Part XVI: The Golden One
Chapter 7: An Unexpected Visitor
Timeline: AO 309-310
The barren stretch of Loco Land lay before Garrick like a twisted, lifeless wasteland as the Derkka king relaxed in his carriage. The opulent wagon, pulled by desert camels, was lined with plush velvet cushions and embroidered with silver thread, a stark contrast to the desolation outside. The sun blazed high overhead, casting long, shimmering heatwaves over the landscape. He was accompanied by servants fro Ramos – some guided the caravan and while other tended to his every need. One servant, sitting in the carriage with him, dabbed at his brow with a silk cloth, ensuring not a bead of sweat marred his flawless skin. Another carefully applied a fresh layer of balm to his lips, ensuring they remained perfectly soft and supple.
Garrick’s thoughts, however, were far from the beauty rituals that had become second nature to him. His heart was a whirlpool of anticipation and anxiety. The lands of Gor were drawing closer with every mile, and along with it, the weight of his past. He gazed out the small window of the carriage, his piercing violet eyes scanning the cracked earth of Loco Land, whilst memories of Gor swirled through his mind like ghosts.
“I never thought I’d see those lands again,” Garrick muttered, his voice almost a whisper, more to himself than to the servants.
The chief attendant, a tall, gaunt man named Terros who was sitting on the opposite side of the wagon looked at him. “You are returning to reclaim your birthright, my lord. Your homeland will surely bow to your presence once more.”
Garrick nodded absently, but the knot in his stomach refused to loosen. “They should… but I wonder what kind of king they remember me as.”
Terros hesitated, but then, in a calm and measured tone, he spoke again. “A beloved one. The people will remember, my lord. No one else could have united them like you did. And now, with Sindra’s gifts, they will see a king even greater than before.”
Garrick’s fingers traced the lines of his jaw, admiring the unblemished smoothness of his skin. His transformation under Sindra’s magic had been nothing short of miraculous. He looked more radiant now than in his prime—ageless and perfect, as if the gods themselves had crafted him anew.
“Perhaps they will…” he said, though doubt lingered behind his words.
As the day stretched on, until eventually the city of Nazir—the southern gateway to Gor—came into view. Nestled against the edge of a cliffside, it stood as a sentinel to the rest of the kingdom. Garrick’s pulse quickened at the sight of the weathered stone walls, the black iron gates rising in the distance. The first step back to reclaiming what was his had begun.
Nazir, like many border towns of Gor, was rugged and bustling. The people here were hardened by years of conflict and strife, their lives dictated by survival rather than luxury. The streets, lined with weathered buildings and haphazard stalls, were alive with the hum of trade. A few merchants shouted over one another, hawking their wares—spices, dried meats, rough cloths—all essentials for the travelers and locals alike. Goblins and men from Ramos and lands afar mingled together, their faces etched with weariness but also the unyielding determination to carve out a life in these harsh lands.
As Garrick’s carriage rolled into the center of the town, it drew the attention of the crowd like a magnet. The ornate detailing on the carriage, the velvet curtains pulled back just enough to reveal a glimpse of the figure inside, caused a stir of curiosity. People began to gather, eyes wide, waiting for the unexpected visitor to reveal himself. Garrick stepped out gracefully, his robes of silken midnight blue falling around him in gentle waves, the fabric catching the light with every movement.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Whispers followed soon after.
“Is it truly him?”
“It can’t be… he looks so young.”
“The Marduk has returned!”
Garrick soaked in their admiration, his posture regal, his face an unreadable mask of composed authority. He turned to the innkeeper, who had hurried to meet him, his eyes wide with disbelief and reverence.
“My lord… I… I never thought I would see you again. The rumors said you were… gone,” the fat goblin who owned the place stammered, his hands trembling as he bowed deeply, his round face flushed. “I am Ratfink Bottomnose, at your service.”
“Rumors, it seems, are often exaggerated, Ratfink,” Garrick replied smoothly, offering a smile that sent a fresh wave of murmurs through the gathered crowd. “Prepare a room for me and my attendants. And ensure that dinner is ready for us within the candle mark.”
As Garrick made his way into the inn, the crowd dispersed slowly, still talking in hushed voices about the miraculous return of the Marduk. Inside the dimly lit common room, the smell of strong ale and roasted meat filled the air. Patrons at various tables stopped what they were doing to stare at him, their disbelief mirrored in their wide eyes.
Garrick walked past them with his head held high, but as he neared the corner of the room, he caught the sneering laughter of two figures draped in dark robes. Myz. Their large faces, pale and sharp, bore the telltale signs of their kind—the cruel intelligence in their eyes, disdain for all things Derkka in spite of their tenuous alliance.
“Look at him,” one of them whispered, just loud enough for Garrick to hear. “The dead have returned to claim what’s no longer theirs.”
“The usurper won’t be pleased,” the second Myz said, his lips curling into a mocking smile. “Kahros Bloodscale has no love for ghosts.”
Garrick froze, turning sharply on his heel. The entire room seemed to fall silent as he approached the table where the Myz sat, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “Kahros Bloodscale?” he asked, his voice smooth but laced with the threat of steel. “Who is this usurper you speak of?”
The Myz exchanged a glance, their amusement evident. “You’ve been gone a long time, Marduk,” one of them said, his tone almost pitying. “Kahros rules in your stead now. He claimed your throne after you vanished. And I doubt he’ll be thrilled to see you back.”
Garrick’s jaw tightened. A usurper sat on his throne, ruling his people. “Tell me more about him,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone.
“He’s a commoner, really,” the second Myz shrugged. “Though he calls himself king now. Took over after you disappeared, rallied his forces, and convinced the people you were dead.”
“Seems he was wrong,” Garrick said with a biting smile, though inside, his mind raced. How had a common Derkka managed to claim the throne of Babel? What about Arlena – by Baal is my daughter still safe?
The Myz smirked again, his eyes glinting with malice. “Well, let’s see how long you last now that you’ve returned.”
After learning about the surprising news about the usurper, Garrick had sequestered himself in his room for days – insane with worry over the loss of his throne and the question about his only child’s safety. He fluctuated between periods of anger and distress.
Although he had slaves of his own and a wife to help, Ratfink saw to the king’s needs himself and while deferential and overly polite, the innkeep had quickly learned not to disturb the former Marduk, instead simply leaving trays of food and wine outside his door; yet the meals often went untouched. Garrick’s world had shrunk to the confines of the modest chamber, its sparse furnishings doing little to soothe his growing anxiety.
The big Babelonian paced incessantly, his bare feet padding across the uneven floorboards. Every so often, he would stop to inspect himself in the cracked mirror that hung on the far wall, the dim light casting uneven shadows on his face. His flawless skin seemed less vibrant than it had in Ramos, the glow of Sindra’s magic starting to fade under the weight of his despair.
“This anxiety,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his immaculate hair. “It’s aging me. I can see it. I can feel it.”
Rushing to his luggage, Garrick found the small case of beauty supplies he had brought from Ramos. Oils, creams, powders—remnants of the life he had lived in luxury, far away from the harsher realities of Gor. As he applied the last of one of the elixirs to his face, he realized that his supply was running dangerously low. Nazir, a border town, had little in the way of luxuries. The local markets sold only rough-hewn soaps and coarse balms—nothing that could maintain the ethereal beauty that had been gifted to him by the goddess.
“What am I doing here?” Garrick collapsed onto the bed in frustration. “I should just go back to Ramos… back to Sindra. She would understand.”
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, a chill swept through the room. The temperature dropped suddenly, and the flickering candlelight dimmed. Garrick’s heart raced, and he sat up quickly, his eyes darting around the room.
Suddenly, Sindra’s voice echoed in his mind. “You will do no such thing.”
Garrick froze. Her voice, though soft, carried the weight of divine power – it reverberated through his skull, sending a shiver down his spine.
“You will not abandon your destiny, Garrick,” her voice hissed in his mind. “Did you think the throne of Gor would simply fall back into your lap? Where would be the fun in that.”
“But…” Garrick stammered aloud. “Did you know about K-Kahros?”
“Of course.” Sindra’s voice laughed inside his head. “I kept you with me until another would rise in your place.”
“Why?” The former king felt betrayed.
“Because you are The Golden One! I want you to fight for it. Either you will become my champion and earn my love – or discover you are simply a failure and die the death of a coward.”
Garrick felt the goddess’ presence leave his mind, yet her words still stung like a slap. Failure? No. Never. He would not let Kahros, this usurper, keep what was rightfully his. But Sindra’s words lingered, biting at the edges of his resolve, pushing him forward.
“I will not fail,” he muttered to himself. “I will reclaim Gor… and Sindra’s love.”
One month passed. Then two, three. Yet still Garrick remained in Nazir – although it was not due to inaction.
The quiet nights of Nazir slipped by with an eerie stillness, the darkened streets deserted except for the occasional wanderer or merchant packing up late. The inn where he stayed was closed to all other visitors – Garrick promising to ennoble Ratfink upon his return to the throne. Thus hidden away from the bustle of the town, the Bottomnose inn had transformed into a hive of hushed activity. The windows were tightly shut, and thick curtains blocked the outside world, ensuring that no prying eyes would catch a glimpse of the secret dealings happening within.
By day and night the tavern was alive with activity. The soft glow of enchanted candles illuminated the space, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. Scrolls and maps lay scattered across the wooden table in the corner, pinned down by goblets of rich wine. On those maps were the key regions of Gor, marked with ink stains and intricate notes indicating allies, enemy strongholds, and potential battlegrounds. Garrick poured over them daily, his fingers tracing routes and plans for conquest with obsessive precision.
His messengers—loyal Derkka still sympathetic to the Marduk—came and went like shadows, slipping in through side doors and delivering their messages in whispers before vanishing into the night. Each letter carried news of growing support. Old friends, minor nobles, and discontented warriors who had once fought under Garrick’s banner were gathering again, slowly but surely, like pieces of a forgotten army coming back together.
“Ruhn has pledged his loyalty once more,” one of his closest aides murmured one evening, unfurling a letter sealed with the emblem of an old ally. “He still holds sway over the eastern outposts. His forces will be ready in a fortnight.”
Garrick sat in a high-backed chair by the fireplace, legs crossed with casual elegance as he scanned the message. He barely raised an eyebrow. “Good. Make sure they are equipped with the best weapons. Tell him we’ll need his strength to secure Babel’s gates.”
His tone was cool, distant, though satisfaction flickered in his eyes. One by one, they were returning to him—those who had once sworn their lives to him.
But his confidence wasn’t born solely from these reports. No, it grew from something far more tangible. That afternoon, the long-awaited shipment from Ramos had finally arrived. As the sun began to set over Nazir, the creaking wooden cart pulled up to the back entrance of the inn, laden with carefully wrapped crates of exotic goods.
Garrick’s slaves—well tanned men and women from Ramos —unloaded the supplies with silent precision. They carried the bundles up the stairs with practiced ease, never meeting Garrick’s eyes as they entered his chambers and placed the contents before him. His heart had quickened at the sight of the gilded boxes, each one marked with Sindra’s unmistakable crest.
As the slaves unpacked the delicate glass jars and silver tools from Ramos, Garrick felt a wave of relief wash over him. His beauty rituals could now resume in full, undisturbed by the poor offerings of this frontier town. He turned to the mirror and inspected his face under the dim candlelight, his violet eyes narrowing as he studied his reflection.
The wear of the past few months had begun to show. Without the oils and balms that had kept him youthful, his features had grown ever so slightly drawn. There was a faint hint of shadow beneath his eyes, a small line creasing his forehead where there had been none before. He shuddered at the sight.
“Begin the preparations,” Garrick commanded softly, his voice betraying no emotion. His slaves moved quickly, setting up the small table near the window, covering it with plush towels and arranging the elixirs, brushes, and powders in neat rows.
Soon, the familiar routine overtook him. He reclined in his chair as they worked, gently massaging the aromatic oils into his skin, combing his hair with ivory brushes until it shimmered under the candlelight. The thick cream they applied to his face had been concocted by Sindra herself—made from the blood of rare creatures and enchanted to preserve his flawless beauty. The sensation was cooling and rejuvenating, and Garrick could almost feel the lines of worry and stress melting away as it absorbed into his skin.
With each stroke of the brush, he felt the return of his power. His reflection in the mirror grew more vibrant, more perfect with every passing minute. The subtle glow returned to his complexion, his cheeks lifting ever so slightly, his lips regaining their full, youthful allure. By the time the final touches were made—his face powdered, his hair styled into smooth waves—he felt like the god he was supposed to be.
He stood before the mirror, turning his head to catch different angles of his reflection. His violet eyes glimmered with newfound confidence, and a satisfied smile played across his lips. This was who he was—Garrick, the Marduk, the untouchable ruler of Gor. The people would see him, and they would remember. Sindra’s magic had been his salvation, and now it would help him reclaim his throne.
But as much as his appearance was restored, Garrick knew that beauty alone wouldn’t win him the throne. He could charm his way into many places, yes, but Kahros Bloodscale’s rule over Babel was more than just a matter of public favor. It was a matter of raw power, and that power was building against him. The usurper had gathered a formidable force in his absence, a mix of hardened warriors and cunning schemers – reports claimed he also had The Priory of the Myz behind him. Thus Garrick knew would need more than just his own charm to overcome them.
He turned away from the mirror, letting the slaves clear away the remnants of the beauty ritual, and walked over to the table littered with maps and letters. His gaze fell on the sigils of those who had sworn loyalty to him in secret: Derkka warlords, Myz knights, and even some shadowy figures from beyond Gor’s borders.
His thoughts lingered on the Myz for a moment. They were cunning creatures, often shifting their allegiances like the wind, but Garrick had been careful in choosing his allies among them. He had courted those with the greatest influence, promising them power and wealth in exchange for their support. The Myz, after all, were easily tempted by promises of war and riches.
“Send word to all our allies,” Garrick said, addressing Terros, the chief attendant who stood patiently by the door. “We will march soon. I want every force in position within the next moon cycle.”
“At once, my lord,” Terros replied with a bow, already signaling the messengers to prepare their dispatches.
Garrick returned to his chair by the window, his mind now focused, his purpose clear. His beauty was restored, but more importantly, his army was growing. Soon, the people of Gor would see their rightful Marduk rise again, and Kahros Bloodscale would regret ever laying claim to his throne.
Garrick’s gaze drifted back to the mirror, where his reflection—perfect and untouchable—smiled back at him with cool confidence. “Let the usurper prepare,” he murmured to himself, “for soon, he will face the beauty of destruction.”
The Apocrypha of Azazel 