Black Magus

Zane Cooper.

First Officer of the 1st Legion.

Species: Human.

Age: 15.

25th of Trescia, 1492.

Rhar Kingdoms, Rharian Mountains. Altitude: 2,605 m.

06:45.

***

I found it ironic how I had been waiting for Sir Toril's return much like back then, and yet differently.

Back then- in the Shadeforge- it seemed like so long ago. Back then, I was not like Madame Syele or Lady Nyella. Nor was I like Geingurr Redstone or Kamosh. I was not even like the little goblin Kast. I did not wish to dwell in that new domain or create a new one. I did not have hope as a slave, thus my liberation birthed no zealotry or even joy. I was not angry at the gray dwarves like the orcs or the dwarves, hence I had no reason to fight. I had no home to return to like the humans and few elves, thus I had no reason to have hope; nor did I need it.

What I had was order. Structure. Purpose. A community. Since I was born, I rose to the sounds of lashing whips and ravenous beasts and worked until the lashings ceased and the howls silenced. That was it. That was all it ever was. Hard but ordered. A simplistic beauty that was not without reward.

When I could stand, I was made to clean and thus learned the extent of what I could do with my body. When I grew a bit stronger, I was made to mine and thus learned of the extent of what my body could do to my surroundings. When I grew a bit smarter, I learned how to make things and thus I learned what my surroundings could do for others. That was my purpose. Working. Destroying one thing to create another. Doing things for others.

That was my purpose. Even when I thought it was not.

When the Undying Night came to destroy all we had known, my reality shattered tenfold. Not only was I physically liberated but I was mentally unshackled; made to know about the infinite realms above. I learned numbers and I learned letters. I learned the languages of sapient creatures I had never seen. Then I learned the 1's and 0's of the machine code. I learned history. I learned to manipulate mana and the elements. I learned of the Eternal God and I learned of his Agents. I mastered destruction and became proficient in creation. Yet, I still had no order. Not until the Eternal Emperor ascended; and we with him.

Eotrom was where I met Sir Toril. Or rather, Eotrom was where I first saw and decided to follow Sir Toril as he charged through that starry void, and I was not the only one. Jegu. Niku. Cota. Mide. Biki. Abaka. Yeshi and Dharma. Gelek and Palmo. Alan and Olzi. Enx and Erke. We all witnessed him create his world of perpetual storms, banded across the surface like layers of rock. Ruthica Prime has been where we remained ever since. But not on the inside of the world. Not in Eotrom.

We remained high above the Mortal Plane, dwelling on the world as peers. A community. Under the instruction of Sir Toril's Doppelganger and the ever-increasing masses of intelligent undead, we spent no less than seven years following in the footsteps of the Undying Tempest. We learned the laws of nature, the rules of civilization, the methods of science, and the art of war through constant challenges and trials. We learned of the Eternal Emperor's history and that of his beloved Legions by reliving memories and witnessing key events as if we were there as ghosts. We honed ourselves until our armor became like a second skin. We worked until the sacred beast of our leader saw us as one of their own. We trained until the killing tools of our Eternal Emperor became like our arms and legs. We learned the ways of our paths, of chivalry, of holy words, of monastic ways, and witch's creeds, dictated and laid out before our eyes by the Eternal Emperor himself.

The end of those seven years saw the fifteen of us acolytes emerge on the great tempestuous steppes of Ruthica Prime, standing as one with hand over hand over our armored hearts. We gazed up to look down on the Mortal Plane and witnessed as they witnessed, the Oath of the Undying Tempest be birthed into existence.

Just before our 15th year of living, we believed our time had come, and that it did. We created our knight order; the Order of the Undying Tempest. And in doing so, we were named as Agents of the 1st Order. We believed Sir Toril would return and would bring us along on his adventures at that point. That he did. Unbeknownst to us, however, our training was not yet over. What we had before were mere training saddles. What Sir Toril returned to bestow us were proper riding saddles.

It came in three forms, the first being responsibilities born in the form of subordinates. New acolytes to the Order, recruited from the Ligin Mountains; thus the duty was to have our clones teach them our ways just as Sir Toril did to us. The second came in the form of our newfound liberty. At last, we could face trials and adventure across Ligin at Sir Toril's side and prove, both to ourselves and to him, that we faithfully upheld the tenets of the Undying Tempest. The third came in the form of weapons, chosen by our hands, and armor made unlike Sir Toril's.

For us knights, it was heavy plate armor bearing the likeness of a tempest griffon on the back and the mark of the Eternal Emperor on the front. Pointed boots layered with armor shrouded the feet entirely, encasing the legs up to the knees in what seemed to be a solid piece of metal, save the thin hexagonal mail at the back of the knees and other such places. The gauntlets were fingered with sharp talons made of some glossy black metal. Our helms, featureless on their faces, were shrouded with hoods colored in the electric blues, blacks, and whites of Sir Toril's soon-to-be Legion; leaving nothing to distinguish those of the knight caste from one another aside from our names and positions etched onto our pauldrons.

Our armor varied for the monks, dames, and holy tempests- the clerics and paladins- but in all cases, they were heavy. As it should have been, for the burdens set by the Order were not to be taken lightly. Those tenets were to be upheld without pause. Unrelenting and unyielding in our pursuits like the storm we served. And so we were.

In the mountains of Ligin, we did as Sir Toril did and acquired griffon eggs. Some were taken back from thieves, some were bargained for, and others were found fair and square. All of them were infused with our God's energy and made into tempest griffon eggs, then sent to Ruthica Prime to be hatched and raised by our clones. Of our own volition, we did what the Order required of us, asking for neither request nor reward in our efforts to improve the lives of the Ligin highlanders. For their sake alone, we became a scourge to the bandits and tyrants of their slopes, smiting them wholly and returning their necrotic forms to those they pillaged and plundered. In those lands, regal and knightly, yet poor and uneducated, the once-vile dead toiled to repay the sins they accumulated during their lives. They breathed fire into their mines, brought safety and security to their winding roads, returned once-looted coins and trinkets to their orphanages and churches, and constructed schools for both the young and old. They worked in their witch huts. Oversaw the transportation centers. Manned the sewage systems. Everything.

Like the undead, we had been working tirelessly. Yet our work paled in comparison to that of our God, the Undying Tempest; the Storm Thief, Sir Toril O'Connell.

While we made something more of those who unwillingly followed the scum of those slopes, Sir Toril became a strong voice for the honorable powers in the highlands, allowing them to speak to the powers existing in the lowlands in ways that made them listen. In those lands, regal and knightly, and also cultured and honorable, Sir Toril took the leaders of the worthy highlanders and sought peace. Not by encouraging the end of their centuries-long conflict. By encouraging it’s continuity.

His proposal was an honorable war, done as an annual tradition. Being sponsored by the Undying Tempest, they would fight to the death, yet those who fell with honor would rise as living beings once again. At this stage, both parties declined the morbid offer. But while the battle was lost, the war had yet to be won. Sir Toril did not come to sponsor any of the two kingdoms. Instead, he gained favor, honor, prestige, and privilege in them both. More so than he already had by virtue of his station. With that came a trading contract for griffon eggs, in turn creating more tempest griffons. With that came land granted to Sir Toril in the midlands and holds claimed by us in the highlands. With that came civilians flocking to us as citizens. With that came a new class of acolytes; and now, with the sacred world blooming so brightly above, the time had come for the descent of our doppelgangers, leading the first group of acolytes to their trials.

It was humbling, to see the fruits of our labors so clearly. So too was it a powerful thing to imagine what we would become in the following years, decades, and centuries.

Upon our descent to the Mortal Plane as Tempest Knights, Dames, Monks, Clerics, and Paladins of the First Order, upwards of 230 acolytes took our place. Now that they had proven to meet the Standards of the Order, it was time for them to descend with our Doppelgangers and for us to be introduced to our seconds. It was their time to wear these burdens we so proudly carried. It was their turn for their Doppelgangers to rise and take on the role of educators for the nearly 3,500 new acolytes. Conversely, it was our time.

On this, the most holy of nights, it was our time to debut the Order to the Bodhi Peninsula, witnessed by the Gods of all and seen by the esteemed powers of Ligin.

***

Mack Ronald.

25th of Trescia, 1492.

Ligin Kingdom, Central Ligin Mountain Range. Altitude: 4,508m.

07:00.

***

"Is it just me or… does it keep getting bigger?"

While I pondered the same hours earlier, I could neither look at nor answer Queen Isabella Ligin, for I could sense what was spreading across the realm of the Bodhi Tree. Moreover, I could never take my eyes off of Toril's order of knights whenever they came near. The reason being, their uncanny resemblance to the Scales of the Cobalt Order that birthed Titus Zlock; only being likened after Toril’s tempest griffon instead of an ancient cobalt dragon.

Despite their stark differences, the members of their four castes all appeared the same. Their dames had heavy armor with thick pauldrons and winged helms boasting a 'Y' shaped opening that left their visages hidden from all. Their clerics had covered their eyes and noses in a half-helm reminiscent of a griffon's beak. Their monks were enveloped in what seemed to be a one-piece robe of vibrant feathers and dark fur. Even their knights were never seen without their helmets. Yet even those faces of metal were shrouded with hoods, pointed like an eagle's beak.

No matter the garb, their armor seemed heavier than most models I'd seen. It made their voices boom like thunder and their steps quake like that of a great beast. Even the monks. Even then, however, that was the least of it. In just a few months they did what many paladins, much less many Orders failed to achieve- put the two sides of Ligin on even terms. In doing so, Toril not only had a veritable city in his honor but the prestige to invite the Queen herself to one of his events, and have her accept.

Technically his teacher, I still was, thus I was privy to be present when Toril thundered to a landing outside the Royal Capital of Galar on the eastern coast. Those knights of his ferried our guests inside the belly of a massive skyship he brought with him while he greeted and welcomed us inside the creation of his fellow vassal, classmate, and Noctis Legionary, Edward Pascal.

It was then that it happened.

The Second Sun. The Silver Eye. Mani, always in motion around the Bodhi Peninsulas from way on high, ceased its motion high above Crater Lake. During our two-hour flight, it had grown from the size of a coin held out at arm's length to that of grapefruit held at the same distance; all the while, those other spherical realms were drawn to form a line behind it. It was a sight that left many unsettled but few panicked, for most if not all of the Bodhi Tree's denizens knew of the so-called Weaver of Worlds even if they knew him not by that title. That said, that was also because a minute few could feel the implications of such events unfolding around us. And none could have foreseen its conclusion.

It was only felt by the masses when we entered the grounds of the Order, on one of the Ligin Kingdom's highest peaks. Even in the stables within the outer yards, the winds were dead silent. Yet, they carried both haunting whispers and enriching songs, percussed by the thunderous steps of the Order, marching in solidarity toward their temple- a doorless, open-air half-sphere of concentric rings, terraced to face the wide dais at the center.

The 15 of them entered without words, following after Zane, Toril's second, as he leaped into the sky and landed in the second outermost ring. Without delay, he took his pole hammer by the hilt and slammed its head between his boots, then raised his arms to touch his knuckles atop his breast while his head lowered in the morbid salute of the Legio Noctis; like a corpse in a standing coffin. Only then did Toril and the divine tempest griffon, Thor, stride atop their dais. First, to gaze up to the wide eye in the distance, then to return their salute and have his voice boom. "State your names."

Zane, gifted the name surname, Cooper. Jegu. Niku. Cota. Mide. Biki. Abaka. Yeshi. Darma. Gelek. Palmo. Alan. Olzi. Enx. Erke. Each of their names rang in the heavens, echoing across the lands until they met that silver eye above and echoed back as thunder that stilled reality itself.

"The fifteen of you have proven to possess the mind of being undistinguished within the Order and nondiscriminatory beyond it. Like Thunder, you have proven able to echo the tenets of the Order and the message of our Gods to those who would listen. Like Lightning, you have proven to be relentless and unyielding in your endeavors and pursuits. Like the Winds, you have proven yourselves capable of cutting through the vile that lives, being the gale that uplifts them in death so they may atone for their mortal sins. Like the Rain, you have shown yourselves to be a blessing to the honorable that lives, being capable of washing away the sins of the dead and enriching the land with your deluge.

"Having embodied the Orders of the Undying Tempest, I ask of you this: Do you swear to uphold these orders faithfully until your end of days?"

Without hesitation and with all the resolution one could muster in their will, those 15 Agents shouted "I do!" at the heavens, prompting the heavens to take the form of a tempest and shout back, lifting them to float above their ring.

Had I not been bolstering my eyes, I would have failed to see the massive bolt descending from that tempestuous realm to split into 15 tempest griffons, each carrying an equal number of the Order's members along with a sleigh of metals and materials. Each griffon-carrying bolt split once again the moment they passed a few dozen meters altitude, placing the acolytes behind each of the original 15 while the beasts slammed into the ground next to their companions. The sleighs, on the other hand, remained above each Agent as if to guide bolts of more vibrant blue color through them, stripping them of their armor, yet disintegrating the sleighs into a stream of grains that occluded each member's visage in a cloudy veil before we could study them.

Each plate and even the helms of their gear were detached, removed from the cloud, and arranged neatly around the devices carried by the sleigh. Then came their 'hive mail,' chainmail shaped like the combs of a bee hive. Then came their arming doublets, or in the cases of the monks, their robes, before even their tunics were stripped. Only then did the rich blue lightening, and in turn the cloud of grains and devices surrounding them, flow into their garbs.

The knights, dames, and clerics saw their tunics and doublets split and untwine themselves, only to be restitched and fastened back together with spools of vibrant materials and conduits of strangely colored metals I had never before seen. Once complete, the tunics cascaded around their bodies, enveloping them in a second skin of fibrous muscles and vein-like markings. The doublets followed, wreathing an enchanted web around their frames, with small machines or thrumming devices positioned around the kidneys, liver, heart, head, and other places, positively glowing with arcane power before going dormant. Their hive mail followed, devolving into a grainy stream that cascaded toward them, morphing into something thick, fluid, and vibrant as it met the ambient blue, black, and gray arcana. Now an amorphous, sparking blue-black fluid, the mail sank into each crevasse, melding around every strange device on the webbed doublet like a gelatinous mass before its vibrancy was transferred through with an undeniable necrotic surge.

Some of the weaker-minded observers were brought to their knees by the harmless necrotic wave, for they had never felt the fear of death before; much less so strongly. More began to tremble when a faint but unmissable ghostly wail began echoing off their glowing forms, howling like the winds through a tarnished village until the thick plates of adamantine and mithral, infused with multiple affinities, cascaded onto their frames with sharp clanks and echoing booms.

Even when they were sealed within seemingly immovable coffins, glowing with a rich blue radiance, the weak ones did not recover, for the monks experienced something different. The second skin we expected to be made from their robes became a long ribbon instead. As it enveloped them from head to toe, the devices of their mechanical doublets morphed into glowing blue crystals that spaced themselves evenly against the cloth, where it waited for an unseen force to thread adamantine and magic-infused mithral into faerie flax. With the crystals sandwiched in place, the wrappings began to move, curling themselves tighter around their forms until the blue glow of holy and arcane symbols shone through. And when the same light shone through their eyes, the mail of gaseous lightning followed, drawing itself out into a vibrant white string that traced the shape of clouds and lightning bolts as dipped through the fabrics and the being who wore them, permanently stitching them together.

Despite their differences, the knights, monks, dames, and clergy pulsed with the radiance of the tempestuous world above as a gestalt force before suddenly going dormant, their light dying with the winds outside.

With reverence, Toril gazed upon his Order and let them fall to the middle of those five rings with thunderous echoes. As did we, eager to see their changes.

The monks appeared to be mummies neatly wrapped in black cloth, with eyes that glowed with the same blue radiance as the names, holy words, and arcane symbols found throughout their wrappings. So too did the eyes of the clerics glow, despite being concealed beneath a half-mask still, their lips neither frowning nor smiling as they raised their hands in a salute. The dames seemed to have pits of darkness within the openings of their winged helms, and no longer did the knights have helms at all. Yet, they kept their hoods, now enchanted to hide their visages behind a permanent veil of darkness.

"With your suits reforged around your frames and awakened with the Machine's Spirit, you fifteen are recognized as Knights, Monks, Clerics, and Dames of the Second Order. Take them, your members of the First Order, and spread to the lands around.

"The time for your evolution is but a few months away."