Post by azathoth on Mar 26, 2019 16:16:00 GMT 1
A tide of blood spilled from the setting sun. The red light washed over the edges of the volcano south-west of Azathoth's fortified temple-encampment and spread across the intervening desert. The Kiith leaned against a rough palisade as he watched the cinder cone's ever rising cloud of ash and gasses swirl with the vivid hues of the sunset. Before the last of the sunlight dwindled, the blood Azathoth imagined he could see would be real and would be his own, but he did not know it yet.
He turned from the view to collect the saw that he'd left leaning against the post to his left. The break had not only afforded him a rest and a view that stirred feelings he'd learned to recognize as the holes where memories should have been, but had also confirmed that the figure he'd spotted in the distance yesterday was gone. It must have been a scout from the camp to the south where his allies hunted for dinogorgon meat and the amethysts that teratorns decorate their nests with. There had been no distant campfire visible, though the wastes grow too cold for comfort at night, so he'd assumed the scout had returned to the hunting camp. The other possibility, that someone had chosen secrecy and the bitter cold over visibility and warmth, had spurred the feverish pace of his work all day. Now, sawing through the log he planned to use as a gate post, he was a few tasks from hanging a sturdy gate and barring it against the night and any strangers, whether they be cold or secretive. Soon he would wake Dutch, the young Mythos who styled himself mercenary but was more craftsman for hire now - as he traded his labor for equipment and combat training from Azathoth. The two of them would lift the heavy gate onto its hinges and this camp on its rocky crag would be secure.
Pausing to pull back his hood and wipe his brow, Azathoth found his hand drifting to rest on the leather pouch tied to his robe's waist-belt. Even through the thick dinogorgon leather he could feel heat radiating. He could picture them within, glowing. But glow was the wrong word, glow was what a Kiith mother's face did when her daughter brought home an ornate proposal vase glazed with the patterns of another clan. The objects within the pouch did not glow, they burned. They burned, these smooth stones with their strangely etched symbols, and they burned in a way that, like the view of the red desert, sparked in Azathoth feelings that should have been memories. They also sparked true memories of the day when he'd first set eyes on them.
"We'll use everything but the roar," Emiliana had joked in her deadpan way as the Forsaken warriors began butchering the massive dragon carcass. It had taken thirty warriors to bring the terrible beast down, and all through the fight Azathoth had felt a holy terror. Somehow, even while fighting desperately to kill it, something about the sight of the dragon had felt right to him. It was there, for the first time since setting foot on this lush and deadly island, that Azathoth had seen something supernatural, and it filled a hollow in his heart he hadn't known was there. When the beast first breathed fire Azathoth had found himself struggling not to kneel in worship. He lunged with his spear instead. It had felt almost disappointing to see the dragon finally felled by the Giant Eberwolf, but Azathoth's disappointment was short lived. Because, perhaps in response to Emiliana's joke, someone had slit open the dragon's gizzard and all the warriors had stared in shock as a pile of burning gastroliths slid out in a sea of blood, each etched with a symbol that shimmered with power. Very soon the blood that Azathoth remembered would be present and would be his own, but he still did not know it yet.
That had been a week ago, and Azathoth had labored since then to build a safe place to store his share of the powerful stones. A place where he could explore the awe and worship he felt drawn to. He gave the saw one final pull and calmed his breathing as the weight of the log's end pulled it loose of the last splinters holding it together. He hefted the post, now a manageable size, onto his shoulder and lurched over to the post hole. It was a matter of minutes to pound rocks and shims into the hole with the post, and it soon stood firmly on its own. Through the entire process Azathoth's mind drifted.
He thought of the dreams he'd had the whole week since obtaining the fiery rocks. Nightmares might be a more appropriate term: a narrow cave lit by cactus wood burning in wide ceramic dishes, a robed Kiith kneeling by one of these dishes, his silhouette hunched and quivering, a horrible crunching sound that echoed in time with the figure's convulsions. In the dreams he wanted to look away from the agonized Kiith, who he felt he knew somehow. But the cave was cramped. The only other places to look were occupied by an imposing Kiith who stood over the kneeling figure, and a squat wooden table which was deeper in the cave at the edge of the fire light. The tall Kiith's face was grim and scared Azathoth in the dream, and, as for the table, something sat in its center which loomed too massive for that tight space; he could not look at it. So he watched the cringing man instead. He watched as blood seeped from between the man's lips and trickled down his chin. He saw with crystalline clarity as the blood fell from the man's chin and landed in the dust of the cave floor. The simple dreams inspired him. Here Azathoth would build a shrine with fires in ceramic dishes and place his dragon stones on a squat table by them. Perhaps he would kill a dinogorgon in the dust before them. He broke from his reverie at a small sound behind him.
Azathoth turned and saw a strange Leafborn man picking his way cautiously through the opening in the palisade wall. Azathoth took in the Leafborn's rough appearance. His eyes were deeply shadowed and dirt and small branches clung to his leathers and hair. Here was a man who had slept rough in the wilds last night.
"Hello there, come to worship at our temple?" The words came easily to Azathoth's lips, though he struggled to keep the pounding of his pulse out of his voice.
"Sure," was the Leafborn stranger's reply, flat and without pause. He had not even stopped his searching gaze from sweeping across the camp, picking out Dutch sleeping under the main shelter's overhanging roof.
It was only when Azathoth felt the warmth against his fingers that he realized his hand had again drifted to the pouch at his waist. The Leafborn's eyes flicked instantly to Azathoth's hand, the first time he had looked directly at the Kiith. Azathoth froze. Within moments the blood Azathoth had been dreaming about all week would be here and would be his own, and he finally knew it.
He turned from the view to collect the saw that he'd left leaning against the post to his left. The break had not only afforded him a rest and a view that stirred feelings he'd learned to recognize as the holes where memories should have been, but had also confirmed that the figure he'd spotted in the distance yesterday was gone. It must have been a scout from the camp to the south where his allies hunted for dinogorgon meat and the amethysts that teratorns decorate their nests with. There had been no distant campfire visible, though the wastes grow too cold for comfort at night, so he'd assumed the scout had returned to the hunting camp. The other possibility, that someone had chosen secrecy and the bitter cold over visibility and warmth, had spurred the feverish pace of his work all day. Now, sawing through the log he planned to use as a gate post, he was a few tasks from hanging a sturdy gate and barring it against the night and any strangers, whether they be cold or secretive. Soon he would wake Dutch, the young Mythos who styled himself mercenary but was more craftsman for hire now - as he traded his labor for equipment and combat training from Azathoth. The two of them would lift the heavy gate onto its hinges and this camp on its rocky crag would be secure.
Pausing to pull back his hood and wipe his brow, Azathoth found his hand drifting to rest on the leather pouch tied to his robe's waist-belt. Even through the thick dinogorgon leather he could feel heat radiating. He could picture them within, glowing. But glow was the wrong word, glow was what a Kiith mother's face did when her daughter brought home an ornate proposal vase glazed with the patterns of another clan. The objects within the pouch did not glow, they burned. They burned, these smooth stones with their strangely etched symbols, and they burned in a way that, like the view of the red desert, sparked in Azathoth feelings that should have been memories. They also sparked true memories of the day when he'd first set eyes on them.
"We'll use everything but the roar," Emiliana had joked in her deadpan way as the Forsaken warriors began butchering the massive dragon carcass. It had taken thirty warriors to bring the terrible beast down, and all through the fight Azathoth had felt a holy terror. Somehow, even while fighting desperately to kill it, something about the sight of the dragon had felt right to him. It was there, for the first time since setting foot on this lush and deadly island, that Azathoth had seen something supernatural, and it filled a hollow in his heart he hadn't known was there. When the beast first breathed fire Azathoth had found himself struggling not to kneel in worship. He lunged with his spear instead. It had felt almost disappointing to see the dragon finally felled by the Giant Eberwolf, but Azathoth's disappointment was short lived. Because, perhaps in response to Emiliana's joke, someone had slit open the dragon's gizzard and all the warriors had stared in shock as a pile of burning gastroliths slid out in a sea of blood, each etched with a symbol that shimmered with power. Very soon the blood that Azathoth remembered would be present and would be his own, but he still did not know it yet.
That had been a week ago, and Azathoth had labored since then to build a safe place to store his share of the powerful stones. A place where he could explore the awe and worship he felt drawn to. He gave the saw one final pull and calmed his breathing as the weight of the log's end pulled it loose of the last splinters holding it together. He hefted the post, now a manageable size, onto his shoulder and lurched over to the post hole. It was a matter of minutes to pound rocks and shims into the hole with the post, and it soon stood firmly on its own. Through the entire process Azathoth's mind drifted.
He thought of the dreams he'd had the whole week since obtaining the fiery rocks. Nightmares might be a more appropriate term: a narrow cave lit by cactus wood burning in wide ceramic dishes, a robed Kiith kneeling by one of these dishes, his silhouette hunched and quivering, a horrible crunching sound that echoed in time with the figure's convulsions. In the dreams he wanted to look away from the agonized Kiith, who he felt he knew somehow. But the cave was cramped. The only other places to look were occupied by an imposing Kiith who stood over the kneeling figure, and a squat wooden table which was deeper in the cave at the edge of the fire light. The tall Kiith's face was grim and scared Azathoth in the dream, and, as for the table, something sat in its center which loomed too massive for that tight space; he could not look at it. So he watched the cringing man instead. He watched as blood seeped from between the man's lips and trickled down his chin. He saw with crystalline clarity as the blood fell from the man's chin and landed in the dust of the cave floor. The simple dreams inspired him. Here Azathoth would build a shrine with fires in ceramic dishes and place his dragon stones on a squat table by them. Perhaps he would kill a dinogorgon in the dust before them. He broke from his reverie at a small sound behind him.
Azathoth turned and saw a strange Leafborn man picking his way cautiously through the opening in the palisade wall. Azathoth took in the Leafborn's rough appearance. His eyes were deeply shadowed and dirt and small branches clung to his leathers and hair. Here was a man who had slept rough in the wilds last night.
"Hello there, come to worship at our temple?" The words came easily to Azathoth's lips, though he struggled to keep the pounding of his pulse out of his voice.
"Sure," was the Leafborn stranger's reply, flat and without pause. He had not even stopped his searching gaze from sweeping across the camp, picking out Dutch sleeping under the main shelter's overhanging roof.
It was only when Azathoth felt the warmth against his fingers that he realized his hand had again drifted to the pouch at his waist. The Leafborn's eyes flicked instantly to Azathoth's hand, the first time he had looked directly at the Kiith. Azathoth froze. Within moments the blood Azathoth had been dreaming about all week would be here and would be his own, and he finally knew it.