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

[b]Part VII[/b]

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[blockquote]Humans exist with questionable composure, their countenance varying from simple to complex. I have found them particularly easy to manipulate, to present them with contradictions they willingly and wholeheartedly hold as truths. It is a skill I garnered, in fact, from the observation of man with each other.

While filled with potential, humans are often, by common breed, physically weak and soft of soul. It is difficult sometimes to understand their ability of adaption and resourcefulness when continuing down the mortal paths of their short, relatively insignificant lives. Though I have learned from past mistakes to never make a creature naturally immortal, I, for some time in my youth, questioned why Amyn chose to make the humans so short-lived.

Beyond a brief life of suitability, they, in my eyes, proved rather worthless. After spending a long time contemplating this, however, a realization came to me; it is the very fact of their absolute finite form that makes them what they are. They are made to function quickly, to work quickly, and to die quickly. The elves, perhaps, were given far too long to sit and think, much like myself. Being immortal, they grew exponentially, and at at every turn rotted in spirit. While maintaining a perfection of form, as I had designed, it was from the inside-out they destroyed themselves. 

Humans, contrary to this, destroy themselves from the outside-in. While flesh is marred, it ultimately holds no purpose. These depressing little creatures are, in actuality, ones of excellent fabrication. For they, not well of form, but rather a perfection of essence, are greatly capable as followers. I discovered quickly that a being's heart and mind are greater assets than his beauty or athletics.

What I attempt now, I suppose, is to continue to build where Amyn left off. I will make humans [i]perfect[/i]. This creation, the humans, is the only act of Amyn's which I envy.[/blockquote]
[right] - An Excerpt From [i]An Observation of Races[/i]
The Black Book of Dadiras[/right]


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Gerrid ran a finger slowly along a large map set before him, the others surrounding the same table upon which sat their watchful eyes. As the High Councilman traced his index finger across the a south-western border of the Eastlands, he spoke.

"The Westlands are their weakest to the south, here where the plains become rough in their conjunction with Rechina and the Barrens." His voice was low, reviewing and calculating the vague intricacies of his plan in the darkest reaches of his mind. "From here," He stabbed a finger into a specific point on the map, near the south-central region of the Westlands, "Our forces will push north."

There was a short silence, officials and military men around the table shifting in their stances. As they rustled among themselves, the overhead candle-light reflected dancing shadows along the walls.

"But we must cover our flanks," Gerrid continued, standing tall now. "We do not know if the Westlanders have made any alliances with the feral Rechins. The last thing we need to is be attacked from behind, or even risk troubles from any unforeseen counter-attacks."

"Counter-attacks are always foreseen. They are weak, but we should not underestimate their willingness to die for these spits of land." An older, hardened general said slowly. Noticing the light glare toward him from Gerrid, the general lowered his head. "What are you suggesting we do, High Councilman?" A reaffirmation of subservience.

Gerrid smiled, "I am suggesting that we build fortresses along our rear line."

A low chuckle passed between a few of the men there, and one of them lifted his voice. He was a pale, bearded man with a deep, obnoxious tone to his voice. "You would have us wait for an fort to be built? You ask to waste our time in nothing and slow the momentum of our march."

"True, it will slow progress at first but it will be important." He sighed, stared directly at the man, "The Westlanders are uncivilized but that does not mean they are weak. The general is right in that regard, but so am I. Moving too quickly would be a mistake."

They all grumbled in response.

Strangely, Gerrid wished Maszqueral had been here. Though opposed to the war itself, the man was one who could understand the tactics being imposed. The plan itself was literally the same as the one used to quell the southern salt rebellions some years earlier, but now just on a much larger scale. Move into the region, hold your ground, and when it was secure, move on. Those rebels along the Southern Scape could not be stopped by a sheer march into battle. They used hit-and-run tactics, jumping out like cowards from behind their cover. Eastlanders were trained as rank and file soldiers, not as heathen peasants! Gerrid, however, had wisely assumed the West would proceed into war with a similarly uncivilized fashion. Maszqueral, yes, he would of understood this all perfectly.

The High Councilman could not allow himself to regret his decisions. Gerrid had always despised, and still did, that once-honored Captain of the Eastlander military. Now he had driven the man off as a heretic. Regardless of Gerrid's disposition toward him, Maszqueral had conspired with dark powers and moved in direct betrayal of his state and the Divine Temple. Not punishing the man would of been an even greater heresy on young Ayille's part. Despite the Captain's martial prowess, religion was more important than politics.

No, religion was politics in the East.

It was pointless to bother himself with any of this nonsense. What is done is done. Maszqueral, according to the accounts of Gerrid' men, left the Captain among those rotting in the Karan River. Maszqueral would serve only as a poison, his corpse filtering out into the swamps of... Gerrid held back a devious grin. The swamps of Masz, that wasteland in the north he had so kindly named after the heretic himself! Oh, how perfectly ironic things had turned out. Gerrid would of preferred his head as proof, but it did not matter. Even if Maszqueral did somehow survive and made it onto the plains, those Westlander savages there would tear him limb from limb. Such a saltless people.

Since that bastard was gone, the people had flocked to him now in fervent support. Without their hero, Gerrid had taken up their hearts and minds.

"Holy Gerrid Ayille, Killer of Heretics!" They had cried, "He has been chosen by the Divines! He is blessed by Ubur himself!"

As of late, the High Councilman had begun to resemble something more of a saint than a politician. With increased backing from the Templars, the Priests and Clerics, the military, and the generally religious wing of the populace, Gerrid held a social influence superior to even that of the High Templar. Perhaps, one day, he would gain an official positions that surpassed him.

Holy Gerrid Ayille. The Councilman found pleasure in that ideal.

Though all of this was sinful thinking. He would have to go to the Temple tonight and cleanse himself of this. Yet still, the idea was so tempting... and entirely within his potential to reach.


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In comparison to their local warlords, the people of the scattered Westland villages lived in poverty. The hilltop fortress of this particular village, Ayana, sat at a vantage, able to look down over the rest of the area for miles. The gray-green, waving plains of knee-high grass were quite the sight to behold. Interrupted only by the occasional low hill or forest, one could see for ages.

Sentries, covered in a thick leather armor, stood atop the rectangular, mostly wooden, structure's several parapets. They had watched the scene in the village from their roosts, likely as interested themselves in what was going on as the mass which followed Maszqueral still. They looked down, wary as the Stranger, this apparent Oracle, approached the front gate.

Maszqueral slowly headed forward, the Sun yellow and high and blazing in its heat. Surprised, most of the guards here were, at the sight of a single strange man leading a throng of the villagers just behind him. Dressed in the same, barren sheets, Maszqueral walked passed a confused pair of warriors into an open doorway. While he confidently entered the hall, the people stopped, watching only as he disappeared inside.

The interior was unimpressive, made mostly of scattered stone and wood with no notable decoration. It was dimly lit, at least in these exterior corridors, but a brighter illumination lay just beyond a large sealed archway.

Maszqueral gripped the the door's handles, for a moment felt the strange coldness of their metal touch, and pulled them open. Immediately light flooded out over his body, and, in an unfaltering stride, he walked barefoot over the cool stone-tiled flooring. As he entered he passed another duo of guards who stood at either side of the doorway.

The room was brightly lit, but made of dark brown tones and angular in its shape. With halls branching off on either side, the usual bare walls around the rest of the fortress were instead here covered with colored tapestries, as well as two long tables drapes with cloth. At the far end of the chamber was a slightly raised throne, draped in a green, embroidered pattern. It, like everything else here, had a rustic, weathered look about it.

At this same end of the hall, a man of average height and strong build stood. He a warrior, a Warlord. His hair was long, but tied behind his head in a knot. His locks were a deep brown in color which matched the furiousness in his eyes. The Warlord turned at the sudden entrance of this Stranger.

Clothed in an extravagant, sleeveless shirt and black pants, he stood tall. Clearly a powerful figure, he had golden necklaces and trinkets rung around his neck and a dull crown set atop his head.

Maszqueral had figured most warlords to be aged. This man seemed oddly young for his position, appearing the same age or only slightly older than Maszqueral.

"Who are you?" the Warlord quickly said, his deep voice commanding. With a glare, he continued, "What do you think you are doing here?" Surely this man knew Maszqueral was in the village, and it was likely he already knew Maszqueral was coming to the fort. Those eyes in the towers would not betray their purpose. Still, the man played his facade.

The guards, hearing their master's tone, shifted anxiously, their hands reaching for the hilts of their weapons.

"I have come simply to speak with you," Maszqueral replied, "And perhaps, to persuade you."

The Warlord chuckled disdainfully, "I have no time for this." He began to motion for his guards, but Maszqueral quickly interrupted him.

"There is a terror in the East, a growing fury which feeds on destruction. It will tear you apart if you do nothing to stop it. I see the future in dreams, I see many things, and none of them bode well." Maszqueral took a breath. "Nothing but bad omens."

The Warlord hesitated, lowered his gesturing hand. He nodded his head to the guards, who closed the door. As Maszqueral headed further into the room, approaching the Warlord who stood near to the throne, he made out the specific features of this man's face. He was more mature than he looked from a distance, yet still so young in his physical form.

"You speak of dreams." The man said simply, waiting for Maszqueral to continue.

[i]Oracle...[/i] Maszqueral remembered the word.

"Your people, they have called me an oracle for what I have seen." Maszqueral said, taking another breath. "I am sure you have heard far too much of oracles in your days here, but I assure you I speak the truth. I do not claim to be some sort of holy man or listener to the whispers of Ubur," A reference to the Divines; this West-man would not understand. Still, Maszqueral continued: "What I can tell you is what I have seen firsthand. A thing I know must be stopped."

"Yes, you are not the first stray we have found. Often the Empire drops its refuse unto us. Most are found dead in the fields east of here. That is what you are, an Eastlander?"

"I am banished." Maszqueral said slowly, "My entire life there has since been destroyed, and I have suffered for what they consider a crime."

"So even they think you are an oracle." He nodded, "Then I will bear to listen to what things you have to say."

For several moments, Maszqueral maintained his silence. His eyes closed, he could only remember for a while the things which had happened to him. The tortures he endured, the struggle to survive. Though once he served them and remained loyal to his people, he now despised them; every last one. It was not just Gerrid and Temple which threw him into this, but the crowds of men and women who stood and watched, cheered as he was torn apart in front of them. The burning of his scars, the recalled feeling of the barbed whip digging bloody hell into his back with every blow - it threatened to overcome him. Hatred... Its seeds had been planted firmly within him.

They would pay one day, yes, he continued to reassure himself of this. Gerrid wanted his head, but when this was over he would have Gerrid's!

Maszqueral, the Oracle, the Stranger, regained his composure, knew he was leaving this man waiting.

"Blood will flow, and men will clash with men, East with West. A thing which engulfs this land, a banner of blue and gold and white and stained with crimson. You will fight, you must fight; I have seen you, and your people at your side. But they will die. Believe me, they will fall upon their knees to such a foe. The Empire will not be trifled with." Maszqueral tilted his head, "You are strong, but not nearly strong enough." He seemed caught up in the chaos running through his mind.

[i]... and it was something terrible, something...[/i]

"You speak in riddles and cryptic nonsense," The Warlord said suddenly. "What is it you truly see in these dreams of yours?"

For a moment, Maszqueral thought, then, "I do not know, but I see them in my mind, as I close my eyes, as I sleep. These dreams, these visions! I see thoughts, your thoughts, your memories written out in front of me. I see things of a past that few remember, a future that may some day come to pass. But it is always changing, with every movement I do and do not take, with every glance into that beyond I change a little something else." A river of time, or so it was called by the Black Book. "The very fact that I know something will happen may lead me to cause a different happening altogether." He paused, then: "I do not understand this gift that has been given to me, but I do know why. I am here to serve the will of Dadiras."

The Warlord recoiled, scoffed, "Dadiras? You are no Oracle, you but a demon-possessed!" Dadiras was hardly a name that could be respected by any man, other than those of His cult. With time though, perhaps these people here would enlighten themselves to the truth. It was good, at least, that they did not preoccupy themselves with the ridiculous nonsense of the Divines. Even still, if they did not choose to someday serve God they would one day fall to him. Not now, for that was not yet part of Dadiras' plan. If the things the Demon had said were true, his followers would gain an eternity of time... When the End came, those worthy would be there to see it.

"I see things that have driven me mad. I see that soon the Eastlanders will come and make ruin of this place, and they will not stop their march at your hilltop fortress. They will continue north, trudging their feet through the pools of blood left in their destructive wake." The Warlord made to speak again, but Maszqueral simply continued on, speaking firmly. "They will not stop at the step of your allies or your enemies; they will kill them all. The men, the women, the children. They have no intention to liberate. Ayille... He who leads them comes here with only the thought of death."

Finally, the Warlord shouted back at him, "Why do you speak such things? Why do you trouble me with such horrors?" It was apparent something more than all of this was bothering him, a strange energy about his reply.  It seemed unnatural, as though this strong warrior of a man was breaking down by the words of a man who could hardly be considered sane.

Sanity: something any real human did best without.

"I tell you, for these are things that will come to pass if you do not act." Maszqueral, through all of this, stood rigid. He had made little movements, his stare always remaining directly upon this other man's shifting glance.

"You come to me as a stranger, claiming to be oracle, claiming to serve the will of a Demon. What proof do I have that you are who you say you are, that anything you promise to happen will? Why, pray tell, my Oracle, are you even here?" The Warlord paced a few steps, his head lowered and then brought a cold, gazing stare into Maszqueral's eyes.

"Though I was brought to this place, I am not here without purpose. Through my visions I was told to find a boy. And find him I did. His name was Gorlen, son of Kratar."

"Gorlen?" The Warlord said quickly, eyes wide, his attention piqued.

Maszqueral lifted a brow, "You know him?"

There was a long, silent pause between the two of them. "Yes; he is my brother's son." The Warlord thought over his words carefully, "But his father is dead. Killed by Eastland bastards as he tried to protect his people."

A flash of light in Maszqueral's mind, "No..." He responded with a strange tone to his voice. "He was a traitor." The Warlord's eyes narrowed, continued staring. Maszqueral spoke more: "He went to the East in hopes to save his own life from enemies here in the West. He betrayed his people and his family's - his brother's - honor. He was a coward and risked more than respect. He lost his own life, killed at first sight as he trespassed into the Empire. This is a dark truth for you, a secret. It is something you had never told anyone. Something that even your guards by the door do not know."

"Leave us!" The Warlord shouted suddenly to his guards, who, looking to each other, quickly left the hall. When the door closed and shut tightly, the Warlord fell back into his throne, said, "How do you know these things?"

"I told you, I do not know."

"Then you are truly an oracle?"

"I have seen and heard the cries of oracles before. Madness, most of it, and that which was truth was hardly a thing that any normal man could not see. Who could see the world as I do now? It is a new light among the shadow, shining brightly over all things. It is... beautiful, and at the same a nightmare. An oracle? No. I am something more, a keeper of truths, a keeper of another's will."

"Dadiras... But why would He help us?"

The voices... [i]It is the sun which sets in the West, for there the moon shall fall into the sea...[/i]

"I know only that he seeks to protect the West, that somehow the prevention of the Eastland's greed is important. The Westlanders must stand strong, and you must fight to protect your people. At the same time, you will regain that honor your brother took away from you. But know that you alone cannot stop the warmongers across the river. Even if you are prepared, they will overwhelm you. That is why you must seek out the other warlords for help."

"You cannot be serious, Stranger. Those who do trust me would hardly be willing to confront the Empire, and those who make themselves my enemy would not bear to hear me even speak."

[i]But you who are my chosen: you speak in tongues which lure all men to you...[/i]

"Then I will go to them, and I will use your name. I will make them fight for..." Maszqueral paused, tilted his head slightly in thought. The dark rings around his tired eyes seemed sunken into his skull, an odd play of the light as he contemplated the many things racing through his mind. "Why is your name so familiar to me?"

"My name?" The warlord lifted his brow, "You have not asked for it, nor have I told you it."

"But I know it, and there is something so..." He brought his glance to look plainly at the warlord, said slowly, "Your name is Remak."

[i]Murderer...[/i]

The warlord scoffed, "Yes, that is my name, but you could of easily heard it from one of the villagers." Still doubtful of Maszqueral's power. Tempting to call it a gift, but so far it proved more a curse.

"You still do not believe me. Even after what I have said about your brother, about Gorlen? He will become many things in time."

Remak paced slightly, his strong hands clenched together behind his back. "It is... a difficult thing to believe. Gorlen, yes, he has great potentials, but everything else, all of it together in one picture. It is overwhelming, but what I listen to you speak, I feel as though what you are saying is true."

[i]He will help fight this war for you...[/i]

"You will fight for me." Maszqueral said.

Remak replied, arrogant yet willing, "If I must."

"And you will trust me."

Remak looked to Maszqueral and let out a long sigh, one made almost as if he were in admittance of defeat. "So I will."

[i]With pleasure, child, teach these men how to truly be a Lord of War.[/i]