Umber

The thief of the Creation Seed revels in his new possession. (sab)

Somewhere, in the Center:

Perched atop a sheer rock wall stands a smallish keep. The castle is black, streaked with green ooze. There are no windows or doors. The walls look like charred flesh and pulse and throb in a hideous mockery of life. Occasionally, the structure sighs, and a cloud of putrescence is exhaled. The cloud sinks to the ground and rolls along it. A ground squirrel, alone in this wasteland, pokes its head up as the cloud flows past. Instantly, it withers and crumbles to dust, and a small globe of light streaks back to the castle to be absorbed by its walls.

Somewhere, inside the Keep:

A figure in resplendent golden armor weaves a web of silver and platinum and mithril. Inside and suspended by the web is what appears to be an oversized egg. The egg glows with a pure, white radiance. A thread is added to the weave. Ever so briefly, the radiance flickers. As it does, the appearance of the hand that threads the lines also flickers, too fast for the eye to follow. The hand pauses, steadies itself, and selects another thread to add to the web. As it does, the light of the egg flickers once more, this time slightly longer than before. An acute observer watching the hand would – for a brief moment – see not golden armor, but desiccated flesh, framed with bone, joined with sinew.

The hand trembles briefly, reaches for another thread, thinks better of it. The figure rises, and moves to a small pedestal. Upon the pedestal is a small ruby. Inside the ruby is the form of a tall figure wearing resplendent golden armor. His visor is mangled to the point that it cannot be closed. The face within is gripped in a rictus of pain, eyes rolled back to whites, teeth cracked, nose smashed. His back arches and his arms flail as if trying to beat away flames that cannot be seen.

“It was so easy,” mocks the figure. “So low have the mighty fallen. You wanted power, so I gave it to you. But the hand that giveth… Amusing, that thought, yes. Is that not what the grovellers say of their tin gods? Tin, yes, for I have melted them away as if they were so much slag. I will burn this world until it is clean and pure. Some resist, yes – they try to bring back the world from which even they, the creators! are exiled. There! Even as we speak, they try to break through. How pathetic. The combined might of a dozen so-called deities, pounding with their tiny fists upon the gate. They pose no more threat to me than you, O Prince. Or those ants that still pollute this world.

“Fear not, little man. I shall not destroy them all. For I have sowed, and so shall I reap. I need them, you see. Soon, the only magic that remains will be of Life. Life is good, life is glorious. Why should I destroy it? Why chop down all of the trees in the world for a single bonfire? The best, the hottest, the brightest flames come from wood that has grown tall and strong, and has been well-cut and seasoned. Let them grow and mature and age, so that their flames shall be that much stronger, their screams that much louder.

“Yes, little man. I can feel it. Your hope, even your greed is gone; your soul is mine. For now you know the truth: I am the Harvester. I am the Dragon. I am the One True God.”