It was a terrible storm worse than usual. Thunder echoed across the sky matching the flashes of lightning as they danced around the tattered clouds. Wind blew against the trees violently, tearing the bark away. The trees that stood tall and possessed roots that ran deep into the ground held great strength and stood strong. The trees that stood short, bent, and decayed were overpowered by the wind and were disposed of. Rain pelted down from the sky and splattered against every surface it could find. There was no place left untouched by the rain and none could escape the rain's wrath. Leaves and twigs were thrown to the wind and the birds and the bees huddled in their shelters. Hoping to survive the terrible storm. They sat in the harsh wind, where they were drenched by rain and watched in the distance, a peculiarity.
Far to the East lie a set of mountains that, despite their massive size, were hidden from sight behind a veil of dense magic. Their jagged edges and steep faces towered over the approaching storm. Its color was Stygian and their dark faces contrasted with the already present abyss. The lightning casted shadows over the jagged rocks and let the creatures who were born in darkness, roam free across the mountain range. Their giggles and chittering echoed across the valley, their sounds an organized symphony.
Near the tip of one of the peaks lay an opening were light freely poured out. The opening was at one point fairly wide, but now it was mostly collapsed. The opening was filled with huge chunks of broken rock, in such a way that would bar entrance to all but the most flexible.
Any shadow that was present was eviscerated. For in this spot light would always reign over darkness, regardless of time, power, or other means.
It was a cave. This cave belonged to the Mighty Ethion eons ago. It fell under new jurisdiction and was renamed the Cave of Mystic Veils. It's where the Oracles dwell.
The inside of the cave was damp, water plopped down from the cave ceiling and onto the floor allowing sounds to echo throughout the cavernarum. Across the floor lay bones, scales and pieces of body parts, most were covered in soot, and blackened from fire. All of these things had been used in order to perceive into the vast well of prophetic future.
The sound of footsteps echoed loudly. The Mystics known as Oracles were behaving erratically, their behavior outside of the norm. They were usually calm and collected, even laidback some may say. Yet in this instance, they felt like fools, and felt a feeling of dread in the depths of their souls. Their masks, each intricately wrought from ancient alloys, bore the weight of time, across millenia, upon their surfaces. Veins of iridescent hues snaked across the fine details of the mask, giving a sense of ephemera. A visage of a singular dominant emotion, was etched into the facial features of the mask, detailing its intricacies, no mask the same, yet none too different. The masks despite their simple complexities served as a silent sentinel, guarding the Mystics secrets. Against the backdrop of their ragged attire, pieced together from tattered cloth and leather, the masks stood as enigmatic symbols of a bygone era, shrouded in mystery and whispers of tales and ancient power.
Upon their ragged attire, standing out from the old cloth, were loose threads of golden color around the collar and sleeves. A symbol of wealth some might say, and others might garner that it was a symbol of fealty to an ancient being. Who may know? On their torsos were rips and tears from the natural passage of time, revealing pale white skin, with the ever slight indication of malnourishment.
These Mystics most of whom seemed strong and stable, yet some were obviously old and frail, if their thin limbs, and wrinkled skin could give testament to their life's. Yet the opposite was true, for they also possessed a large population of children, or young as they were referred to. A testament to their "primitiveness." They were content with their simple lives within the ecosystem of their cavernarum, not venturing out of the cave, for the darkness beyond held great horrors.
One specific Mystic stood out from the rest; his clothing was dust free, and free of rips and tears, in fact it was pristine. He stood taller than the rest at five foot eleven inches, and was the only Mystic without a mask upon his face. Deciding to carry it at his waist, where it was clipped upon a belt line. He possessed Hazel eyes with specks of green dancing around the pupil. His face was adorned with a short nose, multicolored freckles, and full eyebrows, and hair like a brown mop. His appearance would have been fairly normal by an advanced standard. Yet among his environment, he was an exception that stood out.
He tried to remain calm, yet as he passed his fellow Mystics, his facial expression changed from calm, to distressed. Slowly, the aura around the cave system changed from frantic and erratic from before, to one of being irate, and wrath. The Mystics who had been running around like headless chickens, slowly gathered around this unmasked Oracle. Their presences weighing heavily upon the mind of this lone man. His face remained stoic, yet his mind was chaotic, like a raging sea. As he was slowly surrounded, he began turning in a slow circle. He began to identify those whom he called friends, referred to only by the emotion of their mask, or for a set few by their rank. Happiness, Sadness, Loyalty, Faith, Hope, and one whom he didn't expect to show, Deceit.
Then from behind him, he heard the beginning of his sentencing.
"You've broken our laws Nathaniel Brooks, Child of Yorn." The Oracles spoke in unison, their words like a fine gavel. "There are punishments for doing such, as you know." Their words are like an approaching catalyst of judgment, made increasingly apparent by the fact they used his name, in which hadn't been used in centuries.
"Indeed I do, and yet I find myself unable to be afraid, surely I've yet to cause any real commotion?" Nathaniels voice was arrogant yet solemn.
Some of the nameless Mystics snickered, and made motions toward him in a manner of heavy disrespect, openly mocking him.
An oracle, who held the facet of bravery, spoke, "Have you no idea as to what your actions have done?"
"And what did they do, Marcus? Tell me! What did my actions do to the corrupt and sinister plans of the Priestess?" Nathaniel yelled, anger fervent in his voice.
"Corrupt? Sinister? How is there anything sinister to honoring the Sovereigns?" Marcus' voice held confusion. Though he left no room for response, "Your actions Nathaniel, are arguably more sinister than the original purpose for Honoring our masters. You see all of us," Marcus held his arms out wide, motioning to everyone, "All of us have been born and raised here. Some have seen us grow, and we've seen others come to the end of their fateful journeys. Yet none….none of them have gone against our Masters laws, most of all an outsider. You Nathaniel, have brought dishonor upon your lineage, and yourself."
Nathaniel's bones felt cold, a premonition of what was to come.
Marcus continued, "You! You came to us a lost and feeble Scion! We raised you, fed you, taught you!" Marcus fell silent, his breathes wracking his body. He spoke again, his tone softer, "and yet, look at you. Ignorant, foolish, blind to your own folly. I remember the day you took up the oath. I remember that day, seventeen years ago. You were just a fifteen year old child. Yet, you showed that you knew what it meant, I see now we were wrong. That oath, signified that all ties with your previous life was cut, and that all that mattered was what happened after that moment." Marcus took a breath, his anger returning, "It was intended for all who took that oath to never break it, for the place that they were fated to, was worse than any could imagine. We know you broke the oath Nathaniel, we are not blind, and quite frankly we knew the moment you did."
Nathaniel began to feel nervous, "I have no regrets."
Marcus nodded, "for now, but you will. For you see, we know what you've done. You've not only broken your oath, and reverted to a Scion. A being lesser than what you were. But you've renewed your clothing, you've slaughtered the live stock in cold blood, and you've slandered our law by the removal of your adornment."
Nathaniel voiced up, "What pray tell, is wrong with renewing my clothing? Is it not custom to look dignified, instead of a beggar?"
"What is wrong? Wrong? We are Immortal, Nathaniel Brooks! We have no need for looks, and feeble matters such as fancy clothing. Yes we are Oracles, Mystics, Seers, whichever title you may prefer. But we are little more than beggars, the rips and tears of our clothing signifies our sacrifice to our cause. We devote ourselves, spirit, mind, body and blood in its entirety over the course of our lives. This childish belief in good looks is just that, childish."
Nathaniel let out a long line of laughs but did not speak, well not at first. But as he was struck to the ground by a crushing blow from the right, he spoke through his now blood-stained teeth.
"Let Zima hold me!"
"Unfortunately for you Nathaniel Brooks, your crimes would not permit you to join the ranks of Zima. You know our laws well, and yet you are blind to its set of punishments," Spoke a female voice to Nathaniel's right. "The only place that you will be going is to the realm that all immortals, regardless of status and power, fear." The Mystic who spoke, was thin, and frail, yet her voice filled with power. Her mask showed Pride, a testament to her status.
Nathaniel's entire being was wrought with fear, disbelief filled his mind. 'Would they really banish him to that place? No immortal could survive there.'
Wearing a false sense of confidence, his head bowed slightly, -a last notion of honored respect,- he spoke, "As I said before, I have no regrets. That remains true, Eternal Priestess."
"So be it, do not blame me for what you will feel, nor will you be able to, for you are about to meet the consequences of your actions," Her voice filled with disdain, and no small amount of anger. Her body tensed slightly.
Silently and without any notion, all of the Mystics began to chant. An oppressive aura descended, a palpable weight that seemed to permeate the very air. The atmosphere darkened, shrouding the surrounding rooms in an ominous gloom, and an intangible heaviness settled upon Nathaniel. An ethereal glow materialized, encircling him, holding him, a manifestation of an eternal, and infinite power. It wrapped around his form, invading his senses, beads of sweat glistened upon his skin, each breath drawn feeling like a struggle against an unseen force.
The voices of the Mystics unfolded slowly, each utterance tinged with affliction, a cacophony of raspy and distorted tones echoing through the air.
"In the shadows of betrayal, you, who once embodied your garments, stand accused. The sacred vestments, stripped of their sanctity, bear witness to your transgressions." The earth trembled and dust cascades from the ceiling. The mask, previously nestled at his hip, is violently torn from the crook, surrendering itself to the outstretched palm of the Priestess. With deliberate force, she crushed it. The shattered pieces clattered to the floor, echoing through the chamber with an audible sound.
Nathaniel's throat tightened as he gulped, his head and eyes immobilized. Thoughts began to race through his mind as he witnessed the demise of the finely crafted mask. A creation that demanded four years of meticulous artistry from a block of electrum bestowed upon him by his masters, the masks life matched with his for the last four hundred and twelve. He had thought he learned enough, yet it was obvious he hadn't. The fragments now lie on the ground, their demise laden with ironic symbolism as they began to turn to dust, little more than dirt. Nathaniel was born of two deities associated with the earth, Nathaniel's pride and identity seem destined to crumble, returning to the very essence from which they originated.
"A dance with darkness, a twisted rhyme,
Whispers of crimes, through the corridors of time." Another tremble, and more dust. Nathaniel's skin felt like wrought iron, hot and filled with slag.
"Slaughterer of Pure Sacrificial Lambs, your hands stained, a grotesque tableau unfolds. Broken Oath, shattered promises echo through the sacred halls, a symphony of deceit." Small stones began to float, and the arms of the Oracle's raised. Their hands pointed toward Nathaniel, his calm demeanor began to change and hinted toward fear.
"In the eerie abyss, where shadows writhe and fear persists, your sins converge, a haunting verse, sealing your fate." Another tremble, and slowly Nathaniel began to feel weightless, his body thin and weak.
"May the echoes of your banishment resound, a reminder to those who stray, that the regal power of justice prevails." Another tremble and small chunks of rock fell to the ground just outside of the circle. The pressure of some unknown force gathering around them.
"Yet, deeper still, your allegiance frays,
Scions return, a veil upon loyalty's haze." More trembling, more consistent, as if something was watching and was deeply displeased. If one listened carefully, through the tremors of the earth, one would hear grumbling.
"Reverted status, a perilous shift,
Emotions draw you, a clandestine drift. Broken oaths echo in realms unknown, a soul untethered, destinies overthrown." The trembling evolved into a constant tremor, and the ceiling now possessed growing cracks. The ceiling began to move as though breathing, a morbid sense of desperation filled Nathaniel, his desire to stay still a fleeting tide.
"In the throes of betrayal, loyalty severed,
Your essence now adrift, forever unmoored and severed." One final tremor brought about large cracks and then silenced, as the emerald sheen started to materialize.
His body shook, and his muscles trembled as he tried to break the hold upon his body. His vascularity showed greatly as he strained, and those watching could see every ounce of detail of the muscles upon his body. Ultimately however, his ministrations of force was useless and he fell forward into the hold of some unknown force, utterly exhausted.
"By the heavenly might of Anvlo,
The Eternal grace and wisdom of Mordrer,
And by the light of Primdal, let it be known to the Golden Throne of Augustus Aurelius, and by the Eternal lights of Tomorrow, and in the Halls of all Scholars,
You are hereby banished to the planes of Oblivion." The voices of all the Oracle's sounded off in a yell. A dark emerald light shot from all of their hands and hit Nathaniel, momentarily blinding all. For those that weren't blinded, namely the Eternal Priestess, they would see that Nathaniel's garments were incinerated, and his skin and body bubbled and festered. Burning up, like wood upon a fire, and in the next instance was ash.
When the blinding light faded, Nathaniel fell to the ground, a pile of ash. Suddenly the mountains shook and chunks of rock fell from the ceiling and smashed against the ground, only in the limits of the inner circle. The last chunk of rock to fall landed squarely on the ashes of Nathaniel Brooks. Signifying his crimes, and testifying to the judgment of the Mystics.
The Mystics stood with a bated breath. The silence after the ceremony finished. They didn't possess entire authority over their matters, and they had acted without thinking. Their masters would be greatly displeased. The silence that followed made their fear grow, and the expectant sounds began to return to the cave after the unnatural event.
Had their masters noticed Nathaniel's crimes. Or was it perhaps something else that they had noticed?
Their thoughts could go no further before they suddenly could smell the aroma of ozone and the subtle sound of harps playing, yet there was more they couldn't identify, a feeling a distinct dread once again returned to them. Their fears were confirmed. Their masters had noticed, something that they wished they hadn't.
All too quickly, the chunks of rock that fell from the ceiling returned themselves to the ceiling, bringing with them the ashes of the deceased Oracle, his soul already sent to the plains of oblivion. Soon they began to move trying to pick up where they left off preparing for their masters' arrival. Although before they could make it any further, the Oracles fell into some sort of trance.
An odd aura filled the room, mystical, and extremely powerful, beyond the simple concepts of fate, and prophecy, this was…more.
A slight mist hovered over the ground and a dark green light-filled the cave. A shimmer within the air, and an audible buzz within their ears as their bodies uncontrollably swayed in place and in unison with each other, all of the Mystics began to chant quietly.
"Great Shadow reveal the secrets of tomorrow,
Great Spirits guide us
Great Light give us wisdom."
Slowly, reality began to fall away, the damp and oddly comforting cave was replaced by nothingness as far as the eye could see. If, that is, the eye could see anything. This loneliness, however, was only empty in the sense of formality for the next moment. Light exploded forth and with it came sound, a deafening roar that brought incapacity to those who heard it.
The Mystics were somehow impervious to the noise. Still in their circle, the Mystics began to change appearance, all of them, except one. Their masks melted into their heads, and their bodies crouched, slowly forming into beasts of unknown origin. Their skulls elongated into snouts, and their teeth grew unbound. They prowled around on unseen footing, maintaining their circle, but now revolving around the one member who didn't transform. The Eternal Priestess. She spoke, her voice grave, and serious. Her mask gave no indication of movement, nor did her jaws yet her voice was heard.
"Beware, O' Lastbourne, for the day of reckoning approaches.
Beware the sons and daughters of Storm, Illusion, and Earth;
For the days of their birth shall herald the twilight of an age.
Beware, O' Apothecary, harbinger of the Bane of Moon and the end of Bachelors.
Beware, O' Zadila, for the dawn of the New shall bring the specter of End, sparing none in its wake.
Child of Nephilim, Man of renown, he shall wield the power to shape the fate of nations, yet hope still flickers, for there is one who may yet hold the key to salvation.
Beware the deceit of evil,
For defeat lurks in the shadows,
Ready to ensnare the unprepared."
The voice of the Priestess echoed inside the ears of the hidden watchers.
Her words echoed a hundred-fold, fear taking root in their hearts and a sudden heaviness weighing upon them.
The beastlike creatures slowly began to reform into their previous selves, their clothing and masks taking shape, and covering their appearance. The Nothingness snapped away, returning the cave and its comforts.
The hidden figures, now visible, were given no time to reflect upon the words of prophecy, as shrieks of anger filled their ears. A harsh reminder of where they were.
"Our masters, Lastbourne and Apothecary, leave this place. You've witnessed what you swore not to, broken oaths are all that you've made, thineselves swore to never witness what you shouldn't and now thine has. Leave now, or we shalt banish thee," their voices like pin needles, sharp and piercing.
The two males left in a frenzy and within moments a gentle tremble shook the mountain, and their presence left.
Upon the precipice of exhaustion, their labored breaths intertwined with the mountain's whispers. Yet, before peace could settle, the very earth convulsed with a seismic rage. The mighty cradle of stone groaned, its vast chambers unleashing a tempest of collapsing ceilings, a torrent of rocks of such colossal proportions that even the ancient Drakons would be crushed beneath their weight. The Mystics, once upright, were cast down in a cascade of upheaval, enduring a myriad of minor wounds as the cataclysm unfolded.
Then, as swiftly as nature's fury had been unleashed, its counterpart descended. Amidst the debris-strewn aftermath, the guardians gathered their shaken resolve. Their sanctuary lay ravaged — the sacred sleeping chambers now lay in ruin, the pedestals of prophecy marred, and the sanctum of wisdom, the schoolhouse, lay sprawled beneath the weight of displaced mountains.
In the pallor of fear, they hastened to survey the remnants of their sacred abode, only to discover the cruel tableau that awaited them. Their Young who had sought knowledge within the school, lay shattered and mutilated beneath colossal boulders, their innocence entombed in the rubble. Aside from the dark ashen grays inside that coated all the previously placed color, lay the addition of several splatters and streams of dark and bright reds.
A symphony of anguished shrieks and lamentations pierced the air, weaving a tapestry of sorrow that reached the ears of the remaining four masters. Gazing upon the tragedy with hearts heavy as ancient tomes, the Mysticss grappled with the unthinkable. Why, in the sanctum of their learning place, did their revered masters unleash such havoc upon the blossoming souls of their young? The bitter melody of grief echoed through the ravaged halls, intertwining with the mountain's lingering whispers, leaving the guardians to question the very foundations of their once-cherished haven.
***
Malicious Words
As the Lastbourne and the Apothecary emerged from the sacred cave, a frenzied air enveloped them, charged with the lingering essence of prophecies untold. Yet, before they could translocate to Zadila, the poison of pride and anger coiled around their hearts, ensnaring reason.
"Who dares accuse the sovereign of Prophecy of breaking oaths to his own Mystics? To the people he trained from the ground up! Preposterous! They shall be heretics, condemned for all eternity!" The Apothecaries furious words reverberated in the darkness, his fists clenching as if he could reshape the very fabric of his ire. The Apothecary, turning to his father, spoke with a venomous persuasion, "Father, why endure their insolence? Let us teach them the harsh lessons they so sorely need, and remind them never to provoke their betters."
"No," The Lastbourne's voice cut through the air like a chilling wind, its icy tone sending shivers down his son's spine. "We stand condemned, our oath shattered. There will be retribution."
"Father!" The Apothecary's voice dripped with venom, a serpent's hiss of defiance. "Have we, high above the rabble, ever bowed to their feeble sway? Our oaths, mere shackles to constrain our greatness. Do we not wield the power of our station?"
"Beware your words, boy!" The Lastbourne's gaze hardened into glacial resolve, his tone chillingly authoritative. "Though you bear many titles—prophet, healer, apothecary, musician, lightbringer—judge, jury, and executioner you are not. Do not dare to provoke me with your reckless tongue!"
"Father," the son's voice carried a weight of solemnity, a darkness lurking within his words. "I speak not as judge nor executioner, but as a harbinger of truth in this realm of shadows. Our power, our privilege, it blinds us to the suffering we inflict upon those beneath us. Let us not deny the darkness that festers within our hearts, but instead, embrace it as a catalyst for change. Only then can we truly understand the cost of our actions."
The Lastbourne's response echoed with lingering reluctance, yet beneath his firm resolve, a flicker of doubt danced in his eyes.
"Son," his voice carried the weight of centuries-old tradition, yet a tremor betrayed the cracks in his conviction. "Your words hold a mirror to our own failings, a reflection too painful to ignore. But tread carefully, for the path you advocate is fraught with peril. Darkness may offer enlightenment, but it also threatens to consume those who dare to embrace it. Proceed with caution, lest we lose ourselves in the abyss."
"Father," his voice oozed with honeyed malice, "imagine the power that lies within our grasp if we were to harness the darkness instead of shunning it. Let us be the architects of our own destiny, forging a new era where fear and awe are our allies. Embrace the shadows, and together, we shall reign supreme over all who dare oppose us."
The Lastbourne, initially uncertain, succumbed to the insidious whispers of vengeance. "Very well," he acquiesced, a reluctant agreement hanging in the air like an impending storm.
The tempestuous storm, once a harbinger, now towered over the mountain in an ominous manifestation of divine wrath. Rain cascaded down from the heavens, transforming into acidic torrents that etched away jagged rocks, melding them into an impervious monolith. Disease, like a spectral scourge, spread through the valley, extinguishing plant life and silencing any creature that could have served the Mystics. Those who were able to hide among the recesses of the mountain's were transformed by the disease and become more monstrous than before. Becoming masses of flesh, claw, and teeth.
Time seemed to freeze as a colossal bolt of celestial light, radiant and unforgiving, cleaved the storm in two. It descended from the heavens with the might of a cosmic avalanche, impacting the mountain range where the Mystic Sanctuary lay. The earth convulsed beneath its celestial touch, shaking the planet for a fleeting moment. The impact left behind a unique crater, encircling the mountain that housed the sacred cavernarum. In its wake, the remaining mountains crumbled, and the earth lay decimated, soon to be swallowed by the advancing sea.
"Sire," the Apothecaries voice was calm but insistent, "the fault lies not with us, but with their hubris. The survivors, few though they may be, will understand the necessity of our actions. Together, we shall shape a future untainted by the mistakes of the past."
The storm, now a cataclysmic force, reached its zenith, echoing the tumult within the Lastbourne's conflicted soul.
The Lastbourne gave a solemn hum, yet spoke nothing in response. In the next moment, in a flash of light, he was gone. No dust, ash, smell, sight, or sound to indicate he had been there.
"Ahh, blast you father!" The Apothecary spoke, mock anger in his tone. He then began the long trek back to Zadilan. Starting with a very long voyage across the new sea.
***
Exposed in Truth
Having mourned the tragic fate of their young charges, the Oracles turned their gaze to the remaining masters. Four figures, three identical in their regal bearing, exuded a power that transcended time itself. Wisdom etched upon their faces revealing ages beyond reckoning. Unseen power echoed around their beings, as a mysterious wind carried faint whispers through the room.
The fourth presence was also Male. Yet he was not held with the same Oath, like the Lastbourne and Apothecary. No he held a different oath, to guide the Mystics from one source of power to the next, from wells of knowledge that would never end, lest he face his own punishments in Oblivion.
Anvlo's presence was a study in contrasts — his eyes, whirlpools of Great-Power, held a mesmerizing depth, a visible rift in the fabric of reality. His countenance was an unconventional canvas, devoid of hair, mouth, or nose, replaced only by those all-encompassing whirlpools of potent force. It was a visage that defied the norms of appearance, a testament to the mysterious power that dwelled within him.
These Masters stood tall, and without weakness, as the Mystics kneeled before them, their heads bowed, and their minds ready for order.
Their attire, ancient in style, bore the weight of eons, yet it clung to their forms with an eerie cleanliness, as if untouched by the passage of time. These were the primordials, the three Mordrer, and Anvlo. Each a living embodiment of ancient concepts. The details of their presence, from the intricacies of their timeless garments to the surreal visage of Anvlo, painted a tableau that transcended mortal comprehension, leaving the grieving Mystics in awe of the beings who held the threads of destiny in their hands.
From a source yet unknown, Anvlo spoke, "Fear not, dear Mystics, you shan't be punished for Zrios and Afron's insolence. They shouldn't have witnessed that which they swore not to. Nor should they have acted upon their pride and anger and caused such havoc and destruction of such young souls." Anvlo looked toward the three sisters for a moment, a silent conversation held.
In a voice that threatened to collapse reality, Anvlo spoke, "I hereby claim that for the next few centuries the houses of Zrios and Afron shall be cursed, their children shall be weak, arrogant, prideful, their lives filled with discord, and difficulty and no small amount of Misfortune. Their assets shall crumble, their influence diminish, and their power revoked. For their crimes, they shall dwell on the border of the Safe World, and Oblivion, not in eitherland, but inbetween. Facing the dangers of both lands, with equal standing." Anvlos voice was angry, yet a solemn tone echoed. Reality seemed to correct itself, now that Anvlos voice had calmed. Anvlo turned to the Mystics yet again, "Now, where is Nathaniel Brooks? For we have much to discuss with him."
The Mystics cringed with fear, which did not go unnoticed.
"Forgive us, but we were forced to send him to Oblivion. The nature of his crimes were severe, and as such it could not go unpunished." One brave Oracle spoke, his eyes pointed at the ground, too afraid to acknowledge their sight.
Anvlo and the Mordrer held each other's gaze for a few moments, holding a silent conversation. Then as if they had reached a consensus, Anvlo returned her attention to the Mystics, "What were his crimes?"
"Our Masters, forgive us to allow things to have gotten this way, but Nathaniel's crimes were as follows:
The personification of his clothing, the removal of his sacred adornments, slaughter of the Sacrificial Lambs, the breaking of his oath, and his reversion of Oracle to Scion." The same Oracle spoke, his voice ever so slightly meek, in contrast to the stoic bravery on his mask.
The First Mordrer Sister, Isolde, spoke, her voice sickly sweet, "Then we have matters to discuss with you Marcus the Brave."
Marcus flinched slightly, fear hidden deep within his being, raking out, taking control.
The other Mystics began to move away from the area, giving their masters ease of privacy.
"Marcus, you are brave, noble, and perhaps even unbiased." The Second sister, Elowen, spoke, her voice confused, "Yet, you act as though a frightened babe caught in a storm. Why?"
Marcus, now that he had been called out on his act, stood. He stood straight, without fear, without any fault in his posture. He stood strongly.
"My masters, this has been an act that I was forced to take. The others do not understand the power struggle among our ranks, but I do," Marcus' voice held a small, but fierce strength, "The more successful visions we find, the more they are accurate, the more times we succeed. It ultimately does not matter, for it puts us in the gaze of the Eternal Priestess. She is too prideful for her own wellbeing, Nathaniel was right,except his target was wrong. He said our ways…the plans the Priestess are organizing were corrupt and sinister. That it was wrong to honor our masters. But he was wrong, it wasnt the plans that were corrupt, but the Priestess. She's slowly ridden out the lives of her enemies, and she snuffs out those who learn the truth before they can reveal it. Like plucking weeds from the garden, before they have time to set their roots."
It was the Third Sister, Ouro, who spoke next, "Are you saying that our priestess who we designated that spot, for her loyalty, and diligence, is in fact power hungry and corrupt? A weaver of deliberate demise?"
Marcus merely gave a nod.
"How do you know?" Isolde asked.
"I've seen it my lady, before Nathaniel committed his crimes, I saw a vision. Where we had just come out of our trance, and all six of you stood there. Then we exclaimed to the Lastbourne and Apothecary to leave, just we did earlier, and such was the wrath of the Sovereigns. But, that is not all, for after that vision, I saw her, in a dimly lit corridor, one of the smaller tunnels, one of the ones deemed volatile. She was there alone at first, but then she spoke 'I know you're there Lord Apothecary, is our plan still set?'"
The three sisters stood, mouths agape, shock evident upon their beings.
"She connived against us from the begining! I was there! She hated me, hated him, and everyone from the beginning. She actively tried to hinder our efforts when we were students, and eventually hid her efforts of sabotage to a more subtle approach. No one else could see it, but I did. It wasn't long before I realized my friends, and classmates were disappearing left and right, one after another, until I was the last one except for her," Marcus took a breath, "I'm not trying to convince you of this my masters, for I'm sure you are aware, but she must face justice, she must face Oblivion! She may not have wrought Nature's Fury herself, but she is just as responsible."
"And, who among you is qualified to take her place? Who among you is a good enough candidate? Is this you're attempt to vie for the position of Priest?" Anvlo's inquisitive voice cut in.
"No, my lord. I, am very aware of my lack of skill, I know that bravery, and Stoicism can only get me so far, but surely you see that she can't be allowed to remain? I know that none of us may hold a candle to her flame, maybe except Nathaniel, but it's too late for that."
Anvlo hummed, thoughts ambling in his head, and in the silence that followed, the Mystics returned from their various tasks. It was inky then that the four masters held gazes once more for a few moments before beginning to leave.
"Very well. Do not be rash my dear Mystics, wait for now." The first of the three sisters spoke.
"After all a few centuries are but a blink to us Immortals." spoke the second sister.
"They shall get what they deserve. Don't worry." the third sister spoke.
Then the Masters were gone in the next moment, fading away midstep. Leaving nothing behind.
This left the Mystics to begin the long efforts of restoring their cavernarum, and laying their Young to rest. If for that matter they could even move the stones that hid their bodies.
***
Importance
The mountains were destroyed, the range was gone, along with the valley. What was left of the staggering beauty was a single solitary peak sitting amidst the vast oceans of power. The only things left present were the creatures of the wild, left to guard the island, and keep the Oracle's as prisoner among the cave. Those creatures, the same same who were transformed into monsters from the unnatural acidic rain, and the disease that had swept across the land.
No longer did Afron reign as ruler of the Mystics, and instead Anvlo was chosen. The Zadilan's hadn't quite realized that the Mystics, the seers they had trusted for the last two Millennia were slowly being pushed away by the arrogance, and idiocy of their own leadership.
The Zadilans didn't know of the actions of Zrios and Afron nor of the damages caused. What they did notice however was that over the course of three centuries any and all Scion children of Zrios and Afron were weak, prideful, arrogant, and their journeys beyond difficult. These demigods eventually found themselves banished from the cities they were born in, and banished to the land known ad the Between. These two large families found their ways of life overthrown, and ripped asunder over the first century, and the second they had found sanctuary in the Between. By the third Century, they defied the odds, and thrived, building a cruel, and desolate kingdom, filled with paranoia, crime, and hatred. Their rulers relentless, showing mercy to none. They mastered the traces of Oblivion that leaked into the Between, a possible weapon. They swore they would get revenge.
Oftentimes the Zadilans are described as blind with power, and while that may be true, they are however keen in matters regarding their fellow Zadilas. However, those who were wise enough, ignored the matter outright, as the houses of Zrios and Afron likely earned the ire of their Emperor.
***
Foreshadow
In a dark room Nine figures were present. The first held an aura of light around himself. He held an image of devilish handsomeness, and a small degree of feminine beauty. In his hands was a baby of average size and weight, and yet upon it was the face of an adult man, accompanied by the beginnings of facial hair. A deeply unsettling image to any who witnessed it.
The second man was short and his face covered in utter darkness, his body was lumped and misshapen, his eyes made of red orbs that gave testament to his power. His aura, suffocating and dark.
The other six figures were hidden and beyond comprehension, and beyond the sight of most present.
The Ninth figure, was a familiar man, or some might say boy. He had sunk to his knees, struggling to breath, sweat adorned his brows. A resolute look in his eyes, as hatred began to take root.
The man carrying the baby, spoke his voice like a serpents, "the day we ssseek approchesss, Zrioss, had conceived one of hiss, last ssinss, and our baness, are almosst in exisstence. We musst warn the others that the end approachess. Thesse timess will be hard, and it will be our time to sshine. Oblivion will expand, and we will take control. We will make Zaldia pay. We need a leader."
His voice was barely a whisper, and yet all heard and understood him. His words were pleasant and soothing to the ear.
Soon all would know that the End times approach.
All the figures left the room, except the one kneeling.
This Man's serpent voice spoke to the boy, "What do you sssay Nathaniel? Ready to lead?"