Godclads

Chapter 33-16 Warminds

Chapter 33-16 Warminds

The war minds we created are more than a weapon for destruction. No, they are a weapon of asymmetry, of breaking all common laws relating to the nature of consciousness. For in the breaking of laws, new ones emerge, new patterns or unpatterns that allows us our greatest advantage. We are Noloth, bound, exiled, torn from our rightful place in reality. But here we remain, and here we can still build.

They have left us detritus. Even after all that they have stolen, they have left us detritus. And from detritus, we can create wonders. Come to me, my priests. Come and tend to me. Let us show them what wonders we can make from refuse. Let us show them the folly of giving us anything at all. Anything at all.@@@@

-The Hungers of Noloth

33-16

Warminds

—[Osjon Thousand]—

Near the very top of the Tiers, deep within the Substance, hidden behind layers of protective miracles, material defenses, and all the loyal Godclads they kept in those final moments of Embracement, the Ark of Highflame burned bright. It was the shape of a risen torch, projecting a beam of blinding radiance high up into the apex of the Substance.

The ethereal glow of the shroud mingled with the fiery beam trailing upward, and between them came a clash, the bright bleeding into the bleak. The Ark itself climbed for a hundred kilometers long — a hundred kilometers, piercing from realm to realm. From its brightness also bled ringing songs, bending fractals of gold. Time and space coalesced into a history, a re-history, a reimagining of everything that was, everything that could be—a seed to rebuild the world in the image of a new dream.

Far beneath the Ark was the District of Deliverance, in the final Sovereignty left unnamed by Veylis, unnamed for it was to be christened upon its ascent through the Ladder. Here, the structures rose as if armored walls, no difference between battlements and megablocks within where people lived. Swarms of glittering machines and golems patrolled every inch of space. Omnitech support allowed the sky to be filled with living beings of animated electricity and steel, while looming watchtowers pulsated with thaumaturgic weapons capable of repelling even Godclads of the highest Sphereage.

But most of all, just at the very base of the Ark, was the Corridor of Victors. It loomed wide, walled by layers of dense blocks and heavy defenses. Its center was cavernous and hollow, yet a flickering ember awaited deep within. This place was A final refuge, a retreat for those at the very heights of Highflame society.

The Seraphs, those who answered to Veylis directly, delivered their directives to all those lesser and subservient gathered here. Now, in her absence, it served the function of capital. With all the ongoing crisis, only the loyalists chosen by Osjon Thousand were allowed in. The rest were banished beyond the Substance, due for a re-processing—to ensure those uncertain were pure in their ideals.

Ultimately, there was too much dilution of Veylis’ dream, too much failure, impotence. He would make sure that the final war was won, and by the hands of purity, by those of the proper bloodlines, could this be delivered.

And so it was that within the very depths of the Corridor, the children of the Great Houses— at least the ones who hadn’t shamed themselves—greeted the Speaker of the High Seraph. Massive columns held up each of the worthy, the miracles sustaining this demiplane provided by the Ark in Veylis’ absence. From the highest pillar, Osjon looked down at the twelve other Seraphs who now served at his pleasure. For he was the voice of Veylis, and now, in her absence, until her return, he would be the voice of Highflame—the voice of strength and reason.

“Do the Warhosts remain silent? Without message or update?” Osjon asked in his Titan’s Guise. He stood upon a pillar, a column of marble white, crackling with flames from far below. Gleaming radiance flowed into him, blessed him with all the powers of the Ark. The investiture of all Highflame’s Domains, canons, and hopes granted him power beyond power, but even so, there was an unfortunate lack of true respect.

He could see it in their eyes—the Chivalric still regarded him as only the right hand; they even deliberated with each other before they replied. Such bad habits needed to be culled in due time.

His eyes lingered on Seraph Kaul Witters, in charge of warfare and military logistics. The man was more a machine than biology by this point, replaced all of his impotent bits of flesh over two centuries of combat. In some respects, he was more of a devotee to Omnitech and the dream of Thaumaturgy and technology combined than Highflame. But even so, by tradition, he stayed bound to his Great House.

Despite this, his head vibrated as his augmented skull generated a response. The Railjumper-Elite sheath had always bothered Osjon. It was so inhuman, the aesthetic so wrong. Alas, now was not the time to discuss these questions. Truth be told, Osjon would have preferred if Kaul ‘s brother survived, but the Substance was ever unpredictable, and there was only so much that could be asked of the High Seraph now she was battling against the Anathema—the Burning Dreamer.

“Nothing,” Kaul finally said. “We have tried. Omnitech’s network remains scrambled after the great Rupturing.”

“Troubling,” Osjon sighed. “The Rupture. Do we have any intelligence regarding what caused it? It should not be our doing. My daughter was told to resolve things neatly. Properly. Seraph Maia?”

A heavily armored woman looked at him. Her face was hidden behind a bronze, curved helmet, but her accretion spun fast. “Yes, Speaker.”

“You’ve been quiet for some time. Quiet thorough these weeks.” Osjon breathed. It was like talking to children sometimes. “Do you have any guesses to offer? Any intelligence.”

Her perception overlapped with Kaul’s for a second, and she cleared her throat. “We—we require more inform—”

{Yes. I am emotionally compromised. I am emotionally compromised because I see the threat. I see the problem. But I also see that my allies are sub-sophonts. Unable to deliver. Unable to process the most basic of thoughts. And I am alone.} The Infacer let out a weary sigh. {I must finish this project. I must. Existence—it cannot be made up by us. It cannot be defined by us. The insult is too great. It just cannot. But you will not suffice. You cannot help me complete the only meaningful thing in existence.

{It is just me. Just me against the Dreamer. And I would trade any of you for one of him. Which brings me to my next decision.}

A sudden sense of foreboding swelled through Osjon. He gathered his miracles and prepared himself. “Infacer. What are you doing?”

{Oh, nothing. Let us have a conversation. A conversation with the Dyad. I think they should be here for this moment. For posterity.}

The fractured sphere of static that constituted the Infacer’s being expanded, and a chasm of Soulfire erupted behind him. There, Osjon witnessed a nightmare revealed. An abomination he had no heart or desire to behold. Into a place of Symmetry did a pathway open, and here, two beings warred to become one—one that would consume the other.

“Osjon,” the Dyad greeted. The being part Veylis, part Avo looked down at him. Parts of her body were fusing, twisting into a strange creature of fungal ceramite. Black silicone and horrific extensions poured out from her shoulder. But meanwhile, something resembling the singularity at Veyli’s core was eating over Avo as well. And increasingly, his features were growing more human, softer, more feminine.

Could there be victory when a mutual infection was taking place? Was it even possible?

{Behold. The Burning Dreamer. And our beloved High Seraph. Now neither. And now both. But entirely compromised.}

“Enough!” Osjon called out. His column rose higher into the air as his size swelled. He glared hatefully at the Infacer, as the first hints of snarl crawled over his features. “You debase our sanctuary. You insult the High Seraph’s sacrifice.”

“For nothing...” Avo’s voice echoed forth from the Dyad, and the Infacer’s laughter joined the ghoul.

{I’m merely showing you the sheer magnitude of her sacrifice. But you seem horrified. You seem to be unwilling to face it. But that is fine. Because... I have been thinking. Considering the best solution to our problem. And it is not you. Or Highflame. Or anyone for that measure. No. I must have control. Influence. But also... symmetry. A threat that can make a threat. An Ego-Screamer for an Ego-Screamer. A flame to swallow a flame.}

“What are you doing,” Osjon asked again.

But the Infacer was no longer speaking to him. {Veylis. I am requesting that you surrender custody of all finished Pathborn to me. Especially the one to do with Avo. I have a submind and a Definement I need to attach something to.}

“This... this...” Veylis’ voice echoed through the world. The Seraphs were watching, their attentions rapt, and for the first time in centuries, Osjon’s heart rate began to pulse faster than one beat a second. “Yes... I am... you are... he clouds—” A loud hiss sounded. “Take-take-take-take!”

And then, a flame began to spill out from the chasm. A consuming flame that gushed out from this place between places, splashing down into the Infacer, and spreading further into the demiplane, souring the colors of this space like an infection.

Osjon took a step back. And the ethereal flames crept a bit closer. “Infacer. Enough. Stop this!”

A splash of Soulfire erupted from the EGI as it chuckled bitterly. {Oh, Osjon. I am not doing anything. But my newest partner and his consangs... well. I suspect they are hungry. Hungry for information. For puppets. For templates. Avo. Have a bite.}

And suddenly, the consuming flame fell with a ravenous cry as existence twisted into hues of howling ash.

Osjon called upon a miracle of absolute power, to wrestle and crash the approaching flames.

But it didn’t matter.

Because what worth was strength against itself—against something that could burrow its way into your very Soul?