Ulrikano and the First Great Unwinding

Something is coming. I’m not entirely sure what or how, but I need to be prepared. In the realms beyond and outside the Vyrroletea stirs a force from even further far afield. But that isn’t normally a problem. We may be long lived, but we adapt well enough to change, and to outsiders. But these beings are doing something quite disturbing. Or their very existence here is doing something disturbing. I’m not sure which would be a worse scenario. Because if they are intentionally splitting off aspects of the magical source for their own use, that is a dangerous project for the whole world. The last time a great mystic from our continent attempted even the slightest such shunts on the source, their whole village died in a strange vortex of time and existence, leaving no trace of anyone or anything. As they seem to be succeeding thus far, they must be quite powerful collectively. But if it is unintentioned, if it is simply their existence that causes the seismic change within the source, what else will change? They see themselves as above us, like our own Iikadzo the Deathless or Ristarri of the Wild. Will they feel the need to supplant them? Or worse? Such is not important to matters. I need to focus on protecting myself. Preparing myself. For whatever comes next.

Preparation means more than protection, but protection comes first. As the skies all around as and the spirits of the world themselves shift and scream in torsional agony, head deeper into my home. To my workspace, touching my hand to the plates and pulsing out energy as I pass through each door. My workroom is small, lit only by the faint glow emanating from each of the hundreds of small glass jars that line one wall. I take the armor that Anrylani da Stari’istel, the master smith from two towns over, had constructed for me last week out of my pack. Guardians such as the one I am creating require precise detailing and specifications, and I would only trust a master of their craft to have such attention to detail. Carefully, I lay the armor down across my workbench. I take my own precise engraving tools and get to work on the thicker bands that span the armor, ordered to be thicker so that they remain structurally sound whilst holding a deep engraving. Like all magical things, precision is required, and I take the time to get it right. The patterns are to both hold everything together, and to keep the power given within the form.

It takes quite some time to finish the pattern. Days. I could stop to eat, should even. But I don’t. Don’t know how long I have before whatever coming disaster hits the world. And so, rather than actually take care of myself, I let my mystical workings do it for me. Whenever I get too tired or hungry, I draw on the sciences of the mystic, tracing a symbol in the air with my gem dust and muttering the right sounds in the precise order, and suddenly I am not either. And then, I get back to work. Once the pattern is complete, I take the special metallic paints and drip it into the veins of the pattern, evenly coating the inside of the carvings. Then, before it dries, I walk over to that wall of glowing jars. Tracing a similar looking sigil on the jar, I watch its faint blue glow begin to pulse and writhe as it finds itself bound to the armor. Placing the jar within the breastplate, I take a breath, then snap. The jar shatters, and there is a harsh, piercing shriek as the soul that was once held within the jar is freed, and begins to try to escape. As it howls and moves to every inch of the armor, it finds itself held in a new cell. Slowly it begins to move the armor. To become a part of the armor as much as the armor is a prison for it. The faint blue glow emanates from the armor. “Child,” I say to it, “How are you feeling?”

“Alive again?” it muses. “No, just encased. No pain, just cold.”

I nod. “No pain is good.” I turn towards the door. “Come, follow me.” I begin to walk out of the workshop.

It follows. “Why?” it wonders as it leaves the room.

“Because I need help keeping this place safe,” I explain as I approach a random wall in my main hall, right by the entrance.

“No. Why I follow?”

I smile. “Do you see the symbols etched into your armor?”

“Yes.”

“Those sigils, along with letting you see and feel once more, also slightly bind you to my will,” I explain.

It nods. “I understand. I am unhappy. Why?”

“Because the world as we know it is likely ending, so I don’t have the time to get you to help me organically.” I gesture towards the open panel. “Whenever the door is opened, hide in here. If the intruders aren’t me or do not give you my name, they aren’t meant to be here and it would be best for them to die.”

“I will imagine they are you. What is your name?”

“Ulrikano da Karri’stanzo.”

“I will ask, and if they do not answer thusly, they will die.” It heads towards the small room.

“You have free access to every room but my workroom in the meantime. Learn, relax, do whatever you wish. Preferably things that will make you less unhappy with me.”

It nods. “Unlikely.”

Finally, with that done, I move to the final bits of preparation. In case the mystical workings I use to produce food for myself begin to falter, I will need to have some reserves and probably would like a garden. Which means traveling into the farming community and discussing with Olinarri da Plakte’errol. Even though that means dealing with her parents’ and other relatives’ looks and implications. I walk out of my home, sealing the door behind me. It’s easy enough for me to get past the locks, but there are not many other mystics in the local community. Walking down the road into town, I look up. The skies around are still twisting painfully. It’s gotten to the extent that there are stress lines forming above in the heavens above. Not a good sign for the future. I need to hurry. I crush a glass jar filled with dried leaves from my vest and my walking pace increases exponentially. The walk that would normally take me an hour I get done in less than half of that time. And in no time at all, I move past the gawking onlookers in the town’s streets, to the small stand of the Plakte’errol family farm. Thankfully, it seems her family is among those fixated on the sky.

As I approach, Olinarri smiles. “Kano,” she greets me familiarly, “Do you know what specifically is going on?”

“You heard about the arrival of those new beings in our realms beyond?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies, “The mystics have claimed they’re some kind of belief based rivals to our own deities. What of them?”

“Well, Arri, best I can tell, these twistings, or turnings, are reminiscent of the attempted hoarding of Rannesalli da Halidze’en, but on a much grander scale.”

“Rannesali…” she thinks aloud, “Isn’t she the one behind the disappearance of Nyrrystona?”

“And you see why I’m here to stock up on food,” I half-joke with a smile.

“What exactly would you like?” she asks.

Pulling out my bag, I answer, “As much brined and jerkied meat as you have. And some seeds for edible plants. I’m thinking of holing up at my place for a while, and would love to try to learn some gardening.” I pull out my pouch of coins from my bag.

“Well, you’re in luck on the first offer. We had a couple of cattle get into a fight a week ago, a fight which neither survived. So we’ve got around 100 stone of preserved meat. Though most of its jerked not brined.”

I nod. “That’s fine. I’ll take it all, though I’m not sure this bag can hold 100 stone. Especially not with everything else I need to keep in it,” I say with a smile as I count out the rather large cost, “And the other part?”

“I’m not really allowed to sell you that,” she whispers, checking around us to make sure no one’s watching, “But I’ll help you transport this back to your house and might accidentally bring some along the journey and drop them off.”

I smile. “Thanks, both your help and your forgetfulness will be appreciated.”

I take about fifty stone worth of the jerky and put it in my bag, along with my pouch of coins. She loads the rest, along with a series of smaller bags, onto a cart, and we begin to drive the cart back to my home. It takes longer than my walk, now that I don’t have the aid of any mystical working to move things along more swiftly, but about forty five minutes later, we make it to the small, metal and stone home I built for myself, far away from the trade routes across the plains or the sea. Away from prying eyes.

Then, before I can even get down from the cart, there is a loud crack, accompanied by an uncomfortable tearing noise that echoes around me and down my spine. Looking up, those torsion lines have shorn, causing great gaps in the air itself. “What is this?” Arri asks, looking worried. I try to keep my own fear to myself. Whatever is happening, it’s happening now or it just finished. Either way, we need to get inside to the safe and mystically protected space before the worst of it happens. Creatures, no monsters, start pouring out from the cracks in the sky, some flying, some falling.

“We best be getting everything inside,” I say as I rush down and over to the entrance. As I press my hand against the door, nothing happens. I push out a pulse of energy. Nothing happens. Something is wrong.

“Why’s your door not working?” Arri asks.

“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. I look at the air, the lines broken in the sky. I assumed it to be a mere siphoning. What if it was something more? Utilizing the mystic requires a combination of understanding what you are trying to do, practice in the methods of action, faith that it will work, and connection to what you are trying to affect. But these new beings aren’t operating in the same way. What if they weren’t merely trying to take some of the source and make it their own. What if they were unthreading the source. Unwinding those four integral strands of mystical energy. That would be very bad. I look, panic now visible in my eyes, at Arri. The creatures are rushing towards us, out in the open as we are. “Here isn’t safe,” I say, “You need to survive.” And, before she can object or say anything in response that she might regret, Itrace a complicated series of shapes in the air, snap a twig on the ground with my foot, and the whole cart, with the meat, the seeds and her atop it, vanishes, teleporting back into her family stables. I’m exhausted. I know I need to rest, and I won’t be able to do much before I get some sleep. But she’s safe. Things will go on.

One of the flying monsters picks me up in its claws, with another of its kin joining in the feasting. Together the pair eat at my body as they fly me up, higher and higher into the sky. My blood pours out of me, falling to the ground. I look down past it at Vyrroltea. The beautifully carved island continent. It will survive this, I can feel it. Nothing will be able to break the true foundation of the Vyrroltea and its people. I might be dying here, food for these new-formed monsters, but we are survivors. We will adapt to this, just as we adapt to everything. I pass out from loss of blood.