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Scarlet Steel and Crimson Cults
- Scarlet Steel and Crimson Cults –
Note: I originally wrote this story back in 2007, under the name Chaos_Theocrat.
(Some gods and goddesses are born... but others are made. This is a tale of how one person with a tortured past came to be first the deity of an isolated Mediterranean harbor town, and then a legend.)
Part One: The Wizard's Tomb
The rogue stepped within the dank air of the tomb and was gripped by the wave of nausea, which seemed inevitable. He had robbed tombs before, so he fully expected that change in the air. What he did not expect was to find the tomb occupied, and by something not human. The island was but one of the countless tiny isles that one might chance to find in the Aegean Sea, where of old Greece’s mighty navy set sail against Troy, and Odysseus became lost and cursed to wander. On this particular day, the rogue in question had followed a map to his prize. An ancient, yellowed parchment map which was purchased in a curio dealer’s stall at one of a dozen merchant Bazaars in Tunisia. The tomb was within a monolithic mausoleum carved from solid marble into the shape of a grinning skull. The strange island, therefore, became known as “Skull Island” for that reason, and the corsairs who oft plied their trades upon the seas of North Africa often told fabulous tales of it. Although not one of their number could honestly claim to have actually been there. Not even for the Sultan, would they dare such a journey, and not because the seas were rough and those waters too close to Christian Byzantium for it to be worth their peril… but because sailors of any nation were a superstitious lot, and Skull Island was ever said to be haunted by spirits so evil that to speak their names would be to curse oneself eternally. How this man, then, had come to decide that it was worth the danger to his immortal soul was simple: he was a greedy man, like so many men are. And his greed had led him hither, to this place shunned even by bloodthirsty pirates! Of course, the rogue was not foolish. Greedy, yes, but not foolish… he studied the entire history of the place, so much of it as could be found in the libraries of the east. In the west, all knowledge of it had been lost. Thusly, was this man unafraid when he came… to a place of terrors.
'Who comes to the place where my master slumbers? What mortal foolishly disturbs the sanctity of this place!' demanded the cloaked and masked being who blocked the entrance to the innermost part of the tomb itself. The rogue stuttered nervously: 'I am but a... a pilgrim, yes, a pilgrim who is... who is come to honor your master with prayer.' The being laughed darkly and replied: 'Then surely, o pilgrim, you must know my master's name! Speak it unto me and I will let you live. Fail to do so, and I will tear your soul from your flesh whilst you yet live!' at which it seemed the rogue was doomed. However he had done some detailed research, before coming to this particular tomb and that was worth more than lock picks, in cases like this. 'His name was Mor'nadin, was it not? Mor'nadin, son of Valagarth.' And thus was truly the answer, according to at least one version of the infamous Book of the Damned. The rogue had to actually kill someone for just a peek at the book. To read it, he was forced to steal it out of the collection of a fabulously wealthy, and slightly insane, museum curator in Rome. The Pope was a good friend of the curator, and to that hour still demanded the head of the man’s murderer. Of course, the rogue was gone by the time the body was discovered… but that did not erase the stain of blood from the man’s conscience. But here, before an incarnate demon from Hell itself, he dared not show his guilt too openly, and so he swallowed his doubts and put forth an image of stoic determination as exemplified by his very best poker face possible. The demon was not amused, and thought long and hard about the man’s answer to his query. Every man who had stood before him previously had failed to give the correct answer, and the gargoyles that decorated the archway in which the demon stood seemed to be listening as intently as the demon itself had been. The demon frowned, seeming angry!
The guardian of the tomb was truly not expecting this, and said with most noticeable surprise: 'Truly! Come then, pilgrim... and pay your respects to what once was the greatest wizard to walk in his age or any other.' The guardian so stepped aside, and the rogue ventured up to the old sarcophagus upon its’ ancient dais. It was covered in grotesque and twisted images of the darkest of those Old Gods whose names were whispered by necromancers, and then only fearfully. He laid his hand upon the sealed lid, and with a heave pushed it aside. He was not a man of but little strength, and could have been a mighty man-at-arms if his life had been different. But a rogue he was and a rogue he would be. The smell of long-ago death assailed his nostrils and he choked a little at it. Inside the sarcophagus, lay the skeleton of a man in black robes, wearing a silver skullcap. The skull was painted with arcane symbols and it was this, which was the rogue's prize. He tried to pry it and twist it from its’ place, but it would just not come free! Then the guardian came forward, behind the rogue, and said in a dark whisper: 'It is said that only blood will free the skull of Mor'nadin and only the blood of he who would free it can suffice.' At which the rogue took his dagger and slit his palm with the quickest possible motion. He let much of the blood from this wound fall upon the skull, which came free at last for the rogue to claim. He thence wrapped it in a cloth covered with similar symbols to those which were upon the skull and at once he addressed the guardian with more than a little air of authority: 'This is your master's will, what I do on this day. One beyond these walls wishes his power to be known once again in the world, and before long it shall be! Step aside so that I can depart upon my way.' And at once the fell guardian bowed, stepped aside and allowed the rogue to thusly leave. There was a storm brewing outside, most violent.
Part Two: The Terrible Storm
The cold wind howled loud and thunder made a mockery of the cries of the sailors as lightning split the masts of the ship. Onboard, their only passenger, a very mysterious rogue they picked up at an island in the south, seemed resigned to whatever fate awaited he and them. More than once, they heard him cry out in a strange tongue which he had not spoken when first he came aboard, and at one point the captain considered this man to be the cause of all of their troubles, for one accident after another had befallen the crew since departing that island! Sailors were not always superstitious without cause, and in this case they were right to be wary. The rogue seemed to be acting stranger and stranger since he left Skull Island, going so far as to catch seagulls and impale them with daggers and needles, bleeding them for some unknown purpose. He was very secretive about this practice, and were it not for some of the cabin boys spying upon him, news of these rituals would likely never have reached the ears of the crew, and thence the captain himself. But fortune favored the brave on that voyage, at least up to that point… and so the crew began to consider ways of protecting itself from whatever dark arts the rogue was dabbling in. One by one, several crew members even began to disappear, and the cabin boys started to be found with their throats slit from ear to ear, and hung from the rigging. It was as if a monster walked amongst the sailors, a human monster of the worst possible kind. The navigator was heard to say: “We should hang that blasted rogue before we reach port… he worships the bleeding Devil his self I’ll wager! The Church would have him burned for it, or at the very least put to the old question. The cook could make him talk… and we’ve got a priest on board to hear his confessions.” But the cook would have none of it. “Nay, I’ll not harm a man who is not yet proven guilty by normal means. Religion can make men crazy, and fear doubly so!” and so the rogue was saved a brutal death.
'We should slit his throat I say, and throw him into the sea!' screamed the first mate near the end of the voyage, at which the captain… in a more reasonable fashion… stated: 'We aren't pirates, mister Hawkins! We're merchants, and merchants who are paid to take our paying customers wherever they need to go, even it be Hell itself that is their destination. If it is being a murder you're after, you'll have to be murdering me first! The rogue’s guilt is unproven, at least to me, and any one of the lads could be the guilty party.' At which the first mate went pale, and stepped away whilst shaking his weary head. The captain walked to the rogue... who stood at the front of the ship, staring blankly at the horizon as his voice chanted in a guttural and savage language. The captain struck the man on his back with one of those hearty slaps you give a buddy and he yelled over the noise around them: 'If I'm to take you to your destination, at least you can tell me what business you are upon, sir! It seems that whatever it is, it is putting the lives of this crew at risk. By the gods, answer me! There are murders taking place on the ship, and some of the men think they point to you as the culprit.' But the rogue remained silent, simply staring out to sea. The storm was becoming more and more terrible, and strange lights came to be seen forming amidst the tops of the masts, flitting between the rigging where the bodies of the slain boys had been discovered. “Hang it all, man… we’ve ghosts now to deal with! What’s your business, that it is involving the dead in this manner?” Then the rogue turned to regard the captain, with a strange and utter look of disdain upon his face. It was as though he was gazing upon an ant or a slug, and such a look made the captain shudder. “I am captain of this vessel, sir! Not some petty ensign. You will tell me, right here and right now what it is you are doing… or at this point I might be inclined to agree with the first mate and simply have you thrown overboard. We may not be pirates, but we are still men!”
The rogue answered the captain by plunging his dagger into the captain's throat with one terrible slash, and licking the blood with his tongue as it sprayed out. Seeing this, the first mate charged at the rogue as swiftly as he could, his curved cutlass at the ready. But the rogue was that much the faster, and soon he had disemboweled the man before he could swing his blade even once. Reaching his hand into the man's open belly, the victorious rogue pushed his arm up, braking ribs as he seized the heart of the first mate and ripped it from that bloody mass which the dead man became. Squeezing the heart, he let the blood drench himself and the bundle tied to his belt. 'More Blood!' He screamed at the heavens. 'I need more blood for my master!' And soon, the ship was filled with corpses, navigated by the dead. At the last, a frightful wave formed, and it crashed upon the ship like the hand of some vengeful sea god. The ship was broken and the rogue cast into the sea along with those he has slain. As if it was not enough to suffer such a fate as this, a whirlpool formed and pulled the living murderer down into its’ depths. Nothing more was to be seen, or heard, of those men. And as time passed, the story became a legend in certain ports. A dark and terrible legend of the sea, much like many a tale passed from drunken sailors to the ears of any who will listen and believe. People would often ask how it was that so many tales where no one survives came to be known… if no one survived to tell of them. But in the case of this one single particular story, some sailors had survived the wreck. Hardly any, but some did indeed! And these fortunate few spent more time in the taverns than most, trying to forget their ordeals. And so was it passed along, and before long it became as well known a tale as krakens and mermaids.
Part Three: A Tavern's Tale
'And so that's how the vessel came to be lost, as it bore with it the old skull of that devil of a wizard. Today, none know who it was that sought after its’ diabolical powers. Likely some lich or perhaps a warlord seeking conquest! Whatever it was, the skull was the death of a crew of mighty sailing men... and some say, that on certain nights when the moon is as full as on harvest time, and the wind blows strong, a shape not unlike that of a large man is seen near the shore, him covered in blood and heard to utter words in a savage tongue. In all my days as the owner of this pub, I've never seen any such thing, however, and mind you: I've a house on that shore! But as I heard the tale from an old salt, I swear the man claimed it to be true, as true as the First Crusade itself. The tavern keep, in that way, concluded his tale and poured another mug of ale for the man who sat at the bar across from him. As he listened to this tale, the man was intrigued and said: 'Perhaps I will go to the shore tonight. It is going to be a harvest moon, and I might catch sight of something.' At which the tavern keep laughed loudly: 'Luck to you, my lad! You’ll catch only your death, if the stories be true.” And the man laughed at the tavern keep, merely thinking him eccentric. The sound of the seagulls was heard outside, and the crickets as well as other night insects. It was a quiet night by the sea, as much as any other. To the casual person visiting the place, you would think it perhaps even a sleepy location. The kind of place where nothing unusual ever happens… even though the locals will tell you otherwise. But, on this occasion, what the locals knew was perhaps too much of the truth for comfort. Something was stirring that evening, and it was not simply the waves of the ocean, or the wind that blew them hard against the rocks of the shore. It was an ethereal thing, really. More of a feeling of dread, than knowledge of certain events to come might be. And yet, you could feel it and you would know, with that odd feeling: that something stirred.
What nobody knew was that it was to be the sixth anniversary of the bloody loss of that ship. Six is an evil number it is said, and in this case it proved so. The man who now stood upon the shore was in a way amused to think he might see some ghost in the moonlight, but when winds howled upon him and rain began to fall, lightning crackling across the starless sky, he was more than a little uptight about this turn of events. Suddenly, a man-like shape shambled out of the sea and strode across the shore... his voice a savage murmur barely audible over what seemed a storm from Hell itself. In his hand, a single bloodstained dagger! The closer the apparition came, the more the man who was witnessing it found he could not be moved to run. Some force held his will and soon he saw the vacant eye sockets of this fiend, the wild hair mixed with seaweed, the flesh encrusted with many a barnacle. 'Blood!' The fiend chanted in a guttural croak. 'Blood! Blood, for my master!' at which the dagger found the witness's eyes and plunged itself into them, killing him. 'More blood!' screamed the fiend, and stumbled over to the tavern keep's house, pounding on the door in an attempt to break it in. He had never heard such a racket on such a night before, but he was no fool, the tavern keep! He took a musket in his hand and came to the door, asking in a thunderous bellow: who it was that now disturbed him. 'Blood!' was all he was able to make out, and assuming the man was a certain local surgeon by the name of Blood, he opened the door and to his horror saw not the surgeon but the dead man, the rogue, of the legendary tale. 'Gods!' he screamed as he fired his musket, blowing a portion of his attacker's face off. The killer from the depths felt neither pain… nor the loss of so much of his head. Not a moment sooner than the shot reached him he had sliced open the tavern keep, from his neck to his belly. It was a long night!
Part Four: One Against Death
Hearing the shot ring out in the night, a certain famous ranger by the name of Scarlett was moved to investigate. The man was dressed in his red cloak, with its’ hood protecting him from the cold of the night. His slender silver blade was drawn, and it shone in the moonlit evening... the raindrops glistening on its’ finely worked metal. He found the tavern keep on the floor of his home, dead and nearly split in half. Bloody footprints were everywhere and one pair ran out across the sand of the beach, towards the wood nearby. Following the crimson trail out to the forest, Scarlett grumbled as now it seemed the ground had become a mess of mud in which his boots sank up all the way to his ankles. Struggling to still follow the ever-deepening footprints of the mysterious murderer, Scarlett soon came upon what appeared to be a group of ancient ruins in a clearing deeper amongst the trees. Hastening to reach the ruins, where it seemed the killer was bound for, he was glad to stand at last under some overhanging stones and be out of the rain for a few moments. Lightning forked across the heavens, and the wind was picking up heavier and heavier. The ranger could hear the sound of frogs and toads coming out of their swampy places to bask in the gathering moisture. Little else could be heard apart from the patter of the rain and the occasional clap of thunder. But something did not feel right, and Scarlett knew what that meant. It meant that evil was not merely abroad, but near. Such stillness was rarely natural, and in certain hours of the dark of night, such stillness betrayed the presence of anything not of this world. The ranger had hunted such things for many years now, here and there. In many different parts of the known world, from the wilds of Africa to the foothills of the Himalayas in the Far East… and still was he young enough to adventure further, should the need arise. Tonight this place held adventure enough!
Suddenly, a dagger nearly struck Scarlett as it entered the rocky wall just a degree away from the side of his face. He screamed, snapped out of his momentary reverie, and brought up his sword to meet the arm of his attacker. What met his gaze was an inhuman mockery of what had once been a living man, who was missing a good portion of his head in a gruesome fashion. The ranger was not intimidated for long, and stabbed at the creature, who: was trying to free his dagger from where it was now stuck into the clammy wall. The monster groaned and fled into the door what must have once been some sort of temple amidst the stone megaliths which dotted the landscape all about it. Scarlett pursued his foe, and soon was within the foyer of the temple itself. The howling of the undead thing echoed across the stone of the walls, and Scarlett offered more than a passing prayer for protection; although he was no man of the cloth he hoped the gods would smile upon him. There were archways after archways in the old hall and they were carved in images of strange, angelic beings with an androgynous quality to them. For a reason known only to himself: Scarlett regarded these images with a haunting familiarity. He face held a look that said: “I know… I understand.” And then he looked down the walls to see recesses where the bones of the dead lay entombed. This had been more than just a temple once… it was a place for the dead to be laid to rest. Ironic, that he now stalked a creature whom death had denied rest to, in a place where so many dead men and women slumbered! Old pottery and terracotta images were seen here and there, broken and crumbling with time. Looters had been here over the years, and it was all too obvious that this place was not unknown to the locals. Merely not spoken of… but: certainly not unknown! Scarlett breathed in, but the air was foul as any tomb’s can be. This would be a hard fight.
Farther into the temple, Scarlett found his enemy crouched upon the altar of some long forgotten deity, between two mighty statues of goddesses. The air in this chamber was humid and hot, and steam arose from cracks in the floor. The ranger cast his cloak aside, the long, flowing tresses of his beautiful, soft blonde hair falling just to his waist. The monster eyed him strangely, at which he replied: 'What is it, you demon? You look surprised to see my appearance!' and at the sound of Scarlett's feminine, softly lilting voice, the beast seemed even more startled. Taking advantage of the creature's utter confusion, the ranger was quick to drive his sword arm forward, wounding the fiend in the chest, which seemed to hinder it not. Then, it was Scarlett's turn to be surprised, for the undead rogue's head wound healed itself to compensate for the new and more pressing chest injury. As the two closed to fight, they fell through the floor, the stone of which was rotten. At once darkness had overcome all light of the moon, and Scarlett was deeply afraid. As a child, he had known such fear. Locked in a closet by the priest of a church in his home town, who sought to “cure” him of a certain “condition” he had since birth… he had become fearful of the dark, for the priest had told him that Hell was a place of eternal darkness. It was a kindly nun who had freed him from the priest’s cruelty, and since that day he had always had a certain terror of total darkness. His eyes began to adjust to the lack of light, as some illumination from above began to filter down in shafts. Moonlight was not as vacant as he thought at first! And so he did praise the ancient moon goddess Diana beneath his breath. And why not! Christianity did not have all the answers, the ranger knew, and sometimes the ancients knew more than modern man might give them credit for. Scarlett snapped out of his thoughts just then, and regarded his gloomy surroundings.
Part Five: Not Man nor Woman
Scarlett had plunged into water, up to his neck. The chamber into which he had so fallen was low of ceiling... and his head touched the roof. He swam for a good way and found himself in a small room in which the statue of an angelic goddess smiled down upon him. Suddenly the undead rogue came up behind him and made to strike with his fists. Scarlett heard the movement and spun around. Having retained his weapon, he managed to hit the beast in the shoulder, which made it stumble back towards the water. This was when the fiend noticed the peculiar shape of Scarlett's form as his clothes clung to him. The monster's voice then croaked out the words: 'What are you?' which Scarlett had not heard in many a year. 'I am not man nor woman, both a mix of both, really!' said Scarlett in noticeable surprise that the dead man could speak at all. The ranger saw an advantage here and inquired: 'Why are you doing this?' and the monster had croaked out as best an answer as was possible for him: 'To satisfy my lord and master's will, so he will allow me to rest in peace.' Scarlett asked at this: 'What is your master's will?' to which only one answer came: 'His will is that I anoint his skull with the blood of the living, until he drinks enough so that he can live again.' That was when Scarlett noticed something very strange: 'Your master's will, has no hold on you any longer. For look, you, his skull is not anywhere to be seen!' And for the first time since he had risen out of the sea, the dead rogue noticed the skull was no longer in his possession. It must have been lost in the depths long ago! 'Free! I am free at long last!' screeched the monster, and no sooner had he uttered those words than thunder sounded through the room which heralded a moment in which the flesh of the dead rogue melted off from his bones, which clattered to the ground and were scattered about, some falling into the water. Scarlett slumped to the floor at the nearby statue's base, and took a long, hard breath. 'They'll not know what to call me...' he mused: 'I will be called the bravest man as well as the bravest woman in the entire town!' The only real trouble was, he had no idea how to get out of this place. Getting to his feet, Scarlett waded off into the water and made for the nearest tunnel in hopes that it would lead the hermaphrodite ranger out at last.
The storm had ceased, and by the time Scatlett returned to town, a bit of a crowd was gathered by the shore, where the victims of the murders were being prepared: to be moved for burial. Scarlett briefly explained what happened, and produced the skull of the murderer as proof of his deeds. He showed them the dagger he freed from the wall on his way back, even... but they refused to believe his strange tale, and blamed him for these deaths, assuming the skull had belonged to yet another victim. It was impossible to disguise his form in his wet, clinging clothes, as he expected it would be, and thusly the superstitious way of the villagers made them assume this hermaphroditic being was actually some sort of a demon come among them. They chased him into the woods and back to the old ruins, where they pursued him into the temple even as he had pursued the dead rogue earlier that evening. Then, one of the villagers noticed the goddess statues and saw the peculiar resemblance between them and Scarlett. They proved indeed to be a superstitious lot, and immediately had altered their opinion so that they now held Scarlett to be an angel sent by these goddesses of old to punish the town for it's sins. More than a few cut their own throats to sacrifice themselves to the incarnate “goddesses”, as others made many a ritualistic mark upon their arms. Every one dropped what weapons they carried, and Scarlett, horrified, cried out to them that enough was enough and not another drop of blood was to be spilled there in his presence! The villagers swiftly complied, and soon Scarlett began to get a taste of power, and liked very much the idea of being treated like an emissary of these ancient goddesses. People had always feared and reviled him for being what he was… but here, and now, they worshipped him for it. Perhaps, even if they could not be civilized… these people might be useful nonetheless! And so was a cult born on that day, led by a living deity. And so had these locals traded one superstition for another.
Epilogue: The Scarlet Goddess
'It was said the worship of what is today known as the Scarlet Goddess had begun in a maritime town near some old ruins. This Goddess of Assassins, said to be neither male nor female, is often invoked: by pirates, thieves, and other cutthroats seeking to avoid being caught for their crimes. She... or he... held the power to lay the undead to rest by his/her voice alone, or so old legends say, though like all legends likely there is some unknown truth from which it thusly stemmed. It is beyond the scope of this scribe to comment further upon this.' And the scribe who wrote down the tale stopped to regard the person standing behind him. That person was a tall man with exquisitely beautiful, feminine features and long blonde hair that was in fact shimmering even in the torchlight of the scribe’s office. He… or was it a she… wore a red gown fit for a princess or even a queen. The stranger spoke in a musical, feminine voice, and complimented the scribe on his fine work. The scribe asked the “lady” if the work would be paid for in gold, or in silver. The “lady” then replied, very cryptically: “It has already been paid for, sir. It has been paid for… in blood.” And so the mysterious man/woman kissed the scribe savagely, and then caressed the man’s neck. The scribe felt himself strangely aroused by this, and whispered to the man/woman: “But… I require a more monetary form of compensation for my efforts!” And then it was that Scarlett put a coin in the man’s mouth and forced him to swallow it. Then he/she kissed the scribe again. The scribe wanted to scream, but found yet another coin thrust into his mouth, followed by yet another kiss. This repeated until the scribe was paid in full, and quite dead, having choked to death on his payment. The hermaphrodite then stroked the face of the dead man almost lovingly and walked out of the scribe’s office into the night. The mysterious death of the only scribe ever known to have written down Scarlett’s tale merely added to the legend, and soon it was said that to speak of that being at all was to invite death upon the speaker. For somewhere, out there in the night, Scarlett walked eternally. Cursed with immortality by the dreaded wizard whose servant the ranger had brought unto final death.
- And so, the Legend Begins
Note: I originally wrote this story back in 2007, under the name Chaos_Theocrat.
(Some gods and goddesses are born... but others are made. This is a tale of how one person with a tortured past came to be first the deity of an isolated Mediterranean harbor town, and then a legend.)
Part One: The Wizard's Tomb
The rogue stepped within the dank air of the tomb and was gripped by the wave of nausea, which seemed inevitable. He had robbed tombs before, so he fully expected that change in the air. What he did not expect was to find the tomb occupied, and by something not human. The island was but one of the countless tiny isles that one might chance to find in the Aegean Sea, where of old Greece’s mighty navy set sail against Troy, and Odysseus became lost and cursed to wander. On this particular day, the rogue in question had followed a map to his prize. An ancient, yellowed parchment map which was purchased in a curio dealer’s stall at one of a dozen merchant Bazaars in Tunisia. The tomb was within a monolithic mausoleum carved from solid marble into the shape of a grinning skull. The strange island, therefore, became known as “Skull Island” for that reason, and the corsairs who oft plied their trades upon the seas of North Africa often told fabulous tales of it. Although not one of their number could honestly claim to have actually been there. Not even for the Sultan, would they dare such a journey, and not because the seas were rough and those waters too close to Christian Byzantium for it to be worth their peril… but because sailors of any nation were a superstitious lot, and Skull Island was ever said to be haunted by spirits so evil that to speak their names would be to curse oneself eternally. How this man, then, had come to decide that it was worth the danger to his immortal soul was simple: he was a greedy man, like so many men are. And his greed had led him hither, to this place shunned even by bloodthirsty pirates! Of course, the rogue was not foolish. Greedy, yes, but not foolish… he studied the entire history of the place, so much of it as could be found in the libraries of the east. In the west, all knowledge of it had been lost. Thusly, was this man unafraid when he came… to a place of terrors.
'Who comes to the place where my master slumbers? What mortal foolishly disturbs the sanctity of this place!' demanded the cloaked and masked being who blocked the entrance to the innermost part of the tomb itself. The rogue stuttered nervously: 'I am but a... a pilgrim, yes, a pilgrim who is... who is come to honor your master with prayer.' The being laughed darkly and replied: 'Then surely, o pilgrim, you must know my master's name! Speak it unto me and I will let you live. Fail to do so, and I will tear your soul from your flesh whilst you yet live!' at which it seemed the rogue was doomed. However he had done some detailed research, before coming to this particular tomb and that was worth more than lock picks, in cases like this. 'His name was Mor'nadin, was it not? Mor'nadin, son of Valagarth.' And thus was truly the answer, according to at least one version of the infamous Book of the Damned. The rogue had to actually kill someone for just a peek at the book. To read it, he was forced to steal it out of the collection of a fabulously wealthy, and slightly insane, museum curator in Rome. The Pope was a good friend of the curator, and to that hour still demanded the head of the man’s murderer. Of course, the rogue was gone by the time the body was discovered… but that did not erase the stain of blood from the man’s conscience. But here, before an incarnate demon from Hell itself, he dared not show his guilt too openly, and so he swallowed his doubts and put forth an image of stoic determination as exemplified by his very best poker face possible. The demon was not amused, and thought long and hard about the man’s answer to his query. Every man who had stood before him previously had failed to give the correct answer, and the gargoyles that decorated the archway in which the demon stood seemed to be listening as intently as the demon itself had been. The demon frowned, seeming angry!
The guardian of the tomb was truly not expecting this, and said with most noticeable surprise: 'Truly! Come then, pilgrim... and pay your respects to what once was the greatest wizard to walk in his age or any other.' The guardian so stepped aside, and the rogue ventured up to the old sarcophagus upon its’ ancient dais. It was covered in grotesque and twisted images of the darkest of those Old Gods whose names were whispered by necromancers, and then only fearfully. He laid his hand upon the sealed lid, and with a heave pushed it aside. He was not a man of but little strength, and could have been a mighty man-at-arms if his life had been different. But a rogue he was and a rogue he would be. The smell of long-ago death assailed his nostrils and he choked a little at it. Inside the sarcophagus, lay the skeleton of a man in black robes, wearing a silver skullcap. The skull was painted with arcane symbols and it was this, which was the rogue's prize. He tried to pry it and twist it from its’ place, but it would just not come free! Then the guardian came forward, behind the rogue, and said in a dark whisper: 'It is said that only blood will free the skull of Mor'nadin and only the blood of he who would free it can suffice.' At which the rogue took his dagger and slit his palm with the quickest possible motion. He let much of the blood from this wound fall upon the skull, which came free at last for the rogue to claim. He thence wrapped it in a cloth covered with similar symbols to those which were upon the skull and at once he addressed the guardian with more than a little air of authority: 'This is your master's will, what I do on this day. One beyond these walls wishes his power to be known once again in the world, and before long it shall be! Step aside so that I can depart upon my way.' And at once the fell guardian bowed, stepped aside and allowed the rogue to thusly leave. There was a storm brewing outside, most violent.
Part Two: The Terrible Storm
The cold wind howled loud and thunder made a mockery of the cries of the sailors as lightning split the masts of the ship. Onboard, their only passenger, a very mysterious rogue they picked up at an island in the south, seemed resigned to whatever fate awaited he and them. More than once, they heard him cry out in a strange tongue which he had not spoken when first he came aboard, and at one point the captain considered this man to be the cause of all of their troubles, for one accident after another had befallen the crew since departing that island! Sailors were not always superstitious without cause, and in this case they were right to be wary. The rogue seemed to be acting stranger and stranger since he left Skull Island, going so far as to catch seagulls and impale them with daggers and needles, bleeding them for some unknown purpose. He was very secretive about this practice, and were it not for some of the cabin boys spying upon him, news of these rituals would likely never have reached the ears of the crew, and thence the captain himself. But fortune favored the brave on that voyage, at least up to that point… and so the crew began to consider ways of protecting itself from whatever dark arts the rogue was dabbling in. One by one, several crew members even began to disappear, and the cabin boys started to be found with their throats slit from ear to ear, and hung from the rigging. It was as if a monster walked amongst the sailors, a human monster of the worst possible kind. The navigator was heard to say: “We should hang that blasted rogue before we reach port… he worships the bleeding Devil his self I’ll wager! The Church would have him burned for it, or at the very least put to the old question. The cook could make him talk… and we’ve got a priest on board to hear his confessions.” But the cook would have none of it. “Nay, I’ll not harm a man who is not yet proven guilty by normal means. Religion can make men crazy, and fear doubly so!” and so the rogue was saved a brutal death.
'We should slit his throat I say, and throw him into the sea!' screamed the first mate near the end of the voyage, at which the captain… in a more reasonable fashion… stated: 'We aren't pirates, mister Hawkins! We're merchants, and merchants who are paid to take our paying customers wherever they need to go, even it be Hell itself that is their destination. If it is being a murder you're after, you'll have to be murdering me first! The rogue’s guilt is unproven, at least to me, and any one of the lads could be the guilty party.' At which the first mate went pale, and stepped away whilst shaking his weary head. The captain walked to the rogue... who stood at the front of the ship, staring blankly at the horizon as his voice chanted in a guttural and savage language. The captain struck the man on his back with one of those hearty slaps you give a buddy and he yelled over the noise around them: 'If I'm to take you to your destination, at least you can tell me what business you are upon, sir! It seems that whatever it is, it is putting the lives of this crew at risk. By the gods, answer me! There are murders taking place on the ship, and some of the men think they point to you as the culprit.' But the rogue remained silent, simply staring out to sea. The storm was becoming more and more terrible, and strange lights came to be seen forming amidst the tops of the masts, flitting between the rigging where the bodies of the slain boys had been discovered. “Hang it all, man… we’ve ghosts now to deal with! What’s your business, that it is involving the dead in this manner?” Then the rogue turned to regard the captain, with a strange and utter look of disdain upon his face. It was as though he was gazing upon an ant or a slug, and such a look made the captain shudder. “I am captain of this vessel, sir! Not some petty ensign. You will tell me, right here and right now what it is you are doing… or at this point I might be inclined to agree with the first mate and simply have you thrown overboard. We may not be pirates, but we are still men!”
The rogue answered the captain by plunging his dagger into the captain's throat with one terrible slash, and licking the blood with his tongue as it sprayed out. Seeing this, the first mate charged at the rogue as swiftly as he could, his curved cutlass at the ready. But the rogue was that much the faster, and soon he had disemboweled the man before he could swing his blade even once. Reaching his hand into the man's open belly, the victorious rogue pushed his arm up, braking ribs as he seized the heart of the first mate and ripped it from that bloody mass which the dead man became. Squeezing the heart, he let the blood drench himself and the bundle tied to his belt. 'More Blood!' He screamed at the heavens. 'I need more blood for my master!' And soon, the ship was filled with corpses, navigated by the dead. At the last, a frightful wave formed, and it crashed upon the ship like the hand of some vengeful sea god. The ship was broken and the rogue cast into the sea along with those he has slain. As if it was not enough to suffer such a fate as this, a whirlpool formed and pulled the living murderer down into its’ depths. Nothing more was to be seen, or heard, of those men. And as time passed, the story became a legend in certain ports. A dark and terrible legend of the sea, much like many a tale passed from drunken sailors to the ears of any who will listen and believe. People would often ask how it was that so many tales where no one survives came to be known… if no one survived to tell of them. But in the case of this one single particular story, some sailors had survived the wreck. Hardly any, but some did indeed! And these fortunate few spent more time in the taverns than most, trying to forget their ordeals. And so was it passed along, and before long it became as well known a tale as krakens and mermaids.
Part Three: A Tavern's Tale
'And so that's how the vessel came to be lost, as it bore with it the old skull of that devil of a wizard. Today, none know who it was that sought after its’ diabolical powers. Likely some lich or perhaps a warlord seeking conquest! Whatever it was, the skull was the death of a crew of mighty sailing men... and some say, that on certain nights when the moon is as full as on harvest time, and the wind blows strong, a shape not unlike that of a large man is seen near the shore, him covered in blood and heard to utter words in a savage tongue. In all my days as the owner of this pub, I've never seen any such thing, however, and mind you: I've a house on that shore! But as I heard the tale from an old salt, I swear the man claimed it to be true, as true as the First Crusade itself. The tavern keep, in that way, concluded his tale and poured another mug of ale for the man who sat at the bar across from him. As he listened to this tale, the man was intrigued and said: 'Perhaps I will go to the shore tonight. It is going to be a harvest moon, and I might catch sight of something.' At which the tavern keep laughed loudly: 'Luck to you, my lad! You’ll catch only your death, if the stories be true.” And the man laughed at the tavern keep, merely thinking him eccentric. The sound of the seagulls was heard outside, and the crickets as well as other night insects. It was a quiet night by the sea, as much as any other. To the casual person visiting the place, you would think it perhaps even a sleepy location. The kind of place where nothing unusual ever happens… even though the locals will tell you otherwise. But, on this occasion, what the locals knew was perhaps too much of the truth for comfort. Something was stirring that evening, and it was not simply the waves of the ocean, or the wind that blew them hard against the rocks of the shore. It was an ethereal thing, really. More of a feeling of dread, than knowledge of certain events to come might be. And yet, you could feel it and you would know, with that odd feeling: that something stirred.
What nobody knew was that it was to be the sixth anniversary of the bloody loss of that ship. Six is an evil number it is said, and in this case it proved so. The man who now stood upon the shore was in a way amused to think he might see some ghost in the moonlight, but when winds howled upon him and rain began to fall, lightning crackling across the starless sky, he was more than a little uptight about this turn of events. Suddenly, a man-like shape shambled out of the sea and strode across the shore... his voice a savage murmur barely audible over what seemed a storm from Hell itself. In his hand, a single bloodstained dagger! The closer the apparition came, the more the man who was witnessing it found he could not be moved to run. Some force held his will and soon he saw the vacant eye sockets of this fiend, the wild hair mixed with seaweed, the flesh encrusted with many a barnacle. 'Blood!' The fiend chanted in a guttural croak. 'Blood! Blood, for my master!' at which the dagger found the witness's eyes and plunged itself into them, killing him. 'More blood!' screamed the fiend, and stumbled over to the tavern keep's house, pounding on the door in an attempt to break it in. He had never heard such a racket on such a night before, but he was no fool, the tavern keep! He took a musket in his hand and came to the door, asking in a thunderous bellow: who it was that now disturbed him. 'Blood!' was all he was able to make out, and assuming the man was a certain local surgeon by the name of Blood, he opened the door and to his horror saw not the surgeon but the dead man, the rogue, of the legendary tale. 'Gods!' he screamed as he fired his musket, blowing a portion of his attacker's face off. The killer from the depths felt neither pain… nor the loss of so much of his head. Not a moment sooner than the shot reached him he had sliced open the tavern keep, from his neck to his belly. It was a long night!
Part Four: One Against Death
Hearing the shot ring out in the night, a certain famous ranger by the name of Scarlett was moved to investigate. The man was dressed in his red cloak, with its’ hood protecting him from the cold of the night. His slender silver blade was drawn, and it shone in the moonlit evening... the raindrops glistening on its’ finely worked metal. He found the tavern keep on the floor of his home, dead and nearly split in half. Bloody footprints were everywhere and one pair ran out across the sand of the beach, towards the wood nearby. Following the crimson trail out to the forest, Scarlett grumbled as now it seemed the ground had become a mess of mud in which his boots sank up all the way to his ankles. Struggling to still follow the ever-deepening footprints of the mysterious murderer, Scarlett soon came upon what appeared to be a group of ancient ruins in a clearing deeper amongst the trees. Hastening to reach the ruins, where it seemed the killer was bound for, he was glad to stand at last under some overhanging stones and be out of the rain for a few moments. Lightning forked across the heavens, and the wind was picking up heavier and heavier. The ranger could hear the sound of frogs and toads coming out of their swampy places to bask in the gathering moisture. Little else could be heard apart from the patter of the rain and the occasional clap of thunder. But something did not feel right, and Scarlett knew what that meant. It meant that evil was not merely abroad, but near. Such stillness was rarely natural, and in certain hours of the dark of night, such stillness betrayed the presence of anything not of this world. The ranger had hunted such things for many years now, here and there. In many different parts of the known world, from the wilds of Africa to the foothills of the Himalayas in the Far East… and still was he young enough to adventure further, should the need arise. Tonight this place held adventure enough!
Suddenly, a dagger nearly struck Scarlett as it entered the rocky wall just a degree away from the side of his face. He screamed, snapped out of his momentary reverie, and brought up his sword to meet the arm of his attacker. What met his gaze was an inhuman mockery of what had once been a living man, who was missing a good portion of his head in a gruesome fashion. The ranger was not intimidated for long, and stabbed at the creature, who: was trying to free his dagger from where it was now stuck into the clammy wall. The monster groaned and fled into the door what must have once been some sort of temple amidst the stone megaliths which dotted the landscape all about it. Scarlett pursued his foe, and soon was within the foyer of the temple itself. The howling of the undead thing echoed across the stone of the walls, and Scarlett offered more than a passing prayer for protection; although he was no man of the cloth he hoped the gods would smile upon him. There were archways after archways in the old hall and they were carved in images of strange, angelic beings with an androgynous quality to them. For a reason known only to himself: Scarlett regarded these images with a haunting familiarity. He face held a look that said: “I know… I understand.” And then he looked down the walls to see recesses where the bones of the dead lay entombed. This had been more than just a temple once… it was a place for the dead to be laid to rest. Ironic, that he now stalked a creature whom death had denied rest to, in a place where so many dead men and women slumbered! Old pottery and terracotta images were seen here and there, broken and crumbling with time. Looters had been here over the years, and it was all too obvious that this place was not unknown to the locals. Merely not spoken of… but: certainly not unknown! Scarlett breathed in, but the air was foul as any tomb’s can be. This would be a hard fight.
Farther into the temple, Scarlett found his enemy crouched upon the altar of some long forgotten deity, between two mighty statues of goddesses. The air in this chamber was humid and hot, and steam arose from cracks in the floor. The ranger cast his cloak aside, the long, flowing tresses of his beautiful, soft blonde hair falling just to his waist. The monster eyed him strangely, at which he replied: 'What is it, you demon? You look surprised to see my appearance!' and at the sound of Scarlett's feminine, softly lilting voice, the beast seemed even more startled. Taking advantage of the creature's utter confusion, the ranger was quick to drive his sword arm forward, wounding the fiend in the chest, which seemed to hinder it not. Then, it was Scarlett's turn to be surprised, for the undead rogue's head wound healed itself to compensate for the new and more pressing chest injury. As the two closed to fight, they fell through the floor, the stone of which was rotten. At once darkness had overcome all light of the moon, and Scarlett was deeply afraid. As a child, he had known such fear. Locked in a closet by the priest of a church in his home town, who sought to “cure” him of a certain “condition” he had since birth… he had become fearful of the dark, for the priest had told him that Hell was a place of eternal darkness. It was a kindly nun who had freed him from the priest’s cruelty, and since that day he had always had a certain terror of total darkness. His eyes began to adjust to the lack of light, as some illumination from above began to filter down in shafts. Moonlight was not as vacant as he thought at first! And so he did praise the ancient moon goddess Diana beneath his breath. And why not! Christianity did not have all the answers, the ranger knew, and sometimes the ancients knew more than modern man might give them credit for. Scarlett snapped out of his thoughts just then, and regarded his gloomy surroundings.
Part Five: Not Man nor Woman
Scarlett had plunged into water, up to his neck. The chamber into which he had so fallen was low of ceiling... and his head touched the roof. He swam for a good way and found himself in a small room in which the statue of an angelic goddess smiled down upon him. Suddenly the undead rogue came up behind him and made to strike with his fists. Scarlett heard the movement and spun around. Having retained his weapon, he managed to hit the beast in the shoulder, which made it stumble back towards the water. This was when the fiend noticed the peculiar shape of Scarlett's form as his clothes clung to him. The monster's voice then croaked out the words: 'What are you?' which Scarlett had not heard in many a year. 'I am not man nor woman, both a mix of both, really!' said Scarlett in noticeable surprise that the dead man could speak at all. The ranger saw an advantage here and inquired: 'Why are you doing this?' and the monster had croaked out as best an answer as was possible for him: 'To satisfy my lord and master's will, so he will allow me to rest in peace.' Scarlett asked at this: 'What is your master's will?' to which only one answer came: 'His will is that I anoint his skull with the blood of the living, until he drinks enough so that he can live again.' That was when Scarlett noticed something very strange: 'Your master's will, has no hold on you any longer. For look, you, his skull is not anywhere to be seen!' And for the first time since he had risen out of the sea, the dead rogue noticed the skull was no longer in his possession. It must have been lost in the depths long ago! 'Free! I am free at long last!' screeched the monster, and no sooner had he uttered those words than thunder sounded through the room which heralded a moment in which the flesh of the dead rogue melted off from his bones, which clattered to the ground and were scattered about, some falling into the water. Scarlett slumped to the floor at the nearby statue's base, and took a long, hard breath. 'They'll not know what to call me...' he mused: 'I will be called the bravest man as well as the bravest woman in the entire town!' The only real trouble was, he had no idea how to get out of this place. Getting to his feet, Scarlett waded off into the water and made for the nearest tunnel in hopes that it would lead the hermaphrodite ranger out at last.
The storm had ceased, and by the time Scatlett returned to town, a bit of a crowd was gathered by the shore, where the victims of the murders were being prepared: to be moved for burial. Scarlett briefly explained what happened, and produced the skull of the murderer as proof of his deeds. He showed them the dagger he freed from the wall on his way back, even... but they refused to believe his strange tale, and blamed him for these deaths, assuming the skull had belonged to yet another victim. It was impossible to disguise his form in his wet, clinging clothes, as he expected it would be, and thusly the superstitious way of the villagers made them assume this hermaphroditic being was actually some sort of a demon come among them. They chased him into the woods and back to the old ruins, where they pursued him into the temple even as he had pursued the dead rogue earlier that evening. Then, one of the villagers noticed the goddess statues and saw the peculiar resemblance between them and Scarlett. They proved indeed to be a superstitious lot, and immediately had altered their opinion so that they now held Scarlett to be an angel sent by these goddesses of old to punish the town for it's sins. More than a few cut their own throats to sacrifice themselves to the incarnate “goddesses”, as others made many a ritualistic mark upon their arms. Every one dropped what weapons they carried, and Scarlett, horrified, cried out to them that enough was enough and not another drop of blood was to be spilled there in his presence! The villagers swiftly complied, and soon Scarlett began to get a taste of power, and liked very much the idea of being treated like an emissary of these ancient goddesses. People had always feared and reviled him for being what he was… but here, and now, they worshipped him for it. Perhaps, even if they could not be civilized… these people might be useful nonetheless! And so was a cult born on that day, led by a living deity. And so had these locals traded one superstition for another.
Epilogue: The Scarlet Goddess
'It was said the worship of what is today known as the Scarlet Goddess had begun in a maritime town near some old ruins. This Goddess of Assassins, said to be neither male nor female, is often invoked: by pirates, thieves, and other cutthroats seeking to avoid being caught for their crimes. She... or he... held the power to lay the undead to rest by his/her voice alone, or so old legends say, though like all legends likely there is some unknown truth from which it thusly stemmed. It is beyond the scope of this scribe to comment further upon this.' And the scribe who wrote down the tale stopped to regard the person standing behind him. That person was a tall man with exquisitely beautiful, feminine features and long blonde hair that was in fact shimmering even in the torchlight of the scribe’s office. He… or was it a she… wore a red gown fit for a princess or even a queen. The stranger spoke in a musical, feminine voice, and complimented the scribe on his fine work. The scribe asked the “lady” if the work would be paid for in gold, or in silver. The “lady” then replied, very cryptically: “It has already been paid for, sir. It has been paid for… in blood.” And so the mysterious man/woman kissed the scribe savagely, and then caressed the man’s neck. The scribe felt himself strangely aroused by this, and whispered to the man/woman: “But… I require a more monetary form of compensation for my efforts!” And then it was that Scarlett put a coin in the man’s mouth and forced him to swallow it. Then he/she kissed the scribe again. The scribe wanted to scream, but found yet another coin thrust into his mouth, followed by yet another kiss. This repeated until the scribe was paid in full, and quite dead, having choked to death on his payment. The hermaphrodite then stroked the face of the dead man almost lovingly and walked out of the scribe’s office into the night. The mysterious death of the only scribe ever known to have written down Scarlett’s tale merely added to the legend, and soon it was said that to speak of that being at all was to invite death upon the speaker. For somewhere, out there in the night, Scarlett walked eternally. Cursed with immortality by the dreaded wizard whose servant the ranger had brought unto final death.
- And so, the Legend Begins
Published 19th Jan 2012
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