[center][h1]Heresy[/h1]
[i]Roughly 3 days after the death of Zeus[/i][/center]


Along the placid banks of the rushing White River, a band of woodsmen toiled. Their brows glistened with sweat. Dirt had seeped into their linen and wool, had found its way beneath their nails, and a bit of it had even gotten into their ears. The morning’s drudgery had been as grueling for the men as the past two days’, but soon their work would be done and they could break camp and return to their villages. In the meantime, they rested and took their midday meal in the shadow of a great tree.

This was an ancient cedar, its trunk massive, scaly, and fissured, its aroma potent and as pleasing to the nose of men as it was repellent to insects. These trees, with their crushed leaves like incense and their wood red-tinged just like the innards of men, were sacred. Yet their lumber was also strong and sturdy, and they were abundant enough -- a verdant carpet of cedar forest sprawled from this very riverbank all the way to the slopes of Mount Chimaera upon the horizon, so an individual cedar was not so precious as to be overlooked by the lumberjacks. When the men were rested and their bellies full, they thanked the cedar that had granted them shade by felling the one beside it instead. Once the trunk had fallen upon the ground, they looked to the many irregular branches and broke off those parts too gnarled or small to be worthwhile. The usable lumber that remained was dragged to the riverbank (this was the most grueling work) and lashed together with other logs and limbs into great rafts that could be floated to construction works in the settlements downstream.

Their day’s labors were honest and uneventful, until the moment that a rustle resounded from the nearby bushes. The laborers thought nothing of it beyond it being boreal gusts. But the rustling began to envelop all surrounding groves around the woodsmen’s camp. In every direction it was heard, coming closer, and the first few woodsmen began looking up around them, unsettled. Had the hunting party returned? In a larger number than they were sent off, apparently.

Before it dawned on them that something unnatural was afoot, a booming voice was carried towards them in the aether. 
‘’Citizens, drop your equipment.’’
The voice was accompanied with a fierce crack of lightning, frightening the humans. And they quickly did as instructed, dropping their equipment and falling prostrate on the ground.
‘..Olympus? T’is Olympus…’ they whispered among each other in hushed tones.
‘’SILENCE!’’ The booming voice spoke with holy impatience.

The whole workplace was rendered a graveyard of silence.Their work was abruptly halted to such a state where even the birds and crickets dared not make utterance.

‘’I am the Grand Aether. And I return to you with the following demand: [i]sacrifice![/i] 
You are commanded to return to your abodes – that is to say, your village – and bring out every last bit of cellulose fiber – that is to say – paper.’’ 
Hearing this, the workmen looked at one another with bewildered looks, but they dared not question the sudden request.  As if answering their confusion, the voice continued.
‘’Yes. Every last bit in your possessions. Reserve even a single morsel, and I will know immediately… I am always watching you.’’
Any common sense Hellesian knew that the last part was no idle threat, and they were likewise cognisant of a history where terrible punishments had been dealt before… Unwilling to risk its anger, the workmen complied.


They left their works at the logging camp unfinished and returned to their hamlet downstream. Other disparate bands that had been out making their living in the forests and countryside had already returned after having been given the same ultimatum, so the village’s hovels were turned upside down and what little paper there was -- mostly ledgers and receipts, with just a few parchment maps and books -- had all been piled up in a clearing just beyond the settlement’s edge.

Witnessing this, another breeze picked up and bristled past the accumulation of paper as though inspecting. At least that was how the villagers interpreted this breeze. They tensely awaited judgment, hoping that nothing had been overlooked. 

Slowly the same voice returned, distant and ethereal.
"I see your offering. None of it is what I seek. Therefore, therefore.."
The voice began to tremble with indignation, its tone raised to a higher pitch. "Lying mortals! You are keeping the true paper from us! You [i]clearly[/i] do not fear us enough!"
Having heard this declaration, some of the villagers tried to plead to the wind.
"But this is truly all we have!" Some of them tried to say. However it was to no avail. It took only moments until from the nearby groves growling was heard, sounds not from ordinary wildlife, but beings wholly different from what the villagers are accustomed to…

The first creature emerged from the woods. An enormous 5 meter long jaguar-looking predator with metallic hooves for feet, and writhing serpentine appendages with fang-like hooks at their tips protruding from the beast’s spine. It bellowed a mighty roar, and those who heard it were filled with a deep primordial dread. The penultimate predator of their very ancient cavemen ancestors, every aspect of this creature was consciously designed to evoke the deepest anxieties stored in the human psyche.
 
Screams and madness engulfed the villagers. Some achingly grabbed for their axes, yet none of them had any intention of taking on this godly beast the Grand Aether had unleashed on them. Panickedly they ran into the village, hoping to barricade themselves into its cottages, or do anything at all that their unraveling sanity could strategize.

But before they could even think of rushing into their houses, another beast appeared from the opposite direction who with a speed unmatched tore itself into the village’s center. It was even more horrifying than the last. It came in the guise of an animal in suffering – an abstract lion-shaped entity covered in pulsating grey skin and a complex system of moist, moving veins, spliced with bone fragments and tied up with a hulking mess of sinews and tendons. The creature was essentially completely inside out, but had a discernible head with great, predatory tusks and enormous incisor teeth. With no visible eyes it could only perceive its surroundings by wild sniffing.

The stench of fear and human sweat was what drew it and triggered its aggression. It bellowed a guttural roar before driving its teeth into the nearest woman it located. It struck with a force that snapped her spine and ribcage, the trauma of which ended her instantly.
These beasts – the Chimera – were hardly alone. Hundreds of them, in all manner of hideous forms and sizes appeared across the countryside, depopulating entire villages as they went when those failed to provide satisfying sacrifice. Which was each of them. For it appeared that no community had that specific piece of parchment they sought. And as quick as the Chimera moved under guidance of the grand Aether, news of their terror seemed to move even faster, to the very far reaches of the mortal dominion.
[hr]


There were few temples in the woody hinterlands, and so it was not uncommon for Nikos’ small shrine in one of the first seaward towns to receive postulants from far abroad about the countryside. On his hillock overlooking neatly tilled fields as far as the eye could see, he would receive woodloggers and huntsmen alike, and for each he had a bit of paternal advice, as if he shared his home and haunts - for in his time he had seen much of what the White River’s long shores had to offer.

That day, however, he was astonished as he rarely had been in his declining years, for such a visit was unprecedented. A gaggle of ragged, dusty men stood panting below the small [i]stoa[/i], each one of them looking as if he had wrestled a lion. The many rags they had wrapped around their extremities were stained in deep, crusted red.

More surprising yet were the words that came out of their mouths.

“Why did it happen? Why here?”

“What were they looking for?”

“Why wasn’t he pleased?”

“Why—?”

The aged priest raised his hands to quiet down the frantic mob, wincing as their voices frenetically piled over one another.

“Peace now, my friends. Who wasn’t pleased?”

“They–”

The voices cut off as one man, less thoroughly shaken than the rest, stepped forward.

“We were-” his speech stumbled before finding its footing, “We were working in the cedar grove, and then there was a voice from the sky! The Great Ath- The Great Aether, it called itself. It told us to bring out all the- paper we had, and we did, but- It wasn’t-”

His voice broke off, and the man behind him picked up.

“It wasn’t pleased- It wasn’t good enough, I don’t know, I don’t know! And then the beasts, the beasts from the mountain- !”

“They killed them, us! The wrath of the gods! Only we got away. Why did they do it?!”

“Why, father? You know the will of the gods! Why did they do it?”

Nikos blinked, running a hand through his beard as he tried to make sense of the barely-coherent tale that had just swept over his head like a burst of hail. Divine punishment was a truth that everyone was aware of, but few ever had the misfortune of truly encountering. He had well expected to live out the full of his age without hearing anything more than cautionary tales about it, and yet now here it was, thundering down on his very doorstep. And he, who had collected every legend and odd tale that had trickled down from Olympus to his corner of the world, could make no sense of this.

“This Great Aether, it wanted paper? Did anyone in your town have any strange scrolls, books?”

“None!” The lead man threw up his hands. “We’re just loggers, father. Just five of us even knew how to read. We’d never kept more than shipping records for the market!”

“Ah.” It was all Nikos could say, to prevent the silence from becoming torturous. “If you weren’t demanded anything in particular…”

“Just paper,” the man shook his head, “It said something about cellulose, but I reckon that’s just another name for it. If you’re asking…” He looked at Nikos disconsolately. “Does that mean you don’t know, either?”

The priest grimly nodded, feeling oddly ashamed about this deficiency. It was not something he could rightly blame himself for, he realized - what could he, a mere old man, know of what the gods thought from one moment to another? - but that did not help. These men had rested their hopes on him, if not for solace, then at least for an answer, a reason for their lives being so abruptly torn apart for no apparent reason. His one and only duty there was to reassure people, to clear the sometimes murky designs of the divine in their eyes, and he had failed. There was no proverb, no parable to give here, only words that he did not have, did not know where to find.

And if he could not even do this one thing, then what good was he?

[hr]

[i]What grievance against the gods have we wrought to deserve this calamity?[/i]

This was the question that Nikos was left to contemplate as he brought those survivors that could walk down the river, hoping to find aid and refuge for them. Their wounds could be healed, but for their questions, what was there that he could say?

Now he was just like them. [i]To whom was a guide to turn to when he himself was lost?[/i]

The answer could only ever be to an older, more experienced guide… be that an even more exalted priest or the gods themselves. The Great Temple of the Highest was of course dedicated to the King of the Gods, and there resided the High Priest of Zeus who ruled over the country with an authority that could only be rivaled by the king of Lycia himself. Fortunately, this grand temple was located in the capital, so both secular and sacral leadership came from the same wellspring.

The capital was a thriving port-city called Telmessos that lay a good two leagues downstream at the river’s mouth. Beyond its deep harbor lay the channel separating the mainland from that powerful archipelagic country called the Presidom of Herea, and before its limit lay a great wall wrought from slabs of sandstone. Etched upon the edifices of the great gates of Telmessos were the depictions of great men and gods, heroism and glory and bravery coming to life upon the rough, suntan rock. The expressions of the living were not so inspiring, though.

The gates themselves were narrow, half-closed so as to be wide enough for only a small donkey-drawn cart to pass through, or a few men abreast. Right before and around the gate were a few dozen soldiers with spears in hand so as to stave off the mob, and a mob it was! Throngs of people stood before the gate, pleading for entry. There were farmers and herders, woodsmen and trappers, withered whitebeards and bawling infants, wealthy merchants and diseased paupers. They all wanted in, but even a great city could only spare so much room and succor.   

Here and there, priests made their way through the crowds bearing rough linen blankets, loaves of bread, and skins of water. In other places, the wounded had been gathered together so that a few overworked medics and herbalists could do what they might.

Nikos turned to those charges that he had brought. “Friends, it seems that we are not the only ones that turn to the capital for protection. Keep patience and hope upon your breasts. Hold to it so tightly as Penelope, and in time the good men of the city will speak with you and offer what aid they can.”

“And what of you?” demanded one of them.

“You leave us?” another said, panic creeping into his eyes.

Nikos rested a hand upon that second one’s shoulder. “They will not turn back a holy man. I feel your scorn; I advise patience to you but do not exercise it myself, but it is of great importance that I see the High Priest of Zeus immediately. He must be made aware of all that has happened to us.”

They accepted that explanation grimly, so without another word, Nikos turned about and began approaching the gate. There was a queue of sorts; he felt the stinging ire of many eyes and heard curses in many murmurs as he walked past the line. Then when the winding queue became a great disorganized crowd nearer to the gate, he began to push his way through, and here he was pushed, his ribs struck by elbows, his face once spat upon, but he stride by stride pressed forward to the very front of the masses. He stopped only when one of the gatesmen leveled a spearpoint to his breast.

“And who are you?” the soldier shouted over the clamoring of the crowd, whose tumult was so great as to have deafened Nikos.

“A warden of a shrine,” he shouted back, “a priest of Zeus!”

The guard scoffed. Nikos clenched his jaw. “You will grant me entry! The High Priest must know what I have seen! Beasts roam the countryside, and a god brought retribution unto a village–”


“You think yourself the first?”

Nikos blinked, not understanding. Had he misheard? He looked intently at the soldier’s lips to read them over the din.

 “A dozen like you are already come! The High Priest knows, fool! These are the end of days! [b]Zeus himself is dead![/b]”

The words pierced through the clamor, then echoed back from distant corners of the crowd as surely as if they’d been cried out into a canyon.

[b]Zeus is dead.[/b]

The world began to spin, and Nikos no longer heard anything else, not even the clamoring crowd. He hardly felt them either, even as hands seized him to push and throw him backward through the throngs, even as he fell down and the first of many feet trampled over him.