The Useless Silken Tablets of Telvan, Prophet of Mepahala- Tablet (3) "The Wages of Love is Fear"

Kalpa of the Earwig

Fear was once a thing of the gods. Held by them and allotted to the lesser spirits when needed. There was little to fear save the cruelty of Ebony and the machinations of our Lady. Only the proudest and most foolish of spirits had even noticed the hollowing of the gods. As the cycle began anew, lustful et’ada watched their loved ones, cautious of preventing the art of Hircine from befalling them.

Fools.

Merid-nunda huddled against her siblings in Aetherius, keeping an eye by a hole in the tonal fabric architecture. She ogled and lusted after a handsome spirit, an especially brazen et’ada. Xarxes, as was his name in this incarnation, profaned the universe with his taint. He taught the lesser spirits to emulate Mephala by recording their own stories, and insult her by making them true. The death of one action led to the birth of the next. Causality, mortality, both are poor imitations of the art of Sithis. All are born from Sithis, all must die in Sithis.

Our Lady, Mnemo-Li, shuffled past the unclean spirits to Merid-nunda. “Blessed are we to be hidden away up here, far from the clutches of death.”

“Yes, sister. This is true.”

“What fools they were not to leave with lord Magnus, look there, from this very breach a spirit is winding to his death.”

Aghast, Merid-nunda looked through her tear to cast gaze over her beloved Xarxes. The foul spirit was speaking to a large tree with writing branches and sighted knobs. An Ohgma was being crafted between them, secrets passing into tonal space, bound in a spur of bone, a warp in the weft of Magnus. Merid-nunda feared for the life of her love, for the Demon of Knowledge was not known for dealing fairly, and struggled to plot for her love’s safety.

“Dear sister, let me aid you in your time of need. Mine is the Star of Safe Paths, I shall weave your love into comfort.” Lied our lady, and the foolish one obliged. “Let us Sisters make a mehrunnz of hottest fire, so as to cleave the flesh of reality, for what is finer flesh, and arm our father. He shall return to the down-below and slay every demon that haunts it. ‘Twas our father who shaped it, and our father who will perfect it.”

“Sister mine, how will father be made to agree?”

“Are we not his daughters? Are we not his pleasure?”

Mephala as Mnemo-Li lay with Magnus for half an age, and whispered into his ear for two. The whispers were of two names, and of dual natures. One Magnus knew, and boasted of. The other were unknown to him, but would move his hands all the same.

Clad in poisoned light and brandishing his Daughters’ mehrunnz, Magnus leapt through the bleeding sore he had left in the sky. Magnus, king of cowardly demons, wandered lost through the geometry of the plane; long had he enjoyed the flesh of his daughters, long had he ignored the moving tides of the Mundus. Addled and confused, his Blade flailed in his hand, cutting iron clouds, firewater, flatbirds, and the-taste-of-up-and-down loose from reality. The Razor’s swinging ambivalence did more than wipe weak spirits from the Stillness, it made every last spirit in the land finally feel some measure of the blessing of the Dread Father- fear. It was out of fear that they pleaded with the Middle-Dragon to help them, but, by the fortune of our Lady, AKA is a consummate idiot.

AKA, threatened by the flailing old god, made to curse him. Magnus made to apologize and make amends, for his actions were like those of a flailing slaughterfish, but he spoke in Tones both old and new, for he still had not learned the Architecture of this Turn, “Go! GHARTOK AL MNEM! God is come! NUMI MORA! NUM DALAE MNEM!”

AKA could not understand, for he is an idiot and had forgotten the old tongue, so he scorched the flesh of Magnus hot red, and fused the Razor to his arm. Magnus cried out in pain, blinded, blighted, burned he pleaded with the Dragon, tried to make his case, “eat or bleed dry the gone-forlorn and gain that small will that led them to walk the path of Godhead at the first. Spit out or burn to the side that which made them delay. Know them as the Mnemoli.”

AKA, ever the idiot and understanding naught but his own safety, spoke to make his lie true, “Ambitious Demon, I name you Mehrunes Dagon and it means thus: Flailing Destruction, Evil in My Eyes, Child of Miasma, Cursed, Burning Blind Blight, Rusted Wound, Cutting Hand, Red-Skinned Demon.”

With these names and a nymic time-lock, AKA sealed Dagon to what he was at that moment- roaring, vengeful, and rampant. With his own safety ensured, the Dragon went off to waste more time.

Dagon destroyed more of the Mundus than he had before; where he walked Old Geometry took form, swirling and fiery. Councils of static thoughts and leagues of opinions about vegetation were swept away. Legions of Smiling Giants and Falling Movements were peeled off of reality and flung into Sithis’ Maw. The spirits feared even more, they feared such heated and painful annihilation more than the fires of the Magnus of old. They went now to the other gods amidst them; Zen was hidden in a turtle’s shell, Dibella lay rotting, Jhunal had crushed himself beneath a mountain, and Xarxes was playing dead. Triboenacath, as he styled himself now, was prompted by our Lady to cowardly offer his sibling to fight, “Tsun, battle hardened, in his right hand ‘Weighs,’ upon his brow ‘Own,’ and in his left ‘Actions.’ Weighs-Own-Actions, just and merciful, slay this abomination!”

Tsun had no choice but to oblige, and as “Tsurendar” challenged the Red Demon. His armor gleamed golden, he held his brow high, and his heart was full of glorious purpose he made his claim: “Rusted Wound, you shall not hurt any more of us, for it is unjust and without merit! I weigh my actions as pure and true. All that is good will prevail by Anu, and all that is evil will be cast into Sithis. Ready your breast for my sword, steady your heart for its tip- for with is holy blade, I shall strike you down and give you the peace of death to save my sorrowed kin!”

Tsurendar said no more for Lord Dagon blew his garrulous head clean off his shoulders with hot vomit. Thus the name of his head, “Own,” was lost, and the headless god died as “Weighs-Actions.” This is why the justice and mercy of the “Divines” is useless, for it has no head and judges only the actions of others.

As the headless body of the failed god fell to the ground, the spirits of Nirn fell with it. They winced for never they had felt such fear- the greatest amongst them could be destroyed with but a word from this Demon, surely they were liable to die as well. Primal fear of the void filled the air of Mundus once again, ushered forth from the hearts of all, cooling the Demon King’s burning skin, giving him brief respite. Upon reminders of the icy cold of the void, he tore open the Fabric, and chilled his burning flesh in the Void.

Mephala laughed for an eon, and spun bits of broken spirits into a proof of the Kalpa, a commemoration of this chapter of the plot. The earwig is one of the spinners favorite children for, like she did unto Magnus, it crawls into the ear of the supine sleepers, whispers and chews into the skull, and leaves eggs that drive one to bloody rampage in an effort to claw them out.

Fear. This is the loving proof of our Lady.

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