[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 VIII[/b] - - - - - - - - - -[/center] [blockquote]I am a god among men; or, at least, I am becoming one. What dark future has set itself before me? It is by the will of Dadiras, that Demon, who does all to frighten me, but I will remain standing with diligence. I have suffered too much to give up already, and time has failed to slow as these days go on and my strength is regained from the tortures put upon me by my own mind and that of those Eastland traitors. Humans, I despise them as a whole now, even these Westlanders. They are all a but ignorant and foolish, hardly reaching to become anything beyond what they already are. They see me, perhaps, and think I am their savior, look upon me as someone who can save them from a thing they did not even chose to realize until I told them of it. I could tell them any lie and they would hold it as an absolute truth; I could speak them cryptic riddles and let them decide the answer for themselves, and they would be convinced that the answer they come up with is exactly what I intended. It confuses even I, and it causes me to wonder what I am even doing here. What is my purpose now? Is this a gift, or a curse? Perhaps a bit of both, but I gladly accept it. It makes me strong, makes me ultimately powerful. I have a strong grip on these fools and they will do whatever I ask of them. Blind and zealous monsters - now that is truly an army. Yet for now, I am simply destroying myself for the sake of renewal. I have felt the pain and now I overcome it. I remove its horror, and I mutilate the flesh which is not but an expendable thing. I do not need it, do I? I have much greater things to carry me now.[/blockquote] [right]- Excerpt from The Synod of Masz, [i]The Monologues[/i][/right] [center][IMG]http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v447/evanbittle/maszbreaker.jpg[/IMG][/center] Gerrid sighed. Things were hardly going as planned. The people were in uproar over how quickly their democracy had been destroyed. This fragile empire was outraged at the republic Gerrid had abolished in light for his own political intrigue. Rebellions, terrorism - it was all flooding the streets, but something that would be contained. Something that could be stopped, with full help from the Temple and the Templars. There were few things as intimidating as one of those golden-clad soldiers marching down the street, sword in one hand, flail in other. Gerrid chuckled lightly, shifting his his throne, the headdress atop his crown moving with him. Intimidating enough, of course, one Templar. But an army of them? Oh, the fun he was having with all of this! Young Ayille, the High Templar and his loyal Generals on puppets' strings, led revolution now. The Council had was gone, left only now with Gerrid himself. Self-appointed as 'Hierarch', he had finally begun to taste the power he had so long hoped to achieve. So absolute, so beautiful! Laughing again, Gerrid rung his fingers together, the ornately woven fabrics of his gloves smoothly embracing his hands. His sleeves were tied at the wrist with golden-colored threads, the pure white of his long and flowing robes interrupted only by a splash of padded blue design. He leaned forward, unable to control his amusement, adjusting to the weight of the gold-plated headdress set atop his head. It wove and spun in shapes above his crown like a halo, forming into the image of the Eastlands - that gold-white tower and a pantheon of stars. White leather flaps came down from it over his ears, tying beneath his chin, a shadow from the headdress casting over his eyes, the shifting light hitting only his perfect ivory smile, the deep red of his mouth as he cackled furiously. He sat there in mirth, squirming his his comfortable and high-set throne as he heard the screams of heretic rebels dying in the streets below his tower. Templars, tearing them limb from limb! Yes, this is what he wanted, to sit upon his throne, political enemies nonexistent. This included a half-dozen so far of the original council, Ubur rest their souls. Ah, Ubur be damned, Gerrid was GOD now! Only the House of Ayille had the right to judge men! Paradise or Hell, the people would see either only under their Hierarch's decree. The Temple had to be appeased, however. They were his strongest asset, and those would most easily accept Gerrid's new leadership were those most loyal to the Divines. There were no gods, Gerrid knew this in his heart, but he wasn't about to undermine his entire army. Golden clad, sword in one hand and flail in the other, his Templar could just as easily turn against him if given a proper reason. But oh, for now they paid heed to their new master. Gerrid hardly spent the time to try and comprehend why the people listened to him, why so many blindly chose to follow him. He was content with the fact that his skills of manipulation seemed natural and true. He snickered as he often did; it was a blessing from one of the Divines, perhaps! Ayille was a religious figurehead alongside the High Templar now, but unlike his counterpart the young man would never allow himself to succumb to the same level of... abstinence. There were far too many pleasures his world held to offer, especially now with the control, influence, and respect he commanded. Once these riots stopped... Regardless of his religious significance, Gerrid was still political head, and therefore superior to the Temple. Though the religion of the Eastlanders was an important strength to maintain, he had dipped his fingers into the salt enough to know that even the most pagan would beg to lick off the alkaline remnants if he held jurisdiction. Maybe the Temple could not be undermined, but once he ruled long enough, they would be doing whatever he wanted them to do. If that included destroying their symbols and holy texts, then so be it. He had already dealt with the Library well enough, wallowing while he could in good humor as he watched the structure burn. The people were all so naive. Gerrid would promise them great things, but of course he would never give them. "All with due time," He would say calmly and with a powerful look in his eyes, "These things do not happen overnight." Rather, they hardly happened at all, but still the people flocked forward like sheep. It was strange, he considered, how easily this shift was even made. It was made all the easier with the people's fear mongering over the presence of heretics and oracles among them. Westlander spies at every corner! How could they of united in such a way, how else could they infiltrate and learn things that even the people themselves did not know yet? How ignorant and gullible humans were. For yes, he wasn't quite human anymore, was he? Something more, something so much more! How powerful, how beautiful he must look upon his throne now. Though no one was here to see him, he smiled and shifted arrogant glances around the hall. More screams from outside, and Ayille's head filled only with dreams of greed. He coughed suddenly, felt his heart straining. Gripping his chest, he tried to calm himself from the sheer adrenaline flowing through his veins. Too much salt, he thought. As Gerrid leaned back slowly into his throne, he untied the binds beneath his chin and removed his headdress. His hair was moist with sweat, his eyes dull, but that same pleasured grin marked his face. The strain ended, and he released a held breath. Even at this moment, Gerrid thought only one thing: "I am a god, I am a god, I am a god!" However, why did this happen now, of all times? With his plans for the Western Plains ripe, he almost purposefully had delayed his own escapade. The time was right, one could argue, yet still... It felt as though all of what was happening was happening with purpose. Allowing more time for the Westlanders to continue doing... What? Nothing. Nothing at all. That's all they did anyway. Sat in crude huts and pulled roots out out of the dirt, rolling around in the mud and fornicating in common. So uncivilized, he remembered. It was not as though they had any idea what was coming for them, let alone what was happening here now. Be it now or later, the West would fall all the same. Gerrid very lightly chuckled again, said aloud to only himself, "My men will tire themselves more on these unarmed protesters in the streets than the Westlanders themselves." Arrogance, schizophrenia. An empty echo of his voice returned to him as he sat smiling. He enjoyed being here, alone, but just as well with hundreds of others in the grand events. Soon he would have to look out over the courtyards as he did, a young man pretending to be a wise and infinitely superior creature for the rest of the people. They would all see him, his people. Their glorious emperor, the Hierarch, and he would be exquisite. As sheepish as they were, he needed to keep the people content. Pondering of it, he knew he would have to instill some sort of power, or at least a sense of it, back within their hands. Destroy their true democracy and replace it with a false one. "More hierarchs?" He thought to himself again, still aloud. "Now that would be interesting, wouldn't it? Just like the old council but myself with all the real power." His chin into his palm, propped against one of the throne's large arms, he mumbled to himself. "I must make sure to bring this about, I think. But, of course, these councilman... these hierarchs! They would all be of my choosing. Little need then to worry about any sort of resistance to my decisions." [i]"Diliri..."[i] He remembered a moment, closing his eyes. [i]"I fear I'll have to kill him as well. He helped bring me Maszqueral, but still he is a threat."[/i] He sat up, adjusted the sleeves of his elaborate robes, his face expressionless and he thought on, [i]"Yes, I believe I shall kill him. Execute him, make another prime example. The people need to be reminded of why I am here, of the things I have done."[/i] He smiled widely once more, giddy as he remembered the people's chants several nights before. They loved him! At least those who weren't dying at his doorstep now. Soldiers and Templars alike kneeled before him as his image was placed among the Divines in the Temple of the High Templar, set above them as though were something even greater, far more magnificent. I am a god, I am a god, I am a god! These Westlanders... soon, they would love him as well. They would come out of their holes and see him with a glow in their feral eyes. Gerrid shuddered. Maybe he was better off just killing them all. [center][IMG]http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v447/evanbittle/maszbreaker.jpg[/IMG][/center] Here, nowhere, away from everything, there was nothing. The world outside was changing. Already with the growing threat in the East, another threat also grew in the West. However, here in the heartland of the vast Western Plains an allied force was one that gathered. The simple, agrarian people were quickly coming under the name of this Oracle, a man they strangely treated as a deity, a man who called himself Maszqueral. With a strange air about him, he led his newfound people. He spoke only when he wanted to, when he had to, and kept himself hidden away. It was only with hesitation he somehow took the throne of this Westlander city-states in a single, bloodless night. He had an army now, and he had growing influence. In only a matter of days he was making himself to be a king. The Warlord, Remak, had stepped down in light of his superior. But this was not his purpose here. He was not meant to come and give unto himself great power, but to rally these divided people to protect themselves. Even if it was not under Maszqueral himself, the Westlanders still needed to rally together and fight, when the time came. Yet still, they seemed more interested so far in appealing to their chosen god-among-men. I am a god. They would see him there atop his royal seat, with a commanding glance and a firm grip to his fists as he thrust them forward into the air, an echo of energy following them as he shouted, the minds and hearts of the people flowing with his words of war, of strength. And also that of Dadiras. Of all things, they were hesitant to know the demonic aspect of the Oracle. Though they saw him with reverence, when they learned of his association to Dadiras they became expectedly wary. Still though, regardless of his allegiances, their Maszqueral searched here for what was best. It was not understandable how he did the things he did, changed the minds of even the most hardened veteran to return to battle. All were drawn to the Oracle's visions, his seizures of foresight which struck him whenever they wanted to be made known. It seemed to pain him always when they would come, but still the man welcomed the dreams. He sought them out often, and seemed almost frustrated when the answers did not come more quickly. Although, for Maszqueral's age and brutal background, he seemed strangely beyond his years, wise and calm, but with his underlying sense of chaos and masculine fire. Is he rewarded by his gods for this mission? Is it because Maszqueral is the keeper of Dadiras' will? Yes, the Keeper. That is what the Dadrians called them, those few cultists who now, learning of this Oracle, choose to finally reveal themselves. They rioted in the streets of the East, unknown to the people of the Westlands, including the Oracle. But the Dadrians were there, fighting alongside whoever else they could muster. Few seem to comprehend how widespread the Cult of Dadiras really is. Why are there so few religions which work as His does? The Eastlanders have their myriad of Divines, and the bulk of the Westlanders follow only the nameless spirits of the land, the sparse demons who roam it. Even the Rechins in the south-western archipelagos have their own mythology. All of these "religions" recognize Dadiras in some way, but as Sovereign God? No, only the Dadrians go so far. With hopes for afterlife and myths of long ago beings whose drama shaped the world, this is what the people most often believed. Yet these cultists see nothing but death, dire effects of mortal resurrection - decaying flesh, the stealing of another man's body as host - and then only if he who dies is within Dadiras' favor. It is a perhaps depressing and unfavorable belief, but truly the only one which is [i]known[/i] to be true. While armies were gathering in the Eastlands, Maszqueral had been here for no longer than a fortnight and had gathered those of his own. Already the local regions to the southern plain were his, the surrounding border states, which were the most susceptible to Eastlander attack, under some sort of his influence. The northern regions were another story, however. They remained hostile to each other, and to that of this growing union. When they would find the chance to meet this Oracle, however, they would most likely change their minds. This task would still be difficult, a task hardly left to a single fortnight. Another rise and fall of the moon, a year's worth of them perhaps to fully gain the entire West as one. But did they have that long? Those worries were left for another time now, for at this moment the people's god was keeping to his solitude. Locked away in some isolated room of the Warlord Remak's fortress, Maszqueral, the Oracle, the Keeper, was left to linger. Remak himself dared not question what the Stranger intended. It was best the man be left to his meditations, perhaps to see some sight of the future, anything of importance. Remak, his nephew Gorlen at his side, looked over the village of Ayana with a renewed energy. From their hillside fortress, the two of them looked out into the streets, seeing the people there, the soldiers, the children. War with the East! How dreaded the very idea of that was. It seemed wrong of them to put so much trust in this Maszqueral, an Eastlander himself, but his words, his visions proved too true to deny. Gorlen, his fallen father was indeed a betrayer, a murderer. Proof of this, even the rumor of it, would ruin Remak's name. But it was not pure controversy that made Remak fear Maszqueral. It was the look in that man's eyes, the simultaneously apathy for the world around him and fascination with every aspect of it. The Oracle was a contradiction, a man who was there but still everywhere else at the same time. Or, maybe, nowhere at all. Stranger... He did not even seem human. Humans, no, nothing of the sort. That is what he hates. His fury toward all of them was no secret, but that malice was directed inwardly. What came out of him seemed only good, despite the shadow over his head. Remak, as he stood there, gripped his arm tighter around his nephew shoulder. So much was at stake in fighting a supposed war that none of them, except the Oracle himself, knew was going to happen. And the Oracle now, Maszqueral, was alone in some dark corner, brooding over the world. In a vision, learning many things, or perhaps to speak with the Demon. Demon, yes... It was a name that Dadiras himself even accepted. Remak gritted his teeth as he waited. Come and tell us, O Keeper, of the things which no other man can see. [center][IMG]http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v447/evanbittle/maszbreaker.jpg[/IMG][/center] Blood, so much blood. Memories were running through Maszqueral's mind, visions of the past and a thousand different futures. He could no longer tell the difference between what was happening and would what would. He could clearly feel the burning of his flesh, the sting of a barbed whip tearing into his back. He could see the shadows waving overhead, the clouds shattering like broken shards of glass, the glimmer of an infernal flaming sun glaring off of them. It sunk into his eyes as a shade of crimson red as he screamed a voiceless scream, the empty faces of a thousand men crowded before him standing eerily still. He writhed, the whip cutting into his back again, the freezing touch of his own blood running down into a pool beneath himself until he was almost drowning in it. He was choking. He was blind. He was deaf and he could feel nothing... He felt his innards coil, a sense of being everywhere and nowhere at the same time. He was scared, so very afraid of himself. He was dying... No... He was already dead. He had always been dead. Maszqueral opened his eyes, his pupils large as he adjusted to the near pitch-black lighting of his isolated chamber. He was here, alone, safe, but still the strong memories of the things which happened, which were happening, and which will happen cascaded freely in his mind. He was dead. Or maybe he was going to be? With a slow movement his hand lowered to his side, his legs crossed underneath himself in meditation. Feeling in the dark, he gripped to the hilt of a knife lifted it and his gripping hand slowly back to his chest. His eyes were wide, but he could see nothing, still lost in some euphoric vision, the empty wall in front of himself through his view appearing as a swirling shadow of black flame. He could still see the faces, he could see them staring. Ugly, all of it. Every inch of it. Every pore on his body, every drop of blood running through his veins. Maszqueral hated it, he loathed it, he despised himself. But he knew, somewhere within, behind this horrible shell, he was more. Something infinitely more. There is no need for flesh, there is no need for the body except as a vessel to carry the soul. A soul which was no longer his, a soul which Dadiras was gripping tightly onto. He was dead, but in Dadiras he was so alive, so much something greater than any other man. He was a man. He was going to become a god. Not yet, not now, and not for years still to come... But eventually these things would happen. Eventually, Maszqueral knew, he would see his God and become whole. With knife in hand, Maszqueral emotionlessly pressed the blade into an outstretched arm, sinking it deeply into his wrist and down nearly to his elbow, blood pouring from his self-inflicted wound profusely. Pulling the blade back a moment, he stabbed it again into his bicep, tearing upward along the base of his arm and along his shoulder, the muscles and tendons nearly severing and his arm falling limp, continuing and slitting an edge of his neck as more blood rose. He should be dying, but a man who is already dead cannot die. Extremely pale and shivering, his skin seemed thin and translucent, but he continued, digging into his arm again, and soon his chest, his gut. Images were flashing in his mind, a burning eye, an enigmatic icon with so much meaning, so much understanding and so much confusion. It was all he could see as he mutilated himself, destroyed his body, the reddened blade now working along his opposite arm, shoulders... He wanted to tear the loose flesh off of his body, break his fingernails off against his own bone. He wanted to tear his own jaw from his head, pull individual teeth and toss them away into the darkness. He could feel the wounds he inflicted now, the old scars raging in fire on his back. He felt the whip, it tearing into him, it striking him again and again. He craved that feeling... Maszqueral finally screamed as the blade cut open a large vein in his groin, blood spewing from it. He could feel all of it, every ache, every cut. But with agony he put upon himself, he only wanted more. He loved every moment of it. Breathing heavily, his eyes dull, he lifted the knife to his head and began cutting his hair. As locks fell, he pulled more taut and slit it, roughly doing so and multiple times cutting skin by accident. He kept shaving his head until it was a mess of nearly shaven blood-brown hair. Painfully, he placed the knife back down next to himself, set in a pool of blood, and attempted to once more assume a meditative position. However, as he tried to pull his legs again under him, he only writhed and pulled himself against a wall. Shaking, rocking back and forth with his eyes closed, he began to pray aloud. His voice was weak, raspy. "Dadiras, are you there? Can you hear me now? Do you see what I have done?" [i]You have taken the first true step onto the Ash Path, child. Embrace me, and you will ne'er falter from it.[/i] I am a god of self-destruction.