Bright and Terrible: Part 3

This story was made using the solo RPG Bright and Terrible, by Rose on Mars.

Oh, how their words plagued me! To possess the love of the Ophidians was a darker curse than their hatred. Their poison was slow, eating away at their targets with unerring rot. They cursed not only those who wronged, but those who erred, those who mistook, and those who failed as well. Even those who committed no greater crime than to show mercy or charity to the undeserving were to be torn apart by the witches’ hexes.

I prayed they would find no cause to act without my word. I tempered my fury and ire with swift and just punishments, to spare the guilty a horrible fate. I corrected the innocent with hammer and word, and found my heart swollen sore with the every stroke. How easy it was to return to my place of glory atop a throne of gleaming brass! Where once I had thought the Isle of the Gorgons would be a place of solitude, now I sought to rebuild something of a kingdom of my own. Spurred by the fear of the witches’ passions, I sought to embody the promise of Atlantis, a place of light and music, as beautiful as it was terrible.

For many generations I toiled to polish the gray stones of the Isle, to return the luster of Atlantis to the world, but for all my efforts it was a mockery, a misshapen jest of an empire. The mortals knew it, too. I could feel the lies they told themselves, the pleasure they took from pretending that nothing had changed, that I was no less than the Indigo Empress herself. They praised their good fortune and privilege to serve, enjoying the fruits of my Empire that were the envy of Kings and Queens of the less-fortunate kingdoms.

I heard the chanting of the Ophidians in my dreams, the dreadful hiss of their siren song. They laughed at me and pled with me to join them and their sisters in praising the ancient goddess. I stood firm, remaining distant from both witch and mortal, knowing naught but disaster would come to my door if I let the scales tip for but a moment.

Twas in such a dream they caressed my cheek and breast with ice-cold hands, and whispered of the east, where lay the Bronze Wastes. In the center of this desolate land sat the city of Pallom’Val, a rich and prosperous home to the Thirty Lords of Coin. What cared I for such children’s titles? The whispers showed me the strings they danced upon, the threaded web of influence. I scarce could believe what the whispers promised, what truth the twisting winding lines of power wove.

Another Atlantean! It must be so; an exile from long before the fall was peddling their trade as puppet-mastrum of the Thirty Lords of Coin. In an instant my dreaming heart leapt for joy, then cowered in fear.

Another Atlantean! Such joy filled my breast as I knew no comparison. No longer would I be alone in this strange and foreign world filled with mortals unsuitably free from our guiding hand. Even if they were an exile, they would know the dreams of our people. We could share in our minds’ eyes, and speak of both future and past. I was no longer the last of a dead people, but merely one of an empire resurgent!

Another Atlantean! Such shame I felt, as my failings now no longer were unseen by any but mortal eyes. Exile they might have been, but they would see my childish efforts, my inability to recreate the wonder and glory that was our Empire of Air and Darkness. They would see how low I had fallen, how foolish I had been to even attempt to rise the Shining Towers of Apazil and the Dark Towers of Hepatizon once more.

Another Atlantean! Such fear crept over my soul as I knew my kin was filled with hate and spite after so long an exile. They must have heard of the fall of Atlantis, and yet they did not come. I had not been quiet these many years, and yet they never showed their face. I had to rely on the foul Ophidian Witches to point me to their doorstep, and even now the exile manipulated from the shadows, hiding their bright and terrible selves from the mortals they ruled.

Another Atlantean. My fear and joy could not control me; as water cannot choose to separate, so too could we not meet and join. The witches knew this, and so it was with their whispers in my dreams that they set me on my path. I would travel from my palace to the Bronze Wastes, to the city of Pallom’Val, to the Thirty Lords of Coin and their mastrum.

I flew on wings of gold and brass across the land, seeing the astonished eyes of my servants and subjects as I traveled. They had never seen such sights in their tiny lives, save in dreams and nightmares brought about by hearing the ancient tales of their forebears. I sailed on the breezes and clouds for many a league, passing humble castles and ramshackle kingdoms on my way.

At long last, my feet once more touched earth in the dusty city of Pallom’Val, land of the Thirty Lords of Coin. Great was the amazement in every eye, as was the fear in every breast. My skin shone bright in the wasteland sun, and the curling mist from my mouth brought them sublime humility. There was no escaping my majesty.

They held a festival for me, as heartfelt as a holy sacrifice to their gods. From their barbaric mutterings, I learned they had heard of me, but thought me mere legend; I was a tale to frighten children and encourage industriousness. It tore at my heart that there were no tales to inspire greatness or virtue, yet what more did I expect from these base primitives? Even after so many generations they dug in the dirt and prayed in fevered hope. I should have expected they would forsake aspirations they had no chance of reaching.

When I made my claim, the Thirty Lords of Coin knew nothing of my fellow kin; there was no exile in their city, nor had there ever been. Their childlike ignorance was endearing to me, and I praised their festivals, parades, and lavish efforts. Their glee was fine amusement, and I felt only a little irritation at being delayed in my search for my kin.

I was delayed further, however, when news came of the Red Prophet. I knew nothing of this old crone, but the Thirty Lords knew her well; an oracle of great renown and skill, she had prophesied a divine hawk descending from the sky, carrying clouds in its mouth. On that day, she said, she would die; and died she had. News was sent to the Thirty Lords as soon as she had breathed her last, and so I saw them gasp and wring their wrinkled hands with fear.

“What means this?” My hand was raised in regal command. “You sit in awe of a mortal oracle, when I am here to speak truths unheard? Birds and dogs know when they are about to die; so too with humans. Why are you so frightened of a prophet’s ramblings that you should fear the future while sitting at my side?”

And so the Thirty Lords begged my forgiveness and cleared the court to speak with me alone. So curious was I at their odd behavior that I allowed them this show of strength, they hid me away behind their jeweled doors and spoke in whispered council:

Not only her death, had the Red Prophet seen, but a crime most horrible. “Retribution,” said one Lord of Coin, “would come in the dusty clouds of the desert, descending as a storm on our heads for our crime.”

“It is true,” said another. “She knew our great shame, and so she saw the death and destruction of everything we hold dear. Our city walls will not save us from the desert storms, nor our treasuries, though they be full to bursting. Our silks and perfumes, our sweet fruits and salted meats, all are as dust in the face of our doom.”

I laughed in their faces, amused at their fears. “There are few sins indeed that can call the demons of the wastes down on your heads, and I have seen no evidence of such crimes. You have allowed the poetry of an old woman set you shivering in your silks. Tell me now; confess your hidden shame so that I might pass judgment upon you and your city.”

To see them hesitate, to watch their courage fail them when my words carried the weight of my heritage, was an insult I could not allow. I raised my hand and clenched my fist, and spoke with the thunder of the lost city; “Speak now! Confess your sins to Atlantis, or be forsaken forevermore!” At this, my command, the Thirty Lords of Coin fell to the floor, prostrating themselves to my might and fury.

“We have sinned greatly, oh liege.” they spoke with hushed voices and quivering tongues. “We have harbored a demon, an exile of heaven here in this very city. We have listened to its words, followed its council, and by its aid have we grown content and the city prosperous. While it was our ancestors who accepted the demon in, we have kept it here instead of throwing it to the wastes and casting it out of our golden city. Forgive us our sins, oh liege, or punish us and us alone, for the people of the city had no knowledge of this.”

No sooner had I heard their words than I knew of whom they spoke. “Recompense must be paid,” I said. “Take me to this demon, and I shall see how great a sin you have committed.”

They took me to the standing stone; a pillar of rock salt that trapped my kin’s mind. I heard it babbling as I approached, fear claiming what remained of its mind as it felt my ire. This was no mere exile. To be rock salt was a punishment for the greatest of heretics and sinners, far greater than mere death.

I laid my hand upon the pillar and spoke: “Your sin is great, and I shall enact a fitting punishment. You shall each retain only a tenth of your coin and jewels, the rest shall return to my palace with me. So too shall you forever more lack the wisdom of this demon. I shall take it to a more fitting place, and you shall rule the city with your own hands, rising and failing as your choices dictate.”

At the time, I thought there was no greater curse I could have given. Now I am not so sure.

It matters little, because before the Thirty Lords could thank or plead, a call went up from the city walls. The cloud of sand was coming, stretching from one end of the horizon to the other. Bands of mercenaries and criminals from across the land had banded together, eager to drink from the golden chalice that was Pallom’Val. Their spears were sharp and their horses strong, and they charged towards the city with the fury of a hurricane.

The Thirty Lords begged for my help, pleaded with me to spare the city, if not their own lives. They offered coin and jewels, silks and perfumes, the entirety of their bounty. Two of the thirty even offered their lives as payment for my aid.

I did not linger. I felt no joy at watching these children beg and plead. I did not enjoy their suffering, nor did I wish to see the consequences of my choice. I pulled the pillar of rock salt from the earth and carried it into the sky. There, on golden wings, I raised my hammer high in the air and wove the magic of Atlantis.

I called upon the ancient mercies of Renos and Lapsia. I channeled the wisdom of ancient Greece and the Emperi Wennous. The glowing apex of the Tower of Justice flared bright in my mind as I remembered the ways of my people. We were giants among ants, a raging fire and burning thunder among dry leaves and dead grass. We pitied the mortal’s limited life and blind sight, as we scorned their weaknesses and petty instincts. They were our children, and we protected as well as punished.

Mercy could be as great a virtue as justice.

In truth, I do not know why I spared the city and its Thirty Lords of Coin. Was I so grateful for my new companion, mad as they were, that I could not call upon my fury? Was I placated by the weights of coin and jewels that I took from the Lords as minor punishment? Was I touched by the sincerity of the two Lords who were willing to die to save others? Was I simply bored of the city, and wanted to return home?

I know not. All I know is the clouds of dust fell back to the earth, the storm of mercenaries and criminals naught but sand. It was a great and terrible power I wielded that day, but in the eyes of the people below I shone like a second sun.