Location: Various
Timeline: Sixth Age, 53rd Year, Spring
Before we get to Emcorae’s trip home, I must write to you about my rival Alyssa’s continued interference in the young man’s life. As you’ll soon read, The Goddess of Love didn’t do Emcorae any favors with her favor. But too bad for him, the gods don’t care what you mortals think…
The Shadows of Meridia
Beneath the colossal, swaying canopy of the Great Queen Palm, the goddess Alyssa held her court within the steaming, vibrant heart of the old forest. Unlike the disciplined, silver-leafed forests of the Amorosi in Arbola, Meridia was a more primal antiquity. It was a realm of emerald humidity, where curtains of moss draped over ancient, gnarled cypresses that dipped their knees into blackwater pools. The air bloomed with jasmine, damp earth, and the faint, musky scent of love—the lingering trace of Alyssa’s consort Pan, whose wild laughter often startled the iridescent dragonflies from their reeds.
Alyssa herself was a vision of the forest’s dual nature: beautiful, yet perhaps terrifying. Her skin had the luster of polished mahogany, and her hair was a cascading waterfall of sunshine curls, interwoven with orchids that bloomed and withered in seconds according to her whims. She sat upon Pan’s throne of living roots, her blue eyes like pools of sapphire, nibbling on a tart apple with a casual grace that belied her status as divine. Around her, the forest teemed with life—countless creatures hummed in melodic chords and moved in accord with the Amorosi of this land.
The goddess’ peace was interrupted by the arrival of the Mylar elder, Aeaea. Though the Mylars—the Children of Mu—were the offspring of Pan and the first woman Lilith, they paid deference to Alyssa as Pan’s long-time consort.
Aeaea was a striking contrast to the goddess or the Amorosi people who took care of these lands. Standing shy of two feet tall, he retained the radiant, “fey-like” appearance of the original Mu Men of the flat earth. Unlike the ethereal, technologically-advanced descendants I encountered in Lemuria, Aeaea was still a creature of light and soil. His skin had a faint, pearlescent glow, and his brow was broad and luminous, etched with the lines of a wisdom that predated the birth of humans. There was an undeniable “radiance” to his nature, a strange magic that made the very grass beneath his tiny feet stand taller as he passed.
“Why, Little Father, back so soon?” Alyssa asked, flashing a carefree smile that masked a sudden surge of anxiety. “Surely Syn has not delved the Secret Reach already?”
Aeaea bowed low, his movements possessing a weight and dignity that far exceeded his stature. “Even we mya can move with speed through the Sands of Time if there is a need, dear Eos. Fear not, for the Queen of Karkamesh is still unaware of the Deep. But I come with a new portent. The champion has been released from your Emerald Cage, and his movement through the world is already creating ripples in the Sands.”
Alyssa’s smile faltered. She had kept Emcorae Azop trapped in the winter ice of Arbola not just to train him, but to shroud his presence. Now, his Butterfly Effect was beginning to disturb the cosmic balance, and perhaps her own plans for his future.
“We must discuss the Prophecy of Elara,” Aeaea continued gravely, his voice like the rustle of dry leaves in a cathedral. “You remember the verses of the Seer, from the First Age before the Amorosi and the Atlanteans were divided?”
He recited the fragment that had haunted the divine councils for millennia:
“From Adam’s line, a reed shall rise,
To challenge gods with mortal ties.”
“I still believe it refers to Syn’s rise in the North?” Alyssa averred, her voice dropping to a cautious whisper. To her, this small portion of the lost ‘reed’ was surely about the influence of Inanna, whose reach was extending too far into her realms.
“It may be so,” Aeaea lamented. “Syn has formed an alliance with a dread Myz—a creature of significant power—and Lust quests for another token of considerable magic. If she gains a talisman of the gods, your hero will not prevail.”
Alyssa felt a cold shiver, uncharacteristic for the tropical heat of Mediria. She thought of Emcorae—the youth she had both pampered and imprisoned—and the brutal path she was forcing him to walk. She did not realize, and even the wise Aeaea did not suspect, that the prophecy did not point to the goddess of Karkamesh, but to another deity of darkness who moved through the shadows of the world with his own dark agenda.
“Emcorae will be delivered to his fate according to the timeline,” Alyssa averred tartly, pulling the rank of her status to hide her insecurity. “Fear not, Little Father. Even now, as he rides toward his home, I am guiding his steps.”
“But will he like what he finds? Will it spur him to take the action we need from him?” The intelligent Myan asked.
“Leave it all to me.” Alyssa cautioned. “Now leave me. I must rest.”
Is My Prayer in Vain?
Emcorae’s ride home was a journey of mud and muscle. He pushed Joanne with a focused intensity that bordered on the obsessive, his mind a whirlwind of anticipation about his reunion with Lynsy. As Emcorae crossed the invisible threshold from the enchanted Arbolan borders into the region of southern Pennal, the landscape shifted from the static, silvered perfection of the elven woods into a chaotic, vibrant explosion of life. It was the heart of the Spring Thaw, and the mortal world seemed to be waking up with a raw, almost desperate energy.
The rolling hills of the region were a patchwork of waking greens—from the pale, lime-tinted buds of the weeping willows to the deep, mossy hues of the ancient oaks. Every valley was a catch-basin for the melting snows, turning the winding Suskil River into a churning, tea-colored torrent that bit at its banks. The air was no longer thin and clinical; it was thick and heavy, smelling of slate, crushed wild onions, and the sweet, cloying scent of mountain laurel beginning to crown the hillsides in clusters of white and pink. On both sides of the road were carpets of white trillium and yellow trout lilies that pushed through the rotting remains of last year’s leaf litter, racing to bloom. Thick blankets of ferns, still tightly curled in their “fiddlehead” stage, unfurled from the muddy banks of every spring-fed creek.
The silence of the winter was gone, replaced by a cacophony of birdsong—the sharp, territorial calls of red-winged blackbirds near the marshes and the rhythmic drumming of woodpeckers deep in the hardwoods. Everywhere he looked, the world was in a state of transition. It was a vitality that erupted, messy and mud-stained, a stark contrast to the quiet, curated grace he had left behind. For Emcorae, the sight matched how he felt inside – and it made him long for home all the more.
During their frequent breaks, Emcorae’s hardened exterior would soften only for his mount. He spent the breaks working the kinks out of Joanne’s tight muscles, his hands tracing the faint, rugged scar on her cannon bone.
“I’m sorry, Jo-Jo,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against her velvet nose as she crunched on a handful of grain. “I was a fool to try and break the Goddess’s wall. I almost lost you to my own pride. But we’re nearly there. We’ll find Lynsy, and I’ll never lead you into a trap again.”
One evening, as the moon rose over the snaking path of the Suskil River, Emcorae sought a moment of spiritual communion. He knelt in a small grove of young willows, their budding branches dipping into the water. For the first time since leaving Arbola, he reached out to Alyssa with a humble heart.
“Great Goddess” he prayed, his fingers clutching the twin locket he carried for Lynsy. “You kept me safe when I would have perished. You healed my horse. I was a fool to fight against you. Please forgive me. And please grant me one final grace. Bless my union with Lynsy. Let us find the peace in Monthaven that you showed me in Arbola…with Nathily.”
The response was not a warmth, but a sudden, chilling silence. The wind, which had been a gentle spring breeze, abruptly died. The cheerful babble of the Suskil seemed to muffle, turning into a low, mournful groan. Above him, a beautiful bluejay flittered from tree to tree – yet in mid flight it was swarmed by a black cloud of crows. They tore at the songbird with unnatural ferocity, and a single, blood-stained blue feather drifted down, landing precisely upon the locket in Emcorae’s hand. He chased the crows away, and tried to get the injured bird, but they took their carrion with him.
A cold dread pierced Emcorae’s chest. He didn’t know the nature of the omen, but he surely felt the Goddess’s withdrawal. “It must be a mistake,” he said, rising. “Surely Alyssa would never abandoned me.” And he made dinner to take his mind off the unsavory scene.
Sleep offered no refuge. That night, Emcorae fell into a deep, exhausted slumber plagued by a trio of half-remembered nightmares—visions so vivid and disjointed they felt less like dreams and more like revelations from the gods.
In the first fever-dream, Emcorae looked upon a strange, impossible city of giant pyramids perched atop a thundering waterfall that overlooked a vast, steam-choked jungle. The skies were not empty; dozens of dark, leathery shapes roamed the clouds—gargoyles with wings like tattered silk. Even from his ethereal vantage point, he felt the vibration of constant war.
Suddenly, the scene shifted to a throne room of jagged stone. Before him sat a king with dark, leathery skin and wicked red eyes, wearing a crown that was not made of gold, but of living, intertwined vipers that hissed in rhythmic unison. This king laughed—a sound like dry bone snapping—at Emcorae and two faceless companions who stood beside him. Emcorae felt a crushing sense of doom; they were trapped in a land of ancient, reptilian malice.
But the vision ended in a diaphanous bedchamber. He lay with a queen of such devastating, sexually alluring beauty that his every thought was captured by her. As he leaned in to kiss this temptress, a part of his soul screamed at him to remember the name of his true love—but in the nightmare, the name was gone, drowned in the purple mist of the queen’s gaze.
The next set of phantasms involved a relentless pursuit. He was riding Joanne at a killing gallop through lands he had never seen—vast deserts, mountain passes, and sprawling coastal metropolises. He was not alone; two fierce allies rode at his flanks, their faces blurred by speed but their loyalty unquestionable. They were hunting two shadows—bandits who had stolen something so precious it burned a hole in Emcorae’s heart.
Whispers of names he had never heard echoed in his ears: Crux, Regalis, New Playo. Then, darker, more mysterious venues: Lethe, Gaspar, and the sun-scorched silence of Ra. He knew he was on a quest for a talisman of the gods, driven by a lust for justice that had replaced his very blood with fire. He would not stop until the thieves were caught and the world was set right.
But it was the final dream that shattered his mind. He found himself floating like a ghost over a ransacked campsite by a roadside he did not recognize. A morning fog clung to the ground, obscuring the wreckage and the motionless figures strewn among the downed tents. As his eyes raced through the mist, he saw it: a body with long, strawberry-blond hair, the exact shade and shape of Lynsy Finch.
The dream jumped forward. A band of nomads in a wagon train arrived, rummaging through the tragedy for valuables before rolling away into the haze. Then, an old man emerged from the woods—a pauper who seemed to accept the carnage with a grim, professional resolve. The old man began to work with a strength that defied his years, piling the wreckage into a massive heap.
Smoke began to fill the dream, thicker than the fog. Emcorae watched in frozen horror as the old man lit a great pyre. Within the rising conflagration, he saw the limbs of the murdered.
“What about Lynsy?” he screamed within the dream.
Then came the sound that broke the world. From within the center of the flames, he heard the unmistakable, agonizing screams of his lover. Lynsy was still alive, calling his name as the smoke consumed her.
“No! Don’t burn them—can’t you see, old fool, that my Lynsy is not dead?” Emcorae raged.
He awoke with a strangled cry of “NO!” that echoed into the damp Pennal dawn. He was sweating, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, the smell of spectral smoke still stinging his nostrils. He reached for the locket at his neck, his fingers trembling. The omen of the jay and the crows from the previous night had found its voice in the flames of his sleep. He had to move. He had to reach Monthaven before the dreams became history.
Sweating and trembling, he saddled Joanne before the sun had fully crested the hills. The sun was high over the Pennal hills, but its warmth did not reach the road. The atmosphere had grown thick and cloying, the air stagnant despite the spring thaw. As Emcorae crested a rise, the silence of the woods was broken by the rhythmic creak of ungreased axles and the wet, heavy trudge of exhausted feet.
A bedraggled caravan of refugees emerged from the bend. They were a pathetic sight—a mixture of areas sturdiest farmers and its once-prosperous merchants, now reduced to hollow-eyed specters. Their carts were piled high with a desperate, nonsensical jumble of salvaged life: charred furniture, sacks of grain, and weeping children huddled atop damp bedding. Oxen, their ribs showing and hides matted with soot and dried mud, strained against their yokes, their heads hanging low in defeat.
The people were worse. They were masked in a layer of grey ash that made their skin look like weathered slate. Many bore the marks of a frantic escape—singed hair, bandages made of filthy rags, and the vacant, thousand-yard stare of those who have seen the logic of their world dismantled in a single night.
Emcorae pulled Joanne to a sharp halt, the white mare sensing the miasma of fear radiating from the group. He sat tall in his saddle, his Arbolan armor—silver-chased and etched with swirling leaf patterns—glinting brilliantly in the sun. To these people, he looked like a god descending from a mountain, a sight that should have brought hope, but instead elicited a visceral, snarling bitterness.
“Hold, friends!” Emcorae called out, his voice steady despite the hammer of his heart. “What news of the road? I seek Monthaven. How far to the Finch estate?”
The lead traveler swayed with exhaustion. His tunic was scorched black across the chest, and his hands, gnarled by years of labor, trembled as he gripped a walking staff. He looked up at Emcorae, his eyes narrowing as they took in the elven craftsmanship of the boy’s gear. He didn’t offer a greeting. Instead, he gathered a mouthful of bloody phlegm and spat on the ground near Joanne’s hooves.
“Monthaven?” the man rasped, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. “There is no Monthaven, boy. Only a blackened scar where a town used to be. The hearths are cold because there are few houses left to hold them. ‘Though the mighty church still stands – as always”
“What are you saying?” Emcorae’s voice dropped into a low, dangerous growl. He gripped the reins until his knuckles turned as white as his horse.
“Orkney men… they came with torches,” the man whispered, his eyes suddenly darting to the shadows of the budding trees as if expecting the very leaves to sprout blades. “But they weren’t the worst of it. A gargoyle came with them. It took them all. The Finch estate… it was destroyed. A pyre that lit the whole valley.”
A woman in the cart behind him, her face half-hidden by a tattered shawl, let out a jagged, dry sob. “They say it’s the Azop boy’s fault,” she shrieked, her voice thin and manic. “They say he went to the woods and made a deal with the demons! That his ‘elven friends’ brought the King’s wrath down on us and then abandoned us to the fire while they sat safe in their trees!”
The man with the scorched tunic stepped closer, his trembling hand pointing south. “If you value your life, you’ll turn that horse around. There is nothing left but ash, the smell of the dead, and the King’s ‘Hunters’ looking for anyone with the Azop name to hang from what’s left of the town square.”
The world seemed to fracture before Emcorae’s eyes. The vibrant spring greens of Pennal turned to a sickly, jaundiced yellow in his vision. The dreams of the night before—the smoke, the pyre, the screams—were no longer phantoms. They were the map of his immediate future.
He didn’t wait for another word. He didn’t offer the refugees gold or help. He was a man possessed. He spurred Joanne into a brutal, lung-bursting gallop, the mare’s hooves tearing into the soft spring earth. The “Monthaven Horror” was no longer a whisper or an omen; it was a cold iron band tightening around his throat, driving him toward a home he feared had already become a graveyard.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 