THIS IS A BOOK OF LORE. IF YOU ARE NOT INTO THE VOT UNIVERSE, THEN DON'T READ THIS BOOK.

  YOU WILL THINK YOU WANT TO READ IT BUT DO NOT. IT WAS NOT MADE FOR YOUR EYES.

  The Bastion's outermost resonance perimeter—a liminal frontier where the fabric of reality thins to a translucent veil—stood as an unyielding sentinel against the unknown. Here, the air shimmered with an iridescent glow, the resonance field humming a melody of protection, attuned to detect and deter any anomalies.?

  Yet, as the horizon darkened, a dissonant chord wove into the symphony. Four figures emerged from the ether, their presence neither triggering alarms nor stirring the Veil's defenses. It was as if the Veil recognized them, acknowledged them—not as intruders, but as kin returning home.?

  At the forefront was Halal Nasu, the Morningstar. Draped in obsidian robes that seemed woven from the night itself, he rode a steed as dark as the abyss—a black horse whose eyes burned with an inner fire. Halal's gaze was piercing, a tempest of emotions swirling within. His return from Unterra—a desolate realm mirroring the barrenness of Hellel's domain—had left scars unseen, burdens unspoken. The weight of leadership, of siring his clan into existence, pressed heavily upon him.?

  Beside him rode Nosfermos Nasu, the Harbinger of Pestilence. His pallid complexion contrasted starkly with the deep crimson of his attire. Eyes like twin eclipses surveyed the landscape, a smirk playing on lips that had whispered plagues into being. The cursed bloodline coursed through him, a testament to Halal’s shared yet fragmented power.

  Emaciated yet exuding an aura of insatiable hunger, his skeletal frame was adorned with tattered garments that once spoke of nobility. Sunken eyes held a glint of desperation, a void that could never be filled.

  Once known as Siv Hjaltland, a Viking chieftain who died in glory only to be dragged back from true death, Nosfermos became the first Nasu. His resurrection was a violent alchemy of undeath and divine inheritance—a process Halal swore never to repeat. His voice carried the cadence of withered psalms, and wherever he walked, crops withered, hope soured, and blood refused to clot.

  He did not kill with blade or brute strength, but with despair—an aura of inevitability that eroded sanity itself. The pestilence he brought was not just disease, but spiritual rot, a resonance that unmade belief. His steed, gaunt and translucent, emitted no sound as it moved—only the hum of lingering decay.

  To Nosfermos’s left was Priotus Nasu, the Horseman of War—once the warlord Li Kerui of the Tang Dynasty, now reborn through fire and fury. His armor pulsed with ancient power, etched in the script of a thousand conquered nations, and his black-and-crimson steed exhaled steam like a war-forged engine.

  Priotus radiated a brutal precision, a militant calm born not from discipline, but from domination. Every motion was calculated violence. In his eyes blazed the cold strategy of a mind that had turned war into an art form—and then into a language of blood. His sword, Requiem Fang, whispered to him in the dialect of fallen empires, always thirsting for another campaign.

  Completing the quartet was Elijah Nasu, the Warlord of Conquest. Clad in battle-worn armor that bore the scars of countless conflicts, he sat atop a steed as white as driven snow, its breath misting like prophecy.

  Once known as Svyatoslav I Igorevich, a prince of Kievan Rus and born conqueror, Elijah fell in battle cursing the gods for denying him more. He did not ask to return—but Halal brought him back, and in that resurrection, Elijah found a second war: one against fate itself.

  His helm bore the crest of countless broken kingships, and from his gauntlet flowed a spectral chain linked to nothing—and everything. It was said he could bind belief itself. The crown of thorns upon his brow was not of penance, but possession. His conquest was ideological: to reshape thought, identity, and will into unity beneath his reign.

  His doctrine was control through enlightenment, domination through charisma. Where Priotus shattered walls, Elijah restructured civilizations. And where Nosfermos brought despair, Elijah turned it into allegiance.

  The four horsemen, the progenitors of the Nasu lineage, halted at the threshold of the Bastion. Halal dismounted, his boots kissing the ground with a reverence that belied the storm within. He turned to his brethren, speaking in the ancient tongue—the Nasu language—a dialect of God Speak, resonant and complex, a symphony of natural notes interwoven with sharps and flats.?

  "We return," Halal intoned, the words carrying the weight of epochs. "The Veil recognizes our blood, our curse. Yet, do we recognize ourselves?"?

  Nosfermos chuckled, a sound devoid of mirth. "Recognition is a luxury, brother. We are but echoes of your fragmented power, each a shadow of a whole that once was."?

  Priotus's voice, raspy and brittle, interjected. "And what of the hunger that gnaws at our essence? Is it merely a reflection of your own void, Halal?"?

  Elijah stepped forward, his gaze unwavering. "Enough. Our purpose remains. The symphony of resonance awaits our dissonant chords. The question is—do we play in harmony or discord?"?

  Halal's eyes softened, memories of Unterra surfacing. A land desolate, mirroring the emptiness he felt. Yet, his clan had followed him, their loyalty unwavering, their bonds forged in the crucible of shared suffering.?

  "We have been cursed," Halal began, "our symbiosis twisted into siring, our powers divided and diluted. Yet, within this fragmentation lies our uniqueness. We are the Nasu, the embodiment of the flesh, the manifestation of the Creator's trinity—flesh, thought, and spirit. Gaia birthed the spirit, Chaos the thought, and through the Nasu, the flesh was formed."?

  Nosfermos's eyes narrowed. "And what of the Fifth? What of Wafu, your mate, the first woman Nasu? Her absence is a void that no philosophy can fill."?

  A shadow crossed Halal's face. "Erebus's lies sowed discord, turning the slight dissonance of Nasu into a war. Wafu's fate remains entwined with his machinations. But our path is clear. We reclaim our narrative, our resonance."?

  Priotus's skeletal fingers clenched. "And if the gods oppose us? If Poseidon himself stands against our truth?"?

  Elijah's voice was steel. "Then we remind them that the Nasu are not mere footnotes in their canticles. We are verses, stanzas that demand to be sung."?

  Halal nodded, a semblance of resolve settling over him. "Then let us proceed. The Bastion awaits, and with it, the reckoning of truths long buried."?

  As they advanced, the resonance field parted effortlessly before them, the Veil's acknowledgment a silent herald of their return. The Nasu had come home, not as prodigals seeking forgiveness, but as sovereigns reclaiming their legacy.

  The Bastion's outermost resonance perimeter—a liminal frontier where reality thinned and the Veil's fabric shimmered with ethereal translucence—stood as an unyielding sentinel against anomalies. Here, the air vibrated with a harmonic hum, a melody of protection woven by the gods themselves. Yet, as twilight descended, an unsettling dissonance crept into the symphony, heralding an unanticipated presence.?

  Poseidon, sovereign of the seas and guardian of the Canticles, stood atop a coral outcrop, his gaze fixed upon the horizon where the Veil wavered. The waters beneath mirrored his unease, their once-calm surface now rippling with anticipation. He sensed them before he saw them—four figures emerging from the mists, each astride a steed that seemed conjured from the annals of prophecy.?

  At the forefront rode Halal Nasu, the Morningstar, draped in obsidian robes that absorbed the fading light. His black horse moved with a predatory grace, eyes gleaming like twin voids. Beside him was Nosfermos Nasu, the Pale Rider, his ashen visage a stark contrast to the deep crimson of his attire. His steed, a pallid creature, exuded an aura of famine and desolation. To his left, Priotus Nasu, the Red Rider, bore the battle-worn armor of a thousand conflicts, his eyes aflame with the lust for war. His horse, a fiery red, pawed impatiently at the ground. Completing the quartet was Elijah Nasu, the White Rider, clad in garments that once spoke of purity but now bore the stains of conquest. His white steed stood tall, exuding an air of dominion.?

  Poseidon's heart weighed heavy with recognition and trepidation. The Nasu—beings of flesh, cursed symbiotes who had not evolved through the sacred union but through a bloodline tainted by Halal's siring—stood before him. Each bore a fragment of Halal's power, yet their presence was a testament to the perils of unfiltered truth and the fragmentation of divine essence.?

  As they approached, Poseidon's mind raced through the annals of history, piecing together fragments of lore and doctrine. The Canticles spoke of symbiosis as a harmonious union, a melding of souls sanctioned by the gods. Yet, here were beings who had circumvented this sacred process, their existence a blasphemy and a paradox. The Veil had not resisted their passage; instead, it had recognized them, perhaps as aberrations or as long-lost kin.?

  Halal dismounted, his gaze meeting Poseidon's with a mixture of defiance and sorrow. In the ancient tongue of the Nasu—a dialect of God Speak, resonant with the sharps and flats of dissonance—he spoke.?

  "Poseidon," Halal intoned, his voice carrying the weight of epochs, "we return not as adversaries, but as seekers of truth. Our existence challenges the very fabric of the Canticles you hold dear."?

  Poseidon's eyes narrowed, the ocean's depths reflecting in his irises. "You tread upon sacred ground, Halal. Your form of symbiosis is a corruption, a deviation from the path ordained by the gods."?

  Nosfermos stepped forward, his disfigured visage a testament to the pain of his rebirth. "Is it corruption, or evolution? We embody facets of the divine trinity—flesh, thought, and spirit. Are we not reflections of the All is Mind?"?

  The words struck a chord within Poseidon, igniting a tempest of contemplation. The triune nature of existence—the reptilian, limbic, and neocortical aspects—mirrored in the Nasu's being. Could it be that their existence was not a perversion, but an embodiment of a deeper truth??

  Priotus's voice, sharp and unyielding, cut through the tension. "The Canticles speak of harmony, yet here we stand as discordant notes in your symphony. Perhaps the melody is incomplete."?

  Elijah's gaze bore into Poseidon's soul. "You penned the Canticles, inscribed the doctrines. But did you encompass all truths, or merely the ones palatable to the gods?"?

  Poseidon's mind reeled, memories of the Canticles' inception flooding back. Had he, in his divine hubris, overlooked facets of existence that the Nasu now embodied? The notion unsettled him, planting seeds of doubt in the fertile soil of his consciousness.?

  Halal's voice softened, carrying a plea rather than a challenge. "We do not seek to dismantle, but to integrate. To reveal that multiple truths can coexist, even in opposition. The All is Mind, and we are but manifestations of its vastness."?

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  Poseidon's gaze drifted to the horizon, where the Veil shimmered with possibilities. The Nasu's words resonated with an unsettling clarity, challenging the monolithic doctrines he had long upheld. The realization dawned upon him—a game-changing revelation that threatened to upend the very foundations of his beliefs.?

  He turned back to Halal, his voice a whisper against the crashing waves. "Perhaps the Canticles are but one verse in an infinite chorus. And I... I am merely a scribe, not the scripture."?

  The admission hung in the air, a testament to the transformative power of unfiltered truth. The Nasu had not only breached the Bastion's perimeter but had penetrated the sanctum of Poseidon's convictions, leaving him—and the audience—in contemplative silence.

  ?The air was thick with a tension that seemed to hum just below the threshold of hearing, a resonance felt more than heard. The Veil shimmered, its fabric rippling as if disturbed by an unseen force. Poseidon stood at the forefront, his trident gleaming under the dim light, flanked by Lyra, Seraphina, and Athena. Their eyes were fixed on the figures emerging from the distortion—the Nasu.?

  Halal Nasu, the Morningstar, led the quartet, his black steed's hooves making no sound against the ethereal ground. Nosfermos Nasu followed, his pallid complexion almost luminescent. Priotus Nasu's armor clinked softly, a rhythmic counterpoint to the silence, while Elijah Nasu's gaze was sharp, assessing.?

  Poseidon's voice broke the stillness, firm yet edged with curiosity.?

  Poseidon: "You cross into realms guarded by ancient accords. State your purpose."

  Halal's eyes met Poseidon's, a flicker of something unreadable passing between them.?

  Halal Nasu: "We seek discourse, not discord. The foundations you stand upon may not be as solid as you believe."

  Athena's analytical mind raced, noting the subtle shifts in the resonance field around them, as if the very fabric of reality was adjusting to accommodate the Nasu's presence.?

  Athena: "Your arrival disrupts the harmony. Explain this anomaly."

  Nosfermos stepped forward, his voice carrying an eerie calm.?

  Nosfermos Nasu: "Harmony is but a perception. What you deem discord may be another's melody."

  Seraphina's empathic senses were overwhelmed by the cacophony of emotions emanating from the Nasu—a complex symphony of sorrow, defiance, and something deeper, more primal.?

  Seraphina: "Your words carry weight, but their meaning is shrouded. Clarify your intent."

  Priotus's gaze bore into Seraphina, his tone measured.?

  Priotus Nasu: "Intent is a mirror, reflecting the observer's expectations. We offer perspectives that challenge your doctrines."

  Lyra, attuned to the subtle vibrations of the universe, felt an unsettling familiarity in the Nasu's resonance. It was as if their very being resonated on a frequency she had glimpsed but never fully understood.?

  Lyra: "Your resonance... it aligns yet deviates. What are you?"

  Elijah's lips curled into a faint smile, his words enigmatic.?

  Elijah Nasu: "We are the notes between, the spaces unfilled, the echoes of truths unspoken."

  Poseidon's grip on his trident tightened, the weight of responsibility pressing upon him.?

  Poseidon: "The Canticles speak of balance, of ordained symbiosis. Your existence challenges this equilibrium."

  Halal's expression softened, a hint of sorrow in his eyes.?

  Halal Nasu: "Equilibrium is not stasis. Growth demands reevaluation. Perhaps the Canticles are but verses in an unfinished symphony."

  Athena's logical mind grappled with the implications, the Nasu's words resonating with unsettling clarity.?

  Athena: "If your truths hold, then our foundations are flawed."

  Nosfermos nodded, his demeanor almost compassionate.?

  Nosfermos Nasu: "Not flawed, but incomplete. We offer augmentation, not annihilation."

  Seraphina sensed the sincerity, yet underlying it was a current of something potent and potentially perilous.?

  Seraphina: "And the cost of such augmentation?"

  Priotus's eyes gleamed, his voice a whisper.?

  Priotus Nasu: "The willingness to embrace dissonance as part of the greater harmony."

  Lyra's mind raced, pieces of a puzzle clicking into place. The resonance, the vibrations, the interplay of light and sound—all interconnected, all facets of a singular truth. Her eyes widened as the revelation struck her with the force of a tidal wave.?

  Lyra: "All is song... all is music... all is light... all is vibration... all is mind."

  The words hung in the air, a profound silence following in their wake. The realization rippled through the assembly, challenging perceptions and beliefs long held sacred.?

  Poseidon's gaze met Lyra's, a mixture of awe and apprehension.?

  Poseidon: "If this is true, then the Canticles..."

  Halal's voice was gentle, yet firm.?

  Halal Nasu: "Are but one melody in an infinite composition."

  The Veil shimmered, the resonance field pulsating as if in response to the unveiled truth. The confrontation had not led to conflict, but to a revelation that would echo through the annals of time.?

  Seraphina: "Where do we go from here?"

  Elijah's smile was enigmatic, his words a riddle.?

  Elijah Nasu: "Forward, into the unknown harmonies yet to be discovered."

  The Nasu turned, their figures dissolving into the mists, leaving the gods and their companions standing at the precipice of a new understanding, the path ahead both exhilarating and daunting.

  ?The atmosphere was thick with an unsettling stillness, as though the very air held its breath in anticipation. The Nasu stood before Poseidon, Lyra, Seraphina, and Athena—not in aggression, but in a state of profound existence. Their mere presence disrupted the resonance field, creating ripples that distorted the fabric of reality around them.?

  Seraphina's senses were acutely attuned to the Veil's reactions. She observed that it did not resist the Nasu; instead, it mirrored their essence, reflecting their enigmatic nature back at them. This symbiotic reflection suggested a deeper connection between the Nasu and the Veil than previously understood.?

  From the shadows, the Curator emerged, his form barely discernible against the dim backdrop. He approached Lyra with an air of quiet authority, his voice a mere whisper yet resonant with significance.?

  Curator: "They are not enemies. They are answers to questions never spoken aloud."

  Lyra's mind raced, attempting to grasp the implications of the Curator's words. The Nasu embodied paradoxes that challenged the very foundations of their understanding. As she pondered this, a gentle yet omnipresent voice resonated through the field, Gaia's essence permeating their consciousness.?

  Gaia: "Truth is not contradiction. Truth is capacity."

  The realization struck Lyra with profound clarity. The Nasu's existence did not negate their truths but expanded the spectrum of understanding. Truth was not a singular path but a vast expanse of possibilities, each facet adding depth and capacity to the whole.?

  Poseidon, witnessing the unfolding revelations, felt a tremor within his core beliefs. The Canticles he had long upheld seemed now to be but a fragment of a more intricate tapestry. The Nasu's presence was not a threat but an invitation to broaden their comprehension of existence.?

  Athena, ever the embodiment of wisdom, found herself at a crossroads of logic and intuition. The Nasu's truths resonated with her analytical mind, challenging her to integrate these new perspectives into her understanding.?

  Seraphina, feeling the Veil's harmonious response to the Nasu, understood that resistance was not the answer. Embracing the multiplicity of truths allowed for a more profound connection to the cosmos and its myriad mysteries.?

  In this moment of collective epiphany, the boundaries between self and other, known and unknown, dissolved. The Nasu's existence illuminated the vast capacity of truth, urging all present to transcend limitations and embrace the infinite facets of reality.

  The sun dipped below the horizon, casting elongated shadows across the temple courtyards. A gentle breeze carried the scent of salt from the nearby sea, mingling with the faint aroma of burning incense. The city was settling into a tranquil evening rhythm—merchants closing their stalls, children laughing as they were called home, and the distant hum of hymns resonating from the sanctuaries. It was a scene of peace, of normalcy, where the divine and mortal realms coexisted in harmonious balance.?

  Poseidon stood atop the temple's grand balcony, his gaze sweeping over the serene landscape. The events of recent days weighed heavily upon him—the arrival of the Nasu, their cryptic messages, and the unsettling truths they unveiled. Yet, as he observed the calm below, a semblance of reassurance settled in his heart. Perhaps the storm had passed, and equilibrium was restored.?

  Lyra approached quietly, her presence a comforting anchor amidst his turbulent thoughts.?

  Lyra: "The city seems at peace, my lord."

  Poseidon: "Indeed. After the chaos, this tranquility is a balm to the soul."

  Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden, piercing cry from the streets below—a sound that shattered the evening's calm like glass against stone. Poseidon's eyes snapped to the source, his heart pounding.?

  Poseidon: "What was that?"

  Without waiting for a response, he descended the temple steps with Lyra close behind. The streets, moments ago a picture of serenity, were now in disarray. Citizens clutched their heads, eyes wide with terror, as if battling unseen tormentors. Some collapsed to their knees, whispering incoherent phrases, while others stared blankly ahead, their expressions void of recognition.?

  Lyra: "Something's wrong. They're... afflicted."

  Poseidon knelt beside an elderly man who was trembling violently, his lips moving in rapid succession.?

  Poseidon: "What troubles you, old one?"

  The man's eyes met Poseidon's, and for a fleeting moment, clarity emerged.?

  Elderly Man: "The voices... so many truths... all at once. I can't... I can't hold them."

  Understanding dawned on Poseidon with chilling clarity.?

  Poseidon: "The Nasu. They've left behind more than just words."

  Lyra's face paled as realization set in.?

  Lyra: "Thought-plagues. Infectious beliefs that replicate within the mind."

  The weight of the revelation pressed heavily upon them. The Nasu's departure was not an end but a beginning—a catalyst that had set into motion an insidious contagion of ideas, spreading rapidly through the populace.?

  Poseidon: "We must act swiftly. Gather the scholars and healers. We need to understand the nature of this affliction."

  As the night progressed, the temple became a hub of frantic activity. Scrolls were unfurled, ancient texts consulted, and remedies concocted. Yet, despite their combined efforts, the thought-plagues proved resistant to conventional interventions. The afflicted continued to wrestle with the cacophony of conflicting truths echoing within their minds.?

  Amidst the turmoil, reports surfaced of gatherings forming in the city's outskirts—groups of individuals who, rather than succumbing to madness, embraced the multitude of truths. They called themselves the Fractalist Chorus, a burgeoning faction seeking to unify all perspectives, all realities, into a singular, encompassing understanding.?

  Lyra: "They're not resisting the thought-plagues. They're welcoming them."

  Poseidon: "But at what cost? Can the human mind truly contain such vast contradictions without fracturing?"

  The question hung heavily between them, unanswered and foreboding.?

  Days turned into nights, and the city teetered on the brink of an epistemological schism. Temples once devoted to singular deities now echoed with hymns that blended myriad doctrines. Philosophers debated endlessly in the agoras, their discussions looping in paradoxical circles. The very fabric of societal belief was unraveling, threads intertwining in chaotic patterns.?

  Poseidon retreated to his sanctum, the weight of responsibility pressing upon his divine shoulders. He unrolled the sacred Canticles, the scriptures that had guided mortals for eons. Yet, as he read the verses, doubt seeped into his being.?

  Poseidon (whispering to himself): "Are these words the immutable truth, or merely a perspective among countless others?"

  His hand trembled as he dipped his quill into ink, the tip hovering over the parchment. The line between author and instrument blurred, leaving him in a chasm of uncertainty.?

  Poseidon (writing): "I no longer know if I am scripture... or scribe."

  As the ink dried, a sudden gust extinguished the chamber's candles, plunging the room into darkness. A voice, neither male nor female, resonated from the shadows—a voice both familiar and alien.?

  "If all truths are embraced, what becomes of the lie?"

  Poseidon's breath caught, the question echoing in the void, demanding contemplation. The boundaries of reality seemed to waver, the certainty of existence itself called into question.?

  The chamber remained silent, save for the lingering resonance of the enigmatic query—a question that would haunt gods and mortals alike, compelling them to confront the very essence of their beliefs.