Part IV: That Meddling Kid
Chapter 1: All Hail The King
Location: Monthaven, Eastern TerraVerde
Timeline: Sixth Age of Substance, 45th Year, Mid-Autumn
I must turn my tale now to a place I overlooked in my arrogance—a speck of a town called Monthaven, nestled in the far eastern corner of TerraVerde, buried among the dense forests along the shores of the Suskil River, just north of Sylvania and northwest of Primcitta. So insignificant was this village that it barely registered on any map worth consulting, a fact that now fills me with bitter regret.
Had I known of the two mortals who dwelt there—Emcorae Azop and his old fool of a grandfather, Alfranco—I would have razed their backwater hovel to ash before they could meddle in my plans. But even a being such as I can miss the smallest threads in the tapestry of fate, and Monthaven thus slipped through my grasp, a mistake I would come to rue in time.
What I’m about to tell you, I knew nothing about as these events unfolded – the tale I relate now comes from knowledge imparted to me much later by A’H when I became his slav-, er servant again. The Great Creator truths are ones I dare not question—for I well know the wrath of His enforcer, Michael the Mighty who cast Lucifer and the rest of us into torment for our transgressions. So, let us accept this tale as it is, lest we invite Michael’s judgment upon us all.
The Brandonale Inn stood as a squat, timber-framed structure on the edge of Monthaven’s modest square, its thatched roof sagging under the weight of autumn’s first frost. It was no grand edifice—outside the village church, nothing in Monthaven was—but on nights like this, it buzzed with the clamor of locals seeking warmth and distraction. The air inside was thick with the acrid haze of pipe smoke and the sour tang of spilled ale, the flickering light of oil lamps casting jagged shadows across the rough-hewn walls. Laughter and chatter filled the hall, a cacophony of mundane voices that grated on my sensibilities. These humans, with their petty lives and endless routines, were a breed apart from the chaos of Kra—a breed I found insufferably dull. They ate their meager suppers of barley stew, played cards with dog-eared decks, and drank their bitter ale as if it were the nectar of gods, all while the world beyond their borders teetered on the edge of ruin. Pathetic.
Young Emcorae Azop, barely past his eleventh summer, pushed open the heavy oak door of the Brandonale, his small frame dwarfed by the raucous crowd within. His auburn hair was a tangled mess, his green eyes darting through the smoky haze as he searched for his grandfather, Alfranco Azop. The boy tried to move casually, but his discomfort was plain—he was out of place among the older patrons, a child in a den of revelry.
Behind the bar, Aldom Mercaldo, the stout innkeeper with a perpetual scowl, poured another round of drinks, his gaze narrowing as Emcorae entered. Aldom realized quickly that the boy was no paying customer; worse, he was here to drag away the Brandonale’s most garrulous entertainer—Alfranco—whose departure would likely prompt others to head home as well, thinning the night’s profits.
Emcorae’s thoughts (as I later learned when A’H graced me with It’s wisdom) were a storm of frustration as he wove through the scattered tables. Why do these people waste their lives drinking that terrible ale, talking to the same tired faces day after day? Go outside, do something else—stop squandering your time! He wanted to shout the words, to shake the patrons from their stupor, but courage failed him. Instead, he screamed silently in his mind, C’mon, where’s Grandpop?! I can only imagine how such a mundane errand must have chafed at the boy, though I knew nothing of him then. To me, Monthaven was a void, its inhabitants beneath my notice—until they weren’t.
“Emcorae! Over here, ya little rascal!” Alfranco’s voice boomed from the center of the bar, cutting through the din like a warhorn.
The boy sighed, his shoulders slumping. I should’ve known. There he is—the life of the party, as always.
Alfranco Azop sat amidst a throng of locals, a king holding court in a kingdom of drunks. Now well past his sixth decade, the old man’s leathered face bore the scars of hard living—deep lines etched around his eyes, his skin weathered like old parchment. Some in Monthaven jested that the sheer volume of ale Alfranco had consumed over the years had begun to pickle him, preserving him in a haze of spirits. Yet his thick, black hair remained a point of pride, well-groomed and slicked back in a style he’d picked up during his travels long ago, a remnant of a life far beyond the village’s borders. In one hand, he clutched a smoke stick, its ember glowing red; in the other, a tankard of ale, its contents sloshing as he gestured wildly. Though adventure had long since faded from his life, the Brandonale was Alfranco’s stage, a place where he could relive his youth with a captive audience, their delight feeding his endless tales.
“Aldom, get Em some nuts and a cherry water!” Alfranco commanded, his voice slurring slightly but carrying the weight of authority. Then, to his grandson, “Here, Em, hop up next to me while I finish my tale.”
Emcorae knew resistance was futile—his grandmother’s command to bring Alfranco home would have to wait until the old man’s story was done. So, he climbed onto the stool beside his grandfather, popping a few nuts into his mouth as Aldom set a cup of cherry water before him. Despite his reluctance to be there, the boy couldn’t deny the flicker of excitement that stirred within him. He’d heard all of Alfranco’s tales before, but they never lost their magic, each retelling as vivid as the first.
“C’mon, Franki, get on with yer yarn!” a regular called out, his voice thick with ale.
“Hmm, now where was I?” Alfranco mused, a twinkle in his blue eyes. It was a game he played often, pretending to lose his place to ensure every eye was on him, and the crowd obliged, hanging on his every word.
“You was about to tell us how you found that dagger durin’ The War,” Jon Middleswarth, a local farmer with a ruddy face, reminded him.
“Yeah, Franki, please do,” others chimed in, their voices eager as they leaned closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of Alfranco’s only keepsake from his military days.
“In time,” Alfranco said with a sly grin, imperceptibly patting his right side where the war relic was hidden beneath his worn tunic. “Patience is a virtue. But even better’s a wet whistle.” He held up his empty mug, shaking it for emphasis.
“Aldom, get Franki another,” Hal Sutton, a burly mason with a smoke stick clamped between his teeth, called out, tossing a copper onto the table.
The order was unnecessary—Aldom already had a fresh tankard ready for his best customer. “Here ya are, Franki,” he said, sliding the mug across the bar.
Alfranco wrapped his wrinkled hands around the tankard, fixing his audience with an ominous stare, his blue eyes glinting with the weight of memory. “Well, now, if I recall, it was just me and Old Man Newberri’s son Jak who heeded the call to arms, while the rest of ya hid yer tails here, ain’t that right?” Before anyone could protest, he pressed on, his voice dropping to a somber tone. “The Last Great War, that’s what they called it after the fightin’ was done. But let me tell ya, there ain’t nothin’ great about war. Sure, before we got there, Jak and me, we was all excited to beat on some Derkka hides, but what did two lads from Monthaven know about the terrors lurkin’ out there?”
He paused, his face tightening with pain, the memories clawing at him. Aldom laid a hand on his shoulder, unsure if this was genuine struggle or a storyteller’s trick. “Ahem, Franki, you all right, old boy?”
“What? Oh, sure.” Alfranco waved off the concern, shaking his head as if to dispel the ghosts of the past. “The fact is, nothin’ and nobody was gonna hold Jak and me back from goin’ off to war—not our folks, and sure as Hel not Monthaven’s high-and-mighty church council, who had that messenger chap hauled outta town. We saw how they treated that stranger and where they sent him, so we caught up to the man on the road and asked what we oughta do. The traveler smiled, told us if we really wanted to help, we should get to Crux. Gave us a map, told us how to go, then rode east to muster more troops, ‘cause the Derkka hordes were growin’ by the day.”
“That’s how Jak and I ran off,” Alfranco continued, his voice steadying as he sipped his ale. “Me, I was always good with maps, so I got us to the crossroads at Crux, no problem. When the recruiter heard that, he put me with the scouts. But Jak, poor ol’ Jak, wasn’t too bright—they made him a foot soldier.”
“Weren’t ya afraid to be separated?” Hal asked, his brow furrowing.
“Didn’t wanna be split up, but it happened fast,” Alfranco replied. “Jak got whisked outta town with the next regiment, while I was sent to learn my mission. Now, I weren’t much for readin’—still ain’t—but I didn’t tell no one that, ‘cause suddenly there I was, sixteen summers old, in the middle of a world war!”
“If ya couldn’t read, how’d ya know what to do in the war?” Jon Romaine, a wiry man with a skeptical squint, wondered aloud.
“Funny thing,” Alfranco said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “My enthusiasm helped me get by. I was good with distances, so when I saw the maps and heard what the captains wanted, I figured it out. But truth be told, they prob’ly kept me ‘round ‘cause they was desperate for men—the Derkka hordes outnumbered us somethin’ fierce.”
“Weren’t ya afraid to fight them goblins?” Aldom asked, leaning on the bar as he wiped a mug clean.
Before Alfranco could answer, the crowd erupted, begging him to describe the Derkka, their curiosity piqued by legends of the goblin-like men they’d never seen in the East.
“Spooks, goblins, orcs, ogres—call ‘em what ya will,” Alfranco obliged, his voice taking on a menacing edge as he leaned forward, relishing the chance to unsettle his listeners. “The Amorosi name ‘em Boogiti, and their legends say they’re men, just like you and me.”
The crowd erupted in disbelief—“It can’t be!” “Never!” “The elves are liars!”—their voices overlapping in a chorus of denial.
Alfranco laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that silenced them. “I’ll not argue with ya, ‘cause I learned long ago ya can’t change a man’s mind. But if ya wanna hear my tale, keep yer traps shut. Decide for yerselves later if my words be true. Now, where was I?”
“You was gonna tell us what the goblin people looked like,” Ben Wirtz, the town doctor, reminded him, his tone encouraging.
“Boogiti men are ‘bout the size of Drokka dwarves, but mishappen somethin’ awful—short legs, long arms, melon-like heads wobblin’ on flabby bodies,” Alfranco said, his hands gesturing to mimic their form. “Green and black skin, sometimes both. Scraggly black hair, bat-like ears, bulbous noses. They stink worse than a rotten onion, but that was a good thing—meant they couldn’t sneak up on us. They relished their ugliness, ya see. Their leaders was the worst—comically ugly, dressed in burlap sacks covered with tin trappin’s of rank.”
“Were they good fighters?” Aldom asked, his curiosity piqued.
“Depends,” Alfranco replied. “In small groups, they was cowardly, only attacked if they had numbers and felt they’d win. Then they was fearsome—overwhelmed us with sheer frenzy. But they broke easy. Soon as they doubted themselves, they’d run.”
“Why’d the goblins attack us in the first place?” Jon asked, scratching his head.
“Why’s any war happen?” Alfranco shot back. “Power. Maybe the Derkka wanted more Kanenite slaves to plow their fields in Gor. The East’s got free men—makes us a target.”
“Damn them spooks! May Yahway send ‘em to The Fires!” Neil Belzer shouted from the back, raising his mug as others joined in, their voices a drunken chorus.
Alfranco held up his hands, his expression stern. “Pipe down, ya crazies. I told ya before, even the Derkka ain’t all bad.” Before anyone could object, he quoted from The Psalms of Enok, Monthaven’s holy book: “‘There’s none so good that never sins, none so evil that’s all bad.’ Goes for the other races of men as it does for us Enoks. I know ya don’t believe it, but the Derkka are ancestors of the Kanenites, and so are the Drokka.”
“No way that’s true!” Sally, Jon’s wife, gasped, clutching her husband’s arm.
“Can ya explain that, Franki?” Doc Wirtz asked, his tone measured. “Hard to fathom goblins and dwarves bein’ from the race of men, with their strange looks.”
“If I’ve told ya once, I’ve told ya a thousand times,” Alfranco sighed, his voice tinged with exasperation. “Oh, unbelievin’ generation, how much longer must I be saddled with ya? The Kanenites are many tribes, their path to TerrVerde older than ours. The Amorosi elves was here before any men—Drokka, Derkka, or Kanenites. The elders in Arbola told me the Derkka didn’t always look like goblins, but they worshipped Baal, and the Evil One cursed ‘em into the travesties we see now.”
“That’s horrible!” Sally whispered, her eyes wide.
“Be that as it may,” Alfranco continued, “it’s the same for the dwarves. The Drokka worship false gods, and all that time under the mountains deformed ‘em. Only the Kanenites on our side of the mountains show their true heritage—they look like us. And get this—the Amorosi claim all men come from a single family, long ago, across the seas.”
“That’s crazy!” Neil barked, his face red with indignation. “This loon’s off his rocker. Why we even listenin’ to him?”
Aldom quickly steered the conversation back, protecting his revenue stream. “So, Franki, the Kanenites are our allies, right?”
“That’s true,” Alfranco said, nodding. “The Kanenites on our side of the mountains got tribes our Enok brothers married into. We ain’t always the best of friends, but they was our allies in the war, fightin’ for their homeland too.”
“I don’t trust any man who ain’t an Enok—they’ve all got the stink of Kane’s Sin on ‘em,” Neil grumbled, trying to incite the crowd again.
“Ya don’t know what yer talkin’ about, boy, so sit down!” Alfranco snapped, his dander rising. “The Drokka and Kanenites repented of Kane’s Sin long ago. Lucky for us, ‘cause them clans keep the western hordes at bay.”
“Don’t forget the dagger,” Emcorae whispered, tugging at his grandfather’s sleeve.
“Ha! My grandson’s a smart one, fellas!” Alfranco patted Emcorae’s head, his expression softening. “Yer right, Em, I’m s’posed to be tellin’ ya ‘bout my dagger. But gee whiz, all this talkin’ makes a man thirsty.”
“Aldom,” Jon Middleswarth called, pulling a coin from his pocket.
“Thanks, Jon.” With a fresh lager in hand, Alfranco continued, “So there they was—the hordes of Gor, fifty thousand strong, invaded from the North, down through Stax, all the way to Pennal’s western border! Our forces was split—more than half the Drokka had to stay in the mountains to guard the passes, leavin’ less than ten thousand Kanenites and only five hundred Amorosi to fight in the swamps of Stax. Don’t sound like a fair fight, but when ya got Nefilum on yer side, anythin’s possible.”
“Oh, c’mon, Franki,” Neil interrupted again, his tone mocking, “you back to that legend? Nefilum? Still tryin’ to convince us the elves are descendants of spirits, not the ill-fated Kane like the rest of the spooks?”
“Now, little Neil Belzer, you listen to me,” Alfranco said, standing up, wagging a finger at the younger man, who was forty years his junior. “Neither you nor yer daddy ever believed anythin’ ya ain’t seen with yer own eyes, but we all know ya ain’t seen much ‘cause yer too ‘fraid to leave this sleepy town.” The crowd chuckled as Alfranco downed the rest of his pint—the one he’d just been served—and demanded, “How ‘bout makin’ yerself useful and buyin’ me another?”
Before Neil could respond, Alfranco one-upped him. “I wouldn’t give ya the satisfaction. How ‘bout a round for the house—on me?”
The Brandonale erupted in cheers, Alfranco’s wit and generosity winning the crowd yet again. Neil kept his mouth shut, for the moment, his scowl deepening.
“Now, if yer quite done, I’ll proceed,” Alfranco said, taking his seat. “To answer young Neil: yes, the Amorosi are Nefilum—children of spirits called Lumenarcs. They live in the big forests on our side of the mountains—Regalis, Meridia, and Arbola near us. Some of ya seen elves before, so ya know what they look like: tall, lithe, beautiful, really. They’re incredible warriors, but they hate war, only fight when forced. Rest of the time, they stay in their woods. I lived with ‘em a few years after the war—best years of my life. Never forget their music, their celebrations, their happiness. Always found it strange they didn’t eat meat—guess when ya can talk with animals like the Amorosi, it changes ya. Y’all should be grateful for Nefilum like the Amorosi, ‘cause if not for them, we’d prob’ly all be slaves in Gor. Them elves sent more of Kane’s people to Illusia—Hel, as we call it—than Enok ever did.”
“Even still, when I heard the captains talk ‘bout the odds we faced, it didn’t look good,” Alfranco went on, his voice growing grim. “’Specially knowin’ Myzentius was callin’ the shots on the other side. The evil ‘god’ of war, that’s what he was. His plan was good—brought a massive host of Derkka from the north durin’ spring, when the mountains was passable and the waters in Stax’s bogs was thin. Led ‘em through Chakor—the only forest in the East the Amorosi don’t control—puttin’ ‘em in position to rip Pennal and Mersia in two.”
“It would’ve divided our allies from us, right, Alfranco?” Ben asked, playing along with the old man’s storytelling style.
“That’s right, doc,” Alfranco agreed. “And Myzentius had another trick—more Derk amassin’ on the western side of the Rhokii, threatenin’ to attack the Drokka there too.”
“If the plan had worked,” Aldom said, filling Alfranco’s mug again, “the evil legions could’ve run rampant through the East—sweepin’ the Enoks off TerraVerde, eh?”
“Too true, my friend, too true,” Alfranco said after a long gulp. “’Course, Myzentius’ plan didn’t work, ‘cause the Eastern Allies got warnin’ and we was waitin’ for ‘em outside Chakor—much to their surprise.”
“How’d we know ‘bout Myzentius’ plan?” Hal wondered.
“It was the Azora—the Amorosi’s special forces,” Alfranco boasted, his chest puffing with pride. “And one warrior in particular—El-Janus, the greatest swordsman who ever lived, and my personal friend…”
As Alfranco’s continued his tale inside the bar, a chill wind rattled the Brandonale’s shutters – a faint whisper of something darker stirring beyond the village’s borders. For unbeknownst to the revelers, a shadow loomed in the forest along the Suskil River—stone-gray figures with amber eyes, their wings folded tightly against their backs. Baals, the gargoyles of legend, drawn by the faint hum of the energy hidden beneath Alfranco’s tunic. Although they did not yet know its exact location, their hunt was relentless and had drawn them here – their guttural whispers now carried on the wind, promising death to any who stood in their way. Their presence marked the beginning of a storm that would soon descend upon Monthaven, one that would draw young Emcorae into a destiny far greater than this sleepy tavern could contain.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 