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The Tale of the Dark Wanderer, Part 2

The Twice-Kissed Prophet stood upon the lowest stair of the Hetman's lodge, his dark eyes gazing around the room -- moving from one candle to another, as if examining the fire most curiously. "This will not do," the Prophet said finally, with a heavy sigh. "Such a tale as what I share cannot be said in the presence of so much fire and light -- Oswald, son of Balsand, assist me in extinguising most of these candles. We will leave enough lit to see, but no more."

The room went even more deathly quiet, and there was a pause before Oswald stood and went to one side of the room and began to douse some of the candles that stood there. Once he saw that he was being obeyed, the Twice-Kissed Prophet moved as well and pinched the wics of burning candles between two fingers -- smoke and the smell of burned flesh wafting lightly around the room. Finally, once all but ten or so candles were extinguished, the Prophet spoke.

"Enough; this will do," was all he said, his shadowy form moving back before the staircase. In the gloom of the darkened foyer, he seemed the soul of a ghost itself. Even his legs seemed to fade into the shadows, giving him the appearance of a hovering spectre. He seemed to fully disappear then, prompting a number of gasps from the gathered elders -- until once again the candles flickered and he seemed to be kneeling or perhaps sitting upon the bottom of the stair.

"What does the Immaculate Order teach about the beginnings of Creation? Wait; do not answer. I shall tell you. The world was born of impurity desiring to be pure, moving ever toward oneness with Essence and the Elemental Dragons. A trite story," he admitted, to a few muffled comments. "Yet only a story. A meager attempt to cover up the greatest crime ever commited -- a murder whose aftereffects are still felt. The murder of the Creators."

One of the older women spoke up, lightly, her voice filled with a bit of fear but just as much authority used to being unquestioned, "What you speak is blasphemy, and we should not have to listen to it. The Immaculate Or--"

The darkness seemed to grow thicker, and the anger was evidence in the Prophets voice as he said, "You are a fool of a woman, old crone. Yet you came here of your own free will, just as the others. You will sit, and listen to my tale, or I will not be responcible for the wrath the Dead Gods visit upon you. Already I feel their ire -- you would do well not to discount them so easily."

There was silence for a time, and then once again the Prophet continued -- his voice still a bit strained. "The truth of creation was perfection," he began with, words that perhaps no one expected. "The Immaculates look at the world around them and see the heartache and sorrows and seek explanations. Surely, with the guidance of the Immaculate Dragons and the Dragon-Blooded, the would could not have fallen! Thus this state of affairs is superior that which came before! The blind lead the blind."

A pause, once again, as if daring further interruptions -- which thankfully did not come.

"Yet in the beginning, Creation was perfect. There was little or no suffering, and if there were hardships they existed to make one stronger through the endless iterations of ones life. If there was pain, it was a lesson to be learned. Even death, such as it existed, was but another door to another in an endless iteration of life," the Prophet went on, his voice full of a great sadness. "Yet in this perfection, only one thing existed which was not satisfied. This unhappiness did not come from the Creators. They had forseen that their weariness, and retired from the managing of the endless and bountiful cycles of Creation. They had created the world; was it not rightful for them to seek relaxation and relief from these labors they themselves had created? Especially after they had given so much!"

"Thus came the Gods -- created by the Creators to manage the endless and bountiful cycles of Creation, the minutae of existance, so that their masters could enjoy themselves and look in upon their creation when they felt the urge. Yet, though they had no reason, the Gods grew angry at their responcibilities. They had been created, birthed, for one task -- one vital and all important task. Power and respect had been given them, and riches beyond that given to any other. Yet they desired more; they saw how the Creators enjoyed their existances, free from the responcibilities that the Gods had gained. They desires those luxuries for themselves -- and planned to kill their creators to gain them."

Once again, a voice rose in the darkness other than the Prophets. The voice of Cracia, the old woman who had spoken before, posed a careful considered question, "If the Creators had grown weery of those tasks, why not the Gods? If those tasks were thay enjoyable, why would the Creators make the Gods in the first place..."

The Prophet signed, annoyed. "Your question is not entirely baseless, but it is disrespectful. None the less, I shall answer it, but I warn you again not to be so callous toward the anger of my patrons. If their eye falls upon you, crone, I will be unable to protect you from their wrath..." He paused, thinking, and then replied in a voice that mostly concealed his annoyance, "The Creators had made all, given perfection unto the world, endless existances of joy and wonder -- and hardship and learning and growth, yes. The Gods were one of their Creation, given a place of honor amidst the jewel of creation -- yet, also, the keenest of responcibilities. Even if their complaints had merits, and they did not, murder of the creators of all is never justified. Does that satisfy your question, crone?"

The woman seemed to hum for a bit, and then answered, "I suppose so. Thank you for your answer, and I apologize for my disrespect."

"Do not apologize to me, woman," he said, in a sharp quip -- before stopping, and regaining his footing. "If the Gods had grown jealous and angry by themselves, it would have done little. However, two of the Creators own sided with them. One of these was Autochthon, the least of the Creators, who envied his betters and despaired of their pity and compassion. The other was Gaia, the Earth Mother, who had fallen in love with one of the Gods and cared not for her own. With whispered power in the ears of the Gods, these traitors planted the seed of their brothers doom. Thus begins the Age of the Exalted."

"...the Dragon-Blooded? This is about the Princes of the Earth? You dare to say that they are nothing but murderer--.." The complaint started off low and afraid, but grew louder as she continued raising from her seat. It ended up just as suddenly, with a light scream and a clutching of the heart as Cracia fell down amidst the other gathered. The various elders of the village rose, some screaming and others in shock...

"Calm yourselves! Do not bring further disrespect to this holy gathering; her poor choice of words was her undoing, as I warned her," the Prophet said, bringing the chaotic mass somewhat to peace. Oswald stood, looking at the Prophet with fear and horror in his ices...

"You killed her," he said haltingly, as if unsure.

"I did no such thing; my power lays chained within me, and not a hand did I move," the Prophet said, softly and carefully, his voice resonating through the air and reaching into the hearts and minds of those gathered. "The Dead Gods grew angry at her impudent words and cast her down. She will not know the salvation I offer, but it is still available to you -- if you sit and listen to the rest of my tale. Leave now, however, and there is no hope."

Slowly, the otherworldly echo died down and the others began to once again take their seats -- ignoring Cracia's body entire.

"I am glad you made the proper decision," the Prophet said, once again going silent as he remembered where he was. "The time of the Exalted, yes. The poor old crone was wrong, in the end, as well. I do not speak of the Dragon-Blooded, at least not in whole. They were merely the weakest, most base and common of the murderers and assassins in the service to the Gods. Solar, Lunar and Sidereal -- those were the minions of the greater Gods, the true Exalted, known today only as Anathema. Hunted and killed by their own soldiers, for the rule of murderers and betrayers cannot stand. The Exalted showed their true color in the end, just as the Dynasts show theirs in these dark days."

"The war between the Creators and the Exalted was long and bitter, and much was ruined, but in the end -- the Exalted stood triumphant. The Creators were killed, yet they cannot truely die for they are beyond and before death. Yet their deaths shattered the eternal cycle of rebirth, and threatened to extinguish all. I can only imagine the temptation -- let Creation falter and die with their deaths, that they might know revenge against the Gods for their cowardly death. Yet the Creators, the Dead Gods, could not do such..."

"In their infinate mercy, they used what of their power they could to repair the endless cycle of life and death. Yet, murdered, their power was not enough to restore things as they were. Never again shall Creation be whole and pure. Yet instead of letting it melt away, the Dead Gods created the Underworld. There, life is eternal. One can die, but be reborn again in the Essence of the world. It is a purer world than what remains here, filled with fine emotion and the pure essence of souls. It is not as wonderous as the time before -- there is suffering, there is pain without purpose. The Dead cannot wholely exist without the living, and so some must remain -- suffering and corrupted in this broken world. Much was lost with the traitorous betrayal of Creation..."

"If you doubt me, think only to your lives and the lives of those around you. Does this would feel complete? Is it struggling toward perfection? Or is it sinking, tettering on the edge of collapse and ruin from the excesses of the Gods. I know that you know the answer within your hearts, though you might not accept it."

"The underworld is not perfect; but the Dead Gods labor on. In the deepest heart of the Underworld, where they sleep in their crypts, they dream a new existance. One free of suffering, pain, corruption. An existance perfect as only they can imagine it. They work not just for us, but also for themselves for the pain of their current existance is beyond even that of this world. They linger on, dying eternal, yet striving to create what has been lost and give it to us all. If they wished, they could leave us now and journey on to this paradise. They have the power remaining to grant themselves this perfection."

"Yet they will not rest -- they will not cease their struggles -- until all of Creation can join them."