Version History

No. 2 kneeled on a stump three Lu in diameter. His 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 him while he awaited in his meditative state of non-existence. He considered, for a fleeting Lumin, how long it had been, then his subconscious policies of existence engaged and he rose to pray.

The enormous person shot upward, standing at a full height of two Lu. Vines of ivy fell to the ground as he moved. The two bourgeois people before him jumped back in fear, 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 his 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."

He lowered his 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 to his feet, scoffing.

Lord Veyren: "Enough of this drivel!" he bellowed, his voice thick with disdain. "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 his shoulders, as if the weight of his embroidered robes alone proved his 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."
He 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 himself. Energy flared, Veyren rose into the air, growing in size, his flesh hardening into a living carapace of polished steel.
His once-fine robes burned away, leaving him draped in raw sorcery.

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

Around him, 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. He remained like a mountain unmoved by storms, his gaze steady, the mark of the Author etched into every fiber of his being. No. 2 looked upon Lord Veyren, and for the first time since his awakening, sorrow crept into the lines of his ancient face.

He saw not an enemy, but a fellow actor in the Great Story, one penned, flawed, bound by the ink of choices he could never truly escape. Slowly, No. 2 raised his arms to the sky, not in wrath, but in supplication. His voice, when it came, was heavy with mourning:

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 he is 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 his hands, his gaze soft with pity yet his body braced in grim certainty. He would strike. Not in anger. Not in hatred. But because he was written to and because, in the end, even mercy must obey the Author's will. No. 2 moved.

There was no warning cry, no battle roar, only a blur of motion as he crossed the square in a single, tremendous leap. His great blade, mounted at his 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, he 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 his blade, his hands steady. He stood still amid the ruin, the body of Veyren laid unceremoniously at No. 2’s feet, making even more of a splatter than the original cut. He bowed his 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 himself. His hand stirs me from Leep. He summons me to prepare the Faithful of Intearth.

Look for the signs: when a shadow is cast upon Lum the waters freeze over, when forgotten things rise from the soil, and 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 does, 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, she 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'm sure your power is amazing 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 and 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 left up to imagination. Assuming he even writes in a book. Who knows what 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 himself.”

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 father dedicated 30 years 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. He raised me and he made me do what I was made to do very well which has caused me immense success and happiness 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

Well and therein lies the problem. There is so much that magic can do that. Whatever your author needs to do as a miracle who has to be astronomically impressive. So if the author is real have him. Darken lumb surely lum is one of the ancients you speak of and it's not returning. It's been here the whole time and it's always provided light to the world of interns. Those of us who do all the surface that is.

This is acceptable, number two began to rise into the air as if pulled by his chest. His head hanging back his arms limp at his side. His legs limp beneath his feet. His sword sheathed and his arm are clear of any of the growth that had submerged covered engrossed and closed him. He whispered incoherent sentences pausing for 12 seconds in between each sentence. The questioner stood there with his arms. Crossed her arms crossed. Awaiting with a mocking look on her face. She had gone as far as to summon a small clown bird which on interest was a kind of meme to mock

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.