‘Lunis’ – that was the name that had started this whole quest. She thought She heard it days ago, and believed the opportunity to hear it anew to be gone once Her priest lost the sword’s spirit. The name invoked the same disturbance in Her as was sensed upon initially setting him on his quest. She could tell now that it was a byname of Hers, of this She had no doubt. Finally, Her priest had emerged successful, quite unexpectedly completing his objective despite the sword’s absence. So why is he acting so stupid about... everything?
But the voice continued, beckoning Her to consider a greater issue;
who said that? Despite all Her efforts towards seclusion, that someone had found Her was highly troubling to the reclusive deity. That the words were of divine tone made the situation ever more grim:
She had encountered another god!
The revelation was much to Her horror, recognizing immediately the jeopardy this posed. While She was woven from the fabric of creation as an unfathomable infinite, and of such scale that no mortal could comprehend; much the same could be said about any other god. And without followers or worshippers of any sort of Her own, this other deity would dwarf Her in power without question. Any battle of the divines was destined to end in defeat for Her, of that She felt certain. Not even Her own steadfast prophet could do anything against divine threat.
In moment of stress She had to wonder; who had brought this god to Her? Her priest was alone, save for one lone companion dressed in ornate robes, bearing vivid designs fitting of possibly anothers high priest. A style She utterly abhorred, feeling that such unreserved attire had no place among Her humble vestments. But perhaps the wizard just normally dressed that fancy. The situation was too fragile for assumptions, and the possibility was one She would not discount given the confusing nature of the mortals. Their ways had never truly made sense to Her.
Determination would require inquiry. In the skies, darkness was pierced by a dim orange speck of Pnerian moonlight passing through a pinhole in the black sky. Unable to make inquiry to Her priest without breaking silence and sharing word with the eavesdropper, She opted to focus on the wizard in attempt to determine the answer She sought.
And heard him speak.
Holy men.
Her priest.
Compare holy men to what?
Prostitutes?!
A threat to Her was one matter. She was divine; and reasonably ought have answer to such. The result of Her strategic decision to protect Herself through obscurity rather than by the power attained from the worship of mortals. Regardless of the genuine fright the goddess felt, the matter was Hers to be dealt with.
But perceived direct insult to Her prophet stirred unbridled rage, an attack on Her pride. The one She hand-picked, whom toiled without hesitation when Her word was given. Who seldom, if ever, bothered to ask Her for
anything. Why, he had stepped forth towards hellishly blighted lands purely out of foolish belief that She bid him there. She had minted a fine priest, it was Her greatest work! And to witness his insult during divine ceremony, where beholden to prayer he could give no response....
This wizard dared to compare the holiest one She had anointed...to a
prostitute?
At times most sacred...
And conditions most cowardly!
So twisted by anger and fear She already was
– Farzad had unwittingly laid upon Her temper the final straw it could bear. With only room for fear or anger; anger won out.
Itra was
livid.
She could not rely on Her priest to answer for this; he was preoccupied. Yet, that would not cease Her reprisal. In state so consumed with wrath, She would resort to miracle to see Herself heard. The darkness obscuring the skies opened further, the pinhole of light scattering to unveil Pneria’s orange glow. To those present, the moon was in slow transition to menacing blood red, as if Pneria itself was somehow enraged. If the purple spots of ash and darkened skies caused a foreboding appearance, the presence of the lone blood-red moon in the lightless sky only added to the terror of the place.
Any opportunities to gaze or wonder upon this occurrence would last a second, interrupted by a violent burst of blinding lightning erupting from ground mere metres away. Snow burst into steam in an instant, with ground twisted into glass and the roar of thunder rumbling for hanging seconds. Her priest, until now so focused in prayer that he could not notice these events, jumped away from the altar in startled fright. He took steps back with eyes wide at the deafening fulmination. In shock and confusion, he knew not what to do; Farzad would receive a confused glare from him at the most.
But then, She spoke.
The voice that followed was one of harmony, not heard with ears but through one’s entire essence. The words were seemingly poured directly to the soul, rattled by the intense anger the divine proclamation carried. From no direction and yet all at once
– no description could be apt for the transcendent surreal nature the sound carried. The tone of wrath was unmistakable; as if the most powerful, baleful symphony could be reduced to two words. Unclear to whom they were intended, they were spoke aloud for all to hear:
“WHO DARES!?”
Crows Call Farzad Oldsummer
