A Crimson Shore FAR REALM: 12.4 Abraxas, First and Last

Hold true with those in righteous might

Beware the traitors of the night.

Through the chamber door walked casually a man dressed in simple yet elegant robes. The robes were clean and finely embroidered, made of an unknown fashion. The man looked regal. A radiance of pure confidence and power hung like an aura all around him. He was holding aloft a magnificent lantern. Set inside from an unknown source, a light shone, more illuminating than the sun.  It was brilliant and pure.

The man though looked familiar. For they had seen him before. But not as he was now.

“Long have I watched you, heroes. Long have I wondered if it would be you,” spoke the man, his dark skin glowed like mahogany in the white light of the lamp. His long black hair hung all around his shoulders. His dark almond eyes flashed between the strands.

He looked at Ulua first. “Daughter of O’lorhan. You have seized your destiny I see.  At last.”

Ulua’s eyes flashed too.  Betwixt the back light of the portal’s glowing seam behind her and the light of the remarkable lanthorn, she shone like a statue herself.  She too was regal.

“You are…the Great Mother, Princess, returned to us at long last.” His words sounded reverent. “You know suffering. You know pain. You know loss. You now know what it is to be compassion, my child!”

“Abraxas! You bastard!” raged the princess. Lunging swiftly, she withdrew her ceremonial blade and leaped towards him with such agility that she took him off guard. The knife found a home in his chest! “My people are gone!! GONE!!!  There will now be only loss! Only pain! Only rage, fury! Wrath, you great hypocrite! You demon wyrm!”

“No!” roared Abraxas who clutching the hilt of the knife, pulled it from his chest and this time, the chamber echoed and rang out with his voice. He placed a hand over the wound and the flesh closed around it, leaving a subtle trace of a scar behind. There were many others visible even through the small portion of his robes she had cut open.

“My people are gone!” she sobbed, dropping to her knees before him. “I am the last,” she wailed. “There is no mother without her children you great defiler of men.” Before the others, at the feet of The Seeker, here in the chamber of the four heroes, she cried uncontrollably.  At long last, her pain became manifest. She beat his chest as though it were a drum. “Demon! Destroyer!” She raged on, pummeling him, but he did not move. “You made a pact! A pact! My life for my tribe. You left them to find your precious knowledge. They have become wrath! I have seen them!  And now so shall I be wrath too!”

Abraxas did not respond.  He stood then, and rose to a great height towering over Ulua.  A power exhuded from his form and it was as if when he spoke his words themselves caused the chamber to shake.

You are not the last of your people, child,” he said softly. “There remain still many of their number on the isles to the west. They have escaped the Host at great cost to my armies.”

“You lie!”

“I do not lie, princess. And should a day come when they have perished, you will not be the last of your kind. We are the last of our people.” Abraxas reached out and stroked her hair lovingly as a father would his daughter. “I, Ulua, am your mighty O’lorhan. I am the first of the Ata. And there have been many sacrifices. As there will be more. Many more.”

“For the sake of all.”




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