FINAL CORE - Chapter 98 (Patreon)

Chapter 90

New section with a faithful of Isaiah. This is during the 'little miracles' arc.

~ [Wandre] ~

Dwarf, Female, Tailor

Location: The Gathering of Pilgrims, Down in the Forest Below the Island

They have gathered by the hundreds, by the thousands. The pilgrims of Isaiah camp in tents and crude shelters down below the island, between it and the southern city, where the majority of wanderers have gathered. They are unable to find a way up to the island, but they keep faith in their hearts that they are not unseen by Isaiah down in this shadow of its realm.

Most of the people here are from the city itself, but by the day, more and more come from further reaches of the nation. Riders from the western city, the eastern city, the northern city, and the central city have all made it here in great haste, telling of the swarms of people who are on the move by foot from the same places but have yet to arrive. Thousands and thousands of pious souls wander the landscape, drawn as if pulled in towards the beacon of the heavens lit alight here for them to move towards, as if it were the only light in a sea of darkness.

Wandre finds plenty of work. Her trade as a seamstress is a fairly competitive one, but every person wears clothes, so there is generally always a customer somewhere. She sews a ripped garment, her eyes wandering up to the tower atop the great island and then around to the people all around her.

There are many in good health, but there are just as many poor, wretched souls with bad backs and sick hearts. There are faces that are as fallow as the trampled grass here around the camp, which is turning to mud, and eyes that are as yellow as chamomile. People are hungry and thirsty, and they pray to Isaiah to finally be heard, now that they are so close.

But no response has come yet.

– Murmurs. Excited gasps and shouts come.

Wandre turns her head to look as the tower atop the island explodes in radiance, colors of unimaginable rainbows shooting out into the world in all directions, many of them towards them.

An orb lands down in the crowd, red as a phoenix, and they all part ways. Another one, as black as the gaps between stars, and then another one, and then another one. More and more of them land here together in a cluster, their bodies hewn in the shape of people, yet their contours painted by the threads of the spirit-world. They’re dressed in the robes of high priests, ordained by heaven, and they lift their hands out around them, holding the blessing sign in the air. The crowd does not dare go near the presences that hover now just above them.

A voice rumbles through the world, through her ears and the hearts of everyone around her, together with the great ticking of the final clocktower.

“You are not forgotten,” says a voice that she knows in her heart is Isaiah’s. “Know that I am with you and that you will soon be with me,” it proclaims. “We are together the pieces of one whole.”

The messenger’s hands glow alight as they channel magic outward into an aural burst that runs over the entire camp, like a wave washing over a shore.

(Isaiah) has cast: [Greater Heal], [Greater Blessing], [Chronal Restoration]

By the time the light fades, the resplendent rainbow vanishing, Wandre feels a new strength in her bones and an odd firmness beneath her feet. She and hundreds of others look around the campgrounds as the ground beneath them has been fully regrown, as if covered in fresh spring grasses. The trees that litter the camp are flush with leaves and provide healthy shade and fruits, which drop to the ground in abundance. Hundreds of broken tents, bones, and possessions have been made whole, and crates for the storage of food and drink have been refilled to overflowing.

The apparitions, the messengers of the divine, have gone once more.

But they are not alone, as is proven now by the faint dust of pure gold that rains from the skies, coating the world and the voice of Isaiah that promises them the sanctity of wholeness.

_________________________________________________________

Chapter 98

Something strange is going on.

Jizalia cautiously peers out through the window, watching the marching regiments of soldiers move down the streets. At first she had just assumed it was some passing troop of soldiers, shuffling around from location to location as they always do. But the tide of bodies never stops, thousands of them must have walked past her window now as they assemble within the city.

She’s not an expert in social affairs in any manner, given that she mostly spends her days out in the wilds by herself all day every day, but even she can see that this is clearly a mobilization against what could be the only threat in the region — the tower.

She closes the shutters, looking back at the house. Her sister is sitting at the table, carving free some of the tubers they had gathered together, peeling off the bad spots and removing the bitter roots as she had been shown.

An assault on the tower?

It’s happened before, she heard the stories of the incredible destruction it had wrought over the land, tearing off a mountain into the sky, draining parts of the ocean, summoning an ancient dragon. Now with the many calls of the faithful that have come, she can only imagine the destruction to come if an army of the church’s zealots marches towards a magical fortress, supposedly god-crafted, and filled with thousands of pilgrims of the faith of Isaiah.

It’ll be a bloodbath.

Isaiah has shown that it has no qualms with destroying everything in its way, despite its kind mercies. She knows the Holy-Church, they’re no different, especially after the rumors of the assassinations of the bishop and the cardinals. The pot is ready to boil at any second.

It’s not safe here anymore, is it?

That’s not to mention the witch, who she has no idea about anymore after their bargain had been fulfilled.

“Zali?” asks her sister from across the room. She looks at her. “Is this right?” asks the girl, holding up a tuber. Jizalia looks at it, able to see it crisp and clear, even from a distance.

She nods, walking over to help her sister get dinner ready.

“Hey, Sisi?” asks Jizalia. “We should go on another foraging trip soon,” she says. “A little longer this time,” says the herbalist. They should get some space from this place for a while. Yes, they don’t have the funds to survive anywhere else, given that their house is here and the market isn’t exactly prime to sell at the moment. But maybe it’s the best thing. It’s still autumn, so she can manage to survive outside in the wild. It’ll be a little trickier with her little sister along, but it might be for the best. They can make their way towards the northern city, there’s always good foraging up there.

“Already?” asks Tulsi, looking back at her. Jizalia nods. “But we just went.”

“Mm,” replies Jizalia, smiling. “I thought it’d be fun if we go for a little longer, you know?” she suggests. “We can camp overnight and make fires.” The woman grabs some tubers and a peeler, setting to work. “Or don’t you want to?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

Tulsi nods excitedly. “I want to!” she explains.

“Great,” replies Jizalia, smiling to not let the girl catch on. As she sets back to work, her eyes wander past the closed shutters, through the gaps of which, a continuous stream of marching boots can still be seen, rolling in like a tide that never stops.

________________________________________

Cardinal Erzael of the West

Human, Male, Cardinal

The Western City, High up on the Distant Mountain, Observatory

Despite all of the horrors of the world, Bishop Erzael of the west finds himself in a familiar space, an odd sanctuary of sorts. Dancing starlight of an angel's grace, which proves the splendor of life, shines down through the glass walls and ceiling of the room. Crystals, small, hover aloft and drift through the space, catching the rays of midnight in their glassy, sleek forms as they drift, the magical minerals staying aloft in the air because of the very dense ambient magic present up on the mountain.

The walls, the floor, are all colorful and wholesome in their glow, as the light from above catches on many soft fabrics and runs through the jewel-like crystals, painting the entire room as if it's been washed over in a pastel bath that contrasts the cold midnight beyond the many windows.

Bishop Erzael looks at a man who seems like he never quite manages to get enough sleep — a feeling that he sympathizes with. The man, the astrologer, sits behind a long, complicated telescope the size of many men, which spans up to broadly look back at the stars above, as if the owner were fully aware of the former watching him in turn.

The tired man moves away from the telescope, heading over to a map on the table. It’s a map of the city that they’re in and he makes a complicated series of estimations and drawings, according to whatever he had learned by looking through the telescope.

“So how’s Schwalbe?” asks Bishop Erzael, referring to the man’s wife while trying to make some small talk, while the astrologer, the magistrate of this city, does some work to let him know if their spell to summon a true hero even has a chance at working.

The tired man looks up from his drawings at the bishop. “She’s holding on,” he replies. “But, well…” he shakes his head and returns to his work. “I don’t think it’s going to be long now.”

“She still has her temper?” asks the bishop.

“I’ll be worried when she doesn’t anymore,” replies the magistrate.

“Sorry to keep you here,” says the bishop. “If there’s anything I can do.”

The tired man looks at the telescope again, adjusting some mechanisms. Several crystals float by, filling the room with a prismatic shine as it catches a particular glow for a moment.

“We both know there’s nothing,” replies the tired man, leaving the telescope again and then mapping out something on a different sheet of paper. “Strange…” he mutters, looking at his own drawing. He walks over to a small, short shelf atop the raised telescope platform and pulls out a book, fluttering through it.

“What’s strange?” asks the bishop.

The tired man shakes his head and works for a while, before returning to the telescope to confirm one last time.

“The stars shouldn’t be ready for this,” explains the tired man, looking rather troubled, rather than excited. “They are not supposed to be in position for another year or so.” He looks up towards the glass ceiling, staring at the stars in the night sky, watching them curiously and cautiously. He contemplates for a time. “But they are. It’ll work,” he says. “I think.”

The bishop sighs in relief. For the stars to be so out of alignment, this is proof that the divine is interfering in the world’s affairs once again. He’s on the right path. “You know that I have to ask to use your city for the ritual,” he explains. “Schweig controls the rest of the church, the north and the south and Bishop Fluester of the East is working with him. Besides -”

“- It’s the only high-magic zone left,” replies the magistrate, interrupting him. He sighs, rubbing his tired face.

“I know it’s a lot,” says Bishop Erzael. “We’ll try to keep it as subtle as possible.”

The two men look at one another, knowing the absurdity of that statement.

After all, summoning a true-hero into this world, the kind that may only appear with every hundred year crisis, is something that is impossible to hide. But they need to start now.

Usually, when a true-hero is summoned, the crisis is already well underway, warranting the usage of such a spell. It’s a global event. But he’s not going to wait. He’s going to be preemptive this time.

“I’ll keep an eye on the stars,” replies the magistrate. “Do what you have to do.”

Bishop Erzael nods. “We’ll get started immediately.”

_____________________________________

Isaiah

Isaiah holds a hand up in the air, a leaf suspended in its grasp.

“Things are getting tense, chief,” says Red from next to it. Isaiah looks at the leaf, focusing its magic into it. Using its time altering magic, the leaf, orange, begins to crumble and fall apart as Isaiah moves it towards its state in the season of winter. Then, after a small nudge, the crumbling flakes of dried leaf absorb moisture from seemingly nowhere. The leaf patches itself together and becomes whole, flush and healthy once more as if it were in the throes of spring. Then it fades again to winter, the cycle of death and rebirth repeating over and over. “Thousands of humans are getting situated in the tower down below,” says the uthra. “But Black reported that the humans have a new army, bigger than the last. They look like pretty serious people.”

“And we have yet to hear from the witch,” remarks Isaiah, watching the leaf fade in and out of life many times over. “This troubles me the most, Red,” it explains. “What could she have planned?”

Red shrugs. “After all of this time? Probably something big.”

“We will be ready,” replies Isaiah, studying the leaf. “No matter what siege befalls us here, my churches rise all across the continents, Red,” says Isaiah. “The faithful are gathering in numbers greater than the stars in the sky.”

“Not that I don’t like the concept of using the humans as meat shields to fight other humans,” says Red. “But uh, chief, it’s a little out of character for you, isn’t it?” she asks. “I thought you liked them.” She taps her head. “You think the whole thing isn’t getting to your head a little?” asks the uthra.

“I am sure that it is,” replies Isaiah, nodding. It lets the leaf return to its autumn state and then blows it off, letting it fly away in the breeze. The two of them watch it vanish. “I do not intend to have my followers fight and defend the tower, Red,” it explains. “They need only to keep the faith, nothing more.”

“Sure, that’s great and all,” says Red. “But then what are we going to do when a few hundred thousand soldiers march up to our door to knock?” asks Red.

Isaiah tilts its head, looking at her in curiosity for a moment. “We will let them in, Red,” explains Isaiah. “I am a dungeon-core, after all. This is a dungeon.” It shakes its head. “I would be amiss to not let them pursue the fruits of their passions.”

“Are you sure?” asks Red. “We could take some preemptive measures. Kill a few before they get here.”

Isaiah shakes its head. “That is not what we do, Red.” It looks at her. “With the sub-tower and the spirit-world connection, we will have up to three-hundred floors, before the completion of the final core.” It nods.

The uthra’s wings buzz. “Chief, you realize that half of the people on the island already have shortcuts unlocked, right?” she asks.

“Perhaps,” replies Isaiah. “But the new-comers will not,” it says.

The uthra shakes her head. “And the whole ‘nobody dies’ thing is going to be a real problem. They’ll drown us in numbers, even with three-hundred floors.”

“Then we will reduce their numbers,” remarks Isaiah, lifting a hand to stop Red’s face from becoming too excited. “Non-lethally.”

[Chronal Imprisonment {Toggle}]

All hostile entities within the dungeon-territory who die will be fully trapped in a time-frozen state until released.

Isaiah watches the strange stars filling the sky like the many fires that trail in towards the human city west of the tower. “Make sure that our home is ready to accommodate them, Red,” orders Isaiah. “Autumn is a season of death, though it may be kinder here, it would be good for us to remind them of such.”

“I knew you’d talk about the seasons before I escaped this ramble,” remarks Red, rolling her eyes.

Isaiah nods, looking at her. “We all have our favorites,” says the entity, nodding to her.