THE MOON WAS BRIGHT. Vivirdrasil rose behind them, around them, like a sentinel, the god of gods! No one had ever seen Earthmother, but they knew she existed — the tree was her greatest birth. Vivirdrasil, the Tree of Life, the World Tree. It towered behind them, around them, like anything and everything. With arms outstretched, cupping in protection, leafy fingertips clasp and grasp. The tree's age was ancient, older than the first men. Vivirdrasil saw the first light that bore fruit to all that swam and squirmed. If Earthmother was the creator, Vivirdrasil was the kiln that incubated such creations.
They always knew that where it began so to, it would end. There were seven of them left. Most of the keys have been lost. Three of them clutched the keys they still had. Not enough to unlock the world, to revive Earthmother, and turn the world anew. Not enough.
Six of them stood, in the moonlight that filtered through Vivirdrasil's branches. One lay dying on a raised flat stone. "Brother," Drax said mournfully. He had a broad head with two black as night horns, thick, spiraling from just above his temples. He rose the stone, formed the rock, called it from the earth like a child to a parent. In his opposite hand was one of the keys, a black scythe, the blade looked like obsidian, but far stronger.
The figure on the rock slab smiled. One of his sisters, wearing her tempestform, stepped forward, a small stormcloud churning in the clutches of her fingers. For a moment it appeared as if her old body was too weak to withhold the power of the storm. Her wrinkled skin was luminous alabaster. Tiny cracks of blue energy shone here and there like the marks of a tiger. Her eyes were blue, ice blue, the blue of the far frozen north, and glowing. This was a most powerful form she assumed.
She came up to the raised stone. The slab was much too high for her, with his free hand, Drax lowered the slab. The sound of grinding rock and the groan of the deep earth followed as the stone altar shrunk back towards the earth. It lowered just beneath the old crone's shoulder-height. "Thank you," she croaked to Drax.
She held the thunderstorm over her fallen brother's weak body. He smiled as a miniature rainstorm drenched him. As each droplet of water touched his skin it shined with luminous fish scales. It looked like he was some type of squid, flushing with different colors. A firework display upon his own skin. The crone knew that her fallen brother would lose his form soon. She felt arrogant for holding such a powerful guise like tempestform in front of him.
"Thank you — sister," the fallen shape smiled. They could all tell it was taxing for him to speak.
"What does this mean!?" Viper stepped into the moonlight. The weremane were always very talented at hiding in shadows and using light to their advantage. Here tonight, there were three of them present. Weremane always traveled in packs. Sadly, these were the last three.
"We are..."
"...Not sure," the crone's twin sister stepped forward and finished her sentence like she always did. The twins, with their powers to see into minds shared each other's minds too much, it was as if they were of one mind now.
"It may never rain again." Drax spoke.
"Without the rain..." Viper whispered and allowed his thought to drop off.
"Yes." One of the two crones said with finality.
"The world will pass." Drax said what everyone else was afraid to. He was the tallest and most hulking of the figures underneath the cover of the world tree. His horns only made him appear that much more menacing. It was a wonder that something so powerful could call a herd of deer with the simplest of whispers.
"But the keys!" Viper begged.
"We only have three," Drax said simply. He held one of the keys. One of Viper's concubines held another. Their fallen brother held the third, it rested next to him on the stone alter. It did not vibrate with power like the other two did. The keys, mostly, channeled their bearer's power.
"Surely we can find the others! Save the world!" Viper said.
"There issss..." One twin hissed.
"...Always hope." The other finished.
"You expect me to allow my people to die!? To depend on false hope, hope!" Viper spat.
"We have risen..."
"...From darker apocalypses." The crones said.
Viper fell to his knees. His bushy black eyebrows furrowed with sadness and despair. "My only son." He meant the boy weremane still standing in the shadows, next to the woman with the scythe, the key, in her hand. Viper was shirtless, weremane weren't partial to clothing. His black hair seemed to grow, instantly, like a weed, spreading down his spine, like the mane of a horse. His hair drooped around him, mimicking the despair that he felt, the finality, the defeat. His line would die, just like the finlies, like his fallen brother on the slab, like the crones would and eventually, the strongest of them all, Drax: Last of the rockchew, the dragontamers.
"Get on your feet Viper!" Drax spat. "You are better than this!" Without commentary, Viper climbed to his feet. His hair seemed to recede back to its normal shoulder-length.
"Do not despair..."
"...Child." Everyone was child to the crone twins. How had they lived for so long. Though the animancers were powerful, they were still just human. "You, King of the Weremane, Master of Snakes, first Wielder of Blackflame..."
"...That us sisters have seen..."
"...In years." The crones said, singing Viper's many titles. He was the first weremane to call the blackflame in this lifetime. The blackflame, the coldfire, was thought to be a myth before Viper proved them wrong.
The last finly, laying weak upon the stone slab, gasped in pain. "Not even my lifefire can save him," Viper whispered.
"Lifefire was never meant..."
"...To heal."
"True. But I thought it could."
"You tried," Drax said, his voice deep, stony. "Not even woodmancy can save our brother. It is time..." Drax let the statement linger. They all knew that the finly was suffering. There were only so many times the crones could douse him with their tiny rainclouds. He could no longer pull strength from the water like he once had.
The six gathered around their fallen brother. Drax, the twin crones, and the last three weremane. The boy with yellow hair and the woman, clutching the key scythe, with blue hair. To the weremane, hair color was a mark of their status, their power. None had black hair. They all gathered and watched. Drax, at the head of the stone slab. He raised his scythe. Tears in his eyes. ...And dropped the scythe through the last finly's chest.
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