Birth of a Dark God
4
FEB/21
Date: 37th of Nuatuhl, 1995 PD (Post Dominion) – approximately 6 years ago
Location: Balic, Market District
“Fried locusts, get yer fried locusts,” Herrulf called out, trying to get his voice heard over the din of the crowd. The elderly man leaned slightly on the small rickety table in front of him for support; sweat dripping from his mostly bald head, the salty rivulets running down his scarred and wrinkled face as the relentless summer sun bore down upon him. “Caught just this morn,” Herrulf lied, “and fried today and seasoned with actual salt, by the Five!”
The Agora was packed this time of day, as teeming throngs of merchants and citizens all bargained and haggled and stole from one another, all the while trying to avoid the teams of elves and pickpockets that preyed upon the unwary. The red-cloaked militia that roamed the Agora lazily attempted to maintain order, an act that usually manifested itself with the occasional, and often arbitrary, beating of some unfortunate elf or urchin who got in their way.
In spite of the numbers of people present in the market today, Herrulf had only sold three skins of the fist sized bugs, earning him a paltry ceramic and a half. When coupled with the three skins he paid in “tax” to the red-cloaked Sergeant to have his men “keep an eye on his wares” – soldiers who were nowhere to be found at the moment, unsurprisingly – and the four skins he had lost to the sodding elves that preyed mercilessly upon the merchants here, Herrulf only had seven skins left. Even if he sold them all, that would leave him with just over three ceramic coins for the day, barely enough to pay his daily rent with maybe just enough left over for a fingerful of drakeroot, if he was lucky.
Herrulf scowled at a pair of young elves that were innocuously working their way through the crowd towards his table. The old man grabbed the wooden cudgel by his side and scowled at the two. “Get outta here, sandbacks!” He yelled, shaking the wooden club with geriatric menace. The two elves feigned innocence and surprise, and bowed obsequiously and began backing away from him in mock deference. Then the two flashed him mischievous grins and each shot an obscene finger gesture his way, before turning and disappearing back into the crowd. Herrulf muttered under his breath, putting his weathered hands over the skins of locusts on his table protectively. “Sodding filthy knife-ears!” he exclaimed as he realized that he somehow now only had five skins left on his table. “How in the Hells?” He grabbed his cudgel and looked furtively for the culprits, but they were nowhere to be seen. Those two must have been the distraction while their partner pilfered more of his wares, he realized angrily, chiding himself for falling for their ruse yet again. Herrulf cussed softly to himself and rearranged the remaining skins, pulling them closer to him on the table. Perhaps I can get an extension on my rent and sell these remaining five for a whole cap of drakeroot? he wondered idly, licking his lips in anticipation of his fix. “Get yer fried locusts, caught only this morn!” he cried, with renewed vigor.
Herrulf only sold one skin of the roasted locusts in the next hour, much to his dismay. All the while, the stall next to him was packed with people and no one was paying him much attention. The lucky sodders beside him had recently stumbled across a number of barrel cacti – some of the plants were even bearing fruit. These cacti could provide some reliable, if slight, food throughout the year and even a little water in times of desperation; though some work was needed to cut down on the acidity of the liquid lest it do more harm than good after drinking it. These two merchants were having a bidding war for their plants, with buyers offering upwards of 10 ceramic for a single small cactus in a cheap clay pot.
Herrulf figured that he should just go home and cut his losses. He might be able to trade his remaining locusts for a sniff of drakeroot, and then tonight he could head out to the desert with his worthless son to try to collect some more of the large insects as they dozed. Herrulf had traded his youngest grandson for the animal skins he used to catch the bugs, as well as for a clay pot to roast the locusts and a large pitcher of only semi-rancid olive oil. His grandson had been small for his age and much too soft to be of any use, and so it had seemed like an obvious trade for Herrulf to sell him off. On a good day, he could earn upwards of six ceramic selling the bugs, and he could occasionally barter for luxuries like pepper, cloth, or honey. Instead of thanking him for his ingenuity, his ungrateful daughter-in-law had instead rewarded Herrulf by cutting off half of his ear and scarring his face as repayment for his trade. “…couldn’t be grateful for having one less mouth to feed, as well as a source of coin and grub, could she?” Herrulf muttered under his breath, absentmindedly running a gnarled finger over the nub of his ear as he collected the remaining skins with his other hand, ready to break down for the day.
Then he froze in place.
Herrulf’s vision began to warp and distort wildly for a few moments before an explosion of ice and fire erupted inside his skull. He stumbled forward, knocking his table over and scattering his prized locusts to the ground, sending them into the startled crowd. Herrulf choked out a surprised gasp and fell forward, tripping over the toppled table and collapsing to his hands and knees on the hard stones of the Agora.
And then Herrulf was gone.
Well, not exactly gone. The old man appeared to still be there, on his knees in the middle of the market – at least the husk of him was still there. The wretched form that looked like Herrulf rose unsteadily to its feet and dusted the sand from its threadbare clothes. As far as any of the onlookers could tell the wicked old man was indeed still there, but there was now another inside of him, controlling his every move.
The one formerly known as Herrulf stood tall and took stock of Their new form, and found Themselves sorely disappointed. Even for a mortal specimen of advanced years, this shell was in especially bad shape. Taint in the blood, major organs on the verge of failing, drastically impaired mobility and mental function, addiction. This form would hold together for paltry seconds under Their divine weight, They realized, not that it really mattered. They only had scant moments anyway before the Dark Queen found Them again. She always did.
“Are ya drunk, ya old pisser?” growled a red-cloaked militiaman, working his way through the crowd towards the old man, roughly pushing people aside with his shield. When the old man didn’t answer right away, the soldier nudged him with the butt end of his spear. “I asked, are y…” Before he could finish his question, with an idle flick of a gnarled hand and the utterance of a Word of Power from the mouth of the old man, the guard disintegrated into a cloud of acrid black smoke and gently wafting ash. The form of Herrulf smiled a cruel smile and all Hell broke out in the market.
They had been to this world many times and each time They had been snuffed out of existence within moments by the might of Tiamat. This visit would be no different; They could feel Her malevolent gaze turn Their direction as She awoke from Her slumber to punish this challenge to her primacy. But each time They returned, They also learned a bit more about the world She had created. It had taken Them several trips to learn about how to use magic here, and even more to learn that They could feed Their magic with the life essence of living things. The form of Herrulf inhaled deeply and the cacti in the stall next to him and the few stubborn shrubs and trees and grasses in the market all grew shriveled and desiccated as They drew the plant’s life force into Them. The air around Them grew dark and cold and cries of “Defiler” and screams for more guards broke out amongst the terrified onlookers. They ignored these cries and used the newly absorbed life energy to send Their Will out into the world, searching for something, anything; some small pawn to place or move upon the cosmic chessboard.
The totality of Tiamat’s dominion over the people of Her world never seemed to amaze Them. With Their divine sight scouring the world, They could see that the meat puppets who shambled about seemingly of their own accord were almost all bound to Her completely. Whether out of love or fear or the lack of any other option, Her dominion was nearly complete: flesh marionettes which appeared to move of their own autonomy, but were instead connected by threads of red and blue and green and white and black, all leading back the Her as She worked their strings. But Tiamat was also growing arrogant in light of Her near total domination. With the absence of any real challenge to Her authority, She was turning on Herself, with each of Her five heads vying for dominion and control over the others. They realized that, in light of Tiamat’s arrogance in Her own supremacy and in the burgeoning chaos that arose as a result of Her internecine and self-inflicted power struggle, the seeds of resistance might finally begin to take root.
A thrown spear from a red-cloaked soldier punctured Herrulf’s chest and a hurled stone from a sling connected soundly with his temple, but the old man stayed on his feet. Blood gushed from the grievous wounds, but acrid green smoke billowed out of them as well, and the flesh of his skin began to writhe and undulate like a sack full of vipers. They knew that They could not hold onto this husk much longer. Under the weight of its celestial burden, Herrulf was beginning to come apart at the seams. Soon, it wouldn’t matter though. They had found their pawn and now just needed to move her into position, near to the few remaining pawns on the board not under Her control. Whether these were the remnants of the old powers barely in the game, or new pieces just placed on the board, it didn’t matter to Them; there was strength in numbers.
They found their catalyst slithering across the hot desert sand a few miles from the City walls, smelling the air with her forked tongue as she closed in on her prey. Though the young kivit was nearly within striking distance, when she heard the call of her master, the giant snake pulled up short and reared up to answer the summons; the sudden act startling the small cat which darted off to safety. The cobra swayed to and fro as a ghostly wind gently caressed it, as a divine spirit ran Their spectral hands over the serpent’s vibrant green scales. Snakes spend their entire lives in direct contact with the earth, feeling the very vibrations of the universe as they go about their lives. Every sound, from the blade in the dark to the drums of war, to the whisper in a king’s ear or upon a lover’s bed, all impart the tiniest vibration into the ground; and these sounds in turn leave minuscule imprints upon the serpent’s scales. The most sinister plans and the darkest secrets commingle with idle gossip and lies, are all written dutifully upon the serpent’s skin. And to those few gifted with the sight, they can read these tiny imperfections and know the very mysteries of the world.
The divine wind then whispered its most secret wish to the attentive serpent and watched with pleasure as Their words were scrawled onto its scales with perfect detail. And then, just like that, They were gone. The snake, released of the celestial call, returned to the hunt, smelling the air with her forked tongue and gliding across the sand, oblivious to the heresy inscribed upon her skin.
Several witnesses to events in the Agora that day saw the ground erupt underneath the decrepit old Defiler, and when the dust cleared there was no sign of him at all; just a smoldering crater where he had once stood. Some credited the winged Templars that showed up with blasting him out of existence. Others maintain that the foolish old man had immolated himself when his dark magic had grown beyond his control. Others even insisted that the man had actually escaped, and the explosion was a clever means to avoid pursuit. Still others, though only a few and then only in hushed whispers, swear that they had seen a giant hand, scaled and clawed and blood red in color, burst right out of the ground beneath the old wizard in an explosion of fire and stone, which grabbed the man and dragged him down beneath the firmament of the earth, carrying him to his fiery doom.
Epilogue:
Two weeks after the events in the Agora, a young soldier approached the crude hut on the outskirts of Balic, his red cloak billowing in the late afternoon breeze. He was a handsome man, with a soldier’s bearing but with a rare glimmer of humanity in his brown eyes. He knocked once on the door frame before entering the hut and was immediately struck by the smell of powerful incense; the scent washing over him and making his eyes water with its intensity. The interior of the hut was decorated with garishly painted animal skulls and bones and taxidermied representations of impossible animals. The room was lit by a single small fire in the center of the room that crackled with an eerie green flame, which only added to the surrealness of the scene.
Baba Jhākri sure does like his theatrics, the young soldier thought to himself, as he sat down on a worn pillow near the center of the room, directly across from a dark skinned man sitting cross-legged on the floor on the other side of the crackling, green fire. Baba Jhākri was wearing only a tattered loin cloth and the rest of his lean body was covered with bone jewelry and a healthy smattering of blue, black, and red paint.
“Walkem bek,” the man said, in a deep Gulgan accent. “Yewer ‘ere fer anudder readeeng, yeh.” It was not a question.
“I brought you something special this time, Baba,” the soldier said deferentially, as he passed the painted man a skin of fragrant sweet wine and a pair of ceramic coins. The Seer’s eyes lit up at the wine skin, and he promptly pulled the stopper out of the rim and took a long drink, careful not to spill a drop. As he drank, a long green cobra rose gracefully out of a wicker basket and slithered into the Seer’s lap. The man gingerly replaced the plug in the skin and set it aside, and then began to run his calloused hands over the back of the giant snake. He closed his eyes and tilted his head up to the heavens – Baba Jhākri preferred to let his hands do the readings these days, since his eyes were not what they used to be.
As his fingers played over the spine of the serpent, after a moment his demeanor began to grow dark and troubled. He opened his eyes and looked down to stare at the soldier with a look of intensity and worry, concentrating fixedly upon the story the scales were telling his fingers. As Baba’s demeanor grew more concerned, the soldier grew noticeably worried as well, and he shifted uncomfortably upon the hard cushion. He came here to visit Baba Jhākri once a year or so. The man had a gift with the readings, even if his prophecies did not always flesh out exactly as predicted; but he had never seen the old Seer act like this before.
After what seemed like an eternity, Baba’s hands worked their way up towards the head of the serpent and with a deft motion he snapped the neck of the regal creature, which spasmed and flopped about in protest. He then threw the writhing corpse directly onto the green fire in front of him, the flames of which popped and sizzled merrily in acceptance of the unexpected offering.
Baba Jhākri looked intently at the soldier and spoke directly into his mind, gone was the fake accent and any semblance of theatrics. I found that snake just yesterday waiting patiently outside of my home, which I took to be an auspicious omen. But what was written upon the spine of that serpent was blasphemy of the highest order; speaking one profane word of it aloud would ensure your doom and mine, and the death of any with the misfortune of knowing us. The script was in an ancient and forbidden tongue and the message was meant for you alone. You are to leave this very night for the Black City of Raam, and you must take only your daughter with you; not even her siblings nor her mother can know whence you have gone. Powerful events have been set in motion. The rains will return preceding the day with two dawns, this will herald the birth of a new age. You must protect her, with your own life. In Raam, she will find the others, and the pieces of the Great Game will be set in motion at last.
A few hours after the reading, Baba Jhākri sat alone in his hut, removing the now empty wine skin from his lips, and he stared deeply into the crackling green fire, the flames of which were dying low at last. The soldier had left without much word, pale and shaken but emboldened by a sense of divine purpose. What had it all meant, the Seer wondered, as the words of his final reading played over and over in his head: Nomadic Princes; the Light Made Flesh; The Day with Two Dawns; the Bringers of Rain; the Maiden Reborn. Baba Jhākri knew that he was not safe as long as this knowledge lived inside of him, but he also knew that this was how his story was fated to end – every augury he had ever done had foretold as much.
By reading the Divine Script of the Gods – the very language of creation and destruction itself – he had marked himself, he knew. He could feel the wrathful gaze of the Dark Goddess searching for him, seeking out the blasphemy that heralded a challenge to Her supremacy. Time was of the essence now. If the soldier was to have a chance of success, Baba Jhākri knew what he must do. He reached within the recesses of his mind, searching for every instance that he had ever seen the red-cloaked soldier – a difficult task since the man had visited him several times over the past dozen years or so. When he was fairly certain he had a complete tally of each meeting, the Seer concentrated upon the memories, pushing the thoughts forward in his consciousness. He then extended his hand up to his temple and plucked the literal memories from his head; memories which now resembled a small shimmering and nearly insubstantial thread which writhed and wiggled gently in his fingers. He then focused his Will upon the tiny thread and the memories broke apart, dissolving into a cloud of sparkling motes of dust, which wafted away gently, riding upon the wind. Baba Jhākri hoped that this was enough.
He took a deep breath and then focused upon the dying flame in front of him and willed it back to life. The fire responded to his beckons, writhing and swirling wildly until it nearly reached the top of the hut; a mesmerizing cyclone of emerald flame. The churning fire grew wider and taller, until it licked the roof and walls of the hut, engulfing Baba Jhākri in its fiery embrace. The Seer gritted his teeth in stoic defiance of the agony he was feeling, maintaining his composure as long as he could before finally crying out in pain and slumping over in surrender as the ravenous flames continued their feast. As blessed darkness began closing in around him, Baba Jhākri suspected that he knew what torments awaited him in the next life; but he also realized that, should the prophecy come to pass as foretold, his torture would not last for eternity. This sense of hope emboldened him as he finally succumbed to the flames.
Somewhere on the divine chessboard of the heavens, a pawn was moving into position.