Fiction Lord Xhaltan

Thought I'd get involved with in writing. I welcome any and all critique!
I've also started a side-project creating a series of very loosely-connected short-stories: Acts.

Index:

Prologue: The Unseen......................... ..pg. 1
Chapter 1: Tintua............................... ...pg. 1
Chapter 2: Mark of Kara...................... ...pg. 1
Chapter 3: The Halls of the Holy.......... . .pg. 2
Chapter 4: Hot Water.......................... . .pg. 2
Chapter 5: Bloodied Blade................... . .pg. 2
Chapter 6: Temple of the Predator pg.3
Chapter 7: Transcendence pg.3

 

Prologue: The Unseen

Lord Xhaltan shifted suddenly: he was lost, adrift alone in a phantasmal dreamscape, accompanied only by the shadows of self and a vague memory of cause. About him space and time had lost meaning; energy and matter had been replaced by a disparate, ceaseless, and conflicted spectrum: an abyss yawned eternally, swallowing him.

Out of the void, something familiar had brushed him. It was distant and obscure, like a star foolishly blinking back the dawn, but its touch was undeniable: his mind sparked. Emerging from the recess of consciousness came a memory and a name. Lord Axhlot, Slann Mage-Lord of the Second Spawning. Xhaltan reached deeper, tugging at this re-awoken, re-found area of his mind. Memories bloomed.

Axhlot had been his mentor: prestigious and inscrutable even to his peers, the Slann lord had been much acclaimed for his victories after the Great Cataclysm, and the tireless efforts to stem, undermine, and end the continual Chaos threat. However, whilst the other Slann rebuilt Lustria and contemplated what plaques remained, Axhlot and Xhaltan had together planned to use the arcane relics of the Old Ones and reach out into the cosmos to find their lost masters.

Within the Sun Chamber of the Golden Pyramid, they executed their design. The Sun Chamber itself was cavernous, its hallowed walls seamlessly bedecked with golden, sacred plaques so that the distant heights, rather than lost in shadow, glittered and glowed. In each corner a sacred fire burnt, feeding off the energies of the geomantic web and producing a fume of magical potency which the Mage-Priests inhaled greedily. About them numerous Skink attendants scurried: scribbling down their every murmur, and slathering their brows with the thick oil of the Itxi grub. None, however, would look to the centre of the chamber. There loomed a ruined artefact from before the cataclysm: a black monolith on which no light was reflected. Its top was rugged and splintered from where it had been bisected during the madness of the Chaos incursion, but both Slann knew that even in its ruined state its power was boundless. Across from him Lord Axhlot had floated, ruminating. Between them the monolith stood unmoving, humming.

Clasping their minds in union, they had reached into the relic seeking to engage its sinister magicks. Progress had been slow at first, its design was odd and unlike many of the other relics from the pyramid vault, and much energy was spent trying to fathom its complexities; to engineer the many unusual components. Their great breakthrough had come unexpectedly. Within the chamber the monolith suddenly pulsated a deep blackness, scattering the skinks and drawing strange shadows across the walls. The Slann had found themselves cast into the spectral realm: stars wheeled about them, ephemeral and abstract forms bloomed in their wake; behind them the geomantic web, their anchor in this dimensional cascade, quickly became motes of energy lost in a furious storm. Nebulae washed over them as waves over stone, new constellations flashed and burned, galaxies spun overhead. Reaching outward, Lord Axhlot returned them from the chaos to the Sun Chamber. The monolith was still, and a brief silence hung between them. They had succeeded, but both knew they had ventured far beyond the parameters set by the Old Ones. Agreeing in momentary telepathic discussion, they once more engaged the monolith, enticed by the venture it offered.

Although progress was slow at first, over time they had taken numerous journeys. With each return more Itxi oil was massaged into their brows, before quickly returning to the spectral realm. As their trips aggregated the time between each return grew further apart; their journey taking them deeper into the phantasmal spaces. Soon the gaps stretched into years, and years stretched into decades, and upom each awakening they found that the mummified bodies of their attendants had multiplied. Throwing themselves into the arcane relic, they pushed onwards, dauntless: witnessing the death of civilisations, journeying between the ceaseless rolling of black planets lost within immeasurable darkness, traversing mutating dreamscapes and the cradles of sleeping gods, joined in their journey by their psychic union.

Their final journey, Xhaltan remembered, had seen them venture far deeper than any previous attempt: the physical realities of the world had dissolved, becoming abstract notion; creation and destruction conflated, and they found themselves in a realm where spectra of energy roiled in a dizzying and inscrutable war. Axhlot continued pressing ahead, his ethereal presence following a course unknown to Xhaltan. Dutily he followed, trusting in his master’s boundless intelligence. The destination of Axhlot’s course soon became clear: ahead, although barely conceivable to Xhaltan, was a great dissonance within the warring spectrum. Xhaltan could not conceptualise it as anything more than some great unmoving force: cold and deep. Axhlot, undaunted and without any warning, sped forwards into the dissonance. Their psychic connection disappeared. Xhaltan, approaching the phenomenon, had found himself unable to penetrate it. Straining his mind, he forced his essence against it but had found it impassable; his efforts a droplet cutting stone. His mind convulsed: a coldness had gripped his mind, reaching out from beyond the great dissonance. A paralysis set about his spirit, leaving a sensation new to Xhaltan: terror. The colours about him excited. The grip suddenly loosened and he tore himself away.

There, his memory became dark again. He had not known what had grasped him then, nor why he was able to escape. Such questions were unable to form. He had fallen in cold terror; disorientated in a timeless realm.

The trauma of Axholt’s passing at once seemed fresh and ancient – how long had passed back in the Sun Chamber was unknowable, but something there had called to him. Something which was vast and powerful, able to transcend time and space, void and reason, to reach him in this outer hell. Concerned only with his return, Xhaltan focused upon the vague psionic trail it had left and began moving sluggishly through the aether. Beyond the uncertainties and questions that formed a glimmer of hope emerged: soon he would once more feel the air of the mountains, and see the light of the Sun.

 

Thankyou, Scalenex. The second part is currently in progress! Unfortunately, life is currently getting in the way of its completion...

 

Chapter I: Tintua

Tintua fixed his gaze upon the apex of The Golden Pyramid, molten and brilliant in the evening Sun. Chotec’s grace was in full splendour, the surrounding snowbound mountains reflecting the sun god's ever-changing masterpiece. Moved, Tintua secretly joined in their reverence, only betrayed by the slight quiver of his inner eyelids.

The plaza echoed with the voices of thousands; screams choking blood-thirsty throats. This evening the central plaza and surrounding temples were crowded with the citadel’s inhabitants – Saurus, Skink, and Kroxigor, together in worship. Every evening since the return, blood had been spilt on the First Altar. Every evening since the return, the citadel’s chattel, saved for the temples of Tzunki, for the insatiable diet of Sotek, had been redirected to sate the hunger of distant Gods. This abandoning of the ancient methods of consecration had disturbed Tintua, along with many of the other Priests within his sect. His Master, High Priest Spekotoa, had been vocal about the changes – that all sacrifices were to be performed on the First Altar itself was an affront to the sanctity of the sacred Plaza, but to centralise all sacrifices, to take them away from the veneration of individual Gods, was abhorrent in the face of ancient teachings stemming back from the time before the Great Catastrophe. Spekotoa had spoken this in the cavernous Halls of the Holy at the base the Golden Pyramid, backed by delegates from all temple sects – even emissaries from the lesser temples of Caxuatan, Xholankha, and Kara had attended. Days of unsuccessful treaty had ended with this unexpected and uncharacteristic outburst. The Mage-Lord, however, was unmoved: “It will be done”, Lord Axhlot had said. The Old Ones had come to him in the realm of the unseen, it was by their demand such changes were to be done. So it had ended.

The cries in the plaza suddenly became further excited. Shaken out of his reverie, Tintua was compelled to look. Emerging from the Golden Pyramid, a small host of Temple Guard marched across the bridge that arched over the plaza to the First Altar, fronted by two standard bearers as was now custom. Ahead of the host were two mottled grey Saurus, members of a new brood that had spawned since the return of Lord Axhlot. Tintua was disinclined to pay attention to them: there was something about their aspect he found unnerving. Instead he joined his gaze with the focus of the crowds screams: the standard bearers at the head of the host. Suspended between the two standards hung High Priest Spekotoa, his body limp. Tintua balked at the sight, biting his tongue to retain his impassive posture. Given his position as protégé to the former High Priest, he could not afford to express any vestigial connection in front of his peers.

Upon reaching the altar, the Temple Guard lowered their standards, placing Spekotoa upon the plinth with expertise. Turning from his role of inciting the crowds, Monotaal, newly risen High Priest, came to inspect his quarry. He ran his claws over the body of his forerunner, eyeing the faint signs of life, feeling fragile breath upon his fingertips. Pleased, he turned back to the crowds.

“Children of the Stars”, Monotaal cried. The plaza quelled at his voice. He grinned – onerous had been his wait; Spekotoa had dominated the Grand Temple of the Golden Pyramid for too long. This sunset would be symbolic of his ascension. “Chosen of the Gods, look to the sky, see the light of your fathers”. He swept his arm towards the stars, emerging as the Sun began to disappear. A crescent moon had ascended, a portent of destiny, Monotaal took it as a sign consecrating his power. “See their need for vindication; we must answer for our offense, for the transgression of our faithless brother. Here, the apostate shall earn his redemption: his own soul served in supplicant”.

Monotaal took position behind the altar and raised his dagger. The plaza erupted in hysteria. He licked his lips in excitement: the moment was near. Crest unfurled, he threw his head back, “Fathers, Makers, long have we awaited your return. I offer you this soul as demanded and pray that it hastens your journey.”

Tintua tried to focus his attention once more on Pyramid's summit, the last light glimmering on its apex, but his gaze kept wavering back to his mentor. Even from his distant position, he could see Spekotoa's chest faintly rise under the shadow of the knife.

Monotaal gripped the dagger with both hands, “Old Ones, hear your children’s cry: by your will we serve!” The crowd echoed back his last words, and he struck.

Tintua stood motionless. About him members of the Citadel of the Golden Pyramid jumped and cried, jeering at the death of the apostate, celebrating as his heart was offered to the heavens. Tintua merely watched the last rays of the Sun scatter off the pyramid, impassive save for the quiver of his inner eyelids.

 

Wow, that was really... Wow...
Why can't I write like that?

 

You, sir, are a very talented writer. The way you describe the journey of the two slann had me hooked. I loved the journey into the world of the unknown and the countless years that pass while they traverse the stars. I think one of my favorite parts was when you mention the growing number of mummified skink that begin to build about them. I think your second piece was also solid (though I was wanting to find out more about Xhaltan). Am I correct in assuming the prologue comes after the first chapter? I was a bit confused there. It seemed that Axhlot had perished in your prologue, but was alive in chapter one. I've never read a prologue that took place ahead of the first chapter. It was a little jarring. I found myself going back and trying to figure out if I was remembering things correctly instead of concentrating on your newest piece. That being said, I think the few little grammar things could be picked up with a read through on your part. I'm really just nit picking though. I enjoyed what you have here and am looking forward to the rest of the story. Just out of curiosity, what is your occupation and do you write other things in your free time?

 

Thanks for reading it LKC, appreciate it.

That, my good sir, is a mystery that will be unfolded tis all part of the plan, so watch this space!

I like a good nit-picking, it's the best way I find that I improve. Don't hold back

I do like exercising my creative side, which is usually through writing or life drawing. I do have other works on the go but I've been lacking in motivation - having a critical audience on here (plus the writing contest at the end of this month!) has got me back into it however

Occupation-wise, I'm doing a PhD involving engineering and the environmental sciences, so at the other end of the spectrum to creative writing!

 

Loving it. I am happy to have questions unanswered at this point - I trust you will answer them at the right time.

Wrt to the story - That city is in a lot of trouble. Like Tintua, I know something is screwed up, but I don't know what. I am feeling VERY uneasy.

Now critical is one thing - tThat should be on open forum for sure. Proofreading / editing comments works better behind the curtain of PM. If life permits, I'll PM you - Just a few single word change suggestions - it is already very well polished.

 

Thanks Bob once the April competition entry is done I'll get to work on the next chapter.

I'd really appreciate such suggestions, if life permits be careful, once you open the proofreading floodgates you might just find yourself inundated with ramblings!

 

Inundated perhaps, but sometimes I choose not to breathe for extended periods of time.

 

Alter needs to be Altar in at least two places.

 

Corrected. Thanks, Pendrake.

 

Chapter 2: Mark of Kara

Tintua fumed silently. Gripping the edge of his staff tightly, he felt the old wood splinter under his grip. Ignoring its bite he plodded sombrely across the bridge: thin and made of ancient black stone hewn from the body of one of the sacred volcanoes, it was threaded across the chasm like a ribbon of shadow. Below the thick palls of the morning clouds, carried into the deep valleys by the night winds, shifted languidly in the morning breeze, bodies beaten purple and gold by the canyon shadow and burgeoning dawn. Thin and without wall or rail, Tintua walked undaunted by the precipitous drop surrounding him, heading towards the Golden City.

Built upon a broken mosaic of plateau and mesa, the City was a frozen wave of buildings and temples caught mid-undulation and woven together by a web of bridges. Fluttering from the spires and arches of the city were numerous black and white feathers, the symbol of Lord Axhlot’s dominion which, in an honorific gesture, had since been adopted by the entire city. Even the priesthoods of each sect had removed the coloured feathers associated with their respective temples to adopt the monotone palette. Dominating the skyline was the Great Temple after which the city had been named: blazing even under the vague caress of sunrise, it served as the administrative centre and seat of power for Mage-Lord Axhlot. Beneath the pyramid were the Halls of the Holy, which served as centre of the city’s religious jurisdiction and guardian of the sole passage to the spawning caverns below. Behind him, the bridge connected the city to a lonely pinnacle upon which resided the floating Gardens of Xholankha. Hidden within a persistent globe of mist, only the silhouettes cast by the ponderous movement of the levitating glades suggested at the mist’s contents.

Tintua was glad to be leaving the enigmatic gardens. Since Spekotoa had been denounced for his ostensive apostasy, Tintua had paid the price for holding the position of protégée to the former Grand High Priest. Spurned by the new Golden Council headed by Monotaal, he had been demoted to the position of liaison to the lesser temples of the city. It was a position vied for by young priests about to finish their training, not one who had tenaciously laboured over decades to claim title of protégée. Once he garnered respect for his position and was praised for his ability in handling the Wind of Heavens, Azyr. However, his public humiliation at the hands of the Golden Council had caused the greater city community to shun him almost as a pariah. Unwilling to associate themselves with him, the sects belonging to the lesser temples only granted him audience so as to be seen to adhere to traditional methods of religious administration. Co-operation was no longer on their agenda.

Before the dawn had even broken the Priests of Xholankha had once again denied him audience with their only presiding Slann Mage-Priest.

“He sleeps still. By of the will of the Old Ones”.

Dismissing him with the now customary maxim, Tintua had left irked and hapless. It was decreed that all liaisons have audience with the highest presiding conscious Slann for each temple every three lunar cycles. Since his demotion Tintua had seen none, which only encouraged the arbiters of the priesthood to be more direct with their caustic critique. The priest’s intolerable behaviour to Tintua had only been encouraged by the current so-called “Time of True Prophesy”: the corrupting presence of the Chaos Moon had been absent from skies ever since the return of the Mage-Lord Axhlot. The entire city now lauded him as a symbol of victory over Chaos.

A mocking voice interrupted his thoughts, “Ehkt, ehkt. By the will of the Old Ones, why does your Excellency leave us last among your visits?”

A stooped figure moved out of the shadows, blocking his exit off the bridge. The Skink cocked its head and cast its one good eye over Tintua. Huikihuaka was the self-styled High Priest of the Temple of Kara. Lacking a Slann, the sect was too small to be officially granted such an esteemed position. However the Golden Council had turned a blind eye to such frivolity, especially from the smallest temple order of the city. Tintua glanced wearily to the spire of their nearby temple, barely peeking above the rooftops it was generous to even call it a temple.

“One would think you considered the worship of our forefather beneath you.” Huikihuaka purred.

Tintua met his eye with a withering gaze of his own, “My visitations are defined by a design mandated at the Halls of the Holy, and to which each temple is designated an appropriate priority.” A lie somewhat. He doubted whether the clergy of the Great Temple even cared, but it mattered little and Tintua wished to leave the irksome Priest as soon as possible.

“Ehkt, yes yes” Huikihuaka waved a claw at him, “your most prestigious and accomplished ability in the organisation of temple administration incurs admiration from all of us within the sect of Kara…” The gangly priest bowed unnecessarily low, his ceremonial ruff of silvery blue and yellow feathers flopped over his head giving him the appearance of a bedraggled and depressed parrot. He poked his snout out from under the feathery mess “…so much so that we would dearly appreciate an audience with your most important self this very morning.”

“What, now?” Tintua exclaimed.

“Ehkt, yes. At this very moment, if your gracious self would be so generous.”

Tintua clicked his tongue. Annoying as the priest was, he found himself being unwilling charmed by his request: no temple had wished an audience with him for many lunar cycles. He glanced up at the moon, still sickled it gleamed dully in the brightening sky. A potent sign of import, perhaps this was an opportunity not to be snubbed.

“Well…” Tintua said after some deliberation, “The mandate of the Halls of the Holy is not so easily altered, however given the times of prophecy in which we currently reside and the…spirit of celebration following the sacrifice of the…heretic, I’m sure the Golden Council would overlook such a change in design”. Tintua’s inner eyelids quivered; why had he mentioned the sacrifice of his old Master? He had strived to push all memories of the event aside. He bit on his tongue: focus on your work Tintua, he thought, don’t let yourself be distracted now. Nevertheless, a dark cloud of shame plumed from his gut at using the spectacle of Spekotoa’s death as a menial excuse.

Huikihuaka nodded solemnly, “Good good, follow me” the wiry priest said before spinning around, feathers flailing, and headed back across the bridge to the city. Tintua followed, lost in his thoughts until, glancing up as he approached the end of the bridge, he noticed Huikihuaka had disappeared.

He glanced about, but everything was still as it had been before the sudden appearance of the High Priest of Kara. Only the distant cries of the morning Terradon scouts echoing from cliffs accompanied him. Standing above the chasm in silence, Tintua felt the initial surge of anger: had he just been fooled by the paltry and unstable Skink?

“Hoi”, a voice cooed “over here”. Tintua looked towards the source of the noise and found Huikihuaka at the end of the bridge, his head popping over the bridge’s edge. Creeping cautiously to the edge, he found the Priest standing on a small slab of stone of about a foot thick and wide enough for a single Skink. Behind him was a line of similar stone slabs forming an irregular path down and across the cliff-face like the smile of a brawl-happy Orc. Tintua frowned, unnerved that he had never noticed them before in all his previous journeys to the Gardens of Xholankha.

Noticing his gaze, Huikihuaka gave a wide grin; “Ehkt ehkt, this path is only seen by those chosen by Kara” he intoned sonorously. Grinning wider at Tintua’s subsequent confusion he added: “plus, people don’t really pay attention to what’s around them. Come, come”.

Huikihuaka turned on his heel and started hopping down the steps. Tintua hesitated, whilst curious about this unexplored pathway, he found himself suddenly aware of the significant and terrifying nothingness below each tiny projection. Glancing at the gap between himself and the first step, the mountainside flung itself down in a sheer drop. Far below Tintua could glimpse the blurred specks of Terradon riders navigating the canyon, and further below them the irksome and sleepy broil of the morning cloud. His legs shuddered and veins trembled; a cool weight seemed to pull him forwards, threatening to tug off into oblivion. Looking up, Huikihuaka had already made it to the last step before the path curved around the cliff. Huikihuaka waved.

He shook his head: he had been spawned in these mountains and crossed many bridges, why was he afraid now? Still the abyss yawned wide for him. Who-ever had built these steps was clearly extremely skilled and very stupid, Tintua thought, as stupid as he was about to be apparently. Invoking Azyr to guide his steps he stepped off the bridge’s edge.

Landing on the flagstone the Skink immediately gripped the cliff-face with both hands and dug his claws into the rock, pressing his staff up against the wall as he did so. He had to keep moving lest he freeze again. Glancing over to the next step, a little further below, he cursed himself and the meddling skink who had involved him in this situation. Quickly judging the amount of exertion it’d take to avoid making a too short a jump or topple over the other side with his momentum, he leapt again.

He continued his process, quick and yet gingerly; focusing solely on making it to the next step whilst ignoring the rest of the world as a deadly distraction. He made sure to curse with every successful landing.

“Hoi, the Big Priest of the Golden Temple has the skills of a frog”, Huikihuaka’s chuckle came as surprise to Tintua. Looking about he noticed he had made it around the curve of the cliff-face. Ahead was a single slab on which stood the wizened Skink. Although Tintua gripped onto the cliff-face with fervour a small smile manage to creep across his face: he had survived, so far at least.

Looking at the slab Huikihuaka stood upon, he noticed no other steps, no doors, not even an awaiting Terradon to bear him aware from this nightmare. Tintua’s mind stretched to think what reason they had to be standing around at the bottom of an incomplete, precarious stairway.

“Where are we going now?” he asked.

Huikihuaka beckoned him to follow and promptly walked into and through the cliff-face.

Tintua balked. His eyes bulged, suddenly aware that he had been left alone on the sheer side of a mountain. He whispered a quick prayer to Sotek: the Golden City had been founded on the grandest volcano in the region. The mountain range had been named after the Serpent God, and any sudden grumble by the City’s igneous patron could easily dislodge him. His tail flicked anxiously as he fretted about the size of his morning sacrifice.

Spouting a stream of curses once more, Tintua leapt onto the final step. Still crouching, he cautiously reached his hand out and touched the cliff-face. His finger-tips slipped right through it. He quickly withdrew his hand, puzzled. An obvious charm, but the sect of Kara was not known to be adept at such magicks. Even Huikihuaka was known for barely being able to divine anything beyond the next week, and even then his predictions were often restrained to the mundane. Curious, Tintua stood and, taking in a long and deep breath of the crisp air, and walked through.

Beyond was a small gloomy cave, its uneven roof barely higher than three skinks. Tintua doubted that a Kroxigor would even be able to stand at full-height. His eyes adjusting to the dimness, what little light existed was emanating from a single object in the middle: something ivory coloured, something stone, something almost pyramidal.

Tintua stepped forward to get a better look and pain cleaved his skull. His staff clattered to the ground; gripping his head with both hands he stumbled forward as another lash of pain striked. Thrusting out his arm to defend himself from the assailant he realised the sensation was beyond anything physical: it felt magical and it felt familiar. Azyr, the magical wind of Heavens, seemed to be scouring his innards. Soon another power joined it, tearing across and through him. Tintua gasped, recognising the sensation as Ghur, the Wind of Beasts. Another one of the eight aspects of magic and the only other with which he had dabbled. The pain intensified as the magical forces sputtered and weaved throughout his body.

He fell forward onto his knees, clasping his head tighter. Additional forces joined the two arcane winds, these ones unrecognisable to Tintua and yet all felt distinct, all promising a reservoir of potent magical power. Tintua tilted his head back to scream but his mouth was numb, leaving his jaw to hang loosely and unresponsive. His arms fell to his side: useless, paralysed. As the magical forces raged within him, he felt them spark up against one another, sizzling at each other’s presence. As they did so his ability to distinguish them quickly diminished. Soon only pain remained, and soon that too disappeared.

A familiar voice echoed about him. Blinking, Tintua found himself sprawled across the cave floor. As his vision slowly became clearer he saw two bulbous eyes, one gleaming and one ruined, staring back at him.

“You have been marked by Kara” Huikihuaka repeated in hushed tones, evidently aware of Tintua’s disposition.

Tintua tried to reply, but found with much effort he was only able to loll his tongue about. His body felt exhausted, every muscle fibre ached and painfully resisted any attempts to move.

“Saphery gathers in this place”, Huikihuaka continued staring at Tintua’s face “it is a blessing. Come...” the Priest of Kara stood up, “Come, you need fresh air. It will help”.

Tintua willed himself to move an arm and bat the priest away, but it merely flopped on the floor. He closed his eyes, resigning himself to the idea that he was now powerless and dependant on the will of the unstable priest. Huikihuaka bent down and, pulling an arm over his shoulders, dragged Tintua out of the cave.

“It is a blessing…” Huikihuaka continued, “…and a curse”. He carefully laid Tintua on the step and, standing over him, whispered “you will see, look. Open your eyes. Look.”

The cool canyon breeze washed over Tintua’s body, awakening his senses; stimulating his mind. “A curse” he mumbled, and opened his eyes.

Immediately he noticed something was different: shadows seemed to flicker, agitated, up across the cliff-face. A noxious green colour saturated everything: the rocks had acquired a sickly hue, and even the air tasted acrid. The dancing shadows and fetid colours were produced by a light, a terrible light that made Tintua body shudder and veins tremble once more. Groggily, he shifted his head to find the source.

Above them, shifting with a slow, viscous and chaotic array of colour like a pestilential sun; filling the sky with its enormity and baleful presence was the Chaos Moon.

 

Dammit! I thought I had fixed that pesky moon.

You have got some pretty ugly happenings aligning here - delightful.

Good luck getting out of this one with all your scales intact.

 

I believe Hawaiian words for lava are akin to Inuit (Eskimo) words for snow. Did your Art Major cover that?

If it helps you, I suspect "ehkt, ehkt" could be substituted for "gollum, gollum" with no loss of meaning. It is a meaningless utterance such as "Scalenex will triumph in the up coming short story competition."

 

You're both right, after a fashion. @Scalenex, you found my Easter Egg.

I didn't want to cave in to peer pressure and start using naughty words, but the root of Huikihuaka's tick is indeed "Mahrlect".

He's a filthy-tongued Skink.

It's not entirely random however, more of a manifestation of certain emotional states.

 

Potty mouth.

 

I hear you. I edited Scalenex's piece for him. I did what I could but I couldn't save the patient. I talked him out of naming the piece "Chameleons." How hack is that?

Inuits have one word for snow. The Hawaiians have a few more than that but two main types. Pahoehoe (pronounced hoy hoy) for smooth flowing lava and a'a (rough rocky lava). Scalenex would have posted this, but he couldn't write "a'a" without tearing up. You know how he feels about doubling "a"s consecutively.

Fun fact. Both "hoy! hoy!" and "ah! ah!" refer to noises someone makes if they touch the lava.