The Useless Silken Tablets of Telvan, Prophet of Mepahala- Tablet (2) "Godbeast"

Hircine is primal and primeval. One of the favored plots of the Spinner, he is the apotheosis of a twig, and the incarnation of murder.

Within moments of the new Kalpa’s birth, The Eight Liars once more grasped a gasping Lorkhan by the protonymic and Trinicath pierced him with the shaft of Y’ffre. Once more Yffre bled from the throat and grew deep roots into Lorkhan’s body, and reaved his blood. Shame came to Dibella for her ugliness, and she slit her throat ‘neath the roots of the Dead God.

Kynareth consorted with Auriel, and a new strain of vermin was born. Tall they were, fair of skin, straight hair, and given the blessings of Jhunos. Trinicath swung his blade for them, still dripping with blood, and they oohed and awed at the sight of creation.

Contented with her first litter, but not with her first lover, Kynareth dropped to her knees and lay with the bleeding Y’ffre. She took his seed without his sanction, and made of it all the scuttling creatures of Nirn and all the things that take root in the earth. Then, the cowardly goddess hid within a cave and changed her form to be like that of one of her creations’ and hid amidst the throngs of others before Mephala could make land upon Nirn.

Our lady began her search for the hidden goddess, for she was next to be unmade, and found that she was unable to find her. None of her children, nor those whom she tricked or tortured, could tell her the likeness or location of the goddess, until she came upon the cave where the goddess had made her transformation. She spoke with the mites that crawled along the floor of the cave, and held them near her bosom, “children, have you seen the Matron of Rain?”

“Mother, sweet mother. We had seen her many years ago, but we are short lived and the tale has been passed from mouth to egg for many birthing cycles.”

“No matter, child, all hidden things are good to me, even rumors can be a deadly edge. What was the pompous spirit doing when she came upon this cave?”

“Mother, sweet mother. We mites saw her changing her form so that she may hide among the surface. Our eyes are small and the light is dim, mother, we did not see what she was made into.”

“Children, worry not- you have done well. Tell me this: was her form of those who move, or of those things that take root?”

“She was of flesh and blood, mother.”

Mephala left the cave clad in the terror of Sithis and named herself “Nightmother.” Where she walked, night fell, and where she spoke, creation Listened. She walked to the hulking mass of Y’ffre’s body and pulled off a large branch, which she fashioned into a spear. Into this spear she bit the syllables of MURDER, and whispered sweet words to it: “God has no need of theory, he is covered horn to hoof in terror.”

Thus, the Huntsman was born, born of singular purpose- to kill. For should he kill every creature, Kynareth would surely be amongst them. The Huntsman first set upon a bird, then a mammoth, then a spirit of nature. One-by-one the creatures of the land were killed by the Merciless Spear. No quarter was given, no mercy shown. But Nirn had grown vast, and though Hircine was swift, the growth of life was faster.

The Nightmother came to the Artist and whispered bloody parables to lull him into a relaxed stance, and informed him of her plan. “Great Huntsman, you make of murder an art. Thy prey never sees the edge of thy tooth, they never smell thy musk, and yet they lay in a pool of their own blood. Tis a shame ye are alone, fashion for thyself helpers, and murder by the thousands.”

And so, Hircine went into the land of the ones who stood and spoke, he lay with their woman and their men. His husbands and wives birthed a new type of child, beautiful and made for rending flesh from bone, these he named “My Children of the Woods.”

These children were so vicious and so many that when the Nightmother entered into the woods to behold their ferocity, even she was cut down by the hunters. Her children wrapped her up and buried her ‘neath the trunk of Y’ffre’s mass, and she slept for an age, for all that was required now was time.

The Nightmother awoke to the shrieking of the false goddess. Hircine himself had cast the spear that felled the foul beast. Kynareth had been a hawk, perched upon a cloud. For eons, she had blown the winds that carried her scent away from the hunters, and hid midst thunder and lightning.

The hawk had fallen to the ground, bloodied and beaten, with the spear driven through her breast. She struggled pathetically to remove the shaft with her talons as Hircine brought down his enormous hoof upon her head.

Howls from the victorious lasted only a moment, for the Hunt took no rests. Season followed season, year followed year and soon most of those who were not hunting, had been hunted. So few had the prey dwindled that the Children of Hircine had taken to hunting one another. The Nightmother took pity upon the creatures, whom Hircine was want to reward.

She whispered to her tomb and the trunk of Y’ffre, “Dead one, see what has been done to this land. Do ye care not for thy children?”

“Their death leaves my wood scarred and my leaves withered, but I can do naught but watch. The foul spawn of the Huntsman and the children of the Eagle God are too vicious for my slow magic.”

“These are not from the veins of those gods, but from thy noble roots as well, rein them in.”

“Foolish corpse, has the rot left you senseless? Those are not my children, they will not listen to me, this is truth.”

“True, but ye can make alternate truth. Let me teach ye the ways of spinning truth.”

The Nightmother taught hollow Y’ffre the art of Storytelling, and with this gift he changed the truth of the “Children of the Woods,” into the “Children of Wood,” and tempered their bloodlust. Thus Y’ffre became the first Spinner.

The Dragon had begun to consume the edges of the world when Hircine discovered this treachery. From the grief of his children being robbed of him he killed a hundred-hundred-fold, and stopped naught to revel in any of his victories. The Nightmother reasoned that if this spirit were to come to the next Kalpa with such rage, it would drive the gods into such a hiding that, surely, they would never be found. She whispered to the Beast and he Listened.

“In my festering hand I hold thy new children, Best King.” The Nightmother stretched out her withered hand and offered him a clutch of mites. “They shall burrow into the flesh of thy chosen, making their skin itch and crawl into new shapes. With a bite, they shall transform them into thy new children.”

Hircine collected the mites from her palm, let them rest within his fur, and, for the first time since he was fashioned eons ago, he shut his eyes. The Dragon swept over them and ate the world anew.

The Wheel turned once and there was night and there was day and there was a third Kalpa.