| “What are you so afraid of, boy? You dare come all the way to me and then still dare to feel terror?” asks the distorted shadow, sitting on a throne of bones. He lifts his sword, pointing it at the monster. “I’m not afraid of you.” The Demon-Queen laughs. “You say so, but I hear your boots rattling from atop my throne, wretch. I hear your heart striking like a witch clawing against a crib. I can hear the churning of your gut.” He shakes his head, the glimmering sword reflecting away the putrid green aura that is released by the true demon. “I am afraid, but not of you, beast.” Her claws dig into the throne, breaking off chunks of it in anger as she rises to her feet, towering above us all. “All men fear me. Deceiver.” The man steps forward. “No,” he remarks, readying himself for the final encounter. “I only fear what will come after you,” replies the hero, before stepping forward to reach the shrieking Demon-Queen in the middle of the throne-room of the Demon-Queen’s Castle, marking the start of his final victory over her and also the final fight of his rein – fully ending his career as a true hero, with nothing left to challenge against after the completion of his mission. Months later, his party-members having moved on, he would last be seen with an empty bag on his shoulders, walking off into the wilderness by himself just before sunset. He was never seen again by any sources of recorded history. |
~ A Grimoire of Heroes. Of Pravyen, the Sixth Hero. Written by Scholar Jio-lae of the Guild of Chroniclers
| ~ [Aurin, The Meek] ~ |
| Human, Male, Crusader {Legendary Swordsman} |
| Location: The Tower of Isaiah, Floor -90 |
Spirits.
The bodies of his brothers and sisters fade away, dissolving into nothingness as the wretched tower claims the brightness of their ethereal cores for itself. Sparks and glowing orbs of light fly through the air, drifting like their wayward souls, which crackle with the vibrant energies of life now lost.
Aurin stands, surrounded by the bodies and the lights, standing alone there like a single rock in the midst of the ocean, pressing out through the crashing, black waves as the last man alive at the forward tip of the crusade’s spear.
— The gigantic gryphon, perched on a great bastille in the midst of the room, screeches down towards them again as it readies itself for another pass. Foul breath and the hissing sparks of excited electricity both leak out of its beak. The orbs, floating around the chamber, pulsate and hum, and they grow, feeding on the energies released by the boss monster.
Aurin readies himself, lowering his blade to meet the scorched stones beneath his dirty boots, and his eyes rise up to meet those of the enemy’s spirit.
The room changes as the monster cracks its wings, an explosion like thunder barreling out together with a wave of crushing pressure that breaks the rocks beneath their feet. It plummets down from the peak, barreling towards them, its sharp wings causing an eruption of static electricity that arcs, jumping from one orb to the next as the room explodes into vivid light — thousands of lightning-bolts intertwining and connecting like the threads of a spider’s web that the two of them weave their way through in order to meet one another in the middle, producing a crack of thunder that can be heard through the tower in its entirety.
| ~ [Fairy Marjatta] ~ |
| Fairy, Female, Scribe — Assistant to Cardinal Erzael of the West |
| Location: The Western Mountain City |
Spirits.
Marjatta hovers there, holding her small journal against her chest with both hands as she looks at the cardinal, who is, despite his best attempts, unable to hide his poor health. His spirit may be strong, as is the spirit of his brother cardinal from the south, but both of their bodies are failing them.
Not that he has been managing to hide it anyway, at least not from her. She’s known Cardinal Erzael for so long that she's sensed something was off for a while now, ever since he got back. But it seems like they’ve come to a point where even he can’t keep up the act anymore.
“Your grace,” starts Marjatta. “Can I get you anything?”
“How is he doing, Marjatta?” asks Cardinal Erzael, sitting on a chair and leaning back, his eyes closed and his head tilted up towards the ceiling. He is referring to the hero.
The fairy is quiet for a moment, looking back over her shoulder towards the closed door. “He’s on track. But…”
“But what?” asks Erzael, sounding as if he were about to cough, but he instead clears his throat, making some mumbling noises.
“Heroes usually have a party, your grace,” she explains, looking back at him.
“Not all of them,” replies Cardinal Erzael. “Many fought alone. Our first hero, for example,” he says.
“Yes, your grace,” answers Marjatta. “But they had time, training, and an understanding of their mission,” she explains. “They fought their crises over long periods and gained a foothold in society and their domains.” She points over her shoulder, despite the fact that the man has his eyes closed. “He’s been here a few days, and we’re about to send him off alone,” says Marjatta. “He doesn’t have context. He doesn’t know the world. The south is a long ways away.”
Cardinal Erzael breathes for a time, loudly. “He’s a hero, Marjatta,” replies the ailing man. “Even if he walks alone, the world is with him in spirit.”
Marjatta hovers there, lowering her gaze. “I… Yes, your grace,” finishes the fairy, knowing that it isn’t her place to argue. She’s just an assistant. The fairy shakes her head and lifts her eyes again. “There’s something else.”
“Yes?”
“Cardinal Verheimlich of the East has made his move,” she explains. “He’s claiming the title of bishop and the rule of the Holy-Church.”
Cardinal Erzael lets out a hacking cough, a black fluid dripping through his fingers that he covers his mouth with. Befoulment of his body, caused by the witch’s magic that had brought him back from the dead. She flies down to the table, grabbing a cloth and bringing it to him.
“Thank you, Marjatta,” replies the old man, taking it and holding it against his mouth for a moment. “It was expected,” he explains. “Verheimlich is a cold man, but I still prefer him to Schweig; gods rest his lost soul.”
The fairy hovers there, watching him as he lowers the cloth again, opening his eyes, which are very yellow and tired.
“Begin to make preparations,” he says. “For my successor as well. He knows what to do.”
“…Yes, your grace,” says Marjatta, nodding and rising back up into the air.
“Time is short, Marjatta,” says the cardinal. She hangs in the air, not turning around this time. “Not just for me, but for the world — for Isaiah and the gods’ intentions for us,” he says. “But don’t let that get to your spirit,” he asks. “Stay light.”
The fairy nods, flying off and out of the room. “Yes, your grace,” she says, closing the heavy wooden door behind herself.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Spirits.
It is within the capacity of a mortal body to act as a vessel for a spirit — Nay, it is the intention of the flesh to act as a protective housing in which the soul is incorporated.
The spirit is a funny thing.
When released from the flesh, it drifts away to the incorporeal realm — the spirit world — and there, it reconstitutes itself. The soul, after the damages sustained to it through the passage of life, slowly recovers. It heals its frayed threads there, mending itself and strengthening itself using the lessons learned in the life now passed. Like a muscle, it heals over time and then is stronger than it was before.
Then, it is returned to a new body at a new time and place so that it may continue its forward progress towards the unknown goal that the gods have for it.
Yet, the world is full of spirits, many of which never manage to learn a lesson that most would understand as being beneficial towards the development of their spiritual character. The wicked and the cruel are the most likely candidates for this accusation. What good could the soul of Witch Perchta have from ever being upon this world, and what good could the rest of the world have from her being here?
Isaiah stares, watching the bodies amass in the crystal prisons, the empty spaces between the segments of the tower, between its clock-hands. Hundreds of time-frozen bodies warp into the space, as the crusade is decimated by the tower’s earliest defenses. Yet, this decimation is hardly enough.
There are thousands and thousands of them down there, men, women, and beasts, marching forward, driven by the darkness that has taken hold of their spirits.
The one man in particular shines bright, as he has taken the role of dominance, yet Isaiah senses that amongst the thousands who remain, there are many more spirits like his own. In a sea of candle flames, dozens and dozens of them shine vividly like torch-fire, far surpassing the glows of their brethren.
Yet they still remain in the back, in silence.
The crusade is taking losses, but they aren’t losses that matter in a pragmatic context. The strong spirits, the crusaders like the dragonslayer, who have yet to take notable action, they alone are more than enough to best the tower in some circumstances, and they remain all unharmed, all still under the witch’s spell.
More amber crystals appear by the dozens, filled with frozen bodies of elves, humans, orcs, and dwarves — They are bodies filled with good, strong spirits.
Isaiah stares at the few odd paladins mixed in, looking at their armor with a sense of familiarity in its mind.
Whatever happens after this, may their spirits find grace in this life or in the next.
| ~ [Deutero] ~ |
| Human, Male, TRUE HERO |
| Location: The Western Mountain City |
Hot vapors press through his gritted teeth as he rises up again, his vision full of the blade of the lance.
The strength of the spirit.
Deutero stands up to his feet, looking down at his body, that has changed since he arrived here. Ignoring the fact that it isn’t even his old body, from his old world. Well… ‘old’, it’s been a few days at most.
Strands of black hair dangle down past his eyes as he breathes, catching his breath from his training, sweat wicking down his wet hair despite the coldness of the night atop the tall mountain.
He looks to the side, toward the distant south, staring at the only star that shines in the night.
In his old life, he hadn’t had the… the clarity that was needed to unlock the strength of his spirit. He knows it sounds ridiculous in a way. He’s training harder now than he ever has before in his entire life. It’s something he could have done a long time ago, even back then.
He had the body. He had the time. He had a desire for the end result of the process. Yet somehow, despite there being a longing in his spirit for the fulfillment of a great wish, there was simply nothing to chase after in that old place he existed in.
There were adventures, but none on the scale that his soul longed for — that his spirit desired.
Deutero lifts a hand, holding it out towards the light that shines so faintly in the distant darkness, sometimes flickering, sometimes going strong.
Something to strive for, something to aim for, something to work towards — that’s what the spirit needs. It can’t exist in mundane normality; to do so would be to quench its brightly burning fires. However, as he has seen for himself, if one takes a lost spirit and places it in a place, in an environment, where it has the possibility to chase after its truest, deepest yearning, then it’s like a switch has been flicked in the mind.
All of the things that seemed hard and pointless before suddenly have value and meaning, and this allows one to not only do things that are hard and uncomfortable, but it also makes the discomfort of the situation enjoyable.
The suffering, in a non-masochistic way, is proof of progress.
A body must be worn out to make progress.
A soul must be worn out to make progress.
They are a reflection of one another and work in the same way, and just like a man cannot exist underwater, a soul cannot exist while being drowned in quiet dread.
“How’s it going?” asks a voice from his side, Fairy Marjatta. He looks over at her. “You’re gonna get sick if you don’t put on a shirt.”
He points over to the side, looking at the fairy that is covered in thick furs and fabrics. “It’s drenched through, I’m warmer like this,” he explains.
“Sheesh, go inside,” says the fairy, nodding over her shoulder back to the inside of the church. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”
He shakes his head, lowering his hand to let the light in the sky float there by itself, as if it were a single spirit adrift in the darkness that never recedes.
“I was inside for years,” he explains, tying his hair back behind his head. “I can be inside when it’s done.”
The fairy places her hands on her hips, looking at him. “Stop being a stubborn hard-ass and go inside before you get a cold and we have to call the whole thing off,” she scolds. “I already have one sick person to deal with.”
“How long do I have left?” he asks.
Marjatta crosses her arms, thinking for a moment. “Not long,” she replies. “I’d like to keep you here for a few more weeks, but we don’t have that kind of time,” explains the fairy, looking toward the light in the south. “I don't know about the whole Isaiah thing myself, honestly,” she says, looking back at him. “But it means everything to the cardinal. He’s dying for this.” She sighs. “So it means everything to me too.”
“When do I go?” he asks again.
Fairy Marjatta sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Soon.”
“Then I’m going to finish up here,” he replies, returning to his training, blatantly ignoring her directions to go back inside.
“You’re supposed to listen to me,” remarks Marjatta, watching him return to striking the training dummy with his lance.
He looks over his shoulder at her. “Sorry,” he says. “I’ll listen to you as much as you like when I come back. I promise.”
She sighs, crossing her arms, and sits down. The fairy lifts a finger, magic weaving around the digit. “Duck.”
“Huh? Duck?” asks Deutero, turning back just in time to watch the training dummy come to life, animated by Marjatta’s spell, and strike a straw-filled fist right towards his face.
It connects, and he falls onto his back, the night spinning for a moment as he stares up at the post his head is near.
The fairy leans down, looking at him from above. “Quack,” she says. “Wanna go inside now?” she asks, in vain.
Deutero rises back up to his feet, dusting himself off, and returns to his training, his spirit not able to be beat as easily as that.
| “What are you so afraid of, boy? You dare come all the way to me and then still dare to feel terror?” asks the distorted shadow, sitting on a throne of bones. He lifts his sword, pointing it at the monster. “I’m not afraid of you.” The Demon-Queen laughs. “You say so, but I hear your boots rattling from atop my throne, wretch. I hear your heart striking like a witch clawing against a crib. I can hear the churning of your gut.” He shakes his head, the glimmering sword reflecting away the putrid green aura that is released by the true demon. “I am afraid, but not of you, beast.” Her claws dig into the throne, breaking off chunks of it in anger as she rises to her feet, towering above us all. “All men fear me. Deceiver.” The man steps forward. “No,” he remarks, readying himself for the final encounter. “I only fear what will come after you,” replies the hero, before stepping forward to reach the shrieking Demon-Queen in the middle of the throne-room of the Demon-Queen’s Castle, marking the start of his final victory over her and also the final fight of his rein – fully ending his career as a true hero, with nothing left to challenge against after the completion of his mission. Months later, his party-members having moved on, he would last be seen with an empty bag on his shoulders, walking off into the wilderness by himself just before sunset. He was never seen again by any sources of recorded history. |
~ A Grimoire of Heroes. Of Pravyen, the Sixth Hero. Written by Scholar Jio-lae of the Guild of Chroniclers
| ~ [Aurin, The Meek] ~ |
| Human, Male, Crusader {Legendary Swordsman} |
| Location: The Tower of Isaiah, Floor -90 |
Spirits.
The bodies of his brothers and sisters fade away, dissolving into nothingness as the wretched tower claims the brightness of their ethereal cores for itself. Sparks and glowing orbs of light fly through the air, drifting like their wayward souls, which crackle with the vibrant energies of life now lost.
Aurin stands, surrounded by the bodies and the lights, standing alone there like a single rock in the midst of the ocean, pressing out through the crashing, black waves as the last man alive at the forward tip of the crusade’s spear.
— The gigantic gryphon, perched on a great bastille in the midst of the room, screeches down towards them again as it readies itself for another pass. Foul breath and the hissing sparks of excited electricity both leak out of its beak. The orbs, floating around the chamber, pulsate and hum, and they grow, feeding on the energies released by the boss monster.
Aurin readies himself, lowering his blade to meet the scorched stones beneath his dirty boots, and his eyes rise up to meet those of the enemy’s spirit.
The room changes as the monster cracks its wings, an explosion like thunder barreling out together with a wave of crushing pressure that breaks the rocks beneath their feet. It plummets down from the peak, barreling towards them, its sharp wings causing an eruption of static electricity that arcs, jumping from one orb to the next as the room explodes into vivid light — thousands of lightning-bolts intertwining and connecting like the threads of a spider’s web that the two of them weave their way through in order to meet one another in the middle, producing a crack of thunder that can be heard through the tower in its entirety.
| ~ [Fairy Marjatta] ~ |
| Fairy, Female, Scribe — Assistant to Cardinal Erzael of the West |
| Location: The Western Mountain City |
Spirits.
Marjatta hovers there, holding her small journal against her chest with both hands as she looks at the cardinal, who is, despite his best attempts, unable to hide his poor health. His spirit may be strong, as is the spirit of his brother cardinal from the south, but both of their bodies are failing them.
Not that he has been managing to hide it anyway, at least not from her. She’s known Cardinal Erzael for so long that she's sensed something was off for a while now, ever since he got back. But it seems like they’ve come to a point where even he can’t keep up the act anymore.
“Your grace,” starts Marjatta. “Can I get you anything?”
“How is he doing, Marjatta?” asks Cardinal Erzael, sitting on a chair and leaning back, his eyes closed and his head tilted up towards the ceiling. He is referring to the hero.
The fairy is quiet for a moment, looking back over her shoulder towards the closed door. “He’s on track. But…”
“But what?” asks Erzael, sounding as if he were about to cough, but he instead clears his throat, making some mumbling noises.
“Heroes usually have a party, your grace,” she explains, looking back at him.
“Not all of them,” replies Cardinal Erzael. “Many fought alone. Our first hero, for example,” he says.
“Yes, your grace,” answers Marjatta. “But they had time, training, and an understanding of their mission,” she explains. “They fought their crises over long periods and gained a foothold in society and their domains.” She points over her shoulder, despite the fact that the man has his eyes closed. “He’s been here a few days, and we’re about to send him off alone,” says Marjatta. “He doesn’t have context. He doesn’t know the world. The south is a long ways away.”
Cardinal Erzael breathes for a time, loudly. “He’s a hero, Marjatta,” replies the ailing man. “Even if he walks alone, the world is with him in spirit.”
Marjatta hovers there, lowering her gaze. “I… Yes, your grace,” finishes the fairy, knowing that it isn’t her place to argue. She’s just an assistant. The fairy shakes her head and lifts her eyes again. “There’s something else.”
“Yes?”
“Cardinal Verheimlich of the East has made his move,” she explains. “He’s claiming the title of bishop and the rule of the Holy-Church.”
Cardinal Erzael lets out a hacking cough, a black fluid dripping through his fingers that he covers his mouth with. Befoulment of his body, caused by the witch’s magic that had brought him back from the dead. She flies down to the table, grabbing a cloth and bringing it to him.
“Thank you, Marjatta,” replies the old man, taking it and holding it against his mouth for a moment. “It was expected,” he explains. “Verheimlich is a cold man, but I still prefer him to Schweig; gods rest his lost soul.”
The fairy hovers there, watching him as he lowers the cloth again, opening his eyes, which are very yellow and tired.
“Begin to make preparations,” he says. “For my successor as well. He knows what to do.”
“…Yes, your grace,” says Marjatta, nodding and rising back up into the air.
“Time is short, Marjatta,” says the cardinal. She hangs in the air, not turning around this time. “Not just for me, but for the world — for Isaiah and the gods’ intentions for us,” he says. “But don’t let that get to your spirit,” he asks. “Stay light.”
The fairy nods, flying off and out of the room. “Yes, your grace,” she says, closing the heavy wooden door behind herself.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Spirits.
It is within the capacity of a mortal body to act as a vessel for a spirit — Nay, it is the intention of the flesh to act as a protective housing in which the soul is incorporated.
The spirit is a funny thing.
When released from the flesh, it drifts away to the incorporeal realm — the spirit world — and there, it reconstitutes itself. The soul, after the damages sustained to it through the passage of life, slowly recovers. It heals its frayed threads there, mending itself and strengthening itself using the lessons learned in the life now passed. Like a muscle, it heals over time and then is stronger than it was before.
Then, it is returned to a new body at a new time and place so that it may continue its forward progress towards the unknown goal that the gods have for it.
Yet, the world is full of spirits, many of which never manage to learn a lesson that most would understand as being beneficial towards the development of their spiritual character. The wicked and the cruel are the most likely candidates for this accusation. What good could the soul of Witch Perchta have from ever being upon this world, and what good could the rest of the world have from her being here?
Isaiah stares, watching the bodies amass in the crystal prisons, the empty spaces between the segments of the tower, between its clock-hands. Hundreds of time-frozen bodies warp into the space, as the crusade is decimated by the tower’s earliest defenses. Yet, this decimation is hardly enough.
There are thousands and thousands of them down there, men, women, and beasts, marching forward, driven by the darkness that has taken hold of their spirits.
The one man in particular shines bright, as he has taken the role of dominance, yet Isaiah senses that amongst the thousands who remain, there are many more spirits like his own. In a sea of candle flames, dozens and dozens of them shine vividly like torch-fire, far surpassing the glows of their brethren.
Yet they still remain in the back, in silence.
The crusade is taking losses, but they aren’t losses that matter in a pragmatic context. The strong spirits, the crusaders like the dragonslayer, who have yet to take notable action, they alone are more than enough to best the tower in some circumstances, and they remain all unharmed, all still under the witch’s spell.
More amber crystals appear by the dozens, filled with frozen bodies of elves, humans, orcs, and dwarves — They are bodies filled with good, strong spirits.
Isaiah stares at the few odd paladins mixed in, looking at their armor with a sense of familiarity in its mind.
Whatever happens after this, may their spirits find grace in this life or in the next.
| ~ [Deutero] ~ |
| Human, Male, TRUE HERO |
| Location: The Western Mountain City |
Hot vapors press through his gritted teeth as he rises up again, his vision full of the blade of the lance.
The strength of the spirit.
Deutero stands up to his feet, looking down at his body, that has changed since he arrived here. Ignoring the fact that it isn’t even his old body, from his old world. Well… ‘old’, it’s been a few days at most.
Strands of black hair dangle down past his eyes as he breathes, catching his breath from his training, sweat wicking down his wet hair despite the coldness of the night atop the tall mountain.
He looks to the side, toward the distant south, staring at the only star that shines in the night.
In his old life, he hadn’t had the… the clarity that was needed to unlock the strength of his spirit. He knows it sounds ridiculous in a way. He’s training harder now than he ever has before in his entire life. It’s something he could have done a long time ago, even back then.
He had the body. He had the time. He had a desire for the end result of the process. Yet somehow, despite there being a longing in his spirit for the fulfillment of a great wish, there was simply nothing to chase after in that old place he existed in.
There were adventures, but none on the scale that his soul longed for — that his spirit desired.
Deutero lifts a hand, holding it out towards the light that shines so faintly in the distant darkness, sometimes flickering, sometimes going strong.
Something to strive for, something to aim for, something to work towards — that’s what the spirit needs. It can’t exist in mundane normality; to do so would be to quench its brightly burning fires. However, as he has seen for himself, if one takes a lost spirit and places it in a place, in an environment, where it has the possibility to chase after its truest, deepest yearning, then it’s like a switch has been flicked in the mind.
All of the things that seemed hard and pointless before suddenly have value and meaning, and this allows one to not only do things that are hard and uncomfortable, but it also makes the discomfort of the situation enjoyable.
The suffering, in a non-masochistic way, is proof of progress.
A body must be worn out to make progress.
A soul must be worn out to make progress.
They are a reflection of one another and work in the same way, and just like a man cannot exist underwater, a soul cannot exist while being drowned in quiet dread.
“How’s it going?” asks a voice from his side, Fairy Marjatta. He looks over at her. “You’re gonna get sick if you don’t put on a shirt.”
He points over to the side, looking at the fairy that is covered in thick furs and fabrics. “It’s drenched through, I’m warmer like this,” he explains.
“Sheesh, go inside,” says the fairy, nodding over her shoulder back to the inside of the church. “We’ll continue tomorrow.”
He shakes his head, lowering his hand to let the light in the sky float there by itself, as if it were a single spirit adrift in the darkness that never recedes.
“I was inside for years,” he explains, tying his hair back behind his head. “I can be inside when it’s done.”
The fairy places her hands on her hips, looking at him. “Stop being a stubborn hard-ass and go inside before you get a cold and we have to call the whole thing off,” she scolds. “I already have one sick person to deal with.”
“How long do I have left?” he asks.
Marjatta crosses her arms, thinking for a moment. “Not long,” she replies. “I’d like to keep you here for a few more weeks, but we don’t have that kind of time,” explains the fairy, looking toward the light in the south. “I don't know about the whole Isaiah thing myself, honestly,” she says, looking back at him. “But it means everything to the cardinal. He’s dying for this.” She sighs. “So it means everything to me too.”
“When do I go?” he asks again.
Fairy Marjatta sighs, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Soon.”
“Then I’m going to finish up here,” he replies, returning to his training, blatantly ignoring her directions to go back inside.
“You’re supposed to listen to me,” remarks Marjatta, watching him return to striking the training dummy with his lance.
He looks over his shoulder at her. “Sorry,” he says. “I’ll listen to you as much as you like when I come back. I promise.”
She sighs, crossing her arms, and sits down. The fairy lifts a finger, magic weaving around the digit. “Duck.”
“Huh? Duck?” asks Deutero, turning back just in time to watch the training dummy come to life, animated by Marjatta’s spell, and strike a straw-filled fist right towards his face.
It connects, and he falls onto his back, the night spinning for a moment as he stares up at the post his head is near.
The fairy leans down, looking at him from above. “Quack,” she says. “Wanna go inside now?” she asks, in vain.
Deutero rises back up to his feet, dusting himself off, and returns to his training, his spirit not able to be beat as easily as that.
