| It was another long and tiring day on the watch. My body aches from the weight of my armor and the weariness of my spirit. The sun had not yet risen when I began my rounds, and it had already set by the time I returned to my quarters. The day passed in a blur of monotony and endless toil. But the usual routine is disrupted by the constant flow of refugees pouring into our city from the south. The roads leading to the city gates were congested with people, carts, and animals, all seeking refuge from the unrest in their own lands. I and my fellow guards had to work twice as hard to keep the peace and maintain order amidst the chaos. The refugees are desperate, weary, and afraid. They clutch their meager possessions close to their hearts and tell us tales of unimaginable darkness, famine, and death. My duties as a city guard require me to be stoic and impartial, but it is hard to ignore the pain and suffering that I see every day. My job is to keep this city and its people safe, not any strangers from the south. But it is not my place to question my orders or the will of the gods. I am a servant of the city and its needs, and I must fulfill my duty no matter how troublesome the burden may be. Despite the difficulties, I am grateful for my job and the purpose it gives me in these dark times when many other industries have failed. It is a small comfort in these troubled hours, but it is enough to keep me going. May the gods grant me the strength to endure another day on the watch. |
~ The Journal of a City Guard, Day Unknown
| ~ [Guardsman Initiate Muldrich] ~ |
| Human, Male, City Guardsman |
| Location: The Far Northern City, Streets |
The two guardsmen walk through the quiet streets of the far northern city, far distant from the southern lands and the tower of Isaiah, the armor on their bodies making a faint clanking sound with each step as they move through the timber-framed houses that line the cobblestone alleyways. A sliver of the moonlight can be seen in the sky, and it emits a dim glow that highlights the well kept roads and warm buildings below it. The northern city is rich with mercantile abundance. The wind is brisk and stings, as it always does in the far north, sending shivers down his spine and causing his skin to sting.
“So how did the night go?” asks his partner as they walk.
Muldrich looks at him, turning his head back forward again. “Fine.”
The man elbows him. “Come on, Moldy. ‘Fine’?” he asks, looking at him knowingly. “You gotta give me more than that.”
The young guardsman, not one for many words, shrugs, as they walk down the lonesome, winding streets, past many brightly shining orange windows, full of hearthglow. However, the peace of the night is disrupted as noises of shuffling and muffled weeping reverberate throughout the alleyways, as it does so often in the world these days. The two of them are already aware of what is causing this commotion. The refugees, who had been compelled to leave their homes and towns in the distant south, had found sanctuary on the streets here and in other cities after being forced to flee. Some of them had the fortune to quickly find work and places to stay, but many are still feeling their way through life — having landed in the alleyways and corners of the city.
Muldrich and his advisor, a senior guardsman, round the bend and are greeted with the sight of a large number of people gathered together and attempting to find warmth in the embraces of those around them and the fires they’ve started, against city ordinances. But it’s cold in the north.
"Good evening, citizens," says his senior partner, going through the spiel that they go through every night. "Kindly head back to wherever you are staying for the night. It is not advisable to walk about outside at this time," recites the guardsman.
The strangers, their faces wan and worn, know better by now and nod in obedience. They slowly get to their feet and are then all escorted to the closest inn by the two of them, despite the innkeeper’s very sour expression at this nightly ritual. A few minutes later, the two of them step out of the inn, back into the night which had returned to its usual stillness, for now but the echoes of the cries of the refugees can still be heard hanging in the air from many other clusters elsewhere.
The sound of the two guardsmen's heavy footfall reverberates off the city's cobblestone streets as they make their way through the gloomy and frigid streets of the northern metropolis. In spite of the relative lack of action, they are both aware of the total insignificance of their mission, which is to preserve order and calm during this turbulent period. They are used to seeing the same faces every night, people who were desperate and gathered together in doorways and alleyways in an attempt to avoid the cold. However, they have also grown weary of this new pattern because of exactly this.
“This is stupid, you know?” asks his senior officer.
Muldrich nods, not disagreeing. But protocol is protocol. The two of them stop at the end of the road, turning their heads to look back at the inn they had just escorted those few families to, watching as they are all thrown out right back onto the street.
They were already aware of what awaited those people as they entered the inn, as this happens every night. The individuals who had previously found safety within the inn's walls will now be forced back out onto the streets because they are unable to pay for any food or their accommodations. The harsh truth is one that the guardsmen had grown all too accustomed to dealing with. But the procedure is what it is, and even though they knew it was a waste of time, they had no choice but to follow it.
“Rules are rules,” replies Muldrich.
His appointed senior shakes his head, clapping a hand on Muldrich’s shoulder. “You’re all business, Muldrich,” says the man. “You gotta learn to loosen up a little if you want to walk the streets,” he explains.
City ordinances dictate that all undocumented persons outside at night must be escorted to the nearest place of lodging by the city guard. However, the catch is that these places are not actually required to accommodate anyone who can’t pay, and, given that these people are refugees, most can’t. So they’re thrown right back out onto the street until the two guardsmen make their next loop down this road on their patrol, and the song and dance repeats itself once more. They’ll often escort the same group of people three or four times in one night to the same building, just so they can get thrown out again. Everyone follows the whistle and tune of bureaucracy.
As soon as the entrance to the inn swings open wide, a steady stream of people emerges, all of them bearing neutral expressions as they are thrown back out towards their only just extinguished fires, as they are used to this game too.
The two men return to their patrol, his senior nudging him again. “So, you snagged yourself a dark-elf, huh?” asks the man, raising his eyebrows. “Is it true what they say?” he asks, leaning in and lowering his voice. “About… You know?” he asks.
“About what?” asks Muldrich, dryly.
The other man is quiet for a moment. “About… you know… Ah, fuck. Never mind,” sighs the officer, shaking his head. “You really need to loosen up a little, Moldy,” explains the guardsman. “Or you’ll never make it to the big leagues.”
The two men resume their patrol. Even though it is silent, the night is not at all serene. There is tension in the air. The refugees from the south are mostly trying to get by, but for those who can’t afford to get by, they make their due through other means. Petty crime has skyrocketed lately, and there is a huge internal conflict in the city’s politics, arguing over the morality of even bothering to take in their brothers from the south if they’re only going to cause trouble here in the north.
It’s a potential powder-keg for civil unrest in the city, and the fuse certainly seems to have been lit at this point. He's not sure where this is going to lead to, ignoring the whole 'world ending crisis' thing. But it's causing problems for his city from the other side of the continent. That damned Isaiah-thing.
| ~ [Salvator] ~ |
| Human, Male, Wizard (Wind) |
| Location: The Tower, Floor One-Hundred |
Screams fill the air, with lightning crashing all around them from the tear in the void — the veil between realities. But the screams, just like the energy, are not born from the physicality of any entities present here; rather, they are the voice of the aether, the cry of the spirit-world, hissing in a serpent’s tongue as its cadence collides with their physical domain.
The wind howls, rushing against his back, pressing him forward and against the maw of the other-world beast, an entity made entirely out of pure, radiant, wild energy. Now it has the face of a dragon, but moments ago it had the face of a woman, and before that, the face of a beast. The monster with one-million faces, towering over them, roars as it carries the screams of every dead spirit to fill the astral realm with its voice. It screams, roaring with the voice of his mother, of his father, with the voices of men and women he’s never heard before and those he has, of whose passing he has not learned until this very second as he picks up their tongues in the conjoined anomaly.
His skin burns as its energies collide against him, his hands outstretched to project a torrent of violent winds out ahead of himself, pressing it back further as the titan presses against him — as if the two of them were an ancient sea serpent pressing against a raging tsunami.
They’ve come so far.
Salvator leans in, seeing his friends move at his side, the energies of their attacks striking against the leviathan that blocks their way, the final guardian of the tower of Isaiah’s first one-hundred floors.
It doesn’t matter what’s happening anywhere else in the world.
Ten-thousand voices scream into his ear, from which warm blood runs out, intermingling with the sweat, tears, and gore covering his robe.
It doesn’t matter what’s happening in the south, in the west, in the east, or in the north.
The monster’s face changes from that of an ancient dragon, to that of a sleek porcelain mask, opening its eyes and mouth wide — a blinding glow releasing from its orifices that swallows them whole in a tide of backwashing energy in which the five of them float.
“Why are you here?” asks a voice, resounding all around them with a strong, firm intensity to its question, cutting through the cries of the dead that have swallowed him whole.
Salvator, unable to see, unable to feel, presses forward another step, knowing that his people, his friends, are doing the same. The man tightens his fingers, staring into the wild light that blinds him with its intensity, but he doesn’t look away despite the searing pain in his head.
Something touches him from both sides, as his party, unable to see, closes ranks and maintains contact with one another, establishing a chain in which he is the central link. “Where else should I be?” asks Salvator, responding to the voice, as the tower rumbles, as his bones shake and the light cooks his skin, igniting his robe, and as ten-million souls scream from beyond the veil.
“Good answer,” replies the voice.
And then, everything stops as he and his party hurtle through the air, tumbling violently over one another in a weightless void. They grasp hands, clutching on to each other as they tumble towards uncertainty.
“One hundred more to go,” says the voice.
Salvator and his party float, levitating high up in the air, as their vision returns to them. The five of them hang there, suspended in midair, as they look down below themselves, at the island above which they are flying, the heavy strike of the clock-tower reverberating through the air.
| - [CHAMPION OF THE TOWER] - |
| Congratulations! You have bested the 100 core floors of the Tower of Isaiah! |
| Reward: [Augmentation {Holy}] |
| -) You may augment the additional HOLY sub-attribute onto your primary attribute: [Divine Wind] -) Title: 'Champion of the Tower' -) You may teleport to any point on the island that you have reached prior at will. -) All of your needs will be taken care of for as long as you are on the island, be it food, water, or shelter. -) You may speak with Isaiah. |
The five of them float, looking at the window and then to the side, their vision blurred and full of glares from the illumination just prior. A white movement fills their sight, obscured by their misvision, glaring with its intensity much the same as the monster had just done. They lift their hands, covering their eyes, as the voice from just now returns again.
“Congratulations for your efforts,” says the voice. “Let me ask you some questions,” it says.
“…Questions?” asks Salvator, trying to look through the gaps between his fingers.
The entity that appears to have just as many faces, wings, and limbs as the number of voices he had just heard nods with a simple movement.
“What would you make harder?” it asks, getting right to the point.
He blinks.
| It was another long and tiring day on the watch. My body aches from the weight of my armor and the weariness of my spirit. The sun had not yet risen when I began my rounds, and it had already set by the time I returned to my quarters. The day passed in a blur of monotony and endless toil. But the usual routine is disrupted by the constant flow of refugees pouring into our city from the south. The roads leading to the city gates were congested with people, carts, and animals, all seeking refuge from the unrest in their own lands. I and my fellow guards had to work twice as hard to keep the peace and maintain order amidst the chaos. The refugees are desperate, weary, and afraid. They clutch their meager possessions close to their hearts and tell us tales of unimaginable darkness, famine, and death. My duties as a city guard require me to be stoic and impartial, but it is hard to ignore the pain and suffering that I see every day. My job is to keep this city and its people safe, not any strangers from the south. But it is not my place to question my orders or the will of the gods. I am a servant of the city and its needs, and I must fulfill my duty no matter how troublesome the burden may be. Despite the difficulties, I am grateful for my job and the purpose it gives me in these dark times when many other industries have failed. It is a small comfort in these troubled hours, but it is enough to keep me going. May the gods grant me the strength to endure another day on the watch. |
~ The Journal of a City Guard, Day Unknown
| ~ [Guardsman Initiate Muldrich] ~ |
| Human, Male, City Guardsman |
| Location: The Far Northern City, Streets |
The two guardsmen walk through the quiet streets of the far northern city, far distant from the southern lands and the tower of Isaiah, the armor on their bodies making a faint clanking sound with each step as they move through the timber-framed houses that line the cobblestone alleyways. A sliver of the moonlight can be seen in the sky, and it emits a dim glow that highlights the well kept roads and warm buildings below it. The northern city is rich with mercantile abundance. The wind is brisk and stings, as it always does in the far north, sending shivers down his spine and causing his skin to sting.
“So how did the night go?” asks his partner as they walk.
Muldrich looks at him, turning his head back forward again. “Fine.”
The man elbows him. “Come on, Moldy. ‘Fine’?” he asks, looking at him knowingly. “You gotta give me more than that.”
The young guardsman, not one for many words, shrugs, as they walk down the lonesome, winding streets, past many brightly shining orange windows, full of hearthglow. However, the peace of the night is disrupted as noises of shuffling and muffled weeping reverberate throughout the alleyways, as it does so often in the world these days. The two of them are already aware of what is causing this commotion. The refugees, who had been compelled to leave their homes and towns in the distant south, had found sanctuary on the streets here and in other cities after being forced to flee. Some of them had the fortune to quickly find work and places to stay, but many are still feeling their way through life — having landed in the alleyways and corners of the city.
Muldrich and his advisor, a senior guardsman, round the bend and are greeted with the sight of a large number of people gathered together and attempting to find warmth in the embraces of those around them and the fires they’ve started, against city ordinances. But it’s cold in the north.
"Good evening, citizens," says his senior partner, going through the spiel that they go through every night. "Kindly head back to wherever you are staying for the night. It is not advisable to walk about outside at this time," recites the guardsman.
The strangers, their faces wan and worn, know better by now and nod in obedience. They slowly get to their feet and are then all escorted to the closest inn by the two of them, despite the innkeeper’s very sour expression at this nightly ritual. A few minutes later, the two of them step out of the inn, back into the night which had returned to its usual stillness, for now but the echoes of the cries of the refugees can still be heard hanging in the air from many other clusters elsewhere.
The sound of the two guardsmen's heavy footfall reverberates off the city's cobblestone streets as they make their way through the gloomy and frigid streets of the northern metropolis. In spite of the relative lack of action, they are both aware of the total insignificance of their mission, which is to preserve order and calm during this turbulent period. They are used to seeing the same faces every night, people who were desperate and gathered together in doorways and alleyways in an attempt to avoid the cold. However, they have also grown weary of this new pattern because of exactly this.
“This is stupid, you know?” asks his senior officer.
Muldrich nods, not disagreeing. But protocol is protocol. The two of them stop at the end of the road, turning their heads to look back at the inn they had just escorted those few families to, watching as they are all thrown out right back onto the street.
They were already aware of what awaited those people as they entered the inn, as this happens every night. The individuals who had previously found safety within the inn's walls will now be forced back out onto the streets because they are unable to pay for any food or their accommodations. The harsh truth is one that the guardsmen had grown all too accustomed to dealing with. But the procedure is what it is, and even though they knew it was a waste of time, they had no choice but to follow it.
“Rules are rules,” replies Muldrich.
His appointed senior shakes his head, clapping a hand on Muldrich’s shoulder. “You’re all business, Muldrich,” says the man. “You gotta learn to loosen up a little if you want to walk the streets,” he explains.
City ordinances dictate that all undocumented persons outside at night must be escorted to the nearest place of lodging by the city guard. However, the catch is that these places are not actually required to accommodate anyone who can’t pay, and, given that these people are refugees, most can’t. So they’re thrown right back out onto the street until the two guardsmen make their next loop down this road on their patrol, and the song and dance repeats itself once more. They’ll often escort the same group of people three or four times in one night to the same building, just so they can get thrown out again. Everyone follows the whistle and tune of bureaucracy.
As soon as the entrance to the inn swings open wide, a steady stream of people emerges, all of them bearing neutral expressions as they are thrown back out towards their only just extinguished fires, as they are used to this game too.
The two men return to their patrol, his senior nudging him again. “So, you snagged yourself a dark-elf, huh?” asks the man, raising his eyebrows. “Is it true what they say?” he asks, leaning in and lowering his voice. “About… You know?” he asks.
“About what?” asks Muldrich, dryly.
The other man is quiet for a moment. “About… you know… Ah, fuck. Never mind,” sighs the officer, shaking his head. “You really need to loosen up a little, Moldy,” explains the guardsman. “Or you’ll never make it to the big leagues.”
The two men resume their patrol. Even though it is silent, the night is not at all serene. There is tension in the air. The refugees from the south are mostly trying to get by, but for those who can’t afford to get by, they make their due through other means. Petty crime has skyrocketed lately, and there is a huge internal conflict in the city’s politics, arguing over the morality of even bothering to take in their brothers from the south if they’re only going to cause trouble here in the north.
It’s a potential powder-keg for civil unrest in the city, and the fuse certainly seems to have been lit at this point. He's not sure where this is going to lead to, ignoring the whole 'world ending crisis' thing. But it's causing problems for his city from the other side of the continent. That damned Isaiah-thing.
| ~ [Salvator] ~ |
| Human, Male, Wizard (Wind) |
| Location: The Tower, Floor One-Hundred |
Screams fill the air, with lightning crashing all around them from the tear in the void — the veil between realities. But the screams, just like the energy, are not born from the physicality of any entities present here; rather, they are the voice of the aether, the cry of the spirit-world, hissing in a serpent’s tongue as its cadence collides with their physical domain.
The wind howls, rushing against his back, pressing him forward and against the maw of the other-world beast, an entity made entirely out of pure, radiant, wild energy. Now it has the face of a dragon, but moments ago it had the face of a woman, and before that, the face of a beast. The monster with one-million faces, towering over them, roars as it carries the screams of every dead spirit to fill the astral realm with its voice. It screams, roaring with the voice of his mother, of his father, with the voices of men and women he’s never heard before and those he has, of whose passing he has not learned until this very second as he picks up their tongues in the conjoined anomaly.
His skin burns as its energies collide against him, his hands outstretched to project a torrent of violent winds out ahead of himself, pressing it back further as the titan presses against him — as if the two of them were an ancient sea serpent pressing against a raging tsunami.
They’ve come so far.
Salvator leans in, seeing his friends move at his side, the energies of their attacks striking against the leviathan that blocks their way, the final guardian of the tower of Isaiah’s first one-hundred floors.
It doesn’t matter what’s happening anywhere else in the world.
Ten-thousand voices scream into his ear, from which warm blood runs out, intermingling with the sweat, tears, and gore covering his robe.
It doesn’t matter what’s happening in the south, in the west, in the east, or in the north.
The monster’s face changes from that of an ancient dragon, to that of a sleek porcelain mask, opening its eyes and mouth wide — a blinding glow releasing from its orifices that swallows them whole in a tide of backwashing energy in which the five of them float.
“Why are you here?” asks a voice, resounding all around them with a strong, firm intensity to its question, cutting through the cries of the dead that have swallowed him whole.
Salvator, unable to see, unable to feel, presses forward another step, knowing that his people, his friends, are doing the same. The man tightens his fingers, staring into the wild light that blinds him with its intensity, but he doesn’t look away despite the searing pain in his head.
Something touches him from both sides, as his party, unable to see, closes ranks and maintains contact with one another, establishing a chain in which he is the central link. “Where else should I be?” asks Salvator, responding to the voice, as the tower rumbles, as his bones shake and the light cooks his skin, igniting his robe, and as ten-million souls scream from beyond the veil.
“Good answer,” replies the voice.
And then, everything stops as he and his party hurtle through the air, tumbling violently over one another in a weightless void. They grasp hands, clutching on to each other as they tumble towards uncertainty.
“One hundred more to go,” says the voice.
Salvator and his party float, levitating high up in the air, as their vision returns to them. The five of them hang there, suspended in midair, as they look down below themselves, at the island above which they are flying, the heavy strike of the clock-tower reverberating through the air.
| - [CHAMPION OF THE TOWER] - |
| Congratulations! You have bested the 100 core floors of the Tower of Isaiah! |
| Reward: [Augmentation {Holy}] |
| -) You may augment the additional HOLY sub-attribute onto your primary attribute: [Divine Wind] -) Title: 'Champion of the Tower' -) You may teleport to any point on the island that you have reached prior at will. -) All of your needs will be taken care of for as long as you are on the island, be it food, water, or shelter. -) You may speak with Isaiah. |
The five of them float, looking at the window and then to the side, their vision blurred and full of glares from the illumination just prior. A white movement fills their sight, obscured by their misvision, glaring with its intensity much the same as the monster had just done. They lift their hands, covering their eyes, as the voice from just now returns again.
“Congratulations for your efforts,” says the voice. “Let me ask you some questions,” it says.
“…Questions?” asks Salvator, trying to look through the gaps between his fingers.
The entity that appears to have just as many faces, wings, and limbs as the number of voices he had just heard nods with a simple movement.
“What would you make harder?” it asks, getting right to the point.
He blinks.
