From the darkness...

Go to Part 1

“You all know the story!” Symond hobbled to the fire pit from somewhere behind the crowd. I watched him work the room. He was technically human, although from what I could see from his phrenology, more than a bit of troll was in his bloodline throughout his lineage. That didn’t hinder his skill though. The ridge jutting out above his eyes sported thick eyebrows making Symond look much more like his troll kin rather than human. His underbite didn’t help that matter either. The story teller had a gravelly voice that was deep and penetrating. His eyes were as sharp as dragon’s teeth. His looks served him well. People underestimated and feared him all in the same glance.

I watched Symond amble and feign injury. He limped and used a decorated walking stick to sell the disguise. I couldn’t help but smile at him as I took another long draught from the oversized wooden cup full of that sour beer that I had grown to love. The crowd parted for him. The guild artisans in Kenthrall could learn from Symond and his halfling partner.

“Yes!” Symond bellowed again, “all of you know the story. The Great Church and their Clergy and Paladins and Deacons have spoon fed you the story from the time when all of you were just an inkling in your daddy’s eye.” Symond laughed. It was a great deep chuckle that resonated in the story teller’s chest. It was boisterous and passionate, but mostly it was just plain creepy. It was a superb show so far. I took another sip of the beer in my cup and waited.

“In the beginning,” Symond swung his stick around forcing the crowd further back. “In the beginning the universe was pure and wholesome and good!” Symond laughed again. “It was the most perfect thing. It was devoid of evil, of chaos, of insalubrious energy.” Symond glared at the crowd and frowned.

He had them.

“There was nothing in the void, but there was a ripple.” Symond drew one of the patrons closer to him with his left hand as he mimicked the ripple with the head of his walking stick. The feathers and trinkets caught the light from the fire pit. “There was a force of change. It was an energy so great,” Symond paused and stared hard at the crowd. His particular gravelly and grotesque charisma fixed their eyes to a point where he wanted them to watch.

They didn’t see the small packet that Symond had tossed into the fire pit before he grabbed the man to distract the crowd’s attention from the fire. I tried to estimate how long it would take before the fireworks. It must have been a well practiced routine. I had counted to ten before Symond started to speak again.

“The Schacté came!” Symond almost screamed as the flash packet exploded into life. The blue and green hues flared up from the fire pit making everyone in the Blue Monkey take a breath in shock and awe. I hid my grin by taking another long pull from the beer in my hands. I nestled into the large pillow on the floor and waited for Symond to continue.

“Yes, it was the Corpus Infernus that shook. It alerted Him and with a great intake from godly nostrils He breathed out only one word.” The notes coming from Milo had grown softer and matched his partners near whisper. I could hear murmuring in the crowd. Yes, they knew the story. The Great Church told it well on every Holy Day.

“You all know the story.” Symond nodded to them. “What happened next?” Symond looked around the taproom at the crowd. There was a seemingly natural scowl that crossed his face. He sat down with some effort at the fire pit as Milo played the soft tune.

“Stop.” Symond put his hand on the strings. “They obviously know the story. Let them tell it.” Milo stopped playing and scanned the crowd with his small face. The halfling’s face seemed to crumble as he looked up at them. There is nothing as pitiful and heart wrenching in the world as a halfling looking up at you with a sad face. It is reminiscent of arriving at a children’s birthday party without a present.

It was a well-rehearsed part. Benak was a genius in putting the two of them together. There was no doubt in my mind to that fact. The repeat business alone was part of the ploy. Off in the distance I spied a group of men watching the show that Milo was putting on for the crowd.

“You know so much,” Symond poked his walking stick up at a rather burly man. He was just another sellsword by the looks of him. The man was bristling with muscle and a long ponytail of hair braided and greased. He was heading out for an adventure. “Why don’t you finish the story?”

“Wait? What?” the man responded to Symond.

“Wait? What?” Symond mocked him. “That’s not what happened next!” The bent form of the story teller leapt up and stood as tall as the sellsword and stared him right in the eye with that incredible and awful visage, “that’s not what happened at all! When was the last time you were in church man? Do you know what happened next?”

“What?” Symond cupped his long warty hand around his large ear. “I don’t think they can hear you.” The sellsword put up his hands and sat. Symond stared at him as the hulking brute sat in shame.

“In that moment, in that exquisite singular moment, the Nameless One uttered one word that would summon His own greatness into existence. It was the first word, the only word that was uttered into the void with the Schacté. It was His own name. So powerful was His name that the Nameless One was shat into the void of law and chaos, of good and evil, of purity and infection.”

Go to Part 3