Location: Arbola Forest
Timeline: Sixth Age, 53rd year, Spring to Summer
The Apocrypha of Azazel
History is a circle drawn in blood, and Emcorae Azop was currently tracing its most jagged edge. He had left the forest a boy seeking a bride; he returned as a phantom leading a carriage of ghosts.
Alyssa’s ‘handiwork’ was nearly complete. By allowing the fires of Monthaven to burn away everything he loved, she had stripped the reed of its useless soft wood, leaving only the hard core. She watched his approach from afar sitting on her humid throne in Meridia, her heart beating with a predatory joy that mortals would mistake for compassion. She did not care that Emcorae’s soul was a scorched ruin. To a goddess, a broken man was simply a vessel waiting to be filled with her own divine purpose. And in Alfranco, she saw not a broken old man near death, but the resurrection of her ancient flame – Al-Corragio. The tragedy of the Azop family was, to her, merely the necessary fuel that would help her own never-ending fires burn hotter again.
The Prodigal Returns
Emcorae knew he has no choice but to return to Arbola – it was his only chance – however fleeting – that he had to make an effective strike against the Orkney King. Although his passion for revenge was eating at his soul, he wasn’t stupid enough to try to take on Diked’s entire army by himself. Surely the elves would help him now. Especially since he was bringing his grandfather Alfranco with him – the very man who had become a hero to the Amorosi during The Last Great War. They might deny Emcorae’s plea’s, but they owed Alfranco a debt that required payment – in the form of helping Emcorae. At least that’s how the foolish boy saw it playing out.
Nonetheless, the road back to Arbola was a slow, almost funeral-like march. There was no conversation between he and Alfranco, only the monotonous, agonizing groan of the wagon’s axles and the steady clop-clop of Joanne’s hooves against the muddy spring track.
The cart was borrowed from his relatives The Grengers and Emcorae now sat atop the driver’s bench, his posture as rigid as the silver breastplate he wore. He didn’t look at the budding flowers of Pennal or think about the ruins of the town behind him. Instead his eyes were fixed on the distant, shimmering haze to the south – the great forest of Arbola– where he hoped to find the leverage he needed to break a King.
Behind him, in the bed of the wagon, sat the wreckage of his heritage. Alfranco was a silent, huddled mass beneath a pile of threadbare quilts, his vacant eyes tracing the movement of the clouds. He put up no fight when Emcorae had lifted him into the cart; he was a shell of a man; it was as if his spirit was still trapped in Alyssa’s “Divine Slumber” – that magic that had allowed him to sleep through Kaoz’ slaughter of Monthaven.
Curling at Alfranco’s feet was Chich. The little runt was the only one who seemed to feel the weight of the silence, her ears pinned back, her singed fur bristling whenever the wind shifted. Every so often, the dog would nudge Alfranco’s trembling hand, receiving only a faint, ghostly pat in return.
Within Emcorae, a terrifying alchemy of the soul had taken place. The intense love he had once felt for Lynsy Finch had been brutally…cauterized. It was a raw, blackened wound that was festering inside.
Let it burn, the would-be Azora thought, his jaw set so tight it ached. Let every memory of her touch be the flint that strikes the spark of my revenge. Whenever his mind drifted toward a vision of Lynsy’s smile or the way his blood used to race for her charms, he didn’t weep. Instead, he forced the image away, replacing it with a cold vengeance. He envisioned King Diked’s throat beneath his boot. He whispered macabre tortures to the rhythm of the wagon’s creak—dark, intricate ways to make the King suffer until death felt like a mercy the tyrant didn’t deserve.
Emcorae believed that Lynsy was dead. The ruins of the Finch estate—that blackened ribcage of stone—and the harrowing, ash-flecked stories of the townsfolk left no room for hope. With his heart thus ripped out, Emcorae gave no thought to his future. He wanted only one thing more in his short, cursed existence: to destroy Diked.
And after? The thought flickered as he spat to the side of the wagon. After the King is cold, I will find a high rampart on Orkney’s castle and throw myself into the gulf. Perhaps I can find Lynsy in the afterlife… if there is such a place for souls like ours.
But even through the haze of his despair, he continued to plan. He knew he could not simply charge the gates of Fubar and hope for success. To fail would be to let Diked “win” twice. He knew he was not strong enough to face a Myz alone, nor could he cut through the armored legions of the North with a single blade. He knew he needed an army to support his cause.
He mentally sifted through his options. The petty kingdoms of Pennal were a patchwork of lords large and small; yet Emcorae had no status, no title, and no gold to buy their loyalty. He also figured they would sooner hand him over to Diked in chains than risk a border war with the stronger kingdom of Orkney. Primcitta, for all its wealth, was a city of money-counters and spice merchants, not armies. The High King in Daytaxia was a mythical figure lost in the deep, tropical south – which might as well be a world away.
That left only the Amorosi.
The elves of Arbola sat on the southern border of Pennal. They were close. They had warriors enough to defeat Diked. And they knew him. They owed him! The plan was simple – he would bring Alfranco and Chich to their safe have, and then the would demand they assist him in righting the injustice of King Diked. He would also throw the news of a Myz on this side of TerrVerde at the feet of the Council. If the massacre of a mortal town didn’t move them, perhaps the threat of a Myz so close to Arbola would finally compel them to act.
It would work – it had to!
Meanwhile, the travel was a grueling, spirit-breaking crawl. Much to Emcorae’s angst, he was forced to temper his desperation with the reality of the situation. Joanne, a mare bred for the swift, gallops of the Azora, was neither trained nor physically built to haul a heavy wagon. She gave her best effort, her coat lathering with sweat, but the spring rains had turned the Pennal tracks into a morass of sucking, grey sludge. Had Emcorae possessed coin, he’d have been better served to buy a pack horse from Crux when they’d passed through that border town days ago, but he had barely been able to scrape up enough money to obtain lodgings in one of the stables for his party and he was worried about Alfranco who seemed to be withdrawing further from the mortal world.
Onward they moved – yet all too often, the wagon’s wheels would sink to the hubs with a wet thud. In those moments, the future Azora was reduced to a common laborer. First he would have to lift a catatonic Alfranco from the cart, setting him gently on a dry patch of moss where the old man would sit staring at his own hands, oblivious to the struggle. Leaving Chich in the cart, Emcorae would then unload their supplies, before putting his shoulder to the tailboard to push. With primal efforts that left his caked in mud, he would heave the wagon through the muck while Joanne strained at the harness, her hooves churning the earth.
These delays and other quagmires eventually doubled the length of the journey. Though Joanne never once pinned her ears or bared her teeth in complaint, Emcorae knew his friend was flagging from exertion. During their meager camps at night, he was a attentive shadow — spending hours rubbing out the knots in her trembling haunches, whispering thanks into her velvet ears. He shared his own dried fruit and gave her double rations of oats, occasionally leading her to the edge of the woods to find the purple thistles she loved—a small piece of normalcy in a world that had gone mad.
At last the air changed – the heavy pine scent of the Pennal lowlands gave way to the more varied greenery of the great forest. They had reached the northern border of Arbola, where the ancient trees stood like cathedral pillars. As the wagon creaked toward the invisible threshold, two Azora sentinels stepped from the deepening shadows. Their longbows were partially drawn, the arrows tipped with the signature Arbolan glass that could pierce plate mail as easily as parchment.
Their eyes widened as they recognized the figure in the driver’s seat. The last time they had seen Emcorae, he had been a defiant rebel, vowing never to return as he’d chosen the mundane mortal world over the legendary life the elves had offered him.
“Hold, Friend,” the lead guard commanded. It was Raison, a fellow Azora youth that Emcorae had once sparred with in the sun-dappled glades of his training. “The Council has not sanctioned your return. And you bring… another? A mortal into the Sacred Reach? Why?”
Emcorae pulled the wagon to a halt. The sudden silence of the forest was deafening, swallowing the protest of the wooden wheels.
“He is my grandfather,” Emcorae said. His voice was a flat and matter of fact. “He might look different than the last time your people saw him, but this man is under the protection of Alyssa herself. For he is the one your legends call Al-Corragio.”
“The Lady’s Friend?” The second guard stepped forward. He was older than Raison, his face etched with the subtle lines of a century of watchfulness. He had been a campainer during the Last Great War and remembered the charismatic man who had once been the Goddess’s favorite. He leaned over the side of the wagon, peering at the huddled, vacant-eyed figure in the quilts. The elf’s expression softened. “This is indeed Al-Corragio,” he murmured, his keen elven eyes seeing the shattered remains of the man’s aura. “It saddens my heart to see what the years have wrought. Perhaps the Song of Arbola can knit back what is torn. He is forever welcome within the Green.”
“Be that as it may,” Emcorae interrupted, his gaze shifting past them toward the road that led to the heart of the forest. “Please, let me pass. I have a debt to collect from the Council, and time is eating at my soul.”
The guards exchanged a wary glance. They could feel the shift in Emcorae’s presence—a jagged energy that felt like a storm held behind a dam. Perhaps it was the “Butterfly Effect” the Mylar Aeaea had whispered of to Alyssa? Regardless, after a silent communion of minds, the Azora signaled for him to pass.
“I hope you find the answer you’re looking for, Em,” Raison said, offering a crisp salute.
“Me too,” Emcorae grunted. He nickered to Joanne, and the mare leaned into the collar. The wagon rolled forward, crossing the threshold into the timeless grace of the forest—it was a scene of mortal tragedy piercing the pristine heart of an immortal sanctuary.
The Goddess Commands
The intertwined boughs of seven Golden Oaks, their trunks thick as castle towers, formed the exterior of The Great Green Hall, whilst the trees silver-veined leaves formed a canopy that filtered the sunlight into a persistent, emerald twilight. High above, whispering vines trailed down like living chandeliers, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic bioluminescence that mimicked the heartbeat of the forest itself.
In the center of this verdant sanctuary, the High Council of the Amorosi stood in a subservient semicircle, their ethereal grace momentarily eclipsed by the sheer radiance of the goddess at the center of the dais.
Alyssa stood bathed in a shaft of emerald light that seemed to bleed from the very wood of the Great Hall. On this day, the “Mother of the Woods” was gone. In her place was a commanding deity, her eyes flashing with a divine brilliance that made even the most ancient elves cast their gaze downward.
“Our friend is coming,” she said. Her voice a low and melodic, yet her tone remained chill and unreadable. “He may not be as you remember him, for he has been broken by tragedies old and new. Yet you will look past his human shortcomings and remember: he is the great Al-Corragio—savior of Aslan and Regalis, and my once and future companion.”
El-Janus, the Azora Mystro, was the first to find his voice. His silver tunic shimmered like moonlight as he said. “My Lady, the scout reports speak of a darkness in the boy’s eyes that wasn’t there before. It would appear my pupil does not come for peace.”
The tall cavalier Adarius, his chest plate etched with the sigil of the Charging Stag, added, “Given the intelligence we’ve heard about the destruction of Monthaven, one can guess his heart. Our former Pupil will not ask for wisdom. He will ask for aid—in the form of Azora steel.”
“Before we pick sides,” Lorindel suggested, his voice smooth and measured as he smoothed his silk robes, “perhaps we might hear what King Dik—”
“You will grant him nothing,” Alyssa interrupted, her voice snapping like a branch. She paced the dais, annoyed at receiving input she hadn’t summoned. “Emcorae Azop is mine to do with as I please. He is a weapon I have sharpened, but he is not yet ready to be used. Therefore, you will deny his plea for military aid. Rian and Dallegheri can formulate the necessary excuses.”
The Regent, Rian, looked toward his sire. The ancient Dallegheri let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to rustle the leaves of the hall. “I suppose… we could tell the lad that the treaties from the end of the Fifth Age still hold.”
Rian nodded, picking up the thread. “Those edicts strictly forbid the interference of any of the forests in The League of Arbols from meddling in the squabbles of human kings.”
“And yet,” The scheming Helena wondered, her brow furrowed in genuine concern, “The Prophecy of Elara speaks of a reed that—”
“The Prophecy belongs to the Goddess, not to those who worship me!” Alyssa countered as the emerald light flared, casting long, dancing shadows against the oak trunks.
“Shall we turn him away then?” Rian asked, his voice tinged with a rare flash of shock at the deity’s insensitivity. “The boy has lost his home, his kin… he has lost everything.”
Alyssa ran her hands through her golden locks, her expression shifting into one of bored calculation. “You may offer him sanctuary. Offer him a bed, a meal, and the quiet of the trees. El-Janus, you may even train him again if he possesses the will for it. If he chooses to stay and live among you, so be it. But understand this: it will only be for a time. I have a path laid for him, and soon I will set him upon that trail, whether he is ready or not.”
Then, her demeanor changed. The sharp, jagged edges softened into a kind of warmth. She looked toward the southern reaches of the hall, her eyes misting over wth memory.
“As for Al-Corragio—he is mine. You will take him to the Hidden Springs the moment he arrives. There, I will personally oversee his recovery in a private setting where no mortal eye shall look upon us. I will knit my lover’s mind back together, but I will do it with the threads of our past—and our future.”
The Council members felt the possessive weight of her words. In harmony, they bowed their heads, their voices joining in a soft, melodic chant.
“We understand and comply, Great Mother.”
High above, the whispering vines hummed a low, mournful chord, as if the forest itself knew that the healing of the old man would be bought with the final breaking of the young one.
[I know what you’re thinking – how could Alyssa cast aside Emcorae so easily? Wasn’t he the man she’d claimed as her own earlier in the summer. Yet now her heart was hardened to his tragedy. This type of thinking is for mortals. We gods don’t care about your emotions. I’m surprised Alyssa ever lets herself care about you people at all. True, she had spent a season cultivating Emcorae as her potential consort—a fresh, vibrant soul to warm her immortal bed – but her magic failed and drove him to another. Yet now Al-Corragio was back – the only mortal who’d ever willingly walked away from the goddess of his own willpower. With another chance at love with Alfranco, star-crossed boy was pushed aside. Unlike other gods, Alyssa was a creature of nostalgia. She actually cared for mortals – at least those who might be useful to her. When it came to Alfranco, she did not see the gnarled, ash-stained old man in the back of that wagon; she saw Al-Corragio, the legend who once made her heart beat like none before. Her plan was simple – she would use her immortal powers to peel back the years of Alfranco’s life to reach the sweetness she remembered. And as for Emcorae? He could still be useful. She had cauterized his heart and set him on a path of vengeance not to save his own people, but to use him to further her own designs. Yet this much was certain – she would let Emcorae die a thousand deaths on the ramparts of Orkney if it meant she could spend one more century with Alfranco.]
The Apocrypha of Azazel 