Part XVI: The Golden One
Chapter 5: The Once and Future King
Timeline: AO 309
As always, the Serpents’ Embrace at Karkemesh was bathed in an eternal twilight. It was neither day nor night in this timeless place where pleasure and indulgence reigned supreme. Every room shimmered with gold and silver, draped with silks that caught the faintest breeze. Perfumed air, thick with the scent of jasmine and roses, wrapped around those who wandered its halls, ensuring no one ever left unchanged.
Garrick the Golden Hand – the once the proud king of the Derkka – now wandered aimlessly through the halls of the palace no longer certain of his past or his future. He had been here for years—how many, he no longer knew. His memories of Babel, of his daughter Arlena, the throne he once held, and his nemesis Hacktor Derkillez and the Drokka, were nothing more than faint whispers, like a song long forgotten. The fire that had once driven him had dimmed, replaced with a fog of pleasure and an almost desperate need for the approval of Sindra, the goddess who now ruled his every thought.
The beautiful Babelonian goblin stood before a massive mirror in one of the many opulent chambers of Karkemesh. The reflection that stared back at him was almost unrecognizable. His hair, once mostly a weaved in wig, now flowed on its own like liquid gold, its growth spurred by Sindra’s magic into shimmering waves. His skin, which had once borne the scars of war, toil, and most of all Baal’s curse, was now smooth and flawless, glowing with the ethereal sheen of immortality. There was no longer any need for Skin Masks or even The Glamour – for the goddess’ magic had overcome all his flaws.
To anyone else, Garrick was the epitome of beauty—a near-god among men. He had achieved all that he could have asked for in regards to Beauty under Sindra’s guidance. And yet when he looked at himself in the mirror, a wave of sadness washed over him – one more powerful than ever before.
He frowned, touching his smooth, perfect face with a mixture of confusion and bitterness. “Am I not… handsome?” He muttered to himself as he leaned closer to the mirror, searching for something—anything—that resembled the man he used to be. But all he saw was perfection – or in his eyes a lack of it. He had been reshaped by Sindra, and though he knew others saw incredible beauty, The Golden One could only see the hollowness and loss behind his reflection.
“I was a king,” he whispered to himself. “I had scars. They… they meant something.”
But even as he said the words, they felt distant. His memories of that life were fading, slipping through his fingers like sand. Babel was so far away now, its people, its struggles, even his enemies, all were no more real than the phantoms that haunted his dreams.
Then it was that a soft, lilting laugh echoed from the doorway.
“You are beautiful, my love,” came Sindra’s voice. The goddess glided into the room, her presence intoxicating. Every movement she made was deliberate, every step laced with seduction. The long, dark hair she chose for this day’s appearance shimmered like the night sky, and her eyes gleamed with the knowledge of the power she held over him.
Garrick turned, trying to hide his doubt, but Sindra saw through him as easily as one might see through glass.
“You still doubt,” she said, her tone teasing but with an underlying danger. “Even after all I have given you?”
Lust came closer, running her fingers down Garrick’s chest, her touch igniting his senses. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth spread through him, but the sadness remained, buried deep.
“I… I don’t…,” Garrick stammered, his voice trembling slightly. “I don’t remember what I gave up. Was it worth it?”
Sindra smiled, but it was the smile of a predator.
“Of course it was. Never forget – you were nothing before me, Garrick. Just a king of hapless goblins, ruling over a crumbling city with no future. Embroiled in a war against a mushroom man that meant nothing to the gods. But look at you now. You are the envy of gods. Others would kill to possess what you have.”
Garrick opened his eyes and looked at her. For a moment, clarity returned. “I was a king. I had a daughter. I remember that… but…”
Sindra’s smile faded for a moment. She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. “Those memories are nothing. Forget them. They are of no use to you now.” She moved behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders as she stared at his reflection in the mirror. “You belong to me now, Garrick.”
Garrick nodded slowly, the fog of Sindra’s magic clouding his thoughts again. Her presence was too powerful, too overwhelming for him to resist. Every time he tried to think of his past, of who he used to be, the image of the goddess filled his mind, pushing everything else away.
Some time later – maybe days, weeks, or months, who can really say – Garrick lay sprawled on a velvet divan, his limbs heavy, his mind floating in the fog of herbs and wines too rich for his taste. He was beyond weariness, beyond desire, lost in the numbing embrace of forgotten pleasures. Tonight was no different than any other—another wasted evening in a place where his past and future seemed equally distant.
His once regal frame had lost its luster, the years of indulgence in Karkemesh blurring the sharp edges of the man who once ruled Babel. Garrick had abandoned any notion of time, days bleeding into nights, punctuated only by the occasional visit from Sindra, her presence as intoxicating and suffocating as the herbs that filled the air. But tonight, even she had not come.
He sighed, shifting lazily on the pillows, hoping to catch some music that would help pass the hours in a more pleasant stupor. The soft notes of lyres and flutes trickled in from the Queen’s Court, just beyond the grand doors of his chamber. He thought of joining, if only for the novelty of it, but the weight of lethargy kept him pinned to the couch.
It wasn’t until a particular strain of melody reached his ears that his attention sharpened—something familiar, something stirring from a place deep within his fog-addled mind. Curiosity tugged at him, faint but insistent. Slowly, as if in a dream, Garrick rose and made his way toward the court.
The main hall of the Pleasure Palace was alive with celebration, the laughter of upper class nobles of Karkemesh and parts unknown – the hum of revelry echoing off the high, gilded ceilings. Candles and torches flickered against the walls, casting a golden hue across the lavish tapestries and silk-draped windows. At the center of it all, amidst a swirl of dancers and musicians, was Sindra—radiant, enthroned, and utterly absorbed in the festivities she had summoned without an invite to Garrick.
Forlorn, dazed, and confused, Garrick slipped into the shadows along the edge of the room, unnoticed by the revelers. He leaned against a pillar, watching the scene with half-lidded eyes, his senses still dulled by the herbs. He would have left, had it not been for the music.
The song—it tugged at him again. Something in the notes pierced through his haze, teasing at his memory. The players, a troupe of musicians with their instruments gleaming in the torchlight, wove a haunting melody through the crowd. As they played, Garrick’s eyes narrowed on the lead musician, the one whose presence now demanded his attention.
Belgrath!
The name, like the music, sent a jolt through his mind. The seemingly ageless bard, with his flamboyant gestures and knowing smile, commanded the room, his fingers dancing across the strings of a lute as if conjuring magic. His troupe played with skill and grace, but Belgrath stood out above all.
Garrick shifted, moving closer without realizing it, drawn into the music’s spell. He tried to remain concealed, but his movement must have caught Belgrath’s eye. For as their gazes briefly locked, the bard’s smile widened, and Garrick felt the unmistakable pull of recognition.
With a dramatic flourish, Belgrath’s fingers paused on the strings. He stepped forward, bowing low before Sindra with exaggerated reverence. “My queen,” he said, his voice smooth and teasing, “may I offer a song—one you have long adored?”
Sindra clapped her hands, eyes glittering with delight. “Oh, Belgrath! You spoil me. Yes, play it! The one I love.”
Belgrath straightened, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he returned his gaze to Garrick. “It will be my pleasure, my queen.”
And then, as the first notes of the song rang out, Garrick’s blood turned cold. It was her song—The Song of Sindra’s Embrace. He had heard it before, long ago, in another life. But it wasn’t until Belgrath’s voice carried over the music that the memory fully struck him.
“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.”
“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 musicians played on, their instruments weaving the melody into the air like a spell, and Belgrath’s voice grew louder, reaching a crescendo that seemed to fill the entire court. The guests swayed to the rhythm, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension now thrumming beneath the surface.
“For Sindra, the Goddess, wears beauty like a spell,
And those who would seek her are bound to her well.
Her embrace is a vision, yet none seek release,
For in her sweet shadow, they find endless peace.”
As Belgrath sang, the musical troupe moved, as if choreographed, toward Garrick – their hands finding his arms, pulling him from the shadows. Before he could react, Garrick found himself at the center of the court, surrounded by the musicians, their eyes gleaming with barely concealed amusement. The crowd was amazed and Sindra was delighted, yet Garrick was a mix of emotions – fear, confusion, embarrassment, anxiety. He knew that Belgrath knew that he knew the next time and the bard let the moment linger in the air like a blade poised above Garrick’s neck. With his heart pounding in his chest, the merciless bard’s gaze fixed upon him with an intensity that no one else seemed to notice as he sang…
“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 the bold turn cold.”
Belgrath finished with a flourish and then, with one final strum of his lute, he and his troupe bowed low—deeply, mockingly—before Sindra.
Garrick, dazed and confused, felt his body stiffen as the bard’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, forcing him to bow beside him. Garrick tried to pull away, but Belgrath’s grip was firm, almost too strong for a mere musician. As they bowed together, Belgrath leaned in close, his breath hot against Garrick’s ear. “I warned you,” the bard hissed. “Leave or die.”
Garrick’s heart pounded in his chest, the words cutting through the last vestiges of his mental haze. He tried to speak, to respond, but his throat felt dry, his mind reeling from the shock of the moment. Before he knew it everyone had stood up. As Belgrath straightened, his face a mask of charm, he turned back to Sindra, who continued to revel in the spectacle, her laughter echoing through the hall.
Sindra ‘s laughter filled the room, a sound of pure delight. “Oh, how marvelous! Belgrath, you always know how to entertain me.”
As the musicians rose from their bow, Garrick remained frozen, his mind racing. Sindra was still laughing, her gaze sweeping across the room, but she barely seemed to notice him anymore. He was an afterthought, a shadow in the corner of her grand design.
And Belgrath, the man who had once warned him of the dangers of this place, had returned to remind him of the price of forgetting who he truly was.
Garrick’s legs trembled as he stood. He glanced at Belgrath, but the bard’s face was playful and he avoided Garricks’ gaze. With another strum of his lute, Belgrath signaled the start of one more song, and the room erupted into applause.
Sindra raised a hand before the bard could sing. “Just one more for the crowd.” She said seductively. “Save your voice so you can give me a private….concert later.”
Belgrath smiled just as slyly, “Gladly, my queen. I’ll make this delight short… and give you a longer one later.”
The crowd guffawed at the baudy humor, yet Garrick’s mind was elsewhere as he wandered away from the hall, consumed by the warning that now echoed in his thoughts.
Leave or die.
The words haunted him – and yet he had no strength or presence of mind to take action. As a result, he staggered back to his room and collapsed – hoping the haze of forgetfulness would wipe it all away and leave him in peace.
The next evening Garrick found himself invited to the queen’s bedroom. After an intimate time together, Sindra lay up against Garrick, her fingers lightly trailing over the goblet in her hand. Her divine senses secretly probed her lover’s mind – she knew she had broken him, but cracks remained, and she also knew those cracks could become a threat if left unattended. Leaning in close, she whispered in a voice filled with honeyed promises. “Garrick, do you know what I want?”
Staring across the room towards a mirror that showcased the incredible beauty of the couple, Garrick saw only the picture of the goddess in the arms of a monster. Devoid of emotion he replied tiredly, “What you desire, I will fulfill.”
Sindra smiled. “Good. Then listen carefully, my love. It is time for you to return to your people.”
At this, Garrick blinked in surprise. “Return?”
“Yes,” Sindra said, her voice dripping with persuasion. “Return to Babel. The Derkka need you. They are lost without their king. And they need more than a king. They need a leader… and a priest.”
Garrick frowned, trying to comprehend. “A priest? I… I don’t understand.”
Sindra turned around her face him, her presence alluring, her eyes never leaving his. “You will be more than just their king, Garrick. You will be their high priest. The high priest of Baal and you will unlock every secret of The Priory of The Myz.
The names the goddess spoke sent a shivers down Garrick’s spine. He had heard them all before but still he struggled to remember what they all meant.
“You will return to Babel and reclaim your throne,” Sindra continued. “But this time, you will rule with the power of Baal behind you. You will be unstoppable, a god among mortals. And through you, I will know all that you know. You will bring me the secrets of Azazel, of Gwar, and more…”
Lust placed her hands on either side of Garrick’s face, her gaze locking with his. “And together, we will bring them to their knees.”
The Golden One’s heart pounded in his chest. The goddess’ words filled him with a strange exhilaration. The idea of returning to Babel, of reclaiming his throne, suddenly thrilled him – maybe it was the magic of Sindra, maybe it was a remembrance of the past, whatever the case there was something else beneath his excitement—something darker, more dangerous. A hunger that had not been there before.
Sindra’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Will you do this for me, Garrick? Will you be my king… and my priest?”
He hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Yes… I will.”
Sindra smiled, her victory complete. “Good. Then the time has come. Return to Babel, my love. And remember, you are mine. Always.”
As she kissed him, the last of Garrick’s resistance faded. He was hers, body and soul, and nothing could break the chains she had wrapped around his heart.
That night, Sindra performed a final ritual. She placed her hands over Garrick’s chest while he slept, whispering ancient words of power. A dark light spread through him, sinking deep into his mind and heart. It was the spell that would bind him to her will, that would make him a devout servant of Baal, and her weapon against the gods.
When Garrick woke the next morning, he felt different. The doubts that had plagued him were gone. His memories of Babel were still faint, but they no longer troubled him. He was ready to return – and he would bring the goddess with him.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 