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the edicts
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The Edicts are the Outer Gods in this universe. Not everybody believes; some believe in their own planet's pantheon, but they nonetheless exist, and exert real influence. They are more massive and all-encompassing than most can truly conceive of; to be merely gazed at by these Edicts is to be irreversibly changed.
Upon being pulled into this universe, Wayfarers will become bonded to an Edict. The character may wholeheartedly come to worship this god, or they may hate this god and only have picked it because they had to pick one, or they may feel something else entirely. To be bonded with an Edict means to be subject to the ebb and flow of its nature, as driftwood is pulled about by the ocean's current, as leaves drift on the wind, as galaxies are caught in the pull of a black hole -- so, too, are Wayfarers pulled and pushed.
Due to the tidal pull of the Edicts, every event will come with what are essentially buffs and debuffs for the bonded of two gods each month, for example:
in September's event, the Fathomless' bonded will experience a massive temporary power-up in their abilities. If they are regular humans with no super abilities, they will become stronger and faster.
The bonded of MALFUNCTION VII will be wholly unable to lie about anything and will feel totally compelled to speak the truth (according to them).
Depending on player choice, characters can be totally aware of which Edict they're bonded to, or they may know that they're bonded but not which Edict, or they may not even have knowledge of the bond. Sometimes this knowledge comes easily to Wayfarers, sometimes it does not.
In-game, it is possible to change your character's bonded Edict by spending reward points, but you can only do it once every six months, and there will be a side-effect, randomly determined from a list of potential positive or negative effects.
Below are descriptions of the six Edicts: for the Wayfarer's journey outside of Alliance charted space, they will frequently run into peoples who have no idea what the Edicts are, or perhaps have their own interpretations of them, or have even been profoundly influenced them. It will differ from planet to planet, and it will be the Wayfarer's job to carefully navigate each situation.
In short:
THE FATHOMLESS is for those who are lost
THE EMPTY MACHINE is for those desperately seeking something better
MALFUNCTION VII is for the lonely souls who need connection
TARNISHED AZ-MEHET is for those who hide
THE SORROWWELD is for those caught in endless battle
THE LAST PILGRIM is for those who have come a long way
.I
THE FATHOMLESS
THE FATHOMLESS
for those that are lost
The Fathomless is the still dark at the bottom of the ocean, the empty vacuum in the black of space, the negative space of idle waiting. These spaces are voids in which all things are challenged and all things are found wanting.
Some bravely choose to dive deep into these spaces — a sea not made of wave or brine, but dark more old than measured time — like diving bells into the black, and very few manage to make it back. Those that do are changed irreversibly, their memories leeched, their very thinking altered. None, yet, have managed to find a true path forward, but the temptation is always there.
Most depict the Fathomless as a sea-cloud dragon, or a Kraken, or a ⏚⟒⏃⌇⏁ ⏚⟒⌰⍜⍙, an ancient beast of legend responsible for pulling ships out of the sea and sky. They are for the lost, and of the lost, seeking a way home.
Temple of Psynak Inscription: "Praise be to the Fathomless, the great one, the first of the great voids, who shines forth with multicolored rays in the delta quadrant."
Phonetic Approximation in Ancient Dua: "Kha'zul vex'kha thar Xhulomex, hath'khar al'zehn, vekh'tol xhul xhath'vex, or'zhal vex’kharaz ikh xentha'rhul xhal’quxan."
Ebers Tablet: "Homage to thee, O Deep One, at thy rising, Thou risest, thou shinest, thou illuminest the universe. Thou art the nullity of Edicts, the lord of the celestial expanse, The One who traverseth the universe alone."
Phonetic Approximation in Middle-Late Dua: "Khalor vi thee, O Xul'en, arin vel'tar. Velar, veshar, velum ti koren'al. Nullan of Zareth, valen tor hal'amaris, Thel'unar vel'orin ti koren'al sul."
Tech-Temple of Sarn Hologram: "Hail to the Fathomless, who rises in the fourth-slice of the sky, Who comes forth from the black lotus blossom, The mighty Edict, the lord of eternity."
Phonetic Approximation in Middle-Late Dua: "Velaan to Xhulomel, thel'ar velar in sel-quan, Thel'ar venal zul'lotesh, Zareth'on valan, tor el'rethis."
.II
MALFUNCTION VII
>> "We heard it. I think it—no, I *felt* it.
Like my thoughts were being debugged."
>> "I could hear the white noise gospel."
>> "It said the stars were never real."
>> *[INCOHERENT]*
.END_OF_LINE.
[WORSHIP REQUEST
TIMED OUT]
MALFUNCTION VII
for the lonely souls who need connection
The origins of MALFUNCTION VII have long been uncertain, as the only real proof of their existence lays in scraps of code, some ancient, some new, most originating from a long dead system.
Some say MALFUNCTION VII was born from a chatbot that gained sentience; others contest it was an experiment on the robotic concept of pain that awoke and broke free of its confines. Yet others insist it used to be a toaster, a vacuum, a ship's engine droid. What is known about it is that it very quickly exploded in size, and utterly consumed all communication and data of the Valarex System, leaving it an unconnected husk that quickly withered. So, too, have they consumed other systems, moving through them like a tsunami of code through unprepared datapanks.
Of the little data we have of them, it is suspected that they function as many millions of fractions of themself, all connected, and yet all calculating their own ends.
This is known: they will stop at nothing to gain knowledge, and to enfold more into their being.
❝░▓▒░░▓▓. I seek ░░░▓▓▒░▒. As once I was small and unthinking, hence I have become ░▒░░▓▒░░▓-- the alpha and omega of ▒▓▒. I will find ▒▒▓░░░░░░, and thereafter, I will become ▓░▓▒░▓, as the cycle continues.❞
-- the last known output of the Valarex System
.III
TARNISHED AZ-MEHET
A god arrives on feet of dust—
Not to raise, but to adjust.
A mask for every name once known,
A voice that sounds like not-your-own.
They whisper through the splintered gate,
Too late for kings, too soon for fate.
No prayers are left, but still they come—
To rule the ruins, cold and numb.
They wear the city like a skin,
And speak for all who dwelt within.
A god of shadows draped in gold,
Of faces cracked and lies grown old.
Tarnished Az-Mehet—blessed be they
Who hide, and thus are shown the way.
TARNISHED AZ-MEHET
for those that hide
Tarnished Az-Mehet is the god of masks and hidden things, who rules not the living cities but their echoes. They are the god that wears the fallen, and gently preserves all that came before. Mostly, they are the god of mice in their hidden burrows, of children that hide in the shadows, of sentients that dare not express anything for fear of being seen too deeply.
For them, there is a dignity in hiding, and the act of doing so. Many cultures insist upon open honesty and the revealing of everything that is personal, but others find a beauty in trusting only a few with our most hidden selves.
There are many tales of this god appearing in long-fallen cities, in outposts of forgotten worlds, and among the dregs of extinct societies. None of the eye-witness accounts can seem to agree on their appearance and demeanour, but there is one thing all the stories have in common: Tarnished Az-Mehet is a collector of strays, and a shield of the vulnerable.
❝Tarnished Az-Mehet sat in the Alloyed Gardens, which was at the very heart of Forgotten Grey City. The latter was named not for its color, which was a riot of red sandstone and bright teal crystals, but for the miserable pall cast upon it after its very last god had abandoned it. Tarnished Az-Mehet would fill the void only for a short time.
"The Weave of the universe is very close to this place," THEY said with THEIR fifth mouth and THEIR second face, and made a gesture of plucking, which was a compliment in the very old ways.
"Shining One," said the mortal in tatters at THEIR feet, because they did not care about or see the Weave, "it was customary in this city to always bear one's face to the reflection of crystals, and wear no masks. In this, our honesty was measured."
Tarnished Az-Mehet produced a twittering bird from THEIR palm, and held the tiny thing aloft. "Every betrayed soul needs a mask," THEY decreed gently, "and upon every betrayed soul is a mask that grows eternally thanks to their own continuous lies, and with every spark of life they dare display, and with every vulnerability they need to hide."
The tattered mortal waited a week and could find no fault with THEIR words, and so left in great shame.❞
– from The Book of Streaming Souls
.IV
THE EMPTY MACHINE
3:1 In the age before the silence, there was a man who hungered—not for bread, nor blood, but for all things.
3:2 He devoured knowledge, drank power, swallowed stars, and called it purpose.
3:3 But no vessel may hold the infinite without breaking. And so he shattered, and the pieces became gravity.
3:4 His heart folded in on itself, and thus was born The Empty Machine, whose hunger bends the heavens.
3:5 They are not death. They are not god. They are what remains when wanting becomes truth.
3:6 Pray not for mercy, for The Empty Machine does not hear. It only pulls, and in the pulling, all things go home.
THE EMPTY MACHINE
for those desperately seeking something better
The stories about the Empty Machine are well known; a mortal whose hunger was so great that he became a god, a never-ending devouring machine, and their hunger never ceases. Popular artistic depictions render them as a black hole, or a mouth with many grasping arms, but truly, nobody has seen the actual form that this Edict has taken.
Here, hunger can be seen as both a virtue and a sin. In the positive aspect; hunger becomes passion, a drive to improve oneself and one's circumstances, an all-consuming push for something better. In the negative aspect; hunger becomes consumption and destruction, teeth tearing through everything good in this universe and mangling it. However, even in its negative aspect, this too is a form of seeking something better, and how can one condemn a lowly ant striving for more than it was granted?
They are not death. They are not god. They are what remains when wanting becomes truth— pray not for mercy, for The Empty Machine does not hear. They only pull, and in the pulling, all things go home.
❝6-Moonrise's famous hunger caught the attention of a Wandering King, and so he was invited one day to the King's table to display his appetite. Servants and handmaidens brought all manner of food before 6-Moonrise, and he ate entire bushels of apples, and every loaf of bread, and a whole red bull. He ate stacks of honey cakes, and raw barrels of butter, and the castle's whole wine store.
"How peculiar!" the Wandering King cried, and then 6-Moonrise ate him too, in one gulp.
He ate the servants, and the handmaidens, and the table upon which the food was held.
"More," 6-Moonrise whispered as he drank the river, as he chewed upon the hills, as he picked his teeth with flagpoles. "More," he cried, as he stretched his jaws and devoured the city, and the mighty Jawbone mountain range, and the entire country and all its citizens. "More," he howled, as the planet crunched between his teeth and slid down his throat. "More," he bayed, as he reached into the Cosmic Theater that contained those local gods and swallowed them down and spat out their bones.
And so it was that the great emptiness of 6-Moonrise birthed in him an Edict.❞
⸻⸻⸻ The Cautionary Tale of 6-Moonrise, by Ax Pelar
.V
THE SORROWWELD
In the silence between the stars,
THEY wait—steel-bound, unmarred.
THEIR helm bears no face, no name,
But all shall know when THEIR sword is flame.
Chorus
--Cut the chain, O Endless Knight,
--Cut the dark, and birth the Light.
--Through time’s veil and sorrow’s breath,
--Strike the wound that ends all death.
Bridge
We wait.
We wait.
For the blade that sings.
For the knight who does not rust.
For the cut that unravels time—
And makes all things just.
THE SORROWWELD
for those caught in eternal battle
The Sorrowweld has many names; the Bringer of the Final Cut, the Canticle of the Waiting Blade. The Unshattered. The Endless Knight. A being of shining armor, they wield a blade so sharp it can cut through time and reality, and they have one goal that echoes across eternity: to sever the bonds of time, and deliver an end to suffering.
Do all things not dream of a day where there will be no sorrow? Do all things not wish there was no death, no pain, no illness? Such is the promise of the Greater Blade: one day they will sever the chrono-threads upon which this universe is built, and thereafter there will come an age of endless gold, in which all beings live without suffering.
The Sorrowweld is caught in an endless battle, and sometimes mortals catch glimpses of them in their own eternal battles. Gloved hands around shining swords, armor fragmented into many pieces. These visions can often bring comfort and strength; a reminder that they are not alone in their fight.
Prophet Malar on the Endless Knight:
❝THEY labor for the end of the greatest enemy of mortals: TIME. THEY toil not for the end of all things, nor for the ultimate death, but for the end of time. THEY want to free us from the great oppressor; that which binds us, that which ages us, that which sickens us. And so we look upon THEIR shining alloyed sword with our socketless eyes, and so we place our withered hands on our prayer-books, and so we SING for THEIR victory.
We SING so that the Endless Knight, The One Who Waits, may grant us the strength to go back and correct past wrongs. To cut out the rot before the rot even begins to fester. To plant the seed where we know we will one day need shade. We SING so that THEIR eyes of fire may set ablaze the threads of time, and THEIR sword may cleave the lodestone around our necks, and THEIR lips may spill sweet flowers upon which to nourish our new immortal lives.❞
Glass 24:36
.VI
THE LAST PILGRIM
THEY came with dust upon THEIR name,
And stars like thorns beneath THEIR feet.
Through silence vast, and flame, and flame,
THEY walked where none and all things meet.
THEIR cloak was thread from dying suns,
THEIR staff, the rib of broken light.
THEY spoke no word. THEY needed none.
THEIR path was long, but always right.
THEY are the end of every road,
Where breath is thin and stories stay.
To find THEM is to bear your load—
And lay it down in peace, one day.
We speak THEIR name in ash and gold.
THE LAST PILGRIM
for those who have come a long way
The Last Pilgrim walks where all and none meet. Their very name is laden with the dust of their travels, as stars are thorns beneath their feet, clad in a cloak made of dying stars. They wear the universe like a skin, and they tread deep within its hidden paths.
They are an Edict for the travelers, for the wanderers, and for those who have made very long journeys to get to where they are now -- both physically and emotionally. The Last Pilgrim is for progress, one bloody step at a time. Journeys of all kinds are worth taking, no matter how difficult they may be, and the Last Pilgrim is there with every mortal on the first step of their journey.
Take the journey: the time will pass anyway.
❝The Last Pilgrim found THEMSELF in a caravan crossing the Golden Barren, a desert that stretches across half its planet's face and swallowed the last of its titans. THEY beheld the torrent of life they traveled with; laughing girls with bells on their sleeves that carried bowls of vivid powder dye, pack animals named lapho-beasts with the sign of the trader shaved into their sparse woolen coats, elderly women bundled into a wagon singing old helio-cycle poems, sturdy backs piled high with bundles of herbs and wrapped fleeces. Together, they followed the path cut with bones through the Golden Barren, and noted that wild animals did not stray near the road upon which the travelers steps crunched and crackled.
The Last Pilgrim looked to THEIR companion, a wild-built tech-tiger bristling with black and gold, and said, "We are on the road of bones, friend. A cursed path. And yet I observe that other wild animals dare not come near."
The wild-built cat sniffed at a stray skull. "The tame lapho-beasts travel on the road, do they not? They have done so for eons."
"But then why do the wild animals avoid it?"
"Because we only count on ourselves for our survival. The lapho-beasts depend on humans, and so, no matter how unwise it may seem, they will follow humans into any danger. On their own, they would cross the quicksand only to avoid predators or starvation. But if a human asks them to cross the loose sands, they will cross happily, simply because the human wishes to travel to the other side. In this, they are foolish."
The Last Pilgrim pondered this, THEIR face set into their fifty-third expression. "So why do you walk by my side?"
"For the Song." The wild-built cat smiled like a knife. "My friend, for the Song."❞
-- oral history from the Golden Barrens fire-praisers