Part XVI: The Golden Hand
Chapter 1: Oh, Garrick, Beware
Timeline: AO 302
If I had a dollar for every time a reader asked me about Garrick, I’d have been able to quit working for A’H eons ago – unfortunately you humans are cheapskates and I can never rely on you to pay up. But in order to get y’all off my back and stop all the questions about why Garrick fell out of the story, let me clarify a few things.
First off, Garrick did NOT ‘fall out of the story’ – in fact, he took himself out of it – for reasons you’ll soon learn. Secondly, even though I’m a god and all, I’m not the only one – sometimes my friends get a wild hair up their butts and want to interfere – such was the case with Garrick. And finally, maybe I just didn’t want Garrick around for a bit – is that such a crime?
Well, since you want to know about Garrick, I’m going to give you not one, not two, but three chapters all about The Golden Boy – hopefully that’ll satisfy you for a bit.
When we last left Garrick of the Golden Hand, it was the year AO 302 and he had returned to Babel in shame – not only did he not save the city of Razzyn from Hacktor’s raid, but worse yet he’d allowed his nemesis to escape into the safety of Oz. The Derkka Parliament was eager to use this opportunity to one and for all eliminate the position of ‘king’ and seize power for themselves. Luckily for Garrick, I had other plans – [my] Baal made a guest appearance through his priest Zalzrog and subsequently destroyed all of the king’s enemies, as well as Zalzrog himself.
The conquest of Babel had been brutal, swift, and absolute, leaving Garrick as the unchallenged ruler of the Derkka. But victory had left the eking with an emptiness that he hadn’t anticipated. Despite his vow to build an army strong enough to crush Hacktor Derkillez and his Drokka, The Golden One soon felt as if an invisible hand was pulling him in another direction.
Weeks after his god had murdered Marge and his other enemies, Garrick was at home in his royal apartments. A dimly lit chamber was scented with jasmine and myrrh, the air heavy with perfumes designed to mask the lingering stench of Babel. Garrick lay reclined on a silk-draped chaise, his body bare save for the thin gauze veils draped over his scarred skin. Around him, a group of goblin slaves moved in silent precision, their hands gentle but swift as they applied an assortment of potions, oils, and creams to his grotesque form. Although the magic of The Glamour made Garrick beautiful to others – perhaps the most beautiful in all of Babel – that allure was never enough to satisfy The Golden One. He wanted more – and so he spent hours each day with his slaves – striving to perfect the illusion to the point that it might hide his true appearance even from himself.
A slave delicately peeled away the thick, honeyed mask that had been slathered across Garrick’s face for the past candlemark. It came off in a single motion, revealing the misshapen, pustule-ridden skin beneath. Garrick winced, not from pain, but from the sight of himself in the looking glass. To the world, he was radiant—a figure of flawless grace and beauty—but in the mirror, he saw the truth. His face, like that of all Derkka, was twisted and malformed, barely recognizable beneath the deformities when he wasn’t wearing his skin mask. Yet, his obsession with perfection was relentless, bordering on fanatical. Every line, every spot, was a challenge to be conquered.
“Careful,” Garrick snapped at one of the younger slaves, who had smeared the eye cream too close to his sensitive lids. He sighed as the older goblin stepped in, her hands steady, expertly massaging rare oils from distant lands into his face. Each day, merchants from across the world brought him exotic unguents—dust from Mersia, crushed pearls from the Bay of Muchiano, and the blood of sacred serpents from Thulsa, all in service of the king’s impossible quest for perfection. Garrick’s nails, manicured and polished, gleamed in the candlelight as he inspected his reflection. Though the world saw a king bathed in radiant beauty, he saw only the monstrous truth—and the endless masks he wore to hide it.
The slaves continued their work, their movements methodical, almost ritualistic. One smoothed a blend of alabaster powder and crushed rubies across Garrick’s chest, covering the web of scars that crisscrossed his muscular frame. The powder, imported from the deserts of Loco Land, left his skin shimmering with a soft, ethereal glow, hiding the gnarled tissue beneath. Another slave polished his nails until they sparkled like gemstones, while a third brushed his hair weave, anointing it with fragrant oils to make it gleam as though lit from within.
Garrick’s eyes flicked to the polished mirror from Mersia across the room, the one he always avoided gazing into for too long. There, in the smooth black glass, he could see the outline of his true form, the ghastly reflection of what lay beneath the Glamour’s enchantment. His hollow cheeks, his sunken eyes, the way his jaw twisted slightly to the side—a mockery of the beauty he projected. The illusion held for everyone else, but not for him. It never had. Yet, as the finest silks caressed his skin and the slaves painted him anew, he felt the power of that beauty stir within him. He knew how the people adored him, how they fell to their knees, entranced by his god-like appearance. Garrick craved for the illusion of his appearance to others to be his reality – for he knew the power of what his appearance gave him, the control over others’ desires, their reverence, and he wanted that same power over himself. He wanted to feel that true confidence inside his soul – yet in all his life, he never had.
“Bring the emerald dust,” Garrick murmured, his voice smooth and languid, betraying none of the anxiety simmering beneath the surface. His servants complied at once, sprinkling the fine green powder over his hair and cheeks, adding yet another layer to the illusion of youthful perfection. He leaned back into the chaise, eyes fluttering closed as the final touches were applied, letting the sensation of their hands distract him from the bitter reality that gnawed at his thoughts. He could keep hiding, keep perfecting, but he could never escape the truth. He would always be the hideous goblin that stared back at him from the obsidian mirror, no matter how much he tried to forget.
“It’s not working!” Garrick groaned. “Leave me.” He ordered the slaves away as his thoughts became consumed once again by the whispers of Ramos – that fabled jungle kingdom far to the south. “I wonder….could she really….?”
It had started as idle gossip years ago, the kind of exotic legends traded by merchants and travelers in the shadowed corners of his court. Intrigued, the king had always been eager to listen to the tales told by the wandering bards about Sindra, the Goddess of Lust. Over time, they began to take root in his mind, festering, twisting his thoughts until they became a singular obsession.
Garrick well remembered what the bards sang…
“Oh, far to the south where the jungle entwines,
Lies a queen beyond measure, both cruel and divine.
Her eyes are the stars that light Ramos’ skies,
And her lips are the nectar where every man dies.”
Musicians and travelers alike all said the same thing – Sindra was the most beautiful creature in the world – more than mortal, more than divine. They said she was a living embodiment of desire, and her beauty was rumored to defy time itself. Even in Babel, far from the sultry jungles of Ramos, her legend stirred men to madness. Some claimed that a mere glimpse of her could bring kings to their knees. Others whispered of her Pleasure Palace at the twin cities of Karkemesh that bestrode the waterfall that was the outlet of the River Oro – a decadent haven where the richest and most powerful men of the world sought her favor, only to lose themselves entirely in the pleasures she offered. It was said that no man left the Pleasure Palace unchanged—if they left at all.
The Golden One had longed to visit Karkemesh for years, but he could never risk leaving Babel – not when Marge of the Thatches and the Parliament were so eager to get rid of him. “And yet that obstacle no longer stands in my way.” Garrick pondered. “Perhaps now is the time?”
“The most beautiful creature in the world,” Garrick whispered to himself, staring into the mirror once more. The face that looked back at him was flawless, smooth, and chiseled as a result of his slaves work, but his eyes still held the shadow of doubt and he knew beneath all that work was a truth he hated. “I must see her. I must know what she knows.”
In the following months, the king became consumed with the plan to visit Ramos. He dismissed his court early each day, isolating himself from his advisers, listening only to those who could tell him more about Ramos and Sindra. He sent spies, emissaries, even priests of Baal to learn everything they could about her and her kingdom. The stories that returned only deepened his obsession.
“She is more than a queen, my lord,” one of his spies had said upon returning from the edges of Ramos. “They call her a goddess. Her beauty… it defies description. And her palace… the Serpent’s Embrace, they call it. It is said no one who enters is ever the same again.”
That alone might have been enough to compel The Golden One to visit Ramos, but it was what happened next that sealed the deal for it so happened that Babel received an unexpected visitor…
Belgrath the Bard was a legend, not only in the Drokka mountains but across the entire known world. His name carried weight even in Babel, where Derkka and Drokka had been sworn enemies for centuries. Prior to Hacktor’s war – during the peaceful reign of Kon-Herr Baldur – Belgrath had played many an event in Garrick’s city, yet the on-going conflict had made travel difficult in Gor for the bard’s troupe. Yet whispers among court servants said the famous musician was finally approaching the capital again and requested the Marduk’s permission to perform.
“Let him in. A song knows no borders.” Garrick agreed. For the bard’s fame preceded him and everyone knew that Belgrath was no warrior, nor did he care for the bitter conflicts that divided men. Many a time the bard had attested that his only allegiance was to his music, and the power it held to unite hearts, if only for a fleeting moment. The Derkka king was eager to take his mind of his own troubles and all to happy for Belgrath to be the one to help him with that problem.
A few nights alter the Grand Hall of Garrick’s palace was awash in gold and amber, the opulence of Babel on full display. Seated upon his throne with his teenage daughter Arlena beside him, Garrick looked every bit the regal king, his skin adorned with elaborate masks and treatments, his eyes rimmed in kohl to enhance the glamour of his illusory beauty. To his court, he was a figure of striking elegance, his cursed goblin form hidden beneath layers of magic and artifice.
Belgrath, dressed in simple yet elegant garb, entered the hall with his troupe—a small band of musicians carrying exotic instruments from distant lands. He bowed humbly before the king, his own flawless skin and long silver hair catching the torchlight as he took his place at the center of the hall. His presence commanded silence, even among the restless court.
For the first hour, Belgrath played music that reminded the people of Babel what they’d been missing during his absence. His fingers danced across the strings of a lyre, while his troupe accompanied him with soft drums and flutes. The music was beautiful – full of gentle, lilting melodies from the mountain passes, harmonious tunes that spoke of valleys, rivers, and endless skies. Yet as good as the performance was, it was not enough to fully capture Garrick’s attention. While Arlena and the other women looked up on the musicians with love and adoration, the king reclined lazily, sipping wine from a golden goblet, his eyes half-lidded in idle boredom.
But then, Belgarath shifted his tune. He turned toward the king, his eyes gleaming with a knowing look, as if sensing Garrick’s growing disinterest. And then the first notes of the Song of Sindra’s Embrace floated through the hall.
“Oh, far to the south where the jungle entwines, Lies a queen beyond measure, both cruel and divine. Her eyes are the stars that light Ramos’ skies, And her lips are the nectar where every man dies.”
Garrick’s goblet froze halfway to his lips. Sindra—it was his tantalizing secret. The goddess of Lust. The queen of Ramos. The embodiment of beauty itself. His interest piqued, he leaned forward on his throne, his gaze locked on Belgarath.
“In her Pleasure Palace, the night never ends, Where even the strongest are bent to her whims. Her touch is like fire, her whisper like wine, And kings lose their crowns for a taste of her time.”
The court seemed to fade away, the music wrapping around Garrick like a lover’s embrace. Every word stirred his obsession, his desire for beauty, for eternal youth. He could almost see Sindra’s face in his mind—flawless, seductive, unattainable.
“For Sindra, the Goddess, wears beauty like a spell,
And those who would seek her are bound to her well.
Her embrace is a prison, yet none seek release,
For in her sweet shadow, they find endless peace.”
“Oh…Garrick… beware, for her beauty deceives,
She’ll steal your soul gently, and you won’t want to leave.
Her secrets are many, her pleasures untold,
But in Sindra’s arms, even souls turn cold.”
When the song ended, there was a heavy silence in the hall, as if the air itself had been charmed by the bard’s voice. Garrick blinked, realizing that his hands were trembling slightly. He had to know more.
Later that evening, Belgarath found himself seated in the private dining chamber of the king, a rare honor for any guest in Babel. A lavish feast spread before them—roast meats, fruits soaked in honey, and the finest wines from across the realms. But Garrick had little interest in the food; his mind was consumed by one thing.
“So, this Sindra,” Garrick began, his voice casual, though there was an undercurrent of hunger in his tone. “She’s real, is she not? You’ve seen her? This Pleasure Palace…is it real?”
Belgarath took a measured sip of his wine before replying. “I’ve seen her, Your Majesty, and I’ve sung her legend across many lands. Her Pleasure Palace exists, yet beware – those who enter rarely wish to leave. I myself lost years in her enchanting embrace – only the magic of my song saved me when I dared to escape.”
Garrick’s lips curled into a slight smile. “And what of her secrets? The beauty that surpasses all others. The youth that never fades.”
Belgarath tilted his head, the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. “They say she knows the ancient arts, Your Majesty. Powers that can grant eternal youth, unending allure. But such gifts come at a cost.”
“A cost I would gladly pay,” Garrick murmured, more to himself than to the bard.
Belgarath leaned forward slightly. “Be wary, my lord. Sindra’s palace may offer beauty and pleasure beyond imagining, but many who seek it lose themselves along the way. She is not called the most deadly creature in the world for nothing.”
Garrick’s eyes gleamed with determination. “If she holds the key to true beauty, to eternal youth, then it is a risk I will take.”
The bard said nothing more, simply nodding in understanding as he lazily plucked a few strings on his lyre – the seed had been planted, and Garrick’s obsession had now taken root.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 