The First Hellhound

I sit in front of Azrag lo’Hagha vi’Orahg, ruminating over past… few hours? It’s a bit difficult to tell the time in his dream.

“Fascinating” he said after I finished telling him my lifestory. “Truly fascinating; you are the first person I’ve met with such a unique set of experiences” I was worried that meant he wouldn’t have anything interesting to say, but I was proven wrong soon. The Troll turned out to be the most well-travelled person I’ve met so far – and a great repository of knowledge. “If you live as long as me, it’s only natural to collect titbits of knowledge here and there… titbits that will grow, merge, connect and, finally – make some sense” he said at some point.

The first topic we talked about was my Creator: the Alchemist… also known by many, many other names: Bao Sen in Bao Lung Do Shi, the Western Dragon Empire; Master of Reality among rare Zheryman scholars interested in the topic; Akji-Anji or Chakla Hakuwa in some regions of Kutembe; The First Demiurgos amongst followers of Ihmaz Al-Hammur; and many, many others. Sadly, there wasn’t much more than rumours and hearsay, or what I’ve already known, but even there I could find a few valuable pieces of information. “The various stories have 3 points always present… and one very consistent inconsistency” said Azrag. “The first is the commonality of the mastery over reality – but you’ve experienced it yourself; the second is that The First Demiurgos always tells the truth – especially when it comes to promises; lastly, they are a shapeshifter, taking a form most beneficial to them – but there’s one detail always present: their eyes are always covered with violet glass.”

Next, we talked about some details about my meetings with the Alchemist – the second one being the most interesting. According to Azrag, my Creator… was scared by me! “I believe your ability to move in the Dream – and your Flame, obviously – are what spooked them” the former being something unexpected. It seems that me being ‘summoned’ referred only to the final stretch – from the Snevsiet to ‘The Lab’ – as it is, apparently, in another place; somewhere in-between the layers of the world.

All of that led us to the talk about religion – the nature of gods, to be precise. I learned how various regions of the world perceive them. “Most Beastkin” said the Taborite. “Believe anyone can reach godhood, if their feats are great enough. Dragons – and by extension – people of the West both believe and disbelieve in gods in a sense: they recognise gods of Beastkin of Orezemj as just Immortals, the same way they recognise god of Withered Dwarves, various gods of Northern, Southern and Western Humans, and so on as just more Immortals. And while anyone can become an Immortal… that doesn’t make them gods” I also learned about Spice Islands, far to the south, where think of foreign deities as various Avatars of their god – Havashinnisvara; and about Withered Dwarves, who see all gods, with the exception of their own one, as DEMONS. But the philosophy of Ihmaz Al-Hammur, whose student my interlocutor was, was the most interesting to me. “We believe that gods – if they even exist – are impersonal and insentient; a concept, not a being or a person. And I’m pretty certain your Maker also holds a similar outlook on those things!”

We also spoke briefly about the religious tolerance – and atheism; it turns out the latter isn’t a foreign concept, but is rare and people like Olka – a pretty open and vocal antitheist – are even less common. But that’s enough for me – especially since persecution of non-believers and of some more ‘exotic’ religions doesn’t seem to be an issue in most places. “Master Ihmaz was killed in his homeland to the South due to his believes; Aslammisr is different to other countries, however, as it is a kingdom in name only, true power being in the hands of their priesthood. But in Zheryman territories and the West people can shun you on individual level at worst.”

We also spoke about my creation – and the Primordial Soul that was used to make me. I’ve always knew it was the source of my powers – but I had no idea what their extent was. Azrag speculated that not only my Flame and RAGE come from that source – but my ability to move in Snevsiet, too! “I believe it is precisely what have scared The First Demiurgos, as I’m certain it wasn’t an ability you were supposed to have” but it is the explanation as to why I – or my body to be precise – am perfect. Turns out it has less to do with my beauty and fitness – although that does play some role – but more to do with… my genitals! Turns out that hermaphroditism – while still relatively rare – is a more common occurrence than in my previous world… and you can even make a religion out of this! “Many believe that union of masculine and feminine is an ideal form of being – but few take it as far as people of Aslammisr… or especially Dragons of the West. The former take every child like that to their temples, to be raised into the priesthood; the latter… well, first you must know that every Dragon – beside being arrogant beyond your imagination – is a hermaphrodite; thus, they believe that that those who have this trait are a different – more enlightened – kind of being. I think your Maker holds similar beliefs… making me wonder whether they influenced the Dragons or the other way around.”

I mull over all we’ve spoke about. There’s so much new information some of it must have gone over my head… but I think I finally get some things. I feel I understand myself, my own powers and the Alchemist better; not to mention the world of Yavea and some places on it. I’m really looking forward to visiting Zheryma or Belung… Bao Lung Do Shi. There is one thing that bothers me , however– enough to break the silence. “Umm… Azrag? What is… this?” I gesture around us and towards the city in the distance. “And you said you are a Dreamkeeper; what does it mean?”

The smile on his face freezes, then sours. “You won’t give it a rest, will you?” I shake my head and he sighs heavily. We sit in silence for a long while. “A Dreamkeeper is someone who keeps a specific Dream.”

“So… what Dream do you keep, then?” I say after a moment. “And why are you so… upset about it? It looks idyllic to me.”

“Very well, lass” Azrag stands up with a deep sigh. “If you insist… but I warn you: the appearances can be deceiving” then he snaps his fingers – and we are instantly moved to the middle of a city, the same one I’ve been seeing from the distance. We are standing in an open space, some sort of a city square, I think.

“Look around, if you will” and I do just that. First, I see the buildings, made from the same white stone as the walls I’ve seen earlier. They are decorated richly, with carvings, paintings and other details. They look grandiose, lavish and monumental and elicit awe in me. Even the road we stand in is a mosaic, pulling me in with it’s fractal shapes.

Then I notice the people swarming around us. All of them are Orcs and they are all incredibly beautiful and statuesque. They are tall and their facial features are sharp, exuding wisdom, joy and serenity. They wear elaborate hairdos and bone jewellery, mostly various piercings. Their clothes consist of decorated sandals and white skirts, leaving their muscular, tattooed and oiled bodies bare – among both sexes; I cannot stop ogling the ample breasts and other curves of the women and the wide chests and tight butts of men as they go on to do their jobs.

“It is such a beautiful place” I whisper as I wipe off the drool from my lips. I wonder if it is possible to have some fun in this Dream…

“This is Tah Borhoz – the Alabaster City – the home of my people: Taborites” Azrag lo’Hagha vi’Orahg announces in a solemn tone. “Or rather its idealised, glorified version, Dreamt by the nostalgia and resentment of generations upon generations of dispossessed, displaced and bitter people” he continues bitterly; indeed, the place seems too perfect to be real.

“What happened?” I ask, as we observe the serene scenery of daily life: families walking around, merchants haggling or unloading their donkeys, craftsmen and craftswomen making their wares, teachers – or storytellers – talking to enraptured kids… there are even some Orcs playing instruments, dancing and singing in an unknown language… no doubt their mothertongue. “What forced you – or rather your ancestors – out?”

“Wait and see” he says simply – and I do just that; soon I notice the scenery begins to change subtly. The sky gets covered in clouds that slowly darken; the breeze gradually disappears, making the air stale and oppressive; a thunder strikes in a distance, then a cold, ominous drizzle starts; finally, the earth shakes, collapsing a part of the walls and sending crowds into panic.

“What… what is happening?!” I shout in panic; despite being unaffected physically by all the things going on around, it still gets to my psyche.

“Watch” says the Troll simply – and I do just that. I see mothers, carrying their crying children away; I see pregnant women, lead into the buildings by their partners; I see men donning armour made of bones and scales, picking up spears, shields and maces, then rushing towards the breach; I see women picking up bows, slings and staves, following after the armoured warriors and unleashing arrows, stones and spells beyond the walls. I see fire, raining from the sky upon the city, burning buildings and people alike; the smell of burnt flesh and screams of dying people assault my senses. Worse, I can hear distant sounds of fighting and dying… and they are getting closer!

Suddenly, the earthquake strikes again, collapsing more of the wall – and even some of the buildings! That causes absolute chaos to erupt in the streets; adults shouting, children crying, donkeys braying, everyone running around or writhing on the ground in pain. The fire spreads and more of the city is getting ruined. And yet… I constantly hear someone cackling with glee; then, as it gets louder, holes in the ground open and I finally see them: the Dwarves.

They are short and wide for their height, with long, red and white beards, albeit much sparser than I imagined. Their skin is white in a sickly manner, their blood vessels visible underneath. Their eyes are red and bloodshot, feverish and cruel, the same as their mouths, contorted in wicked, evil smiles showing their crooked, yellowed teeth. They are the source of this aggravating, disgusting laughter.

Then I see what they are doing as they flood the city from the holes in the ground and through the holes in the wall – and it rattles me to the core, so much my knees give away. I see them slaughtering the unarmed city folk in a gruesome manner, realizing that the red on them is blood. Some are dismembered slowly, in front of their loved ones; others are slowly mauled, being passed from Dwarf to Dwarf in a kind of macabre game. Some are disembowelled, their guts pulled out and tossed away; others are slashed many times – shallowly, so they don’t bleed out too quickly. Boys and young kids are being pulled away, while women and even girls are being raped. But when I see a child – foetus, really – being ripped out of it’s mother’s womb and impaled on a spear… something in me breaks and I collapse, vomiting and crying.

“Make it… make it stop” I beg, weakly, in-between torsions.

“I’m sure you’ve heard the legend about the founding of Taborites, Kora of the Wilds” the Troll crouches beside me. I look up – his face stern, filled with pain and grief, anger and hate, as he observes the massacre. “How we were created by slaves, liberated after the Second Dwarven Crusade, who took their name from the supply carts they were forced to ride for their masters. Well, there is a bit of truth to it: the slaves were indeed freed and joined our group; joined – not created” I listen to him in silence, trying to ignore the pandemonium around us. “In reality, the carts got their name from our ancient home – since they became our new one when we were forced to live on the road.”

He snaps his fingers again – and we are back in the fields of grass. The city – Ta

h Borhoz – is being burned and plundered in the distance. “Some of us managed to escape on our ships – and they sailed far, far to the West – as far from the Dwarves as possible. But when we finally reached the shores of Orezemj – Zheryman Theocracy and Tamaran city-states rejected our plea to allow us to settle there. Since our ships were too damaged – we didn’t have much choice; those few who could, joined Kolokolan tribes – the rest had to adapt… but not for long, as soon the First Dwarven Crusade on Orezemj started – and we helped, by carrying goods between Beastkin cities” he looks me in the eye. “And when the Beastkin won, the new Zheryman Empire acknowledged our role and had given us purpose: we were allowed to carry goods, but not to settle down – if we wanted to stay in the Empire, of course – and some of us had different plans” a single tear falls from his eye as he watches the ancient city burn.

“There were few who wanted to return and rebuild our city… but it was impossible. The whole island sunk when the Dwarves collapsed their tunnels, leaving only a few rocks, poking out of the ocean. Those Taborites who saw it… wept. And Dreamt” he glances at me. “This is their Dream. And when they returned – they kept it. They showed it to others, infecting them with their hatred and sorrow. This is their legacy” he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “A legacy I made my life’s goal to destroy.”

“Why?” I utter, in shock from the revelation – but much more from the horrors I’ve seen tonight.

“Why, you ask” Azrag repeats my question and sneers. “You’ve seen what have happened… or rather how it was remembered. Tell me, lass – what kind of feelings seeing scenes like that can evoke in someone, especially young and impressionable?” He asks and answers his own question. “Resentment. Hatred. Immerse loss. Pain. And hatred” he looks into the distance, his voice calm and quiet. “Only two – or three – hundred years ago children born as Dwarves stopped being killed or abandoned at birth. Only because I convinced other Dreamkeepers to abandon this Dream centuries ago – as we were no longer Orcs of Tah Borhoz, but Taborites, Peoples of Caravans. And as they were slowly dying and nobody new was introduced… I became the last one left. It would have died with me. But now” he sighs and looks at me, resignation and other complex emotions visible in his eyes. “You also carry this burden.”