The Phenomenology of the Prince

by archangelm743

A story inspired by the lore of the game Path of Achra, rooted deep in mythology and beliefs of ancient peoples. This one concerns The Prince in Red, and explores the origins of his people and his own story, where he goes from a lover of the War-Queen of the burning lands to a trusted lieutenant of the 'wandering king' of Lost Shuppurak.

Phenomenology of the Prince

Since ages immemorial in the Temple-Lands, there had been schism, and war born from it.

Since the First Elementalist wrested a rainbow from the skies and from it, erected the first temple, it was a foregone conclusion, so it is said. His temple was a work of innumerable years' worth of art, meticulous dedication, untold creativity. The rainbow has a color of every path woven into its fabric, and so too, a temple like this was born from the interweaving of every kinesis, of every Path born. So it was, and wrong are the elders, of which there are now few, that speak of the First Temple as being star-made. Indeed, it was a creation of a mortal man! Back in the age when the Paths could coexist without violence and the rainbow and its goddess were still known… Nothing remains of that, peace is forgotten, and glory to the violence! – so intone the Naqui, the citizens of the Temple-Lands. The temple was buried below countless temples that arose in the mountains and hills, to gods and Paths, and with it, the notion of the Paths being once indistinct disappeared from Achra.

The many mountain folks were enraptured by the sight of the First Temple, of beauty unrivaled, sacred. It was truly the pinnacle of everything they knew. A great many kings flocked before the First Elementalist, and wept and prostrated themselves before his feet, asking to apprentice to him like young boys. Many cults were then established, to worship this Architect unlike any other. The cultists brought the word of the First Temple to every village in the mountains, and many new temples sprang up in turn, one after another. They were but a pale, stone-wrought imitation of the First, yet the devotion that brought them up and called the stones to arrange into pillars and porticos, was genuine.

The mind of the mountain-folks was unlike what all now know back in that ancient time. Their tribes had many gods, but their minds were of many facets and many colors.

Emerald, of Life, that which makes the crops grow.

Orange, of Fire, that which makes the hearth crackle.

Light Green, of Poison, that which makes all life come to its end.

Purple, of the Astral light, that which illuminates.

Indigo, of Lightning, that which inspires.

Yellow, of Psyche, that which enlightens.

Turquoise, of Ice, that which puts both land and water to rest.

Vile-Green, of Death, that lets souls find their way.

Red, of Blood, that which we need to live.

All of these Paths, and many unknowable ones, too, were parts of a greater whole, Spectra, the Goddess Rainbow. She gave the mountain-folks petty magic, enough to hunt, and farm, and fish, and wrangle some beasts, and cure some ailments, and cook some food, and nothing beyond that. Dark were they, with no nation to submit to, their minds were as inchoate fog, and they were as grazers, docile and unambitious.

Yet as the temples rose, one by one, dwarfing all human edifices, the seed of a new mind was planted. It took centuries for that seed to bear fruit, the fruit of nation. And when it bloomed, the petals were Red, and the flower was called conflagration. It was the time of the Temple-Lands' very first schism.

The First Elementalist was long gone, and his disciple-kings were gone as well, and their disciples partook in Light Green as all life does, and submitted to Vile-Green in honors. What remained of the Architect's idea, was retold and retaught, and what remained of the First Temple, was rebuilt and refurbished until there was nothing of the Architect's own make in it. In far-away villages, most grew up in the new faith, never getting to partake in the splendor of the First Temple. And generation by unwitting generation, the conviction grew in the power a man has above all colors, above all beasts and the stuff of things. If a man became a god for his godly works, or, at least, became as a god, then this is a feat that any other man could achieve. If man can supplant god, then, truly, his standing in Achra could be improved. These thoughts, full of hubris masked by altruism, were nursed by all sorts of wise-men, reclining in leisure and kneeling in prayer.

And so, it was brought into being, that which would give the mountain-folks a cure for their pathless fate, an empowering ritual, known as Attunement. If a man cedes all colors but one, or two, or three, and all gods for all-encompassing one, he would see an increase in power, in purpose and in wit. A hero he would be, wreathed in color, towering over the listless masses, leading them to a life they could not have known. A hero like this sees beyond the stifling perspective of tradition, and sneers at Achra, the land of pain! For under his rule, the pain shall end! Temples shall be many, hovels shall be houses of stone, rivers shall flow in reverse if Man so willed, beasts shall bow their heads for slaughter if only Man so willed!

Several heroes sprang up in different parts of the mountain-lands, unbeknownst to each other. Through magic yet unseen, they dethroned their kings, and rose to prominence unchallenged, with promises of a better future on their lips. With weapons they forged, they taught their supplicant people conquest, and in that conquest, brought many slaves and much bounty to ones at the expense of others. Wherever they went, people bent their heads, wary of their ire. That is what one calls, 'nation'. But when one nation inevitably ran against another, there was dispute. The masses would not submit to another hero, for they were taxed by and terrified of their own. The other hero would, of course, not suffer those of the same power to live. With more heroes appearing by day, each attuned to a color and a god, armed and proud and ornery, the mist of Red first set in over the Temple-Lands.

As the mystery of Attunement became more known, elders and kings of some tribes bewailed at the evils it brought upon them, and chose to take their people and flee northwards. There they swore to practice age-old rituals and renounce the new ones. They would live lives according to the ancestral order, hunting, gathering, fighting with nothing but their physical prowess, and worshiping nothing but a steely physique and a well-forged blade. The gods were as banes to them, and Spectra was all but forgotten; that is why they chose to be godless and in that, self-reliant. Those tribes are now known as the Virya, for in bodily exertion, they see virtue. Those that remained are now known as the Naqui, for they strive for purity of thought from all colors but the ones of their choosing, and in that, obtain Attunement.

In the land being divided between roving heroes and their cults, blood soaked the mountains and the ground at the foot of the cold temples. So it was for ages. Eventually, every one of the Naqui would be Attuned at birth and during upbringing. When everyone was a hero, no one was. In an age like that, to sate the thirst for conquest, for adoration, for worship, one needed to be truly exceptional, in power, in cunning, in ruthlessness.

Such was the War-Queen, the strongest and the most ruthless, with spirit inflamed! She pledged herself to Agni, the god of destruction, and allied with several temples that sought the burning hand. She was intent on leaving the mountains and tearing, with her army, into a land in the west. In that land, the very earth heaved and pulsated as searing lava puffed underneath. In places, chasms opened to the underground lava flats, where dwelled rocky men of slow mind but incredible toughness. At times, when Achra sighed, its Orange lifeblood would be flung high into the sky, carrying rocky men and unnamed chthonic horrors, and then fall back unto the dry basalt with a weight of a million hammers. And yet, this land was lordless. It was loathsome, truly hostile, impossible, and yet, ripe for conquest. The War-Queen, she set her mind on bringing here an army of fire-users, who can comfortably take the heat and subdue the lava.

Among her ranks, there were Apostles of Phoenix, ones that always sought a chance to die for her, again and again and again. There were Priests of Agni with their nasty jambiya-knives laced with a fiery compound that burns their quarry with flames that cannot be doused. There were Pyromaniac fire-mages who could start fires by mere gaze and exertion of will. There were Sorcerers surrounded with ever-bleeding, ever-giggling, humpbacked corpse-dwarves carrying out their every bidding. There were Torch Priests, thin as flame-tongues, clad head to toe in shapeless robes, chanting and intoning, surrounded by fiery spirits. There were exultant Templars and fire-gloved Amirs.

In licentiousness, the War-Queen was as voracious as in battle. Many warriors were ushered to her tent. Some of them never left. Her favorite was a Virya apostate, a hearty eater and a kindly fellow, but a fearsome berserker of ridiculous strength and peerless vigor, the strongest of her warriors. He was rather dim, in truth, which perfectly suited the War-Queen's tastes, for she would never let any man emasculate her. She adored his secret vicious streak, his inflamed and bloodied spirit. In battle, he hoisted a giant axe too heavy for five normal men to lift, that was forged of gold, in contempt for Virya tradition. Its gold took in so much blood, that the pressure of the blows folded it into a form of electrum, and the axe obtained a signature, fearsome Red hue. It never needed neither repairs nor cleaning, for its blade sucked up all blood into itself through pores that opened in it, and regenerated itself and its wielder, filling in all notches and nicks.

The War-Queen rode into battle on her mighty dragon-beast, spearheading her troops, crying curses towards her enemy. In battle, she wore but a notorious face-mask of blazing red, like one worn by the eldritch Pentot warriors from beyond the astral wall, and silken gloves of fire, her body bare, for she feared neither blade nor spell. In her hand, she held a ruby straightsword, with an ornate pommel and golden hilt, whose fiery blade shot out booming beams as it clove through air and through flesh as through air. To the music of the blade, a swarm of faint fiery swords swooped down unto all that approached. With that alone, she could put down dozens of soldiers in a single hour, all the while remaining invincible and unhurt. The more she fought, the more inflamed became her spirit, the deadlier her blows. Those pursuing the Martial path revered her might.

To them who have never had the thrill of being inflamed, it may seem a form of battle-trance, gained from training and a bloodthirsty disposition. Yet it is much more than that. A form of magic, oneness with a nameless god that presides over it, a loss of self in favor of becoming a weapon that strikes ever true. An inflamed warrior, if watched carefully, seems prescient, with preternatural intent to strike where the damage would be the greatest and to exploit the weakness they inflicted. Inflammation also confers ever-increasing strength, and in an equal fight, a warrior disposed to inflammation wins in the end, with blows shattering the hardiest shell. Among the Pyromaniacs, inflammation is a form of meditation, where the fire escapes from within one's soul, and starts ravaging the physical world. They claim it gives them enlightenment to a world within our own, yet outside of it. They claim that when inflamed, they see perfectly clearly the abode and battle-gear of the gods. The most prone to inflammation at that time was the cult to Agni, whose inner fire danced on their armor and singed their skin and hair. They were known to spontaneously combust during prayer, an act which among them was viewed as a testament to the sanctity of the individual. The time of that war was a time when inflamed arts flourished. The nation that resulted from it brought with itself their downfall.

Upon an island of tectonic safety, the War-Queen erected a marble palace with grand golden domes and braziers in every room. The marble was carried for miles from the mountain temple lands by slaves, overseen by excorites. That's how it was that the first temple was built not for the gods of Achra, but for a mortal human. It was before unbelievable that a human would dwell like gods.

The War-Queen sanctioned her palace for all but her pets and those she trusted to guard her and keep the undesirables out. Her favorite lover, the Virya apostate whose name is lost to time, one that we mentioned above, she made her Prince-consort, a rank admittedly high. Yet the Virya languished with boredom, wandering through the palace's many-cushioned rooms and opulent gardens. He knew there was a town around the palace, one with great basalt houses and grim prison-compounds holding slaves and rebels, but he could never see it, for the guards would not let him out of the palace. He found none of the resplendent foods nourishing and delighted not in music and performance. He used to be one of the Virya, a folk of the plains, who know neither walls nor temples, to whom the greatest feeling is to run up to a wild animal and stop it in its tracks with a mighty slash – for they look down upon pila and bows. Weapons to kill from a distance, and magic, they say, are born of a weak spirit, of the very desire to stand above nature that the Virya abhor. So there was no surprise that their indomitable spirit made the Prince's life in luxury confinement and the marble palace a cage.

When the Queen opened a hunt for the priests of Azar, who stirred dissent among Volkite slaves for the desecration of their temples, the Prince walked up to the queen and bewailed to her thus: "As you may have seen, my Queen, I am wasting, and no wine can give me back my vigor. I require a different drink to relieve myself of my pain." "What do you require, my prince?" She asked. "'Tis true that you could not satisfy me as you could before as of late. Of course, I will give you anything you desire." "Give me blood, my Queen!" Said the Prince. "I am a warrior, and to me, no wine could replace blood. I have heard from the eunuchs that there are people looking to threaten you power, my Queen. Let me at them! Let me show my loyalty by hunting them all down! Only in that, may I sate my thirst and regain my vigor."

The Queen, she frowned and refused his plea. Instead, she had the Prince lain in one of the underground rooms, and had the warlocks do a forbidden ritual, spilling the blood of a sacrificed slave over him. "Is your thirst for blood sated?" asked the Queen. "No, my Queen." Said the Prince. They made him drink the blood of the sacrifice collected into a gourd. "Now your thirst for blood is sated, surely?" asked again the Queen. "No, my Queen." Said the Prince. "That is not the blood I sought." The Queen stood up, bursting with anger, her face twisted with wrath. "You worthless ingrate! I fought to have this kingdom for the two of us and all of the good men who see my glory, and this is what I get? Is this wretch's blood not blood enough for you? Has your life of luxury dimmed your spirit? There are throngs of his like that will die at my command for you, without you needing to risk your precious life for it, and yet you dare to refuse my clemency and generosity? All that I see belongs to me, and so do you; if you seek life, I shall infuse you with life until your feet become hardwood and you cannot walk away; if you seek death, you shall die when I will it. Is that clear?" "Yes, my Queen." Said the Prince.

A while after, another threat arose to the Queen's crown, the priests of Agni, the god of destruction. And again, the Prince came before the Queen, and spoke to her:

"My Queen, I've heard that once again there are people looking to threaten your rule. It is undue for a warrior to hide away while his comrades toil on the field of battle. And I am, first of all, a warrior, endowed with a warrior's heart and creed. In the name of Glory, which I know you must still honor, let me destroy the rebels and cleanse myself of shame."

The Queen frowned as she answered:

"Do you think it was in vain that I feared no blade or spell on the battlefield? You do think my Glory is worth nothing, surely, if you believe I would listen to you. You are not any warrior, little Prince, your duties now lay elsewhere. I fought and found Glory. In my Glory, I found immortality. I am the War-Queen, and I won to myself, and you, my little Prince, the right to fight no longer, and to rest as the glory of our violence shakes the world, flowing into legend. My achievements mean that I shall never be forgotten. And yet you dare look down upon them, refusing to appreciate all I have given you in the name of our love. I did enough not to have to die, and you had better savor the immortality by proxy that I, in my generosity, granted to you. Do you understand now, little Prince?"

"Yes, my Queen." Said the Prince.

Day by day, the Prince became more drawn with boredom, as he was never after daily marches and skirmishes, nor after a hunt as a Virya boy. In his idleness, he circled the palace, and descended into its underground vaults. The brickwork there struck him as different from what was on the higher floors, older, infused by a different kind of magic. The palace was, truthfully, built on top of a captured Volkite temple, which, as per their custom, led to deep and meandering warrens. Deep were the dungeons of the marble palace, a depth he never knew about. Wandering idly, he came upon the royal treasury and walked in, saying he was tasked to inspect it. Gems, and ingots, and all sorts of artifacts acquired during raids lay there, some aligned, some heaped, gleaming in the torchlight. Heavy Volkite weapons of Orange countenance, statues of their gods, broken apart, their effigies… Ingots of Virya steel, faintly stirring golden coins and inept bars lined up… Armors of crystal and bone, ritual robes of a hundred cults of the finest silk encrusted with gems… In one room, guarded by a large copper door, here it was, a mask that drew his attention.

With dragon-spines scaled

A refraction of Phoenix

Thus refracted, became a mask

of crystalline light

ruby red

of piety burning,

of Orange conflagration

trapped in stone!

'Twas but encrusted

with sparks of its mother

quick in its essence

its eyeholes seeing

a world basked in glory

in her fiery glory!

May the mother ever burn

purging the weak

purging vine

purging flesh

purging ice

purging dark

purging all distortions

that mar the world!

May my spirit likewise ever burn!

May my distortions go with my spirit,

may she alone preside!

Praise Phoenix!

A chant oft spoken by warlocks came through the Prince's mind. The Prince felt an inexorable pull in his spirit, now abstracted, and held his hand out before the mask. He grabbed the mask, with a sense of destiny tingling within his being, and put it on his face.

Once he put it on his face, a burning sensation filled his body, in equal parts Orange and Yellow. A flame, slow and faint, was born within his bosoms. He fell into a dream, standing as he was.

"My child", spoke Phoenix unto him. "You donned my mask, and now your spirit is mine. Exult in my presence, for I am your Goddess now."

"O inflamed Goddess, why have you called me to this place among the stars?" asked the Prince.

"My child", spoke Phoenix. "From my perch in the sky, I see all and reach everywhere. From my perch, order is dictated to all that is below. Therefore, all that exist on Achra are my children. Yet there is much sorrow and pain in Achra, my domain; know that dark, chaotic forces that even gods fear boil at the edges of the world, and they plot the undoing of our divine design. 'Twas but a while ago that they crossed the veil from their loathsome dust-void and feasted on the stars. Worse yet, some of my siblings joined in with that ritual and partook in starry flesh. Let them be accursed, and all the spawn of their now twisted forms! They believed they can be immortal if they did that, though death comes to all, god or man. There is a mission I have for the wearer of my long-forsaken mask, that is, you."

"But I am a worshiper of Agni of Destruction!" said the Prince. "'Twas for his worship and for accepting his golden ax that I was exiled by my people. A man may not serve two gods; only a savage could, in ages long past, one without piety. All say that."

"Poor Prince," said Phoenix. "Wallowing in abject luxury you could not appreciate, you could not feel your god die. The War-Queen's excorites and the executioners she hired from below the earth have killed every last man that knew his lore and prayers. In time, his name will become wiped from lore and his altars alone, jutting out of the earth, would incinerate hapless travelers, channeling his impotent rage. Such is the fate of all that exists. In time, your name will be likewise wiped, and so will mine. And sooner yet shall it come should one anger the great Phoenix, as those whelps, Azar and Agni, did. 'Tis foolish, to fight the sun, for her gaze rains destruction everywhere it wills. The Queen's war on them, it was from mine own inspiration."

"What did they do to deserve such a fate?"

"Fate is not deserved, it is written, and further refracted." Said Phoenix. "They dared to steal fire, entrusted unto me at the beginning of time, in a foolish bid to prolong their lives in distortion of the world's order. Know, little Prince, that in time, in their crime's repercussion, my light shall wane, and much darkness shall herewith inundate the astral wall, with no fire to fear. The stars shall be cracked open and their yolk eaten. But before that, your fate shall unfold in order."

The Prince tried to reach for the mask on his face, yet felt an unbearable aversion for this prospect, and his desire to ever take it off evaporated. He was a strong-willed man, and used to be even more so, but this influence was beyond him to dispel.

"Come, Prince," said Phoenix. "Come to my domain in the stars. Such is the honor for him who wears the visage from my light born. I shall give you the strength to do so."

"But a man is not to walk among the stars! That is the stuff of legends!" said the Prince. "Even if I were allowed to make such a journey, I could never do this!"

"Is it right for a man to distrust his Goddess so?" said Phoenix. "Trust only the inflamed spirit of the mask, and you shall succeed. All the battles that stand in front of you, I shall fight with you, and my flames shall incinerate your enemies. If you tarry, however, I am afraid that it is you who is going to be incinerated. You shall regret failing me, know this."

"But my Goddess, the War-Queen will never allow me to leave her palace, let alone go on a pilgrimage in your name!" bewailed the Prince.

"I shall guide your hand, Prince. I command you, hoist your axe once more."

With that, the dream was over. The Prince, masked, walked out of the secluded room and quickly found his old axe, which glimmered as bright as the day he laid it down. With the axe in tow, he headed to see the Queen. A guard of the treasury stopped him, and was cut down where he stood.

"O Queen," he intoned, standing tall, one arm outstretched, one lain on the hilt of his mighty axe. "I'd a vision of the star-path. Phoenix is calling to me. I have no queen unto me other than her. I shall set off to the wilderness of the Path of Achra, and you shall not hinder me. Should you choose to disregard my warning, I shall cut you down where you stand."

As he spoke those words, fiery tongues came from his mouth. His voice boomed, stately, unrecognizable. The air shook with telepathic connotation.

The Queen sneered at this and bared her teeth.

"I didn't think that I kept a snake in my bosom. Oh, I did not think that the biggest traitor was hiding in my own palace, my favorite prince, my beloved pet. Have you no gratitude for the love I gave you, the love of the world's greatest, that many weaklings lust for but may never have?"

"Speak not of your love to me," said the Prince, "for I know you have had many lovers. Scarce a person or god in Achra is as lascivious as you! Warlocks and warriors, priests and excorites, all of them flock at your feasts and you entertain yourself with them come night time! A man may not serve two gods, yet you dare profess your love to me!"

"Have you forgotten the fortunes I rained upon you, how I saved you from having to fight to live?" questioned him the Queen, again.

"Speak not of fortunes," said the Prince, "for all of them rang hollow to me. Joy is to be earned with each passing day, and unearned joy is skin-deep. Blood is not to be drawn from restrained, powerless victims; it is to be drawn in honorable combat; such is the way and there is no other."

"Have you forgotten how you swore loyalty to me, you wretch?" exclaimed the Queen, standing up from her throne.

"The War-Queen I swore loyalty to," said the Prince, "saw Glory above all, and was a warrior before a Queen. And now you hide from battle like a craven slave, holed up in your palace. Power is all, and struggle is life. Such is the way, the path of Achra, and there is no other, again. He who does not fight does not truly live; and in Achra, even the dead fight. Yet you value your life like it would never end, and your name would not be forgotten."

"I've heard enough from you, little Prince." Said the Queen. "Guards, leave us! I shall gut this wretch myself!"

With that, she sprang up from her throne and wrested her fearsome Ruby Straightsword from the wall. With a cry, she descended upon the Prince, her blade booming. Yet with preternatural speed, he made her fiery blades fly past him, ravaging the lavish furniture and collapsing pillars. His axe flew through the air like it was bereft of its weight, and the Prince became completely wreathed in a large flame, radiating psychic pain from his burning skin, hair and nerves. Such was the power of Phoenix's mask.

The Queen, overpowering the pain of mind, and pain of blood, and pain of blows, fought her lover with preternatural rage. At that time, in her moments of struggle, she was truly the War-Queen again. By the next day's break, her corpse lay at the Prince's feet, amidst a trashed room.

And so the Prince set out, his mind set to a singular direction, east, for the glimmering city of Shuppurak of the coastal plains, and from here, further still, across the sea, and to the Path, one of Achra, the land of Towers.

Fearsome was his countenance, and terrible his resolve, and for his fire-speech, many aspirant cultists chose to follow him. In vain did some Pyromaniac archpriest say that his fire-speech was not the one their order sought. In a few months, the grand walls of Shuppurak were slouched on the horizon, and closer still the legendary lances of its war-priests were seen above them.

In Shuppurak, there is a shipyard in service of its King. Its ships are long and ornate, ropes hung with tassels and sails painted with sigils and bows set with statues of jade. Those ships, in funereal glory, set off to the Path. Yet the Path is cruel, its violence roils, its towers goad, so it's said, and few cults are allowed to board one of those ships. The King is known to have periods of wanderlust, and with him he takes only those of proven strength, the winners of his Bouts. This is why in Shuppurak, there is never a drought for crowds – many cults wish to gather before the Towers, and some yet wish to make war on them. The Prince and his followers, the Frenzied Ones, were made to take the same path.

Great was the renown the Prince had earned, bringing many an aspirant into the ground; he was promised an audience with the wandering King in time for his next pilgrimage. So great was his renown, that the King himself heard of it and, one day, came into the Prince's quarters.

The old King of Shuppurak, he was a man of legendary countenance, kingly, heroic. A god by half and man by half, so it was said, of untapped wisdom and mountain-toppling magic. Tall and bemuscled, his culture and age were impossible to tell… his gaze sharp and piercing… his voice soothing yet commanding… his robe replete with sigils and gems… his armor eclipsing Phoenix herself… his mind penetrating and vast… his weapons gathered from all of Achra in his many successful raids… truly, there was no man more fit to be King! Yet wanderlust had gripped his heart; he looked at his lance-girt land, and looked again at his plentiful armory, and cried heartfelt tears. A King or a god, all are subject to Glory. The King, he brought much violence upon Achra, and yet he cried for he was unable to repeat the feat of an ancient King who cleaved the ancient grove, the source of all life. He achieved much power, and yet he cried for his Glory was behind that of Hadad, who created the lands. He built a great city of chariots, gladiators, and warriors of renown, but he cried for he knew in his heart that the city shall fall and the land beneath it shall erode. His Glory, great as it was, was at the mercy of the distortion of ages, of ablation, by the law of the outer dark that nothing evades. And so the King had taken to wandering Achra, and invading the Path, scouting out its secrets.

In came the King and spoke to the Prince thus:

"O Struggler, I am the King of this land. Your Glory is great, so go the rumors; is it true that you seek the Path? What for do you seek it?"

The Prince, leering, answered:

"'Tis in the name of my Goddess, Phoenix, I fight, to unite with her in the astral dark, and rule with her."

The King spoke again, insinuatingly:

"Do you not know, Struggler, that Phoenix is dying? Do you not know that you shall too, great though your glory may be in the moment? Have you ever thought of a glory greater than all glory, one that transcends time?"

The Prince, shaking his head, answered:
"I am a warrior, and I know as no one else that Glory is all. Yet I am bound to my Goddess by the curse of the mask; my fate is in her hands. The Queen I served, and her I entertained; I was not free. And now I have replaced one master with another! Glory is gone from my mind; it is freedom that I seek. I forgot its taste ever since I left my Virya camp."

"So do I, o Struggler." Spoke the King with a smile. "And forsooth, I know a way for us both to be free once and for all. In my quest for the Towers, I need powerful allies; I had a dream last night, of one capable of being my double. No woman and no man match me, yet it was you that I saw. I am looking to go on a pilgrimage to the Path of Achra, to scout out the lands and discover its secrets. It is said that the one who owns its Towers owns the world; with their power, I can set you free."

"I am too looking for this 'Path' of yours; it was revealed to me by my Goddess. Further still, there is a way into the stars, where she reclines in her fiery glory. It was also said to me, that she wants the towers; they are not to be owned by an earthbound man, nor they are to be owned by a spawn of the dust-void – she is the fated usurper."

"Fate is not a great as you think it is." Said the King. "In my city, there is a jade stone of great renown, the Goddess Poison Stone, Yu herself. She is the prism through which fate refracts; that is what the Vengati teach. Man once feared beast, but learned to subdue it in turn with magic; man once dwelled in caves, and now rules the land. So who is to say man cannot rule Fate herself, in the development of ages? After all, I have Fate herself here in my lap, sealed in stone for me to do with whatever I please. She is the source of my fate-hewn lances; but she might just be more."

A great psychic migraine filled the air; the Prince stood from the bench, fire belching out of his gullet.

"Blaspheming King! Do you not know the Law? If everyone presides, no one presides. If you would bend the towers to your own will, I shall strike you down in the name of Phoenix."

And so a battle ensued, bringing much destruction. For several days it raged; the King found his equal. While the King was a powerful sorcerer, with a staff of excruciating pain, the Prince was greater in brute strength and brutal heat. Both held each other in a deadlock of rising pain, unfathomable, so great that no mundane mind could take it and not collapse under its weight; and yet they adapted, and raised the degree of agony further. So it went for hours and hours, and the crying of their bodies enveloped the whole of Shuppurak in a rending blood-cloud. And in the end, the King was the winner. He stood above the Prince's heaving body, blood oozing from every pore, and spoke to him:

"Come with me, Prince; your power speaks sweet words to my heart. Truly, on earth and in the stars, no one is greater. I shall set you free, free to bring violence as you desire; free to be more than of blood and flesh, but blood itself; free to be more than a sufferer of pain, but pain itself. Phoenix, that dying old bird, we shall throw down from her perch; Ikshana, the speechless eye, we shall gouge; all shall be according to our will. In Achra, the pain may yet end if we will it enough; surely you can open your mind to see it. Your 'curse' is a blessing for your cause and mine; it is what makes you stand above all men. To honor your plight, and to denote your name in the annals of our coming glory I dub you hereby The Prince in Red."