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[size=1]Chronicles of Dadiras:[/size]
[b]Maszqueral[/b]
[size=1]By Evan Bittle[/size]

[b]Part III[/b]

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The Temple District of Uburo took up much of the city's core. Here in the central most hub of the city's circular design, the streets were lined with shrines and sepulchers. Surrounding the Palace Tower, which was shaped like a giant ivory spear shooting out of the ground from its foundations as though to touch the clouds themselves, there was a constant commotion of religious followers and pilgrims. Of all these various locales, however, a single structure remained the most extravagant: the Temple of the High Templar.

It was within those great halls where the icon of humanity's greatness and power set, always to be flaunted before those who came to see it. For it was this single object, here encased for all time and displayed atop an engraved, marble pedestal; the Eye of Dadiras.

Overwatched by dozens of gold-armored Templar Knights and maintained by several high level priests, the dull crimson crystal idly sat, a constant pulsing red glow about it. It was about the size of a grown man's closed fist, distinctly angular and unevenly shaped, appearing but a shard of some larger, more magnificent stone. It was, or so they say, the petrified remains of the Demon's most symbolic attribute - a third, red eye that once set vertically on his forehead.

While never openly acknowledged by the Clerics and Priests, there was a general understanding that possession of the Eye provided an unseen strength for the possessor. Subsequently, the Templar-influenced government - specifically, Gerrid Ayille - held control of this same benefit. What exactly the Eye did was uncertain, but there had been no recorded major military defeats since it was gifted to the early humans by the Elves. A bribe to leave the children of Dadiras to their isolation, the Elves surrendered all potential boons the Eye would give them. Instead, the Elf-kind are rumored to have taken another part of Dadiras - his Heart. 

Humanity, with its own gift in hand, began to spread, and the new Empire was founded. Keeping to their promises, the Elves have since been left to themselves in the mystic forests of Nafarun, north-west of the Western Plains, and in the deserts of Kreya, to the south. Even with Dadiras dead, all of Nurach - the entire plane of Azerul, for that matter - still felt some touch of his influence, of his bloodlines. The Eastland Empire, while not admittedly, was fueled by the Demon's energy. The Temple fervently suggested their victories derived only by sheer will, and support by their Holy Divines.

It was to the Temple of the High Templar where Captain Maszqueral had come, but not for the purpose of seeing the Eye. He had observed it several times before already, always disturbed by the aura it created and the incessant, metallic taste of blood on his tongue as he stared into its contours. He had learned already what he could from that thing. With the anxieties of the Black Book still coursing through him, staring into the very Eye of Dadiras would surely be enough to drive him mad.

Maszqueral entered into another hall within the Temple, a semi-circular chamber lined with dozens of marble benches. The benches faced toward the walls and eight niches there. Within each of the niches was a perfectly sculpted statue of one of the Greater Divines, the holiest of all deities within the Eastlander religion. In the center of the room stood the largest statue, representing the greatest god of them all - Ubur, robed and armored, with one hand gripping a spear, another lifted up toward the heavens, his face concealed behind the granite recreation of a winged-helmet; replicas of that same helmet were worn often by the higher level Templar Knights. In fact, it was from Ubur that the name of the Eastland Empire's capital city Uburo was named. With such wonders, this was a grandiose place, but it was a quiet morning with few people here, quite unlike the gathering of hundreds on weekly holy days. Maszqueral knew he could take this opportunity to have some privacy for his thoughts.

Dressed in wealthy attire, similar to what he wore during his visit to the Imperial Library, Maszqueral held the Black Book with him, keeping it concealed behind folds of cloth at his sash. A sudden nervous perspiration touched his brow every time he walked past one of the Templar Knights stationed in the halls. Templars had only mild affiliations to the actual military - his rule and respect as a Captain had no influence over these men. They were the elite of the elite when it came to their training as both warriors and fearless zealots to the Temple. Always determined in their protection of holy articles and artifacts, no one dared oppose them. Young Gerrid, darkly ambitious, had several times suggested commissioning Templars for personal guard during Council, or even to send them on military expeditions.

The guards thought little of Maszqueral as he walked past them, a pair of them continue their blank stare forward as the Captain dropped a few gold coins into a plate as contribution, as all visitors were expected to do. Removing a glove from his right hand, he dipped a finger into a bowl of salt next to plate. A few grains stuck to his finger's tip as he pulled it back and tasted it. Such a thing was more a reward for paying money to the church rather than a holding on any religious meaning. The rare bit of valuable salt - especially to the underclasses - was quite a delicacy for a human tongue. Even they were willing to part with what little money they had for a taste.

Salt, in fact, was the true reasoning behind several of the Eastlander's more recent conflicts. For a moment, the Captain's thoughts drifted back to the argument he had a few days ago with Gerrid. There was no salt in the West; what possibly could be there, among the grass and the dirt, that the High Councilman was interested in? Salt could be used to preserve foods, to make paper, and to purify water. It could sustain the diets of both men and livestock, to disinfect wounds, and, as the rarest spice in all of Azerul, to provide flavor. The fields of the Western Plains could not provide any of this.

Quickly, Maszqueral's determination returned to his task at hand. After he had begun to read the Black Book, he immediately began to question his previously solid beliefs in the Divines. He had been raised to believe in their protection and power, but now wondered if they even existed at all. His faith had never really been that strong, yet he simply followed it because it was the norm. Everyone believed in the Divines, and everyone had reason to be subservient and thankful to them as the creator of men. Dadiras, however, called the Divines a lie, cited the creator of men to be someone - or something - else entirely.

"Dadiras is a great deceiver," they had always said. Yet, what if the Demon, of all things, was the only one telling the truth?

While a few comments within the Black Book suggested the possibility of the Divines being based on former, murdered deities of the early First Era, it would still mean that the Eastlander's gods were dead and would not return. Assuredly dead, in fact, seeing as Dadiras himself had been the one who killed them.

"Of all the true gods," The Black Book had stated, Maszqueral recalled, "I am the only one to remain within the esoteric history of the Eastlander Divines. Though it could have saved them a certain level of suffering by erasing me from their fantasies, it is in fact a benefit to themselves that they kept my name alive. While in denial of many other truths about their origins, to remove God from the world is blasphemous of all reality, nonetheless foolish."

While the words written within The Black Book were, in some ways, enlightening and insightful, it all still remained on the assumption that Dadiras had authored it, and that the Divines were false idols. What true proof was there? Easily a man could of written such lies, could invent a fantasy of his own to try and undermine the foundations of the Temple. Dissenters, anarchists, liars, all the same. At the same time, this condemned book seemed simple to believe, and Maszqueral knew he was not one to be so easily swayed.

As the Captain slowly walked past several of the other intricately carved statues, he looked upon them. One was of a woman in a long dress, named Eniale, holding a farmer's sickle against her breast. Another of a strong, imperialistically armored soldier titled "Igorno". A third was of a elderly bearded man, Vivirch, with dozens of scrolls stuffed under his arm. They all had their own representations, their own legends and supposed histories relating them with each other. But the question remained: did they even exist? Both sides of this argument within himself seemed to have no answer.

He finally decided to sit in a dimly lit corner on one of the benches, set before yet another statue of a young looking man with his hands outstretched. Maszqueral, lowering his head as to appear in prayer from a distance, reached into his sash for the Book. Once more he cautiously glanced around himself. Few were here on this busy market day, and those who were did not pay suitable attention to his distant corner of such a lonely hall.

For a moment, as Maszqueral held the book his hands, half-concealed on his lap, he could only stare at it. So many questions needed to be answered...

Though faith the Divines had always been a powerful subject for him, he realized that at no point in his life that he could remember being directly influenced by them. Did the gods only speak to those truly chosen, or were all of his pantheons little more than fiction as a means of control? These were things even the highest Templars would deny, yet, quite possibly, know in their hearts that not even they have heard the voices of the gods.

It seemed when the voices were heard, or at least a voice, an unknown whisper in the shadows, only the heretical Oracles could hear them. The controversy these supposed prophets created was always garnered with conspiracy against the Imperial Temple. What if these Oracles, who in times past were worshiped like gods by the banished Westlanders, were actually hearing the voice of Dadiras? There was really no way to be certain; they had all always been publicly executed. They had all once lived as normal people with normal lives when suddenly they became hosts to maddening ideas, cries of mental pains and schizophrenic horrors. However, they were quick to die for what was always deemed lies and blasphemy by the church.

There were many things of this which distressed Maszqueral. Was it really possible for a people to create from nothing something so powerful as a god, to which people pray and pledge their allegiances, their very lives? Other 'true' gods that are discussed in the Black Book aren't even mentioned in any form among the Divine's holy texts. However, non-religious historical records made before the beginning of the Second Era, though rare, at least mentioned Dadiras and one other, Amyn. They even say it was from him that man originated - not the similarly fashioned Ubur - and that it was for he that the Amyrian Sea was named, the great ocean just north-east of the coast of the Empire. Was it possible that even Amyn has cults like the Dadrian's do somewhere in this world?

"At first I hated them, these unworthy children of Amyria," Dadiras had said in the Book, referencing to humanity. Amyn, Amyria, Amyrian Seas... It could not be coincidence.

The Captain finally opened the Black Book, his fingers deftly moving over the white pages to find a specific chapter. He stopped then, looking onto the paper there and the sketch it held of the demon himself. So chilling to simply sit and stare at the face of something so legendary.

The sketch was of the shoulders up to the top of his head, the flesh shaded a myriad of grays and outlined thickly in black. His hair was showed long, smoothly slicked back and spiked at the back of his head. It midnight in color, with a pair of silver horns jutting out just below his hairline from his forehead. His face was angular, the high cheeks jutting beneath blackened eyes. His chin appeared cleanly shaved, every aspect of him strangely well-groomed across the entire sculpt his face. Thin lips held back the blank expression of his mouth, and a razor edge of sharp teeth. The nose was thin and straight, with a gust of smoke releasing from his nostrils to halo about his head, just above the tips of his pointed, enlongated ears. Upon the center of his forehead was that Eye, that infernal thing, painted here in a bloody red.

With a shudder, Maszqueral returned his gaze once more to the massive marble statues surrounding him. For the first time in his life he began to question deeply his own religion. Corruption? Lies? How could it all be fallacy? Surely some of his beliefs were based on facts. How could he seriously consider trusting the words of Dadiras?

Closing it, the Captain stared at the book concealed in his hands. Even this could be a lie. All of it could be a lie.

"It's a test." Maszqueral told himself aloud, gripping the book tightly. "A test of my faith set upon me by the Divines." He looked around himself, frustrated, not realizing how loud he was speaking. With no one seeming to have heard him, he sighed and lowered his head. In a whisper, he continued to himself, "But why me, and why with such madness?"

He wondered, [i]What is it that is clawing away at my thoughts in the back of my head? Everything I know is collapsing around me; my service to the people, all I have fought for these years. What purpose do I have when I am being driven mad my such things?! Every moment of this drives me further away, and I can do nothing to stop it.[/i]

"I don't even feel human anymore..." He said beneath his breath, his own fingernails digging into his leg as he sat hunched forward over his knees. He was shaking as he clenched his opposite fist, having pushed the book aside on the hard marble bench. Maszqueral seemed ready to tear himself apart. That's what he was already doing.


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[center]What am I more than that thing,
Which claws at the back of your mind, 
That seeks and brings only pain, that digs,
That hole in your heart a little deeper, 
Than it once was? You see me now, and pray,
I leave you, pray you can find that thing,
Which will make you whole. Though so much,
I take away, there still, so much I give.
Let the pain come, Let the madness embrace you. 
Become it, a ritual, your mantra, your love,
And your reason to live. Grip it with both hands,
And lift it, here where nothing can be seen.
Eat it all, child, Let it become you. 
It comes from the edges, but look only above,
Into the eyes of that forgotten sin,
Which you drive now to the back of your being.
Embrace it, for this is you, this is where you stand.
Through water and blood-pool you wade, 
And you will drink it all. Let it fill your gut,
Let it curse your skin with its so caustic touch.
This is your mind, this is what makes you whole,
This is what makes you empty.

- Excerpt from The Synod of Masz, [i]The Moonologues[/i]
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Maszqueral's skull felt like it was ready to collapse in upon itself. Pain was flowing freely through his body, a horrible headache digging into his mind. He could not stand to leave open his eyes as they burned, his clenched teeth gnawing against themselves furiously. His hands still dug, one in into his leg, the other into the marble bench where he sat, to the point of nearly breaking off his own fingernails.

Then, suddenly, all things within him turned to nothing. There was no pain. There was no sound of his own agony, nor of the distant worshipers. There was no beating of his own heart, nor the sensation of his own breath. There was only nothing.

Slowly, a dull image flickered into his mind's eye. A vast and endless field of gray grasses ran beneath him, as though he were flying overhead from the sight of a bird. As he traveled on, the grass turned more of a reddish color, intermittent flames seeming to spew out from nowhere along it. He could hear what sounded like his wings on the wind...

"The West..." A voice spoke to him, a voice which sounded like a thousand individuals overlapping each other. "It shall become as blood. The blood of an entire people on the hands of one man."

For a moment, a disfigured image of Gerrid appeared. Maszqueral wanted to recoil from it, but in this dream he had no physical body to even do so. There was only a sickened feeling throughout his essence, a tugging which forced him to stare ever forward.

"But the West shall not be allowed to fall," The voice continued, sounding more precise, less chaotic, and more distinctly masculine than before. "For it is not the will of Dadiras that it should."

The grass below him was becoming sparse and the dirt had become crimson and fluid, appearing almost as though it was pulsing, like it were alive.

"You are blessed, young one. It is to you that this mission has been given."

The land looked as though it were flesh. No... It was flesh.

"Do you know then what you must do?"

Suddenly, a figure lifted out from behind the red horizon. It appeared as a large black hand, the fingers tipped in golden claws. It fell down upon the surface of the land, digging its wretched fingers into this field of flesh, blood spewing from the wounds as it gripped tighter.

The voice spoke quickly, no longer many voices but a single one. A familiar voice... Maszqueral's own.

"So you, child, shall be given the gift which had been given to me. You shall see what is before it becomes, and within me you shall gain your strength. For when this task is done, you shall inherit divinity. You shall become more than a man." It paused, then: "I have called to you and you have listened. Seek me further, mortal, and bring swift resolution to my will."

Then, once more, all things became black. The sounds, the voices, the images; all of it was gone. Maszqueral's senses painfully returned to him, and he gasped for air, his eyes wide and still burning as tears rolled down his cheeks. He opened his mouth wide and lifted his hands against his chest. The fine robes he wore felt soiled with sweat. He breathed heavily, bowing his head and trying to settle his heart. He saw where his hand had been digging into the marble - there were deep scratches in the shape of his own fingers, though his hands remained unscathed.

A vision? Dadiras? Then it was true. The Black Book, it was all true.

He looked up to the statue in front of him, closing his mouth finally and attempting to shift his breathing back through his nostrils. "Murilias," Maszqueral thought, naming the god represented in the statue before him. "With so much you all have failed."

It was all lies. The Divines, everything. Lies and fabrication, fiction which led an entire empire in stupor. He had to tell someone else! His good friend, Diliri Kur? No, he couldn't do that. He could tell no one, for no one would listen or believe him. He would marked a heretic and executed - or worse, tortured and banished.

But this was Dadiras himself that had spoken to him! Dadiras, whose Eye sat as a prize within the Temple. This Temple! Is that why he had been driven to come here? Dadiras, who had enslaved an entire race and murdered gods! Dadiras, who, even in death, still held such disturbing influences over the minds of men!

Why would the Demon want to protect the Westlands? What was there that held his interest? Was it the same thing that Gerrid was ready to go to war for? But, more importantly: did this mean Dadiras would be returning soon? Forces seemed at work here that Maszqueral could not begin to understand.

The Captain instinctively looked around the hall, catching the eye of someone on a far bench glancing toward him. Maszqueral looked away, panicking. Had they seen everything that had just happened? How long had that experience, that vision, even last? Mere moments, perhaps more? There was no way to tell.

Maszqueral tried to calmly and casually stand, almost stumbling as he turned around the bench and head into the back of the room where he could not be seen. Composing himself as best as he could, he slipped out past the guards silently and finally out of the Temple altogether. Purposely, he avoided the central hall where the Eye sat. He had to return to his home with haste, a safe place to contemplate and absorb everything that had just occurred. He needed to prepare for tomorrow as well. It was then that they would have another council meeting.


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As he watched this strange man in the corner of the chamber, the young temple priest was uncertain what to make of it. He had noticed the man, dressed in a wealthy attire, when he had entered. At that time, the man had appeared normal and the priest thought nothing of it. But as this stranger drifted into his distant corner and began to show such strange behavior...

Something about this man held a familiar appearance. His face, specifically, was recognizable. Could he be that recently elected Captain to the Council? It was hard to be certain without a closer look. Oh, but it wasn't a humble priest's place to impose.

As the apparent Captain sat alone, he suddenly appeared, if only for a few moments, to be in great pain. Then, just as suddenly, he drifted into some deep meditation. The priest suspected him to perhaps be a grieving father or husband who had entered into his own thoughts. Trying once more to simply ignore this other man, the priest's attention was once more caught as the stranger came alive again with his pains. The priest, noticing it at first with only his peripheral vision, finally turned again to watch the troubled soul who sat alone in his corner.

No... How could this be Captain Maszqueral? He would have no reason to be here at the Temple on such an odd day, especially not exhibiting such unwarranted mania. Who was this man?

The stranger suddenly turned his head and saw the priest staring at him. The priest, puzzled, did not break his gaze as the other man turned away and seemed extremely nervous of the realization that he had been observed the whole time.

"Is he hiding something?" the priest thought to himself, wondering if he should call for one of the Templar Knights.

Slowly, the other man stood and disappeared out of view. A few minutes later, he left the hall through the nearby doorway - the same way he had come in.

Taking a moment to wonder, the priest's curiosity got the best of him. He stood, his religious robes straightening down over his body and waving as he stepped down the hall. As he reached that distant corner, he looked a moment to the statue there of one of the Divines.

Ah, Murilias. Forever an ally to the faithful and a spiritual representation to the loving embrace of the Temple.

The priest looked then along the benches, finding the one the strange man had sat at and noticed something sorely out of place. He stepped next to the bench and leaned over it to get a closer look.

"A book?" The priest said aloud, his brow arching. It was a plain, black book that the strange man had, apparently, accidentally left behind. Something was carved into the cover and colored a deep red. But, what was it... An eye? No, it couldn't possibly be!

"The Eye of Dadiras!" Too frightened to speak, his mind screamed it.

What book would dare hold such blasphemous symbols? Worse to think: what could lie within this dark volume's pages?

He looked next to the book, his eyes wide, and saw deep scratches within the marble. Immediately, he began whispering prayers to himself and retreated a few wavering steps away.

"Demons..." He managed finally to say aloud. "Demons!" Louder this time. "Guards, come here at once!"