As soon as Kilgarrahās
rousing farewell speech came to an end, Yigzavath shot up from his position at the table and made his way towards the Hallās exit, not even bothering to return an insult at the dragon god. No inclination to stick around, it would seem. No one was surprised by this.
Though Naharguāul, too, decided not to stay any longer. He turned to Iuppiter and said to him, āI, too, will take my leave. Letās speak again when we are both away from here.ā He stood up from his throne, and followed after Yigzavath at a distance.
Vorris and Naharguāul
Somewhere out in the oceanFour hundred and ninety-three years.
Four hundred and ninety-three years of undisturbed slumber, deep down in the bedrock of the ocean. The mariner, Vorris, his name. He sleeps still, his body enveloped by the watery elements, encased in coral and various oceanic plantlife.
But his rest would not go on another year longer. In the recesses of his mind, Vorris heard the sounds of ripples in the ocean. Unnatural ripples, signalling not just any passing leviathan, but something commanding
attention. His fingers twitched as the ripples intensified, more and more smaller ones joining in, until suddenly, he heard the voice of his god.
āRise.āHis black, shielded eyes shot open, and his body began to break itself free of the coral bed. At his side, his chitin-encrusted, half-alive catch pole rests, and he promptly takes it in hand. Its pincers twitch slightly, as if it too is waking up. The last bits of coral float away from him, though some remnants cling to his body. Even after all this time, he is as alert as heās ever been, as though his nearly five centuries of slumber were just a passing forty winks.
Then, he laid his eyes on what the rest of the ripples were coming from. Merfolk, leviathans, even a scarce few krakens, were all barreling past him, congregating around a barren clearing just ahead. Vorris swam forward, the waters propelling him at his whim. He pushed through the crowd of merfolk, who watched in veneration of their reawakened hero, gently placing their hands on his person as he went by. He emerged into the clearing, planting his feet down on the bedrock. The creatures around him continued to move and watch, as the rumbling began.
A great plume of rubble burst from the bedrock ahead, though Vorris kept his footing, watching as a massive, humanoid arm emerged. It reached for the thin lights hanging above the waterās surface. It came crashing down, pointed fingers digging into the rocks, pulling up the rest of the colossal figure. Blackened tentacles followed, rising from the depths, occupying the space around the swarming creatures. The glow of the behemothās six crimson eyes signalled its triumphant rise above the bedrock, standing prominently in the dim waters, as the creatures continued to clamor.
But Vorris, he simply dropped to one knee on the bedrock, head bowed before his god. Naharguāul, the one true sovereign of the great and vast oceans of Gaea, had finally returned to the mortal realm. He looked to his subjects, and unleashed a rallying bellow that shook the waters around them. Even with his divine status, it felt
good to signal his return in such a way.
Naharguāul turned his gaze down towards the kneeling mariner.
āVorris. My old champion.ā
Vorris raised his head in response to the words. They sounded less as though they were coming from one source, and more as if the water around him itself was uttering them.
āThe pleasure, to behold you again. After five centuries of that
abhorrent Silence, obscuring my visionā¦ā
He raised his arms, motioning to the expanses beyond.
āAhā¦ The waters are breached by my echo once again. I can feel the vesselsā¦ the riches... the wreckagesā¦ andā¦ā
He paused for a moment.
āWhatā¦ is this
filth I sense? It is familiarā¦ Itā¦ it is coming fromā¦ā
Vorris said nothing. He just listened. Naharguāul stared off in one direction, past the creatures who were just beginning to settle upon his return. He wasā¦
eerily silent. After a moment, he said to his champion, āVorris... somethingā¦ something is
wrong. We must see to it. Come.ā
There were no questions. Naharguāulās very form vanished, becoming one with the waters around him. Vorris swam alongside him, clinging to a massive, eel-like creatureās nape. He commanded it to follow the invisible trail of his god. Off they went, in the direction of whatever
disturbance the Sea-Fiend had sensed.
Something in the back of Vorrisā mind told him he already knew full well what it was.
Isabella and Yigzavath
The Infested WorkshopA mess of old candles placed about.
A heap of parchments and bindings, scattered on a wooden table, surrounded by the candles.
Isabella, simply clothed and out of her normal, orchid attire, was seated in a wooden chair before the desk, once again jotting down word after word, sentence after sentence, on some grand itinerary that went through a wave of revisions almost every week. They were plans on where to find one thing, what to combine it with another, annual inventory management, grocery lists that sheād failed to act on time after timeā¦
This was the very definition of squalid.
It was like this most days, unfortunately. Just planning. Never taking action, simply
planning. Compulsively taking notes to break the monotony of living in a cave. Isabella was always putting the consequences before the results, an unpleasant habit sheād inadvertently adopted during her stay within the Infested Workshop. She always came back to the thoughts of,
what can I really do on my own? What if Iām caught in the act, taken away or, burned at the stake? What if they find me?Quite the unfavorable mindset. She resented herself for it. She sighed, putting down her pen after finalizing an addendum on how sheād have to go searching for more bovine excrement to sate some of the Workshopās
smaller inhabitants. She wiped her hand on her face in defeat, drooping someā¦ until she heard a noise.
She
never hears a noise.
She lifted her head up, looking off in the distance past her desk, towards the multitude of coarse glass jars containing innumerable insects, separated from dead to very much alive, illuminated by hanging lanterns sheād put up herself. Nothing was there, no change in the norm - the little creatures were still scurrying in their hovels. She kept her vision peeled for a moment more, before deigning to look in the opposite direction - only to come face to face with a hulking figureās stark, misshapen mask.
āYigzavathā¦ā Isabella said under her breath, after a moment of pregnant silence.
ā
What. Are you doing here.ā The Filthmonger said, in his horrible, clicking voice that most mortals would detest. Isabella did not respond. Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape. This suddenness of the encounter left her at a loss for words.
āWHAT ARE YOU
DOING HERE.ā The God shouted angrily, lurching forward, causing Isabella to stumble back into her desk, knocking over a few candles onto the cavern floor. Yigzavath reached forward with one of his gangly, human-esque arms, grabbing the woman by her torso, wrapping his fingers around to her back, and hoisting her up before his vision. ā
WHO ARE YOU.ā He said aloud, pressuring her. āI-Iāmā¦ā Isabella stammered, struggling to get her words out, āAnā¦ A-Acolyte!ā
Yigzavathās arachnid appendages reeled back, refraining from burrowing into the womanās head. He dropped her onto the floor. Isabella landed on her fours, gasping for breath. The Filthmonger simply watched her, waiting for her to get back on her feet. As she began to recollect herself, she went on to say between breaths, āIā¦ Iām your lastā¦ Acolyteā¦ Iāve beenā¦ tending to the Workshopā¦ in your absenceā¦ā
Yigzavath did not respond. He simply turned his attention towards the glass jars, full of his long abandoned work. Still sitting there, after five centuries of
nothing. He moved towards them, his centipede-like lower half skittering along the ground behind him. He paused, slowly grabbing a jar of dead locusts from a shelf, staring at it. A moment passed, with Isabella still watching him intently. She was still in
awe that her God had justā¦
appeared, out of nowhere, at such a random time. No grand entrance, no welcoming swarm of insects. As she always thought it would be, though sheād always been uncertain if it would be in her lifetime. Yet, here stood the Filthmonger himself. Yigzavath returned the jar to its spot on the shelf and looked back at Isabella. āYou... are the last?ā He questioned.
āThe last... that I know of.ā Isabella replied calmly, but with confidence, almost as if she was a troop commanderās confidant.
āWhat is your name?ā
āIsabella. Loyce.ā
Silence, after her answer. The pestilent deity turned his head back towards the jars, his arachnid appendages tapping a few of them gently. After another bout of silence, he said to his Acolyte, āLeave me. I will call upon you later.ā
āYesā¦ā Isabella replied, bowing her head, and stepping away from the Filthmonger. She returned to her desk, quickly picking up the toppled candles, dousing the lot of them. She picked up her papers, and retreated into another section of the Workshop. Yigzavath hovered his hand over the shelves, finding a small stack of parchments resting beside a jar on the lowest level. He picked it up, flipping through it. A log ofā¦
all his past creations, with notes of which ones were long dead, recently dead, and still alive to this very recorded day. Feeding preferences and appropriate times, with little in the way of errors. Fine work, for a mortal in his place.
He took the papers with him. Saved him some busywork.
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