Regularr
patreon
Chapter #14 — Pawns
🕑 Added 2024-03-28 20:42:37 +0000 UTCKnown as Shittu, he was bestowed with the moniker of Wiseman—a tribute to his extensive journeys through the vast expanse of the Great Wilderness, thus his wealth of knowledge.
The Warder of the Unclean, Shittu’s titled for his victorious battle against the minuscule yet dangerous creatures that contaminated the water supply and inflicted illnesses upon the townspeople. The Healer King, he was further crowned, a testament to the genuine trust and reliance the citizens of Pleigusea placed in him, willingly entrusting him with their lives.
Having sacrificed his own well-being to tend to his ailing patients, Shittu had managed to win over the affection of the people.
Naturally, like any significant movement or rise to power, there were detractors, primarily comprising of those who had lost loved ones during one of his many experiments.
However, their dissenting voices remained insignificant and eventually faded away into obscurity. The ascension of the Pleiguseans seemed almost certain, although it would not endure indefinitely.
Nevertheless, a period of relative stability was in the making for First’s Creations.
Meanwhile, the ‘Aryan race’ Sharrï had ushered in an early era of industrialization, granting the average Sharrï the ability to traverse their incredibly vast yet sparsely populated territory using large, spiked metal contraptions. Indeed, they had successfully developed groundbreaking locomotives fueled by highly energized Vault Crystals, greatly facilitating the construction of new monuments and substantially decreased grievances among the ordinary citizens of Sharrï.
Still, discontent persisted in various quarters. There’s an escalating apprehension regarding the rise of an increasingly authoritarian regime in Shatia over the past ten years.
Based on my observations, three factors seemed to be responsible for this state of affairs:
The first contributing factor was the significant absence of unity resulting from the absence of cataclysmic events or wars.
The Pleiguseans possessed the ability to navigate between individualism and collective action effectively, whereas the Sharrï had never encountered a challenge that they couldn’t overcome solely relying on their physical strength or Magic.
It’s similar to Earth, where humans harbored animosity toward each other, yet were still capable of coming together in the face of a greater threat.
This unity proved unattainable for the Sharrï, who inherently exhibited individualistic tendencies, or simply put, selfishness to the extreme.
The second reason was jealousy, which played a significant role in the situation.
Although the mages did exploit the ordinary Sharrï, it was a fair arrangement in their eyes.
The Mages made significantly more contributions to society and enjoyed accompanying benefits, and it was their beliefs that the common Sharrï should be grateful for the ample food and water they provided.
On one side, the Mages felt they carried the weight of the sky, while the average Sharrï only carried a mountain and were already singing complaints like it’s going out of style.
On the other, the ordinary Sharrï exerted greater efforts than the Mages. Both sides harbored jealousy towards the other group—the ordinary Sharrï for their inability to use Magic, and The Mages for their lesser brethren for the seemingly carefree lives they lived—and made admittedly valid points. The conflict could only be resolved through compromise or, often historically, through war preceding said compromise.
At least, that was what my understanding as a 21st-century history enthusiast taught me.
Wars frequently came before finding resolutions in these situations.
The second reason directly led to the third cause: The perpetuation of hate.
As the average population grew angrier and more hateful against their ‘Overlords’, the Mages became increasingly fearful of a potential rebellion. This fear drove them to tighten their grip on laws and regulations, inadvertently confirming the populace’s many suspicions about their character, and so on, so forth… For me, it’s purely business.
I stood on neither side.
The reason was simple: This cycle of hate and fear was an unending reality that all civilizations and societal systems, whether they be small kingdoms in remote corners or ancient, powerful empires, or even local tribes and gangs, must endure. Unfortunately, this wasn’t an optional undertaking.
It was a central questline that any form of governance started upon the moment it was established… Like Skyrim, but unlike Vanilla Skyrim, ‘Alduin’ wouldn’t wait until they’re all equipped with end-game ebony armors, an enchanted Daedric Sword and all the Shouts in the game, plus a few dozens more from the added Mods.
The difference between this quest and the usual ones was that there’s no possibility of success, only failure.
It doesn’t matter if it happens today or tomorrow. Eventually, Shatia will become a pile of ruins, a mere remnant of its once thriving civilization. “But until then…”
I said with a smile, hand gently stroking the sleeping Goddess on my lap.
“Let’s enjoy the show, shall we?”
Not in a sexual way, of course.
Feelings of furries be damned.
We looked from above as Næran committed the most foolish act imaginable: She presented the Plague Father samples of the potent Water of Life—by samples, I meant an ocean-worth of the stuff—brought to Næran by her children and worshippers.
Intelligent as the Paradiseans were, most of them clearly lacked wisdom…
Honestly, what could the Blight Lord–the God of Disease and Afflictions–King of the Unclean and the Most Foul, possibly desire with a life-giving and revitalizing substance like the Water of Life? “I am grateful, sister!”
Baræque uttered, almost on the brink of tears. "With this, my Creations will surely become even more extraordinary!”
As I turned my gaze towards the foul-scented pit that Baræque had made for himself, a shudder ran through me. At first glance, it appeared clean, but upon closer inspection, I noticed the walls covered in purple, mold-like growths that were a result of his experiments.
In the center of it all sat a large cauldron, simmering with various diseases–the classic lair of evil if I had ever seen one, lacking only the eerie skull-shaped clouds of toxic fumes.
Although, I wouldn’t call Baræque evil per say, at least not in his intentions.
He’s akin to a child seeking validation for what he believed to be impressive Creations, while everyone else regarded them with nothing but disgust.
“Don’t worry about it... What are siblings for, right?” The diseases created by Baræque thus far had only been a minor inconvenience for the Sharrï, whose powerful biology coupled with the consumption of concentrated Water of Life had made them relatively immune.
Very few Sharrï had actually succumbed to Baræque’s Creations hence Næran, at the moment, harbored no blood-feud against the Plague Father. I had a feeling that’s about to change real soon.
“She lacks vision, Nyan~!”
“No,” I shook. “She lacks wisdom. There is a difference.”
The Paradiseans, though not lacking in intelligence, were too young to fully grasp the fact their actions had consequences–some beneficial; most detrimental.
Take the humans for example: Even with literature and recordings of wars, few rarely truly understood the horrors it entailed. Another issue was Næran’s skewed common sense… To her, her Creations and Baræque’s were merely playing with each other.
This was, from what I could tell, also the reason behind her decision not to take any action against the Mages. People called moms like her ‘cool mom’, I called it ‘irresponsible and
In essences, Næran took the expression ‘children will be children’ to an extreme extent, seeing no fault in their behavior.
After a pleasant exchange, the two parties went their separate ways for awhile.
Two decades later, the first case of smallpox appeared, infecting a healthy Sharrï.
Two days later, he succumbed to the illness, infecting his entire family of five with a few ‘harmless’ coughs before his passing. Each member of the family went on to infect ten, even twenty more people, only to succumb to the disease days later.
The youngest girl, desperate for help, even ran into the middle of the busy square seeking aid.
By the time the Mages became aware, outbreaks had already occurred in 20 out of their 31 settlements.
Not all of these settlements were cities; some were merely modest villages located in remote areas, established mainly to provide shelter for the builders.
Despite their smaller sizes, these infected towns and villages served as conduits for the spread of the Plague Father’s influence deeper into Næran’s hemisphere.
Furthermore, the Mages had no means to halt this spread, none barred barring their workers outside the walled-off settlements and leaving the one without to fend for themselves.
Another major challenge they faced was the lack of advancement in medical science.
Considering their bodies were designed to be resilient and any injuries or illnesses could be easily remedied with a simple infusion of the Water of Life, they had so very little reason to prioritize such developments, it’d take decades by my estimation for any sort of cure to pop up, and by then… The Sharrï would be lucky if a few of them remained.
The Sharrï population, small as it was already, rapidly dwindled. Only then did their Patron Goddess to finally recognize her errors, but it’s too late. Outside the heavily fortified City of Shatia, the sounds of cries reverberated, their sorrowful screams destined to haunt the Sharrï guards bearing witness for centuries to come.
Nonetheless, the guards remained steadfast, although occasionally, one would succumb to temptation, secretly opening the gates to allow people inside.
Out there were their friends… Their family… Their husbands and wives, after all.
All of these guards were caught and severely beaten until their backs bled, even stripped of their Ranks.
Within a matter of days, the death toll from physical traumas inside the fortified city of Shatia surpassed that of those succumbing to illnesses outside its protective walls.
Still, a few Sharrï individuals whose wings remained intact and unblemished from the contagious rashes attempted to soar over the barriers, only to be mercilessly shot down. Being killed by their own kind or gradually wasting away in a diseased state, those were their two choices.
Some banded together to make the futile attempt, driven by the longing to see their families one last time. ‘If all of us run at them, one’s bound to get through, right?’ Their efforts proved fruitless and resulted in the Mages reinforcing the barrier further to prevent the spread of the pox.
Hoping that strengthening the barrier would buy them time to find a cure for the disease, the Sharrï soon realized their lack of readiness in combating the novel plague. The Water of Life, a reliable remedy they had always relied on, only worsened the symptoms of the new smallpox variant. Faced with this predicament, they turned to their Divine Parents.
Regrettably, despite Næran’s previous kindness towards Baræque, she could not shake off the inherent contempt she held for his Creations, and the Plague Father knew it. He might be an antisocial idiot, but even he could tell the physical cues like flinching; cringing and such.
‘They lack intelligence and consciousness, so how significant can they really be?’ She had once thought of his diseases. “Baræque! What is the meaning of this?!”
Overjoyed by the success of his latest affliction, the Plague Father was reveling in his accomplishment, gleefully concocting yet another plague, when his elation was abruptly interrupted by the Mother of the Sharrï who stormed into his abode. With a forceful flick of her tail, she sent Baræque crashing into his cauldrons and pots. ”I aided you, and this is the gratitude I receive?!”
Confusion welled up within Baræque…
Hadn’t his diseases imbued life with greater significance? Hadn’t they helped mortals appreciate the world more deeply? As he turned to survey the wreckage, he saw his Creations, still in their nascent state, beginning to dissolve. “No… No. No! What have you done?!”
His fabric-like tentacles hastily searched the area in a futile attempt to gather his beloved Creations, his voice trembling with a sorrowful whimper.
Witnessing this sight eased the anger in Næran’s heart a bit, but her joy was short-lived as Baræque burst into laughter unexpectedly. “Sister, you’re so kind to me…”
In her impulsive rage, Næran had unintentionally caused all the concoctions to combine. Though this did render Baræque’s original design and decades of work useless, he’s in truth happy, for what resulted had long surpassed what the Plague Father intended to make in terms of contagiousness and fatality.
Instead of littering the skin with boils which oozed and popped with watery fluids, the infected would vomit and bleed from their eyes and ears, hurling the stuff on anyone as the disease messed with their gag reflex, coupled with the naturally increased aggressiveness, and you had something even more infectious than HIV; and far more deadly than rabies and Ebola combined.
Lips stretched, one of Baræque’s tentacles reached to scoop a spoonful of the newly-created disease from the grounds and tried to feed Næran who, understandably, recoiled in disgust. Clearly, nobody had taught him the -three seconds rule’. “One taste, dear sister! One, and you’ll be able to comprehend the magnificence of my Spawns!”
Næran quickly fled from Baræque’s cavern with astounding.
Meanwhile, the Sharrï Mages below had reached a resolution of sorts, the kind that involved guns!
Or the equivalences of anyway, in the form of pre-loaded Magic Staffs, exclusively accessible and wielded by the loyalists.
“They’re just gonna kill them?”
I had expected more resistance from the sympathizers, but at the gruesome scenes, they seemed to have lost all backbone. “—This is ridiculous! Look at yourselves!” One of the Sharrï Sages—the highest Title a Mage could gain—erupted in an explosive outburst. “Hear yourselves! You’re talking about mass murder!”
“What choices do we have?”
A supporter expressed with a helpless mutter. In response, the Sage gave them a stern glare and retorted, “Find a solution, as we have done before! The metaphysical currents are shifting! The Mother will—!”
“The Mother is helpless too!”
Another esteemed Sage forcefully struck the sturdy oak table. “Do you not see the Blight Lord’s corruptive influence spreading?! Accept the truth, you damn old man! We have no other alternative! It is a matter of either killing them or facing our own demise!”
The fighting marched on for days, but deep down all the Sages and the Council of the Most High already knew what they’re supposed to do. They were merely gathering the courage to pass the order.
After three long months since the outbreak, the Sages devised a powerful Spell that utilized the monuments and connected to the metaphysical currents.
Through their combined efforts, the infected were located and met their demise under a barrage of fire from the Magic Staffs. The bodies of the fallen were reduced to nothing but fine dust as the Spell consumed them completely. Thus, the first cataclysm that ravaged the Sharrï was resolved with utmost violence.
However, even with this victory—if one could call it that—the days of prosperity and joy were nothing more than a distant memory, forever out of their grasp. Their population decimated, most of the workload got… Redistributed. No one was happy with the changes, but they all swallowed their complaints at the threats of the Mages, until on one great, sunny morning half a decade later.
The constant and monotonous labor in the mine, where they retrieved the essential Vault Crystals, had caused a significant change in one of the men who witnessed the brutal death of my Clone—a sight he had carved into his mind.
Impulsively, the madman tried to seize the guards’ weapons in the town square, much to the bewilderment of everyone around.
On his body carved bloody lines, tattoos which formed the heads of hideous Demons whose faces were frozen in a wrathful snarl. “She calls to me… She calls to me!”
He laughed uncontrollably, seemingly completely unaware of the guards attacking him, blow after blow, each harder and more forceful than the last.
“I stand corrected,” I admitted, my initial assumption shattered. I had expected the self-righteous to strike the first blow, but to my surprise, it was Besotte who was the hair which broke the camel’s back.
As the Ancestor of the Obsession Path; the Lady of Desires, Besotte had now ascended to the status of the Goddess of Madness.
While everyone else focused their efforts on becoming Law-Bearers, painstakingly refining and enhancing their Laws, she had chosen a different route, opting for quantity over quality by embracing another, albeit lesser, Law which would supplement Obsession quite well—the Law of Madness.
The Sharrï, in their lack of comprehension, failed to grasp the true nature of the Web Way they had constructed.
It was a double-edged blade.
Though hindered by the meddling of the Universal Will, there still remained ample potential for a Paradisean to influence a weak-willed mortal via visions, maddening ones in this case. “Besotte, 1. Inana, 0.” The Dream Moth really needed to step up her game if she were to contend with her darker, edgier sister. I watched as they threw the madman into prison, yet dared not execute him as the loyalists had done so many times before.
Even the Sages, with their arrogance and self-importance, could not deny the dangers presented by a Paradisean. And they certainly hadn’t overlooked the fact that Besotte had made contact with the madman, not while the Web Way recorded great Shift in the Ambient Mana, plus the madman seemed more than happy to reveal his status as the ‘Chosen’ of a Paradisean.
“Kingship, Mother promised me!”
He clawed from the cage, “I’ll be King! And all of you shall grovel at my feet!”
While it may have seemed preposterous at first, the very fact that the Mages had not yet eliminated the madman seemed to lend credibility to his claims in the eyes of the ordinary Sharrï.
As word spread, so grew his following.
Slowly, the madman began to gain a foothold in the hearts and minds of the people.
But he’d not be King... Never.
The madman’s destined to be a pawn in a Game of Gods.
