By Laura Scott A tale of Larisnar
A refugee sat at the end of a long, grimy street, watching people pass by in all directions. Everywhere he looked were homeless women, children and men shuffling about. Some made makeshift shelters in abandoned doorways, while others lit fires with discarded refuse and old wood. Gilbert scrutinized everything in the impromptu camp. Gazing mindlessly kept him from remembering his own troubles.
As time passed - he had no idea how much, exactly, which was kind of the point - Gilbert noticed something unusual. A lone figure moved through the alleys of Toris Kelt, stopping every few paces to look up at the sky. The cloaked person trudged in an odd fashion, changing his destination after every halt. First, he traveled down one side-street, then back to the main thoroughfare, then roamed down another side-street. The longer that the quest went on, the more intrigued Gilbert became.
I wonder what that man is searching for, Gilbert thought to himself. Does he have family he's trying to find? Is he looking for victims in the darkness? For food, shelter, water? This is the strangest search I've seen yet in these back alleys.
After a while, the cold and hungry Gilbert lost interest in this diversion. Neither having food nor a way to get any, he just pulled his jacket around himself and waited for sleep to come. Gilbert hoped that this night would bring him peace, instead of the constant reminders of his past tormenting his dreams.
"I know he's here somewhere, yes, Bascaron?" a shrill voice chattered, as the speaker slowly meandered through the abandoned back roads of Toris Kelt. "Somewhere among these desperate humans, I shall find our new devotee. The one who will help me show that I, not Angu, am your most dedicated servant. I chose this life, after all, and he was merely born to your grace." Crucin stopped, tilting his head upward. "Please mighty Bascaron, speak up. It's so hard to hear you." The priest did not halt his movement for long. "I will find him, my beloved master. When I do, the whole of our congregation will look at me in awe. For I will discover the disciple no one else has, the adherent that will prove I can hear you."
Crucin's steps faltered and he sunk towards the ground, practically weeping. His face twisted under the sudden pain. Blood dripped down from fresh wounds along his face, and an intense heat burned the top of his head. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, forgive me, I get ahead of myself. The point is not to prove I can commune with you, but to uncover the prophet that will bring you to us. The glory is for you, not me. Please, I beg you, Almighty Bascaron, release me so I can find him! I know he is here!"
Again the cultist started moving, slowly, but with a purpose. The burns healed rapidly and the blood ceased its flow. Crucin walked straight towards a doorway at the very end of the road.
Gilbert awoke suddenly. Someone was standing over him. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, the young man spotted the reason for his wakefulness. Right in front of him was the drifter that he had contemplated earlier. To someone caught not quite alert, the sight was unnerving.
The hooded man's face was no longer covered. A silver circlet full of spikes surrounded his bald head. The little moonlight piercing the darkness reflected off the pale skin and metal, casting a ghastly pallor onto the transient's countenance. He smiled a wide smile that revealed many pointed teeth, and the dim light showed eyes that revealed nothing but shadows and emptiness.
Gilbert grabbed a hidden dagger and sprang up from his spot on the ground. "Who are you and what do you want with me? Be gone vile…whatever you are, I have done nothing to you!"
The size of Crucin's grin increased as he cackled in response. "Patience, child, I have no wish to hurt you, just the desire to talk. You have many... qualities... that my master finds appealing; I wish to find out whether you are worthy of him."
"And your master is...?"
"None other than the great Bascaron. I am one of his priests, Crucin Bascar, and I have been sent to find more people for his cause."
"Cause? What cause?" Gilbert harshly uttered. "The cult of Bascaron only believes in chaos and strife."
"Exactly."
Bewildered by the shady priest's response, Gilbert blinked and stared off into space, trying to force the confusion out of his head.
The strange man's eyes rolled wildly in his head, as though they would pop free with little cause. "Nobody knows Bascaron, not really. You whisper about its effects on those in the Shattered Lands, but that is the extent of it. Bascaron talks to no one; it does not have thoughts or feelings. It's just a moon, albeit a strange one.
"No greater purpose exists than fulfilling ones' personal desires, but at the same time destroying the beliefs of others and spreading strife is also important. Bascaron is the most powerful deity, able to change everything and anything. Our purpose is to remake the land to fit his vision. Want, and find nothing that the great Bascaron would not do for his disciples. Wealth, power…and even revenge."
While the Bascarite spoke, Gilbert could not look away. The priest's words virtually made sense. The more Crucin spoke, the more the tired refugee listened to him, finding meaning in the ramblings. "Why me?" whispered the man on the ground. "Why would a deity want to help a broken man like me?"
"Now that is where you are mistaken, young one." A callous hand caressed Gilbert's face. "You are not a broken man. You are a strong one. The pain you have suffered calls out to Bascaron. He knows that you need him, that only he can help you get what you desire. All you have to do is desire it."
"Desire what?" the man screamed incredulously, momentarily breaking through the trance. "That the Broken Moon can help me? Even the gods could not help my family when the elves destroyed Llyr. No one is left but me. I watched them all die, in body or in spirit, that day. The men fought while the women held the children and prayed. The undead swarmed over everything, and the elven mages made new armies out of the people I had known my entire life. The gods let us suffer and left us to face unimaginable horrors without a second thought. And you're trying to tell me, ME, that a… a… voice in your head cares about me or anything I've been through. You must think I'm mad." Gilbert lunged at the strange priest, aiming his dagger directly at the man's heart.
"That is why he chose you, unbeliever," Crucin said evenly, though Gilbert knew that the dagger had hit its mark. "You have lost faith in all the pretenders. No one will question your motives. You have nothing to lose." Crucin touched his bloody wound, and then Gilbert's head. The other man collapsed beneath the cultist's touch, awash in the visions.
The priest peered at a shadow in the sky, one last time. "You were right, as always, powerful one. Filled with hatred and despair, along with great emotion and strength, this man will do anything to achieve his vengeance. Once he tastes that power, it will be his forever. He will most certainly be the perfect follower."