Jeff hasn't left his tower since late spring.
The rumours could no longer be dismissed as mere enemy propaganda. The forges of Smouldercone ran to a halt having no more orders to process, while the commanders camped their armies idly among increasing confusion in the chain of command.
Mormareg knew of his deity's melancholy spells, but he has never seen him go full-on hikikomori on his people. What kind of prophet would he be to witness the One True God do this to himself and not at least try to help.
It was early autumn when he saddled the fastest salamander from the stables, instructed his aide to keep his departure a secret from the restless troops, and hurried to the capital under the cloak of blazing sun. Five days later he passed the gates of Abysia, his steed's flame exhausted and his brow clouded with worry.
He found Jeff in the basement of the Divine Tower. A carpet of webs covered the chamber floor like foam extruded by a confused sea. It's white expanse broken by grooves cut in the soft fabric by a shuffling gait of the Divine Being. Now he understood the gossip circulating around the castle - his master was indeed surfing the web.
He Who Tempers the Spirit, Patron of Language, the Undeceivable God was sitting with his back bent, staring blankly into a crystal sphere. Colorful images shifted within the glass. Images of naked bodies writhing in extasy, and little cats speaking in some sort of mock-vernacular. The figure of Jeff barely moved, as if pretending he was still aslone in the chamber.
Mormareg cleared his throat and spoke:
"Oh Lord, I come before thine eternal grace, for I must needs speak unto thee these words.
The land is suffering great plagues for thee are not guiding thine flock. The fires of Smouldercone are nigh-extinguished and the people crave thine guidance.
Whyfor hast thou secluded thyself in these chambers? Whence has thine spirit wandered to, to be kept away from thy children?"
To which Jeff replied with squeaking voice, as if trying to remember how to control his vocal cords after long disuse:
"Child, I love thee, for you are my chosen one. And yet, there is scarcely a thought I harbour for other matters of this kingdom, for I am bereft of a meaningful connection to those I should guide.
Behold. My fire magic is frail and weak. Scarcely a handful of fireflies answer my command, for fire is not my forte. Look upon the Anathemats, gaze upon the Annointed. Can they not cast flares and fireballs as if by mere afterthought? Are they not made unto fire and flame and not unto my likeness? Truly, I say to you, it is only this trinket of a ring on my divine finger that prevents my holy beard from catching flames!
Woe unto me, for I know not what I am doing here."
"And cast your gaze upon the Warlocks. Do they not bring me virgins of blood pure and skin as if made of alabaster? Have I not my cellars full of their drugged bodies crying for my attention?
Alas, woe betide me twice, for I have never cared for a virginal hymen. Know not I would what to do with them. Truly, never did I care for the joys of blood magicks, nor dabbled have I in breeding creatures of nether planes and fiery descent. Thus the second part of my flock is as alien to me as wings are to a shambler from the depths of Atlantean sea."
"Indeed, I could not fathom in my long solitary meditation, what was I thinking when I decided to choose your people to lead them to glory.
As if a sham, I feel. Ungainly and unwanted. Verily, a joke of a Pretender is I.
And lo, the shame grows unchecked, unbriddled. It is growing unto me exponentially, and I know even not what does it mean."
Mormareg patiently waited out the flood of depressed navel-gazing, and proposed:
"Oh Lord, thy must not allow thyself to dwell too much upon matters petty and base. Thy divine form needs a hobby, a simple ritual to occupy thy godly mind. May thy will guide just one army to do thy bidding in the morning. May thine hands craft a sorcerous appliance in the evening.
Small steps are the key, for they are small and easy to take.
Do cast off the shackles of the webs, disconnect the crystall ball. Thy form needs a breath of fresh air. Forsooth, my lord, thy need to get out more. Come."
And with loving care, Mormareg helped his god to wash and shave, dress in clean clothes, and face the blazing Abysian sun. And even though it nearly blinded him, Jeff felt a new life creeping into his extremities, determined to do more and think less.
Thus a new Jeff was born. Same as the previous one, yet completely different. And as a fiery autumn morning dawned over the forges of Smouldercone, it seemed as if the rest of the world trembled.
"And rightfuly so", said Jeff to no one in particular.
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Topic: Dom3 Round 15 - Game in Progress (Read 53207 times)