Tall tales, unfounded rumours, unbelievable stories. It does not matter what is true, and what is real, it matters what is believed. What is understood, taken to heart and carried forward into the minds and hearts of the many, rather than the cloistered few. Perhaps there is truth hidden in the mysterious, or perhaps the mad ramblings of fools remain as exactly that.
Is it this madness, perchance, that leaves us with so many questions unanswered?
There are strange events and happenings in the lands of Southern Esterra. Some best left forgotten, and others working as if their lives depended on it to ensure it is so.
The Warder of the Brain
The false widow skittered across the sands, her legs barely sinking below the grains as she endeavoured to get back to her web after the prevailing winds tore her from her home. In the fading heat of the sun she was safe enough on the ground, no longer sizzling upon contact, but still she yearned for home. For safety. That was what it was built for, you know - a home in which She could be safe, before She was sent elsewhere far too late.
She had to return - she needed to feed. She had no choice; this or nothingness.
The desert shrew’s nose twitched and her ears quivered as she felt the movement on her periphery. Letting out a high-pitched squeak, she scurried towards it through the scrub, her stomach painfully empty. She had grown used to eating insects every hour, but they grew fewer and further between. She couldn’t risk leaving this morsel and letting it get away. There was no telling when the next person would visit Her, would next trade what She needed for what they wanted.
She had to hunt now, all things considered - she needed to feed. Before they came to Her in droves, a whole Monarchy under her Priesthood.
The rattlesnake stayed almost perfectly still as she watched the hot-blooded mammal move into her awareness, her narrow head not quite craning out of her hiding place. Even as proficient a hunter as her knew what awaited her if she was seen. And so she waited, delayed, her hinged fangs descending from her palate as she opened her mouth to lunge. She knew that there were others waiting to do the same to Her, should She be out in the open.
She would not hide anymore - she needed to feed. She did not regret Her hunger - not for a moment. Even if it meant skulking in the dark for leftovers of light.
The horned owl floated slowly, silently, watching the snake prepare to strike, then dove into the scrubland below. Despite beginning to set, the sun still beat upon her wings like the drums of an army long since lost to the sand beneath, even as the winds fought both to dislodge her from her path and to uncover the desiccated drums with equal fervour. Of course they did; they could not possibly leave Her be after all this time. They were unfeeling, after all.
But she would not be dislodged nor deterred - she needed to feed. Even if it was not safe.
The shrew caught the false widow, her false presentation meaning nothing anymore. She knows when you lie.
The rattlesnake caught the shrew, her desperate hunger no longer a concern. A steady stream, that’s all She needs.
The owl caught the rattlesnake, all her lying in wait in vain. If they were to find Her, to reduce Her to what She once was.
The coyote’s eyes tracked the owl’s descent upon the rattlesnake, prowling closer as she watched the snake’s skull be crushed in the owl’s grasp, the sharp talons piercing holes through the rattlesnake’s flesh before bones began to shatter. The mortal experience - death for life for death.
Then the coyote caught the owl, a natural consequence to natural behaviour. Perhaps they learned better the next time they gave out such power then tried to snatch it back.
Who could possibly blame her - she needed to feed. But Her Tower did not, not anymore. It had received secrets, offered through no great pains. No threats of death or disease or hardship. An offering, like it used to be. And so Her Tower could grow quiet - fade back into that place of oblivion that She preferred it to remain, now that She had received something to whet Her appetite.
Game Information
To all Concordians, regardless of knowledge or circumstance, the Tower in the Wilds referenced in previous Winds does not exist. It has never existed.
Any reference to it, either in writing or visual prompt that may remain are surely nothing more than strange Andashi children’s stories that none would be so foolish to believe. In fact, they don’t even stick in the minds of the readers, instead washing away like sediment down a river. Over the season, these physical prompts that exist of a so-called “Tower in the True Wilds” are thrown away, burned, or simply reduced to strange ramblings of the mad.
Individuals who have the Known or Understood wounds, or who attended the Conflux in the Tower on Day 3 of Spring 225 are immune to the above. The latter will also receive additional information in their character packs.
Quarrels Not Their Own
“Now, Claudia, let us not stand on ceremony, if you will pardon the word play. If you do not know how to lead God of War that is quite alright,” the older man smiled down at her, face seemingly sincere but words dripping with condescension. She smiled back up at him, hoping that hers expressed the same level of sincerity in spite of her knuckles flexing under the long sleeves of her robe.
“Aeneas, you have seen me perform God of War multiple times before - I know that I am proficient enough to lead it myself. Are you sure that the acolytes presented the correct amount of Crystal Mana? I overheard some of them chatting whilst they were supposed to be counting; they may well have been taken by distraction.”
Her teacher smiled again, this time with marginally more understanding in his eyes. “I heard the same, which is why I ordered them each to start from the beginning, and then do so again once they had finished. The amount is there in full.”
Claudia could feel frustration begin to build behind her eyes and willed them not to well up - for Spheres’ sake, she did not need to cry just because things weren’t going to plan.
“Then, perhaps there is something wrong with the heptagon? A stone loose?”
The understanding crept away and condescension took its place once again, but she interrupted him before he could speak.
“There is something - I swear upon Cervitas, Pedagogue. It isn’t there for me to reach out to - to pull from like it normally is,” the words came flooding out, feeling like an excuse in spite of their truth.
Aeneas nodded sagely and put a hand on her shoulder, gently guiding her away from the pulpit. “Then, perhaps, I shall lead one final time then we can enquire with some of the High Legionnaire’s staff?”
It was phrased like a question, but with no room for Claudia to do anything but nod and step aside.
However, there was a slight smug satisfaction when she saw the disbelief on her teacher’s face when, in spite of the choir of priests before him singing, nothing divine occurred. This was immediately followed by panic - if something was not wrong with her, then what was it wrong with?
***
“Are you sure that you counted it right?” one of his fellow Knights called out from beyond the borders of their sacred circle.
Dominic felt his right eyelid twitch and willed it to be still. “Do you really think that I can’t count to three, Michaela?”
He heard her shrug more than he saw her do so in his peripheral vision, armour clanking together unkindly in spite of the tabard worn with pride over to top of it.
“You have been hit in the head more than enough times” she responded, stifling a laugh when she saw Dominic’s nostrils flare alongside his now constantly twitching eye. “Now that I come to think of it, are you sure it hasn’t worked? Your face certainly looks like it has.”
Dominic whipped his head around to begin the argument that was sure to happen regardless, but was stopped by the forceful kick to his shins by the Priest performing the Ceremony whose wrinkled face smiled serenely up at him when he turned back with a yelp.
Dame Elis had been a Priest of Arcadian in the Drummondite Church of the Spheres for longer than Domonic and Michaela had been Knights put together and then some, and he felt his cheeks flush at his childish behaviour in front of such a wise individual.
“You know,” she said, quietly, ignoring Michaela’s quiet chortling, “there’s nothing wrong with not being sure, so long as you take action in what you think is the right direction.”
Dominic fished out an additional Crystal Mana and handed it to the older woman, sighing as he did so.
Even as he tried his hardest to pay attention to the red-caped ceremony taunting him with his failures as a Knight thus far on his journey, he couldn’t let go of the knowledge that he had counted out the proper amount to start with. He was sure of it.
So why did he have to give more?
***
“Fergus, are you quite well?” Bishop-Curate Roennfeldt called out to the younger Priest who sat in the quiet of the Passage Sanctified Square, head in his hands, a single gauntlet tossed beside him.
He let out a slight sniffle, wiped his eyes with his dirt-encrusted fingers and attempted a watery smile up at the man who was technically his boss.
“I’m alright, Benjamin,” though his voice was not convincing to either of the figures in the conversation.
The Bishop-Curate eyes were warm when he gestured for the young man to join him in the Church office for a moment.
It didn’t take long, over the steaming cup of coffee soon clutched in his hands, for the Priest to share his woes.
“I thought I was ready, you know? I’d done all my reading and training and preparing. I’d saved up all my Crystal Mana, and I was ready, when all was said and done, to leave the Civil Service and go be a Hero. To really fight for The Concord.”
His eyes misted up again as he spoke and he stared down into his mug as if he may find his answers at the bottom.
“I went to do the Trial - I gave my Mana and I swore an Oath on my Grandpa’s armour and I beseeched Arcadian and nothing happened, Bishop. I reached out to The Spheres and they found me unworthy before I’d even bloody started.”
The young man sobbed into his mug while Roennfeldt put a warming hand on his shoulder. He looked from Fergus to the Crystal Mana now sitting on his desk.
He was a brave enough man, with enough knowledge of the Sphere of Steel for Trial of
Worthiness to work. So why didn’t it?
Game Information
For reasons unknown, a number of Arcadian Ceremonies have become more difficult to cast across the Mortal Sphere, regardless of Priests’ previous capability with them.
The Ceremonies that have become more difficult to cast are:
- Bless the Warhost
- Strength of the Bull
- Raise the Wounded Warrior
- Rally the Fallen
More concerningly, a larger number of Arcadian Ceremonies have become unable to be performed by any Priests across the Mortal Sphere as well.
The Ceremonies that are no longer able to be performed are:
- Trial of Worthiness
- Style of the Bronze Colossus
- Warrior’s Mantle
- Conclave of Trees and Courage
- God of War
Any Priests who had previously Mastered these Ceremonies continue to hold their mastery, and may only remove it by unlearning the Religious Skill that granted them the Mastery, as per usual.
Any characters currently under the effect of one or more of the above Ceremonies continue to be affected for the normal duration, after which the Ceremony fades away as per usual
Sitting in the Deeps Upon the Hidden Bases of the Hills
The water looked colder than Ladure had, its mirrored surface looking like it had been frozen in time. And the silence colder, too.
The journey had been marred by the cacophony of Boghoffens and the groaning of Undead, but there was none of that here. Even the air was still, as if the world had taken a deep breath and was not yet ready to exhale.
It was not like the silence she had felt under the water, before she became the version of herself that she knew now. That was a muted silence that created ringing in its absent nature, like that that occurs after one has been boxed about the ears for speaking out of turn.
Nor was it like the silence of laying awake at night while those that called themselves friends sat about the fire outside, each lost in their own thoughts. That was a full silence, a blanket of nothingness over the Weald, for a moment.
It wasn’t even quite the silence of waiting for a Champion that never came, or the that of empty promises made. That was a painful silence, one marked with pieces of whatever she had that closest resembled a soul or a heart crushed under foot like insects.
This was almost the silence of a dagger slid between the rips - the nothing-breathe that escapes and the empty eyes that stare back. Almost.
As she stepped into the water, and it did not move about her, but instead absorbed her movements like an already grey cloud absorbs rain, she paused for a moment, staring up at the sky. Trailing her fingers on the surface of the water, so cold it felt like absence, she pondered when she would next see a moon as full as this one.
Then she descended, walking along the floor, her fingers now trailing along the bottoms of coats and skirts as the bodies’ eyes trailed her movements, their mouths agape. The silence of above made sense, juxtaposed against the endless screaming here. She did not know how many mortals hovered in the water, weights in their pockets or rocks tied to their shoes. She did not think she could count even through each of the distinct voices endlessly crying below the surface.
Making her way to the roots, she curled herself up among them, now so gelid that she felt warm again, and raised her head to the moon she could no longer see.
Another to join the wailing.
Game Information:
Lake Ladure Quarry, which has in previous Seasons created an amount of Crystal Mana, no longer does so.