[center][img]http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v447/evanbittle/crows2.jpg[/img] [size=1]Chronicles of Dadiras:[/size] [b]Maszqueral[/b] [size=1]By Evan Bittle[/size] [b]Part II[/b] - - - - - - - - - -[/center] [blockquote]The blood, the torturous soul; I am the sin which breaths life into you, the god among men from whom you reap your woes. You are like the dead, and I am he who eats it, for it is demanded of your flesh to be the feed and the fodder. Do not betray your own purpose in this world! From you shall come everything. It is written: "Your bloodline shall birth a new beginning of man." But it is through only Him that you may continue your lineage. He is the coursing darkness, the shadow, the deepest fallen of hearts. A silent creature, a fallen abomination! He who is dead and has died a thousand days shall live again as your Sire, and then you shall prove yourself worthy with your loyalty and with your blood. Can you taste it now, child? Immortality is within your grasp! It is a thing so close to you, a thing which you can reach out and nearly touch, but it is not yours, for you have not yet earned it. When that time comes, you shall remember, "O, it is by God I have been made in such image, and it is by God I shall live forever." And while your banishment will be your greatest suffering, you shall quickly learn: "To be alone is a pain worse than death; though death is the true loneliness." Lost in a world few can hope to understand, you will feel only pain. The pain of thousand dying gods. From that, you will grow, and from all things you shall become stronger. You will find me in the murderer who will walk with the sleeper; you will stand among the dead within the lands which belong to no man; you will find me in the keeper of strength and the templar of my cult. These are your tasks, the legends of which have not yet been written. I have seen them, and you shall commit. Seek me out, child. Can you hear me? Seek me out.[/blockquote] [right][size=1]- EXCERPT FROM "THE SYNOD OF MASZ", [i]SIRE CRYPTOGRAPHY[/i][/size][/right] [center][IMG]http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v447/evanbittle/maszbreaker.jpg[/IMG][/center] The city of Uburo was home to many things, among them being the Imperial Libraries. These libraries were the centralized hub for all documentation across the Eastlands. Copies of every published essay and novel usually found their place somewhere within the great structure's many shelves. It was here that Maszqueral, curious of these rising Dadrian cults, hoped to find out more of the Demon. Historical records, religious texts - anything that could give him a better insight on what exactly these followers of Dadiras believed. As a new day in the city began, the clouds flowed about the sky, casting a shadowy dimness over the streets. Hiding the sun behind their billow, there was a muggy smell of foul weather approaching. The Library itself was a stocky stone building set on a wide foundation, lost almost in the central sprawl of the city. Surrounded by taller, overshadowing templesque style structures, the Imperial Library seemed like a dwarfed, out of place rock in the middle of a masterpiece that was the rest of the city. Most of the other buildings so aged as this one had been demolished long ago. These were relics of an old time, a time of thriving chaotic wonders. Maszqueral walked slowly up the Library's stone stairs, past a wall of pillars and into the brightly lit outer antechamber. With a gloved fist, he knocked on one of the large mahogany doors. With the beginning of rain landing on top of him, he once more knocked. Even with a hood over his head, water had begun to bead down his face. Finally, with a slow creak, the door opened. A small, aged man stood in its wake, his gray skin matching that of his hair and the lines under his eyes looked as though they were filled with dust. Robes of a common but scholarly man flowed over his thin shoulders as he smiled and motioned Maszqueral to come inside. "Ah, young man." The Librarian said slowly, watching as Maszqueral pulled back his hood and attempted to wipe himself dry with a sleeve. "What is it you need?" The Captain nodded in greeting, said: "I am sorry to impose upon you, Sir, but I am in need of a bit of reading." The Librarian chuckled, "Then you came to the right place. And oh, it is no trouble, the Library is always open. A blessing, but people often neglect such privileges." He smiled, "Regardless, how I could I turn down the good Captain?" "Then you know who I am?" Maszqueral said, removing his gloves and placing them within his robes. A wet, outer coat now set draped over his arm. The white and blue trimmed uniform below remained crisp. "Know who you are?" The Librarian laughed again, "Of course I do. Your face has posted on every wall in the lower quarters." He leaned forward slightly, grinning widely with missing teeth. "Those who are underneath Gerrid's foot take quite the liking to you." "Well, support must come from somewhere," The Captain smiled, "So at least it comes from the people and not an iron fist." The old man snickered, "Wise words." Finally the Librarian began to lead Maszqueral deeper within the Library until they come out into a large open hall. The ceilings were high and the area was still quite well lit, but now the floors were covered in a thin layer of dust. Atop it sat rows upon rows of bookshelves, each of them filled and stacked with books. The air here tasted stale. The Librarian cleared his throat, standing within the center of the room. For a moment, Maszqueral admired the ornately carved white ceilings and many shelves, even impressed by the blue-green carpeting which lined the floor, patterned in various oblong symbols. From one wall hung a long, flowing banner, colored azure and trimmed with gold. Etched within it was the symbol of the Eastland Empire - the outline of a single, sharply tipped tower with small, multi-pointed stars dancing along its edges. "So, Councilman..." The Librarian began to say, watching the young military man standing before him. Maszqueral, still admiring the scene around himself, lifted a hand. "Please, call me Maszqueral. Captain, if anything." "Captain it is. I was a soldier myself in the old days, served under your father - the General - on more than one occasiona... But, oh, that is another story." He smiled, "Yet I wonder: what story did you come here for, then?" "Ah," Maszqueral hesitated. "Do you have any historical records or religious information about Dadiras?" "Dadiras?" The Librarian thought quickly, "I'm certain we do, but they're locked away in the archives." He winked slyly, "I'm not supposed to let anyone in there." "You've heard about the sudden rising in Dadrian followers, haven't you?" Maszqueral asked. "In the under-city, yes. That is why you're interested?" "I need to learn more about Dadiras if I hope to understand what is going on there. All I've ever heard of him during my days in Temple are that he is a demon and something to be forgotten. A monster, they say, and a defeated conquest that should never be remembered. Yet they flaunt trophies of him in the Temple District... Often I hear Templar soldiers making a joke of him." Maszqueral sighed, "But I need to know more that what the Priests and Templar are willing to tell." "Well, you are lucky to know that even some books which have been banned and burned still remain as singular copies within that archive." The old man contemplated deeply a moment, rubbing his chin with a thin, bony finger. "I trust that you're intentions are true and with good purpose. I see no harm in allowing you access there." "Thank you, Sir." Maszqueral said immediately, bowing slightly. The Librarian jutted his finger toward the Captain now, "You will remember to tell no one of this, or Ayille will make sure you're not the only forgotten conquest." Maszqueral nodded. "Good, now come with me." From inside, the Imperial Library looked much larger than it did on its exterior. Following the man further back into the confines of the place, Maszqueral was amazed that he had never before visited here. It was one of those minor markings on a map which all ignored for more interesting, outwardly appealing places. The temples, the towers - in a city like this, who would spend their time wasting away in a library? Apparently this aging man was the only one left. Eventually, having past a dozen more rows of shelves and stepping around what appeared to be the Librarian's personal desk, they came to a large archway door. It was made of a thick oak and was studded in iron. A strong lock held it secure. Digging within a pocket, the old man retrieved a key and deftly placed it within the lock. With a quick rotation, what sounded like several bolts unhinging themselves on the other side of the door echoed. Slowly then he pulled open the doorway, Maszqueral standing there looking down into the abyss that waited behind it: a flight stairs descending into complete darkness. Almost lost in the shadows, thoughts were racing through his head. [i]Dadiras...[/i] He mouthed the name silently to himself. What things did he hope to find that could prove useful? Was there any hidden purpose in his coming here, other than simple curiosity? Were his intentions, a thing he had even the Librarian convinced of, truly good ones? No, he assured himself. Of course they were good. He had a duty to the people. That was all that mattered. The Captain turned his head to look at the Librarian one final time as the old man weakly took down a lamp off the wall and handed it to the him. "It's dark down there." The aged man said with a touch of eccentricity. "I forgot the mention that." Maszqueral laughed lightly, taking the lamp and lifting it over the first descending step. It illuminated far enough down to see the stone floor at the bottom, as well as the entrance into another room. "How long do you intend on staying?" Again, the old man. Maszqueral slowly replied, his eyes intently watching the floor at the bottom of the stairwell. "All night if I have to." "Then I'll give you until morning. I must attempt to maintain some respect for the rules; you can't expect me let you into the archives whenever you want to." "I understand." "And you must not take anything from that vault! Do you hear me?" "I do." Maszqueral seemed lost in his stare downward. "I may be old, but for both our sakes - I reiterate! - I hope not for Gerrid or some other arrogant fool to find out what I'm letting you do." Maszqueral turned to him, placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "Do not worry, Sir. I can be trusted." The old man smiled wryly. "Thank you," Maszqueral said. He looked back once more to the stairwell, and after a moment he gathered his thoughts and began his way down. The stairs were narrow and obviously unkempt, but he continued on unabated. An even stronger sense of dust and stale air filled this cellar moreso than the central libraries. About half of the way down, the door closed behind him. For a moment, he looked back to the darkness encompassing him, his vision limited only to what stretch of light leapt from the lamp in his hands. He twisted a valve on it, increasing the fuel of the flame and the subsequent brightness. As he reached the bottom, he immediately soaked up his surroundings. The room seemed was perfectly square, lined with more bookshelves and rolled paper scrolls. Maps, reports, and even worse: banned books written by heretics and political offenders. It was all somewhere in this room. A wooden table with a single chair sat directly in its center, a few blank sheets of paper already strewn across it, an unlit and partially used candle was off to one side. Placing his lamp down next to the candle, Maszqueral lifted the wax stick. Lighting its tip with the lamp's flame, he become more satisfied with the amount of illumination in this cellar archive. Hesitantly, he began to scour the shelves for anything worthwhile he could find. He took into his hands a few history books, skimmed lightly through them and their indexes, only to place them back on the shelves, disappointed. With each volume he removed, he coughed under a cloud of dust. He continued his search, until a solitary book caught his eye. It was a rather unnoticeable binding, yet still he seemed drawn to it. While the other books were thick and seemed laced with reds and blue, colors and elaborately textured titles, this one seemed thin and purely black. As he pulled it from the shelf, the front and rear covers as well were almost entirely blank, simply colored black. On the front was a single symbol, in red. At first not recognizing it, he looked closer. It was a simple and round-edged figure, swirling about itself to a single point. Running his fingers over it, Maszqueral realized its resemblance to an abstractly drawn eye. The Eye of Dadiras. Immediately, he moved to sit at the table, taking a breath as he silently examined the cover. As the shifting light of the candle and nearby lamp flowed over the room, the book seemed ominously outset in its pure blackness against the light shades of the wood and stone walls. [i]Dadiras...[/i] He thought again. [i]There is so much mystery about you.[/i] Finally, he opened the book to its first page, the paper the whitest he had ever seen, with its handwritten words as equally black as its cover. He began to read. [blockquote][center][b]T BLAMAK BRAMATTA OHF DADIRAS[/b] [i]The Black Book of Dadiras[/i][/center] TO HE WHO READS this book, know that every word upon its pages are not those of fiction. While hidden meaning remains for those who look, this is a story of truths told among a story of lies. Dadiras willing, you will find what you seek, see that which is meant to be seen. It is in dedication to our Sire of Eyes, our Sovereign God, the King of the End of Time, for what follows are writings by Dadiras' own hand. He who seeks the dead shall surely find Him. [center][b]I[/b][/center] Here look, the mind of man is corrupted; it is a deafening cry within themselves that is wholly ignored. They turn away from He that would be their caretaker. They pray to idols, worship symbols, fabricate ideals and ridiculous fantasies of an immortal soul. Their afterlives are as false as their gods. Tales that could be shrugged off as lies by children are treated as truths. They create their own laws based on their own ambitions. So here are humans, mortals, both the greatest of fools and greatest of potentials. They cannot be blamed for how they have become little more than mindless monsters themselves, for when looking up from their graves upon me with disdainful eyes, they say, "It is He who brought us death". Indeed, I have tasted their flesh and made mountains of their bones, but it is the fault of their true father, once patron and now fallen god Amyn, they have drifted so far from perfection, so far into chaos. In the past I have slaughtered them, but it is Amyn who has damned their existence from the beginning. Few humans even remember Amyn, but they will never forget me, no matter how hard they try. At first I hated them, these unworthy children of Amyria, but soon I came to realize how truly unique they were. Ages past perhaps before I realized it, but I now know what it is that I must do. It is through I, God, that they will achieve divinity. For it one thing to make a man immortal, but to make him perfect? This is what shall take many generations, and to wait for he who shall be the perfect candidate. So wisdom, I should hope, will be found to you who read this book. [/blockquote] Maszqueral leaned slowly back in his chair, the light of the candle flickering nearby. Astonishment, to put it best, was overcoming him. How could this book actually be written by Dadiras himself? Could that monster the Imperial Clerics condemned as a blood-lusting, thoughtless creature truly of done such a thing? Recollections of past teaching by his own familial elders, the temple leaders, and the Texts of the Holy Divines all said one thing: Dadiras is a brute and a Demon, a thing of destruction and utter hate. Maybe, the young Captain considered, he isn't those things; maybe he is, but also something more than anyone was willing to realize. As Maszqueral read on, his thoughts became filled with the ideas within. While thin and small in size, the book seemed endless. With every page turned, there were still a thousand more filled with dark secrets and hidden knowledge. Could it all be trusted? Dadiras, they say, was a great deceiver. Or is that just what the Divines wanted the people to believe? Dadiras' own convictions held that He was the true god, [i]the[/i] God, and that the Eastlander Temple, the Divines, did not even exist. Was it a ploy of arrogance, a complex need for superiority, or was it, by some chance, true? It didn't make sense anymore. The greatest question of all haunted Maszqueral so: why was he so fascinated with what he was reading? Pages ahead, he began once more to concentrate. He skipped lines and entire paragraphs as he skimmed through, like he was reading a book he intended to read over and over again with all the time in the world. [blockquote] There are many steps to human evolution. The kind as a whole are nothing but whelps and dogs, but singularly they can arise to great meaning. To those who know me, they reach their greatness through that of the Ash Path. The most basic advance is the overcoming of pain, a thing which many of mortals are unable to do. Humans are are weak, and thus often, and unfortunately, undeserving of growth. For I have written: to overcome pain is to overcome yourself, and to overcome that inert instinctive fear often bled as chaos throughout the human mind. To overcome pain is to overcome pain; that alone is a feat worth record. Secondly, they are to make mutilation of themselves. Once able to overcome pain, they must also realize it is a thing to gather strength from. One must let their physical body feed spiritually from it, and intellectually come to the realization that flesh is meaningless. It is, in fact, the soul of all creatures that drives their survival. This was my mistake with my bastard Elves - I made them perfect of form, but humans alone are the ones capable of perfection of mind. Furthermore, if they have made it this far, they must be willing to fully commit. No longer is their self-mutilation a thing of personal destruction, but instead evolves into a cleansing of body, mind, and spirit. The willingness to sacrifice flesh and blood is one of the basic tenants of my Cult. A warrior, or, for that matter, any true human, must not fear death but rather embrace it. Understanding that, man must let himself fall, to let his spirit leave that worthless rot he calls his natural form. If he is worthy of it, by intervention he may be renewed, or receive a new host body. From this host, he may continue to fight, to preach, and to live forever undead. [/blockquote] Maszqueral rubbed his eyes, saw that the candle had grown much shorter. He had been in this cellar for longer than he thought. Then, suddenly, a blinding light flooded into the room. Turning around, he could see through the glare up the stairwell the silhouette of an old man. The Librarian had come to ask him to leave. As his eyes adjusted, Maszqueral was aghast. Morning already? No, it couldn't... "Hard at work, I see." The old man said, chuckling, "Come on now, morning is the limit to what I can offer you. It may surprise you, but I do get the occasional Cleric coming here, and I don't think they'd take kindly to me letting you into the Archives." Why did that ragged old man have to show up already? He couldn't just leave the book here to waste away on some forgotten library shelf. There was much more to read in it, so much of the lost chapters of history, such wisdom to be absorbed! He had to... "Come on now!" The Librarian said, this time louder, thinking he wasn't being clearly heard from the top of the stairwell. Slowly, Maszqueral stood and took a heavy breath, then hesitantly blew out the candle. Grabbing the lamp, which was now growing low on fuel, he began to turn. As the Captain headed up the stairs, he seemed to recompose himself, felt the stresses release, the tension lifting. Getting out of the cellar calmed him, and surely more of his woes could be done away with a good rest. Maszqueral stepped out into the light, squinting. Looking ahead, pass all the shelves and to the open front door of the Library, it was indeed morning. It was still raining - odd for this time of year. Taking a long breath, he watched the Librarian close the arched archive door, locking it. "Thank you, Sir," Maszqueral began, "It was kind of you to allow me access to the archives at all." The Librarian knowingly nodded, placing the keys back within his robes. "Quite welcome, child, but remember: speak nothing of this. You are among the council, and I know you can be trusted. However, ever since Gerrid came into power he forbade public access to these records. It is wise you do not return for a while if you must return at all." A cautious warning, but with how many times the Librarian had already repeated it, Maszqueral wondered the state of his senility. "Yes, yes, I understand, and thank you. You have been very helpful." "A pleasure, Maszqueral." Seeming already to occupy himself with something else, he commented under his breath, "Such dreadful weather." Suppressing his anxiousness, the Captain threw his robes over his shoulders. Now, they had long since become dry, and he casually brushed them with his hands to remove their wrinkles. Walking toward the antechamber as he pulled his gloves back over his fingers, he looked over his shoulder at the Librarian who slowly began to sit down at his desk. The old man had no idea Maszqueral still held the Black Book, having stuffed it under his sash and out of sight. [i]Dadiras...[/i] He would read Dadiras' writings further today, after he returned to his home, that was sure. He would read it again and again until he understood everything he needed to understand. Something powerful was driving him to know.