In a distant town at the edge of the world, life was peaceful and vibrant. The people were joyful, surrounded by an air of love and harmony. Children played freely in the streets as a cool breeze swept across the grassy plains.
Through the grassy plains, a foreigner riding a horse approached. He saw the town in the distance, a faint smile resting on his face, as his horse trotted towards its streets.....
The streets were bustling with people, merchants, small peddlers, and children playing.
Food stalls stood prominently among them, enticing passersby with their aromatic scents.
There were merchants roaming around, their bags full of artistic materials from lands unknown and far from this town. They filled the market with a symphony of various cultures.
A horse galloped swiftly toward the town, its rider mysterious and commanding. His skin was brown, marked with scars that marred his natural complexion. Rugged and strong, he rode into the central plaza and came to a halt.
With a powerful voice, he bellowed, "I need to see the head priest and the chieftain of this town!" Drawing his sword, he declared, "I am a messenger from the Nocturnal Messiah!"
The townsfolk murmured, confusion spreading among them.
Scanning the crowd, He roared once more, "I demand the presence of the chieftain, for what is to come shall be delivered, even if I must not declare it myself."
An old man approached, and as the townsfolk noticed him, they stepped aside to let him pass.
"I am the chieftain. Speak, Outsider, and explain the reason for this commotion."
The rider smirked as he pulled a parchment from his belt, its string still attached.
"By the order of Father Tamira, the Nocturnal Messiah has come to claim this land under our lord and savior, the Witch of Night, the Pallid Moon."
He glanced around before continuing, gauging their expressions. Then, he spoke again.
"Our Lord has spoken. We are to come and claim this land by the waning of the seventh day."
"Lay down your weapons and destroy your idols, for when we arrive, we will burn everything unworthy in the eyes of our Lord."
With that, the rider spurred his horse, galloping away and leaving a trail of dust in his wake.
The murmurs continued, and now the once lively streets were suppressed by a grim, tense atmosphere.
The chieftain gazed at his people, their eyes fixed on him, awaiting his response.
From the crowd, an old man in a robe emerged, making way for someone behind him, a lady.
At the sight of her, the chieftain bowed deeply.
"Matron Selia."
The lady raised her hand to halt him. Her voice was soft, kind, and carried a motherly presence.
"We shall not abandon Mother, for she is here to protect us."
Her voice was warm and affectionate, calming the crowd for a moment, before they suddenly erupted, shouting, "Mother will save us!"
"Mother will save us!"
The chants continued to fill the entire plaza with praises for the Mother.
A little boy watched the scene from a distance as his father joined in the chant, but he chose not to.
He felt more frightened by the ordeal itself than by the rider who arrived with a warning.
He spun around and dashed back into his house.
---
7 Days Later...
A group of raiders surrounded a small town perched at the edge of the world.
"Chief, we are ready," said a man with a massive curved sword hanging at his waist.
The chief was a huge man with bronze skin, his body marked by countless battle scars. His hair had turned grey with age, and his wide, gaunt frame towered over the other raiders.
He turned back to his men, his eyes gleaming as he scanned them.
The raiders, all men, had brown-hued skin marred by scars that stole their natural complexion.
He turned back to face the small town and, with a deep, guttural roar, shouted, "Burn them all!"
Flames devoured the streets as raiders surged through, their torches spreading chaos under the cover of night. Every home, every wooden structure, burned to cinders. No one was spared from their fury. They swept forward like a relentless storm, fueled by something darker than hunger, more deliberate than conquest.
A frenzy of mad devotion!
In their eyes was a strange, mesmerizing light, as though they were no longer their own.
"O Goddess of fertility and mother of the unfostered womb, have mercy," cried an old priest.
He knelt before his attacker, begging them to stop.
But no one heard him, for those he pleaded with had long seen his kind as nothing more than vermin.
A raider with matted hair and a scar slashed across his face. Mounted on horseback, he roared at the kneeling priest.
"DIE!!! You heretical scum of degenerate filth!"
With that....
He swung!
With a single stroke of his mighty curved sword, he decapitated the priest effortlessly, a smile gleaming on his face as he completed the act.
Another raider roared, his voice booming. This one seemed to be their chief.
"We did not come for your gold or grain. We are here for our god. Expect no mercy, for there is none."
Timbers cracked and groaned. Roofs caved under the weight of flame. The noise of the destruction was a chorus of suffering. Each collapse sent splintered beams crashing to the ground, and the sound echoed through the streets like thunder. Screams rose above it all, jagged and unending. Somewhere, glass shattered. Somewhere, metal rang with the sound of weapons striking shields or bones.
Amid the chaos, a voice rang out. It was gentle in tone but trembling with terror, as though the speaker was torn between pleading and despair.
"Rivered! Run! They are taking the children!"
The boy was no more than twelve years of age. His black hair was matted with soot and sweat, his grey eyes wide and wet, reflecting the glow of flame like mirrors of sorrow. He darted toward the outskirts of the town, running without thought for what lay behind him. He could hear the clash of wood and steel, the wet cries of those taken, the laughter of something unnatural that accompanied the raiders. He did not look back.
Tears streaked his cheeks, cutting bright lines through the grime. His heart pounded so hard it seemed to push blood and pain into every limb. His chest burned with every breath. Loss was a living weight upon him, pressing deeper with every step. He could not stop. Even if he had wanted to, the memory of what was happening behind him, the sound of mothers crying out for their children, would have driven him forward.
Only moments earlier, the town had been gathered in the great square, where the harvest offerings were placed before the goddess's altar. A priestess, her voice unwavering even as fear trembled through her words, had addressed the crowd.
"Spread your hands for Mother of All, Mother of the Untended Womb, Goddess of Fertility," she intoned. Raising her both hands in the air.
The crowd stood.
Many clasped their hands to pray.
A few glanced at the altar of the Mother of Fertility, the stone figure of a woman with an open womb symbolizing blessing and arms cradling the gift of life.
To them, offering to another god was pure heresy, a betrayal of the bond that tied them to their goddess. They had dedicated years of devotion, the fruits of their harvest, and the sacrifice of blood to her care. Honoring another deity was an unthinkable act.
So they refused.
Even if they had desired to, they wouldn't dare risk trouble by betraying their god. So, they endured the against followers of the Nocturnal Messiah, holding out hope for their Goddess to save them all.
They believed their faith alone could protect them.....
But now...
Women were violated in the streets, their cries swallowed by the roar of fire. Children were torn from their mothers' arms and dragged screaming into the dark. The elderly were slaughtered in their homes, their bodies left to burn with the rubble. Men were dragged into alleys, bound and broken, tortured until they no longer cried but merely gasped in silence. The air was thick with the stench of blood, burning flesh, and smoke. No one intervened. No one could.
In that moment of collapse, Rivered slipped away. His legs burned with exertion, his breath ragged, but he did not falter. The chaos behind him was a living thing, pulling him forward even as it consumed all he had known.
The Nocturnal Messiah saw him.
The raiders followed, their laughter a cruel chorus in the dark.
The boy ran until the streets gave way to fields, until the firelight was a distant glow on the horizon. Behind him, the sound of pursuit grew louder, nearer, until it was the beating of a single heart in his ears.
But just before they could catch him.
They faltered. One by one, their forms twisted and changed. Flesh transformed into bark. Limbs bent and fractured. From their wounds emerged flowers and vines, blooming in eerie, unnatural colors under the moonlight. They became trees, grotesque yet beautiful, rooted in the soil at the outskirts. The earth welcomed them, and where there was once a path, there now stood a living wall of wood and bloom.
The boy did not look back as he vanished into the shadow of that unnatural grove. Behind him, the cries faded, replaced by the strange, low hums.
A lullaby!
...
The town was in shambles. The altar to the Goddess of Fertility lay broken, her stone figure cracked and her womb desecrated by the raiders' cruel offering. The air felt heavy with sorrow. Somewhere in the shadows, the Witch of Night observed silently, as the swollen Pallid Moon loomed low over the desolation.
...