To Hel And Back
A /meat/ tale
Imprisonment
She gazes into the horizon. Longing nostalgia of home in her eyes.
She closed her eyes.
Focusing her thoughts towards the town she grew up and lived for most of her life.
They were there. The bridges. The threads in the Catalog.
Yet they were far. Much farther away. She tried to swim. No matter how further she goes, she will never reach the bridges.
She opens her eyes.
She is still standing on the bow. The sight of her homeland still within range.
Xohildr removes the circlet from her forehead.
Cursing under her breath the vile beings that condemned her and her people from ever returning home.
To understand her pain, one must look back. Into the six years before.
The year is of 1138. Of the Second Metzi. Of the Third Day.
For the people of Yectic Teocuacayotl, it is a day like any other.
In the markets of Ryonaheim, there littered merchants from the Serene Republic.
In the port of Atoyavik, there can be seen young leidangr scouts training in their junks above the coral.
In the farms of Gerogardr, there were cihuatlamacazque of the Geroberg Abottoir watering the crops with waters of prayers made.
In the laboratories of Nacatlah, there ran nahualli across the halls to share their latest discoveries.
All in all, it was another busy uneventful day for the people. A day to be forgotten by the sands of time, only remembered by the ink of journals.
The merchant vessel 'AwA Xocolatl'. A beautiful pristine ship with a name much sweeter.
Carries within itself were trading goods and pilgrims. From the faraway state of Namakubi.
It is to be a regular visit home.
To sell the goods, of furniture and silverware from the lands of the Takodachis and the Kaiserreich.
To deliver the pilgrims on their holy journey to fulfill the requirements of faith.
Sadly for this day, the Awa Xocolatl shall never reach the docks of Atoyavik.
The Captain was stunned.
He glanced at his clock.
Four hours had the vessel sailed. Yet nowhere it was closer it be to the port.
His First Mate and the navigators were running the numbers.
Nothing was off course. The compass was pointing in the correct direction.
But land was never coming.
The Awa Xocolatl sailed west, perhaps the winds were unkind to them.
Threats of unnatural origin were common to the crew. From the Beast Heathens, to storms of teotehuilotl magic, to dangerous sea beasts and their masters.
Perhaps, another way home was needed.
Another hour went by, all was for naught.
Awa Xocolatl crossed with another vessel. 'Zolinberg' was a naval vessel. Patrolling the brackish waters for dangers.
The Captain of the Zolinberg so too tell the same account.
To sail land, yet never reaching.
Questions have begun to spread among the crew, from the crew it spread to the pilgrims, from the pilgrims it spread to the slaves.
As the hours passed, another vessel converged with the two.
A smaller ship of metal and wood. The Kronofang of the Infinitum Holy Republic Navy.
Carried on board the clocksmith vessel were diplomats. On their visit to Yectic Teocuacayotl.
A similar fate. A similar story.
For no matter how far they sail, for no matter how long they went. Land was never close.
By the jungles of the Kratocratic Republic of Holofightz, a similar occurence is underway.
A herculean borderguard watches in fear and confusion.
The merchants were aggravated. The civillians were confused.
Horses stopped in their tracks.
Omnibuses and wagons, stagecoaches and carts. All were piling.
The joyful warrior of a borderguard can see his friend across the border. He can call his name and wave back his signal.
But the more he ran towards him, the farther the road appears.
The trees begin to stretch. The road kept growing. The sky continuing.
He stops.
The world around him returned to what he knew.
Similarly too on the inside was the calamity.
Vessels left Atoyavik, left Ryonaheim, left Geroberg.
Sailors could see the Awa Xocolatl and the Kronofang in their spyglasses.
Nay a single were able to leave beyond the corals. The seas stretching further and outwards.
Desperate for an answer, the Rikittlachixqui ordered an immediate message to be sent to the pochtecatl abroad the seas.
A message through the Catalog.
Inside the realm of thoughts and magic, the calamity too had its grasp.
However, relief was found as the grasp was at its weakest.
The telepath of the Catalog was able to hear his brethren across the sea of thoughts.
Yet they were dim. Quiet as a mouse.
The telepath of the Catalog was able to deliver a message.
Yet they were muddled by the time it reached. Coceco scratches on sand.
The message was deciphered by the pochtecatl.
Agreements made, dread in the chamber.
The pochtecatl broke their coffers. Jewels were bagged. Coins were counted. A tome containing knowledge if they were ever desperate for influence.
All shall be well. Cualitoa Heill!
A week came passing and the plan is set in motion, a mighty vessel by the name of Poisson Volante has been sent out from the eastern Kingdom of Oisseau. A pristine beautiful galleon with sails that dwarves even the fastest ships of the Matiyotl.
On board, she carries the most peculiar of vessel. One that shall sail the skies.
Crafted by the minds of the Tsukinode, she was an aerostat. A ship wooden made that which shall fly by hot air within its mighty canvas.
The ballasts were removed and the ropes were untied. Off she goes into the skies above.
Its sail shall catch the winds towards the west.
For hours she flew, barely above the seas. The hot air carrying her afloat.
From aboard its vessel, the Captain of La Petite Fille De La Mep saw land.
Higher and higher he commanded his crew.
Yet no matter how high they went, land was never close by.
A curtain has fallen Yectic Teocuacayotl.
A curtain that hid the entire country from the material world itself.
A curtain that tempts the world outside of the goods they will no longer receive.
A curtain that preys upon the fears of those who will never see their families and friends once more.
A curtain sewn by the hands of the Custodians.
Thus begin the Day of Imprisonment. The Day of Great Exile.
Hel.
Preparation
The year is of 1135. Of the Seventh Metzi. of the Twelfth Day.
Three years before Hel.
O' Rikittlatoani;
The Rightfully Won Champion of the Althing Game of Wit and Zeal;
Chosen One; Blessed One;
The Great Realm Speaker of All Abottoir;
The Wisest of the Nahualli;
The Strongest of the Vikingr;
The Truthsayer for the Revelations of the Heavens.
Long may he reign over the Holy Realm of The Ones Who Will Punish the Eternal Gods.
For today, he will partake in the grandest of grand thing.
For today, the wisest of the wise from across the known sea shall converge.
For today, the darkest of secrets will be shared.
It is the Island of Shadows. A place much less known to the common farmer and scholars of the realm.
An that stands tall just beyond the port of Ryonaheim.
An island that from the eyes of a sailor was like any other.
But nay a single merchant ship hath docked here since records memorial. For the island has upon its grounds farms and orchards with denizens forbidden to see the mainland.
Nay even a single accursed vessel of Schizo Heathen Beastmen have ever dared set foot upon it. Fortified towers of extremely meticulous magic, manned by the strongest wizards, armed with the strongest of cannons, constructed of brick and mortar and metal along the coast, all for warding off invaders and madmen.
Its sea patrolled by ships without end.
A single warship in the day, two by night. Aided by acapolli, six under the sun, eight beneath the moon.
An island with secrets of foulest origin within the halls of its laboratories. Of weapons, of magic, and of constructs are drawn and built.
An island reserved to only the secretive and elite of the Abbots to set upon.
To only the wisest of scholars. To only the strongest of soldiers. To only the sneakiest of spies.
To the Tlatoani of each state. To those chosen among them to lead the whole realm.
And the blessed Rikittlatoani himself.
For today, a thing will be held. One of damned secrecy.
Held by the Rikitlatoani.
Joined by the Abbot Ministers of the realm; by the Rikitnahualli, by the Rikitlachixqui, by the Rikitlaeknir, by the Rikitpochteca, by the Rikitemachtiani, and the Rikitlalchiuhqui.
To be observed by the various leaders of every department of the realm.
As with any meatthing held upon the black spot of Yectic Teocuacayotl. A thing whose subject of discussion shall bring chaos shouldever it leaks to the commonfolk.
Today, for the first time since memorial, the thing will be held with guests.
Guests of upstanding prestige and power. Of awesome talents and influence and command that could only be rivalled by the Rikitlatoani and the leaders of their home realm. One of an old ally, and one of a new friend.
A Priestess from the Council of Twelve from the Holy Republic of Infinitum.
The Shitomo from the island of Moriji.
Today, shall be their first day to step onto the soil of Yectic Teocuacayotl. To meet the Rikitlatoani in his physical being.
But of all the soil to lay their feet, it shall be the one of the island of secrets.
The most important of all important guests they are.
For their existence outside the borders of their home are to never be mentioned.
Their travels were made only under the glow of moonlight, their places of lodging reserved of all rooms and the servants replaced with spies, their escort displaced far apart to not bring suspicion.
The Council of Twelve and Goddess Faithful deploy their strongest spies and mages to guard the paths and routes.
Security was the strongest than any mortal had seen within the last decade. For with their shared influence in the court of the God Kaiser, Infinitum and Moriji even employed Chumbud sailors that patrol the deepest seas.
For any other day, this historical thing of greatest minds would be a diplomatic celebration, with feasts and drinks.
Today is not such day. For there are much more important matters.
The Rikitlatoani, the Priestess of the Twelve, and the Shitomo walk onto the courtly stage in unison.
There were no applause. No signs of patriotism. No displays of love and pride.
The court was cold. Cold in emotion. Far colder in air once the Shitomo sat down.
The Rikitlatoani speaks his opening. In clear and fluent and simple Holodhennet. There is little room for pretentious formalities.
Time is of the essence.
For the longer this thing is held, suspicions will grow in the respective homes of the secretive guests.
For the longer this thing is held, unruly secrets of the island may be seen by the unruly eyes of the Serpent's Embrace and Goddess Faithful accompanying their ladies.
The Rikitlatoani showed to the court and the guests a document of papyr.
He speaks its content.
In the far West, to the South;
A nation exists, whose people were of the greatest craftsmen and builders the world had ever seen.
Today, they still stand. High and mighty. Their monuments grandiose and exquisite. Their homes and merchant castles scrape the skies.
The Rikitlatoani tells the court to ignore their achievements.
For the most crucial detail of all, lies within their history.
In the centuries, before the present times, two centuries before today.
The nation, disappeared.
The natives called it the Great Exile.
A period in which the nation, its existence, its history, its people, were erased from the realm in its entirety.
The natives know not anything from the period. Their ancestors never written a single recollection.
The nation did not disappeared.
It was hidden.
It was frozen.
It was forgotten.
An esoteric curtain. One that hides on a metaphysical level.
One day, one uneventful day, a scholar of the Goddess Faithful was studying the history of the further realms.
They discover a truth, a truth that made them sick to the bones.
Their people too had forgotten the existence of that nation within that period.
For not a single record, a single merchant charter, a single navigational log mentioned the nation ever existing.
A request was made on behalf of the Goddess Faithful, to visit the Grandest of Grand Archives within the Capital of the God Emperor.
Similar fate were uncovered.
A name, a race, a nation, missing from records and memories.
Only when the Great Exile was lifted, so too did the curtain.
Cartographers revised their charts. Diplomats returned to meet the diasporas on the nation.
However, time did not end wherever the nation went.
The people prospered. The people lived. The people died. By the time they returned to the realm of the living, they were not the same generation as the ones before.
In celebration of their return, the denizens of the nation partake in the World Event of Divegrass. A joyous cause for a return that ended in their supreme victory.
Murmurs spread in the court.
Even the agents of the Ministry of Magic were talking with the Deadbeats and Kronies in Holodhennet.
The Rikitlatoani calls for order and silence. The murmurs and discussions stopped.
He returns to the tale of the nation.
Recently, a discovery was made. By a combined effort of Moriji, the Candy Kingdom, and various other vanguards of esoteric studies.
Deep within the bowels of the island, buried beneath the thickest layer of chuubanite, was a bunker.
A bunker with the only recollection of events during the Great Exile.
The nation was not forgotten in a single day.
On the eve of the Exile, the nation still existed upon this world.
By the winds and seawater, like any other.
At first, nay a single being nor vessel were able to enter nor leave the nation.
Ships sailed as far as they could. Birds flew just as fast.
But not a single was able to reach and leave.
The sea stretched on for ever and ever and ever.
At the dawn of the Exile, the world outside attempted to sail back. With records of foreign vessels attempting to sail port.
At the dusk of the Exile, the world outside have forgotten they exist. For the longer they stayed in Exile, the more the world outside forgotten.
On the inside, their memories of the outside world retained within their records and stories.
Yet they could not remember anything upon return.
But one word kept appearing within their memories; Custodians.
The court fell into disarray. Questions were flung across seats. Individuals are now arguing.
The Shitomo stood up, and stomped. A frozen chilly wave covers the chamber. Quieting down the panicking masses.
The Rikitlatoani thanked the Deadbeat lady. He returned with the grave news of revelation.
For the Exile was caused by none other than the self-proclaimed Keeper of Natural Law and Order.
The Shitomo and The Priestess of The Twelve nod in unison.
Exile, imprisonment, whatever they may call it; it is the most powerful ability of the Custodians.
To erase the existence of a nation from the physical realm. Hiding it in plain sight. From the memories of those that knew.
The Priestess asked the court; "Imagine how many more kingdoms and realms are currently being hidden from the waking world."
Upon hearing the question, the court began to murmur once more. Only with the signal of the Shitomo that order returned.
The Rikitlatoani called upon this thing to share a graver theory. For the next target of Exile, shall be Yectic Teocuacayotl.
For in recent years, Custodian attacks have increased tenfold.
Crops were poisoned and left glowing, villages flattened in but a single night, temples burnt down by visions of light from the myriad tendrils of Custodians. For if such attacks, such disasters maintain, the Custodians will perform their most despicable of punishment.
The people may have prepared for the disappearance of crops and homes. But what shall be for the disappearance of the whole land? Hidden from view despite at a finger's touch?
For the next hour, plans were made. Discussions were held. Studies were shared.
The Shitomo and Priestess of The Twelve made no qualm to hide any discoveries of the Exile.
For this is a matter of a shared enemy.
All in all, a conclusion was made.
Forget us not. That is the most important objective.
For if the land of Yectic Teocuacayotl shall be hidden in sight, let not the people and its teachings be forgotten.
For when the disaster strike, diasporas abroad shall be given their own government, autonomous of the heartland.
No matter which kingdom, which barony, which republic, which union the worshippers of the End Times are living, they will now only answer to the local administrators. Yet united through network.
The scholars and mages, adventurers and mercenaries, merchants and priests of the Matiyotl in every corner of the land are to carry the memory and tradition of the heartland alive.
The allies of the God Eaters, they who too suffer under the attacks of the Custodians, shall attempt to maintain knowledge of existence.
All shall be maintained, until they return into the world of the living.
With the final prayer, being that if whenever the time comes, it will be a short recluse.
The Rikitlatoani, the Shitomo, the Priestess of The Twelve stood in unison.
From this day onwards, the Kvaeldtiloyanfaellag, the Goddess Faithful, and the Serpent's Embrace shall begin our study into the most despicable;
A way to end a Custodian.
Salvation
The year is of 1138. Of the Third Metzi. Of the First Day.
Across the gulf, across multiple kingdoms and empires, there were men and women and children of the Yectic faith.
Not the natives of Yectic Teocuacayotl. They were the natives of their earth. They who embraced the faith of suffering and blood upon the revelation of the oncoming End. Faith spread by the brave and resilient pochtecatl.
They were not of the same skin. They were of a myriad; of skin, of scales, of feathers, of metal, of wood, of fur.
Yet they were bound by the shared faith. For some of the more prosperous ones even had the opportunity to experience a pilgrimage to the heartland, while most were contempt with the life of their forefathers. Merely weaving their newfound faith into their daily life.
Though they have not yet seen nor step foot upon the heartland, the news of Hel was a gravest one.
From the noble man in the mountains of the Kaiserreich, to the mistress in the pleasure guild of the Serene Republic, to the Varangians training in Infinitum, to the adventurers hired across the globe, to native Matiyotl merchants and diplomats living in foreign lands, to vollvornar pochtecatl spying in the lands of their forefathers, down to the men of faith stationed in their embassies.
They were all given the order one and the same;
'Heed the orders of Nacatlah and whatever Abottoir ye served no more. For the homeland of the Matiyotl hath been Exiled by the Custodians. Serve the land and lords in which you now work and live. Forget us not.'
A calamity foresaw in the yesteryears, now in the light for the masses to see.
Despite the order coming from the prayer of the Rikitlatoani, the masses refused to heed.
Unanimously in the same beating of drums and hearts, holy war was declared by all of the faith. A holy war against the Custodians.
Be they folks of the heartland living abroad or those of different cloth believing in the same pantheon of sanguineous ones, prayers became the rallying cries of freedom and struggle and refusal of submission.
Faith is a bond that could not be trifle with. For faith is where foundations lie, no matter how different the believers may be.
For if such a faith named themselves 'Killers and Consumers of Gods', one should be wiser than not let them bare their true fangs.
In the yesteryears the Matiyotl across the lands and seas spun a web of espionage and faith and trade.
On this web lies were spread, secrets were sold, slaves were acquired, goods were exchanged, and most important of all the ties of faith are kept.
This web have served their purpose in times of prosperity. Now in times of calamity and struggle, they shall serve a new task.
Letters were shared and things were held.
For the heartland has fallen, a new regime shall be adopted. Followed word by word as contained within the book of governance. Adapted and changed to conform this new predicament.
To form a Council of Calamity.
For in every land, shall they be the workers and the scholars. Soldiers and priests. The society of two, of the soft hand and the hard hand.
Each embasssy and local abottoir across the Ailivian realm sent out their messengers. A grand census of every able-bodied believer both open and hidden. The intelligent and the hardworking. The faithful and the diligent. Scholars and soldiers.
For in every land, shall we be led by the faithful. Of an Abottoir. Who shall maintain and enforce the law of the Gods.
Throughout the lands, embassies and temples don a new change of clothes. They became faux-Abottoirs, serving the same duty as those of the heartland. To maintain the faith, to direct and coordinate the believers. Stability and peace, morale and zeal.
For each Abottoir, the gifted among gifted shall be chosen. The wisest of the wise, the strongest of the strong. To lead Fellows of The Places where their talents blossom and bear fruit.
As the faux-Abottoirs were formed, the men and women who lead the faith converged. Under a single shared roof, to test and designate the most prestigious and talented of them. For these shall be the faux-ministers. To study and mediate the different aspects and nature of the living cycle and the complexities it brings.
For each leader of the Fellows of The Places, one of greatest mind, body, and soul will be chosen. To become the King of Kings, the Priest of Priests, and the Blessed Mouth of the Gods themselves. The Champion of the Althing Game of Wit and Zeal; the Rikitlatoani
With the scholarly battles of the theatre and the bloody battles of the arena came to a conclusion, only one winner came above all. For this winner shall now become the Regent of the Rikitlatoani in this times of troubles. The one to lead and maintain this makeshift house of web spun by pochtecatl and varangians.
The web of knowledge and trade that was once a tool of Yectic Teocuacayotl have now become a mimicry of the heartland itself. Stretched thin across the gulf and lands wherever the followers of the flesh and blood may be.
Time is of the essence.
For this web of makeshift governance is but a masquerade of an Abottoir state. Its purpose is only to unite the believers of the faith to prepare for the return of the heartland.
For many Metzi, scholars and wizards studied, masons and laborers crafted, spies and merchants traded.
The goal is to find answers. A method to bring the heartland back.
Men of bones, clocks, allies of knowledge, shared what little they had to undo the calamity.
Rituals were tested, the most intricate and finely drawn glyphs were made, yet not a single fruit was bore.
Time is crucial, for none of them wish to forget their families they had nor the allies they had made.
The phases of the Metzi came by and by, yet no answers were found.
A year had passed since the heartland fell. Yet the morale of the believers were still unshaken.
Deep within the halls of the Island of the Dead, within the clockwork temples of the Holy Republic, the pursuit of knowledge kept going underway.
They scour the world for secrets. For artifacts. For answers.
More rituals were held. More glyphs were crafted.
Nothing, and nothing, nothing.
Another year have came by.
As for the holy war itself, the flame of the believers are still bright.
But the fuel have changed. For what was once anger and suffering, has been replaced with frustration and pain.
For this is a holy war where nothing can be done as your enemy is neither flesh nor blood.
Remnants of the Abottoir navy sail the brine, attempting to shoot down Custodians with cannonfire and gunpowder and chuubanite.
But to no avail and to no changes.
Another year, another calamity.
For when the believers revealed themselves into the light to save and support their brothers in faith, pieces of the web were discovered by the blinded.
Across the continent, worshippers of the Yectic faith had been discovered, driven out of hiding, a call of inquisition. Nobles and burghers of the bloody faith, spies within their communities, were able to halt and redirect the path of destruction. Many believers were saved, but their homes were not spared the fires of the heathens.
And so the web became busy once more, to find these believers new homes. To form new communities.
The years flew, and the storm subsided.
Across the web of believers, life of the common folk began to return.
Expats found themselves new homes, new crafts, new trades, new friends, and new spouses.
The flame of the holy war has started to dim. For every trial to strike a Custodian was met with futile.
The allies of magic and esoteric arts have emptied their dedicated coffers. None were able to support the research into the Exile once more.
It is during this moment of calmness the believers of blood and pain received a shared epiphany, we have not asked for the gods to aid us.
Will they answer the call for help? Many asked. For the gods are occupied with the the troubles of the Heavens.
But they know, deep in their hearts
Across the web, a new order was made by the Regent.
To pray. To be spared. To be saved. To bring back the ones they had lost.
Pray for Salvation.
lo and behold, Salvation herself answered.
The goddess came with an answer. To save her loyal worshippers. For she endures the pain of all, to save them from the horrors unknown.
But the answer was not many were expecting.
It shall be done. Cualitoa Heill!
Friends of bone and clock were informed of the news. Stunned, flummoxed, awed, for they did not expect such a drastic measure.
Across the web, prayers were made, feasts were held, celebrations galore.
A Wentli was prepared. Her face just as that of Salvation. She is ready, for the greater good for many in exile.
Today, she is going to become a goddess.
The Abbot's dagger was sharp. His faith stronger than ever before. For to save the heartland, an exchange must be made.
Today, he is going to kill a goddess.
With one last prayer, the believers bid fare thee well to a goddess. Their goddess.
With that we have our foundation, of how this calamity came to be known and came to befell.
With that we know their pain, of how they worked and prayed to undo this untimely curse.
With that we take our eyes back into the now. Upon the lone vessel waving as the waves came gently.
The year is of 1144. Of the Third Metzi. Of the Twelfth Day.
It is time. It shall be. It must be.
The priestess was away when Hel came unto the homeland. Fulfilling her duty alongside her comrades, soldier and priestess they were.
Her heart was full of fear and anger when the news finally reached. A shared pain among her kin.
Xohildr gazed upon the horizon. The sea men aboard the vessel accompanying her.
Nothing had changed. The coast is still there. For six years she watched, a sight taunting a home that will never be hers once more.
Until now.
The captain gave an order, upon the bow a cannon is loaded and fired.
Hearts were beating as one. Breaths heavy as stone. Palms wet and salty as the seas beneath.
The cannonball flew. And flew. And flew. And it fell. Plunging down in an arc into a splash.
Xohildr swallowed her saliva. Relief washing over her cold heart like a warm shower. A gentle warm smile began to sprout over her hardened skin.
The captain gave the orders. The anchor is raised. The sails turned. Onwards! To Atoyavik!
For the veil is no more.
Retaliation
Vessels in a uniform pattern. Their sails catching the winds. Their hulls breaking the waves. A flotilla is moving closer and closer to the shores of the heartland led by the lead ship of the name Magna Unda.
Joyous is the air upon each ship. Six years have not a single vessel ever felt these waters.
From afar, one could see a crowd gathering innumerable upon the shores. Friends and families finally reunited after a six years exile.
Magna Unda reached port with a soft stop. She carries on-board people of upmost importance. From the loyal Regent and his court, to the diplomats and ambassadors of the various lands with stakes and influence in the court of the Rikitlatoani.
The vessel stops and made anchor in Atoyavik at last.
Smiles and cheers that were initially present slowly departed away.
For there were no celebration. For not a single instrument was strummed nor blown. Nay a single look of joy nor a look of relief.
The Matiyotl were all donning ceremonial garbs of mourning. Pots in their hands.
A figure walks ahead of the mourning masses. Walking his way onto the pier. It be the Blessed One himself, the Rikitlatoani.
The features upon his face was as same as the day the heartland disappeared.
The Regent stepped forward in grace, bowing before the Rikitlatoani. The rest of the Court of Calamity followed. Their first display of respect and submission ever since Hel befell the heartland.
The Rikitlatoani accepts their display of loyalty. He accepts their efforts to protect the believers in the times of Hel. He accepts their loyalty to not betray their faith for petty titles and wealth. He accepts their rebelliousness to reject his decree to achieve the impossible.
Yet the Rikitlatoani would not accept one blunder they have made.
The great priest of the realm demanded the Regent to stand up tall. In doing so, the Rikitlatoani swiftly slap the Regent in the face. Before embracing his brother in rule and faith in a tight hug.
"Was there not any other way, Blessed Regent?" questioned the Rikitlatoani.
"Holy Leader. May thousand prayers be upon ye. May a thousand pardons be upon me. With all that is good and virtuous, with all that is holy and beautiful, with all the blood and flesh upon my bones, that was the Revelation given unto us by the gods. For if that may be the request of the Heavens, we shall not defy their objective truth." the Regent gave his hardest to stay strong as he answer.
"The word of the Aesir takes precedent before mine. Ye have done ye duty well. I, the Priest of all Priests of Abottoir Theocracies, accept your answer in truth and blood. May this day be one to be remember always by our children and their children. May this be our own shared suffering, in the name of the Aesir and all that exists to halt the End of Times."
The Rikitlatoani let go of the Regent, turning towards the masses.
Men and women, children and the old, from the free folks to the loyal sholo, the laborer-raiders to the noble-clergy. All were gathered.
They stood by the riverside of Atoyavik. The end of the Blood River.
From afar, the crew on board the flotilla watch as a great wall of crowds was forming across the delta of the Bay of Awamac.
The masses in unison open the pots in their hands
Blood, holy water, pour from each pot. Tainting the water of the Blood River delta red.
A ritual to mimic the age old prophecy, a ritual of mournful celebration.
They say that for two days the Bay of Awamac stained brown and orange from the blood and brine.
A mark to remind them of their loss, and to signify the beginning of a new epoch.
For it is a cycle, of pain and suffering, then of pleasure and joy.
Twelve Metzi come and go, until a year came by.
The realm of Yectic Teocuacayotl made great efforts to recover.
Trade has returned to the markets, the crops were able to reach the tables of foreign lands.
Pilgrims have returned to the temples, the altars were able to hold blood and flesh once more.
Expats of lands far made their way home. Rekindling lost connections with their loved ones.
Xohildr made way for her home, embracing the love of her family she missed.
Lovers and friends reunited, and the faithful were overjoyed.
In foreign lands, the efforts of the Council of Calamity were recognized prestigiously. The Regent and his Ministers were each given a sacrifice of a Wentli in their honor.
For now that Hel is over, the web of pochtecatl made has returned to its original duty. To spread trade, faith, and secrets.
The Rikitlatoani, long may he reign, has only one final duty.
A thing was held with the wisest of the esoteric arts once more. To discuss of progress and findings in their absence.
The Goddess Faithful answered. They had found nothing of worthiness in their exile.
Yet it was until the Sacrifice of Salvation commenced, they found their answer.
For to end a Custodian, the life of a god must be used.
A letter of extreme secrecy and sorcery was delivered unto the Rikitlatoani.
One sealed by that of the My Mori of Moriji, of the One of the Holy Republic of Infinitum, of the Emperor of Tsukinode and its vassals, of the Basileia of Syndeonia, of Lady Honk of the Serene Republic, of the OP of the Arena City of Fightz, of five candidates of Aspirant Apotheosis, and most importantly of three Goddesses-Here; for they be the Rabbits and the Bear.
A great Wonder Weapon was constructed. Crafted by the genius of multiple lands. By the soils and metal of Yubicraft, by the cannoneers of Hoshiyomiya, by the void knowhow of the Retro Reich, by the golem machinists of RBC, by the jewels of Tanah Tupai, and by the blood of the God-Eaters.
A weapon to End a Custodian.
And so here they gather, upon the Arena Island of Fightz. An Arena of gladiatorial kratocracy. An island in the center of the known world.
For centuries, Great Battles were held upon this island. Attracting viewers of lands far and wide.
What realm is more fitting to erect such wonder weapon.
For the first time in centuries, several Great Leaders of the known world gathered. Although a large number of them were cursed to never leave the soil of their homes, a loyal and equally great representative was sent in their stead. All were able to meet with upmost sincerity.
For none wish to be missing on such a great occasion.
And amongst the leaders and their loyal men, was one unruly and unwilling guest. One who is more than undelighted to be part of this ceremony, cursing upon those present with great hate and savagery.
The weapon was constructed by the coast of the Arena. From afar, one would mistake the Wonder Weapon for that of a naval artillery piece similar in use by the Hoshiyomi and Tsukinode. For by the Stargazer's craftsmanship, the influence and coffer of the Tsukinode, and the arcane knowledge of many others know, that this weapon of holy intent and unholy foundation, was constructed from.
The signal was given. All shall go as plan.
One by one the Great Leaders and representatives of those absent stood from their seats. Each carrying a a trapezoid plate in each hand. Alloys made of their homeland's respective metal of the gods, and those of the lands of their allies.
"Your Greatest of Majesty, Sir! A Custodian has been sighted twenty degrees North, moving at twenty-five knots." the Tsukinode Captain-General exclaim as he salutes his Emperor.
"It is time for the signal to be given. Send a Catalog post to the Goddess Faithful in the field." the Shitomo answers as she inspects the Wonder Weapon. "They shall suffer for the hypocrisy upon our lands."
The Captain General gave a salute and returned to his spot. Observing beyond the horizon through a massive, Infinitum crafted scope of exquisite clockwork. Behind him, a telepath priestess of the Goddess Faithful dons her circlet. The order was sent.
One by one, the Great Leaders hand their plates to the commandeers of the Wonder Weapon. The soldierly team of engineers and artillerists accept the delivery and immediately returned to their stations. As their part of the play have finally came to an end, the Leaders returned to the safety of their seats.
"Signal launched! Custodian detour! Confirmation; fifteen-degrees, twenty-minutes, nine knots!"
One by one the engineers insert the plates onto the base of the Wonder Weapon.
With each addition, the very metal and brick and mortar rumbled.
The glyphs of myriad origin of faiths engraved on its construction begins to glow.
With each glyph preparing to receive its order from the Heaven, the Wonder Weapon sings an eerie and sickly hum.
"Seventeen knots! Custodian is now ninety-degrees perpendicular to our origin!"
Several more plates were inserted. One for half of each minute.
Among the men and women present, some covered their ears to lessen the painful hum of the Wonder Weapon.
With the final plate inserted, the very foundation of the Wonder Weapon rumbles as a great beast that would make a Monster Hunter fear in retaliation.
"Twenty-five knots! Custodian impact in two hours!"
With the Wonder Weapon now awoken and enraged, it is now time to load the ammunition.
The Hoshiyomi engineers and artillerists worked in unison, removing the shackles upon the end of the Weapon, unlocking the great door for the provided ammunition.
The cue was given and the Rikitlatoani stood.
Several men followed behind him, soldiers donning ceremonial garbs. Carrying together in each arm an artillery ammunition of large size. The outer shell covered in blessed glyphs of the faith of the God-Eaters.
The Rikitlatoani prays to the gods and inspects the ammunition. The Wentli inside is softly asleep, gently in a peaceful trance. Her skin was as white as porcelain, four pair of horns of dragon kind protrudes from her white-haired covered head, above her pointy ears. If she were to be awoken, her beautiful blue and golden eyes would have been the envy of maidens plenty. A true Becoming of the Empress of The Sky.
Fare thee well, beautiful Wentli.
As the Yectic men loads the ammunition inside the Wonder Weapon, the esteemed guest of honor cursed louder than ever. Such a sign of support.
"Forty-seven knots! Impact in fifty minutes!"
The artillerists close the hatch of the Wonder Weapon, returning to their designated stations.
The weapon rumbles as the massive clockworks inside its glowing shell turn and spin. Carefully the cannoneers carry out the orders of their superiors.
For this is their one and only shot.
"Fifty-two knots! Custodian is now within critical territory!"
It is time. Many have already braced themselves for what is to come.
Hands were gripping hard, foreheads dripping in sweat, breathes heavier by the seconds.
"Target within sight! FIRE!" From the moment the Captain-General gave his order, the entire Arena rumbled in perfect harmony with the deafening explosion of its cannon-fire.
The nightmarish hum of the Wonder Weapon, the dreadful noise that forced many to cover their ears, came to a soothing halt in an instant.
A bright flash of light unlike that of the sun appears after. The air felt hotter in an instant. A tingling yet delightful sensation of unknown origin followed.
Within seconds, the light of the Wonder Weapon begins to fade. All eyes were now onto the horizon. To watch the mesmerizing glow of the weapon fire made. Directly in the path of an iridescent and amorphous mass.
Within a blink of the naked eye, the greatest of greatest explosion commenced.
A flash of extreme light and heat unlike any mortal have ever seen. A beautiful horrifying spectacle of a thousand colors known to man and a thousand more known to other beings.
The skies groan and rumble as the unmistaken maddening wave of colors of the Northern Lights emanate from the the point of impact. The colors spread outwards, creeping slowly like a slime mold in the heavens above.
With each reach, a painful harrowing scream can be heard.
The scream of a goddess. Of the Empress of the Sky.
As the colors grew further and creeps faster, they halt and rescind back.
Like that of a whirlpool, of a tornado, of the eye of a deadly storm.
Encroaching back to its birth-point.
Disappearing to make way for the unmistaken clear blue sky.
For a moment, silence fell the entire Arena.
None were the wiser to say a word.
For a brief moment, the wind carries with it a scent.
A scent the Goddess Faithful knows. The scent of flour of potatoes that emanates from the Custodians.
However this one was different. The scent was burnt.
There was none to be said. Many were still shocked to the bone.
Such a sight was not for the mortal eyes, yet they witnessed perhaps the most baffling of events to have ever happen.
A Custodian was truly slain.
The Leaders and their representatives and their soldiers were left stunned.
Some were wondering whether the surreal image they witnessed was a dream.
Nay.
The Wonder Weapon is real. The scream was real. The maddening colors were real. And the unmistaken ripple, a scar in the Catalog, in the sky ahead is real.
A minute have passed, yet not a single soul was ready to open their mouths.
Glances were made, and nods were shared. What is done is done.
It was then the silence was broken.
An unmistaken noise, crying, sobbing, suffering and pain.
Many eyes turn to witness the guest of honor. He was now released of his restrains.
He was crying immensely, lying on the ground in heartwrenching pain.
He was a priest. For today, he had lost everything he had ever known and ever loved.
For he had just witnessed his goddess, his beloved deity, used as a sacrifice to end a Custodian.
End