Gurgadon and its tomb within the Wellspring.

Reaching a hand to its lower jaw, she gently caresses it, “Why must everything die?” Why can’t I?

The beast’s maw alone is enormous, like a cave entrance with stalactites and stalagmites piercing inward from all sides. Covered in its entirety by a white crust, all vestiges of the cobalt theoretically beneath remain hidden. This whiteness is distinct from the sands, but carries a striking resemblance to the pillars of the forest behind her.

Seeking to fit the whole creature within her field of view, Eidos backs away from the beast's mouth, and in so doing, nearly falls into a sudden depression in the sand. The displaced chunk appears to have collapsed down onto a lower shelf, a place she could certainly descend to, but would equally certainly be unable to return from.

Beneath her feet, the ground is formed from writhing, snaking patterns of what looks to be impacted salt, melted together under immense heat or pressure. Jutting up from this surface are jagged spikes of ever-increasing height, composed of the same white crystalline material that seems to cover the pillars. These spikes lead from the creature’s open mouth out into the east and merge with the salt pillars below.

She again regards the beast. The calcified layer atop the metallic husk seems to have been a trait acquired postmortem. It cracks away at random intervals, flaking off and rejoining its dusty brethren upon the desert floor. What is visible of the carcass shows the dying reflections of large segmented plates, dulling with age.

Numerous gashes and puncture wounds provide a look into this beast's violent life, as well as its equally violent end. Peering into one of the wounds, the meager rays of the waning sun unveil pools of blue liquid welled up within. Yet the sun is weak and frightened to reach deeper into this dark and deathly domain.

Feeling like a fading flame, Eidos plops down on the sand and rests her back against the fallen beast. She needs to think. She needs to decide where to go from here. The diplomat in her wants to seek out people, to help them. But when she tries to help, she only ends up hurting.

“I can’t be trusted around people.”

She sighs, unintentionally relaxing her grip on the two items she carried from the canyon. They fall to the sands, the dagger sticking upright in the ground and the wooden tube popping open to reveal a worn piece of vellum hidden within.

Eidos hesitates, wondering if she should read the words of the woman she killed.

“But what if it’s her last will? Then I could help grant her dying wish.” She adds with an ironic smile, “It’d be better than leaving things as they are.”

Thus, in search of a possibility for atonement, she reads.

MANUAL OF THE VALVORTHR

‘The Three Trials’

cr. Khloud of Kavu

The path of the Valvorthr, should one survive, will lead to judgment by Our Lady. Any who meet the stone-cold gaze of the twinned Arks will be slain. Only through the annihilation of the mind can these Neverborn be appeased.

Then will come the Nattverthr: the Holy Supper at which the Valvorthr must dine. But no sustenance will be upon at that table. Instead, one must sup upon the soup of shadows.

Third and last will come the Libation. But do not be deceived! Sip not from that charnel cup of silver, or you will have made a pact with the accursed Famlaz and be banished to the Crimson Field beyond the Graylands.

Rather, with the Three Trials overcome, you will drink deep of the Living Chalice and abide forever in the home of Our Lady, keeping faithful watch over the Enemy until her return!

Eidos lets the vellum slip from her fingers and fall to the ground, her open hands reaching up to cup her face. She cries once more for Karra. But this time, she cries only the few tears she has left. Tears will not move her feet. Tears will not keep her from further tragedy.

Wiping her eyes, she stands and looks out into the pillars of the salt forest to the east. There is nothing more she can do here. No more tears to cry. No more time to regret. Thus, she resolves to enter the unknown in search of purpose. Thus, she decides to move on.

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The Wasteland – The Salt Forest

Eidos descends with unwanted swiftness, the grit of granulated crystal causing her to slide uncontrollably, straight down the steep incline. A rather abrupt metamorphosis transforms the steep incline into a sheer drop, casting Eidos into a pile of loose salt below. The resulting impact sends a dull thud echoing through the rising white pillars all around her. The echoes reflect and collide, eventually enveloping Eidos in their mocking laughter.

Looking up, the ledge appears to be just shy of twice her height away from the pile. As she suspected, there is no going back now.

The sound of the crash lingers in the air, but soon races away from her, and this decrescendo highlights her labored breaths. Rising from the pile, the grating sound of salt on salt again fills the environs with weak but sharp reverberations. She steps into the forest, every step, every action answered back by magnified distortions echoing off the massive pillars around her.

Her view widens to take in her environment. Yet, her vision meets nothing but the rough surfaces of the pale columns, the spaces between each pillar filled by other pillars deeper into the forest. In every direction, white columns of milky crystal impede her vision. Even the sky above is obscured by the chalky giants looming over her.

However, the stark whiteness of the scene also highlights the fine particles of black dust drifting between the milky quartzite trunks with a speed that defies the stillness of the air. These particles never settle but instead glide through space as though buoyed up by invisible currents and eddies.

The absence of unique landmarks make one direction as good as any other, and as such she heads to her right, to find the southern edge of the forest.

As the crunch of her footfalls reverberate through the desolate environs, it is not long before the ledge whence she descended has vanished from her sight. Walking ever deeper into the forest, the canopy of salt pillars blinds her to the world outside. Even the hour of day is lost to her, yet all is illuminated, as the ghostly stone shapes around reflect light from sources unseen.

Then, Eidos' vision blurs and her stomach churns. The world starts to spin. Her very thoughts seem to fade, as if slowly eroding in an unseen current. While her surroundings now seem cast in even starker relief, the Glyphs within her mind feel more distant and more difficult to recall.

But soon, this revolting sensation passes and she regains her focus, forcing the sense of irrecoverable loss to the depths of her mind. She stands up, not remembering having fallen, and wipes the dark vomit from her mouth, not remembering having wretched.

Looking around, Eidos finds no directional logic to the place. North and south might as well be pointing the same way and east-west could arguably be pointing in at each other. She is now utterly lost. But as of instinct, she keeps moving.

The unending files of white clones and their unnerving stillness give the impression she traverses a frozen segment of time—an illusion betrayed by the movement of her mind, the sound of her breath, and swirling motes of black dust all around.

Suddenly, a sound.

Off in the distance…

She stands still as death. It cannot be an echo of her footsteps. She spots the fresh tracks in the salt.

Footprints.

Human feet.

She is not alone. Someone or something else wanders this forest with her.

Eidos swims through the interminable sea of white, following the dimples made in the thick sand by some Wasteland interloper. The distance between the tracks suggests a sprint. Yet, soon the stride contracts as they come upon a second set. These new tracks consist of parallel lines punctuated by heavy dimples closely spaced. Merging like tributaries of a river desperate to reach the sea, the tracks shift downhill, off toward the left.

“Two people. One dragging their feet… Injured?”

Eidos looks around and sees no signs of blood, though thick black goo dots the path carved out by the tracks. She moves to touch it, but the heat radiating from the dark substance compels her to snap her hand back.

Swept up in the flow of footprints, she lets the tracks carry her toward their makers. But with each labored step, her sickness deepens. With every pulse of her heart, her Glyphs seem to wink in and out of her awareness, walking the thin line of existence. Now, the motes of black dust do not change in shape or size, only in definition. As though holes burned into her very vision, they scatter light in their wake, endlessly spinning within her sight.

But Eidos bears it. Now forgetting what she has lost, she coughs and grits her teeth. Focusing her thoughts on the task at hand, she presses on.

Weary feet drag lines into the thickening mounds of salt. Footprints become amorphous dimples in the grainy white powder. A cough. Blackened phlegm spat onto the ground. She looks down, suddenly realizing those weary feet are hers, the footprints too. Yet still she moves in pursuit of a forgotten goal.

Pillar after indistinct pillar pass her by on her way to nowhere. Chasing the interminable trail of footprints, the heavy crunch of her footsteps announces her presence throughout the desolate environs, as though begging to be found.

Her pleas fall on alert ears further down the path of prints. There, the forgotten Wasteland interloper examines the trail. Eidos shambles nearer, soon reaching the form of a crouching woman, decked in light armor and a tattered cloak.

In the space of a thought, the warrior, calm but dynamic, looks up and in a single flowing motion, rises and unsheathes her blade.

“Draugnir or human!?” she demands, her naked blade implying the wrong answer will have dire consequences.

“Human,” Eidos replies soothingly. “The name's… Eidos, and you… are?” she manages, in between heavy breaths.

The warrior relaxes, resheathing her blade. “Then your Trueflesh is still yours… for now, anyway.”

Renewing her examination of the tracks, she adds, “But make no mistake, outlander: the Wasteland will make us both servants of the Jinnwraith soon enough. And before that happens, I've some unfinished business here. Don't stand in my way, lest you wish to know the peace of death by my blade.”

Before Eidos can reply, the warrior turns on her heel and dashes deeper into the forest. Hoping to help somehow, she clumsily follows as the lithe interloper waltzes effortlessly between the pillars. The warrior neither speaks nor breaks her stride as she follows tracks in the salt with unerring certainty.

Soon, Eidos is limping, her condition worsening with each step, and thus, the distance between them grows.

But before Eidos loses sight of her, the warrior halts having come upon an individual donning equipment mirroring her own. Yet, something about this creature standing before them is amiss. Scrutiny reveals that tears in its clothes expose secrets hidden underneath. Sickly skin, the pallor of which makes the salt envious. Soon she likewise notes the unnatural stillness of the individual. Utterly breathless, motionless, lifeless it stands, propped up against a salty column with an outstretched arm, leaking a bilious, black fluid onto the sand below.

The tracks end here and the quarry they sought now stands before them. The warrior then cautiously approaches the pillar.

“Shen!” she shouts, the weight of emotion cracking her voice. “Though the Jinnwraith's shadow may now blind you, you are forever Valvorthr!

“I bring us both an end befitting Biracul’s faithful…” she pauses, producing an amber crystal from the folds of her cloak. “We'll fight alongside Ark in the Graylands! Together, Shariken!”

The silent warrior turns its head, showing Eidos the very face of the void. The deathly pallor of his complexion is chalk-white, though deep, dark smudges run from his lips and nose streaking down his skin like ink spilled upon blank paper. The whites of his eyes have entirely metamorphosed into a milky membrane thinly stretched over hardened black orbs.

“Run now, outlander,” the interloper shouts back to Eidos as she draws her hand back with clear intent to launch the crystal. “Or you will die here with us.” Suddenly, she accelerates the crystal, just as abruptly, releasing her grip, and sends it speeding towards Shen's pillar.

Eidos is frozen, unable to process the situation.

The crystal shatters upon impact.

The sound recalls the shadow of a fading memory, the memory of a Daziran Artisan’s warning. Something about the dangers of exploding crystals.

In an instant, an expanding sphere of energy illuminates the forest, consuming everything in its wake. The pillars, the draugnir, the interloper, everything.

But its growth desists just before reaching Eidos, giving way, instead, to a cataclysmic collapse.

The sudden expansion and contraction throw the surrounding air into a chaotic frenzy, birthing myriad rippling shock waves out in the six directions.

Luin glows weakly, covering her with a meager protective shield. The initial burst propels Eidos up against a salt pillar, knocking the wind from her lungs. Then, wave upon wave of superheated air crashes over her, squeezing the liquid from her organs and boiling it at once. But soon the blast’s effects wane, and gravity finally reels her back down onto the ground.

Bloodied, but alive, Eidos' blurry vision begins to recover its sharpness.

She coughs, quickly covering her mouth. Lungs burn. Soon, a hot, inky-black fluid oozes onto her hands from every opening in her face. She sees her hands; the nails have become crusted and stained, as though she had dipped her festering fingertips in crude oil.

Suddenly, she feels her insides twist and warp as though trying to strangle themselves. Her rotten innards seem to liquefy from the wringing, and now only the welcomed relief of death could placate her.

A sudden swell of crushing agony brings her crashing face first into the salt. So great is the pain, she forgets how to think. Motes of black space eat away at her vision, blotting out all light. Her very consciousness wanes as the pain waxes.

She begins to forget who she is as her Falseflesh slowly rots.

But her Self does not wait to see what lies on the other side of oblivion. Her Self abandons this shell and makes for the Nether Edge in hopes of rebirth.

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The Nether Edge – Nargund’s Atelier

Streams of thoughts, ideas, perceptions—remembered, not truly felt—flood her Self’s mind. They converge into a single large flow, bringing with it an awareness of Self. And thus, Eidos’ Self ‘is’ again, though she now feels nothing.

A memory of hearing comes, and she knows the use of ears and their connection to her—yet, she feels no ears of her own. Suddenly, a muffled sound in the darkness. This noise brings about greater awareness and more questions still. She wonders. Just how long had her mind been submerged in this sensory deprivation?

Then comes a memory of time, that universal heartbeat—though her own heartbeat is absent. Each moment, marked only by the auditory experience and her contemplation of it, passes both swiftly and slowly. Her attention focuses on the sound. Warped tones soon sharpen into something comprehensible, something familiar. It is a man's voice. The keeper of the Farcaster.

“Little remains of Eidos' soul. Curious… Nullstone should have been accounted for…”

The man paces some, murmuring indistinct complaints.

“Perhaps I’m to blame… My daughter's twisted hand…”

She can sense no counterpart to the solitary voice, and the darkness prevents her from knowing whether the speaker is addressing her directly or if she is simply overhearing a solemn soliloquy.

Her Self tries to move, but feels no body. She attempts to speak, but only the memory of her voice remains.

Suddenly, other sounds begin to stir in the darkness all around her. Quick, decisive footsteps echo across a stone floor, the grinding sound of metal on rock, a resonance of caressed glass.

“Can you yet hear me, Viracocha? Or are you also lost behind the Door of Night? Your child failed to achieve either of our ends… we have lost. Conscientia has beaten us.” And with bitter resignation dripping from his every syllable, he concludes, “All is as it should be.”

In a flash, her Self is bathed in a flow of perfect illumination. A memory of searing pain burns across her consciousness, but it is only the insubstantial shadow of agony. The experience becomes too much for her Trueflesh and she finds herself taken by a sensation of sleep.

This time, she dreams.

Is this death…? Please?