020 - Ashakir II: The Temple of Storms
“—The Varrans are beginning to view us as demigods. To this I say: what is a demigod but a god made flesh? Who are we to say that these NPCs—these human beings—are incorrect in their worship? You know as well as I do that death comes for us all, even for those of us whose magics free them from the mundanity of common physics. Free from the ravages of time. But what if I—we—could change that?”
—[TheZeusIsLoose], Lord of Olympos [godz], to [—YOU ARE NOT MEANT TO KNOW YET, DEAR MORTAL MINE—].
The Temple of Storms sat upon the Hill of Ashak like a crown made of marble-white bone and astonishingly beautiful blue stone. Ai paused at the base of the final flight of stairs up to the Temple, briefly caught off guard by the disconnect between her memory of the place and its reality.
The Temple turned out to be a temple to Resh, whose name she was more familiar with as the Varran god of Seas, Storms, and Plenty. In fact, she was familiar with this very same temple—obvious, in hindsight, but she rather thought she could be forgiven for her mistake given how much things had changed.
Back then, it had been a squat, miserable thing of gray stone, barely large enough to shelter thirty or so people from the rain. As the years had passed and the Titanomachy commenced, the settlement had grown into what one might charitably call a town, or even a small city—and the Reshic temple had grown in suit.
But the structure before Ai was far beyond any of that.
It was evocative of the Parthenon from Earth’s antiquity, but the structure itself was rounded, carved into stone as though it was set into the very structure of the Hill. Massive columns were painted a vibrant, electric cobalt that seemed to hum in contrast against the stark white pediment. Geometric detailing, carved with obsessive precision, spiraled up the pillars in alabaster patterns that mimicked the chaotic fractals of lightning arcing through the clouds.
“It’s breathtaking, isn't it?” Sari said, standing a step behind her. “The blue paint is supposed to all be crushed lapis. No expense spared, as the stories say.”
The Temple's appearance wasn't the only thing different from what Ai remembered.
Starting partway up the Hill, there had been drums of all the shapes and sizes mounted along the sides of the winding path that led up to the Temple of Storms. In fact, once Ai started looking, she quickly realized that they weren't just along the path, but placed innocuously in every corner of the Hill. There were small metal drums mounted on balconies and window sills, wyrmbone drums placed on poles in front of houses, and even stone drums that seemed to function on a weave of [Elastic-Tension] and [Beating-Stone].
Though they were all different, they shared one key similarity: their beating seemed to be in a sort of synchronized rhythm that propagated outward from the Temple above, rippling towards Ashak Bay and beating in time like the aftershock of a giant’s heart. This boded well for her search, Ai thought.
Ai and Sari ascended the last few steps to the Temple, the gentle beating of the drums surrounding them.
As they neared its massive bronze doors—these with a more aquatic focus, etched with depictions of waves crashing against jaggedly stylized rocks—a figure emerged from the shade. He was a young man, clad in the angular robes of a junior priest of Resh. His head was shaved smooth, save for a single braided lock behind his left ear, and his face bore an expression of practiced, desperate eagerness. He must have spotted Sari’s Aspirant robes as they were coming up the stairs and had lied in wait, Ai realized. Being able to serve a Karravar Aspirant like her would have represented a rare opportunity for social mobility.
“Greetings! Salutations! May the winds act as a gentle hand at your back!” The priest bustled forward, his hands clasping and unclasping in front of his chest. He bowed low—much too low to be proper—his nose coming so close to the floor he probably could have hoovered up the salt and dust in his vicinity all in one go.
“I am Meeol, a humble servant of the Darra’esh. It is a profound, nay, a staggering honor to welcome a burgeoning Karravar such as yourself to the House of Resh.”
It was a wonder he wasn’t staggering from how low he was bowing. Ai looked at Sari as she blinked wordlessly, clearly bemused at his posturing.
“And the Karravar’s companion! Good day, milady. Might you be a karra yourself?” Meeol’s voice was extremely irritating, a whiny, squeaky sort of nasality to his enunciation. His eyes darted down, landing on Aru. The lizard-dog was panting happily in the shade of Ai’s cloak, his tail thumping a rhythmic beat against the stairs.
Meeol’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of feigned apology. “Ah. I must implore your forgiveness, wise one, but in order to maintain the sanctity of the inner hall, beasts are strictly prohibited. Surely you understand.”
Ai felt a spike of irritation despite herself. Aru wasn't a beast.
Aru, sensing the tension, let out a loud, dramatic harrumph. He shook his head, ears flapping, and trotted purposefully away from the doors. He found a shady spot under one of the cobalt pillars, circled around a few times to find a comfortable position, and flopped down with a heavy sigh, his chin resting on his paws. He glared at Meeol and harrumphed again.
“It… it seems quite intelligent,” Meeol stammered.
“More intelligent than you.” Ai muttered under her breath. Nobody insulted her dog like that. Sari sighed and diplomatically gestured to the doors.
“Well then. Meeol, was it? Would you please show us around?”
“Of course! Of course, my Lady Aspirant, of course!” At that, Meeol scrambled inside, ushering them into the cool, incense-laden gloom of the Temple.
The Temple interior was a vast space, even more spacious than the exterior had suggested, dug into the Hill as it was. The roof was high enough that Ai had to narrow her eyes to make out details painted onto the ceiling, a continuation of the lightning and wave motif from outside. The air inside the Temple felt alive, somehow energized and charged, smelling of incense, ozone, and brine.
And all throughout the space reverberated the [Heart].
Th-thump. Th-thump.
At the center of the space were a pair of statues, which had to be the Storm Twins. Meeol immediately launched into his spiel, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.
“You stand in the, ahem, beating heart of Ashakir itself! Here, through supplication of the Twins, mighty Resh, Formless and Ferocious, is beseeched for the Three Great Mercies: the Tranquillity of the Storm, the Bounty of the Deep, and Safety from the Seawyrm.”
He gestured flamboyantly toward the statues.
“Through the combined efforts of the great Darranor and our own humble order of Darra’esh, we maintain the atmospheric stability of the entire bay and keep errant seawyrms from entering the port. Without our prayers, the storms of the Tranquil Sea would surely scour this city from the map! But thanks to the benevolence of the Republic and the vigilance of our order, the Heart beats and Ashakir prospers.”
Ai walked toward the central pit, ignoring Meeol’s prattling. Sure, she would normally be intrigued by a cultural ethnography of local worship, but she was here for [Stormold]. She extended her senses, letting her Semblance brush against the metaphysical texture of the room.
There were the threads of [Reverence], [Worship], and [Faith] she’d expect in a religious space like this, but also [Sea-Peace], [Wyrm-Rest], and more—most tellingly, [Thunder-Heart] and [Storm-Old].
Bingo.
Meeol wasn’t lying, though he likely didn’t understand the mechanics of what he was saying. The Temple wasn’t just a building. It was, in effect, a focusing lens.
In A Dirge for the Sun, magic was mediated by consciousness—any person could theoretically warp reality with some symbolic materials and sheer willpower. But what happened when fifty thousand people believed the same thing? A hundred thousand? A million? Over decades, centuries, millennia… or even longer?
What happened when it wasn’t a single individual leveraging their meager personal narrative against the world’s in a futile attempt to carve their mark into reality, but an entire civilization that did the same just by surviving, day in and day out for eons? When an entire city participated in a shared narrative of safety, of a figure who wrestled the very storm, of a barrier against the wild fury of the sea? The result was a self-sustaining weave of magic, made manifest by the collective Semblance of a people, across time.
In other words, a god. What did it imply that [Stormold] seemed to be caught up in the legend of the god Resh?
“...and naturally, tithes provided by the Merchant Caste ensure that the incense we burn is of the highest quality, sourced directly from the Azzeti hinterlands of the Far East,” Meeol kept nattering, interrupting Ai’s thoughts. “If the honored Aspirant and her companion would care to make a donation…”
“Meeol.” Ai’s patience was finally wearing thin. Even his name felt irritating in her mouth.
There was ethnography, and then there was the tourism that Meeol was selling. Fascinating as it could’ve otherwise been, she wasn’t here on a random lore dive, nor was she interested in the marketing practices of the Temple right now. She was here for [Stormold].
Also, he’d insulted Aru.
Sari seemed to sense her irritation and stepped in before Ai could say anything to upset the man.
“Priest Meeol,” Sari said, her voice taking on a saccharine sympathy. She stepped between Ai and the priest, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “I couldn’t help but notice the way the other acolytes outside were looking at you. Glaring, really.”
Meeol blinked, thrown off script. “T-they were?”
“Jealousy, plainly,” Sari sighed, shaking her head. “A man of your eloquence, tasked with guiding an Aspirant’s entourage? They must be green with envy. If you spend too much time with us, surely they will make your life difficult. We—I—couldn’t bear to be the cause of such strife for you.
“We would appreciate your aid greatly,” Sari continued, pressing a silver coin into his palm, “By allowing us to contemplate the majesty of Resh in silence. That way, you can report that you attended to us, but your peers—and seniors—will have no ammunition to say you were, let’s say, fraternizing above your station.”
Meeol looked at the coin, then at Sari, then at a group of acolytes by the door. He looked at Sari’s Aspirant robes one last time, before letting his shoulders slump in disappointment.
“I—thank you for your wisdom, Aspirant,” Meeol whispered. “I shall—I shall stand guard just over there. To ensure you are undisturbed. Please, call for Meeol if either you or your honored companion require anything.”
With that, he bowed hastily and retreated, leaving them alone in the vast, echoing hall. Ai looked at Sari, raising an eyebrow. If it worked, it worked.
“You’re quite good at that. Should I be concerned?”
Sari smoothed her robes, looking pleased with herself. “Master Benessel always says that you get more out of bureaucracy by greasing the egos of small-minded fools. Besides, you looked like you were ready to explode at him.”
“I did not!” Ai exclaimed in mock outrage. Sari had defused both the situation and her temper quite deftly, but she couldn’t find it in herself to fault her for it. Ai smiled to herself.
The two walked to the statues in the middle of the Temple, and Ai glanced up at the Storm Twins.
“He wasn’t entirely wrong, you know,” Sari said softly, her eyes fixed on the statues.
“Oh?”
“I’m no priest of the Darra’esh, but… Do you mind if I tell you the story of the Storm Twins? It’s one of my favorites.” Sari asked. Her voice held a note of awe, or perhaps respect, that was somehow different from what she held for Benessel.
“Of course.” Ai said. She studied the statues before her. Now that she was really looking, she could see it. Though the details were all slightly off, drifting away from reality by centuries of retelling and reimagining… she would recognize [Stormold]’s avatar anywhere.
Looks like you made your mark, Aedan.
With a deep breath, Sari began to tell her tale.