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There were at least two very powerful solar exalts coming to meet him. He had made his contacts, he had propitiated the gods well; and at least two, probably their whole circle were there to meet him as a result. It could not be soon enough. This was a day of redemption, of casting off the curse that had been placed on him and his shard, denunciating the tortures that had been inflicted on it, finding a moment of peace and freedom and bringing just a little light to the world. And if he was able to accomplish this, then others could follow, and the power of the deathlords would wane. He just had to get to the manse where he was awaited.

The Wright of Skins and Bones sat in his chamber, seated on a throne wrought of bones bleached crimson and bound with black and gold trim. His left eye looked straight on impassively; his right flicked about furiously under his closed eyelid. He sighed to himself for a moment, and considered the available options. He was most excited about this development.

In a small town smith's forge, steel melted. It was the finest steel that Wyburn Tekh had ever made; he and his assistants had forged it three-fold, and a thaumaturge had been hired to put blessings on the whole smelting process. This weapon had to be absolutely perfect - and it would be. His tongs cinched around the crucible of liquid metal and pulled it from the white-hot fire, fuelled with resinous wood and a small bound spirit. His skin on his knuckles felt seared, even through the thick gloves of woven stone fibres. The steel bubbled and roiled.

He was travelling on a small cloud overland, sweeping over it towards the manse. His sorcery was all that had kept him alive for many days - it was what let him touch that remaining solar light in his tainted shard, it was that that had given him the means to run from his master. The Savant in Onyx and Oblivion was on the run, and he was going to survive this - he was already farther than his deathlord's remaining servants could catch him, and the Wright himself couldn't follow him this far. And if he did, well, along with the solars, he might be able to fight him. He whispered out loud to himself. “Freedom. Soon, freedom.”

Tekh poured the metal into the mold that he had crafted himself, carving it out of hard stone with his tools and his sweat. The best sword he had ever made. The line was clean and arced gracefully back. The weight would be ideal, the edge keen. He pointed to the thaumaturge, and gave instructions as to what to tell the spirit to do - and a moment later, a small snake of fire leaped out of the forge and ran along the blade, sparks as he passed and the steel, starting to harden, glowed red; and as it passed, Tekh brought down his hammer perfectly, cleanly, small fires of air burning erupting where the blow landed. This blade was going to be perfect.

The Savant in Onyx and Oblivion let his cloud bear him too the ground. The manse was just over the horizon, the spire just peaking over the nearest hill. And he had precious little time. He sprinted towards the ancient building, tower gleaming with white jade light in the morning sun. With a thought, a horses of black essence rose up from the soil beneath him, and galloped. There was precious little time to spare, if the Wright knew where he was going.

Tekh struck with his hammer, perfectly placing each blow. He folded the steel onto itself, and it shimmered from the purity of its essence. He signalled the thaumaturge, and the spirit lay along the edge of the blade until it glowed like the sun. His hammer rang on the steel again. He gripped the tang of the blade with his gloved hand and flipped it, striking again and again on the length. The edge was so thin it seemed nearly transparent. It would be his greatest work, he had sworn it.

The Savant reached the doorways of the manse - nothing tried to stop him, no sign from his foul master, no blackening of the sky or hordes of zombies following. This was, strangely enough, not a good sign. If the Wright had any idea what he was doing, he would not go unmolested. And he didn't know how to fight what was happening now. Outrunning any trouble coming was the best way to stay alive he had. He ran for the doors of the manse, and they swung outwards. Two men stood in the doorway, one in gleaming orichalcum plate, the other with a zenith caste mark flaring dimly on his forehead. Savant almost flinched instinctively, but caught himself and stepped forwards to meet them.

That fool Savant actually thought he was going to escape his life - If only the wright was able to let him. The abyssal feared his wrath - he did not know it's providence. He did not know the ties that bound them. The Wright reached down and stroked the top of the monstrance at his side, next to his throne. With his other hand, he began to motion, and he incanted words in a voice that fell dead as it left his mouth, swallowed by the power of the void that he was tearing to his will. His right eye opened, and it started to glow, an orb of soulsteel set with a small iris directly into the void, and it seemed to exhale outwards, obeying his will. This spell might buy the abyssal a little time. No - it was a moment too late. A voice that defied comprehension, that filled all space and all time, entered into his head. Not quite a voice; an understanding, a meaning. "Stop him." The Wright lashed back as hard as he could, trying to block the voice out. "Stop him now." This was not the first time his masters had told him to do something, and he knew it was not worth the torment and annoyance of resisting them further. He dropped the spell of warding he was trying to cast, and he spun a new one at the bidding of the Malfeans that owned his very soul.

The Savant in Onyx and Oblivion stepped forwards, and the two solars turned and led him to a chamber in of the manse, the floor embossed with a huge emblem of the unconquered sun, liquid gold running through the channels. The Savant felt, for just a moment, as if the taint of his shard was reaching out, trying to pull him back, but it surely was just his resonance, desperately making one last effort to claw at his soul. He would now be free of this thing. The zenith gestured and spoke.
“Sit in the center of the icon and renounce your sins against the unconquered sun, all of them.” The Savant started to move towards the center, when the man in heavy plate spoke.
“Don't worry about that - the icon doesn't actually do anything. And he spent all day building it, too.” The zenith glared back.
“All of my research indicates that the icon is essential to this operation. Doh-Sheh.”
“All of your research? You found one text that even mentioned anything like this, and it's for purifying Akuma anyways!”
Savant stood and bellowed at them, his voice curdling. “You don't know if this will work? You idiots! I defied my deathlord for this, and you don't know if it will work? He will hunt us and kill us for this betrayal, and he will make our souls scream for a thousand years. And you fools didn't even know if this would work?” The Zenith hissed.
“Do not question us, monstrosity.”
The Twilight smiled condescendingly, and spoke in a calm voice. “Abyssal thing, we have no need for your thoughts. They will necessarily be as evil and perverse as Shards here is foolish.” The Zenith snarled and leaped at his solar companion, a blade of essence sparking into existence, swinging it down on the armoured twilight. The man batted the blade aside with a fraction of a movement, and then struck. He sank back and thrust out his arm, connecting with a shockingly fast blow to his caste mark, as his hand exploded in a blaze of golden essence. The zenith collapsed to the ground with a thud, unconscious as blood dripped from his ears. The Savant turned and fled the circle, trying to run, to find any sort of weapon. As he started to move, something hard struck him at the base of his neck and he crumbled accompanied by a crunching noise. He couldn't feel his limbs, but an electric pain shot along his spine. The twilight posed for a moment, the bent elbow he had struck with held out. He reached down and grabbed the man's hair, dragging him back to the center of the sun sigil. “I will finish this purification of your shard. Not for you, but for the sun and the knowledge it can be done. I sincerely hope the process is fatal.” He stood and started to incant, his hands weaving intricate patterns through the air.

The Wright stared at the scene unfolding. The cage at his side was starting to shudder, the seams starting to buckle. The sorceror - he had found a way to free the abyssal on his own? But the Malfeans were not done with their influence, and they squeezed harder, speaking in eldritch whispers to the Wright, until he gave up to their requests and went to his table. The Savant would not be free. It was not going to be allowed. He grabbed his hammer and struck one clean blow on the monstrance. His blow split the atoms of the artifact apart, and from between them roiled a swelling mass of void essence. The cracked monstrance imploded into oblivion and was gone, and the Wright's arcane link fizzled into nothingness. He was just disappointed; he wouldn't be able to see a shard go free, and he wouldn't get to see Savant burn.

Tekh struck hard at the tang, near the hilt, and as the metal sparked into perfect position, the crystal essence of the steel sinking into position, his hammer cracked and broke, the haft shattering and the head flying aside. He yelled for an assistant to hand him another. None appeared and he looked back - the workshop was empty but for flames, and a small fire spirit shaped like a snake was dancing on the charred and unrecognisable face of his hired thaumaturge. Everyone else had fled.

Savant felt nothing as he watched green flames kindle his skin, and then start to burrow through his chest. He felt absolutely no pain as the essence fires tore him apart. He was perfectly lucid as he watched Doh-Sheh the twilight sorcerer stop casting his spell in order to pull a series of three darts from his neck. He fell to his knee, leaned over, and drove his fist through the Zenith's chest. He tried to stand, wobbled, and fell onto Savant's body as it kindled into a vast bonfire of green flame. Savant's sight was filled with the sorcerer caught in the flames gasping in pain and expiring. As his eyes started to dim, the sun rose in its arc just enough and its light lanced through a window near the top of the room, lighting on the golden liquid embossed into the floor. It reflected on the ceiling, projecting the unmistakable symbol of the sun on the ceiling above him, all in flickering shades of golden light. As he died, he thought that if this was as close as he could get to redemption, then it would have to do.

Tekh turned back to the weapon on his anvil. His tools were all consumed, and he struck the blade with the flat of his palm, the pad of his thumb hammering the steel into shape. He grasped the glowing-hot tang and flipped the blade over, and hammered again and again along the edge of the blade, sending sparks flying. The metal was starting to cool, and so he blew into the forge, fanning the flames to ever greater heights, searing his hair as he turned away. He thrust the blade into the fire until it was incandescent, and pulled it out, hammered along the blade one last time, and plunged it into the ice water at his side, still with chunks of ice in it despite the blaze all around. The blade let off a loud ping as it hardened, as the water was turned to steam, leaving the whole room a glowing red nightmare of smoke and hissing steam. Tekh turned to see the fire spirit, rejoicing in the flames and ignoring him. He brought down his blade on the burning little snake. It was sliced in two and turned into swirls of essence that faded away and vanished. He realized for the first time the ruin around him, and started to cough, gasping as he fled the building, blade in hand. Wheezing and covered in soot, his hands burned harshly, he fell to the ground outside. A dozen of the towns people, running with full buckets, poured them over him, dousing the fires on his clothing and the searing pain of his face. The water returned him his sense and a hint of his strength, and he pushed himself to his knees, and then to his feet. He stood, his tunic blackened and all smoking, the water rolling off him steaming. His whole head was a mass of charred red and black, his terrible burns studded with embers still smoking in his skin, the outline of his caste mark mercifully covered by blood and ashes. The sword he had forged gleamed in the sunlight, clean and perfect. It was ideal, but now his mind was on building greater things. There were worlds waiting to be built, and he had a new name to take for his own.

The zone of mockery

Good plotline, as far as I can tell, but I'm a little confused. I don't quite get what just happened. I think there were two primary plotlines. One, a man forging a sword, with a 'minor' mishap. The other, the story of how an Abyssal is 'redeemed' by a crazed Twilight. Are the Abyssal and the man forging the sword related? Are the two plots related? -- GregLink

Not related at all, until the Abyssal dies and the smith gets his shard. - TheHoverpope

I have changed the Deathlord to make him interesting. I'm posting him soon, too. -TheHoverpope