IGS #4, Chapter 2

Scorio

An arid wind blew off the metallic desert to the south and moaned through the gaps in the wall. The light was dark and murderous, the even sky gradating from amber to burgundy as the sun descended toward the scorched horizon. Evening in the Telurian Band, as dark as it ever got.

Scorio watched the sunset from his window with anticipatory nostalgia.

It was to be his last evening in LastRock.

Time to penetrate deeper into Hell. Time to explore the shifting wastes of the Silver Unfathom. To peel back the mysteries that had obfuscated the Herdsmen for countless centuries, and finally seize the truth by the throat.

Whatever that truth might be.

Restless, eager, he wished he could go for a walk, to grow his wings and explore the ruddy heavens above the city. But his companions had promised to drop by for a celebratory drink, and so he was trapped, pinned in place within his ruined hovel, left to pace and stare out the window, or pick up one of Bravurn’s few remaining diaries and thumb through its coded script. He found himself wishing, to his own amusement, that he had cases to pack, countless items to put away in anticipation of his journey.

But few things from his past had survived his journey thus far.

Xandera Sextus sat cross-legged within a cylinder of superheated air which rose from the smoldering stone beneath her. It had gradually softened and grown molten as she’d focused, bathing her in its faintly crimson light. She eyed him amusement, her expression too adult for her childlike face. “Just meditate already. They’ll be here soon enough.”

“I’ll meditate soon. Any day now. Tomorrow, even.” Scorio offered her a distracted smile, then turned back to peer out at the desolate street.

“You told me you need to work on your Pyre Lord powers. So why don’t you?”

“Why?” A turbulent storm of emotions arose within him. His gaze lost focus as he stared into the middle distance. Memories rose before his eyes. The dune runner beetles coursing out over the Plain of Bones, himself riding high on one of the mounted benches. Leonis and Lianshi’s gravesite by the Chasm in the Rascor Plains. The wild rise and fall of the Sloop whaleship, his hands upon the wheel as he manipulated the streams of mana. Queen Xandera’s head lying on its side within her royal chambers, Bravurn cleaning his blade as he watched Scorio, expression sly. His own looping runs around the ruins of Bastion. Naomi. Naomi in her Nightmare Lady form, standing before Amity and Valdun -

Xandera Sextus watch him patiently, waiting, head cocked to one side so that her golden hair flowed like a glowing honeyed waterfall to the heated ground.

“I will.” He tore his mind back from the past and forced a smile. “Just… eager to be gone.”

“Hmm.” While her mouth was curved into its constant slight smile, her eyes of pure glowing orange were inscrutable. How much did she see? How much did she understand? More and more, it felt like, than she should. “I suppose it’s good to be excited.”

Scorio laughed. “Excited? Sure. More like… I just want to close my hands around the neck of whoever sent the Shadow Petal after me.” Another memory: Krantar bent over Bravurn’s books, unaware that he had hours left to live. “I want…” Xandera’s gaze was kind, thoughtful, patient. Scorio forced a smile again. “I’m just ready to go.”

“Hmm,” said Xandera again, then closed her eyes. The air around her shimmered as it grew even hotter, bathing her pure ebon form so that she shimmered.

Waiting had become an insufferable pastime. Waiting invited introspection, inactivity summoned a panicky need to run. If he stayed still, if he remained unoccupied, then it was too easy for the past to come stealing back into his thoughts.

Forget about meditating. That was an invitation to relive hell.

Scorio tapped his fingers against his leg and glanced out the window again. Movement. Kelona, Nyrix, and Lianshi had rounded the far corner and were approaching. Finally. Their voices were a subdued murmur. He allowed his gaze to linger on Lianshi. It felt like a lifetime ago since he’d hauled her out of that sunken tomb of copper from the Academy’s first Gauntlet, Leonis huge and ursine by his side. The sight of her steadied him, and he felt his shoulders relax just a fraction.

He knew she wasn’t the same Lianshi. Obviously. In many ways, she was a stranger, but in others, it was her. She’d come back for him after Naomi… had left. When he’d been numbed out and lost in the Fury Spires, unable to process what had happened. Unable to wake up and keep moving. She’d come back. That meant more than he could express. It affirmed something, an instinct, a sense of rightness, of continuity in the world. Plus it didn’t hurt that Xandera loved her.

Lianshi.

Scorio allowed himself a quick smile, then decided to not just stand there like a dope watching them traverse the entire length of the street. He turned to his scant belongings. He’d already packed them once, only to shake them out again on to his bed for lack of things to do. Now he took them up, one by one, and with a wry smile returned them to his pack.

His nubbin of chalk and the miniature bridge he’d found on Radert’s corpse, years ago in the caverns beneath Bastion. He turned the tiny arched bridge about in his hands, smiling fondly at the memories. When had he even used this last? Perhaps it was time to gift it to someone else. And his prized chalk, so nearly used up. How many times had it saved his life? His only means of trapping the Nightmare Lady when she’d accepted his challenge to come hunt and kill him, out in the ruins.

His smile faded, and he put both items away.

Then he took up the small rosewood box they’d found in Bravurn’s horde, inside of which the rose quartz carving rested. Scorio ran his thumb over the complex inlaid pattern of gold on the lid that they hoped was a map, and put that away as well. A couple of Bravurn’s diaries. Charnel Duke Plassus’ belt buckle. A small sack containing what pills and elixirs from Bravurn’s treasure vault had survived the Shadow Petal’s fire. Enough travel rations for a week, three large waterskins, an oiled cloak, a bedroll, and a couple of extra robes.

And that was it.

The pack was so light it felt as if he were going out for a morning walk rather than a deep sojourn into Hell.

“I found some wine!” Kelona appeared in the doorway, bottle raised triumphantly. “Trust me, this is a minor miracle. Nobody brings wine out to LastRock, apparently. I think they assume alcohol magically just appears here? I don’t know if it’s any good, but it’s better than nothing, right?”

“Sure,” agreed Scorio, matching her smile. But something was off. The Flame Vault glanced sidelong at Lianshi, whose own expression was… nervous?

“We’ll take care of the wine,” said Nyrix. He returned Xandera’s little wave as he entered the ruined home. “While you guys…”

“Scorio?” Lianshi took a deep breath. “Can we step outside?”

Scorio tried to keep his mind from leaping to conclusions, but something within him went still. “Sure. Of course.”

Nyrix clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, and Kelona’s smile grew shadowed.

They stepped outside into the burnished gloom. The sun had dipped below the edge of the mesa, so that all was now velvety shadow, all but the solitary top of Jova’s new tower in the city center, which yet burned with crimson light. The sound of voices and industry came from a distance, echoing and notable for how silent most of the ruined city was.

Lianshi was biting her lower lip, her gaze darting about till at last she dragged it to Scorio, and he could sense her anticipatory wince.

“You’re not coming.”

Her expression crumpled into guilt. “No. I’ve been debating it all day with Juniper. But it’s not her that convinced me! She was more than understanding about my initial decision to travel… with you.”

Scorio allowed the news to sink in. It felt as if he were somehow sinking into the stone street, his body growing numb, a rushing sound filling his ears. Why, for some terrible reason, was he not surprised?

She was watching him, waiting, brows raised. So he forced out a sound, something to prompt her to keep going. “Oh?”

“The Lost Library.” Lianshi’s eyes lit up. “You won’t believe what I’ve been reading down there. Ancient texts. I mean, many, many centuries old. Hundreds of books about our past, records of what took place during some of the lost periods in our history. But more that just ancient history, Scorio, this library—it’s, it’s an incredible resource. Lists of fiends I’ve never even heard of, descriptions of ecologies from deep hell—I read this one treatise from the first generation of Great Souls, Scorio, the first generation! Where they discussed the trials as some manner of novelty, as if it were part of a great debate on how we should ascend through the ranks as if the very concept were novel—!”

Lianshi caught herself, hand to her temple, and then smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. I’m just… I’ve been ranting at Juniper all day. I was going on and on about how so much of what I’m discovering begs to be cross-referenced with the books back home in Bastion. And she… well.”

Scorio felt cold. He forced himself to respond. “She asked why you weren’t going back?”

“And offered to go with me, even. Which is amazing, because that’ll slow her advancement, but… yes.” Lianshi’s shoulders slumped. “But I’ve been torn up about not going on with you. It feels like I’m abandoning your quest to uncover vital truths. But what if there’s more information to be had in the Library than we realize? I’ve read perhaps a hundredth of what’s there. So I thought: I could catch a whale ship back to Bastion, speak with the scholars and historians, tease apart the lies and half-truths, and then update you on what I discover as I go.”

“Through Moira?”

“Through Moira,” agreed Lianshi reluctantly. “I can’t think of a better conduit. And… she’s been an ally to you, hasn’t she?”

Scorio nodded cautiously.

“Or… we could find another means, if you prefer. Though I haven’t thought of one yet. But… I can’t leave all this knowledge behind, Scorio. It’s… my very soul is alive with the thought of uncovering forgotten truths. What if the reason we were cut off from Eterra is down there? What if there’s more information on the Herdsmen?”

“I understand.” She was staring at him with a look that was at once forlorn and guilty. So he forced himself to smile. “And I can’t say I’m really surprised.”

“No?”

“The Lianshi I knew? She loved nothing more than learning about Hell from a bunch of incredibly secret books.”

“I’m so sorry. I wish…” Lianshi inhaled deeply, than sighed. “I wish I could split myself in two. But I think, on the balance, the chances of my helping you are greater if I dedicate myself to learning what’s been lost in those books.”

“Right, yeah. Of course. You need to do what feels right.”

She peered at him. “You sure? I can’t tell you how much I’ve been dreading this moment.”

“It’s fine.” He widened his smile. “Seriously. Go ahead and join the others. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“All right.” She took a half step away, then stopped. But Scorio didn’t want to hear another apology, to drag out this moment any longer. So he gave her an affirming nod, stepped past her, and began to walk.

He didn’t look where he was going. The ruins in the gloom all looked the same, a testament to the violence of the Blood Ox’s occupation. Everywhere Scorio saw demolished buildings, cracked roads, partially collapsed walls. Had Jova not built the city to last a millennia, it would no doubt have been flattened.

It almost felt like walking through the ruins back in Bastion. The same desolate abandon. Almost, but not quite. For the ruins back home had been alive with fiendish activity, and these narrow streets were dead and cold and still.

All the excitement of going deeper into the Silver Unfathom had sluiced right out of him, but he didn’t understand why. Yes, losing Lianshi was a blow, but he still had Xandera, Kelona, Nyrix. His desire to reveal and destroy the Herdsmen was as potent as ever. Wasn’t it? So why did he suddenly feel… adrift?

LastRock wasn’t that big, so he had to take some care to not drift accidentally into occupied areas as he looped the perimeter, walking just within the broken curtain wall. He picked his way reflexively around toppled boulders, collapsed buildings, or along cleared paths. The sky began to gradate toward umber and seared orange. The colors made him feel as if the sun-wire stretched overhead, but it was just a coincidence.

This wasn’t Bastion.

And Lianshi wasn’t coming with him.

Eventually he grew tired of just walking, so he scaled the side of a three-story building, not bothering to grow his wings. Just climbed up easily, handholds aplenty, and found amist the ruins of the fourth floor a tumbled mess of rocks and stone slabs that faced the rising sun in the form of a rough bench.

He sat on the cold rock and gazed out over LastRock. Out over the far wall, to where the mesa ended and the last stretches of the Telurian Band extended to the Silver Unfathom.

The others would be worried. Lianshi must have become really upset, seeing as how he’d reacted. He probably should have stayed, apologized and said he was tired, that he needed to go bed so that nobody would be concerned.

But Scorio couldn’t find it within himself to care.

Lianshi wasn’t coming.

But it wasn’t even really Lianshi, was it, not the woman he’d known, so why was he so… upset? Was he upset? He didn’t feel much of anything. But he concluded that logically the very numbness indicated something was wrong. Even though that was a new Lianshi. One he’d just started forging a friendship with. Her coming to find him at the Fury Spires had meant something. Had felt like the beginning of something. A return. Or had he been reading too much into it?

Did it matter?

No, it didn’t. Because while he was heading deeper into Hell, she was returning to Bastion to do what she believed was most important. And she was right. He couldn’t fault her reasoning. Lianshi was uniquely positioned to make the most of the forgotten texts’ revelations. If she journeyed with him, she’d be just another fighter in the group.

Then?

Scorio lowered his chin and stared at nothing.

Inhaled deeply, held his breath, then exhaled.

It was fine.

It was fine.

He’d journey on alone.

Not alone. Xandera Sextus was with him. Nyrix and Kelona.

But somehow, on some deep level he didn’t quite understand, they didn’t count. Not in the emotional calculus he was attempting to puzzle out.

Time stretched out. The sky grew lighter. He knew he should get up, return, grab their belongings, bid goodbye to Moira and Ravenna, and then depart.

But he felt glued to the bench. His limbs ponderous, his body lethargic.

The Herdsmen were out there. Dameon was out there. The truth awaited him.

But all he felt was an echoing stillness within his soul.

And then, from nowhere, a jagged searing bolt of pain tore itself free from the prison he’d built in his heart, and he thought of Naomi, gone, gone like everyone else, fled from him in her Nightmare Lady form, out there somewhere if she was even still alive.

Scorio sank forward and buried his face in his hands.

“Coming up,” called a familiar voice from below.

Scorio blew out his cheeks and rubbed his eyes. Took a moment to come back to himself, then sat back up straight. Moira clambered into view, considered him, then smoothed down her black robes and sat a few yards down on the same bench to gaze out at the sunrise.

Scorio studied her, suspicious. She was at ease, calm, collected. If she’d noticed his emotional state she gave no sign. The amber morning light played across her freckled face, brought out the depths in her hazel eyes. She sat back, crossed her legs, hands in her lap, and only after the silence had stretched out for what seemed like forever did she finally glance sidelong at him.

Scorio held her gaze. When she didn’t speak, irritation stirred within him. “What?”

“Your friends are concerned. Lianshi is beside herself. Have you been up here all night?”

“No.” Scorio looked away, then finally admitted, “I spent some of the night walking.”

“I see.” Moira smoothed her robe over her thigh. “You only recently made Pyre Lord, didn’t you? Yes, I know that’s a rhetorical question. But I mention that because your entire education thus far has been solely focused on helping you reach this precise moment. I doubt anybody’s spoken at length as to what comes next. The second half of your journey, now that you’re a true Great Soul.”

“True Great Soul?” He couldn’t help but stare at her again. “What?”

“Oh, it’s not shared with the lower ranks, but yes. The general sentiment is that everything up to Pyre Lord is effectively a warm up. You’re not fully yourself until you’ve had your epiphany and manifested your true sense of self. Become a Pyre Lord. Or Lady. Flame Vaults, Emberlings, even Dread Blazes are, in a sense, incomplete. Not yet the people they once were when the Archmagus recruited them.”

Scorio frowned. “Everyone was a Pyre Lord before coming to Acherzua?”

“Acherzua. I love how you use that term. But yes. So it’s believed. After all, the Archmagus recruited us from across Eterra’s storied past. Some of us were alive during the demonic invasion, but the majority were plucked from a millennia’s worth of history. Do you think the Archmagus would have selected anyone for his war that wasn’t at the height of their power? When he had all of Eterra’s greatest heroes and villains to choose from?”

“I… I never thought of it.”

“Of course not. Few do. They’re all too busy trying to rank up. But that’s why there’s this perception amongst the higher ranks. That until you’ve made Pyre Lord, you’ve not yet truly become yourself. As you have finally done. But your education is incomplete.” She considered him, eyes gleaming. “Have you even been instructed in how to use your vortices?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” Her gaze sharpened. “Do you even want to learn?”

“I… of course.”

“That was remarkably half-hearted of you.”

Scorio looked away.

“Which brings me to my original point. Your education is incomplete, and I don’t just mean in regards to your new powers. You were told, I assume, what it took to make Pyre Lord?”

Scorio nodded reluctantly. “Ambition that couldn’t be satisfied.”

“Correct. You still have that ambition, don’t you? To reveal the truth about Hell, to expose the Herdsmen, and everything else you’ve shared with me over the past few years?”

Again Scorio nodded.

“And yet here you sit, disconsolate.” Moira’s tone lost its clinical edge and turned gentle. “I’m not surprised. You’re facing one of the greatest perils our kind are subjected to.”

Scorio reined in his impatience. “That so?”

“Yes. Haven’t you wondered why some people remain at Pyre Lord despite having achieved their epiphanies and come into their own? What’s to stop everyone from racing all the way to Imperator?”

“I’m guessing it’s not a lack of ambition?”

“No. At least, not at first. Everyone who makes Pyre Lord at first burns bright with goals and dreams and desires. What stops us, you see, what halts so many in their tracks, is pain.”

“I’ve dealt with pain before.”

“I know you have. But not like this.” She shifted a fraction closer. “What stops Pyre Lords and Blood Barons, even Charnel Dukes and Crimson Earls from rising to Imperator isn’t a lack of ambition. It’s loss. It’s grief. Ambition, for some, can become academic if the people they were fighting for are no longer around. Solitude, Scorio, is our kind’s greatest enemy.”

Scorio felt her words echo within him, but he shook his head. “I’m not alone. You’re here, aren’t you? Kelona, Nyrix. Xandera Sextus.”

“You know what I mean.” Her voice deepened with sorrow. “I’ve lost most of my own original companions. And with each loss, we lose not just their company, their friendship, but the shared memories. The self we were with them.”

“So you’re saying I’m sad and that’s going to hold me back,” said Scorio. “That’s great. Thanks for the incredible insight.”

Moira smiled. “It’s true though. We’re social creatures. We need friends and lovers to keep us alive. People who know us, the real us, not our public facade or warped reputation. People who can call us out when we cross the line, who can keep our egos in check, who can ground us when we begin to lose track of who we really are. Some more than others, true, but in the end, only the most self-sufficient and misanthropic Great Souls can continue growing and striving without their friends, peers, and companions.”

Scorio felt his eyes prickle and leaned forward to stare out over LastRock’s ruins once more. “All right. Got it. Thanks for the wisdom.”

“I’ve been worried about you ever since Naomi’s departure.” Moira’s voice remained soft. “You’ve burned so brightly. You’ve done so much. But always for others. For the people of Bastion. For your friends. For your own kind. Your ambition is to protect by revealing the truth. But whom are you protecting now that your companions are all gone?”

Scorio lurched to his feet and strode to the edge of the roof, his heart pounding in his chest. He crossed his arms tightly and thought of just flying away, leaving Moira and her infuriating pity behind.

But something held him tethered.

“I’m being candid with you because, for better or worse, I’m one of the few original friends you have left.” A note of irony entered her voice. “At least, I consider myself a friend, though I know you’re far more ambivalent. But I was there at the Fiery Shoals when you first spoke with the White Queen, ablaze with righteous compassion for the people of Bastion. I was there when you crawled out of the Crucible to seek vengeance on Manticore. I was there when you arrived at the Fury Spires, and when you traveled to Plassus’ warcamp.”

Scorio bowed his head.

“You’re in a dangerous place.” Her voice grew firmer. “It’s a well known trajectory. A Great Soul loses their friends and loved ones, but pushes on. They grow hardened, callous, and willing to take more risks. Some such become suicidally reckless without realizing that’s what they’re doing. Others try to strangle their emotions and eventually stop for a variety of reasons, either taking a post somewhere deeper in Hell or returning to Bastion to teach, or the Rascor Plains for guard duty, or accept a station on the Red Road. Others sacrifice their own causes for those of more established and powerful Great Souls, those who yet retain their confidence and drive like Endergast and his Golden Star.”

Scorio smiled bitterly. “I doubt that’ll be my fate.”

“Perhaps not. By why do you think there aren’t a hundred Seamstress’s, a thousand Endergrasts? Because everyone else inevitably suffers so much they’re happy to lean on another’s strength, confidence, and purpose. Hell is littered with broken people, Scorio. Other Great Souls who lost too much along the way.”

He wheeled about. “So what are you trying to tell me? That I should…” He tried to think of a solution, and came up blank. “That I’m destined to join the ranks of these broken people, and that’s it?”

“Hardly.” Moira remained where she was, head canted to one side. “What you need now is something you’re unfortunately liable to reject. You need to be compassionate with yourself. Accept your pain and loss. You need to be gentle with your trauma, and loving with your weakness. You need to allow yourself to grieve, by acknowledging the losses you’ve suffered. This isn’t a battle you can win through willpower, denial, and strength.”

Scorio stared at her. Her words washed over him, but he suddenly felt as if he were a dozen yards behind his own body, watching the scene, and her words, as pretty as they were, couldn’t reach him.

“All right.” His voice sounded wooden. “I’ll be nice and kind to myself. Thanks.”

She smiled a slight, crooked smile. “Warriors hate being told to be gentle. They much prefer to handle pain by brutalizing themselves, laughing at their own pain, numbing it with drink or violence or abusing others. But we Great Souls have been fighting this war for almost a thousand years. We’ve been forced to accept the reality of our condition. The deeper we go into Hell the less of us there are. Everyone from hereon out has lost loved ones, treasured friends, boon companions. We’ve observed and been forced to acknowledge the toll this loss takes, and to name it: it’s called the Winnowing, Scorio, and it’s a truth universally acknowledged—if rarely accepted—that the only way to combat the Winnowing is with gentleness, compassion, and love for one’s self.”

Scorio nodded. “Sure. No, really, I understand. That sounds really… wise. Thanks.”

“Oh well. You can’t blame me for trying.” Moira’s subtle smile remained unabashed. “Consider this my planting a seed. One day, perhaps, it’ll flower. But for now, you need to find another way to keep moving forward. Without Lianshi, you’re liable to grow cold, merciless, maybe even cruel. Neither Kelona nor Nyrix have the temperament to contradict you, and Xandera? Well. She’s still in many ways just a child. Thus you’re in sore need of someone to balance out your temperament.”

“Wait. You’re planning to come with me?”

“Hardly. But I do have someone in mind.”

“That so?” Scorio crossed his arms. “Ravenna?”

Moira rose to her feet and stepped to the edge of the ragged rooftop. “Not Ravenna, no. I recognize that it’s a contentious choice on my part, but this person is the only candidate that can not only keep up with you, but match you for intensity and drive. Oh, and she knows you from your very first days back at the Academy.”

Scorio stilled. “You’re kidding.”

“You should know better.” Moira stepped down onto a hidden ledge, then glanced back with feigned innocence. “Come on. We really shouldn’t keep Jova Spike waiting.”

Reminder: please do not discuss over on Reddit outside of sanctioned discussion threads! Spoilers will be taken down, warnings issued!

Spoiler friendly discussion or negative criticisms can be posted to the thread found here.