Sundered Sisters

Prologue

And at the occurrence of the Grand Conjunction, as prophesied by Phatak —High Priest, Acolyte of the Most Secret, Voice of the Destroyer— Dread Sheldor would lay in Superior juxtaposition to all.

And at that moment would His obedient, devoted people finally be raised up above all others, becoming His Chosen.

And as his Priests and acolytes were servants of Dread Sheldor—

And as his Chosen were to be servants obedient to His Priests and acolytes—

Given to them would be all that lived on the surface of world; all that swam in and under the seas; all that flew in the sky and heavens. All would be given as slaves to His Priests and Chosen.

And the great crowd of faithful eagerly waited, bodies oiled and hair greased in reverence and adulation as the moment prophesied by High Priest Phatak approached. Sistrums chimed. Flutes and reeds whistled. Drums of all kinds rhythmically pounded and throbbed. The promised moment grew closer . . . and closer . . .

. . . it came . . .

. . . then passed.

There were no signs in the heavens. There were no brazen trumps thundering from the skies. There were no celestial warriors descending to subdue and subjugate the world for them. Thus they became wroth and enraged, foaming at the mouth and eyes rolling white. As a mob betrayed they cried out for vengeance. High Priest Phatak commanded, then implored, then pleaded to his congregation, but they were beyond reasoning. Ascending the Spire of Conquest they hurled down the false prophet Phatak and his minions, their corpses trampled into bloody ruin as the betrayed cursed and vilified the name of Dread Sheldor.

And then Dread Sheldor grew enraged at the duplicity and treachery of His Chosen. He stretched out his hand and grasped a star. Hurling it downwards, His mien bleak and harsh, Dread Sheldor watched the fiery bullet impact the Spire of Conquest, scouring the lands down to blasted, molten ruins, obliterating everything as far as the eye could see.

And so once more Dread Sheldor had shouldered the mantle of The Destroyer.

- Fragments of an ancient scroll purporting to explain the Muata devastation. These are also likely the source of so many fanciful and outré legends and 'old wives tales' used to frighten children into obedience. College of Arcana

As most momentous occasions do —as the generations pass, as the strife, struggle and smoke of historic battles fade into antiquity— the actual events would become distorted, larger than life, as the years, decades and centuries passed onwards, as historical facts transformed into fantastical legend.

Philosophers would spend their lives in erudite yet meaningless discussions and prose, each branch striving to outdo the others and proclaim the "Truth". Their theories abounded, of course. How could they not? Whenever factual certainties cannot be ascertained and verified by more conventional, concrete —and accurate— means is when Philosophers flourish within their realm, addressing such weighty problems by a generally systematic approach and, alas, their reliance on "rational argument". Indeed, of the four Pillars of N'Dyia — Epistemology, Metaphysics, Logic, and Ethics (or "moral philosophy")— only those devoted to Logic refused to be drawn into the esoteric, supramundane mêlée.

- Jaxom of Gom, sixth Order N'Dyia Logician

Orgamonth carefully stretched, his joints creaking and popping. He was starting to feel the wear of many years, although that didn't mean he was aged or destined to meet his ancestors any time soon. No, mostly it was due to the unseasonably cold weather for this time of year of this thrice-accursed forest.

He wasn't using the term 'thrice-accursed' only figuratively, either.

Of course, the fact that The Island of Death (Muata in the old tongue) was considered cursed by every sentient being —and, oddly enough, avoided by the majority of beasts as well— was one reason why Orgamonth had chosen there as his foraging and hunting grounds. Yes, it was perilous. Yes, it was dangerous. Yet it was also rich with artifacts. And if one had the patience and talent to find, and then safely excavate and retrieve them, it was quite profitable.

Much more profitable than being a mere laborer. Or, worse, a helot like so many others had become.

Orgamonth had more important things to concern himself with than history, especially ancient history (which, to him, was anything prior to his maturation) so he had only the most rudimentary knowledge of how the Druii had come into absolute power. And absolute it was, too. Orgamonth couldn't think of a single tribe, peoples or nation that had withstood the slow, steady grinding assault of the Druii. And as for those whose resistance had been more challenging, the Druii hadn't conquered…

…they'd annihilated.

The Druii certainly seemed invincible, but Orgamonth had a sneaky suspicion —which he most certainly kept to himself— that they must have some sort of weakness. Why else did they pay such a premium for artifacts?

And artifacts there were aplenty here, for those brave enough —or foolhardy enough— to seek them. Orgamonth didn't consider himself reckless, of course, although his oversight last eve could very well have been grave. He'd established over the years his own base camps, and yesterday he'd pushed himself a bit too much making it to this one, so much so he'd made a sketchy encampment and had dropped right off to sleep.

Luckily —and utterly contrary to the old wives tales about The Island of Death— he'd survived his misfortune. He hadn't frozen to death . . . although, truthfully, he'd come far closer to doing so than he'd been comfortable admitting to himself.

Given his druthers Orgamonth would much rather reside in a nice jungle or semi-tropical rain forest. Too much humidity, after all, had its own problems. But that alternative had only been valid had he chosen to remain home at Teosa with his kin. And since that would have necessitated him accepting being a good little Druii helot…

Still a youth he'd stowed away on a Dechation cargo vessel leaving Teosa. Rather than just tossing him overboard —which, as he couldn't float, let alone swim, would have been fatal—Captain P'zkwal had given him a chance. And within days Orgamonth had proven himself a more than capable sailor, able to swarm up ratlines faster and more at ease than the old salts. In fact he'd so impressed P'zkwal that, once they'd docked at Roch'sa he'd had a little chat with an old acquaintance of his.

Which was how Orgamonth had found himself working aboard an Acghizan privateer.

For several years the Retribution had harassed and destroyed Vahearan and Climan merchants —sometimes as a privateer, and quite often as a free-lance, outright pirate— and Orgamonth had discovered he enjoyed that sort of work. But he'd never been able to overcome his fear of the sea (or any body of water higher than his legs) and so, when the Retribution had been dismasted and had almost foundered during a severe, three-day storm, Orgamonth decided that perhaps a change of occupation was warranted.

Sadly, the opportunities for an out-of-work freebooter were virtually nonexistent and, to make matters even dicier, his kind was rarely, if at all, seen in Roch'sa.

Unfortunately, the Druii were not.

Helots were ritually mistreated, humiliated and even slaughtered by the Druii and their closest allies, and Orgamonth's people were, most definitely, considered helots.

Orgamonth, most definitely, did not consider himself as such so, when confronted down at the wharves by a Drui and his bodyguards, he went down fighting. He hadn't stopped until he'd been battered unconscious, not even when the Drui had finally resorted to spell casting.

As it turned out, his courageous efforts even in the face of an arcane assault had worked to his advantage, which is how he'd wound up in the employ of his patron.

Celedwyn hadn't cared what status (or lack of it) Orgamonth possessed. He hadn't cared that Orgamonth had broken about twelve Druii and Rogizini laws in his eventually-futile attempt at escape. No, Celedwyn had one, and only one, question for Orgamonth:

"You seem brave enough to stand up to arcana when it threatens you by surprise. So . . . tell me . . . are you brave enough to deliberately seek that out and intentionally challenge it?"

Orgamonth broke camp which, due to him having simply collapsing last night, was an easy chore. He hadn't even unpacked his hammock. He retrieved a wide strip of dried chee-chee before settling the rucksack over his back, and started rhythmically masticating it as he began slowly walking off. It had undeniably been to his benefit that he'd no idea that what Celedwyn had been referring to had been exploring The Island of Death, for his answer most likely would have been, "Are you crazy?"

Softly chuckling Orgamonth checked his bearings before gradually picking up the pace. There were two very obvious, and very valid, reasons why Celedwyn had been looking for just the sort of adventurer, rascal and rogue Orgamonth had become: The Island of Death was located almost smack-dab in the middle of Bhamotin, and Bhamotin and the Rogizini Empire were hated enemies of each other, while crazy, feckless adventurers were rather thin on the ground.

Make no mistake; Orgamonth would be the first to admit how dangerous The Island of Death and its surrounding environs were. Oh, poppycock about the wild arcana, the ravenous ghouls, the vengeful spirits. Orgamonth snorted; old wives tales! All of them! But the environment itself was deadly, especially to the unwary.

Orgamonth would sooner believe he could one day fly than believe the ruination he'd seen had been caused by a god-thrown star! Granted, it did look as if badlands had been mostly covered over by silt and sludge, forming trackless swamps in some areas, with forests, woods and hills scattered about. And he hadn't a clue about the actual central Muatan peak; it was called The Island of Death for a reason, after all, and besides, Orgamonth had been none too keen about attempting a traversal of its naturally-formed moat. Although a body of water ranging from ten to forty miles across might sneer at being called a mere moat.

Ranging to the northwest of The Island of Death's central peak were second-growth forests, with the remaining surrounding terrain hills, while far to the northeast was one end of the Marentian escarpment. At the southwest was the drainage river for the Muatan Mere, which would have made for exceptionally easy return trips save for the little fact that it coursed straight through Bhamotin.

The forests were one of several disquieting things to Orgamonth. By all indications, including surreptitiously questioning the locals, there had been no reason for there to be anything other than primordial or, at the very least, primary woods, to be standing there. And even if there had been some sort of natural disaster —say, an immense forest fire— surely far more than enough time had elapsed for it to have returned to primary growth!

But there was no denying what the eyes could see: the trees were far closer spaced than would occur in a primary forest, and there was more undergrowth as well, while said undergrowth lacked the more distinctive subdivisions of shrub, herb, and moss layers.

Aii, those were posers alright. But Orgamonth wasn't a philosopher —a vacuous dreamer by any other name. What was important to him was his knowledge of the veiled dangers hidden behind the deceptive beauty. And of those they were scores.

Orgamonth derisively snickered. The one 'danger' that he scoffed and sneered at was that of disturbing, and arousing the ire of, Dread Sheldor, Destroyer of Worlds. What a laugh! Still snickering Orgamonth flashed an obscene gesture at Sheldor, which was sullenly perched just above the horizon, as he'd often done before, daring the alleged deity there to smite him if he could.

Moments later Orgamonth froze. Streaking across the sky, and seemingly heading straight for him, was an immense fireball!