The Divine Chamberlain, House Papa, Hearth Breather, The Ever-Welcomed Architect
Houses In a turbulent world there is nothing more comforting than that of ones’ house. Lares is the God of Houses, of Hearths, and the Home; in practice, he is the divine builder and protector of any domicile made by sentient beings. A house is simply defined in the eyes of Lares; it is any place where at least one person resides, either built by their own hand, adopted into their heart from moving there, or occasionally forced upon them. A house cannot simply occur naturally and requires the presence and long-term occupation of at least one individual. Furthermore, a house is refined through the process of living in it, adding to it, and making it one's own; to simply sleep in a cave for a night, for instance, does not make it a home. Over time, through repeated returning to the cave, the addition of a crackling hearth, of soft material for bedding, or even the presence of food scraps left over from many meals, a place will gain status as a home and thus the favor of Lares.
In his capacity as the God of Houses, Lares plays several roles; first, as that of an architect. He is a constructor of houses, for he has a great love for creatures feeling comfortable. Although they cannot exist in a home, even the holes dug by rodents or nests made by birds provide a pleased smile onto the visage of the Divine Chamberlain. With this status as an Architect of the Gods, Lares is a master at erecting complex structures, though most notably domiciles. Whether the blessing of his attentions is given to a mortal or a divine, it does not matter; their home will be constructed to perfecting specifications, made ideal for them in their own way of life, and ultimately refreshing in ways no single other place can be for a soul wary and overworked.
Additionally, Lares holds the dubious function as the Divine Chamberlain, or the House Papa. A man’s home is his castle, as the old adage goes, and Lares will provide his protection over homes and those who would defend them. Although no great fighter or master-at-arms, Lares fights like a hundred lions when his back is to his domicile and those who pray to him in such times of need are no different. A home, more than anything, should be an unassailable bastion, protected from the woes of an external world. As such, those who have the blessing of Lares within their own home will feel driven to greater acts of heroism in its defense, finding the will to last one day longer, make the fires burn just a little brighter, and defend their home to the last.
Finally, the Hearth Breather holds sway over the little things within the house that makes such a place a home. He is an incorrigible layabout when all the work of the home is completed for the day, but before such time as his coat can be removed there is much effort needed doing. As such, he presides over mothers in the hearth cooking a hearty meal, of children doing their chores, or fathers chopping wood for the fires. Basic things, like planter boxes filled with little goodies behind the house, are beloved by Lares and thus receive his attention, wanted or otherwise. This passion can be evoked to bring small benefits, like making a garden grow well for a season, or make easy work of tree-cutting to give your window a better view or provide firewood for your hearth. All these fall within the domain of Houses, for all are intrinsic in making one a Home.
Persona Lares is, at his heart, a lover of the simple things in life. From the very moment of his cosmic birth to the day the stars wink out, the House Papa believes there is nothing more perfect then a cozy house, kept well-maintained and treated with love, filled with welcoming smells, beloved views, and warmth that just wants to embrace you. When such things have been achieved, Lares is kindly, amiable, and even jovial. In his own home, so long as he’s not being assailed or otherwise bothered, he is notably generous and will dote on guests. Similarly, when within homes that have been treated well he will be respectful, honor the keeper of the house, and ultimately will be the kind of guest one would want for their home.
Outside of these ideal conditions, Lares differs; considerably, at times. Out and about in the world Lares can be curious, always on the lookout for new places to places houses and inspired by the landscape around him to ever greater feats of architectural genius. It is in the world where he gets to see the works of others and marvel at their effort, and equally still feel disgust at the darker things there. Most of all, of course, is the failure to maintain ones home or, even worse, the destruction of another’s prized domicile. In times like those Lares is a ball of tooth and claw, ferocious, blustering, and impossible to calm. Although not particularly dangerous among the gods, to mortals who shirk their duties a divine furball is still divine.
Finally, within homes that have been mistreated or otherwise ill kempt, Lares can be obsessive in rectifying these problems. If the mortal or God who failed in their duties is repentant, Lares will direct his anger at working out stains, fixing drywall, cleaning carpets and scouring tiles rather than doing all those things to the offender. Like a grandmother scorned, Lares is bossy, demanding, and quick-tempered during such periods. Furthermore, Lares will do everything in his power to not only revert the home to proper order but make sure those who sinned against the cozy nature of the home are thoroughly educated on their failures so as never to do it again.
Base Form Ever a God of creature comforts, Lares fittingly spends the vast majority of his time appearing as loosely-anthropomorphized animals. Above all else, his preferred appearance is as mustelids, and he will regularly present as what appears to be some sort of otter-wolverine hybrid. In these forms Lares will adopt all manner of clothing that is comfortable and fitting for the place he is currently residing, and will generally walk on two legs when applicable. Occasionally, and particularly when he is at the far ends of the spectrum of his personality, Lares will adopt more animalistic and simplistic behavior as he either gets exceedingly relaxed or considerably enraged.
True Form In his truest form, the God of Houses is fittingly less a figure and more a feeling. During such times where Lares is moved to fulfilling such a powerful role, he takes on a wind of change that rolls into homes and warps them. Any house he enters will change to become the idealized place of residence for its owner, shifting and creaking until every nook and cranny is shaped to perfection. When within such a divinely-occupied home, sentient creatures feel an overwhelming sense of comfort, safety, and security. It is when Lares leaves a home as this wandering spirit of hearths that he becomes more visible, appearing as a cloud of potential architecture. Like an apparition, a constantly changing home can be seen warping across the ground, shifting in architecture, paint color, and even construction material based on slight differences of position that demand different changes to a would-be home.
In a distant corner of the Divine Palace a room moved.
With further observation it could be determined that it did not move much; four hands, to be exact, with the back wall moving away from its counterpart across the way. The change was simplistic and arguably entirely aesthetic, mostly succeeding at shifting the feng shui of the room to more fitting harmony. The rest of the room was empty, of course, and so the exact flow of the chamber remained untouched. But, doubtlessly so, the room had experienced a change worth noticing and noting.
Yes. The room was better.
Four doors down the hallway and another thing altered. The doorway that led into the room shifted, gaining a window that looked into it. This particular door led to one of the Palace’s great libraries, after all, and libraries should be observable and welcoming. Within the lighting began to shift as lamps and sconces moved along the wall to slightly altered positions while bookshelves grew, shrank, or stretched. The floor, previously left open for easy access, grew tables and chairs like trees, sprouting up all across the floor. The gentle creak of floorboards filled the room, with ladders and steps rolling out onto themselves to give access to the tallest bookshelves and lead to the newly unfurling catwalk that wrapped around the upper level. In mere moments the room had grown from a room to store books into a welcoming space for learning and companionship.
That was when it happened.
An ottoman, frankly one of maximum comfort and coziness, hopped. It had been a shard at some point, the ottoman realized, but now it was an ottoman. The loveseat that stood domineeringly behind it, its pair, didn’t seem to realize that it was a loveseat, however.
The ottoman was displeased.
The ottoman moved on all fours to indicate clearly to its partner that it should not only be aware that it was a loveseat, but moreover that it had a valued role in the comforting embrace of this particular room in the home. It couldn’t speak, of course- it was an ottoman, after all- but it was sure it was doing a magnificent job elucidating this radical new ideology of furniture-relativism to its compatriot. And yes, much to the Ottoman’s displeasure…
The loveseat remained entirely unmoved.
Unacceptable! This state of being simply could not continue, as despite being an object spawned for comfort and coziness, the ottoman simply could not convince the loveseat of the same. Perhaps it was due to the lack communication beyond the rough impacts shared between the ottoman and the loveseat. By the Great Divine, the ottoman had even received a sense of romantic bliss from this new partnership, but clearly the loveseat simply couldn’t understand. No matter, loveseats always were more focused on the simple things. The ottoman, no doubt, could solve this in other ways.
The four wooden feet of the ottoman flexed. It was a slow flex, as if shaking off this “being made of wood” thing, but it was definitely a flex. The flex then became a full stretch and with the sound of popping corks each of the legs went from hardwood to something softer, more welcoming. But, more was needed. The smooth surface of the hardwood legs grew fur in big tufts that popped out explosively before becoming for more fuzzy and welcoming. From there the ottoman stood, shaking itself off. Cushions then stretched and shifted, needing to match the new aesthetic rather than continue to awkwardly clash. It took only moments for the growth to be complete, but in that flash of awareness the ottoman grew from a simple but comfortable piece of foot-rest to a fuzzy, adorable looking mustelid-creature.
Two ears perked up as the amalgam critter took proper address of its surroundings. Yes, it was far easier to perceive the feng shui of the room. Little claws ran through the fur of the ottoman- scratch that, such terminology was no longer correct- the critter’s lighter colored tummy. He, for he was fairly confident he was a he, purred in contentment. Yes, this would work far better. With that, the creature turned on its back paws as it stood on all fours to address the loveseat.
“My love,” cooed the furry little ferret-otter-wolverine-thing, “You are a loveseat; a wondrous, magnificent example of your lineage. Yes. Very good.”
With this assertion complete, the varmint-fuzzball was pleased. With paws on his hips he stood imperiously in the room, confidence practically illuminating the entire chamber. In fact, that was exactly it; a beaming disc glowed behind his head, a halo of perfect housing wisdom. Fitting! With his young love set straight, and the room complete, he was left with a great deal of freedom. This was a strange feeling, admittedly, as until that very moment he had been an ottoman with no ambitions other than convincing his loveseat partner that it was a loveseat, and a good one at that. But what was there now? What possible direction could he take?
“Well, this simply won’t do, no, no, no,” frowned the adorable, lovable, cozy, no-brainer addition to any given household, “We simply cannot let this continue! Admittedly, how could one go back to being a simple ottoman when opportunity like this is presented? But what to do…”
The soft padding of feet filled his ear. It took a few moments to realize that it was his own paws carrying him down the hall, back on all fours like his old ottoman self, but it was definitely him! The door opened before him, knowing well its honored place to open and close, and the fuzzy creature was suddenly out in the hallway. His eyes widened as doors presented themselves and in an instant he knew each one by heart, in and out, to every perfect detail. Each was unique, special, and deserved love and care to reach their greatest potential! He knew, instinctively perhaps, that this place was not simply a place but something more. It contained things, perhaps other ottomans, and they did not simply exist within but belonged here. Most of all, he knew in his little mind that someone in particular called this place “theirs”. Their what?
Home.
That’s what this was! A home! A mighty one, admittedly, of such massive scale that it would outshine any and every home ever to be born from this point onward, but a home nonetheless. A mighty palatial abode that would house many, that was for certain, and in that moment the mustelid-creature knew that it was a home HE was meant to keep! He was to be the Chamberlain of this great palace and, indeed, of every home born in its image. Much work would need to be done, of course, but HE would be the lares of this Palace.
“Lares! That’s it! I am Lares!” asserted, evidently, Lares with an authoritative point to the sky with his adorable little paw. A momentary pause and his paws dropped to his little chin, scritching, “Whatever that is…”
The sound of voices could be heard down the hall, echoing in a way only the lare of a home could hear, and Lares’ fuzzy ears perked up at the chorus. People! Yes, a home was only a home because of people. It was, after all, for them. Switching between two and four legs in equal measure as he hopped, skipped, and loped down the halls, Lares’ tail flapped excitedly. Yes, he needed to meet these people; it was for them, after all, that he would serve so diligently!
With that Lares went hurtling towards others, excited to meet the occupants of the almighty Palatial Home!
A room changes! Followed by another! A whole library is warped and changed to be more of an intellectual smoking room for learning in comfort. From within the new smoking room an ottoman is born that confidently believes that it is an ottoman, and the loveseat made with it is a loveseat. Seeking desperately to convince its fellow of this fact, the ottoman warps itself into a small divine-critter. Thus is born Lares, the first lare, the Divine Chamberlain. Lares then wanders off into the Divine Palace to make himself available to the occupants, particularly the Monarch of All.
The Divine Chamberlain, House Papa, Hearth Breather, The Ever-Welcomed Architect
Houses In a turbulent world there is nothing more comforting than that of ones’ house. Lares is the God of Houses, of Hearths, and the Home; in practice, he is the divine builder and protector of any domicile made by sentient beings. A house is simply defined in the eyes of Lares; it is any place where at least one person resides, either built by their own hand, adopted into their heart from moving there, or occasionally forced upon them. A house cannot simply occur naturally and requires the presence and long-term occupation of at least one individual. Furthermore, a house is refined through the process of living in it, adding to it, and making it one's own; to simply sleep in a cave for a night, for instance, does not make it a home. Over time, through repeated returning to the cave, the addition of a crackling hearth, of soft material for bedding, or even the presence of food scraps left over from many meals, a place will gain status as a home and thus the favor of Lares.
In his capacity as the God of Houses, Lares plays several roles; first, as that of an architect. He is a constructor of houses, for he has a great love for creatures feeling comfortable. Although they cannot exist in a home, even the holes dug by rodents or nests made by birds provide a pleased smile onto the visage of the Divine Chamberlain. With this status as an Architect of the Gods, Lares is a master at erecting complex structures, though most notably domiciles. Whether the blessing of his attentions is given to a mortal or a divine, it does not matter; their home will be constructed to perfecting specifications, made ideal for them in their own way of life, and ultimately refreshing in ways no single other place can be for a soul wary and overworked.
Additionally, Lares holds the dubious function as the Divine Chamberlain, or the House Papa. A man’s home is his castle, as the old adage goes, and Lares will provide his protection over homes and those who would defend them. Although no great fighter or master-at-arms, Lares fights like a hundred lions when his back is to his domicile and those who pray to him in such times of need are no different. A home, more than anything, should be an unassailable bastion, protected from the woes of an external world. As such, those who have the blessing of Lares within their own home will feel driven to greater acts of heroism in its defense, finding the will to last one day longer, make the fires burn just a little brighter, and defend their home to the last.
Finally, the Hearth Breather holds sway over the little things within the house that makes such a place a home. He is an incorrigible layabout when all the work of the home is completed for the day, but before such time as his coat can be removed there is much effort needed doing. As such, he presides over mothers in the hearth cooking a hearty meal, of children doing their chores, or fathers chopping wood for the fires. Basic things, like planter boxes filled with little goodies behind the house, are beloved by Lares and thus receive his attention, wanted or otherwise. This passion can be evoked to bring small benefits, like making a garden grow well for a season, or make easy work of tree-cutting to give your window a better view or provide firewood for your hearth. All these fall within the domain of Houses, for all are intrinsic in making one a Home.
Persona Lares is, at his heart, a lover of the simple things in life. From the very moment of his cosmic birth to the day the stars wink out, the House Papa believes there is nothing more perfect then a cozy house, kept well-maintained and treated with love, filled with welcoming smells, beloved views, and warmth that just wants to embrace you. When such things have been achieved, Lares is kindly, amiable, and even jovial. In his own home, so long as he’s not being assailed or otherwise bothered, he is notably generous and will dote on guests. Similarly, when within homes that have been treated well he will be respectful, honor the keeper of the house, and ultimately will be the kind of guest one would want for their home.
Outside of these ideal conditions, Lares differs; considerably, at times. Out and about in the world Lares can be curious, always on the lookout for new places to places houses and inspired by the landscape around him to ever greater feats of architectural genius. It is in the world where he gets to see the works of others and marvel at their effort, and equally still feel disgust at the darker things there. Most of all, of course, is the failure to maintain ones home or, even worse, the destruction of another’s prized domicile. In times like those Lares is a ball of tooth and claw, ferocious, blustering, and impossible to calm. Although not particularly dangerous among the gods, to mortals who shirk their duties a divine furball is still divine.
Finally, within homes that have been mistreated or otherwise ill kempt, Lares can be obsessive in rectifying these problems. If the mortal or God who failed in their duties is repentant, Lares will direct his anger at working out stains, fixing drywall, cleaning carpets and scouring tiles rather than doing all those things to the offender. Like a grandmother scorned, Lares is bossy, demanding, and quick-tempered during such periods. Furthermore, Lares will do everything in his power to not only revert the home to proper order but make sure those who sinned against the cozy nature of the home are thoroughly educated on their failures so as never to do it again.
Base Form Ever a God of creature comforts, Lares fittingly spends the vast majority of his time appearing as loosely-anthropomorphized animals. Above all else, his preferred appearance is as mustelids, and he will regularly present as what appears to be some sort of otter-wolverine hybrid. In these forms Lares will adopt all manner of clothing that is comfortable and fitting for the place he is currently residing, and will generally walk on two legs when applicable. Occasionally, and particularly when he is at the far ends of the spectrum of his personality, Lares will adopt more animalistic and simplistic behavior as he either gets exceedingly relaxed or considerably enraged.
True Form In his truest form, the God of Houses is fittingly less a figure and more a feeling. During such times where Lares is moved to fulfilling such a powerful role, he takes on a wind of change that rolls into homes and warps them. Any house he enters will change to become the idealized place of residence for its owner, shifting and creaking until every nook and cranny is shaped to perfection. When within such a divinely-occupied home, sentient creatures feel an overwhelming sense of comfort, safety, and security. It is when Lares leaves a home as this wandering spirit of hearths that he becomes more visible, appearing as a cloud of potential architecture. Like an apparition, a constantly changing home can be seen warping across the ground, shifting in architecture, paint color, and even construction material based on slight differences of position that demand different changes to a would-be home.
Lonn strode across the long, dusty path westward, leaving the lands that would one day be known as the chaparral and into the foothills of the mountains. He had spent weeks observing the people of the eastern coast, watching as one by one the disparate groups made their way towards the Red Pillar; it was working exactly as intended. Regardless, his collection of observed groups grew in number. It was only a matter of time, of course, that he noticed something deeply disturbing. The Red God began to see, rarely but in increasing numbers, the presence of disease among the mortals. At first he had not been worried; such pestilence had proven to be a normal part of the apocalypse and only added to the complexity and fascination of the human experience.
It had only donned on Lonn that something was particularly amiss when he was given time to himself, sitting beneath the darkened skies as the solar disk dove across the other side of the mountains. His thoughts, as they often did, descended on topics darker in nature and found their way to Ahtziri. She had been an enigma at the time of her discovery and yet still proved a niggling thorn in the side of Lonn’s mind. The divinity he had interacted with up until that point had been openly human in nature, or at least held some semblance of mankind within them; though she certainly did reflect some of humanity herself, as he admitted openly, Ahtziri had proven to be the first actively opposed to their continued existence. Though he stewed on this topic, it wasn’t long until dots began to connect. Unwilling to let sleeping dogs lie when his plans were this close to blossoming, Lonn directed his considerable mind towards investigation. With divine senses he dug deep into the nature of disease, observing it in men and beast and plant. The Man-God determined rapidly that it was a perfidious thing indeed. But, far more importantly, Lonn calculated that if there was a Goddess of Monsters and God of Mortals, surely there must be a God of pestilence.
The realization had eaten at his heart but quickly turned towards action. This figure, by the very nature of what Lonn had observed, was perhaps even more antithetical to Lonn’s interests than Ahtziri. With his first battle with another god having ended ultimately in a semblance of success, confidence had swelled in his divine heart. Action not only could be taken, but had to be taken, in order to secure the future he so utterly craved. With that Lonn set off westward, focusing all his attention on tracking the spread of pestilence from a presumed central source.
It hadn’t taken a God of the Hunt to track the spread of corruption from deep below the mountaintop where the wellspring of the world burst forth. Lonn had followed the wave of pestilence that had emanated forth, following and turning about wherever the pattern showed itself clearly. It was obvious to Lonn, by that point, that his prediction had been completely correct. No doubt there was another Divine at the end of his path and by then he had set himself clearly to the task.
Either the God would swear to reign in his actions or Lonn would choose a more direct approach.
In the dull light of the setting sun disk, Lonn glared up the hillside at the rotted stack of stones and gnarled rock that opened into the mountain face like a sickened maw. Though the emanations of its effluvient breath was ultimately invisible to the naked eye, Lonn had no such difficulties. Rot poured forth from the maw of pestilence with heavy gasps, billowing in great clouds to Lonn’s red eyes. The dark skin of his false-form paled as the wave of diseased air rolled over him but it was made of tougher stuff than mortal ken. Eyes now raging red, Lonn strode forth with a determined gate, shoulders wide.
As he arrived at the yawning portal of Pestis, Lonn placed a hand on one of the rocks only for it to be singed with corruption. Recognizing the momentary pain, Lonn raised the wound to his eyes and grimaced with disdain. Pockmarks and scar tissue already formed, partially blacked, on the face of his left palm.
”What brings you here to this blessed place of decay eternal?”
Xem lifted his gaze to stare at the Red God.
”It was not made for one such as you, even though your flesh will mingle with it in due time.”
The God of Rot rose from his fetid throne, bones creaking and flesh sloughing in a seemingly endless draught. Lurching forward he approached his fellow god, stopping only when there were naught more than the span of four steps left between them.
”Or do you intend on joining me early? If so…” he chuckled, a horrid burbling of tattered flesh and torn chords, as he raised a worm riddled hand and reached out for Lonn. ”That is something I can most certainly arrange.”
Stopping just as his fingers were about to brush against the Red God’s steadily paling face, Xem turned away to retake his seat upon the throne. Regarding Lonn with what could only be described as an amused smirk, for that is what the skewed angle of his jaw most readily implied, he rested his head in the crook of his palm.
”Or perhaps you intend on challenging me to a test of martial prowess?”
He sighed dramatically, the sound of which emerged as more of a wispy rasp than anything else.
”I will admit that such a contest, while I am not necessarily averse to it, would not exactly be fair to either of us. I am not a god who is in possession of immense physical strength after all, and you…”
Xem gazed at the Red God in silence for but a moment.
”Well you, to put it bluntly, do not seem to be the kind of being suited to fighting in a place like this.”
Lonn had remained quiet from the very moment the Rot-God Xem had presented himself, his burbling voice more than enough clamor for the moment. Every word dripped with arrogance, a tone Lonn had become incredibly familiar with as of late, and so he simply held his tongue. As the dark deity monologued Lonn took a further step into the cavernous hall of the God of Pestilence. Though he didn’t allow for his gaze to drop he could feel his bare feet clearly balking at the corrupting presence of Pestis. His sneer remained penetrative, however, bristling black mustache and beard looking all the part of some great boar, ferocious in its visage. When at last Xem made his assertion about their coming conflict, Lonn had to suppress an urge to speak more thoroughly on the subject.
”Seemingly.” retorted the God of Mortals with a laconic quip, a one word response all he gave in reply.
There was a pause as Lonn allowed himself one step further inside, his gaze wandering only to the peripheries of his vision. His lip pulled back into a slight sneer once more, revealing the gentlest hint of his ivory-white teeth. There Xem was, sitting upon his throne of effluvium, and all Lonn could do was look on in distaste. The irony of it all was palpable. Though he felt his organs prickling at the new found pathogens boiling in his lungs, Lonn didn’t much pay it heed. Though tears started building at the corners of his red eyes, Lonn seemed to only glow more. His eyes now sparked with crimson lightning and a circular aura about his person roared into a carmine blaze. Even with the weakening of his flesh, it was clear Lonn was no simpering puppet.
”I need to know something, friend,” spat out Lonn as he stood with surprising strength despite the evident weakness of his fleshy form, ”It’s clear to me from what I’ve seen that you don’t intend any good for the life of this last shard of reality. Do I got that right?”
Xem responded with a curt nod.
”That is correct. Though if you are curious it is not spite but hunger and inevitability that drives my decay. Everything rots just as everything dies, so in a manner of speaking everything ultimately becomes one with me.”
Although his expression was largely unreadable on account of how mangled his face was, Xem was regarding Lonn with the slightest tinge of curiosity.
”I assume you take issue with this? What with the ferocity lacing your words...”
”Correct,” pronounced Lonn matter of factly, by now seeming utterly feverish in complexion, ”Their lives have value to me. So I say once, buddy, and only once; do something else.”
Xem shook his head and steepled his fingers beneath his chin in reply.
”I am afraid that is something I simply cannot do. My hunger will be satiated one way or another, whether it is to your liking or not.”
He leaned forward in his throne.
”It seems we will have no choice but to come to blows, for you do not seem like the type of god to let someone off with a stern warning alone.”
Rising from his seat once more, Xem stood with his hands clasped behind his back in clear invitation for Lonn to make the first move.
In contrast to the caution shown in his first fight with another divine, Lonn now enjoyed a far greater level of experience for divine conflict and instantly moved to claim the initiative. His left heel hurtled forward along the rotten floor, darkened flesh-matter tearing as it ran across the jagged ground of Pestis. When his foot came to plant itself into the vile soil already his left foot seemed ruined, yet it planted with the firmness of a veteran fighter unbowed and unbroken. False human muscles, built with greater understanding after the loss of his first body, responded with power and poise in equal measure as his powerful form lurched forward into a throwers pose and his hand shot back into position. A thundercrack sounded as the space between Lonn’s fingers tore itself apart and a crimson line of light screamed out into either direction, ending at two flashing points in reality. The red lance was fully born in the very moment Lonn’s arm launched forward, hurling the bolt at godly speeds towards his opponent while the rocky earth around the Red God cracked and shattered from the unleashed energy.
With nothing more than a simple upwards flick of his fingers, the Exarch of Decay caused a bubbling wall of acid to surge forth from the ground below and interpose itself between the bolt and his body, though he did not remain standing in place for very long. Sparing only a second or two to see if his countermeasure had successfully blocked the bolt hurled by Lonn - which it had, thankfully, the acid evaporating into a thick screen of vision obscuring steam testifying to its effectiveness - Xem quickly vaulted over the back of his throne and fled deeper into Pestis, manipulating the mire around him so that it aided in his flight. He knew this would not be enough, however, and that the Red God would catch up with him eventually. So, deciding he needed a more physical means of self-defense, Xem took hold of his lowest rib and tore it free. A movement that sent liquified flesh flying and organs spilling as he shaped the bone into a more effective shape, one that resembled a sword, albeit one whose curvature flowed into a span of straightness before abruptly ending in a comfortable handlelike length. Shape aside, the blade hummed with latent traces of the Exarch’s pestilent power, for it was taken from him. With that done, and his new weapon in hand, Xem glanced back at the way he’d come. His eyeless sockets scanned the area, looking for any trace of the Red God or another one of his crimson bolts.
Just as Xem finished his grizzly work a second red lance flashed into view, a scorching line of energy that dragged behind it a scar of crimson light into the rotten realm. The bolt of lightning slammed into the ground just a hair's breadth away from the Divine of decay. Though he was able to move away from the initial bolt, the detonation hurled Xem away to catch himself in the muck, the smoke and fire of the explosion giving way for Lonn to come roaring out of it. He looked the part perfectly, by then, with semi-ruined limbs, bristing hair, and eyes blaring red to the point of no longer quite being visibly eyes. Twin streaks of red light remained behind Lonn as the God erupted from the smoke, marking the passing of his baleful gaze as he leapt forward, flashing red spear in hand. The first thrust came as fast as the throw, shattering the sound barrier with a loud boom that kicked sludge and muck up in all directions outwards from Lonn’s arm. The scorching tip of the lance thrust directly for Xem’s head, burning the very air around it with the harsh scream of its travel.
Xem barely had time to dodge, and would have had no time at all had he not been watching for further attacks, diving out of the way of the bolt before springing back to his feet and re-engaging the Red God with a diagonal slash aimed at his hip. Despite this blow landing, however, Xem quickly found himself outmatched and then reduced to doing naught more than parrying the oncoming flurry of blows.
’I can’t keep engaging him in melee like this…’
Reversing his grip on his blade, Xem summoned up several streams of acidic muck with the slightest movement of his free hand, before sending them snaking through the air towards Lonn.
’I need to keep putting as much distance between myself and him as possible.’
With his second attack still in progress, Xem proceeded to blanket the area around him in a noxious smog, one that would hopefully let him disengage and escape. For aversion was still the name of the game as far as his battle with the Red God was concerned, and it was a tactic Xem planned on making good use of despite how cowardly it might have seemed.
By then, Lonn was looking all manner of thoroughly damaged. The longer he spent in the realm the more sickly his form appeared, nearly all color seemingly drained from his hide. When Xem’s blade dug in the damage only worsened, blackened flesh puckering and growing outwards like a cancer. Beneath the once dark skin and powerful muscle, glistening metallic bone revealed itself. Unwilling to continue waiting as Xem threw every manner of barrier at him, Lonn pushed through the cloud of smog that burned away hair, pocked skin, and scorched lips. Projectiles of acid muck were hacked apart, boiling away as he dove forward with a crackling weapon bared.
Lonn closed the distance with ridiculous speed, leaping across the small pocket of muck to slam into the ground beside Xem with incredible balance. He left hand flashed out with blinding alacrity, smashing against Xem’s backswing to knock his hand away. The lance surged forward, gouging into the hole Xem had already made himself, punching out the otherside in a burst of gore. The lance detonated into nothingness as Lonn let go of it, hands snatching at Xem’s rotted clothes. With two fistfuls of the vile linen, Lonn spun on his heel to build momentum only to launch Xem back towards the way they had come. Moments later and he leapt after, nearly looking like a skinless monster. Just as Xem crashed into the rockface, Lonn followed suit, smashing into the floor just a stone throw from Xem’s landing.
Xem struggled to lift his head from the rubble in which it was presently buried, but after a bit he finally managed it. Staggering slightly as he rose to his feet, insides still smoldering from the cooking they’d gotten mere seconds ago even as they released the most disgusting stench imaginable, Xem brought his blade to bear once more as his fractured visage settled on the metallic, skeletal form of the Red God.
”Well color me surprised,” he said, tiny flakes falling from the bones comprising his face. ”You’re a better fighter than I gave you credit for. I won’t make the mistake of underestimating you a second time, however.”
The god’s gaze fell to his opponent’s arm, Xem’s reasoning being that any manner of weakness he could inflict was a good one. So, focusing as best he could, Xem drew upon the forces of magic. His hate and ire towards the present situation helping to shape the curse that tumbled forth from his skinless lips.
”Mitran, vodros, plaga!”
As soon as those words had been uttered, the air around them became stuffier, more oppressive. While the acidic seas became agitated to the point of writhing and churning with unnatural force. A single lightning crack later, another impossibility given the locale, and the Red God’s left arm was suddenly afflicted. Its metallic surface became brown with rust, and riddled with pitts of varying shapes and sizes. Stumbling back, Xem found breathing even more difficult than it had been previously, the casting of the curse having clearly taken its toll.
Lonn recoiled in equal parts fury and astonishment, eyes taking only a moment to absorb a vision of his scarred left arm. Crimson glare burning back towards Xem with furious intent, Lonn burst into motion. An attempted swing by Xem, despite his self-inflicted weakness, was caught at the wrist by Lonn as the Red God suddenly appeared before him. Skull-like features glowered at Xem in the millisecond between Lonn’s grapple and Xem realizing he was no longer in control. Just as Xem’s mouth opened for another curse, Lonn’s free hand launched forward to smash into his mouth, shattering teeth and silencing the God as gore and his own dentition filled his throat.
”Quiet, you fuck!” Lonn roared as he twisted with masterful skill, one hand pushing Xem’s head away as the other wrenched at his wrist.
Keeping his balance despite the speed and ferocity of his strike, Lonn raised his left leg up in the flash of an instant only to kick down into Xem’s ribs. Splinters of bone, splashes of blood, and a surge of giblets spewed from the horrendous wound as Lonn kicked, hard. With his vice grip on Xem’s wrist, Lonn tore the Plague God’s forearm clear off, disarming him from his weapon in the most literal of senses. In a single, smooth motion Lonn hurled the arm and blade aside, hurtling off into the distance of Pestis to be forgotten, then raised his now free hand high above his head. Lonn’s hand pinned Xem’s head to the floor recoiled, Xem having only moments to look up before seeing the screaming head of Lonn’s crimson gada crash into his chest with a bellowing warcry from the God of Mortals following suit.
Xem’s chest imploded from the impact, lightning and fire bursting from it heralded by a detonation of more effluvient gore. The Exarch of Rot slammed into the ground beneath him, shattering the floor into splinters of stone to be filled in with roiling putrescence. It was clear by then that Lonn was not having any more of it, a reaching hand grabbed as leverage to lift Xem rapidly from his prone position only to be thrown overhead at his own throne. The stone edifice was crushed by the impact, the back sundered into numerous pieces. Lonn was only a moment behind, traveling the distance as a bolt of his true self only to regain solidity above Xem.
The purulent, ravaged hulk that was Xem’s battered form lay repose, half leaning across the remains of his throne. Lonn, for his part, looked equally worse for wear. His left arm in particular, despite its semi-metallic nature, remained rusted and pitted in a way no other part of him was. The rest was, ultimately, superficial; a flash in his mind allowed Lonn to quickly guess he would not leave this place unmarred. His baleful red vision dropped back to Xem, his smashed face coughing up blackened bile. Though Xem had no eyes, Lonn recognized hatred in that empty gaze. Lonn gave it back ten fold.
”There was only ever gonna be the first time, friend.” spat Lonn, throwing Xem’s words right back to him. His perfect smile, revealed properly for the first time, glowered mockingly down at the fallen God. As the Exarch of Rot rose one last time, in a hopeless but unwavering attempt to continue the fight, Lonn’s extended, flat hand launched in an arc, making contact with the plague-lord’s neck. Soft tissue and rotted bone, despite being godly in its resilience, parted like water before the blow.
Xem’s head erupted from the stump that once held it in a rush of black blood, flying a stone toss away as the body left behind toppled on itself. Lonn stood in his fighting posture for a few moments later before sighing heavily, smoke and sparks hissing from his skeletal maw. The God of Mortals stood to his full height then, looking down at the corpse of his bested rival with disdain. A scant few strides carried him the distance to the head, plucking it from the floor with a handful of rotted, greasy hair. Lonn sneered at him with his perpetual leer, red orbs blazing in his skull. Moments later and he stood above the throne, dropping to a sitting position as his false body shuddered from the exertion. It had been an exhausting fight, yet as Lonn stared into the dead pits of Xem’s skull, he knew his victory had been necessary.
Time passed well beyond what Lonn was willing to keep track of, simply wishing for a moment of respite. As the sun flashed in the mouth of the cavern once more, Lonn could only assume that night had passed and day had come upon him once more. Lonn stood, his metallic body groaning from the damage he had sustained, and he stepped around his temporary resting place to observe the corpse. Luckily, Lonn remarked to himself, it had remained dead. The Red God’s gaze dropped to his companion, the disembodied head of Xem, and gears began to turn within his mind. With one outstretched hand plunging deep within the cadaver’s chest, Lonn drew from within the fetid corpse of the Exarch the power of divinity. The body sparked and fizzled, dissolving into nothingness as Lonn stood to observe his prize. His eyes flashed with curiosity and fascination, devouring the sight of pure divinity in its unfettered state as it drained from Xem’s heart. With no hint of trepidation or doubt, Lonn devoured the black heart of his enemy, the fires of his internal, true self vaporizing it in an instant. The energy of divinity surged throughout his false form, every gouge, cut, or hole in him glowing a fiery carmine.
At last the moment passed and the new strength was his; Lonn groaned with satisfaction, feeling empowered and driven like never before. Lonn stepped around the throne to place his new-found friend upon it, leaving Xem’s head to rot where it sat. This was a sign, Lonn assured himself, of the correctness of his work. In that moment Lonn knew his vision of the future was the path reality would follow. And if it wasn’t, Lonn thought to himself calmly,
”I will force it to.”
Lonn, ever one to watch and wander, has been observing mankind traveling to the Red City and has noticed an ever increasing rate of disease being present among them. Putting two and two together like the Super-Sleuth he is, Lonn determines there must be a God of Pestilence perpetuating this act. Determining to follow it to its source, Lonn sets off on the hunt.
Lonn arrives at the entrance to Pestis, to find the realm of the Exarch of Rot. His false body is immediately beset by the plagues present there, but he remains unwavering in his direction. Met by Xem, perched upon his throne. Though initially polite towards this new interloper, the Plague God realizes fairly quickly that Lonn is no friend to him. With only a few words shared by Xem, and fewer still by Lonn, it is determined that either of the other existing was a direct threat to each God.
The fight ensues, Lonn using his experience fighting Ahtziri to claim the initiative. Xem, for his part, does an excellent job skirmishing with him in a fighting retreat to gather his bearings. Xem pulls from himself a rib and forms it into the Bane of the Exarch, a deadly artifact weapon. Though the weapon easily damages Lonn’s form, the God of Mortals remains persistent despite his fleshy body rotting away.
The chase continues as they fight through Pestis, Xem always inches away from being caught but continuing to heap harm onto Lonn’s form. At long last, with clouds of poison burning away what remained of Lonn’s newest body, Lonn’s more honest, semi-metallic, skeletal body is revealed. Xem realizes, at that point, that this is not the mortal-esque deity he thought he had been fighting.
Lonn tosses Xem into a wall and Xem responds with a divine curse, permanently scarring Lonn’s left arm. Lonn, far too angry to let sleeping dogs lie, smashes Xem’s face so he can’t curse him anymore. This is followed by a disarmament of Xem’s weapon, and the arm attached. Resultant toss and violent hitting by Lonn’s gada leads to Xem crashing through his own throne and being truly and utterly fucked. One last attempt to fight leads to Xem’s head being cut off, leaving Lonn painfully alone once more.
After some time of resting, Lonn turns on his newly created Wilson-esque friend and hatches an idea. Plucking Xem’s heart from his chest, Lonn devours the organ to drain it of its divinity, empowering himself and mantling the Domain of Conflict. Pleased with his success and leaving Xem’s head to continue spewing out the occasional disease to keep the mortal world on its toes, Lonn departs.
High upon the hills of the north eastern coast the blackened shell of the God of Mortals glowered, deep red pits for eyes baleful in their intensity. The nearly skeletal, semi-metallic body of the destroyer looked every part an apocalyptic nightmare, a perfect mirror of the ruined world around him. Though fields of cordgrass and copses of cardinal bushes sprung up across the highlands that stretched down towards the void, it was a blasted place and the horrendous red aura that seeped from him only worsened the image. Battle damage was visible across his frame, scoring and scarring in equal measure cutting deep shallows in his metallic hide. Fresh from his battle with Ahtziri, it could hardly be helped. Once again spared the chaining presence of others, however, Lonn was trapped with his brooding.
His conflict with Ahtziri had been a deeply displeasing one, a setback in his previously laid out plans. Until his untimely meeting with the goddess Lonn had consistently met friendly faces, easily prone to camaraderie with one of their own. Never had he thought another individual could so utterly push his buttons and with hindsight he realized he shouldn’t be surprised in the slightest. Ahtziri was the Goddess of Monsters, afterall, his abject opposite. She represented a rejection of everything that he admired and praised mortals for, embracing an entirely oppositional position for life. As he mulled over the event in his mind he couldn’t help but both pity Ahtziri and disdain himself; surely someone of his caliber should have succeeded in defusing that situation, in gaining advantage through cunning alone.
”Animal…” grunted Lonn as he lowered his chin into his palm, elbow supported on one thigh. It was clear that, despite his momentary disdain for Ahtziri, he secretly knew the failure sat squarely on his shoulders.
His red gaze flashed across the landscape once more, a moment of respite from his internal monologue. Deep below him, horizons away if it weren’t for the hilly landscape, Lonn could see fires burning. A tinny sigh escaped his mouth, smoke hissing from behind his perfect teeth; fires of men, at least. He admitted to himself regularly that he had enjoyed the depths of the apocalypse, watching as mankind struggled, but by now all that had become incredibly blasse. This simple act of human ingenuity, the conquest of fire, proved to be far more heartwarming. His perpetual grin plastered across skeletal features suddenly seemed all the more genuine as he observed their workings, recognizing the humans as among those he had helped save. They had been busy reestablishing some semblance of normalcy for themselves and Lonn admired them all the more for it. A snide remark passed through his mind though his shoulders drooped as he realized he had no one to tell it to and even less reason to tell it.
”I don’t see your vermin spawn doing that, sow…” spit Lonn quietly to himself, though the moment he said it the words felt entirely empty. Lonn sighed again, disappointed in himself, before standing and shaking off the dead earth from his body.
A flash of anger passed through his mind as he scolded himself; this sort of obsessive behavior was beneath him, though he admitted again that it was thoroughly mortal of him to do so. Regardless, the beast had been soundly defeated and sent on her way. He had been the victor, not her; reminding himself of the disdain she provoked in him only made things worse. Hells below, he had even shown mercy in a way only mortals could! His eyes again danced back to the small columns of smoke rising from mortal fires and Lonn returned to feeling some semblance of excitement. Rebuilding was a uniquely mortal concept, something only an animal so dedicated to hope despite insurmountable odds could truly understand. His dark metallic, skeletal hands ran across his personnage one piece at a time, restoring flesh, blood, and bone in place of otherworldly metal. As meat and muscle reknit Lonn grinned, picking and choosing each new feature with the glee of an unleashed and unbridled artist. He would have darker skin this time, broader features, and sharper lines. Dark brown eyes in this go around, rather than the previous bronze, and with dark black hair. His hands flourished in the creation of a thick and bristly beard, before twisting out a bushy moustache that curled upwards at the ends. He gave himself a well muscled body, though more one of constant labor rather than specific effort, and made himself a tad taller, though nothing garrish. In honor of his recent battle he left pockmarks and scars across his newly birthed flesh, marking each place where Ahtziri had damaged him. Fitting trophies, he thought, pleased with his handiwork. At last he spawned a set of clothes, again spartan in their quality; it wouldn’t do to gather too much attention, after all.
The now partially bedraggled god began descending the mountainside, once more working dirt and dust into his feet and nails in that oh so pleasant way that reminded him of what men must feel. As he closed the distance one hop and skip at a time his eyes never wavered from his quarry, not entirely sure what he would do with the men but seeking adequate distraction from his previous doldrums. He watched with avid interest as they collected up meagre supplies, storing them in baskets they had pilfered or perhaps made their own. They had armed themselves with the equipment of their previous tormentors, another grand sign of mortal ingenuity, but Lonn quickly noticed something peculiar. Many of the weapons had been turned over, bent out of shape, and even broken apart.
What could possibly have driven them to do such a thing?
Lonn raised one thick, black eyebrow in curiosity, absolutely fascinated by this affair. Though he didn’t dare stop in his walk, far too worried to return to darker thoughts, he couldn’t help but be enthralled by their actions. They had torn at the cordgrass around them and made mounds for themselves, evidently planting the very cardinal fruits he had propagated for them to grow. His mind rapidly devoured the wondrous display of mortal dedication before realizing what they had done.
Swords to plowshares, Lonn mused in the depths of his mind. Ursare and his comrades, assuming Ursare yet lived, had taken many of the weapons and turned them into appropriate tools for tilling the soil and removing cordgrass from fields. Such clever things, mortals were.
No longer able to contain his excitement, Lonn exploded into light that danced across the sky. The crack of thunder and a brief flash was the only thing that heralded Lonn’s arrival behind a nearby hill, nothing particularly noteworthy in such dark times. In the distance the Red Pillar glowed menacingly, a beautiful piece of handiwork by the diminutive God of Stone and the God of Mortals. The megalith thrummed with a sense of barely contained energy and with that Lonn knew it was still doing its work. Content with the awareness that his works were not undone, Lonn crested the hill and descended towards the settlement.
”A fine morning, friends, for field work,” called Lonn, raising his hand high in a benevolent wave, while several of the workers jumped and drew weapons. Lonn flashed his horrendously perfect smile as he came to a halt, holding up both hands calmly.
”Don’t fret, brothers,” intoned Lonn, voice carrying a little farther than was probably natural for a man, and he could see there was an instant sense of uneasiness born of that awareness in the men. Weapons lowered as Lonn once again showed his empty hands, wiggling them a little in a friendly manner, ”Nothing to fear from me, I assure you. I am a friend, trust me.”
A flash of red from his eyes and the men completely surrendered to his presence, each coming to their own conclusions about the identity of the newcomer. Though clearly shrinking before the one who had aided in their freedom, they did their best to remain upright. Soon the small crowd had collected, assorted tools in hand, and watched as Lonn closed the distance. He could see in their eyes that their inkling of awareness had transformed into something greater still and there was no more risk of them making an attempt at him than there was a risk of him losing if they did so.
”I see you have done wonderful work.”
One of the men, evidently with more lightning in him than the rest, stepped partially forward and thumped his tool’s head into the ground. Scars could be seen criss-crossing his features and making all manner of interesting shapes on his hide. His back, though Lonn couldn’t see it directly, held a frankly unreasonable amount of lash marks that clinged to his sides and shoulders like the claws of some deeply possessive creature. He looked worn and weary but regardless, there was defiance in his eyes that nearly made Lonn chortle with glee. [i]Nearly.[i]
“Welcome, erh… traveller,” came the man’s response, looking Lonn dead in the eyes with surprising dedication, “We don’t see too many, though the world is changing… just usually its us finding you folk, not the other way around…”
Lonn grinned, his bushy mustache bouncing in the light breeze, as he saw the man’s lie for what it was. He was good at hiding his recognition, that much was certain. The God of Mortals felt a flash of pride, like it was some of him rubbing off on them. He knew, of course, that it was entirely the other way around.
”Oh, yes, well; your smoke made for easy finding. Oh, and the great stone there… that’s certainly a factor.” Lonn pointed with an outstretched finger at the Pillar in the distance, its huge and multi-faceted surface glowing a dull crimson. It was up the mountainside a little but it was unmistakable adjacent to the settlement, admittedly because Lonn had done so intentionally. He was, after all, quite the romantic. ”Never seen anything like it.”
The crowd of gathered settlers looked over at the stone, even the great distance struggling to hide its prodigious vastness. There was a collective nod as they lowered their heads, evidently in reverence. The action surprised Lonn, the Red God nearly sneering. He had never known humans to do a thing like that. The quizical sneer morphed rapidly into a legitimately curious lean as he angled to get closer to them just as they looked up again.
”So, you know what it is…”
“Well, not in so many words,” mumbled one of the men, clearly humbled, “But we know it stopped the quakes… And we saw them who made it… unlike anything we’d ever seen before. ‘Cept…” The man was stopped by a sharp look from the previous, as if there was a general understanding not to let on their knowledge. It was frankly fascinating.
Lonn turned his attention from the Pillar and back to the settlement, noting a number of structures now dotted the outside of the underground complex. They had been busy, that much was clear, and by the looks of it their numbers had grown. The larger man had noted earlier, as well, that they often found others. Lonn flashed a deadly grin as he considered EXACTLY what that meant but realized, with a surprisingly sudden epiphany, that if they had been murdering them for their things they wouldn’t have turned their weapons into tools. His memory scorched itself into life as he remembered each and every face he set free, suddenly realizing that a large portion of those here were not among them. In fact, many didn’t even look alike in color nor complexion. His eyebrow raised as the pieces fit together.
”You’ve been saving people…” Lonn purred, eyes looking away from the collection of settlers.
There was an audible gulp that came from one or perhaps more of the group. Tenseness fell on them and their little charade to pretend they didn’t know what he was fell through if only slightly. He appreciated their attempt, regardless, but it was beginning to stand in the way of his curiosity. Lonn wheeled on them, suddenly appearing very, very interested.
”Where is Ursare?”
“I am surprised you have heard of him,” said the man with the steely eyes and stoic stance, doing his best to maintain his composure, “but I suppose a man who wanders must have. He is out with a band, collecting supplies and rescuing more of our brothers and sisters. He hasn’t let a single band go without him. He’s got lightning in him like no other.”
”Lightning, eh?” murmured Lonn, clearly curious enough to kill with a glance, eyes now locked intently on the man, ”Sounds like quite the hero… I had heard he saved himself and his people but, not that he was so vigorous finding more of you…”
A moment of silence passed as they looked amongst each other, Lonn experiencing an oddling flash of thought as he considered how pitifully apelike they looked in their little mob. It amused him, though not as much as it fascinated him. How they clung to each other for safety, for a sense of security, but look how much it had already given to them? Though he admired men for acting on their own, for ferocity and power, this was something else. No, not pitiable. No, this was strength. This is what he had missed, with his birth so late in the stages of the apocalypse. It was this craving to be beside one another that let them build so high in the first place.
Suddenly, Lonn was all over this.
”What do you call this place,” cooed Lonn, teeth flashing his terrifying flawless smile, ”It deserves a mighty name indeed.”
“Call it?” came one, followed by another several, “Home.”
”Home, hah, now that is rich,” retorted the Man-God as he rose, almost seeming to stretch to greater heights before them, ”But we can do one better. Ursaru is fitting, don’t you think?”
The men nodded, heads bobbing in dumbfounded agreement. By then Lonn was no longer hiding in plain sight, even if they had already seen through his frankly ill-conceived ruse. His smile was plainly recognizable for those who had heard Ursare’s stories, as he was sure they had, and now he aimed to lean into it a bit more.
”Fret not, pals, cause you got friends in high places. The world’s changing and for the better, let me tell you. You boys have absolutely inspired me, though, and hooo boy, what a rush. I promise each of you here that your sons and their sons are gonna do great things. You just keep up the course you’re on and your descendants wont have to worry for a thing.”
Lonn, having dispensed with pretending to be a mortal, now glowed a baleful red that echoed off through the ground beneath him. The men now had stepped back, clearly cowed by the display, except for the stoic. He stood where he planted his tool and Lonn was fucking proud of him. Lonn opened a hand and with a flash of light a lightning blade ripped its way into reality, carmine and ferocious in its image. Drawing the weapon across his other open palm, he ripped open a cut in his false flesh that went deeper still into the truer form beneath. Liquid that shone as the platonic state of red poured outward in great gushes, straight into the farm, and then outward. The once dusty, barren brown dirty changed in color beneath their feet, staining til it was a rich umber red. From that central point the soil changed in all directions, growing outward rapidly. As Lonn’s wound healed before his eyes and the blade flashed out of existence, Lonn turned only briefly to the men.
”Give my greetings to Ursare for me,” he chortled, ferocious grin dripping with uncontained ambition with a hint of gleeful malice, ”And tell him I named the City after him; he’s too humble to let any of you do it.”
In a thundering crash the god exploded into energy, a lightning bolt that went backwards into the sky. The men were left astonished and stunned, even the previous stoic suddenly dropped to his knees when finally free of the God’s presence. Several went to assist him, the man reasonably allowing them to help him up. They looked to their surroundings, the greenery of the cordgrass stretched across a newly red earth, before looking back to their own plot of farm. Their cardinals grew with alien rapidity, whole bushels bursting from the ground.
“What do you we do, Baleriu?” said the quiet man, addressing the stoic who had stood straight before a god.
“You heard the bloody God,” Baleriu said with a grimace, a mix of honest thanks and great worry splashed on his face, “We stay the course… and tell Ursare his ‘City’ has a name now…”
The lightning bolt that was Lonn came crashing down on next the pillar, revealing his false flesh once more. The edges of his beard and hair were alight, smoldering brightly in a manner that made him look all the more unhinged. Glowing red, sparking eyes flashed brightly as he stared at the pillar with some excitement. When he had first assembled it with Algrim he had left a portion of his power in it undirected, to be used on some later date when a more entertaining plan came about. Their combined handiwork had done an excellent job stabilizing the region but now there was more to be done. Lifting his hand to the surface of the Red Pillar, Lonn sliced himself along the long facet of its form. Blood mixed into the stone, pouring inside of it like a sponge.
”Hahaha, oh boy. Now this is the beginning of something real groovy.”
Lonn, bitter about his only barely victorious fight against Ahtziri revealing him to be not as great as he likes to think, decides to explore other avenues of entertainment to direct his thoughts elsewhere. He rebuilds a body after the last one was utterly obliterated (and eaten) by the Mother of Monsters, this one dark skinned, dark haired, manly as all hell, and armed with a bushy, curly mustache.
Coming to give attention to Ursare and his folk once more, he realizes they’ve been up to things. The Ursarans (as he will later call them) have secured the underground complex as a base of operations while extending their settlement beyond, starting to farm the cardinal bushes Lonn had gifted to mankind using tools made from weapons. Neat! Lonn flashed a little bit biblical and then presents himself to them.
Through the conversation he discovers that Ursare has been busy bringing people all around to his settlement, intent on saving as many lives as possible. Rather than abusing and taking advantage of other humans, he is attempting to create something better. Though initially thinking this is some weak shit, Lonn quickly realizes this is gonna take humans WAY farther than rugged individualism alone. Now tossing aside his already failing disguise as just another hunky dude, Lonn bleeds himself into the dirt of the region, turning it red, and (probably more importantly) making it extraordinarily fertile. With that he leaves them to discuss.
Briefly on his own, Lonn goes to the Red Pillar where he and Algrim had stabilized this part of the shard. He takes the energy he had placed within the Pillar that he hadn’t used and diverts it to a new purpose; the Red Pillar now subtly calls to mortals to come to the location (which “happens” to be adjacent the city, Ursaru) which will rapidly increase its population. In addition, he supplants a mind-virus into the Pillar that will make those in its glow grow to be more like each other, creating the beginnings of an Ursaran culture that will one day form the basis of the Red City.
1 MA (0 from Apocalypse) - Lonn bleeds into the North East, creating a vast region of divinely empowered, extraordinarily fertile land called the Ursaran Chaparral/Macchia, or simply the Chaparral. It also happens to be red. 1 MA (0 from Apocalypse) - Lonn directs and further empowers the portion of his divine power left within the Red Pillar, giving the Pillar two new effects. First, it subtly calls to mortals within its area of effect to come to the Red Pillar. Though this will not pull all from their homes, particularly during the apocalypse this effect will draw the numerous indigent peoples to it. Additionally, it will slowly turn those within its sphere of influence to be more like one another in terms of tastes, ways of thinking, etc, to begin artificially inspiring a more centralized culture. This power is more effective the closer one is to the Pillar.
The God of Earth’s journey through the desolate wastes continued. Once more he had assumed the form of a rolling boulder, and was hurtling toward his second destination. It would not be too much longer.
He thought back on his encounter with Arira, and wondered if there were other gods like her, and if his meetings with them would be equally friendly. That would be ideal, but even though he had not been alive for very long, he already knew full well that the ideal was rarely supported by reality. No doubt some would be rude, some would be wary, some might even be hostile.
For ultimately, this was a hostile world. He had seen signs of it. The guards of Arira’s paradise had mistrusted him, and almost attacked. After seeing the monsters and beasts which prowled the countryside, he understood why. So far he had not encountered anything that could threaten him, but that didn’t mean such a thing did not exist.
As Algrim travelled the countryside as a boulder a lone figure walked the now slowly flourishing western coast that was his natural climb. His hair was dark, like soot, and a long, aquiline nose jutted in an ugly thrust from his face. A big, bushy beard and curled mustache combo that looked all sorts of outgrown and mismanaged tied together the look, with several pock marks and plague-scars dotting his face. His clothes were less disheveled than they were mismatched but his shoes simply were nonexistent. Two big, purple eyes stared out from underneath a cliff-like forehead and two noticeably large eyebrows.
Most of all qualities about him worthy of note, however, was his smile.
The man-god stared at the boulder hurtling down the mountain with a quizzical lean, knowing it for a god the moment he saw it but certainly more than a little confused at its appearance. There was his smile, beaming in its uncomfortable perfection, but even that was slightly dimmed by the momentary confusion. How in seven hells was he going to worm his way into friendship with a boulder? With a shrug the humanoid figure hurtled a bolt of crimson fulmination in the general direction of the boulder, letting it crash harmlessly against the mountainside. The explosion was large but not particularly destructive, more a light show than anything with only a blackened scorch mark to show where it had landed in the first place. He was confident at that point that he had landed it well, for surely it couldn’t have missed such an obvious indicator of his presence.
At least, Lonn hoped the boulder-god was capable of noticing things, what with the evident lack of eyes.
Although the bolt had missed, the boulder suddenly cracked. Still rolling, it began to dissipate into a cloud of dust, obscuring his vision, though Lonn’s sharp divine senses would allow him to detect the silhouette of a figure within the cloud. The figure was moving toward him. “Oi! Hoo the bloody ‘ell do ya think ye are?”
Lonn’s smile disappeared for a moment as he noticed the boulder stopped being a boulder; sharp eyes caught the figure of a stout humanoid and for that, Lonn was grateful. He admitted to himself that he had no real idea how to win over a sentient rock. Even as his smile returned, however, Lonn was quick to realize the belligerence of the god. That would be an unfortunate speed bump, he immediately concluded. His perfectly arranged teeth returned to full display, his smile beaming as he held up his hands innocently.
”Ah! Don’t fret, pal, my mistake; I was just trying to get your attention, nothing more! I assure you, my intentions are only well meaning! It's just that I had never seen a living boulder before and I didn’t quite know how to get your attention.”
The dust cloud had faded to the point where the figure was now almost fully visible; a five foot tall humanoid that appeared to be made out of stone. “Hmph. Well, an attack like that’ll only attract the wrong sort of attention, no matter who yer dealing with.” Despite the rebuke, he seemed to have calmed down significantly. “A simple ‘’ello!’ would ‘ave done just fine. Ach. Who are ye anyway?”
Lonn felt his grin press to the very extent the human frame would allow and let it stay there; this was turning out way better than before. His eyes flashed a moment of red as he looked the stocky earth-man up and down, confident that he seemed fairly reasonable and ultimately an easy enough fellow to work with. A success, to be sure.
”Lonn var Chakravarti, if that means anything to you,” he said quickly, curious to see just how far that additional name might take him, ”Lonn, by any other name. A friend by the looks of it, in all honesty. What about you, buddy?
With that Lonn thrust out a hand, smiling at the diminutive god while looking only a tad manic on his own end. His eyes sparked with red light but mostly remained calm, giving him the appearance of a slightly wild but ultimately well-mannered and well-intentioned individual.
“Can’t say I’ve ‘eard of you,” the shorter of the two said, accepting the handshake. “I’m Algrim. What are ye doing out ‘ere?”
”No surprise, really,” admitted Lonn with a simple shrug, smile completely undaunted by the claim, ”Frankly, I’d be a little surprised if you had. Well, Algrim, buddy, I’m out here doing the rounds as it were. Mortals here are friends of mine and I aim to do right by them, if you catch my drift. Howsabout yourself? You were really rolling down that mountain quick, pal.”
“Tryin’ ta stop the world from shaking itself apart,” Algrim answered. “I don’t suppose ya would interested in ‘elping?”
Lonn flashed a momentarily bewildered look, made all the more quizzical in appearance by his maintained smile, before putting together exactly what Algrim’s meaning was. Lonn’s eyes practically glowed red for a moment, sparks flying, before he nodded fervently. Although his smile maintained an entirely benevolent gleam, internally Lonn praised his good fortune even more. ”Buddy, I haven’t heard an idea that good since my wife proposed to me. Ask no further, friend; I’m yer huckleberry.”
Algrim furrowed his brow. “Dunno what that’s supposed ta mean. But come this way.” He gestured for Lonn to follow, and then began walking. “It’s quite simple, really. Just need ta slap down some constructs that’ll hold the world together while I’m gone, an’ that’s that. Do ya spend much time in this area?”
Lonn quickly fell in toe behind Algrim, making mental notes about the god. So far he’d seen quite a cacophony of deities but most kept fairly close to the human body plan. Admittedly, this one was about as different from men as his wife was. Lonn sniggered internally to himself as he thought about Chakravarti, pleased with himself for snagging such a prize. An odd burr of legitimate appreciation for them caught oddly in his mind, Lonn brushing it off and moving on. Algrim, for his part, was completely unique; might as well be a living boulder, physically speaking. Regardless, he seemed primarily driven by the same thoughts and feelings that most of the other gods had shown and was, ultimately, a facsimile of mortal men just the same. That would work nicely.
”Oh, lots.” blurted out Lonn, looking about the area with admitted actual honesty backing up his statement, ”I have been all up and down these hills, frankly. Whole coastline. All manner of interesting things, people included. Met my wife not too far from here, in fact. What exactly are you looking for?”
“A place to build the construct,” Algrim answered. “I ‘ave the rough area in mind already. Just need ta find the perfect spot.”
Lonn nodded and thumped at his chin thoughtfully with his index and middle finger as they walked, eyes darting about considering the options. Plans had been sprouting in his mind for some time as of late regarding the little stretch of land that he had claimed as his own in his deal with the God of Families. He knew well he couldn’t simply let it go fallow as that would only incur the wrath of his new wife. This new opportunity presented a sound solution to both his and Algrim’s problems, however, and for that Lonn praised whatever might’ve been before he, himself, had come about.
”Opportunity presents itself, Algrim. I happen to know of just the place, nearby at that. Men live near to it, though, so be gentle. I can take you right to it, if you’d like?”
Algrim nodded. “Lead the way, lad.”
Lonn and Algrim travelled nearly an hour further, closing the distance on Lonn’s general path. The walk had been swift, both the gods feeling none of the weaknesses that might haunt mortal men. Rough terrain was made from obstacles to curious terrain with ease as they rapidly crossed the landscape. Though blasted, much of the surface area was covered with cordgrass in nice, thick patches. Their talking had been fairly brief as they moved quickly, occasionally sharing short comments but otherwise remaining well in motion. With Lonn at the fore they arrived at a very familiar spar of rock, jutting out and up with clear views into the void. Not far away a massive river rolled down off the side of the continent, misting outwards in a corona of steam. It was here, up the hills from the end of the world, that Lonn had saved Ursare and the other prisoners kept with him. He grinned and nodded, remembering his handiwork well.
”Here’s the place, Algrim,” Lonn said authoritatively, admiring the view, ”Not quite void-front property, but I think it’ll cut it wonderfully.”
Algrim surveyed his surroundings, and then turned to face him. “Right then. This place’ll do. Now then, after I build it, this pillar will need someone ta protect it. Would ye be willing to take to take up the task?”
Lonn gave Algrim a sidelong glance, considering everything that befallen him. Moments later he nodded, pursing his lips uncharacteristically before breaking into a grin once more. His eyes moved towards the spot, envisioning what would soon be, presumably, standing there. It was a pleasing thought and would make an excellent centrepiece, he realized.
”Certainly, brother,” assured Lonn, his honest intentions matching up with the intensity of his language in one of those rare moments of complete of honesty for the god, ”I’ll protect it to my last breath.”
“Good,” Algrim smiled, for the first time in their meeting, and extended his palm. “Let’s get to it, then. Give me yer ‘and, and loan me some of yer power.”
Lonn enthusiastically offered his hand, sparks for red fulmination jumping from his finger trip. His eyes, of course, glowed their full, baleful carmine as he provided Algrim all he could need to complete the ask.
Algrim took Lonn’s hand and then closed his eyes, as once again he channeled his own power. Just as it had happened before, a glowing light appeared in his palm. This time it was red, and it took the shape of a bright ruby.
He released Lonn’s hand, the process complete, and help up the ruby. “Do ya want ta do the honours, or should I?”
”Oh, I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” Lonn said, gladly taking the ruby into his hand. He rolled it between his fingers, the glow of the ruby-like stone glinting in the light. With that he knelt low, tearing at the heavy layer of cordgrass before pushing the stone deep into the rich soil. Stepped back and away, Lonn mumbled almost to himself, ”This is gonna’ be wild…”
A dull vermillion throb echoed from the pillar-seed, thrumming outwards in waves that slowly grew in size. Lonn watched with absolute fascination as the earth was pushed aside, the ruby-like stone growing from its original soil. Multiple, sharp, imperfect facets formed as it grew, looking very much the part of a deep, red, obsidian shard. Soon it had completely burst free from its bounds, growing in all directions as it started to soar into the sky. The edges of the facets seemed darkened, as if seeped full of platonic red to the point of blackening, while the flats glowed bright with crimson energy. Occasionally bolts would fly from the growing column of igneous looking ruby-stone, roaring till it reached its total height. Lonn now looked small beside it, the towering megalith standing the height of nearly a dozen men. The man-god smiled as he stared up at it, very pleased with Algrim and his combined handiwork.
”Perfect.”
“Well done lad,” Algrim said with a nod. “Now it falls to you ta keep this thing safe. I’ve got four more o’ these to build, so I’d best be ‘eading off. But per’aps we’ll meet again once this is over.”
Lonn looked over his shoulder and smiled, offering a raise of his hand as a friendly goodbye. There was a fire in his eyes like never before, burning in there as opportunity screamed in his ears.6
”Count on it.”
Continuing on his journey to stabilize the shard of the world, Algrim hurtles south east as a boulder. Lonn, busy being a homeless indigent, attempts to get the boulder’s attention with a bolt of energy. After a very brief moment of figuring out the understanding, the two hit it off; it seems they both have the same general goal. Algrim tells Lonn of his plans and Lonn gladly offers to assist. Time passes and the two travel to a spot Lonn had picked out. While holding hands entirely platonically, the Algrim uses Lonn’s power to create the seed for a new pillar. When planted by Lonn it bursts into a giant, multi-faceted, dark-red megalith. Pleased with their work the two part ways, stabilizing the next portion of the world.
The Red Pillar is made by Algrim and Lonn. It directly stabilizes the geology of the shard through Algrim’s work, while being planted with some potential power for Lonn to monkey with later.
The chamber was dank, the uncomfortable plop of filthy water dripping from the grungy ceiling down to the unwashed floor making a pitter-patter more torturous than any suffering the prisoner had ever experienced. In the corner his own excrement began to pile up and fill the room with its vile odor, choking any chance at a full breath despite great desperation to do so. The other corner, the second of four that he didn’t occupy or use as a sleeping spot, contained the remains of what pitiful scraps he was provided for food. Beneath the iron shod door was the single branch of light he was afforded beyond when the door was opened to give him his rare meal. The beam was in of itself both a blessing and a curse, for the fires outside always burned and he was never spared a moment in the dark to truly fall asleep.
It had been an uncountable amount of time from when he had first been thrown within the confines of this dreadful prison and by now he knew very well he had no hope of trusting his current count. The guards made everything difficult by their rare retrieval of food and at a certain point he had begun to question his sanity. Occasionally time would feel warped and moments between the very minimal human interaction he received felt almost instantaneous, though he knew this was a lie his psyche told him to keep him together.
He appreciated the lie, to be honest.
Welts and bruises were beginning to heal from the last serious beating he received, his mind imagining them yellowing by now as his body used every scrap of stored energy to repair itself. Unfortunately, he could tell he wasn’t healing as well as he had in the past; any reserves he had were all but spent and now his wracked figure struggled to maintain him. At one point he had fashioned a slicing implement from a piece of bone carelessly left within a small chunk of meat given to him, in a vain attempt to convince even himself that escape was possible. Thoughts had turned to suicide but something deep within him stayed his hand, despite all evidence pointing to a loss of hope. Several times he’d planned the attempt, even getting so far as to raise the slicer to his throat, but each time he had fallen short.
“Was that bravery on my part?” he mumbled, voice rasping from two days being denied a drink, “Or just cowardice.”
A rapping at the door and the heavy clunk of locks being rotated caught his attention and the door opened, a chain visible on the other side keeping it from widening his escape avenue too far. There was a rapid muttering between two voices before the chain was rolled back and one of the guards stepped through, back lit by the fires outside. Behind him another figure glowered though their visages were hidden by the lack of forelight; the man admitted he only ASSUMED the second guard was glowering. The clatter of tin as another bowl of muck hit the floor, a life giving gruel in a most unfortunate manner. Much to his disappointment, however, the man did not hear the sound of liquid being poured. As they began to turn to leave he spoke up out of turn, only realizing his mistake halfway through the sentence.
“W-Water, p-ple-”
His attempt was rewarded with a strike to the face as the sole of a heavy boot slammed into his forehead and drove his head into the wall. There was a sickening crack as he slackened and fell, conscious but dazed to the extreme. A cruel laugh filled the air as the door was closed behind them and the man was left huffing and shivering in an attempt to regain composure. The heavy locks slammed back into place, that soul crushing clunk, and once more the man was trapped inside. Time passed in splashes and waves, the decrepit occasionally reaching a little bit farther for the bowl but failing to quite reach. His fingers gentle pulled at the stones, like her could perhaps ball it up like a piece of fabric and draw the bowl closer, but it seemed the flagstones weren’t particularly interested in that.
“Gods, why have you done this…”
Fingers caught the edge of the bowl, plunking into the evidently warm and surprisingly hearty bowl of what felt like ACTUAL stew. The man’s eyes went wide despite still being slumped over himself, face down on the rock. ACTUAL stew. He jolted up with new energy, pulling the bowl to him with the caution of a man unwilling to lose a single drop. He practically shoveled the food into his mouth, the richness of the bounty almost too much for him. He was careful with every motion, making sure not to lose anything of his meal, while simultaneously enjoying every mouthful of luscious meat, vegetables, and other, starchier things. By his fifth bite he stopped, staring down at it, incredulous; maybe he really had gone insane.
Then water began to pour.
His heart dropped into his stomach as the sound of his cup being filled echoed across the walls, a blessed auditory adventure on any normal hour but one that meant something deeply dreadful in this moment. He wasn’t alone. With shaking hands he slowly rose his head from its prone position above the bowl, eyes refusing to wander as they remained trapped in their sockets. He could hear his heart roaring in his chest, practically threatening to slam its way free through bone, meat, and skin. Framed by the light creeping out beneath the door was a figure, a man. His mind flashed with thoughts, trying to remember if both guards had left, terrified why he was receiving these gifts now. Was this the end?
“Don’t fret, Ursare,” came the first retort of the figure, a voice harsh in timber but filled with benevolence that practically dripped from every word, ”You’re in good hands, brother.”
Ursare. That was his name. A shock of hearing it flushed through him, a rush of energy that seemed to roll outwards in all directions from his heart. He hadn’t heard that since his wife had said it, before he had been thrown into this hell. Memories of his wife flashed through his mind as the stew seemed to fulfill him even more, satisfying his body’s needs like no other. Memories of them laughing even during the horrors of the end, of the meagre home they loved, of the family they planned on building. Memories turned dark for an instant, of her being taken from him, her cold body, the dirt being tossed over her. Moments later and those thoughts were pushed from his head, as if some force within him labored to drive him elsewhere. The men who took her from him, the men who put him here, their cruel laughter and the lash of their clubs, the sting of bruises and welts and scars inflicted. As he thought, he ate, and each bite reinvigorated another part of his mind. Suddenly the cup of water hovered before him, held loosely by the man who had seamlessly arrived to crouch before him.
”Drink up, my man,” he spoke again, the gentlest of embers smoldering in his tone, ”You look like death.”
A flash of light and Ursare looked away, blinded for a moment before looking back to see the figure in his full definition. A shock of orange hair caught his attention first, bedraggled and salted with grey hairs. The man looked old, disheveled, and frankly as in shitty condition as he was. His beard and mustache had clearly grown unkempt and a similar set of bruises and blemishes marked his skin, clearly denoting he was in similarly dire straits. Finally, a metal prisoner’s collar sat on the man’s neck, with a busted link of chain showing that he had somehow been freed. A match, the source of the new light, was pinned between his thumb and index finger as he held it aloft before him, his other grimy hand clasping the proffered tin cup. Ursare set his bowl aside carefully and took the cup while he observed the figure, looking him up and down. How was it that he was here?
“H-How did you get in here?”
In response, the man smiled.
Fuck.
Despite all the wear and tear across his features, the bedraggled rags he wore as clothes, and the grime that caked nearly every part of him, that fucking smile was perfect. Every tooth aligned with the next as if set there by a god, and the pearly whiteness could practically blind. There was the slightest gap between the upper and lower teeth as he grinned, revealing a black line that served to make turn his smile into a staccato of infectious energy. Ursare had never seen anything like it in his entire life.
”Hard work, a’lotta sweat,” the indigent chattered, his jaws moving perfectly to keep that grin going despite speaking, ”a little blood, and a just a tiche of ambition.” The emphasis on ambition caught in Ursare’s mind and flashes of his own plans reached him. His eyes darted to his “blade” but it was nowhere to be found. His eyes flashed back and in the now free hand of the indigent was held the presumably deadly implement.
“I…”
”Don’t need to explain anything to me, pal. Relax, my lips are sealed; it’s solid handiwork, by the way.”
Ursare stared with wide eyes, looking at the yellowed gaze of the prisoner and noticing spark of red dancing in his iris. He really was going insane. Regardless, there was kindness in those eyes, a promise of things to come. Ursare couldn’t help but feel trust flash over him, though doubt still ate at the edges of his mind. With surprisingly little effort he was able to lift himself up to a full sitting position, not feeling the aches and pains of those movements that had been with him even minutes before. With concerted effort he gulped down the water, quaffing a thirst unlike any other he’d felt before. A cool, refreshing wave washed through him and a heavy sigh let loose as he finished the cup. The entrapped vagabond continued to smile. He was turning the cutter in his hand, weighing it.
”Tell you what, since we’re pals and all.” By now Ursare was sure he was seeing sparks of red dancing in the man’s eyes, as if the sclera was barely containing crimson lightning. It unnerved and invigorated Ursare in equal measure, like he could see the internal drive of the man.
”I’ll trade you. No handouts, either; a good, even trade. My own handiwork.”
With that he produced an item of his own, a shard of the color red that seemed to tear at Ursare’s vision. It was the platonic icon of the color crimson as it was held, suspended before him, before slowly taking on a more metallic sheen. As it was held forth the white smile of Ursare’s new benefactor shone behind it, producing an odd light that both frightened and invigorated Ursare. Trembling hands reached out to grasp the weapon, taking it into both as his “friend” bowed low, gladly offering it. It felt good in his hand as he slowly stood, eyes staring deep into the weapon’s edge to see a reflection of himself. He looked healthier, fitter, and ferocious in the reflection, staring into the weapon. Within was contained all the drive he needed to make that final push, dreams and fantasies he’d played through for weeks dancing in front of his eyes now within his grasp. Ursare didn’t even notice that his own bone-edged slicer was gone, evaporated into nothingness in the hands of the god. A red glow emanated from him as he stepped forward to the door, the man-god bowing low with one hand on the door.
Clunk
That beloved sound. The lock released itself and with a tug by his new found friend the door swung open. Though the torches burned brightly down the hallway Ursare didn’t even flinch, as if his eyes were already more than used to the light. His heart beat pounded in his skull as time seemed to move slowly, long and deliberate strides speeding his way down the hall. The first guard, an ugly bastard, with a unibrow and an ugly smashed eye, turned and began to shout.
The shiv entered his throat faster than he could fill his lungs to yell, plunging through his neck and exploding out the other side. Gruesome arterial gore ripped outwards, erupting in a pillar of blood to shower Ursare with it. The second guard, a skinny fucker with a rat-like features, lashed out with a club only to get caught be an out thrust forearm, dashed aside followed with a ferocious stab to the eye. Two more thrusts, one to the neck and another to arm pit, made the man crumple against the wall in a slumped pile. Behind Ursare strode the Transient figure, one by one tearing off locks and letting free prisoners. His smile beamed as men, invigorated from their long imprisonment, stormed out with rage boiling from their eyes. Red bolts danced almost imperceptibly between them, moving as a mob with Ursare at their fore.
In the main hall of the stronghold Ursare continued his bloody work, contemptuous ease defining each and every kill. It was as if each man who saw him didn’t notice the weapon in his hand, didn’t see him as a healthy and dedicated killer but a disheveled, weak prisoner who somehow burst from his cell. Needless to say, each of them died. Weapons and impromptu killing were liberated or hastily assembled as Ursare’s makeshift mob spread through the tunnels, killing with more wanton direction than Ursare’s very clear direction. A chant pounded in his head now, Ursare following it with shuddering whispers that infectiously spread to others without even realizing it.
I close my eyes and seize it I clench my fists and beat it I light my torch and burn it I am the beast I worship
Lost to himself and his mortal needs, Ursare rounded the corner to the chambers of his truest captor. The focus of all his hate, all his rage, all his ambitions practically glowed with a red outline in his eyes, flanked by two less valuable lives. They turned on him, eyes wide but quickly taking control of the situation. One grabbed up a cruel looking machete while the other went for a crossbow, all the while their master sitting back and watching with malice in his every move. Ursare knew in that instant he was in danger but his body acted for him, diving aside from one blow to cut the ankle out from underneath the closest assailant. A second slash to the neck followed by a stab through the ear ended him rightly but the other leveled his crossbow. Without thinking the knife danced from his fingers, hurtling like a bolt of lightning at the crossbow wielding foe. Though the crossbowman never once reacted as if the weapon was coming his way, the boss recoiled in horror from the path of the shiv.
He saw it.
He alone could see it, out of all of them.
Though the back of his mind played with the thoughts of what had allowed his success, the rest of Ursare was active. Though the blade now sat in the falling crossbowman’s throat, gurgling as he died, Ursare charged forward unthinking. With strength that belied a man of his previous condition he lept the desk of his tormentor and swung a punch at his truest enemy. That faintest hint of electricity filled Ursare’s heart and then, in a flash, the shiv was in his hand once more. Hot blood erupted from the wound it made in the man’s cheek, followed by another wound in his neck, one to the upper torso, and many more to come. Ursare stabbed and slashed until his energy was expended, skin painted red from numerous fallen foes. With a loud sigh and with energy spent, Ursare slumped and breathed fresh, clean air for the first time. On trembling legs feeling the aches from weeks of abuse he rose, only to notice a mirror at his side. In the mirror was a weak and feeble looking man, clearly starved and filthy. It was a frail ghost compared to what Ursare remembered, but it was him; for the first time in his memory, he could recognize himself again. On stumbling legs he left out the hall and took the next right, towards the gates he had been dragged through so long ago. The doors were opened and other prisoners stood outside, basking in the insane light of the apocalypse but thankful for everything they had. Many stood with mouths agape, looking at what was before them.
Before them, in an awe inspiring view, ran a river of water. Mist jetted up in all directions, causing a soothing cloud of fresh water around them as the fast running, quick-silver colored stream waterfalled off into the edge of the world. A hand fell on his shoulder and he jolted for a moment, turning to see a familiar, perfect smile. Ursare’s mind raced as he considered all that had befallen him, realizing that all that had been done was a part of him. Even the blade had been his own drive, his own will to survive, the ambition to free himself from his suffering. Shaky eyes, filled with tears, rose from the red shiv to start into the now fully electrified gaze of his benefactor, the transient prisoner.
”Well done, pal.”
“Wh-What now?”
”Anything, my man,” came the reply, an almost humorous ring to his now sing-songy rasp, ”Anything at all.” With that he pat Ursare on the shoulder twice and turned, walking away from the gate and up the hills to escape that dreadful place. Just as he rounded the hill Ursare felt a flash of need as numerous thoughts coalesced into guesses about the true nature of what had occurred.
“Who are you?!” yelled Ursare, “Why did you aid us!?”
That fucking smile.
”Lonn, brother,” retorted the man, his voice somehow carrying across the distance despite his talking tone. Laughter followed, just barely containing his final reply, ”and cause mortals are rad.”
A man named Ursare is a prisoner held in a cell by unknown captors, experiencing all the wonders of imprisonment. Starved, dehydrated, and wounded, he has lost track of time as his life slowly drains away from him. When guards arrive to feed him he savagely beaten, nearly losing consciousness. To Ursare’s surprise he is given a bowl of stew unlike anything he had enjoyed in many, many years. A man presents himself, similarly bedraggled and clearly a prisoner as well, who offers Ursare more respite. Throughout the experience Ursare becomes more and more reinvigorated, feeling strong, hale, and powerful again with a sharpness of thought he hadn’t enjoyed in many months.
Fueled by the evidently mystic water and food and provided a weapon, an artifact weapon named the Red Shiv, Ursare is released by the Transient figure and unleashes all his pent up anger, rage, and desire for vengeance upon his captors. Behind him, the Transient frees other prisoners who join in. After slaying his captors, Ursare realizes his state of health was all imagined; he was still exhausted, ill-fed, and dehydrated, but felt all the more empowered for it. After exiting the hall he and the other freed prisoners observed the very first rivers returning to the ruined shard of the world, rejoicing.
In a single moment the Transient presents himself once more, congratulates Ursare on a job well done, and encourages him to continue doing whatever he desires. With that, the Transient makes to leave. By request, Ursare is given the name of his savior, and the reason for his intervention.
Frettzo
