10/6/2025, 2:35 AM
Story Unlocked, Part Four : 「 Greed 」
All creatures of Mythris experience this dream.
Those who were not involved IC before will likely be confused or frightened, as they were not aware of anything regarding the situation prior.
Those who were not involved IC before will likely be confused or frightened, as they were not aware of anything regarding the situation prior.
You close your eyes.
This time there is no Voice to guide you; you are alone. As you remain suspended in place, paws wavering uncertainly through empty air in a formless void, something seems to draw close to you - and again, you recognize the vast expanse of what now remains of the continent of Mythris.
Those twisted creatures, what once were your kin fled in terror as the ground buckles beneath their paws, a low groaning rippling through the soil as if the earth itself trembles in pain. Great, jagged cracks split across the ground, glowing faintly where their greed has delved too deep into the bedrock's hidden veins of power. An acrid scent fills your nose, the air reeking of stone-dust and ozone, sharp and choking as the towers and spires the aberrations built with stolen power begin to crumble and break apart. Large chunks of stone are violently sheared away with echoing crashes, and the once-wolves' snarls twist into shrill cries of panic. They gather together in a tight circle, gnarled claws interlocking, the horrible sounds of their voices blending into one long, desperate chant as their power coils into something vast, something struggling to take form.
An enormous landmass in the shape of their forebears rises up from the sea, and you see a pulsing blue light tying it to the very core of Mythris' power like a chain. Unlike the warped bodies of the corrupted, this island - this entity - carries the solemn grace of its ancestors, its trim silhouette a stark contrast to the aberrations that now roam the earth. Threads of blue radiance emerge in thin cracks on its surface, each pulse resonating deep within your bones as if the very core Mythris beats in tandem with it. When the earth trembles again, the island turns its head; the glow within it flares, and it moves across the waters with a slow, deliberate pace, drawn to each quake where trouble stirs.
Wherever it arrives, the ground steadies, fissures close, and the untamed streams of magic are bound back into the wrathful earth.
Relief spreads like a sigh heaved all at once from those who remain. The cacophony of collapsing stone quiets at last, replaced by the sound of rebuilding - structures rising again, civilizations reknitting themselves beneath the comforting hum of stabilized power. The wolves' fear eases into a pleasant calm once more, certain of their dominion and place at the apex of Mythris' creatures.
As the blue light of the Moving Isle fades into the horizon, dawn to the next quake to quell, peace settles over the land - fragile, but tangible, like the calm following a storm.
The vision shifts.
Two small silhouettes flee wherever the aberrations make their home. It seems their journey is endless, forced to run at every turn, chased away with murderous intent; what is even more intriguing is that they do not seem to carry the monstrous shape of their assailants, instead looking...
... Just like you.
The larger wolf catches up easily with his longer stride.
His voice is low and tries to be comforting, but you can tell he is also worried.
They run together in silence. Their voices sound so familiar to you, it tugs at your memory.
You get the sense of days passing, weeks spent fleeing in desperation, and then you see it at last - the largest tree in all of Mythris, standing proud at the center of Lake's Halo, and the two wolves are heading straight for it. Untainted, still carrying the old resonance of innocence, the tree instinctively draws them in, like the body sending blood to a wound; it does not choose them consciously, but the magic in its roots simply seeks to preserve what is pure, what is left.
As they enter the hollow at its base, the roots close around them almost protectively as the earth quakes and the Moving Isle groans in its endless journey, somewhere far offshore.
The vision fades from your mind and you are no longer suspended in the air.
You sense the plague lifting as you sleep - a respite. A heavy fog sets in, cloaking the earth in shadow and mist, but it is still a relief to you. The parasite still looms at large, but it can be avoided; now, at least, you can breathe.
Your vision suddenly plunges into darkness, and you know that you have been thrust into another time (but when, you do not know); all around you the earth is frighteningly cold and still, blanketed in an endless snow, as if all the world has dimmed at once and everything has passed away.
You awaken.
This time there is no Voice to guide you; you are alone. As you remain suspended in place, paws wavering uncertainly through empty air in a formless void, something seems to draw close to you - and again, you recognize the vast expanse of what now remains of the continent of Mythris.
Those twisted creatures, what once were your kin fled in terror as the ground buckles beneath their paws, a low groaning rippling through the soil as if the earth itself trembles in pain. Great, jagged cracks split across the ground, glowing faintly where their greed has delved too deep into the bedrock's hidden veins of power. An acrid scent fills your nose, the air reeking of stone-dust and ozone, sharp and choking as the towers and spires the aberrations built with stolen power begin to crumble and break apart. Large chunks of stone are violently sheared away with echoing crashes, and the once-wolves' snarls twist into shrill cries of panic. They gather together in a tight circle, gnarled claws interlocking, the horrible sounds of their voices blending into one long, desperate chant as their power coils into something vast, something struggling to take form.
An enormous landmass in the shape of their forebears rises up from the sea, and you see a pulsing blue light tying it to the very core of Mythris' power like a chain. Unlike the warped bodies of the corrupted, this island - this entity - carries the solemn grace of its ancestors, its trim silhouette a stark contrast to the aberrations that now roam the earth. Threads of blue radiance emerge in thin cracks on its surface, each pulse resonating deep within your bones as if the very core Mythris beats in tandem with it. When the earth trembles again, the island turns its head; the glow within it flares, and it moves across the waters with a slow, deliberate pace, drawn to each quake where trouble stirs.
Wherever it arrives, the ground steadies, fissures close, and the untamed streams of magic are bound back into the wrathful earth.
Relief spreads like a sigh heaved all at once from those who remain. The cacophony of collapsing stone quiets at last, replaced by the sound of rebuilding - structures rising again, civilizations reknitting themselves beneath the comforting hum of stabilized power. The wolves' fear eases into a pleasant calm once more, certain of their dominion and place at the apex of Mythris' creatures.
As the blue light of the Moving Isle fades into the horizon, dawn to the next quake to quell, peace settles over the land - fragile, but tangible, like the calm following a storm.
The vision shifts.
Two small silhouettes flee wherever the aberrations make their home. It seems their journey is endless, forced to run at every turn, chased away with murderous intent; what is even more intriguing is that they do not seem to carry the monstrous shape of their assailants, instead looking...
... Just like you.
Hurry, hurry,the smaller wolf says, her tone high and breathless as she runs.
It failed - Mythris failed -
The larger wolf catches up easily with his longer stride.
To the south.
His voice is low and tries to be comforting, but you can tell he is also worried.
Why?his companion asks.
I - I do not know,he replies,
But there is a place, I can feel its pull, a thing that remembers when the world was whole -
They run together in silence. Their voices sound so familiar to you, it tugs at your memory.
You get the sense of days passing, weeks spent fleeing in desperation, and then you see it at last - the largest tree in all of Mythris, standing proud at the center of Lake's Halo, and the two wolves are heading straight for it. Untainted, still carrying the old resonance of innocence, the tree instinctively draws them in, like the body sending blood to a wound; it does not choose them consciously, but the magic in its roots simply seeks to preserve what is pure, what is left.
As they enter the hollow at its base, the roots close around them almost protectively as the earth quakes and the Moving Isle groans in its endless journey, somewhere far offshore.
The vision fades from your mind and you are no longer suspended in the air.
You sense the plague lifting as you sleep - a respite. A heavy fog sets in, cloaking the earth in shadow and mist, but it is still a relief to you. The parasite still looms at large, but it can be avoided; now, at least, you can breathe.
Your vision suddenly plunges into darkness, and you know that you have been thrust into another time (but when, you do not know); all around you the earth is frighteningly cold and still, blanketed in an endless snow, as if all the world has dimmed at once and everything has passed away.
You awaken.
Plague Status : 「 Withdrawal 」
With this newest revelation, the plague has withdrawn; while lingering effects still remain in the most concentrated areas, you find it is safe again once more to walk the Wastes, to breathe the air in the Alpines; there is some drinkable water in the Highlands (although you must find it), and the inciting rage in the Woodlands and the green fog of the Wakes all seem to have dissipated to a more tolerable degree.
Mythris has weakened.
Relief settles over you like a fragile calm - yet at the edges of your senses, something darker stirs.
Within the depths of your soul, a quiet dread whispers that worse things wait beyond the horizon.
Mythris has weakened.
Relief settles over you like a fragile calm - yet at the edges of your senses, something darker stirs.
Within the depths of your soul, a quiet dread whispers that worse things wait beyond the horizon.