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End of Initiates
Athen knelt in their small cell. A handful of purple candles, a small cot, and literature on the Wyrm Goddess were the only possessions the young member of the clergy had, beyond the clothing on their back, of course. “Grant me the patience to understand all things and the strength to see them through.” With their quick prayer done Athen rose to their feet, hurriedly making their way out of the small room and into a line of other initiates. Some were shivering from the thin robes. It wasn’t due to any feelings of cold, but rather the adrenaline surging through their systems. Tonight would be one of the most important nights for many of them and their initiation into the Temple of the Wyrm. For others it would be a night of failure. Everyone knew that joining the temple fully was a difficult task and there was no shame in failure, but each wanted to be found worthy by the Wrym Goddess and her priests.
The initates made their way into a large domed room lined with seats and quickly filed their way in, each taking a seat as far down the line as possible and gradually filling the rows as more and more piled in. Once the last initiate had been settled the priests came in. Unlike most of the other priests who wore kaleidoscopic robes of brilliant color these priests wore robes of dingy black-grey the color of soot. They wore bandages over their faces and eyes, obscuring their identity and offered no words to the quiet crowds. Instead, wordlessly, the first initiate got up and walked over to a large pot that was the priests had carried in, but Athen had not noticed at first. Now it was practically all they could see. The pot was a great bronze pot inlaid with imagery of teeth and fire, supported on thick stubby legs that stretched out and ended in small orbs. It was ornamental but not awe inspiring if one were to simply see it on the side of the street but inside it, inside was something more precious than gold.
One by one the initiates approached the pot and put their hand over it. Some did not react, they simply withdrew their hand and were show to a small doorway. These were the successful initiates who would soon become acolytes. They would cut away their hair and give up the robes, symbolizing the death of their old life and the start of the new one. Athen wasn’t quite sure exactly what came after that as the entire process was kept quite secret from most.
A shout broke Athen’s line of thought, another failure. The initiate had placed their hand above the pot and like the others who had failed recoiled in pain. Some bore it quietly while others let out cries of pain and others merely wept. These were the unchosen, those who had somehow failed or been deemed as not suitable for the great Wyrm’s purposes. It was said that those of the clergy must be willing to walk into the Wyrm’s mouth and be devoured if that was her whim. Athen thought that such tales could only be stories but stories that had a small kernel of merit. The Wyrm Goddess was mercurial, and her temperament fluctuated as easily as the winds. To be by her side was the greatest honor and certain doom for most but the clergy took on the role gladly. Those who failed lacked the spirit to truly serve in all ways, or at least that’s how the whispers went.
One by one the initiates lowered in number, some moving on in triumph while many more were found to be lacking until it was Athen’s turn. They walked slowly up to the cauldron and suppressed a gasp at the sight. Inside was a tiny silver platter hung with chains and a small fire burning underneath it. Odd, but not truly remarkable. Instead, the liquid on the platter was the source of their surprise. It was a thick and dark red substance, almost black, that twinkled in the light and seemed to roil softly with its own life. A drop of blood from the Wyrm Goddess herself. Athen felt a tiny tremor building in their legs but pushed forwards to raise their hand above the drop of scarlet judgment and in that brief moment they found themselves elsewhere.
Athen found themselves in a strange stone room with no way in and no way out. Panic surged in their chest before they took a deep breath, calming themselves. Surely such a thing was part of the trial. They must simply stay calm and reason their way out. Suddenly, a great green orb appeared with a thick black line down the center. Athen stared at it in surprise before slowly coming to the realization it was not simply a large orb of crystal but a great eye, larger than he had thought possible. It stared down at the initiate pitilessly, like a child surveying a line of ants that marched between their feet. For a horrible moment Athen thought this would be doom, where the Wyrm Goddess unleashes her terrible hunger and devours him mind, body, and soul. Athen fell to their needs, wordlessly pleading and the great eye bobbed up and down with a deep bassy tone that shook Athen to their very core. The Wyrm Goddess was laughing! “Smart thing. You will do.” A voice louder than thunder burst from seemingly every corner of the room in an almost deafening roar and suddenly Athen found themselves back in the room with the cauldron. Their hand still over the drop of blood. Wordlessly the priests pointed Athen to the door with the rest of the newly christened acolytes and Athen’s eyes widened. They had done it! Somehow they had been found worthy! Pride surged inside Athen’s chest as they walked over to the door, careful not to break into a joyful run. Inside were the rest of the initiates, most naked already and many already shaved. A single priest in deep red robes bowed to Athen and held out their hands. “Your robes, acolyte.” At this Athen couldn’t help but grin as they disrobed. They had done it, but this would only be the beginning of their long journey.

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Typhoon. The word echoed in the dark. Ie could not see into his chambers for the shadow—only the sound of the pounding torrent on the fortress roof accompanied him. He had spent his two days in Nawarisano in this chamber, in the dark, taken sick to his sheets with an illness that could not be named. It had descended on him quickly, within an hour of landfall. Perhaps as revenge for avoiding the sickness that came with a man’s first time at sea.
This disease had been heralded by his first sight of the pewa—the enemy.

These barley-eaters, these hairy ones, were not living creatures. Instead they had sat off the eastern port tied to great crosses of wood, where their small bodies had been shredded by the gulls and by the sea. The blood, which could be seen even from the docks, had turned black with the air and clung to grizzled bones and fur. Like a splotch of ink dropped onto a painting those crosses had clashed with the blazing green of the summer behind them, so that his mind had not realized what it witnessed until he was closer.

The second wave—when his stomach had broke and his legs buckled—had been when he witnessed a man die. Cut down and open by Lady Nawara’s blade only twelve paces away. That sight had haunted him, the screams worse, and he had wretched four times since and broke a sweat twice as many times in the summer heat. No matter how hard he tried, he could not escape it. What had that man felt? What if that had been him, or worse—grandfather, father, brother? The only relief had come when that word echoed again. Only, it was not in his mind. This time his ears awoke to the shouting.

“Typhoon!”

Ie stirred, not fast enough to rise before the doors to his room slid open violently. Katsuya Toriichi filled the doorway, a giant among Narasawa Fortress’ frames. “Foscan-go” he said. Ever since landing, he had switched to formal language. “So sorry, but we must leave. Now.”

“I’m sick, Toriichi. Please.”

“There’s no time. We have to get to higher ground. The camps are moving inland, we’re going to the shrine of Tadan on the nearby hill. It is safest there.”

It was then that Ie could hear more shouts from the hallways. Frantic demanding voices cried out “Typhoon! Typhoon!”

Typhoon? His mind raced. But we came after the rains? The season of storms should have ended. Yet it did begin raining on that first day and had not ceased since. Ie pulled himself up slowly, tired muscles aching. He had grown weaker from lack of food, confined to the dark of his room. Sweat pooled on his face, and sensing the urgency Toriichi came forward and hooked him under the arm.
“We must go nephew.”

The two made their way through the winding halls of the fortress, slipping through this corner or that. Narawa was a small place, made of stark wooden and very little comforts. It lacked any and all refinement, placed upon its seamount as a jumble of high walls and steep stairs. The place held a memory of defense with an iron grip, yet it had never been attacked in its near century long history. Instead, its purpose now was to impose upon the surrounding landscape like a dark sentinel. To tell invaders, and those beneath its walls, that hope died there.

When they had reached an exit, Toriichi pushed open one of the thick gates that sealed the inside. Instantly the winds and water smashed into the hall, coating the two and the people following them out. The outside howled, far louder to the open ear than from under the roof. In that howling, one could hear the roar of the gods.

Ie shielded his eyes, but it did not help. All he could see was the outline of the inner bailey and an enclosing gray mist of flying sea.
‘“This way.” Toriichi led him into the maelstrom.

Just beyond the flying waves, under the canopy of a stall near the wall, several black outlines huddled in remote dryness. Lord Katsuya, Lady Narawa, and a handful of the other important lords stationed in the fortress stood together against the onslaught.

“Katsuya-ka, Foscan-go.” Lady Narawa said as they approached. She could hardly be heard over the wind and wave. “We have to get across to the mainland. Across the bridge.”

Ie looked out. In the cutting mist swung the rope bridge that connected the seamount to the shore. It was a well-kept bridge, but even now it tossed and jerked as unseen power pushed against it. Below the ocean churned and reached up in great laps, having rushed over the beaches and far into the town. The risk it would reach up and take them all was too high to stay on the mount. It was for that reason only that he went forward with the group to cross.

At first the task seemed impossible. No one could stand on that bridge as it was thrown about. Instantly they would be swallowed by the sea, and he contemplated crying out. But he knew he would not be heard, so he stayed behind Toriichi as they stepped up onto the stairs of the crossing.One of Lady Narawa’s retainers led them, with her following right behind confidently. Lord Katsuya came next, with Toriichi and Ie behind. At first it seemed what Ie feared would be what took place, but as the swell of men and women stepped up onto the slick planks and grasped the rope sides—their weight brought the bridge down despite the ravings of the gods.

“Go quickly! Do not hesitate!” Lady Narawa shouted.

One foot at a time brought them forward. It was hard to think, hard to breath, and Ie’s weak stomach sat in his chest from the rise and falls of the bridge. Many people screamed, especially servant women, as the bridge was pulled up and down. Somehow, despite the crippling fear, a desire to survive had brought everyone to the center safely. Ie could see the twisting pines and maple near the gateway to the bridge on the shore now. He did not allow his heart to soar with hope yet. How could it when wracked by such fear. The ocean cried for it below.
“Almost there!” someone called out. “Watch your step!”

Then it happened.
As if a trickster spirit had heard the wind rushed forward, grabbing the bridge and pulling it upward as quickly as it ever had. Ie’s hand gripped the rope hard enough to burn and he held on as they were tossed about. He watched it happen. Half a yard ahead of Toriichi, a cluster of wet planks snapped at their corner with the swell. They took shadows with them and Ie heard the giant in front of him scream.
“Father!”

Lord Katsuya’s legs went first, swept into the void of the break by the torrent. Then Lady Narawa and the man to her front were shoved to the other side by the backlash. The retainer went right over the ropes, tumbling like a stone below. He was gone without a sound, but Lady Nawara swung over and landed with a thud between the rope breaks, grasping at a plank and a support. The line behind them bulked and stopped, terrified.

In a flash—there was no time to think. No time to fear. Ie pressed forward hand-over-hand on the ropes, pushing past the frozen Toriichi. His sandaled feet grasped for the tightest hold on impossibly wet wood that they could get, speedily vaulting from piece to piece. He let his mind blank and within moments he had reached Lord Katsuya, who was in a similar spot as Lady Narawa.
“Help!” he cried.

Ie reached down, oblivious to the misted death circling around him. With one arm swung around the rope bridge, he hooked Lord Wisteria under another arm and anchored himself so that the man could reach further forward and drag himself onto the bridge. Somehow they were not both thrown out to oblivion.

Lord Katsuya stumbled his knees onto the wood, panting.
“Help me!” another voice cried. Lady Narawa.

Ie looked over his shoulder to see the woman still grasping where she was only a few eyeblinks before. He watched her for what seemed like an eternity, but could have only been an instance. A shadow fell over his pale face in that moment—dark eyes scanning the helpless woman before him. His mind flew back to the man she had unceremoniously disemboweled. To her rude demeanor and seeming distaste for those around her. She was not an ugly woman, though older, yet he could hardly stand the sight of her. How easy it would be for him to give one sandaled shove, one press to any of her hands. How easy.
He stepped forward.

Then a hulking figure came up beside him. As if he could feel the thickness in the air, Toriichi reached down and pulled the woman up effortlessly, robbing Ie of his chance to do anything.
“We must keep going!” he said. “Only a few steps more to go!”

Finally, like a ray of the sun piercing through the blanket of sickly gray, they stepped off of the bridge onto land. When all had crossed and been done, they had lost only one to the sea. The shaken but alive Narawa led them past sweeping pools of water that washed over the lowlands across a ridge that skirted the eastern side of the town. From there, Ie could hear the panicked resound of bells and gongs and thought that among the ear-shattering storm he could detect the chanting of priests. The temple must not be far. Yet he wondered how farther he could go.

The cold bit deep towards his bones despite the summer. Every breath took in water, and he feared a man could drown on land. The strength of the wind pushed him forward like a spindly tree, and he tripped and staggered almost with each step.

Eventually, as they went higher even slightly, the effects of the sea were diminished, and in the hidden daylight they got a sweeping view of the town. Lord Wisteria paused to look out. Nawarisano was practically gone.

Where tall buildings of dark, sun-baked wood had once stood, now only a small sea swept out over. Ie shivered and could feel his stomach churn again. How many people might be dead below? His heart hoped they had fled inland in time, but his mind brooded against the idea. What was worse, the thirty dozen ships of the harbor were in the process of being tossed like pebbles by the strength of forces beyond mortals.

“My fleet.” Katsuya whispered. There was an age in his voice now, and Ie was surprised he had caught his words at all. The lord of Momoyama stood there watching for a long time, even as scores of people passed him to reach the temple. Toriichi stood behind him from a distance, watching his father with saddened eyes. Ie could not help but let his heart sink. Lord Katsuya had never been unfriendly to him, though Ie felt no real attachment to the man. He was not his grandfather—his own grandfather had not even arrived from the mainland yet. But Lord Wisteria was the grandfather of his beloved brother, and for that, he felt this man’s fortunes and sorrows were in a way that of someone he cared for more deeply than the rest.

Eventually, Lord Katsuya turned and carried on with the others towards safety.

The temple sat on a hill clustered among trees which blocked the wind from ripping at the roof tiles. Once inside, Ie could even smell the burning of incense through the scent of rippling storm. As the crowd gathered in the open court, the head priest came out and ushered everyone into the main hall. There, they were finally out of the rain and into dryness, beneath the gaze of a wooden icon of Tadan. The goddess of the dawn watched with still eyes towards the east where the sun rose each morning, seemingly absent in the midst of the wreckage. Ie contemplated if this was but a fraction of what the Deluge had been like.

“What the hell is a typhoon doing past the rains!” Lady Narawa had found her voice to speak again. “Did the gods not warn you of this at all! What the hell do I keep you for!”
As always, she chose to roar at someone with it. This time the victim was the head priest in his trailing robes.

“So sorry, mistress, but no. Storms just after the season aren’t so uncommon as to be strange, neh?”

“My city has been hit by three typhoons in total this year, priest. This by far the worst of them. Perhaps the worst in a hundred years! It will take us all summer to get the town back together. I had to flee my own fortress, and all this in the middle of a cursed campaign!”

Ie watched as she clenched her fists tightly. He was thankful she was not armed.

“You’re going to do what I give my patronage for, Yoritoshi!” she said to the priest, who was now groveling with a low bow. “Sacrifice one of your maidens to appease the gods of the sea, neh? That might lessen this storm.”

“As you wish, mistress.”

Lord Katsuya stepped forward. “Hold on, so sorry, but we need not do that Narawa-go. The storm has already reached land. It will dissolve by nightfall, surely. They always break against mountains.”

“Sacrifice?[i]” Ie thought aloud. He could feel the same sweat that clamped him in the dark of his room return. Toriichi came up beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“They… do that on rare occasions.” he said.

“We don’t sacrifice people in the shrines of the high court!”

“Yes, but, the less refined domains sometimes do.”

Ie rushed forward.
“Narawa-go, I am in agreement with Lord Katsuya. That would be an unnecessary burden.”

When he looked up at her from his formal bow, he saw eyes burning with disgust.
“Do either of you rule my domain?” she said. “A pup and a—” she paused. “Excuse me, so sorry. I have lost my manners in the stress. Katsuya-go, Foscan-go, I am afraid I cannot heed your advice. I am losing my town, my people, and my property to this surprise curse. If the sacrifice of one shrine maiden will help cease the destruction, it is a price I am willing to pay.”

Ie fell to his knees and touched his head to the floor. This was the only maneuver he could think of in the tension.”Please, as a prince of the court, I humbly ask you to reconsider.”

To his surprise, Lord Katsuya followed him immediately after, and because their lord had done it, all the Katsuya men in the room did the same. Now, Ie knew, Narawa was trapped. To disregard the pleas of so many people, let alone a prince and the minister of right—would be nearly unthinkable. It would bring her a great loss of face. There was a long silence.

“No..” she growled. “So sorry, but no. The lives of my people must come before the considerations of anything else.”

She turned and barked at the priest. “Bring me the girl, I will push her into the waves myself.”

Ie shrunk in his summer robes, his shoulders lowering with his soul. His eyes trailed up the flowing wood of Tadan’s dress and to her unmoving face. Suddenly, he thought back to his moment on the bridge. He wanted nothing more than to be back home.

[hr][/hr]

“Taocano, look” Sann pointed through the pelting rain to the two guardsmen huddled against the storm. The pewa were lying prone in an open field, being drenched in mud and muck as the storm raged overhead. “They’re focused on staying dry.”

This had been the Yan’s concept of [i]safety for their slaves—placed up high so most would survive, but given no shelter so that the weak would wither and die. Had they no need for them, Sann was certain they’d have tied them all the posts as the storm came in, but because the town would need rebuilt, they were more generous than usual and had taken them to higher land than in the past.

“You think now's our chance, Sann?” Tao asked. His face was only inches away and his cracked nose sniffed the drowned air as they spoke.

“No, not yet” Sann replied. Oh Taocano. he said to himself. Not the brightest of the pewa are you?{/i]
Sann studied him in the gray of the storm. He was an older pewa, with long white streaks to his slate brown fur. Tao had been of the Wolf Tribe—caught hunting too close to a Yan village near the borderlands. They had tied him in a net and lamed him with spears before turning him over to Narawa troops. The permanent limp meant they expected him to die quickly as a slave, but he had endured. Sann had never seen a man endure through so much as Tao. They had once tied him to a post and lashed him sixty times—the pewa laughing maniacally through it all. Sann was sure he would die after that too, yet here he was. Slow witted, gruff, and undeniably mad—he was Sann’s best friend during their time in bondage.

“Soon, Tao. Soon.” he reassured him. Watching, he couldn’t help but smirk. There were only two guardsmen on this side of the field. Two guardsmen and at least fifty pewa on this side alone. Their captors had tried to keep them all together, and the result was a mass of wet fur clumps clinging to the ground—three hundred in total. Three hundred slaves and only a handful of guards. Sann had planned from the first raindrop for this storm to be his escape, but now—[i]now they had made it easy. For reasons unknown to him, they did not post the usual muscle to keep the slaves in check.

Ahead he could recognize one of the guards. Hota. The name was poison on his tongue. A thick lug of a brute who had driven them mercilessly for months. He was a barrel-chested Yan with thick ropes for arms, and just as stupid as he was strong. His cruelty was a baser sort, a bestial kind that struck fear in many men. Where people like Lady Narawa were predatory in their intellect and all the more evil for it, Hota did not understand the difference between good and evil. If he was told to kill, he killed. If he was told to beat, he beat. Sann was certain if he was told to jump from a cliff he would do that too—unaware of danger to himself. Good, Sann thought. Hota will make this even more easy.

The waiting had not been long. Though the storm had made everything miserable and time fly slower than ever, it had only been half an hour before Hota left his spot underneath a tree to check on something somewhere else. Sann watched him move, seemingly unaffected by the rain and the wet. That left, for a moment, only a single guard on their side of the mass. He was someone Sann had never seen before, some soldier adorned in violet robes. He must have been one of the men off the boats chosen to bolster the usual drivers. Unlucky you.

“Tao.” Sann whispered. “Hota is walking away.”

Taocano scrunched his nose. “Is it time?”

“I think so. Are you ready?”

Tao laughed—loudly. Sann stood, at first slowly, but then openly, becoming a shadowy beacon of drenched fur and cloth in the middle of a molding mass of people. It took the guard a long time to see him in the mist, and even longer to react. That gave Sann all the time he needed to start pushing up the rows, poking and prodding as he went. What had been a lone pewa standing in an endless sea of them rolled into a wave of people rising up from the mud. Just as he had planned. They had all—all been let in on the escape plan. There was no risk in doing so, though he had not revealed himself as the formulator behind it. Not a single pewa, not one, would have ever given it up to the Yan. Why would they? Why would anyone aid the monsters that slaughtered them like animals? That worked their bodies till they broke apart and then cast them aside to rot? That burned their homes, their villages, and took their land?

No, no, not one of them would have ever done it. For not one of them was ever broken.

“Attack!”

As if one, the great mass of men rushed forward in a frenzy towards the treeline with its lone watchman. The violet colored soldier braced his spear at once and then, screaming, fled from the horde that descended on him. He was not fast enough.
The pewa washed over him, a few kicking and scratching, biting and clawing, ripping at human flesh until they wrenched his weapon from him. Now the entire watchforce had been alert, and the smarter among them had rushed forward with weapons to block the escape. An alarm gong resounded.

Sann ran, not bothering to join the group that attacked the other guardsman. His goal was not revenge, not yet, but escape. He was Sannyoaino of the spider tribe—spy for the spider tribe. Not soldier. Not assassin. He was one who thinks. His weapon was cleverness, his edge wit, and that had won him and his brethren freedom this day. Freedom after so long. It had all been easy, too easy. No chance had come like this before. There had been storms, and there had been skeleton crews of slavers. But not together, not like this. The rain and wind kept the Yan from using their bows, from which no man had hope of escape. It kept them from clear sight and sound, from being able to surround them, from being able to stop them.

He wanted to raise his arms, to let the wind catch the skin underneath and fill it with cold ocean air. To fly. They had all wanted to fly—fly to freedom, and now they could at least reach that place.
Sann dashed forward, careful to not trample or be trampled by the others. He checked to see if Taocano had stayed with him and the older man had, running alongside him. Together, they made their way towards the treeline, reaching it moments later. Now, the enemy had caught on to the gravity of what was transpiring and more troops had shuttled up the hill from the camp just below with their pikes. Now it was becoming dangerous to fight and those who had attacked their oppressors were turning to flee while they had the chance. It was too late for the drivers now. They had made it. Sann had made it.

There in the forestry was a thicket of blackberry and honeysuckle, interwoven by thornvine and so coarse that it was impossible even for a man to push through. That would buy them all the time in the world, and nearly everyone else had realized that too. At the base were plenty of openings just large enough for a pewa, but too small for a human to crouch through. Sann leaped forward, picking his route and leading Tao through it.

“We’re there, Tao!” he let himself shout—the words riding the winds. “We’re there, to freedom!”

“Yes, Sann! Freedom!”

Sann could hear his friend laughing behind him. His heart raced—just a little further. He half crouched, half slid into the opening and let his lungs swallow the air on the other side. Air that meant everything in the world to him. He turned, reached back, and grabbed Tao’s hand as his friend began his push through the thorns.

Then a thick rope of an arm reached in as well and grabbed the old pewa by the body, tugging. A flurry of horrible screams—chiropterid cries—deafened the world around as the brush around them was shaken violently in the fight.

“EEEEEK! EEEK! EEEK! EEEEK!"

Sann tugged in panic just as quickly and a voice burned in his mind through the screeches.
“No, don't, little bird.”

It was the droll, monotone voice of Hota. The same voice, saying the same stupid things it always said while it commited murder. Sann fought for what seemed like an eternity, but it had only been a moment, then through the cries he heard a calm, almost bored Hota call out “spear.”

The screeches stopped. Sann pulled and the opposing force let go. Tao came through the brush—but Sann had dragged his whole weight. Time frozen. The scores of free pewa around them became nothing but a background blur. Sann looked down at the body of his friend. Taocano had been run through in the back by his heart, and a sickening rattle was escaping through his throat. He could not endure this time.

“Oh, Tao.” Sann sank to his knees, cradling his friend. The old pewa’s eyes glazed a murky blue, desperation leaving them. and his soaked body dropped limp in the rain. “Oh, Tao.”

Sannyoaino, born Ponni of the Spider Tribe, sat with his dead friend on the other side of the thicket for a long time. He held him there, hugging the wet fur that no longer contained any life.
“You are running with the spirits now, old friend.” he whispered. “No longer laim, you will race with the wolves and leap with the elk. I will see you again. In the spirit lights of winter, and in the shadow of the summer leaves. Farewell, Taocano of the Wolf Tribe.”

When he finally stood, Sann could hardly bring himself to leave the body where it was. He wanted nothing more than to take it with him. To wrap the arms around his shoulders and carry his friend back home where he belonged. But he could not. He knew he could not. He was not strong enough to take him all the way and so in the most horrific decision he ever had to make—he left him there and began his trek north.

Today many of my people have been set free from their misery. he said to himself. But we lost many as well, and in our triumph, we should not forget that this is not the end. Not the victory, but only the beginning.

He wondered as he walked further and further through the dark of the woods—if it was not all the price the gods demanded for his cleverness.

The Segamni
Manthva, Tyrrhusca - 604

The party of the Segemni, an obscure tribe of men and creatures, only known as “The men of the fields” came from beyond the eastern fringes of knowledge and arrived at the city of Manthva. The Manthvans looked upon the foreigners with suspicion. Their hulking figures, alien creatures, and foreign styles caused the Segemni to be halted at the gates as several men with swords and spears impeded their travel. One of the men stepped forward - his tanned skin and black hair hidden behind his iron armor and blue cloak. Two rows of blue and white feathers adorned his helmet. The man wore an iron mask, a mimicry of a human face that smiled devilishly. The man's eyes were the only animated part of the Manthvan’s face, causing an unsettling appearance.
“Travelers,” the officer shouted as his men formed up behind him in a wall of shields and spears. The man's voice was slightly muffled by his mask, yet he projected loud enough to be heard. “You come to the city of Manthva, ruled by the great and honorable Ridenarvu tribe. Where do you hail, foreigners, and what business do you have with Manthva?”
The officer looked on as the Segemni looked upon them curiously. He watched as their eyes looked upon the towering walls and upon his ornate armor, yet they seemed not to understand his words. Before he began to speak again, a Tyrrhuscan man plowed through the Segemni band and bowed before the officer.
“Hail to you,” the guide said. “I am Luci of Belleria. I am a guide and translator for these merchants. They hail from Segemni, from the great fields. They have just come to trade.” Luci remained bowed, his back aching from the stance. After a moment of silence, the officer spoke. “Very well, you may rise, Luci of Belleria. You and your…Segemni may enter.” The officer and his men lowered their guard and parted from the gate, allowing the easterners to travel onwards.
Luci began speaking to the Segemni in their own language, or at least what little he knew how to say. “This village, one of eight, is err..” he struggled to find the translation. “...large, yes large.” Luci slowly guided the Segemni towards the market center. Typically, one would struggle to plow through the crowd, yet the Manthvans, weary of the foreigners, parted like water against rock. “This village is dedicated to the god..” he paused before speaking Tyrrhuscan, emphasizing the pronunciation, “Venthi.” Some of the Sebamni echoed the name back with their own accents distorting the name, but well enough to understand.
They soon arrived at the marketplace, which sat near the harbor where ships loaded and unloaded goods. Luci noticed the attention of the Segemni drift towards the sea. They muttered some words he didn’t understand, but he did his best to pass on his knowledge. “That lake is large enough to fit all the world in many times over but allows goods to be traded with others from distant lands. The lake has made many here very rich.” Luci noticed the Manthvans eye him with suspicion when they heard him speak the foreign language.
In the center of the market, a large stone statue of Venthi stood, dominating the area. Upon the pedestal, his muscular body posed stoically, unclothed. Luci’s attention soon strayed from the Segemni as he himself admired the bustling marketplace. Busy stalls stood packed with bright fruits, glass bottles, wooden trinkets, everything you could think of. Men haggled with one another as beggars pulled on the clothes of passersby before soldiers removed them for their annoyance. Yet, as Luci turned his attention back towards the Segemni, they had dispersed into the crowd unnoticed, despite their height, leaving him standing alone, soon to be swallowed by the horde.

In vinum veritas, pt. 1

The golden sun was setting beyond the village, illuminating the couple dozen of brown wooden huts that decorated the area. The rays of sun warmed the carpet of flowers and grass that surrounded the village, such bright and vibrant in the daytime.

As if it was being prepared for some guest, welcome or not, to walk on. Fields of rye stood almost as tall as the grandest forests of the heartland of Nataruk, here at the frontier between the lands of the forest dwellers and the unknown. It would have been an amazing sight for a painter to work his magic, had we lived in more enlightened times.

A child had a lot of free time on his hands, patrolling around the empty paths in and around the village.

He was quite the optimist, and had a wonderful imagination. The thing he wanted the most was that his father would be “just like the rest”. That’s style. That’s a prayer. How fun did the anvil sound, when the blacksmith worked! “Ding, DOONG”.

- Two pounds for me, please! - farmers would say. “This and that for me!” would say another, with a confident smile on their face.

Father, too, should be buying some iron and, having shook hands with the Khur, mount the goods on his back and carry them across the village back home.

- I was buying some iron for my tools! The dishonest Khur scammed me, but what could you do? I need it! - he should say. Finally, the manner of speech didn’t matter, what was important was the action, the care. With what pleasure would he help Father carry that iron, or work it!

But Father’s an alcoholic! No! Not a alcoholic, a simple drunkard. Because he’s got some screws missing. Possessed by wifey, unable to break free. If he’d been given the will, he’d know how to deal with it!

The child knew Father had a good heart, but he was weak. Controlled something by something stronger than his nerves.

He’d wander out into the street, sometimes, still hungover, and start causing all sorts of misdeeds or looking for a fight!

- Who broke the spade’s handle yesterday, huh? - and would hit the child on his chest. Sometimes his head even went blank for a while after such blows.
- What handle? What do you want now, fool?
- If you didn’t break it, should’ve told me so…
- “Tell you”, when you hit me! Next time I won’t forgive you. You’ll know then.
- Oh child, child. Who taught you to talk to your father like this? You haven’t learned how to live life yet. You know, anything can happen!
- Happen! Ought not to drink, and it won’t happen. With a clear head, anything is possible. You can drink a little, sure. Why not.

Truly, with brains anything is possible.

Sometimes Father, wrapping up his work, would sing some sweeter melody. Maybe not with the best of voices, but with one manageable enough for the small farm they had, the child thought.

And his mother! The best mother in the world, but when she’d see some gentleman, not so much. Because she’s a fool!

The child slowly opened the gate and entered the yard of a rather average tavern. “Liberty”, the owners called it. He sat down by the entrance. The child could hear his mother drinking and shouting inside. His father likely somewhere on the floor, out cold.

Such was his perspective for the future.

Ninkailis-ilum, the Epic of Maturation, Tablet VI: Ninkailis-ilum's Mission—Royal Palace of Isklakata, Heart of the Golden Kingdom, Isklanapura

Her eyes opened, and her lungs burned. She was drowning—but she wasn’t sinking. A light hung over Ninkailis-ilum, dazzling and vibrant with shifting hues of pink that shone through the waves. She needed to reach for it, she needed that light. Hands outstretched, hey eight pupils locked upon the glow, she tried to grasp it. The light was coming nearer to her, she noticed, growing in size and brightness; but it was a deception. Ninkailis-ilum looked around her, felt the motion of water on her flesh and carapace. The light wasn’t moving toward her, she was moving toward the light.

Breaching the surface, she coughed and sputtered, and felt water rushing from her lungs. Pools of liquid seeped out of her mouth, moving on its own accord, in a waterfall which tore the drowning sensation from her chest. She motioned to cough, but found there was nothing to cough up. Looking around her, she found her surroundings to be a pool of water, like a miniature Gwananki, set within a garden. Upon this garden were trees of gold with emerald fruits, and hanging high above them was a radiant sun of pinks, and all around them was a void of darkness and distant stars. She was upon an island in a great darkness, but she was not alone. Looking ahead, to the far end of this floating garden, Ninkailis-ilum felt her breath taken away.

Beautiful in all things, incomprehensibly lovely in every feature, perfection given immortal form—Ketzani, queen of the gods, sat upon a bed of golden petals; lounging as though this were the most casual affair. Her flesh was nearly nude, covered only by scraps of clothes and her flowing hair, wearing only a golden tiara as her mark of queenship. Around Ketzani were beautiful women, similar to the Isklana, but different in their forms. They bore the carapaced blessings of Ketzani, but from what beasts they were composed was different. A woman with a scorpion tail hung a bronze bucket from the great stinger at the end, while another woman, with many arms, tended to Ketzani’s flesh with fine cloths, wetted in soaps and oils. They were nymphs, though Ninkailis-ilum had never seen one before.

Stepping forward, the Sharrwassatum waded through the pool of water, until she took her first steps onto dry earth. As she walked, she felt the water in her clothes and on her skin begin to drip off of her and pool on the earthen grounds. Every step she took, moisture fled her mortal flesh, and as she approached the threshold of Ketzani’s bed, she was totally dry. Nevertheless, there was no time to marvel. Beneath the light of the pink sun, she stood before Ketzani—speechless and uncertain. Never had there been any doubt in her mind that she’d see Ketzani once again. However, in that same breath, she didn’t anticipate to see her godly mother again so soon. It meant something was wonderfully right to warrant such a fortunate meeting—or perhaps, worryingly, something was terribly wrong.

“I can feel your terror. I can feel your wonder,” Ketzani spoke softly, her eyes closed as her servants tended to her. “Both are the right response. Well done, my dear.”

“Ketzani, mother—I’m humbled that you’ve brought me here.” Ninkailis-ilum smiled, though it faded as she looked around into the night at all sides. “Where is here?”

“One of the many mirrors which I walk through. I made this place to relax. Somewhere my nymphs could work my body to my liking. Somewhere my peers wouldn’t tread without invitation.”

“You mean the other gods?”

“Naturally, my dear.”

“Do they also summon mortals to talk to them?”

“Sometimes, but normally we don’t bring things from the mortal realm to us, save for the offerings you lovely things keep delivering. Normally, we walk among you, and enjoy the wonders of the mortal as we see fit—be it for pleasure or for governance.”

“Will I see another god, then? Or how will I know when I see a god in person? Have you come to me in person before?” Ninkailis-ilum felt her heart racing. She had so many questions, she had so much she wanted to know about her divine heritage. “Are there others like me? Are—”

“Hush, dear,” Ketzani commanded. “I know you crave so much, but I can’t answer all of our secrets and all of our ways. How else would you all stay authentic, so we know how to parent you?”

“Yes… sorry, mother.”

Ketzani stretched her arms, the nymphs taking to the stretching flesh with their waters and oils as she did so. Ketzani, for her part, opened an eye and looked upon Ninkailis-ilum for a moment. The goddess was larger than her—a titan compared to a twig, though such a likeness was hyperbolic. In a loving way, though in the seductress subtleness of a true actress, Ketzani gave Ninkailis-ilum a smile which made the heart flutter. The adoration was boundless, the affection was divine.

“Let’s take a step back, nay?” Ketzani said. “You’ve made me proud, my dear. You’ve harnessed my gift, even if it is only the basics. Even still, you know that the road ahead is long, don’t you?”

“I—I know, mother. When will I know I’ve fully mastered them?”

“When you don’t need to ask such a question,” Ketzani cooed back at her. “However, I’ve actually brought you here because I must command you to do something for me.”

“Anything!”

“Something rotten festers in my halls, both in heaven and on earth. Gods are many in their shades, gods are varied in their powers—but we know what is, what was, and guide what shall be. I hold the Rod of Dreams. I hold the Tablet of Destinies. Nanki’s tools of creation and control—but it is that latter point which vexes me. Control. I do not write the destinies for anything which is not my domain, and I can’t see into the destinies of my peers who I didn’t create—even if I am their queen.”

“There isn’t anyone mightier than you, mother. Why is this bothering you?”

Ketzani chuckled, “my mother was far greater than I. Even when Storm carried her defiled form from Daylight’s prison, she was more graceful and signified than I, or any of my equals in all the lands beyond. But my issue is not one of might. I have something I wish to see. There is one in my court who lingers at the edge, in the shadows, and does not ever leave her domain to pay homage to mine. She is a true follower of the old ways.”

“Who would dare to not come and see you?” Ninkailis-ilum said with shock. The notion of a god spurning their queen was beyond her. It went against the natural order.

“It isn’t a matter of dare, or disrespect. In all things there is hierarchy. But sometimes, there are things which can exist outside that hierarchy, without being agents of chaos or destruction. Don’t worry yourself, my love, on the philosophy of it all.”

“Right. Forgive me, mother.”

“There is something I want you to take to this god. A divine object to be carried in the mortal realm, until it reaches her mortal domain. She doesn’t linger in the divine, like other gods. She is drawn to the decay of our children, and only ever rests at the place of her worship.”

“I’ll do it. Wherever you wish for me to go, whatever you wish for me to carry—I can do it.”

“I know, beloved.”

Ketzani smiled, and reached out to one of her nymphs with an open palm. As she did so, the nymph reached down to the ground, and raised from it a golden box, inlaid with excellent reliefs, and fastened with a lock. The goddess took the box, and in such delicate speed, unfastened the lock, lifted the lid, and pulled from its innards a golden tablet. Then, reaching in once more, she pulled a second tablet of gold. Both were inscribed in a language which Ninkailis-ilum had never seen before—something which was beyond mortal knowledge and comprehension.

“These are what you shall deliver, my dear. You will need to travel far from home to do it, and with enough servants to tend to you, but not too many to draw attention to yourself. Understand?”

Ninkailis-ilum took the two golden tablets from the palm of Ketzani, nearly touching when she felt the flesh of the divine briefly against her hand. Holding the tablets close to her chest, she nodded, and looked to her goddess with awe and wonder. She had been chosen by Ketzani to undertake a great journey into the unknown. Eagerness and terror were in equal measure, but the importance and value of the adventure was immediately understood.

“I understand, mother.”

Ketzani smiled and motioned for the pool, “then it’s time to wake up.”

As was commanded, Ninkailis-ilum carried the tablets delicately and close at hand, walking back to the pool which hung under the pink sun. Stepping into the water, she felt the water pulling at her, gently, but with greater force the further she waded out. It was all a dream, she knew, though she was both really here and really back in her bed in the palace. But before she could wade out much further, the water threatening to take her away, she jumped and turned her head, looking back to Ketzani.

“Mother! Where am I taking these? Who am I taking them to?”

Ketzani looked over at her with a warm smile, “you’ll take my words far into the fringe of my budding empire. There, in the luminous jungles of the east, you will find oracles within an ancient temple—as ancient as the first gods. There, amidst the oracles, you will speak to my subject, my equal and my greatest associate: death.”

“The dread goddess?” Ninkailis-ilum shouted back, losing her footing in the pool as the water began to suck her in. “How will I find her?”

“Go where I’ve commanded. Just as she is drawn to decay, she will know who you are when you walk amidst the decay, and don’t wither like the rest. You will not find her. She will find you.”

The Monster Within The Palace Walls

In the shimmering palace walls of Tonalitzetlic there was always constant talk of a monster.

Despite the horrific actions this monster committed on a day to day basis, the blood it shed and the lives it ruined - those who spoke of the monster only did so with immeasurable regard. They did so with such regard, infact, that one would not be aware that said creature was a monster by spoken word alone.

This ravenous creature in question was the Empress of Qaia, Itzel. Despite the accepted idea of "common sense", this woman had grown to be the most prized idol of the land. She was a celebrity not just for royal status alone - the people genuinely loved her, and she was seen as their creator. The people of her council bowed to her every whim and command, her concubines genuinely lusted after her and spited their counterparts from jealousy - it was as if all the people of the land were under her spell.

This however, was not the case. Seemingly unbeknownst to the Empress - the enemy was ever nearer than any warm gazes she was accustomed to.

Blood Soaked Horizon on The Dwelling of Monsters

Evening was just beginning to rear it's drowsy head on the people of the Qaian empire when distant screams were heard on the horizon.

As the setting sun was just beginning to split behind the towering palace of Tonalitzetlic, the long exhausted shadows of the jungle slowly crawled along the streets and into the city.

While the land was slowly enveloped in various hues of deep violet and striking orange, numerous torches were lit to illuminate the streets, and numerous people of the land began to gather at a temples front.

Suddenly, as though prompted by the suns last dying breath, figures appeared on the horizon of the city's border. Hoards of bedazzled soldiers riding on bird-led charriots began to crowd the streets of the capitals plaza. The conquest of a small foreign colony on the outskirts of the Empire's territory had just been completed, and the victorious army dragged in the day's hunt - foreign officials.

As more and more men of war (titled Yuetl in the Qaian tongue) flooded the temple plaza, they dispatched their mounts and began to untie their captors like clockwork. The foreign men and women they brought from the neighboring tribe were dragged on the backs of each chariot from their hair. Should the hostage have the misfortune of losing all of their hair on the ride, they would be beheaded and fastened to the back of the chariot to leave a lasting threat written in blood.

As the men untied their hostages and hurried up the stairs of the palace, a number of high priestess began to assist in bringing the squirming specimens up the temple entrance. They would be leading a ceremonial sacrifice that would span the night.

Stationed atop the temple was the monstrous Empress Itzel. She sat quaintly on a cushioned throne bejeweled in what appeared to be various gems mined in local areas. In her lap lay her most beloved concubine - Meztli. Meztli was a descendent of the Cipalopaotlipt clan that was particularly favored by the Empress for her beauty and zealous.

Itzel watched with careful and silent eyes as the high priestesses began their ceremony of sacrifice to her. She had made it a point to show up to every single sacrificial ceremony since the dawn of her people. Despite the loyalty of her common folk, Itzel made certain that no gatherings were held away from her sights, and that no citizen escaped the supervision of her military police.

Whilst the high priestesses set about to crying out their ceremonial chants, Itzel let out an audible yawn and began picking at her fore fangs.

"Goodness, it seems the outer colonies are becoming more and more pathetic as of late" She turned her face to Meztli and nestled her head into the concubines shoulder.

"Ever since my conquering of your people, it would appear that peace has fallen upon the outer lands of the empire." She erupted into a hearty laugh and patted the small girls head with aggressive vigor.

"I'm glad you are within common senses, unlike your heathenous kin! It still baffles me to know that so many of Cipalopaotlipt's pathetic descendents truly believe that wretched creature will arise once again to overtake my reign!"

As Itzel boasted in high spirits, the first sacrifice was stabbed with the ceremonial obsidian dagger. Crowds surrounding the temple emitted shrieks of both excitement and pride as the corpse of the freshly stabbed victim was thrown down the steps of the spanning temple walkway, and the next was retrieved.

With every slam the body took against the limestone steps, Metzli couldn't help but visibly wince. She remembered with abject horror the days when she bare witness to her own elders gruesome death on the very same altar.

Itzel noticed her concubines terror and chuckled.

"Worry not my dear, your flawed mind is simply not used to the justices of this world! Every being dismantled in this fashion is granted my very own blessing!" She caressed the small girl's chin and pushed her cheeks together in an attempt to morph her grimace into an expression of joy.

"Metzli my poor girl!" Itzel shot her blood red gaze into the eyes of her beloved "You will forever remain my greatest treasure. A reminder of my very own power and strength. I rescued you from your flawed bloodline, and one day should I want to truly protect you from your damned fate - I may serve you the very same blessing those around us face." She turned the small girls face towards the ongoing ceremony.

"Don't look away my dear. Focus intently. Do not allow your mind to wonder. This is my blessing to the true people of our world. With the sacrifice of these noble weaklings lives, my very own reign shall continue to bless the land with the flaming observance of the sun!"  She threw her hands up into the air and began to cackle as though she had made a light hearted joke. " Show grace to my wonderful work! I understand you have yet to fully grasp my benevolence, but soon you shall understand.. one day, you may all be laid to rest with your corpses in the soil and your livelihood in my heart. And on that day, the world shall truly be at peace."

As the madame Itzel signaled one of her guards to bring her a chalice of the sacrifices blood, Metzli sat in her lap, frozen with terror.

She muttered under her breathe "Goddess Cipalopaotlipt, please bless my people once more tonight as you always have. We must bare witness to yet another clans destruction, and mourn their heritage as we do our own... I fear we truly are in the maw of the beast."

The Day of Great Harvest—In the far west (ACH 141 to ZEN 95), and in the east (ESH 350 to URE 1)

Disturbance. Though immortal day and immortal night roll over the lands, the cycle of ancient order everlasting, a disturbance intrudes upon the natural way. As night reigns in the west, and far in the east the sun hangs high—something unnatural begins to unfold. High in the skies of the night swept west, over the great islands of Achtland and stretching far into Zenobium, an aurora rains shimmering light over the heavens. There is not a cloud to be seen, nor any god in the heavens to cast such a wonder. Across the sky, where the day still shines, from southern Eshtar to Uren, the blue skies and distant moons are torn by the shining of a great light—a faint aurora which stretches the boundless journey from south to north, and well over Lake Aruna. Two auroras blaze high in the sky, in one place where sleep reigns, and in another, the working man toils. Shared are the lights, worlds apart as they may be. But shared as well are the shadows which begin to drift from the auroras, falling ever so slowly, as a feather on the wind, in a hail of bronze cages. As they drift, the silhouettes of the cages form groups, and descend upon the land in their crashing waves. As they fall, from land to land, a great clamor is heard. The thundering of gods, the calamitous powers of divine magics, the crashing of bronze—so began the harvest.

In the lands of The parathylgonial sea, on the fringe of that land’s realm, did a cage fall. In the broad daylight, where none were there to witness, destruction unfolded. The arid lands, already kissed by eternal summer, detonated in flame and fury; rays of light sweeping a field of battle. Bronze echoes of clashing metals filled the air, ringing far and wide, while two bronze cages hung in the air above, their cargo dropped. A shepherd, tending to his flock in the distance, hears the destruction in the distance. Atop his hill, the awe of the aurora overhead, and eyes cast downward onto the horizon, did he witness a great casting of nets from floating cages in the distance. Golden lines cast downward, and as they were drawn back up, a struggling giant—a god—hoisted up into the heavens in bindings of daylight. Hanging to the bindings were little men, seemingly clad in bronze, from head to toe, to make perfect suits. Just as quickly as battle ensued, as wide as the land burned beneath the feet of those combatants, did the conflict come to a close. Shepherd, mouth ajar, watched as high up into the air the god was carried. Higher and higher, until even the silhouettes were lost, and only the aurora remained.

In the lands of Surestan, where the river flows in their southern realm, did a god take flight. A chariot, pulled by eight steeds with flaming hooves, stormed across the sky. Behind the god, the cages did follow, carrying racks of little bronze men. To all by the river, the mystery of the cages remained, but the mystery of their deeds did not. In the lead of the three cages, a bronze arm, like that of a giant, hung down, holding a great net of golden line—shining like daylight. Rotating like the head of an owl, or the axle of a wagon, the arm spun and spun, before the many fingers of the hand released the net. Ensnared, the chariot in the sky plummeted down to the earthen grounds, landing with a great thud which shook the land and tore apart tree and grass and hillside. In the likeness of vultures, the cages did descend, and from them did bronze men leap into the crater. There was hardly a struggle, and instead, the howl of the divine which shook heaven and earth, and left the ears of any so unfortunate to be near with an eternal ringing. Rising now from the pit, rising up from the earth with flawless motions, the cages together held to the cast net, and ascended into the sky; their bronze legions holding to the net as they drifted upward. High into the heavens they went, ever so high, until but specks before the aurora.

In the lands of Volyezfold, a local temple to a local god did stand. From up on high did the cages come, their legions of bronze men descending upon the land with rapid force and perfect execution. In the fringe lands of the divided realm, there was no battle which ensued. There, in the night, the legions set to work, tearing up the land with fire and spade. Before the temple of this local god, hidden from the eyes of all, did the cages reach into the earth with their great arms, and in many pulls, tear something from grounds too deep to fathom. As it was lifted from the soil, the bronze legions returned to their racks and their places upon the cages, so did the object shine like a star, illuminating the land. Rising high into the night sky, from all horizons could this star be seen, going upward into the heavens, into that great aurora. When the cages were raised high enough, far from the pit their men had dug, far from that temple ground, the light of the star dimmed and meshed, until indistinguishable from that of the great aurora.

In the lands of Varadun, the cages did fall—but not with the grace as was in other lands. From the skies over Varadun, upon their heartland, did three cages descend with a crashing force like falling stars. In a forest passage between two mountains, a great battle raged on between the divine and the unknown. Bronze shattered, metal crashed, sickening screeches of twisted iron did howl into the night sky. In bursts of light, tracks of forest were lit up in flames; and in explosions like the lighting of a cauldron, three great scars dotted the pass. Bronze fingers and shattered scrap rained from the sky, fallen stars torn asunder, joined hastily by the raining of bronze legs and arms, the parts of men which landed with metal thuds. A village in the pass, near enough to the commotion, awoke with horror and awe as the aurora was greeted by fire and ash and metal rain. Houses were struck with bronze carnage—but such was not the crux of amazement. Shattering pine and upturned roots, from the forests did a great monster thunder forward: a beast walking on six bronze horse legs, hooked to a bronze sphere with a ring. Shakily, the monstrosity, twelve feet in height, stumbled into the village, its sphere riddled with gashes of claw and puncture, while luminous orange ichor flowed from its wounds. Dying mid stride, the monstrosity tumbled forward, crashing into a home, and sending splinters and screams flying all around. A beast had died in their town, deep in the mountains. Something heralded by the aurora, but stood no more.

For a long hour did the worlds of the far east and far west feel the aurora, spanning for one place in night, and one place in day. Now and again cages rose back into the heavens, back into the aurora from which they came—but to any diligent observer, they would count that fewer rose from the horizon, than had descended to. When the black flecks of shadows had disappeared into the light of the heavens, a great pause did touch the sky. From end to end, the aurora shrank, faded, scattered into a great fade that restored the sky. Slowly, the last traces of light were lost, until starlit night remained in one place, and blue sky kissed by lit moons in another. Many scars lay upon the garden, many mysteries remained untouched. In those places where great kingdoms lay, a certainty would soon reach their courts: something had come in the aurora, something from the realm above. Something had grazed their lands—and where it had, only destruction followed.

TALES FROM THE PARATHYLGONIAL SEA PART XII

A Divine Intervention (Revelations Chapter IV)

Location: Hesperorneo, Parathylgonia

...

Dehan's consciousness slipped within his grasp. His mind once blank and empty, had now suddenly sprung to life. Every breath in, every breath out, the sensation of his fingers colliding together, the noise of the forests dancing off his ears, it all was real again. Though his senses had made their triumphant return, the world was shrouded in darkness, at least, his world had been. There were no trees, no men, not even colour, just the void. He questions his sanity. Is this a dream? No, he thinks. This is real, there's an indescribable quality he feels that tells him he is the physical world. Reality is easy to discern once you're in it, he knows.

He's standing, he realizes. His feet are firmly planted in the muddy earth. Though his sight remains ineffective. He struggles to know if it's because he's been blinded by whatever assaulted him, or if something is actively thwarting his vision, rather than a permanent loss of sight. He moves his hands to his eyes, to try and feel, but his hands are bound together in front of his body. Their iron-tight grip on his arms quickly becoming irksome. He walks, but he discovers not only are his hands bound, but his ankles are tied together as well. The revelation causes him to stumble, though not enough for him to lose his footing.

There's the faint noises of the breaths of nearby people not far from himself. he's not alone. It's quiet, but loud enough he can tell the bodies of living people surround him. How close exactly, remains unclear. He wants desperately to reach his hands out to measure the distance, yet his binds forbid him from doing so. He starts to question if his conscious has really come to life completely. Sure, it's not a dream, but perhaps a transitional state between consciousness and a resting mind. How trustworthy are his senses? Dehan wants to see, but he is blind, he wants to feel, but he his bound in chains. How can he say what his exact state is with any degree of accuracy?

Maybe, he thinks, this is an authentic reality, but not the authentic reality he normally associates with. Maybe the exclusive gates of the legendary paradise of Syr lie beyond his lack of sight and the ignorance of his current circumstances. For a moment, he contemplates if he did perish on that final stormy night. Was it not only his last on Hesperorneo, but the physical realm entirely? Like a shepherd leading a flock of sheep to a new pasture, he fantasizes he's being led a to new land that will offer unparalleled glory and wisdom. Daylight and Myarai themselves will greet him with gifts of iron and bronze in the ethereal clouds of Syreghdymogridz, the heaven of Syr. Babes wrapped in silk will cheer in delight at his very presence. No more hunger, no pain, no suffering. He imagines a smile forming upon his clean face. He attempts to in actuality, but his muscles are weak and numb, unable to carry out his wishes. He slips further into the trance, the lines between reality and fiction becoming even blurrier. He feels like the gods have grabbed him, and dragged him into the heavens.

He pictures Myarai. Strong as stone bronze armor clings to his body, a chiseled face unrivalled by any man in the physical plane, muscles more powerful than the strongest of soldiers. He is our eternal warrior who battles for us in the clouds for the glory of humanity- even those who reject his path. Myarai grasps a holy sword of light firmly within his hands. He does not hold the sword with intentions of aggression, rather with intents of power, glory, and virtue. Dehan has gifted his life in the name of his chosen empire, the highest honour there is. The god transfers the sword from his sacred grasp, to Dehan, who now wields it in the name of the light. Dehan is led through the clouds, beyond the gates, where the paradise lie. He can see nothing but the light itself, yet, he knows in his holy heart that this is where he is meant to rest eternally. He shall bathe in the euphoria of Myarai's glow, and he shall soak all its gifts without penance. Dehan glistens in the sunlight like he too is a godly figure surviving amongst the clouds of glory. He stands tall and proud next to the idols of the motherland, he can feel victory itself deep within in his gut. This is where he belongs, among the gods themselves

Suddenly, he falls, down from the clouds towards the earth. Myarai looks at him through the parting clouds. He doesn't speak, but he hears his message just as clear.

"Your time in the mortal plane is not yet done. Follow my path and your task shall become clear. Never stray from the light." His lips are steadfast, yet his words are as clear as glacier water.

Farther and farther he descends, Dehan can see the ground growing closer. Despite the threat of a high fall, he is unconcerned. He knows he is safe in the god's hands. Just as predicted, he lands upon the ground like it's not made from stone, but from sheets of silk and cotton. Dehan tries to decipher his surroundings. At first, he had assumed that he would return to his physical body within the confines of Hesperorneo - he is quickly proven wrong as he realizes - this is no jungle he has landed upon - but an open plain dotted with acacia trees and fanning palms. The hills are gentle and unintimidating, quite the contrast from Hesperorneo. Why Myarai chose to land him here, and not where he can directly battle those who wish to destroy the Empire and her principles- is not obvious, but he knows Myarai's wisdom is infinite - there's a purpose behind every choice.

Dehan observes the nearby environment. It's dry and arid, he can tell, like Parathylgonia. Though this location in particular is unfamiliar. His life has been short, he has not seen every corner of the Empire's glorious lands, but this does not strike him as the Empire upon first inspection. The rolling hills surrounding a seemingly endless plain of farms and canals, sprinkled with the occasional farming community. This is a fertile, populated place. While the Empire offers her citizens many riches, a land this fruitful within the Empire's borders, Dehan would recognize immediately.

Far upon the edge of his sight, he can see a sprawling city. Its tall white spires even from miles away, can be easily spotted from the towering hill Dehan was placed. Like a beacon calling him home, he is drawn towards the city. So he walks, yet the journey is swift despite the vast distance between the hill and his desired destination. He enters the open town, city folk flock in the winding streets. He tries to communicate with them, perhaps they can tell him where he finds himself, but he is unable. As loud as he shouts, they simply ignore him. He travels further into the city's dense abyss, the answer lies somewhere within the mysterious city's walls, he knows it in his heart.

He stumbles upon an open square in the city's heart. There, he finds a palace so tall it scrapes the moons themselves. Decorated with twisting spires, a glittering dome of stained glass, and exquisitely designed exterior of carved marble patterns so complex Dehan ponders how man can create such beauty without the workings of the gods. Only the Ivory Palace could possibly rival it in sheer glory. Is this the beacon, he thinks. He enters the palace. There's an open courtyard filled with gardens of palms, hibiscus flowers, and giant blooming petals. A throne sits upon its centre. There a woman with a crown rests. It's made from gold and jewels, similar to the crown the Empress wears. Though, he knows without doubt, this woman is not the Empress. He walks closer towards her, examining her surroundings. He locates a sword. At first, he shrugs off the discovery as unremarkable, but as he grows closer, the sword becomes more familiar. Like the sword Myarai gave to him

Just as fast as he found himself within the walls of the city, he is transported away. Dehan pleas desperately to stay, his task is not finished.

"No, don't take me." He begs. "I need to know where I am." His cries go unanswered as he is pulled away from the city.

Dehan awakes. It's dark, exactly as it was before he found himself within an enchanting trance. His hands remain bound, and his eyes blind in the darkness. His head is reeling from the journey, but he can remember the important details. Now that he has been returned to his mortal body, he is even more aware of his surroundings. He sits upon a path in the jungle, he's back in Hesperorneo. Something is watching, observing his moves. Its breath hot upon his bare skin. The sun has begun to rise, its light cleansing the forest floor of the darkness. He turns to face the sun, before he falls down in shock. A beast taller than man stands above him. Blue skin like water, with shaggy hair like creatures of mammalian origins. His eyes drift upward, towards its face. Its mouth is wide, with fangs as sharp as daggers protruding from its mouth, his eyes go further north. A short snout with a flat nose hugs its face, its cheeks naked of hair, slenderly conjoining with its chin, just as sharp as its fangs. Further his eyes go, to where the beasts eyes lie. There he sees its glowing red orbs staring back at him, its ears tall and pointed, with long, black hair surrounding them. The creature flees as the sunlight races towards it.

"Qenurthial." Dehan says. After months of arduous treks, he has finally found what he has sought for. There's no mistaking it. He is unafraid. Myarai and the light stands with him. Those that oppose their glory are the ones who shall be filled with fear.

As much as Panipa wished otherwise, things could not stay idyllic at her queendom forever. Change always came one way or another, and it could not always be positive. Her Gurun, once innocent and free from the trappings of the stone-nests people, discovered they could not truly give up one without losing the other.

And so it happened that things which would have once been unthinkable for the Gurun now happened, and for some of them even with concerning frequency. But it was not until recently that one of them performed one of the worst crimes, shaking Panipa's belief in her people and reconsidering the wisdom of what she did.

For the first time in the species' history, one of the Gurun had intentionally killed another member of their kind. Not only breaking the tradition of peaceful interaction among the people, but forcing them to reconsider the trust they had for one another, to wonder if a threat laid behind the smiling faces of their family and friends

The culprit of the crime was a person named Hanbi. He was very old for a male, and neared seventy years of age when he commited his crime. He had killed a younger male named Pazuzu, ostensibly for attempting to steal one of his treasures from him. Though the claim was disputed by the other people involved in the case.

The treasure in question was a large glass shard, which was brought from Isklanapura by one of Panipa's scouts. When Panipa formed the smaller groups meant for recruiting new Gurun, the scout was chosen as one of the leaders. Later, when he met the flock Hanbi's mother led, he gave it to her in order to show her the wonders of civilization.

But not long after they finally arrived at the peninsula, Hanbi's mother died. The new flock leader had given him the glass shard in order to comfort him. The shard continued to be his cherished keepsake, and was with him when Pazuzu's mother sent her son to make sure that the old male felt comfortable and was well cared for.

According to Hanbi, the youth had seen the shard glistening on the rock where Hanbi kept it and attempted to steal the glass without his notice. Hanbi struggled to take the shard back from him, and struck Pazuzu with his fists. One such strike, which hit Pazuzu's eyes while the shard was in Hanbi's hand, killed the boy.

But other people, who knew the two but were not in Hanbi's house during the altercation, claimed that the boy would never do such a thing, and that Hanbi must have mistaken Pazuzu's attempt to look at the glass better for an attempt to steal it. They demanded justice would be met on Hanbi for his crime.

Panipa considered what to do for a long time. She could not allow one person to kill another with impunity in her queendom, but nor could she act based on conjecture with clear conscience. In the end, she had chosen to exile Hanbi for his crime, depriving him from the support others could offer.

The Bronze Mystery, A Village in Panick
It had only been two days since the mysterious but beautiful aurora, within the night sky all over Varadun many Doniens looked out to the night sky to see a shimmering light. Many look up taking it as a blessing from Zendrarth and his sons, many believed it could be a message or signal, and many even believed they were seeing not just the spirit world, but the promised Blue Plains from the tales of old, the realm which Zendrarth truly lays dominion over. However, they were Doniens that were not close enough to see or hear the bronze cages crash onto the ground like a crashing star, or the chaos it brought with it. While Doniens far away starred up at the night sky with awe, the village of Eerdse was suddenly awakened to the sounds of loud explosions, those who were not already awake to hear the far-off sounds of a fierce battle. Men-at-arms have gathered as before the explosions as in the distance many of the villagers could hear the sounds of a fierce battle, though no one knew why, the Crimsonblade and their allies were gone, and had been gone for a while now. There were no screams of pain from this direction nor battle horns, but the loud clashing of metal and the blood-curling screeches put fear in many of their hearts.

Though the explosions would occur, and what followed a horror of fire, ash, and most importantly, bronze and other metal parts raining from the sky, heavy metal arms, legs, heads, torsos, and more crashed down on many of the buildings of the villages, as well as on the heads of many unfortunate enough to be outside. Homes and other buildings were either damaged or destroyed, villagers were getting injured and bruised, or even their heads busted open and their tails broke, but it was then when the true horror was shown, or a taste of it at least. A massive monster of six legs, made of bronze, descended from the burning forest into the village. The village militia found that the creature was already heavily wounded, it was bleeding but it was not normal blood, but a strange orange liquid. It crashed into one of the houses that were largely undamaged by the metal rain, while there were splinters and a broken tail no one inside was killed are fatally injured, and the creature was now dead. For the rest of the night, the inhabitance worked to flee the town and seek shelter in a town 30 miles to the southeast within the mountain pass.

This night would not go unheard of, word quickly spread throughout the taverns travelers merchants, and the word was sent to the capital with a request for a full investigation into the matter. Time would pass, but surely, people from the capital would arrive in the village within the early hours of the day. In fact, within the collection of royal guards, scholars, clan nobles, and two generals, the High King himself could be seen in the middle on the back of an armored Drake, a four-legged Draconic creature that stood taller and stronger than a horse, but a creature that was not easily domesticated and kept feed, a beast only the likes of clan lords could ever ride. Zelerac hopped off the back of his Drake and was surrounded by his royal guard and others as many of the villagers looked on. The village overseer approached along with others of his clan, giving a polite bow.

“Greetings Lord Zelerac, welcome to Eerdsa. I am very happy to see you got my message.” He spoke, an older Donien with pale scales in a fine tunic.

“Your message would have been very hard to believe, it was not for the aurora that took hold that fateful night, all of Varadun and clans beyond witnessed it.” He spoke. “That is why I decided to come here myself. I came here to see if the tales were true, is the dead creature from the rumors still in this village?”

The local ruler nodded his head at a rather fast pace. “Yes my lord, the creature is massive, much bigger than even your Drake, we did not move it from the house it crashed on.”

The high king nodded his head. All around him, the carnage from those nights before was ever-present, limbs and other lost parts made of bronze stiller littered much of the ground and on top roofs, though the villagers had begun rebuilding the village. So far it looked as if these forest villagers were telling the truth, these were not just drunk merchant stories after all.

“Very good, take me to it.” The High King spoke. “And lord Teligon, your village will be fully confiscated for the destruction, the Kingdom of Varadun will ensure your village is able to recover quickly from this.”

“Oh, thank you, my lord, that is great to hear, we are forever grateful.” The local lord replied.

Both parties walked along with the village, more of the carnage, and the very burnt forest was made much clear to the High King and his party. Two other figures appeared from behind surrounded by another group of guards, two Doniens who wore nothing but rags and chains, they were prisoners. It didn’t take long however for the house in question to come under view, and there laid a strange beast made of bronze, six massive horse-like legs made of bronze, and absolutely nothing like any of the lizards had ever seen before. Even the high kings starred in awe, it was massive, and exactly like what the messenger described. He could see the beast that was a bronze sphere with a bronze ring, and it had six bronze legs. The sight sent a shiver down his spine, he had no idea what to think. He quickly looked to the scholars, but to his horror, they too stared at the creature with the same level of confusion and worry as he, which did not help with the shiver down his spine.

“Here it is my lord. We still don’t know why it came, we don’t know what its intent was, but there is no denying it has a connection with the bronze and other metal parts that fell from the sky.” He spoke. “Ever the less, it scares many Doniens of the village, especially the hatchlings, I do not want this thing in my town.” The local lord spoke.

The high king nodded his head, staring at the dead creature as he lay deep in thought. He hoped to Zendrarth and his sons that the creature would not come back alive because he agreed that that creature, as well as the bronze figures, should not stay in the village. The local lord would speak again suddenly.

“We also found something in the burnt woods, something we did not expect.” He spoke.

The high king and others looked over at the Donien. “What is it that you found.” The high king would ask.

“Something happened in those woods, there is a field in those woods, it is filled with destroyed bronze statues, it looks as if something massacred them. That is not all, however. We found giant metal cages in those woods, but those cages look as if they were obliterated. There are also holes in the ground, large ones, it looks as if no group of mortal lizards could have done this. I do not believe even the Vokkus cult is involved.” He replied.

At his last statement many within the group looked in disbelief, to many, what other explanation is there?

“Whenever the cult is involved will be found out.” The High King replied. “We’ve brought captured cultists here for that reason. We will find out what happened.” He spoke, many of the group shifting their eyes at the two prisoners. The prisoners were cultists, lucky enough to survive a hideout raid in the middle of the night, now they cursed to a horrific fate, and likely wishing they died with their friends. “Ever the less, please, take us there, show us the site."

Pt 2

- I do not want to and I’m not drinking! - declared a farmer, stretching his hand out towards a wooden cup full of wine. He emptied it out quickly. And, in place of a snack, wiped his moustache with his dirty sleeve.

“I’m telling you, the kind heart of this owner… What am I supposed to do?”

The table was full of food. Fruits, meats, bread, anything an honest villager could ever ask for. It was one of seven tables that stood inside the “Liberty”. The atmosphere inside was gloomy. A few patrons were seated by other tables, the grub from their cups decorating the floor like a murder scene. The odour could have knocked out anyone that had not been around such places their entire lives.

Miraculously, the cup once again filled up to the brim with the Goddess’ gift. But in a fit of rage, the farmer pushed the goods away from himself. In a sudden mood swing, he put on an angry expression. Now he wished to argue with someone.

-I don’t want it! Do you take me for a fool? You pour me wine, meanwhile behind my back you try to court my wife. - he angrily exclaimed. - Wifey! We’re going home! - he screamed with a weird throaty voice, trying to stand up from his bench.

His effort failed. He tried once again, but once more his limbs did not wish to cooperate.

-As if anyone needs her! Who would think of going after a married woman? There are plenty more around here! I see you as a good and honest man, that’s all. Come on! - claimed a youngster, the evening’s mecenate. - Come here! - he said, pouring wine through the farmer’s moustache straight into his open jaws, while the honest villager shook his head and hands pro forma.

In the now empty, devoid of visitors main hall, barely blinked a single lamp. A sleepy owner was getting ready to clean up for the night, extinguish that final lamp and go to sleep upstairs, alongside his wife and two kids, who had the pleasure of growing up in such a vibrant atmosphere.

The inn was empty. That is, if you exclude four patrons, sitting in a corner and taking their drinking more seriously than their daily work. Nobody batted an eye about them, though. They’d been there about as long as the inn had stood. They were practically part of the inn’s inventory.

They drank freely, quarrelled - at first without any appetisers, later switching to old, dry pieces of bread decorated with salt. Their cheeks and noses grew redder, and their chats - louder.

Suddenly, the talks stopped. A problem occurred! The pitcher was empty. One of the patrons angrily slammed the table. The owner soon rushed downstairs to check on his beloved guests.

-What’s the matter? - he asked.

-Give us a refill, Pere. Scurry! - said the bravest and reddest of the bunch.

His wish was soon fulfilled. Another pitcher full of wine of questionable origin and flavour arrived on the table. The guests continued.

Maikana-Ketzani, the Epic of Whispers, Tablet I: Maikana-Ketzani's Justice—Royal Palace of Isklakata, Heart of the Golden Kingdom, Isklanapura

Wailing screams and desperate pleas—it was a symphony of sorrow, but as sweet as a golden reed to her royal ears. Maikana-Ketzani sat upon a mahogany chair, basking in the light of day, surrounded by the lovely colors of her garden. Intricate golds and blues and fiery oranges were all around her, but nothing was more vibrant than the deep reds which pooled before her. There, amidst terraces of flowers and groves of palatial trees, was her vengeance enacted. Silver cloaks had made it into her palace so long ago, but not without silver-tongued conspirators.

Accused and tried, it was a party of some twenty Isklana—men and women—who had been deemed responsible conspirators. Nobles, courtiers, palatial staff, and even two Isklana captains who she had in her personal employ—all were guilty of this. Those left kneeling now, bound in shackles of copper with Asharkar spears to their backs, were eight. The remaining twelve had met their fate in any which way her grizzly appetite had demanded.

For those who had been least responsible, but still demanded death, her mercy had been given. Three Isklana maidens, servants who had become absorbed in these dark schemes, had been executed swiftly, their bodies left to boil in the sunlight upon the carved stone. Others were not so fortunate, nor would she allow them any such easy escape. Two administrative elites she had made sure to punish for their crimes—for just in the way their grubby hands had given way for the organization of such schemes at the behest of others—she had torn their horns off, and impaled their own hands with them. When the Asharkar brought down their spears and severed the hands fully, nailing their impaled graspers to a grove tree, she had allowed them to die by proper execution.

Others died in a kaleidoscopic manner, but her favorite punishments thus far had been the flaying and the casting. A handful of unlucky souls, her captains included, she had strung up and stretched out by cord. Then, with an executioner handy, she had their carapace carved out of their body, and their legs totally severed—and as they writhed, she had felt such satisfaction to hear those blessed screams carry far and wide, as their tanned skins were split from their body. Greater yet than the skins she’d collected was the casting. For two handfuls more, she had brought out the castings of two pillars to be made of bronze. Forced into the tight casts, the two groups each were crammed into a hollow pillar, with bones snapping and suffocating tightness. As they screamed and pleaded and sought salvation, hot bronze had been poured atop of them. There were no more screams, and soon she’d have new art pieces for her private collection.

“Isn’t it lovely, Vancha-arnketzum?” Maikana-Ketzani remarked gleefully to one of the kneeling who awaited their death. “Ah, the symphony is lovely.”

Vancha-arnketzum, a eunuch, beaten and bloodied, looked up at her with wide eyes. This beardless creature had been one of the first to greet her back to the palace—a survivor of her purges—only now he’d found his way once more into her sights. While so many of these people had been knowing or unknowing tools in this construction of this grand scheme, it was Vancha-arnketzum who she’d discovered was the orchestrator of it all. They’d found tablets and kipum in his possession, they’d found ceremonial offerings to Ketzani for his good fortune, and they’d extracted confessions which all led him.

“M-m-m-maikana—,” he stuttered and sputtered, some of his teeth plucked from his parted lips. “Why? I… I’m innocent. P-please.”

The man wept, but Maikana-Ketzani could do little more than roll her eyes. He had conspired against her. He had brought this upon himself. What guilt was there to feel? What shame? Rulers would not tolerate any form of dissent. She was Ketzani’s chosen, the bearer of empire, the one to establish dreams. No worm would take that away from her.

“Innocent men don’t plot to kill their Kisharratum. Innocent men don’t offend the Ketzanid dynasty.”

“Staged! P-please, believe me! I had no idea! I was just as shocked as you!”

Maikana-Ketzani groaned. This would go on forever if she let it. No, she knew what punishment these eight would get, but she sadly couldn’t see it fully due to the danger. She’d have to visit the work another time.

“Vancha-arnketzum, I sentence you and your conspirators—left—to a hive death. Your eyes shall be removed, and in their bloodied sockets a daggerfly queen will be placed. As they carve your body into their hive, and you wither and die a slow and painful death, I want you to consider closely your actions which led you here. Perhaps Ketzani will have mercy on you, and a nymph or a god will come to put you down.”

“Daggerflies?” Vancha-arnketzum gasped, the others forced to the ground as well. “Please, please no! Put me in a pillar! Put me in a pillar!”

With an elegant smile, she watched as the eight struggled to get up, as though they could flee—but the cracks of wood from the Asharkar spears brought them down. With only one to a prisoner, the eight condemned to die were dragged away, kicking and screaming, as their lupine executioners pulled them out of the garden, and toward an archway to a secluded space. They couldn’t execute them here, but they could at least perform the blindings before rushing them down to the lower levels of the palace.

Perhaps a daggerfly will get out and cause some chaos—ah, Ketzani, wouldn’t that be fun? Couldn’t you send daggerflies after any of my foes I couldn’t catch?

Lurking in the shadows behind her, a messenger had been standing for some time. Amused by her works, and the long suffering of her foes now wrapping up, she snapped her fingers, summoning the chaskum. Kneeling, he presented to her a kipum, to which she whisked her wrist to command him to read. After a few moments of feeling the knots and examining the colored cords of yarn, the chaskum cleared his throat.

“Your heroes, Zarika and Ahrnakir, have made it to Narri, and are preparing to execute their plan to hunt down your ultimate enemy there. If possible they shall return the mastermind to you alive, but if they are unable, the body shall be brought to you intact. When next you hear from them, it shall be a report of their victory and homecoming.”

Sighing in contentment, she slipped into her chair.

Then it’s all coming together. You stupid sister of mine, you really thought you could conquer a monarch such as I from the grave? I’m an empire building, a dream caster, Ketzani’s chosen—you had no chance. Death is your prison, and when the dread goddess comes to silence your ghost, I’ll be laughing. You and all your little shadows, you and all your little voices, poof! Gone! Ah the silence shall be lovely. Your rot will be even more delightful. My enemies grow fewer, but my dreams grow larger.

“Chaskum, go to the scribes and compose a message for me, if you will.”

“Anything, your highness.”

“The festival season is coming, and so he has this time to stay where he wishes—I believe I heard he was in Karatanu? Anyways. Send word that I want him to prepare for another expedition, this time to the south. I want him to come to the palace to speak with me before he leaves, though. With a little luck, he’ll come around the same time this Narri business is done.”