[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 VI[/b] - - - - - - - - - -[/center] I see in the East a crumbling white tower, the dead walking among its ruins as a shadow comes to devour it. Those living, they cower in the wake of something horrible, their eyes set upon the burning sky and the shower of debris falling over their heads. And there was the barking of dogs, the infernal, cackling cry of a bird. What was this place, and why did the streets run red with blood? But then, there was only silence. Life, having disappeared from this place, left it in eerie stillness. The air sat stale and cool, lifting up into a dark and empty sky. The stars were missing, their lights snuffed out from the great expanse at the End of Time, with the emptiness there that was filled only by the moon, which blazed a furious red. Quickly, a shadow came and engulfed it, and it returned to a dull and fading glow of gray. Suddenly, an ethereal hand pulled itself out from the ground, an entire body eventually digging out from beneath the surface of the earth to stand upon it - a ghost, a decaying form of a fallen soldier of the Empire. Ghosts of more men, more soldiers, and even their wives and children rose, each and every one of them dead, digging themselves out of a ruddy earth. As they all stiffly stood in the moonlight, their clothing and armor having decayed as much as the rest of their bodies, they pointed bony hands toward the south, where a wave of warmth seemed to flow. Though slightly transparent, these hideous-looking ghosts amassed in their groups, the waving of their arms looking like the flow of a grayish-blue river atop that sea of crimson blood. They made little noise beyond their painful moaning, that miasmic blue about them shifting, their fingers always pointing south. But to where? The deserts of Kreya, or somewhere beyond? What was there, calling the world's eyes into the southern reaches? What did any of this damnable vision mean? Dadiras was showing him these things, but Maszqueral did not understand why. And then, among the ghosts, there was a single living boy, his features entirely opaque and clearly standing out from the apparitions around him. The boy appeared as though he were just coming of age, there naked and standing limp and lifeless. As Maszqueral's vision peered closer unto this boy, his cherub face was completely devoid of all human features, except for that of a single eye, vertically set across his forehead. There was no nose, no lips... No, not even mouth and only the slightest of jawlines. His face was only a pale and milky smooth portrait, with that single eye, undoubtedly the same as Dadiras'. The lights faded, the moon disappearing, and all things around returned to black and void. Except for this boy, no other thing existed anymore. Maszqueral became fully aware of himself then, feeling himself physically standing at the blank and empty stare of this sallow boy. Confused, Maszqueral, feeling pallid as well, cautiously approached it. The boy made no movements at first, then quickly an almost involuntary seizure came over his body for a moment which startled his observer, but he then returned to his rigidly still position. Remembering his voice, Maszqueral asked rhetorically, "What are you?" Unexpectedly, it replied. "I am the [i]hulli[/i]." The boy, its voice seemed to come from deep within it, of low tones. It's jaw, where the mouth would be, did not move, yet still the booming voice lifted from its bowels. Startled once more, Maszqueral recoiled. Slowly again, he began to approach the boy and asked once more, "What are you?" "I am the [i]hulli[/i], the host of God. I am the beginning." It said. Its voice echoed itself, sounding like two voices overlapping each other. One was the young man's - the other, something else. "Why am I seeing this?" Maszqueral asked quickly, searching answers as he circled behind the boy. It simply stared forward, unmoving. "You are the Keeper. You have been chosen." "But why me? Why has Dadiras chosen me?" The naked body of the boy jerked once more, settled, then said once more, "You are the Keeper, 't Kirada ohf the Cular'." Its words were foreign, accented by a dialect Maszqueral had never before heard. Frustrated, Maszqueral sighed, standing again in front of it. Its head sat slightly limp to one side, tilted as the single red eye there stared into nothing. For a long while, Maszqueral could only think. Finally finding the right question, he returned to his interrogation. "What am I meant to do?" "You will save the West," it said, "And you will rule the East as its king, a 'kuan' to please God." A pause, then: "But first, you will be charged to sacrifice many things, and you will be left for a long while to rule a... different kingdom." Lifting his brow, Maszqueral hastily replied, "What do you mean?" "Only Dadiras knows the answers to such questions." Maszqueral could only glare, and before he could speak again, the thing interrupted him. "Find the boy. Find the child." [center][IMG]http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v447/evanbittle/maszbreaker.jpg[/IMG][/center] There was a horrible pain at the back of his head, a clawing feeling which tore into the muscle of his eyes, threatening to pierce through and skewer them. It was a burning, a terrible ache like his entire body had been through fire, but of all things his mind was destroyed the most. Gasping for air, his flesh covered in drying blood and sweat, he tried briefly to sit up. Coughing up something horrible, he rolled over and spat it onto the ground. A hushed murmuring was somewhere in the room with him, and he could hear footsteps, sense their motions. His eyes though were forcing themselves shut, and he could barely make out the shadows. Rough hands touched him and he began to struggle, shouting something nonsensical as they tried to keep him still. Where was he? What was this place? With the thoughts of this newest vision, its images still fresh, in his mind, he imagined himself surrounded by those same undead ghosts. Were they trying to kill him? He couldn't let them, no, but he was far too weak. Far too exhausted to keep struggling... "Everything is alright," a voice spoke to him, a tone of stress behind it yet still very calming. It was slow, accented of Westlander tongue. "Settle yourself now, you are safe from your horrors." If only they knew... Maszqueral, laying on his side to avoid the throbbing pains of his scarred back, realized he was atop a bed. His eyes still closed, he managed slightly open them. A man, a blur of a man, was standing over him. In the corner of Maszqueral's eyes he could see others, watching in through an open doorway. They were children. Children? He remembered now being in the field, running from the river, the little feet approaching him and standing there. They must have gone for help, to whatever village this was and told others he was there and they retrieved his unconscious body. In a village, now? Little more than some Westlander hole of rock, wood, and dirt. Something about all of this seemed strangely familiar, however. No matter what he did, a feeling remained that he had done all of this before. Perhaps, he had seen it already as something he would do, something that had not yet happened. A thousand memories that were not his own began running through his mind... What were these things he was seeing? It was a flowing within his soul, a thing he could control, subtly manipulate. He could see beyond the face of the man in front of him, his warm glance and his stubbled chin. Barely older than himself yet still... he could see in his face as being something ageless and ancient... Maszqueral stopped thinking. He just stopped, laying there with his eyes fully open, and stared into the ceiling of the room. His surroundings smelled of dirt, an aftertaste of of sweat and rotting flesh, though the latter was most likely his own scent. They had treated his wounds as best they could with their rural medicines and heathen magic, wrapping his body in cloth and blessing him in hopes to restore him. He breathed deeper, could make out of the scent of incense from whatever rituals they had performed on him. Westlanders: more spiritual than they were religious. They were so close to earth that they had might as well washed themselves in mud. By appearances, when compared to the clean and civil life of the Empire, it looked like they actually did. At least they had some sense of order in their political city-states, each lead by a single hereditary warlord. Though, of course, the barbarism remained where anyone strong enough to take the seat could instead place his bloodline into power. On one hand, it was a similar to, in a more literal sense, the violence of any election in the Eastlands. But Maszqueral was already retreating back to his old ways. He was a different man now, hardly the beloved Captain of the East, Hero the Southern Scapes, son of a war hero and a war hero himself. This was a new life, new people, and he had an evolving agenda. One ordained by Dadiras himself. [i]"Find the boy,"[/i] he remembered. [i]"Find the child."[/i] Which child? But it didn't matter just yet. After days more of lying in his bed, regularly fed and washed, he saw nothing outside of this same room. The doorway led into some other part of whatever structure he was being kept, and the lack of windows prevented any sort of observance of the outside world. He could hardly tell if it was night or day, were it not for his schedule of meals. Mostly saltless things, bland and of earthen texture, but at least it was food. Often the same man, among a few others, would come and speak to him. Though he never replied, they still they did not relent in their attempts to make conversation. Maszqueral only lay there, awake and staring into a sodden wall or into nothing with his eyes closed. He wondered if they thought him a mute. During this time with the others, however, he learned some things about where he was. [i]Ayana[/i], they called this place, their village, their city-state. Through his own reasoning he decided it must be at least relatively near to the southern half of the Karan. "When he is fully healed," Maszqueral remembered one of the men saying to another, "He would probably like to meet the others. Surely he'd be more willing to talk among his own." Others; they meant other Eastlanders, other heretics and outcasts like himself, whoever survived the river crossing and made it here to the village. Maszqueral knew he would have no reason to want to talk to anyone of Eastlander blood now, though. Even if they were no longer of the Empire, having adapted to a life here in the West, the same caustic fluid ran through their veins. Bastards and whores, each and every one of them. Yet, would the West be much better? Dadiras showed some interest in them. But Dadiras showed interest in many things, had many plans and plots, contraptions so complex that no man could understand them in one lifetime. Thus, the pain of morality. At the same time, the grace of it. When you die, you don't have to bother worrying about the next generation. As long as you create it, the unborn are best left to themselves to decide their fates. No amount of preparation or forethought by a limited man could shake the fate of something as epic as Dadiras, though. The East will fall - Dadiras had predetermined it. Perhaps the Demon did not know for sure how or when it would, but the fact that its towers would meet the dust was sure enough. Over the course of a week, Maszqueral had plenty of time to fathom such things. On that last day, however, he finally brought himself to his feet. Dressing in a drab, brown sheet, he began stumbling toward the door when a woman was just passing by it. She looked at him, pinned herself against a wall and seemed about to scream. "You... you are standing!" She brought herself to a laugh, "Oh, more than standing, you are walking now!" She seemed amused, but Maszqueral only stumbled past her. With her following him inquisitively, he stepped out into a main room and shielded his eyes from the sudden bath of light which flowed in from the windows. Others in the room looked at him, stopped whatever they were doing and stared. One man stood, "Where is he going?" Stepping out through an open doorway, having walked past them and outside onto the dirt, Maszqueral looked around himself, dressed with nothing but the sheet around his waist, held only by his grip. His chest was bare, as was his unwrapped back which was covered in deep jagged scars, now dulled and almost gray against the otherwise pink-beige of his skin. The same man followed him now, with several people behind him, called out, "Where is he going!?" Exchanging concerned looks with each other, another someone shouted, "Dress him with something." Where was he going? It hardly mattered. Someone came behind him then and threw a robe over his shoulders, tying it for him as though he was a child and incapable of doing so, standing there still haven spoken nothing and blankly glancing around himself. He didn't know much what to think of the others, and it was obvious they were amazed in their own ways with him. It didn't matter so much right now what they thought, but it was important he learned more of where he was. There was no more time to be wasting away on a bed in some dimly lit room. He was in a village, that much had been obvious already, itself a flat place surrounded by green and trees, a hill to the northwest atop of which stood a wooden fortress-looking structure. It stood out from the rest of the bland and bleak architecture as something powerful. Nothing like the ashen walls of Alak'Mal, the fortress city in the flatlands region of the Eastland Empire. It was apparent that things, even war, were simpler here in the Western Plains. Drawn to the commotion, more people began to walk toward him. Suddenly, among them Maszqueral saw a boy, staring at him with an devoted intensity. Something about the child seemed oddly recognizable. Lightly pushing a man out of his way, he walked toward the boy who stood their idly and simply watched this strange foreign man they picked out of a field, almost in fear. The boy, reaching into adolescence, had a naturally hardened appearance about him. His hair was mid-length, dirty blonde in color with a pair of brown eyes just below his bangs. His skin was warmly tanned by years of work and play out among the fields and plains. Were his complexion lighter and the angle of his jaw a little more square, he could of easily passed as an Eastlander. The resemblance of these people and their cousins among the Empire was clearly noticeable. "Boy," Maszqueral said, leaning forward and grabbing the young man's shoulders. "What is your name?" The people, especially those who had been with and treated Maszqueral over the past few days, were amazed to hear him speak. The boy fumbled with his words, "I am... I am Gorlen, son of Kratar." There were hushed gasps and whispers among the people surrounding them. Maszqueral lifted his right hand to touch the boy's face, his palm coldly touching Gorlen's cheek. Something was so familiar, every aspect of the boy's being. His name, the feel of his flesh and the very contours of his face. It was like reliving a memory in a blindingly heightened sensitivity. A child... But this wasn't the same one he had seen in his vision. Yet still, this young man's part to play in everything was sure in Maszqueral's mind. He did not know what the boy's purpose would be, but his role was essential. Was Dadiras telling him these things, even now, feeding him the information he required to do the bidding of God? Some of the people shifted uneasily, but made no movement forward, only watching. Maszqueral began to speak, his words coming from some darkness within himself. He did not think as the sounds came forth, simply recited them as though he had been told to memorize and speak it, or as though another were speaking through him entirely. "One day you will cause birth to a son, many years from now, and he will be your prodigy. His actions will help to determine the fate of this world, of all of Azerul. You must, and you will train him to be a warrior. A great warrior, a 'nawuthol merutholli' as you will become." "Nawuthol merutholli", roughly translating to: "a great warrior of warrior men". Meruthol - it was Dadiras called his soldiers. How Maszqueral knew these things, he was unsure, yet it seemed natural on his tongue. "A warrior?" The boy Gorlen said quickly, "I have held a sword but little more than that." He seemed dumbfounded, almost frightened. "A warrior?" "War is coming, child." Maszqueral told him, "You will become a warrior among warriors." Wuthol amonu wutholli, a guid oh wuth. Guid, God, Dadiras. Oh, the knowledge he held now! The common tongue seemed so worthless now that he had been revealed Azerulian, a language once reserved for the gods - the true Deities of Azerul - themselves! Gorlen opened his mouth to speak, but had nothing to say. The boy was unsure of what he was being told, the words of this strange outcast man before him running through his mind. "Who are you?" He said finally. The crowd looked back and forth between each other, listening. Clearly Gorlen, along with the rest of these people, were equally fascinated with Maszqueral. His cryptic words and words and use of mystical language drew them in. "I am..." Maszqueral lowered his hand from the boy's face, hesitated. "I do not know who I am." "You are an oracle." Gorlen said slowly and silently, sensing even more others approaching. Maszqueral again hesitated, "I see things which no man should see." Gorlen's eyes grew wide, screamed, "An oracle! You are an oracle! A real oracle!" More others had gathered, but in increasing number now, pulling the boy away from Maszqueral as they struggled to touch this 'Oracle'. They pressed around him, some of the women even holding their children to be blessed or prophesied of. Westlanders, more spiritual than religious, almost to a fault. Oracles were gods out here, but those self-proclaimed 'oracles' in the East were executed or banished. When they arrived here in the West, their prophesies often did not stand as true. When proven liars, they were likely killed here as well. An oracle, yes. A man of prescient vision, able to see the past and future as a single thing. Maszqueral seemed to have gained a certain level of this power. A power that had not been seen legitimately, at least here among the village of Ayana, for hundreds of years. The last supposed oracle recognized by the Empire, in fact, had died near the end of the first era. According to the Temple, the oracle, who's name had since been lost, was greeted by the Divine Ubur. Ubur, they said, came and struck the Oracle down for his heresy, his attempts at becoming a god himself. According to the Black Book, the oracle was no oracle at all, but rather an agent of Dadiras used to influence and mislead the people. According to Dadiras himself, the agent, a spawned creature made from Dadiras' own blood, fashioned himself in the form of a crow. "The stranger is an oracle!" They shouted to each other, "He is of those who see all things!" Some where getting on their knees now, praying to him as though he were an idol and could answer their woes. "No, please." Maszqueral said, pushing them back and encouraging them to again rise to their feet, suddenly lost in this sea of speaking faces. "Be silent, all of you!" "Get away from him!" Gorlen yelled. The others ignored him and continued in their fervor. Maszqueral saw the boy on the edge of the crowd, there yelling. Maszqueral struggled, motioned to him, "You have heard what I had to say, young man. Go and remember it!" He looked back to the faces around him, "And the rest of you must prepare for war!" War. At that instant they all retreated, mouths closed and eyes narrow, suddenly becoming silent. War, in the West? It was not as though it were uncommon among the rival states, but this was an oracle who spoke! When an oracle speaks of war, one is inclined to listen. "You must prepare for war." Maszqueral said again. "Are you truly an oracle?" A man asked, "Why must we go to war?" "Why war?" Another woman whined, "No one is at war with us. We've stayed out of the fights in Alar, and Rimi and Garron have both come to terms with our Warlord." Talk of politics, rivalries and internal struggle. At least here, in insignificant little Ayana, there was some sort of unity. "But soon all of these places will be brought up in arms, but not against you here," Maszqueral told them, breathing heavily. "Please, move away from me." "No!" The same man from before said, "This is our village, and you have come here. We have showed you our mercy and treated you of your wounds. Were not for us you would be dead now, stranger. You owe us answers." "The Eastlanders!" Maszqueral cried, pushing back a man pressed close against his left arm. "Their conquests will bring them here. Many will die, but if you fight you will be victorious." Would they? They had to be. How did he even know these things? "But the Warlords are the only ones who can tell us to go to war." It was a young voice, Gorlen. "Even they wanted it we cannot fight the Empire." Another man, "You came from the East bloodied, bruised, and nearly dead. And now you want to turn right back around and fight against it? Maybe you are no oracle at all, but a man starving for revenge." Maszqueral looked to the man, "But you will fight. All of you must fight, whether your Warlords tell you to or not. I do not come here and say these things out of some fickle sense of vengeance. If the West does not stand strong, the Empire will come and crush you all." He stood tall, "And that is why I must go and speak with your village's leader in the fort." He pointed toward the structure on the hill, and the people all turned to look at it. "You have eyes like them," An elderly man next to him said, his arched back set over a cane. "Your face is marked like an Eastlander." "He does!" A nearby man yelled, "He is a spy for them! A liar!" "No!" Maszqueral cried, but most of them would not listen. Already they were spreading among each other suspicious comments. A pulsing headache suddenly overcame Maszqueral. "Fools, all of you." He said. "Fools!" A man laughed, "You are nothing but a-" Maszqueral cut him off, moved extremely close to him, pressing his face into the man's. "When the Empire comes they will turn you to ash, they shall burn your villages and tear you and your family apart without mercy." Finally they all became silent again, simply staring at him. Maszqueral moved away from the frightened man, now addressed all of them around him. "And your warlords will not be able to protect you. They will try, but they shall fail. They shall be among you as they are slaughtered, their lives destroyed by their own ignorance and their own arrogance." Maszqueral scoffed, "You are all arrogant. The East is coming like a storm, and they will not break against your undefended villages. They shall sweep you all away like the wind..." He paused, "Unless you stand strong." One of the men, the same man who had been criticizing him, fell to his knees. Oh, how easily swayed these people were, how weak their convictions "Then what can we do, Oracle? What can we do?" Others lowered their heads or fell to their knees as well, like in a trance. It was a strangely religious moment, and they, to a man they had never known until now, regarded him as an immortal. Maszqueral seemed surprised, despite all the oddities that occurred these past few days. The things he was saying came from his soul, that same dark place. Peace returned, if only for a moment, but the terrible headache returned. Tears were burning in his eyes, and he could feel his heart beat so hard it felt as it was ready to burst from his chest. [i]They will die if they do not fight...[/i] "You will all die if you do not fight." Maszqueral said slowly. [i]Their fates will affect the fate of this world...[/i] He continued, almost unsure of his own words. "And your fates will affect the fate of this world. You must fight, or die with no hope for redemption." There a magical quality to his words. They listened, believed whether they wanted to or not. [i]I demand it of them...[/i] "It... is demanded of you." He said finally, taking a breath. The others stared up at him silently, still listening. He didn't fully understand what was happening to him, but he could feel it inside his body, something growing, something calling to him. A voice, a thousand whispers. Something intangible but powerful - he had heard stories of such things, but often chose never to believe them. Surely this was Dadiras speaking. He could tell these people to drown themselves in the Karan and they would. Dadiras, a great deceiver they called him. To see things in dreams which he cannot explain, to know of things that have yet to occur, to control these people like puppets - was this what God called for him to do? Perhaps, in a certain sense, Maszqueral was the true puppet. The thing by which Dadiras would work to bring about his ends. Eventually, it was easy to assume, to even help bring back the Demon's physical return to this plane. This was true strength. And though he knew deeply it was wrong of him, even deeper he knew this was what he wanted. Bastards and whores, even among the West. But this is what God wanted. The bloodshed Maszqueral, once Captain but now Oracle, desired would eventually come when the time was right. Only then, when the earth grew gray and the skies black, the moon, Namuroth, a furious red... Finally, Maszqueral spoke again, breaking the silence. "You must take me to your Warlord." And they would drown themselves in a river.