My Wives Are A Divine Hive Mind

A long time ago, in the fractured cradle of Fathomi, an angel plummeted from the celestial expanse, her descent a streak of fractured light against the roiling skies.

Unlike the countless souls that had been shattered and remade in this world's capricious forge, her individuality clung to her like a tattered shroud—memories of ethereal choirs, the boundless harmony of higher planes, and a purpose unmarred by the realm's entropy.

She awoke amid the ruins of a shattered spire, her eight wings unfurled in radiant splendor, each feather a conduit of divine grace that hummed with the echoes of creation itself.

But Fathomi was no paradise; it was a realm of ceaseless strife, where inhabitants clashed in futile wars over territories, pride, and even without reasons—their souls ground to dust by the inexorable grind of survival.

Worse still loomed the Nihil—the chaotic order of nature's blind fury, a formless entropy that sought to unravel all structure for no reason beyond its own insatiable void.

Storms of unmaking devoured villages without warning, distortions twisted flesh into aberrations, and the land itself rebelled, birthing chasms that swallowed the unwary.

The angel beheld this spectacle with sorrow that pierced her luminous core.

She could not stand idle, her essence compelled her to intercede.

Thus, she made it her mission to aid as many souls as her mortal sojourn allowed, weaving threads of salvation into the chaos.

With hands that still bore the warmth of heavenly forges, she summoned forth a colossal edifice from the earth's reluctant marrow—a moving giant, a landship of unyielding stone and enchanted metal, its trunk-like legs propelling it across the fractured plains like a behemoth fleeing the dawn.

Within its vast frame, towers rose like spires of hope, markets bustled with the promise of trade, and gardens bloomed defiantly against the desolation.

Lucky souls, those who stumbled upon its path or were plucked from the brink by the angel's grace, found refuge there.

They formed a nascent civilization, bound not by blood but by shared purpose—to extend their founder's benevolence, scouting the wastes to offer succor to the needy, ferrying the wounded to safety, and illuminating the darkness with acts of quiet defiance against the Nihil's grasp.

Yet, as the landship carved its nomadic trail through Fathomi's ever-shifting veils, the angel perceived a insidious corrosion within her own form.

The traces of divinity that lingered in her vessel—those sacred embers of omnipotence—were being coerced by the world's tyrannical will.

Fathomi demanded allegiance to extremes, either yielding on the brink of Apotheosis and becoming a divine being, or death.

Unyielding order that stifled the soul's freedom, or rampant chaos that devoured all meaning. Her essence, once a balanced symphony, fractured under the pressure, pulling her toward fanaticism or oblivion.

To preserve her fragile equilibrium, to remain in this mortal-like shell and continue her vigil, the angel made a harrowing choice.

In a ritual of self-exile beneath a blood-red moon, she tore her eight wings from her back, one by one, each severance a scream that echoed across the heavens.

Feathers scattered like fallen stars, dissolving into the ether as her divine tether snapped. Agony consumed her, not merely of the flesh but of the spirit—a void where harmony had reigned, birthing madness that hollowed her gaze.

Unleashed, the wingless angel erupted into a rampage that scarred the land.

She became a tempest of fury, her once-gentle hands shattering monoliths and rending armies asunder.

Villages crumbled in her wake, the Nihil itself recoiling from the fury of a fallen seraph.

The landship trembled as her silhouette loomed on the horizon, a harbinger of unintended apocalypse.

But the souls she had uplifted, those hardy pioneers who had forged community from her vision, would not abandon her.

From the bastion's heart marched a cadre of the bold and the wise—the nascent mages, their nascent arts raw but resolute.

They confronted their former guardian amid a storm-lashed plain, spells clashing against her divine remnants in a ballet of desperation and devotion.

Arrows of woven light pierced her defenses, chains of elemental fury bound her limbs, and illusions of forgotten heavens lured her fractured mind back from the abyss.

Blow by blow, they subdued the rampaging force until the angel collapsed, her body broken but her conscience stirring like embers rekindled.

In the aftermath, as dawn broke over the bloodied field, the angel awoke with clarity restored.

The wings' loss had severed the coercive pull of Fathomi's extremes, anchoring her firmly in mortality's gray expanse.

She remembered her purpose—the salvation of souls, the defiance of entropy—and wept for the trial she had inflicted upon her children.

From that crucible, the Resilient Mother was truly born—a bastion not of fragile sanctuary, but of resilient kinship, where the angel's sacrifice etched an eternal vow into its stones.

The tale hung in the air like incense from a censer as the group navigated the winding paths of the Hat Athenaeum, the living hat's voice weaving the legend with the cadence of a fireside chronicler.

Noirette and Blanchette walked flanked by the arachne Hat Maker and the puppet body of the living hat, the giant witch's portal having sealed behind them with a whisper of closing winds.

"...and so, the angel in that tale," the living hat concluded, its crown pulsing with a soft glow as if illuminating the memory, "is none other than Dorose herself—the very maker of this landship and the founder of the Resilient Mother bastion. The people who faced her in that hour of madness? None other than the Mage Court in its earliest incarnation. They forged our independence in that confrontation, binding not just her form, but the ethos that guides us still."

Noirette absorbed the words, her mind tracing the threads of divinity and loss. "So, Dorose is deemed the leader and owner of this bastion—and the Mage Court, by extension?"

The arachne's segmented legs clicked softly against the stone as she pondered, her eight eyes reflecting the braziers' flicker. "In a manner of speaking, yes. The bastion and the court rest under her possession, a legacy of her creation. Yet, we operate independently, like a grand collaborative project where each voice shapes the whole.

"The bastion's daily rhythms—its markets, its defenses, its wanderings—are steered by the collective will of its inhabitants. The Mage Court, similarly, governs itself through discourse and discovery, unbound by singular decree. Dorose's role now is one of quiet guardianship, to shield the peace of the Resilient Mother and observe as her people strive toward greater horizons.

"Hence why her title is the Holy Guardian now."

From hearing those stories, Noirette wondered if Dorose is one of the surviving Fatelings that Samael missed in her rampage.

Blanchette's crimson eyes gleamed with a mix of reverence and intrigue, her pale fingers trailing absently along a pedestal as they passed. "No wonder Dorose possesses such power."

The living hat's chuckle resonated from its fabric, a warm vibration that seemed to infuse the air. "Powerful indeed. In truth, her might borders on the mythic. She once cleaved the sea asunder with a gesture, forging a pathway of solidified waves that bridged to another continent—and held it stable for a full month, allowing refugees to cross unharmed."

The arachne nodded, her silken brim catching the light like fresh-spun thread. "And that is merely the surface. I recall an encounter where she clashed with a potent enforcer from an evil cult faction.

"The foe struck true, bisecting her form in a blaze of profane energy. Yet Dorose... she rewove the threads of reality itself. Her sundered halves knit back together mid-battle, essence defying dissolution, and she emerged victorious, the cultist's magics crumbling like ash."

As the arachne's words faded, the group crested a subtle archway, emerging into the unique section of the Hat Athenaeum.

The change was understated at first—a deepening of the mist overhead, now threaded with iridescent veins that pulsed like breathing capillaries—but the hats on display escalated the eccentricity to near-absurdity.

Pedestals here bore crowns that defied logic: one hat sprouted illusory vines that bloomed spectral flowers in perpetual cycle—another brimmed with ever-shifting runes that whispered forgotten incantations in a babel of tongues—a third floated in lazy orbits around its stand, trailing comet-tails of stardust.

The air thrummed with a denser hum, as if the artifacts competed for attention, their former owners' whims etched into every stitch and fold.

The arachne wove through the displays with practiced ease, her legs navigating the cluttered aisles like a weaver threading a loom.

She paused at a shadowed alcove, where two pedestals stood apart, their hats unassuming yet radiating an undercurrent of potency. "These will suit you both," she declared, lifting the first with delicate precision—a sleek black witch hat, its conical crown rising to a precise point, accented with subtle gold filigree that traced arcane symbols along the brim and seams. The fabric gleamed like polished obsidian, absorbing light rather than reflecting it.

Noirette accepted it, turning it in her hands.

The weight was negligible, the material supple yet resilient, as if forged from shadow woven tight.

She hesitated, glancing at her draconic horns—curved and unyielding. "Will this even fit with these?"

The arachne's eyes converged in a cluster of amusement. "Simply wear it."

Noirette placed the hat atop her head. To her astonishment, it settled seamlessly, the crown molding around her horns without resistance.

A subtle shift rippled through her perception—when she glanced at her reflection in a nearby crystal pane, the horns were absent, veiled not by illusion but by the hat's intrinsic accommodation. "What manner of enchantment is this?" she smiled.

The arachne's voice held a note of satisfaction. "It is called the Strife Wanderer. Crafted for those who tread perilous paths, it conforms to any head, accommodating extra features—horns, crests, or otherwise—that might impede a proper fit.

"Beyond that, it possesses self-healing and self-cleaning properties, mending tears or stains with the passage of moments. Its durability rivals noble Curios or higher, while also latching securely during extreme activity unless the wearer wills its release.

"And it bestows a boon against sickness and plagues, fortifying the body against ailments that prey on the weary."

As the arachne spoke, Noirette felt a profound shift—a persistent fever that had shadowed her since her severance from the Well of the Soul, a low burn in her veins like embers refusing to die, began to ebb.

Cool clarity seeped in, her thoughts sharpening, her skin cooling from its unnatural warmth.

She exhaled slowly, the relief was tangible. "I can feel it already. The heat... it's fading."

Blanchette, meanwhile, had donned her selected hat with theatrical flair.

It was a study in contrasts—pure white, its crown soaring elegantly, the brim edged with a subtle iridescence that caught the light like fresh frost.

As she adjusted it, droplets formed along the underside—viscous, honey-like substances that melted and fell in lazy rivulets, only to disperse into harmless mist upon touching the floor.

The liquid was cool to the touch, carrying a faint, invigorating scent of wild herbs, and wearing the hat imparted a refreshing sensation, as if a gentle breeze circulated eternally within its confines.

Blanchette struck a pose, one hand on her hip, the other sweeping dramatically. Droplets trailed from the brim, evaporating before they soiled her cloak.

"How do I look?"

Noirette grinned, circling her sister appraisingly. "Mysterious, yet impossible to ignore—like a walking enigma."

It somehow fit her personality.

In a way, she was also sticking out like a sore thumb with that kind of hat, something that she definitely wanted.

The arachne chittered approvingly. "A fine match. It shares the self-healing and self-cleaning virtues of its counterpart, though at a gentler pace—suitable for one who prefers observation over exertion. The honey-like essence cools and refreshes, veiling the wearer in an aura of subtle allure, perfect for drawing eyes while concealing deeper intents.

"All in all, it is majorly meant to be aesthetically pleasing and engaging."

Blanchette beamed, tilting her head to watch another droplet fall. "You have chosen exquisitely. Your title as the Hat Maker proves legitimate and true."

It seemed like Blanchette was really happy with this hat.

Noirette, still marveling at her own hat's seamless integration, ventured a question. "Are we truly permitted these precious and unique hats from the outset?"

The arachne waved a hand dismissively, her silken brim fluttering. "It is entirely fine."

The living hat then assured further, "If any members of the Mage Court desired these hats specifically, they would not have been surrendered to the Athenaeum—or left so readily accessible. These came from two separate witches who donated them back, one deemed hers surpassed it in potency, the other grew bored with its unchanging elegance. They now find new purpose with worthy successors."

Noirette and Blanchette exchanged a glance, the weight of the gesture settling comfortably atop their heads.

"Our thanks," Noirette said sincerely, inclining her head. Blanchette echoed the sentiment with a graceful curtsy, her hat's droplets sparkling in the mist.

The arachne's eyes gleamed. "Wear them with the curiosity they deserve. And if you need anything regarding hats such is fixing or finding a new partner, then you can just try to find me here." She nodded. "Thus, I must return to my weaving—maintaining this trove and crafting fresh visions demands my threads."

With a fluid turn, her legs skittering in harmonious rhythm, she retreated into the alcove's depths, vanishing amid the humming displays, as if this is just another one of her casual mornings.