Chapter Text
The world is in ruins.
Humans and Faeries pick at each other’s teeth until the bone is whittled from flesh and all that is left is blood in their wake. They had been created equal, once. One people who would breathe life from and into nature, the other that would build upon it in ways that even the gods could not imagine. It was thought that they would complete each other, those who danced in between the trees as spirits and the mortals who sacrificed immortality for knowledge.
To think, they’d all fall prey to the same selfishness.
This is not what the Goddesses wanted.
Creatures skitter across the cracked dry ground, gathering their offerings in the form of sticks, grain and withering greens. Very little survives in the Black Lands, an old forgotten place where myth and legends roamed free. The mound grows and grows until it overflows, a tidal wave of activity where not even the wind dares to blow.
A wolf lopes towards the pile and the vermin part in reverence. It bows its head, honouring the ghost that sleeps here.
Smoke billows to the West, another prickle of life in this forgotten place. A small spark blooms into a shy flame; it casts dancing shadows across the withered bark of the Black Forest (now made only of skeletons). It distracts from the cloaked figure haunting these lands.
He darts into the wide maw of an unlit cave, clothes billowing behind him with just a breadth of magic. He hides from no one, but he makes no noise, giving way to stirring of the Black Lands—a quiet, haunting symphony. (It can be heard by those who listen with more than their mortal tools. Its revival should wring in their guts, twist them into knots and let bile rise back up into their gullets.)
The Stranger clenches his fist, tighter and tighter, until the strength of his nails cut into his palm. Blood trickles down his palm and into a small black bowl on the ground.
Awaken, he beckons, not with words, but his entire being.
The Black Lands shudder.
They are coming.
***
Late.
A sentiment that echoes through the Black Lands, like a steady unimpressed voice. The Wolf and the Billowing Smoke met the Stranger, the former’s shoulders stuttering in muffled laughter. The Smoke simply laughs openly without a care in the world.
“Is our little Nightshade upset?”
The Stranger’s ethereal blue eyes narrow and his nostrils flare in clear annoyance. Beings of their age need not words, those are a creation of later when the abundance of races needed some universal language that was not power. He says nothing, jaw flexing in all the things he won’t be goaded into saying. There is only one creature in the world that breaks the Stranger’s composure and it is of the greatest unfortunate that it is made of smoke and sass.
“He is so angy,” the Smoke continues, a wicked smile forming on its pale imitation of a face.
“Angy is not a word,” the Stranger finally snaps.
“And he speaks the mortal tongue! Oh, it sounds good on you, angry one.”
The Wolf’s tail sways side to side, content to be in the presence of its missing counterparts. Johannes, Ballika, it growls through their minds and through the very Earth itself. There is no one here to hear them, no use in containing themselves, but soon—soon, they will need to exist as a fraction of themselves. It has been too long. Tipping its head, it acknowledges them both as peers.
Johannes, the Stranger from the Black Lands, halts his inner machinations on how to exhort physical pain on something intangible. (He would, first, have to change its shape from vapid smoke to something heavier. Perhaps a different element, something so leaded he’d find himself trapped within layers and layers of ground. Bye, bye, Johan would wiggle his fingers and enjoy the peace he’s claimed for himself. A mere fantasy, but a comforting one.) He nods in return.
We have work to do.
The mission sobers them up from bickering and heartfelt reunions. Somewhere in this world, a fracture has widened and widened, disconnecting it from its roots—from what it should be: a Sanctuary. There are others, places where Gods have had their fill of Creation, but those were made in their image and turned to poison as soon as they were left on their own. This world, their world and former home, was built on billions of years of hope. Hope that it would be better than any other existence. It is their job to restore the heart of the Goddesses, but they can only do that by finding the source of the discord.
We will begin with Prythian. My initial investigation points to there.
The Wolf and Ballika nod. Each of them is to return to their home Continent, to the Courts they once commanded. Johan, the former yawning abyss that darkened the Northern skies. The Wolf will return to its prowl across the South and the West. Ballika will swallow the lands made of Smoke. Back to the homes in which they were each born.
“Shall we place bets?” Smoke billows around his younger brother, perching on the shoulders of his little nightshade only to be shaken off.
The Goddess coddled you far too much, Ballika, if you think this is a game, the Wolf grumbles and begins his journey towards the Spring Court.
“Oh, it’s been millenia since we’ve been let out. Let’s have a little fun.” He looks around to hound Johan instead, but finds him to be gone. “I wager there won’t be a continent left by the time we join him. Hold, Wolf, hold. Let us watch and see.”