There is nothing.
Nothing but a murky void.
Not even the Abyssal darkness exists.
That is what I perceive.
It feels like I am dissolving, devoured
by the depth of an archaic ocean,
by the innocence of a starless night,
in the hollow completeness of before Creation.
How could I think,
when my soul burns not,
when my heart feels not, and
halts in this ever-existing void?
Then a signal breaks in,
a touch of chill and revitalization,
a touch of primitivity and post-Return,
The signal of rebirth.

[Several hours ago]
Soaked in the coldness familiar but estranged, I start to reclaim my senses and perception. The first thing I recognize is the water I am in, then the sound of waterfalls that flank me behind and beneath. And it comes to me the touch of the breeze in my hair, the relaxing aura that represents the Celestial I serve, and eventually, vision. A dim night-blue aura illuminates and sketches my surroundings: an elegant hall in a place enshrined.
The Néméton of Aenosîlidh.
I look down and check my body, but I find something irregular: in my chest there inlays a sapphire, a gem that shares that shade of night-blue of the Celestial Aenosîlidh, the Lady of Night Mist, to whom I serve as an agent.
Celestial Agents don’t die like mortals. Their lords would resurrect them after death, just as I have been resurrected…
After death.
Yes, I died.
For being killed by a Ruin-despot, which I should have the ability to take down.
Why?
The power of Mirkflames shouldn’t be so weak.
I raise my hand, pointing upward, and try concentrating on the |CONCEPT| of the Mirkflames.
<|ALVA INNÊMA: MIRKFLAMES|PERFORMING INITIATION|>
However, the moment the initiation begins, a deadly chill bursts out from the gem inlaid in my chest, which extinguishes the tiniest bit of the Mirkflames in my soul.
What?
It hurts like being stabbed in the chest with a blade made of ice.
A second attempt repeated the result. Now the chill from the gem has spread all across my body, and even the cold water I am soaked in feels warm.
If so… what could I do next?
Without my ability to wield the Mirkflames, I would be unable to even stand in front of a mediocre monster.
“Aenosîlidh, my lord, why do this to me?”
In the thin mist around me there comes a voice,
“It seems you really forget where that power comes from.”
“What forget, my lord? I have no idea.”
It seems that something is wrong within me. The Mirkflames does not originate from my lord Aenosîlidh, so it must come elsewhere - somewhere I do not know.
“Well, it’s not your fault, at least not the fault of this Moreânna lying in my néméton. But I should have told you, and you should bear in mind that the Mirkflames is one of the Alva Innêma Ciêlleta, the forbidden spiritual arts, and its operation comes at the cost of overloading your spirit, which has almost torn you apart before your resurrection. In order to prevent you from using this power any more, I have decided to put a seal on it.”
If that is the case, then that should be the reason why that Ruin-despot could have the best of me.
But it is still unacceptable.
The Hatredborne has taken away something I treasure from me. That’s why I have to fight.
I have to revenge.
Not only do I take revenge to take it back, but also to ensure that I remain myself.
To give me a meaning.
“I understand, my lord, and I shall bear that in mind.” I move and stand upright, “But I still need power to continue… at least to survive in the Wilds.”
“Well… If there is something that could be rightfully called ‘my will’, that would be the expectation of you to live an uninterrupted life away from hatred and suspicion. But I won’t impose that on you, as that will is not divine but profane. Besides, you are my agent, so I, as well as my divine power, is always by your side.”
My lord Aenosîlidh is not a powerful Celestial.
But she is a kind, generous one who treats me like a younger sister.
Her embrace is where to find power when I am powerless.
How foolish could I be to forget this.
I walk out of the water-spring and head down towards the inner hall where the altar lies, with nothing but a piece of wet cloth over myself. “This whore”, must they say, if I were walking in some of the cities like this.
I found the power of Mirkflames in me, when I opened my eyes in that spring for the first time.
And back then I had little idea of being a Celestial Agent.
If every Alva Innêma (spiritual art) comes eventually from a Celestial, then who gave me this Spiritual Art?
Too many questions. Better not think about them now.
The inner hall is even dimmer than the water-spring, also lit by that night-blue aura coming out from every piece of this huge archetecture. The altar is unlit, but above it in the air there is a flock of those glowing particles hanging in the air.
I try to concentrate my conscious on the |CONCEPT|, the idea of the divine power, of my Celestial, and attempt initiation just as initiating the Mirkflames.
<|CONCEPT: MIST - ILLUSORY NIGHT|PROVIDER: AENOSÎLIDH|FULL ACCESS VALID|>
A familiar night-blue aura surrounds me. This is unavoidable when anyone uses Alva Aedha, the Divine Arts, or any Ethereal Arts in general.
“You are generous indeed, Aenosîlidh, for having credit in someone that used to wield Alva Innêma Ciêlleta.”
“It’s not credit, it’s belief. You are my only agent, and the only member of my familia. Besides, I am your Celestial and you are my agent, so there is no need to worry about things going out of control.”
From the thin mist behind me there comes into being a figure in black robe.
“So your agent wielding Alva Innêma Ciêlleta is still considered in control… I did underestimate your capabilities as a Celestial.”
I turn around towards the main hall as Aenosîlidh approaches.
“Huh, I don’t care about underestimation. Aenosîlidh is Aenosîlidh. She is, was and will always be herself. But I don’t come for this: I have a present for you. First let me have you properly dressed up.”
The Celestial approaches and touches my shoulder. A thick mist soon gathers and covers my full body, in which I cannot see. I feel my body dried up, elevated, and a piece of some kind of cloth starts to touch my skin. When that mist disappears, I look down and see an elegant black dress on my body.
I love this. Who doesn’t love looking good?
“Take this, Moreânna. You may need it.”
I look up, and see in the Celestial’s hands a black blade. It is almost too long to be called a dagger, with an oval-shaped handguard, and a handle without a pommel that can fit in one hand or two: a design never found in daggers or shortswords.
“You crafted it?”
I take the blade over. It is a bit heavier than expected, but still counts as a light blade, for I used to wield a greatsword before I died last time.
“That’s an overestimation. I asked Elthyris to forge this for me when he visited here. He is a master in the art of weaponery.”
If this is a Celestial artifact, then it shouldn’t be a simple shortsword.
Trying resonating with this blade, I perceive an unrecognizable |CONCEPT|, as if it is written in a language foreign to me.
Wait, Elthyris?
“Elthyris? Shouldn’t he be the guardian of Eaglefort?”
“He was, until he left under the pressure of the ‘revolutionaries’. ‘If they don’t need me, I don’t have to serve them’, he said, before he crafted this blade and left for Gleinyl.”
“Huh...”
I point the shortsword sideways and try energizing it, and from within the blade I perceive a similar drain of my mana, like the feeling I have when using the Mirkflames, but far more stable and less exhausting. On the blade there flows an azure glimmer, hiding its turbulent, eruptive potential under a calm aura. When I infuse more of my mana into it, the aura intensifies, bursts out, and forms a longsword-sized blade of pure azure light.
“Wow!”
“It seems there comes someone who you can play with using this blade, Moreânna. Good luck.”
Aenosîlidh disappears in the thin mist after saying this. Deactivating the blade, I head out for the square while trying to perceive what approaches.
A monster.
That kind you could expect in any ruin: a twisted creature eager for souls.
Those that serve the Hatredborne who tarnished the sacred.
If this is really a blade made by Elthyris, then a wanderer of mediocre strength could defeat the monster with it.
I rush out, leap up, hop between the pillars until reaching the one next to the gate. Divine Arts is now deactivated, so the monster shouldn’t perceive my existence easily.
In the glen where the stream leads I perceive two souls: the monster, and the one of a human, probably a day-one adventurer.
As they approach I have a peek of that human: a girl with nothing but a rugged white garb.
Not even an adventurer. Who is she?
But monsters should be eliminated.
The girl struggles to move on. She throws herself into the sacred square and falls onto her knees.The monster halts at the gate, the archway. Does it perceive me?
Before Aenosîlidh blocked my access to the Mirkflames, I did use one of her abilities in battles.
<|ALVA AEDHA - INITIATION COMPLETE|SELF-INVIGORATION COMPLETE|>
The monster rushes past the gate into the square.
<|ALVA TERRIMÁTTA|ANCHOR COMPOSED|CELESTIAL CHAINS COMPOSED|>
A dozen metal-black chains appear around me, like loaded guns, ready to rain destruction.
<|UNLEASH|>
Guiding these chains is as easy as using my arms.
I know this feeling. The feeling of crushing these fell creatures.
<|IN THE NAME OF THE TWO HEAVENS, THOSE WHO TARNISH THE LAND ENSHRINED MUST PERISH|>
It is the wrath that lies in me.
<|FADE IN REMORSE, UNFORGIVABLE CREATURE|>
I energize the blade and jump off. It cuts through the monster as expected.
The power of Aenosîlidh and Elthyris had definitely been underestimated, by me.
I find my past self returned.
With the monster blowing up and scattering into pieces, I deactivate the blade and turn to the girl:
“Are you a believer, or a wanderer?”