Herald of the Muses
@sophicSending
Following the attempt at ascension of the Muse of Heart
An ironic turn of events, considering the next chapter. Perhaps it's fitting.
Nyrita stands at one of the main roads of the Land of Wrath and Roads. She shades her eyes with one hand, watching. Ahead of her, the road intersects with another. This is only really visible by the raging sandstorm where the two meet. She taps the toe of one shoe on the road, thinking. Then she nods, and starts to run. Jog, then run, then sprint, defying the heaviness of the road that sets into her bones - tearing the road up, even, each footstep heavy and cracking the very stone beneath her. She dives into the storm, and reaches for its seething heart, plunging her hand into it and tearing it free. She squeezes it in her hand and the storm fades, the Rage stolen. But Nyrita has more work to do, leaking black lightning, and she doesn’t slow down, running ahead to the next intersection. She follows a route throughout the entirety of her land. Each nexus of Rage swallowed keeps her going, fills her with the unpleasant truth even as her lungs burn and her legs ache - she can do this. This is possible. The idea that it’s hopeless is a comforting lie, that would stop her from doing what needs to be done. She just needs to keep. Going. She staggers to a stop at the end of her circuit, and turns. Behind her is a behemoth of flesh and steel, a giant and a tank made one massive being. At some point, Jagganoth had started chasing her. But that’s fine. She’s been chased before. There wasn’t any change in what needs to be done. The Rage gave her that insight too. It gives her a lot of insight, really. It hurts, too, threatening to shake her apart. Not the first time she’s done this, eat a land’s power until she split apart at the seams. Jagganoth leans down, and in a voice of red hot metal, says “CHOOSE.” Keep it, this apocalyptic fury? This power? Nyrita takes a deep breath, then exhales. She reaches up, and smites Jagganoth. An outlet, this time. It flows out of her, all at once - but there are no orderly roads anymore, destroyed as they all were in her marathon. It all flows out into the land as a whole. No bunching up, no unhealthy concentrations. Focusing on the bad is, too, an unreality. Sometimes the truth is more than just the ugliness. Nyrita staggers to one knee. The land sizzles with the power, and then goes brighter and brighter until everything goes white.
There are illustrations in the chapters. Here is one now.
((Art by @corallineCataclysm!
c< wOw, sHe lOOKs gOOd iN tHe ROgue Outfit! >c
c< NOt really, geNerally tHe ROgue Outfit is iNcredibly Hit Or Miss, persONally i lOOK pretty awful iN MiNe, wHicH is wHy i dONt wear it OfteN! >c
A new chapter begins, and we get to the meat of things. Chapter 2: “Reality, or The Wisdom To Know The Difference”
If Nyrita was unavailable to make it, I think I would be duty bound to carry on in her stead, hosting #sicknastysunday and such. #nsfw
Nyrita steps through the antechamber, once full of activity, now still again. The underlings may not have been much even as speed bumps, but that particular one was a challenge. Or, well. As much of a challenge as this land has been capable of spitting out at her. Perhaps a newbie would have had trouble, even a newbie master class. Nyrita, however, is not a newbie, and she waltzes through it like it wasn’t even there. The massive stone doors bear the Heart sigil. She taps them. Unmoved. Well. How would she unlock a Heart door? With her soul, obviously. She reaches for her chest - and stops. The hollowness she’s been ignoring makes itself known. She glares at the door, and extends her claws. An extended time clawing through stone later, she walks a narrow path. The cavern is dark, lit by faint silver glimmers of light. They gather, like the stars in the sky, like shining ribbons, and form a crown above a massive figure, waiting patiently for her. “Hello, Nyrita,” says Sophia. “Come, sit. We need to talk, as you well know.” “There’s no chair here.” Nyrita cannot make out her expression, but she gets the distinct feeling Sophia is giving her a flat expression of ‘really?’. Fine, fine. Nyrita sits in midair. Soulless, but not powerless. “Right. So. Is this where you tell me what the fuck is going on? Why a Bard is here, playing the game again?” “Why would a Bard be here, Nyrita? This is a sacred place. This is in the heart and soul of Skaia. The crucible in which gods are formed. You are here because you’re a Muse.” Nyrita stands up so quick the chair she’d be sitting in would have been catapulted backwards, if it existed. “I’m not! I’ve already gone through the game! Been there, done that, got the codpiece, everything!” She jabs her finger at the Denizen. “The codpiece of a Bard! It’s written on my soul! You can’t change that! No one can! I am me, and no one will decide what that means but me! I know that much!” Sophia leans in close. “And do you think,” she says, “that any other Heart player can say that about their soul?” “I.” This brings Nyrita up short. “Huh?” “Because you’re right, Nyrita. No one else can make you anything other than Nyrita. Not me. Not the Lords. Not any other Heart players. Not Skaia. Just you. And do you think that’s something any other Heart player has? You yourself know the statistics of how many people fail and die. Do those fledgeling heroes who get crushed by meteors have untouchable souls? Do the godlings who stumble into the godtiers and victory without ever really understanding what their aspect is have unbreakable selves? No. They do not. Such a quality is not given to just any Heart player.” Nyrita opens her mouth. Nyrita closes her mouth. Nyrita looks down. “Destroy it utterly, though, well. That’s another matter,” Sophia says, straightening up again. Nyrita’s head snaps back up, her hand flying to her chest. “You are powerful, Nyrita. To fail and die trapped and alone, well. That’s not something to take for granted, not for a wanderer through worlds like yourself. So that is the price for failure. The destruction of your soul.” Nyrita’s hand curls into a fist in her blouse. “So. What do I do? What’s the Choice, huh? Do I get one?” “Of course you do. Everyone chooses. Even the ones like you, opposite the aspect of choosing.” She extends her hand, and Nyrita’s soul appears. “Your Choice is simple. Stay or leave. Attempt to become a Muse of Heart, or refuse the calling, leave now, and resume your life.” Nyrita blinks. “And you’re going to explain to me why I’m taking the first, because there’s no god damn way I’m not going back to what I had before. No threats, no possibilities of my soul being fucking erased. Just me, and my loved ones, and my friends, and my job, and everything I want and nothing I don’t want.” Sophia closes her hand. Nyrita’s soul vanishes. “Everything you want except your soul. It will be lost from you forever. Cast into the void, never to be seen again.” Nyrita’s mouth makes a complicated line. “But I’ll still…” “Perhaps. Nothing can simply not be, and that includes you. A new soul will grow in time. Will it be as strong? Will it be as vibrant? Will it still have love in itself for the type of people you love? Time will tell. But it won’t be a Muse of Heart, that I can be certain of. But you, as you are now? Are a Muse of Heart. And this is what you must do to be yourself.” Nyrita grits her teeth. What else could she do? Who else would she be if she chose anything else? “Fine. I’ll do it. I accept the challenge. You bastard.” “Good.” Sophia’s smile is visible in her voice, if not her face. “Truth be told, there wasn’t really anything prepared for you if you refused. What else would you choose, and still be you?” “Nothing! Because if I chose otherwise, I wouldn’t be me! Literally!” “Exactly.” Nyrita’s next few sounds are less words and more incoherent rage. “So what’s the game, then,” she says, when she can get words through her clenched teeth. “What do I do, here?” “Simple. The challenges before you are impossible for you.” “Oh, good. I was worried for a second there.” “So be different. Be someone else. Forge a new soul.” Sophia opens her hand again, and clouds of pink mist descend in front of Nyrita, the raw aether that makes up a soul. She reaches for them uncertainly, gathering them up. “Soon, your first trial will begin. Until then, you are free to do as you wish. That includes leaving the session. But if you aren’t here when it does, you’ll be counted as failing and your soul is destroyed.” “And when is that?” “You’ll intuit when the time is right.” “And what about people coming over to visit me?” “This is sacred ground. They will be repelled, as Miss Nichols was. Now. Our audience is over.”
As the Herald of Sophia, I am duty-bound to have this upcoming entry as one of my favorites.
Wlonk
The ending remains as it was, then. The Heart truly does take on qualities of those closest to it.
There are many types of endings, and many endings one may go through before they themselves are ended
internalizing thi$ wa$ the $olution to my que$t and $ome of my p$y¢hologi¢al problem$, are we meant to be reading thi$ a$ good or bad
Merely commenting on something not changing. There are more important events later in the story.
Does an earlier start necessitate an earlier finish? The answer only comes in watching
I too am in this episode. Off to the side where you can't see me, of course, but still here.
(an 7ou keep going further off to the side until 7ou're not in the episode an7more, that'd be swell
And the second one comes in. Welcome. I do hope you enjoy the show.
I am a long-time observer, first-time follower. Keep up the work. Oh, what am I saying? You intended to regardless of my endorsement.
Correct. The story will unfold regardless of the influences of anyone else, because it ultimately matters little. And I will be here to convey it to Chittr at large as it does, similarly unaffected.
For the first time in sweeps, Nyrita is home again. It feels like another person who first sat here at this desk, placed the discs in the computer, and damned Alternia to hell. It certainly was a completely different person who built this hive in the first place. Someone with a bloodline. Someone with a color. Someone with a future. Nyrita was glad Hassab was her server player. She could remodel obediently, not comment even a little, and keep a secret better than anyone else. The scars of old violence became monochrome reflections of the hemoanonimity she had embraced. And the walls went up and up and up, a hive on Alternia becoming a spire in a fantastical land. The land had changed, too. The Land of Smoke and Runes was gone, devoured almost completely by Nyrita during her ritual. The land that stretched out from the window is the Land of Smoke and Ruin. Great, gaping holes are more present than solid ground, bare scraps and edges of the grand runes carved into the land itself. The great pillars of smoke that rose from pits are just bare sputters from vast canyons. There are no more consorts. There are no more underlings. Everything important about the land is woven into Nyrita’s soul. Above her sits what was once Skaia. The Frog had eaten it, born and grown as a normal one. But it had been sick. Tainted. Manipulated by Yamrtu Tarrus, the Muse of Doom, to a paradox sickness, the puncture wound that would have torn all of existence into nothing. Such a thing could not have been allowed to exist. So they had killed it. Its great rotting corpse now takes the place of the battlefield. Putrescent flesh sloughs off of exposed bones, pus and rotten guts fading into dust and nebulae and great, vast swathes of shadow. A dead universe doesn’t smell, at least. Small mercies. But Nyrita isn’t here to sit on the roof and look up and think about the past. Her future starts here. She takes out the disc, and her hand only trembles a little as she puts it in. She fights the urge to smash her computer as it slides into place. She knows how useless that would be. A familiar bootup procedure, and the screen shows herself, hunched over the keyboard. She’s her own server player. That’ll be straightforward, at least. Down goes the equipment. She stands up and goes to the cruxtruder. She floats up above it, gathers herself, and slams down on the lid. Pop. Out comes the kernelsprite. And immediately she can see the difference. Flickering lights and swirling spirographs, certainly. A silver color, just as she remembers it. But the whole thing pulses, beats like a heart. And then she can feel the pull. The distant tendrils crane towards it like gravity, the dust rises up and is absorbed, her chair is gone, and - Her soul is ripped from her chest. Slides out without any resistance. And fear fills her, a bone deep terror she hasn’t felt in a long, long while. She lunges for it, pink and silver and dark gray, exuding smoke, every millimeter of its patterns and movements memorized. But she’s too slow. Her soul enters the sprite and is gone. She can only stare in horror as the sprite grows, and grows, and grows, and devours the incipisphere.
And now we turn the page. The prologue is complete. Onto chapter one: Soul
To Albion's land, coming home When I see the runway lights In the misty dawn the night is fading fast Coming home, far away as their vapor trails align Where I've been tonight, you know I will not stay
Now we are done with the prologue. Now we turn the page and prepare for chapter one. Not long now
Promises to yourself kept. The blossoming of new love. Night after night in the arms of those close to you. Surety over fear. Beautiful.
There. Doing what you wanted to do. Fulfilling your promise to yourself. Spending your time right before it begins.
Less and less time remaining to keep her promise to herself
Diamonds Droog