When it rained, Uri hid himself among the Lost. He was formed of rain itself, yet this could not be presumed by his appearance. Even if humans were made privy to the existence of Immortals, they were a small-minded race, and many things were inscrutable. One ought not expect a human to comprehend the intricacies of things not of their kind, especially those that were greater and elder than themselves. Humans were an impetuous race, of course. Because Uri had existed for many centuries and travelled to many places, he spoke every tongue known to man. Cerulea was omnipresent; Vatia lived in a castle made of clouds, towering above the rest. At times, her booming voice erupted from the skies with a message for the Oris. The orders of a Queen must always be obeyed, lest a Child be banished.
As the rain began to slow, Uri prepared to return home. He always ventured forth by the same path: dispersing with his fallen drops, wafting upon air and dust, and springing anew like a plant upon the clouds. This day was curious, for, though the rain ceased as it always did, Uri felt an unusual weight within his limbs, as though they had grown solid. He was light and airy, never loud nor clumsy like a human. He moved serenely and nimbly, so that he was seldom spotted. Humans were heavy-footed; Uri seemed to glide atop the Ground.
He had ne’er seen the Ground without its blanket of rain. There was a brief moment in which Uri watched a water droplet spill from a weed - he was enveloped not by the winds which filled his ears in travel, but by a quiescence he wasn’t partial to. He remained solid long after his hands dried; in fact, after a rather discombobulated attempt, he found his hands would not make rain at all. It was not typical of a Child of the Queens to feel worry or unease. Dread was a distinctively human feeling. Emotions of mortals were controlled by the Fae, but an Immortal was impervious to the might of a Fae-Folc. As a lightning bolt erupted from the sky, a large cloud separated into two, and the face of Vatia filled a crack in the skies.
“Uri, Son of Vatia.”
The Oris didn’t reproduce like humans. In fact, they didn’t reproduce at all. Vatia, who created the Oris from thin air, did so with her own hands, at her own bidding. When one could not perish, there was little cause to fret over extinction. Someday in the future, humans would expire at their own hand, and the Oris would live on.
Vatia was the first of the Queens. Like all who could not die, Vatia aged not, possessing the same perpetual youthfulness as the Children she had created. Her voice thundered, causing the very Ground beneath Uri's feet to tremble. He felt unnatural: small and heavy, a distinctly cumbrous feeling. There were many limitations when it came to humans. Those that were mortal feared the knowledge that they would one day perish, and this knowledge made them weak. Vatia roared, her white face splitting the skies in two. “By way of a calculated Quest of Divinity, the time has come for you to prove thyself. At the stroke of threescore and seven days, your judgement hour will come.”
Most had knowledge of Quests. They were given to every Child by the Queen who created them: designed to determine one’s worthiness to become Divine. Those who failed a Quest were never again heard from, for only the most virtuous were deemed worthy to dwell among the Queens. Those who fell short of a Quest were forsaken to mortal remains, fading with time, and becoming lost to memory. Uri knew of Oris before him who had succumbed to this dismal fate. No tongue spoke their names.
Aside from obscure clues, Uri would receive no aid nor counsel. Just as the rest of the Children, he would be left to solve his Quest on his own, as powerless and feeble as the mortals he walked among. When Vatia disappeared back into the clouds, and the skies rejoined, he stood on dry ground with a feeling of humanness in his feet. Overhead, there were clouds: a thick shroud of greyish-white which seemed to follow him. Celeste created clouds at Vatia’s request, draping them over Cerulea. Oft, Celeste shaped the clouds into symbols unknown to the Lost Folc, but obvious to the rest.
As an Immortal being, Uri possessed such powers as self-sustenance and regenerative healing. These were not the only powers he possessed, but these were the ones about which mortals knew the most. As a God, he would be granted many more. The road to godhood was a tedious one. Those who completed the journey were revered greatly. It was the purpose of an Immortal: to be revered. It was either to be revered or to be forgotten.
Cavekeep Forest was a rainy and humid place, filled with trees and berries and faery dust. It was home of the Faeries, of which there were fourteen: the children of Olena, the Second of the Queens, Mother of Earth and the Living. A Faery was born of a seed of a Zerova tree, growing like a flower out of the dirt. A Faery was three inches tall, their wings lighting up the entirety of the Forest, each one coloured differently than the last. Should one find themselves adrift or wandering, the Faeries were the kindred to be sought. Many a Lost Folc had ventured deep within Cavekeep Forest in pursuit of these winged creatures - yet a Faery was diminutive and elusive, and few had succeeded in their quest to find one.
Unlike the Oris, the Fae-Folc had been known to reproduce. They could do so without the assistance of another, using naught but a drop of faery dust. A Faery was born with magic - unless, of course, it was a Changeling, but this was rather rare. There were many types of Faeries; and furthermore, all possessed the uncanny ability to take on any form of their choice. The Fae-Folc, if one so chose, could be invisible to the mortal eye. A Fae-Folc could take on the form of a giant, or a nightmare, or even a fallen loved one of a Lost Folc. This was especially affrighting to even the most dauntless of mortals. Most mortals were foolish, after all. A human could blither on without sense until their life ran short, and still say nothing at all. Uri spoke only about that which was vital. It was needless to speak about anything else.
Thalia was the most powerful of all the Fae-Folc. Thalia was omniscient: a quality granted only to the most powerful of Immortals. Thalia gave Dreams, and - often in the same breath - Thalia took them away. It was determined by Thalia which thoughts should fill the heads of sleeping mortals, or if any thoughts should fill a head at all. Peregrin had, in days of yore, inquired of Uri whether he had ever pondered how a Dream might feel. Uri had not, but often he found it befitting to merely agree with Peregrin’s words. He was not one to wonder about things which influenced the Lost Folc - an Oris did not sleep, and so an Oris did not dream. A Dream, to a human, did not only appear in the darkness. A Dream was many things: a hope, a fear, a regret. It meant everything, and nothing. To Dream was to become lost in a place that would never be: for mortals were melancholy and fearful, and this made them vulnerable.
Thalia glowed pink, perched atop a branch of the Zerova tree from which she had been birthed. A Faery did not age, of course. A Faery did not die of natural causes, but this was not to say a Faery could not be killed. Once, in centuries past, there had existed a Fae-Folc called Zerova: Goddess of Love and Beauty, the fairest in all of the forest. Zerova had been worshipped through all of the land, revered by Immortals and Lost alike. Garnet, in particular, was quite enraptured by the lovely Zerova, expressing his affections by offering her strawberries. To the dismay of Garnet, these affections were rebuked - Zerova was not to be won. So, clad in crimson rage, Garnet transmuted Zerova into a meagre seed, which he buried deep within the soil of Cavekeep Forest. From the seed that was once Zerova blossomed a tree, the first of many that would fill Crissolo. And Garnet became the Wrathmaker, inflicting mortals with unadulterated hatred and rage for all of their existence.
Upon their birth, all Immortals chose a symbol: a solitary, perceptible likeness of each Child of the Queens. Many a time, these symbols were offered to Immortals by the Lost Folc who worshipped them, or left by the Immortals who travelled through mortal realms. To Crissolonian theists, these symbols bore significance. To the rest, they were but fortuitous happenings.
To those who believed in magic, the glow of a Faery’s wings could be seen from seven yards away. There had been recollections written by mortals - some of whom claimed to have spoken to a Fae-Folc with their very lips. Uri was far more astute than a Lost Folc. He believed not these recollections: for the memory of a mortal was capricious, and the word of a mortal was inconstant. Uri possessed centuries of lore, in languages that mere mortals had never known.
The forest was very hot. It housed plants and animals that had been crafted by the hands of the Fae-Folc themselves. Thalia wore a vial around her neck which contained a single tear of a Lost Girl. “Uri,” said Thalia, her pink wings fluttering fervently near the face of the man, “I have sighted you not in many nights. The rains have dried, and yet here you stand, as puny and petulant as one who is affrighted by a sprite. Am I to presume that your judgement time is nigh?”
A Faery need not ever prove themself worthy. A Faery might be borne to-day, and venture deep within the mind of a Lost Folc to-morrow, uncovering their deepest fears, desires, and secrets. A Faery aged much slower than mortal folc: birthed from a seed as an infant, and coming of age after fifty years. A baby Faery could be differentiated from a mature Faery only by the size of its wings.
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Uri was affronted by Thalia’s scorn. “Alas,” uttered he, “I shall be deemed at the termination of threescore and seven days.” Oft, an Immortal spoke in riddle or rhyme, for those who could not die bore a cleverness which far surpassed that of a mortal. “Wherefore am I to stand before you and beseech to be given direction?” It was arduous to presume what sort of Quest Uri would endure, as each Quest was highly personal, shaped by the hands of the Queen who ordained it. Some Immortals had been tasked with slaying the mightiest beasts in Crissolo. Yet others had been made to carry the heaviest treasures across oceans and plains.
Despite her small stature, Thalia spoke loudly - yet a Faery possessed a voice which could be heard not by those who knew not what to listen for. Thalia perched upon the shoulder of Uri, her pink wings aflutter. “Sometimes a whisper, sometimes a scream in the void, I am where hopes and nightmares are deployed. Who am I, in sleep’s realm enjoyed: an ephemeral escape, or memories destroyed?”
‘Twas a dream. Such was the character of Thalia. A Lost Folc would be quite perplexed by the riddles of a Faery. A Lost Folc ought not even solve a riddle at all. ‘T’is a dream that comes without being fetched, oft in the deadest of night. T’is but a dream which crafts tales of fright and delight in the heads of the Lost.” One could not hold a Dream in the palm of their hand. One could not see a Dream at all. To the Rainmaker, it was unnerving to stand on dry ground. Uri did not long to wander the cobblestone streets of Zostrule, nor converse carelessly with those on his path. He wished to return home: a small drop of rain carried across the clouds. During his Quest, Uri would not be Immortal at all, but small and powerless as a human. Subjection to human limitations and mortality was the cruellest of all punishments.
It had become unseasonably cold. Certainly, the Oris had by now taken notice of Uri’s absence. Though his rainstorm had been fierce, the Ground had erewhile dried. “A dream is the mightiest of magic,” asserted Thalia, who had grown a pink rose with the touch of a slender finger. “T’is a dream which casts a veil of trepidation among the Lost. T’is a dream, too, which sets them ablaze with delight. Have you ne’er yearned, Uri, to feel the very warmth of a Dream?”
Uri cared not to discuss such trivial things as Dreams. He had scant time to squander, for a Quest was laborious, and a Queen merciless. It was ill-fated that he could not advance without the counsel of a Fae-Folc - for the Fae-Folc spoke at length, but said little of anything at all. In this way, they bore a great semblance to mortals. “I have not,” said he, “and I do not yearn to ponder such mortal things as feelings. I implore, Thalia - how shall mine Quest commence?”
Often, when a Lost Folc had a dream, Thalia was called upon in silence. Those wishing to appease her would deliver a gift to the forest, laying it upon a branch or a flower. The most ethereal of the Lost did even endeavour to deliver Thalia a vial of their tears in exchange for a hopeful Dream. Uri had beheld the might of the Fae on the mind of a Lost Folc, who ever remained oblivious to the frailty of their own kind.
The Fae-Woman frowned. “Perchance you learn the fates of affronting the Faeries that begot the very Ground you tread upon. Though you remain a Son of Vatia, you have been condemned to the plight of mortality, defenseless to the power of the Fae.” Uri was grieved; he was accustomed to emotion, but the emotion of an Immortal was vastly different than that of the Lost. For those who could not die, there existed no sense of melancholy or dread. As Thalia removed herself from the shoulder of Uri, the grass beneath his feet grew brown and dry. Brown was the colour of Shame. Frost was the Maker of Shame.
Like all of the Fae, Frost had grown from the roots of a tree thousands of years ago. Like Garnet, Frost had many years hence been spurned by Fae-Woman whom he loved. Yet Garnet was filled with wrath, and Frost found himself abashed. This was how Shame was conceived: by the hands of Frost, to be buried deep inside the heads of mortals. Shame was a feeling of mortals - yet Uri felt a sense of penitence, as though he were a man to be warned of his doom.
A breeze flitted through the forest. Thalia was no longer warm. “You are to voyage through the domains decreed by Theta, with naught but the garments upon your back. At the termination of threescore and seven days, satisfaction must be brought forth by each of the thirty and four Children, lest you depart Theta in discontent and condemn thyself to the desolation of mortality.” Thalia was a bird-woman of pink, nestled within a nest. “Return unto me, if you please, and present me with a vial holding but a solitary Lost tear.” To a mortal ear, the voice of a Faery would be naught but the whisper of wind or the buzz of a bee. A Faery was rather diminutive to be noticed by those who were not searching for it. Most Faeries wished not to be seen by humans. Most humans yearned to be privy to that which did not concern them.
With a swift sweep of her pointed wing, Thalia vanished, leaving naught in her place but a slim silver vial: sparkling pink with the touch of the Dreammaker.
Collecting a tear from the eye of a Lost Folc was both a forbidden and formidable endeavour. In order to remain unnoticed and evade suspicion from the Lost, it was necessary for Uri to disguise himself. Though it had not been long since the Ground stranded him, the skies were beginning to darken. There roared an unfamiliar heaviness in Uri’s legs and stomach; a feeling which acquainted him much too closely with the Lost. Perchance there had existed, sometime, an Immortal who would not have been repulsed by an experience of humanness. Uri had spent many a year evading the mortals who insisted to know of him.
There were two graveyards in Zostrule: one in the city North, and one in the city South. Both were domains of the Zirrid, Children of Tilene. There existed a ritual in Thetaxism called Exo Domino. ‘Twas a ritual in which mourners of the deceased called upon Domino, Goddess of Death, bestowing offerings in barter for a tranquil afterlife. For the Reaper greeted those new to Death, and the Reaper traversed with departed souls to the gates of Demonvale. Exo Domino was to be performed at night, when all of the Living had long gone to sleep, and all of the Dead wandered the silent streets. Black cloaks were to be worn by those who entered the tombs. The deceased were to be buried in a shallow grave, a black shroud laid atop their face. And Domino was to be called from the profoundest depths of darkness, for those who looked upon the face of the Reaper herself would be cursed for all of their days.
The gait of a human was much slower than that of an Immortal, and far more ungainly. Uri had been besieged by this; he was no longer lithe and swift, but inept. When the hands of Azure woke the Moon from its slumber, Zostrule bathed in darkness; Uri wandered its empty cobblestone streets.
In Thetaxism, Phyxia was known as the Season of Death. ‘Twas the fourth and longest month of the year, when the Fatemaker arose from Demonvale for seven and seventy days, and the souls of the deceased were awakened from slumber. The Fatemaker was the mightiest of all the Zirrid - for she was the daughter of Death herself, and she chose whom Death would next embrace. The final day of Phyxia was a festival known as Phyria, celebrated widely throughout Crissolo. Phyria heralded the day of Phyxes, the Fatemaker, who was lauded loudly by those who endured the Season of Death. Phyxes declared the destiny of mortals with a single red thread, which she severed at the hour of their demise. Though Phyxes did decree the hour and manner of death, she ne’er brought Death itself: for this was the duty of Domino.
At the edge of Chaos Tombs, a Lost Girl stood before a grave. Death called, though she spoke not a word when she lingered. Uri clasped the silver vial that once was Thalia; it was frigid in his grasp, but he dared not let it fall. The Lost Girl spoke to the darkness, inattentive to the shadow of Death that caressed her shoulder. There was a chill in the air that seemed to seep down to Uri’s very bones. He had not felt chill in all of his days of Immortality. Alas, he was Immortal no longer.
A Zirrid possessed the power to assume any age and visage of their choosing, which rendered it effortless to masquerade as a Lost. All were wrought from Fire, yet even the deepest of waters brought them no harm. Before the weighty gates of Chaos Tombs, The Reaper did stand: a crone whose eyes glowed crimson, shrouded in the shadows. On the shadow of the Reaper perched a blackbird: the daughter whom Domino birthed, the Goddess of Fate herself. Uri remained still, though his naked feet did ache from the Ground on which he trod. He was not to be observed, for he knew what was to come.
Humans were witless and wrathful. In the end, they would be their own undoing, and Uri would endure for many a century.
The touch of Domino was cold. The Lost Girl concluded her musing and turned to the darkness, in which she was alone. The girl wandered forth, yet the hand of Death had already left its foul imprint. And so, when the feet of the girl graced a shadowed earthen path, she was greeted by a pack of Xerselope most famished, with eyes of glowing gold. Uri remained, a silent watcher in the shadows, callous to the shrieks that pierced the vast night. In all the history of Crissolo, there had ne’er been a mortal to withstand the claws of a Xerselope. The Xerselope was a hybrid mammal: untamable to all except the Mischiefmaker. It possessed three long arms, and claws of horrid venom, which it used to paralyze its prey. A Xerselope was capricious and cunning, nor did it fear humankind: though ‘twas quite easy to elude, for the sole frailty of a Xerselope lay in its blindness.
It was a duty of Domino to escort the departed unto the threshold of Demonvale: deep within a cave of the mountain range. From here, a soul greeted the Journeyman, for none but the Journeyman could open the portals which separated the realm of the Living from that of the Dead. After a greeting, the Reaper tarried not for long. She was decisive and unyielding, scarcely giving the dead a moment to adjust before whisking them away. And the Fatemaker did likewise, a bird of black whose wings swept the darkened skies. The air had fallen silent. Uri was chilled, and his eyes had grown heavy.
The Lost Girl lay lifeless. Only the foolish wandered alone after dark, particularly in the midst of the Season of Death. ‘Twas just like a human to scorn that which was meant to protect them. It was of no concern to Uri. He maintained not a shred of perturbation toward the Lost. Peregrin, most probably, would deem him pitiless.
Upon the face of the girl, a lone tear lingered. A tear of the Lost was immeasurable to a Faery, for it possessed qualities of magic which only a Faery could grasp. They that could not weep shared pity for those that could. He swept the vial, once, across the sullen cheek of the fallen girl. There was no way of knowing what would befall him upon his return to Thalia. Certainly, she would send him off more. But Uri hungered, and this vexed him. Beginning his walk back to Cavekeep Forest, he longed only to return home.
