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spawning of Bob
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Inuit words for snow may have been a poor example. I could have said "Scalenex words for death" instead.
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spawning of Bob
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Interesting that Hawaiians would need so many words for snow.
Carnasaur
Slanputin
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Inuit's might not have the vocab', but Kate Bush (typically) knows 50 words for snow..
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spawning of Bob
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You mean Kate Katherine Kathy Kat Bush Shrub Thicket Hedge Bramble? She would. Typical, as you say.
Don't get me started on Mr Smarty Stephen Steve Stevie Fry Sear Fricasee Baby-Fish Fingerling.
Don't get me started on Mr Smarty Stephen Steve Stevie Fry Sear Fricasee Baby-Fish Fingerling.
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Temple Guard
lordkingcrow
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I think, once again Slanny (Notice my refrain from Putin? 
), you have impressed me with your ability to paint a word picture in my mind. I love the language you use. I know that, in my own writing, I become very character based and the scene is secondary in my mind. I envy your ability to write so eloquently. I am very curious to see where you take this character. My only suggestion would be to add some more exclamation points to really get your point across. 
), you have impressed me with your ability to paint a word picture in my mind. I love the language you use. I know that, in my own writing, I become very character based and the scene is secondary in my mind. I envy your ability to write so eloquently. I am very curious to see where you take this character. My only suggestion would be to add some more exclamation points to really get your point across.
Carnasaur
Slanputin
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Chapter 3: The Halls of the Holy
Hands clasping the parapet, Monotaal inhaled a cool draught of evening air. Eyes closed and head cocked, he listened to the echoed chants and murmurings of late worship. He released a slow breath of appreciation and turned to enter the Halls of the Holy. Above him the sheer face of the Golden Pyramid glittered in the starlight.
Although the sonorous evening song had soothed him, he was hesitant to let himself relax: the Chaos Moon had been long been absent; Priests were recording visions in greater numbers and with greater clarity for the first time since the Great Catastrophe; and Monotaal had finally grasped the highest position in the ecclesial office: Grand High Priest of the Golden Citadel. The timeliness of his achievement, during the most celebrated period of prophecy in living memory, was a strong sign that the Gods had favoured him above all others. It was a sign he ensured the citizens of the city were aware of with great frequency; his sacrifices to the Old Ones at the First Altar were now a common event, one which drew the entire citadel to watch. Their fervour nourished him.
Still Monotaal could not be content. Stepping under the high golden vaults he reminded himself that his ascent had been the direct result of his forerunner’s heresy, and he used it as a recurring reminder of vigilance: to be at the top of the pyramid was to be surrounded by a steep drop. Theoretically he only answered to the Slann and the Gods; by their will he worked. In practice however, Monotaal was keenly aware that his success as High Priest was dependent on the co-operation of the numerous temple sects which formed the City’s Priesthood. Faith, opportunism, and power were consummate partners which had nurtured a nexus of petty ambition and vague leadership. The intelligent priest would recognise that the status quo in temple politics was to assist with one hand and grip your dagger with the other. Monotaal despised answering to such deviancy, believing their power play to be a reflection of the blight which affected their civilisation at large. For too long the Slann had isolated themselves to ponder the wishes of their lost masters, and without their guidance their subjects had lost sight of any remnants of the Great Plan. It had been necessary, therefore, for Monotaal to claim the title of High Priest of the Citadel and remove the rot that infested his society. Lord Axhlot’s return had galvanised his ambition: the Slann Mage-Lord had revealed the designs of the Gods to him personally, and it was only through him that their purpose would manifest.
Despite his divine mandate, Monotaal knew vigilance was key. Upon his ascendance the Priesthood had been encouraged to report any suspicion of heresy, however most accusations of dissent were inevitably revealed to be twisted truths spouted by the ambitious to undermine their rivals. Though such accusations were consistently dismissed the suspicion of heresy effectively tarnished their rival’s reputation, and thus heretical claims were increasingly becoming the favoured ammunition within temple politics. Though of interest to the ecclesiastical administration, Monotaal always treated such claims with caution.
He itched at his neck, the skin irritated by his cloak of office. A flowing cape of feathers coloured obsidian and ivory it delicately brushed the gilded slabs beneath his feet, trailing after him with a gentle hush. Monotaal found it garish and cumbersome. He had introduced the cloak upon acquiring his title not as a symbol of status or power, although such associations were certainly a beneficial by-product, but as a reminder of purity. A clear contrast existed between the dark and the light, between Order and Chaos – there was no middle ground. Only through faith absolute could the corrupting tide of the Dark Gods be ended. The itchiness was a burden Monotaal willingly carried if it bolstered the faith of the citizens and kept knees of the Priesthood bent.
Shadows flickered across the golden corridor, agitated by the torches which lined Monotaal’s path. Aside for these the halls were cold and dark, its precious walls did little to brighten the complex. Beside him, silent and almost lost in the shadows, marched two Saurus of the new spawning. He was glad of their presence: though they shared the silent stoicism of their species, their dextrous movements gave them an atmosphere of calculated legerity absent from other Saurian guards. Monotaal often forgot they existed, only to be reminded of their presence when the shadows suddenly moved to match his pace. Residing beneath the great pyramid, they only left the Halls of the Holy for important religious events. Their ambiguity had earned them notoriety across the city. The citizens had named them “Grey Ones” due their ostensibly mottled colouring. The title was erroneous however, as under close inspection it was clear that their scales were a mosaic of obsidian and ivory.
A voice called: “Master”.
Turning, Monotaal saw a Skink walk briskly up the corridor to meet him; recognising the High Priest’s protégée the grey Saurus made no attempt to challenge his approach. Upon reaching Monotaal the Skink kneeled, his head bowed.
Monotaal looked upon his patron with affection. He had often wondered whether his protégée was from some subtle or overlooked sacred spawning: although he shared the azure colouration of his fellow skinks, his physique was proportioned oddly - his arms were a little too gangly, his body a little too lithe, and his scales had a curious way of catching the light so as to make it flicker across his body like firelight. The High Priest could not fathom a way to validate his suspicions however, and so sought to keep the Skink Priest close. Beyond his intelligence, the Skink had shown curious talent that surpassed any other priest Monotaal knew. His protégée had some skill at manipulating Aqshy, the magical Wind of Fire. Skink Priests only ever showed skill at handling the Winds of Azyr and Ghur, with the Slann being the only entities capable of controlling Aqshy. A priest with an ability in Aqshy was unheard off. An event absent from any historical record he knew, Monotaal had taken it upon himself to nourish this inherent talent: once trained, the appearance of a Skink Priest adept with the Wind of Fire would solidify Monotaal’s leadership and consecrate his rule over the Priesthood. This revelation would be the final step in ensuring conformation to Lord Axhlot’s ideology and encourage it’s propagation to the other cities.
“Rise, Necthez”, Monotaal said.
“Master, I bring news concerning the Heretic’s protégée”.
Monotaal frowned, already feeling weary of the subject: Tintua was a loose end he had hoped would remain tucked out of sight. The events surrounding the death of Spekotoa had been disturbing: the former High Priest's pleading had distressed Monotaal. That the Heretic would so ardently beg for his life, that he would oppose the mandate of the Old Ones, only revealed his contempt for the Gods. Once Monotaal had respected the old High Priest, but it was clear that he was now a tumour in the eyes of the divine. Monotaal had no qualms in removing it. With Spekotoa’s fate sealed his protégée, Tintua, presented the next issue to be resolved. Loathing any vestigial presence of Spekotoa to persist Monotaal had publicly chastised Tintua for ignorantly courting heresy and stripped him status and power. Much to his chagrin, Monotaal had lacked any robust evidence to condemn the Heretic’s protégée further. Since then Monotaal’s agents had reported upon the actions of the demoted priest, but the reports only described him as benign if embittered, but nothing more. However, Monotaal knew corruption was a subtle and secretive rot and if the Grand High Priest could fall into heresy, Monotaal had reasoned, then the whole population was vulnerable. Lord Axhlot himself had asked to be alerted if the mark of corruption was found in the city and so Monotaal had undertaken routing out any dissent as actioned by the divine. Purity needed to be absolute, and the citizens needed to conform to this ideology.
Curious, Monotaal beckoned Necthez to speak.
“The minor temples have reported… strange behaviour over the last week. They say he acts furtive and disinterested, spending far more time in his nesting quarters than normal. Some claim he suffers from illness and should be quarantined, others believe he plots rebellion against you”.
Monotaal nodded, “It must be investigated”. Monotaal prided his ability in exposing heresy, but his greatest skill was reading the threads of ambition spun by his inferiors. He was well aware of how the temple sects distanced themselves from Tintua, and such a vague report bore the hallmarks of a smear.
“… and reported” he finished.
“To Our Lord, Axhlot?” Necthezasked. It was a disingenuous question, he knew the procedures for dealing with any accusation of heresy.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Perhaps” his protégée ventured, “we should avoid such action, this time. The accusations are vague and intent clear. I would not think it worthy of His attention.”
Monotaal was inclined to agree; he was hesitant to disturb the Mage-Lord from his works beneath the pyramid. Still Monotaal drew out the silence so as to give an air of consideration.
“Very well, make it so” he said eventually.
“Should we send a priest from one of the smaller sects?” Necthez suggested.
A smile teased the corner of his mouth: his protégée was keeping pace with his own thoughts.
“No”, Monotaal replied, “no need to distract the Priesthood from their tasks.” Most claims were investigated by a priest from a separate sect, however he disliked the idea of wasting their time on such obvious political manoeuvring, especially when the focus was effectively a pariah in his own community. However he had to be seen to respect the wishes of the Priesthood if he was to continue to garner their support, and thus some political manoeuvring of his own was needed.
“Send Xolsaa” Monotaal said.
“The Anointed One…?” Necthez asked. “Master, you wish to give a boon to Tintua?”
Xolsaa, often referred to as the Anointed One by the city’s citizens, was the only Saurus outside of the Grey Ones to have been born under a sacred spawning. Blessed by Chotec, the Sun God, Xolsaa was golden in colour, much like the temple under which he had been spawned. Due to this Xolsaa had quickly become one of the most recognisable denizens of the city. A golden Saurus for the Golden City; the citizens adored him. Any who received him often benefitted from a sudden increase in social stature.
“A boon of sorts: how better to expose the lesser than to side them against the great? The temple sects will see it as a symbol of great respect to have Xolsaa investigate their claims, the people of the citadel will see the heroic Captain of the Pyramid Guard investigating a pariah”.
“And yet, Xolsaa himself -” his protégée began, “- whilst keen of mind for a Saurus, does not have the capacity for a lengthy and involved investigation. It would purely be cosmetic.”
Monotaal nodded. No need to expend energy so something so small.
“By the will of the Old Ones”.
“By the will of the Old Ones”.
Hands clasping the parapet, Monotaal inhaled a cool draught of evening air. Eyes closed and head cocked, he listened to the echoed chants and murmurings of late worship. He released a slow breath of appreciation and turned to enter the Halls of the Holy. Above him the sheer face of the Golden Pyramid glittered in the starlight.
Although the sonorous evening song had soothed him, he was hesitant to let himself relax: the Chaos Moon had been long been absent; Priests were recording visions in greater numbers and with greater clarity for the first time since the Great Catastrophe; and Monotaal had finally grasped the highest position in the ecclesial office: Grand High Priest of the Golden Citadel. The timeliness of his achievement, during the most celebrated period of prophecy in living memory, was a strong sign that the Gods had favoured him above all others. It was a sign he ensured the citizens of the city were aware of with great frequency; his sacrifices to the Old Ones at the First Altar were now a common event, one which drew the entire citadel to watch. Their fervour nourished him.
Still Monotaal could not be content. Stepping under the high golden vaults he reminded himself that his ascent had been the direct result of his forerunner’s heresy, and he used it as a recurring reminder of vigilance: to be at the top of the pyramid was to be surrounded by a steep drop. Theoretically he only answered to the Slann and the Gods; by their will he worked. In practice however, Monotaal was keenly aware that his success as High Priest was dependent on the co-operation of the numerous temple sects which formed the City’s Priesthood. Faith, opportunism, and power were consummate partners which had nurtured a nexus of petty ambition and vague leadership. The intelligent priest would recognise that the status quo in temple politics was to assist with one hand and grip your dagger with the other. Monotaal despised answering to such deviancy, believing their power play to be a reflection of the blight which affected their civilisation at large. For too long the Slann had isolated themselves to ponder the wishes of their lost masters, and without their guidance their subjects had lost sight of any remnants of the Great Plan. It had been necessary, therefore, for Monotaal to claim the title of High Priest of the Citadel and remove the rot that infested his society. Lord Axhlot’s return had galvanised his ambition: the Slann Mage-Lord had revealed the designs of the Gods to him personally, and it was only through him that their purpose would manifest.
Despite his divine mandate, Monotaal knew vigilance was key. Upon his ascendance the Priesthood had been encouraged to report any suspicion of heresy, however most accusations of dissent were inevitably revealed to be twisted truths spouted by the ambitious to undermine their rivals. Though such accusations were consistently dismissed the suspicion of heresy effectively tarnished their rival’s reputation, and thus heretical claims were increasingly becoming the favoured ammunition within temple politics. Though of interest to the ecclesiastical administration, Monotaal always treated such claims with caution.
He itched at his neck, the skin irritated by his cloak of office. A flowing cape of feathers coloured obsidian and ivory it delicately brushed the gilded slabs beneath his feet, trailing after him with a gentle hush. Monotaal found it garish and cumbersome. He had introduced the cloak upon acquiring his title not as a symbol of status or power, although such associations were certainly a beneficial by-product, but as a reminder of purity. A clear contrast existed between the dark and the light, between Order and Chaos – there was no middle ground. Only through faith absolute could the corrupting tide of the Dark Gods be ended. The itchiness was a burden Monotaal willingly carried if it bolstered the faith of the citizens and kept knees of the Priesthood bent.
Shadows flickered across the golden corridor, agitated by the torches which lined Monotaal’s path. Aside for these the halls were cold and dark, its precious walls did little to brighten the complex. Beside him, silent and almost lost in the shadows, marched two Saurus of the new spawning. He was glad of their presence: though they shared the silent stoicism of their species, their dextrous movements gave them an atmosphere of calculated legerity absent from other Saurian guards. Monotaal often forgot they existed, only to be reminded of their presence when the shadows suddenly moved to match his pace. Residing beneath the great pyramid, they only left the Halls of the Holy for important religious events. Their ambiguity had earned them notoriety across the city. The citizens had named them “Grey Ones” due their ostensibly mottled colouring. The title was erroneous however, as under close inspection it was clear that their scales were a mosaic of obsidian and ivory.
A voice called: “Master”.
Turning, Monotaal saw a Skink walk briskly up the corridor to meet him; recognising the High Priest’s protégée the grey Saurus made no attempt to challenge his approach. Upon reaching Monotaal the Skink kneeled, his head bowed.
Monotaal looked upon his patron with affection. He had often wondered whether his protégée was from some subtle or overlooked sacred spawning: although he shared the azure colouration of his fellow skinks, his physique was proportioned oddly - his arms were a little too gangly, his body a little too lithe, and his scales had a curious way of catching the light so as to make it flicker across his body like firelight. The High Priest could not fathom a way to validate his suspicions however, and so sought to keep the Skink Priest close. Beyond his intelligence, the Skink had shown curious talent that surpassed any other priest Monotaal knew. His protégée had some skill at manipulating Aqshy, the magical Wind of Fire. Skink Priests only ever showed skill at handling the Winds of Azyr and Ghur, with the Slann being the only entities capable of controlling Aqshy. A priest with an ability in Aqshy was unheard off. An event absent from any historical record he knew, Monotaal had taken it upon himself to nourish this inherent talent: once trained, the appearance of a Skink Priest adept with the Wind of Fire would solidify Monotaal’s leadership and consecrate his rule over the Priesthood. This revelation would be the final step in ensuring conformation to Lord Axhlot’s ideology and encourage it’s propagation to the other cities.
“Rise, Necthez”, Monotaal said.
“Master, I bring news concerning the Heretic’s protégée”.
Monotaal frowned, already feeling weary of the subject: Tintua was a loose end he had hoped would remain tucked out of sight. The events surrounding the death of Spekotoa had been disturbing: the former High Priest's pleading had distressed Monotaal. That the Heretic would so ardently beg for his life, that he would oppose the mandate of the Old Ones, only revealed his contempt for the Gods. Once Monotaal had respected the old High Priest, but it was clear that he was now a tumour in the eyes of the divine. Monotaal had no qualms in removing it. With Spekotoa’s fate sealed his protégée, Tintua, presented the next issue to be resolved. Loathing any vestigial presence of Spekotoa to persist Monotaal had publicly chastised Tintua for ignorantly courting heresy and stripped him status and power. Much to his chagrin, Monotaal had lacked any robust evidence to condemn the Heretic’s protégée further. Since then Monotaal’s agents had reported upon the actions of the demoted priest, but the reports only described him as benign if embittered, but nothing more. However, Monotaal knew corruption was a subtle and secretive rot and if the Grand High Priest could fall into heresy, Monotaal had reasoned, then the whole population was vulnerable. Lord Axhlot himself had asked to be alerted if the mark of corruption was found in the city and so Monotaal had undertaken routing out any dissent as actioned by the divine. Purity needed to be absolute, and the citizens needed to conform to this ideology.
Curious, Monotaal beckoned Necthez to speak.
“The minor temples have reported… strange behaviour over the last week. They say he acts furtive and disinterested, spending far more time in his nesting quarters than normal. Some claim he suffers from illness and should be quarantined, others believe he plots rebellion against you”.
Monotaal nodded, “It must be investigated”. Monotaal prided his ability in exposing heresy, but his greatest skill was reading the threads of ambition spun by his inferiors. He was well aware of how the temple sects distanced themselves from Tintua, and such a vague report bore the hallmarks of a smear.
“… and reported” he finished.
“To Our Lord, Axhlot?” Necthezasked. It was a disingenuous question, he knew the procedures for dealing with any accusation of heresy.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Perhaps” his protégée ventured, “we should avoid such action, this time. The accusations are vague and intent clear. I would not think it worthy of His attention.”
Monotaal was inclined to agree; he was hesitant to disturb the Mage-Lord from his works beneath the pyramid. Still Monotaal drew out the silence so as to give an air of consideration.
“Very well, make it so” he said eventually.
“Should we send a priest from one of the smaller sects?” Necthez suggested.
A smile teased the corner of his mouth: his protégée was keeping pace with his own thoughts.
“No”, Monotaal replied, “no need to distract the Priesthood from their tasks.” Most claims were investigated by a priest from a separate sect, however he disliked the idea of wasting their time on such obvious political manoeuvring, especially when the focus was effectively a pariah in his own community. However he had to be seen to respect the wishes of the Priesthood if he was to continue to garner their support, and thus some political manoeuvring of his own was needed.
“Send Xolsaa” Monotaal said.
“The Anointed One…?” Necthez asked. “Master, you wish to give a boon to Tintua?”
Xolsaa, often referred to as the Anointed One by the city’s citizens, was the only Saurus outside of the Grey Ones to have been born under a sacred spawning. Blessed by Chotec, the Sun God, Xolsaa was golden in colour, much like the temple under which he had been spawned. Due to this Xolsaa had quickly become one of the most recognisable denizens of the city. A golden Saurus for the Golden City; the citizens adored him. Any who received him often benefitted from a sudden increase in social stature.
“A boon of sorts: how better to expose the lesser than to side them against the great? The temple sects will see it as a symbol of great respect to have Xolsaa investigate their claims, the people of the citadel will see the heroic Captain of the Pyramid Guard investigating a pariah”.
“And yet, Xolsaa himself -” his protégée began, “- whilst keen of mind for a Saurus, does not have the capacity for a lengthy and involved investigation. It would purely be cosmetic.”
Monotaal nodded. No need to expend energy so something so small.
“By the will of the Old Ones”.
“By the will of the Old Ones”.
Last edited:
Cold One
Tlac'Natai the Observer
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I'm so in love with the fact that the struggle in this story is intangible and political rather than on the battlefield. Of course, war is natural to write about in this universe, but I find that internal struggle just makes the external threats THAT much more interesting.
I'm completely enthralled with this story and your writing. Keep it up!
I'm completely enthralled with this story and your writing. Keep it up!
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spawning of Bob
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@Slanputin, I may have the most Trophy points (in your face, Cookie Monster), but @Tlac'Natai the Observer just joined the forum to for the purpose of congratulating you on your story. That is recognition.
Now, by intervening, has Tlac'Natai lost his observer status, and if so, should his new title be "Tlac'Natai the "?
Or something else?
Now, by intervening, has Tlac'Natai lost his observer status, and if so, should his new title be "Tlac'Natai the "?
Or something else?
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Slann
Scalenex
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I had a forumite first post (or practically first post) to tell me he liked Renliss' Journey to Lustria, but I didn't get anyone to break an observe only vow.
Course if you really want to compete we can compare views. Bob slaughters us all in that if you count his comics. He has the most viewed fluff piece the False Moon War, but I have the strongest collection of 1000+ views, but I prefer short term focuses. I'm not winning the short story contest but I'm doing better than what I'm pretty sure is Bob's piece.
But really we are all friends and shouldn't compete.
Terradon
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spawning of Bob
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This will seem to be a bit odd, but,
C'mon fellas! Get back on topic!
I had Monotaal pegged as a one dimensional character. He was going to be either a religious tyrant or part of a conspiracy. Now he is....?
I'm looking forward to finding out what on earth is happening in this messed up city.
C'mon fellas! Get back on topic!
I had Monotaal pegged as a one dimensional character. He was going to be either a religious tyrant or part of a conspiracy. Now he is....?
I'm looking forward to finding out what on earth is happening in this messed up city.
Carnasaur
Slanputin
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Thank-you, 'Natai. Hopefully it'll keep you interested as it progresses!
Ha, hopefully I'll deliver. Another bugging question to ask is: "where the ehkt is Xhaltan, the story's named after him and he's only appeared in the prologue?!"
That is a very good question and one that sometimes I often ask myself. There is a plan, but the story often writes itself.
Now, how am I going to include bamboo in the story to prevent myself being ravaged by pandas...
Carnasaur
Slanputin
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Speaking of competition....I may beaten in messages and points, but I'm crawling up the like leader-board ;p
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spawning of Bob
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Trophy points.
Just saying.
Just saying.
Slann
NIGHTBRINGER
Second Spawning
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Carnasaur
Slanputin
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Chapter 4: Hot Water
Rising on the warm breath of the jungle far below, the condor scrutinised the landscape with beady eyes: clouds rolled off the shoulders of mountains, plumes of smoke rose from distant volcanos – the earth joining the jungle’s exhalation, itself now merely a thin smear of mottled green to the hunter. Flicking her wing, she turned sharply to investigate the nearby volcano. Midday sun glanced of the meltwater that rushed over the volcanic rock, rapidly changing between rivulet and cloud as it navigated the precipitous mountainside. The flow was eventually stemmed far above the jungle creeks and swamp, flushed into stone sluices and reservoirs, and led into a citadel impossibly built on the steep, rugged mount. The city’s colossal golden pyramid beckoning to the condor like a magpie to a jewel. Systematically she scoured the multiple plateaus for her lost prey, swooping between the bridges, arches, and buildings precariously suspended above the crevasses that denied the city any cohesion. Below the occasional citizen glanced up as her furtive shadow passed overhead, returning dismissively to their labours: artisan Skinks tenderly sculpted new icons celebrating their ancient masters; a pack of Kroxigors heaved their muscular bodies to set massive stone bricks; a Saurus guardian of mottled grey crouched on a roof, itself also scrutinising the crowds.
The city’s dwellers saw a bird of inky feathers, a blue sheen flashing across its wings as each flap caught the sunlight. To Tintua the bird was a blaze of sapphiric fire.
The skink priest glanced back down, resolving to look only to where he was to place his next step. He was breathless; his head heavy. Making his way through the less travelled alleys and bridges he concentrating on chewing his tongue, using the pain to keep his focus whilst traversing the tumultuous city. A disorientated mind could result in a fatal misstep, and Tintua’s mind was swimming in a muggy haze of sensation.
Ten days had passed since his meeting with the Huikihuaka, the Karan High Priest, ten days where the Sun had blazed with a greater fury and the night brought a more insidious chill. His body felt each abrasive breath of air; he perceived every movement and heard every mutter. The Sun boiled his skin and the wind scoured his bones; the world stung his eyes with a new vividness. Each day Tintua had endeavoured to attend his duties, attempting to feign normality with the Priesthood: deviancy is heresy, and he could ill afford any branding lest he followed his master’s final footsteps. Each day he yearned for sunset, to curl up and bury his face in the padding of his nesting quarters. Each day the world trembled with an even greater nervous energy. Tintua’s tongue was a bloody pulp.
Hunched and ragged, the Skink Priest gripped onto Huikihuaka’s parting gift: a white, stone shard hung about his neck. The casual observer could easily mistake it for a tooth, another talisman among the many Priests were wont to adorn themselves with.
Gripping it tight the shard burnt his hand and hot tears blurred his eyes. He chewed on his tongue, desperate to distract himself from the burn. Tintua did not know what it was, but its effect was sure: upon wearing it the nightmare had gone, the Chaos Moon no longer dominated the skyline. He had taken the talisman out of desperation, an anchor from the maddening vision. However, the sickening effect he had felt within the cave endured. He fought the urge to return to the comfort of the nesting quarters; sleep offered little reprieve.
Shuffling over a narrow bridge he squinted at the City’s sky-line, noting that his destination was close. Tintua had hoped to never see Huikihuaka again. Although he recognised such a hope to be foolish ambition Tintua nevertheless had shirked his responsibilities to attend to the needs of the Karan Priesthood. Ten days of overbearing sensation had drained him of energy and will. He needed to confront the High Priest of Kara. Was this his life now? He fumbled the talisman nervously.
Turning a corner the narrow walls of the alley opened up to a plaza. Designed in imitation of the Moon a highly polished disc of silver formed its bulk, inset below the surrounding paving it permanently bore a thin layer of water so that it brilliantly reflected the sky. Bursting from the centre in a stone was the Temple of Kara. Behind it the plaza opened up to offer a vista, the globus cloud clinging to the Gardens of Xholankha just visible further along the precipice, framing the Temple against an azure haze. The vista worked in concert with the plaza’s design to give the Karan Temple the illusion of being suspended in sky. Normally a scene that inspired meditation, the visual deception sent Tintua’s sensitive mind reeling.
Focusing on the Temple of Kara, he stepped onto the plaza and sloshed his way through the cool water. Squat and small even when compared the temples of the other minor sects, the structure was itself an oddity. Diverging from typical architectural fashion it was adorned with statues and grotesques of warm-blooded animals, the sacred serpents and reptiles that embellished the shrines of the other sects being completely absent. The only other building that bore a similar design was the Shrine of Huanchi, the Jaguar God of the Deep Jungle, but even then the shrine was focused solely on depicting the majesty of its patron. The Temple of Kara presented a menagerie of creatures some of which Tintua recognised: hawks and falcons similar to those that nested amongst the cliff-faces, leviathans that were said to hunt the seas of the Spitting Serpents, and even horses ridden by the lesser races of Elves and Men. Others were completely alien to the priest. Despite the absent nature of their ancient masters, this particular sect’s patron deity had achieved a degree of obscurity that removed it from the typical objects of worship for the faith. Tintua had suspected that their divergent architectural style didn’t help in attracting the city’s populace. Divergence was heresy, Tintua reminded himself.
A sudden movement jerked Tintua out from his musings: one of the grotesques had shifted its weight. Squinting, he realised it was the condor perched in a shadowy niche. The bird cocked its head and glared down at the skink. Awkwardly glancing away from the bird’s sharp gaze he realised he had stopped walking: ahead was at the entrance. Tintua silently cursed himself as he was unable to remember how long he had been standing there. Concentration had become difficult: his mind wondering into tangential strains of thought with uncomfortable ease. Tintua inhaled sharply and smoothed his crest back, taking the last few steps over the threshold into the atrium.
Although often derided by the other temple sects for its relatively modest size, the atrium was undeniably cavernous, its walls curving high into dusky light to end at a high pinch. Stepping further in, Tintua became increasingly aware of the lack of tact involved in his decision: the temple had undoubtedly noted his absence from duties over the last few days and, further to that, the timing of his visitation was far removed from the usual schedule. His sudden presence compounded what was already a conspicuous act. He ground his teeth and his mouth once more tasted of blood.
Tintua eyed the Temple Guard, cautiously slowing his breathing: still and silent, Saurus honoured with guardianship were so resolute in their duty that citizens often forgot their presence, becoming relaxed and unvigilant. Gauging the thick skin of dust that quilted their armour and skull-hewn helms, Tintua imagined that they had stayed in the same position for quite some time; Saurus had never been known to die outside of battle. Only the occasional flutter of cobweb about their nostrils betrayed signs of life.
Tintua was keenly aware of the danger posed by the silent guardians: remaining still until such a time when their patron was under threat, Temple Guards gradually built a mental archive of observations over decades of service. Any clever citizen would hold their tongue; all guards were duty-bound to report to Monotaal. Four guards were positioned around the atrium, their combined perspectives covering the busiest chamber in the Temple of Kara.
“Are you quite alright, Tintua?” a light voice drew him from his brooding. In front of him, standing on tip-toes with a collection of tablets and scrolls pressed tightly to his chest stood a slender Skink. His face was contorted oddly to convey both curiosity and apprehension, almost as if fearing a volatile reaction.
“Yes, thanks – thank-you, Shapok” Tintua corrected himself, drawing his thoughts together “I’m feeling good.” Disturbed from his amble, a tightness squeezed his head once more: he needed to speak to Huikhuaka. “Listen, Shapok, I know I haven’t exactly been around much but-“
“Yes, well…” Shapok interrupted, “I’m sure you’re acutely aware of how much of a delicate system sectorial administration is, Tintua. It is unfortunate when certain components, as it were, fail to fulfil their required capacity and function improperly. It undermines the system, no matter how aloof they might believe themselves to be.” He paused, and then hastily added “As much as I’m sure the Halls are inundated with a great variety of tasks, by the will of the Old Ones, and therefore I’m certain they have a valid rationale for their recent inattention towards the Karan sect.” Shapok cocked his head as if inspecting a wounded animal.
Tintua struggled to hide a grimace: he had expected some degree of chastisement following his avoidance of the temple, however his sluggish and groggy disposition only exacerbated its bite. He just wished they could move on quickly.
Shapok expelled a loud, sharp breath and Tintua realised he had been asking a question.
“Oh. Yes, well…” Tintua began to stutter.
Shapok rolled his eyes and, gripping Tintua by the elbow, began to whisk him across the atrium. Tintua found his chest heaving as he attempted to keep up with the brisk pace.
“Now listen: our temple may be the smallest institution within the citadel – and I don’t mind admitting that, Tintua; I am an objective person after all. However, small as it may be it is still an institution of worship, worship to Gods to whom which we owe our very existence to. Kara may be just one of them, and certainly one more enigmatic than other more…popular masters, but the Old Ones all require diligent praise. Our temple sect is just as deserving as our other of our brethren sects.”
Shapok pattered his way down a brightly lit corridor, his grip on Tintua showing no signs of relinquishing.
“Yes, of course Shapok.”
“Well, I’m delighted you agree. Perhaps, considering our new found concordance, you could report to the Halls about the current effects of their cuts: sacrificial chattel redirected from our own pens; our Temple Guard reduced from ten – not even what could be considered a functional unit to begin with – to only four; not to mention general reductions in resources overall. It makes the efficient running of this temple very troublesome….by the will of the Old Ones” he added.
Shapok spun them around a corner and began to ascend a flight of stairs.
“If you had kept up with your duties then perhaps these issues could have been addressed and a solution would have presented itself. Still, no use in complaining over damage done – you can’t shove the egg back up the bird once laid.”
Coming to the top of the stair-case Shapok took another sharp turn and whisked them both down another bright corridor.
“Hang on” Tintua finally said, the brisk pace clearing the fog from his mind somewhat, “where are you taking me?”
“To see his honour, Huikihuaka. He told me to expect you soon. Soon. His exact words. No discrete time of course, that’s not how our High Priest works. It’s up to me to interpret and execute. And who do you think gets it when something goes wrong? Exactly. They have no idea. No idea at all. You need the patience of a prophet to survive in this sect Tintua, I can tell you that for free.”
Grasping through Shapok’s tirade, Tintua plucked on a small but significant word: “expect?”
“Yes, as I mentioned” Shapok said irritably. “Please do keep up, you should know how valuable time is to people in such integral positions; you’ve already kept us waiting over a week. Temples are a delicate system, Tintua.” He reiterated.
He stopped and knocked on a large, ornate wooden door: “Let’s hope he’s not asleep.” Tinua couldn’t help but wish that he was.
The door creaked open and two familiar bulbous eyes peered out.
“Mmm…” Huikihuaka said, “mmm” as if agreeing to some silent adage. “Come, come” he said, beckoning Tintua through the door. Tintua glanced over his shoulder but Shapok had already spurred himself away.
Shuffling in, the Priest’s office was almost bare of furnishings, with little more than a stone table supporting a mess of scrolls and tablets. The walls were jarringly festooned an array of different items: extracts from various plaques, highly polished mirrors, and a disorganised selection of amulets and talismans. Faced with such a disordered scene, Tintua understood why Shapok was so quick to leave.
“Sit down. I have something to rest your mind” Huikihuaka said. Turning to the table he picked up a tumbagan flask, its conical neck ending with the head of the snake. Picking up a wooden cup he tilted the flask and poured a steaming liquid. He turned back to Tintua and handed him the cup.
Tintua frowned, hesitant to accept anything from the gangly priest.
“You came to me for help, eh? Drink”.
Lacking the capacity to form any reasonable argument to refuse, Tintua took the cup with a trembling hand. He inspected its contents: a concoction of dried leaves and hot water. Flicking his tongue through the steam he tasted an infusion of flowers he could not identify.
“Drink, ehkt” Huikihuaka nodded enthusiastically.
Holding it to his lips the hot liquid stung the shredded flesh of his tongue, bringing painful tears to his eyes. The drink, however, sat in his belly comfortably warm. His pulse calmed.
“Better, eh?”
Tintua nodded.
“I bet, ehkt ehtk”, Huikihuaka chuckled.
Tintua moved to speak, but the Karan priest stopped him with a wave of his hand.
“Keep drinking, I will talk. I imagine you have much to ask, and the answers are...deserved. It’s little wonder you took so long to work up the courage to visit. Still, I did think the protégée of His Grace…”
“Spekatoa was a heretic” Tintua said sharply.
Huikihuaka studied him with his shiny, globular eyes. Sighing, he said “Yes, yes: he was a most devious and treacherous Skink who deserved everything he got.”
The Karan priest clasped his hands on and leant over the desk, “Ehkt, you ask me I say he deserved a harsher punishment, nothing is bad enough for an apostate to the Old Ones. They should have bled him into the wind from gallows; left him to be torn at by the jungle beasts; slowly roasted in a brazier; tossed into the volcanoes’ maw…”
Tintua couldn’t help but flinch; his fatigue made it impossible to hide. Satisfied Huikihuaka leant back and poured another cup of the fragrant brew. The calming effect of the brew was consoling to the degree that Tintua could do nothing but agree to another cup. He slurped it greedily.
“What is the problem with our race?” Huikihuaka asked once Tintua had emptied the cup.
Tintua balked, never before had the thought crossed his mind. He had no reason to: they were the first race created by the Gods. That a member of the Priesthood would ask such a question was disconcerting.
“We know nothing of whim” Huikihuaka said, answering himself, “it is why you didn’t come to me immediately upon feeling the blessing. Too stuck in your duty. What you feel, the blessing of Kara, is an insight lost on our brothers”.
“Whim, this insight is whim?” incredulous, Tintua finally found himself able to speak “Does that not deviate from the objectivity the Old Ones fashioned within us, doesn't impulse and fickleness undermine objectivity to enact their Great Plan? How would such a 'blessing' aid in ending the anathema that is the Chaos threat, or in trammelling the lesser races to the lands determined for them by the Gods? Such objectives, such a need requires…” Tintua stuggled to finish: the word he searched for would summerise the basis of their civilisation, the inherent nature the motivated them, and he had no word for such a base and natural concept. His headache began to reappear.
“The Mark of Kara is much like the blessing of the other Old Ones – just as those spawned under Chotec are quick in mind and body, and those spawned under Sotek exalt righteous vengeance, so does Kara offer aid of her own. We are given insight: ability to step back from the duty and faith which binds us, and judge acts on new terms”.
“I don’t see how this is beneficial. Why would an Old One work against the fundamental values of their bretheren?” Tinuta felt like he would choke on his questions.
Smiling Huikihuaka said “the insight is not mere perspective, but a vibration – you feel it, moving through you, rippling through the air and earth. It is the sound of eight chords, strung together – Saphery."
“The High Magic?”
“Kara blesses us with the eight winds of magic. Within us they engage, weaving through each other and creating a composite, a tapestry of power beyond the reach of any other in our position. That tapestry, Saphery, grants us insight beyond what we could perceive in the mundane. For example, remember how, as your skill grew in the Wind of Azyr, the messages written in the stars became gradually more legible; or how your work with the Wind of Ghur opened your eyes to the carnality caged within all our hearts? Saphery does similar: it is indefinable, elusive, but far more potent. I can see you’re already experiencing its benefits.” Huikihuaka leaned over the table eyes gleaming. “You’ve been dreaming. You’ve seen it, haven’t you: haunting the mountainside and wreathed in white smoke.”
Slowly, withdrawing painfully the vague memories which reside within the deep within those dreaming vaults, Tintua nodded. “Yes. Yes, the Black Pyramid”, he finally said, “in a city the colour of ash.” He hesitated from what he was going to say next, almost fearful of what it would imply.
“A portent, a vision of the…our future?”
Huikhuaka struck the table with his fist, making Tintua jump. “You’re still thinking with narrow vision; on base terms unfitting Kara’s blessing – every other skink priest is receiving visions of this and that nowadays. This apparent Time of True Prophecy” he jangled his wrists wildly into the air. “It’s no vision, it exists here. Now.”
Tintua rubbed his head; the anxiety was beginning to return and with it the sensory barrage.
“A…dreamed reality then?”
“A fevered dream of heresy, imbued with such magical potency to make it as real as the air you suck through your teeth” Huikihauaka leaned back, and licked his teeth with his long, slender tongue. “Chaos waxes strong and yet all we see is starry skies.”
Tintua’s body tensed, his inner eyelids trembled – whether through sleep deprivation or something other he couldn’t be certain. Furrowing his brow, he asked “that city, what was it, who lives there?”
Huikihuaka’s globular eyes widened beyond their already impressive circumference, his eyes unfocused as he stared into the middle-distance.
“I couldn’t say anyone lives there, as it were. I don’t believe such an environment would allow it. It is a dread place, constantly lacquered by the baleful light of Chaos Moon both day and night.”
“Wait, you’ve been there?” Tintua said, bewildered.
Huikihuaka responded with a slow nod, “it is why Kara has granted me with such powers. There I pursued her cause….” He paused, and after great length said “it appears I was not enough”.
Tintua began to fiddle with his talisman again. This was all too much: how could such a thing exist? “What about the others, who knows of this?”
“Me, you, and no-one else”
“The Slann?” Surely the Mage-Priests would know, they eclipsed all in their insight.
“The Slann indeed. Surely they would see it with their superior vision, but nothing’s been announced; there has been no public recognition at least. You’d assume an Old One contact our Mage-Priests first above all…” Huikhuaka paused, and leaned back into his chair. “Ehkt, what can you do? Kara has a method which, through her wisdom, we’re not yet blessed enough to be given privy. Tintua, we’re all pawns of the gods, all you can do is try to know by which hand you’re being played. Now, listen: come to the evening liturgy next week time. I shall send a formal invitation to the Halls to explain your visit, it can be your method of penance for your recent absence. There I can explain more”.
Massaging his brow, Tintua tried to make sense of the situation. He felt trapped, an inertia preventing him from grabbing his own, old life back.
Slumping in the chair he gestured for another brew.
Rising on the warm breath of the jungle far below, the condor scrutinised the landscape with beady eyes: clouds rolled off the shoulders of mountains, plumes of smoke rose from distant volcanos – the earth joining the jungle’s exhalation, itself now merely a thin smear of mottled green to the hunter. Flicking her wing, she turned sharply to investigate the nearby volcano. Midday sun glanced of the meltwater that rushed over the volcanic rock, rapidly changing between rivulet and cloud as it navigated the precipitous mountainside. The flow was eventually stemmed far above the jungle creeks and swamp, flushed into stone sluices and reservoirs, and led into a citadel impossibly built on the steep, rugged mount. The city’s colossal golden pyramid beckoning to the condor like a magpie to a jewel. Systematically she scoured the multiple plateaus for her lost prey, swooping between the bridges, arches, and buildings precariously suspended above the crevasses that denied the city any cohesion. Below the occasional citizen glanced up as her furtive shadow passed overhead, returning dismissively to their labours: artisan Skinks tenderly sculpted new icons celebrating their ancient masters; a pack of Kroxigors heaved their muscular bodies to set massive stone bricks; a Saurus guardian of mottled grey crouched on a roof, itself also scrutinising the crowds.
The city’s dwellers saw a bird of inky feathers, a blue sheen flashing across its wings as each flap caught the sunlight. To Tintua the bird was a blaze of sapphiric fire.
The skink priest glanced back down, resolving to look only to where he was to place his next step. He was breathless; his head heavy. Making his way through the less travelled alleys and bridges he concentrating on chewing his tongue, using the pain to keep his focus whilst traversing the tumultuous city. A disorientated mind could result in a fatal misstep, and Tintua’s mind was swimming in a muggy haze of sensation.
Ten days had passed since his meeting with the Huikihuaka, the Karan High Priest, ten days where the Sun had blazed with a greater fury and the night brought a more insidious chill. His body felt each abrasive breath of air; he perceived every movement and heard every mutter. The Sun boiled his skin and the wind scoured his bones; the world stung his eyes with a new vividness. Each day Tintua had endeavoured to attend his duties, attempting to feign normality with the Priesthood: deviancy is heresy, and he could ill afford any branding lest he followed his master’s final footsteps. Each day he yearned for sunset, to curl up and bury his face in the padding of his nesting quarters. Each day the world trembled with an even greater nervous energy. Tintua’s tongue was a bloody pulp.
Hunched and ragged, the Skink Priest gripped onto Huikihuaka’s parting gift: a white, stone shard hung about his neck. The casual observer could easily mistake it for a tooth, another talisman among the many Priests were wont to adorn themselves with.
Gripping it tight the shard burnt his hand and hot tears blurred his eyes. He chewed on his tongue, desperate to distract himself from the burn. Tintua did not know what it was, but its effect was sure: upon wearing it the nightmare had gone, the Chaos Moon no longer dominated the skyline. He had taken the talisman out of desperation, an anchor from the maddening vision. However, the sickening effect he had felt within the cave endured. He fought the urge to return to the comfort of the nesting quarters; sleep offered little reprieve.
Shuffling over a narrow bridge he squinted at the City’s sky-line, noting that his destination was close. Tintua had hoped to never see Huikihuaka again. Although he recognised such a hope to be foolish ambition Tintua nevertheless had shirked his responsibilities to attend to the needs of the Karan Priesthood. Ten days of overbearing sensation had drained him of energy and will. He needed to confront the High Priest of Kara. Was this his life now? He fumbled the talisman nervously.
Turning a corner the narrow walls of the alley opened up to a plaza. Designed in imitation of the Moon a highly polished disc of silver formed its bulk, inset below the surrounding paving it permanently bore a thin layer of water so that it brilliantly reflected the sky. Bursting from the centre in a stone was the Temple of Kara. Behind it the plaza opened up to offer a vista, the globus cloud clinging to the Gardens of Xholankha just visible further along the precipice, framing the Temple against an azure haze. The vista worked in concert with the plaza’s design to give the Karan Temple the illusion of being suspended in sky. Normally a scene that inspired meditation, the visual deception sent Tintua’s sensitive mind reeling.
Focusing on the Temple of Kara, he stepped onto the plaza and sloshed his way through the cool water. Squat and small even when compared the temples of the other minor sects, the structure was itself an oddity. Diverging from typical architectural fashion it was adorned with statues and grotesques of warm-blooded animals, the sacred serpents and reptiles that embellished the shrines of the other sects being completely absent. The only other building that bore a similar design was the Shrine of Huanchi, the Jaguar God of the Deep Jungle, but even then the shrine was focused solely on depicting the majesty of its patron. The Temple of Kara presented a menagerie of creatures some of which Tintua recognised: hawks and falcons similar to those that nested amongst the cliff-faces, leviathans that were said to hunt the seas of the Spitting Serpents, and even horses ridden by the lesser races of Elves and Men. Others were completely alien to the priest. Despite the absent nature of their ancient masters, this particular sect’s patron deity had achieved a degree of obscurity that removed it from the typical objects of worship for the faith. Tintua had suspected that their divergent architectural style didn’t help in attracting the city’s populace. Divergence was heresy, Tintua reminded himself.
A sudden movement jerked Tintua out from his musings: one of the grotesques had shifted its weight. Squinting, he realised it was the condor perched in a shadowy niche. The bird cocked its head and glared down at the skink. Awkwardly glancing away from the bird’s sharp gaze he realised he had stopped walking: ahead was at the entrance. Tintua silently cursed himself as he was unable to remember how long he had been standing there. Concentration had become difficult: his mind wondering into tangential strains of thought with uncomfortable ease. Tintua inhaled sharply and smoothed his crest back, taking the last few steps over the threshold into the atrium.
Although often derided by the other temple sects for its relatively modest size, the atrium was undeniably cavernous, its walls curving high into dusky light to end at a high pinch. Stepping further in, Tintua became increasingly aware of the lack of tact involved in his decision: the temple had undoubtedly noted his absence from duties over the last few days and, further to that, the timing of his visitation was far removed from the usual schedule. His sudden presence compounded what was already a conspicuous act. He ground his teeth and his mouth once more tasted of blood.
Tintua eyed the Temple Guard, cautiously slowing his breathing: still and silent, Saurus honoured with guardianship were so resolute in their duty that citizens often forgot their presence, becoming relaxed and unvigilant. Gauging the thick skin of dust that quilted their armour and skull-hewn helms, Tintua imagined that they had stayed in the same position for quite some time; Saurus had never been known to die outside of battle. Only the occasional flutter of cobweb about their nostrils betrayed signs of life.
Tintua was keenly aware of the danger posed by the silent guardians: remaining still until such a time when their patron was under threat, Temple Guards gradually built a mental archive of observations over decades of service. Any clever citizen would hold their tongue; all guards were duty-bound to report to Monotaal. Four guards were positioned around the atrium, their combined perspectives covering the busiest chamber in the Temple of Kara.
“Are you quite alright, Tintua?” a light voice drew him from his brooding. In front of him, standing on tip-toes with a collection of tablets and scrolls pressed tightly to his chest stood a slender Skink. His face was contorted oddly to convey both curiosity and apprehension, almost as if fearing a volatile reaction.
“Yes, thanks – thank-you, Shapok” Tintua corrected himself, drawing his thoughts together “I’m feeling good.” Disturbed from his amble, a tightness squeezed his head once more: he needed to speak to Huikhuaka. “Listen, Shapok, I know I haven’t exactly been around much but-“
“Yes, well…” Shapok interrupted, “I’m sure you’re acutely aware of how much of a delicate system sectorial administration is, Tintua. It is unfortunate when certain components, as it were, fail to fulfil their required capacity and function improperly. It undermines the system, no matter how aloof they might believe themselves to be.” He paused, and then hastily added “As much as I’m sure the Halls are inundated with a great variety of tasks, by the will of the Old Ones, and therefore I’m certain they have a valid rationale for their recent inattention towards the Karan sect.” Shapok cocked his head as if inspecting a wounded animal.
Tintua struggled to hide a grimace: he had expected some degree of chastisement following his avoidance of the temple, however his sluggish and groggy disposition only exacerbated its bite. He just wished they could move on quickly.
Shapok expelled a loud, sharp breath and Tintua realised he had been asking a question.
“Oh. Yes, well…” Tintua began to stutter.
Shapok rolled his eyes and, gripping Tintua by the elbow, began to whisk him across the atrium. Tintua found his chest heaving as he attempted to keep up with the brisk pace.
“Now listen: our temple may be the smallest institution within the citadel – and I don’t mind admitting that, Tintua; I am an objective person after all. However, small as it may be it is still an institution of worship, worship to Gods to whom which we owe our very existence to. Kara may be just one of them, and certainly one more enigmatic than other more…popular masters, but the Old Ones all require diligent praise. Our temple sect is just as deserving as our other of our brethren sects.”
Shapok pattered his way down a brightly lit corridor, his grip on Tintua showing no signs of relinquishing.
“Yes, of course Shapok.”
“Well, I’m delighted you agree. Perhaps, considering our new found concordance, you could report to the Halls about the current effects of their cuts: sacrificial chattel redirected from our own pens; our Temple Guard reduced from ten – not even what could be considered a functional unit to begin with – to only four; not to mention general reductions in resources overall. It makes the efficient running of this temple very troublesome….by the will of the Old Ones” he added.
Shapok spun them around a corner and began to ascend a flight of stairs.
“If you had kept up with your duties then perhaps these issues could have been addressed and a solution would have presented itself. Still, no use in complaining over damage done – you can’t shove the egg back up the bird once laid.”
Coming to the top of the stair-case Shapok took another sharp turn and whisked them both down another bright corridor.
“Hang on” Tintua finally said, the brisk pace clearing the fog from his mind somewhat, “where are you taking me?”
“To see his honour, Huikihuaka. He told me to expect you soon. Soon. His exact words. No discrete time of course, that’s not how our High Priest works. It’s up to me to interpret and execute. And who do you think gets it when something goes wrong? Exactly. They have no idea. No idea at all. You need the patience of a prophet to survive in this sect Tintua, I can tell you that for free.”
Grasping through Shapok’s tirade, Tintua plucked on a small but significant word: “expect?”
“Yes, as I mentioned” Shapok said irritably. “Please do keep up, you should know how valuable time is to people in such integral positions; you’ve already kept us waiting over a week. Temples are a delicate system, Tintua.” He reiterated.
He stopped and knocked on a large, ornate wooden door: “Let’s hope he’s not asleep.” Tinua couldn’t help but wish that he was.
The door creaked open and two familiar bulbous eyes peered out.
“Mmm…” Huikihuaka said, “mmm” as if agreeing to some silent adage. “Come, come” he said, beckoning Tintua through the door. Tintua glanced over his shoulder but Shapok had already spurred himself away.
Shuffling in, the Priest’s office was almost bare of furnishings, with little more than a stone table supporting a mess of scrolls and tablets. The walls were jarringly festooned an array of different items: extracts from various plaques, highly polished mirrors, and a disorganised selection of amulets and talismans. Faced with such a disordered scene, Tintua understood why Shapok was so quick to leave.
“Sit down. I have something to rest your mind” Huikihuaka said. Turning to the table he picked up a tumbagan flask, its conical neck ending with the head of the snake. Picking up a wooden cup he tilted the flask and poured a steaming liquid. He turned back to Tintua and handed him the cup.
Tintua frowned, hesitant to accept anything from the gangly priest.
“You came to me for help, eh? Drink”.
Lacking the capacity to form any reasonable argument to refuse, Tintua took the cup with a trembling hand. He inspected its contents: a concoction of dried leaves and hot water. Flicking his tongue through the steam he tasted an infusion of flowers he could not identify.
“Drink, ehkt” Huikihuaka nodded enthusiastically.
Holding it to his lips the hot liquid stung the shredded flesh of his tongue, bringing painful tears to his eyes. The drink, however, sat in his belly comfortably warm. His pulse calmed.
“Better, eh?”
Tintua nodded.
“I bet, ehkt ehtk”, Huikihuaka chuckled.
Tintua moved to speak, but the Karan priest stopped him with a wave of his hand.
“Keep drinking, I will talk. I imagine you have much to ask, and the answers are...deserved. It’s little wonder you took so long to work up the courage to visit. Still, I did think the protégée of His Grace…”
“Spekatoa was a heretic” Tintua said sharply.
Huikihuaka studied him with his shiny, globular eyes. Sighing, he said “Yes, yes: he was a most devious and treacherous Skink who deserved everything he got.”
The Karan priest clasped his hands on and leant over the desk, “Ehkt, you ask me I say he deserved a harsher punishment, nothing is bad enough for an apostate to the Old Ones. They should have bled him into the wind from gallows; left him to be torn at by the jungle beasts; slowly roasted in a brazier; tossed into the volcanoes’ maw…”
Tintua couldn’t help but flinch; his fatigue made it impossible to hide. Satisfied Huikihuaka leant back and poured another cup of the fragrant brew. The calming effect of the brew was consoling to the degree that Tintua could do nothing but agree to another cup. He slurped it greedily.
“What is the problem with our race?” Huikihuaka asked once Tintua had emptied the cup.
Tintua balked, never before had the thought crossed his mind. He had no reason to: they were the first race created by the Gods. That a member of the Priesthood would ask such a question was disconcerting.
“We know nothing of whim” Huikihuaka said, answering himself, “it is why you didn’t come to me immediately upon feeling the blessing. Too stuck in your duty. What you feel, the blessing of Kara, is an insight lost on our brothers”.
“Whim, this insight is whim?” incredulous, Tintua finally found himself able to speak “Does that not deviate from the objectivity the Old Ones fashioned within us, doesn't impulse and fickleness undermine objectivity to enact their Great Plan? How would such a 'blessing' aid in ending the anathema that is the Chaos threat, or in trammelling the lesser races to the lands determined for them by the Gods? Such objectives, such a need requires…” Tintua stuggled to finish: the word he searched for would summerise the basis of their civilisation, the inherent nature the motivated them, and he had no word for such a base and natural concept. His headache began to reappear.
“The Mark of Kara is much like the blessing of the other Old Ones – just as those spawned under Chotec are quick in mind and body, and those spawned under Sotek exalt righteous vengeance, so does Kara offer aid of her own. We are given insight: ability to step back from the duty and faith which binds us, and judge acts on new terms”.
“I don’t see how this is beneficial. Why would an Old One work against the fundamental values of their bretheren?” Tinuta felt like he would choke on his questions.
Smiling Huikihuaka said “the insight is not mere perspective, but a vibration – you feel it, moving through you, rippling through the air and earth. It is the sound of eight chords, strung together – Saphery."
“The High Magic?”
“Kara blesses us with the eight winds of magic. Within us they engage, weaving through each other and creating a composite, a tapestry of power beyond the reach of any other in our position. That tapestry, Saphery, grants us insight beyond what we could perceive in the mundane. For example, remember how, as your skill grew in the Wind of Azyr, the messages written in the stars became gradually more legible; or how your work with the Wind of Ghur opened your eyes to the carnality caged within all our hearts? Saphery does similar: it is indefinable, elusive, but far more potent. I can see you’re already experiencing its benefits.” Huikihuaka leaned over the table eyes gleaming. “You’ve been dreaming. You’ve seen it, haven’t you: haunting the mountainside and wreathed in white smoke.”
Slowly, withdrawing painfully the vague memories which reside within the deep within those dreaming vaults, Tintua nodded. “Yes. Yes, the Black Pyramid”, he finally said, “in a city the colour of ash.” He hesitated from what he was going to say next, almost fearful of what it would imply.
“A portent, a vision of the…our future?”
Huikhuaka struck the table with his fist, making Tintua jump. “You’re still thinking with narrow vision; on base terms unfitting Kara’s blessing – every other skink priest is receiving visions of this and that nowadays. This apparent Time of True Prophecy” he jangled his wrists wildly into the air. “It’s no vision, it exists here. Now.”
Tintua rubbed his head; the anxiety was beginning to return and with it the sensory barrage.
“A…dreamed reality then?”
“A fevered dream of heresy, imbued with such magical potency to make it as real as the air you suck through your teeth” Huikihauaka leaned back, and licked his teeth with his long, slender tongue. “Chaos waxes strong and yet all we see is starry skies.”
Tintua’s body tensed, his inner eyelids trembled – whether through sleep deprivation or something other he couldn’t be certain. Furrowing his brow, he asked “that city, what was it, who lives there?”
Huikihuaka’s globular eyes widened beyond their already impressive circumference, his eyes unfocused as he stared into the middle-distance.
“I couldn’t say anyone lives there, as it were. I don’t believe such an environment would allow it. It is a dread place, constantly lacquered by the baleful light of Chaos Moon both day and night.”
“Wait, you’ve been there?” Tintua said, bewildered.
Huikihuaka responded with a slow nod, “it is why Kara has granted me with such powers. There I pursued her cause….” He paused, and after great length said “it appears I was not enough”.
Tintua began to fiddle with his talisman again. This was all too much: how could such a thing exist? “What about the others, who knows of this?”
“Me, you, and no-one else”
“The Slann?” Surely the Mage-Priests would know, they eclipsed all in their insight.
“The Slann indeed. Surely they would see it with their superior vision, but nothing’s been announced; there has been no public recognition at least. You’d assume an Old One contact our Mage-Priests first above all…” Huikhuaka paused, and leaned back into his chair. “Ehkt, what can you do? Kara has a method which, through her wisdom, we’re not yet blessed enough to be given privy. Tintua, we’re all pawns of the gods, all you can do is try to know by which hand you’re being played. Now, listen: come to the evening liturgy next week time. I shall send a formal invitation to the Halls to explain your visit, it can be your method of penance for your recent absence. There I can explain more”.
Massaging his brow, Tintua tried to make sense of the situation. He felt trapped, an inertia preventing him from grabbing his own, old life back.
Slumping in the chair he gestured for another brew.
Last edited:
Scar-Veteran
spawning of Bob
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I feel confused, too. I must be a hero like Tintua!
Tintua's hypervigilance sounds like a medication side effect I had sometime last year. I could hear (and not tune out) every background conversation and feel every body sensation, I was barely able to focus on any one thing because all of my thoughts were running in parallel all the time. I was also jumpy and anxious and I couldn't sleep.I talked-spoke in high pitched voice and I desire craved cheese. I complained to Scalenex at the time that I thought I was turning into a skaven.
Then there was this other time when I turned into Scalenex. Is it something bad, doc?
I hope you get productive and get the next bit out soon - there is so much more I want to know!
Tintua's hypervigilance sounds like a medication side effect I had sometime last year. I could hear (and not tune out) every background conversation and feel every body sensation, I was barely able to focus on any one thing because all of my thoughts were running in parallel all the time. I was also jumpy and anxious and I couldn't sleep.
Then there was this other time when I turned into Scalenex. Is it something bad, doc?
joining the jungle’s exhaltation, - was that exhalation? exultation?
Saurus guardian of mottled grey crouched on a roof, itselfalso scrutinising the crowds.
grotesques of warm-blooded animals, the scared {?????????????} serpents and reptiles
relatively modest size COMMA the atrium was undeniably cavernous,
Disturbed from his amble COMMA a tightness
almost bare of furnishings COMMA with little more than a
“Does ???????? not deviate from the objectivity the Old On
or in trammelling the lesser races t - you used trammelled / trammeling twice. Such a rare word, Grima Wormtongue, that it sticks out to me. Could you use confined once instead?
Old One work against the fundEmental values
his inner eyelids trembled Dammit! They are nictitating membranes! How many times.....
eyes widened beyond THEIR already impressive
I shall send a formal invitATION to the Halls to
Saurus guardian of mottled grey crouched on a roof, itself
grotesques of warm-blooded animals, the scared {?????????????} serpents and reptiles
relatively modest size COMMA the atrium was undeniably cavernous,
Disturbed from his amble COMMA a tightness
almost bare of furnishings COMMA with little more than a
“Does ???????? not deviate from the objectivity the Old On
or in trammelling the lesser races t - you used trammelled / trammeling twice. Such a rare word, Grima Wormtongue, that it sticks out to me. Could you use confined once instead?
Old One work against the fundEmental values
his inner eyelids trembled Dammit! They are nictitating membranes! How many times.....
eyes widened beyond THEIR already impressive
I shall send a formal invitATION to the Halls to
I hope you get productive and get the next bit out soon - there is so much more I want to know!
Carnasaur
Slanputin
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Thanks for the feedback.
Fine, but in return I'm keeping "inner eyelids". I know the technical term, however it seems out of place when read 'in-situ' and I think it draws you out of the story.
Is Tintua a hero?
Still...good, my plan is working. Every question answered should raise another two.
Chapter 5 should be released in a couple of weeks latest, if all goes to plan
Must be the Gods punishing you. I suggest you try and earn their briedemption.
Fine, but in return I'm keeping "inner eyelids". I know the technical term, however it seems out of place when read 'in-situ' and I think it draws you out of the story.
Is Tintua a hero?
Still...good, my plan is working. Every question answered should raise another two.
Chapter 5 should be released in a couple of weeks latest, if all goes to plan
Must be the Gods punishing you. I suggest you try and earn their briedemption.
Scar-Veteran
spawning of Bob
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I still seem to be craving cheese.
Carnasaur
Slanputin
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Chapter 5: Bloodied Blade
The crowd roared. A thousand throats and hearts clamoured together, the voices of Skink, Kroxigor, and even Saurus echoed across a dust-blown arena. Swooping above the throng, Tylx felt like the cacophony could knock him from his Terradon. He drank in the noise; the air felt electric. Gently patting his mount on the neck the Skink led his squadron in another lap of the arena. Deftly changing formation and dizzying speeds, Tylx sharply turned into a steep dive, the sharp beak of his Terradon aimed at the crowd. With squeeze of his legs his Terradon broke out of the diver at the last moment, sharply rising out of the feigned near-miss to re-join with his team with absolute precision. The crowd bayed in delight.
Situated the Golden Pyramid’s shadow, its site parallel to the Plaza of the First Altar beyond the Pyramid, the arena was a focal point in the city. When dictated by the stars, the city’s populace would divulge in ritual tournaments where skilled warriors would display their prowess in the sight of the Gods. With the return of Lord Axhlot it had become a weekly occasion. Though no citizen would dare flaunt the sacred rites and thus maintained a healthy audience even the militaristic fervour of the Saurus could cool from excesses of visceral entertainment. Recognising this the Halls of the Holy had drafted in Tylx to prevent the spread of discontent; although duty-bound, the administrators knew a crowd genuinely entertained was one easily placated. Although initially reluctant to re-direct his squadron from scouting duties, Tylx had learnt to relish the experience: the audience’s exultation was addicting.
With a sharp, effortless gesture his team followed into a tight cork-screw. With another they plucked leashes from their belts and cast them behind. Fat slugs writhed in their wake, tied to the end of the leashes; suddenly released from the cool, moist confines of the pouches the slugs quickly dried out and, with a loud crackle, ignited. Seeing the fire-leeches successfully deployed Tylx gave a final signal and his team unlatched a second pouch, sending its powdering contents streaming behind them. Upon reaching the blazing leeches the powder flared and sparked. Bright colours flashed in their wake; fiery trails swirled behind them like dancing comets. The crowd howled.
Tylx couldn’t help but grin as he drew his team into their final lap. He patted his Terradon, “Good girl, Ehkatl”. She twitched leathery neck almost dismissively. Tylx knew she yearned for a hunt, to return to their scouting roles, but the crowd had been successfully roused. The tournament’s climax could commence. Glancing below he could already see one of the duellers readying themselves at opposite gates. He was easy to spot: the Saurus’s golden scales glittered, scattering light on the walls about him; Xolsaa, Chotec’s Chosen.
With the terradons leaving, Xolsaa began to walk into the arena. The crowd about him cheered and shouted his name; he nodded and smiled in response, winking at some of the more enthusiastic skinks. Xolsaa unsheathed one of his blades and rested it on his shoulder, golden inscriptions venerating the Sun God flared in the midday light. The crowds roared.
A loud, deep bellow quelled the crowds’ voice, and all heads turned towards the Golden Pyarmid. There, at the intersection between the Halls of the Holy at the pyramid’s base and the arena protruded a large balcony, guarded on either side by two serpentine horns. Kroxigor stood behind each one inhaling deeply before sounding the great horns once more. Walking out from the Halls walked a tall Skink whose scales glinted with a peculiar iridescence. Necthez, his voice magnified by the acoustics of the stadium and, Xolsaa suspected, some talisman, begun his address.
“My brothers, fellow children” the Skink Priest raised his palms, “You have seen much drama play over the past days: warrior’s skill, predatory fury and, yes, even some blood.”
The crowd cheered, already incensed by Tylx’s performance, the promise of a final fight stoked them easily. A smile teased the corner of Xolsaa’s mouth: there had indeed been blood, but hardly enough to fill even one of the smallest ritual vessels. Tradition held that he who shed the first blood determined the winner – only small cuts were necessary for victory. Even with the tough scales of the Saurus none were willing to inflict grievous injury to achieve victory. Detractors often referred to the tournaments as ‘feather wars’ because of it, although such detractors were quick to follow such statements by expressing how it was their deep belief that sacred tradition must be upheld.
The Kroxigor bellowed through the great horns again, silencing the crowd. Necthez continued: “Children, what are these tournaments for but the worship of the Gods? On this sacred soil we worship them in arms and skill. The Gods dote who on all strike ardently for their favour, may our champion bask in their glory.”
Xolsaa focused on keeping composure as eyes turned to him. He had been named champion in every tournament since his debut many sun cycles ago. These days his rival in the final round was often considered de facto champion in the face of certain defeat: Xolsaa had become a ritual humbling in the sight of the Gods, their symbolic representative easily out-witting his opponents in mental and physical agility.
“And yet” Necthez continued, “we still have one round left: the champion of today’s games, Voraxos of Caxuatn, and the Sacred Warrior of Chotec, Xolsaa!” he finished, shouting. The horns blew once more, and this time the crowds joined other voices to meet the bellow.
Reaching the centre of the arena before his rival, Xolsaa took the time to analyse his opponent. Walking towards him from the opposite gate Voraxos’ bone armour identified him as a patron of Caxuatn, the Predator God. Worshippers of the predator god venerated him through the stalking and killing of all life – they were held in much disdain by the other sects, and his patronage told Xolsaa that his rival not hesitate to give his all. In one hand he held a traditional teethed blade, much like Xolsaa’s pair although much simpler in design. In the other he held a jagged shield adorned with shards of bone. The weapons were a twist on the standard armaments of the Saurus warrior, Xolsaa felt little concern about outmatching his opponent – he would only need to use one of his blades this fight.
Necthez clapped his hands, his last words echoing throughout the arena: “by the will of the Old Ones.” The crowd echoed back the adage dutifully and the serpentine horns were blown one final time. The fight had begun.
Immediately Voraxos lunged towards Xolsaa, blade arcing towards his neck. Xolsaa quickly parried the blade and lightly dodge to the side. Xolsaa struck Voraxos across his jaw with his elbow, snapping shut his rival’s gnashing jaws. With his opponent dazed Xolsaa retaliated, swinging his blade down onto his opponent and cracking the bone armour. Voraxos leapt backwards. Xolsaa saw a flicker of realisation behind his rival’s eyes; the brutish tactics of the Saurus would not work here. Chotec’s Chosen was elevated above the common, visceral approach.
Raising his blade, Voraxos came at Xolsaa in a vengeful flurry, his blade cutting the air at odd angles. Xolsaa backed away, keenly watching the awkward dance. No doubt this tactic confused the other Saurus, but to think it would work on Chotec’s chosen showed that he had severely underestimated Xolsaa. The golden saurus stalked forwards, knocking aside the ungainly blur with a quick succession of parries and pressed back on his opponent. Placing a foot behind him, Xolsaa began lunging at his rival with a short, sharp jabs. Noticing the change in tactics, Voraxos twisted, manoeuvring himself out of Xolsaa’s lunges, and spun his blade in a wide arc above the jabs. Xolsaa grinned: his rival had taken the bait. Pushing off his foot, Xolsaa ducked under the arcing blade to bring his own up in a sharp curve. Armour splintered; shards of bone dusted the floor.
His armour ruined, Voraxos once again changes tactics. Unwilling to give Xolsaa any more room to manoeuvre, the Saurus raised his shield and begun once more to press his attack. Xolsaa easily parried the swings, focusing on a devising a method to break Voraxos’ defense. With a swift and fluid movement Xolsaa dropped to the floor, his blade cutting a smile through the air. His blade rushing up into Voraxos’ space, the Saurus jumped back – the sudden movement sending his arc wide. Xolsaa spun his blade to lunge at the tattered armour: this time scale would break. A blur of movement knocked Xolsaa back – the jagged shield grated against his scale. His scale had held, his hide was tough, but another hit in the same place that would easily spill blood. Xolsaa cursed himself for thinking the Saurus would make the same mistake twice; it was time to end this.
Xolsaa leapt back, digging his foot once more into the sand. Voraxos raised his shield, anticipating the attack. Pushing hard against the earth Xolsaa ran hard at his rival. Voraxos braced for impact, ducking behind his shield, his weapon raised to counter. Closing in, Xolsaa leapt, throwing his entire body onto the shield. His foot slamming firmly onto the flat surface, he pushed off, spiralling over his opponent, he swung his blade.
The crowd, who had been silently and anxiously watching the fight, burst into applause. Voraxos was on his knees, his hand over the back of his neck. A thin curve of blue-green stained the ground. Blood had been spilt.
Necthez uncrossed his arms, relieved for the tournament to finally end. The finale had been longer than other recent tournaments, and the effort of hosting the events had become increasingly taxing as Monotaal demanded evermore frequent battles to placate the populace.
“Right, come on then” he muttered to himself. He signalled to the Kroxigor to blast the horns and raised his hands to project his voice once more into the arena. The blast didn’t come. Turning around, Necthex noticed the Kroxigor were still enthralled by the battle: eyes wide, they leered at the victor parading his weapon.
“Oi, you two” Necthex clicked at them repeatedly, the sharp noise rousing the mighty lizards. Kroxigors were excellent beasts of burden and brutal fighters, but positions outside of such roles made them cumbersome to deal with.
“Come on, get blowin’” Necthez hissed, his patience cracking. The Halls couldn’t lose decorum in sight of the city. Necthez sighed, “bloomin’ marvellous.”
Turning back to the crowd he stepped up to the balcony and raised his arms, again. The horns blew and the cheering crowds were silenced.
“People. Good children. It appears that we have a winner. What a fight that was, surely the Gods must be favouring our contending champion this day: Voraxos of the Temple of Caxuatn, the Predator God has surely blessed you his instinct. But, alas, as is the will of the Old Ones-“
The arena rumbled with a diligent repetition “By the will of the Old Ones.” Necthez cursed himself for slipping it out: it had ruined his flow.
“Yes, by the will of the Old Ones indeed. Their will, as I said, shows that all must be humbled in their sight. Children, let us celebrate and praise our victor, the favoured child under Chotec: Xolsaa!”
The crowd cheered, the horns blew once more, and Tylx and his Terradon squadron took flight to bring the tournament to a close with another aerial spectacle. Necthez stepped back from the balcony’s edge and, his appointment as host fulfilled, wearily trod back to the halls. He had more important work that desperately needed his attention.
Xolsaa stood tall, undefeated. Holding his blade aloft so it caught the rays of the afternoon Sun; gold glinted and shimmered about him, illuminating the earth at his feet, the swooping Terradons above, and set his scales glittering. The crowd cheered louder and Xolsaa cracked a wide, toothy grin.
The crowd roared. A thousand throats and hearts clamoured together, the voices of Skink, Kroxigor, and even Saurus echoed across a dust-blown arena. Swooping above the throng, Tylx felt like the cacophony could knock him from his Terradon. He drank in the noise; the air felt electric. Gently patting his mount on the neck the Skink led his squadron in another lap of the arena. Deftly changing formation and dizzying speeds, Tylx sharply turned into a steep dive, the sharp beak of his Terradon aimed at the crowd. With squeeze of his legs his Terradon broke out of the diver at the last moment, sharply rising out of the feigned near-miss to re-join with his team with absolute precision. The crowd bayed in delight.
Situated the Golden Pyramid’s shadow, its site parallel to the Plaza of the First Altar beyond the Pyramid, the arena was a focal point in the city. When dictated by the stars, the city’s populace would divulge in ritual tournaments where skilled warriors would display their prowess in the sight of the Gods. With the return of Lord Axhlot it had become a weekly occasion. Though no citizen would dare flaunt the sacred rites and thus maintained a healthy audience even the militaristic fervour of the Saurus could cool from excesses of visceral entertainment. Recognising this the Halls of the Holy had drafted in Tylx to prevent the spread of discontent; although duty-bound, the administrators knew a crowd genuinely entertained was one easily placated. Although initially reluctant to re-direct his squadron from scouting duties, Tylx had learnt to relish the experience: the audience’s exultation was addicting.
With a sharp, effortless gesture his team followed into a tight cork-screw. With another they plucked leashes from their belts and cast them behind. Fat slugs writhed in their wake, tied to the end of the leashes; suddenly released from the cool, moist confines of the pouches the slugs quickly dried out and, with a loud crackle, ignited. Seeing the fire-leeches successfully deployed Tylx gave a final signal and his team unlatched a second pouch, sending its powdering contents streaming behind them. Upon reaching the blazing leeches the powder flared and sparked. Bright colours flashed in their wake; fiery trails swirled behind them like dancing comets. The crowd howled.
Tylx couldn’t help but grin as he drew his team into their final lap. He patted his Terradon, “Good girl, Ehkatl”. She twitched leathery neck almost dismissively. Tylx knew she yearned for a hunt, to return to their scouting roles, but the crowd had been successfully roused. The tournament’s climax could commence. Glancing below he could already see one of the duellers readying themselves at opposite gates. He was easy to spot: the Saurus’s golden scales glittered, scattering light on the walls about him; Xolsaa, Chotec’s Chosen.
With the terradons leaving, Xolsaa began to walk into the arena. The crowd about him cheered and shouted his name; he nodded and smiled in response, winking at some of the more enthusiastic skinks. Xolsaa unsheathed one of his blades and rested it on his shoulder, golden inscriptions venerating the Sun God flared in the midday light. The crowds roared.
A loud, deep bellow quelled the crowds’ voice, and all heads turned towards the Golden Pyarmid. There, at the intersection between the Halls of the Holy at the pyramid’s base and the arena protruded a large balcony, guarded on either side by two serpentine horns. Kroxigor stood behind each one inhaling deeply before sounding the great horns once more. Walking out from the Halls walked a tall Skink whose scales glinted with a peculiar iridescence. Necthez, his voice magnified by the acoustics of the stadium and, Xolsaa suspected, some talisman, begun his address.
“My brothers, fellow children” the Skink Priest raised his palms, “You have seen much drama play over the past days: warrior’s skill, predatory fury and, yes, even some blood.”
The crowd cheered, already incensed by Tylx’s performance, the promise of a final fight stoked them easily. A smile teased the corner of Xolsaa’s mouth: there had indeed been blood, but hardly enough to fill even one of the smallest ritual vessels. Tradition held that he who shed the first blood determined the winner – only small cuts were necessary for victory. Even with the tough scales of the Saurus none were willing to inflict grievous injury to achieve victory. Detractors often referred to the tournaments as ‘feather wars’ because of it, although such detractors were quick to follow such statements by expressing how it was their deep belief that sacred tradition must be upheld.
The Kroxigor bellowed through the great horns again, silencing the crowd. Necthez continued: “Children, what are these tournaments for but the worship of the Gods? On this sacred soil we worship them in arms and skill. The Gods dote who on all strike ardently for their favour, may our champion bask in their glory.”
Xolsaa focused on keeping composure as eyes turned to him. He had been named champion in every tournament since his debut many sun cycles ago. These days his rival in the final round was often considered de facto champion in the face of certain defeat: Xolsaa had become a ritual humbling in the sight of the Gods, their symbolic representative easily out-witting his opponents in mental and physical agility.
“And yet” Necthez continued, “we still have one round left: the champion of today’s games, Voraxos of Caxuatn, and the Sacred Warrior of Chotec, Xolsaa!” he finished, shouting. The horns blew once more, and this time the crowds joined other voices to meet the bellow.
Reaching the centre of the arena before his rival, Xolsaa took the time to analyse his opponent. Walking towards him from the opposite gate Voraxos’ bone armour identified him as a patron of Caxuatn, the Predator God. Worshippers of the predator god venerated him through the stalking and killing of all life – they were held in much disdain by the other sects, and his patronage told Xolsaa that his rival not hesitate to give his all. In one hand he held a traditional teethed blade, much like Xolsaa’s pair although much simpler in design. In the other he held a jagged shield adorned with shards of bone. The weapons were a twist on the standard armaments of the Saurus warrior, Xolsaa felt little concern about outmatching his opponent – he would only need to use one of his blades this fight.
Necthez clapped his hands, his last words echoing throughout the arena: “by the will of the Old Ones.” The crowd echoed back the adage dutifully and the serpentine horns were blown one final time. The fight had begun.
Immediately Voraxos lunged towards Xolsaa, blade arcing towards his neck. Xolsaa quickly parried the blade and lightly dodge to the side. Xolsaa struck Voraxos across his jaw with his elbow, snapping shut his rival’s gnashing jaws. With his opponent dazed Xolsaa retaliated, swinging his blade down onto his opponent and cracking the bone armour. Voraxos leapt backwards. Xolsaa saw a flicker of realisation behind his rival’s eyes; the brutish tactics of the Saurus would not work here. Chotec’s Chosen was elevated above the common, visceral approach.
Raising his blade, Voraxos came at Xolsaa in a vengeful flurry, his blade cutting the air at odd angles. Xolsaa backed away, keenly watching the awkward dance. No doubt this tactic confused the other Saurus, but to think it would work on Chotec’s chosen showed that he had severely underestimated Xolsaa. The golden saurus stalked forwards, knocking aside the ungainly blur with a quick succession of parries and pressed back on his opponent. Placing a foot behind him, Xolsaa began lunging at his rival with a short, sharp jabs. Noticing the change in tactics, Voraxos twisted, manoeuvring himself out of Xolsaa’s lunges, and spun his blade in a wide arc above the jabs. Xolsaa grinned: his rival had taken the bait. Pushing off his foot, Xolsaa ducked under the arcing blade to bring his own up in a sharp curve. Armour splintered; shards of bone dusted the floor.
His armour ruined, Voraxos once again changes tactics. Unwilling to give Xolsaa any more room to manoeuvre, the Saurus raised his shield and begun once more to press his attack. Xolsaa easily parried the swings, focusing on a devising a method to break Voraxos’ defense. With a swift and fluid movement Xolsaa dropped to the floor, his blade cutting a smile through the air. His blade rushing up into Voraxos’ space, the Saurus jumped back – the sudden movement sending his arc wide. Xolsaa spun his blade to lunge at the tattered armour: this time scale would break. A blur of movement knocked Xolsaa back – the jagged shield grated against his scale. His scale had held, his hide was tough, but another hit in the same place that would easily spill blood. Xolsaa cursed himself for thinking the Saurus would make the same mistake twice; it was time to end this.
Xolsaa leapt back, digging his foot once more into the sand. Voraxos raised his shield, anticipating the attack. Pushing hard against the earth Xolsaa ran hard at his rival. Voraxos braced for impact, ducking behind his shield, his weapon raised to counter. Closing in, Xolsaa leapt, throwing his entire body onto the shield. His foot slamming firmly onto the flat surface, he pushed off, spiralling over his opponent, he swung his blade.
The crowd, who had been silently and anxiously watching the fight, burst into applause. Voraxos was on his knees, his hand over the back of his neck. A thin curve of blue-green stained the ground. Blood had been spilt.
Necthez uncrossed his arms, relieved for the tournament to finally end. The finale had been longer than other recent tournaments, and the effort of hosting the events had become increasingly taxing as Monotaal demanded evermore frequent battles to placate the populace.
“Right, come on then” he muttered to himself. He signalled to the Kroxigor to blast the horns and raised his hands to project his voice once more into the arena. The blast didn’t come. Turning around, Necthex noticed the Kroxigor were still enthralled by the battle: eyes wide, they leered at the victor parading his weapon.
“Oi, you two” Necthex clicked at them repeatedly, the sharp noise rousing the mighty lizards. Kroxigors were excellent beasts of burden and brutal fighters, but positions outside of such roles made them cumbersome to deal with.
“Come on, get blowin’” Necthez hissed, his patience cracking. The Halls couldn’t lose decorum in sight of the city. Necthez sighed, “bloomin’ marvellous.”
Turning back to the crowd he stepped up to the balcony and raised his arms, again. The horns blew and the cheering crowds were silenced.
“People. Good children. It appears that we have a winner. What a fight that was, surely the Gods must be favouring our contending champion this day: Voraxos of the Temple of Caxuatn, the Predator God has surely blessed you his instinct. But, alas, as is the will of the Old Ones-“
The arena rumbled with a diligent repetition “By the will of the Old Ones.” Necthez cursed himself for slipping it out: it had ruined his flow.
“Yes, by the will of the Old Ones indeed. Their will, as I said, shows that all must be humbled in their sight. Children, let us celebrate and praise our victor, the favoured child under Chotec: Xolsaa!”
The crowd cheered, the horns blew once more, and Tylx and his Terradon squadron took flight to bring the tournament to a close with another aerial spectacle. Necthez stepped back from the balcony’s edge and, his appointment as host fulfilled, wearily trod back to the halls. He had more important work that desperately needed his attention.
Xolsaa stood tall, undefeated. Holding his blade aloft so it caught the rays of the afternoon Sun; gold glinted and shimmered about him, illuminating the earth at his feet, the swooping Terradons above, and set his scales glittering. The crowd cheered louder and Xolsaa cracked a wide, toothy grin.
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