FINAL CORE - Chapter 93 (Patreon)

My feet have wandered for days.

For weeks, my spirit has been in travel.

And for months, I have been in turmoil -

- given that the churning of years has led to the ache that manifests itself as my pain.

For all of my life, the sickness has been with me, even now as I walk this sacred road.

I travel toward the voice of the gods, towards Isaiah. It has beckoned me.

I go because I hope it will cure my sickness.

I ache.

But the march will still be long.

I will keep the faith.

~ Personal journal of Mirani, pilgrim of Isaiah, traveling from the eastern city, through the desert, to the tower

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Wandre

Dwarf, Female, Tailor

Location: The gathering of pilgrims, down in the forest down below the island

Wandre sews a garment that she’s repairing for someone, her eyes wandering around the camp. From the nearby city, close to the island, droves of people have gathered — thousands of them and they, unable to reach the island, have set up a massive camp. Many have settled on the broken staircase, hoping that the way will be revealed to them, but this has not been the case so far.

Some have found a ladder and tried that, but many lack the strength or the courage to climb it.

But now, the situation has changed.

Her eyes wander through the camp, towards the bottom of the island. A tower cuts through the landmass, piercing down to the water-filled crater below. Hundreds of people have begun moving towards it, finally having a way to enter the island, into ascension, into paradise.

And these are just the people from this city.

Surely from the north, the west, the east, and from every village in between, thousands and thousands more must be on their way.

Her eyes rise up to the prismatic, glistening light that shines in the sky, rising up towards heaven as if it were a bridge that spans between this wretched, disgusting world that they live in and the beautiful graces of the other side of reality.

Not much longer.

Not much longer, and they’ll be brought back together with the gods.

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~ [Countess Avoria] ~

Female, Pure-Bred Elf, Noble (Countess)

Location: High in the air, the wild-lands

Avoria runs along the translucent, glassy walkway that goes on and on. She’s thrown her house-slippers off, casting them off the side of the bridge so she could move better. It’s a great distance between the central-city and the day-star that shines on the horizon, but she’s going to keep going.

The countess looks down, staring through the walkway towards the terrifyingly distant ground below, that is covered in thick, heavy forest. Through its canopy, however, she can see the mounted riders, pursuing her in whatever way they can. They can’t reach her, but they’re not trying to. They’re waiting for her to get wherever she’s going, so they can take her back.

But they don’t understand where she’s going. It’s not a place where they can follow her.

Countess Avoria runs forward along the magical bridge.

She’s going to heaven.

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~ [Jizalia] ~

Human, Female, Herbalist

Location: A small house in the city

Jizalia looks out of the window of their home and then closes the shutters.

People in the city have been starting to act very strangely lately. She walks over to the door, making sure it’s locked, and then returns to the table, where her sister is happily eating. The bread and the cakes are a little hard now, since it’s been a couple days. But it’s nothing that sharp, strong teeth, some water, or a refiring in the oven can’t fix.

‘Isaiah’.

The herbalist rubs her sister’s hair and then sits down at the table, picking up a piece of bread and looking at it.

She doesn’t know anything about the gods, the heavens, or anything of that nature. She’s never been too close to the esoteric, spiritual side of life. She’s always just been interested in plants and nature, but in a more physical, practical manner.

Sparing a glance over to her sister, who never seems to lose her appetite, Jizalia says a quiet, awkward thanks beneath her breath to Isaiah, whatever it is, for giving them a break.

It’s more than any of the other gods have ever done for them.

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Salvator

Human, Male, Wizard (Wind)

Location: The tower, floor seventy-one

A wordless singing whistle fills the air.

Two glowing giants, made up of light, tower over him and his party. Their faces are hewn from porcelain masks, adorning massive bodies that consist solely of glowing, holy energy. Each of the holy-elementals is a good ten men in size.

— Salvator jumps to the side, rolling on a cushion of wind as the ground where he was standing is flattened, as a massive hand crushes down where he was just standing, debris and stones flying every which way. The wizard looks at the elementals, their masks constantly rotating to reveal a new stone-wrought face, each of which hums with a different frequency from its unmoving lips.

The wizard lifts his hands.

(Salvator) has used: [Heavy Gale]

Violently surging air presses out of his fingers, streaming against the hand that was on its way down on top of him. The glowing thing hovers above him, unable to break the force of the spell.

— He pushes harder.

The hand flies back, and the giant inadvertently strikes the other holy giant, cracking its mask.

“Now!” he calls over to his party, who jump into action, using the chance to make their move.

(Salvator) has used: [BOOST: Swiftness]

 Applied Status: (BOOST: Swiftness) to (Quare)(Maorore)(Consumeris)(Noli)

• + 25% DEX for 120 Seconds

Spells and arrows fly through the air, breaking off fragments of porcelain, as his team, with wind around their boots, dashes around the giant’s backs to strike at the turned faces. It’s a good challenge; it’s a good fight. It’s been good here, in the tower. They’ve been doing well — much better than they ever did in the old dungeon.

He’s been leveling up like a madman for a while now. They started at floor one here, and now they’re getting closer and closer to floor one-hundred. His inconsistent, uncoordinated team, his friends — they've all come to find a rhythm of life that has been entirely alien to all of them in their previous lives of poverty and survival.

The man jumps to the side, picking up a shattered fragment of porcelain and throwing it up high into the air, pointing his hand at it as it spirals.

If Isaiah is real, if it really is waiting at the top of this tower for them, then he’s going to get there together with his people.

(Salvator) has used: [Heavy Gale]

— The wind strikes the porcelain fragment, shooting it off with frightening speeds straight through one of the masks, breaking off a chunk the size of himself that hurtles down to the ground.

And when they get there, he’s going to ask why it didn’t show up sooner.

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Scholar Anderwal

Human, Male, Scholar of the Witches’ Sect

Location: The city

“The spell is starting to take hold, brother Anderwal,” says his companion from the Witches’ Sect. “Summer is coming to an end,” finishes the man. Anderwal lifts his gaze from his journal, watching as two people fight each other in front of the wishing-fountain. The streets have cleared out a lot lately. People don’t go outside anymore, and those who do… well, strange things have been happening in the city. Very strange things that nobody can really explain.

But everyone here, who remains in the shadow of the tower, is happy enough to blame Isaiah for what has come to their city.

“Autumn has always been my favorite season,” replies Anderwal, lifting his gaze to look at the leaves of the nearby trees, which betray only a hint in their hues that summer might indeed be coming to a close. It has been a comfortable, warm, and rather gentle season, despite everything. But the year churns on, as do the machinations of the gods, witches, and people of this world.

— A leaf falls down, landing in his open journal from above, and he picks it up, looking at the silvery strings of spider’s silk that are attached to it, blowing in the cooling winds like strands of lost white hair.

An unclear omen, perhaps.

It is white like winter's snow, as is said to be the body of Isaiah.

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Isaiah

Isaiah sneezes.

"Bless you, chief," says Red, looking over her shoulder.

Isaiah blinks and then looks at her. "Thank you, Red," replies Isaiah, staring back out over the world. "I suppose someone is thinking about me."