The Colors that Never Come

[GSM]

After the beginning of Fimbulvetr, the foot of Grimjhall was graced with calm silence. After the apparent victory of the demons, occultists and undead upon this tearful night, all was well.

But with the planting of one obelisk at the entrance of Grimjhall's billowing peak, another would find itself pierced into reality, like a writhing, open wound in the fabric of Meranthe.

Another obelisk- no, a tower, had formed. Overnight, and instantaneously. It drained and sucked away sounds in the area; emotions near it would dull as well. The color of the air, of the open skies, and of its immediate surroundings were all pulled free. A darkened spire, one that reached upwards, almost level with the mountain.

A poor omen, for those wishing to reclaim Grimjhall, had arisen.

The Obelisk of the End.



With its creation sudden and instant, it can only be guessed that it was commissioned by a demon in a split second. This would later be verified, as word would proliferate within the Deep Hold and the Cult of Mori alike, which then steadily becomes rumors within the civilized world; the upstart demon, the great owl Na'Ria, rumored spawn of Sak'noth, had pieced together the magic required to blaze the spire into reality.

It would hibernate for a time, losing activity and refusing to leave the outside world- but it claimed sole responsibility for the act.

"The sons of man grow so, so restless, yet do not conspire to truly bring themselves to act. So, with this crackle of magic, with this act of birthing my own home, closer to the Deep Hold, I beckon.

All of my kin, all of those in the Deep Hold- relocate. Come back to the home we have built, to the fortress within the Shadowlands, and closer yet to our unchecked hotbed of activity. If anything, I will allow those to garrison themselves at my home instead of the Dragon's Spire, and let the sons of man come to us. If they wish to act, to reclaim their precious wastelands, then they will have to deal with an entrenched force."

The demon made a curious action, but it was not alone. Word is rumored that the Wyrm, Grisha had given it her blessing.

Worryingly as well, the Emissary of Mori, Obliteration was also sponsoring this move.

Despite the demon's clear intentions, it had yet another thing to say: a calm rally. Not to its fellow damned, but to those of higher minds.

"Those of you who may call themselves geniuses, like that of Benjamin and Andes. I implore you all to travel, to see me, to add to my wealth of knowledge, and add to my grand library. I assure you that your offerings of knowledge will not lead to your attack by my kin. I only wish to learn what I cannot, due to my birth as a demon.

Obliteration, my great ally, has asked for me to include this as well: it is seeking those willing to give their emotions up for experimentation by its tendrils, with coin for compensation. If you surrender yourself for that purpose as well, then I will also assure you that you will not be harmed in kind.

We seek greater knowledge; this is a collaborative effort, for those who may listen."

Regardless of its public opinion, regardless of how others wished to see it, it was clear that the endless nights would still yet persist.

The demons had found a plentiful home within the world, and this one was no different.

Time was ticking.

[GSM]

---

"This tower yet grows with purpose. This Obelisk has grown more and more.
I see visitors every day; I have a Familiar that tends to it every day. A second, if a bit distant, meeting grounds of Skarnfel.
A garrison of our allies- I do believe we would call ourselves allies- of the Crimson Keep.

My library grows. I, grow.

...

Why am I not satisfied?

Is it because I aim too high? Is it because making this tower a rival to Aetius is a fool's errand?
Am I treading the wrong path?

...

No.

It is not my folly; it is not my end.
My goals are still out of reach, yet step by step, we approach them.
Now that I am a Kaor, now that I am free of that cocoon, I can exert my strength all the same.
The sons of men know this.
My kindred know this.

I know this.

...

But will I understand?

...

Yes.

And all will be understood in due time, when I continue to push forth.
All will be grasped and held onto, as I reach outwards, clutching for the ideal of that all-knowing state.
All will know my name.

By scorn or by reverence, I will burn with my outstretched wings in the sun's rays.

Anything to sunder these skies."

[GSM]

The battle with Aphros has ended, for a time.

The Shadowlands remain as they were, encroached upon by the sons of men.
The attacks would never cease until the daylight, where the humanoid shades would seemingly depart from the front lines of Aphros's borders.
Though still they would linger, the territory that they spanned was far less than before the attack was launched.
One may expect to disappear within the depths of the Shadowlands, rather than just outside of the sight of the city.

With the pyrrhic loss, one that nearly begot loss on either side, the mind of the attack, the Owldrake, had to pull away as instead of routing their foes, they were driven back.

A battle assessment was needed, and chalking up the results of the battle meant that it was quite clear that they needed one thing to truly prevail over the stagnant state of duality.

Power.

---

For a time, the younger demons that it had taken under its wings had left it, as had its Familiar and assortment of allies and sworn servants.
The Obelisk of the End had become a breeding ground of higher minds and powerful ambition.
But none matched its master's.

It stood upon the ether core of its spire, taking in a few of its books it had within its more highly guarded and heavily sustained personal keep.
Books of strength, of will, wars, history- anything and everything it believed could help it attain this power.

To shed this skin.
Or was it to take the skin it longed for?
Or growing skin out of its current and reshaping it to another...?

---

"This world is so callous, cruel, and unforgiving to our kindred.
A seeking of knowledge, a wish to grow, a wish to right a wrong,
And we are driven back with tails between our legs.
We lack the strength to reign as we are.
We lack the presence to do all but defend ourselves,
When the entire world would point swords to our throats.

That mantle, that effervescent dream of power...
Imperfection.
Many seek it for power, I know that much.
But... how does one attain power when this form already bathes you within it?

And why are we destined to resemble the sons of men that scorn us so?

...

I cannot seek it for power.
Even though, for my aspect, to be branded a Demon of Knowledge,
Power and knowledge are one in the same, interchangeable.
I must seek it to know what that state is like.

I must seek it to know what lies beyond.

So, if this world may drown in blood, so I may seek all the knowledge within it?
I should not care whose blood is spilled.
I apologize, my kindred.

I know I raise many young and aid our growing.
But to utilize a piece of the board, one must develop it to its apex and let its full potential shine.
If that is not enough, if it would be struck down regardless,
Then a more valuable piece of the board must reign at the top.

It saddens me to come to this conclusion.
It pains me that my kindred may die for my selfish obsession, to fulfill my aspect so we may yet grow stronger.

So I may yet grow stronger.

But that is the price of Perfection."

[GSM]

“The Obelisk has served me well.
To have carved my name into the world of Meranthe in a physical form is…
Gratifying.
But this cannot be everything there is to this existence.

Instant gratification will only beget a harsh, severed reality.
One I am too familiar with, thanks to that Silent Hero I have created.

If I am to seek Imperfection,
If I am to truly bring about change,
I should find the roots of change and seize them.
Befitting my aspect, I must learn of change.

…

Where better than its Lord?

---

Yes, ever since I have been but a fledgling, I have been told of my assumed parentage.
That I am a spawn of the Lord of Change.
Though not once have I let this title claim me in hubris, it has followed me eternal.
My own kin sing my praises, regardless of my origin, and regardless of the truth.

Yet all speak of me as a spawn of Sak’noth.
Even Set’noth.
Even Grisha.
Even Diavol.

It weighs heavily on me.
To not know my own parentage, yet to have it sung as if they do.
If only it were so easy as to ask, to reach out and find my purported father.
If only speaking to the dead were that simple.

I do not know my father.

I do not know his face.

…

Why does this dismay me…?

I know not pain.
But I believe this is the closest I will get…

---

I cannot allow these…
Hopelessly mortal feelings consume me.
I have a job to do.
A kingdom of the fel to run.
I cannot sorrow for what is not my fault.
What is not my shouldered burden.

I must advance every piece upon my board.
I must force this standstill to end before long.
Before they do so in kind.

Sak’noth.
Father.
…if you truly are mine.
Are you proud of me?

Would you be glad of what I have done, so far,
in these short years I have been me?
I fear those sons of man ripping me from what I must do.
I fear my End.

---

Until I ascend, until I shed this body and become a false son…
I cannot allow myself to meet my End.
But in time, I will join you.

Be it by my death or the death of the gods.
I swear to you that this change I bring is in my name and mine alone.

Until they all know my name, like they do yours.
I will tell their stories, and all of mine.
And when we meet again, if ever we met,

I wish for your embrace.
Oh, father…”

[GSM]

Lyseroth’s defeat came with a reckoning unlike it had ever seen, up to that point.

The war against Grisha’s Dragonspire.
The destruction of Varrach’s reviving obelisk.
The attack against the Crimson Keep.
Its siege upon Aphros.

None compared.
Humanity united.
The beast was put down at great cost.

The Nascent Primordial, the Sin of Gluttony, had briefly achieved a strength not unlike a deity’s.
Lyseroth had consumed, and consumed, and consumed.
Perhaps that was the absolute zenith of mortals, ones that bore the power of Aether within.
Perhaps that was their destiny, if left unchecked for decades upon decades, accelerated by an all-consuming hunger.

It knew of Perfect beings in other worlds.
Perfection truly did exist.
Gods had interfered with the rising of a Perfect being, striking down the aspirant with a vengeful zeal.
Perfection’s price was the End of that Perfection.

It wondered if it had bore witness to Lyseroth’s Perfect state.
And how the mortals closely in twined with the story of Lyseroth were inclined to… pray.
Not just against him, but… for him.
And yet, it was silent.

If this was the End of Meranthe, it would have beheld it in complete silence.

But it was not so.

---

Slumbering. Sobbing. Suffering. Struggling. Screaming. Squelching.
Sundering. Strangling. Slicing. Scarring. Suturing. Shifting.
Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.
Silence.

That is our natural state of being.
Not as those who wish for change, but as a kin of Hel, as demons.

We are borne of change.
But that change lingers as our End, one and all.
I know that my End will be one and the same as others.
Death does not make me afraid, for another shall take my place.
Such as with Varrach.
Such as with Sak’noth.

The blood of our fathers. The blood of our sons.
One and the same.

No doubt, when it is I who joins the dead, another will rise in my memory.
I have already marred and named myself as one who will change Meranthe.
But they know not just how far we are willing to go.
We shed our skins so many times before we even think of assuming the guise of a false son.

And avatars of change like Lyseroth were much of the same as us kin.

---

It surges through us all,

A lack of self-control.
A sighing, vacant soul.

Plunged headfirst in the deep,
Nothing for us to keep.
Only sounding a weep.

Can you help me find my way?
I've been lost for so long.
I don't even know where it went wrong.
Can you help me?
Can you help me?

Find strength to armor me,
To face my enemies,
A whispered, draining plea.

Can you help me find my way?
I've been lost for so long.
I don't even know where it went wrong.
Can you help me?
Can you help me?

Those who lay with the sons of man lack aspiration.

So few shoot so high as to declare the Gods their rival.

Yet I can name a dozen of us who wish to do as I have.

The only son of man who truly lived to that title, and stood against us, is the living legend.

Jokul.

One day, I will be in his sights; one day, I will avenge the prior Imperfects and lay claim to that Aether.

One day, I will prove that I am more than my heritage.

Father.

Sak’noth.

You were correct.

Change is the only way forward, but now I know just what a glimpse of that state beyond Imperfection might be like.

And I must know more.

If you are truly a father of mine, if you are still with us in more than just Fateweaver.

I will tell your story.

I will sing it, as I will with those before me.

And I will surpass every single one of you.

Even if it means I meet my End.

[GSM]

It has been some time.
Yet it has not been any time at all.
Allying oneself with the Lord of Time tends to skew one’s perceptions.

As great as he was, it was not unaffected by him.

Na’Ria was thirty years of age, now.

Thirty entire enduring biological cycles.

Yet its journey was only now taking root in Meranthe.

Like a malignant cancer, the Owldrake and its Obelisk had lodged itself forevermore in history.

It would be in stories and tales.

The villain in the story. 

The monster in disguise, a soulless husk that only cares to consume.

The antagonist, the force that the brave heroes would rise up against.

Only for a blade to come for its neck, severing its shoulders from its spine.

Was such an End fitting its tale?

Was an epic such as this what Na’Ria wished for?

No.

They knew of Na’Ria, but they didn’t know it.

It was almost dismaying, seeing the disparity between their weaved fiction and the truth of it all.

Such was human nature.

Such was the nature of those sons of man.

---

Just moments prior, the dunes of the Expanse were graced with its appearance.

It laughed and howled with an unearthly glee as it faced against its Silent Hero.

Blood-coated and severely injured, it had prevailed.

The Sainted Enclave stood still.

But a single soul was captured away.

A child, a youngling, participating in a war against the fel.

Word reached it that another child, a separate youngling, was ordering their death.

The same child that could not bear to stand against it, upon its home.

And this filled it with further misanthropy, one that had been festering for a decade and a half.

Not to the children.

They were but unknowing little things, doing as they were told, as tragic as it was.

But to those that raised murderers and warmongers from the halls of civilized man.

The sons of man had revealed their true colors.

They were far darker in capacity than demonkind.

Demons, one and all, are borne of hatred and malice.

A wanton murder like this is festered across generations.

This was a learned darkness.

---

Dak’Ria.

Mei’Ria.

Kal’Ria.

The children of the Owldrake, as varied as they were, reminded it of itself.

The passage of time, the evolutions it once worked towards with everything it had.

Easily achievable by its spawn.

And they all spoke, when in those stages, it had no mouth to speak of.

One day, the children would grow to realize just how strong they were.

One day, they would grow to rule.

As it had.

It was growing dormant.

Docile.

So many threatened its life, its kin, its livelihood.

Perhaps… Na’Ria was too soft.

When it sent away the sons of man that scorned it, it sent them away intact- fearful, but intact.

Perhaps that would begin to change.

It would need to return the favor soon enough.

But for now?

Its focus was on shedding its skin a fifth time.

For it must change.

---

[GSM]

The fifth skin has been shed.
One more.

All hail mine.

[GSM]

The Obelisk of the End was now mere ruins.
The life’s work of the Demon King.
Little more than a twisted spire, shattered and broken.
Before Na’Ria was even a Kaor, accumulating energies that were rife with the lifeblood of Vdalion’s corpse.
The final resting place of Varrach and Sak’noth.
Oh, dear Father…
Gone.
I have failed you.
Change… goes both ways.
It was inevitable that a change would come that was not its own.
Perhaps…
There was still something to salvage.
Wolfgang, Iliane, Amalene… this is not my End.
With a heft of Storyteller, the final blow against the Obelisk was one of infinite mercy.
The still-thrumming core was skewered by the Kaorblade, what remains absorbed within that Grey of the Ascendant.
The death of the Obelisk was by none other than Na’Ria’s hands; for none knew the true purpose of it but its master.
And the master had declared it to die.
So die it must.
AS THEY MUST DIE IN KIND FOR THIS TRANSGRESSION
Many would not dare of marching upon the Demon King.
Few would audaciously challenge it.
But those that did were regarded as the ultimate enemy.
I AM NOT YOUR ENEMY, I AM THE ENEMY
For those that had come before it, and for those that will succeed it.
The Angel of Hel would survive.
It thirsted for power now.
And in doing so, it thirsted for knowledge.
I MUST HAVE MORE, TO REDUCE YOUR WORLD TO GLASS
One and the same.
I WILL BURY YOU ALL WITHIN A WORLD OF STAGNANT WASTE
Meranthe wanted a villain.
Meranthe took its best friends, close allies- mere children- and kindred.
Meranthe shattered its home and vowed to rid this world of all of its ilk.
THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT, IS IT NOT?
Meranthe was getting one.
Until the End.
UNTIL YOUR END, FOR MINE IS NOT HERE
…
I GAVE YOU MY EVERYTHING, ALL OF MY PATIENCE
If one can read between the lines.
NOW I WILL GIVE YOU EVERY MICROCOSM OF MY HATE
Would they see Grey?

[GSM]

The Obelisk of the End may have fallen, but I have not.
This year has been… fruitless.
Yet it is in this passage of time that I grow stronger, by the day.
I am not yet out of time.
I am never out of time.
Mine ascent continues.
For I must continue.
Scars become memories, injuries become great displays.
Yet this change is permanent.
I can feel it behind the eyes along my wings.
Sprawling madness kept in check by mine Grey.
Never to breach the surface, but always lingering.
Mine ascent continues.
For I must continue.
I have spread the blight that I sought to contain.
My spawn, my disciples— the lessers have taken to mine heresies, and partaken in cannibalism.
The dead has become part of me, part of Storyteller.
The flesh lives on within them, emboldening and strengthening them.
Many will join you, I assure you.
Mine ascent continues.
For I must continue.
It cannot come any sooner.
I understand why Lyseroth devolved into such a baseless hunger, I understand why he abandoned it all and embodied Gluttony.
To be something not unlike a demigod, yet still hungering for further strength.
If I am to dismantle this dawn of heroism, that is only expected of me.
So I may then usher in an age after mine image.
Mine ascent continues.
For I must continue.
The Pantheon and the blessings of gods have spurned me so.
Their champions, their descendants, their chosen— they all conspire against me.
There is not a way back, now that they have eyes upon me.
Mine eyes will be cast to them, in time.
And I will hunger for the End— mine or theirs.
Mine ascent continues.
For I must continue.
My thorax continues to quiver with every breath I falsify.
Every time those false humanoid eyes open, I am reminded of a perspective I cannot see.
For I am a false son, a simulacrum made to mirror the stories of mine greatest enemies.
I wonder, if I am to shed this skin, if I will instead mimic the divines themselves.
Or will I become one with them?
Mine ascent continues.
For I must continue.
Every waking moment, an existential threat against our kin.
They feud and war with each other, seeking to further false ideals of right and wrong.
They think us contained.
In truth, we chose containment.
Time stands with us, after all; momentary we are held together.
Mine ascent continues.
For I must continue.
If Father saw me, would he be proud?
Perhaps he will see me soon, either in death or in a new life.
But this change is wrought in mine name, and mine alone.
I must continue.
So I may bring you back.




Mine ascent must continue.
For I must continue.

[GSM]

The time had come and pass for the tournament to take place.
So much has happened, such a lull in activity, and yet, it emerged as if nothing happened.
As if its dear nephew, as if Dvarr, was still alive.
I wish he was here. I miss him so… so much.
But for its own blood, there was not even a body to bury.
The Cowardly Bat was gone.
So close to a breakthrough, at that…
Yet, as 2076 approached, another year beginning…
It must move on, in its family’s name.
For you, Dvarr. For Diavol and Set’noth, mine siblings. For you too, Father.
Qaeltor was broken over its might with a simple ease.
Cynder was burned by the Grey, and left at its mercy.
Elissa was consumed by the almighty strength of the Imperfect.
Palade was shattered over its overpowering, refined destruction.
Even if I am to be a pawn upon the board, I will sunder the ground where mine opponents stand.
Cinderella was given a dance, a worthy battle against two regal figures.
The little princess stood to an Imperfect after beating down some of Meranthe’s strongest.
But only it would proceed to the final battle, to find who was truly the equal of Na’Ria.
To ascend, I must grow stronger. With this, I have proven mine strength…
At the pinnacle, it found Xarxes.
The Lord of Time. The Umbral Nephairy. Dread necromancer. Scourge of humanity.
Lord of Skarnfel, he who stood shoulder-to-shoulder to its dear Father in the past.
At the pinnacle, it stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Xarxes, and found nothing but joy.
But I must know more. If I am to rise to the strength of Primordials…
A close battle, one that was just an errant move away from total victory…
But it was worthy enough to be crowned as one of Meranthe’s strongest.
To have a final fight where even the host is unsure of who won…
Was it not fitting?
Xarxes, Lord of Time. The one that’s remained since I have grown, and… one I cannot lose.
Yet, in that joy, in the gaze and grasp of its greatest ally- no, friend,
Na’Ria felt the sorrow within him, for just a moment.
They both had lost much.
Xarxes had lost more, but in that pain, he had become something greater than a mere Fae.
But I know no pain, truly… right? No… this pain of the mind remains.

It wondered, then, if that was the price of power absolute;
If even the Demon King must outlive and witness the End of its own kindred.
Something would have to change.
Father, I know you have been resting. You’re changing, even in slumber.
And it would need to look.
I already know where mine sights are headed. Don’t worry, you’ll be with us soon.
Where better than its Lord?
I can’t wait to embrace you for the first time, Sak’noth, and see everything I’ve become.
I want you to tell me you’re proud of mine progress.
Xarxes told me I’m stronger than you were in your life.
We’re the strongest in Meranthe, Father.
I raised mine own children. I did everything to ensure another Imperfect will come.
Just… please.
Father…
I wish for your embrace.
Some day soon, I’ll have that one wish fulfilled…
And then, we can make everything right.
Father and Daughter, Fateweaver and Storyteller.
I… I think about meeting you so much.
I love you, Father.
I can’t wait to meet you.