Unbound

Interlude - Book II

Interlude - Book II

Deep beneath the bones of an ancient mountain range, cacophony reigned.

Within a chamber large enough to swallow a city, a legion of misshapen figures worked over forges designed out of molten lava. The air was filled with the stench of charred minerals, the ozone of discharged force, and the noisome clatter of hundreds of hammers. Said hammers struck and refined the metal pulled from these forges, shaping the dark materials into barbed, ominous forms.

Eddies of Mana vapor flowed through the chamber, orange and dusty brown mingling freely with the dark grey of shadow. The smiths, inelegant and malformed, grasped at the vapor, drawing it into themselves before working the confluence of energies into their craft. What power remained was funneled out of the forge room, down passageways so twisted and bent no right angles survived. Shimmering, twisted sigils inscribed in the walls pulled at the vapor, guiding the power with their invisible influence. Openings in the top of the passageways let in more vapor, pulled from other sources within the dark demesne. Emerald-gold and dark, crimson streamers joined the rest.

The jagged sigils pulsed with every new wave of Mana, growing imperceptibly larger each time.

Spreading.

The corridors wound downward, delving deeper into the earth as the ambient Mana began to riot. As dozens of twisted passageways terminated at another massive chamber, the air itself seemed to thicken and congeal with near-physical power. Blood-red crystals rose from every surface in the spherical chamber, glinting with a dark, pulsating potency. At the center of the spherical room's base, an oubliette shot straight down, into a deeper dark.

But from this shaft arose a sense of plenitude and, paradoxically, surcease. Faint, emerald-gold Mana began to outweigh the crimson waves, as a garden thrived within.

The garden was fecund and beautiful, filled with colorful blooms and tall, impossible growths. Artificial lights shone from above, closely mimicking the absent sun, and a gentle, warm breeze rustled leaves and branches. Were it not for the terrible sense of crimson death that hung like a gallows axe in the air, the garden would have been a place of true serenity.

This effect was particularly spoiled by an immense iron desk.

Situated within the center of the garden, it was huge. Built on the scale of giants and their ilk, it was accompanied by an equally massive chair. Said chair was occupied by a huge figure, composed of an elaborate golden armor and full helm. Eyes like burning brands flared and narrowed as it considered the desktop before it. A dagger-sized stylus was in the creature's metallic hand, small in comparison to his huge frame, and he was carefully etching something onto a thick ream of hide.

Sigils of the Primordial Dawn is level 120!

"Almost. Almost ready to Tier," the golden figure sighed before sitting back with an exaggerated groan. The Archon no longer felt fatigue or needed to sleep, but he found some satisfaction in mimicking the feeling. He always hoped it might remind him what it was like to be alive.

It had not proven successful yet.

The Archon stared at his handiwork, admiring the steady hand and fine edge to his work. The sigils almost crawled across the page, power baked into their forms, his dire Intent harnessed by their unsettled lines. They were a cage for his dire Will, and the Archon had more than enough of that to go around. Intent and Might and Alacrity. Strength of Body, of Mind, but focus above all else. They were Harmonic Stats not typically used together, not anymore. The fools of the world had forgotten the truth that underpinned their flimsy reality. For that reason alone he would be more than justified in wiping them all out.

Clear the board. Start anew.

The Archon was ancient, this much he knew. How ancient precisely was a mystery even to him. Long enough that his makers were but dust.

Save for that fool boy.

A rage stoked inside of him, one that had been tended to for an Age or more. The reemergence of the Nym, here, in his Domain was untenable. Only his Wurms' insistence that he perished along with the Mother had the Archon advancing his plans. But a voice, a familiar one, whispered in the back of his mind.

The Nym are devious and powerful. They can not be trusted.

He trusted the voice. It had been his sole companion for an Age, the only thing he could cling to in the endless dark. His earliest memories were bits of a dark, ceaseless void, and the voice was there. Speaking such things that made his infant mind tremble. Over the centuries, it dwindled, speaking up less and less. Once the Archon had awakened from his slumber, the voice had become a rare whisper. That it chose now of all times to return meant the Archon was right.

"Something turns Empyrea's wheel," the Archon boomed to himself, his aura flaring.

There was the sound of a startled gasp and the clatter of metal. The Archon looked up to see one of his Arcids collapsed upon the verdant ground. It trembled beneath the golden giant's glare, the silver wisps of its eyes gone wide.

"Number 54773. Report."

As if invisible strings pulled it up, the Arcid snapped to attention. It was more patchwork than some of his better creations, but the Archon had only been able to salvage most of its predecessor, Number 54768. The boy had damaged too much of its false Body. As recompense, the Archon had been able to put more resources in its Mind, and that had proven remarkably effective.

"Sire, we have found evidence of one of the Mother's brood," it rasped in a metallic tone, like a file scraped along a tin cylinder.

"Alive?" the Archon sat forward, and he could feel the fires of his eyes burn brighter.

"N-no, sire. Dead for weeks. Killed by the boy, we think."

"Tsk."

"But its Mana signature is unmistakable. There was a...stench in the air, despite its sublimated Body." Number 54773 trembled slightly under the weight of his regard.

"Close?" The Archon had control of only a few dozen square miles of the surface. That area was growing, but not nearly fast enough. "Can I reach it?"

"I-It lies beyond your Domain, closer to the Bitter Sea. We are bringing samples back, but-"

A Harmonic Trace so close, yet so far. "The Waterfall?"

"Nearby, we believe," 54773 replied, puffing out its meager chest. "The Wretches and Reforged are searching as we speak."

The Archon fingered his sharp chin, the tarnished Nymean Bronze scraping against his articulated fingers.  "The Envoy was dispatched, yes?"

"Yes, sire. Integrated with the survivors. They'll never sort them out, not until it's too late." 54773's rusted voice bloomed with unmistakable pride.

"Plan for it to happen anyway," the Archon waved the Arcid away. "Humans are wily, despite their weaknesses. Or perhaps because of them."

"Y-yes, sire. Of course."

The Archon turned away, regarding the twisted sigils he had written out. They had already blackened the durable hide upon which they were penned, breaking the powerful skin down under their power.

"Midsummer," he said to himself. The Arcid looked up at him, a question in its gaze. "We have five months."

Then his great work would truly begin.