Maybe you guys remember this thread. I’ve continued, but I think I’ll be posting in shorter spurts. I’ll gauge if anyone even cares before i post the next part of Chapter 2.
The Torem’hetni, for all intents and purposes, resided in the sky, their collective name equating to mean Sky Deities. For most, they were unperceivable; almost faceless and abstract deities who, while governing the actions of the heavens above, only granted personal correspondence and discourse with the ever important Divine Kings and Queens, chosen prophets, or the occasional lucky mortal who was granted an audience in the company of the moon Naa, which was known for allowing personal visitation by the deities themselves. Otherwise an enigma, their presence was all the while certain in the minds of the humans of the Great Continent of Shamashek.
From the clouds of Zorimesh, which bore life-giving rain, to the many shining eyes of Provash, which persisted and watched over Karamja through the night, the mere mortals which resided in Suuk’natani, the Lower Realms, were inexorably bound to the will and power of the much greater deities which resided in the plane of Suuk’gorani, the Upper Realms.
From Suuk’gorani, the Torem’hetni watched the world they were guardians and rulers of. The realm was a space filled with matter and physical anomalies which would baffle and confuse the lower beings of Suuk’natani, for their bodies and minds did not hold the capacity to comprehend such things. The mere matter of existence of the Torem’hetni in both Suuk’gorani and Suuk’natani was abstract enough to elicit befuddlement.
This was, at his young age, all the Dovas knew of the deities above. He was of course taught the names of all the deities; Nyolgrash, Meremba, Zorimesh, Rakaazak, Murlat, Provash, Navora, and the former mortal Drovochi. However, beyond the base knowledge of the purpose and functioning of the Torem’hetni, Dovas held little concern for memorizing their individual vocations. His father’s switch was more pressing on his concentration.
Regardless, the rule of the beings above continued, unswaying in neither power nor certainty. Even through the conquest of the Vash’Mohrt, Doklater’Alim, they watched their mortal subjects fight and squabble in struggles which held as much impact on them as would a human feel when watching the battles of small insects.
In inconceivable ways and in inconceivable spaces, the Torem’hetni which were available to gather discussed the matters at hand concerning the subjugation of their subjects. An event such as the Vashni Conquest had never occurred before; the realm had been stable for thousands of years since the Heresy Wars. For the years involved in the conquest, the Torem’hetni had avoided intervention; Shamashek was the domain of the humans, and it was their business how to govern themselves. All that was necessary was for the holds to be led by Divine Kings and Queens and pledge undying loyalty to the Torem’hetni. However, as Nyolgrash, who led this discourse, now explained, this was a historic moment in the history of the continent of Shamashek: cracks had begun to show in the usually cemented Urtza, the province of unity. Fear had caused Mekmud’Alim, Nravuk’Alim, and Lorana’Alem to consider closing the borders of their respective holds, effectively dissolving the province.
They would be the last to crumble under the anticipation of Doklater’Alim. And based on personal audience Nyolgrash held with the three mortal leaders, the reality of this scenario would be coming to fruition within the next day. Shamashek would be completely fractured like the shell of a crushed egg. Was this the time, Nyolgrash, the leading Torem’het, asked? Should the deities intervene to prevent the final nail in the coffin of a free Shamashek?
Murlat and Zorimesh were the first to support the notion of aiding the unconquered holds in their battle against Doklater’Alim. Murlat, regarded as a deity of honor and justice, saw the conquest as nothing more than unjustified slaughter. With no trials and for no reason, Doklater’Alim executed prisoners, resistors, and mere commoners alike. He spared just enough from his genocide to rule over and no more. These men, women, and children had done no wrong but to live in the land the Divine King of War and Battle sought to conquer. For this, Murlat stood for the weak and vulnerable holds which held no hope of defending themselves from the onslaught of those who were led by he who held the divine mortality of the hold of Nassaq. Doomed was he who was forced to compete in his opponent’s divine vocation. Zorimesh, the slow, serene, apathetic wanderer, whose tired old eyes could only focus on the location of his next resting spot, simply took issue with the chaos caused by the constant war on the face of Shamashek which disturbed his own restful and peaceful nature. He was not nearly as strong as Murlat in voicing his opinion, and yet the two were unified in desire, if not reasons.
But the two deities were outnumbered in their wish for the ceasing of the Vashni Conquest. Navora, Queen of the Void, spoke of the humans of Shamashek, who, as a Torem’het, she mothered as having grown much too old for the continued intervention of their creators. Just as a mother bird forcers her fledgling to leave the nest in order to grow further, Navora believed the humans would only benefit from being left to their own devices in this crisis. She stood firm in her stance in the matter with her lover, Provash, the sickly physically weakened deity whose bright shining eyes watched over Karamja while the world rested in the realm of night governed by the Queen of the Void. Provash, the vigilant vanguard of the Torem’hetni, who were blinded to Karamja while it rested in Navora’s Void, focused on matters which required immediate divine intervention, such as an existence-threatening fluctuation in the ways of the world, or invasion by extra-dimensional demons. A conquest of humans was hardly a matter deemed important enough to focus on, and more than that he stood with his lover. It was all but certain that, if Meremba would be allowed to return from her domain in the seas of Karamja to Suuk’gorani, she would speak nothing but wretched hatred of those she believed she was imprisoned with in Suuk’natani; the spiteful Sea Witch might even aid Doklater’Alim in his genocidal conquest by drowning the coastal cities. And when Zorimesh was forced to allow Rakaazak to be unleashed from his prison deep within the Serene Provider’s personality, the devious and wrathful deity would mindlessly wrack both sides of the conflict, choosing to bring dismay and turmoil rather than aid and assistance to either Doklater’Alim or the unconquered holds. Even Nyolgrash believed that the humans would do better to be shaken to the core ever few thousand years or so to avoid another instance of the Heresy Wars.
And so Murlat and Zorimesh stood in stark contrast to the other deities when it came to the Vashni Conquest. Murlat reminded Nyolgrash of the ancient prophecy which foretold of the “Hero” to those who would oppose the divine rights of the Torem’hetni, and would ensure the return of the dreaded Dragna and the catastrophe and carnage it would bring; the end to the world that it would intend. Murlat said that Doklater’Alim might be that Hero, but Nyolgrash was quick to hush him as the former mortal Drovochi now approached the gathering of the Torem’hetni.
Drovochi was once mortal and, through his own machinations, had been a deity since the end of the Heresy Wars. A deity, but no Torem’het. He remained as human as any other mortal who resided in Shamashek. For this reason and for his playfully trickster nature, the Torem’hetni did not grant or trust him with all of the knowledge, authority, nor respect that they shared with one another. He even still spoke in manners which betrayed him as being of human birth. His form would be relatively easy to perceive by any common man or woman who saw him.
“I apologize for not arriving to this meeting sooner; I suppose I must have misplaced my invitation.”
Drovochi entered the gathering wearing the usual attire worn by affluent humans, a black gown accented and seamed by gold thread. He slinked in like a cat with his slim physique and wore his dark goatee as neatly as he wore his short hair. His usual smirk, as permanent a feature as his nose or his ears, was plastered on his face.
As the Torem’hetni went through false greetings and formalities and begrudgingly brought the newcomer up to speed, Drovochi offered his own opinion on the invasion.
“As usual, you lot have done nothing but prattle away while your worshippers are being slaughtered. Personally, I care not whether Doklater’Alim or Shamashek is victorious. In either instance, humanity will still survive in some way in all of its gullible glory. I do, however, find it quite disheartening to see that the only proponents of defending such obviously defenseless peoples are an old narcoleptic and a self-righteous pompous boaster. And one of these champions of peace is just a few insults away from unleashing a terrible tempest upon both sides indiscriminately.
“Perhaps more unsettling, however, are the reasons the rest of you hold to damn the majority of Shamashek to death at the hands of Vashni blades and Companions. It does not seem motherly at all, Navora, to allow your children to be massacred. Then again, with all the humans you have seduced in your time, I suppose good parenting was never your strong suit. But, then again, I suppose it is your lover Provash whose job it is to vigilantly guard the realm…a job he now easily tosses to the wayside because Doklater’Alim is a mere human. A human who holds the innate desire to conquer through battle and war, and the mortal divinity which allows him to carry out his wants…but I suppose he is still a human, nonetheless. Not a threat, correct?
“But apparently the humans are a threat to us, isn’t that right, Nyolgrash? Ever since the Heresy Wars, we have lived in constant fear of the mortals below, who are so very close to eradicating us. You are right, Emperor and Empress, the humans, if not cut down every so often, will inevitably rebel against us. I can only hope that the Divine King of War and Battle still holds faith in us, as he will soon control all of Shamashek, and if you believe his ally, Krallig’Alim, the Divine King of Brutality and Depravity, prays to our alter at noon daily, you are sorely mistaken. But surely, since you apparently hold faith in the Vash’Mohrt’s continued loyalty to us, I should rest easy in the notion of a Vashni-controlled Shamashek…even if Doklater’Alim has certainly lost his mind.”
There was much exasperation as Nyolgrash asked what Drovochi would do.
“Nothing,” he simply responded. “This is the course of action you have taken thus far, and it has affected us very little. There is, however, the small matter of hedging all of our bets on Doklater’Alim as holding continued faith in us. The man has led the hold of Nassaq as the Divine King of War and Battle for nearly 400 years, and has only just recently turned his attention towards conquering Shamashek; if there was one thing I learned as the Divine King of Manipulation and Trickery, it was that a man who suddenly changes in one aspect will also change in many others, if not noticeably so. If you will not halt his progress for the sake of human death, would you stop him for the sake of ending blasphemy?”
The other deities were obviously intrigued by this, and expressed as such.
“The shadows on Karamja are my eyes and ears,” Drovochi said. “Rumor has it that Doklater’Alim is not as grateful for his divine mortality as he should be. My shadows tell me that he may have gained forbidden knowledge, whispers of some ancient prophecy. I know one exists, and I am aware that I am not privy to its details as I am a lowly human. But know that he is aware of some dark prophecy and he may use this to end the world…and the Torem’hetni, as well.”
Knowing this, the Torem’hetni were much more keen on keeping a closer eye on Doklater’Alim. If there was one thing the deities did not tolerate, it was blasphemy. Their holy verdict would depend on the Divine King’s allegiance and faith, but if intervention was necessary it would not be them to carry out the sentence. It would need to be a holy arbiter to act on their will. The deities were powerful. Powerful enough to ignite fear in the hearts of humans if they were to use their powers to selectively kill entire swaths of humans, antagonistic as they were. And what mortals feared would surely next be despised.
The deities would not be despised. Not again.
It was early in the morning, shortly after Murlat began the sun’s ascent, when Dovas’ father roused him roughly from sleep. It was quite a shame; the rough awakening interrupted a dream of brilliant light and warmth and a deep sense of security. Alas, this singularity of perfection existed only in Dovas’ mind, as evidenced by the continued existence of his father whose red, bearded face hovered inches from the young boy.
“Up with you, boy. It’s time we hear what our most beloved Divine King must tell us.”
Tek-Yehaf, the capital city, lay north across and on the edge of the Sagyeti Desert. It was therefore in the best interest for the family of three to leave while the sun was still low in the sky; the journey would take at least four hours.
The preparation for the trek was grimly silent. Here and there, Girogno would tell his oldest son to retrieve this, or assure they would not forget that. Overall, however, all three of the Troliamni found themselves deep in thought, knowing that whatever announcement the Divine King planned to make, it surely would not be pleasant.
Girogno, Telemas, and Dovas stepped out onto the dry cracked dirt, greeted by the low rising sun and long shadows it created.
“Telemas,” Girogno said to his eldest son. “Take our new tamak. Dovas and I will ride on those provided by our most generous Divine—“
Clop, clop, clop, clop.
“Oh, by the deities, what now?” Girogno sighed with a sense of exasperation.
The approaching newcomers’ image was unfettered by the bright sky of midday, and the flat terrain of the Sagyeti Desert saw to it that the family’s view was unobstructed.
To Dovas, the image was an omen of things to come. Dozens of soldiers wearing sleek curving armor on equally attired tamaks held blue Yehaf banners high as they rode with such fury as to challenge the haste of Rakaazak’s lightning. It was a terrible sight that affirmed Telemas’ suspicion. Yehaf – no, the entirety of Urtza was under attack. Or was soon to be.
The approaching company of men slowed in pace as they approached the Troliamni and their home. One of the men in front, who rode a decoratively jeweled tamak, had a distinctive enough helmet to mark him as superior to the other soldiers who followed.
“Slow!” he commanded, raising an open hand. He barely glanced at Dovas’ family. All of his focus was on their home. He stared with a sense of stoicism one would only bother with to hide information-divulging emotions. The blank eyes, centrally pointed helmet, and grizzled expression melded together to create the image of an old war horse, now leading his troops on the battlefield. The light wrinkles stood as a testament to his experience rather than age. He spoke as his legion came to a complete halt. “Set yourselves up, eyes in all directions. Summon your Companions only if you see the enemy.”
“And what in Navora’s Void do you think you’re doing?”
The belligerent voice came, quite expectedly, from Girogno.
The officer, finally taking notice of Dovas and his kin, trotted his tamak to the family and looked down upon them. His stoic gaze swept over Girogno, than Telemas, and finally young Dovas who was the object of the officer’s attention for the longest.
“You are not supposed to be here,” he simply stated. There was ice behind those words.
As the soldiers silently set up posts around the property and forced their way into the house, the commander stared at Dovas’ father. The young boy felt a strong sense of unease here as their own property was swept from under their feet. Telemas took note of Dovas’ nervous look and brought himself closer to his brother.
After what seemed an eternity of Girogno and the commanding soldier staring at each other like opponents in a chess match, it was the boys’ volatile father who took the bait.
“Seeing as it is our property which you have marched your little group soldiers onto, I’d have to say it is your raw hide which does not belong here! Requisition yourself another desert.”
The officer was off his tamak as swiftly and gracefully as a morning breeze. He stood roughly half a head higher than Girogno. But the man’s inescapable general dominance quickly made Girogno shrink just a little in his presence.
“I am Captain Kortem’te Rovan,” he began with a condescending yet threatening voice. “Perhaps you do not know of me because you’ve never been connected to anything important enough to warrant my presence. However, you should know now that I will not tolerate insubordination of my orders.
“Unlike the soldiers I lead, I do not hail from this hold, Yehaf. I’m from up north in Bulno, the hold of allegiance and loyalty, where the Sagyeti Desert and the Tuvulin Forest collide. There, two types of people exist: those who are trained to follow…and those who are trained to lead. Those who can do neither are banished south to live in the desert. And now I see that some of that rejected sputum curdles and congeals in the heat to form people like you. Now leave for the capital while we use your home as a shelter and fort as we protect you and the rest of you Yehafni.”
Dovas watched as his father was suddenly made a sullen quiet man.
Telemas spoke next as Girogno remained silent.
“Are you our army? How long until the Vash’Mohrt marches on our soil?”
Captain Kortem was once more on his tamak.
“No time for questions. Continue on to the capital where, I remind you, your attendance is mandatory.”
And with that, Captain Kortem wordlessly joined his men, leaving three perplexed individuals in his wake. There was very little to do about the situation beyond following orders and visiting the capital.
“Who is that man?” Dovas asked his older brother as they approached their tamaks.
Telemas glanced over as he jumped onto his tamak’s back. “I’ve never heard of any Captain Kortem, which is most likely because he isn’t from here. Which is odd, since he apparently leads a legion of Yehafni.”
Girogno and Telemas, now on tamakback, waited for young little Dovas, who felt intimidated by the size of the beast of burden he was to mount. He had never ridden upon a tamak before.
“On with it, boy,” Girogno sighed with apparent annoyance.
Dovas finally jumped up and lifted himself onto the avian creature, which squawked at his awkward inexperienced mounting method. He felt the beast’s every motion, amplified by his senses which were boosted in the nervous tension. As his tamak shook its head and prepared to move, Dovas looked at the Captain, who now barked orders and pointed at his trespassing soldiers.
“If he is not from our hold, why does he control a force here?” he questioned.
“Because he’s a northern son of a bitch who thinks he’s better than us desert folk,” Girogno answered spitefully.
“I do not know,” Telemas said, completely ignoring his father. “Taking land…requisitioning homes by force…that is not the way of our armies…of Urtza’s armies. I very much doubt he represents our hold…or even our province.”
“Maybe things have changed…maybe there has been a coup in the face of fear of invasion.”
“More likely he’s a mercenary who leads like-minded men. Such men are renegades; even if he is currently employed by the Divine King, his complete allegiance may never be certain. He cares not for us but for his own personal gain if this is true. Meaning the only thing we can count on is that when the Vash’Mohrt invades…Captain Kortem will be tempted to switch sides. And any sane man would do the same.”
Girogno tapped his heels on the sides of his tamak and he began to move. Telemas followed suit and Dovas copied their actions. It was almost as if the tamak knew this was Dovas’ first time riding one. It seemed irritated with and resistant to all Dovas attempted to do. But it moved, nonetheless. As they rode farther from the house, Dovas looked back and exchanged looks with Captain Kortem who wordlessly gazed in their direction.
That cold stare filled Dovas with a deep sense of foreboding.
