In the chambers of King Fintel...
Niklas, prompted by the unsuspecting king, commences his inaugural soliloquy.
"Not so much, no. Ascension or descent imply up or down. This is just ... becoming more. Seeing more. I can do many things with this gift, and my mind churns with glee at the possibilities I will inflict upon the world imminently. But I am reminded of something from very long ago, in another lifetime. One that propelled me on this route to begin with. What I've started I must end, after all - I have to kill the ninjas. Then my mortal aspirations shall be more or less complete," he says, and casts an eye across the universe for his quarry.
He turns up... little. Nothing, actually. His sight beyond sight appears to be failing him. This seems like a bit of a letdown. To be expected with ninjas, of course, but to see... nothing? After all this?
"Not quite a god yet, you'll note. It's a slightly misleading process, I will admit. Partly because I'm improvising. Conditions remaining favorable, you should have a connection momentarily."
Niklas gets the impression that the king is indeed telling the truth. There's a connection forming here, beneath all this flashy magic and symbolic powers. True godhood is upon him. It is still upon him, as it has been for the past few minutes already. The god-hype is starting to fade.
Outside the progressively more ruined town of Eckledun...
Sigmund, like any connoisseur of unmitigated disaster in his position would, elects to watch the town from afar. Policy of non-interference and all that. Wouldn't want to ruin the beauty. He considers the towers of pink, the crumbling buildings, the screaming people getting carried off into the sky by forces unknown, then plummeting down fatally.
It is fairly clear that magic is involved, first of all. Probably magic gone horribly wrong, or magic intended to go horribly wrong. Either seems possible, though Sigmund keeps to the old wisdom of considering stupidity first, and only then outright malice. Is it the Black Circle that's responsible? It seems quite catastrophic, this incident. Perhaps a highly unfortunate dabbler of some kind? Would be rather unfortunate to bungle something up so badly it destroys an entire town, but that's magic for you. Magic kills, children. Often when you don't want it to. Combined with a scatter-brained enough practitioner, shit is practically guaranteed to hit the fan.
The towers appear to be rising still, Sigmund quickly deduces. In a straight path. Curious, he takes a metaphysical look at these things, trying to make them out from afar. What he sees is somewhat displeasing - the pink towers seem to be made of gibberish. Solid gibberish. All the knots are frayed to the point where they resemble a pom-pom more than a properly structured thing. It'd look fairly amusing if it weren't for the fact that the knots of the objects around them seem to be fraying by association. Some of them more than others. The pink seems to be spreading like an insidious plague, that much is clear. And furthermore, it appears to have an agent as well. Sigmund traces the path of towers, which seems to be extending tremendously quickly, and for a moment manages to get a bead on its leading edge.
There's a thing at the front of it. It's all made up of whirling ruins of what may have once been a whole mess of knots, thrashing wildly as if trying to escape from the cage of impossibility reality is trying to keep it in. Its very touch, nay, its mere presence seems enough to corrupt all things near it to one degree or another. And it seems to be on a rampage. Sigmund looks closer.
The thing looks back. Sigmund feels awfully light all of a sudden, and gravity feels like it's skewing. His four feet phase into the ground a little. It looks away, seemingly having better things to do. The effects do not abate.
In the wilderness, where the weather is fine...
Scott, like any person with a modicum of education in natural philosophy, is never satisfied when told that a forest is just a forest. He tries to identify as much as possible of the area, so that he may better know his location.
This plan falls apart momentarily when he realizes that all he can really tell about these trees is that a lot of them are probably some weird kind of pine, and that the forest itself looks persuasively virgin. There's a bunch of birds around, too. Most other animals seem to be staying away from this area.
Oh, and in the distance Scott can see a rather tall stone pillar. That's a little unusual, and doesn't seem like part of the forest as such. There's a bunch of broken garbage and blood near it, too, as he can tell as he draws closer. Definitely not a natural feature, then!
Next to a pink-plagued yard...
Mark, like any true survivor of events beyond his control, tries to shift blame onto something familiar. Like Morton. Morton can take it, clearly. He writes up a somewhat sternly worded accusatory letter of inquiry to the desk and passes it to him, then hugs Wilma, who appears to appreciate the gesture and hugs back. This creates a very firm and carefully engineered atmosphere of exclusion, scorn and incompetent reliance toward the desk, so that he may be better motivated to help them all out of this.
Fortunately, Morton is used to this sort of treatment. They never give the help the time of day around this part of the world, do they? All the same, these friends of his.
"I'm afraid I barely know anything about this, good surgeon Mark. There was a mage good tailor Craig and I was speaking to who knew of this pink, but I'm afraid I wasn't present for the conversation. Shortly after seeing him again, things have become like this for a reason that eludes me," he explains, then takes a look at the pond of pink and its wooden lily pads, floating over to the edge. "Hm. I do believe I think good sir Tee might be trying to show us the way," he mentions as Mr. T jerkily floats and blinks to the middle of the pond, then stops abruptly. Morton watches confusedly for a moment, trying to pick up on the exact environmental cue Mr. T seems to have done, but is at a loss.
Mr. T, as if to spite the guessing, disappears into the pond. The surface does not stir one bit as a result.
Outside the village of Rugish...
Kevin plays it cool and walks over to the man to socialize.
"Why, hello. What's your name?" he says, perhaps sounding a little too smooth to assume innocent intent.
The man looks at him and opens his eyes. He seems to be trying to maintain eye contact. His face is slightly red.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to stare or-" he starts to say at a quick pace, but stops himself abruptly, then takes a deep breath. "Montark. Edgar Montark. Pleased to meet you. Hello, I mean. Yes," he stammers out.
Kevin's not quite sure what this fellow's malfunction might be. He seems shifty.
In the chamber of the Crown of Flowers...
Darren bites readily at the mention of more exposition. More readily than is perhaps healthy.
"No, I don't. What happens?"
"They take your soul and peel the experiences out. The peeling is what feeds the gods. Then they cast the soul back in when it's done, probably into a little baby or maybe a blade of grass." the ghost says less than probably would normally be expected. Darren counts his blessings, and realizes he's a few short when the ghost speaks again. "And life is just the way the gods fatten you up for consumption. There is a sweet spot, as I understand it, where a soul has lived long enough and seen enough to make for a great meal, but has not become a proper long-term investment yet. And this, you see, is the crux of the issue. I do not want to be eaten by a god. Velusius wants to eat me and my countrymen, and I shall not permit it."
"But enough chitchat. Shall we do battle for the Crown, or will you retreat and face possible retribution from a god? Choose quickly, or I get the first strike. I'm growing impatient."
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Topic: Life Begins At Death - Epilogue: We Live And Live Again (Read 564273 times)