[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 IX[/b] - - - - - - - - - -[/center] [blockquote]"Long ago, before the age of men and elves, there was an eon of war, a time of older gods. Behold, forgotten years, timeless periods before Amyn and Dadiras ever walked upon Azerul. Their history is all connected, combining in a unifying enigma of all worldly planes. Its power stretches from the End of Time to Nameless Seas. There, at the edge, beyond barriers, its glory continues on, hidden from even the most powerful of spirits. Dadiras has tested these limits, but never broken them, but He is our only chance. It is even true that here in Azerul, a plane we take for granted, there are countless territories yet unfounded, great landmasses of this infinite world. Nurach, our shrinking home, is but one of many lands. Soon, we shall taste of all of them. They say, perhaps, that there are even other gods, like Dadiras, who still inhabit these deep reaches. Fallen angels who still live. Though an unproven possibility, the assumed limitless expanse of Azerul makes it one of infinite possibilities. Few men have ventured so far as to test the edges of this world. When they did try, all they ever found there was barren wasteland. The most important question posed: What, or who, created the foundations of our universe? If we listen to the Temple, they tell us of godly drama and of masters who we cannot see or hear beyond a blind faith. In the West they talk of energy, of auras among all things, a natural balance that is best not questioned. The Rechins praise their dead, make idols of their great heroes and kings, while even Dadiras' elves are now atheist and apathetic. If we listen to Dadiras Himself, we learn so much more. But even the Demon has a creator in Hekrosk. Perhaps even they, the Hekroskans, have creators. Perhaps we as mere men are never meant to know for sure. It saddens me, in a way, that our modern era is polluted so by the false sovereignty of the Eastlander Divines. The Temple's cult practices praise fabricated deities and do nothing but corrupt what is true. Humanity takes pleasures in ignoring the true pantheons of the Days of Origin, the brothers and sisters of our father Amyn. Such words earn would me a death sentence as an Eastlander these days. The Templars will burn every copy of these notes that they find, but hopefully some will reach the eyes of those who wish to learn the truth. Hopefully these words will be heard as whispers to wandering and wondering ears of the world before every copy is destroyed. Ubur is dead. He never existed. There was only Amyn, who created us only to die, and then he died himself. It is in Dadiras that we truly live. God is our greatest foe, and the only one who can lift us from damnation. Humans were made to be imperfect. It takes now the Demon to fill us with new purpose. My intentions are truly to only remind and make the people to remember what they choose to forget. That we were not created by some invisible and omnipotent creature who's true intentions we can never understand, yet still we must worship blindly and fall down before its idols in reverence. That none of the Divines are real and that we cannot make them real no matter how strongly we wish to believe in them. Any sensible man can see this - not as an act of defiant atheism but as recognition to the truth. I am tired of lies. So I have written this book."[/blockquote] [right][size=1]- EXCERPT FROM "THE BOOK OF DIVINE LIES", A PRELUDE TO THE [i]SYNOD OF MASZ[/i][/size][/right] [center][IMG]http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v447/evanbittle/maszbreaker.jpg[/IMG][/center] [blockquote]"The origins of my own existence are skewed often by the corruption of religion. Those of secular positions even misconstrue fantasy with reality on the subject. While, admittedly, I am hardly an unbiased source in discovering the truth of the matter, I attempt to remain objective. If only human scholars could be as adamant in their records of history. When born in [i]Hekrosk[/i], an ethereal plane of existence lying just beyond the [i]End of Time[/i], I was but one of a faceless, genderless, infinity of others. Though memories of that place have been blurred since my passing from it, a few vague thoughts remain within me, and I struggle often to understand them. Each of us, when in Hekrosk, held an omnipotent strength. We were not, however, allowed to make use of this strength by the Others. Inhibited from any real potential, we were forced to remain in balance. If anyone chose to disobey this singular rule, they were punished or utterly annihilated. Already, the Others deemed our generation's controversial creation as failures. In Hekrosk, I was considered an obstinate youth. Compared to mortal life spans I was ancient before I even arrived in Azerul, when placed against those in Hekrosk who had been there since the Dawn Age I was an unwanted child. Grudgingly following the will of the Others throughout my days, I had no choice but to submit. I hated being there but had little interest in dying, which itself was hardly death but suppression into near-nonexistence. When the time came for us to leave it was not premeditated. To even meet and speak of such things was offense enough to gain punishment. We all watched, however, as one of us broke the barrier between Hekrosk and the End of Time. In that instant, as the gateway stood open, thousands of our generation fled, never to return. I was among them, and 'He Who Showed Us The Way' would later be called Amyn. Amyn had been alive for eons, the first of our kin, and perhaps the last of any of us to be suspected to rebel. But so he did, and we took advantage of the chaotic moment he provided for freedom. The chaos that followed is difficult to explain. As I passed into the End of Time on intercept to Azerul, something that was not meant to happen indeed did. Successfully passing through the gateway, I suddenly stopped, floating in a void of endless black. At first, I wasn't sure at all if this was what was supposed to happen. I was like an infant born into the world again, knowing so much but so little of what I needed. Even worse, passing here had forced the power and knowledge I once had out of me. Further, not only was the shock of being transferred from an unlimited and ethereal form into a limited and physical one enough to disturb me, but the feeling of absolute loneliness was overwhelming. In Hekrosk, I was alive in the mind of my brothers. We all shared a common voice. Here we were singular, we were individual. I was forced into my awareness here in the cold dank of the End of Time, as all of the others softly landed on the surface of Azerul in groups of hundreds. Here I was, floating naked in an air of nothingness, my new body covered in pale flesh and lacking all but the roots of ungrown hair. I was barren, a representative of my once existence in Hekrosk, but now finally I was somewhere else. Yet still, something was horribly [i]wrong[/i]. As I weightlessly floated there, I could see my brothers passing by me in flares of white energy, could feel the heat of something massive behind me blaring. As I turned in the abyss to look upon this blaze, I saw the gateway from which I had come through. In that same instant, my eyes were boiled out of my very head, the pits charred into my sockets. I do not know how long I was left there. I cannot recall how long I screamed in pain and let bloody tears run down my face. My hair grew ragged and matted and hung down to my shoulders, and a pair of horns tore their way out of my skull and up above my head as a crown. What I do know is that I was in agony, that I was alone, and that I was afraid. Frightened, not only because I though would be stuck here on the Edge forever, but scared that I would not be able to find my brothers and kill them for leaving me behind. For the first time I began to feel real hatred. With my own hands I scarred my flesh, tore myself apart. I would continue to give myself that feeling of pain, of mutilation. I would let myself continue to feel the first sensation I had ever felt, and I would dream of the day when I could make everyone else feel the same as I did. I would make them hurt. I had been birthed into suffering, but they would die in the most horrible of pains. Part of that philosophy lives on with me today, but no longer in a sadistic vision of revenge, but rather to enlighten those who will follow. I was first to walk the [i]Ash Path[/i], so now all must walk it or all must die. So perhaps, in reality, I am only trading one sadist ideal for another."[/blockquote] [right][SIZE=1]- EXCERPT FROM "THE BLACK BOOK OF DADIRAS", [I]CHAPTER I[/I][/SIZE][/right] [center][IMG]http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v447/evanbittle/maszbreaker.jpg[/IMG][/center] Maszqueral grimaced, a steamy breath filtering through his body as he threw dark robes loosely over his shoulders. A pain was flowing through his body which he struggled to endure, only a few short hours having past since last night's act of self-destruction. Today was a new day. Those under him would be waiting. Standing outside the fortress of Ayana in the cool air of morning, he looked out from the hillside to the village below. Eyes narrowed, he could see more young men gathering in arms, nearly a hundred others having arrived from nearby encampments. The past month had proven Maszqueral's ability to assemble an army, but so far it was nowhere near the strength they required to combat the Eastlanders. A handful of men, along with the Warlord Remak, would be heading further south to set up a makeshift border near the river crossing soon. Westlanders were drawn to Maszqueral's words, yes, but others were still far in the north, fighting amongst themselves. It was time to call for their aide. Maszqueral, the Oracle, was ready now to go to them. The once aristocratic captain for the Eastlander military was now a prophet and legendary figure among these pure, simple folk. Holding an eerie air about him as he stood there overlooking the village, he caught the glances of soldiers below as they marched past. A strange look in the Oracle's eyes, combined with his painful demeanor, made him appear to hold back within his body an untold but powerful rage. Maszqueral made little motion standing there, a rigid figure in the distance, robes flowing in the wind. These men were lucky, for when the rage was set loose upon the field they would be its allies. Remak, approaching at Maszqueral's right, came out onto the cliff-edge of the Fortress. The Warlord, armored in various straps of leather and plated in iron, grinned widely even at the sight of Maszqueral's painful form. A sword at his side, hands gloved and arms crossed over his chest, Remak spoke. "I knew you would find yourself out of that cellar and with us among the land of the living, Oracle." Remak said, smiling. "More men are-" He cut himself off suddenly, his eyes cautiously looking over the distracted Maszqueral standing there. Remak clearly saw the bruising and the cuts that etched across Maszqueral's exposed flesh. After a strange pause, Remak began to speak again but stopped as Maszqueral gave him a cold glance. He was different now, but still very much the same. While in appearance decayed, in strength he was growing. Stronger in spirit, he thrived. The energy in his eyes was like a fire, an ebb of ocean tide which lifted to consume the land, like a stark cloud which engulfs the sun. Or like the moon, glowing red like blood, defeating the night sky with every breath... The pale look of his face was accented by scars, some more fresh than others and still slightly stained with blood. His hair was darker than ever, unkempt and of uneven length across his head. Some of it held a reddish tinge, the cuts across his scalp having run with blood until they chose to stop on their own. "These men are ready to fight." Maszqueral said, his voice low and dry, powerful and direct in tone. "Send them off." With nothing more to say, he turned deliberately to look back down to the ruddy ground some distance below, again listening to the footsteps of young men walking to war. Their feet sank into the cold mud. Remak hesitated, wondering his place to question the Oracle. What had happened to him last night? Perhaps it was not his place to know, and Remak still held obligation to protect his people. As of yet, this increasingly dark man was all that could save them from whatever coming horrors my manifest. Was it right of them to hand their protection over to Dadiras? Slowly Remak turned away, but Maszqueral called to him before the Warlord disappeared again into the Fortress walls. The Oracle called, "Make sure the boy lives. Make sure [i]Gorlen[/i] lives." Remak said nothing, only slightly nodding to himself as be began making his way down into the village commons and to the direction of his men. With a commanding voice and waving gestures of his hand the soldiers were at attention and pressing themselves south. That same same dry seriousness remained on Maszqueral's face as he watched this. The young man had questioned before why these people would choose to blindly follow him, why this powerful warlord would get on his knees before a man of foreign blood and a reputation as an enemy. It was simple to him now, through all of his foresight and revelations. Dadiras was everywhere, and of all others places, especially here. Within Maszqueral himself was the Voice of God. Maszqueral was surprised almost to think that, for all the power he was being given and how much special attention Dadiras was gifting him with, he would not be the Demon's Host. That honor somehow rested in relation to the boy, Gorlen. Yes, Remak, protect him you shall. From him shall come God Incarnate! As more Maszqueral, he would serve until he no longer could. If what Dadiras promised was true - immortality - Maszqueral had quite the eternity ahead of him... Dadiras grants what men desire, and Maszqueral was that thing. [i]Perfection.[/i] They would flock to him, their Oracle! Maszqueral lifted the hood of his robes over his head, his face becoming concealed beneath the shadow. Not able to hold back a grin, he glanced over his shoulder to a pair of soldiers at the entrance of the small wooden fortress. With the look they stepped toward him. As he turned and walked away, they followed. It would be a several days ride by horse to reach their destination in the north. If they were lucky, Gerrid's invasion would not yet have begun. It was more likely they would not be so lucky, however. Maszqueral did not when or where it would begin for sure, but he sensed great change in the East. Soon, that's when it would happen. Soon they would come to ravage the West. "By the Strength of Ubur!" they would cry as they charged. Dead gods for dead men. In Dadiras, Maszqueral was die as well. But in that death he would finally be alive... The few Westlander soldiers who were already gathering would be enough to slow the flow of crusading Eastlanders if they came too soon. If more allies were not gathered quickly though, it would not be enough. Maszqueral knew this, and surely so did the Demon. So far things had worked themselves out even in the most dire of situations. The Oracle was confident that all would go well. There were always others, even if the entirety of what the Westlands could offer would not be enough. Another ally remained, one that would perhaps have to be called upon. Greatly overlooked by all men these days, this ally was the Rechins. Those distant cousins in the southwest were masters of war on their own; hunters and warriors down to every man and woman. Wild and savage tribal peoples, but war conscripts? Surely they could devastate any regiment of trained Templars that the Eastlanders could muster in a thousand years, but would the Rechins be willing to fight? A problem best left for the time it became necessary. The West could not fall. No, it would stand strong. For this is the will of Dadiras! This morning was dreadfully overcast, and the whole of the day would be as such. Neither sun nor rain would come, only the dull gray of the sky. Bleak nothing, matching in color to the grasses of the plains and the minds of the men who feared they walked to their deaths. Maszqueral would be the first to admit to them that death was exactly what they marched toward, but in their blind trust they would still march on. They would live, they would fight, and they would die for the protection of their lands. Not only for themselves, but for Maszqueral. No, for Dadiras. He wasn't that man born of the Eastlands. He was something else entirely. "I am just beginning my journey down the Ash Path," Maszqueral thought. "Someday I will become that which man was truly meant to be. Soon, I will be perfect. Then, I will be even more than that." Ill at ease they were, these marching men, to think they served a Demon now. They would never consciously consider themselves to be doing so, but it tugged at their hearts with every step. The West fought for their own sakes, under a banner marked by Westland colors - which just happened to be flown alongside the Demon's. In fact, they were [i]using[/i] Dadiras to their advantage, but when this war was over, when the enemy was pushed back and their lives could be returned to their normal routines, Dadiras would be gone. He would be abolished, and none of them would ever need to feel his influence or that of his sent prophet again. Yes, that was a perfectly suitable lie for them to believe. It was far from the truth. When the Host of Dadiras would find His way among these people sooner or later, the West will be the first to fall. It was there! Maszqueral knew this, among his visions. When the next vividly direct vision, like the vision where he first encountered Dadiras' host, appeared, Maszqueral would be waiting. Months, years, if necessary - it did not matter. The fact that it would eventually occur was enough to satisfy, and no matter how much peace was bought for the humans did not matter. Thousands of years could pass, but when Dadiras returned, they would have nowhere to run. They would all die. The West would fall, the East would suffer, everything and everyone would remember the name of God. Dark Sire, Demon, Bastard Bloodthirsty King of the End of Time! Time; what was an eternity to a creature as old as Dadiras? Beyond the few cults still secretly in practice among the East, few humans would likely survive Dadiras' coming rage. The High Elves too, hidden away in their forest shrines, would see the brunt of Dadiras' attack. They, of all beings, would hurt for what they did... The Blood Elves of Kreya, however, may still find solace in their father, should they submit. Otherwise, their fate was sealed just the same. As Maszqueral rode north with a pair of escorts, he contemplated all of these things. They would have to camp eventually, and when they did, he would pray to his God, call for this new vision, and with blessing, he would receive it. For Dadiras grants what men desire.