Weight of Worlds

Chaos ruled the settlement. Street cobbles had traded place with roof tiles. Snow, dust, sand, ash, and sawdust filled the air. Screams sounded dully through the mist of destruction. People stumbled out of the cloud, bloodstains became vivid marks on debris, muted clothes. A stench of dried wood, ash, fresh rain, cold snow, old trash, and fresh blood hung in the air.

Masses of people were converging on the center of destruction. It reminded Graywing of carrion. Orderly lines of soldiers emerged from garrisons stationed throughout the city began their cautious approach, like vultures circling and patient. The processions of the cult, the ‘faithful’, returned to their march, ravens come to peck first and flee fast. Tethered rose by the dozen, taking to the skies to investigate the site.

Graywing settled on the ground outside the cloud, glaring into the depths. Though these eyes were sharp, better than his own in some ways, they could not penetrate the fog that now hung before them. His senses roved the obscuring mass, slowly billowing forth, frothing with injury and destruction. Yet she continued to evade his every attempt at finding her. The Interloper was somewhere within, yet retained the wherewithal to hide. If he could repeat the trick of the Master, then perhaps Graywing could easily detect her.

Energy, mana, streamed in drowning floods into the Brotherhood. Locusts burst out of him, surging into the dust. Graywing rustled his feathers in agitation, a low clicking sound from the teeth suggested his annoyance.

People were staring at him. Looking out of windows or halting on the street, their eyes were wide with fear and many retreated on seeing him. Those appearing from the destroyed quarter limped out, eyes blank with incomprehension.

Graywing waited for the Brotherhood to discover the Interloper’s location, but it was proving more difficult. She was hiding and doing it well. Not that there was much else left for her.

A person gasped as an item struck the ground next to Graywing. Looking down, he spread his wings in fury and stomped on it. The taloned finger, once a magnificent black, had taken on a darkening yellow gradient, only becoming fully dark at the root. The digit had fallen off at the knuckle, yet no blood dripped from the sudden injury.

He was out of time. Internally, a different eruption of emotions resounded. Dark colors filling Graywing with little more than a sense of foreboding. The bird could not interpret Ranvir’s emotions as easily as the reverse.

The world darkened as Graywing dove into the haze before him. Sounds changed and shifted as the Master’s Perception adapted to the new environment. He heard the crumbling sound of a house slowly collapsing. Someone was drawing labored breaths underneath the many dust-darkened layers of a house. Each struggling gasp gurgling with blood. He would not have long.

A couple meters in, the street began disappearing. Cobbles were missing, then replaced with broken wood-framing until finally it was dirt streets too occupied with rubble to pass reasonably. Yet still people were scrambling over top the heaps and heaps of broken stone and timber.

Graywing came across a woman in her middle-years kneeling on the dirt, cradling herself as she stared into the distance. Blood was seeping from her stomach, yet already it was covered in a layer of filth. Her heart beat no longer.

A blank, nearly white light had overtaken the entirety of Ranvir’s emotions. Flashing violently to blind him to all that appeared, leaving a deadened patina to remain. “It is for the best,” the Sister spirit commented. Silently, Graywing agreed with her.

Occasionally, they passed a thin streamer of insects, searching the rubble. Graywing’s own senses roved as best he could, but despite his superior skill elsewhere, this was one region Ranvir was truly Master.

Will I die? He wondered. When Ranvir succumbs, will it be like the others? Or will I fall in the conflagration that will become him? Graywing could sense it already, the slow building of forces within the soul. It would remain slow until the very last moments before the eruption. He would burst, tear apart in a storm without equal. Sand and wind and rain carried on space.

He would be okay with that, Graywing decided. He lived as a king before bonding and should he die as a legend, then so be it. A cyclone, a force of nature as befit him, tearing through this plane and perhaps others. It kept the connection to the Master’s beacons, after all. Rifting through the other planes. Oh, they would be remembered then.

They passed by a tenement building, dogs sniffing around on the rubble. One whined and pawed at the splinters. Graywing saw the limp hand emerging from the rubble. Dust-covered and scarred, it had belonged to an old man. One rich with life and experience. Old of soul and the world, yet rich with care. The once-bird bowed its head at the sacrifice. He knew well the rarity of souls like that, even among avians.

Straightening, he saw a pair of dark eyes looking out from the shadow of the building. A small nose had bled and crusted over. The hair, long and tangled, hung over thin shoulders and a ragged dress.

Ranvir lurched. Nausea welled within Graywing, surging his stomach. Dizziness encroached, spinning the world around him. He fell to his knees, catching himself on his hands. Surging and roiling, Ranvir railed against Graywing. The young Master’s heart broke.

“Sister,” Graywing’s voice was raw and staggered. “Quell him.” Combining their efforts, Ranvir’s voice was slowly drowned. The pressured white blanking shock was gone now. Only dark red fires, ominous and vile, burnt through a drowning haze of dark waters.

Graywing staggered to his feet, leaving behind another talon and most of his palm. Still no blood, only sand and wind-whipped water. Staggering away, Graywing left the hiding child behind. She never spoke a word, though her eyes remained on him until the haze grew too thick.

The cries were dying down now. The occasional cracking of wood and stone, the fall of rubble, remained. Graywing was stepping over a mangled statue of a woman in furs when the Brotherhood alerted him.

“Just in time,” the sister spirit said. Graywing nodded agreement and followed the trail of the Brotherhood. They lead them to a torn apart building that had sunken into itself. Graywing swept sand into a Dune Blow.

Mana whipped and snapped through the attack, sand blasting away the debris, revealing a vast basement underneath. The sub-floor had also been filled, but sand carried it away. She knelt on the stone. Her spirit and body in tatters.

Ripped flesh and soul, bare to the attack. Again, Ranvir stirred, something of hesitation in his intent, but Graywing quashed him. Descending slowly, Graywing wound up the killing attack. It would be another Dune Blow.

It had to be. His storm attack had drained most of his mana reserves. It was handy also having power available. If he escaped Ranvir’s death, he would have to figure something out.

Saleema lashed out, but she could not muster the strength to harm him. Her best attempt sealed his pocket-spaces. A temporary measure, at best. Graywing sneered at her as the Brotherhood joined to make up for the lacking sand. Parts of his hand and wrist were streaming away in the torrent.

Rearing back, Graywing attacked. Ranvir let out a cry that tore free of his throat, and Saleema smiled.

Sansir walked alongside Grevor. His blond hair was matted on the temple, but the blood had been wiped away. The injury had been healed as best they were able, but no one could tell for sure. Head injuries were the worst, and he’d left Grev to deal with it on his own.

Thank the Goddess for Dovar’s intervention. Sansir looked down at his lover. The ring was tight on his finger, too tight. But whether that came from swelling because of the fighting or the actual size, he would figure out later.

Grev looked alright, though he was distracted. He walked without help, returning to the cloister, and spoke without slurring. Yet, it was so tough to know for certain. The healers have given him a list of items to look out for. Sansir could barely look at it. The idea of such things happening to Grev filled him with revulsion.

Ranvir and Saleema disappeared.

The line of returning tethered staggered to a halt as whispers echoed up and down the stream of people. Sansir didn’t know if he should smile or weep.

Their spirits had been in such turmoil before their disappearance. Ranvir’s had felt like a building storm, a hurricane whipping to a froth, yet Saleema’s was a dwindling lake, thinning until only pond scum and lake-bottom muck remained. Yet, despite the rising power, Ranvir had not felt ‘healthy.’ He’d been sickening.

He looked down at Grev, who’d also stopped to look back at the city. “I think. I think maybe he did it.” He kissed his lover, his husband. Grev cupped his face, the other ring cold against Sansir’s cheek. They hugged and were not alone. Up and down the line, people were cheering and screaming, jumping and kicking. Survival was a high incomparable to anything else.

Behind Grev, Sansir saw Es fall to his knees and guilt enveloped some small part of him. Kirs cradled him, resting his head in her lap, stroking his cheek and holding his hand. Tears threatened to brim Es’ eyes, but his cheeks remained dry for the moment.

Dovar staggered past, staring dazedly toward their last location. Denial and confusion reigned his expression.