FINAL CORE - Chapter 135 (Patreon)

The ‘seal’, when referring to a metaphysical concept, is the locking mechanism that separates the physical from the spiritual. It is held to be commonly reasonable that every living entity has a seal of some sort present within itself, acting as a filtering mechanism to let in a specific amount of spiritual power.

Imagine it as a floodgate.

On one side, held back, is an endless torrent of water — this is the spirit world. On the other side of the gate is a dry, arid wasteland— this is the physical.

If the seal were not present, these two spaces would merge and become indistinguishable. It is the job of the seal to cleanly separate these from one another, allowing only a very specific amount of energy to flow from one domain to the other. This is critical, for the amount of SOUL-POINTS a person has access to is directly linked to the  ‘looseness’ of their seal. The looser the seal, the stronger the connection to the spirit-world, the more SOUL-POINTS a person has. However, there is a problem with this mechanism, being that exposure to the spirit-world can cause a variety of physical issues as well as problems of the mind.

This is why uniquely gifted people, such as heroes or particularly versed spiritual practitioners have a tendency to become raving esoterics, preaching of things far distant from grounded reality. It’s not that they’re mad, it’s that they are tinged with the touch of the spirit-world far more than the rest of us are, and that makes them see and work on a level that we just don’t understand.

As long as this seal remains intact in some form, however, even this increased amount of spiritual energy is sustainable by the body for a time.

It is, however, an extreme danger when a seal, be it on a personal or ecological level, is broken.

To fully touch the spirit-world even once, is to die. There is no way back.

~ Of the spirit-world, seals and madmen

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Isaiah

The howl of the indeterminate destruction fills the air, white feathers cutting like blades as they spin and twist as a flurry shoots through enclosing tunnels of poison water, diving and shooting past falling marble bricks — the size of houses — that plunge towards the depths as if it were but a fish fighting against a tsunami.

The remnants of the world below fly by in all directions, the destroyed dirt and stones of the island first soaring above Isaiah and then below it as its perspective shifts, twisting to turn the world upside down as it makes a sharp turn, avoiding a lashing tendril of blackwater filled with thousands of glaring eyes that bubble to the surface, turning its way just in time to watch the golden hue of the sword cut them in two with a single slice, to watch the other tendril rise up behind its soaring blackbird wings and lash down toward an unexposed back.

Isaiah spins, the sword flying up into the air, as two taloned hands covered in radiating, glowing holy magic extend themselves outward, holding onto the foul appendage, its wings spreading out wide and far with a violent clap that sends out a gale of wind, pressing away the encroaching nightmare back into the endless darkness that forms a bubble around them, trapping it inside a bubble of floating eyes and dead souls.

— Propelled by gravity, the flung sword flies back downward again by itself, cutting through the top of the blackwater cage with its keen edge. Isaiah blasts the witch back with a burst of glowing magic, catching the weapon and slicing the tendril apart in one stroke, sending a violent splash of water hurtling off into the distance, only for it to reform again as if nothing happened.

“There’s nothing you can do to me,” mocks the witch, her voice rising up to the surface, bubbling from the depths of the endless mockery of life that she has become.

A single white feather, plucked free from the encounter, drifts down through the air and is caught by the water, disintegrating immediately and releasing as hissing, black smoke. “Look. Look!” she cackles excitedly, her shrill, sharp voice cutting through the night. “Nice home you have here,” says the witch. “I’ll make you feel exactly what you made me feel!” screams Perchta. “You stole my home! My friends! Everything!”

The island crumbles, falling apart piece by piece, sinking lower and lower to the lightless ocean below. The tower, at full tilt, cracks and rips in great seams, as the wyrm and the crusade lash out at one another, engaged in a full on skirmish for control of the failing island.

“You stole those from yourself, witch,” replies Isaiah, tilting the sword at an angle to prepare for its next strike.

“There’s not going to be anything left for you,” she says. “I’m going to kill everyone you care about,” threatens the monster, its thousands of eyes growing wide and bulging. “I’m going to destroy everything you’ve ever made! There’ll be nothing left!” she roars, the ocean churning.

Isaiah flaps its wings, leaning forward. “The things that matter to me lie between heaven and the world, Perchta. Not on it.” The sword gleams in the night. “A loveless monster like yourself — you would never understand.”

Black and white, both enraged, crash toward one another, as a winding clockwork tower leans at an impossible angle behind them. Houses fall free from the island, which is close to full tilt now, but they don’t plummet; rather, they hang suspended in air from the streams of violent magic hammering the world below, crashing against the ocean as the tower’s presence and innate desire to stay whole and afloat create a magical conflict. The ticking of the clock that will end the world in one way or another resounds out around the world, each strike of the pendulum annulling the last second before, which had threatened to end everything.

White cuts black, and black cuts white, like the stars and the curtain of night behind them dancing in battle, vying for dominance over the preciousness of nightfall.

A flicker of movement catches Isaiah’s eyes. Men and women fall by the hundreds, the crusaders flying off of the island and plummeting towards the waters below, filled with churning, gnashing maws, and the hands of the wicked dead, trying to claw the thing down into their presence.

It clasps its hands together, focusing for a moment.

(Isaiah) has used: [Chronal Absolution]

A pulse shoots out of itself in all directions, the tinge of the air itself changing as everything comes to a slow halt. It swipes a hand out quickly, rearranging the construction of the island in some fashion. Rubble and bricks float by the heaps, crudely forming new floating platforms that fill the empty air, allowing the crusaders to drop onto them rather than falling to their deaths — the great wyrm winding around the hundreds of platforms.

— In its moment of distraction, a tendril crashes against Isaiah, sending it violently crashing into the body of the tower, with dust and debris flying out in all directions, the sword spiraling through the air.

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Aurin, The Meek

Human, Male, Crusader {Legendary Swordsman}

Location: The Destroyed Island

Aurin crashes down against the stones, tumbling over himself before coming to a stop on his knee. The man lifts his gaze, staring up at the beast above his head. The great wyrm of old — befouled and corrupted by the endless rot of the monster that is Isaiah, and it stares back at him, golden chains shooting up towards the leviathan from all angles, cast by the others of the crusade who are trying to contain it but bounce off of it helplessly.

— A glint of metal catches his eyes. Aurin lifts his head in that second, watching a gleam of silver fly through the time-distorted air, leaving a warped trail behind itself.

Then, a second later, an alabaster meteor shoots out of the ruins, catching the blade and launching itself straight toward the…

- Aurin grips his head, an ache shooting through it; spit leaves his clenched teeth as his vision warps and distorts, the colors and tones of everything he sees shifting and changing.

“THIS ONE!” yells a voice from behind him.

Aurin turns around, looking just in time to see two flying lights grab his arms in his moment of weakness, a hooved creature dropping down behind him, planting her hands on his broken and scarred breastplate.

(Seide) has used: [{Dryad} Spring Recovery]

The man screams, ripping his arms free as the light of the enemy envelops him, throwing the two glowing presences away and immediately rebuking the threat before himself with a fist that cracks against the side of her head, sending her spiraling off of the small platform.

— Something’s wrong.

Aurin holds his head, the magics working their way through his body, the magics of the tower, of the witch, and of the dryad — all competing to establish presence in the limited domain of his soul, all of them clashing and breaking against one another like mulching shards of glass, trying to grind the other presences down, indifferent to the damage being done to their surroundings.