Bartooliinii writing in-universe stories made me feel inspired so I wrote a very short Archon vignette.
The river flowed mightily while Archon stood on the banks, watching its calm surface flow evenly across the expanse of infinity, before looping back around, never depositing itself in a lake, and having no source. It was one of the few things older than he was, having existed in this form since the first of men were created. This was not the widest the river had ever been, but it was bloated all the same. It had been bloated for many thousands of years now, and though Archon had learned much of man in the last year, he still knew too little to understand that.
Archon waded into the river, stepping into it and out of the marble caricature he had created, and he stood and looked out over the vast infinity which was the river and the plane which it had inhabited. It was not like anything which could exist in the mortal plane, which had its own beauties and great rivers, but this was the river. This was Archon’s river, the river of life, which carried everything from the mortal plane into itself and then held onto it until the souls within were revived into an appropriate vessel.
In his time in the mortal plane, Archon had since come to learn that the beings which lived on the mortal plane considered their vessels to be what constituted life. It was a quaint thing to him, an interesting peculiarity of their lives, not unlike what one thinks of people living in unenlightened times. Interesting, but an incorrect mode of thinking with too little perspective. These souls were as alive as they were on the mortal plane, and the immortal soul never changed. The context on the mortal plane would change, indeed, but the soul itself remained a universal constant, not changing even if its mortal vessel had died three million years ago, and the soul revived today.
As Archon stepped into the river, he felt a great wash of power come over him. This was his domain: the gods had their abstract ideas, and the mortals had their states and skill at expressing their mortal vessels, but Archon was the Ferryman, Archon was the River-Guide, Archon was the Reaper. It may be an infinitely large river, but Archon had spent so much time being associated with the cycle of life and death that he derived power from it, especially from its literal manifest.
The cold washed over him in equal measure, not a physical cold, but a coldness of emotion that claimed him as much as it claimed the souls which passed through here. In a time before the mortal conception of time, when the universe was young and unmolested the afterlife was a busy affair and the river was boundless. But it had long since been constrained, and the souls within it were pacified things, tied to the river until their souls were cut from it. It was Archon’s eternal duty to protect the river’s inhabitants, and now that he was apart of the greater Shalherana cult, he was tasked with as well searching the river for the souls which had enough life still within them to take them back into the world.
Their mission was a strange one: in eons past, the Sisterhood would take the dead which were still sorely needed in the fight against Corruption, and raise them anew to continue the fight. Some were of such high priority they were not even allowed to die. The threat which habituated the Sisters to this end had not had its influence felt on the river in thousands of years, but they continued to rouse them to the cause, something to do with the will of the divine which Archon was now under the protection of.
The imprisonment of, from his point of view. He was not without gratitude, and he was able to help the lives of the little men who lived on the banks of the river in the mortal plane, but he couldn’t live the life he wished to here under the purview of one of the divine. There were other things, too. The world was still not yet safe. There were threats on the banks of the river, which if Archon could just harness the power of the river to wash them away, if he could step out of the water and guide the little men against the evils of that world. If he could rouse them against traitorous things, against those which would mis…
...the train of thought abruptly ended, and Archon was reminded of his duty. It was strange, having those lapses in memory, but it did not trouble him too much. The calming influence of the river was too much here, and he was able to really think here, unlike in the mortal realm. Yes, this was his sanctuary, and he was safe, of course.
He saw a soul begin to float past, someone who he recognized, which was not uncommon - he had seen every soul to ever be created at least a thousand times - but this one he recognized the mortal vessel of. He reached down into the river, to pick them up, and hold up their soul out of the river and into the light where he could see it better. He saw through it the countless lives it had endured in the infinite expanse of time since creation began. But its latest incarnation, the one he recognized it by… the mortals had known it as Whitespoor, a great terror on the banks of the river.
It had much life still in it. So much that it shone brightly and seeped it, like too much water in too small of a container. But the life had been hateful, twisted away from the creation of more and easing the bloat on the river. No, this one put many more souls back into the river than it had created. Separated from the numbing effects of the river for a moment, the soul began to rouse, and with the fury of a thousand million trillion lives lived, each unique and vibrant and a powerful pull in its own way, so bright to be dazzling, it pleaded with Archon. It begged, and begged, and when begging failed it turned to demands and appeals to all the time it could have spent out of the river, if only it had more time… but it smelt too much of the ugliness of the last life for Archon’s taste, and so he placed the soul back in the river.
He would keep it there for a long time yet.
The river flowed mightily while Archon stood on the banks, watching its calm surface flow evenly across the expanse of infinity, before looping back around, never depositing itself in a lake, and having no source. It was one of the few things older than he was, having existed in this form since the first of men were created. This was not the widest the river had ever been, but it was bloated all the same. It had been bloated for many thousands of years now, and though Archon had learned much of man in the last year, he still knew too little to understand that.
Archon waded into the river, stepping into it and out of the marble caricature he had created, and he stood and looked out over the vast infinity which was the river and the plane which it had inhabited. It was not like anything which could exist in the mortal plane, which had its own beauties and great rivers, but this was the river. This was Archon’s river, the river of life, which carried everything from the mortal plane into itself and then held onto it until the souls within were revived into an appropriate vessel.
In his time in the mortal plane, Archon had since come to learn that the beings which lived on the mortal plane considered their vessels to be what constituted life. It was a quaint thing to him, an interesting peculiarity of their lives, not unlike what one thinks of people living in unenlightened times. Interesting, but an incorrect mode of thinking with too little perspective. These souls were as alive as they were on the mortal plane, and the immortal soul never changed. The context on the mortal plane would change, indeed, but the soul itself remained a universal constant, not changing even if its mortal vessel had died three million years ago, and the soul revived today.
As Archon stepped into the river, he felt a great wash of power come over him. This was his domain: the gods had their abstract ideas, and the mortals had their states and skill at expressing their mortal vessels, but Archon was the Ferryman, Archon was the River-Guide, Archon was the Reaper. It may be an infinitely large river, but Archon had spent so much time being associated with the cycle of life and death that he derived power from it, especially from its literal manifest.
The cold washed over him in equal measure, not a physical cold, but a coldness of emotion that claimed him as much as it claimed the souls which passed through here. In a time before the mortal conception of time, when the universe was young and unmolested the afterlife was a busy affair and the river was boundless. But it had long since been constrained, and the souls within it were pacified things, tied to the river until their souls were cut from it. It was Archon’s eternal duty to protect the river’s inhabitants, and now that he was apart of the greater Shalherana cult, he was tasked with as well searching the river for the souls which had enough life still within them to take them back into the world.
Their mission was a strange one: in eons past, the Sisterhood would take the dead which were still sorely needed in the fight against Corruption, and raise them anew to continue the fight. Some were of such high priority they were not even allowed to die. The threat which habituated the Sisters to this end had not had its influence felt on the river in thousands of years, but they continued to rouse them to the cause, something to do with the will of the divine which Archon was now under the protection of.
The imprisonment of, from his point of view. He was not without gratitude, and he was able to help the lives of the little men who lived on the banks of the river in the mortal plane, but he couldn’t live the life he wished to here under the purview of one of the divine. There were other things, too. The world was still not yet safe. There were threats on the banks of the river, which if Archon could just harness the power of the river to wash them away, if he could step out of the water and guide the little men against the evils of that world. If he could rouse them against traitorous things, against those which would mis…
...the train of thought abruptly ended, and Archon was reminded of his duty. It was strange, having those lapses in memory, but it did not trouble him too much. The calming influence of the river was too much here, and he was able to really think here, unlike in the mortal realm. Yes, this was his sanctuary, and he was safe, of course.
He saw a soul begin to float past, someone who he recognized, which was not uncommon - he had seen every soul to ever be created at least a thousand times - but this one he recognized the mortal vessel of. He reached down into the river, to pick them up, and hold up their soul out of the river and into the light where he could see it better. He saw through it the countless lives it had endured in the infinite expanse of time since creation began. But its latest incarnation, the one he recognized it by… the mortals had known it as Whitespoor, a great terror on the banks of the river.
It had much life still in it. So much that it shone brightly and seeped it, like too much water in too small of a container. But the life had been hateful, twisted away from the creation of more and easing the bloat on the river. No, this one put many more souls back into the river than it had created. Separated from the numbing effects of the river for a moment, the soul began to rouse, and with the fury of a thousand million trillion lives lived, each unique and vibrant and a powerful pull in its own way, so bright to be dazzling, it pleaded with Archon. It begged, and begged, and when begging failed it turned to demands and appeals to all the time it could have spent out of the river, if only it had more time… but it smelt too much of the ugliness of the last life for Archon’s taste, and so he placed the soul back in the river.
He would keep it there for a long time yet.
