#vernorexia

"Spring provides all manner of misery while the Angels are nowhere to be found, aside from listless glimpses flittering in the clouds. If I were to tell you that Heaven's gates had been swung open wide, and that all that fell out of it was still-myrrh; no Archangels, no wrath from on high, no salvation, I bet you would feel insulted. The open way lies closer than one would ever imagine, but to reach Divinity's crystalline road, you have to make it past the moon-headed king, Albedo. 

The mantle of the world has passed down from Giants, to Fairies, to the Earthly Tribes. While Giants scorned all those who came after, Fairies brought the Earthly Tribes under their care. The First Tribe who pledged fealty was said to embody the elements of creation, with starlight running through their veins. The first chieftain, Hyder, built a sanctuary for Fairy magic and knowledge to be shared freely. The second chieftain, Lodran, built up the sanctuary into the city of Peony, for both Fairy and folk to live side-by-side. The third chieftain, Albedo, was born into a world where the Fairies had already sailed over the horizon, and the legacy of the chieftains before him sat heavily upon his shoulders.

"There was a time when Gloriosa was a forest of iron spires, overlooking a kingdom of sprawling steel. There was a time even older when it was humble woodland pastures, dotted by shrines tended to by kindly sages. 

The sages were a bridge between folk and fae, but once the fairies left these lands, it fell to the High Sage to carry those left behind. So vast was her wisdom and so gentle her hand that the people of Gloriosa couldn’t bear to lose their last link to a golden era so burned into their memories. They brought to her offerings of nectar, and she carried their love beyond natural years. 

As with all kingdoms, Springtide inevitably strolled in with fangs bared. Weald once shared peacefully became tar-laden wilds to be burned away. The warmth of the High Sage erupted into pitch, and she would see Gloriosa preserved in metal. Each time the fiends would come, the trees were felled and the towers grew skyward. Each time the soldiers fought, the furnaces roared and the streets grew quieter. 

A scholar, a hero; a myth come to an end. The High Sage let generations of nectar within her spoil and her body became bloated and malformed by tar. Now, from molten perches, she watches her fire dance, carrying the memories of a golden era forever passed."

------------

"Sand has been piling up in the wildlands lately. A sigh of Spring’s breath, billowing past ruins of old kingdoms, bringing us mementos in the form of scattered ash– roiled petals of the long dead. Folk say the sandy breeze carries the lost voices of ghosts, murmuring goodbyes to loved ones and last hymns to anyone who would hear them. Wherever the dust piles up most, the voices seem to be stronger and more numerous, and curious folk go missing.

The source of these uncanny utterances are Dune Lungs: once a deterrent of monsters, they have since joined their ranks. Kingdoms once further along than ours discovered certain sounds could be channeled through communication apparatuses to ward away or paralyze the angry beasts marching through the growing desert. It was trial and error to find the right frequencies, but once identified, they could be weaponized to great effect.

For many generations, sacred sounds kept these kingdoms safe, but Spring is a patient devil. The petals of the departed clogged the contraptions, and the lingering anguish within their essence animated them into hungry golems. With voices that bristle with electricity and heat, they speak false affirmations and sing melodies to lure prey into a sentimental stupor, knowing exactly what the desperate or the melancholic want to hear. I feel guilty admitting that when I find the night hours vexing, I have sat on the rim of their hunting grounds, the faint music under the sand helping me sleep. During dawn’s first light, regardless if a potential victim is near, I can hear them mumbling together: “the angels are coming, the angels are coming…”

Vernorexia

"Hark! Good folk of our Fair Kingdom! The clock hand recoils, the axe hangs low. Vernorexia is here; the endless Springtide. Beasts grow hungry for the nectar of the living and the flowers of the dead. Kingdom after kingdom is met with gnashing fangs and grinding tusks, left roiled into dust. Here within the twilight of reality, with life teetering on the precipice, the Saint of Awakening comes to us.

Chosen by Angels, riding on the back of Demon, she wields Divine Fire with rancour unmatched. Under the looping Spring Moon, we will be witness to her miracles, both inspiring and dreadful. Whether a blessing, a butcher, or a blight, she will leave her mark on what's left of our world."

----------------------

"O Saint, to whom was tasked to bury this dying world. Bring back to us a fledgling grown into a falcon true, who has the wherewithal to carry the mantle of the Pantheon higher than we ever could.

We were fools, unaware of the journey we would have to set you on. If we had known this unkindness was even possible, we would have made you stronger: armed you with skin of stone, with greater tusks than the ones snapping after you.