Part II – The Amorosi
Chapter 4 – The Dread
Location: Arbola Forest
Timeline: Sixth Age, 45th Year, Spring
The most fascinating thing about mortals is their complete and utter predictability. They flail about in a world I so carefully crafted for them, and when they encounter a little suffering, a touch of chaos, they call it “dread.” As if it were a sickness that just appeared out of thin air. They have no idea that dread is not some cosmic accident; it is a gift, a carefully sculpted emotion meant to break them, or in rare, delightful cases, to forge them into something stronger.
That particular summer was a languid, suffocating thing. The air in the Arbola Forest was heavy with the promise of autumn, but the oppressive humidity of the past season still clung to the leaves. It was the perfect atmosphere for despair, for the slow, agonizing realization that their world was not as peaceful as they had been led to believe. Nathily and her weary grandfather Dallegheri were at the edge of the Whispering Falls, where a perpetual mist veiled the rocks in a soft, ethereal cloud. The water’s constant roar was a backdrop to her inner turmoil.
The elfess paced back and forth, her slender body a bundle of coiled energy. Every movement was a study in restless anticipation. The council’s indecision, the political games, the endless, agonizing wait—it was all a foreign language to her warrior’s heart.
“Grandfather,” she finally said, her voice a sharp note in the humid air. “I cannot just wait. The council is deadlocked. My father… he doesn’t understand. I am ready now. I feel it in my bones. Every day we delay, the world outside this forest moves on. The Myz are still out there.”
Dallegheri did not look at her. He simply watched the water as it cascaded over the rocks, his face a grim mask. “It’s not the Council that delays, for they know they cannot thwart your destiny. If Alyssa decrees—”
“No, no,” Nathily cut in, her voice sharp against the hum of cicadas, “I don’t care about Council trifles right now and I trust that the Goddess will work it all out for me in due time. But please, tell me of the Azoras—how did they come to be?”
A grimace twisted Dallegheri’s weathered face, the late sun casting long shadows that danced across his sagging skin. “Would that we could sidestep what we loathe—but the world bends not to our whims. Here is the sad truth, dear – The bloody Middle Ages forced us to realize that part-time warriors are not sufficient to ward off full-time threats. Such was unfortunate conclusion of The League of Arbols”
“The League – I’ve heard Rian mutter of them,” she said, “but who are they?”
“The League of Arbols has long been our people’s triumvirate ruling group that oversees The Three Great Forests of TerrVerde. The current heads are Rian of Arbola, Aslan of Regalis, and Engelos, High Chief of Meridia. The trio convenes every decade on spring’s first day to align themselves on how best to help our people flourish.”
“But what does this have to do with the Azoras?” Nathily pressed, impatience flickering in her emerald eyes as a distant cloud bruised the horizon.
“Patience, amora-mine,” Dallegheri chided, relishing his tale-spinning. “Recall The War of the Ghast—our people witnessed humanity’s genocide on a grand scale never before scene in the world – tens of thousands clashing daily. By the time the evil god Mezentius ended the war by slaying the Pietromi King Hacktor Derkillez untold mortals lay dead – our historians number those murdered to be over a million – including numerous Amorosi who fought as allies to the stone men.”
“Oh, my,” Nathily gasped a gust rattled the leaves on the ground, scattering them like fallen soldiers.
Dallegheri labored on, eager to flee the memory. “It was then that The League of Arbols decided to create the Azoras – a protection force who would be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice – to give up a life pursuing a harmony with Nature, so they might instead devote their time to training in the ways of battle. For, to be successful, these brave souls would have to willingly trade in their potter’s wheel and lyre, in exchange for the sword and dagger, and thus ever work towards perfecting the (tragic) art of war.”
“But why such a drastic shift, Nonni? What bleak necessity drove us so?” Her voice trembled as the air thickened with the scent of impending rain.
With dread weighting his tone, Dallegheri relented. “One reason alone, dear: the Myz!” Even as he spoke a thunder growled low. [It was a fitting herald for my finest creation].
Nathily’s breath hitched. “Surely the coming of the myz alone didn’t force The League to make such a drastic decision?”
All eleven centuries of his life seemed to weigh on Dallegheri as he contemplated his answer. He licked his lips, scratched his fingers, and blinked repeatedly – all his innocent ticks of age coming to light. “The coming of the Myz during the War of the Ghast marked the turning point in that bloody conflict. Up to that time the Pietromi were handling the war clans comprised largely of the Derkka overseeing the armies Boogiti men, the Pyrhalli, and even the occasional Ogre or two. In addition, the sad sight of a walking-wraith was also not uncommon during this time.”
“You mean…?”
“Yes, dear, the Morati.” Said Dallegheri in a hushed voice. And a shiver ran up each of their spines as the mention of those unfortunate, fallen elves.
Quickly then, the elder continued, “But within just three years after the creation of the first Myz warrior, that race of evil knights had turned the tide on the stone men – as evidenced by the total destruction of the Pietromi stronghold at Oz! And it was the coming of the Myz that ultimately sucked our Amorosi fighters into the war, as the Pietromi finally realized they needed some aid against this new menace. At first news from the various Amorosi scouts that returned to us seemed largely unbelievable = a new race of giant warriors who were nigh unkillable! Furthermore, it seemed that the Myz did not engage in warfare only because their gods had forced them to, but instead, the Myz actively sought out combat because they enjoyed it! Worst of all, when the war ended, our spies reported that the Myz migrated to the rocky island of Kagor, where they were allegedly training to perfect the art of killing while awaiting the next war on Terra!”
The elfess was too frightened to even speak.
Hating himself for doing so, but realizing that Nathily needed this knowledge in order to begin our journey as an Azora, Dallegheri pulled out a map from his satchel. “This is Kagor.” He pointed to the large land mass off the west coast of Gor. “Dark, stormy, barren Kagor, until the coming of the Myz, largely uninhabited.”
Nathily finally found her voice again,, “But, nonni, I don’t understand. How did these myz come to our world?”
“That is perhaps the most terrifying story of all!” Here the Lore Master pulled out a scroll that concerned The League of Arbols and read, “’The evil enchantress Sindra, had, at the urging of Azazel, ahem…seduced… an unwary Amorosi, and later an unfortunate Pietromi, and while still holding their, ah… seed inside her, she then…ahem… coupled with Mezentius, to spawn a new creature. The evil genomist Azazel then used his diabolical black arts to clone their offspring – thus was born the world’s newest menace: the Myz!”
Too terrified to speak, Nathily but stared, mouth agape, as twilight deepened, the tree’s shadow stretching like a claw across the vale. Dallegheri failed to notice her fear as his head was buried in the scroll while he tried to be as detached as possible reading this vile story. “’And with the triple combination of the genetics of an Amorosi, a Pietromi, and dread Myzentius, the result of this new race of warriors was that they were agile, athletic, and powerful beyond compare. In addition, the Myz were all but unkillable – the only known ways to destroy them were discovered to be decapitation, crushing, or dismemberment. Thus, wherever the Myz began to appear, death and destruction occurred!’”
“But how could Azazel devise such horrors?” Nathily cried, pale as the moon now peering through gathering clouds.
[Oh, Nathily, that’s like asking wy is the sky blue? Don’t hate me because I’m good at what I do].
“Legends claim Death aided Mezentius,” Dallegheri said, “whom Baal-Zebub loosed to reclaim Terra and escape Illusia. The God of lacked Death’s genius for creation. Our goddess Alyssa’s warned us about Mezentius.” And here the elder read from the scroll in his lap: “Alyssa proclaimed, ‘He will be known as the God of Hate and of War. Fear him, my people, for he fears nothing. Pray that you never have to behold him as I have. Be not allured by his beauty for he will seduce you to your doom! He wants to possess me and keep my pleasures all to himself. I, Alyssa, the Goddess of Love, but no love will I ever have for him!’”
The old elf’s heart raced, forcing a pause as rain began to spit against the leaves. Noticing his efforts, Nathily soothed, “Nonni, enough for today.”
Dallegheri wheezed and coughed, his brittle body shaking with the effort, yet etting his spirit back, he kissed Nathily’s hands, then sat up taller. “Please, dear, let me finish. You must hear the rest of the answer to your question.” And, flipping forward in the scroll he read. “’As the League of Arbols met during that fateful time in Regalis, the Regents were forced to accept a sacrifice from the entire community. After the War of the Ghast, with the Myz preparing for the next war, and with Myzentius in possession of the Ghast, a full-scale assault upon the kingdoms of the East was inevitable. The Azora warriors were the League’s necessary and only answer to the Myz.’ Oh, no more. No more.”
Dallegheri closed the scroll – the dreaded lesson now finished. For her part Nathily clung to him – now finding herself grateful for The Council’s delays, praying they’d persist as autumn’s first storm loomed.
Days later, rain lashed the forest, stranding Nathily at Dallegheri’s cottage—a cramped den of creaking shelves and dripping thatch. He found her waiting, sodden cloak steaming by the hearth. “I thought you’d shun me after last time,” the wizened old elf half-joked, shaking water from his own robes.
“Nonsense, Nonni. Tell me a story—anything to banish this gloom.”
Pulling a chair, he hesitated, then offered, “Back to history—but not the Myz. Let’s speak of mankind, flawed yet often friendly.” Pulling down a volume from his shelf, he leafed through the pages until he found his mark, then read: “‘The Middle Ages were marked also by the rapid population growth of the race of men upon the world. With their life spans averaging 50 seasons or less, the Pecora lived and died in but the blink of an eye, yet still their peoples grew and grew, until they eventually outnumbered even all other races combined
“But how, Nonni?” Nathily cut in, the fire’s crackle punctuating her confusion. “So short-lived, yet so many? How do they sustain it without scarring the earth?”
“Your words ring truer than you know,” he sighed, the storm’s howl rattling the shutters. “‘Men spread across continents, overfishing, overgrazing, stripping forests—blind to the future, perhaps uncaring, their short spans shielding them from consequence.’”
“Surely some care?” she pleaded, rain streaking the window like tears.
“A few,” he conceded darkly, “but most ignore or silence them—vile acts against their own.” From the text he read: “‘Like locusts, they consumed Terra and by the Fourth Age’s end, mankind had covered the world.’”
“In less than a thousand years?” Nathily marveled, thunder underscoring her awe. “What of us, of Terra, of Life itself, if mankind goes unchecked?”
Dallegheri faltered, then pivoted as candlelight wavered in a gust.He bowed his head, anguish etching his face beneath dripping brows.
“Nonni, are you well?” Nathily asked, alarmed by the dim, flickering room.
“A spell, nothing more,” he murmured, slumping into a pazziera cushion, eyes shut against the gloom. “But you should know—the Fourth Age’s end was dire.” From the scroll he read: “‘Legends say that Azazel crossed a human with a snake, spawning the Serpii shapeshifts. Later he is rumored to have crafted Vizigobs from mutated Pecora. Meanwhile, Zebub birthed the baals—daemons meant to tempt mankind’s spirit, mocking El-Aba as ‘false gods.’”
[Of course you realize not all of this is true – it was I who made the baal’s and gifted them to Zebub. That’s also when I gave him the new moniker ‘Baal-Zebub.’ Read the story here].
“That tale is grim,” Nathily said, “but not worse than the others Why does not make you so upset, nonni?”
“Patience,” the lore master warned, as lightning glared through the panes. “‘Worse still was this – Altaziz fell—the Lumenarcs’ isle of renown and grace – swallowed whole, with innocent Mindos dying his first death – all undone by mankind’s treachery via Zebub’s baals. The mystery is this – Mindos foresaw his doom yet accepted his fate. Why? None can say.’”
“But how could a god die?” the young elfess stammered, the rain now drumming a frantic beat on the roof.
Seeing the growing fear in Nathily, Dallegheri, heart pounding and with beads of sweat tracing the grooves of his forehead, pressed on, eager to be done with this tale. “My Amora, I know not the answer to that riddle. Yet, bear witness – for that is not the worst of it. While Mindos has been able to rise again, the noble spirits he created to help him do not share that ability and the saddest of all facts that concerns the destruction of Altaziz Isle is just this: when the cataclysm swallowed this ill-fated land, that treacherous catastrophe also accounted for the unfortunate death of untold lumenarcs, including, I’m afraid to say, seven Illuminati!”
“But, wait,” interrupted Nathily. “I always thought there were only THREE Illuminati?”
Grimacing in pain at the thought, Dallegheri replied, “Those three are the only ones left!”
Thunder shook the room anew and that marked the end of the day’s lessons.
[Yet again the old man was wrong – there are still, and always have been, four and only four illuminated ones – Lucifer, Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel – their story begins here].
That night, trapped by the tempest yet unable to sleep, Nathily eyed her grandfather’s tomes warily, their shadows looming like specters in the candlelight. As Dallegheri snored in his room, the elfess braved The History alone, learning the Fifth Age’s fleeting half-millennium ended with The Last Great War.
But, then, as she peered into a looking glass on Dallegheri’s desk, by the candlelight she caught her reflection. Smiling to herself, the elfess remembered the words of her grandfather when he quoted the famous adventurer Sanexpury, One sees clearly only with the heart, she said to herself, Anything essential is invisible to the eyes. Pondering further, Perhaps there is something inside me. Perhaps I should stop worrying and trust in my goddess. For, if Alyssa desires it so, then it is for me to do.
Blowing out the candle, she settled into the quiet, storm-spent night, feeling safe beside her teacher, content to let The Council decide her fate while rediscovering Nature’s embrace.
I don’t know about you but I find myself yawning with an almost divine boredom. This little moment of human serenity is a blight on my glorious saga. Nathily’s dread, her innocence, her patience—they are all such dull, predictable things. But fear not, my dear mortals, for one this is certain – her peace will not last. The council will make its decision and then will come the real drama – be careful what you wish for, Nathily, you might just get it!
The Apocrypha of Azazel 