Part IV: That Meddling Kid
Chapter 3: The Morati
Location: Monthaven, Eastern TerraVerde
Timeline: Sixth Age of Substance, 45th Year, Mid-Autumn
Although you might think I’m bored recounting the tedious lives of Emcorae and his grandfather Alfranco, think again – I’ll admit, this part of his yarn stirs a flicker of delight in the shadows of my heart and had I been present at the Brandonale Inn that night, I’d have savored a dark brew or two, listening to that old charlatan spin his tales about my beloved Morati. I’d have savored the terror of these village simpletons huddled in their rustic tavern, trembling at the horrors I crafted…
The townsfolk of Monthaven crowded close in the Brandonale, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and fascination, as Alfranco Azop voice cut through the murmur of the crowd, the old gaffer’s every word laced with the weight of memory and the thrill of terror.
“Yikes!” Neil Belzer yelped, clapping his hands to his mouth, his knees buckling as he stumbled to a nearby bench – for the tale of the walking dead which Alfranco told had drained the color from Neil’s face, leaving him trembling.
A few locals coughed out feeble laughs, but most shared Neil’s dread, their breaths shallow as they leaned closer to the storyteller. They’d heard Alfranco’s story before—many times, in fact—but its horror never dulled. They drank it in as if it were the first telling, the flickering lamplight casting eerie shadows across their tense expressions.
“Y’all sure ya want me to go on?” Alfranco asked, his green eyes glinting with mischief as he scanned the crowd, a smoldering smoke stick in one hand, a full tankard in the other.
“Ya can’t stop in the middle of the Morati Feast!” Doc Ben chided, his tone mock-stern as he adjusted his patched cloak. “Spin out the rest, Franki.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” Alfranco grinned, taking a long pull from his ale, foam clinging to his lips. “So there I was in camp, watchin’ helplessly as the Morati defiled our fallen brethren on the battlefield. I couldn’t figure why we weren’t stoppin’ ‘em, ‘til a fellow from Crux saw my confusion. He motioned me over and explained. Early in the war – he says to me – the allies gave up tryin’ to halt this nightly desecration. It was beyond our strength to fight Myzentius’ hordes by day and the walkin’ dead by night. We had no choice—he says – we had to save our strength to hold the eastern cities, or the enemy would’ve overwhelmed ‘em. The war demanded we let the Morati feast… unfettered.”
[I know what you’re thinking, dear reader – you believe the Morati’s feast “evil,” their actions “defilement,” but who are you to judge? You, who don’t even know your true creator – believing it to be another, but in fact never know it was Lucifer – who did so at my urging. Yet I am a creator God too – for I crafted the Morati after you, little human, and in the eyes those walking dead creatures, their feast is just and good— for they survive as you do. Yet even still I know you recoil, for you blind to the beauty of their hunger – and that is your fault, not theirs].
“My God, Franki, I pity them men,” Hal Sutton said, his broad frame shuddering beneath his hay-scented tunic. “Must’ve been gut-wrenchin’, hearin’ them horrors each night, knowin’ the Lepeds were feastin’ on yer friends.”
“Worse than that, Hal,” Alfranco cautioned, his voice dropping low. “Can ya imagine havin’ to kill one of yer own buddies who’d turned leped himself?”
“I don’t understand—what’s he talkin’ ‘bout?” Sally Romaine blurted, her shawl slipping as she clutched her husband’s arm.
“Shh!” Jon Romaine hissed, his own fear evident in his tightened grip. “Let the gaffer speak, woman!”
“It’s alright, Jon,” Alfranco chuckled, waving a hand. “For those who don’t know, like Sally, let me remind ya how Lepeds are made. The Morati’ll feast on any flesh—don’t matter if it’s livin’ or dead. But if they get their hands on the livin’, beware! A leped’s bite don’t just kill ya—it does worse. If their poison gets in yer blood ‘fore ya breathe yer last, you’ll rise as a leped too!”
[Personally, I’ve always find this trait of my Morati exquisite—their ability to spread their king through a simple bite, a molecular transference of their essence. A stroke of genius, if I do say so myself. A perfect cycle of renewal, though your kind will never understand].
“Then the tale of Tonka is true!” Sally gasped, her voice trembling.
“I don’t know ‘bout that, Sally, never been there,” Alfranco said, taking a long puff on his smoke stick, the ember glowing red in the dim light. “But one look at a Morati, and I can see why folks believe the Tale of Tonka Town. As I said, the Morati are thin, bony, dreadful to behold. Their bodies are decayin’—ya can see their bones through missin’ patches of clammy skin!”
[Ah, such a description is beautiful—cold, clammy skin, bones stark against rotting flesh. A testament to their enduring hunger, a form that mirrors their purpose].
“What ‘bout their eyes?” Jon asked, his voice quaking though he tried to hide it, hoping to scare Sally further. “Didn’t ya say their eyes are the creepiest?”
“Right you are, Jon,” Alfranco said ominously, taking a swig of his ale. “Worst of all were the Morati’s eyes—empty, black sockets glowin’ with a hate-filled hunger! And if ya think the sight of ‘em is bad, it pales next to the sounds they make when they feast—the crackin’ of bones, the slurpin’ of blood, the tearin’ of—”
“Oh, yuck!” Sally buried her face in Jon’s shoulder, her voice muffled. “Make him stop, Jon!”
“Shh,” Jon replied, shivering but leaning closer, craving more.
“If ya like that, get this,” Alfranco said, accepting another pint from Aldom with a nod. “El-Janus told me the Morati’s saliva ain’t just poisonous—it burns. After they kill, they drool their mucous over their victims’ flesh, drawin’ out the bones. Then they crack ‘em open and slurp the marrow! Make sure they don’t get yer marrow!” He let out a cackle, a chilling sound that sent shivers through the crowd, the lamplight flickering as if in response.
That was all Sally could take. She bolted from her seat, screaming as she fled the inn, her shawl trailing behind. Jon followed reluctantly, casting a longing glance back at the crowd.
The locals laughed at the spectacle, but a heavy silence soon settled over the room, the warmth of the hearth suddenly inadequate against the chill of Alfranco’s words.
Aldom broke the quiet, sliding another mug to Alfranco. “Ain’t nothin’ a little ale can’t cure, right, Franki?”
“Here, here!” Ben called, raising his glass, the others joining in, eager to drown the tale’s terror in another round.
Aldom busied himself collecting coppers when the Romaines rushed back in. “Couldn’t let my gal get too far in the dark,” Jon said with a shaky laugh, guiding Sally to a bench, her face still pale.
Alfranco, after a few sips and puffs, continued. “So, there I was, the mornin’ after the Morati feast. I figured I’d best find El-Janus and my mates, when suddenly I saw the men starin’ at the battlefield, dumbfounded. Somethin’ was wrong—but a good wrong, if ya catch my meanin’.”
“What happened?” Hal asked, leaning forward.
“As dawn broke over the wasteland, there was no evil army lined up against us—the hordes were retreatin’! Far as the eye could see, ranks upon ranks of ‘em were makin’ for the western mountains. A glorious sight, it was!”
“Weren’t ya ‘fraid it was a ruse?” Jon asked, his voice steadier now.
“Wise man, Jon,” Alfranco said, nodding approvingly. “We had to be sure it wasn’t a trick—that job fell to El-Janus and my crew. Believe it or not, while the allies relaxed, my team trailed the entire evil army! Scariest time of the war for me. Picture this—for a moon and a half, we were in the danger zone, and all I could think was, ‘Saint Enok, don’t let me die at the end when the fightin’s done!’” He wiped his brow, then sat up straight. “But I had a job to do, and I did it.”
“Better you than me,” Neil muttered, his bravado gone.
“You’re a good man, Alfranco,” Doc Ben slurred, patting him on the back, the ale clearly taking its toll. “Al-Cor… Al-Corragio.”
“Thanks, Ben,” Alfranco said, his voice softening. “We scouts trailed the hordes to the mountain tops—I didn’t relax ‘til the last hobgoblin vanished over them hills.” His words trailed off, his gaze distant, whether from memory or the ale, none could tell.
Aldom tapped his shoulder. “Ahem, Alfranco, what ‘bout the Morati? Ya didn’t let ‘em get away too, did ya?”
Alfranco started, snapping back to the present. “Right, the Morati! A’fore we scouts left, I was still in camp that morn, watchin’ the hordes flee. Waves of joy swept through us—men praisin’ the gods for our sudden fortune.”
“Pah, ‘the gods’!” Sally scoffed. “Don’t let Pastor Kastelli hear ya talk like that.”
Alfranco ignored her. “That’s when we saw the Morati still roamin’ the battlefields—couldn’t resist all that fresh meat, I reckon. It was a terrible sight—everywhere we looked, them pustuous wraiths were feedin’ on the fallen, their maws drippin’ with blood and grume, that crackin’ and slurpin’ echoin’ ‘cross the field. They saw us watchin’, and still they didn’t stop.
“But their feast didn’t last long that day. We weren’t ‘bout to let our dead be defiled any longer! We charged the field, takin’ vengeance on the Lepeds—chasin’ ‘em down and killin’ every last one that stayed behind!” Alfranco slammed his fist into his palm, his voice raw with savage energy.
[So you slaughtered my Morati, did you? A trifling loss—I crafted more, their numbers endless as your fears].
“Hooray!” the crowd roared, raising their glasses, the clatter of mugs echoing through the inn.
Alfranco held up a hand, his tone sobering. “My friends, it wasn’t pleasant—vengeance never is, no matter how strong the pull.”
[I disagree—vengeance has always been a sweet nectar to me, its taste a balm to my ancient wounds. Yet I saw the shadow his grandfather’s words cast on young Emcorae – a shiver down his spine, a whisper of something ominous he couldn’t yet name. Interesting.]
Now being a master storyteller, Alfranco didn’t end on a grim note. “Mark my words, we cut down them Lepeds—hackin’, rippin’ ‘em apart, over and over, long after they were dead. So many of us, each man ventin’ his frustrations. Not a single Morati escaped that day—and yes, we burned their bones to ensure they’d never return!”
The patrons cheered again, caught up in the tale, and Alfranco let them revel in “their victory.” As Aldom poured another round, Alfranco added, “By the time we scouts confirmed the hordes were gone for good, there was nothin’ left but to return home, hopin’ we’d never face such horrors again. For now, there’s peace in our world—but for how long, who can say?”
“At least ya got to come home,” Sally said, relieved the zombie talk was over.
“Truth be told, woman, when the war ended, I wasn’t ready to return to Monthaven,” Alfranco admitted. “I dreamed of this place every night durin’ the war, but when the time came, I couldn’t do it. I wanted to see more, do more—so I went with my Amorosi friends to Arbola Forest instead.”
“But why’d the hordes quit fightin’?” Edd Occoni asked, puzzled. “And what ‘bout them clans waitin’ to attack the Drokka on the other side of the mountains in Gor?”
“I don’t know the answer to either, Edd,” Alfranco confessed. “Zar’s minions had the numbers—if the fightin’ had gone on, or if the Myz knights had joined the fray, we’d have been worn down, and all would’ve been lost.”
“Thankfully, it didn’t happen that way,” Aldom said, patting Alfranco’s shoulder.
“Praise Saint Enok for that,” Alfranco agreed. “I can’t say why the hordes left, but ol’ Franki says—good riddance!” He drained his mug as the crowd cheered once more. Declining another tankard, he rose from his stool. “That was nigh on fifty years ago. That’s how the Last Great War ended, and that’s how I’ll end this story. Ready to go, Em?”
[You mortals and your “Last Great War”—a laughable notion. As if your kind could ever resist the call to conflict. It was but one war in an endless chain, a fleeting pause in your cycle of bloodshed].
“Sure thing, grandpop,” Emcorae said, hopping off his stool.
“No, Franki, don’t go yet!” Doc Ben pleaded.
“What’d ya do in Arbola?” Edd piped up.
“Tell us ‘bout them gargoyles!” Jon urged, hoping to spook Sally again, dreaming of her seeking comfort later.
“Yeah, tell us,” Neil coaxed, his sarcasm a mask for his fear of venturing outside, half-convinced a leped lurked in the dark.
Neil’s taunt nearly worked—Alfranco glared at him, his voice sharp. “Watch yer mouth, youngin’, for ya know not what ya say. The garg—” But Emcorae tugged his sleeve, and Alfranco’s expression softened. “Fear not, my little lambs. I’ve many more stories, and many more nights to tell ‘em. As long as ale flows from them taps, I’ll return.” He winked at Aldom, tossing a copper onto the bar. “But for now, my grandson and I best be gettin’ home. Let’s go, Em.”
And so it was that Azop young and old ventured out into the darkness – never realizing the danger to their souls that awaited them.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 