"Cataclysm."
The unjust spoke.
Ith'Zaleth watches from the last light.
For stars were concealed from then on, and all that followed.
They sat upon the Hollow Throne of Eminence atop the all-realm's tree, Erlazeth.
. . . .
The Ninefold Testament refers to a flood.
A baptism of downpour for the despised. A flood so vast that it concealed old land beneath cascading oceans of tarred waters.
Flowing with secrets that breathe in silence—truths untouched for millennia.
A bandage pressed against the wounded world, so that a newer, may flourish above its decay.
Through struggle, those born in these realms were lost, confused, afraid.
Then, the Seekers emerged.
Born not from the forgotten name of stars nor soil, they came from a place no tongue could rightly name—only that they do not belong here, yet taught us how to.
Uncanny. The natives of each realm, bound by ignorance and fear, first saw monsters—
Yet they taught: language, diversity, the strange metaphysical branches with only vague meaning.
The unheld flame . . . that is gifted. However, those phrases are long forgotten.
And they preach that Ith'Zaleth, their lord wept only twice—when they chiseled the sculpt of paradise from the ridges of the flame, and filled it with eyes, as he named another arcane that stepped past it.
The Seekers knew of it—those who wield power not given, but taken.
Those of modern times are but shadows of this fury, chained by law and fear. Another phrase stuck in their countless monologues to all new people. Unknown. Rather, forbidden, for we feared what we couldn't couldn't comprehend as it seems.
The black-blooded pressed a palm on each heart of their disciples, and felt rhythm.
"The Forbidden Pulse."
Something cherished? Something feared? Whatever it may be, they kept close eyes on those who wielded its hum.
All were lost, but the Seekers showed them the way. They gave them light, although they bled black blood.
Every Realm saw them as brethren. Each Realm with different Seekers—different guiders, teachers, hopes, and mottos . . .
They used to chant more unfamiliar cheers to the new Realms—Zahl . . . Mahir? Or was it Mazir? In a similar vein. Its irrelevant, trifling. It was then forbidden, forgotten, expulsed by influence. But only another exposition was archived amongst thin-gold pages.
What does that mean?
The realms asked what it meant, but they refused to define it. For they say, "It needs no true meaning . . . only sentiments in the hearts that echo in blazing spirit of penance."
. . .
Seekers gave us something to cling to—for eons.
However, it was their grace period . . . they couldn't stay long.
It was a mercy. Brief.
An air so thin it would kill any of the below. And from the enlightenment of those below—before departing in anonymity—they left gifts.
Knowledge. Hope. Trial.
As they submerged home—from all realms, they murmured another definition of a nameless origin:
"A spiraling serpent that reveals hope," they cheered, most likely a phrase of peace that dug smiles.
Its often assumed that their "serpents" are unlike the venomous ones that slither invasively above. However, others amongst the drowning Seekers disagreed in their idea of peace.
They speak of another which was remembered despite animosity: "Zahr'guul."
Silence.
The bombardment of the undefined puzzled the realm-born natives.
An expression often fought over, without depth—yet, furious, the Seekers set inferno amongst their own.
Ablaze, the realms thrived through vendettas as they learned manners of travel across the infinite sea. Seas that swallow those they believe worthy—only spit their broken boats adrift to vicious shores.
Currents chose what remained. Nine survived. Any remnants of forgotten others drift, slowly . . .
Each one a splintered echo from the time the flood swallowed what was known—all that was chosen to salvage. Scarred but sovereign.
When they departed, a middle aged man watched from a coast whilst others shriveled as those who had learnt to write had frantically scratched in near broken language.
Whether naive or ignorant, he was brave.
A single realm-born man with gray-blind eyes sensed from the hazardous coast that thirsted for swallowing the blood of each. With an expressionless manner on his ancient complexion, he knew that they will grow for eons—but he will never live to feel it.
Neither will they. He wanted to join the Seekers, so he stepped in shore, allowing the abyss to engulf him.
Bystanders only write faster, intelligibly . . . now spread of faint word remains after.
As he submerges mercilessly, he wonders on the names they foretold.
Are they names? Or are they simply in their blood?
Renamed, refined, fine-tuned past recognition as millennia's pass. But now, from the place beneath all things—He sees. The Realms. The branches. The wounds.
He understands what it means.
To seek.
. . . .
Such realms in diversity differ in ideology, but live in contrast.
They conquer, forge, change, enlighten, believe, and so on . . .
They're all that remains upon the pervasive maritime that never count days, only events that transpire to illuminate the grand awareness of all.
For when consciousness was born, we were.
. . .
Realm I.
Mala and Meshja treasured nature. Balance came from their listening. Two conjoined lands that lived in creating beauty.
From its soil arose dispute. Some bowed to rivers, roots, and grass. Others bowed with wires, bolts, and smelting.
Leaving only a small canal between them as they turned away, to only themselves.
Mala remembered, then persevered in greensward. Zi Jin Cheng birthed, then forgot in gears.
. . .
Realm II.
Ferugenstahl burns with compassion for evolving.
Iron, frost, ruin, with sprinkles of cities—that is their home.
Etching survival by pushing beyond one's true limitation.
Even the slightest peace screams there, for perfection is constant.
. . .
Realm III.
Ishkana breathes slow like clockwork.
A realm of woven sun and spirit-chants—led by women who empathize with all.
They love and harmonize with all and everything.
They speak to falling rain from clouds, and the rains respond.
. . .
Realm IV.
Kharzan believes in fists.
They spend winters breaking spines as tokens of love.
Children are weapons—formidable as a man.
They never cry, for their gift is force—but their curse is mercy.
. . .
Realm V.
Lùmèria, a dreamer's tomb.
Skies spawning mirages of impossibilities past imagination.
Fabricated from delusion, they fall into derealization.
Nothing stays the same—not even you.
. . .
Realm VI.
Zavha—those who truly believe.
They worship what they cannot hear, with long blades sheathed in all's blood.
Building golden temples, false scriptures, beliefs that cause doubt.
For is delusion the key to belief?
. . .
Realm VII.
Aestrys, a magical wonderland—or so they say.
Individuals who claim magic exists are punished by sadistic horrors past comprehension.
Hidden, it's seen as craft of the abyss.
To those who go past, every stone, every breath, is a law to surpass.
. . .
Realm VIII.
Vaarkos—a realm where the body is sacred, but never enough.
Flesh is only a draft, and they alter themselves to fit standards that ever so increase.
Languages that speak like cracked stone, and hidden agony.
To them, change is true suffering—but they do it anyway.
For they don't fear death. They augment it.
. . .
Realm IX.
The ocean is not considered a realm, yet they do it out of fearful reverence.
As those who gave gifts came from it—submerged in the horrors of sea that devours.
Solmurah is the only known name. However, it no longer offers gifts—it drowns one until they are remade.
Its only gift being indifference. But its flaw . . . its flaw is animosity from all.
Some realms break; their pieces drift, forming anew— islands of drifting mystery.
Soon to be found, yet soon to be forgotten.
Maybe it already has, and we simply dwell on what we've lost.
. . .
And when the drowned light rises again, so too will their final mistake—the double-edged Bayonet they tried to tame.
As they themselves, gave the realms their meaning.