FINAL CORE - Chapter 67 (Patreon)

'Obols' are the currency commonly used across our nation.

While accepted in ports of call on the other continents, Obols are primarily only considered valid currency within our borders.

Obols are a primarily coinage-based unit of money, with varying denominations. The smallest of these is one Obol and the largest, commonly used coin, is ten-thousand Obols.

~ On Obols, An introduction into the economy

_______________________________________________________

The uthra fly in, carrying all of those who were meant to be executed up to the island.

It would seem that the desired age of cooperation between men and the tower has truly, on a grand scale, come to an end before it ever really started.

Isaiah stands there, looking at the golden sword in its hands that it had pulled from the nuzzling trunk of the very-big-tree, atop the tower.

Perhaps it was simply too young, too naive to really understand what it was asking the world for. Was it not human once? Was it not a black bird once? How many years of collective life span between these existences and all of the existences before them? How many decades, centuries has the soul of the creature known as Isaiah been persisting in truth?

— And yet, to remain so foolish.

The sun crests over the distant horizon, carrying with it a stronger glow than it had in the days just prior.

Summer has arrived.

And with it come times of great tribulation. The spiritual harvests that Isaiah had planted in the spring have withered and died in the drought, brought onto the tower by the insatiable fear, greed and conniving of people — Humans, elves, orcs, dwarves. All are one and the same in their inability to cooperate with the rest of the world. They must always exist apart from it, separate.

Isaiah looks towards Red.

It had often held to be true that they were simply fearful young, in need of guidance and corralling from a wiser, more senior hand.

But it sees now that not only was it wrong about this; the nature of people. They are not youth of the same species, they are an entirely different breed.

— And that it, too, was wrong about its own seniority. This had been proven by countless failures, such as the ascension, such as sparing the witch.

“Red,” asks Isaiah, looking at the uthra who shares the color of the rising summer sun. “Where is the witch?” it asks, clenching the sword.

“We’re looking, chief,” says Red. “I swear. It’s been nothing but looking.” She points over her shoulder. “Orange thinks she has a lead. There was some really funky business going down nearby,” she says, lifting her hands. “But don’t worry about it. We’re not sure yet. It’s just an -”

“Red,” says Isaiah sternly, stepping towards her. “What do you know?”

Red rubs her arm, looking around for a moment as she seems to find herself in a rare moment of discomposure, perhaps because of Isaiah’s more strict, colder demeanor as of late. “Promise you won’t be mad.”

Isaiah looks at her. “I will be furious if you know something and hide it,” explains Isaiah.

“Sheesh…” Red fidgets for a moment and then shrugs. “Well… uh…” She lifts a hand, pointing towards the west, towards the city. “We think that she’s in the city.”

“What?”

“Yeah…” replies Red. “After a week of looking, we think that she snuck in there.” Red’s wings buzz. “We looked everywhere! We flew everywhere around the area that had one single leaf that was the wrong color, but nothing.” She nods towards the city. “Then we asked Rorate and she said that Perchta probably went back to the city,” says the uthra. “It’s not like the people on the street would recognize her and she’s definitely capable of disguising herself.”

Isaiah clenches the sword. This is not a great revelation. Perhaps it is not true, though. “Why would she go there?” asks Isaiah. “She hates humans,” it says.

“I mean…” Red spins a finger, looking over the area. “She probably hates it here more, right?” she asks. “And well, if she’s in the city, you’re uh…” Red considers her words for an unusual moment. “- You’re kinda fucked, honestly.”

Isaiah sets the sword down, deciding that it is unwise to hold a blade when there is no clear enemy to fight.

— Rorate, sitting to the side, scribbles something down in her notes.

“Red… if this is true…”

“Yeah, I know. We’re still looking,” reassures Red. “Keep the faith, eh?”

Isaiah’s talons dig into the bark of the tree as it stares out towards the west.

If Witch Perchta really is hiding in the human city, then she is entirely out of its reach. It can’t touch her there and any attempts to do so would cause the humans to think that it, that the tower, are acting maliciously towards them. They would recoil like an already fearful animal, having now been struck, and bite.

— But the worst part of this would be, what exactly is she doing there?

The witch is hardly going to let this go.

She’s going to continue to do everything in her power to damage the tower and what it is meant to represent. So if she, this most horrific creature, is present amongst the humans like a pulsating malignancy, then it’s only a matter of time until something happens.

And Isaiah is sure that, whatever this something is, it will look as if it was the fault of the tower.

“Cancel the search,” orders Isaiah, shaking its head.

“You sure?” asks Red. “Like I said, it’s just a theory. She could be anyw-”

“Red,” says Isaiah, looking back towards her. “Thank you. Cancel the search.” It looks back towards the city. “She’s there. I should have known from the start, but this wickedness that she possesses… I truly wasn’t able to immerse myself into her thoughts.”

“That’s why you’ll always have me,” says Red. “At least until we die horrific, screaming deaths. But until then, it’s just Isaiah and Red.”

Isaiah stares out for a while, before looking back at the uthra, who is acting unusual today. Isaiah can’t help but think that its own shift in demeanor has really shaken the uthra, like a child growing upset at the yelling of their father during an incident. “Red,” starts Isaiah. “If I may, what is your real name?”

“Huh? My what?” asks Red.

“Before this all began, I was Isaiah,” explains Isaiah. “And now I am Isaiah once more.” It looks at her. “But you were not always Red, or?”

Red shrugs. “Don’t have one. The others usually just kind of referred to us via pointing and grunting,” says the uthra. “Except Emerald. She gave us gemstone names. That was cute.”

“I see,” replies Isaiah. “Then if you like, we could think of a real name for you?” suggests Isaiah.

Red shrugs. “Eh. I like ‘Red’,” she says. “It gets straight to the point.”

Isaiah nods.

“I will come back to you on the subject later,” it says. “Let us salvage what is left to be salvaged,” says Isaiah, looking back at the sword that it feels it will have a need of sooner, rather than later.

_____________________________________________

[Salvator]

Human, Male, Wizard (Wind)

Salvator walks through the forest on the edge of the island. The landscape has changed a lot recently.

They were one of the first groups here, so he remembers what it looked like. It looked like any other piece of the forest, honestly. But now…

The man bends down, smelling a fragrant flower. It has a soft, sky-purple cup with long, curved petals. He’s never seen a flower like it anywhere before. It smells sweet and carries a lingering tinge of forgotten childhood memories that stay just always on the edge of his mind, never coming into clarity.

— It has changed.

The trees have changed, the grass has changed, the air has changed. All of these things shifted and seemingly became kinder and gentler than their already innate counterparts.

But now, the flowers, the plants, the herbs, everything else has changed as well in a manner that he simply doesn’t have the words to describe. It’s all become more…

- Fantastical?

No… that sounds wrong. Too… childish.

- Whimsical?

No, no. That’s really off the mark.

Salvator bends down, looking at a series of mushrooms that have grown in a perfect circle, in the middle of a tight clearing in the forest. They’re an unusual tone of sky-blue with fat, wide, brims that sit atop cream-colored stalks.

He honestly doesn’t have a word to describe this place. It’s simply entirely separate from the rest of the natural world.

— Pure.

________________________________________

[Marteli]

Human, Male, Fighter

Floor one

This place is ridiculous.

Marteli lets out a loud scream, bashing his mace against the body of the slime as hard as he can. Droplets splatter everywhere.

(Marteli) did {01} damage to [Slime]

The slime wobbles, entirely unbothered by his attack.

Back down on the ground, he’d knock out a slime like this in one or two hits. But this thing…

He steps back. This is his fifth attempt at entering the tower and killing… anything. He doesn’t have a party and he isn’t particularly gifted. But he’s been at this for a while now.

The slime reconstructs itself without any issues, sucking in water from the wading pool that they’re standing in.

This place is crazy.

It lunges towards him.

____________________________________

[Caeli]

Human, Female, Battle-Alchemist

Caeli stands in the chamber that the dryad is resting in. The dryad is awake, her body mended and healed, as far as Caeli can tell. She doesn’t know what exactly Isaiah is capable of, but it must be an incredible healing magic, given its divinity.

But she, the dryad, simply stares towards the ceiling of the room, never making a movement or a sound. She doesn’t respond or react to anything.

Caeli is a person of the material world.

— She wrings out a rag, wiping off the side of the creature’s mouth.

If she weren’t, however, she would say that while the body of this creature remains here, its spirit has left.

________________________________

[Gadrian]

Human, Male, Swordsman

Gadrian holds onto his face, to stop the ghost of his mother from stealing it from him.

She’s always hated his face, because it looks like his father’s face had looked.

— Something clutches his wrist.

“It’s mine!” yells Gadrian, tears streaming down his face as he lifts his eyes in fear. The colors of everything around them, the trees, the sky, the many flowers, all waver and blur in contrast with the blinding, glowing, pristine white of the shape that takes up form in front of himself. It extends itself outward, bridging the gap between him and it.

His mouth opens to speak, but his jaw only quivers in fear as he looks at the mass of feathers and eyes. Wings span out in all directions, arcing like the rays of the sun and in each of them sit dotted a hundred jeweled eyes.

“Be not afraid,” says the voice, speaking to him, speaking to all of them. “I am Isaiah and you are within the confines of sanctuary.” It presses him back, leaning him softly against a tree. “Be at peace,” says the voice, before the shape rises into the air, leaving him only in the presence of every color in the whole world.

Gadrian reaches after it.

Ah.

His face is still here.

His mother has returned to her grave.

— He starts uncontrollably laughing, clutching his stomach and falling down to the ground.

____________________________________

Isaiah

Isaiah floats before the tree, down in the forest.

It holds onto a branch, staring at the empty nest, hidden on a strong bough.

The chicks have all left.

The male blackbird, its mate from that old life, has also left.

It was time. Their season of communion had come and gone, leaving only this behind.

Isaiah picks up the old nest in its hands, gently lifting it out of the tree to look at.

This is what it was all about.

Its life as a bird, its now-overcome desire to return to it, the spell that had caused it to turn into this thing that it is now.

— A spell cast by who, exactly?

Isaiah tries to remember that day. There were two figures, neither of which it recognizes immediately in its memory… Or?

It tilts its head, looking down at the tower’s grounds.

Isaiah flies down, walking between a garden of menu statues that Crystal had made. There are many statues of itself, but also many of other gods of many various faiths. It walks until it finds one in particular that now stands out, now that its focus is on his face.

This is the god that it, that Isaiah, had worshiped, had fought for and had died for.

And now?

He’s nowhere to be seen.

Laughable.

The gods are treated like kings to this day and they can’t even be bothered to rule their subjects anymore.

Isaiah lifts the empty nest up, placing it on top of the statue’s head. A fitting crown, no?

They, like the humans, will need a few corrections to set back straight.

As for that other presence, that other person who was there that day, the woman, who had cast the spell…

Isaiah narrows its eyes, scanning the area. But there is no statue of her here.

But it recalls the name that had been spoken.

“Malfi…” mutters Isaiah beneath its breath, looking up towards the sky, wondering if she can hear it speak her name. She wasn’t a god. She was something else… something… in between.

Perhaps this is the step that it needs, the rung of the ladder that it must climb, in order to ascend to the heavens.