Cracks in Eternity

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 6 DAY 5

Though business had taken Malak all over Targonia, never had he encountered such an outlandish man in the east. Missing a few toes on one foot, constantly scribbling in his notebook, and speaking in an accent he did not recognise, this strange creature had wolfed down three portions of his fried chicken and was coming back for more.

“I say, Mr. Malak,” the old customer exclaimed, slamming down yet another pair of coins. “Two brams is a steal. You’ve got to start charging more!”

“High praises for this pitiful creature,” the old Dracon mused. “You remind me of a young man I met in Immortrium.”

“Immortrium, beautiful city,” the man replied. “Perhaps he also came from another world?”

“Ah indeed,” said Malak. “He was a hero, strange name too, think it was...Ruxian.”

“Ruxian!” the customer shouted in excitement. “Soft kid. Hope he's doing alright.”

Malak nodded in agreement. “If you don’t mind, kind sir, as one outcast to another, may I have your name?”

“My friends call me Palemoor.”

“Palemoor,” repeated Malak. “And what business brings a distinguished hero to the east? I hear a demon has conquered a southern town and declared war on the Eternal Empire.”

Palemoor raised a greying brow at this news. “Let’s leave that to the more capable heroes,” he chuckled. “This relic just wants to go home to his grandchildren.”

The mention of family extended their gossiping for another good while, during which Palemoor gobbled down several more helpings of fried chicken. The sun had reached its full might when the two old men parted ways.

“I feel like I’ve known you all my life,” said Palemoor while peering at the sky. “Oh, before I forget. Malak, please stay away from the church.”

Palemoor took another walk back through the town, beaming at frolicking children and smiling fishmongers on his way to the church. With most of the town out fishing, only a small number of the clergy were present. Slowly, as if relishing the cool sensation of the masonry on his fingertips, he traced the walls and pillars, humming as he went. After several laps around the house of the Goddess, the old man slithered out of the courtyard.

Standing under the gate of this little settlement, Palemoor turned his head one last time before clapping his hands. A deafening explosion ripped through the quiet fishing village. A raging ball of fire spat masonry and debris into the air. Whistling a tune, he strolled down the dirt road, allowing the panicked screams to fade into irrelevance.

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 6 DAY 7

Inside his private temple, Aergot injected his magic into a hammer until the hunk of metal radiated blue and hummed. He bowed to the Goddess before working through the twelve forms twelve times. Since the age of ten, he had completed this routine without fail. 189 years later, he could not begin a day without this ritual.

His seventh wife – what was her name again – waited on him at the entrance. Was his memory failing him, or was it just his disdain for ephemeral creatures that kept her name a mystery?

Having finished his exercise, Aergot removed his shirt. His wife rushed to his side and wiped him down with trembling hands. He glanced at her, then without warning, wrapped an arm around her hip and ripped open her dress. Her fearful eyes may have stopped him a century ago, but now, he no longer cared.

His office, a study larger than some theatres, saw an endless stream of guests. Merchants, military officers, and local politicians all visited Aergot hoping to win his favour. With more than a century of experience administering bureaucratic duties, he had long since mastered countless ways to cordially decline every request. His response inevitably fell into three categories: a post in an obscure office, a friendly reminder of legal infringements, or a discounted payment for services rendered. Past leniency and generosity meant little to creatures who would succumb to rigor mortis before he could age a day.

Even now, as he pretended to entertain a matron from a lesser house, his mind was on Sothrend. He had commanded the archbishop’s grandson to deliver him the hero. Yet, several days later, he had not even received a reply. The messenger he dispatched to assess the situation had also gone silent. Was the rotund priest defying him? If so, then Lucius would be the first man in eight decades to have disobeyed his orders. This possibility both enraged and amused Aergot.

It was then his emissary crashed through the marble gates, heedless of the angry footmen hanging off his waist. Shivering and dishevelled, he reminded Aergot of a rabbit inside a tiger’s cage.

“What’s the matter?” asked Aergot, rising to his feet. “Either speak now or have your tongue removed for wasting my –”

“Hello, Aergot Paerawyn,” the interruption turned every man pale. “I am Ruxian, the Confucian Deity from another world. If you have received this message, then know that my forces have liberated Sothrend from your tyrannical grasp.

“This is just the beginning. I will raze your churches, murder your mages, and drain you of the foul elixir you consume to extend your worthless life. No longer will your priests send Otherworlders to their slaughter upon your profane altars. No longer will Targonia fear the consequences of not paying their due to your parasitic regime. No longer will I idly sit by and allow you to trample innocence.

“So that you know what you are up against, I shall display a fraction of my power. Upon the delivery of this message, the messenger will now take his own life. You may try and stop him, but I strongly recommend against it.”

Tossing away the parchment, the young man drove a dagger into his stomach. Despite collapsing and screaming in pain, he stabbed himself again and again, until he lost all faculty over his broken body, finally going limp with a dying gasp. Rooted to the ground, the footmen stared on with fear. The old woman had fainted. Aergot, taking a deep breath, sank back into his chair.

“When you’re done staring,” said Aergot, “see to the good lady, tell her I’ve prepared her son a mayoral position in a southern town. Clean up the body and prepare new carpets.” He clapped his hands. “Now, turn away all visitors.”

His jittery butler, a greying welp who had barely seen half a century, was still staring at the russet blotch on the rug long after the guards dragged away the corpse. Shaking his head, Aergot snapped his fingers, jolting the boy out of his disturbed trance.

“Write to His Highness,” said Aergot. “Impress upon father that I’ll have a grand present for him soon.” He paused and stared out the window. “While you’re at it, get me Gilliam Harvale.”

The head servant bowed his head. He knew better than to remind Aergot that Saint Harvale was mourning the loss of his son. Somehow, he doubted his master would mind another stain on the luxurious carpet.

“The Confucian Deity, eh?” remarked Aergot, chuckling. “You have my attention.”

DATE: IMMORTAL REIGN 1023 MONTH 6 DAY 12

Emperor Taleon Paerawyn dreamed. It was a phantasmagoric mix of events from over a millennium ago. Covered only in leaves, he rode the Targonian grizzlies and explored every corner of the Bearwood, which later became the Everlett Forest. Valnaga didn’t mind, of course. Having since experienced a thousand years himself, he now understood her detachment from such trifles.

The sight of Valnaga mourning her father chilled Taleon. Memento mori. Though the grizzlies may have accepted mortality, Taleon rejected the notion. He was not about to lose his second family to the withering caresses of time.

Horned visitors who came to pay their respects to the holy bear forever changed his life. They were Dracons who served an immortal woman. Taleon, bidding the bears goodbye, braved the steep cliffs and hostile weather, followed them back to Blackmoon Peak in search for immortality. The fabled Goddess, however, refused to admit him into her temple until he learned all their spells. In hindsight, her caution was justified.

With his immense affinity for magic, Taleon took a few decades to complete the feat meant to consume many lifetimes. He had even improvised a few spells himself. Of worthy mention was his psychic needle. The delicate laces and frills, impossible to produce by hand, made him a favourite among the local women. Now with more wrinkles on his forehead and dust in his hair, the gates of the temple finally revealed their interior to him. He still vividly recalled the stinging incense, the flickering candles, and above all, the Goddess.

Her golden horns resembled a crown, striking a brilliant contrast to her jet-black hair. Magic formed glittering wings on her back, spreading sparks with each unconscious flutter. In her odd eyes resided an inferno furnace and an unfathomable ocean, adding a hellish streak to an otherwise angelic portrait. Such was her air that he could hardly breath in her presence. There could be no doubt. Such exquisite beauty had to be immortal.

Yet, his toils and begging inspired not Blackmoon’s empathy, but her wrath. Instead of sharing her immortality, she showed him one of her many wings, slashing a scar that he spent the next three centuries recovering from. Natural talent was irrelevant in the face of eternity. As he lay bleeding, Taleon wept. Had he one more century, or even a few decades, things might have been different. The limitations of his mortality hurt far more than the festering wound on his chest.

Declaring he did not belong to their world, Blackmoon began ripping through the fabrics that divided their worlds. The grounds shook under her labour. Taleon watched with despairing horror. No. He refused to go home, not to the war-torn township to rot in the filthy squalor. It was now or never. Lifting a finger, he sent a psychic needle at her magical eyes.

Magic erupting from her punctured pupils, the Goddess let out an unholy screech that left his ears bleeding. Mustering what little power he had left, Taleon threaded death through her heart and throat. No longer under control, the deity’s wings sundered the temple.

Her final effort to slay the otherworldly menace almost succeeded. Taleon, having lost multiple limbs and fast bleeding out, crawled towards the slain Blackmoon and lapped up her blood. With each slurp, he felt his strength returning. Wounds sealed, limbs made anew, the man got to his feet. Consumed with greed, he sank his teeth into her jugular. Stronger than he had ever been, he broke off her golden horns, the very source of her inhuman powers. He cackled with maniacal joy at every snap. This was her punishment for refusing to share.

“Your Highness.”

A familiar voice brought the emperor back to the present. He had fallen asleep at his throne. Blinking, he straightened, smoothed his robe, and cast his gaze along the stairs below his royal chair. It was Arplis.

“Please pardon my intrusion,” the archbishop apologised, kneeling. “But I come bearing urgent news.”

Taleon nodded. “Speak.”

“There are many reports from southern and eastern provinces of deliberate attacks on the church,” reported Arplis. “Our templars believe it an organised effort.”

The emperor frowned. “Do as you see fit.”

“I also have a letter from His Excellency, Aergot Paerawyn,” said Arplis.

“Did he break his woman by accident again?” asked Taleon, sighing. “That boy.”

“No, Your Highness,” Arplis replied. “He claims he will have a gift for you on his 200th birthday.”

Taleon almost laughed. “A gift?”

“Most certainly, sire,” said Arplis. “He claims he found true immortality.”