1st of Rekiel, 1743,
Shimoga, India.
The sky was clear, and the western sun shone brilliantly on the wet, lively plains beneath, the trees swayed in the wind as the birds chirped happily, a beautiful day, a common occurrence in Shimoga.
Amidst the plains lay a series of hills, tall, wide and filled with trees, surrounding a large and old-looking settlement. The settlement was almost entirely filled with wooden residences and constructs, with few the exceptions. In the middle of the settlement lay a tall structure, a lighthouse, a beacon for the lost. The lighthouse twisted into the sky, in an elegant but irregular way, taller than anything else in the vicinity and its pale marble-like surface was something many would stare at in awe, its light shined down on the hills, and all else that lay below.
The settlement was surrounded by a wall, tall and entirely built from stone and was slightly angled and pointed inward. When one slid their palms across it, they would feel its smooth surface, masking its implausible age.
The impeccable walls were decorated with colourful art and intricate paintings. The paintings were of people; men and women carrying torches facing their tall and dark shadows. A riveting detail was that the shadows all pointed away from the entrance, or rather the mural on the walls above the gates at the entrance, a mural of a figure enveloped in flames and afloat.
At the entrance stood two unusually tall swinging gates, they were...unsurprisingly built from wood, old but well-maintained wood. The beautiful carvings and workmanship on the gate vouched for the skill of its creator- Alexander, the wayward, someone who was welcome and dear to the residents of the strange settlement.
Nearing the top of the lighthouse was a window revealing a small and tightly filled room with its only resident deeply focused on her desk. This room had a window allowing in some light, a beam of which was projected onto a pane of glass on a wall in the room, causing it to twist and proceed deeper into the lighthouse.
The resident was a woman in her late fifties delicately taking notes in her notebook, her face was tensed and there were dark circles underneath her narrowly open eyes indicating overexertion from a lack of sleep. Occasionally, she pushed strands of her grey-silver hair brushing her face from the gentle breeze flowing through the window.
The room's lone resident sat close to the window at a desk-also built entirely from wood-near the window, to her back-left lay a bed, strewn from some kind of fibre, to her right was a large cupboard with multiple shelves completely filled with books and lastly, there was a wooden door in the middle, behind her.
Her hand gracefully and gently flew across the notebook, yet her breathing was rushed, and her face grim, she was anticipating someone...no, it was something.
As she wrote, she looked out through the window, the skies were slowly growing darker, and she stared at the clouds slowly rolling in; it was unusual for a storm to brew itself in the middle of summer.
As she stared at the skies, it started to drizzle and the skies were starting to crackle, a common phenomena in thunderstorms, which were once again quite unusual.
The thunderstorm was an ill omen for the Haik; anything that flickered did not bode well, they did not believe in inconsistency or chaos for it was unpredictable.
The old woman - Scheya constantly bit her lips, somehow the thunderstorm forming outside was not very concerning, it was what came with it.
Despite her discomfort from the storm, she continued to write, for the book in her hands held the future of her clan and her family, the Haik, those who lived in the small settlement.
As she continued to write, someone knocked her door, "Enter." she said, her voice emotionless.
A well-dressed man entered, he was tall and well-built, and seemed to be in his early thirties. His dark skin shimmered and shone in the shadows with an otherworldly glow, he stepped in somewhat nervously as he scratched his cleanly-shaved chin, his steps were large and slow.
He put his arm on Scheya's tired shoulder, "Mother, is it nearing its end?" he asked, Scheya shook her head in reply.
"I need to finish the index and seal the book, " She said. Racheya, the tall young man, looked at her hand gently flow along the pages, "Is there no better way, mother?" He questioned.
Scheya quietly smiled, yet her eyes seemed sorrowful, "This is the only way." She replied.
And they both remained quiet with grim expressions on their faces, waiting. Racheya looked around his mother's oaken room, he would probably not be seeing it again, at least not like this.
As he looked around, he observed that the room's designer was obsessed with oak, everything was built from it. He then looked at his mother's desk, toward a small portrait of three smiling people; he stared at the younger him, his mother and his...father in the small painting. Before, he had respected his father more than anything in the world, but now he had...complicated feelings.
He subconsciously adjusted his tie, and loosened his coat, and then checked if his shirt was tucked in right. He looked at his trousers, inspecting for wrinkles and at his shoes, checking for dirt.
His outfit wasn't exactly comfortable for what was to come, but he wore it anyway, it was partially because of his father's words, 'A good artist is well-dressed.' words he agreed with. He also thought a suit was a respectable choice of clothing.
While a suit was certainly not practical for what was to come, it certainly did not hinder the Haik from doing what they did, so it was their staple choice of clothing, mostly because of their...former patriarch.
He turned his attention back to his mother.
His mother-Scheya, then removed a candle and a box of matches from one of the drawers in the desk and proceeded to light the candle and drip its wax onto the now closed book and mouthed a few words, seemingly speaking into the void.
Then she titled it, 'A comprehensive study of shadows and of art.'
She handed the book to Racheya, "It's done now...you know what to do with it." She said.
Racheya nodded quietly, an invisible flame of emotion burned within him, one he would hide for a long time. He raised his hands, then his arms, slowly and gracefully, and repeated a few gestures, precise and clean, then, his shadow rippled, spread and rose to his height as it engulfed him entirely, then he was gone, it was almost as if he never existed.
The maturing thunderstorm outside was beginning to crackle, and it wasn't...natural, then everyone within earshot, those who could hear, and those that couldn't all heard, felt a terrible grinding, one that was as loud as it was uncomfortable, and then for a moment, a blinding sheet of white enveloped the sky-not a spark, not a bolt, rather a blanket of light-for a moment that seemed to last forever, and then it disappeared.
BOOM
The sound following the light, was...terrifying, sudden and quick, everyone who heard it shivered, it was time.
The sky then calmed down, a deathly silence dominated the space, still and quiet, every trace of electricity disappeared, and for a moment, there was tranquil, there was peace, an illusion to those who didn't know, a sign for those who did. Scheya knew, everyone in the settlement knew, and they all gathered outside into practiced formations, travelling using otherworldly means.
And then it happened.
BOOOM
A singular, spectacular and mesmerising bolt of lightning, large as a meteor, bright as the sun, fell onto the small settlement-village, shattering it to bits, and many...many years of culture and history were destroyed, in a single moment.
The giant bolt was powerful enough to birth a crater, charring everything within, from the center of the crater, the dark silhouette of a figure rose, then came the thunder, it was like a voice, like the voice of a god, a prophet, a higher being who was the most harrowing presence on the planet, but in reality, the thunder was just a sound, the voice was imagination accompanied by fear.
The real god, or calamity, was the silhouette on the ground, and he uttered but a sentence, one that caused all of the Haik to brace themselves.
"Feeble sculptors of shadows, you have incurred the wrath of Vajra."
And from a distance, an unbelievably large one, a pair of eyes watched, eyes that wanted to cry, that wanted to mourn, yet they did not, the pair of eyes just watched, silently and from the shadows.
Those eyes knew, the Haik fought a losing battle.
The owner of those eyes would return the favor.
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Somewhere else, somewhen else, someone stared at a book.
Razmi touched the book in his hands and sighed deeply, 'This seems interesting' he thought.
He then looked at its title, or where he thought it was - 'A comprehensive study of shadows and of art.'