《The Front Burner》
1: The Limelight Shines
A Spotlight of Fate
Once upon a chance, a mortal dreams of an unusual place.
She swims through the strange golden void, looking at the old half formed walls. Despite the eerie space, somehow she felt at home.
Too focused on looking at the mysterious engravings on the walls, she didn''t notice a gloved hand make it''s way on her shoulder.
"Ah!" She gasped, looking intently at it.
The gloved hand shushes her and points deeper in. She''s too far to make out what it''s pointing at but whatever it is it''s glowing, bright and pure.
She follows, curious despite herself, the hand holding hers as it leads her deeper in.
The void around her shifts as a pale path is revealed along with what she''s being lead to.
A door, a simple violet door with golden knobs.
She could feel something calling her just behind the door, something grand and yearning and above all else, curious.
She puts her hand on the doorknob--
"Already sleeping?"
Edith fully wakes up as she hears the voice of her elven supervisor, brown hair tied to show off her pointed ears. Looking around, she sees that she fell asleep in the tower''s library, among her now crumpled notes and smudged ink.
"Do you need more coffee? This afternoon is supposed to be your turn for observation." Her supervisor reprimands, stern.
"I deeply apologize." She bows.
"Remember, what we''re doing is important and dangerous. We can''t be careless for even a second, half blood." The supervisor sneers.
"It''ll never happen again, I swear." She needed this job, she needed to know--
"It better not." The supervisor sighs and looks at the hourglass." Now go. I have much important business than babysitting a short ears."
Edith wants to snap back that she''s not even that important- that she wasn''t also a part of Project Prometheus-- that she''s also a spare.
Not like Edith was truly imp--
But instead, Edith walks into the basement of the tower but not before wearing a heavy silver-lined full body suit.
She passes by her co-workers, all busy with their own tasks, a hive of ants working hard. She passes by the artifact corridors, the potions storage room, the posters about greatness that annoyingly litter every spare wall the tower has and the sentries stationed ominously.
Inside the simple basement, there is a chair and a small desk where an energy scanner is in place, idly charting high numbers as it scans the artifact blocked by protected glass.
A small golden beating heart.
No one knows anything about it other than it has a high vigor measurement. It''s appearance hasn''t matched any rogue artifacts or any recorded apparitions.
And most importantly, it is the only recorded artifact that is Yellow. There''s not even a single recorded apparition that is Yellow, so a found artifact with barely any information gleaned only gives a glimpse to a potential mystery.
The hours pass by as Edith watches it closely, trying to see if it would do anything, even just irregularly beat, literally anything new!
But it does nothing for the remainder of the watch other than continue beating, elusive as ever.
She wasn''t deluded enough to think that she''d be the one to figure the Heart out but she couldn''t deny that she at least wanted to be there for the discovery.
Curiosity Begets Curiosity
Edith''s shift at watching the Heartstone may be done but her work wasn''t. Though unlike her coworkers working on secret but undoubtedly important projects, this research is hers and hers alone. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
She calms herself down as she starts. Deep breaths, refocus, don''t get too excited, just keep reading.
She''d been having eerie dreams like this for months, ever since she''d gotten the job.
It always ended like that, her before the door but never seeing what was behind it.
The gloved hand was new though and she hoped that it''d help her narrow things down.
The Ruby Tower had the best resources available for her research. A watchtower for passive, easily contained artifacts, but containing a wealth of information from retired knights and the scholars that wrote down their words.
At first, she''d been researching if the dream was anything in the first place. Even discounting the fact that Milya was a level II dead magic zone, dreams were very rarely infiltrated by apparitions. She''d also gotten a purifying and an examination afterwards, but they weren''t able to determine what it was.
She''d given up on skepticism after it kept reoccurring after every single day. Impossible it might be, it was definitely something magical.
So she decided to focus on finding out whatever it was that was reaching out to her.
Honestly, she wondered about it, why her? She''s smart sure, but she''s no genius. Prestigious it may be to work here, she was mostly stuck doing grunt work for the real geniuses as they figured everything out, a cog in a machine piloted by so-called noble scholars.
Still, apparitions in general including ones that had that kind of power were always dangerous, even if they were donors. She''d copied enough statements of retired knights to know the grim details.
Even so, she was intent to find out whatever was inside that door. She couldn''t explain why other than curiosity, but it felt right.
So here she was reading all she could find on doors and dreams, doors, and dreams.
In the weeks that she''s been researching, she still couldn''t find anything that resembled the door from her dream.
Doors are as old as the peoplehood''s longing for a home so there''s many stories about them but whether they''re just stories or held truth to them was as for now unknown.
But all these different doors always led to somewhere.
The where these different doors led to varied depending on the account.
Within these pages, there was a door of a different violet where riches beyond the imagination are held, a door of white that contained knowledge that would permanently change the person and a door of the darkest of pink where nothing but nightmares reside.
There was also another subject of interest, the color. Mysterious Yellow with no recorded encounter in all the years of searching and searching and searching. Sure, folk tales existed but it was just that folk tales with little to nothing corroborating them.
She''d always loved a mystery and this might prove to be one of the biggest ones of the century!
She almosts rips a page off a basically falling book apart in her excitement.
She calms herself down as she carefully puts the book down. Deep breaths, refocus, don''t get too excited, just keep reading.
While she didn''t want to entertain the idea for too long, the more she looked and turned up with nothing, she wondered if this was something unknown to everyone.
Despite the possible and very real danger, the possibility made her giddy inside.
After all, it could be the discovery of the century! Her mind was still giddy, racing with possiblities, despite her attempts to compose herself.
And maybe, just maybe, she''d be good enough to investigate it herself.
Colors of the Mind
Within the oceans of color that make up oneself, something that does and doesn''t belong swims its currents.
Exploring yet not manipulating, the golden words looks at the many swaying colors and many dark oceans and understands, understands concepts smaller than it''s own and the world.
Simply put, the little persons running all around are questions hunting down answers, theories that aren''t even close to being true and hypotheses that feel more like coincidences strung together than anything real.
The shining truth was inside a place slowly going mad, interpreting mere shadows formed on a cave wall.
But despite their differences, they all dream of what is unreachable, moths who desire to steal fire not knowing that it''ll burn them alive.
The little stage knew that all of them were just curious, much like it. Despite the greed in their eyes, it was delightful in a way, being surrounded by persons just as curious as it was.
But one of them was different, a moth that is the fire down to the essence, indigo, orange and violet swirling around her mind.
Despite how they all want the limelight, the chosen desperately needs it and yet resignation fills her as her violet eyes stare at the flame.
So the creative majesty wondered, curious, at what she would do to have shining lights beam on her.
Would she be able to create and breathe life much like the one watching her?
And at the end of it all, will shining embers prove too much for her?
Everyone yearns to be seen and the chosen was no different, but at least she wasn''t greedy just hungry for it.
And so the script is written, the cues are in place and the lights beam as the show starts.
The first actor just has to step into the stage.
Tink, tink, tink
Sounds of excited whispers spread all throughout the tower, news of the machine nearly being ready and all the hypotheses that could be tested! The hundred year debates that will oh so finally come to an end!
They were so close to having such beautiful blazing knowledge in their hands.
Such was the air, anticipation intertwined with blind madness that everyone could feel.
Even Edith Brightwing was also in such spirits, for she''d finally found something.
An old ritual from followers of the Nightingale Up Above to commune with their donor in their dreams. It was made to be easily drawn and adjusted for religious purposes so even she''d be able to use it for her own.
A nightingale feather, an essence of midnight, a drawing of the door and a dreamcatcher.
And of course, a silver owl pendant as a precaution.
All relatively easy to acquire ingredients, such was the Nightingale''s caring nature. The only thing she''d have to be careful about is when it comes to the essence, too much can cause one to get trapped in a dream forever.
She puts the picture on the center of the dreamcatcher, the feather hangs on the strings and the essence sprinkled on the dreamcatcher at last step.
With the ritual prepared, she goes into a dream that is not a dream that is not an ocean that is a swirl of pure gold.
A Moth''s Flight
There is a yellow path in the darkness and it is to be followed with no hesitations.
The chosen knows this and follows everything to the letter.
The gloved hands point to her destiny, leading her directly to it.
The simple white door is almost glowing, like whatever''s beyond it is excited.
Opening the door, she is greeted with a familiar chamber within the Ruby Tower.
The silver chamber is similar to the rest of the chambers there, covered in white charms and silver wards. A tell of it''s mysterious inhabitant is that these are the only wards inside as the other artifacts have more intricate and more colorful wards.
Inside, the Waxen Amygdala continues to beat, like it always does even as the wax continues to drip at it''s own heat.
"Do hold onto your mask, chosen." An old yet youthful voice echoes around them.
"Who...?" The chosen looked around, trying to make sense of everything.
"Today, I am yellowed parchment, the pressure of lights and a guide to a glory no one will see."
"Interesting..." She looked transfixed before visibly pulling herself together. "Why am I here?"
"As one chosen to reach great heights unseen by many." The room dissolves into starlight and nebulas and golden thread. "Our manner of flight is different, ours seeks truths held dearest."
"What exactly does that entail?" She asked, unable to keep intrigue out of her voice.
"Creation, designing your own heart and seeing, truly seeing." The space ripples with golden eyes for just a moment, gone immediately like they were never there.
"When do we start?" It could tell that she doesn''t fully understand what it wants but is too curious- too wanting to ignore or be truly cautious against it.
"Such strenuous efforts should only start after much needed rest, for too much exhaustion will leave you unfit to fly, much less seek."
The dream starts to collapse, the familiar shifting and turning into golden strings.
"But I give you this, the mark of a pact."
The long golden strings push a simple domino mask onto the chosen, who holds it tightly.
"Do hold on your mask, chosen."
With those echoing words, the dream ends, the curtains rise and the play begins.
2: Playing With Cheerful Fire
A Festering Forge
Tomorrow comes and so does opportunity.
Edith begins the day renewing the sleeping charms on the bark of the Tree of Merlin and checking the energy output after a quick breakfast of eggs and an unhealthy amount of coffee.
It felt weird to be doing menial tasks when she could be doing literally anything more important but she needed access to the building until she was able to build something that can either get her in or something that can contain the Waxen Amygdala just enough for her to smuggle it out, though she doubted she can.
For once she felt grateful that she was one of the reserve staff. She was going to need all her energy for the first session.
The day went by similarly. Carefully cleaning up the Artificial Adarna''s nest, even more cleaning the found belongings of Igor, arranging statements from knights who did a rescue mission on Pandora twenty years ago to give to another department and taking stock of the reserve silver and the least diluted essence vials under the orders of her elven supervisors.
Edith never liked elves. She hates how they walk as if they owned the land they walk in, how they drove away the wonders and replaced them with their own.
Sometimes, the sun''s shine only hurts.
She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a deep breath.
She hasn''t been picked for Project Prometheus but that''s fine, just fine.
She has something else now, something more important.
She''ll run circles around them as they almost make discovery after discovery after discovery. She''ll be one step ahead, ready to burn their progress to ashes.
"But I''m getting ahead of myself." she thinks to herself as she breathes and feels herself untether to nothing but magic.
Within the shared realm of a pact, exists a Workshop where it is always autumn, something that truly belongs and its'' new owner.
It looks familiar enough, almost like one of the Ruby Tower''s many workshops. A simple table filled with different tools, some needles for sewing and different thread but also hammers and nails for wood.
It was a strange thing to see but she just wanted to know what they''d be doing.
She hears a heartbeat from behind her and turns to look at it.
There beats the Waxen Amygdala, the candle like heart glowing as a shining beacon against the daunting atmosphere.
Edith smiles, trying to disguise her nervousness even as she fidgets in place.
The wax drips and turns to honeyed words as they take up a pen and hand it to the chosen.
"For this chapter divine, you shall sketch a vessel of your own, a heart that breathes it''s own air." The noble voice echoes, it''s own light shining on the tools. "To see the truth of others, one must first have a truth of their own and that truth must live."
"What kind of vessel?" Edith asked.
"One of emotion and memory, one created from your deepest memory." The heart glows intensely and becomes a limelight beaming on Edith and only Edith.
"What even is your truth, Edith Brightwing?"
Suddenly, memories forms and become waves that engulf her in reminisce.
She is suppose to excel in whatever way she can.
And so she does, blurs of memory doing just that, reading books from the library, practicing handwriting until it''s perfect, looking at her own weaknesses and painstakingly patching them up alone.
The cold has become a familiar friend, it''s frigid air turning into nothing more than a light breeze.
Of course, it was all worth it when she made it and finally got a job at the Ruby Tower.
Or was it?
"What even is the success you reach for?"
Lights swarm all around her, illuminating the grass around them.
Her crying ceases as she takes in the lights.
Fireflies, just simple yet shining fireflies.
She watches transfixed, seeing the lights dance with each other.
She snaps out of her trance and begins to walk, following the green lights. The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
That''s how the night was spent, her looking at the lights and taking notes about their behavior in her head to keep from panicking as she walks.
She hoped that she too would someday shine like the lights around her, leading her to safety.
"Is it just success you''re chasing or is there something else?"
It all happened so fast.
The explosion was thankfully contained within the room and only very minimal injuries.
Of course, she was the one who got blamed for it and thus one of the people assigned to clean the mess.
At least this time around it was only three fingers that got broken.
Cleaning here was deeply embarrassing, the explosion wasn''t even her fault!
Her elven superior was the true cause of the explosion. Idiot thought she could mix shrouding darkness and the essence of light without diluting it.
With a sigh, she resumes sweeping with her other undamaged hand.
"A desire for equal chances and anger, a call for justice to bring down its'' hammer through the world. A sharp kind of nobleness but it is not your core."
She hazily remembered the sounds--
"Please stop." The emotions and memories only serve to overwhelm her rather than inspire her to make anything. "Not that one."
And everything stops, the memory freezes and the tide of memory recedes.
"I''m sorry." Dazed, she can''t help but apologize, despite not knowing what she did wrong.
"Do not apologize. The world was not built with one thought, even the colors need time to flow." The heart waves the apology off.
The workshop reappears once more, comforting yet not homely.
"An apology shall be made and given form, useful and adored." The candle light intensifies and a beam of light shines down onto thread which quickly sews itself, magic unseen becoming it''s essence.
The result? A cloak of simple yarn, glittering with hidden magic.
As she holds it, she couldn''t help but shiver. The fabric felt stifling under her fingers, like a grand shadow.
If she wasn''t sure that she was safe here, she''d wonder if her hands simply haven''t vanished.
"Put this upon yourself when hiding is necessary. The cloak conceals the acts, the magic and the self."
She looked at the yarn with awe, thinking if ways she could use it. If it can hide her then....
She can find out what Project Prometheus even is.
As if sensing her thoughts, the dream begins to collapse.
"Rest for now. The future is illuminated with your hopes."
A Spark of Creativity
When life teaches you to crave for answers, to sneak while search every nook and cranny for it, you start to notice when you''ve stopped.
Edith Brightwing never had the chance to fully explore the tower before. It''s many corridors etched with charms were always a curiosity, to her and to everyone. The silver walls that protect from the artifacts inside and the people outside it, the many, many weaved charms lining the walls for energy and the numerous researchers trying to uncover their secrets.
As the Ruby Tower is an assemblage of historical artifacts, security is one of their biggest priorities. The blood-enchanted emblems act as the keys, guards on every door and the less said about the sentries the better.
She''d never thought she''d be breaking in to her workplace but that was before the "apology".
She has enough faith that''ll work inside, despite the silver and the protective sigils in place. If the Waxen Amygdala could work despite being inside, surely the gift would too.
She wears the gift and practically waltzes inside, the guards don''t see a thing and the scanners not picking up even a hint of the power of the apology.
She''s utterly unseen.
And so, with her motive of curiosity and a little bit of resentment, she moves through the halls.
As she follows her special coworkers, she wonders whether any of the artifacts are also unrestrained. Hiding in plain sight, just waiting for a set of conditions to come to life and follow their agendas.
She shakes her head. It''s not her business. For now at least.
Almost tripping on the wires, she successfully gets inside the chamber for Project Prometheus.
Inside was a gigantic machine, metal plates plates carved with complex runes, tubes that were for extracting vigor energy, one clear conduit for a color to be put in.
It''s a grand machine, built from the ideas of elven minds that haven''t failed them...
Yet.
She rolls her eyes at the design, it is very grand but not practical. The wires are too haphazardly placed, getting in the way of her co workers. The machine is clearly too large for the room and would need significant peoplepower to even power.
Everything about it reeks of desperation.
Good, though she does wonder if someone from the Jade Tower said anything about lacking results. It wouldn''t be the first time...
Unfortunately, her good mood at not getting caught is immediately ruined when she sees one of the supervisors.
Said supervisor is one of the head researchers in the Ruby Tower, status obvious to anyone who looks. Aside from the gold and ruby red emblem on her coat, her yellow hair is tied in a bun, showing off her pointed ears, the authority she has in these walls and beyond.
Still, she came for information so she needed to eavesdrop and she most likely had the most information out of everyone here.
"Is everything ready?"
"Yes, ma''am! Everything is proceeding greatly. Testing is yielding excellent results, it should be able to handle colors at least 345 VM."
"That should be enough for exact examinations. Pass around more energy drinks and potions, everyone''s gonna need it."
So it''s just a machine for thorough examination? Interesting to note, especially if it manages to be more safe than the usual method, though she doubts it.
Besides the incredible knowledge gained, the practice of "volunteering" would stop if it worked.
She flinches at the memory, at least the burns weren''t too horrible.
She goes left into an observatory where all found colors are contained and studied, she could tell there wasn''t much more information to be eavesdropped.
There was temperamental pink turning darker and darker depending on who''s examining, confusing yet translucent indigo and rampaging orange trying to get out.
Even Edith has to admit that it was impressive to collect even these many, especially with enough form to manifest their properties.
She hopes that the families of those who undoubtedly died trying to get these samples are rewarded enough to never work another day in their lives.
Though the feeling is somewhat buried as she is still smug about the lack of Yellow.
She saw her coworkers all absorbed in their tasks, all double checking and excited chatter.
The Ruby Tower looked alive, for once.
Looking at the entirety of the scenes, she feels oddly hollow.
Her eyes intently stare at everything, seeing yet uncomprehending.
But the hollowness fades as she feels a burning feeling in her chest.
She''s livid.
And she can''t do anything about it.
But she knows that she''ll fan their flames of desperation as they burn for eternity.
The Repugnant Yet Captivating Fire of Patchwork Creation
She feels the world slowly fade away as the world becomes nothing but her pounding and angry heartbeat.
She blinks and suddenly she''s in the Workshop.
Uncaring and too angry to care of why and how she''s here, she fumes and searches for a pen, for anything to help burn.
Too lost in her emotions, a memory unwillingly surfaces and paints a scenery.
She hazily remembered the sounds of packing, cabinets being open and clothing being pulled.
She sculpts the body from white clay, the proportions tall but thin, almost skeletal.
She tries to stay as still as she possibly can. As far as anyone knows, she''s still asleep.
She joins together needles to create hands that grasp for more.
But she heard it all, the shouts and crying and arguments.
Agile arms and legs from thin yet sharp wires, she gives them the strength to simply be.
Of course she did, the walls were thin enough that you could hear anything happening in the living room.
She gives the vessel what she could never have, incandescent wings of feather and beauty made from inferior wax.
So why was she surprised?
She sculpts the marble face to be beautiful, beautiful than them all.
She hears the silence and the closing of the front door.
Important purple and pompous indigo blots the eyes, just like hers.
The only unfortunate thing is that she loved her.
With a spark of golden fire, the vessel comes alive.
Edith blinks, not fully processing what she just did.
The vessel sits up, staring at her as if processing.
And Edith stared back, reeling and drained of energy.
She wasn''t going to lie, it looked alien despite her efforts to sculpt it to look human.
But strangely, it looked lovely in an innocent way.
Edith could see that it was curious, just like her. It was in the way it stared, eyes scanning and taking in details.
Truly just like her.
And wasn''t that a wonderful coincidence?
"The Maestro of Flight"
The title shines within the Workshop, a title fit for its owner, a foolhardy follower who''ll give her life in the name of glory and knowledge.
In the name of her own broken reflection.
Edith Brightwing gently cusps the title given, feeling it''s immense power as tears go down her cheeks.
She''d never imagined that she''d gained a title, especially one as esteemed as this one.
A name of power, a name of essence and above all else
a name that promises mastery.
As she feels the power slowly but surely course through her veins, she vows to live up to it in all the ways it matters.
The vessel watches and clumsily claps it''s hands in celebration, of it''s own birth and what it granted her creator.
3: Struck The Gold With Flying Colors
Dirty Laundry Often Smells
Sneaking through the Ruby Tower, Edith has learned a lot.
She always knew there were dark secrets hidden, the elves make no secret of their cruelty but the specifics and actual acts were a different story.
A more recent example would be the animal parts smuggled under a label of tomatoes, an elf barking orders to ensure that it remains hidden from the public. All of the ones near extinct mere preparations for future plans of idle curiosity.
There''s the plans of what comes next. Persons within cages, selected tests and vials, and candidates stalked from shadows and will be hooked by dreams. They crave for an Achilles or Talos, a pathway to elysium. And they will do whatever it takes for this goal.
And in one of the more simple rooms is a line of people, each being drawn ichor. The official reason being a check up due to the recent wave of sickness but in reality, the ichor is stockpiled to be used as a source of magic.
She can''t do anything about it though, not for the long run.
Still, if one or two containers happened to spill or go missing... Well that''s their problem.
The Devil''s In The Details
CONSTITUENTS:
? 6 planks of Narra wood
? 100 grams of powdered wildfire
? a body of a raven
? 3 vials of Red
? 3 vials of Orange
? 3 vials of Yellow
? A list of personal instructions
? Essence of angerburningrageincinerate
Edith Brightwing sets the narra wood down in a circle to function as a base for the power source.
She carefully sprinkles the powered wildfire at the center and uses a match to light the empty center on fire.
She gives the growing fire the body of a raven as a motive, to become a harbinger of doom, a halt to progress.
She adds the vials in careful order, red for power, orange for control and yellow to serve as it''s heart.
She tosses the envelop containing her personal instructions to it, to give it directions.
It eats it, flames growing and stabilizing.
Edith adds the harvested essence and let the flames grow and let the heat grow so smoldering that it burns just to stay near it.
She doesn''t care.
She channels the fire through a sigil etched onto her skin and let it burn and grasp at her, willing it to be warmth.
She connects with it, additional fuel to a raging wildfire.
She swallowed the pain, it was necessary.
It all was.
Dolls and Dialogues
Curiosity begets curiousity begets learning, so the cycle goes.
But in this cycle, books literally fly from shelves into the hands of the waiting reader. Unlike the previous cycles, the hands that carefully flips through the old pages are razor thin and sharp.
The vessel drinks in all the information it could get from these walls.
The Workshop is beautiful, it''s limits only the imagination of it''s owner but it wasn''t the outside world.
It wondered about history, the fictions they imagined outside and what else could be accomplished by words, words that it cannot speak.
And even more, it wonders if it could grasp it''s own existence like the people outside. It wondered if it could eat food like those outside, feel true grass and dirt under it''s fingers and above all curiosities and passing thoughts, it wondered if it could too create like them, understand the world and how it takes and give it''s own. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Through pages and pages of stories and accounts of knights fighting something bigger than themselves and left scarred, the seers and their grave prophecies, and reborn witches imbued of magic shades.
It wondered and wanted more, to wander in the pages of the darkling divine, about magic and the special ways the outsiders have chosen their shades and wielded them through whatever channels they could.
A unicus, they called it, forged by personality, will and a mix of colors.
Though most of all, it can''t be mimicked.
Could it also gain one? Create and breathe it''s own painted imagination?
It didn''t know, but isn''t that what discovery is for?
And maybe when it manages to create the greatest magic of them all, maybe it''ll gain a name, a beautiful one.
It looked around, wondering where to start its'' own experiments.
It follows the beat of the heart watching under the floorboards, to a corner unseen by even by the Owner of the Workshop.
The orange leaves fall outside despite there not being an outside. It''s always autumn here, the chill of the season is still felt inside despite the fireplace and the decaying plants within are telltale signs of the season.
The world only extends to Edith''s limits, an endlessly large house, an everlasting autumn and halls filled with nothing but books and equipment.
The house always felt a little cold like this.
But the frigid atmosphere is comforting in the way childhood often gives us the softest impressions of the subtle shadows that poison our wells.
Still, the vessel wants more, the promise of being useful, the pursuit of knowledge and a concrete identity.
Wool Over the Heart
She looks up from her work, just finished with creating counter circles against energy circles. It''d be easier if she could just do draining circles but they clearly had different power sources.
She sighed, no rest for the wicked indeed.
A clack brings her attention to the corner of the Workshop where the vessel accidentally spilled too much water on one of the aurora flowers.
It shakily picks up the watering can and clumsily dries out the spill, struggling greatly to do it.
A child must be taught in all the ways of living, to know the world, to live for themself and to care.
But caring is always hard, a struggle to maintain feelings continuously in flux as the seasons change and as people followed suit.
Edith sighs and goes to help the vessel, who''s incorrectly wringing the rag.
"You''re suppose to do it like this." She takes another rag and demonstrates.
In the end, she ends up helping in cleaning up the spill.
The cold spill was easily cleaned but the cold feeling stayed in their hands.
Usually the cold would easily dissipate, but it was extremely cold inside the Workshop.
No matter how many candles were lit, it was still cold and always will be cold.
Iron In The Fire
With shaking hands does Edith finally rest.
Everything''s prepared, the sigils are ready and so are the back ups though she suspects she won''t need them.
All energy potions are freshly made, ensuring that she has enough ichor to power everything up.
No one suspects a thing. All spills and stolen items are blamed on each other, each assuming the other is lying.
Everything''s falling into place, it''s almost like a dream.
Too good to be true, her heart beats with excitement just like the rest of the Ruby Tower.
Still, she goes to sleep.
But instead of rest, something calls to her, someone different.
Out of curiosity, she answers.
A Kelpie Can''t Be Made To Drink Water
Rain pitter-patters within the space between words and actions.
Many have been called here, a void that exists for chances, to feel the full weight of the world and reflect.
Buried here are remnants, an old tale that once flourished.
An umbrella twirls, letting the dark rain swish around the drawn void while still acting as shelter from the rain.
A well leaking colors stands in between two figures, one overflowing with subtle power and the other radiating a whirlwind of emotions. But both knowing where they are.
Here lies the guardian and the maestro.
The void is still despite the tragedy that will begin outside it.
A turmoil that can still be avoided, however unlikely.
Edith looks around, torn between awe at the sacred ground and confusion as to why she''s here.
"Tragedy is the beat where the heart leads." The umbrella stops swirling as the voice echoes.
Edith startles as she faces the guardian.
"Why am I here?" She tried to keep her tone steady but her trembling undermines it.
"You hold something deep in your chest, Edith Brightwing. The future you''ve chosen is volatile, for that you must reflect." The guardian tips her umbrella to Edith.
The Wellspring of Colors glows ominously at the spoken words, a grim aurora spilling from it.
"Reflect within this pause and see your future through."
The guardian gestures to the Wellspring, making it clear what Edith should do.
Edith looks to the Wellspring, the shades of autumn now spilling forth, and wonders what she should do.
Curiosity won and she steps forward to the Wellspring, careful to avoid the overflowing watercolors.
She looks at the reflection within and sees a hazy tree in the midst of autumn. The tree is then set on fire, it''s leaves crackling and turning to ashes. It burns until only a hollow trunk is left and at last, the first fall of snow amidst the burned tree that slowly turns to ash.
"Do you truly understand?" The guardian asks, patient.
She clenches her fist at the ominous vision, still determined to commence her plan despite everything.
In spite of everything, she has to see this through.
The rain pours heavier, just shy of a storm.
"You''ve made your choice. I just hope you remember that the stage does nothing but sets itself, the limelight only reveals, maestro."
"I will." Edith said, more resolute than ever.
"There can be no going back from this." The speaker holding the umbrella stated, heard despite the heavy downpour of rain. "Go forth and face your future."
"I don''t care." The chosen turns away from the quiet in between and goes once more into the spotlight.
The guardian holding the umbrella hums as the Wellspring continues to overflow with magic shades of red, orange and yellow as events become sealed in a play of ashes.
Burning The Bridge
Disrupting newly built experimental equipment is something very very easy to do. However, disrupting newly built equipment with no casualties whatsoever is something very very difficult.
The Sacred Flame to strengthen the ritual, a focus sigil to make your intentions clear, essence of raging embers to serve as malice, negate crystals to drain the energy output and of course, silver owls for protection, both inside the circle and to those who''ll be affected.
The created circle must be as every bit complex as the machine, every carefully etched ward to be countered by carefully selected sigil.
And of course, there were the needed sigils to actually help commence it''s purpose.
She has to succeed at this, by her own power.
Meanwhile at the Ruby Tower, all the researchers all clustered together, running check-ups and carefully powering up the machine.
As they powered up their own power source, Prudence''s Mirror, the negate crystals powered up in return and with the assistance of the counter circles started rendering the energy unusable in any way.
The Ruby Tower was quiet at first, as the energy output suddenly drained and the machine started to power down.
But through quick murmurs and shouts they activated the backup, electricity and taken blood.
Drinking all those energy potions make her want to vomit but she keeps it in and Edith breathes and allows her ichor to flow onto the sigils.
A sigil with the image of a shield colored silver shimmers to carefully isolate the machine from everyone, a great barrier standing.
The researchers immediately start scanning the barrier, yelling out orders at how to potentially destroy it without damaging the machine.
But they would not have the chance to do anything as an activation sigil with the focus of a potion of caustic decay glows to age the machinery within and let them rot.
Then colored smoke started to rise from it, as the machine''s components break down.
A sigil with the image of a flame within colored yellow flares to simply destroy what else remains.
And just then, an isolated explosion fully destroys Project Prometheus.
The clock reaches midnight, the clock''s ring an echoing sound as both sides have stopped.
And at last, the screams started.
Those were expected, anyone would scream after so much work and money went down the drain.
But the screams were of a different agony than she expected.
It was sudden and quick, not the long lasting wail as all their grand magnum opus dies, sabotaged before it could truly come to life.
Quickly, she focused and allowed herself to enter the Ruby Tower once more.
4: Lightning In A Bottle
Ghosts Coalesced Into Dust Bunnies
The red smoke rises from a room of ruined dreams.
No no no no no this cant be--
Dust scatters and flutters through the air, the light from the collapsed roof showing all the little pinpricks of said dust.
The room was utterly devoid of life.
When Edith first decided to destroy the project she was prepared for a lot of things.
Revenge. Catharsis. Satisfaction.
But not murder, never murder.
Never failure.
"Hello?" She said, waiting for someone to say it back.
Instead, her voice only echoes throughout the room and beyond, heard only by the stage.
Hello, hello, hello. The gone ghosts whisper back, no trace of self and consciousness remaining in these walls.
Yet quiet echoes exist but only just, the murder traces of rot.
She steps cautiously outside the gigantic room, looking for any signs of life and hoping against hope that there''s still anything left, that there''s someone still there.
But the truth is clear as ice, its cold clutches grasping at her near extinguished spirit.
The once magnificent tower was indeed truly empty.
Ruin grasps at it''s very core, wards that should be active for thousands of years gone dark and sentries deteriorated beyond repair.
The artifacts were no better, surprising her. All of the artifacts were destroyed, their colors leaking and coalescing into something dangerous even for her.
All of them except one, but you didn''t need to be a genius to figure that out.
She can still feel the Waxen Amygdala beat alongside her own thundering heart and she shudders involuntarily.
No Rest For The Wicked
She needs to find a solution, find a ritual that can somehow undo all this!
She can fix this.
After all, she caused it and that means she can fix it.
The dust continues to swirl all around the tower and she abruptly feels like gagging.
She resists but barely.
Pathetic.
She has to-- to--
Fix. This.
First, no one should know what happened here, she needed to ensure that no one could enter the tower.
A barrier of Chelonia would do best, a barrier whose protection is rooted in preservation, so nothing else will get worse.
Maybe if she repeated that enough she''d believe it.
The next step is to get all the information she needs and more.
The library is in a similar state of deterioration like the rest of the tower but such presence can''t be easily erased.
The words still exist, faded yet floating among the dust.
She may have become powerful but she still needed the information within these cautistic walls.
Many people have grieved before, many people have wondered about what lies at the end, there should be at least something right?
After all, she''s made it this far, she just needs to go a little farther.
A Piper Of Wretched Knowledge
She listens to the whispers surrounding her, the only remnant of life here in the tower.
"...properties. The flower is not powerful but it is extremely resilient and a potent..."
And prays to hope, that she''ll be able to fix things--
"...t requires the truth. To truly see the truth, requires eyes with no shield of self..."
That she''ll find her own light after the tunnel.
"...lost. These lilies are traditionally planted during fae funerals but appear..."
She feels the words lightly graze her as she searches.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
"...crets beneath the Kaleidoscope are numerous but one fact remains clear..."
But what she needs is information, any lead to help her.
"...The Klieg Delta is something we''ve all been through..."
A way to reverse the damage.
"..e waters.."
A way to truly fix everything.
"...perties of wishes..."
She picks up the words and strings the sentences together, a gentle glow guiding her.
"...But someday, Death and Rebirth may be conquered and the waters of the four rivers shall be sailed."
To Gain Wings Is To Fly
Where the four rivers unite lies our resting place, the Delta of Kaleidoscopes, the land of the aurora borealis.
The starlight, oblivion, pale and pure, the washed up colors that are such a pale palette compared to what we held before.
The ferry steadfastly rows on the river of starlight, the souls on board like a beacon amidst the mist.
Only Phlegethon acts as our true light here here, leaking the gouache and pastel that leads to our world.
Our colors become pure here, our memories vanish but their imprints remain as we soon dive into Phlegethon and rise from the waters.
- Minerva Promachus, Secrets of the Light I.
Edith quickly learned to ignore the commotions outside, the knights trying to get into the tower and the waiting families who desperately need some sort of news to soothe their worries, the people who''s hopes are a little too fragile to even think of dashing.
Within the rotting haunted tower, Edith wondered. She wondered about life, death and how to rescue someone from it.
The information from the decrepit library is scarce and her notes are even more scarce but she doubts her notes would be better even with the library intact.
But she knows this, to defeat death is to defeat life. The worst mistakes comes from assuming their differences, she knows that the two forces are simply a gradient of the same color.
But despite all the uncertainties, certain obstacles are clear enough to deal with.
First, she needed to find a way to even approach the starlight river. To even think to setting foot in sacred ground that hasn''t asked for her makes her shiver, she needs wings.
Second, she needs to actually see the river to control it. The fog is enchanted, completely opaque and to behold the river with mortal eyes is practically asking for a death wish.
She may not be fully mortal anymore, but she is still mortal enough to succumb to Death as much as she wished she wasn''t.
She also cannot be concealed from Death, It has no eyes but It breathes over the world just as Life does.
The gift wouldn''t be enough to conceal her, unfortunately. Even mysterious forces have their limits.
She already has a title and that can''t be changed but there are other ways to gain power.
The broken artifacts at the tower still contain power, it only needs something that can contain it.
Luckily, she already has an idea of what to do.
Edith looks over the vessel, also buried in lingering words over this conundrum.
She''ll need her own wings to pursue her solution.
Feather and sacred wax won''t fit her, but she was sure she can whip something fitting for her.
As life imitates art, the breathing words wonders what''ll happen next as it promises it''s assistance.
To Forge A Fix Pt. 1
The careful act of a hand letting a needle in and out of a fabric is difficult enough without the inclusion of scales, Adrianne''s thread, fairy dust and of course fire.
In and out goes the yearning thread and the scales dipped in ink are gently placed onto it. The placement is seamless as the scales idly reflect the candle light.
Wearing a mask and gloves, she reaches for the fairy dust. The fairy dust, glowing like iron stars, coat the scales thoroughly. She carefully ensures she doesn''t get any of it on her.
Once it is complete, the wings glows like rage.
A cool fire immediately sparkles. The sparks ingrain the wings with its'' strength.
At a glance, the wings looked extremely fragile, like one gust of the cold mist will completely freeze it.
If it wasn''t for the ink coating the scales, it would be.
Instead, the moth wings sparkle with grim purpose. It glows with strength strong enough to fly her through the hallowed land. But even with the power of an entire tower''s worth of artifacts, she still couldn''t last long inside the land of the auroras.
She needs to prepare the ritual on herself, but that''s fine, she has the time.
Still, one step forward and one step closer.
She smiles weakly, the pain making her feel dizzy.
Fading back into reality, she quickly downs a potion and breathes.
The tower is eerily quiet, just as it''s been yesterday, the day before that and the day it all started.
It was never suppose to be quiet here.
With renewed vigor, she continues for she must continue, no matter the cost.
The Magic That Refuses To Fade
The watercolors are the tears of those who finished their march with Time, the relief and grief that comes from their names being shed.
These waters are priceless, emotions and colors so complex that it loops back to plain but seen white.
It is not powerful in the way most would consider power, it is said that the waters of the life shed have the power to avenge life.
How it does this is a complete mystery, theories range from traveling through time, reviving the dead or to forge as a weapon of vengeance.
Due to the secretive nature of Witches, very limited knowledge exist and due to the nature of said Witches, it is hard to know if any information is truly accurate but if there is one thing true from all this, it''s that the watercolors likely hold the key to answering death.
- Bacchus, Legends Of The Watercolors
From these new tasks, the vessel found out that the world above is haunted.
Days of helping sort the dust from the ghosts of literature that still lingered here made that fact uncomfortably crystal.
The words turned into secretive specters, their speakers dead and leaving niche riddles in their wake.
The ghost stories written in response to the great wonder and great terror that burns the soul and leaves its marks.
The ghost writers who wrote songs and published facts, all about the cultures and words of the people they''ve held in contempt.
But there is more if you know where to look and all the vessel knows is looking.
Within the hidden truths of the insane, therein lies a magic forbidden by all, too powerful to even hope controlling and too dangerous to attempt by those who cared to still live.
A magic that can brush the watercolors itself, direct the rivers flow and allow safe passage to the Klieg Delta itself.
One that carves symbols and burns too much ichor, the colors becoming corrupted.
The vessel wondered, if it could channel such power and how to use it.
But it brushes it''s thoughts aside and instead gives the notes to Edith.
Edith smiles at the discovery and pats the vessel''s head as she looks over the words.
They were dancing details and instructions, glowing symbols and meanings.
The information was fascinating albeit incredibly limited. Ink was so rarely used, lesser dyes have killed before they get to this pure shade, and it was always used sparingly, only for protection, even more for murder.
But the potential is there, the exploration of possibilities that she can discover!
This is her moment to shine! It has to be!
Her title as maestro has to mean something now!
Right...?
To Forge A Fix Pt. 2
Dotted lines, words of prayer and symbols of pleading covered every inch of Edith Brightwing''s skin.
It was all in faint pencil, for now.
She needed something to follow when she finally has to wield the ritual.
But for now, she has to make more ink.
She calls to the orange, indigo and pink and lets them mix with each other.
The shades all spiral, twisting onto themselves and become a dark blot, the center piece of the plan.
Her hand is clumsy, out of the fatigue of creating the wings, but she has to do this all quickly lest the ink acts up on it''s own.
So without much of a choice, she holds the brush and shakily creates an eye of ink right at her forehead.
Despite the unsteadiness of her hands, it works.
She feels the lines correct themselves and the power course and become a sight of transcendence.
The knife floats to her and she carefully cuts into her skin, tracing the lines and symbols she drew.
She feels power course through the lines. She feels warm, glowing and yellow.
The ink drips onto her skin like never ending rain or more accurately, like tears of the damned.
She breathes a sigh of relief as she''s finally finished with all her preparations.
Now the only thing left to do is fly.
Plunge Into The Depths
Light scales fall and regenerate as Edith Brightwing flies through the mist of the dead.
Even with the Eye of Eminence, she couldn''t see any sign of the ground.
The only things she beholds are the endless mist and the clear starlight watercolors below.
She suspects that she''s no longer anywhere near her world but she holds no fear only anxiety at her ability.
She looks at the thick mist that conceals the Delta of Kaleidoscopes and prepares to do the very difficult and the impossible.
To unwound time is tricky but not impossible.
The impossible part comes from setting it right again, to go against it''s flow and make it right in the only way it allows the crime to exist.
The waters protest against the action, becoming waves that want to drown her.
She resists, the ritual glows on her skin as she uses all her power and then some to accomplish it.
"Small Moth, there can be no going back from this". The waves roar and threaten. "Your endless fall shall end and you will be less than a dream."
Still, she persists, even as it pierces through her.
Death holds it''s breath as Time stirs through the ritual and none move to stop Edith.
She can feel the ritual working, days and months unwinding and dying.
She continues until she finds the cursed date and lets it rot and die.
She feels the magic in her wings growing unstable and knew that she had accomplished her goal.
But just as she sets it right, she feels a tear in the page of her reality.
She gasps and clutches her chest, she feels it.
Her heart aches.
The flow of time straightens itself and the waters move once more.
Her heart hurts.
She can''t move, but the Eye of Eminence shows her the world.
The world is forevermore stuck in one moment. Mothers endlessly wave goodbye to their children off to schools, people wait endlessly for their love ones at an airport and soldiers containing a fight for freedom endlessly bleed, unable to die.
The world cannot move and shall not move.
But Time moves, however improbable.
The fruits from all the markets decay ever so slowly, the meat of the pigs and lambs are falling off the bone and all smiling faces around the world slowly become sunken.
She feels something gentle and hollow put something into her hands.
It was her mask.
Suddenly, she could move.
Edith Brightwing gently caresses it, help was promised after all.
And that meant that she could still fix whatever this is, undo the spell she''d done.
She puts it on, hoping for something, and the world glows gold.
5: Ashes To Ashes
The Ashes of A Self Proclaimed Martyr
The purple black-winged moth screams.
The mask bestows upon her the knowledge that this could never be undone.
The conclusion is absolute and finally gets through to her, too late.
Able to finally move, she quickly tries to fly back to where she came.
The stars blacken as time continues to move.
She flies faster than before but the mist is endless.
She is no longer home.
Tears blur her vision as she futilely flies through the Kaleidoscope of Existence.
She knows the way back, the small pathway that contains home but it is no longer there.
As she hyperventilates, she loses control and falls into the scalding watercolors, full of souls that now know no rest.
She feels the hands of dead drag her down through their souls.This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
She sinks and burns and sinks and burns and sinks and burns.
Unbridled, a memory resurfaces. One of wrinkled hands hugging her, whispering unintelligible words to her.
This situation wasn''t like that most wonderful memory.
She felt the warmth of those old hands, the kind that didn''t burn but made her feel warm inside. She does not remember the words anymore but they were there unlike this sick quiet. Above all, she felt loved, even though it was the most bittersweet chapter of her life.
Here, pulled by hands that hate her, she wonders if she''ll die.
Looking around the waters, she finds it.
A yellow thread, almost impossible to see.
She tries to swim near it, struggling against the hands.
Suddenly, they let go of her.
She knows, deep down within her heart, that the golden thread is offering her Death.
She understands, she thinks.
The world cries for retribution, if it will leave only ashes of it''s own existence, then it wants blood in return.
Through no fault of their own their lives and world are gone, that''s too unfair.
This won''t everything or anything but a limelight is shining and she must step onto it.
With tears still running down her face, she touches the thread and the yellow spreads through her hands, unraveling them.
It spreads all throughout her, to her clothes and her lungs yet she still cries despite the absence of it.
In the absence of sound, she hears nothing but the beating of a heart, even long after her own has become yellow.
She looks all around her, taking in the sights of a cycle that she''ll never be a part of.
Her eyes are starting to hurt. And while she should probably close her eyes, but she doesn''t want her last moment to be in the darkness.
Within this moment, Edith Brightwing shines and is no more.
The vessel of inferiority cries out for its'' creator, lost in yellow hues.
It''ll never have the chance for the name it so hoped for.
She is mourned in but a fleeting dream for when they wake to see the sun for one last moment, the memory Edith Brightwing is no more after the procession.
It ends and the world sees the touch of morning light and the world briefly becomes alive with the full might of spring and the birds sing their last song as Death gains eyes and turns it''s gaze towards the world that breathes its last.
The existence of this world becomes painted on and the memory of everything fades as the river
The fall comes to a close and winter''s chill settles in evermore within the Workshop, it''s new owner hyperventilating as it cries for what it has lost.
A snowfall of twinkling ashes remain in the palm of it''s hands, the world in its entirety.
The only remains of the ashen, subsumed world is th
e nameless vessel of inferiority and a heart still beating forevermore.