The Brink of Creation

Chapter 2 - The Banding

Now The City of Towers was quite a unique township filled with peoples from many quarters of the world, mainly due to the hollows which mazed underneath the City and made quartz readily available. Those wretched folk who did not have strength to mine, could not afford quartz to build a Tower, or feared a completed one toppling, opted to build houses of strawbrick and mortar, and so the city grew outwards as it did upwards. The poorest of them built their houses directly against their wealthier neighbors' Towers, sharing their sturdy and carefully planned foundations. These were typically the households of farmers, who frequented the marketplaces and sold goods of various kinds to foreigners who had travelled to build a Tower reaching the cloud, like a twisted offering, to join the Gone.

There were some among kinsmen of different origins which disbelieved the dreaded tale of the Gone. They conversed on truth, sincerity, and fear, among other things - but most of all, they spoke about hope. This group was ostracized by those in the marketplaces, and they were despised by the populace, for not a few of the city folk believed that being loud was an honor to the fallen Gods, a symbol of significant dominance, and those who were the loudest were the wealthiest and aspired to reach the Gone. This group was not loud, but spoke to each other and listened closely, as he had taught them.

Listening was not a valued trait within The City of Towers, but that was this group's most beloved pastime. Some lived in both houses and Towers, so they met in each other's homes, and there was no distinction among them, for some found each other not as the status of their surroundings, but as the whole of their person. This is a rare quality of sight, and so the some were few. However, when their dear friend was driven out of the marketplace, these few were quick to follow, fearing him dead. Without the young man they did not yet recognize as The Scientist, and being routed from their common place of forum, they had none to follow or speak to.

During the same night that The Scientist realized his purpose, one of these some, The Prophetess, the one without speech, daughter of blood, was dreaming in her bedchambers.

In the dream she watched three men - a highly decorated chieftain and two younger men - standing at the base of a majestic temple, facing some unseen adversary. The chieftain was adorned in a masked headdress made of opal metal which lay about his head like a crown of flames. He wore a kilt made of strange leaves and firegull feathers. Looking worried, he turned to the men aside him.

"Be courageous, my sons. Your destiny is not yet complete."

"What shall we do, father?" The younger son's voice sliced through the mist of the dream, strong and true. He was dressed in a simple goathide tunic tightened at the waist with a firegull feather belt. Trying to remain brave for his family, he brandished a primitive wooden spear.

"I do not know, son. It may be time to say goodbye." The father's eyes moistened with sorrow.

The older son turned to The Prophetess, his face darkened. He spoke; his tone was shredded and harsh. "It may be time to say goodbye."

The Prophetess eyes shot open, heart pounding in her eardrums. Beads of sweat trickled from her forehead and chest as she clenched her jaw tightly and shook her head, trying to rid herself of the unease invading her body. Sitting up in her clover-lined bedding, the daughter of blood inhaled deeply and drew her trembling palm across her face, wiping the sweat off as she exhaled. Not a restful night. She resignedly rose from her resting place to begin her morning ritual.

The Prophetess was a remarkably comely redwoman, with messy and long deep marmalade hair, graying to white before her time. She leant against the carpeted wall to gaze at the mirrored back of a zircon platter by her bedside, wearily studying the mirror to inspect the dark ovals underneath her eyelids, nestling eyes reminiscent of the mythical tides of the Sea. From infancy she had been continually tormented by the haunts of her visions, and she endured many a sleepless terror, not unlike this one. These nightmares slowed the advancement of her speech, shocking her into an acute stutter, and over time the lashings of her mother caused her to retract her unused tongue, rendering her nearly mute. However, she who was beaten for her inability to enunciate her consonants found comfort in some who encouraged her to speak regardless of her malfortune. Still, she preferred to pencil her thoughts using her faithful slate, a slow but more relaxed method of communication.