hic est nihilum

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<<run UIBar.stow(true);>><<run UIBar.hide();>>@@#titlecard;hic est nihilum@@ [[Start|Introduction]] <<link "Load game">><<run UI.saves();>><</link>> <<link "Settings">><<run UI.settings();>><</link>>

<<run UIBar.show();>>//Hic est nihilum// is a fantasy story set in a desolate, post-apocalyptic wasteland. Assume the mantle of the //Omen//, a rebel who endured a harrowing betrayal. Embarking on a perilous journey through the lifeless Abysm, you must rescue your allies from the clutches those who'd sooner see you dead and stop two loving, loathing gods from taking control of your mind. This narrative is intended for mature audiences aged 16 and above. Content warnings include: ♦ Graphic violence and gore ♦ Amputation ♦ Organized religion ♦ Religious extremism ♦ Military conflict ♦ Loss of autonomy and derealization ♦ Body horror ♦ Sexually suggestive content Will you emerge victorious against the treacherous Matriarch, who left you to perish, or will you yield to the forces vying to control your destiny? This story is currently under development. Its content, warnings and player experiences are subject to change as it envolves. <hr> [[Next|PROLOGUE]]

<<run UIBar.show();>>The sky shimmers in a flat rust-red above you, an endless pit of fire. There is no sun, hidden behind tar-black clouds of smoke. You're deep in the Abysm. This registers a heartbeat before the pain does. A burning, skittering agony along your side; the dryness of your lips cracking; a hollow, dull throb below your left elbow. You groan, sunburnt <<cycle "$skin_color" autoselect>> <<option "↺ ebony" ebony>> <<option "↺ umber" umber>> <<option "↺ mahogany" mahogany>> <<option "↺ sienna" sienna>> <<option "↺ bronze" bronze>> <<option "↺ tan" tan>> <<option "↺ beige" beige>> <<option "↺ rosy" rosy>> <<option "↺ pale" pale>> <</cycle>> skin stretching and peeling at your smallest movement. Crimson dust clings to your lashes, clumped together with dried blood. You hurt, head to toe, a sizzling, slow tide consuming your lethargic senses. Alertness comes to you in a slow trickle. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know why you appear to be alive. But you can’t stay in place. <hr> <<link [[Take it slow.|P.2]]>> <<set $resolute -= 5>> <</link>> <<link [[Fuck this.|P.2]]>> <<set $resolute += 5>> <</link>>

You brace both hands on the white-hot ground and push yourself up, keep moving — You only have one to hold your weight up. The attempt at moving makes your body scream and spasm. Your remaining arm buckles under your weight, and you overbalance and collapse back on the dust, trashing against your will, struggling to get any air in your lungs. You vomit and choke and vomit until the agonizing pain fades back to a tedious stream. A cold, clammy layer of sweat gathers on your neck, on your shaking palms. Not getting back your feet and lucking out of this one, then. Your arid throat rasps a laugh rich in blood and thirst. The heat in the Abysm is infernal. It might be what ends your struggling. <hr> [[Next|P.3]]

A vulture circles idly above, the glossiness of its wings contrasting against the smoke. It’s lean and long, made of ravenous lines that warp the sky around it, with a beak of pure, polished gold reflecting the flickering light of the flames. Must be hungry. Must think it hit jackpot, finding a carcass of your size lying there. Your <<cycle "$eye_color" autoselect>> <<option "⭮ black" black>> <<option "⭮ dark brown" dark brown>> <<option "⭮ light brown" light brown>> <<option "⭮ hazel" hazel>> <<option "⭮ dark green" dark green>> <<option "⭮ light green" light green>> <<option "⭮ dark blue" dark blue>> <<option "⭮ light blue" light blue>> <<option "⭮ dark gray" dark gray>> <<option "⭮ light gray" light gray>> <</cycle>> eyes slip closed. You should sleep if you can. Spending your final hours hemorrhaging out on sand is pointless martyrizing. There is no one to watch your bravery in resisting the darkness clouding your vision. And if there is, they are likely to finish you off for the meat on your bones. <hr> [[Next|P.3-1-CORRECTION]]

You smile humorlessly, despite the uncomfortable pull of your skin. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were a hero. A rebel. A saint. A burning sword, standing against the Matriarch’s remorseless rule of the Abysm and the few fertile lands scattered in this forsaken wasteland. Wherever your Empyreans walked, people cheered, unfurling the pieces of fabric they had in blue to show their allegiance. They shared stories of your Lighthouse, a fortress over an oasis, a place of plenty, of justice, where people could dream of more than a whip. It was a slow, miserable, bloody struggle, but you were winning. You ruled uncontested over a third of the desert, and your protection was spreading further. <hr> [[Next|P.3-3-CORRECTION]]

And now, you’re here. Broken. Your memory swirls in senseless, grayscale flashes. Another day in the Lighthouse, your feet dipped in the cool water of the Pearlshimmer Lake. Faz and Lixue, conspiring together over a spread map, throwing lazy suggestions at you occasionally; something about the food supplies in the southwestern border. Slivers of a blue sky peeking through dense clouds, life persisting in this shard of land you called yours. The first volleys of gunfire, coming from everywhere and nowhere and — Faz cursing, reaching for the comms. Lixue, unholstering her own rifle. If you are here, twitching on the sand, left for dead — You don’t want to think about it. <hr> [[Next|P.4]]

You’re nearly dozing off, the world turned weightless and liquid around you, the pain pressing on your throat, when a heavy creature lands right by your side, kicking up a storm of soon to be grave dirt. Far off, you think you hear bells, silver and sweet. Or it might the mouth of the wind, relishing the opportunity to mock the dying with a whip of laughter. The rhythmic flap of wings slows and then stops. Faz would know if vultures prefer moribund or dead prey. You clench the ground to calm down, but your breath quickens, shallow, miserable struggles of your chest. He doesn’t need to be here to share an impromptu lesson. You’re about to discover all by yourself. "Hello, Omen." <hr> [[Next|P.5]]

You force yourself to face the new arrival. Your vision swims, heavy and unfocused. The creature doesn’t register in your vision, just the vague outline of darkness and feathers. Delirium, maybe. Time slows to a crawl, particles of dust suspended in the wind, distant flames frozen halfway through. “You’re alive,” it chitters, with a metallic voice that reverberates lole a crowd singing in a choir, echoing off tall, arched ceilings. Two blessedly cool hands press against your scorched forehead. They slide over your sore jaw, coaxing it open and pressing the edge of a canteen against your torn lips. You’re offered small sips of water, too slow for your desperation and thirst. You drink until the canteen is empty. It goes down smoothly, tasting of salvation. Which means — //The Angel.// <hr> <<link [[“I owe you,” you manage.|P.5-1-CORRECTION]]>> <<set $angel_approval += 5>> <</link>> <<link [[Despite the old throb of fear and distrust, you lean against that creature. It’s your only comfort.|P.5-1-CORRECTION]]>> <<set $angel_approval += 5>> <</link>>

If you asked three of your Empyreans, you’d get five stories for how the Angel joined your cause. They came to you in a dream. They appeared in a rain of iron. They arrived on the Lighthouse in a flutter of black feathers, promising you strength and grace. The truth is — You picked them up in a bar, a couple miles off the sulfurous river called the Severed Vein, drinking a bottle of vodka that smelled like cleaning alcohol. It was the night before a battle. They sounded melancholy when you <<if $angel_approval >= 20>> eventually <<elseif $angel_approval <= 20>> drunkenly <</if>> made your way to them. Looked miserable. The air wept in high, dull notes around them. You made brief, stilted small talk. You never mentioned who you were, what you did. The next day, the Angel showed up to your camp, and you and Lixue spent the best part of an hour trying to add a nameless, formless being to your records as a soldier. <hr> <<link [[No matter how strange, they were a welcome addition. Proof you were holy.|P.5.2-CORRECTION]]>> <<set $faithful += 5>> <</link>> <<link [[They were yet another remind of the chain around your throat.|P.5.3-CORRECTION]]>> <<set $faith -= 5>> <</link>>

A soft sigh catches your wandering thoughts. <<if $angel_approval >= 20>>The Angel gently takes your head. “Never.”<<elseif <= 20>>The Angel shrinks into themselves; you’ve never been able to hide your revulsion from them.<</if>> They settle into a translatable shape. From a roiling mass of shadows, beaten into the illusion of a vulture, they become almost a person. Two arms, two legs, immaculate white skin, a torso, coils of bone-white hair down to their shoulders, two black wings. Their eyes are a flat, pupilless silver, though, almost like the gaze of a doll. And they can never disguise how the air fractures around them, fluctuating in waves of static and video distortion. “Am I dead?” The Angel frowns, a slow, uncertain gesture, more imitation than true instinct to emote. “Despite that Lixue may say, I have no domain over death.” <hr> [[Next|P.7]]

<<remove "#menu">> <<set $angel_approval to 20>> <<set $faz_approval to 20>> <<set $lixue_approval to 20>> <<set $rhys_approval to 20>> <<set $resolute to 50>> <<set $open to 50>> <<set $faithful to 50>> <<set $body to 0>> <<set $charisma to 0>> <<set $tech to 0>> <<set $suicidal to 0>> <<set $angel_secret to "false">> <<set $rhys_secret to "false">>

That is never comforting, no matter how often the Angel says it. “You lost.” “I know.” The Angel shakes their head, casting a cool shadow over your prone body with their fluttering wings. “You lost. The Lighthouse was burned, its denizens crucified, a hundred for every win you pulled. The rest were sold off. //Tetelestai//, Omen. It is finished.” You grit your teeth and slump, grief more pungent than physical suffering. <<if $angel_approval >= 20>>It'd be nice to have someone with you.<<elseif <= 20>>You'll have to make do.<</if>> “Are you going to keep me company while I die?” “No.” You flinch despite yourself. The Angel has a grim, tight smile. “We are in a bad season for grace, I bear a message from God, be not afraid.” <hr> [[No, no, no. "You don't do that."|P.7.1-CLARIFICATION]] [[Bitterness twists in your gut. "Is that so?"|P.7.2-CLARIFICATION]] [[You're ready. You knew it couldn't end like this.|P.7.3-CLARIFICATION]]

The Angel presses down on your shoulder to stop you from aggravating your injuries. Their touch doesn’t register as touch, doesn’t hurt, but has the weight of a mountain regardless. You’re pinned to the ground, a butterfly on a taxidermist’s wall. “I’m sorry.” “You aren’t. You’d let me die if you were sorry,” you spit. It comes out in a warble instead. “I don’t want to.” They press their lips together, wings tensing around you two. “I had faith on you. I loved the Lighthouse. I loved Lixue and Faz and all your Empyreans.” You did too. But you’re so fucking tired. You’re a broken porcelain doll, and even if you’re filled up with iron, you’ll only shatter again. <hr> [[“You could help me,” you plead.|P.8-1QUESTION]] [[“Isn’t this enough? Isn’t everything I’ve done enough?”|P.8-2QUESTION]]

“You’re brave,” the Angel says, folding their hands over their lap. They are wearing a pale-yellow dress, you note for the first time. Out of time, centuries old. The sight of it in this wasteland makes you, impossibly, want to cackle. It must’ve belonged to one of their old martyrs, one in the long list of blessing-mad people they followed and loved and inevitably stood witness to their destruction. Nothing is truly of the Angel, not even their form. “You’ll complete your mission this time, won’t you?” they turn to you with enormous, disquieting eyes, dripping hope. This time, to contrast with your failure. <hr> [[“Do I have any other choice?” You hiss, suddenly bitter, your mouth full of barbed wire. “You’ll drag me into it.”|P.8.2.1QUESTION]] [[“It must be done.”|P.8.2.2QUESTION]]

The Angel lets go of your shoulder to cover their eyes, hiding from your begging. Their tears are crystalline, multi-colored, and when they hit the ground, they turn into small pearls. The very air around you echoes with a note of desperation. It never gets easier, making the Angel cry. “I don’t want to, and I can’t.” “//Can’t//? What more do I need to do? It’s over. I’m over.” You’re stuck in the same beat of pain, your blood is frozen mid-drip, but you’re dying. A slow, steady march to death. “I’m just the messenger,” they whisper. In a sick twist, they draw their shoulders in and bend their head; they look like they’re pleading you for mercy instead. <hr> <<link [[You know this is unforgivable, to a creature haunted by the lives taken by their flaming sword. “Kill me,” you order.|P.8-3QUESTION]]>> <<set $angel_approval -= 5>> <<set $suicidal += 1>> <<set $angel_kill to "true">> <</link>> <<link [[What a joke, to say it is finished, only to have you rise again. “If I must.”|P.8-4QUESTION]]>> <<set $angel_approval += 5>> <</link>>

Your ribs pulse. Your breath rattles. The insides of your mouth taste of rot, dryness and defeat. The Angel presses a fluttering kiss on your palm. The touch of their lips is cold and without pressure, registering more like than light than reality. You fist curls. It itches to crash against their jaw. “I’m not your judge.” Is that supposed to be of any comfort? “//Traitor.//” “It is beyond me to —” “I don’t care. //Traitor.//” “I’m just the messenger,” they whisper. In a sick twist, they draw their shoulders in and bend their head; they look like they’re pleading you for mercy instead. <hr> <<link [[You know this is unforgivable, to a creature haunted by the lives taken by their flaming sword. “Kill me,” you order.|P.8-3QUESTION]]>> <<set $angel_approval -= 5>> <<set $suicidal += 1>> <<set $angel_kill to "true">> <</link>> <<link [[What a joke, to say it is finished, only to have you rise again. “If I must.”|P.8-4QUESTION]]>> <<set $angel_approval += 5>> <</link>>

The Angel recoils like you cracked a whip on their back. Your ears wing with the audio distortion carried by the wind. Their image twists into a thousand different shapes. Lion, bull, eagle, misery. There is dried blood under their nails, the glint of their golden helm under the sun. Soldier. The Angel of Death. The first of your faithful, drawn in by the promise you’d never again make them kill. “I don’t know why I am surprised,” they say, soft as white silk on the wind. “But you won’t die. You can plead me, you crawl to the desert, you jump off a cliff, you won’t die, Omen.” And that is your doom, spoken into existence. <hr> [[Next|P.8-CLARIFICATION]]

“It won’t be so terrible,” they sigh, dabbing the dust and grime from your cheeks. Their touch is tender, this impossible to translate concept of comfort made real. It’s considerably less disturbing than dying by yourself in this sea of red rust. “I don’t know why—” The Angel shushes you. Your wounds become distant, secondary, as if your skin and flesh and bones belong to some other poor fool beaten off in the Abysm. You suck in the marvel of a breath. This suspended moment might be your last chance to do so. “You’ll be glad you didn’t die, I promise.” <hr> [[Next|P.8-CLARIFICATION]]

The Angel’s words wash over you, raw and ruthless. Yet another implacable reminder of the salt-wreathed accord you made. The Matriarch warped the Drowned Maiden around herself, made a mythos out of a goddess who couldn’t stop the apocalypse, the dried-out annihilation. She became a vessel, lady and mistress of the droplets of water remaining in the sea of sand, claiming to be the goddess' daughter. How could you compete? She had decades to earn their faith, their love, their fear. You had to twist into a saint. To simply beckon the god's attention, you... <hr> <<link [[...took a stone knife and made the only offer death can’t refuse: Life.|P.9]]>> <<set $accord to "blood">> <<set $body += 10>> <</link>> <<link [[...bent down and whispered all your secrets into the dirt..|P.9]]>> <<set $accord to "secrets">> <<set $charisma += 10>> <</link>> <<link [[...slept in muttering, ancient ruins until the concrete shattered your mind.|P.9]]>> <<set $accord to "technology">> <<set $tech += 10>> <</link>>

The Angel hardens, becomes diamond-like under the red heat of the flames burning eternally over the Abysm. “I have no power to compel you.” “Is there a difference between the whip and the hand that yields it?” “You failed us.” They crane their neck, staring into the sky, less real than the smoke, mouth wrenched in a thin, marmoreal line. “You failed us, and now there are hundreds dead. Hundreds more in despair. It is your duty to save them.” That pitiless reminder of your failure has you reeling. “I already said I would do it.” “You see a miracle and not your obligation.” All those years, and the Angel truly hasn’t overcome the soldier in them. The Angel of Death. <hr> <<link [[“Can’t I want to go back? A choice I made a decade ago… can’t I be afraid?”|P.8.2.3QUESTION]]>> <<set $angel_approval -= 5>> <</link>> <<link [[Your mind overflows with images of the last free place destroyed, its rebels brought to heel, people screaming into the heavens. Love is duty.|P.8.2.4QUESTION]]>> <<set $angel_approval += 5>> <</link>>

“You’d have made a good Angel.” The mere presence of the Angel warps the world around them, bringing back a war that is years, decades, centuries gone. They were a good soldier in another life. They were the //patron// of soldiers and martyrs. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” you manage to ask, the words sticking to the roof of your mouth. In a sense, asking for clarification is the same as sliding a knife between their ribs. “In a way. Your duty is immensurable. It’s not so different, when you’re something like me.” <hr> <<link [[“Can’t I want to go back? A choice I made a decade ago… can’t I be afraid?”|P.8.2.3QUESTION]]>> <<set $angel_approval -= 5>> <</link>> <<link [[Your mind overflows with images of the last free place destroyed, its rebels brought to heel, people screaming into the heavens. Love is duty.|P.8.2.4QUESTION]]>> <<set $angel_approval += 5>> <</link>>

The Angel fiddles with the lacy edge of their sleeve, avoiding the pleading weight of your attention. “You bargained for power. Offered up your life in sacrifice, so you’d be the mouth of vengeance in a dead world.” You know. You remember. “The price is too high.” You bite down on your tongue to not starting cursing, screaming, howling. “And it didn’t work. I’m here. The world is as dead as it was before I started. No one is saved unless they are willing to bleed and serve.” “There is no fine print,” the Angel insists. “You were offered power, not success, and you agreed to those terms. The more you think of going back, the more it’ll hurt once you realize you can’t.” <hr> [[Next|P.8-CLARIFICATION]]

“I made a promise in the desert,” you exhale. The words taste of dust and resolution. “I’m glad you did,” the Angel gently adjusts your collar, your remaining glove. Their care soothes part of the frozen ache better than morphine. “Many people are glad you did, even if it brought you to this. Isn’t that enough?” You swallow around nothing. Is it, you wonder. “I thought it’d be easier to win. I thought I’d win.” “There is no fine print.” They make the words into an apology. “You were offered power, not success, and you agreed to those terms. The more you think of going back, the more it’ll hurt once you realize you can’t. There is only forward.” <hr> [[Next|P.8-CLARIFICATION]]

The Angel spreads their wings, the rattle of feathers echoing like a volley of artillery fire, wrenching you from your thoughts. The sanguine light of the Abysm breaks in fractals around them. You wheeze. Dust particles speed away. Drops of blood sink into ground, running in rivulet down your side, your mouth, your stump. Time rushes in again, a river overcoming a dam, and your pain returns a thousand-fold. "Why did you go back?" you ask, <<cycle "$attitude">> <<option "↺ sincerely">> <<option "↺ gently">> <<option "↺ angrily">> <<option "↺ sharply">> <</cycle>>. The question's been burning on your tongue. <<if $angel_approval >= 20>>You know why, and the truth of their appreciation hurts as cleanly as any knife.<<elseif $angel_approval <= 20>>Impossibly, you feel guilty. You didn't know you mattered so much.<</if>> The Angel folds into themselves. "I did what I deemed necessary, Omen." <hr> [["I didn't ask for it."|P.9.1-CLARIFICATION]] [["I'd have never asked for it."|P.9.1-CLARIFICATION]] [["Thank you."|P.9.1-CLARIFICATION]]

It is the third year of the war. “Goddamnit,” Lixue hisses, squinting into the scope of his rifle. You’re exhausted. She’s entirely stained by red dust, mud and gore. The layer of grime hides the beige paleness of her skin, the blackness of her buzzcut, the color of her clothes. She is another sandstone statue abandoned in the Abysm, blending into the monochrome scenario. You resist the suicidal urge to peek out of your foxhole. “How many?” “Six mechs. Two ogres. A full platoon of common folk.” She makes a disgusted sound. “They brought out the full honor guard for the Matriarch, and they’re going to walk straight into our soldiers.” Your five soldiers. Who were prepared to kill one woman and one mech. “Goddamnit,” you echo wearily. <hr> [[Next|P.10-1-CLARIFICATION]]

This entire mission went to hell and back the minute you stepped out of the Lighthouse. You sent a squad — small and mobile, one of the finest you had — to intercept the Matriarch out in the Abysm and kill her, no witness, no chance of an immediate retaliation. End this war the easy way. You and your Empyreans might not have the resources of the Garden and its ruler, but you //know// they aren’t prepared for her to die. They’d scramble. Panic. Surrender you the land you’ve bled for in their fight for the vacant power. Except, six hours after they left, you received a desperate message from one of your scouts. The Matriarch wasn’t as alone as previous intel made it sound. <hr> [[Next|P.10-2-CLARIFICATION]]

You gathered a team to try and intercept the squad. With the pace you were forcing, you should’ve been able to reach your soldiers with time to spare. Instead, you stumbled on a group of decrepit mechs and emaciated Servants, the faithful of the Matriarch, the mad ones who brave the Abysm believing it will make them saints through the deprivation. Your group isn’t heavily armed; you needed to move fast. It took most of your ammunition to shake them off. The three of you came out much worse for wear. Your pace slowed to a limping crawl. You reached the ambush site too late. The Matriarch and her honor guard leisurely advance over the rust red sands, under the perfect view of you, tucked along scarped hills, and your soldiers, hidden further along the path. Forcing a cross would put you directly in their sight and force a confrontation. <hr> [[Next|P.11]]

“Any chances to radio them?” You turn to look at Faz, who’s shoved deep in this small, stale cavern, pressed between the two of you and the stone. He isn’t doing any better than Lixue. There is a gash on his forehead. Blood stains his black curls and his bronze brown skin and falls over his restless, reddened light brown gaze. He is cleaner, marginally, but his breathing is erratic and stuttered, and he cradles his left side, trying to keep weight off it. The past weeks have hollowed him out, made him skinner than his usual. Faz wrinkles his nose and winces. “Mechs would pick it up. We aren’t up to take any fire right now.” “So we don’t intervene,” Lixue asserts. Faz juts out his chin, fingers drumming restlessly over his radio and his kit. “That’s fucking cold.” <hr> [[“Yeah.” You hang on to your gun. “We won’t intervene.”|P.12-A]] [[It’s a good enough description for abandoning your soldier to die. “Can’t you run interference? The Abysm scrambles readings after a while, they might not care.”|P.12-B]]

“Duly noted.” Lixue scoffs. “You have how many broken ribs right now? We attract their attention right now, we tally up to eight dead instead of five.” “I’m not protesting,” Faz retorts, a touch of sharpness to his voice. “You’re thinking about it.” Faz digs his nails into the dust and stone. He makes a derisive sound. “You’re too busy sticking to the great Omen’s shadow to know anyone. I was //friends// with everyone in that squad. I fucking care that they’ll die. Terribly sorry that this seems to be above you.” “You know we’re doing the right thing,” Lixue points out. From your position, you can see the tightness of her mouth, the faint tremble of her trigger finger. She isn’t half as cold as she pretends to be. “Oh, shut up.” <hr> <<link [[You huff. "That’s one of our best squads. They’ll realize the mission's parameters changed and react accordingly."|P.13-A-1]]>> <<set $faz_approval += 5>> <<set $open += 5>> <</link>> <<link [[“A sad fatality,” you interrupt pointedly. You can’t afford an argument now.|P.13-A-2]]>> <<set $faz_approval -= 5>> <<set $open -= 5>> <</link>>

Faz’s gaze skitters over every shadow, a restless sweep. He opens his kit, and the screen, cracked as it is, lurches to life with a blue glow. His fingers skim over his radio. “That is unnecessarily insane,” Lixue grumbles, twisting her neck to glare at the two of you. “Correction, that is //unnecessary//.” “I’m just checking.” “Six mechs, two ogres, an entire platoon, and the fucking Matriarch. Are we sure we want to take the risk?” She adopts an overly patient, overly mocking tone. Her feet scramble to find purchase on the ground, and she drums her nails along the length of her rifle, still peering through the scope. You wonder how the honor guard is organized. How heavily armed. “Big, strong maybe is the answer, if you’re wondering,” Faz buts in. “I could mimic a degraded sign. Embed a piece of our code. Beneath their notice, and frankly meaningless. The squad would have to chance to…” He can’t hide the hopefulness in his voice. <hr> <<link [[It takes some maneuvering, but you manage to twist until you can squeeze his uninjured shoulder. “I’m sorry.”|P.13-B-1]]>> <<set $faz_approval += 5>> <<set $open += 5>> <</link>> <<link [[You cut him off. “Still a risk of detection with the added possibility of them taking a peek at our code.”|P.13-B-2]]>> <<set $faz_approval -= 5>> <<set $open -= 5>> <</link>>

Faz forces his expression to soften. His eyes are feverish with pain and exhaustion. He’s grown thinner since you met him all those years ago, when he showed up one day to the barely standing Lighthouse, offering his services as an engineer. He’s grown sharper. Lixue grunts. “Oh, by the hells.” He taps her leg lightly with his foot and turns his focus back to you. “They won’t. You gave them an order. Might as well have told them to die trying.” You check your gun charges. About a third remaining. The weight of Faz’s attention scrapes against your skin. A leaden weight settles on your stomach. You feel cold. No one lets you forget the adoration your Empyreans. “We can’t help them now.” “Yeah.” Faz lets his head fall back against the stone. <hr> [[Next|P.14-A]]

“’Course not,” Faz snorts. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You prod, your shoulders drawing in. The cave walls closing in. Faz forces his expression to soften. His eyes are feverish with pain and exhaustion. He’s grown thinner since you met him all those years ago, when he showed up one day to the barely standing Lighthouse, offering his services as an engineer. He’s grown sharper. “Nothing. I’m glad you’re our fearless leader and not me. We truly need someone who can always see the bigger picture.” Lixue clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “You’re such a wannabe hero.” Faz doesn’t answer, lets his head fall back against the stone. At least you don’t have an argument anymore. <hr> [[Next|P.14-A]]

The three of you fall into an uneasy silence. You try to not think about how long it was since you last slept. It was supposed to end tonight. Your intel said the Matriarch would be alone, to sneak into the fortress-city of Altora and avoid an angry crowd. “You’ve got to be kidding. Not now.” Lixue hisses. Her arms visibly shake with the strain of not moving. “One incoming. Foot soldier. What the fuck?” You can’t be spotted. If you’re noticed, you’ll die. <hr> <<link [[Your heart hammers against your ribcage. Your mouth goes dry. "Shoot."|P.15-A-1]]>> <<set $lixue_approval -= 5>> <<set $resolute -= 5>> <</link>> <<link [["Engage stealth," you order smoothly.|P.15-A-2]]>> <<set $lixue_approval += 5>> <<set $resolute += 5>> <</link>>

They’re climbing over the sharp incline, taking the spiraling path upwards. “They’re going to hear. They’re going to //see// a soldier drop dead out of nowhere,” she starts listing. “If one doesn’t come back, don’t you think they’ll send more?” Faz make a thin, reedy sound. Lixue snaps back to herself, hammering her hand against the side of the cave, where she installed a stealth device the minute you’d hidden here. The Abysm in front of your foxhole shimmers, taking a petrol-like texture. “Stay sharp, Omen,” she snaps. Lixue places her attention on the Abysm outside. You nudge her leg with yours, trying to catch her attention, but she doesn’t budge. Predictable. At some point, your edges and hers start melting together. You’ve known each other for too long. She beat your cause into the shape it took, right after she got expelled from the capital, half a decade before rebellion was a possibility. “Don’t forget yourself,” you scorn. <hr> [[Next|P.16]]

Lixue’s eyes widen. Her arms shake and falter. Her mouth suddenly tightens. Her breath is shorter. It’d take only the smallest fraction of a moment for her to press that trigger and doom the three of you. She can’t panic. None of you can afford to panic. “Engage stealth,” you say again, firmer this time around. The button is right by her head. //She// installed it. You’d have to move over her, waste precious seconds. Lixue snaps back. Her hand comes down against the button hard. The Abysm in front of your foxhole shimmers, taking a petrol-like texture. “Quick thinking,” Faz mutters. Lixue places her attention on the Abysm outside. You nudge her leg with yours, trying to catch her attention, but she doesn’t budge. Predictable. At some point, your edges and hers start melting together. You’ve known each other for too long. She beat your cause into the shape it took, right after she got expelled from the capital, half a decade before rebellion was a possibility. <hr> [[Next|P.16]]

The incoming guard reaches the summit. You’re thirty steps away, holding your breath, a line of sweat running down your back. Lixue leans back, trading her rifle for a pistol. Faz picks up a knife. They pause, twenty steps away now, trying to sense any little disturbance. Stealth systems, at least the old, constantly repaired ones you use, emit a faint vibration. You can feel it on your teeth, along the ground. Outside, they might mistake it for the wind blowing the sand. Maybe. You tremble. Lixue’s lips move silently in prayer. Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen steps. Time slows to a molten crawl, as the guard approaches the disguised boundary. Below, the Matriarch’s procession never starts walking again, the platoon loading their guns. <hr> [[Next|P.17]]

“Figures,” he drawls, tucking himself away from your gaze. He sounds weary, disappointed, resigned. The war is making monsters of all of you, but Faz takes it worse than anyone. You don’t know what he used to do before he enlisted. One day, he showed on the barely-up Lighthouse, claiming he had skills you needed. Barely a couple off weeks into your rebellion against the Matriarch, you couldn’t turn anyone away, even if he hadn’t been half as good as he claimed he was. But he was. You landed an amazing engineer. You don’t think he’s used to killing, however. “We can’t afford to die, Faz,” Lixue comments, more delicately than you’ve seen her manage since you left in this mission. <hr> [[Next|P.14-B]]

“//Yessir//,” he spits venomously, tucking himself against the far corner of the cave. “Listen, Faz—” He waves. “I have my orders, you don’t need to justify them. You won’t have any sedition from me, Omen.” The war is making monsters of all of you, but Faz takes it worse than anyone. You don’t know what he used to do before he enlisted. One day, he showed on the barely-up Lighthouse, claiming he had skills you needed. Barely a couple off weeks into your rebellion against the Matriarch, you couldn’t turn anyone away, even if he hadn’t been half as good as he claimed he was. But he was. You landed an amazing engineer. You don’t think he’s used to killing, however. “We can’t afford to die,” Lixue comments, more harshly than you think he deserves, no matter how annoying. <hr> [[Next|P.14-B]]

Faz lets his head thud back. A terse silence reigns absolute in the foxhole. You try to not dwell on your heavy eyelids, on the migraine pulsing in your temples. How was it since you last slept? Thirty hours? It was supposed to end tonight. Your intel said the Matriarch would be traversing the Abysm alone, to be discreet, sneak into the fortress-city of Altora and avoid calling on a whip-furious crowd. “You’ve got to be kidding. Not now.” Lixue hisses. Her arms visibly shake with the strain of not moving. “One incoming mech. What the fuck?” You can’t be spotted. If you’re noticed, you’ll die. <hr> <<link [[Your heart hammers against your ribcage. Your mouth goes dry. "Shoot."|P.15-B-1]]>> <<set $lixue_approval -= 5>> <<set $resolute -= 5>> <</link>> <<link [["Engage stealth," you order smoothly.|P.15-B-2]]>> <<set $lixue_approval += 5>> <<set $resolute += 5>> <</link>>

They’re climbing over the sharp incline, taking the spiraling path upwards. Close. “They’re going to hear. They’re going to //see// a military grade mech blow up,” she starts listing. “If one doesn’t come back, don’t you think they’ll send more?” Faz makes a thin, reedy sound. Lixue snaps back to herself, hammering her hand against the side of the cave, where she installed a stealth device the minute you’d hidden here. The Abysm in front of your foxhole shimmers, taking a petrol-like texture. “Stay sharp, Omen,” she snaps. Lixue places her attention on the Abysm outside. You nudge her leg with yours, trying to catch her attention, but she doesn’t budge. Predictable. At some point, your edges and hers start melting together. You’ve known each other for too long. She beat your cause into the shape it took, right after she got expelled from the capital, half a decade before rebellion was a possibility. “Don’t forget yourself,” you scorn. <hr> [[Next|P.16]]

Lixue’s eyes widen. Her arms shake and falter. Her mouth suddenly tightens. Her breath is shorter. It’d take only the smallest fraction of a moment for her to press that trigger and doom the three of you. She can’t panic. None of you can afford to panic. The Matriarch’s honor guard would see. Would hear. “Scramble its systems” you say again, firmer this time around. The PRBS-device is strapped to her side. //She// insisted on bringing it. You’d have to move over her to get it, waste precious seconds. Lixue snaps back. She nearly drops the small, triangular box but manages to input the scrambling prompt with imprecise jerks. It vibrates in her grip. For good measure, her hand comes down against a small button placed on the cave wall. The Abysm in front of your hiding place shimmers, taking a petrol-like texture. Stealth systems are now engaged as well. “Quick thinking,” Faz mutters. Lixue places her attention on the Abysm outside. You nudge her leg with yours, trying to catch her attention, but she doesn’t budge. Predictable. At some point, your edges and hers start melting together. You’ve known each other for too long. She beat your cause into the shape it took, right after she got expelled from the capital, half a decade before rebellion was a possibility. <hr> [[Next|P.16]]

Your heart threatens to collapse. It keeps racing faster-faster-//faster//. Slamming itself against your chest. Your breath scrapes out of your mouth, coming in short, uneven bursts. Your palms prickle. How did they notice you? Why — You look over at Faz and hit your back on the wall when you scramble back, away from him. His face is flat, wax-like, as emotionless as a doll’s, the vague imitation of humanity rather than a man. Lixue’s fingers are long and bent in odd angles. You can spot cutting bones poking against her skin. @@#godvoice;REMEMBER, a cannon-fire voice rattles in your head.@@ Vomit burns in your mouth. Faz and Lixue are more immobile than statues. They gleam with hunger. They’re surreal, uncanny, crawling with errors in their humanity. @@#godvoice;REMEMBER.@@ <hr> [[Next|P.18]]

It is the same nausea of peering down a freefall. The guard is still approaching. Neither Faz nor Lixue are afraid. They bared teeth turned too sharp in the mockery of grins. The dark gunmetal pierces through the illusion first, and then your hunter. Seven months ago, this didn’t happen. You don’t understand why it is twisting around in broken edges. Why a cold breath sticks to the back of your neck with a stuttered, small, thrilled exhale. You’re face to face with an enemy riffle, staring down the barrel of a gun. @@#godvoice;COWARD TRAITOR YOU NEED TO REMEMBER@@, that chill sneers, pressed against your mind, claws digging into whatever sliver of exposed skin you’re showing. They press down on the trigger. You wheeze through a plea, but neither your begging nor the shot registers in your ears. Your brains splatter out, staining your <<cycle "$hair_length" autoselect>> <<option "↺ hip-length" hip-length>> <<option "↺ waist-length" waist-length>> <<option "↺ midback-length" midback-length>> <<option "↺ shoulder-length" shoulder-length>> <<option "↺ chin-length" chin-length>> <<option "↺ ear-length" ear-length>> <<option "↺ short" short>> <<option "↺ buzzed" buzzed>> <</cycle>>, <<cycle "$hair_type" autoselect>> <<option "↺ coiled" coiled>> <<option "↺ tightly curled" tight curls>> <<option "↺ loosely curled" loose curls>> <<option "↺ wavy" wavy>> <<option "↺ straight" straight>> <</cycle>>, <<cycle "$hair_color" autoselect>> <<option "↺ black" black>> <<option "↺ dark brown" dark brown>> <<option "↺ sandy brown" sandy brown>> <<option "↺ light brown" light brown>> <<option "↺ dark blond" dark blond>> <<option "↺ strawberry blond" strawberry blond>> <<option "↺ platinum blond" platinum blond>> <<option "↺ copper" copper>> <<option "↺ auburn" auburn>> <<option "↺ dyed" dyed>> <</cycle>> hair. <hr> [[Next|P.19]]

You wake up in a sweat-damp bed. Your eyelids twitch and drip until you manage to force them. The room you are in is half-lit. The ceiling is white, painted with peeling lavender wreaths. You can barely swallow past the staleness of your mouth; the smell of myrrh is nauseating. “Well, damn,” a person to your right sighs, “I owe Rion a drink. You live.” It looks like a man. He has badly cut golden hair, falling in jagged bangs over his sharp cheekbones. He is tanned, tall and wiry, dressed in a thin blue shirt and sturdy pants. A scar stretches over his mouth as he smirks. There is old, dried blood on his boots. His shadow is very dark. Your savior, you suppose, if you discount the Angel. <hr> [[“Ow,” you grouse to yourself.|P.20]] [[You bask in the existence of a mattress. The mattress is thin, and the sheets are scratchy, but you can’t afford pickiness after… that.|P.20]]

“Glad you’re getting comfortable, stranger. I don’t have a thousand questions, don’t mind me.” You creep up on to a sitting position. Moving isn’t a festival of agony, your side especially has mellowed to an itching skitter, but you fall flat for the attempt anyway, unbalanced. Your bandaged stump slides under your weight. You aren’t going far, and yet, you must — There is a window to your side, but the curtains are shut. You can’t see if is closed or locked. The man is sitting on a rickety chair between you and the door. He has a long, serrated knife strapped to his waist. The lack of exits close in the walls around you. You’re broken, limping, alone. Your impossible mission wraps itself around your throat and presses down. “So I do,” comes your response, a second off beat. Your throat rasps with disuse. <hr> [[Next|P.21]]

“Wonderful!” He clicks his tongue. You can’t place if his affectation is genuine or a wellspring of poison. “We can make a trade.” With no signs of the Angel and bed-ridden, you have no other options other than entertain him. “Alright.” “I’ll start, hope you’re fine with that. <<cycle "$a_son" autoselect>> <<option "↺ Son" son>> <<option "↺ Daughter" daughter>> <<option "↺ Child" child>> <</cycle>> of the earth or heavenly spirit, stranger?” Your blood turns to ice. It is slang for your conflict, though you can’t recall the last time someone had to ask //you// of all people. Children of the earth belong to the Matriarch, holed up in the Capital’s underground like vermin. The heavenly spirits are — were, the thought comes to you with a jolt of bitterness — your Empyreans. The man is peering at you with undisguised interest. You hope he notices the aches and fatigue dripping out of you. <hr> <<link [[“Neither,” you say, firm. The Empyreans are no more, the sooner you accept this, the easier it'll be to go on.|P.22]]>> <</link>> <<link [[“Neither,” you breathe out. If you knew in which side of the border you are in, perhaps you’d be inclined to share.|P.22]]>> <</link>>

<<if $a_son is "son">><<set $a_he to "he", $a_him to "him", $a_his to "his", $a_hiss to "his", $a_himself to "himself", $a_man to "man", $a_brother to "brother", $singular to "singular">><<elseif $a_son is "daughter">><<set $a_he to "she", $a_him to "her", $a_his to "her", $a_hiss to "hers", $a_himself to "herself", $a_man to "woman", $a_brother to "sister", $singular to "singular">><<elseif $a_son is "child">> <<set $a_he to "they", $a_him to "them", $a_his to "their", $a_hiss to "theirs", $a_himself to "themselves", $a_man to "person", $a_brother to "sibling", $singular to "plural">><</if>>The man hums. “You made the betting ring very unhappy right now.” He has a mellifluous laugh, a mellifluous voice, and green, serpentine eyes that never stray from yours. The lines he drew around them with kohl are smudged. “Most had their money on earthen. It isn’t every day a stranger manages to get out of the Abysm alive in your sorry state.” You purse your lips. The Matriarch has no power over the wastes. Over six years of war, that myth endures and mutates, driving entire villages back to her arms, claiming saintly protection. Her beatific, rotten contentment glimmers in your memory. “Well, shoot your questions. I might be helpful.” <hr> <<if not hasVisited("P.23-1QUESTION-1")>>[[“Where am I?”|P.23-1QUESTION-1]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited("P.23-2QUESTION-1")>>[[“How did I get here?”|P.23-2QUESTION-1]]<</if>> <<if not hasVisited("P.23-3QUESTION-1")>>[[“Who are you?”|P.23-3QUESTION-1]]<</if>> <<if hasVisited("P.23-1QUESTION-1", "P.23-2QUESTION-1", "P.23-3QUESTION-1")>>[[“A chaplain? For which god?|P.23-4QUESTION-1]]<</if>>

The man spreads his arms in a theatric welcome. “You’ve dragged yourself to Fairsun’s Throne, population seventy-two and half, I’m still not so sure you’ll pull through the night.” Charming. He continues, uncaring of your opinion, of your furrowed brows. “We have one bar that doubles as a meeting hall and triples as our defensible building, one church, a couple homes, and a lot of prickly, gray grass for the animals to graze. And one well — don’t ask where, our poachers think it’s a holy secret.” “You have quite the big name for… //this// place.” “Used to be a reclusive prince’s winter retreat, Old Nana told me, before the Matriarch got rid of the local realms," he scoffs. “He certainly picked the right place for isolation,” you comment. <hr> [[Next|P.23-1QUESTION-2]]

“Yeah, yeah. About the arm,” he points at it with his chin, “punishment or accident?” “No idea.” The man raises an eyebrow. “You aren’t playing this game right, you know? I’m being very helpful and all, on top of saving you from certain death in the Abysm.” “It’s true,” you insist. You don’t think //accident// is an option, though, with what your scattered thoughts provide. Punishment or sadistic pleasure might be closer to it. “There was an attack. The rest is fuzzy.” “Probably went into shock,” he suggests idly. “If you get to a city and whip up enough to pay an engineer, you might get a decent prosthesis working. It was a very clean cut.” <hr> [[Next|P.22]]

You //know//. You’re curious, however, to discover how the Angel managed that. The man straightens in his chair. “Oh, you’ve answered one of my questions right there. Showed up right outside the village’s bounds, that’s how. No trail, no disturbed sand and stone. You could be a proper miracle!” Yeah. “I… showed up?” You venture. “Makes me wonder how you survived your injuries in the first place. There is nothing for thirty miles in any direction from here, and certainly no place that was attacked. But since you did provide insight, go on and ask your next question." <hr> [[Next|P.22]]

He tilts his head in an exaggerated greeting. “I’m Rhys Dariann. Town doctor, though you wouldn’t catch me saying that near a proper university, and chaplain of Fairsun’s Throne best and only attraction, our church.” “Must be an important man in town,” you note. The more you stare at him, the more misplaced that definition seems. He looks young, twenty-five years old at most, with a clean-shaven, unlined face and long lashes that make him look younger. His clothes are a size too big, like he inherited them from an older brother. He has a bird-boned leanness that <<cycle "$body_type" autoselect>> <<option "↺ matches yours evenly" lean>> <<option "↺ is slenderer than your own" normal>> <<option "↺ looks fragile compared to your muscular frame" muscular>> <<option "↺ contrasts sharply with your fat form" fat>> <</cycle>>. He chuckles. Your conclusion amuses him as much it confuses you. “You could say that, but between the two of us, our barkeep is worth more.” <hr> [[Next|P.23-3QUESTION-2]]

“Allow me to return the courtesy. Who are you, stranger?” Your title froths in your mouth, but you swallow it down like poison. It’s been years since you last bothered to introduce yourself by your name. Or bothered to introduce yourself at all. //Omen// mattered more. To spit as you passed or laud you as a savior, it lingered in every mouth between both ends of the Abysm. It was the Matriarch who baptized you. //As for omens, there is no such thing as an omen. Disregard the sweet deceit of those who would lead you to ruination.// Your name, though — <hr> <<link "Set your name.">> <<dialog 'Set your name'>> <<message "See masculine name suggestions.">> Ravarin Elios Shion Cadmos<</message>> <<message "See feminine name suggestions.">> Rin Neres Isara Theodora<</message>> <<message "See neutral name suggestions.">> Esher Diann Faira Minos<</message>> <<textbox "$name" "Type your name here">> <<message "See surname suggestions.">>Tramor Lalande Savaros<</message>> <<textbox "$surname" "Type your surname here">> <<button [[Set name|P.23-3QUESTION-3]]>><<run Dialog.close()>> <<run Engine.play("P.23-3QUESTION-3")>><</button>> <</dialog>> <</link>>

“Oh, my. Another sheep to my flock!” Rhys exclaims, honey-sweetly, with a viscous, pervasive humor. He can't disguise the impish laughter that follows. “For the Drowned Maiden herself, who lives in every droplet of water and bore our //beloved// Matriarch.” You swallow dryly. Wrong side of the border, then. You’ve toppled every temple of the Drowned Maiden you could. And no one under your protection would dare to proclaim the Matriarch’s birth as a blessing. You grip the sheets to settle yourself. His focus still doesn’t stray from you. It becomes unsettling, like he wants to pry the skin off your flesh and peer at your insides. Your stomach rolls with an anxiety that has nowhere to go. “Should I expect to see you in my sermons?” <hr> <<link [[“I’m not very religious.”|P.24-A]]>> <<set $open += 5>> <<set $rhys_approval -= 5>> <</link>> <<link [[“Of course,” you force out the lie. |P.24-B]]>> <<set $rhys_approval += 5>> <<set $open -= 5>> <</link>>

Rhys chuckles. “Fair’s fair, but you’re in a bad place for that.” This is a village of fanatics, or least, a village of people who pride themselves in the birth of a tyrant, in the founding mythos of a faith weaponized against your fight. Short of an arm, injured and without resources, you can’t and won’t risk the journey to the next town around. Worse, you don’t think it’d make any difference. Out in the Abysm, everywhere this side of the border is going to be the same gamble. //Why have you left me here?// You want to scream with the Angel. “Any reason for that?” “None in particular.” Sure. “We’re good folk, but I give you a week before you start going stir-crazy. Not a lot to do other than count the vultures.” You sink into the bed. “Ritualistic chanting is the best you can get as entertainment around here, I take it?” “Yep. And the kids burning their dolls every summer.” Ominous. <hr> [[Next|P.25]]

Rhys raises an eyebrow. “You and Seven-Souls Gina will get right along,” he drawls out that final syllable, stretching it like caramel. “But talk about a proper surprise. I didn’t think you were the faithful kind. Not this kind of faithful, at least.” “Why not?” You challenge. He leans back on his chair, letting his legs sprawl. “Thought I heard an eastern accent on you, but the rebel border to that way can be fluid ‘cause of the Hellmouth Scarps.” The Hellmouth Scarps are a patch of hills, caves and cliffs. Inherently defensible, due to the mercilessness of the land and the difficulty of transversing that one region. You spent months pouring over maps and scout reports, trying to summon from thin air a simpler passage amidst the dryness and steep ascents. You and the Matriarch fought a series of glorified skirmishes over modest villages, a smattering of bridges. “I’ve been around.” “Perfectly understandable,” Rhys concedes. “So have I.” <hr> [[Next|P.25]]

Before you can respond, Rhys is on his feet like liquid flame. You’re struck by his sudden lurch of movement, by the realization it is likely your blood on his shoes. The blade of his serrated knife glints in the faint trickles of sunlight that manage to pierce through the curtains. You’re done with fear, with exhaustion, and it lingers anyway, weighting down your limbs. “I have marginally fewer questions,” he declares. “I hope I was as clarifying to you as you were to me.” “Alright,” you say, a beat too late, blinking in the direction of his all-consuming intensity. “No, really.” Rhys shakes his head. For one strange, misplaced moment, his eyes glimmer like fey fire, paler and glassier than they were a second ago. “I don’t remember the last time I found someone so interesting.” <hr> [[Next|P.26]]

The hair on the back of your prickles. Your skin where Rhys touched is cold, //icy//, and your fingers struggle to curl when you command them to. He picks up a dark green shawl on a hook on the door and unlit sticks of incense from a vase by the side. Each of his movements flows into the next seamlessly. “Tomorrow, I’ll pry that Angel of yours from the church ceiling so we can have a proper conversation, the three of us.” He flashes you a look over his shoulder from the doorsill. Your entire world stutters. Pins and needles sting the length of your body. That Angel of yours — //Fuck.// “I hope you’re in a more sharing mood. I can be helpful, in particular to a poor sod in your dire situation.” <hr> [[Next|P.27]]

Silence lingers over the stale room like a shroud. You force yourself to stay in place, to not get up and run, your failing body be damned. You watch Rhys intently, and he watches you back. Every one of his fidgets and quirks are smooth, perfect — repetitive. The same angles, the same amplitude of movement, the same sequence of gestures. “Aren’t you going to insist you have no idea what I’m talking about?” He goads. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “You were lacking a sense of humor,” Rhys compromises, mockingly pretending to check his nails. “Doesn’t this make everything so much more interesting, Omen?” Your arms fold in front of your torso, and your brows wrinkle. “No. What are you?” <hr> [[Next|P.28]]

You jut out your chin, shoulders tense, fists balled. Rhys flourishes his arm in a broad, ostentatious dismissal. The light catches oddly on him, revealing angles in perfect symmetry, dull, waxen skin, and a gaze bright and hazy like mirages. You hear a rasp like wind rattling over the desert. “Don’t you want to guess? We could make another lucrative trade out of it.” He suggests, silken even when confronted by your unflinching expression. “Tell me,” you sputter, nauseous with anticipation, feet planted flat on the mattress to push yourself upright. You sweep over the room. There is nothing sharp to use against him, nothing heavy, no exits other than past him. He snorts a disdainful sound. “You eastern folk would call me a Vepyr. Does that satisfy your curiosity, stranger?” Vepyr. Sand demon. Flesh-eater with a truth-seeking gaze and an endless appetite. <hr> <<link [[“A Vepyr as a town doctor and chaplain? Talk about overcoming your nature,” you comment, forcing a preternatural calm.|P.29-A]]>> <<set $rhys_approval += 5>> <</link>> <<link [[You wrench your mouth into a snarl. “Get away from me.”|P.29-B]]>> <<set $rhys_approval += 5>> <</link>>

A Vepyr is little more than a mouth. Gaping, vermin-crawling, stained with meat plucked from the bones of travelers and merchants and exiles and fools. Desert-born, with rust in their veins and putrefaction tucked between their lips. They are horror stories. The hunger of the wastes that crawled of the world given a disguise of flesh, given a charming, smug smirk. “You pull apart enough bodies, you get a knack for putting them back together,” Rhys teases. “And even demons need a pillar of salt to put their faith on. Between the vulture and drowning, I picked drowning.” You think back to the stories you’ve listened to about his kind. Gore-soaked, every single one of them. “And that’s all?” "You said it yourself, I’ve overcome my nature.” <hr> [["Why are you helping me?" you ask pointedly.|P.30-A]] [["Are you a friend of the Angel's?" You refuse to believe this is the safety they promised.|P.30-B]]

A Vepyr is little more than a mouth. Gaping, vermin-crawling, stained with meat plucked from the bones of travelers and merchants and exiles and fools. Desert-born, with rust in their veins putrefaction tucked between their lips. They are horror stories. The hunger of the wastes that crawled of the world given a disguise of flesh, given a charming, smug smirk. “How sweet, poison from a dead thing,” Rhys spits. “You’re just another horror the wastes made, don’t go acting pious.” You think back to the stories you’ve listened to about his kind. Gore-soaked, every single one of them. “I said, get away.” He sneers. "C'mon, not a hint of gratitude?" <hr> [["Why are you helping me?" you ask pointedly.|P.30-A]] [["Are you a friend of the Angel's?" You refuse to believe this is the safety they promised.|P.30-B]]

You’re tired. Your heart pounds hard against your ribs, threatening to shatter them. Your limbs clench, bracing for a fight. Now that you’re paying attention, the more mistakes you find. What does Fairsun’s Throne think he is? Rhys takes one long, slow look at you. His strangeness recedes, until he's a simply a good-looking young man in a nowhere town again. “Do yourself a favor and rest. I’ll have dinner done in a couple of hours, my best attempt at a light stew due to your delicate constitution, but you can shout if you need help before that. Sounds carries well in this church.” You must ask. “What meat?” He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling a disgruntled noise. “Why do you think there are so few people here? Oh, Abysm take you, don’t make that face, it //was// funny.” <hr> [[Next|WARNING]]

“Much obliged, <<print $name.toUpperFirst()>> <<print $surname.toUpperFirst()>>.” His perpetual smile widens a fraction. “A lovely name for a lovely $a_man." “Bit of a sweet talker, aren’t you?” Rhys stretches lazily. “I have to pass the time.” But his words linger in your mind, leaving a lingering curiosity. You consider asking about the church, perhaps in a roundabout way, hoping to glean some insight into Fairsun’s Throne's opinion of you. Erichea or Sud. The failed goddess who whispers in the ear of a madwoman or the god in obsidian statues who holds your loyalty. <hr> [[Next|P.22]]

@@#Newsidebar;<<link "saves">><<run UI.saves();>><</link>> <<link "settings">><<run UI.settings();>><</link>> <<link "restart">><<run UI.restart();>><</link>> [[codex|Codex]]@@

<<message "@@#Lessertitles;People@@">><<if $codex_you is "true">>[[The Omen|People-Codex-Omen]]<<elseif $codex_you isnot "true">>You haven't encountered this person yet.<</if>> <<if $codex_angel is "true">>[[The Angel|People-Codex-Angel]]<<elseif $codex_angel isnot "true">>You haven't encountered this person yet.<</if>> <<if $codex_matriarch is "true">>[[The Matriarch|People-Codex-Matriarch]]<<elseif $codex_matriarch isnot "true">>You haven't encountered this person yet.<</if>> <<if $codex_faz is "true">>[[Faz Sharaan|People-Codex-Faz]]<<elseif $codex_faz isnot "true">>You haven't encountered this person yet.<</if>> <<if $codex_lixue is "true">>[[Yuan Lixue|People-Codex-Lixue]]<<elseif $codex_lixue isnot "true">>You haven't encountered this person yet.<</if>> <<if $codex_rhys is "true">>[[Rhys Dariann|People-Codex-Rhys]]<<elseif $codex_rhys isnot "true">><</if>><</message>> <<message "@@#Lessertitles;Places@@">><<if $codex_abysm is "true">>[[Abysm|Places-Codex-Abysm]]<<elseif $codex_abysm isnot "true">>You haven't reached this place yet.<</if>> <<if $codex_lighthouse is "true">>[[The Lighthouse|Places-Codex-Lighthouse]]<<elseif $codex_lighthouse isnot "true">>You haven't reached this place yet.<</if>> <<if $codex_capital is "true">>[[The Capital|Places-Codex-Capital]]<<elseif $codex_capital isnot "true">>You haven't reached this place yet.<</if>> <<if $codex_capital is "true">>[[Fairsun's Throne|Places-Codex-FairsunsThrone]]<<elseif $codex_capital isnot "true">>You haven't reached this place yet.<</if>><</message>> <<message "@@#Lessertitles;Creatures@@">><<if $codex_angels is "true">>[[Angels|Creatures-Codex-Angels]]<<elseif $codex_angels isnot "true">>You haven't found out about this type of creature yet.<</if>> <<if $codex_vepyri is "true">>[[Vepyri|Creatures-Codex-Vepyri]]<<elseif $codex_vepyri isnot "true">>You haven't found about this type of creature yet.<</if>><</message>> <<message "@@#Lessertitles;Events@@">><<if $codex_abysmbirth is "true">>[[The birth of the Abysm|Events-Codex-Abysm]]<<elseif $codex_abysmbirth isnot "true">>You haven't heard of this event yet.<</if>> <<if $codex_matriarchrise is "true">>[[The Matriarch's rise|Events-Codex-Matriarch]]<<elseif $codex_matriarchrise isnot "true">>You haven't heard of this event yet.<</if>> <<if $codex_oath is "true">>[[Your oath|Events-Codex-Oath]]<<elseif $codex_oath isnot "true">>You haven't heard of this event yet.<</if>> <<if $codex_betrayal is "true">>[[Your betrayal|Events-Codex-Betrayal]]<<elseif $codex_betrayal isnot "true">>You haven't heard of this event yet.<</if>><</message>> <<message "@@#Lessertitles;Gods@@">><<if $codex_erichea is "true">>[[Erichea|Gods-Codex-Erichea]]<<elseif $codex_erichea isnot "true">> You haven't encountered this deity yet. <</if>><<if $codex_sud is "true">>[[Sud|Gods-Codex-Sud]]<<elseif $codex_sud isnot "true">> You haven't encountered this deity yet. <</if>><<if $codex_grief is "true">>[[GRIEF|Gods-Codex-GRIEF]]<<elseif $codex_grief isnot "true">> You haven't encountered this deity yet.<</if>><</message>> <<link "Return" $return>><</link>>

<<run UIBar.stow(true);>><<run UIBar.hide();>>You've reached the end of the current demo! If you encountered any bugs, errors, or mysterious typos along your read, I ask you to report them to me via <a href="https://forms.gle/xcw9s4jVWPLTdcdb7" target="_blank">this form</a>. Your feedback is invaluable in ensuring a better story and future experience. For those who wish to stay updated on //Hic est nihilum// and know more about the game, remember to follow the project on Tumblr at <a href="https://nightingale-the-lurker.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">our tumblr</a>. You'll hear more of the Omen soon.

<<run UIBar.stow(true);>><<run UIBar.hide();>>@@#titlecard;in the end...@@ @@#Biblical;Erichea, the Drowned Maiden, and Sud, the Inevitable, reigned as gods of life and death, their passions intertwined with the venom of hatred. In the aftermath of cataclysm, neither could halt the birth of the Abyss, a desolate wasteland, and neither could assert dominion over it unchallenged. Perhaps the combined might of the full pantheon might have saved the earth, but Erichea and Sud had slain them, their conflicts rivaling only the destructive power of their union. Now, the death knell of the divine resonates with the avarice of mortals, as the lamentations of the heavens mingle with the@@ [[whispers of human ambition.|P.1]]

@@#Lessertitles;you hear a whisper...@@ In the third year of the reign of Saretha queen of the Vochai, Lias king of Wormwood Falls invaded her land and besieged her city. And there was great lamentation among the people, who cried out in anguish, cursing [REDACTED] for forsaking them to the scourge of their enemies. Yet, amid their despair, Saretha entered the holy temple and there, before the altar, she kindled seven candles. With fervent supplication, the queen pleaded for the salvation of her land. And lo, the heavens did answer. For the Angel of [REDACTED] descended as a cloud of fire. When the morning light broke, the queen rode forth to confront the adversaries who plagued her land. The Angel swept down upon the host of invaders, and in their wake remained only a desolate plain of ash. <<link "Return" $return>><</link>>

@@#Lessertitles;Angels@@ Enigmatic and ethereal, the Angels are celestial beings bound to the divine will of either Erichea, the Drowned Maiden, or Sud, the Time's End. Born from the thoughts, designs and deceit of the gods, Angels embody duty and resolve beyond mortal comprehension. Their true forms radiate celestial might and impossibility, often distorting and warping the world around them. Serving as messengers and guardians, they traverse the Abysm on missions shrouded in mystery. Though their origins lie beyond mortal grasp, their presence offers solace and hope to the faithful, as well as the constant reminder that the gods yet live. To encounter an Angel is to glimpse the divine, a fleeting moment of transcendence in a world bound by mortal confines. <<link "Return" $return>><</link>>

@@#Lessertitles;Vepyri@@ Within the barren heart of the Abysm, where life is but a forgotten memory and gods recoil, lurk the Vepyri. These incarnations of the desolation, born from the very essence of the arid barrenness, embody the eternal hunger of the sands. Their forms, hazy and perfect like mirages, are the manifestation of the Abysm's malevolent will. Feasting upon flesh is their rite, a macabre communion that sustains their existence beyond mortal comprehension. Hunted by the more intrepid, their influence seeps into the remaining bastions of life regardless, often stoking a cannibalistic hunger. To encounter a Vepyr is to confront the Abysm incarnate, a chilling reminder that ends with travelers, merchants and exiles lost between their teeth. <<link "Return" $return>><</link>>

@@#Lessertitles;you hear a whisper...@@ THE VEPYR is handcuffed. There's mischief in his eyes, and a trickle of blood comes from his mouth. He’s all the prettier for it. THE SHERIFF looks weathered and weary. His face is etched with exhaustion as he confronts the prisoner. THE VEPYR: Now, friend, what would you have me do? THE SHERIFF: First, answer a question. You came here talking of hell, made the people kill a boy you said was going to bring the drought. His ma has the ear of the Matriarch, goddamnit. What is even this hell of yours to justify death? THE VEPYR (smiling thinly): Suffering under the heavens. THE SHERIFF (frustrated): Really? THE VEPYR: All places that are not heaven shall be hell. THE SHERIFF: I think your hell is a fable. THE VEPYR (dismissive): Yeah, you do, ‘til you’re down there with me. <<link "Return" $return>><</link>>

You learned soon that they were not sent by Sud, that they didn't answer to any god anymore, and still, under the banner of their wings, you became //more//. They gave weight to your words. To your claims of being blessed by the Time's End. You never asked what the Angel thought of the rumors tied to their mere existence. They refused to comment on your deity, on the myth you were weaving for yourself, and that was answer enough. There is some humor, in an Angel running from or simply not showing up to attend to their duties, and still bending to knee to a crusade. <hr> [[Next|P.6]]

Through the blood mist of your injuries, you ask — Is this how it was supposed to end? There are only two remaining gods out in the Abysm. They’re tangled together in a barbed rope of loathing love. They devoured the rest of the pantheon. Either you serve Erichea — the Drowned Maiden, mother of waters, the wellspring of life itself, with seaweed hair and a rot-sweet breath — or you serve Sud, the Time's End, the icon of sun-bleached bone. You've given yourself to the vulture to win, and yet, here you stand, broken. <hr> <<link [[Typical. A god is a trick made real.|P.3-2-CORRECTION]]>> <<set $faithful -= 5>> <</link>> <<link [[It can't be. You paid the price.|P.3-2-CORRECTION]]>> <<set $faithful += 5>> <</link>>

"A bad season for grace, I said," they mutter. "Things change. I once again serve a deity." <<if $faithful >= 50 and $angel_approval >= 20>>The Time's End wouldn't be so cruel, would he? To involve the Angel... they never wanted another master after their first, whoever they were.<<elseif $faithful <= 50 and $angel_approval >= 20>>You can understand tugging on your leash, but involving the Angel lingers in your mouth like poison. They never wanted another master after the horror of their first, whoever they were.<<elseif $faithful >= 50 and $angel_approval <= 20>>And so the reluctant servant becomes the mouth of your god; what did they promise for the Time's End to disregard that they betrayed their first master, whoever they were?<<elseif $faithful <= 50 and $angel_approval <= 20>>In the end, they became the eyes and the mouth and the hand of your pitiless god; so much for saying they'd never again kneel after their first master, whoever they were.<</if>> "You must reach the Welkin Well, heart of the deceiver Erichea—" "What does this Despite your turmoil, the Angel continues, "—you must poison it. So God commands." Poison the heart of a goddess. Cripple her. Why not command you to shoot yourself already? Defeating the vessel, the damned Matriarch, already ended up with you dying on the sands. <hr> [[You can’t. You won’t. You scramble backwards, despite the creaking of your injuries, the way black dances in your vision. It’s over, it should be over.|P.8-1]] [[The wave of relief is immediate. You have a mission again. "Yes."|P8-2]]

"A bad season for grace, I said," they hiss. "Things change. I once again serve a deity." <<if $faithful >= 50 and $angel_approval >= 20>>The Time's End wouldn't be so cruel, would he? To involve the Angel... they never wanted another master after their first, whoever they were.<<elseif $faithful <= 50 and $angel_approval >= 20>>You can understand tugging on your leash, but involving the Angel lingers in your mouth like poison. They never wanted another master after the horror of their first, whoever they were.<<elseif $faithful >= 50 and $angel_approval <= 20>>And so the reluctant servant becomes the mouth of your god; what did they promise for the Time's End to disregard that they betrayed their first master, whoever they were?<<elseif $faithful <= 50 and $angel_approval <= 20>>In the end, they became the eyes and the mouth and the hand of your pitiless god; so much for saying they'd never again kneel after their first master, whoever they were.<</if>> "You must reach the Welkin Well, heart of the deceiver Erichea—" "What does this mean?" Despite your turmoil, the Angel continues, "—you must poison it. So God commands." Poison the heart of a godess. Cripple her. Why not command you to shoot yourself already? Defeating the vessel, the damned Matriarch, already ended up with you dying on the sands. <hr> [[You can’t. You won’t. You scramble backwards, despite the creaking of your injuries, the way black dances in your vision. It’s over, it should be over.|P.8-1]] [[The wave of relief is immediate. You have a mission again. “Yes.”|P8-2]]

"One of us ought to be brave about returning to our duties. I never thought to serve another deity," they comment. <<if $faithful >= 50 and $angel_approval >=20>>The Time's End gave you both second chances, you can't waste them, despite the Angel's misgivings about having a new master after their first.<<elseif $faithful <= 50 and $angel_approval >= 20>>You chose this, it is only fair that you are called again, but involving the Angel lingers in your mouth like poison. They never wanted another master after the horror of their first, whoever they were.<<elseif $faithful >= 50 and $angel_approval <= 20>>And so the reluctant servant becomes the mouth of your god; what did they promise for the Time's End to disregard that they betrayed their first master, whoever they were?.<<elseif $faithful <= 50 and $angel_approval <= 20>>So in the end, they became the eyes and the mouth and the hand of your pitiless god despite years of //no more//, //never again//, how surprising.<</if>> "You must reach the Welkin Well, heart of the deceiver Erichea—" "What does this mean?" Despite your turmoil, the Angel continues, "—you must poison it. So God commands." Poison the heart of a goddess. Cripple her. The second chance couldn't be smaller than the task failed, or else you wouldn't be tested, but still. <hr> [[You can’t. You won’t. You scramble backwards, despite the creaking of your injuries, the way black dances in your vision. It’s over, it should be over.|P.8-1]] [[The wave of relief is immediate. You have a mission again. “Yes.”|P8-2]]

<<unset $attitude>>“Sleep now,” they command. Your eyes grow heavy immediately. “I’ll bring you to safety.” Safety? With what will come ahead, you almost laugh. “And so it ends," you whisper, your consciousness dimming, your voice a thin rasp. “It shall start anew, Omen.” You sink into a void blackness more than you slumber. The colors start draining out one by one, and the clouds of tar smoke lower to drag you into a tender hold. Your body spasms when the Angel picks you up, but weaponized oblivion erases the jostling of your injuries. <hr> [[Next|P.10]]

"It'd look suspicious for the town's good-hearted doctor and priest to leave a poor sod bleeding out in the sand." You scowl. "Because you're something rare and powerful, Omen dear, and one can never disregard the benefits of helping a god's chosen." "Don't you serve the Drowned Maiden?" Your new mission lingers just at the corner. Rhys shrugs. Now that you know, you want to pry off his skin to see how wrong he is underneath the disguise. "I loathe Matriarch. I'm a good investor. I'm fancying a change of career. Pick your poison." You raise an eyebrow. "Is this a game to you?" "Don't be offended, all human conflicts are." You drum your restless fingers against the mattress. "This very much isn't a human conflict." "You'd be surprised." <hr> [[Next|P.31]]

Rhys laughs, the sound ringed with iron. "Oh, do you think us Other Folk have a quarterly meeting? Gossip over tea after two weeks? Why would even ask that?" You scowl. "They wouldn't strand me with a Vepyr." "But I'm not any Vepyr, Omen dear." He places a hand over his heart, exaggerating offense. "I'm completely tame!" You raise an eyebrow. "Is this a game to you?" "Don't be offended, all human conflicts are." You drum your restless fingers against the mattress. "This very much isn't a human conflict." "You'd be surprised." <hr> [[Next|P.31]]

You learned soon that they were not sent by Sud, that they didn't answer to any god anymore, and still, under the banner of their wings, you could never forget that something as wide as the curve of the sky watched your every move. They inspired ardent belief on the power you bought with your life. No one could ever forget it. You never asked what the Angel thought of the rumors tied to their mere existence. They refused to comment on your deity, on the myth you were weaving for yourself, and that was answer enough. There is some humor, in an Angel running from or simply not showing up to attend to their duties, and still bending to knee to a crusade. <hr> [[Next|P.6]]