The Waste and Terror

by Kevin James Hardin

Pt One

The Lands of Waste and Terror

In the ancient an vast land of Edra, there was a great and military kingdom called Talek Moharanata (People of the High Forest Watcher) ruled by a succession of Khans known as the Estermont Dynasty. In our current time, where this story takes its place (year of Artuskus 1118), Talek was in the middle of a glorious golden period called "The Times of Unended Plenty" (which promptly ended in the year of Artuskus 1133, but we'll get to that later) under the Forty Fifth Estermont Lord High King Petr Vivian Lars Estermont the Ninth of Carrnok and Barre to the Far East; a prince of 17 whose father was slain by his own bodyguard (who were feverent Lampards, the Estermont's greatest rival, and the ancestral monarchs of the land) at the battle of Asinor Field two years before. Petr VIII had been a strong but vainglorious king who ruled the nation with an olive branch and an iron fist, he was good to those who listened and heeded his laws and decrees, but violently repressed any who disagreed. The blood that ran in the Summa valley to the south would have filled a million rivers to their brim, and Petr was mostly recalled with fear and apprehension that he was not in fact dead but rather simply waiting behind the hills to ride in and slaughter all those who had slipped into vice and insubordination in his assumed death. His son was a different story; Petr IX was a good a gracious king, however young, and for the most part in the short years of his reign, he had secured at least the love and adoration of the people of his kingdom, if not of the noble families Lampard, Koll, and Mastersonn; each one vying for the power that the Estermont's had long held. The political air in the kingdom was thus stagnant and undefined; there were always murders and dirty deals and intrigue leading toward the destruction of whole families and political parties, but the violence that unfolded in the weeks after Petr IX's coronation was without equal in the history of the kingdom. It took four years, an estimated million dead Talekian soldiers (not counting the other side,) and an Imperial Writ of Abomination to end the unofficial civil war. A Writ was seldom employed, saved only for the most unlikely of occasions, as it was vague and dangerous and required a blood sacrifice from a member of the High Imperial Family in order to work; in this case that of old king Petr VIII, still fresh a corpse deep in the crypt at The Obelisk in The City of Talek with his ancestors the other dead high kings of years passed. The ceremony commenced, wizards called from the farthest corners of Edra gathered at the Temple of the Goat and, with a bubbling cauldron containing the sacramental potion comprised of the High Kings Blood, began the ritual rites of the writ. A massive black cloud formed in the westerlands, which had become home to the chaos and terrorism (perhaps) of the enemies of the King, and sucked the very life from those once pristine hills; now all that was left was a memory and a scarred ground unable to produce any sort of plant life, other than scrub grass and desert weeds. That was the power of an Imperial Writ; but it did no more than strengthen the resolve of the families cause, to drive them to hate and distrust their king and his kin evermore. The war didn't end, it just evolved; went underground. 

From where I write these words, however ( and I will get to this later I promise) the world is a much stranger and unforgiving place, marred and shaped by these events we now know to be our history. In the world of Petr IX, there were forests and rivers and mountains of beauty and majesty; and plants and animals of every shape color and size, and the world was alive and vibrant with these creatures. There are only brief snippets we can draw from now in my time that give us an idea of what this world and its wildlife looked like; there is a great library within the Obelisk with many books on file, and wonderful pictures, illustrations of course, of the dragons and giant lizards and tigers and whatnot; trees and flowers and fish and...it is a world we were no longer fit to live upon, and we were banished away to this modern Hel as punishment for our greed and our arrogance and our vanity. This world is a wasteland, without form or context; and we men and women are simply hanging on awaiting our eventual destruction; there is a void at the center of where the precept ion of our world meets its exact opposite, a sort of metaphysical crux point where our understanding of fantasy and nothingness meets our acceptance of reality and form. This place is with and without form itself; it is a place and it is not a place, accessed through our minds and yet never accessed at all; it is where all our memories are broadcast at once like some bone crunching interstellar symphony. Here is where all of us were born, or the perception of all of us was born; it is the cradle of our race. Yet it is like a window of double sided glass; there is one side, which we occupy, and there is also another side, where dwell a creature of another sort; the secretive and demonic Lords of the Waste. These things are not creatures maybe, we cannot tell from our haven cities their make up and species, if they even have such a thing and have gone to seeing them as gods; in the oldest sense of the world. They were the spawn of things we had long since buried beneath the earth to rot and be forgotten; the originators. Massive shapeless forms of ever shifting, ever lurching storms of intellectual terror, tall as mighty mountains and wide as great open lakes, some with teeth and eyes and snouts; some with no discernible features at all. They were the guardians of the waste, I suppose you could say. 

There had been a great hero of man, we know him as Tamerlann, who with a host of vicious kings and land owning men had gone to the mouth of Hel and attempted, however futile, to hold back this onslaught of dragons from the very abysses of time. They, undoubtedly, were unsuccessful in their battle, however it led to a new mythology for the new human race to peg upon their hopes, dreams, and desires; it was the knowledge of a thieving of culture and Tamerlann was the symbol of human freedom. From the Book of Tamerlann Part Seven. 

"And lo! Tamerlann the great hero

Spoke into the shifting mass of void

That was death

And life and death were both born

From within its core

And Tamerlann shouted into

The very mouth of the very first

Of the dragons

The all seeing eyes which we call

Nmentrious, the eater of worlds

And with his sword

Nummeridang, which means 

Holy Protector

Tamerlann the hope of all men

Struck the foul creature

A deathly blow.

But the great dragon

Who was death himself

Was not to die so easy

And he ate the great hero

And the host of kings

In one breath."

After this defeat, the old gods of the world had been unleashed, and through the mighty crack that ran across the earth itself which we call The Sundering, came all sort of creature and non creature, and they enveloped the earth and supplanted man as the master of races. Tamerlann had been a man of Nuil to the west, a Carrnok himself, and a second or third (depending on the source) cousin of our honorable Petr IX; which made him a direct descendant of the Estermont clan and the famous chieftain Nok No Marra. It also leads to the connection of our two worlds, the Sundering which opened with many a spewing volcano and ground shattering earthquake, was the result of that final Imperial Writ; a black magic that tore the very fabric of our world to shreds and opened the floodgates to the new way. There was no way they could have known then, when magics such as these were unstudied and practically unpracticed outside of dark cults and demonic ritual; but the Writ did what black magics tend to do; it severed the bonds of our world and opened itself to the bonds of a magical world so beyond our understanding it threatens to destroy us as a species. It transcended the rules of time and earth and broke the cardinal sin of our lack of knowledge; we unleashed the plague upon ourselves and the only finger to be pointed points squarely at our own selves and our arrogance. We call it the summer of fire; millions, possibly billions perished, as the new masters took to the stage in a flourish. 

Now; the world as it is. Safely within the Obelisk (a massive tower built in the time of Petr V, and summarily growing with each passing day as it fills with other lost souls searching out a place of haven) at what had once been the beautiful southern city of Noms, I look from an observation deck out at the plain of black obsidian rock that is our oblivion; The Ocean of Velos, once, now an arid and deserted land haunted by old gods and their pet homunculi, torrid little things the size of birds with razor sharp teeth and claws known to devour human beings whole (thanks to an extendible stomach much like a serpent) when given the chance. The obsidian floor is scarce and seemingly unchanging; like some massive and grandiose parapets built long before the time of man that had suddenly risen from the depths and overtaken the fertile ground. To walk its surface, it is said, is to know madness itself; though many who do are eaten by old gods long before they ever had the chance to break the lip of insanity. 

To the west and east, it is much the same; vast and empty tracks of open and uninviting land. There are distant mountains, in a rim it would seem from telescopic studies, that creates a barrier from the open wastes to the lands beyond; of which we know very little indeed. Directly north from the Obelisk is what we call the north gateway, an apparent crack in the range that whittles down to what appears to be an archway of stone. From behind this come the dancing lights of some ever-burning holocaust; a radiant fire that burns perpetual in the distance; some see it as the entrance to Hel, we know it as The Dragons Mouth for that reason. To the Northwest and Northeast, heading out in the ridges to each side respectively, the range rises once more to heights estimated in the hundreds of thousands of yards; and to the East at about 40 degrees, is the Life Drinker, the tallest of all the mountains, a dark watcher over this sullen plain. No man who had ventured out through the wastes toward the rim or the gate or the Life Drinker (which lures many an adventurer with its lofty peaks) has ever returned, so our knowledge of these places are slim to say the least. The southland is empty and dark, far darker than the north, as the range trickles in and out of sight for literally thousands of miles, the disappears into the blackness due south. It re-emerges once more at about 60 degrees due southwest, climbing out of the darkness and into the westerlands, where once again it rises to high and might peaks shrouded in mystery and intrigue. Opon this range sits The Father, the second of the creatures to come out of the Sundering (which lies in the valley below and perhaps is the reason for the peaks red coloration, which is absent from the rest of the seeable range) a slim and wispy serpent like thing which climbed achingly up the cliff sides for centuries before reaching the summit of the tallest of the western peaks, The Father's Rest as it is know now, and there he stayed, watching, or perhaps not. Further study shows slight movement from this creature, but its intention and even it's abilities remain unknown to even the greatest men of science in the Obelisk. What we do know about this creature is thus; he (or she, or it) is a massive, nearly the size of the Obelisk itself from our calculations, mound of ever sliding, ever shaping forms; with eyes speckled about its body, and gaping mouthes capable of devouring whole legions in a single fleeting gulp. It's skin (if that truly is what it's outer shell can be referred to as) black like the obsidian stone upon which it rests, dotted with reds and purples and blues and whites, but these colors are never present for long, as they move and disappear at random over the course of the day. The body itself has no true shape, it is a weaving of shiny black tentacles dripping with viscera or simply condensation, swirling its tightening grips around the heaving mass of eyes and mouthes; that is up unto the creatures "head" or what we have come to call the top of the creature, where sits the all seeing eye, a hideous and bulbous balloon of tissue, transparent in the morning gloom when the flashing lights of the great raging fires of the north seem to spotlight on the creature. Within this wall of spindly fibers resides what we believe to be the control center of the creature, the brain or what have you; for inside we have come to discover a large quadrant of muscle (much resembling a brain might I add) that according to our sensing devices lets off quite a large bit of kinetic and electric impulse radiation from that area; on clear days through the Hansonn Telescope on the west side of the Obelisk, you can faintly see electric signals bounding from cortex to cortex in what we would consider bolts of lightning. The only other, and most frightening things, we know about this creature are mere and in speculation, but approaching him or his mountain is a dangerous game indeed. Many a Wanderjahr (adventuring knight) of times past had attempted the scale of The Father's Rest, only to be swept up into his jaws once they got close enough to strike. Men of science watched these Wanderjahr from the Obelisk and jotted down in our annals the tales of deviation and woe. Three hundred or so stories, each one the same as the last; the brave hero would climb the whole of the mountain only to be eaten quite without drama or flourish by the creature and the science men would note, each time, something very similar to "better luck next time."

But the father is not alone in his vigil over our scarred oblivion; there are other great beasts of ancient sorcery who have joined him over the centuries. To the slight northwest, roughly seven hundred miles north of The Father, the rim mountains fade westerly and back into the gloom (making it not nearly a circle but rather something quite undefinable by geometry, wouldn't you think?) and disappear once more, but remerge soon creating a second gate, the Long Walk we call it here, or the gateway to the westerlands. In between the break in the mountains there is a single peak set out all by itself in the middle, which creates a sort of natural palisade defending the lands beyond. Here is the House of The Garroter, The Fringe Beast, the Keeper of the Gate; such a savage and meticulous creature is he! Much smaller than the father, and though keeping with the same tradition of black tentacles and bulbous leathery tissues, he (if it is indeed a he!) is of a much different sort. Like a slug or a grub (insects no longer living on this world) he is shaped, but with thousands, maybe millions, of tiny muscular legs that propel him across the obsidian with a considerable speed; he is often seen chasing down some old god creature that strayed too near his black gates and devouring them with violent precision. This behavior differs also from The Father, who has never been seen to actively hunt, but rather sits in wait for the off chance something may wander his way; no scientist, in fact, has even observed The Father move from his peak in all the years we have been recording such things. However, The Garroter seems to pace, to hunt, to feverishly guard his territory; and so very few men have ever made an attempt to get close. His land is empty save for his ever patrolling, lumbering form; for anything foolish enough to get close is destroyed. But even he must be wary, for his land also borders that of the Northern Gate Keeper's, The Tree of Life he is called; their battles, which occur only once in a century if you're even lucky, are the only way we have been able to accurately guess and surmise at these creatures and their true powers; perhaps even their true purpose. 

The Tree of Life is as tall as the Father (or at least very close, by estimations of course,) but thin and spindly and spiny; like a tree as we have come to know them from books of lore. The body is much like that of the tentacles, but they are smaller and thinner than the others, creating an effect that greatly resembles the bark of an ancient tree, albeit black and shiny like snakeskin. This skinny frame leads up to a gigantic bulbous head, much like that of the Father's, transparent but amazingly sturdy against attacks. You see, every once in a century or so, as I have said, one or the other of these gate keepers will run across each other and engage in a futile, but spectacular, bout of raging combat we call "A god storm." They cast upon each other spells of such power and magnitude they burst and explode in deafening blasts which shake even the very earth beneath the Obelisk. Whipped up into the air are trillions and trillions of obsidian dust particles that rise and form great clouds of smoke and ash which drift over the wastes and grow larger and more ominous until they become towering dust storms of deadly force which sweep over the Obelisk and obscure our instruments for days, even weeks sometimes. In the annals of history there were such occasions on which the stations of observation went silent for two years as a great and powerful storm was whipped up and stayed. They say that there were three participants in that battle however, it was known as the day when The Wall, the fourth of these creatures to crawl from the Sundering, was driven into the great unknown of the westerlands behind the mountain. There are only descriptions and rough sketches of this creature, but he was, like the others, of gargantuan form and diabolical creation; wide as the Tree of life is thin, lumbering and slow witted, but mighty and dangerous, one of his fists would have been enough to level the Obelisk flat. He had been the northern gate keeper in those times, and he sat before the mouth of that burning holocaust with his back to the Obelisk (for unlike the others, he looked as if a mere giant, and had only two eyes on is front in their proper place, but perhaps the instruments used in those days were not suitable to get the best look at this creature) seemingly warming himself at its flame. The Wall, it is written, was as docile as the Garroter was savage, and moved almost as little as The Father; in fact it was said that when the lights of the flame, which the creature blocked from view most of the time, were seen again for the beast had moved slightly to the right, there were full fledged celebrations in the Obelisk to see those dancing flames once more. But his title was taken from him, when the Tree, who in those days had inhabited the dead forests around the base of the Life Drinker, came north following tribal packs of Orks (big and nasty goblin things that also came out of the crack in the earth) whom he liked to devour most wholly, which is why the Orks left the shadow of his land no doubt. In those days the Orks had settled in those empty lands between the mountain and this keep, and had done war with mankind on many occasions; of course now that the Tree has gone north, many have them have returned to these lands and resumed age old conflicts with men and amongst themselves. 

Once he arrived in the North, he smelled the other two immediately, and set forth for the mouth of Hel and The Wall; and at the west gate, the Garroter was also on the move. The men of science at the time watched this from our safety and recalled for us in their notes all the specifics of the battle, which are few other than to say that all three began to walk in the direction of the smell and eventually they came together somewhere in the middle. There was a terrific battle; but it was soon to be obscured from our ancestors instruments by the intense storm I spoke of before. And once the dust had gone away, two years later (or more, accounts vary) The Wall was seen one last time, briefly and barely, lumbering his way through The Long Walk. Of the other two, the Garroter had limped back to his perch, but seemed wounded and moved much slower for a time (as noted in the histories many, many times) and the Tree of life, who seemed triumphant (they write, I'm not sure how they deduce that) lumbered about the north gate forever more. That was long in the past however, The Wall had never returned, and the others only socialized but briefly in millennia. That was the world in which we now lived.