Project.Risk

The breaks softly squeak from the low riding car as the man's black leather shoe presses down on the pedal, distant honks echoing around, almost certainly from unprepared tourists or some people of the sort. The heavy congestion was so bad in this area it had become almost part of the culture, signalled as people were stepping out of their cars and onto the concrete pavement to go pick up a meal, as was customary. It might not have helped traffic, but it wouldn't matter anyway, you'd be stuck for hours before moving anywhere, and a cup of coffee only lasted a few minutes. Large pyres of concrete, stone, and glass tower above, a constant reminder of the beauty of human progress, innovation, and constant improvement.

The man steps out of his vehicle as well, shoes clicking against the asphalt, black coat swaying around him in the wind as he adjusts his hair, stretching his arms and closing his eyes as he feels the satisfying give in his back and the flood of relief coursing through his veins. A hum as he opens his eyes, before he realizes he feels weightless. . . Tumbling. . ?

He's falling.

With a sickening crack, his head meets his own car as he flips over it towards the crumbling, burning structure behind him, the roar and glinting of shattering glass echoing around him, blood covering one eye whilst the other sees the origin explosion. Sees the rift. Sees the power. Sees the heavens. Sees Her.

Wounded.Hurt.Cracked.

Mother.

It's Night. The sky above is bright and massive, the stars swirling together to resemble a double spiral, more like paint-works than a natural sky; the center so condensed and bright that the very void is choked out. The shape is almost ordered, unlike the distanced, chaotic specks in normality.

The landscape below is steep, a valley nestled between two colossal mountains, entirely blanketed in snow and evergreens. Snowflakes gently drift down and dance, although above, no clouds are in the heavens, leaving the twinkling, watchful stars entirely unhidden and for all to gaze in wonder.

In the distance, warm light filters through wall-like windows, entirely separate from the illumination brought from above. A large resort, three sections tiered in such a way that it sits flush against the mountainside, made from slate and wood. Patterned and detailed with such care—luxury made to mirror the stars above, or at least an attempt to. The makers did their job well, as though the same brush that made the heavens painted the building itself.

The Gray King sighs, adjusting the silken cape that drapes down his shoulders, pinned against his steel armor. In an attempt to sort through his memories, his eyes turn towards the sky, silver hair swaying under his crown as he takes in a breath. The air is crisp and sharp, not muddled with the bitterness of pain and death he's come to be used to. But what is most key is in that gorgeous sky, swirling bright and wondrous above.

Those stars aren't his.

Серикор hums softly as his fingers gently pluck a head of wheat from his field, the golden crops brushing against his cold armor as he inspects the plant's moisture and whether the harvest has come yet or not. With ease, he could make the time come now, but he likes the wait, for he shall reap what he sows, both in seed and in time. He prefers this simple life in the realm he's made, and so do the souls that inhabit it, now free from the pains and persecution that came in life. Whether that be to visit his fields, or to live their afterlives in the peaceful replica of the living world. Сребристина is a kinder place than Явь, and he will safeguard that luxury for them.

The Almakovan deity opens his eyes once more as his mist gently twirls around his feet, the latest memory faintly playing in his mind again. He has no recollection of how he got here, unfortunately, and the landscape seems to provide no hints beyond the description of foreign. The only likeness akin to his world is the lack of magiya in the air, although the earth seems deeply saturated in it. Young and youthful as well, yet no traces of gods linger in the air to suggest what makers sculpted it, if there are any.

Another deep inhale, the tranquility of the world is almost sweet, but not naïve. It is comforting to one such as him, still wearing his armor, as those times were not long ago in his eyes, and his world still reels from the impacts of it all. The mist writhes like tendrils for a moment at that reflection, before Serikor opens his eyes once more and exhales, the tension in his soul slowly releasing as a condensed cloud in the biting chill. His head lowers, chainmail clinking under the metallic plates.

The Iskonari shifts, his mist flicking around him, soft swirling eyes growing a bit lighter as he finds his gauntleted palm wrapping around the doorhandle, snow cascading down and sticking to his cold steel armor, now at the building already. The perks of divine power, although his own isn't flashy like expected, with his nature of mist and secrets.

The door is glass, framed on either side by thick, dark wood and slate, with a balcony across the front of the building, jutting off the ledge of the slope, which runs along the side and stops when it sits flush against the mountain. Snow drifts cover the wood, and an even terrain to step on opens the door, which remains in this side area.

Armor clinks as he opens the door, snow flowing into the warm interior as he steps in, footfalls loud on the hardwood floor as he closes the door. Snow shifts as his mist follows around his heels. The chill was fading quickly in the warmth and warm light. The walls are almost entirely made of windows, save for the corners, which are supported by the standard dark wood. The wood flooring past the door swiftly changes to slate, which extends across the first floor, with the half he's within designed as a large dining room and an open bar with a kitchen in the back half.

The god's eyes scan the architecture. Lights hang from above, wrought in metal and housing flickering flames. The only semblance he recognizes. The chairs, the benches, the smoothness of wood, how the architecture is held, and the immensity of glass. He likes it, but it all seems almost impossible to build or make to him, and so far flung in design and future that it seems like something a tragic Tafsarim he knows would weave in her designs. . . He shouldn't stay here long; his realm relies on him.

"Well, hello." A voice calls out, soft and yet formal. The deity turns quickly to look, armor rattling, looking down at a white-cloaked figure leaning over the counter, sipping on a mug. Almost immediately, their design catches his attention with how utterly different and, once more, 'foreign' it is. Dark, sleek shell with swirling patterns etched and engraved within. Antennae hang down, light blue in color and resembling feathers in shape, akin to a moth's. A metallic staff lies against the counter beside them, and a glass pin keeps the cloak around their shoulders together. Dark eyes with slitted, piercing white pupils gazing from under their hood—heavy with experience and intelligence, yet still. . . friendly?

The god remains a bit stunned as he observes the odd being, whose gaze in turn just lingers on his armor. Before he picks up his staff and taps the silver lord's armor plated chest. The sound of metal rapping with a clck clck clck! "Eyes up here." The insect says, voice still calm and formal, yet a smile plays at the corners of his lips. "I'm going to hazard a guess and say you're not from here, nor were the one who brought us."

". . . No, I am not, for both questions. You face the same queries?" The deity asks; he had been hoping this being would have some answers.

A sigh. "Afraid not, my divine friend, just another will set here."

"You know of my nature?"

"When you deal with many Tívar, they become quite easy to spot."

Curious. "'Tívar'?"

"My world's name for 'Gods', like you." The moth simply replies, before sipping from his mug. The sweet scent of chocolate drifting in the air, a stark contrast to the expected bitterness of coffee.

"Might I ask your name?" They hum as they set their mug back down, antennae flicking in the air. "Serves as a better icebreaker than interrogating you about how you got here, y'know?" He says with a small chuckle and a wave of his hand, unbothered with the power before him. Which is actually quite comforting to the Iskonari, being treated so casually.

"Serikor, may I ask yours?"

"Fey, no further name for my birth, as I assume there is none for yours." 'Fey' responds with a nod of his head in a shallow bow, antennae lowering in respect. Despite the casualness, the insect seems quite polite.

"Any titles I might know?" The Gray King presses.

"Ah! I used to have a few, but I suppose 'Archmage' will do."

"I'll keep that in mind, and I do not have any of significance here."

"Heh- I can see why—a different place. No connections: no ties."

"You are quite wise, Fey, despite your age."

"You can see that? You must be a god of death."

". . . And observant." The deity muses, eyes sparkling.

"I may have been born 34 years ago, but I have lived for longer. However, that isn't drastically important; on the other hand, figuring out where we are and helping you settle is."

"Settle? No, my new friend, if I am allowed to call you that, I am not staying." Serikor says with a saddened smile. "My realm needs me."

"Feel free to try and leave, everyone else has. We're still here, however. Something is pulling us in and keeping us in."

"Do you have any suspects?"

"Gods." Fey responds, sipping his hot chocolate once more.

Fey's eyes snap open as he bolts awake, sitting up as his heart beats wildly. Pulsing, thumping, rattling against his shelled chest as his breathing paces and his body shakes. Eyes darting around as he attempts to focus, antennae flicking about as he desperately tries to calm down. Steadily, his heart calms, and he hangs his head in shame. Those memories still playing in his head and behind his eyelids. ". . . why." The mage says softly through gritted teeth, before his pupils slit and he focuses at an empty spot on the wall. "WHY?!" He snaps, claws balled against the soft covers of the bed. "WHY ME?!" There is no response. "ANSWER ME, DAMMIT! YOU NEVER HAVE ON THIS! I KNOW YOU'RE THERE! I KNOW YOU ARE ALWAYS THERE! GIVE ME THIS. ONE. THING. FUCKING ANSWER ME!!!" His voice screeches against the wall, the flame within him burning, his blood boiling. Nothing. Nothing ever still. Just silence. The mage's breathing is heavy as he focuses on it, hissing as he turns away, antennae flattening against his head. Guilt and shame rushing through his veins like lead as soon as the anger fades. What was he even expecting?

"You seem to have quite a distaste towards the concept of the divine, which is understandable. However, you seem entirely content with my presence, which seems. . . contradictory." Serikor muses, his armor shifting, before his form shrinks to be the same height as Fey, who simply swirls his mug.

"Well- My world has been scared and effectively killed due to our own and outside gods. I have personally dealt with a few myself, most unpleasant. But you can always tell immediately that they are unpleasant. Those that you can't, like you, tend to be helpful and kind." He responds, setting his mug down beside him on the counter.

". . . You seem to shock me with every passing moment."

"I can shock you again." Fey hums.

"Oh-?"

"You asked if you are allowed to call me 'friend', the answer is a simple yes. Up until you stab me in the back." He says with a small wink.

Serikor, in turn, laughs, something which feels relieving. The Iskonari has always wanted to be mortal and treated as such. The archmage's indifference to his nature is proving to be very refreshing to that craving.

"I will keep that caveat in mind; it seems you have foiled my plans!"

"Tsk, shame upon me for spotting them." The moth says with a grin.

"Ah- alright now, might I ask for your wisdom?" Serikor says, his laughter dying down to a simple chuckle.

"Ask away!"

"What do you know of this place so far-?"

"Ah- my knowledge fails you there, for the answer is nothing."

Fey pauses for a moment, antennae flicking in thought. "Well, almost nothing. Multiple denizens from my world have been brought here, along with a few from a separate world, one which doesn't carry your dialect or accent, so likely a different one. This building additionally seems to be tailored to us, as the second floor. . . You simply would need to see with your own eyes."

". . . That doesn't sound like nothing." Serikor muses.

"It does when you've been here for a week in a cramped place."

"'Cramped'?"

"With as many people that are here, 'cramped' is the fitting term."