One of the first followers of Lexadhra in Her nascent revival, Tetchta Mesis can rarely be described as modest, timorous, or prone to bouts of regret or shame. The Tick – a moniker given to them by was-Varo – found themself called to the Indelible’s Temple in the Memoryscape, where a cofhenya – a vessel of memory mists – awaited. Mesis was swept into the clutches of a sudden wave of timeless mist and carried away to a place known only as the shallows of time.
There, the Goddess revealed Herself before a sprawling mountain range depicting the faces of various figures of legend and renown. Moments passed as though decades with Lexadhra casting appraising glances over Tetchta, Her head canting before She finally asked if they knew what the four figures depicted on the mountainside had in common. The response was swift: “They’re all dead, people of remark, who touched history for all time.”
“Worse than dead.” Lexadhra’s own response was quicker still. “Forgotten, by all but Me.” Speaking as though conducting a funereal eulogy, She declared they were once renowned, once remarkable, once relevant. With a knife in Her hands, the self-same knife used by Tetchta to sever their finger as a tribute for the Full One, Lexadhra motioned behind the first figure: a Cultist of the Pink Diamond. The Cult, according to the Indelible, was formed when, so bedazzled by Nalibhtavi’s stunning presence, a hundred commonfolk put out their eyes, so they would never again be forced to look upon anything less magnificent than She. For a moment, Lexadhra was the Replete again, a passing fancy of an illusion that shattered when She drove the knife into the statue of the cultist, shattering it completely. “Gone,” She intoned, cold as the grave.
Tetchta’s typical nonchalance vanished then, stripped of pretense while the Goddess worked as She would. The second figure was the rendered form of a Glandorian Magician, known to Sapients by the cage of memory in which these once-renowned mages now dwell. With Tetchta quiescent and rabidly curious, Lexadhra lamented Glandor as once the source of Azhoan magic, a wellspring of epiphany and insanity birthed in equal measure, and whose Magicians were sought the world over for their wisdom. Murmuring an eldritch incantation, Lexadhra’s own magic caused the statue to explode. “Gone.” She declared, much like the last.
As Tetchta rationalised and justified and warred internally, Lexadhra moved on to the third figure: Tyl Purnaska, of the Stolen Harvest. As Her hands wrapped around the statue’s throat, She lectured Her guest on the Lord that was a King, wealthy, affluent, and beloved by his people. With Her features taking on the visage of Varo amidst a sudden bone-chilling cold, She relayed the Lord’s devotion to Elder Death and his efforts to starve an entire populace to fuel His undying army. As the toga draping the Goddess shifted to depict scenes of ancient calamity, the statue of Lord Purnaska wasted away, much like his subjects. “Gone.”
While the tension deepened and Tetchta reflected on fear of death – however out of reach it may be, Lexadhra conveyed Herself behind the statue of Vastel, Researcher of the Soul Index. Few words passed here, other than brief remarks on the Ankyrean’s ambition and scholarly nature. When the time came for the statue’s inevitable destruction, Lexadhra did not stir, instead bidding Tetchta to do the deed themselves. Perdition’s flames burst to life along their forearm and enfulged the statue, reducing it to dust. “Gone,” came Tetchta’s voice, echoed solemnly thereafter by the Indelible.
The Goddess turned away then, asking Tetchta what made them different from those figures once immortalised in stone, now ash and rubble. While Lexadhra toiled at something out of sight, Tetchta’s response was heard only by the Goddess, words of defiant intent and profound reflection on the very notion of legends. Her work complete, the Indelible stepped back and the mountainside now resembled Tetchta’s own face rendered in a variety of different ways and mediums. Denouncing the idea of adoration, Lexadhra offered some words of praise for Her follower before informing them they were not yet where they must be. In a swift motion She destroyed the likenesses She had only moments before made, coaxing a promise from Tetchta to let none stand in the way of their inevitable ascension.
Offered a choice between a shard of Truth and that knife of surprising import, Tetchta selected the shard and, into the rubble itself carved the words, “No cage will hold me.” With a smile, the Goddess embraced the Tick and imparted a trickle of the maddeningly vast river of Memory at Her command. As clouds of ephemeral mist arose to blanket the Memoryscape in a shroud of amaranthine, Tetchta too arose as the first Adherent of Memory.
Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 2nd of Midsummer, in the year 506 MA.
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