450 years have passed and the world has changed dramatically since the end of the Age of Fire. Wars have come and gone, cultures have risen and fallen, technology has advanced - the world is entirely different now.
What shape will it take in the future? Only time will tell.
Now that the Apocalypse is over, the world is free real estate for gods and mortality alike. Live, frolic and play on the new Shard! You are free to write a timeskip post for your characters and/or cultures, and you are just as free to not do that and just play around in the world as is.
From now on, Major Actions require MA points to use (see OOC for criteria). Each player gets 3MA per turn, and these will be replenished every turn.
Absolutely no problem! You are free to finish any and all posts from before the skip and post them after the turn change. Just preface the post with “During the timeskip”, “Before the Common Age” or something equivalent and you’re golden. Any and all Major Actions before year 450 are also free, but these cannot be used to alter the post-450 canon.
Example: Players cannot dramatically alter the landscapes of the world if this messes with post-skip canon. Players also cannot use free MAs to change conflicts in the present, such as retconning defensive works or weapon systems when wars start to look bad. Both of these clauses can be annulled if all involved players say it’s okay, though.
“You have a right to perform your prescribed duties, but you are not entitled to the fruits of your actions.”
Hursimolit the Great, they had called him, for great, he had been. Throughout his whole life of sixty-seven years, he had given his all to unite the disparate peoples of what had once been home long, long ago. At first, he had fought off bandits and brigands alongside his brothers back when there was only him and his clan; then he had taken a wife from a rival clan, uniting all under a greater purpose of survival. More clans had joined their following with time, and now only some months ago, the world had begun to green once again as though by magic. Throughout his life, Hursimolit’s actions had amassed a clan of almost a hundred individuals, with hundreds more being affiliated with him and his kinsmen. Now, all had come from near and far to pay respect for the fallen lord of lords. His people had taken the corpse, wrapped in the finest cloth they had scavenged over the years, to an ancient black cave which would serve as a tomb. A thousand people had gathered to oversee the burial, and no less than fifty people, both men and women, had asked to be allowed to say some words in his honour. A train of grieving adults and children alike, longer than had been witnessed in these parts of decades, offered their finest gifts to the deceased - weapons, heirlooms, food, clothes, animals, charms - there was no end.
When all was said and done, though, came the question: how would they preserve these gifts so Hursimolit could use them in the afterlife? Would they not all disappear from him if there came graverobbers?
“We cannot stay here, either - not all of us, anyway,” said Gilumina, chieftain of the clan Jusu.
“We, we could always rotate the responsibility? These lands could support one of us at the time, right?” said Vimaru, chieftess of the Colinadasam clan.
Zim-Piatt of the Crimson Dogs shook his head. “Clans Jusu, Gao-Gao, Colinadasam and the tribes of Kipu-Kil and Grass Bulls would uphold a vow like this; the Fimdalri and Aguz-Ag, on the other hands…”
“Are you trying to start something, huh, Red Mutt?!” spat Saur of Fimdalri. Habsu, chieftess of Azug-Ag, palmed the hilt of her spear.
“I am not starting anything - I am simply stating the truth.” As arguments broke out, the original advocates for protection of the tomb tried to calm the clan leaders, though with little luck. However, one voice then suddenly broke through - it was a ragged man, weary with trauma and white of hair. The others knew him as One-Boot Lou - had recently founded his own clan called the Cackling Rats. He had shouted, and his words had made all go quiet:
“What if we called upon the Storm-Trod?!”
The others looked at one another skeptically. “The Storm-Trod?”
“Aye,” he said and looked around maniacally. “Months ago, our shelter got caught in a storm, worst one I’ve seen. Then, then this, this guy - think his name was… Anyway, so he climbed out of the shelter and just--”
“Oh, here we go again - Looney Lou and his rambles!” came a sarcastic remark.
“No, you don’t understand! He just up and walked out of the shelter and kept walking! Saw it with my own eyes as the wind blew the flesh off his bones! What the hell kinda person would do that?!”
“Point being?” It was clear no one believed him. Lou kept it up, however:
“The Storm-Trod can help us! A man like that might know the, the magic we need to keep this tomb safe forever!”
There was momentary silence. Some snickers blurted out somewhere in the crowd. When the snickers became open laughter, Zim-Piatt rolled his eyes and went over to Lou and patted his shoulder condescendingly. “Look, Lou, you clearly haven’t slept right lately. How about you head on back to your tent and take a nice nap, hmm?”
Lou pushed him away and shouted, “No! He will help us! He will! Storm-Trod! Come to us in our time of need! Storm-Trod!”
“Ugh, just shut him up!” came a shout from the crowd again.
The torches scattered about the cave suddenly snuffed out as one, the cave plunging into a desperate pitch black. From the entrance, four eyes lit the darkness, pitiless and snakelike in appearance; they blocked the only way out of the cave, as a voice rumbled through the caves, bitter in tone, “Blaspheme the Storm-Trod with only a heavy heart. Costs light to betters are ruinous to roaches.”
The crowd squealed as one and the songs of drawn steel and percussions of knocking wood sounded from the frightened clansfolk. Only Lou was reluctant to draw any weapons, for he had caught the words spoken by the creature. Pushing himself past Zim-Piatt and the others, he sailed across the flat stone floor on his knees and ended up before the creature. “You know the Storm-Trod?!”
The four eyes in the dark focused on Lou, a hiss piercing the clatter of steel on scabbard. The voice rumbled once more, “The Storm-Trod concerns themselves with pursuits far greater than roaches scurrying in the dark. The work falls upon me,” the voice paused, the eyes gazing down the cave as though they could see the people in the pitch black, and then once more the bitter rumble, “I have a great many tasks of import beyond your petty lives. You dare drag me from them with your blaspheme?”
“Please,” begged the man and lifted two hands up in submission. The rest seemed stunned that this had even happened. “It, it is our master, Hursimolit the Great - he lies buried in this cave, but we need to keep his tomb unscathed so, so he may enjoy our gifts in the afterlife unmolested! I, I remember seeing the Storm-Trod’s miracle in the storm - it, it was my hope he could help us with this.”
The eyes in the dark narrowed, unmasked rage intoned within the voice, “You distract your betters for matters as small as the tombs of roaches?” Another hiss, chilling the bones of the men gathered in the cave. Then, another pause, before the voice spoke again, the worst of the rage subsided, “I can do this, in the name of my master the Storm-Trod, but a lesson must be taught. The price will not be worth the result. It is too late to back out, now.”
“Y-yes, u-unders--”
“LOU! You bastard! What’re you doing?!” came a thunderous yell in the darkness. More followed, and movement in the darkness was followed by screams, thumbs and squeals as people fell over one another in the pitch black came. The ear-curdling sound of steel cutting flesh could also be heard, which sent the crowd into a panic. Lou’s breathing quicked.
“What must be done?! What must be done to protect the lord?!”
A great light emerged from the four eyes, shining blindingly down upon the crowd -- the An-Clastophon remained obscured, but the cave around the crowd shone as though a mid-day sun could pierce the veil of earth. The voice’s intensity grew in equal parts with its volume, as rage once more reared its head, “The dead cannot honor the Storm-Trod! Throw your swords upon the ground or I shall pluck your souls from your bodies, and meet upon them an eternity of suffering! Obey, or the afterlife you commend your king upon shall be forever denied to you!”
The cacophony of steel and wood smashed against the ground, though the yelling did not subside. “LOU, YOU’RE A DEAD MAN!” came a threat in the voice of Zim-Piatt, pushing his way up from the ground as two others on top of him tried to do as well. The dying coughs of a woman could be heard elsewhere, backed up by crying and gasping. Many others laid on the ground clutching wounds and others still rubbed their eyes free of blindness, though it took a while. Lou, too, could not seem to regain his sight for a long time.
The voice grew into an all-encompassing roar, the light growing ever-brighter as the An-Clastophon’s rage grew palpable in the air, “You will be silent in the face of your betters! When the divine speak, it is the roaches who listen! You will honor my presence properly, you will give me the respect that is due, or I will extract that respect through your anguish!”
Quivering before the display of divine power, the crowd was quiet. Even Zim-Piatt couldn’t bring himself to fight back against this blinding storm of light.
The light dimmed to more manageable levels as the voice’s tone softened. The roar meted out, and the An-Clastophon commanded, “I will provide you with the means to defend this tomb, for the Storm-Trod is merciful and I must obey my master’s dictates.” The voice stopped, briefly replaced only by the sound of breathing.
Then, the voice lightened further, “It will come with a price. You have incurred a debt with those infinitely your better that you will never be able to repay. When I leave, I shall leave with the firstborn child of all present. I shall not extract further from you, if you honor the Storm-Trod above all. Through the worship of the Storm-Trod, the fat will be cut from the lean and you will all be better for it.”
“Our-- WHAT?!” came a shout. Even Lou now seemed skeptical. Zim-Piatt picked up his spear from the floor and assumed a combat stance.
“I do not know what you deal is, demon - but you will not touch a single one of our children just because this mad fool summoned you! Now begone!” More reached for their weapons.
A deafening roar split the air as the crowd was buffeted by a tempest of wind. The light became blinding, as Zim-Piatt was forced to his knees. His expression turned to one of great pain, as his body blurred, as though becoming incorporeal. Then, he was split atwain, his spirit leaving his body and fleeing into the light. The wind died down and the light softened as Zim-Piatt’s body hit the floor; still breathing, but devoid of any inner spark.
The light flashed briefly and intensely as the voice roared, “To raise arms against your gods is to commit the ultimate blaspheme, demanding the ultimate punishment! Raise your sword-arm, and your immortal soul shall be forfeit, fit only for fodder!”
Weapons once again hit the ground and Zim-Piatt’s closest crowded around him in sorrowful disbelief and tried to slap some life back into him to no avail. Others broke into tears at the hopelessness of what Lou had gotten them into, and Lou seemed to have lost his spirit as well, though he appeared at least to be able to recover from it.
There was silence for some time, until finally, the voice spoke once more, its tone soft, “I punish you so for a reason; we are not your betters by right, but by understanding ourselves. This is the lesson I impart on you with the heinous price I extract: Nothing in life worth doing is painless. Honoring my master the Storm-Trod is to cut yourself into a better shape, to learn discipline. Supplicate yourself to the Storm-Trod, and you will master yourself and be the better for it.”
Seeing no other choice, the people prostrated themselves before the reptilian creature, frightened eyes full of rebellion looking over at the goo-brained man who had once been one of the most vocal and powerful leaders under Hursimolit himself to remember their fear. Quivering rolls of people awaited in terror for their assailant to make her next move. Lou had flattened himself onto his belly.
The voice then spoke, commanding, “You will honor the Storm-Trod and your king not through open war, but through veiled shadows. Eschew the right of naked force to settle your disputes, and wage your wars silently, through assassination and spies. Present a unified front to enemies without, and maneuver silently within. Do this, and I shall never return uninvited.”
“S-sure, wh-whatever th-the Storm-Trod commands,” whispered weakly Gilumina. Others remained silent, only exceptions being Zim-Piatt’s family sobbing around his living corpse.
Then, two wooden boxes painted a pitch-black and nailed shut floated into the light, settling down in front of the crowd. The wizards among them could sense magical power emanating from the boxes, and the voice said, “So long as you do not open them, they will provide magical power forever. Use them to power your traps.”
The cave suddenly plunged into pitch black again as the eyes vanished. Seconds later, the torches relit all at once and the crowd was left alone in the cave. Meanwhile, the An-Clastophon was collecting their firstborn; to be long gone before anybody could leave the cave. As the lights returned and people realised what had happened, they were lost for words; many broke into empty sobs while others howled the names of the lost children. Still more, though, were all-too-aware of what had just happened - and all-too-intent on punishing the one responsible for this great burial becoming a waking nightmare.
Lou turned a quivering head from where he laid on the ground, staring up into the black, furious faces of those who had taken him and his clan in among themselves.
“I--... I didn’t know…” he whimpered.
And as the other clans parted ways in sorrow later that day, another body had been buried in the tomb, though chopped and spread throughout its entrance. What traps had been set to protect their once powerful symbol of unity were known only to the wizard Voisana, who had proceeded to end his life after casting in mourning of his lost only daughter.
The tomb of Hursimolit was sealed thusly forever.
A great leader named Hursimolit, who united many human groups, has died and is to be buried in a tomb. When the groups can’t decide on a way to keep out graverobbers, a guy named Lou says some guy named the Storm-Trod could help them (read: The Secret God). Refusing to be shut down, he summons this Storm-Trod, which brings the An-Clastophon and all her bitchiness. The An-Clas demands the first born kids of everyone present for helping them out (and for summoning her in the first place) and when one tries to stand up to her, she turns him into a vegetable. The rest are scared into obeying, the An-Clas takes the firstborns and leaves behind two black boxes to use to power traps. After the An-Clas leaves, Lou is killed in a gruesome way and the tomb is sealed with super dangerous magic.
The unending red and gray wastes proved time and time again that to have hope was to be mad - Isa the Elder had seen it all-too-often. He prided himself on leading the greatest group of survivors in the region - not that he had met many competitors, but hey! - and whenever one or three of the youths said to him, “You know what? I’ve had it with you! We’re staking out on our own!”, he would give it two or three weeks and his flock would eventually pass by one or three ash-clad corpses. It was never an easy sight, and Isa prayed his days would be numbered from the moment he should ever think it so; however, it would always be an expected sight. What eventually did them in would be a mystery, of course: Vagabonds who had both joined his flock and passed by spoke of all kinds of dangers that could be the bane of anyone, be it young or old, man or woman, strong or sick. For his own sake, Isa the Elder would do his best just to put one foot in front of the other and make sure the rest of his flock could do the same.
Still, feeding a cohort of twenty-two was no simple feat - Isa had many times been forced to send away those who slowed them down or made too much trouble. Many in his flock despised him for it - he heard them chatter behind his back - but none dared rebel for fear of having to inherit his job. No, Isa knew there was security in his position, as there always is in jobs born out of necessity rather than want.
Isa the Elder wasn’t alone in his flock, of course; he had started with his clan, some of whom were still alive, and expanded from there. His first wife Asha had fallen ill with a cruel pox some months back, and it was with heavy heart that Isa had slit her throat to relieve her of the pain of dying alone in the ashlands. His second wife, Maiie, was thankfully in good health (or as good as could be, anyway), though she had yet to bear him a child even after nearly half a year. Rumours had begun to spread throughout the flock that Isa had lost his vigour or that Maiie had gone as barren as the land; whomsoever dared accuse the offended parties of this directly, however, quickly faced the wrath of the Elder himself.
Isa the Elder received his title of seniority for a reason: he had a son, see - Isa the Younger. Equal parts a beam of support and a thorn in his side, the two had a tenuous relationship that had frequently sparked into loud and raging arguments by the evening fire. Every bit an idealist, the Younger would always curse the Elder’s use of harsh, stern punishment to control the flock; the Elder would talk down to the Younger, citing his years of experience and record of survival as proof of his mandate. Many times had the Younger threatened to leave; equally many times had the Elder threatened to banish him. Neither threat held water, however; both knew the other to be too important to them. For indeed, even in the Time to End Time, what lasted was neither ideals or stability, but the flock, and the flock needed a ram. Isa the Elder grew frailer by the day (though he refused to show it), and everyone agreed Isa the Younger, as the kid whose horns were beginning to grow, would be the next in line. Even after all of society had broken down, the fundamental rule remained: Kin shall follow the path of kin. With his expecting wife Dya by his side, it seemed that kin would follow the path of kin for some time more, as well.
Then one night, Isa the Elder had a dream: He was walking through a valley of green, full of shapes twisting, folding and unfolding themselves and enveloped in an impervious fog that seemed to blur out all detail in the landscape. The ground, a mat of green straws, sported a metallic line that blinked with a cyan light. The line guided him forward, taking him to a tree - a black tree, though not like any tree he had ever seen nor heard of. It appeared metallic, and its branches had grown in no organic pattern, but a highly systemised one. Its natural beauty was nonexistent, for nothing living could resemble its rigidness. As he approached it, he found an old crone sitting among the roots, fused into the tree itself. In his dream, he said nothing, and he didn’t need to, for the crone spoke to him a prophecy:
A son of nightmares shall be born; Display for it no sign of scorn; Treat it as your flesh and blood, And you will reach the Verdant Flood.
Then the scene disappeared, becoming a new vision - one of endless rolling hills of grass and trees, of plentiful rain and shrubberies bearing fruit and berries. Birdsong filled his ears and moist air pervaded his nostrils. A warm wind swept him off his feet and carried him forward, his journey taking him further and further towards the gentle sun.
As swiftly as the dream had begun, it ended, and a flickering light stirred Isa to wakefulness. It was a torch, held by his long-time travelling companion Yosof, father of Dya. The chieftain rubbed the night out of his eyes and said, “Yosof, what ails you at this hour? The moon is still aloft.”
“Forgive my disturbance, brother,” replied the old man, “but it is my daughter - she is giving birth to your grandson!”
Isa blinked and mustered out of the bedroll and hurried on after Yosof out of his family’s humble tent. He caught the sight of the Younger’s empty roll, as well - to think his own son wouldn’t wake him up at a time like this. The camp was small, so the run was short; Isa was baffled that the screams hadn’t woken him earlier. The whole host had gathered around the entrance of Yosof’s family tent, and both Isa and Yosof pushed the others aside to peer inside. Just as they did, the loud cries of a baby could be heard.
“Congratulations, Isa, you have--” The midwife suddenly screamed as she saw what was in her hands; gasps and squeals from all around followed. “By the gods!”
“Wh-wha? What is it?” mumbled Dya weakly. Isa the Younger glared in disbelief at the child, no, the thing that his wife had born him. Its skin was scaly all over the torso and arms; its legs were capricornian and hooved; it had claws for hands; its head was feline in shape and covered with thin, wet fur. Its scream was human, but nothing else about it was. Isa the Younger pointed a quivering finger at it.
“Y-you sick whore! What wicked demon have you laid with to give me such an abomination for a son?!”
“Wh-what? What are you--?” Shiveringly, Dya had managed to angle herself so she could view the child. Upon doing so, she, too, screamed and tried to cover her mouth, but her body was frozen. The only one in the group not panicking was Isa the Elder - his eyes had glazed over with an empty recognition of the prophecy in the dream; he wished it had not come to his family and his clan, but if something as unthinkable as this had happened, how then could the rest of the prophecy be untrue?
A sound of rushing steel brought him back to reality and he watched his son crawl swiftly over to the sobbing baby with a knife in his hand. Isa the Elder picked up the child and took it in his arms to everyone’s shock.
“What are you doing, father?!”
“We cannot kill it,” he insisted. “We must let it live!”
“Are you out of your mind?” blasted his son. Yosof knelt beside Dya and cried.
“How - oh gods, how could this happen? My own daughter! What shame; what disgrace!” Dya, too, could not quell her ceaseless tears.
“I had a dream - I dreamt this would happen!” declared the Elder and bore the child out of the tent to get some safe distance from everyone else. Luckily for him and the baby, everyone else made it their mission to stay as far away from them as possible - everyone except Isa the Younger, knife still very much in hand. Isa the Elder shifted his grip on the child and held it gently on one arm, the other extending peacefully towards his son. “Son, listen to me…”
“That thing, father, that demon is evil! It infested my wife, ate my son and took its place! It has no purpose in this world!” The Younger jabbed at the baby, the Elder dodging barely.
“If we kill it, we will never get out of this ashen desert! I have seen it, son - Paradise!”
For a moment, the words reached him, and Isa lowered his knife. “... What do you mean?”
Testing his chances, the Elder stepped forward, hand steering slowly towards the knife. “In my dream, there was an old crone… She told me that we needed to care for this child, despite its nightmarish form, and we would eventually find the way to the Verdant Flow…”
“The Verdant Flow?” asked one of the others. The Elder nodded.
“Yes. In my dream, I saw a land of green, of rain and fruit. It truly was nothing short of Paradise, everyone. If, if we do our duty as this spirit has commanded, then our suffering in this ashen desert will be over! We will be safe!”
A silence followed, albeit one with the occasional interchange of mumblings. The Younger lowered his knife slightly as he looked his father in the eyes; the Elder formed a small smile and reached out to take the blade from him. However, the Younger cast one more glance at the horribly deformed child in his father’s arms and tightened the grip about the knife. In a lightning movement, he hefted the blade to the sky and leapt forward. “I will not be at peace with that monster alive!”
“NO!”
It happened in a flash. An instinct trained over years and years of repetition had brought the Elder to draw his own dagger, sheathed as it had been on his hip. On the ground laid his son, the Younger, his belly sliced open and close to bleeding dry. The Elder’s hand was caked in crimson, and the screams of the onlookers were hardly able to shake him from his daze. As the Younger’s friends crowded around his corpse, Yosof approached the Elder with shock on his face.
“... You would slay your own son to protect that, that thing.” Isa couldn’t even muster the words to repond. Yosof pointed away. “You will not take anything from us anymore. We’ve had it with your cruel and wicked ways. Now begone!”
Isa wasn’t even allowed to touch his son’s corpse. As more and more turned their denial into rage, Isa could no longer remain. So he ran. He ran and ran and ran, ran until the campfires could no longer be seen even at night. At that point, he stopped, collapsing to his knees in a bind between emotional and physical exhaustion. He looked to the sky and prayed, wept for mercy. He received no answer, save for a weak gurgle in his arms. The little monster turned his gall to curdles, but with the last of his true family gone, his grandson was all he had left. Reluctantly, he embraced the child, as all children should be. When he next rose, he noticed the ash had spawned straws of grass. He looked up ahead and saw the straws congregate into mats. As he ran up closer, he witnessed it: Endless swathes of green, damp with the evening rain and smelling of pollen. He shuffled over to a nearby shrubbery and inspected its branches - they were fat and plump with fruit and sweets. He picked one and savoured flavours he had never tasted before. He then regarded his grandson again, who looked at him curiously. He sighed and nodded.
“Just you and me, then, son… Just you and me.”
Story follows a small pack of humans surviving the apocalypse. Nothing big-plot relevant happens, but it’s a story about a dad who has a prophetic dream, kills his son on accident and goes on to find solace in some god-made green lands.
Ahtziri hovered in the sky, gently rubbing her hands over the rest of her wounds that were yet to heal. Pazuzu nosed at them with a downturned expression of concern, a gargling whine coming from his lower maw as he looked up into her eyes.
"Why did he try to kill you?! Why didn’t you just walk away?!" he growled, his voice equal parts concern and fury.
"Shh, my love... Think only of the mercy that we are still together." Ahtziri began, taking a hand from a still-oozing burn on her midriff to pet his snout affectionately. She winced as he practically slammed himself into her with concern, but quickly composed herself and tousled his sinewy fur. She looked down upon the land, musing upon the words that they'd shared, and resolved to come to peace for the sake of her children, and for his. Even now, after a near-death experience, some bare fragments of that earlier hypocrisy remained seated within her psyche--stubbornness or intrinsic nature? She wasn’t sure.
"Lonn… Perhaps we are not so different, you and I. Monster and Man… Let us give them a chance at parity, then. Let us leave them to their choices and their opportunities."
Ahtziri gathered herself, calling forth the power of the divine ichor within her once more. A wreath of lilac flames flickered into being around her head, quickly catching and spreading over her body. Pazuzu whined with concern again, but after looking into Ahtziri's eyes knew that she would not be swayed from whatever it was she was going to do and swooped down towards the ground to await her. As the flames overtook her she kindled them with her magic, the lilac darkening and becoming a deeply sinister shade of purple that seemed to grow around her. In an instant the flames expanded enormously into an enormous sphere with her at the centre, and its baleful light shone across the entire shard, growing and intensifying as she focused, until she was almost like a blazing moon within the sky. Then she spoke, and all mortals and monsters touched by her light would hear her voice swimming in their minds, a sinister and guttural whisper that resonated within their skulls:
"I freely give you the choice: monster or man. Whatever you choose, you shall be loved. You shall be free.”
Then, just as quickly as it had spawned, the light was gone and the magic was cast. Those who wished for her fecundity would be welcome to it, any sincere prayer answered with a mote of pure life that may or may not become monstrous--a choice guaranteed. Each monster, similarly, would be given the opportunity to embrace mortality--to free themselves from the mirrored shackles of their condition and make the same choices man could, to react to the same opportunities.Her work done, Ahtziri descended from her flight and rested a palm atop Pazuzu's head.
”H-hello? Are you alright?” A distant yell followed by approaching steps hailed the arrival of another, the appearance of a many-armed humanoid growing clearer on the grasslands. It approached with great speed, seemingly drawn by the commotion. ”Who goes there?”
Ahtziri and Pazuzu both turned to react to the figure approaching them from the distance, momentarily shocked at the chances that another being was so close to them--but given what she'd just done, she knew that she was going to draw attention to herself in one way or another. She simply had not expected it to be so... immediate. As soon as the form of the many-handed being entered her field of vision, she once again knew that they were divine as she was, and she prepared herself for combat once again, claws outstretched and teeth bared. Her tail's head remained curiously reticent, not opting to snap in the direction of whatever god was coming, and Pazuzu looked up at Ahtziri and nudged her hands with his nose.
"They mean no harm, mother..."
Ahtziri took a deep breath in and retracted her claws, instead resting her hand atop her faithful child's snout and looking down at him with what was first a scowl, but then quickly a smile.
"As you say, Pazuzu. I am Ahtziri." she called out the latter sentence, not electing to wave in greeting but shifting her stance and posture from one of aggression to one of cautious wariness. She did not make any moves towards the entity, opting to wait for them to approach her more fully, and still steeled herself in case she needed to act: if they reacted poorly to what she had just done, she would need to be ready at an instant's notice.
The entity slowed as they came closer, adopting a wary stance as well. In two of their arms, they held a human child; two more arms caressed a slightly curved belly; and the last two were held in midway between a guard and a cross over the chest. Their golden eyes scanned the forms before them and bowed a polite greeting. ”Forgive me, my lady,” it said with a calm voice. ”I was in the area and heard a terrible cry of pain - the kind only kin can shout for its kin. To think my instincts were right - a worthy son wept for his wounded mother.” Lilac tears formed in the corners of their eyes. ”Beautiful - simply beautiful. What parent can ask for more?”
As the figure spoke of parental love, of the bond that Ahtziri shared with her firstborn, her expression immediately softened. The protectiveness was gone in an instant, blown out like a candle in a storm, and a smile crept its way across her animalistic features.
"Ah, Pazuzu... my firstborn. There is no deeper love than that between parent and child, no force more wondrous or powerful in all of creation." Ahtziri replied, her head turned to look deeply into Pazuzu's eyes. He gave her face a lick with both of his long, now-serpentine tongues and let out a gurgling growl that could only signify true love and adoration. After a few seconds of the affection Ahtziri turned her attention back to the newcomer, her presence suddenly warm and affable, and looked down upon the many-armed deity's own child, cradled so closely to their pregnant belly. Subconsciously she, too, ran a hand over her own pregnant belly (though she was considerably further along) before stepping forward slightly to look at the child.
"Ah, who is this? Your own firstborn?
Gone was the monstrous aspect of Ahtziri's voice as she looked upon the child, her voice instead filled with the overwhelming love of a mother for their child--though she had plenty of reason to distrust mortals when she awoke, her conversation with Lonn and the clear love the many-armed figure had for this child disarmed her completely. She did not approach further than the single step she took, but the more she looked at the child cradled in its mother's arms the more tears began to well in her own eyes, and she took a deep breath suddenly to bring her focus back to the one before her.
”Oh, yes,” said the entity and smiled, presenting the baby for the goddess to behold. The black-haired baby boy, free of prejudice, regarded the Mother of Monsters with the same curiosity as he regarded all things. The entity giggled. ”His name is Ossurman, but I call him mostly Oss. He’s my firstborn son, and he is everything to me.” A hand ruffled the baby’s hair. ”Yours is beautiful, too. Pazuzu, was it?”
Ahtziri's eyes lit up as Ossurman regarded her, and she drew a hand up to gently stroke his cheek with the back of her finger. As she moved it, the bestial aspects of her form slipped away into the ether, becoming completely humanoid, and she cooed gently at him as she lavished him with her affection and her attention. So engrossed by the child was she that she did not even respond to the deity's question, and Pazuzu answered in her stead:
"That's right, Pazuzu! Mother saved me from a band of attacking humans, and changed my form so that no mortals would be able to strike me down again if they tried!" the great Abiktu boasted, puffing his enormous chest out as he spoke. Two of his eyes regarded the figure before him, and the other two remained locked on Ahtziri, watching over her while she was distracted by the child before her. Ahtziri suddenly stopped and paused, looking up at her deific kin, and asked a question:
"May I bless him...?" her tone was cautious, even sheepish--she was very much unused to working her magic on those not inherently monstrous, but the purity and innocence of the child had truly touched her in a way even she had not expected. In that moment she knew that she could, perhaps, come to love this child as she loved Pazuzu--that, if the conditions were right, her love could extend to mortals. It did not shock her as she felt it, but her face still betrayed the immensity of the moment, even if one lacked the necessary context.
Chakravarti cocked their head gently to the side with a blink and then revealed a broad, heartfelt smile. ”Oh, what fortune; what friendship! Of course! If my son would be so lucky to be blessed by an exemplary mother like you, then he would be all the better for it.” The god held the baby out to her, two arms gesturing with open palms for Ahtziri to do as she would please.
Ahtziri's finger moved up to the child's forehead, and the same purple glow that she had cast upon the land moments ago danced upon his skin. She then removed her hand, and placed a tender kiss upon the glowing mark only for it to settle into him and vanish completely.
"All monsters shall love you, Ossurman, as they love me. Never shall they harm you or those born of you; never shall they refuse a heartfelt request so long as it is spoken with the love that I have for all of my children, and that your own mother has for you."
Then she stepped back, and the monstrousness overtook her hand once more. She looked at it fondly, and then to Pazuzu, and then finally back to Chakravarti.
"My children are... incompatible with mortalkind, for the most part. To become a monster is to reject the premise of mortality... but I think that which unites us is our love, and our family: at our best, we care for our kin above all else. At worst, we shame our legacy and the love that nurtures us. In this, I suppose, we are united." Ahtziri spoke, her voice gentle and whisper-soft. She looked almost distant, her mind swimming with thoughts and revelations, and it took her a few seconds to snap back to reality.
"May I ask your name?" she asked, suddenly cognizant that she did not actually know the being before her's name or purpose.
”I am Chakravarti,” said the god sweetly in a simultaneously masculine and feminine voice, hoisting the little baby boy into a better seat in their arms. Their eyes looked Ahtziri up and down with a golden glow and spoke, ”And I have never before seen this dedication, this maternity, displayed in anything else on this world. What a joy it must be to be a child of yours.” Three hands extended out and scratched Pazuzu lovingly under their two mouths. Little Ossurman cooed and stretched his little arms out to the monster, fingers grabbing the air eagerly. Chakravarti giggled and brought the boy up to touch the Abiktu, his fingers playing with the needle-like fur around his two muzzles. ”Incompatible? Nonsense, I have never seen such filial loyalty; such respectful discipline. Why would they be incompatible?”
"A pleasure to meet you, Chakravarti." Ahtziri began, before being interrupted by Pazuzu loudly growling and panting as Chakravarti paid him attention. His tongues lolled out of his muzzles and all four of his eyes closed, his enormous frame heaving with the rhythmic trill of a guttural and bestial purring. He leaned in further, slightly tilting his head to the side, before his upper muzzle began to speak.
"Ohhh, that's nice... Mother can't quite reach those spots, ahhh... She only has two hands! Oh, hello little one..."
Pazuzu's tail scythed in great swings, needle-sharp clumps and clusters of matted and torn fur falling to the ground and being caught in the smallest eddies of wind before resting on the dust and sand beneath them. Ahtziri turned to him, eyes practically ablaze with jealousy, but as soon as she saw his reaction to the attention she could not bring herself to hold on to the feeling for very long at all--and her motherly aspect practically overflowed with the joy of watching her child play with Chakravarti's.
"Ahh, my children are not all as devoted as my beloved Pazuzu. They are wild, bestial things--the darkest essences of mankind's nature, twisted into abhorrent shapes. Many of them act solely on instinct, still incapable of thought or reason... slaves to wild impulses. It... it is simply who they are. To endow them all with intellect would spell an end to humanity, I am certain--many are cruel, wicked things that cannot be persuaded or charmed." Ahtziri's voice took on a contemplative tone, weighing each of the words very carefully before she spoke them. Even after they had left her mouth, her serpentine tail's tongue tasted them in the air to be certain of them, snapping and hissing all the while.
”That is family, is it not?” chuckled Chakravarti and added yet another hand to the scratching of Pazuzu. A fifth hand reached over to gently land on Ahtziri’s shoulder and the god spoke, ”Despite all their flaws; despite all their wrongdoings - we have no choice but to love them. They will destroy your reputation, ruin years of toil and hard work in a single day, but in the end, they are yours - they are your pride and your reason to be.” The hand on the shoulder gently flowed down Ahtziri’s torso and landed on her swollen belly. ”But this you already know. You have known it since you birthed your first.” Golden eyes fixed into hers. ”You truly are a perfect mother.”
Ahtziri returned the gaze with equal intensity, bringing her own hands up to press against Chakravarti's belly. Even now she could feel the radiant energy of a life swelling within, the sensation of it causing her hands to tingle. She smiled, rows of razor-sharp teeth glinting in the light, as she drew in a shaky breath. For the first time in her short existence, she did not know what to say: she tried to speak, but nothing came out of her mouth. She turned to look at Pazuzu, and then down at little Ossy, and finally back to Chakravarti, somewhat composed:
"That is... very kind of you to say. To know such qualities exist in another, one must possess them themselves--you, too, are a wonder beyond wonders. If mortalkind has you at its head, well... perhaps they are not irredeemable."
As she spoke, Pazuzu turned his head to look at her and gave her cheek a quick lick before burying his snout in the crook between her neck and shoulder. No words needed to be exchanged between them for the meaning of the gesture to be clear: this line of thinking was the way forward, the only way to ensure that his mother would be safe from the predations of other divines who might not be so understanding. She brought a hand up to his neck, stroking it gently, and brushing over one of Chakravarti's hands. She turned back to face the eight-armed god, skin clearly flushed beneath the fur.
The family god gasped as though they had choked and descended down onto one knee. They took the hand that had been on their belly in a gentle hold and looked up into the goddesses’ crimson eyes with a pleading look. ”My lady,” said Chakravarti in a small voice, ”I cannot hide these emotions any longer. Hearing your poetic love for your children despite their flaws… It has stirred something deep inside of me. Would you, dear lady Ahtziri, do me the honour of becoming my wife?” A halo of light and lotus flowers surrounded their silhouette and a soft melody played on the wind. The little baby boy seemed somewhat upset, as though he had seen this display too many times.
Ahtziri's initial reaction to the display was confusion, plain and simple--she had no concept of this idea of marriage, or what Chakravarti could possibly be proposing to her. The nature of civilisation was something Ahtziri barely understood, the closest she had gotten to reconciling the idea of what it was being similar to a pack, or a family--but such a notion was insufficient for her to process precisely what was being offered to her. She understood the emotion of the gesture, certainly, but otherwise all that played across her face was a lack of understanding. Seeing this, Pazuzu huddled next to her and spoke in a gentle whisper--though, of course, not so quiet as to go unheard by a god.
"I think it's... mating partners? Over a long period of time? Ossy says that they've said as much to all of the other gods they've met, even... him! Lonn!"
Pazuzu's four eyes narrowed conspiratorially, and he pawed at the ground in front of Chakravarti just enough to attract attention and interrupt the scene.
"Ossy says that you offered Lonn the position of... prime something? Whatever that is, Mother deserves it too! I'll only agree if she gets at least what he got!" he said, a brief flash of defiance and protectiveness glinting in his eyes. Almost immediately after he said it, however, he seemed to realise that he'd effectively made a demand of a deity and immediately bowed his head, a small whine escaping his muzzle like gravel being poured onto the ground. Ahtziri rested her left hand upon his head, petting him in his favourite spot (behind his right ear, just above at the bottom) and raising an eyebrow at Chakravarti as she did so, waiting for a response.
The other god frowned briefly and looked down at Ossurman with a scowl of disappointment. They opened their mouth briefly as though to say something, then closed it, and opened it again, saying, ”You are very right, Pazuzu. Some time ago, I took Lonn as my First Consort, and it is his child I carry in my belly as we speak.” Two hands caressed the golden skin of the slight protrusion of their abdomen. They straightened themselves up somewhat and donned a somewhat serious expression. ”You are most lovely, my lady Ahtziri, and I would love nothing more than to make you my wife; however, First Concubine is not a title I can grant to just anyone - not even Lonn received his for free. A wife is for spawning offspring, but a Prime Concubine must be displayed before everyone, as well - she must possess a certain… Character and status, if you will. Now Pazuzu, I mean this in no disrespectful way, of course, but does your mother possess any sizeable lands? Has she done any mighty deeds? Will she take the time to learn the etiquette of the court so she may rule beside me?”
Pazuzu tilted his head to the side, lower muzzle letting out a small bark as he began to speak again.
"Well... Mother hasn't taken any lands yet, and I'm not sure what you mean by mighty deeds..." the Abiktu started, eyes narrowing as he thought about what he was saying.
"Oh! She has the allegiance of all of her children! We'd all fight and die for her, so she has the biggest army! And she can make more of us, and then we can make more of ourselves, and I bet we could overrun the whole world if Mother wished it!" Pazuzu turned to look at Ahtziri as he barked out the last part, clearly seeking her approval. She gave him a nod and his fur a tousle, and he turned back to Chakravarti with his tail wagging behind him even faster than it had been previously.
"How many divinities are there, that such parading is necessary...? Well, if it is sufficient for you to collect concubines and consorts in this manner, it means that I must play this game whether I like it or not--and... well, I would very much like to spend more time with you. To have another that understands what it means to be a parent is... well, it is not something I thought would happen. A grand unification of the families of monsters and mortals, an undying dynasty the likes of which have never been seen before and shall never be seen again; an emperor to rule it, and a faithful Abiktu at his side to safeguard him and love him. Our lands need not fear the monsters that will undoubtedly plague the others--are these things enough for you?" Ahtziri then knelt, and took two of Chakravarti's hands in her own. She looked at them with a steely conviction in her eyes, a pledge of loyalty and love upon her lips, and deep within her an ambition began to take root.
The family god lifted a backhand to their forehead as though close to swooning and two more hands closed around Ahtziri’s grip as well. ”Oh, what devotion; what pledges!” Their halo of light and lotuses brightened and thickened, and their final free hand cupped itself over their chest. ”Soothe yourself, o beating heart! Alas, her oaths are too much! How can I, o how can I, Chakravarti, turn down such an unmatched will to join my dynasty? How can I, Chakravarti, deny this most gracious and necessary gift to my legacy and my house? This most benign and benevolent contribution?” They pulled loose all their hands and whichever weren’t holding Ossurman took the Mother of Monsters into an embrace, saying, ”Your love for your children and care for our house have rocked me to my very core, beloved lady Ahtziri. Nay, lady Ahtziri vur Chakravarti, First Concubine of mine. For yes - my emotions can no longer be tamed! I must have you, and I must have you close to me! Be mine, o Ahtziri, be mine!”
"There will be those who will not see the fruitfulness of our union, those who are unwilling to join our family... But they are not worth our time, my love--let them sink beneath our notice like the vermin they are, let our children inherit the earth!" Ahtziri proclaimed, returning Chakravarti's embrace with all of the passion she could muster. Pazuzu let out a great howl of excitement, loud enough to vibrate the earth gently beneath their feet, and with a great beating of his wings flew up into the air. His tail continued to wag furiously as he looped around himself, circling the three below, and gentle pants punctuated the air as Ahtziri finally extricated herself from her partner's grasp. She turned her gaze up into the air, at the happiness of her firstborn, and tears once again welled up within her eyes.
"To see them happy, loved... it is worth every trial they put us through. I would endure a beating from every other god on this shard, even lay down my life if I must, just to see him happy." the words tumbled from her mouth without thinking, said to no-one in particular, and her gaze only returned to the ground when Pazuzu came crashing down upon it a good distance away, bounding across the craggy hills towards the pair.
"So what do we do now, Mother? Oh!" he began, before turning himself towards Chakravarti with a quizzical, lopsided grin on his face (insofar as was possible for an Abiktu), "Should I call you Father? Mother? I'm just not sure!
”Either will do, my son,” Chakravarti declared and gave him a gentle pat. ”Now, as one house, we must do our best and spread our influence across the world. I will remain here, my love, and continue shaping our son’s land into a worthy grounds for his empire to prosper. I request, therefore, that you and our son Pazuzu remain until you are healed before journeying out to secure our dynasty more land, wealth and respect. We are in this together, my lady Ahtziri, and together, we will conquer this Shard for our children and our children’s children!” To celebrate, the god flexed an arm and raised a triumphant obelisk from the grass beside them, its faces covered in depictions of themself alongside Ahtziri and Lonn on respectively their left and right hands, and Celvanya beneath them. Monsoon water that had formed many brooks through the grassland was laid into rivers into a bridge leading to the obelisk, then a stone-toss away, a great temple arose, its walls and levels filled with statues of all sorts of creatures, mortals and monsters.
Ahtziri smirked at the raised pillar, her body reacting to the carving instinctively and beginning to crackle with her particular amaranthine glow. Her remaining wounds soothed themselves in its presence, knitting themselves together as they had before, and she looked upon the carved stone pensively as her regenerative magic did its work. She had no desire to ever meet him upon the battlefield again, that much was certain, but she was grateful for what had happened. For what his conviction had shown her, no matter how painful the lesson was; for the revelation that they were, ultimately, perhaps not so different. Now they were joined as family, and a small part of her was apprehensive of how he’d react to the news--but she had faith that, ultimately, it would work out in its own way. Opportunities would present themselves for a clean path forward, and she only had to humble herself to take them. She would not let her children go unloved, or die unclean deaths, for the sake of pride. Not after last time. Her eyes glanced over to the temple that Chakravarti had created, perusing its many carvings and stone-wrought likenesses, and turned back to the Obelisk once more content to rest and wait. There would be new lands to conquer soon enough--for now, she had only to bide her time.
Ahtziri is licking her wounds after having her ass both metaphorically and literally handed to her by the God of Mortals, and she takes some time to reflect on the valuable life lessons she’s learned. Then she gets totally seduced by the other mother (not the nightmare one) and they get married (to the surprise of absolutely nobody). The event is commemorated, things are made, Ahtziri takes Prime Concubine and the rest of you bitches are left in the dust. Fin.
The Eight-Armed God took their most calm and serene time travelling. With no mount or vehicle to speak of, they took in the surroundings of the wastes and learned to see the details in the ash. On a few occasions, they had been approached by vagabond survivors desperately seeking aid or foolishly attempting to rob them: Chakravarti had dealt with them as they deserved, and there laid both full-bellied vagrants and beaten corpses in the god’s flowery wake. Indeed, a road of flowers as broad and as long as a country had followed the giddy god from the Tomb of the First Dynasty, and in it, small, stalwart insects and pollinators did their best to exploit this nonsensical idyll before the End Times could consume it once more. The god had along the way spawned both birds and beasts for the entertainment of the little boy in their arms, fluffy ruminants to graze the flower fields and fliers to pick at the parasites in their fur. Ossurman had loved every single one of them, and a confidence grew in Chakravarti’s heart that the little boy would grow into a wise and loving patriarch some day.
The party of two topped a small hill and arrived upon a natural fjord in the landscape, looking out across the black, endless aether. The family god stopped and gave Ossurman a gentle shake to wake him up from his nap. ”Look, Ossy…” The god squatted down just by the edge, golden eyes following the thunder of magical energy in the distant abyss, intermittently overshadowed by the silhouettes of flying demons fleeing the underbelly of the World Shard. ”... Isn’t it fascinating? Perversely so?”
The baby looked into the abyss as well and started to sob. Chakravarti released a small chuckle and held the little boy closer. ”Oh, sweety, don’t cry. Mommy is here; daddy is here. I’ll keep you safe, don’t worry…”
Over the next hill, just a few stone throws away, a crimson glow approached. The first physical emblem of the apparent radiation was a shock of salt-and-peppered orange hair, followed by the rest of a man. The glow stretched out from the transient figure by about two or three spans of a man but slowly seemed to sink back into itself as he closed the distance. Dirty frock coat and bare feet made for an interesting collection of clothing, but beyond that there were very few features of note. At the closest hillock to Chakravarti the figure stopped, cocking his head to the side and scratching at the finger length, fiery orange beard that sprouted along his chin. With a simple motion he lifted a pair of carved ivory spectacles from his eyes, revealing a flash of electric red before dying down back to their normal golden-brass.
”Hey there,” called out the transient man, making sure to announce himself quickly to the unquestioningly powerful looking deity, ”Quite a sight, eh?! Pretty!”
Chakravarti immediately rocketed to their feet and produced six cutlasses, held ready in their six available arms while the remaining two clutched Ossurman tightly to their chest. A storm of steel raging around the god, they said, ”Who are you?! Are you after my baby boy?!”
Lonn’s eyes went wide at the lightning fast reflexes of the six-armed god but he did a magnificent job hiding his immediate awareness of the danger he had evidently put himself in. Despite part of himself thinking it wise to take what victories he had received as of late and dip on this one his ever devious mind could see opportunity held aloft on a silver platter. Both hands went up, revealing his overtly peaceful intentions. His eyes locked on that of Chakravarti and, in one sly parting of his visage, his perfect, ivory smile beamed.
”Don’t fret, proud parent,” Lonn said, keeping an honest look about his face while refusing to break respectful eye contact, ”I’m nothing to be feared. I am a friend of man, children included.”
The opposing god circled in a quarter circle while talking in the sight of the other. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, the weapons turned to smoke and Chakravarti assumed a calmer stance. ”A friend of man, you say?” They looked him up and down again and flexed an impressed brow. ”Your demeanour speaks of your peaceful intentions. I pray you may forgive my sudden outburst.” They bowed curtly. ”The roads are few and crawling with evil these days. If I may ask, to whom to I have the pleasure of speaking? Your most fragrant smell tells me that you, my lord, are like me, and it is not every day that I meet one like me.”
”There is nothing to forgive, friend; it is righteous to defend yourself and your own, aint it?”
Lonn let down his hands as his eyes devoured Chakravarti’s form for clues to their character. It was quickly discovered by the man-god that his peer was more than met the eye, perhaps literally. Despite his own divine sight he could not see past the rotating identity of Chakravarti, occupying space as both genders and more of the human race. It was an odd experience for someone so confident with mortal identities and so far the other deities he’d found had matched mankind fairly well. The slightest quiver of Lonn’s smile, though, revealed his momentary flash of epiphany. They were a God of
”Ah, you have a nose for it then,” purred the transient deity, eyes flowing from dull gold to his glowing red while once more the aura of crimson began to emanate from him like a corona. He offered a low and flowery bow, arms outspread and wide, to return Chakravarti’s own, ”Lonn, at your service, good mother. And might I say, what a beautiful and clever child you bare. Yours, I trust? Couldn’t think of a better progenitor.”
The family god blushed with a giggle. ”Oh-ho-ho, you tease.” The shield of arms uncoiled themselves from around the baby to give Lonn a better look. ”Indeed, he is mine - born into the clan of clans, if I may permit myself a moment of boasting. Yes, dare I say, he is the king-to-be! Emperor-to-be! With my blood, I would expect no less.” Their proud demeanour then deflated politely and they spoke, ”But enough about me - great lord Lonn… Is it just Lonn, by the way? Have you a belonging to a clan or house?”
Lonn, for the first time in anyone’s life knowing him, frowned. It was a deep one too, that practically dripped with melancholy. The frown flipped partially into a true if mirthless smile, eyes looking to Chakravarti with a noticeable measure of sadness. Despite this he “forced” himself back into a full smile. With one errant wave of a hand he shook off the malaise of his thoughts, giving a sidelong glance at the other god.
”Alas, I came unto this world disappointingly alone. I have found friends, sure, but family? So far, zilch. I have aided the mortals in their struggles where I can, but even then it is a far cry from true belonging.” Lonn’s gaze drifted for a moment before sharply jumping back to meet Chakravarti’s vision with lightning flashing in his eyes, ”But, that doesn’t mean for a second that I don’t have ambitions otherwise, believe you me. Families can be made, as I am sure you well know.”
”The world is what we make of it, after all.”
”Oh, that’s too bad, my lord,” responded the family god and positioned the little baby into a better grip. Their eyes once again scanned over the god of man and one finger caressed their cheek thoughtfully. A witty smile spread across their lips and they said, ”Well, what if I told you you did not have to -make- a family, but could join one?”
Though the grin he bore was in no way revealing of his true intentions and in all respects produced a genuine, benevolent gleam, inside Lonn’s labyrinthine mind he was soaring. What luck! In what amounted to functionally a handful of days Lonn had met a number of deities and so far had been fond of nearly every single one. Moreover, there was a clear pattern of friendship which would prove incredibly helpful in future days not yet arrived. Returning from the lightning dance of his thoughts, Lonn flashed a slightly quizzical raise of his eyebrow. He let some cunning show through, as if playing coy, then let his eyes wander up and down the God/dess very noticeably.
”Join one, eh?” Lonn mused before locking his gaze with once more with Chakravarti’s divine gaze, ”And what could a man such as I do to gain such a blessing?”
Chakravarti’s smile broadened. ”Oh, it is quite simple, really.” With that they descended onto one knee and spoke, ”My lord Lonn, first of your name - would you do me, Chakravarti, the honour of joining my house as my husband?” A crest of light seemed to encircle their form, with dancing lotus flowers forming a radiant halo over their head in the fresh sunlight.
”Today hasn’t ceased to amaze…” muttered Lonn, halfway actually surprised. He had to admit, he wasn’t expecting it to move so quickly. His gaze danced briefly across the crest of light emanating Chakravarti before returning to her. Moments later and his perfect smile returned in all its pearlescent brightness.
”You humble me, Mother of Kings; what you offer is beyond compare.” Lonn looked down into Chakravarti’s eyes with a glowing red gaze. By now the corona of red that radiated from his feet had grown to encompass much of the area, only dying before Chakravarti’s own light, ”And I will accept, with one request; I should like to be your First Husband, as you will be my First Wife. I can tell with but a glance your family will be great and numerous, and I can tell one husband would only weaken our dynasty. But I would ask you to allow me the honor to sit at your side first, before any others. Will you accept my request, Great Mother? All you need do is take my hand.” Lonn’s hand outstretched, fingers curled just so to call Chakravarti closer. All the while his smile flashed, almost uncomfortably perfect in its symmetry.
Chakravarti blinked and then slowly rose up, their face curling into a slightly defensive frown. Quickly, then, a sly smirk followed, and the four of the gods hands busied themselves with cradling their face from various angles. ”My, my, as should be expected for one with a smile like yours. Truly, none with such perfect teeth could see themselves as anything less than number one.” A slightly more reserved pose overtook the god as several hands crossed themselves over their breast, the arms carrying Ossurman moving out of the way. ”Will you not tell me a little more about yourself, Lord Lonn? A husband can be a stranger to me so long as I may carry his offspring, but my First Consort is no mere title. You would effectively be robbing me of quite an important choice later on. My interest in you was sparked the moment I saw you, certainly, but you must sate my curiosity before we can move further.” Out of the ashes, a small stool of stone materialised for them to sit on; another appeared behind Lonn. Between them, a table stacked tall with alien fruits and appetisers appeared, alongside gold and silver cups of wine. ”Do not hesitate to drink as much as you would like,” they added, ”it is non-alcoholic. I am still breastfeeding, after all.”
In one of only true and unmediated outbursts, Lonn laughed. Despite all the walls he presented, all the half-truths he told, he couldn’t help but truly admire Chakravarti’s statement. By all rights, they were completely and utterly correct. In an instant, Chakravarti had actually managed to win a bit of Lonn over. With his teeth parted just enough to echo his legitimate enjoyment of the experience, Lonn sat without a single word. He had listened, fully and intently, and had no intention of keeping this apparent equal waiting.
”A fair request,” pronounced Lonn as he sat down across from the Family-God, looking at them in an entirely new light, ”And one I am happy to oblige. All cards on the table, Mother-of-Kings, for you deserve nothing less; I am a man who wears a billion faces, and even this one now isn’t really mine. I am a lover of mankind, despite their flaws, and so I choose to walk among them as they are. That way, my kindness to them is their kindness. Let a friendly face nowadays be one of their own, I say. So far I have met four others of our kind and most of them seem to see it the same. Presuming they chose their shape, that is. Beyond that, there is only so much for me to tell; I’m a young god, just making my way in the universe. Perhaps you have specific questions for me?”
”Mhm, very good, very good.” It almost looked at Chakravarti was doodling notes on one of their palms using a very sharp fingernail. ”You have already mentioned that you have no house of your own, and I pray you will understand that if the Prime Consort of Chakravarti is to be, forgive the term, lowborn, then I must measure your contribution to the house in terms of your financial and political capabilities. Now, if I understand you correctly, you have connections, yes? You have a network of sorts with at least four other entities like us? How well do you know them? Have you any bond with them beyond the spoken?” At her breast, Ossurman cooed in a small voice.
Lonn flashed a cunning glance at Chakravarti, enjoying the moment immensely. Chakravarti, although he’d likely never tell them, practically radiated mortal personality. It was a good quality, frankly, but he imagined most gods would balk at such claims. As they rattled off the list of qualities necessary the gears of his mind bit into themselves in consideration, weighing his options well.
”Of course; I have been considering the very same of your house,” Lonn said with a smile, leaning in across the table partially to emphasize his interest, ”The land to my back is mine. The men who live there owe their hearts to me. And oh, let me assure you, I have plans for that land, well and truly. I am bound to three of those gods by deed as well as words, for we together released the waters that now rejuvenate the world. One of them is my trusted companion, and as a pair we brought life back about on the northern slopes of the mountains. Him I know quite well. And whatsmore, I intend to find more of our kind, that much I swear, and I will bind myself to many more if I find they’re worth the effort. What of your lands? Or your connections? A mighty deity such as yourself has not been idle, the field behind you assures me of that.”
”So it was you who brought the water?” A small smile returned to their lips and a flick of the writing hand indicated a checkmark of sorts. They loosened their stance a little more to appear more welcoming, arms unfolding from their chest and leaning comfortably on the table. ”A most noble and heroic deed, I agree, and while not as strong as flesh, a favour’s bond is stronger than the word.” The finger continued down the wrist of the hand canvas. ”As for the lands and estates of House vur Chakravarti, my lord, we possess a most prosperous and comfortable valley in the south under the governance of my daughter Arira.” Another hand appeared and golden text flashed across its wrist with numbers and statistics. ”Many thousand miles to our east, my concubine, Celvanya vur Chakravarti is on her way to claim more land for our dynasty; and lastly, I am heading north-northwest to lay the foundations for my son’s great empire.” The text disappeared again and the family god gave Lonn an expectant look. ”Is my lord satisfied with my answer?”
”I should say so,” replied Lonn matter of factly, having been holding a glass if only for the sake of looking appreciative of the offers, ”and it seems I was right; you have been quite busy. A rolling stone gathers no cordgrass, as it were. Hah. Yes, I should say what you have to offer makes you worthy of being my Wife, without a doubt. I can only imagine what a lineage we will make together; one that spans the world and sits on a throne of our making, I imagine. I can think of no other answers that could have satisfied curiosity more. But the real question is, have mine?”
”Largely. I suppose I have one more, though,” said Chakravarti, playing passive. They studied two sets of fingernails with pursed lips for a quiet moment before their golden eyes fixed onto Lonn’s once again. ”Are you a family man, Lonn?”
Lonn locked his gaze with Chakravarti and spoke across the table with sly assertiveness. ”I will be.”
With a gentle bite of their lip, the family god nodded. ”Then so be it, Lord Lonn vur Chakravarti, First Consort of mine. Aid me in furthering our dynasty, and I will be yours for eternity.” They reached out their hand in a gentle cup.
Without a single moment of hesitation Lonn reached for Chakravarti’s hand and drew it to his lips, pressing them close. His eyes remained locked with theirs as he pulled away only enough to whisper.
”And I, yours.”
A great deal of time had passed since that day, and Chakravarti had reached their destination. Along the way, their belly had swollen ever so slightly, and the family god found themselves a hill to rest on. As they leaned forward to survey the dead land, illuminated uncomfortably well in the light of the sun. Crags that crumbled into the abyss; valleys of dried up lakes; lifeless ashes as far as the eye could see. The family god gazed across the endless wastes with scowling disapproval, Ossurman on their lap playing with one of their fingers. ”Look at it, son… Like a graveyard, robbed even of its bones. This is no place for a future king…” They then conjured forth a small round palanquin of, like usual, gold and silver and gently put the baby inside it. ”Okay, just lie down there, sweety, and mommy will make you the perfect home to rule!”
And so, the god got to work: They danced down the hillside, their steps leaving patches of yellowish green that extended rapidly outwards into great fields of grass, flowers and shrubberies. Four hands pointed to the south, and the south sucked in the rain of a bypassing storm and grew green rich with broad-leaved trees that seemed to ooze humidity; four hands pointed north, and the grass and shrubberies extended outwards, swallowing the dead ashes as far as the eyes could see.
The south grew thick and bushy far beyond what Chakravarti could observe; it absorbed so much moisture from the storm that great lakes blossomed within the forests, fed by rivers from the Wellspring - something Chakravarti couldn’t see.
The north had no such moisture to feed off of, however, and before long, the trees could no longer maintain their growth in the dry soil and faded; even further north, the bushes faded, too; and lastly, the grass gave way to sand a few miles from the shore, unable to go on without quenching its thirst.
The god was just about to conjure forth animate life as well, when there came a terrible quake. The god managed to maintain their footing where the newly sown crust itself threatened to crack, but then a scream alerted the family god. ”OSSY!” they shouted and sped over to the palanquin like a bolt of lightning, protecting the baby in all their eight arms. The boy squealed his lungs out, the oppressive quake of the world threatening the developing eardrums of the child. ”It’s okay, it’s okay, mommy’s here; daddy’s here,” Chakravarti whispered to him sweetly. Eventually, the quakes began to subside, and Chakravarti stood up to survey the land once again: It had ruptured, much of their work, particularly trees, laying in shambles and being covered with the dust of yet another ash storm. The family god looked about ready to explode with rage, but instead quelled it and looked down at Ossurman in their arms.
”I’m sorry, my boy… It looks like your kingdom will have to wait for a while longer…” They needed to somehow fix the tremors.
But who could help them with that?
The scene opens on Chak strolling over to the region that will one day hold Lonn’s pillar, making ruminants and birds long the way (probably won’t live long). When they arrive, they show Ossurman the abyss and asks them what they think. Oss starts crying and Lonn shows up like, “wassaaaa”. Chak pulls the blades like a defensive mommy (again) and Lonn calms them down. They get talking and Chak asks what house Lonn is of. When Lonn says he has none, Chak asks him to be his husband. Lonn is no fool, though - if they are to marry, Lonn won’t be just another husband: Lonn will be Chak’s First Consort. This gets Chak thinking, and the two talk about what sort of deeds, claims and lands they already possess. After presenting each other’s lists of belongings, both find the other satisfactory and marry.
Fast forward a time and Chakravarti arrives at the Yellow World pillar, baking a small bun in the oven. As they arrive, they set Ossur down to watch as they start making the Osshur Plains, a huge biome that will cover a large share of the north. The biome then gets wrecked by earthquakes and Chak can’t do nothin until a hero arrives to save the day.
1MA, reduced to 0 - Make ruminant species and birds that graze all of the flowery grasslands between the Tomb of the First dynasty and Lonn’s World Pillar. 1MA, reduced to 0 - Begin work on the Osshur Plains, an enormous patch of land that includes several different biomes, most notably xeric grasslands and desert in the north, to semi-arid grasslands and dry broadleaf forests in the centre, to moist broadleaf forests and swamps in the south. It is currently without animal life and very prone to earthquakes and disasters, but at least it’s not dead.
For weeks, a family of three had dragged bloody feet and a broken sled across the vast, lifeless wastes of fire. There had been nothing for them anywhere but bones and ruins. They had been seven once - uncle Rusi; aunt Ratepor; their son, cousin Sharusi; and mother Danui - all had perished along the way. Now, only father Kiper, daughter Zui and youngest son Doile, who was much too young for such evil as this world, were all that were left. A mere week had passed since their last death, Sharusi. Sharusi had been like Kiper’s second son and Zui’s friend since birth. They had shared all in life, and death was better for him, Zui believed, for there was nothing to share anymore now. Endlessly, they trekked - over ash, stone and sand, the barren land crackling distantly in response to the rumble of their bellies and a vicious wind reminding them all too often of how dry their throats were.
A weak cough sounded from Kiper’s breast - Doile rested against it in a cradle of linen tied around his father’s torso. The man caressed his pale son’s thin, black hair and said to his daughter, “We will need to find shelter. Doi-Doi, he…” The strict, cold demeanour bred into him by his own father seemed to crack under emotional pressure. Losing his brother Rusi had broken his spirit; losing Danui had broken his heart; losing his own child would break his mind. “... He cannot go on like this.”
Zui, who was a few paces ahead, turned around and hurried over to her father, carefully inspecting her brother. The young boy’s face was dry and hollow, his growth stunted from months of hunger. Kiper massaged the boy’s cheek softly, but received little response beyond a weak twitch of the eye. “... My boy, you’re… You’re so cold…”
The daughter pressed a fist against her lips. With a lightning twist of the neck, she regarded the horizon. A single peak no taller than a tree stuck out of the ground a distance away. It looked as barren as anywhere, but perhaps…
“Father,” she said and unhooked her cloak from her neck. She tossed it around his shoulders, making sure to tuck as much of the furred part as she could around her little brother. “Do you see that stone over there? It may have the shelter we need for the night.” She hurried over to the sled her father had pulled, which was hardly anything more than two long tusks tied together with her father’s cloak. It held very little now, but it held at least a spear, which Zui took in her hands with a deft grip. “Wait here. I will go make sure it’s safe.”
“B-but you’ll be cold, Zoo!”
“That will be the least of our worries if we cannot get Doi-Doi some shelter from this wind!” She assumed a jog for a few paces and then turned and said, “Wait for me here, okay? Do not go anywhere!” As she ran on, Kiper swallowed a speechless gulp. He looked the way they had come - nothing; he looked the way they were going - nothing. What was hope anymore in conditions like these?
There came another weak cough from his breast and Kiper looked down. The face of his young boy, the last legacy of his beloved wife, had opened his small, black eyes, even if only barely, and beamed for a split second the dumbfounded, confused look he had had when his sister-in-law had presented him to him after birth; the same look Zui had had many years earlier.
Ah… Of course. He was his hope; she was his hope. What fool would ask what there was to hope for, to pray for, in this god-forsaken world when he held his hope in his arms - when his hope was out there, scouting for a safe haven?
Stiffly, Kipur sat down and drew a rusty knife from his belt. He opened his left palm, a criss-cross of scars and recent cuts and looked down at his boy again. “... Hmm… I think you’ve done well today, kid… How about the thumb today?” He briefly sucked on the finger to clean it as best he could and, with a slight flinch, sliced open the skin of his left thumb. Thick, dehydrated blood trickled out and he carefully put the finger in his son’s mouth, letting the child drink from his strength. He had had a splitting headache for days now, and he hadn’t known a painless piss for the last two, but at least this would give his boy the strength he needed to live. Kipur’s world blackened faintly and his dry tongue made a feeble attempt to wetten his drier lips, but he needed to persevere.
He needed to survive for their sake…
He needed to…
To...
“Father! Father! There’s shelter! There’s shelter - and there’s people! They might have food and water!”
Zui jogged closer, getting a closer look at the hunched-over form sitting in the ash. She slowed her pace. “Father, are you asleep?” A cold sting in her belly made her quicken her pace again, from jog to sprint as she shouted, “Dad? DAD!” She scraped her knee as she crouched down to shake him, tossing her spear aside. There came no response - she was shaking a corpse, she realised. In quiet shock, her movements slowed, her breathing ragged with sorrow and exhaustion. She said nothing, only placed a hand to his neck and gently careened it back - her father had passed away smiling.
She could no longer hold in her emotions, but keeping her from bursting into a scream of heartfelt pain was that familiar little cough. The sound stole her breath away and Zui carefully moved her father’s torso to regard her brother. Doile was asleep, it seemed, but alive, a crimson streak following the corner of his mouth down his cheek. The gods or whatever had ruled this universe in those bygone days were gone, but this could be nothing less than a sign. Swallowing her own sorrow, Zui refused to give in to despair. As all light around them faded more and more for every loss, she had her brother and her brother had her. So long as she lived, she would protect him.
She untied the linen from her father’s torso and transferred her brother to her own breast. Securing him there with the cloth, she retrieved what valuables they had left and packed her father’s corpse in the cloak from the sled. As her brother’s coughs warned her that time was running out, she could not set off time to bury him. She would have to return for him some day, when Doile was safe.
And so she ran. The route felt longer this time, the weight of her emotions burdening her steps greatly. Despite this, she persevered, the memories of her family pushing her onwards to protect what remained of it. The peak grew larger and larger as she approached it, but whereas she had kept a scouting distance before, she disregarded that safety now, hurrying over to a small entrance to a cave. She headed inside and felt the smell of fire and the sting of smoke in her eyes. Another familiar scent filled the air, too, or at least one that resembled it, though she hadn’t smelled it for…
“Oh-ho, what do we have here?” came a slithering voice. She froze and spun around, spear at the ready. The slaps of skin on stone echoed all around her, and even in the darkness of the cave, she figured quickly that she was surrounded. The voice was male, rough and raspy with dry winds and dark trauma. “Wow, someone bring a light, I think we’ve stumbled upon a little doe.”
Zui feigned bravery. “I… I’m looking for somewhere to stay the night.”
“My, I’m sure you am, young lady.” An invisible hand touched her hair and Zui jumped, spinning around and sticking forth her spear. The hands twisted it out of her hands and another pair grabbed her arms into a lock.
“Hoo-eey! A feisty one! Where’s that damn light already?!” As Zui struggled, an approaching torch lighted up the silhouettes of no fewer than five skinny, raggedy men, their eyes oogling her illuminated form with lustful hunger. “Bloody me, she ain’t half bad, either.” As their eyes fixed on the linen on her chest, however, one of the men furrowed his brow and walked over, pulling the linen aside to regard the face of Doile. His expression changed to a small frown and he locked eyes with Zui.
“This one yours?”
Zui struggled some more against her captor’s grip, but succeeded no more than last time. “N-no! It’s… It’s my brother.”
“Brother?” The man looked at the boy again. “... How sweet. Big sister against the world, pulling her brother in tow. Ain’t that just like the old tales?” Some of his companions rumbled a weak chuckle. The man, who seemed to have the command in the crew, shrugged and pulled a dagger. “Well, guess we’re having baby boy tonight, lads!”
“NO!” screamed Zui. The man’s hand stopped mid-strike, the dagger’s tip a mere inch from Doile’s chest. He looked at her expectantly.
“Why not? Ain’t everyday you get fresh meat on the door - especially not the young and juicy kind. We were just about to run out, too - last of it’s on the fire now, if you’d like a piece.” Thoughtfully, he twisted his dagger in his hand.
Zui swallowed. “I’ll… I’ll do whatever you want me to. So long as you spare my brother.”
“Pfft, like we weren’t gonna--”
“Rasul, please,” said the leader and held up a hand. He eyes turned back to Zui and his lips curled into a grin. “Whatever we want, you say?”
Zui felt tears collect in her eyes and run down her cheeks as a cruel metaphor for her wish to escape. She nodded wordlessly, suppressing a sob. The man’s grin darkened into a smirk and he sheathed his dagger. “Well, to be fair, your brother wouldn’t be anything but bones, anyway. Waste of good fuel for the fire if you ask me.” He beckoned one of his friends over with a movement of the head, and the man in question approached and took Doile off Zui’s chest.
“No, NO! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
“Sheesh, woman - relaaax! I heard he has a cough, so Hisor here is just going to place him by the fire to keep him nice and warm. As for you…” A rough, scarred hand cupped her chin in a small, but authoritative grip and moved her head around in small circles. “... You have a promise to keep.”
Zui could no longer suppress her terror and release a small sob.
In the desert, the cloaks covering the corpse of Kipur feebly resisted the tug of the wind. They had been tucked well around him, but alas, not even familial love could fight the god-forsaken forces of the Apocalypse. It was then that a foot pressed into the sand by the corpse. It was human, yet no human had ever grown to such a size. The foot was colossal, and was outlined by a very faint golden glow. Slowly, a pair of hands lowered down to gently pull aside the part of the cloak covering Kipur’s face. The corpse, despite all laws of life and death, still smiled with all its fatherly glow. A moment passed and a pale tear dripped onto the cloak over the belly, smelling faintly of lilac and lavender.
”Even after weeks of hunger and days of thirst, he pulled and carried the brunt of the supplies so his daughter could save her strength; even at the end of his day, he gave his own blood so his son may live. What exemplary parentage.” The arms were joined by another pair, and together they lifted the corpse from the sand and held it carefully. A mass of hair longer than the back it was flowing down shifted as the head it was rooted to regarded the distant rock. A voice that was not quite male and not quite female filled with respect and reverence for the corpse, saying, ”In your hour of death, you gave your all; so, too, must I give mine to honour a memory such as yours.”
Then the golden feet moved towards the peak.
“Sheesh, can you believe she said she was a virgin? Never had a looser broad in my life!” Rasul shouted angrily as he picked his teeth with a bone.
“You were fifth in line, man - blame Orus for being so rough to begin with,” snickered Hisor. Rasul tossed the bone at him, inciting a much louder cackle.
“I’m always last! It’s not fair! Last when we eat; last when we fuck - when am I gonna get respect around here, huh?”
“Well, when you’ve earned it, bitch! Hah!”
As the two men were about to engage in a brawl, the leader Jirsa played with his dagger by the sleeping Doile. “Boys, don’t go fighting now. You’ll wake the kid.”
Rasul pushed Hisor away and spat. “Pfft, like I care! If it starts crying, I’ll just stab it on the spit. I’m hungry anyway.”
“If you didn’t spend all your time whining and itching to fight, you’d save your energy, numbnuts!” cackled Hisor again.
“I swear, one more word and--”
“Boys!” Jirsa looked back down at Doile and pursed his lips. “... I wonder what your story is, little one… What you’ve seen… Where your parents are…”
“Gods, man, you fuck his sister and start wondering about that shit now? I knew you were messed up, but…”
“What can I say?” shrugged the leader and sheathed his knife again. “I’m a poetic soul. I need these moments to collect and order my thoughts… How else--”
The three of them quieted down. The slap of feet against the stone hurried in a jog from the cave entrance. It was Orus, pointing to the entrance and shouting in a whisper, “Something’s coming!”
“More food, I hope!” Rasul shouted giddily.
“No, no, something BIG!”
The three in the cave leaned in and frowned. “Big how, exactly?” asked Jirsa, but ask he finished his sentence, an arrow of light speared Orus straight through the belly and brough him to the ground gasping.
“HOLY SHIT!” screamed Rasul as a shadow filled the corner of the cave leading to the entrance. A faint glint of steel hinted at an incoming blade, and neither Rasul nor Hisor saw it in time before the former lost his head and the latter, his torso. Jirsa squealed his best before a lance of stone pinned him to the wall through the chest. A creaky door opened in the corner of the cave, revealing the fifth member, Truum, with his pants on his ankles and a shiv in his hand. He barely had time to see what killed him before it did, pinning him to the ceiling in a horrific display.
The creature sniffed the air once and followed a scent of blood into the room Truum had come out from. There, they found a pile of raggedy clothes atop a “mattress” of ash and sand, topped again with a brutally beaten girl. The creature could not enter the room due to their size, but they reached in a hand to touch the body. The cold confirmed a horrible truth - she was no longer in this world. The creature swallowed painfully and used two hands to collect her corpse as well.
Then they heard a cough, yellow eyes fixating on the little roll of linen by the fire. The last living human in this cave was of the same blood as both the corpses they had collected, and they pieced the story together: ”What sacrifice to give both body and mind for one’s brother, to surrender oneself knowing only pain and terror awaits, so that one’s kin may live. What virtue, what spirit.” The creature’s final two hands collected the little baby and they headed outside again. There, they regarded what they had found, eyes shifting between the corpses and the baby. ”Trust me, young man, their memory will not be forgotten.” They brought a thumb to their lips and bit the skin open, golden ichor pouring forth. With their bleeding thumb, the creature drew a golden arc across the baby’s forehead and spoke, ”From this day, my child, I adopt you and your house as my own. Your sacred lineage is the lineage of Chakravarti, and your clan shall be elevated all as one to the height of my own blood.”
The ichor seeped into the baby’s forehead, and then he coughed no more. Small, black eyes opened to regard the round and square face of the god, blinking curiously. Then Chakravarti turned back to the cave and raised one hand. The earth quaked and the stone exploded within a contained sphere, sand being tossed around in a bubble of storms. Around them, the wind fainted into nothing, and momentarily there was light like the days of old. The bubble dug itself into the top layer of the earth and turned to golden sand, and the golden sand slowly morphed into stones and bricks. Around the god, the ashen earth turned to crimson soil, intermittently spotted with tufts of green grass; even small trees dared rise from the ground, praising the fates for this break in the torturous state of the world.
The stone and bricks stacked on top of one another in the centre of this oasis in the storm - fountains of lilac water ringed the structure which stabbed the sky like a tower. The brick facades were polished with divine sheen, and the first floor had no entrances beyond a tall, steep stairway leading to a hole in the wall. Chakravarti ascended the stairwell and entered into the room, where two sarcophagi of gold and silver opened themselves at their command. In their palms, the corpses of Kipur and Zui were cleaned and mummified and left in the sarcophagi , which openings were melted until sealed. Chakravarti took some steps back and bowed to each sarcophagus. They then inscribed a message across the wall in an ever-shifting language, saying, ”This house is of my house - the house of Chakravarti. Here lie two of my fondest children: They gave all for those they loved and paid the ultimate price. Pray before their sarcophagi and learn from their memory, for their virtue should be the virtue of all who fight for their own. Then they exited the tomb, softly caressing a hand on the door beam as they left. A lilac light filled the room and Chakravarti said, ”Let it be known to all who enter and do not pay my children the respect they deserve: Your days will be numbered, for Chakravarti will know all who spit upon my spawn within my walls.”
As they descended from the tomb and exited the small oasis in the endless dust storms, Chakravarti cradled the little boy in their hands. ”Now that you are mine,” they said, ”You will need a name - a name worthy of my house. Do you have one already?” The baby cooed curiously. Chakravarti frowned. ”Doile? Well, it is cute, certainly, but my house must inspire awe and respect. Hmm…” One of eight hands curiously cupped their chin. ”How about Ossurman? The First? Of House vur Chakravarti?”
The baby squealed in confusion. Chakravarti frowned. ”No, of course you don’t get a say! You’re a baby!”
And so, the God of Families brought their first child along with them on the journey out into the world, looking for more people to save.
Story opens with Kipur, Zui and Doile, a family of father, daughter and son respectively on the lookout for shelter in the big desert. They are super tired and Doile is sick, so Zui runs ahead to find shelter for them. Kipur stays behind and feeds Doile some of his own blood to keep him alive, dying of exhaustion. Zui comes back, finds her father dead and mourns, taking Doile with her to the shelter she found. When she arrives, she realises that the shelter has some very nasty people in it, and offers them anything in exchange for her brother’s safety. The brigands spare the brother and have their way with Zui.
Cut to Chakravarti finding Kipur’s corpse, praising his sacrifice for his son. They then go to the cave and kill all the brigands, finding Zui dead, too. They praise her for her sacrifice for her brother. They then adopt the brother as their own and makes them a demigod by infusing them with their ichor. They then raise a tomb to Zui and Kipur, turning the land around it into an oasis in the desert. They then continue on their journey to help folks out.
Name: Chakravarti, the Matripatrihierarch; Pangendered, Panparenting Eight-Armed God of Families.
Domain: Families. The domain of families encompasses the great span of intrafamilial and interfamilial affairs for all ensouled beings, from the lowest stone abducted from its family by stoneworkers in a quarry to the great political wars between the great clans of mortalkind. Chakravarti deals in mediation of familial matters, though mainly as an advocate for stability and closeness between its members: In a world of wolves and sheep, the sheep can only stand against the wolf as a flock, and the wolf can only defeat them with its pack. And for the flock to function, it must be led by a ram, a patriarch to ensure the safety of his clan and hoard the mates for himself to maintain order; the pack, likewise, is led by either a mother or a father, but no matter who leads, they must all share the prey to survive. Chakravarti represents and projects all of these aspects - the family is a tool to maintain order in society and provide a safety net for newcomers into this world. Simultaneously, however, families may grow into factions, and come together as allies or spill each other's blood in crimson feuds that may last generations. These are also part of Chakravarti, and Chakravarti will encourage both feuds and alliances if they benefit the family and the family’s honour. The family, the clan, the house, the dynasty - these are what matters; against them, the individual is nothing beyond a vessel of the clan.
Chakravarti's power specialises in granting wishes to families: fertility to a barren heir, weapons to an ambitious claimant, favours for mighty house heads and lowly untitled alike. Blessings that run in the family also come easy to the god. Lastly, Chakravarti themself does not shy away from starting families of their own, and breeds easily with all ensouled creatures in the world.
Myth:
Ah, I see you are interested in the tale of Ashaihatana and Chakravarti, are you? It’s a somber tale, certainly, but one we all must hear if we are to live as the All-Parent intends.
This story takes place in ancient days. It was a hot summer morning, the kind where the sunlight poured over the mountain tops and cast the evening dew, which clung so desperately to the ricefield leaves, into a day-long exile, and the young woman Ashaihatana came staggering into the Summerblossom Temple, casting herself to the ground in prayer before the All-Parent. Lamentingly, she had spoken to the god about her family:
“All-Mother,” she had said, “my father has done it again - he has promised me to the vile Singhpiritu, an unwashed and brutish man whose manners clog his wealthy heritage in a stink of unculture.”
The All-Mother, All-Father regarded her closely and spoke, “This man - does he beat you?”
“If it had only been something that simple!” scoffed the woman. “He is a daft and uncouth specimen!”
“Does he violate your chastity against your will?”
The woman blushed. “Nothing with a shred of self-respect would ever lay with such a mole, enforced or otherwise!”
She continued crassly, “My mother insists that I must, so our line may be furthered, but I cannot!”
The All-Parent nodded slowly. “Does your father, your mother, know that you have come to me?”
The woman shook her head. “No, All-Mother - I have come on my own, for my wish is my own! Please, you must help me unchain myself from my father’s will, from my mother’s expectations! I wish to live untethered, to be free and live as the birds in the sky!”
The All-Parent pondered this: Ashaihatana was blind and needed to be returned her sight - a case they had seen all too many times. They extended one of their eight fists to the woman and opened the palm to reveal enough gold to fill her arms. “Then so be it. Take this gold and be free from your family. See the world as your own being, and return when your sight has healed.”
Ashaihatana was stunned. Without so much as a “thank you”, she filled her arms with gold and danced gleefully out of the temple, heedless to the god’s warning. She travelled the country, spending every dubloon on food, drink and the pleasure of company. For three years, the woman lived like a queen, the world itself shifting around her to accommodate her every need.
When the gold ran out, the drink was the first to go; the finest wines which her tongue had grown all-too-accustomed to, needed to be switched for the muddy water of the river. When the drink disappeared, so did the company, and soon, she had no one to enjoy her food with. She sold her clothes and donned filthy rags; she went from door to door with a crude wooden bowl, begging for just the bare minimum to scrape by; she drank from the dew of leaves when the rains were generous. At night, she slept among bushes and under stones to hide from prowling men in the streets.
And so it was that Ashaihatana staggered once more into the Summerblossom Temple, falling to her knees out of exhaustion before the Eight-Armed, Pangendered God. She folded her hands in prayer and begged, pleaded that the Matripatrihierarch give her more gold to return to her life. To this, the God of Family answered:
“You ask for gold to return to your life as a queen, yet you spare no thought to your mother and father, both of whom have searched the countryside on their own to find you. You seek the means to rejoin your lost friends, forgetting that the only ones who would give their lives for you, ask not for gold, but for love. You are still blind - both to your sins and your duty.”
The woman cast aside her bowl and yelled, “I will not go back to them! I will not marry that oaf, and I will not bear his children!”
The All-Parent nodded and said, “You will not have to, for in their effort to find you, your father caught a vicious cough and perished; unwilling to give up on you, your mother persevered, only to suffer the same fate.” One of their two left arms leaned forward to pick up the woman. “Before you came to me, you were never alone; now, after you have lived your own life, you finally are.”
Upon hearing these news, Ashaihatana was overcome with grief. Her weak body broke down in the god’s palm and she wept ceaselessly for the rest of the day. The All-Parent beheld her patiently, waiting until the moment she said, “All-Mother, how can such an unforgivable child like I ever be salvaged? What is left in me that is good?”
The All-Parent spoke thus, “You have put yourself before your own family, and nothing can ever heal this wound. The family is all, so you must become nothing.” With that, the god caressed the woman over the head, her hair falling off with the passing of their fingers. “You will travel the world and tell people your story - counsel the selfish sons and daughters of good parents and show them the importance of the house, of the clan.”
The god set her down again. “From today, you are no longer Ashaihatana. You are to take your mother’s name, Vishinayaha, and present yourself like this, ‘I am Vishinayaha, her ungrateful daughter seeking redemption for my selfish ways.’”
“I am Vishinayaha, her ungrateful daughter seeking redemption for my selfish ways,” she copied. The god nodded for her to leave, and the nun did so. For without family, what else was she to be?
Long ago, in the distant ocean kingdom of Kanani’i, there lived a young prince by the name of Onuhi’le’le, and he was the fairest man on the entire reef. Wherever he went, people turned their heads to admire his glistening, aquamarine scales; his broad, powerful shoulders; his strong, vibrant fins. A master of sports and a trained poet, one needed not wonder how he drew the eyes of every woman in the kingdom. His father’s vassals would often complain that whenever he travelled his kingdom with his son in tow, the men had to chain their women to the corals so they would not throw themselves at the prince. The king and prince would laugh at this all throughout their journey.
Then came the day whereupon the prince was to marry. A line from the palace gates to the capital city outer wall filled with frustrated parents trying their best to pretty up their daughters for the prince’s hand in marriage. Taking multiple wifes was not uncommon in his family, and Onuhi’le’le was not one to break with tradition. In the end, he took nine wives, and he gathered them all before the altar. From the ocean surface descended the Eight-Armed Matripatrihierarch, landing upon the altar in a serene, cross-legged seat. The attendees knelt before their All-Parent, and Onuhi’le’le spoke,
“Ka’haluati - I wish to take these nine women to be my wives. They have all shown most motherly qualities towards my cousins, and they have all been born into good families - kind blood runs in their veins. Please, my father, allow me to take them as my own so I may further my line in your name.”
Ka’haluati regarded the women and the prince, one of their eight hands reaching to touch one of the closer women. She quivered, but only slightly. Ka’haluati spoke,
“An eager father takes many wives; as does the greedy. You know well my rules, my son - your father has told me so. Can I trust you, then, to treat all the children these women may have as your own? Can you devote your time and effort to your sons and daughters and teach them gentleness, kindness, patience and love?”
Onuhi’le’le drew an oyster shell knife from his belt and cut his palm, revealing the cut to Ka’haluati and everyone else in the palace. The god nodded and placed their palm on his head.
“Then you have my blessing. Take these nine to be your wives, and ensure your children share in their kind blood.”
The prince turned to embrace each of his wives and the attendees applauded. This was surely the beginning of an age of greatness for the kingdom.
--
It was not to last, however, for the prince had been as greedy as he was eager. It quickly became clear that nine women were far from enough for the prince, and after being crowned king, his bastards became as common around the reef as mussels. The king’s lustful ways sparked jealousy and melancholy among his wives, and their children learned nothing from their once-wise father beyond his sinful and neglectful ways. The princes grew wild-tempered and unruly, and the princesses grew envious and undisciplined. Thus, when the king presented his daughters for eligible partners, none would accept even the most generous terms of marriage; this harmed the king’s standing with the chiefs around his kingdom, who had always intermarried with the royal family to keep their familial bonds close. When the king took his sons to meet with his vassals, they would always bicker and fight with the other men, no matter how peaceful the day would begin; this harmed the king’s standing with his vassals, who had always admired the royal family’s ability to keep a cool head when no one else could. Sinful as the king had become with age, he punished his selfish children the only way he knew how: through violence. Upon seeing his fall from grace, Ka’haluati descended into his kingdom once more when the king was upon his deathbed, surrounded by councillors, vassals, lords and princes, all fighting and brawling over the title of heir. The Eight-Armed God asked,
“I once said the eager father takes many wives; as does the greedy. Which one were you?”
The king did not answer, and Ka’haluati frowned sternly.
“May every virtuous parent bear many children in my honour - the clan must prosper; the family, grow. Yet be warned, ye who do not care for your children: They are your flesh; they are your blood, and your flesh and blood are holy matter. So must you treat the children as holy matter, and in turn, they will revere you and your house, and the world will continue in harmony. Forsake your flesh and blood, and it will shun you and your house, and the world will descend into chaos.”
And chaos swallowed Kanani’i for good.
Base Form: Chakravarti takes the form of a pangendered, eight-armed human. Standing three metres tall, they are very much a sight to behold. Their hair flows down over their shoulders like a waterfall of black, spotted with small bronze bells and pieces of jewelry. Atop their head sits a tiara of gold and silver with a spider-eye arrangement of fine stones.
Their body is lean and neither particularly feminine nor masculine, but also incredibly so. For one blink, their body may appear most womanly, with smooth lines, wide hips and evident breasts underneath wraps of bandages and several platinum, gold and silver amulets; the next blink, the chest appears thick and broad with muscle, and the curves flatten into hard, authoritative lines. Blink again, and they might be somewhere in between, shifting with every change of perspective. Their most clothed half, the legs, are dressed in baggy pants of the finest silk, held up by a belt fashioned from gold chains.
Chakravarti is frequently seen bearing one or several artifacts fashioned by themself: Sirpinghali, a sword which cannot be used to murder a relative; Urusimahajir, a bow which can only fire as many arrows as the archer has children; Rajmubakadar, a sacred rope that when tied around the wrists of two newlyweds will cut off their hands should they divorce one another; Asayamasa, a compass that guides the way to one’s nearest relative; Loxmengeraj, a conch that speaks the name of a forgotten ancestor to its user; Surumisipir, a bell which when rung will determine one’s familial belonging; and lastly, Pirumilajir, the lotus sprout which can only bloom in the hands of a family heir. (For OOC reference, all these artifacts will be made during the Apocalypse or timeskip. Necessary MA will naturally be paid.)
True Form: Chakravarti’s True Form, as a family god, is to first explode into a cloud of smoke. The smoke blankets the local area like a thunderstorm on ground level, and all mortals in the area find themselves initially confused. Then, footsteps can be heard: Out of the smoke slowly, but surely appear all the past family, clan, house and dynasty heads of the mortals caught within the cloud, as though brought back from the dead. They all act like they did when they were alive and will most likely berate the mortals for bringing the clan into disrepair, despite what the reality is. To some, this form will be utterly horrifying - being shamed by one’s ancestors can be a gruesome experience; a few others, however, might see this as an opportunity to learn from the old to repair the new.
@rezay Go for it, fam! I give you my blessing to use anything from the OP, though you might want to contact @Chenzor if you want to borrow the full concept.
Okay, I'm beginning to think this concept may have been a bit too distanced from the usual NRP crowd on this site. Seeing as I'm also co-GMing another RP and am generally horrible at keeping up with the American time-zoned crowd, I think I'mma step down. I was not at all prepared for this and need to go back to the drawing board, from the looks of your comments and questions. All of you are of course free to continue your stories like you'd want to in a normal NRP - wouldn't want all that lore to be wasted - but I won't be here to dictate you anymore. Go nuts.
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