Canto I
Hear, Oh Daughters of Gast,
Ye wondrous beauties of Yon,
And pour your inspiration out onto me.
Oh mighty and fierce Sons,
I ask thee to give remembrance to
All who are named in this tale,
That they shall ne’er fade into Black.
May the Children of Aoide, Melete, and Mneme—
Chakra, Ukulele, Kraut, and Kraus,
Oslo, Olso, Ooleo, Orpa, and Olxe,
Bernard, Halbert Dayspa, Antonio, and Wolfe—
Grant me the voice to deliver justice
To those poor fools that were caught up in the twine
Of the Sisters.
‘Twas on the eve of Invocation, Ochtobe 19,
when hope left the Hero and he despaired.
“Why must I find myself in this condition,
where nary Man nor god has e’er dared travel?
If there is hope for me, then it surely no longer
Dwells in my heart. I am alone in this,” wept the Hero,
“And all have forsaken me.”
Listen, my readers, and I shall spin you
The Tale of Oscambria, the Hero of the Living Worlds.
His is a tale every child knows,
From the rice paddies of India to the
Slums of New Yorke City, from the Outback
To the Peaks of the Great Isles,
But I alone offer you the only written history of his life.
Grab yourself a cask of Dew and pop the corn,
For the tale is a bildungsroman of sorts,
And you must be comfortable to enjoy and learn.
Read with care, and observe the cruel way the Fates
Played with Oscambria, bringing him from
Hero of the Three Worlds to a lowly man
Sitting on an uncomfortable bed of a ruined once-glorious town.
Canto II
“How do you plan to defeat me, Oscambria?
You are but a child of Fire and Flesh,
Not full in your deity.
I am the mighty Zzizgarg, the Blood-son of
Majestic Paes and Mighty Rone, Fire and Ice
Both course through my veins.
Besides, you are not even immortal!”
“You filthy, yellow-man, I will defeat you with my wit.
You think I come to challenge you with empty hands?
No! I have the talisman.”
The silence that filled the Courte du Gods was loud,
Like a bleating lamb before the offering,
Like a thundercloud on the plains,
And Oscambria laughed at their astonishment.
“You will mind your tongue, semi-mortal,
Or I will have it,” spat Zzizgarg.
“No, I don’t think you will. I was born in this world
with my tongue, and I intend to Ascend with it as well.
Now I am finished with this pointless banter.
You will either relinquish your lunch money
Or face the wrath of the talisman.”
The yellow-faced Zzizgarg glared with red eyes.
His hand darted into his cloak, but Oscambria was faster.
The semi-mortal already held his god-cell in his hand
And his lithe fingers were moving quickly across the keys.
Before Zzizgarg even had a chance to react,
The challenge was over,
The thirty unique text prayers required for victory belonged to Oscambria.
“I will not be bested by you, mortal!”
“You speak true, Zzizgarg, for you’ve already been bested by me,
though I am semi-mortal. Now, hand over the loot.”
The proud Zzizgarg gave up his money, sneering loudly as he did so.
“Do not think this is over, punk,” he whispered,
moving close to Oscambria so only he could hear,
“Because I will tell Father of this and you will be in for it.”
The Blood-son pushed Oscambria back and stalked off,
Leaving the Courte. The audience clapped,
Hesitantly at first, but soon there was a full fledged round of applause.
Oscambria beamed, pocketing the money and bowing.
It is of interest to note the day of this interaction,
As it was fifteen years to the day from start to finish,
The Eve of Invocation, MMIX.
Canto III
When the child of mourning arrived at his home
He immediately began his pleas.
“Hear me, oh Father, oh Glorious Rone,
oh Creator of Fire and spirit.
We have been wronged today and I seek your face.
Reveal yourself, show me your way,
And guide me in what to do.”
Zzizgarg made the cut and offering,
Casting the blood into the fire.
The temple darkened in the wake of the flare,
And a mighty voice spoke from the Flame.
(And it was a deep baritone, mind you.)
“Who calls me at this hour? Who dares wake me?
It is near two in the morning and I do not wish to be disturbed.”
The yellow-faced one winced at his error.
“I regret my actions, Father, for I forgot about the time lag.
It is I, Zzizgarg, your Blood-son with Paes,
Son of Fire and Ice. Forgive my witless brain
And my weak heart, Father, for I meant not to offend.
Indeed, I only come to you to seek vengeance on
The one who has wronged us.”
The Great Yawn of Heaven ripped through the air
And a loud Snap! followed. In majesty and grace
Appeared Rone suddenly, robed in flannel pajama pants
And a green, fleece robe.
“Wronged us, you say? No one wrongs me without my approval,
which is never, mind you, and anyone who tries suffers my wrath.
Consider your own actions, child, before waking me.
“When waking a god you had best have a good reason,
or your offense is as likely to cause more problems.
I was dreaming of giant bowls filled with 2% milk
And frosted corn flakes, large enough that it took
Six virgins to hold up a single bowl,
Six ill-clad virgins I say, and in a meadow of
Twilight quality.
“The cereal was grand, and now I find myself a-hungered.
You know that we gods do nothing free of charge,
And our prices are oft’ a trick,
But if you ask your request I shall likely agree,
So long as you bring me good quality corn flakes as an offering
Every morning for breakfast for the next fifteen years.
If you agree to this, I shall hear your plea.”
Zzizgarg gulped audibly, nodded and wiped his hand on his brow.
Blood from the Cut came off and left a red streak,
Vivid and crimson on his yellow-face.
“I will do all that you ask of me, glorious Rone,
whether or not you agree to my prayer.
You are my father, you are Fire,
And you deserve my devotion.”
“You speak wise, child, and you’ve taken the blood-oath.
Henceforth, you must bring me quality corn flakes every morning.
You will offer me a bowl for fifteen years.
If you fail one time, my anger will burn on you
And I will wipe your existence off of this plane.
Even if you are immortal, you are no god,
And I can make your eternity miserable if you fail me.
“Now speak, Zzizgarg, and tell me of our wronging.”
The immortal quivered and bowed.
“Today in the Courte du Gods I was challenged by a semi-mortal
named Oscambria. He is one of your lower sons,
born from your loins with a fleshling,
and his attitude is full of pride. I defeated him in his challenge
and he proceeded to blaspheme your name.
“‘Rone,’ said he, ‘is as much Fire as I am.
The old god spends all his time in his own stool,
Thick spittle pouring down his mangy face.
He no longer cares about anything but himself,
And as such he no longer exists.’
In rage I struck him, but he had a talisman
And drove me away.”
Flames erupted around the god, and his fury burned bright.
“HOW DARE THIS CHILD CALL ME OLD!
Tell me exactly, Zzizgarg, who he is and how he came to be.”
“Yes, your worship,
though I may have his lineage imperfect.
He was born near the time I was,
Back in DCCXI.
“His name is Oscambria, son of Oscar,
son of Reaul, son of Lanert, son of Eux,
son of Jamal, son of Raes, son of Nifty,
son of Walter, son of Carl, son of Raes,
son of Slater, son of Zachaeus, son of William,
son of Euxene, son of Vaxter, son of Killis,
son of Hopa, son of Mattsew, son of the woman Paliea.”
“Yes, I do remember now,” bellowed the god.
“She was a beautiful fleshling, married to a lowly pig farmer.
I offered him life in exchange for a night with his woman.
He refused and I had her anyway and I burned him alive.
She bore me a son, Mattsew, and then tossed herself
From the fjords of Ikly. The child would have died, too,
If I had not intervened.
“Perhaps I should not have stopped her and let the child die.
If so, then this Oscambria would not be here now.
Regardless, even gods make mistakes,
And now I will make amends for my error and end this line.
How would you have me slay the blasphemer, Zzizgarg?
Shall I burn him alive? Shall I feed him to a bull?
What would you like, child?”
“I am sorry, Father, but I do not want him to die.
As a semi-mortal, he will live a very long life, but he will have no eternity.
If you were to kill him now, then he would not truly suffer.
No, I think you should curse him,
Make every day he walks on this sphere a wretched day,
Make him rue his sins with every passing of the sun and moon.
Let him live a long life filled with misery, I ask.”
The god smiled and laughed a bitter, deep laugh.
“Yes, Zzizgarg, you speak with wisdom.
You have stopped me from ending this pagan’s life prematurely.
He shall suffer for his insolence, and he will know that I am Fire,
That I am no old, weak god like Thaed,
That this flame burns as bright now as it did when I became.
Yes, he will suffer, Zzizgarg.
“Your offering to me every morning will remind me of my promise to you.
As a sign of my promise, I will forgive your forgetfulness,
I will bless you with radiance. You will glow, Zzizgarg.
Furthermore, I will give you a new name, one that is easier to say.
Henceforth, child, you shall be known as the Flicker of the Flame,
The burning in your eyes will remind all.
You shall be called Cornball.”
Canto IV
While the yellow-faced Zzizgarg, I mean, Cornball,
Was conversing with his Father,
Spans away, Oscambria was mid-monologue
in an after Lessons theatre performance.
Oscambria starred as the lead actor,
Cademeaus the Beautiful,
In a play called “Sing to Me, Cadem!”
Let us listen in on his words.
“How can this be, you fiend,
that thee should offend
me and take the life of she I loved?
My heart! My soul! I am but a man
Burdened and weighted down
By your oppressiveness.
“Cindy never wronged thee,
oh Death, that you should smite her.
Her life was full of joy,
Her body a gift divine,
And her heart given to all.
I shall not stand this life without her,
Oh wretched horror.
“Hark! Mine eyes see her
beyond the Great Plain,
pale and terrible in her beauty.
I am coming to you, Cindy!”
And behold, our hero plunged a knife into his chest,
the blood flowed strong,
and Cademeaus the Beautiful died tragically on stage.
A moment of stunned silence
Was defeated by a powerful series of clapping
and shouting for his performance.
The blood-soaked body rose,
Bowed gracefully,
And walked off the raised dais and
Into the throng of his admirers.
“Thank you all,” said he, “that you came
to watch my performance.
I am but a mere semi-mortal,
Gifted by a spark of Flame in my heart
That propels me into the light of fame.
I can only do what my heart yearns to do,
And that is to kiss you, fair maiden.”
Oscambria pulled at a nearby virgin,
Embracing her in his hug and kissing her full on the lips.
She blushed, of course,
Having never been kissed before,
But also from receiving an act of love
From Oscambria, the acclaimed actor
And handsome hero of the stage.
It was there, surrounded by fans and
Adorners of gifts,
In his post-performance glow,
That a peculiar thing happened, the major plot impetus, if you will.
The youth all backed away in horror
And the elders retched a foul
and dark vomit.
Everyone began running at once,
Everyone but Oscambria,
To find a way of escape from the curse he suddenly found himself in.
The throng of worshipers
Had abandoned the actor within minutes,
Leaving him alone with the curse
And the agony that would ensue.
The Hero wept suddenly,
Tears stinging his young face.
His dark hair masked his countenance
For the time being,
Hiding the fear and revulsion etched thereupon,
Concealing the wondrous features
Of his handsome face.
Let us pause and consider this moment, dear ones.
Oscambria, the one day Hero of the Worlds,
The acclaimed actor and performer,
The one who bested Zzizgarg in a challenge in the Courte du Gods,
The one who defeated the Giant Koala of Havik,
Is down on his knees and weeping like a child,
Sobbing with abandon.
This, I offer, is the second lowest moment of his life.
This is where the tragedy begins,
Where the journey starts,
Where the plans are laid,
Where the gods are pleased,
Where a semi-mortal finds himself castrated from society
And suddenly cursed.
“What have I done,” cried Oscambria,
“That I should deserve this punishment?
It is more than I can bare.
My once beautiful skin is now wretched and grey,
Spotted with freckles and painful to touch.
And the odor that reeks from it
Is fouler than the Sulfur Sea of Hell.
“I dare not glimpse myself at a mirror,
lest I faint, or desire to pluck my eyes
like Oedipus of Old.
No, I shall leave this place and discover
Why I have been afflicted,
And who has wished me a-cursed.
What have I done?”
Oscambria rose from his position,
Just yards from the stage he’d just entertained on,
And dusted himself off.
He was still covered in the dark berry juice
That had been used as blood for Cademeaus’ fatal wound,
Still robed in classic Eura garb,
Still grey-skinned and cursed.
“Goodbye, dear stage, for I must leave thee.
I vow to you that I will return one day,
That I will perform on you again,
That I will discover the villain of this plot and knavery,
And that I will slay him with my own self.
Hear my words, Oh Muses, and know that I will serve
Thee with all my heart.
“Hear my vow, Oh Rone, and know that the
Fire that is in my lineage will burn bright in me,
That I will end this curse that has been placed upon me.
I offer you the Blood-cut, and I will avenge those that have wronged me,
I will live out my days in this agony
Seeking justice and vengeance,
And when I have found it, I will have my restoration.”
Canto V
I would like to tell you, faithful readers,
That Oscambria’s journey was easy,
That he found out the truth quickly and put an end to his curse.
I would like to tell you that it did not take him fifteen miserable years
Of searching and false-hopes,
But that his disease was lifted that very day,
But I am no liar, and have sworn to write only the truth.
Instead I must relate to you the quick demise of the Hero,
Of how he was scorned immediately upon his leaving the theatre.
The throng that once loved and praised him
Now spat upon him, threw rotten fruit and other clichéd items at him,
Abhorring the very site of the cursed man,
Calling for his expulsion from his hometown,
The majestic city of Athins.
As he was quickly forced from the town
He did not spy Cornball and Rone watching him leave,
He did not notice the sneer of content and joy on Cornball’s yellow face
Or the burning hatred in his crimson eyes.
Nor did his ancestral god pity him as he was pushed along,
But he enflamed the crowd’s passions of hatred,
Urging them to quickly exile the cursed one.
No, it is likely Rone did not even hear the vow Oscambria had just made,
For if he had he would have likely been aware of the deception of Cornball.
I can fathom that Rone was still in a semi-lucid dream-state,
Probably still desiring corn flakes and virgins,
And that he paid no mind to anyone praying to him,
Even if someone made a Blood-cut oath,
It was still early in the hours for Rone.
And so Oscambria was banished from his homeland,
Warned to never return, even if the curse was removed,
For Cursed Ones never truly escape their fate.
Oscambria was not allowed to go to his home and collect his things,
He was not allowed to kiss his mother and sisters goodbye,
He was not allowed to salute his father and brothers farewell,
He was not allowed to retrieve his comfortable walking sandals.
He made his way down the jagged hills
As the rain began to fall,
Blackening his soul even more,
Washing the blood-juice down his clothes
And onto his greyed skin.
The heavens opened and the deluge fell,
Soaking the Hero through and through.
For a moment he fancied that the rain would wash away his curse,
Freeing him like a hare that’s released from a cage,
Ridding his skin of the filth and mire
That now plagued him,
Erasing the stench of his curse
And creating a new man,
But he knew it would not be so.
The countryside passed him by,
Barely a notice to him,
As he traversed the treacherous crags.
Sure-footed he was, and strong legged,
But still the wet, steep slopes were not free from danger.
Only once did he slip,
Falling a few feet before catching himself on a large stone.
“Thank the gods,” he said,
but immediately regretted his words.
How could he thank the gods?
It was they who cursed him,
But at the behest of whom?
And which in the pantheon of deities was it
That rendered him an outcast?
“Curse the gods!” he shouted,
and immediately regretted it, too.
“It’s not all of you I have a quarrel with,”
he went on to say, “but only the one who cursed me so.
I have wronged no one and do not know why this fate has befallen me.
Please, if anyone is listening,
Reveal yourself to me and ease my burden.”
But no god appeared to Oscambria,
And the rain continued to fall, heavy and cold.
“Bah!” he chided, “the gods!”
He soon spied an opening in the side of the hill,
A cave offering protection from the rain,
And made his way to it,
Stooping his tall form in order to enter.
The cavern was small and dark,
Perfect for an exile,
And Oscambria laid himself across the cold floor,
Resting his head on a hard rock like Jacob of Old did.
Yet sleep would not come to the Hero,
For the events of the day had been too much
For his weary mind to forget.
He thought of the looks of his admirers,
Of the appalling horror on their faces when the curse took him.
How quickly their fascination and joy from his performance died.
He thought of his acting as Cademeaus,
The doomed lover and masterpiece character of Steven the Bard,
And how brilliantly he had performed,
Perhaps his final role.
He thought of the sweet, stolen kiss of Telamarris after the show,
The beautiful virgin he’d had his secret eye on for some time.
There were plenty of women that had captured his body,
And he theirs,
But she was one of the few that had entranced his heart.
The surprised look on her face and the quick blush to her cheeks
And Oscambria knew he’d captured her heart, too.
He thought of his challenge to the yellow-faced Zzizgarg
And the reaction the immortal had given.
He’d simply wanted to joke with the immortal,
But the Blood-son was pompous and Fireblooded,
Not one to give audience to a child of a fleshling,
Even if it was centuries ago,
Even if they shared the same deity.
In a sense, Zzizgarg and Oscambria were brothers,
Though not in blood but by Fire.
The god Rone had mated with a mortal woman named Paliea,
And through her line the Fireblood stayed hidden until Oscambria was born.
Semi-mortal, gifted with Flame and skills far above mortals,
But peasantry and weak compared to the immortals,
He was used to being an outcast, even if he was famed.
He thought of his pet galleyrat, Mossossopia,
And a pang of heartache tore through him.
“Oh Mossossopia, how I long to hold thee
and scratch your silky fur,
how I yearn for your tiny teeth to nibble my finger.”
He wondered who would care of his galleyrat,
Or if his family would just let it starve.
He thought about his life, how he’d constantly been in the public’s eye.
They were attracted to him,
They followed him in all of his endeavors,
And they spread their gossip faster than he could travel.
His life of fame had its advantages,
But it also was a lonely existence,
Devoid of personal friendships.
“What have I done to upset you all,” he began praying,
“That you’ve saw fit to curse me so?
If I have offended in any way, forgive me.
I have served the Muses faithfully my whole life,
Letting their passions be my passions,
And I have asked for little in return.
Please reveal to me my error.”
In the darkness of the cave there was no response,
Only the steady sound of rain hitting the ground outside.
Night waxed full now, and the moon was hidden by the storm clouds.
The Fire that burned through Oscambria’s veins kept him warm,
But he was not immune to the crisp cave air.
He stripped his stained acting garments off, scrubbing at the juice-blood,
And laid them out to dry.
Oscambria did not stay awake all night,
But soon was overtaken with fatigue and he faded into Dream,
The realm where mortals, immortals, gods, and all others meld together.
It was here, in the Worlds of Haze,
Where the Hero found out the meaning behind his curse,
discovered who was responsible,
And learned of his great and terrible destiny.
Canto VI
“Awake, Oscambria, for I have things to show thee,” said Viis somberly.
The Hero opened his eyes to the God of Dream and Vision,
Standing tall and proud over him like gods do.
Readers, I do not have to tell you what Viis looks like,
as you’ve all seen it when you close your eyes at night,
Its translucent, shape-shifting form
And its piercing silver eyes.
The Hero rose, naked as he was when he lay down,
And covered himself with a random pile of animal furs that lay in the corner.
“I know you, but I don’t. Who are you?” he asked, his voice as strong as his heart.
“I am Viis, the God of Dream and Vision,
and I am here to guide you on your destiny-walk,
to clear the fog in your mind
and set your feet upon the right path.
“Walk with me, child, and I will show you the four pillars of your destiny.”
They set out upon a long and treacherous road,
Lined with wonderful and hideous apparitions on the sides.
In the ditches flowed blood and water,
Thick and dark,
And an orb of burning flame hung in the purple sky,
Casting long shadows onto the two.
“These visions are the people and things you will see in your life;
they are what the Sisters have woven for you.”
They stopped beside an immense grey pillar,
Tall and mighty, its spike reaching up into the heavens and out of sight.
It appeared to be made of one smooth stone,
With no cracks or joints along its polished surface,
And Oscambria extended his hand and touched it.
“This pillar is your curse, child,
and touching it will enlighten you of your affliction.”
Immediately a scene opened before the Hero’s eyes,
of the challenge between him and Zzizgarg.
He watched as the immortal rushed out of the Courte du Gods
And through the streets of Athins,
And he could see the anger burning in Zzizgarg’s eyes.
He watched as the child of Fire and Ice drew a blade and cut his open hand,
Letting the blood pour down onto the Fire-altar and pray a Blood-oath.
Deception hung about Zzizgarg as he prayed,
And suddenly a god appeared from the fire.
The Hero heard and witnessed the events unfold,
Helpless to interfere,
And felt his heart falter when Zzizgarg deceived his father.
The vision suddenly faded and the pillar returned.
“Zzizgarg,” hissed Oscambria,
“I should have guessed that he would be behind this.
I’ve always tried to befriend the wretch,
But his pride kindles the flame in my blood
And I can’t help but knock him from his pedestal,
Though I see now the foolishness of my behavior.”
Viis neither admonished nor consoled him, but simply nodded,
Speaking, “I am not here to tell you how you should act,
Only to show you what is in store for you.
This is the first pillar of your life, and the foundation for how you will live.
This pillar, the curse you bear, will shape all of your actions,
And they will stretch into the other worlds
And affect more than you can currently comprehend.”
“But if you can do nothing but show me, why must I see my fate?
Is it not cruel to show me my life’s path and condemn me to obeying it?
Can I not change what I see, or is it etched in one of these pillars?”
“Come with me, Oscambria, and witness your second pillar,”
commanded Viis, its voice the strong mixture of male and female,
reaching out a hand for the Hero to take.
They continued down the path.
The second pillar came into view,
Again reaching up into the heavens and continuing beyond vision,
Though it was still far off in the distance.
Oscambria stopped, his attention caught by a bystander on the roadside,
A young maid garbed in a simple merchant tunic,
Her hair black as ebony
And her skin as bronze as a dinera.
“Who is she?” inquired the Hero, entranced at her beauty.
“These ghosts are the people you will meet along your way.
Her name is Koesan.
More than that, I cannot say.”
“She is beautiful,” replied the Hero.
Viis stared blankly at Oscambria, who was staring openly at Koesan,
who was staring at the sack of flour in her hands.
They came to the next pillar, this one seamless as the first,
Though its color was dark grey and speckled with red.
Again Oscambria reached out and touched the stone.
He beheld two massive armies,
One of men and gods, the other of gods and immortals.
They were on an unmarked field,
Ripe with wheat and tares.
Suddenly the battle erupted, violent and full of force.
Corpses fell, both of gods and men,
And the battle raged on for many days.
The end came with the dimming of the Flame,
The god Rone falling to the sword of an armored warrior,
Masked in a wicked black metal helm,
and the god’s head was cut from his body.
The warrior removed his mask and Oscambria gasped,
Seeing his own face revealed.
The curse was still on him, but it appeared to be fading,
His skin returning to its normal color,
As Rone’s power left with his life.
The warrior Oscambria sheathed his sword
And walked among the countless corpses.
The vision vanished, leaving Oscambria panting slightly.
He had no words, no remarks, only shock.
“Come, child, and see the third pillar.”
They walked in troubled silence,
Oscambria understandably distraught
From the vision he’d seen,
And he attempted to cast off the horrible image of the fallen god.
The next pillar reached up into the heavens,
But its exterior was marred with cracks.
It burned a bright orange-red, as if it was on fire,
And Oscambria stalled before it.
“I do not wish to know, magnificent Viis.”
The God of Dream and Vision nodded, then spoke in its strange voice,
“Yet you must, child. It is willed for you to do so.”
Hesitantly, the Hero touched the cracked stone,
And once again the visions opened before him.
Zzizgarg sat on a throne in Athins,
A scepter in one hand and a chalice in the other.
The throne room burned with torches.
At the immortal’s feet lay a dead king,
His body burnt black.
A dark crown sat atop Zzizgarg’s head,
And an evil grin was on his face,
Beneath his burning, red eyes.
“My name is Cornball the Fierce, the Flickering Flame,” said Zzizgarg,
“and I am your new king. You will all bow to me and worship me,
as you did my father, the fallen Fire, Rone.
I claim his mantle and hereby witness my Ascension.”
The immortal reared back his head and screamed violently,
A roar as loud as the wounded dying,
And flames burst forth from his open mouth.
Lines of fire shot from his eyes and outstretched hands,
And all around him objects burned,
From the glorious, exotic tapestries
To the royal Bunny Rabbit in the Gilded Cage.
When the intensity flared bright, the vision faded,
And Oscambria staggered back from the pillar, expecting to find himself ablaze.
His hand was hot from the stone.
“The last pillar awaits, Hero.”
“Hero? I am no hero.”
“Not now,” replied Viis smoothly, “but you will be,
for you are destined to be the Champion of the Three Worlds.
“All will know of your deeds in the days to come.
Minstrels will sing of your exploits,
Ministers will preach of your deeds,
Women will tremble at a mere drawing of your visage,
And men will seek to emulate you.
Children will play like they are you,
Re-enacting your glorious works.
“Yes, Oscambria, this curse was just the beginning of your journey.
By the end, you will be heralded as the Hero of the Living Worlds.”
Viis stared into Oscambria’s eyes,
Its silver pupils seeing all the way into his soul,
And the Hero knew it was true.
“But how can these things I see make me a hero?”
asked Oscambria sincerely.
“Come with me to the last pillar, child.”
The God of Dream and Vision did not answer him, you notice,
For gods so rarely decide to give straight answers to asking ones.
Instead, he was led to the final pillar,
Far away from the third, down the winding path,
Through a dark forest and below a lake,
Climbing a mountain and finally to the pillar itself.
The last pillar was not like the first three.
It was broken and ruined.
Massive black stones lay at its thick base.
All around the landscape was dead and barren,
As if they were near the Planet of the Dead.
“Touch it, Oscambria, and learn of your destiny.
Learn what your purpose is in this world.”
Inexplicably drawn to the ruined pillar,
The Hero slowly reached forth his hand
And lay his open palm on the shattered stone.
Before him appeared a world unlike anything he could imagine,
Yet similar in many ways.
The sky was blue, but the two familiar planets in the sky were removed,
Completely vanished and replaced by a massive orange star.
The magnificent temples of Athins were laid to waste,
And in their place were quick-food joints,
Filling the air with the sickly sweet smell of burgermeat.
The old altars to the gods were gone
And in their place was one altar.
Carved into the stone was an inscription:
TO THE GODS, EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU.
Children walked the rotunda, happy and bright,
Each with a book in their hands.
The men and women worked side by side,
Together for the better of all,
And their only concerns were for society to prosper,
For everyone to have what they wanted,
And for the Cubs to win the pennant.
There was a sense of liberty throughout the lands,
Of a care-free lifestyle where everyone let everything be okay,
Where dogs and cats were friends
And roaches no longer lived.
It was Utopia, Oscambria, realized,
Ushered in somehow by his actions
And by the choices he would make.
Finally he saw a mighty spire, shooting from the ground and high into the sky,
Towering above all surrounding buildings,
And on its top stood a statue of Oscambria,
Flowing hair and chiseled chest,
A handsome goatee on his face,
A Muse mask in one hand
And a murderous blade in the other.
The setting sun cast a beautiful picture in his mind
And suddenly the vision disappeared.
Viis was standing quietly behind him,
A hint of a smile on its face.
“This is the end of your visions, Hero, and your dream.
You have seen the four pillars of your life
And the road the Sisters have made for you.”
“I’m not sure I understand everything I’ve witnessed,”
he exclaimed, “but I thank you for showing me.”
This time Viis did smile,
And rows of sharp, silvery teeth flashed in the pale light.
“It has been a pleasure, child, even if your path
will lead to the destruction of many of my kind.
What the Sisters have woven is woven.”
With this the sleep ended, and Oscambria woke up.
The cave was still dark, but the rain had ended.
He had no idea how long he’d been sleeping,
But his clothes were dry, albeit still stained.
He put on his garb and thought of his visions,
Of what his life had in store for him,
And for the first time since his curse, he smiled.
Canto VII
Presently cursed, Oscambria made his way from the cave,
Avoiding all manner of men he met on his way.
He was in the hill country near Athins still,
Which is mostly populated with sheep and their caretakers.
He knew he would be banned from returning to the city and avenging himself,
Banned from entering towns in general,
As his curse made it nearly unbearable for living ones to be around him.
“My exile must last until I rid myself of this curse,” he cried aloud,
if only to hear his voice.
“But I shall seek to find the wondrous woman Koesan,
she of my visions. She will help me reach the second pillar.”
And so he walked aimlessly,
Without thought of where he trod
Or where his feet took him.
Days passed without incident,
Through rain and heat and despair,
Across the hill country and through the flats.
Alone and hungry,
The Hero walked without destination,
A speck in the winds of the Sisters blowing breeze
To arrive where it would arrive.
As one particular day neared its end
And the sun was low in the sky,
Oscambria spied a commotion in a nearby valley.
A gang of thieves and thugs appeared to be harassing a traveling merchant,
And the loud and raucous laughter of drunk men echoed through the hills.
“They’re trying to steal from that poor wagoneer,” said the Hero.
“I must go to his aid.”
Like a wraith moving through mist and fog,
The Hero headed towards the ruckus.
He was unarmed, having only to himself the ruined clothes,
But he was unafraid.
“It is not in my destiny to die here at the hands of these vagrants,” thought he,
“and I will be protected by my fate.
What the Sisters have woven is woven.”
He was near enough to the gang that he could hear them speaking.
“What is that horrible smell?” one of them asked.
“It smells like someone ate an entire boar
and relieved themselves without wiping.”
“No,” said another merrily, “I think mayhap our victims here
have upset bellys from the unfortunate turn of events of this eve,
and their loss of profit is driving out gasses from their rumps.”
Oscambria leapt from the shadows,
Crashing loudly into a man with his back turned.
They toppled to the ground and the Hero brought a swift hand to the man’s head.
He rolled up to his feet in a second,
And in the commotion he stole the downed man’s halberd,
Bringing it up in an offensive position,
snarling viciously at the remaining four thieves.
“Look what we have here,” said the crook nearest Oscambria,
“a hero has come to your rescue, peddlers.”
In the darkness of the gloaming, Oscambria’s grey-skin was hidden,
His ruined garb unnoticed by those surrounding him.
But the stench was there, strong and full,
And Oscambria knew it would quickly drive the men to fear and madness,
Or at least he hoped it would.
One of the men stepped forward and Oscambria slashed without thinking;
The blade of the halberd connected with the man’s exposed arm,
hitting the hard bone of his foe and then proceeded to pass through.
The limb fell freely from the body,
Like an autumnal tree sheds its limbs after a cyclone.
Blood as dark red as those leaves spurted from the open wound
And the man screamed out in pain.
And then the full weight of the curse arrived,
Opening the crooks darkened eyes and setting revelation in their minds.
“The man is cursed!” shouted a stocky man.
The gang immediately abandoned their victims,
Running swiftly from the cart and the cursed one,
Leaving their unconscious comrade in the road.
Even the injured man had enough wits to flee, taking the severed arm with him as he did.
Moments later the Hero looked about the bloodied scene,
Noticing for the first time that there were five bodies on the dirty ground.
One belonged to the unconscious criminal,
And the other four presumably belonged with the wagon.
One was definitely dead,
As evidenced by the jagged cut across his throat
And the puncture wounds on his chest.
The other three were tied up to the wagon wheels,
A small child, an old man, and a woman with dark black hair.
They were all gagged and scared,
But did not appear to have any wounds.
Oscambria stared at them for a long moment,
Deciding how to approach the situation,
And finally knelt down before the old man.
“Sir,” said he gently, “I am going to untie you.
Know that I am cursed, and I will try not to touch your skin.”
The man’s eyes were clouded and white, Oscambria noticed,
And he was likely blind, but his nose probably worked.
Soon he had them all freed and on their feet,
And they stood awkwardly in the growing dark,
The pale moon peering between the shimmering Twin Planets.
For a long moment Oscambria waited,
Uncertain what to do or say.
He wondered if the people he rescued would scorn him,
If they would beg him to leave them be,
To take his curse and go.
He tried to think of something to say
But instead found himself staring at the dark haired girl.
She was young and full of womanhood,
With sharp eyes and very brown hair.
She wore a simple traveling tunic,
Brown and white,
Stained with dust from the roads,
But he found it complimented her pale skin.
“She looks familiar,” thought he.
“Who are you?” inquired the old man suddenly.
The Hero tore his vision from the beautiful girl
And faced the man.
“I am Oscambria of Athins,
the cursed and exiled son of Oscar and Reane,
actor of the Round Theatre and Masque of the Courte du Gods,
at your service, sir.”
“Oscambria?” blurted the girl. He quickly looked back to her
and could see the blush rising to her cheeks.
“I mean to say, the Oscambria? The acclaimed performer of ‘Gilgon the Great’
and recently starring in ‘Sing to Me, Cadem!’
You are that Oscambria?”
The Hero could not help but smile,
Bittersweet from his recent departure from the stage and the meeting of a fan.
“Yes, my lady, I am the very one.”
Sadness filled her eyes as she spoke again.
“How very unfortunate for your exile and curse.
We were on our way to Athins to deliver our merchandise
And then we were going to watch ‘Sing to Me.’
How very unfortunate, indeed.”
At a loss for words, Oscambria nodded.
“Mind yourself, girl,” said the old man.
“Of course it’s unfortunate, do you think he is unaware of that?
Bah! But tell me, Oscambria, how you came to be cursed,
As I can only assume it was the curse that led to your exile.”
So, standing in the roadside valley, the Hero delivered his tale,
Starting with the challenge to Zzizgarg
And ending with his visions in the cave.
The three stared at him open mouthed,
Like children salivating for a caramelized apple slice,
Astounded at his amazing tale. (An amazing tale, I do say.)
Again the old man spoke, “Well if that ain’t a dandy.
And you’re apparently pretty good with a blade, too, eh?
You chopped off that one man’s arm after all,
And you scared off all of ‘em but that one that’s still out.”
“Yes, I did do that, but I had the element of surprise.
Plus, it was my curse that scared them off, not my skill with a blade.
Which brings up a question. Why have you all not ran from me
And from this affliction I bear?
I know the smell must be difficult for you.”
The small boy’s face was a shade of green-yellow-blue,
And Oscambria assumed he was trying not to breathe very often.
“Indeed, you are a smelly lad, but not completely unbearable.
And you saved our shipment and our lives.
‘Twould be rude of us to run off like that,” spoke the old man wisely.
“And we know of your great destiny.
If you are to become a Hero, I’ll wager you won’t get there on your own,
And you could likely use some comp’ny,
And we’re willing to ‘comp with ya.”
“I don’t know what to say,” muttered the Hero,
“except thank you. You’re the first people I’ve met since I’ve greyed
that haven’t ran off screaming. What are your names?”
The old man spoke again, answering for the group.
“I’m Columbus, the girl’s Koesan, and the lad there’s Arca.
The dead man over there was Villay,
A dear friend and business partner in our endeavors.”
“Koesan…” thought the Hero. “Of course.”
“Are you hurt?” asked Koesan suddenly,
her melodic voice as wonderful as a Siren’s song.
She pointed at the juice-blood stain on his ragged outfit, and Oscambria shook his head.
“No, this is the very garb I was wearing in my final performance.
The curse struck before I had time to change,
And I was forced from Athins without a chance to return to my home.”
“Well, we should deliver our merchandise and then see what we can do.
Will you travel with us, Oscambria?
We could use a hero, another defender that is, as our last one met the Twins a bit early,
Taipeos rest his merry soul.
You can tarry outside of Athins while we barter in the city,
And we’ll pick you up as we leave.
What say you?”
Without hesitation, the Hero nodded.
“Aye, I will, though I’m not sure how much of a fighter I’ll be if we meet trouble.
How far are we from Athins?
What should we do with the sleeping one?”
Columbus answered him, wrinkling up his nose.
“We should kill him, of course.
He tried to steal from us, after all, and the Law is the Law.”
The matter was settled before Oscambria could protest.
The child, Arca, seized the halberd from the Hero
And plunged it deep into the downed ones skull,
Splitting asunder the bone as easily as butter splits ‘neath a blade.
Red blood flowed from the wound,
And when Arca pulled the blade from the dead man
There were bits of pink and bone stuck to it.
Oscambria was stunned at the boy’s animosity, at his hatred,
At his suddenness, yet he said nothing.
The boy handed the blade back to the Hero with no words.
“Very well, let’s go. There’s been enough bloodshed now.”
The Hero agreed with the old man,
Feeling slightly sick from the bloodshed
And the death.
Soon they were off, headed back down the windy roads and toward Athins,
The Hero riding in the back of the wagon, no longer alone.
He had not told the travelers that he’d seen Koesan in his vision,
Afraid that it would scare them away.
As the wagon wheels bumped and jostled him,
He faded asleep,
Dreaming of the beautiful, pale woman.
Canto VIII
Now seems a time for me to pause in this tale and let you stretch your legs
And let your mind ponder on the events that you’ve read so far.
Surely most of this you’ve heard before,
But I’d wager that you’ve not heard it quite like this.
I want you to understand, dear readers, the tragedy of Oscambria,
Of how significant his exile was to him.
How it must have weighed heavily on his mind each passing moment.
Up until his curse, he had been a respected and beloved citizen of Athins,
Admired by men and women alike.
The men respected his wit and his mind,
Though they admonished him some for his quick tongue.
The women respected his handsomeness,
And all respected his prowess on the stage,
Commanding the theatre as if he were one of the Muses himself.
Yea, Oscambria was the favorite son of Athins,
And I suppose he enjoyed being in that light.
Marvel at how quickly, though, his fellow citizens deserted him
And turned upon him,
Casting him from their midst without a trial or a chance at defense.
Doubtless it was Rone that instilled this hastiness in the mob,
Acting in his ignorance and misguidance by Zzizgarg’s smooth words.
Though Zzizgarg was a liar and an immortal,
It can never be said that he was stupid.
No, in fact he was far from it,
And his scheme of cursing Oscambria put into his greedy heart a new hunger,
One that would soon lead a country to a terrible war,
Where victims would be countless on both sides
And gods themselves would lie in ruins.
Sweet readers, I ask you to understand the Hero’s mind,
And I ask you to remember his frameset when reading the rest of his actions.
Note that he did not slay the unconscious man,
But he did not defend him either.
Read on, now, and see how Oscambria’s newfound family
And traveling friends were more than they initially appeared,
And where the road would lead the Hero next.
Canto IX
Oscambria stood outside the leprous lands of Athins,
The place reserved for the sick and disgusting,
The outcast sons of the city.
He could see them all together,
In their own community,
And he felt a stab of pain in his heart,
A yearning to return to society.
Yet he knew in his soul that even he would not be welcomed
In their sickly dwelling places.
It’s one thing to be a leper,
But it’s quite another to be cursed.
To be cursed is to be utterly cast of from humanity,
Or at least those with any reasonable sense and a nose
Would shun the cursed.
As the sun slowly moved across the sky
Oscambria made his time by exercising.
“As a destined Hero,” said he to himself,
“I should make sure that I am fit and shapely.
I shall not wax lazy and sluggard,
But I shall instead form muscle
Enough to stay attractive, even if I’m greyed.”
And so the Hero spent his day lifting rocks and stones,
Carrying them from wheree’er he found them
To a pile someone had started and never finished.
All day, beneath the grueling sun,
Oscambria moved the stones.
He grew hungry,
But he had no food to quench himself.
So he continued on,
Even after the sun rested under the horizon,
Into the night.
The pile of rocks grew steadily,
One stone at a time,
Until they began to topple and roll down on themselves,
Which was when Oscambria decided to spread them out a bit.
The moon rose high,
Its silver and white glow bright between the Twin Planets.
Weary and exhausted,
The Hero rested on a pile of the rocks
And turned his face toward the leper colony.
He could smell a meal roasting.
He watched the wretched men dance in the glows of their fire.
He gazed up at the two planets,
Gastron, Planet of the Gods,
large, magnificent, and full of swirling colors;
and Hubus, Planet of the Dead,
smaller, pale and silvery with a tint of blue,
like the moon but only larger,
and his mind wandered.
He rubbed his aching muscles,
Trying to ignore the pain of hunger.
He began humming a tune—
“Oh Mary, Mary, Why’re You So Hairy?”
—to try and drown out rumbles from within.
Soon he was in a miserable mood, sleepy, sore, hungry,
And worst of all, alone.
The fires of the leper colony were burning low
When the Hero spied a lone wagon leaving the city
And begin its ascent toward him.
“At last,” said he, “they come for me.”
The familiar vehicle arrived soon,
Moving stealthily through the dark,
With Koesan at the reins and Columbus by her side.
A flutter of joy sprang to his heart when he saw them,
Followed immediately by a bout of self-awareness,
Knowing full well that his stink from a day’s work
And his curse would surely affect the traders.
He wouldn’t have been surprised if they sped past him,
Leaving him stranded and open-mouthed,
But they slowed and stopped.
Koesan hopped down from the wagon and nodded to Oscambria.
In the white light of the moon
She looked made of alabaster,
Carved perfectly by a master builder’s skilled hands.
Her dark hair was up in a tight, compact style,
Held together with a band of reflective jewels,
Yet they did not compare to the alluring glint in her eyes.
“I have what you asked for,” she said quietly,
speaking through a folded cloth that covered her nose and mouth,
and moving closer to the Hero.
He winced, knowing the curse had to be awful for her.
He did not blame her for trying to block out the odor.
She tossed a bundle of clothes to him,
Turning her back to him and continuing to speak.
“Go ahead and change. I’ll not peek.”
Oscambria blushed,
Feeling slightly uncomfortable but awkwardly thrilled at the same time.
As a famed performer of the stage,
Skilled at acting and playing with emotions,
He’d seduced many women,
Bedding them and leaving them,
But never had he been put on the spot with a woman literally of his dreams.
“The shoes and the rat are in the wagon with Arca.
We’re on our way to Bransustopoles to pick up some more stuff
And then we’ll be heading back to Sparka.
If you’d like, you can travel with us.
The roads are usually safe,
But having more in a party looks better.
What say you?”
Oscambria’s heart flickered,
Once again excited to be spending more time with Koesan.
He was also pretty excited to have on clothes
that no longer smelled like a dead and bloodied hog.
“I say I’d love to travel,
but I don’t understand how you all haven’t left me.”
“I don’t either,” she said flatly. “Are you finished yet?”
“Aye,” said he, pitching the soiled rags onto a pile of rocks.
“Good, cause we’ve got a lot of road to cover.
Bransustopoles should take us several days.
You can ride in the wagon.”
She led him to the cart,
Which was covered for the night,
And he jumped in.
Mossossopia squealed in part delight, part horror,
When she first caught site of her master.
The galleyrat wasn’t an uncommon pet in those days,
Perhaps a bit exotic for Athins, but still familiar throughout the lands,
But Mossossopia was very large for her age.
It looked like a cross between a rat, a coyote, and a possum,
And full grown would be slightly smaller than an adult wolf.
Still relatively young, the creature looked mostly like an overly hairy rat.
“C’mere Mossy,” said the Hero,
unable to keep the excitement from his voice.
Arca shot him a glare but he didn’t mind.
With trepidation and coaxing, the animal eventually scurried over to the Hero,
Leaping up into his outstretched hands
And sniffing weakly at his hideous smell.
Arca pulled out some cloth and tied it about his face,
Not saying a word.
Oscambria understood.
Frankly, he was surprised Mossy was letting him pet her,
But galleyrats have a very weak sense of smell.
The wagon started moving,
And once again Athins disappeared behind the Hero.
Canto X
From Oscambria’s viewpoint,
Which was well outside of the city,
Tucked away from the world and in the nearby woods,
He could just make out the returning wagon.
Once again he’d had to spend the day castrated from society,
Unable to venture into the metropolis of Bransustoples
Lest he wished certain death.
The tall chimneys of the Great Temple blocked much of the setting sun,
An impressive eclipse with visible smoke rising from their tips,
And the Hero was thankful for the brief respite.
Most of the day he’d spent up in a tree,
Uncomfortably propped on some branches,
Squinting at the city,
And his eyes were weary from the sun’s light.
He made his way carefully down the mighty oak
And leaned casually against it,
Watching and waiting for the wagon to arrive.
He whistled a shrill, strange melody,
Consisting of five off-beat notes,
Which stood for MOSS-O-SOPP-EE-A,
And a few moments later the galleyrat appeared at his feet.
The planets were glowing bright in the darkening sky as the wagon pulled to a stop.
“How was the city?” he asked conversationally,
receiving a grunt, a blank stare, and a smile back for an answer.
“It was perfectly fine,” spat Koesan,
red rising to her exposed upper cheeks.
“I think I would rather jump from a cliff
than go through another day like today.”
Oscambria jumped at her outburst,
As did Mossossopia,
And Koesan blushed,
Sending her already red cheeks into a deeper flush.
She started, stopped,
Began again, stumbled,
And spat out her rage in one long spill.
“It’s those wretched traders of the city,
always looking down on our caravan like we’re cursed or something.
Wait, I don’t mean it like that,
And I mean no offense,
But they treat us differently,
Hiking up their prices and sneering at us,
All the while smug about their own success.
“I swear by watchful Lawes that they judge us,
that they treat us unjustly.
It’s beyond me why Taipeos would bless them.
Why do they deserve the fortune they have,
In their high houses filled with gold and luxury,
In their large markets stuffed with merchandise,
When they act as if they were gods themselves? It’s blasphemy!”
The Hero was at a loss for words,
Uncertain how to console the furious woman,
So he simply said what came first to his mind:
“I’m sorry, Koesan.”
This, apparently, was the wrong thing to say,
And Koesan burst again,
This time turning her wrath on Oscambria.
“You’re sorry? It’s not your fault that those crooks,
those filthy dealers,
act the way they do. Unless you’re apologizing for your curse,
which again isn’t your fault,
but still there’ve been a steady increase of problems since you’ve joined up.
You’ve turned us into a sickly smelling sweet bag for bad luck,
Attracting all the wrong sorts of flies.”
Her words stung him,
They beat against his heart with vigor,
Clawed at his brain,
Whispered that what she said was true,
That he was a foul being,
That he should never have joined them,
That she inwardly hated him.
Was it more than coincidence that unfortunate events happened
While he was around?
In his heart he had already fallen in love with this woman,
A woman he’d only known for a few handful of days,
And he couldn’t help himself.
It was the knowledge that he was the cause of her problems
That finally put a plan into his head.
“Oh, bother!” she hissed,
throwing her arms up in the air
a bit too overdramatically.
“She would make an excellent actor back at the Round,”
thought he, but the thought quickly vanished.
“Koesan, leave the boy alone,”
the weathered words of Columbus spoke.
The blind trader was still seated on the wagon,
And the bright lights of the planets above
Caused his eyes to shine out white.
“Have you forgotten that he saved us from those vagabonds?
That without his help we’d all likely be dead?
Or worse for you, I’d wager,
You being as beautiful as you are.”
Oscambria saw her eyes twitch,
Saw her face fall slightly,
(which was evident only around the eyes,
as the bottom half of the face was covered with the exotic cloth mask she wore),
and once again his heart plummeted.
“This love is such a strange thing,”
thought he, frowning compassionately at Koesan.
“You are right, Columbus,” she said,
looking back up and into the Hero’s eyes,
“He did rescue us, and for that I owe him my gratitude.
I did not mean to burn against you, Oscambria,
But my anger was kindled by the city
And it ignited when it shouldn’t have.
I hope you accept my apology.”
“Of course,” he said immediately,
offering a very slight smile.
“Good. Good. I have a headache and we’ve got a long way until Sparka.
I think I’ll rest in the wagon.”
She turned and vanished into the covered home,
Leaving Oscambria and Mossossopia staring after her,
Deeply conflicted.
“Don’t let it worry ya, son,” consoled Columbus later.
They had ridden in mostly silence for the past few hours,
Oscambria handling the reins on the bumpy wooded paths.
Columbus stroked through Mossossopia’s thick fur as he talked.
“She’s a woman, and she’s always been headstrong and quick tongued.
As it is, with women you care about,
They always break your heart.”
Oscambria nodded in silence,
Comfortable in letting the old man talk.
“And I know you care about her.
I can see it plain as day.
It’s in your voice, and in the absence of its presence.
You don’t want to hurt her, so you stay quiet.
I can see it in her voice, too.”
Oscambria looked out onto the reflective surface of the Long Leg,
The calm and serene waters, surrounded by the thick forest.
He tried not to let the words of Columbus get in,
Tried not to notice what he’d said about Koesan.
He’d already made up his mind, and the man was making it harder on him.
When daybreak came and they stopped to let the horses rest,
Oscambria took Mossy and some food and disappeared into the surrounding woods.
Canto XI
No one saw him leave.
Arca and Koesan were busy with the horses,
Columbus had already climbed into the wagon to sleep,
And so his departure was a simple and easy matter.
He snatched a few carrots and figs and a jar of olives,
All recently acquired from the Bransustopoles traders,
And quietly walked into the forest.
He watched the wagon roll away,
Clanking and bumping on the uneven pathways,
And forced down a stab of pain in his heart.
“Look at ‘em, Mossy,” said he, pointing a finger.
The galleyrat stared off and the Hero continued.
“They think we’re back there with Columbus.
Surely they’ll notice the lack of smell at some point, eh?”
Galleyrats don’t talk, so Mossossopia did not respond.
She did tilt her head at an angle and blink a few times at him,
As if to say, “Eh, indeed.”
They waited for the wagon to disappear over a hill before moving.
“We’ll follow them from afar,
keeping a distant eye on them,
just to make sure they make it safely to Sparka.”
They walked through the woods,
Staying off the path and sticking near the banks of the Long Leg.
The day was cloudy and cool,
Perfect weather for a brooding heart,
And Oscambria dwelled on his internal aching.
“She’s smitten me, Mossy,
but for the life of me I’m unsure why.
“I can’t help but wonder if Viis had not revealed her to me,
if I had not seen her in my vision,
if I would have the same feelings I do now.
She’s beautiful, certainly,
As beautiful as Biaut herself,
But the disdain in her voice and the contempt in her eyes
Is more than I can bare.”
Mossossopia sniffed the air,
Oblivious to the soul bearing,
And her quick, purple tongue flicked out.
“What is it girl?” asked the Hero,
stooping to scratch the galleyrat behind the ear.
Mossossopia growled and suddenly took off,
Vanishing into the next valley.
Oscambria thought about cursing,
Then he thought about the irony of cursing,
And decided instead to growl his frustration, too.
He chased after the small animal,
Pulling up to a quick stop when he came down into the valley.
Mossossopia was in the hands of a traveler,
Standing near the waters of the Long Leg.
“Greetings, friend,” said the strange man,
smiling broadly and waving with his free hand.
Long, blond hair fell from the man’s head,
Contrasting heavily against his deep blue and purple garments,
Which were obviously very expensive and well crafted.
Suddenly self-conscious of his curse,
Oscambria took several steps backwards.
“It’s okay, friend. I smelled your curse long ago.
Much like your galleyrat must’ve smelled my sweet aroma, I daresay.
What an exceptional creature.”
Despite the man’s friendliness,
The Hero stayed put.
“What is her name, if I may ask?”
The man’s voice was smooth and perfect.
“Her name is Mossossopia, sir,” answered the Hero.
“After the island from which she came.”
“Ah, yes, Mossossopo. It’s fitting, I suppose.
She is beautiful.” He sat the creature down and pulled something from a pocket,
Flicking it on the ground.
The galleyrat sniffed briefly,
And then gobbled up the snack.
“Alas, I am not here to discuss your pet galleyrat, though.”
He motioned for Oscambria to come close to him.
“Don’t worry, child, I won’t cause you any problems.
I’m here because I’m here, and I’m here to offer you something.
What is woven is woven, right?
But come, sit, rest with me and comp with me.
You’ve nothing to fear from me.”
Hesitantly, but dutifully, he approached the strange man.
Looking back, I wonder how things would have played out
If the Hero did not happen upon this man.
Of course, past speculation is always pointless,
So there’s no reason to think on it.
The man plopped down next to the low banks,
Sitting cross-legged and staring out at the flowing river.
“I know who you are, Oscambria,”
began the man, keeping his eyes on the water.
“And you know of me, but you don’t know me.
I am with the new pantheon of other gods and goddesses,
But I choose to spend most of my time away from Gastron
And in the presence of more… interesting creatures.
The gods are a bit too tiresome for my liking.”
The Hero looked up at the familiar Planet of the Gods,
Running through the vast list of deities in his head.
“Who is this man?” he wondered.
The stranger offered another bit of food to Mossossopia
And began picking at his fingers.
“Like gods often do, I am here to make a bargain with you,
if you are interested, that is.”
He flashed a deceptive smile at the Hero.
“I can see it in your eyes,” he continued,
staring at the Hero,
“and you’ve figured it out, I’d say.
Who am I, Oscambria? Who am I?”
A brief moment of silence filled the air
And a dramatic burst of wind gusted strong.
“You’re Lahk, the god of deception and lies.”
The blond man laughed, full and heartily,
White teeth gleaming in the cloudy afternoon light.
“Indeed, I am the very god,
if you can believe what I tell you.
It is completely up to you to weigh my words,
Only I hope that you do so quickly.”
Had the meeting happened a few weeks before,
Oscambria would scarcely believe it.
It was common lore that Lahk roamed Orthe,
Making deals and stealing souls into his service,
But they were always legends,
Not actual, informal gods
Happened upon by mere chance.
“For an actor, you’re rather quiet.
Aren’t your type typically bursting with words?
Lovers of the Muses,
Enraptured by all of this world’s art and beauty?
Verse spewing from your mouth with no plug to stop it?
You, my friend, are too quiet.
Of course, I may have a certain, affect, on people.”
Lahk held up a hand in front of the Hero’s eyes,
Letting the pupils focus on the god’s hand,
And snapped loudly.
Oscambria blinked in surprise,
Shaking his head.
“There. Now. Things should be a bit better.
I tend to forget myself.”
“You,” began the Hero, slowly,
“mentioned a bargain? Why would I bargain with you?
I’m no fool, Lahk.”
The god nodded absently, ignoring the insolence.
“You are no fool, child, but you’ve much to learn, too.
News spreads fast among my kind,
And I know of your fate.
“I am no fool, either, fleshling,
nor have I called you one,
But I will if you refuse my offer.”
Lahk’s cool words felt icy and forceful,
But there was a hint of possible warmth, too.
“Very well, Lahk, perhaps I spoke too soon,
though you did say I spoke not enough.
“Tell me of your bargain.”
The bright smile flashed again,
And the god spoke.
“I have need of a certain item.
It was taken by one of those new age believers,
Those that say the gods no longer exist,
From my altar in the temple at Tor El.
“I believe this man fled to Feoga with the item,
intent on selling it to a collector’s house for a tremendous sum.
I would like you, Oscambria, to return the item to me.”
The Hero scratched his head
And pulled Mossossopia up into his lap.
“What sort of item was taken?”
“A anachronistic item of uncertain origins.”
“Well that was vague,” mouthed the Hero, as if he understood what that meant.
Lahk chuckled merrily, adding,
“Aye. We gods have a tendency to be vague.
I cannot begin to describe to you what the item is,
Only that you will recognize it when you see it.
In return for your service I will give you a similar item,
Another piece of anachronos. Something like this.”
Lahk reached within his satchel and pulled out a wad of cloth.
He stood and let the material unroll,
Revealing a strange and very odd piece of attire.
Black, slack breeches,
An ebony jacket,
A silver (and so very small vest),
And a white, collared shirt.
“It reminds me of a sand penguin,
especially with those two black tails.
What is it?”
“It is what you will be wearing as you travel the lands.
It is called a tuxedo suit, though I’m not sure why.
I won this from Gastron in a game of dice,
And it seems to have certain magical properties about it.
“Wearing it will, I believe, negate your curse, so to speak.
It won’t heal you, but as long as you wear it
Your odor should stay in check,
Allowing you entry to cities and such.
Oh,” he added, pulling out a strip of black material from a pocket,
“this also ties around the neck in some sort of fashion.”
He handed the outfit to Oscambria.
“Something like this is what was stolen from you?”
“Mercy, no. Well, sort of. Not a tuxedo suit, but related to it.
It wasn’t a piece of clothing.”
The Hero looked carefully at the material,
Smooth and soft,
Not a type of clothing for traveling,
And shrugged his shoulders.
Coming from a god,
Particularly this one,
There had to be a secret agenda.
“So you’ll give me this outfit if I retrieve your stolen object?”
“Yes,” answered Lahk, nodding. “It’s that simple.
But try on the thing first. Make sure it works.
I want to see how it looks on you. And be quick about it, would you?”
Canto XII
Oscambria felt ridiculous,
Wearing the unfamiliar outfit,
a spectacle for a god and a galleyrat.
Neither of them knew how to tie the silly black thing around his neck correctly,
But they did their best,
Resulting in some knotty, dangly thing,
Which threatened to suffocate the Hero with every breath.
“It looks different than I expected,” chimed in Lahk,
an unreadable expression across his face.
“But it definitely seems to be working,
so that’s a good thing.”
Indeed, readers, it was working.
Immediately after the Hero donned on the clothes
A metamorphosis Kafka would be proud of happened.
The greyed skin of the accursed shimmered suddenly,
Not like Old Cullen’s did when he’d stepped into sunlight,
But kind of like a wet rock does beneath the daylight glow.
The color of his flesh lightened,
From the dull grey to a really pale peachy-white-brown,
And he would appear passable in society,
As if the sun rarely bathed his skin.
Also the foul odor ceased,
Or the emission of it did, anyway.
I suspect he still smelled,
Beneath the tuxedo suit,
But its enchanted properties prohibited the smell from filtering through.
This could be related to the grey skin,
But that is only speculation.
“There we are then,” said Lahk,
patting the Hero on the shoulder like a proud father.
“As long as you wear this garment,
you should be allowed within city walls,
mixing with society and whatnot.
Take care not to lose your attire, child,
And be quick about the task I’ve given you.”
“Quick?” scoffed Oscambria,
pulling at his sleeves.
“Feoga is all the way on the other side of the continent.
It’ll take months to get there and back again,
That is assuming I’m to find you here.”
Lahk shook his head,
The blond hair reflecting off the campfire light.
“Quick for a god is different than for your kind,
even if you are semi-mortal.
And no, I will not be here in the middle of nowhere,
‘twixt two cities and all of the excitement of this world.
Just use your god-cell to summon me.”
He rummaged around in his satchel,
Looking for something.
Oscambria was still getting over his good fortune,
—Even if he was cursed—
At receiving the tuxedo suit.
“Why can’t you retrieve this stolen item?”
he asked, mildly curious.
Lahk didn’t answer immediately,
Still intent on his search through the satchel.
Finally he turned, holding some small gold lined buttons in his hand.
“These will fit perfectly in those open slits on your sleeves, I believe.
I don’t really remember where I got them,
Or what they’re even called,
But I do think they’ll look nice with that outfit.”
He dropped the buttons into the Hero’s hand
And went and sat by the fire.
Oscambria was about to ask his question again
When the god started speaking.
“I guess I could go and get the item,
but we gods have only so much free time to spend.
Besides, you looked like you could use a hand,
Especially after what Rone did to you.”
The god spat in the fire.
“That curse stinks terribly of sulfur and brimstone,
signatures of the God of Fire and Passion.
Rone’s always been a hothead,
Never one to take a joke,
And your disrespect of him spread ‘round the pantheon like wildfire.”
Oscambria was about to interrupt when Lahk silenced him.
“Not that I believe you did as he says you did.
“Anyway, to answer your question,
I could go and get the item,
But I don’t have the time or energy to do so right now.
God duties, a lusty maiden, and what have you.”
Oscambria fit the metallic buttons in his sleeve cuffs,
Finishing off the final look for the magical outfit.
Ladies, he looked handsome, I say, albeit strange.
“Hmm,” huffed the Hero,
“even if I look completely foolish,
the curse seems to be contained by the fabric.
For that I will travel to Feoga and retrieve your stolen object.
I don’t trust you, Lahk,
But I don’t desire to stay an outcast all my days, either.”
The god’s smile lit up the darkening sky.
“Good. Good. Very good.”
Lahk was on his feet again, looking eager.
“You best be going if you aim to keep an eye on that wagon.
We’ve wasted enough of the day,
if you consider companying with a god waste.
Regardless, you’ve agreed,
And now our pact is nearly sealed. A blood-oath, eh?”
The Hero nodded,
anxious at making the sacred vow with the god.
Lahk pulled out an old dagger,
One made of stone instead of tampered metal,
Its handle from bone or petrified wood,
And drew the blade across his left hand.
Bright red blood appeared.
The knife passed to Oscambria,
Who likewise cut his hand.
With a firm grip and grim eyes he embraced the god,
Pulling him close and staring in his eyes.
“I, Oscambria, child of Athins, son of Oscar,
do bond myself to the service we discussed, Lahk,
by blood and by cut.”
“I accept your service,”
responded Lahk,
releasing his grip and wiping his hand on his garments.
“Now I have one more boon for you,
‘ere you leave. Keep the blade.
It’s not much,
But it may prove useful if you get in a scuffle.
“There are great things in your future, Oscambria,
or so I’ve been led to believe.
You’ll become the Hero of the Three Worlds,
But you’ve a lot o’ growing to do.
I hope my blessings help on your journeys.”
Oscambria felt truth behind the god’s words
And he nodded his gratitude.
He hid the dagger in one of the pockets of the outfit,
(there were plenty),
and whistled for Mossossopia.
They bid each other farewell
And the Hero took off down the path,
Westward toward Sparka, toward the forsaken caravan,
Toward Koesan, toward his fate.
The Absurdly Epic Tragedy of Oscambria was written by Logan K Stewart. It is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.