228. The Keeper of the Gloam

  Having experienced Pretjord to the fullest, Serac was no stranger to BIG things. Mulaharta the Hewer of Roots. Gulloyne the Fjordstrider. Frostkrill the Nadir Predator.

  Presently, however, as the purple fog burst forth to spray the whole of Ascension Promontory, Serac was forced to redefine ‘BIG’ in her mind. Indeed, her mind was too puny to contain the new definition.

  She couldn’t ascribe size or dimensions to the thing that now filled her vision and dominated her senses. How could she? The thing was BIGGER than the Realm it occupied. BIGGER than any one mortal’s understanding of the very universe.

  V-shaped pillars rose out of the fog, unveiling a branching landscape of deer antlers. The Sanzu broke apart to splash and cascade down the velvety contours—like a pair of Realmtrees joined by the shaggy head of a timeless beast.

  Out of hiding at long last, the Keeper revealed its familiar yet paradoxical features. At least as far as its face was concerned, for that was all the Wayfarers atop the Promontory could hope to take in.

  Next to the antlers jutted a pair of triangular, feline ears. The Keeper’s slender cervine snout was fletched by arching whiskers. When it sneered to bare its teeth, they were the slavering fangs of a born carnivore. Perhaps most ambiguous yet telling were its pupilless eyes—sharp angles and almond shape fit for a Night-stalker, yet radiant with Day’s golden sunlight.

  Rising from the folds of the mooring,

  A shape with lion body and the head of an elk,

  A gaze blank as the moon and pitiless as the sun.

  What rough beast, its Hour come around at last,

  Slouches heavenward to be Reborn?

  On this occasion, the Keeper did more than just slouch. It cocked its head back to send forth more waterfalls from its drenched fur. It opened its mouth wide—slavering fangs, glistening tongue, cavernous throat—and sang to the veiled sky.

  The song too was paradoxical in nature and impossible to define. Both and neither the roar of a predator and the lowing of a docile herd. Not particularly loud, yet deafening and debilitating all the same. Every mortal in the vicinity—whether or not they were in the throes of an identity crisis—sank to their knees, eyes shut and arms up to guard against the reverberation.

  Serac’s horns shattered into smithereens, atomized by the sheer force of ripples that whipped all about. Renna, previously the picture of calm concentration, winced and grunted in physical pain, head buried in webbed hands.

  Her Yaksha friend wasn’t the only one with a wicked headache. For Serac’s Circlet had chosen the worst possible moment to make a nuisance of itself. As if in direct response to the Keeper’s song, the cackle from within rose ever higher and louder. Every note of it ran a trail of flame around Serac’s head, from one temple to the other.

  As VOIDLING cackled louder and madder, so too did the Keeper sing with more urgency. A symphony conducted by a mad soul and harmonized by those enfolded into its lunacy. Whatever history once linked these two ancient beings played out anew amidst ghosts of war. The umber shades of cats, dragons, and deer automatons alike flickered in the storm.

  Desperate to ballast her earthly existence, Serac once more looked to her allies. Renna with her head buried. Zacko cowed by ghosts both within and without.

  Somehow, Oriole stood taller than any seasoned Wayfarer. Fur drenched in the storm and posture bent by a slouch to match his Keeper, yet he stared up at his god all the same. He held his calico friend firm and his hazel eyes open. Eyes at once shining with reverence and hardened by defiance.

  The dusky light in Oriole’s eyes flew like sparks across the dome. It bounced around in the hollow at Serac’s center, until it rubbed against the dying embers of her rebellion. Find your fire. Remember it. Never let it go out again.

  Serac—hornless, rudderless, but never self-less—braced herself against the storm. She cocked her head and stared unblinkingly at the Keeper of the Gloam—a being so unfathomably ancient not even Pathsight could grant it a label.

  Yet, the Kepper too had transformed under the gazeless gaze of a power even higher than itself. And now, in direct response to the fire that roared anew from the VOID, an Immortal saw fit to pass down the ultimate judgment—here upon Tidereign’s summit.

  [Designation: THE SLOUCHING ONE—Keeper of the Gloam]

  [Aberrant Race: Paradox Incarnate]

  [Aberrant Class: Rite of Absolution]

  [PRIMAL Instrument: SKYVEILS]

  The entire platform rocked and sloshed as something indescribably giant stirred beneath it. The thing made its languid ascent. First the gleaming edge of velvet obsidian. Then the whole of a cloven hoof as it parted the Sanzu and rose toward the heavens.

  Each half of the hoof was tapered and sharpened like the claws of a hunter. They now reached up and hooked themselves against the veils that hung over not just Ascension Promontory but the entire Realm behind it.

  The ascent had been languid, yet the descent was anything but. The Keeper brought its hooved/clawed hand down with force and purpose. In an instant, SKYVEILS dropped down as if they’d been cut from their mounts. They then fell as great, rippling folds that swallowed the very air.

  [Wayfarer Status Effect: UNMOORED]

  Pathsight failed to capture the full extent of what had happened. But Serac knew. Thanks to intuition and memories both hers and borrowed.

  The Keeper’s judgment was nigh, its question cast wide. The whole of Tidereign had shaken off its moorings, to fold into primordial VEILS rent by time and space.

  [TIDEWATCH: The cycles have been obliterated. Pending the start of a new cycle.]

  ***

  Serac Edin found herself in a stranger’s home.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The home itself was remarkably strange, irrespective of who it might belong to. Wavy walls that made Serac wobble on her feet. Patchy ceiling with holes big enough to let in the starlight above. Twisted furniture that looked more like puzzles than amenities of peace and respite.

  A madman’s dream. A perfectionist’s nightmare. Serac didn’t understand. She understood perfectly. She wasn't panicked. She wasn’t hurried.

  She wasn’t alone.

  “I swear, little lamb. You always catch me at the weirdest times.”

  The figure spoke from somewhere deeper into the strange building. Their impish, nasally voice carried in a slanted fashion as though they spoke from somewhere higher than Serac.

  Presently, a ray of starlight caught upon the stitchings of a gold-inlaid tasset. Whatever armor the speaker wore, it was a fancy one. And judging by the way their one visible leg bent, they were sitting on some kind of raised dais—perhaps a throne.

  “Not my fault. Maybe you should stop having so many ‘weird times’ for me to walk in on.”

  Serac did her best nonchalant-Zacko imitation as she stepped closer, stopping only when the ripples before her rose and formed a ‘solid wall’. Her vision of the speaker remained limited to the shining tasset and one lazy leg. Evidently, the thing hadn’t gotten over their Serac-shyness.

  Glug. Glug. Gulp. “Pwaaahhh… ah, yep. That hits the spot. Hic.”

  The starlit air filled with the smell of pungent spirits. So strong as to be all but pure alcohol. Yet it also carried a hint of succulent peach. Serac’s mouth watered slightly, even as she stifled a dry heave. Evidently, the Peach-monger hadn’t improved their table manners whatsoever.

  “So?” The Serac-shy, ill-mannered being asked from their shadowy throne. “What is it now? If you’re looking for more handouts, I can’t help you this time. We cleaned out this place top to bottom. You just missed the fun.”

  This time. So the Peach-monger remembered their previous interaction.

  Whatever hallucination or out-of-soul experience all this might be, it followed a certain chronology. Their last meeting had been ‘real’—a shared memory. So was this one. But as to where they fit or didn’t fit in the time-space continuum was anyone’s guess.

  “I am a bit peckish, now you mention it,” Serac admitted, scanning her [Satiety] for a Ksana before the display inevitably glitched out. “But if I were to guess, that’s not why I’m here. I think… I think this meeting has more to do with you specifically.”

  With that preamble cryptic even to herself, Serac leaned forward as much as the ripples would allow, peering at what little of the Peach-monger’s features she could catch in the starlight. Pathsight obliged, though not without some reluctance.

  [De██████on: V██████ea██████l t██████]

  [Wa██████M██████]

  [██████el: 2██████]

  [Li██████a: 1,██████65██████]

  [██████Y In██████N██████G]

  [Au██████2 T██████MA██████]

  The message faded before Serac could even attempt to decipher it. She was left with the vague impression that the glitches had a different arrangement from last time. If she scanned this asshole often enough, could she glue the broken writing back into a full, legible label?

  That ‘V’ at the top of their name is… a little concerning. And the epithet… it somehow feels familiar but also not anything I’ve ever come across.

  “Anyone ever teach you—hic—it’s rude to stare?”

  “Excuse me if I won’t take manners tips from someone who chews with their mouth open.”

  The imp snorted. High-pitched and nasally yet oddly, infuriatingly regal.

  “I know what you want to ask me.”

  “Yeah? You gonna give me a straight answer or what? Nothing against you personally, but I’m a little sick of riddles at the minute.”

  Glug, glug, pwaahh… hic.

  “I’m not the entity history has since named VOIDLING. Though I won’t deny I probably had a hand in its creation.”

  Serac blinked. That was a much more straightforward answer than she’d expected.

  “VOIDLING was… created? By you?”

  “You need to work on your listening skills, little lamb. I said I might’ve contributed. Don’t pin it all on me.”

  “But… what does that mean? Who else was involved? And how does any of this help me right now?”

  The figure was mostly covered in shadows. But their armor clinked the sound of a shrug.

  “I see you also haven’t improved your asking-questions skills. Good thing there’s a common answer to everything you asked, though, which is who the hell knows?”

  Serac’s shoulders sagged, deflated. If she’d stumbled into this liminal experience expecting to complete her puzzle, she was to be sorely disappointed. More pieces to find a home for, to be sure, but nowhere near enough for the full picture. At least the Peach-monger didn’t pretend to know things they didn’t, unlike some souls in high places.

  “I just…” Serac spoke in a fading murmur, showing far more vulnerability than perhaps was wise. “The further I walk my Path, the less sure I become of my self. I thought Tidereign was meant to be a big step forward. Two sides of a coin. Unity of soul and purpose and all that. But now… I dunno, it kind of feels like two steps back. Why am I here? What is it all for? Who am I?”

  Glug, glug… gulp.

  “You’re not the only soul on Mount Meru with impostor syndrome. Besides which, I’m not your therapist.”

  “… For someone who claims not to care, you sure can’t seem to leave me alone.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you out there, but if you want my advice, it’s the same one I give to anyone who feels like an impostor. Fake it ’til you make it. If you want something to hold onto, then just… find it. Take it. Make it yours.”

  Riddles and gibberish of a different sort. Empty platitudes—almost the opposite of overbearing. And yet… Serac couldn’t deny a ring of simple truth.

  Somewhere above her, the starlight flickered once, twice, then went out altogether. The room was thrown into complete darkness, along with her partial view of the Peach-monger.

  “Well, looks like our time is up. You know, if this is gonna be a regular thing, I should really start charging by the hour.”

  “What do you need Karma for anyway? I’ll bet you’ve got a good few million ? on me.”

  “Couldn’t hurt to save for a rainy day. The afterlife is full of surprises. Speaking of…”

  Somewhere in the darkness, a pair of eyes glinted in impish mischief. At the same time, something in the darkness gave off an oddly charming swish-swish sound. Serac pictured something furry and elastic. Something perhaps with a mind of its own. Does the Peach-monger have a tail?

  “Speaking of surprises,” the impish voice warned, “you might wanna ‘prepare’ for whatever fucked-up thing you’re about to wake up to. Seize the day and all that, am I right?”

  [TIDEWATCH: The cycles remain obliterated. Pending the start of a new cycle. Forced reset imminent.]

  Daylight trickled into the darkness as Serac’s mind, body, and soul looked to reconstitute in a new reality. She took the hint and began to search for a name. But whose? Multiple choices. None jumped out as the obvious right answer. And yet…

  Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

  [Chamber Three armed: YOUR NAME]

  As the darkness faded completely, Serac’s on-call therapist left her with one last riddle—heartfelt in its sincerity.

  “Oh, and do me a favor and say hi to our friends, won’t you?”

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