Enmity of Atlas

“Huh? Oh!” Kiva said, suddenly noticing the severed head in Garrote’s lap. “Why are you just carrying a severed head?” Kiva asked, Millie crawling over Garrote’s lap to poke at the head.

“Well,” Garrote shook Raligoth, causing him to let loose an involuntary yelp, “he happens to talk a bit more than a typical severed head.”

“Alright, alright! I’ll talk! Just stop shaking me,” Raligoth said, coming out of his faux stupor.

“How does that work?” Kiva asked, cocking her head to the side. “Shouldn’t he be dead?”

“Typically, yes,” Raligoth replied, “but I can’t be killed by most physical means. So here I am, completely bodiless.”

“And eyeless,” Trenton pitched in.

“And eyeless,” Raligoth agreed.

“Can you explain exactly why you can’t be killed?” Kiva asked, motioning to grab the head from Garrote, Garrote handing him over without complaint.

“No, he can’t,” Trenton said, clearly not excited to be going over this spiel a second time.

“Yeah, I kind of figured. Anyway: name, magic type, and fun fact. That’s the order.”

“Alright, fine. If I must. Raligoth-” Raligoth started.

“Not the god,” Garrote jumped in.

“No association to the god,” Trenton specified. “He just liked the way the name sounded.”

“That’s…huh,” Kiva said, scratching her head, clearly at a loss for words.

“Can I continue?” Raligoth asked.

“Please,” Kiva said, shaking herself to refocus.

“Right, Raligoth, space-” Raligoth tried, getting interrupted again.

“Space?” Kiva said, her face scrunching up. “Your magic is spatial? No relation to the god Raligoth who has dominion over all spatial magic.”

“I-okay it sounds bad, but If you’d believe it, never even heard of the guy before today. This is all very new to me, and I don’t like the accusations being thrown my way,” Raligoth said.

“What’s your fun fact?” Millie said, roughly grabbing the decapitated head incapable of shying away, despite its best efforts.

“Uhhh…I’m a talking head. Isn’t that a fun enough fact?” Raligoth asked, clearly uncomfortable under Millie’s scrutiny.

“That is a pretty fun fact-”

“It seems fair-”

“I don’t really care-”

“Better than mister everyone wants me dead-”

They all mumbled their own agreements in unison. For the next hour or so, now without a topic to guide them, they aimlessly talked, droning on until everyone was practically falling over from exhaustion, the storm still raging outside.

“I’ll take the night's watch. We shouldn’t be seeing too much for a while. Use the opportunity to rest up,” Trenton said, leaning back against the wall. Garrote wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. Trenton was the only one among them not subject to the drawbacks of significant injury, and the only one able to defend them if things came down to it. So Garrote bit his tongue, nodding to Trenton and slipping under the covers of his bedroll, everyone else quickly following suit. Notably, Raligoth didn’t seem tired in the slightest. In fact, as Garrote’s consciousness faded away from him, he noticed Trenton and the head whispering to each other, noting the peculiarity and humor of the situation before passing out.

The following morning, everyone awoke rather irritable, Trenton’s weariness doing little to help quell the cantankerous bunch. The only one with any sort of energy was Raligtoh, who hummed unfamiliar tunes to himself as they packed up camp. Putting on a pleasant demeanor for the sake of everyone else, Garrote shepherded everyone atop Blithe, letting Trenton rest while he took over steering. Next to him sat Kiva, who made sure they stayed on course every now and then while she tended to herself. Apparently, Garrote had the habit of veering off course, often ending up heading too far west or east, throwing them slightly off course. Once Trenton woke up, Garrote was no longer allowed on the reins, his poor steering costing them precious time. It’s not like he really cared anyway. It didn’t matter. It was fine. Did they consider that maybe he’d never steered a creature before? No, they probably didn’t.

For the next week, they barreled along, the desert passing them by at blinding speeds. On the last day of the week, off on the horizon, a small temple crystalized into view, Trenton steering them towards it without much thought. At the very least they could get a respite from the heat of the sun. Even riding atop Blithe, it was still agonizing travel.

They slowed as they approached, exercising at least some of the decorum that befitted such a grand structure. It wasn’t massive by any means, potentially only a couple large rooms connected together, but it was still impressive, the intricate architecture like nothing Garrote had ever seen, fanciful spires, points, and arches all woven together into one brilliant construction. They dismounted Blithe, Millie staying behind to watch him. Millie and Blithe got along incredibly well the longer they spent time together, Blithe seeming to have endless patience for whatever antics Millie could dream up, mostly treating him like a dog. So it made sense to leave him in her care. They wouldn’t be gone for too long. Atop the door hung an engraved plaque, its words in a sharp script unfamiliar to Garrote.

“The loss hangs heavy on his soul, his will all but gone. Should any remain who still remember it, should any remain who still wish to see him, speak his name aloud before the altar. I have ensured this building may stand the test of time in solidarity–secular and safe. My words fell upon deaf ears, and I now trudge towards my death with open arms. But I pray that you may be luckier than I.

-Sir Dragovasin Dragovasin Dragovasin Dragovasin Dravasin the first,” Trenton said aloud, reading from the plaque.

“Dragovasin…the name is familiar,” Leo said, looking over at Trenton.

Trenton scratched his head, his brow furrowed, “You’re right. I definitely remember hearing it, but I can’t-” Trenton snapped his fingers, locking in on Leo, “the man at the cathedral said that name. It was Dragovasin and the other guy who overthrew the citadel. I’m not sure why his name is written down so many times, though.”

“Sorry, what happened to the citadel?” Garrote asked, trying to remember his old history lessons.

“Long story short, some guy named Dragovasin and another person overthrew the citadel some millenia ago. We learned about it from some weird guy back in a rundown cathedral outside of Aria,” Trenton summarized.

“Walibeld seemed super impressed by the guy's knowledge,” Leo pitched in dully.

“That era is supposed to be a mystery. The Academy has been trying to study it for centuries. I’m not surprised that Walibeld would be surprised,” Kiva said, stepping forward to inspect the plaque closer, “What does surprise me is that you can even read this. I’ve never seen script quite like it,” Kiva remarked, rubbing her chin.

“The same type of writing was outside Raligoth’s little shrine. I know I’ve never seen it before, but it looks so familiar. I can’t really read it, but when I look at it, I get the strangest feeling I know what it says. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain,” Trenton said, shrugging and shaking his head.

“You said the script was outside of my shrine?” Raligoth suddenly perked up.“What’s it look like?”

“Sharp edged symbols crossed or mixed with swirls and looser lines,” Garrote said, doing his best to approximate the language.

“That’s…what’d you say your name was, again? The one carrying me,” Raligoth said, his face scrunched together.

“Trenton?” Trenton said, looking down at the head with a confused look.

“No, your name,” Raligoth repeated.

“N-” Trenton stopped suddenly, keeling and clutching his head. Without warning or explanation, he began to spew out a stream of different sounds, each one only a couple letters long before Trenton doubled over even further, cutting off abruptly and starting the next one.

“Stop, lad. Stop!” Raligoth shouted, Trenton slowly stiling his tongue, coming to an end after a spew of easily a hundred different sounds.

Trenton shakily rose to his feet, capping off his mad ramblings with a final comment, “And Trenton…Trenton is my name,” Trenton seemed oddly calm for whatever had just happened to him.

“What was that!?” Kiva cried, clearly surprised.

“I-” Trenton started.

“Don’t push it. Give him some time to think before drilling him,” Leo said, suddenly refocusing on their conversation.

“But-” Kiva tried to say, Garrote deciding to cut them off.

“C’mon, no point stalling here. We can discuss this later, and I’d really like to get out of the sun,” Garrote said, leading the charge forward, Trenton following just behind. Whatever that was, he was composed now, and the head wasn’t saying a damn word, just making weird expressions. Oh shoot, the head. Just as they pushed through the door, Garrote pulled out a flat stretch of cloth, throwing it around Trenton’s waist to hide Raligoth, Trenton, seemingly understanding, holding it together.

They entered the building, cool air washing over them in a blissful wave. The inside of the building turned out to be just one large room, pews seated with tall, robed, humanoid salamanders lining the floor, an altar at the back, and a beautiful mosaic depicting a black scaled dragon with red eyes on the far wall. The moment they entered, all eyes turned to them, their gazes instantly hostile, an unnatural chill invading the space around them. The salamanders, whether accidental or purposeful, were projecting their presence towards the group, infecting the space around them with a dense bile. It did not make Garrote feel very welcome, but when has that stopped him in the past? He really wanted to see what lizard culture was like.

“Have you business here?” A priestly looking salamander at the back called out to them.

“Business? No, none in particular. We seek only temporary refuge from the heat of the sun,” Trenton said in his most cordial tone, starting forwards towards the priest. “We are but flesh and blood, afterall.”

It was an odd phrase to come from Trenton’s lips, but Garrote almost immediately understood what Trenton was trying to do. The salamanders were likely aware of the goings on of Zerital. They likely knew full well the hatred their brethren held for the humans there, the clergy here presumably adopting a similar mindset. So Trenton was trying to humanize himself to them, make himself seem more similar to the salamanders than they’d otherwise assume. Salamanders were notoriously poor with heat, their bodies needing to remain moist and cool. Humans didn’t have this problem to the same degree, but they could both agree on wanting out of the sun's gaze. In all, it was a rather slick play on Trenton’s behalf.

The salamanders didn’t seem to loosen their steely gazes, but several of them did look to relax slightly, at least from where Garrote was standing. Garrote excitedly followed behind Trenton, everyone else following suit, Leo noticeably sweating, his eyes darting around the room. Garrote couldn’t say anything, but Leo’s anxiety could make things even worse if he couldn’t get himself under control. Garrote signed to Leo with his eyes to calm down, but it didn’t seem to be helping. The priest at the far end didn’t seem perturbed by their advance, the lot of them settling in comfortably right before the steps leading to the altar.

“My names Trenton, and these are my companions,” Trenton said, motioning behind himself. “We’re simply passengers traveling through the desert.”

“Then I ask again,” the priest said, his tone even more tense than before, “Have you business here? You’ve more than found your reprieve from the heat, so I’d welcome you to leave if you have nothing more you desire.”

“Yes, actually, one more thing,” Trenton said. Garrote was most curious about what they were doing out in the middle of the desert, but the answer they’d give, even if it wasn’t true, was already obvious. They were hiding from the conflict in Zerital. “This dragon, the one depicted in the mosaic. What is it? I know precious little about your culture.”

“What is it?” The priest bristled, everyone else in the room seeming taken aback by Trenton’s words. “You’d best watch your tongue, boy. You speak of the father of all dragons, the elder dragon.”

“I’m sorry, I intended no insult,” Trenton said, holding up his hands to indicate peace.

Behind them, Garrote noticed a handful of salamanders slipping out of the building, their movements unusual. They looked like they were up to something nefarious. But before Garrote could make a decision on what to do, a salamander came up beside the priest, whispering something in his ear. The priest nodded, his eyes widening.

“A godsburn. I don’t believe it. Well, this makes things much simpler,” the priest said, pulling a sword out from behind the altar and taking a swipe at them, everyone quickly stepping back, drawing their own weapons to their hands. “I do so regret spilling blood on these sacred grounds, but you’ve ridden a godburn here, treated a descendant as no more than a simple steed. You were born with flesh improper, for that I am sorry, but I may yet flay away your imperfections, your life the consequence for all that you are. It is as our god demands it. Goodbye”

All around them, salamanders began to draw weapons from beneath the pews, each one standing ready to strike.