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

[b]Part IV[/b]

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[blockquote]What does one do in times such as these? This world; it is such a dark existence. We are born to life, only to die, while those who live forever only grow corrupt and destroy themselves. It was seen in the Elves, and it is seen in ages past when the true gods once reigned. But what would become of a man who became immortal?

A man is fundamentally different than, for example, the elf-kind. While an Elf is born to know he will always live, the man is born with the constant fear of death. Disease, deprivation - they all are steps toward an untimely demise. Some would say this is a natural stage of a human life cycle, that it is the normal way of things. Perhaps, even others speculate, it is a security device instilled in us by the creator. With such a limited lifespan, the chance of deep seeded corruption is neglected.

While instances of such sin still arise among men, those who strive to reach an existence of perceived immortality, ultimately die as well. As ages past, their legacies die with them. For a simple man, it is truly impossible to forever be immortal. Yet, is remembrance in death immortality?

Some question what a man would truly become if he was given the chance to live eternally. Most would guess him to, with time if anything, become corrupted as did the Elves. However, what if this man were to reach his position through strict discipline? What if the form he would then inhabit would be one which is already dead? Would a man who cannot die because he is already dead, trained for a lifetime to achieve what he has been given, fall into such corruption? Many would agree that an individual of such trained ability would be able to maintain himself sensibly. According to the Dadrian laws, this is the beginning of a true man.

Most Dadrians, or fervent followers of the Demon Dadiras, would tell you that physical form is meaningless. While in many societies today there is a stress on physical perfectionism and materialism, in cultures directly influenced by this religion there is a strict minimalist attitude.

According to related Dadrian myths, a man who follows the disciplines of Dadiras to reach immortality must physically die. However, in death, if he has correctly headed down the path of Dadiras, he can be renewed with same mind, but in a different form or body. Consequently, what would essentially be occurring among these people is 'body stealing', or as the Dadrians call it, 'the taking of a host'. It is proposed that Dadiras himself follows similar laws, and that he may be revived if given the proper host.

The given path of Dadiras is defined loosely as: pain, mutilation, ritual, enlightenment, and immortality. Also, there is a definite stress on the notion of 'Blood and Loyalty', a popular comment made by those followers of Dadiras. The sacrifice of self, blood, and the gift of it toward their 'God', loyalty, creates a close bond between master and servant.

In recent times, the Cult of Dadiras has closed to dying out entirely. While underground, secret societies of followers are thought to exist, officially less than one-hundred members still belong to the Dadrian Temple. While outcasts to many, the official Imperial Law does not forbid the practice of other religions other than the Templar Divines. However, on several occasions, Dadrian's wishing to assemble have been arrested or their groups dispersed by force.

Many look disdainfully upon the religion, not only for its belief and worship of a god often considered evil or a demon, but also because of its need for expression by self-mutilation. As stated earlier, Dadrian's believe in the mortal form as a useless entity, a simple carrier of the spirit. While necessary to interact with the mortal world, the physical body can be freely interchanged with others, and the willing to inflict harm upon themselves attests to their mental strength against pain and their willingness to surrender all to Dadiras.

According to Dadrian beliefs, the body "is a vessel for the spirit" which "carries the spirit until its destruction". As the physical body dies, the spirit then "returns to the End of Time, to be as a drop of water sent into the sea". It is stated that, "As when a drop of water is a separate whole, when combined with the sea it can no longer be separated".

Believing that Dadiras can essentially 'hold on' to these 'drops', or spirits, and instead of returning them to the 'End of Time' will rather place them in a new body, if they have proven themselves worthy of it. Followers of Dadiras see this as the achievement of immortality. Though skewed from other forms of immortality, both seen in the Elves and in other religious belief systems, it still is comparable and thus considered, assuming the beliefs to be true, to be a form of immortality.

For further information, please read the book of Dadrian faith, the 'Blamak Bramatta'.
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- Excerpt from the report [i]On Dadiras Worrship[/i] 
by Fuhruan Milgado, Imperial Scholar; 2E 418.[/right]

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Maszqueral's face held a sullen expression, his eyes hungry for rest. With all the recent happenings, he found it difficult to sleep. Memories of the vision he experienced the Temple, the still lingering whispers in his head, all troubled him. There were too many questions still unanswered even after all he had learned, and could now only sit and brood. The Captain let out a tired sigh, his teeth gnawing impatiently on his lower lip. Here again in Council it was inevitable until the issue of the Westland invasion rose again. As if his mind was not troubled enough already, politics were going to ruin his sanity more.

These menial things were especially a cause of annoyance on this day. It felt like Gerrid was mocking him, purposely dragging things on until everyone was too tired to argue with him. A clever plot - ambitious Ayille's fellow councilmen would be too sour to bother arguing against war. Undoubtedly the past few days had been spent by Gerrid to gather more support as well. Regardless of the Council's disposition, there seemed little hope anymore to speak reason.

Maszqueral ran a hand along his leg beneath the table. It felt painfully sore, but something from this self inflicted wound felt... powerful. Yesterday, as he had been sitting in the Temple, his fingernails had dug as deeply into his own flesh as he had that bench. The Captain could feel his heart beating, the blood running through his veins. In that instant, he felt the warmth of his skin forming a scar, the salty taste of his own sweat in the air. Gerrid's face was an echo, and the room melted into a blur...

Quickly, he was brought back to reality, lost from his trance to see Diliri watching him closely. Catching each other's glance for but a moment, Diliri turned to once more attentively observe the High Councilman.

Diliri Kur, that old friend. Could he be trusted with this new knowledge? What reaction would he have from the idea of what had occurred? Dadiras was a blasphemy to the Divine Temple in these days! While in past centuries the Empire had been more religiously tolerant, anymore it closed to a point of phobia, persecution, and extreme prejudice to all practices not specifically ordained by the Temple. Diliri was as devote as a Templar, but at one time so had Maszqueral.

"We move now..." Gerrid began, rising to a new topic. He ran over a set of notes in front of himself, reading over the scheduled issues on the day's agenda. "But ah, of course; the Cartographers. Secretary, please rise." Gerrid gestures to the corner of the room, a thin balding man holding a large bound book in his hands stepped into the center of the hall. 

The Secretary cleared his throat, then: "As some as you may be aware, the Imperial Scholars, Cartographers, intend to make a revised map of the known plane of Azerul. Recent annexations have allowed us information for an increasingly elaborate and accurately detailed map. Better records as well of the Westlands and Elven Nafarun have proven quite useful." He paused, stepping up to to Gerrid's place at the table and set down an unfinished copy of the final map. "As you can see, more additions to the map means more nameless territories." He pointed to a peninsular piece of land which edged into the north, jutting off from the northern tip of the Western Plains, just across the border from the Empire. "Here, specifically. It's only known now by a general term: the swamplands. The West, nor ourselves, have ever laid claim to it. It is true the Empire once attempted colonization, but the area is far too hostile, and Westlander intervention proved dire to the foreign workers."

"I'm sure those Westland bastards have some superstitious signature for it. Maybe we could ask them what to call it!" Ayille said quickly, sarcastically, releasing a hearty guffaw. A few others joined with him. 

"Don't be a fool," Maszqueral said suddenly, interrupting their laughter. They all grew silent.

His eyes glaring again toward the Captain, Gerrid paused a moment, let the ill silence set in. "A fool? And what wondrous recommendations can you offer? Cartographers are very picky men, Captain." He smiled widely, then: "But oh, perhaps we can name it after you then? A useless, rotting swampland. Yes, I think that would suit perfectly for you, man. You're only remembrance a tuft of chaos."

"Very well." Maszqueral replied quickly.

"'Very well' what?"

"Name it after me."

"The swamplands?" Gerrid chuckled, lifted his hand and stroked the air, as if visualizing the name floating there. "Maszqueral... No. Masz. Write it down!" He said, pointing then to the secretary.

"This is ridiculous," Another one of the councilmen said, thick fingers rolling through his wiry beard.

"Be silent!" Gerrid scolded him, looking again to the hesitating secretary "Write it down!" As the thin man scribbled in his book, Gerrid once more looked directly to Maszqueral, though addressing the whole council. "Now, to less trivial matters."

The Secretary returned to his seat off to the side, disappearing from notice.

Standing slowly now, the High Councilman looked around the room. "I think all of you know of my proposition to recapture the heathen Westlands. As I have said before, the people there are no longer safe under rule of their local Warlords. They are in need of taming. And the only way that can be accomplished is-"

Maszqueral cleared his throat in interjection, his gloved hands folded in front of himself.

Gerrid audibly sighed in annoyance. "And I suppose, Maszqueral, you have yet another important reason to interrupt me."

Maszqueral mockingly stood, "I inquire again, of his most esteemed High Councilman," the replied sarcasm was obvious, "the same thing I asked, yet received no answer to, during our last session: what reason is there to bring war upon the Westlanders beyond your own political ambition? Do you even have proof of unjust rule under the Warlords there?"

"I'm not sure if you are aware, Captain Maszqueral, that almost all wars are fought through simple 'political ambition'." Gerrid stood arrogant and tall from his seat. "Any other benefits are simply collateral." Maszqueral noted that Gerrid refused to answer the second half of his question.

Diliri laughed from across the room, waved a hand in the air, "If there is no salt, there is no value; there are no enemies which threaten us, not even a distant foe the conquering of these lands could give us tactical gain for. At most we threaten ourselves into a quagmire, a war that will, as your own advisers so advised, would... Oh, how did he word it? 'Strike hell on our coffers'!" The elder councilman, who was indeed an appointed adviser of Gerrid (appointed, in fact, just the day prior), who had said that exact phrase at the last meeting sunk in his seat. Kur continued, "You're argument is the same as before, and so is ours."

"We will bring war to the Westland's regardless of what either of you say. We all are representatives of the people on this council, and by majority, our ruling to proceed is final. If you choose to do nothing but interfere with our established regulations, I will have to ask you removed."

Maszqueral, continuing to glare toward Gerrid, noticed the guards shifting their weight, ready to march forward and take the Captain away, were it necessary. Maszqueral assuredly knew Gerrid would use any excuse to do so. Slowly, grudgingly, Maszqueral sat down. Though the vote had yet to even be cast, regarding the looks on most of the other's faces and Gerrid's statement of 'majority ruling' made it apparent that he was confidently in power. The war in the Westlands would come soon.

Gerrid's angered expression returned to one of an overconfident smile, sending his commanding gaze back over the whole of the council. Promptly, he continued.

As Gerrid spoke on of matters and vague plans for invasion, Maszqueral could only sit and listen. While most of the man's ideas were heavily flawed, especially from a militaristic standpoint, others more capable in their positions would be there to refine his promotions once they came to fruition.

Then suddenly a pair of heavy footsteps came in the front archway. A powerful man appeared there, passed by the guards, and stood tall at a crisp, militaristic attention and saluted with an outstretched hand to the Council as a whole. His demeanor was powerful, now in the center of the room, adorned in gold plated Templar armor. His eyes were dark and menacing, set below a shaved head. Beneath one arm he held a blue plumed, faceplate helmet, with the other hand set confidently on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

Templars: confident and arrogant; but of course they were, seeing as they had been glorified by the Divines themselves. Holy warriors, they were known as. But what was one of them doing here?

Maszqueral felt himself sinking into his seat.

Gerrid stood, only annoyed again at this new interruption, his eyes casually resting on the Templar. "And what is it now?" There was a disdainful sound to his voice, which shocked many of the others in the room. Templars demanded respect, but Gerrid, with his ties into the highest echelons of the Temple, did not fear them.

The Templar was unaffected, spoke with a low, booming voice, "There are dire issues the Temple must speak with you of, Sir Ayille."

"We are in council now; surely you have noticed." Gerrid said. He scoffed, "Certainly whatever you bring now can wait."

"It demands your immediate and full attention, High Councilman." The Templar replied quickly, confidently. "The High Templar himself insists you are to be informed."

Gerrid stood straight and nodded, as if in realization of something, or an unspoken understanding between the two men. "Very well." He said simply, lifting his papers and straightening them against the table. "Council is adjourned, we shall meet again on the next scheduled date. Ubur, with us all." A hasty, yet official end to the meeting.

For a few moments, the other council members looked at each other in confusion, but began to stand and wander off as they usually did. Abruptly, Gerrid moved to head into his back offices, the Templar following directly behind him. They closed the door securely, hid away out of view and earshot. Gerrid's usual slew of fanatics were unsure of what to do with themselves.

Maszqueral stared at the sealed door a moment, standing near the center of the hall. A few others remained, talking to each other in isolated groups, and Diliri once more approached to speak with his friend. Maszqueral weakly smiled as he noticed him, "Ah, Diliri. I fear our attempts have failed." He thought, [i]But for I, it is perhaps at greater risk.[/i]

Diliri sadly nodded, "I won't bother guessing what that Templar is here for. Temple business interfering with the council? Dangerous to meddle religion with politics."

The Captain remained strangely silent a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. Diliri Kur noticed the man's hesitation, looked over him. "Is something the matter, Maszqueral?"

"I..." Maszqueral began, pausing to think, then: "I did as I said I would. I investigated more about Dadiras."

"Oh?" Diliri seemed only slightly interested. "And what did you find?"

"Frightening things. I fear, perhaps, that I've looked too deeply into the matter."

Diliri said nothing at first, his brow raising. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." Maszqueral hesitated once more, but finally: "I believe Dadiras has shown me a vision."

The older man only smiled, began to laugh, "You must be joking. Come on, now. We have little time for humor at a time like this."

"No, Diliri, I speak with the utmost sincerity. I do not know what I saw, but I did see it."

"A vision?" His voice was hushed. "You are sure?"

"While in the Temple of the High Templar, yes. And you dare not tell anyone else."

Diliri knew Maszqueral well, began now to realize he was not attempting to fool him. Still, the thought of Dadiras at all baffled him. "You are treading deeply into unsafe regions, Maszqueral. If what you are saying is indeed true, you cannot expect me to remain silent. You need help, protection." His eyes lowered, "Dadiras... The Temple could assist you, they need to know what specifically afflicts you. By Ubur, my friend, you damn yourself with this!"

Maszqueral lifted a hand, reminding Diliri to not speak out too loudly. Leaning closer, the Captain said, "You have to understand what I now know, brother. There are many things I have learned, but we cannot speak of them here." Maszqueral continued to keep his voice low, cautiously looking around himself.

"Please, Maszqueral. Speak no more."

"No, you must listen to me. If I could only let you see the things I have, to read the Book..."

"The Black Book of Dadiras. Where is it?" Maszqueral suddenly thought. He did not remember having it or bringing it with him when he came here today.

"Book? What book?" Diliri said, but then shrugged off his own question. "I tell you again, Maszqueral: go to the temple and repent of your sins. Forget all of this talk of Dadiras and visions and utter nonsense, I implore you." He placed a hand on Maszqueral's shoulder, "Do you hear me, Maszqueral? You are my friend." For a long time they stared into each other's eyes, "Go to the temple, or I will have no choice but to report you to the Templars. I take no pleasure in knowing I may have to do such a thing, brother. I have known you for too long, but I cannot forget the safety of our Empire, our people. Dadiras is corruption, anything you saw is but lies to deceive you. By the Divines, you welcome the Demon himself into our Council Hall! For all you know he is using your eyes and ears and influence to try and undermine everything!"

Maszqueral's dark eyes grew wide, and he recoiled a step. Diliri lowered his hand back to his side. "What?" The Captain said, "Gerrid is the only one who destroys our Empire. Dadiras can do nothing! It is humanity itself that will bring the end." His last words, a direct quote from the Black Book itself.

Diliri lowered his head, turned and began to walk away. As he did, he said quickly, "You are to me as a true brother, Maszqueral. However, my conviction to the Divines comes above all else." A pause, then: "Forgive me." With that, he disappeared out of the arched doors, leaving Maszqueral alone in the middle of the room, surrounded by the idle chatter of a dozen ignorant men. Maszqueral's heart was heavy.

After a few minutes, Maszqueral could do nothing but leave. The thoughts now of Gerrid and the Templar who arrived were no longer on his mind, but rather a brand new and ever-complex confusion. Two lives seemed to be fighting for control in his mind; one which wanted to hold onto everything he used to hold dear, and another which frantically, maddeningly reached toward Dadiras. Right now, the latter half was growing stronger. He had seen it with his own eyes, it was true!

He had no intention to take Diliri's advice. He would not go to the Temple, but rather to home. He had to read more of the Book, to affirm his actions and his thoughts. There was much he had not yet read, much he still needed to understand. These past few days had been nothing but chaos.

The Book... Now if only he could find it!


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"His actions are heretical." The Templar said, standing tall and in a militaristic stance. 

Behind closed doors, Gerrid and the holy soldier had secretly been meeting. The High Councilman, now sitting behind a desk, let out a long sigh. Propping himself up upon cuffed hands, he glanced excitedly downward in his contemplation.

"So then you wish to have him arrested?" Gerrid finally replied.

The Templar shook his head, "Executed."

"No, death is too quick and without meaning. The people love him; they must become aware of all he is being accused of, and they must know he is suffering for it - and with good reason!"

The Templar seemed interested, "What are you suggesting?"

"Humiliation." Gerrid replied quickly, "First, exorcise these demons from him, and then place him on public torture for his crimes - it is a complete shattering of his reputation!" Ayille sounded almost giddy. "And once we are done with him, he will be banished to live a life of shame outside of the Empire."

The Templar said nothing, but grinned. Gerrid's changed dramatically however, to one of slight concern.

"His heresy, the proof is undeniable?" Gerrid said, "To do this, we need something... something tangible."

The golden armored Templar took a breath, began reaching into his sash. "The very reason I am here is because of a report we received by a priest in the Temple of the High Templar. He saw a strange man, and he found this." The Templar pulled out a book, a small black thing with no immediately visible markings. The man seemed reluctant to even be holding it in his hand.

Gerrid stood and looked at it, saw the red eye engraving on its hard cover. "The Demon, Dadiras." The High Councilman smiled, looked up into the Templar's eyes. "The demon, Maszqueral."