The Useless Silken Tablets of Telvan, Prophet of Mephala- Tablet (7) "The Father of Necromancy"

The Kalpa of the Dreugh

The Toothless Snake was quick to wipe the Lie-Rock. Only one son had he left to him, but this son had been clever, and the Toothless Dragon revels in simplicity, not ingenuity. Xarxes, god of “life” and “death”, had learned scores from Blessed Mora- he thought himself clever, and he was right. Xarxes made his subjects age and bound them to a given number of years; as such, they put more “meaning” to every empty minute of their lives. Far more cunning to be found in this act than amalgamated in all his brothers’ existences.

Displeased with Xarxes’ ways of reason, AKA was reluctant to give command of the world even to his last son. Trinimac came upon his lord, mulling over his predicament, and offered a solution, “Wide Walker, take heed. I am strong in your virtues of bragging and circle-making; weigh your son against me, should he be the victor, he is worthy of becoming the Ruling King.”

AKA accepted the bargain, for he was too lazy to devise any other tools, and bade Trinimac to make war with Xarxes.

Trinimac was deeply confused. He lacked original thought, hidden from him was why he suggested such a plan to AKA. He wished to be adored until the Kalpa ended by throngs of vacuous followers, platitudes hurled at him from dusk till dawn; he did not wish to dodge hurled spears and the arrows of an angry god.

Boethiah laughed, and so Trinimac laughed, “worry not, prideful spirit. You are my vessel, and no harm shall come to my vessel,” they harmonized.

Xarxes insisted on sleeping. He would not die- observe this hypocrisy- but he would sleep to shorten the length of his days and assuage the worries of his subjects. For all his knowledge, Mora had misled about the dangers of such a practice.

For several nights after hearing of inevitable war, he had slept poorly. Restful sleep had been marred by foul visions- losing battle, Mora’s rebuke, foul creatures lurking in the darkness, tortured children, each one worse than the last.

Finally, a night of placid rest- a Maiden had appeared to him, “I am the Dreamweaver;” intoned the Maiden, “in my bosom, you are safe. My heart was saddened by your troubles, your woes were made manifest by reverie. Now, I come to banish them. Move to the land of the Hist, among them lay the Patient Ones. They are soft-mannered, yes, but their virtue is uncontested. Their throngs are mortal, but their queen is an Ancient One, drawing no attention through the kalpas, she is patient. Ally yourself, and allay your fears.”

By the Maiden’s whims, Xarxes made way to the lands of the Hist- that expanded through the lands between that of the two warring gods- and in the court of Queen Mola he made show of his virtues of forbearance- one hand over a fire and the other grasping a river-rock, “your beauty is hot as flame, yet your virtue as firm as the stone. Surely, you have been aptly named.”

Over time, Xarxes seduced her allegiances, but not her affections nor her company- for she saw her virtue as too great to sully even for a great ally. Finally, Xarxes’ efforts made the Queen bind her allegiances to the god, “The Patient People cannot remain as we were; change is in the stars, and so we pledge ourselves to you so that we may learn the arts of survival and war. We are all, were we once high or low, your students and your allies. Let us fight for a time to make peace unending.”

Trinimac shambled over the glowing marble, his head bobbing dispassionately, as if asleep. Invisible hands moved his legs, one step at a time, and kept his torso afloat. Once at the threshold, he snapped to attention. Smile wide, eyes keen, shoulders broadened, head held high, and a gait suggesting dignity.

The Lady of Light sat perched in her throne, servants pacing to and fro, intimating lives being lived, but Mephala knows better. Meridia grants unending life to her disciples, for she is as shortsighted as her ilk. More days are allotted to each than moments of a Kalpa; this way, her servants lacked ambition. She wants for them not to be as sharp edges, but to remain in her bosom, to feed off her teat. Blessed is Mephala that culls the weak!

“Bright Lord,” intoned the Lady, “my love comes anon to make war with thee, do you come to surrender?”

Boethiah’s words echoed within Trinimacs mind, and he was made to reply, “Nay and nay, Bright Lady. Neither do I come to bend knee, nor thy love to collect thee.”

“Blasted lies, poison from thy lips. Wicked words ye speak. The journey is long ‘cross the lands of the Hist but surely he makes to collect me.”

A woman stepped out from behind Trinimac, clutching an orb. Under the shadow of the cloak, a crone’s face was seen; but the hands on the orb were of a young maiden. The fair-handed crone held the orb up high, and Meridia came close to inspect. Within the coils of smoke, it could be seen- Xarxes courting the Patient Queen, his sweet words stroking her ego, her devoting her people to him.

“Let us make war”

The Patient People first grew out their skins to match the armors of the Hot Blooded Men. Over many wars, their hands were fashioned into swords, and their legs made long to be like that of a steed. Side-by-side they fought with the short-lived men and repelled waves upon waves of Elves and Golden Warriors.

Within the first few eons, a flaw was made apparent- both sides had immortal warriors. Meridia had granted her acolytes overcounted days, and the Patient People, now the Dreugh, had learned to side-step death Kalpas ago, returning to the Hist moments before their ends came.

“We were promised peace after an age of struggle; yet, age of strife is followed by only age of strife. Where is our succor?” The Dreugh-Queen called out over the clanging of her scales.

“Placid, Patient Queen, you shall have your peace, your people will be made safe. We are ageless, deathless, far-sighted, let that soothe your wounds.”

“NAY!” The Queen grew Impatient; “we shall have our peace either by your hand, or by the Shining Gods’. Eight more moons, one for each spoke, and one more for the Hidden One and you shall have the balm to my troubles, or I shall deliver a balm to those of the Bright Lord.”

“Fair, as always.” Xarxes bowed low, half to show respect, and half to take his eyes off the monstrosity he had perfected.

The war-made form from the eons of Xarxes’ tutelage unto Mola Gba’al was nothing less than aberration. Bit-by-bit the fair and kind Queen was forgotten, with every battle a little more was left behind and a little more was made deranged. Rusted scales ground past one another, rotting musk flowed from the mouth, claws as long as broadswords, the height of five men, a tail made to lance from any side, and cloven hooves that permitted the abomination to leap over chasms and mountains alike, this was the echo of the once-Patient Queen. All her harsh edges now pointed to one conclusion- victory.

Xarxes exuded confidence as he strode out of the Dreugh Queen’s birthing chamber, but thought only of his own doom.

He paced among the gardens, two moons were left until he must present a weapon of such power to Mola Gbal that it could turn the tides, swallow up armies, or slay immortals.

Out of the corner of his eye and through the motions of his pacing, Xarxes saw her once more. The Pale Maiden made herself apparent, yet this time she was made flesh. Bathed in the sun, every inch of her shone resplendent, every perfection magnified.

“Oh good King! I travel from the far-off yet ever-near to council thee. Ye are the God of Death, a standard unending, there is no good choice but that you should win this battle of forces.”

Xarxes was elated that the one who visited so oft in dreams, presented herself in the flesh- with his salvation, no less. “Anything, kind Maiden, even a tear upon my breast would be kindness if made by your hand.”

The Maiden smiled, “God hath three keys; of birth, of machines, and of the words between.” She held out her hand, “Give me thy master’s Ohgma; I shall show you the end of these things.”

Xarxes reached into his bosom and produced the First Tome for the Maiden. He did not understand fully the implications of the Ohgma he had transcribed, for each page had a thickness of null but, stacked infinitely, they made a Tome of considerable volume. The Maiden opened to a page, seemingly at random, and ran her nail along the edge of the page, splitting the paper into yet two more pages.

Hot, black steam frothed from the page. This page was unlike the others. The Ohgma Infinium codes for all that is and could be, all that was and wasn’t, in this way it is like the Scroll(s) of Magnus. Unlike the Scroll, the Infinium also envelops all that can’t be, all that shouldn’t be, all that is forbidden to exist.

Images of tall spires of impossible geometry and chasms of infinite volume, yet finite displacement, were painted across the pages. The glyphs and symbols mirrored what he had transcribed for Mora Kalpas ago, but they ordered in a different fashion. Individually, they were innocuous; but, when a section of a page was seen as a whole, the patterns relayed spite and malevolence yet-unseen in the Arubis.

“This,” the Maiden held the text to Xarxes, “is your salvation. Your final move. The ending rhyme of your victory. It will strip flesh from the void and piece together warriors from your fallen. They shall still die, of course- for this is your sphere- but they shall rise anew, full of spite and purpose.” Xarxes’ eyes betrayed the terror in his bones, the Maiden took heed of his apprehension, “worry not, good king. Often, in times of war, we make concessions not made in times of peace. But does the wolf bear its fangs in the den? Does the stag keep its antlers after the rut? No, my king. Even so might you shed this tool after the war is concluded, even so can you make peace.”

Xarxes was won over, holding the tome in his hands he spoke. “For I could crush a world with my left hand. And in my right hand is how any could crush me. Death shall be under my will only.”

His first two assertions are blindingly accurate; though he knows it not, for he speaks out of order Vaermina thought to Herself But his last will forever evade him. “Yes, my lord,” she spoke, “never shall you know loss.”

The Queen had moved her horde to the frontlines to witness this new art for herself. When a man fell to battle, the masked singers would chant their death rattles and once more the corpse would rise to its purpose. Miasma followed leagues ahead of Xarxes’ armies; but, even with such a warning, there was no outrunning the dead.

Mola Gba’al clicked in joy, “Yes, Grim One, this is perfection made true. The Elven Folk will fall to your art; their deaths are made certain.”

A legion of Aurorans entered over the horizon. For each one, a myriad shambling, dead warriors slammed into the golden giants’ frames. Though the dead outnumbered the immortals, immortality outweighs reanimation. Soon the masked chanters were breathing movement into not freshly-dead warriors, but little more than loose body parts and rotted hunks of flesh. Meridia’s chosen strode over the flailing limbs, and made farther and farther into the enemy ranks.

“Show me this art and I shall make it sharper.” Mola Gba’al had learned the skill of demanding and not asking. “Or should you wish your armies to remain insufficient?” Mola Gba’al had learned the art of asking and not demanding.

Knowing he had taken the art to the apex of his ingenuity, he handed the Book’s Black Pages to Mola Gba’al. Her body was catatonic as her eyes scanned the unholy shapes and swirls. She stuck out her hand and it writhed with blue flame; instantly, a host of dreugh, elves, and men alike were turned to dust, their bones and ashes gathered together in front of the Dark Queen.

“I am Molag Bal.” The Dark One proclaimed. “I am Lord of Terror. I am King of Rape. I seal now my own survival. I know now my salvation. I am the Apex of this world, and all else are subordinate.” She shut her fist and the black dust began to form into distant shapes. “As I will be the Apex of all creation, you are at the height of this world of dust. Know me to be thy Father. Come now, Terror Perfected.”

Screeching began before the forms had been even condensed. The first to be born from the Birthing Pyre was the Unwilling Queen, Lamae Bal. Her primal rage at existence unfurled, one score spirits died from shock, ten thousand mortals died by her claws, and a hundred immortals were drained of Essence by her fangs.

Tsae’ke crawled out, next, even hungrier than the rest of us. Half-snake, half-man the Second Born devoured their victims whole, feet-first, and struggling. Dhamruk stepped out of the pyre and a thousand enemies swooned. He raised a hand in longing and they fought one-another for his affections.

Nrrhethlyndotep’s emaciated visage rose from the ashes and so every strewn corpse rose with her. She was held aloft by the dead, and fed on the rotting, a motion of her hand spelled doom visited upon cities. Hazzkus leapt from the cold flame, his form a chimera. Great wings blotted out the sun, thick skin repelled all foes, his breath froze veins to ice, his arms dug through the ground and his foes alike.

I was born next. I am Telvann, the patience of Molag Bal, cast off and refined. I am the patience of his scheming made into cancerous fruit. A thousand-thousand years I spent in thrall of Trinimac, and in few moments Molag Bal made me free. Unshackled by the Prince of Slavery, I knew my purpose and my powers, just as my siblings had, and made to slay the Bright Gods by some dark scheme- slitting throats and sowing discord all through the ranks of the enemy.

Last of us is Klammouhr, his movements slow for he was in no hurry. Under his gaze, a thousand froze in terror and despair, they knew he would follow them even to the ends of the mundus, seeking his prey. Had they known as infants that they would gaze upon him when matured, the babes would have gouged out their own eyes. They stood in terror, willfully unmoving so as to submit to Klammouhr’s hunger. He ate one, then the next stripping their flesh off their bodies with cold indifference. Even when the battle ended, and an eon passed, he still had not made his way through the terrified mass.

We are the Seven Lords of Corruption. We are the stake in the Heart. We are cold terror and indifferent passion. While we reveled in our newborn slaughter, so even did Xarxes for a time- for he believed himself to be winning the battle.

I came upon the two Bright Gods. Meridia was ablaze with light, furious and spiteful. Trinimac, for his part, was surveying the battlefield with an even head. I pondered how to undo these two gods. Some of my siblings would have swung a claw, but even from a distance I could feel that Meridia’s heat might at anytime burn me away. I lay hidden for a long while, shrouded and thinking, studying the pair. Finally, I had devised a plan that would take some time and care to execute, but was capable of deicide. Before I had made to leave, Trinimac turned to my place of hiding, looked me in the eyes, held a finger to his lips, and smiled.

Trinimac’s jaw looked as if an invisible hand was pulling it down, followed by a tremendous crack; it now hung loosely against his breast, ebony fingers began to protrude from his mouth, grasping at the side of his face and pulling a dark figure from within out. By one light, a snake was shedding its skin; by another, a newborn was killing its mother. Either way, Trinimac moaned as Boethiah disrobed Herself of him- half from pain, half from relief.

The nascent Ancient One snuck from behind the despondent goddess and dug the heel of her iron greave into Meridia’s back, pinning her to the rocks. She-Who-Erases took hold of Meridia’s wings and He-Who-Destroys pulled them off. Boethiah took his time, savoring every snap in every sinew and every crunch of every bone as he did this to the Lady of Light. Boethiah let the goddess rise and look at her assailant. Instead, she saw what was left of Trinimac, crumpled in a heap, lacking any logical form from within his armor.

At that moment she experienced a feeling she was once too proud to feel- despair. Her glow softened to a hum. From through her fading light could be seen My Lady. At the first glance I knew, for I was permitted to know, Mephala had planned every battle, every swing of every sword, every misspoken word, every failed siege from the dawn of the Kalpa to now. What choice have we but to submit to her will? All wriggle in her web, all are part of the Great Plot.

The Webspinner leaned in to comfort the broken goddess with her hands, and yet felt about her with her many legs. “My Sister, they come upon you soon; even now assassins hide in the shadows and a dark army comes to pick your bones clean.”

“My wings are torn, Sister, there is no way wing my flight to the Aether.”

“There is no need to do so, Meridia, Lord of Rage.” Mephala motioned downward with a hand, cutting open the void. “Color these rooms as you wish and walk among us.”

Once the Lord of Righteous Indignation was ushered through the Gate, Mephala turned to me. “Come,” was her only command to me; I knew that even should I refuse and depart, she had planned it so- and I went mad in the knowing. Better to follow Her to glory than Molag Bal to ecstasy. I was the second of the Lords to Depart (for Lamae had resisted the Master at her Birth) but certainly not the last.

Xarxes was victorious. Molag Bal was not. Not as of yet. “Glorious day, the battle is won, the struggle is over. Your people shall now know peace everlasting.”

“The struggle is not over, puny god. The struggle is eternal. I have reached heaven through violence in one blessed syllable, and I am no fool. We sought survival, and to this end we sought peace. But Peace is not the means to survival. Domination. This is the end of all things, the last, perfect shape of the universe. A Tower does not have two peaks, tiny king, may the Dark Worm bare witness.” Molag Bal took his Great Mace and with a massive blow drove Xarxes into the ground. Hail Molag Bal! Hail the Hateful Mace!

Mephala bears witness to the most intricate of plots thus far. Every string was pulled from afar; only at the end did the Webspinner emerge from the void. Yet, even this will pale in comparison to the Death of the Dragon. Praise Molag Bal! Lord of Domination! Father of Vampires! God Forged by Schemes!

Praise the Revenant Worm upon on the Corpse of Arkay! Praise His Sideways Birth! Xarxes will resist, Meridia will crush It beneath her heel, but the Worm persists!

Praise Mephala, Lady of the Plot! Praise Mephala, Lord of the Unsterile! Praise Mephala, Lady of Truth! Praise Mephala, The Throat-Slitter!

The wheel turned, there was night and there was day and there was an eighth Kalpa.

Most of my siblings had all wormed their way into the next Kalpa, by hiding in Couldharbour or by force of Will alone. You see our influence upon our progeny, the creatures you call “vampires” contain such powers as we wielded upon the battlefield that day. All except the youngest, Klammouhr the Hungry. He remains in the previous Kalpa, making his way through the crowd of warriors he froze in place epochs ago. He likes to eat slowly, he likes to make the others watch. Once he has finished his meal, he will travel through the void to this Kalpa at his leisure, and resume his meal in our reality. Await his coming. Await Klammouhr the Hungry.