Zerathur A. Naszberuk

Alone, the Chloromancer roamed the dark sea. Were those seconds, or were they entire eons passing right before his eyes? Waves crashed upon the cold hull of the steerless metallic ship, yet no matter how much it rocked, the ship would never sink. No matter how often he tried, he could not jump into the dark waters below. With his book of memories held close against his chest, Zerathur hummed songs of old, and another voice joined his chorus. Sat upon the taffrail, The Traveler examined the old man. In return, he simply stared at her ghostly visage. She'd come to make an offer, for he succeeded in his task. He handed her his book, and the pact was sealed with blood. Above and below, the darkness ceased to be. The Traveler was gone, and so was the ship. - Sun bathes his grey coat, his feet sink into the damp golden sands of Old Antioch's shores. Soft rhythms from a loud boombox fill his ears, and the delicious smell of grilled cheeses and vegetables enters his system. Warm smiles welcome and congratulate him. They are here. Erian raises a glass of water in greeting to her older brother; Mel shoves him to the side in the usual aggressive affection she'd show her best friend; Spore, his daughter, hasn't even realized that he has arrived, too busy arguing with her mother about something inconsequential; 'What took you so long?' Are the words plastering Astria's eyes as they lock in a warm embrace. With his old and trusty longboard in hand, Zerathur throws himself into the clear blue waters of the Southern Seas, joining Salazar and his friends in the waves. Drenched in saltwater and under a swift sunset, the old Chloromancer lays upon his surfboard. He smiles and closes his eyes. He's home.

It is done. Their memories were compiled and adequately rewritten to further fact from fiction. Did it take him long to revise his work, or did it take no moment at all? Zerathur closes his book and carefully cradles it in his arms. Every lover, every friend, every acquaintance, forever with him. None of them shall ever be forgotten. The breeze died millennia ago; The endless forest was illuminated solely by the illusionary phantoms that moved back and forth in their unending routine. All of their names, their ambitions, and their emotions now rest between his arms. He saved them. All of them. The sky above remains dark and empty. It's been too long since the last surviving spacefarers came upon his domain. Or was that just yesterday? He still sees them begging for help and shivering cold; He still hears their joy and laughter, even as their phantoms stumble across the graves he dug for them. Zerathur couldn't save his kind. He couldn't save the Equestrians. He couldn't save those that came after, not from death. He saved them from being forgotten. The Chloromancer stands at the very End, just outside the gate of his old wooden house. Here, he casts the last spell he'd ever weave. As the Universe becomes undone, a slit opens in the fabric of reality. He steps into the unknown...

Eadil is a Necromancer. It is common in his kind's folklore for healers and medics to arrive too late to save the heroes who've fallen in the great battles of old, those born with the natural affinity of healing often mocked as 'healers of the dead': A pejorative term turned official with the consolidation of the Velgraviran Empire. As he stares at the skulls piled upon his desk, he curses the irony. He wasn't here to help those who needed it when they were hurt, much like the 'Necromancers' of the past. The difference is that these were not heroes. Carefully examining the skull he held in hand, passing his fingers softly around the cracks and structure, he'd focus every strand of loose thought within his mind to remember who this used to be. This one... She was called Violet Case. She had worked with him before. An Equestrian who washed up on the shores of Old Antioch, recovered by a group of teenage surfers. Re-educated into the ways of their isolationist Empire, she made for a fine archivist while alive. Nothing but an empty white smile in death. Ever since he returned to the ruins of his homeland, he took it upon himself to remember, catalog, and bury every lost soul. That was his job. The other survivors said nothing against it, for they were too busy with their own projects to pay attention to the others. It's a miracle that they even came together to vote for an Executor. Even more surprising that the one with the highest votes was a Grey-coat... His mind is wandering. He's been sitting there for at least an hour, whistling wind from the Frozen South waking him up from torpor. He quickly writes Violet C. on the skull he still held, then finally sets it aside. If only he had been there to save them. The last rays of sunlight shine through the broken window just a few meters away from his desk. Carefully, he gets up and sneaks his way around the rubble of the broken spire to better see the sun making its final descent. He's always felt great joy in watching the sunset on the bay here in his office. Even now, with all around him reduced to ruins, it was still a peaceful view. A heavy gust of wind made the floors creak and the structure whine. Quickly turning on the spot, Eadil flings his hand into the air in the direction of the voice; From his fingertips, lights pulverized the shadowy silhouette. There was no one there, only Doubt's Shadow. That's the name he gave it, at least. Do the others have to deal with something similar? Doubt has been naught but a pain ever since his return to the ruined office, ever bothering him with taunts and mischievous actions. An anomaly caused by the enormous quantities of psionic energy left in the air, the worst he has ever had to meet in his life so far. Doubt's whisper freezes the man in position, his hand still held high. The skulls of his colleagues, which had been previously gathered and piled upon his desk, were now set in a semi-circle around him, floating at eye level. - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - = - Orbs of light flicker into existence over the golden streets of Nova Antioch, and the horrible sound of metal bending and tearing breaks the silence on an otherwise calm dusk. The ground trembles as one of the smaller spires of the Eastern Sector folds into itself, debris and rubble scattering over the road and the pavement. Due to the way Velgravirans engineer their buildings, the structure collapsed into itself, not damaging any of the other nearby spires. Yet it caused so much of a ruckus that the entire city was alerted. So happened to be that Spore was near the tower as it fell. The lunch's leftovers, which she was bringing to Eadil, fell to the ground as she stood in shock and watched her best friend's workplace tumbling to the ground. The two Praetor Hive Guards quickly took position in front of her to protect the shorter and more delicate figure of their Queen, but were unable to stop her from bolting forward. She ran as fast as her feet could take her, the under-developed insectoid wings flapping on her back as though they were trying to boost her forth even further. At the top of her lungs, she repeated her friend's name as she climbed onto the collapsed building. She tore into broken glass and ruined metal with her bare chitinous hands, digging away desperately.

Waves crash upon the golden sands of the Southern Shores. Seagulls fly above, silent fireworks explode in the distance. His shoes sink into the damp sand, and the maritime breeze of the early evening fills his lungs. "Zera?" A feminine voice calls out, prompting him to turn his head to look over to its source. Even though she was heavier than him, the changeling mare skips next to him with unparalleled grace, not leaving a single mark where she stepped. Her purple mane flows along the wind as freely as her loose white dress, a large smile dawning from one side of her delicate chitinous face to the other. "We're together now!" Her words sounded innocent, even as she skidded into place in front of him and pointed at his face. Zerathur couldn't help but laugh, gently batting her hand to the side with his own. Her purple eyes look back at his with joyful defiance, the stubborn changeling princess stepping from side to side every time he tried to go around her. Eventually, the grey-coat sighs and burrows his hands into his pockets. "Wait, what? What in the name of Khas all of this about now, friend?" "Drop that word!" The chloromancer steps to the side just in time to dodge the punch she aimed at his chest. She misses wildly, spinning in place and nearly tripping over herself, giving the stallion just enough time to hasten the pace and continue his walk along the shore. Once she finally regained composure, she ran back up to him and strutted around by his side, whistling with the hands behind her back. "So! Your sibling told me you cry your eyes out when I leave for the mainland---" "Sibling, you mean Four Eyes!? That lying lardhead!" "--- And that you! Have difficulty deciding stuff, so I've decided for you! Don't worry, I'll be making all of your choices from here on out. O k a y ?" Her grin somehow grows even further as she stares at his dumb surprised/betrayed expression. She wastes no time, taking ahold of his wrist and dragging his hand out of the pocket in which it hid, just so she could hold it. "Just because a set of stubs have grown at the top of your head doesn't mean you're a queen yet, you've no right to command me like that!" "That's not a no!" She runs ahead, her hand slipping away from his as she laughs loudly and proudly. Zerathur chuckles and follows for a few steps, but his smile diminishes as her details fade. Just ten feet away, all that could be seen was her white silhouette running over the sand. The smile on his face, whilst weak, remains still even as he raises his hand and snaps his fingers, the illusionary phantom of his lover fully dissolving.

Ever since they moved to the proximity of the Whispering Woods, Frost Tear's parents warned her of the dangers of the forest. Never explicitly so, keep in mind, for legends and myths are perhaps one of the best ways to elicit a child's imagination. Tales of trees that walk on their own, that snatch up lost children, and poof, they are gone. On her eighth autumn, she found that trees were the least of her worries. Instead, it was they who shielded her from Fletcher's eyes. Her father took her mother's life, and if little Frost did not run and hide, hers too would be jeopardized. She could hear the trees whispering with the softest breezes as day turned into night. Her feet were numb with the pain of wandering, and her eyes burned as though they were still trying to cry. Exhausted as she was and kilometers into the forest, she mused the idea that she'd never be found as she fell and lay still on the ground. Midnight rose, and so did the girl. Her nightmares were ever-present, and in her mind, she could feel she was being watched; eyes in shadows, darkness seething in hunger. Silvery moonlight cascaded in areas not covered by the trees, and through them, she trudged until the clouds darkened the sky. Frost stood in despair as darkness crept in. She could not move a muscle nor think as her body locked up and her vision began to fade. She was all but lost when, out of a sudden, a guiding light flickered into existence just beyond her reach. It was no torch, it was no candle, it was the glow of an unnatural flame. Soft blue hues guided her steps, cold yet welcoming, eerie yet friendly. She found herself in a clearing, gravestones covered in moss and small blue flowers dotted the area between the trees. Orbs of blue light idly floated in the air, and amidst them was a statue. The statue of a stallion standing on watch over the graves. "Beautiful, isn't it?" Spoke the statue, raising one of its hands and plucking one of the scattered orbs from its path. The orb grew dimmer, and puff! It fluttered away from the statue's reach, the light now in the shape of a butterfly. Frost was stunned by the lights and the statue that moved and talked. She felt her body moving on its own as she stepped forward and drew closer. It knelt down to face her, and it was then that she realized that the white clothes it wore were natural. This was no construct. She felt the warmth of its touch as it laid a hand on her shoulder. This was someone. Something. "I am the Evergrowing, and you have wandered into one of my sanctums." His words sounded soft and gentle, possibly trying to assure the young lass that he would cause her no harm. Yet, she could barely move. "I.. Frost." Her voice was frail and barely audible even for herself, but a frown overtook the grey stallion's face. He stood up, his dull blue eyes focused on something beyond her. It took a few moments, but he lowered his gaze to her once more and offered his hand. Together, they walked back into the woods, the trees moving aside to make passage as they made their way through. He led her to the edge of the forest, and when she looked back, he was gone. A local huntsman found her in the morning and brought her back to the village. Pieces of Fletcher, her father, were found scattered and covered in vines near the cabin where he killed his wife.

Bellowing roars and guttural screeching from below marked the entrance of this cave as the only way into their Hive. And yet, despite the stench of blood and bone, the corruption that spreads through air and land, there was no one at the door. Not a single insectoid guarded the area, only the carpet of flesh that pulsated with a heart and mind of its own. As he trudged through the snow and stepped into this revolving putrid mass, its tendrils latched onto his hooves but were not able to stop his advance. Despite the arctic wind that howled and the blizzard that ravaged the frozen wastes just outside, walking deeper and deeper still into this hellish cave was like walking into a sauna, the ice walls and ceiling coated in hot dripping mucus. Orbs of pale blue light flickered into existence around the archmage as he marched, headed in the direction of the echoing screams. It wasn't long before even They noticed his presence, and a pair of large spider-like fiends stepped out of the crevice in which they hid to block his way. He ignored them. They growled but did nothing to stop his advance. In the depths of the cave, where ice turned into stone and the smell of death was the most pungent, there he found his quarry. The walls were covered in gurgling and screeching creatures of most abominable shapes, and in the center of a large circular room, two beings battled for survival. One of them was a large mantis-like biological construct, covered in mouths, spikes and arms with the sole purpose of slashing and cutting through flesh. A biological machine built to kill. Its opponent was equestrian in shape, from the distance it would merely seem like a mare with a long flowing green mane. It was clear from the speed at which she dodged and weaved her attacks, however, that she was no Equestrian. Neither of the combatants seemed to notice as a tall silhouette stepped into the arena, but that would not be for long. Suddenly, the enormous Warwalker fell to its knees and bellowed a scream loud enough to silence all others, each and every single pain receptor within its body ringing in such a way that it had never done before, and never will again. The creature curled up and passed away in agony as its opponent looked at it in confusion. "It looks like you're getting slower, Queen of the Northern Hives." Thus proclaimed the Archmage, lowering his foreleg and watching as the materials he had thrown into the air burnt into nothingness as the spell cycle came to its end. The mare in the center of the room straightened her posture and raised her head, the chitin around her perfect lips cracking and breaking into a crooked smile. "Zerathur, or should I say.. Evergrowing.. What do I owe the pleasure?"

The Archmage sits alone in his kitchen, pale blue eyes focused entirely on the grimoire before him. No matter how he weaved and twisted the words and glyphs, it felt like he could never finish this spell without the proper components. And those would be simply impossible to gather! How on Khas' sacred lands could one find crystals of such magnitude so far North? A knocking at his front door briefly distracts him from the empty parchment. He eyes the kitchen's doorway and holds still for a couple of seconds, hoping that whoever it was would go away soon enough. A minute passes, and with no further knocking to be heard, he lets out a soft sigh and returns his quill to the paper. Perhaps this short distraction could awaken answers within? No, not really. He twirls the crow feather for a moment with his bandage-covered fingers, and as soon as he was about to set it back down, a heavy knock on the window behind him startled him so that the quill went flying. He got up in a flash, twisting in place to face the window and accidentally knocking over his chair in the movement, only for his gaze to be met by a pair of violet eyes on the other side of the glass. "Spore!" He called out, letting go of the breath he held in an exasperated sigh, "I thought you had already left by now! What are you doing here?" His questions were responded with nothing but silence, the eyes still staring deeply into his. Indignant, the man also stays where he is for a few moments longer, hand over the chest as though that would help in slowing down his breathing. Eventually, he does give in and drops his gaze. "You may come in. Here, I'll get the door open for you..." The foyer was dimly lit, the small blue orbs of light he had conjured just a few weeks ago were already losing their strength. "I ought to make better cantrips for those at some point," He'd mumble as he spun the key and unlocked the front door, pulling it open and letting in the night's cold breeze. Accompanied by the sound of cicadas came the sound of chitin scraping stone. Spore stepped out of the darkness, clad in a simple black dress adorned with silver. Her chitinous white skin glistened softly under the pale blue light that came through the doorway, and her violet eyes were still fixated on the chloromancer as he took in her sight. The two stayed silent for a second before he finally stepped aside to let her in. "I just wanted to ask you something." Her soft voice cracked as she spoke, something that was not at all common for her. He picked up on that, straightening his posture and tilting his head lightly. "What's the matter?" He questioned. "Why didn't you come back?" The question took him by utter surprise. A frown overtook his face, his eyebrows curving downwards and then upwards as his eyes lost themselves in the dark over and beyond her head. "I could not. Not after all that had happened." The words that left his mouth felt hollow and meaningless when he looked back down and saw the tears that ran down her expressionless face. "Father," His shoulders dropped as she said that word, the view of her grief-stricken eyes too much for him to bear, "You promised me you would return before even the morning's sun. You promised her that you wouldn't be long." By then, she had lowered her head, allowing her deep purple hair to cover her face. "And she believed in you. Every day, she would sit on that throne with that flower in hands and wait for you to waltz your way in like you always did..." The two stood in silence, each passing second felt like an eternity. Finally, when he gathered the courage to look up at his daughter and reach out for her, she was no longer there. Where she had stood laid a silver rose with carved ruby petals, the same he had given his lover many years ago. A perfect receptacle for the spell he's been attempting to weave.

As the day turned into night, the golden city of old came to life. Orbs of light flickered into existence, illuminating the recently cleared-up streets and spires; dozens of hundreds of ghostly silhouettes roamed the plazas, parks, and suspended walkways; flags and decorations strung between buildings waved with the passing wind of the Frozen South. This wasn't Antioch as they remembered it, but they've done so much progress in the last couple of weeks that they simply could not let the opportunity pass. Joy filled Yllaine's heart as she ran by the ghost-like illusions that wandered the golden streets, her long white clothes flowing in the breeze and her steps light with rhythm, she felt like a youngling once more. She was only seven years old when Antioch fell, her childhood robbed away in front of her very own eyes. But now it's been returned! Even if over a hundred years have passed since then, she can't help but let the youth she had then lost flow through her mind and body. Not long after sunset, her hooves led her to an opening in the spires, a large square greater than all others in the city. Working fountains, rows of newly grown trees, entire walls of flower bushes, flags, and all manners of decoration that they could possibly get their hooves on were here. Hardly had she set hoof upon this bright environment when one of her forelegs was suddenly yanked to the side, taken by surprise by a tall mare of white coat and vibrant red mane. "Come on, Lain! The others are waiting for you!" She heard Mel exclaim, and it didn't take more than that for the two of them to bolt forth, passing trees and hurriedly making their way through a gathering crowd of ghostly apparitions. Together, they ran to the very end of Aeon's Square, where they could see the first steps of the Citadel of the Executor, this large pyramidal structure once meant to be a fortress still bearing many scars from the time it spent in disrepair. There, at its very base, she could see the others! Her friends, her newly found family. Tables had been set with a plentitude of traditional meals and warm beverages, even a small wooden stage had been built against the Citadel's wall. Atop of it, the Technomancer twins Malch and Gheed played their respective guitars while Eadil, their Necromancer, would sing High Khalani in his soft and hearty voice. Zilioth wasn't far, swinging along to the music whilst holding a drink that was frozen at the bottom but alight with fire at the top. Yllaine slowed to a trot, but Melodus didn't. The mare watched as this blur of pure white and crimson sped into a collision course, hitting with all of her might the side of Zerathur. The poor lad, who just so happened to've been too focused on poorly singing along to the song to notice the approaching cannonball, spent the next couple of seconds knocked out cold on the floor, but was eventually fine after being slapped back into awakeness by Mel. After that, most of the night's events became a blur. The survivors talked, joked, enjoyed each other's presence and the idea of rebuilding their home, drank a bit, and ate a lot... By the end, when they were feeling the late stages of drowsiness settling in, Zerathur raised a glass over his head and proclaimed "For The Empress!", and all others followed suit. Except for Yllaine. She grabbed her glass from the table and raised it with a large smile. "For the Executor!" Her words were met with stares, but soon Eadil too followed the younger one's words. Zerathur lowered his glass, watching with an awkward look on his face as the others too repeated the gesture. Slowly, the party dissolved as folk went back to their homes to get some sleep before the night was due and the morning rose. At last, Yllaine too got up and stretched, feeling her bones crack and creak whilst her muscles whined with late-night weakness. However, as she turned to leave, she felt a gentle nudge against her shoulder, prompting her to turn her head to look right. "Come," It was Mel, who had hardly lost her energy through the night, "I've something to show you. And the same goes to you, Grump!" Zerathur grumbled something in response somewhere under a small pile of empty cans he had gathered through the night. Melodus led them through the city's streets and to its very edge. The three walked down the steps of the city's perimeter wall, and it wasn't long before they were walking over sand, with the sound of crashing waves somewhere ahead. They climbed and stood at the very top of the last dune that separated them from the sea, and from there they could see Gymir's Bay in its entirety. High waves rolled back and forth upon golden shores, lit under the bright moonlight. The great ship that once blocked the Bay was no longer there, a fact that Mel quickly pointed out with a large smile on her face. "Our little probe friends did it! They managed to break it down, finally, and have also spent the afternoon and evening cleansing the sands from all that sludge!" Together, the three climbed down to the shoreline. "It's just like how we remember, it Ze!" Mel continued, but when she and Yllaine looked up to their friend, they'd see a pained smile upon his usually calm expression. "It's... It's great, Mel, but it's not the same without our friends." He muttered out, slowing down to a halt. "Maybe so, but you've us now." They sat there and watched the sea in silence. Eventually, Zerathur raised one of his forehooves, and a dozen of glowing silhouettes phased into existence around them. The illusions rushed towards the sea, carrying boards against their sides, before throwing themselves into the water. Graceful, they were, as they weaved over the waves just as they once did, many years ago.

There were no birds here, at least none that she could hear. There were no insects either. This deafening silence was only broken by the rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant flow of a brook deeper into the forest. Her eyes dully counted the fragments of metal and stone that once composed one of the walls of her now ruined home, feeling as though her mind was about to give in to the deepest states of boredom at any moment. Quarantine, he called it. One hundred years away from one's people is enough time to catch and deal with diseases that the others haven't, and the same goes the other way around. "Aren't you just putting me in time-out for shooting at you with my second metacarpal?" She had questioned then, and with his only response being a shite-eating grin, the more she's certain of it with each passing minute. Tick, tock, tick, tock... And she finally loses it. She taps the rotten wooden planks a couple of times and uses the tip of her good hoof to carve a few simple sigils onto it, conjuring forth a small burst of psionic energies. Floating sigils of red and purple appear all over the wooden flooring, intricate symbols of psionic nature becoming more complex as they swirled and finally fell into place. A bubble formed of nearly-invisible hexagons came into existence around the mare, and so was she encapsulated in an energy shield. The glyphs vanished and the shield turned fully invisible. She had only been inside for five minutes and was already going against his will. Just like the old times. With a large smile, the mare rose to her hooves and joyfully left her home to explore the ruins and find the seven other survivors.