Zaahen
The Unsundered
A silver-winged god, bound to the blade that broke him. He remembers every vow. He remembers every fall. He waits.
DescendZaahen · V Folios
“Wreathed in golden light, glaive in hand.”
I once stood upon the Ascension steps, a silver-winged god. A nascent Shurima stretched before me, destined for empire. Ritual drums resonated; thunderous ovation rose from an audience ten-thousand strong. Among them, a host of god-warriors, resplendent in their armor, rejoiced as I joined their ranks.
“My duty, my honor, the calling that earned me the dais.”
I had led many to these same steps. I came to them in what would be their last days of mortality, gave the word of their worthiness to become gods, and swore guidance to deliver them unto eternity. Rhaast, his wit and ambition sharp as his scythe. Xolaani, gentle-hearted. Varus, the voice of reason. Setaka, lion-hearted — to whom I pledged my blade.
“Each strike of our blades rattled the heavens.”
Rhaast and I circle one another on a flattened mountaintop. We have fought for many days and nights, unflagging even when the mortal armies far below us rest to count their dead. Malice makes his features cruel, sharpening him almost beyond recognition. Almost.
“I drag my talons through the wound, drawing blood from blood.”
Flesh tears. My chest blooms with blood, a wound deep enough to be fatal. Warmth spreads through me; my divinity surges, working desperately to heal the gash. Not enough. I fell to one knee. Blood stains my feathers. The stench of iron chokes the air. And then — I hear my name, shouted from far below.
“This memory fades, leaving only the emptiness of my prison.”
The weapon that binds me. Beyond its confines, I sense movement — footsteps echoing through the temple halls. The tread of an ally, my old friend, ever vigilant. She often comes close, or so it seems, but never crosses the threshold. Does she think to free me? She cannot. She must not.
Chapter · III · Reprised
A god and his brother. Many days. Many nights. A flattened mountaintop, and the skies above weeping crimson.
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“What we once were is nothing. What we are now, you deny. It sickens me.”
— The corrupted brother.
“You have fallen far, brother. But this is not who you are. Come, fight beside me — for what we once were.”
— A hand, offered to the lost.
“Why do you not join us, Zaahen? This world has forgotten its masters. It deserves to be ravaged.”
— The whisper Zaahen cannot quite silence.
“We are masters of nothing. We are Darkin. And we must all be destroyed.”
— The vow that bound him to the blade.
In this, he is whole. In this, he silences all disquiet. He carves away doubt. He rises above suffering.
The Form
A circlet of forged sun-gold. The mark of his first vow.
His weapon. His prison. Forged when the Darkin were sealed.
Dyed in the iron of every brother and sister he could not save.
The
He stood upon the Ascension steps with them. He raised his glaive and swore to fight beside them. Of them, only one is unfallen.
The Cutting Wit
“his wit and ambition sharp as his scythe”
The Gentle-Hearted
“gentle-hearted and weary of war”
The Voice of Reason
“the voice of reason who guided us back to duty”
The Lion-Hearted
“the pride of our kind, to whom I pledged my blade”
“If I am called again, I will save this world — or finish what we began.”