Golarion Plays

The Siblings’ Divine Test

Act I

When the Ever-Maw fitfully moved in His sleep twelve-thousand years ago, the Radiant One quarreled
with His Sister, it was said that it was about a man.

This Azlanti man whispered forbidden prayers (for his brethren allowed no such deeds in their lands) to
The Eternal Rose, Shelyn, asking for the most beautiful face for his child. Shelyn thought it to be a girl,
and reached to his wife’s womb and made it beautiful. Her brother, Dou-Bral thought it to be a boy, and
reached to his wife’s womb and made him handsome.
Unasked was the brother, for the people of the earth loved his sister above him. A woman, the men
said, would understand the secrets of love and beauty. A woman, the women said, would better
understand her own kin.

War, not peace was man’s province, as was the belief of old—War, where horrors rose and swept the
earth was man’s country. War, where souls rose by the thousands in horrible loss was man’s country.
The Radiant One thought Man’s argument to be silly; death came to man and woman equally, and so did
love and beauty.
His priests understood, but the people of Azlant did not. The Aboleth watcher saw this exchange, and
grinned; the gods, he saw, were upstarts who came to the World unbidden, though he was curious of
what this meant. He decided to watch further.

The Eternal Rose saw her brother’s plight, but could not aid him; she reached out, but He saw that she
did not understand.
“Thou doth reach to me in kindness, but thou doth not see what I see,” he said. She reached to him
again, and a dark seed blossomed in his heart.
“I must away,” said He. “The worlds beyond call to me.”
“Dear sweet brother,” said She. “Your words are strange and filled with sorrow. I shall contemplate on
what you said, and I will have an answer. For now, wander with our friend amongst the Silver Stars; so
thou may see what the other Peoples of the World think. Very oft do those blessed with death manage
to see what our eyes doth not.”

He thought this curious; for he was a being of beauty, love, and curiosity. If they are doomed to die in
but counted springs and winters, how may they see what she could not? Such beings were the gods;
they felt no pangs of hurt when injured, and saw no horror in waiting for an inevitable end. Even His
father could not understand, as he sang of beauty and love of all what was—and he did not deign to ask;
his divine father was not as close to him as his sister.
He thus took his holy glaive, a glaive that held the good whispers of children who loved their parents, of
lovers who declared devotions to each other, and the warm feelings from friend to friend, none of which
were any less significant than the other.
These whispers he collected and guarded covetously, for they assured him that not all was lost when his
fair ears heard the wails of the forgotten, the screams of the betrayed, and the silent tears of those
harmed by who they declared love for.
Thus Dou-Bral passed from Golarion, known as the Earth, or the Cage, and visited the realms beyond,
settling on a silver star.
He entered a starry realm, a beautiful castle with low walls and no ceiling, one that revolved as the Cage
itself, and those on it never fell. For indeed, when one has an earth to stand on and a force to embrace
their form, what need are mortals—even Gods for where the sky was?
She awaited him on a star-port; where she rode ships that set anchor in others stars familiar to hers. The
port had no water—for where shall water be in the upper skies? Though the gods did love to impress
their visitors—for Desna struck a deal with the Fickle One, Gozreh of the Sky and Sea to have the ghost
of a sea in her realms; so that she may sail as the mortal people between her starry castles in the sky.

“Greetings, sibling in essence,” said the Starry Lady, the Dreamer, known to Her flock as Desna of the
Stars. “What brings thou so far from thou kin in divine blood? Hast thou came to wander with mine
folk?”

“I have grown weary of the affairs of Men,” he answered.

“And of my beloved folk, the Elves?” Desna asked with a smile. He did not answer, for Elves had great
kingdoms at the time, and though they were people of heart and song, He and His divine sister tended
to shy away from them; their passions were rarely like theirs, for they preferred the Vengeful One, the
Lady of Lust, known as Calistra of the Stings.

“Thou may wander with me,” Desna said. “For thy sister had foretold of this. But take care; follow the
Starry Roads, and do not wander from the bright paths, my friend.”

He knew why, and nodded, looking at the expansive blackness. For beyond the stars, in the dark ever-
skies of beyond lurked strange beings that seemed like they were; they had a drop of divine in their
essence. They were not as they were; not even as their wayward kin the Ever-Maw.

“Kinsman, look at me,” Desna repeated, and to His eyes, the blackness seemed smaller, but further. She
was too Bright to let him see, though he could, if he moved away from her.
He could hear whispers in a strange speech—a harsh thing that echoed in every tongue He spoke, and
the song it made was most terrible to his fair ears.
Such was the speech of the Dark Tapestry; speech that would bend what is to what Should Not Be. It
was a dark place where time had no dominion; a place where light had no shine; where even love had
nothing to touch, an empty blackness that echoed only with the Nothing, so only Loss could resonate
through the infinite skies where his folk never walked.
There is no love—the Void and the World have always been one. We are not kept back by the strength of
the gods—we need not come closer.
All shall return to us—all shall return to Darkness.
This was a place where mortals and immortals did not tread; and he stood at the brink, on a land that
seemed like a port to a hungry sea.
It was a hungry sea that gave him answers, and could heal a heart beyond healing.
Thou doth feel it, Dou-Bral…thou doth feel it, and thou shalt take another name for thy own before the
End.

“Dou-Bral,” Desna repeated, laying her hand on His brow. He turned to her. She was not frightened, for
she lived at the edges of these lands; she knew them more than any other god. “Do not listen to their
whispers; they promise much, but give nothing but Smoke and Shadow.”
“Smoke…and Shadow,” he said.

The Watcher smiled, for so powerful was he, that he could eavesdrop on the gods, planting his essence
unto the seas of the stars. He was curious and intrigued; very rarely did a God act like a Man, and what
strange whispers he hears and makes sounded familiar to him when he heard what Dou-Bral heard.

Act II

“Hast thou been there?” he once asked her, riding on her sky-ship. The side that faced the Nothing
darkened, and the Nothing was everywhere away from their sphere.

“Yay,” she said, nodding her star-crossed brow. “Where I travel, I bring the bravest and strongest of
stars with me, so that we may push the Nothing away.”

“But hast thou met them?”

“Nay,” she said. “Though others of my kin have—none returned. Take heed, kinsman; there are things
mysterious and more ancient than even us, and it is unwise to take paths I know lead to nothing but
loss.”

One day, Desna returned from her travels, and did not find Dou-Bral in her court. The Watcher grinned;
she could not have made him more willing to leave. Desna returned to the Cage, telling the Eternal Rose
that her brother is lost in those terrible skies. Shelyn wept, but she told the Starry Lady that he will
return; he just needs someone like him to confide in.

And confide in something He did. The Watcher could not see beyond the realms of Desna, though the
whispers sounded like sweet music to his dark mind. The Aboleth and What Lay Beyond were kin. When
Dou-Bral returned, he took a different name, as the Whisperers from Beyond had foretold.
He returned changed, so that even the Watcher could not hide his surprise; no longer was he handsome,
nor was he ugly, but He became a terrible creature of nightmare.
He flayed his skin, cut his flesh, and strung chains that harmed his divine body with every movement, so
that each footstep yanked at a crusted wound—though gods were never wounded, He was. His glaive
was also defiled—though by what magic, it was unknown.
He found his sister, and harmed her greatly, spewing dark speech of the death of love, the un-healable
hearts of the heart-broken, and the shattered wisps of broken dreams and ambitions that flowed with
tears into mute pillows.
He spoke of all the dark thoughts in lovers’ minds when their passions ran cold, of wounds
unintentionally made but intentionally kept open.
He spoke of lovers’ quarrel and the death of innocence, the scars that strike children when they are no
longer children, and struck his glaive to the earth, so that his sister would hear the heart-breaking wails
of the dispossessed and unloved.
“Thou doth pride thyself on love,” he sneered, calm and cruel. “But there is a misery in the heart of all
those doomed to die; they seek out sorrow and pain as they seek love and joy. They are false; for they
know that misery is of a longer life.”

“They do seek out misery,” she conceded after consulting herself, though she shut her ears against his
glaive’s wails. “Though they seek love in equal measure.”
“They are false,” he repeated. “This dance they will repeat forevermore, and their souls run empty in
the Paths of Beyond. They run ever-downward, reliving terror and hopelessness regardless of the efforts
we take. For every lost couple we bind together, four families broke. We would guide a child back home,
only to have them see their parents separated forever, and we mused to ourselves: that it not our fault,
we cannot live for them, but aid them if they need it.
“But I saw into the future of the world, and for each laugh that echoes in the silence, a thousand wails
roll like waves against rocky shores; ever-moving, never stopping, until the spirit of all mortal things is
broken and eroded with time, and until the world faces its End. All that Is, ends, and all that one loves
fades into bitter dreams, and the only consolation of those with pure hearts is that the world will change
will love. Answer me now, sister—has the world changed?”

She wept as she heard this words, but then took heart.

“Not yet,” She said, and reached for his glaive to silence it. The wails stilled, and laughter rose again—a
faint echo in comparison.

“Even now, thy heart is filled with doubts,” he sneered, taking hold of his glaive. “Thou doth cling to
dreams and lies. Ask yourself now—Leave my glaive, sister!”

“Thou doth call me sister,” she said, clinging to his soul-whispering glaive. “I ask you by any love you
once bore me; cast away this defiled blade, Father would not have you using it on the path of darkness!”

She stole the blade from his hands, and in a rage, he raised his hand against his sister, dark whispers
filling his mind—whispers he embraced and called now his own, but he lowered it.

“There is a song in the heart of the world, sister,” he said, retreating. “Claim the glaive if thou doth wish
it; you know my words ring truer than yours. You will hear the song, too, before the End.”

“Dou-Bral,” she pleaded, as she knew that it was not the glaive that was defiled; but him. “Please.”

“They called me kin, the Kytons,” he said, and Shelyn knew little of what he meant. “I called them kin in
return. I will show Mankind and all the other races of the world the dark secrets they harbor, and my kin
shall show them what they truly are.”

“Brother,” she pleaded again. “Was it they? Did they do this? The Kytons?”

“As for father—I will approach him on my own,” he said, face breaking to a smile, as his skin stretched
painfully against the spikes and iron binding them.

The Watcher then retreated, for his folk told him of a dark movement amongst their human slaves.
Curious, the Watcher resolved to see this until the end, and he ignored the summons. For years the
Watcher wasted away, seeing humans who spoke to the dark god’s emissaries and priests, he saw how
the dark god met his father, and what a terrible encounter it was.

But the summons of his brethren were urgent. He ignored them again, and they cursed him to waste
away in his deep cave.
“Man doth offend all thy kin!” they declared. “The magics we taught them shield their minds from us—
and they travel unbidden to lands distant from our sight.”
The Watcher could see what would happen to these Men, but he cared little. His kin called him apostate
and exile, and took the deep-court without him.

The Dark One, known before as the Radiant One was summoned to the court of the Judge of the Gods;
the high lord Abadar of the Vault. He held his court, where his demigods and scribes observed the
proceedings, holding aloft a golden hammer. Many gods and beings attended—some watching from afar
(as the Watcher), some attending behind the Judge Himself, as Shelyn, his strangely stoic sister.
The Dark One stood silently, and a murmur ran between all those who were there; for the Dark One cast
no shadow, and had no reflection. It was as if he hewn His shadow from His divine form, or consumed it
for himself. Such was an ill omen between mortals, and a sign of true wickedness amongst the gods; for
a shadow was part of one’s self.

“Thou committed terrible crimes against Man and God, thou who hath been known as Dou-Bral, thou
who knows Himself as Zon-Kuthon,” the evenhanded god intoned. “Thou hath not honored the pact we
all signed, not unlike He Who is Ever-Hungry, may the Cage contain him. Thou hast rebelled against thy
essence of Good, and uprooted the Order of the World, and in doing so, caused untold mass of mortals
to suffer from your dark whispers.
“Such whispers broke homes,” Abadar started, nodding towards Erastil of the Hearth, whose form was
of a high elven man with graceful antlers, leering in hatred at the younger god.
“They have brought loving kin against one another,” Abadar continued, nodding towards Shelyn of the
Rose, whose hands were empty but of rose-pedals.
“They have made crusaders stray against the teachings of their goddess—She whom fights the spawn of
the Ever-Maw as we now speak, and could not attend this court,” he added, referring to a table of
broken holy symbols of Sarcenrae.
“And they have brought the human settlement of Ein-Cathar crashing down in a symphony of hate and
misery,” he finished, referring with apparent impartiality to a crystal orb that smoked with dark red
fumes, though the stern eyes told of his disappointment.
“For thy crimes, thou are sentenced the same punishment as the Ever-Maw; banishment from the
realms of your kin, in a place where thou may harm none any-more.”

The high scribes under his command wrote down the charges, and the court ringed with murmers—as
the antlered Erastil nodded, whispering to his neighbor—a short-stocked deity with a beard of woven
steel, “Justice.”

“Might I interject, honorable judge?” asked the red-skinned one. The Ever-Rose did not turn; she knew
the voice well, and she could not summon holy patience to seem indifferent. Erastil’s eyes narrowed as
he averted his eyes.

“Speak, Asmodeus, Keeper of the Key, and Lord of the Hells,” Abadar said, calm as ever. “Speak, if thou
deem thy speech is relevant.”

“Thank you, honorable judge,” the handsome devil-god smiled, standing up. Zon-Kuthon was held
unchained before the gods, and his sunken eyes observed Asmodeus suspiciously. “Amongst the Great
Ones, thou hast been renowned in the justice of thy judgment—though I asketh thee; do you not see a
catch?”
“I admit it; I do not,” said Abadar of the Vault.

Zon-Kuthon’s eyes were dull yet, and the ever-blackness in them seemed to follow the Lord of the Hells
dispassionately.

“I do, good Judge—and so would the honorable Lady of the Graves, if She deigned to lend her voice to
the proceedings,” ventured Asmodeus, walking down the court to the floor, where Zon-Kuthon lay on
his knees. He swept his majestic deep red cloak as he added, apparently curious at his fellow god, “For I
see no betrayal of the Order of the World.”

“Surely thou doth jest, boy,” cried Erastil angrily, rising from his seat, as his neighboring god looked
sternly at the two. “Betrayed the Code, He did! Great evil did he commit, he did! Even in thy eyes, he is
guilty as charged!”

“Guilty of what?” Asmodeus asked, genuinely surprised.

Asmodeus of the Key smiled darkly, and then turned to Abadar, ignoring Erastil’s pronouncements
(which He did consider an amusing sidetrack), and said, “O Judge of the Wise, thou cannot pronounce
Dou-Bral (Or Zon-Kuthon, if he so names himself) yet! You know of what I speak; he hath not betrayed
the Order of the Gods; he hath chosen a different team; my team.”

“He upset the order—he betrayed what was Good and Holy; He Who Was Dou-Bral is defiled!”

“Good Erastil,” chided the devil-god. “We are all equal before the court of the Judge—I was unaware
thou hast been granted leave to reproach thy fellow god. He is to follow the path of Rule within the
Darkness. Verily, I have an opening for a god of His talent. He is no guiltier in disrupting the world than I;
and I, if anything, am not guilty,” he finished with a small nod that concealed the raging darkness within
—amused at its own play.

“By all that Is in the World—” Erastil of the Hearth turned to glare at Abadar, whose eyes were fixed on
something in his hand under the desk, and then flicked to the Eternal Rose, who was quiet still. His
expression soured, as he turned back to Asmodeus, “Thy may work such mockery of justice in thy own
realm; not between thy peers!”

“Your dark malevolence and devilish tongue be cursed, Asmodeus,” muttered the dwarf-god, Torag of
True Iron. “Never have I had the displeasure of seeing an act so hideously played, nor have I seen such
evil trumpeting as good.”

“You flatter me,” Asmodeus replied, bowing.

“And what a team it will be,” asked Erastil quietly. “Thy ‘team’ set its first steps on the World with deceit
and betrayal, and so joins a new god; a broken, lost one who consumed His divine father to serve him.
Tell me, Asmodeus, dost thou presume that He shall obey thy word? Of mortals, I have seen the Lost
Children pass from their homes with more faith in their family than what you claim is within yours.”

“He has come to my side of His own free will, good god of the hearth,” Asmodeus answered tersely,
amusement slowly fading. “Of all sins contemplated by us to our kin; his is the least. He has not forsaken
the Order of the World, though he (admittedly) delights in misery and sorrow.”
“And that is a good thing?” asked Desna curtly, She Who Walks Amongst Stars.

“Not Good, but it is what he is,” Asmodeus answered, hooded eyes glancing to Shelyn, who said nothing.
“Of anyone—the Ever-Rose would understand; she has always been…supportive of accepting people for
what they are—despite what all others would think—is that not what you pride yourself with?”

“How like you this is, Dark One,” muttered Desna, reaching for Shelyn’s shoulder. “Thou would carry her
banner of love and forgiveness to justify greed and hatred.”

Asmodeus could not bow in appreciation; Abadar watched the exchange with his fair eyes, and seemed
to make a decision. Asmodeus did, however, repeat simply, “That is what he is.”

“I object with the weight of the Earth I bear! I object, and all that is good and holy objects with me!
Weaver of lies—that is not what he is!” Erastil cried, looking at the Ever-Rose’s brooding gaze, before
turning to the Judge.

“Abadar, son and brother—” Erastil began, but the dwarf-god reached for his shoulder, a dark
understanding in his eyes as he saw the God of Justice raise his hidden hand; a golden balanced scale he
bore—on each hand of it, was a stone of different colors; on the right was white-blue and green, and on
the left was black-red, and purple.

“The Keeper of the Keys speaks the truth,” he intoned neutrally, observing the scale. Asmodeus put his
hands behind his back quietly, hearing the upcoming note with a clouded expression.
“Thou hast chosen to cleave from thy Calling, though thou hast preserved thy Godly Essence,” Abadar
told the silent one in chains. “The Powers of the World have seen you, and found that all actions and
utterances from thy tongue ringed true with the Two Powers and the Law, and the nothingness of Chaos
has not claimed thy soul.”

“However,” Asmodeus muttered darkly, hooded eyes burning with silent fury.

“However. Thou hast deviated for too long, and the wrongs thy did to thy divine father were too great—
if thou hast intended on joining the Keeper of the Keys and his…‘team’,” Abadar said. “Then thou should
have followed His example. I sentence you to lurk in the Realm of Shadow—never to step into the
mortal realm, so that your evil is contained in a place that befits you.”

“Never?” Asmodeus repeated.

“Never,” Abadar confirmed, and Asmodeus’s fair brow darkened.

“I wish to speak,” Zon-Kuthon finally spoke—a croak unlike his voice of old; so that many of those who
knew Dou-Bral knew not where the voice came.

“If thou doth wish to appeal,” Abadar began, but the one in chains looked to His sister.

“In the Shadow Realm—” began the dark god in a low voice. “There are no stars—in my jail thou hast
sent me to; I shall forget even my sister. All that is of worth in this world shall be gone to mine eyes;
never to return if my punishment is eternal. All will be gone—with no hope of return.”
Asmodeus’s eyes observed the Dark God, and then turned back to Abadar. Desna’s expression softened,
but hardened under Erastil’s gaze.

“What dost thou know of hope, wicked one?” asked Desna, standing up.

“Starry Lady, please. Surely thou knew this before the deed,” Abadar said calmly, raising his hammer of
judgment.

“I did, Fair One,” he said. “I know as well the cost of such a prison; and I know well that all that Is also
Ends.”

“All true,” Abadar confirmed, and Erastil’s eyes followed the two on the court floor intently, as if divining
their intentions. The Lord of Judgment did not waste his resources on frail judgments.

“Then I propose a deal—waste not thy judgment and power,” Zon-Kuthon answered, dull black eyes
filled with emptiness. “I shalt retreat to that realm, and thou may hold the key to my prison. I hope for
something in return, from your Vault.”

Desna’s face hardened with every utterance of ‘hope’ Zon-Kuthon spoke, until her fair face was as solid
as stone.
Abadar was quiet, and Zon-Kuthon took it as a sign to continue. “I have…lost my shadow in my travels. I
wish for one from thy precious vault.”

“A shadow,” Abadar repeated darkly.

“A shadow—so I may again walk the earth with one,” he continued mildly. “It is most queer for one to
walk with no shadow—know thou the feeling?”

“I shall take your word for it,” answered Abadar, reaching to his desk, from which he took a white quill.
At his touch, it straightened, and the quill’s tail formed itself into a most curious key; each barb twisted
into a series of straight edges, and interlocked unto itself until the key rose. A white key—pure and
pearly as if made of marble fell into Abadar’s right hand, and the quill’s inkwell fashioned itself unto a
black lock—dark and shining as if it were made of obsidian fell onto his left.

“What shall be thy condition?” Abadar asked, before the court’s doors opened.

Once he did speak, the court’s doors opened, and in strode a goddess whose light shined as brightly as
any star—she was sashed in gold, blue, and red, and her fair hair was aflame.
“Honorable judge,” She stormed in, as she was bidden, and said, “I have a suggestion.”

Sarenrae of the Sun was she, and as legend said—she knew of all wicked things that passed from the
Shadow unto the Light. Asmodeus glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and a strange shiver ran
down Zon-Kuthon’s spine—a strange smile nearly broke his countenance, though it died soon after, as if
the Sun of the World had not come.

“He who was once known as Dou-Bral,” said the Sun of the World. “Thy crimes are innumerable, and
forgiveness is easy in thought, difficult in action where thy footsteps are not heard.”
“Brother of Law,” said Sarenrae to Abadar. “Would judgment be in my hand—I would so search this
being’s Essence for any love he bore his sister, and remind him of it. That is beyond us now—for he now
stands with the Devil, the Snake-Tongue, in a most unholy union in darkness.”

Asmodeus licked a dry, cracked lip with a tiny grin, and his forked tongue flickered playfully against
Sacrenrae’s terrible wrath.

“He shies away from me even now,” the Angel-Goddess said, walking around the chained god, who
averted his dark eyes from her glory. She stopped before him, back to Abadar, and said. “And I hear the
echoes in his heart—it echoes because it is empty—because he refuses Love, because he refuses Light.”

“Would you blame him?” Asmodeus interjected, drawing a black glass over his eyes. “You could light the
Hells aflame.”

“Maybe I should,” she said dangerously.

“Marvelous,” Asmodeus countered with a small smile.“I’ll be the first to take a seat and watch.”

“As much as I enjoy our usual banter, Devil-God,” she said bitterly. “Today we judge not thou for thy
deeds; though I wish the day doth come. Today, I came to ask my right in this court.

“This being, with His Divine Essence reeking of frost and harm, filled with misery and suffering, has
turned my servants from my service. They broke their connection to me before the end, unchaining
their souls to the powers of Good and righteousness—and now,” she said, voice quivering.
“And now they walk the echoing halls of the Lady of the Graves, turned from joining me in their afterlife
to remaining in the Graveyard as wretched heathens!”

“Pity,” said Asmodeus quietly, amused. “Take that up with management.”

“I. Am,” she retorted, pointing at Abadar, who did not seem to appreciate the attention.

“If thy servants be faithless, why should anyone else pay the price?” Asmodeus asked with false
curiosity. “Go to the Lady of the Graves—tell her of thy plight, and ask her to shift the souls of such
unhappy fools to thy realm—I’m sure she’ll make an exception; given your charming personality.”

“I will approach Pharsma of the Graves,” she answered coolly. “I put more stock in my servants than you
could muster in a thousand years—a moment’s weakness cannot erase a lifetime of dedication; that is
what it means to be a god—that is what forgiveness is.”

Asmodeus shrugged, apparently keeping his tongue from another witty retort.

“For this terrible deed that has touched mortals so, I make the Sun itself Zon-Kuthon’s foe,” she
declared. The other gods shifted in their seats, and Shelyn watched blankly at the angel-goddess. “It
knows whom its enemies are, and thy brood shall never forget that the Sun is their eternal enemy. From
the Shadow Realm appear evils and wretched things in the night—and they will all know who doomed
them to a life away from the sun. This is my suggestion, Godly Cousin Abadar. Do with it what you wish,”
she said, taking a step back, throwing a terrible look at the silent chained one.
“It seems appropriate, then,” Abadar said, as his calm voice turned heads to Him. “That He who was
known as Dou-Bral, known to Himself as Zon-Kuthon remains in His prison in Shadow, so long as the sun
hangs in the sky.”

He struck his hammer against his desk, and the vibration resonated for a time, and Zon-Kuthon rose.
Asmodeus, however, laid a bejeweled hand on his shoulder, and asked with cheer, “Good lord of
judgment; might I have a word with my ally in crime? It shall not take long.”

Abadar looked at the two, and then nodded as a high scribe brought him the details of another case.

“Thank you,” Asmodeus said, pulling his fellow god to a side corridor.

“Congratulations at in order,” Asmodeus said neutrally, now that he was alone with the dark one—his
chains did not return to the court, and the Devil-God noticed that they remained by His will. “Though I
admit; making an alliance in a court of law is my favorite pastime, I doubt that is was thy intention.”

“It was not,” he answered briefly.

“But not all we wish comes to pass,” Asmodeus smiled—the grin of a slaver cornering an escaped
servant. “Terrible business—however, you never got to prove yourself to me.”

“Prove myself?” Zon-Kuthon asked darkly.

“Of course, friend,” he answered coldly, smile fading. “Starting out imprisoned reverses the roles, you
see…it is a terrible thing to happen—reversing roles. Dretch to Devil-King must all play a one—plying
foolishly and provoking ancient allies is a sure-fire way… to get you on my bad side.”

“I would not want that,” answered the Dark One.

“We are in agreement then,” laughed the Devil-God. “Past dealings with thy sister hints that she may
begin to understand you better than you think…but then again, the time for understanding is over, isn’t
it?”

“It is.”

Asmodeus smiled, and began to leave.

“One other thing,” he said, walking back into the room, and his dark smile faded. “The Hells, although
vast, have a limited supply of sinners—we cannot divide them equally, you understand.”

“I understand.”

Asmodeus then smiled, and left, leaving Zon-Kuthon to whisper, “Perhaps—more than thou first
thought.”

As he left, accompanied by the Judge and his Key, they passed by Desna, who was not amused at the
development. The Judge retreated from the Starry Lady, who approached them.
“Thou did take rule of the night from me,” she said. “I know what terrors you wish to conjure in the
dark, and I will always be there to stop the mortal peoples from falling under your sway. The sun shalt
repel thou one-half the day, and my stars will follow your worshippers and every miserable soul that
swears allegiance to what thou calls a hope in the rest.”

“The stars are distant, Desna of Dreams,” he answered quietly. “Setting my foot atop one did not
prevent me from hearing the whispers of the skies.”

“Asmodeus taught you well—barely was it a moment with him and you seem like a pale snake of his,”
she whispered angrily. “Already you wield thy tongue as a sword.”

“I am heading to my prison now, Desna Star-Soul. You have all the time in the world to prepare until the
Sun dies,” he answered coldly, stepping towards Abadar. “So, when our war does start, we shall see who
claims the night. Those false-folk, and all mortals shall judge whether or not they feel true dread, or your
whimsical nonsense.”

Act III

In the court-room it was Shelyn first whom Erastil of the Hearth approached.

“Sweet Shelyn,” he said mournfully. “Daughter to He Whose Name is Robbed, I have failed thou today.”

“Erastil,” she said, voice shaking. “Thou hast no part in this; I pray you, feel no guilt.”

“I had faith in divine blood, daughter to my friend,” he said. “Long have I heard thy divine father’s songs,
and while Dou-Bral dabbled in such rot, I guided mortal children together rather than the children of the
gods.”

“They deserve thy aid far more than I,” she said, rising.

“You’re leaving?” Erastil asked. “Wouldst thou not seek comfort amongst thy kin?”

She shook her head, descending the steps. Perhaps it was strange; for she knew if Erastil left, Desna
would come—and by all means she wished to evade She of the Stings, who had no care for courts, but
all care for her.

“False care,” she thought, the voice echoing with her brother’s voice.

She walked through the Axiomic City where Abadar held court—the perfect city of white and gold, and
had no eye for its beauty.
She saw something that struck her as odd, and woke her from her holy reverie—she saw a woman—a
human one in the Axiomic City. Curious, she followed—the woman was of the first-blood who would
become the wandering Varisians, and she wore a shawl of many colors. In her hands was a bundle of the
same color, and Shelyn found it strange; what is a mortal woman (a mother, she sensed) doing in the
city?
The woman noticed not Shelyn, and if she did, she would knew her not—for she did not deign to appear
to mortals in the guise of gods, but of mortals as they are. These were yet the first days of Creation—
ages untold of before the gods settled in their tradition and rules.

Shelyn followed the woman, for she could disappear from sight if she so willed it. The woman passed to
a grave-yard, and set the bundle in an open grave, and sat before it, singing to it.

“Dear, sweet loved child of mine—in thy beauty thou seemed divine
“I would wish, would pray it be—that those, the Wise, return thou to me
“But know I still the pass of time—that death takes us all, sublime
“Would the Wise know my grief so true? They suffer not as we do.”

Then Shelyn appeared as to her another mother—one whose grief could shake mountains, and
answered thusly.

“Know they do, sad mother of Man, wish they do promise a higher plan,
“But love shall burn—forevermore, if the heart shuts off no more.”

The woman turned, and said, tears in her eyes.

“Priestess thou must be, to speak in such way,

“Love gives me no respite any-day,
“Grief twists my soul, tends it in twain,
“My body then follows, all break and maim.
“Love how shall I another so true,
“When my child’s last words were ‘It wasn’t you-”
“Nay, I be not a birth-mother for the poor boy,
“His head rests now—a wicked god’s toy.”

It cannot be, whispered Shelyn in her heart. That my brother had fallen so dark. She cried, perhaps over
her own thoughts, so that she dark whispers stray from her mind,

“He is thy son, more than any child could,

“Believe me—I bear you nothing but good,
“A dark one’s passing has left thou weak,
“Though that shall not also leave thou meek.”

“A saying goes ‘round where my people doth roam,” said the grieving mother, touched deeply.
“That a child’s first true step is not at home,
“For the child to become a full-growth thing,
“He must first live without kind kin,
“Defeat he must face, to grow then bolder,
“Only then doth he become older.
“Though age and death we mortals must face,
“The wise amongst us go in willing embrace.”

“Such wisdoms from the children of Man, the echoes of those so doomed to die,” marveled the Eternal
Rose.
“If eternal-folk do never cry, how could they give up and lie?”

The graveyard dissolved, and a strange whisper sounded in Shelyn’s fair ear. In His Most Just court,
Abadar felt the interloping; the forces of Chaos moved in his city.

“Grow those still who do not die,” said the woman, whose face then became a mirror. She spoke within
Shelyn’s reflection and continued, “But doubly against misery they vie.”

“Thou art an agent of Chaos,” breathed She. “The Nothing—the Abyss that takes the World as it is
known.”

“I am, daughter to He Who Howled,” the strange spirit said to the goddess as she readied for combat,
and she sensed the divine essence from it as well.
“So heed my words, still please your wrath; for thou brother has chosen his path.
“Love, you learned is not all pretty; in many forms it is ugly and gritty.
“A flame it is, a flame with fumes—and like every flame, fuel it consumes.”

Shelyn lowered her weapon—her brother’s glaive, for she heard the words ring true. Misery was a
terrible thing, but it followed love as death follows life—and to deny it would be folly, and to deny her
brother’s words for what he used to be would be foolish. Indeed, it is not an act of love, but an act of
fear.

“I see now what you wish to say,

“I learned so much this here day,
“Tell me what they call thou, please,
“I wish to learn more—enough with ease.”

“Be wary of what you ask, beautiful Ever-Rose,” the spirit warned her. “To ask and expect an answer is
not the way of the wise. Another did, and split Himself, so that what He thought would be true.”

“My brother,” she whispered.

“The Awakening is the path of mortals,” she said, voice becoming faint, as the forces of Law pushed her
away from their city. “No god or goddess may succeed—for thou could not forsake the Need.”

“The Need? What Need?” she cried, as the spirit disappeared. She never saw it again, and her flame—
the ever-present affection did not cool, but did not waver at misery and sorrow. For though for every
laugh wailed five, she would not break.

The Watcher then watched, and watched some more—until the Earthfall happened, and he was unsure.

“I cannot die while this play unfolds; such wasted potential within these folk,” he whispered in the
depths of the ocean as the world above him broke. “Gods and mortals dance this dance, and now the
world breaks—and that’s the end.”

But he survived, as few others did, wasting on the surface-land, as he saw dark clouds of smoke and dust
blot out the Ever-Sun’s light. He knew then that the Dark One laughed in his prison—he knew then that
he who was called the Radiant One has returned.
But that meant little—the Mortal Question remained; in what manner could those who die possibly be
superior to those who do not?