lord, I fashion dark gods too;
He thinks sometimes, of Pangea – that land vomited forth from his ill magic. It had been created in spite, of course, as his magic sickened and malfunctioned, fighting against Beqanna’s drain of it.
He thinks even less of those who answered his call. They are blurred faces, more disappointments. For after he left, did they not let Pangea crumple into the sea, until he pulled it back? He was the one who had to fix it. As always.
(Never mind there had been others on that quest, too, who swam to the murky depths to spit the earth back into being.)
Many call for him. He ignores many of the requests, because he sees no value in them, no entertainment. Some he chooses at random, some because they manage to offer a kernel of interest to him.
He hears her call, and recognizes her voice. Faintly. He cannot place it, at first, and then it comes – she had been one of the ones who answered. Who added her feeble strength to Pangea’s defiant creation.
A kernel of interest, then.
And so it is that he appears. He chooses a flash of light this time, momentarily blinding her, and then he is before her, looking.
And she is pleading.
It would be simple, to honor her request. He reads her, knows what it is she wants. To negate. To muffle.
It is greedy, to ask without offering.
And so before he gives he takes, he pulls from her the strange trait she was given. He pulls more, too – pulls her health and vitality and other powers. Her antlers crumble to dust.
She will be nothing, for a time.
“Prove it,” he says, his voice low, warning, “go, in your weakness, and beg for the help of those powers you want to negate. And then, perhaps…”
He is gone before the sentence is finished.
c a r n a g e