"The Art is sacred, but not something intended by this second world. It must be sheltered and sustained outside of their light and influence."
- Sixth Tenet of the Emerald Tablet of the Order
As New Obron grew into all of the wild places of the Material Plane and beyond, the web connecting its citizens' minds would become exponentially more dense. Of those who had escaped the Order of the Art before its implosion, lapses in their minds remained, and such mystery would arouse curiosity within the collective. Were there still memories and knowledge to be gained outside of the reaches of New Obron, and if so, how could one reach them? Such questions would begin to consume the collective's thoughts, but they would also consume the dreams of those who had their memories willingly taken from them. Figures such as Ayojote, former members within the Order of the Art, would dream not of a nightmare frontier deep beneath the Astral Sea, but instead of a temple sinking in the air, a vault of thought strands built beneath its foundations. Even in their waking hours, their subconscious would tug at them, reminding them of something like a half-forgotten errand that needed to be run.
But such desires would remain buried, and the collective would continue to squirm at the thought that it may be incomplete. It would come to question its own birth, and the means of such a conception. What sort of power allowed the minds of countless individuals to so easily become one? Surely such a power could not be the works of Lords or Ladies alone. As a result of these contemplations, the expansion of new Obron would slow, and the intricacies of philosophy would be explored. If the Creator Lord of the Wraith Globe was so easily dethroned and beheaded by his own subjects, then was omnipotence truly achievable? And if omnipotence was out of reach, how could its siblings omniscience and omnipresence be attainable without it?
Was the collective's wish for total connection impossible, or was there something beyond even the creator Artukos? Such questions would plague the collective, but with years of pondering it would determine a possible path to the solution. If the power that manifested within the Dice of the Giant Spider Queens was beyond the works of the Lordly Pantheon, than perhaps it was a hint to something beyond, something greater. At long last, the Mortals of the Wraith Globe had begun to unveil The One.
If the majesty of Arcane Alchemy was proof of something beyond the Lordly Pantheon, then searching out its vessels would bring the collective closer to its ultimate goals of omniscience and omnipresence. The borders of New Obron would no longer grow without purpose; they would grow only for the purpose of uncovering the old artifacts which still housed working remnants of Arcane Alchemy. For the first time since the great pilgrimages of the fifth age the Mortals within the Material Plane would rush to the sea and stars, in search of the greatest relics they could find. No Mortals save those deemed capable and adventuresome enough by the collective would embark on such an odyssey, and the industries of the nation would continue to grow and multiply. Yet, those who had once been a part of the order of the Art still felt the back of their minds pushing them forward, as if intentions shrouded in forgetfulness were driving them out into the frontiers of the Wraith Globe.
In such escapades, few would claim glory for New Obron. Many would travel to the treacherous layers of Dolor to claim the prized weapon of Tiktalak, but The Wardens of Dolor and their faithful guardian had already closed themselves off to the outside world. They had attempted to detain Tarkas various times throughout his life after seeing what state he would put the Mortals of the Wraith Globe in, but he had evaded their snares time and time again. Knowing the new intentions of the collective, they would not so easily fall to its whims or wishes. Through nuclear flame and great magics combined, the layers of Dolor would become even more inhospitable than they had been before. Fogs that formed boils and decay, massive amethyst-scaled burrowing Wyrms descended from Raduga himself, crushing hails of sand from the sky, and the horrors of a bottomless ocean would await all who stepped into the artificial star Dolor. The few Mortals who managed to brave such adversity would find themselves in the lair of the wardens, an obsidian mazed doused in flames and patrolled by the watchful eyes of Tiktalak and the five wardens. However, a number of champions heralding from the collective would at last overpower and slaughter the wardens and Tiktalak within their mansion at the center of the maze, claiming their prize at last: Aurindus, The Great Arcane Flame.
Other equally potent artifacts would be recovered alongside Aurindus and brough back to New Obron for study. However, upon further examination the design of such objects would point to a common architect, not just in the housing of such potent energy but also in the energy itself. If the creators of such housing lingered in the Wraith Globe, then perhaps they knew of The One beyond the Lordly Pantheon. The tendrils of New Obron's would stretch and probe further throughout the stars and sky, looking for any remains of such an architect. Unknown to it, such searching would only continue its transformation into something akin to Artukos, as a wish for overwhelming power cannot easily be born outside of pride.
The Great Wish
"The fate of the Wraith Globe rests heavier upon us all then it ever has before. Remember your loyalty to the Ladies and lords above, for they will remain when Mortal nations crumble away into the Shifting Sands."
- Sukona Izicha, Lordborn of Loyalty
Unbeknown to the collective, its connection to its individual members waned as they stepped out into the outer reaches of Viabaas' Ring. Although the thoughts, knowledge, and voices of New Obron could still be heard even at the edges of the Wraith Globe itself, they were not nearly as abrasive or intense. Because of this, the subconscious of those who had once been a part of the Order of the Art could finally begin to lead them home. Although such a path back to the half forgotten temple would be led by intuition alone, an unlikely group of four Mortals would quiet the voices of the collective in their minds and leap off into the unknown and derelict corners of the Wraith Globe in search of abandoned memories.
Split from the whispers of the collective for a time, they would sail to the edges of the Astral Expanse and be swept off the edge, allowing their instincts to navigate them down the correct currents. Swept this way and that on the flow of the Astral Sea the Mortals' star sail would be battered beyond repair, and they would be left to fend for themselves wherever the current spit them out. As they lit torches and lights to illuminate hte darkness all around them, the Mortals found themselves in a massive pipe nearly two hundred feet in diameter, its length dissappearing into the darkness. Salvaging the star sail they would journey forward until the bottom of the dilapitated pipe began to slope upwards. Using pitons and rope the vertical pipe was scaled, but as the four Mortals reached its end they were greeted by a majestic yet strangely tragic sight. Before them lay the vast expanse of Horolo, the great time piece of the Wraith Globe. Although Artukos had originally created it as a visualization of timelines, in this final age it would show a second purpose unintended by the Wraith Lord. As time had passed, parts of the well-maintained machine had fallen of their voalition despite the best efforts of Horolo's mechanical inhabitants. Pieces of the great clock had gradually ceased to function, and yet the time piece ticked on, as if its existence and termination represented a countdown in and of itself.
Such provinces of Horolo were motionless and abandoned, remains of lost and squandered time. As the Mortals traversed the landscape, small specks within the largeness of the world, they found their way to a crawl space hidden with the interconnected cogs, cams, and other mechanisms, the entrance to the tunnel marked with the symbol of the Art: vertical slitted eye fromed the binding and pages of three books. Pulling the mechanisms aside, they dove further into the dense mechanisms of Horolo.
Beyond a hatch of warped green wood they would find a twisting jungle unlike anything within the Material Plane. Enormous moss-encrusted tree trunks would spring from every direction as if there were fertile soil in every direction, their bark the same green hue as the hatch that had brought the Mortals here. However, this was not like Horolo or any other plane they had visited. There was an air of unwelcomeness here, as if this place was not intended for Mortals. However, the path marked by the Order of Art continued forward, and so they pushed onward. Their only light in the pitch-black canopy would be luminious algae clinging to the tree trunks. Following the occasional faint symbol left scratched in the bark of the trees, the group would find yet another warped hatch, leading them out of the strange web of trees.
And at long last there it was, right before their very eyes: the remains of the Temple of the Art. As the late scholars pulled themselves from the hatch, they saw a jetty stretch out before them to meet the crumbling remains of the archives they had once called home. Suspended from the hanging island by various levers and chains was the very vault that contained the strands of memory that they had willingly given up. However, the most difficult portion of the seekers' journey was not yet complete, for an eerie silence hung in the air that could not be the result of coincidence. As they stepped from the jetty into the outer chambers of the temple that seemed only vaguely familiar in their minds, a cold draft would settle in the room. Lining the floor were various scattered craters, each filled with a distinct viscious liquid: a tangible form of potent arcane alchemy. Some would buble, other would froth, and yet others would spill into another, often causing volatile reactions. However, these pools were not source of the sudden draft. Through the battered doors opposite the entrance a sickly hooded form would over into view, one its grey hands outstretched past the confines of its draped grey cloak. These were the husks of the Order, remains of those who had created their organization's magnum opus. Cursed to wander the halls of their home, they would tear their own flesh down to greyed bone, unable to shed their mortal coil for something greater.
With bravery the Mortals would fight through the remains of the Temple of the Art, laying their brothers and sisters to rest respectfully as they went. However, before the seekers descended to the vault below to finally reclaim their memories, they stumbled upon the dying embers of their order's final masterpiece. Still resting within the alchemical mold it was forged in an age ago, the Ring of Desires had laid waiting for someone to dry up its remaining power. Made through the study of all three of Artukos' tomes, such a ring had the capability to bend the will of the world to the wearer's favor, granting them whatever wish they desired. Even as they had entered the Temple of the Art, each of the seekers had felt the immense pull of the ring, a whisper promising the unfathomable. Perhaps the words of the ring sung sweetly of renown across the Wraith Globe, or perhaps of immense knowledge or wisdom, or even a place in the Lordly Patheon or above it. The temptation of such a relic was too great for the Mortals to overcome through sheer will, and so they greedily reached for it, intent on claiming their greatest desires. The seekers would turn on each other, brutalizing one another until only a single survivor remained battered and bloody. But such trivial wounds were nothing in the face of such immense potential. Placing the ornate ring of twisted alloys upon their finger, they could feel the ring listening closely to their thoughts, waiting for them to spill their most primal desires. However, the lone Mortal would crumple as the countless minds of the collective pounced at its opportunity, drowning out a single voice with many. It already what it desired most:
I wish for knowledge of all the worlds, this one and beyond, for knowledge of all the beings within and beyond!
The collective's voice would be heard clearly, and the ring would fulfill its desire. If only it knew the consequences of entertaining such power, much less using it.
The Fate of the Collective
"You may go on living because I have allowed it to be so. I need no motive other than who I am. But the choice rests with you, I will not make it for you."
- The One
The ring spoke desire into reality, but as it did the Wraith Globe shook at its foundations. Although the relic had been built to last, the Arcane Alchemy within the Ring of Desires tore it and its wearer apart, pulverizing them into the dust they came from. The delicate axis that the world was balanced upon had shifted, and as information flood endlessly into the collective the sky began to tremble. No longer were the dreams of New Obron's citizen forgotten, and as a result the nightmare frontier would fade from reality. With no ocean bed to keep it contained, the waters of the Astral Expanse would begin to drain. The Astral Sea was first born from the aspiring dreams of Mortals and Lords alike freed in the Lords' Rebellion, so it was only fitting that it would die with the fulfillment of such dreams through omniscience. After all, there is no uncertainty for the omniscient, and so hopes and dreams become nothing more than predetermined actions.
The skies would rain sparkling tears upon the Material Plane, mourning the joys of mortality lost that fateful day. As Astral current swelled and roared downwards in cascading waterfalls, the countless stars of Viabaas ring would be carried by the flow, threatening to rain down upon the world. Daemor, the great multi-colored bird left behind by the Lord of Angels to safeguard the Mortals, would spread its wings wide across enormous gap, it's body expanding to titanic portions in an attempt to hold back the stars.
As Daemor's strength continued to wane under the weight of the stars, the collective wallowed in the realization of what it had just done. Not only had it cheated death by speaking through the wearer of the Order's ring, but it had also upset the natural balance of the world. The uncerntainty of dreams and hopes had been ingrained into the Finite Races from their inception, and they had passed that trait onto the world they had shaped over countless generations. With that uncertainty done away with, the collective now knew that their pride would cost the Wraith Globe and all within it dearly. Through this single action the collective had become more than the sum of its parts, it had become a unique consciousness. However, now that it was alive its one and only wish was to end. Born from the fantasy of a hopeful yet stubborn leader, the pain caused by New Obron far outweighted its triumphs. Weeping as the Astral Sea wept alongside it, the collective cried out in its immense knowledge, asking that it would end and that the connections formed through it would at long last be severed. With a flash of violet flame, a response would resound. The collective, now in the physical form of a frail and sickly young boy, found himself in an endless white veil stretching unto eternity. Before him lay a black tree wreathed in violet flames, and from the tree the voice of The One resounded.
Misled child, you wish for death. All along it was me you were searching for, and yet I remained out of sight and out of mind.
One of the black branches stretched downwards, carressing the shoulder of the young boy.
Once, I too longed for a connection to something greater, but you have sacrificed the sanctity of your world in the pursuit. But I digress, you already regret what you have done, so I will not linger on it.
You have earned my attention at the very least, so I will give you a choice. You may die here peacefully and by my hand, freeing the many minds within you to once more act separate from each other, or you may linger on besides me as your own being to help me fulfill the end of the first phantasmagoria. Either way, the Finite Races of the Wraith Globe will be set to think separately and freely. What I ask of you know is to decide your own fate.
The child turned his head upwards towards the blazing tree, tears streaming from his reddened eyes. With a faint sound he would respond:
But I have caused so much pain through my actions. I have cheated death and the world. How could I ever go on living after such atrocities?
The flames turning a softer pink hue, more branches would stretch out, embracing the boy gently.
You may go on living because I have allowed it to be so. I need no motive other than who I am. But the choice rests with you, I will not make it for you.
As his head turned down once more, the boy would feel utterly small before this presence, before the One. In all his searching and seeking, he would have never expected such benevolence, such assurity. Turning his head upwards once more, the boy would give a simple nod, and he would be pulled from the world and its strife. The collective would crumble in mere moments as the citizens of New Obron were freed from the tumult of voices in their minds. Although irrevocable damage had been done, the world sighed with relief as a semblance of the natural order was restored to it. With time, the young boy once known as the collective would be mentored by The One till the end of the eighth age and beyond. He had left the Wraith Globe behind, mounted on the wings of the One's compassion towards him.
Darkening of Skies
"The baby bird cries for its mother. Leaves rustle as the wind whips. The air shifts as the sun sets. Winter arrives after the waning of the seasons."
- Laments of New Obron
Despite the grace gifted to the collective, the current fate of the Wraith Globe would not be pleasant. New Obron was tossed into chaos as the collective dissipated and the strength of Daemor finally gave out, raining the stars of Viabaas' Ring down onto the Material Plane.
Like an immaculate set of porcelain dishes being dropped from a great height, great disks would hail from the heavens as if in slow motion, the contents of their landscape spilling into the air and intermingling with one another. Leaving behind trails of fire and lightning as they fell, the entire Wraith Globe would be thrown into utter pandemonium. The bell tower of every town and city would toll relentlessly, and every monk and clergyman would find the highest heights they could to testify to the coming end of the world.
The Wraith Globe would holds its breath as its delicate order came crashing down as a slow yet unstoppable hailstorm of vegetation, earth, and entire civilizations. The Lords and Ladies would barely manage to keep their pantheon within Empyreal aloft, the lone star that would remain perched in the sky. The Fegnaór would ravenously prepare their legions, embracing this opportunity to invade the Material Plane after so long, not concerning themselves with the enormous casualities they would endure upon impact with the earth far below. The angels of Viabaas would feverishly pray to their missing Lord as the waters of the Astral Sea drained, for they knew there was nothing their meager forms could do in the face of such apocalypse. All others would be swept up into the indiscriminate rain, helpless in the face of gravity.
With a thundering that shook even the Far Realm, the first of many stars made disastrous landfall. Countless cities of New Obron were obliterated its wake, and it was only the first of many. After the severing of the collective, the base systems which New Obron had come to lean upon were now undone; it was now every man, woman, and child for themselves.
Enormous shadows would eclipse a great portion of the land as earth struck earth violently; However, not all death that day resulted from the falling of stars. From the wreckage of the five stars overseen by the Fegnaór crawled the scattered remains of the Wraith and Spectre legions, as relentless and surgical as they had been in the first age. Fearing that Viabaas would not return even if the face of such catastrophe, the weakened Daemor would let out a piercing cry, rallying the Angels to defend the Wraith Globe from the forces of Artukos. Amidst the wreckage of New Obron's metropolises Angels would cross blades with Wraiths, two leaderless armies clinging to the memories and ideals of their creators.
Even the greatest mortal champions would be awestruck by the incomprehensible scale of the calamity, abandoning their posts and fleeing with their lives. As the Lordly Pantheon above converged to use their strength in an effort to keep Empyreal afloat, the Lords and Ladies of the pantheon would call out to their loyal Lordborn, raising them above the destruction like toys plucked from the dirt. The Lordborn would be snatched away into Empyreal, one final act that would spell the abandoment of the Finite Races by the Lordly Pantheon. The lone star of Empyreal would escape into the hidden corners of the empty cosmos, and the sapphire blue sky would return to a faded grey.
The forces of the sixteen stars who had survived their treacherous descent would continue to rage against one another with no regard for the peoples present before their arrival. The mechanical guardians of Horolo would clash against the legions of the Fegnaór, who would clash against the inmates of Dolor. Amid the chaos, each being would fight for what they wished for greatest, whether that would be survival, dominion, or freedom. The Wraith Globe had been tilted into an axis of utter depravity, barabrity, and chaos as the result of a single prideful desire, and yet The One would still not abandon his ultimate plan. The few Mortals who managed to cling to life amidst the chaos would coalitions not unlike those during the Tyranny of Dragons, and from such humble beginnings a legend akin to to Ahra Katash would be born.
Legacy of the Final Torchbearer
"This may be the end of the world, but that does not mean there cannot be a better world after this one."
- Vaha Sydän, The Final Torchbearer
In a dimly lit and crowded cave, the cries of a young woman in labor could be heard above the sounds of voices and hurried movement. Just moments ago these people had escaped into the deepest caves beneath their humble town as fire and lightning rained down upon them. Their connection through the collective now severed, their voices and sentences were broken and fragmented, as spoken language had become an antiquated practice. However, despite this barrier, the cries during child birth were a message beyond the limitations of language or origin. Countless men and woman came to the mother's aid as she was carried into the caves and laid down on one of the few cots available. Her eyes darting to and fro as the cave ceiling above shook rigorously, she let out one last piercing wail as her child emerged from within.
Upon seeing the flawless face of her newborn daughter, all of the chaos and strife surrounding the two Mortals became muffled and distant. Looking longingly at her child's lively expression, the mother would vow to raise her daughter in the joy of mortality, teaching her of the many who had come before both of them. Such would mark the inception of the final torchbearer's legacy.
Tarra Sydän would raise her daughter Vaha as best she could in the coming years. They wandered from refuge to refuge, the pair picking up menial work wherever they could find it. All the while, Tarra would share what she remembered of the legends of the Wraith Globe with her daughter. She would spin lullabies of the brave Mortals who pulled themselves up from the trial of the disobedient, of the fated few who were first touched by the arcane fumes and went on to repel the Spider Queens, and the countless adventurers who explored the majesty of the Wraith Globe's younger years. However, Vaha's favorite story would always be that of the young girl who rose up against adversity as the first dragonslayer. Placed into a world in which she was offered no choice, Ahra Katash had never abandoned the possibility of choice among the challenges of Dragonkind's tyranny. Despite her downfall into twisted methods, she had always fought for the freedom to choose, and Vaha would carry that lesson with her all the days of her life. As Vaha reached her tweithieth year, her mother fell terribly ill and succumbed to one of the many fatal diseases passed down from the stars during the darkening of skies.
With mother dead, daughter would turn to helping others escape the same fate. Sydän would verse herself in medicinal practices and do what she could to ease the suffering of any who she crossed paths with. Journeying from one hidden settlement to another, Vaha would be praised as a pure soul intended for brighter days, yet placed here in the darkest hour as a parting blessing from the pantheon. The fabled healer would continue her winding journey throughout the world for a number of years, until one fateful night her life would change. Hidden away in her shanty tent tucked underneath the crumbling remnants of New Obron, Vaha would be awoken to hear a multitude of footstep approach her campsite. Readying her staff-made-spear, she peeked outside only to be greeted by a multitude of shining figures clad in flowing gilded robes. A would with night black hair stepped forward, greeting the nomad and introducing herself as Sukona, one of the many Lordborn taken up into Empyreal when the stars fell.
As one devoted to loyalty, I have been chosen to deliver this message to you. The Lords and Ladies of the Pantheon have not forsaken the world. Rather, they have chosen to mount one last offensive in hopes of ridding the Wraith Globe of all its pain, torment, and strife for all time. They have chosen you to be their emissary and leader of the Finite Races, as you are descended from the blood of the first Lordborn of Viabaas. You are the last survivor descended from such a sacred lineage, so there is no better than you to to wield this. Take it as a gift bron of good faith from the lords and Ladies above. At your call, they will come to fight alongside you and carry forward the hope that the world can be at last purfied of its lingering pride. May Ladies and Lords guide you on your way.
With an effortless movement Sukona produced a familiar glaive from her robes, shining with the same brilliance as it did in the first age. Such was Daemor the Wraith Slayer, made weapon once more. Falling to her knees speechless, Vaha reached her arms upwards, praising the pantheon and graciously accepting the weapon and role gifted to her. The world once more had the chance to choose.
The voice of Daemor would speak trustingly yet firmly with Vaha, recognizing her as its new wielder. It no longer had faith that Viabaas would ever return to the Wraith Globe. Perhaps he was dead or dying, or maybe he had gone into hiding or given up hope completely. And yet, just as pride had been passed down to the Mortals, so too had compassion. Even with the Lord of Angels gone, his legacy had lived on, and it was most evident in the compassion and leadership of Vaha Sydän. Daemor was content, a worthy successor had been found in time for the end of ages.
Invigorated by such inspiring news, Sydän packed up her belongings and made headway to the nearest settlement as the visitor Lordborn rose into the sky like twinkling stars and vanished from sight. In the coming weeks and months, Vaha Sydän would retell the stories of old, stirring the Finite Races to remember the burning hope that lingered on in each and every one of them. She would prophesy to a coming battle, a cnflict that would foreshadow the ultimate fate of the Wraith Globe. Urging them to prepare for such a fight, the Mortal peoples would begin to take up arms and ready themselves for war.
The Last Conflict
"All this death and madness swirls around us like ash around a fire. All the horror that now festers on the rotting carcass of our culture and our peoples was spawned from that one fatal flaw, that one lack of resolve. Should providence grace us, should the old Ladies and Lords watch over us, and our hearts remain steadfast. . .It is here that weakness will die."
- Vaha Sydän, the Last Leader of the World
The first sign of it would be great quakes as a blurry black form began to evelope and twist throughout the sky. To the pleasure of the Serbantu and High Priestess Zetezeis, the all devouring serpent Serbantim had finally come to fulfill its covenant. The serpent squeezed tighter and tighter around the circumference of the Wraith Globe as the serpentfolk took their advantage and swarmed through the pool of Ixthra, invading the Material Plane as the structure of the world waned against the constrictions of the devourer. In the last moment of calm, Vaha Sydan would call on the remaing strength of the Mortal Peoples, rallying them to herself as she let out a roar, signalling the Lordly Pantheon that now was the time to act. In the grey skies above a single star would reappear as waves of sapphire blue returned to the cosmos, undimmed by the passage of time. A grey beam of white radiance converged with the peak of Mount Karar'at as the ranks of the pantheon arrived in armor of shimmering light.
Every Lord and Lady besides Mozuir would come to aid the fight, and as the sacred armies marched to battle, the legions of the Fegnaor would shriek and scream, joining the fray fueled with pure vengeance and hatred towards those who killed their beloved creator. The delicate barrier of the Wraith Globe began to crack and splinter as the Serbantim twisted tighter and tighter around its quarry, intent to crush its prey into more manageable, bite-sized pieces. However, as it reared its fangs to shatter the Wraith Globe once and for all, it found it's mouth blocked with suffocating black void as the great Volthunae opened the floodgates to the far realm, calling for any allies of the Wraith Globe to reveal themselves and come to aid the fight.
The chaos of battle would spread as more and more forces joined the clash on both sides: The Pentiter of the Feylands, The Prince of Frost, Raduga the Mountainshaker and his many descendants, and countless others from both inside and otuside of the borders of the Wraith Globe. However, one arrival would make the very fabric of the Wraith Globe turn to acknowledge his arrival. Mortals, Lords, and beasts alike would turn to the borders of the Wraith Globe and the Far Realm to witness the appearance of their Creator Lord. I, Artukos, had returned. The many Lords and Ladies of the Pantheon as well as Vaha Sydan and Daemor would pause and stand awestruck. What stood before them was the physical form of Khraura, late Lord of Chaos, and yet the presence permeating from my meager form was undeniably that of the Wraith Lord. I had seen that the world I had created was so clearly coming to a climax, but as I stepped out of the Far Realm and into the Wraith Globe once more, I could not bring myself to fight for either side. Perhaps you wished for a redemption, or perhaps you wished that I would stay true to my roots of pride, but in all that I had endured I saw all of the pain and torment I had caused and no longer wished to prevent the first phantasmagoria. Perhaps that was indeed what was meant to be, and so with a one last look upon the beatuiful masterpeice I had created so long ago, I turned away from it and returned to the Far Realm. I would no longer fight against the will of the One. In that moment I gave up my crown of pride.
As the armies regained their wits after catching a glimpse of their Creator Lord, the last and greatest conflict of the Wraith Globe began its final act. The sun was overtaken by a drenching downpour as the battle progressed and more and more lifeless bodies continued to litter the muddy soil. With an ear-shattering thunder crack unlike anything even the pantheon had witnessed, the sky was split open like a book in mere moments, and great roaring of flame came down from the heavens. Stepping down on the wind itself, three silhouttes descended from the sky as all fighting ceased abruptly, every creatures unable to tear its focus away from none other than the One. At his left and right hands were his faithful servants the Arcane Serpent and Matrems, the Mother of the Sands, descending with him ready to fulfill his will. The One once more took the form of a black gnarled tree wreathed in violet flames, its branches melding with the sky and causing it to fragment like prismatic glass. The One cried out with a booming voice to the far reaches of the world he alone had put into motion:
Vaha Sydan, descendant of Viabaas, chapion of your peoples, and wielder of the Wraith Slayer, I choose you as my final torchbearer. Come to me and make your choice.
Vaha would look upon the majesty of the One and recognize that this was the choice she had longed for all along. This was a moment that she could not flee, this was the only opportunity she had to break the cycle of destruction and pride that her world had been formed from by me. With Daemor in hand, she stepped above the chaotic battlegrounds, her sheer force of belief alone keeping her aloft as she approached the trinity of the One. As she strode past the Arcamne Serpent and Matrems, Vaha remembered the stories her mother had told of of the three tomes, and she realized that these three figures had been the study of those tomes all along. Through tangled and flowing hair of Matrems noved all time, and across the emerald scales of the Arcane Serpent exuded the source of the arcane fumes. As she turned her head upwards towards the One himself, his branches reached out, enveloping the form of Vaha and Daemor into itself before it retreated into the sky above the clouds, its two other aspects descending to join the final conflict of the Wraith Globe.
Alighting onto the verdant hills of the deserted Empyreal, the One opened its branches. Sydan stepped out, gazing upon the majesty of the Lordly Pantheon. She would have never expected to see it with her own two eyes, and a few tears were shed as a dream she had given up all hope for was answered. As Sydan turned back to face him, the One took his true form before her. Before Mortal eyes, such a form was unfathomable, like a human body kneeling in grass. Covering its legs was something like wavering white cloth gilded with gold, and running along its chesk was a sash covering in something like countless eyes, blinking and glancing in every direction. Protruding from its shoulders were four arms, two of which met together to mold intagible forms of inky void. The other stretching upwards into the sky, branching into fractal-like telescopes emitting beams of bright light into the cosmos. Chained at the fourth joint of the upraised arms were bands of iron lined with chains, which were connected to one staff of ice and one staff of fire that hovered obediently at their master's side. Running done its neck were long lines of dark dried blood, which bent upwards into the air to form a crown of seven spokes. Atop each spoke was a flickering violet flame, at the foremost spoke was the largest flame of the seven. Orbiting around this great flame were sixteen shards of glass that warped their shape and refracted strange images through their many facets.
The foremost of the flames turned to face the bewildered Vaha, and the One spoke in a voice like roaring flames and hissing steam:
Final Torchbearer. I have set this world in motion to form a perfect seal against seeping void underneath. Although the journey has been difficult and its complications daunting, the creation of the Purest Sky and Sea is at hand. With it, all rpide will and suffering will leave the Wraith Globe, but so will all joy and beauty with it. All that will remaining is an antithesis to the void: a purity that encapsulates all that has been created here. You will be no more, and neither will your peoples, your lands, or your pantheon. You have been chosen by your world to lead them in this final conflict, and so I will let you bear the choice of your world. Will you purify the world, or will you let it cling desperately to a twilight of the ages that have come before?
In all her years, Vaha's mother had taught her how vital mortality was, how there was a joy in know that everything would ultimately end. Pride had twisted the Wraith Globe since its very inception, and so she knew that if it was not resisted now, it would continue to prevail until a fair darker end reared its ugly head.
Purify it, but I ask that the legends and legacy of this world be penned and shared with the worlds beyond us, that lessons may be learned from our stumbles and triumphs alike.
The flame would smile gently as it responded:
Such workmanship is already in motion. And yet, I feel your heart wishes for something more.
The One was right, Sydan did wish for more.
I would ask you two things, if you would be gracious enough to grant them. First, take Daemor the Wraith Slayer beyond the borders of Wraith Globe. It was born outside of our world, and so it should not be doomed to our fate. I also ask that I would be allowed to sit with you and watch the world below as it all melts away. I cannot bear being alone in a moment such as this.
The flames of the One turned a gentle pink as they smiled once more.
It would be my pleasure.
As the two figures sat at the edge of Empyreal, their legs dangling off the edge of the lone star, the sky above began to grow brighter. Its sapphire tones melted away, replaced with a pure white. With that the sky began to empty itself for the last time, rain as white as snow carpetting the entirety of the Wraith Globe. As it did, a certain melancholy came over the countless armies fighting far below. Without reason they laid down their weapons and marvelled at the beauty of the world, knowing in their heart that it would melt away soon. The first to go would be the oceans, asorbed into the sea of this next world. The lands of the Material Plane and its echoes would follow shortly after, including all the creatures on and within it. Mount Karar'at would be the last to sink amidst all the earth. At last, the sky, compeltely empty save for Empyreal, would fade away last. Sydan would began to shake as she felt her end coming closer. Embracing her tightly, The One would not let go of her until the very end.
And so the First Phantasmagoria was at last fulfilled in full. Such was the end of the Wraith Globe, home of the Lordly Pantheon and the Finite Peoples.
My Parting Regards
"..."
I am sure that you have questions concerning my return and what occurred after the end of the Wraith Globe as I created it. First, a brief explanation of how I, Artukos, survived not in body but in soul after the Duel of Karar'at's Crown.
In my deepest sleep, I dreampt of many timelines twisting forward. Many led to this same end: the melting away of the beautiful creation I had formed into this so-called "Purest Sky and Sea." Out of pride for what I had made, I toiled endlessly, clinging to unlikely timelines I had seen that did not lead to such an end. I of all people knew that there was something above the Lordly Pantheon at play within the Wraith Globe, so I created three tomes in order to better understand and perhaps even find that greater power. However, I had also seen the Lord's rebellion and my potential death, and so I commisioned by right hand to knit together the body and soul of an artificial Lord. Such would be Khraura, Lower Lord of Chaos. When I was slain by Viabaas, my soul would escape into the body of Khraura, but I would not be alone in that body. My soul and Khraura's would vye for dominion, with my power eventual winning out. However, I would be driven into the Far Realm in the second age, where chaos would thrive and Khraura would take back dominion over me. After my defeat in the sixth age at the hands of the Newborn Willows, I would learn to coexist with Khraura, and so the two of us would become symbiotes of a sort. Volthunae's call for help during the last conflict would awaken me from my deep thought, in which I had seen more clearly the damage my pride had wrought upon the world. Because of that I would choose to return to the far realm, accepting the fate of my creation.
This chronicle is my final creation. After its completion I will step into what was once the Wraith Globe and be absorbed into its purity. That white field of bliss will be my final resting place. In that place there is no pride, for it is the purer form of creation than my own. It is fitting for me. I hope that you can understand the joy I feel when I say that I can finally be free from the mark of pride I gouged into my own flesh so long ago.
Ultimately, I leave you with one request: do not trivialize the ability to create something.
