Rotten Apples
Posted: Sat Aug 31, 2024 2:18 pm
[[This story started on: The Harbinger ]]
August, 16.890.
The Stranger spoke to him. In Zoma's dream, yet again, The Stranger whispered. It prophesied the second coming of the Wyrd.
"They shall cometh", It said. "They shall cometh to thee, Zomactelonyvarix, and thou shalt go to them. And in thy union, thou shalt accomplish many a great deed. In splendor and in darkness. Together. Restore the Wyrd Cabal, lost child of mine. Restore it, and thou shalt never again know the sting of solitude. This have I beheld."
It didn't speak often, it was true. To get in the right state of mind to receive the visions, Zoma would go three or four days fasting and without any sleep, until their mind edged closer to the realm of madness. They would, then, collapse into an empty slumber, a black void encompassing everything, the mage, their room, the entire world. And in that pitch black abyss, The Stranger would grant them revelations.
As usual, Zoma woke up in a puddle of sweat, their nose bleeding, their heart pounding on the chest. The Stranger spoke to them! It spoke of the Wyrd! Zoma was too excited to realize they were starving and parched. The mage licked their upper lip, tasting the iron of their own blood, and sat on the bed, snapping their fingers impatiently, as they ordered:
"Jeremiah, the cards."
The hulking golem made of blood and flesh limped across the dark room. An appendage protuding from Jeremiah's left rib cage, bearing a hand far too small for its size, reached for the tarot cards on the table. The creature dragged itself to the bed and placed the cards on the umid sheets, before its master.
"Uurrggllh..", it cried from a dozen mouths baring teeth in agony.
"Yes, yes, yes, I know, Jeremiah. Blue eyes. You'll have them, I haven't forgotten my promise. In time, yes?" replied Zoma. "Now leave me be. Back to your corner."
The gloomy and distateful figure hauled itself back to the portion of the room where no light reached, and there it sat, thinking of nothing at all and completely blind, without its promised blue eyes, to wait for the next command from its creator.
Zoma was already shuffling the cards, a bloodied smile on their face, the taste of iron lingering in their mouth. They were thinking of all the other times The Stranger granted them a vision or a revelation; when It unveiled Its magnificent and dreadful aspect to them; when It first spoke of the Wyrd and how it dated back to the first men; when It preached about the secrets only found on the field, at once barren and fertile, between sanity and madness; and when It gifted Zoma their true name. All those moments seemed now displaced in time, convoluted, but Zoma knew they all converged to here and now - to this present moment, to this first card being drawn from the deck and placed on the bed.
Of course. It had to be The Fool. New beginnings, free spirit, spontaneity. The journey started within Zoma themself, fearlessly or innocently stepping towards the abyss of the unknown. And at the end of the path: The Most Illuminated Wyrd Cabal.
Zoma drew another card.
The Lovers. Zoma smiled. A couple was on their path? Or was it a forked road? A choice to be made? Love, union, passion. These were powerful bonds, capable of enduring anything and everything. Surely, if this pair was on the road, waiting for them, Zoma would extend them a hand, and protect that bond. In doing so, the pair's strength would be ascertained.
They drew another card.
Ahh, The Moon! Mystery, foreboding, dreams. A dreamer was on their path. Someone like them. Another seer, perhaps? Another Touched by The Stranger? Zoma smiled at the image of the two wolves howling at the moon. The mage had been howling by themself for so long. The words of The Stranger echoed in their head: "...and thou shalt never again know the sting of solitude."
Another card.
The Strength. Courage, passion, vitality. A warrior was on their path. Someone capable of holding a lion's mouth open with little effort. Resiliant, strong, passionate. Loyal. Traits that the Cabal would need. Every castle demands supporting pillars.
Another card.
The Magician. Creation, clarity, dark powers. A sorcerer like them, perhaps. Another necromancer? Zoma beamed at the possibility of sharing the journey with a like minded fellow. Someone who understood, who finally understood, how death was a waste. A waste of material and a waste of the self.
Zoma drew another card, and a second one fell from the deck in their hands. They accepted it; the cards never lied.
The first one, Death. There it was again: a new beginning. Just like The Fool. A new beginning for the Wyrd? Or for someone? Death was an end, it was letting go. A destruction of the present so a new future could loom on the horizon. A bearer of death itself? Zoma looked at the knight on the picture and wondered.
And the card that fell off, accompanying Death...
The High Priestess. Of course. Intuition, sensitivity, divine truth. The Stranger needed a herald, after all. A conduit for Its will. A voice for Its designs. Normally Zoma despised clerics. Shepherds of the status quo. Never confronting the shackle which binds all mortals. But a priestess of The Stranger would no doubt break those chains and carry eldritch entity unto ascension.
The last two cards. Zoma drew one more.
Ahh, the Tower. Disruption, a change of hearts. An awakening. It was sturdy enough, but it too could break. And from its ruins, something new would rise. Someone was forlorn, without a purpose, wandering in search for a place to set their roots. The Stranger would guide this lost soul towards the Wyrd. And there, whoever they were, would be reborn.
Zoma looked at the eight cards laid before him, one next to the other. These were the chosen. The prophesied. But something was amiss. What was the link? What would bring them together and bind them as one? What was the basket for these rotten apples?
Zoma drew the last card and set it atop all the others. Their eyes widened.
Of course. The Wheel of Fortune. How could it be any different? Fate, karma, chaos. It could have been no other way. Destiny was the road and they all were moving already. Unknowingly marching towards one another. But Zoma knew. And that gave them a sense of responsability. They had to find them. They had to unite them. They had to be the turn of the wheel, and once brought together and united as one, the fortune would turn by itself.
Zoma left the cards on their bed and stood up. They felt weak and drained, but couldn't remember why. Their body demanded energy and rest. Yet, there was no time to lose. The chosen were walking, the gears were turning, The Stranger had spoken. The darkest hour had approached. Zoma could sleep later; so much to do now.
The Wyrd Cabal would be restored. Reborn. And now Zoma knew who would be in it, by their side.
"Jeremiah, grab my backpack", commanded the necromancer. "We are hitting the road."
August, 16.890.
The Stranger spoke to him. In Zoma's dream, yet again, The Stranger whispered. It prophesied the second coming of the Wyrd.
"They shall cometh", It said. "They shall cometh to thee, Zomactelonyvarix, and thou shalt go to them. And in thy union, thou shalt accomplish many a great deed. In splendor and in darkness. Together. Restore the Wyrd Cabal, lost child of mine. Restore it, and thou shalt never again know the sting of solitude. This have I beheld."
It didn't speak often, it was true. To get in the right state of mind to receive the visions, Zoma would go three or four days fasting and without any sleep, until their mind edged closer to the realm of madness. They would, then, collapse into an empty slumber, a black void encompassing everything, the mage, their room, the entire world. And in that pitch black abyss, The Stranger would grant them revelations.
As usual, Zoma woke up in a puddle of sweat, their nose bleeding, their heart pounding on the chest. The Stranger spoke to them! It spoke of the Wyrd! Zoma was too excited to realize they were starving and parched. The mage licked their upper lip, tasting the iron of their own blood, and sat on the bed, snapping their fingers impatiently, as they ordered:
"Jeremiah, the cards."
The hulking golem made of blood and flesh limped across the dark room. An appendage protuding from Jeremiah's left rib cage, bearing a hand far too small for its size, reached for the tarot cards on the table. The creature dragged itself to the bed and placed the cards on the umid sheets, before its master.
"Uurrggllh..", it cried from a dozen mouths baring teeth in agony.
"Yes, yes, yes, I know, Jeremiah. Blue eyes. You'll have them, I haven't forgotten my promise. In time, yes?" replied Zoma. "Now leave me be. Back to your corner."
The gloomy and distateful figure hauled itself back to the portion of the room where no light reached, and there it sat, thinking of nothing at all and completely blind, without its promised blue eyes, to wait for the next command from its creator.
Zoma was already shuffling the cards, a bloodied smile on their face, the taste of iron lingering in their mouth. They were thinking of all the other times The Stranger granted them a vision or a revelation; when It unveiled Its magnificent and dreadful aspect to them; when It first spoke of the Wyrd and how it dated back to the first men; when It preached about the secrets only found on the field, at once barren and fertile, between sanity and madness; and when It gifted Zoma their true name. All those moments seemed now displaced in time, convoluted, but Zoma knew they all converged to here and now - to this present moment, to this first card being drawn from the deck and placed on the bed.
Of course. It had to be The Fool. New beginnings, free spirit, spontaneity. The journey started within Zoma themself, fearlessly or innocently stepping towards the abyss of the unknown. And at the end of the path: The Most Illuminated Wyrd Cabal.
Zoma drew another card.
The Lovers. Zoma smiled. A couple was on their path? Or was it a forked road? A choice to be made? Love, union, passion. These were powerful bonds, capable of enduring anything and everything. Surely, if this pair was on the road, waiting for them, Zoma would extend them a hand, and protect that bond. In doing so, the pair's strength would be ascertained.
They drew another card.
Ahh, The Moon! Mystery, foreboding, dreams. A dreamer was on their path. Someone like them. Another seer, perhaps? Another Touched by The Stranger? Zoma smiled at the image of the two wolves howling at the moon. The mage had been howling by themself for so long. The words of The Stranger echoed in their head: "...and thou shalt never again know the sting of solitude."
Another card.
The Strength. Courage, passion, vitality. A warrior was on their path. Someone capable of holding a lion's mouth open with little effort. Resiliant, strong, passionate. Loyal. Traits that the Cabal would need. Every castle demands supporting pillars.
Another card.
The Magician. Creation, clarity, dark powers. A sorcerer like them, perhaps. Another necromancer? Zoma beamed at the possibility of sharing the journey with a like minded fellow. Someone who understood, who finally understood, how death was a waste. A waste of material and a waste of the self.
Zoma drew another card, and a second one fell from the deck in their hands. They accepted it; the cards never lied.
The first one, Death. There it was again: a new beginning. Just like The Fool. A new beginning for the Wyrd? Or for someone? Death was an end, it was letting go. A destruction of the present so a new future could loom on the horizon. A bearer of death itself? Zoma looked at the knight on the picture and wondered.
And the card that fell off, accompanying Death...
The High Priestess. Of course. Intuition, sensitivity, divine truth. The Stranger needed a herald, after all. A conduit for Its will. A voice for Its designs. Normally Zoma despised clerics. Shepherds of the status quo. Never confronting the shackle which binds all mortals. But a priestess of The Stranger would no doubt break those chains and carry eldritch entity unto ascension.
The last two cards. Zoma drew one more.
Ahh, the Tower. Disruption, a change of hearts. An awakening. It was sturdy enough, but it too could break. And from its ruins, something new would rise. Someone was forlorn, without a purpose, wandering in search for a place to set their roots. The Stranger would guide this lost soul towards the Wyrd. And there, whoever they were, would be reborn.
Zoma looked at the eight cards laid before him, one next to the other. These were the chosen. The prophesied. But something was amiss. What was the link? What would bring them together and bind them as one? What was the basket for these rotten apples?
Zoma drew the last card and set it atop all the others. Their eyes widened.
Of course. The Wheel of Fortune. How could it be any different? Fate, karma, chaos. It could have been no other way. Destiny was the road and they all were moving already. Unknowingly marching towards one another. But Zoma knew. And that gave them a sense of responsability. They had to find them. They had to unite them. They had to be the turn of the wheel, and once brought together and united as one, the fortune would turn by itself.
Zoma left the cards on their bed and stood up. They felt weak and drained, but couldn't remember why. Their body demanded energy and rest. Yet, there was no time to lose. The chosen were walking, the gears were turning, The Stranger had spoken. The darkest hour had approached. Zoma could sleep later; so much to do now.
The Wyrd Cabal would be restored. Reborn. And now Zoma knew who would be in it, by their side.
"Jeremiah, grab my backpack", commanded the necromancer. "We are hitting the road."