The Slow Path - Chapter 3 - SemperDraca (2024)

Chapter Text

~*~

The First Astral Era

~*~

Though Emet-Selch had been eager to disappear from the vicinity of the elder dragon’s lake, he doesn’t actually have that concrete a destination in mind. There is a group of half-men that have settled beneath the fallen remnants of a floating isle, and he is debating making them his next pet project.

He has yet to take a body amongst them, so instead he sits and watches as the half-men begin to weave ropes together. In this new age, it would appear as though a measure of cleverness has been returned to the people of the Source, and they are swiftly learning how to make tools and build shelters. This group here has come up with a creative, albeit simple, method of roping together the isle fragments that halfheartedly hover above the ground. With rope, they create a net of isles, ground anchors, and the crystals that the recent Calamity has unearthed.

Unfortunately, they seem willing to dissolve into conflict the moment they aren’t in perfect harmony. In Amaurot, disagreements had been solved by debate or by consulting members of the Convocation. Now, these half-men throw fists over a difference of opinion.

This thought he says aloud, absent musings to his new shadow.

Mei, as she insists he call her, has been following behind him for some time now. The girl is out of place in this area, but so long as she stands far enough away and appears to be naught but a wanderer, no one blinks twice at her scales or tail. It helps too that he’d forced her to wear something less conspicuous than her too-refined clothing that he still has yet to get an explanation for.

“Surely it can’t all have been solved simply through peaceful discussion,” she comments, more than a little confusion in her voice. “Not to say that the method isn’t a worthwhile one, for I personally would prefer to live in a world where violence is never resorted to, but there must have been some people who refused to listen to any manner of reason?”

He shrugs. “And that is where the Convocation would step in and make its ruling.”

“That simple?”

“Societal cohesion was of tantamount important to us all. Those who were less suited to the conviviality of such a large city tended to gravitate to different locations on their own - Elpis being one such locale.”

She hums in thought and doesn’t say anything further.

“You disagree?” he prods.

“Ah, well… Sometimes the people that most want to be distanced from society can be those who most need to be around others. If you place yourself in a position where no one can question you or no one is around to offer support, that can… fester.” She does that thing she does when she doesn’t want to properly answer a question, fiddling with her hands as though they’re a piece of cloth to wring out. “We are all social creatures, in the end. Or at least that’s what I’ve found to be true. Some distance can help, but when you view yourself as having opinions that are fully outside of societal mores and place yourself in an environment that exacerbates it, I don’t think that benefits anyone.”

“And who specifically are you referring to?”

“Referring to - Um. I was just… speaking generally, that’s all.”

“Let me give you a piece of free advice,” he teases. “If you intend to continue following me around, learn how to lie better.”

A pale pink dusts her cheeks and she mumbles, “I’ll take that under advisem*nt.”

He pats her head, like one would with a small and fluffy pet, which of course only exacerbates her blush. “I’m sure you will. Now tell me - What do you think of this little group down below? Any thoughts in that head of yours?”

“Oh.” She returns her attention to the congregation that has just succeeded in lashing an additional three islands to the ground. “Well, their method is certainly more reliable than chocobo travel.”

“Indeed it is.” That brings him some amusem*nt and he wonders if she’s aware that he started that particular disaster.

It’s intriguing, the way these people have decided to place a shard of crystal on each luster of islands. They’ve yet to learn the trick to teleporting and have only vaguely begun to comprehend aether, but he wonders if some deeply-buried instinct tells them that they were once capable of traveling from aetheryte to aetheryte. Perhaps, with a bit of targeted prodding and a good deal of time, they might relearn that ability.

He hums to himself, propping his chin up on his hand. How far above them is teleportation, really? He might wait to see if they do, like watching animals try to learn new tricks. The knowledge that they will likely fail over and over mixed with the faint hope that they might succeed.

Nothing ventured nothing gained, he decides, and tells his familiar, “Have that woman in the red coat step away from the group.”

“Why?” the familiar asks.

“Pay attention,” he scolds. “That woman is the one directing the others more often than not, and the man who is her partner has the largest passive pool of aether amongst this tribe. If they can form into anything greater than a loose conglomeration of rocks and people in this area, those two are quite likely to be at the forefront of the effort. How much more must I spell it out for you?”

Her face flattens out, features loosing emotion. “You wish to possess her.”

“Of course I do.”

He can see the way her throat shifts when she swallows, delicate tendons and thin scales moving as she does whatever internal deliberation she needs to do. It would be intriguing, although disappointing, if she said no after all the lofty promises she’d given when she asked to follow him. Slowly, that emotionlessness settles out, resulting in something calm and strangely blank.

“Very well,” she says, just as calm and hollow.

With no further comment, she tugs her hood up and leaves for the settlement below. He’s almost impressed.

As he does not wear a body, he can walk amongst these new people without them perceiving his presence. To them, he is a ghost. To him, they are ghouls. Thus he follows after his new familiar, watching as she lures out the woman in red.

It’s not a clever strategy that she employs, yet it is an effective one. She introduces herself - rather flatly, but that’s something that can be worked on - as naught but a wanderer who has noticed the work this group has been doing. She tells the woman that she has seen a cluster of crystals a short distance away and asks for help carrying them over. The woman leaves with her, and the moment they are out of sight, Emet-Selch steps into the woman’s body.

By now, there is no difficulty in possessing one of these half-men even when their soul still remains within them. It’s simple to shove the woman’s essence to the side, forcing her into slumber.

He rolls his new neck out, cracks his new knuckles. “This will do nicely,” he says, in his new voice. Higher, more delicate, but he thinks it will take well to giving orders. “Now then, let’s see what we can make of this, shall we?”

This body’s partner is waiting when they return, attaching a hook to one of the ropes. He looks up and a smile spreads across his face as he sees who he believes to be his lover. Poor fool. The woman’s memories are easily accessed, and Emet-Selch rifles through them in the same way someone would flip through the pages of a book. A name and details flit to the top, dull and plain and almost frustrating in the utter absence of complexity.

“I’m terribly sorry for taking so long, Fhylwain,” Emet-Selch says, affixing a smile to this face he’s taken. “I do hope everything has been going well in my absence?”

“All is right as rain. Did you manage to find the crystals?” Fhylwain asks.

He shrugs his new, thinner shoulders. “They were cracked.”

“Ah, a pity.” This body’s partner looks over Emet-Selch’s shoulder to his little familiar, still hovering about nervously. “Welcome back, traveler! Are you heading off once more, or can we convince you to stay for a meal?”

The familiar hesitantly opens her mouth to reply, “Well, I - “

“Actually,” Emet-Selch says, cutting her off with another smile, “she has decided to stay for a tad longer than just one meal. Poor girl doesn’t have any set destination awaiting her and I offered to let her remain here with us - I do hope that’s not going to be an issue, will it?”

“Certainly not!” Fhylwain steps forward to clap the familiar on the shoulder, which she admirably doesn't flinch away from. “Let’s give you a proper welcome then. Come along, we’re about to start a fire for the evening meal. I know it’s rather balmy in these parts, but the wind can blow something fierce at night and you’ll be glad for a roaring flame to warm your toes soon enough.”

A tinge of gratitude seeps into the familiar’s nervous expression. “Thank you. I promise not to be a burden.”

“Get her situated, hm?” Emet-Selch cheerfully instructs. “I’ll ensure this next isle is strung up in short order.”

Fhylwain kisses him on the cheek - Not pleasant, but honestly so bland that it’s utterly inoffensive. “Thank you, Alyvan. Do be careful though; don’t overwork yourself.”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about me.”

~*~

It’s about thirty years into this current venture, when this group of half-men have properly built a settlement in this area, that Emet-Selch remarks;

“'Twould be for the best if you leave for the time being.”

His familiar stills. She has been sitting next to him, watching as a few of the half-men test out a new method of fishing in the myriad lakes and rivers that run under and around this partially constructed floating village. Clearly, she had not been anticipating this conversation right now, but she cannot be so witless as to have ignored the inevitability of it entirely.

Eventually she closes her eyes and says, “I’m not aging. And everyone else is beginning to notice, aren’t they?”

“Mm.” As he’d taken a body for his own, the flesh has aged as it normally would, keeping him from any scrutiny. However, his familiar is not in the same situation. “It’s starting to get rather obvious, and there’s really only so much that can be written off by the difference in species between you and the rest. Even Fhylwain has begun to voice doubts, and it’s been a decade since that fool questioned me.”

Slowly, she rises to her feet and dusts off her skirt, staring down at her feet to avoid looking him in the eye. “I understand.”

“Once this body dies, I imagine I shan’t take another in this settlement.” He sighs, “They progress at a pace so slow that it almost appears as though there is no progress whatsoever. The thought of staying here for another mortal lifetime is a tedious one, and I’d rather not die of boredom anytime this century. No, I think that mayhap once this venture is over with, I shall retreat to the void for a time. A long nap sounds quite appealing.”

A tiny smile flickers at the corner of her mouth. “Somehow, I am not surprised by that.”

“You’re bound to the Source, are you not?”

“I will be unable to wait for you in the void, if that’s what you were wondering. How… I mean… Will I be able to find you again? Once you’ve completed this mortal life.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You managed to locate me more than once in the past. Don’t tell me that you’ve lost that particular mysterious talent?”

Her cheeks flush and she looks away again. What skill she has in deception is fickle and inconsistent, and she’s not particularly good at pretending that she isn’t hiding anything. “It would take me hundreds of years to find you. And both times it was… I mean, it wasn’t accidental, I was looking for you, but… it wasn’t as though I could simply find you. There are no aetherytes for me to teleport to. I had to walk, every single time. And once I would finally arrive, you were usually long gone.”

There’s a hollowness in her voice that rankles, an uncomfortable itch against his skin. He was quite correct in the assessment he’d made when he agreed to take her as his familiar - She truly is a lonely little thing.

Aether twists above his open palm with barely so much as a thought. Absently, he shapes the energy into a blank crystal, not unalike in shape from the ones that the Convocation has made for themselves. This however is naught but a pale, colorless imitation, nothing more than a convenient shape for the most basic of spells.

Once complete, he tosses it to her and watches as she catches it in surprised and fumbling hands. Her eyes widen at the sight of the thing, cradling it in her small palms as though some part of her fabricated mind is actually sophisticated enough to comprehend that it has significance.

“I… This is…” She bites down on her lower lip and looks up at him with those eyes that he so hates.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” he scolds. “It contains a mere tracking spell. A bit of my aether that I may trace at my leisure, should I need to find you when I’ve had my deserved rest.”

Her lips part in a silent oh. “Of course. Thank you very much, I… I appreciate it. Truly.”

“Do make sure not to misplace it, else I shan’t bother to locate you when I return,” he warns. “I am entirely uninterested in expending quite that much effort.”

She cradles it to her chest. “I’ll keep it safe, I promise.”

He flicks his hand at her in clear dismissal. “Go on then. It would be best if you merely vanished.”

“Of course.” She bows her head and adds, in a soft but sincere tone, “I wish you the best of luck in your venture here. And I look forward to seeing you again.”

With that, she strides off away from the settlement and towards the cover of trees. She glances back at him over her shoulder as she leaves. Just once, just for a moment, as though afraid to let him see. Such a silly little thing. Of course he’d see - she might attempt subtlety, but she hardly succeeds at it.

Once more, he wonders at how she’d been able to find him those two times she’d actually managed to do so. His theory - and admittedly, his hope - is that the excess of Persephone’s aether in the familiar has allowed her to sense his own aether, the remnants of a far more powerful resonance. He has a fleeting fantasy of drowning the familiar in his aether, turning the thing into a vessel that contains naught but himself and Persephone. But the thought fades swiftly. It would only destroy the last trace of Persephone’s aether in this barren, sundered world.

Hythlodaeus would not have pushed her away, Emet-Selch thinks.

He can practically hear what his friend would say, a chiding, "That wasn't very polite, do you think?" even though keeping her is impractical.

The next day, there are mutterings about the familiar’s sudden disappearance.

Most are glad to see the last of her. Emet-Selch hadn’t been lying when he said that people were beginning to notice her lack of aging. While she had been more than useful for many years, particularly when the settlement was even smaller than it currently is, goodwill doesn’t last forever with these people.

“She could have at least explained herself,” Fhylwain grumbles a week after the familiar left.

Years spent amidst these people has not made Fhylwain any more interesting than he had been when Emet-Selch first met him. The man is not a complex sort of person, to say the least. He’s also particularly doting , which can be quite irritating at times but does make him ludicrously easy to manipulate.

Emet-Selch resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Mere days ago you were professing your desire for her permanent absence.”

“It isn’t as though I want her to return,” Fhylwain protests. “I only wish she’d given a reason before leaving. Or given us an answer as to… what, exactly,” he adds tentatively, as though the words might lash out, “she… erm, was. Or was doing. Or wasn’t doing.”

“Well she’s gone,” Emet-Selch replies, quite bored with this conversation. “That’s the end of it.”

“I suppose so…” Fhylwain looks off into the distance, as though hoping, or perhaps fearing, seeing the familiar reappear. “I guess it is a waste of time to speculate. Love, could you help me with this crystal? Probably best to move it before the sun sets, don’t you think?”

“Oh, very well.”

These half-men are still utilizing crystals - which they barely comprehend - to keep the isles afloat and in some semblance of order. An irritating side effect of this method is that if a pre-existing isle has no crystals atop it, they seem unreasonably paranoid that it might drop out of the sky at any minute and thus take great pains to ensure that at least one crystal is on its surface. Emet-Selch finds it irksome, but he lets it play out as they wish.

“I wish we had a better way of shifting these things besides rope ladders,” Fhylwain says as he prepares to move the crystal. “Getting around these parts isn’t becoming easier with age, let me tell you.”

A thought rises to the forefront of Emet-Selch’s mind. In all likelihood, it shall be nothing more than a waste of time, and yet he’s still tempted. Fhylwain does have the strongest aetheric presence here, and by now he’s been more than trained to take directions. Surely it cannot be too difficult to simply… nudge. A light prod in the right direction. Insects though these half-men might be, this group has been a tad more creative than the average speck of dirt.

Perhaps a slight hint is in order.

“I wonder,” he begins, sly and slow, “if there might be a way to travel from one crystal to another. Far more direct than rope ladders, no?”

“You mean like tying the rope to the crystal instead of the isle?”

…This man is an idiot.

“No,” Emet-Selch says, as sweetly as he can possibly manage when faced with such obtuseness. “You know the crystal resonates with your aether, does it not? Perhaps, if you concentrated, you could use that resonance to travel from one crystal to another with aether. If a metaphor will help, think of it as building a new variety of bridge.”

Fhylwain’s brow furrows as he stares at the crystal. “I don’t know about that. It seems a bit implausible, doesn’t it?”

“Try it,” he insists.

He laughs, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t even know how to try, love. It’s a nice idea, but maybe we should stick with ladders and chocobo.”

“Make an attempt.” Emet-Selch practically grits the words out. This will all have been a spectacular waste of time if this stupid man doesn’t even make a single attempt to attune to the crystal. “Reach out to it.”

With a shrug, Fhylwain places his hand on the crystal. “Alright, if you say so.”

None of these people have more than the most tenuous grasp on their own aether. Fhylwain’s flickers and sputters, excess blue energy fizzing out around his arm like useless droplets of water. Such limited control, such waste. The half-men haven't even learned what spells are, and they barely understand that aether even exists. Faint, stuttering hums emanate from the crystal, just the smallest of sounds, just for a minute. Barely there.

“More,” Emet-Selch orders. “Use more aether.”

“How is that even possible - “

“Do it!”

Fhylwain’s features twist and wrinkle in concentration as his aether swells again. It’s stronger now, steadying out, but still so weak. Surely these half-men have to learn the very basics of aetherial travel at some point in their meager existence, even the familiar mentioned that she was capable of it, albeit missing attuned aetherytes. If they can learn, which they must, then why not now, why not here? They have to be better than the pathetic sacks of flesh that they appear to be, yes, these people must crumble in order for the star to be restored, but that only proves that they are capable of this! They simply need to remember!

Prove me wrong, he wants to scream.

Sweat drips down Fhylwain’s brow in heavy rivulets and his arm is shaking like a leaf in the storm. “Alyvan, this isn’t working - I can’t - “

“Keep going!” Emet-Selch demands. He grabs Fhylwain’s wrist and pins the man’s hand to the crystal surface to prevent him from flinching away. “If you would simply focus on your aether instead of making such a wasteful mess of it all, then you would have attuned by now!”

Fhylwain tries to speak but all that comes out is a garbled mess and then a silent exhale.

The aether cuts out. His eyes roll back in their sockets, his body spasming before going limp and falling to the ground like trash. Leaving Emet-Selch holding onto the wrist of what is now just an empty corpse.

Well. At least the man died loyal.

Someone less devoted would have stopped before letting the crystal drain them dry of aether to the point of death. Emet-Selch lets go of the arm he’s holding, the limb flopping to the ground next to its former owner. Perhaps he was overzealous. Had he not prevented Fhylwain from breaking connection with the crystal, the man would likely be alive right now.

“What a bother,” he grumbles.

Although he does not and never did give a damn about the man, having a dead body lying around is likely to derail this settlement’s progress for the time being. He also doesn’t particularly want to deal with the charade of mourning that will be expected of him, especially if it results in the internal squabbling that he imagines it will - the simple power structures of these people had placed Fhylwain near the top of the hierarchy and someone will look to replace him in one way or another.

With a sigh, Emet-Selch steps out of the body he’s wearing.

Despite the passing of decades, he had never actually killed Alyvan. Her soul had simply slumbered within her body while he kept her subdued, occasionally rifling through her memories but never waking her. In theory, she could continue to live her life as she always had before his arrival, and his skill in the manipulation of both aether and soul means that he has never damaged even a single aspect of her.

So when her body crumples to the ground next to the man who was once her lover, she gasps for breath, eyes flickering open, perfectly alive.

Of course, she begins to scream the moment she fully awakens, but that’s not Emet-Selch’s problem.

He’s already gone.

~*~

“Has there been any progress on the Source?” is all Elidibus asks once Emet-Selch wakes from his long nap.

Could the Emissary not have waited for him to properly brush off the lingering heavy dregs of sleep? “No,” is his curt reply. “The half-men have yet to achieve anything particularly interesting or anything that could be manipulated into an aetheric imbalance. Everything they do is so dreadfully slow.”

“Remember, Emet-Selch, that we cannot afford to be hasty. The Thirteenth proved that well enough. Our great work will take time - “

“I’m well aware of that, thank you very much,” he snaps.

Elidibus’s too-blank eyes simply stare back at him, unperturbed by anything anymore. Nothing behind that nearly transparent blue. “Very well. If the Source is momentarily stagnant, go assist Halmarut. He has been assigned to the Twelfth, but little progress is being made. With Emmerololth yet to be located, Halmarut is lacking a partner to assist in the manufacturing of a Calamity.”

“Halmarut is hardly newly-ascended anymore.” Emet-Selch sighs, turning his gaze away from Elidibus, as though he can see through the Void between worlds to the Twelfth. “Then again… he always was too cautious for his own good.”

“Caution is preferable to - “

“To another incident akin to the Thirteenth, yes yes, I’m aware.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “By the by… where has Lahabrea gone off to? I half expected to see him on my sojourn away from the Source.”

“He is on the Tenth, with Igeyorhm.”

“Ah, well. That would explain it, wouldn’t it?” He gives Elidibus a tired flick of a wave. “I’ll be off then. With luck, Halmarut will be up to something at least mildly interesting.”

Although he doubts it.

~*~

As predicted, Halmarut is not up to anything interesting.

Nor, Emet-Selch finds upon having to spend an excess of time with the man, is he particularly interesting as a person. Although he had never worked closely with Halmarut in the days before the Sundering, the man had always carried an air of good cheer and a quiet sort of cleverness. A respectable colleague, though not a friend, per say. Most of what he’d known about Halmarut, beyond the man’s professional accomplishments, had actually come from Persephone.

Every time she had returned from one of her travels, she’d inevitably brought back various trinkets from wherever she’d been and whoever she’d encountered. Frequently, her adoration for all things green and growing had resulted in her excitedly rushing to the Words of Halmarut to discuss her most recent finding. There was such brightness in her then, the enthusiasm for new knowledge flushing her cheeks and sparkling her eyes. When she was not home in Amaurot tending to her garden and the people there, she was out in the far reaches of their star, tending to all that lived beyond.

As Emet-Selch follows an unsteady Halmarut through a forest on the Twelfth, all he can think of is Persephone and her garden.

The Twelfth, unlike the bio diversity of the Source, is split into two dull extremes. Half the star is little more than desert. Red rock and prickly shrubs, the nomadic inhabitants traveling from oasis to oasis underneath a hot sun. The other half is dense forest, perpetually cold and damp. No snow, merely unending mists and icy rains, proving shelter for a tall, spindly peoples in contrast to those with fur and tails that wander the deserts.

For someone who dislikes both extreme cold and extreme heat, this shard is miserable. For someone like Halmarut, who adores the tenacious species of the flora that have clung to life here, this shard is paradise.

“Is this not fascinating?” Halmarut asks one day.

The two of them are observing one of the tribes of the tall, spindly folk - though they have begun to conglomerate into something that could liberally be called a town. Unlike their nomadic opposites, the excess wood and tree cover have provided an environment more suited to settling and building than constant travel. Currently, there seems to be some sort of party going on, with large groups of people tapping rudimentary spigots into some of the trees.

“See how they adapt of the lack of standard sweeteners like sugarcane?” With a gesture to the massive cauldron simmering over an open fire, Halmarut continues, “I wonder if it is universal nature to crave sweetness or if there is something lacking in their diet that compels them to consume sugar.”

Emet-Selch sighs, leaning against the bark of the least-cold tree in the vicinity. At least the temperature is lessened when he does not wear a physical body. “Does it matter?”

“Perhaps I should do a study. They are almost entirely vegetarian in diet, I’m certain that with careful examination of their primary sources of food, I will be able to determine what nutrients they are or are not lacking.” Halmarut hums thoughtfully before his expression lights up. “Ah, or perhaps it is caloric intake! Sugar is a very efficient source of energy, after all, and as their bodies are physically larger than their desert fellows on this shard, they would correspondingly require a higher-calorie diet.”

The rambling continues as the half-men similarly proceed with this party of theirs. All the syrup that they have tapped from the trees and added to the cauldron has finished reaching whatever temperature they deem fit, and they have begun to pour it out into waxy leaves that are frozen solid from the cold. As soon as the molten liquid touches the iced surface, it begins to harden into a substance that is substantially thickened while still retaining a soft consistency.

They proceed to eat it. Emet-Selch wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“Crude, but undeniably creative,” Halmarut proclaims. “Do you not agree?”

“Not particularly, no.”

His reply goes unnoticed in the wake of Halmarut’s obsessive observations. The man makes another enthusiastic gesture. “See how they give the substance to the children first? Is it simply a culture that prioritizes the welfare of the youngest, or do their offspring require higher quantities of this variety of sugar? I wonder what specifically they need.”

“A temperate climate.”

Halmarut’s stream of thought slows, and the way his expression sinks the tiniest bit is distinctly uncomfortable to look at. “I know that this was her area of expertise and not yours,” he says quietly, “but in the past you were at least neutral about my studies and respected any information they yielded. I know the world has changed, Emet-Selch, but you do not have to abandon who you were before - “

“You know next to nothing about who I was before the Sundering,” he snaps. “We may have raised you up beyond mortal comprehension, but you are not the Halmarut you were before either. You are one of fourteen pieces of that man with an eon of memories shoved into your head and Zodiark’s blessing, and until you are whole once more, you would be wise to avoid accusing me of having changed.”

That at last shuts Halmarut up.

"So prickly," the Hythlodaeus of Emet-Selch's imagination says, "You might have woken up on the wrong side of the bed, most esteemed Emet-Selch."

Jubilant laughter rings out as a group of children start chasing after each other, cheerfully waving sticks of candy around like banners.

Children had been quite rare in Amaurot. A long-deliberated decision that a couple could spend centuries mulling over before making up their minds. There would always be a good number of them, however, precious in their scarcity and much beloved. Not so with these half-men. Their short lives compel them to reproduce rapidly, often without considering the potential consequences or even thinking twice about the subject. In Amaurot, dying in childbirth was unheard of, and children were never in danger of losing their lives. Here, the former happens more often than it should and the latter is all too commonplace.

With a sigh, Emet-Selch stares up at the icy canopy overhead. “Oh very well,” he grumbles. “If you are so compelled to conduct this research, be my guest. It isn’t as though we’ve found any manner of lead on a potential Calamity, so there’s hardly any harm in letting you do as you will.”

Halmarut perks up. “Are you certain? I do have a great deal of respect for you and your opinion - If you truly believe my research to be pointless, I will honor that.”

“Yes yes, study to your heart’s content. It’s not as though I have anywhere I need to be,” he says, and very pointedly does not think of a familiar waiting on the Source.

~*~

In the end, Halmarut spends two centuries investigating various sources of edible plants on the Twelfth, and comes to the conclusion that without severe intervention that would boil down to essentially rebuilding the environment from scratch, the half-men who live on this shard will simply never have the resources or arable land to drag themselves out of perpetual food scarcity.

Halmarut continues to find the extreme dichotomy of biomes on the Twelfth endlessly fascinating, but decides that he needn’t be accompanied for his next research project. Emet-Selch does not hesitate to leave him to his own devices for the time being.

Then Altima reaches out to him, suspecting that she may have found a shard of one of their fallen comrades, and so he makes his way to the Ninth where she has been toiling away. He’s not surprised to see that she has indeed located a soul fragment that once belonged to a Convocation member - though she does not possess soul sight as Emet-Selch does, she and Deudalaphon had always gotten along quite well and if she were to recognize anyone, it would be him. Emet-Selch merely watches as she explains the way of things to the man who was once Deudalaphon, and when it is done, they help him to Elidibus to be restored to his rightful place.

Another colleague recovered. Their ranks are quickly replenishing.

Emet-Selch is in the mood to go poking around the various shards to see if he can spot any other familiar souls, but Elidibus suggests that he return to the Source and he can’t muster the energy to bother disagreeing.

On a morbid whim, he returns to the village of isles that he’d helped to build all those years ago.

Around himself he wraps a cloak of illusion, projecting the image of Alyvan, the woman whose form he had worn for decades. No one who was alive then will remain alive now, he knows, but perhaps these people are capable of passing along histories.

The village has grown in his absence. More and more floating isles hover above the ground settlement. Earth and sky are no longer connected by tenuous ropes, instead bound in a maze of sturdy wooden bridges with slats that sway in the breeze but still stand strong. This improved infrastructure has led them to finally build proper houses above the ground, a village that is building upwards instead of outwards. Efficient, he thinks. Amaurot had done the same, towering high above…

Apparently, he has spent too long standing and staring and has begun to draw suspicion to himself, for after a few hours he is approached by a woman wearing a cloak, flanked by two men carrying wooden spears.

“Can I help you, stranger?” the woman asks him tersely.

He tilts his head to the side and looks up at the large crystal that the town square has built itself around. As though they instinctively sensed the need for a central aetheryte. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. For the moment, you may think of me as naught more than a humble traveler, merely passing through.”

She squints at him. “We don’t get many travelers in this region, not these days. Who are you?”

“Alyvan,” he says, and then almost hopefully adds, “Wife of Fhylwain.”

“Hm. And from where do you hail?”

“Have you not heard of my name, or that of my husband?” The two of them did found this bloody place, after all. It hasn’t been that long, has it? Surely this woman who appears to be the new leader will have learned a thing or two about her predecessors. “I do so hate to be arrogant, but we were somewhat well-known here.”

She taps her chin thoughtfully and then shrugs. “I’m afraid I’ve never heard the names.”

“Ah.” He lets his shoulders slump before giving the woman a false smile. “Mayhap it is for the best."

“Hm. If that is all, I suggest you move along. Strangers aren’t particularly welcome at the moment.”

“And why not, pray tell? You no longer welcome strangers and travelers are now scarce. What attribute of these days, as you put it, has put a damper on everyone’s spirits? You simply must forgive me,” he adds, simpering, “but I have been, shall we say, out of the world for a while and am now attempting to get back in it. My knowledge of current events is a tad outdated.”

“Folks are moving about these days, aren’t they?” she replies, as though this should be obvious to him. “Most are heading south, and those that aren’t head to the east.”

How intriguing. “I see. Well, thank you for the diverting conversation. I shall, as you requested, move along.”

The woman and her guards keep a close eye on him as he makes his way out of the village the mortal way - slowly, and on foot. It would be an irritating waste of time to frighten them with his usual methods of transportation, especially considering that, although they dislike strangers, they are a potential source of information in the future.

For now, however, he is primarily interested in whatever is or is not happening to the south and to the east. When he had last been on the Source, the half-men had begun conglomerating into larger social groups than simply wandering tribes, and he wonders if this is the next escalation of that. A formation of something closer to cities than these small towns and villages that are distantly scattered across the continents. He supposes it was only a matter of time - there is always safety in numbers, and these mortals are so terribly fragile that they must cling to every scrap of safety they can get their hands on.

Once he reaches the edge of the town, he stands upon one of the cliffs overlooking the clear blue sea and considers his options.

To the south, or to the east?

Both have their pros and cons, of course. He’s spent more time on the eastern and northern regions of this continent, and knows the area there at least somewhat. In comparison, he’s only really passed through the south, a bit hesitant to waltz anywhere near Midgardsormr’s lake. Logically, he is well aware that the dragon cannot have claimed all lands to the south of its domain, yet his knowledge of the beast’s capabilities is not as precise as he would prefer it to be.

And yet… He can sense a tiny pulse of his own aether on the Source. Just a little thing, in the hands of a different sort of little thing. The beacon emanates from the south.

Well, he supposes he can’t put it off forever. Forever, after all, is a very long time.

Aether calls to aether, and it takes barely a thought to teleport away to the south, dropping his illusion like shedding a cloak. He arrives to lush grasses that rise up to his hips and tall mountains streaked with a rainbow of earthen tones. Close by is the wavering sound of a rushing river, the gentle sway as the reeds of grass rub together in the breeze, a birdsong high overhead as it circles back to the rest of its flock. It is warm here, but the fresh air and the climate make it nowhere near as unbearable as the suffocating deserts on the Twelfth that he’d suffered through recently.

Though he can sense the familiar’s presence - or the presence of the crystal he’d bestowed onto her - he purposefully keeps his distance. It has been a century or three since he has last seen her, and he’s curious what she has been doing in his absence. He wonders, without really giving a damn, what she had done before she asked to follow him around. Apart from wandering about and occasionally helping out the odd tribe or two.

Amusingly enough, it takes him a moment to locate her. She’s lying on her back, the tall grasses obscuring her small form. Though he watches from a vantage point in the distance, he can see her pack resting next to her and the dirt on her suspiciously well-made boots. In her hands is a notebook. Another suspicious thing. These half-men have yet to invent paper, but even still, this leather-covered book is bound with an ornate metal clasp and embossed with a circular pattern, the pages too white and too neatly cut for anything that could have been created with the tools that are available on the sundered Source. On worlds like the Thirteenth, perhaps, that invented such things sooner, but not here.

There is a pencil tucked between her fingers, yet she does not write, instead merely turning the pages with a slow reverence. Her lips move occasionally, mouthing a word here and there, and he absently wonders what has so drawn her focus.

He teleports right behind her and asks, “Interesting reading material?”

He’d been hoping for an entertaining yelp or a flailing startle, but instead she scrambles upright, whirls around to face him, and her wide eyes suddenly start watering up.

“Emet-Selch…” she whispers, voice cracking as her tears desperately cling to her lashes to avoid falling. Her shoulders begin to shake. “You… you came back.”

He winces, taking an awkward half step back as though reduced proximity will prevent her from actually crying. “Well of course I did. I said I would, did I not? Is all of… this,” he adds, making an embarrassingly uncomfortable gesture to her face while avoiding her gaze, “truly necessary?”

She clutches the notebook to her chest as though enough pressure will force it into her heart and stares up at him as though if she looks away, he will vanish. “I thought…” Those tears wobble again. “I thought you weren’t coming back. You left and I… I knew you would sleep for a long time, but… but then you didn’t come back.”

“I was hardly gone for that long,” he retorts.

“It was three hundred and forty-one years.”

The flat, raw pain in her voice is deeply unsettling in ways he doesn’t want to fully examine. “It isn’t as though you age and wither as these mortals do,” he reminds her. “And this world has hardly changed much during my absence.”

She presses her eyes shut, jaw tightening. “You are not entirely wrong,” she mutters, forcing the words out slowly and carefully. Slowly, she releases all that tension and with it goes the deep awkwardness that this entire outburst has elicited in him. “In that case… How was your rest? Refreshing, I hope?”

“There truly is nothing quite like sleeping away a few centuries,” he replies casually. “You might consider trying it sometime. Although I will confess not even I sleep that long. I spent a couple centuries on the Twelfth, assisting Halmarut in his experimentations regarding the odd biome of that Shard and indulging his fascination in how it interacted with the half-men that live there. No meaningful conclusions were drawn, in the end, but it could have been more dull and I suppose that’s the best we can ask for, hm?”

She begins to pack up her bag, wrapping the notebook in oiled leather to protect it from the elements before tucking it away. “Tell me of Halmarut?” she requests. “I never met him, but I heard that I - that Azem liked him.”

An odd slip of the tongue. She must have been made to reflect Persephone more than he'd originally assumed. He files that away in the back of his mind while he replies, “His role is of course that of a phytobiology specialist - that being plant and fungal life, and the aetheric intersections thereof, if you don't know the term. He was not the oldest on the Convocation, but he had a long tenure during which he expanded the psioniflora research conducted at the Akademia quite drastically compared to his predecessor.”

“That’s an impressive resume, but… well, I meant more what he was like . On a more personal level, that is.”

He sighs and stares up at the cloudless sky. “I was not the closest to him, you know.”

“I know. And that’s not an answer.”

“I don’t particularly want to stand here for hours in order to indulge your every whim.”

“Of course.” She leaps to her feet, slinging her pack over her shoulder, and asks, “Where are we going, then? I mean, I suppose I assume you have a destination in mind, but you might not.”

“My intent was to investigate whatever odd occurrences are going on in the south.”

“Alright. I know a few things about what’s happening, but not that much. I came here for a far different reason and I haven’t done any intensive examination of the people I pass.” She offers him her hand. “I’m ready whenever it suits you.”

He raises an eyebrow at her extended arm. “Oh, I see - You can stop looking quite so ridiculous, I wasn’t planning on teleporting there.”

“You weren’t?”

“No. I don’t have a precise location in mind, and considering that we both are going into this situation rather blindly, it would be more prudent to take a slower approach that covers more ground, instead of jumping about in hopes of stumbling across the right thing.” He flicks her wrist with his finger to get her to lower her arm. “I mean to walk, silly thing.”

“What happened to wanting me to use your… ah, ‘far more expedient method of travel’ I believe it was?”

He lets out a long, slow breath of air and looks across the grasslands and mountains towards the south. “We don’t wither and age as mortals do,” he reminds her. A memory of a man dying over a crystal flickers through his mind for a brief moment. “Let's say that the virtue of patience is one that has been impressed upon me since our last meeting.”

“Slow and steady wins the race, as they say,” she replies, in rather more cheer than she’d been in a moment ago.

“Who in the name of Zodiark says that?”

“Oh, um… It’s from this children’s story. You know, the one about the adamantoise and the jackal who… have a race and…” She starts to rail off at his sheer lack of recognition. “The point of it is that the adamantoise wins because the jackal assumes itself to be faster and gets overconfident. Hence the phrase; slow and steady wins the race.”

“Rather puerile.”

“It is for children.” Her mouth curves into a smile. “It seems we have a long walk ahead of us, most esteemed Emet-Selch. Why don’t I regale you with some of the potentially puerile stories I have heard while you were gone, and in return you can tell me more of Halmarut?”

“Somehow I get the impression that this proposed exchange is simply going to burden me twice.”

“I promise I’ll do my utmost to make the potentially puerile stories as unpuerile as possible.”

“Unpuerile is not a word.”

“Ah, but you have been absent from this star for quite some time. How are you to know the manner in which language has evolved and changed over the past few centuries?”

He scoffs, and doesn’t bother repressing the faint smile that he can feel tugging at the corner of his mouth like an insistent itch. What a lonely thing she is, he thinks again. “The colloquialisms these half-men may or may not deign to use is of no relevance to what is or isn’t an actual word. And furthermore, their language hasn’t evolved at all over the years since their pathetic inception. They have never learned to speak, little familiar, they simply remembered the language their complete selves once knew. There is a difference.”

She tilts her head to the side, still smiling at him. “You are quite the teacher, Emet-Selch. If you’d prefer to give me a linguistics lesson instead of discussing Halmarut, I would always be amenable to that.”

“So long as that head of yours continues to prove receptive to new information,” he replies, wagging his finger at her. “As I’ve said before - I don’t suffer indifferent students.”

“I have naught but the utmost appreciation for your knowledge.”

As the two of them walk off in a vague southerly direction and he begins to recall what he knew of Halmarut, he finds himself thinking that perhaps educating her gives him something beyond just a slightly more intelligent conversation partner. All he knows of the world unsundered is kept close to his breast, guarded and coveted and more precious than anything that now exists. But when one hides memories for so long, they become dusty. Frayed. Voicing even some of them is rather like airing out old linens. Shaking the dust off and renewing them.

Two centuries with one of his fellows and yet a few decades of time spent amongst mortals had proven more engaging, more stimulating. Though it had ended in failure, it does not change the fact that he had felt alive. He feels that now too, with this familiar. A sense of being in the world, horrendous though it may be.

Because the alternative is to be a ghost, to be a thing that simply drifts through, manipulating events, perhaps, but never truly touching.

"See?" the imaginary voice of Hythlodaeus says in his mind, "Is this not better?"

~*~

The first sign that they have approached the heart of matters in the south is the smoke rising up into the sky. The second is the faint smell of sulfur that wrinkles Emet-Selch’s nose, so offensive that it inspires his animosity without even seeing the cause of it.

Once he and his familiar reach the top of the mountain, he comes to a halt, staring down at the sweeping valley below. Most of the southern region of this continent has been lush grassland, dotted with the occasional farm or forest. What he looks upon now is a blemish on that natural landscape.

An abomination of a town has sprung up in the center of the basin. For a mercy, it is not much larger than the town of floating isles, but it is far more devastating and disgusting. Tunnels have been carved into the mountains, roads razed clear of grass leading from tunnel entrances to the town proper, and as he watches, he can see some of the short half-men dragging metal carts from mountain to town. Multiple large buildings ring around the town itself, belching out thick smoke and practically reeking.

“I suppose they had to invent metallurgy eventually,” his familiar whispers to herself.

He cringes, wanting to recoil from the sight. “And this is the manner in which they’ve decided to go about it? With no care whatsoever for the very star they live upon?”

“They haven’t creation magicks. Frankly, at this point, they haven't magicks at all. The simple fact of the matter is that for them, there are no other methods.”

It’s tempting to burn this entire settlement to the ground, but that would only make the smoke worsen.

She reaches out as though to touch him, her hand stopping an ilm away from his arm and eventually dropping. “Please… do not hate them for this. It may be distasteful to you, but to them it is the only form of progress they have. It is in the nature of all mankind to strive for progress. Would you blame a researcher for creating a flawed concept if they were unaware of its defects prior to bringing it into existence?”

“Blame or not,” he snaps back, “it would still be their responsibility to set things right. These… things clearly do not comprehend that they have even made a mistake. They are unwilling to expend the effort needed to fix it.”

“How can you be certain?” she asks tentatively. He scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest, and is about to reply when she continues, “No, please, I am being serious. As you say, they do not understand that they are causing any harm, no? Perhaps they can be educated. You do not suffer indifferent students, I know, but you don’t know for certain that they are indifferent.”

“Neither do you,” he points out.

“No, I don’t. But I’m willing to find out.”

“And so what, pray tell, are you proposing? Do be explicit about these things.”

She tilts her head towards the settlement. “You were willing to entertain a few decades in the town of floating isles. Why not try the same here? Perhaps we can see why they do this, what they believe they are accomplishing, and determine if there is aught we can do to… redirect them.”

His teeth feel too sharp as he cheerfully replies, “Reducing this settlement to rubble would be a very efficient way of redirecting them.”

Her already pale cheeks blanche even further, and she stumbles over her words as she adds, “I meant a less violent manner of redirection and I think you know it.”

Of course he did, but watching her second of shock is rather amusing, and the centuries have been low on amusem*nt as of late. She can hardly blame him for taking entertainment where he can get it. Besides, she is a familiar. Though he may not have been her original creator, her entire existence is predicated on serving a master. No matter how well crafted she is, or how she may have had to adapt over time since the sundering, that fact is fundamental to her very being. If he wants to poke and prod at her to satisfy his own whims, that is what she has been designed for.

With a sigh, he begins striding down the mountain towards the settlement. “Come along, then.”

“You - You’re going to…?”

“Chin up, little familiar. I’ve decided to go along with your quaint idea and mean to discover if these people can indeed learn the error of their ways, and if, more importantly, they are willing and able to stop. You should be thanking me.”

Her voice is naught but soft as she obliges with a sweet, “Thank you, Emet-Selch.”

She smiles, and it hurts.

"If they're not willing and able of course," he adds, to lessen that sting, "then I'll return to my original idea of flattening the entire settlement. It's not as though they're real people, after all."

"...That would be your choice. I would not stop you," she says carefully.

On the way, they debate possible angles of approach.

Or perhaps he should say that he muses aloud on the best ways to integrate himself into this mining town, and she listens whilst occasionally nodding her head or humming in agreement. With a pang, he finds himself thinking that Hythlodaeus must have liked her when they met on Elpis. She’s neither too chatty nor too silent, and those small smiles of hers are exactly the sort of thing that would have meshed so very well with his upbeat and ever-hopeful manners.

Emet-Selch half wants to shred that mental image and yet finds himself protectively tucking it away in a corner of his mind as though to keep it safe from his own thoughts.

It hardly matters. Once they have returned the world to what is was before the sundering, the true Hythlodaeus will be there, not merely the version in his imagination. The real Persephone will be there, not this familiar that looks too much and too little like her.

Unlike the town of floating isles, which had chosen to build up, this town has built out, low and long buildings spreading across the valley like a rot that shrivels up life wherever it touches. Proper roads begin to crop up the closer they get, but they are made from stone bricks that kick up dust at even the lightest of footsteps, poorly laid and poorly made. Stout chimneys jut out from each and every building, fumes and smoke belched out into the air to darken the sky above the town.

The people here are a mix of those that have taken to calling themselves Hyur and the half-men that quite literally embody their name - so short they barely come up to his familiar’s thighs and are difficult to differentiate from popotos. His familiar must have some experience with this type of half-men before, as she does not bat an eyelash. That… aches, in a way. He has seen so much of this sundered star by virtue of being able to shift from one corner of it to another in a heartbeat. And yet she has seen just as much with naught but her own two feet. Persephone really did make a familiar in her own image.

More than a few odd looks are thrown their way - or at his familiar’s way, at least, for he has yet to either cast an illusion or select a body, though he means to do the latter with all due haste.

His familiar eventually stops at a stall selling some sort of chilled soup, repairing the owner’s broken wagon wheel in exchange for a bowl. A few well-placed questions and the projected naivete of a stranger have the stall owner explaining that they’d learned how to process the mountain’s reddish ore a few decades ago and that, worryingly enough, they aren’t the only ones. A whole plague of these so-called iron towns has cropped up in the south, conglomerating into something with potentially devastating power.

To his own surprise, Emet-Selch is so busy being disgusted by it that it takes him quite some time to recognize its potential to cause the sort of upset that can be groomed into a Calamity.

Once his familiar has thanked the owner for the meal and wandered off, Emet-Selch decides on a plan and dictates instructions to his familiar.

“He mentioned a foreman," he says. "Find them.”

She nods, the motion tiny enough that anyone walking past her wouldn’t notice.

Though this town might be sprawling, it isn’t quite as large as it appears, and it is relatively easy to locate the largest of the forge-buildings. When he follows her into its dark interior, he almost chokes on the smoke and reek of it. Huge bellows of air being pumped by a dozen workers hiss alongside molten hot rivers of slag running out of their primitive forge-like contraption. A woman hurries past his familiar with a bucket of lime in her arms and he’s tempted to throw her into the fires instead.

The foreman is in the center of the action, directing the others as they go about their tasks like scurrying antlings. He’s one of the half-men who appear closest to real folk, and Emet-Selch is vaguely grateful that the man is not one of those short creatures, for that would be distinctly unpleasant to have to put up with for however long this venture lasts.

“Excuse me,” the familiar says upon approaching the foreman, “but may I ask a moment of your time?”

The foreman startles upon finding himself with a species that he is clearly unfamiliar with, and leans a good few ilms away from her. “Perhaps,” he says warily. “It depends on the nature of your request.”

“Business,” she promises. “My people are from the far east, and we’re interested in opening trade with your iron towns. We have ore aplenty, however we unfortunately have no means to transform it into tools as you do here. I do apologize for my odd appearance, although tis the norm is my homeland.”

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t voice any derogatory remarks. “Very well. I can entertain your proposal for awhile. Perhaps you scaled folk of the east can offer something our golden lands cannot.”

“All things are possible,” she replies with a smile. “May we speak privately?”

“Yes yes, of course. This way.”

From there, it is pitifully easy. The moment a closed door is between them and the rest of the forge-building, Emet-Selch steps into the man’s body and takes control. No effort whatsoever is needed here. Compared to the other bodies he has taken in the past, this man is by far the most malleable. Naught but open memories encased in a sack of flesh.

He stretches his new limbs, resolving to get some clothing that isn’t so unpleasantly rough at the soonest opportunity. Honestly, how do these half-men stand it?

“And now…?” his familiar tentatively asks.

“And now,” he declares, “we redirect, as you have so pleaded. Don’t say I never did anything to indulge your whims.”

~*~

Faint sounds of metal striking metal ring out in the distance, mixed with the sort of call and response noise of busy folk hard at work, and, dare Emet-Selch say it, it’s almost pleasant. Another building is being thrown up not too far from the center of the town - which now could, optimistically, be called something akin to a city. During the past two decades, he’s made considerable progress with the raw clay that was the original iron town. The forges have been contained, the smoke they belched reduced to something a little more tolerable. The violent manner in which they carved bare the mountains, slowed to a crawl.

A group of laborers manhandling a cart of bricks nod - one even waves - to Emet-Selch as he walks past. During his time as Alyvan in that floating town so many centuries ago he had been admired and respected, his word had carried more weight than any else’s in the settlement, and he had usually been obeyed without question. Here, however, the people seem to have genuine affection for him. This town is technically run by three of the richest foremen, but he is unquestionably the most liked, the most esteemed, and the most influential.

He’s found he doesn’t half mind the sentiment.

Two different people come up to him on his way to the central forge, one to thank him for something or other and the second to request a consultation on the morrow. Though they are shadows of true people, he finds his days in this town to be not entirely unlike his time on the Convocation. Building, guiding, helping.

Creation, albeit a fraction of what it was. What it should be. What it will be.

One of the workers meets him at the forge entrance. "Afternoon, sir."

"Any progress with the smokestacks?" Emet-Selch asks, continuing through the forge to the offices and personal rooms in the back.

"We've been trying to figure out ways to coat the inside of the funnel. The glue you suggested has been very effective at catching the smoke from the forges, but we've had a tricky time making and putting it on, and a lot of the workers are beginning to think it's just not needed. It's not as though most of us mind any clouds or smoke."

As if the aesthetics of it all are what matter. They can be better, he reminds himself. They've got to be better.

"Keep at it," he grumbles, dismissing the worker.

A few ledgers have been left on Emet-Selch's desk. The half-men of this region have yet to develop paper or crystal methods of written communication, likely due to the sparse trees. What they have come up with is a system of thin metal plates, each stamped with a small, flat circle of the metal or substance in question, next to a series of dots and dashes indicating the quantity of said item. It's crude, but it does get the job done.

He flicks through them, absently noting the numbers, before tossing his coat over the poorly made furniture and heading into the back. As foreman, his home is attached to the the main forge, accessible through a back door and providing an easy commute to work, as it were. It also meant he didn't have to bother with creating the illusion of mortality that requires a roof over one's head.

The other benefit of the pre-existing arrangement is that his familiar has her own room, and she does seem to sleep far better on a straw pallet indoors than on a bed of grass underneath the stars. Persephone, he remembers, had been the same way. She'd ever so loved her wanderings, but she slept like the dead when she returned home.

He opens the door to his familiar's room and enters, grumbling, "If you're not… Oh."

The sight of his familiar makes him pause. She's completely naked, and not alone. A man, similarly nude, is on top of her and very clearly busy. The moment Emet-Selch enters, she positively squeaks in shock, practically throwing her similarly startled and mortified lover off her.

The man almost falls on her in his terrified embarrassment. "I - This isn't what it - "

"G-Get out!" she stutters, desperately scrambling about for a blanket while her lover fumbles for his clothing.

Emet-Selch flicks his hand at the man. "You heard her," he says. "Get out."

"That - That's not what I meant!" she protests.

But it's too late. The man, absolutely white as a sheet, has tugged his trousers on with impressive speed and is running out of the room as he clumsily pulls his shirt over his head. Even if Emet-Selch had left, it's visibly clear that the mood, for the man at least, has been thoroughly destroyed.

Once he's gone, Emet-Selch turns back to his familiar. "Really?"

She grabs a fistfull of the blanket and uses it to cover herself, face and chest a bright, mortified red. "You could have knocked!"

"This is my house. And besides," he adds, turning his nose up at the mental image of that bumbling man, "I hardly had any reason to expect that you would be… entertaining company of that sort."

"I do have needs, you know," she mumbles, staring down at her lap.

"A familiar has needs?"

"This familiar does."

Odd, that Persephone would have created a familiar that experiences desire and lust. It seems a tad impractical, unless there was a specific reason for it, and he's hesitant to entertain any theories as to why. He considers, for the briefest of moments, that her intent was to leave the familiar behind with him, as a treat while she was away on travel. But no, she would have mentioned it or asked him beforehand if he were interested. Perhaps it was simply an accident, a slip of the mind during the familiar's creation.

Emet-Selch sighs, considering the familiar before him who is shrinking in on herself. "You could do better than that," he decides derisively. "Have higher standards next time you want to have those needs of yours met."

"He was fine," she protests. "He was… nice."

"My point precisely. Fine isn't a glowing recommendation of anything."

After a moment in which it looks like she's about to fight him on it again, the corner of her mouth quirks up into a tiny, almost-smile. "You know, that could have been considered a compliment. That I could do better."

His dismissive expression fades, sliding off his face slowly. "The aether that comprises your false soul is just over half that of a true being like myself. Yet these half-men have but a sliver. You are, quite literally, worth more than four times what he is. Take it as a compliment if you like, but I am simply stating a fact."

The look she gives him is indescribable. A slight tilt of her head, a distant glaze to her eyes. "I suppose that's not incorrect," she eventually says, in that flat and emotionless way she gets sometimes. "If you look at it from a certain point of view."

"Of course it's not incorrect," he snaps back.

She blinks, and the glaze over her expression is gone. "Anyway, was there something you wanted? I hope you had a reason for interrupting me."

He scoffs. "As if that was going anywhere productive. But yes, I did have a reason. The people here can't manage the work of construction. You're cleverer than they are - although the bar is in the ground - so run along and make sure they don't drop a roof on everyone's heads."

"Alright."

She still doesn't move, so he makes a sharp gesture towards the door and insists, "I did mean in a timely fashion."

"I," she says, slowly and carefully and sounding like she's about to die of embarrassment, "am completely naked underneath this blanket. Please step outside so I can get dressed, and then I will come and assist."

"If you insist." He smirks and adds, "Although it's nothing I haven't just seen."

She buries her face in the blanket.

He gives her a cheerful wave over his shoulder as he steps out of her room. It is quite odd though. A familiar that has the same desires and needs as these mortals. And as true people, frankly. Perhaps it's abrasive to say so, but until now he'd always thought that Persephone's talents in creation magicks lay firmly in the realm of the green and the growing, never so much as touching arcane beings. 'Twould seem he needs to amend that assumption. Such attention to detail is impressive, no matter how much he might question which details she chose to pay attention to.

A quick minute later - his familiar is swift, he'll give her that - the door opens and she steps out, struggling to make eye contact and staring at her feet.

"Let's get this over with, shall we?" she mumbles.

As Emet-Selch had expected, she's far more skilled than these half-men at, well, nearly everything. Even despite the simplicity of this particular task, she goes through the motions of assisting these half-men with construction like she's done it a thousand times before. She guides the workers seamlessly through the process of altering the smokestacks to lessen the belching clouds of exhaust, her hands moving flawlessly without her even having to look at what she's doing.

It's unsurprising that Persephone's familiar would be so skilled at this sort of thing. Directing others, balancing the kindness of encouragement with the gentle redirections needed to correct failures. It's something Emet-Selch does reluctantly, and she does with enthusiasm.

When the half-men break for an afternoon meal, Emet-Selch remarks as such to his familiar.

"These people follow your direction with such ease, I'm almost impressed," he says, leaning against the wall that she's using as a backrest whilst she eats a slab of bread and cheese.

She laughs, light and tiny. "What do you think I did during those centuries you were gone? What," she adds, a bit quieter, "do you think I did before you let me travel with you? I'm not really Azem, but… helping people is what I do best and I've done it for so long by now. If you run favors for strangers, repair roofs, and slay pesky beasts often enough, you learn how people work and how to work with them."

"Your creator was similarly called thus," he remarks as casually as he can.

"At this point," she admits, "I don't even know if it's my calling so much as ingrained duty. It's all I know how to do by now."

He raises an eyebrow and tries not to sound too scathing when he replies, "How utterly depressing."

She stares up at him with those pretty eyes of hers that are too close to Persephone's and too close to the color of her faint soul. After a long moment of silence, she finally says, slow and knowing in a way he hates, "Are you truly so different, Emet-Selch?"

His eyes narrow and he snaps at her, "Don't use that name where these half-men can hear."

A silent exchange passes between the two of them, where she knows that he only protests now about such things because he has no desire to address the heart of her comment. He's quite different from her, primarily because he's not an aimless wander as she is and because he is not a mere familiar. It is entirely different. He simply has no desire to waste his time explaining such things to her when she likely isn't particularly interested in listening.

"My apologies," she murmurs, and he wonders how genuine her deference is.

She rushes through the rest of her meal, shoving the final bite into her mouth without any dignity in her hurry to return to work.

Emet-Selch has lost interest in watching the rest of the day's work unfold, and straightens up, stretching out his tired back. Perhaps he was being too cynical towards his familiar. It isn't her fault that she doesn't understand these things.

Her wanderings may be aimless, her actions habit more than desire, but that's not true of him, not in the slightest. His mind is adamant and his soul undamaged and a couple thousand years is not nearly enough to diminish every perfect detail of his goals. All his works are in service of the rejoinings, all his efforts born not of habit, but of his unending desire to see the world restored to the perfection it once held.

As he turns to head back to the central forge, he sees the man from earlier join the afternoon work crew - his familiar's unfortunate lover. The man stumbles as he meets Emet-Selch's eye, face going pale and his pace quickening in his hurry to move along.

Mei might merely be his familiar, but even a familiar deserves better than some meek half-man like that. Honestly, he almost feels bad for her.

Emet-Selch is once again stopped by one of these citizens of his, the work of leading a people, small as this group is, neverending. This time it is a woman discussing the day's hunting attempts. The half-men of the Source still rely primarily on hunting and gathering for most of their food, only dipping their toes into farming. And the large beasts of these grasslands and hills frequently pose a challenge to the settlement.

It has gotten better since he arrived, however. Previously, the smoke and fumes had been pushing the local animals away, making game scarcer and the meat fouled by smog. Emet-Selch doesn't need to eat, but it is a convenient way to sustain any living body he happens to inhabit, and he doesn't want to draw suspicion by avoiding food or being the only one not consuming anything during a communal meal. It's a relief that the meat here is not as unpleasant as it was when he first came to this iron town.

"Watch out!"

He whirls around to face the source of the terrified scream and a second later a mighty crash shakes the street.

A cloud of smoke and dust ripples out, stinging his eyes. When it settles, there is screaming.

The smokestack that the half-men had been working on has toppled over onto the busy street below, now nothing more than a pile of poorly made bricks and smog smeared stone. Workers rush to the crash sight, but it's too late. Even if the splatter of blood and partially exposed body didn't make it obvious, Emet-Selch feels and sees the fragment of a soul wink out and drift off into the aetherial sea.

Where is his familiar? Was she not overseeing this mess? He finds her standing in front of the building opposite the crash, a bucket of pitch in her hands that she must have gone to fetch. Ah, so it was a simple case of poor timing.

Emet-Selch puts on a show of appropriate shock and concern, and begins directing the workers to remove the rubble and get the corpse out. The soul had looked familiar, but these shards are so pathetically small, and he wants to confirm with his own eyes what he'd seen in aether. A brick is shifted and yes, he was right.

The smokestack has fallen on his familiar's unfortunate lover.

"Find the boy's family, tell them what happened," Emet-Selch absently orders someone. "And move the bricks out of the way, we don't want anyone tripping and hurting themselves while we clean this up properly."

They snap to it, and Emet-Selch moves to stand near his familiar. She has gone calm again, calm and still, like a pond in the middle of an untouched forest. Glassy and blank.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and hoping that he's not going to have to console her, or something else similarly sappy. "You don't have to stay to deal with this mess," he allows, a great consolation on his part. "It's not as though cleaning this up is going to involve anything particularly interesting. Today's excitement appears to be all over and done with."

"I'm surprised," she remarks, still staring at the dead body. There isn't any sorrow or mourning in her voice. "What an unexpected kindness from you."

"Kindness?" he scoffs. "It's practicality, you silly thing. If you're like this, then you're not going to be of much use, now are you?"

The corners of her mouth turn up into something that resembles a smile, but it makes him rather uncomfortable. It's fake, as false as the face he's currently wearing. "I think you forget sometimes," she says quietly, "that I was on my own before I met you, and that I was on my own for hundreds of years after you left me. I keep moving, keep traveling, because it starts to hurt when I stay too long, but if you honestly believe this is the first time I've watched someone I've slept with die, then you are willfully blind."

"And you'll be just as blind if you pretend it never affects you."

"Yes, but it isn't as though I loved him. Like I said… he was nice. I don't really have much else to say about him."

He shrugs. "I suppose a familiar isn't designed for love, in the end."

Her head bows, hair falling forward to cover her eyes. She lets out a long, slow breath. "If that's what you think."

Loyalty, by nature. Obedience, by necessity. Devotion, even, if the creator has put in that extra effort. In this case, the familiar had even been given sexual desires, but love isn't something a thing like that could feel. True emotions, like love and hate, aren't for beings made of aether. Even with a familiar like this, who's aether resembles so closely a soul, he cannot forget that she is simply an impressive creation of Persephone's, not a real person.

When she raises her head, there is nothing behind her eyes. She walks towards the accident and begins to help shift the rubble out of the way, seamlessly falling into rhythm with the other workers.

Emet-Selch's body is getting older. When it dies, he doesn't think that he'll take another in this town. It would be best to move on.

~*~

The half-men continue migrating from far and wide to iron towns that are beginning to build up all across the region into larger settlements by the time Emet-Selch's body dies and he gives up on the place he'd spent decades in. As he'd heard so many years ago, those that are not moving south are moving east, and so he decides to head in that direction to see if it's better or worse in a different region. He suspects worse, but who knows. One day, he might get pleasantly surprised. Although he doubts it.

And so he travels east, his familiar in tow.

It is possible, he knows, to travel from the central continent to the far east by foot, crossing mountain regions to the north. It sounds like a rather long and tedious journey however, and when he and his familiar encounter a group of half-men along the coast preparing to sail to the east, his mild curiosity is enough to convince him to join them. While they build their vessel, one of their number falls ill, and when he slips away into the aetherial sea in the middle of the night, Emet-Selch takes up residence in the vacant body. From there, it's easy for him to convince the rest to allow his familiar to join him when she shows up in their camp a day later.

The boats these mortals have learned to make are seaworthy - though barely. Constructions of carefully bent wooden slats, lashed together and strung up with sails. These people are either not wealthy or well-connected enough to have gotten their hands on some iron, which would have stabilized at least some aspects of this little construction project. At least if the boat sinks at sea, it's not going to harm Emet-Selch.

It is a clear day when they set out onto the water, and Emet-Selch uses a thin strand of wind-aspected aether to put a bit of air in the sails and speed things up a little. This manner of travel might be relatively slow, but he finds he doesn't mind it too much. Traversing the sea like this is surprisingly pleasant. Blue waves as far as the eye can see and a clear breeze to wash away all impurities. When he closes his eyes and lets the gentle sounds of the ocean fill his mind, he can imagine in perfect clarity Persephone standing at the bow of the ship, leaning into the wind with a smile on her face.

He opens his eyes and lets the image of her linger in front of his sight, as though he can just see the bright blue and gold of her soul, right on the edges of his true vision.

Then the image fades out and all he sees is his familiar, standing at the bow of the ship, leaning into the wind with a smile on her face. For the first time in all the centuries he's known her, he's filled with the overpowering and unexpected urge to kill her. To strangle the false life out of her well-crafted shell and tuck the remnants of Persephone's aether that fuels her form into a crystal, to be kept safe and guarded until the world is made whole again.

Emet-Selch shakes the thought from his head. What is he even thinking? The brutality of it aside, getting rid of his familiar would just be a stupid waste of resources.

His familiar is useful, that is the end of it. And she was still Persephone's, once upon a time. That is worth something. Surely.

On the second week at sea, land appears on the horizon.

A welcome sight. By now, Emet-Selch is starting to tire of the company that they must share close quarters with. They're not irritating people in particular, but neither are they all that enjoyable in conversation.

Their ship pulls into port on the beach of an island that is more city than land, and something about it spells promise. Already this place has built up further than the metallurgy towns of the central continents managed, tall buildings contained dozens of dwellings crowding together like a clumsy imitation of Amaurot. The palm trees and lush grasses of the island itself are pushed to the edges, leaving behind only bustling narrow streets and throngs of people dressed in colorful garb. Dozens of ships are moored at the reeded docks, fishermen unloading the morning's catch, dragging woven nets full of struggling fish off their rickety boats.

"I've always wanted to see Mazlaya," Mei says as she stands on the docks, staring up at the city ahead.

"Oh?" Emet-Selch scans their new surroundings once more, searching for a signpost that he may have missed or anything else that would name this island. "Have you heard many tales of this place that you've not yet deigned to share with me?"

It's not quite a lie, but there's something avoidant in her tone as she replies, "Only the odd mention. But look, is it not lovely?"

He gazes up at the towers and streets that comprise this place beyond the harbor. "It is certainly one of the better examples of what passes for civilization on this sundered star."

"I don't mean like that, and I think you know it. Feel the breeze," she says softly, taking a deep breath of the crisp sea air. "Listen to the waves, to the sound of the ships brushing against the docks. The sailors are carrying in nets of fish - Do you not wonder how they shall be cooked? If this island roasts it with spices or eats it fresh and raw. And the people. They're all so vibrant, I can't stop looking at the colors of their clothing. Feel how warm and pure the sun is here. What it must be like to have it shine down every day. Tis no wonder the people here are so tanned from it."

"Sunburn is decidedly not appealing," is his reply.

"Don't you find any of this enjoyable?" Her expression droops like a limp flower, her tail losing any of its usual casual sway. "I know that it was never your calling to travel as she did, but surely at least the novelty of such new places appeals in some small way? Can you not find even one thing that appeals?"

He lets out a sigh. The amber crystal he made in secret burns in his breast like a tiny, beating sun, and he thinks that if he must carry it for Persephone, he should at least attempt to honor some of the mantle that she had made her life's work.

"I take your point," he coincides, in a rare show of magnanimity. He casts his eye about for something he can stand to compliment. "Few cities on this star have managed to be worthy of the name. I shall conceded that this is indeed the exception to that rule."

Her smile is small but warm as the sun overhead. "It is grand, for all that it can still grow."

Someone is running up to their party across the docks, a man carrying a spear tipped with iron and bearing a dour expression.

The de facto leader of this sailing expedition steps forward, her hands held out in greeting. "Ah, good afternoon, me and my crew were - "

"No no no!" The man comes to a stop in front of their group, striking the butt of his spear against the wooden dock to emphasize his words. "You cannot dock here. Mazlaya's borders are closed, by the king's decree, and none of foreign birth may be allowed upon its shores. Climb back aboard your boat and unmoor from these docks, and we shall not be forced to escalate this matter further."

Emet-Selch sighs, the sea air no longer feeling quite so refreshing. "Well… this is disappointing. Tell me; why has your king in his infinite wisdom decided to shutter your island from the rest of the world?"

"We prepare for war," is all the man says, eyes hard. "Now, I must ask you again to leave immediately."

"War?" Emet-Selch draws back in surprise. "What could you possibly be going to war for?"

The man tenses, fingers tightening their grip upon the crude spear. "You are not of these lands - it is no business of yours. Now leave. Before I cease asking."

Apparently some threatening words are all it takes to quash the adventurous spirit of the group that Emet-Selch had traveled here with, for they all obey the guard's demand. Oh to be sure, there is some grumbling and gnashing of teeth at all this work being for naught, but on the whole, they simply give in without a fuss. They are not made of particularly stern stuff if all it takes to discourage them is one man carrying a shoddily made weapon. Honestly, after coming all this way, one would think that they'd at least make some modicum of effort.

He turns to say as such to his familiar, only to find her absent.

During the course of those few words exchanged with the guards, she has completely and utterly vanished from his side. Not even the guard, still glaring at them from a distance, seems to have noticed her absence. Emet-Selch finds himself surprisingly impressed.

Well, nothing for it, he supposes. He weaves a simple spell around the mind of this body, a manipulation to blur the thoughts and then a compulsion to follow the rest of the group. When finished, he steps out of the body that he has been inhabiting and lets the man blindly stumble back to the boat in a daze. It's not unlike manipulating a puppet, although it takes a smidge more aether than he had expected. Perhaps the more rejoinings that occur, the stronger these half-men shall become, and the more difficult it shall be to cast these types of spells. It is something he had never cast upon one of his own in the days of old, after all, and he knows that such things couldn't be done without the aid of a construct or the simultaneous efforts of multiple skilled mages.

Thusly invisible to the sight of the guards on the dock, he lets his eyes see true and locates the blue shine of his familiar's aether.

Mei has snuck down to the base of the docks, neatly stepping her way between the wooden pillars that stick out of the damp sand. She smiles as she sees him fall into step next to her, as though there was no doubt in her mind that he too would ignore the guard's command. Truly, it is of great convenience that she can see him when he inhabits neither a body nor casts an illusion around himself. He may have lost his physical form to this sundered world, but there is still one beyond his fellows who can see his true self.

"What should you like to see first?" she asks, making for the cover of a boat that has pulled ashore. "I imagine there are endless possibilities."

Emet-Selch shrugs, though he cannot help the faint smirk that sneaks onto his lips as surely as she sneaks across the sands. "I find myself inclined to drop in on this king."

"Somehow, I thought you might say that."

"Have I truly become so very predictable?" he snickers, feigning offense.

She shakes her head, shyly replying, "I have known you for multiple lifetimes by now. And if there is anything of interest happening, you usually prefer to watch rather than walk away."

"Mortal lifetimes," he corrects, bristling.

Lifetimes makes it sound so dramatic, as though there is some tie between them beyond that of a familiar and a master, as though they are somehow equals. They are not, and it would serve her well to remember that. His adamant soul has lived far longer than the admittedly unique mess of aether that makes up the core of her, and he still does not doubt that he will outlive her in the end.

Once he and his familiar make it off the shore and into the narrow, winding streets of this city, they find themselves whisked up into a bustling crowd, overflowing with color and movement and voice. There are, however, more guards here than merely the handful that had patrolled the docks, and the citizens of this city - this Mazlaya - are eager to move aside when teams of these soldiers stomp past.

"Do you have need of a body?" Mei asks as she navigates the busy streets.

Emet-Selch ponders that. It would certainly be a convenient method of gathering information regarding this strange island city, as he could simply peruse the mind of whoever he possesses to glean whatever he wishes. "Mayhap a soldier," he decides. "Someone knowledgeable, and able to exercise at least some authority."

She simply nods and looks around for someone suitable.

By now, she is well versed in acquiring bodies for him to possess. It's not exactly a complicated process - lure someone out of sight so that he can slip in without a fuss, gentling the body's mind into a peaceful slumber. It's not kind, not exactly, but he feels about it the same way he would feel about gentling an animal. As humane as can be, considering the circ*mstance and the fact that they aren't truly real, not in the way people used to be, before the sundering. Animals don't require cruelty, just guidance.

Thus Mei leads a guard away from the pack with a nervous story about a pickpocket and gets him to a side street where it is simply the two of them, and Emet-Selch steps into the body with no trouble at all.

The body is that of a relatively average Hyur man, and it's relatively easy for Emet-Selch to change it to suit him. A touch of creation magick is all it takes to make this new form a better reflection of his own face, though he is conscious not to fully change the body's eyes. It has been so long since his original physical form became no longer viable, and he found that he… disliked spending so long in that foreman's body in the iron town, the form so very different from his own. A part of his mind that he refuses to fully acknowledge worries that if he spends too long in bodies that don't even slightly resemble himself, he'll begin to forget what he truly looked like.

"Oh," Mei says softly as soon as he's finished the quick change of features. "You look like… well, you."

He raises an eyebrow. "What else would I look like?"

She shakes her head, a faint embarrassed flush on her cheeks. "Ah, no matter, I suppose. Um. You look good, is all. You've done an impressive job with your eyes - it's subtle, but the effect is striking."

"Such things are hardly difficult," he replies. "Tis hardly my fault that you have little to no knowledge of what creation magick is capable of."

"I'm sure I shall learn eventually," she says, with that tiny smile of hers. "I have an excellent teacher."

For a split second, he hates that smile. Then he turns away from her, back towards the bustling streets. "Come along," he orders. "This mind has little information of use, but there are a few scraps that are of interest."

It's mostly dull, a routine monotony of patrols across this city that fortunately give him a solid lay of the land, mixed up with all the usual mess of vague friends and family. Nothing unusual, nothing particularly interesting, nothing that couldn't be swapped out for a thousand other half-men on this star, albeit with a slight change in window dressing.

Now that he wears the body of a soldier, navigating the streets is easy, as the people are quick to move out of his way, some bowing their heads or murmuring deferential greetings. From this body's memories, he knows that there is a palace of sorts in the center of the city where this king resides - or at least holds office, as this body doesn't appear to be all that clear on the details. How different from the forge offices of the iron town, where even though he made decisions for the people, neither himself nor the original foreman had possessed any desire to lord that power over the rest of the settlement. Is it the size of this island city that has given their so-called king more grandeur, or is it a function of the man in question desiring that sort of visible affluence?

Whichever it happens to be, Emet-Selch is not predisposed towards liking this king.

"Oh, that smells lovely," Mei says, slowing to a crawl as they pass by stalls set up in front of a series of firepits. "Can we?"

He frowns at the mess of flame and coals, the heat from it all unpleasant under the warm and unclouded sun. Granted, the cooks that flip crude iron pans and turn skewers seem relatively competent - or at least what counts as competent for half-men. "You don't need to eat," he reminds his familiar. "And there are none around who will notice your pretense of mortality."

"Maybe I don't need to," she admits, "but I do like to, you know."

With a great sigh, he relents, "Fine. Take your pick, I suppose."

She taps her chin, tilting her head to one side as she examines the various foodstuffs on offer. Then she points to one of the stalls. "How about that?"

"It hardly matters to me."

He trails along after her as she strikes up conversation with the woman manning the stall. After a minute, Mei turns to him and sheepishly asks, "Have you any money?"

This body helpfully provides an image of the coinage that these people use, and he pretends to reach into a pocket while he conjures up a handful. They trade not with metals as the iron towns did, but with cowries, polished and painted to denote different values. Odd, given that the cowries themselves hold no material purpose, but perhaps they have something that resembles an actual financial system.

Mei takes the cowries with another embarrassed thanks and passes them to the stall owner. In return, she's handed two large palm leaves, each containing whatever it is she's decided she wants.

"Here," she says, handing one to Emet-Selch. "I got one for you as well."

"What could possibly possess you to think I'm interested?" he replies, more awkward than he'd intended the words to be.

She chews on her lower lip and says again, as she had on the docks, "One nice thing. Surely there is no harm in that?"

It is a great concession, but he does finally take the palm leaf from her. "Don't expect me to indulge you all the time," he warns. "I just happen to be in the mood to do so, that's all. It's better than watching you mope if I deny you."

The food she's selected is some sort of fish, the flesh dark red and striated with pearly fat. While the center is raw, the outside has been charred till it's blackened, rubbed in some sort of spices and sprinkled with flakes of salt. Hardly luxurious cuisine. Mei bites into it and makes a noise of pleased surprise before taking another, far larger bite. Well, he did already pay for it. He bites off a corner of the flesh and finds it far better than he'd expected. The fish is almost meaty, rich and fresh, and he finds he doesn't mind it at all. Nothing compared to the delicacies that his people were able to create, of course, but far better than what he remembers from before the First Calamity and better than what the smokers and steamers of the iron town made.

Mei licks her fingers of any remnants of salt and spice. "Verdict?" she asks cheerfully.

"...Acceptable," he concedes.

"From you, that is quite high praise."

"What can I say," he says with a shrug and a faint smile, "I have correspondingly high standards."

She giggles, hiding her mouth behind her hand. "Perhaps one might even say 'picky'?"

"One certainly would not. Discerning, more like."

"Ah, of course."

With a huff, he tosses the now-empty palm leaf at her and turns away. "Since I have indulged your whim, I expect you to cease these little diversions and come along. We have work to do, and I don't plan to spend weeks here trying every foodstuff that catches your eye."

"Of course not," she quickly relents. "I'm… sorry."

Navigating the city poses little challenge, and Emet-Selch soon finds himself close to the heart of the city. Here there are far more guards, their weapons of better quality metal - though still shoddy - and their uniforms less cloth and more armor made of lacquered wooden slats and painted with some sort of red stain.

They let him pass without any trouble, all he needs to do is nod and exchange brief pleasantries about the weather. Whatever rank structure they have must either be relatively limited, or he has possessed someone wearing armor of a relatively high status.

The palace behind these outer walls is, well… barely deserving of the name. It is built upon the highest point of the island, true enough, but the stone that makes up its walls is too suffused with sand to last long, and the carven pillars are simplistic in design with paint that has already begun to fade under the sun's rays. Half of it appears more military compound than royal residence, with barracks situated around the perimeter and soldiers training with wooden spears upon sandy ground. Their shouts and clamor ring out through the compound, punctuated with the banging of wood against metal.

Emet-Selch does not linger out in the heat, instead striding indoors to the cool shade of the palace proper. Mei trails behind him in his shadow, attempting to avoid the odd looks she receives for being dressed neither in this island's standard garb or the uniform of one of their soldiers. None outwardly comment, however, and he won't protest that good fortune.

This king holds court not in a throne room or a discussion chamber as the Convocation of Fourteen once had. Instead he sits upon a reed mat alongside others wearing soldier's garb, the group of them pouring over a low table covered in wooden markers.

It would not do to attract attention at this point, and thus Emet-Selch remains in the shadows of the large room, blending in with the other guards on duty and listening in.

"...refuse to vacate?" the king is asking.

"So says our most recent messenger," one of the soldiers confirms with a dour grimace. "No promise of riches could sway their resolve, and they continued to insist on keeping the southern shores to themselves."

A different soldier shakes his head and says, voice foul, "Selfish bastards."

The king raises a hand to silence the soldier. "Tis irrelevant now why they hoard their waters. Naught we have can convince them, and persisting shall serve no productive purpose if they have rebuked us after a third messenger bearing our goodwill. Selfish, perhaps, but stubborn, aye, and it is that which is of far greater import. Have we news on their expansion to the southern forest?"

"No changes in that regard," the first soldier who spoke replies. "They keep their huts to the shoreline and have thus ignored our expansion amidst the trees. They prefer to stagnate where our city only grows. A boon, one we cannot afford to squander."

"Indeed. We have not the reserves for a longer conflict, should it come to that, neither of food or manpower."

"Not without those fishing grounds they're holding on to."

From there it descends into logistics - food stores of fish and grain, the complaints from those that make up the bulk of their rather pathetic armed forces. Some appear dissatisfied with the king's decision to close their ports and cut off the island, as it has prevented any outside imports of food or reinforcements to arrive on their shores, and more importantly, they have no source of metal on the island. Cutting off trade with the central mainland has prevented exports from the nearby iron towns which means that the iron weapons they possess cannot be replenished if need be, nor expanded upon.

Truth be told, Emet-Selch is deeply unimpressed. These people have made only the vaguest of efforts to make peace with these southern islanders, nothing even remotely close to the peace that the Convocation of Fourteen was capable of bringing. There had been bargaining, compromises on all fronts, and no real lingering resentments after a decision had been reached. That had been Elidibus's purview, not his, but he trusted Persephone when she agreed with Elidibus, and that was more important than being involved in all the minute details himself when he had other work that needed doing.

Under his breath, Emet-Selch mutters, "What a charade of administration."

"Compared to Amaurot," Mei points out, just as quiet, "they are a nation barely born. Can they not be allowed to learn?"

"They speak of war to solve a petty land dispute. There is a difference between letting a child learn a lesson of adulthood, and letting that child run around with a weapon," he scoffs.

"They can be better than this," she insists, though he wonders if she truly believes it.

He sighs, and stares at the soldiers and king, and thinks of a city of floating isles by the sea that had once come so close to meeting his expectations. "If it comes to war, then they deserve whatever foul fate befalls them as just recompense for their ignorance."

~*~

It comes to war.

Emet-Selch had not bothered to explore the southern beaches on his own, instead watching the city of Mazlaya, and so when he follows the rest of the army to the south, he is deeply disappointed.

Most of the army is comprised of fisherman, forced from their boats with a spear shoved into their hands and pointed in the right direction. Outside of the dedicated guards and superior officers - of which Emet-Selch has luckily appropriated the body of - there are few that have any knowledge of combat, even in the slightest degree. When no one is listening, all they can speak of are their families and the sea and their endless desire to return. Emet-Selch has spun a story about Mei being a sellsword, and with official protection it is not difficult for her to join his ragtag group of drafted soldiers and woefully inexperienced guards.

But none of that matters. It doesn't matter that these people have no real sense of combat. It doesn't matter that most of them lack training.

The people of the southern side of the island nation have no weapons. They have no army. They have nothing with which to defend themselves besides rocks and sticks. When the soldiers storm the beaches, it is no battle at all, not for this beach tribe.

The soldiers of Mazlaya have iron, and they do not.

When it is over, Emet-Selch stands upon a red-slick beach, the stench of sea water mixing with the scent of fresh corpses. His own spear is held absently in his hand, fresh with blood and his armor untouched. This is not the first time he has killed these half-man, and indeed many of them were eliminated by his actions during the First Calamity. But this is his first time amongst pure slaughter, and he finds it distasteful, insulting, gauche. These bodies do not merely bleed when killed, their muscles seize and slack, they leak rank excrement, they ooze fluids from various orifices, including those newly made. He has never found it pleasant, and in excess, it is nearly blasphemous.

"Well," he remarks, "you wanted to see Mazlaya."

"...I did." Mei is cleaning blood from her own crude spear - borrowed, not one of the too-superior weapons that she has. "I wish I could be more fond of the place."

If she is angry, she does not show it. If she is saddened, she does not show it. She has gone quiet again, quiet and blank and empty. Death always seems to cause such a mood in her, death and violence alike, and sometimes her eyes fade in the same way at some of Emet-Selch's remarks. To this day, he is unsure how he views these moods of hers. They are unsettling, in that he believes he dislikes them, but he cannot argue with results, and she is deathly skilled in battle.

"So sayeth the blind woman." Emet-Selch sighs, and watches the water darken.

Mei's brow furrows. "Blind?"

"You cannot see the worst of it. Hundreds of them, all rushing to the aetherial sea in a flood, their pitiful souls not trickling into the river spread out across the world, but concentrated and drastic… Tis like a stain upon this star, an inkblot on this site. The spike of aether as they fight and then the sudden absence of it as they die."

"Ah. I'm sorry."

"It's hardly your fault for being blind," he snaps, "any more than it is mine for participating."

With a tired sigh, she stabs her spear into the sand and looks off into the water thick with corpses. Even if the Mazlaya king takes this land for himself as he so dearly wants, there will be little use for it, the waters contaminated with filth and the soil unable to be tilled. Even though Emet-Selch holds the half-men to be of little value, their tiny splinters of souls barely alive, he finds all this to be such a pointless waste .

Mei does not look at him as she asks, "Do we need to remain here?"

"No." He drops his own weapon and summons a portal, the welcoming dark beckoning him away from the too-blue sky and the too-red sands. "This place and its people have nothing further to offer. If they ever had anything to begin with."

She does not argue with him, and he does not offer her his hand as he has in the past. They simply step through the portal and abandon Mazlaya in silence.

~*~

They go to the east. Far east.

Here, Emet-Selch's stolen body with its pale hair is a rarity, and Mei's scales and tail are commonplace. The change is refreshing, and he admits that he appreciates a break from having to explain away her appearance as he had in the central continent, with its distant awareness of dragons and suspicion of those that look too alike the winged creatures that they see in the distance. There are no dragons here, however, and no suspicion of those that have become named Au Ra.

But even in this distant land, the iron towns far west chase them. A great mountain by the sea is being carved out for ore, the people around its base chipping away to stoke their great fires. How quickly the desire for metal has taken over this world, with only decades or perhaps a century or two of iron to stoke their greed for the substance. They have nothing that can mimic its properties, not without the creation magicks of old, and their technologies to refine it are still as the flailings of children.

It is there, as Emet-Selch and his familiar watch this great iron town from a distance, that Elidibus appears before them.

The Emissary wears neither a body nor an illusion, and thus when he teleports into this shard in front of Emet-Selch and Mei, he presumably sees no issue with saying aloud, "Find a way to remove this mortal so that we might converse. I bring news from Halmarut."

Emet-Selch sighs and pinches his brow. "She can see you, if you care."

To her credit, Mei does not speak, she merely chews on her lower lip and avoids eye contact with Elidibus. Clearly, she knows better than to get involved in this or perhaps Persephone had added in some measure of deference to other Convocation members.

"Curious." Though Elidibus's mask obscures his eyes, it is still noticeable when he glances in her direction for longer than a mere second. His eyes are not nearly as sharp as Emet-Selch's, but he is not blind as mortals are. Whatever he can see, he will recognize. "The color of her aether… and her appearance… It is an interesting yet imprecise simulacrum that you have created."

"It's just a familiar," Emet-Selch scoffs. "And it knows not to repeat whatever it might hear. Regardless, you had news from Halmarut?"

Apparently that is enough to satisfy whatever curiosity Elidibus has left, for the Emissary proceeds to ignore her entirely and solely speaks to Emet-Selch. "I do. His studies of the climate on the Twelfth have revealed a growing imbalance of aether. You recall the two distinct biomes of that world, I assume? In the clash between the fire aspected aether of the deserts and the ice aspected aether of the forests, lightning storms are beginning to arise. Halmarut believes that with encouragement, that lightning aspected aether could be increased to levels sufficient to bring about a Calamity."

"How swiftly does he intend to accelerate this process?" Emet-Selch asks, the memory of the quick decline of the Thirteenth at the forefront of his thoughts.

"That shall depend on the progress made here. He shall be able to delay the natural process if required, with the assistance of others of our number, but not indefinitely. The Source must needs be made ready."

"It will be," Emet-Selch snaps, "but I cannot simply wave my hands and magick up the required aetheric disturbance instantaneously."

"The Source is unprepared?"

"Just tell Halmarut not to get overly enthusiastic. The Twelfth isn't going anywhere."

Elidibus inclines his head an ilm. "And what of the Source? Have you any leads on what could cause the necessarily imbalance in the star's aether?"

The memory of the Thirteenth is replaced by the memory of malms of blood-stained beaches and the rot of corpses. Such sudden loss of mortal life, in such concentration, had indeed made ripples in the aetherial sea. As a rock dropped into calm waters, the disturbance unsettling but undeniably filled with potential. The rush, and then the silence. The pulse of those fragmented souls, and then the absence.

Were that to be recreated on a larger scale, it would indeed provide the catalyst necessary for a rejoining. It would likely not even be all that difficult to create. These mortals are already killing one another without his help.

Emet-Selch hums in thought. "I believe I can whip something up."

~*~

A woman collapses in the middle of a city under the sea, tears pouring from her eyes as the final few flickers of aether fade away before her. Light and dark gone. Drifting to a place she cannot go, at least, not without slitting her own throat and following. But she cannot, for there are others behind her, ready to congratulate her on her victory, even as her heart cries for defeat.

With luck, this will not happen.

~*~