The Scribe shuddered as the scream rippled through the world. Paloria. They knew it without thinking. It was easy enough to tell even if the shower of flame and magma hadn't risen from the earth in the distance. The Scribe did not pause, trusting their feet to move them without true sight as they looked to the distance. Closer now, the stitches of creation were being pulled tight. What they did now was irreversible. Each stitch closed was impossible to be unpicked by each other, only added to and further grown. The Scribe could feel the vague shape of the dragons in the distance, outlined in Paloria's fiery aura. They were magnificent creatures, large and fierce, their roar echoing in the Scribe's mind. But the Scribe could see the glint of Goggins' workmanship in their eyes, could feel the rainbow mess of colours the same as the clouds of dust that were spreading across this new world. A new form of dragon rose from Goggins' treachery, dimmer, less vibrant, less present, than the dragons. The Scribe frowned at the corruption of these beautiful creatures, but they knew that Paloria would be enemy enough for Goggins to deal with. It was done. It was not the Scribe's place to pass judgement on their siblings, only watch and record.
The Scribe felt its awareness expanding as it grew accustomed to this new place, but the world's new creations were expanding faster. They had only to make it to the beginning, and it could go and investigate the new domains where its siblings lived. Hakku was resting on a great stone now crawling with life, and Dymos' creations were beginning their first attempts at speech, sending shivers of pleasure down the Scribe's spine. It itched to go and join them, but duty came first.
Ears twitching, the Scribe slowed to a graceful stop as its paws came down on grass. Standing, the Scribe examined the green life under its feet, the first true sight it had had of its siblings' creation. It walked now, feeling the life and the buzzing remains of its siblings it the life they had left behind here. A tree stood in the middle of the grass, already ancient by the standards of this world. Its roots reached deep, gave life to creatures below and above, the fruit it bore bright and shining with energy. It was beautiful. It bore the touch of several of the Scribe's siblings. It could see it in the twisting patterns of light and energy that curled around its branches. The Scibe didn't know what mischief Goggins had put into this tree, or how Hakku had changed it from the simple life that it had been at its birth, but it didn't matter what it had become. This tree was the beginning. This was the first creation of this world. It would be sacred to all the life that would grow in this place. Finally, the Scribe stood still.
Reaching out, the Scribe rested a hand on the trunk of the branch, and closed its luminous eyes. The physical world faded, but the spinning webs of energy all around it grew brighter, and the Scribe felt its own light warming it from within. The Scribe spun a stardrop from all the energies it could feel, all the gods and goddesses their Father had brought to this world, and placed it inside the tree. The tree's heart glowed now with life and energy. The fruit it bore glimmered with a new sheen. Whatever the Scribe's siblings did to this tree now, it would never wither or die. The life within it would remain there forever, a beacon of light from the essence of each of them. Should the people of this world come to it and ask, their gods would hear them. They would choose whether or not to answer.
The Scribe opened its eyes, letting its hand fall from the tree's trunk. Words rippled up and down its bark now, etched in a language no mortal living on this world would ever understand. They swarmed and trickled and eventually slowed to a stop. They would rest there, changing to reflect the happenings of this world as they occurred. They would speak the words of the gods to the mortals who asked questions of the tree.
Glancing up into the branches, the Scribe smiled. There was work to be done.
Waving a hand, the Scribe sent words flying from the tree on a breath of wind. It watched as they faded form physical sight and twisted into a ripple crossing the world to touch each of the creatures its siblings created, giving them names for the things they saw and made, giving them ways to express their needs and desires, to argue and to plead, to worship their gods. It gave them words.
Breathing in deeply, the Scribe closed its eyes and listened as the first words of mortal breath were spoken. Inelegant, for now, but they would learn. The Scribe wouldn't want to rob them of the opportunity to learn their speech, to develop their own idioms and languages and methods of communication. For the moment content that its work had been begun, the Scribe felt across the world for its siblings. Far away, Eira's frosted light was cast across the earth as she slowly moved towards Paloria. Goggins flickered and vanished in the same area, but between the raging pulse that was Paloria unleashing her anger at the new world, the clashing brightness of Eira, and Goggins just as a person, the Scribe had no desire to join them. Dymos and Feara were close by, their energies just touching, life and industry pushing against each other. Sensing that something may have its beginning there with which the Scribe had no desire to interfere, it
dropped once again to all fours, moving swiftly now across the energy plains towards the place where Hakku worked instead.
Rising to standing, the Scribe slowed to a stop beside Hakku, watching as his people gathered, newly aware of their existence, and now breathing in the words the Scribe had given them, learning how to communicate. It felt the currents and swirls of Hakku's mind working, whispering of fear and the work these beings would do. "Hello, brother," the Scribe said, looking up towards Hakku's beaked face. The Scribe gestured to the creatures below. "You certainly haven't wasted any time. Have you named them?"