Chapter 3: The Song-Wind City

Novac rolled his eyes, a silent acknowledgment that Lesendi's words were aimed squarely at him. With a weary sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. "I'll go find her and talk. It's my fault, after all." He exited the building, his steps leading him in the familiar "straight ahead" direction he always gravitated toward in unfamiliar places. After a short while, he spotted AJ leaning against a wall and moved to join her. At first Novac said nothing thinking about the right words before he finally began to speak.

"I'm what they call a cooperative repeat offender. Others might just say career criminal. I'm good at what I do, but I tend to brag, and that usually gets me caught. I'm fine with it, though. I spent the first two years of my life in prison; I was actually born in the prison hospital—it's on my birth certificate. When the police come knocking, I don't run, I don't fight, I don't yell. In prison, I behave, follow orders, and avoid conflict. That track record usually lands me in a minimum-security facility. I know the guards there, they know me, and that makes it bearable.

Now, this ‘God’ has pulled me out, making me a fugitive. The longer I'm gone, the worse it gets. I was in a high-security prison once, just for two weeks, I think, until weapon charges were dropped—a mix-up. A high-security prison is a completely different beast, and I have no desire to relive that experience. Right now, I don't even know if I want to go back. My choices are either returning and facing a long time in hell, or staying here and living through hell every day. Unlike you, I don't like what I've become. A killer."

He gestured to his Flyssa. "I know how to use these knives to inflict maximum pain. Before I came here, I never hurt anyone." He let out a heavy sigh. "The point is, I'm on edge, but I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that. We're in this together, and we need each other to survive. I am sorry "

Lesedi perks up at Dalton's words. "Oh! So, the people of your home world are knowledgeable about astronomy? Are you capable of spaceflight?"

Lesedi's orange eyes light up with excitement. "We have departments of both astrology and astronomy, yes. We have studied the cosmos and the movement of the planets. Magic exists that allows us to transport ourselves to other planets, but it is almost impossible to master and only a rare few have been able to use it. We have yet to master the magic or technology needed to actually explore the vastness of space! But there was an attempt at manned spaceflight nearly a century ago!

"The elven astronomer Gelviel Zorriah built a ship called the Lirgen's Glory and set off for the stars over a century ago. Oh, it was a glorious contraption! Almost two hundred feet long, with a solid stone hull and crystalline capacitors to store mystic energy. Its propulsion engine was fueled by amplified telekinetic magic!"

The petite professor lets out a wistful sigh. "Unfortunately, it was only a few years later that the Eye of Abendego formed, an immense perpetual storm that wiped out the nation of Lirgen. Contact with Lirgen's Glory was lost, and nothing has been heard from it or Gelviel since. We elves can live for centuries, though, so there's a chance that he and his crew are alive out there, somewhere in space. Maybe one day, we'll find them again..."

"Of course. There's an inn not too far from campus called The Oxpecker's Perch. It is affordable, and the accommodations are comfortable. Go and rest up. When you're ready to start, you know where to find me."

You check into the Oxpecker's Rest, securing comfortable rooms in which to stay. After a hearty meal in the common room, you retire to your chambers to rest and reflect on everything you've learned today. Eventually, you settle down to sleep.

And in the warmth and stillness of the night, you dream...

---

AJ

You drift into sleep, the warmth of the hearth slowly giving way to a deeper, more primal heat. It's the kind of warmth that cradles your soul rather than your skin, and it draws you inward—into a dream that feels too vivid to be just a dream.

You stand in a vast open field, blanketed with flowers that shimmer like embers. The sky is a cascade of twilight hues—lavenders, golds, and burning crimsons. Everything breathes with color and warmth, as though the whole world is a living flame made gentle.

Then you feel it.

A presence—tender, powerful, vast. It doesn't announce itself with sound or flash, but rather, you feel seen, known, in a way that strips away every fear and pretense. You turn slowly and there they are. You instinctively feel their celestial power, and you somehow know their name.

Arshea.

Their form shimmers and shifts, like silk caught in sunlight. One moment masculine, the next feminine, then something wholly other, and then somehow... you. Standing before you, Arshea wears your face, your form, your dark hair spilling over pale shoulders like liquid night. They smile at you with your own mouth, warm and radiant.

"Beautiful, aren’t you?" they say, voice soft as velvet and rich with power. "It’s no wonder I chose to wear your shape tonight."

You stare, unsure, your heart suddenly fragile in your chest. Arshea’s eyes—your eyes, yet impossibly older, impossibly kind—glimmer with mirth and sorrow both. "You didn’t choose this form. You didn't ask to become her. But your soul did."

They step forward and take your hand, fingers warm with divine fire. "You were brought here not just by magic, AJ, but by meaning. You were becoming, even before Golarion called you. And now, you have the chance to become fully. You are not trapped. You are free."

The field around you blazes suddenly with light—not scorching, but exultant, joyous. You feel it in your chest, that fire of yours. The same fire that burns in your hands when you cast your spells, that courses through you in the heat of battle. But now it isn’t rage or danger. It’s affirmation.

"This body," Arshea whispers, touching your cheek with reverence, "is not a mistake. It’s a gift. A reflection of truths long buried, now given form. Do not fear your new shape. Explore it. Rejoice in it. Seek your desires—wherever they lead. Love whom you love. Live how you live. You are free."

A warmth swells in your chest, aching and glorious. You feel tears prick your eyes—not of sorrow, but release. For the first time, a corner of the confusion and fear uncoils and burns away.

Arshea smiles and their form shifts again, wings of molten gold unfurling behind them. "The world is fraying. Darkness rises, and the old ways grow brittle. But you, AJ, are change. Fire. You have been chosen not because you are perfect, but because you burn with potential. You will help set things right. Not by conforming, but by being fully, freely you."

They lean in and press a kiss to your forehead. It tingles like a sunbeam through glass. "My boon to you is this," they whisper. "When you doubt yourself, feel my flame. When the world tries to bind you, feel your fire break those chains. You are never alone. Not now. Not ever."

The field begins to fade, the flowers flickering out like dying sparks—but the warmth remains, burning in your chest.

You wake with the firelight flickering low beside you, and though you’re alone in your bed, your cheek is still warm from a kiss that couldn't have been real.

And yet, somehow, you know it was.

---

Al:

The night is deep and still, and the air is warm where your body rests on the bed. You slip into sleep easily, as though drawn downward into the quiet earth itself.

And then you are walking.

Bare feet press into soft loam, the scent of pine and leaf-mold thick in the air. You recognize the forest—it is every forest you’ve ever wandered, but older, quieter, truer. The trees seem to lean in as you pass, not menacing but watchful, wise. The hush here is complete, not silence, but reverence.

A crunch of leaves behind you makes you turn.

He stands tall among the trunks, weathered as old bark, with skin lined by time and hands calloused by honest labor. A longbow rests against his shoulder, and the elk-horn helm upon his brow glows faintly in the starlight. His eyes are sharp, the color of pine pitch, and they fix on you without flinching. You instinctively feel his divine power, and you know his name. Erastil.

"You came a long way to get lost, boy." His voice is rough-hewn, steady as split oak. He takes a step forward, the earth barely noticing his weight. "Or maybe you were already lost when the world pulled you here."

You swallow, heart tight. You feel the tusks in your mouth, the weight of your new body. Still unfamiliar. Still strange. You wait for judgment.

He snorts. "You think I care what shape your jaw is? What color your hide turned? If you think a pair of tusks makes you less, then you ain’t learned a damn thing about strength."

He stops just before you, taller than you'd imagined, smelling of campfires and river moss. "This world’s sick," he says. "It’s fraying at the edges. Too many people chasing power, forgetting the land, forgetting each other. I don’t need warlords or heroes in shining armor. I need keepers. People who’ll build, tend, stay."

His eyes scan you, and you feel your soul laid bare. "You didn’t ask to come here. And you sure as hell didn’t ask to be changed. But you’ve got the spark. You hear the trees. You feel the soil. That’s enough."

He reaches into his belt pouch and pulls out a seed—small, unremarkable, except that it pulses softly with warmth. He holds it out. "This is my boon. Keep it on your person. You'll share in my bounty, so long as you continue to work for it."

You reach for it. His rough fingers curl yours around it. "Take care of your kin. And I don’t just mean blood. Friends. Strays. The fool who can’t feed himself in winter. They’re yours now. That’s your calling." He pauses, studying you one last time. "Walk your path, Al. And walk it with pride."

Then the trees begin to fade, the light dimming to darkness—not cold, but restful, like a heavy quilt drawn over your thoughts. You wake with your hand clenched tight against your chest, and when you open it, there's nothing there.

But the weight of something promised still lingers.

---

Dalton:

Sleep finds you easily tonight. The ache in your muscles fades as you lie still, the rhythm of your breath deep and steady. In that quiet space between thought and rest, something shifts. Time stills. The world slows.

And then, you are standing in a vast, tranquil courtyard beneath a sky the color of old parchment. Marble tiles stretch beneath your feet, warm but not hot. The air smells faintly of incense and distant rain. Surrounding you are scroll-covered walls, calligraphy in languages you know and many you don’t—yet they all make sense, as if they were written on the inside of your soul.

You feel him before you see him.

A presence—calm, contained, unwavering.

You turn.

He is seated cross-legged atop a flat stone. A man. A god. His name comes to you. Irori.

His body is a study in perfect balance: strong but not swollen, lithe but not frail. Every muscle is exactly as it should be. His simple robes hang in clean, natural folds, his bare arms and feet unadorned. His gaze is sharp, but not piercing. It holds no judgment—only observation. Only truth. He inclines his head once. A silent acknowledgment.

"Dalton," he says, and though his voice is no louder than a breath, it carries through the courtyard like a bell. "You were not born into this world, yet you stand upon its soil now. This was not accident. It was selection." He rises—not hurried, not slow, just precisely at the pace he means to. "Many cry out for salvation. Many hunger for strength. Few are ready to cultivate it. You are ready. Not finished—but ready."

He steps forward, hands behind his back, walking a slow circle around you. "Your body is strong. But strength without clarity is chaos. Your mind is sharp. But knowledge without humility is arrogance. Your spirit is steady. But steadiness without purpose is stagnation." He pauses in front of you, watching. "You have been given a gift—not perfection, but the path to it. Golarion is a world fraying at the edges. Power has grown wild. Discipline has grown rare. You are here not to dominate others, but to inspire them. To lift them. To teach by example."

He turns and gestures toward one of the walls. The calligraphy there glows faintly as words rearrange themselves, forming a phrase in a language you do not recognize—but understand nonetheless:

"Perfection is not an end. It is a practice."

He turns back, and his right hand opens. Floating just above his palm is a tiny bead of light—shimmering, shifting with strange depth. Not heat. Not energy. Understanding. "This is my boon to you," Irori says. "A seed of knowledge. You will not grasp it all at once. But when your body, mind, and spirit align, it will bloom. In a moment of need, when instinct fails, it will show you the next motion." He steps closer and lifts the bead to your forehead. It dissolves into you like mist, and you feel your thoughts settle—sharper, clearer.

"Stay humble. Train without end. Help others rise." He places a hand briefly on your shoulder—warm, heavy with calm. "Walk the path, Dalton. Walk it well."

And then the courtyard fades, the incense and scrolls dissolving into morning light. You wake before sunrise, heart quiet, body still. The ache in your muscles is gone. A new kind of clarity lingers in your breath, and though no words are spoken, you know:

You have begun.

---

Novac:

The dream creeps in like smoke—slow, sweet, and honey-thick.

You find yourself in a golden chamber lit by a thousand flickering candles. Their flames dance without heat, casting shadows that move with minds of their own. The air smells of jasmine and spice, and every breath hums in your throat like laughter held just behind your teeth. Silks drape the walls like water frozen in motion. At the center of the room stands a tall, lithe figure with slender pointed ears—every step of her bare feet silent on the marble floor, every motion fluid as molten gold.

You somehow know her name.

Calistria.

She moves like temptation incarnate, yellow silk clinging and flowing around her body in turns, teasing without revealing. Her long, pointed ears twitch slightly as she tilts her head toward you, smiling in a way that sends a chill down your spine—equal parts seduction and threat. "Well, well," she purrs, her voice curling through the room like smoke. "A little rat from another world… and yet you landed on your feet."

She circles you, fingertip trailing just behind her along your shoulder—not quite touching, but close enough to raise the hairs on your neck. "You were caged, weren’t you? Branded, locked away, forgotten. But now…" She gestures, and the chamber around you shifts—becoming a dark alley, then a glittering ballroom, then a battlefield lit by moonlight. "Now, you’re free. Golarion is full of opportunity, Novac. And I adore people who know how to take what the world won’t give willingly."

She stands in front of you again, her eyes gleaming like amber glass. "You were brought here for a reason. Not to be a hero in shining armor. No, no." She grins wider, revealing teeth just a little too sharp. "You were brought here because this world is unraveling, and sometimes it takes a knife in the dark to cut the right threads."

She leans in close, her lips near your ear. "Be who you are, Novac. No chains. No apologies. Seek pleasure, take revenge when it's deserved, and lie through your pretty little teeth if it gets you where you want to go."

Her hand comes up—golden nails glittering like stingers—and she opens her palm. A small, shimmering brooch lies within: a brooch shaped like a wasp, its wings made of slivers of mirror. "My boon," she whispers. "Use it when you need to bend the truth to your needs. Let them believe what you want them to believe. Let them love you. Or fear you."

She presses it to your chest. You don’t feel it pierce, but it burns—just for a moment—and then the heat fades, replaced by a flicker of something else: confidence. Power. She steps back, her gaze appraising and amused.

"Play the game well, my little sting. The world’s full of locked doors, but you’ve got all the keys."

She turns, her silhouette vanishing into candlelight and silk, and you feel yourself falling—no, gliding—back into your body, into the inn where you sleep. You wake, and while the brooch is nowhere to be seen, you can feel the prick of pain from where it was. And you can feel its potential waiting to be released.

When you return to the Magaambya after breakfast, Lesedi is surprised to hear about your dreams. "Oh, wow! I've heard stories of people who have had visions of the gods, but I've never met any of them until now! You should feel honored, indeed!" If asked, the elf can give you basic information about each of the divinities who spoke to you.

Arshea: Appearing in art more than any of the other empyreal lords, Arshea, the Spirit of Abandon represents freedom, physical beauty, and sexuality. More than anything else, freedom is what matters to Arshea. For many this is most commonly seen as freedom for sexual expression, but Arshea represents the freedom to experience all that is good in the world, be it an ideology or a specific emotional or physical expression. So long as it doesn’t harm others, Arshea believes creatures should do, think, and feel as they will. They encourage their followers to try new things, to think in new ways, and to wear new forms.

Erastil: Unlike many other good deities, Erastil, Old Deadeye, does not send his followers out into the world to fight and crush evil. Eschewing crusades and other ventures that take his followers away from their homes, Erastil watches over those who devote their lives to family and community. He is primarily an agricultural deity, specifically focusing on those aspects of nature that either can be tamed or are of use to his followers. His domain encompasses the plants and animals that farmers, hunters, and ranchers deal with in their everyday lives. While he is a protective deity, Erastil steps in only when quiet, pastoral lives are threatened. He desires his followers to live their lives in peace, with no risk of being conscripted into armies, devoured by monsters, or destroyed by magic.

Irori: Irori, Master of Masters, exemplifies the concepts of self-perfection. His dogma states that he was a mortal who gained godhood through achieving a physical and mental state that surpassed mortal limitations. His followers seek to emulate their god’s divine state by perfecting themselves using the words of the Unbinding of Fetters, Irori’s sacred text. The illuminated pages of the tome detail numerous physical, spiritual, and mental exercises, as well as methods of learning and remembering.

Calistria: As symbolized by the three daggers of her religious symbol, Calistria, the Savored Sting, has three aspects: lust, revenge, and trickery. Silver-tongued and charming, she is a master of weaving insults into compliments and laying intricate groundwork for retribution at its finest. She is a goddess of vengeance, but it would be a mistake to assume that means she pursues justice. Calistria is fickle, shifting her loyalties and interests as her whims take her—though she never forgets a slight, and any who think she has forgiven will surely find it is only a matter of time before they are targeted by a long-term plot of revenge to lay them thoroughly low.