Pantheon - The Third Age - Contests

[Eztlicoatl]

“Curse this stinking jungle, and curse these retched savages!”

“Shhh! Brace up, Bartolome. Save your breath”.

Bartolome was dieing, and Juan knew it. They were the only two left. The Spirit of Fortune they had found listing on the river, abandoned; signs of a struggle were the only trace of what became of the crew. Of the other three - Bernal, Alonso, and Yanez - the savages of the jungle had taken care of them. Retribution for the expedition’s cruelty. And now, Bartolome too had taken a poison dart to the neck, his skin was pale, and weeping sores were breaking out all over his body. He had a few hours left at best.

Juan could have left him. Carrying the big soldier on his back wasn’t easy, and there were probably still cannibals and snake men all over the jungle, but it wouldn’t have been right to let a comrade die on his own.

They were resting in a small clearing, beside a half-sunken and faded stone shrine of a long forgotten crocodile god.

The soldier, by now, was little more than a sack of useless limbs. His lips were stained purple, and thick globs of icy sweat soaked his entire body. He gently shook with every breath, barely having the strength to swallow the mouthfuls of water Juan gave him. A little trinket of a golden sun was in his hands.

“This,” he held it up in a feeble arm, “is what killed us”.

The sailor nodded. “Hmm. Aye. Those cursed snake things and their devil god”.

“No, no” Bartolome shook his head with his last vestige of energy. “No. This,” he shook the gold trinket again, “this. Greed. All gold is poison, and the lust for it grows like a fever the more we see of it”.

“Save your breath”.

“Forget that! I have only a few left”. The soldier smiled, a toothy, hideous grin which showed his bleeding gums and bile smacked tongue. “I’ll use them as I should have when we all saw the gold Mercuse gave us. I should have turned back. I should have gone with my gut instinct and killed that madman. Heh! But here I am – with a pouch full of gold trinkets, and never poorer in my whole sorry life than now”.

Juan breathed a sigh and washed his face with water from his tankard. He gave more to Bartolome, who could now only sip a wetted rag.

“Do you know Hag Rock, Juan? Eh? No? Of course not. Sailors like you only know about fish and cabin boys. Everyone else in the Dukedom knows Hag Rock though, eh? Everyone where I’m from. I grew up in a village right near there. Aye.

“Mother would tell me – Hag Rock, she’d say, that’s what happens to the greedy. Get a pouch o’ gold an’ you’ll turn t’ stone. Don’t shake yer head. Listen! If you’re the only one that’s gonna survive outta all o’ us, an’ if I lived nothin’ but a wicked life, I’ll tell ya this story, an’ maybe I’ll a done somethin’ good.

“See,” Bartolome went on, sipping water through his rag as he did so, “Hag Rock is a big tall boulder, pointing up at the sky like a finger. It’s all bent an’ crooked, like an old hag’s finger. If ya go there when the sun is blazing on it, they say you can put yer ear right up to it, an’ you still here the hag, planning away, whispering all the wicked things she’s gonna do with her gold.

“So the story goes, an’ it were a very long time ago when that rock was first seen – longer ago even than when the Dukedom was around - there were an old crone. Old crones are all wicked an’ vile from a life o’ sin, an’ this one were one o’ the worst sinners. An’ there were an old temple, older even than the old hag, though now it’s long gone into the dust. There was a fortune in gold there, an’ it were meant for the god. I don’t know which one, or what he were called back when he were still worshipped. It don’t matter. The gold were his. Only, see . . . ugghh . . .” Bartolome turned to spit, and launched into a coughing fit, more blood and bile trickling his shirt front. He scratched at the dart wound, now all ringed black and swollen.

His coughing ceased. “Heh . . . not dead yet. Lady Death has a softy spot fer sinners like me, ya see. She wants me t’ finish me story. Where was I?”

“The old hag and the temple of gold . . .” Juan said, though he wasn’t really listening, he was staring at his own pouch full of gold trinkets, wondering if he’d live long enough to see what price they may fetch.

“Aye. The temple, an’ the gold, an’ the old crone. Well, the temple weren’t guarded, see? They said priests o’ most o’ the old gods were stupid – so meek they never expected even thieves to sin so greatly as to steal from them. The old crone, though, she had lived a life o’ sin. That’s what happens, mother said. Old people are bent and wrinkled a ‘cause o’ the sins weighing on their shoulders. The uglier and’ more bent an old woman is, well, the more likely she’ll be a witch. Stands t’ reason, don’t look so doubtful! An honest man can hold his shoulders high. Mmm. Anyway . . . So, the witch stalked in one night and snatched a great bag of treasure. Only, it weren’t treasure.

“On account o’ her near blindness, she stole nothing more than a sack full of pebbles. All night she ran her hands through the rocks, imagining them t’ be nuggets o’ gold, and she wondered at all the things she might buy in the morn’, or all the people she might seduce with the wealth when the sun came up. She passed the entire night in this fashion, working her evil little magicks, t’ make the gold she thought she had grow and multiply. ‘cause a fortune’s ne’er enough, is it? When the sun had risen, she herself had turned into the great rock which juts from Eiran’s bosom. Aye, the hag became Hag Rock!

“Aye. Go there, on a sunny summer’s day an’ put yer ear up next t’ it. Right up next t’ it. You’ll see. You’ll hear her, plotting an’ whispering evil things. Maybe it’s the sun she can see, like a great heart o’ gold. Maybe it reminds her o’ the gold she went t’ steal. It’s no good, Juan – gold or the sun. Go find yerself a hole in the ground an’ live in that the rest o’ yer days.

Bartolome launched into a savage coughing fit, his whole body shaking violently, and his mouth and nostrils dribbling fresh blood. Juan could do nothing but watch him slowly die. Yet, the soldier managed another wicked smile. “That was it, then,” he tried to fling the gold trinket at Juan’s feet, his failing strength making him clear only his own worn boots. “Like the crone, we’ve all lived sinful lives. We’ve done great evil. Mmm,” he hissed his assent, bubbles of blood frothing at his nose. “An’ what happened, when we found our own gold? We just wanted more! We didn’t . . . we didn’t turn . . . turn into rocks . . . hehe . . . but, we may as well have. We killed ourselves. We lusted for what wasn’t ours . . . an’ . . . an’ . . . we killed ourselves, Juan, we killed . . . our . . . s-selvesss . . . sss . . .”

The sailor looked up at Bartolome. The soldier’s eyes were wide, fixed upon the blazing orb of the sun, high in the sky. The blood had stopped running from his nostrils. He was dead.

Picking up the little golden trinket of the sun, Juan thumbed it over and over in his palm. Hag Rock. Nothing but a silly little tale mothers tell to frighten their children. He stood up. There was nothing to be gained by waiting. Pausing before he left Bartolome’s corpse, he wondered how many weeks it would take him to reach the mountains to the north, whether he could make it at all. The little trinket in his palm caught the light of the sun, and glinted. Just a story. He put the gold in his pouch, with the rest, and set off northwards through the cloying jungle.

[madsage]

A lot of the people here seem fascinated with telling stories, so I thought I'd write one of them down. I heard a curious one last week about Clana and the Elder. Clana was a desperate, misery-dwelling burglar who supposedly passed through this area long, long ago when it was less of a city and more of group of neighbors and markets. The most famous figure at that time was the cagey Elder, who sounds like he would've been quite full of himself (the way people tell the tale). He went around at odd hours speaking broadly to all who would listen about how to live certain ways, and was critical of everything else. Somehow he found ways to outsmart his younger rivals, and pretended he always knew he was going to live to see such an excessive age. “Pious living is the only way,” he claimed, adding “the man who has no possessions sleeps well anywhere.” Clana heard about him (just as I heard this legend at an early feast with locals) and paid no attention at first; to her he was just some old man with too many opinions and who unfortunately was born on the same day of the calendar as she.

The woman sounds like a reclusive rogue type, who mistrusted even herself with her plot to find riches along the scattered regions of Heron instead of in better valleys or on the oceancrafts. Then her accomplice—a relation by some accounts—passed along the rumor that the Elder not only lived in a home he hired others to build, but also hoarded gifts there from admirers and patrons.

Clana was intrigued. And destitute.

She devoted an entire windy season to predicting the man's travels once she had located his home, though she could never do so with certainty or peek inside without risking detection. He was fond of leaving during middle of the day, when the sun cast no shadows, but who knew for how long? She learned every stretch of land near the arched home in the process, and waited somewhat patiently for her moment. The blue vegetables he grew in the soil some distance away helped pass the time.

She grew more furious at the thought that he might have some great wealth tucked away in the home, and by the time her friend arrived and told her a final secret, Clana was more than ready to intrude and settle the matter her usual way. The informant revealed that the Elder had definitely committed to a fine dinner celebration the night of his next birthday at a nearby fortress.

The tip was reliable, and Clana asked her trusting friend to stand watch from the road: the sound of a hawkcry would warn that the Elder was returning early. (There was further talk that the man had a sore on his foot which had spread into a itchy bulbous mess, and that he couldn't be counted on to make the entire trip as promised.)

And so, on her birthday as well, Clana set her mind to clutching someone else's securities. It didn't occur to her until she was almost at the old man's place that there was more than one kind of treasure.

She had arrived later than planned, just to be sure the home was unoccupied. The entryway didn't seem to be latched or sealed in any way, and there was no sign of the Elder, either... but plenty of possible valuables. So much for the prudence of ancients... Trinkets were all about: on shelves, stacked in corners, and even covering his silken cot. The glare of moonlight shone off of the more polished artifacts, such as a soldier's golden grieves too old to retire, and illuminated a tapestry of newborn animals... Could it be so easy? Clana began to wonder which item was the most valuable, and which would turn out to be the least so. Surely the Elder had done something to thwart her. He had left a trap or some other means of teaching a would-be burglar a lesson. So what then? Her eyes eventually fell on a heavy little wooden chest, serving as a table in the back bedroom and very well fortified by ironwork. Ah, there it was... but she would only be able to carry out the chest if she left everything else behind!

The young woman could only sit in a puddle of her own thoughts and consider her options. In her even younger days, she had once vowed to give up all of the possessions she had stolen in order to beg from house to house. She had hoped to face her fears of being at the mercy of others. At first living recklessly meant having no wrecks, literally—or at least none for which she had to mend—but it wasn’t as rewarding as planned, and began to make her feel still weaker. She was betrayed by “kind soul” after “kind soul,” but admitted to herself that asking the accomplice to distract men while she began honing her stealth through their pockets had been the right choice for survival. Some ungrateful dolts had it coming to them anyway, but curse the gods who forced her to that decision!

From the looks of the Elder's home, one had given her what she needed to put thievery behind for a long while. What had he supposedly gone around saying lately? This wealthy elderly monk? When he was asked his goal in life, he had answered: “To come to terms fully with the letdowns in the world. To accept and to enjoy.”

The burglar doubted her logic several times before finally dislodging the heavy trunk. She grunted along the hallway, heaving it toward the entrance until noticing a scrap-label honeyed to the side with hinges: “Do not steal! No Value.”

Clana nearly dropped the trunk right then instead of gingerly lowering it to the floor, but sat on her aching heels and scratched her ears absently. Something wasn’t right. It was hard to tell if there was anything inside there or not. Maybe just thick metal lining? Could it just be dead weight? Is what was in there worth the sum of all the little knick-nacks she was forcing herself to leave? The Elder had to be outsmarted one way or another...

A realistic birdcry came from the direction of the garden outside like a wailing spirit, signaling retreat. But she had to know what was secured inside of that box! The thief almost left it behind entirely, considering taking nothing but the thoughts in her head, but realized that the wondering afterward would have been the worst penalty. Nothing else in the rooms had looked THAT tantalizing, anyway. Clana paused one last time, suddenly unsure if she really was alone in the dwelling afterall. Did she feel the presence of another or not? Maybe there was someTHING else hidden away... but she dismissed that idea as well before fleeing.

The Elder returned home the next day (so the legend goes) to find a sooty hawk camped in a nearby tree. He next admired the calm beauty intact in his front room, but knew there had been an intruder while he was away. When someone asked him later how it had all turned out, and if revenge was sought, he reportedly shrugged: “I assure you my guest got what he wanted at the time.”

Each version of the tale apparently ends with a different treasure in the box. Jewels? Cursed coins? Empty space as a metaphor for letting go? Most often told: it was something only referred to as “Aarklar(?)'s Divine Flying Shovel.”

[from the notes of Poymun at Heron]

[Xar]

Myths of Eiran II

The results of the second Myths contest are in! We had 10 entries, but only few voters, which explains the lower number of votes for each entry. Interestingly enough, two of the three positions feature ties. The authors of the most-voted myths are:

1. uKulwa, with 4 1/2 votes.

2. Calais, Aarklar and Unzen with 2 votes.

3. Brid, Etzlicoatl and Koel with 1 1/2 votes.

Congratulations to everyone! Stay tuned for more contests

[Xar]

The Dreams of the Gods

Deadline: March 6, 2009
Voting Deadline: March 10, 2008

The dreams of men show unreality, but what about the dreams of gods?

Imagine for a moment, if you will, what a god may dream of in his sleep. Entire new worlds, or versions of Eiran as it would have been if something had occurred differently. Perhaps dreams of dominion over all the others, perhaps dreams of paradise. Who is to say that Eiran itself is more than a dream of the sleeping AllFather? And if it is so, then what worlds exist only in the dreams of the gods?

Here's the contest, a rather unusual one: write a piece about a different world. It can be utterly unlike Eiran, or it can be a different version of Eiran which you think would have occurred if some event had not come to pass, or if it had happened differently. What if Hangrith had not been expelled by Anaya? What if uKulwa had annihilated O-gon-cho's people, or what if Nephirthos had never existed? And if a "what if" world is not enough, why not tell about an entirely different, surreal world - another dimension that may exist somewhere outside or superimposed over Eiran?
This is not intended to be a guide to that world, more like a description... so here are the rules: 1) the description needs to be subjective (so don't explain every mystery or baffling situation); 2) if it is a "what if" world, it must be clearly stated where that world's history diverged from the real Eiran; 3) it cannot have any impact on the real Eiran.

Feel free to write the entry as you wish - this contest is particularly free-form. You can freely choose the medium through which to reveal the story. The theme is fixed, but how you develop it is up to you.

Each contestant will then receive a boost to his or her number of worshipers, depending on the votes his or her world will receive. The first three winners will also receive a small Contentment boost, as well as a gift of HP. Furthermore, the three winning worlds might develop some relevance within the Pantheon game.

Enjoy!

[Loredoctor]

Contest entry removed.

[stonemaybe]

(With apologies to Koel and just about everybody else!)

The fabric of time loosens as Koel ponders on the state of Eiran. The Abyss affronts his senses: his fingers flicker, teasing threads here and there, this way and that, seeking for the ones which might be drawn out and discarded without spoiling the exquisite weave which is his domain. The emerald green and icy white that define the Worldbreaker’s presence on Eiran are the first to go. Other threads must join them, to maintain the pattern, and still more must be modified, to give continuity…..

Four became three.

The mad god gazed gleefully upon the mighty swirl of destructive power in the palm of his hand, that had moments before been Astavyastataa Kadna.

A pure note emerged from the throat of O-gon-cho, coalescing to the verge of visibility before her. With a light puff of breath, Mox wafted some of the chaos towards it. As the powers collided, a void sprung into being, which was immediately entwined in tentacles, extrusions from the ground of Nor Pupae.

The malicious will of Nor Yekkith smashed through the void and sank its hooks into their first victim, dragging it screaming back through to Eiran.

The triumvirate gazed with satisfaction upon the fiery serpent writhing within its cage, now frenetically devouring the power that was the portal.

Tirelessly they worked, and soon there were nearly a score of beings imprisoned on fleshy plinths. The three gods poured their powers into them, moulding them as the tools and weapons which would bring the other gods of the Second Age to their knees.

Moxonimal, the weakest of the three, was the first to sense the danger. The balance had shifted, the newcomers’ combined might now surpassed that which remained to the three, and with this strength they were able to maintain the conduit, and even to increase the flow of divine power! He tried in vain to pull away, but his strength was gone and he was flung forth from the realm of divinity, a spirit of insanity that would take years to recover enough puissance to take the first step back to godhood.

The strongest of the three, Nor Yekkith fared little better than Mox. So vast was the transfer of divine force from the god of mutation, and so intent was his malicious design, that he did not see the peril until he too was disgorged from the divine ranks. Stronger of will and more capable of focus than Moxonimal, his banishment would not be as long.

The goddess of dragons fared a little better than her co-conspirators. Before her power could be completely depleted, she drew on the life force of her most powerful worshippers, draining their might and with it forging a dagger to shear the connection. She fled back to the pantheon, now no more powerful than those she had helped create.


Turn 1 Winter

uKulwa raises his standard on Immeril. Warriors from all over the continent flock to join his ranks.

Dagon’s sharkmen turn on their hosts and sack Mer Solus.

A second sun appears in Eiran’s skies.

The undead of Ai-luctis seal the city. Orgasmic cries can be heard within the walls.

Renegade dwarrow raid outlying settlements in Magoddar.

Bhakti forsakes Eiran to search for his eternal foe and lover, Nor Yekkith.

Turn 2 Spring

Amplarx and Norn forge an alliance between their followers.

Rothmog and Unzen claim the city of Ai-luctis.

The armies of uKulwa seize the cities of Sietch Chaos, Sietch Crumble, and Moxville.

Roving packs of sharkmen attack shipping throughout Eiran.

A strange miasma rises from the earth in parts of Necrontir. Undead in the affected areas convulse in ecstacy, before forsaking Argothoth for Unzen.

Driven by Bhakti’s betrayal, Jove claims the domain madness.

Magoddar and Landir are flooded as the second sun melts snow on the high mountains.

Hedra Iren falls for Brid and abandons Simjen.

Turn 3 Summer

Keev Furaha begins to court Mithyaat Vaam.

Zephyr and Calais both claim dominion over Shaktiri.

Amplarx and Norn marry.

uKulwa claims dominion over the continent of Immeril.

Many of uKulwa’s officers are mysteriously murdered.

Undine manifests and begins a quest to find the Iksphikix.

Unzen and Argothoth manifest and begin to duel!

Brid spurns the advances of Hedra Iren.

The dwarrow of Magoddar call on the wisdom of Aarklar to mediate between Simjen and Telmag Ganoras.

The Army of Fire, aided by a host of unbelievers, attacks the forces of Maeror and Adomorn on Olaern.

Turn 4 Autumn

Magoddar is devastated by disease as the floods subside.

The forces of Dagon lay siege to the Ikshikix stronghold.

Aarklar melds the divine essences of Simjen and Telmag Ganoras to create a new god!

Amplarx reveals himself as the spirit of Queeaqueg.

Keev Furaha and Mithyaat Vaam together claim the domain of nightmares.

Travellers to Dondaeth find themselves back where they started from.

Bhakti’s love elementals are irrevocably twisted by the sibling rivalry of Zehyr and Calais.

The black star of Nor Yekith eclipses the new sun, drawing on its power to achieve the return of its master!

….Koel sighs in disgust, and resigns himself to putting the threads back as they were before his tampering!

[uKulwa]

Contest IV: uKulwa’s Dream.

Even the Gods dream, teach the Red Priesthood. On planes of existence far removed from ours, they teach, the Gods dream, and what they dream may be the very fabric of existence…the essence of reality itself. And when they wake, the universe ends, even as we end, when we wake from this dream we call life.

A mighty dream, uKulwa’s dreaming. Or so teach the priests. But I will tell you a secret. They teach, but what that dream is, they do not know. -- Isazi Sefilosofi

The Red God dreamt. He did not truly dream the world. No, the world was a collective dream, for all the beliefs of His worshippers. He dreamt of the future. But not dreams of prophecy. No, the dreams of the Gods were dreams of possibility. All the many futures lay scattered beneath His dreaming feet, unrolling into what might be.

uKulwa dreamt…

His impi’s covered the land in a tide of blood, bearing His banner and worship into the far corners of the world. They lived at peace on Imray, striving amongst themselves for skill at arms and honour in battle. For a brief instant, pale and unlikely, they shared the Holy Land with the Light worshippers, then Light’s followers bled on his altars, His forces were victorious. They were broken. His name was exalted and forgotten.

Mighty storms lashed the world, stepped pyramids rose beneath a merciless sun, blood seeping down the gutters on their corners. Golden spears of light slid between the leaves of green wooded glades, strange abominations writhing through the dank soil of foetid jungles, hot and wet. Armies marshalled on blasted landscapes peace was shattered, peace prevailed.

uKulwa dreamt…

The mighty fell and the weak were exalted. Promises, kept and allies betrayed. Oceans heaved over hidden cities and time ravaged all while the world spun in a myriad of possible futures, almost as real as each other.

Armies marched and failed to march, were defeated, were victorious. The earth shattered, the dead rose, the faithful lived and died. The mad became wise, the lost were found, the unseen became known to all.

uKulwa dreamt.

[O-gon-cho]

“Sit yourselves, children, and let me tell you of the way things were to be…

“First you must understand the way things are.

“Upon the arising of the Pantheon of the Third Age, and The Lady’s return to Immeril/Imray, The Lady, being of Imray herself, sent forth messages of Welcome and Greeting to those who chose to settle in Imray as well. At the beginning of the Age, there were three others who settled the lands from the shores of the Sea of Dawn to the outcroppings into the Darkened Sea. These three were known as Aarklar, the Wise; Calais, the Earth Mother;and uKulwa, the War L-rd.

“Now, now! I will not have hissing and booing during my tale, regardless of how much that name may deserve it.

“The Wise and the Earth Mother both accepted the message with grace and warmth. The Lady smiled to herself in self-satisfaction. Perhaps, that was her downfall. For the last message received said words of a courtly manner, but it was full of threats and pride. I need not remind you of said message, as it is required dicté of all the Herds since its receipt. And ever since, The Lady’s faithful have been relentlessly pursued in their own homelands.

“Also upon the return of The Lady, her prophet, our beloved Dragon, returned to Eiran with her. Little did he know he was the absolute last of his kind on Eiran, and the knowledge, though he bears it bravely and rarely speaks of it, pains him greatly. If you stand quietly aside and observe him for a time, you will see him occasionally look to the skies, his eyes swirling redly with denied lust. But it soon passes.

“None of this, none! None of this is what The Lady envisioned upon her return.

“Listen, and perhaps you too shall strive to bring her vision into reality one day…

Upon the return of The Lady and Dragon, messages of Welcome and Greeting were sent to those who also chose to settle in our beloved Imray. The messages were embraced, and The Dragon flew with his fellows from the overflowing ancient weyrs of Zandarar and Seawind to the hermitage to make his and The Lady’s return known to those who had retreated there. Oh what a sight to see! Gold and Bronze, Brown, Blue and Green!

The Herds roamed the plains, gathering the crop of honey from their hives; brewing mead, both for themselves and for profit. Trade was established between the followers of others throughout Eiran, and mutual benefit was enjoyed by all. Contentment and joy in life was the rule!

Yet, amidst all this prosperity, it was felt among the young and strong of the Herds that something to strive for was missing. And so The Dragon, calling upon his own ancient lore of an Age before his own , and in honor of an ancient follower of The Lady, reestablished the Games of L'im Verthackas, anointing a grand champion of each gender every four years among all the world. How they strutted and pranced, those champions, delighting all who saw them.

Still, “Foul!” was called among some who desired there to be one champion. Foolish, in my opinion; we should celebrate the differences in genders. But I digress..

So a contest, fair to both, was devised by Anaya, Mistress of Fate. A Deck of Dreams was produced and a reading for both done by a manifestation of the Grey Lady herself.

There, upon the table for all to see, were the results...
…which reverberated through Eiran in one form or another throughout this Age and long into the next.

“What were the Games you ask? And why do they not exist now?

“The Games were a child of Solus, the L-rd of Luck and the Seas in the First Age of Eiran. A many times granddaughter of his, Calypso, was a follower of The Lady’s in the Second Age. Supposedly her influence has been felt by some in the current Age, but in what manner remains hidden from me. Yes, yes, Calypso; we know. She is your namesake.

“The Games encompassed many feats and skills, and were open to champions of all the Pantheon of the First Age. The tales I have heard say they were only held once, but The Lady dreams of reestablishing them, and to return them to their original intent of convening every four years as she believes it to be a good interval for new champions to train and establish themselves as contenders.

“However, Eiran is currently under too much contention for such to be considered. The Lady attempted a joint venture at a Hatching in the last Age, and tragedy was the result. She has learned her lesson from such, much as she learned of despair at the dissolution of her liege l-rd and his wife prior to the Interdiction. She will not attempt establishing such while Eiran remains in such a state.

“But you, the children of the Herds, are the future. And in you we place our trust to one day cause The Lady’s dreams to come true…”

The shaman/masterharper of O-gon-cho looked lovingly at the nine children of varying races arranged in a semi-circle before him. They are too young to understand at this time, he thought to himself. But with repetition as they mature, perhaps The Lady’s dream shall become their own.

[Madadeva]

Devaguhya sighed, he had such great hopes when he first came to Eiran. He had shown the AllFather the respect the Lord of Life thought the AllFather had deserved. And he thought he had a clear vision of how to support the Life of all creatures on this world. But time had shown him that his calling … or rather sending to Eiran was for another purpose entirely. Another deep sigh. “Ahhh, such is the calling of Existence”, Devaguhya thought to himself. The Lord of Life had seen uncounted cycles of Alpha and Omega. Life might be a primary need, but in each cycle his missions have varied greatly. From cycle-to-cycle and from world-to-world, Life’s calling was served in infinite varieties.

Devaguhya let his mind wander as he rested his thoughts. Not so much sleeping; but daydreaming. His mind wanders to a past cycle; in this cycle of creation I am Jinsei, Master of Life. I have visited many world, but have most affection for one. Jinsei supported Life for eons on the world of Narie. On this world, a world much like Devaguhya’s current, a Pantheon of gods exisited. But here the gods existed mostly in harmony. For this world was anchored on free will. A god could inspire through deed, power, love, or destruction action by the sentient. However ultimately, each sentient chose its own path. Which god to worship, whether to follow a god’s teaching or not, was not determined by gods moving followers like chess pieces, it occurred by free choice. This focused deities on growing their civilizations over the long run. Of nurturing action, or undermining mischief, over decades and centuries – not days or months. Such shared work brought about a spirit of camaraderie amongst the Pantheon, even for those gods normally at odds. The goddess of War and god of Love for example were friends, and not foes. Although they sometimes bet over which aspect of their nature would dominate in their followers. Ahhh … here life was vibrant and precious to all! Jinsei had nurtured its growth almost from the creation of Narie. His success made him feel complete.

But the cycle of Existence is change. To this world came the Harbinger. He was slight of built but radiated a solidity and age that was somehow not mortal. But deific senses could not discern any other defining characteristics. He seemed to step out of a fold in Existence at the Temple of Life on Mahly. He appeared in front of a group of hundreds who were listening to the High Priestess of Life’s sermon. A hush fell over the group as he announced his arrival. He but whispered, and was heard clearly by all present. “I am the Harbinger, and you are honored. In each cycle balance occurs, and one world is selected to hear the announcement. And on that world, one group is selected to bear witness to the news. That honor is yours. Balance arrives … now!” Existence itself seemed to pause! Skip a beat. And then … it was as before. As if nothing had happened. The Harbinger bowed to the crowd and to the priestess. His last words: “And now change is coming.” As he walked out of the Temple, the sky darkened. Thunder crackled and the earth was rent. Almost all present were destroyed. Jinsei was shocked! Not at the natural disasters, for he had seen many before … and many more climactic with a larger loss of life. No, what puzzled him was that life had not cycled to death, with the soul moving on. It was consumed. Destroyed as if it had never existed! The Master of Life sent his thoughts to Mistress Death. She too was concerned; those destroyed had not moved into her embrace. She could not sense that they had ever existed; their souls had vanished. Over the following years the scene was repeated, the Harbinger would appear; disaster would strike. Each time the destruction was more climatic than the prior. And then he was gone. Armies were built and watched for his arrival. Where he appeared attacks were instant and vicious. None had any effect; all were ignored. As the years passed, mountains were leveled, forests consumed, seas lowered, and massive lakes dried. Through all these disasters Life was obliterated on a massive scale. 200 million sentient beings and vastly larger amount of other Life ceased to exist. Finally, the Pantheon tried to directly attack the Harbinger. It was one hundred years after his arrival and Narie was dying … no, not dying … dying presupposes the hope of future Life. Narie was falling into oblivion. The Harbinger appeared near the last surviving major city of Maljor. It was home to 5 million inhabitants. As he appeared the entire Pantheon manifested. Massive power was channeled through the Master of Life to eject the Harbinger from their reality. He ignored their combined might; it washed over him and was consumed. A gesture from the Harbinger, and all gods born of that world from worship rather than being created by the structure of Existence ceased to be – they were obliterated. Only Master Life and Mistress Death remained. The Harbinger bowed to them; his expression conveyed a solemn sense of duty. And then he spoke: “In each cycle, one world must start the change. You may journey to others. But here, now, change has arrived!”

And with that pronouncement, the two remaining deities felt themselves being ejected from Narie. Being sent into the greater cosmos bereft of all Narie born power. Their last perception of Narie, as their consciousness drifted away, chilled them to their core. The Harbinger bowed and two figures materialized. One was a woman, beautiful beyond any mortal or deific measure. She was regal and radiated a blinding ivory whiteness and a sense of Structure. The other a dark male figure perceived also as a maelstrom! He was violent and Chaotic. She bowed to the Harbinger and then to the male and said in a voice strong and melodic, “Brother, my time is now past.” The Maelstrom intensified, it was darkness personified. A baritone voice announced with delight, “OMEGA RISES!!”

Devaguhya shook his senses away from such day-nightmares, such remembrances! A world vibrant with life had been taken from him!! Life’s very essence ripped from his dominion! Such would NOT happen again. Regardless of what happened to this world, regardless of the failing of the AllFather, he would not again fail to preserve a world's essence of Life!

[lucimay]

wow! deva! awesome!