Jackal Among Snakes

“Now that I know what comes, all of this looks so small,” Onychinusa marveled, one of the emissaries of her Lord at her side as she witnessed the march of the elven gods. They stood above the canopies of the redwoods, removed from the conflict yet central to it all.

“Everything can look small from the right perspective,” the emissary answered back.

What occurred down below certainly did not fulfill the definition of ‘small.’ Kirel Qircassia’s breach stood strong. It was a gash in reality itself and existed as a portal to another realm. Rather than a portal made naturally, this was a tear. It connected the two realms in such a way that one could see nothing if they looked at it from behind, but from the front, an entirely separate realm expanded infinitely onwards. Though Kirel already bent this place to his whims, in time the Bloodwoods would be entirely supplanted by his realm.

If Kirel had his way, the two realms would blend, homogenizing until the mortal world and the divine world were one in the same. It would stay in this state during the cycle of judgment wrought by Gerechtigkeit. And when—no, if—the arbiter was defeated, both would separate once again, becoming two diverging paths subject to different forces. The divine realm would heed the divinity, while the mortal realm would once again heed the mortal forces of nature permeating this land. And thus, existence spun millennium after millennium.

Seeing it in this fashion, the great force of elven gods and mortals rushing to plug up this breach seemed small. Thousands of Kirel’s servants battled against a foe they were not equipped to handle in a desperate but loyal attempt to salvage their invasion. Even Onychinusa could see no way to end any of those elven gods with all of the power at her disposal.

The gap between worshipped and worshipper was far too large to bridge. And there were yet more gaps beyond those, of a magnitude Onychinusa could barely even begin to conceive…

Yet still her eyes wandered to the human mage known as King of Vasquer, struggling with his allies with all the same ferocity as the rest. Looking at him, he had reason to be proud of his strength. His spells claimed countless lives in this war, and so he had reason to think his actions mattered. He had certainly toiled to embrace as much power as he could. But with all she knew, he seemed the smallest of them all.

Still, her eyes wandered to the emissary. “You can move beyond the Lord’s shrines, now. Why must we mind things so small? Argrave rejected the Lord once before. Let him die,” she suggested after her question.

The emissary did not respond immediately, but she knew it would. They had been indulgent to her requests these days, in harsh contrast to the coldness they displayed not a week earlier. Even though the back of her mind sometimes whispered this was manipulation, she still wished to be indulged to a point she did not mind if it was precisely that.

“We understand that having other variables around discomforts you,” the emissary responded sagely. “But ask yourself this: is true mastery of the game eliminating all uncontrolled variables, or mastering them so completely they bend to your will?” The emissary held out its hands, almost as though to seize those fighting on the ground. “The Lord believes it is the latter. Brutality has its place, as you will soon learn. But why should He care if Argrave has freedom? It does not matter. The Lord is not playing Argrave’s game. Argrave is playing His game.”

Onychinusa felt a chill run down her spine. “And if this king chooses not to play?”

The emissary retracted his hand. “The only way to determine the quality of clay is to get it wet, and attempt to mold it. If it keeps its shape when worked, then it is good clay. And if it breaks, crumbles…” the emissary looked over. “Then we move on, leaving it broken. We have not risked much.”

As the gaze lingered, Onychinusa’s breath quickened, realizing the emissary might not be speaking of the king alone. She swallowed and said desperately, “I’ll do my part in the battle. I’ll make the Lord proud, I swear it.”

The emissary looked over. “From the looks of things, that part will commence soon. They grow ever closer to the breach… and Argrave will call upon the centaurs’ Sarikiz, if he sticks to his plan.”

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Argrave’s mind was frayed with exhaustion as he fought, straining his mind to its limit to control the numerous whips surging out from his blood echoes. Though they grew ever closer to the breach, the resistance they faced increased in turn. He burned through much of the power he’d accrued in the elven realms, but it didn’t feel like such a loss if victory could truly come of this. And looking ahead… that seemed to be the case.

Argrave fell back to survey the scene, mentally exhausted. Though even the Magisters had run out of strength on this death march, Anneliese and Orion picked up the slack he left behind. His queen cast grand spells one after another as though it was as easy as walking, using ice and lightning to fell any that would dare come near. Orion warded away all the creatures that avoided her power, and what few he missed were in turn dealt with by the honor guard of Veidimen. Argrave felt proud of them, and even had confidence enough to look away where the true battle happened.NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

Ghan and Merata, father and eldest son, walked side-by-side in their advance toward the breach in the world. To the sides of the cut in the fabric of reality, one could only see the mortal world. Looking straight at it, an entirely new realm opened up before the viewer—Kirel Qircassia’s realm. The breach was impossible geometry manifest. The area behind the breach seemed larger than the hole itself. And being a portal between realms… it was.

Even as the battle raged around them, Argrave peered into the rift. All of what Argrave saw of Kirel’s realm was land and sky. The land was black, burned, and lifeless, its uniformity disturbed only by his servants. Some of that lifelessness already seeped into the ground by the rift, transforming it. The sky was a blinding white, exuding light constantly. Land and sky existed as two parallels, almost like yin and yang.

It had been so faint from a distance, but Argrave felt something strikingly familiar. It was the same sort of presence that he’d felt when Erlebnis himself had warned Argrave against meddling with the Blessing of Supersession, or when they had visited him in that shrine of his. But this pressure was not Erlebnis’. It was simply the weight of being behind an ancient god, the immutable existence that consumed the mind. It made his steps feel heavy… and seeing how all others slowed, Argrave knew he wasn’t alone in feeling this.

And more than his pressure… Kirel Qircassia exerted his will. Black hands grabbed the breach from the bottom, straining as they pulled. Opposite them, hands of whiteness worked just as fiercely. Any new servants entering the realm walked on the arms of these hands, using them as a bridge to span the gap between divinity and mortality.

It came to a point the pressure was so intense Argrave wondered if he could take another step forward. His brain felt crushed, and his limbs felt like jelly. He could move them fine, and was forced to in combatting the waves of servants that still came. But then… Argrave wasn’t the one that needed to advance, anymore.

When the elven gods grew close enough they could nearly touch the breach, the hands wrenching the breach open fell away, one after the other. Argrave felt some of that unending pressure fade… yet as he rose to his feet, half a thousand of those hands burst free, white and black pressed together.

Though Argrave was surprised, the two leading were not. Ghan’s lightning sparked out from his body like a living shield, while Merata called the vastness of life in the Bloodwoods. Both of them engaged this tide of divine will as the other gods circled around them. Lightning and life began to falter… but soon, deadly blades of water joined, and then roaring flames.

Argrave thought for a brief moment that Kirel, even though only a figment of his being, would be too strong for those here. He thought that his fears were right, and he was wholly insufficient for a challenge of this magnitude. With Ghan and Merata utterly overpowered, would the other gods even make a difference?

But soon enough, Chiteng raised an elegant blade of ivory up in the air. It took in Gunlik’s flames, Dairi’s water, Ghan’s lightning, and all the terrible aspects of nature embodied in the elven gods present. A metaphor became clear to Argrave, then. Flesh and blood were formless, molded to the environment around them like clay. That was Chiteng’s strength.

And when Chiteng’s blade descended, it cleaved through all the grasping hands to prove that true. As the black and white hands burst into small, humanoid forms—spirits, fragments of the gods—that immutable presence became muted. Though the gods had been desperately struggling not moments ago, now they walked into the swarm of spirits as they danced away like a school of fish.

The spirits seemed like fleeing children, but the gods merely extended their hands and all were pulled from their flight to join with their body. Ghan, Gunlik, or Chiteng—all of them took in the fragments of Kirel’s hands with an easy and eager hunger. They stood stalwart in deep satisfaction, feasting like hyenas before hard-killed prey. It seemed like ambrosia to them—a forbidden nectar bringing pleasure Argrave couldn’t comprehend.

When the last of the spirits faded away, the gods reeled as though injected with drugs. Merata moved with uncharacteristic ferocity, slamming his crook on the ground before the breach. Roots buried beneath the earth surged to life, rising upwards and winding about each other as though to stretch to the sky in a grander display than ever shown before.

Behind, Merata’s father Ghan turned and raised his sparking fist up in the air. Intensely fierce lightning rocked the earth, so fast and loud Argrave felt their power drumming in his chest. As he looked around, shaken out of his observation, he saw a hellish scene that displayed a power far superior to what was demonstrated earlier. Lightning bolt after lightning bolt killed the vast hordes of enemies fighting against their armies. Where Ghan had been protective before, now he was fierce and hungry, killing for the sake of killing.

But even still… Argrave reveled in it, laughing uneasily as his ears rang from the booming thunder. On one end, the source of reinforcements was blocked by a great wooden fortress that grew larger every second. On the other, all invading armies were struck down by the surging power of his allies.

No more enemies would come, not with the elven gods right here keeping the breach closed. But for things to end permanently, it was not enough. Tears in the boundary between this realm and the realm of the divine were not so easily mended.

His allies had done their part. It was time for Argrave to make good on his promise. He’d thought this situation desperate, almost unwinnable… but here he was. Now was the time to make his work with the centaurs pan out—now was the time to rouse Sarikiz and work out a compromise between all parties that left everyone walking away happy.

It was time for the gods to pass the ball to him.