The Temple had grown since its inception, first built by Children's hands and then after the dedication it seemed to take on a life of its own. Deep roots dug stone and metal from the earth, fashioned new spires upon which rooms of flesh and wood grew. Invisible arches of essence raised floating islands in the sky, reachable by walkways of golden wire. Vast pools of fire burned to light the night skies, and great leaves turned to the approach of the photospheres.
The Temple was never silent. There were always songs, hymns. Even in the darkest hours, there was the constant sussurance of whispered prayer. And the Temple always whispered back, though rarely did its whispers make sense. The Children who lived and prayed were rich, wealthy beyond the dreams of their cousins across the Eternal Sea. They wore fine silks, decked in gold jewellery and children freely played with gemstones the size of thumbs.
But no Child can eat gold. The Temple now covered vast swathes of the planet, and only continued to grow. The result was beautiful, but treacherously inedible. Starvation and sickness were beginning to manifest in the population. One day, the constant whispers and songs might stop.
As the Temple had grown, so had its caretaker. Zzdwi's roots and branches now filled much of the central ziggurat, and few ever saw the heart of the creature. Instead it would simply light one of its purple eyefires at some point along the myriad branches and speak through the roaring of the flames. Within the heart of the temple, the Curator saw and heard all.
Today, though, it called a special audience. The Prime Steward of the Temple, a Child by the name of Martos, approached the Curator's Chamber, directly below the central altar of the ziggurat. The journey took him through the Gallery of Souls, which always unnerved him. After the Curator had been Unbound by the Lord of Animation, it had retained its stance of not twisting its own people - for the most part. As with any civilisation, there had been crime and as with any crime there had been capital crimes. Murderers, rapists, those that society simply wanted gone. Instead of sentencing them to death, the Curator gave them life. Eternal life.
The Gallery whispered too. Hundreds of thousands of faces sat upon the walls, cast in gleaming bronze. They were beautiful; idealised images of the men and women that had sinned, free of blemish and scar. Behind each mask lay a pair of Children's eyes, weeping. Streams of water ran down the walls, forming a pair of rivers that ran either side of the raised silver walkway. They said that all that remained of those who were placed in the Gallery were their eyes, their minds, the masks of their face and their voice, faded to a whisper. And perhaps it was true, because the chorus of hundreds of thousands of whispers was a storm of sound as you made your way through the gallery. Most said the same thing, over and over; I'm sorry.
It was beautiful. It was horrifying. It unnerved Martos to his very soul, and it made absolutely clear what awaited those who went against the Curator's wishes.
He reached the end of the gallery and the doors peeled open to admit him entrance. The chamber beyond was spartan, cut in brilliant black marble and blazing with purple light. At the far end, centred on what might have been a throne, a vast cluster of roots, branches and leaves fanned out from what appeared to be a sort of black rose. Branches ran out from it in all directions, disappearing into holes in the wall and emerging elsewhere in the Temple. From the rose's crown blossomed a maelstrom of purple fire. The fire spoke, a deep roar quite unlike the gentle whispers of the avatar flames elsewhere in the Temple.
Malkon. Speak to me. Tell me about food.
"Ah, yes Curator," said Martos. "The problem is that there isn't enough. Under your guidance our people have grown, claimed this world for ourselves, but the Temple has grown as well. Now there isn't enough space left for the farms. People are growing desperate; some have even tried eating the Temple but-"
They died. Your frames were not built to consume the essence that permeates the structure. Unlike my own.
"That isn't reassuring, Curator. The problem remains. We are trying to ration what we have, but if the Temple continues to grow it won't work. Can you... can you speak to it? Get it to stop?"
The Temple must grow. It becomes more beautiful every day, more perfect. The Temple must expand.
Martos felt himself deflate. "Then you choose to sacrifice us. The Temple must grow, and we must dwindle."
No. You are the Temple, as much as the walls and towers and flesh and leaves. A building unused is no building, and a temple without worshippers is naught but a husk. Your ancestors told you of the Unbinding? I believe one of them was present. Your face has always been familiar, Malkon.
"Yes, my great, great... well, an ancestor When the Animate Lord freed you of the Xavrax Quotix. It's all in the scripture. And it's Martos, Curator. Malkon was my grandfather."
Really? You all look the same to me. In any case, when I held the gauntlets I possessed great power but also great knowledge. A pair of branches rose from either side of the rose, moulded perfectly into the shape of wooden hands. Liram gave me access to all his knowledge, all his memory, though he failed to realise the power he placed in his slave's hands. With the gauntlets gone, that knowledge is gone also, excised perfectly from my mind. I cannot remember it, but I can remember my own reflections upon it. I remember that I knew of other worlds. Thousands, beyond the Eternal Sea. Worlds like this one. Worlds inhabited by Children, and by other, stranger things. Other people, other cultures. Other gods. The god that created your kind, though I cannot even remember his name.
Most of these worlds were inhabited. Some were not. Who knows if this is still the case? But on these other worlds, food may be found. New farms may be established. New worshippers may be found. We need only cross the Eternal Sea.
The roaring fire shifted slightly, and lines appeared within it. The lines coalesced and began to form a shape; a blueprint for a new design.
"Is that a ship? It looks strange, like two hulls sandwiched on top of each other. Its sails are on the outside."
It is a vessel of my own design, to traverse the Eternal Sea. On this world are gathered the greatest craftsmen in all the worlds. We shall build it, with my powers and the labour of the faithful. These vessels live, like the Temple, a blend of all the forms. It will draw sustenance from the spheres it passes, provide fresh air for its crews and cargo and swim as directed in search of new worlds. It may even fly, after a fashion, in the atmospheres of the worlds you find, and if need be it will breathe fire at its captain's command.
We shall build a fleet of these ships, and we shall sent out crews in all directions. If a world is found and it is free, it is to be settled and made ready for farming. Let grain be grown, ready to be shipped back here to feed the teeming masses. If a world is found and it is occupied, parley with its occupants. Spread the word of the Temple and its Curator, and trade with them for food, for knowledge, for curiosity. Permit pilgrims to come to the Temple should they wish it. Understand; this is not a mission of conquest but of trade. Be peaceful, be reasonable and make them dependent upon us. Then, in time, we shall bring them into the fold.
You have your commands. Let the work begin.
[Minor Act] Zzdwi and the Templars construct a fleet of Transmarines, living ships capable of supporting a crew for years in the Eternal Sea if need be. They possess simple flight within an atmosphere, limited firebreathing defences and are in no way sapient.
Zzdwi has the Templars send out crews in Transmarines in all directions, seeking new worlds. Unoccupied worlds are to be colonised and farmed, with grain and produce shipped back to the Temple to support its worshippers. Occupied worlds, the crews are to parley and establish trade relations.
Author
Topic: Kalpa: A Game of Divinity (Read 20930 times)