morning light

[Talon]

30 Glade 123

The Eclipse still hung in the skies but the light of dawn shone brightly over the city of Kalzasi. From the highest peak overlooking the city from the east, he hovered in the air, allowing the light of his aura to blanket Kalzasi as far as he could see. He could feel the dawnstones and moonstones drinking in the light of his aura.

This had become his routine since returning to his home. Every morning, he rose with the dawn. He could always feel it just on the horizon. He flew to the east as the shadows withdrew from across the skies in order to lock with the pathway of the sun. If the natural dawn were to be blocked, Talon would grant his home a dawn of his own making. He would hover there, summoning his nimbus and allowing the light of his aura to begin shining and spreading softly at first, then with growing light. Across the city, he could both see and feel that his mere act of doing this recharged the many dragonshard apparatuses that were being used to protect the citizenry. More than that, his work of bringing Light and Hope to his homeland was something that was desperately needed.

When he had returned in Frost, many had expected him to immediately begin seeking to campaign for the throne, to exact retribution upon those who had abandoned him or helped to imprison him. Talon had every intention of asserting his claim to the throne but perhaps not in the way that many imagined. For the moment, he had other matters that needed him more desperately. Kalzasi needed Light. His people needed Hope. He had taken the helm of leading his House and was becoming more active guiding both the Dawnmartyrs and the Sky Guard. He had not missed the nervous shift in the council chambers when it became clear that he had taken a more active presence among Kalzasi’s militant branches and factions. Most notably, Karam Senue. He suspected the reasons for that were the most obvious ones.

Talon had changed. It was impossible to deny it. He no longer saw himself as a mortal who happened to be in possession of godlike powers. He had cast off the shadow of doubt in that regard. He was a Draegir. He was the Demigod of Light, Justice and Hope. With the reunification of his soul with the whole and true part of himself, he knew of his mortal life and the lives that Arcas had previously lived. Recalling much of that information took some meditation most of the time. It was always easier to focus on the present than it was to wade through the fog of the past. Now that he could remember however, his view of himself had shifted dramatically. But though he had embraced the fullness of his divinity, there was still one aspect of that part of himself that he had yet to confront. He folded his legs beneath him, adopting a meditative pose there in the air above the mountain peak. He spread his wings, helping to center his concentration so that he could expand his senses across the mountain and into the city below.

Opening his mind to the whisper that was always on the edge of his thoughts, Talon allowed the chorus of voices to enter the forefront of his mind. Prayers entered his mind. As he matured in his grasp on how to hear them, he had learned how to distinguish the truly genuine ones apart from those said simply by rote, those said in the ceremony, those whispered out of fear, the list went on.

“Is this how you see us?” He spoke aloud. Talon supposed he could have just as easily kept these thoughts silent but speaking them aloud somehow felt more intimate, more personal.

“Are we just a hive of activity? A never ending cacophony of noise in the back of your mind?” His focus was pulled to the Warrens and through the lens of his divinity, he was guided to a patrol of Sky Guard. Among them he counted four Avialae and three humans. Each of them was on their knees. Each of them was clutching a piece of illumite dawnstone.

Prince Talon, be with us. Guide us in the Light. Guard us against the horrors of the Darkness.

There was genuine Fear in them. He could see it. Once, he might have seen the spectre of Fear and quietly seethed with righteous fury. Now? In the peripheral of his senses he thought he saw a figure of shadow standing there. The avatar of Fear Himself. His opposite. His brother. He did not banish the fear that was inside these warriors but he did use his dominion over Hope to shed a light on what gave them courage. Fear was important. It told people what was dangerous. It heightened the senses. It reminded mortals of where to tread and where not to. Having fear did not make one weak nor did it make his brother evil. Like hope, it served a purpose. He would not rob them of its purpose but he did remind their souls not to be blinded by it.

The shifting of the winds alerted him to the presence of another. Through his awareness of all things that touched the Light, Talon beheld an Avialae man clad in half-plate armor. Crimson and gold accents made the golden feathers of his wings stand out more prominently. He was a handsome man by all accounts and Talon could admit that he did find him handsome. Talon gave the appearance that he remained in meditation. Karam studied him silently, his face betraying nothing but his eyes displaying a multitude of emotions.

“Care to join me, Lord Senue?” Talon opened his eyes and turned his head slightly to look at Karam over his shoulder. To his credit, Karam did not seem surprised at being acknowledged.

“They that you see all the light touches. Is that true?” Karam drifted closer, coming to stand upon the rocky surface of the mountain top. As his boots touched the earth, Talon enacted his kinetic sculpting in conjunction with a bit of earth elementalism to fashion a chair large enough to accommodate the armored lord. Karam took a seat, settling his wings comfortably. Talon remained hovering as he partially cast his awareness back to the prayers of those whispering to him while focusing on the present conversation.

“Would it matter if it was?” He watched as Karam nodded.

“Fair enough.” The nobleman studied him openly. “I cannot imagine what you have been through—”

“No.” Talon cut Karam off. “You cannot.”

“I did not mean to—” Karam began.

“Why are you here, Lord Senue?” Talon folded his hands in his lap, his gaze remaining steady as he studied the man before him.

“Karam.” The golden winged highlord offered a slight smile. “I have asked you before, call me Karam.”

Talon inclined his head. There was a moment of silence between them.

“Will you seek the throne?” Karam looked him steadily in the face as he asked the question. He appreciated the man’s forthright demeanor. Since returning, Talon had heard of how Karam had supported his mother’s regency. He had heard how the man had brokered the armistice between a broken Zaichaer and Kalzasi. He had heard of how Karam had been a leading force in handling the delicate situation that had now befall the entirety of Karnor where none of the cities quite knew their place anymore. There were slight circles of weariness under Karam’s eyes. Talon noticed a grey hair or two that had not been there before. Karam was tired. That much was clear. War and turmoil were tiring things but the man had risen to the occasion to be a symbol of clear stability and leadership in the absence of Talon’s mortal father and Talon himself.

“I believe the more poignant question is, what will you do if that is my intent?” Talon adjusted his wings, the light of his nimbus reflecting off of the silver feathers.

“I will not recant my claim. I have proven myself as a leader. In your absence, I have made choices that shocked many. I have proven that I am willing to put the good of Kalzasi above my family's petty concerns. I can be King. I love my country. I love our people. I love the Northlands. Next to you, I am as capable as any man. If you were just a man, that is. You are not. You are a god. A god of legend no less and yet, I find myself asking…” Karam’s jaw tensed as he looked over at him. Talon saw that the man was struggling with something. “…are you alright?”

The question was unexpected. It caught Talon completely off guard. Of all the things he expected Karam to say, that was not one of them. He did not need Semblance to see the sincerity plain as day on Karam’s face.

“I…” Talon searched himself. The truth was that, no. He was not “alright”. He was far from it. He likely would be for years to come after the trauma he had suffered and faced. It had been a harrowing experience. He could not, would not, pretend otherwise. But he was the warrior god-prince of Kalzasi. He was a sorcerer that even powerful practitioners considered a prodigy in his own right. He was the scion of both House Novalys and in many ways, House Briathos as well. He was expected to rise above his struggles. He was expected to overcome his pain and suffering.

After all, was that not what the God of Hope was supposed to do? Inspire?

His unpreparedness to answer the question must have been evident on his face because Karam’s expression became one of anger.

“We should have sent an army. We should have unleashed—” Talon shook his head.

“No. No. I am glad that you did not.” Karam rose from his seat and squeezed his hands.

“But we should have done something.” Again, his sincere passion surprised Talon. But, he was realizing that whatever he had expected Karam to be, he was a man who was far more complex than his father Pavel had been.

“It would have failed. The Imperium is far more devious and powerful than perhaps any of us realized. No. It is better that I endured what I did and found my own path to freedom. Karnor, Kalzasi, none of the Free Cities would be able to withstand the direct onslaught of the Imperium. I saw what they are capable of. I was subject to what they are capable of. Believe me, Karam. We are not ready to fight them. Not without suffering greater and more terrible losses than what has been suffered already.” He squeezed the man’s hands. Karam held on to his for a moment before withdrawing.

“You did not deserve that.” Talon did not respond aloud. He had not deserved a lot of things. Yet that had not prevented them from happening.

“Regardless, I have a duty to my people. We both do. No matter the outcome of the days ahead.” Talon unfolded his legs and came to stand in front of Karam. The nobleman again fixed him with that steady gaze.

“We could do it together.” That had Talon arching an eyebrow.

“What are you proposing, Lord Senue?” A sly smile tugged at the corner of Karam’s mouth.

“The same thing I proposed on the night of your engagement, my Prince.” Karam stepped closer. “Just a chance. A moment of your immortal time.”

Talon allowed a smile to play across his lips.

“I cannot say you have endeared yourself to me, Lord Senue. The insult to my bondmate, Rickter, is still fresh in my mind.” Karam winced.

“That was uncalled for. Allow me to make amends.” Karam retook one of Talon’s hands, bringing it up to press his lips to the back of his hand lightly.

“Perhaps.” Talon allowed Karam to hold his hand a moment longer before withdrawing it. “A moment.”

“That is all I ask.” Karam stepped back. Talon considered it before nodding.

“A moment it is then. Tomorrow?” Karam gave a sweeping bow at the acceptance.

“I shall have the Ruby Palace properly readied for your auspicious arrival, my Prince. Until then.” Karam stepped back, spreading his wings and took flight. Talon watched him go in silence for a long time. While the conversation had been odd, it had helped lift a weight from his chest that he had not really realized was there. Karam was not a bad man. Talon did not want to make an enemy of him. But he would not easily give up what he had spent his entire mortal life being groomed to inherit. If there was a way forward for them, they would have to spend time finding it. Despite the stakes, it felt…normal. It felt normal to parlay in games of mortal politics. The dance was one that was familiar to him because he had spent his mortal life participating in it. It helped him forget some of the recent challenges that he had faced. It helped him feel like everything was not falling apart. He would have to take more of an interest in matters of Court in the days ahead.

For the moment however, there was another Court that required his attention. That was, if he could even gain audience with that Court. He had a promise to fulfill and it was time for him to seek its fulfillment. Reaching into the well of his aether, he allowed the flow of elemental energies to gather around him. He collected it until it crystallized in front of him. He placed a drop of sunlight into that crystal so that the Light of Dawn could continue to shine over Kalzasi, at least for a little while. He would have to find a more permanent solution. For the time being, this would at least help bolster the mechanisms that the Circle of Spells had placed around the city.

With that finished, he stepped across the threshold between the material realm and into the halls of his own divine realm where the halls of light awaited his return. As soon as he set foot upon the silvered stones of his citadel, he was greeted with a sense of relief. It was always jarring, in a way, to step into his divine realm. Leaving behind the material world of Ransera and stepping into a space that practically yearned for his mere presence, suffused with the very essence of everything that was him, that he believed in, and that he could be, it made returning to Ransera that much more difficult. Part of him wondered if this wasn’t why so many of the gods chose not to walk the mortal realm anymore.

Mortals loved and hated the gods. They wanted the gods to solve every problem and to solve nothing at the same time.

The gods were either to blame for every misfortune, the lack of preventing those misfortunes, or the paradoxical source of the solution to fighting them. On one hand, he supposed he could understand both the awe and the resentment. As a demigod, he possessed greater power and strength than most mortals could dream of achieving. He was immortal unless outright killed and even then, his spirit and consciousness would endure to be reborn in time. He could accomplish things with an exertion of his willpower what required mortal nations to compile vast resources and hundreds of minds and years to achieve.

So he had to wonder, what exactly was it that Arvaelyn hoped to accomplish by seeking this particular audience. Nevertheless, he had promised he would ask. So ask, he would.

Talon stepped up to the edge of one of the landings of his citadel in the sky. He settled his wings upon his back and stared out across the expanse of his space. He was not sure how long he stared out over that space. His thoughts drifted and he worked to find the words for what he wanted to say.

There was so much that he held inside of him. He had never felt like more than just a pawn in some greater game in all the centuries, in all the struggles, battles, and turmoil. Son of Eikaen? The only memories he had of the God of Gods were those sparse ones he had to recall. Literal epochs of time had passed since he had last been in the physical presence of his Divine Father. Prince of Dragons? What did that mean? From time to time, he received glimpses of something more than what he believed stemmed from his purview over Justice, Hope and Light. Whether those were simply tricks of being close to the Aetherium or because of his ties to his Divine Father, he had never truly been given an answer.

He had asked. Eikaen had always remained silent.

For thousands of years, over and over again, he had fought against the tide of Suffering, Darkness, and Oblivion that constantly seemed to threaten each Age of Ransera. In the Age of Wonders, he had sparred with his brother and ended the rising darkness that had threatened to swallow the world. In the Age of Conquest he had fought against the Great Leviathan, sparing the world from a tidal wave of beasts that would have sunk it into the Lost Fathoms. In the Age of Clockwork, he had fought beside heroes to stop the folly of Kaitos only for the madman to break the world. In the Age of Sundering, he fought battle after battle until he ended the rising spread of the Graveplague and stopped the Cult of Mending…for a time.

Now, it was the Age of Steel. He had been killed. He had been reborn. He had been imprisoned, tortured, and enslaved. He had found freedom. He had found his brother and together, the two of them had finally helped him break free of the shackles that bound him to the influence of the Darkness That Came Before. Seon was free.

And through it all, Arcas had stood alone. Guiding and granting Light, Justice and Hope of his own accord in order to continue giving to a world that he both loved and hated. He wanted to say so much. In the end, all he could say was…

“Father?”

[Aegis]

A soft note, that of a wooden flute, carried lightly upon the winds that spun around Drathera, fell upon the ears of all who bore the oath of the Commonwealth. The note was joined by a twining string, a bird perhaps migrating back home and calling to its companions. And soon, a crystalline voice enmeshed with them, and the song carried across the land, and could be heard by all who wore the markings of the Orkhan civilization.

As she sang, Syren flowed gently up the steps of the mountain, untiring, unburdened, her flowing sashes and skirts billowing in the morning wake. The sun may not rise on the Commonwealth, but each day Syren reminded them that spring was here. She dipped in and out from the canopies that covered the stairs, allowing the rain to kiss her skin and fled off once again. A smile was on her face, and joy was in her heart, for while the world mourned the loss of the sunlight above, her people still endured, her people still sought the beauty of life and the fulfillment of love.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, her singing turned into a humming, just as beautiful and melodic, as her heart began to flutter, her eyes settling upon her oldest and dearest of friends. There, sitting upon a ledge, her white eyes, framed by her white hair and her white tusks, was Galetira, peering off into the distance, seeing both the world before her and the world beyond. As Syren twirled herself over to her, Galetira winced, turning to face her, forcing a smile upon her tired face.

A chirp came from Syren’s tusks, “Don’t put your mask on for me.” And the smile faded from Galetira, as she held out her hand. Syren gently pulled the frail woman upright. Despite being about the same age, though such things mattered not to the demigods, Syren was the picture of youth and beauty and Galetira was the frailty of pain and time. A small, crystalline chiming joined in on the music around Syren, and Galetira purred, the vibrations soothing her sore boons. The All-Seer leaned against her friend, her lips in a tired frown, “Thank you.”

Syren looked up, an arm around her friend and lover, staring at the beautiful temples their people had built to honor the shared ideals that connected the mortals to their divines. Against the dark clouds set against the even darker eclipse above, their combined aurora provided the protection and security Drathera needed to survive, and much to Syren’s own delight, ushered in a new era of art, kaleidoscopic in color. Eclipsian, they called it.

They walked in silence for a bit, heading toward the grand stone building at the center of the three temples, the true place of meaning and worship to the Ecithian people, the Senate of the Commonwealth. As they approached the great marbled doors, doors that when locked would require the strength of a hundred Moratallen to move an inch, but unlocked could be moved by a child, a slicing sound was heard, followed by the sharpness of an approaching wind.

Syren smiled brighter, stopping their progress, as Galetira leaned harder into her, resting. Stepping out of where he was in the wilds, the largest and mightiest of all the Orkhan kind came through. Dark of skin, mighty of tusk, braids hanging over his shoulders and long loose hair down his back, Raxen walked through, dismissing the cut in reality as he did. And he smiled at his old friends.

His eyes fell on Galetira, a moment of panic in them, and he rushed forth. He knelt down before her, taking a soft hand in his, “The pain is growing worse?” His eyes were watered with concern, the most powerful seeming of the demigods reduced to a boy at a mother’s bedside. Galetira nodded, “Must it be this way? Surely I—“ Galetira brought her hand up, resting upon his cheek, before leaning in, touching her nose to his, “You know it must be.”

A tear strolled down his cheek, as he squeezed Galetira’s hand gently, and stood up to his full height. He took a deep breath, opening his eyes once more, dispelling the fears that clawed their way at his heart. Galetira leaned into him now, a post he offered freely, as Syren lightly tiptoed around to his back, whistling at the massive, curved sword of crystalline metal upon his back. As she whistled, it whistled back, the two were forming a duet, a complimentary song, though Raxen knew it to be a conversation.

When they finished, Syren reached out, touching the tip with her finger, watching as it pulled the blood from her body, and pressed the drop against the hilt. Moving around to Raxen’s front, a gentle hand snaking around Galetira’s waist, holding her close, “Shall we?”

Raxen nodded, and so Syren began to sing, her voice reaching high into the spectrum. As she did, every instrument ever conjured by mortals and divine joined in with her, and the song reached out, grabbing the nebulous aurora above. Raxen’s own deep voice joined in, a sound of earth and mountain. Where Syren’s was quick and nimble, his was firm, and strong, and his strengthened the grasp over the aurora, and empowered it, brightening the sky and spreading its influence for miles. Galetira too began to sing, her voice strained and tired, yet came with a truth and emotion that brought tears to the eyes of her singing companions. Her voice brought the song to life, breathing life into the aurora of their combined powers.

She breathed purpose into it, direction into it. The aurora then cast itself into the mountain itself, and for a long, breathless moment, not a sound was heard in the Commonwealth as darkness enveloped it once more.

Then with the resounding of a drum, the entire mountain glowed and lit up the lands around it, cascading the vibrant colors upon every surface. In the brief respite of light, shadow creatures snuck in, and now with it returned, they were snuffed out instantly.

The three friends were tired, giving so much strength to protect their home and their people before what came next. Raxen knelt down, picking Galetira up, cradling her in his chest as easily as one might with a babe. A long and hard road was ahead of them, ahead of all Orkhan and Ecitherese kind.

Galetira mumbled, “It is time.”

Raxen and Syren nodded. Syren began to sing a song, one that very few mortals knew, and even fewer had ever attempted to sing. The Song of the King, taught to her by Eikaen himself. As she sang it, the world around them began to shift and warp, and soon, they disappeared from the mountaintop.

They reappeared in the entryway, Syren dancing over to Eikaen’s wife, smiling brightly as they embraced one another, as though the hundreds of years that had passed since their last meeting hadn’t happened at all. The doors to the throne room opened silently and Raxen set Galetira back to her feet, a bit more strength renewed now that they were in the Aetherium. The three friends stared into the hall together, one smiling and bouncing on her bare feet, one leaning into her cane, fighting back the pain, and one with a thin line of lips and a fierce gaze that could cut down an army. An instant passed and all three were in their true, divine forms.

Raxen stood mighty and powerful, radiating loudly and brightly, his companion sword dancing around him, always at the ready. He was just as big as the god king himself, though his presence offered no challenge. It was no secret that the Moritasi was one of the mightiest demigods that Ransera had ever seen, proven time and again through the ages.

Syren was a picture of beauty and grace, where Raxen was hard and stout, she was slender and wispy. Her form was always in motion, and with it, the soft song of Life itself, a song that she often said was her favorite. She bore every colors, bright and dark in delicate, ever swirling balance.

Galetira, though, showed that even in her weakened state, she was a force to be reckoned with. She was a dragon crafted of stars and galaxies far deeper and abundant than the night sky hidden behind the Eclipse. Time flowed around her in a robe, and her wings carried the stories of every mortal to have ever lived. But the damage was still clear, even her divine form couldn’t hide it, one wing was bent awkwardly, a large section of her foreleg ripped away, her eyes whitened as they were in her mortal form.

And together, they stepped into the throne room, and moved to take their places in this Summit.

[Pharaoh]

30 Glade 123

► Show Spoiler

Intent: The prelude to a prayer. Arcas had barely begun to form the first consonant of his address before it was answered and he was transported to into a presence chamber... or was it merely a presence? Whatever it was, it was accompanied by the sensation that his surroundings were filtered down to something his mind might process without strain. The surroundings were majestic... glorious, but there was an air of the ineffable that whispered 'More' with every sight he beheld. Despite its grandeur, there was a warmth to the great chamber that seemed to caress the senses of the itinerant son now returning to this particular presence.

At the end of the long chamber a throne loomed high on a dais upon which sat an aspect of Eikaen. He presented himself, not as some colossal dragon, but in the shape of a mortal... the form he'd worn when he learned to love as mortals might. Upon Arcas' approach, for a brief moment, their eyes would meet and lifetimes of emotions were imparted, all of them sentimental. A father's love, guilt, concern, pity, regret, pride and so much more fell upon Arcas like a torrent. But that heartfelt moment of eclectic emotions was cut short when Galetira, true to form and with prescient intent, brought her delegation prematurely- moments before Eikaen's desire and need to uphold Order would have invited her and the other various and sundry deific presences who populated Ransera. She served as an unnecessary reminder that, with the echoes of whilom mortality, he'd already claimed more of a reunion than he should, albeit far less than he wished.

It was not the homecoming The Dragon King might have preferred for a long estranged son... He'd have preferred it to be a proper reconciliation with Suria, Seon and Arcas together in what, for them, must have felt nigh to an eternity. He knew how it felt, for he felt it with them. But Eikaen's sense of Balance demanded other concerns precede such pleasant notions. The greater force that was Eikaen shielded this fragment from knowledge of what was to come of this reunion and the greater gathering that began to assemble as his Will surged forth into the minds of the Gods of Ransera, inviting them to be heard before his throne. If this Eikaenshard who sat the celestial throne of their understanding was permitted knowledge of greater mysteries than those he was accorded, he'd not have been capable of executing his function for his son and his deific contemporaries upon Ransera.

As Eikaen's will surged out into the Aetheric Planes of the Ranseran pantheon, he would sense their intent: the prelude to a prayer, and those who accepted would be granted audience. Portals began to form throughout the great presence chamber. Vast arches through which colossal dragons might march, and small simple doors for less ostentatious and more whimsical petitioners. An ornate, golden ring through which Aværys would march appeared at the same time as a circle of barbed chains revealed the presence of his Sister-Bride. The pair would approach one another and embrace, before taking hands and turning to join the other assembling before the Throne of Eikaen.

When all who wished to be counted were assembled, standing in silence before his lofty throne, The Dragon King would speak in the bindingly veracious draconic tongue which all, whether fluent or unfamiliar, would comprehend, for it was Eikaen's Will that they did. His gaze fell upon Galetira.

"It is, indeed, time." He proclaimed, a seeming non-sequitur to all but the Ecithian trinity who'd heard Galetira's utterance in advance of their depature. After a lingering, perhaps sympathetic gaze to Galetira, he lifted his gaze to scan the greater congregation.

"Paradigms have shifted and your world is set upon a needle's point. The direction toward which it revolves or falls will be in the hands of those gathered here today...

"Our cosmos was born of a dream. I would hear yours. More than this, I would have all of you listen well to the dreams of your contemporaries. I would hear of the Ransera you all envisage and your place in it. And I would hear only unmitigated truth. Defy us with deception, and mark me: Your dreams will be deferred." He glanced down to his son, his eyes soft but his expression and his energy milder than the monsoon of emotion Arcas had felt when their eyes met moments earlier.

"I have answered your summons, Arcas, and so you may begin, and the others may speak in turn. I shall enforce no further order than this until everyone who wishes to give voice to their candid concerns has done so." He gestured for Arcas to proceed, then let the beckoning hand fall to its rest upon his throne.

[Talon]

A R C A S

Suddenly he was not a Demigod. He was not a warrior. He was not a sorcerer of great power. He was not even Talon.

He was just a boy standing before his father. The father he knew as boy…so many millennia ago.

----
Arcas stared at the monumental silver dragon with its shining scales and mercurial eyes. The dragon mother stared at him with an unnerving clarity. He clung to his own mother’s leg, receiving a soft pat on the shoulder. Two dragon younglings lay before the dragon mother. One of them was wide awake and staring at his brother. The other was napping peacefully. An excited gasp came from his brother. Seon darted forward and was in turn greeted by an equally eager wyrmling that tackled him to the ground. The two of them began rolling and wrestling. His big brother was always fearless. Not Arcas. There were many things that he was afraid of.

“Arcas?” He looked to his father’s kneeling form. Like Seon, his father was always without fear. Undaunted by anything and everything they uncovered in the many adventures their family went on. He felt like a coward. The only coward among a family of brave explorers. Gently, his father gestured for him to come forward. The boy hesitated. He received an encouraging nudge from his mother. Arcas shuffled over to his father. His father took him into the shelter of one of his arms and gently guided him toward the sleepy wyrmling still curled up safely in the umbrella of its mother’s wing. As they neared, the dragon mother nosed her wyrmling waking it from its quiet slumber. The wyrmling arched into its mother’s touch before yawning and blinking sleepily at him.

“Are you afraid?” His father’s warm voice was soft. Arcas clung to him and nodded. His father squeezed him and placed a kiss upon his brow. “It is alright to be afraid.”

“Shall we find our courage together?” Arcas nodded. His father extended a hand to the baby dragon who wobbled up and approached it curiously. Gently, his father stroked the tips of his fingers along the wyrmling’s spine prompting it to arch into his touch. He then took Arcas hand and guided it first to hover in front of the wyrmling’s snout. The baby dragon sniffed Arcas fingers before pressing into the palm of his hand. Warmth filled Arcas and he felt better. He stepped cautiously out of his father’s loose embrace and began petting the baby dragon. After a moment, the wyrmling waddled closer and began rubbing against him. His father came to sit beside him while his mother began conversing with the dragon mother.

“Courage takes time, sha’lorel.” Little Hope. “Build your courage and soon, nothing will frighten you.”
----

The memory came. It was perhaps one of the last happy ones that he had from his time as just a boy. The swell of emotions that he felt radiating from Eikaen was shared and reflected in Arcas. He tightened his jaw. He clenched a fist. Of all the forms that Eikaen could have taken, he had chosen to adopt the one that would have caught him most off-guard. He was still angry. He was still hurt. He still wanted to march up the steps of that throne and punch his father in the jaw, not that such a thing would have accomplished anything. In the end, Arcas had found his courage. He had found it after his mother had been murdered before his eyes. He had found it after his brother had been stolen and his father had abandoned him. He had been forged in the fires of suffering ever since that day. Suffering he had been forced to endure, largely alone.

He had become Hope because he had been determined never to see it go out in the world as it nearly had for him.

Many people saw Hope as a pristine and untouchable ethereal thing. Across cultures, he had always seen iconography depicting Hope as this immaculate and celestial figure that was constantly being gawked at by the despondent masses. That was not how Arcas saw himself. He was a bruised and bloodied thing. He was weary. He was tired. His muscles ached from the tension he carried. His hands were callused from the sword he swung and his arms strengthened from carrying the weight of the shield he used to protect himself and others. He was sometimes cynical. He was sometimes joyful. He was sometimes victorious. He was often defeated. But no matter what the outcome, he had never given up. He had been broken. He had been beaten. But he had always kept fighting. He always would.

And everything in him was begging for a fight right then and there. But it was a fight that would have to wait.

The Orkhan Demigods arrived and the brief moment between himself and his father was over. An arrival that brought with it more emotions. He did not know Syren but he knew her as soon as he saw her dancing over to his mother. The sight of her and Suria together stirred even more in him. More things that drew him back to that time before the world fell apart. Galetira he beheld with sympathy. There was something noble and quiet about her that felt familiar. An acceptance that he felt he knew. And then there was the final member of the Orkhan Triumvirate.

“Raxen.” The Orkhan’s name came out of him as a whisper. Again, he felt himself tense and emotions stirred inside of him. The first being of the mighty warrior holding him as life faded from him, tears streaking down that handsome face. Raxen begging him to hold on, trying desperately to speak a different Truth into reality, to make true what he wanted but could not be as Arcas first life ended. The next memory was just as intimate. A moment of desire and of love as Arcas felt the weight of a powerful, muscular body pressed against him, heat rising and passion flaring between them. He wondered if there would ever be a time when they shared in that passion again.

Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself as they were soon joined by the other Gods of Ransera. It seemed that this audience was not just for him and Eikaen alone. He saw the Solunarian Twins and for once, did not wince at the sight of them. He was glad that they were free and that he had managed to right at least one wrong from his ancient past. Then his father was speaking and gave him leave to speak. It took him a moment before he managed to find his words.

“Father.” His voice was tight but he bowed low, showing deference that was due to the Dragon King. He wanted to say many things but this was not the time or place for such things. Even if holding them back made him want to grind his teeth. Still, this presented him with the opportunity to argue the idea that he and his brother had come up with.

“Tragedy is not new to Ransera. Darkness is not new to Ransera. I know this, perhaps more than most. The current balance in that world’s cosmos has been upset, perhaps irrevocably. With it, has arisen an opportunity that I think the gods ought to hear.” He righted himself and met his father’s gaze then regarded the rest of the pantheon. He saw many frightening, wondrous and indescribable beings before him. The gods in their true forms or the forms they believed were the truth of who they were. He wondered, was what he saw the truth of what he saw them as or how they saw themselves? How did they see him? Again, questions for another time.

“The Veil has been damaged. A veil that was built eons ago with but a dream and a simple purpose. But in ages long past, the Veil was torn such that it could not mend itself. So, a god stepped forward to offer their hand to mend it. That mender was Malgar. And ever since that time, it is my belief that the Veil has been used as a vessel for his Suffering.” He let his words settle before pressing on.

“Many of you might not know this but Shaeoth, my ancient foe, is in truth, my brother. A brother that was subject to terrible suffering. He is free of it now and in his freedom he used my power and older powers to gain his foothold among those of us who reign most high, claiming his place in the pantheon. Maybe not as it always should have been but as he is now.” He wondered at what lay ahead of them. He wanted there to be a world where he and his brother found a way to be close again. That would be up to Seon and he knew that his brother needed time to heal, time to be himself, time to find himself. However long that might take.

“In his ascension, unforeseen consequences have arisen. The Eclipse. The damaging of the Veil. But also an opportunity. It is an opportunity for us to rebuild the Veil anew. To make it not just a vessel for Suffering but to be a fabric that contains within it the work of all of us.” He looked around the throne room.

“I wondered, for the longest time, why the gods had become so far removed from Ransera. Is it because you no longer care or is it because that as Suffering grows stronger, it becomes harder and harder to cross the Veil without paying a toll. A toll that grows ever steeper.” He let that question linger.

[Mirage]

Boisterous laughter filled the hall, accompanied by the bawdy voices of dwarves who drank merrily in the well lit tavern deep inside the Dwarven Holds. The fires from the forges in the lower levels sent pillars of heat upward as warm air was captured and piped through thick copper tubing which snaked throughout the buildings carved from the inside of the mountain itself. Thus despite the weather still being distinctly chilly, and the fact that they were miles beneath stone, all inside the tavern were warmed both within and without.

"Another round!" One dwarf said, taking a large gulp of some foul smelling liquid in his tankard, "Best of 24, winner gets the pot."

Though it was an idiom, the dwarf did indeed pat a large metallic pot with one hand as he said this.

"Now, now gentlemen." a man dressed in ruffled shirt and trousers said, his words slightly slurred though his eyes looked steadily at the dwarf who had spoken, "Thats what you said last game, and the game before that. I am starting to think you dwarves are sore losers."

After a booming laugh the dwarf shook his head and pointed at the man, "To the dwarves a game is not finished until one opponent is passed out drunk or thrown out of the inn!" He laughed again, and the dwarves around him did as well, bringing a smile to the taller man's lips before he shrugged.

There was an incessant buzzing in his ears which did not go away after trying to clean his ear with a finger. A part of him knew what the buzzing was, but the buzzed part of him knew he didn't want to go. The ringing grew louder, so with a sigh the man stood and scooped up the dice from the table.

"How about this then friends. One last roll. Winner gets the pot, and if I lose you may have whatever I have on my person right now." His smile grew as his step swayed, earning more laughter before the dwarf spoke.

"Deal friend. Roll the dice."

With a casual flick of his wrist the 3 dice he held went flying toward the pot, bouncing off its lid and clattering to the table where they spun in place just a bit too long. When they settled the entire table groaned and the man, Vhexur, God of Mischief snatched up the pot and backed away with a shit-eating grim.

"Better luck next time, and tell Martha not to wait up." With that he turned and opened the door to the broom closet, stepping inside and slamming the door shut much to the bewilderment of the watching dwarves.

*****

A simple wooden door, similar to that found on a ship appeared without fanfair. It opened with a creek and a man in ruffled shirt and trousers stepped out, a large tankard in one hand and an oddly shaped pot in the other. He scanned the gathering of gods for a moment before taking a large gulp of his drink and sitting down cross legged on the floor, placing the pot in his lap almost protectively.

An arch made of white marble materialized with double doors trimmed in gold and silver opened. A woman, elvish in appearance, walked out wearing a neat tailcoat and pants, both white with gold and silver trim. An abacus floated near her left hand which constantly moved shining beads from one place to another while papers appeared and disappeared around her after a single note was made with a gold pen.

A circle of petals opened as a dragon floated through, her scales an alabaster white, and her wings spread wide were similar to those of a dragonfly and changed colors depending on the angle. Her mane was a dark pink color, and a constant flow of petals were like a dancers sash that floated freely around her form. She was barely larger than a human, but the presence she gave off made it clear that she was divine in nature.

Farther back in the divine realm a gate appeared like the maw of a gigantic beast, its teeth dripping with viscous saliva that sizzled when it fell to the floor. What stepped out of this gate was a creature, one of the largest present, whose size was near unfathomable. It looked like a mix between a whale, shark and squid. A mass of tentacles along its body drug its mass closer to the assembly, and its large jaws moved as it chewed on something unknown. On its head sat an elfish woman with grey hair and yellow eyes. She appeared to have siltory heritage, and her body seemed composed of a mass of moving slime which took the form of a woman.

Close to the throne a final gate opened, shaped like a door bent and twisted in odd ways that no man could walk through it. The wood it was made from was rotted, and fingers of some kind tried to claw their way free from inside. Something stepped through, or slithered, a mass of limbs and appendages that reformed themselves once free into a tall... man shaped thing wearing a tattered suit. One of its hands held a crooked cane in malformed fingers that had too many joints, and one of its eyes was large and bulbus, glowing a deep blue as it stared unblinkingly at the gathering.

*****

There was silence that followed Talon's words, all gathered there contemplating their answers, but it was the large creature that spoke first.

"Make a path." it rumbled, voice thick and muffled like it spoke from deep under water. It turned its many eyes on Talon and spat out the thing it was chewing, a half devoured creature with many legs, "My realm grows full, and my children tire of eating their weaker kin. Make a path for us to enter the mortal plane."

.

[Pharaoh]

► Show Spoiler

Varvara’s moonlit silver eyes were fixed upon the face of the Dragon King as the son addressed him with familiarity rather than formality. The politics of so seemingly simply an utterance were not lost on the Solunarian Founders. There was not a soul under this seeming of a vaulted ceiling, under which many of them stood and others hovered or slithered, who did not know Arcas’ relationship to Eikaen. He was set apart from their pantheon and, whether out of some childlike desire to connect with his uniquely distant father or with the intention of marking this distinction before his cousin-gods, the effect was palpable. At least for those attuned to hierarchies and the delicate balances that upheld them.

A glance was cast from She of the Scourge toward He of the Sceptre, and their Solunarian eyes formed a furtive eclipse with sunlit eyes aligned in focus and purpose with their moonlit counterparts.

After a moment, Aværys turned His vantage back toward the floor where Arcas posed his high-sighted ambitions to augment… perhaps even to pluralise the Veil. At this point it was unclear whether he wished the purge the erstwhile plying of Malgar or to dilute its influence by applying the energies of their deific brethren.

Arcas was true to form, focused as he was on such large and lofty ideals. It aligned with Aværys’ long-held view of Arcas as a top-down thinker. Perhaps it had been inherited from a father who sustained galaxies that his focus tended toward the big picture. He pursed His lips as Arcas posed his query to the greater assemblage, pondering whether he ought to be the first to reply. His consideration, it seemed, lingered too long as a fell voice resonated through the chamber from a grotesque maw spilling bilious demands and seeming to ignore Arcas’ proposition altogether, preferring to focus upon its own obviously copious hungers. Hungers which even the reborn Streleon was disinclined to see indulged.

Nose wrinkled in distaste, Aværys would not delay the opportunity to speak next. He marched forth in lock-step with His Sister, the whirling energies of their complementary nimbæ forming a gyroscopic pattern in silver and gold that framed them as They grew with each step. Claiming the floor, were two titanic colossi lustrous and large enough to be viewed from any angle in the cavernous chamber.

“Your Paramount Majesty…” Aværys lowered Himself to one knee as did Varvara.

“Tuam Maiestatem Singularem…” The Mistress of Chains offered.

Glancing down to Arcas, Aværys smirked.

“To answer thy question, I think it is well known wherefore We have been long removéd from th’affairs of the mortal realm… But hither stand We reconciled with thee. We are unopposed to thine ambition to ease the suffering of the world. If the method be as favourable as th’intention, We shall support thine endeavour and lend Our effort to its execution.”

“And as to the matter posed by His Peerless Majesty…” Varvara hazarded a glance to the throne and, at a slight nod from Eikæn, rose to her feet with the jingling of her chains reverberating through the hall.

“The world We wish to see is harmonious and balanced.” Her words were spoken in Draconic as Eikæn’s own had been. “As thy cosmic kingdom stands balanced betwixt mighty chaos and Almighty Order, We would revert the equilibrium of Our world to such an arrangement. As it standeth now, Chaos ruleth foremost and, as the Lightbringer doth suggest, misery doth run rampant and roughshod o’er the peoples and civilisations that populate our planet.” Aværys rose to his feet next, to speak in the same ancient tongue.

“We care deeply for the mortals of Ransera.” And spoken as it was in a language bereft of deceit, the veracity of the claim was beyond doubt.

“We cannot claim the happiest individual in Ransera dwelleth Our domain, but we can claim that Our realm hosteth more people per capita who are contented with their lot than any other land in the world.”

“Moreover…” Varvara asserted, “We have been absent from this realm for millennia. Even in our absence, merely based on the principles We upheld in distant days of yore, do Our devoted maintain a system of unprecedented equilibrium for a people numbering in the millions.”

“Now that We are returned…” Aværys smiled, warm as a desert afternoon, “We would see a just and natural order expound in our realm and expand into others. O’er these many centuries We have evolved… Our methods and Our priorities perforce must adapt to a changing world. But Our intent… is as it ever was: To optimise the quality of life for the majority of the peoples of Ransera. To stand above, not aloof of the mortals and guide them with the deft hand of divinity.” He turned his brilliant smile toward the larger congregation of gods.

“And We invite those amongst ye who share Our goals to unite with Us in this exalted endeavour. As mortal kings tend to their flocks with noblesse oblige, Our responsibilities are even greater. Let us mend the Veil with Arcas, and mend the world with the sacred stewardship Our privileges accord Us.”

Eikaen nodded in acknowledgement, when it was clear that the Solunarian delegation had completed their intended statement. The Dragon King looked out over the other assembled entities. He'd made it clear that this was to be an open forum. All present would know what a rare and aberrant thing this opportunity was. If they chose to squander it, many present may not have the chance again while they drew breath in their present forms or any other. He let the moment linger, in case anyone else wished to contribute to the discourse but, if not, he would prepare to speak on what had been said by those bold enough to lend voice to their passions.

[Kala Leukos]

.

'Twas the strangest of days.

Betimes she wondered if Lord Minister Tianoch had taught himself to sleep with his eyes open. There came a pause in her report on humanitarian aid sent to the fragmented survivors of Zaichaer, aid she had championed and sold to him as investment in a future market for Kalzasern goods. His silence stretched on for longer than was polite, and only then did she notice that his aura was locked. While souls had patterns, they were in constant flux—sometimes great, sometimes not. They were never static. She was about to call for her aide, but she could sense him in the room beyond: Kanedama's aura was similarly fixed.

She smelled something familiar, dark and floral, and she felt her nimbus slip out from her tight control to bloom like a springtime bud before the smiling sun.

"Mother."

A hand took hers, holding her up even as she began to kneel.

*~*~*

Nobody saw them enter.

Well, perhaps Eikaen did. The Masked Queen was His equal, however, and Kala was Her handmaiden. She felt her nimbus respond to His, and perhaps He responded without words, in the manner of Gods still unknowably greater than she had risen herself. She bowed, and felt herself acknowledged whether He spoke to her or not.

The Masked Queen sat opposite the Dragon King, and Kala stood behind Her, masked by the obfuscating power of her patroness. If any laid eyes upon her, they might see a masked woman, her mantle the velvet throat of night, bedecked with stars. Perhaps some would simply see a star, twinkling and remote, observing.

When the Dragon King spoke in the tongue of dragons, her heart began to race. She could understand the words and she could hear them, and she tried to let those words be the primer for her study. Garel of Atoria had given her a book encoded in that nigh impossible language, and so perhaps Naori had brought her here to learn draconic from their king. She heard much. She thought much. The elves of the desert had their Elven gods; the Orkhan of Ecith had their orkhan gods. Were she and Arcas' newest reincarnation meant to be Avialae gods? Was there some hidden meaning in the mortal races of those Draegir and Moritasi who had lived mortal lives? Her mind shuddered away from the consequences of such lines of thought, but she would think upon them again later.

Perhaps she ought to seek the Twins. She had a twin as well, a possible bridge between her and Phocion's gods. Surely Unity wasn't only for Avialae, for Kalzasi.

Kala had her own experience with the southron tower, but Arcas filled in some of the blanks.

She still had questions—so many questions—but she was the least of those here gathered and so, with humility, she remained a silent observer for the nonce.

.

[Rickter]

Morning Light
Glade 30, 123rd Year, A.o.S.

Though it had always taken a while for the warmth to return to the north once Glade hit, winter still seemed intent to linger within Kalzasi's domain. To a degree the wolf couldn't help but wonder, suspect even, that he might've had something to do with that. He had so many questions regarding his own self, and the divinity that had awoken inside of him during that quest into the deep below. Novuril had been attained, and Talon freed from his prison not long after. Yet still... uneasiness stirred in Rickter's heart, and even as he ruminated on the changes still to come...

He could not help but look up into that powdered sky.

Snow always seemed to accompany him in one form or another now. Yet he would never feel its cold again, not when it had become an integral part of his being. "Lord Eikean..." His thoughts meandered to the summer of last year, and the events that played out which led him to being the person he was today. He had so much he still needed to say, so much to do in the days to come, that the wolf hardly had any inclination on where to actually begin. It had been a long time since he'd taken to address the God of Gods himself, however, Rickter had never once forgotten the dreams he once held prior to their last meeting.

Yet what he did not expect was the stroke of aether that rushed through him. He felt the nudge of a greater hand come over him, as he staggered from the sudden manifestation of his nimbus. Snow cloaked him briefly with the swirl of the wind, and as he caught himself on one knee he found that he no longer stood within the gardens of the House of Waves. Words were exchanged where he had arrived, as the wolf realized he had reached a place that not only smelled familiar, but resonated with every fiber of his being as it had before. Rickter had returned to Eikean's court.

Only this time not as a mortal. However auspicious as this might've been, for the wolf had long sought another audience with the King of all dragons. It dawned on him that others had come before he had arrived, and the wolf's eyes gradually scoured the room to take in all who had presented themselves. Gods he had never met, Gods he had grown familiar with over the course of the seasons, therefore, it appeared that a summit had been called between those gathered and the One who resided the throne. Talon was noticeably the one Rickter looked to endearingly, hopeful even, before his gaze shifted to heed the proceedings of the rest gathered here today.

Today would mark the turning point of history for Ransera.

"Common" "Synskrit" "Norvaegan"
"Rickter" "Telion" "Hannah" "Patrick"

[Aegis]

The Triumvirate were silent, watching and listening. There had never been a summit of the gods such as this for so terribly long. Normally the three were in unison in their shared beliefs in the world, in how to best be the gods to the mortals in their care. Raxen glanced over at Galetira, that was before the Eclipse arrived. He could see what he suspected very few of those present would be able to actually see. The others would be able to see the injuries upon majestic draconic form, injuries that went beyond those of simply an avatar. These ran deep, and would be present in any form she took, similar to how her eyes had gone white after the Sundering. But those that could see more than the average of god would see a festering darkness working its way into its wounds, a fungus slowly seeping into her most divine of forms.

The Fated Eclipse was changing everything, not just the mortals perception of the world. All the destinies, including of those in this room, had been changed. His eyes cut across the room, landing on the nondescript god, standing quietly in the room. The one who had created all of Orkhan kind, had brought suffering in spades for generation after generation in Ecith and all through the world. The one who Raxen knew to be responsible for much of the strength of Orkhan kind, even leading to the birth of the Triumvirate themselves. Some had called him and his Suffering a necessary evil, but it was not truly evil. No, without suffering, the world has less color, less beauty, less love in it. But Arcas, his dearest Arcas, was right. The balance had long been tilted askew.

And Raxen knew the consequences of a world out of balance, far more so than most. He knew just how much Suffering could be inflicted and spread and reproduced and grown, and he knew this by his own hand. By the scars on his own heart. He watched as Galetira raised her head, speaking. He knew what she would say, for she did speak for the three of them, the wisest of them all.

Tiredly, "Achieving this balance is paramount. To repair the Veil is a task worth doing, an one requiring the combined efforts of us all. However..." She looked over at Arcas now, "Perhaps rather than all of us weaving our essences together in an attempt to balance out the Suffering that has been in place, might I suggest we repair it together, without weaving our domains into it at all. Use the Veil for its original purpose and not as a Vessel for us all."

She glanced around, "We do not even have balance amongst ourselves. Our own numbers have been severely depleted, new gods wearing the mantles of those who have fallen or gone dormant are not rising to the challenge. Perhaps too many are being smothered by the Suffering after all." She looked up at Eikaen himself, "But with a pantheon out of balance, we risk creating a Veil further out of balance as well." She looked somberly at her two companions, "All here have suffered in their own right. All here have bled and lost to further the mortal cause in some fashion or another." She stared over at Arcas once more, her eyes saddened, a mother hearing the heartbreak a child has befallen, "But none have cared too little." She smiled over at the Twins, "Just as those within your care have flourished under your guidance even while your presence was gone, so have our own. A lighter touch is all that is needed so that the mortals may build their own Destinies. A child must be allowed to grow and survive without a parent's presence, but the teachings they receive will endure."

She cast her eyes upon Malgar now, "We of the Triumvirate support the removal of Suffering from the Veil, and the repairing of the Veil. But to think us capable of finding balance when there is none currently is short sighted. Remove the Suffering, so the mortals may grow and reach ever further, so our own ranks might be bolstered. And if we can find balance in our pantheon once more, we can revisit this topic once more."

She cast one final look to Kala and to Rickter, "Welcome, both of you. To see new faces again brings joy to our hearts."

She lowered her head, indicating she was finished. Every word she said was true, and her companions held the same belief as her. As she slumped in her tiredness, Syren caught her, carefully so as to not touch the corruption that was attempting to spread. Raxen though, had his eyes cast on Arcas, and a thought was sent to the god.

"She awaits you on Ailos. Come, we have much to discuss."

The Triumvirate was silent, having no other new business with which to raise.

[Pharaoh]

Eikaen inclined his head in acknowledgement as Naori took her place across the vast hall. Her presence was as welcome as it was necessary and as she claimed her rightful throne it shifted in appearance. What was once a symmetrical simulacrum of the imposing throne Eikaen sat, warped toward a more suitably abstruse design. His gaze trailed briefly to her recently-deified handmaiden, before resting upon another winged figure who stepped forth.

Eikaen looked on impassively as Arcas took a moment to collect himself, before beginning with a weighty word of address. If the Dragon King had any feelings on the choice toward familiarity over formality, one would find no sign of it etched into his stately visage. Not even the twitch of a lip or the glint of an eye would mark a response beyond passive interest in what was being said, as Arcas made his case. Even at the mention of Shaeoth's suffering, no outward expression of emotion would chip away at his colossal countenance. When Arcas was through, he would regard Thultu's brief address with the same stoicism Arcas had been accorded. Each speaker would be received in turn and in kind.

When Galetira spoke her last, Eikaen would pause to slowly regard the whole of the assemblage... those who'd made their voices heard and those who'd listened an remained silent out of fear, ambivalence, unconcern or modesty.

"Several of today's orators have touched upon the reason I chose to oblige an entreaty for an audience after so much time... and the reason I invited all of you to attend it. I have heard your concerns, and so have your divine brethren, but it is not mine to mend your world when I have a universe to sustain. I maintain a colossal cosmic balance so that all of you can create, maintain or destroy equilibrium on this smaller stage.

"Over countless centuries I have heard every mortal prayer, whether or not they were uttered for my ears or considered in private meditation. So many pleas for Divine Intervention to right wrongs, heal wounds, ease suffering... If I were to intervene directly and answer every prayer myself, what a dull and soulless world it would create. Instead my answer is indirect. Instead my answer is you. In Ransera I have engendered a world populated with gods who might choose to appease mortal pleas, or to ignore them and pursue their own ambitions.

"Let no one doubt that I could blithely oblige every dream I heard today, if it were my whim..." He looked to Arcas, "Mend the Veil..." to Thultu, "Clear the path..." to the Solunarian Founders, "Fortify the pyramid..." to Galetira, "Bolster the ranks." Perhaps the hint of a smile edged into his expression,

"But I know the outcome of such an enterprise and it would be a doom to you all." Eikaen rose from his throne, and the Solunarian Founders immediately lowered themselves to one knee in response.

"And so, instead, I have conjured this place into existence." The Dragon King lifted his hands to present the towering hall in which they stood, "A palace carved into the fabric of the Aetherium in which all of you might congregate to confer, conflict, collaborate... Find your common goals and weave them into the world. This place is not a throne room, it is a council chamber and it will stand evermore as a place where all the divine beings of Ransera may gather at will to chart the course they would see enacted in their world. All of the dreams I heard today are achievable, and none of them require my intervention to be realised. I will not hand you everything you want, but I have already given you the tools to claim these aims yourselves. And the latest tool in your arsenal is this. I call this palace Pantheon, and bequeath it unto all of you. Use it as you will or ignore it an return to your old routines. I will intervene no further, unless it becomes absolutely necessary." His expression darkened,

"All of you should pray that it never does, for what that would portend is more calamitous than you could possibly fathom. If there is nothing further, I shall leave you to your earthly concerns and tend to their cosmic counterparts."