Prologue: Karishiyani. ---- "Skajjem."
Smithereens, a saying translated from Yetkanid Coihli.
Ihmat-Erhat'en; Three Thousand Years before the Taššaḥasi Calendar.
Karishiyani looked at the midnight sky, lit by the pyres of a collapsing empire. The city looked brighter than ever, brighter than the lights of daytime. From the hill, the city looked like a small sun--emitting an ominous green radiance from its intense heat. The silence of death emanated through it--they couldn't think of anything but the lives lost.
"It is done," Karishiyani said. They crossed their leathery arms, covered in bile and sweat. Their saffron blade hung in its scabbard, reeking of the souls of the dead. Bloodstains on their skin contrasted with their azure complexion, a shade to match his royal maroon robe; waning threads of gold and bronze barely held it together. The battle had left none of their body untouched, as wounds cut deep into their skin--paired with the broken horns--they knew that their time on the plane was numbered.
Yet--they had hope for a better future.
The battleworn Karishiyani turned their back on the ruins of the smoldering metropolis, gazing upon a rocky hilltop, illuminated under the moons' light. Gusts of wind broke the silence, bringing with it a familiar aura--as if the wind gave glimmers of life to the still and barren wasteland.
"Karishiyani--" blades of wind materialized into the shape of a stag--his entire body emanating a sapphire glow. Three pairs of antlers grew from his head, each of it looked larger than a man's arm.
"Akevon," the gruff voice of Karishiyani signaled clear exhaustion. "Is this how it ends?" The stag Familiar gave an uncertain gaze as a reply.
He hesitated for a moment, "Though I know not what the future holds, I am certain you had done the right thing."
An uncertain reply, yet a reply satisfactory of Karishiyani.
"Such is the nature of life--chaotic, turbulent--as such we have to veil ourselves from its true nature."
Karishiyani finally sat on the ground--it being covered with ferns and fungi; savoring the moment--as it was the first time they could breathe again. The silence now was quite faint, offset with the company of their Familiar once again.
"I see, you are bleeding," stated the Familiar, noticing the stains on their skin and garment. Karishiyani held through the pain, "It's ...fine. I'll try to patch it up later."
They took a deep breath. The stag held a chuckle.
A buried question sparked within him, "Akevon," he asked. "Do you think we will be remembered?"
"I am not certain, either. But considering your prestige in life, I am leaning to yes." "Will our names be inscribed in that of history books, in that of legend? Of myth?" "Time will tell."
Both of them chuckled, reveling in the here and now. At last, one's journey was complete. At least our successors will learn of our fate. At least we have that.
"I do have one last wish," they said. "One to last an eternity."
Karishiyani got up, with their feet stumbling, they used their saffron blade as an aid. "Where are you going?" asked Akevon, now hovering a few feet above ground.
They wobbled over to the top of the hill, where the soil is black and untouched. While the grounds below were mostly of fern, here, thick lichen jutted and created large canopies.
Left puzzled, Akevon only followed. There they stood, before a large boulder three to five times their size. The boulder sat quietly in the middle of a clearing, bearing the moonlights from the above.
Karishiyani's mind focused, as he Weaved the rock into precise cuts of his liking. They shaped the boulder into a large statue of the head of a stag--created in the image of Akevon. Three eyes, and three pairs of antlers. The precise Weaving had made the previously-rough boulder into a smooth, almost perfect marbled structure. The six antlers of the statue were raised high from the ground, six or so feet above.
The moonlights illuminated a plaque etched onto the pedestal below the statue; three logograms for further generations to remember: LIFE-HONOR-REMEMBER.
Akevon smiled, as he watched Karishiyani lay his blade, one last time.
They breathed the air of the groves--Solitude, at last.