Shape Render

Mithra has been walking for hours. Her legs are heavy. Her steps are slow. To make matters worse the heat in the caldera is horrific. She has no other word for it. If she could she’d strip from her armour, but she can’t. She’ll need it for her confrontation with Kronos. She can only imagine what might greet her when she finally comes face-to-face with the World Shaper; He who is capable of rending the world. Why such a being was ever brought into existence she cannot imagine. Surely the gods would not have sculpted such an abomination. And yet who else could he have been formed by the hands of if not the gods? She doesn’t know and has never been a resolute believer. It’s something most warriors struggle with for they bear witness, in person, to the horrors of what people do to one another. Not all of them on the battlefield of war. That is just what some like to tell themselves. However, the truth is that violence is everywhere, at all times. There is no escape from it.

The warrior is pleased to break from considering the stench and roasting heat of the world around her, if only for it to be replaced by thoughts on the savagery of the world and those who frequent it. She is no different, no better, and she is fully aware of that. Some, like the Herentir, have delusions that they are more civilised, organised, but they are not. They are just the same. Lies do not hide the truth, not really. They are just excuses for actions committed that wish to be forgotten or never discovered.

Lava boils and bubbles as Mithra presses on. Heat vapour distorts the air no matter where the warrior looks. At first she had been sure to keep her eyes ahead. That had changed once Mithra had almost stumbled and fallen into a pool of boiling magma. Her almost demise had been met with a loud gulp and the shattering of her confidence that this place might not be the most hostile she has ever faced. It is. There is no doubt about that. At least the ground with its rocksand and ash is no longer attempting to swallow her up. Rather, it seems here it forms only a thin coating over jagged, sharp and brutally uneven rocks. Mithra has tripped on them more than a few times. Yet, she has thus far managed to keep herself from falling. She imagines that such an event would result in tears across her exposed palms, at the very least.

She isn’t inclined to consider what else these rocks might be capable of if she did fall upon them. It’s not worth contemplating and so she had and does continue to press on.

Her eyes are bleary from the heat vapour and the burn of sulphur which hangs in the air here. Twice she has vomited as a result of the foul stench. At any other time and in any other place she would feel ashamed for having succumbed, but here it feels inevitable. More a when than an if. That has given her a modicum of comfort, but little more beside that.

“Why would anything live here?” She queries to herself between awkward breathes that are not as deep as she would like.

She stops. The pause will only be short and does serve a purpose. It is not so she can rest however, but so that she may indulge in refreshing herself. For her throat is parched so badly that she struggles to swallow what little spit she does have without choking upon it.

Having fished the water sack from her pack she pulls the cork and is immediately hit by a wisp of vapour. Mithra groans. It’s fleeting but is a reminder and why she soon tests the opening with the end of one of her thumbs. She can still feel a tiny section of her lip where she had recklessly pressed the stem of the water sack to her lips only for it to have burnt her. She isn’t inclined to suffer that ridicule again. But following several tests that see her ultimately conclude it is safe for her to drink, she takes a long slow drag. With a mouthful of water Mithra pulls the stem from her mouth and swills it around. Her face crinkles in dissatisfaction. The liquid is unpleasantly warm. She swallows it regardless. She hasn’t a choice. This is the only drink she has at her disposal. Others might travel with packs containing mead or wine but Mithra has never seen the point. It always runs dry, and once it does you miss it. Water never runs dry. If the sack becomes empty you simply find a stream, river or lake to refill it from. Sure, the tang changes. Sometimes there is one, other times there is not. But you can always have more water, it is abundant and can be found everywhere, except here it seems.

Mithra sighs, casts her gaze around, stuffs the water sack back into her pack and then continues forward. She thinks the direction she is headed in is forward. There is no way of knowing. This place is devoid of landmarks, save for the distant ring of ‘mountains’ all around her. They are no such thing to be truthful. Rather, those peaks are the continuous wall of the crater. They seem much steeper now that Mithra is down in the valley with its lava and unbearable heat. Yet, this is not the strangest scene she has seen. That is most definitely reserved for the ‘river’ she crossed to the far side of. The one the bridge that had been protected by Dyalus had spanned. It had seemingly been devoid of water and instead formed entirely of ash. Seeing that had made not a grain of sense to Mithra. Ash did not flow. It was not liquid. It was solid and so how could it flow as she had seen?

A rumble pierces the near silent air as the ground under Mithra’s feet shudders, drawing her attention to the present. The warrior is about to scan around her when a geyser explodes from out of a section of ground that had previously been without such a flaw through which steam could spout.

The jet shoots high into the air, arcing as it does so. If Mithra didn’t know better she would swear that the stream is being directed. Yet, without doubt she would call it beautiful as she watches it change all the colours of the rainbow in the moments before it sputters and dies. Mithra waits to see if it returns or if another similar sight is born, it is not. Her shoulders slump in disappointment. Her reaction lasts barely a second prior to a catch in her throat which forces her into a heaving cough. Mithra can’t breathe. The sulphur choked air has finally gotten to her. Panic writhes up from deep inside which sends her into a frenzy. It’s unlike anything she has ever felt and then just as the warrior is convinced her legs will fail her, she spews thick strings of spittle. She finds them disgusting to gaze upon, as well as worrying, but can see no specks of blood present, so feels compelled to delay no longer.

Mithra manages a little more than sixty slow careful steps before a shape appears before her. It comes into view suddenly, as though it should be a mirage. The warrior hopes that it is not. Well, she thinks she hopes it’s not. It’s difficult for her to think in all this heat and foul odour, which is why she shakes her head, rubs her eyes and squints. The shape moves, barely, but does not vanish. It’s real, she concludes to herself. Relief sends energy rippling through her body. Then her eyes begin to burn. She realises why and curses herself for rubbing her eyes. The sting will soon pass, she tells herself with more forgiveness than she feels she should.

“You do not belong here.” A low incredibly deep and thundering voice utters from seemingly all around Mithra. Her head turns as she considers how that might be possible, it isn’t. Yet, there is no arguing that that is what she has heard and still is as the echoes grow fainter and fainter.

Her breathing is loud but short. She can hear it in her ears. She wishes she couldn’t. There is nothing she can do about it. Even a drink will not quench or ease the problems she is suffering from, not really.

“You are Kronos?” Mithra manages. Her sickle staff is already in hand. She can’t recall unsheathing it but must have done so recently otherwise her knuckles would be white. It had been across her back before she is sure. She can’t recall when though. She wants to say seconds ago. It might not have been. It should worry her that she knows but it doesn’t. That should worry her too.

The mass suddenly grows larger and larger. It grows so large that it threatens to blot out the sun. Then a gigantic pair of black wings unfurls to fill the remainder of the sky. The ends of the mighty leathery looking appendages curl around as though this mammoth monster wishes to form a dome with them. It does not. Rather, it folds them effortlessly behind its back to form a cape of sorts. Its muscular tail a deep sapphire colour that dances and flicks like a whip. The whip tail cuts the air over and over even as the shape turns to reveal it is stood on wide hind legs tipped with three claws stained the colour of the rocksand. The claws of its front legs interlocked in a rather human gesture, while its toothy grin splits from one far side of its angular head to the other. It, unlike Dyalus, has two eyes. They are arranged much like most animals but glow a feverish orange. No tongue flicks out from between the mighty jaws as it looks down upon Mithra, its straight horns lancing skyward.

“We are.” Is the blunt reply that swiftly follows its reveal.

The reply catches Mithra off-guard and sees her splutter in response, “We?”

Suddenly a second head appears atop a second neck. This neck is longer than the first, though the head is the same bar its eyes which are yellow like muddy gold.

“He is Kro and I am Nos.” The second head, with the longer neck, declares while it cocks from right to left and back to right again. Without doubt Nos is taking in the sight of Mithra who is stood before he and Kro.

“You know why I am here?” Mithra spits, her hands tightening around the shaft of her weapon. She isn’t one for idle chatter. Action is her preferred form of conversation.

Neither Kro nor Nos offer a reply to her query. If they are aware of why Mithra is here, which they are, they do not feel inclined to admit it. They see no point. This warrior, like all those before her, will never listen to reason or explanation. They believe wholeheartedly in their quest. Much like this mortal believes in whatever fallacy humanity has created during this cycle. It may be the same as the last cycle or the one before that and yet it changes nothing. All it does is prove why they must do what they always have and will continue to do until there is a change, significant, meaningful and positive.

“I am Mithra. I am here to put an end to you World Shaper. You will rend this world no longer. Life deserves to live. Not be felled by your madness. You have fallen before and will again this day.” Mithra spouts explaining why she is here. It’s the most she has said in… ever? It might be ever. She has never been a warrior of many words. Actions speak volumes. That is how Mithra operates and always has. Words are easy, often cheap and as a result often lack conviction. Actions do not suffer such an affliction. They are proof of intent, of purpose, of reason, of character, of why a thing has been done. Like hunting for game so it may be cooked for the village to eat, or erecting a cabin so that shelter can be provided. Still, she isn’t quite sure why she felt it necessary to explain herself.

“You know nothing it seems.” Are the next words spoken. They come from Nos who sounds almost disappointed to have to admit and speak them.

“I told you brother; they are not ready as yet. Another pass will be needed before our work may be settled and we have the chance to rest.”

“It seems you are right Kro, I had hoped…”

“We both had brother. Alas…”

“Enough!” Mithra bellows interjecting. She no longer wishes to listen to this rambling any longer. It is going nowhere and seems to serve no real purpose as far as she is concerned. That is why right after exclaiming loudly she throws herself forward toward the two headed dragon known as Kro-Nos.

In response the dragon rockets skyward leaving Mithra behind on the ground. The rush of air almost knocks the warrior off her feet. Somehow she manages to keep her balance, though it does falter quite significantly.

Once she has recovered she cranes her neck high and screams, “You coward! You don’t dare face me on even ground?”

Neither head offers a verbal reply to her taunt. Rather, they continue to beat their wings as they belch the balls of fire. Mithra’s eyes go wide. She is forced to dive and roll, painfully, over the jagged rocks to avoid being turned to cinders. The twin balls of fire scorch the land where the warrior had once stood. Slivers of the fiery matter splash across once ancient rocks turning them into molten slag. A geyser shoots skyward a few seconds later once the rocks are no more. It comes while Mithra is still scrambling back to her feet.

Kro-Nos gathers the power from the geyser and then moulds it with the dancing claws of its front legs into shafts. They look akin to arrows except without the fletching. Mithra cannot understand why the dragon is doing this, though does not have to wait long to find out when Kro-Nos begins to hurl them toward her. The warrior ducks and weaves to avoid being impaled by the shafts. Though, realises too late that she is trapped within a circle that has been formed by them. Desperation sets in and Mithra attempts to scale the high vertical sides. She cannot. They are smooth like glass affording her no purchase and so she is forced to quickly ready for a final strike. She knows that it is coming. That a final shard of what had once been part of a pillar of steam will be hurled into the centre of the circle she finds herself trapped within. How it has come to this she does not quite know, but she refuses to accept defeat until she is a lifeless body, dead and static without air in her lungs. That is her way. How she was raised. How she has survived against many odds stacked against her favour.

“You have fight.” Kro roars as the shaft of crystallised steam dances across the claws of one of the two headed dragons front appendages. Now more than ever they look less like legs and more like arms. Yet, Mithra expects they are capable of working as either.

“But fight is not what is needed here. You should listen. Your truth is all wrong.” Nos continues while Kro eyes Mithra suspiciously.

“Lies!” Mithra spits defiantly. She is unwilling to listen.

“No. We speak only truth. We are not what you believe us to be.” Kro thunders.

“My brother and I speak truth. We only wish to make this world perfect. That is the reason for our creation. But alas we have yet to achieve our purpose and so we must reshape this world.” Nos explains.

“You mean kill this world?” The warrior fires back accusingly.

“All that is lost will be found again.” Kro declares irritated by this mortal. She has no concept of why they exist. Herself included, and for his brother to attempt this, like he has so many times before, feels wasteful. He will not deny his brother however. Their purpose defined is not set. They both know of the warning sown into their minds by their creators. It’s a warning that details a possible rift which could, if it was allowed to come to pass, carve an unhealable wound between the World Shaper. If that was to transpire then it would bring about the final end. Neither of them wants to be the cause of that. Their purpose, their promise, is so much greater. They have lived so many lives and are closer than ever to fulfilling the reason for their creation. To throw it away now, when they are so close, would be criminal, and so they indulge one another’s, quirks.

“You’re monsters!” Mithra spits. It’s an acknowledgement in the affirmative even if neither wishes to expressly admit as such.

“We are what we were made to be and as such will continue until our promise is fulfilled.” Kro declares without remorse or hesitation.

“This world is not new. It is old; far older than you will ever to able to imagine. It has lived and died many times. It will do so until balance is found.” Nos adds. He sounds patient when he speaks as though he wishes to explain for as long as it takes Mithra to understand why they do what was tasked to them by their creators.

“I refuse to listen to anymore of your words. You butchered this world and those upon it. All for something you can never achieve. And no matter what excuses you wish to believe it does not change the fact that lives have been torn away far earlier than they deserved to be. That makes you the greatest monsters of all.” Mithra rages, her face contorted with anger and disgust.

“So says the warrior with blood on her hands and without a speck of remorse for what she has done in her heart.” Kro is sickened, not angered, by the mortal woman’s claims that they are the monsters. They are attempting to form a paradise, while she and her kind butcher out of greed and without purpose beyond personal gain.

Yet, you’ve killed more than me or any of my kin!” Mithra screams.

She delivers war cry soon after and then launches her sickle staff like a spear. It’s something she has only done on a handful of occasions, but much like those times it has the desired affect and sees the weapon sail through the air only to lance into the World Shaper’s chest. Both heads let out screeching roars, their heads flailing back in the moments before they plummet from out of the sky and crash into the ground. It gives immediately, shattering like glass, revealing a lake of lava beneath. Kro-Nos disappear into said lake. Mithra smiles feeling victory. Then she rips the short blade from her waist and hacks at the ‘walls’ of her cage. They have already started to melt now that Kro-Nos has sunk into the lake of lava. Mithra does not know that that is why however, not that it matters to her.

A half dozen strikes and one of the shafts shatters. It returns to a gas which is quickly pulled high into the air. The lack of sulphur in the gas cloud is invigorating and for the first time in a good while Mithra tastes something that isn’t rancid or stomach churning. It’s fleeting but all she needs to feel a surge of energy well up from deep within her. She leaps from the broken confines of her ‘cage’ soon after, tasting freedom now that she no longer feels vertical walls close and all around her.

It is then that Kro-Nos bursts through the roiling rippling surface of the lava lake to reveal that he still lives. Lava flows off the scaled hide of the beast as the heads shake. Lava is flung wide which Mithra has to dance back and forth to evade. If it touches her she will not be capable of shrugging off its presence like the The Render.

Unharmed by the searing droplets of lava which are no longer being cast; the warrior rushes, blade at the ready, toward her prey. The World Shaper’s whip tail appears from out of nowhere and slashes the blade from her hand with one tiny flick and then tears her off her feet with a second much stronger one.

Mithra thrashes and kicks in response to her bondage. It’s hopeless her attempts do nothing. It’s why she pulls a couple knives from around her waist, they are meant for throwing but she digs them into the scales. Again her efforts are unrewarded as she continues to scream with rage and defiance.

Kro sounds humoured when he utters, “You are a feisty one.” A long echoing cackle clatters from between his mighty jaws.

Mithra bears her teeth in response and hurls one of the knives. It spears into Kro’s left eye. He wheezes angrily and prepares to spit fire. That, he knows, will end the insolence of this mortal. But for some reason Nos nudges him aside. Kro is outraged by the protection he is affording this mortal but soon learns the truth of his brothers’ actions.

The second knife had been hurled by Mithra too and Nos had barged his brother to protect him. He too loses an eye. Had Kro had suffered such a fate he would have been rendered blind. He forgives his brother barely a second later.

Nevertheless, the warriors attacks have the desired effect as the crushing grip on Mithra fails. She slips from the whip tail and back toward the ground, her limbs flailing as she falls. She never reaches it though. Rather, she angles and manages to grasp a hold of her still embedded sickle staff, which in response to the sudden weight and downward force upon its shaft tears down the World Shaper’s chest. The sickle shaped blade carves a deep jagged crevice several metres long. Kro and Nos both roar in response while Mithra is left to smile delightedly. Her smile however is fleeting as the beating wings of the dragon stop and they both tumble back down toward the lava lake. In that moment Mithra becomes sure of her demise. She even questions why she decided on this course of action while they had been airbourne. I didn’t know! She screams back at herself in the moments prior to her bracing in anticipation of her untimely death. Fortunately, she and Kro-Nos slam into rock, not the lava lake. The rock in this area holds, though Mithra is flung away from the point of impact, and left to roll and bounce across the sharp rocks.

Unsurprisingly, Mithra is unconscious, but wakes with a start when she feels the orientation of her body change. At first her eyes are blurry but they quickly clear only for her heart to sink at being met with the sight of Kro-Nos. Four eyes stare at her. At first she sees nothing strange about that and then she recalls. Her expression goes wide and both heads chuckle at the sight of her shock.

“You did not understand. It is expected. Nos tried to tell you. But you would not listen. Your kind never does.” Kro utters with something akin to a smirk across his angular reptilian face.

“We cannot be felled. We have never fallen. Such things are folly. Though, it seems mortals were closer to the truth this time with our intent. Progress has been made.” Nos says elaborating on Kro’s initial mocking statements. His brother has a tendency for such things. He forgets that mortals, unlike them, are incapable of context through existence. They must be provided it. It must be exhausting, Nos imagines.

“Not enough to spare this cycle its fate. It must be annihilated and made anew.” Kro adds sounding eager.

“Then get it over with. Kill me.” Mithra sputters between short ragged breathes. She can feel blood filling her lungs. She’ll start to choke on it soon. Not long after death will take her. Still, she refuses to accept defeat. If she is to die she will taunt her enemy. They will get to begging or pleading from her. That is not her way.

“We shall not kill you. No, you will be sent to the void. It is what your kind fear most; that which lies beyond the edge of the world.” Kro-Nos speak as one. Their voices echo over one another as the words slip from between their mighty jaws filled with enormous crocodile-like teeth.

“There is nothing beyond the edge of the world, so if you do that I will kill you.” Mithra promises.

“No you won’t. Your time is up. And you will not be remade with the rest of the world when we reshape it. You will be forgotten.” Mithra isn’t sure which of the two heads is speaking now. It definitely isn’t both. Not that it matters.

She has to do something. They cannot be allowed to win. If they do, no matter what they wish to espouse, all things will end. That is the only part which she believes of what they have said as it is all that lines up with what she has been told. Everything else is excuse and delusion. If only she had…

“Goodbye, mortal.” The Render, both voice of Kro and Nos, says before whipping Mithra’s battered and broken body back and then flinging it high and far.

The warrior, barely conscious, sails effortlessly over the lip of the Crater Caldera and then across the threshold of the world and into the void that lies beyond.

 “Work must be done.” Both Kro and Nos say in unison. They are in agreement and determined to fix this world. It will mark the eightieth attempt at perfection, but will take many years for obliteration to be completed and then many more for the world to be reformed and life to be reseeded.