Version History

No. 2 kneeled on a stump three Lu in diameter. Their lumite armor, typically a pristine white void of color, now bore a deep green hue from the plant life that had taken root on its surface, thriving off the passive energy of the complete set. The stump had benches carved from its bark, upon which two richly clothed people sat conversing. A city had developed around them while they awaited in a meditative state of non-existence. They considered, for a fleeting Lumin, how long it had been, then their subconscious policies of existence engaged and they rose to pray.

The enormous person shot upward, standing at a full height of two Lu. Vines of ivy fell to the ground as they moved. The two bourgeois people before them jumped back, each letting out a gasp. The bustling trading hub reacted in waves: some stopped and watched, some turned and ran, and some, peculiarly, began to walk toward the statuesque No. 2, talismans in hand and voices lifting in gentle prayer.

No. 2 raised their arms to the sky and prayed, marking Lumora Cycle 4,162,500.

No. 2: "O Great Author, who pens the parchment of this world with precision, who determined the Lumspan and set the Cycles in motion—hear my words. I am Your instrument in this story, a sword within the eternal pages of Intearth. Grant me the wisdom to walk the path You have written, and the strength to turn the pages yet unseen."

They lowered their head to look at the gathering crowd.

No. 2: “Written favorably are those who walk through these texts with humility, that their deeds may be preserved in the eternal pages of Intearth. Written are those who mourn; their chapters shall end, and they shall find eternal comfort and rest thereafter. Written are the meek; for it is for them that Intearth is chronicled.”

Before No. 2 could continue, a voice rang out from the audience. One of the richly clothed people, whose robe shimmered with intricate embroidery, stood and scoffed.

Lord Veyren: "Enough of this drivel! You speak of meekness, mourning, and humility, yet look around you! I am clothed in finery, my coffers overflowing, and I have knelt to no Author, bowed to no Cycle. Where is your so-called reward? If such virtues are written into your precious Text, then why does power and wealth favor the proud?"

The person laughed, loud and sharp, a sound that rippled through the crowd like a stone cast into a still pond. Several others chuckled nervously, glancing between the speaker and the giant in lumite armor standing before them.

No. 2: "Who are you, that you would blaspheme against the Author? Speak aloud your name, that it might be known. Tell me was it for you alone that the Author has stirred me from my slumber to bring judgment? Have I been awoken to cleanse this whole land of its sin?"

The person straightened their shoulders, as if the weight of their embroidered robes alone proved their worth.

Lord Veyren: "I am Lord Veyren, a citizen of this country and a member of the Verdant Council! These lands thrive thanks to our judgment and how we choose to spend our coin! Your Author may satisfy the prayers of the poor and the market folk, but it is the Council that decided to build the roads and buildings you see around you."

Veyren laughed, emboldened by the soldiers gathering in the town center, equipped with swords, staffs, bows, and all manner of weapons.

Lord Veyren: "I do not know what you are or what power you hold, but your god is a relic, a story told to children! I stand here, empowered by the will of Verdance, by the will of civilization itself!"

At a sharp gesture from the lord, some soldiers cast their spells, weaving enchantments into Veyren. Energy flared. Veyren rose into the air, growing in size, their flesh hardening into a living carapace of polished steel. Their once-fine robes burned away, leaving them draped in raw sorcery.

Lord Veyren: "Look upon me and see where true power dwells! Kneel, before the will of peoplekind!"

Around them, people gasped, some shielding their eyes from the harsh glow of the spellwork. Others whispered prayers, staying true to their faith and recognizing the divinity of No. 2, who did not stir. No. 2 remained like a mountain unmoved by storms, their gaze steady, the mark of the Author etched into every fiber of their being. No. 2 looked upon Lord Veyren, and the corners of their mouth turned downward, their brow furrowing deeply.

Slowly, No. 2 raised their arms to the sky. Their voice, when it came, was quiet and strained:

No. 2: "O Great Author, who set this Cycle in motion, who wrote each character with care and burden alike, forgive this one their folly, though judgment must fall. Have mercy upon the ink of Your own pen. For they are blind by Your hand, and I strike by Your command."

The crowd fell silent, a stillness heavier than any chant or clash of arms. For a moment, it seemed as if even the Wakes themselves paused, as if the very fabric of Intearth waited to hear the Author's answer. No. 2 lowered their hands, their body braced. No. 2 moved.

There was no warning cry, no battle roar, only a blur of motion as they crossed the square in a single, tremendous leap. Their great blade, mounted at their hip for swift use, flashed from its sheath in a single smooth motion, cutting the air with a sound like tearing parchment. In one brutal stroke, they cleaved Lord Veyren cleanly in half. The lord let out a wet gurgling gasp. Blood and viscera burst outward, painting the polished stones of the square and splattering those unfortunate enough to be standing near.

The soldiers, wide-eyed but disciplined, began to fall back, shields raised and weapons tight in their grasps. They retreated in formation, their captains barking sharp commands over the stunned murmuring of the crowd. Their boots pounded against the stone as they withdrew toward the north gate, where the castle loomed beyond the city wall. There, they would regroup and prepare to defend their stronghold against what they now knew was not merely a person, but something far older, far more of a threat.

No. 2 lowered their blade, their hands steady. They stood still amid the ruin, the body of Veyren laid unceremoniously at their feet, making even more of a splatter than the original cut. They bowed their head.

No. 2: "Forgive me fellow, for I was written to end your story as you were written to serve as my introduction here."

Around him, chaos unfolded. Those who had held faith in the Author fell to their knees, bowing low, weeping prayers into the blood-slick stones. Their voices, though jumbled and desperate, rose upward across the vaulted world of Intearth itself, toward the mirrored lands above, and to Lum, the living light between. Others who had scorned the old ways fled in all directions, desperate to escape meeting a similar judgment to that they had just witnessed. Among them, people of every kind scattered No. 2 raised his voice to the gathered peoples of Intearth, them still faithful to the Author.

No. 2: "Beware, The Old Ones have returned. They once again seek to escape the confines of our story. When I wake, it is by the will of the Author. The Author's hand stirs me from Leep, summoning me to prepare the Faithful of Intearth.

Look for the signs: when a shadow is cast upon Lum, when the waters freeze over, when forgotten things rise from the soil, and when the winds whisper of ancient names. All is not lost, and not all of the ancients awake. The eternal egg still incubates in its orbit around Lum. The Author has blessed us at this time, for when it hatches, even I will not be able to mitigate much of the destruction. The names of the Ancients are on the tongues of the unfaithful. In those moments, help your fellow Intearthians, and the Author will view favorably any who provide Intearthian aid. Our trials have been foretold, and our purpose awaits."

A furry bipedal person approached the area where No. 2 was giving the speech. They had not been in the square during the previous events and had just arrived for the warnings.

Council Person Vissira: "How can you expect us to be faithful to a God not even willing to prove they exist? I am sure your power is impressive and your magic old and abundant, but it is far more likely that you, like many others, have fallen victim to the sickness of magic. The words you speak are of that illness and have no more truth or evidence than any other words of anyone here. If the Author were real, we would only exist when the Author was writing about us. All our lives leading up to the moments that we would appear in their pages would be left up to imagination. Assuming the Author even writes in a book. Who knows what a God would use for the passing of knowledge and information. We would have no free will. Everything we chose to do would be directly chosen by the Author."

No. 2: “I will provide proof that I am no mere prophet. I am No. 2 the right hand of the author himself. I enact the will of the pen. First I must ask, what are you, that you have these tall pointy ears on top of your head, and a bipedal model of a human?”

Council Person Vissira: "I was made this way when I still resided in my bubble. My creator dedicated 30 Cycles to my creation, which is what has set me so far above all these other citizens here before you. I was made, and my creator is tangible. They raised me and they made me do what I was made to do very well, which has caused me immense success in life and improved and held our community. I am a council member here, and my name is Vissira."

No. 2: "Very well, Council Person Vissira. What would you have me do to prove the Author's existence?"

Council Person Vissira: "Well, therein lies the problem. There is so much that magic can do. Whatever your Author needs to do as a miracle has to be astronomically impressive. So if the Author is real, have them darken Lum. Surely Lum is one of the ancients you speak of, and it is not returning—it has been here the whole time, always providing light to the world of Intearth. Those of us who dwell on the surface, that is."

No. 2: "This is acceptable."

No. 2 began to rise into the air as if pulled by their chest. Their head hung back, their arms limp at their side, their legs limp and dangling. Their sword remained sheathed, their armor now clear of any of the growth that had covered them. They whispered incoherent sentences, pausing for twelve Lumends between each one. The questioner stood with arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, the corner of their mouth curled upward. They had gone as far as to summon a small clown bird, which flew in circles around No. 2. Members of the crowd looked down, interacting with invisible displays and laughing. An elephant-trunked person who stood twice as tall as many of the other members of the crowd spoke to an invisible audience, framing themselves in front with No. 2 and Lum behind.

The Communication Network: *Users commenting about No. 2, Lum, etc.*

Then the unthinkable happened. Lum itself darkened.

Great avian people, their feathered bodies clothed in armor and sashes, took to the sky in panicked flocks.

Slender, scaled people with serpent-like bodies slithered into alleyways.

Hooved people leapt over merchant carts in their haste to get away.

Magic users vanished into thin air.

The square emptied like a breached dam, leaving only the bowed faithful and the looming figure of No. 2 — a silent monument to the weight of divine will.

Council Person Vissira remained motionless in the center of the abandoned square, their fur standing on end as they stared upward at the darkened Lum. Their arms had fallen to their sides, the mocking expression wiped clean from their features. Around them, the faithful pressed their faces to the bloodstained stones, their whispered prayers now carrying a desperate urgency that had been absent before.

No. 2 descended slowly, their boots touching the ground with deliberate precision. They turned their gaze toward Vissira, who stood frozen like a statue carved from living doubt. The darkness above began to recede, Lum's light returning in gradual waves that cast shifting shadows across the empty merchant stalls and abandoned weapon racks.

Vissira's voice, when it finally came, was barely above a whisper: "How... how long will it remain dark?" Their ears twitched as the first rays of returning light caught the edges of their council robes, now wrinkled and disheveled from the chaos.

No. 2: "The Author's pen writes what it will. The darkness serves its purpose — to demonstrate that even Lum itself bends to the will of the one who conceived this Spherve and all who dwell upon it."

Vissira's legs trembled, and they sank to one knee upon the bloodstained stones. Around the square's edges, shuttered windows began to crack open as curious eyes peered out at the scene. The faithful who had remained prostrate slowly raised their heads, their faces streaked with tears and wonder. In the distance, the sound of heavy boots echoed from the direction of the castle as soldiers regrouped, their captains' voices carrying sharp commands through the returning light.