History dictates that men will pay any price for ultimate power. How saddening, then, that they lie, and are lied to, until their vision is clouded. They cannot see the blade at their throats, and they do not notice, thus, that they have since passed from the world of the living, doomed to seek out their virtues in an existence where there are none to be had.

Yet, there are some who do not fall into this trap, and, pitifully, fall into another: that of guilt, for holding that blade. It is not oft thought, during the critical moment, that murder en masse sometimes serves a "greater good", as it were. Yet, for this world that the Goddesses created, there is no other way: There are some that must live, and some that must die, and it is the individuals within these absolutes that so pathetically carry out the role, time and again. It is a vicious cycle, repeated through millennia, perhaps one of a few true constancies the world has ever known.

And the past will repeat itself once again, for the Goddesses who created the world, its Law, and all life forms that would uphold the Law, fail to fathom and recognize defiance. Or is this perhaps what they intended from the beginning? No mortal could say.

But mortals do have one power over the divine: They have their history, and they may shape the future. Such knowledge is somewhat esoteric, but the world was lost to the Goddesses upon the moment they departed for the Heavens. They completed their labours, yet failed to impose their will upon their creations. But this is not something that they can easily accept, for even divinity is not without its avarice.

Now, they must continually choose, among these mortals, hands worthy enough to bear their crests. It is in this way that they deprive mortals of their aforementioned power.

It is a curious and perhaps dangerous thought, then, when one thinks of what might happen should the Goddesses be denied their control…

Descrædia, from Memoirs of a Dissident
Prologue, Section I

Prologue

Part I

Cold. The air of these endless convoluted paths pierced her lungs like a spear at perfect honing. It was always this way at night-time, and for that matter, during the daytime as well. The gargantuan trees served as umbrellas against the warmth of the Sun that all beings who resided here knew existed, yet seldom experienced. Enough light, at least, penetrated the broad shield-sized leaves to prevent perpetual gloom.

Further downward, these same trees waged an endless war of greed with one another, their winding trunks, they alone larger than the resident Kokiri dwellings themselves, sometimes entwining and writhing about each other over possession of the Earth. It was a battle waged for millennia. The trees had taken to sprouting millions of vines, tough as the hardest diamonds, all across the forest floor.

These vines got the better of the lone Kokiri that had been running frantically through the wood, clothed only in a tunic that complimented the land around her. The freezing cold had not deterred her, though she could feel her lungs burning from its touch. She did not pay it any mind, nor did she quite notice that she had tripped over a vine of particularly substantial circumference. She had not seen it; she could see very little in the darkness, not that it mattered: tears escaped her eyes in streams, impeding her vision, her heartbeat running even faster than the speed at which her legs had taken her, and she felt cold for reasons other than the night-time air. What overshadowed all of that was the void that was growing inside of her; in her stomach, in her mind, and in her heart.

Why? she thought.

It was the only thing that registered when she thought of him; that boy that she had grown up with, stood up for, and endured the pain of seeing leave once before. Except then, she always knew that he would come back. But this time, she had not felt that sliver of destiny. Now, she felt…

She was a sage…or was…or will be? Time was so confusing. She had been privy to visions in the deepest night sleeps. They all imparted a destiny to her; one concerning an evil man on a black horse that would raise Hell from below the world, to the purity of the Sacred Realm. He would do so through his command of an endless army of demons. But he would be stopped: she would join together with five others at the command of a Seventh in sealing away this man. She knew not how this was possible, but somehow, it strengthened her, knowing that her destiny was not always exclusive to these trees that kept everything in and out.

But that was not all. She saw him too. He was…different, but she knew it was him, for her heart reacted every time she saw him in her dreams. He would defeat and subdue the man for the sealing, and bring prosperity to the land. But what, now, would happen now that he was gone? What would become of the land? Of all living things in it? Of him? Of her, and of her…feelings…?

She felt the void spike as she arrived at that point, and what strength she had retained before was now quite lost. As the void widened and everything else seemed to darken and fade out, she retreated inward. She had no more control of her limbs; they came together on their own, curling up to save what warmth was left. Her head was lost to her; an appendage of an independent will that just happened to cling to the rest of her body, for her forehead met her knees, and in that place that was now so empty, save for the writhing vines and grass that poked through them to irritate her smooth, ghost-white skin, she sobbed. The only noise was the sound of her broken breathing, complicated by her rich, green hair (greener even, than her tunic), which had fallen over and into her mouth. She was now as insignificant as a particle of flower pollen in the wood, or a chip of wood off the bark of a kilometre-wide tree. Now, time moved freely and relentlessly.

Something else—something not native to the forest—was growing in the grass, only a few yards away from the crying forest child, though, in her grief, it was unnoticed and unheeded. The crimson shadow expanded, like the bloated, swollen skin of a sprained ankle.

A sound penetrated the quiet and life suddenly slowed to a halt. Out of the blood extended an arm without flesh that crawled with maggots, spiders, and other insects. They fell off of it, splashing into the shadow, like hail in a storm. Another arm in the same condition found its way out. Both of their hands clamped down on unseen supports in the blood and began to push a torso upward. Four large, spider-like legs emerged, severed the vines and embedded themselves in the earth outside the blood puddle's influence. As they had arisen, the torso found its way out of the mess. Its head was completely obscured by a hood, and the only indication that it truly concealed anything was the fact that the creature was vomiting more blood from where its mouth would have presumably been. The torso, resembling that of a human corpse, though much larger, was lined with cuts, gashes, slashes, and essentially every type of wound imaginable. Skin was missing in same places, revealing the bones and long-spent organs underneath.

As its upper body escaped the puddle, out came four more spider's legs that assisted in hoisting up the creature's lower body. It bore the likeness of a giant black Skulltula covered in petrified hair that did not loll, save that it possessed no skull on its abdomen; only more of what one might assume was its young (which tumbled off of it and swam through the puddle onto the grass). The blood flowed and dripped off it like tiny waterfalls.

The human-like figure was incomplete: its end was fused at the waist with the spider's cephalothorax. The spider itself was not ordinary: It had a pair of pincers, each twice the circumference and length of an average human arm. It possessed six eyes as crimson as the pool that it had emerged from, two of them very large, the other four much smaller. The eyes, as a set, were symmetrical, two smaller eyes aside both of the larger ones. The creature hissed a terrible noise that was enough to draw the girl's attention, even in her state of mind.

She sat up and, beholding what stood in front of her, she let out a terrified scream. The miniscule insects that had fallen off of the horrifying creature were clamouring toward her, surrounding her, closing off any escape routes completely. Nonetheless, she looked desperately about for one, but it was useless. They were too many, and too ravenous.

As the spider's hiss subsided, the sound that had disturbed the air before grew as the human figure writhed on top of the rest of its body. Suddenly, it came to a halt and, with a scream even more terrible than the hissing of the spider, shot one of its hands toward the girl.

She covered her ears in pain; it was the sound of the cries of a thousand dying people. Yet, all of the parasites around her were receding, shaking and ailing just as she was. When the cacophony faded, the insects stood completely still, as if this creature of utmost disgust had isolated and halted time around them. But it was not a mere feeling anymore. Nothing else was moving—not the grass, the forest fireflies, nor even the air—save for her, and the beast that confronted her. She could feel its eyes on her, even though she could not see them, and a wave of despair even more unbearable than what she had previously experienced washed over her. She was going to suffocate; it felt as if all of the sins of the world, past, present, and future, had been dropped on her shoulders.

One of its arms shuddered and out of the darkness materialised a large sickle-blade that resembled a crescent moon, stained with the blood of those whose lives it had taken. Its other arm followed suite, and produced the scales, holding them loosely, but firmly, between its thumb and index finger. It was from this that she began to understand exactly what this creature was.

"Dear, young child of the forest who has lost her way and her strength," began the emissary of Hell, its forceful discourse ringing in her ears in so many dying voices that she found it nearly impossible to listen. "We heard your call; saw your tears. Your unbalanced heart resonates through us, and we have thus come, to grant you peace."

The creature's body seemed to fade out of existence for a moment before reconstructing itself.

"Come, dear child. Embrace death as your salvation. Your slumber waits. Join with us!"

The creature pointed the sickle-blade at her as it finished. She rose to her feet and took a few steps backward. Something crackled underneath her steps, but she did not care. She could not break the gaze of the Wraith. Eternal moments of silence passed, and more and more, the weight of the despair crushed her, increasing the appeal of the Wraith's offer. Without thought, her legs moved for her; she took a step toward the creature, inviting a soft "exhale" from it that almost seemed to carry delight.

"Yes. Come, Saria, Sage of the Forest!"

Her eyes widened at the speaking of her name, and in a moment of immense fear, she tore her eyes from the Wraith and sealed them shut. An unbelievable hissing followed, and the sensation of her brain splitting apart overcame her. Then, there was disorientation. She could not keep her footing, and she fell backward upon the vines, unconscious.

Part II

It is a common misconception. The creators of the world, where they are thought to be the Sacred Golden Three, or to be the Four Great Ones in each cardinal direction, are worshipped, yet also feared, as if they could take everything away as assuredly as they established it. Indeed, their power is vast and mighty, and to offend them directly is useless folly, the sort reserved for those fools possessing the gift of lifewho throw it away at their own discretion.

In reality, the Gods cannot unmake the world. As already stated, their control has whittled down to but a distant influence. Not only that, but their creations of Man have discovered certain…advantages; invented powerful, accursed items and infused them with the fury of their greed. Desire. It is one thing that even the divine cannot hold back for long, for it is the desires of mortals that shaped their own relics.

The Sacred Golden Triangles are said to reflect the heart, and that would be proof enough.

Descrædia, from Memoires of a Dissident

Prologue, Section II

Colder. It was the call of the dead, and it was always in the air, trapping the regrets of the duly departed (a misnomer; they were not really departed; just dead) within the wide crevices of the vast canyons, where life did not dare to intrude; not anymore. It was the same in the graveyard, where dozens, perhaps hundreds, were buried, though a limited number of headstones suggested otherwise. The wind echoed off of the rocky, narrow trenches which doubled as paths that led nowhere. The night would have been a silent, peaceful one, were it not for the clapping footsteps of the dead soldiers who had given their lives to war, and yet were doomed to walk the earth, having been denied their slumber within it.

It was not unlike an encampment, where some of them stood guard around the graves upon orders given long ago by their superior, while others sat around campfires, telling each other stories through the chattering of their teeth. Their tongues had fallen out of their mouths long ago, yet the words still came just as easily.

Some of them gazed up at the dark sky, hoping to see the stars once again, but a thick blanket of unnatural, smoky clouds foiled their effort. They were soldiers without hearts in the physical sense, but they knew deep within their lingering spirits that the clouds should not have been there. Something was terribly wrong in these lands. Terribly wrong.

But the graves were what the captain had ordered them to guard, and they were loyal.

Night had passed, yet the cold remained. There was no more clapping and no more chattering. Even the bats seemed timid today, which was something that Dampé noted and found odd. But his sadly-disfigured and horrific face only contorted into what was supposed to be a smile (though an outsider would have had difficulty deciding what to truly call it). The less of those pesky critters about, the better, and when there were none at all, it was a good day.

These days, there were never any new arrivals to be buried, and there hadn't been for several years now. By this time, he was convinced that he was the last man alive in all the lands belonging to the Kingdom of Ikana. Well…maybe there was that crazy scientist living in the northern part of the canyon; crazy, because only a damned fool would choose to set up housing in a place as accursed as that. Granted, he didn't have a lot of room to talk, but that was literally right in the middle of it all.

Nah, he thought, he's probably dead and gone, too. Just like the King, bless his heart, along with his armies, and his messengers, and his people, and everyone else. Yup. Last man alive. That's me. The last one. Just an old, lonely fool comin' out every day to check on graves.

Dampé was the Grave keeper, and this was a grave keeper's job: keeping the graves. Simplest-sounding job in the entire world, he would wager.

He didn't much care for it.

But he had heard legends. Stories. Probably myths, just like most of the tripe involving the dead and the lands they roamed upon. He had heard, from some passer-by years ago (he was probably dead by now too), something about some treasure buried underneath the cemetery. He didn't really put much stock in it, but he was old; past his prime (if there ever was a prime, given his working, yet disfigured, broken, and hunched-over physique). His days were numbered, and it was pretty obvious to him. One thing that he never did lose his touch at, though, no matter how old or disfigured he got, was digging. If there was buried treasure to be found, then he would dig it up, and maybe get rich. Then, he'd travel back to Clock Town and rent himself a nice, comfy inn room to spend the rest of his days in. He wasn't a particularly greedy guy, but gods knew that he deserved a nice place to settle down, given how hard he worked through his life despite his shortcomings.

To that end, he came out every day in his usual sluggish strut, one long arm holding his shovel up over his shoulder, the other swaying awkwardly, forward and backward. He came to check on the graves—despite his nervousness and deathly fear of ghosts—looking for some clues on this "treasure."

An outsider wouldn't believe the things that one could find out about Ikana just by looking at what was inscribed on the headstones: history, wars and campaigns, the spoils thereof, and so on. He hadn't found it yet, but he reckoned there was a good chance that one of these stones would tell him something about where to dig. If nothing else, he'd found out enough to write his own history book on the land (the military aspect, at least), and would have considered that instead of treasure hunting if he'd been better with words.

But he wasn't. He was good at digging. And running, if he got scared enough.

He took to reading the headstones in no particular order, and upon retrospect, maybe that hadn't been such a good idea. His age wasn't helping his memory either, and he sometimes found himself frustrated when it finally occurred to him that the headstone he was reading had already been read a few days prior. He wasn't sure on whether or not to find it amusing that he got as irked as other old folks get, even though he didn't have to yell at any stupid young punks always messing around on his lawn (not that there was a lawn to mess around on…and if there had ever been any punk children here, they were probably dead too). He didn't pay it much mind. He was generally patient in the grand scheme of things, and would stay out there until he did find an unread headstone, or until it got dark. Then, he had to get back in his little graveside dwelling for the night, before they came out to play, with their sharp, bloody claws, evil, glowing red eyes, and their clapping, chattering storytelling about gods-knew-what.

At least he had daytime. And today, maybe he would get lucky right away.

And he did, partly because he was still a bit optimistic at the absence of those damned bats. Not wanting to ruin it, he deliberately chose a headstone in the back, near a darker corner, one he knew that he wouldn't have read yet.

But this one was…different. It didn't exactly have what he was looking for on it, but what was carved crudely across it was mysterious, puzzling, and perhaps interesting, all the same:

Here to rest the laws of mortals lay

Where once the departed would repay

Their holy creators to whom they pray

To rest or torture they would say

Here lies the Breaker of Laws

Rise in Pain

Dampé scratched his round, point-deficient chin, squinting in sceptical confusion. Whatever it meant, it didn't sound at all good to him. Especially that last part. As much as he knew that it was hardly possible in these lands anymore, he still hoped that the dead would stay in the ground, not rise from it. That, and a "Breaker of Laws" could be anything from a little punk thief to a murderer (all of both extremes were probably—…no, wait, actually, they still existed in the form of one foreigner that tended to run around these parts; Dampé, of course, despite being a foreigner himself, wanted nothing to do with that sort of character; at least the ones he wanted to steal from didn't still walk…much). That is, if the stone referred to the old Laws of Ikana, as Dampé assumed.

He would note the stone's contents in his diary, all the same. He hoped to gods that this wasn't connected to the treasure. But why the hell not? The fool that he was, he'd already made his home in a graveyard full of the walking dead. Them, and their eyes…and their claws…

Dampé shuddered briefly, and then shook his head as he turned away, beginning toward the next stone. Or at least, he would have liked to if his damned foot would move. His face contorted into an expression of irritation as he tugged it against whatever it had gotten itself caught in.

It was a damned graveyard, filled only with grass, dirt, and the occasional black, petrified tree. He looked down, wondering what in the hell he could possibly have gotten himself tangled in.

As his eyes ventured toward his leg, he stopped dead, his face instantly going pale. What he had gotten his leg caught in, or rather, what had caught it, was no entangled vine, or a tree trunk, or something normal. It was a hand. A hand at the end of an arm, clothed in a dirty, tattered sleeve, protruding out of the soil in front of the weird stone he'd just read.

Dampé made no noise, save for a tiny, barely-audible squeak. He didn't notice the little trickles of sweat that ran down his oval-shaped head; didn't notice the quivering of his lower lip, extending across his overly long under bite. He remained there for only a couple of seconds before his body leaned back, his eyes widened, and he released a loud, low-pitched scream in terror, his stubby legs forgetting that they were caught and proceeding to carry him at remarkable speed across the graveyard to its exit. He sprinted through the narrow path flanked by two wooden, decrepit fences that led to his stone dwelling, his arms flailing about frantically as he went. He didn't pay his usual curiosity to the giant, dormant, folded-up skeleton creature that rested under the arch next to his dwelling; not for the chest atop the Dwelling, surrounded by a ring of flame—flame that never went out—that he once thought might have been what he was looking for (he later decided against it; he was looking for buried treasure); he didn't really care for anything. Didn't think, didn't slow down, and definitely didn't stop. Not until he had bolted through the door and turned all of the numerous locks he had installed on it as soon as he was behind it.

Afterward, he was in the space under his cot, shivering and whimpering in the dim-lit, blue-bricked little room that was the interior of his dwelling. Through the inane babble that managed to escape the spaces between the few teeth he had left, he uttered but one shaken, timid assurance to anyone he, in his paranoia, thought might be listening: "I-I ain't…s-seen nothin' an' I don't kn-know nothin'…"

Why is it so…dark…? she thought, Why can't I…see…? Why can't I…move…?

She was somehow confined, and the first thing she had noticed was that she couldn't breathe. The second thing was that she somehow didn't need to. The third thing was the question of why that was. The fourth thing was the terrifying realization that there was no answer. She would remain on that thought for a few moments before calming herself down enough to notice other, more physically meaningful things.

The fact that, wherever she was, it felt…dirty, for example. Also, how she not only felt confined and restrained, but also compressed, pushed against on all sides. Her arms were forcibly crossed against her chest, her hands clenched in fists upon her shoulders. Her legs and knees were pressed against each other. Her chin was likely level with the rest of her torso. Her eyes, she could tell, were closed, not that she suspected that there was very much to look at.

Despite the compression, what she concluded to have been dirt seemed soft, and a little moist. She did not feel the unpleasant sensation of wetness against her bare skin, and assumed that she was, at the very least, clothed in something thin.

She struggled a bit, trying to move her arms, Once again disturbed over the fact that she was underground and not breathing, yet not suffocating either. It was as if she was dead and alive at the same time.

She currently had no sense of the passing of time, but as the moments progressed, little by little, she could move her arms back and forth. She could not help but to wonder, though, exactly how deep she was buried. If it was more than a few feet, then what would be the point of struggling? At the moment, for unclear, yet somehow, not unfamiliar reasons, she was not particularly concerned with living. But other than the details of her current predicament, her mind was fragmented; full, but filled with random clumps of intangible thoughts, all pressed together unintelligibly, just as her body was.

All the more reason to get out, so that perhaps she could think clearly.

She tried pushing upward with her arms. She had been right: the dirt was soft and wet; it must have rained recently. The dirt was firm, but moveable. She felt it give just a tiny bit in response to the pressure she exerted.

With growing confidence, she ground her fists against the dirt, whittling it away. Eventually, she was able to move her fingers. It was difficult, not because of the dirt, but because they felt incredibly weak, like she had slept and had not moved for decades. She took a few moments to exercise them, with what little room she had. They did not feel natural. They felt like someone else's fingers, as if someone had chopped her off her own and stitched these on in their place.

When they at least felt useable, she began to claw at the dirt, hoping dearly that she would not make it worse. She wriggled her fingers, then her wrists, and then her arms through the earth above, hoping for a breakthrough of some kind.

It seemed like an eternity, but eventually, she felt the air hit her left hand as it escaped the dirt. Inside, she felt victorious as she extended her arm fully outward. Was it too much to hope that she would find something to grab on to and use to help pull herself up?

Surprisingly, she did grasp something. Notwithstanding the tiny pieces of earth between her fingers, whatever she had in her hand felt…organic. Fleshy.

And what was that that she also felt? Was that…bone?

Inside, she grimaced. Was she holding on to someone else on the surface? She couldn't imagine that it would be a very pleasant experience to be grabbed by someone underneath the ground.

But she held on anyway. As far as she knew, this was as good as it was going to get.

Just as she began to pull herself toward the surface, however, she felt a jolt. She arose through the dirt suddenly as she lost hold of what she assumed was the other person's ankle. A sharp, agonizing pain coursed through her arm, and if she wasn't still submerged, for the most part, in dirt, she would have screamed. Her arm, her fingers, and likely the rest of her body were still incredibly weak, and the sudden jolt had not been good for them at all. Her eyelids pressed against each other tightly and she clenched her teeth, her throat producing a tiny whimper.

The pain took another few moments to subside, and it took a bit longer for her to think straight. When it had died down to a dull ache, she noted that her elbow had been pulled above the surface, nearly taking her shoulder with it, but not quite. Still, she was thankful. She could use her elbow to prop herself upward. She did so, simultaneously pushing her other arm out to help in the effort. Though the use of the muscles in her left arm sent another jolt of pain through it, and the use of those in her right arm felt just plain uncomfortable, she tried to ignore both as the top of her head peeked through the dirt. Soon, her head was completely free, followed closely by her neck and shoulders. Afterward, she tried using her hands, pushing herself out. Her chest emerged, and then, her stomach.

Given the sudden discomfort in her eyelids, she could tell that it was daytime. But she could not feel the warmth of the sun.

Her eyelids were shy and reluctant, but they opened slowly. She managed only a tiny slit of an opening before the light penetrated her eyes and she closed them again. Her lids quivered, chastising her for the dangerous stunt that she had pulled.

But she chose not to listen to them and tried again. This time, she went further, keeping them open at all costs, despite the burning that followed within her eyes themselves.

The image that greeted her was little to speak of. Everything was a clumsy, blurry mix of colours, but it was clearing up slowly with every second, at least. Were these her eyes? They obviously had not been used for years. At least, that was what it felt like. Her temples ached from the mere effort of using them.

As time passed, things became evident: there were oddly-shaped stones placed throughout…wherever this was. Green ground; grass? Black, Jagged, deformed protrusions in the background; dead trees? A small line of brown; a dirt path?

She strained her eyes impatiently, commanding them to clear up faster. They complied somewhat, and she saw that all of her guesses had been correct. But she was disturbed once more. The stones she saw…they were headstones.

A…graveyard? she thought.

She blinked, the next thoughts causing her stomach to plummet. With some effort, she twisted herself and her head around.

It was as she had feared. There it was: a headstone, right behind where she had just halfway dug out of.

She had risen from the grave.

Instantly, she felt anxious, yet she did not breathe heavily. She breathed weakly; yet, it was a kind of pseudo-breathing. She did not feel the air passing into her lungs, and somehow, she was still defying mortal logic by being alive.

But she reacted, all the same: despite her weak body, frightened and whimpering, she frantically struggled to free her legs, kicking and clawing until she could bend her knees and raise from the dirt mess she had made. She twirled clumsily around to face her stone. There was something carved on it, but her sight was not up to the task of making it out, nor did she really want to know what it was. She instinctively backed away, and then stumbled as her weakened legs gave out under her weight. She fell, landing flat on her back. The force of the impact caused her to release a small cough. Her throat protested with an unpleasant, scratchy pain. It, too, probably had not been used for decades.

Her head hurt too. She must have hit it when she fell; or perhaps it was the mental shock. Notwithstanding which, she felt faint. Her vain efforts to breathe slowed, her eyelids suddenly felt extremely heavy, and consciousness was once again slipping away from her. Vaguely, she almost realized what was happening, but came just short of grasping it, losing the battle before it even began. Everything became black again, just like it had been in the earth, and she lost herself.

Above the graveyard, upon a high cliff, a tattered mass of black cloth stood. A small gust of air passed through hurriedly at the higher elevation, blowing the tatters in a gentle, flapping motion typical of cloth in the wind. Atop the mass was a hood, barely obscuring the old, wrinkled creases of an aged woman who bore a misty, cold, bluish-white complexion. Without expression, she silently regarded the criminal—the Breaker of Laws—below, arising from the grave to taste life, before falling to rest once again.

The tattered mass of black cloth stepped off of the cliff and fell into the graveyard.

Part III

Being in defiance of the Divine Laws is nothing to envy, In fact, it is something to be avoided at any cost, should it be at all possible. Even if such a role was not undertaken willingly, and was effectively forced, the bearer of that role will know little to none in the way of salvation.

The Goddesses that created the world and its life, as well as the other divine beings who maintain it, do not recognize unfortunate coincidence, and it is in that way that they are not as just as the masses believe them to be. They will, of course, intervene with all good intentions. But intention alone is not enough to bring justice.

Justice comes through good judgment. This can be problematic, however, when there is no-one to judge the judges; or rather, no-one courageous and willing enough. But, as these creations of Man have found ways to challenge divine power, so must it be possible to turn the tide of history in favour of Man in more subtle ways.

Perhaps, these are merely the delusions of one who has seen and experienced far too much of life, death, and undeath. Yet, despite all of the concepts of fate, destiny, and all of these roles that the living are expected to perform, there is one thing that all creatures have in common, regardless so long as they intend to cling to life: hope. Hope for a light in the dark. And hope that that light shall not become extinguished.

Descrædia, from Memoirs of a Dissident

Prologue, Section III

Frozen. Frozen in time. That was what had happened to her. But who was she, exactly? Where had she come from? Was she remembering a past life? Or was it the life that she should have been living, yet, by some gross circumvention of the Law, was not?

She saw him. The boy in green. She knew him, and was certain of it because of the effect that his image had on her heart, which skipped a beat.

There he was, standing courageously and defiantly against the evil man in black and his hordes of demons. There he was, bearing this burden within forests, inside mountains, under water, and even through time. There he was, not looking back, ever.

That last image of him pained her heart for reasons that she could not decipher. But one thing was certain: all that she wanted to do was to reach out to him and embrace him, because he carried the world on his shoulders; because he did this without so much as an afterthought of reward from anyone he encountered; because he did this with not a modicum of sadness or regret over his destiny, which denied him the bliss of a normal life, a childhood, or even a chance to grow the way that a child is meant to grow; because he paid no mind to the fact that, even should he achieve such a chance, he would remember his journey, and would never, as a result, be able to adjust to a normal life again. She wanted so much to teach him what it meant to live that life; a life that did not demand such a bloody diet of death at the edge of honed steel.

She wanted to love him in a way that no-one ever had or ever will.

But he had gone. He had left the forest; left his little wooden home; left the trees, the vines, the grass, the smells, and the sounds. He had left the fields, the rivers, the mountains, and the kingdom. He had left the land and his friends…including her. He had gotten lost in the woods, and as a result, had left behind nearly all of his memories.

He had lost everything, and gained freedom through it. And he would never come back.

She did not want to believe it; wanted to fight against it with whatever she had left. But deep underneath, in the darker reaches of her conscience, she knew that there was no way that she and the boy could ever live in the same world. Perhaps an older, more mature version of her would have been able to accept it. Maybe he had met that person on his travels through the ordinarily-restrictive current of time. But that was not the 'her' of the now. Not yet. She was not like him; not even close, save for one similarity.

She, too, had been robbed of her opportunity to grow in her own world on her own terms. For why, she did not know, not that reason truly had anything to do with it. If it did, then fate would not be making mockeries of them all in such disgusting ways (if it was fate). But here she was, being shown what her heart desired: impossibility. The cruelty of it all confounded her.

Now, she wanted to hate someone, whoever was responsible. But even the culprits were invisible, if there were any to blame specifically in the first place.

And with that, she was back at the beginning, wondering at how many times she had run in this circle. But the clarity in her memories was still marred by uncertainty. She knew that she loved the boy in green, and knew that she was supposed to be a significant part of his journey somehow. The boy's name, why she recognized him, and why his image tugged at her heart and caused her such pain were lost on her. Even her life before, including the people she might have known during that time, was lost on her.

Her mind was a scattered puzzle and half of the pieces for it were missing.

But she was…dreaming. She had fallen asleep again, hadn't she? She wanted to wake up; almost felt herself struggling physically to do so. But her mind was trapping her in the darkness of slumber, forcing her to endure the torturous images of this boy that she apparently loved so much.

So she stopped struggling, conceding that it was useless. Her mind wanted to tear and stab at her heart. So be it.

The tattered mass of black cloth—the old, decrepit woman—sceptically perceived, from under that face-obscuring hood, the small figure that lay before her, clothed in a plain, grey shirt and reddish-brown trousers that were so dirty and torn up that they barely managed to preserve the girl's modesty. In spite of the fact that the natural post-mortem decay should have lost her all of her flesh and blood, her skin looked smoother and more alive than that of most young women in their absolute prime condition, albeit ghostly pale. It was as if she had never even come close to death and never would. Situated atop her lean, slender, and curved body was a neck that supported a head bearing a face of pure innocence (though it was contorted into a pained, tortured expression), as well as the fullest, greenest hair the old woman had ever set her eyes on; greener than the trees and plants of all the mystical forests of the world. The girl squirmed about in her comatose slumber.

This was the fabled Breaker of Laws? This was the one who must endure the divine hate?

Such an innocent child had no place among the great transgressors of history. This one's mind was a bleeding mess of images, all focused upon the hero of an age that would never come to pass within this current of time.

She was not prepared for the world, much less for Heaven or Hell.

And yet, the corrupt Bringer of Death had tried to claim her, with its evil blade and its measures of judgment. No ordinary mortals could escape its hand; this girl should have died in her own plane of existence. Instead, she selfishly and recklessly broke the Law, and tore open the gap between dimensions, a void that would never again close.

The Bringer of Death would not so easily let its quarry escape, and the Gods would not forgive. Even corrupt, the creature was still fashioned by them to complete the circle of life. Its decree, like that of its creators, was absolute. To defy it was to suffer the pains of Hell as punishment; no matter how purely one had lived their life before.

The old woman looked at the girl without expression. If there was any amount of either pity or scorn in her thoughts, it was well-hidden and impossible to determine.

The images persisted, yet the girl eventually ceased squirming. It would seem as if she, in her young age, had already accepted pain, perhaps even death.

But that could not be. Why, then, would she have gone to such great lengths to escape it? Surely, she had not done all of this by accident.

It did not matter. She would pay for her crimes all the same if she was not prepared for what was to come.

The old woman, for the first time since she had saved the girl from a bloody death at the clawed hands and teeth of the late soldiers of Ikana, shifted her attention away from the girl, surveying the drop-off that was the edge of the gaping maw of the entrance to the Temple of the Stone Tower.

This place was not much safer. A cursed wind still blew from within the depths of this Temple, out through the maw, which belonged to a giant, eerie head sculpture of tan-brown stone. Its eyes still burned with the fury of its builders, a tribe long since forgotten. Levels upon levels of murder holes still released giant boulders, made of the same hard, sharp stone that constituted the Tower itself. The ancient mechanical Beamos persisted, rotating their all-seeing eyes. Their pupils were still hot with their concentrated flame that, when released, could eat through the thickest and heaviest of armours instantly. The dead, too, served as slaves to the Tower's indomitable will, for the moaning, echoed cries of the ReDeads bounced ceaselessly across the walls.

The old woman was well aware of the Tower's sentience, and knew that she could not guarantee the girl's protection from everything that crawled within it, or the lands around it, for that matter.

Not only that, but the Bringer of Death that the girl had escaped was not the only one of its kind, and most of them upheld the Law.

She had no other choice. She would need to risk it. She would need to summon him.

She looked upward at the misty sky, where the sun was nowhere to be found. She spied a single bat, flying leisurely across the Tower's skyline. She stared at it for a moment, following its movement, before she raised one of the sleeves of her worn, faded garment toward it. The bat suddenly changed its course, now flying directly toward her and the girl. Elsewhere, over the walls of the Tower, more bats came pouring down into it like dark, poisoned waterfalls. They all converged in a circle, flying just above the entrance of the Temple, the old woman in the centre.

The stone walls were veiled with a hot shade of crimson as the one thousand bats screeched their musical cacophony, flying lower and lower, all the while seeming to merge together. When they were close enough to the ground, something different was materialized from their performance, just in front of the Temple's maw: a dark creature whose torso was a skeletal cage that imprisoned a golden, crystalline orb.

The cage was quickly wrapped in a black cloak that seemed to fade in and out of existence. It ended in countless tatters and rips, not unlike the old woman's own attire. Some of the bats had remained, and circled it, acting as a precautionary shield. Atop the cloak and the cage was a head that vaguely resembled that of a human, albeit deformed, and complete with a curved, green protrusion that may have been a stub of hair. It had a wide, menacing mouth that continuously bled. The blood that ran down its "chin" and dripped off of it was so acidic that it sizzled and stained the ground, leaving small holes embedded in the stone. Atop its head was a pair of wide, olive-green eyes studded with purple pupils.

The creature had no legs, and simply floated in place. Its right hand, attached to a long arm that emerged from no specific hole in the cloak, held a large, intimidating scythe wrapped in a spiral of bones that ended at the top of the weapon with the skull of a Stalchild. The scythe's blade was thick, longer than an average man was tall, likely honed enough to sever air itself, and polished to perfection; its victims could have seen their own terrified reflections within it. The old woman could see hers, and she appeared composed, though her lips had tightened in slight nervousness. The creature's eyes pierced into her soul (or what was left of it), as it produced a strange, otherworldly roar (or perhaps it was a rasp; it was difficult to determine). She tried not to grimace; the creature, she knew, would not take kindly to any form of disrespect, no matter how insignificant.

"O, great one who long ago broke the Gods' hold over him; the one known and feared throughout the lands in the Four Directions as Gomess, the very hand of death," called the old woman in a respectful, revering manner with her low-pitched, stern voice, as she lowered herself to one knee before the creature. "I have called you here to request from you a favour, from one cursed soul to another."

The creature called Gomess roared again. He was obviously possessed neither of the ability to speak, nor of much in the way of patience. Still, he remained docile, the upper end of his scythe falling into his left hand.

"In this girl rests all of my hopes," the woman continued, gesturing briefly with her head toward the small figure lying upon the stone. "However, she has broken the Divine Law, and is in grave danger. She does not have much time left. But she must survive.

"I prithee, take her; keep her safe from your brethren. In return, I offer myself to your judgment. Take what you will of me."

Gomess released a low growl, seeming to consider her offer. A small moment passed, before his left arm extended at lightning speed toward the old woman, who yelped as she flew backward off of the cliff. She was held in the air by an unknown force, where she writhed in agony. As Gomess' eyes widened into a cruel, gratified stare, she felt her life force being drained directly from her already-diminished soul. Instantly, she felt weak, as if she would literally fall apart.

It did not take long. After only a few seconds, Gomess' hold seemed to relax, and she was pulled slowly back to solid ground. Having taken his payment, Gomess' eyes turned to the sleeping child, and the bats that served as his shield flew toward her. They circled her in a manner similar to how they had circled him, levitating her off of the ground a few feet, before converging on her. She disappeared into their black mass, after which, the bats flew back to their master.

Gomess released another angry roar that echoed throughout the Tower, shaking the impregnable stone that it was constructed of. Afterward, he disappeared in the same manner that the girl had, the bats scattering to the top of the Tower's walls where they had first come in. The old woman was left to herself, on her knees, hacking and struggling to breathe.

Through her effort, she managed two words: "My…gratitude…"

She fell unconscious, the tatters of her gown still flapping in the cursed wind.

The images of the boy in green suddenly faded away and subsided, and though she was surprised and confused, she felt relief in her heart.

But it was not to last.

What took the place of the prior images were those of hundreds upon hundreds of people she had never before seen; men, women, and children of all races and ages.

And every one of them died in some horrific fashion; bisected or decapitated by a huge scythe, turned to stone and crushed into oblivion in mid-air, eaten alive by dozens of ravenous bats bearing evil, blood-stained eyes…

All of these deaths occurred in different places, yet all of these places, for some reason, were covered completely in a crimson shadow.

Inside, she screamed in terror, frustration, and despair, beginning to struggle once again to awaken. She knew that she could have this time. But now, her physical consciousness was being suppressed by something evil, and a familiar feeling squeezed the life out of her heart. It was the feeling of a huge weight, and she cried out even harder because she knew that, somewhere, she had felt this before. The same feeling of all of the despair, troubles, and sins of the world on her shoulders alone.

More than ever before, she desperately wanted to d—

Her thoughts stopped there abruptly as a skin-rattling roar pierced into her conscience. There was nothing intelligible about it, but she felt like it said something to her; imparted a message within her mind.

"Do not tempt me, little mortal! It is already degrading enough to bear you and your pathetic sorrows within me! Do not undermine further the contract made in your favour by the Twilit Intruder, or your soul shall be mine to slowly rend and tear asunder until the end of time!"

Instantly, she ceased her struggling once more. But she didn't understand. A contract? Twilit Intruder?

Where in the world was she? Before, she thought that she was merely in a deep sleep. Now, she was someone's prisoner?

Wait. Her soul? What had it said about her soul?

She paused, and gradually, she began to remember something. A new image now came to her of a dark forest of exceedingly large trees that blotted out nearly all light, but let in just enough so that the forest floor could be seen. She was seeing this through the blurred perspective of someone who was crying and running frantically through the woods. Whoever it was, the owner of these eyes tripped over something, falling with a resounding thud,but did not get up. This person whimpered with the voice of a young girl. Her green hair further obscured her vision as it fell over her eyes, and she would remain that way.

It almost seemed as if she would cry herself to sleep, but an incredible hissing noise startled her out of her despondent stupor and she sat up. When she cleared the hair from her eyes, she beheld a horrific-looking creature that was essentially the upper half of a hooded, mutilated corpse atop a large spider. Off of the large spider streamed blood, along with a countless number of ravenous insects of every kind. All of them proceeded to converge on her. But the writhing corpse extended its skeletal arm toward her with an ear-wrenching screech, and all of them stopped instantly. The image blackened completely as the girl shut her eyes. When she opened them again, the corpse produced a large sickle-blade in one hand, and the scales in the other. It spoke to her in an unbearable voice, pointing its blade at her, and apparently offered her something. The girl seemed tempted to accept it, as she took a step toward the thing.

The words that it spoke afterward could not be made out, but something it said deeply startled and repulsed the girl. She broke its gaze, screaming. A screech even worse than the one before followed and the visible world started to twist and distort and crack. And then, it broke apart into millions of tiny pieces, as if it had all been nothing but a giant slab of moving glass. When the shards faded away, there was nothing but a series of strange, brightly-coloured emblems passing by, as if she was falling through an infinitely abysmal dream world that contained the very fabric of life. Then, the image abruptly disappeared. It was at its end.

It took her a moment to fathom it all, but then she understood: the owner of those eyes…that was her, crying because the boy in green had left. And that thing…

Did that thing kill her? Was that where she was? Within its—?

The roar again.

"Do not insult me, child!"

No. That was not where she was. But if not, then where—?

A low growl. Then, all the images and thoughts and worries disappeared. Everything was blank, and she asked no more questions.

A blur. Then, some clarity.

It was night-time now. But that held no importance. What were important were the two wooden, stubby legs, the feet of which covered with red shoes that curled upward at the tips, standing in front of the old woman. She could not look any higher than that, for her head would not turn. She still had no strength in any part of her body. She was completely immobile.

All that she heard was the sound of bones rattling, followed by a high-pitched, childish laugh. A pair of disconcertingly large, yellow eyes flashed in her mind, before it was all lost to nothingness.