Legend of Ransera

"I've been to the sea," He called back, though he had not travelled over it, and not so far as they were going to be. He had travelled before to the western edge of the Atraxian desert, and north over the Commonwealth, though the skies in Ecith were treacherous with the occasional massive airborne primal or wild dragon. Solunarium was free of the Primals because they did not traverse the desert, but he knew of them from their presence in the jungles of their accursed northern neighbor.

Perhaps, in all of this time, Æden had traveled so far as they were going to travel. Perhaps if you added up every trip, he had traveled much farther. But he had never truly left Solunarium. He had not visited a foreign city, or even spoken to the locals of the Commonwealth. So it didn't count. But he was surprised Phocion had not; the Sentinels were likely to sneak off to other corners of the world, to feed back information so that Solunarium was content and happy and safe and properly eager to reach their fingers into the wars and pockets that did not concern them. Like this very trip.

"Just the Commonwealth!" He called back.

---

Praventores were, of any of the Golden Legion, most likely to camp in the desert, and Æden had camped under both the blazing sun and the silvery moons enough that he did not struggle with his setup. His tent, compared to his appearance, was simple and functional, and Sandworm rested near it, his winged-hands pushing the fabric of the tent. It stayed steady, anchored in the sandy mix of dirt. Shrubs, brush, and the occasional tree encroached where the desert met the jungle, and this savannah was more solid than the dunes.

A fire was started, and much of the two guard congregated near it. Æden, in some manner of aloof distance, stayed near his Wyvern, leaned against its side, and ate from his rations in the dark, shaded by the creature from the setting moons. Soon enough the sky would burst in pink and orange, and he would task the ward over his tent to keep out the sunlight before he slept. But not now, when there was no sunlight to protect against.

They were not the first Solunarians to make camp here, and the reasons were obvious. There were rocky outcroppings that provided shade beyond what their tents offered and even a cave large enough for their mounts to occupy. The stony landscape meant there were spots where the Praeventores could stow locked chests of additional supplies in case of emergency. Phocion wondered whether Æden or any of his comrades had rested here before.

He needed to spend the first part of their resting period coaxing his Great Chiroptera, Noxala, into the cavern and soothing her until she was calm enough to remain and rest. When that was handled, he emerged to find things well underway in regard to setting up the greater camp. His own tent was already halfway up, and he rushed to help- apologising and explaining he'd intended to do it himself once he'd finished with Noxala.

By and by, everything was set up and the party had split into little cliques. Æden the Platinum, true to form, was set apart... alone. He made his way over and sat across from his guard captain.

"I am eager to visit the site at Kaladon." He mused, as he settled his bum into the sand. They'd all been briefed on the route and knew that it would include the other sacred volcano in their culture- the site of the Rending, where the Founders had been cast down. "Did you bring a sacrifice for the Radiant Rulers?" On such a pilgrimage it was common to cast something precious into the roiling fires of Mount Kaladon to feed the ill-fated divine twins who'd founded Solunarium as it was presently known.

"I am more eager to visit the Mount than Kalzasi, to be honest." To be close to divinity- even more so than his pedigree made him- was a rare treat. A diplomatic visit to immerse himself into a strange, chaotic culture like that of Kalzasi, while also rare, felt like less of a treat.

Æden was surprised to be joined by Phocion, but he did not show it. Instead, he drank from his flask of water. It was not nearly as clear or as cold as the water from the Umbrium, but it quenched his thirst all the same. To the Sentinel's question, he reached one hand into his pocket and retrieved a leather pouch, from within came a comb. It was silver and gold, glimmering in the moonslight. There was no gemstone in it, but the handle was made into the shape of a dragon's maw.

"My mother told me that this has been in our family for 700 years. It has held the hair of every bride married — until now, I suppose. She has tasked me as the first Starborn of our family in those years to sacrifice it to the Radiant Rulers. It was once charmed to bring luck to the brides, and now that I have been born, it is up to me to bring it to Kaladon."

Æden furrowed his brow and tucked the comb away into the pouch, and back into his pocket. "I only hope it is an acceptable sacrifice. I've never been to the Mount. It has never crossed my routes before." He leaned further back against his wyvern, and rested an arm against its back.

"Have you been there before?"

Phocion regarded the comb, nodding.

"None of us know whether our sacrifices are acceptable..." He mused, grimly. There were those who claimed that a grumble of the earth or a streak of lightning above at the time of sacrifice betokened the delight of the Founders, but Phocion didn't believe any such bunk. It was all projection and wishful thinking. Aværys had never been an impersonal deity, nor one who ever failed to clearly broadcast His pleasure or displeasure. If the Founders survived beyond the blood Phocion and others of his class bore, he imagined they were trapped in some dimension beyond the reach of mortals such as they.

"Never..." Phocion grimaced. He was young by Elven standards, but still it felt oddly embarrassing that he wasn't better travelled than this even younger Elf. He was, after all, of the Regalis and the son of an esteemed, if controversial, Materfamilias. But with the way they of the Platinum Path were regarded, they were more evenly matched than anyone else in the party in terms of class. Their society was strange that way, he thought... Phocion, a direct descendant of the Founders, was less likely to be stopped on the street by a stranger than was Æden- merely by virtue of his hallowed appearance. Not that Phocion coveted any such attention, but it was remarkable, in his mind, that such distinctions were observable.

"It is regrettable, I think, that They were cast down so far from home... So far from the prayers that might rouse Them to return." His eyes trailed down to the sand between his boots. "It ought not be such a rare privilege, I think, to make this pilgrimage." But borders were borders and circumstances were what they were. He shook his head, as if dismissing those thoughts and lifted his eyes to his companion's fair face once more.

"Tomorrow will be rough riding, but when next we camp it will be on the foreign shores of Ailizane."

Æden nodded. He had some hope that he would never share, that he would earn the favor of the Founders, however they may show it. His good breeding was a token of favor enough, but it felt hallow compared to the possibilities of what They could offer. His hand roamed over Sandworm's scales, giving her a light pat on the side.

"I do not know what else the world believes, but I do wonder if they have more accessible gods." This was spoken not in insult to his own, fervent beliefs, but genuine curiosity that they may yet have gods that make their presence known — or even walk among them. Sandworm adjusted her position and yawned appreciatively at the attention she was getting.

"The winds of the sea and the Orkhan's primals..." It was a lot, but nothing he couldn't handle. "We will be fine." Æden considered Phocion's presence. He had largely left him to his own devices when picking his guard, and the Platinum was not unconcerned by his lack of micromanagement. The date he had submitted his choices had been close to the date they left, and he trusted his decision making wholly. It was a test that he knew he would pass, though he did not understand the point of such a thing on such an important mission.

"There is nothing in the skies we will not be able to handle..." He paused, for dramatic effect, "Or outrun." It was a deadpan joke, but he figured if Phocion had any sense of humor, it would come across.

Phocion arched his stark eyebrow at the mention of more accessible deities.

"Alas, the situation that draws us to Kalzasi only proves how fleeting our access to the Divine must ever be." He pondered, looking off into the distance- the clear skies overhead, beginning to transition from purple tones to orange. "At least for as long as we are mortals." He added, almost cavalierly for so lofty an afterthought.

"Indeed." Phocion responded to Æden's jest as if it hadn't been jovial at all, but wholly earnest. "I suppose we shall see whether the blessings that protect our desert of Atraxia from such fell things extend to its children who travel abroad of its borders." With that, he rose.

"Rest easy, Principalus." He inclined his head and, with no further ceremony, slipped into his tent not to emerge until the setting of the sun now rising.

Æden's predictions proved accurate and, though the winds over the crystal sea made for rough riding, no one lost their mount and tumbled into its depths. The course he'd been given was well charted by members of the Praeventores, and specifically selected because of how few obstacles it posed compared to other, more direct paths. The other reason for this path had been as Phocion's request. After camping on the coast of Southern Ailizane, they would make the aforementioned detour to Mount Kaledon- resting place of their Radiant Founders.

So it was that, two days after quitting the shores of Ecith, they were in another desert kingdom. As Phocion's sister treated in the capital with its leaders, the Sentinel himself was alighting at the foot of Mount Kaledon. Even in the dark of night, the orange glow of its churning magma could be seen emitting from the gaping maw at its summit.

"Behold." Phocion said, his words pendulous in the cool, evening air, as he dismounted his great bat. "The site of the Rending." It was early to camp with so many hours left of darkness, but this was a planned delay to their Kalzasern mission. Such a hallowed place deserved time, and Phocion found himself wishing they had more as soon as they arrived.

He couldn't place what stirred in him, here. Was it the echo of the blood he shared with those entombed before him? Did there power survive and subsist in the sacred ground around them? Or was he merely projecting the way he thought he ought to feel? Whatever the case, he was eager to draw closer... to scale this mountain and gaze into its depths. Perhaps, if they were fortunate, something would gaze back.