“Vault of Forgotten Deities…?” Cirice echoes, “What language is this? Do you think its from before the Collapse?” She runs her hands over the door, feeling the indentations of the carvings. Beneath her touch the door feels warm. “Why would this be in a temple of Lunala? OW!”

Cirice jerks back her hand, blood flowing from her fingertips, “What was that? There was something sharp on the door…” The runes on her arms begin to glow as she summons the magic to heal her cut and in return the runes on the door begin to shine with that same violet light. Before their eyes the door begins to crumble, stone turning to dust in an instant.

“Whoa… I guess Mother Moon’s magic was the key!” Her cut forgotten Cirice takes a step into the opening without concern, not noticing that once the door is gone cracks start to form on the walls around them, slowly creeping back towards where they came.

Behind the ruined door is indeed a vault, stone shelves and alcoves set into the walls that house trinkets and treasures, relics of the world before the gods fell. The room is octagonal, and in the center of the room, under a large dome stands a raised dias where a very innocuous piece of broken stone tablet sits.

“Wow… Theres so much here… Kvasir are you seeing all of this?” Her voice is soft with wonder as she turns around in a slow twirl, taking it all in. The pull tugs her towards the center, towards the tablet. "That's what we're here for!" She points towards it excitedly and moves to go inspect it.

...what language is this?

The question hangs heavy in Kvasir's head as he stares at the words, turns them over in his mind, searching for some kind of familiarity in the inscriptions etched into the wall. And yet, the longer he stares, the more faraway they seem, the letters and the syllables they yield incomprehensible-- he does not know where they originate from, or how it is he knows what they mean, but he knows. He should not, and yet he does.

He's about to speak, about to lay forth his theory on what this could be or where it could all be from when Cirice suddenly cuts herself off, her musings cleft apart by a pained exclamation. He blinks, glancing at the door, where a scarlet smudge clings for all of a second before light engulfs it, stone crumbling into dust before them, as if it was mere ash in the wind instead of a solid foundation. Whatever it was that had cut through Cirice's glove and stained itself with her blood leaves no further trace, and she hardly seems to give it a second thought-- no, her face lights up with excitement once more as she steps forward into the room before them, not even a shred of doubt lingering in her steps.

"Hey-- Cirice, wait--!" Kvasir cries, worry poured into the words as he moves to walk behind her, desperate to ensure that she doesn't carelessly injure herself once more. "Dear Solaria, don't go running in just yet..."

He sighs quietly, anxiety sewn into his very voice as he gently takes Cirice's hand, pouring a gentle, brief surge of healing magic through his palm and into hers-- the flicker of sunlight through a window on a warm afternoon, spun into the capacity to undo the cut on her fingers. [1] As soon as not a trace of blood lingers on her skin, he withdraws his hand, though that concern in his expression does not leave-- no, his tail still swishes anxiously, his ears gently folded with worry.

"...There's so much," he whispers, his focus turning to the treasures drowning every corner of the room. As Cirice rushes forward to go inspect some tablet at the heart of it all, he knows he should follow, knows he should make sure no danger breathes down her neck once more, and yet...

...and yet something calls to him from the corners of the room, cloying, irresistible.

He watches himself step over forgotten astrolabes, over statuettes, over relics of a time long lost, through glitter and gold and shining silver, through dust-- all until he happens upon a fragment of bone, sitting innocuously at the back of the chamber. It looks like the tooth of some great beast, clearly old, a remnant of something long bygone, and yet it is so strangely familiar--

...what is he doing...?

What kind of place is this...?

"...Cirice," he calls quietly, seriously. "What is on that tablet?"

---

[1] Minor Healing

Cirice barely registers that Kvasir has healed her, that he’s warned her, that he really even there anymore. Theres a pounding in her ears, her own heartbeat pounding with excitement against the inside of her skull. She sees Kvasir move across the room towards something and drags her attention back to him with hard-fought effort.

“What? Oh um… I don’t know yet. Let’s see. I’ll read it to you.”

She reaches towards the plinth, her hands trembling slightly, as she picks up the jagged stone tablet. The runes on her arms begin to glow of their own accord, a creeping dark purple that spreads from her fingertips to her wrists, creeping up towards her face. “It’s the same language that Mother Moon taught me! It says… ‘As Maiden’s power waxes full, Mother’s Moon grows bright, the deep and primordial pull, towards eternal night...’”

As Cirice reads the inscription aloud the glow spreads faster, the runes on her face and her eyes suffused with the strange energy. Her voice takes on a strange, dualistic quality, a deeper voice layered over her normal one and building over it like a crescendo until Cirice’s own soft, high pitched voice is completely replaced by a deeper, more mature one as she trails off.

She smiles, leaning her head back towards the sky and sighing as if in great relief. "At last…”

Kvasir knows the presence of power well.

He has known it since it first made its home within his body, since divinity found a place to nestle in the crevices of his bones, unfathomable, brilliant gold imbuing itself into him so carefully that he hardly knows where his soul ends and the Archivist King's begins. He knows it now as he watches light flood over Cirice's body, spilling out through the runes and sigils embossed across her skin, haloing the gentle, soothing, familiar lilac he has always known in sickening light, a moonlight so powerful that it eclipses her, and--

And he knows, almost instantly, that he no longer stands in the comforting presence of a dear friend, in the same room as someone he knows and trusts.

Now he stands in the shadow of a god.

"...Cirice," he says anyway, even knowing she can't hear him, that this isn't her anymore. She's gone somewhere he can't reach, hasn't she? "Cirice, I--"

As soon as he speaks, agony pulses through his skull, an old echo of the day he first became acquainted with the God of What Once Was, an echo of the moment in the World Crown when his consciousness was crushed to make room for divinity, brutal and brilliant and horrifying. He lets out a quiet, pained whine, stars dancing in his vision as he tries to find stability, as his hand strikes the wall, as his knees hit the earth and his fingers wander, slipping over the surface of bone--

-ꕤꕥꕤ-

And for the second time in so short a time, the God of Remains opens his eyes, fingers closing around the smooth surface of an old, long-lost friend.

"So this is where you wound up," he mutters, lifting the jagged tooth that gives life to the Fang of the Sand Skull up in his palm, turning it over in his hand. It is as he remembers, surprisingly-- dust creeps and lingers in the carved lines, but no matter. It is tangible and real and available to him, and the fact that his old, beloved weapon has survived sends a surge of joy through his gilded veins. "It has been quite a while, my dear friend..."

...

"And quite a while since I have heard your voice, Mother Moon."

Cirice’s head tilts, her arms crossing over her chest, left hand resting below her chin as she turns to look at Kasra with an amused smirk. Her irises and the runes on her face still shine with that deep purple glow but the sclera of her eyes have gone jet black with shifting shadows.

“Kasra,” the mature voice of Mother Moon purrs from her lips with a chuckle, “Well well, isn’t this a surprise? I thought you’d been forgotten by now, faded away into obscurity… How strange to find you here in that cute little fuzzy form.”

Cirice looks around them at the temple’s shelves of contraband, and looks at the tablet fragment in her right hand, slipping into a bag on her belt. The cracks and deterioration of the temple around them continues at an advanced rate with the two divines manifestations.

“Seems that our presence is upsetting to this place. Tell me… How diminished are you, Remnant?” Mother Moon laughs from Cirice’s mouth, “Have you been covering behind that pretty face for long? Rather pitiful, aren't you?”

Kvasir Sigurros certainly knows how to pick his company.

Not much time has passed since Kasra's first encounter with Morrigan Moonweaver in the deep cold of the World Crown, since he became all-too-acquainted with that charlatan cockroach and their wretched tenacity-- it's unfortunate, truly, that Kvasir had managed to wrench consciousness back in time to save them, to turn the very light that had nearly slain them to a gentle healing touch. Pity; they're proving to be quite the thorn in his side, despite everything, despite being lowly and fragile and a spinner of fleeting falsehoods.

And now, he stands in the heart of a long-forgotten temple deep beneath the earth, staring down the chosen vessel of the demon known as Mother Moon, her boundless moonlight pouring out from stolen skin.

Joy.

"And here I thought your followers would have given up by now," Kasra says, rolling his eyes as he gives the woman before him a sharp look. "Really, how many failures do fools have to face before they realize this just will not work?"

He huffs quietly, turning his attention to the tooth in his palm-- he closes his eyes, gold burning in his fingertips and pouring into bone, shifting and elongating its shape into the familiar form of the scythe he once slew monsters with, sand pouring through its artificial veins like crystalline blood. He smiles to himself, twirling the pole around in hand to test how it feels, to test to see if this feeble vessel can handle it the way the Archivist King once did.

"Diminished? Oh, I am hardly the diminished one," he says mid-way through, another huff lingering on his tongue. "This vessel just happens to be extraordinarily stubborn. You cannot throw stones from your glass pedestal either, Mother Moon-- you're piloting a church girl."

“My followers are quiet tenacious,” Mother Moon inspects Cirice’s nails as they grow to sharp clawed points, “Dedicated and loyal. Perfect children. It will work. Look at how far she’s already come. My little Maiden.”

She watches as Kasra awakens his ancient weapon with bored eyes, “Stubborn? You mean resisting you.” She clicks her tongue at him disapprovingly. “My ‘church girl’ is quite powerful. Getting stronger by the day. Malleable, clever, innocent. She knows not what she’s doing but she believes in me with her very being.”

She licks her lips, “Your vessel fights you even now, trying to shake your influence and forget you. How ironic, that the Archivist King be forgotten. How long can you hold to those vestiges and scraps of power, Kasra? Meanwhile at every corner my power and influence yet grows.” She walks over to the collected weapons on the wall and chooses one. She pours magic into it, making it melt and twist and morph into what she wants.

“Soon this girl will finish her work and I will be fully realized in this world. What of you? Will you still be just a glint in that fox’s eye?”

"Your followers have failed before and they can very well fail again."

Kasra cannot help the way venom twists his words, eyes burning sulfur-gold with distaste for the demon standing a few paces away-- fiends are always such haughty creatures, aren't they? How quaint it is to hear Mother Moon speak of the perfect, obedient little maiden she's raising into a follower; demons do so love their manipulation, do so love wrapping potential followers around their clawed fingertips until their chosen mortals no longer know the difference between black and white and gray.

It is a foolish thing, really, to take such a path. Sure, you may earn a mortal who will carry out your deeds with eager eyes, but what happens when their companions catch on-- when they grow resentful of the thing demanding their beloved's attention? You earn yourself a target on your back, carved by knights and vigilantes who will stop at nothing to pry their darling away from your gnarled fingers.

He has never opted for such methods. No, Kasra favors the path of isolation-- if there is nothing and no one left to stop you when you finally crack your vessel's will to fight, then what stands between you and your goal?

Nothing.

"Resisting me-- perhaps so, but that does not mean he'll be successful," he huffs, drumming his fingertips against the bone-shaped pole of his scythe, savoring the sweet familiarity of holding it in his hand again. Oh, having one of that wretched beast's incisors back in his hand is a step in the right direction-- if he could only find Sahar's blade, now... "All mortals crumble in time."

A quiet chuckle spills from his lips, inevitably, as he lifts his chin, borrowed gaze flickering with mockery-- oh, he misses the shadow of his veil, the imposing height of his headdress, of the tassels and ornaments he once adorned himself with. But they have not followed him-- all he has is this stolen body that he must one day make a home in.

"The highest towers have the nastiest downfalls, Mother Moon," he says, practically purring with amusement. "Your power and influence may grow, but what happens when this little girl's friends go chasing after the foul demon twisting her mind? What then?"

Cirice’s eyes narrow and her lips curl into an irritated frown, Mother Moon’s displeasure apparent. “They failed before, but this one will succeed.”

“How long until that mortal crumbles apart? He seems dear to my sweet Maiden, I’m sure his friends will fight as hard for his sake, what will you do, scrivener? How long before you are truly forgotten?”

A smile plays about the corners of Cirice’s mouth as she tilts her head and looks at him. “This one cannot live without me, her very soul is mine. Brought back from the brink of death. Should her friends try they will find they have nothing left to save. But what of you? Wearing down your poor little pet like a candle, when the flame be extinguished? How long before the gold tarnishes and flakes away?”

She steps over towards him, hunger and amusement in her eyes, “But…. Perhaps we can help one another. It won’t be long before we’re back whispering in the corners of their minds, perhaps the right whispers help further each other’s goals? Or is the Archivist King above my help?”

It is infuriating to admit when someone else is right.

Once upon a time, it was easier-- easier to acknowledge his potential for flaw, to acknowledge that his word and beliefs were not absolute, but that time is buried beneath sand and grief, buried so deep he would not know even in all his infinite knowledge where to find it, and he knows better than to try. Lost things are his domain, but he will not cast his gilded gaze upon the fragile thing he was before until he has clawed his way back into this world, until he has defied death and divine punishment and solidified his place in time once more.

He does not have time to reminisce, does not have time to yearn-- instead, Kasra scoffs at the point Mother Moon raises, eyes dark with annoyance. For three uninterrupted years, his plan had worked; this fragile vessel had crumbled in the wake of abandonment, content to accept the fate Kasra had devised for him, content to wander aimlessly until every memory he possessed disappeared into the endless desert. For three uninterrupted years, Kasra's return to the realm of the living seemed guaranteed.

And then Kvasir Sigurros had given in to petty mortal feelings, and now the tapestry is too richly-woven for Kasra to immediately unravel.

"...oh, Mother Moon," he begins, trying to piece together the voice of a stalwart deity, trying to echo the paragon of wisdom he was in centuries past. "I have my ways. I have my plans. You may see them as... ineffective, but I assure you, my plans are watertight. You, however--"

His words die on his tongue as soon as Mother Moon, the wretched demon, seizes the narrative once again-- her borrowed eyes glint in the low light as she turns to him, as she steps closer, her voice rich with mockery as she addresses him, as she asks if he is above her... aid.

...Of course he is! He is above all, has no need for idle mortal concepts like aid and assistance, has no need for the aid of a wretch like her--

...and yet...

"...what do you have in mind?"

“Oh no no dear Kasra… Why would I tell you without having your agreement? You could stab me in the back.” Cirice’s tongue slides over her lips as the temple shifts around them. Cracks form in greater number around the room, sand starting to fall in rivulets into the room from above. “Seems our time is nearly up. This place can’t handle my presence and is falling apart. Do you think you can escape before you lose your control over the fox or will you be buried here along with him? Back in the sands forevermore…”

She’s got him where she wants him now, all she needs is the deal to be sealed. “I can get you out, if you’ll work with me.”

The shadows around them seem to shift, the waning light being snuffed by the falling sand and in the shadows behind Cirice a door forms¹. She offers him her hand. “Do we have a deal, Kasra the Archivist King? Or shall you drown in the sands?”

---

1 Hyl's Shady Shelter

It is impossible to miss the way Kasra stiffens at Mother Moon's words.

Back in the sands, forevermore...

He remembers what it had been to lose himself to the eternal sands for the first time.

He remembers searching endlessly, seizing every fragment of information pertaining to his goal that he could find, no matter its origin or sacrilege-- he remembers wasting away over tablets more ancient than himself, searching for answers in the stone engravings, newly-calloused fingers seeping gilded blood as they traced along old runes, traced along the edges of crumbling rock, desperate to find some semblance of a solution in the forbidden. He remembers feeling his body crumble, particles refusing to hold themselves together as his skin became sand, as sand became a prisoner of glass--

He remembers all too clearly what his search for salvation had brought him, and he refuses to crumble into the desert's sea the way he did back then.

He refuses.

"...I suppose that is agreeable," he manages, his voice tight as he steps forward on borrowed legs. "It is a wise thing to be wary, Mother Moon. I can commend such caution."

He pauses for a long moment, staring at her stolen hand-- is he truly about to let himself fall into allegiance with one like Mother Moon? Has he truly fallen so far, reduced from a beast-slaying, all-knowing deity to some pathetic thing that requires the aid of lesser beings? Is this the trial he must endure to return?

Stone crumbles and sand hisses as the temple falls around them, beckoning forth an ending.

Kasra takes a breath, and then he takes her hand.

Something flickers and grows brighter behind Cirice’s eyes as their hands meet and her smile widens malevolently. “And I commend your good sense. Come. Let us take this conversation somewhere much more comfortable.”

She turns in a swirl of silks, pulling Kasra by Kvasir’s hand as she throws the shadowy door open and the pair step through together into a shadowy world. As the door closes behind them a cacophony of sand and sound tumbles down upon it. She opens another door and beyond they step into the welcome and familiar sight of the Desert Rose.

“What a quaint place…” She lets their hands fall apart. “Do take care Kasra my dear, I shall do all in my power to help push your vessel further towards oblivion for you. But it seems out time is nearly done. Until we speak again.”

She gives him a small, exaggerated bow.

And then Cirice’s balance wavers, her body shudders and she looks up with heavy-lidded eyes, confused and exhausted. “When did we… Get back here… I don’t… Remember…”

There are few things Kasra detests more than having to place his fate in another's hands, whether he's handing them the merest fragments of his destiny or every last thread spun into it-- he's learned, in the fathomless years he's been alive and dead alike, that more often than not, the aid of others only drags you down. The presence of others only serves as a burden, as a tether, holding you back from the goals you're racing toward, and he has no time to struggle his way out of those ruthless bonds.

This situation is no different. Something vile twists within him as Mother Moon drags him into the safety of the shadows, out from the dust and sand and ghosts of things long-gone, her touch deceptively delicate, deceptively smooth-- having to count on her for an escape is utterly nauseating, and yet, she is his only option. Despite the power that still sings in Kasra's phantasmal veins, there is nothing he can do on his own for this-- the command he once had over the world still sleeps, sand and stone alike ignorant to his call. He... truly does not have a choice, as... sickening as it is.

Kasra bites back a sigh of relief as the ink-dark shadows melt away, yielding to the gentler warmth of his vessel's home, adorned with all its flowers-- he is hardly glad to see it himself, but this body knows its home, and contentment takes root in its heart all the same.

It is a strange, paradoxical thing, considering the words Mother Moon speaks.

"...I see," he says, careful to cling to the visage of a steely king, to call upon all he used to be. "You take care as well, Mother Moon. I will offer you the same courtesy."

And then she dips into a bow, and the sharpness of her features melts away, easy confidence slipping into wide-eyed confusion, all of her grace and power ebbing away into youthful unsteadiness-- in one sweeping motion, Mother Moon disappears, leaving her tiny, soft-eyed maiden behind.

Wretched, demonic bitch.

The Archivist King watches for a moment with eyes of piercing gold, his features illegible until they, too, slip away, the eyes of a dead god slowly sliding shut--

-ꕤꕥꕤ-

And somehow, strangely, Kvasir finds his eye blinking open.

He's unsteady on his feet, sand and weathered stone unwieldy, the thing one would expect from a temple-- and yet, a floral aroma wraps around him, solid and tangible and so familiar, and... and he becomes all too aware of the fact that this is no temple, no vault of the lost, no bastion beneath the sand and earth.

This is home, and he has no idea how he got here.

"...Ah...?" his gaze flickers up to Cirice, blinking repeatedly until everything settles back into place. "I... I admit, Miss Cirice, I'm not sure how we got here, either."

Just what had happened...?