Bright and Terrible: Part 4

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

I spent many a day and night with the rock salt pillar. Inside was the mind of a heretic, a villain who had been cast out of Atlantis for crimes greater than any mortal could fathom. I should have been repulsed by it, shunned its mad ramblings and distant thoughts, but by the Shining Towers of Apazil, I could not find disgust in my heart.

I did not feel pity; I was not so far removed from Atlantis that I had forgotten myself. At most I felt regret for myself, that I had come so close to another Atlantean — Oh! — only to find nothing but this eroding soul, a mockery of a companion.

In my lonely madness, I even tried speaking to it. I do not know why I tried; perhaps I imagined the process was not irreversible, that I could bring this heathen back to lucid thoughts. Surely, if any could, it would be I, master of the hammer, diplomat, and changer-of-minds. But no, such dreams were folly, and I soon quit my efforts.

Yet I did not quit my madness; the pillar remained beside my throne, and the whispers of the trapped soul came to my mind every day. I knew not if it soothed my mind or made my loneliness worse, but I was compelled. I turned away servant and petitioner for many a month, consumed with thoughts both terrible and divine.

Here I stayed until the day a Gogi came to my throne. So rare were the half-breeds of our illustrious form and mortal flesh that I was beset with curiosity surpassing my melancholy. Who was this Gogi? Where had they come from, and why had they sought me out?

I allowed the Gogi an audience. She hobbled in on misshapen legs and wrapped in wrinkled skin. I felt sick on seeing such a blend of Atlantean and mortal, but my interest overcame my disgust. Her voice was clear and calm, and she introduced herself as daughter of a Loeioi and their liege, who learned the sorcery of the Gentle Depths and the Winding Towers. For service given and by the honor of the Sixth Holy Priest, she was given sinecure over the Leopardfolk of the southern jungles. An ancient and solitary people, she had spent a millennia doing little more than practicing the dreaming arts.

In her hubris, she had woven a masterful work; the truest of all true loves. By her whispered words, mighty winds wrecked a pirate ship on the southern shores. By her winding dance, an Incan youth was pulled deeper into the dark jungles, lost and alone. By her twisting fingers, the princess of the leopardfolk saw him as he bathed in a tiny waterfall. By her beating heart, she pulled the youths together again and again, tying their very breath together, until their hearts beat as one.

It was a foolish spell, but marvelous in its craft. At her urging, I watched the threads of destiny on my loom and saw how her skill had entangled the world. The boy was of no great shape, and the girl’s beauty and grace was more the shadow of her father the king than her fur or skin. Nevertheless, the two found in each other the truest of loves; that impossible mortal paradox that we Atlanteans were thankfully free from. They desired each other with the force of the sun. They were slaves to the other’s joy, yet craved to control and consume. They were two halves of the one whole, at once strengthening and weakening the other in their passions.

In spite of myself, I was impressed.

But as with all stories, it did not end with love. The ancient leopardfolk feared the world of mortals, and so forbade the union of the two. The Incan pirates were more welcoming, stealing the boy and girl away when Gogi’s winds brought them to shore. Naturally, this infuriated the Leopard King, and he sent his warriors to reclaim his daughter from the foreign monsters who had stolen her.

The Incan pirates were not ignorant of the leopardfolk’s power, however. They had many legends of the leopardfolk, some saying they themselves were descendants of the ancient tribe. The pirates had prepared for war, and risked their souls for a boon from the ancient Riders of the Red Mare. As mighty as the waves and riding stallions as fast as lightning, they strode out of the sea and stood before the leopard warriors, ready to kill and die as their oaths demanded.

Such a fight could have shattered the whole of Africa, had it taken place; but both leopardfolk and riders knew the strength of the other, and would not fight if there were a better path. After all, the Incan pirates did not protect the lovers out of sentiment. They knew of the miraculous treasures hidden in the leopardfolk’s caves, and demanded ransom for the princesses return. Offers of gold and skins were ignored, as the pirate king wanted but one thing; the Mask of Remembrance.

Such a horrid thing! Forged in the bowels of the Orichalcum City, the Mask of Remembrance was a powerful tool, capable of shaping the minds of any who looked on the wearer. Place the mask over your face, and the mortal mind would forever remember your words, your actions, your every heartbeat. It had been a crude and clumsy tool in the early years for controlling our mortal slaves, a cudgel compared to the scalpel of my hammer. My people had forsaken its use for generations, letting the leopardfolk worship it as the face of their gods until they faded into the shadows of their jungles, forgotten.

The Leopard King refused to give up such a sacred artifact, and now they stand, both leopard warriors and Riders red. They have stood for weeks, neither daring to make the first move nor quit the battlefield. Surely I, with the glory of Atlantis upon my head, could resolve this twisted knot, and allow her truest of true loves to flourish as she had willed?

I am no Resplendent Judge of the Trigon Citadel. I hold no staff of office nor wear ermine robes. Nonetheless, the Gogi looked to me as arbiter. Was she so scared of the future that she gave me the responsibility of heaven? At first I thought to send the Gogi away, to dwell in her failure and live as her hubris had wrought; but something in my soul was glittering, pulling me towards this dark land and its misshapen mistress.

We left on chariots of wind driven by horses of rain and bridled by thunder. We struck the land with the force of heaven and I stood tall, carrying the judgment of eons on my shoulders. Even as I stood on the distant shores of Africa, I was ignorant of the correct path forward.

No, I knew the correct path, I did not know if I would take it. I knew the Mask of Rememberance’s rightful place, I knew the power of the Gogi’s spell, I knew the souls of the Leopardpeople and the danger of the Riders of the Red Mare. I knew the correct answer…but I did not know if I was strong enough to speak it. I needed the strength of armies and storms, when all I had was a hammer and a half-breed.

I could feel my inadequacies as the Incan pirates approached. At their head walked the Riders of the Red Mare, dark and dripping the ichor of the sea. The foolish pirates who had purchased the fell mercenaries with promises of blood and coin called out from behind, demanding their price for the return of the fated lovers.

I knew my place. Any true child of Atlantis wouldn’t hesitate; they would stand proud by the Leopardfolk and wave the pirates from their shores. They would maintain the ancient oaths and keep the mighty artifact in its holy temple. They would drag the spelled lovers from the boats and allow the enchanted song to run its course, lest the world bend to bring the children together. They would curse the pirates with a word so mighty that even the Riders of the Red Mare would think themselves fortunate.

Now, staring at the cursed mercenaries and their pirate allies, the burning lantern of Atlantis in my soul felt pitifully small.

“Hear me,” I called, with the mists of ancient lands pouring from my lips. “You interlopers and cursed sell-swords trespass against the Laws of the Heavens. The Artifact you seek must not be moved from its place of rest, lest the eyes of angel and demon alike burn your souls with their gaze. The woven strands of fate that brought you here shall not be denied. Return the children from off your ships at once, or face the wrath of Atlantis unchained!”

I saw in the pirate’s eyes no fear; in the Rider’s eyes, no soul. The captain’s voice was light, but firm: “We are poor pirates, oh mighty one, and while you speak with the voice of the firmament, we pirates combat the squalls and waves of the sea every day. Come, we must not leave these shores a cabin-boy poorer for our troubles. So too have we promised these sea-souled wretches a measure for their kindness, and you know the old ways as well as we; they will not rest without due recompense.”

“Your foolishness is your own,” I began to say. I was prepared to raise my hammer high and force the mortals to feel my words as clearly as if they were my own, but fate had other plans.

A whirling wind of otherworldly source tore across the sands, pulling shell and rock alike into the air. In the mists of the sea, a squamous shape rolled and boiled like a pot of furious eels, revealing then hiding again a pair of reptilian eyes.

“Beloved one,” the ophidian voice echoed across the sky, “Sibling true, we see your heart and feel your pain. Know that our love for you is as mighty as the moon and as deep as the stars. Let our gift come to you on swift winds, as we have sent the Screaming Sands to clean the shores of that which vexes you.”

The words of the Ophidian Witches chilled my bones, as I understood what their misguided and mistaken love had done. In their passions they had used their magics to call forth one of the ancient Dooms of Atlantis to solve my problem for me.

At first I was merely amused; The Dooms of Atlantis were more useful as tales to frighten mortals, than a tried and true method of maintaining obedience. The Wise Sagious and Councils of Bone considered them too great a punishment to use, akin to crushing an ant with a mountain. They cautioned us with prophesies of a time when the Empire of Air and Darkness would be no more, felled by its own hand.

Oh! How their many tales rang with truth, now that Atlantis had fallen!

The Doom of Lions was a cold and callous doom. One which fell, like its namesake killers, on those alone and frightened. The Nemean breed were our workhorses and war-dogs, and weekly were they fed with the meek and guilty.

The Doom of Wailing Winds was caring and compassionate, allowing the mourners time to grieve the loss of their homes and loved ones before scouring the land clean. Their keening wails would be bottled and used for any number of fell experiments.

The Doom of Dark Skies, the Doom of Locusts, the Doom of Unending Songs…we had so many ways of punishing that we rarely used.

Now, spores of death were winding their way towards me, born on rage-filled winds and hellish flames. The Screaming Sands would pour down our throats like a poisonous drought, and our last moments would be drawn out into unending horror.

In a moment, my own death was all that occupied my mind. One moment more, and I turned to the pirates, my only course laid bare in front of me.

I placed the hammer down. “You hear the voice of the Ophidian Witches. The Doom of Screaming Sands comes for us all. If we do not quit these shores before the sun sets, our bones will cover this land, forever lost. Our very souls will perish, crying out for succor that will never come. A hell unleashed in billions of demon teeth. The love of these two children has been woven to the land, will you not return it to the land before your souls are forfeit?”

The pirates looked about, their hearts plain on their faces, but their captain was of sterner stuff. “For but a pittance of gold, our lusts will be slaked, but I fear the Riders of the Red Mare are not so easily paid. Promises were made, Angels of Atlantis, and promises must be kept or else our souls will suffer all the same.”

I stared at the hollow mercenaries, saw their unending thirst, and knew the Captain spoke true. “Then paid they shall be, for by the magic of me and my companion, we shall end the curse that holds their souls in the depths.”

The Gogi was shocked at my oath, but she did not protest. I knew she must have been weak still from the true love she had made, but she neither groaned nor sighed as she stood opposite me around a circle of weaving. Her voice was clear as we spoke words long forgotten, even to the eldest of people. He eyes were firm as she gazed into the warp and weft of our song, finding the ancient curse that my people had placed on the ancient Riders.

Oh how they had cried for our aid, so many centuries ago. They had begged for our boon to ease their hunger for the speed of the winds. They wished to ride as swift as lightning. They wished for the strength of the crashing waves. They ached to see the wide world and taste the fruits of its every corner. So it amused us to grant them their wish.

We blessed them from the finest animal of our Indigo Empress’s stables, the Red Mare of Lyne. Her eyes were starlit fires, her teeth gemstones, her mane untamed waves. She bore a steed for every rider, with but one cost for their service. Like the winds and waves, like the thunder and rain, they were beasts of movement and discovery. So were the Riders enjoined; the greatest sin would be to bid their mounts sleep in the same place twice.

Such a playful curse it was, we laughed at their foolishness. The world had boundaries that even the Red Mare could not pass, and so there came a time when there was nowhere left for the Riders to sleep. They rode as long and as hard as they could, but at last sleep claimed both them and their mounts. Their sin laid bare under the starlit sky, their souls were bound to the unending sea, forever to crash and recede, never still.

Now me and a half-breed sought to unwind this terrible not. The Gogi was of no small skill, I had to admit, but even were we two full-blood Atlanteans it would be harsh going. This was more a job for the Councils of Bone or the Monks of Mount Bleak, rather than one such as I.

But unwind we did. Like the Ruby Shoal dancers of centuries past, or the Silver Flutist of Beki-un-Bek, our bodies and souls flew between the threads, our voices unwinding and unraveling the tapestry of a curse so ancient even I had no memory of when it was made.

The ancient laws of the Heavens bent and twisted. A scream of unholy might rent the magic apart. I could feel the span of ages buckle and groan as the magic snapped in half, spreading the echos of the ancient words from the nadir of the pit to the highest Elysium gates.

The Riders of the Red Mare were broken, their souls now free to find what destiny was theirs. The curse was ended.

The pirates left the shores that hour, each hull filled with the golden coins of long-lost peoples. The Incan Pirate and the Leopard Princess were joined together under the bright-eye moon and with seventeen sacrifices bled for their good-fortune.

The winds arrived, but there were no more throats to claim. Death came for the dust, and left without screaming.

The Gogi, the half-breed, an ancient mistake of our people, was punished for her great skill. The breaking of the curse, which I had escaped so easily, she did not know how to weather. I could see in her eyes the part of her soul that had been ripped away, the piece of her heart that was now wandering free in the land of dust and ghosts.

I should have ignored her pains. To show respect to a Gogi, even a skilled magician such as her, was disgraceful. Yet now, with Atlantis buried beneath the sea, I could not find it in my heart to reject even a drop of Atlantean blood, no matter how diluted.

I gave her a gift of my own; a trinket of no great importance. I taught her how to ride the currents of dreams, to speak to me from a great distance and have me hear her words. I took a piece of her pain, and grafted a spark of flame to her wounded soul. It was more than I should have done, it was less than she deserved.